D'var Torah & Sermons

Update this content.

Yair D. Robinson

Parashat D’varim

7/28/17

In several of his books, Martin Buber tells the story of a famous Hassidic rabbi, Abraham Yaakov of Sadagora. The rabbi insisted that something can be learned from everything, even from the inventions of his time.

"Everything can teach us something, and not only everything God has created. What man has made has also something to teach us."
"What can we learn from a train?" one [student] asked dubiously.
"That because of one second one can miss everything."
"And from the telegraph?"
"That every word is counted and charged."
"And the telephone?"
"That what we say here is heard there."

This week we begin Deuteronomy, whose Hebrew name is “Words”, Devarim. Specifically, these are the words Moses shares before Israel enters the land, the words Moses has chosen to inspire and educate his people before they fulfill their destiny without him. The rabbis imagine him not just speaking from the mountaintop, but also speaking quietly to each Israelite in the way he or she could understand, taking the time to speak to each person with care. Compare that to our current experience with words. It seems that every day we see what happens when words are treated thoughtlessly, and the damage that can happen when we fail to account for our words, or who might be listening. Whether it’s damaging and offensive words in a tweet or hurled directly at someone with whom we disagree, regardless of relationship, our words and the timing of those words matter.

Next week is also Tisha B’av, the holiday commemorating the destruction of the Temple, and the Rabbis of the Talmud understood the reason for that destruction being sinat chinam, senseless hatred, inspired by callous and careless words. I don’t observe the 9th of Av for a host of reasons, but let me suggest that we should spend this week reflecting on how we use our words. Are we taking a good account of our words? Are we mindful of who is listening? Are we taking the opportunity to speak lovingly with one another? May we fulfill the words of our prayerbook, the words of the psalms, O God, open our lips that our mouths may proclaim you Glory, in all we say. Amen.

Yair Robinson

Parashat Bamidbar

5/26/17

It’s late May and early June, which can only mean one thing: graduation. Next weekend is high school graduation, and for the last several weeks we’ve seen article after article, Facebook post after Facebook post celebrating various college graduations throughout Delaware and Pennsylvania and Maryland and beyond.

One graduation that was especially poignant this week was at Bowie State University, more for who was not graduating than who was. A seat was left with the cap, gown and stole of Richard Collins III, who would have accepted a business degree before taking his place as a second lieutenant in the US Army. Instead, his family accepted his diploma, for Richard Collins III was dead, killed in a knife-attack. And not just any knife attack (as if that isn’t bad enough). Richard Collins III, who is black, was killed by a man who belongs to a white-supremacist group. Here was a young man who was preparing to serve his country, who was going to make something of himself and his life, but instead, mostly likely because of the color of his skin, is now only a memory, an unfulfilled promise. 

Did Richard Collins III matter? Did his life matter? Should his life matter to us? Does he count?

That question is the question before us in our Torah portion this week. What does it mean to matter, to count, and be counted? That is what our Torah asks us this week in parashat bamidbar, the first Torah portion in the book of numbers. God commands Moses to take a census of Israel, but not any kind of census. Moses and the elders are to count the able-bodied men of Israel, to prepare to enter the land and, really, invade it, or at least be ready to combat the locals. By definition, that means that this census is exclusionary; we don’t count women, the old, the young, the non-Israelite, and so forth.  For the text, it seems clear that not everyone necessarily matters for everything.

In our lives we are counted in various ways. The census, to be sure. Various statistics. Every click we make online. We are measured and evaluated through our behavior, our apparent wealth or lack thereof, our ethnicity, the way we talk or walk—or don’t. All of that is used to size up whether or not—or how—we matter.

And yet, the command to take the census begins with the words Take a census of the whole Israelite community, literally, “lift up the heads of all the Israelite community”. Well, that’s very different. This isn’t exclusive but inclusive. And even more than that; to lift up their heads, as the midrash says, to lift them up to greatness. In that same Midrash God says “I have made you like Me. Just as I hold My head up high over all the creatures of the earthy, so too with you.” Israel is not merely to be counted in its entirety and not merely to be counted for the sake of going to war but each person is to be counted to lift them up, to remind them that they are created in God’s image, that each one has value and merit and holiness.

It seems to me that the difficulty that is taking place in the text is the same difficulty we as a nation are wrestling with right now. Who do we count? Do we only count certain people—because of their wealth, or position, or status, or ethnicity, or gender—or do we acknowledge the inherent value of each and every person? Do we only matter as commodities to be sold goods and services, or are we truly in God’s image? Was Richard Collins life one of value, of worth, or was he another sad statistic?

To be sure, not every data point is relevant to every issue. But can we truly say that Richard Collins III didn’t matter? As his parents mourn him rather than celebrate his accomplishments and potential, shouldn’t we join them in mourning his loss as well? For me the answer is yes. For me the text challenges us to see those around us not merely as data points, but as lives to be lived, people whose heads should be lifted up—by each one of us. And so long as we only count those we choose to count—those who look like us, sound like us—then we cannot say we are ready to enter the land God has promised us. So let us lift up the heads—the lives—of all, and remember that they—and we, and you—count.

Rabbi Elisa F. Koppel

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired.  I’m really tired.  Tired of cemetery desecrations, and bomb threats—attacks on our own community.  Tired of mosques being burned.  Tired of people being killed because of the color of their skin or their ethnicity.  Tired of having to focus on security instead being able to focus on program.  I’m quite simply exhausted.

