Category: Rabbis

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Rabbis Reform Judaism

Suicide Survivors Day – November 21

I have a message to share with my colleagues that emerges out of my recent experience. My wife’s father, tragically, took his own life seven short months ago. It was one of those scenarios where we knew he was struggling with anxiety and depression, and yet never in a million years would we have expected that he would have taken his own life.

Since that time, I have learned more than I ever could have imagined about suicide ideation, suicide prevention, and suicide survivors. The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention reports that in 2013 (the most recent year for which full data are available from the CDC) 41,149 suicides were reported, making suicide the 10th leading cause of death for Americans. My father-in-law was in the group with the highest suicide rate in the country: adult men ages 45-75.

We can say a lot about the need suicide prevention programs for people of all ages. Though today I want to share a different perspective.

We tend to overlook the survivors of suicide.

For us and our colleagues, we are very familiar with the grieving process and how important it is for people to have a safe place to turn to for comfort and solace. My experience as a husband and son-in-law is that survivors of suicide are forgotten or we don’t know what to do with them. Their grief is so strikingly different than that of other mourners. It is more complicated because it is also layered with trauma, guilt and even shame. As a result, their journeys through a mourning process are often marked by feelings of isolation. They feel insecure or ashamed to share their pain openly because of the stigma of suicide and mental illness. Many often ask “well-intentioned” but hurtful questions such as: “did you see this coming,” “did he show any signs,” “how did he do it” – questions that plague survivors of suicide. Sometimes the isolation is a result of not knowing other survivors who have been through similar storms (it is even more isolating since many keep their pain to themselves).

The US Congress designated the Saturday before the American Thanksgiving as “National Survivors of Suicide Day.” Senator Harry Reid, a survivor of his father’s 1972 suicide, introduced the resolution in the Senate in 1999. This is an opportunity for us to acknowledge survivors’ unique trauma, pain, and grief.

As rabbis, we are in the unique position to reach out and accompany others where they are. I see this as so important because the survivors of suicide in our congregations often don’t feel strong enough or safe enough to enter our communities to seek support.

Before this more personal loss, I, too, have encountered numerous people during my rabbinate who have lost loved ones to suicide. While I have tried to be present for them, I have often found that, for a number of reasons, they did not want or were not ready to engage with me as their rabbi. Reflecting back, I don’t think I was able to appreciate at the time how great aspects of trauma and isolation were to those families. Perhaps it is because mental illness and suicide carry such heavy stigma. Could it be that our survivors need to live with feelings of guilt for not “seeing it,” shame for “missing it,” sadness for the loss, and anger that someone would make such a “choice.”

In 1 Kings 18 and 19, Elijah has a tremendous success in his fight against the priests of Baal on Mount Carmel. However, Jezebel is relentless in her opposition to Elijah and threatens to kill him despite his victory. Elijah, in turn, feels defeated. He can’t see how his efforts were valuable and asks God to take his life. (19:4) In verses 5-8, we see that God sends an angel to be present for him, to nourish him, and to help him find his strength to carry on.

I am no expert in trauma, nor in survivorship. But through my personal encounter with them as I journey with my wife as a survivor of suicide, I see that we need more angels in the world who can respond to these survivors as Elijah’s angel did. With that said, I think these angels are present – they are us and our congregants who can step forward, be present, without platitudes or judgment, and accompany our survivors of suicide to safe places in our synagogue communities.

Rabbi Fred Greene serves Congregation Har HaShem in Boulder, CO.

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Rabbis Reform Judaism

I Didn’t Build It

Showing visitors or newcomers around the synagogue, I hear the compliment, “What a beautiful temple!” I respond: “Yes, and I can brag about it, because it was all here, just like this, when I got here a couple years ago.”

Congregation B’nai Israel was founded in 1866. I was called to Little Rock as rabbi in 2013. I am responsible for none of the congregation’s many blessings, the edifice being only one. Whether marveling at the congregation’s outstanding youth engagement, magnificent worship music, or extraordinary level of volunteer commitment, I am constantly reminded that I have very little to do with what makes this synagogue terrific. No, nobody else says, “You didn’t build it.” Those words come from a voice inside my head, in contrast to how I regarded my role at my previous congregation.

