Reform Judaism

D'var Torah - Shabbat Chol HaMo-eid Pesach: The Cleft in the Rock

2010-03-29T13:52:32Z

by Joe Rooks Rapport
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah

On this Sabbath during Passover, we take a break from the sacred and the profane, from sin and sacrifice, from what fits and what is unfit; we set aside all things Leviticus and step into another world. This week's special portion carries within it one of the most luminous and awe-inspiring images in all of the Torah: Moses, cradled gently in the hand of God, emerges from the cleft of the rock to glimpse a sight of the Divine Presence just as the Glory of God passes by (Exodus 33:21-23).

This vision is one of the most unabashedly human representations of God as can be found anywhere in the Bible. God has a face, which Moses cannot see. God has a hand, which protects Moses until the moment when God's shining Presence has passed by. And God has a back, which Moses glimpses momentarily, though we have precious little description of what this vision of "God from behind" may have looked like.

Such anthropomorphisms--in this case, visions of God in human form--drive the classic interpreters of the Torah to distraction. They try desperately to recast these physical characteristics as metaphor and literary device rather than the touchable, tangible, actual descriptions of God's Presence which, we might--on their surface-- consider them to be. So strong is the pull of the second commandment not to create for ourselves a picture or an idol of God's physical form that the very allusion to any human characteristics becomes the source of endless consternation and debate.

I have always sat in wonder at our tradition, which posits an invisible and unknowable God who, nevertheless, has the power to affect our physical world through signs and wonders, who harbors human emotions like compassion and anger, and who has the power to carve ten divine words with a finger on the face of a stone (30:18). Somehow, such completely human descriptions of the Presence of God in our world can pass muster, and yet even the slightest mention of God's physical characteristics launches a legion of commentators to smooth out the "more primitive language" within the text.

And yet, how can we better "translate" these words than to read them as they are, in the beautifully descriptive and wondrously human way in which they are written:

And the Eternal said, "See, there is a place near Me. Station yourself on the rock and, as My Presence passes by, I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen." (Exodus 33:21-23)

All language is metaphor. All description is but an allusion. We can only describe what we experience through the medium of words, which are but a shadow of the emotion-laden moments they must try to represent. In Hebrew, the word for a "word," davar, is the same as the word for a "thing," davar. In other words, ours is a language in which even the words themselves have dimensions, mass, and weight.

The question for us to explore here is not why the Torah speaks of God in such anthropomorphic terms, but what these particular all-too-human words have come to represent. To do so, we must take stock of the context of that moment in time. Moses has just quelled God's anger at the Children of Israel for the idolatry of the Golden Calf. In the afterglow of reconciliation, Moses asks God for two things: that God will continue to dwell amidst the Children of Israel despite their failings; and further that Moses, having earned God's trust and admiration, might be granted a glimpse at God's Eternal Presence.

There is in God's response, a series of intended double metaphors, double meanings that can be read as God's double response to two of Moses's separate requests.

"See there is a place near Me"--Just as in the other great luminous tale of Jacob's ladder where our wayward patriarch exclaims: "Truly, the Eternal is in this place, and I did not know it!" (Genesis 28:16). The word for "place," makom, can be taken both as a name for God and as a description of a place. It is as if HaMakom, "the God of Israel," answers Moses: "Stand with Me and I will stand with you."

"Station yourself on the rock"--Here too, there is an intended double meaning. God is called Tzur Yisrael, "Rock of Israel." This again is a promise of God's protection and again an image of Moses's nearness to God.

"I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand"--And at this greatest moment of "closeness," d'veikut the Chasidim call it, the moment of cleaving to God, becoming all but one with the Creator and Preserver of our lives--at this moment of Oneness, Moses is cradled in God's hand. And again, there is in this an image of God's closeness to Moses, and a promise of steadfastness for the Children of Israel.

God's hands are a recurrent image of God's steadfast love for Israel. As in the beautiful yet enigmatic lines from Isaiah 49:15-16: "I never could forget you. See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands, your walls are ever before Me."

What, then, can we learn from the vision of God's back, which Moses is able to glimpse as God passes by? My favorite response is a wonderfully human description found in the Talmud, which explains that what Moses saw was the knot of the leather strapped t'fillin that encircled God's head (Babylonian Talmud, B'rachot 7a).

God wears t'fillin? Does this mean that God prays? The image of the t'fillin is the perfect double meaning because it carries within it the Sh'ma, a prayer for Oneness--a response to Moses's request for a moment of Oneness with the Eternal One-- and the paragraph that follows, the V'ahavta prayer, which reminds us that it is we who must carry God's words with us everywhere we go. But to whom would God pray, and for what? The answer I suspect, in the context of our parashah, can only be that God prays for us.

Rabbi Joe Rooks Rapport is co-senior rabbi with his wife Rabbi Gaylia R. Rooks at The Temple, Congregation Adath Israel Brith Sholom, in Louisville, Kentucky. He received his Ph.D. from Washington University in 1988 and has taught Bible and Jewish thought for two decades at Bellarmine University in Louisville.

By gearing the seder towards the kids, are we cheating them out of the best experience?

2010-03-25T20:52:29Z

by Cantor Sally Neff
Temple Beth Torah, Upper Nyack, NY
Originally posted on Cantor's Canvas

A few weeks ago, I was reading an article (I wish I could remember where) in which a woman talked about how she used to treasure the long family seders of her youth. She had fond memories of being allowed to stay up late, and of listening to the adults singing the old Hebrew songs. Now that she is a mom, she said, she looks to create short, child-friendly seders for her own family. My heart sank. Didn't she read the words that she had just written? I see the same exact trend happening in my own family. We create pediatric seders with puppets and songs in English, and the kids can't wait for it to be over. Worse yet, they don't even recognize the traditional tunes to those end-of-seder songs. How could they recognize songs that we don't sing? We are changing the seder culture for our children in order to make it more fun, and it isn't working at all.
The problem is not that simple, of course. If your grandfather always used to lead those long Hebrew songs, what can you do when he has passed away? It is not simple to get all of those verses of Hebrew words out. The new generation of parents and grandparents may know the melody, but they don't know the words. The new generation of children, therefore, doesn't even know the melody. Something is being lost: a sense of warmth, of history, of patient story-telling and the asking of important questions.

I propose two solutions to these problems. The first is to realize that the seder does not exist only for our children. There are profound questions to be asked and lessons to be learned by even the most learned at our seder tables. Make a seder for your family that you will find interesting. If you don't care, why should your children? The second is to try to learn some traditional seder songs to bring back to your family meal. If you can't learn to sing the songs yourself, bring a recording to the table. If you have a tape of an actual family member at a seder from years ago, you might want to consider bringing those voices back to share. Grandparents and great-grandparents can live on in the memories of children they never knew if their voices still play at seder meals.

Tweet the Exodus: A Drama in the Blogosphere

2010-03-18T22:18:36Z

by JanetheWriter

A little over a year ago, I was big into Twitter and wrote this post about what it is and some of the folks using it in the Jewish blogosphere. But then graduate school, the Union's Biennial convention and a few other things got in the way, and sadly, I gave up tweeting.

This week, I came back. No, not to tweet myself, but to follow those who started to Tweet the Exodus (@TweetTheExodus). Yes, you heard me correctly: "Tweet the Exodus." An incredibly creative group of rabbis has convened a complete cast of characters in the "tweetosphere" and is tweeting the story of our people's escape from Egypt. Cast members (among others and not in order of appearance) include @Slavedrivers, @The_Israelites, @PharoahOfEgypt, @Moshe_ben_Amram, @The10Plagues, @DaughterOfLevi, @Young_Miriam and, of course, @God_of_Israel. (Although the Almighty has yet to make an appearance in the drama, you can read what the Almighty thinks about it here).

As the God of Israel noted, the endeavor is getting some pretty amazing press, including a front-page article in yesterday's Wall Street Journal and this write-up in New York Magazine. Check it out for yourself at www.twitter.com. Not a tweeter? No worries...you can sign up just to follow along. And, while you're there, don't forget to follow the Union and the RAC.

As for me, I'm anxiously awaiting the cameo appearance late in the drama of my favorite character: Nachshon. Yes, I can wait a few weeks for this year's matzah, karpas and farfel sprinkled in sweetened coffee, but Nachshon? I don't know...how many tweets until @Nachshon enters from stage right?

Pesach: A Season for Social Justice

2010-03-18T14:54:35Z

by Kate Bigam
Press Secretary, RAC

Passover is rich in social justice themes. It is impossible to study the story of our redemption and not feel compelled to eradicate injustice in the world today. If your family or congregation is looking for a way to engage in social justice advocacy and awareness while remembering the story of our slavery in Egypt, we've got a few suggestions for you.

Is your synagogue already planning something creative and social justice-themed? Leave a comment a let us know!

Webinar: Social Justice Perspectives on Home Seders
Is participating in the Seder ritual a liberating experience for you? Join us on March 23, 2010, from 3-4:00pm EDT, for a Passover webinar, "The Long Road to the Promised Land: Social Justice Perspectives on Home Seders." Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell, URJ Worship Specialist, and Naomi Abelson, URJ Social Action Specialist, will explore ideas for deepening the experience and raising the consciousness of those gathered around your Seder table. Learn more and register now.

Host a Child Nutrition Seder
Each year during the Seder we read, "Let all who are hungry come and eat." This Pesach, the organized Jewish community -- including the Religious Action Center, the Jewish Council for Public Affairs and Mazon -- want to help you raise anti-poverty and anti-hunger awareness during your traditional Passover Seder. You can:

Incorporate elements of the Child Nutrition Seder using our easy one-pager at any time during your Seder
Host a Child Nutrition Seder using this special Haggadah

Help release the shackles of hunger that bind our children and prevent them from achieving their full potential. You can learn more by visiting our Child Nutrition Seder page or by contacting RAC Legislative Assistant David Goodman at 202-387-2800.

Use a Passover Companion in Your Seder
The Religious Action Center provides a compilation of a variety of Seder inserts and themed Haggadot. A sampling:

Join the fight to combat malaria this Pesach and help people on their journey toward freedom, from plague to promise. Download the Nothing But Nets Passover Packet (PDF).
Congregation Beth El of Sudbury, Mass., has written a special piece to lend a contemporary context to lessons from the Passover celebration. Download their Darfur Passover Companion in MS Word format or PDF format.
These readings highlighting global concerns can be incorporated into your traditional family and congregational Seders. Download American Jewish World Service' Passover insert (PDF).

Keep programming!
Want even more Passover resources? Visit the RAC's Passover page, where you'll find additional social justice programs, or the URJ's Passover page, where you'll find outside-the-box Pesach info and ideas, including matzah recipes, information and activities for adults to share with kids about Passover, a synagogue sounding board about congregational Pesach programs.

We Welcome the Month of Nisan

2010-03-16T19:52:54Z

by Phyllis Sommer
Originally posted on Ima on (and off) the Bima

The time is upon us
for freedom...
for freeing
ourselves
from the bondage
of slavery
of winter

spring comes
and we break free

Nisan comes and it's like the world opens up.

The waters part
the world renews.

The new moon of Nisan is only 15 days from the moment of the Exodus...it takes only a few moments for freedom to come, but a lifetime to truly believe in it.

Experience the Exodus as you've never experienced it before - in every generation, we should feel as though we personally went forth from Egypt. If I had been there, I'm sure I would have tweeted it - http://twitter.com/TweetTheExodus - it will be amazing.

Welcoming Rosh Chodesh with Women of the Wall

2010-03-16T15:22:54Z

by Liz Piper-Goldberg
Legislative Assistant, RAC

(Originally published on RACblog)

"Wondrous God, in ancient days You led our people from bondage to freedom; redeem us now out of our exile from one another, making all Israel one united people!"
-From the liturgy for Rosh Chodesh

Tomorrow is Rosh Chodesh Nisan, the beginning of the Hebrew month of Nisan. Rosh Chodesh, which literally means "head of the month," is the holiday that marks the beginning of each month in the Jewish calendar.

Many communities meet to pray and celebrate Rosh Chodesh together each month. One such group is the Women of the Wall, a progressive prayer group that meets at the Western Wall (Kotel) in Jerusalem. You may have been following our coverage of the recent events surrounding the Women of the Wall. In late 2009 Nofrat Frenkel was arrested for wearing a prayer shawl, or tallit, while praying at the Wall, and in January 2010, Anat Hoffman, who serves as director of the Israel Religious Action Center and leader of Women of the Wall, was interrogated and fingerprinted due to the actions of this group.

Below the jump, you can find more information on the Jewish rituals associated with Rosh Chodesh, prayer resources to hold your own Rosh Chodesh service, and ways that you can get involved in supporting the Women of the Wall. If you're on Twitter, follow @womenofthewall and #kotelwomen tomorrow to track their t'filot in Jerusalem!

Are you holding your own Rosh Chodesh Nisan event in solidarity with Women of the Wall? If so, email a description and photos to me and media@womenofthewall.org.il!

Each Jewish month begins at the time of the new moon. In ancient times, after the new moon was sighted, someone would go to the top of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem with a long pole of wood. He would set the end of his pole on fire and wave it around until he could see someone on another hilltop waving his own pole. The second person waved his pole until he could see a third person waving, and so on until the message reached Babylonia.

In contemporary practice, Rosh Chodesh celebrations begin the Shabbat before the new month, with the recitation of birkat ha-chodesh at the conclusion of the Torah reading. Birkat ha-chodesh is a special prayer that articulates our hopes for the month to come, from peace and prosperity to success in business, good health, and piety. The prayer includes an announcement of the day or days on which Rosh Chodesh will fall, and the name of the month that is about to start. During t'filot on the actual first day of the new month, a special prayer, ya'leh v'yavo, is inserted into the Amidah. Hallel, pslams of praise, are also recited during a Rosh Chodesh service.

Here, you can access prayer resources and readings for Rosh Chodesh.

The month of Nisan is characterized by the holiday of Passover, which is deeply associated with the ideal of freedom. When we join together in announcing, blessing, and celebrating each new month, we stand with the Women of the Wall and all those working for religious freedom and civil equality in Israel. Religious pluralism is at risk in Israel, and the Reform Movement has taken a central role in speaking out in support of the Women of the Wall. Our message is clear: The Kotel belongs not just to one individual, group, or denomination but to all Jews.

From this month to the next, you can take a stand. It's not too late to hold a short service for Rosh Chodesh Nisan, or to plan an event for the next Jewish month, Iyyar, which will begin on April 14. For resources, educational programming, and ways you can get involved, visit http://urj.org/israel/wow/ regularly, or contact me by email or 202.387.2800.

Let All Who are Hungry Come and Eat

2010-03-11T16:14:40Z

by David Goodman
Legislative Assistant, RAC

(Originally published on RACblog)

Believe it or not, the impetus for the creation of the National School Lunch Program in 1946 was that malnourishment was rendering large numbers of young men ineligible to join the military. When President Truman signed the 1946 National School Lunch Act, the preface said that the creation of the program was a "measure of national security, to safeguard the health and well-being of the Nation's children." (Can you imagine anyone saying that today?). Today, Child Nutrition Programs are a crucial financial safety net for over 31 million students who receive breakfast, lunch, and an afterschool snack during the school year, as well as during the summer. These programs all fall under the Child Nutrition Reauthorization Bill, which is coming before Congress this year to be reviewed and refunded.

The depth and breadth of hunger in the United States can be easily conveyed by statistics: 17.6 million food insecure households, making up 49.1 million people. A record of nearly 38 million people relied on Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits, formerly known as food stamps, at last count. These numbers are even starker for children: the food insecurity rate for households with children is nearly double the overall average. Feeding America, which operates more than 200 food banks and soup kitchens across the country, found that 38% of those they served were children under age 18, and four out of five food insecure families served have children under 18.

Child nutrition programs ease the burden on these families by assuring children at least one healthy meal a day. But these are more than nutrition programs: Studies show that school meals have a positive effect not only on hunger but also on classroom behavior, test scores and school attendance. School meals also support better nutrition, and address the problem of childhood obesity and related health problems. They are a multi-front anti-poverty tool, and must be robustly re-funded when Congress reauthorizes them this year.

Urge your Members of Congress to support increased funding for child nutrition programs by sending an e-mail through the RAC's Chai impact action center, or host a Child Nutrition Seder to raise awareness about childhood hunger in America. As we say each year in the Seder, "Let all who are hungry come and eat!"

Ghosts of Passover, 1925

2010-03-11T15:49:40Z

by Byron Citron

The supernatural is real to a child, especially to one looking for answers to family secrets or unexplained attitudes of his parents.

When my grandfather Citron was alive, he conducted the major holiday celebrations. I vividly remember 1925 Passover when I was about seven. The Citrons were seated around a large oblong table. My grandfather was at the head, my father, at the opposite end. Next in order were my grandmother, Aunt Marie, Aunt Ada, Uncle Uri, Lotte Lafee Kellner, cousin Jessie, my mother, my sister Ula, and my new brother Bob, just one month old, and finally, an empty chair with a place setting for Elijah.

The Passover table was set with white, initialed linen napkins, water, and initialed crystal wine glasses, matzos, candles, and fresh flowers. The tantalizing aromas still almost overpower me. The serving, as in the past was very, very slow. The telling of the Passover story had to come first, terribly long but intended to engage everyone, especially the children, to participate in reading and singing. We children were at first fidgety but finally quieted down.

The seder began when the first matzos, carefully wrapped in a napkin, were broken. Then, after more passages of the Passover story were read, we began with the haroset. The reading continued. The course endured with the children becoming more excited over the Angel of Death killing the first-born of the Egyptians and the violent sea engulfing the Kingdoms of the Egyptians and their armies. The Hebrew slaves were saved, and so were children--almost free!

At last the main entrée was served following a final prayer, songs, and a toast. The wine glasses were filled again, and the legendary arrival of the Prophet Elijah who heralds the messiah who is to come. The glasses were raised, and then unexpectedly the doorbell rings. Who could it be, the ghost of Elijah? Could a ghost ring a doorbell?

I stood still, frozen hand on the door knob. A long moment of silence, and than a loud father's voice, "Open the door! " Then again, "Open the DOOR, Byron!" my father ordered. "Allow the spirit of Elijah to enter."

I reluctantly opened the door revealing a tall strange man and several children. It was Marcus Lafee, my mother's only living brother and his family. My mother had not seen her brother since her wedding. Years later, my mother suggested that Marcus had been opposed to her marriage to my father and especially to her having left San Francisco for a home in Los Angeles. Such are the slights and hurts that plague family circles.

I remember this "ghost story" each spring when I visit Sarah Atkinson Lafee, the eldest of Marcus' five children. Sarah is now over 90 years old, and we two are the last of that memorable Seder 85 years ago.

Byron Citron is a 3rd generation Californian; his grandparents left Russia in 1872 just after the California Gold Rush. He attended UCLA, and served with the 147th Infantry as back up of World War II First Marine Division at Iwo Jima. He worked for Union Labor Management, ILGWU San Francisco as a Time and Motion Engineer, as well as commercial construction and forensic analysis, and retired in 1998. He is currently a volunteer for hospice and lives with his daughter in Northern California, where he takes writing classes.

Hamantaschen Test Kitchen #3: Gluten-free

2010-02-23T20:42:22Z

by Rabbi Phyllis Sommer
Originally posted on Ima on (and off) the Bima. See other great recipes from this test kitchen series: Cream Cheese Dough and Gingerbread.

My family is not gluten-free. But we have several close friends who are. So when I posted earlier this month that I'd be starting my hamantaschen baking, one of those friends asked if I'd be making any gluten-free delicacies.

Um, no. (Who does she think I am?)

But I offered to come over to her house and try to make them with her (because I thought it would make a good blog post, I'll admit it)...and so we did.

We used this recipe, which I thought seemed to be the most resembling regular hamantaschen.

I've never baked gluten-free, but I have tasted many of my friend's results. I know how much work goes into getting these baked goods to come out right, and how generally important the directions are. So when it says to "coat" the dough in (GF) flour, it really means it.

I'm just sayin'....

So, here's what they looked like before baking...

And after....

And my little gluten-eaters didn't even know the difference.

See more Hamantaschen Test Kitchen Posts:
Cream Cheese Dough
Gingerbread?

More coming - I have two other recipes that I'd like to get made before this weekend!

Editor's note: See the Union's full list of Purim holiday resources: urj.org/holidays/purim

Seasons of Love: Tu B'Av

2010-02-22T03:34:15Z

by Leon Adato
(Originally published on The Edible Torah)

Now that we've gotten past a particular heart-and-candy themed holiday, I wanted to rise to the challenge posed by my friend and fellow blogger, Phil Setnik:

In his response to my post about Valentine's Day, Phil commented:

"I challenge you this way: Take back your celebrations to your bosoms and return them to what they are supposed to be. Learn what the days mean, celebrate and commemorate them as they should be."

I'm working on a separate post on how it feels like being a Jewish parent sometimes means playing a game of Holiday match-up. I don't want to say "Chanukah is just like Christmas" or anything, but there are moments when it can be helpful to say to my 6 year old: "Remember, we get to wear costumes on Purim."

Regardless, Phil's challenge is a just and fair one. What is the need to submit to a holiday named for a saint if there is a Jewish holiday that fills a similar purpose?

So I give you: Tu B'Av.

If the name sounds hauntingly familiar, it may be due to the fact that we have Tu B'Shevat (literally "the 15th of Shevat") and also Tisha B'Av ("the 9th of Av"). So Tu B'Av simply means "the 15th of Av".

The holiday was observed in ancient times as a kind of Sadie Hawkins Day affair, where each marriageable woman would put on a simple white dress (so that nobody could visually distinguish rich from poor), and then go out into the vineyards to sing and dance with the other women. Men would stand at a distance, and (one would believe) make decisions about whom to approach for their hand in marriage.

Like Tisha B'Av (a single day when we note all the sad events in Jewish history), Tu B'Av also commemorates an amalgamation of historic events - but all of them happy.

In modern times, Tu B'Av is marked (mostly in Israel) by sending flowers to someone you love, the radio plays romantic songs, and many people plan their wedding to take place on this day.

Speaking as a guy, the best thing about Tu B'Av is that THERE IS TIME TO PLAN!! This year, it falls on Monday, July 26. It's after all the mid-summer holiday stuff, but still in the middle of the warm season when you can go out and have a picnic.

And the second best thing about it? Roses, perfume, chocolate and gifts don't require a second mortgage to purchase.

So mark your calendar and start brushing up on your love poems. You only have 126 days left!!

Be Happy, It's Adar!

2010-02-16T20:41:27Z

by Rabbi Phyllis Sommer
(Originally published in Ima on (and off) the Bima)

The world is frozen
not growing
or
so it seems.

But beneath the winter ground
energy
vitality
life
await.

Adar brings joy
and reminds us
of that which is
hidden

from others
from ourselves
from view
from history
from knowing

Esther wore a
mask
hiding her
true self.

In Adar we
put on masks
in order
to better
find
ourselves.

Today is Rosh Chodesh Adar, the new moon of the Hebrew month of Adar. It's the most joyous month in the Jewish calendar because it contains the holiday of Purim, a holiday of great happiness. In fact, Adar has the motto "mi-she-nichnas Adar marbim b'simcha" - which means, "When Adar comes, joy increases."

May this month bring joy and happiness, as we put on our masks to celebrate Esther's bravery in saving her people. May we find meaning and power in the remembrance of the story of Purim, and may the month bring health and hope.

Winter's promise

2010-01-25T04:03:14Z

by Gardening Grandma
(Originally posted on Larchmont Musings)

In the deep cold of January, with winter's short days and long nights, along comes Tu B'Sh'vat to remind us that no matter how miserable we may feel, spring really is just around the corner.

Tu B'Sh'vat, the Jewish "New Year of the Trees," may make agricultural sense in the Middle East, but what is one to make of it in Larchmont?

A sunny winter day with the temperature climbing past 40 seemed like a good time to find out. Camera in hand, I set out for a walk around the garden.

Sure enough, the green leaves of the snowdrops are already pushing through the earth. The delicate white flowers won't appear for two months, possibly above a blanket of snow, but these shoots, which pushed aside the ground, frozen solid from the deep freeze of recent days, are hardy reminders that winter will end.

Here in the Northeast, all you need in order to know whether you need your heavy duty parka or a fur coat for the walk to the train is a Rhododendron outside your window. On the coldest of days the leaves curl up like vertical soldiers, wrapping themselves tightly to contain what little warmth they can muster. But on a warm winter day, the leathery evergreen leaves unfold and soak up the sun.

Rhododendrons, like their cousins the azaleas, bloom later in the spring, which means the flowers we'll enjoy come May and June were formed in the fall. Sure enough, the buds on the white rhody, planted just two years ago, are full and firm, promising me they are getting ready for spring too.

A few more steps and I saw all around me the signs that earth is preparing for spring. The lilac buds at the tips of long bare branches already show a hint of purple; the Corylopsis, a form of Witch Hazel, is covered in buds; and hyacinths, probably planted too close to the surface, are pushing up.

Tu'B'Sh'vat, which begins at sundown Friday, January 29, is traditionally celebrated by eating certain foods (figs, pomegranates, olives, dates and honey)or planting trees. In recent years, Tu B'Sh'vat has become the darling of Jewish environmentalists, and schools and synagogues have developed a wealth of materials to remind us of our duty to tend for the earth.

That's fine, but for me, a simple reminder that winter is going to end soon suffices.

RACblog Goes Meta: Our List of the Top 10 Top 10 Lists

2009-12-29T20:49:07Z

by Kate Bigam
Press Secretary, RAC

(Originally published at RACblog)

It's the end of another (secular) year, and the end of decade as well, so of course, our inboxes and Google Readers are overflowing with "Ten 10 lists." Because we at the RAC are nothing if not "meta," we thought we'd share our List of the Top 10 Top 10 Lists.

What were your favorite lists?

1. Grist's Top Green Stories of the '00s

Like others, Grist decided to go a step beyond a simple "Best of 2009" list by covering the aughts in their entirety. Starting with the greening of Paris Hilton (among other celebs), the list takes a more serious tone when it lists the environmental movement's newfound climate focus and American politicians' newfound willingness to talk about climate as a serious legislative issue as among the top environmental stories of the decade. With the snappy catchphrase "Local gets vocal, organic goes manic," it also includes a shout-out to the sustainable food movement, which the Reform Movement embraced this year at our Biennial Convention.

2. TIME Magazine's Top 10 Religion Stories of the Year

Included in TIME's "Top 10 of Everything of 2009" compilation is this gem of a list that includes year-toppers titled things like "Secularism of Bust." Among them is "Keeping the Faith-Based," highlighting President Obama's decision to "create the new Presidential Advisory Council on Faith-Based and Neighborhood Partnerships to weigh in on matters ranging from funding of social-service and poverty-alleviation programs to the more controversial issue of abortion reduction." The RAC's Director, Rabbi David Saperstein, was named by president Obama to serve on this council.

3. The International Women's Health Coalition's Top Ten Wins for Women's Health and Rights in 2009

This list of the world's advancements in women's rights tackles issues in the Unites States, the UK, Bolivia, Nigeria, Cameroon, and Yemen, among others. But as blogger Lorena Espinoza Peña writes on Feministing.com, "As important as it is to celebrate victories surrounding women's rights and health, it's also important to acknowledge when there's still much more work to be done."

