Categories
News

Post-Election Reflection

I’ve had a few weeks to reflect since our post-election call; I imagine you all have.  I have experienced a heightened awareness of something I feel at a lower level the rest of the time, and that is the knowledge that there are times I miss being on the bimah and there are times I don’t.  This is one of those times where I do – and I don’t.   I miss the sense of exciting opportunity but not the dread of momentous responsibility that rests heavily on rabbinic shoulders at a time like this.  This post-election moment continues to be a wonderful-terrible time to be a rabbi.  It’s wonderful because people need us; ditto for terrible.

Let’s start with wonderful.  Most rabbis are kol bos.  Because we are called upon to do many different things and may even do many different things well, we often feel an amorphous sense of purpose.  We look at other colleagues who seem to have found a particular visionary path – those we think of as a social action rabbi, a scholarly rabbi, a pastoral rabbi, or an entrepreneurial rabbi – and we find ourselves wishing for a similarly defined objective.  This kind of thinking  (largely a fantasy) often devolves into an excuse for the self-punishing question, “How come they have it figured out and I don’t?”

Well, this may just be the moment you’ve been wishing for (and yes, I know what they say about getting what you wish for).  If you have ever longed for a clear definable purpose, you have it now.  You don’t have to consider yourself a “specialist rabbi” to find a renewed sense of mission in the days ahead.

That doesn’t mean that it is clear exactly how you should carry out that mission.  That specific decision will depend upon who you are and what the needs and desires of your constituency might be. This is not an emergency although our feelings may be urgent.  An emergency requires instantaneous response; we have time to consider our next step. It also makes no sense to think that every rabbi will or should take the same path. But it does make sense to start thinking and talking about your own possible courses of action.

What principles should you keep in mind in figuring out where you want to focus your own energies?

First, we all know the usual difficulties of finding committed volunteers. We often grumble as we find ourselves doing what we had hoped our laypeople would do. What’s different now is that our laypeople have been roused to action by this election.  We have a chance to partner with them in choosing a course of action.  This means that we need not take on the burden of changing the world alone; it may start with us but it can’t end there.  Adding more to our plates is not a long-term solution; finding a genuine sharing is the goal.

Second, we have an opportunity to widen the Jewish tent. If we can publicize our plans to make a difference in the world, we might draw people to our communities who previously have seen no purpose to organized religious communities. We can show them the power of community in a new and real way.

Third, we have constituents who disagree with us. That isn’t a problem if they are making themselves heard in ways that are appropriate. Working with people who are cooperative is something we do well. It’s when we are working with the uncooperative that we run into trouble.  Some people really do desire to talk; others simply seem to be discharging aggression with us as the target.  It’s important to find a way to relate to these more aggressive people without letting ourselves be abused on the one hand or responding aggressively on the other.  The best response for us is to avoid “fight or flight” and instead hold our ground and choose to engage.  We can say things like: What should happen if you and I disagree? Why should that be what happens? Could something else happen? Should we agree on everything? How could that be possible?

Fourth, whatever your feelings might be, you can’t let them get in the way of the task at hand.  Yes, you need to be in the moment and have your feelings.  But it’s also important to keep the future in mind at the same time. As the rabbis did centuries ago, we have a religious mandate to dwell in both places, balancing today’s concerns with planning for those of tomorrow.

And finally, find a place where you can speak your truth in an unfettered way (RavBlog is a good place to start).  One of the challenges of being a rabbi involves knowing when to speak and when to stay silent, how to say things and to whom.  No one can operate with that level of self-restraint every moment of every day. Find those safe places where you can feel relieved of that responsibility even just for the moment.

Many of us felt such overwhelming grief in the aftermath of the election that we used the analogy of death and shivah.  Our intention was never to trivialize grief, although some mourners heard it that way.  Having had a few weeks to sit with this, I prefer now to use the language of loss.  We grieve losses the way we grieve death to some degree.  Yet while this election may carry some sense of finality, it is not final like death. It is hard to escape the fear of more losses to come. We need to plan for them.

Buy that parcel of land in Anatot. Lead with hope for the future.

—

Rabbi Lewis is a certified psychoanalyst in private practice in Bernardsville, NJ, and New York City. She is a member of the Society of Modern Psychoanalysts  and the National Association for the  Advancement of Psychoanalysis.

Categories
Books shabbat

“The Principle of the Ongoing Human Project”: How I Keep Shabbat

“How does one determine the proper way to keep Shabbat?” I get that question regularly from Jews who do not follow halachah traditionally, but who do not consider it irrelevant, and want a means of deciding such things as whether to write or ride or use electricity then.