That other synagogue had been serving its community for 118 years before I came on the scene. Still, by the time I left, 21 years later, I wrongly viewed the congregation as largely my creation. I could even cite examples: By 2013, even the historic edifice had been altered substantially since 1992. I had been significantly involved in the building’s development, and certainly in dramatic changes that ranged from worship style to youth engagement.

But I didn’t build that other congregation, either. Its magnificent Sanctuary was constructed before even my parents were born. Its worship style would surely have evolved with a different rabbi in my place during those two decades.

We rabbis regularly refer to the synagogues we serve as “my congregation.” If challenged, we would defend ourselves: After all, members refer to the place as “my temple.” Why shouldn’t we? The possessive pronoun doesn’t really designate possession in this case. Or does it?

Because of what I’ve learned from my study of Mussar with Alan Morinis, I recoil from referring to Congregation B’nai Israel as “my congregation.” Yes, I feel at home here, perhaps even more than I did in my previous congregation, a development I couldn’t have imagined in 2013. I hope to be here until retirement. Still, I reflect on the daily affirmation we recite when practicing the middah (soul-trait) of anavah (humility) in programs of The Mussar Institute: “No more than my place, no less than my space.” I don’t call B’nai Israel “my congregation,” because I have come to believe that it denotes an unhealthy level of rabbinic ownership, taking up “more than my space.”

This past summer, Congregation B’nai Israel remodeled its offices. Now, one corner of the building looks different than it did when I came. I had something to do with that: The rabbi’s study wasn’t sufficiently private – not so much for me, as for those who come to meet with me. Still, I am acutely aware that two volunteers did not execute my vision, but rather turned a problem I articulated into a solution that addresses issues I hadn’t even noticed. The result is both beautiful and functional in ways I couldn’t have imagined. The same is true of positive developments that range from worship style to youth culture. (Sound familiar?)

—

Rabbi Barry Block serves Congregation B’nai Israel in Little Rock, Arkansas.

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Healing lifelong learning Rabbis

Setting Free Sparks of Holiness

From a recent session with a colleague – shared with her permission: “I’m so busy planning and preparing to make sure they are able to do their cheshbon nefesh, I feel as though I’ll have no opportunity to do my own.” I wonder how many of us come out of the experience of the Yamim with similar feelings. As much as I was able usually to pray while leading from the pulpit, I remember only rarely feeling that I had been able to go into the deep, introspective and spiritual work for which the season calls during my pulpit years. No longer carrying that responsibility, I am able to bask in my appreciation for the work and effort put in by our colleagues facilitating the spiritual journeys of our people through these challenging days. (This year, I want to take a moment in particular to raise up the energy expended upon the unique creative opportunity offered by Mishkan Hanefesh  – I’m hearing amazing things about transformation through this machzor, but we all know it would not have been possible without tremendous engagement on the part of all of you!)

Taking all these things into account, this seems to me a most appropriate time to remind our members of the Care and Wellness for which I have been engaged by the Conference on your behalf. Having poured out so much energy in the spiritual care of our people, could there be a better time to avail yourselves of the fruits of your labors than by taking some time now for the self-care and growth support offered as a benefit of your membership?

So, just to remind our members, I am serving the CCAR at the behest of staff and board leadership, as part of my internship requirements in pursuit of a Masters in Social Work. I am also a trained Spiritual Director and Jewish Mindfulness teacher. From among these disciplines, through me the CCAR is offering you a variety of opportunities. Our next online Jewish Mindfulness class begins October 20; we will soon be inviting one of our communities of practice to consider joining a pilot program in Peer Supervision. We also look forward to offering an introduction to Spiritual Direction later this year, followed by a short-term pilot group opportunity in that practice.

I invite you, in the spirit of this season, to ask of yourself, “What am I doing or should I be doing to set my own spiritual and psychological house in order and to make sure that it is a Sukkot shalom?” Not only do we deserve to ask ourselves this question for our own sake – ultimately, we owe it as well to those we serve, in whatever capacity.  To that end, I remind you of my enthusiastic availability to offer short term (approximately 8 sessions) therapeutic or spiritual direction work to any member of the CCAR in good standing. For all you’ve done, do and will do to serve the Source of our Being and our people, I open the doors of my heart to invite you to avail yourself of this gift. Hoping to hear this year from many of you, I wish all of you a joyous, healthy and fulfilling 5776 in which you are able to set free sparks of holiness and healing for all and an early Mo’adim l’simchah.  