I was speaking with a colleague yesterday—one of the colleagues with whom I am studying in the Executive Masters program through Hebrew Union College, to get a Masters in Religious Education.  This was the program with which I traveled to Israel recently, as part of our studies.  My friend reminded me of our trip to a community near the Gaza border, Moshav ntiv haaserah, at which a woman who lives there told us about her experience living there, particularly during the summer of 2014, in which rockets were fired into their community from Gaza daily, thousands in all.  Because of the Iron Dome, very few caused any real, physical damage.  However, as she showed us one of the rockets that fallen into her backyard, she said words that stayed with me, “This is a psychological weapon.”

And, indeed, while I understood what she meant then—I get it in a much deeper way now.  There are weapons that are meant to do physical damage—and those are awful.  But there are other weapons that are designed to hurt psychologically.  To bring fear, to make us wonder, to attempt to destroy the spirit—those weapons, I believe, are just as awful.

An hour later, we saw something else at that same Moshav—we saw the huge, enforced cement blockers which mark the border between Gaza and Israel.  We heard the sound of gun shots, from the Israeli Army practicing.  We saw exactly how close we were.  And on those giant barriers, we saw something else.  We saw what fueled the woman with whom we spoke, what fueled the community we were visiting, and indeed what fuels the world—we saw hope.  We saw hope in the form of a project called N’Tiv L’Shalom, the Path to Peace, a mosaic project on the border wall, created by individual contributions of on-site visitors, “in the hope that one day our collective desire for a life of tranquility and peace will be fulfilled.”  The mosaics are full of bright colors, rainbows and flowers, houses, trees and smiling faces.  And the name of the place, with its hope and perhaps its internal prayer, in English, Hebrew, and Arabic.  And, perhaps, it is only this sense of hope, this sense of working towards peace in small ways, that is the counter weapon against psychological warfare.

That same day, while we were still at the Moshav, we heard about a terror attack in Jerusalem—a truck ramming into pedestrians at a bus stop. Later, as we visited S’derot, a city devastated by rocket fire, we all wrote home or posted on social media that we were safe—we were safely in S’derot and near the Gaza border.  It was a surreal moment.  And it was only 2 days later, sitting in a cafe, enjoying dinner with my cohort of educators from across the country, that the first Bomb Threat was called into the JCC here.  I happened to be sitting next to an educator in Kansas City, who well remembers the shooting at the JCC there just 2 years ago.  She understood. She also understood that my concern didn’t subside when I learned that there was no bomb—little did either of us know that this would be only the first round of bomb threats put upon the Jewish community.  A month or so of psychological terror attempted.

And, I’m tired.  I’m really tired.  But I’m also comforted, knowing that the community is around us.  Knowing that the students at the Religious School at the Islamic Center of Delaware each made cards last weekend, to be sent to each of the synagogues here in Delaware as statements of support.  And knowing that the Interfaith Service that was put together primarily by the African American community this past Wednesday gathered together Jews with Christians and Muslims to stand together in solidarity and comfort.  Standing hand in hand with so many, singing We Shall Overcome—as tears came to my eyes—I believed it.  And I had hope.  And I knew that it was through hope that we shall, indeed, continue to thrive, as our people have done for millenia.

And I also know that our tradition gives us a guide of how to persevere.  This week’s Torah portion, Terumah, is at the heart of this guidance—giving us a moment at which where we are in the Torah is perfect for what is going on in the Torah.  In this portion, Moses is given instructions to build the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary to carry through the wilderness, in order to bring God’s presence throughout the desert and into the promised land.  

God commands, “Asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham.”

“Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” 

Within this verse is the recognition that humanity needs things which are holy—we need sacred space, and here is the original creation of such a thing.  Previous to this, there had been instances of places being recognized as holy—but this is the first time that something is made by human hands (although by Divine instruction in this case) for the sole purpose of being sacred.  Two terms in Hebrew are used to designate the Tabernacle: mikdash and mishkan.  Literally, a place of holiness and a place of dwelling.  Indeed, both descriptions are apt in describing a holy space such as this.  By way of recognizing that a space is holy, we allow God’s presence to be in that space. 

Whatever our personal conception of the meaning of “God’s presence,” that presence is invited in when we treat a space as holy, as sacred—as valuable in a way that no other possession can be valuable.  Sanctity is a matter of human declaration.  Through our actions and through our words does a space become holy.  We intuitively know how to treat such spaces in order to designate them as holy, and how to treat them once we understand that they are holy.  In modernity, we continue to create such spaces.  We are within one right now.  We created them and see them created in so many different places.  And it is these places that give us a sanctuary—not only as a holy place, but as a hopeful place—a place away from those aspects of the world which try to take hope away from us.  This is our sanctuary.  Not just the room we are in, but the community we are with.  

Because physicality isn’t always important—it’s what lies within which really matters.  Honi the Circle Maker, a character from rabbinic literature, is named so because he drew circles on the ground, and stood within them to pray.  The most simple way of creating a sacred spot…not building anything, but drawing shapes in the sand.  Standing within the circle, he was able to pray most honestly to God.  His prayers were answered.  If a circle of ground can be holy, then certainly any space can be holy as well.  If we treat a place as sacred, then it is.

And when we are a k’hillah k’dosha—a holy community—we are able to bring that sanctity to every space where we dwell.  

Wherever we are, it is when we recognize that within each of us is the Divine Spark, and treat each other as if God is a presence within the relationship, and within the community, this is truly a sacred space. 