Because the commandment to keep Shabbat appears in the Torah adjacent to the discussion of building the desert sanctuary (the Mishkan), the Rabbis interpret Shabbat work to include any item connected with that sanctuary’s sacrificial cult—thirty-nine activities in all, including sowing and plowing, kneading and baking, spinning and tearing, slaughtering and writing, kindling or dousing a fire, and so on (Mishnah Shabbat 7:2).

Liberal-minded Jews often wonder about these things. Kindling fire was difficult work back then, they say, but flicking an electric switch is hardly backbreaking labor. Their bafflement is understandable, but they miss the biblical point. While they may well decide that turning on lights is permissible for them on Shabbat, that decision can hardly be based on the amount of actual toil involved. The Rabbis’ concept of work goes much deeper than that.

The thirty-nine forms of sanctuary work fall into four categories: baking bread (for the priests), preparing fabric (for the Tabernacle’s curtains), preparing a scroll (for writing), and building (the Mishkan itself). These four, however, are part of a larger category: they are all part of the human project of building and preserving culture.asset_image

This insight arrives by way of anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss, who noted that every human society cooks food, mandates clothing, builds and decorates homes, and transmits learning from generation to generation. This insistence on converting raw nature into cuisine, style, art, and a historical record is what makes us fully human.

The rabbinic forms of work, then, are no mere laundry list of random items. They are all exemplifications of the grand human project of transforming nature into culture.

“Work” is not just going to a job or doing the housework, therefore. It is the ongoing human effort to leave our mark upon the world—a human project that inevitably engages us, because it is the means of staking out our worth and, in the end, leaving behind what we will be remembered for. It’s what gets us up in the morning.

But at the same time, it’s what we lose sleep over. So Shabbat is the day that provides a break from the ongoing task of advancing the human project, as if God says, “I hold you responsible for perfecting My world—but not today.”

Here, then, is how I, a liberal Jew, make Shabbat decisions. I consult halachah with seriousness; I then measure my life by its principles, but not by all its specific regulations. One such principle is to take time off from the human project. So anything connected with that project’s work and worry gets put on hold.

On Shabbat, I do not (for example) write my books, articles, and columns, but I do e-mail personal notes to friends and family. My Shabbat reading can be about anything—but not connected to my research. I study Torah, but not any section on which I am writing an article. I do no errands, but I drive to synagogue and leisure-time activities that enhance life’s fullness.

On Shabbat, I cherish the gift of family and friends; I fill my soul with music and art, love and laughter, nature and nurture, solitude and community. My responsibility for the human project will return soon enough, when Shabbat is over.

I have the highest regard for Jews who follow the traditional halachic guide to keeping Shabbat. But stipulating just that single path to proper Shabbat observance puts Shabbat beyond the reach of those who find its halachic details unpersuasive but who nonetheless want to honor Shabbat in a reasonable and satisfying way. This underlying “Principle of the Ongoing Human Project” can be a compelling guide to making Shabbat matter in our lives.

 —

Rabbi Lawrence A. Hoffman, PhD, is professor of liturgy, worship, and ritual at Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion.

Excerpted from Gates of Shabbat, Revised Edition, edited by Rabbi Mark Dov Shapiro and published in 2016 by CCAR Press.

Categories
Books High Holy Days Holiday Mishkan haNefesh

Wandering in the Desert with Mishkan HaNefesh

Editor’s Note: Most of the blogs on RavBlog are written by CCAR members. Occasionally, we share a blog by a special guest with a unique message. We are pleased to share this blog by poet Jessica Greenbaum.

I’ve resisted the impulse to tour our country’s beautiful deserts because of my clashing impulse to take a swim most days of my life. These two things just don’t go together. However, caught in that life-cycle moment of watching my youngest daughter gleefully wave goodbye from the window of her freshman dorm, I vowed to set out on new territory myself. Unlike Dante’s mid-life figure of The Inferno who finds himself in a dark wood, I found my mid-life self transported to the squint-inducing sunlight of Mesa, Arizona, which highlighted the orange and red striped canyons, and blue skies of the Tonto National Forest. The “forest” part was clearly tagged on to prize its rarest asset. Like the “green” of icy Greenland. I came to the desert ranch with a tour company that specializes in open water swimming vacations. Yes, they exist! They had mapped out a week’s course through three of the dammed lakes of the Salt River, also within the national forest. So, no problem swimming, but another problem loomed. Yom Kippur fell in the middle of the only week they offered. I took 40 seconds to think. Then, like any good tourist, I paid my money and packed my machzor.

