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Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Turning Justice into Righteousness

“Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof:” this is one of the most famous lines from all Scripture, lines we read this week as part of Parashat Shof’tim. Unfortunately, it is also one of the most misunderstood lines in all of Scripture. We commonly translate the text as, “Justice, Justice, You must pursue (it).” Justice is the rule of law. The scales of justice hang in every courthouse in the country. Justice is really nothing more than the best answer we have for any given legal situation, at any given point in time. “Justice” allowed slave ownership. The highest “Court of Justice” in the land affirmed it on a number of occasions … until it did not anymore. Then, a new standard of “Justice” was imposed. We are not seeking justice; we have it. What we need is righteousness, the better definition of “Tzedek.” We must pursue righteousness (the best moral answer available to us). Sometimes, following the law, may be “just,” but it is not righteous.

Monday, August 17, I joined in the NAACP’s America’s Journey for Justice; an amazing event on so many levels. As much conversation as we shared, we kept returning to the topic of the laws affirmed by government and our purveyor of justice (the courts) still allowed for discrimination and disparate treatment of minorities and women. As we walked across the Georgia countryside, we became more focused on pursuing righteousness, holding our nation’s leaders to a higher standard than the law. We marched to remind America that the Constitution of this land declared the rights to equality in opportunity and security are “unalienable.” While the law is more egalitarian than it used to be, our system of justice still has a long way to go. My 19.5 miles calling our nation’s attention to more righteous answers did not change the world, but together, our voices over 860 miles can.

—

Rabbi Marc Kline serves Monmouth Reform Temple in Tinton Falls, NJ.

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 Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Treading the Waters of Injustice

My head is swimming.

Not just with the heat of an 18 mile march on a cloudless summer day; not just with the bottles of water and Gatorade, although it is swimming for those reasons.

My head is swimming with pride at being a Reform rabbi in this moment; never have I been prouder. Never have I felt the power of the collective impact we can have in the sacred work of repair than I did on one long day. Our presence there was felt and appreciated; our willingness to accompany, to listen, was so valued, so noticed. We matter, as Reform rabbis, in this space and on this march. What it will mean beyond September is yet to be determined; it is for us to determine it. But in the moment, I cannot underscore how much it meant to me and to our fellow marchers that we engaged in a ministry of presence, teaching Torah with our feet, with our hearts, with our ears, and with an actual Torah!

My head is swimming with the heartbreaking and heart-filling stories I heard along highway 29 in Troup County, GA – the county with the ninth widest gap between rich and poor in the entire United States.

I heard the story of Royal who is, like me, afraid to watch his son pull the car out their driveway; realizing that the reason Royal is worried is because of the real fear that his son could end up dead after a routine traffic stop left my head swimming.

I heard the story of a Georgia State Trooper who was at the forum on voter justice; he was ostensibly there “just” for our safety, but as a colleague spoke to him at the end of the forum, it was clear that his eyes were opened. Having heard about the new and regressive laws coming forward in Georgia regarding voter registration, the trooper said, “Man — my father may not be able to vote; he was born at home and so doesn’t have a birth certificate.”

My head is swimming with the desperation in Jonathan’s eyes when I asked him why he was marching. “Why am I marching?” he nearly yelled. “People are dying! This country is failing to live up to its promise! Why am I marching? Because we have to wake this country up!”

I’m swimming with the optimism of Keshia who quit her job to walk the entire 860 mile journey. At the end, she’s moving to Detroit to start a not-for-profit that will help people start small businesses in their own communities.

My head is swimming with possibilities, inspired by the local political science professor who regularly reads the Georgia constitution with his students, as each proposed change to state voting laws is considered. He regularly calls into the Attorney General’s office in the middle of class to point out the unconstitutionality of a new statute. He and his students regularly are a part of stemming the tide of injustice, and his students learn firsthand that they can make change in the world.