This synagogue—our synagogue—is a sacred space.  Each time we treat this place as sacred, we engage in the constant process of creating this modern Tabernacle.  This place was built in order that God may dwell here.  We need to recognize that inherent sanctity, as we continually work towards building it.  And through that, we find the hope we need.

But we do not finish there.  Abraham Joshua Heshel taught that Shabbat is a sanctuary in time.  If we recognize that our tradition offers not only holiness in physical spaces, but also sanctity in moments, then we can recognize that our lives are full of opportunities for sanctuary—for refuge, for comfort, and for hope.

As we wish each other a Shabbat Shalom, may those words move us beyond the realm of greeting to the realm of hope.  May Shabbat bring us a sense of Shalom, of peace and of wholeness, for each of us, for all of use, and for the world.  May this Shabbat offer a sanctuary to us all.  May this Shabbat bring us the rest that we seek.

Shabbat Shalom.

Ken y’hi ratzon.

Rabbi Elisa F. Koppel

In rabbinical school, we had many homework assignments, unsurprisingly.  Many were meaningful.  Some were, well, not.  And several were somewhere in the middle.  One sticks out as incredibly monotonous and apparently meaningless, but from which, in the end, I gained Torah--unexpected wisdom and perhaps even truth.

The assignment, one of the first in our Bible class during our second year of rabbinical school—soon after we got back from our year in Israel, when the “real learning” began, was to find every time the phrase “Beit Yisrael” The House of Israel appears in the Tanach (the Hebrew bible).  It appears a lot.

First off, before that sounds completely overwhelming and unacchievable, it was, in part, a task in teaching us how to use the Concordance (lift up conCordance)—this big book that lists every word in the Hebrew bible, every time that it is used, in every form that it’s used.

Now, students these days have it easy.  This is all computerized—there’s even apps that can do this work.  In my day, by the end of rabbinical school, there was one program that could somewhat search for words by root—and it was incredibly helpful.  But it wasn’t good for nuanced searches like this, especially not with very common words--or words that could be confused with other words (like beit and bat).  Also our professors had a somewhat inherent distrust of technology (and, at the start of my education, it didn’t really exist yet—or at least we didn’t know about it or have access to it).  And the technology just wasn’t there yet for it to be a truly usable tool.  Also, books are an essential part of Judaism, and remain an important tool.  Rabbinical students still learn how to use a concordance--they just don't actually use it as much as we did.

And, believe me, we used the book.  It was a book we used a lot in Bible class. It’s helpful for understanding Biblical Hebrew, by seeing how words are used, by their context throughout their usage.  I admit, I’ve even looked things up in the concordance since Rabbinical school.

But this assignment—looking up Beit Yisrael? This was tedious.  Because, well, as you can imagine, the phrase appears a lot.  I mean, think about how many times The House of Israel comes up.  But, well, it did teach us how to use the book well.  But, here’s what was truly interesting--and made me learn to appreciate the concordance.

It showed us explicitly that Beit Yisrael means 2 different things: in some places, especially early on, it means Israel’s Household—Jacob’s wives and kids, essentially.  But, in other places, it means the House of Israel—what becomes the Jewish people.  And, it’s in the first paragraph or so of Sh’mot—the Book of Exodus and this week’s Torah portion, that the meaning shifts.  It’s at that moment that our ancestors transform from an extended family into a people—into our people.  Into the House of Israel.  So what I took from that assignment and that idea, is that our people is still connected to the connection of having once been a family.  So what does it mean to be a part of this House of Israel?

Other than the fact that we are at our source, one big, extended, sometimes messy family, what does being the extended House of Israel call us to do?

Looking at this week’s portion, we can see in our own ancestors, the models of Moses and Miriam that it means that we need to be connected.  We need to look out for one another, and we need to keep an eye on each other, even when it isn’t obvious.  We need to make sure that each other’s well being is being taken care of.  And, we need to recognize that we aren’t perfect—none of us.  Sometimes, we make mistakes.  Sometimes, situations get out of our control—but that doesn’t remove us from the household. In some cases, even leaders make mistakes.  And, if those leaders are able to learn from those mistakes—do t’shuva, so to speak, they can still be great leaders.

And we can see in others, like Shifra and Puah, the Egyptian Midwives, that even those that are not of our people, are still part of our house.  These women, who defied the King’s orders to save the Israelite babies, working bravely for what they knew was right.  They were not part of our direct family, but they were certainly part of the greater House of Israel.  In today’s parlance, we’d call them allies.  

We can see also the wisdom of Jethro, a Midianite Priest who becomes both father in law and advisor to Moses.  And Zipora, who gives Moses love and shows wisdom of her own.  And their son Gershom, who is named for being a stranger there—for as the house of Israel we have so often been strangers where we have dwelt—a minority, even when accepted.  And yet we have also learned from this that we must—we MUST—welcome the stranger—it is our mandate, our sacred obligation.

We are a people who stands strong, who does not give up, who does not submit or give up, or become weak, but a people that thrives despite the odds.

This is our heritage.  We are the House of Israel.  This is who we are and who we always have been.

And looking more broadly, we are the House of those who struggle with God.  The people who always must question.  They people who always seek answers and ask questions.  And the people for whom an answer usually leads to even more questions and sometimes even takes the form of a question.

We are a people for whom prayer comforts the afflicted and yet afflicts the comfortable, so that we help one another, and yet always seek to find that in the world which needs to be fixed.

