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.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Feeding It Forward
I spent a painful five hours yesterday at a hunger summit sponsored by the Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles. We were bombarded with mind-boggling statistics, we were inspired, and we were often horrified at the appalling lack of interest in the problem of hunger, and especially the hunger of children, on the part of far too many elements of our society. One story in particular sticks in my head: an assistant editor of the Los Angeles Times was invited to a program some time ago and was asked to feature the issue of hunger in his paper. He replied that hunger in L.A. is like traffic: there's always some there. The implications: it's never going to go away and it's not news. Clearly, hungry children are not among the news that's fit to print.
I have been impressed with programs both here and in Israel that attempt to fight hunger by "recycling" the food left over at restaurants, hotels, and catering halls. Organizations visit these facilities, collect the food, repackage it, and deliver it. Table2Table, an Israeli organization, delivers 12,000 meals a week to hungry Israelis (yes, there's hunger in Israel). Tomchei Shabbos, a Los Angeles agency that targets hungry Jews who keep kosher, also attempts to do this, but their efforts are limited because of their limited facility and access to refrigeration.
When I think about the problem, the enormity of the problem, the individuals - the elderly, young families out of work and with little savings to fall back on, and the children - always the children - I find it difficult to breathe. The need is great and growing daily. We learned yesterday of the impact that California budget cuts will have on social services (of course, where else would they cut?), and we began to see the problem growing like an alien emerging from primordial mud: ever more need, ever less money, and, most important, ever less vision. Just when our society needs to demonstrate its compassion, it turns a blind eye and claims fiscal obligation. Right.
The final straw came in this morning's Times, in David Lazarus' column in the Business section: http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-lazarus25-2009mar25,0,7303187.column. Briefly, he castigates the hospitality industry and in particular the California Restaurant Association, for their refusal to join the movement to recycle unserved food through organizations like the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank. According to the director of the Food Bank, it's not the liability the restaurants are worried about, it's the logistics. "Simply put, it's often too much hassle for caterers and hotels to arrange for leftover food to be given to a homeless shelter or soup kitchen. So they toss it in the trash."
Too much hassle. 1.3 million children in Los Angeles go to sleep hungry every night - 1.3 million - and the restaurant owners don't want the hassle.
State senator Jenny Oropeza, Long Beach, has tried unsuccessfully to steer two different bills through the legislature, but both times she was shot down by the CRA (a pox on them). She wanted something as simple as imposing the modest requirement that caterers inform clients they have the option of donating uneaten food to charity. That doesn't sound like much. Might a client not bring a truck and cart the food away themselves?
That bill, SB 1443, was shot down by the California Restaurant Assn., which argued that any such requirement would be troublesome for its members.
Troublesome. You have to love that word. Children are hungry and the CRA doesn't want troublesome. If we avoided everything troublesome in this world, we'd never have kids, we might never even fall in love. Troublesome just means challenging. So let's accept the challenge.
Let's find enough food banks to go to the facilities and collect the food, a la Table2Table and Tomchei Shabbos.
That would take a lot of organization, you say? Hey. Organization. That's something the Jewish community does really well.
Here's a thought. Let the synagogues and churches in the Los Angeles area (let's start locally and perhaps provide a model for other cities and counties to replicate) brainstorm ways to coordinate with restaurants and hotels so that volunteers might arrive at the right time to collect food that's heading for the Dumpsters. Bring the food back to a central facility. Repackage it. Deliver it.
You're right, of course. This is an enormous project. Where are there buildings, refrigeration, food packaging, volunteers to do this? I don't know. What I do know is that if we start small, we can grow. And if we don't start, the food will continue to feed the rats while 1.3 million children go to sleep hungry.
Anybody good at PR out there? Here's your challenge. Figure out a way to make recycling cool. I'm imagining publicizing restaurants (there must be some) and caterers (like Someone's in the Kitchen) that do recycle, and making them the go-to places for events. Encourage responsible catering. (Maybe an ad in the LA. Jewish Journal?) The problem is that for too many clients, it's all about the event, and they won't even think of where the left-overs are going unless recycling becomes chic, like being "green." I'm not proud. If it takes making recycling food the next trend, so be it. I personally didn't know that the California legislature removed the potential for liability from caterers if food from their events is donated to an organization and someone then becomes ill. The legislature, while in truth protecting the industry, opened the door for sharing unserved food to the needy. We need to take it to the next stage. Find a way to collect and distribute the food to those who need it.
