Vayeishev 2014: Black Lives Matter - Rabbi Rachel Goldenberg

(lift up hands over head)

“Hands Up, Don’t Shoot!”

Last Shabbat afternoon, eleven CBSRZ members, including 5 kids and one teenager, joined a march that made its way through the North End of Hartford, ending with a rally in Keney Park. We were part of a crowd that grew from 200 to 500 people, protesting the recent decisions of Grand Juries in Missouri and New York to not indict police offers who had killed unarmed Black men – Michael Brown and Eric Garner.

For our young people, this was the first time they had been a part of an action like this – walking side by side with people of all colors and all faiths, calling for justice, equality and human rights. Some of our kids had been studying the Jewish value of “Btzelem Elohim,” that all humans are created in God’s image and that all lives are therefore sacred and equal. This was an opportunity to put those values into action. When we asked our kids how it felt to be a part of this action, Ziv said, “I felt like I wasn’t a little boy anymore. Like my voice was a part of a big powerful voice.”

Sadly the issues of inequality in our justice system and of police brutality are nothing new. The first time I was part of such a protest, was 15 years ago in New York City in the winter of 1999.  Four off-duty police had shot 23 year old Amadou Diallo, a West African immigrant with no criminal record, on the stoop of his New York City building, striking him 19 times. They said they thought he had a gun. It was a wallet. The officers were acquitted of 2^nd degree murder charges and went back to their jobs. The chant back then was “it’s a wallet, not a gun!” His last words, to his mother, before he left their apartment in the Bronx, were, “Mom, I’m going to college.”

As Jews, we know what it means to be targeted and profiled and feared. We know what it is like to not trust the authorities who are supposed to protect us.  As a Jewish community in this country, we are also becoming more diverse racially and ethnically. And so, we are moved to march in solidarity with our brothers and sisters of color.

However, as members of a mostly white community in America, we are also aware of our privilege. Watching our Jewish students marching with their hands up, chanting, “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot!” alongside African American kids of similar ages, I felt equal measures of pride and uneasiness. My kids will likely never have to face a situation in which their very lives are in the hands of the police, while for African American kids, boys especially, and for their parents, this is a daily fear. As I lifted my hands above my head and chanted, my chest exposed, I felt a tinge of vulnerability that is an ever present experience of terror for Black Americans.

This week’s Torah portion tells the story of brothers who do not feel that solidarity with each other. Privilege poses a serious challenge to their ability to see that they are connected to and responsible for each other. Joseph’s brothers are jealous of him, because he is the favored son of their father Jacob. Jacob had given Joseph a decorated tunic to further emphasize his status, and then things got worse when Joseph started having dreams about his brothers bowing down to him, and sharing those dreams with his brothers. One day Jacob sends Joseph to check on his brothers who are shepherding a distance away near another town. As he approaches, the brothers plot to kill him. After Reuben intervenes, trying to save Joseph from them, they agree to just throw him in a pit out in the wilderness. As we know, Joseph is eventually sold into slavery in Egypt.

In this story, Joseph seems to be incapable of recognizing what his privileged status is doing to his relationship with his brothers. He is so blind to this dynamic that he shares his dreams with them, which only damages the relationship further. At the same time, the brothers, as a group, have great power over Joseph. And they abuse it. What grabbed me this week was a verse that we often overlook. After the brothers strip Joseph of his tunic and cast him into the pit, we are told, “The pit was empty; there was no water in it. Then they sat down to a meal.” These men are somehow able to throw their own brother into a pit in the desert and then sit down and eat and drink.

As mostly white, privileged people in America, we Jews could sit down and eat and drink in comfort without paying much attention to those distant pits of despair.  We are not the ones who need to fear, for ourselves or for our children. Garbed with a privileged status, we trust that law enforcement and the justice system are there to protect us and will treat us fairly. Knowing this, we can separate and shield ourselves from the suffering of others in not-so-privileged groups.

So, why is it important that we were there at that protest, when this particular injustice is not our personal experience or problem? Because, as the Dr. Martin Luther King taught, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

Or as a sign at the march in Hartford read, quoting African American writer Angela Davis, ““If they come for me in the morning, they will come for you in the night.” 

Or as our Midrash teaches, “One who sheds blood is regarded as though he had diminished the image of God.”

When the image of God is diminished or in pain, I am diminished and I am in pain and I am threatened. We are all human beings, we are all Americans. The suffering and the injustice done to one American is a shared suffering and a shared injustice.

Lifting my hands above my head to chant “Hands up, don’t shoot!” was not a simple thing – it was actually hard. This is a terrible posture – a powerless posture – a shameful posture- a painful posture.

When I feel that powerlessness and that pain, I remember that we are all connected. And when my brothers and my sisters are hurting, I am too. I will never be free as long as we all are not free.  I hope that our kids felt this truth in their hearts and in their bones, as they lifted up their hands on that Shabbat afternoon in Hartford.

