I’d like to think I have a pretty good sense of direction, but southern Orange County has been a real challenge. I’ve been spoiled by the gridlike street configuration of Los Angeles, where you can pretty much be assured that if you have to make a detour, you can cut north on a street, then west, then south on the next street and end up on the street where you began. You can avoid traffic jams because the streets run parallel. Pretty much.
Then there’s Mission Viejo, with a map that looks like a plate of spaghetti. You can go south on a street then find yourself heading west without ever having turned a corner. Parallel streets, contrary to what I learned in Geometry class, intersect. And heading west from the synagogue, you would do better to take a street further south because the street that’s further north dips way south and you can end up in Ensenada if you’re not careful. I have found myself wanting to high-five someone every time I’ve ventured to a new location and made it home without a hitch.
How have I managed? A Thomas Guide lives in my car. If I have enough warning, I can do a Google search for the address and pull up a map, but on the road, I rely on the Thomas brothers. No, I don’t have a GPS. I have heard so many stories of the signals bouncing off buildings and directing people to the edges of cliffs that I’m going to hold off for a while. Besides, reading a map is becoming a lost art, like reading a newspaper and getting ink on your fingers. I like technology, but I also like some things they way they’ve always been.
But family members have GPS instruments in their cars, and I’ve always enjoyed hearing the voice of the instrument instruct the driver with unending patience. Owners have even named their voices. One person calls his directional friend Jane. Another, the protagonist in a book I’m reading, has dubbed her Chloe and has even provided her with a back story. She’s become part of the family. Jane or Chloe or whatever her name may be is always flexible, always ready to roll with the vagaries of the driver. Did I miss the turn she insisted I take? Was the off ramp closed because of an accident? No problem. “Recalculating,” she will say, almost with a sigh. “Don’t worry, darling, we’ll find another way” she seems to be saying. You feel safe with Chloe.
I love the notion of recalculating. She never says, “Dummy, you blew it.” Or “didn’t you hear me?” Or “wake up!” She’s ready to accept that unlike her, we are human and need a little help now and then to get back on our path.
Recalculating is pretty much what we’re doing this time of year, isn’t it?
Since last Rosh Hashanah, we’ve been driving the roads of our lives, sometimes going on familiar paths, sometimes venturing into unknown territory, and sometimes we’ve had to rely on some kind of directional device to help us when we’ve been lost. That directional device is like an internal compass, orienting us to a true north that is based on some kind of moral right. When faced with a dilemma, we have looked within, checked our compass, and figured out which way to turn.
Maybe. Of course, sometimes a sunstorm rendered our compass inaccurate. Or we just ignored the thing altogether, made a wrong turn, and found ourselves looking back and wondering just how we got so very lost.
We’ve hurt others when we didn’t mean to. We’ve drifted away from family values that used to be so important to us. We’ve stopped doing things that brought us great pleasure, or we began doing things because we thought they would make us happy, only to find out how very wrong we were.
This is the time of year when God says, “Recalculating.” Not “Dummy, what were you thinking?” (God would never say that.) Not “didn’t you hear Me?” (although listening to God might have saved us a whole lot of grief) Not “wake up!” Well, maybe “wake up” – because isn’t that what the shofar is all about?
This is the time of year when we stop in our hurry to get from here to there and look around to see how we’ve gotten to where we are. And then we evaluate where we are. Are we happy in our place? More important, are we happy with how we got here? Or did we do harm to others or ourselves in our zeal to get to where we are?
I have a 14 year old Honda, and even though it’s a Honda, it still needs TLC. I can’t demand that it get me from Reseda to Mission Viejo and back reliably without taking care of it, visiting my mechanic more regularly, making sure its service schedule is up to date.
I also have a soul, and that requires just as much care.
How have we gotten to Rosh Hashana 5770? Have we run ourselves into the ground, without pausing for Shabbat? Have we not maintained our spiritual service schedule and then been surprised when we find some of our spark plugs not firing?
If this time of year is a time for teshuva, we should think about what the term teshuva means.
We are taught that it means both repentance and return. Return? Of course – return to the path God has intended for us. If we do teshuva during this holy season, we are repenting of past errors and resolving to pay more attention to our inner compass. And when we are lost, we are returning to the path in God’s Thomas Brothers Guide.
This is the time of year God tells us to recalculate, to look around, to consider where we are and to act to correct our directional error. For those of us who are directionally impaired, let me suggest that the best spiritual GPS around is Torah. You don’t need a subscription, you don’t need to name the patient voice nagging you to turn left in 100 feet, and you can even consult it when you’re not on the road.
And while you’re recalculating, I’d like you to consider where you are in terms of your spiritual home. For those of you who are here for the first time, welcome! How wonderful that your inner compass (or God’s hand) brought you here! May you bookmark the road that brought you here, so that you can return to us on Shabbat and festivals, for adult education or just to find community. Congregation Eilat has so much to offer, and the more you find your way here, the more you will learn that that is so.
And for those of you who have taken some time away from your connection with Congregation Eilat, welcome back! We are so glad you have recalculated, recalled the warm memories you have of this congregation, and have opted to return.
This is a time of year for homecoming, when children come home to their parents to enjoy Mom’s honey cake and to welcome the new year in the synagogue in which they grew up, when people who used to share in the life of the community come home to re-connect. May the recalculations of this season bring us together as a family, on a path to building a holy congregation that will touch the lives of all its members and sharpen the inner compass in each of us.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Standing in God's Presence, Then Moving On
My sermon from Sept. 12, 2009 - Parashat Nitzavim-Vayelekh
NITZAVIM-VAYEYLEKH
SERMON 5769
This is a time of year when rabbis everywhere struggle with choices. What are the overarching themes of the time? What are the issues on which we should be focusing at this time of year? In short, what will we speak about on Rosh Hashanah, when our sanctuaries are full and more people will hear our words that on the average Shabbat?
The irony is, the kinds of issues we address on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are no different from those we address during the year. All year we look at the six o’clock news through Jewish lenses; we try to learn from our sacred texts what the Jewish position is on a variety of contemporary issues. Social justice, the holy society, Jewish identity, God – these are not three-day-a-year topics.
As if to prove my point, the double parshiyot from which we chanted this morning offer a number of suggestions for how we should be approaching the cosmic issues of this season. This is not a holiday sermon, my friends. It is “merely” a Shabbat d’var Torah. But the message is, I think, as far-reaching as any you will hear next week.
Our double reading is comprised of parashat Nitzavim and parashat Vayeylekh. The text is dramatic. “You (Israel),” says Moses, “are all standing here today before Adonai your God. All of you – leaders, tribes, elders, officers, children and women, the stranger within your camps, wood cutters and water carriers.” The picture the Torah paints is a powerful one. While the census often quoted is six hundred thousand, in truth those are just the men of fighting age. From this figure we can extrapolate perhaps two million people, standing together, listening to Moses’ final address.
But it is not only the numbers that make the passage powerful. After 40 years of leadership, Moses is stepping down, not to a comfortable retirement but to face the end of his life, his mission, at least in his own eyes, not fulfilled. While the people have striven with him for all those 40 years, they are undoubtedly struggling with many emotions. They are saddened by the imminent loss of their leader and teacher. They are fearful of the unknown and wish that they could have a familiar face at the front of their ranks. They are in awe of this man, who would go into the tent of meeting and converse with the Holy One of Blessing, who ran interference between God and Israel, who defended Israel despite their sins. And they know they are witnessing a historic moment, when a career of passion and humility will soon come to a poignant end.