—

Rabbi Rex Perlmeter is currently pursuing a MSW at Columbia University and will be doing a year-long internship with the CCAR, providing short-term counseling to rabbis in need. In addition to his MSW work, Rex brings extensive experience working with rabbis through his years at the URJ and is a trained spiritual director. Learn more.

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High Holy Days Rabbis

Inspired by Hannah: A Conversation for the New Year

I was ordained eight years ago in a beautiful and sacred ceremony.  Standing on the bimah before our beloved Rosh Yeshivah, bordered on the transcendental.  When he blessed me, I cried.  It was a moment I will carry with me always.

But my ordination marked more than the beginning of my rabbinate.  It also marked the beginning of my motherhood too.  Just three weeks prior to ordination, I had my first child, a baby boy.  My first taste of motherhood was unlike anything I could ever have predicted or imagined. My emotions were fierce and turbulent, and my attachment immediate and unwavering.

My ordination was the first time I had ever left my son, and I was a wreck.  Those early post-postpartum days wreak havoc on the mind and body, and I was feeling the strain of excess hormones, total exhaustion, and round-the-clock milk production.

I remember bringing my hand pump with me to ordination, in fact. I stashed it beneath my seat, and dashed to the bathroom when I couldn’t stand the pressure a single second more. I remember standing in the bathroom, robe open, shirt unceremoniously un-tucked and unbuttoned, trying desperately to collect as much milk as I could with this irritatingly inefficient apparatus.

I was sweating, worried on one hand that I was missing my ordination, but on the other that I was neither collecting enough milk nor relieving the pressure that was building steadily in my chest.  I hated the fact that my ordination ceremony was happening while I was stuck in the bathroom, but I hated even more that I had left my three week old at home. I was overwhelmed by this emotional face-off, and unnerved by my inability to mitigate this internal strife.

I was a new mother and a new rabbi at the very same time.  Two paths, some would say divergent, others, perhaps not, and two very separate worlds of responsibility and meaning.  These two worlds appeared simultaneously, with little signage and no GPS in sight.  How would my rabbinate pave the way for motherhood?  Or rather, how would motherhood pave the way for my rabbinate?  I set out in search of balance, a way to honor these two parts of my life.

Eight years and three more children later, I am still searching.  I have worked part-time and part-part time.  I have prioritized here and prioritized there, working nights so I could have days, and days so I could have nights.  I have wiggled and jiggled and maneuvered in more ways than I can count.  And while every way had its merit, no way was perfect.  I wonder if I stumbled upon the best way to achieve said balance or if some path has eluded me as of yet.  It remains to be seen.

These days, I am home, with no work to put a claim on my time besides the work I create for myself.  And yet, the personal versus professional dichotomy still remains. In between the diaper duty and the laundry and the dishes, I spend a lot of time thinking about the rabbinate, and how it fits in to the crumby corners of domestic life, and how it spills over from the lofty, dignified walls of the synagogue into the messy, sticky, soggy world of a family. What does it mean to be a rabbi when you are stuck cleaning a toilet?  Or changing a diaper?  What does it mean to be a rabbi when you’re carrying a baby, along with two backpacks and a lunch bag to boot?  What does it mean to be a rabbi when all signifiers of esteem and import and formality have been stripped away?  What does it mean to be a rabbi when the title you use most is “mommy”?  Where does “rabbi” fit in to this picture?

The truth is, I don’t know.  These days, I am not sure where “mommy” begins and “rabbi” ends.  I’m not certain I’ll ever know.  The view from where I stand is foggy at best.

I know I am not the first or the last to ask these kinds of questions. And I know my struggle to define my identity is not unique to me, or to mothers in the rabbinate, or even to mothers in general. But each of us speaks from a place that is unique, and each of us adds our own voice to the conversation.  In the New Year, I want to add to this conversation.  I want to be a part of this conversation.  I want to start a conversation.

—

Rabbi Sara Sapadin resides in New York City.  She most recently served Temple Israel of the City of New York.