As it works out, and for reasons fascinating only to myself, I was already waist deep in the most solitary experience of the holidays that I can remember. Unexpectedly, Rosh Hashana had been without my husband and girls: just me, Mishkan Hanefesh, and my laptop open on my quilt, for synagogue livestreaming. Whatever the congregation was doing virtually on the screen, I tried to follow on analogous pages. Just when I was getting teary about the yarzheit of my grandmother, I turned the page and—there it was! Stephen Ackerman’s awesome poem, “Effortless Affection,” which begins: “All last requests are granted / and this is mine: grasp my affection / in your hand and hold it there . . .”  Beshert. I had my prayer book, so I had my shul.

Well that had been okay for a Rosh Hashana Plan B in Brooklyn. But determined to hear Kol Nidre in person, I arranged that during my trip I would attend an Arizonan congregation. I brought Mishkan Hanefesh with me in case they were using some old wooden machzor—which they were. I turned to my own when my mind wandered. As uninspiring as the service was, the tiny congregation was hamishe, I was with other Jews, and I needed that. Packing my own machzor made me feel faintly ancient. All those stories of the Jew traveling from one town to another and ducking in somewhere for services . . . all I needed was a donkey.

But what to do on Yom Kippur day? I could return to the shul, but enjoying my first real vacation for nine years, shouldn’t I spend every day of it swimming with the tour? Two words stopped me: Sandy Koufax. If the great pitcher could sit out the 1965 World Series and inspire John Goodman’s line in the movie The Big Lebowski “Three thousand years of beautiful tradition: from Moses to Sandy Koufax,” well, couldn’t I skip a day? The surrounding canyon walls and idiosyncratic menorahs of saguaro cacti designed the most tasteful tabernacle from here to Woodstock. I decided to hang out with Mishkan Hanefesh. I told my fellow swim lunatics to plow on without me. I livestreamed my favorite NYC synagogue and practiced a mix of e-Judaism and reading, wandering around the immediate canyon with my MacBook open and machzor in hand, singing along. The new ner tamid looks like an apple with a bite out of it. Somehow this goes together.

Well, I never spent so long in services. Here’s what I liked about it. At that remove, I happily couldn’t miss the fantasy congregation—of close friends and family—I had never actually had. I was better able to concentrate on the demand Yom Kippur makes on the conscience. I wrote down those aspects of my personality I needed to confront. ( . . . page 2. . . .) The livestream lets viewers chat in the screen’s margin, a cyber gathering of the disenfranchised from all over the world. So you could still tell latecomers what figurative page we were on! If the NYC congregation was mumbling or otherwise leaving me behind, I could page through my machzor and find what I needed, learn what was there for me. I wasn’t bothering anyone when I fidgeted. I wasn’t thinking what I had to bring to break the fast, or if the brisket would be done. I had my prayer book so I had my shul. When the rabbi took a break for two hours, I took a little dip in the ranch pool. I know you’re not supposed to. But a little swim let me return to the pages and the services and take in what I could even if I wasn’t fasting when I was wandering. The desert and canyons surrounded. I was getting someplace, I could feel it.

—

Jessica Greenbaum is poet living in Brooklyn, and is the author two volumes of poetry, Inventing Difficulty (Silverfish Review Press, 1998), winner of the Gerald Cable Prize, and The Two Yvonnes (2012), which was chosen by Paul Muldoon for Princeton’s Series of Contemporary Poets. She is the poetry editor for upstreet,  received a 2015 Creative Writing Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award from the Poetry Society of America in 2016. Some of her poems are featured in CCAR publications, including The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, and Mishkan HaNefesh.

 

Categories
News

Some Movies Deserve to Be “Spoiled”

“Allied” opens in Casablanca, home to the most classic of World War II movies. Its protagonists, Marianne (Marion Cotillard) and Max (Brad Pitt) are spies, she on behalf of the French Resistance and he as a Canadian officer in the Royal Air Force. Marianne teaches Max how to be a good spy, which requires him to pretend to be her loving husband, and to do so convincingly. Their mission to assassinate the Nazi Ambassador in Morocco is successful. Predictably, they fall in love and get married “for real.”

The movie is engrossing and entertaining. The audience roots for Marianne and Max — for their love affair as much as for the British, Canadian, and French Resistance fighters who are the movie’s real heroes.

Ultimately, though, Max is called to a meeting with the Royal Air Force command under the guise of a promotion. Instead, Max is told that Marianne is a double agent. The real Marianne has died fighting before the movie begins. Cotillard’s character has assumed her identity. That Ambassador in Casablanca? A dissident whom Hitler wanted dead.