I want to invite you now to rise and sing this Civil Rights era song with Belinda and me. Tonight I see this as a prayer that someday people will no longer have to raise their hands in the air, over their heads in fear. It envisions freedom and justice and love up over our heads, in the air.

Over My Head:

1. Over my head, I see freedom in the air (3x)

    There must be a God somewhere

2. Over my head, I see justice in the air (3x)

    There must be a God somewhere

3. Over my head, I see love in the air (3x)

    God's love reaches everywhere

Vayeitze 2014 - Waking Up - Rabbi Rachel Goldenberg

“Vayikatz Ya’akov mi-sh’nato,”  “Jacob awoke from his dream and said, “Surely the Holy One was in this place, and I did not know it!”

Last week, I was driving through New Britain to visit our friend John DeNicola at the rehab facility where he is recuperating. “All Things Considered” and the GPS lady were competing for my attention. Only one mile to go.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman’s body lying on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. The body wasn’t moving – her head was hanging over the curb into the street.

I was shaken. The dialogue began in my head:

“I should stop and help.”

“But I came all this way to see John!”

“I don’t even know New Britain – I’m not from here!”

“But all you have to do is call 911.”

“But what if I have to perform CPR and I don’t remember how?”

No one else seemed to be stopping. So, I parked my car, and approached the woman. She was conscious and breathing, but dazed and unable to speak. I called for an ambulance, and waited. Finally, neighbors came over. Then her daughter- I learned it was probably an epileptic seizure. The ambulance finally arrived, and I left the scene, with plenty of time to see John. When I told John the story, he shared a saying with me, “The seer is the doer.”

“Vayikatz Ya’akov mi-sh’nato,”  “Jacob awoke from his dream.”

Shaken, he said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven.”

According to Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, in Judaism,

 . . . the material world is always potentially spiritual. For Judaism all things – including, especially, such apparently non-spiritual and grossly material things as garbage, sweat, dirt and bushes –are not impediments to but dimensions of spirituality. To paraphrase the Psalmist, “The whole world is full of God.” The business of religion is to keep that awesome truth ever before us.

Or, I would say, our business is to somehow stay awake to that awesome truth.

Most of the time, we are asleep. The GPS, the radio, my own interests, my fears and hesitations, my excuses crackle in my consciousness like static. It is not simple to hone in and see what we really need to see – to wake up to our holy responsibilities in this confusing, messy world.

Kushner tells the story of a friend who was in therapy.

His doctor's office was across the street from a. . .  psychiatric hospital. One day as he had regularly done for a few years, the friend walked down the street to his car in front of the hospital. Suddenly he heard a blood chilling scream from the top floor that seemed to sound the deepest pain a soul could possibly feel. This unforgettable noise etched itself into his soul. The following day back on the couch he told his doctor of the scream from the top floor. To his astonishment his therapist was surprised that he should mention it at all.

“You mean you just now heard it?” asked the doctor. “After all these years? On the top floor across the street, that's where they put all the screamers.” And from that day on my friend said he was able to hear the screams on the top floor almost every time. “The screams are all around us,” he later mused, “waiting for our ears and eyes and hands.”

It is our business to somehow stay awake.

Jacob is alone on the road, fleeing from home. His brother Esau is after him, to kill him, and Jacob is hoping to find sanctuary at his uncle’s place. But the sun has set, and he has to sleep on the road for the night. He has literally hit bottom, with nothing but a rock for a pillow. He has lied and deceived – tricking his blind father into giving him Esau’s blessing. Until now he hasn’t seen any other way to get what he wants – or what he thinks he deserves.

While he sleeps, he dreams of angels going up and down a staircase. God is standing there, with him. He wakes up, comforted, and with a new sense of responsibility –to serve a larger purpose with his life.

Sometimes it takes a dramatic event to stir us from our sleep so that we can see and hear, and do. Sometimes, we just have to get still. Sometimes, angels have to shake us!

The screams ARE all around us.

This past week it has been challenging to know how to respond the St. Louis Grand Jury’s decision not to indict the police officer Darren Wilson in the shooting death of Michael Brown. Apparently it is very rare for a Grand Jury make such a decision if the prosecutor is doing his job to pursue an indictment. Usually, a prosecutor is going to be passionate about pursuing an indictment.  But cases involving police shootings tend to be the exceptions to this pattern.

As a white person living with privilege, I have been feeling ashamed, disappointed, and powerless to do anything to make things right. It’s kind of like hearing screams coming from the upper floor of a building that I can’t enter.

But an angel did shake me awake this week. My sister posted an invitation on Facebook to our old friends from York, PA, where we grew up, to reflect on how we feel about the Ferguson decision and to engage in a public conversation about race and racism.

It took courage for her to do this. We never broached the topic of racism while growing up. York was a segregated place – our school district was all-white, but we lived only blocks away from downtown, which was majority black and Latino – those kids had their own school district. Our local media and high school history classes never touched the story that there had been race riots in the late 1960’s. 