4. Odyssey Networks' Top Interfaith Stories of 2009

Odyssey Networks asked its members, "Which activities and events of 2009 best illustrate the important and hopeful work being done by faith communities working together?" The list represents their recommendations along with the suggestions of the folks at Odyssey and is presented alphabetically rather than ranked - members are asked to vote on the story they feel is most important. In one story, "Speaking and Acting on Health Care Reform," our own Director Rabbi David Saperstein is featured (photo above).

5. Religious Clause's Top 10 Church-State, Religious Liberty Developments In 2009

Church-state blogger Howard M. Friedman, Professor of Law Emeritus at the University of Toledo, submits his choices for the biggest religious liberty stories of the year. "The choices are based on the long-range implications of the developments on legal doctrines and on future of relations between government and religion," he writes. Highlights include the Rifqa Bary case, of a Christian teenager at odds with her Muslim parents, court cases against Scientology in France and Germany, and conservative Christian groups' opposition to the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act.

6. Religion Newswriters Association's Top 10 Religion Stories

More than 100 religion journalists voted President Obama's June speech in Cairo, Egypt -- in which he pledged a new beginning in Muslim-U.S. relations -- the top religion story of the year. During his talk, Obama invoked the Qur'an, Talmud and the Bible while declaring that America was not at war with Islam. The second-rated religion story was health care reform; in addition to the top ten, the Religion Newswriters Association also compiled a list of 13 more noteworthy religion stories that made headlines this year.

7. Politics Daily's Top 10 Economic Stories of 2009

The title reads "Jobs, Housing, Bailouts and -- Yes -- Tiger Woods," so you know this is probably going to be a list a bit off the beaten path. Still, the first economic story listed is "'Great Recession' ends but unemployment hits 25-year high," so golf stars aside, the list is still addressing the most pressing economic issues of our time - in a year when the economy has been a topic at the forefront of everyone's minds. Other issues that make the cut in this arena include health care reform, the housing crisis, the UN Copenhagen Climate Conference, "tea parties" and more - including Tiger.

8. MSNBC's "Decade's Top 10 Political Lines"

NBC writers compile "what we consider to be the most memorable political lines/statements/quotes of the decade, which shaped or cemented perceptions, were repeated endlessly, and impacted American politics." The usual political suspects make the list - Presidents George W. Bush and Barack Obama, Vice Presidents Cheney and Biden, Presidential hopefuls John Kerry and John McCain, now-Secretary of State Clinton - but there are a few surprises, too, including some profanity. Most notably, keep your eye out from a famous two-liner yelled just this year on the House floor and even a political joke from an old Saturday Night Live alumna.

9. The Forward's "The Aughts and Us: 2000-2009: A Look Back at What a Decade Brought"

Ten Jewish leaders write one paragraph each on 10 of the ways life changed for Jews in the first decade of the 21st century, from the Diaspora's presence online (makes it easier to kibbitz, fundraise, etc.) to the lasting threat of terrorism brought about by September 11th (and it's impact on Jews, in particular). The final write-up is from Rabbi Eric Yoffie, President of the Union for Reform Judaism, about the emergence of Birthright Israel. He says, "It has demonstrated that at a time when commitment to Israel is supposedly withering, even the most disengaged young Jews have a yearning for connection to the Jewish state."

10. TIME Magazine's Top 10 Editorial Cartoons of 2009

Who says politics isn't animated? Rounding out our list of Top 10 Top 10 Lists is TIME's compilation of the best visual jokes of the year, but don't be fooled by imagery that invokes Saturday morning cartoons - each of these drawings packs a political punch that highlights the biggest gaffes and missteps of 2009. Among my favorites:

Abolishing the Death Penalty

2009-12-21T19:13:34Z

by Rabbi David Saperstein, Rev. Geoffrey Black & Rev. Linda Jaramillo
(Originally published by On Faith at washingtonpost.com)

Many December holidays - Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa alike - involve the lighting of candles. This symbolizes the spirit of peace, hope, and new beginnings, illuminating the winter days and warming the soul.

The festive lights also recall for us the time, 20 years ago, when the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty (NCADP) and the National Interreligious Task Force on Criminal Justice (NITFCJ) launched a year-long campaign called "Lighting the Torch of Conscience." The purpose of the campaign, later joined by Amnesty International USA, was to mobilize faith communities and encourage local involvement in the collective effort to end capital punishment.

"Lighting the Torch of Conscience" began with a meeting at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change in Atlanta. Broad and diverse participants, including Presbyterians, Jews, Muslims, Catholics, Southern Baptists, Quakers, Mennonites, Unitarians, and Methodists, signed a statement following the meeting, which read in part, "As we light this torch of conscience, we commit ourselves and our faith communities to do everything within our power to abolish the death penalty. We will use our moral leadership to change attitudes through education and engagement in faithful witness, service, and advocacy toward that end."

Throughout 1989, participants carried the abolition message to churches, universities, schools, and other venues in 36 states. The campaign closed on May 18, 1990 with a march from the state prison in Starke, Fla., back to Atlanta's King Center. Since then, step by step, progress has been made toward ending the death penalty. In 2002, the U.S. Supreme Court outlawed executions for people with mental retardation, and in 2005 it ruled death sentences for juveniles unconstitutional.

Presently, 35 states implement capital punishment, three fewer than before, as New York, New Jersey and New Mexico have abolished the death penalty since 2007. Maryland enacted a law this year severely restricting its use, and legislation to abolish the death penalty passed Connecticut's legislature only to be vetoed by the Governor.

A recent Gallup Poll confirms that support for the death penalty is significantly lower than its peak support in the early 1990s. Three in five Americans believe an innocent person has been executed within the last five years, and death sentences are at a low for the modern era.

espite these noteworthy gains, much remains to be done. A disproportionate number of death row prisoners are people of color and the economically disadvantaged. Protections against wrongful convictions and executions are weak, as evidenced by the 139 people who have been exonerated from death row since 1973 as a result of evidence of innocence; nine have been exonerated in 2009 alone.

Even the American Law Institute (ALI), a leading independent organization of attorneys, judges and law professors instrumental in shaping existing and emerging U.S. law for more than 50 years, has now formally acknowledged that there is no model death penalty system, indicating that capital punishment is broken beyond repair.

Current faith-based efforts to end capital punishment launched this year, such as the Catholic Mobilizing Network to End the Death Penalty which collaborates with existing death penalty abolition groups and the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops to educate and activate their congregants. People of faith can do no less than to reassert the principle that capital punishment is morally wrong, perpetuating the cycle of violence when it kills people who kill. As noted in the Lighting the Torch of Conscience statement 20 years ago:

". . . Each human is created in the image of God, and thus we believe in the inherent worth of human life and the inalienable dignity of the human estate. The value of human life is not contingent on the moral rectitude of human beings or human institutions."

During this holiday season and in the months ahead, we encourage people of faith nationwide to put belief into action by embracing the commitment and determination of the "Lighting the Torch of Conscience" campaigners. By joining forces with abolitionists working to rid our country of the barbaric practice of capital punishment, we can together seek out humane, alternative punishments and more effective crime prevention programs that will keep our neighborhoods safe. As the "Lighting the Torch of Conscience" statement concludes, "The religious community's opposition to capital punishment has been on record for years. Now is the time for it to be on fire."

This post, co-authored by Rabbi David Saperstein, Rev. Geoffrey Black and Rev. Linda Jaramillo, was originally published by On Faith at washingtonpost.com. Rev. Geoffrey Black is the General Minister and President of the United Church of Christ, a participant in the Lighting the Torch of Conscience campaign. Linda Jaramillo is the United Church of Christ's Executive Minister, Justice and Witness Ministries.

Why Do We Need to Use a Shamash Candle?

2009-12-16T22:02:31Z

by Rabbi Paul Kipnes
(Also published on Or Am I?)

Question: Why do we need to use a candle - the Shamash (helper) candle - when we can just as easily use a match to light the Menorah?

It has to do with the "Way of the Long Pole."

Some background: Back in Biblical times, in the outer chamber of the ancient Jerusalem Temple, the Menorah stood in a special area called the heichal (sanctuary). The Menorah was a five-foot, seven branched candelabra of pure gold. Every morning, a kohen (priest, member of the Israelite clergy) filled the menorah's lamps with the purest olive oil; in the afternoon, he would climb a three-step foot-ladder to kindle the menorah's lamps. The flames burned through the night, symbolizing the light of the Holy One radiating throughout Israel and the world.

Interesting Pair of Factoids:

Actually, it did not have to be a priest (kohen) who lit the menorah. The Jewish law states that an ordinary layperson could also perform this mitzvah.
But there was also a law that restricts entry into the ancient Jerusalem Temple's Sanctuary to priests only. In the ancient world, ordinary Israelites could venture no further than the azarah (Temple courtyard).

These two ancient laws created a legal paradox: a layperson can light the menorah; but the menorah's designated place is inside the Sanctuary, where a layperson could not enter.

Talk about inconsistencies:

If an ordinary person should be able to light the Menorah, why doesn't Torah instruct us to place And if the sanctity of the ancient Menorah is such that it requires the higher holiness found in the sanctuary, why does the Torah permit someone without a kohen's level of holiness to light it?

This paradox, teach the Chassidic rebbes, is intentionally set up by the Torah in order to convey to us a most profound lesson. You are here, and you want to be there ("there" being someplace better, loftier, more spiritual than "here"). But you are not there, and cannot get there for a good while, perhaps ever.

So what do you do? Do you act as if you're already there? Or do you tell yourself that here's just fine, and who needs there anyway? You could, of course, become a hypocrite, or you could come to terms with the limitations of your situation. But there's also a third option - the Way of the Long Pole.

The solution - the "Way of the Long Pole" - is that a layperson could light the menorah by means of a long pole. This ordinary Israelite stands outside the ancient Sanctuary, extends to the Menorah a long pole with a flame on the end, and thereby lights the Menorah.

What a great solution to a spiritual problem!

The lesson of the long pole says that we should aspire to spiritual heights that lie beyond our reach. We should not desist from our efforts to reach that place. Even when we worry that we, ourselves, will never be "there," we can still act upon places in the distance, influencing them, and even illuminating them.

At times, this means that someone closer to those places - to the Menorah - needs to reach over and light it for us. At other times, it means that we contrive a way to reach beyond where we are at the present time. In either case, we turn to (or turn into) a "lamplighter," a person who carries a long pole with a flame at its end and goes from lamp to lamp to ignite them; no lamp is too lowly, and no lamp is too lofty, for the lamplighter and his pole.

The shamash candle reminds us of the Way of the Long Pole. This Chanukah, if you are gathered with a group without the ability to physically get close enough to light the Menorah, allow others to illumine for you the way to a higher spiritual place. If you are able, let the shamash candle be your "long pole," transforming you into the "lamplighter," illuminating the way ahead. Either way, may this Chanukah be an inspiring one for you and your loved ones.

[Now read my post about being a Lamplighter.]

For Chanukah Resources to enhance your celebration - songsheets, blessing sheets, 8 Nights of Chanukah Tzedakah, 8 stories, and more - go to www.orami.org/chanukah
Come back each night to the blog (http://rabbipaul.blogspot.com) for more 8 Blogs for 8 Nights: Answers to Questions You Never Thought About, which enhance your understanding of Chanukah.
If you would answer today's question differently, or have other Chanukah ideas/questions, please share your insights in a comment. I will make a donation to tzedakah for every comment written.

[Adapted from A Long Pole, an article by Yanki Tauber]

Gifts of the Magi, the Chanukah 2009 version

2009-12-16T21:53:48Z

by Leon Adato
(Also published on The Edible Torah)

A year ago, the screaming in the car began.
"Speed up Daddy! Go faster! I have to see what it is! Gooooooooooooooooooooo!"
"Isabelle... ISABELLE!! Look over there! What is that?!?"
"YES! YES! YES! I can't believe I saw it! AWESOME!!"

It started (as so many things in our house do) with a sullen comment by a grumpy teenager. Isabelle stated (with the absolute authority that only 14 year olds can muster) that nobody ever came to our state. People only moved away.

"Not true," my wife countered, "We see people from other places all the time."

To prove her point, the two of them began looking for out of state license plates on cars. While this didn't necessarily prove people LIVED in our neck of the woods, it would certainly show that they came (or at least came through) here.

From there, the rules of the "game" were established: License plates were only valid if they were on cars or personal-type vehicles (SUV's, minivans, 4-wheel trucks, etc) but not on tour busses, 18-wheelers and the like). Both my wife and daughter had to see the license plate for it to "count". But they didn't have to see the SAME license plate. So if my wife saw "Maryland" on Monday during a grocery run and my daughter saw the same state on Wednesday on her way to music lessons, it counted.

A list of states, along with pictures of their license plates, was carefully checked off every time a new state was identified. Within 3 months, half the list was spotted. By 6 months only 10 states remained.

Hence the screaming. My daughter (ever the competetive one) was not going to fritter away any chance to check another state off her list, just because some stuffed suit bureaucrat thought that 80mph was too fast for a suburban side road. Never mind the chance that dear old Dad would have to look the officer in the eye and explain the situation (probably before being cuffed and brought to the psych ward for evaluation). If my darling daughter could finally check off "Wyoming" it would (in her mind) all be worth it.

Then about 4 months ago my wife got the idea that this would make a great gift. Through the miracle of eBay, we could purchase license plates and present them to our daughter. At a 1-8 dollars a plate (plus shipping) it wouldn't exactly be cheap but it wouldn't be the most expensive gift either. And it would provide years of stories.

Then 3 weeks ago my daughter pulled me aside, practically hovering off the ground with excitement.

"I know the PERFECT GIFT for Mommy!" she exclaimed (her only mode of speech), "I found LICENSE PLATES on EBAY!! I can get her the ones we're missing! Isn't that AWESOME!!!"

I sipped my coffee thoughtfully while my brain screamed "POKER FACE! POKER FACE! POKER FACE". Then I managed to sound surprised and engaged as I said "Hey, that's a great idea."

After she left the room (promising to email me links so I could buy the stuff without my wife knowing), I sat with my feelings: The irony, humor and pure joy at their reciprocal thoughtfulness ran in counterpoint to the frantic manufacturing of stories this was going to require. I had to somehow pretend to purchase license plates for my daughter but ensure that the plates that had yet to be delivered didn't fall into her hands; And I also had to assemble the entire gift under the watchful gaze of my wife without her seeing the missing items.

I won't go into the details of how I pulled this off, but I will state that I probably violated at least 4 federal laws having to do with mail tampering, along with some late night (early morning, actually) "sleep problems" when I put everything together which left me the equivalent of a walking zombie. And then there was the moment that my wife thought maybe she would save the license plates for my daughters birthday (which comes shortly after Chanukah this year) instead. Describing emotional distress I claimed I would suffer should have won me an Emmy at least.

When the presents were finally unwrapped, everything became clear. We actually laughed until we cried.

Here is the gift from my daughter to my wife (including the all-but-impossible to find "Hawaii" plate)

...And here are the rest of the plates, hung on a curtain rod and with gaps where we eventually added the missing 3.

8 Blogs of Chanukah: Why did Antiochus' army ruin all the oil in the Jerusalem Temple?

2009-12-11T15:54:17Z

by Rabbi Paul Kipnes
(Originally posted on Or Am I?)

8 Blogs for 8 Nights of Chanukah
Blog #1: Oil and the Secret of the Jew

Question: Why did Antiochus' army ruin all the oil in the Jerusalem Temple?

When Antiochus' Assyrian-Greeks entered the Jerusalem Temple, they contaminated all the oils that were in the Temple. One would expect them to plunder the Temple's gold and silver, the precious stones, as is the custom of warriors -- yet the Talmud makes no mention of this type of pillaging. What possessed the Assyrian-Greeks to single-mindedly go about desecrating the oil, and with such thoroughness that it was only through a miracle that one jug was left untouched?

Oil played an important role in the Temple. It was used in special offerings and to fuel the Menorah. The Kohen Gadol (High Priest) and kings were anointed with it. What is special about oil?

The Kabbalists (Jewish mystics) point to oil's refusal to mix with other liquids. Oil always rises to the top. It is a liquid that embodies transcendence, holiness. In Kabbalistic terms, oil is the embodiment of that aspect of the soul that relates to the Holy One in a manner that transcends intellect. Oil is the intuitive love and commitment of the soul to God that is not bound by the strictures of rationality and reasoning.

It was the "oil" aspect of the Jew, our commitment to God/godliness/holiness, that the Assyrian-Greeks could not abide. Our devotion to ethical living. Our commitment to social justice. Our Torah-based demand that we and the world live in a way that brings into the world tzedek (justice), emet (truth), ahava (love) and shalom (peace). When each of my actions is Godly-deed, an act that is bigger than me, that then becomes threating to those who would taint the world with egotism, self-indulgence and fear.

And so Antiochus' armies went after the oil. Every enemy goes after the life-source of their opponent -- the wells, the food stocks. The Assyrian-Greeks went after the oil. For therein resides the secret of the Jew.

This Chanukah, as you light candles (even if they are fueled by wax instead of oil), remember that we celebrate - in part - because of the triumph of holy living, ethical living, over self-interest, egotism and fear.

Come back each night to the blog for another of these 8 Blogs for 8 Nights: Answers to Questions You Never Thought About, which enhance your understanding of Chanukah. If you would answer the question differently, share your insights in a comment. I will make a donation to tzedakah for every comment written.

For Chanukah Resources to enhance your celebration - songsheets, blessing sheets, 8 Nights of Chanukah Tzedakah, 8 stories, and more - go to www.orami.org/chanukah

[Adapted from Victory of Light - Mitzvat Ner Chanukah 5738/1977, a discourse by Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson.]

Copenhagen 1943 and Copenhagen UN 2009

2009-12-09T16:29:08Z

by Rabbi Warren Stone
Temple Emanuel, Kensington, MD

Sixty-six years ago, on October 2, 1943, when Jews were celebrating the High Holidays, Hitler ordered the arrest and deportation of Denmark's 8,000 Jews. Danish Christian citizens were outraged and courageously rescued almost the entire Jewish population. In an act of collective resistance, the Danes ferried their fellow Jewish citizens on small boats across the sea to safety in Sweden. Over 99% of Danish Jews survived the Holocaust.

Thirty years ago, I went to the bank of the waters where Jews were rescued by Danes who transported them by sea from the Danish Island of Zealand over the Oresund Staits into Sweden. The moment brought tears to my eyes, particularly after traveling throughout Europe, visiting the camps and feeling acutely the demise of European Jewry.

Today just one day before the world Jewish celebration of Chanukah I returned to the port and remembered the story of the rescue of Danish Jewry. I gave an interview to Denmark's most popular Sunday radio station equivalent to our NPR thanking the Danish people for this act in 1943 and for their sponsoring the COP15 talks. Denmark has been a visionary leader in environmental activism.Today I will take a boat with UN delegates to visit one of their major wind farms. I will also take a moment in reflection and prayer to remember this gravely challenging time in our Jewish history and the courage of the Danish Christians in rescuing the Danish Jews.

During the UN COP, 15 climate talks will be held in the country which displayed such courage on our behalf. So, too, today, may the UN representatives and the many thousands attending the alternative Klimaformum in Copenhagen take the lead to collectively shout out the need for the world's rescue against the potential calamity of climate change. As Jews light the Chanukah candles may they symbolize our our world effort and hopeful vision to create a low carbon future for humanity.

Nationally known for his leadership on religion and the environment, Rabbi Warren Stone is co-chair of the National Religious Coalition on Creation Care and founding chair of the Central Conference of American Rabbis' Committee on the Environment. He is representing the Reform Jewish Movement at the Copenhagen Climate Talks.

Visit the Religious Action Center's website
to get ideas for celebrating Chanukah
by taking steps toward a more sustainable future.

Remind me why we do this again?

2009-11-30T04:24:30Z

by Leon Adato
(Originally posted on The Edible Torah)

I have something to admit: My family thinks Thanksgiving is a big let-down.

I realize this is about as close to blasphemy as you can get in American culture. Give me a chance to explain, and to offer a solution.

Facing the hard cold facts, my family and I do *A LOT* of Jewish celebrating through the year. From Passover (which is at the top of our list) to Sukkot, and all the various moments in-between like Rosh Hashanah, Chanukah, Shavuot and even Tu B'Shvat) we typically have a special celebration almost once a month. Then there's the big daddy of Jewish holidays: Shabbat. It should be pretty obvious to anyone who is on this site why THAT'S a big deal at our house. Finally, let's not overlook Havdallah, the other dessert holiday.

Each of these celebrations comes with a special meal, and most have special foods associated with them. Each celebration also has it's own significance, and rituals that go along with it. There are always candles to light, blessings to be said. There are moments to be remembered - defeats to live down, mistakes to learn from, and triumphs to warm our hearts. There are stories to tell - from Torah, from Talmud, from Midrash both ancient and new. We Jews have invented rituals both silly and somber to mark these times; parables and dinner table plays appropriate to children and the child in all of us; readings from our texts and our lives that catch in our throats. We choke down horseradish, lick honey off the covers of books, beat the person next to us with green onions, stick raisins in our challah, and set off smoke alarms frying all manner of things in oil.

Which brings us back to Thanksgiving.

About 3 years ago, because of our schedule and those of our family and friends, we found ourselves having a quiet little Turkey-day with just my wife and I and our 4 kids. As we prepared the various dishes, my older kids kept asking what the theme was. "No theme." we reminded them. We set the dining room table, laid out the food, and called everyone in. Nobody sat down, and the kids looked at me, waiting for me to talk about the Torah portion.

"Where da candles?" asked the 3 year old. "No candles, buddy," I told him. "It's Thanksgiving, not Shabbat."

My wife and I talked with the kids about being thankful, about the story of the colonizing of America and some of the hardship those first settlers from Europe encountered. But you could tell from their expressions that this was more like a fictional story than history. I quickly realized that "hungry" had overcome "curious", and we tabled (no pun intended) the discussion in favor of sampling all the food we'd worked to create during the day.

As we were cleaning up my 11 year old expressed a feeling I've heard from many friends on Thanksgiving: "I'm glad we only do this once a year,"

...but she followed it up with, "and I'm glad we get to have Shabbat every week instead."

There's an episode of Roseanne (OK, go ahead and roll your eyes) where they are standing around the table, and Roseanne says "We oughtta say something about being thankful or a prayer or something". In the end, nobody knows what to say, and they just dig into the food. I remember thinking as I watched that it wasn't a funny scene, but it was very honest, because I have experienced Thanksgivings where the same thing happened, more or less, for real.

I wonder how many families this year will, as they are faced with a moment of celebration, find themselves at a loss for what to say or do?

Why are talking donkeys and 5,000 year old Patriarchs and Matriarchs more real to my children than Pilgrims who helped found the country where they live?

Part of the reason surely is emphasis in the home. We live with Shabbat as a weekly visitor in our home, whereas Thanksgiving is just that holiday that sits awkwardly between Halloween and Hanukah. Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebeccah and the rest of the ancient Jew Crew are part of our daily discussion. Pocahontas and her story is a movie from Disney (and a frustratingly inaccurate one at that).

But that's only part of the reason, I think. The other reason why the Jewish moments seem so accessible is precisely because they are structured. From family to family we as Jews may individually decide what we will or won't do and observe, but there is clarity for the list of options for any given celebration. Yom Tov candles are lit here. Kol Nidre recided there. You don't recite "al ha-nissim" on Passover. You don't light the chanukiah on Tu B'shevat.

What do we say at the Thanksgiving table? Beyond the turkey and trimmings, what phrases are obligatory, which are options? We don't know. In the face of the ambiguity, even Fourth of July is more concrete in our understanding of how we observe it.

If you find yourself, this coming Thursday, frustrated with a lack of ceremony, I encourage you to look at the 3 different "seders" created by Phillis Somer (Ima on and off the Bima) here on her website.

Or invent your own, and comment below on how it went.

Rituals for Thanksgiving

2009-11-19T15:46:34Z

by Rabbi Phyllis Sommer
(Originally published in Ima on (and off) the Bima)

It's hard to believe that the holiday of Thanksgiving is nearly upon us. Just one more week!

Thanksgiving is such a wonderful American holiday. It's simple - say thank you for the blessings in life and share a meal with those you love.

But often, the meal takes over, stress of family and needing a "picture perfect" celebration cause a little fraying at the edges. Creating an atmosphere of gratitude can be tricky when you're just trying to keep your 3-year-old from pulling the tablecloth off the table, don't you think?

I have created 3 different Thanksgiving services, based loosely on the idea of the Passover seder. After all, one good holiday centered around the table deserves another, doesn't it?

Feel free to read all three and pick and choose from within them! Your family might be somewhere between the longer edition and the quick version.

The first, a Thanksgiving Seder, is the longest of the three - suitable for strong attention spans.
Thanksgiving Seder

The second, a Thanksgiving Seder for Families with Young Children, is a quick version, meant to be fun and light for the preschool and elementary school set.
Thanksgiving Seder for Families with Small Children

And finally, an ecumenical version. What do I mean by that? It talks about God but it's not particularistic, i.e. not really very Jewish. (I know that some of you loyal readers aren't Jewish or share your table with people of many faiths and still might enjoy this concept!)

Ecumenical Thanksgiving Service for Families

All three include ideas for usage and suggestions for incorporating your own cultural and ethnic heritage. I hope you like it and I hope you let me know if you use it.

May your celebration be full and enriching!
Happy Thanksgiving!

Songs of the Season

2009-11-17T19:14:47Z

by Larry Kaufman

When JanetheWriter reminded her friends on Facebook, 'tis the season to be satiated with the songs of the season, I promised her I would tell my favorite White Christmas story.

When this happened, the United Nations had already voted for the establishment of a Jewish state in what had been the British mandate of Palestine, but the state of Israel had not yet come into being. I was a senior in high school, teaching Hebrew to the second graders at the Euclid Avenue Temple in Cleveland. As the holiday season approached, the head of the Hebrew program, Sara Palay, asked me to write a couple of songs for the faculty Chanukah party, and I complied. I have totally forgotten one of the two lyrics I penned, but I still remember most of the other one:

I'm dreaming of a green Eretz
Just like King David used to know,
Where the Negev's bloom
Dispels the gloom
That started two thousand years ago.
I'm dreaming of a green Eretz
With every candle that I light....

After I turned in my songs, Sara asked me to join her in the office of the Education Director, Libbie Braverman, of whom I have written before. Libbie thanked me and complimented me on my submission, told me that she and Sara weren't sure what Rabbi Brickner would think about a song so tied to Christmas, but promised they would run it by him. (With the benefit of all the Reform history I've learned over the years, I now recognize that in other Reform temples of that era, the worry might have been about the rabbi's reaction to a song so tied to Zionism, but that was not an issue in Cleveland, where both Reform rabbis, Barnett Brickner and Abba Hillel Silver, were stalwart, active, and highly visible Zionists.) As it happened, Rabbi Brickner got a big kick out of what I had written, and we teachers sang it at the Chanukah party with relish (not to mention with latkes and applesauce).