We are a people who is taxed with tikkun olam, repairing a world which is irreparably broken, knowing that the task is insurmountable, yet having been taught that even if the task is great, and we are not responsible to finish it, we are also not allowed to run from it.

We are the house of Israel, a people responsible for one another, and yet responsible for those around us more vulnerable than ourselves.  A people at times unsure of how to strike that balance.

I got back last week from a trip to the land of Israel, a place as complicated and complex as the people for whom it is named, or is the naming the other way around?  The bulk of my trip was a seminar with the Executive Masters Program I am doing through the Hebrew Union College - Jewish Institute of Religion towards a Masters in Religious Education.  The trip was amazing, as trips to Israel often are.  I could say much about it.  I probably will at many later dates.  But at this moment, I share just a few words.  The main focus of our trip was the idea that there are many narratives that make up the story of Israel—there is no one single story, no one lens through which Israel can be viewed or understood.  There are sephardim and ashkenazim and mizrachim, there are Haredim and Reformim and secularim and Masorti and Masorati, There are Jews and Arabs and Arab Jews and Christians and Muslims, there are right wings and left wings and those in between, there are those that want to fight and those that want peace that just want to live their lives, there are those that want to make conversation and those that make the city streets their canvas and those that want to make music.  And they all tell their own story. There are so many truths and narratives and stories, all of which are held together in the swath of land we call Israel.  

And I think that is also at the essence of what it means to be part of the people we call the House of Israel.  We are a people that holds together contrasting and, perhaps, conflicting truths.  Not always at the same time, but sometimes.  Not always in the same person, but sometimes.  And yes, when there are 2 Jews, there are quite often 3 opinions.  Because that is who we are.  And it is how we continue to be the continuation of what was once just a family. 

We are the house of Israel; we are Jacob’s kids.  We struggle with the divine in the universe, and with the world around us.  We try to do what is best, and sometimes we err.  We watch out for each other, and for those who need help.  We try to make a better world.  We defy authority when righteousness is on the line.  We know what it is to be the stranger.  And we try to prevent others from feeling strange.  And we do our best when we ourselves feel strange.  We are the House of Israel.  We struggle because it is our essence.  It's what our family has always done.

Yair D. Robinson

So this past week I met Marisa at the new diner on Marsh Rd. There was a couple of women there with their kids, and the kids were being pretty terrible. Adorable. Sweet, but terrible. At one point one of the mom’s was letting her kid sit on the table itself. The waitress was clearly having a time of it. Now, what would you do? We could have sat in judgement, we could say something. When I got up to pay for our meal, I tipped our waiter, and then tipped the waitress of the kids table as well.  Was it the right thing to do? The best thing? No idea. But at least it was doing something to acknowledge that waitress.

When I was a teenager and I used to go to youth group events, my favorite song at song session was Mitzvah goreret mitzvah, by Andy Vogel. Like most kids reared on Debbie Friedman and Kol Beseder I learned my Pirkei Avot in the form of a song I could dance to with other nerdy Jewish kids like me. I never really thought about the lyrics—nobody did—we were too busy stamping our feet and injecting various “oh ohs” and the like. The words, of course, come from Pirkei Avot 4:2—One Mitzvah leads to another, while one sin leads to another, and when one acts justly it is very good.

It doesn’t get sung nearly as often these days—it’s thirty years old at this point—but I feel like we need to start singing it again. Or at least be reminded of the text: one mitzvah leads to another. Our kindness, our actions—no matter how small—matter. The way we treat each other matters. And we can choose to live in little bubbles insensitive to the needs of others, drawing up the drawbridge and hiding behind our own ramparts. Or we can choose in our everyday actions to acknowledge the needs of those around us.

We see that clearly in our Torah portion. Jacob has left Canaan, has dreamed his dream, and has come to Haran, whereupon he sees Rachel and sees the stone covering the well. It should say “there was a large stone on the mouth of the well” but that’s not the actual order of the text. It actually says “the stone was large on the mouth of the well.” The s’fat emet understands this as a metaphor: the stumbling block—our evil urge—may be everywhere, but it is heaviest and largest on the mouth of the well. What is the well? Our words, our mouths, our hearts, our intentions, our own actions, pick whichever one you want. The point is, once Jacob understands the situation, he by himself removes the stone from the well. He takes the action. Now, we know this is in part to impress Rachel, or at least inspired by Rachel, but so what? He does what is right in that moment. His actions improve the lot of the shepherds around him. His actions mattered.

Jacob’s actions matter and so do ours. When we chose to act with kindness, even if the action is small, it changes the life of that person. To do otherwise is to leave the stone upon the well, to allow ourselves to act selfishly, to allow people’s pain to persist. May we each find the strength to move that stone and live those words: then surely our lives will be just and it will be good.Update this content.

Rabbi Elisa Koppel

To paraphrase William Shakespeare: I come to bury this election, not to praise it.

More precisely, I wish not to not actually discuss the upcoming election itself, but instead I want to talk about how we talk about this election.  It goes without saying, I hope, that it is our mandate to take part in democracy and to vote; it is a mitzvah, a sacred obligation, to do so.  We should educate ourselves in order to make make informed choices in our voting—for President and for all other state and local decisions for which we have the opportunity to vote.  I could speak this High Holidays about that idea, about how it’s a very Jewish idea, but that is not what I wish to address this morning, nor what I feel I need to address.

