Tag: CCAR Convention

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Convention Rabbinic Reflections

Korban, Olah, Minchah, Zevah Shleimim, Chataat: Welcome to Parashat Vayikra: CCAR Chief Executive Rabbi Hara Person’s 2026 Convention Address

The 137th annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis was held March 2026, in the San Francisco Bay Area, where 400 Reform rabbis gathered in person and online. Here, we share CCAR Chief Executive Rabbi Hara Person’s address to the Conference, urging the rabbinate to balance fear with bravery and gratitude, in hopes for our redemption.

Watch the video, or read the address below.


For those keeping track, and fair enough if that’s just me, this is the first year in a while that P’kudei hasn’t been the Convention parashah. Here we are this year in Vayikra, surrounded by entrails and suet, the cutting up into sections, all the dashing and draining of blood, the flaying and pinching, the tearing without severing, the kidney and loins, the fat, the broadtail.

This pivot between the lofty and gloriously detailed tabernacle building of P’kudei and the gory and highly detailed viscera of the offerings in Vayikra is a strangely familiar dance. One day we’re exalted, planning the blueprint for the future, dreaming big with great excitement about what can be and how we’re going to get there with what bountiful resources, and the next day we’re knee deep in the muck.

Both of these modalities, the P’kudei moments and the Vayikra moments, are based on hard work, on getting the details just right, so that we can be in proper covenantal relationship with God and with our community. Different methodologies, shared goals. Much of what we aim to do at the CCAR is find ways to support rabbis through both of these modes, and everything in between, through the periods of big, beautiful possibilities, and the days of trudging through the mucky mess. 

As rabbis, we often teeter between these two poles of P’kudei and Vayikra, reminding ourselves even as we make our way through the mess that there is some greater purpose and goal.  Both the edifice building and the sacrifices of our yields are ultimately kinds of offerings—examples of the unique human ability to produce shelter, creativity, and sustenance, remarkable acts of human skill and ingenuity that build upon the raw material provided by God. All this work has a greater purpose, to weave us into a covenantal tapestry in which both humans and God have obligation toward one another.

What are offerings but the manifestations of our hopes and fears: Take this and make my days plentiful; accept this and may I merit beneficence; receive this on account of what I meant to do but didn’t, or what I did but wish I hadn’t, and may all be well with me. We make our offerings and we pray for good outcomes, for safety, for the banishment of our daily dread.

Though we are, of course, very far from the days of the Temple and the priesthood, and thankfully (says this vegetarian) no longer required to slaughter animals as part of our religious practice, in many ways offerings are still our work as rabbis. No matter what kind of rabbinic work you do, in one of the many forms of chaplaincy or counseling, in a school or summer camp or college campus, in a congregation or organization, in retirement, we all bring forms of offerings, and we all want to get it right. Our sermons, acts of service, pastoral care, teaching, fundraising, strategic planning, life cycle officiation—all of these are our rabbinic offerings regardless of where and how we serve. As with the biblical priests, our offerings are for the greater good of the community, meant to enable our communities to flourish and thrive.

Our portion this week speaks of not just the variety of offerings, but also the right ways to bring them. The rules are plentiful and specific: an unblemished male animal from the herd or the flock, or a bird of the air. We learn how to slaughter the animal, and what to do with it. The text exhibits angst about making sure we get the offerings right, and the level of detail conveys a deep sense of anxiety about getting it wrong. Offerings are instrumental for the proper health and functioning of the community. The stakes are high, but there is a path to repair. Make amends for your wrongdoing, and a way forward opens up. This rule-bound system allows for our flawed humanity and encourages us to try again.

There is delicate choreography involved in these offerings, choices about what can be brought, with a welcome sense of justice embedded in the allowance made for those without the means to bring the costliest offerings. And if it is to be a meal offering, the most modest of the offerings, it must be prepared with flour and oil, but without leavening and honey (Leviticus 2:11). As a baker, I find curious the requirement to leave out that which makes it rise, and that which makes it sweet.

Challah and babka, my baking go-tos, are basically two versions of the same thing, the result of the reaction of yeast, salt, flour, eggs, oil, and water. Probably like a lot of you, my challah and babka baking exploded with creativity during the Pandemic, resulting in all kinds of, if I may so, delicious things like scallion pancake challah and chocolate tahina babka. However, take away all those extras, and other than the addition of leavening and sweetness, challah and babka aren’t all that different from the meal offering being described in our parashah. You could perhaps not use eggs—the Shammai position to my Hillelian recipe—or substitute butter for oil. At the end of the day though, it’s all about the yeast and sweetener. Without the yeast and sugar, you’ve basically got matzah, our primal paradigmatic sustenance.

Our ancestors have a great time debating the significance of the leavening and honey. It’s date honey, opine Ibn Ezra and Rashbam. It’s the juice from ripe fruit, says Rashi. Either way, there are essentially two issues here: one is that the sugar in the honey can cause flour to become leavened (great to see the rabbis of old try to understand the essentials of baking), but also a concern with not sweetening the offering because that’s what idolators did.

Perhaps another issue—that just as leavening is a move toward culture and away from the primal essence of flour, oil, and water, sweetening also removes the offering from its essential essence. As Nechama Leibowitz writes, “…the sacrifices as such—the slaughtering, sprinkling of the blood and the offering up on the altar—have no other function than to portend a change of heart and the wish to draw closer to the Creator.” Basically, the leavening and the sweetener are distractions; they get in the way of a direct, unmediated relationship between our exposed, vulnerable soul and the divine.

Leavening puffs up our loaves, and it puffs us up; it distances us from that which is elemental in ourselves and thus creates distance between us and God at the very moment when, by engaging in offerings, we are trying to connect with God. The Talmud, in B’rachot 17a, goes so far as to posit that it is yeast in the dough that prevents us from doing God’s will, equating it with the evil inclination within each person. Leaven is a metaphor for the evil inclination, as Rabbi Alexandri said in his prayer: “It is our will to do Your will, but the leaven in the dough prevents it” (B’rachot 17a). It is not the leavening in and of itself that is evil, but that it inflates us, it distances us from our essential, raw self, and thus must be used in moderation, and only at certain time like on Shavuot. B’rachot 34a teaches:There are three things that are harmful in excess but are beneficial when used sparingly. The first is: Leavening in dough…

In just a few weeks, we’re going to be ridding ourselves of chameitz. Passover is our annual journey of cleansing, getting rid of that which distances us from our essential selves. Ridding ourselves of excess, leavening helps us turn back to our core mission. Leavening takes up room—remove the leavening, and we have more room for God, for one another, and for that which matters most.

We are living in a time of terrible fear and uncertainty. We have been through a lot in recent years, even in recent days, and I’m not going to list it all for you because you know it and live it. The empty chairs in this room that should have been filled with beloved colleagues who could not get here are a testament to some of what we are living with right now. There are real things to be afraid of, plenty to make us anxious and scared.

Fear is totally reasonable. There are those who wish to harm us, as we are painfully reminded again and again. We must acknowledge that reality and take the steps necessary to be as vigilant and prepared as possible. But we can’t lead from fear. The question for us as leaders is what we do with that fear. Because one of the companions of fear is anger, and another companion is self-righteousness. As rabbis we must recognize fear, our own fear and that of those around us. But we can’t nurture our fear like it is soeir, sourdough starter that must be tended and fed, we can’t let it become leavened and rise to fill all the hollow spaces. Our job is to inspire hope and thereby lead with and toward courage.

Are the lives of those of us who live in North America in danger? Is Jewish life as we know it coming to end in North America? Is democracy both here and in Israel in its death throes? Is Israel under existential threat like never before? Does the ever-growing violence perpetrated by Jews against Palestinians on the West Bank portend a future of government sanctioned Jewish supremacy? Is this American and Israeli war against Iran justified and necessary? Perhaps, and perhaps not. We have predictions and theories and desired outcomes about all of these things, but we don’t yet know. I don’t want to minimize the danger of what we are experiencing, but our job as rabbis is not to be purveyors of fear. Our job as rabbis is not to encourage people to become either immobilized by fear or to give into anger-fueled actions and reactions, but rather to inspire, to help people find comfort and the courage to face the future with hope and creativity, and to take action.