As things happen, after promising JanetheWriter that I would tell this story but before I sat down at the computer to do so, I came upon an excerpt from Philip Roth's Operation Shylock, in a comment on Rabbi Andy Bachman's blog, talking about the way Irving Berlin took the two holidays that celebrate the divinity of Jesus and, in 'Easter Parade' and 'White Christmas,' turns Easter into a fashion show and Christmas into a holiday about snow. It's this secularization in the original source material that probably "kashered" it for Rabbi Brickner. I doubt that he would have allowed "O come all ye hungry, waiting with menorahs, come ye, o come ye, to latkes fried in oil."

Galilee Diary: Sukkah season

2009-10-13T20:38:50Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Galilee Diary)

You shall live in booths seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt, I the Lord you God.
-Leviticus 23:42-43

The day before Sukkot I was walking down the street in Jerusalem, and kept having to make detours around the "construction sites" of sidewalk sukkot being erected by restaurant workers. In general, Sukkot offers a wonderful case study in the successful Zionist transformation of Judaism from religion to culture. Sukkot are ubiquitous - on roofs, balconies, courtyards, and parking lots. There are huge institutional ones at hotels and kibbutzim and yeshivot, modest family models, and tiny ones built by falafel stand owners to allow their customers to perform the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah (usually interpreted as eating there). Indeed, the sidewalk sukkot of Jerusalem are a classic case of the interface of religion and capitalism: if you operate a kosher restaurant and want to keep your religiously observant clientele during the week of Sukkot, you need to provide a sukkah or they'll patronize the competition.

There are different styles - in orthodox neighborhoods, the sukkot tend to be more substantial, plywood sheets nailed on a wood frame to make permanent panels that can be dismantled and stored from year to year. We had a sukkah like that in the US - but that's because we always had a basement or garage to store it in. Here, we followed the more popular option, buying a frame of square steel tubes with interlocking brackets at the ends, on which we tie muslin sheets for walls; you can buy these plain or printed with sukkah-themed decoration. Permanent skhakh (sukkah roofing), which seems an oxymoron, is also extremely popular - loosely woven reed mats that can be rolled up and saved from year to year. While these may be halachically acceptable, to us they have always seemed not quite right, so we always cover our sukkah with real branches; in recent years we have always been able to obtain enough by waiting to prune the trees and bushes in our yard until the day before the holiday.

Many people, of course, build a sukkah as a religious obligation, and are meticulous about fulfilling the requirements of halachah regarding dimensions and geometry and materials - and also about eating and even sleeping in the sukkah. One of our favorite Jerusalem memories was of eating holiday or Shabbat dinner in our sukkah and hearing the music of singing families emanating from all the other sukkot along the parking lot of our apartment block. However, thousands of sukkot are erected around the country - by families, by kids in empty lots, by youth groups - not to fulfill a religious commandment, but because that is what Jews do after Yom Kippur. In some ways, for better or for worse, the sukkah in secular Israeli culture is like the Christmas tree in secular American culture - a religiously attenuated yet still very popular symbol of the season. Whether or not you believe that the Children of Israel really lived in sukkot in the desert, whether or not you see eating in the sukkah as a religious obligation, you cannot escape the sukkah as a feature of the cultural - and physical - landscape, and I doubt that there are many Jews, of any persuasion, who don't derive some joy, connection to the land and to the seasons, family togetherness, and/or Zionist fulfillment from the sukkot that spring up across the land for a week (which is, incidentally, a major vacation period). And then having put ourselves at the mercy of the elements for a week, we pack away the sukkah and go back indoors to wait (and pray) for the rain.

Torah in Haiku: SImchat Torah

2009-10-09T18:07:16Z

by Ed Nickow
Temple Chai, Long Grove, IL
(Originally published in The Torah in Haiku)

We read of Moses
Dying atop Mt. Nebo
At the word of G-d

Then we start over
With the creation story
Learning without end

Galilee Diary: Gedaliah

2009-10-06T19:28:06Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Galilee Diary)

In the seventh month, Ishmael son of Nethaniah son of Elishama, who was of royal descent and one of the king's commanders, came with ten men to Gedaliah son of Ahikam at Mizpah; and they ate together there at Mizpah. Then Ishmael son of Nethaniah and the ten men who were with him arose and struck down Gedaliah son of Ahikam son of Shaphan with the sword and killed him, because the king of Babylon had put him in charge of the land.
-Jeremiah 41:1-2

There are four traditional fast days associated with the fall of Judah to the Babylonians: the 10th of Tevet (beginning of the siege of Jerusalem), the 17th of Tammuz (breaching of the walls), the 9th of Av (fall of the Temple), 3rd of Tishrei (murder of Gedaliah). Only the 9th of Av is a full 25 hour fast like Yom Kippur; the others are only from sunup to sundown. With the re-establishment of a sovereign Jewish state these fasts have become less significant for many people; indeed, most Israelis pretty much ignore them, and except for the 9th of Av are generally not even aware that they are occurring. Personally I have never been able to find much meaning in the three minor ones and haven't observed them. I do feel that it is important to clarify that however wonderful the state of Israel is, it is not yet the messianic state: we still have a lot of work to do before redemption; therefore, I do try to observe the 9th of Av as a symbol and a reminder of that belief.

This year, however, I for some reason felt a need to take another look at the Fast of Gedaliah, and found myself fasting and even feeling good about it.

For one thing, it falls the day after Rosh Hashanah. I find it hard to believe that this is a coincidence. For most of us, Rosh Hashanah consists of just four major activities: eating, praying, sleeping, and eating. After a couple of days of this, a cleansing/compensating fast seems like just the right thing both physically and spiritually.

Secondly, the events surrounding the murder of Gedaliah are not just obscure ancient history. The Jewish leadership, ignoring the desperate warnings of Jeremiah, rebelled against Babylonia and the state was crushed. A member of a family with a history of supporting Jeremiah's position, Gedaliah, was appointed governor by the occupying army - and was tricked and murdered by a member of the royalist faction. There ensued a small civil war between the two parties. Even when we were totally down and out we couldn't resist killing each other. This is not about the Babylonians destroying the Temple - it is about us destroying ourselves. If there is any fast day that has the potential to speak to modern Israel, this one seems to me to be the best candidate for rehabilitation. Indeed, some have suggested it be observed as the memorial day for Yitzchak Rabin, as the echoes are pretty loud. To me this would make a lot more sense than the current situation, in which Orthodox Israelis observe the anniversary of Rabin's death according to the Hebrew calendar, while secular Israelis prefer the Gregorian date (implying or stating that since the Orthodox killed him, the memorial shouldn't be observed according to "their" calendar).

The Fast of Gedaliah seems a perfect opportunity for modern Israeli culture to reconnect with and revalue a traditional observance. For me, in any case, it was a very satisfactory fast.

So Many Books, So Little Time: A Yom Kippur Minhag

2009-10-05T13:35:37Z

By JanetheWriter

It's not as though I don't have any unread books on my bookshelf. In fact, sometimes it feels as though most of them are unread and there's just no time to pluck one from the shelf, curl up and get lost in its pages. Among my recent acquisitions still waiting for the binding to be broken and the pages to be devoured are Rabbi Jill Jacobs' There Shall Be No Needy: Pursuing Social Justice through Jewish Law and Tradition, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach, The Woman with a Worm in her Head and Other True Stories of Infectious Disease by Pamela Nagami (yes, I'm the daughter of a parasitologist) and Simon Baatz' For the Thrill of It: Leopold, Loeb, and the Murder That Shocked Jazz Age Chicago.

My father recently finished the Baatz book and has now passed it along to me, highly recommended. You may recall that I first mentioned this particular book in a blog post I wrote last year at about this time. That was shortly after he and I - as we do each year - spent a bit of time on Yom Kippur afternoon browsing in the Barnes and Noble near my parents' congregation.

This year, as we walked and talked among the books, we thumbed through Rosemary Mahoney's Down the Nile: Alone in a Fisherman's Skiff, Norman Podhoretz' Why Are Jews Liberals, a few of Paul Thoreaux's travelogues, some of the novels in Emile Zola's Rougon-Macquart cycle (yes, I'm still working my way through Germinal) and finally Michael B. Oren's Power, Faith, and Fantasy: America in the Middle East: 1776 to the Present.

That last book caught both our eyes - my father's because he'd been at the 2008 luncheon at which the book won the New Jersey Council of the Humanities Book Award and mine because Michael Oren is the current Ambassador of Israel to the United States and is to be a guest at the Union's upcoming Biennial convention in Toronto next month. He's also a noted scholar, historian and writer, and perusing the first few pages of the book convinced me that I want to read more. My father agreed that he, too, wants to read it and so it was that before we headed back to temple for the afternoon service, he bought a copy for us to share.

So now there's yet another unread book on my shelves, but this one is different. If I'm lucky, I'll have an opportunity to have it inscribed to us at Biennial and, once I'm home, time enough to read it.

Welcome to the Indoor Sukkah

2009-10-02T18:16:09Z

by Phyllis Sommer
(Originally published in Ima on (and off) the Bima)

Our first year in Chicago, we weren't able to put up a sukkah (for a variety of reasons). But rather than let the holiday just pass us by, I decided to put up an indoor sukkah. I searched all over for some guidelines - but really, no one had written articles or talked too much about this concept. So...I went to my favorite sukkah supply store and I picked up some items that seemed like they'd work.

Shiny garlands of fake leaves, imitation grapes, pears, apples, and a few other rustic looking fall decorations went into my cart. Oh, and of course, stars! One of the primary rules about a sukkah is that you have to be able to see the stars through the roof. That would be a very very bad thing to happen to my kitchen...so instead I decided on some shiny star garlands and also some fluffy stars to hang.

And now that we put up a "real" sukkah outdoors (which we have been doing for a while now), we still continue to put up the indoor one as well. It is a fun family tradition that my kids really love.

(And all the supplies fit into a nice box that lives in the basement and it all gets reused each year. Great investment!)

Yes, I certainly know that our indoor sukkah doesn't quite fulfill the mitzvah of dwelling in a sukkah. But I also know that it almost always rains during the holiday. And I know that we don't get to eat every meal outside (even though technically, we could or should)...and I know that decorating the house makes the whole week seem much more festive! If you're like us, the kitchen is the center of our house - we spend so much time there - it reminds us all the time of the celebration.

Plus, I think that anyone can do this - even if you don't have a yard or the ability to build a sukkah. It's just a great way to celebrate the holiday and get into the spirit of the season. So why not try it this year?

Sukkot and a Sustainable Harvest

2009-10-02T16:08:10Z

by Rachel Cohen
Senior Legislative Assistant, RAC
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah)

It is only a few days after Yom Kippur, and already another season is about to end. Not for us as Jews or North Americans, but for the earth. Today begins one of the most joyous weeks of the Jewish year as we celebrate the harvest, and mark the end of the agricultural season, with the festival of Sukkot. And just as Sukkot ends, on Shemini Atzeret, we pray for an abundant rainy season following the dry summer months and enjoy the gifts of the earth - fruit, grains, and water - with which we are blessed once again.

We call ourselves the "People of the Book," yet our calendar and our celebrations remind us that we have always been a people of the land. Greeting cards and gifts aside, the most important holidays in traditional Judaism have always been the three harvest festivals: Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot. These holidays each mark not only an historical event (the Exodus, the giving of the Ten Commandments, and the wandering of the Israelites through the desert) but also a pivotal point in the agricultural calendar (the beginning of spring, the new planting season, and the last harvest before the winter rains). Every year at these critical moments we stop to take stock of where we are - in relation to our earth above all else - give thanks for what we have, and carefully consider our next steps.

For the next seven days we will throw ourselves back into the 'natural world' by eating, praying, and (for a brave few) sleeping in an outdoor hut shaded from the sun but exposed to the starlight, and the elements. We will revel in the sunshine and the simplicity of the Sukkah, and acknowledge the bounty and diversity of the natural world with prayers over the lulav, haddasim, arravot and etrog. Every aspect of the holiday serves as a powerful reminder of our intimate connection with and dependence on our natural resources - and how far so many of us have strayed from this connection. Like any beloved Jewish holiday, Sukkot is largely about food, and revolves around prayers that recognize and celebrate the sources of our sustenance. So how do we celebrate in a society where the vast majority of us are deeply disconnected from what is in our food and how it is produced? And as our climate changes - and rainfall and temperature patterns change as well - what sort of harvest will we and our children celebrate 10, 20, or 100 years from now?

When our food system distances us - not always geographically, but psychologically - from the plants, animals, farmers and factories that make our food, it is no wonder that food safety remains a habitual problem, obesity is on the rise, and food waste overflows our landfills. We go to the supermarket regularly yet barely think about where the thousands of available products actually come from and what is actually in them. We genetically modify crops for the laudable goals of increasing yields and nutritional value, but the effects of GMO crops on the long-term health of the land and on global food prices often go unconsidered. We can enjoy corn products in infinite varieties, yet many of us go without fresh produce on a regular basis. Farmers' markets and organic alternatives may help some of us bridge the gap between our food and its origins, but these options remain geographically and economically inaccessible to millions of North Americans.

From water and energy scarcity around the world to massive fish kills on our own coasts, we are not 'harvesting' in a sustainable way, and the disconnect between us as food consumers and our food supply enables and exemplifies this trend. As we acknowledge the bounty of our natural world on Sukkot, we also think about where we are taking too much - and what we can do about it. This begins with learning about where our food comes from and raising awareness of its ecological footprint; did you know, for example, that nearly 20% of our national energy consumption (and resulting greenhouse gas emissions) comes from growing, transporting, and storing our food; or that the average meal travels 1,500 miles from 'farm to fork' in the United States? As we start to think about the real costs of our food system (beyond the supermarket price stickers), we can begin to make food choices that are healthier for people and the planet.

We cannot conquer any of the great challenges we face today - from health care to the energy crisis - without thinking seriously about what we eat and how it affects us and our environment. And Sukkot creates the time and space to step back and ask these questions. This year, let's begin to take the steps to ensure many successful - and sustainable - harvest seasons and celebrations to come.

To learn more about the steps the Reform Movement is taking toward sustainability and how you can get involved, visit our new GreeningRJ online resource where you'll find everything from Jewish texts and teaching on the environment to room-by-room greening guides for your home and congregation.

And as you prepare to join us in Toronto for the 2009 North American URJ Biennial, find out what we are doing to make this the greenest Biennial yet!

Torah in Haiku: Sukkot

2009-10-02T03:21:40Z

by Ed Nickow
Temple Chai, Long Grove, IL
(Originally published in The Torah in Haiku)

Solemn Yom Kippur
Is followed by joyousness
A week of Sukkot

The sukkah is up
Decorating has begun
Lulav? Etrog? Check!

We'll do some shaking
Some sitting and some eating
'Cause it's a mitzvah!

Shabbat Solidarity

2009-09-30T01:52:43Z

by dcc
(Originally posted on The DCC)

The days between the High Holidays are a time of reflection, apology, prayer and introspection for the Jewish people. While Shabbat affords us this opportunity each week, I feel like the Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Shabbat Shuvah, is all the more special and powerful. So last Friday night I joined more than 100 young adults (both in age and in spirit) at Temple Shaarey Tefila for Shabbat Unplugged. This service is a celebration of Shabbat, bringing together people of different backgrounds, creeds and orientations to sing, celebrate and be together as a community to welcome the Sabbath bride.

I take the community aspect of this service very seriously and feel it is perhaps the most important aspect of my Shabbat. That is why I got up early on Saturday morning to travel to Congregation Beth Elohim in Park Slope to help this community--a community of people from different backgrounds, creeds and orientations--enjoy and sanctify the Shabbat.

Unfortunately the Westboro Baptist Church, the infamous hate group, was outside of Beth Elohim trying to deny this community of its Shabbat Shalom, its peaceful and meaningful Shabbat. Hatred needs to be combated with love and support, so I went to stand in solidarity with this community as it celebrated a young girl becoming a woman in the eyes of the Jewish people, to sit together with members and guests to learn some Torah portion and to take action in the face of injustice and hate.

It was a pretty sad showing from the Westboro contingent; no more than six or seven people with disgusting signs that will not get air time on this blog. But on the good guys' side, there were more like 150 people from all walks of life. There were rabbis, priests and pastors. There were gay, straight and bisexuals community members (I know because the good guys had signs explaining these things). But the thing that was best about this was the positive message of the good guys' counter demonstration.

Rabbi Andy Bachman, who is the spiritual leader of CBE, took a strong stand against a counter-protest but was open to the peaceful show of communal support that was emanating from the crowd last Shabbat. He lead this group from different backgrounds, creeds and orientations in a Shofar service, using the ancient horn of the Jewish people to shock us awake from the indifference that allows the Westboro brand of hate to flourish. He also called upon us to, in the tradition of the God of compassion to welcome the stranger, to accept all human beings as God's creation and to never allow hate to triumph over tolerance.

He also called upon us to act in the tradition of the God of Groucho Marx and stick our thumbs on our noses and wave our hands at the protestors...you can't be serious all the time (even in Park Slope).

But all this show of hate and counter-tolerance was not the most important aspect of this day. After the visitors from Kansas left, we all went inside to services. A young woman became Bat Mitzvah. A rabbi celebrated his 50th anniversary of his Bar Mitzvah. A member of the congregation gave a d'var Torah that dug deeper than most sermons and a guest from the Upper East Side took part in a beautiful Shabbat Morning experience.

People told me I was doing a great thing and I happen to agree. But the singing and dancing in the face of the hatemongering anti-Semitic homophobes was nothing important. The real power and meaning, a place where we found true Shabbat Shuvah, the Shabbat of return to the community and people of Israel, was that this group of people from different backgrounds, creeds and orientations, joined together in what we were going to do anyway. The evil of those Wichita-based bigots changed nothing. Together this community stood strong in the face of injustice, stuck our tongues out at hatred and joined together in a joyous celebration of the Jewish people.

Galilee Diary: Uncertainty

2009-09-29T19:44:25Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Galilee Diary and Ten Minutes of Torah)

These are the festivals of the Lord, holy convocations, which you shall proclaim at their proper time. -Leviticus 23:4

One of the things that many immigrants from traditional backgrounds learn to appreciate about living in Israel is the fact that the "second day of the holiday for the Diaspora" is not observed here. So, for example in the Diaspora, the eighth day of Sukkot, Shmini Atzeret, a full holiday, is doubled, and its second day (i.e., the 9th day of Sukkot) observed as Simchat Torah. In Israel, it is only one day, also observed as Simchat Torah, so Israel and the Diaspora celebrate Simchat Torah a day apart. Pesach is only seven days in Israel instead of eight, and there is only one seder. Most people find this a great relief (liberation!), but it causes havoc with in-law relations: instead of tonight at our place and tomorrow at yours, we have to alternate years. This is not so simple.

While of course holidays are a time of rest and joy and kedushah, I think that many Jews, no matter how devoted they are to the tradition, often find this doubling of the days burdensome, and don't miss it when they come to live in Israel.

The reason for the second day preserves the historical fact that up until about the 4th century, each new month was declared according to the observation of the new moon. Once this was ascertained, signal fires or runners transmitted the information to outlying communities - and all the way to the Babylonian and other exiles. To cover the possibility that the signal might not get through in time, an extra day was added as a margin of error: after all, everyone could see the moon and count the days - there was never a possible variation of more than a day in the declaration, so the most we could err if we didn't get the signal was one day. Within Israel this margin was not needed. Also, it was not relevant to post-Torah holidays like Purim and Chanukah, where an error would not matter so much.

But what about Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur? An extra day of Yom Kippur is not an option (a 48 hour fast?). And Rosh Hashanah is the only holiday that actually falls on the new moon itself - all the others come later in the month. Thus, even in Israel there was always a degree of uncertainty about the declaration of Rosh Hashanah, and so it was - and is today - observed for two days.

The Moslems still wait to sight the new moon before declaring their holidays, so while we all knew that the festival at the end of Ramadan, Id El Fitr, should coincide with Rosh Hashanah this year, we Jews knew well in advance exactly when our holiday would fall. Our Moslem neighbors couldn't tell us which days they'd be off work until the new moon was actually observed and proclaimed.

Since the fourth century our calendar has been fixed by astronomical tables, and we don't wait for the signal; the Talmud even states this explicitly. So you might think that the second day is now superfluous. And indeed, one of the first reforms of the Reform movement was to cancel it. This put the Orthodox on the defensive, as Reform had the Talmud on their side, and the main Orthodox defense was that we can't change what has been handed down to us, which felt (and still feels) a bit lame.

Meanwhile, since when Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat one doesn't sound the shofar or recite Avinu Malkeinu, we were rescued this year by the second day - our service on the first day was rather dry and disappointing, and we waited with anticipation for the second day. Maybe that's really why we have two days...

D'var Acher: The Sukkah Still Stands

2009-09-29T01:05:38Z

by James H. Perman
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

The Festival of Sukkot is underrated. It suffers from its placement in the calendar. It feels burdensome to have such an important festival so soon after the High Holy Days. It is so beautiful, yet it seems redundant, anticlimactic.

Some believe that it was the Festival of Sukkot that inspired the Puritans of Massachusetts to celebrate their Thanksgiving Day. While giving thanks is a fitting conclusion to a succession of sacred days, Sukkot is more than just a biblical "Thanksgiving."

Rabbi Hayon reminds us of the seasoned wisdom of Ecclesiastes. The book tells us about the changing nature of life. We are reminded that our condition is always precarious. We see the link between our insecurity and the sukkah.

When we see what has happened to the world's economy in a few short months, we might consider that we actually do live in a sukkah. If predictions are right, by the end of the century our planet will undergo irreversible changes. It's a sukkah. Anyone who has ever experienced a hurricane up close understands how a solid house can suddenly feel like a sukkah. When our trust--in our relationships, our work, our health--is shaken, we see that we really do live in a sukkah. We can't depend on the outer walls. Since that's the case, we learn a valuable lesson about life. Strong faith is not a luxury but a necessity. Having faith is a decision against chaos. It gives us the strength that comes from the inside, not from the outside.

Sukkot ends with Simchat Torah, which reminds us that the cycle starts again, as it always has. It is comforting. It is a new place, but we've been there before.

Rabbi James H. Perman is rabbi emeritus of Temple Shalom of Naples, in Naples, Florida. He presently serves as interim senior rabbi of the congregation.

D'var Torah: Making Homelessness Our Home

2009-09-29T00:44:35Z

by Oren J. Hayon
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

Like a giant tent spread atop three tall pillars that support it and give it shape, the Jewish year is held up by the Shalosh R'galim, the "three pilgrimage festivals." Pesach commemorates the joy of liberation and freedom, Shavuot acknowledges the power of God's word revealed in Torah, and Sukkot reminds Israel of nights spent in fragile huts during its wilderness sojourn.

Pesach and Shavuot celebrate spiritual fulfillment, times when God anticipated Israel's needs and acted bountifully and graciously to fulfill them. We were granted political and national fulfillment on Pesach, when we were led out of the painful grip of slavery. Atop Sinai, we were given the wisdom of Torah, and we celebrate its spiritual and intellectual fulfillment on Shavuot. But Sukkot, in contrast, does not celebrate substantive fulfillment at all. Instead, it acknowledges the insecurity and uncertainty of desert nights spent in frail temporary shelters.

Stranger still is this fact: each of the pilgrimage festivals has an alternate name which alludes to its purpose and religious symbolism. Pesach is called Z'man Cheiruteinu, "the Time of Our Freedom." Shavuot is called Z'man Matan Torateinu, "the Time of our Receiving Torah." And the name that tradition ascribes to Sukkot is Z'man Simchateinu, "the Time of Our Joy."

Might not this be a better title for some other holiday? What, after all, is so joyous about the memories of being homeless and directionless in the desert? What did we have to celebrate when we had no home, no communal security or permanence, and no assurance that Israelite settlement would endure beyond the elusive boundary of the Promised Land? Yet our tradition insists that we make sense of this strange paradox. The challenge of this festival is for us to find fulfillment not in spite of our historic homelessness, but in the homelessness itself.

On a Shabbat that falls during Sukkot, the Torah reading is supplemented by a reading from M'gillat Kohelet, the Book of Ecclesiastes. In it, the writer, Kohelet insists that to concentrate on one's wealth, possessions, and accomplishments is ultimately a vain and futile exercise (Ecclesiastes 2:11). But for Kohelet, acknowledging the meaninglessness of material possessions need not lead one to a life of monasticism or self-denial. Instead, he urges us to enjoy eating, drinking, and the sensory pleasures, and to pursue learning and wisdom (see Ecclesiastes 3:12-13, 8:15, 9:7-10).

During the rest of the year, we make practical choices about which people and things we will allow to surround us in everyday life. We think about the material value and aesthetic appeal of the furnishings in our homes and offices. We strategically consider the utilitarian value of relationships with other people. Who is most important and will help my career most? What will look most impressive and have the greatest impact on my friends and neighbors? How can I portray the best image of my status and security?

On Sukkot, we make these decisions differently. At this season, following the perspective of Ecclesiastes, we see through the vanity and shallowness of social cache. We look past material value and concentrate instead on authentic relationships. Though we eat our meals in straw huts, we do so in the presence of people we love. We also invite the ushpizin, "biblical ancestors," whose spirit we invoke on this holiday as guests in our sukkot. The ushpizin, like ourselves, are wanderers, having meandered through time to join in our celebration. Their presence reminds us of the spiritual potential of a life spent wandering. Our ancestors' placelessness, strange though it seems, is precisely the thing that enabled them to build an eternal and ubiquitous Jewish nation.

As with all significant times in the Jewish calendar, our tradition reminds us of what it really means to be home. The wind blows through the thin walls of our sukkot, but we are consoled by the knowledge that true shelter comes from the nearness of those we love and the reassuring comfort of God. The psalmist writes:

O you who dwell in the shelter of the Most High
and abide in the protection of Shaddai. . .
He will cover you with His pinions;
you will find refuge under His wings;
His fidelity is an encircling shield. . . .
Because you took the Eternal--my refuge,
the Most High--as your haven,
no harm will befall you,
no disease touch your tent.
(Psalm 91:1-10)

Sukkot's joy--the characteristic that merits its being called Z'man Simchateinu--derives from a paradoxical sense of being at home within homelessness, a feeling of being secure in God's presence even when we have nowhere else to call our own. Even without a home of our own, the Jewish people can feel secure, sheltered by each other within the nearness of the Divine.

The Bible calls Sukkot Chag Ha-Asif, the "Feast of Ingathering" (Exodus 23:16 and 34:22.) This title refers to the fall harvest at this season, when crops are collected gratefully from fruitful fields. But "ingathering" comes with another layer of meaning as well. It reminds us of the prophet Zechariah's promise that the Messianic Era will see all of the world's nations make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to acknowledge the reality of God: "All who survive of all those nations," the prophet declares, "that came up against Jerusalem shall make a pilgrimage year by year to bow low to Adonai of Hosts and to observe the Feast of Booths" (Zechariah 14:16).