Call it Feeding It Forward. Call it what you want. Back in the day, we used to say that if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Please be part of the solution. Read the Times story. Get as angry as I am. And let's work together to begin to find the answers.
I have been impressed with programs both here and in Israel that attempt to fight hunger by "recycling" the food left over at restaurants, hotels, and catering halls. Organizations visit these facilities, collect the food, repackage it, and deliver it. Table2Table, an Israeli organization, delivers 12,000 meals a week to hungry Israelis (yes, there's hunger in Israel). Tomchei Shabbos, a Los Angeles agency that targets hungry Jews who keep kosher, also attempts to do this, but their efforts are limited because of their limited facility and access to refrigeration.
When I think about the problem, the enormity of the problem, the individuals - the elderly, young families out of work and with little savings to fall back on, and the children - always the children - I find it difficult to breathe. The need is great and growing daily. We learned yesterday of the impact that California budget cuts will have on social services (of course, where else would they cut?), and we began to see the problem growing like an alien emerging from primordial mud: ever more need, ever less money, and, most important, ever less vision. Just when our society needs to demonstrate its compassion, it turns a blind eye and claims fiscal obligation. Right.
The final straw came in this morning's Times, in David Lazarus' column in the Business section: http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-lazarus25-2009mar25,0,7303187.column. Briefly, he castigates the hospitality industry and in particular the California Restaurant Association, for their refusal to join the movement to recycle unserved food through organizations like the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank. According to the director of the Food Bank, it's not the liability the restaurants are worried about, it's the logistics. "Simply put, it's often too much hassle for caterers and hotels to arrange for leftover food to be given to a homeless shelter or soup kitchen. So they toss it in the trash."
Too much hassle. 1.3 million children in Los Angeles go to sleep hungry every night - 1.3 million - and the restaurant owners don't want the hassle.
State senator Jenny Oropeza, Long Beach, has tried unsuccessfully to steer two different bills through the legislature, but both times she was shot down by the CRA (a pox on them). She wanted something as simple as imposing the modest requirement that caterers inform clients they have the option of donating uneaten food to charity. That doesn't sound like much. Might a client not bring a truck and cart the food away themselves?
That bill, SB 1443, was shot down by the California Restaurant Assn., which argued that any such requirement would be troublesome for its members.
Troublesome. You have to love that word. Children are hungry and the CRA doesn't want troublesome. If we avoided everything troublesome in this world, we'd never have kids, we might never even fall in love. Troublesome just means challenging. So let's accept the challenge.
Let's find enough food banks to go to the facilities and collect the food, a la Table2Table and Tomchei Shabbos.
That would take a lot of organization, you say? Hey. Organization. That's something the Jewish community does really well.
Here's a thought. Let the synagogues and churches in the Los Angeles area (let's start locally and perhaps provide a model for other cities and counties to replicate) brainstorm ways to coordinate with restaurants and hotels so that volunteers might arrive at the right time to collect food that's heading for the Dumpsters. Bring the food back to a central facility. Repackage it. Deliver it.
You're right, of course. This is an enormous project. Where are there buildings, refrigeration, food packaging, volunteers to do this? I don't know. What I do know is that if we start small, we can grow. And if we don't start, the food will continue to feed the rats while 1.3 million children go to sleep hungry.
Anybody good at PR out there? Here's your challenge. Figure out a way to make recycling cool. I'm imagining publicizing restaurants (there must be some) and caterers (like Someone's in the Kitchen) that do recycle, and making them the go-to places for events. Encourage responsible catering. (Maybe an ad in the LA. Jewish Journal?) The problem is that for too many clients, it's all about the event, and they won't even think of where the left-overs are going unless recycling becomes chic, like being "green." I'm not proud. If it takes making recycling food the next trend, so be it. I personally didn't know that the California legislature removed the potential for liability from caterers if food from their events is donated to an organization and someone then becomes ill. The legislature, while in truth protecting the industry, opened the door for sharing unserved food to the needy. We need to take it to the next stage. Find a way to collect and distribute the food to those who need it.