My sister’s Facebook invitation elicited about 35 comments. It was refreshing to be part of a public and civil conversation about race that included a real diversity of viewpoints. Folks who had lived through the riots spoke about what it was like, and pointed to intentional changes in race relations that have taken place in York since those days. Some expressed dismay at the Ferguson decision. Others shared that they trust that the justice system did its job and we need to accept it. I wrote about how, in my own life, I have felt cut off from people of color, and how painful that is.

My sister – my angel – skillfully modeled how to see and to do.

We can start by paying attention to how it feels to hear those screams that are all around us, to see the suffering on our streets.

Then, we can talk with each other about what we see and hear.

And ultimately, we can find a way to act.

If you want to take concrete action regarding Ferguson, I have two suggestions for donations as well as a link for information on protests taking place in CT.

One is to give towards legal support for protestors in St. Louis who have been arrested. It is critical to listen through the media static which focuses on the incidences of protestor violence and to hear the message of the thousands of peaceful protestors who are calling for an end to police violence and an end to injustice.

You can also donate to the Ferguson Public library. As schools closed, store fronts boarded their windows and protesters filled the streets this week, the Ferguson Municipal Public Library remained open for business and organized activities for kids.

Our business is to somehow stay awake.

The screams are all around us.

The seer must be the doer.

And Jacob awoke from his dream. Shaken, he said, “Mah Nora ha-makom ha-zeh! How awesome is this place  This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven”

(sing “Ma Nora”)

Support the community of Ferguson

in the aftermath of the Grand Jury decision

1. Donate to the Legal Support Fund for Justice for Mike Brown

http://www.organizemo.org

Please donate to the legal support fund for those arrested in Ferguson protests standing for Justice for Mike Brown!

Since August 9, over 200 people have been arrested in Ferguson while protesting Mike Brown's death and the epidemic of police violence facing Black and Brown communities in the United States.The Missourians Organizing for Reform and Empowerment (MORE) legal support team aims to provide accessible, democratic and accountable legal support to a wide range of people participating in the struggle for social change. 

We provide Know Your Rights trainings, staff a 24-hour legal support hotline, track arrestees so they don't get lost in the system, fundraise for legal support costs, bond people out of jail, connect defendants with pro bono attorneys, coordinate with attorneys, organize volunteers & support people who go to trial.

To donate, go to https://secure.piryx.com/donate/mS25KFCe/MORE/mikebrown or send a check to MORE, 438 N. Skinker, St. Louis MO 63130. 

Money donated to the MORE legal support fund goes towards bail, court fees, and ensuring that protestors have access to free legal representation. Any money that is returned to the fund will go towards supporting civil disobedience in St. Louis. 

2. Donate to the Ferguson Municipal Public Library

As schools closed, store fronts boarded their windows and protesters filled the streets following the grand jury decision Monday that Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson would not be charged for Michael Brown's death, the Ferguson Municipal Public Library remained open for business.

The note on its Facebook page pre-announcement read: "If the Ferguson-Florissant schools close, we will be hosting activities for the children. We will do everything in our power to serve our community. Stay strong and love each other."

To donate online, go to: http://www.ferguson.lib.mo.us   or send a check to Ferguson Municipal Public Library 35 North Florissant Road Ferguson, Missouri 63135

http://truah.org/issuescampaigns/mass-incarceration/policing.html

Toldot 2014: So much beauty, so much grief

I always stand in awe of my colleagues who are able to put out an articulate, inspiring statement to their communities just hours after a horrific tragedy has occurred – whether in Israel or at home. For me, when these things happen, I immediately find myself at a loss. It takes me hours – sometimes days – to find the strength to speak and the words to speak with. This was one of those weeks, but I hope that tonight I have found some words I can share.

23 of us – Christians and Jews from CBSRZ and the United Church of Chester - had just returned from an incredible interfaith trip to Israel. We came back feeling connected to each other and to Israel, and we were full of awe. We had seen the beauty of the land and its peoples – and the terrible complexity of the geopolitics. We were moved, we were joyous, we were sad, we were confused. So many feelings. And I was excited to talk about all of it to you this Shabbat.

And then, the second morning we woke up in our own beds here, we saw the news. Four Jewish men slaughtered while praying in their synagogue in West Jerusalem – murdered by two Palestinians, from neighboring East Jerusalem. Later, a fifth victim died in the hospital– a Druze police officer who had rushed into the synagogue to help.

During our trip, we felt safe. We knew that violent demonstrations were taking place in Palestinian East Jerusalem and in some Arab Israeli villages. We heard about attacks on Jews– with cars, with knives. We even had to change some of our plans in order to stay out of harm’s way. We were certainly aware of the reality of the conflict, and how it was playing out while we were there, but thankfully, that reality mostly receded into the background for us.

The stories I want to share with you tonight, highlight that tension between what stood in the  foreground of our awareness, and what lay in the background, during our trip.

What stood in the foreground for me were the overflowing blessings of the Israeli and Palestinian people, and their cultures of hospitality and openness.