On Sukkot, Ecclesiastes urges us to pause from our single-minded efforts of consuming and producing and to concentrate instead on the enduring values of reverence and wisdom. Zechariah invites us to look forward to the "ingathering" of the company of nations and the promising possibility that all earth's inhabitants can unite in the pursuit of peace. These Sukkot messages offer the soothing reminder that comfort and security can be found even in the frailest and most temporary of structures. Unlike what we build during the rest of the year, the sukkot that last barely a week can overflow with permanent, enduring meaning. The shelter we find under their rustling straw roofs is a most sacred harvest; it is, in the end, what makes this festival into a true Z'man Simchateinu.

Rabbi Oren J. Hayon is associate rabbi of Temple Emanu-El in Dallas, Texas. He received his undergraduate education at Rice University, and received rabbinical ordination from the Cincinnati campus of Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in 2004. Rabbi Hayon welcomes feedback from readers at ohayon@tedallas.org.

Yom Kippur at the Supermarket

2009-09-25T20:35:48Z

by Rabbi Rick Winer
(Originally posted on Divrei Derech)

I'm going on record with this one.

It's controversial from a religious standpoint, so I've been hesitant to go on public record, but I think I'm over that.

I go to the supermarket in the middle of Yom Kippur.

Jewish law more than frowns upon this... simply carrying money on the holiest of days is forbidden. Engaging in commerce is completely out.

Here's the deal. We do a food drive for non-perishables every year during the High Holy Days. As part of the Alameda County Food Bank's efforts, we collect tons of food which we deliver directly to Interfaith Sharing, our local food pantry and a beneficiary of the County Food Bank. (See also ACCFB High Holy Day Food Drive.

It's absolutely possible to go out and stock up on non-perishables during the week and even bring them in before Yom Kippur commences, but I seemed to have unintentionally developed a custom of which I have become quite fond.

I remember soon after coming to Beth Emek, in the High Holy Day rush, I had forgotten to gather items to personally bring in for the Food Drive. I can't, in good conscience, urge others to contribute if I have not done so myself.

I thought about the ramifications of appearing in the local supermarket in the middle of Yom Kippur... and I thought about the ramifications of not contributing to the Food Drive. I thought about the words of Isaiah that we chant every year on Yom Kippur...

Is this the fast I look for? A day of self-affliction? Bowing your head like a reed, and covering yourself with sackcloth and ashes? Is this what you call a fast, a day acceptable to God? Is not this the fast I look for? ...to unlock the shackles of justice, to und the fetters of bonadge, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every cruel chain?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and to bring the homeless poor into your house? (Isaiah 58:6-7)

I'm hearing Isaiah shout in my ear, "What are you waiting for?!"

I'm no fan of seeing the ancient sacrifices return, but I am okay with updating them in an appropriate fashion. This concept seems to me the perfect modern expression of the ancient sacrifice. On Rosh Hashanah, our ancestors did indeed offer sacrifices. (Leviticus 23:23-35, Numbers 29:1-6) The personal practice I've developed feels right. It feels like I think a sacrifice should.

It really became a powerful feeling when my family moved out to Livermore and we were all together on Yom Kippur. The kids were little, and explaining to hungry children as we walked the aisles of the supermarket that nothing we bought would be for them, was a great learning opportunity. We encouraged them to choose healthy items that hungry kids would appreciate.

This practice has brought much more meaning to my fast. To between services hungry is one thing. To walk through a supermarket collecting food for the hungry while I feel quite hungry... that's a powerful feeling.

It's up to you to decide how to observe the fast in a way that's meaningful to you. I won't tell you what to do... but Isaiah will... Share your bread with the hungry! (Isaiah 58:7)

I Hope You Don't Have an Easy Fast

2009-09-25T20:31:15Z

by Rabbi Phyllis Sommer
(Originally posted on Ima on (and Off) the Bima)

It's customary to greet one another in the days before Yom Kippur with the words "tzom kal" - "may you have an easy fast."

And I've decided that this is a terrible greeting.

I don't want my fast to be easy.

I want my fast to be purposeful. I want my fast to be meaningful. I want my fast to remind me that people are starving in the world. I want my fast to remind me that my spiritual self has work to do. I want to feel the light-headedness that comes at the end of the day when I've been on my feet for almost 12 hours leading services and I want that moment to lift me up and help me feel a true connection to God.

So this year I'm not wishing anyone an easy fast. May your fast be full of all that you need it to be. May your fast be powerful and purposeful and meaningful.

Interview Season

2009-09-24T02:01:53Z

by Leon Adato
(Originally posted on The Edible Torah)

A comment made in 2007 by Rabbi Label Lam on torah.org got me thinking about the Days of Awe in a whole new way. He states that it's NOT about looking back or thinking about our actions over the past year, in order to make amends and repent. Rabbi Lam points out that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur focus on looking ahead to the coming year and making a committment about what you plan to do with that time.

In other words, it's a job interview. And guess what? By cosmic coincidence (which I don't believe in) it's interview season for me.

You see, my current day job is coming to an end. My employer, a midwest bank, found itself on the wrong end of the mortgage crisis. So this fall I find myself back on the job market. This isn't actually a shocking development for me. Having worked in the field of computers and IT for over 2 decades, it's become common to change jobs every 3-5 years. There's actually a joke that in most businesses, if you change jobs every 3 years, employers look at you and say "what's the problem?" But in IT, if you *don't* change jobs every 3 years or so, employers look at you and say "what's the problem?"

I don't mind job interviews. It forces me to evaluate what I know and what I'm comfortable sharing; it gives me a chance to really define what I bring to the table, and what I WANT to bring to the table.

Going on job interviews reminds me that I live in a state with an at-will employment policy, which means (broadly speaking) any job can be terminated by the employer or employee at any time, with no reasons given or needed. Of course, the reality is slightly better than that: employees usually give 2 weeks notice, and most employers give reasons for job termination. But if you feel your job has some kind of guaranteed stability, it's an illusion. Going on job interviews Keeps It Real for me in that regard.

The parallels to Rabbi Lam's view of the Yamim Norim (Days of Awe) are striking.

The current year is coming to an end. I find myself in synagogue being asked (by the liturgy and my own heart, if not God) what it is that I plan to do with myself this coming year; on what merit should my contract be extended? No matter what achievements I may have garnered over the year (and in retrospect they don't look so impressive, compared to some of my more blatant - not to mention memorable - screw-ups), they only have a minor bearing on my negotiations. This is all about commitment to a future goal.

Having lived as Jew for over 4 decades , this is nothing new to me. It's been part of my yearly rhythm for as long as I can remember. Perhaps this year the liturgy seems especially noteworthy because of the point I'm at in my Jewish journey, but if I think about it there was always something that caught my attention each year.

The U'Netaneh Tokef prayer, which asks (in part) "who will live and who will die; who will die at his predestined time and who before his time; who by water and who by fire" reminds me that I live in a state of at-will "employment" - that my next breath is not a sure thing and any sense I have of the security of life is only an approximate guess, at best.

I find that I don't really mind the unspoken challenge. It's a chance to re-commit and re-dedicate myself to doing what's right. To resolve to make true t'shuvah. As I mentioned earlier this week, that doesn't mean promising to stop being bad, but rather to return to my best self and be the person that the world - and I - need me to be. No crutches, no immature mind games, no excuses upon which our society has become so fond.

During a job interview (the regular computer-world ones, not the one that starts on the first of Tishrei), I make a point of stating my feelings about the job. It's amazing how many people never do that - they never say "I want this job" or even "I think I can do this job". What I usually say (assuming that I want the job in the first place) is: "Not only do I think I can do this job, I think I can do a good job doing this job. And I want you to know that I want this job."

During these Days of Awe, as I consider the year ahead and all the things God might ask of me, I don't plan on being coy about my feelings or intentions. Sitting in prayer with nerves rubbed raw by liturgy that forces me to admit I am imperfect and flawed; edgy and agitated by long services and Hebrew that doesn't fit easily in my mouth; cranky from lack of food and attention that keeps wandering between my prayers and my kids and stray thoughts of work; In that condition I will be forced to admit that my soul is God's for the taking, but that this job I'm being offered - the job of living in God's world for another year - is a job I can do, that I will try with every fiber of my being to do a good job doing, and which I want very very much.

L'Shana Tova

Galilee Diary: On the Waterfront

2009-09-22T14:21:55Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Galilee Diary and Ten Minutes of Torah)

He will take us back in love; He will cover up our iniquities, You will hurl all our sins into the depths of the sea.

-Micah 7:19

One of our main early sources regarding customs among Ashkenazic Jewry is a book by the Maharil, (Rabbi Jacob Moellin) who lived in Germany around 1400. His book is the first documented source we have for the custom of Tashlich on Rosh Hashanah, which is now widespread throughout the Jewish world (though mainly in Ashkenazic communities). He describes walking down to a river after lunch on Rosh Hashanah in order to fulfill the above verse, "to hurl our sins into the depths..." He makes a point of saying that one should not take food along to throw to the fishes for the fun of it, as this might lead to the violation of the restrictions of the holiday. It would seem that the custom was not a new invention by him, and that indeed, he felt constrained to warn people against what probably was common behavior - taking a walk along the riverbank after lunch with the kids, tossing challah crumbs to the fish - perhaps a way to relax between many hours spent in synagogue. Beyond the verse from Micah (which is basically the only "liturgy" for the ceremony), he suggests further justification for the practice: the Torah reading for the second day of Rosh Hashanah is Genesis 22, the binding of Isaac. (It is the reading for the first day in most North American Reform Congregations.) There is a midrash that Satan tried various methods to prevent Abraham from trying to obey God's command; among these was to take the form of a river blocking Abraham's path. Abraham and Isaac continued walking, until the water was up to their necks, at which point God intervened. Hence, a connection between the Rosh Hashanah Torah reading and bodies of water.

The actual origin of Tashlich, and its rationale, are unknown. Some scholars have connected it with the custom of Kaparot on the day before Yom Kippur, when people swing a chicken around their heads while reciting "This is my exchange, this is my atonement..." - which may have its origins in a Roman pagan practice of swinging a pot containing bean seedlings, reciting a similar formula, and then throwing it in the water. And all of these have a certain resemblance to the ritual of the goat for Azazel, the scapegoat (Leviticus 16).

Meanwhile, needless to say, the Maharil's warnings against feeding the fish have been largely in vain. While there are certainly many Jews who see Tashlich as a serious symbolic casting off of sins, scrupulously walking to a body of water and reciting the verse while shaking off invisible crumbs (and there are even rabbis who have objected to this practice, as it seems to imply that such actions can replace true repentance), there are many others who make sure to take plenty of real crumbs along. Sometimes it is fascinating to see the way customs develop a life of their own, even when their origins and/or their meaning have been forgotten. At Shorashim, Tashlich is a family event. People arrive lugging plastic bags full of stale bread. Alas, we are nowhere near a body of water, but there is an ancient rainwater cistern in the center of the community (which no longer collects or holds water). After a brief discussion of the meaning of the ceremony, and a few seasonal songs, everyone crowds around the grate at the mouth of the cistern and dumps their "crumbs." The Maharil would not be pleased. No water. No fish. But something physical and symbolic and not too serious to do on Rosh Hashanah afternoon. Sometimes I wonder what the little kids will remember of this when they grow up, and what they'll pass on to their children - I just hope they don't end up confusing it with Pesach! (Erev Pesach we burn our old bread; on Rosh Hashanah we throw it down a well...).

Torah in Haiku: Rosh Hashanah

2009-09-17T02:03:25Z

by Ed Nickow
Temple Chai, Long Grove, IL
(Originally published in The Torah in Haiku)

Tishrei already?

Then I guess it's time to say:

"L'shana Tova"

On Abraham and Isaac

2009-09-16T02:28:15Z

by Steven Evans

The story of Abraham and Isaac is said by rabbis to present to them one of their greatest challenges, particularly for Rosh Hashanah. No doubt this is true. However it need not be so. There are a number of important principles which help explain the story and its import.

First it is useful to recall that just before Abraham is to be "tested" by God, Abraham is told by God, "...it is through Isaac that offspring shall be continued for you ..." [Genesis 21:12]. Clearly God has made it plain to Abraham that Isaac will bring forth the future progeny of Abraham. It should be clear then that Abraham knows at the deepest level directly from God [not even an Angel of God] that Isaac will not perish, for God has stated it clearly to him, just before his fateful trip with Isaac to Mt. Moriah.

Just why has God told Abraham this? Sarah has just told Abraham to cast out his concubine Hagar and his son by her, Ishmael. Abraham is greatly distressed. This is tantamount to sacrificing them both! But God tells Abraham, "Do not be distressed..." [Genesis 21:9]. Abraham immediately sets out his concubine Hagar and the son into the wilderness with "some bread and a skin of water..."[Genesis 21:14], and God tells Abraham, "Do not be distressed over the boy or your slave; whatever Sarah tells you, do as she says;" [Genesis 21:12]. Clearly Abraham is sacrificing his son, and this is a sacrifice of both his son as well as Hagar herself! So even before Isaac, Abraham has apparently been tested with his other son who would surely die in the wilderness, without any intervention.

We are not told Abraham is given advanced knowledge that all will be well, and he must surely expect that this is a sacrifice of his son. Indeed this is about to happen, and Hagar sets the child by a bush, suggestive of a sacrifice scene, and moves away so as not to have to see the child die, presumably from thirst since we are told their water was exhausted. But an Angel of God hears the child's voice, and they both are delivered from harm. The manner by which she is saved is "... God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of waters..." [Genesis 21:19]. God had already assured Abraham to "not let it be bad in your eyes," (literally that Abraham is not to see this possible sacrifice as a bad thing), so Abraham acts accordingly, relying on the Divine.

If this is a test, God has already given Abraham the correct answer ahead of time: do not be distressed. The deliverance by the Divine is to open Hagar's eyes to see the well right before her; presumably since she was not sleeping in the middle of the desert in this dreadful state, her already opened eyes are now opened to the actions of the Divine happening in her presence. As with Hagar, so much moreso with Abraham; he is to trust the Divine, be not distressed, and open his eyes which will be his salvation.

In summary, before Isaac's trip up the mountain, Abraham has already been tested once. And he has already in fact sacrificed his son, Ishmael, as far as he knows. This first time, he in fact is greatly distressed. But his distress is removed when God directly informs him that it is alright, do not be distressed, and in fact your other son Isaac will go on to be the one to provide the offspring for you. Abraham overcomes his distress only after the direct intervention of the Divine, not even an Angel of God, but God directly. Thus it is in this context with assurances and promises about Isaac in hand directly from God that Abraham is called upon to go with his other son Isaac, and so he takes his son Isaac to the top of Mt. Moriah.

Again God's messenger calls out, crucially, and just like to Hagar, "... Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw: here a ram ... and he offered it up as an offering ..." [Genesis 22:13]. Just as Hagar's eyes are opened to see the physical world in a way that brings forth life, so are Abraham's eyes now "lifted upwards" to see the ram. Importantly, Abraham calls the place "Adonai-yireh" [Genesis 22:14]. This may be translated as "The Lord will see," "The Lord sees," or even "On the mount of the Lord there is vision," as Rabbi Plaut offers in his translation of Torah.

This naming by Abraham is crucial to understanding the full implication of this event. If we take the meaning in a spiritual sense, he called the place God-seeing, that is, seeing with God's eyes. This is the purpose of the trip up the mountain, to see through the eyes of God, just as it was the purpose for Moses to climb to the top of the mountain to "see with Divine eyes," and thus see Torah. Since the ram was caught in the thicket, the ram had been there all along; like Moses, the bush had been there and was burning and burning, but burned unconsumed, but Moses had not known it, until he then is prepared by God to see it. Abraham has come to the mountain to see, already knew from God's assurances and promises that he was to come and to "see," and see he did.

To fully understand the actual culmination of this event, and the comments above, it is most important to recall just what is suppose to happen with regard to sacrifice. As we discuss in another section, sacrifice, as understood by those who communed with the Divine, represents the situation when the common reality of our world is altered so that the otherwise impossible intersection can occur between Man and the Divine. It is not so much that the Divine must see through man's eyes but rather that man is to see through Divine eyes, and in this sense, may be said to achieve revelation ("reveal is literally "back" + "downward" so as to see "back downward" to here on earth as the Divine sees it from the Divine's perspective).

This is further understood by the actual Hebrew word we translate as sacrifice which is based on the meaning of "to draw near." Sacrifice is not the act of killing some animal (or in this case, "child"). The killing of the animal is the only part seen by the non-divine mind; what is happening is an opening up, the drawing nearer of two worlds, the world of the Divine and the world of Man, so that through this moment of touching, the Divine may enter our world, and we see with divine eyes. When the Divine enters, it is we who see and hear in a new way.

This manifestation through "divine-seeing," is what Abraham was all about on Mt. Moriah. He knows already all will be well with Isaac; he has been told by God directly. The process of sacrifice which he enacts is to have divine-seeing. We are told that he picks up the knife, but he does not raise his hand against the boy, for God's Angel says, "Do not raise your hand against the boy ..." [Genesis 22:12]. Abraham already knows that something will happen; he but has to have Divine-seeing to know what it may be. And so he does, for Abraham looks up and sees the ram. With the blessing of Divine-seeing, Abraham does in fact see into the distant future, where "All the nations of the earth shall bless themselves by your descendants ..." [Genesis 22:18]. Obviously he has even seen past our own time since this vision has yet to come to pass.

What have we derived so far? Rather than a complacent zombie-like child-murderer, Abraham is first confronted with the apparent sacrifice of Ishmael. He presumably is not going to go through with it until God directly assures him that he should do it, and assures him all will also be well with Isaac from whom his offspring shall come. With Divine-hearing, Abraham may be at one with the Divine will. God also enables Hagar to see with a new vision, and she and Ishmael survive. God then again directs the now-informed Abraham to go with his other son, and await "orders."

The process of sacrifice, which is to bring the Divine into our midst, reveals not only the purpose of sacrifice but shows its actualization; Abraham sees with new eyes, sees the ram as the intended item of sacrifice, and then with Divine-seeing, sees the unfolding of the covenant regarding the people Israel. By his seeing the covenant, the contract between God and Israel is forged.

So what has occurred is a most spiritual happening in which Abraham has been called to the top of the mount to receive divine-seeing so that the covenant between the Divine and Israel which has already been forged may be realized as forged among the descendants of Abraham. Through the process of seeing with Divine eyes through the help of Isaac, a pure soul, Abraham is enabled to realize this intersection of Man and Divine dimensions. From this, the covenant is realized which is now based in both our world and the world of the Divine.

There are yet two more points to observe. Part of the difficulty of rabbinic thought to accommodate the test of Abraham arises from the failure to understand just who in the world we are discussing when we discuss Abraham. We are told that "the Lord blessed Abraham in all things." [Genesis 24:1]. Abraham speaks with God directly on a number of occasions, and can even enable God to apparently alter His decree such as when He first says that he will destroy Sodom. Abraham says to God, "Far be it from you! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?" [Genesis 18:25]. And if that harsh retort were not enough, he negotiates God from His offer to spare the city if there are 50 innocent ones to sparing the city if there are but 10 innocent ones. Abraham obtains fully an 80% discount from God.

Finally God makes his covenant for all time with Abraham! Abraham is unquestionably a massively heavy hitter. He is not "every man's" Jew. He is not just a learned man from Ur of the Chaldeans. God selects him so that "all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you." [Genesis 12:3]. This is the Patriarch of Patriarchs!

When Abraham acts in concert with the Divine, we can not bring our everyday experience to assess his actions. If today we hear voices to take our children for a sacrifice in the mountain, perhaps we may need to call emergency counseling. Abraham is not like us. His actions must be seen as one who talks with the Divine, is assured by God, and sees that God has blessed him in all things.

From this perspective, Abraham is seen as perhaps the closest man gets to God, with Moses also a second contender for the title, and thus his actions are one of a spiritual giant. In this context, when Abraham goes to the mountain with Isaac, he goes as a spiritually enlightened being about to achieve one of the highest revelations. When we see some Olympic-level performer perform, or see some world-class magician perform an extraordinary illusion, we may watch in awe, but we are always reminded, "do not try this at home without professional supervision; this is being done by a master." So was it with Abraham.

Given that Abraham was blessed in all things, can we at least speculate that he was not one to scam another, no less his own family? When Isaac asks where is the lamb for the offering, may we not take Abraham at his word, when he says that God will "see to the sheep for His burnt offering, my son." [Genesis 22:8]? Abraham the spiritual master has come, expecting a miracle. The problem today is that we are not like Abraham, not coming to expect a miracle. We are not like Abraham at all. Later God "sees" to the sheep by letting Abraham "see" the ram, the sheep.

The last point we address is that we are thrown off by the word "test" when we read that after Ishmael has been sent to the wilderness, "God put Abraham to the test" [Genesis 22:1]. If Abraham were to be tested, he had already been so with Ishmael. God even helps him pass the test by directly intervening with assurances, as we have noted. So Abraham has already been tested, although the term barely applies since God intervenes so that it is assured that Abraham passes the test.

In this passage, the concept of "test" is not to see if he will or will not kill Isaac. True he took the knife as if to slay Isaac. But rather than doing so, he hears God's Angel calling. He sees the ram. He came to hear, he came to see, and he did both. So "test" in this case is meant as "validate." He may have been somewhat tested with Ishmael; he is validated with Isaac in that he hears God and hearkens to His voice, and he "sees" where the ram is. The rabbis teach that there is a principle of Torah understanding whereby all things happen at the same time in Torah. Time does not exist in the understanding of Torah. Thus we may recognize that Abraham sees the ram which is the "seeing" he is suppose to have at the simultaneous moment is picks up the knife for the sacrifice; there was never a contest since Abraham saw as he was to see.

There is yet one more supportive piece of documentation buried in the hypothetical test. Abraham originally traveled three days to reach the site of the sacrifice. It is not in fact three days that Abraham passes through, but three levels of reality: first the realm of angels, then the foot of the throne of the Divine, and finally at the level of the Divine itself. Abraham climbs the mountain with Isaac, already operating at the next realm. For this reason Abraham is called twice, "Abraham, Abraham." We are taught that Torah never repeats itself; it is true here, for Abraham is called out at the second plane in which he resides, moving to the next plain, and then called separately again, moving to the highest plane of existence to which he has now traveled. Hence he must be called twice. And what is the purpose of this calling? For sacrifice -- for drawing near(er) to God.

Indeed a sacrifice has occurred, fulfilling the role of sacrifice, which is to open up a dimension in which both the Divine and man may draw near, even coincide. This is the purpose of the Divine in calling Abraham. And in this moment of communion, a covenant already made is conveyed between the Divine, Abraham, and simultaneously the future offspring of Abraham, to be sired by Isaac who is present as part of this communion with the Divine. The word "test" comes originally from the root word meaning vessel, or earthen pot. Abraham contains the spark of the Divine, he is now a vessel for the Divine, and he has come to the mountain to consummate connecting the covenant with God with the earthly dimension of all of Abrahams' descendants. Why does he know this? Because he is Abraham; we do not know it because we are not an Abraham. No wonder the rabbis have such a hard time with this story.

A Rosh Hashanah Miracle

2009-09-15T15:04:13Z

by Art Grand

Years ago, there was a young man in our congregation who had a terrible accident. He had extensive brain damage, and it was weeks before we know whether he would ever regain consciousness. He went through months of grueling therapy in the hope that someday he would fully recover. Every few weeks I would call up his mother to ask about his progress, and every time I would ask the same question: "Is John ready to take an aliyah? When he's ready, we'd love to honor him." And each time, her answer was the same. "He's making progress, but he's just not ready yet".

Winter turned into spring and spring turned into summer, and on July 1st, our new rabbi started. Like any new rabbi, he was nervous about the High Holidays, and as chair of the Religious Committee, it was my job to help him. I jumped into the effort with zeal, telling him about our minhag and lining up people for all of the honors. By the beginning of August, all the honors were filled - all except one, that is. I still hadn't chosen someone to read the opening reading on Rosh Hashanah and to light the candles and say Shehechiyanu. The rabbi was frantic - how could we risk not having someone for the very opening of the holidays. "Don't worry", I told him, "at the last minute the right name will occur to me".

The day before Rosh Hashanah I called John's mother. "Is John up to reading the opening reading?" I asked her, "and would you and your husband light the candles and say Shehechiyanu?" "No", she said, "He's making progress, but he's just not ready yet". I had known this woman for years. She had served on committees and on the board, and I had asked her to do many things. Over time, I had learned to interpret her tone. I knew when "No" really meant no and when "No" meant "If you ask me one more time, I'll do it". This time, I heard a little difference in her voice, so I asked her again. "Is John up to reading the opening reading?" This time, she said yes.

As services started, John went up and did his reading. At first, he read in a deep clear voice, like the strapping young man he used to be. But gradually, he got slower. You could tell that he was struggling to complete the reading. At every pause, you could feel hundreds of people encouraging him on, praying that he would somehow have the strength to continue.

John finished the reading, and as his parents got up to say Shehechiyanu, his father stopped to thank me. "Art", he said, "I didn't realize it, but this is the first time he's read out loud since his accident". Somehow, God was present at that moment. Whether it was our prayers or that young man's strength, I'll never know. But God was present. When you say Shehechiyanu at Rosh Hashanah this year, what will you be thankful for?

D'var Acher: The Akeidah: Can We Really Sacrifice What is Not Ours?

2009-09-14T17:10:06Z

by Mark Covitz
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

Rabbi Hayon gives us the insightful interpretation that Abraham is willing to sacrifice his future as a means of turning to God and of continuing his own personal growth. And while Abraham does grow from this experience, in truth, it is not his future he is willing to sacrifice but that of his son Isaac. It is instructive that Abraham argues for the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah but not for his own son, just as we have the occasional tendency to treat complete strangers better than our own loved ones. In the passages we read, it is God who stops the action before it becomes a slaughter; and it is God, not Abraham, who points out that Isaac is Abraham's "beloved one."

The Akeidah is a statement not only on what we may be willing to do with our own lives for a higher purpose, but also on what we are not authorized to do with someone else's life. Perhaps child sacrifice was a cultural norm, even playing a role in early Israelite society; but we can see this episode as a mandate on the Deity's part that such action is unacceptable. And we can relate this to Rosh HaShanah by letting it serve as a reminder that all we can control is our own behavior and our own lives; and even those are not entirely within our control. If during these Days of Awe we recognize our struggle to control ourselves, how can we possibly control others? We must accept the limited extent of our abilities to determine the future for those we love.

As we look ahead to a new year and imagine for ourselves the perfect world, all we can do is pledge to accomplish our respective parts of the ideal. We cannot decide what type of t'shuvah is done by those around us or those in our lives. As a father of four it pains me to say this, but we do not even have this control over our children. It is common, during the weeks leading up to the holidays, for parents to mediate children's arguments by reminding (scolding) them that this is the time we should be trying to become better people. However, while we may guide them and try to influence them through our own example, as soon as they can truly understand the concept of repentance, the responsibility of t'shuvah passes from us to them.

On Rosh HaShanah we can choose to envision ourselves as Abraham, wondering how faithfully we would follow God's command. But we can also choose to envision ourselves as Isaac, wondering if we will have the courage to be accountable for our own lives.