My head is swimming with the shock and awe of having read The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson, Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates and The New Jim Crow, by Michelle Alexander, all in the space of two weeks. Each of these texts is a must-read for those who wish to understand something of where we are in this country with regards to racial injustice, for those who wish to understand how got here, for those who believe that this is all about a few “bad apple” police officers or about people who “refuse to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself. Angry at how willfully blind I’ve been.

I’m angry at the system we have created and perpetuated and codified to ensure that there are two different systems of “liberty and justice for all,” at the ways in which Jim Crow is still alive and well and living all over our great country.

Are you angry? Do you want to do something about it? I don’t have answers yet, but my head is swimming– drowning, really. Will you jump into these scary, unfamiliar rip-tide waters with me?

—

Joel Mosbacher serves Beth Haverim Shir Shalom Synagogue in Mahwah, NJ.  

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

 

Categories
Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Bibilical Echoes

83 year old Hazel Dukes led our community with words that I’m sure are familiar to all who have and will march: “What do we want? JUSTICE! When do we want it? NOW! Her voice was simply a modern echo of Isaiah’s call (51:1) from the Haftarah for parashat Eikev, for us to be Rodfei Tzedek, Pursuers of Justice.

Standing at our rally at the steps of the Alabama State Capital in Montgomery, we chanted along. Having grown up in the 1950s and 60s, I found it humbling to gather in this location where over fifty years ago George Wallace and his Alabama State Storm Troopers reigned. Now, historical signs throughout Montgomery are reminders of how far civil rights have advanced. All the State Troopers, not just the black officers, could not have been more helpful, courteous or supportive of our purpose. Yes, there has been progress, but as we know, the work is not complete.

Speaker after speaker and the experts for our teach-in the next night made this abundantly clear. Echoes from this week’s Torah portion linked to the goal of our marching. “Our lives, our votes, our jobs, our schools matter” calls out to us in the spirit of Deuteronomy’s (15:7), “Do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin.” Slavery may have ended after the Civil War, but the slave experience and subsequent manifestations continue to oppress the black community. We can relate, “Remember that you were slaves in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 15:15)

Walking in the hot Alabama sun, we chanted for justice and sang songs of freedom and friendship. (That included Hineh Mah Tov and Psalm 150.) On the one hand I felt as though we were reenacting history, but on the other I understood that there was so much more to be done. Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – justice, justice, you shall pursue (Deuteronomy 16:20), found in next week’s parasha, echoed loudly. It reminded me that we joined with the black community seeking justice in the past and that we must continue to seek justice today in order that there be a more meaningful tomorrow.

—

Rabbi Bob Loewy serves Congregation Gates of Prayer in Metairie, LA.

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

 

Categories
Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

In Every Generation …

B’chol dor vador chayav adam lirot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mi-Mitzrayim.  “In every generation, a person must view herself/himself as if s/he had gone out of Egypt” (Pesachim 116b). Our sages teach this text to emphasize the need to praise God for the Exodus each and every Passover.  At the Seder, we celebrate as if we were actually there and the stories we recount actually happened to us. In a broader sense, we view this text as a call to compassion and action.  In each generation, we must think of ourselves as if we had known personally the bitterness of slavery and then the joy of freedom.  Knowing the pain of oppression, we are compelled to work for justice, b’chol dor vador, in every generation.

The text took on a deeper layer of meaning for me as I marched with the NAACP’s America’s Journey for Justice this summer in Aiken County, South Carolina.  When I got off the bus at the staging area, holding the Torah scroll we would carry, I was approached by an older African American woman named Linda.  “Rabbi,” she said, “Thank you for being with us on this march.”  Making conversation, I asked her if this was her first day marching, meaning, had she participated the day before?  “Oh Rabbi,” Linda laughed, “I was marching back in the ‘60s!”  B’chol dor vador, in every generation we must work for racial justice.

My marching partner for one stretch of the journey was Eugene, an African American man about my age.  He was wearing a button that said, “I Am Marching For Civil Rights.”  Around the outside of the button, it said, “Washington, D.C. 1963.”  His grandfather had been there in DC in 1963 and worn that pin.  He had later given the button to Eugene when Eugene was 5 years old.  And Eugene wore it that day as we marched again for racial justice.  B’chol dor vador.