Continue reading “Korban, Olah, Minchah, Zevah Shleimim, Chataat: Welcome to Parashat Vayikra: CCAR Chief Executive Rabbi Hara Person’s 2026 Convention Address”
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Rabbinic Reflections

Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell on Cultivating Hope in a Time of War and Spiritual Challenge

I write this in the shadow of our shared grief. Rabbi Andrea Weiss’s death is a loss to our community, and to the world. So many of us have lost a teacher, a mentor, a trusted colleague. May we continue to teach her Torah of deep scholarship, her love of our precious inheritance, and her commitment to the health of a vibrant, inclusive Jewish tradition.

I am sitting on our Tel Aviv mirpeset in the sun. It is another gorgeous day: blue skies with only whispers of clouds, climbing up to 70 degrees, birdsong complementing the voices of children at play.

I, and they, are grabbing a few minutes of sanity as we wait for the next siren.

The children are outside on the grass because there’s no school. No school, limited commerce, unpredictable intercity transportation. This tiny land-locked country has become an island of fear as we wait for the next siren that will send those of us lucky enough to have one into the shelter.

I am one of the lucky ones. For me, this isolation is reminiscent of Covid times, when we kept inside and apart from others because of a different kind of fear. For the majority of Israelis, these days have taken them back to last June, what is now “the first Iran war,” and to October 7, and the months that followed. For too many, their minds swing back to hours locked in safe-rooms, and the subsequent discovery that beloveds had been murdered or kidnapped and their homes destroyed. And then, months of no recovery, no government support, no new housing, no return of the hostages, alive and dead. All this is just below the surface for thousands who call Israel and Palestine home.

Thousands of residents of Israel walk through their days with unaddressed PTSD. And yet, and yet there is kindness and caring and deep wells of compassion.

And amazing resilience. I spent a day the week before last, just before the war began, in Bethlehem with two friends, an Israeli and a Palestinian friend, both of them activists in Combatants for Peace. We shared coffee and conversation, visiting the Healing Center that Nimala, our Palestinian friend, is building in Beit Jala, then being tourists for an hour at the Church of the Nativity, where we were guided by Mohammed, the husband of their colleague, Fatima. When I was in Palestine last year, Fatima shared her story, thanks to a translator, of her work as a peace activist in Gaza, and her amazing escape to the West Bank. Her story was shared at the annual Joint Memorial last year, read by someone else, as Fatima herself needs to shield her identity.

Thanks to the invitation of Rabbi Efrat Rotem, director of MARAM, I was able, on Wednesday, February 11 and Thursday, February 12, to join over thirty of our Israeli rabbinic colleagues for a two-day study retreat. We gathered at Kibbutz Dalia in the north of Israel. Study and meditation retreats have been essential to my professional and spiritual growth, so I was delighted to join my Israeli counterparts for an immersion in Jewish study, prayer, and sharing our work and our lives.

Our colleagues gathered from across the country, from their full-time and part-time positions working for the College, the Israeli Reform Movement, the World Union for Progressive Judaism, individual and regional congregations and k’hilot, training the next generation of Reform Jews in a range of educational settings, and work as chaplains and freelancers. Like the CCAR, our Israeli colleagues include men and women and non-binary souls of a wide range of ages in backgrounds.

Our scholar in residence was our colleague Rabbi Nancy Wiener, Director of the Blaustein Center for Pastoral Counseling, and professor of Human Relations at Hebrew Union College in New York. Nancy has been researching and writing about moral injury, helping her students and colleagues better understand and address the profound spiritual wounding that takes place when core beliefs are shattered and betrayed.

This topic was not theoretical for the Israeli colleagues who came together from all over Israel. Nancy taught in Hebrew, illustrating her teaching with a series of illustrative Hebrew slides. We learned about the invisibility of moral injury, and the challenge of honoring that we, as caregivers, are each carrying versions of the harm that we learn to identify in others. She reminded us of the essential role of listening and honoring the silence—or the floods of words—that may be shared with us. She taught us the linguistic and clinical differences and similarities between PTSD/post-traumatic stress disorder and moral injury, illustrating psychological and spiritual challenges with examples from our sacred texts.

As those of us who have had the privilege of studying with Nancy know well, she challenges her students, in this case, her colleagues, to immediately explore the learning she has shared by breaking into chavurot or small groups. Throughout our day of learning together, we explored a typology of survivor narratives to help us, as listeners, better accompany those who share their stories with us.

Our retreat was expertly and wisely led by our colleague Rabbi Efrat Rotem. Our time together was a rich balance of prayer, study, and play. I especially appreciated our evening of trivia. Efrat is a gifted comedic impresario and had crafted an evening of silliness rivaled only by some of our colleagues’ elaborate Purim presentations. We divided into teams of five to eight and competed with one another for mastery of an extraordinary range of trivia, from daily prayer to rabbinic citations to popular culture to geography. I was fortunate to sit next to Rabbi Michael Marmur; without his translations and encyclopedic mind, I would have missed much of the fun! I loved the easy comradeship—indeed, the full engagement—of our colleagues that, for me, mirrored the deep connections and mutual devotion between them.

Sharing t’filah with other rabbis is one of the greatest gifts of inclusion in our community of sacred service. When we lift our voices together, I am wrapped in sacred intention, reminding me of the clarity that brings me back, again and again, to our holy gatherings.

As I write this, there are no non-Israeli flights into and out of Israel. It is unlikely that our Israeli colleagues will be able to join our annual CCAR Conference in California. We continue to pray as one for a cessation of this wide-ranging and destructive war.

May all who gather for the CCAR know that we are indeed one, each of us working in our own small corner of the world, cultivating sacred seeds of hope in this time of war and spiritual challenge.

Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell (HUC-JIR ’86) has been blessed with a rich and varied rabbinic career. She currently serves as Spiritual Director at the New York Campus of Hebrew Union College. Blessed to be a savta of three, Elwell lives in Philadelphia and Tel Aviv with her partner, Nurit Levi Shein.

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Israel Rabbinic Reflections

Rabbi Oded Mazor: Israel, on The Day After (היום שאחרי)

Rabbi Oded Mazor is a Reform rabbi living in Jerusalem, where he leads Kehilat Kol Haneshama. During CCAR’s annual rabbinic Convention—held this March 2024 in Philadelphia—he was asked to address an audience of his rabbinic peers and reflect upon life in Israel during the war, specifically the day after the war ends. Below are his powerful reflections.

We were asked to talk about “the day after.”  

In the last few days, two quotes from the תפילה (t’filah, prayer) passed before my eyes, bringing two different feelings that many of us feel these days, about the present and about the future.  

On Shabbat, the words that struck me the most were not easy ones. Do you remember the words ואל תטשנו יי אלוהינו לנצח (Al titshenu Adonai Eloheinu l’netzach)?i How should we translate these words? What does the word לנצח (la’netzach, forever) refer to in this phrase? Does it mean, “God, don’t ever forsake us?” Or does it mean, “God, don’t forsake us forever?” It’s not the same thing.  

I’m going to refer to a few people in my congregation, Kol HaNeshama in Jerusalem.

The first, her name is Esther. She is eighty-seven years old. She teaches a Torah class every other week, for twelve years now. She’s incredible! And she comes to me every other week with a suggestion for an alternative Haftarah for the next Shabbat, a different reading that we can have from the נביאים (n’vi’im, Prophets) or from the כתובים (k’tuvim, Writings), to understand the Torah portion in a different way, two weeks from now!

Two years or so ago, when we were in the middle of Covid, and I met with her and spoke with her—and, thanks to her, we still have a morning meditation twice a week on Zoom, because even now that we’re allowed to be in the synagogue, the pace that we set during Covid, to meeting on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9:30 in the morning for meditation, we’re still doing it, with more than a minyan on most days. I remember sitting with Esther in her room, and the way she looked at reality and היום אחרי (ha-yom acharei, the day after), she said, “I know the cure is going to be found. We’re going to get over Covid. I’m just not sure I’m going to be here.” ואל תטשנו יי אלוהינו לנצח (V’al titshenu Adonai Eloheinu l’netzach). This feeling of my personal נצח (netzach), my personal “ever,” I feel that I’m already forsaken. Maybe this is going to be the reality. That’s what Esther was feeling during Covid. I think she feels like that again right now, these days.