The second parasha opens with a signal that the lessons of Moses’ three discourses are at an end. Moses begins his own valediction: “I am a hundred and twenty years old today; I can no more go out and come in; and God has told me ‘You will not go over this Jordan.’ Adonai your God will go over before you…Be strong and of good courage.” Following these words, Moses charges Joshua before the entire community of Israel with the same words: Be strong and of good courage. Hazak v'ematz.
It would not be difficult, I don’t think, to find ways to apply these parshiyot to the end of one’s career and the handing over of one’s responsibility to one’s successor. And if we can find meaning for that purpose alone, I suppose the Torah has done its job. But I think there are greater lessons to be learned as well.
Consider the first words of the two parshiyot: Nitzavim – you are standing, and Vayeylekh – he went. Verbs, and specifically verbs concerning motion, and more to the point verbs in opposition to one another. One parasha opens in a condition of statis, the other in a mood of movement. While I think there are other reasons for the rabbis’ decision to combine these two when not enough Shabbatot are available to read them separately, I think the juxtaposition of these two verbs can teach us a significant lesson.
The Hasidic master Rabbi Barukh of Medzibozh brings a commentary based on the opening words of Nitzavim: The righteous are considered to be in the category of walking, because throughout their lives they continue moving from one stage to a higher one; the only time they are considered to be standing is when they actually cleave to God. Moses realized that right then the people were all standing because they were “before Adonai your God” and nothing separated them from God.
Rabbi Barukh’s commentary suggests that piety is less a goal than a process, and if that is so, living a meaningful Jewish life is always possible, always a road we may choose to walk, and it is the walking that path that defines us, not our sense of “having arrived.” However, we also learn from Rabbi Barukh’s words that the highest form of piety is an absolute stillness in the presence of God. Piety, thus, is less a series of details of observance than the sum total of the effect of all those details. As we work to learn what God wants of us, we re-define our lives according to holy principles, and at last we sense God’s nearness and we are absolutely still.
But that is a lesson focused only on atem nitzavim hayom – you are all standing here. Today, we find two parshiyot, and the second begins not with absolute stillness but with motion. So how can we learn something from this connection?
I would like to suggest that this business about being Jewish is highly dynamic. I am far from the pious figure of classic rabbinic literature and therefore cannot speak for those individuals, but I cannot imagine achieving such a place in life where I am so aware of the presence of God in my life that I am absolutely still and remain that way. There have been moments in my life, moments my colleague, Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, calls moments of transcendence, moments when I have been so completely aware of the presence of God, the touch of God on my soul, that speech or even movement were impossible. But those moments pass. I miss them when they go, but for us to function in our world they must go. We cannot remain in a state of suspended animation. For one thing, we would be very hungry very soon. We would need to sleep. We would need to stir and go back to the business of life, but here’s the point: Once we have felt the touch of God on our souls, we are never again quite the same. We begin to think what that contact was all about. What does God want? What does God want to teach us? And how can we make ourselves available to learn the lesson?
Assuming we have learned the lesson, intuited the lesson, the next step is to do something about it. Here, we must pause to consider another Hasidic master and what he has to teach us about teaching. Rabbi Dov Baer of Mezeritch was asked how a person could know whose way of Torah teaching is best. The rabbi responded essentially that it is not the person but the message that is critical – we must not be so concerned with our own self-aggrandizement that we get in the way of the message. If you hear the teacher more than you hear the words, find another teacher.
Profound lesson. But there is more. Rabbi Dov Baer likened one’s style to the fragrance of a flower, which is only a part of the flower, but which serves to attract people (and bees) to the flower. The teacher is the flower, the fragrance is the teacher’s style, and the bee is the student. But surely you have watched bees doing their work. They don’t linger on any one flower but flit from blossom to blossom. And as each bee takes pollen from flower to flower, students take the lessons of their teacher and go out and teach to others, become teachers themselves, enriching the world with the words they have found personally meaningful and profound.
Vayeylekh. He went. In our parasha, this term refers of course to Moses. But in general, “going” is the next logical step after having felt God’s presence in our lives. We may hesitate to talk about exactly how it felt, because the moment was so intimate, and that hesitancy is appropriate. But I suggested earlier that sensing ourselves in the presence of God and finding ourselves absolutely still implied opening our inner ears to God’s message. And it is the teaching of that message that we need to understand as the meaning of Vayeylekh. While it was only Moses whose movement was recorded in the opening verse of the parasha, the word needs to be applied to every one of us. What do we learn, from God and from our teachers? What truths do we understand about Jewish living, about the Jewish approach to interpersonal relationships and the nature of a holy society? While it is important to be still while learning these lessons, the next step needs to be movement, taking the lessons to the marketplace, to the office and the halls of government.
What might prevent us from taking the second step, from going out into the world with the lessons we learn? Possibly we feel humbled by the task – we should be, by the way. But we think we are inadequate, not articulate enough, not powerful enough, not privy to God’s insights. Who are we to speak for God?
Remember the opening lines of Nitzavim – all of you are standing here, from elders to children, from leaders to the lowliest wood cutters and water carriers. All of you, says Moses, stood at Mt. Sinai to hear Torah, and all of you are here today, breathless before God and witnesses to my passing my role of leadership to Joshua.
All of you. All of you. No one was thought to be not good enough to hear Torah at Sinai. No one today is less able than another to offer the Jewish approach to life to the rest of the world. It’s really very easy. All it takes is standing perfectly still when God touches you, then going out to share what you have learned with the rest of the world.
SERMON 5769
This is a time of year when rabbis everywhere struggle with choices. What are the overarching themes of the time? What are the issues on which we should be focusing at this time of year? In short, what will we speak about on Rosh Hashanah, when our sanctuaries are full and more people will hear our words that on the average Shabbat?
The irony is, the kinds of issues we address on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are no different from those we address during the year. All year we look at the six o’clock news through Jewish lenses; we try to learn from our sacred texts what the Jewish position is on a variety of contemporary issues. Social justice, the holy society, Jewish identity, God – these are not three-day-a-year topics.
As if to prove my point, the double parshiyot from which we chanted this morning offer a number of suggestions for how we should be approaching the cosmic issues of this season. This is not a holiday sermon, my friends. It is “merely” a Shabbat d’var Torah. But the message is, I think, as far-reaching as any you will hear next week.
Our double reading is comprised of parashat Nitzavim and parashat Vayeylekh. The text is dramatic. “You (Israel),” says Moses, “are all standing here today before Adonai your God. All of you – leaders, tribes, elders, officers, children and women, the stranger within your camps, wood cutters and water carriers.” The picture the Torah paints is a powerful one. While the census often quoted is six hundred thousand, in truth those are just the men of fighting age. From this figure we can extrapolate perhaps two million people, standing together, listening to Moses’ final address.