We were housed overnight at Paine College, a historically black liberal arts college in Augusta, GA.  Students were just beginning to arrive back on campus.  Nevertheless, one of the college’s theatre troupes heard that the marchers were staying there and, on short notice, prepared a performance for us.  They did a dramatic reading of pieces from Langston Hughes, Dr. King, and others, including a haunting 90 second rendition of Eric Garner’s last words, “I can’t breathe.”  At the end of the performance, one of the college actors explained why they felt compelled to perform:  “We know why you’re marching.  You’re marching for us.”  B’chol dor vador.

Before I left to march, I talked with my young children about why I was going: people are being treated unfairly and unjustly due only to the color of their skin, and we hoped the march would make people pay attention to these things that weren’t right and do something about them.  My daughter, age 7, made the connection and said, “Like in Dr. King’s time, right?’  “Yes,” I answered.  Then this quizzical look came over her face.  “But why didn’t they fix that back then?” she asked.  “Why is this still happening now?”  She was incredulous that we hadn’t gotten it right yet, that racial justice still needed to be worked on.  And that, I told her, was why I was marching.  The struggle for racial justice from the past is, unfortunately, still incomplete.  That struggle belongs to us now in our day and age:

And so we march with Linda, who had to march once again, this time with the next generation. We march with Eugene, marching in the path trod by his grandfather.  We march with the Paine College students marching for their future.  The effort of old is our responsibility now.  B’chol dor vador, in every generation, we will continue to work for racial justice.

—

Rabbi David S. Widzer is the rabbi of Temple Beth El of Northern Valley in Closter, NJ.  He  currently serves as one of the CCAR’s representatives on the Commission on Social Action.

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

 

Categories
Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Social Justice Torah

Joining Hands, Marching Together

On Tuesday, five of us[1] flew to South Carolina to march in the NAACP’s Journey for Justice.[2]

Why? This poem from American poet Langston Hughes (1902-1967):

“Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
            (America never was America to me)…”

We began. Passing the Columbia State House, we noted the poignant absence of the Confederate flag, finally removed following the tragic, racist church shootings in June.

At the front of our column, an American flag was carried high by a black veteran of Korea and Vietnam. He drew his name, Middle Passage, from a slave forebear.

“Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
            (It never was America to me.)…”

Each block, passing stores and restaurants, folks came out to cheer. Cars honked, passengers waved support. We marched through middle class and lower middle class neighborhoods – and people noticed. They came out for hope. We were a bit of evidence that black lives matter.  And not only to blacks.

“I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak…

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-
Hungry yet today despite the dream…”

We weren’t a large group.[3] And there wasn’t much publicity, in local or national news. What was the value in our participation?
We Barnert folks celebrated our own Rabbi Martin Freedman z”l, a Freedom Rider in Tallahassee, FL.[4] This was our chance to “walk the talk.”

Times have changed. But not enough. I walked alongside an Episcopal priest. She was white, her husband was black, and their bi-racial children suffered terrible discrimination. Her 14 year old son had been arrested by police in Edison, NJ on charges of assault.[5] But there had been no assault. Her son, walking in their white neighborhood, was stopped by police; when he answered a question with a smart-mouthed teen response, they handcuffed him.

This mother was drawn to a ministry with black prisoners, guiding them to manage anger and resentment, to forgive and then shape new lives.[6]

We marched with Keshia Thomas, a black woman devoted to spreading the message among frustrated teens that violence is wrong, period. Her story: in 1996, the KKK tried to organize a rally in Ann Arbor, MI. Hundreds of people gathered to protest. A rumor spread that someone was a Klansman, and people began to mob him. Keshia leapt forward and spread herself over the man, protecting him. A photographer from LIFE captured the moment, and Keshia gained a name for peaceful resistance. Her message has influenced thousands. Most recently she met young people in Baltimore after the death of Freddy Grey and the subsequent torching of a CVS store. “Look across the street,” she said to them. “There’s a Senior Home. What do you think those folks are thinking and feeling about you? Would you want to be in that home, and not feel safe going out on your street? Find another way to protest. Advocate peacefully with me!”

