D'var Torah & Sermons

Rabbi Elisa F. Koppel

Are We Awake? Are We Prepared?

This sermon began this summer at camp.  I had the opportunity to spend time this summer at 2 different Reform Movement camps—first returning to Camp Harlam—the camp where I grew up—as faculty and also serving on faculty during the inaugural summer of the new URJ 6 points creative arts academy.  At both camps, in addition to the satisfaction and inspiration of working with the campers and staff, I found (as I often have in my years as a rabbi at camp), that the time spent in conversation with the other faculty was equally meaningful.

As we shared in sacred conversations throughout the day between camp activities, walking from place to place on camp, at meals, and late at night—often over a campfire—we’d cover any number of topics, ranging from the goings on of camp to the happenings in our congregations…from making plans for services to making plans for a “faculty outing”…from ideas for programs to insight on our lives.  In my mind’s eye, I imagine that this is how the Talmud was written—through snippets of conversations of the ancient equivalent of rabbis, cantors, educators, and youth advisors.  Pieced together across generations.  Discussing, interpreting, learning—creating new tractates through our sharing.

In one of those conversations, we had just been singing Noah Aronson’s introduction to the Bar’chu, as we often sing/just sang here: “Am I awake, Am I prepared, Are you listening to my prayer, Can you hear my voice? Can you understand? Am I awake? Am I prepared?”

My friend took issue with the middle portion of the intention: “Can You hear my voice, Can you understand?” saying that it was liturgically problematic because it denied that God can hear and understand.  But, I countered, I think that many who say these prayers have had  doubts that God in fact can do any of that….My friend continued with the idea that it didn’t make theological sense within the context of liturgy.  I continued with my assertion that it didn’t have to—that our prayers were, at least in part, an expression of our own thoughts.   The conversation ended there, as camp conversations sometimes do, before we had any chance for resolution, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Because, I believe that most of us have moments, even when we sit here in the sanctuary, perhaps especially when we sit here, when we don’t believe, or when we have doubt, when we honestly aren’t sure that there is a God at all, much less One that can hear or understand any of this.  To me, it is profound to express that sense of doubt within our prayers themselves—our very doubt transformed into liturgy.  

Indeed, this struggle with belief is nothing new, nor is the expression of doubt.  Even in the Psalms, our people’s earliest expressions of prayers, we see this.  In Psalm 13, we read:

How long, Adonai; will You ignore me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me?

How long will I have cares on my mind, grief in my heart all day? How long will my enemy have the upper hand?

Look at me, answer me, Adonai, my God! Restore the luster to my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death

lest my enemy say, “I have overcome him,” my foes exult when I totter.

It seems to me that the essence of these words is similar to the essence of Aronson’s: Will you ignore me forever? Can you hear my voice? How long will I have cares on my mind, grief in my heart all day? Can you understand? 

And as we read the end of this Psalm, we again find similar echoes: 

But I trust in Your faithfulness, my heart will exult in Your deliverance. I will sing to Adonai, Who has been good to me.

I see the message of a complete apparent turnaround in theme as twofold—first, despite the doubt, we pray anyway.  Second, we recognize the dichotomy inherent in the first response, and we embrace it—we allow faith and doubt to exist symbiotically, each fueling the other even as they stand in opposition to each other.  We recognize that the struggle doesn’t remove us from Judaism or even from the act of prayer.  As my teacher, of blessed memory, Dr Eugene Borowitz writes, “What I thought was some secret difficulty of mine with God not only occurred to some Jews centuries ago but has long been an accepted part of Jewish religious life. …Many people feel their disbelief so keenly they cannot give much credence to their occasional sense that there is a God…In Judaism faith in God is that dynamic; it is not an all-or-nothing, static state of being.”  

And so we ask—Am I awake? Am I prepared? Are we ready to move forward within our struggle-filled Jewish expression, and attempt prayer, even if we do not know to Whom or for What purpose we are praying? Whether our words reach Some Hearing and Understanding Entity, or hang as vapors.  And so, we at least attempt prayer.  Because we know that Judaism is a religion of action over faith—and prayer, after all, is an action.

Which brings us back to the struggle, for many, of sitting here in services, reading and listening and singing.  And the doubt that is evoked by those very actions. And yet we show up—surely, some of us today intimately know this struggle, but we are all here.  Perhaps we feel some amorphous sense of obligation. Or we know that Goldberg comes to talk to God and we come to talk to Goldberg.   Or because we hope that it will be meaningful or inspiring.  Or because there are parts of it that we love.  Or because we recognize that, especially on these High Holy Days, the sounds, the words, the symbols—are all designed to stir up for us the ancient memories of our people, while at the same time calling upon us to return ourselves to the people we were meant to be.  Or, perhaps, because recognize that potential exists.

105 years ago, Franz Rosenzweig, who would later become one of the greatest and most influential Jewish theologians of modern times, had decided to convert to Christianity.  But he wanted to do so as a Jew—taking a closer look at the things from which he was choosing to separate himself—he wanted to “go through” Judaism to get to Christianity.  And so, as one final step of leaving the religion of his birth, he attended Yom Kippur services at a small synagogue in Berlin, understanding the Day of Atonement as a necessary action in his preparing to take on Christianity.  At that service, he found himself profoundly moved—and realized there was no need for him to find salvation outside of his own religion.  And he chose, that day, to remain Jewish.  

As described in a 2013 article in Tablet Magazine: 

In effect, Rosenzweig experienced a paradoxically non-mystical enlightenment on Yom Kippur 1913: 

 A “meta-historical” breakthrough, yet at the same time one solidly anchored in time; a theoretical, yet thoroughly pragmatic epiphany; a revelation irreconcilable with Christian religion, yet committed anew to Hashem via the Neilah service, the final prayers spoken on the Day of Atonement. Just as it is not possible to “unring” a bell, Rosenzweig clearly could not “un-sound” the shofar he heard in 1913.

Clearly, the experience of worship during these days of awe can work and sometimes does work.  

But, at the same time, sometimes it doesn’t.   Someone’s struggle with the faith-doubt dichotomy may prevent them from fully entering the experience.  Someone may feel disconnected.  Someone may feel as if they were on the outside looking in, even surrounded by community.   For many reasons, for many, the experience of High Holy Day worship doesn’t always entirely grab them.  And this isn’t something we often talk about, or acknowledge, or give permission for.  But the truth is these days can be fraught with obstacles.  It’s important to recognize that, whether we are the person that isn’t connected or we are the person that is.

Sometimes, the experience might feel too unfamiliar…because it’s different from what we grew up with or because we didn’t grow up with these holidays.  Or because many of the prayers, the melodies, the content, the aesthetic, are not what we are used to or comfortable with.  Or because we happen to be distracted by the rest of life.  Or because of our doubt or the ambiguity of our personal connection to Judaism.  Or because the God we do believe in doesn’t seem to be reflected in the prayers, overshadowed by the God we don’t believe in.  Or, because we harbor anger towards God, or haven’t been able to forgive God.  

And much of the text doesn’t necessarily resonate for everyone.  The liturgy of these days is full of metaphors that don’t make the connection for many of us that they were designed to make.  We don’t live in a world where kings and shepherds are figures we regularly come across outside of stories.  Some of the intent of the words is lacking for us—the power that the symbols are meant to evoke can be lost.

And, for many, the liturgy brings pain.  Unetane tokef, in particular, can be a hurtful moment—hearing the words can wound us.  

I still vividly remember reading those words on Rosh Hashanah 17 years ago, days after the planes hitting the towers gave new meaning to the very idea of “Who shall live and who shall die,” and reading through a blur of tears, many lines of that section of the text hit like shrapnel.   A moment of catharsis for some, and of blinding pain for others.

And in any year, for someone who has had loss, for someone who has survived, for someone who is ill, or for someone who loves someone who is ill…those words, as well as others in the liturgy, can be painful.  And those moments of pain can tear us away from the experience.

For many reasons, for many people, the experience of these services can be difficult—and the words of our lips do not match the meditations of our hearts—and we find ourselves unable to connect.  And yet, even if we are going through the motions of worship, we might find for ourselves a moment where our worship becomes prayer.   

And perhaps, the purpose of all of this is discovering those moments.  Finding just one prayer, one melody, one insight, one moment of peace, or even one moment of deep feeling—that can be a effective worship experience.  

Judaism has never been an all-or-nothing religion.  Very few people find every single moment of any given service meaningful—that should be neither our expectation nor our standard.  

If we find just one instant of transcendence, then we have succeeded.  And even if we don’t, and we won’t always, it need not be a failure.  For worship can inspire us towards action, even if it doesn’t transform us in that moment.

Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in Man’s Quest for God, “Ultimately the goal of prayer is not to translate a word but to translate the self; not to refer an ancient vocabulary in modern terminology, but to transform our lives into prayers.”  And that is our challenge and our opportunity.  