Call it Feeding It Forward. Call it what you want. Back in the day, we used to say that if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Please be part of the solution. Read the Times story. Get as angry as I am. And let's work together to begin to find the answers.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Doing a Mitzvah - My Grandmother's Yahrzeit
There are so many kinds of mitzvot. There are the ritual kinds, and sometimes we can appreciate them, "get something" from them (like lighting Shabbat candles), and sometimes not (like worrying about the kind of yarn your clothes are made from). And there are interpersonal mitzvot, like giving tzedakah (doing the right thing by sharing our blessings with others) or being concerned about the elderly. And then, sometimes, there are things we do and wonder what we're doing it for. And that begs the question - why are we doing these things? To get something for ourselves? Or just because we're supposed to? And where does the true reward (if there is a reward) lie? With the "feel good" or with the "I'm supposed to"?
Today is my grandmother's yahrzeit, the anniversary of her passing. Now, you should know that like most of us, I had two grandmothers. One, my mother's mother, was part of my life on a daily basis. Unfortunately, she died when I was not quite 6, so my memories of her are very fuzzy. I have pictures of her, and of course the stories my mother and her sisters told me about who she was and what was important to her. She was the kind of woman shopkeepers wanted to be their first customer in the morning, because then they'd have a good day. She was also a woman who loved to watch wrestling on television, and would sit on the couch, bouncing up and down, yelling, "Hit him again!" (I have trouble envisioning this, but the story has come to me from several people, so I must believe them.) She was gentle and she loved her grandchildren, and I wish I'd known her better.
Today is not her yahrzeit. It's the yahrzeit of my father's mother. Of her I have no memories at all. None. I was about the same age when she died, so you'd think I'd have some fuzzy memories of her as well, pictures of her playing with me. And yet, there's nothing. I do know that my father would go to visit her occasionally, but my mother never went (let's not go there). And yet...whether my children come to visit with their wives or not, if they ever thought to stop by alone, I know I would say, "Next time, bring Aria," or "Siporah," or "Gabe."
Yet my father would visit alone, and apparently his mother never said, "Where's Diane?" I can't imagine what the family dynamic was, and I know that had she asked for me, he would have complied. She didn't, so he didn't.
And yet I'm lighting a candle for her and going to minyan tomorrow morning to say kaddish. What on earth for?
My aunts and uncles on my father's side are all gone now. There's no one to say kaddish for their parents, as there's no one to say kaddish for my mother's parents. That whole generation has passed on, leaving my generation to remember them and their mothers and fathers. And for some reason, I've decided, in these past few years, to observe all those yahrzeits - my parents, my aunts and uncle (at least on my mother's side), and my grandparents. It's not that hard: go to synagogue in the evening for a service, go home and light a little 24 hour candle, then go in the next morning for another service. Recite a memorial prayer. And I'm done.
It's a mitzvah that does nothing for me. I do feel a warm glow when I remember my mother's parents, as fuzzy as their memories are, because they mean something to me. But when I remember my father's parents, I feel nothing. And that's such a shame. Of course, I suppose feeling nothing is better than feeling pain, but it would be so nice to feel something positive.
On the other hand, they produced my father. Their parenting made him who he was, whether because of or despite their parenting. They had an indirect impact on my life. And so it's important that I remember them.
And after talking to people recently who are adoptive parents, and hearing the angst their children are struggling with, wondering who they "really" are, what their biological parents were like, what their DNA is, perhaps lighting a yahrzeit light is my way of celebrating the fact that I see my father's eyes, my mother's smile, when I look in the mirror. Lighting those lights reminds me that I'm connected to people who may have disappointed me, but from whom I am nevertheless descended. You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family.
I remember back in the 70s, when America was caught up in the "Roots"-inspired hunt for our ancestors, and how some people were disappointed because they were looking for high-born ancestors, perhaps people who fought in the Revolutionary War, and found only horse thieves. Lighting these candles for my father's parents is acknowledging that sometimes our ancestors aren't perfect, but knowing who the horse thieves and unloving grandmothers are is better than not knowing anything about your past.
The satisfaction I get comes not from knowing I'm performing a loving act for a beloved relative, but from doing what I know should be done, despite the challenge it presents. If it were easy, there wouldn't have been a requirement. We'd do it voluntarily. I light the candles for my past and celebrate that I am connected, and I work at relating to my children and grandchildren in response to my mother's mother and despite my father's mother, all the while knowing I am descended from both.