But when we were saying the Hallel here in Philadelphia, the verse לא אמות כי אחיה (Lo amut ki echyeh, “I shall not die but live”) came to me from the Hallel, as an answer to my feeling of ואל תטשנו יי אלוהינו לנצח (V’al titshenu Adonai Eloheinu l’netzach), insisting on this לא אמות כי אחיה (Lo amut ki echyeh), ואספר מעשי יה (V’asaper ma’aseh Yah), “I will not die but live, and I will tell the deeds of God” (Psalms 118:17). Now obviously, we all know we’re not going to live forever; but as a mental source of strength to ourselves, we may affirm: לא אמות כי אחיה (Lo amut ki echyeh, “I will not die but live”). 

Thinking about the day after, I’m also thinking about the manager of our congregation, Anna. Her cousin is Karina Arayev. She’s one of the women soldiers kidnapped from the Nachal Oz base on October 7. For many, many, many awful weeks, Anna’s uncle and aunt (Karina’s parents), and the whole family—which is a rather small family of Ukrainian Jews—didn’t know anything about Karina and her situation. Three weeks ago, Hamas released a short film with three women talking. One of them was Karina. That’s the first time that they received any message, if we can call it that.

When Anna is thinking about היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after), there is no יום אחרי (yom acharei, day after) without Karina coming home. Karina’s parents, Anna’s aunt and uncle, told her that very explicitly: If she doesn’t come home, there is no day after. We try as a community to be there with Anna and her family the whole time through. When we say “the whole time through,” it means that, weeks ago, too many weeks ago, when the first groups of hostages were released, every time a group of hostages came back home and Karina was not amongst them, we were rejoicing with the families who received their loved ones back home; but we were in pain with Anna’s family, with Karina’s family, and the families of all the hostages who are still waiting and have no idea—and had no idea, until the first group of people came off the Hamas vehicle, and still have no idea. 

Nati is not a member of our congregation. She is definitely a very close friend of our congregation. She’s not a member of our congregation because she lives on Kibbutz Or Haner, a few kilometers from Gaza. The next kibbutz up the road, further from Gaza, was not evacuated. The next kibbutz to the west was the kibbutz that stopped the terrorists from infiltrating Or Haner, Kibbutz Erez. Nati and others from Kibbutz Or Haner were moved to Tiberias on October 8. They were there for a month, and then they were offered to move from Tiberias to Jerusalem, to the Orient Hotel. Have you ever been to the Orient Hotel? That place was, for three months, a refugee camp for the people from Or Haner. Nati is the chair of K’hilat Sha’ar HaNegev, led by our dearest colleague, Rabbi Yael Vurgan. When they were moved from Tiberias to Jerusalem, Yael made the connection between Nati and me, and we met in the lobby of the Orient Hotel, which didn’t look anything like what you remember from the Orient Hotel’s lobby. The walls were the same, but nothing else. And I sat there with Nati and her husband, Damian. From that meeting on, every Kabbalat Shabbat and every Shabbat morning, Nati and their younger son, Noam, were with us at Kol HaNeshama. Noam would come and stand next to me and with the other children from Kol HaNeshama for opening and closing the Ark. And his job came to be holding my סידור (siddur, prayer book) when I put the Torah Scroll inside the ארון (aron, Ark), and then I would give him a hug when we sang דרכיה דרכי נועם (d’racheiha darchei no’am, its ways are ways of pleasantness).

A month ago, they returned to their home in Or Haner. What does היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after) mean, when you return to your kibbutz, just a few kilometers from Gaza, and the kids go to school, and some of their friends are not there anymore and will never be? And some of their friends will be there, but still are someplace else around Israel and not yet allowed to come back. What it meant for Nati: Returning home is to go pick the lemons from the lemon tree in their yard. היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after) will be to know that this lemon tree will give lemons again next year as well. 

And if we’re talking about picking lemons, Debbie is a member of our congregation. Debbie retired from being a lawyer at משרד הרווחה (Misrad HaR’vachah, the Ministry of Welfare) just a few months ago, in August. She didn’t know what she was going to do in her retirement. What she has been doing for the past five months—on top of worrying about her three children, all three of whom were recruited to the army—she has been organizing our volunteering in agriculture, twice a week, every week, for the past four months. Ten to twenty people on each group from Kol HaNeshama, from the area, and people from abroad who hear about it and ask, “Can we join?” One of them is a very dear friend of mine, Rabbi Aaron Goldstein from London. When he told me that he was coming to visit a month and a half after October 7, he asked, “Can I do anything with you?” I said, “OK. Let’s join the agricultural volunteering,” and we planted broccoli. The name Aaron gave it is “brocco-therapy.” It was walking in the field and planting broccoli, one after the other, one after the other. “The day after” will be when Aaron comes again with his congregation and shows them, “You see, this field? Now we’re going to plant another line of broccoli together.” 

My deepest sense of היום שאחרי (hayom sh’acharei, the day after)—and I hope this time I won’t dissolve into too many tears—every day is when I drive my children to school, to the יד ביד (Yad b’Yad, Hand in Hand), bilingual school in Jerusalem, that has been functioning incredibly in these months. Since it’s a rather new building, they have enough shelters in the building, so they were able to return to a regular schedule in the school as soon as anyone was allowed, because they have enough shelters. Many other schools had to require the children to come in shifts—a day yes, a day no; in the morning or in the afternoon—because they only had so much room in the shelters. But the Yad b’Yad school in Jerusalem, of all places, has enough room in the shelters to have everybody coming on the same day from the first day that was allowed in Jerusalem. And every day when I get the privilege that my schedule allows me to drop them off and pick them up at school, and see their teachers and see their friends—Jews and Arabs, Palestinians who live in West Jerusalem, Palestinians who live in East Jerusalem, Palestinians from across the checkpoint to Bethlehem, from Beit Sahour and Beit Jala.  

Some of their teachers were not allowed to come to school in the first few weeks, because they’re on the other side of the checkpoint. Some of their teachers couldn’t come to school because they have little children who had nowhere to go, and the other parent was in מילואים (miluim, reserve duty). And these teachers have to come to school and teach in the same class. And I was told an incredible story by one of my kids’ teachers. In another class, the Jewish teacher was teaching, and the Muslim teacher was there with her. One of the grown children of the Jewish teacher walked in the room in uniform, having come back home from the army. He asked his mother to go out with him for a coffee. His mother told him, “I can’t go. I’m teaching now.” And the Palestinian teacher said, “Of course you should go with him! He’s your son! He came home!” She understood that as a mother, even though that son came into the class in uniform, and I can only imagine what that meant for the Palestinian teacher. That mother had to go with the son who came from the battlefield. What they didn’t know was that the reason he came to get her to go out for coffee was that, at the coffee shop, the other son who came home from מילואים (miluim, reserve duty) was waiting.  

My children came with us to many of the הפגנות (hafganot, demonstrations) in Jerusalem in the past few months. The two younger ones said that they’re not willing to come any more after, at one of these demonstrations, they saw how I was screaming,  לא תהיה לבן-גביר מיליציה (l’Ben-Gvir lo tihyeh militziah, “No private militia for Ben-Gvir!”). There was a proposition that there would be some kind of force that would be under Ben-Gvir’s direct supervision. I think that got them really scared, not so much Ben-Gvir’s militia, but seeing me screaming that way. They prefer being with their Arab Palestinian homeroom teacher, their Jewish homeroom teacher, and their friends, whom they might get along with or not get along with. It’s OK. They’re children in school; that’s what happens. It’s not heaven in that school. It’s the normal life that we want to see.  

It’s the day after that we pray for.  

Will Esther live to see it? Will Karina come back to see it? Will Nati really be able to feel it also in Or Haner, seven kilometers from Gaza? Will Debbie’s three children, coming back from the army, be willing to take part in it, after what they have experienced?  

But my children are going to school. And on מוצאי שושן פורים (motz’ei Shushan Purim, the night that Shushan Purim ends), in Jerusalem, in the courtyard of Kol HaNeshama, we’re going to have an Iftar meal for the families of our daughter’s class. 

That’s the day after that I’m waiting for.  

Watch Rabbi Oded Mazor’s address here.