To take a liturgy, parts of which may seem alien, and to determine the truth, the wisdom, that is inherent in its words—even if that truth is buried, and to then take that truth outside of the service.  To make those messages part of our living.

Feeling remorse, facing adversity, hoping for the future, fearing the unknown, wanting what is best for ourselves and for those we love and for the world at large, appreciating that which we have in our lives—all of that is at the heart of our prayers.  We can, and we should, take the opportunity to find for ourselves ways through which to express those ideas.  

And especially when a prayer is troubling us, is disconnecting us, we can read it with the intention of determining its truth, its meaning in a greater context, and determine what we can say, or better yet, what we can do, that will meaningfully convey that message for us.

We all connect in different ways: through spirituality, or action, or learning, or community, or nature, or music.  I challenge you to integrate your mode of connection with your Yom Kippur experience.  

It doesn’t have to be today, but find a time to take one aspect of what today is about—one piece of what our liturgy speaks of—and bring that aspect to the way that you do connect.  Whether that’s taking a walk outside and truly enjoying and appreciating the world around us, or hand writing a letter to someone who has been helpful to you, or volunteering your time, or giving food to someone who is hungry, or reading a book, or having a conversation with a friend, or whatever it is that you find meaningful, don’t let your Yom Kippur worship experience end when you walk out the door. 

Let us not forget, after all, that one of the main themes, the main actions, of this season is t’shuvah, repentence—turning within, truly examining our lives and seeking forgiveness for those times when we’ve missed the mark.  And while we can do the self-reflection portion of t’shuvah while we pray, the other portions necessitate leaving the worship setting.  

To give someone a meaningful apology or to truly forgive another, one must be in conversation and one must be fully present.  And to really determine for ourselves how we can act differently—to engage in real change—that takes a lot longer than the timeframe of services; even when we are here all day.  

We must allow the opportunity to find meaning to extend beyond this timeframe and beyond this space.  And by expanding this experience beyond this moment, we can, perhaps, find other moments through which we can both transform worship and prayer, and for that worship and that prayer to transform us. And by engaging with the worship, by appreciating the moments when we do connect, and by allowing ourselves to have moments of disconnect…we can each have a Holy Day Experience which calls us—be it through the sound of the shofar at Neilah or through the still, small voice whispering to us amidst the cacophony of the liturgy.  

Connecting us each to something—to the community around us, to the generations before us and those yet to be, to the acts of building a world inspired by our dreams, to Something Beyond ourselves, to our doubt and our faith, and even to the prayers.  Connecting us to our sacred texts, our insights becoming part of the sacred conversation that has been going on for thousands of years. 

And in doing so, we write another page for ourselves in the Book of Life, inscribing ourselves for a meaningful and engaging year, a year of being awake and prepared, a year of connection. 

Rabbi Yair D. Robinson

Rosh Hashanah Morning 5779

“Lift Up Our Eyes”

In a few moments, after I’m done speaking, after Avinu Malkeinu and a hakafah that is either too long or too short, depending on your point of view, we will settle in to our Torah service, and hear the Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac, chanted beautifully by our congregants. We will hear about how God asks, no, commands Abraham to take his son, the only of his wife Sarah, his miracle child, his child of laughter, and sacrifice him. This is no metaphor; Abraham must take a knife and slit his son’s throat, and place him on the fire as an offering; a test, we are told. As many of you have frequently observed, it is a deeply, profoundly uncomfortable text. Why on earth are we reading this text on Rosh Hashanah? The Sunday School answer is, of course, because of the ram Abraham will see and sacrifice instead of his son, and the source of the shofar, the ram’s horn, that we sound on this day. But in light of the cruelty of the story, it seems pretty weak. Why couldn’t we read the Ten Commandments, say, or the seven days of creation, or literally any other text but this one, where a father nearly murders his child on behalf of his God?

I used to think that the pivot point in the text was the dialogue between Abraham and Isaac as they go up the hill. When Isaac asks where the sheep is to sacrifice, Abraham answers that God will see to it, a wink and a nod to the readers that all is not lost. But lately I’ve been thinking that it’s moment that is the key to understanding this text and why we read it on the first day of the New Year.

Throughout the story, the word “see” is used over and over again; it is a leitmotif of the text as Abraham sees things, God shows things, God sees things, and the like. But twice Abraham lifts his eyes, vayisa et einav, and sees…something. First the mountain of Moriah, and then the ram in the thicket. When we read that Abraham lifts his eyes, it is as if what he’s seeing wasn’t there before; that is, this isn’t just that he didn’t notice or wasn’t paying attention, but rather that what Abraham sees was literally not there a moment ago, until his eyes were opened. In fact, the Talmud lists the ram in the thicket as a miracle, created at the beginning of all things, waiting for its moment to save Isaac. And what he sees is not just a place to offer his child, or a ram to offer in his stead. What he sees are choices, moral choices. As I’ve shared with you before, a way to read this text is to see it as Abraham being given and failing a test; instead of challenging God, Abraham submits, and God must stop the test. While I still think that’s true, I increasingly believe that these two moments where Abraham lifts up his eyes are the moments where the test happens; Abraham has the choice to take Isaac up to Moriah, or do something else, anything else to protect his son. Likewise, Abraham, seeing the ram, recognizes the opportunity to save his son.

When Abraham lifts up his eyes, it becomes moment of moral clarity.

And so it is with us today. This story shocks us on the first day of the New Year. Good. It horrifies us on a day when we should be enjoying honey cake and hearing that same story from our uncle for the umpteenth time at dinner, but we listen anyway because we love our uncle. Good. It is a story to shake us, to challenge us before we go back to the mundanity of our lives, before we hear the shofar, giggle at the tekiah gedolah, and go home to watch the ball game. As it is for Abraham, it is a moment of moral clarity for each of us, a moment when we should be opening our eyes to what is going on and asking ourselves what am I doing? What are the limits of violence, of indignity, of pain, that we are willing to tolerate in our midst.

So let me make the question explicit: what are your limits? Where is your moral clarity? I ask because we are being challenged as a people and a nation as never before. Every day brings its new sin of bigotry and malice. Whether it’s a guard at a swimming pool throwing people out because they are people of color or children as young as one year old defending themselves in immigration court, trying to plead for asylum, our moral clarity is being tested. When we see the working poor, including men and women in uniform, increasingly left adrift by a nation that doesn’t want to lift the tide to lift all ships, our moral boundaries are being tested. And surely we are challenged when we do turn to help, when we go to rally with our allies and friends, and all too often are told that we aren’t wanted because of our Zionism.

It is not that these issues weren’t there before, of course. Many of us have been fighting this fight for a long time, have been knee-deep in the fight against poverty, bigotry and depravity. But now it feels like the fires are burning out of control, and no one is bringing any water. We are as a society at the moment between when Abraham raises the knife, and God’s voice emerges from the heavens, and like Abraham, we don’t know if the voice is coming. We can’t see the ram.

So what do we do? What can we say? What is our task?

It was Nachman of Bratzlav who said, “the entire world is a narrow bridge; the important thing is to not be afraid”. Today he might qualify that statement and say, “the important thing is to not feel helpless”. We may, in fact, feel helpless, feel that there is nothing we can do except stare at what is transpiring in our community, our nation and our world with that pit in our stomach. But helplessness is as much a learned behavior as is anything else, and action is a learned behavior too. We cannot wave a magic wand and make everything all right; that’s not how the world works. But we can choose to set down our sense of powerlessness, and take up whatever action our minds, our bodies and our capabilities allow. We must—we must—remember that we have agency, and so long as we have agency, the power to choose and to do, then there is hope.

Our task, therefore, is to open up our eyes, and act. We cannot wait for the ram to appear or for the voice of God to stop the knife. We cannot wait for someone else to step up.  We must act without ambiguity, but with full moral clarity in our actions.

First, we must be civically engaged. We must challenge our elected leaders, even when we like them. We cannot wait for the exact right time, the exact right legislation, or the exact right person; we must challenge them and push them to alleviate the pain in our communities. And we have an opportunity to do that. On September 17^th, next week, the JCC and Jewish Federation along with Hadassah will be hosting their Candidate Forum. There will be a handout with a link to resources from our Religious Action Center with questions to pose to the various candidates, Republican and Democrat, about our values as progressive Jews. If you are free that evening, look at the questions, perhaps you have a few of your own, submit them in advance, and go and be present, press them. And whether you can go or not, start asking tough questions of our Senators, our Congresswoman, our governor, every elected official. Write emails, go to forums, vote for the people who will stand up for our values, and then continue to reach out.