Alongside the American flag, we carried a Torah. Each night it was passed to the next day’s Jewish marchers. Torah: symbol of just civilization. Torah: witness to our own brand of persecution. We get it. So we speak out.

“…For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a ‘homeland of the free.’ …”

Civil rights earned can be lost. Racism is real.  Criminal injustice is real. The challenge to the Voting Rights Act is real. The cycle of Poverty is real.

Returning at the end of the day, we unwrapped the Torah around us, and shared our reactions. We recalled the Jewish Journey, fleeing slavery, seeking freedom.

“Standing on the parted shores, we still believe what we were taught before ever we stood at Sinai’s foot; that wherever we go, it is eternally Egypt; that there is a better place, a promised land; that the winding way to that promise passes through the wilderness. That there is no way to get from here to there except by joining hands, marching together.”[7]

There’s a lot more to be done in our nation. Let’s do it together.

—

Rabbi Elyse Frishman serves Barnert Temple in Franklin Lakes, NJ and is the editor of Mishkan T’filah.

 

[1] The Barnert team: Lisa Dugal, Marni Neuburger, Isaac Hart (a sophomore at Glen Rock High School) and Anya Gips (senior at Fairlawn High School and BarTY President) and me. Read Anya’s and Isaac’s pieces separately!

[2] August 1-September 16, from Selma to Washington, hundreds of Americans are walking in solidarity for black civil rights.

[3] In fact, the greatest number of participants over the last 25 days has been Reform Jews.

[4] Our journey was much safer than his – we had the protection of state troopers.

[5] Her story echoes others I’ve heard of young black teens walking the streets in white north-western Bergen.

[6] She said to me, “Forget prison reform. It’ll never happen. After decades in my ministry, I’ve learned to devote all my energy to the victims, helping them move beyond their radically unfair pasts.”

[7] by Michael Walzer, adapted from Exodus, as found in Mishkan T’filah

Categories
Books High Holy Days Machzor Mishkan haNefesh

What Should a Prayer Book Look Like?

I grew up using a Holy Day prayer book called The Union Prayer Book II, Revised Edition. It was small, black, and either dull or appropriately understated in appearance, depending on your perspective. Even its name was remarkably prosaic. It didn’t tell you that it was a High Holy Day prayer book, only that it was the other prayer book, the UPB I being the edition for Shabbat.

If it’s what you grow up with, it is what you think is right, the way things should be. The English was a bit flowery, there wasn’t a lot of Hebrew, and it included instructions to the congregation of when to stand and when to sit, like stage directions in a script.

Holding a new prayer book in your hands is a revelation. After years of reading out of the same book, it starts to feel like an old friend. We encounter the new prayer book and think, “Are prayer books supposed to/allowed to look like that?”

Prayer books are a snapshot of the Jewish community: its theology, its social dynamics, its aesthetics; each prayer book is a portrait of our people in a different place and time. None are the same, because we, as a people, are an evolving religious community.

Sometimes we forget that prayer books themselves were once an innovation. There were no prayer books before the Middle Ages. In the early rabbinic period, there was much greater fluidity and spontaneity in the language of prayer than we have today. Prayer books helped to freeze the language of prayer.

The printing press changed everything. Jews were among the best customers of these new printed books, and by the late Middle Ages, Jews everywhere could pray with a book in their hands.

Even today, it is the publisher who decides what goes into a prayer book, and what it should look like. Which brings us to the Central Conference of American Rabbis, the Reform movement, and the aesthetics of Mishkan Hanefesh.

The first thing you will notice is that Mishkan Hanefesh is not one prayer book, it is two. The Rosh Hashanah book has a gold cover, and the Yom Kippur book has a silver cover. I think the gold represents the theme of God’s sovereignty, which is reaffirmed on Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world. Silver suggests the white of Yom Kippur, the cleansing of sins, the purification of the soul.