Rabbi Mark Covitz is the rabbi at Beth Tikvah Congregation in Hoffman Estates, Illinois.

D'var Torah: Father of Multitudes

2009-09-14T13:59:00Z

by Oren J. Hayon
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

One principle that remains reliably true throughout the Bible is that the fruitful production of children is evidence of God's love and providence for favored and faithful humans. The birth of healthy children--especially to mothers and fathers who had despaired of their fertility or potency--is proof positive of God's attention and care. The child's arrival shows his parents that God desires to grant them a future, lengthening their legacy and their name long into the future.

Certainly, the conception and birth of our forefather Isaac is a prime example of this phenomenon; the annunciation of his birth to his withered and barren parents Abraham and Sarah is so preposterous that it evokes more laughter than gratitude. Nevertheless, the miracle baby is born, weaned, and raised, and we share his parents' delight that through Isaac the line of Abraham and Sarah will be perpetuated, giving life to the entire future of the Jewish people.

All of this is fine, of course, until Abraham receives the bloodcurdling order from God to offer his beloved son as a burnt offering atop Mount Moriah. Even more baffling is Abraham's quiet acceptance of the order and the agonizing, methodical steps he takes in preparation to take Isaac's life as a sign of his own faith.

Adding insult to (Isaac's) injury is the fact that our sages of blessed memory decreed that this Torah portion (known as the Akeidah, the account of Isaac's binding) should be read on Rosh HaShanah, our commemoration of the New Year and the symbolic coronation of God as Israel's benevolent sovereign. How are we to make sense of this tradition?

Every year we ask ourselves: why must we read this portion, and not any of the possible alternatives? Why should we recount this heartbreaking episode during the sanctity of Rosh HaShanah? It is possible that we should try to emulate Abraham's example as a model of faith in God. But strictly speaking, repentance (which is, after all, the mandate of this season) cannot be brought about simply through piety and obedience. Perhaps a different reading of the Akeidah can yield a new way to find its relevance to the personal work of t'shuvah that we undertake at this sacred time of the year.

The birth of Isaac comes to Abraham and Sarah as God's assurance that their family and its religious covenant will endure. This is the reason that the Akeidah is so wrenching for its own characters as well as for us, its readers who live millennia after its original composition. If God's word is to be trusted, and if Abraham can be relied upon to obey it, then the sacrifice of Isaac will mean the end of the covenant. For Abraham, obeying this commandment will mean agreeing to the ultimate act of self-negation.

But he does agree, and strangely enough, his assent shows him the abundance within himself. Abraham's awed obedience earns the reinforcement of God's covenant; God is moved by Abraham's willingness to destroy his own future. And here we discover the Akeidah's connection with Rosh HaShanah. True t'shuvah requires our willingness to shatter our perceptions of who we are and what we think we must continue to be. In an extraordinary moment on top of a mountain, Abraham has glimpsed the potential embodied in himself--not in his family or clan, not even in his most-beloved son. He has seen, in the words of Walt Whitman, that his own self contains multitudes.

Abraham has shown himself willing to sacrifice his faith in the future and his certainty that things will turn out as God has promised. But he does so in exchange for the potential of even greater growth. Real t'shuvah is frightening because it requires of us the same attitude demonstrated by Abraham: painful humility and a brazen willingness to sacrifice our confidence that the future will resemble the present. We must be willing to give up our visions of life going on as planned. We must be willing to subjugate our own selfish priorities to God's, believing that the future will be different but may, perhaps, be better than we previously believed. Annie Dillard writes that, "[t]he religious idea sooner or later challenges the notion of the individual" (For the Time Being [New York: Random House, Inc., 2000] p. 119); the Akeidah's message is that on Rosh HaShanah we take the paradoxical first step of focusing on the self in order, ultimately, to transcend it.

The midrash Yalkut Shimoni imagines Isaac, moments before receiving the expected mortal blow on the altar, reaching out in love and concern to his father:

Isaac said to [Abraham]: "Father, hurry! Do the will of your Creator; incinerate me completely. Send my ashes to my mother and leave them with her. Every time she sees them, she will say, 'This is my son, whom his father slaughtered!' Father, what will you do in your old age?" [Abraham] said to him: "My son, we know that we will die soon. The One who has comforted us until now will comfort us until the day of our death."
-Yalkut Shimoni, Perek 22, Remez 101

It is a strange and jarring retelling of the scene. Still, within the midrash Isaac's outpouring of sympathy has the same effect on Abraham as the vision of a fiery restraining angel. Isaac points out correctly that his parents will be forced to confront a future violently different from the one they had envisioned for themselves. Nevertheless, God will continue to offer them guidance, comfort, and an unwavering presence.

This, finally, is the promise of the High Holy Days. This is a time of deeply personal--and, often, deeply painful--sacrifice. We bind expectation and ego to the altar and contemplate (often for the only time during the year) how our lives and our relationships might be improved in the future by thoughtful changes in our attitudes and our actions. Invariably, our repentance involves a sense of loss --of social standing, pride, or other personal gain. But we keep at it because we are encouraged and accompanied by the presence of a God who assures us that goodness and growth are always, in the end, worthwhile.

The Akeidah will most likely always be a difficult text for us to read on Rosh HaShanah. The God it depicts, and the human qualities it lionizes, are often far removed from our religious lives today. Nevertheless, when we do our own t'shuvah, we still can be inspired by our forefather Abraham. His name, meaning "father of multitudes," reminds us of the potential within each of us. Thankfully, none of us have to face a grisly mountaintop choice like Abraham did. But we may yet be privileged to see that we, too, contain staggering potential. We all indeed contain multitudes, and, with God's help, our brave t'shuvah can unlock the awesome power of transformation within.

D'var Acher: The Journey Continues

2009-09-08T17:05:00Z

by Lisa J. Grushcow
(Originally published in Reform Voices of Torah and Ten Minutes of Torah)

Rabbi Hayon writes compellingly about the responsibility that goes alongside inclusion in a community. Another perspective comes to us from the second of the two combined parashiyot, Vayeilech. Vayeilech begins with Moses's acknowledgment that he is not going to accompany the Israelites into the Promised Land. Instead, he will die on the far side of the Jordan, and Joshua will lead the people forward.

This is a difficult, even heart-rending part of the story. How is it that Moses, who led the Israelites to freedom, cannot lead them to the Promised Land? Whatever Moses did wrong with the rock (Numbers 20:9-13), the punishment seems disproportionate to the crime. Certainly, being part of a community involves responsibility, and leading a community even more so; but Moses's death seems fundamentally unfair.

These questions resonate with the themes of the upcoming Days of Awe. "Who will live, and who will die?" we ask in the Un'taneh Tokef prayer. We ask that question knowing that good people among us will die in the year ahead. The death of Moses is part of this theological and existential problem.

At the same time, Moses's death can be seen as an inspiration, precisely because he does not make it into the Promised Land. None of us accomplish everything we aspire to in our lives. There is a humility that comes with knowing that we are part of a bigger journey. When a scribe comes to the end of a Torah scroll, he or she traces the final letters, but the community fills them in. This is a tremendous act of tzimtzum, of stepping back to make room for others, of letting go of what is most precious and entrusting it to someone else.

So too with Moses, and so too with us, as we come to these Days of Awe. As Moses tells Joshua and the people, "be strong and resolute." The strength and resolve come from knowing that being part of a community means being part of something larger than ourselves. We each play a role in a journey that goes far beyond the limits of our lives.

Rabbi Lisa J. Grushcow, Ph.D., is associate rabbi at Congregation Rodeph Sholom in New York City.

D'var Torah: Standing Together, Standing Apart

2009-09-08T12:25:24Z

by Oren J. Hayon
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

This Hebrew month of Elul invites us into a period of preparatory self-reflection and contemplation, calling us to center our thoughts on our own t'shuvah. Elul culminates in the observance of S'lichot, a time of penitential prayer and meditation when we ready ourselves for the spiritual labor of the Days of Awe. This observance (which will occur on this Shabbat) guides us toward an examination of our inner selves and, in turn, provides a foretaste of the High Holy Days themselves.

This week brings a preview of another sort as well. Our scheduled Torah portion, Parashat Nitzavim/Vayeilech, offers a bit of textual foreshadowing: its words contain the Torah reading we will hear in our synagogues on Yom Kippur morning. The words of the portion are already familiar to many of us:

You stand this day, all of you, before the Eternal your God--you tribal heads, you elders, and you officials, all the men of Israel, you children, you women, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer--to enter into the covenant of the Eternal your God, which the Eternal your God is concluding with you this day . . . not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Eternal our God and with those who are not with us here this day.
(Deuteronomy 29:9-14)

When we read these words, we draw comfort from their inclusiveness and from the charitable impulse of the biblical text. God's covenant belongs not merely to the wise or the influential, Deuteronomy asserts, but to every member of our community regardless of age, gender, or social station; its expansiveness extends even to include the countless generations yet to come. This instinct toward outreach is a tonic for Jews who have felt excluded or overlooked by their religious community. The Torah portion reminds all of us: the covenant includes you, too. What we frequently overlook, however, is that our willingness to extend the boundaries of covenant for the sake of inclusion and universalism necessarily entails demands as well as social rewards.

Immediately after his generous pronouncement, Moses directs his subsequent comments to certain unspecified listeners in the crowd. He begins: "Perchance there is among you some man or woman . . . whose heart is even now turning away from the Eternal our God . . ." (29:17). Moses speaks directly to those people who are included under the wide tent of God's covenant but who, even at this momentous time of communal and religious connection, feel that they do not belong. Although they know intellectually that they are included in the covenant, they feel themselves, even at a time of profound unity and sanctity, slipping away from the faith and people of Israel.

Moreover (and this is Moses's chief concern), these disenfranchised Israelites have come to believe that because they are not at home in their religious community, their wayward hearts are not a true liability to it. Moses goes on, giving voice to those in the crowd who remain abashedly silent: "He may fancy himself immune, thinking, 'I shall be safe, though I follow my own willful heart' . . ." (29:18). These marginalized Israelites believe that God will overlook their infidelity (reasoning, perhaps, that God will ignore their sin just as the community ignored their physical presence). But Moses insists that this mistaken point of view will lead the entire community, not only the one who holds it, to "utter ruin" (29:18). His insistence exposes the gripping paradox of our parashah: we are so moved by the inclusiveness of its prologue that we may overlook the fact that the more broadly the covenant is applied, the broader the sweep of God's expectation for all Israel.

This realization dampens the charitable way we normally read this parashah, but it also provides us with a profoundly relevant perspective as we near S'lichot and the High Holy Days. Moses's words chill us when we reflect on the sense (one that, unquestionably, all of us have had) that we can remain religiously anonymous, hoping the offenses we have committed against God and against each other will pass unnoticed. Moses does not name the doubting Israelites, but we all know: he is talking about us.

Deuteronomy does not allow us to squirm away from its stern words of warning. We cannot lull ourselves into believing that the process of t'shuvah and the demands of the Days of Awe apply only to others. Everyone who is included in the preamble of Deuteronomy 29--men and women, young and old--is also called to account for how we uphold our obligations to God and to our fellow human beings.

Now we can begin to understand the significance (and look past the seeming redundancy) of why we read from Parashat Nitzavim/Vayeilech this week and again so soon on Yom Kippur. This is a portion rooted in the broadest possible understanding of Jewish covenant. It asserts that whether or not we like it, whether or not we feel embraced or fulfilled by our Judaism, we remain a part of Am Yisrael. Our parashah teaches that God is intimately acquainted with every Jew's most intimate and secret inner life (see 29:28 and 31:21); its inspiring message of universal Jewish inclusion comes alongside a sobering reminder of universal Jewish responsibility.

It is precisely such a moment of awakening--in which we see clearly who we are and what is expected of us--that our preparations at this time of year aspire toward. The clarity of this realization returns to us again in the imposing and inspiring pronouncement of S'lichot: Ki Anu amecha, v'Atah malkeinu, "We are Your people, and You are our Sovereign." Properly considered t'shuvah emerges from our recognition of God's bountiful covenant and of the demands it makes from us as Jews.

During these final days of Elul, our partnership in the covenant of Israel both buoys us up and weighs us down. We live in hope that God will deal mercifully with us, but feel trepidation about the reality that we have failed to meet God's expectations. Nevertheless, if we are faithful and serious, we will see that living in covenant means we are not alone--in either our hope or in our despair. This is the promise with which our parashah finally ends. Its words assure us that we never need to feel isolated, regardless of the fear or alienation that may have attended us through the year now ending. Holiness is all around us, and it surrounds us like an embrace when we sense the nearness of God and the nearness of each other. Judaism's promise of inclusion opens wide at this time of repentance, and through it we can be drawn into the arms of our community and back under the shelter of the people Israel.

Kol Nidre Past, Kol Nidre Present

2009-09-01T16:18:20Z

By JanetheWriter

Just a few days after this post appeared on the Union's blog, I came home to find a letter in my mailbox from the senior rabbi at my new congregation inviting me to bless the candles at Kol Nidre services on Sunday evening, September 27th.

Although I know that my oneg Shabbat experience of a few weeks ago and the appearance of this letter are two unrelated events, in light of the latter, I can't help but feel a bit sheepish at having related my slice-of-life experience regarding the former. In any event, I have accepted the rabbi's invitation and so for the first time in many, many years, I'll be someplace other than in my home congregation for Kol Nidre.

With just a few exceptions, the last time that happened was in the fall of 1981 when, as a freshman at Lafayette College, I signed up for home hospitality with a local family and then, together with several other students, attended Kol Nidre services at Temple Covenant of Peace. (Although Lafayette is only about an hour from where my parents live, for a variety of reasons I'd decided, and they'd concurred, that this particular year it'd be best for me to stay in Easton for the High Holy Days.)

Back in the dorm after services, I spoke with my parents from the pay phone down the hall from my room. When they asked me about my evening, I told them about dinner with "Doc Stein," the College's physician and his family, and filled them in on some of the highlights of the service. For the most part, I told them, it was very familiar (which I especially appreciated at a time when so much in my life was new and different), but there was one glaring omission: "They left out the part about the Morranos," I said, referring to the moving text the rabbi at home always recited in front of the open ark just before the cantor sang Kol Nidre:

The year is 1500, in a land called Spain. It is the eve of Yom Kippur. Fifty persons are crowded into a small room in a house not far from the market place. A blanket has been hung over the lone window, to prevent the feeble candlelight from being seen from the street. A strange assortment of persons: some in working clothes, some in the dress of the merchant, even one with priestly collar and long robe. One common feature unites these persons - and holds them in a terrible kinship: -- a kinship of fear! For these are Secret Jews, people who have publicly renounced their ancient heritage and vowed to embrace another faith in order to escape death. Think of the torment of these persons - who knowing well the danger, nevertheless have gathered to utter the words of the Kol Nidre, and to beg forgiveness of their ancient God for their false vows.

My mother howled with laughter. "Janey," she said, "that's not part of the liturgy. It's something the rabbi adds to the service himself."

A lesson for then...

A lesson for now...

This year on Kol Nidre, regardless of whether we find ourselves in a place we've always been and familiar with the service and our surroundings or in a new and different place - physically, spiritually or emotionally -- may we each find ourselves content with our lives, happy in our friendships and at peace with ourselves and those we hold close in our hearts.

L'shana tova u'metuka.

High Holy Day Travels

2009-08-27T13:58:39Z

Kol Hakavod to Congregation B'nai Israel, Bridgeport, CT, who aunched a new blog on 1 Elul. Entitled 'Sh'ma Koleinu - Hear Our Voices', it offers inspirational thoughts, poetry, spiritual reflections and practices, and holistic approaches to a centered life. Clergy, Educators and congregants will contribute, comment and reflect on the daily posts. Here is a taste of the blog from 6 Elul. Read more at http://shmakoleinu-hearourvoices.blogspot.com/

For years I was very flexible about my celebration of Rosh Hashanah. If I could, I spent it with family. If that wasn't convenient, I found other ways to observe the holiday. Some years I went to services, some years I didn't. What really mattered was eating something sweet and reflecting on the past and on the future.

One year I was on vacation in Sweden with my father and sister. On Erev Rosh Hashanah we were driving back to Stockholm from a weekend trip, and we stopped at a rest area. We couldn't find apples and honey so we celebrated with a plate of cookies. The next morning we found the main synagogue in Stockholm and showed up for services. We didn't anticipate that the prayer books would be in Swedish and Hebrew, and we had some trouble following along, but we felt that we had done something to observe the day before resuming our sightseeing.

Another year I was in Berlin, by myself. I found a synagogue on the map, but didn't have the energy to investigate it on my own. I felt that my anonymity in the city exempted me from any formal observance, and I settled for a pastry and some time writing in my journal.

Traveling on the holidays gives them an exotic appeal and makes them more memorable, and I do think that Rosh Hashanah is more a state of mind than anything else. But I also find that B'nai Israel provides an inspiring physical place and a spiritual community that helps to cultivate reflection and contemplation. Just knowing where I will be makes the holiday sweeter than Swedish cookies or German pastries.

Anat Shiloach

The Month of Elul is Here

2009-08-24T14:54:11Z

by Phyllis Sommer
(Originally posted on Ima on (and off) the Bima)

as the new moon Elul approaches
the days begin to grow shorter
as the new moon Elul approaches
our minds begin to wander
toward the healing breaths
of the days of awe.

each day dawns
beckoning me to
examine
elaborate
consider
remark
pay attention
get ready!

my heart moves toward
the days of awe.
am i ready?
have i asked the questions?
forgive me
pardon me
raise me up
renew me
refresh me
bring my soul back home
so that i may fill myself up

plant the seeds of the new year
and watch them grow
small shoots of green that begin to poke up
during this month
they blossom and flower
into the days of awe
and i flower with them
reaching my petals, like a flower,
up to the Holy One.

The Jewish month of Elul, which precedes the High Holy Days, is traditionally a time of renewal and reflection. It offers a chance for spiritual preparation for the Days of Awe. It is traditional to begin one's preparation for the High Holy Days during this month with the Selichot, the prayers of forgiveness. We look to begin the year with a clean slate, starting anew, refreshed.

It is also customary to recite from Psalm 27:
The Eternal is my light and my help.
One thing I ask of the Eternal, for this I yearn;
To dwell in the House of God all the days of my life,
To behold the beauty of God,
to pray in God's sanctuary.
O God, hear my voice when I call;
Be gracious to me, and answer.
It is to You that I seek, says my heart.
It is your Presence that I seek, O God.
Hope in God and be strong.
Take courage, hope in the Eternal.

May this month bring hope, holiness, and restoration to us all.

Debatable: Should We Offer Free High Holy Day Tickets to Non-Members?

2009-08-14T16:14:56Z

by Steve Friedman and Maxine Sukenik
(A debate originally published in Reform Judaism magazine)

YES
by Steve Friedman, immediate past president of Central Reform Congregation in St. Louis, Missouri

No Tickets = No Barriers.

After I moved back to St. Louis from Houston 25 years ago, I knew I didn't want to rejoin the synagogue I'd attended growing up. In the midst of visiting different temples, I learned that I could attend High Holiday services at Central Reform Congregation (CRC) without worrying about tickets. I was glad there was a place open to someone like me who was searching for a new spiritual home...and after I attended CRC's High Holiday services, which were so meaningful and spiritually fulfilling, I knew I'd found one. Many others have found a home at Central Reform the same way.

Earlier this year Newsweek magazine listed CRC as one of the 25 most vibrant congregations in America. Indeed, in 25 years we have grown from 30 to 750 households, and key to our growth and vibrancy is our openness. We have always welcomed people who sometimes feel marginalized, such as the LGBT community and interfaith families. And, to make sure there are no barriers to anyone needing a place to pray--including the embarrassment barrier of having to ask for a free ticket because of personal circumstance--our High Holiday services are open to all without tickets.

In order to accommodate up to 2,000 High Holy Day worshipers per service, we have had to rent large venues. To help offset this expense, we ask members and guests for donations, but don't come close to breaking even. Yet, even in these challenging economic times, we believe, on principle, that services should be open to all. Moreover, it turns out that the mitzvah of providing worship opportunities for anyone who wants to come home to Judaism has its rewards, bringing in people like me who get introduced to CRC on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, like what they see, join us, and may even become temple president.

NO
by Maxine Sukenik, president of Temple Chai in Long Grove, Illinois

The conundrum: At Temple Chai in Long Grove, Illinois, 1,000+ members can purchase High Holy Day tickets for their adult children and parents, but not for siblings, cousins, or childhood friends who want to pay to pray. While denying them this brief community participation may drive them further away from their spiritual roots, we must ask: Wouldn't providing tickets for purchase encourage them to remain two-days-a-year Jews?

Living in a Jewish neighborhood, my first-generation American parents felt no need to join a synagogue. It was not until much later, when my husband, children, and I moved to a newly developing Chicago suburb and experienced anti-Semitism, that we sought out a Jewish community for my sons. Once they finished religious school, our family remained temple members; I couldn't miss being with our community on the High Holidays.

Years later, in my retirement, I viewed a Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit and came away with questions that sent me to Torah study the very next Shabbat: What words on these ancient pieces of parchment could be so powerful that they are still recited in Long Grove, Illinois, and what relevance could they possibly have to my life? The more I studied, the more joy I found in my life. I gained purpose, the knowledge of why I am here. I fell in love with Jewish rituals, which offer us opportunities to reflect, renew, forgive, and celebrate the blessings that surround us. And the more I volunteered, the more I felt supported by community, in times of adversity and celebration.

Without dedicated members, Temple Chai would not exist. Even our reasonable dues are insufficient to maintain operating expenses. A High Holiday ticket program would be a disincentive to membership, threatening the very existence of our communal Jewish home. It would deprive me--who needed years before I was ready to begin my true Jewish journey--and many others of a full synagogue experience in all seasons.

A Facebook Yom HaShoah

2009-04-23T14:26:39Z

By JanetheWriter
Tuesday was Yom HaShoah. In addition to attending services, I used Facebook throughout the day to share my memories as a witness to history.

At 9:22 p.m. on Monday, I wrote, "JanetheWriter is remembering her visit to Auschwitz and Birkenau -- July 1, 2007 -- and recalling so many experiences and images from that unforgettable day." You can read a bit more about it here.

On Tuesday morning at 11:31 a.m., I was "remembering Chaim Glasberg whose name is painted on the wall of the Pincus Synagogue in Prague." I've written about Chaim Glasberg on this blog before, and you can read about him here.

After lunch, at about 2:15 p.m., I wrote, "JanetheWriter remembers walking out of Birkenau on the railroad tracks that carried so many in." With this update I recalled how, as my feet rhythmically carried my tired body from one wooden plank to the next, I also was awash with the emotional exhaustion borne of witnessing unspeakable horror: the barracks, the piles and piles and piles of shoes, of hair, of eyeglasses, the tallitot, the canisters of Zyklon B, and the grove of beautiful white birch trees, the last stop before the ovens.

At 3:53 p.m., I wrote this: "JanetheWriter remembers being encouraged to sing loudly during shacharit in the synagogue in Oswiecim. Later, at lunch on a knoll outside Auschwitz, we recited, but did not sing, the motzi. It is no place for singing..." Accompanied by two guitar-strumming NFTY-ites, we did indeed sing loudly in the synagogue/museum that morning, although at times my voice just didn't work.

After a long, tiring day of work and school, I posted my final Yom HaShoah Facebook update at 10:49 p.m.: "JanetheWriter remembers lighting a yahrzeit candle at the mass graves in the woods in Tikochin." This spot, three hours from Warsaw and two hours from the Lithuanian border was perhaps the most difficult of all the sites for me, the granddaughter of a Litvak. To hear my father tell this part of our family's story, it was there, in Lithuania, that many of his aunts, uncles and cousins lived until, as he says, "the letters just stopped coming."

In response to this last update, several friends commented.

"Me too," said Emily, one of the tour's group leaders. "Those were some surreal moments."

Peg said, "Hey, Jane, thanks for sharing your memories, helping us to remember this day."

Judith, who grew up in Communist Czechoslovakia wrote, "I remembered my relatives, including my dad, whose first transport before Auschwitz was to Terezin......"

Indeed, their input enriched my own observance of Yom HaShoah. As I have said often and reiterated yet again at the close of this important day: "It was an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime journey and being a witness to history is something I will carry with me for the rest of my days."

Galilee Diary: Spring countdown

2009-04-21T18:39:45Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Galilee Diary and Ten Minutes of Torah)

And from the day on which you bring the omer offering - the day after the sabbath - you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week - fifty days; then you shall bring an offering of new grain to the Lord. -Leviticus 23:15-16

As principal of a Jewish school in the US, I always felt that once we hit Tu Beshvat, the year is over - there is no time or energy left to do anything except cope with the succession of holidays, get ready for the end of the year, and work on the plans, hiring, etc. for next year. Any kind of continuity, of concentration, of orderly instruction is pretty much shattered by one special day after another, with their associated preparations. And if that is true in the microcosm of the Jewish school in the Diaspora, imagine what goes on in the Jewish state!

Purim, for example, eats up a full week - first there's getting ready, and then the school party has to be two days before Purim, for there is no school on Purim, and the day before Purim is the Fast of Esther, when it's considered inappropriate to party; and then the day after is Shushan Purim, another day off. Similarly, Pesach vacation starts a week before Pesach, which means that school sedarim and other festivities have to be held before the dismissal, cutting into the little time after Purim that was not already devoted to preparing for Pesach. For Pesach (and the weeks before) especially, not only schools, but the whole country goes into a kind of shutdown mode - normal obligations are set aside for cleaning, shopping, and travel. Whatever prophet said "dust is not chametz" has no following in the holy land; for example, the county street-sweeper makes its annual visit to our parking lot the week before Pesach.

But that's only the warm-up. Traditionally, the period from the second day of Pesach until Shavuot, the "counting of the Omer," was treated as a period of mourning. No one knows why - the Talmud refers to a plague that killed thousands during the Roman period - some see in that a cryptic reference to events of the disastrous Bar Kochba revolt. Others suggest that the period during which the wheat is ripening is fraught with danger - one poorly timed hailstorm can destroy a year's food supply; hence, we superstitiously avoid acting too happy until the harvest is in. If anything, the seven weeks of counting should be a calm and productive time. But whether by plan or by coincidence, we've inserted modern historical commemorations into this period, leaving no week untouched. The week after Pesach there's Yom Hashoah; the week after that there's Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha'atzma'ut - and since the latter comes this year on a Wednesday, and many people are off on Fridays anyway, that Thursday will be taken as a vacation day by thousands. Then a normal week, followed by the week in which Lag B'omer falls. Not really a holiday, with unknown origins, this 33rd day of the counting of the Omer, on which traditionally the mourning customs of the period are temporarily lifted, is thus a day of many weddings, and has become a kind of children's fire festival - bonfires, often huge, are de rigueur that night and woe to any construction site without a security guard. A year's worth of carbon credits up in smoke. The following week is Jerusalem Day - and the week after that Shavuot. By then of course we're approaching June, so schools are heavily into exams, rehearsals for graduation performances, etc.

There's something wonderful about this intense rush of religious and historical symbols, a period in which the various dimensions of Jewish identity saturate the public space - and consciousness - with symbols and songs and tastes and smells. Unless, of course, you're trying to get something done.