Second, we must challenge our friends and neighbors. We all know people who are happy to re-share a meme or re-circulate an email; are they registered to vote? Are they volunteering their time? Are they giving of themselves to causes in our community and country that will make a difference? Could they be more generous with their resources? Are they working to make this world really better, or just mouthing off? I know how engaged and civically minded this room is, how many of the people in this room take the time to research candidates and vote. It was a joy to watch all the pictures of congregants posting their ‘I voted’ selfies on primary day. In addition, I am asking you to reach out to your friends, your neighbors, and push them to do the same. Get one more person—a family member, a friend—to reflect on the issues they care about, learn about the candidates, and go to the polls in November and vote their conscience.

Finally, we must challenge ourselves. We need to truly show up:  to march, to speak out, to work and work hard for the kind of community we believe in. If our eyes are truly open to what is, and what ought to be, then we need to put ourselves truly into the work. I have been immensely proud of how our congregants have marched, and written letters, and given of their time and wealth. But marching and protests, civic engagement, writing letters, all that only goes so far. It’s important, it’s critical, but it isn’t relieving the pain right now, it isn’t fixing what is broken right now. We need to act: what will we do?

Last night I mentioned the words written on the walls of this synagogue, words written on the walls of this very sanctuary: Do Justly, Love Mercy, Walk Humbly With thy God. These words were and continue to be a call to action. Our congregation has a long history of working to alleviate poverty. If you’ve ever experienced poverty yourself; perhaps because of your own experience growing up, or you’ve done something like the SNAP challenge where you attempted to live on the meager resources provided by our safety net, you know how much pain and suffering food and housing insecurity causes. And we know how much need there is in this community. According to our friends at the Food bank, one in eight Delaware families are food insecure, and one in six children. That’s over 114,000 people. We’ve seen the need, and we’ve answered the call. We’ve partnered with Family Promise for several years, helping house and support homeless families, and have another opportunity to do that work two weeks from now, starting on September 23^rd. We have joined with our brothers and sisters of other faiths to pack Thanksgiving meals in November. Our Sisterhood and confirmation classes have partnered with Ministry of Caring to support their soup kitchens. We have supported our congregant Brennan Stark, who, at age 19, is building sustainable housing for low income families here in Wilmington, and heaven knows he needs our help. All of that will continue, but I also want to commit to something else, something new that will support this neighborhood, this community. For 10 years we have gathered food as part of Project Isaiah at the High Holidays, filling a truck with grocery bags, hundreds of pounds of food which are then taken to the Delaware Food Bank. Not this year. This year, it’s going in our own, new Food Pantry. Thanks to our administrator Jon Yulish and our social action committee, Starting in November, once a week, coordinated with other support services in the community, we will open our doors to those in need around us, providing emergency resources for individuals and families who are trying to make ends meet. Perhaps they’re on SNAP and the month is running out. Perhaps they’ve lost a job or had been sick. Perhaps they don’t have transportation to get to the market. Whatever their circumstance, we are going to be here. And it needs to be ‘we’. We’re going to need volunteers to help stock and sort, to help our new friends ‘shop’ for their groceries. And we’re not going to stop there. The vision is to be able to expand, to offer other resources; perhaps perishable food, perhaps having a social worker here who can help our guests get the support services they need, perhaps having medical professionals here who can do screenings and other support. Perhaps there are needs out there that we are unaware of, and as we get to know our new friends, we will find a way to step into the breach. We are going to make our spiritual home a place that supports the people around us. Because we have to. We must answer the call. We must respond to the crippling needs we see around us. To do otherwise would be an act of idolatry, a rejection of the image of God present in each person. If we pretend that this space is only for us, that we are helpless in the face of poverty, if we look in the mirror tonight and say, “there’s nothing more I can do for my community”, then we might as well give up calling ourselves Jewish, because Jews act, and Jews don’t wait for permission.

As you collect your shopping bags there will be new instructions on what we need and how to volunteer to help. And, on Erev Sukkot, there will be a special program for anyone who wants to participate, and we’ll need all hands on deck for this. Finally, as you depart, you can take a quick peek at the space we’ll be using in all its glory, just before you exit the building—WITH your shopping bag! Every year we collect a truck and a half, and I’d love to see us bring in six months’ supply for the pantry! And from this point forward, let that shopping bag (or two, or five) be your starting point, not the end point. I offer you to be generous in spirit: that every time you enter this building, you bring some non-perishable food for the pantry. That we find time, every one of us, to help in some way, whether it’s stocking shelves or actually being present to help our soon-to-be new friends. That we ask our friends and neighbors to also bring us what we need to bring out.

Our eyes are lifted up; they are open. The task is before us. What shall we do? Do we embrace the choice before us, or do we sacrifice that choice on the altar of hopelessness and helplessness? At Camp Harlam, before the Amidah, they often sing words written by songleader and friend Julie Silver: “Open my eyes to truth, open my hands to give freely, open my lips to good words, to pure words, open my heart to love.” Our eyes are open; may the rest follow, and follow soon. Amen.

If you are going to the Candidate Forum on September 17th, or would like to participate more fully in our Civic engagement work, please visit HERE to find resources, including sample questions.

Parashat Ki Tavo

8/31/2018

If you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans. It’s a variation on the Yiddish expression that I heard on the radio earlier this week in an interview, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Because we as people are planners; what are we doing today, next week, next year. Where are we travelling to, who are we having dinner with, what movie are we going to see, when are we going to go to the game with our buddy or our kid, who are we going to be when we grow up? and so on and so forth. That’s what we do: we plan. And yet, we know, deep inside, in some secret part of ourselves, that our plans are all written in pencil, they’re all theoretical. We think we know what the future holds—for our careers, our relationships, our health—and then life happens, and our plans go out the window. Sometimes in profoundly negative ways, and that might be what comes to mind: a layoff, an unexpected diagnosis, but sometimes it can be profoundly positive as well. How many times have I talked to people who met their spouses when preparing to marry someone else, or right after a big breakup, or stumbled into a job they thought would be temporary and instead led to long, meaningful careers, or weren’t planning on having kids—or having another kid—and, well, you see where I’m going. Life, as the saying goes, comes at you fast.

And yet, we plan. We still plan. We can’t help ourselves! It’s who we are. And we see it so clearly in our Torah portion this week, the verses I just recited. Vehaya ki tavo el ha’aretz asher Adonai elohecha notein lecha, when you enter the land Adonai your God is giving you, you shall take the first fruits and offer them up. When. Don’t you love it? Not, “Should you be able to”, or “If”, but “When”. What confidence! What a plan! This is going to happen, Israel! So be ready! Put it on the calendar! Here, I can share the event with you, do you prefer google calendar or ical or outlook? How could they know? How could they be so confident that, after entering this land flowing with milk and honey, and after tilling and planting and tending, they would have first fruits AT ALL, never mind enough to bring to Jerusalem? Yet there it is. A plan.

Or maybe not. Or not exactly what we mean by a plan. I think there’s another way to read this. What if this isn’t a plan for prosperity—I will have first fruits, I will have success—but instead a plan for appreciation and gratitude: “I will be grateful for what I have and I get”; “I will give thanks for what there is in my life, even if it doesn’t turn out the way I thought it would”? That’s not how we normally think of plans, is it? We don’t plan to be grateful. And yet, how might that change our perspective on life? Would it help us cope with the unexpected harm, or be better prepared for the unexpected joy? Would it allow us to be more present, more in the moment? It might not make the surprises any less surprising, but it may change how we experience them? How we relate to them. How they affect us. Is that something we would find appealing?

I think it’s worth asking the question, especially now, as we prepare for a new year. Rosh Hashanah comes and its liturgy reminds us that our plans are, perhaps, less assurances and more hopes, or aspirations. And we don’t like to be reminded of that. But the prayers of the new year also remind us of the opportunities around us for gratitude, for the expected and unexpected alike. And as Rabbi Alan Lew reminds us, while we can’t change what happens to us, we can experience what happens not as evil, but simply what happens. And, perhaps, find a way to offer our thanks for what we have—whether despite or because of what happens—all the same. Amen.

Rabbi Yair D. Robinson

Parashat Devarim

7/19/18

This was not a good week for reading the news. Once again, your best bet while reading or watching the latest reports were to have a paper bag, perhaps a scotch or a pint of Haagen Daaz or whatever your poison of choice as close at hand as possible. But there was one thing on NPR that made me less miserable, and it wasn’t France’s win at the world cup.

Eritrea and Ethiopia, two countries we rarely think about except in the context of famine or evacuating Jews, have been fighting a war for 20 years, ever since the former separated from the latter. It has been a bitter, awful fight, claiming 80,000 lives and resulting in expulsions from both countries. But recently there’s been a thaw, negotiations, an official end to the fighting declared, and even an embrace between Ethiopia’s young prime minister and Eritrea’s longtime leader.

