temple-beth-el

Tzav: The Fire Within Us

Tue, 31 Mar 2026 15:38:24 GMT

Sermon given March 28, 2026.

This week is special for several reasons.

Of course, it’s special because Pesach is finally here.

But for me personally, this week is special every year because it marks the anniversary of my conversion to Judaism. Each year when the anniversary rolls around-- always on the 13th of Nisan, so, yes, I always “Celebrate” by kashering my kitchen-- I think back to that day when I emerged from the mikveh and took my first steps in this world as a Jew. The Jewish story became my story. And it was fitting that I completed my conversion just hours before the beginning of Pesach, which is the holiday completely centered around telling and retelling our story.

Now, because I am a convert and I didn’t have a formal bat mitzvah when I was 12 or 13, my rabbis at conversion suggested that I take this week’s Torah portion, Tzav, as “my” portion. Because this is the week that I received the yoke of the mitzvot upon myself as a Jewish adult, Tzav, in a way, will always have special meaning for me. And each year, I reread Tzav, I think about Passover, and I search for the lens that I would like to use at my seder that year. I look to see what jumps out to me, what lens I can use as I tell our people’s story for myself, right now, at this moment in time.

And this year, as I read Tzav in preparation for Passover, what has jumped out to me is fire.

Not just the role fire plays in the Passover story-- and it does play a dramatic role. Over the course of the book of Shemot and into Vayikra, fire makes many appearances. Moses sees fire burning but not consuming the bush from which he hears the voice of God; fire rains down with hail on the Egyptians; and God appears as a pillar of fire to protect and guide the Israelites in the desert. We also use fire to burn our chametz, kasher our kitchens, and scald our hard-boiled eggs.

But fire plays another role in Parashat Tzav, a core, consistent, driving, energizing role.

The very first verses of Tzav, in fact, focus specifically on sacrificial fire on the altar in the Mishkan. The first verse describes the ascent offering, which must remain on the altar-fire which burns all night, וְאֵ֥שׁ הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ תּ֥וּקַד בּֽוֹ: and the fire on the altar, the esh, will be burning. Continuously burning, our sages clarify.

The fifth verse returns to this fire and how important it is, reiterating the same phrase and adding to it וְהָאֵ֨שׁ עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֤חַ תּֽוּקַד־בּוֹ֙ לֹ֣א תִכְבֶּ֔ה-- this fire on the altar, the esh, will be continuously burning and shall not go out!

And in case we haven’t figured it out yet, verse 6 of parashat Tzav continues, reiterates yet again, and adds yet another important word, saying:

אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶּֽה:

The always-fire on the altar will burn continuously and shall not go out!

Now, we recently read about another light that did not go out-- the Ner Tamid, like the light we have here above our ark, a special lamp checked twice a day in the Tabernacle.

But in parashat Tzav, we aren’t talking about the Ner Tamid-- the always lamp, as I think of it-- we’re talking about the Esh Tamid-- the always fire. In fact, Rashi clarifies that the Esh Tamid we’re talking about this week is, in fact, the esh that was used to light the Ner Tamid, and to light all other fires for ritual use. Therefore it was incredibly important that no matter what was going on in and around the Mishkan, or in and around the camp, this fire must be kept “Esh tamid”, an always-burning source of energy, light, heat, and life.

When the Israelites were pursued in the wilderness by enemies-- the fire had to stay burning.

When mana rained down from heavens-- the fire had to stay burning.

When plagues struck-- the fire had to stay burning.

When the Israelites brought their daily offerings, their sin offerings, their ascent offerings, their guilt offerings, their offerings of well-being-- the fire had to stay burning.

When the Israelites crossed into the Promised Land, even-- the fire had to stay burning.

Our ancestors were going through an immense amount of change and stress.

They did not know what life would look like in 5, 10, 20 years.

They were scared for their children.

They were scared for themselves as a nation.

And through it all, they carried with them a constantly burning, constantly guarded and nurtured, source of energy and warmth: they carried with them that esh tamid, that holy fire.

As we said before, not only does this week’s Torah portion repeatedly tell us that the fire was burned continuously-- in fact, within the individual verses themselves, the words are quite redundant. Consider verse six again:

אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶּֽה:

This means, “always fire was continuously burnt on the altar and not put out”

If we’ve already said that it’s an always-fire, and that it’s continuously burning, why do we need to add “it will not be put out” at the end?

It turns out that our sages, over the centuries, have asked the same question. Rashi clarifies for us, explaining that

הַמְכַבֶּה אֵשׁ עַל הַמִּזְבֵּחַ עוֹבֵר בִּשְׁנֵי לָאוִין:

One who puts out this always-fire is actually transgressing against TWO commandments: both the commandment to have a perpetual fire, AND the commandment to use that fire to fulfill other commandments, namely goodwill offerings.

So. If we put out the fire, we are not only sinning by extinguishing it, but also sinning by prohibiting ourselves from doing the mitzvot which rely on the fire. And both parts of this verse, both mitzvot, are important for us today.

I want to pause here and do a small exercise with all of you. We won’t have to break into groups or anything this time, I just want you to think, and then perhaps share, your answers to a question. The question is this: “which Jewish values/lessons most guide your personal choices, outlook, and philosophy?”

Or, to rephrase: which core Jewish concepts guide your life?

Let’s think about it for a minute. I’m going to offer you one or two of my favorites, and then I’d like to hear from you. (Pause for discussion, sharing/reading the following list):

Welcome the stranger.

If I am not for myself, who will be? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when?

Tikkun olam.

Justice, justice you shall pursue.

Don’t distance yourself from the community.

Every human is made btselem elohim, in the image of God. Every human is deserving of dignity.

Give tzedakah.

Save one life, save a whole world.

Do justice and love mercy.

What is hateful to you, do not do to others.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

Each of us, as people and as Jews, has core values that drive us. If we are a locomotive, these values are the coal, the steam, the spark--the fire, if you will-- in our engine that lets us move forward. These values that guide our choices are, in effect, a source of energy, a source of life, a source of strength as we move about in the world. They are our own esh tamid, our own fire that burns within us and sustains us and inspires us, no matter what is happening in the world.

And right now, a LOT is happening in the world.

And normally, this is when my conclusion would be a reminder that we are not alone, and that so many have gone before us from whom we can draw support. Our ancestors also knew upheaval in the wilderness. We can feel solidarity with them.

But the thing is, we don’t just need solidarity right now. We need more. We need both parts of the commandment we zoomed in on this week in parashat Tzav: we need a fire within us that will not go out --that’s the values we just listed together-- and we need that fire to actively light something within us, something that helps us go out and be part of bringing this world closer to what we dream it could be.

That is to say, we need both the comfortable aspects of fire-- the warmth, the coziness, the energy-- and the uncomfortable parts of fire, the burning, the part that drives us to bring about necessary change, and to help make this world a reflection of the values we hold most dear.

As we prepare to enter into this Pesach season, this Passover, parashat Tzav reminds us that within us each, there is an Esh Tamid, a sacred forever flame, a flame made up of our core values, driving and guiding us. As we sit with our most central story this week, as we talk about the narrow places in our world today that are in need of healing, that sacred flame will glow within us.

May our seders, and out conversations, fan that flame.

May our resolutions and our ideas be ignited by that flame, and fueled into action.

And finally, may the glow of our flame warm and inspire those around us in this world.

Shabbat shalom, and may everyone have a meaningful Pesach.

Ancient Sacrifice, Modern Sacrifice

Thu, 26 Mar 2026 15:38:34 GMT

Sermon given March 21, 2026.

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

I’d actually like to start out with a bit of a content notice today: this sermon will talk about blood, and sacrifice, and also about war and other widespread violence and the effects of the trauma of war and violence cause on soldiers and civilians alike. It’s going to be a bit of a heavy sermon.

I’d also like to break with my usual practice, and let you know ahead of time what my thesis is for this sermon. I’m doing this because I’m not trying to shock anyone or give anyone emotional whiplash.

My thesis is that while we modern Jews often distance ourselves from the bloody sacrificial system described in the Torah, it is actually more similar to our modern lives than we would like to admit. Furthermore, I think we can and should learn an important lesson from this week’s Torah portion about ownership of and agency over sacrifices. My goal is for us to truly consider the violence done in our names that we support and tolerate in modern times, through the lens of biblical sacrifice.

So, here goes.

This week, we dive into the book of Leviticus. Leviticus is challenging for many reasons, and the Torah portion we read today, parashat Vayikra, is no exception.

Parashat Vayikra is graphic, outlining in detail the specifics of various blood sacrifices God required our ancestors to offer and how they were carried out and by whom. That meant we heard about entrails and burning fat and blood being dashed on the altar and more. The words and images of the physical sacrifice are vivid-- the colors, the scents, the smells portrayed in this portion are difficult to stomach, and the death being inflicted upon animal after animal by our ancestors can feel almost impossible to identify with in a sympathetic way.

Especially for those of us like me who are big animal lovers, this sort of parasha can hurt. Beyond the blood being spilled, we can also imagine the moral and emotional sacrifice that was required of the priests, the ones who had to do so much of the killing and blood-dashing. The priests themselves had to make immense sacrifices of the soul in order to facilitate the physical sacrifices of the animals. And that would have been an extremely difficult thing to experience on a regular basis.

I do think it is significant that in our parashah, God commands that each Israelite bringing an offering not only show up at the appropriate time with the appropriate animal, but also demonstrate ownership and intention of the slaughter that is about to happen in their name. The Torah says that after bringing a choice animal to offer at the Tent of Meeting:

וְסָמַ֣ךְ יָד֔וֹ עַ֖ל רֹ֣אשׁ הָעֹלָ֑ה וְנִרְצָ֥ה ל֖וֹ לְכַפֵּ֥ר עָלָֽיו׃

“You shall lay a hand upon the head of the animal for the offering, that it may be acceptable in your behalf, in expiation for you.”

Only after the Israelite had laid their hands on the head of the animal, and felt its warmth and pulse under their palms, only then could the animal be slaughtered by the priests-- only after the owner of the animal had understood the significance of the bloodshed about to happen.

And that’s tough to stomach for us.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this sermon, I think there is a tendency among us modern Jews to respond to the ancient practice of blood sacrifice by distancing ourselves from it.

We explain that things were different “back then”, and that societies functioned in a different way thousands of years ago than they do now. We reassure ourselves by saying that blood sacrifice was widespread in the ancient world. And we also remember that as Judaism evolved, especially after the destruction of the second Temple, our sages ultimately steered us away from killing animals and instead towards a pattern of regular prayer and ritual corresponding to the schedule of the Temple’s slaughter of animals so long ago.

We no longer teach our children that God is commanding us, personally, to kill animals the way our ancestors were commanded. Gone is the required emotional sacrifice of the priests, and gone is the required physical sacrifice of the cows, the lambs, the doves, the many creatures named in our Torah.

However, although our tradition has indeed evolved to the point that we no longer teach that God commands us to offer blood sacrifices, it would be false to say that the sacrificial system is entirely foreign to us. Today, it’s just that other forces in our lives demand sacrifice, including blood sacrifice-- and the consequences for us, both physical and emotional, and just as real as they were for our ancestors.

And because of this, I believe it would be beneficial for us to explore the ways in which our current lives do, in fact, mirror and parallel the sacrificial practices outlined in parashat Vayikra.

To do this, let’s first try to put ourselves in the mindset of our ancestors, thousands of years ago, in the desert-- and then compare it to ourselves, today.

Our ancestors had fled Egypt with only what they could carry, taking their livestock with them. This must have been exhilarating and terrifying. Wandering longterm in the wilderness, they relied on manna from heaven, water from divinely appearing wells, their faith in God, and in their own ingenuity and teamwork to survive.

I imagine that such an existence would have been both a huge relief, after slavery in Egypt, and also utterly exhausting. There would have been no sense of security at all, which explains why it was so crucial for the people to have trust in God. This reminder of how insecure Bnai Yisrael must have felt helps us to also understand how they could have decided to build a Golden Calf when Moses disappeared up the mountain for 40 days. This insecurity can also illustrate for us a bit of why our ancestors were willing to go through the bloody, emotional process of animal sacrifices.

Livestock would have been among the most prized possessions of any Israelite. Livestock were a source of renewable food, milk, leather, wool, eggs, transport, and more. Given how precious livestock would have been, God’s command that the Israelites sacrifice their animals must have deeply impacted the lives of those making the sacrifice. Imagine having only what you could carry, and yet still being willing to give up one of your most prized possessions just for the sake of God. That speaks volumes to how much the Israelites were willing to go through for safety-- and for their faith. They made immense physical and emotional sacrifices, both because they were commanded to, and because they believed in something greater than themselves.

When we compare and contrast their experience with our own, we see a multitude of differences-- but also key similarities. Yes, we now live in a world with modern conveniences, and with prayer services instead of Temple sacrifice and pilgrimage.

But we also know what it is like to live in real fear:

-Fear of terrorism

-Fear of antisemitism

-Fear of world leaders with dangerous motives having access to nuclear weapons

-Fear of losing our civil rights

And more.

We know, like our ancestors did, what it is like to yearn for a sense of safety. And, as a society and as individuals, we are having blood spilled in the name of our security and our way of life-- soldiers, protesters, detainees, immigrants, police officers, and more.

This means that today, we still have to ask ourselves the same difficult questions our ancestors did, questions like:

What are we willing to give up, for a world of safety?

What-- and more painfully, whom-- are we willing to sacrifice, to see the future come about that we are hoping for?

What physical injuries-- and what moral injuries-- are we willing to suffer, or have our children suffer, in the name of something greater than ourselves?

And which causes do we feel strongly enough about to ask our fellow citizens of this country and this world to lay down their lives for?

These are not theoretical questions. Ours is a world where bombs are actively falling in the name of international security and safety and where malicious actors force civilians in the path of tanks and shells in the name of dangerous ideologies. In government rooms and bunkers, and around dinner tables, difficult conversations are happening: How many lives are we willing to sacrifice in the name of our cause? Which lives are we willing to sacrifice?

But what often goes unsaid is the other part-- What emotional sacrifice does this require of us, and what emotional sacrifice can we, and our children, bear? What moral injury is being caused to those pulling the trigger, or clicking the button, that brings death to strangers on the other side of the world, or to the person right in front of us?

Just like the priests, whose emotional sacrifice was having to take life after life of animals, how many soldiers will have to be haunted for the rest of their days because of the human lives they have had to take?

As Golda Meir famously said in regards to those who wish Israel harm, “We can forgive them for killing our children. But we cannot forgive them for forcing us to kill their children.”

She was alluding, of course, to the fact that the trauma of having to spill blood leaves devastating and long-lasting effects on those who have done so.

Thousands of years ago, God commanded the Israelites to dash blood on the altar. Human governments and human political philosophies and human conscience now command similar dashing of blood-- but it is not animals being killed in the name of something bigger than ourselves, but rather our fellow humans.

The sacrifice of war and civil unrest is real. There are those in this community who have served and know the pain of violence firsthand. There are those in our community who have lost loved ones in combat.

And this, too, is a real sacrifice, in the name of our way of life, in the name of ideals bigger than ourselves.

There is not a literal altar in this exchange, but blood is being dashed onto this Earth regardless. And like the sacrifices in our Torah portion this week, the dashed blood of soldiers and civilians in war sends a message to God, and to the world. If the smoke from sacrifices thousands of years ago reached God, so too must the smoke from a bomb, from a drone strike, or even from a single gunshoty. The question we must ask ourselves is: does our smoke also cause a re’akh nikhoakh, a pleasing smell, to God?

Now, I am not one who believes that violence is always wrong. I come from a family where relatives have served in every generation back to the war of 1812, including both of my parents, who were commissioned officers in the United States Air Force. The Jewish people also know very well that at times in our history there have risen individuals capable of horrendous evil--including Pharoah, Amalek, Hitler, and more-- who needed to be stopped, sometimes by force. This is not a sermon condemning all sacrifices, or saying that blood should never be shed in the name of a worthwhile cause.

But it is a sermon suggesting that there is less distance between our world and the sacrificial world of our ancestors than we might like to think.

And, this sermon is also suggesting that not only is it acceptable for nations and individuals ask ourselves “when is it justified to require moral or physical sacrifice?”-- but rather, it is essential that we ask this question, and that we be cognizant of the literal sacrifices we are requiring of the most vulnerable members of our society, who in this country are disproportionately the ones sent into the line of fire.

Regardless of how each of us may feel about the conflicts around the globe today, or the ongoing civil struggles here at home, what is consistently true is that real sacrifice is happening, right here on this world, right now. Real blood is being dashed on the altar.

But it is also true that our tradition, and our Torah portion this week, tell us two things: first, that there are, indeed, causes that are worth making sacrifices for, and second, that we must be intentional when we decide which causes are worth sacrificing for.

Just like the Israelite in our Torah portion today, who had to put his hands directly onto the head of the unblemished animal and look into its eyes moments before it was killed, we cannot look away from what is happening in our world, and what is happening in our name. We cannot pretend that it has nothing to do with us, because it is so far away.

Though we may wish that sacrifice was a thing of the past, the reality is much murkier.

I believe we still have what to learn from our ancestors and their personal ownership of what they were willing to go through, and give up, in the name of safety, security, and faith.

And I believe we owe it to ourselves, and to each other, to acknowledge what we are, and what we aren’t, willing to sacrifice, in the name of the same things.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat Zachor: The Story of Timna

Thu, 05 Mar 2026 16:11:53 GMT

Sermon given February 28, 2026.

Thousands of years ago, there lived a young woman named Timna. The Talmud teaches that Timna was “the daughter of kings”. She came from a family of great stature and wealth, and she knew from her youth that she wanted to be close to power. However, she was not Jewish. So it was that when she saw how God was favoring the Jews, protecting them and giving them rich harvests and safe passage, that she approached the Jewish elders and stated her desire to convert and to become one with the Jewish people.

Unlike with our ancestor Ruth, whose story we will read and study on Shavuot, Timna’s attempt at joining B’nai Yisrael did not go smoothly. In Sanhedrin 99b, the Talmud describes what happens next in Timna’s quest to convert: “She came before Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and they did not accept her. So, She went and became a concubine of Eliphaz, son of Esau, saying: It is preferable to be a maidservant for this nation (that is, the Jews), than be a noblewoman for another nation.”

Timna’s story didn’t end there, however. Despite not being allowed to join the Jewish people, she was in fact destined to be the matriarch of a nation we know all too well. Because the Talmud continues: “Ultimately, Amalek, son of Eliphaz, emerged from Timna, and Amalek’s tribe afflicted the Jewish people. What is the reason that the Jewish people were made to suffer at the hand of Amalek? It is due to the fact that they should not have rejected her when she sought to convert.”

Wow. That is a striking and honestly quite surprising take on the evil deeds of Amalek. It does not feel comfortable to read. At first glance, from this story, it looks like our Talmud is stating that Timna’s treatment by the Jewish leaders augmented or perhaps even inspired the evil actions of her son.

But why in the world would our tradition suggest that there could ever be any justification for the horrors committed by Amalek? Why in the world would the Talmud suggest that our ancestors somehow shared in the blame for the violence they endured?

This weekend we are observing Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of Remembering, a special annual Shabbat where we depart from our normally-scheduled Torah reading in Exodus and insert a maftir aliyah from the book of Deuteronomy.

This maftir includes the command:

זָכ֕וֹר אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־עָשָׂ֥ה לְךָ֖ עֲמָלֵ֑ק בַּדֶּ֖רֶךְ בְּצֵֽאתְכֶ֥ם מִמִּצְרָֽיִם:

Remember what Amalek did to you on the way out of Egypt!

This verse reminds us of our obligation not to forget Amalek’s uniquely intense and poisonous hatred of our people. Traditionally, when we discuss this commandment, we focus in on the Ramban’s interpretation of this commandment, who says: “you are not to forget what Amalek did to us until we blot out his remembrance from under the heavens”.

And yet, the verses immediately preceding the commandment to remember Amalek in Deuteronomy are actually full of a discussion not of Amalek but rather of the importance of Jews using fair weights and measures in commerce. This juxtaposition of weights, measures, and Amalek leads our commentator Rashi to conclude that the commandment to remember Amalek is mentioned in this specific context in order to teach us that “If you cheat with weights and measures, be concerned that the enemy will be incited to attack you. “

Wait. What are we supposed to do with this? Why would both Rashi AND the Talmud suggest that Amalek’s attack on B’nai Yisrael was somehow a punishment for Jewish sins?

This special reading about Amalek on Shabbat Zachor always occurs the weekend before Purim, which is a holiday commemorating yet another attempted slaughter of the Jews by a man traditionally thought to be a relative of Amalek-- Haman.

The Purim story presents us with a story that, as we teach it to our children each year, follows a pretty black-and-white setup. An evil man, Haman, plots to murder the Jews. A proud Jew, Esther, bravely resists him and saves her people with the help of her uncle, Mordechai. Esther and Mordechai are good, Haman is bad.

And yet-- it is at Purim that the Talmud tells us to drink “ad d’lo yada bain arur haman l’baruch mordechai”, until we can’t tell the difference between the cursed Haman and the blessed Mordechai. Until we can’t tell the difference between good and evil.

This means that it is specifically here, this week, leading up to Purim, that our tradition calls on us to imagine a blurring of the lines we had taken for granted, a blurring of our perception, a blurring of our certainties. Our tradition is not asking us to throw out our convictions or morals, but rather, to examine them so closely that the details begin to blur. And this blurring is not comfortable, and it is a real challenge, like when we hold a magnifying glass up to a leaf-- but just like holding up a magnifying glass, the process can reveal new lessons we wouldn’t have seen from afar.

Purim reminds us that sometimes blurring, paradoxically, can remind us of moral clarity.

And it is exactly this kind process that Rashi and the rabbis of the Talmud are leaning into when they explore the blurring of boundaries between those who embrace doing wrong, like Haman, and those who strive to do right, like Mordechai, or when they analyze the “why” behind Amalek’s hatred, instead of simply condemning it. They want to go further than simply condemning evil. They blame Amalek for the evil he commits, yes, as we always must call out evil actions-- but they also challenge us to dig deeper and examine how all of the parts of the world, both those we can affect and those we cannot, work together in any given moment to lead humanity either closer to chesed, to lovingkindness… or closer to sinat chinam, to baseless hatred.

These difficult commentaries are acknowledging that as Jews we are not allowed to even pretend that we live in a moral vacuum, or to even entertain the idea that we might be powerless in the face of hate. We are all, always and in all of the ways, connected, and we, too, make choices that impact the world.

Other sources follow similar thought processes. The Mishna teaches us to judge every person “lchaf zchut”, according to his merits, as opposed to his faults-- but never forgetting his faults. Then, Rebbe Nachman expands on this line, saying it applies “afilu mi she’hu rasha gamor”, even for someone who is bad THROUGH AND THROUGH--that in that extreme case, you must still search for goodness within him. And the Ba’al Shem Tov went even further, saying “Your fellow is your mirror… should you look upon your fellow and see a blemish, it is your own imperfection that you are encountering-- you are being shown what it is that you must correct within yourself.” He writes further, “We must wipe Amalek out of our hearts whenever—and wherever—he attacks.”

But wait. Wipe Amalek out of our hearts? Yowch! These words are tough for us, who have been victimized by hatred over and over again throughout history, to read.

Because we know, for certain, that there is no blemish within us that could ever justify the attacks on the weakest members of B’nai Yisrael by Amalek, or that could justify the attempt at genocide by Haman. There is no legitimate excuse for any of the pogroms or campaigns of hatred against Jews throughout history, no matter how much antisemites might blame us for their own actions.

So, we are back to our original question. Why in the world does the story about Timna in the Talmud seem to suggest otherwise at first glance? Why does Rashi’s commentary do the same? What about Rebbe Nachman’s call to look for a speck of good even in the worst humans, or the Ba’al Shem Tov’s reminder that we do indeed tend to see our own faults reflected in others? How do we reconcile their words with the commandment to remember Amalek’s evil?

What is the ultimate takeaway that our tradition is asking us to remember, on this Shabbat Zachor?

Well. I can’t believe that our sages are truly saying that we are at fault for the evil that befalls us. That is a non-starter for me.

But I can believe that they are saying that just because evil has befallen us, we are NOT off the hook for the consequences of our own actions and choices. To the contrary: our painful experiences of having evil done to us make it all the more important that we commit, again and again, to building a better world, a world of intentional, radical compassion, one choice at a time. What we have to remember, on this Shabbat Zachor, on this Shabbat of Remembrance, is, in fact, that we always have power, and always have the agency, to make a real difference in this world. Because we know what will happen, and we know the pain that will befall others and ourselves, if we don’t.

Our sages want us to remember that even when we feel helpless, we are not. They aren’t trying to tell us that we are to blame for others’ hatred against us: they are trying to remind us of our own strength, a strength that no amount of antisemitism can ever take away from us.

Our sages knew that the moment we give up ownership of the consequences of our own choices and actions, we have given up our belief that we will ever be able to heal this world. And they want us to believe.

They knew that the moment we lose the ability to look for a remnant humanity in the other, even a rasha gamur, we lose sight of the humanity in ourselves. And they did not want us to lose sight of our humanity.

They knew that the moment we forget that we can -- and do-- direct the course of the world in a real way for better or for worse each day, even in the face of horror, we have ceased to be partners in bringing about a better world-to-come.

As we approach Purim, the song goes: Mi she’nichnas Adar, marbim b’simcha-- from the time the month of Adar begins, we increase in joy.

Shabbat Zachor calls on us not only to increase our joy, but to increase our faith in ourselves, our faith that we can still enact real change, and still bring about real goodness and compassion, in a world that knows real evil all too well.

We just have to remember our power. Shabbat shalom.

My Favorite Mitzvah

Thu, 19 Feb 2026 15:17:18 GMT

Sermon given February 14, 2026

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

Last week, we stood during the Torah service and listened, just as our ancestors did so long ago at Sinai, to aseret hadibrot, to the Ten Commandments which our tradition teaches us that God gave Moses at Sinai.

We stood, as we do each year, not only because the Ten Commandments are so important, and because receiving them was a significant milestone for us as a people, but also because the sages urge us to connect personally to the Sinai experience, not only to imagine what it would have felt like to have been there, but to believe that on some soulful level, in some shape or form, each of us WAS, indeed, present.

It’s a dramatic story, and it can be a powerful experience to identify with what our ancestors must have gone through. Thunder crashes, the Torah tells us, the Earth shakes, lightning struck. I imagine that the people shook, too, from fear and wonder. I know that I, for one, have experienced earthquakes, seen volcanoes and forest fires and tropical storms, and I can definitely remember the awe I felt in witnessing those events-- awe in all senses of the word. I imagine that many of you, similarly, have lived through natural phenomena like this, and can also recall how it felt to have the world heaving and howling around you. We can feel this, personally.

But the more challenging part, for many of us, isn’t imagining what it would have been like in a sensory fashion, to be standing at Sinai. Instead, in 2026, it’s feeling truly and individually commanded that’s more difficult for us. Especially in an age where personal liberty is so central to our societal discourse, it can be difficult for us to feel a sense of personal connection to the rules given to our ancestors thousands of years ago. Feelings-- sure. Laws? Not so much.

We see this play out in the data. The most recent Pew study of American Jewish practice shows that while 70% of American Jews connect to our tradition by regularly or semi-regularly enjoying Jewish cuisine such as latkes and Kugel, neither of which are commanded in the Torah, only 17% keep kosher to any level at home, including not eating shellfish or pork, which is indeed commanded in the Torah.

Similarly, while approximately 60% of American Jews have attended a Jewish lifecycle event such as B’nai Mitzvah in the year prior to the survey, only 20% of American Jews regularly mark Shabbat in a way that is meaningful to them-- a central Torah commandment, indeed, in the “Ten Ten.”

This bifurcated modern diaspora Jewish reality hits us especially hard in a week like this, where we read parashat Mishpatim immediately on the heels of the Ten Commandments. Instead of getting a break from receiving laws, our Torah doubles down in parashat Mishpatim. The word “Mishpatim” literally means “laws” or “rules”, and it sure lives up to its name.

וְאֵ֙לֶּה֙ הַמִּשְׁפָּטִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר תָּשִׂ֖ים לִפְנֵיהֶֽם׃

God says to Moses. “These are the laws you shall set before the Israelites.” And then, over the course of the parasha, we are told not ten, not twenty, but 53 separate mitzvot, or commandments, that our ancestors were expected to follow. (Fun fact: this actually isn’t the portion with the MOST mitzvot. That honor goes to Ki Teitzei, in the book of Deuteronomy, with 74 commandments in one Torah portion, as Moses recollects all of his teachings to our ancestors.)

So. I don’t know how any of you are feeling, after reading that many rules-- and we didn’t even go through all of them this week, because of the triennial cycle!-- but I’m willing to bet that for a lot of us in this room or online, there are some rules in this particular Torah portion that we don’t have a personal relationship with, and that perhaps, we not only struggle to connect with, but think don’t apply to us now, thousands of years later.

So what I’d like to do today is share with you my favorite mitzvah. My personal favorite, the one that I have a special relationship with, and it’s from this week’s Torah portion. I want to share my favorite mitzvah with you because it is personal to me, and because I want to encourage all of us, no matter our age, no matter our connection to the Torah, to try and engage in a real way with the words in this text, and to ask ourselves what these words could mean for us on a personal level, today.

Now. This mitzvah is my favorite. I’m not saying it’s the most important mitzvah-- this isn’t the Ten Commandments, nor is it the portion with Love Your Neighbor As Yourself. It’s not even the mitzvah to treat strangers well, because we ourselves were strangers in Egypt-- a commandment which is, indeed, in this week’s portion.

No-- it’s a different mitzvah. And before I share with you which one it is, I need to tell you a quick story.

Once upon a time, there was a non-Jew named Rachel. Spoiler alert: that was me. I had started learning about Judaism, and started learning Hebrew, and was in the midst, in fact, of converting and joining the Jewish people-- binding my fate, permanently, in with this sacred tradition.

And after many months of study, there were so many feelings that I had, approaching the end of my conversion journey. There was joy, there were nerves, there was impatience, there was eagerness. There was, indeed, a feeling of loss at some of what I was giving up to become a Jew: some of the rituals I associated with home, and family, and childhood. There was also excitement at the many rituals I was gaining, and the Jewish mishpacha I was joining. What I didn’t anticipate, though, was to feel disappointment at the conversion rituals being different for people with different bodies.

I have all kinds of thoughts and feelings about brit milah-- about circumcision-- but that is not the focus of today’s sermon. The fact is simply that converts to Judaism with bodies like mine are not offered a traditional physical way to mark the transition into Am Yisrael. Though all converts go to mikveh, which is a physical process, part of the beauty of mikveh is that it is water, which both nurtures us and can be washed away. It doesn’t leave a mark, or even the memory of a sensation.

And so, I went in search of a more permanent, lasting physical way to honor that moment of holy growth and belonging. I talked to Rabbis, I looked through books, I consulted with Rav Google, and ultimately, I found the answer I needed in the form of a mitzvah from this week’s parashah.

וְאִם־אָמֹ֤ר יֹאמַר֙ הָעֶ֔בֶד אָהַ֙בְתִּי֙ אֶת־אֲדֹנִ֔י אֶת־אִשְׁתִּ֖י וְאֶת־בָּנָ֑י לֹ֥א אֵצֵ֖א חׇפְשִֽׁי׃

וְהִגִּישׁ֤וֹ אֲדֹנָיו֙ אֶל־הָ֣אֱלֹהִ֔ים וְהִגִּישׁוֹ֙ אֶל־הַדֶּ֔לֶת א֖וֹ אֶל־הַמְּזוּזָ֑ה וְרָצַ֨ע אֲדֹנָ֤יו אֶת־אׇזְנוֹ֙ בַּמַּרְצֵ֔עַ וַעֲבָד֖וֹ לְעֹלָֽם׃

“And if a slave says, I love my master, I love my wife, I love my children, and I do not wish to go free, then his master shall bring him before God. And he will be brought to the door of his master’s home, and there his master will pierce his ear, and he shall remain in his master’s household for his entire life.”

It was Rashi who later clarified that the ear in question was the right one. But the significance of specifically an ear piercing goes even deeper: our Midrash explains to us that not only must the slave who stays by choice be pierced, but specifically in the ear, in the organ that hears, in the body part we use when we say, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad.” By piercing the slave’s ear, both the master and slave reaffirm the rules and commandments given at Sinai, and their own connection to them. They reaffirm that their choices, and their actions, are still bound by the same sacred covenant.

Now. I don’t know if any of you have noticed that I have a permanent piercing in my right ear. It was not, in fact, a fashion statement when I decided to get this piercing. Instead, it was a religious statement-- a statement of religious responsibility-- a statement of promising, to God and to myself, that for the rest of my life, Judaism would be my home, and that I would actively engage with that home and make it my own. Getting that earring, and seeing it each day, provides me with a reminder of the life I want to lead, and of the sacred, ancient tradition without which I would not be who I am today.

And that, then, is my favorite mitzvah. The slave who chooses to stay and gets an earring to show it. Is it a perfect mitzvah? No. I want to see a world where slavery doesn’t exist at all! But part of the beauty of engaging on a personal level with these mitzvot is that we can relate to them in a way that does, indeed, feel comfortable for us. And what’s comfortable for me about this commandment is the shared commitment by both the piercer and the piercee to creating, and building, a long-term home together. And, the fact that the choice, made by the slave with the option of freedom, was made out of a place of love-- as was my choice to become a Jew.

That said, my story is my own, and we are a widely variable people, each with our own stories and sensibilities. But if this particular mitzvah doesn’t speak to you, I have good news-- there are 612 other mitzvot to wrestle with, to relate to, and to incorporate into your life in one way or another. No matter where you start, whether with a rule that feels right to you or a rule that bothers you, engaging with these ancient laws in an honest and personal way can lead to a deeper, closer connection to our tradition.

Parashat Mishpatim, as we discussed earlier, begins with God saying to Moses: These are the laws you shall set before the Israelites.” Rashi reflects that, quote, “the Torah states “that you shall set before them” like a fully laid table with everything ready for eating.” Our Torah gives us these rules, these mishpatim; it offers them to us on a metaphorical platter. But it is up to us with our hungry hearts to reach out, as we would reach for food for physical sustenance, and to also prioritize the unique spiritual sustenance that can come from engaging with these commandments on a real-life level.

The Torah, in all its glory, in all its messiness, in all its beauty, was not just given to our ancestors at Sinai.

It was, and is, given to us. Today. But it is up to us to choose to receive-- and accept-- it as our own.

Shabbat shalom.

B’shallach: The Long Game

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 16:31:59 GMT

Sermon given January 31, 2026

When I was little, I loved to read the Redwall books by Brian Jacques. I don’t know if any of you have read them, but they’re these adorable stories where the characters are all animals, not humans-- mice, beavers, rabbits, badgers, all kinds of fluffy critters. They’re the first chapter books I remember really getting pulled into as a child, and I remember the giddy feeling I would get each time I started nearing the end of the book, right as the big battle scene would arrive where the hero mouse was fighting the big bad weasel, and where you KNOW, as the reader, that the good guy is going to win. You just know, because that’s how it’s supposed to be.

It felt so cozy to read those books and so reassuring to know that those cute little fluffy tiny mice could all band together and fight off the mean weasels attacking them.

And then I grew up a little, and I read Harry Potter, and I grew up a little more, and I read Lord of the Rings, and so many other books, and of course, the same thing was true-- it’s literature 101-- the classic story arc is essentially as follows: You set the scene, you meet the characters, they have to face challenges, there’s a culmination or crisis, and then, it all resolves neatly and justice triumphs.

It feels good, right?

Similarly, every year when we get to this particular section of the Torah, I get all caught up in the drama of it all and that same kind of satisfying story arc that we tell and retell, both in shul and at our Passover seders. The story of the Exodus is our central narrative as a people, and it is truly an epic tale. Frankly, I’m surprised Peter Jackson hasn’t written a screenplay about it. (Or six screenplays.)

The story of the Exodus has everything in it-- as we’ve discussed these past few weeks, it has villains who choose to do harm and it has heroes-- like Shifra and Puah-- who choose to be compassionate; it has underdogs and it has teamwork; it has supernatural amazement, it has moments where we aren’t sure that victory will be achieved-- moments of fear and despair--- and it has those who had been undermined finally escaping the clutches of the evil ruler who has been tormenting them for generations. It has a truly magnificent-- and also satisfying-- story arc, from slavery to freedom, from persecution to liberty, from self-doubt to self-actualization.

Just like the books I read as a kid, the story we have been reading for the past few weeks may also feel a bit cozy to us as Jews, and satisfying, because we are so familiar with it and because it reminds us, every year, of the power of faith and community and the triumph of freedom over slavery.

If we zoom out, we could also look at our entire Torah through this same literary lens and find yet another dramatic and satisfying story arc.

Genesis starts with tohu va’vohu, literal darkness and void, then describes our sacred connection to the Divine and introduces us to the core ancestors we invoke in our prayers and whose imperfect humanity guides and inspires us;

Exodus , which we are in right now, is our epic escape into the desert from Egypt;

Leviticus , as I taught in my senior sermon during Rabbinical School, is the story of our truly beginning to grow as a civilization and develop rules, and norms, and transform from a lost group into a people;
Numbers sees the first growing pains of said civilization;

and Deuteronomy embodies our tradition of storytelling as Moses nears death, leadership is handed over, and our people prepare to finally enter the Promised Land, arriving at our destiny, standing at the edge of the Jordan.

Now. Whether secular, or spiritual, all of these satisfying story arcs are important, whether we’re talking about novels and kids books or whether we are talking about our holiest stories.

The satisfying arcs are crucial, in fact, not just because they feel good to read or learn or experience in our own lives, but because they provide our hearts and souls with positive reinforcement for the hard work that goes into fighting for our own freedom, fighting for our own destiny, and fighting for our own peace in our own world. WE NEED THAT NOURISHMENT. They remind us that we are not alone and that if we try hard enough, we too can stand up against the weasels, or the Voldemorts, or the Saurons, or the Pharaohs of our own time.

It is important that we enjoy and revel in these stories and claim them as our own, and teach them to our children.

But of course-- there is also a flipside to these satisfying story arcs.

There is always a flipside, because something always happens next. Though we have reached one satisfying resolution, the journey is not over.

We see this painful truth in this week’s Torah portion. Our parasha, B’shallach, enshrines the part of the Exodus story where Pharoah finally releases the Israelites, who escape to the Sea of Reeds and are then saved from the encroaching Egyptian army by a Divine miracle. On the other side, Miriam breaks out her timbrel and our ancestors dance and sing, O’zi, v’zimrat yah, va’yhi li l’yishua! God is my help and my strength and deliverance!

That is supposed to be the satisfying end, right? We are free!

But instead, as we see in this week’s parasha, our ancestors are almost immediately set upon and attacked by the most heinous of enemies, Amalek. As we say, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Like Pharaoh, who wanted to kill Israelite babies, Amalek targets the weakest members of the Israelites-- the young and old and infirm. He is another prime example, like Pharaoh, of the potential for humans to make harmful choices instead of compassionate ones. And this one-two punch of Pharaoh followed by Amalek carries with it a sobering lesson:

מִלְחָמָ֥ה לַֽיהֹוָ֖ה בַּֽעֲמָלֵ֑ק מִדֹּ֖ר דֹּֽר:

There will be a holy war against Amalek from generation to generation.

Or, as we invoke in our Haggadot at Pesach, this is the lesson that in every generation-- at least once-- someone will rise up against us, to try and destroy us. Meaning that the sacred work, and the sacred journey, will actually never be completely over. True, lasting safety isn’t a sprint. It’s a long game.

If we zoom out and look at the Torah as a whole, we can see evidence of the same painful lesson. Because, what happens on the other side of the Jordan, when our ancestors enter the Promised Land at the end of the book of Deuteronomy? Not peace.