Categories
CCAR Board Rabbinic Reflections

Using Our Gifts to Enhance Rabbinic Communities: CCAR President Rabbi Erica Asch’s CCAR Convention 2023 Sermon

The 134th annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis was held February 20-26, 2023 in Israel, where over 250 Reform rabbis gathered in person. At this Convention, the CCAR also installed its new 2023-2025 Board of Trustees with Rabbi Erica Asch serving as President. Here, we share Rabbi Asch’s powerful sermon addressing the Reform rabbinate.

Watch the video here, or read the sermon below.

February 25, 2023: Parashat T’rumah teaches us the importance of bringing our unique gifts and talents to the community. In the parashah, the Lord commands the Israelites to build a Mishkan and calls on each of them to contribute their own special offering. This passage teaches us that every one of us has something valuable to offer, and it is our duty to share it with others. As we reflect on our own gifts, let us be willing to share them with our community, and strive to make a difference in the world with what we’ve been blessed with.

At this point, some of you might be a bit concerned about my sermonic abilities. Others might have guessed that this opening paragraph was not actually written by me, but by ChatGPT. Perhaps you were tipped off by the clichés, the awkward grammar, or the use of the word Lord. I think it is safe to say that ChatGPT has not yet passed the Turing test invented by mathematician, computer scientist, and philosopher Alan Turing in 1950. The test was simple: Can a computer successfully pretend to be a human being in a text-based conversation? While ChatGPT did not fully capture my sermonic brilliance, I appreciate that it got me started. 

I imagine that many of us, whether we are newly ordained or recently retired, have given some better-written version of that opening paragraph. We have preached—just as Moses asks and the Israelites answer, bringing their own unique gifts with a full heart—please bring your own unique gift to our community. In our sermons, we are Moses, exhorting the Israelites to build our community. But in our jobs, we are not Moses. Rather, we are the Israelites, bringing, with care, our own gifts to the communities we serve.

When Rabbi Ellen Weinberg Dreyfus was installed as CCAR President in 2009 in Israel and spoke on this parashah, she taught us: “…these gifts are essentially who we are and what we do as rabbis. These gifts that we bring are the gifts of our minds and our hearts and our hands and our souls. These gifts are our sweat and our tears. These gifts are our energy and our time. This is why we are rabbis: because our hearts are so moved.”[1]

We are rabbis because our hearts and souls are so moved. And sometimes, maybe often, our gifts are received with love and compassion, whether we bring a thought-provoking sermon, an insightful teaching, or a caring pastoral presence. On good days, we build communities where we help to make the lives of those we touch a little better, and our world a little bit more just, and perhaps then God dwells with us.

But sometimes, maybe often, we bring our unique set of gifts and they are not accepted. We are a brilliant strategic thinker, but our congregants want someone who can sit on the floor at Tot Shabbat. Our vision for the organization upsets our board chair who wants us to “stay in our lane.” Our big new program flops, and our abilities are questioned. Sometimes we suffer untenable job situations in silence because we are too scared that if we say something, we might not get another job. Sometimes our contract isn’t renewed. But more often it’s the little difficulties that wear us down—the feeling that our gifts aren’t acknowledged. What happens when our hearts are moved and we bring our unique combination of gifts, the gift of ourselves, and we are rejected?

What happens when the gift of ourselves is rejected? This devastating possibility never occurs to our commentators. In all the discussions of various colors of wool and what exactly are those t’chashim, they give no thought that gifts for the Mishkan could be refused. In our Torah portion, unlike our lives, every gift is accepted and valued.

While being a rabbi is often rewarding, it can also be heartbreaking. The last few years, in particular, have not been easy. When we face difficult situations in our communities, we desperately want things to be better. If they were able, I have no doubt the dedicated staff of the CCAR would rectify all of the challenging professional situations we face. They do their very best. But our staff can’t change the leadership of an organization, or curb the behavior of difficult personalities, or make others embrace the gifts we bring.

We work as hard as we can to make our communities the picture of compassion and acceptance we see in our parashah, but ultimately we are not in control. We cannot single handedly change the culture of the places we serve.

However, we are in control of our own rabbinic community. Together we have the power and the obligation to make the CCAR a place of compassion, understanding, and support. Our actions shape this community.

One of my first official encounters with the CCAR left me in tears. I was in the midst of undiagnosed postpartum depression and the response I received was not only not pastoral, but felt cruel. That was not the intention, but I left feeling hurt and disrespected. “They don’t understand me,” I remember thinking. “They don’t care about me.” I could have justifiably slammed the door and never looked back; or let that hurt, which I still feel, color my impressions to this day. But around that time, I had another encounter, not with CCAR staff, but with two rabbinic colleagues who also had a newborn. This baby was their third and as we sat together on the floor, with our infants, outside the opening dinner at a CCAR Convention, they told me that I could do this; I could be a rabbi and a parent. They assured me that I would find my way. And another colleague not only told me that having a child is hard—which I needed to hear—but helped me to find meaningful, part-time work in the city where I was moving. And these experiences, too, are part of the narrative of my involvement with the CCAR. Because the CCAR is not just staff, it is all of us. We all help to shape our shared rabbinic community.

Many of us have struggled within this small group. We have experiences where we have not felt heard or understood or valued by colleagues; where we felt our gifts have not been accepted. We may have felt as if only the senior rabbis of large congregations were given kavod within the Conference. Maybe we thought we had to pretend that everything was fine even when it was not. Maybe we live outside of the United States, like so many here this morning, and don’t feel that the larger Conference recognizes us. As a part-time organizational rabbi with no discretionary fund, I went to my first convention thanks to the generosity of a colleague. As I talked to my classmates, many of them assistant rabbis in large congregations, I thought their lives were perfect. Moses valued all gifts equally, but it didn’t feel like that was the case for me. Was my gift worthy?

How often have we had these internal doubts? These narratives are so difficult for us to carry and they are unfair. Unfair to ourselves because we diminish our own gifts. Unfair to others because we don’t show them our own struggles, and in showing them, give our colleagues the chance to lift us up. Fifteen years later, it is that conversation on the floor, and many more like it at the back of the ballroom, in restaurants, and over phone calls and Zoom screens that have kept me going.

There was certainly a time when new ordainees were expected to sit silently in the back row (not by choice) and listen quietly to the g’dolei hador, but that is not our Conference today. We have a board, and a leadership, and a Conference made of people on a variety of rabbinic paths, and each person brings different gifts to our community. We need and value them all. Our Conference has changed. We talk about wellness. We understand the pastoral aspects of placement. We recognize the variety of ways we serve as rabbis. We are not perfect, but we are different, and we do ourselves a disservice when we don’t recognize and embrace the way that, together, we have changed our rabbinic culture.

Our culture can continue to change only when we bring the full gift of ourselves—messy, complicated, and fundamentally human—to this space. Nineteenth-century commentator Rav Chaim of Volozhin teaches that God’s intention in building the physical tabernacle is to show us that just as the Mishkan is made of holy materials, our own actions should be equally holy—then God will dwell with us.[2] Similarly the Malbim, writing in the 1800’s, who would have been horrified to be quoted by a female Reform rabbi, but nevertheless teaches some wonderful Torah, reads v’shachanti b’tocham not as I will dwell among them, but I will dwell within them.[3] It is the action of bringing our gifts that will create a holy community where God dwells with us. That brings us back to ChatGPT and the Turning test.

In his podcast “Cautionary Tales,” economic journalist Tim Harford brings up a little-known incident from 1989, a text chat between a student at Drake University in Iowa and a chatbot at University College in Dublin known as MGonz.[4] MGonz was not, as Harford says, “a gentle conversation partner.” Their one hour and twenty-minute conversation was peppered with obscenities and insults and included a lot of boasting about their sex lives. MGonz, because it was programmed to insult, passed the Turing test with flying colors. But here Harford makes a provocative argument about our inability to distinguish if we are interacting with a chatbot or a person. “If it’s impossible to say which is which, that’s not because the bots are so brilliant, it is because we humans have lowered ourselves to their level.”[5]

It is not that chatbots have passed the Turing test, but rather that we humans have failed it. Too often our conversations mirror what could be done by a chatbot—oneg chit chat, passive listening, returning the conversation, over and over again, to what we want to discuss. This happens not just in our communities, but with one another.