How would you respond, knowing your country and its neighbor are no longer at war? What would that look like, or feel like? For people in these two countries, it elicited an interesting response. They started calling each other. Not long-lost family or former neighbors; they started calling, like, random people. An Ethiopian would get a call from a random Eritrean, and vice versa. It was already a miracle that they could reach each other; the phone lines had been cut off from each other for decades. But there was something about this moment that compelled people across a border to call each other and express their happiness with total strangers. One example reported was that of Selehadin Eshetu. I’m quoting the news report here:

 It took Selehadin Eshetu three days of dialing random numbers to connect with someone in Eritrea. On Wednesday, as he was getting dressed to go to work in Addis Ababa, someone picked up.

Eshetu said hello; they said hello. The person asked, "Who is this?"

Eshetu said: "I am Selehadin and I am calling from Ethiopia. And I am calling randomly to say hi and to tell you how happy I am."

"And [the person called] said, 'I am going to save your number; I am going to call you regularly. We will be family,'" Eshetu said.

We will be family. Those are powerful words. Even if they never speak to each other again, those words are transformational. The act of picking up the phone and calling a random person that only a few days before was your bitter enemy and hearing them say those words, we will be family, is empowering. We need those words. My God do we need those words. If it is powerful for people of warring countries to say this to each other, how much the moreso for us as Americans to say this to one another, when we are so profoundly at war with ourselves? When a day doesn’t go by when we look at those with whom we disagree and we call them the enemy. Or we are called the enemy, with devastating and violent results.

A few minutes ago I read from Deuteronomy, the introduction to the book, which begins with admonition. As I said before, quoting the various sources, the book opens with a reminder of the places and moments when Israel sinned, delaying their arrival to the promised land. And we need those words too. We need the criticism, the reminder of our mission as a people; we need to be challenged. But we can agree that there is a difference between admonition and hate, a difference between criticism and hostility. On this weekend of Tisha b’av, a day commemorating the destruction of the Temple and Jewish sovereignty for 2000 years, we are reminded that it was words of hate that led to our self-destruction as a people, and that we need those words of comfort, those words of celebration, those words of empowerment as well. And while Devarim, which literally means ‘words’ begins with admonition, it concludes with inspiration and comfort. It begins with reminders of our past failures, and it ends with a reminder that we are all family.

I am not a believer in observing the 9^th of Av, you know that, not when Israel exists, with all her faults and challenges. But it is worth our pausing this Friday to reflect on our words and how we share them. We are, sadly, too far away as a country from being able to call strangers over the phone and call them family, but we can try, and we can begin today. We can use this time to repair the breaches as we see them, to share words of comfort and love with each other. We can call each other family. So we pray as the psalmist did, Adonai, open my lips, that my mouth may declare your glory. Amen.

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Last night Rabbi Koppel and I had the blessing of being at the Islamic Society of Delaware’s Interfaith Iftar. For those who don’t know, Iftar is the ritual breaking of the fast each evening of the month of Ramadan, marked with prayer and a festive meal precisely at sundown (last night it was 8:18pm, exactly). I’d been to the New Castle County Iftar at Rockwood last year, but hadn’t been able to go to the one in Newark, so when I got the invite I jumped at the chance to celebrate with our brothers and sisters for one of their holiest days of the year. It was wonderful; they hosted religious leaders from across Delaware—Black and White, Protestant, Catholic, Jew and Sikh, men and women, as well as elected and appointed governmental officials. The governor was there, along with Senator Carper, County Executive Matt Meyer, and many others. Their Imam spoke, the governor spoke, the senator spoke, and the food was delicious. But the most impressive speech, the one that made the most impact on me, was by the head of their sisterhood, who quoted from her favorite verse of the Koran. In it, God asks a question of the people, saying, “so which of the Eternal’s Blessings would you deny?”

What a great question! It could have come out of the mouth of the prophet Isaiah or Micah rather than the mouth of Mohammad. And it’s a perfect reflection for this week, as we read the priestly benediction. Now, as I indicated already, Aaron and Moses have already blessed the people back toward the beginning of Leviticus, but here we have the actual text of the blessing. And in reciting this blessing, Israel and God are connected one to the other, inextricably linked. But it’s more than just Aaron’s responsibility. This blessing, birkat shalom, is also the blessing we say at the holidays and the festivals, and most importantly, the blessing we recite over our children. Birkat Shalom is NOT a special events blessing, it’s a reminder that we and God are interconnected, that we and the world are full of God’s glory.

So, which of God’s blessings would you deny? Because our world is full of blessing, full of opportunities to lift up and sanctify our experience. Yes, even now, when the world is on fire, when we are acutely aware of the pain in the world and the suffering of our neighbors, there is opportunity for blessing. There is a tradition in Judaism that we should say one hundred blessings every day. Which sounds like a lot, but many of them are baked into the three services we’re supposed to observe. Factor in bedtime shema, hamotzi before meals and birkat hamazon after meals and you’re most of the way there. But it’s worth looking at so many of those blessings. As I teach our b’nai mitzvah students as they prepare to lead the morning service, so many of the blessings we say are for seemingly mundane things. In the course of the morning service we say blessings for getting up, putting on our shoes, belt and hat, for roosters knowing the difference between morning and evening, cleaning out eye boogers when we go to wash our face, and even for going to the bathroom. That’s right! Go look in the morning service and you will find those blessings. Which, I remind our kids, means that everything we do has the potential for holiness, everything we do can be worthy of blessing. Everything we do can connect us back to God and God’s world and those created in God’s image.

So, which of God’s blessings would you deny? Let us instead embrace every opportunity for blessing. Or, rather, let us embrace every experience as potentially sacred, potentially holy, and therefore worthy of blessing, connecting ourselves back to God, and to each other. Amen.

Rabbi Yair Robinson

Parashat Tzav

March 23^rd 2018

I want to talk to you about antisemitism. Well, I don’t want to talk talk to you about antisemitism, but with the Forward's recent critique that the American Jewish community isn’t responding to the increase in anti-Jewish action and rhetoric (to which many leaders of the American Jewish community responded “really”?), I figured we really should have a chat.

Because it is a serious concern. The anti-defamation league reports a pretty massive increase in antisemitism in our goldene medina, along the lines of what we’re used to seeing in Europe or South America. In the last couple of weeks we’ve had members of the leadership of the Women’s March have to rush to the aid of one if their own due to her recent support of Louis Farrakhan of the Nation of Islam. You had an actual Illinois Nazi win the Republican nomination for Congress in his district, and I hate Illinois Nazis, and a Washington DC city council member claim that Jews, more specifically the Rothchilds, control the weather. All of this Coming amid a backdrop of increasing anti Jewish animosity on college campuses and online, as well as in the public square, not so long after the disaster of what happened this summer in Charlotte.

And in truth, we…wring our hands. We shry gavult on Facebook. We make funny memes in response (if Jews controlled the weather why the humidity?). We let the ADL and other Jewish Organizations put pressure, but why aren’t we doing more? What else should we be doing?

It’s possible that, despite the increase, we aren’t personally effected by it. Or, we’re used to a certain low-level simmer with non-jews. Who hasn’t had someone say something vaguely antisemetic, more out of ignorance than malice? Some comment about how great Jews are with money, for example. I remember a teacher in high school describing a particularly anxious character in a book as a Jewish, Woody Allen type. Perhaps we’re just desensitized? Or, perhaps as bad as it’s getting, it’s just not what people of color experience. Antisemetic incidents, as bad as they are, are in the category of schoolyard taunts, the kind of ethnic jokes that have mostly gone out of style. That’s different than the constant fear of violence and bigotry marginalized people often experience in our country.

Perhaps. But I don’t think that’s it. It’s clear that something else is happening now, in the last year, something far beyond punk kids spraying swastikas. And while each of us have experienced low grade foot in mouth disease among acquaintances and colleagues, what we’re seeing now is much more powerful.

That’s because anti-Semitism is different from other forms of bigotry. In our case, it’s a conspiracy theory, as Yair Rosenberg (among many others) have pointed out. The idea that Jews control the weather, the economy, horde “infamous gold” as Jorge Louis Borges wrote, that we are all ‘globalists’, whatever the heck that means, is in many ways a far more powerful set of ideas than thinking we are beneath contempt. Instead, we are something to be feared and looked upon with suspicion. And, as Rosenberg wrote this week, it’s not that the conspiracy theories exist; ever since there were Jews there were conspiracy theories about us—just ask Pharaoh, who opens Exodus with one. The issue is that, instead of consigning these tin-foil hat ideas to the dustbin of history, people—elected officials, college educated individuals, people who have the means to know better—continue to peddle in them, seemingly without consequence or any real effort to correct or stop them. That is what should scare us. It’s not that Louis Farrakhan exists; it’s that he manages to show up despite his irrelevance and swallow whole people’s political careers. It’s not that the term ‘globalist’ is an anti-Semitic dog whistle, it’s that folks from Wall Street to Main Street—and the White House—use the term as if they’re describing the weather. It’s not that crackpots deny the Holocaust—it’s that people running for congress on major party tickets and the leader of the Palestinian Authority deny the Holocaust. That is what is scary?