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Rabbis Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Marching toward a World of Justice

Rabbi Tarfon taught: “You are not required to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to abstain from it.”

What is the work we are called to do?  Along with nearly two hundred of my colleagues, I was honored to participate in America’s Journey for Justice.  Along with Rabbi Adam Stock Spilker of Minnesota, I walked the last leg in Alabama, ending the day by crossing over into Georgia.

That particular day, moving from state to state, gave us the opportunity to reflect on the significance and meaning of what the name “United States of America” stands for. Is there equal opportunity throughout our country?  Are we united in ending racism and discrimination?  In particular, I was moved by talking to the men in the group who, like me, are fathers.  What are the realities for their children, when they go to school and when they drive down the road, when they go to the ballot box and when they seek employment?  It was an exciting moment to reach the end of the long day’s walk and cross over from state to state.  The moment of celebration was tempered, however, by what I see as a central aspect of this walk: the desire to create equality and justice all throughout our land.

That particular day was also a Friday, which meant we ended the day by welcoming Shabbat.  We sang Shalom Aleichem and imagined the angels that would accompany us on the journey towards peace.  We made Kiddush together, and celebrated its message that God brought us forth from bondage: and now that we were taking these actions to move our country from oppression to opportunity.  We tore open the rich white braids of the challah and taught our new friends that Judaism’s sacred teachings command us to journey for justice.

In Deuteronomy Rabbah, we read, “R. Joshua ben Levi said: When a man walks on the highway, a company of angels goes before him announcing: ‘Make way for the image of the Holy One, blessed be He.’”

This journey from Selma to Washington is sacred, and God is present in every step down those country highways.  We answered hateful cries with songs of peace.  We met ignorance and bigotry with love and dignity.  We shared stories of vulnerability and fear and we shared hopes and dreams.

And we did it all carrying a Torah scroll, proudly, alongside the American flag.  Torah, which begins with the story of creation, because we are all responsible for one another.

During the weeks of this journey, the scroll will be in places where it has never been seen before.  May its wisdom and beauty and its clarion call to pursue justice inspire all those on the journey.  We may not complete the work, but when the Journey reaches its destination, may we be ever closer to a world of Justice.

—

Rabbi Peter W. Stein serves Temple B’rith Kodesh in Rochester, NY.  

This blog was originally posted on the RAC’s Blog.

 

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Rabbis Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Keep on Walking, Keep on Talking, Marching up to Freedom’s Land

Ain’t gonna let nobody turn us around

We’re gonna keep on a walkin, keep on a talkin,

Marchin up to Freedom’s Land

As we marched in the hot humid sun, a group of truly courageous and gusty Georgian women began singing this Freedom Song in beautiful harmony.  Their singing gave me strength and served as a connection to the past.  They reminded me of why I was there: to walk, to talk, and to march for justice and freedom for all.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I signed up for this journey.  Yes, I knew I would help carry the Torah during the day’s 18 mile journey, but it was the walking and the talking that truly inspired me and it was the extraordinary people that I met on my trip that will stay with me long after my feet stop aching.

Over breakfast, I sat with Royal who shared his anger that he could not join the numerous fishing and hunting clubs in town because of his skin color.  He worried about his five year old son whose best friend is white.  “What will happen when my son’s friend has a birthday party at the Fishing Club?” he asked me.  “Will the boy include my son in the birthday party or not?  Will the father turn his son into a racist or will the boy recognize the ignorance of his father’s way?”

In the morning, I walked alongside Shelly who was concerned about the next generation.  She shared that those without an education often find work as a restaurant server – making the minimum wage of $7.25 an hour – barely enough to make a living.  Shelly inspired me by accepting a new job tutoring high school seniors, enabling these students to move forward with their education and their dreams.

In the afternoon, I stood by Keisha’s side.  It was a transformative moment in Keisha’s youth that led her to become an advocate for change.  She told me that she believes it is a smile, a wave of the hand, a kind word that will truly change the course of our country.  Her heart pushed her to create a new non-profit that will support future business owners and help get people back to work.