In the Old City of Jerusalem, on our way towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we saw that many shops in the Arab market were closed. Tourism has suffered these past few months, and business is slow. But as we turned a corner, a pastry vendor, wearing a white Muslim prayer cap, wheeled his cart over to us, and offered us a snack. He was clearly happy to have some customers – his smile said it all. I found myself moved to tears by this simple, warm, human interaction among us Christians and Jews, and this Muslim man in Jerusalem.

Later that afternoon, we made our way to the Kotel – the Western Wall – to welcome in Shabbat. The Kotel plaza was packed with young modern Orthodox men and women, and with male and female Israeli soldiers. On the women’s side, the women were singing out loud and dancing in circles. Some of the women saw our group standing on the edges, grabbed our hands, and drew us into the whirl – we sang L’cha Dodi and turned together to symbolically greet the Shabbat bride. There was a sense of unity and joy, even as we periodically could hear firecrackers and tear gas canisters being shot at demonstrators in an East Jerusalem neighborhood just outside the Old City’s walls.

On the day that we floated in the Dead Sea and then visited the ancient ruins on top of Masada we finished our excursion with a meal at the home of Juju and Mazal, Tunisian Jews who live in the desert town of Yerucham. Mazal is one of the “Culinary Queens” of Yerucham – women who make a living by hosting tourists in their modest homes, serving them food from their countries of origin, and telling the story of how North African Jews made their way to the State of Israel. Mazal and Juju had moved all of their furniture out of the way to make space for us to eat – and the food was incredible. I purchased a cookbook for our CBSRZ library if you’re interested.

A highlight of the evening was purchasing those cookbooks – the proceeds of which go to help poor children in Yerucham – and having them inscribed by Juju. In each book, Juju wrote a blessing, depending on the recipient – for good health, success, for marriage or children, or grandchildren. We left with his blessings resting on our heads.

There are so many stories – I’ll just leave you with a couple of images from Jaffa – the ancient Arab port city that has now been integrated into Tel Aviv. 

Jaffa is inhabited mostly by Arab citizens of Israel, and a bunch of us grabbed lunch from the famous Arab bakery, Abulafia. There we saw that all of the servers and bakers were wearing bright orange T-shirts that said in Hebrew, Arabic and English, “Arabs and Jews refuse to be enemies.”

Later that day, we got permission to visit a mosque, although the man overseeing the mosque would only allow us into the courtyard, and not into the prayer space of the mosque. But when we arrived and asked again, he did allow us in to see the prayer space, with its intricately decorated ceilings and lush carpets. He seemed wary of our presence, but I think he could tell that we were there out of respect. Given the tensions in the country right now, especially about who is allowed to have access to holy places, it was remarkable that this man felt comfortable enough to welcome strangers into his holy space.

The openness, the generosity, the beauty, the humanity– these are the aspects that stood in the foreground of my vision during our trip. I believe that these are the true qualities of the people who dwell there. And this is what makes it all the more tragic that the background consists of walls and knives and bombs – of division and pain and blood. It is this horror that moved from the background to the foreground as soon as our feet touched down in Connecticut.

This week’s Torah portion, Toldot, reminds us that this conflict between Jews and Arabs can be seen as going back to Jacob and Esau, the twin sons of Rebecca and Isaac. The brothers wrestle in Rebecca’s womb, causing her great pain. And so Rebecca goes to inquire of God, and she says, famously, "eem cain, lamah zeh anochi? If this is so, why am I?" (Gen. 25:22)

This is an existential question that rings out throughout the generations, and that we ask ourselves now. If this is so – if this struggle and pain continues to be the reality we face, why am I? Why are we? What is the meaning of Israel, the meaning of peace?

While we were in Israel, with incredible timing, my 101 year old great aunt – the last of the Holocaust survivors in my family – died, in Jerusalem where she lived. My Tante Else survived the Shoah, hidden by Dutch Christian farmers. She lived until a ripe old age, and she died peacefully, surrounded by children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a blessing to sit shiva for her in Jerusalem.

But this week, there are widows and orphans in a neighborhood in West Jerusalem, sitting shiva for their husbands – their fathers. And there is a Druze family sitting in mourning for their loved one, in their village. These men did not die at a ripe old age. There is no blessing here.

Im ken, lama zeh anochi? If this is so, then – what is the point? The point, I believe, and the vision that I pray leadership on both sides will someday decide to work towards - is one in which all children and grandchildren – Jews and Palestinians – are afforded that blessing – to sit at the deathbed of a parent or grandparent, who has lived to a ripe old age, who has lived and died in peace.

Yom Kippur Morning 5775/2014 "I'm a Jew! Star of David!"

(Take kippah off head and hold it, look at it, look at the Ark, look back at the kippah)

What a beautiful concept. And a beautiful object.

I feel blessed as a rabbi to be able to spend so much time near this Ark.

I am grateful to Sol LeWitt for giving us this vibrant, living piece of art as the focal point of this sanctuary.