Last week, Rabbi Robinson spoke about our need to listen—to radically listen.  And I affirm that need.  Today I want to add the sequel to that sermon, and talk about how we respond.  Yes, surely, we need to listen, but I also believe that we sometimes have a need to engage in discussion—to have dialogue—to share our own story, even as we hear the story of another.  When Rabbi Robinson and I sat down months ago to discuss our sermons, we realized that we each had themes that were both distinct and connected.  And that both were vital to this Holy Day season.  And so, we decided to each give our sermon both to stand alone, and also to be offered as a larger message in 2 parts.  On Rosh Hashanah—how do we hear.  And on Yom Kippur—how do we engage in conversation.

And I fear that we’ve forgotten how.

A few months ago, someone who is on my friend list on Facebook but I do not know personally, posted something in support of a candidate, espousing views which are counter to Jewish values as I understand them.  Knowing that this person takes his Judaism seriously, I questioned him about it—wanting to understand his approach—how the same set of text and tradition could lead us to vastly different conclusions.  Knowing that the other side of any issue generally comes from a place as honest and real as our own, I sought to understand.  By the end of the conversation, after being called a bully, overly nosey, self-righteous, and told I was only asking the question to feel superior, I came to the conclusion that it is so rare for us to talk to people with opposing viewpoints, about those opposing viewpoints, that it had somehow become natural to assume that my purpose was one of negativity.  When did we forget how to have a conversation about ideas that are different from our own? Or forget that doing so could be a positive act?

I am not claiming that we should agree with everyone.  I am not saying that we should not make known our opinions and stand up for them and for what we believe is right.  I am not saying that a leader’s words or behaviors should not be brought to light.  But what I am saying is that we can do all that with a sense of civility.

I have lost count of how many comments I’ve heard in person or read on social media, disparaging supporters of the other candidate—comments that come from supporters of multiple candidates.  I have, at this point, taken for granted that many of my Clinton and Trump and Johnson and Stein and Sanders supporting friends will almost undoubtedly unfriend and possibly block people who believe another way.  Almost daily, I see messages posted about how another person was blocked because of their viewpoints.  I hear stories about how family members aren’t speaking to each other until after November and of relationships destroyed.  And I’ve seen and heard in countless conversations, a shutting down of disparate opinions and a digression towards playground taunts. 

I understand the need to create spaces for ourselves in which we can feel safe—and I appreciate the need to remove ourselves from individuals who cause us hurt—or to avoid people whose responses may lead us towards behaviors or words that we want to ourselves avoid.  But, that said, it saddens me that so much of the disagreement that causes that reaction is so full of hatred and anger in the first place that it brings people to the point of wanting to avoid any conversation at all.  It saddens me that too many conversations about important ideas devolve into personal attacks being thrown at each other—and towards the leaders and potential leaders of this country.  All too often, even between those leaders.

I find it hard to believe that this is the discourse of democracy that our founding fathers sought.  And, assuming that the early cabinet meetings weren’t actually rap battles, I believe that when they discussed ideas that were diametrically opposed, that they did so with a sense of respect for each other’s ideas.  They did so with a sense of respect for each other. They debated, but with due honor.  In recent months, I do not see that this is how this election is being discussed—in recent weeks, I do not see this in the Presidential and Vice Presidential debates.

I do not believe that this is an issue that is unique to this country or to the topic of politics.  But this election has made it more than evident that as a society, we’ve lost the art of discourse—the ability, or at least the willingness, to engage in respectful disagreement.  No, not always, and no, not all of us.  But like we read the Vidui, the confessional prayer with the collective “We,” we are all part of the society that has forgotten how to disagree.  And we have all taken part in some part of this—even if only as a bystander.  

Perhaps we need a communal vidui for this season, an Ashamnu for this Age, An acrostic of our society’s behavior during this election cycle:

We all have committed offenses; together we confess these human sins: The sins of Abrasiveness, Body Shaming, Callousness, Disregard, a lack of Empathy, Failing to see injustice, and Gaslighting.  The sins of senseless Hatred, Insensitivity to the suffering of others, being Judgmental, Kicking out those who are different, Letting fear eclipse reason, Mocking people because of differences, Numbness to tragedies, Othering, and abuse of Privilege.  Of Questioning the intelligence of people because we disagree with them, Racism, and Sexism.  Of Tolerance of injustice, Using shame as a weapon, and Violence in words and in deeds.  Of Willingness to believe whatever we read, Xenophobia, Yelling, and Zoning out when we should be paying attention.

And indeed, I pray, that God will forgive us, pardon us, and grant us atonement.  But we know that we are only granted that Divine forgiveness when we have done t’shuvah.  When we have turned ourselves around from the wrongs we have done, made right what we may have made wrong, and determine to be different in the future.  

And I do believe we can change—each of us and all of us, and those beyond these walls.  We can change the course of discourse in our time.  And, indeed, that is what the ideals of Judaism teach us we must do.  

We see this in Rabbinic Literature in the relationship between Hillel and Shammai.  If these names are new to you, they are both rabbis who lived around the year 0.  The most important thing to know about them is that they disagreed.  A lot.  The Talmud includes more than 350 examples of disagreements between them or, later, between their followers: The House of Hillel (Beit Hillel) and the House of Shammai (Beit Shammai).  They were known for their disagreement in their own time and through history.  In fact, Hillel Street and Shammai Street in Jerusalem are parallel to each other—like the ideologies of their namesakes, the 2 never meet.  But, despite their differences, these men and their followers showed loved and friendship towards each other—the followers of one school would even marry the followers of the other.  Their disagreements are viewed as being for the sake of Heaven—having lasting value.  They were both attempting to find truth—to interpret the tradition in the way that each felt was best to meet the needs of their generation.  And they both listened to each other and honored each others’ opinions.