In this regard, the critique that we’re not doing enough to combat antisemitism is on point, and I’m as surprised as anyone else. In the Torah portion I just read, it talks about how the fire on the altar, meant to be kept burning always, must be fed “boker boker”, every morning, literally morning after morning. The fire won’t stay lit, after all, unless it has fuel fed it by the Kohein. So it is with combating hate. We can’t laugh off the off-color joke or the half-thought out comment anymore. We can’t ignore the comment or the episode, and then fight it out in our heads later. We have an obligation to respond each and every single time. Just because we’re doing pretty well as a minority doesn’t mean we must silence our voices when vitriol emerges, for if they come for us, be sure that they’re coming for any other marginalized or minority voice: women, people of color, the LGBTQ community, the immigrant, etc. We must be vigilant in a way that we haven’t had to be in a generation or more. Which doesn’t mean we come down like a hammer on every person. We cannot combat hate with hate, with anger and yelling and screaming. We cannot stoop to their level. We have to be strategic and thoughtful. Sometimes we need to take the opportunity to make a gentle correction, to clarify the person who means well but doesn’t have experience. And sometimes, we need to respond more sternly, righteously, even if our voice shakes; but not with anger. With the rectitude and knowledge that sometimes, a person won’t get the message unless he’s told directly and forcefully that his words and actions are wrong. Even if that doesn’t change who they are—the Illinois Nazi isn’t going to change his stripes—but it will give courage to those around us, and rally allies to the cause. And we must call out the bigots in our own midst. We cannot keep the flame of God lit if we have Jewish leaders, like the Chief Rabbi of Israel, who recently compared people of color to monkeys, wallowing publicly in their own bigotry. We cannot be a light to the nations if there are those of our people who would dim that light. So when we hear fellow Jews saying something, even jokingly, about minorities, or women, or the marginalized, we must speak as loudly and as strongly. Again, without hate, but with the knowledge that we are right and they are wrong.

Pesach is next Shabbat. We will gather around our tables and share our story of Freedom. We will say we were slaves but now we’re free. Free people call out hatred. Free people silence bigotry. Free people teach and correct misguided individuals. Free people keep God’s light lit for all to see. When we conclude the seder we will say “next year in Jerusalem”. I hope this time we’re right, but it’s going to take all of our efforts. May we work toward it. Amen.

In the synagogue where I worked in NJ, we would take our 8^th and 9^th graders each year on a weekend retreat with several other synagogues in the area.

I will never forget the look on the face of the educator I worked with, when she came back to our table after getting more food at Shabbat lunch during one of those weekends.  Lisa, the educator I worked with, told us of the following exchange:

As she stood in line alongside Grace, a student from our synagogue who happens to be blind.  A young man from another synagogue stood in front of them and offered to let them go ahead of him because he “certainly didn’t need to get to the food first.”  (This was a young man who was a little bit overweight and who is often misunderstood and judged based on his appearance, rather than the quality of his character.)  Grace looked confused, and leaned in to Lisa to say that she didn’t understand what he meant.  Lisa explained to her that the young man had just made a self-deprecating remark about himself in reference to his weight. Her response was “Oh,” and while it was clear that this made her feel bad, she just had no real frame of reference for what he was saying.  And that’s when it dawned on him.  Lisa watched his face light up, his whole demeanor change and he addressed his next comment to Grace directly.  “Wow,” he said to her, “You are so lucky! You never have to judge people on their appearances!” 

This young man gave Grace—and Lisa—and all of us who heard the story, an amazing gift—by recognizing and defining Grace’s own gift—a gift that comes as a result of something that most would perceive as a deficit.  It is so easy to look at a person who has a disability and miss the person, miss their gifts, and only see the disability. 

Rabbi Lynn Landsberg, after suffering a traumatic brain injury that physically and mentally impaired her, talks about going into stores using a wheelchair, where she had shopped regularly before her accident.  Salespeople who had helped her spend money for years would suddenly ignore her.  She quips when talking about this, “What, because I can’t walk, I can no longer use a credit card?”  

Sometimes, we overlook the individual and often, we miss the gifts—those gifts that are tangible, and those that are not.  But indeed, it is sometimes exactly as a result of what we usually call a disability, that people are able to have, and to give, a unique gift. I’m reminded of 2 examples of gifts I was given:

When I was a rabbi in Port Washington, NY, our synagogue was located around the corner from the Helen Keller National Center for Deaf-Blind Youths and Adults.  Over the course of my time there, a young woman came to live and learn at the center who was Jewish and wanted to come to services.  

I found a generous donor who helped to fund this, paying for the aid who accompanied her and transportation.  And each Saturday morning, she’d come to services.  Following along in a braille edition of the prayer book, experiencing the prayers, and communicating through her aid with touch based sign language.  She became a regular and I always enjoyed greeting her and welcoming her.  

After a month or so of her coming each week to temple, her aide told me that she had created a sign for me, which is something that people who communicate through sign language do for significant people in their lives—she used the sign for rabbi, using a K instead of an R.  I will always remember and treasure the moment I received that gift.

And then, back to the synagogue in NJ, when I received another gift, on the 2^nd day of Rosh Hashanah (this is a synagogue where they do 2 days of services for Rosh Hashanah).  I was not feeling well that day.  A bit stressed about the sermon I was about to deliver, and I was also coming down with something.  I had slept horribly the night before. Between not feeling well and being nervous, I was distracted enough that I forgot to put on a kippah, a yarmulke, that morning.  And I didn’t realize it until about half way through the service, when I went to scratch my head.  I probably had a look of surprise on my face at this realization, but I went on.  

A few minutes later, I noticed Wayne, a teenager with autism, who frequently and enthusiastically attended services at our synagogue, as well as being an active participant in our youth group and our NFTY region and camper at the Reform Movement's Kutz Camp;  Wayne was, at that moment, walking up to the bimah.  When he had seen my moment of distress, he immediately noticed what was off, got up, walked out of the sanctuary to the bin where we kept extra kippot, grabbed a kippah, and brought it to me.  A pure act of kindness and concern.  Truly a gift.

We are told in the Torah that the Mishkan, the Tabernacle—the portable sanctuary that the Israelites carried with them through the wilderness—the first sacred space constructed—was made out of gifts brought by the community.  We are in the midst of several weeks of Torah portions that talk about this idea—as well as the clothing the priests wore, and the creation of ritual items that went into the Mishkan. 

In these descriptions, we are told about Betzalel, the artist who crafted this structure—a man who was singled out by God—who was filled with the spirit of God in wisdom, and understanding, and knowledge in every kind of craft.  A man, surely, of unique spirit.  And God also assigns Oholiab to work with him, and other skilled members of the community to help, as well.  

Each year, as I read these portions during February, Jewish Disability Awareness and Inclusion Month, I can’t help but wonder if maybe Betzalel was someone whose gifts were often overlooked because of other aspects of his person.  The Torah doesn’t tell us much else about Betzalel—which gives us the freedom to interpret it—to create modern midrash—to write the back stories.  

And in my midrashic imagination, Betzalel is a man who is singled out by God for his unique gifts, because the community itself might not have noticed the gifts he had to offer.

And what a model that offers us.  First, he’s given an aide—someone who can help him to be successful—who can make sure he has what he needs—some extra help to negotiate that which is more challenging for him.  And other members of the community as well.  

Because the community needs to be part of this—so Betzalel has more help, so he isn’t alone, so Betzalel is truly part of that community.  And by calling him forth in front of the entire community to do this sacred work, Moses gives him a place of honor.  Recognizing his gifts publicly. 

And Betzalel is the one who gets to have the holy task of creating the holy space built so that the Divine can dwell with the people in that space.

And, indeed, it is only when we honor the gifts of all members of the community—when we put systems in place so that all members of the community are welcomed—when we have removed the stumbling blocks that are huge, as well as the ones that no one had even noticed were there—it is then that we can truly create holy community.  And receive the gifts that each member of the community has to offer.

Let us learn from this—may Betzalel be our reminder to create a community—to create a world—in which all are welcome—are embraced—not despite a disability that someone has, but because we value the gifts that only that individual can bring.  Gifts that are the essence of their spirit.  Gifts that others might ignore.  Gifts that we need, in order to create sacred space.

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Parashat Mishpatim

2/9/18

I don’t know if you heard the news, but Wilmington has a Kosher restaurant for the first time in years, perhaps decades. And it’s not what you’d think. Last month, the Va’ad certified Dropsquad Kitchen, on the riverfront at Justison Landing, as our first kosher eatery. This is a big deal; sure, we’ve had froyo and ice cream joints and a cupcake shop with kosher certification, and you could get kosher food at Lodge Lane and the JCC, but it’s been a while since you could buy lunch or dinner out at a kosher place.