And what a fantastic idea – to transfer the concept to a kippah, so that folks can carry this colorful Ark with them out into the world and feel the pride of being Jewish, and being a member of this congregation, that Stephen Davis, our Temple president, likes to describe as, “ancient and cool.”

Such a blessing.

And yet, the events of this past summer cause some questions to arise when I look at this symbol now. Or when I look in our gallery at Bill Farran’s beautiful depictions of old Eastern European synagogues, after which Sol LeWitt modeled this building – synagogues that are all gone now, mostly destroyed by acts of anti-Semitism.

Our Jewish identity.

Is it a blessing? Or is it a curse? Is it a badge of pride? Or….a target.

(put kippah down)

This summer, it has been hard to not feel like we are all walking around with targets on our heads. It was terrifying to witness the anger and the anti-Semitic rhetoric spewed at demonstrations on the streets of Europe, and elsewhere, in  response to the war between Gaza and Israel.  In a Jewish suburb of Paris, a kosher grocery and a Jewish-owned pharmacy were torched. A synagogue near the Bastille in central Paris came under attack while its congregation took refuge inside. Demonstrators were heard chanting, “Death to Jews.”

We also had our own, comparatively small, acts of vandalism on our synagogue grounds this summer. While there was no overt anti-Semitic message associated with the vandalism, you still have to wonder, why a synagogue? And was it only a coincidence that it took place at the height of the Gaza war?

I consider myself lucky. For most of my life, anti-Semitism has not been a big issue. I grew up identifying as a Jew mostly for positive reasons – Shabbat and the holidays were warm, celebratory times in my family. Synagogue was my second home; I developed a deep love of Hebrew and Israel;  and Jewish values of social justice have always been at the core of why I’m proud to be who I am.

 My family lost many people in the Holocaust, including my maternal grandfather’s entire family. This is certainly a large part of my Jewish story as well.  But perhaps because I’m one generation removed from the horrors of Europe, my identity was not primarily shaped by the message, “we survived, and therefore you must continue to be Jewish!” For most of my life, being Jewish has been about blessing.

  

Of course, there was anti-Semitism in York, PA, where I grew up. I remember an incident in which someone had stuck the head of a pig to the door of the local Conservative shul.  And the Country Club of York did not admit Jews until I was in my twenties.

 I was also rudely awakened to the reality of Arab anti-Semitism when I spent a month of college living in Amman, Jordan. There, some very nice, well-educated Jordanian college students informed me, when I mentioned the Holocaust, that they had been taught that the Holocaust was a lie. When I shared with them that a good portion of my own family had been murdered in the death camps, they were horrified and embarrassed. Jordan was also the first place I had ever seen fresh new copies of the medieval anti-Semitic pamphlet, the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, for sale at the corner grocery store, translated into Arabic.

These experiences were very painful and lonely for me, as I was the only Jew on my study program. But I had hope back then that this ignorance would be wiped away, when there was finally true peace between Israel and its neighbors; when Israelis and Arab could finally build bridges and relationships with each other. Unfortunately today, as we watch extremist Islamist groups sprout all over the Middle East, I don’t have much hope of that happening any time soon.

This summer I experienced, and I’m sure many of you felt this, a more visceral fear of anti-Semitism than we typically experience as American Jews. We witnessed how very close to the surface the hatred lies, and how when a particular group, this time, the Palestinians in Gaza, is feeling threatened, how their fear gets projected not only onto Israel, the state, but onto the Jewish People as a whole.

In fact, I don’t believe that the anti-Semitism we witnessed this summer was really about Israel. As one French rabbi, Salamon Malka, explained,  “the Israeli assault in Gaza, with its mounting toll of Palestinian civilian deaths, has given an anti-Zionist cover to attacks against Jews, spread on the streets and on the Internet by an angry fringe of France’s Muslim population.”[1]  According to Malka, anti-Zionism has become a way to cover a much more deeply rooted problem of anti-Semitism, a problem that has nothing much to do with the state of Israel.

And in fact, anti-Semitism as a phenomenon usually has much more to do with the perpetrators than about anything Jews have ever done. Psychologically, anti-Semitism is typically about the perpetrator’s own feelings of self-loathing, fear and powerlessness being projected onto the blank slate of, “the Jews.” For the anti-Semite, “the Jew” is not really a person – it is a projection of his or her very unpleasant feelings

We saw this back in April, when Frazier Glenn Miller, a white supremacist, shot and killed three people at the Jewish Community Center and the Village Shalom retirement home in Overland Park, Kansas.  He didn’t seem to care so much that he was actually killing Jews.  In fact, his victims turned out to all be Christians who were using those Jewish communal facilities. Miller was clearly motivated by profound hatred and fear and wanted to evoke that feeling in all of us. But in the end, it didn’t really have much to do with real Jews or Judaism.

So then, how do we respond to this complex dynamic of anti-Semitism?