Today is my grandmother's yahrzeit, the anniversary of her passing. Now, you should know that like most of us, I had two grandmothers. One, my mother's mother, was part of my life on a daily basis. Unfortunately, she died when I was not quite 6, so my memories of her are very fuzzy. I have pictures of her, and of course the stories my mother and her sisters told me about who she was and what was important to her. She was the kind of woman shopkeepers wanted to be their first customer in the morning, because then they'd have a good day. She was also a woman who loved to watch wrestling on television, and would sit on the couch, bouncing up and down, yelling, "Hit him again!" (I have trouble envisioning this, but the story has come to me from several people, so I must believe them.) She was gentle and she loved her grandchildren, and I wish I'd known her better.
Today is not her yahrzeit. It's the yahrzeit of my father's mother. Of her I have no memories at all. None. I was about the same age when she died, so you'd think I'd have some fuzzy memories of her as well, pictures of her playing with me. And yet, there's nothing. I do know that my father would go to visit her occasionally, but my mother never went (let's not go there). And yet...whether my children come to visit with their wives or not, if they ever thought to stop by alone, I know I would say, "Next time, bring Aria," or "Siporah," or "Gabe."
Yet my father would visit alone, and apparently his mother never said, "Where's Diane?" I can't imagine what the family dynamic was, and I know that had she asked for me, he would have complied. She didn't, so he didn't.
And yet I'm lighting a candle for her and going to minyan tomorrow morning to say kaddish. What on earth for?
My aunts and uncles on my father's side are all gone now. There's no one to say kaddish for their parents, as there's no one to say kaddish for my mother's parents. That whole generation has passed on, leaving my generation to remember them and their mothers and fathers. And for some reason, I've decided, in these past few years, to observe all those yahrzeits - my parents, my aunts and uncle (at least on my mother's side), and my grandparents. It's not that hard: go to synagogue in the evening for a service, go home and light a little 24 hour candle, then go in the next morning for another service. Recite a memorial prayer. And I'm done.
It's a mitzvah that does nothing for me. I do feel a warm glow when I remember my mother's parents, as fuzzy as their memories are, because they mean something to me. But when I remember my father's parents, I feel nothing. And that's such a shame. Of course, I suppose feeling nothing is better than feeling pain, but it would be so nice to feel something positive.
On the other hand, they produced my father. Their parenting made him who he was, whether because of or despite their parenting. They had an indirect impact on my life. And so it's important that I remember them.
And after talking to people recently who are adoptive parents, and hearing the angst their children are struggling with, wondering who they "really" are, what their biological parents were like, what their DNA is, perhaps lighting a yahrzeit light is my way of celebrating the fact that I see my father's eyes, my mother's smile, when I look in the mirror. Lighting those lights reminds me that I'm connected to people who may have disappointed me, but from whom I am nevertheless descended. You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family.
I remember back in the 70s, when America was caught up in the "Roots"-inspired hunt for our ancestors, and how some people were disappointed because they were looking for high-born ancestors, perhaps people who fought in the Revolutionary War, and found only horse thieves. Lighting these candles for my father's parents is acknowledging that sometimes our ancestors aren't perfect, but knowing who the horse thieves and unloving grandmothers are is better than not knowing anything about your past.
The satisfaction I get comes not from knowing I'm performing a loving act for a beloved relative, but from doing what I know should be done, despite the challenge it presents. If it were easy, there wouldn't have been a requirement. We'd do it voluntarily. I light the candles for my past and celebrate that I am connected, and I work at relating to my children and grandchildren in response to my mother's mother and despite my father's mother, all the while knowing I am descended from both.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Redefining Wealth
I've become ever so much wiser since I became a grandmother. In the past almost eight years, I've learned so much about how little I know (and "I don't know" is always the start of wisdom), and I've learned to listen carefully to my little ones, because their views of the world always bring something fresh to my life. Sometimes it's just being around them that teaches me something profound.
A few months ago, I was visiting one of the Cohen households in our family, and my three-year-old was having a melt-down. She was looking for her mother, who was busy with her baby brother, and her father was busy with yard work, so she came running to me and scrambled onto my lap. I was only too happy to offer a cuddle and ease her heartbreak (whatever it was at the moment). But as I rocked her, I realized what she'd done. She'd gone from one loving adult to another, and while she couldn't find comfort with her first two tries, she succeeded in try #3. And I realized that true wealth comes with laps. The more laps you can count on to comfort you, the richer you are.