Inside, the pages themselves are set off by colors. Traditional texts and translations appear on white pages, usually on the right side of a two-page spread. Grey pages (on the left side) offer alternative prayers, sometimes creative meditations on the theme of the traditional text, sometimes poetry that speaks to the theme, even “counter-texts” that speak for those who struggle with the traditional text.

Then there are the blue pages, meant for study and reflection. These pages, interspersed throughout the prayer book, invite the worshipper to take detours, to go deeper, to spend time in thought, not in recitation.

Of course, technological advances make all of this possible, but the application of publishing tools is done in a way to invite a more spiritual, and a more flexible experience both for the worshipper and for the worshipping community. No two congregations are likely to have identical experiences with Mishkan Hanefesh, and from year to year, we will find new riches in its pages.

Mishkan Hanefesh has done away with stage directions. Every congregation has its own customs, and the prayer book no longer tells us what to do. That can be unsettling, but also liberating. It empowers us to think about our ritual more consciously.

Finally, Mishkan Hanefesh just looks different. The Hebrew typeface is original, and was created expressly for this Machzor. It is elegant but not ornate; it rests easy on the eyes.

And, then, there is the art work. Yes, this prayer book has art! Clearly, representational art would be a distraction from the deeper themes of prayer. The art is abstract, suggestive, inspired by the prayers it accompanies, but not explicitly interpreting them. That is left up to us. The artist, Joel Shapiro, worked in the medium of woodcuts. You can see the grain of the wood, the rough edges of the cut, the simple primal shapes, all of which direct us back to a confrontation with our own raw self.

Welcome to Mishkan Hanefesh, your new sanctuary of the soul.

— 

Rabbi Larry Milder serves Congregation Beth Emek in Pleasanton, CA.
Categories
spirituality

How is Your Jewish Self?

Out of nowhere, in a Facebook message, she asked her father, who is more Jewish– you or Rabbi Kedar?

And so, in a Facebook message to me, he relayed the message, my daughter wants to know who is more Jewish, me or you.

I answered; we are not in a contest, no winner or loser. Just a journey toward expansiveness. I walk with you, I said to him. Let us consider together a few more questions. My guess is, I said, we are equally engaged in four of the five categories? He agreed.

And so now I ask you, how is your Jewish self?

Judaism is belonging: Do I claim Judaism as my past, my tradition, my heritage and my people? Do I cast my destiny with the Jewish people? Do Jewish rituals, customs matter to me? Am I part of a Jewish community? Do I participate in that community? Do I care? Do I belong?

Judaism is choice and consciousness: Am I a Jew by default or by intention? Is my Judaism white noise in the background until some event turns up the volume? Like High Holidays. Or my child’s Bar Mitzvah. Or when someone I love dies. Or an attack on Israel. When I am uncomfortable do I hide my Jewishness? Even at work? Am I satisfied with a seventh grade Jewish education? Or do I choose more?

Judaism is a perspective: Do I see the world through the lens of my Jewish sense of ethics? Is the Jewish story my story? Am I aware of being Jewish everyday? Is Judaism an integrated part of my life? When I see, watch the world and when I try to understand my life, do I have a Jewish filter? Sometimes? Ever?

Judaism is what I do: Do I pray? Bless? Study? Read? Give away my time and volunteer? Give away my money and help others? Do I give away my kindness, and heal? Do I have a sense of obligation to behave in a Jewish way? Do I feel the rhythm of the Jewish calendar? Does Jewish time enter into my time? Shabbat? Holidays?

Judaism is tending to the spirit: Am I aware of my spiritual life? Do I talk to God? Do I allow myself to struggle with my faith? Does my life have meaning? Do I have purpose? Do I sit quietly, settle down. Ever? Do I practice love?

I pose the questions, to me, to you. Everyday is an answer.

—

Rabbi Karyn Kedar is the senior rabbi at Congregation BJBE, in Deerfield, IL.

Categories
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. 

Categories
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.

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