Living in Torah Time

2009-04-20T16:35:48Z

By Marge Eiseman
I've always wondered why the Torah reading about the Exodus didn't occur at the time of year when we celebrate Passover. And shouldn't we be reading about receiving the Ten Commandments at Shavu'ot? Doesn't that make more sense? Why are we in the midst of all the rules for the Levites and how to properly offer sacrifices, when it's time for us to act "as if" we were there at the plagues and the preparation for crossing the sea?

I've probably referred to this before, but my friends and I talk about living in "Torah Time" - when the themes of the weekly Torah portion either reflect or shape our modern experiences. So today, at 88 year old great uncle Archie's funeral, I had this idea that maybe it's what we put into these connections, this synchronicity that gives it some oomph!

I listened to the rabbi speak about how this very accomplished man was like matzah in his humility and service to nourish community. All who knew him in life, had memories of his very opinionated style of speaking, arguing cases and being the family storyteller, and as one of the speakers said, one quality he had little of was doubt. And yet, when the rabbi likened him to the humble flat bread that symbolizes the holiday during which Uncle Archie died, people nodded like that really captured his essence.

I guess in Torah Time, not everything has to line up perfectly, but it all sort of makes sense.

Ten Minutes of Torah: Up Close and Personal

2009-04-20T14:13:50Z

by JanetheWriter

Like many of you, I am a regular reader of Ten Minutes of Torah--Reform Voices of Torah on Mondays, Mishnah Day on Tuesdays, Israel Connections on Wednesday, Delving in Liturgy on Thursdays and the Jewish World and Social Action on Fridays...regular as clockwork. (I still miss Kevin Proffitt's Tuesday essays about the Jewish American experience, but that's a post for another time.)

Last Wednesday, the last day of Passover, I attended the festival shacharit and yizkor service in my home congregation, where I still daven from time to time. When it was time for the Torah service, Rabbi Bravo invited the congregation to the bema, where we passed the scroll one to the next before she opened it, we recited the blessing, and she prepared to read. As she did so, she told of rolling quickly to the right spot earlier in the week, as a few b'nai mitzvah students looked on.

"How can you find it so fast?" one asked. "It's easy," she said she told them. "You'll see."

And so it was for us as well. As we all crowded around and leaned in to see the parchment, it was, indeed, easy to see the Micha mocha portion stand out from the dense, justified paragraphs of text surrounding it on both sides. "Bricks" is the apt description the rabbi provided for the small rectangles of words that formed the parashah.

I saw a different image, however. To me, those airy squares of Micha mocha, surrounded by the rest of the Torah's thick, crowded scrawl, demonstrate the lightness, the joy and the buoyancy of the Israelites in their newfound freedom from Mitzrayim. They are, if you will, a visual onomatopoeia of our eternal journey from slavery to freedom.

Galilee Diary: By the Sea

2009-04-14T14:02:23Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Galilee Diary and Ten Minutes of Torah)

The ocean sounds, O Lord, the ocean sounds its thunder, the ocean sounds its pounding. Above the thunder of the mighty waters, more majestic than the breakers of the sea is the Lord, majestic, on high.
-Psalm 93:3-4

Many Israelis spend Pesach in Sinai (despite both the irony of returning to Egypt for Pesach, and the government warnings of terror attacks). That's always seemed a bit extreme to us, but this year we did repeat an adventure of several years ago, transporting our seder to a beachfront kibbutz guest house south of Haifa. Not Sinai and not the Red Sea, but plenty of sand and sea nevertheless. With two other families we prepared and brought with us all the symbols and the foods, and organized the seder in one of our rooms (after a bit of furniture-moving). The circumstances forced us to keep food and utensils simple, releasing us all from some of the "bondage" of Pesach preparation. Since no one had to leave for home afterwards, we could drink wine and sing as late as we wanted. And we could take long walks along the beach, by sunlight and by moonlight, a setting conducive to thoughts about freedom.

We were just a few minutes' walk along a broad sandy beach from Tel Dor, a massive excavation of an important port city that was built and occupied over and over again by every people that ruled the coastline, from the Canaanites through the Phoenicians and Romans to the modern Zionists. A little farther south is the Roman port of Caesaria, whose excavations have been turned into a popular tourist site. Dor remains partly excavated and totally undeveloped. The waves crash over a jumble of natural rock formations and man-made structures from different periods, and you can wander and climb freely - you can even swim (illegally) in the pools created by the waves among the ruins. On a spring day, when the paths are lined with wildflowers, the sky is clear blue and the water turquoise, and salt spray is on the breeze, it's hard to think about the responsibilities waiting after the holiday.

Dor, like Gaza and Yafo, Caesaria and Acco, represents the link between the Land of Israel and the West - Greeks, Romans, Crusaders, Napoleon, the British, the Zionist settlers, all used these ports. We take for granted the importance of the desert in the history and culture and religion of the land; the Torah is pretty much a desert book. Our desert is the bridge between Asia and Africa. But it's important to remember the significance of the coastline as well - for it represents the bridge to Europe. Perhaps what has most made this country so important, throughout the ages, is its unique location, linking North Africa, Europe, and the Arabian desert and beyond (it is believed that Marco Polo passed through Acco on the way to China). We've been dealing with globalization here since before the globe was invented, for better or for worse. Mediterranean, African and Asian flora and fauna meet here - as do diverse cultures and religions. These encounters have at times been traumatic, but they have also been productive. Our challenge today is to shift the balance from trauma to creativity.

Since most travel to Israel today is by air, it is easy to overlook the importance of the sea link. When our children were young we decided it was important to experience the geography of Israel's location, and so we flew from Chicago to Greece and continued on to Israel by ship. And indeed, seeing Mt. Carmel materialize in the distance, and then experiencing the entry into the harbor and arrival on dry land - the sense of place - and of history - was very powerful.

The sea is of course not just a path to the West; it is also a powerful force of nature and cultural symbol in its own right, with its power and its mystery, its beauty and its cruelty. In this context it is interesting to note that the vast majority of the population of Israel lives less than 45 minutes' drive from the shore. We are at least as much of the sea as we are of the desert.

Reform Follows a Sephardic Tradition

2009-04-08T17:12:43Z

by Rabbi Thomas A. Louchheim
Congregation Or Chadash of Tucson, Arizona

Passover is one of the holidays most closely associated with food.

When thinking about this holiday, there are two key words to remember: matzah and chametz.

The Departure of the Jews from Egypt came about so hastily that our ancestors had no time to prepare their bread in the usual manner. Because the dough needed to be baked so quickly, it did not leaven (rise). Matzah is the unleavened bread that they ate.

Chametz, "leaven," literally means "souring" or "fermentation." The Torah says, "Seven days you shall eat unleaved bread; on the very first day you shall remove lean from your houses" (Exodus 12:15). The forbidden grains are: barley, oats, rye, spelt, and wheat (except when making matzah).

For this reason, special dietary laws are observed during Passover. We are forbidden to eat any food which has been leavened or contains leavening ingredients. Even the most infinitesimal amount of chametz is forbidden to be eaten. Grain or cereal products, as well as derivatives of these foods, such as grain alcohol, grain vinegar are not used. Ashkenazi Jews also forbid kitniyot, "legumes" such as peas, beans, garlic, mustard, sunflower seeds, and peanuts.

In 1810 the Reform Movement removed this restriction against kitniyot, choosing the Sephardic practice having them at their meals during Passover. It is therefore not unusual to see corn, chick peas, string beans and rice during the Passover meal or during the week of Passover in Reform homes. Only use fresh legumes and not dried legumes, unless the dried legumes were dried for the specific purpose of being used for the Passover holiday. While soy beans are permitted, products made from soy such as soy sauce and soy milk are not. These products are made through an extraction method that uses grain alcohol.

When I grew up, I recall that our Passover meal consisted of brisket, string beans and rice.

Whatever your tradition, enjoy cooking and your Passover holiday.

The Torah in Haiku: Passover

2009-04-08T17:07:20Z

by Ed Nickow
Temple Chai, Long Grove, IL
(Originally published in The Torah in Haiku)

This night differs. Why?

Matzah, maror, dip, recline

Keep asking questions

D'var Torah: The Extent of God's Compassion: Mosaic Chutzpah and Rabbinic Chutzpah

2009-04-06T16:59:14Z

by Rachel Adler
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

Doctors say that scar tissue is much stronger than tissue that has never suffered trauma, and the same is true of covenants. After the sin of the Golden Calf in Exodus 32, God, Moses, and the people Israel are reconciled. The covenant that was broken through idolatry is mended and emerges even stronger in our holy day Torah portion. How does a betrayal of the covenant, about which God threatens to destroy the people, result in a new doctrine of divine mercy?

It begins with Moses's passionate advocacy on the part of his erring people. In the Talmudic tractate B'rachot 32a, Moses is portrayed as one of the heroes of prayer who "hurled words at heaven," using chutzpah to move God to mercy. God drops the hint that Moses needs in Exodus 32:10: "Now, let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and make of you a great nation." Moses hears, "Now, let me be," and thinks, "What if I don't let God be?" That is his cue to begin arguing. In the Talmudic passage, Rabbi Abahu comments on the outrageousness of Moses's behavior with an equally outrageous analogy: "Moses took hold of the Holy One like one who seizes his fellow by the garment and said, 'Ruler of the universe, I will not let You go until you pardon them and forgive them.'" Moses is, as it were, grabbing God by the suit lapels and demanding mercy.

Then Moses, in an ecstasy of longing, exclaims, "Oh, let me behold Your Presence!" (Exodus 33:18). His chutzpah now is no longer that of the advocate but that of the lover yearning for the deepest possible intimacy with the beloved. In response to Moses's boldness, God offers to reveal those divine attributes that are most of concern to human beings: goodness, grace, and compassion. "I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim before you the name Eternal [YHVH], and the grace that I grant and the compassion that I show" (Exodus 33:19).

This proclamation and God's passing by, as well as the new tablets Moses brings, are elements of a ceremony for "the renewal of the covenant between God and Israel," as Nahum M. Sarna observes (The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus [Philadelphia:The Jewish Publication Society,1991], p. 214). For the Talmud, the purpose of this ceremony is that God teaches Moses a special formula for imploring God's mercy. Rabbi Yochanan says, "God drew his tallit over his head like a prayer leader in a congregation and showed Moses the order of prayer. He said, 'Whenever Israel sins, let them do this prayer before Me and I will forgive them'" (Babylonian Talmud, Rosh HaShanah 17b). Rashi elaborates, "When you [Moses] needed to seek mercy on Israel's behalf, you reminded Me of the merits of the ancestors, for you thought that if their merits had run out, there is no more hope. . . . And I will proclaim the name YHVH to teach you the formula for seeking mercy even if the merits of the ancestors have run out . . . for My mercies are unfailing" (Rashi on Exodus 33:19).

The Rabbis of the Talmud derive from this formula thirteen attributes of God's compassion to be recited liturgically (see Babylonian Talmud, Rosh HaShanah 17b and Tosafot). Here is the formula and the derived attributes:

Adonai, Adonai, El rachum v'chanun, erech apayim
The Eternal! The Eternal! a God compassionate and gracious, slow to anger
v'rav chesed ve-emet notzeir chesed la-alafim
abounding in kindness and faithfulness, extending kindness to the thousandth generation
nosei avon vafesha v'chata-ah v'nakeih.
forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and remitting punishment.

The name YHVH, for which Adonai is a substitute, refers to the attribute of divine compassion. The repetition is significant: for the Rabbis, there are no extra words in the Torah; every one is meaningful. The following is an interpretation based on the sources above as well as on The Brown-Driver-Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon and several machzorim.

Adonai--I have compassion on a person about to sin
Adonai--I have compassion after a person sins and repents
El [the generic name for God]--I have compassion both on Jews and non-Jews
Rachum--gracious to those who have merit
V'chanun--compassionate to those with without merit
Erech apayim--long-suffering with violators in hopes that they will repent
V'rav chesed--kind to those in need of kindness
Ve-emet--faithful to those who do God's will
Notzeir chesed la-alafim--remembering kindness to the thousandth generation
Nosei avon--forgiving deliberate wrongdoing
Vafesha--and malicious rebellion
V'chata-ah--and unintentional wrongdoing
V'nakeih--and will remit punishment to those who repent

In this last attribute is the ultimate flourish of Rabbinic chutzpah. The Torah reading does not say "will remit punishment." In fact, it explicitly says that God will not remit all punishment. The verse uses a verbal construction we do not have in English called the infinitive absolute. Its function is to emphasize the meaning of the verb. Our verse, Exodus 34:7, would read literally, ". . . and remit, He will not remit [all punishment]" and could be translated, "He certainly will not remit." The Rabbis knew perfectly well that when the text said, ". . . remit He will not remit," that first "remit" was part of a larger construction. So how did they have the chutzpah to put a stop after "remit," changing the entire meaning of the phrase? Because the Rabbis regard the Torah as a cauldron of holy words, each filled with possibilities, each bearing important meanings, the Rabbis have to account for the first "remit" separately. Not coincidentally, their notion of t'shuvah, "repentance," is that God may, indeed, remit all punishment if the wrongdoer has repented, so the verse as it reads biblically does not represent correct Rabbinic theology. Therefore, in Tractate Yoma, the Rabbis interpret the problematic construction as follows: "He remits the guilt of those who repent. He does not remit the guilt of those who do not repent" (R. Elazar, cited in Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 86a). The first "remit," then, belongs with the attributes of compassion. And that's how Rabbinic chutzpah declares God to be even more compassionate than God is in the radical biblical doctrine of covenantal reconciliation.

Rachel Adler is professor of Modern Jewish Thought and Judaism and Gender at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles. She was one of the first theologians to integrate feminist perspectives and concerns into the interpretation of Jewish texts and the renewal of Jewish law and ethics. She is the author of Engendering Judaism, which won the National Jewish Book Award for Jewish Thought, and many articles.

D'var Acher: The Religious Experience

2009-04-06T14:55:40Z

by Ammiel Hirsch
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Reform Voices of Torah)

Dr. Adler describes the interaction between God and Moses following the apostasy of the Golden Calf and perceptibly depicts Moses's demeanor as "passionate advocacy."

Passion appears to dominate in both God and Moses. Emotion, not logic, is the primary ingredient in their exchange. As Dr. Adler elucidates, their dialogue is replete with words like "anger," "pardon," "forgive," "faithfulness," "compassion," "mercy," and "kindness." Moses's plea, "Let not the Egyptians say, 'It was with evil intent that he [You] delivered them'" (Exodus 32:12), is hardly an appeal to logic.

We can learn an important lesson from this: In life, normally the heart leads and the mind follows. Even for those whose chief endeavor is to think, the power of an encounter normally outweighs the power of an idea. "There was never yet [a] philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently," wrote Shakespeare (Much Ado About Nothing 5:3).

We experience religion more than we observe or analyze it. For this reason the Passover Haggadah that we read this week emphasizes, "You must see yourself as if you, personally, were redeemed from Egypt." To read about slavery is not the same as being in bondage. To examine a treatise on liberty is not the same as going through deliverance. To investigate the God idea is not the same as experiencing God.

Reform Jews, especially, would do well to remember that religion seeks to open us to feeling. Passion is the central ingredient. As our people understood long ago at the shores of the Red Sea, in matters of belief, ultimately you must either jump in or go back; there is no standing still. Faith is what happens after you leap.

Chag samei-ach!

Rabbi Ammiel Hirsch is senior rabbi at Stephen Wise Free Synagogue in New York, New York.

Galilee Diary: Leaving the desert behind

2009-03-31T16:07:15Z

By Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Galilee Diary and Ten Minutes of Torah)

Encamped at Gilgal, in the steppes of Jericho, the Israelites offered the Passover sacrifice on the fourteenth day of the month, toward evening. On the day after the Passover offering, on that very day, they ate of the produce of the country, unleavened bread and parched grain. On the same day, when they ate of the produce of the land, the manna ceased. The Israelites got no more manna; that year they ate of the yield of the land of Canaan. -Joshua 5:10-12

We learn in chapter 5 of Joshua that while the generation of the Exodus had been circumcised in Egypt, their children and grandchildren born in the desert had not been. And since only the circumcised may eat of the Passover sacrifice, it seems that this ritual too was not maintained during the forty years in the desert. Anyway, we couldn't have eaten matzah in the desert as we had no grain - only manna. Thus, the first Passover in the land of Israel was rather a significant event, a new experience for the people.

And when you enter the land that the Lord will give you, as He has promised, you shall observe this rite. And when your children ask you, "What do you mean by this rite?" You shall say, "It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, because He passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when He smote the Egyptians, but saved our houses." -Exodus 12:25-27

It is interesting to try to imagine the questions that were asked at that first seder in the land...

On all the other nights of all the years of our lives we ate manna, which had the quality of tasting like whatever we wanted it to taste like (e.g., lobster); why tonight do we eat only this dry matzah?
On all other nights we ate food that fell from heaven - all we had to do was gather it; why tonight do we only eat bread that is the product of our labors of cultivation and preparation?
On all other nights we sat on our suitcases; why tonight have we unpacked?
On all other nights we drank water from Miriam's miraculous portable well; how on this night will we stay awake if all we have to drink is the wine of the grapes of the Land of Israel?
On all other nights we were surrounded and protected by the endless desert; why tonight do we sit with our doors open to listen for any suspicious activity by our new neighbors?
On all other nights we were all equal, sustained by God's providence; why tonight are there poor among us for whom we must we take responsibility?
On all other nights we knew we could rely on Moses to lead us; why tonight is our dinner-table conversation about the crisis of leadership?
On all other nights we looked out of our tents at an endless and unknown wilderness; why tonight does every hill and valley, every rock and tree suddenly have a name and a meaning for us?
On all other nights, when we felt that we belonged someplace - it was Egypt; why tonight do we feel we belong here?
On all other nights we could ask our parents about their memories of slavery and redemption; how on this night shall we answer our children's questions?
On all other nights we worried about getting to the Land of Israel; why tonight do we worry about being allowed to stay here?
On all other nights, we studied the Torah as a theoretical exercise, relevant to some distant future; why tonight does the transition from theory to practice seem so overwhelming?
On all other nights, it was the older generation who were responsible for our predicament; why on this night are we suddenly responsible for ourselves?
On all other nights, we dreamed of coming into our own land, that had been promised to us; of what shall we dream tonight?

Matzo Outside the Box: A Modern Tale of Biblical Portions

2009-03-26T18:18:24Z

by Natalie Seltzer
As Passover approaches, so does that age-old question: "What are we going to do with all of this left-over matzo?" Little do most people suspect that matzo can be exciting, tasty, and infinite, a truth I discovered when I found out I had an allergy to yeast. I started cooking and eating matzo year-round and discovered that matzo answered many of my cooking and eating dilemmas. Hence, my newly-launched blog that takes matzo to a new level, Matzo Outside the Box.

As my alter-ego Bernie and I have learned, Matzo easily replaces traditional breading for eggplant parmesan, dough for pizza, and layers of four layer chocolate cake.

Matzo is an old food product (biblical, even). It is extremely versatile... more then just a platform for peanut butter, jelly and cream cheese. Jazz up your Passover Seder this year with this nouvelle cuisine matzo recipe from my blog:

Horseradish Salmon en Matzo Croûte
Serving Size: 2

Ingredients

1 lb. salmon filet (skin removed)

2 matzos, ground fine

½ cup horseradish (fresh or jarred)

1 shallot, minced

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

Zest of 1 lemon

2 tablespoons and 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon pepper

Preparation

Preheat oven to 450°F

Put matzo, horseradish, shallot, parsley, lemon zest, 2 tablespoons olive oil, salt, and pepper into a food processor and pulse until combined.

Rub baking dish with remaining 1 teaspoon of olive oil.

Place salmon in the baking dish and evenly distribute matzo mixture on top of fish to create a crusty topping.

Bake for 5 to 6 minutes on the upper rack of the oven. Then turn oven to broil high for 2 to 3 minutes or until crust is golden brown.

Don't stop cooking after your salmon is done. Try a lovely Brie en Matzo Croûte appetizer, and for dessert Chocolate Peanut butter covered Matzo "Pretzels".

And now, a little matzo history to get your taste buds going.

According to Dr. Jonathan Sarna in his paper How Matzah Became Square, matzo, "....like the Jewish people...underwent monumental changes brought about by new inventions, new visions, and migration to new lands. These changes transformed the character and manufacturing of matzah, as well as its shape, texture and taste" (Sarna 1).

Originally, matzos were round and made by hand in temples. In the 19th Century many processes such as hand-made matzos began to be mechanized. In 1838 a Jewish man named Issac Singer invented the first machine for rolling matzo (Sarna 1-2). Fifty years later Behr Manischewitz opened a matzo factory in Cincinnati. During this time the demand for matzo was rising in the United States because of the growth of the Jewish population.

In 1912, due to demands of technology and packaging, Manischewitz started making his matzo square. A lot of controversy surrounded this transition. Many Rabbis and members of the Jewish community believed that the square matzos were not "kosher enough" (Sarna 6-7). Since matzo was traditionally made by hand and was round, the idea of changing how the matzo was made and shaped caused some individuals to believe that the square machine made matzo was not in any way traditional and therefore less kosher. However, mass-producing matzo and making it square allowed matzo to no longer be just a local food product produced on an as needed basis. There was no longer a concern about the matzo breaking when shipped, allowing it to become a national and then international food. The supply of matzo was increased and the price decreased.

(Source: "How Matzah Became Square" by Jonathan Sarna. Touro College, New York, 2001.)

Natalie Seltzer is the Web Assistant/Registrar at the Union's Department of Lifelong Jewish Learning. She has a master's degree in Food Studies from New York University and, along with her alter-ego Bernie Mendelbaum, is co-blogger of Matzo Oustide the Box.

Cleaning out the Chametz and Clutter

2009-03-13T16:04:51Z

By Rabbi Phyllis Sommer
(Originally posted on Ima on (and off) the Bima)
I know many of my very Orthodox readers (and even some of the less practicing folks) are going to cringe at what I'm about to say:

I'm so excited to start getting ready for Passover!

There's a full lunar month between Purim and Pesach (Passover) and most Jews spend the whole month getting ready for the holiday. In fact, it takes the whole month to get ready and the holiday itself is only one week long. Sometimes I wish it were (gasp) longer, so we could put all that prep time to some use.

(Side note: we have a family rule for road trips: you must spend at least twice as much time in the destination as you do in total travel time. It doesn't always work but I sometimes wish that this rule applied to holidays as well. Then again, 2 months of Pesach might be a little much for me. Okay back to the post...)

Anyway, so I read this post here at The Jew and the Carrot (great Jewish food blog, by the way) about how much chametz (leavened stuff) that writer has in her cabinet. As a very happy baker myself, I too have a lot of different kinds of flour and other miscellaneous items in the cabinet that we're going to have to "eat through" in order to get to chametz-free for Pesach. (Can we do it? Another post, I think.)

But it's so much more than this for me. Pesach comes at just the right time of the year. I can't wait for a warm day so that I can throw open the windows and doors, welcome the sunlight and fresh air in, and really clean out my cabinets and the whole house. Chametz literally means the leavened food items that are forbidden on Pesach (specifically wheat, barley, rye, oats and spelt), but to me there are so many spiritual connotations to chametz. Food made with these grains tends to "puff up" - to rise. Matzah is flat, without pretension. Chametz is all the stuff that "puffs up" our lives -- or in other words, clutter. This month offers a great chance to rid ourselves not just of the foodstuffs that are forbidden but also to clear out the chametz that fills our homes and our heads, the extraneous items and activities, the thoughts that don't need to be there and even perhaps an extra few personal pounds.

This phenomenon of spring cleaning is universal - it's not just restricted to Jews. And I know that just like preparing for Passover, it can be viewed as a chore, a dreadful activity that has to be done. Instead I think that we need to look at it as a part of our heritage passed down from generation to generation. From a different point of view we begin to understand how the search for Chametz applies to our lives both physically in our homes and psychologically within our spirits. As we prepare our homes for Passover so to do we prepare ourselves for the celebration of the freeing of our ancestors. Our Passover Haggadah reminds us "We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and the Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand. Had not the Holy One, praised be God, delivered our people from Egypt, then we, our children, and our children's children would still be enslaved."

It is the same with us.

I know that I need this responsibility. I need to clear out some of the clutter in my life. I need to ask myself what I'm doing that I enjoy, and what things I'm doing that I want to cut out. There's such a sense of renewal at this time of year and I feel it both inside and out. We become a community again as my neighbors and my family start to spend time outdoors again. I feel so much freer leaving my coat at home and walking down the street. Passover is a holiday of freedom, celebrating the Exodus from Egypt. Celebrating freedom can also be a very personal thing as I free myself from the physical and spiritual clutter that has gathered.

What clutter has gathered in your life? How will you begin to clear it out, both figuratively and actually? What will you do to prepare for Pesach?

This is the beginning in an irregular series on Preparing for Pesach...stay tuned.

Galilee Diary: Remembering Amalek

2009-03-03T20:34:12Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Galilee Diary and Ten Minutes of Torah)
Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget.
-Deuteronomy 25:19

There were criminals in Rabbi Meir's neighborhood that so bothered him that he prayed for their death. Beruriah, his wife, said to him: "What's with you? Psalm 104:35 says, 'May sins disappear' - does it say 'may sinners disappear?' No, it says 'sins,' so you need to pray for them to repent; the Psalm continues 'and may the wicked be no more.' So he prayed for them and they repented.
-Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 10a

Haman, according to the Scroll of Esther, was a member of the tribe of Amalek. Thus, we learn the consequences of disregarding the Torah commandment to wipe out the memory of Amalek - as long as they are allowed to continue to exist, they remain a threat, the enemy who for no rational reason constantly plots our destruction. And we read the above passage on the Shabbat before Purim every year, to keep the lesson alive. The basis of this image of the Amalekites is found in the previous verse: we are told that right after we left Egypt, they attacked us cruelly and without provocation. The story of Amalek - and of Purim - posits a view of history in which there are forces of evil that can only be combated by means of violence, by destroying them physically. Their evil is inherent and immutable, and so, like some kind of virulent microbe in a horror movie, as long as even a few cells are left alive, there is the potential that they will regenerate into a monster. We may believe, in principle, that all humans are created in the Divine image, but apparently there are some who have so lost touch with that image that they are unredeemable.

One can certainly see the evidence for this view in the events of our history - from Amalek to Haman to Chmelnitzki to Hitler - we keep encountering enemies who seem to be beyond education and negotiation, whose hatred for us transcends their own self-interest and seems driven by forces beyond understanding. In this context, Beruriah's feminine wisdom seems naïve - what, we should have offered the Nazis diversity-training seminars? We should negotiate with terrorists? We should reason with the devil? Our history is full of sad stories of tragically humane and optimistic individuals and communities who believed that everything could be worked out, that we only had to appeal to our oppressors' enlightened self-interest, or to wait for their conscience to shine through; for we know that people can change, that the gates of repentance stand eternally open for everyone. More than once, we and our optimistic view of human nature and God's mercy went up in smoke together.