Max goes on a quest to prove that his wife is no traitor. We continue to pull for them and for their family, now including an infant daughter born during a London air raid.

Alas, “Marianne” has been spying — yes, on Max — all along. And yet, the filmmakers persist.

First, Cotillard’s never-named character, the fake “Marianne,” claims that she had no choice; the Nazis threatened their infant daughter’s life if she wouldn’t cooperate. But that character had been a Nazi before ever meeting Max. Worse, the film treats the claim of “no choice” uncritically. Couldn’t Marianne have told Max, the two going to their Allied supervisors together, perhaps ultimately being secreted away to Canada with their young daughter?

After her suicide is reported as Max’s having carried out his duty to execute his treacherous “wife,” we are treated to a sepia-toned ending. Sobs reverberate in the theater. We hear Cotillard’s voice behind images of that infant daughter growing up back in Canada with her single father, a wedding photograph of “Marianne” and Max prominently on display. Cotillard’s character reads a letter she has written to her daughter the night before her suicide, proclaiming her undying love.

No. Nazis are Nazis. In England. In 1944. No tears should be shed at her death, and no real Max would prominently display his deceptive wife’s photograph as a role model for the daughter he raises in postwar Canada.

Even the film’s apparently redeeming feature betrays the past. Max’s sister lives openly with her female partner, and they are treated much as a lesbian couple would be in 2016, dishonoring the sacrifices required of and the indignities suffered by same-sex couples of the era the movie purports to portray.

“Allied” deserves none of the critical accolades it has received, and its makers do not deserve its suspense to be maintained to draw unsuspecting viewers like me into the cinema. “Allied” is a beautiful love story and captivating film only if being a Nazi is less incriminating than being in love is endearing.

—

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

Categories
chaplains General CCAR Healing Rabbis Reform Judaism

On the Eve of Thanksgiving, Further Post-Election Reflections

On this eve of Thanksgiving, I am reflecting deeply and with profound movement of spirit and heart upon two weeks of listening, processing and holding the feelings raised by the election. In my role with the CCAR, it was a tremendous privilege to help organize the call we offered to our members and to share in the leadership of that call with our insightful, skilled and heart-open colleague, Ellen Lewis. All that Ellen taught us that day has remained present to me in the passage of these weeks and has helped immensely. To summarize a couple of key points, Ellen reminded us to be attentive to the truth of our own feelings and to remember that those feelings can inform how we act but need not control our actions. She invited us to self-care and compassion, and to hold close the knowledge that, in times of heighted feelings (particularly anger, fear and anxiety), we are all prone – and this includes those we serve – to acting out and displacement. I know those teachings will have proven helpful to those who were on the call (or who availed themselves of the recording as found at on the CCAR member’s site) as they have to me.

Upon reflection, I have a couple of additional thoughts to offer, particularly to those who have been in pain over the results. First, I have felt and noticed heard people speak of feelings that resemble those of mourning. And I would caution us against buying too fully into that metaphor. As many of us know from pastoral work, when someone is gravely – even life-threateningly ill – it is not uncommon for people to slip into anticipatory grief. It is almost as though the psyche is saying, “If I just experience the anger or the sadness now, maybe I won’t fall into despair when the inevitable death happens.” And it is a dangerous place to go. Chevre, the patient(s), our own souls and the soul of our country are gravely wounded, but the wounds have not yet proven fatal nor even been pronounced mortal. As was the case after 9/11, certain ideas we had about how things were may well have died two weeks ago, or at least been seriously altered. But we are here, as is the nation. We need to avoid falling into the anticipatory grief which will prevent us from doing whatever is to be our tikkun in responding to the wounds.

And one piece of the tikkun – in the framework of Rebbe Nachman’s teaching, especially on this eve of Thanksgiving, we can be looking for the od m’at (see Psalm 37) – the little place where evil/despair/rage do not hold sway, and from that little place “azamra l’Elohai b’odi” (Psalm 146) sing our way into inviting abundance back into the world – abundance of love, of hope and of commitment to justice. On this Thanksgiving, may the little place sing to each of us and help us inch our way toward healing and sacred purpose. And then, back to the work.

Rabbi Rex Perlmeter is CCAR Special Advisor for Member Care and Wellness

Categories
Books shabbat

Creating Holy Moments

A way to deepen the Shabbat experience involves less talking and more silence—something focused more internally. It is a practice called mindfulness. The following essay, exerpted from Gates of Shabbat, Revised Edition, explores how mindfulness can be part of your Shabbat practice.