In fact, there’s a whole lot of violence, and unrest, and power changing hands again and again, and then our forebears were largely expelled into the Diaspora. Over centuries, while powers like Rome and the Ottoman Empire and Britain jostled for control of the Holy Land, Jews were trying to survive, and othered, separated, attacked, and often treated badly around the world.

But we did not give up. The sacred journey, and the sacred work, continued throughout all of that back and forth and up and down. For generation after generation, Jews committed to keeping our tradition, and our people, alive, and our stories, and our values, alive. In the ghettos and the shtetls, they told each other the stories with satisfying story arcs, like the story of the Exodus, and like the story of the entire Torah, precisely because they themselves needed the same human nourishment to the injustices of their own times that we need today. They did not get to experience the satisfying perfect story arc ending, but they knew that by doing the sacred work, they were becoming part of a bigger arc-- part of the long game.

In the 19th and 20th centuries, we saw another, modern Jewish story arc. The rise of nationalism and the horrors of the Shoah were followed by, in 1948, what was seen widely as a modern Jewish miracle. The current state of Israel was formed. Finally, there was a place Jews could go when other countries rejected us. It felt like we had arrived and re-realized our destiny, and it was satisfying. We even added a prayer for the State of Israel to our liturgy, calling its founding reishit tzmichat geulateinu, the beginning of the shoots, the growth, of our redemption.

But we also know now, in 2026, without going into too much detail, that the sacred work was still not over, and the sacred journey was not over, even after the founding of the modern state of Israel. Because the minute the modern state of Israel was founded, it was attacked. Over the years, again and again. And as we know all too painfully after October 7th and the ensuing war, the modern state of Israel, in addition to its own growing pains internally, is also surrounded by countries that do not wish for peace, and by groups like Hamas and Hezbollah whose mission is stated to destroy Israel. מִדֹּ֖ר דֹּֽר:

As our Torah portion said this week: from generation to generation, Israelis still have to fight for lasting safety.

Even the return of the body of the final hostage this week, of Rani Gvili, zichrono l’vracha, though it brings to an end one horrible, horrible arc, does not mean we have arrived at a lasting peace.

Lasting peace, too, is a long game.

This means that WE, as Jews TODAY, understand, keenly, the lesson we say in our Haggadah. We know, keenly, what our ancestors learned in this week’s parashah, as they escaped from Pharoah only to come face-to-face with Amalek: the lesson that the sacred work never ends. The sacred journey never ends. As long as humans are human-- that is to say, as long as each of us has the power to either choose to be compassionate, or choose to do harm-- we are going to have to actively choose to do our part, no matter which part of the story of history we are born into, to help bring about a world that more permanently, and more sustainably, reflects the human and Jewish values we hold most dear. We each have to choose to commit to being part of the long game.

I have spoken passionately these last few weeks about the many ways that we can each do our part and step up to make a difference in our larger world and in our immediate community. Specifically, as immigrants in Portland have been targeted in a more focused way over the last two weeks, members of TBE and the interfaith community in this city have come together and helped provide food, solidarity, prayer, funds, and more to these fellow humans, many of whom have already fled war-torn countries or lands where it was not safe to be themselves and raise their families.

Every one of us, as human beings, has a choice, to either be part of contributing harm to the world or contributing to compassion. Pharaoh and Amalek had that choice, and they chose to do harm. But I have been incredibly moved by how the members of TBE have showed up this week and chosen to add to the compassion in the world in so many ways. Together we have given tzedakah, done countless works of gmilut chasadim, and been part of a deep action of tikkun olam, attempting to repair brokenness in our world. We have invoked our Torah, which reminds us of the story of the Exodus, and that we must “love the stranger, for you yourselves were strangers in Egypt.”

In helping these new Mainers achieve more safety, sustenance, and justice, we helped bend the arc of their story towards what will hopefully, one day, be a satisfying ending.

And at the same time, we, too, help bring ourselves, and our own story, closer to a similar place of resolution and justice-- both as Jews, and as part of the larger human family, and the larger arc we are all a part of.

We received welcome news this past Thursday that the immediate danger is abating. This one, intense story arc of the past two weeks has, for the time being, reached a conclusion-- and that conclusion was brought on, in part, by the brave acts of this immediate community, and by the wider Portland community.

But welcoming the stranger, like justice, and like sustainable peace, is also a long game.

And so, in this moment of relief and reflection, as we read our Torah portion this week and are reminded both of Miriam’s joy at freedom and of Amalek’s evil immediately thereafter, I urge us all to do two things:

1. First, we need to celebrate all that we have done as a community to help bring about this relief, and enjoy the feeling that comes with the end of this smaller story arc. We made a difference, together. This community, both congregants and staff and lay leaders, donated thousands of dollars and donated many hours of volunteering and cooking and teaching and outreach to help our most vulnerable neighbors this week. And that made a difference. Relish that feeling, and take heart from it. We are not powerless. I am grateful to all of you, and to God, that I get to serve this incredible synagogue family.

2. But second, we have to simultaneously remember that this is not a sprint. This is a long game, and the clock is still going.

I know we are tired. I know that, speaking purely for myself, there are moments of exhaustion where a part of me wishes for easy times, for “normalcy”, and wants to pretend that the pain of the wider country, and wider world, is something we are not a part of.

But our history, and our sacred stories, remind us that this is not an option. As Jews, as Americans, as Mainers, as human beings-- we still have work to do. We cannot stop being proactive. We cannot stop opening our hearts. We cannot stop giving tzedakah, doing gmilut chasadim, and caring about tikkun olam. We cannot pretend that just because one Pharaoh surrenders, there will never be another Amalek. We are Jews. We know better.

Whether we are talking about justice, about peace, or about welcoming the stranger: the sacred work, and the sacred journey, are not over. This is a long game.

But I am so happy, as your rabbi, that if it has to be a long game, that I get to be on YOUR team.

Shabbat shalom.

The Tangible Darkness

Thu, 29 Jan 2026 15:31:35 GMT

Sermon given January 24, 2026

I thought long and hard about what to focus on in the sermon today, and I couldn’t land on one best choice.

So, first, sure, let’s talk about the parasha. Let’s talk about parashat Bo, where we see the culmination of the plagues God sends to Egypt as signs that our ancestors, the Israelites, must be freed from their unjust captivity.

Specifically, we can call our attention to the story of the plague of darkness:

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֜ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה נְטֵ֤ה יָֽדְךָ֙ עַל־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וִ֥יהִי חֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־אֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם וְיָמֵ֖שׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ׃

And God said to Moses, put out your hand towards the heavens and a darkness will descend, a darkness that is tangible.

The Midrash of Exodus Rabbah 14 explains that this tangible, touchable aspect of the darkness meant it was so thick, “of such a double character”, that it physically impacted everything around it. But I am certain that all of those exposed to such deep and penetrating emptiness would have surely been impacted emotionally. The devastation-- the loneliness-- the panic-- would have been profound.

And I think there are those of us today, here in person or online, and certainly there are those sheltering in place in our city, scared to go to work, scared to go to school…. who have felt that way, this week-- felt like there was a darkness closing in, something impacting all aspects of our lives, thick, and heavy. I know that at moments, I have felt that way. Perhaps you have, too.

Scripture teaches us that the only ones who were not enveloped by this darkness, and not surrounded by its tangible despair, were the ones who believed in something greater, the ones who maintained hope, the ones who wanted freedom-- that is to say, our ancestors, the Israelites.

This is the first lesson that it is important to highlight in this sermon-- the fact that ours is a tradition of stubbornly nurturing light in the face of looming and penetrating darkness.

But there are a few other stories I need to share with you today, too. First, a small yet agonizing story from our history as Jews and as Americans, one that it is important we never forget, immortalized in the words of Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, writing about one specific event during the Holocaust:

“No instance better summarizes America’s and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s reaction to the Jewish situation than the fate of the SS St Louis, whose seemingly endless trip from Germany to North America and back became known as the ‘voyage of the damned.’

The St. Louis set sail from Germany in May 1939, some six months after Kristallnacht. Aboard were 937 Jews, almost all of whom held visas for Cuba. While en route, there was a change of government in Havana, and the new administration refused to honor the visas. For days, the St Louis remained docked in Havana’s harbor, as representatives of international Jewish organizations tried moral suasion, and then bribery, to influence Cuba’s leaders to admit the ship-- to no avail.

American Jews likewise tried to influence their government to admit the refugees, and also had no success; the United States would not accept any of the Jews on the ship.

Indeed, in 1989, I spoke to a survivor of the St Louis who told me that when the ship neared the territorial waters of Florida, the Coast Guard fired a warning shot in its direction.

Hitler, meanwhile, was ecstatic. For all that world leaders publicly attacked antisemitism, they clearly did not want the Jews any more than he did.

The St Louis finally started its tragic journey back to Germany. In the interim, several European countries, England, Belgium, Holland, and France, agreed to admit the passengers. Those fortunate enough to be admitted to England survived the war, but those who received visas for Belgium, Holland, and France lived securely only for a short time. By 1940, the Nazis had occupied all three countries: it can be surmised that most of the passengers on the voyage of the damned were murdered in Nazi concentration camps.

The sheer pointlessness of these deaths was underscored by the survivor of the ship mentioned previously (she and her family had been admitted to England.) “We were so close to Havana we could see the city clearly”, she told me. That tantalizing and agonizing recollection undoubtedly accompanied many of the former St Louis passengers on their trips to the death camps.”

This is the second important lesson to highlight in this sermon-- that in addition to being inheritors of a tradition that urges us to resist looming darkness, we are also descendants of people who have been targeted, rejected, chased, murdered, and tortured just for being who we are. We are a people made up of refugees, of asylum seekers, and we know, keenly, what it is like to be told in word and in action by the rest of the world that we are not worthy of the dignity of a life free from fear.

And that painful inheritance can also be a source of immense power, and immense empathy, if we let it move us and shape our conscience, and then our actions.

So now, it is time to move on to the third story of our sermon. After the story of the plague of darkness, thousands of years ago, and the story of the SS St Louis, less than a century ago, we move ahead to to this past week.

A priest, a reverend, and a rabbi walked into a factory.

But this was no joke. There was no punchline. In that factory, the three of us met with business leaders, workers, asylum seekers, and retired law enforcement. What took place was a secret and painful logistical discussion. Though all the workers were here legally, the factory had been notified that it might be a target for federal agents. Questions were asked that should not have to be asked, and answers were given that should never have to be given. At the end of the meeting, though, our mission as clergy was clear.

The next day, the priest picked up a bright orange vest and handed it to me. “It’s an honor to give this to you, rabbi,” he said.

“And it’s an honor to receive it from you, Father”, I replied.

And then we joined our clergy partners, over half a dozen other members of the cloth, Catholic, Episcopalian, Quaker, UCC, and more, who had heeded our call.

We stood in a line, with our backs to the factory, feeling with each Signal notification and unmarked SUV that sped by the weight of our sacred responsibility. Parked cars with masked agents appeared at the factory and the workers, dozens of asylum seekers and new immigrants, sheltered in place. I observed our line of bodies, singing songs of spirit and protest, shielding the bodies of the workers, the immigrants, the asylum seekers, who were hurrying behind us into and out of the factory, just trying to get home and back to their families without being attacked. Sometimes, especially that first night, they moved as close to the ground as they could, fully aware that there were individuals in cars nearby who wanted to kidnap them, divide their families, and worse. One of them had a member of their household taken. And every shift, my heart was broken wide open. And every shift, it was also filled with the immense bravery and courage and strength of these fellow humans, humans just trying to live, humans just trying to work and earn a living, humans just trying to be safe in a world that has rejected them.

We are only privy to a fraction of what these new Mainers must be going through-- the fear, the stress, the secrets, the mistrust, the sense of being trapped and hunted-- but as Jews, we should be able to honor and understand it. And we do not have to know every detail of their lives to know that they are human beings, that they are deserving of the same dignity as every other person, and that our God commands us to love the stranger, for we ourselves know what it is like to be strangers.

As Jews, we do not get the luxury of pretending that evil does not exist in this world. We don’t get to pretend that humans can do evil. We don’t get the luxury of being bystanders.

Because we were strangers in Egypt. Because we were targeted, and harmed, and killed, in Egypt.

I know that I am not the only person in this room, or listening to this sermon online, whose heart has been broken again, and again, and again this week.

I don’t often share the fact that part of why I became a member of the clergy was not a love of rules or hymns or challah, but rather because I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about mortality, and about how we each have one life to live on this Earth. Judaism’s insistence that we embrace both creative work (aka malacha) and also embrace intentionally moral, connection-nurturing actions (aka mitzvot) appeals to me for many reasons. One of these reasons is that Judaism gives me the tools, with each prayer and each command, to imbue my life with sanctity and to do my tiny party to help bring healing and love to this hurting world.

I went to that parking lot, and that factory, and I sang and prayed and shielded those workers alongside my interfaith colleagues this week, because I know that I have a finite time on this Earth to try and help others, and I literally do not know how I could function if I did not at the least try contribute to being the solution or the help to fix even one tiny part of the immense brokenness which is around us.

Mishna Sanhedrin teaches us that judges spoke to witnesses before they would testify in ancient cases, reminding them that with their words and actions, they had great power. They spoke, quote, “To teach…that whoever destroys one life is considered by the Torah as if he destroyed an entire world, and whoever saves one life is considered by the Torah as if he saved an entire world.”

We can each help save an entire world, whether with our bodies, or our titles, or our homes, or our money, or our time, or our prayers, or our words, or something else. Each of us, in our own way. Every little bit matters.

I want to speak from the bottom of my heart when I say how moved I have been, this week, to see the absolute outpouring of care and volunteering and donating and showing up and outreach and prayer that Temple Beth El and the greater Portland Interfaith Community have shown one another as our own looming darkness, our own tangible, touchable threat, has settled onto our streets. I want to specifically name how our incredible staff and lay leadership has pivoted, adapted, implemented new safety protocols, and had difficult conversations at all hours of the day, all while urging one another to remember to practice self-care and show ourselves grace. I want to thank the congregants who showed up to volunteer and teach and do jobs others had to drop to go and attend to urgent need.

I’m here today less as your rabbi and more as a fellow human being and as a witness, this week, to some of the best and the worst that we as humans have to offer.

We are in the thick of it, my friends,

And we are not alone.

We are never, ever, alone.

This darkness that has descended is, indeed, tangible. It has grabbed our hearts and our neighbors. It threatens to overshadow our joy and our hope. But we are the descendants of a people that has insistently, stubbornly, and heroically insisted on responding to darkness with light, again and again throughout history.

And now it is our time.

It is our time to go out into the tangible darkness, and let our tangible love, and our tangible light, SHINE.

Shabbat shalom.

Everyday Heroes

Tue, 20 Jan 2026 19:07:00 GMT

Sermon given January 17, 2026

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

Once upon a time, there was a country. The country had a rich culture, powerful rulers, religion, culinary delights, the works. The country was full of people, and as tends to be the case, some of these people were born in the country, and some were not. When the people from elsewhere first came to the country, they were welcomed. But then after a generation or two or three had passed, leadership changed, and the new leadership did not know, or want to know, the people whose grandparents and great-grandparents had first come to the country. These people were seen as “outsiders”, as not truly belonging, and they were subjected to different treatment by those in power.

The leadership in the country began to mistreat these second, third, and fourth-generation immigrants, first in small ways, but then, over time, in bigger ways. At first, they were only allowed to work in hard labor without prestige, in jobs the “real” citizens of the land did not want. Then, they were judged for having different religious practices than those around them, and for looking a little different. But things escalated. Those in power began to physically harm these minorities and target them, even sometimes for death.

And it’s important to note that these changes, and this aggression towards the minority groups did not happen overnight. It was gradual. It happened bit by bit, out in the open and normalized by those in power, absorbed into the daily lives of both those who were targeted and those complicit in the oppression. Some of these complicit people agreed with the aggression, and prayed to their gods for their regime’s success. Some disagreed, and prayed to their Gods for mercy for those who were being targeted. Some did not believe that religion and politics should ever mix, and so they did not pray to their Gods about it, at all.

But-- regardless of what their Gods said -- it was all technically legal, because those in power are the ones who get to make the laws. And if the laws say that one group is worthy of being beaten, worthy of being subjugated, worthy of being murdered just for being who they are, then going against such actions, and resisting those actions, and acting with compassion and inclusion, suddenly becomes …illegal.

So what are we supposed to do, when a leader tells us to do something that our hearts know is very, very wrong? What are we supposed to do, when the actions that align with our conscience no longer align with the rules and laws we are being told to follow?

Thankfully, our Torah has an answer, and that answer is deeply embedded in the saga we are currently reading, in the first parashiot of the book of Exodus.

When we tell our children the story of what happened to our ancestors in ancient Egypt-- which, of course, is the country we were just talking about ….. When we tell those stories in synagogue each year, a familiar picture begins to emerge, one worthy of closer examination.

And it is a picture illustrating how not only has legality never been synonymous with morality, but how sometimes, resisting unjust laws and unjust rulers can, in fact, be the most moral course of action, and indeed, the course of action supported by God. To quote Jewish Enlightenment philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, “The only way of amending unwise laws is by deviating from them”-- and we see precisely this principle in action in the story of the Exodus.

In the story of the Exodus, Pharoah-- aka, the person making the laws-- is clearly the villain. He unjustly hurts the Israelites and treats them differently from other people living in Egypt. He is a bigot. He makes the lives of our ancestors bitter, Scripture teaches us; not because they had committed crimes but rather because he was afraid of the demographic changes they heralded.

הִנֵּ֗ה עַ֚ם בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל רַ֥ב וְעָצ֖וּם מִמֶּֽנּוּ׃

Look at these people of Israel, Pharoah says. They are becoming greater and more mighty than us!

And so, Pharoah oppresses the Israelites and forces them to construct cities for him, ultimately ordering that it be LAW that the innocent baby Israelite boys be killed.

Luckily, our story is also full of heroes of all shapes and sizes. If Shifra and Puah, the two midwives we met in last week’s parasha, had not made the brave choice to act illegally and save Israelite newborns, breaking Pharoah’s laws, even more innocent life would have been lost. We should note that Shifra and Puah were not acting on a macro scale as they resisted Pharoah. They knew that they alone did not have the resources or the might to remove Pharoah from power. But that did not deter them from listening to the still, small voice inside of their hearts, from identifying what was inDEED within their power to do, and then doing it.

Shifra and Puah are two of the most important heroes in this story, but they are far from the only ones. If Moses’ mother Yocheved had not been brave and defied the law of the land by not letting her son be killed, our people’s history would have been very different. Similarly, if Moses’ sister Miriam had not lied to the Egyptian princess-- our story would have been different.

And if Batya herself, the Egyptian princess, had not taken a stand and chosen to defend that one Israelite baby from her father’s evil policies, using her power and prestige to shield him, our story would be very, very different.

These acts of resistance may seem small on a global scale, but they were crucial in bringing about our peoples’ eventual liberation, and they were sacred. They helped save our people. And they demonstrated that individuals working within the scope and limits of our own realistic agency, working concurrently, can indeed make a significant difference in the face of horror on a wider scale. They remind us that no matter how bad things seem, no matter when in history we are living, we are not powerless.

In this week’s Torah portion, we see Moses. He is, of course, destined to be Moshe Rabbeinu, our hero, but we see him at the beginning of this week’s parasha not yet as a rescuer or leader, but rather just as a human being who is terrified of going up against a corrupt and ruthless Pharoah.

אֵיךְ֙ יִשְׁמָעֵ֣נִי פַרְעֹ֔ה וַֽאֲנִ֖י עֲרַ֥ל שְׂפָתָֽיִם:

How will Pharoah listen to me? Moses asks. I am not a talented speaker.

We can all understand Moses’ reluctance to take on the mantle of leadership against a foe with more resources, more connections, more clout. Any of us would probably feel similarly. Moses pleads with God to send someone else, anyone else. And it is another compassionate hero from our story-- Moses’ brother Aaron-- whose presence, and companionship, and solidarity with Moses, is what gives Moses the strength to persist and do what he has to do. Aaron’s willingness to speak truth to those who promoted lies and to use his words to corral and encourage the Israelites was another crucial, and distinct, act of resistance that helped birth our people. No one person did the work. Everyone had a role to play.

Now, this whole story, with its corruption, its fear and slavery, its quiet heroism and its persistent faith and bravery, is part of our spiritual inheritance as Jews. And when we read this story, as American Jews in 2026, we have a choice of how to let the words and the message affect us. If we want, we can hold the story at arm’s length, and not identify with the characters, not see ourselves and our own troubles reflected in them. We can harden our hearts, so to speak, and tell ourselves that the world is so very different today than it was for the Israelites living under Pharoah that the takeaway of this story cannot possibly be the same for us as it was for our ancestors. We can tell ourselves that this is just a story.

Or.

Instead of hardening our hearts, instead of shying away from the parallels between our own world and the world of Scripture, we can soften and open our hearts to the very real suffering around us today, we can see the unjust laws being enacted, and we can feel that pain, and let that pain inspire us to act, like Shifra and Puah and Miriam and Moses and Yocheved and Aaron and Batya and so many others. We, too, can listen to the still small voice, and we can let it shake us, and bother us, and then spur us to action, just like it did them. We can-- and, one could argue, we must.

Now. This can be scary, scary to even consider. We take our place among countless others throughout history, including our own ancestors, who resisted injustice.

Writing from his cell in the Birmingham jail, where he was being held for resisting unjust laws, Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr, whom we will honor this week, did not mince his words. He wrote, quote, “there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.” He later continues, “We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was “legal”... [and that] It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany.” His words and his example should shake us and inspire us.

There is a traditional tale that tells of a Jew reaching out to God and sharing the frustration she is feeling with the Divine.

Lord, she says, this world is plagued with anguish, hopelessness, malevolence, depression, and despair. Why do you not send help?

And of course, God replies, and says:

My friend, I did send help.

I sent you.

This is our world. This world. This city. Exactly the way it is, in all its beauty and in all its pain. Our world, like the world of the Torah, has real villains in it. And that means that when we see injustice, which we are indeed seeing every single day, it is up to us, as God’s partners, to also make the choice to be everyday heroes, to be brave and to act in the name of humanity and compassion in whichever way we each individually realistically can. One day, we will all be someone’s ancestors. When they invoke us, what story will they tell?

In Chapter 8 of Mishnah Sotah, the rabbis describe how when there is a מִלְחֶמֶת מִצְוָה, literally a war of a commandment, nobody is exempt from the fight. Not the groom, not the newlywedded bride. Everyone must come together and do their part to prevail. And while the meaning of the phrase milchemet mitzvah is debated by our sages-- does this mean a defensive war? A war specifically named in the Torah? A war that is in the name of a specific mitzvah?-- No matter how we translate the phrase milchemet mitzvah, the holy sense of shared responsibility in defense of justice is the same. All of us, each and every one of us, is called on by our tradition to find a way to work together when the cause is in defense of a mitzvah-- and Lord knows that welcoming the stranger, supporting the orphan and the widow, loving our neighbors as ourselves, and having fair laws that apply equitably to all are core, guiding mitzvot for us as Jews. We are living in our own milchemet mitzvah, and none of us are exempt from it.

It can be intimidating to try and think about what each of us, as normal humans living our everyday lives, can actually do to make a difference against the acts of violence and abuse we are seeing on a larger scale in our society. But part of the beauty of the story arc of the Exodus from Egypt, part of the gift that our tradition is giving us with this story, is that it demonstrates and models for us that there are countless ways to help bend the arc of history towards justice, and how quite often, the difference between success and failure comes down to the everyday actions of everyday people, like us, just trying to do their best to help.

On a larger scale, some of us will resist injustice through work as politicians and policy-makers, and go face off in debates and elections and help rewrite policy. Just as Moses went toe-to-toe with Pharoah, some of us, too, will resist on a more macro level. That’s one way to pursue justice, as Scripture commands.

Some of us will give sermons.

Many of us will find other ways to contribute and resist using resources available to us like money and time. Some of us will write checks to causes we believe in--like the ongoing food drive here at TBE which started after SNAP benefits were decreased, which has now helped feed hungry households across Maine. Some of us will show up at protests and vigils-- like the weekly interfaith prayer vigil Wednesdays outside of the detention center downtown, offering support to those taken by ICE, or like the mass walkout organized by Portland students several weeks ago-- persistently and publicly modeling solidarity and commitment to mutual care and responsibility, and refusing to be silenced.

Some of us, like Batya, will acknowledge our privilege, and we will use it to document injustice when we see it happening, and to do anything we can to thwart and disrupt oppression when it occurs.

But for some of us, these actions also won’t feel right. Like Shifra and Puah, the resistance some of us will have to offer is more personal, individual, and intimate.

Some of us will resist injustice by talking to our friends and neighbors, by supporting each other and reminding each other of what’s worth fighting for, especially in the difficult months to come. We will remind each other why the pain of the struggle is worth it, and we will be each others’ safe harbor and open embrace.

For those on the front lines of this fight, having a support system is crucial. We can reach out and offer to be that support system.

Some of us will commit to protecting members of the LGBTQ+ community, especially trans youth, who are being turned out from their homes and experience suicidality at higher rates, and who are currently being targeted with abuse and attacks on their dignity, from those in power. Again and again we will reaffirm that all people, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, are made in the image of God. Our proactive and consistent welcome will help save lives.

Some of us will continue to check on our friends, neighbors, coworkers, and community members whose racial and ethnic demographics are being targeted unjustly. We will ask our neighbors-- what do you need? What is something concrete I can do to support you? If they don’t feel safe going to the grocery store, we can offer to get their groceries. If they have an appointment, we can offer to go with them. Our outreach and physical presence will remind them that they are not alone.

Some of us will write poems and songs, and paint pictures, and inspire others whose hearts are aching in these troubled times. Our creations will remind each other that despite these difficult times, there is beauty in this world, and it is worth fighting for.

The list could go on and on, but the message is clear: it all counts, and we each must do our part. To paraphrase Rabbi Tarfon’s famous sentence, it is not upon us to finish the work individually, but neither may any of us sit this one out.

I believe that we can do this. I believe in this community, and this city, and this state. If we believe that only resistance on a macro level “counts”, we’ll feel paralyzed and powerless as individuals. But the truth is that every little bit of sacred resistance against the Pharoahs of the world counts. And if we internalize this, then we empower ourselves and each other to work together to bring about real change. And-- we can help each other to identify what our role will be in the days to come. We are in this together. We are not alone. We are each others’ keepers.

I wonder, sometimes, what dinners were like in the households of Shifra and Puah. What did they talk about with their families? What worried whispers did they confide in their partners late at night? What anguished decisions did they have to reach, what plans for escape did they have to hold in their back pockets, should their actions come back to bite them?

The Torah doesn’t say. But what we know is that when the still, small voice spoke to Shifra and Puah, they listened, and they acted on it.

And in doing so, they became our teachers, thousands of years later. We, too, must listen to that same small voice, to the voice that reminds us that legality is not the same as morality and that when it comes to a milchemet mitzvah, to a fight for our core values, nobody is exempt. We must listen, and then we must let ourselves be moved and troubled by what we hear, and then, inspired by the everyday bravery of Shifra and Puah, by the chutzpah of Batya, and yes, even by the initial reluctance of Moshe-- we must each be moved to action, however we can.

My friends, said God-- I did send help. I sent you.

Shabbat shalom.

New Year's Sermon

Wed, 07 Jan 2026 17:28:17 GMT

Sermon given January 3, 2026

Shana tova, everybody!

Happy New Year’s.

ארבעה ראשי שנים הם

teaches the Mishna. There are actually FOUR different times of the year that count as “new years”:

The first of Nisan is the new year for measuring the length of the reign of kings and for counting how many festivals have passed since we made vow;

the first of Elul is the new year for the tithe of beasts, for when we count who counts as a “yearling” for sacrifice;

the first of Tishrei is the new year for counting years of the world, for shmita and yovel, for planting and tithing and forgiving debts; and

the first of Shevat is the new year for trees and for tithing fruits, according to Beit Shammai (although of course, as is tradition, Beit Hillel disagreed.)

You’ll note that the Mishna does not mention January first at all. But clearly, the rabbis cared about when the new year– or the four different new years– occurred, and this recurring theme of newness pervades the Jewish calendar.

Of course, this means that measuring and counting and keeping track of the various parts of our lives can get very complicated as Jews, and that’s before we even try to factor in the Gregorian Calendar and its New Year, which we just celebrated this week. When we then add in our individual birthdays, and romantic anniversaries, and Yahrzeiten of those who have passed– and secular school years– and fiscal years– the list of types of years and new years gets very, very long.

This means that on any given day– SOMEthing, SOME year or another, is bound to be ending, or beginning, or about to end, or about to begin. Each of our lives is bound up in multiple overlapping annual cycles.

I’ve always found it fascinating how much of an emphasis is put on secular New years, and that people of all backgrounds count down to midnight on December 31st, and make resolutions– even though studies have shown again and again that we overwhelmingly stop following these resolutions by the end of January.

But it seems that there is a power in newness, and a power in celebrating new beginnings, and though this power transcends any one religion or culture, it’s worth asking ourselves– why should, or could, New Years matter to us as Jews? How can we, as Jews, take advantage of what this unique holiday has to offer?

We’re going to look at three answers to these questions today, and I’ll tell you before we even start– there are more than three answers. I’ll look forward to your reflections at kiddush lunch or beyond about why New Year’s is important to YOU, as a person and as a Jew– but hopefully, this will provide us with a good start.

The first reason why newness, and specifically New Years, is so important is because by labeling something as “new”, it allos us to also label something else as “old”, and therefore easier to let go of. It can be incredibly freeing to say that who we were before is now old “old”, and no longer who we are– which then clears the way to identify who we DO want to be, moving forward. By societally agreeing that a specific second – Midnight on December 31st– will mark a change from the old to the new, we also communally give each other permission to reinvent ourselves, to reevaluate our priorities, and to redefine ourselves going forward.

Being able to let go of past versions of ourselves is also important for us Jewishly. I’ve spoken in this space before about how one of our names for God is HaMavdil, the one who sanctifies transitions, and the transition from the old year to the New Year is one such holy moment. Transitioning from an old year to a new year allows us the opportunity to recommit to being the kind of Jews we want to be, and living the Jewish lives we want to live. Though Judaism does not formally encourage the writing of resolutions, we do indeed encourage one another to mark the passage of the year by annually trying again to become the people we know we should be. For example, before Rosh Hashanah, we bring conflicts into the open, resolve disputes and let go of anger, and forgive.

But there is also the potential, at the secular New Years, for our Jewish values to also play a role in any resolutions we might want to make for this year. We can forgive ourselves for lapses in our observance from the past year, label those as “old”, and set new goals for this year. Perhaps we want to recommit to saying the Shema each night, or to volunteering on a committee, or to making challah for Shabbat. Perhaps we want to come to services once a month, or try a new level of observing kashrut. The arrival of New Year’s is a reminder, for both or secular and our spiritual selves, that we now have a chance, again, to try and live lives we are proud of.

That’s reason number one about why New Years is so important: it allows us to let go of who we were, and focus on who we want to be.

Reason two for why New Year’s is important to us as Jews is a bit more paradoxical, and it’s well illustrated by an example from our weekly Friday night Kabbalat Shabbat service.

Every Friday at Kabbalat Shabbat, we sing through a series of psalms designed to get us into a Shabbat mindset, a mindset of rest, of praise, of gratitude– and a mindset of spiritual reset at the end of a week of regular life.

שִׁ֣ירוּ לַ֭יהֹוָה שִׁ֣יר חָדָ֑שׁ שִׁ֥ירוּ לַ֝יהֹוָ֗ה כׇּל־הָאָֽרֶץ

So begin several of the psalms of the Kabbalat Shabbat service. Sing a NEW song to Adonai, they tell us. Sing a NEW song, all of the Earth.

And yet, this is a paradoxical thing to tell us to do, because it is with ancient words that we proclaim the importance of singing a new song. How are we supposed to make something new from something so old? Given that generations and generations have sung these exact same Hebrew words– shiru l’adonai shir chadash– the moral of the story can’t be that we need to literally rewrite the book of psalms to make it “new”. Rather, the psalms of Kabbalat Shabbat seem to be urging us, as individual Jews, to take true ownership of our spiritual experiences, to make it personal, to make living Jewishly new in a way that is both rooted in the old and uniquely ours, today, in 2026.

This means that the arrival of New Year’s, a day to focus in on newness, is also important because it gives us the opportunity to ask ourselves not just which rituals or prayers or practices or observances we are ready to embrace this year, but also what do these rituals and words really MEAN to us? Are they really ours? Do they feel new? Are we doing enough to make them new, for ourselves, for our children?

This is the second reason, then, why the New Year matters to us as Jews. Yes, New Years is an opportunity to let go of the old and aspire to something better– that was reason one– but it is also a charge and a challenge to take true ownership of our Judaism, to analyze why we do what we do, and what it means to us to find newness in the old. The oldness of Judaism is a beautiful and grounding thing. But New Years can remind us– if our Judaism never feels new to us, is it ever really ours?

That is the second reason we’ll name today.

For the third and final reason, we’ll pull a quote from the beginning of the Torah portion we just read:

וַיְחִ֤י יַֽעֲקֹב֙ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם שְׁבַ֥ע עֶשְׂרֵ֖ה שָׁנָ֑ה וַיְהִ֤י יְמֵי־יַֽעֲקֹב֙ שְׁנֵ֣י חַיָּ֔יו שֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֔ים וְאַרְבָּעִ֥ים וּמְאַ֖ת שָׁנָֽה:

וַיִּקְרְב֣וּ יְמֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵל֘ לָמוּת֒

And Jacob lived in Egypt for 17 years. And the years of Jacob’s life numbered 147 years. And the time drew near for Israel to die.

So. Our Torah LOVES counting and naming how long people live.

Now, I don’t know what Methuselah was like as a person, or what he accomplished in his life, or whether he had a sense of humor, because our Torah didn’t record those details– but what our Torah DID record is that Methuselah lived to be 969. Noah lived to be 950, Enoch lived to be 365, and Moses lived to be 120. Sarah lived to be 127. The Rabbis agree that Rebekah died at 133, though the Torah does not mention a specific age. And there are many, many more examples of very specific ages that our tradition has preserved and passed down for generations.

It’s not that any of these specific ages are of particular note– it’s the fact that our Torah makes a point of marking down how long people live, again and again, and reminding us of the finite time that each of us has on this planet. The fact that the numbers of the years our ancestors lived are not uniform is also significant: The Torah reminds us that even among our leaders and our most important teachers, there is not a guaranteed period we are given on this Earth.

And, when we read these numbers, just like when we mark the passing of another year each December 31st, we can’t help but be reminded that just like our ancestors, we are also mortal. And just like them, we don’t live our lives knowing exactly how many times we will get to mark a new year, or a new chapter, or a new month, or even a new day. New Years is a reminder of our mortality.

But of course, we also know that we can’t dwell on our mortality all of the time. We wouldn’t be able to function if we did that, and to celebrate the joy and beauty in this world, and the mystery of spirituality. We wouldn’t be able to do the malacha, the creative tasks that we need to do in this life, to be God’s partners in Creation, if we spent all of our time thinking about the fact that one day, there won’t be another New Year’s. One January first will be our last January first. One Rosh Hashanah will be our last Rosh Hashanah.

And that’s OK. We have to be able to set our mortality aside, most of the time, in order to be able to truly live. But reading again and again the verses in the Torah that list the length of our ancestors’ lives, just like the arrival each year of January 1st, gives us a nudge, and gives us permission, to dwell for a second on our mortality, and to remember that the time we are given on this Earth is both finite and precious.

So. If the first reason why New Years matters is because it allows us to let go of the old and start over, and

the second reason why New Years matters is because it allows us to take true ownership of how we are living our lives, then

the third reason why New Years matters is because it is a reminder that, like it or not, for better for worse, time is marching on, and it won’t march on forever. Some day, each of us will have completed our lives, and others will be able to attach a number to our years, just like our ancestors in the Torah.

Each New Year’s is a reminder that time, no matter how we measure it, no matter which “new year” we are measuring, each measure of life has value, and the mystery and unknown about how many of those years each of us will get is important. Time moves on, so we had best make sure we are living the Jewish lives we want to be living, and owning our Judaism.

So, as we move together into the year 2026 of the Common Era, here in the midst of the year 5786 on the Jewish Calendar, I’d like to offer us all a blessing:

May this be a year of healing and of teamwork;

Of friendship and of growth;

A year of bravery, compassion, and wonder;

A year of acceptance and gratitude.

May this be a year where we practice poteach et yadecha, opening our hands to let go of the past;

And in doing so, may our hands and hearts remain open to receiving the blessings and potential of the new year.

May this be a year of laughter and of hope.

And finally, may this be a year where we approach ourselves and each other with compassion and empathy as we recommit ourselves, yet again, to being the Jews, and the people, that this world needs us to be.

Shabbat shalom, and Happy New Year.

Vayigash: What's in a name?

Wed, 31 Dec 2025 19:46:07 GMT

Sermon given December 27, 2025

In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare famously points out to us that that which we call a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.

If you’ll indulge the playful linguist in me for a second, on the one hand, Shakespeare had it right. A “ro-se” is just a set of sounds we have assigned to a specific flower. We could have just as easily called it a bloopty-bloop or a foghorn, right? Names, at the end of the day, are just words, which are just sounds we make, and sounds have their limits in utility and specificity.

Shakespeare loved playing with words and names, loved using them to point out patterns and jokes and hypocrisy, reflecting the futility and the fun of language back at the audience, making us think about the sounds we assign to each other and to objects and feelings in this world.

This is how we get tongue twisters-- like, “there’s an enemy anemone in the olive oil aisle”-- and this is how we get nonsense words like humbug and balderdash.

Another fun thing we humans do with sounds is assign specific sounds to the other humans around us, sounds like Bob and Rabbi and Jaqueline and Rufus and spouse and Jew and Gentile and Tabitha.

And that’s just the ENGLISH words and sounds and names that we know. When, as American Jews, we add in the significance of our Hebrew names and titles and liturgy to the discussion, everything becomes even MORE complex and interesting. It’s not just that we Jews love words-- though we do. It’s that so much of who we are, so much of our identity, is bound up in these words and in the sanctity and power of their many layers of meaning.

The kabbalists developed the concept of PARDES, interpreting each word of Torah as having multiple potential levels, the Pshat, Remez, Drash, and Sod-- that is, as its basic meaning, its hint, its midrashic meaning, and finally its secret, esoteric, mysterious meaning. Through this lens of Pardes, every word in the Torah has been given to us with great intent and significance. There’s literally no chance of any given word being “just” a word for us. Similarly, there’s no chance of a name being “just” a name. Yosef is an “Additional” son. “Yitzchak” brought laughter. “Adam” is red like the Earth. Names, for us, aren’t just sounds-- they offer layers of meaning.

It’s a beautiful thing, when I sit with Jewish parents who are trying to find just the right Hebrew name to bestow upon their new child, and they say things like “we’d like a name that embodies joy, and bravery, and hope-- things we want her to bring to the world”, or “they’re being named after their uncle, who was so curious and loved to learn-- what name captures that feeling?”

And this power behind Jewish names is clear from the beginning of the sacred story told in the Torah. Adam HaRishon, the first human, is invited into this sacred word-process and given an important task at the very beginning of Genesis-- naming each animal on Earth, assigning titles to the life God has created. This power of naming is also symbolic because it cements humanity’s role as God’s partners in ruling over the rest of life.

That’s because bestowing a name also includes within it a sense of a responsibility and knowledge of the individual receiving the name. As we just mentioned, this naming power is also mirrored in every parent’s job of gifting a name to their children, and for us Jews, building into that name the names of ancestors who have passed away-- a unique and beautiful tradition that means that that when Jews are called to the Torah, we go up accompanied by and carrying the sacred names of our ancestors. Many converts symbolically take the names Avraham v’Sarah for this precise reason-- words and names have power and bind us to others in our tradition and signify belonging.