So there is something tempting about seeing Amalek in every enemy. That's the way they are - that's their inborn character. Trying to educate them is hopeless; the only solution is to blot out their memory. Let the evildoers die - then wickedness will be no more. There are a few problems with this approach, it seems to me. First, it is a bit of a slippery slope - once you start down the path of destroying those who you see as evil, you can end up doing a lot of damage that in retrospect may well turn out to be unwarranted. Second, we have been on the receiving end of the pestilential image of the Other, so we may need to be careful about the temptation to identify the Other as inhuman. Third, are we indeed prepared make the statement about human nature that people cannot change? And fourth, this mythical view of human evil absolves us of any responsibility for the bad things that happen to us - evil persons and groups are out there in the world, lurking, and we, their victims, can only repair the world by deleting them. Rabbi Meir wanted to take the easy way - hit them hard enough and they'll leave you alone. Beruriah's path is a longer and more difficult and uncertain one - fraught with frustration and danger; but I wonder if there is any other way to redemption.

Tu B'Shwatt: Serving up energy action at the seder

2009-02-07T03:08:52Z

As Rachel Cohen blogged recently, Tu BiSh'vat takes on a new and special meaning as concern for the environment moves to the forefront of our collective consciousness. Barbara Lerman-Golomb -- a member of the Union's Commission on Social Action and Union Temple of Brooklyn, Director of Community Relations for Hazon, and much more -- writes in her article for the JTA, "Tu B'Shwatt: Serving up energy action at the seder":

"... this year as I sample the foods traditionally eaten at the Tu B'Shevat seder to commemorate springtime in Israel -- dates, almonds and figs, to name a few -- I'll not only be thinking about the farmers who planted them but the distance the foods traveled and the amount of greenhouse gases associated with their journey.

According to the Worldwatch Institute, the average food item travels 1,500 to 2,500 miles from farm to fork. For many, the foods featured at the seder are not locally grown and therefore catapult that "food miles" figure off the charts, increasing our carbon footprint.

One way to assuage our guilt is to be more intentional in taking energy-efficient actions, or to purchase carbon offsets to make up the difference for the carbon emissions being released in the atmosphere from our seder food choices.

We can even integrate energy action into the four worlds of the kabbalistic Tu B' Shevat seder."

We urge you to read the full article on JTA.org, and to visit the Union's new website, Greening Reform Judaism, as well as our TuBiSh'vat resources page, for more information and ideas about celebrating the holiday and living an environmentally responsible life.

Progress by Pesach

2009-02-04T16:02:30Z

By Jill Zimmerman
(First posted on the RACblog)
Jill Zimmerman is an Eisendrath Legislative Assistant at the Religious Action Center.

"When strangers sojourn with you in your land, you shall not do them wrong. The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." (Leviticus 19:33-34)

Thirty-five times this principle is repeated in the Torah. Thirty-five times we are reminded of our own immigrant history. Thirty-five times we are commanded not only to welcome the stranger, but to "love them as yourself."

Today, we face the enormous task of fixing our nation's broken immigration system. Over 12 million undocumented immigrants live as "strangers" in our communities. U.S. Immigration Customs and Enforcement (ICE) raids, such as the one in Postville, Iowa at the Agriprocessers kosher meatpacking plant, have torn apart immigrant families. Detention centers across the country leave thousands in legal limbo and offend our sense of humanity. It is time to tell Congress and the Administration to enact solutions.

In this light, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) in coalition with a number of other Jewish organizations, including the Union for Reform Judaism, has launched a new campaign for comprehensive immigration reform: Progress by Pesach.

Passover is a time when we celebrate our freedom from bondage, remember when we were strangers in a strange land, and connect our history to modern-day liberation struggles. This year, consider the strangers who sojourn with you by telling President Obama and Congress to make comprehensive immigration reform a priority by Passover.

Here's how you can get involved:

Help collect petition signatures and sign the letter to President Obama and Congress
Host HIAS's interactive and educational "Welcome the Stranger" program on immigration
Participate in monthly interfaith immigration national update and coordination calls
Host an interfaith prayer vigil for immigrants on Presidents' Day weekend
Deliver a D'var at your shul
Follow and post to the blog
Be a part of coalition work with immigrant groups and immigrant allies
Help with press strategy: write editorials, write to editorial boards, etc
Attend local events to support the campaign, by checking out the event calendar link on the HIAS Web site
Host a house party to educate and mobilize your friends, family and neighbors about immigration issues: we've got plenty of materials and support to help you create a great event

Tu BiSh'vat in the Age of Green

2009-01-29T20:29:32Z

By Rachel Cohen, Eisendrath Legislative Assistant
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah)
Each year, even as many of us struggle against the cold winter days of February, we engage in a celebration of nature's renewal with the ritual of Tu BiSh'vat. Just as Israeli farmers begin to see signs of spring, Jews worldwide celebrate an ancient tradition marking the age of trees. With the rise of the environmental movement, Tu BiSh'vat has been branded the "Jewish Earth Day" and transformed from a minor observance into a mainstay of the Jewish calendar. Tu BiSh'vat has taken on many meanings to many people: a celebration of natural wonders, a chance to recommit ourselves to environmental stewardship, and a day to reflect on our role in the complex ecosystem that is planet Earth. But by now, we have heard all this before. Climate change is everywhere, green is the buzzword of the new century, and we are aware of our religious obligation to "till and tend" God's earth (Genesis 2:15). This year, however, we can move beyond a one-day celebration to more long-lasting and persistent efforts throughout the entire year that truly honor our environment.

In the 16th Century, Kabbalists in Safed created the ritual of a Tu Bish'vat seder, modeled after the Passover seder and celebrating the natural resources of the land of Israel. More recently, Jewish environmentalists have adopted the Ten Plagues, a central Passover seder ritual, as a modern environmental tale by offering the litany of the "Ten Modern Plagues" waged by humankind upon our environment; these afflictions include air and water pollution, toxic waste, and deforestation.

Although the Ten Modern Plagues may be a useful tool for raising ecological awareness, we do no justice to our environmental obligations when we present Tu BiSh'vat as little more than a contemporary, greenwashed version of Passover. Experts agree that we are nearing an environmental tipping point, and that if we do not act now, we will not be able to avoid the worst impacts of climate change in the future. This year, hosting an environmental Seder on Tu BiSh'vat is simply not enough. Rather, this ritual meal is only the beginning, and the true celebration is in carrying its lessons forward throughout the year.

So what are these lessons, and how do we act on them? Tu BiSh'vat commemorates the incredible biodiversity of our natural world. During the modern seder ritual, we drink wine and say prayers over the plant species we encounter each day, from fruit-bearing trees to the cedar and olive trees that dot the Israeli landscape, and give thanks for all plant and animal life. There is no greater threat to the diversity of life on earth than climate change, which affects the habitats of millions of species. Since trees play a vital role in mitigating the greenhouse effect and keeping our ecosystem in balance, one simple way to celebrate Tu Bish'vat is to promote forestation by planting trees in our own communities or sponsoring forestation projects where they are needed throughout the world, including Israel.

Tu BiSh'vat begins Sunday, Feb. 8th at sundown. The celebration does not end, however, by planting a tree on February 9th. This April, we commemorate Birkat HaHammah, a unique blessing that is said when the sun returns to its 'original' place in the heavens at the precise time and day of its creation, once every 28 years. In honor of Birkat HaHammah, several congregations plan to install a solar-powered Ner Tamid. Other ideas for the observance of Birkat HaHammah include installing compact fluorescent light bulbs, purchasing carbon offsets, or engaging in other actions that promote energy efficiency and conservation. When we couple tree planting and other environmentally-friendly actions on Tu BiSh'vat with smart energy decisions on Birkat HaHammah, we commit ourselves to a deeper rethinking of the way we interact with our environment.

Looking beyond the Jewish calendar, we are also in the critical early days of a Congress and Presidential Administration with the greatest opportunity, and the greatest publicly-stated political will, to make the tough choices necessary to confront our energy and climate crises. At such a time, "Jewish Earth Day" can be a call to action on climate change, and the threat it poses to so many species on our earth.

It is easy to let ritual events slip away with only a passing reference. We spend an evening around a communal table, plant a tree, and pack up our Tu BiSh'vat resources for next year. Yet, we know that this is not enough, especially as we expand our knowledge about our planet and its changing climate. We cannot let this holiday, and our opportunities to take action this year, pass us by.

My favorite Talmudic commentary on environmental stewardship comes from Midrash Ecclesiastes Rabbah: "When God created the first human beings, God led them around the Garden of Eden and said: Look at my works! See how beautiful they are, how excellent! For your sake I created them all. Take care not to spoil or destroy My world, for if you do, there will be no one to repair it after you." As we celebrate Tu BiSh'vat, let us not forget our responsibility, this year more than ever, to care for God's world.

The Union for Reform Jewish has just launched its "Greening Reform Judaism" web portal. This addition to the Union website is a one-stop resource for congregations and their members seeking to live more sustainably and engage more deeply with environmental issues.

Shamor v'zachor - Observe and Remember

2008-12-30T00:08:26Z

by Daniel Crane
First-year rabbinical student at HUC-JIR
Originally written for blogHUC and Daniel's blog Journaling in Jerusalem

I've been involved with interfaith dialogue since my first year of college. So when I signed up for Rav Siach, an interdenominational rabbinical student discussion group in Jerusalem, I expected an interesting and smooth experience. The past two months have definitely been interesting, but I could hardly call them smooth!

For the past eight weeks, four fellow HUC rabbinical students and I have been traveling to Melitz, a pluralistic education center in Jerusalem, to meet a handful of our future colleagues from other denominations. There are about a dozen participants with three facilitators, and we come from Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, "orthodox," and non-denominational backgrounds. Thus, we come to the table not only with our personal perspectives but also with the weight of our "movements" on our shoulders. And all that weight has made for some very heavy conversations. We discuss and debate issues like commandedness, the role of the rabbi, and denominational distinctions, and we strive to keep our minds open while attempting to understand the thoughts of the others. This can be a significant challenge, but our mutual respect gives us the motivation to try our hardest.

One of the most intense components of Rav Siach has been our recent Shabbaton, which began when we departed from Jerusalem at 7:15 am on a Friday morning for the Arbel. The Arbel is a plateau overlooking Lake Kinneret, Sfat, Tiberias, and the coastal plain. From so high up, one can see for miles in any direction, and the views were simply stunning.

The wife of one of our facilitators is a tour guide in the Arbel, and she led us through paths down the side of the Arbel and around the face of the cliff. We rested in the abandoned caves that had been inhabited by the last remnants of the Hasmonean Dynasty that had gained control of the land of Israel following the events commemorated by Hanukkah, and we read the historical account of their eventual defeat in these very hills. Afterward, we climbed back up the cliff, gripping iron handholds and stealing final glimpses of the plains and hills laid out before us. When we reached the top, we ate our packed lunches and headed to the hostel/conference center where we'd be spending the night.

The actual hours of Shabbat were fascinating on many levels. First of all, there were a number of interesting lessons offered by our peers. Some of the topics included a comparison of the parsha with a selection from Homer's Odyssey, Reform Responsa (religious/legal decisions in the Reform movement), and the recent ruling in the Conservative movement to allow for the ordination of openly gay rabbis. We walked on Saturday afternoon to the Kinneret Cemetery, where several influential figures in early Israeli history, including the poet Rachel, the songwriter Naomi Shemer, and the Zionist labor leader Berl Katznelson are buried. And, of course, the food was plentiful and terrific!

Two particular events especially defined the scope and depth of the Shabbaton for me. The first occurred on Friday night, when we walked to our assigned room to pray together. Upon arrival, we discovered that the light was off, and to turn it on would be a violation of the rules of Shabbat in the eyes of our observant participants. As this value isn't part of my own Shabbat practice, I thought I could fix the situation by simply turning on the light in the room. I knew that it was unacceptable to ask someone to turn a light on for you, so I quickly walked to the room and flipped the switch on without saying a word. What followed was a wholly unique experience.

Immediately, the group had transformed. Everyone was in shock. What had I done? Although I didn't know this at the time, it's additionally not allowed for one who observes strict laws of Shabbat to make use of the result of a fellow Jew's breaking those laws. In other words, though I had tried to make the room suitable for our use, I had actually made it entirely unkosher.

I've come head-to-head with halacha before, but this was the first time that I had really affected people that I cared about. Words were exchanged, apologies were made, and discussion ensued. This certainly serves of an example of the principle that being told something doesn't make up for experiencing it firsthand. Never before had I felt so much access to the world of halacha as when I entered that world and shattered it for others. It was a painful lesson but an important one, and certainly the most important to me over the course of the Shabbaton.

On the other side of the spectrum, the spiritual high for me came on Shabbat morning. Our non-denominational rabbinical student led us in meditative morning blessings, and the combination of singing and silence launched me into a spiritual experience. While our voices had been in debate and discussion, not until this moment were they in harmony. I felt our small community coalesce into a praying body, and I was proud and delighted to be a part of it.

In my eyes, the Shabbaton was a terrific success and showed that pluralistic Shabbat experiences may not be easy but they can absolutely be transformative. Many of the Rav Siach participants now feel a renewed interest in such programs, and I believe that we're all better equipped to lead and learn in pluralistic environments in the future. While I'm disappointed that our official group will be coming to a close in a few weeks, I look forward to continuing my relationship with these future colleagues and continuing to learn from them for years to come.

Chanukah VII - A holiday for every Jew, a holiday for today's Gaza

2008-12-27T18:34:06Z

By David A.M. Wilensky
First published on The Reform Shuckle

Chanukah is my favorite holiday. I know that involved, intellectual Jews like myself are supposed to declar that Pesach is their favorite or something, but I think that we do Chanukah a disservice these days. Undoubtedly, Chanukah's proximity to Christmas has made it a more major holiday in recent decades as American Jews have sought to include themselves in winter holiday festivities, but I'd argue that Chanukah's popularity cannot be reduced to such a disdainable cause.

If Yom Kippur or even Simchat Torah came at this season, we would not have been able to seize upon them and say, "Yes, goyim! We are just like you! We too have an uplifting winter holiday!" Chanukah is a great holiday all on its own and I'm here to tell you why.

Let's say you're a little kid and you like presents, it's a great holiday. It's also a great holiday for inculcating our children about tz'dakah and the value of education.

Rabbi Abraham P. Bloch has written that "The tradition of giving money (Chanukah gelt) to children is of long standing. The custom had its origin in the seventeenth-century practice of Polish Jewry to give money to their small children for distribution to their teachers. In time, as children demanded their due, money was also given to children to keep for themselves. Teen-age boys soon came in for their share. According toMagen Avraham (18th cent.), it was the custom for poor yeshiva students to visit homes of Jewish benefactors who dispensed Chanukah money (Orach Chaim 670)." [Wikipedia]

Or let's say you're a typical American. Aside from the obvious upside of feeling slightly less culturally marginalized during December/Kislev, this is a supremely compelling holiday. Modern American Jews tend to be liberal and, if not urban, metropolitan or suburban. We go to university, we are highly assimilated. Yet, Chanukah is about Jews like us getting their asses handed to them. The hellenized city Jews supported Antiochus and it is a group of bible belt fundamentalists who've been living off in the countryside who are the victors in the story of Chanukah. As Americans, we take part in a country with a huge, some would say increasingly imperial army. Yet, Chanukah is about the guerilla defeat of such an army.

Or let's say you're into miracles. The Talmud has the inspiring story of a dire olive oil shortage. Without more olive oil, the Temple cannot be properly rededicated, but miraculously a tiny amount lasts over week (!) until more can be scrounged up. It's a great winter story, right in line with the cross-cultural trend of winter light festivals and as such, Chanukah works.

Or let's say you're into history or text study. This holiday has it all! There are three great texts from the Apocrypha, and at least three from the Talmud. Of course, the classic source texts for the holiday are Maccabees I and II, late Jewish texts not included in the Tanach, but included in the Catholic Bible as part of the Apocrypha. These text relate the military struggle of the Maccabees and the story of the restoration of the Temple and of the transformation of a late celebration of Sukot into an annual week-long independence celebration. The Talmud offers us the miracle-driven version of the holiday offered above, a story about Adam's amazement at the his first winter equinox and his subsequent celebration of festival for that occasion, as well as story of Chanah and her sons who are killed for refusing to worship an idol in the midst of the Hasmonean War. The third book from the Apocrypha is that story of Judith, which leads me to...

Or let's say you're a feminist, or just interested in the representaion of women in Jewish texts. There's the book of Judith, or Yehudit, which simple means Jewess. Yehudit, the title character lives in a town under siege by one of Antiochus' generals, Holofrenes. Yehudit sneaks into Holofrenes' tent at night and seduces him. She takes his own sword and removes his head. And one time my mom was Yehudit for Purim or Halloween or something. It's a good story.

Or let's say you live anywhere in the diaspora. Here's a story about the triumph of Jewish culture over an assimilationist force!

Or let's say you're Israeli or simply a Zionist who remains in galut. Of course, the ultimate Zionist holiday is Yom Ha'atzma'ut, Independence Day, but Zionism always seeks to justify itself historically. How better to do that than to celebrate an older Jewish independence day?

There's a final reason why this is a great holiday for our times. Today, hostilities have increased in Gaza. Palestinians and Israelis are dying today in an occupied territory. I don't pretend to know who is good in this conflict and who is bad. Probably, there is no good guy and no bad guy in Israel today. But Chanukah is the story of Jews under occupation, seeking their right to self-determination. And in Gaza today, some people we like to think of as enemies are doing the same thing. Let's all just think about that as Chanukah begins to wind down, eight candles on our menorot, with only one more night of light to go.

Shavua tov.

The Candle of Contemplation

2008-12-27T01:18:33Z

by Rabbi Paul J. Kipnes
A Story
(learned from Rabbi Cheryl Peretz)
There is wonderful Hasidic story, told of a conversation between the rabbi and a member of his community. The man once asked: "Rabbi, what is a Jew's task in this world?" The rabbi answered: "A Jew is a lamp-lighter on the streets of the world. In olden days, there was a person in every town who would light the gas street lamps with a light he carried on the end of a long pole. On the street corners, the lamps sat, ready to be lit. A lamp-lighter has a pole with a flame supplied by the town. He knows that the fire is not his own and he goes around lighting the lamps on his route." The man then asked: "But what if the lamp is in a desolate wilderness?" The rabbi responded: "Then, too, one must light it. Let it be noted that there is a wilderness and let the wilderness be shamed by the light." Not satisfied, the man asked: "But what if the lamp is in the middle of the sea?" The rabbi responded: "Then one must take off one's clothes, jump into the water, and light it there!"

"And that is the Jew's mission?" asked the man. The rabbi thought for a long moment and finally responded: "Yes, that is a Jew's calling." The man continues - "But rabbi, I see no lamps." The rabbi responds: "That is because you are not yet a lamp-lighter."

So, the man inquires: "How does one become a lamplighter?" The rabbi's answer this time? One must begin by preparing oneself, cleansing oneself, becoming more spiritually refined, then one is able to see the other as a source of light, waiting to be ignited. When, heaven forbid, one is crude, then one sees but crudeness; but, when one is spiritually noble, one sees the nobility everywhere."

How can We Prepare Ourselves to be Lamp-lighters?

First, see the candles for what they may represent:
Rabbi Dan Ehrenkrantz teaches:

Traditional Chanukah lights had three elements: oil, wick and fire. The fire ignites the wick, and the oil (or, today, the wax candle) provides fuel for a continuous flame.

To succeed in any endeavor, we need the same three elements: The creative spark (the flame) , that must be given form (the wick), and the form must be given sustenance (the oil or wax). The Hebrew words for flame, wick and oil are נר (ner), פתיל (petil) and שמן (shemen).
Taken together, the first letters of each word--נ (nun), פ (phey) and ש (shin)--form the Hebrew word נפש (nefesh), or soul.

A candle is a symbol of the soul. To prepare ourselves, let us pay attention to each element as we kindle the Chanukah lights: the creative spark of the flame, the wick that gives form to the flame, and the oil that keeps the flame alive.

Next, Be Attentive to the Soul Within
Rabbi Jonathan Slater teaches:

The miracle of Chanukah - according to the Talmud, and as emphasized by Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev - was that the single cruse of oil lasted for eight days. Those ancient Maccabees looked at the container of oil and, based on their previous experience, decided that it was sufficient for only one day. They decided that there the container did not have the capacity to keep the flame burning for more than one day. Then they experienced its persistence as a miracle. They learned of the power of the Holy One in that manner.

Similarly, we look at ourselves (and others) and, based on previous experience - based on personal preference, fear, bias, hope, anxiety, or need - we determine what we (or they) can or cannot do. Then, something else happens, beyond what had been expected, and we learn of God's power.

Similarly, when we light a candle, we expect it to stay lit as it burns, and we expect that it will finally burn out. What we often fail to notice is that in each moment that it is burning, something is actually happening. We note the beginning and the end, and say "Well, we lit it and now it's done" yet we miss the middle, the time when its existence, when the interaction of wax, wick and flame produce light and heat, demonstrates God's sustaining, enlivening power. And, so too do we miss so much in our lives.

Take Time to Contemplate

Tonight, take some time after you light the candles to examine then. Use this time to notice each miraculous moment of their existence. Hold your attention in them as they burn. Attend each moment. Notice each flicker, each crackle, each plume of smoke. Then open yourself to the possibility that there are miraculous moments within your own existence as well. In this way, you become your own lamp-lighter.

This Chanukah, may your soul shine brightly in all the in-between moments. This Chanukah, may your life become a candle that illuminates the miraculous in your world.

Chag Chanukah Samay-ach * Happy Chanukah.

Lighting up Chanukah with YouTube Star Michelle Citrin

2008-12-23T09:22:37Z

You may know Michelle Citrin as "Rosh Hashanah Girl" or from her other videos such as "20 Things To Do With Matzah", or you may have caught her performance on the recent PBS Special "Lights: Celebrate Chanukah Live in Concert" with Craig Taubman, Joshua Nelson, and others.

Here, in an exclusive interview for RJ.org, Michelle sits down with Molly Kane, a rabbinical student at HUC-JIR to discuss Michelle's new Chanukah video sensation "Pass the Candle", her involvement in Reform Judaism, and more. Click below to listen in, and watch the video after the jump.

Watch the video "Pass the Candle", a compilation of winning entries in Michelle's video contest.

Chanukah, a Major Holiday

2008-12-15T21:00:52Z

by William Berkson
Over on the touching thread by a former Christian about giving up Christmas for Judaism, someone wrote about Chanukah being "unimportant in Judaism."

Technically, it is true that Chanukah is a "minor holiday," in the sense that it does not contain a yom tov, a day on which work is forbidden. However, this reflects the fact that Chanukah is post-Biblical more than its importance or lack of importance.

None the less, there is indeed ambivalence about the importance of Chanukah in Jewish tradition. On one hand Chanukah is traditionally viewed as a critical event in Jewish history. But on the other hand, our tradition hasn't wanted to talk too much about it.

The reluctance to look too closely at Chanukah seems to be a result of the experiences of the Pharisees, who had bitter conflicts with the Hasmoneans--the descendents of Mattathias who were rulers in Judaea for over a hundred years. John Hyrcanus, grandson of Mattathias, turned against the Pharisees toward the end of his life. And in subsequent generations of Hasmonean rulers, actual civil war broke out between factions supported by the Pharisees and the Saducees. The resulting weakness of Judea contributed to the eventual Jewish loss of political power to Rome.

The sages of the Mishnah and Talmud were the Pharisees and their successors, the rabbis. Bitter memories of the Hasmoneans may have led to their not including First Maccabees--originally written in Hebrew when John Hyrcanus was still pro-Pharisee--in the Jewish Biblical Cannon. This is in spite of the fact that Chanukah is undoubtedly historical, whereas Esther, as the rabbis knew, is of dubious historical reality and yet is included in the Canon.

Another sign of reluctance to go into real history is the supposed 'miracle' of the oil that lasted eight days. This story was originally in a Baraita--a statement outside the cannon of the Mishnah--and the Encyclopedia Judaica reports that even in the middle ages it was doubted to be historical. Yet the 'miracle' of the oil that God performed, rather than the deeds of the Maccabees are put at the center of the story.

By contrast, the traditional prayer to be said daily after the Amidah during Chanukah is bracingly to the point about the real significance of the holiday. It is worth quoting in full (from the Metsudah Siddur, which has pretty literal linear translations):

"[We thank you] for the miracles, for the redemption, for the mighty deeds, for the deliverances, and for the wars that You performed for our fathers in those days at this season.

"In the days of Matittyahu, son of Yochanan the High Priest, the Hasmonean and his sons, when the evil Greek kingdom rose up against your people Israel to make them forget your Torah and to turn away from the statutes of Your will--

"You, in Your abundant mercy, stood by them in the time of their distress, You defended their cause, You judged their grievances, You avenged them.

"You delivered the mighty into the hands of the weak, the many into the hands of the few, defiled people into the hands of the undefiled, and the insolent into the hands of diligent students of Your Torah.

"And you made Yourself a great and sanctified name in Your world. And for Your people Israel, You performed a great deliverance and redemption unto this very day.

"Afterwards, Your sons entered the Holy of Holies of Your Abode, cleaned your Temple, purified Your Sanctuary, and kindled lights in the Courtyards of Your Sanctuary, and designated these eight days of Chanukah to thank and praise Your great Name."

Especially since WW II, Chanukah has in practice become a major Jewish festival, both in the Diaspora and in Israel. I think that this renewed emphasis on Chanukah is entirely appropriate, for reasons rooted in the above prayer.

The prayer notes that the key issue was whether Israel would become completely Greek and erase distinctively Jewish tradition. According to historians, it seems that the elite Priests in Jerusalem wanted to become completely Greek, and they in fact called in Anticochus to do their dirty work against the country bumpkins who wanted to keep to the Torah.

So the central issue of Chanukah is assimilation. But it's more complicated than indicated in the prayer, because in fact the Pharisees and rabbis themselves incorporated key elements of Greek culture--such as the high importance of study and learning--in Judaism, while rejecting other features. Thus when we in the Diaspora write about the "December Dilemma" and try to understand what we should accept and reject of our surrounding culture, we are in fact carrying on the work commemorated by Chanukah. And we can and should do it consciously, not suppressing but studying and building upon our history.

And in Israel, at last the third Jewish Commonwealth, established by the victory of the few against the many, there is every reason to rejoice in both the ancient and modern miracles.
Also just a note on the lights: the rabbinic mitzvah is to show the lights to the public, and we needn't be afraid that lighting up our house and garden is too 'goyish'.

So enjoy a "major" Chanukah!

Chanukah Sameach--Happy Chanukah!

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

2008-12-11T01:45:26Z

by Andi Rosenthal
This article was originally published on InterfaithFamily.com
In the midst of packing up the apartment where I've lived for the past seven years, I found them right where I knew they would be, in a box at the very back of the hall closet.

Sighing, I opened it. There they were, bells and angels, stars and glass balls, shimmering in every color of the rainbow, shining out of the depths of the cardboard darkness. My Christmas ornaments, every single one with its own story, its own memory. I picked one up--a goofy orange ceramic lobster my sister had brought from Maine--and gazed at it, remembering my final Christmas tree in 2001, the year before I converted.