 

Be Like God

The opening narrative in the Book of Genesis introduces us to a hard-working and busy God, creating the entire world, according to the Torah, in just six days. The Book of Exodus introduces us to another aspect of God’s identity. Here the Torah reminds us, “On the seventh day [God] ceased from work and was refreshed” (Exodus 31:17). The Hebrew words of this verse, bayom hashvi-i shavat vayinafash, are part of the V’shamru prayer sung on Friday night; they are also used to introduce the Kiddush on Shabbat morning.asset_image

The words tell us about God and speak to the human condition as well. They suggest that on the seventh day, we can be like God. We can become still; we can settle in, breathe deeply, and be refreshed. The rituals for the Shabbat table blessings are built around the Torah’s suggestion that God’s actions on the seventh day of creation are a model for all of us—men and women, teenagers, and even children. Work six days with a full heart at whatever you do and then stop. Stop and do something godlike, shavat vayinafash, sit still and breathe, become refreshed, and then return to the sacred work that fills our days, expressing creativity, working for freedom, repairing a broken world.

 

The Invitation

Shabbat is an invitation to slow down, to become more mindful of your self and your place in creation. The table blessings and rituals are tools to help make the transition from busy to not. It can be challenging to accept this sacred invitation, which is why it helps to keep the following in mind:

  • Slowing down is important.
  • Silence is good.
  • Posture makes a difference.
  • Any attempt at prayer is enough.
  • Even smiling helps!

Accepting the invitation to Shabbat and preparing to celebrate at the table can help us change pace and enable us to pay attention to how we move our bodies, use our breath, and quiet our minds. It’s a tiny taste of how we could live our lives, more attuned to the natural world, with greater connections to other people and greater awareness of God’s example.

 

Your Preparation

Even the physical act of setting out the candlesticks, the Kiddush cup, and the challah can help you begin to move into Shabbat with intention. The mindfulness meditations, which are offered along with the Home Service, can lead you further. You might try using one each week; perhaps do the same one for a few weeks in a row, or rotate them at other times. Some Fridays the process will feel right. You’ll know it has “worked.” Other times you may have less success. Remember that it is a practice, so we keep practicing, being grateful when we succeed and forgiving ourselves when we don’t.

 

Creating the Moment—Even Before Saying the Blessings

Experiment with the following steps when your friends and family arrive at the table ready to welcome Shabbat.

Stand with your feet planted about shoulders’ width apart. (This can also be done by those who

choose to remain seated.) This is a sturdy and deliberate stance.

Push your shoulders down and lengthen your spine to actually feel taller.
Close your eyes in order to focus better on your breath. If that is uncomfortable, just lower your

gaze to give everyone at the table some privacy.

Unclench your jaw, and loosen the muscles around your mouth.

Take one or two or even three long, slow, deep cleansing breaths in and out—inhaling so

deeply that you can actually feel your heart lift and ribs rise in your chest. It’s good to hear the sound of the breath, making its way from the world into the body and out again.

Open your eyes or raise your gaze.

Smile.

Turn to the Home Service or one of the readings or meditations in Gates of Shabbat.

Read aloud—slowly, very slowly—paying attention to the pause of each comma, the rest after

each period, the open space between each paragraph.

When you are done reading, pause again—counting to five in your head. There is no rush.

Take another deep breath in and out.
Smile again.
Notice how Shabbat has arrived.

Shavat vayinafash. Now you are into the moment. Hold an image or a word in your mind and then . . . then it is time, depending on which meditation you are using, to strike the match, raise the Kiddush cup, or remove the cover from the challah and begin to bless.

—

Mark Dov Shapiro is Rabbi Emeritus of Sinai Temple in Springfield, MA. He is the editor of Gates of Shabbat, Revised Edition, published in 2016 by CCAR Press.

Excerpted from Gates of Shabbat, Revised Edition, edited by Rabbi Mark Dov Shapiro and published in 2016 by CCAR Press.

 

Categories
Reform Judaism Social Justice

Standing as Witness and Capable Ally in Voter Protection

Today is Election Day. Along with my wife, colleagues at The Temple Rabbis Peter Berg, Loren Filson Lapidus, Lydia Medwin, an inspiringly large number of our congregants, Reform rabbis and other Jewish leaders from across North America, including CCAR’s own Rabbi Steve Fox, I am in Macon, Georgia, to partner with the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law to provide non-partisan election protection. We will be in the field to monitor polls to ensure that those who desire to vote are able to cast their ballots for their candidate of choice, freely exercising their Constitutional right to vote. Our work is part of the Religious Action Center’s Nitzavim campaign, a national voter rights initiative of our movement’s Racial Justice Campaign.