But it is not only the numbers that make the passage powerful. After 40 years of leadership, Moses is stepping down, not to a comfortable retirement but to face the end of his life, his mission, at least in his own eyes, not fulfilled. While the people have striven with him for all those 40 years, they are undoubtedly struggling with many emotions. They are saddened by the imminent loss of their leader and teacher. They are fearful of the unknown and wish that they could have a familiar face at the front of their ranks. They are in awe of this man, who would go into the tent of meeting and converse with the Holy One of Blessing, who ran interference between God and Israel, who defended Israel despite their sins. And they know they are witnessing a historic moment, when a career of passion and humility will soon come to a poignant end.
The second parasha opens with a signal that the lessons of Moses’ three discourses are at an end. Moses begins his own valediction: “I am a hundred and twenty years old today; I can no more go out and come in; and God has told me ‘You will not go over this Jordan.’ Adonai your God will go over before you…Be strong and of good courage.” Following these words, Moses charges Joshua before the entire community of Israel with the same words: Be strong and of good courage. Hazak v'ematz.
It would not be difficult, I don’t think, to find ways to apply these parshiyot to the end of one’s career and the handing over of one’s responsibility to one’s successor. And if we can find meaning for that purpose alone, I suppose the Torah has done its job. But I think there are greater lessons to be learned as well.
Consider the first words of the two parshiyot: Nitzavim – you are standing, and Vayeylekh – he went. Verbs, and specifically verbs concerning motion, and more to the point verbs in opposition to one another. One parasha opens in a condition of statis, the other in a mood of movement. While I think there are other reasons for the rabbis’ decision to combine these two when not enough Shabbatot are available to read them separately, I think the juxtaposition of these two verbs can teach us a significant lesson.
The Hasidic master Rabbi Barukh of Medzibozh brings a commentary based on the opening words of Nitzavim: The righteous are considered to be in the category of walking, because throughout their lives they continue moving from one stage to a higher one; the only time they are considered to be standing is when they actually cleave to God. Moses realized that right then the people were all standing because they were “before Adonai your God” and nothing separated them from God.
Rabbi Barukh’s commentary suggests that piety is less a goal than a process, and if that is so, living a meaningful Jewish life is always possible, always a road we may choose to walk, and it is the walking that path that defines us, not our sense of “having arrived.” However, we also learn from Rabbi Barukh’s words that the highest form of piety is an absolute stillness in the presence of God. Piety, thus, is less a series of details of observance than the sum total of the effect of all those details. As we work to learn what God wants of us, we re-define our lives according to holy principles, and at last we sense God’s nearness and we are absolutely still.
But that is a lesson focused only on atem nitzavim hayom – you are all standing here. Today, we find two parshiyot, and the second begins not with absolute stillness but with motion. So how can we learn something from this connection?
I would like to suggest that this business about being Jewish is highly dynamic. I am far from the pious figure of classic rabbinic literature and therefore cannot speak for those individuals, but I cannot imagine achieving such a place in life where I am so aware of the presence of God in my life that I am absolutely still and remain that way. There have been moments in my life, moments my colleague, Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, calls moments of transcendence, moments when I have been so completely aware of the presence of God, the touch of God on my soul, that speech or even movement were impossible. But those moments pass. I miss them when they go, but for us to function in our world they must go. We cannot remain in a state of suspended animation. For one thing, we would be very hungry very soon. We would need to sleep. We would need to stir and go back to the business of life, but here’s the point: Once we have felt the touch of God on our souls, we are never again quite the same. We begin to think what that contact was all about. What does God want? What does God want to teach us? And how can we make ourselves available to learn the lesson?
Assuming we have learned the lesson, intuited the lesson, the next step is to do something about it. Here, we must pause to consider another Hasidic master and what he has to teach us about teaching. Rabbi Dov Baer of Mezeritch was asked how a person could know whose way of Torah teaching is best. The rabbi responded essentially that it is not the person but the message that is critical – we must not be so concerned with our own self-aggrandizement that we get in the way of the message. If you hear the teacher more than you hear the words, find another teacher.
Profound lesson. But there is more. Rabbi Dov Baer likened one’s style to the fragrance of a flower, which is only a part of the flower, but which serves to attract people (and bees) to the flower. The teacher is the flower, the fragrance is the teacher’s style, and the bee is the student. But surely you have watched bees doing their work. They don’t linger on any one flower but flit from blossom to blossom. And as each bee takes pollen from flower to flower, students take the lessons of their teacher and go out and teach to others, become teachers themselves, enriching the world with the words they have found personally meaningful and profound.
Vayeylekh. He went. In our parasha, this term refers of course to Moses. But in general, “going” is the next logical step after having felt God’s presence in our lives. We may hesitate to talk about exactly how it felt, because the moment was so intimate, and that hesitancy is appropriate. But I suggested earlier that sensing ourselves in the presence of God and finding ourselves absolutely still implied opening our inner ears to God’s message. And it is the teaching of that message that we need to understand as the meaning of Vayeylekh. While it was only Moses whose movement was recorded in the opening verse of the parasha, the word needs to be applied to every one of us. What do we learn, from God and from our teachers? What truths do we understand about Jewish living, about the Jewish approach to interpersonal relationships and the nature of a holy society? While it is important to be still while learning these lessons, the next step needs to be movement, taking the lessons to the marketplace, to the office and the halls of government.
What might prevent us from taking the second step, from going out into the world with the lessons we learn? Possibly we feel humbled by the task – we should be, by the way. But we think we are inadequate, not articulate enough, not powerful enough, not privy to God’s insights. Who are we to speak for God?
Remember the opening lines of Nitzavim – all of you are standing here, from elders to children, from leaders to the lowliest wood cutters and water carriers. All of you, says Moses, stood at Mt. Sinai to hear Torah, and all of you are here today, breathless before God and witnesses to my passing my role of leadership to Joshua.
All of you. All of you. No one was thought to be not good enough to hear Torah at Sinai. No one today is less able than another to offer the Jewish approach to life to the rest of the world. It’s really very easy. All it takes is standing perfectly still when God touches you, then going out to share what you have learned with the rest of the world.
Rabbi Diane Cohen
Preparing for Rosh Hashanah - The Circumcised Heart
This is the short d'var Torah I delivered Friday night:
In looking through my files for inspiration for tomorrow’s d’var Torah, I found a snippet of a record of a conversation I had with my NJ congregation. I can’t remember the spark for the conversation, but what my former congregant observed is a wonderful kavanah for this time of year. He spoke about our bringing our sons to the mohel at the age of 8 days to enter the babies into the covenant of Abraham. In tomorrow morning’s reading, we will hear, “Then Adonai your God will open your heart.” The Hebrew reads, “U’mal Adonai elohekha et l’vav’kha” literally, God will circumcise your heart. My congregant made the connection that "just as we circumcise a boy to bring him into the covenant, so too we bring our hearts to God as the ultimate Mohel to circumcise our hearts each year, so that we may personally enter into a covenant with God to live a life imbued with Torah.”
He continued: “This is a great way to look at the text. And it goes a long was to democratize Judaism - only baby boys can be physically circumcised, but we all have hearts to be brought to God."
As we move through the season of heshbon hanefesh, the spiritual audit in which we engage at this time of year, let this be our kavanah:
Holy One, I bring before You a heart encrusted with ego, with false humility, with arrogance and apathy. Circumcise my heart, cut away the shell behind which I hide, make my heart vulnerable once again to hear Your voice, learn Your intent for me, and follow the path You have set for me.