The Talmud (Eruvin 13b) tells a story about a disagreement between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai that lasted 3 years.  Each side insisting that their way was the right way.  For 3 years: “The law is in agreement with our views.”  NO! “The law is in agreement with our views.”  Until finally, there came a Bat Kol —a Divine Echo, a Heavenly voice.  Essentially, the rabbinic version of Deus Ex Machina.  And what did this Bat Kol say? “Eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim Chayim.  These and these are the words of the Living God.”  

What a concept.  The notion that our ideas and interpretations are, themselves, Divine Speech is itself profound, as is the idea that Divine Revelation is ever-present and continuing.  But that 2 different interpretations—2 opposing opinions—are equally Divine is astounding.  Both sides are equally true.  Perhaps because both sides exist, there is an even greater truth.

But then the Voice goes on: But the law is in agreement with Beit Hillel.  

From this, we learn that sometimes, the discussion has to come to an end—there has to be a conclusion. We can’t argue forever.  And the question we may be asking ourselves as we hear this, is asked and answered in the very next line of Talmud: If both these and these are the words of the Living God, then why does the Law become fixed according to the views of Beit Hillel? It is because they were kind and gracious.  And they taught their own ideas as well as the ideas from Beit Shammai.  And not only that, but they went so far as to teach Shammai’s opinions first.

It is hard to imagine a world that is built on this value: of kindness and graciousness being the deciding factors in the choice of authority.  And in which those who are chosen teach the ideas of those who are not, even before they teach their own.  And in which it is understood and appreciated that the Truth of one can be as True as the Truth of another.

There is a concept in Rabbinic Literature that there are several practices that are accepted mipnei darchei shalom: For the sake of the paths of peace.  These practice are all things that set up to prevent disagreements between people; avoid unfairness or unintended hurt, especially for those who are vulnerable; and to avoid disputes between members within and outside of the community.  What is interesting about this phrase is that it speaks of darchei shalom, the paths of peace, and not derech shalom, the path of peace.  The very language teaches us that there are multiple paths towards peace, and that it is because of those different paths that wholeness can exist.  To disagree is not bad—it is necessary and even good. But our disagreement must include paths towards wholeness, and not roadblocks which keep this world divided—instead of fragmented pieces, we must work towards peace.

Perhaps the Bat Kol ended the years long debate between the schools of Hillel and Shammai, mine darchei shalom.  Perhaps, for this same reason, we can begin to change the way we disagree in our own age.

Perhaps we can have arguments that are for the Sake of Heaven.  Have the recognition that these words and these words are both the words of the Living God.  That while we take many different paths, those paths all can move towards peace.  And that we realize that the person on the other side of a debate on an issue that we hold dear, is equally passionate about wanting a better world.  None of this is easy.  But we are Yisra-el—the people who wrestle with God.  Disagreement is in our name and is an element of our very essence.  And so, let us do t’shuvah together—and turn ourselves away from the destructive discussions, full of disrespect.  And turn towards building a society in which our conversations can include both disagreement and respectful discourse.

I dream of a time when it isn’t newsworthy to see a joyful embrace between the First Lady and a past president, even though they are from 2 different political parties.  I dream of a time when there are more friendships like that between Antonin Scalia and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  I dream of a time when parents do not need to question if their children are old enough to watch a presidential debate.  I dream of a time when we can discuss challenging topics with those with whom we fundamentally disagree—and do so with respect.  I dream of a time when we do not disparage others, neither because of their beliefs nor because of their difference.  I dream of a time when in disagreements and debates, we talk to each other and not at each other.  I dream of a time when we recognize not only that the words of 2 sides of disagreement can both be the Words of the Living God, but that the people on both sides of the disagreement are both made in the Image of God.  I dream of a time in which together, we travel the paths of peace.

I believe that this dream is possible.  But it is up to us to build it.  We can begin by taking the smallest of steps, and consider how we can change our own conversations and our own responses to different ideas.  And at the end of the evening on November 8, may we hear through the buzz of reports of who won each election, a Bat Kol ending this argument, and reminding us that the paths of peace are right in front of us, for us to step towards healing and wholeness.

Rabbi Yair Robinson

A man is standing outside the Republican National Convention in Cleveland. He is standing next to a sign that says “free listening”. Mostly what people have shared are stories about their travels to Cleveland for the convention, their family and work lives, mundane stuff, but soon a woman comes over, looks carefully at the man, and says that she doesn’t believe that abortion should be legal, that it is murder.

What would you do? Would you challenge her statement? Would you smile weakly and thank her for her response, and let her go on her way? Would you get into a shouting match? Would you post angrily to social media or share your disdain for this person with your friends?

This man did none of those things. Instead, he invited her to share her story. To tell him how she came to that conclusion. He offered to listen more.

The woman, at first defensive, then went on what we might call a rant about why she thought abortion was wrong and terrible. And then, at some point, her speech shifted, and she began to talk about how she was told as an 18 year old woman that she couldn’t have children, that she would never have children of her own. She talked about her sense of unfairness, of lack of justice, that other people who could have kids were choosing not to, while she was left barren.