Later that day, I was honored to chant from the Torah and read these words: “If there is a needy person among you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin” (Deuteronomy 15:7).  Rabbi Jill Perlman shared a beautiful teaching that in order to break open a hardened heart we must first unclench our hands and reach out to each other.  Over the course of my journey, I recognized the power of not only my hands, but also my feet.  By holding on to the marchers next to me and by walking by their side, I was able to open my heart to their worries, their challenges and the injustice that pervades our society.  By being present and sharing my entire body and soul, my heart was opened to their experience.

I only marched for one day in the steamy 100 degree Georgian heat, but Royal, Shelly and Keshia are marching the entire length of the journey.  They’ve come so far already, but it’s still a long way to the Promised Land.  May the beautiful singing inspire them and continue to push us all to open our hearts and our hands, for we must keep on walking, keep on talking, and marching up to Freedom’s Land.

—

Rabbi Andy Gordon serves on the clergy team of Temple Sinai of Roslyn. 

This blog was originally posted on the RAC’s blog.

 

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Rabbis Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Acknowledging and Transforming our Legacies

As I got off the plane in Atlanta to march in America’s Journey for Justice, I was reminded of the last time I was there. It was earlier this year. I was there with my wife and our two kids, ages 6 and 8, and my in-laws. My wife’s parents live in Boston, but my father-in-law grew up outside of Atlanta. In fact, he grew up as a Baptist, and descends from people who had lived in Georgia since before the American Revolution. His ancestors fought for the Confederacy in the Civil War. Members of his family owned a plantation and owned slaves.

My father-in-law hated much of that world and ultimately ended up a Jewish college professor in the Boston suburbs. But my wife grew up visiting her grandparents and extended family in Georgia. Now, we wanted to take the kids to Georgia while my parents-in-law were still able to do so. The only problem, of course, is that we also had to explain the history of racism in America to them as well. Granddaddy’s family weren’t bad people, were they?

The trip was great, including visits to the Martin Luther King National Historic Site, Ebenezer Baptist Church and the Center for Civil and Human Rights, in addition to family cemeteries, churches and homes. But the question we had to answer for our kids we also had to answer for ourselves. And, I believe, so do all white people and also all Jews (white and otherwise): what is my part in the structural inequality in this country, and what am I going to do about it?

That’s why I was so happy to join this march, as an individual and as a rabbi. Like so many of us, I am sure, I desperately want to do something. And so, going and marching, meeting people and hearing their stories, was so powerful. Sitting in a church in LaGrange, Georgia, and hearing from state leaders in the fight to protect voting rights was just different than it ever could have been from my home in New York City. And feeling like an ally of the people I met, from all over the country, could not have happened at home either. Most of what I will do in the future is to continue organizing here in New York with communities across race, class and neighborhood for better access to good education and housing. But I am more motivated to do that work because of what I felt marching through the ancestral home of my children’s granddaddy.

On our second night in LaGrange, after learning at the teach-in about barriers to voting access in Georgia, one of the marchers got into conversation with the state trooper who was sitting in the back (the march has been accompanied by copious law enforcement). She asked him what he thought about what he had just heard. We had learned that one way people can be kept from voting is by demanding they produce documents they don’t have. Many poor, and often African-American, people in the South were born outside of hospitals and as a result don’t have birth certificates. “My father doesn’t have a birth certificate either,” this white state trooper reported. He now saw the issue in a new way.

Because of our fathers’ stories, our fathers’-in-law, and our own, we are all in this together. Our privilege, or our oppression, is entwined with the experience of every other person in our country. And we will all need to be a part of the solution.

—

David Adelson serves East End Temple in Manhattan. 

This blog was originally posted on the RAC’s Blog.

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Rabbis Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