It's long been a truism that money can't buy you happiness. John, Paul, George and Ringo once observed that money can't even buy you love. While those without wealth might echo Tevye's observation that "it's no shame to be poor, but it's no great honor either - so maybe, God, a small fortune?" in truth wealth measured in dollars is an empty wealth. We have only to read the papers (while we still have them) or surf the gossip sites to read about wealthy parents who've given their kids everything but love and stability. Even wealthy people lose loved ones to disease, accident, or violence.
In this bleak economic time, it's become commonplace to consider wealth, since it's become such a rare commodity. Between the 50% downturn in stock value, the failure of so many venerable banking institutions, and the Bernard Madoff disgrace, so much wealth has vanished that we are nearly breathless. Where can we turn?
Those of us who are lucky can find a lap, and if we're even luckier, we have more than one. Now, if you're bigger than a 3-year-old, you might hesitate to leap into someone's lap and start crying on their shoulder. I sure would.
But let's think about what laps are. They're places of comfort. And they're safe. They belong to people who love us unconditionally, who will put aside everything else going on at the moment to comfort us. When we're cold, they're warm places. When we're hungry, they're places where we hear, "Would you like a cookie?"
A truly lucky loved child is one who has a multiplicity of laps. Parents. Grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Family friends they call "aunt" and "uncle." These children aren't spoiled, they're strong, because they feel safe. As I look around the world today, I think that one of the greatest tragedies is that too many children don't have a single lap to crawl into.
And for the rest of us? How lucky are we? How wealthy are we? Perhaps we should start counting the laps in our lives: our spouse? our closest friends? parents? perhaps (if we're very lucky) our grown kids? But here's where we differ from children. We begin collecting laps by offering our own to those we love. We demonstrate our love for those closest to us by saying, "Come, sit by me. I will hear you and I will comfort you and I will not condemn you, and if you're cold, I'll warm you, and if you're hungry - would you like a cookie?" Because unlike material wealth, the wealth of laps grows as we share it.
Charles Schultz of blessed memory wrote a book over 40 years ago called "Happiness is a Warm Puppy." If I had the graphic talent of a Charles Schultz, I would author a new book: "Wealth is a Lot of Laps."
A few months ago, I was visiting one of the Cohen households in our family, and my three-year-old was having a melt-down. She was looking for her mother, who was busy with her baby brother, and her father was busy with yard work, so she came running to me and scrambled onto my lap. I was only too happy to offer a cuddle and ease her heartbreak (whatever it was at the moment). But as I rocked her, I realized what she'd done. She'd gone from one loving adult to another, and while she couldn't find comfort with her first two tries, she succeeded in try #3. And I realized that true wealth comes with laps. The more laps you can count on to comfort you, the richer you are.
It's long been a truism that money can't buy you happiness. John, Paul, George and Ringo once observed that money can't even buy you love. While those without wealth might echo Tevye's observation that "it's no shame to be poor, but it's no great honor either - so maybe, God, a small fortune?" in truth wealth measured in dollars is an empty wealth. We have only to read the papers (while we still have them) or surf the gossip sites to read about wealthy parents who've given their kids everything but love and stability. Even wealthy people lose loved ones to disease, accident, or violence.
In this bleak economic time, it's become commonplace to consider wealth, since it's become such a rare commodity. Between the 50% downturn in stock value, the failure of so many venerable banking institutions, and the Bernard Madoff disgrace, so much wealth has vanished that we are nearly breathless. Where can we turn?
Those of us who are lucky can find a lap, and if we're even luckier, we have more than one. Now, if you're bigger than a 3-year-old, you might hesitate to leap into someone's lap and start crying on their shoulder. I sure would.
But let's think about what laps are. They're places of comfort. And they're safe. They belong to people who love us unconditionally, who will put aside everything else going on at the moment to comfort us. When we're cold, they're warm places. When we're hungry, they're places where we hear, "Would you like a cookie?"