I’ll be honest with you, when I first read about this from the blog post by Benjamin Mathes, I struggled mightily. I struggled because I think of myself as a pretty good listener, someone who does this professionally, after all, and I’m not sure I would have had the willpower or ability to stand there and listen to this woman’s story. And I suspect many of us are in the same boat, especially over something as controversial as abortion. I know I would want to rush in and tell my stories—the texts I’ve studied, the learning I’ve done, the stories of friends and loved ones who have each had to struggle with this issue from a personal, rather than a political or academic posture. And sometimes it seems that’s how we all are, fighting to get a word in edgewise, or waiting until we have the perfect response and sharing it later on Facebook. After all, we already know the right answers, don’t we? We, jaded and world-weary, exposed to so much media, so much data, so much raw information, have already come to all of our own conclusions. Sometimes it seems like we have nothing more to learn from one another, and even if we did, would we want to teach it anyway? Or do we merely want acknowledgment and affirmation of our own truth? Do we really want to sit in judgment of the people around us?

 And yet, I think it’s clear that Mathes’ approach—letting this anonymous woman tell her story without judgment or interruption—was valuable. It was loving. It allowed both of them to get to the truth of the matter, to get to, what he calls, the biography, not just the ideology. It was forgiving. It was sacred.

This is a strange time of year for us as Jews, and a strange time as Americans. We are in the midst of our days of judgment and our days of awe, but when we call them that, when we talk about this being the time when even the hosts of heaven are judged, we are reminded that WE are not doing the judging. We are, in fact, the ones coming to be judged—by God, by our own consciences, reflective of the past year and the choices we’ve made. But it is also our time of forgiveness, of atonement, when we release others of their sins, and we look for release ourselves. We cry out “Shma Koleinu”: hear our voice! And I suspect many of us worry—or already presume to know—that no one is listening.

I believe that God, however we understand her, is listening. That someone hears our cry; hears us when we second guess our choices, when we look back on the year and focus so much—too much—on where we stumbled, hears us when we turn our victories to defeats, hears us when say we want to do better, to be better, but we don’t know how to get there. I truly believe this, even if it is only the part of us that we hide away, that we dare not reveal, that hopes beyond hope that we can live up to our best selves, that still small voice within us, I believe with perfect faith that we are heard.
But I would suggest that part of the reason we worry that there is no audience for our cry is because we have stopped listening to each other. And I mean really listening, listening in the way that Benjamin Mathes did. We don’t hear each other’s stories. We don’t create space for dissent, for difference, to be challenged. We can only be right.

It’s very American, isn’t it? And has been for years—this is not a new phenomenon. Even Alexis de Tocqueville wrote back in the 1800s that Americans don’t discuss, they don’t even argue, but make speeches at one another. And that’s what we’re used to, that’s what we’re trained to do, we make parallel speeches in the same way that toddlers parallel play alongside one another, not really engaging the person in front of us.

It’s very American, but it isn’t very Jewish. In fact, I would argue that there is nothing Jewish about the idea of not listening to the other person. Even when they disagree. Especially when they disagree. Especially when they say things that challenge us to the core of who we are. I’m not speaking of antisemetic attacks or slander, now, but rather the kind of discourse that happens in a free society between diverse people. Jewish tradition has always been about listening. Think of how often in the Torah we read the word shema—hear! Hear O Israel! Hear the voice of God! Hear the voice of the Mitzvot! Hear the voice of the generations that came before; the voice of conscience within ourselves. Again and again we are compelled to listen, and listen deeply. Words are precious to us as Jews, more than any other art form, and we take those words seriously. Think of the generations of Jews who study Torah not cloistered in some room as an island alone, but with a study partner, the text between them, sharpening their thoughts against each other, challenging each other, each bringing their own perspective and world view and experience to the other in order to arrive at a new understanding, a new idea. We joke that it is Jewish to disagree, and it is true; but in saying that we acknowledge that it isn’t Jewish to dismiss the voice of the other, or to make the person across from us the other at all.

And yet, and yet, that is what we are doing, at every level, macro and micro. And not just about the election. We do it around Israel. We do it around the way we express our Judaism, what movement we affiliate with. We do it around policy and programming. We do it, fundamentally, around each other’s stories. When we dismiss an idea or a position, when we try to change someone’s mind, when we argue passionately against the person in front of us, without intending it, we run the risk of dismissing their story, their journey to where they are. In our own anxiety at being right, we lose the opportunity for understanding.

I’m as guilty of it as anyone else. And it’s hard; this kind of listening takes time, it takes patience, it takes a willingness to put aside our need to be right all the time, and our own anxiety that, deep down inside, we may be wrong.

Friends, I don’t know what you have resolved to do in this new year of 5777, but if you choose nothing else, I would ask you to listen more, and listen better. To invite people to share their stories, to speak to their believes and ideas, to not rush to judgment or to win. Someone posted online, you don’t need to attend every argument you’re invited to; wouldn’t it be great to, yes, respond with regrets to those arguments, but also find ways to make them real discussions, a chance to share beliefs? When we talk about the value of African American lives, before we respond with our own dismissal and anxiousness, can we ask where they’re coming from? When someone says they don’t know how they feel about Israel, can we ask them to tell their story? The same for the way they worship, the way they vote, the way they live their lives and make choices. It doesn’t mean we need to be persuaded by their arguments, or change our mind; it doesn’t mean we need yield ground on an issue we care deeply about. It does mean we need to let our guard down and acknowledge and accept—really accept—that the other person’s experiences, the other person’s life, is sacred. And in doing so come to a greater understanding.