What I say about all of this work is simply an incredulous, “Really?!” In 2016, is the freedom to vote still an issue? Why yes, my dear, sheltered, Northern California boy, the unfettered right to vote is still in peril and a cloud of voter suppression tactics with racist overtones hangs above Macon.

Here in Atlanta at The Temple, we have been working within our own version of the RAC’s Reflect/Relate/Reform model. Responding to our congregation’s call to honor our legacy of the Civil Rights Movement by getting current on racial inequality and working harder and smarter to create a just society for all, we spent the better part of the past summer and into the fall doing difficult and sometimes painful reflective work. It has not been easy to own up to our own implicit biases, racism, and our failures to stand as witness and inabilities to act as capable allies and I suspect we have a ways to go. I know I do. Truth be told, six months ago I do not believe we would been able to see or have been able to respond to race-based threats of voter disenfranchisement. But the threats are real.

Since the Supreme Court’s decision in Shelby v. Holder no longer requires certain jurisdictions to demonstrate to either the Attorney General or a federal court in Washington, D.C., that any proposed voting change is not discriminatory before that change can be implemented, we are now living in a society in which a core measure of the Voting Rights Act has been undone. We now can see better what we could not have seen before we undertook this work. Much of today’s racism flourishes because for too long we acted like the Civil Rights Movement was a singular and eternal victory for righteousness and that the problems, inequalities, and injustices of today were not based on racist, discriminatory, and under the guise of modern colorblindness, legal practices.

We have a long road ahead of us to fulfill the vision of the Beloved Community, but we are walking together in partnership with each other and with churches and organizations representing and led by people of color. I could not be more proud of the Reform Movement’s awakening to racial inequality and as we head to Macon to fulfill our commitment, I know with every ounce of my being that our work will be on the right side of history.

—

Rabbi David Spinrad serves The Temple in Atlanta, Georgia. 

Categories
Reform Judaism Social Justice

Nitzavim: Standing Up for Voter Protection and Participation

As we approach the Presidential election this Tuesday, I think we are all experiencing a bit of fatigue.  The stakes certainly seem high to all of us in Ohio.  Whereas election news is garnering a lot of air time and thought time everywhere, in Ohio, the election has become an entity unto itself.  When I moved back to Cincinnati 12 years ago from Massachusetts, I realized the kind of weight and responsibility of living and leading in a “swing state.”  In Massachusetts, we never saw commercials or billboards for the Presidential election.  In Ohio, one is inundated with political ads.  It is exhausting.  At times, it is disheartening.  But, we might also look at this election as a time to lift up voices and to listen.  To speak and to hope.

Through our congregation’s involvement with our movement’s Nitzavim campaign to Stand Up for Voter Participation and Protection, we have come to understand that this election can be a time to try to understand our neighbors, to open up dialogue with those who might be different than us.  We are looking at this election as a springboard to build relationships across denominations, religions, race and class so that we might uplift every voice. We are building opportunities and coalitions as we get out the vote and volunteer to monitor polls.

For those of us who have been concerned about racial injustice in our country, this election will be a touchstone.  I will vote in Cincinnati, which has been identified as an area most at risk for voter suppression.  This election is our opportunity to face some of our own biases and our neighbors’ and to stand up for the right to vote as well as exercising our own obligation to be part of the political process.  As Rabbi Yitzhak taught, “A ruler is not to be appointed unless the community is first consulted” (Babylonian Talmud Berachot 55a).  Our democracy will be measured by access to the polls in the inner cities and by the desire to make a difference.

Our tradition challenges us to embrace pluralism, even when it is difficult; even in a “purple” state.  Tosefta Sotah 7:7 teaches, “Make for yourself a heart of many rooms.”  On November 9th, this will be the real goal for all of us.  We should be like Hillel, who always respected and uplifted Shammai’s voice despite their disagreements.  The Talmud teaches that the halacha followed Hillel because “Beit Hillel were kindly and modest, they studied their own rulings and those of Beit Shammai, and were even so humble as to mention the actions of Beit Shammai before theirs” (Bablylonian Talmud Eruvin 13b).

In Ohio, we pray that we argue and vote for the sake of heaven.  But we challenge ourselves to move past this election with humility, kindness and respect.  And we dream of hearts of many rooms, moving together to lift all voices.  That is the true obligation and responsibility of this Election Day and the days to follow.

—

Rabbi Sigma F. Coran serves Rockdale Temple in Cincinnati, Ohio.