In looking through my files for inspiration for tomorrow’s d’var Torah, I found a snippet of a record of a conversation I had with my NJ congregation. I can’t remember the spark for the conversation, but what my former congregant observed is a wonderful kavanah for this time of year. He spoke about our bringing our sons to the mohel at the age of 8 days to enter the babies into the covenant of Abraham. In tomorrow morning’s reading, we will hear, “Then Adonai your God will open your heart.” The Hebrew reads, “U’mal Adonai elohekha et l’vav’kha” literally, God will circumcise your heart. My congregant made the connection that "just as we circumcise a boy to bring him into the covenant, so too we bring our hearts to God as the ultimate Mohel to circumcise our hearts each year, so that we may personally enter into a covenant with God to live a life imbued with Torah.”
He continued: “This is a great way to look at the text. And it goes a long was to democratize Judaism - only baby boys can be physically circumcised, but we all have hearts to be brought to God."
As we move through the season of heshbon hanefesh, the spiritual audit in which we engage at this time of year, let this be our kavanah:
Holy One, I bring before You a heart encrusted with ego, with false humility, with arrogance and apathy. Circumcise my heart, cut away the shell behind which I hide, make my heart vulnerable once again to hear Your voice, learn Your intent for me, and follow the path You have set for me.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Remembering 9/11
What I remember most is the ambulances. The rows and rows of ambulances lined up outside hospitals in lower Manhattan, waiting to be summoned to collect the injured coming out of the towers.
They never left their stations.
There was no one to pick up.
The memory of the sight of all those ambulances still knocks the wind out of me.
A congregant who worked in Manhattan somehow made his way out and over the bridges to Jersey where he went to pick up his car in the train parking garage. It was late. He told me, "It was the sight of all those cars that made it more than just an attack on a building. All those cars. Where were their owners?"
Living on the east coast, in the tri-state area, I was intimately aware of the pain caused by the attacks - saw the smoke across the river, held the hands of congregants whose loved ones would never come home and couldn't even be buried.
What saved me? Shabbat. From Tuesday to Friday, I was glued to the television, even though much of what was being shown was a loop - the attack, the crash, the ashes, the weeping, the pictures of lost loved ones. Then Friday afternoon, I turned off the TV, lit my candles, and suddenly the stress was over. After havdalah Saturday night I turned on the TV again (as though something had changed but then, something had changed forever on Tuesday, so who knows?) and watched the same videos I'd seen on Friday, and felt the stress return. Thank God for Shabbat. For those of us not personally involved with the rescue efforts, a break, a separation can restore sanity, put perspective on a mind-numbing tragedy.
And yet, after 8 years, I still think of those ambulances, and all the wounded they never got to collect.
They never left their stations.
There was no one to pick up.
The memory of the sight of all those ambulances still knocks the wind out of me.
A congregant who worked in Manhattan somehow made his way out and over the bridges to Jersey where he went to pick up his car in the train parking garage. It was late. He told me, "It was the sight of all those cars that made it more than just an attack on a building. All those cars. Where were their owners?"
Living on the east coast, in the tri-state area, I was intimately aware of the pain caused by the attacks - saw the smoke across the river, held the hands of congregants whose loved ones would never come home and couldn't even be buried.
What saved me? Shabbat. From Tuesday to Friday, I was glued to the television, even though much of what was being shown was a loop - the attack, the crash, the ashes, the weeping, the pictures of lost loved ones. Then Friday afternoon, I turned off the TV, lit my candles, and suddenly the stress was over. After havdalah Saturday night I turned on the TV again (as though something had changed but then, something had changed forever on Tuesday, so who knows?) and watched the same videos I'd seen on Friday, and felt the stress return. Thank God for Shabbat. For those of us not personally involved with the rescue efforts, a break, a separation can restore sanity, put perspective on a mind-numbing tragedy.
And yet, after 8 years, I still think of those ambulances, and all the wounded they never got to collect.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
What's So Good about Chilling? Sermon Aug. 29, 2009
There are many strategies you can use to harm someone. You can bomb them, blow up cars in front of their embassies, torture them, attack their night clubs and pizza parlors. Adolph Hitler thought he’d found the most efficient way to attack the Jews of Europe. Soviet Russia chose not to kill our bodies, only to prevent our Jewish souls from flowering.
There are many ways strategies you can use to harm someone.
This week’s parasha closes with a very well-known passage,a passage read on the Shabbat before Purim, a Shabbat named for the first word in the passage – Zakhor. Remember.
Zakhor et asher asa l’kha Amalek baderekh b’tzeyt’khem mimitzrayim, asher korkha baderekh vay’nazev b’kha kol-haneheshalim aharekha, v’ata ayef v’yagay’a, v’lo yarey elohim. Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey out of Egypt; how he surprised you on the road and cut down the weak and hungry at your rear, he who had not fear of God.
The Hasidic masters were intrigued by the Torah’s choice of words – asher korkha baderekh – rendered by JPS as how he surprised you on the way. They suggest that this unusual choice of Hebrew is meant to teach us something.
They suggest that the root of the word korkha is koof-reysh - "kar" - the Hebrew for cool or cold. Thus, what was Amalek’s strategy? He chilled us on the road.
Now, today, when we hear “Chill,” it’s an admonition not to get too excited about a situation, essentially, “Calm down!” This, whether the situation really deserves excitement or not. Someone is uncomfortable about someone else’s display of emotion.
In our context, say the Hasidim, the Torah is suggesting that we remember that Amalek succeeded in chilling us, in chilling our ardor for God on the way out of Egypt.
Is that really true? Can we give Amalek that kind of power, to ascribe to that people the blame for all the times of disbelief, of lack of faith in God’s ability to lead us safely to Eretz HaKodesh? I suppose that an argument could be made that this early, brutal attack was so discouraging that Israel took it with them across the desert, unable to move beyond the memory of an encounter with an cruel enemy so soon after liberation from slavery.
But I don’t think that is what the lesson is meant to teach. This is less an explication of Torah than an object lesson for us: chilling is something we must guard against. Chilling has dire consequences.
How can the Jewish people be defeated? Not by suicide bombers or concentration camps, or even the best efforts of the UN Security Council. We can be defeated if our commitment to God can be extinguished. We can be defeated if our passion for the search for God in our lives can be cooled. We as a people can be defeated, all the while that each Jew continues to live, if our Jewish souls are chilled.
In this rational age, when displays of emotion often make us uncomfortable, we are reminded that there are times when overt emotionality may be inappropriate. But in the world of the spirit, in the search for God and the effort to understand God’s role in our lives and our place in God, chilling is never appropriate. I remember once when I was a young girl, when my family and I had just moved to Los Angeles, we were looking for an apartment and hadn’t figured out the numbering system in Los Angeles streets. We were looking for the Jewish neighborhood and had somehow wandered really far afield, and found ourselves in the outer edges of the Black community. We passed a church that was really rocking – I didn’t know it at the time, because I was ignorant of Black worship, but this was a standard Sunday morning service, and we could hear the singing and the hand clapping from across the street. It was a sound I had never before heard coming from a house of worship – certainly not from a synagogue! My parents, I will confess, were nervous. It was, after all, 1958. I was curious. But I was 12 and not curious enough to ask permission to go across the street and peek in. My loss.