A truly lucky loved child is one who has a multiplicity of laps. Parents. Grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Family friends they call "aunt" and "uncle." These children aren't spoiled, they're strong, because they feel safe. As I look around the world today, I think that one of the greatest tragedies is that too many children don't have a single lap to crawl into.
And for the rest of us? How lucky are we? How wealthy are we? Perhaps we should start counting the laps in our lives: our spouse? our closest friends? parents? perhaps (if we're very lucky) our grown kids? But here's where we differ from children. We begin collecting laps by offering our own to those we love. We demonstrate our love for those closest to us by saying, "Come, sit by me. I will hear you and I will comfort you and I will not condemn you, and if you're cold, I'll warm you, and if you're hungry - would you like a cookie?" Because unlike material wealth, the wealth of laps grows as we share it.
Charles Schultz of blessed memory wrote a book over 40 years ago called "Happiness is a Warm Puppy." If I had the graphic talent of a Charles Schultz, I would author a new book: "Wealth is a Lot of Laps."
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Thinking About Home
[Note: this is an effort to reconstruct my d'var Torah to my synagogue's sisterhood Wednesday night. Those who were there might remember things I've forgotten, but such is life.]
Home. It's a subject I've thought about a lot over the last couple of decades. Since leaving my home in Anaheim to pursue ordination, and then to serve a number of congregations on the east coast, I've wondered what "home" really means. I've even written a number of poems, the first titled "Home," then "Home II" and then "Home III," trying to sort out what the word means, objectively, and to me. I'm still not sure I've come to a comfortable place. My head is satisfied, but my heart is still unclear.
This is a good week to consider "home." In the parasha this Shabbat morning, Jacob finally returns home, after 20 years of working for his father-in-law and amassing family and livestock. Homecomings should be a good thing, right? But let's consider: Jacob returns with trepidation - he is still fearful of his brother, whom he cheated badly long ago; we learn his mother's nurse has died, and some commentators believe this is a euphemism for the death of Rebecca herself; Jacob's beloved Rachel dies in childbirth; his daughter Dina is raped and kidnapped; and when he finally returns home, he and his brother Esau must bury their father Isaac.
Welcome home, Jacob.
I suspect many of us have tried to go home, perhaps for a visit to the old neighborhood, and found it completely changed. Or you've changed and it hasn't. I remember a trauma to my old community in Anaheim, and two years after, when I returned from school for a summer visit to my children, I found the congregation still stuck. I had moved on, the person at the center of the trauma had moved on, and the community was still talking about "The Thing." Sometimes you can't go home again. Sometimes you can and wish you hadn't.
But even if you could return home, what would that mean? Where is home? Is it where you live today? Where your books and dishes are? If you've moved a couple of time zones away from your children, is home where you are or where they are? Is home where your memories are, fuzzy as they may be? And if home is where your stuff is, and your stuff is in a warehouse in Memphis, where then is home?
I saw a sign in the window of a gift shop in Ventura a few years ago: Home is where you are right now. OK, maybe that's what it is. And like Hillary Clinton says, "Grow where you're planted." Stop "dreying your kup" - stop making yourself crazy about semantics and just be, in this moment, where you are. Maybe.
Our sisterhood program tonight is about relocation. The women on our panel were all born somewhere else - France, Siberia, Israel, Cuba, Uruguay, Iran. They came here when they were old enough to know they were leaving what they thought of as home. Was that a good thing? Were they fleeing persecution and grateful to be here? Were they happy where they were and miserable here? We'll soon learn. But I wonder: where is "home" to them? Where they were born? Los Angeles? And at what point did "home" change meaning for them?
I must tell you, though, that two years ago I had an "aha!" moment. I had come to this synagogue to observe my mother's yahrzeit [anniversary of her death]. I'd never been here before, and when I came to morning minyan [daily service] I didn't know a soul in the room. But I stood to say Kaddish and realized something stunning - I'd been here before. There was an ark with a Torah scroll in it. There was a ner tamid [eternal light]. The words I was saying, I'd said in communities around the world. And everyone knew where to respond "amen."