Talking to one another in real and meaningful ways is risky, for sure, but it is ultimately rewarding. In a world where we might often feel like we can’t be our full and authentic selves at work, where our role can be a barrier, we have a chance, with one another, to pass our own Turing test. To share how we are really doing, to support one another, to question respectfully. To say something that could not be mistaken for a computer; to invite one another into genuine relationships. We can jump into real interaction with all the risks and all the rewards that are possible. We have the opportunity to bring our full selves, our proudest moments, our missteps and our uncertainties, to this community.

In order to build our Mishkan we just need the gifts of ourselves—messy, complex and dedicated. Some of us will bring brilliant sermons, some inspired teaching, some meaningful worship. Someone will offer a loving question. Someone else will bring a kind word when it is desperately needed. We don’t know what the next year will bring for us personally, professionally, or as an organization. But if we place gifts of ourselves at the center of this community and accept the gifts of one another, then the sacred space we create will make the journey ahead easier for us all.

[1] Rabbi Ellen Weinberg Dreyfus graciously shared her entire sermon with me.

[2] Rav Chaim of Volozhin in Nefesh HaChayim, Gate I, 4:18.

[3] Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser (Malbim) on Exodus 25:8 Vaasu li mikdash.

[4] The “Cautionary Tales” podcast can be heard in its entirety.

[5] This quote occurs at 29 minutes and 56 seconds in the episode.

Categories
Convention Rabbinic Reflections

Between Brokenness and Wholeness: Rabbi Hara Person’s CCAR Convention 2022 Address

The 133rd annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis was held March 27-30, 2022 in San Diego, where 300 Reform rabbis gathered in person with several hundred online. Here, we share CCAR Chief Executive Rabbi Hara Person’s poignant address to the Reform rabbinate.

How amazing it is for us to be together once again, after three long years since we last gathered as colleagues. What an incredible milestone this is for us as a chevrah, a truly celebratory occasion. It feels unbelievably moving and replenishing to be here together.

And what a strange, hard time this has been. Two years and about two weeks ago, after a lot of struggle, we had just made the decision to go virtual for Convention. So much of that time, those early pandemic days pre-vaccine, were filled with anxiety and fear. All of us were making decisions on the fly—you in your communities, and us at the CCAR, figuring out how to quickly replan and reinvent ourselves. Priorities changed overnight. At the CCAR, we sent our staff home to set up remote office spaces. We changed our educational and support offerings to meet the needs of the moment. We organized coaching, advising, and counseling sessions for rabbis at no cost. We provided you with free or heavily discounted CCAR Press resources. We heard your stress and tried to provide you with care and support during the grimmest, grief-filled, scariest times. I remember one of you telling me that you had done eleven COVID funerals in one week. In one week! Unimaginable, the spiritual and emotional cost.

At the same time, strangely, without social gatherings and commuting, there was also time to be filled. I rolled the thousands of pennies that had migrated to my house after my father died. I seasoned my cast iron pans, and then did it again. I had time to watch the dirt in my garden slowly fill with flowers in bloom that first pandemic spring, giving me a much-needed sense of hope. That all seems so quaint now, given what was still to come.

When we last gathered in person at CCAR Convention in March 2019, no one among us could have foreseen the enormity of what we’d be facing in this intervening time, and how much we would be changed by the experience. Painfully, often in grief, sometimes at great personal cost, but also with creativity and tremendous learning, we persevered. You rethought your rabbinates, you experimented, you pushed through, and even if you sometimes fumbled—and we all did—you nonetheless inspired and led and brought comfort. When I look at and see what you’re managing, when I speak to you, when I hear what you’re doing, when I visit your synagogues, I see the miraculous. I see resilience in the face of all of this. I see innovation. I see vision. It’s truly amazing. There is so much to be proud of.

And yet, I know it’s been a very hard time, and a complicated time. I know you lost people in your own lives, and that grief continues. I know that many of you are exhausted and overworked, stressed and burnt out. I see how hard you’ve been working, and often under impossible conditions. I know you are doing more than ever, and in many cases with fewer resources, less support, and more difficulty. I know that.

At that same time, we are facing challenges in regard to our beloved Reform institutions, challenges that make us question so much. If that wasn’t enough, we are facing fears about what endangers not only our souls but also our physical selves. As many of you have said, being a rabbi shouldn’t be dangerous. And yet it sometimes is just that. With the three ethics reports that have come out from our beloved organizations, the terrible events in Colleyville, the overall rise in antisemitism, and questions about the future of our institutions, there is no doubt that this moment we’re in is a hard one.

I feel it too. There have been times when I—like so many of you—feel weighed down by such a sense of brokenness. There have been many dark moments this past year, many moments of feeling that brokenness deeply within my soul. When I took on this job of serving the Reform rabbinate, I believed I would be doing something that I could be proud of. I thought I’d be able to focus on moving the CCAR into the future.

I could not have imagined that I would be managing the painful and dispiriting work of unpacking the ethical misconduct of rabbis and our institutions. To be the face of the CCAR in this moment is, to say the least, complicated. There have been moments of pain, deep shame, and bleak and utter darkness. Yet I know that this pain pales in comparison to the pain carried by the brave individuals who’ve come forward.

I can’t help but think back to that last in-person Convention in 2019 in Cincinnati, the city in which our founder Isaac Mayer Wise’s legacy is so present. As I was preparing to speak to you all for the first time at that joyous time, before I was even in the role of Chief Executive, I thought about our founder’s legacy. Legacy looms large at the CCAR. We are, after all, one of the three legacy organizations of the Reform Movement, along with our partners the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ) and Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion (HUC-JIR). We have a storied history that goes back to the nineteenth century. But what does it mean to be a legacy organization? What is the legacy that we have inherited, and perhaps even more importantly, what do we want our legacy to be?

B’reishit teaches ki afar atah v’el afar tashuv, that we come from dust and return to dust. That’s humbling, to be reminded of our nothingness, but it also prompts us to consider just the opposite—that it is what we do in between those states that matters. While we are blessed to walk this earth and be in relationship with each other, what are we doing to create a legacy of positive change, to make a difference, to help right wrongs, to give voice to the voiceless?

We have so much to feel good about, both in our history as Reform rabbis as well in the present. Our Reform predecessors helped define American Judaism. We have reformed liturgy and published generations of prayerbooks. We have marched for social justice and advocated for equity and civil rights. We were the first rabbinic organization to ordain women. Our rabbis published the first English-language modern Torah commentary that included contemporary scholarship, and our rabbis also created the first women’s Torah commentary. We have officiated at countless life-cycle events, celebrating with and comforting Jews decade after decade. We have taught and inspired and written books and sustained communities, and so much more. Part of the challenge of this moment is holding the complexity of all the good that we rabbis have done for people, the community, and the world, all the ways that we have lived out our values since our founding in 1889, together with the ways that we have fallen short.

We come from dust and we return to dust, but in between we have choices to make about the legacy we leave. I want our legacy to be an honorable one, a legacy of integrity and morality, a legacy of inclusion and respect. And I also want to say, wrongdoing on the part of some does not negate all the tremendous good done by most.

But in the midst of our proud Reform rabbinic legacy, and in the midst of all of your important and good work, there is misconduct that, rather than setting an example of menschlichkeit and being our best selves, was instead behavior that did the opposite, behavior that created a legacy of hurt and pain. There were, and continue to be, colleagues who have displayed the worst of human behavior. And other colleagues who either didn’t recognize the behavior for what it was, or didn’t do the right thing to eliminate that behavior from our community. 

Our institutional t’shuvah isn’t just necessary—it’s the right thing to do. I’m grateful to the CCAR T’shuvah Task Force for the thoughtful work they are doing to inform this process. And as we know, t’shuvah is not just a one-time formal statement, but as Maimonides taught, the changing of behaviors going forward. Words without action—and a deep-seated commitment to change—are meaningless. To that end, the CCAR is making t’shuvah a fundamental part of our organization, every day through our actions, by improving our processes, hiring an ethics staff member, supporting the ethics committee in increased training for its members, and hiring professional investigators, as well as engaging in many conversations about experiences with our system and history.

I am very grateful to the Ethics Committee for approaching their difficult work with integrity and dedication. Even before we received the Alcalaw report, their suggestions of ways to continually upgrade the process already had a significant impact. So too the Ethics Process Review Committee has made continual changes to the Ethics Code, almost every year. The attention to ongoing upgrading on the part of both committees is remarkable. Hopefully, as a community, we will vote in many of the needed changes to the current Ethics Code that the Ethics Process Review Committee is currently working on in a special session, even as the Ethics Task Force envisions what an ethics process of the future may look like.