There is a certain fervor, a certain fire that comes with a soul’s linkage to God, and that fervor deserves to be felt, and to be expressed. Chilling is one sure way to cut that linkage, to cool the fervor. The Kotzker Rebbe asks why the book of Psalms feels the need to restate something already stated in Torah: There shall be no strange gods among you. Isn’t this unnecessary repetition? His response: not at all. Torah is speaking about gods of other nations. Here, in Psalms, we are not talking about idolatry, but rather the fear that God may become strange to us.
How can God become strange to us? How easy it has become for God to become strange to us! How uncomfortable do we feel when people speak of God speaking to them, of the notion of seeking what God wants of each of us, both ritually and ethically? How easy is it for us to seek God in a synagogue but not in the mountains or the desert or the faces of the sick and hungry?
The presence of God and the call of God are to be found everywhere. But if we remain cool, if we are chilled, we see only the world as it exists physically, without the Soul of the world that gives it life. I suppose it goes back to that unicorn book mark: God is everywhere, if you believe that by looking you will find God.
That brings me to another teaching of the Kotzker Rebbe. In another passage in our parasha, we are taught: You shall not see your neighbor’s donkey or ox fallen on the road and ignore it; you shall surely help him raise the animal. Rashi adds this astonishing explanation from the Talmud: If the owner steps away, sits down, and says, “It’s your mitzvah, knock yourself out,” essentially, you’re off the hook. Your obligation is to help the owner, not do all the work yourself.
While the text seems straightforward, the Kotzker expands the understanding of every term in the verse. For him, we are the owner, God is the one who comes to our aid, and our souls are the beasts of burden carrying our longing for God on its journey. And the upshot? If we have allowed our souls to become lazy, stop seeking, quiet the hunger within, not do our spiritual work, God isn’t going to intrude on our apathy. Like a loving parent of a grown child, who doesn’t barge into their child’s home without an invitation, God doesn’t go where God hasn’t been invited. One of the Kotzker’s most well-known statements is, “Where does God dwell? Where God is invited in.” If our souls have fallen under the load of pain and disappointment, God is ready to help, but we are also expected to do our own work. God may be able to do it all, but God will not do it all.
This may be as good a time as any to offer a blanket apology to you in advance for my davening experiences here on the bima. Although davening in a community is a mitzvah, helping provide a minyan, there are drawbacks. We have to “keep up.” We have to finish with everyone else, not lag behind. This need to keep up is tough on the new davener or those just beginning their Hebrew studies. It’s also tough on those who want to “get into” the davening, find meaning in a word or a phrase, or just allow the presence of God to surround them and to enjoy, revel in that moment. And so I beg your indulgence, for those times when you may be finished with the amidah and I may be lagging just a moment or two behind you. Finding myself in the presence of God and of my kahal – my community – I am lifted spiritually in a way that deserves attention. I could chill. I prefer not to.
As individuals, we may each live long and prosperous lives. But as a Jewish people, we will suffer a profound defeat if we allow ourselves to chill, if we allow the pressures of the rational world around us to restrict our emotional expressions of faith, or if we determine to be “cooler” as a reaction to other faith traditions who clearly have no problem with heating up their worship experience. The Psalmist exhorts us עבדו את ה בשמחה באו לפניו ברננה- serve God with joy, come before God in jubilation. May the year about to begin be a year in which we allow God in, ask God’s help in learning how to serve God with joy, to make our Jewish places of worship places that are alive with excitement, places our young people and our disconnected will choose to seek to be.
There are many ways strategies you can use to harm someone.
This week’s parasha closes with a very well-known passage,a passage read on the Shabbat before Purim, a Shabbat named for the first word in the passage – Zakhor. Remember.
Zakhor et asher asa l’kha Amalek baderekh b’tzeyt’khem mimitzrayim, asher korkha baderekh vay’nazev b’kha kol-haneheshalim aharekha, v’ata ayef v’yagay’a, v’lo yarey elohim. Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey out of Egypt; how he surprised you on the road and cut down the weak and hungry at your rear, he who had not fear of God.
The Hasidic masters were intrigued by the Torah’s choice of words – asher korkha baderekh – rendered by JPS as how he surprised you on the way. They suggest that this unusual choice of Hebrew is meant to teach us something.
They suggest that the root of the word korkha is koof-reysh - "kar" - the Hebrew for cool or cold. Thus, what was Amalek’s strategy? He chilled us on the road.
Now, today, when we hear “Chill,” it’s an admonition not to get too excited about a situation, essentially, “Calm down!” This, whether the situation really deserves excitement or not. Someone is uncomfortable about someone else’s display of emotion.
In our context, say the Hasidim, the Torah is suggesting that we remember that Amalek succeeded in chilling us, in chilling our ardor for God on the way out of Egypt.
Is that really true? Can we give Amalek that kind of power, to ascribe to that people the blame for all the times of disbelief, of lack of faith in God’s ability to lead us safely to Eretz HaKodesh? I suppose that an argument could be made that this early, brutal attack was so discouraging that Israel took it with them across the desert, unable to move beyond the memory of an encounter with an cruel enemy so soon after liberation from slavery.
But I don’t think that is what the lesson is meant to teach. This is less an explication of Torah than an object lesson for us: chilling is something we must guard against. Chilling has dire consequences.
How can the Jewish people be defeated? Not by suicide bombers or concentration camps, or even the best efforts of the UN Security Council. We can be defeated if our commitment to God can be extinguished. We can be defeated if our passion for the search for God in our lives can be cooled. We as a people can be defeated, all the while that each Jew continues to live, if our Jewish souls are chilled.
In this rational age, when displays of emotion often make us uncomfortable, we are reminded that there are times when overt emotionality may be inappropriate. But in the world of the spirit, in the search for God and the effort to understand God’s role in our lives and our place in God, chilling is never appropriate. I remember once when I was a young girl, when my family and I had just moved to Los Angeles, we were looking for an apartment and hadn’t figured out the numbering system in Los Angeles streets. We were looking for the Jewish neighborhood and had somehow wandered really far afield, and found ourselves in the outer edges of the Black community. We passed a church that was really rocking – I didn’t know it at the time, because I was ignorant of Black worship, but this was a standard Sunday morning service, and we could hear the singing and the hand clapping from across the street. It was a sound I had never before heard coming from a house of worship – certainly not from a synagogue! My parents, I will confess, were nervous. It was, after all, 1958. I was curious. But I was 12 and not curious enough to ask permission to go across the street and peek in. My loss.
There is a certain fervor, a certain fire that comes with a soul’s linkage to God, and that fervor deserves to be felt, and to be expressed. Chilling is one sure way to cut that linkage, to cool the fervor. The Kotzker Rebbe asks why the book of Psalms feels the need to restate something already stated in Torah: There shall be no strange gods among you. Isn’t this unnecessary repetition? His response: not at all. Torah is speaking about gods of other nations. Here, in Psalms, we are not talking about idolatry, but rather the fear that God may become strange to us.
How can God become strange to us? How easy it has become for God to become strange to us! How uncomfortable do we feel when people speak of God speaking to them, of the notion of seeking what God wants of each of us, both ritually and ethically? How easy is it for us to seek God in a synagogue but not in the mountains or the desert or the faces of the sick and hungry?