The question then becomes, what is Dropsquad kitchen? It’s not a new place; they’ve been on the riverfront since 2012. They’re a vegan, African American owned and operated soul-food restaurant. The name was chosen by the owner, Abundance Child, who took it from a Spike Lee movie. It’s a quirky place, filled with books and board games, the kind of place I would have loved to hang out in when I was in high school. The staff (who are mostly family) are thoughtful and welcoming and kind, and the food is delicious.

I’d been there before they got their heksher, and you know something? I’m absolutely thrilled. I have to tell you, I love the fact that it’s not what you’d expect from a kosher place; it’s not a deli, not a bagel place. Nothing about it says ‘Jewish’: no kreplach, no latkes, and certainly no gribnes. But so what? Why does that have to be our idea of kosher? And why not an African American business, downtown on the Riverfront as opposed to another eatery in Trolley Square or on 202 in North Wilmington? We had our DERECH meeting there this Tuesday and it was so great to get out of our own ruts, our own comfort zones, and I can’t wait to see as others in the Jewish community do the same.

For Dropsquad Kitchen to become kosher (and for the Va’ad to give them the heksher) is, of course, a business decision. But it’s more than that; it’s an experiment in radical empathy. Will Jews who want Kosher be willing to go downtown and eat vegan tacos (which are pretty awesome by the way), and will Dropsquad Kitchen want to welcome these folks in? Why wouldn’t the restaurant stick with its usual clientele and the Va’ad wait for someone to open up a more “classic” Jewish eatery? Specifically, because it gets us to see each other as part of a shared community, a shared experience. By eating kosher soulfood, it challenges us to understand the value of kashrut as more than just a particular ethnic cuisine but as a collection of values that are meant to lift us up and better ourselves and the world around us. When we get beyond our own boundaries, we stop being strangers to each other, and we become neighbors. And I can think of nothing more Jewish than that.

A few minutes ago I reminded us that the idea of loving and caring for the stranger, something that we are so familiar with in the Torah that it verges on pablum, is one of the most radical ideas in the ancient world and, I would argue, today. To say that we should take our shared experience of being the stranger, the resident alien, in Egypt, our narrative of being oppressed and ostracized, and transform that memory into radical empathy, is nothing short of revolutionary. As Rabbi Shai Held reminds us in The Heart of Torah, Scripture could have said, “since you were tyrannized and exploited and no one did anything to help you, you don’t owe anything to anyone; how dare anyone ask anything of you?” But that’s not what it said and not what I read; “You shall not oppress the stranger for you know the feelings of the stranger having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” Our memory is transformed from ethnic experience to intense ethical obligation, from an act of remembering for its own sake to one of moral responsibility. It’s not rational; we aren’t told “be kind to strangers because you might get something out of it”, or, “be kind to the resident alien in case they take over and you find yourself on the wrong end of a sword,” or, “let’s be kind to the resident alien, but only the good ones, the right ones who look like us and bother to get off the couch.” The appeal is entirely emotional. We’ve been there, we know what it’s like, and because we do we have an obligation to help when no one helped us; the immigrant Dreamer who dreams American dreams, the refugee fleeing persecution and death, and the African migrant coming to Israel hoping for safety and refuge, raising families and children, converting sometimes to Judaism, only to be told by the Jewish state that they should go to Rwanda. To forget our shared experience, our narrative, or to think it doesn’t make a moral demand of us, is to betray God, our Torah and ourselves. That’s what makes Dropsquad kitchen being kosher so amazing; a simple act of radical kindness. And that’s what makes our current debate around immigration, both here and in Israel, so infuriating. Yes, there is a comfort in hiding behind walls of our own making, but Torah compels us, compels us as surely as it compels us to keep the Sabbath or the holidays, to do differently, and to do better. That’s why we must act and work with JFS Rise program to welcome refugees. That’s why we must join with the Religious Action Center to call for a clean DREAM act. That’s why we must do what we must do to make sure those who are not from here, the resident alien, the stranger, know that they are welcome.

One of my favorite stories goes like this (you might know it from that great source of midrash, The West Wing): "This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.

"A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

"Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on

"Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

We’ve been down here before, and we know the way out. And Torah reminds us what to do; we jump into the pit with them. Just let’s grab some vegan kosher tacos for the road first.

Me too.

Those are the words we're hearing and seeing again and again these few weeks. Girls. Women. Mom's. Grandmas. Black, white, Jewish. Affirmations that they, too had been sexually harassed.

Started as a campaign years ago by an African American activist, me too came back to the fore as a result of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, which turns out to be a cascading scandal of Hollywood and political leaders being outed as harassers, abusers of power and authority.

Like many men, I've been watching and listening, horrified. What can one say to seeing hundreds, if not thousands, of responses from family and friends and allies and colleagues about their experiences?

I teach Torah. Torah is the lense through which I see the world and I look to the Torah and see another Me too moment. Sarai (eventually Sarah) and Avram (eventually Abraham) will, after reaching the promised Land, go down to Egypt to avoid famine. There, Avram will ask Sarai to pretend that she is his sister, fearful that Pharoah will kill him for her. So she plays along with the rest, and see enough, Pharaoh wants Sarai for his harem. As her brother, Abvram benefits beautifully with great wealth-a bride price. It takes a plague by God to stop Pharaoh, who banishes Avram and Sarai due to Avram’s actions.

Me too, says Sarai. Me too, victim not just of Pharoah’s power mad antics but also her husband's fear and failure to see his spouse as anything more than a bargaining chip.

We might say his story is a product of its time, but the text itself seems to be calling out Avram for his behavior. Certainly the rabbis pull all their hair out trying to justify, rationalize, and indeed, call Avram on the carpet for his behavior.

Me too, says the Torah.

Each of us have, at some point, witnessed harassment. How many times did we stand up against it, take the offending person behind the woodshed, sounded the alarm? How often did we meekly apologize to the victim, and make excuses? How often, after hearing accusations, did we try to justify an abuser's actions? How often did we do nothing?

The text holds up a model of behavior for us. Not Avram and certainly not Pharaohz but God. God intervenes. God stops the actual abuse. Now, we can't hit folks with a plague, but we can speak out. We can stand up. We can take victims’ stories seriously. We can and must. Even when it's hard. Even when we are fearful. If these women are brave enough to describe their moments of abuse and harassment, can we as bystanders really say we lack courage?

Sarai says Me too. God says: be a blessing. Let's choose to be a blessing.

When I was in sixth grade, a classmate of mine drew a swastika on the cover of one of my text books.  I’m not going to name him, because it doesn’t really matter.  And because I don’t think he really understood what he was drawing.  And because he’s a nice person.  And because we’re facebook friends and I don’t want to shame him.  I saw him at our last high school reunion and had a great conversation about religion and our own personal journeys.  I think that, at the time, when we were in sixth grade, he wanted to pick on me, knew I was Jewish, and knew that drawing that particular symbol was a way he could accomplish that—I doubt he really knew why.  I don’t really remember how I responded.  I think I erased it and tried to move on.  I’m fairly certain that I didn’t tell a teacher or my parents.  

The phenomenon of victims of hatred based acts, due to any kind of hate, no matter how small or large the act, not saying a thing, is a common one.  More than half of hate crimes go unreported, according to the Department of Justice.  Perhaps because those who are the receivers of such acts don’t want to make waves, or are embarrassed that something happened to them, or because they don’t think anything will realistically be done about it…too often, things happen and no one says a thing.  Which has the effect of the perpetrator of the act never learning that what they did was wrong.  And of any sort of real, systemic change being slow, because few realize or recognize the reality of what happens to individuals.

For this particular instance I shared, I think I just wanted to move beyond it.  Maybe to pretend it didn’t happen.  I’m fairly certain that this man does not recollect this incident—I don’t think it was a defining moment of his childhood, and I don’t think he did then or does now actually hate Jews.  

But quite frankly, the fact that this was a fairly innocent act, and not a hate fueled statement, actually makes the whole thing all the more frightening to me.  Because it shows that a swastika is a common enough symbol, that even someone who was neither Jewish nor a Nazi knew that it was antisemitic.  Because casual antisemitism was a thought that crossed the mind of this boy in the mostly white middle class suburb where we grew up.  Because such an act of hate was not something that likely had a lasting impact on him.  Because while I understood that this symbol on my book would worry the adults in my life, I wanted to hide it.  Because, to this day, I still think he’s a nice guy.  A nice guy who drew a swastika on the cover of my text book.

Antisemitism, prejudice, various forms of hatred have existed in this country since the beginning of its history.  But we’ve been able to largely pretend that they no longer exist, or that they aren’t at all wide spread.  Until recently, at least. 