Typically, the initial reaction, is to hide. A few weeks ago, a Jewish couple living on the Upper East Side, was attacked by a mob carrying Palestinian flags. After the incident, Rabbi Haskel Lookstein, the principal of Ramaz, an Orthodox day school  in that neighborhood, had to develop a response. His first instinct was to suggest that parents speak with their sons about covering their kippot with baseball caps and tucking in their tzitzit when they walked in the neighborhood. I don’t blame him for that initial feeling of wanting to hide. But after some thought, Rabbi Lookstein retracted his advice, saying that there is another way. He came to the conclusion that, in his words, “We have to stand up here in New York and say we are who we are, and this kind of behavior by people who try to terrorize others should never be allowed…. Our answer to anti-Semitism has to be that we stand up like exclamation points and not bend over like question marks.”http://www.jta.org/2014/09/02/news-opinion/united-states/manhattans-ramaz-school-clarifies-advice-on-concealing-kippahs

I agree with Lookstein. We should not see ourselves, this kippah, as walking targets. Rather, it can be a symbol of pride in who we are. We should not have to hide. And when we stand up, we can actually influence people and bring about change.

 I don’t know whether it was pure naivete or the fact that I grew up feeling very safe as a Jew, but when I was living in Jordan for that month, I never once considered hiding my Jewish identity. Of course, there are places and times when it probably is the safe thing to do. But most of the time, our identity as Jews, or as family members of Jews, can be a powerful tool to build bridges and relationships with other people. In sharing my family’s experience of the Holocaust with those Jordanian students, I broke down some very thick walls of fear and ignorance. By being Jewish exclamations points out in the world, we can do a lot to educate people about real Jews and real Judaism, to crack open the lies of anti-Semitism, and to even bring some healing.

Our Torah portion for this morning also brings us some healing responses to the experience of anti-Semitism.

Our People are gathered to ratify the covenant with God before we finally cross over into the Promised Land. Moses addresses us there, saying, “You stand this day, all of you, before the Eternal One, your God –the heads of your tribes, your elders and officers, everyone in Israel, men, women, and children, and the strangers in your camp.”

One very important way to respond to anti-Semitism or to other experiences of being attacked is to gather together to support each other and to know that we are not alone. Even when there are not particular incidents to which to respond, just having a community and being a part of it can help us to find sanctuary in a world that can sometimes feel hostile.

But this is not a “circling the wagons” kind of gathering. The Torah portion says that we gathered together – even with the strangers in our camp. Especially in response to anti-Semitism, it is critical to build relationships with allies and neighbors who are not Jewish, in order to raise awareness, and to educate everyone, including public officials, that anti-Semitism is not only a Jewish problem.

The shootings in Kansas City showed us how we truly are all bound up together – Jews and Gentiles. We are even more interwoven these days, as so many marriages and families are composed of Jews and non-Jews. We see from this how hate for one group is really just hate, and how very much we need each other.

As we stand on the edge of the Promised Land, Moses declares, “I have set before you this day life or death, blessing or curse; choose life, therefore, that you and your descendants may live – by loving the Eternal your God, listening to God’s voice, and holding fast to the One who is your life and the length of your days.”

Anti-semitism is probably not going away. Some individuals, some communities and institutions can change. In fact, my father, who was a rabbi in York, PA for 35 years, recently conducted a Jewish wedding at that same Country Club of York that used to exclude Jews. The chair of their board is now a Jewish doctor, believe it or not. Yet, we know that the curse is still here in our world.

So, the Torah teaches that we have a choice. We can choose to see our Jewish identity as a blessing or a curse. As something to hide, as something to display defiantly, or, even better, as something actually worth celebrating!

Something I love about those woodcuts of the Eastern European synagogues in our gallery is that it is not only a memorial to what was lost – it is not only about mourning our victimhood. What I see out there is a celebration of a rich heritage, a celebration of Jewish communal and spiritual life that we want to perpetuate for its own sake.

Today we worship in a wooden synagogue, inspired by those old Eastern European synagogues. And in our synagogue, we do not have to gather out of fear. Here, in this building that evokes both the ancient and cool, we can choose life and blessing. Here, we can choose to be Jews out of love –love for something larger than ourselves – love for Torah, love for Jewish values, love for community and connection and justice.

This synagogue is not only a refuge, and it surely is not a hiding place. And in fact, in this place, we are a very diverse group of people. Yes, we need to do what we can to increase our sense of physical safety – by improving the lighting and installing security cameras. But this place should never become a fortress. We should always be a living, vibrant, open place of spiritual community for all. Our kids need to know that to be Jewish is a blessing, and it should lead us to BE blessings in the world.

I believe our kids DO know this. The other day, Trina Shipuleski and David Shilling’s son Jonah ran in the front door and headed straight for this Ark. “I’m a Jew! Star of David!” he cried! (by the way, happy birthday Jonah!)