But all of these examples are also starting to dance around the limits of names, and the challenge of names, and the gray area between the names we are given, the names we choose, and what it means to navigate the different parts of our own identities. There are limits to how well a new parent can know their brand-new child, for example. We also can’t know ahead of time what’s going to happen to us in our lives, and what new names or titles might come our way.

Romeo and Juliet were challenged by their names, because the names assigned to them by their families also represented two warring factions. But they loved each other, and so their names, mired in conflict, did not suit them. And they rejected those names for that reason, though they could not reject who they were or where they came from.

But there are many other situations in real life where we may, indeed, choose to change our names, whether our English names or our Hebrew names. Perhaps we realize as we grow that the identity given to us by our family and society isn’t an accurate representation of who we are. Perhaps we marry someone and want to build a new family with them, and want to share their name or choose a new one together. Perhaps we go through an illness that changes our outlook so intensely that we add a name to how we are called to the Torah, or perhaps we go to rabbinical school or cantorial school and our name is similarly augmented, permanently.

No matter the reason, chosen names matter too, just like given names matter. And because both kinds of names matter, we each have the power to commit to affirming and embracing each others’ names, because to do so is to honor all of the aspects of that person as they see them: the entire pardes-- the basic meaning, the suggested meaning, the more complex and interpretative meaning, and then the deepest, secretive meaning, the one we are not all privy to.

Not respecting, and not honoring, a person’s chosen name, or a movement’s chosen name, or a community’s chosen name, is tantamount to rejecting that person, or that community’s, sense of self.

Which brings us back to our Torah, and to the role of names in our Torah. We know that as humans, we already give each other names with lots of meanings and complexity. So what are we supposed to do when an Angel, or when God, God’s self, swoops in and informs us that our name has suddenly changed-- or that we suddenly have an additional name or title? What does our Torah teach us about reconciling the different parts and names we carry?

For our ancestors, this isn’t a theoretical question-- it happens several times in our Torah. Famously, God changes Abram and Sarai’s names to Abraham and Sarah, transforming them into the patriarch and matriarch of our people. This name shift isn’t one they discover or choose themselves, but it is indeed one that they embrace in the new chapter of their lives as they leave behind both the home they have always known and the names they have always carried.

A few weeks ago in parashat Lech Lecha, in Genesis 17:4, God explains that the establishment of the Covenant and the changing of Abram and Sarai’s names go hand in hand, quote, “This is my covenant with you: I will make you the father of a multitude of nations! What’s more, I am changing your name. It will no longer be Abram. Instead, you will be called Abraham, for you will be the father of many nations.” There we go. Pretty straightforward. Abraham’s role in our people’s history is bound into the name he is given.

Similarly- but not identically, several weeks ago in Parashat Vayishlach, our patriarch Jacob wrestled with an angel on the way to meet his brother Esau. For his struggles, Jacob demands a blessing, and is given the name Israel. In Genesis 32: 28, we read that, quote, ““Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.”

Israel-- the one who struggles with God--has become a word synonymous with our people, with the Jewish love for learning, for growing, for pushing each other to become ever-better versions of ourselves. Our identity has become bound into the name our patriarch was given.

However, while both of these name changes--- Abram to Abraham, and Jacob to Israel-- were significant for our people’s story, they meant widely different things for the two men they most affected. Our commentator Sforno points out that in regards to the change from Abram to Abraham, the shift was complete, permanent, and instant, quote ““the significance of this name change will commence as of this day.” From then on, in our Scripture, Abram is only referred to as Abraham, and we see no evidence that this shift poses a hardship for him. However, in contrast, Sforno points out that when Jacob was accorded the name Israel,, quote, “That name (Israel) was an additional name which did not replace his original name, Jacob.”

This dual identity is borne out in the subsequent verses and chapters, where we see our text utilizing in some moments the name Yaakov to refer to Jacob, and in others the word Yisrael- sometimes going back and forth within the same narrative structure. Unlike Abraham, who sheds his Abram identity completely to move forward, Jacob-- no, Yaakov-- no, Yisrael-- embodies the conflict of the multiple identities within him. He does indeed move forward, but he does so as a divided person, as a person in the throes of ongoing self-reflection.

We then approach this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash. Vayigash brings us the moment, finally, where we see Jacob’s multiple identities crash together as the story arc of his son, Joseph, nears its conclusion. In parashat Vayigash, Jacob is older, broken, and uncertain. He barely resembles the man who bravely wrestled an angel. Instead, he clings to his youngest son, Benjamin, with a love that has grown unhealthy and fearful. In the face of years of pain at the loss of his beloved son Joseph, Jacob has dug his heels in and is too scared to part from Benjamin at any cost. In Genesis 44:30, the Torah explains that “Jacob’s soul was bound to Benjamin’s soul”, but it is clear that this connection had reached an injurious level. Jacob keeps Benjamin close to him, refusing to let the young man live his own life for fear of losing him. The Jacob we see in the beginning of Vayigash struggles with inner demons, unable to fulfill his role as father, family leader, or man of God. And throughout this chapter of life, he bears the name “Jacob”, as he had before wrestling with God. He bears the name of a brother who stole a birthright, of a young man who could not communicate effectively or own up to his own actions.

But suddenly, in this week’s torah portion, a momentous shift takes place both in Jacob’s mental state and in his identity. Quote, “And they, Joseph’s brothers, told him (Jacob) all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived. And Israel said, It is enough; Joseph my son is yet alive: I will go and see him before I die.”

Did you hear that? In the space of a sentence, Jacob’s name changed. The spirit of Jacob their father revived. And Israel said: it is enough.

In a matter of a moment, Jacob’s name changes once again. The Israel identity, which was hidden deep within Jacob, was brought forth in that moment, replacing someone who felt helpless with someone who saw a path forward. Jacob saw hope again, and became Israel, again. And by wrestling with that part of himself, Jacob finds peace.

Interestingly, this time, no angel was needed to bequeath a new name upon Israel; he simply needed to choose to embrace who he was, and choose a path forward, instead of remaining stuck in a cycle of despair. Along the way, he listened to his children, listened to the world around him, and listened to his own heart. He looked within himself and he found, again, the part of his identity that he needed to embrace in the next chapter, and in doing so, he modeled for us both the importance, and the limits, of names. Jacob was Israel throughout our entire parashah, but he did not embrace it until that one moment, when he looked at his sons and said: It is enough.

So. What’s in a name? Our tradition offers us several different models here of how to approach facing the arrival of a new identity: that of Abraham, who attempts to move forward fully embracing his new self, and that of Jacob, whose discontent seems to supersede any name he is given. We also should not forget Sarah’s example--- Sarah, whose personal experience of name change our tradition leaves largely unexamined. Like most women throughout history, her own name was subsumed into the dreams and stories of the men around her-- but the fact that her name had to change, too, from Sarai to Sarah, means she is far more than just a supporting character in Abraham’s story. Her identity mattered, too. And therefore, her identity had to change, too.

But it is Jacob’s conflicted identity, torn between Yisrael and Ya’akov, that I want to leave us with today, as a seed to consider as we move about our own lives and examine the different parts of our ownselves.

As Jews and Americans, as Mainers and from-away-ers, as human beings, we also carry multiple identities.

Each of us, as we sit here in this room today, as we watch online, as we are called to the Torah, as we chat on the internet using different aliases and nicknames, as we navigate personal and professional titles-- each of us, as we navigate the names we are given and the names we choose, the names we run from and the names we embrace-- each of us has the opportunity to take note of Jacob’s example, of Yaakov’s example, and of Yisrael’s example, at the same time.

Wrestling with our identity does not mean we do not know who we are-- to the contrary. Like we see with our patriarch Jacob, there can be a deep holiness in the discernment process of figuring out who we really are, in our own time. A name is a gift, a hope, a label- but Jacob’s story reminds us that nobody-- no parent, not even an angel-- can dictate which names will speak most clearly to each human heart. That is something we each get to do, individually, and we get to support each other on that journey of discovery.

So. What’s in a name?

A whole lot. The good news is that we can commit, together, to making this the sort of sacred space where our entire selves are welcome and celebrated.

Shabbat shalom.

L’Dor va’dor… l’dor vador…. L’dor vador nagid godlecha

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 20:21:11 GMT

Sermon given December 13, 2025

The concept of L’Dor Va’dor, passing our values from generation to generation, runs very deep in Judaism. Saying that it runs deep feels like quite the understatement, even. Passing down everything from rituals to values to tefillin to names to recipes… this spirit of “l’dor va’dor” ensures that the chain of Jewish life and learning never breaks.

This year, L’dor va’dor is the theme of KBE, our religious school. The kids are exploring their family trees, learning about their personal ancestors, and also learning about where we as modern Jews collectively fit on the ancient family tree of our people, that started back with either Abraham or Adam and Eve, depending on how you look at it.

The last few weeks, we’ve also been talking in services about what gets passed down from generation to generation, albeit through a different lens. In the stories we’ve focused in on, about Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and now Jacob, Leah, Rachel, and their sons, many important things are shared l’dor va’dor– specifically, a relationship to God, and a sense of obligation and responsibility for future generations. Each of these sets of parents passed along to their children how important it was to continue being connected to God and to try and live godly lives.

But that’s not all that was passed down, of course. As we’ve been talking about the last few Shabbatot, intergenerational trauma also got passed down. Favoritism, spite, and jealousy also got passed down. Sibling rivalries got passed down. Last week we talked again about Jacob and Esau finally making peace after immense discord which all started when their parents pitted them against one another– but then what do we see this week? We see that very same Jacob doting and fawning all over one of his sons, Joseph, causing yet another generation of jealous siblings to cause trouble. This, too, is an example of something being passed down l’dor va’dor– but something damaging, instead of holy.

None of this, I think, is what our tradition is hoping for when we invoke the concept of “l’dor va’dor”. And yet, if we focus in on these imperfections, it can actually make our ancestors even more relatable, and even more real, to us.

Because for us as modern Jews, we are also human, and we also pass both the good and the bad to the next generation, l’dor va’dor. We’re both trying to pass down the awesome stuff about being Jewish, the rituals we love, and the responsibility we feel to those who went before us, and those after us– but we also, unintentionally, pass along our own intergenerational traumas, fears, guilts, and even prejudices to our children.

For example: A grandchild might refuse to try attending a specific shul because her grandfather had a negative experience at the shul 60 years ago and has been badmouthing the congregation ever since. Ever heard of something like that happening? Or how about: In response to a natural question from a child about the different denominations and what they mean, an adult Jew might perpetuate negative and oversimplified stereotypes, saying that Conservative Jews are in the middle and don’t really take a stand on anything, Reform Jews only really talk about Tikkun Olam, Orthodox Jews don’t give rights to women, and so on.

And sometimes, we also pass along fears bred of very real dangers we have faced in our own lives. We might reactively urge our children to avoid certain neighborhoods or wearing certain clothing, or to hide their magen david necklaces when there is an antisemitic attack in the news– even if it didn’t happen nearby. We might advise them not to share that they are Jewish immediately if they meet new people. Ever heard of parents saying these things? The list goes on and on.

And when we do each of these things, we are transmitting our values and our fears, l’dor va’dor. We are transmitting our pride and our pain. We are transmitting our accomplishments and our losses. And we are transmitting our shared and ongoing vulnerability in a world that has hurt our people many times. Transmitting these things is neither good nor bad– it just is a natural part of being in a community like ours. But especially when we talk about the uncomfortable and painful topics, it behooves Jewish adults to acknowledge the power of the choices we make, and the words we use, and the rituals we observe, on the next generation.

One of the most painful things about being a rabbi is when I talk to the kids and teens about antisemitism. I tell them that I wish more than anything that I could give them a world without Jew Hatred in it; that I could promise that they would be safe outside of the walls of the synagogue. For parents and grandparents, too, this is one of the most painful conversations we have to have with our kids. L’dor va’dor, we are their role models and guides as they come to the realization that there are places in this world and people in this world that are safe for us as Jews, and people and places in this world that are not safe for us as Jews. From us, the next generation learns about how precious it is to have safe Jewish spaces that nurture the Jewish spark within each of us, and how to walk the line, the blurry boundary, between what it means to be a Jew here, at Temple Beth El, and what it means to be a Jew outside of these walls, in a world where antisemitism is a real and scary thing.

I’d be willing to bet that for many of us here today, we feel a palpable difference right now between when we are inside these walls, with this congregation, and what we feel most other places. The specifics of the many lives we each lead might be different, but there is a common anchor, here, in the Jewish communal life that we have built together.

Here, just being in the presence of other Jews–

Here, inside these solid walls, built with Jewish love and vision–

Here, where we do not have to defend or explain our right to be who we are openly, and proudly, and without caveat–

Here, where we are surrounded by others who know, when Antisemitism veers its ugly head, that we will have each others’ backs, no matter what, and that love and support are things we will never take for granted.

Here, shevet achim gam yachad. Here, we are all family, sitting together, bound by a common fate and purpose.

The beauty of this space is something we must commit to transmitting, l’dor va’dor.

In a time when it feels like so many others in the world are not able to hold space for the trauma and grief the Jewish people are experiencing– or worse, when some are denying us dignity, and denying us safety– it makes sense that entering this building might feel like a sigh of relief, or like finally getting to relax a little. When politicians casually dismiss Jewish agency and safety, when graffiti haunts our neighborhoods, when our kids find swastikas at school– this is a place we can come to step away from that pain, and find strength in each other and our tradition.

Navigating the boundary between the Jewish life we live publicly and the Jewish life we live privately has always been a delicate balance, but it has gotten even more challenging since October 7, and then during the ensuing War. Antisemitic incidents have spiked in the United States, with some happening here in Maine.

I’ve spoken with several KBE parents who are wrestling with how to approach discussing antisemitism and safety with their kids. Especially with Hanukkah approaching next week, the question of how to navigate our public and private Jewish lives is coming to a head.

For some of us, being more visibly and outwardly identifiable as Jewish right now is an act of strength and protest and love, a statement of solidarity with our ancestors who also sought light in the darkness. For others among us, the opposite is true– it hasn’t felt safe, for some of us, to wear outwardly Jewish symbols or to put up signs in our yards, and the thought of having a Hanukkiah in our window may sound scary.

And I want to name that this is OK, and that both of these stances have been felt by Jews throughout history. This isn’t the first time we Jews have felt such concerns. Historically, there have been numerous situations over the centuries where being visibly outwardly identifiable as Jewish was dangerous or stressful. Generations of Jews before us have also found themselves having to make difficult decisions about kippot, mezuzot, menorot, and other visible Jewish identifiers.

In celebrating Hanukkah, we light a menorah. But how publicly should we display it, the rabbis ask? Do we put the menorah where everyone can see it, loud and proud? Or do we keep it inside where it’s less obvious and perhaps safer? And the answer is:

Yes. The answer is, yes, either of these options is valid, depending on the circumstances and depending on safety.

Because of course, of COURSE, it’s a mitzvah to be proudly Jewish. Arukh HaShulchan says:

מעיקר הדין מדליקין בפתח הסמוך לרשות הרבים

The best option is for us to light the menorah by the doorway, as close to public view as possible.

But, says the Shulchan Aruch:

ובשעת הסכנה שאינו רשאי לקים המצוה מניחו על שלחנו ודיו

In an hour of danger, when you can’t fulfill the mitzvah (by putting the menorah outside), place it on the table inside and that is enough.

Enough. What a powerful word, and a powerful reminder. Sometimes, especially if we are talking about in times we feel fear, it is OK to just do enough, and not to do the ideal.

Sometimes, it is OK to be enough, and it is OK if that is a value we teach to our children, too.

The last thing we need to be doing is beating ourselves up for being Jewish in a way that makes us comfortable, or for taking care of our very real concerns about safety in a world where antisemitism is again on the rise.

The level of comfort each of us feels in being publicly Jewish right now is going to vary based on a wide variety of factors. The face we are showing to the rest of the world is going to vary widely. But our tradition is big enough and wise enough to reassure is that this is OK, and that we don’t need to beat ourselves up for taking the route of safety in extenuating circumstances.

It’s OK– As long as, within this communal Jewish life we share, our commitment to each other remains strong, and our support of each other does not waiver.

It’s OK, to prioritize self-care and not fight every single individual fight that is out there with every single individual wrong person on your Facebook Feed.

As long as, within this communal Jewish life we share, we are clear that our health and safety as Jews are non-negotiable, and that we will donate whatever resources we can to supporting Am Yisrael around the world.

Interestingly, TBE has a public and a private life, too– publicly, we are the Conservative shul in southern Maine, we have a park that neighborhood kids play in, we host speakers and events, we run food drives.

But the world at large, the world outside, doesn’t get to see and feel the private life of Temple Beth El. The outside world doesn’t get to share in the same safety and Jewish solidarity that we feel when we are together, that same sigh of relief when we come through those doors. They aren’t privy to the vulnerable, emotional conversations that have been happening since October 7, that take place in our Israel: Hard Conversations class, or to the uniquely Jewish pain that we feel when faced with antisemitic chants and publications and graffiti.

They don’t get to feel the same primal power of dancing with Torah scrolls, of immersing in the mikveh, of the sweet smell of b’samim.

That life, that life we live together, is ours.

And making sure we celebrate that life in whatever way feels authentic to us is more important than ever.

As we prepare to light the candles this Hanukkah season, I offer the kavvanah, the intention, of l’dor va’dor. Hanukkah gives us an opportunity to re-examine and re-affirm the messages about who we are that we transmit to ourselves and to others. So- What values are we transmitting by lighting the candles? What does it mean to us to be part of this ancient chain? What does it mean to us to put the menorah on the window, or at the door- or on the table? What does it mean to us to prioritize our schedules to allow us to come together as a community for an epic Hanukkah party? And what does it mean to us to intentionally invite our neighbors, interfaith partners, and non-Jewish elected officials into this space for that party, too, sharing in our Jewish identity with them?

No matter how you choose to celebrate, you are part of the chain. We are each others’ teachers, and each others’ guardians and keepers, and we are each helping shape what the future of Judaism will look like.

L’dor va’dor, nagid godlekha. From generation to generation, we will talk of Your power, and embrace our role in the sacred chain.

Shabbat shalom.

Vayishlach: Two Camps

Wed, 10 Dec 2025 16:41:08 GMT

Sermon given December 6, 2025

Two weeks ago, I stood on this bimah and shared with you a story about a potato, an egg, and a knife. Now, I know not everyone was here that week, and I know that even for those of us who were here, a refresher can be helpful, so here’s the long and the short version: Each of these items was exposed to the same substance-- boiling water-- and each was affected in a different way. The potato went from firm to soft, the egg went from soft to firm, and the knife, though visibly and texturally unchanged, emerged kasher.

This story, we said, could also be read as a metaphor for living a life of Torah. Being immersed in Torah, like being immersed in boiling water, can affect different people, and different moments, in different ways, making us stronger, or more vulnerable, or more holy. We concluded that, to an extent, we can choose to what level we let Torah transform us, and what lessons we take from it.

Two weeks ago, we also looked at the stories of Rebekah and Isaac and their embattled sons Jacob and Esau. We talked about the metaphorical boiled water they were placed in-- about the prophecy God gave Rebekah before Jacob and Esau were born, predicting that the younger son would rule over the older son-- and then we examined the choices that each character made, independent of the prophecy, that affected the story’s outcome.

What we discovered was that even though Jacob and Esau didn’t get to choose the unhealthy family dynamics they were raised in, or the prophecy their parents were given, they did get to choose how they would act when they met again as adults years later.

And in this week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach, we get to zoom in on the end of that story, to zoom in on that moment of choice, and see that transformation and sanctification play out in front of us.

The scene in today’s Parashah opens with Jacob, nervous at the prospect of seeing his brother Esau again, the brother whom he had wronged years ago. Jacob is clearly still carrying years-old guilt with him over the incident, and is preparing to humble himself before his brother. He sends messengers and gifts ahead of him-- a first volley of communication, in which he names himself his brother’s servant, and states his desire for reconciliation. He says that he hopes that his apology will be met with chen, with grace, by Esau.

Upon learning, however, that his brother is approaching with a small army in tow, Jacob’s nerves turn to panic. Frantically, he makes the decision to split his family and flocks in half, putting one portion closer to Esau’s troops than the other in the hopes that if Esau attacks, as Jacob apparently thinks is a real possibility, perhaps at least a portion of Jacob’s entourage might escape alive.

In his panic, Jacob also reaches out to God, praying, reminding God of God’s promises of protection, and supplicating himself, saying:

קָטֹ֜נְתִּי מִכֹּ֤ל הַֽחֲסָדִים֙ וּמִכָּל־הָ֣אֱמֶ֔ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר עָשִׂ֖יתָ אֶת־עַבְדֶּ֑ךָ …וְעַתָּ֥ה הָיִ֖יתִי לִשְׁנֵ֥י מַֽחֲנֽוֹת:

“O God, I have become small-- I have become humbled-- from all of the goodness and truth you have done with me, your servant…. And now, I have become two camps.”

God, he says, help me. I have become two camps.

From our perspective today, with the whole Torah in front of us, we know how Jacob and Esau’s story ends. We know how it plays out. We know that Esau isn’t going to attack, and that in the end, the two brothers will reconcile and will bring their best selves to that crucial moment, embracing each other, weeping.

But in that moment of truth at the beginning of our Parashah today, Jacob himself doesn't have the benefit of foresight. He doesn’t know how it’s all going to play out. All he knows is that he feels, both emotionally and in a very literal physical way, split in two. He is torn.

Literally and physically, he has split his family and herds into two groups, two camps, and one camp is more vulnerable, out in front, ready to face whatever is coming-- while the other is holding back, keeping at a safer distance, watching, waiting, protecting itself against a worst-case scenario.

Emotionally, he has become two camps in the sense that part of him wants to reconcile with his brother, and part of him is scared and defensive. Part of him, the first camp, wants to trust in goodness, trust in forgiveness, trust in mercy, and trust in what God has promised for him. That part is ready to be vulnerable. And the other part, the second camp, still holds the pain of his past mistakes, the voice that keeps piping up inside of him and saying “maybe this will all crash and burn.” That part is ready to cut his losses and run.

Have any of you ever had the experience of feeling like this? Of feeling like you, inside of your own head, inside of your own heart, have become two camps instead of one?

How many moments have we all had in life where we stood at a tipping point, a point of change, where we had multiple voices inside of ourselves, and we weren’t sure which voice to listen to?

If you think back, this isn’t the first time that we have seen Jacob at a crossroads like this, with a significant choice in front of him. Following his betrayal of his brother Esau and his theft of his father’s blessing, Jacob has a choice-- do I stay, and own up to what I did, or do I run away? And what does he do? He runs away. He doesn’t stay to face the music.

Later in life, after Jacob has grown and wandered and met Laban, been tricked into a marriage he didn’t intend to enter into, worked for years for his father-in-law and felt mistreated throughout, he also has a choice of how to respond: to raise the issue, to call Laban out, or to run away. And what choice does he make? He runs away again!

And now, this week, we see Jacob, yet again, facing a crucial choice, and feeling torn. “I am two camps”, he cries out plaintively to God.

But something is different, this time. Something allows Jacob to stand his ground, instead of running, enables him to own up to his past mistakes. Something allows him to say: this time, I will choose the path that leads, at least, to the possibility of peace. This time, I choose the path with the greater possibility for love, and connection.

Somewhere in these precious few verses, a third voice-- perhaps, the still small voice inside of Jacob-- begins to speak. And this still, small voice says: “Hey, that Jacob you were before, maybe that’s not who you want to be anymore. Maybe this time, let’s try acting like the Jacob you want to be.”

And that brave and habit-breaking decision changes Jacob’s life, and changes our people’s story, for the better.

I love that we get to see this growth, this character arc as it were, for one of our greatest patriarchs. I love that in today’s story, we get to see Jacob embodying and role modeling one of the most beautiful and crucial and difficult parts of being a human, and frankly, being a Jew: he learns. He grows. He apologizes. He makes teshuvah. He stops running from his past, and instead starts running towards his future.

So. I ask us all, here, today: What are we, in our hearts, still running from?

What might we perhaps want to run towards, instead?

Because, this story could apply to all kinds of situations in our personal and communal lives, to our relationships. The divisions in this story can apply to us as individual people, and they can apply to us collectively, as Jews.

The Ramban asserts that the situation facing Jacob in this week’s parashah, and his decision to split himself into two camps, one at greater risk and the other ready to flee, plays out metaphorically throughout the history of the Jewish people. He writes, “Our Rabbis… saw that this chapter alludes also to the future generations [of our people].”

That is to say that, just as Jacob splits himself in two, so too the Jewish people would go on to split ourselves: some of us would stay in Eretz Yisrael and face a multitude of dangers in order to be in the Promised Land, and others leave, journeying into the Diaspora, surviving at a distance.

Inevitable tensions, both political and cultural, have erupted from this distance, from this split existence. In some ways, in the Diaspora, modern Jewish life and culture is richer and more full of possibility than ever before-- and in other ways, as a result of us being spread out around the globe, a unified sense of Jewish identity might be more challenging to feel than ever before.

This is to say nothing of the deeply polarizing and widely varied opinions and stances among Jews ourselves relating to Zionism, Gaza, the West Bank and settlers, and more.

We, like Jacob, have divided into camps.

And those divisions keep multiplying-- Orthodox and liberal, egalitarian and non-egalitarian, one-State and two-State solutions, the list goes on. We can’t even agree on who counts as a Jew in specific situations. We are divided.

We all share a common past, but we aren’t sure what the future is that we want to move towards, together.

And just like it was for Jacob, in that moment of truth on the road, it might be nerve-wracking for us at this moment in our history, or even scary, to think about possible outcomes for the Jewish people, should our divisions only deepen over time, and should the distance between our camps only become farther and farther apart.

So where is our still, small voice? Where is the voice that isn’t telling us to stand our ground-- and isn’t telling us to run-- but is instead encouraging us as a people, and telling us to work towards becoming the best version of ourselves that we can be?

I don’t honestly know.

But. Thanks to Jacob and Esau, I have hope. Thanks to Jacob and Esau, I know that our people has faced deep, deep divisions before, and we have come out of the other side renewed. I have hope that, following Jacob and Esau’s example, our people will learn from our past decisions, the good and the bad, and learn from everything we have gained over our decades spread across the globe, at a distance from one another.

I have hope that we will never lose sight of the past that binds us together, of our common roots and our common bond.

I have hope that, just like Jacob and Esau, we are moving closer and closer to a day of reconciliation, whatever that reconciliation might look like: that one day, on a desert road, the camps of our people will choose courage, and choose peace: that we will meet, and embrace, and move forward, together, supporting and celebrating one another, as family.

Shabbat shalom.

Toldot: A Potato, An Egg, and a Knife

Wed, 26 Nov 2025 15:14:35 GMT

Sermon given November 22, 2025

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

Once upon a time a daughter complained to her mother that life wasn’t fair. “I feel like I can’t control anything”, she said.

Her mother, a chef, didn’t say anything. Instead, she took her out to the kitchen. She took three identical pots, filled them each with the same amount of water, and brought the water to a boil over the fire.

Into the first pot, her mother dropped a raw potato.

Into the second pot, her mother delicately placed a raw egg.

And into the final pot, she slipped a steel chopping knife.

A few minutes later, her mother carefully took the pots off of the fire. She put the egg and the potato on a plate and handed it all to her daughter. She took out the knife and lay it on the table.

Then she asked, “Daughter, what do you see?”

“I see a potato, an egg, and a knife” the daughter replied.

“Look closer” her mother said, “and touch the potato.” The daughter did and she noticed that even though the potato had started out hard, in the boiling water it had become soft and mushy.

She then touched the egg and noticed that though it had once been fragile, in the boiling water it had become hard and strong.

“You see?” said the mother. “The same boiling water affected the potato and the egg in different ways. Life is like the boiling water: It is what we are given. We can’t control where we are born or what we are taught as young children. But we can sometimes influence how we respond to what life gives us-- what we do with the experiences life offers. We can choose, sometimes, whether we want to grow softer, like the potato, or harder, like the egg.

“I understand, mother”, said the daughter. “But what about the knife? It is just as hard, and just as sharp, right now, as before it went into the boiling water. It didn’t change, like the potato or egg. ”

“Ah”, said the mother. “But the boiling water DID change the knife. The knife is now kasher.”

Now. On a basic level, for the purposes of this drash, Torah is like the boiling water in the story.

Torah is given to us, as Jews. Torah also impacts ours lives in many ways: it is our sometimes confusing, sometimes frustrating guide; it is our font of spiritual nourishment; and it is an ongoing, mysterious, powerful source for inspiration and change and wrestling.

And, just like the boiling water, which causes the potato to soften, the egg to harden, and the knife to become mysteriously kosher again, the Torah can influence different people, different situations, and different moments differently. Two Jews can interpret the same Jewish lessons or Torah stories in very different ways, ending up on different sides of the political or halachic spectrum.

And yet-- even with all of our differences-- the boiling water that is Torah remains the same for all of us. The question is: To what extent, and in what fashion, do we let the sacred words of Torah mold us, shape us, influence us, and guide us in the world?

How do we know when we are supposed to stand our ground, to dig in our heels, to strengthen ourselves like that egg in the boiling water, to stick to our guns, to hold the line?

How do we know when we are supposed to soak in the Torah and let it soften us and make us malleable and vulnerable, like the potato, make us more open?

How do we know when we’re supposed to sit with the Torah and let it transform us together into something arguably even more wonderful than we were before, like the coffee, let it help us grow?

And how do we know when we are supposed to be transformed on a spiritual level, not on a physical level, like the knife: to surrender to the power of faith, and the knowledge that while we may not understand everything about the Torah, following its lessons makes us holy, makes us kasher, like that knife, and that this holiness is, in and of itself, worth it?

These are questions at the core of our theology, as a people who value both our sacred and ancient traditions and wanting to exist honestly in the modern world. These questions provide the basis for why we have such a variety of belief and practice within any Jewish community, to say nothing of our various denominational differences.

And they are also questions that pulse throughout the stories in our Torah.

The story in today’s Torah portion about Isaac and Rebekah’s sons is no exception. Jacob and Esau, as far as siblings go, are famous. Or perhaps more accurately, they are infamous. Theirs is a story of brotherly conflict: Like almost all of our biblical family stories, it’s a masterclass in how not to communicate and how not to build healthy relationships. It’s also a fantastic example, over time, of watching how one family evolves in their relationship to the world around them, and begins to take ownership over the choices they are making.

Now, whenever I read this story, I also always end up thinking something like “Wait a minute. Didn’t God set this all up? Didn’t God predetermine the entire mess before the boys were even born? Did they actually have any hope at all of NOT turning out this way?”

Because, to quote, in Genesis 25, verse 23, after Rebekah has reached out to God because she is suffering through a difficult pregnancy, God says:

שְׁנֵ֤י () [גוֹיִם֙] בְּבִטְנֵ֔ךְ

“Two nations are in your womb, and two kingdoms will separate from you, and one kingdom will become mightier than the other, and the elder will serve the younger.”

See? There! Like I was saying! God knew, right? It was all foretold, it was all fate. Jacob had to plot for the birthright. There was clearly no other option. Jacob had to let life harden him.

……or did he?

In the subsequent verses, we read about the boys’ birth, about their complexions, about their talents-- and then, we read that the parents do not love them equally. Isaac loves Esau (though our commentator Sforno reassures us he also loved Jacob, just that our text omits this). Rebekah, on the other hand, clearly favors Jacob (our commentator Chizkuni tells us that Jacob took care of Rebekah’s animals, and it is the way of women to love those who take care of domesticated animals). Ok. Good to know.

It’s clear that affections weren’t shared equally among the brothers. Favoring and favoritism were happening. Now, how much of this favoring was preordained because of what God said while Rebekah was pregnant, and how much was the choice of the parents? We don’t know, we really don’t. One could make the argument that Rebekah was strategically favoring Jacob because she believed that he would be the more important son later on in life. Or that she was, piously, trying to bring God’s words into fruition. Or, perhaps, she honestly didn’t think about God’s prediction much, ‘cause she had her hands full with two twin babies, and she just genuinely had a special connection with Jacob, and Isaac, a special connection with Esau.

We don’t know. All we know is what is reported to us: that they clearly and openly favored one child over the other, and developed imbalanced relationships that were clearly seen by the children themselves.

But the important thing to note is that these somewhat twisted relationships, and their nuances, were not actually in the prediction foretold by God. All God said was that there would be a difference in power between the two children struggling in Rebekah’s womb.

Later in our parashah, we see the fateful interaction between Esau and Jacob, where Jacob withholds food from his hungry brother until his brother swears away his birthright. Which begs the questions--

Why in the world would Esau take such an oath-- his birthright!-- so lightly? Alternately, if he was truly on death’s door, and food was being withheld, would an oath extracted under such duress even count? Besides, hadn’t Rebekah and Isaac taught their sons ANYTHING about their responsibilities to each other and to the family? It sure doesn’t seem like it. This was every son for himself-- and this drama was in no way contained within God’s prediction for the brothers. The specifics were all on them.

We can only imagine what deeply ingrained wounds and bitterness must have already festered between the siblings-- for a long time-- in order for Jacob to torment his brother with a bowl of lentils.

But the story isn’t over. Because, when Jacob has completed his subterfuge and received the blessing meant for his brother, their father Isaac continues to make inexplicably damaging choices. For some reason, Isaac couldn’t find it in him to give Esau a wholehearted and positive blessing, albeit a different one than he had originally intended. Isaac could not find it within himself to give a blessing of love, of hope, of reconciliation.

As a final layer of pain, Isaac and Rebekah then make the choice to send Jacob away in fear, instead of working to heal the wrong

that had been done within their family. Why did they choose to encourage distance instead of communication? Why couldn’t they own the poisonous atmosphere they themselves had contributed to, and try to fix it?

Why did they take a painful promise and make it so much worse than it had to be?

Again and again, in this week’s parashah, we see our ancestors making imperfect human decisions that don’t foster unity, that don’t strengthen the family, and that don’t promote communication and peace. They chose to be hardened by life, instead of being transformed by it and made holier by it. They chose to be the egg, not the potato- and certainly not the knife.

The tantalizing flipside, though, is this: What would it have looked like if Isaac and Rebekah had chosen to approach God’s prediction about their twins differently? What would have happened if they had chosen to interpret and react to God’s prediction from a different angle, from an angle of connection, and softening, and vulnerability, instead of with favoritism and hardened hearts? What if they had risen to meet the challenge of God’s painful prediction as a team instead of pitting each other against one another?

We can’t know for sure.

And yet, I can’t believe that we were created to sit back and simply take what life gives us, to not try to better ourselves, to not try to work for the ideals that our Torah so values.

Jacob and Esau didn’t choose to be born as twins into a family that had received that challenging prophecy. They didn’t choose to have parents who developed biased relationships with them, rife with favoritism, and who didn’t ingrain in them the values and practices that might have led to a different outcome. That prophecy, and that family, is one they were born into. That prophecy, and that family, to return to our story from the beginning of this drash, was their boiling water.

And just like the potato, and the egg, and the coffee grounds, that boiling water shaped them. It made Jacob willing to lie and cheat;

it made Esau unwilling to properly value his birthright; it embittered their parents and lessened the possibility of balanced connections to their children. It pitted brother against brother, even while it fulfilled God’s promise of the younger ruling over the elder.

And our story could end there-- with Jacob and Esau hardening like eggs-- except that thankfully, there is more to the tale. Because, while we didn’t read about it in this week’s Torah portion, the fact is that later in life, the brothers did indeed choose to take matters into their own hands and hearts, and to ultimately have a different relationship with the story they were born into.

Years later, far removed from their childhood squabbles, Jacob and Esau meet, again, on a road. And this time, instead of hardening like eggs, they choose to soften, like a potato.

The brothers are scared. This is a more vulnerable path. But they persevere.

And Jacob sends gifts of apology.

And Esau and Jacob embrace. וַׄיִּׄשָּׁׄקֵ֑ׄהׄוּׄ וַיִּבְכּֽוּ׃

Our text tells us. They kiss each other, and they weep together.

And in that moment, the story changes. In that moment, they are no longer hardened, but softened; no longer fighting, but loving.

In that moment, their relationship transcends the very real wounds they carry, and provides a tiny bit of tikkun, of healing, into this world. That moment was kasher.

They were still the same men, still born from that same messy situation, still caught in that boiling water, but something invisible, something deeper, happened.

And here’s the kicker: That forgiveness wasn’t in God’s prophecy at the beginning of our story today. God predicted that they would fight, that they would argue, that the younger would rule the older one: but

Their forgiveness wasn’t commanded to them, or handed to them. Their forgiveness was a choice, and a choice they both made, despite the challenges they faced.

They chose, in that moment, to tap into something bigger than themselves: to tap into the holy undercurrent of peace, the potential for harmony, that surrounds us, and that is there, I would argue, in every word of our sacred Torah.

The current of potential for change is always there, even in our most difficult moments-- but it is up to us to open ourselves to it.

And like the knife in the boiling water, when we open ourselves up to being vulnerable and healing together, though we may not change externally, we become holy. We grow internally.

But we are also Jews, which means we are also given Torah. Sometimes, the lessons from the Torah will strengthen our resolve and make us hard, like a boiled egg; and sometimes, they will make us feel soft and vulnerable, like a boiled potato.

But sometimes, if we let it, Torah can transform us in ways we couldn’t have imagined, like Esau and Jacob at the end of their story. Just as they ultimately made their lives kasher by letting themselves be transformed, we, too, can make our lives kasher, like the boiled knife. The question is not what challenges are placed before us-- the question is, what do we let them do to us?

Are we the egg?

Are we the potato? Or are we the knife? Shabbat shalom.

Noach: Holy Disagreement

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 19:54:14 GMT

Sermon given October 25, 2025

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

This is the week we learn about Noach, the week we learn about the flood.

This is the week where we read about a world completely out of control.

וַתִּשָּׁחֵ֥ת הָאָ֖רֶץ לִפְנֵ֣י הָֽאֱלֹהִ֑ים וַתִּמָּלֵ֥א הָאָ֖רֶץ חָמָֽס:

The world had become corrupted before God, and filled with Chamas, with violence and lawlessness.

This week, we read about God becoming so angry with our ancestors that the only acceptable answer seemed to be to annihilate our species. קֵ֤ץ כָּל־בָּשָׂר֙, God tells Noach. It’s time to put an end to all flesh.

This is also the week where we read about the floating oasis that was Noah’s ark: a very large and very special boat, with specific compartments and a waterproof insulation and skylight in the ceiling. This special boat was created to hold Noah, his sons and their families, and two of every species of creepy-crawly-fluffy-scaly-flying-burrowing creature inhabiting this planet.

And on this week of all weeks, on this animal-filled week of Scripture, on this week where I am just now returning from four days in the forests in the northwestern portion of this incredible state, I want nothing less than to give a sermon about all of the amazing specimens of the animal kingdom that I saw.

I want to stand here before you and expound about the first time this week that I saw a wild turkey, then a second wild turkey, then a flock of them, and then how I got kinda bored of wild turkeys. I’d like to speak rabbinically about the beauty of the birds of prey I saw swooping over the landscape, bringers of death and of wonder, and about the tenacious and tiny mice and voles I saw, and about the endlessly bounding and grass-chewing grey-brown deer with, apparently, absolutely no fear of humans.

And more than ANYthing, I want to spend this sermon describing in the strongest spiritual terms possible the moment I came around a corner on a small gravel road and came face-to-face with a bull moose, with a full rack of antlers, standing in the middle of the road and staring at me. For the record, I can only imagine how HE felt, when this odd shiny blue creature in the shape of a Hyundai hybrid sedan appeared out of nowhere.