When our JCC had repeated bomb threats earlier this year. When news of swastikas defacing all sorts of places became regular news stories, including some drawn on message boards outside of some dorm rooms at my alma mater, Brandeis University, just this week. And this summer, when we all watched images of torch bearing white nationalists, wielding confederate flags and nazi flags, marching in the streets of Charlottesville, VA.  Shouting, “Jews will not replace us.  YOU will not replace us.”  Forcing the members of a synagogue that was along the path of their march to leave Shabbat services through a back door, sneaking the Torah scrolls out to keep them safe, as well.  I don’t need to go into the violent details of that day,  which woke a lot of us to a realization that racism in this country is a real and present problem.

For many of us, the color of our skin does not mark us as different, so we often don’t think of ourselves as victims of racism.  But, in fact, by virtue of our connection to Judaism, our whiteness is conditional.  We, of course, are able to hide our Judaism—we are able to pass as white. But our passing whiteness doesn’t remove the hatred that exists. Charlottesville made it clear that racism and antisemitism not only go hand in hand, but are one in the same. 

We live in an odd time, in which Jews can and have risen to the highest of positions, but at the same time, face roadblocks and hatred.  While the glass ceiling may have been shattered for us, we still exist within glass houses, and have been taught not to throw stones.  Which, when stones are cast in our direction, becomes challenging.  And when stones are cast at others—because of their difference—we may want to help, but we don’t want the hatred to spread to us.  And we’re not the ones who are hating.   And we’re not sure what to do.  And, all too often, we do nothing.

The words of Martin Niemoller echo in our heads:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

A message both powerful and troubling, speaking to the need to speak out for others—and yet limited to speech and so focused on inaction, that they serve more as a confession than as an inspiration.  Earlier this year, my friend and colleague, Rabbi Michael Latz wrote the following in response to Martin Neimoller (z”l):

First they came for transpeople and I spoke up -- because God does NOT make mistakes!

Then they came for the African Americans and I spoke up—

Because I am my sisters’ and my brothers’ keeper.

And then they came for the women and I spoke up—

Because women hold up half the sky.

And then they came for the immigrants and I spoke up—

Because I remember the ideals of our democracy.

And then they came for the Muslims and I spoke up—

Because they are my cousins and we are one human family.

And then they came for the Native Americans and Mother Earth and I spoke up—

Because the blood-soaked land cries and the mountains weep.

They keep coming.

We keep rising up.

Because we Jews know the cost of silence.

We remember where we came from.

And we will link arms, because when you come for our neighbors, you come for us—

and THAT just won’t stand.

Indeed, the hatred we see in our world cannot stand—we must speak out and we must stand up.  Whether the hatred is against us because we are Jews, or against others because of the color of their skin, racism is real and we cannot stand for that.

We can do better.

We can start by listening.  To noticing hateful acts when they occur.  And to really hear when others point out racism that they’ve seen or experienced.  To not argue against it but to accept that the person experienced it, and consider how we can help them, or even how we ourselves can act differently.  And maybe even ask questions so that we can learn more. And enter into dialogue to better understand.

It’s been virtually impossible this past week to not be aware that something is happening with the NFL, other than football games, as some players from every team knelt or stood arm in arm with teammates during the National Anthem, in solidarity with Colin Kaepernick, who started kneeling during the anthem last year, to protest racial oppression.  At first, he sat during the anthem.  But then, Nate Boyer, a former green beret and NFL player, wrote a public letter to Kaepernick, in which he expressed, “Even though my initial reaction to your protest was one of anger, I’m trying to listen to what you’re saying and why you’re doing it.”  Kaepernick responded by inviting Boyer to sit down and have a conversation—and then the men talked.  Eric Reid, another player, joined them.  According ESPN, “Boyer, Kaepernick and Reid agreed that the divided nature of the country right now is making it difficult to communicate clearly about complicated issues. They hope that people see and understand their conversation, and that it will lead those who can effect change to have similar discussions.”  It was out of that conversation, honoring the views of each of the 3 men, that the 3 men collectively decided that Kaepernick should kneel instead of sit—an act still problematic to many, but one that was formed out of 3 people having a complicated conversation, which can lead to others having such discussions, which is the only way that we can see change.  And they’re right.  

Change needs to happen.  And change is difficult and sometimes messy.  But change is necessary.  And we can only see that change when we hear each other, when we listen to each other, and when we try to understand the perspective of another.  To learn to use the experience of others in order to notice and respond to the racism around us.  

We should do better.

Let us be aware that this is a problem that exists even within the walls of synagogues.  A rabbinical student, my friend Eric Uriarte, in his recent student sermon at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles, spoke about his experience as a Jew of Color.  He said, “When we take off our Jewish garb, our skin color and our ethnic markers continue to make us the target of white supremacists.  But when we put them on, I’m sorry to say, those same elements can make us feel excluded in Jewish spaces.”  His experience is not unique.  For many Jews of color, they have been welcomed into Jewish spaces with questions of their legitimacy as Jews—what they are doing there, what their Jewish background is—or assumptions are made that they do not know how to follow a service.  That they must be at the synagogue for another reason, other than to pray.  That because of their color, they must not be Jewish—or not really be Jewish. 

None of these stories are ones that I have heard about this community.  But I’ve heard enough such stories—and even witnessed some—that I recognize Jews of color not feeling included is an ongoing challenge for the Jewish community as a whole. 

We must do better.  

I am not suggesting that racism is the fault of any of us.  I am not suggesting that any of us are racists. 

But let us remember that the Hebrew word for sin, het, actually means missing the mark—it’s an archery term.  And that definition recognizes that even when we are trying our best, even when we are aiming to get things right, sometimes we make mistakes.  We must be open to that idea, and we must determine to continue to try.  We must know that even though we are not racists, we might sometimes do something or say something that has been perceived by a person of color through the lens of race.  Just like we can name moments at which someone innocuously said something to us or around us that we experienced as antisemitic, even though they didn’t mean it, we must be open to the idea that sometimes we have unintentionally participated in racism.

And I do believe that we bear a communal responsibility.  Our liturgy on these High Holy Days reminds us of that with the plural language of our confessional prayers; words that we all read, even if we ourselves have not committed a particular act.  We have gone astray.  We have sinned.  We have done these things.  We might not have acted through hatred based prejudice, but we still confess.  We might not be racists ourselves, but we know that there are others who are.  We may not be the cause, but we still participate in, and sometimes even benefit from, a system in which racism is inherent and bias is real. Al chet shechatanu l’faneicha—for all the ways through which we have missed the mark in ending racism, we pray for forgiveness.  And we resolve to change.  

We will do better.

We must speak out.  Just as thousands are marching against racism in Washington today, as Rabbi Robinson spoke about last night, I am protesting racism through my words today.  I hope that we all take our place in the chain of Jewish tradition of Kivie Kaplan and Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner and Abraham Joshua Heschel, and speak out against the systemic racism that still exists.  This is the prophetic voice that must inform us.  This is the fast, as Isaiah reminds us, that is demanded.

We must speak out and we must also speak up.  We must not stand for racist comments—and let it be known when we observe racism happening.  And we must do this for ourselves, as well.

Allie Gurwitz, a student of mine from San Antonio is now at Georgetown University.  In response to swastikas being painted around her campus, she recently posted the following:

I don't normally post things like this on Facebook but as Elie Wiesel said, "Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented." To whatever individual or group is responsible for the growing number of swastikas being painted in different locations on campus: I am not afraid. We are not afraid. The Jewish community at Georgetown is strong and proud. Your hate has no place here and will not be tolerated. Spread love today.

She’s right.  We must speak out.  We must not be afraid.  And we must combat hate through love.  And darkness through light.  To pursue justice is our sacred mandate.  Our holy task is to bring the light of justice into our world.  We are taught so many times in the Torah that we must care for the stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt.  Through our communal history, and through our personal experience, we must remember that we will not stand for hatred expressed towards us nor towards anyone else.  We must act in accordance with building the world that we want to see—to be the light for justice so that we can know a world of justice.  A world of righteousness.  A world of peace.  

Ken Y’hi Ratzon, may this be God’s will.

Ken Y’hi Ratzeinu, may this be OUR will.

It was a hot day this past July, and it looked like the Old City of Jerusalem was going to explode. A few days before, three Israeli Arabs had killed two Israeli Druze police officers near the Temple Mount. Security forces had closed off the area and then reopened it with metal detectors. Israeli Arab leaders and the leadership of the Waqf, the religious authority that supervises Muslim holy sites in Israel, staged a protest, and began calling for a day of rage. Three Israelis were killed when someone broke into their home, and three Palestinians were killed in rioting. For those of us watching this past summer, it appeared that once again Israel would be embroiled in violence.

In response to the increased tensions, Sarah Tuttle-Singer, an American Israeli journalist who has been living in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, stood outside and, with a few friends, handed out popsicles to passersby. She started with popsicles she had paid for out of pocket, and by the end of the day merchants were donating them entire boxes.