Our Star of David  - on this Ark, in this ceiling - is not a target, and it is not only a badge of pride. But it is a portal. It draws us close to what is holy. And it beckons to us to look outward and upward, beyond our own history, beyond our own suffering, to something higher – to life, and to blessing.

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[1] http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/29/world/europe/gaza-conflict-seen-sparking-anti-semitic-attacks-in-france.html?_r=0

Kol Nidre 5775/2014 Embracing Impermanence

Earlier in our service we heard the beautiful music of the Kol Nidre prayer. For centuries, this melody has spoken deeply to our people, of the mood and message of Yom Kippur. The melody is what has remained important to us, much more so than the words. Because if you look at the words, you’ll see that this prayer is really only a dry legal formula. We are declaring any vows that we make in the coming year to be null and void, if we are unable to fulfill them.

These words may have been meaningful in the time of the Inquisition, when Jews who forcibly took oaths of conversion to Christianity could secretly say the formula in order to remain true to their Jewish identity. Although the precise history of Kol Nidre is still unknown, it may have originally been used to nullify vows that a person made rashly or in jest. Once those empty vows were nullified, a person could then enter Yom Kippur, able to focus on asking forgiveness for more important transgressions.

But this year, the words of Kol Nidre spoke to me in a new way. They spoke to me of compassion for the fact that we humans live in a reality that is constantly changing, from moment to moment. This formula acknowledges that we may make a vow at one moment, but then the circumstances will change, and we need a mechanism of release.

These days, our vows are not typically legal declarations made in public. But sometimes we vow to ourselves, maybe in a moment when anger or some other potent feeling has a hold on us, to never forgive someone for something they did or said; or to never speak to someone again; or that a person will always be our enemy. The vows we make are often silent, sometimes even wordless, sometimes unconscious – they can happen in a moment, or over time. And then things change – we change – they change – our lives change – and we need permission, or we need to be urged –to release ourselves, to release others, to forgive, to let go of the vow.

Over the years, I have seen the impact these kinds of vows –or grudges – can have on individuals and families. I remember a young man whose parents divorced when he was in High School. The young man was so committed to holding on to his anger at his father, that more than 20 years  later, he didn’t attend his own father’s funeral.

I remember a wedding family in which the groom’s mother was barely in his life, even as his extended family on his mother’s side had always been present and supportive of him. But when the groom’s mother decided she was not going to attend the wedding, her entire side of the family decided they would not show up either.

Of course, there are circumstances in which family members must put some distance between each other in order to continue to live safe and healthy lives. Sometimes though, it is rash anger or hot ego that leads to vows and grudges. And when we hold onto these feelings, we not only cause suffering for those with whom we are angry, but we also cause suffering for ourselves.

We don’t give ourselves the joy of seeing our own grandchild get married, or to find the closure that a funeral, even of a difficult person, can bring. We deprive ourselves of opportunities for reconnection – and of the chance to see that people and relationships can actually change.

The Kol Nidre prayer calls upon us to ask ourselves what purpose our vows or grudges are serving. If they only serve our own sense of self-righteousness while blocking the way towards meaningful relationships, Kol Nidre allows us to release ourselves.

This prayer is just one example of how Yom Kippur confronts us with the impermanence of all things, including our feelings, and our very existence! Anger that we may feel very strongly in this moment can release its grasp in the next moment, if only we allow it. We need not cling to perceptions of reality, when that reality has changed. Forgiveness is possible – it can free us from the past and help us live more fully in the present.

The stark message of this day is: “Life is short.”

We face this truth as we recite that terrible litany of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer: “who shall live and who shall die; who by hunger and who by thirst; who by sword and who by beast.” We cannot control the fact that our lives are limited, and that death truly could come at any moment. We are impermanent beings – “Our origin is dust, and dust is our end. Like vessels of clay in the process of breaking, like withering grass, like fading flowers, like passing shadows, like emptying clouds, like blowing wind, like scattering dust, like a vanishing dream.”

And yet, the prayer tells us, our destiny is not permanently etched in stone. The decree can be eased through “teshuva,” repentance, through “tefillah,” prayer, and through “tzedakah,” acts of justice. In fact, I think the prayer is saying, if we can embrace our impermanence – if we can let go of our resistance to the fact that we will die. If we can let go of our fear that this all is temporary, then we find that we are free: to change, to forgive, to let go, to give – to live!

The Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh teaches:

We may be tempted to say that because things are impermanent, there is suffering. But the Buddha encouraged us to look again. Without impermanence, life is not possible. How can we transform our suffering if things are not impermanent? How can our daughter grow up into a beautiful lady? How can the situation in the world improve? We need impermanence for social justice and for hope.

If you suffer, it is not because things are impermanent. It is because you believe things are permanent. When a flower dies, you don’t suffer much, because you understand that flowers are impermanent. But you cannot accept the impermanence of your beloved one, and you suffer deeply when she passes away.  If you look deeply into impermanence, you will do your best to make her happy right now.