I want to tell you all about the incredible awe I felt, and how it was a holy and terrifying moment of beauty, and how that moment transformed the rest of my trip into a meditation of sorts, a meditation on the nature and spirituality of fear and awe.

I spent a lot of this week thinking about awe, and what we mean when we say we feel awe, especially in relation to God. Often, what we mean when we say “awe” in reference to God has to do with the most impressive and moving things in this world, the things that make us say “wow”: things like double rainbows and childbirth and true love and meteor showers. But the word “awe” also has another aspect, a part we often forget is included in our tradition: awe can also mean healthy, humble FEAR. Awe can be a reminder that at the end of the day, we are not in charge. When talking about God using the Hebrew word for awe, we say that God is “El Nora”. But when we use this phrase, both in our Amidah and at the end of the High Holidays as the metaphorical gates swing shut, if we just mean that God is AWEsome, we are omitting an entire layer of the word’s message. Because calling God El Nora means that God is both truly Awesome and truly AWEful.

And alone in the woods several miles from the nearest paved road or, as far as I knew, another human, coming face-to-face with that moose was one of the closest memories I’ve ever had to understanding true Awe. I will always be grateful to God– and grateful to that moose, who must have been just as surprised as I was– for that moment.

Now. That’s the sermon I wanted to give you, a sermon about the miracle of God’s creation and our place as humans in it among all of the other creatures, a sermon about awe and wonder and humility.

But the fact of the matter is that there are many, many possible takeaways from this week and from the Scripture we just read. And while I just so happened to have a powerful personal experience in nature a few days ago, that experience did not stop the rest of the stories and machinations and conflicts of the world from continuing to unfold, and it did not stop us rabbis from feeling immense pressure to respond.

I came back from the forest and returned to my emails, to my facebook feed, to the various rabbinic listservs I am a part of. And I learned, when I began catching up on all of the messages from the past few days, that many of my rabbinic colleagues have spent this week caught up in a discussion and debate very, very different from what had been going through my own head and heart. And so that, my friends, is what the rest of this sermon is about today.

Some of you may or may not have heard that a week ago, my colleague Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove at Park Avenue Synagogue in New York City made a notable choice. During an election season, he gave a sermon in which he called out a democratic New York mayoral candidate by name and said that that candidate, quote, “poses a danger to the security of the New York Jewish community”. Rabbi Cosgrove proceeded also stated that he believes voting for the republican candidate, instead of the other Democratic candidate, would be tantamount to supporting the candidate he was urging his congregants to oppose.

This sermon, given to a large congregation by a prominent rabbi, has set off a bit of a firestorm online. There is now a letter going around signed by over 1,000 rabbis calling on Jews and non-Jews alike to reject candidates who promote antiZionist rhetoric and calling out the same candidate by name. Though the letter does not go as far as Rabbi Cosgrove did in suggesting for whom congregants should vote, it was inspired by, and quotes, the sermon.

Now. Both on my Conservative rabbinic groups and my cross-denominational groups, opinions on Rabbi Cosgrove’s sermon and on the letter it inspired run deep.

Some, including several of my own teachers and mentors, are proudly standing behind their signatures on the letter and their support of Rabbi Cosgrove making recommendations openly about whom his congregants should vote for. They are proud of their signatures, ostensibly, because they believe that this particular politician does, indeed, pose a real threat to the many Jews who live in New York and beyond, and because they feel that the level of antisemitic and antiZionist discourse has reached dangerous levels in this country.

In terms of this week’s Torah portion, it appears that these rabbis are concerned that the arc of history is once again bending not towards justice, as we would hope, but rather towards Chamas, towards violence and lawlessness, and they feel a responsibility to speak up and change the tide. They see this election as a bellwether of sorts, an embodiment of deeply concerning trends on the rise,

At the same time, other colleagues, including several more of my teachers and mentors, are adamant that a rabbi should never openly endorse candidates or attempt to influence their congregants’ voting decisions, and are horrified by Rabbi Cosgrove’s sermon and the letter based off of it.

In terms of this week’s Torah portion, this second group of rabbis see this particular candidate not as a symbol of violence and lawlessness, but rather as an imperfect, flawed politician who is running in a fraught municipal election. They agree that violence and lawlessness are a problem, but do not feel that the appropriate way to address them is by signing on to this letter or attempting to influence congregants’ votes from the pulpit.

Another colleague, who did sign the letter but requested anonymity for the purpose of this sermon, described signing it as akin to breaking a Shabbat rule in order to honor pikuach nefesh, the Jewish value of saving a life over observing all other mitzvot. That is to say, they wish they did not feel a need to sign this letter, and it is in a way breaking a personal rule for them to do so, but they still felt that it was necessary to add their signature because it was so important to do so.

Still other rabbis have offered strong support of this particular candidate, and find him in no way dangerous.

Writing for the Jewish Telegraphic Agency a few days after the letter quoting Rabbi Cosgrove began to make its rounds, Rabbi Shira Koch Epstein reflected on the immense impact of the sermon and the letter and the incredible pressure such moments put on rabbis as spiritual leaders. Rabbi Epstein writes, quote, “when a letter like this appears, rabbis can face a no-win choice: risk alienating some of the people they serve, or risk being seen as abandoning our people altogether.”

She is right. That is a risk that every rabbi faces. That is a risk that I face, too. I will share with you in plain and simple terms that I, personally, will not be signing the letter. However, I also want to state clearly that I respect my colleagues who did sign the letter, because they followed the still, small voice within their hearts, as our tradition calls on us to do. They saw where they believed they had to draw a line in the sand, and they did so. That takes moral courage. It also takes moral courage to not sign a letter that so many colleagues have put their names on.

This is all to say that while I disagree with Rabbi Cosgrove’s choice to use his pulpit to recommend that his congregants vote a certain way, and while I promise this community that I will never endorse a candidate or suggest how you should vote, I do believe that he acted from a place of deep wrestling, devotion, and love for humanity and the Jewish people. He just showed it in a different way than I choose to.

Because in the end, even if we show our devotion in different ways, the path that allows Judaism to survive– and thrive– is the path where we commit to supporting each other in our journeys and in our myriad ways of communicating and taking stands, even when, and especially when, those ways differ. This is how strong community forms, and how strong community stays connected. Rabbi Epstein, later in her article, alludes to the power of uniting relationally through diverse opinions, stating that “The letter that so many rabbis signed is, at heart, a call to defend the Jewish future. But the Jewish future will not be defended by uniformity. It will be defended by the strength of our relationships.”

And in this, I think she hits the nail on the head. Because relationships are what this is all about, at the end of the day; Relationships with each other, with congregants, with interfaith partners, with family and friends; relationships with political foes and allies alike; relationships with our ancestors and descendants, with God, with Israel, and with our own self-conscience.

The relationships my colleagues are nurturing in our heart-to-hearts this week matter. The relationships the TBE Board nurtures when it agrees and when it disagrees within itself matter. The relationships each member of TBE nurtures when you reach out to share your opinions, to ask questions, to offer help, to sympathize, to share a concern– these matter.

Relationships, by nature dynamic and evolving things, are at the heart of all we do as people and as Jews, and moments like this, and the choices we all make, impact our relationships, for better, for worse, and often, for both.

And in today’s Torah portion, relationships are what fall apart. All humans have turned into such bastions of lawlessness and violence that it sounds as if trust and empathy and love are no longer left on the Earth. There could no longer be healthy interpersonal relationships of any kind. And most painfully, it is GOD who decides that all Divine-human relationships will be nullified, and wiped out, via the flood. It is GOD who says, no, we have reached a point of no return, I cannot do this anymore, I will not do this anymore, there is no way back from this precipice.

Ouch.

But then: it is ALSO God who realizes, after the flood, that giving up on those relationships was something that must never happen, ever, ever again.

It is God who promises, to never, ever again approach conflict, and anger, in this destructive way. It is God who, in this Torah portion, says HINENI, here I am, making a brit, a covenant with all humans and animals on this Earth, that I will not give up on you, and that I hope you will not give up on me, or on each other, again. As we move forward together, I am prepared to judge you erring on the side of love.

And committing to judge one another erring on the side of love is exactly what all of us have to do, again, and again, and again.

There is a principle in Pirkei Avot that is similar to the conclusion that God comes to in this week’s parasha. Pirkei Avot teaches that when you judge a person, you should do so l’kaf zchut, according to their merit. That is to say that if, say, there was a set of scales of our good and bad deeds, and they were equal, we should err on the side of the good deeds. Or if a person has ulterior and healthy motives for doing something, we should focus on the good motives. Essentially, the principle of judging l’kaf zchut acknowledges the imperfection inherent within each of us, and requires us to give each other the benefit of the doubt.

As the rabbinic controversy has unfolded this week after Rabbi Cosgrove’s sermon and the letter’s circulation, I have been reminded that among rabbis, like among all other people, our choices about where and when to draw a line in the sand, where and when to take a stand, will differ. I have also been reminded that in those moments when our stands differ, it is our sacred duty to judge each other l’kaf z’chut, to remember that we became rabbis because we love Judaism and our sacred tradition, not because we wanted to agree on everything.

This sacred duty to judge l’kaf z’chut in times of disagreement also applies to us here at TBE as we navigate our personal, religious, and–yes– even political differences.

In principle, it would be lovely to never have politics touch our relationships here at TBE– but the reality is that the values that guide our souls and the values that guide our votes do indeed overlap. Even making the choice not to ever talk politics is a political choice, and when the content of our sacred texts mirrors the content of the ballot, we religiously observant folks have a difficult line to walk, and it is a lime we walk in diverse ways.

However, just like the word “Awe”, the word “diverse” also has multiple meanings. On the one hand, honoring diversity means supporting the marginalized and making sure all of our community members are actively included, and finding appropriate accommodations where necessary. Yet at the same time, honoring diversity also means honoring the dignity of those who disagree with you, and defending their right to disagree with you.

Honoring diversity means arguing, not with the goal of proving that you are right, and that the other person is wrong, but with the goal of understanding one another . Honoring diversity means not writing someone off because of one belief, but judging them l’kaf z’chut, trying to see the big picture, and remembering their merit, and their worth.

I have been humbled, this week, to see judgement l’kaf z’chut being modeled among many of my colleagues. I have similarly been humbled again and again by members of this community, who have gone the extra mile and had difficult and heartfelt conversations, not because it was easy or clear-cut, but because it was holy, and because it was how to ensure that our community stays strong.

Perhaps, if our ancestors had been able to do this, things would never have gotten so bad. Perhaps, if our ancestors had learned to judge one another l’kaf z’chut, the world would not have devolved into utter lawlessness and violence.

Perhaps the ark would never have had to be built.

Perhaps, God wouldn’t have given up on us.

Perhaps, WE wouldn’t have given up on us.

I’m not sure.

But what I am sure of is that none of us here today, or watching online, or reading these words, have given up. We are making the choice to actively be in community together, hearing one another, being vulnerable with one another, and trying again and again to judge each other l’kaf z’chut, according to our merit.

I don’t know what the next flood will be. But I am heartened to know that we will be facing it together as a community, strengthened not only in spite of our diverse opinions, but because of them. Shabbat shalom.

Ki Tavo: Stones

Tue, 16 Sep 2025 20:33:41 GMT

Sermon given September 13, 2025

If you’ve ever been in my office and taken a gander at my bookshelf, you may have noticed one of my most beloved possessions: The extremely old tractates of Talmud which occupy their own section of a bookcase.

This set of Talmud is truly dear to me. It is over a hundred years old and resided in Poland in the early 20th century before being brought out to the States before the Holocaust.

The ink was printed on the paper in the old-fashioned way, so if you gently touch the pages, you can literally feel the 3D nature of the letters. The smell that rises from the binding is old and dusty and welcoming.

It’s amazing for me to think of who else might have learned from these pages before me, and what these precious books must have gone through to make it out of Poland before the Shoah, to the United States, and eventually, into my hands. These books are history.

But sadly, they are beginning to fall apart. The covers and spines are peeling and cracking, the pages are starting to come out, and I am reminded every time I open one of the fleeting nature of ink on paper, and how even a book like this amazing set of Talmud, that has already lived longer than a human being lives, will still one day go to the genizah, to a special grave for sacred texts, and there, it will also return to the Earth.

Beyond their impressive physical state, and beyond the sensory and historical facts ascribed to the specific masechtot of Talmud I am lucky to call my own, there is also something deeply soothing to me about opening these books. They remind me that no matter what is going on in my life, or in the world around us; no matter what the Jewish family is facing, to say nothing of the entire human family; no matter when paper crumbles, or ink fades, our stories, and our lessons, and our arguments, will live on, as long as we are committed to them. And physical books are just one of the tools at our disposal in ensuring that this chain is never broken.

In Ki Tavo, which we read from this week, we get to witness how B’nai Yisrael, three thousand years ago, wrestled with the same question-- how do we preserve our lessons and stories as we evolve? In a world where permanence is relative, how do we ensure to the best of our ability that where we came from and who we are is not forgotten?

In Deuteronomy Chapter 27, Moses gives very clear instructions to B’nai Yisrael about the very first things they should do after crossing the Jordan and entering into the Promised Land. First, Moses describes:

וְהָיָ֗ה בַּיּוֹם֮ אֲשֶׁ֣ר תַּעַבְר֣וּ אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּן֒ אֶל־הָאָ֕רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֣ן לָ֑ךְ וַהֲקֵמֹתָ֤ לְךָ֙ אֲבָנִ֣ים גְּדֹל֔וֹת

And on the day that you cross the Jordan to the Land Adonai your God has given you, you shall make an altar out of great stones.

And then:

וְכָתַבְתָּ֣ עֲלֵיהֶ֗ן אֶֽת־כׇּל־דִּבְרֵ֛י הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את בַּאֵ֥ר הֵיטֵֽב

You shall write upon those stones all of words of this Torah, this teaching I your leader have been giving you, clearly and distinctly.

On stone! (As a side note here, there is great disagreement among our sages about what was meant by “this whole torah”. There are claims of everything from including only overarching commandments to including minutiae. Rashi takes it even a step further, saying that “B’er heytev” doesn’t just mean that the words should be clear and legible, but rather that the Torah should all be written out in 70 different languages. Imagine how many stones and how many artisans we would need for that! But, I digress.)

Back to Moses. Now remember, Moses himself was intimately familiar with writing on stones. He was, after all, the one who brought down the Tablets from Har Sinai, from Mount Sinai, inscribed with the Ten Commandments.

And ever since that day at Har Sinai-- especially ever since B’nei Yisrael reached the borders of the Promised Land and Moses began to share his final wisdom in the book of Deuteronomy-- Moses has been teaching orally, speaking God’s words to the people, trying to prepare them for the life ahead of them.

And now, suddenly, he is telling B’nai Yisrael that as they begin their next chapter, on the other side of the Jordan, they must begin to write everything down. Specifically, to inscribe the Torah onto stone.

Why would Moses want the Israelites to do this?

Perhaps it was because he was nearing death-- perhaps it was because leadership was changing-- perhaps it was because Moses knew that once the Israelites were in the Promised Land, they would spread out and have less contact with each other, which might threaten the future of the stories and history they had made together.

Regardless of the specific reason, the act of choosing to inscribe the Torah onto rock-- literally making it “set in stone” instead of purely an oral tradition-- ensured a certain sense of permanence, a certain reassurance, perhaps, for Moses, that the people he had led with so much love and devotion would not forget the sacred learning he had dedicated his life to transmitting.

There is great wisdom in this step. And yet.

Have you ever visited a really, really old graveyard? One of the ones where time has worn the head markers smooth, where sometimes, even, the Earth itself is starting to reclaim the graves, where you can no longer say for sure who was there, when they were there, what they said? There is a haunting beauty in watching the biblical directive that we shall go from ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, in action.

Because even stones, it seems, have their limits. Stones, like the paper pages of my century-plus year old Talmud, reach a point where they can no longer be relied upon as the main source of transmission: of information, of law, of names, of tradition.

It seems that Moses wanted the Torah to be permanent, so he wanted to make it physical. But if everything physical ultimately falls apart, what can we do to ensure that our tradition not only survives, but thrives?

Some of you had the pleasure of being in this room last Sunday morning. It was the kick-off of our new KBE Hebrew School year and it was AMAzing. We began with a guitar-led, energetic morning minyan with all 70 students, parents, and a cadre of wonderful teachers; we did a school-wide family tree activity with our director, Shane, exploring this year’s theme of L’dor Va’dor; and as the students went to class, the hallls were packed with happy chatter and laughter. It was heartwarming and exhilarating to see so many kiddos and parents making the choice, of all of the things they could have been doing on a Sunday morning, to get up, to drive to the synagogue, and to kick off to another year of Jewish learning.

And I bring up KBE in our discussion of stones because if the question is, what is stronger than stone, where better to see the answer in real life than in the bright eyes of our children, and the love of our teachers, and the power of tradition as it is passed from generation to generation. This is the key: When we, as Jewish adults, surround our kids with a life that pulses joyfully with Judaism, that connects them to their ancient roots, that teaches them to interact with their daily world in a sacred way, we are inscribing Torah not on pages, and not on stones, but on their hearts. When we model welcoming Judaism in on a personal level, and engaging with and encouraging tough questions, we reinforce the rich invisible thread that binds us together l’dor va’dor, from generation to generation. When we invest in our own education and in the education of the next generation of Jews, we have ensured Jewish continuity more than any book or any stone ever could.

Stone is stronger than paper, yes. But a Jew who loves being Jewish and shares that love with others is the strongest of them all. Whether we are involved in the Religious School or Adult Ed classes, whether we are engaged in interfaith discussions or just showing up to services regularly and chatting with fellow community members about the sermon of the day, we are doing our part to strengthen an ancient chain, begun millennia ago in a desert in the Middle East and surviving, God willing, for as long as possible.

L’dor Va’dor nagid godlekha-- from generation to generation we will praise Your greatness.

Shabbat shalom.

Ki Tetzei: Storytelling

Thu, 11 Sep 2025 15:10:46 GMT

Sermon given September 6, 2025

Once upon a time, there was a young child named Rachel. Now, Rachel was very tall for their age and very loud for their age and had a tendency to ask a lot of questions, especially to try and get out of going to sleep at night. Their parents realized that this was not a child who could be calmed and quieted by “classic” bedtime rituals.

And so, these parents-- who, of course, were my parents-- began inventing new bedtime rituals. They invented “The antonym game” and “the synonym game” and the “oops, I’m going to pretend to forget lyrics so Rachel memorizes them” game. And I loved these games, I really did. But more than the games, I loved it when my father gave up on trying to read me the kids books we were so frequently gifted-- Berenstein Bears, Thomas the Train Engine-- and began reading to me from books he liked. You know, normal books that five-year-olds like to read. Books like “Welcome to the Monkey House” by Kurt Vonnegut.

I vaguely remember sitting at circle time in Kindergarten and the silence that fell when the teacher asked me what my favorite book was, and I said “Isaac Asimov’s Robot Stories”. It was, to be fair, a similar silence to when she asked me what my favorite card game was, and I said, “Euchre”.

… in retrospect, I don’t think I ever had any chance of being normal. But I digress!

I learned to LOVE those stories my father would share with me. He had one story in particular, Robot AL-76 Goes Astray, which he read to me over and over. It became, in many ways, “our story”. To this day, in fact, it comes up in conversation, and has become part of the lore of who I am, and of who we are as a family.

I’d be willing to bet that some of you here today, or watching online, also have a favorite story that you were told as a kid, a story that you asked for over and over.

These stories become a part of us. They become a framework for how we view the world and filter information, about how we organize new events, and how we tell right from wrong-- or learn to navigate the inevitable gray space in between.

Of course, though, it really matters what lessons we internalize from each story. It matters who tells the story, and it matters how they tell the story. For example, my beloved robot story could be either a curious, fantastical sci-fi romp-- an encouragement of imagination-- or it could be taught as a warning about AI gone wrong, as a story of fear of change. How I internalized it had a lot to do with how my Dad told it, in a way full of love and excitement and safety-- and that’s true with any story. The focus, and the spin, matters.

Similarly, our Torah has an abundance of stories that we hear over and over and over again each year. The book of Genesis in particular is chock-full of memorable tales and names, ones that we teach to our children and hear at the holidays. But as generations have passed and Judaism has evolved, these stories have revealed multiple possible interpretations and takeaways. Stories like the binding of Isaac, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and even Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden can mean very, very different things depending on how we tell them. As caring Jews, then, it behooves us to be intentional about which possible takeaways we focus on.

And in this week’s Torah portion, particularly in the part that we read here today, we are urged to remember two specific, defining stories for us as a people. First, in Chapter 24, verse 22, our text says:

וְזָ֣כַרְתָּ֔ כִּי־עֶ֥בֶד הָיִ֖יתָ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם

Remember that you were a slave in Egypt!

And then, a chapter later, the text says:

זזָכ֕וֹר אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־עָשָׂ֥ה לְךָ֖ עֲמָלֵ֑ק בַּדֶּ֖רֶךְ בְּצֵֽאתְכֶ֥ם מִמִּצְרָֽיִם

Remember what Amalek did to you as you escaped from Egypt!

These two commandments urge us into the creation and nurturing of collective, cultural memory around two traumatic events-- the kind of memory that imbues our liturgy, our values, our fears, and our goals as a people. And those memories are transmitted through storytelling-- both in formal settings like Torah readings and the annual Seders, but also in how we apply our takeaways from these core stories to our own lives and the reality of being Jewish today.

The question for each generation of Jews, then, is how should we tell these stories, and what is the takeaway we want our communities, and our children, to learn from the way we talk about them?

Both the story of our slavery in Egypt and the horrific attack by Amalek on our most vulnerable community members are stories of pain-- stories of injustice that was wrought against our ancestors through no fault of their own. Pharoah and Amalek have become code words for evil actors throughout history. In the Purim story, which would have taken place centuries after the Exodus from Egypt, our tradition teaches that Haman was a descendant of Amalek. In modern times, the rabbinic organization T’ruah uses a particularly catchy phrase on their posters which also invokes this imagery, saying “Resisting Tyrants since Pharoah.” Following October 7th, many Jews drew clear parallels between the evil perpetrated by Hamas and the evil perpetrated by Amalek, as both attacked children and the elderly.

This is all to say that one of the clear takeaways from both stories is that human beings not only have the capacity to harm each other, and to make sweeping, destructive, and evil statements and take sweeping, destructive evil actions against other groups, but also that we, as Israelites and as Jews, have again and again been targeted by this kind of evil, over millennia.

But again, our question today is-- what is the takeaway we, today, want our communities, and our children, to learn from the way we talk about these stories?

One option is to tell these stories as a way of identifying evil, of identifying that which is wrong in the world-- wrong action, wrong speech--and remembering that we have been attacked by evil many times. We can tell these stories to honor the memories of lives lost, and to affirm that we condemn the actions of those who perpetrated these evils. We can tell these stories in the hopes of gaining sympathy and empathy from allies, and use these stories as a rallying cry as we resist antisemitism and Jew hatred, and fight against those who perpetrate it.

And this is a good and solid option. It is an honest option. It is a human option. It is an option we can and should do, and will continue to do as a synagogue and wider Jewish community.

But if this option is the only takeaway we have from these stories, it also doesn’t go far enough.

I say this because our very Torah portion-- the same one that, today, reminds us clearly that we must remember the stories of how we have been mistreated-- that same Torah portion embeds these stories into a list of guidelines for how we are, in turn, supposed to treat others.

In the Talmud, Rabbi Yohanan teaches us in Masekhet Berakhot that when multiple commandments are smuchin-- that is, next to each other in the Torah-- it is not an accident. We can draw inferences and implications, he ruled, from such juxtapositions.

So, that is exactly what we are doing here today. Consider what our Torah portion just said:

“You must not withhold wages from the destitute. You must not pervert the judgement or choices of the stranger. You must not take a cloak from a widow. You must remember that you were a slave in Egypt.” And then:

“When you harvest your field, you must leave part for the hungry. When you pick your olives, you must leave some for the hungry. When you pick your grapes, you must leave some for the hungry. You must remember that you were a slave in Egypt.” And then:

“Do not have two weights in your pocket of different measures, one for buying and one for selling. Be honest in your dealings with others, because not to do so is an abomination. Remember what Amalek did to you as you escaped Egypt.”

As we can see, a pattern begins to emerge. The Torah seems to be suggesting that part of remembering a story must be applying the negative life lessons learned from that story to our own positive actions towards others.

Rashi takes it even a step further, saying that the admonitions to remember in this context show that God redeemed us from Egypt, and saved us from slavery, so thatthat we would learn from it to do the right thing, even if it’s difficult. עַל מְנָת כֵּן פְּדִיתִיךָ, Rashi imagines God saying. This is precisely why I saved you.

Through this lens, when we take the command to remember the stories of being slaves in Egypt and being attacked by Amalek in the context of their surrounding scripture, a broader and deeper and more personal takeaway begins to emerge.

This takeaway tells us: Yes, we have been treated badly. Yes, antisemitism is an ancient and awful thing, and a thing we also struggle with. Yes, we must fight that antisemitism, and we must talk to our children about it.

And.

At the same time, memory must become action.

We must teach our children never to mistreat or condemn or attack an entire group, “othering” them in a way that dehumanizes them and takes away their worth and dignity, because this is what Pharoah and Amalek did to us, and it was wrong. We must also teach our children not to hold their own worth as being greater than that of any other on this Earth, and to defend those whose worth is not being respected. We must teach them to identify when others are being mistreated, and then do something about it, because we were slaves in Egypt, and we were victims of Amalek, and nobody stood up for us. We must teach this, and we must model it, not as a one-off, but as a way of life.

And for us today, this can feel like a big ask. Because right now, on the one hand, the Jewish community is actively under attack. We need support from others and we are not getting enough of it.

However. Our current pain does not take away from us the urgent need to put our memory into action and help others. In a lot of places in this world and in our own country, other people are also living surrounded by violence, living without access to sufficient nutrients or education, living without dignity, and also being targeted because of their nationality or religion.

And although we are hurting, we must help. Because we know what it means to be victims, we must help. It’s ok if this feels overwhelming, but as our tradition teaches, our job is not to finish the work, but also not to turn from it.

The first step is realizing the incredible brokenness in this world. Then, we must recognize our place within this brokenness-- both as victims and as potential actors, either in making the situation worse or in helping to heal it. And then, the next step is choosing a way to act on this brokenness, to act by speaking out, donating, campaigning, organizing, learning, reading, praying-- by doing any and all of the things we want others to do when we, as Jews, are attacked.

That is truly remembering. That is how we can show that we truly remember what it is like to be slaves in Egypt, and to be attacked by Amalek. That is us saying: we remember, and so we are resolved to never, ever, EVER let this happen to anyone else, ever again.

This is OUR story. Let’s own it, and hold it, and feel it… and then, let’s learn from it and act on it.

Shabbat shalom.

Tisha B'av

Wed, 06 Aug 2025 18:35:30 GMT

Sermon given August 2, 2025

ONE. God is all powerful. TWO. God is all knowing. THREE. God is all good, and FOUR. Unjustified suffering exists in the world.

You may choose three.

This is how Rabbi Elliott Dorff, the rector of my rabbinical school, opened his senior seminar. On the first day of class, Rabbi Dorff wrote those four points on the board and asked us which one we were willing to sacrifice in order to have a sustainable personal theology.

Again, the problem is this: there are four statements, but only any three of them can actually theologically co-exist in harmony.

I’ll say them again:

1. God is all powerful

2. God is all knowing

3. God is all good

4. There is unjustified suffering in the world.

Think about it. If God is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good, how do we explain the existence of unjustified suffering? It’s a classic question. Wouldn’t an all-good, all-powerful, all-knowing God be able to swoop in and save people who are experiencing unjustified suffering?

Alternatively, if we were to say that unjustified suffering didn’t exist, that is to say, if we claim that all suffering IS justified, then yes, we could reconcile the other three statements.

Whether we were talking about a skinned knee or a murder spree or a rare disease or a war or a massacre, we could just say: this is part of God’s plan and therefore it is justified.

But you may be able to tell by my tone of voice that that argument does not cut it for me. At all. A god who in any way uses, say, the mass murder as a “justified” punishment is not a God I would be comfortable praising.

And that’s exactly why lots of Jews stopped believing in God, in the wake of the Holocaust. Many Jews stopped believing, stopped practicing, stopped identifying as Jewish, or simply seethed in anger at God for what had happened. Because there was no escaping the fact that unjustified suffering had occurred, to us and to our children, and that God had not prevented it from happening. Our traditional theology needed an update.

Tonight we will double down on the theme of suffering as we enter into the unique spiritual space of Tisha B’Av. We will sit on the floor in the small chapel, light candles, and grapple with the traumas our people have faced over the millennia: the destruction of two Temples, countless pogroms and expulsions and massacres, and in modern times, the Holocaust and October 7th and more. And contained within any discussion of suffering has to be the question– where is God’s responsibility in this, and where is ours?

Because violent antisemitism is the definition of unjustified suffering. To be hated just for who we are. And it is not only historical. It is part of the world you and I live in as Jews, part of the world we are raising the next generation of Jews within, and that makes our observance of Tisha B’av this year not only a theoretical spiritual journey, or an obligatory one, but a real and personal one. How do WE, personally, reconcile our own generation’s immense suffering, in addition to the Jews throughout history, with our belief in God?

Tonight we will also read the book of Eicha, of Lamentations, which describes the destruction of the Temple and the sacking of Jerusalem thousands of years ago. The name Eicha literally means “ how ?”, as in, how could God have let so many awful things happen to us?

How could a God who is all-good allow for such hateful actions in the first place, including the slaughter of children?

How could a God who is all-powerful not step in and fix the situation so that massacres didn’t occur?

How could a God who is all-knowing not see the harm that would come long-term by allowing such vitriol to fester in the hearts of us humans?

How - Eicha?

Well, God as portrayed in the book of Lamentations certainly has a plan, and certainly is in control. But I don’t know if I would call this God all-good, or all-kind. In Lamentations, the suffering of the Jewish people is clearly portrayed as a very painful but also Divinely-sanctioned punishment for our own misdeeds. We will read tonight:

הָי֨וּ צָרֶ֤יהָ לְרֹאשׁ֙ אֹיְבֶ֣יהָ שָׁל֔וּ כִּֽי־יְהֹוָ֥ה הוֹגָ֖הּ עַ֣ל רֹב־פְּשָׁעֶ֑יהָ עוֹלָלֶ֛יהָ הָלְכ֥וּ שְׁבִ֖י לִפְנֵי־צָֽר׃ {ס}

[Zion’s] enemies are now her masters,

Her foes are at ease,

Because the LORD has afflicted her

For her many transgressions;

Her infants have gone into captivity

Before the enemy.

This concept of a punitive yet righteous God is reinforced by countless examples from Scripture. We know these stories. In the Torah, God is sometimes wrathful, God wipes out civilizations, God turns people into pillars of salt, God commands Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, and tells B’nai Yisrael to slaughter other cultures. God as portrayed in the Torah is not always patient, not always kind, not always forgiving.

Now, on the one hand, this view can be accessible and even reassuring for people, because A) it lines up with a simple reading of the Bible and B) it means that God has a plan. God’s in charge!

On the other hand, the problem with seeing God like this is that it’s really hard, in times of pain, to turn for comfort to a God who is not all-good or all-merciful or all-loving.

This is why, throughout history, many famous Jewish thinkers have wrestled with how God is portrayed in the Torah. Some sages have preferred instead to preserve God’s goodness and mercy, at the expense of God’s omnipotence.

Rabbi Akiva was one such proponent of emphasizing God’s mercy above all. He famously stated that the most important imperative in the Torah is to love. In Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Akiva is quoted as saying:

הַכֹּל צָפוּי, וְהָרְשׁוּת נְתוּנָה, וּבְטוֹב הָעוֹלָם נִדּוֹן.

Everything is foreseen, and freewill is given; and the world is judged in Goodness.

Modern thinkers like philosopher Eugene Borowitz and Rabbis Harold Shulweis and Kushner agreed. In his well-known book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Rabbi Kushner says “”The God I believe in does not send us the problem; He gives us the strength to cope with the problem.” Does that match Scripture? Not exactly.

But, by allowing limits to God’s power, these rabbis allow suffering to be seen not as punishment, but rather as a side effect of nature and of humans having free will and the ability to do evil– whereas God becomes the ultimate source, instead, of relief and comfort.

Of course, there’s a downside to this view too. The problem with this view of God is that it takes away the ability to say “everything is part of God’s plan.”

See? It’s quite a dilemma. What are we supposed to believe? Again, as Jews we usually steer around this discussion and focus on other parts of our tradition. But do we really have to choose one or the other? Do we have to choose either a God who has a plan and is in charge and is therefore the source of suffering, or a God who is the ultimate source of goodness and love, but who doesn’t have the power to stop our suffering?

As we prepare for Tisha B’av today, and as we continue to sit with the ongoing pain and anguish over what is happening in the Middle East, over the deep tears in the social fabric of the United States, I’d like to offer a third option.

It’s very similar to the view held by Rabbis Akiva, Shulweis, and Kushner. This solution supports the idea of God being all-good. For the purpose of my theology, though, God doesn’t have a plan– God has a hope .

And instead, it’s up to us, as the humans, to take action.

In this theology, God has a deep-seated, pervasive hope, an ache, a longing, a desire for peace in the universe, peace in the world, and peace throughout our lives. That hope, in this theology, is one of God’s key attributes, and it pulses through everything in the universe. It pulses through commands in the Torah and pulses through the rituals and services we have developed over millennia.

But the kicker of this theology is that God both deeply hopes for peace, AND wants to have partners in creating that peace, and partners in bringing healing to a hurting world– which is where we humans and our pesky free will come into the equation. It’s up to us to act, not to God.

This means that when we humans choose to pursue peace, and love, and justice, we are choosing to tap into the holiest portions of ourselves, the part that is closest to God’s deepest hope, that part that is most b’tzelehm elohim.

The flipside, of course, is that unfortunately, when we humans choose to pursue violence and possessiveness and death, we drag the world further away from what God is hoping for.

We can plan for the good of one another, or we can plan for destruction. We can plan for nuance and compassion and sacrifice, or we can plan for selfishness and exclusion. Either way, in this third theology, it is humans, and not God, who will determine the outcome of our interactions.

And in honor of Tisha B’av, I’d like to name that there is an additional grief that we are carrying today, and that this third theology can help us address.

Because in 2025, Tisha B’av is different than it was hundreds of years ago. We are in an overly-connected, social media-driven world, full of sound bites and tik toks and AI deepfakes. This year, for Tisha B’av, in addition to our grief over the loss of the Temple, and in addition to the pogroms throughout history, and the Holocaust, and October 7th–we are also looking at a human family that has absolutely no consensus as to how to bring about a better world, and is OBSESSIVELY focused on everything that is going wrong.

In fact, studies are showing growing levels of general discontent, increasing isolation from social support, and pervasive concern over what the future will bring economically, socially, politically. People are unaffiliating religiously, distancing themself from the support of their communities. Rhetoric in the public sphere has become increasingly dangerous; attacks on public figures and violent graffiti are becoming commonplace.

And this is, perhaps, one of the deepest griefs that we will sit with tonight: the grief that comes from looking around us and seeing the world go in a direction we aren’t comfortable with. Seeing so many people, regular folks and powerful folks all around the world, making choices not to be partners with God in bringing about peace.

As I have met with TBE congregants, several of you have reflected to me that you are scared for the future and for your children growing up, scared about what is going to happen to our country and to us as Jews. You are not alone.

And this is where it can help to see God as the ultimate source of Hope, and ourselves as the source of Action. Because collectively, as a species, we have no plan, and we won’t know where to start– yet.

But. We have an opportunity, beginning tonight. With Tisha B’av this evening, we kick off our lead-up to the High Holidays, embarking on a journey of meaning and meaningful pain: of repentance and forgiveness, of reckoning.

And tonight, we also can start, as individuals and as a community, to ask ourselves: what is our plan? How are we going to do our part to heal this hurting world, as individuals and as a synagogue community? Are we ready to do the individual soul-searching necessary to affirm what kind of a God we believe in, and what role our roots in sacred community could play in bringing about a better tomorrow?

This can be scary. These are big thoughts. But the first good news is that we are not alone. And the second piece of good news is that we certainly do not have to be all-knowing or all-good to do our part. We just have to be our imperfect human selves, committed to leaning into the holiest parts of who we are.

And if we do this, if we do our part, then God willing, next Tisha B’av we might carry a tiny bit less grief in our hearts.

Shabbat shalom.

Parashat Matot-Masei: Reuven, Gad, and the Courage to Speak

rabbisimmons@tbemaine.org (Rachel Simmons) — Wed, 30 Jul 2025 13:47:57 GMT

Sermon given July 26, 2025

Shabbat Shalom, everybody.

This Shabbat, we find ourselves at the end of Bamidbar– about to begin the book of Deuteronomy. Our ancestors are standing at the edge of the Promised Land, after years and years of travelling and infighting and plagues and manna falling from the sky. Can you imagine what that must have felt like?

Our ancestors knew they were approaching what would become, one day, Israel– approaching the Jordan River, ready to leave slavery and homelessness behind them and settle in what would become our homeland.

But suddenly, there on the edge of the Promised Land, the tribes of Reuven and Gad decided to shake things up. With the Promised Land tantalizingly close, and the other ten tribes raring to go, Reuven and Gad pulled Moses aside and shared that actually, they didn’t want to enter the Promised Land after all. After everything they had gone through with the other Israelites, they told Moses they would rather stay on the East side of the River, and raise their livestock there.

And Moses, quite understandably, was extremely upset. This was not the plan, nor was it how everyone else was reacting to their arrival outside of Eretz Yisrael. He warned the tribes of Reuven and Gad that they would bring God’s wrath down upon the Israelites if they didn’t cross the Jordan, and reminded them of others who had gone against God’s will and paid the price.

But Reuven and Gad were not swayed. They continue bravely arguing their case, ultimately offering a compromise. They promised to fight alongside the other tribes to conquer the land of Israel, but reiterated that their personal wish was to return east of the Jordan River, and live the life of their choosing there. They promised:

לֹ֥א נָשׁ֖וּב אֶל־בָּתֵּ֑ינוּ עַ֗ד הִתְנַחֵל֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אִ֖ישׁ נַֽחֲלָתֽוֹ:

We shall not return to our land until each other Israelite has received their land.

And fascinatingly, once they make this concession, Moses– and God– agree to this deal. And everyone lived happily ever after (except for Moses, of course, who didn’t get to see the Promised Land.)

On a zoomed-out level, the request made by the tribes of Reuven and Gad was surprisingly chutzpadik. It also calls into question a core Jewish tenant: what it means to be connected to the Promised Land itself, and whether or not there are multiple legitimate ways to support Israel.

Because there on the banks of the Jordan, Reuven and Gad essentially said to the rest of the tribes, “We care about the Promised Land, and we will support you in your quest for it, but our hearts are calling us in a different direction.”

And in ways I could never have anticipated, this fascinating story from our Torah, the contention between the tribes, the understandable anger of Moses, the bravery of Reuven and Gad, and the wrestling towards compromise, directly mirrors some of the intra-Jewish tension that has been building within us as a community since Hamas attacked on October 7, 2023, and the war ensued.

Because we sure don’t all have the same vision of the Promised Land right now. In this room, in this state, in this country, in this world. There is wide, and deep, disagreement among Jews all over the world about what Israel should and shouldn’t be doing, and what we as American Jews should or shouldn’t be doing about any of it. And at the heart of the matter is an uncomfortable, yet deeply important truth, which the tribes of Reuven and Gad remind us has been a part of our people for thousands of years: the truth that not only has there ALWAYS been disagreement among our people over how to relate to Israel, but that that’s OK. There is a way for us to navigate this sacred disagreement. Not only is it OK for us to disagree, but, as demonstrated in our Torah portion, as long as we can find the core values that unite us, as Reuven and Gad did, our disagreements do not have to tear us apart, even when they hurt.