True Strength at America’s Journey for Justice

I know what strength is. Reflecting on marching in the NAACP’s America’s Journey for Justice, I witnessed true strength. Now back home in New Jersey returning from LaGrange, Georgia, my husband and I had joined the Central Conference of American Rabbis’ delegation of over 150 rabbis who are also representing the Union for Reform Judaism’s Religious Action Center. We are taking turns supporting this 40-day march to Washington, DC. I sit here nursing sore muscles, while marveling that we actually walked 15 miles, all in one day, in August, in the South. And we also carried a 20-pound Torah, recalling the iconic photograph taken in Arlington National Cemetery of Rabbi Maurice Eisendrath, President of then-Union of American Hebrew Congregations, now the Union for Reform Judaism, as he held a Torah scroll and marched next to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King. Yes, I feel strong for the physical feat, as I feel strong for engaging in action after I have felt so powerless watching tragic injustice after tragic injustice. I felt strong when I walked by Confederate flags, a pro-Confederate flag billboard, a Confederate monument, and scowling faces uttering rude comments. Yet, I felt proud that the majority of spectators, representing all races, were supportive or nicely inquisitive. They honked, waved, and leaned out of cars to ask about our unexpected parade, protected by the local police and state troopers. I smiled as mothers brought out their young African-American sons to see us walk by. Our leaders shouted that we were walking for them, so that they could get an education, stay out of jail, and have hope for justice.1mary

However, the true strength I witnessed was in the elders who led our march and carried the American flag. These men, beaten and brutalized so many decades ago, had marched with Dr. King during the original Freedom Marches. At their age and health condition, they deserve to sit or try some gentle exercise classes. Yet, they are dedicated to walking much of 18-22 miles a day for 40 days! Every night they will wrap blistered feet, sleep on uncomfortable cots and rise at 5 a.m. to walk with dignity. They are finding the physical strength to match their passion for justice. I also saw strength in a group of five women who joined the march, representing their local NAACP chapter. These five African-American grandmas showed up looking like they were ready to visit the shopping mall. Some did not even have sneakers or proper walking shoes. Instead, they wore their summer jewelry and sandals! They walked and sang uplifting church hymns in beautiful harmony. When our leaders announced that the last stretch would be walked at a pace double our normal stride, just as the heat index hit its peak at 120, these ladies dug in for the last miles with determination. Additionally, I witnessed strength in the young people, the next generation of NAACP professionals and volunteers, who have dedicated themselves to fighting injustice. Finally, I marveled at the strength of the woman, an African American community activist and organizer, who showed me the well-known photograph of herself at age 18 in 1996 throwing herself on a stranger suspected of being a white supremacist as an angry mob sought to attack him. She continues to have the strength to smile every day as she dedicates her life to bettering our nation.

During the walk, our shift of rabbis sang “Ozi v’zimrat yah, vay’hi li liy’shua. God is my strength and might; God will be my salvation. (Exodus 15:2)” I know I am blessed to have witnessed God’s strength working through so many amazing people. May the marchers continue to be endowed with strength to see the justice journey home.

—

Rabbi Mary L. Zamore is the editor of and a contributing author to The Sacred Table: Creating a Jewish Food Ethics.

This blog was originally posted on Huffington Post Religion. 

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High Holy Days lifelong learning Mishkan haNefesh Rabbis

Welcoming Rabbi Victor Appell to CCAR

Like many, I have been exploring Mishkan HaNefesh. Opening up a new book is always an act filled with possibilities. If it is a work of fiction, I wonder if the plot line will take me out of my own life and if I will see myself in any of the characters. If I am reading non-fiction, I wonder how or if what I am reading will change the way I think about something. Opening the new machzor is a combination of both. Perhaps I am a character in this book and with any luck, I will be changed by my interaction with it.

In one of the introductory essays to the Rosh HaShanah volume, Dr. Laura Lieber writes, “Doorways are charged spaces. We know intuitively that the world on one side of a door is different from the world on the other side…Normally we give little thought to the doors and gates through which we pass, but the High Holy Days are different: we construct an “existential doorway” and linger there for ten days of reflection.”

During those days we may find the time to think about both the year that is ending and the year that is beginning.  Surely in the past year there have been high points and low points, opportunities seized and opportunities missed.  We look to the new year as one filled with promises and possibilities.  But we are wise enough to know that the possibilities are not endless.  We are well acquainted with the mantra that we must take care of ourselves before we can take care of others. The demands of our work and the obligations to our families require that we carefully budget our time and energy.

It is not an easy balancing act. Taking care of ourselves may mean that the laundry goes undone. Do we go to the gym or do we stay home in order to pay bills? Do we take some time for study or do we clean out our email inbox? Seeing it as black or white allows us to find the easy solution. We only do one of the options. And it is usually the option that benefits others more than it benefits us. But experience has shown us that we can actually do both. Even an hour can be divided in half. Moreover, doing something for ourselves often gives us the energy, whether physical, emotional or spiritual, to do even more. Just ask anyone who has exercised even a little. The benefits of greater energy or a clearer head last well beyond the minutes spent exercising.