Categories
News Social Justice

A Vote For, or a Vote Against

Something strange has happened this election year.  Instead of focusing on how uniquely qualified, informed, compassionate, and passionate the candidates are, both Republican and Democratic parties have been hoping people will vote for their candidate as a vote “against” the other.

This is not what any of us want.

We want to hear about the candidates gifts, about their visions, about the work they are already doing on behalf of the American people.  We want to be inspired, uplifted, and above all else we want to feel proud of our nominee.

It reminds me of Noah.  The Torah tells us three things about Noah: he “walked with God”, he was “blameless in his generation”, and that God found that Noah “alone has been found righteous before Me in this generation.”

Over the years, many rabbis have noticed the qualifier in that statement “in this generation,” and have asked, “If Noah lived in a different generation, would he still have been considered righteous?”  In other words – was God’s choice to save Noah a vote for him, or just a vote against the other guys?  Was Noah truly a righteous person, or did he merely look good in comparison to the corrupt, violent and lawless community he was living amongst?  Noah is often compared to Abraham.  When Abraham learned that God was going to destroy the corrupt towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham fought for them, even saying to God “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to wipe away the righteous along with the wicked!” Noah is not depicted as arguing with God, as warning the people to repent, or as Rabbi Berechia questions, Noah did not even pray for his generation to be saved and repent.

As Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe (Levush he-Ora) put it so bluntly, “His righteousness bore the stamp of mediocrity.”

Moreover, while there is something to say for someone who remains “blameless” in a time of corruption, is being “blameless” all it takes to be righteous?  Or do we expect a righteous person to do more?  Be proactive?

Peter Singer, professor at Princeton University, author, and utilitarian philosopher argues that to be truly righteous, we must be actively seeking opportunities to do good.  For Singer, it is not enough to “do no harm,” we have to do good.

Many in our country are voting for a candidate because they did not do something the other candidate is accused of doing.

How about what they have done? Pirke Avot teaches us that a truly wise person, someone who truly loves Torah, their deeds will be greater than their wisdom (3:9).  This teaches us that if you really want to know who someone is, don’t listen to their wisdom.  We can all be taught to give the polished answer, the one that will impress – but that answer doesn’t mean anything unless it is backed up by deeds.  You want to know who to vote for?  Our rabbinic masters are saying – look at their deeds – what have they done to back up the wisdom they are spouting?

18th century Chasidic master Rabbi Elimelech of Lizensk tells a beautiful story that illustrates two kinds of righteous people.  Imagine a freezing winter.  In this freezing winter, one righteous person is compared to someone who wraps themselves in a fur coat, therefore keeping themselves warm and protected from the harmful elements.  This is the person who does no harm.  They are not hurting anyone else, they are doing the right thing for themselves, and they are kept warm and protected.   But there is a second righteous person.  This individual collects wood and builds a fire.  They warm themselves and invite others to gather round.  This is the person who seeks to do good.  This is a person who is not only concerned with their own righteousness, but with that of others.

Noah had a chance to warn the people, but didn’t.  He still did what he was told to do, he still built an arc, gathered either 2 or 7 of all living creatures, and he is still a righteous man.  But we have had better leaders, leaders like Abraham who fought for Sodom and Gomorrah, leaders like Moses who plead to save the Jewish people from both Pharaoh and from God’s wrath.

And so, who are you voting for?  Are you voting for someone simply because of what they did not do?  Is your vote a begrudging vote?  Or are you voting for someone because of the good they have already done, because their deeds are at least as great, if not greater, than their words?

Either way, I pray that you vote.  I voted early this year.  I voted for a candidate that I am incredibly proud of, and would be proud to call my president.  As I left the voting booth, I said a shechechianu:  Our praise to You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of all: for giving us life, sustaining us, and enabling us to reach this election season.

—

Rabbi Rachel G. Greengrass serves Temple Beth Am in Pinecrest, Florida      

Categories
Torah

Cheshvan: Rehearsal in Honoring the Mundane

Synagogues are failing in the most subtle of ways. Under the guise of being supportive and loving communities we have made every effort to be there at times when we are needed the most. And, for the most part, we have been successful. We understand sadness, greeting mourners with compassion, visiting friends when they take ill. We also thrive in moments of joy. We dance with wedding couples, and take off from work to attend our neighbor’s son’s bris.

Yet, the problem with these moments is that though they punctuate our lives but do not define them. Much more of our time is spent between peak experiences, not in them. As important as the death of a parent, the birth of child, the loss of a job, or the finding of love is, these are the low hanging fruit of a supportive community. A community that is truly supportive, open, and present, must learn to embrace the mundane alongside the summits and valley of existence.