The presence of God and the call of God are to be found everywhere. But if we remain cool, if we are chilled, we see only the world as it exists physically, without the Soul of the world that gives it life. I suppose it goes back to that unicorn book mark: God is everywhere, if you believe that by looking you will find God.
That brings me to another teaching of the Kotzker Rebbe. In another passage in our parasha, we are taught: You shall not see your neighbor’s donkey or ox fallen on the road and ignore it; you shall surely help him raise the animal. Rashi adds this astonishing explanation from the Talmud: If the owner steps away, sits down, and says, “It’s your mitzvah, knock yourself out,” essentially, you’re off the hook. Your obligation is to help the owner, not do all the work yourself.
While the text seems straightforward, the Kotzker expands the understanding of every term in the verse. For him, we are the owner, God is the one who comes to our aid, and our souls are the beasts of burden carrying our longing for God on its journey. And the upshot? If we have allowed our souls to become lazy, stop seeking, quiet the hunger within, not do our spiritual work, God isn’t going to intrude on our apathy. Like a loving parent of a grown child, who doesn’t barge into their child’s home without an invitation, God doesn’t go where God hasn’t been invited. One of the Kotzker’s most well-known statements is, “Where does God dwell? Where God is invited in.” If our souls have fallen under the load of pain and disappointment, God is ready to help, but we are also expected to do our own work. God may be able to do it all, but God will not do it all.
This may be as good a time as any to offer a blanket apology to you in advance for my davening experiences here on the bima. Although davening in a community is a mitzvah, helping provide a minyan, there are drawbacks. We have to “keep up.” We have to finish with everyone else, not lag behind. This need to keep up is tough on the new davener or those just beginning their Hebrew studies. It’s also tough on those who want to “get into” the davening, find meaning in a word or a phrase, or just allow the presence of God to surround them and to enjoy, revel in that moment. And so I beg your indulgence, for those times when you may be finished with the amidah and I may be lagging just a moment or two behind you. Finding myself in the presence of God and of my kahal – my community – I am lifted spiritually in a way that deserves attention. I could chill. I prefer not to.
As individuals, we may each live long and prosperous lives. But as a Jewish people, we will suffer a profound defeat if we allow ourselves to chill, if we allow the pressures of the rational world around us to restrict our emotional expressions of faith, or if we determine to be “cooler” as a reaction to other faith traditions who clearly have no problem with heating up their worship experience. The Psalmist exhorts us עבדו את ה בשמחה באו לפניו ברננה- serve God with joy, come before God in jubilation. May the year about to begin be a year in which we allow God in, ask God’s help in learning how to serve God with joy, to make our Jewish places of worship places that are alive with excitement, places our young people and our disconnected will choose to seek to be.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Joining the Eilat Enterprise
MATTOT-MASEY
5769
This is the time of year when things tend to slow down. People go away on vacation. Rabbis go away on vacation. It’s hot. Everyone moves a little more slowly. We’re looking ahead to the High Holidays and the beginning of the school year, but in the here and now, we look forward to little more than a tall glass of lemonade and a functioning air conditioning system.
But for some of us, this isn’t time off. For some of us, for the community of Congregation Eilat, this is a time to regroup, to envision, to imagine the future, and to begin to work toward making the vision a reality.
Torah study in most supplementary schools focuses on the stories of Genesis and the beginning of Exodus – the stories of our ancestors, the beginnings of our people and the defining moments of liberation and revelation. Not much is studied after Sinai. And yet, three full books of Torah are devoted to the wanderings in the wilderness, the consideration of holiness, and the transference of authority from Moses to Joshua as the Israelites prepare to enter and conquer the Land. It’s interesting that we talk about our people’s roots in our homeland, but we never make it back by the time we reach the end of Deuteronomy. We are still on the other side of the Jordan, looking in and preparing for battle.
Most of Torah, then, is the journey. Most of Torah is spent outside the Land, the Israelites either in bondage or wandering across the desolate landscape of Sinai and the Arava. They had an idea of what their destination would be like because scouts had gone in and come back filled with stories of its lushness. What remained for the newly freed slaves, or their descendants, was to keep that image of lushness before them and to find the courage to move into the Land and make it theirs once again. Holding on to the dream was no less difficult than finding the courage to make it reality. We have only to read of the many times the Israelites complained that life was so much better in Egypt. Food was plentiful. Life was predictable. Would that we had stayed, they kvetched.
You may already be aware that the metaphor of imagined past comfort to idealized future through difficult journey has become standard when talking to individuals about upheaval in their lives. People who have been in comfortable places – good work situations, happy home life, predictability – have sometimes found themselves thrust out into a cold, hard world where nothing is predictable. Marriages end. People we love die. Natural disasters devastate neighborhoods and whole cities. The economy hits a downturn. We find ourselves, to quote a friend, confronting a new normal, life as it has not been before, but as it is going to be from now on. We struggle to find meaning within this new normal, and after grieving for our loss, we begin to imagine how life should be, might be. And we begin to rebuild. It’s in that space between defining our future and realizing it that we speak of being in the midbar, the wilderness where we know we have not yet arrived, but we know as well that this is not where we would ever choose to be permanently. The midbar, the journey, and how we make our way, is as important to our survival as our ultimate arrival on the other side of the Jordan.
Such is the use of the metaphor of journey in individual lives. But the metaphor applies as well, I think, to organizations, and in particular to synagogues. We all know of congregations that began small, grew either slowly or quickly, but consistently, and while they may have had to survive a few small setbacks, they continue to flourish. But others have journeys not quite so easy. They began with high hopes, had several years of growth and vitality, and then Stuff happened. The details are irrelevant, but once strong congregations find themselves in a new normal, facing diminishing membership and financial difficulty. For some, the downturn will never be reversed. But for others, many others, including Congregation Eilat, the difficulties challenge us – they will not define us.
Tomorrow morning, in this book of Numbers, this book of contentiousness, we will find the tribes of Gad and Reuven and the half tribe of Menashe telling Moses that their cattle need the rich pasture land of the other side of the Jordan. The land that God promised us may indeed be beautiful, they acknowledge, but they must look out for their herds. Moses is furious. How can these tribes separate themselves from the rest of the community? How can they keep their fighting forces safe on the other side of the Jordan when there is a battle to be fought? He tells them that they may indeed settle where they wish, but when the battle is joined to conquer the Land, they must leave their wives and children and elderly and bring their strength to help their brothers in the war against the indigenous nations of Canaan. Once the conquest is complete, they may return to their families and their herds. In other words, live where you want, Moses tells them, but you have a responsibility to your people.
In any congregation, Jewish or not, there are several populations of members. There are those who are paper members but who never attend services or programs. They may live far away and belong out of a sense of loyalty, and their commitment is important. There are those who attend services occasionally, but not adult education. There are those who sit on a committee but are hesitant to take leadership roles in the community. And there are the leaders, who make the difficult decisions, chair committees, and play a central role in defining the mission of the community. Every community has every one of these groups, and every group is important to the survival of the community.