There’s a special name for sacred disagreement in Judaism, machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of heaven. And this type of argument, this type of machloket, is especially hard to navigate in a caring community like this one, that values its members holding a variety of beliefs about all kinds of things.

I’ve been at TBE for a month this week. In that time, I’ve had congregants and staff members share with me that they are nervous or scared to talk about Israel and the War in Gaza with their friends and family, let alone to speak up at shul. And you know what? That makes sense to me, because it’s not easy for me, either. It’s hard to speak up when we know that the people we care about the most might disagree with us.

But as your Rabbi, if I want all of us to be brave, and I want us all to be able to have difficult discussions about the things that pull at our hearts, then I need to model that bravery first. And that is what I would like to do today.

I’d like to tell you about something I did this week. This week, I signed a letter, a public letters, written by three international rabbinic colleagues across denominations and signed, as of when Shabbat came in last night, by over 750 other rabbis around the world, including several of my colleagues here in Maine.

Part of the power of this particular letter is in that it does not compromise on our shared connection to Israel. As a Zionist, this is important to me, and it echoes Reuven and Gad’s willingness to support Israel even when they did not feel the same way about it that the other tribes did. The letter clearly affirms Israel’s right to exist and defend itself, along with acknowledging the existential threats over which Israel truly has no direct power. It names the evil that is Hamas, and calls for the return of the remaining hostages.

And yet, the letter does not stop there. Instead, it names the areas where Israel does, indeed, have power and influence over the outcome of the situation. Specifically, the letter addresses the piles of food aid waiting outside of Gaza. The letter continues, and I quote:

“In the name of the sanctity of life, of the core Torah value[...] that every person is created in God’s image[...]

In the name of what the Jewish People has learnt bitterly from history as the victim, time and again,[...]

In the name of the moral reputation not just of Israel, but of Judaism itself, the Judaism to which our lives are devoted,

We call upon the Prime Minister and the Government of Israel

To respect all innocent life;

To stop at once the use and threat of starvation as a weapon of war;

[and] To allow extensive humanitarian aid, under international supervision, while guarding against control or theft by Hamas;”

Interestingly, the leadership of the Conservative Movement, to which TBE is affiliated, also decided to release a statement this week, calling on Israel to allow food aid into Gaza. It said, and I quote,

“Even though we believe that Hamas could end this conflict immediately by releasing the hostages and providing care to its civilian population, the Israeli government must still do everything in its power to ensure humanitarian aid reaches those in need.”

As a Zionist, as a Rabbi, and as a Jew, I believe it is important that any discussion of Israel be grounded in love, in ahavat Yisrael. And yet, like how Reuven and Gad disagreed with the other tribes about what kind of connection they and their descendants should have to the land, so too Zionists disagree amongst ourselves about what that ahavat Yisrael should look like.

The Midrash in Bereshit Rabbah teaches us that:

כל אהבה שאין עמה תוכחה, אינה אהבה.

That any true love must contain within it the ability to remind each other when we fall short.

As for me, I believe that Zionism, and Ahavat Yisrael– a true love of Israel– must include within them both an appreciation of the many things Israel does right (such as its democracy, its pursuit of human rights, and its innovations and inventions) as well as tochecha, or loving rebuke, when it does not live up to its own ideals. I believe that to love anything truly is to be able to speak up when we believe it isn’t being its best self. And I cannot look at what is happening to thousands of children in Gaza right now, or hear the openly racist and hateful rhetoric coming from some of the top lawmakers in Israel right now as they discuss the plight of the Gazans, and say that I believe Israel is being its best self at this moment.

My heart has been broken since October 7 in a way that I don’t think will ever completely heal, and I know that I am not alone in that. The evil that Jews and Israelis in particular face from all sides is real and horrific.

And at the same time, my heart has broken in new ways in the past months as the numbers and images of gaunt Gazans and the testimony of IDF soldiers being ordered to do things that go against their conscience have become public. My heart breaks for those soldiers, too, who out of love for their own people are being put into a situation that is deeply unfair to their own physical and emotional well-being. The status quo is hurting both Gazans and Israelis in the short term AND in the long term.

This isn’t easy to say, but I believe I must.

I find myself turning deeply to Torah in moments like this, because I know we are not the first humans or Jews to face difficult moments. As I speak today, I am trying to channel Reuven and Gad. I find myself, as I stand before you and share these words, hoping for the courage that they must have needed to approach Moses and say “We want a different way.”

For the past two years, as we have read through the cycle of our holiest book, the plight of the hostages, the Israelis, the Gazans, and everyone impacted by the conflict has been near to our hearts.

When in Genesis, Abel’s blood cries out from the Earth, we thought about this conflict. When in the desert, the Israelites cried out to God in fear and hunger, we thought of hostages wasting away in tunnels and the children above ground without access to nutrients. When in Leviticus, God tells us, v’ahavta l’reicha ca’mocha, you shall love your neighbor as yourself– what could we do, but think of this awful, awful conflict, and think of all of us?

And when we opened our doors at our Seders this year, and we said, Let all who are hungry come and eat– we had to think of this conflict, and of the hostages, and the children without food amidst the rubble. Our own spiritual suffering has grown.

Are these just words, or do we mean them? Are we comfortable having caveats on our deepest spiritual obligations to one another as human beings?

I have to believe, as a rabbi, that there is not a limit to the compassion and love we can put into the world. I have to believe that saving a life, any life, especially the life of a child, is a priceless gift, and a sacred act.

In the spirit of engaging in machloket l’shem shamayim, I offer my conclusions today as my own, as a starting point for future discussion, in the hope that as a community we can openly wrestle with this, and openly name the core values that we share. I know that this community has a wide variety of beliefs about Israel, and I want you to know that my door, my ears, and my heart are open to all of you. I do not have a monopoly on what is right or what is wrong.

I do not know how to get the hostages back, though I desperately wish I did. I do not know how to guarantee Israel’s safety in the future, though I desperately wish I did. I know there is great disagreement within the Jewish community about how to proceed, and none of us know what will happen next.

But what I am certain of is that allowing children to starve will not bring about the Promised Land any of us are hoping for.

Shabbat shalom, my friends.

Parashat Pinchas: Social Sacrifice and Pluralism

rabbisimmons@tbemaine.org (Rachel Simmons) — Tue, 22 Jul 2025 16:40:52 GMT

Sermon given July 19, 2025

Shabbat shalom, everybody!

Exhibit A:

A few weeks ago, a child in the TBE community asked me what my cat’s pronouns were.

This, first of all, absolutely delighted me. It also showed me that this is a community that so values honoring a person’s sense of self that our kids are applying those values across species.

Exhibit B:

There is a rainbow flag hanging in the window in my office. I did not put it there. Rabbi Estrin did not put it there. No, Rabbi Braun put it there– meaning it has now graced the offices of three TBE rabbis in a row– and this teaches me that it is ingrained in this congregation’s culture to proudly and publicly support marginalized individuals and to celebrate diversity and identity, even before it’s popular. This is a congregation that demonstrates that we are ALL made b’tzelem elohim, in God’s image.

Exhibit C:

Elijah’s chair, a ritual piece of furniture used to welcome babies into the covenant, also sits in my office. TBE’s version of Elijah’s chair was hand-painted and decorated with colors and flowers by TBE’s children. Unlike other Elijah’s chairs I’ve seen, which have been more ornate, or larger, or covered in rich fabrics– TBE’s Elijah’s chair is handmade and wooden. It is humble, collective, beautiful, and one-of-a-kind– and it reflects the multi-generational joy and heimisch nature of this synagogue.

And finally, Exhibit D:

A week after moving to Portland, I had the first-time experience of buying kosher meat out of an unmarked van in a parking lot. This taught me that the Jewish community in Portland is willing to go to great lengths to remain connected to our traditions, while also living here, and being present here, living lives both in a uniquely Jewish way and also deeply intertwined with the other Mainers and from-away-ers around us.

Each of these experiences has given me a glimpse into the communal values of TBE, and what I have learned makes me feel honored to count myself as one of you.

Now, we’ve had a rich set of Torah portions recently, and they’ve all been ones that inspire us to take a look at our communal values. Two weeks ago, Parashat Chukat opened the door for a discussion about approaching transitions in a way that reflects our values; last week, Parashat Balak inspired a conversation about how to live our values when under duress, or in the face of a culture or leadership that is telling us to act against what we deeply believe.

This week continues the trend, but in a slightly different way. This week, we are going to focus in on one specific ancient value in our Torah– a specific and difficult value– and then examine how it can relate to us today. It just so happens that this is a value that, while hard to stomach, is also one I believe TBE excels at.

It’s a value which is embedded in a very rich and detailed parasha, including the aftermath of Pinchas’ bloody and zealous actions; a thorough census of the Israelites; the actions of the brave daughters of Tzelophehad, advocating for themselves in the face of misogyny; and Joshua, son of Nun, being tapped to be the next leader of B’nai Yisrael after Moses’ passing.

But then abruptly, when we reach the final chunk of Parashat Pinchas, which, thanks to our triennial Torah reading pattern is what we just read this week, things change. There’s no more narrative, no more stories. Instead, you and I just heard seven aliyot, plus a maftir, full of a review of the major holidays: Passover, Sukkot, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, etc., and listing off every single one of their corresponding sacrifices– seven he-goats here, twelve rams there, two bulls there.

And I don’t know about you, but nothing gets me more in the Shabbat state of mind than reading seven aliyot about animal sacrifices.

Because sacrifice, in all its messiness, is the value we are going to focus on today. The sacrifices our Torah describes are numerous, and bloody, and can be incredibly difficult for us as modern Jews to relate to. This is both because, ever since the destruction of the Temple, animal sacrifice has been replaced with thrice-daily prayer services, to which we are now accustomed; and partially because our sense of collective morals and responsibility have evolved.

And yet– there is no denying that for our ancestors, sacrifices would have been a normal, routine, intense part of life. The root of the word korban, or sacrifice, is the same as karov, being close to something. And this makes sense, because for our ancestors in the desert, sacrifices would have been the practical way to be closest to God, by sending up the smoke, the reach nichoach (the pleasing scent) to the Holy One. Regularly practicing sacrifice would have been a core value to them.

And it was a core value even though it meant giving up property and security. Because even millennia ago, our fledgling society grasped the truth that sometimes, giving up resources, whether to communal causes or to God, has deep value. The urge to belong to something beyond ourselves, and give of ourselves on its behalf, that is, to sacrifice for it, is in fact one of the most human things we do. Because ultimately, that’s what sacrifice is: doing something we don’t want to do, or giving something up that we want, in the name of something bigger than ourselves, something beyond us that is so important to us.

I mean, consider the alternative to sacrifice. Imagine, for a moment, how it would be if we lived in a world where none of us were beholden to anything beyond ourselves. Imagine living a life where you didn’t believe anything was worth sacrificing for– where there was nobody you would lay your life down for, let alone be willing to sacrifice money and time and resources for. Imagine never, ever having a cause you believed in so strongly that you wanted to march or protest for or donate to, sacrificing time and energy and funds. Imagine not having a community like this one, whose success you were invested in, and which tied you into both the past and the future, and for which you were also prepared to sacrifice.

The Midrash in Sifrei Bamidbar explains to us that the frequent use of verbs conjugated in the plural in Parashat Pinchas while discussing sacrifice means that, quote

שיהו כהנים ולוים וישראלים עומדים עליהם

That not just the priests, and not just the Levites, but ALSO regular, good-old-fashioned “Jews in the Pews” from B’nai Yisrael were present for and involved in the process of sacrifice. This was something the priests were responsible for carrying out, yes, but each member of the Israelite people was bound into the system.

To actively belong to something means to be ready to give to something, to sacrifice to something, and that is a reality that touches every. Single. Member. Of this community.

At the beginning of this sermon, I mentioned that I think that sacrifice is a value that TBE excels at. Of course, I don’t mean that we excel at killing animals– chass v’shalom. What I meant was that it is clear from me, even after only three weeks as your rabbi, that TBE is a community built by Jews who want to live intentionally connected, intentionally mutually supportive lives, and you demonstrate this in myriad ways. This is also a community that intrinsically understands the conclusion from Sifrei Bamidbar– that it is incumbent upon all of us, not just on our leadership, to be a part of these sacrifices.

You’ll recall that I also started this sermon with a list of ways that the citizens of TBE have already charmed me. The common thread through each occurrence I named, though– the respectful curiosity, the cross-generational joy, the respect of the identities of others, even the van full of kosher meat in a parking lot– is the fact that this synagogue’s existence and success was built and is maintained by countless tiny decisions made by all its members, every day, that respect the rights and dignity of others, and sacrifice our human desire to be the fastest, the richest, the ones on top.

As Jews and as citizens of the world, we are offered endless opportunities– whether in how we eat, how we speak, how we donate our money, how we spend our time– opportunities, every single day, to make ancient values new again, to make them our own. But interwoven in these opportunities is the ancient value of sacrifice, pervasive in our Torah.

And I see countless ways that members of the TBE community are embodying the value of sacrifice, in big and little ways.

Everyone here today, and everyone watching online, has sacrificed a Saturday morning to be in community. When we dedicate ourselves to prayer and to showing up for synagogue activities, we are sacrificing time and energy in order to keep ourselves and the Jewish people alive and spiritually nourished.

When we give money in dues, in donations, and to causes we believe in, we are sacrificing our funds in order to build a better world. TBE members have been incredibly generous, both in annual campaigns and targeted giving, supporting the greater community and each other.

And yet one of the most impressive types of sacrifice I have witnessed already in my time at TBE is the crucial social sacrifice required to peacefully and respectfully exist in community with those who have different viewpoints.

I have delighted in my meetings with congregants and leadership so far at TBE, who have not only expressed a wide variety of opinions and beliefs regarding everything from halacha to Israel to politics to kashrut, but who are also eager to establish classes, discussions, and safe Jewish spaces specifically so that we can explore these and our differing opinions topics together.

And this, too, is sacrifice. Because on some level, we all want to be right, and we want to be supported in our beliefs and surrounded by people who agree with us. That means that when we make the choice to give grace during an argument, or to bite our tongue before lashing out, or to put in the extra effort to find a compromise, we are in fact sacrificing the desire to be right in order to be in community and in relationship to one another.

These are difficult times for our country and world, and sacrificing our urge to dig in our heels and stubbornly refuse to compromise is not only a gift to each other, it is brave. It is counter-cultural. And it is sacred.

And with the current state of the world, the country, war in the Middle East, and the deep social divides across the board, it is likely that in the coming months we will in fact be asked to sacrifice even more. More time. More resources. More energy.

We will be called on to model again and again, for ourselves and others, the social and conversational and communal sacrifices necessary to remain a safe and pluralistic space during this difficult time.

And there will be times when some of us have more or less to give, and vice versa— whether we are talking about funds, or brainpower, or heart-and-soul power. We will all have moments where we say, I cannot give anymore. And where others will have to step up and say, that’s ok, right now, I can give more.

As we prepare to face the months ahead, I bless us all with the reminder of how lucky we are to have each other and this community and this society— that is to say, how lucky we are to have things worth sacrificing for.

And there is no other place I would rather be than right here, making those sacrifices with all of you. Shabbat shalom.

Balak: Be A Spiritual Broken Record

rabbisimmons@tbemaine.org (Rachel Simmons) — Thu, 17 Jul 2025 18:31:28 GMT

Sermon given July 12, 2025

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

I’m Rabbi Simmons, and I’m very happy to be here today with all of you. There are all kinds of things I could share about myself in this moment– how I’m from the DC area, how my new life goal is to see a moose, how I have two cats named Kohelet and Galilee, how my pronouns are they or she, how I love singing Adon Olam to Disney melodies and my favorite trope is Eicha– but there will be lots of time for fun rabbi facts in the weeks to come, and Torah waits for no one.

Let’s just suffice to say that I feel so lucky to be your new Rabbi, and I very much would like to get to know each of you and your stories and questions and ideas.

For those of you who were here last Shabbat, or if you had the opportunity to watch online or to read the text of my first sermon in the weekly email, you’ll know that last week I spoke about sacred transitions, and about how important it is for us as a community to be intentional as we navigate our current transition together. Using the story of the transition from one High Priest to another in our Torah portion, we explored how transitions in general are opportunities to honor the past, to feel the emotions we are holding in this moment, and also to intentionally commit to moving forward together, turning towards one another in times of both joy and challenge.

And if all of that sounds like it’s right up your alley, I have good news for you– we are still going through a big transition, and we will be for a good while– so this is an ongoing conversation and theme, and one which will undoubtedly continue to influence us all in the coming months.

However, this week in particular I’d like to pivot a little in our sermon focus. Our Torah portion for this week, Balak, is fascinating in a different way– it has everything from blessings to curses to an invisible angel to a talking Donkey. More importantly, though, this week’s Torah portion offers us a main Character, Bilaam, who is in spiritual crisis, who is being ordered by a person in power to do something he is not comfortable with, something that goes against his own convictions. Our Torah this week offers a model of someone who is actively balancing his respect for human authority and power structures with his sacred bond to God and humanity and his own conscience. And it is that kind of struggle, and that kind of balance, that we are going to focus on in our sermon today.

To set the stage for our Torah portion, Balak, the Moabite king, is afraid. He sees the large number of Israelites encamped near his peoples’ borders and, out of fear, he orders the prophet Bilaam to curse them. Bilaam, as a private citizen, has to figure out how to respond to this order from his leader. The king clearly has great faith in the power of Bilaam’s words, saying

כִּ֣י יָדַ֗עְתִּי אֵ֤ת אֲשֶׁר־תְּבָרֵךְ֙ מְבֹרָ֔ךְ וַֽאֲשֶׁ֥ר תָּאֹ֖ר יוּאָֽר:

"I know that whomever you bless will be blessed, and whomever you curse will be cursed.”

No pressure, right? We can certainly imagine how Bilaam must have felt when he received this command. He was being ordered by his leader to harm others. Others he did not know personally. He was being told that harming these others would improve the safety and security of his own people.

Our commentator Sforno also points out that it was a telling choice made by the King to ask Bilaam to curse the Israelites, instead of asking Bilaam to bless the Moabites. Bilaam, as the King acknowledged, had the power to either bless or curse. Imagine how the King’s choice influenced the rest of the story, and how our story may have been different had the king focused instead of putting more blessings out into the world– but I digress. Ultimately, the King made his choice, to move forward with an agenda of cursing– and this choice impacted what followed.

Meaning that Bilaam was placed in a very difficult position. And faced with such a difficult set of instructions, Bilaam models nuance and caution. His immediate reaction is neither agreement nor condemnation. Instead, he says that he wants to wait before acting: he wants to pray, to talk to God, to think, to gather information. He says to the messengers from the King, who bore him news of the command to curse the Israelites, quote:

לִ֤ינוּ פֹה֙ הַלַּ֔יְלָה וַֽהֲשִֽׁבֹתִ֤י אֶתְכֶם֙ דָּבָ֔ר כַּֽאֲשֶׁ֛ר יְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֵלָ֑י

"Stay here for the night, and I will let you know what God tells me to do.”

From the beginning, then, Bilaam demonstrates how we must look within ourselves to balance our immediate loyalty to our human leaders with our loyalty to an even greater authority– in this case, to God. Of course, the word God here could be replaced with morals, or ethics, or common decency– but regardless, Bilaam understands that there will be multiple factors informing his decision, and that he is not only beholden to the wishes of his king, but also to his own conscience and to humanity.

And as it turns out, once Bilaam has slept and prayed and spoken to God, he refuses to curse the Israelites, even though his king has commanded him to do so. In fact, he states that he can only do whatever God allows him to.

This must have taken a lot of bravery– it’s not easy to stand up to human authority, especially a king. And when the messengers return to the King to report Bilaam’s refusal, the king persists, not accepting “No” as a valid answer, which would have added to Bilaam’s discomfort.

When ultimately, after further pressure, Bilaam unhappily agrees to go with King Balak, albeit with God’s permission, he still makes a point of expressing yet again to the king that while he will go along, he can still only say what God allows him to say.

So, what happens when the King and Bilaam arrive at a mountain overlooking the Israelites’ encampment, and the King yet again orders Bilaam to curse the masses below? As the two men stand there, building pyres for burnt offerings, and Bilaam’s commander-in-chief yet again demands that he harm the group of humans who are different from them, what does Bilaam do that is so impressive? What does he do that can teach us, and inspire us, toady?

He becomes, quite frankly, a spiritual broken record. Again, and again, and again, as King Balak and Bilaam move from vantage point to vantage point around the camps of the Israelites, as the King persists and persists and persists with his agenda of cursing, of wanting to weaken and harm the Israelites, Bilaam instead blesses the Israelites, and repeats himself to his king, reiterating:

הַדָּבָ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר יָשִׂ֧ים אֱלֹהִ֛ים בְּפִ֖י אֹת֥וֹ אֲדַבֵּֽר:

That which God puts in my mouth, I will say.

And then:

הֲלֹ֗א אֵת֩ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יָשִׂ֤ים יְהֹוָה֙ בְּפִ֔י אֹת֥וֹ אֶשְׁמֹ֖ר לְדַבֵּֽר:

Isn’t what God puts in my mouth what I will say?

And finally,

הֲלֹ֗א דִּבַּ֤רְתִּי אֵלֶ֨יךָ֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־יְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֹת֥וֹ אֶֽעֱשֶֽׂה:

Did I not tell you that that which God says is what I will do?

This must have been downright terrifying for Bilaam. I want to say to him a hearty “Kol HaKavod”, well done. Respect. Because Bilaam identified his boundaries. He identified his values. And he stood by them. Again. And again. And again. Even in the face of an authority who had the power to harm him, and who was not hearing his words, he stood up for what he believed in.

Bilaam is not offering us a blueprint for widespread revolution here– he is offering us a blueprint for individual, intentional, meaningful spiritual resistance. The kind of resistance that each of us has the power to enact in our own lives, should we ever feel similar pressure to what Bilaam faced in the Torah this week.

Because the kind of struggle he felt is actually a deeply human type of struggle, a timeless struggle, one many of us have probably felt at some point in our lives. And the beauty of being part of such an ancient people is that we can look to our tradition, and look to our texts, for guidance and for chizzuk, for strength, on how to make choices and take actions we can stand behind, when faced with painful moral dilemmas.

Because even though it isn’t easy, or comfortable, it is incumbent upon all of us, each and every one of us, both as individuals and as communities,

To take the time and effort to identify what our core values are,

And to practice having those values guide our speech,

And to practice having those values guide our actions,

Over and over and over, just like Bilaam did, until it is our nature, until it is who we are, until we are known by those values, until those values are the essence of who we are.

And yes, it’s hard at first– but it gets easier with repetition. Plus, as with so many things, we are not alone in our personal struggles, and this is something that really excites me about being the new Rabbi of TBE.

Because this is a community that is actively examining and wrestling with exactly this question– who are we? What do we stand for? What is our tent? What are the core values which will guide everything from our finances to our policies to our programming? Where are the issues where we can say yes, and where are the issues where we must draw a line, like Bilaam, and say no, this is not who we are?

This is a community that is asking itself– when we see things happening in the world outside of these walls, or even within these walls, that does not reflect our core values: what can we do about it? What must we do about it? What are the actions, and the stances, that our conscience can live with, and what spiritual resistance can we, and must we, offer when those in power do not honor the sacred principles that guide us?

And for anyone who wants to be actively involved in these discussions, all you have to do is reach out– to the staff, to the lay leadership, to me, to each other– and join the conversation. Our values belong to all of us, and your voice can and should be heard.

I have hanging in my office here at TBE a list of Jewish values from Keshet, which I have used over the years as a default starting point for identifying the core principles that guide me as a Jew. The list is not exhaustive, but it includes:

1. Kavod– Respect

2. Shalom Bayit: Peace in the home or community

3. B’tzelem Elohim: Everyone is made in the sacred image

4. Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh BaZeh: All of Yisrael is responsible for one another

5. Sh’mirat HaLashon: being intentional about our language

6. V’ahavta L’reicha kamocha: Love your neighbor as yourself

7. Al Tifrosh Min HaTzibbur: Stay in solidarity and connection with your community

I would encourage all of us, moving forward, to take the time to sit with and identify which parts of our Jewish system of values are most meaningful to us, as individuals and as a community. What inspires us, and drives us, and guides us?

Which are the beliefs that we know in our gut that we must live up to? Which are the aspirational beliefs, the ones we are still working on? Which are the ones we most wrestle with, especially when making decisions that impact the world around us?

I’d love to hear from you, whether today at Kiddush or another time, about the values you hold closest to your heart. These are the values which will guide us, as individuals and a synagogue community, as our city and state and nation and world face the tough road ahead. These are values which will guide us in our relationships to each other, to Israel, and to the wider world around us.

And in the moments where we falter, where we struggle, where we feel the very real fear rising in us, and the sinking feeling in our gut that tells us that our values, and our conscience, is indeed going against what we are being told to do– we can take heart in knowing that our tradition is one that celebrates and encourages bravery in the face of adversity, and celebrates ethical action in the face of fear-based reactivity. We can be brave, and we can help each other be brave.

Bilaam modeled this kind of bravery for us in today’s Torah portion, and now we get to model it too, for each other, for our children, and for the rest of our community and world.

Shabbat shalom– and, to be continued.

—-------------------

Rabbi Simmons would love to hear your thoughts. If you’d like to continue the conversation, reach out to office@tbemaine.org for assistance.

Parashat Chukat: Transitional Lessons

rabbisimmons@tbemaine.org (Rachel Simmons) — Thu, 10 Jul 2025 15:41:46 GMT

Sermon given July 5th, 2025

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

I am absolutely thrilled to finally be here. Even though I still haven’t seen any moose yet.

I have, however, spent the past week being inundated in the best way with warmth, welcome, assistance, and excitement by TBE members. Y’all are awesome. This palpable energy is one of the things that drew me most to TBE when I interviewed, and it is a deep honor to now count myself as one of you, and as your Rabbi.

I know this is a holiday weekend, and a lot of folks are away, so I’ll save my “official” intro sermon for next weekend. That being said, we still have time for a little Torah today. And, it just so happens that, while we are navigating our own set of transitions here at TBE, this week’s Torah portion, parashat Chukat, offers us a fascinating glimpse into another moment of transition, an ancient moment of transition, that deeply impacted our ancestors. Specifically, our parasha discusses the death of the first High Priest, Aaron, and the ascension of his son, Elazar, to the same role in his stead.

God says to Moses:

קַ֚ח אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹ֔ן וְאֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֖ר בְּנ֑וֹ וְהַ֥עַל אֹתָ֖ם הֹ֥ר הָהָֽר׃

Take Aaron and his son Eleazar and bring them up on Mount Hor.

וְהַפְשֵׁ֤ט אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹן֙ אֶת־בְּגָדָ֔יו וְהִלְבַּשְׁתָּ֖ם אֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֣ר בְּנ֑וֹ וְאַהֲרֹ֥ן יֵאָסֵ֖ף וּמֵ֥ת שָֽׁם׃

Remove Aaron’s vestments and put them on his son Eleazar. There Aaron shall be gathered unto his kin.

וַיַּ֣עַשׂ מֹשֶׁ֔ה כַּאֲשֶׁ֖ר צִוָּ֣ה יְהֹוָ֑ה וַֽיַּעֲלוּ֙ אֶל־הֹ֣ר הָהָ֔ר לְעֵינֵ֖י כׇּל־הָעֵדָֽה׃

Moses did as יהוה had commanded. They ascended Mount Hor in the sight of the whole community.

וַיַּפְשֵׁט֩ מֹשֶׁ֨ה אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹ֜ן אֶת־בְּגָדָ֗יו וַיַּלְבֵּ֤שׁ אֹתָם֙ אֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֣ר בְּנ֔וֹ וַיָּ֧מׇת אַהֲרֹ֛ן שָׁ֖ם

בְּרֹ֣אשׁ הָהָ֑ר וַיֵּ֧רֶד מֹשֶׁ֛ה וְאֶלְעָזָ֖ר מִן־הָהָֽר׃

Moses removed Aaron’s vestments and put them on Aaron’s son Eleazar, and Aaron died there on the summit of the mountain. When Moses and Eleazar came down from the mountain,

וַיִּרְאוּ֙ כׇּל־הָ֣עֵדָ֔ה כִּ֥י גָוַ֖ע אַהֲרֹ֑ן וַיִּבְכּ֤וּ אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹן֙ שְׁלֹשִׁ֣ים י֔וֹם כֹּ֖ל בֵּ֥ית יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ {ס}

the whole community knew that Aaron had breathed his last. All the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days.

Now, the transition TBE is going through does not involve a death of a leader, chass v’shalom, but it does indeed involve a change of leadership and vision, and marks the beginning of a new and as-yet-uncharted chapter for this community– just as the arrival of Elazar as the new High Priest marked a similar new chapter for all of B’nai Yisrael thousands of years ago.

There are many rich details in this text, but there are three points in particular which I would like to pull out and focus on today. First: the importance, when we are in transition, of honoring those who have gone before us; second, how crucial it is to honor how we are feeling during a transition; and third, as a complementary lesson to point number two, how valuable it can be to also contain and limit those emotions in the coming months, so that they do not overshadow the potential of the future.

Let’s dig in.

First, the story of Aaron’s death and Elazar’s assumption of the High Priesthood reminds us that as we move towards the future, we must honor the past. God informed Moses that Aaron was going to die, to be “gathered into his kin”, using the verb “asaf”, to gather or add. The use of the phrase “gathered into his kin” is really lovely, because it reminds us that though Aaron’s time has passed, his legacy and place among his people is not being forgotten: he is portrayed, by using the word “asaf”, to gather in, as being part of a proud communal tradition, a link between those who went before and those who would come after. By saying “Asaf”, we are reminded that Aaron’s wisdom is being added on to the wisdom of his own ancestors.

From this, we here at TBE today are reminded to take a step back and look at the current season of transition within the context of the rich history and tenacity of this community and its place within the broader Jewish world and tradition. It is important to remind ourselves that each leader TBE has had up until this point, has made powerful contributions to this synagogue which will always be a part of us, and which, like our own contributions today, will indeed be remembered and “gathered in” to the story of this shul. Regardless of how each of us feels about this particular moment of transition, we can commit to honoring the legacies of the past while we also build the future of this congregation, just as it was important to speak of Aaron’s contributions with honor while the Israelites moved forward under the priestly guidance of Elazar.

The second lesson from this week’s parasha has to do with honoring how we are feeling. The story in this week’s parasha offers a lovely example of a community supporting one another in a time of great emotion and upheaval. The occasion of Aaron’s death concludes with the first mention of Shloshim in our tradition, where we see all of B’nai Yisrael in mourning for thirty days, dedicating themselves completely to honoring the grief and loss they are feeling.

And though this is indeed a time of excitement and possibility for all of us at TBE, I want to name that transitions can also inspire anxiety, worry, and yes, even grief. To quote the wise rock band of my youth, Semisonic, every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. Feeling loss and happiness at the same time is not contradictory: it is human. I imagine that Elazar would have certainly felt a whole mixture of emotions.

That means that it is OK if this is a multi-faceted moment for us as a congregation and as a community. This sacred space TBE has created, and the wider sacred space of our tradition, are deep enough for the entirety of what we feel and what we wrestle with– the good and the bad, the comfortable and the unsettling, the known and the unknown.

And our Torah portion offers guidance on how to navigate these unique waters.

Our third and final lesson from today’s portion also has to do with Shloshim, the time-limited emotional space that our tradition offers us with as we navigate loss. The existence of Shloshim is a gift. It teaches us that we must first honor our emotions and face them– and then, once we have given them the attention and discussion they deserve, it is alright and sometimes advantageous to set a boundary on our emotions, and to provide them with a defined container, in order to allow ourselves to move forward from that space of deepest feeling. This is perhaps the trickiest of the three lessons to internalize, but it is also one we can commit to helping one another navigate in the weeks to come.

Because beyond anything we might be feeling right now– eagerness, excitement, worry, happiness, loss, curiosity– this is a moment of sacred potential for TBE, and the first step on a journey we must go on together. We all get to build that future together.

I’m wearing a tallit and a kippah today, like many of you, not the priestly vestments inherited by Elazar as he began his tenure as the new High Priest. But like Elazar, I am new to this role, and I am humbled by the presence of those who have come before me, and by the hope I feel for what the future might hold. And I hope, and I pray, that all of us will bring our full selves to this holy endeavor, and will not remain caught in the past, or what might have or might have not been.

As we move forward from this day, I bless us all with the wisdom to learn the three lessons from this week’s Torah portion. May we honor those who have brought us to this moment; may we feel, in honesty and bravery, the feelings within us at this moment; and then may we move forward into whatever comes next together, committed to turning towards each other in times of happiness, in times of grief; in times of frustration and in times of contentment.

I cannot wait to see where we will go. Shabbat shalom!

Counting the Gates to Sinai

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 18 Apr 2024 20:21:36 GMT

It is a mitzvah to count the days from the second night of Pesach until Shavuot. By actually counting out loud each night, we mark the days from our physical liberation from Egypt to our spiritual liberation at Mount Sinai. In some ways, it is a very short time, since it only takes forty-nine days, that is seven times seven, to get from Egypt to Sinai. Then, on the fiftieth day, we receive the words that will be the basis for generations of exploration. Farmers count the days so they can approximate the first harvest of barley which was the first grain to be harvested in ancient days. The rest of us, those who are more distant from the ancient soil, count for other reasons. Our Siddur, Lev Shalem (p. 63) describes this counting in a more mystical, spiritual way:

The Torah mentions the exodus from Egypt fifty times, hinting that there are fifty steps or aspects to coming out of the mindset of slavery. Indeed, the Torah teaches that the Israelites went up out of Egypt, chamushim (Exodus 13:18) which literally means “armed” but may also suggest “one-fiftieth.” Thus, on the first day of Pesach, we may be said to have walked through the first of fifty gates toward genuine freedom. To complete the exodus, we must journey through another forty-nine gates.

-Based on the Netivot Shalom

How can we use the magical time between Pesach and Shavuot, between the delicious tastes of family, friends and memories and the joy of receiving Torah and the taste of cheesecake?

How can we move from Mitzrayim, the narrow places, to a feeling of wholeness and beauty and growth?

Here are a couple of resources - and there are many more on the web - for taking the journey that lies in front of us:

Chag Sameach! May you have a sweet and liberating Passover

Rabbi

The Four Questions

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 11 Apr 2024 16:22:19 GMT

I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced worship in a Black church, but there is often a continuous dialogue between the preacher and the congregation. The preacher prays or preaches, and members of the congregation respond with an enthusiastic “AMEN” or “YES” or “SAY IT!” as the spirit moves them. Once they get going, there is an exciting energy that is contagious!

A couple of weeks ago, Ren and Rafi were reading a prayer that I found moving, and I spontaneously interrupted them with “Yes!” and a big “Amen” at the end. I was reminded of my experience with seminary students from a Black Southern Baptist school. One of my peers asked them to respond to his D’var Torah as though they were in church. It was great. I mentioned this to the congregation, and Rabbi Sandmel said that he too once worked with some Black preachers. Hoping to get his congregation to voice a response, Rabbi Sandmel asked if there was something he could say to encourage a reaction. The preachers gave him some suggestions: “Can I get an amen?” always elicited a response. Another suggestion was to pause and say, “Am I right?” Rabbi Sandmel chuckled for a moment, shook his head and said, “If I asked that in my congregation … ” If you’re looking for agreement in a Jewish congregation, that’s probably not the question to ask! Which brings me to my topic of questions.

In an article from Forbes , “Why Questioning is the Ultimate Learning Skill,” author Julia Brodsky claims that “the ability to ask questions is one of the most important lifelong learning skills a student can acquire in the course of their education.” This idea is so often antithetical to our society’s approach to education. We are told to sit quietly and listen to the experts. We are quizzed, tested, and told not to look at other’s papers. But that’s not the Jewish way. If we have contributed anything to the world (and we have contributed much), it is the concept of hevruta , of collaborative learning. We challenge assumptions; we analyze texts (including Torah and Siddur); we ask questions of others and they ask questions of us. We encourage and admire critical thinking. We make jokes about how we often disagree.

The place where we all (can) experience hevruta is the Seder. It is the ultimate “Spirits and Spirits” (BTW, come tonight at 5:30!) It is the place where we are presented with a text, with themes and concepts and wordplays, and asked to talk about them. As it says in the Haggadah, “And the more one tells about the coming out of Egypt, the more admirable it is.” The Seder table becomes a multigenerational vehicle for learning, exploring our values, and talking about our identities.

Why do we ask the youngest at the seder to ask the questions? Could it be that the youngest might feel too intimidated to ask a question and so we encourage them? Could it be that, as adults, we are intimidated, because we think we should know the answers, and so we let the children do it? In that same Forbes article, the author suggests, “Questioning is not easy and may require a lot of reflection and perseverance, as well as a dose of humility. In order to ask a penetrating question, we first need to acknowledge our ignorance of the answer. Questioning takes the familiar and makes it mysterious again, thus removing the comfort of ‘knowing.’”

More often than not, in my experience, a dose of discomfort, a dose of being one or all of those four children in the Haggadah, is what brings us to a deeper place. We find out that the mystery and the unknowable is the most real space we inhabit.

Am I right? Can I get an Amen?

"Do not separate yourself from the congregation": A Response to an Op-Ed

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Fri, 23 Feb 2024 17:18:44 GMT

Some of you may have seen an op-ed piece in the Portland Press Herald a few weeks ago where the authors charged our local Jewish institutions of being “intellectually dishonest, morally abhorrent and spiritually bankrupt” in our public messages on the war.

I knew I wanted to respond, both because I disagree with their core belief that Israel is committing genocide and ethnic cleansing, but also because it’s not clear to me that they have engaged us in a conversation. Bartenura, the 15th century commentator on the Mishnah, quotes Pirkei Avot 2:4: “Do not separate yourself from the congregation” and offers the advice: “but rather share in their troubles. As anyone who separates from the congregation will not see the congregation consoled.” These are difficult times for us - on many levels. I’ve listened to some very hard stories from parents of middle and high school age students whose children have had to navigate the anger and confusion of adults caught up in the rhetoric. The volatile situations in the world are complex and not easily untangled. That is not an excuse for having a particular opinion, but until we hash out the complexities, and treat one another respectfully, we will continue to have wars.

I sent this to the Portland Press Herald, but I didn’t hear back.

As one of those institutional leaders referred to in the February 7 opinion piece “As we grapple with Gaza, Jewish institutions are letting us down,” I am sorry that Mss. Alfred, Rosen and Kramer feel their community hasn’t taken the stand they would like to see.

I am puzzled though. If the authors had been to Temple Beth El, they could not possibly have missed the anger, the anguish, the confusion, the conflicted feelings, the vigils and the attempts to understand and to support all the victims of this war. I’m not sure where the authors heard us say that criticism of Israel’s policies - even claims of “genocide or “ethnic cleansing” (about which I, personally, dissagree) - is considered antisemetic. Are the large numbers of Israelis demonstrating against their government, both now and since the Hamas attacks on October 7, antisemitic? Perhaps the writers do not know the many effective Israeli left wing, bridge-building organizations who support Palestinian, Israeli-Arab and Beduin causes? Tragically many of the victims of the October 7th massacre were active in these very groups.

My community joins others in wrestling with what it means to believe Israel should exist and to have neighbors who wish it didn’t, and who place non-combatants in the line of fire. Many of us are disgusted by the settlements and those settlers who seem to be above the law as they destroy people and land in the Palestinian territories. The challenge, and the source of our anguish, lies with the people on all sides who want to live in peace and live fulfilling lives. Perhaps contrary to what the writers have heard, this sentiment is echoed throughout our Jewish community.