She wrote the following of the experience:

On Thursday, a group of us stood in front of the Austrian hospice at the intersection of Al Wad and Via Dolorosa and handed out (parve) popsicles to anyone who would accept.

Men carrying prayer rugs on their way to the Mosque.

Guys going to the Western Wall.

Families walking north and south and back again.

A baffled looking priest and two nuns.

A guy in Border Police with braces on his teeth.

A pilgrim from Russia wearing a giant cross and strappy sandals.

A bunch of tourists from Ohio.

Lots and lots and lots of kids.

Anyone who would accept a popsicle got one.

Why?

Because it's *** hot out.

And we may come from different cultures and religions, we may speak different languages and see the world through different eyes, but we are all a sum part of chemical and biological processes, and we all get hot.

And when we get hot we get irritated and the tensions that are already there can ignite.

Also, the Old City is my home and I believe in treating my neighbors with respect during good times, and bad.

As it happened, the next day, Israel removed the security apparatuses and tensions were calmed.

I suspect many of us, as touched as we are by Sarah’s gesture (on her birthday, no less) find it lovely but Pollyanna-ish. How do popsicles solve the crisis between Palestinian and Jew in the area between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan RIver? How does this account for the Waqf’s incitement, fanning the flames of violence? How does it deal with the Palestinian Authority continuing to pay the families of terrorists, including the three who killed the Druze police officers? How do popsicles deal with olive groves destroyed by settlers who build on hilltops that don’t belong to them? What do popsicles do to protect our kids at college when someone paints a swastika on their dorm room door? How does this really resolve anything? We see the picture of Sarah handing out popsicles, and it’s lovely, and kind, yet by the time we’re done thinking about the matzav, the situation, we get ourselves so worked up that it feels futile and hopeless and irrelevant.

When I was a kid I had a book from AIPAC called “Myths and Facts”, a guide to talking about the Arab-Israeli conflict, that was meant to help someone who would get caught up in a conversation about Israel and quickly get overwhelmed. That’s because the conversation is overwhelming. Because when we speak of Israel, we are often very quick to speak of technicalities: dates and maps and green lines and technical marvels, who did what when, who is to blame and who is responsible, who really actually truly cares about others? And what’s worse, the diversity of Zionist organizations on the left and the right has created increasing fracture within the Jewish community, including here in Delaware. Myths And Facts was meant for Jews to speak with non-Jews, but it seems that we have reached the point where we may feel that we need it internally, not just externally. It was one thing to combat well-meaning non-Jewish peaceniks who would carry the claim that Zionism was racism. Now we have the ZOA, AIPAC, J-Street, ARZA, IfNotNow, Open Hillel and many other organizations whose relationship with Zionism is complex and nuanced, which would be great, if we were living in a time of complex and nuanced discussion and debate. But increasingly, we have been living in a world of alternative facts, fake news, insistence that if the person across from me disagrees with me even in the slightest bit, they are not just wrong, they are my enemy and the enemy of all I hold dear. To be a J-Street supporter in the eyes of many is to betray the Jewish state to an Iranian Nuclear Weapon, while to be an AIPAC supporter is to capitulate to an Israeli Prime Minister unwilling and unable to make peace. Is ARZA fighting to create space for Reform Jews to practice an egalitarian Judaism at the Western Wall, or a distraction undermining the fabric of Israeli society and Judaism as we know it? Does the ZOA advocate for a strong Jewish State or is it a racist organization advocating bigotry against Arabs? These are actual discussions that are taking place, if you can call them ‘discussions’. More like weaponized sentences, screaming matches, skirmishes that have casualties. As one example, a student of mine, now in college, shared this experience with me: She was getting ready to go on a birthright trip, one geared toward LGBT individuals, that would coincide with Israel Pridefest. She wrote: “Before the trip I had gotten anti-Israel hate on campus (anti-Trump protests saying if you didn't vote to divest then you don't believe in human rights, friends saying Zionism has no place in feminism) and my best friend told me she cancelled her trip with me because she couldn't "morally go to Israel" but nobody was like actually attacking me for going cuz I kept it on the down low since I knew so many of my friends legitimately hated Israel and would make laugh about terrorism on twitter. Only after I went did I have people be blatantly anti-Semitic to me on twitter because of my trip and people passive aggressively post articles about pink washing the day I got back” . Can you imagine having friendships ruined, trips ruined, relationships blown apart? That is what is happening, and this is being repeated over and over again. My friends, we are tearing each other apart.

Friends, if we keep talking about Israel through technicalities, as if it were a zero-sum game, without nuance or complexity or an acknowledgement of each other’s lived experiences, then we are not going to resolve the Palestinian-Israeli crisis. We are not going to stop dumb college kids from saying dumb and terrible things and doing dumb and terrible things. We aren’t going to be able to support the kind of Israel we want to see—strong and diverse and safe. We are creating a no-man’s land within the Jewish community; no one wants to talk about Israel. I’ve seen it for years: a survey came out two years ago of rabbis across all three major movements that indicated the majority refrained from discussing Israel because they feared for their jobs; one prominent rabbi in the Northeast who does a great deal of social justice work told a group of us ten years ago to approach the topic of Israel gingerly, and treat it as a third rail in synagogue politics. And we see it in Delaware. How many people are still giving to ARZA, or are willing to go to an AIPAC or J-Street policy conference, or at least tell others? How many look over both shoulders while at Temple before talking about Israel so as not to get into a fight? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been without an Israel Advocacy Chair for more than two years, a Board position! Because no one wants to touch it.

So let’s go back to those popsicles, shall we? Did some blonde woman from LA who now lives in Jerusalem handing out popsicles resolve the borders, water rights, Palestinian Right of Return and the boundaries of Jerusalem? Nope. Did it resolve the issue on the Temple Mount? Nope. Did it bring back the lives of those killed—the policemen, the family, the young people at the protest? Sadly, no. But it was a human gesture, a recognition that the people shared a city, shared a love for that city, and a love for each other as well. It was neighborly, it was kind. And it allowed the people to be people, to recognize the humanity in one another, even for one brief, cool, sweet, drippy moment.

We need more of those moments. We need more opportunities that are safe, where we can sit with our fellow congregants and speak from our lived experiences, talk about what Israel means to each one of us personally. We need to start not at 30,000 feet, at borders and drip irrigation and the like. That doesn’t mean that isn’t interesting, that doesn’t mean it isn’t cool, but that’s not our starting point. Our starting point needs to be each other. Why do we care about Israel? What does that look like to me, or to you? Where does it come from? How does it relate to the rest of our lives? How can we listen and affirm that connection, deepen it, relate to it, let it resonate for ourselves? How does Israel challenge us, upset us? How do we create space to listen to one another, not scream the so-called correct answers at one another?

This year, I want to try an experiment; an experiment in listening. Over the course of this year, there will be sessions, held over several months, beginning in October and culminating in May. The purpose of them is to create the space to talk about Israel, to listen to each other in a safe space, and to build relationships. No other agenda, no convincing one another of being right or wrong, no yelling, no screaming, no Myths and no Facts. Only listening deeply and seeing the humanity in one another, and acknowledging each other’s experiences. I can’t promise there will be popsicles, but my prayer is that we’re able to come together and speak honestly and compassionately, to hear one another even when it’s difficult. Because it’ll be no good if we only speak platitudes and avoid the subject; that’s what we’ve got now and it’s not doing anything either. We need to be able to be honest, but to be able to hear one another clearly as well, not just prepare our next fusillade. Rabbi Amy Eilberg, in her book From Enemy to Friend, talks about “skilled disagreement”, and this will help guide our conversations. Ideas like: we can be critical of ideas but not people, we can separate our personal worth from criticism of our ideas, we listen to everyone, even when we don’t agree, we try to understand one another and stand in a posture of curiosity, asking questions. I’ll be going into greater detail about those ideas tomorrow, but that is the intention. I cordially invite you—all of you, each of you—to come and participate, to share, to be present, to create those moments of empathy with one another. Perhaps it will lead to something concrete for the synagogue—a new Israel committee, a new program—or perhaps it will just mean that the participants got to know each other better and learned how to speak thoughtfully. Perhaps we will choose to extend the conversation: to the rest of Delaware’s Jewish community, to the non-Jewish community, or perhaps not. What’s most important is that we do it. Because if we do not start here, each one of us, in this congregation, then I fear our relationship with Israel will become increasingly tenuous, and our relationship with one another ever more brittle. And should that happen, then we cannot advocate for Israel, at least not effectively. And are we really ready to give up on the Hope and the dream of a Jewish people, Free in our land?

The rabbis of old ask, “Who is the hero of heroes? The one who makes an enemy into a friend.” May we, through our listening and our kindness learn to keep our friends “friends”, and see those around us not as enemies but as potential friends, then may our words be as sweet to one another as a popsicle on a summer’s day. Amen

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