But today, here in Congregation Eilat, I would like to invite everyone to move further toward the core. Whatever your comfort level has been in the past, for the next year, make a conscious decision to raise that level. Commit to an hour a week, even an hour a month, to bringing your ideas, your energy, your dreams for our congregation, to the table. Volunteer to make a few phone calls. Stuff envelopes. Maybe bring someone to synagogue who otherwise might not be able to get out. Share your dreams for what this community could be. As we begin a new chapter in the history of this congregation, we are like the Israelites poised to enter the Land and conquer it. We need the efforts of everyone associated with Congregation Eilat.
Tell your unaffiliated and formerly affiliated friends that a new chapter has begun here. You should come. Check it out. Is there a social action project you’ve always wanted to see pursued? Tell the leadership. Better yet, help organize it. To bring in yet another metaphor, I’m thinking about the barn raising days of pioneer days. Communities would get together and literally raise the roof of the new barn. Every strong back was needed for that effort. When the roof was secure, the builders could go home.
We need a new symbolic roof raised over our congregation, a roof of security and vitality and potential. And we need everyone here to help.
When the task has been completed, as Moses told the two and a half tribes in tomorrow’s reading, if you really want to go back to your former comfort level, that’s your privilege. After all, Gad, Reuven, and Menashe went back to their herds after the conquest. If you really want to go back to an occasional Friday night service, we’ll be thrilled to see you when you’re here. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if you got used to being involved and decided to stay? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you found that bringing your own energy to the Congregation Eilat enterprise made you look at the congregation as truly yours? And you got used to having your voice heard? How exciting our new normal would be then!
5769
This is the time of year when things tend to slow down. People go away on vacation. Rabbis go away on vacation. It’s hot. Everyone moves a little more slowly. We’re looking ahead to the High Holidays and the beginning of the school year, but in the here and now, we look forward to little more than a tall glass of lemonade and a functioning air conditioning system.
But for some of us, this isn’t time off. For some of us, for the community of Congregation Eilat, this is a time to regroup, to envision, to imagine the future, and to begin to work toward making the vision a reality.
Torah study in most supplementary schools focuses on the stories of Genesis and the beginning of Exodus – the stories of our ancestors, the beginnings of our people and the defining moments of liberation and revelation. Not much is studied after Sinai. And yet, three full books of Torah are devoted to the wanderings in the wilderness, the consideration of holiness, and the transference of authority from Moses to Joshua as the Israelites prepare to enter and conquer the Land. It’s interesting that we talk about our people’s roots in our homeland, but we never make it back by the time we reach the end of Deuteronomy. We are still on the other side of the Jordan, looking in and preparing for battle.
Most of Torah, then, is the journey. Most of Torah is spent outside the Land, the Israelites either in bondage or wandering across the desolate landscape of Sinai and the Arava. They had an idea of what their destination would be like because scouts had gone in and come back filled with stories of its lushness. What remained for the newly freed slaves, or their descendants, was to keep that image of lushness before them and to find the courage to move into the Land and make it theirs once again. Holding on to the dream was no less difficult than finding the courage to make it reality. We have only to read of the many times the Israelites complained that life was so much better in Egypt. Food was plentiful. Life was predictable. Would that we had stayed, they kvetched.
You may already be aware that the metaphor of imagined past comfort to idealized future through difficult journey has become standard when talking to individuals about upheaval in their lives. People who have been in comfortable places – good work situations, happy home life, predictability – have sometimes found themselves thrust out into a cold, hard world where nothing is predictable. Marriages end. People we love die. Natural disasters devastate neighborhoods and whole cities. The economy hits a downturn. We find ourselves, to quote a friend, confronting a new normal, life as it has not been before, but as it is going to be from now on. We struggle to find meaning within this new normal, and after grieving for our loss, we begin to imagine how life should be, might be. And we begin to rebuild. It’s in that space between defining our future and realizing it that we speak of being in the midbar, the wilderness where we know we have not yet arrived, but we know as well that this is not where we would ever choose to be permanently. The midbar, the journey, and how we make our way, is as important to our survival as our ultimate arrival on the other side of the Jordan.
Such is the use of the metaphor of journey in individual lives. But the metaphor applies as well, I think, to organizations, and in particular to synagogues. We all know of congregations that began small, grew either slowly or quickly, but consistently, and while they may have had to survive a few small setbacks, they continue to flourish. But others have journeys not quite so easy. They began with high hopes, had several years of growth and vitality, and then Stuff happened. The details are irrelevant, but once strong congregations find themselves in a new normal, facing diminishing membership and financial difficulty. For some, the downturn will never be reversed. But for others, many others, including Congregation Eilat, the difficulties challenge us – they will not define us.
Tomorrow morning, in this book of Numbers, this book of contentiousness, we will find the tribes of Gad and Reuven and the half tribe of Menashe telling Moses that their cattle need the rich pasture land of the other side of the Jordan. The land that God promised us may indeed be beautiful, they acknowledge, but they must look out for their herds. Moses is furious. How can these tribes separate themselves from the rest of the community? How can they keep their fighting forces safe on the other side of the Jordan when there is a battle to be fought? He tells them that they may indeed settle where they wish, but when the battle is joined to conquer the Land, they must leave their wives and children and elderly and bring their strength to help their brothers in the war against the indigenous nations of Canaan. Once the conquest is complete, they may return to their families and their herds. In other words, live where you want, Moses tells them, but you have a responsibility to your people.
In any congregation, Jewish or not, there are several populations of members. There are those who are paper members but who never attend services or programs. They may live far away and belong out of a sense of loyalty, and their commitment is important. There are those who attend services occasionally, but not adult education. There are those who sit on a committee but are hesitant to take leadership roles in the community. And there are the leaders, who make the difficult decisions, chair committees, and play a central role in defining the mission of the community. Every community has every one of these groups, and every group is important to the survival of the community.
But today, here in Congregation Eilat, I would like to invite everyone to move further toward the core. Whatever your comfort level has been in the past, for the next year, make a conscious decision to raise that level. Commit to an hour a week, even an hour a month, to bringing your ideas, your energy, your dreams for our congregation, to the table. Volunteer to make a few phone calls. Stuff envelopes. Maybe bring someone to synagogue who otherwise might not be able to get out. Share your dreams for what this community could be. As we begin a new chapter in the history of this congregation, we are like the Israelites poised to enter the Land and conquer it. We need the efforts of everyone associated with Congregation Eilat.
Tell your unaffiliated and formerly affiliated friends that a new chapter has begun here. You should come. Check it out. Is there a social action project you’ve always wanted to see pursued? Tell the leadership. Better yet, help organize it. To bring in yet another metaphor, I’m thinking about the barn raising days of pioneer days. Communities would get together and literally raise the roof of the new barn. Every strong back was needed for that effort. When the roof was secure, the builders could go home.
We need a new symbolic roof raised over our congregation, a roof of security and vitality and potential. And we need everyone here to help.
When the task has been completed, as Moses told the two and a half tribes in tomorrow’s reading, if you really want to go back to your former comfort level, that’s your privilege. After all, Gad, Reuven, and Menashe went back to their herds after the conquest. If you really want to go back to an occasional Friday night service, we’ll be thrilled to see you when you’re here. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if you got used to being involved and decided to stay? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you found that bringing your own energy to the Congregation Eilat enterprise made you look at the congregation as truly yours? And you got used to having your voice heard? How exciting our new normal would be then!