The writers assert, “Local synagogues and Jewish organizations echo national calls to make conditional any cease-fire on unrealistic terms that put the onus on Palestinians to end the terror being inflicted on them by the Israeli state.” First, the onus is on Hamas, not the Palestinians. Secondly, is it unrealistic to ask that the hostages be returned? The authors might not agree with this last point, but if they were willing to talk we might find that while we do not agree on all points, we have more shared opinions than not. Instead, the writers level the charge that our community is “intellectually dishonest, morally abhorrent and spiritually bankrupt.”

I would encourage Mss. Alfred, Rosen and Kramer to enter into the Jewish dialogue with us rather than dismiss us. As a spiritual leader and a Jew, I keenly feel the complexity of the situation. As an institution and a spiritual home for Jews and allies,Temple Beth El is responsible for creating a safe space for all to participate, whether we personally agree or not.

While I believe it is better to be one community with a multiplicity of beliefs, I hope Mss. Alfred, Rosen and Kramer find comfort and moral clarity in the community they create.

A great miracle is happening here: Tu BiShvat 2024

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 25 Jan 2024 18:18:07 GMT

Some of you may remember our longtime members Jerry and Rochelle Slivka, of blessed memory. As survivors of the Shoah, their life stories were both tragic and blessed, painful yet life affirming. Jerry and Rochelle and their friends are and were some of the most amazing and inspiring people you could meet. The Slivka Holocaust Memorial on our property was conceived of and supported by their family and friends. The Slivkas cared deeply about the Jewish community and its continued existence.

I think of Jerry and Rochelle often, but this year I’m thinking of them in relation to Tu BiShevat, the new year for trees. According to Torah, fruit-bearing trees must be four years old before their fruit can be eaten. When it was later determined that the trees’ year would begin on the 15th of the month of Shevat, it became on fourth Tu BiShvat (the 15th day of Shevat) that one could begin eating the fruit.

In Israel, the trees are just beginning to bloom at this time. In particular, the almond trees are in bloom. As I look out my window here at 400 Deering, I see snow and darkness. There’s nothing blooming out there right now, and if I were a pessimistic person, I’d never believe that anything will ever bloom! Sometimes it’s hard to see a better future when you’re in the midst of darkness.

For Jerry—though not necessarily for Rochelle who was a bit more skeptical than Jerry—gardening and flowers took on a special, spiritual meaning. Jerry spoke about his love of gardening at his Second Bar Mitzvah which took place to a full sanctuary on his 83rd birthday. The growing season in Maine is short, he reflected, so you want to make the most of it. There is a tradition (and Jerry was aware of so many old traditions) to celebrate a second Bar Mitzvah at 83 because according to the Psalms a full life span is 70 years, so if we live to 83, it’s a B Mitzvah year! Just as a second Bar Mitzvah was a miracle in his life, so too the appearance of flowers and the growth of trees was miraculous and life affirming to Jerry. He was both surprised and delighted by the flowers’ and trees’ appearance each year. Just as on Chanukah, when we celebrate by “publicizing” the miracle of the lights by putting the menorah in the window, he wanted to be sure that people who drove past his house had something beautiful to see from spring until winter. And, because children were so important, he made space for his children and grandchildren to play; the flowers were protected, but the kids could have their fun. I read in his oral history, kept at the US Holocaust Museum, that he brought an oak seedling from his yard in Portland and planted it in front of his ‘home’ in Poversk, Ukraine, hoping that it would survive as other Jews had. Jerry lived and gardened for 97 years, passing in 2013. Rochelle died in 2005 at the age of 82. At the time of his death, Jerry was survived by two daughters, six grandchildren, and three great grandchildren.

The New Year for Trees, 15 Shevat 5784, Portland Maine. The flowers will eventually bloom, and the trees will blossom. We will survive. Thank you for the reminder, Jerry and Rochelle.

Praying with Hearts and Feet

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 11 Jan 2024 16:49:43 GMT

At the core of Judaism is human action. While the Divine may remind us of why we are performing the action, it is our performance that is important. Generally, we invoke God before we do something; we bless and then act. Whether it is saying the “Motzi” before eating bread, or reciting a blessing before lighting Chanukah candles or reading from Torah, first we focus on the mitzvah with a blessing, and then we do it. In this way, Jewish prayer leads to action. Sometimes though, the action may even be the prayer.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of learning from Dr. Susannah Heschel, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s daughter. Her last talk was about the very special and sacred relationship her father had with Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King. She told us about the march in Selma; the danger, the fear, and the faith of all those who participated. She told us of the West African proverb that her father learned, “when you pray, move your feet.” We all know that he incorporated that proverb into his own life and his own experience:

“When he came home from Selma in 1965, my father wrote, ‘For many of us the march from Selma to Montgomery was about protest and prayer. Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt my legs were praying.’

“I felt that my legs were praying.” Dr. Heschel told us that her father and Dr. King stayed with other activists at the house of Sullivan and Richie Jean Sharrod Jackson. She told us that on the morning of the march, Mrs. Jackson walked into the living room and saw Rev. King in one corner and Rabbi Heschel in another, and other guests throughout the room saying their “morning prayers.” I wonder what they were thinking about as they prayed. Perhaps Rabbi Heschel was pondering that moment in Torah, seconds before the Sea parted, when Moses shouted at the fearful Israelites to stand by and witness God’s power (Ex 14:13) and God said, “Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the Israelites to go forward!” (Ex. 14:15) ‘Pray with your feet,’ God says, ‘your cries have been heard, tell those who are fighting for justice to stop praying and act...go forward.’ The action was the prayer.

How often do we find ourselves in a bind, with seemingly no place to go? It may be something quite personal, or it may be something that affects the country or the world. It can feel almost useless, or impossible to move. That is precisely when we need to keep walking forward. At the Reed Sea, God taught Moses that “thoughts and prayers” were not enough. God’s message was clear, “ v’yissa-u ”, ‘move forward, I will be with you!’ Today’s world can feel overwhelming.and sometimes paralyzing. Let us first pray with our hearts and then pray with our feet. Whether it is teaching the truth, writing to our leaders, becoming leaders, and standing up to injustice, we need to find ways to build bridges, and then to lock arms and walk over them.

May the memory of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King be for a blessing.

Invocation for the House of Representatives on January 3rd, 2024

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Wed, 03 Jan 2024 19:10:07 GMT

Friends,

One of my favorite inspirations comes at the beginning of our morning prayers. It begins by saying that we should act the same way whether we are in private or in public. Historically, this is a reference to the time when, under Roman rule, the Jews were not allowed to practice their Judaism in public, but it also speaks to the idea that we should act in our private lives the same as we act in our public lives. We should always have integrity. It reads:

לְעוֹלָם יְהֵא אָדָם יְרֵא שָׁמַֽיִם בְּסֵֽתֶר וּבַגָּלוּי וּמוֹדֶה עַל־הָאֱמֶת וְדוֹבֵר אֱמֶת בִּלְבָבוֹ וְיַשְׁכֵּם וְיֹאמַר

Both in private and in public, a person should always be in awe of the heavens, they should promote the truth, and speak the truth in their heart. And when they wake up each day they should say, “רִבּוֹן כָּל הָעוֹלָמִים - Sovereign of the Universe”, or however you address a greater being, or your conscience, רִבּוֹן כָּל הָעוֹלָמִים: what are we?, what is our life?, what are our acts of kindness?, what is our virtue?, what is our achievement? What is our power? What is our strength? And what is our might? And after we have pondered these questions, the text takes us in another direction and quotes Ecclesiastes, “for the sum of our deeds is chaos; in Your presence our lives seem futile…" But it doesn’t end there. For even as we realize that life is complicated and messy; even when we come to accept that not all of our choices have been good, and even as we come to grips that our life is transient, the text reassures us that Ecclesiastes wasn’t completely correct, ‘Ah!” it says, ‘But we are we are partners with the Creator,’ and with one another and therefore we have the potential to do great, kind and virtuous deeds that make the world a better place. When we are partners and collaborators with one another and with the Divine, we will be kind, and strong, and will speak the truth, and our lives will be far from futile.

This morning, as the we open the second regular session of this august body, and every morning before you start the day, I invite you to ponder these questions. What am I? What is my life? What are my acts of kindness? What is my virtue? What is my achievement? What is my power? What is my strength? And what is my might?

The people of Maine look to you to promote a healthy, just, and equitable society, one in which we treat each other as we would wish to be treated, one where everyone benefits and where no one is afraid. May you succeed at this task; and may this New Year bring each one of us the blessing of health, of life, and of peace. Amen.

A Muslim, Episcopalian, and a Jew

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Fri, 01 Dec 2023 17:03:21 GMT

Above: Graffiti in Bayside that has since been replaced with new development.

A Muslim, an Episcopalian, and a Jew

….walked into a reading room to discuss an upcoming OLLI program for the spring…

While I have been involved in many inter-faith discussions, last month’s meeting felt like a respite from today’s news. I can’t tell you how relaxed and excited I was to be in conversation with those people. Among other topics, we spoke frankly about the huge escalation of antisemitic and anti-Islamic incidents since 9/11 and then after October 7. It turns out we are all worried, we are all afraid, and we are all angry at the bigotry and violence that we see around us. I am sure that amongst us, there are some disagreements, and frankly at some point I hope we can bring them up and talk about them, but I feel confident that we will be able to listen, learn and discuss in a way that is respectful and thought provoking. Perhaps there are stereotypes among us that need to be broken or perhaps we will agree to disagree. I had not known before our meeting how desperate I was for our conversation. I felt so comforted by the respect for humanity in that room.

Since that time, three students of Palestinian descent were shot while visiting one of their relatives for Thanksgiving. And even though I don’t agree with the anti-Israel sentiment expressed by one of the students, I, and I’m sure you too, was horrified and strongly condemn the actions of the suspected shooter. Whether we agree or disagree with another person’s beliefs, we are one humanity…and I believe, we each have a spark of God within us. Nothing justifies the killing, mutilation and kidnapping that occurred on October 7. Nothing justifies the violence perpetrated by Israeli settlers. It behooves us to look within ourselves and find that Divine spark, nurture it and pass it on. We are equally obligated to understand when and why we diminish that spark and ask ourselves what keeps us from engaging on a human level with one another; when and why might we see someone and treat them as though they are not human?

Our parsha this week, Vayishlach, describes brothers and enemies, Jacob and Esau, meeting for the first time in 20 years. Both must have been scared, both had probably told and retold the story about how one had wronged the other, neither could be sure that there wouldn’t be a huge war between them. Jacob prayed:

Deliver me, I pray, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau; else, I fear, he may come and strike me down, mothers and children alike. (Gen. 32:12)

Yet upon seeing his brother, Jacob, Esau must have found his Divine spark and:

Esau ran to greet him. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept. (Gen 33:4)

Jacob, not knowing what was going to happen, had brought gifts for his brother who initially refused them and then accepted them:

But Jacob said, “No, I pray you; if you would do me this favor, accept from me this gift; for to see your face is like seeing the face of God , and you have received me favorably. (Gen. 33:10)

And when he [Jacob] urged him, he [Esau] accepted. (Gen. 33:11)

Can we, as humans, recognize our own responses, actions, and misactions; take responsibility for what we have done; find that Divine spark in ourselves and others, and finally live in peace?

May it happen Bimheira v’yameinu (Speedily and in our days)

Amen

Shloshim

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Fri, 10 Nov 2023 16:37:17 GMT

קדיש ישובי עוטף עזה

הרב גלעד קריב

2023

‏יִתְגַּדַּל זִכְרָם שֶׁל הֲרוּגֵי קִבּוּצֵי עוֹטֵף עַזָּה וְכָל נִרְצְחֵי הַמַּעֲרָכָה הַנּוֹרָאָה בֶּעָרִים, בַּיִּשּׁוּבִים וּבַמּוֹשָׁבִים, וְזִכְרָם שֶׁל נוֹפְלֵי צַהַ"ל, הַמִּשְׁטָרָה וְכוֹחוֹת הַבִּטָּחוֹן.

‏וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ צַו הַחֲבֵרוּת, הָעַרְבוּת הַהֲדָדִית, חַיֵּי הַקְּהִלָּה, אַהֲבַת הָאָרֶץ, וְהַדְּבֵקוּת בְּעֶרְכֵי הַיְּסוֹד שֶׁל הַצִּיּוֹנוּת וּבְעֶרְכֵי הַשִּׁוְיוֹן, הַחֵרוּת וְהַשָּׁלוֹם.

Kaddish for the Residents of the Gaza Envelope

Rav Gilad Kariv, 2023

Yitgadal - May the memory of those killed in the kibbutzim of Azah - and all those murdered in this terrible campaign in the cities, towns and neighborhoods, and the memories of fallen IDF soldiers, the police and security forces - be magnified.

Viyitkadash - And may the realm of friendship, interdependence, communal life, love of the land, and cleaving to the foundational values of zionism and equality, freedom and peace, be hallowed.

It has been 30 days since Simchat Torah. Shloshim. But the pain, the anger, the constant explanations of how I am feeling, why I am feeling that way, and the weight of it all (not to mention the other tragedies in the world and in Maine) has not abated much. I continue to mourn for all the lost lives, demand the return of the hostages, and look for a better future that does not repeat the past.

After my workout last night, I went to Market Basket for, what I thought, were only eggs. As I moved towards the door to enter, it didn’t open. I felt a little dumb as I stared at the door and tried to figure out if I was in the wrong place. Behind me, a family was walking in. One of them said, “ sagur? ” (Is it closed?) The door suddenly opened and I laughed and said, “ Lo! Patuach ” (No! it’s open!). For a split second we looked at each other. “You speak Hebrew,?” he said in Hebrew. “Yes,” I said and we started talking. Who would have thought that an Israeli family would meet a local Rabbi at 7:00pm on a Wednesday night in Westbrook, Maine? I asked them where they lived and, typically Israeli, they answered, “In Israel!” No kidding, I thought. “No! Where in Israel?” And we started talking. I was not familiar with the place, but I knew the area. They were aghast that there were any Jews in Maine. They had been visiting before the war and decided to stay until the time they had planned to leave. I wondered where they had been, why they were in Westbrook, and why they hadn’t run into other Jews; but we were all busy and didn’t have much time to stand around. We only spoke for a few more minutes, but suddenly the moment felt so important. As we said goodbye, I looked at them and put my hand on my heart out of love for them. I didn’t know how to say goodbye to the moment, and I was worried for them, their family and friends. Even though we’d never met, we felt a connection. I had an idea of what they were going through and they met someone who was part of their reality. We all knew that they were going back to a changed home and I felt the anxiety. The woman looked back at me and her tone became more serious. “Thank you so much,” she said tenderly, “I really needed and appreciate this.” I’ll be honest with you. As I left to go to the egg aisle, I started crying. They were tears of anguish, of fear, of exhaustion and of the blessing of meeting these people at this time and in this place; and knowing that we are not alone in this world.

Oseh shalom…

Looking Over the Jordan: Reflections on a Career

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Mon, 25 Sep 2023 15:26:03 GMT

Yom Kippur 5784

Moses went up from the steppes of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the summit of Pisgah, opposite Jericho, and הי showed him the whole land: Gilead as far as Dan; all Naphtali; the land of Ephraim and Manasseh; the whole land of Judah as far as the Western Sea;the Negeb; and the Plain—the Valley of Jericho, the city of palm trees—as far as Zoar.

And ה׳ said to him, “This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, ‘I will assign it to your offspring.’ I have let you see it with your own eyes, but you shall not cross there.”

What must Moshe have been thinking as he stood at the top of Har Nevo, looking over the land that with every ounce of his being, he had worked to attain? Was he thinking of the past; of his many achievements as well as his failures during the past 120 years? Was he thinking of his youth in Pharaoh’s palace, and of his return to the palace, this time as a partner to a newly revealed God? Did he ponder God’s insistence that he help free his newly found people from his adopted family’s enslavement policy, and bring them to land promised to ancestors he had never known and was only just discovering? Going over his years in the desert, was he ruminating on how he might have been a more effective leader, spouse and father?

I imagine that prominent in his thoughts was that moment that he decided to step aside from the trail because he thought he saw a burning bush. Perhaps he rolled his eyes heavenward and thought, ‘if only I had stuck to the sheep…’ or, maybe he thought, ‘wow! That was pretty amazing; now I don’t have to figure out what I’m going to do for the rest of my life! How fun - I’ll get to work with my siblings and camp out too!'

As he looked over the land, maybe he was thinking about the times that he was able to comfort his community when they were hungry, or lost, or even when they encountered the Divine. Perhaps he thought about the time on Mount Sinai, as God prepared to deliver the Aseret Ha Dibrot to the people, when all of Israel stood in fear and awe at the base of Mount Sinai, and begged him to be their representative to a Force that was both comforting and terrifying at the same time. As it says in (Ex 20:15-)

All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance.

“You speak to us,” they said to Moses, “and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.”

Moses answered the people, “Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the fear of God may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.”So the people remained at a distance, while Moses approached the thick cloud where God was.

Looking over that great expanse, he must have reflected on the many struggles and frustrations he had experienced both with his fellow Israelites and with God; the complaints, the never ceasing demands, and the mystery of working for the One whose presence could not be seen. Again, I quote from Exodus: (Ex 33:12-18)

Moses said to ה׳, “See, You say to me, ‘Lead this people forward,’ but You have not made known to me whom You will send with me. Further, You have said, ‘I have singled you out by name, and you have, indeed, gained My favor.’

Now, if I have truly gained Your favor, pray let me know Your ways, that I may know You and continue in Your favor. Consider, too, that this nation is Your people.”

And [God] said, “I will go in the lead and will lighten your burden.”

And he replied, “Unless You go in the lead, do not make us leave this place.

For how shall it be known that Your people have gained Your favor unless You go with us, so that we may be distinguished, Your people and I, from every people on the face of the earth?”

And ‘ה said to Moses, “I will also do this thing that you have asked; for you have truly gained My favor and I have singled you out by name.” He said, “Oh, let me behold Your Presence!”

Finally, as he looked over the land that he would never inhabit, was he excited for the future of those with whom he had journeyed over his 40 plus years? Was he somewhat wistful about those things that he knew he could still do, but would not be his to carry out? Was he relieved that the big problems were not his any longer and that Joshua would be a great leader?

I imagine Moshe Rebbenu had all these thoughts and more. I know that I do, as I think of the last, almost 30 years at TBE, the 6 years before that at Mount Holyoke College, the 7 years of study and the many years of wanting to be a rabbi even when it was unavailable to women. Moshe, like all good prophets, was a bit of an unwilling leader, though he was an early opponent of abusing laborers. My purpose in becoming a rabbi also was not for the leadership aspect, but because I loved being engaged in the pursuit of the Divine. I loved the texts, I loved the prayer, I loved the lifestyle, I loved the sense of having community all over the globe. It made no sense to my family - or even to myself. It just was. My mistake was that I thought only rabbis engaged in the pursuit, it didn’t dawn on me that “normal people” might also be part of the journey! One of my many goals has been to introduce regular people - all of us - to the beauty and depth of our Tradition and to assure us that we are absolutely capable of serious engagement with the many aspects of Judaism. Like Moses, the Rabbis whom I have admired and who have mentored me, have also been humble and have also been willing to stand up for the oppressed. They did not go into the rabbinate to find fame and/or fortune. I think they did it out of a sense of love. Needless to say, the rabbinate is both demanding and fulfilling. Time and emotions are spent caring about the whole community, both individuals and the larger community. While I never could have anticipated the extreme highs and extreme lows of this position, I have never doubted my choice. God did not have to coerce or cajole me to take on the role. I chose it (though I believe the Divine hand was in there somewhere) As I look back, though, I have a few wishes: I wish I had been able to enjoy rabbinical school a little more. I wish I had been more prepared to enter into a male centered profession. I wish the communities we entered had been more prepared to work with female professionals. I wish I had been a little more patient, understanding and bold during difficult conversations. I wish I was kinder to myself. I wish we could have been a more unified and happier community earlier on, and you guessed it - I wish everyone loved coming to services and singing! But, as I look back, all those wishes have become opportunities for learning. I have grown, you have grown, and together we share a wonderful community - one that cares, that is supportive of the community as a whole, and that is increasingly connected to one another.

The future: In Moshe’s last moments Adonai took him and Joshua into the Tent of Meeting and spoke of the future without Moses and in the promised land: (Dt. 31 16-21)

You are soon to lie with your ancestors. This people will thereupon go astray after the alien gods in their midst, in the land that they are about to enter; they will forsake Me and break My covenant that I made with them.Then My anger will flare up against them, and I will abandon them and hide My countenance from them…Therefore, write down this poem and teach it to the people of Israel; put it in their mouths, in order that this poem may be My witness against the people of Israel.

When I bring them into the land flowing with milk and honey that I promised on oath to their fathers, and they eat their fill and grow fat and turn to other gods and serve them, spurning Me and breaking My covenant, and the many evils and troubles befall them—then this poem shall confront them as a witness, since it will never be lost from the mouth of their offspring…

Is this what Moshe really wants to hear as he looks to the future? At the very point that he is reviewing his past, and his life’s work? I would think that it would be difficult to hear - especially from God - that ultimately your work made little or no difference, and that the generation that you led would reject the very core values you worked so hard to engender. But maybe that’s the wrong message. Perhaps God just needed a partner to vent with, since it would be God’s failure as well. Or perhaps God intended to make Moses feel better; ‘Oh, don’t worry about leaving your people at the border, you did a great job, and without you, it will probably fall apart.’ Or are Moses and Joshua privy to God’s use of reverse psychology? Maybe, God thinks, if Moses and Joshua pass on this news, the people will be inspired to prove Me wrong and will, in fact, honor the covenant. God’s concern, though, is one that I ponder daily.

I am speaking with you honestly, as I say that one of the most challenging aspects of my rabbinate has been trying to balance passing on the “Tradition” when it doesn’t mix with the reality of our lives here in 2023 Maine. I find myself wrestling with what I should ‘require’ and what I should let go; and then, if I let it go..is it gone forever? For example, how many of us understand the concept of mitzvah as only a good deed and how many of us see it as an obligation in our religion. And even if we see it as both (which we probably do), when might we honor the obligatory nature of mitzvah, and when do we put that aside? And if we put the ‘obligatory’ part aside, will it be lost? But if we simply follow traditions when they feel meaningless, or because we are told to do them, how does that enhance our lives? I think that was the challenge in Moses’ day and continues in ours. The real question for each one of us is to ask why we do or why we do not follow a Tradition. And so I teach and try to practice a more traditional approach, with the hope that others will make their own decisions and without judgment. For me, one of the attractions of Judaism is our intellectual AND experiential approach. Just thinking about mitzvot doesn’t “cut it.” We have to act, as well. Judaism is a living religion. We must hold to our core values, which include in no particular order - justice, community, covenant and a relationship with Divinity in the world, even if it is a non-relationship, and with the caveat that Divinity is broadly, but Jewishly, interpreted.

I’m sure it’s obvious that as I look at Moshe on top of Mount Nebo, I can relate to him. Perhaps, wherever you are in life right now, you do as well. Obviously, I am no Moses, but each one of us has Moses-ness in us. Moses’ work was to partner with God and the Children of Israel, to create an ethical, somewhat organized society based the teachings of what was then a new idea. No matter where we are in life, that is our work as well. Some may call it Tikkun Olam, some may call it observing mitzvot, some call it activism, and advocacy, but I believe it is a life of holiness, practiced in community and as individuals, and I believe we are all doing it. Hopefully, you have all seen, or will see, a “burning bush” that sparks your interest and your passion and calls you to move towards it, and heed it’s message. That “bush” may not make logical sense intellectually, but it stirs our hearts and souls in ways we never anticipated. I always believe that when my life takes an unplanned turn, God’s hand is in it. I never expected to be the Rabbi of a congregation. In fact, I was worried that I would not be accepted to rabbinical school if I told them that I didn’t want to be a pulpit rabbi! When I came to Temple Beth El, I believe the bets were on 2 to 5 years; at least that’s what my Emeritus told me! Who knew that 30 years and a few unsent resignation letters later, I would be standing here feeling the sadness, the happiness, the excitement, the worry and the profound satisfaction and gratefulness for this holy opportunity I’ve had with all of you and with those who came before you.

May we continue to go from strength to strength in the following years. May 5784 bring you joy and satisfaction. May your burning bush warm and enlighten your soul. L’shanah tovah umetukah - may you have a sweet new year and a G’mar tov, a good ending to the holiday season.

Remember God’s words to Moses: “they will forsake Me and break My covenant that I made with them” My hope for you and for all of us is to prove God wrong…

Juneteenth 2023

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Mon, 19 Jun 2023 15:08:02 GMT

Sometimes memories of my childhood just roll around in my brain. I play out the situation and then wonder how I might react today. The holiday of Juneteenth has brought back memories of my sixth grade teacher. While teaching us about the civil war, he informed us that the slaves did not leave the plantations immediately after emancipation because ‘they were happy with their situations and didn’t want to leave.’ At the time I was incredulous and I probably made a jaw dropping gasp, but I didn’t have the words - other than rude, 11 year old ones - to answer him. I remember wanting to cry - not only because he was so, so wrong, but I think I worried others would believe him. I am still angered by his statement. I wonder where he learned such an awful lie, and why he believed it. To my sixth grade mind as well as my present mind, I just wonder how could he possibly have believed that people violently hunted and torn from their homes, who were put on boats like cargo, mistreated, abused, terrorized, purposely separated from family, bought and sold, and treated as though they were less than human - what could possibly make him think that they were too happy to leave? Was he too embarrassed to tell us the truth? Who had indoctrinated him? What did he gain by teaching us something so blatantly wrong? I imagine that if I tried to speak to him about the horrors of slavery, the systemic bias within our present system, and about the many obstacles society placed before the freed slaves and their future generations, he would deny it. Or, just maybe because it is a new era and the two of us have experienced so much more of life, we might have a thoughtful conversation where we both could admit to ways that we have been complicit in a system where all humans are not treated equally. Maybe by speaking honestly and regretfully to one another, we could examine our actions and inactions, and come up with better solutions to promote equality among all of us. As an American and as a Jew, I can never simply put the enslavement of Africans in our past and move on. Daily, in my liturgy, I am reminded that my ancestors were slaves in Egypt, and therefore I must be especially sensitive to the condition of those who are or have been enslaved. I must not oppress others, I must do my best to make sure people are treated fairly and, in my own actions, treat others fairly and with compassion. As a Jew, I believe the dignity of others is primary, not only because I think it is the right thing to do, but because each one of us is created in God’s image. As an American, I hold to the words of our Pledge of Allegiance: “..with liberty and justice for all.” The quote, “no one is free until we are all free” is attributed to many people, from Martin Luther King to another civil rights leader, Fannie Lou Hamer. It rings true to my ears and soul.

Last Shabbat we celebrated the LGBTQ community, yesterday we celebrated fathers, and today we celebrate the day when the last of the enslaved people were emancipated. We have yet to achieve our dreams of equal justice and freedom for all human beings, and we must keep working towards that day, but celebration is always a good start. Happy Juneteenth!!

Shabbat on Reproductive Rights

Thu, 16 Feb 2023 21:14:18 GMT

The National Council of Jewish Women intentionally determined that a Shabbat dedicated to creating conversation about Judaism’s approach to reproductive health access issues would occur each year on Parshat Mishpatim. The reason is because the basis of our approach comes in this parasha:

When [two or more] parties fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact, the payment to be based on reckoning. But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. (Ex. 21:22-25)

That is, if a person miscarries accidentally (in this case they got pulled into a fight), the offender is only liable for damages and does not receive the death penalty (life for life). From here, the rabbis determine that a fetus does not hold the same status as a living, breathing, out of the womb, human. In later codes, they will determine that there are times when it is permissible and times when, indeed, it is mandated to terminate a pregnancy. Contrary to other religious approaches, Judaism does not equate a potential life to an existing life; nor does it prioritize potential life over existing life. In fact, the opposite is true. Existing life takes precedence over a fetus. And so, terminating a pregnancy, having an abortion, is not only permitted under certain circumstances, but there are times when one is commanded to do so.

If on some level these verses bother you, you are in good company. I have never been pregnant, but I am told that pregnant people feel life within them almost from the start. To say that the fetus is not a life, and to absolutely ignore the pregnant person (note the woman in this verse is never consulted, it is only her husband) is hard for me to accept. On the other hand, many of us have stories, and many of us have heard stories - often gut wrenching - of times when abortion was the best choice. Merely saying that all abortion is immoral and therefore should be illegal for everyone denies us our freedom to practice our religion and denies us autonomy over our own bodies. I would add that if we are truly “pro life,” our attention should be focused on equitable and affordable access to pre- and post-natal health care, as well as proper, affordable, and equally accessible child care rather than singling out abortion and contraception.

R. Emily Langowitz and R. Joshua R. S. Fixler wrote in their essay,“Abortion and Reproductive Justice”:

These texts and their subsequent interpretations are a vital resource for all of us who seek to affirm Jewish support for the choice to terminate a pregnancy and to advocate from a Jewish perspective for laws that protect reproductive choice. And we are called to go further; the law is only one facet of a full and holistic justice…The text in Exodus 21 begins with an act of violence perpetrated against a pregnant woman, and yet this woman is all but absent from subsequent conversation about this passage. Across the centuries, almost all of the voices of Jewish interpretation, and even many modern commentators, fail to acknowledge her story. The interpreters miss the opportunity to see her as subject, rather than object. To see the woman in this text as merely a hypothetical in a legal case study is to deny that cases such as these were very real to the people who experienced them. To reach a full sense of justice in our understanding of abortion, we must pair mishpatim (laws) with sippurim (stories). ( The Social Justice Torah Commentary, 2021)

Parshat Mishpatim offers us the basis for what has become halacha (law), but it is the sippurim , the stories, that bring us the pregnant person’s voice and the complexity of the decision and its aftermath, into the conversation. TBE is open to this conversation on this Shabbat, and at all other times.

Shabbat Shalom.

Etz Chayim He: The Tree of Life

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Wed, 25 Jan 2023 21:24:46 GMT

There is a legend in my family, I think it was about my great-grandfather. He was on a hike and I guess it went on a little too long. Legend has it that he said, “One tree and another tree…I’m meese and moose with trees!” Now, when anything gets to be too much, we say, “...I’m meese and moose!!” But this is not a reflection on things being “too much,” rather this is about trees.

I am thinking about this because Tu B’Shvat, the New Year of the Trees, is happening on February 6th this year. While there is significance to this day regarding the tithing of produce, its significance for us today revolves around sustainability, environmentalism, or the climate. In Israel, it’s customary to plant trees on this day. The snow may be falling in Maine, but the sap is just beginning to run in Israel, so maybe Tu B’Shevat offers us the opportunity to look towards spring, and growth, and re-birth. But back to trees.

In 2016 Peter Wohlleben published his book, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate . In this book, he speaks convincingly about how trees protect their young, share the sunlight with other trees, and act as a community. “Forest trees,” writes Richard Grant in Smithsonian magazine, “have evolved to live in cooperative, interdependent relationships, maintained by communication and a collective intelligence similar to an insect colony.” I’m sure that we humans have a lot to learn from the natural world, if only we would listen.

Last year, we purchased a package suggested by our passionate climate activist, Lorin Troderman. It is a story told on laminated posters called Wise Friends . The story is simple, each tree in the story has Jewish roots and teaches an important lesson. The Cedar tree teaches us to be strong, “bBe as strong as my trunk. If you do, you will thrive.” The Fig tree teaches us to be kind, “Like my roots, softness can break through the hardest stone.” Ironically, the story is meant to be read outside, under the trees. Here in Maine, with the snow falling, we will wander through the pages in the Sanctuary, in the comfort of the Etz Chayim , the Tree of Life, that lives in the Ark. It will be up for 2 weeks, from January 28 - February 12. Please feel free to visit any time. I want to encourage you to sit with the story, to place yourself in Nature, to appreciate the New Year of the Trees, and to ponder what needs to happen in order for us to sustain the ecological balance of the world.

Happy, early, Tu B’Shvat.

Rabbi

On the 50th Yahrzeit of Abraham Joshua Heschel and in honor of MLK Day

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 12 Jan 2023 18:00:15 GMT

This week of remembrances is bringing me inspiration and a reality check. The 18th of Tevet (Wednesday) was the 50th anniversary of Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Heschel’s death. The 22nd of Tevet, corresponding to the 15th of January (this year), is Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday. They were both friends and colleagues, they were both visionaries, they spoke truth not only to power, but to all humanity. Both of these men are heroes of mine. Both inform my values and have had a tremendous effect on me. Both died way too early and their work - our work - is nowhere near done.

They first met on January 14, 1963 at a conference in Chicago on religion and race. At Dr. King’s invitation, Dr. Heschel spoke. His first lines caught me….

At the first conference on religion and race, the main participants were Pharaoh and Moses. Moses’ words were: “Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel, let My people go that they may celebrate a feast to Me.” While Pharaoh retorted: “Who is the Lord, that I should heed this voice and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord, and moreover I will not let Israel go.”

The outcome of that summit meeting has not come to an end. Pharaoh is not ready to capitulate. The exodus began, but is far from having been completed. In fact, it was easier for the children of Israel to cross the Red Sea than for a Negro to cross certain university campuses.

Suddenly, I recognized myself as Pharaoh. As a Jew, the Pharaoh in the Exodus story is my , exploitative, self promoting, oppressor. Today, in some ways, I am Pharaoh . I’ve pretty much made it across the Red (Reed) Sea; but how many of my Black, Brown, Queer and other oppressed minority friends have not? I realize that racism, sexism and all the other “isms” are not my fault. Still, it is so important to recognize that I am part of a system that does not treat everyone fairly. I once heard Rabbi Heschel’s daughter, Prof. Susannah Heschel, speak about that iconic picture of her father walking next to Dr. King in Selma. She noted in one talk:

“Their relationship is invoked whenever there’s a call for inspiration, for transcendence of political conflict,” said Heschel. “My own feeling is while yes, it is a source of hope, it should also be a photograph of challenge, not of complacency, not simply patting ourselves on the back. What are we doing now? I know that’s what my father would want, as well.”

I know that many of us are working hard to recognize the dignity of all of God’s creation. I know that it is a constant struggle and that our successes may feel small and may not make it into social media. The words of Rabbi Dr. Abraham Heschel, from his experience of God as an active partner in our human encounters to his call to action as a response to God’s partnerships, are inspiring to me. He and Dr. King, though from very different backgrounds and very different religions, gave us the same message of justice, equality, and the possibility of reaching the Promised Land.

I sometimes worry that when we have a day or a month every year to honor people, we forget about them during the other times. Don’t.

It's That Time of Year

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 08 Dec 2022 21:57:23 GMT

It’s that time of year. Lights, trees, music, happy people gathered around the fire, stockings on the mantle, peace on earth. It all looks so beautiful and inviting. Some years I feel like Scrooge, disdaining everything about the holidays. Annoyed that most of the people celebrating Christmas are diluting a religious holiday into a massive rush to capitalism and annoyed that those celebrating Chanukah are probably doing the same thing! Other years I look forward to joining in the fun; going downtown to look at the trees and beautiful celebratory shop windows. I decorate my house with hanging dreidels and blue and white tinsel. I dig into my sukkah decorations to see what I can use around the house. If you can’t beat em - join em!

But I always feel like the “other.” I’m one step off, not quite getting the season right. I’m neither Christmas nor Chanukah. Sure, I light candles and sing songs; I often light a fire in the fireplace for that cozy feeling. But the history of Chanukah is not cozy; playing dreidel isn’t the most fun game in the world, and I can’t get it out of my head that dreidel was traditionally played so that Jewish hands would always be above the table and above suspicion, just in case the Cossacks come to burn the house down. And just how many latkes can a person eat? I can’t imagine how crazy it must feel to be to be Muslim or Hindu, or some other religion/culture that doesn’t celebrate a holiday at this time of the year.

I’ve read quite a bit about the “December Dilemma” and I know that some people feel as I do, some just don’t “do any Christmas” and put their effort into a dazzling Chanukah, some do both, and some have special Jewish Christmas traditions. Last week, though, I read one parent’s take away regarding her 10 and 12 year old daughters’ experience of confusion and disappointment of another year without Christmas. This parent asked an interesting question: “How do we teach our children to act around something that doesn’t belong to them?” Christmas belongs to others. It’s beautiful, it’s cozy, it’s fun…but it’s not ours. So if you are one of those people who would like your children to celebrate Jewish time, without Santas and trees, or eggs and chocolate at Easter, perhaps one approach would be to teach that not everything is ours, that others may have things that we want, be they toys or food or vacations, or cars etc. Sometimes it’s appropriate to share. At Christmas time, we can probably go over to another person's house and share their celebration, (by the way, I recently decked the halls at my gym - with some Chanukah decorations too!) but Christmas is simply not something we own. It can be a hard lesson to learn, but extremely valuable in the long run. In the meantime, I am just seeing how I feel this year - will it be Scrooge? Chanukah Harry? or peace and light for a world sadly in need of it.

Shabbat Shalom

Calling Up the the Torah

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Thu, 03 Nov 2022 19:16:32 GMT

A good name is more desirable than great riches;

to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.

Proverbs 22:1

Over the years of my rabbinate, I have been privileged to help many people find and embrace their own Hebrew names, as well as the names of their children. I’ve poured over naming books with those who choose to be Jewish, and with those who never had a Hebrew name and always wanted one. My passion for names probably comes from my own experience of finding one. Never having been given a Hebrew name, and hoping to be called up to the Torah for an aliyah, I searched for my own name. It turns out that my Mom really liked the name, Carolyn. I wasn’t named after anyone in the family, she just thought it was a beautiful name! I don’t remember why, but it was our Cantor, my Hebrew teacher, that chose the name, Ariela. I love it; it means Lion of God (and I am a Leo). It’s also an obscure name for Jerusalem. There are many ways we can come up with names. Some of us are named after beloved relatives (Ashkenazi Jews only use the names of the deceased; Sephardi Jews are often named after someone who is living), some of us are given names that reflect our best qualities or our namer’s wish for our best qualities, and sometimes the name just sounds beautiful.

As you probably know, our Hebrew name also includes the names of our parents. In the past, we have been known as ploni (any name) ben (son) or bat (daughter) of parent #1 and parent #2. As I was searching for my name, I also asked my parents for theirs. They had no idea if they even had Hebrew names! So, I did what every Ariela might do - I named them myself! After conducting some research, I found out that my mother might have been called Goldie, so I named her Zahava (Hebrew for gold). My father’s name was Robert, so I named him Reuven. Thus, I became Ariela bat Reuven v’Zahava and I’m sticking with it!

Name are important. They are a big part of our identity. While I completely understand why we might not know our Hebrew name since we don’t use it often (enough, LOL), it is one aspect of who we are. A Hebrew name is used (though we can also use English) at crucial times in our lives: at birth, at Brit Mitzvah, whenever we are called to the Torah, at weddings and when we die. For those who have children, our Hebrew name is used in their lifecycle events as well. Generations of family are remembered through our names.

Because we deeply respect and honor each individual and their name, it behooves us to honor their whole being. Many do not identify as a “son” or as a “daughter,” yet they identify with their name. And so, an acceptable way of naming them is to say that they are ploni mibeit ploni v’ploni , that is [name] from the house of [ parent #1] and [parent #2]. Of course, there are variations on the parent’s names. One doesn’t need to have two parents for a Hebrew name, nor for those with two parents do they need to be male and female. When one becomes Jewish, their Jewish parents traditionally are Abraham and Sarah, but there are variations on this too. At TBE, our minhag is to only include the names of those who are Jewish.