By, Rabbi Peter Grumbacher

To the Heights!

On the 240th Anniversary of our Great Country

Peter H. Grumbacher, Rabbi Emeritus

Congregation Beth Emeth - Wilmington, Delaware

July 1, 2016

_______

  Can you believe that it's been forty years since the Bicentennial of the United States? Forty years since Beth Emeth held that phenomenal party for that milestone occasion in conjunction with the 70th anniversary of the congregation! OK, so some of you aren't forty yet, let alone those who weren't affiliated in 1976. But it was a bash!  I remember - and still have - the beautiful wine glass given as a memento. We all drank a "L'chaim!" and wished each other 70 more years as a vibrant congregation and two hundred more years as a free nation.

  How many of you recall the logo for that event? It was the Hebrew letter Ayin whose numerical equivalent is 70 according to gematria. In Gematria each letter has its numerical value and vice versa; that's why 18 is chai, which of course means "life." The Hebrew letter chet equals 8 and the letter yod equals 10. If you pronounced the yod before the chet (which you can do), you'd get YUCH. Surely Chai sounds so much better.

  So 2016 is the 240th anniversary and I decided to do a little gematria. Two hundred is Reish and 40 is Mem. Reish and Mem when put together as a word - or better the root and heart of a word - actually give us two meanings which can be seen as the exact opposite of each other. You get RaM which could mean the "heights," as in the Conservative movement's summer camps Ramah. Or you can get arum which is used to describe the serpent in Genesis' Adam and Eve story. The serpent was deceitful and creepy crawly. So maybe this gematria is telling us something...that looking at the anniversary of our great country we can see that which has been on the one hand elevating, and on the other hand that which has brought us to the depths.

  At the time of the Bicentennial the Civil Rights movement had achieved a great deal; surely not perfection by any means, but a noticeable advance in the rights of African-Americans. Thirteen years had passed since the "I Have a Dream" speech by Dr. King, and we might say that thirty-two years after the Bicentennial celebration, we reached the heights as the first African-American president was elected President of the United States. Who would have believed it! 

  It would take forty years after the Bicentennial for a woman to be the nominee for president; the glass ceiling in politics might be broken in just a few short months. And who was her major opponent for the nomination but a Jew! He's not a Jew who wears his religion on his raincoat sleeve; he left it in the closet in Brooklyn, but he sure isn't Presbyterian or Catholic. Yes, we once had a woman on the ballot for vice-president, Geraldine Ferraro, as well as an observant Jew, Joseph Lieberman on another ticket. But now the heights in that regard have been reached.

  Civil Rights for the LGBT-plus community are far from being achieved in full. Yes, in 1969 New York police officers raided the Stonewall Tavern because homosexuality was against the law, but that famous venue was just designated a national monument, a significant step in our climb towards equality for all.

  But, alas, the climb up can be, you should pardon the expression, "stonewalled" by those who would fight against progress at any cost, those who would crawl like the serpent, not stand tall like the champions of gay rights. We don't know the true motivation of the mamzer who shot and killed fifty innocent people and wounded over fifty more, but we do know that the Pulse nightclub was a haven for Orlando's gay community.

  Can there truly be any haven for when at any moment an accursed individual with assault weapons can enter a nightclub? When a mentally ill young man with an assault weapon can wreak havoc in an elementary school; when terrorists with assault weapons can shoot up a cafeteria for employees; when movie theaters, malls and any other venue you can think of isn't safe if someone chooses to shoot it up? No haven at all when the innocent are massacred, their families destroyed, and the dream of a bright and fruitful future, a dream which every American has, goes up in smoke!

  The sacred second amendment of our Constitution - and truly sacred it is as are all the amendments - loses its status of kedusha, holiness, when there are those who cannot say l'havdil, there's got to be a difference between one kind of firearm and another, a weapon for target practice, even for legitimate self-defense, as opposed to a weapon designed strictly to wipe out as many people in a few seconds as possible, whether those people are enemy combatants or little school children.

  Immoral morons are they who crawl on their bellies in defense of what I truly believe is the indefensible!

  Speaking of the slimy and the serpent, oh, how I could make a case that the one most capable of keeping America from the highest mountain, the one who could plunge us to the depths not even a snake could see, it's that deep, is the billionaire from New York. Well, don't worry, I won't!

  The heights and the depths...the gematria of 240. We should know only the heights, and we should climb higher. We've got women and Jews, Hispanics and African-Americans sitting on the Supreme Court, a rainbow of folks in the halls of the Senate and the House. We thought we have known the depths looking back on the days before so many of the disenfranchised of America didn't think they had a chance at all. It's not perfect, and I don't want to seem both naive and patronizing in these words, but while we have to achieve greater progress, look from where we've come!

  This Shabbat we read about the twelve spies sent by Moses to check out the Promised Land its inhabitants. The majority report of ten spies said that those the Israelites would face make them look as small as grasshoppers; they were too mighty to confront. The minority - Caleb and Joshua - didn't disagree with the overall picture but reported that with God's help they would prevail. I'm praying real hard that the majority in 2016 remembers where we were and the heights achieved in just a relatively few years. I'm praying that we get back to our senses, that making America great again means joining together on the mountain, and not dwelling in the valley...you fill out the rest.

  On Monday, let us drink a "L'Chaim!" to LIFE.