Lucky for us, we just began the month of Cheshvan. Cheshvan is a rehearsal in honoring the mundane. By containing no holidays, the month is replete with slight highs and subtle lows and it has a tremendous amount to teach us about how we can give honor to experiences that we too often neglect but that nevertheless define our lives, a lesson that most Jewish communities could learn from.

Cheshvan honors the struggle we face during cycles of growth and decay.

In ancient days the month of Cheshvan was called by the name Bul which was understood as a pun by Rashi: fall is time when grass withers (in Hebrew Baleh). Though we know that spring will come and the grass will be renewed, our ancestors chose to honor the fact that every cycle must have a nadir. Cheshvan forces us to ask the question: do we do enough to honor the subtle cycles of our lives: the stress of the accountant in April or the teacher in August, the anxiety our high-school seniors as they work to figure out where they will attend college, the health conditions that tend to flare up from time to time and then go away on their own. Though not nearly as acute as a loss or terminal illness, our Jewish communities need to name these stresses and provide rituals and outlets for those dealing with them.

Cheshvan honors the expected but no less miraculous events of living in the world.

Though we begin to mention rain in our prayers during the holiday of Sukkot, it is not really until Cheshvan that any significant rain starts to fall in Israel. True, the first and last rains of any season are remarkable. They even get their own terminology. The first rain is called Yoreh and the last, Malkosh. Yet rain, is miraculous at any time. It is sustaining, it is life-giving, and it is necessary.  Cheshvan is traditionally a time to concentrate on the gift of rain. It is an exercise in mindfulness, noticing that even when it rains for the fifth or sixth time that month that each and every drop is significant.  Cheshvan provides a fertile soil to cultivate the practice of acknowledging small blessings: the subtle kindnesses of your neighbor, the beauty of a communal song, the mysterious working of the human body. Cheshvan teaches that Ii we are so busy focusing on the loudest moments of our lives, the quiet blessings will be silenced amidst the noise.

Cheshvan honors the distant losses of long ago that still gnaw at us from time to time.

Historically, the month of Cheshvan has seen its share of loss and heartache. It is traditionally the month when our foremother Rachel died and the time when the Chaldean’s slaughtered King Zadekiah’s sons and led him off in chains to Babylonia (2 Kings 25:7). While some of these losses are distant, they are by no means insignificant. Cheshvan reminds us that even years later, losses in our lives can impact us. It articulates the truth that even at times that are not traditionally set aside for memory (like yahrzeits or holidays) we might still be called to remember. Cheshvan is the picture you forgot and remembered, it is the flashing memory in the supermarket that sneaks up on you.

Cheshvan honors the seeds we plant for the future that give us hope and sustain our souls.

Cheshvan was traditionally a for plowing and planting, a time to turn our attention away from last season’s harvest toward the next season. Cheshvan is a time of great expectation. It is an avenue for our hopes and a platform to dream. It gives us the small joy of envisioning next year’s feast, of conjuring an image of the food that will make future holiday celebrations. Do we do enough to honor the future excitements in our own lives? We mark engagements and honor weddings, but what do we do to acknowledge the anticipation that joins these two events. We understand promotions and job loss, but what about the small victories between: finishing a project, a successful meeting, a good quarter? Cheshvan is a time to acknowledge that the smallest things can also add richness and excitement to our lives.

Cheshvan honors the expectations that we had that were not fulfilled and the challenge of waiting.

According to our tradition, Solomon finished building the Temple, a seven year project, during the month of Cheshvan. Ready to consecrate it, he waited for God’s instruction. Yet, God made him wait twelve months to celebrate until the month of Tishrei. Each year, Cheshvan asks the question: What do we do when our expectations are not met and we are forced to wait. Cheshvan stands beside everyone who has ever experienced the mundanity of waiting and the cycles of failure. It is the infertile couple who must try another month, the single person who is subjected to another bad date, the unemployed neighbor who fails to get another job interview. Solomon needed comfort each month and so do they. Cheshvan reminds us not to forget them.

Good communities are present in moments of deep pain and joy. Powerful and profound communities are ever-present at each moment of our lives. Jewish communities, each Cheshvan should use the month to examine how they deal with the in-between moments. Too many Rabbis, me included, take the month after the High Holy Days to take a much needed breath. Yet, this is precisely the time when we can make in impact on those that need us the most. Every community should take the month of Cheshvan to reaffirm its commitment to the mundane.

—

Rabbi Marc Katz is the associate Rabbi at Congregation Beth Elohim in Park Slope.