Similar to last week’s thoughts, this too is a long introduction to our new Aliyah cards. Again, thanks to Leo Levine Sporer and Joy Krinsky, we have cards that are welcoming, informative and honor the identity of each person called to the Torah. First of all, everyone is called up with gender neutral language. Rather than ta’amod or ya’amod “rise’ (female or male), we say Na la’amod “ Please rise…” Then, as the person approaches the Torah, they say their Hebrew name and use either ben, bat or mi beit. The Gabbai (person who calls people to the Torah) repeats the name and the aliyah goes on from there! You will also see a big “welcome” and “thank you” on the card, as well as the Torah blessings. One of the goals of the Ritual Committee and of TBE is to remove as much “inside baseball,” as possible and be sure our rituals are accessible. On every card: Opening/Closing the Ark, Lifting the Torah, Wrapping the Torah, and Blessing the Torah Reading, there are instructions explaining the honor. Our thought is that after you accept the honor, you have some time to remind yourself of how it is done. Of course, there are always “Bima Demons” that get us confused even though we know what we’re doing, so there will always be people around to step in and help out. It takes a village to read Torah(!).

Looking forward to seeing you, and honoring you some Saturday morning!

Shabbat Shalom.

Ashamnu

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Tue, 04 Oct 2022 16:04:31 GMT

Kol Nidre 5783

Several years ago, when we dedicated the Slivka Holocaust Memorial, Brother Francis Blouin of the Brothers of Christian Instruction was invited to speak. What he did was profoundly moving to me, and has never left my heart. Somehow, it also allowed me to let go of a piece of pain that I was carrying around without even knowing it. He, on behalf of himself and the Church, took responsibility and apologized for the Church’s antisemitic teachings over the years and for the active and passive ways that the Catholic Church participated in the Shoah. Suddenly, I felt seen and perhaps, a little more whole. Now I know that Brother Blouin neither took part in antisemitic teachings, nor in the Shoah - in fact, he was a strong and courageous advocate for human rights - yet as an educator and a member of an established community, he believed that we have communal responsibility in addition to individual responsibility. And so he stood in front of us, and apologized.

Tonight, we stand together as a community. Nine more times this holiday, we will confess: “ Ashamnu, we are guilty, bagadnu, we have cheated, gazalnu, we have robbed, dibarnu dofi, we have spoken too much. And we will say, “ Al cheyt shehatanu l’fanecha…” and list an alphabet of sins in which we may, or may not have participated. We - as a community - will take responsibility for one another’s actions. By the way, it’s not only sins that we collectively confess, we also take pride in one another’s accomplishments, whether we were a participant or not, be they astronauts, scientists, musicians, politicians, and family members. Even our prayers mention the matriarchs’ and the patriarchs’ accomplishments in the hopes that our association with them will bring us honor. For better and for worse, in life and in death, we are interconnected and responsible to and for one another.

Some years ago, while I was doing research for a sermon on restorative justice, I read Rev. Desmond Tutu’s work, No Future Without Forgiveness. It was there that I was introduced to ubuntu, a key philosophy to indigenous South African tribes regarding the interconnectedness of humanity. I wish I could properly pronounce the phrase which expresses ubuntu in one of the Nguni languages, but the phrase is translated as “a person is a person through other persons,” or as Reverend Tutu explained, “My humanity is caught up and inextricably bound up by yours. I am - is a result of we are.” “I am,” that is the quality of my existence, is bound up in “we are,” I am an individual but equally, or even more important, is that we are a community, and therefore we must be responsible for one another’s actions and one another’s welfare. It would follow then, that what dehumanizes you, dehumanizes me, as well. We are inextricably bound together. As Americans, where self advancement and ‘rugged individuality’ are founding philosophies, the concept of ubuntu, might be difficult to accept. Yet as Jews, we have our own phrase, kol yisrael arevim zeh l’zeh, all of Israel is responsible for one another. In the Talmud, this philosophy is meant to teach that we must keep one another far from sin, but we also use this phrase to teach that all of us - Sephardi, Ashkenazi, Mizrachi, affiliated, or unaffiliated, are interconnected. When one of us sins, we all sin and when one of excels, we all excel. Remember Bernie Madoff? Remember Dr. Jessica Meir from Caribou, Maine? As Jewish Americans, we experience two opposing philosophies. This might be a conflict yet to be resolved and one which we might ponder over Yom Kippur, but for me - much of the time - I try to have community and humanity take precedence over the individual. This was the message of Brother Blouin as he apologized for the Church’s actions and inactions, and this is the message of Yom Kippur as we repeat our public and private confessions. As my moral mentor, Abraham Joshua Heschel taught us, “some are guilty, but all are responsible.”

And so, on this Yom Kippur, knowing how I felt when Brother Blouin spoke, I want to apologize for the many different ways we may have excluded you, or hurt you, or dehumanized you, or ignored you, as you walk on our path. I don’t share the authority or the bravery of Brother Blouin to apologize for all synagogues, and all Jews, but I know that we have, at times, forgotten the beautiful diversity of God’s creation. I know that I have been too binary when it comes to gender and sexual identity, religious belief and practice, political belief, and I’m sure many more aspects of life of which I am not presently aware. As it says on the Keshet website, “Identity is deeply personal, and each person's collection of identities is unique;” it most definitely is not one thing or another. Respecting the diversity of our identities is core to a healthy community and the diversity is what makes our community rich and loving. So if I have not been respectful of your personal identity, or if I have diminished you in some way, I ask your forgiveness.

This world, God’s world (no matter how you understand God), in fact God, Godself - is not one thing or another. Rather our world and our community should be more like that overused image of a rainbow, not the one with distinct colors, but the one where the colors blend together; distinct, yet a mixture, and still recognizable as a rainbow. I strongly believe that my humanity is bound by yours and what raises each one of you up, raises me up as well. I believe that we are morally stronger when we accept and celebrate our differences while recognizing that we are one people.

And so, on this Kol Nidre night and Yom Kippur day, as we sing and pray together, let us take communal responsibility for our shortcomings, and let us also say welcome - welcome to members of TBE, to not yet members, to visitors, searchers, Jewish and non-Jewish friends and partners, people of all genders and sexual orientations, people of all colors. We wish everyone a g’mar tov, an uplifting ending to a meaningful day bringing us into a year where we too can embrace the philosophy of ubuntu , and of klal Yisrael, where my humanity is inextricably linked to yours. May we all experience the fullness of life.

Letting Go

rabbi@tbemaine.org (Carolyn Braun) — Mon, 26 Sep 2022 14:12:18 GMT

Rosh Hashanah 5783

It all started with a conversation I had with some colleagues a few weeks ago. We hadn’t seen each other for many years, and we were catching up on the “good old days” - when I was in the first years of graduate and rabbinical school and they were in their last. It was so comforting and familiar to share stories that we hadn’t heard for years. After a while, reflecting on our teachers and our older colleagues, we began to talk about their legacies. We laughed as we imagined what our legacy might look like: A building named after us? A wing of the shul? A definitive book on an esoteric subject? Naw, that was the old days. Someone mentioned that our legacy was going to be defined by our individual relationships and not by anything physical. Our conversation moved on and one of my colleagues told us that after 30 years in his home, he and his wife had made the decision to move so that they could be nearer to some of their children and grandchildren. I couldn’t see his face, but I saw his eyes rolling upwards as he spoke about this move. As you can imagine, he and his wife and their four children (now out of the house and married), had 30 + years of furniture, books, pictures, tchotchkes, and memories to deal with. It was a full time job. What were they going to keep, what were they going to sell, what were they going to throw away, and most importantly, how would they decide? I felt myself squirm as he spoke of the boxes of his kids’ childhood which they refused to clear out - old college newspapers and memorabilia that my colleague would have to shlep and store in his new home. A decision kicked down the road until that time, hopefully in the far distant future, that the children would have to clean out their parents’ house. Yup. Been there. Was one of those kids.

I was struck by the timeliness of our conversation - looking at the past in light of the present, and making space for the future. As I pondered our light conversation, I suddenly realized how deep and spiritual it was. Reflecting on our own legacy - that is thinking about our impact on future generations; cleaning out our “houses,” the houses of our souls and their effect on our everyday actions; deciding what to keep and what might be better to let go, and finally, thinking about what is on the bookshelves of our lives, what knowledge do we deem important and what image of ourselves do we want on display - all hit me as the work and focus of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Isn’t that we are called upon to do at this very moment? To really look at our lives and determine what is important to us and why? To rid ourselves of the stuff we no longer need, or that don’t serve us well, things that, once they are gone, will actually make more space for new possibilities? As we move into a new year, it might help to think of it as though we are moving into a new house. The task is not easy - in fact it can be painful even though we have made the choice to move. But it is not impossible. Fortunately, our sages gave us the opportunity to take on this task with baby steps. Each day at the beginning of the morning services, we are reminded to reflect on these things:

רִבּוֹן כָּל הָעוֹלָמִים לֹא עַל צִדְקוֹתֵֽינוּ אֲנַֽחְנוּ מַפִּילִים תַּחֲנוּנֵֽינוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ כִּי עַל רַחֲמֶֽיךָ הָרַבִּים,

מָה אָֽנוּ מֶה חַיֵּֽינוּ מֶה חַסְדֵּֽנוּ, מַה צִּדְקוֹתֵֽינוּ, מַה יְּשׁוּעָתֵֽנוּ, מַה כֹּחֵֽנוּ מַה גְּבוּרָתֵֽנוּ

Lord of all the worlds! Not on account of our righteousness do we fall down and offer our supplications before You,

but on account of Your abundant mercy. What are we? What is our life? What are our acts of kindness?

What is our righteousness? What is our deliverance?4 What is our strength? What is our might?

As everyone who knows me will tell you, I will have an awful time moving. I have a hard time letting go of my possessions. I keep all gifts, all books, all my notes from College, in fact, I keep most things. I’m not a hoarder, but once something is in my possession, I usually find a place for it, and there it will remain. On the other hand, when Kate first started here, she carefully and painstakingly went through all the files in her office and beyond, saving a few papers that might be important, archiving files that needed to be archived, and throwing away the rest. And then…then she organized the computer system so that files could be found and used and erased when they were no longer relevant. It practically gave me chills - what if, maybe…at some point in the future , she needed that piece of paper!! Me? I have an almost overflowing filing cabinet in my office. I had an awakening the other day when a conversion student came to study. I remembered that I had a list of questions in my files that I thought would be helpful. So I went out into the office and made a few copies - so I would have extras - and gave her one. She looked at it and asked, “when I have some time, would you like me to make this into a Google Doc?” It was a revelatory moment for me. I thought of Kate. Of course it made sense - saving paper and space and making the content much more accessible to everyone, but it didn’t even occur to me until she said something! Letting go of old ways is hard. Sometimes it takes someone else’s perspective to shift our minds. It also takes some humility to be able to reflect on our own actions honestly; and then come the feelings of vulnerability, when we recognize that new ways and new choices put us in a position where we don’t have the old way to fall back on. We have to learn a new approach, we have to let go. Perhaps that is why the morning prayer begins with "it is not because of our righteousness that we cry out before You;" rather, it is with our humility and vulnerability that we reach out to God, or deep into ourselves, appealing to both God’s compassion and to our own. For it is only through humility and compassion that we are able to hear other’s suggestions, and then overcome our vulnerability. And lest we forget, and believe that our importance or our place in the natural world is too great, our daily prayer goes on to remind us where we actually stand in the universe:

,מַה נֹּאמַר לְפָנֶֽיךָ יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵֽינוּ הֲלֹא כָּל הַגִּבּוֹרִים כְּאַֽיִן לְפָנֶֽיךָ וְאַנְשֵׁי הַשֵּׁם כְּלֹא הָיוּ וַחֲכָמִים כִּבְלִי מַדָּע וּנְבוֹנִים כִּבְלִי הַשְׂכֵּל

What can we say before You, Adonai, our God and God of our ancestors? Are not all the mighty as nothing before You?

Famous people as though they had never been? The wise as if they were without knowledge?

And people of understanding, as if they were devoid of intelligence?

כִּי רוֹב מַעֲשֵׂיהֶם תֹּֽהוּ וִימֵי חַיֵּיהֶם הֶֽבֶל לְפָנֶֽיךָ, וּמוֹתַר הָאָדָם מִן הַבְּ֒הֵמָה אָֽיִן כִּי הַכֹּל הָֽבֶל

For most of their actions are a waste, and the days of their life are trivial in Your presence.

The superiority of man over the beast is nothing, for all is futile.

That last line was from Kohellet , Ecclisiates. He was a bit overdramatic, yet the point is well made. Humility, knowing that we will feel vulnerable, and most of all having compassion, both towards ourselves and others, are necessary for a big move.

Still, we need to actually get rid of some “stuff” before we move. For some of us, letting go of things can be so difficult. One of the reasons, as I mentioned before, is that whatever the “it” is, we worry that there will come a time when we wish we had it. Whether it is a book, a box of memorabilia, or a character trait, it once felt important or comfortable to have, and, who knows, maybe in the unknown future it may be important to hold onto something we once knew well. If it served us well in the past, there is always the possibility that we will need it again. And so I force myself to ask, is it worth the space to hold onto something "just in case?" Perhaps I am only holding onto a wish or a dream that probably won’t come to fruition. Can I let it go and make room for something else? One of my colleagues in our discussion told us that his office at the shul was being remodeled so he needed to make some choices. As he looked through his files, there was that program; the one that was going to change the Jewish world, the one that was so well conceived that it would bring all those present the knowledge and understanding that would bring them forever close to God and Judaism. We all laughed. We all have that file. The one that will change the world. Yet we all know that one program or a few brilliant ideas are not going to change the world. What would happen if we were to throw away that file? Would our great ideas or our best intentions go for naught? Which also brings me back to our legacy. For the majority of us, our legacies aren’t going to be made from having the best idea, the biggest library, the most money or the loudest voice. Rather our legacy will be defined from our relationships, our good deeds and the way we live our lives daily. In other words, laugh at yourself a bit when you decide to keep those things that you believed would change the world. If they were world changers, by all means keep them and use them over and over again. And if not, maybe it is time to let them go, and make space for new ideas and new possibilities.

In many ways, the stuff that we hold onto, both the physical and the intangible, define us. Letting go sometimes causes us to look at who we are in the present and evaluate whether that is what we want to be. Another colleague said that after some long reflection, he realized that his bookshelves represented the Rabbi he was supposed to be, and not the Rabbi he became. He was not the rabbi who spent all his time in the office pouring over the Talmud, the legal codes and all the esoteric books of his predecessors, though his bookshelves gave out that impression. Going through his books when he moved was an enlightening life experience for him. So I looked at my shelves. Now, I truly love books. I love to hold them in my hands, I love to carry them around, I love to pile them beside my bed and I love to see them in my office and at home. The fact is, I do use and enjoy books. Only most of them probably reflect the aspirational me. As many of you know, I was an English major in college. When the book lists came out for my classes, I bought every one….with the intention of reading every one. Every time I’ve moved, I’ve carried those books to my new place. I’ve read or skimmed some and I still plan on reading them in the future. Occasionally, I will look something up in my Talmud, or in my other rabbinic books, but upon reflection when I purchased them, in some ways I wanted to promote an image. They were the books that I was told I had to have - even if I couldn’t read them yet. I’m sure that I wanted my library to look like the libraries of rabbis before me. There is a famous story about Reb Zusha, a disciple of the Maggid of Mezeritch (18th CE). As he lay dying, his students found him in uncontrollable tears:

They tried to comfort him by telling him that he was almost as wise as Moses and as kind as Abraham, so he was sure to be judged positively in Heaven. He replied, "When I get to Heaven, I will not be asked Why weren't you like Moses, or Why weren't you like Abraham. They will ask, Why weren't you like Zusha?"

Moving into a new spiritual house means examining who we really are and determining what of our aspirations are attainable. It might mean freeing ourselves of other’s expectations and our own unattainable dreams so that we can take on new dreams; dreams that truly reflect who we are and what we truly value. We are constantly changing and growing and maturing. Our goals change, perhaps our situations change - whether it is because of health, or a new position, or a new child or new family member. Change includes letting go

Marie Kondo tells us that we should “keep only those things that speak to the heart, and discard items that no longer spark joy.” Judaism suggests that we should keep things that give us purpose, that keep us real, and that reflect who we are. I want to share one more line of that morning prayer with you. If you remember, the last line we looked at said, “The superiority of man over the beast is nothing, for all is futile.” To which the author answers:

אֲבָל אֲנַֽחְנוּ עַמְּ֒ךָ בְּנֵי בְרִיתֶֽךָ

BUT, aval, we are Your people. The children of Your covenant

Humility, compassion, vulnerability and the knowledge that we are intimately connected to the Divine help us to clean out our houses and let go of the things that don’t serve us. We are partners with God, we are in this life together, we are not alone.

A credit card company asks us, “What’s in your wallet?” Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur ask us, "what’s on your bookshelf, what’s in your files and in your house. What is in your soul?" We probably won’t get it completely right. We will probably wish we hadn’t rid ourselves of something, or kept things that we should have given away, but we will find that we have the capacity and the strength to do just fine, both in our physical houses and more importantly, in our spiritual homes… and our descendants won’t have to clean up the mess.

Green Team Update: Starting 5783 Off Right

Thu, 15 Sep 2022 18:36:54 GMT

19 Elul 5782

Friends,

As this shmita year draws to a close and we reflect on the ecological and social justice imperatives in these parashot of Devarim, the time for action is upon us. With a myriad of personal and collective possibilities available, I want to lift up a couple of immediate ones.

Dayenu, A Jewish Call to Climate Action

Dayenu, A Jewish Call to Climate Action , is running their Chutzpah 2022 campaign, partnering with the non partisan Environmental Voter Project with the following goals:

To increase the salience of climate change in the midterm elections – to put climate top of mind for voters and for candidates for office
To increase voter turnout; and to
Grow the power of the Jewish climate movement - that is, to let our Jewish communities know that climate is a top priority for Jewish communities, and we are backing that up with our time and our volunteerism.

The campaign is laser focused on the lowest hanging fruit in the upcoming state elections: Jewish environmental voters (climate is their #1 priority) in swing states who have not voted in previous midterm elections. Through phone banking every Tuesday and Thursday night between now and Election Day, I am inviting you to join me and hundreds of other volunteers from Dayenu in these efforts. It’s fun, important and makes a difference!

Here is the link to sign up for a shift.

Sukkot Gathering - Refuat Adamah

Climate Change impacts our entire planet. For each of us the devastation is both personal and communal. Earlier this summer on Tisha B’Av, I held an earth healing circle ( refuat adamah ) to gather folks together to allow us to experience our inner responses to the condition of our world and help build our capacity to take part in its/our healing. I am aware that there is a deep grief that eats away inside of me and I need to find healthy ways to lament, explore and share this with loving hearted kindred spirits. Do you?

If you are interested in attending on helping create this healing ritual that will take place during Sukkot please contact me at your convenience and stay tuned for more details on time and location.

Shabbat Bachutz is returning!
SAVE THE DATES: October 22, November 19, and December 17. More info to come!

As Elul winds down and we prepare to enter the New Year, may we all be blessed with the strength, calm and resilience needed to care for ourselves and others in this climate changing world.

Peace,

Lorin Troderman

Please contact Lorin for more info at ljtroderman@gmail.com .

Brit Mitzvah

Thu, 01 Sep 2022 17:59:11 GMT

Community is the human expression of Divine love. It is where I am valued simply for who I am, how I live and what I give to others. It is the place where they know my name.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l

It’s Labor Day weekend! Of course we celebrate it as the end of the summer and the beginning of a new year, but I don’t think this weather is going to end and there will be more time to swim at the lake, hike in the mountains, and kayak all over. After all, this is Maine - the way life should be! For me, this is an amazing weekend - I am officiating at a wedding in Camden and a Brit Mitzvah on Shabbat.

Jewish tradition tells us that each person is created b’tzelem Elohim , created in God’s image, and expresses a unique collection of identities. At TBE, we strive to honor, and embrace, and welcome all people no matter how they may identify with a special focus on reaching folks who may have historically felt left out of Jewish life. No doubt you have heard of a Bar Mitzvah (son of the commandments) or a Bat Mitzvah (daughter of the commandments), the celebration of a young person entering into Jewish adulthood, when they gain all the responsibilities of an adult Jew. Over the last few years, the limitations of these two gendered ceremonies have become more visible as trans and nonbinary Jews have made us aware and encouraged widespread adoption of more inclusive language, in general, and for young people who are coming of age Jewishly and who identify outside the gender binary (ie not male or female), in specific.

As you know, Hebrew is a gendered language. Today, language scholars are experimenting with new ways to be inclusive of trans and non-binary people when addressing or speaking of them. I don’t feel that we have solved this issue yet, but it is very exciting to watch as language develops. So where does that leave us? If a person does not identify as male or female, how do we describe their coming of age ceremony? Here at TBE, we have adopted the term Brit Mitzvah . There are so many things I like about this term. Brit , meaning covenant, is the word we use when talking about our ‘covenantal’ relationship with God, or simply Judaism. When a boy is brought into the world, we bring him into the covenant with his Brit Milah , the covenant of circumcision. In the 1970s, people began to use the term Brit Bat or Brit Banot , meaning the covenant of our daughters. So to use the term brit in relation to a young person taking on the Jewish responsibilities of adults, and publicly taking on a Jewish identity, sounds right to me. We spend a lifetime - maybe even more - figuring out what that covenant, that brit , means to us. What kind of Jew will we become? How will that fit into our identity collection? Time will tell; but I hope TBE’s community will be a guide and a support all along the journey.

Mazal tov to all those celebrating this weekend. And don’t forget all those whose labors have made it possible for us to reach this time.

Shehachianu, v’kiamanu, v’higianu lazman hazeh. Thank you for keeping us alive, sustaining us, and having brought us to this day.

On the Supreme Court Decision

Fri, 24 Jun 2022 20:55:03 GMT

Chaverimot (friends),

I am certain that not all of you will agree with me on this issue. I respect that, and will be happy to have a discussion with you. I continue to believe that not only is this decision a threat to a childbearing person’s right to appropriate health care and to choice, it is also a threat to freedom of religion. I stand with my colleagues who are condemning today’s Supreme Court decision.

Shabbat begins tonight at 8:08. We are also celebrating the Bat Mitzvah of a wonderful young woman, beginning at 5:30. There will be a march and rally beginning at 5:15 starting at Lincoln Park and then proceeding to City Hall. Once at City Hall, speakers will address the rally.

I invite you to attend whatever feels right for you at this time.

Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.

Conservative Rabbis Strongly Condemn U.S. Supreme Court Decision to Overturn Abortion Rights

Commit to supporting legislation in holding up reproductive freedom

New York, NY – For over five decades, the Rabbinical Assembly has strongly and repeatedly affirmed the halakhic necessity of access to abortion based on our members’ understanding of relevant biblical and rabbinic sources and teshuvot – rabbinic responses – and fiercely opposed efforts that would limit access to abortion or stifle reproductive freedoms in the U.S. In response to legislative efforts that threatened reproductive freedom in 2021, the Rabbinical Assembly (RA), the international association for Conservative/Masorti rabbis, passed a Resolution on Right to Legal and Accessible Abortion in the United States . Following today’s U.S. Supreme Court decision to overturn its previous landmark cases, Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey, effectively nullifying the Constitutional right to abortion for millions of Americans, the RA issued the following statement:

The RA is outraged by the decision of the U.S. Supreme Court to end the Constitutional right to abortion and deny access to lifesaving medical procedures for millions of individuals in the U.S., in what will be regarded as one of the most extreme instances of governmental overreach in our lifetime.

Many Americans now face a dire crisis. Many more face uncertainty. This is a dangerous time for all people who are capable of becoming pregnant, especially those in categories who have poorer maternal outcomes, and particularly BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) people or those of lower socioeconomic backgrounds. For individuals living in rural areas or in states that will jump to further restrict abortion, this decision is truly life-threatening. For American Jews and those of other faiths, this decision is a restriction on our religious freedom. For people who fall into the intersections of all or most of the above, our personhood has been rejected by the highest court in our nation.

The Committee on Jewish Law and Standards of the Rabbinical Assembly has repeatedly affirmed the right of a pregnant person to choose an abortion in cases where ‘continuation of a pregnancy might cause severe physical or psychological harm, or where the fetus is judged by competent medical opinion as severely defective.’ This position is based on our members’ understanding of relevant biblical and rabbinic sources, which compel us to cherish the sanctity of life, including the potential of life during pregnancy, and does not indicate that personhood and human rights begin with conception, but rather with birth as indicated by Exodus 21:22-23.

Based on our understanding of Jewish tradition and religious freedom, The RA supports the right to full access for all those who need abortions to the entire spectrum of reproductive healthcare and opposes all efforts by governmental, private entities, or individuals to limit or dismantle such access. Denying individuals access to the complete spectrum of reproductive healthcare, including contraception, abortion-inducing devices and medications, and abortions, among others, on religious grounds, deprives those who need medical care of their Constitutional right to religious freedom. Imposing civil and criminal consequences for clergy assisting their constituents as guided by halakhah deprives our members of a fundamental element of clerical practice incompatible with Jewish values.

There will continue to be legislative battles in the United States on both the federal and state levels that pose existential threats to reproductive freedom, especially so-called ‘heartbeat’ bills, which violate the foundational principle of separation of church and state. The Rabbinical Assembly emphatically opposes all such laws and Legislative or Executive moves and instead calls on members of Congress to decisively codify Roe v. Wade into law to enshrine the right to health, freedom, and dignity for all Americans.

I Lift My Eyes to the Mountains... HELP!

Thu, 26 May 2022 20:57:44 GMT

This week’s Torah portion, Bechukotai, begins: If you walk in the path of My mitzvot and my laws and you observe and do them….I will grant peace in the land (Lev. 26:3,6)

Even though the specifics of the mitzvot and the laws are somewhat fuzzy, I still think I know what it means to walk God’s paths. I know that it means not to kill a living, breathing soul without a damn good reason. I think it means to love, honor, and respect oneself and to extend the same to all others. I think it means to never do harm, and then, if you do, to try to repair whatever was harmed. I think it means to believe the best in others, to forgive most of the time, and to understand that “a rising tide lifts all boats.” Honestly, I think we all know what it means to walk in the paths of the Divine. I just don’t understand why it seems so hard for us all to get it. My soul is sick with sorrow for all those who have, or are experiencing the trauma of murder, of starvation, of displacement, of bulliing, of poor health care, of poverty, of addictions, of life, and of death.

I know that it does no good to allow my soul to languish or to feel powerless in the face of so many problems, but what can I do? “I lift my eyes to the mountains, seeking help,” says the Psalmist. Perhaps I need to lift my eyes from the newspapers, from live feed, and from social media. I need to allow my soul to breathe, rather than feel anger or despair. I fear, though, that somehow I am shirking my responsibilities, or using my privilege (luck?) to look away from these disasters, because, blissfully, they have not affected me personally. Torah also teaches us that we may not stand idly by when another is in danger. So, again, I languish. Perhaps my answer comes from the second line of the psalm and an interpretation of faith by Abraham Joshua Heschel. The next line of the psalm reads: “My help comes from Adonai, who made the heavens and the earth.” I need to take a breath and look towards the beauty in the world; I need to look at the stars at night, and the beauty of the day and recognize the Divinity in it all. Heschel would call this “wonder.” Our spirituality, our faith, begins with surprise and wonder at the world. Like a child (or a puppy) who is intensely curious and wondrous about everything, I too need wonder in my soul in order to move beyond the despair. “My help comes from Adonai…” the wellspring of wonder. Heschel would also teach that our relationship with God must be reciprocal. We rely on God because God relies on us. “Faith,” he writes, “is an awareness of divine mutuality and companionship…”

The current political scene, another school shooting, another supermarket shooting, the second anniversary of George Floyd’s killing, starvation in sub-Saharan Africa, hatred of the transgender community… in fact, the whole news cycle, is beyond upsetting. The idea that our help comes from many places - an attitude of wonder that brings us into a mutual relationship with the Divine. A healthy relationship with the Divine also brings us closer to one another and closer to the kind of world for which we pray.

Not if but when we walk in God’s path, and we practice God’s mitzvot; when we recognize and bless the miracle of life….then, perhaps, we will see peace in the land. Frankly, we can see it every day in many places. We only need to lift our eyes…

Shabbat Shalom. May the memories of those who gave their lives in our nation’s wars be a blessing. May their memories be bound up in the bond of life.

My Nostalgic Reflections on My Sedarim This Year

Thu, 21 Apr 2022 18:53:15 GMT

I think there are 2 kinds of Seder leaders. The first is the leader that goes too fast and the soup isn’t even heated yet by the time everyone’s singing dayenu. The second is the leader who sees every line as an opportunity for discussion and every story a novel to be pondered and evaluated. The dinner gets hotter and hotter and the fifth question (when do we eat?) is raised. This year, I realized that I am the second kind of leader. I’m the one who wants to examine every aspect of the Haggadah as a jeweler looks at a diamond. This year, though, even I got hungry.

It’s not easy to run a seder, especially because every year is a little bit different; be sure to thank the person/people who did. There were probably new people and old timers around the table. The leader wants to make sure everyone feels comfortable, add a few new things, be sure to include the older things, make it quicker for the kids, deeper for the adults who want it to be deep, and accessible to all. They want the food to be gourmet (don’t even get me started on how we get all the food in Maine) and plentiful. Gluten free, Hebrew speaker, carnivore, vegetarian, traditionalist, not Jewish, younger, older…everyone around the table(s) is celebrating this feast of freedom and redemption in their own way. Finally, the door is opened and Elijah comes in and takes a sip from his cup when no one is looking, the afikoman is found and passed around, tea is served, songs are sung and the seder is over. It truly takes a village to have a seder: you need the seder leader, the cooking leader, the setting the table leader, and the finding the afikoman leader. Though it’s a lot of work, it’s worth every minute. And it was especially nice to be together this year, even in smaller and covid careful groups.

We are now counting the omer - counting the days until the Torah is given to us at Shavuot.

Wishing you moadim l’simchah, very happy intermediate Pesach days. We celebrate the last two days of Pesach together on Friday and Saturday. Come join us Friday morning and/or Friday night and/or Saturday morning for in-person services, lunch and/or oneg Shabbat.

Chag Sameach and Happy Earth Day!

Pesach 5782/2022

Thu, 14 Apr 2022 18:55:30 GMT

Noon on Thursday. All I have left is to clean off the counters and change the dishes, sweep and mop, sell our chametz and think about room set up. As I write this greeting to all of you, I want to reflect on the good that surrounds me. I am being covid careful, and gradually widening my sphere. I am the proud caretaker of two beasts (a cat and a dog), l live in a great neighborhood, and my puppy has introduced me to new friends, both four and two legged. I have a great family, a great group of friends, and a great synagogue community. I have over-purchased food for the week, filled my gas tank, and when I can, I am enjoying all the new growth around my house and others. I am privileged.

Tomorrow night - as we sit around the table, eating and drinking, telling our stories and singing - I will also be thinking about those whom we have lost over the years and past weeks. I will think of those close to home and far away who are hungry, tired, homeless, and running from danger. Isn’t that our history as well? We begin the haggadah by inviting all those who are hungry to come and eat. Isn’t that one of our deepest wishes for the world? We will talk about a people who came from the dust of the earth, prospered, lost it all, and then were enslaved to a theocratic monarchy that oppressed strangers. Miraculously they were freed from slavery but then had to learn to become a community that cared for others. They had to learn to relate to a God idea that was greater than themselves, and Who reminded them that they were part of a very large system. I often see Pesach as a personal reminder of my privilege and therefore my obligation to use that privilege for the betterment of humanity. As I sit before a table full of friends and family, overflowing with food, I will ponder, “Let all who are hungry come and eat,” and, “We were slaves to Pharoah in Egypt.”

May each one of you have a meaningful, liberating and sweet Pesach.

TBE's New Bottle Filler

Thu, 07 Apr 2022 18:00:52 GMT

Like to cool the planet, reduce waste, and improve health with one simple act? Carry a refillable container for water and participate in the mitzvah of healing the world.

To encourage our awareness of what’s best for ourselves and the planet, the Temple has installed an Elkay water filter and dispenser outside the main bathrooms. It not only provides great tasting water, it tracks the number of 20-ounce water bottles avoided by its use.

And waste reduction is key! We are the generation that is taking responsibility for ensuring that we don't continue on the path of careless use of the bounties of the earth. Disposable plastic bottles are filling our landfills and polluting our seas. Here are a few facts :

1 million plastic bottles are purchased in the US every minute
8 million tons of plastic end up in the world’s oceans every 12 months
1,500 plastic bottles are thrown away every second of every day
91% of the world’s plastic bottles are not recycled
It can take up to 300 years for a bottle to fragment, and after it does it still never disappears

The Jewish value of bal tashchit (do not destroy - Devarim 20:19 ) leaps off the Torah scroll in regards to trees and morphs through the generations to instill valuable lessons regarding our relationship with the more than human world. Using refillable containers and water bottles helps cultivate a mitzvah consciousness as we appreciate the precious gifts our planet’s unique life systems offer.

So bring your reusable container, whether fancy or plain, and enjoy the delicious taste of clean water while reducing our use of plastic and building our community’s environmental mitzvah capacity.

A Hard Week… No, a Hard Few Weeks

Thu, 31 Mar 2022 18:57:01 GMT

Every death takes a toll on me, but over the last few weeks, the funerals I attended and led were soul wrenching. The illnesses that took each person were illnesses that slowly took away their autonomy and sometimes their personalities. Far from a quick journey, these illnesses take their time, without hope for full recovery. While I’m sure each family found moments of joy and love, and a treasury of life’s lessons during their journey, I’m not sure there are words to describe the anger and the grief that everyone felt. One has to wonder about a world where disease can take so much away from us…

I’ve been thinking about this on my walks when my mind starts to ponder the bigger questions of life. Last week, I was interrupted by smell. It was the smell of Spring. You know, when the earth starts to smell warmer and richer and full of the possibility of life. I remembered that I planted 200 bulbs last fall (which was no easy task) hoping to brighten up another Covid Spring. I also put in some flowering plants where I had taken down my yew tree. I began to think of Jerry Slivka, who along with his wife, survived the horrors of the Shoah. On the 70th anniversary of his Bar Mitzvah, he spoke about his love of gardening, especially flowers, because they reminded him of life and rebirth and beauty - the complete opposite of his experience during those horrible years. The flowers he planted and tended affirmed his faith in humanity and the world. They were the antidote to the horrors he experienced.

When I got home, I began to hunt for my crocuses and daffodils, to see if any were coming up. Sure enough, there they were!!! I only had to remember and look. I go out every day to see what is new in my garden. Not to paint too pretty a picture of it, though. Since that day when I smelled spring, the temperature has plummeted. It might have even snowed. The ground is frozen once again…

But this is spring in Maine. I have faith that more of my bulbs will come up. I have faith that the dog and the squirrels didn’t get them all. I believe it will get warmer and my backyard, which now looks like a bunch of sticks, will be green and lush. Soon, I will complain that it is too hot!

It doesn’t make these past weeks easier. I am still angry and sad about these deaths - and the others that I have experienced - but some of the pain is lifted by the knowledge that life continues, that there is beauty yet to be discovered, and that we have one another for support.

Shabbat Shalom.

V'nahafoch Hu

Thu, 10 Mar 2022 20:03:21 GMT

וּבִשְׁנֵים֩ עָשָׂ֨ר חֹ֜דֶשׁ הוּא־חֹ֣דֶשׁ אֲדָ֗ר בִּשְׁלוֹשָׁ֨ה עָשָׂ֥ר יוֹם֙ בּ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֨ר הִגִּ֧יעַ דְּבַר־הַמֶּ֛לֶךְ וְדָת֖וֹ לְהֵעָשׂ֑וֹת בַּיּ֗וֹם אֲשֶׁ֨ר שִׂבְּר֜וּ אֹיְבֵ֤י הַיְּהוּדִים֙ לִשְׁל֣וֹט בָּהֶ֔ם וְנַהֲפ֣וֹךְ ה֔וּא אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִשְׁלְט֧וּ הַיְּהוּדִ֛ים הֵ֖מָּה בְּשֹׂנְאֵיהֶֽם׃

And so, on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month—that is, the month of Adar—when the king’s command and decree were to be executed, the very day on which the enemies of the Jews had expected to get them in their power, the opposite happened , and the Jews got their enemies in their power.

V’nahafoch hu: the opposite happened. Just when it was expected that the Jews of Persia would be destroyed, the opposite happened - it was the Jews who gained control over the Persians. It sounds like a fairy tale, and in fact Megillat Esther is a kind of fairy tale, but this year I am going to embrace it. Who expected the Ukraine to stand up to Russia the way it has; or so many of the world’s larger powers to work together? I’m sure if we were to look into our own lives, there are so many places where we expected the worst, but the outcome was great. I experience this often, whether it is in teaching powerlifting, or more importantly, in personal interactions. On Purim, we revel in the unexpected ending. If at all possible, we allow ourselves to be happy - even to have a drink or two along with a ton of hamentashen. We try to calm our frayed nerves by celebrating with friends. We don’t ignore the world’s injustices. In fact, through the Megillah, we read about them and maybe even take a close look at the misogyny and antisemitism; the dangerous leaders and the violence perpetrated by them. But then, we dress up, we bring gifts to others ( shalach manot ), and we contribute to a good cause - in our case, the JCA's HIAS Refugee Resettlement Project (matanot l’evyonim ). Then we turn around and laugh with confidence at the very tyrants and leaders who bring havoc on the world. Like the iconic picture of a girl putting a flower into the barrel of a soldier’s gun, we change the message.

The world is topsy-turvy enough, let us embrace the times when humanity shines and when we watch out for one another. The goal is to be able to live in a safe and prosperous environment without having to destroy one another. The goal is not to kill the Hamans, but to convince them that our only chance of survival is when we care for one another. For whatever reason, this Purim I want to get in touch with my inner Herzl - im tirtzu, ain zo aggadah - if you want it, it’s not a fairytale. V’nahafoch hu: the opposite happened….

Shabbat Shalom.

Believe You Can Repair

Thu, 03 Mar 2022 20:06:55 GMT

If you believe you can destroy, believe you can repair. - Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav

“Russian soldier — Stop! Remember your family. Go home with a clean conscience.” - Billboard in Kyiv

The quote from Rebbe Nachman is one of my favorite quotes. I think of it when I experience a broken relationship, a disagreement, or political conflict. In fact, I think of it every time someone is harmed or feels discredited. Simply, I think Reb Nachman is suggesting that when we are unkind, or hurtful, or seek to discredit another - whether intentionally or unintentionally - we must believe that we have the inner strength and the moral obligation to repair the fissure and make the connection stronger and better. “Destroy” is an extremely strong word. It is the opposite of create and creation. It feels final and filled with existential loss. Too often we have the intention and the means to destroy others’ lives without the desire to rebuild them. Too often our need for power, or our need to be right, leads to destruction. Today, I am thinking of Russia, other days I think of other national leaders, but I am also thinking of the many instances where, for our own purposes and perhaps without much thought to the big picture and the larger community, we are destructive and we destroy.

The antidote to our power to destroy is to focus on our power to repair, because if we can do one we can do the other. While I don’t think we always have to focus on Jewish communities, I can’t help but think of the Jews of Ukraine. They have flourished and they have suffered in that region. Though so many of our ancestors fled Ukraine and the Pale of Settlement where they were forced to live, today their President and Prime Minister are Jewish, and we have Jewish communities that are thriving. One of the Masorti (Conservative) communities along the Ukraine/Russia border just moved into their new building two weeks ago(!). Today they are busy shuttling people to safety and providing them with food and supplies. Midreshet Schechter , in partnership with Masorti Olami , is providing vital aid to the efforts on the ground in Ukraine. Read Rabbi Irina Gritsevskaya’s post about her role in this work here . To support these efforts financially, click here . “Believe you can repair.”

The second quote, from a billboard in Kyiv, speaks of repair. “Russian soldier,” you who are here because you have been ordered to fight; “ Stop! Remember your family,” remember your humanity, your life, your loves and desires, remember that we are all human and share many of the same aspirations. “Go home with a clean conscience.” In other words, believe you can repair.

Shabbat Shalom.