In addition to making the time, planning is a key element in turning our best intentions into realities.  From setting an hour aside in our day for study to rearranging our schedules in order to attend an out-of-town conference, planning is essential.

As the new year is about to unfold, we again have the opportunity to consider, and plan, how study and professional development will add value to our lives and strengthen our leadership. Perhaps it will be a seminar on successful communications, taught by an expert in the field. Maybe it will be a series of webinars on building a Jewish mindfulness practice. Or a program designed specifically for rabbis of smaller congregations. As the role of the rabbi continues to change and the Jewish community continues to evolve, the CCAR is committed to providing you with the highest level of lifelong learning and professional development opportunities and experiences. The doorway of the new year is open, waiting for us to choose wisely from all that is there.

—

Rabbi Victor Appell is the new program manager at Central Conference of American Rabbis.

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Rabbis Social Justice Statements

Bearing True Witness: Raising the Collective Rabbinic Voice

Late last week, the New York Times treated us to a column featuring two Reform rabbis, Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig and Rabbi Yoel Kahn, along with other religious leaders who have been pioneers in the struggle for LGBT equality. The article’s title suggested a problem it was striving to correct: “Push Within Religions for Gay Marriage Gets Little Attention.”

Reading the news, one could easily develop the impression that religion itself opposes LGBT equality and reproductive liberty, while demanding easy access to fire arms, to name just a few examples. Consider discussion around the Boy Scouts of America’s policy change, permitting gay and lesbian adults to serve in leadership capacities. We have all heard much about religious groups’ demand that they be permitted to bar gay men and lesbians from serving in these roles in the Boy Scout Troops they house, but precious little about religious groups that will only host Boy Scout Troops with clear, enforced non-discrimination policies.

Amplifying the progressive religious voice is hard work. As the New York Times’ headline writer suggests, our endeavors often garner “little attention.”

This week, I experienced the power of our collective rabbinic voice. On Monday, I had a phone call from a friend who works for Planned Parenthood. Her voice was filled with frustration, even loneliness, as she articulated the pain of being accused of gross inhumanity. Later that same day, our Reform rabbinate issued a statement, “CCAR Condemns Deceptive Campaign against Planned Parenthood.” I sent it to my friend. She was deeply moved that a group of clergy had rushed to Planned Parenthood’s defense. Not Jewish, and not being religious at all, her principal association with religion is in the claim of many that God hates Planned Parenthood, its work and its advocacy. Suddenly, a group of clergy has rushed to Planned Parenthood’s defense, boldly asserting “truth” to combat the lies that threaten to cripple women’s reproductive liberty.

In its 2015 session, the Arkansas Legislature, like many before it, resolved to welcome tablets of the Ten Commandments to stand on the grounds of our State Capitol. While I oppose doing so, in this week of reading Parashat Va’etchanan, which includes those Ten Commandments, I would suggest that the very people behind such efforts have much to learn from those commandments. When they claim that God commands that we discriminate against people on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity, they take God’s Name in vain. When they charge that Planned Parenthood sells fetal tissue for profit, they bear false witness against their neighbors.

When I posted the CCAR’s Statement about Planned Parenthood to Facebook, one of my friends asked whether mainline Protestant groups had made similar declarations. I don’t know the answer, but I’m not aware of any. What I don’t do is take the bold truth-telling of the CCAR for granted.

Whether the issue is racial justice or gun violence, religious freedom in the United States or Israel, LGBT rights or reproductive liberty, we may be grateful that our CCAR President, Rabbi Denise Eger, and our Chief Executive, Rabbi Steve Fox, among other leaders, are prepared to raise the collective rabbinic voice to bear true witness: God loves all, created in the Divine image; and God demands truth.

And let us pray that, some day, no longer will a headline writer for the Times or anyone else have to say that our collective religious voice for truth “gets little attention.”

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Rabbi Barry Block serves Congregation B’nai Israel in Little Rock, Arkansas.