We Jews are turtles. Home has become such a transitory notion to us, having been expelled from one country after another, then having had to flee persecution from countries who didn't expel us so much as make the water too hot for us to stay, that we have had to narrow the definition of home. And we carry our homes with us. Our candle sticks, our Torahs, our talleisim [prayer shawls] and prayerbooks and Bibles, our values and our national memories are all portable. And wherever we are, we can reconstruct our homes with the things we brought with us. I live in a house where nothing speaks of my history and memories. Yet, in my room, there's a mezuzah on the door (and I can tell you who gave it to me) and candle sticks on the dresser and a prayerbook and Tanakh [Bible] in the book case. They go everywhere with me. They create my home for me. And the blessing of being Jewish, born of the curse of our constant wanderings, is that we do rebuild our home, wherever we are, as individuals and as communities.
The sign was right: Home is where you are right now.
Home. It's a subject I've thought about a lot over the last couple of decades. Since leaving my home in Anaheim to pursue ordination, and then to serve a number of congregations on the east coast, I've wondered what "home" really means. I've even written a number of poems, the first titled "Home," then "Home II" and then "Home III," trying to sort out what the word means, objectively, and to me. I'm still not sure I've come to a comfortable place. My head is satisfied, but my heart is still unclear.
This is a good week to consider "home." In the parasha this Shabbat morning, Jacob finally returns home, after 20 years of working for his father-in-law and amassing family and livestock. Homecomings should be a good thing, right? But let's consider: Jacob returns with trepidation - he is still fearful of his brother, whom he cheated badly long ago; we learn his mother's nurse has died, and some commentators believe this is a euphemism for the death of Rebecca herself; Jacob's beloved Rachel dies in childbirth; his daughter Dina is raped and kidnapped; and when he finally returns home, he and his brother Esau must bury their father Isaac.
Welcome home, Jacob.
I suspect many of us have tried to go home, perhaps for a visit to the old neighborhood, and found it completely changed. Or you've changed and it hasn't. I remember a trauma to my old community in Anaheim, and two years after, when I returned from school for a summer visit to my children, I found the congregation still stuck. I had moved on, the person at the center of the trauma had moved on, and the community was still talking about "The Thing." Sometimes you can't go home again. Sometimes you can and wish you hadn't.
But even if you could return home, what would that mean? Where is home? Is it where you live today? Where your books and dishes are? If you've moved a couple of time zones away from your children, is home where you are or where they are? Is home where your memories are, fuzzy as they may be? And if home is where your stuff is, and your stuff is in a warehouse in Memphis, where then is home?
I saw a sign in the window of a gift shop in Ventura a few years ago: Home is where you are right now. OK, maybe that's what it is. And like Hillary Clinton says, "Grow where you're planted." Stop "dreying your kup" - stop making yourself crazy about semantics and just be, in this moment, where you are. Maybe.
Our sisterhood program tonight is about relocation. The women on our panel were all born somewhere else - France, Siberia, Israel, Cuba, Uruguay, Iran. They came here when they were old enough to know they were leaving what they thought of as home. Was that a good thing? Were they fleeing persecution and grateful to be here? Were they happy where they were and miserable here? We'll soon learn. But I wonder: where is "home" to them? Where they were born? Los Angeles? And at what point did "home" change meaning for them?
I must tell you, though, that two years ago I had an "aha!" moment. I had come to this synagogue to observe my mother's yahrzeit [anniversary of her death]. I'd never been here before, and when I came to morning minyan [daily service] I didn't know a soul in the room. But I stood to say Kaddish and realized something stunning - I'd been here before. There was an ark with a Torah scroll in it. There was a ner tamid [eternal light]. The words I was saying, I'd said in communities around the world. And everyone knew where to respond "amen."
We Jews are turtles. Home has become such a transitory notion to us, having been expelled from one country after another, then having had to flee persecution from countries who didn't expel us so much as make the water too hot for us to stay, that we have had to narrow the definition of home. And we carry our homes with us. Our candle sticks, our Torahs, our talleisim [prayer shawls] and prayerbooks and Bibles, our values and our national memories are all portable. And wherever we are, we can reconstruct our homes with the things we brought with us. I live in a house where nothing speaks of my history and memories. Yet, in my room, there's a mezuzah on the door (and I can tell you who gave it to me) and candle sticks on the dresser and a prayerbook and Tanakh [Bible] in the book case. They go everywhere with me. They create my home for me. And the blessing of being Jewish, born of the curse of our constant wanderings, is that we do rebuild our home, wherever we are, as individuals and as communities.
The sign was right: Home is where you are right now.
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