But here, today, I want to begin to apologize out loud.

I’ve heard so many painful stories over the last year. Some happened years ago; some are more recent. Not all are about sexual misconduct. Some stories aren’t about the ethics process at all but are about the way a colleague was hurt by the CCAR. Some are stories of bias or diminishment. And let me be clear—some of the pain that has been expressed is because the ethics system actually worked as it should and held rabbis accountable, and though warranted, that can be painful. Regardless of what, when, or how, the pain is real.

When Abraham speaks to God to argue the case for sparing the people of S’dom, he begins by stating that he is but afar v’eifer, dust and ashes. Abraham invokes humility as he speaks up for the voiceless and argues for what he believes is right. Not only do we come from dust and return to dust, but our texts acknowledge that in our lifetimes we sometimes go through periods of being covered in dust and ashes. There are times in which we are brought low, bowed down in sorrow and grief, before we can rise again.

In this last year, I have often felt buried in both the dirt and the ashes of this pain. I want to say clearly: I am sorry that CCAR rabbis have caused pain. I’m sorry that the CCAR has caused pain. I’m sorry that our legacy is tarnished.

I came to the rabbinate considerably after the vatikot we’re honoring at Convention and owe so much to those first pioneer women, my older sisters who led the way. But I too have my stories, my experiences in the rabbinate and in our Reform institutions, as a mother with one and then two young children while a rabbinic student, as a career-long non-congregational rabbi, as an oddity in many ways, all of which have shaped my rabbinate—sometimes painfully and sometimes joyfully. Moreover, having been one of the early women at a formerly men’s college as an undergrad, I know very well that merely opening the door to let us in doesn’t mean equality has been achieved and bias has been overcome.

And yet, even with all that, it turns out that we also have what to be proud of. We knew we had to revamp our ethics system and were moving forward with this work even before new allegations came to light in this last year. And moreover, we actually have an ethics system, a system in need of further upgrades, yes, but an existing, robust system that has been updated and changed year after year by you, by your votes. The path ahead is filled with repair, rebuilding, and healing. But this too can be our legacy—the commitment to create a better, safer future, and to always improving what we do and how we do it.

I am grateful that we have both an Ethics Task Force and a T’shuvah Task Force hard at work right now, helping to create a better future for us all. I am also grateful to be able to work with my partners, Rabbi Rick Jacobs at the URJ and Dr. Andrew Rehfeld at HUC-JIR, as we begin to navigate what we can do better together, and grateful as well to Rabbi Mary Zamore at the Women’s Rabbinic Network (WRN) for her unwavering commitment to justice.  

Not easily, and not without pain or cost, but progress is happening. Rabbi Zamore and WRN leadership have suggested that we join together in a Day of Lament in the next months. I believe that this will be a meaningful and significant experience for us as a community, and I’m appreciative to be able to partner on this project. In addition, CCAR will be working with URJ and HUC-JIR to plan a Yom Iyyun around themes of repentance and other related topics for the community as a whole. Both of these plans are very preliminary right now, but I believe in the power of ritual acts, communal study, and deep, vulnerable conversation. More information about all of this will be forthcoming in the coming months.

There is so much important work ahead of us. I am energized by all the possibilities. And indeed, in this incredibly difficult time, despite all the really hard and painful work, CCAR has continued to grow and evolve in really exciting ways. As you have hopefully seen, one of the things we will be voting on tomorrow is new Vice President positions, one of which is the Vice President of Varied Rabbinates, as a response to the evolving reality of where and how our rabbis serve today and what kinds of support you need. That’s a significant step forward for us as a Conference, a new milestone.

And another very big milestone—we are taking the very first steps toward a new Reform Torah commentary, including a new translation. It’s very early in the process, but I’ll have more to share with you in the months to come.

Accelerated by the needs of the last two years, we now have a robust wellness program under Rabbi Betsy Torop, CCAR Director of Rabbinic Education and Support, in addition to the pandemic pivoting and all the other fine work she and Julie Vanek, CCAR Education Specialist, are doing in that department, including this Convention. You don’t necessarily see her work, but if it wasn’t for the thoughtful fiscal and operations stewardship of Laurie Pinho, our COO and CFO, we would not be able to function, never mind flourish, and without Laurie’s leadership we certainly would not be able to run a hybrid convention.

The department we used to call “Placement” has evolved into the fuller and more inclusive Department of Rabbinic Career Services, and I’m so grateful that our interim directors, Rabbi Deborah Hirsch and Rabbi Michael Weinberg, were willing to put their retirements on hold to come help us for the year. With their help, and with your feedback and input, we’ve re-envisioned that department and created a new structure for the future, which includes two full-time directors with separate portfolios to better meet your needs. I’m so excited that we’ll be welcoming Rabbi Leora Kaye and Rabbi Alan Berlin this summer, when they’ll take over as Director of Rabbinic Career Services and Director of Search Services respectively, and help us keep moving the department into the future. With this new structure, we will be able to better serve different kinds of rabbis at all moments of the rabbinic career lifecycle. I’m grateful too for Rabbi Dennis Ross and Rabbi David Thomas, both serving as interims in specific career-related areas this year.

CCAR Press Director Rafael Chaiken came in only months before the pandemic but despite that challenge, the Press has thrived under his leadership. Director of Strategic Communications Tamar Anitai makes us look good in social media spaces and helps us navigate the complex world of communications. Our Development Department recently welcomed Pamela Goldstein in a new position as the Director of Advancement, who together with Lisa Tobin, our Director of Development, is working hard to provide all the services and resources that you rely on and help us find ways to keep growing into the future. Our Special Advisor in Ethics, David Kasakove, came into a brand-new position at a historic moment, giving us wise and careful guidance. I am also grateful to our two emeriti, Rabbi Steve Fox and Rabbi Alan Henkin, who generously continue to provide insights and help when asked.

I also want to thank and acknowledge my amazing assistant, Rosemarie Cisluycis, and the rest of our team: Debbie Smilow, Raquel Fairweather, Jaqui D’ellaria, Michael Santiago, Ariel Dorvil, Chiara Ricisak, Rabbi Jan Katz, Dale Panoff, Nathan Burgess, Rodney Dailey, Rabbi Rex Perlmeter, and Rabbi Don Rossoff, as well as our HUC-JIR interns Madeline Cooper and Ariel Tovlev. And we are soon to be joined not only by Leora and Alan, but also by our colleague Rabbi Annie Belford-Villarreal, who will become the new editor at CCAR Press this summer. Most of these amazing staff members are either here this week in person or back home helping to run the online version of Convention, and I urge you to introduce yourself and say hello when you cross paths.  

I want to say a special thank you to CCAR President and my partner and friend, Rabbi Lewis Kamrass, for his wisdom, calm counsel, and caring heart. I also must thank the whole CCAR board, who provide incredible support and thoughtfulness, and all of you who volunteer with the CCAR in such a huge variety of invaluable ways. I am so very grateful to the many, many CCAR members who work so hard on behalf of our Conference.

I said earlier that I feel weighed down by brokenness. But one thing I am learning in the midst of this incredibly difficult time is to not walk away from brokenness. Brokenness calls, and I am trying to embrace it, to face it, to learn from it, and to walk through it.

At the heart of our Jewish tradition is the idea that brokenness is part of life rather than an aberration. The challenge of holding within us that tension between brokenness and wholeness is a deep part of our collective story. In just a few weeks, as we celebrate our freedom at the seder, we will break the middle matzah. Doing so reminds us that we live in a broken world, that we ourselves contain brokenness. 

Back home, spring flowers are bursting through the desolate winter dirt of my Brooklyn garden. What looks bleak in one season can become celebratory in the next. This I know: out of dust and ashes, beauty arises. In the coming weeks, we will taste the bitterness of oppression as we joyfully celebrate liberation. Brokenness may bring us low, but it is only a chapter, not the whole story. Our narrative continues. As we move from dust to dust, we continue to write our story, and in so doing, continue to create our ongoing and ever-evolving legacy. We have so much to be excited about. I look forward to growing and building the CCAR with you in the months and years to come.