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that love, justice, change, hope, caring, joy, gratitude – all these good human qualities are possible, because life is finite. And our Untaneh Tokef prayer teaches that all of these things – love, justice, hope, forgiveness – also help to temper “judgment’s severe decree.” These human qualities make this impermanent life a life worth living, a life God would want us to live. Impermanence is what gives us hope that the world can get better – it is what gives us faith that suffering can be transformed.

The prophet Jonah, whose story we read tomorrow afternoon, has a very hard time with this concept. The Ninevites, a neighboring people to the Hebrews, and an enemy, have sinned greatly. Their wickedness has become apparent to God, and God wants Jonah to go to Nineveh to proclaim judgment upon them so that they might repent. Jonah resists this calling and runs in the exact opposite direction, taking a boat to Tarshish. As we know, God catches up with Jonah, sends a storm which forces the sailors to throw him overboard, and then sends a big fish to swallow him and spit him out back on land. Jonah finally heads to Nineveh, and proclaims that Nineveh will be destroyed in 40 days. The people of Nineveh then put on sackcloth, sit in ashes, fast, and repent. God sees how they have turned from their evil ways, forgives them, and renounces the punishment.

This really, really bothers Jonah.

“O Lord!” he prays,“Isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled beforehand to Tarshish. For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment.”

“Please, Lord, take my life, for I would rather die than live,” he begs.

While God is easily convinced to renounce God’s anger, to withdraw the punishment, and to give the Ninevites another chance, Jonah can’t stand it! He can’t stand that God is changing course here, that God’s punishment isn’t etched in stone, that God’s anger isn’t forever. God’s willingness to let go makes it very difficult for Jonah to hold on to his perception of the Ninevites as a wicked people, deserving of destruction. And so he would rather die than live to see this.

Then, Jonah leaves the city and finds a place to camp out. God provides a gourd plant to grow up over Jonah to give him shade. Jonah is very happy about the plant. But the next day God sends a worm which attacks the plant so that it withers. It gets so hot that Jonah begs for death yet again.

Whereas in the first instance, with Nineveh, Jonah can’t stand the impermanence of God’s anger, here Jonah can’t stand the impermanence of God’s comfort.

Boy, does Jonah suffer. And he causes most of that suffering to himself. He is so self-righteous about the Ninevites’ wickedness that his ego hurts when he witnesses God forgiving them. He is so anxious about the death of the gourd plant that he would rather die than find himself another source of shade.

God points out at the end that Jonah cared about the gourd plant which appeared overnight and perished overnight. So much the more so does God care about Nineveh, an entire city full of mortal human beings.

If Jonah could only open his heart to the reality of change and impermanence, perhaps he would not suffer so deeply. Perhaps he could even access some gratitude for the possibility of God’s forgiveness, and thankfulness for the life that he has in the moment.

Sometimes we resist change, like Jonah. Other times, it seems that circumstances will never change. And when change finally does come, if we can embrace it, it can feel like a miracle.

Until this summer, my mother-in-law Jacquie had not spoken to her sister Pat (my husband’s aunt) for the past 25 years. About forty years ago, Pat had married a man who was emotionally abusive, and he was very effective at manipulating Pat and isolating her from the rest of her family. The isolation was so complete that Pat and Jacquie’s mother had left Pat out of her will, fearing that Pat’s husband would take the money for himself. Pat was so angry that she did not attend her mother’s funeral.

Just this summer, Pat began taking steps to leave her marriage. Out of the blue, she contacted my mother-in-law to ask for help. Jacquie could have decided to close her heart to Pat. There was a lot of anger and hurt, and a lot of time and distance between them. But all of these years, Jacquie had actually saved the portion of her mother’s inheritance that rightfully belonged to Pat, in case there came a time when it would be helpful to give it to her. And so, this summer, she gave Pat that money so she could hire a lawyer, leave her husband and rent her own apartment. Jacquie also networked with Jim and myself, and we networked with some friends, to find Pat the best divorce lawyer she could.

On a recent trip to the West coast, Pat and Jacquie actually got together in person for the first time in 25 years. When the sisters saw each other, they started from the present and moved forward together anew, rather than dwelling on the past. Rabbi Alan Lew, a brilliant teacher of Judaism and mindfulness, wrote, “Forgiveness is giving up our hopes for a better past.”

We are each like a shattered urn, grass that must wither, a flower that will fade. And this can lead us to great sadness, great fear, and a deep desire to hold on. But Yom Kippur is here to urge us to embrace that impermanence. To see it as a gift that can liberate us. We have so little time – why spend it clinging to past hurts?

Another mindfulness teacher Ajahn Chah once said, “If you let go a little, you’ll have a little peace. If you let go a lot you’ll have a lot of peace. If you let go completely, you’ll have complete peace.”

As the Kol Nidre instructs us, when we release our clenched fists and examine the vows we are gripping, the grudges we are holding, the anger or the fear we are clinging to, we will see that truly, our hands are empty. So let go. And when you do, you’ll find that there is so much more space, so much more openness, so much more peace.