"Throw them out," said my friend Chrissy, as she folded up the clothes I would be donating to a local charity. "It's not like you're going to use them ever again."

"No," I replied, a note of stubbornness coming into my voice. "I want to keep them."

"But why? You're Jewish, you haven't had a tree for years."

"I don't know," I said lamely. "Maybe I'll decorate a sukkah (wooden hut) with them someday."

"You're going to decorate your sukkah with a lobster (nonkosher food)?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. I didn't answer, but I smiled as I taped up the box and put it aside, to take with me to my new home.

***

Last year, for an article about how the December holidays impact Interfaith families, I was asked by JTA reporter Joe Berkofsky how, as a new convert to Judaism, I would be spending the Christmas holidays with my Catholic family. I had felt honored to be interviewed, and answered Joe's questions almost breezily. I remember telling him how easy it had been to give up my Christmas tree, and predicted that it would be a wonderful, happy challenge to celebrate "my" holiday of Hanukkah in the midst of my family's Christmas celebrations.

What I didn't know last year was that my little travel menorah, brought over to my parents' house for our traditional Christmas Eve family party, would look so small and forlorn in the midst of the lights and wreaths and holly. Even though Christmas Eve coincided with the sixth night of Hanukkah, and my family joined me in the candle blessings, the menorah seemed so out of place that not even those steadfast candle flames were of any comfort. Small and forlorn was exactly how I felt. It was then that I realized, in spite of my cheery holiday prediction, something was indeed wrong.

I also didn't know that as part of my boyfriend's holiday traditions, he would want to watch Midnight Mass on TV that night. As a young journalist, Claude had interviewed the late John Cardinal O'Connor for one of his stories, and later that year, the Cardinal had invited him to attend Christmas Eve Mass at Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. Ever since then, Claude, though deeply proud of and committed to Judaism, had a soft spot for the Midnight Mass, with all of its pageantry and loveliness. But for me, the Mass was another reminder of everything I was not anymore.

Sitting together in the darkness of the living room, listening to the Gospel and its message of "peace on earth, goodwill towards men," I realized that I still knew all of those ancient prayers, still knew the words to the hymns and the carols. I felt a tightness in my throat and a strange stinging in my eyes. By 12:30, I was in the bedroom reading with the door closed, so that I wouldn't hear the music.

I also didn't know that by Christmas morning, it would all be too much for me to handle. Any pretense of breezy holiday celebrations had faded with the headache that greeted me as I woke up. All I could think about were the years of Christmas mornings that my sister had jumped on my bed to wake me up, and how together we had raced each other down the stairs to see what Santa had brought for us. My mom and dad would already be making cups of tea in the kitchen, emerging with resigned smiles as they encountered the detritus of torn wrapping paper and frantically untied bows.

Claude and I drove to my parents' house, where my sister, her husband, and my two small nephews were waiting for us so that we could open presents. My headache was threatening to explode into a migraine, and I couldn't keep the tremor out of my voice as I watched my nephews re-enact the chaos that my sister and I had crazily carried out for so many years. I opened my own gifts with a heavy heart, feeling as if I was doing something wrong. I'm not supposed to be doing this, I kept thinking. I'm Jewish now. This isn't my holiday.

A few hours later, Claude and I packed up the car with our gifts and headed out for a movie and Chinese food--we had laughingly told one another that we would celebrate Christmas the traditional Jewish way. As I pulled the car door closed, the tears started. And they didn't stop.

I cried through two movies. I cried all through dinner. When Claude tried to comfort me, I couldn't respond. I cried out of some mixed-up sense that everything was wrong, that I was sitting over an untouched plate of chicken with snow peas when I should have been somewhere feasting on turkey with cranberries. I cried because, for the first time, I wondered if converting was perhaps the worst thing I ever could have done to my family, because Christmas with them didn't belong to me anymore, and it never would again. I cried because I felt stupid, because I missed having a Christmas tree, and I was afraid I had reneged on my commitment to being Jewish because I had opened presents on Christmas Day.

And I cried because this was happening to me. I had fought so hard, waited so long, wanted so much to convert to Judaism, and the day of my conversion had been one of the happiest of my life. On that sunny August afternoon, I had chanted "Sh'ma Yisrael--Hear, O Israel!" with a heart full of pride, love, and humility. I loved Judaism with every breath of my being. But I suddenly felt betrayed by my decision. I belatedly realized that even as I had joyfully converted, I had never acknowledged the loss of my Christian heritage and identity. But here it was, coming back to visit me like a ghost of Christmas past. I had never envisioned myself becoming a casualty of the December dilemma. But it had happened just the same.

***

When I traveled to Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion last summer to train as a mentor for those in the process of conversion, I heard a story about a woman who, having converted to Judaism, still couldn't bring herself to give up her Christmas tree. She had tried to keep it a secret from her rabbi, but one day, in a fit of despair, confessed to him that she had put up a tree in her house. And he answered, very gently, "Well, maybe someday you might not need it anymore."

That's why I am taking my Christmas ornaments with me. It's not so much that I ever expect to have a tree again. But I know that I still need them, even if they are hidden away in a cardboard box at the back of the closet. Like the ancient, hopeful liturgy of the Midnight Mass, like the sad, sweet songs that herald the holiday season, Christmas remains a part of me still, in a way that perhaps Hanukkah will not be until I have a family of my own.

My history, however, as I seek to balance the new wonders of Jewish life against the loss of a life once celebrated according to a different calendar, is one of the special and unique things that I bring to my Jewish journey. Because for me, the sense of wonder and holiness that I always felt at Christmas is at its heart our very same hope for peace--shalom, and our same desire for the healing and renewal of the world--tikkun olam.

For most of the world, Christmas is a day of birth. But I realize that for me, it is a yahrzeit, anniversary of a death. I hope that, as with any loss, the pain will become gentler with every passing year, and that I will remember what I learned from my old life with a genuine respect and fondness for what I once was. And I hope that as my ornaments gather dust in their cardboard box, my Hanukkah candles will chase away the darkness, illuminating that small, secret place of Christmas sadness in my heart.

Author's note: I wrote this piece for InterfaithFamily.com six years ago, and I find it to be as true for me today as it was then. Even though the ache is somewhat less, and I am now used to living in a home in which there will never again be a Christmas tree, my ornaments remain on the closet shelf, gathering dust: a souvenir of an old identity and of holidays long ago; and perhaps, in some small way, a symbol of just how far my Jewish journey has taken me.

Make a Great Miracle Happen There

2008-12-10T20:55:49Z

(First posted at RACblog)
by Micaela Hellman-Tincher
Eisendrath Legislative Assistant
at the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism
Over Chanukah, we all look for thoughtful, useful and interesting gifts for our family and friends. Amid the ads for watches, sweaters and digital cameras this winter, you might notice an ad for another kind of gift. A bed net. As part of our goal to deliver 50,000 nets abroad, the Union for Reform Judaism will be advertising Nothing But Nets in Jewish media around the country this winter.

While you may not know anyone who wants their bed covered in insecticide-treated mesh, there are people abroad to whom this gift won't simply be nice and thoughtful, but life-saving. A child dies from malaria every 30 seconds, and the use of a bed net can reduce disease transmission by up to 90%. The bed nets donated through the Union for Reform Judaism's Nothing But Nets initiative will go straight to refugees of conflict in Africa-one of the populations most vulnerable to malaria. It takes only $10 to send a net.

And while your friends and family won't receive a bed net themselves, they will get the gift of leaning how small efforts at home can change lives far away. They will get a broader understanding of and connection to the world around them. They will get the chance to teach their children about issues facing children abroad. They will get an appreciation of the goodness in their lives. And most of all, they get to take part in one of the most important and amazing things in the world-saving someone else's life.

As Rabbi David Saperstein, director of the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism, noted yesterday (on a call promoting ONE Sabbath, a great way to extend your Nothing But Nets activism,) "When you buy one net for $10, you are saving a life. That is a very rare thing to do. When you feed someone for $10 you will need to do it again. When you buy one net, it stays there."

This winter, due to the efforts of congregations, b'nei mitzvah students and others, the first shipment of bed nets will be delivered to the Nakivale refugee camp in Uganda, providing malaria protection for the entire camp.

We are halfway to our goal of delivering 50,000 bed nets. Inspire your friends and family with the gift of saving a life this Chanukah. Give them each a donation to Nothing But Nets. Ask them to give the same to you. Have a net-giving party for your whole family! Make a great miracle happen there.

For the Blessings that Have Been Our Common Lot

2008-11-26T21:44:23Z

by JanetheWriter
It seems plausible that Thanksgiving as we know it today derives originally from our tradition's Sukkot. Whether or not this is, in fact, true, in our consumer-driven, must-have-the-latest-greatest-gadget, me-me-me society, this autumnal chag is a wonderful opportunity to step back, to reflect on what really matters and, individually and collectively, to celebrate our many blessings.

In my family, Thanksgiving minhag dictates that someone (usually my mother) reads a poem, prayer or other seasonal passage before we dig in. Last year, a few days before the holiday, Connecticut Governor Wilbur L. Cross' 1936 Thanksgiving proclamation crossed my desk and it was I who read it at our Thanksgiving table.

As my Grandma Hattie was fond of saying about one thing or another, "It bears repeating." And so it is with Governor Cross' proclamation:

Time out of mind at this turn of the seasons when the hardy oak leaves rustle in the wind and the frost gives a tang to the air and the dusk falls early and the friendly evenings lengthen under the heel of Orion, it has seemed good to our people to join together in praising the Creator and Preserver, who has brought us by a way that we did not know to the end of another year. In observance of this custom, I appoint Thursday, the twenty-sixth of November, as a day of

Public Thanksgiving

for the blessings that have been our common lot and have placed our beloved State with the favored regions of earth -- for all the creature comforts: the yield of the soil that has fed us and the richer yield from labor of every kind that has sustained our lives -- and for all those things, as dear as breath to the body, that quicken man's faith in his manhood, that nourish and strengthen his spirit to do the great work still before him: for the brotherly word and act; for honor held above price; for steadfast courage and zeal in the long, long search after truth; for liberty and for justice freely granted by each to his fellow and so as freely enjoyed; and for the crowning glory and mercy of peace upon our land; -- that we may humbly take heart of these blessings as we gather once again with solemn and festive rites to keep our Harvest Home.

For additional Thanksgiving readings and ways that we all can bring the blessing of life to others, visit the Nothing But Nets website.

And now, let us say Amen. Happy Thanksgiving!

Modim anachnu lach

2008-11-23T03:29:28Z

By Gardening Grandma

It's the last weekend before Thanksgiving, the first weekend when there's no more pretending that winter's cold and dark days are not just around the corner.

But it was sunny enough today to go out into the garden one last time and take down the tomato plants that froze earlier this week and put the garden to bed. Once the tomato and pepper plants were gone, only one bright green spot remained: the carrots I'd planted so many months ago.

With a deep push from the pitchfork they came to the surface. Bright orange carrots, what seemed like hundreds of them!

There were enough carrots to make carrot cake and carrot soup and steamed carrots and carrot pudding. Enough to keep us in carrots for much of the winter.

And I realized how very much I have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. The simple pleasure gained from planting a garden, watching it grow and harvesting the produce. The knowledge that I have enough food to eat and a warm house to live in during these cold winter days. The security of living in a community free from the ravages of war.

And so, before preparing the carrots that may well take the place of sweet potatoes this Thanksgiving, I want to do something more: I'll go online and print out the Thanksgiving prayers prepared by the Union's staff to remind us of just how fortunate we are--and how many others are hurting. And while I'm there, I'll donate $10 to buy a bed net from Nothing but Nets and save a family in Africa from the scourge of malaria. My carrots would have cost at least $10 if I had to buy them this winter.

For this fragile planet earth, its times and tides,
its sunsets and seasons,
Modim anachnu lach

For the joy of human life, its wonders and surprises,
It's hopes and achievements,
Modim anachu lach

Happy Thanksgiving.

Hanukkah's A Comin': Check Your Local Listings

2008-11-19T19:50:23Z

By JanetheWriter
With more than a week to go until Thanksgiving, we're already well into the incessant advertisements for Barbies, Chia Pets, Pictionary, Scrabble, and, of course, the seasonally popular Norelco electric razors. (Can you even buy one of those things in July?!) Our mailboxes are stuffed with catalogs, catalogs and more catalogs -- Lands' End, L.L Bean, Harry and David and the Vermont Country Store -- and soon enough, we won't be able to escape endless refrains of those silver bells, the chestnuts roasting or the I'll be homes...if only in my dreams.

Against this backdrop, I was thrilled to get an email from Craig 'n Co. letting me know that Lights! Celebrate Hanukkah Live in Concert will air on PBS this December. Undaunted that the concert will air as a pledge drive special (more popularly known as a "beg-a-thon"), I checked my local listings and have marked my calendar for Tuesday, December 2 at 8 p.m. which is when the concert will air on WLIW-TV Channel 21, the Long Island PBS station.

Thanks, Bing, but I'll take Josh Nelson, Mare Winningham, the Klezmatics and the rest of the gang doing "Light One Candle," "Hanerot Halalu," "Maoz Tzur," and more over your holiday classic any day.

Chag sameach!

Lashon Tova

2008-10-20T23:26:53Z

By Larry Kaufman
A recent discussion in these precincts about Lashon Hara, intended to present a Jewish "take" on permissible and impermissible political discourse, gave rise to a peripheral discussion about the propriety of using words and phrases from languages other than English.

That article provided a literal translation of lashon hara as "the bad tongue," and provided as English explanations defamation, character assassination, or 'bad mouthing." The subsequent discussion suggested another meaning, malicious gossip.

As a relatively new entity, this blog had not previously articulated any "rules of the road," but the discussion provoked messages from the blog managers at the Union for Reform Judaism reminding bloggers the Union is not and cannot be in the business of endorsing or supporting candidates, and that the blog exists to look at the world through a lens of Reform Judaism. I propose an additional rule - we should follow the minhag (custom) that prevails on the Union list-servs, and translate expressions from languages other than English.

We RJ bloggers who use Hebrew terms have already been following that practice, with the tacit understanding that it's kosher to assume our readers have a basic vocabulary in the language of the synagogue - Shabbat, kiddush, kaddish, et al. (Et al is the Latin abbreviation for and others.) Supplying translations is a courtesy that is not typically extended in secular writing when a foreign-language term is used. Note, too, that in the context of this blog devoted to Reform Judaism, I do not consider or refer to Hebrew as a foreign language - it is the universal language of Judaism that binds English-speaking, Yiddish-speaking, Spanish-speaking, Ladino-speaking and other-speaking Jews, across time as well as space. They even used it in Pittsburgh in 1885!

Educated readers recognize that the purpose of any writer is to communicate, and the writer's choice of any word or phrase that may not be universally familiar is nonetheless purposeful. Most frequently, when the term is not English, it's been selected because there is no precise English equivalent, and because the writer pays his readers two compliment s: first, assuming they can cope with le mot juste, or as we might say in Hebrew, lashon tova, good language; second, assuming they are reading in order to expand their knowledge and broaden their horizons.

Lashon tova, good language, recognizes that language is both dynamic and complex. All languages are comprised not just of words, but also of idioms, figures of speech, and grammatical conventions. Prescriptive grammar is the province of Miss Nelson, your eighth grade teacher who told you not to end a sentence with a preposition, leading to the famous rejoinder, "This is the kind of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put." Descriptive grammar, as they taught us at the University of Chicago, is a reflection of the way the language is used by the educated leaders of society. Your use of language tells people who you are, in more ways than one.

I make no bones about admitting that I am NOT Joe Six-Pack (although I was once a hockey dad and am now a hockey granddad). As a Reform Jew, I am heir to the privileges of the Enlightenment, which includes the privilege of living in two worlds. I did not have to forsake my Jewish heritage to claim my share in the culture of Western civilization. I am proud to have been educated at a prestigious university, where I learned about nuances, distinctions, and precise communication. When I use a Hebrew term, or for that matter a Yiddish term, I am not only communicating my verbal message more precisely, but also the additional symbolic message to my reader or auditor that we are members of the same club.

When I'm talking to my club members, they know I mean something different if I talk about davening than if I talk about praying. While "praying" might be used as a translation for davening, "reciting sotto voce the prayers printed in the siddur" is more precise. If we address the Divine using our own thoughts and our own words, whether silently or not, we are surely praying, but we are not davening. And when we pray in gratitude for the food we have just eaten, we aren't davening, we're bentshing. (As I remember the Maxwell House Haggadah of my youth, it rendered Rabotai nevorech as Gentlemen, let us say grace.)

As I write, we are approaching Shemini Atzeret-Simchat Torah, and if you read this before the holiday is over, I wish you chag sameach, a happy holiday, or, if you prefer, gut yomtov. But for the past week, my greeting has been moadim l'simchah, the conventional although less well-known salutation for the intermediate days of the two Festivals that have intermediate days, Sukkot and Passover (Pesach). (Among cognoscenti, we could refer to the intermediate days as chol ha'moed, the ordinary or non-sacred days of the fixed occasion.) Is this distinction between sacred and non-sacred days really necessary? Why not simply say Happy Holiday and be done with it? All we lose is precision, recognizing, respecting, and perhaps teaching the difference between kodesh and chol, holy and ordinary. Will the scoffer who dismisses the distinction between chag sameach and moadim l'simchah turn around and wish his Christian neighbor a happy Christmas and a merry New Year?

Yes, we have to know our audience before we use foreign language terms without explaining them. My friend Alan, the English professor, tells about finding references in several term papers one semester to the fantasy echo. Not having the slightest idea what the fantasy echo was, he questioned one of his students, who cited one of Alan's lectures as the source for the term. Turns out in discussing late Victorian literature, he had used the French fin de siècle (end of the century) and the students had done their best with it!

Whether we're using English or some other tongue, language is not static. A word may take on a new meaning in a limited milieu, and the new meaning may spread, sometimes in the process rendering the earlier meaning obsolete. In my 1953 Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, gay only means merry. Somewhere along the line, it became an insider code word for male homosexual, and by 1981, the code definition had made its way into the dictionary as the fourth among several mainstream definitions. Today the idea of merriment seems to have been totally lost.

Speaking of in-group code words, as a Facebook newbie, I'm learning the difference between friends and Friends. A Friend is someone who has agreed to allow messaging between your Facebook page and his or hers. I have Facebook friends whom I wouldn't know if they bumped into me on Michigan Avenue. But Facebook always notifies me when one of my Friends acquires a new Friend. Thus I was delighted to read recently that Susie Ginsburg and Aaron Ginsburg (not their real names) are now Friends - delighted because Susie and Aaron have been married to one another for over thirty years. As my grandmother would have said of their Friendship, Sheyn tzeit, it's about time.

Just as Friends has a precise meaning on Facebook somewhat different from the street meaning of friend, so too Outreach has a precise meaning in the Reform movement different from its dictionary definition. Reform uses the term Outreach for activities and programs designed to welcome non-Jews into our congregational families. As a verb, outreach means extending your arm farther than the other guy. As a noun, the term might be applied in other religious circles for pursuing the unaffiliated, or seeking to extend geographic coverage, or for bringing members from the fringe into the inner circle. One of my listserv colleagues recently asked about using outreach to refer to establishing dialogues with other faith communities, instead of the established jargon, Interfaith. He was seeking precision, reserving "interfaith" for marriages between a Jew and a non-Jew. To my mind, interfaith still works in both contexts, and rather than precision, limiting the word gives us a distinction without a difference. But in the context of lashon tova, we reach out to Catholics or Muslims to get to know one another better - but reaching out is not Outreach, because the end point of Reform Outreach is bringing in.

As the presumptive coiner of the phrase Lashon tova (I don't recall having encountered it elsewhere), I can follow the Humpty-Dumpty precept - When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean, neither more nor less. As a second layer of meaning, superimposed on precision, I choose it to include using language benevolently. Even when I disagree with or challenge the positions taken here by those who blog and those who comment, I hope my words come across as lashon tova. And if anyone objects to my use of Hebrew, Yiddish, French or Latin in the process, honi soit qui mal y pense.

Dinner in the Sukkah

2008-10-15T00:53:57Z

By Marge Eiseman
The sukkah we were sitting in had history - the galvanized pipes and green oilcloth walls full of tape residue were probably 35 or 40 years old by now, imported to Wisconsin from their original home in suburban Chicago by my brother-in-law. The "chandeliers" were the original light fixtures from the bathroom at my step-mother's old house, and it looked especially festive with the new strings of colored mini-lights that aren't really in season in stores yet (if you know what I mean).

We had been asked to bring an ancestor, or personally meaningful guest, in the tradition of the Ushpizin. We didn't formally discuss that, since there is so much to talk about in real life, like cancer, parenting, politics, alternative medicine, how our High Holy Day experiences were. You get the picture - a Jewish "Big Chill" gathering of people who have shared years of being present to one another's unfolding stories.

At this season of our joy, let's stop and be especially grateful for the gift of good friends, for wonderful harvest foods and for all the blessings we enjoy.

I put together my own Lulav! (kind of)

2008-10-14T17:31:31Z

By David A.M. Wilensky
(First published on The Reform Shuckle)
This year, intoxicated by the coolness of the videos at this post at Jewlicious, I decided that I wanted to not only get my own Lulav and Etrog, but that I wanted to assemble the Lulav myself. Jonathan Golden, a a professor here at Drew and our wonderful Hillel adivsor, had his brother, a Sephardic rabbi, pick up the parts for me in Brooklyn while he was picking up several other peoples' sets of Sukot magic rain stick wand things.

The Rabbi put it together Sephardic-style. This involved a single-cradle handle thing. The Ashkenazic version that we see most often in the US, has three parts that hold the palm, willow, and myrtle seperately. The Sephardic version has a single-compratment braided handle that all three plants go in together.

He'd also put it together with three rings of palm, holding the palm branch together, as it's supposed to be. The rings, however, were also put together in a different Sephardic way. I, still excited from the video at Jewlicious, decided to do my own Asheknazic rings, as the video instructs.

It was tons of fun. Thanks to Jonathan Golden and his brother for gettin the stuff to me. Thanks also to housemate Chris Damujian (christian) for letting me use his camera and to housemate Mays Zubair (muslim) for taking some of the pictures. Also thanks to Kate Noland (pagan) and Sarah Maple (catholic) for listening to me ramble about the purpose of my big rain stick. Now that's ecumenical!

For the details on my assembly fun, check out this Facebook photo album. Though it is on Facebook, it is accessible to the public. Chag Sameach!

"Our Pagan Yom Kippur" from FailedMessiah

2008-10-13T18:58:18Z

By David A.M. Wilensky
(First published on The Reform Shuckle)
Over at the excellent blog FailedMessiah.com, a whistle-blowing blog out to expose far right wing orthodox Judaism as a harmful force in the world (by covering stuff like child molestation and Agriprocessors), there's a really interesting post about the ancient Mesopotamian holiday of Kapuru, held in the Babylonian month of Tashritu. Sound familiar? It's a cool post. Here's an excerpt:

Our ancestors borrowed a great deal from a towering, imperial Mesopotamian culture that for centuries dominated the Fertile Crescent. That we used Babylonian calendar names is widely known. Semitic peoples had used the lunar calendar from time immemorial, but named their months differently. What the (Hebrew-speaking) Canaanites called Aviv, Ziv, Eytanim and Bul, the practical-minded Hebrews first renamed months One, Two, Seven and Eight. The Babylonians called them Nisanu, Ayaru, Tashritu and Archasamnu. In time, our ancestors replaced their numerals with the Babylonian names, many of which are named in honor of Mesopotamian gods.

One of the comments on the post, from Rachel Batya, captures my feelings exactly:

Whether we borrowed from the pagans or they borrowed from us (and probably some of both happened), this kind of information is fascinating to me and enriches my understanding of Judaism. It doesn't detract from it. It reminds me that Judaism has not always been the hermetically sealed culture that some of our more fanatical members seek to make it, but a living, breathing entity capable of co-existing with other cultures while retaining its deepest insights and values.

Lashon Hara and Elections

2008-10-13T18:36:32Z

By William Berskon
The last few days have dramatized the gravity of the sin of lashon hara, literally "the bad tongue." Known in English as defamation, character assassination, or in slang 'bad mouthing,' lashon hara is part of the vidui, the confession at Yom Kippur which we have all just said. It has traditionally been seen as one of the most common, yet also most serious of sins.

It is a frustration to me that public discourse in America has lacked this concept: that it is wrong to say something bad about another person, even if true, without a compelling reason. Such compelling reasons include testimony at a trial, preventing serious harm to others from a bad actor, and self-defense against lashon hara.

One special frustration has been to see the systematic lashon hara as a tactic in political campaigns. Now to some extent, lashon hara is permitted, because the character and judgment of those running for public office is a legitimate issue. But it is all the more important not to overdo it. Why is it so important? Because one of the competitor are going to be elected, and can't govern effectively without public trust. And there has been a big drop-off in public trust of government, ever since the Watergate scandal, and subsequent scandals, such as Iran Contra and the Clinton impeachment.

What is impermissible lashon hara in a campaign? One important consideration is that what is said should be true, particularly if it is personal rather than on policy. A second consideration is the importance of not appealing to fear and anger, particularly by dividing people and labeling the other person as the enemy. This appeal to fear, anger and prejudice is usually called 'demagoguery.'

I have been particularly concerned by Governor Palin's innovation of lashon hara with a beautiful smile, of joyful demagoguery. Two examples have to me been particularly clear; the first is from her acceptance speech:

"In politics, there are some candidates who use change to promote their careers. And then there are those, like John McCain, who use their careers to promote change."

And from a recent speech in Englewood, Colorado:

"Our opponent though, is someone who sees America, it seems, as being so imperfect that he's palling around with terrorists who would target their own country."

The first quote is character assassination that can have no basis in fact. It is just an assertion that our ambition comes from pure motives, whereas the opponent's ambitions come from dishonorable ones. Such "pure" lashon hara really has no excuse.

The second is deceitful, and so impermissible, and an appeal to fear and anger, a labeling of the opposition as "other" and so dangerous incitement. As to the facts, all the mainstream media have said that Ayers hasn't been a terrorist for forty years, has become a productive citizen, and has never been close to Obama. Again, insinuation of evil motives--"sees the country as so imperfect"--is pure malice.

This incitement has given such encouragement to violent statements in Republican rallies that McCain, to his great credit, has condemned them and affirmed the decency of Obama. But at the same time he has been complicit in the demagogic statements, and I fear that lasting damage has been done.

Making Do

2008-10-13T07:38:08Z

By Larry Kaufman
A topic in our discussion of Haazinu at Torah study on Shabbat was the survival of the Jewish people over the millennia, in the face of all the odds against us. Shlomo, our resident scholar, suggested that this was because of the Jewish capacity for "making do." Aryeh supported his position, pointing out that this had even been enshrined in Mishkan T'filah, albeit spelled differently: morid ha-tal, making dew.

Of course, with Sukkot upon us, the dew will make way for the wind and the rain - but we pray our capacity for making do will not abate. Ken yehi ratzon - so may it be.