Categories
CCAR Convention Convention

Celebrating Joys, Sorrows & Deepening My Faith: Rabbi Paul (Shaul) Feinberg on 50 Years in the Rabbinate

My rabbinate in North America and Israel has given me opportunities to share in the joys and the sorrows of others. Moreover it has enabled me to learn and teach our religious heritage. My rabbinate has helped me to deepen my faith in God; my family, my teachers, and colleagues have guided me in this path.

In 1981, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion invited me to join the faculty of the Jerusalem School and thus enabled us to make aliyah. I became an integral part of the developing narrative of our people, while strengthening the Reform Movement in Israel.

For three decades, I engaged with students in their quest to develop religious leadership wherever they were to serve. During these years, my rabbinate facilitated my travels throughout the world to teach Judaism, Israel, and education. All along I was deepening my own religious faith, refining the understanding of Judaism as an ever changing way of life. My rabbinate continues to connect me with former students, now colleagues and leaders, in their own communities.

In all facets of my rabbinate, education has been a key empowering factor of living the values of tikkun olam b’malchut Shaddai. As Tania always says, the Jewish community begins at home; in this spirit we are grateful to see our children teaching their children values they hold dear as each one of them continues on her or his own path.

My credo is shlichut—being on a mission which as a parent and as a rabbi continues to unfold to this day.

Today, fifty years from our Ordination is a milestone, even as we remember dearest friends and classmates who have gone to their Eternal Rest.

“This is the day the Eternal has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v’kiy’manu v’higianu laz’maan hazeh.

Rabbi Paul (Shaul) Feinberg is celebrating 50 years in the Reform Rabbinate.

We look forward to celebrating 50- and 51-year rabbis when we come together online at CCAR Convention 2021, March 14-17, 2021. CCAR Convention 2021 will strengthen us spiritually, emotionally, and professionally, bringing us together at a time when we need it more than ever. CCAR rabbis can register here.

Categories
CCAR Convention

My 50-Year Learning Journey: A Rabbinic Evolution, by Rabbi Richard J. Birnholz

The African proverb: it takes a village to raise a child pretty much describes my 50-year rabbinic career because of all the people who helped me get here.

My classmates were the first to rescue me when I arrived at HUC-JIR. Though New York City was only a few thousand miles from Austin, Texas, I felt like I had been dropped into an alien world. But my new classmates, all from the northeast, helped me find housing and jobs, welcomed me into their parent’s homes, showed me where to find Hebrew textbooks on the Lower East Side, and then spent five years explaining the meaning of course work that was totally foreign to my classical Reform, southern mindset.

Meanwhile Dr. Cohen and Dr. Borowitz z”l helped my HUC-JIR transition in significant ways. By teaching about power politics, Dr. Cohen helped me differentiate between the political and the spiritual in Jewish texts. This distinction made the “sacred pronouncements” in the texts more believable because I could finally understand theological narratives in their historical context. I think my students over the years appreciated this insight as much as I did.

The “God question” was also an early stumbling block to my rabbinic career, but here Dr. Borowitz z”l came to my aid. His existentialist explanation of knowing God in moments when we let God in, as opposed to having to prove God as a concept, immediately resonated with me. I liked the Buberian notion that personally experiencing God’s presence, despite the existential risk involved, was “proof” enough that God is real. This paradigm has been one of the most valuable accessories in my rabbinic tool kit.

Fortune further unexpectedly shined on me when I reached out to Rabbi Harry Danziger while navigating my assistantship at Temple Israel in Memphis. Harry had preceded me there, and, in addition to having been loved by all, was known for his extraordinary wisdom. Harry quickly became my friend and career-long mentor. He gave me sage advice and at a critical time in my rabbinate. He said two things: First, a rabbi’s greatest gift to people comes from just being there for them. The words and prayers are important, but a rabbi’s spiritual presence says more than words ever can. Second, if you first give your congregants time to feel comfortable with you, the rest of your time with them will take care of itself. This advice has served me well whenever I have moved or launched a new initiative. Harry was teaching Relational Judaism long before it became popular.

At Beth Israel Congregation in Jackson, Mississippi, congregants helped me refine my curriculum-building skills. They met with me once a month to develop lessons for a seventh through ninth grade, three-year, rotating religious school program. I introduced raw ideas and they massaged them into effective lesson plans until we felt they would work. And they did. I won the NATE Samuel Kaminker Memorial Curriculum Award for Outstanding Informal Education as a result, but my congregants deserve much of the credit for the cooperative effort. Best of all, I learned the value of partnering with lay leadership, which was particularly important in Jackson for another reason. I went there near the end of the Civil Rights struggle when the Jewish community still faced attacks from the Klan. I quickly learned that I had to coordinate my pronouncements with the best interests of the congregation lest I put my congregants at risk. This collaborative mindset then carried over into my rabbinate as a whole and has reaped benefits I never could have anticipated.

My introduction to Congregation Schaarai Zedek in Tampa came by way of a behind the scenes recommendation from another classmate. It has been the gift that keeps giving. My congregants here opened their hearts to Donna and our family from day one. They gave us a forever home, where we could feel appreciated, supported, and loved.

To put it bluntly, I had no idea how to lead a large congregation. My leadership saw this and decided to patiently teach me, skill by skill, with each new president and executive committee adding a new one. 

And then my lay leaders did something even more important. By providing a safe environment in which failure was an acceptable option, I learned to do the same for my expanding team and for all my congregants. My leaders though never spoke of failure. They referred instead to “accepting people and outcomes.” I adopted this phrase and attitude and am convinced that using it widely became the “secret sauce” propelling our growth.

It took me a full 50 years to grow into my rabbinate and I am incredibly grateful for the “village” that made my evolution possible.

Rabbi Richard J. Birnholz serves as Rabbi Emeritus of Congregation Schaarai Zedek in Tampa, Florida. He is celebrating 50 years in the Reform Rabbinate.

We look forward to celebrating 50- and 51-year rabbis when we come together online at CCAR Convention 2021, March 14-17, 2021. CCAR Convention 2021 will strengthen us spiritually, emotionally, and professionally, bringing us together at a time when we need it more than ever. CCAR rabbis can register here.

Categories
CCAR Convention Convention

A Scholarly Rabbinic Career: Rabbi Roy Furman on His 50 Years in the Rabbinate

During my years at HUC-JIR, my expectations of a future rabbinate were vague, at best. What 50 years after ordination actually held were beyond what I could then have imagined. It would certainly prove to be a multifaceted rabbinate, one which extended the boundaries of how I would be a rabbi and what sort of congregation I would serve. It has been an interesting journey to say the least. 

That journey first took me to Los Angeles where I served as Hillel director on the campus of the University of Southern California. There I immersed myself in the creative challenges and rewards of working with students developing a vibrant campus Jewish community. Four years later, I decided to enhance my counseling skills by studying for and obtaining an MSW, followed by another four years practicing clinical social work at Jewish Family Service of Los Angeles. 

By the ten-year mark after HUC-JIR, I sought congregational work for the first time, moving with my wife to Portland, Oregon to work with a small, participatory, egalitarian, and very spiritual chavurah. The five years with that community were my idea of rabbinic heaven. I would still be there, I imagine, if my wife did not need to relocate to pursue her academic aspirations.

If Chicago did not readily yield to my rabbinic needs and aspirations, it did provide me with the opportunity to work with a gay and lesbian community, with a suburban congregation in an assistant rabbinical position, and another two years as interim rabbi for a large Reconstructionist shul.

Through the years, I took great pleasure in doing scholarly work, including PhD studies in ancient Judaism and early Christianity. Having served as a rabbi on a college campus, at Jewish family service, with a chavurah, and with three Chicago-based Jewish communities, I now entered the academic part of my rabbinic journey. Some twenty-three years after ordination, I began teaching comparative religions and Jewish studies at DePaul University, an adjunct position I held for twenty years, along with part-time work as campus rabbi. 

At the forty-sixth year post ordination mark, I entered a year-long training program in clinical pastoral education and continued working as a chaplain in an acute hospital setting until the Spring of 2020 and the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic.

And through all of these years, my rabbinate has been expanded and enriched through interactions with Jews in congregations, both old and newly emerging, in Russia, Germany, Poland, Spain, France, Chile, and Morocco.