Monday, June 22, 2009
What Today's Synagogues Are Missing
In my journeys over the past few years, I've been to a number of synagogues, both large and small, and across the Jewish spectrum, from Reform to Chabad. I've had varying responses to the religious exercises I found there, and I've written those variations off to the obvious: I know where I'm comfortable, and this place was too far to the left, that other too far to the right, and so on. I've also responded to the warmth (or lack thereof) of the community. Was I welcomed? Was I invited to sit with someone? Did anyone even notice I was there?
But a quote I just came across has prompted me to think in a different direction altogether. Someone once observed that the little shuls (and of course they weren't all little) in Europe were cozy places where we could seek God in community, while here in America, the synagogues you most hear about are the large "megashuls," the "cathedral synagogue," with a sanctuary capable of seating hundreds (thousands?). The observation went on to comment that those who had experienced the small shul of Europe were uncomfortable in the large synagogue of America. And why? The ceiling, essentially, was too high. The higher the ceiling, the comment reasoned, the farther God was from us.
The quote that has prompted this rumination is from Professor Nahum M. Sarna in his commentary on Exodus published as part of the JPS Torah Commentary [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991], p. 237. He observes, "The function of the Tabernacle was to create a portable Sinai. . . . The cloud is the manifest token of the immediacy of the Divine Presence . . ."
At the risk of evoking chuckles among my readers, I must say that Professor Sarna is on to something here in terms of modern congregations. The bold, clean lines of modern sanctuaries are aesthetically wonderful. But we see too clearly. The mystery is gone. The incense we used to use in the Temples of old have now been claimed by the Catholic church. There's no cloud. There's no replication of the mystery of Temple worship. Those who know what to look for will point out that the ner tamid (eternal light) is a reminder of the ongoing flame on the altar; the breastplate of the Torah reminds us of the priest's breastplate; the bells on the Torah decorations remind us of the bells on the hem of the priest's tunic. If we know what to look for, we find reminders of Temple service. But those reminders are all visible, tangible.
I remember a class at the Seminary with Professor Neil Gillman. I took so many classes with him that I can't tell you which one it was - perhaps the theology of the liturgy. At any rate, somehow we got on the topic of mystery, and a member of the class familiar with the Catholic church observed that one of the losses bemoaned by Catholics since Vatican II was the loss of Latin. Did anyone really understand the Latin, she was asked. No, but that was the point. There was a mystery in the intoned words, and the mystery was now lost. Everyone understood the words, and the words were somehow not as special.
I might digress here and talk about Hebrew, but that's not the point. And I don't honestly know what the answer is. Do we stop dusting our sanctuaries, invite allergy attacks and asthma issues, so that the sunlight might be diffused through the dust motes floating in the air? Unlikely. But how might we make our sanctuaries less spectacular and more mysterious? Not threatening. Not scary. But a door open into a world where God might be expected to be found. We celebrate finding God in nature - at the Grand Canyon, among the cherry trees in Washington, at the shore, even after an ice storm, when the bare trees are glittering with icicles. Nothing we are looking at was made by us. It was crafted by a superior Hand, and we are in awe. So we build spectacular buildings and expect to find the same awe in structures made by human hands. Not possible.
How might the 21st century synagogue be imagined? I've been in beautiful sanctuaries with walls of glass, filled with light, where daveners are distracted by the views on the outside. But the sanctuaries were still high-ceilinged, modern edifices, and not the spiritual place I would have wanted.
The artifacts of the sanctuary remind us of Temple worship. How might we imagine a synagogue that transports us back to Sinai? When we celebrate wedding anniversaries (especially notable ones), we work at remembering the day of our marriage. Think about all the couples who want to "renew their vows" on their 50th anniversary. How do we renew our vow with God that was made at Sinai? How might we capture that awe? In architecture? In ritual? It's the part of Jewish observance, I think, that is most lacking and most needed.
But a quote I just came across has prompted me to think in a different direction altogether. Someone once observed that the little shuls (and of course they weren't all little) in Europe were cozy places where we could seek God in community, while here in America, the synagogues you most hear about are the large "megashuls," the "cathedral synagogue," with a sanctuary capable of seating hundreds (thousands?). The observation went on to comment that those who had experienced the small shul of Europe were uncomfortable in the large synagogue of America. And why? The ceiling, essentially, was too high. The higher the ceiling, the comment reasoned, the farther God was from us.
The quote that has prompted this rumination is from Professor Nahum M. Sarna in his commentary on Exodus published as part of the JPS Torah Commentary [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991], p. 237. He observes, "The function of the Tabernacle was to create a portable Sinai. . . . The cloud is the manifest token of the immediacy of the Divine Presence . . ."
At the risk of evoking chuckles among my readers, I must say that Professor Sarna is on to something here in terms of modern congregations. The bold, clean lines of modern sanctuaries are aesthetically wonderful. But we see too clearly. The mystery is gone. The incense we used to use in the Temples of old have now been claimed by the Catholic church. There's no cloud. There's no replication of the mystery of Temple worship. Those who know what to look for will point out that the ner tamid (eternal light) is a reminder of the ongoing flame on the altar; the breastplate of the Torah reminds us of the priest's breastplate; the bells on the Torah decorations remind us of the bells on the hem of the priest's tunic. If we know what to look for, we find reminders of Temple service. But those reminders are all visible, tangible.
I remember a class at the Seminary with Professor Neil Gillman. I took so many classes with him that I can't tell you which one it was - perhaps the theology of the liturgy. At any rate, somehow we got on the topic of mystery, and a member of the class familiar with the Catholic church observed that one of the losses bemoaned by Catholics since Vatican II was the loss of Latin. Did anyone really understand the Latin, she was asked. No, but that was the point. There was a mystery in the intoned words, and the mystery was now lost. Everyone understood the words, and the words were somehow not as special.
I might digress here and talk about Hebrew, but that's not the point. And I don't honestly know what the answer is. Do we stop dusting our sanctuaries, invite allergy attacks and asthma issues, so that the sunlight might be diffused through the dust motes floating in the air? Unlikely. But how might we make our sanctuaries less spectacular and more mysterious? Not threatening. Not scary. But a door open into a world where God might be expected to be found. We celebrate finding God in nature - at the Grand Canyon, among the cherry trees in Washington, at the shore, even after an ice storm, when the bare trees are glittering with icicles. Nothing we are looking at was made by us. It was crafted by a superior Hand, and we are in awe. So we build spectacular buildings and expect to find the same awe in structures made by human hands. Not possible.
How might the 21st century synagogue be imagined? I've been in beautiful sanctuaries with walls of glass, filled with light, where daveners are distracted by the views on the outside. But the sanctuaries were still high-ceilinged, modern edifices, and not the spiritual place I would have wanted.
The artifacts of the sanctuary remind us of Temple worship. How might we imagine a synagogue that transports us back to Sinai? When we celebrate wedding anniversaries (especially notable ones), we work at remembering the day of our marriage. Think about all the couples who want to "renew their vows" on their 50th anniversary. How do we renew our vow with God that was made at Sinai? How might we capture that awe? In architecture? In ritual? It's the part of Jewish observance, I think, that is most lacking and most needed.
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