From the time I left HUC-JIR until the present, I have been active as a leader, facilitator, and member of chavurot and minyanim. That aspect of my journey reflects much of what has come to be important and meaningful for me as a rabbi and as a Jew, as I have met, taught, counseled, comforted, andlearned from many, many wonderful people along the way. I continue to write divrei Torah for my minyan, study Hasidic and Mussar literature with Rabbi Richard Hirsh, my long-time chevruta and dear brother-in-law, and to be challenged by the likes of Maimonides, Heschel, Buber,  Hartman, and the Baal Shem Tov.

Rabbi Roy Furman is celebrating 50 years in the Reform Rabbinate.

We look forward to celebrating 50- and 51-year rabbis when we come together online at CCAR Convention 2021, March 14-17, 2021. CCAR Convention 2021 will strengthen us spiritually, emotionally, and professionally, bringing us together at a time when we need it more than ever. CCAR rabbis can register here.

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Building Congregations and Communities: Rabbi Stephen Einstein’s 50-Year Career

At HUC-JIR, we thought that the road to a successful rabbinate began with an assistantship. During the placement period before ordination, I interviewed for several assistantships, but in each case was a runner-up. So, my first position was as the solo rabbi in a New Jersey “A” congregation. I didn’t have an experienced rabbi from whom to learn, nor a Temple administrator to guide me in dealing with a staff.  In fact, I had no staff or even an office. For a while, my study was half of the dining room of our small rented apartment until the congregation completed construction on its building. 

I recently received an email from one of my confirmands in that congregation with whom there had been no contact in the intervening years. Now a 60-something leader of the shul, she expressed what an impact I had had upon her as a fifteen-year-old girl. This is probably the greatest joy every rabbi has—the knowledge that rabbis touch people deeply, often without even being aware of the extent of our influence.

We might well have remained in that congregation had we not faced housing difficulties. We lived in three places in three years and were facing a fourth move when we learned of an opening in California. Robin—who has been my mainstay throughout—and I both grew up in Southern California and wanted to be near our family. So, we returned.

I learned a valuable lesson: geography is not a very good reason for a rabbi to choose a congregation. This was a troubled group. I was there to celebrate the temple’s bar mitzvah year—and I was rabbi number seven! They had already spun off two other congregations before I arrived! At the conclusion of my two-year contract, I suffered what too many of our colleagues have experienced—a professional dislocation.

At that point, we rented out our house, moved in with my in-laws together with our three children (number four came along later), Robin got a job, and I enrolled in law school. However, a lovely group of people decided to form a new congregation and asked me to serve as their rabbi. From September 1 to Simchat Torah, the membership grew from 31 to 99 households. I realized I could have a decisive role in giving shape and substance to this synagogue. So, I left law school and devoted myself to Congregation B’nai Tzedek for the next thirty-six years.

While I was synagogue-based, my involvements extended far beyond the walls of our shul. The first that I would mention is Interfaith Activities. I was a founder and past president of the Greater Huntington Beach Interfaith Council. I was an elected member of the Fountain Valley School Board, and following that served on the School District’s Personnel Commission for twenty-seven years. I was on our local hospital board, which I also chaired. I served on committees of the American Cancer Society, Alzheimer’s Association, and PBS.

In the Jewish community, I was a founder and past-president of the Bureau of Jewish Education and board member of Jewish Federation, Jewish Family Service, American Jewish Committee, and ADL.

A focus of my rabbinate has been outreach. I taught our community-wide Introduction to Judaism class for forty-one years and co-edited the curriculum that was used throughout North America. For over two decades, I was the rabbinic cochair of the Commission on Outreach, Membership, and Sacred Community. I am currently cochair of the Sandra Caplan Community Bet Din of Southern California.

For twelve years, I served on the CCAR Ethics Committee—six of those years as chair. I’ve been on the CCAR Board for two terms, including one as VP of Member Services. I am currently on the Ethics Process Review Committee.

In retirement, I remain active. I continue to mentor rabbinical students. I am doing a lot of Social Justice work, primarily through CLUE (Clergy and Laity United for Economic Justice).

Through all this, the person-to-person connections remain most meaningful.

Rabbi Stephen Einstein is Founding Rabbi Emeritus of Congregation B’nai Tzedek in Fountain Valley, California. He is celebrating 50 years in the Reform Rabbinate.

We look forward to celebrating 50- and 51-year rabbis when we come together online at CCAR Convention 2021, March 14-17, 2021. CCAR Convention 2021 will strengthen us spiritually, emotionally, and professionally, bringing us together at a time when we need it more than ever. CCAR rabbis can register here.

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CCAR Convention Convention

Great Privilege and Joy: Rabbi Steven Chester on 50 Years in the Rabbinate

My desire to become a rabbi after graduating from UCLA led me to Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in Los Angeles, Israel, and Cincinnati, and reached fruition when I was ordained in 1971. My love for Judaism in all its many aspects made me realize that the only way I could live and teach the values of our tradition, as well as become fully immersed in Jewish life, was by becoming a rabbi.

Where has it led?

I had the privilege of serving four congregations in my career: Temple Beth Israel in Jackson, Michigan; chaplain for the Jewish inmates of the state prison system of Michigan; Temple Israel in Stockton, California; and Temple Sinai in Oakland, California. In addition, after retirement in 2011, I became interim rabbi in three other congregations: Temple Beth Ora in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada; Temple Israel in Alameda California; and Temple Isaiah in Lafayette, California. All the congregations I served gave me a positive rabbinic experience, and I feel so fortunate to have served each of them. Each, in its own way, has helped form the rabbi I am today.

Some thoughts after fifty years in the rabbinate: to be a rabbi has been my privilege and joy. I feel privileged that I have become an intimate part of so many lives. I have become part of my congregants’ lives through joyous occasions: a B’rit Milah, a naming, a bar/bat mitzvah, or a wedding. I have become part of their lives at sad times: a serious illness or the death of a loved one. To be with my congregants at these times—to rejoice when they rejoiced, to offer comfort when they suffered—has been an awesome responsibility, an awesome privilege and a blessing for me. It was especially meaningful for me to train and officiate at b’nei mitzvah for those who had either severe physical or learning challenges.

I have had the privilege to have wonderful colleagues. The rabbis and cantors with whom I served in my forty years of congregational life made my rabbinate rich and fulfilling. Sharing with them, learning from them, studying with them, and sharing the bimah with them enhanced my life.

My fifty years has been full of many diverse experiences. I have served on various boards of both Jewish and non-Jewish organizations. I helped found an in-home hospice in Stockton, served on the board for a number of years, and became the grief and mourning counselor for the hospice. I taught Bible at Spring Arbor College near Jackson. I was privileged to be appointed an adjunct professor of Jewish Studies at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, teaching two classes there. 

Leading congregational tours was an important part of my rabbinate. I led eight trips to Israel; two to Cuba; one each to Spain, Morocco, and Central Europe. In Oakland, I led a trip to the Gold Country of California where we visited cemeteries and other Jewish sites that were active during the Gold Rush.

The most important thing I learned in my fifty years of the rabbinate is that the great majority of people are basically good. They care about others, want to live a good life, and wish for a world of peace and justice. I also learned that the board of directors of a congregation are partners with me and not adversaries. We are both working for the same thing: to make a vibrant and vital congregation.

As I think about the future, I look forward to the time when we again can meet in person. I am now living in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic where all of our synagogue activities are virtual. I long for physical contact, for being together at Temple as a live community. I will continue to do life cycle events. Also, I plan to study, teach and travel.

I hope to live long enough to see our ten-year-old granddaughter become a bat mitzvah. I hope to see our country become united instead of divided.

I end with the following: My life has been blessed because I am a Jew, because I am a Reform Jew, and because I am a Reform rabbi. If I had to do all over again, I would do it in the exactly the same way.  I feel so much gratitude for the fifty years I have served as a congregational rabbi.

Rabbi Steven Chester serves as Rabbi Emeritus of Temple Sinai in Oakland, California. He is celebrating 50 years in the Reform Rabbinate.

We look forward to celebrating 50- and 51-year rabbis when we come together online at CCAR Convention 2021, March 14-17, 2021. CCAR Convention 2021 will strengthen us spiritually, emotionally, and professionally, bringing us together at a time when we need it more than ever. CCAR rabbis can register here.