Introducing TBE's Kevutza Yeruka

Mon, 28 Feb 2022 18:29:56 GMT

Hi! We’re your Kevutza Yeroka (Green Team) . We’re here to help with that anxiety you’re feeling over the shape of the planet you’re leaving your children.

In alphabetical order we are so far: Barbara Dichter, Bill Burge, Carolyn Turcio-Gilman, Lorin Troderman, and Sam Milton. We’re also indebted to Lynn Goldfarb, of blessed memory, who contributed to our efforts over several months with ideas and resources. We invite you to join our team.

Our core objective is to ameliorate climate change. Other objectives flow from that ever-present Jewish commandment of tikkun olam (repair the world).

We’ve determined that the Temple’s roof would be a great place to install solar panels. It’s flat and under little shade throughout the year. Panels would not only support the Temple with electricity, they might also serve as a source of income. In addition, their placement would be a project whereby we and others may learn and be motivated to do the same at or near our homes.

We’ve also been exploring information presented by the Jewish Climate Action Network and last month’s Big Bold Jewish Climate Fest . These organizations and their events have served as valuable networking avenues to similar-minded efforts all over the nation.

Our plans for the future will continue to focus on both local action and global thinking. Another group we’re connecting with is Dayenu . Dayenu focuses on changing government policies at all levels, from local to global. Plus, we’d like to learn more about socially responsible investing and other ideas both great and small.

We're in your Kevutza Yeroka not because we consider ourselves experts in ameliorating climate change, but because we want to learn how we might make a positive difference. Please ask us your questions, tell us your ideas, and express to us your concerns. We are your Green Team. We’re here to help!

After Colleyville

Thu, 20 Jan 2022 19:58:42 GMT

I am searching for the right tone, if not the right words to describe this whirlwind of a weekend for us as Jews, for us as Americans, and for us as citizens of the earth.. Perhaps primary for me as a Rabbi and as a Jew is the aftermath of emotion following the event at Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville. While, to my knowledge, I am just as safe today as I was last Friday night when I lit Shabbat candles, I am once again reminded - though not shattered - that our life’s path can take a turn at any moment, even when we are doing something good. Their synagogue was secure, they were well trained in active shooter situations, and at the same time they lived their Jewish values. Rabbi Charlie invited a cold soul into this house of Judaism for a cup of tea. He practiced the deeply felt Jewish value, hachnasat orchim , welcoming a guest. We recite this value at the beginning of every Passover Seder, “Let all who are hungry come and eat…” How can our welcoming words hold value if we only welcome in people we know? It can be risky to act on our beliefs. When asked if he would do it again, Rabbi Charlie reiterated the value of welcoming and of tikkun olam. As I light my candles this Shabbat, I will think harder about my own core values and the risks I take, and might consider taking, to defend them. While I may not always be able to practice what I preach, I would hope that fear would not deter me from performing a mitzvah.

Curiously, the events in Texas happened on the weekend that we celebrated the life and courageous acts of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, a man who did lose his life standing up for the core value of equality. While it would be ridiculous to equate my white Jewish American experience to the African American experience, the convergence of these two events have caused me to think. They have not only challenged me to explore the risks I may take to do what I believe to be good, but they have also caused me to ponder the dangers of being “other,” i.e. the ‘other’ religion, the ‘other’ color, the ‘other’ gender, the ‘other’ nationality, any kind of ‘other.’ How easy is it for humans to demonize the ‘other’? In the case of the Texas synagogue, it would have been easy to see a person who did not look like the usual congregants and deny him entry. On the other hand,the alleged hostage-taker saw a group of Jews against whom he railed, ranting at times about “Jewish power.” All Jews to him and to other antisemites were no longer people, but a faceless, powerful enemy. Racism, antisemitism, sexism, in fact all biases, dehumanize people. And once the humanity of a person can be erased, all sorts of heinous acts are possible. The Civil Rights movement spoke to the humanity of all people, no matter their color or religion. For me, it was their resolve against bias and injustice in combination with their faith in humanity, that taught us to sing- and to believe - that “we shall overcome someday. In fact, the words were changed to say “we shall overcome today . It seemed possible at the time. ”Today, though, I am a little older, a little more cynical, and a little more realistic as I see civil rights moving two steps backward and one step forward. But Dr. King and others were right. They gave us conviction, courage and hope. The change didn’t happen in his lifetime and it may not happen in mine, but I have some faith, if we don’t destroy ourselves first, that humanity will rise above it’s prejudices, and we will see each other as humans, not as enemies. The confluence of these two events, MLK weekend and Shabbat in Colleyville bring me back to reality, but don’t make me want to give in. We can’t give up, we can’t sequester ourselves in our secure bubbles avoiding strangers and people with whom we might not agree. But, like Dr. King, and like Rabbi Cytron-Walker, we must act out our values despite the perceived danger with the faith that we all can do better.

Finally this weekend, we celebrated Tu B’Shevat, the holiday of the trees. One way to think about Tu B’Shevat is as an affirmation of life. Not in Maine, but in the Middle East, around the 15th day of the month of Shevat, the sap in the trees begins running and new growth becomes possible. The almond trees blossom. A new cycle of life begins. Spring always comes, Passover always comes. As long as we honor and respect nature the sap will always rise. And this is what gives me the courage to believe that as long as we honor and respect one another, we shall overcome fear, destruction, abuse of power, bias, distrust, etc. someday. There will always be someone or something that will try to destroy the pattern, but we must trust that we can overcome them.

Some of the emotions I experienced this weekend, you may have experienced as well: fear, sadness, concern, vulnerability, anger, powerlessness. Also inspiration and hope. It is not surprising that keeping up with the news and living under the cloud of Covid can make us anxious and focused on the dangerous situations about which we read. My unsolicited advice is to watch the news, but to keep it in perspective; to be angry and active, but not defeated by the injustices in the world; and to believe that the sap will rise, that life will persist; that it is not only as safe as we can make it to come to the synagogue (vaccinated and masked), but it is an act of faith, and defiance, that when we are together, we shall overcome….. someday.

Minyan: The Community We Crave

Thu, 18 Nov 2021 15:51:37 GMT

When I began to write this column “I’ve been thinking...” I thought of it as an informal way to share my latest thoughts with you - sometimes random, sometimes well thought out, and sometimes incomplete. But as is my style, they morphed into essays and took me away from a more spontaneous way of communicating. It also meant that I had to find enough time in my schedule to think and write, something that doesn’t happen often. So, I’m going to try to reboot and share my sometimes random and sometimes timely thoughts with you.

This week, perhaps because I’m excited that the kids are able to get vaccinated, hopefully making it easier to be together, and perhaps because I absolutely love our new sanctuary set up, I’ve been thinking about experiencing a minyan . I’m not thinking of minyan as the minimum of ten adult Jews needed to have a full service, but as a vibrant, inspiring, boisterous, alive, and participatory communal prayer experience. This does not describe the minyan of my youth, which felt stodgy and formal. The one hour we prayed on Friday night felt more like a performance than a time for the community to gather together and cry out in prayer and song and laughter and sorrow. No, the minyan I crave happens when the room feels full (even though physically it may not be), and the sounds of song and chatter and of individual prayer rising and falling through the congregation, compel the daveners (pray-ers) and the prayer leader ( shaliah tzibbur) to continue. Now I understand that I am, and have always been, somewhat unique in my love of prayer. For me, it is the very heart of my Jewish life. I thrive on the singing and the companionship of the congregation. I love the opportunity to communicate with the Divine in ways similar to Jews all over the world. Prayer is an act that transcends time and space. I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences - perhaps at the High Holidays, or at a b’ mitzvah. There is a kind energy, both human and Divine, that envelops the room.

Those of you who have been at services at the very beginning on a weekday or Saturday morning know that my favorite ‘prayer’ is the conversation with God and with myself, on page 105 and 106 of Siddur Lev Shalem . There, the composer asks us to ponder the deepest of questions: “What are we? What is our life? Our goodness? Our righteousness? Our achievement? Our power? Our victories?” Every day, early in the service and early in our conversation (which is one way I understand prayer), we essentially ask why are we here, what is our life’s purpose, and what can I offer to the world today?’ Lately, I have been thinking about these questions, in the context of the synagogue and Jewish practice, rather than my own personal meaning. I find myself arguing back and forth about the purpose of Synagogue, our Jewish practice, and its meaning for contemporary Maine Jews.

I have had so many wonderful conversations with new members and long time members over these past months. People are interested in sending their children to KBE, are interested in meeting fellow members, are interested in particular topics, or simply interested in joining a shul in order to be part of a community. Several people have contacted me because they are interested in becoming Jewish. Very few - at least in our conversations - ask about our services. I say this without judgment; as I said before, I find davening compelling and many do not. That is not to say that people don’t pray, or that people don’t communicate with the Divine, or that people don’t ‘believe in’ Jewish communal prayer; but to be honest, in the scheme of life, for many services are not fulfilling.

I understand those who feel that prayer is a little boring, or long, or not as interesting as other things going on. I also understand that “religious feeling” when out in nature, or being with friends, or just having a lazy day where you don’t get out of your PJs until noon! These activities and more may be more inspiring and meaningful, especially when the minyan is small and quiet and performative. So I return to my thoughts about the purpose and essence of a synagogue. To come back to Siddur Lev Shalem, “What are we? What is our life? Our righteousness? Our achievement?” I ask myself, what is unique about a synagogue? Why are we here? What can we offer the world today? Since I’ve been focusing on prayer, it seems to me that a synagogue’s uniqueness lies, in part, in their style of minyan , of communal prayer. Like a JCC, we are also a social center, a place where people can gather to “do Jewish” together, and a place of learning. Unlike a JCC, whose members come from all corners of Jewish life - from synagogue goers to those who never attend, all synagogues must have a prayer community, a Minyan ; and without it, I’m not sure it is a synagogue.

I have always aspired to provide the kind of services that have elevated my soul over the years. My vision is a prayer community with a critical mass (maybe 50?) of diverse people. Young and old, Jewish and not Jewish, fluent and not fluent with the service, questioning or certain, families of all configurations; it is a group whose voices and spirit, whose longings, losses, and celebrations are shared. A group that cares for one another, and who notices if someone isn’t there; who watches it’s kids grow up and welcomes them back when they’re home. The minyan should be a safe and a vibrant space where we look forward to seeing one another each week or each holiday. It is our only chance to schmooze with ourselves, with each other, and with God. The services in which I participated later in life were lively, friendly, and inspiring. There have been plenty of times I have felt it here, at TBE. I wish you would come and allow yourself to get swept up in the inspiration

P.S. Mazal tov to all the 5-11 year olds who are getting vaccinated! You’re more than welcome to join us!!!

Walking a Narrow Bridge

Mon, 04 Oct 2021 21:00:28 GMT

Kol HaOlam Kulo
Rosh Hashanah/Kol Nidre

Day 2

5763/5782

Nineteen years ago, in 2002, I wrote much of this sermon. It was one year after the destruction of the World Trade Center and I was lamenting over what felt like a world that was crumbling. Suicide bombings in Israel were widespread, some of the largest business scandals had been uncovered, poverty was rampant, healthcare costs were rising, and Al-Qaeda was being accused of experimenting with chemical agents for mass murder. I, like many others, felt overwhelmed and through my message I had intended to give us something from our tradition that would give us some strength. This evening, nineteen years later, I stand before you, and the world is still in crisis. To my former list, I could add severe weather patterns, pandemic, mass human migration, increased antisemitism, and the polarization within our society. While I could point to some improvement over the past two decades, my words from that time, sadly, still feel relevant. I begin with the words of Kohelet, Ecclesiastes, as I did in 2002:

ויוסיף דעת יוסיף מכאוב

The one who increases knowledge, increases pain (Kohelet 1:18)

Even our tradition understands that the more we experience of life, the more we know about tsuris, the troubles and woes of life. Many of us have experienced the tragedies of life, and many of us are natural worriers who take great pains to be safe. We read the newspapers, we listen and watch the news. We know that there are many disturbing aspects to our lives and to the lives of others. This is the time in our Jewish calendar when we take a heshbon hanefesh – we take account of our souls and examine whether we have been acting according to our values.

So how do we live in a world so fraught with danger? Do we take on one – and only one – issue to pursue, and leave the rest to other people? Do we focus only on ourselves and our families, and let the other families take care of themselves? Do we ignore what is happening either in our immediate vicinity or in other countries, other cities, other states? Do we remain inside our comfortable and safe places, insulated from poverty and violence and possible danger? Might there be times when we step outside of our comfort zones and reach across to others who come from different backgrounds, who may even challenge us to reassess our long held beliefs? How do we live out our core values as people of faith? Can we emulate the prophets of old who railed against injustice, even when it caused them discomfort? What prevents us from leaving our positions of comfort and privilege and fighting for justice for all? Nineteen years ago, I read the poem, “Walking a Narrow Bridge,” by Rabbi Joy Levitt. Based on Rabbi Nachman’s statement “All the world is a narrow bridge,” and the “essence of life is not to be afraid,” Rabbi Levitt expands and deepens his message, which is relevant throughout our lifetime. Our lives are a journey on a narrow, vulnerable bridge; a bridge that we all walk on: sometimes stumbling, sometimes limping, sometimes running or skipping, and sometimes just stopping to take a breath. And in those moments where I may feel frustrated, or angry, or overwhelmed, Reb Nachman’s wise counsel, encourages me to keep moving forward, subsuming my fear into action, for it is often fear that stops us from action.

Walking a Narrow Bridge

Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od

The whole world is a narrow bridge.

Today we walk that narrow bridge,

Ever aware of the chasms on either side of us.

We know what is below us, around us.

It is violence, hopelessness, the death of the future.

Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od

The whole world is a narrow bridge.

We know how narrow is the pathway on which we walk,

How rickety the bridge feels under our step

How little room there seems to be to maneuver; to change direction.

Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od

The whole world is a narrow bridge.

And we are all on it. The whole world.

Our friends and our enemies and all of our children.

All of our Children.

Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od

V’ha-ikar lo l’fachayd klal

The whole world is a narrow bridge

And the ikar – and the essential thing – is not to be afraid at all.

Because a greater danger than everything that lies around us

And beneath us is the fear that paralyzes us, that causes us

to stop in our tracks, unable to go back, afraid to go forward.

At this moment when we are most afraid,

when everything we see and hear is so very frightening,

when we are on the narrowest of narrow bridges,

it is at this moment that we hold onto the ikar ,

the essential truth that fear robs us of hope.

Fear stops us from moving forward.

Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od

V’ha-ikar lo l’fachayd klal

The whole world is a narrow bridge.

And the essential thing is not to be afraid at all.

To find the very best within us. To find the very best within all of us.

However hard it is. However long it takes.

I find this imagery compelling. Indeed, life is a bridge. In life, we go from here to there, careful that we do not take a wrong step and fall off. We cross bridges from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. We cross bridges from childhood to parenthood, from being single to being a couple, and perhaps back to being single again; we cross the bridge from having few possessions to having many. All of life is a bridge. And as we cross, some of us take more chances than others, some of us slip and head for the edge, and some of us never stray from the center. Except, perhaps, in the folly of youth, we walk the bridge carefully and with some trepidation. The older we get, the more we realize just how precarious the bridge can be, and just how close to the edge life and death, success and failure, wealth and poverty really are. Throughout life, as we walk along the bridge, we worry about status, about our belongings, about providing everything for our children. Most of all, we are ultimately worried about our own mortality and the mortality of those close to us.

Twenty years ago, the events of September 11 brought home the reality of just how narrow life’s bridge is for those of us in the relative safety and security of (privileged) America. In March 2020, as COVID-19 took hold of the entire world, we again were forced to reckon with the narrow bridge, in ways that are apparent now and ways that might be hidden away for a while. A lot more has also happened in twenty years, much of which continues to force us to peek over the edge, realizing how easy it might be to fall off. And so, to protect ourselves, we narrow our environment, we constrict ourselves, trying to exercise some semblance of control over our lives. And yet, when you really think about it, the bridge we walk on is the same bridge on which Al-Qaeda, Taliban, antisemites, racists and all whom we see as “the enemy” walk, for they, too, are on the gesher tzar m’od, on the narrow bridge.

As Rabbi Levitt points out, fear and worry are probably our nearest enemies. Fear, more than anything, holds us back from attaining our greatest potential. If we are too fearful, we begin to mistrust others, and we turn into ourselves. Worry, too, prevents us from reaching out to the stranger, from trying out new ideas and new paths. It prevents us from leaving the familiar. Fear and worry come in many shapes and sizes. We can be afraid of what others may think or say about us, and therefore forget who we are so that we please everyone else; we can be afraid of failure, and therefore never try. We can be afraid of our vulnerability and of our mortality and therefore lose sight of the life and the blessings in front of us. Indeed, “fear stops us from looking forward and robs us of hope.”

And so I return to my original question: how do we, as people of faith, navigate the bridge of life - the bridge on which we find righteousness and evil, life and death, comfort and discomfort? And I say ‘people of faith’ purposely because I believe being Jewish, or a member of any religion, must be more than being a good person, it must include faith. Faith, or in Hebrew, emunah , is a belief that there is an order to the world, and that perhaps there is more beyond this world. Emunah and amen share the same Hebrew root: aleph mem nun. When we respond “ amen ” to another’s blessing, we are asserting absolute agreement, as though we said the blessing ourselves. Also related to emunah is an aman , an artist or master craftsman - a person who creates an image reflecting a truth. God, like each of us, is an aman . Together with God, we are the artists who create our own lives. Emunah , I believe, is the antidote to helplessness, powerlessness, fear, and mistrust. It is faith in our own goodness and in the goodness of others; faith in our ability to have a positive effect on the world. Emunah allows us to transcend the limited area that we understand, that which comprises our personal worlds. Faith allows us to move beyond, to conquer evil in our world, and evil in ourselves. For me, it is also faith in Adonai. We are limited beings, God is limitless. Trusting in God’s presence in our world, God’s guidance and participation in our lives, gives me the strength to move beyond my fears and to make a difference in the world.

I began with a quote from Kohelet: “The one who increases knowledge, increases pain.” As Bruce Heitler comments on this passage:

The essence of wisdom and knowledge is the ability to predict and influence what will happen in various circumstances. However, if we focus merely on wisdom and knowledge, and not on uncertainty and the inherent limits to our power, then frustration, disappointment and pain result. We deceive ourselves into thinking that we have more influence than we really do. The only alternative to the pain of recognizing that we are not entirely in touch with the underlying nature of things is to cultivate an appreciation of the uncertainty itself. We are finite, God is infinite: what more could be expected of us?

Beginning in the month of Elul, in preparation for these Yamim Noraim , these Days of Awe, we read Psalm 27. The Psalm begins with what seem to be rhetorical questions:

ה' אורי וישעי ממי אירא?

Adonai is my light and my help. Whom shall I fear?

ה' מעוז-חיי ממי אפחד?

Adonai is the strength of my life. Whom shall I dread?

Clearly the Psalmist wants us to believe that we will not be afraid because Adonai is with us. But , like us, the Psalmist has his moment of doubt:

אל תטשני ואל תעזבני אלהי ישעי

Do not hide from me; do not reject Your servant. ….do not abandon me

Forsake me not, my God of deliverance….

The tragedies in our world are real. The Psalmist struggled, as we do, with the juxtaposition of God’s guidance and presence and these incredible experiences of suffering. But in the end, the psalmist says:

Yet I have faith that I shall surely see

Adonai’s goodness in the land of the living.

Hope in Adonai

Be strong, take courage, and hope in Adonai.

In this next year, as we cross that narrow bridge, may we walk with one another, friend and stranger and may we allow Emunah and Adonai’s presence - however you understand Adonai - to give us the courage to overcome our fears.

And let us say, Amen.

Please Give Us a Second Chance: A Reflection on Ishay Ribo's "Seder HaAvodah"

Thu, 09 Sep 2021 19:37:49 GMT

Rosh Hashanah 5782 / 2021

I remember that after each of my parents died, there was a period where I just couldn’t psychologically absorb any added tension. Watching TV was exhausting, suspense was depleting, hospital shows were absolutely off the list, and walking the dog where she could encounter and run after other dogs was just too much. Comfort, even as it was offered, was difficult to find. Of course, as is the course of life, my grief lifted, and slowly I was able to absorb more. While I don’t feel as bad as I did in those days, the memory has come back often over this past year. Many of us have spoken about the heaviness of these times - the lack of control, the losses…one might even call it grief. It’s as though we’re standing on quicksand as we experience social unrest, racism, sexism and all the other “isms,” earthquakes, fires, heat waves, hurricanes, climate change, and now, Afghanistan. And then, all of this, combined with COVID fears and restrictions and our own personal experiences- even the changes we decided to make for these services (!) leaves us with that feeling which my mother might call, “enough is too much!” One of my colleagues suggested that while sometimes a Rabbi’s job is to afflict the comfortable, perhaps this year our messages might focus on comforting the afflicted. That is not to say that we can ignore what’s going on around us, but we may have to focus on our own healing first. We need to, as the flight attendants say, “place the oxygen mask over our own noses and mouths, before attending to others.” Where is your oxygen coming from this year? My oxygen, these days, is coming from a place in our tradition that I would never have expected...the Avodah service.

Ever since I heard Ishay Ribo’s “Seder Ha Avodah” last year, I’ve been mesmerized. I’ve listened to it over and over. If you were here on the Yom Kippur Zoom last year, Ribo’s version served as our Avodah Service. My intention is to play it again just before Kol Nidrei. To be fair, during more normal years, most of the community doesn’t really take in the Avodah service. It is late in Musaf on Yom Kippur, right before the dreaded Martyrology. Many of us have left, others are holding on for dear life before a well deserved nap or walk, some are even napping while it is happening. Maybe because I like drama in literature, or maybe because it is so different from the rest of the services, or maybe because I have to be awake... I have always found it interesting. I am somehow comforted by the way that ritual effects change in the upper spheres where God and the Angels hang out, as well as in the lower spheres where God and humans converse. Perhaps I am a closet Kabbalist. I like the ritual’s consistency, and the idea that it always works. My practical grandfather would call it hooey - too much magic. I find it comforting because it somehow gives me hope that even - maybe especially - in this unsettling time, a personal reset may be possible. I find myself pleading to myself and to the world: ‘Give me another chance! I am a year older and have gone through many new experiences. I know more about myself and how others might feel than I did a year ago. I’m not happy with the way my society interacts with one another and I’m not always happy with the way I interact with them or, frankly, how I interact with myself!’ Perhaps, by reading and internalizing the ritual of the High Priest, performed on the most holy of days and in the most holy space, I will know the feeling that all of Israel felt when they were forgiven.

Now, you might ask why I am talking about Yom Kippur on Rosh Hashanah. Well, it is a lot to digest, so I wanted to introduce it to you early, so you might have some time to mull it over in the hopes that it will help prepare us for a meaningful and purposeful holiday.

As I said, the Avodah service is the detailed story of the High Priest, the Kohen Gadol, who prepares for a week, or maybe a lifetime, prior to his performance. He studies and reviews texts and the proper ways to perform the sacrifices, long before Yom Kippur. When he gets to the day, he puts on and takes off special garments, recites sacred words, sacrifices animals, sprinkles the blood of sin offerings in a prescribed way, walks all around the sacred area of the Temple and in the end, brings atonement to himself, his household and all of Israel. And then, after his service is completed, he holds a huge party celebrating everyone’s new status and all the opportunities in front of them. [Please find the text here .

Unlike the story from our Machzor, which is actually a rendition of what we would find in the second and third century work called the Mishnah, Ribo’s poem begins in the middle of something: נכנס למקום שנכנס / He entered into the place he entered. The poem doesn’t identify who entered, where they entered, nor why they entered. All we know is that someone entered, somewhere. The poet doesn’t say that this is the most important day of the year, nor that the “He” is the Kohen Gadol, who had gone through serious preparations to get to this point. The poet doesn’t tell us that the place the Kohen entered was the Holy of Holies which he entered only one day of the year, nor that the reason he is there is to make atonement for all of the congregation of the children of Israel. It almost doesn’t matter. To the listener, though, there is a hint that something important is happening here which comes from the word, makom , place. “He entered into the makom that he entered. Makom , place, is one of the many names we have for God; so whoever is entering, is in God's very presence. The lack of detail gives us space to consider that perhaps we are the Kohen Gadol; perhaps we can be in God’s presence with the ability to make atonement for ourselves and others; perhaps the place we enter is our own sanctuary, or our own heart. We enter into the place we enter - no more and no less. Wherever we are is holy space.

The Kohen Gadol then purifies himself, changes his clothes and prays, “Please God, atone for the sins, the wrongs, and the offenses that I have sinned before You - I and my family (or house).” Ribo omits other rituals described in the Mishnah and suggests an amazing interpretation: rather than having the Kohen Gadol pray, slaughter the animal, and dramatically count the sprinkling of the blood of purification, he has the Kohen Gadol counting his or our failures. “One, one and one, one and two, one and three.” He has to stop counting after 5 because each number is a painful reminder of those times that he recalls missing the mark. I am reminded of those times when I’m trying to get to sleep, but I keep going over all my regrets of the day: the times when I misunderstood and may have hurt another person, times when I wish I had replied more kindly or more clearly, times when I wish I had just kept quiet. “And if a person could remember the failures,” the poem reads, “the missed opportunities, the sins, the errors they would certainly count, one, one and one; one and two, one and three, one and four, one and five. They would quickly give up counting because they couldn’t bear...the bitterness, the shame, the waste, the loss…” Have you ever thought about how overwhelmed the Kohen Gadol must have been thinking about his own, his family’s, and the nation’s sins? Was it as much a burden for him as it is for us? One would have to stop for a while and heal before continuing. One might even stop counting. Finishing this lament, perhaps feeling the heaviness lift a bit, the High Priest would proceed into the courtyard where he would pronounce the four letter name of God; the name which we no longer know how to pronounce, the ineffable Name of God. Upon hearing it, the people would bow to the ground and reply,

ברוך שם כבוד מלכותו לעולם ועד

Blessed is the name of God’s glorious kingdom for ever and ever

Before I continue, I want to dwell on this phrase, which we say under our breath each time we recite the Shema, and when we put on Tefillin. A phrase we say out loud only on Yom Kippur. I was curious to find out why the people didn’t simply and ecstatically say, “amen” when they heard this name of God. It turns out that this phrase is unique to the Temple and to this Avodah service. It is not even found in the Torah. After the Temple’s destruction, the Rabbis, perhaps feeling its uniqueness and its close proximity to this most sacred public service, added it to the liturgy with several stories. One is that these were Jacob’s final deathbed words when he realized that his children would never abandon their relationship to God and Judaism. My favorite midrash is that Moses heard the Angels saying it and he liked it so much, he stole it from the Angels and then taught it to the Israelites. Because it comes from the Angels, we, mere humans, say it under our breath except on the one day we become like the angels - on Yom Kippur. Another explanation is that when the Temple was destroyed, the people would never again hear God’s name recited by the Kohanim; all that was left was the response, Baruch shem kavod , so the Rabbis moved it to where they felt was the next best place that reflected the holiness of God's ineffable name - the Shema. Baruch shem became a phrase meant to honor God’s Name and therefore, God’s reputation. The third commandment tells us never to take God’s name in vain. But what happens when we say a berachah , a blessing, with the best of intentions, only it might have been the wrong blessing? The Rabbis say that we correct our error by reciting baruch shem - blessed is the name.... God’s name, God’s essence, is sacrosanct. And, as we are created in God’s image, so is ours. When we recite the Shema, when we answer Baruch shem kevod malchuto l’olam vaed we are once again a participant in this most sacred service of forgiveness, and holiness.

In the story from the Mishna, the Kohen Gadol would make three confessions: one for himself, one for his household, and one for all of Israel. Ribo’s retelling has the High Priest making the same confession twice, only it’s not exactly the same confession. This time dressed in gold, as he would have been for the daily offering, he again asks for forgiveness, but rather than count the sins, he counts gratitudes. “And if a person could but remember the many kindnesses and the good and all the many mercies and all the many crises resolved, certainly he would count like this: one, one and one, one and two, one and a thousand thousands of thousands.... of amazing miracles, that you have done for us day and night.” We find this very same language in the Shabbat morning liturgy, early on, as we prepare to engage the Divine for the morning. How is it that our blunders keep us up at night, rather than the splendor of life?

Like the story we read each year, the ending is filled with joy. The Kohen Gadol becomes a regular person, puts on his regular clothes and goes home with his friends to party. Again, bringing in everyday liturgy, Ribo quotes the Ashrei:

אשרי העם שככה לו אשרי העם שה’ אלוהיו

Happy is the one whose “Yud-Hay-Vav-Hay” is their God

Happiness abounds. Relationships are restored, broken hearts are made whole and we all are able to start off with a clean slate.

For a moment, this story of God, the Kohen Gadol, and all of Israel gives me an opportunity to experience hope - hope that there is a way to clear ourselves and our people of the blunders, the jealousies and the bitterness which prevent us from living in a peaceful, clean, kind world. With this version, I hear the value of the human process of teshuva: preparation, intention, confession which brings awareness, and finally, celebration with community. I am struck by the line after his first confession:

בלא רבב היו שוים פיו ומעשי

Without stain, his mouth was equal to his deeds

This Kohen Gadol “walked the talk,” perhaps only after he realized how destructive our missteps can be. If we take this story literally we might believe that someone else will do our work. If we don’t pay attention to it at all, we will miss the richness, depth and power of ritual. What is stopping us from being a Kohen Gadol - the kind who cares enough to be introspective, to take responsibility for ourselves, for our families and for our community; the kind who is willing to step out of the ordinary, who feels the pains and losses of others, and who feels the ecstatic joy of others’ success? Because if we were able to emulate even a part of this ritual, then, we too will be awestruck by the “canopy of the heavens, the splendor of the angels, the symbol of the rainbow and the tenderness between lovers. Then we will have peace.

Mishenichnas Adar, Marbim B'Simcha

Thu, 18 Feb 2021 15:50:05 GMT

Mishenichnas Adar, marbim b’simcha! When the month of Adar arrives, we increase our joy!

Rosh Chodesh Adar, the new month of Adar, began last Thursday night, ushering in a month that, as we see above, should increase our joy. Perhaps we are joyous because it is the month of Purim when senseless hatred is defeated, or the time when we begin to think about Pesach, celebrating our collective liberation from Mitzrayim (Egypt) and the beginning of our journey to Mount Sinai. Not all of the stories are completely joyous, however. During the plagues, and even at the Sea of Reeds lives are disturbed and even lost. At the end of the book of Esther, because the order to kill the Jews could not be rescinded, the Jews were given permission to strike first, killing many. (Esther 9:5). True to all of our experiences, from the youngest to the oldest of us, life is experienced on a spectrum of emotions and actions. While we rejoice that the Jews of Persia survived a frightful time, and the Jews of Egypt were redeemed from bondage, we still hold the sorrowful parts of the story in our hearts. At the seder, we diminish our joy by taking drops of wine out of our glasses in remembrance of each of the plagues. At Purim, we celebrate until we become numb to the distinctions between Haman and Mordachai.

Personally, it is rare that I find myself completely happy and content. Sometimes I reflect on those absolutely soul filling, wonderful times. If I count them, there are probably a handful. Equally rare, thank God, are the times that I am just completely inconsolable. More often than not, I, like many people, experience life through a mixture of emotions - in happiness, there is a little sadness, as I remember someone who I wish was present, or realize that this is a fleeting moment. In my sadness, there are those who try to bring comfort, the act of which brings me a bit of happiness.

As I enter into this Adar, I remember Purim last year and am filled with both happiness and sadness. Purim 5780 was the last time we partied and celebrated together without worry, raucously reading the Megillah and sipping drinks together at one of our favorite spots in town - Maine Craft Distillery. Indeed, it was a time of happiness and companionship and celebration. Within that week, however, we entered what turned out to be an extended lock down, forcing us to cut ourselves off physically from those we care about in the name of pikuach nefesh .I know for myself, the time just after Purim was a dizzying frenzy of learning Zoom and converting our Passover celebrations online. Looking back, and a little bit forward, it was and continues to be a time of rediscovery and of finding strengths and creativity we may have never imagined before.

This year, at this moment, I enter Adar, not by increasing my joy, but with a sense of sadness; the sadness that comes from knowing we will not celebrate the way we have in previous years. This Rosh Chodesh Adar has been tough as I and others mourn the passing of at least four lives who have walked or crossed paths with us over the years. Part of me is angry at the phrase, “when we enter the month of Adar, our joy increases,” and I want to cry out that it is not true - not everybody’s joy is increased at this time! I am now sensitive to those who somehow feel that they’re not ‘living up’ to expectations. When someone wishes us a happy holiday and we feel alone, or a “Happy New Year,” when the future doesn’t look good, I imagine we could feel angry and perhaps even sadder. Here’s my advice to me: embrace all the feelings. Feel sad, feel the grief, know the grief, and don’t be afraid to talk about it. At the same time, know, feel, and embrace the joy - the joy of being alive, the joys that those who died, gave us in life; the joy of challenge, the joy of knowing that we can hold many parts of many stories in our hearts and be okay. The Hamans and the Pharaohs did not destroy us. We survived and we were changed, and we persisted.

So often I am drawn to the midrash of the Angels singing and celebrating, as the Children of Israel crossed the Sea of Reeds. God, pained that the Egyptians were drowning, asks the Angels to stop, saying, “My children are dying.” Life is so rarely one thing or the other. In fact, it is the blending of everything that makes life alive.

May you find joy in Adar, and throughout the year and, no matter where you are emotionally right now, may your joy increase.

Shabbat Shalom.

Welcome, Friend!

Thu, 04 Feb 2021 16:26:01 GMT

וַיֵּצֵ֨א מֹשֶׁ֜ה לִקְרַ֣את חֹֽתְנ֗וֹ וַיִּשְׁתַּ֙חוּ֙ וַיִּשַּׁק־ל֔וֹ וַיִּשְׁאֲל֥וּ אִישׁ־לְרֵעֵ֖הוּ לְשָׁל֑וֹם וַיָּבֹ֖אוּ הָאֹֽהֱלָה׃

Moses went out to meet his father-in-law; he bowed low and kissed him;

each asked after the other’s welfare, and they went into the tent.

This week’s parasha describes the powerful, awe-inspiring, and jaw dropping experience of Revelation - Moshe receiving the Aseret Ha Dibrot , the Ten Commandments, at Mount Sinai. The ground shakes; lightening, thunder, smoke and shofar blasts surround the community. Only 3 months before that moment, the Israelites had believed that Egypt and slavery was all they would ever know. It must have been exhilarating and exhausting to realize that they finally had made it through the Sea of Reeds and arrived at Mount Sinai, where they would encounter God’s Torah.

Immediately before the event on Sinai, the Torah describes a much more ordinary and intimate meeting at Moses’ tent. Yitro, Moses’ father-in-law, a Midianite Priest, the father of Moses’ wife Tzipporah, and grandfather of Gershom and Eliezer, “heard all that God had done for Moses and for Israel, God’s people” at the Sea of Reeds. So he,Tzipporah, Gershom, and Eliezer made the trek to the Israelite encampment to see Moses. That is where Moses goes out and greets them, and where the parasha begins.

Several thoughts stand out to me with this juxtaposition of stories. While I’m sure I knew this at one time, I had forgotten that Moses’ family was not with him during the Exodus from Egypt! I find it incredible that Moses’ family did not experience the Israelite’s redemptive moment, even though they were an integral part of the family. Yet, later, they experienced the revelation at Mt. Sinai - when God revealed God’s “Torah” to the Israelites. So I wonder what it must have been like for Moses to leave Egypt with his fellow Israelites; to have experienced together with his people, something quite profound, both liberating and traumatic, and then greet family who couldn’t possibly imagine or relate to what he had experienced. It seems to me it could have gone in one of two ways: Moses could have broken off his relationship with his family, or he could embrace it. Moses, at this time, chose to embrace it. Clearly he did not cast his family out, and instead brought them into his home.

In a meeting last night, a group of TBE members and I were discussing what it feels like to be in a welcoming, embracing community. The group was asked to think about being fully welcomed as an outsider or newcomer. “The greeting is important,” they answered. But not just any greeting - “A greeting where someone is genuinely interested in who you are, and seem happy to see you rather than skeptical of your presence is welcoming” “Truly honoring the other person, no matter where they are from or who they are is essential.”

I was thinking about last night’s conversation as I read the parasha today. After his intense experience at the Sea of Reeds, Moses might have been dubious about seeing his Midianite family; after only hearing about it, Yitro might have felt uncomfortable and worried about seeing Moses. Instead, Moses goes out to greet Yitro as soon as he arrives., The rabbis see this as an act of humility, since people typically would come to Moses rather than him going out to them. He bows to his father-in-law and kisses him. The text then says, “and they asked, human to neighbor, about their shalom , their well being, and finally entered the tent. It didn’t matter that they came from different backgrounds and situations. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t together experienced such a life changing moment as the Exodus. What mattered was that they were together.

Let’s imagine that our synagogue is our tent, with people coming to us from many different backgrounds. Like Yitro and his family, some have chosen to affiliate with us and retain other religious identities. Some are Jewish, but have never experienced TBE Judaism. Some have been with us from almost the beginning, yet feel like so much has changed over the years that they barely recognize it. Some are looking to see what Judaism is all about, and some are here quite a bit and feel at home. Moses gives us a great example of what it means to be welcoming and how we too can go out to greet our visitors. How we might engage one another in real conversation, and help them to feel comfortable even when we haven’t shared the same, profound experiences. I am so looking forward to the time when we can welcome each other in person!

Shabbat Shalom.

On Serving TBE

Wed, 27 Jan 2021 20:05:18 GMT

“Let all who are hungry, come and eat.”

With these words, we begin our Passover Seder—welcoming all to share our story and our food. And with these words, we welcome all to nourish themselves with prayer and community at Temple Beth El.

It's an honor to serve as rabbi to Temple Beth El. From this position I have the privilege of interpreting and teaching our tradition to our congregants and the greater Portland community. The rewards of my position are many. I can worship in a setting which is meaningful to me, engage in important dialogue with people of all ages and backgrounds, and benefit from the opportunity to be close to my congregants during the most important events of their lives.

Temple Beth El is an institution of ongoing learning. It is a place where we can encounter, question, and re-encounter the Jewish tradition together, in an embracing and supportive atmosphere. As Jacob said in the book of Genesis, Ein zeh ki im bet elohim , "This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven."

I've Been Thinking....

Thu, 14 Jan 2021 18:03:00 GMT

As I write, I am listening to the arguments for and against impeachment. I can’t say that I was surprised that there was violence on January 6th...but seeing it and hearing it - even from my phone - was pretty horrifying. While it’s not my place to talk about my politics in this venue, I will say that seeing the Confederate flag being waved in the Capitol Rotunda, and reading sweatshirts saying that “6 million was not enough” is frightening, sickening, and angering. I have no doubt that “we shall overcome someday,” but until then…..well, I’m just processing.

The world has changed since I was ordained in 1988, and so have I, and I hope you have as well. The Conservative Movement as a whole is thinking more broadly about what it means to be a Conservative Jew today and what our place in the American Jewish community is; parenthetically, I really prefer, Masorti , ‘traditional’ Jew - but even that doesn’t really describe us. It’s complicated. The past month, I have been exploring the concept of truly being inclusive, specifically around LGBTQ Jews and Jews of Color. I have been challenged to think about people who identify as non-binary or gender fluid and its implications for our rituals. For example, when we call people to the Torah, we ask them to rise as a man or a woman. When we speak about the ceremony that celebrates a young person becoming an adult, again it refers to a boy or a girl. As I look out at our community, I wonder if there are those who assume that they don’t belong; perhaps because of their skin color or their gender or their abilities. There was a time when I might have been skeptical of these distinctions or when I decided that there were more important issues to tackle. Today, I want to lean in, learn about, and celebrate every facet of a person’s identity. I envision TBE as Southern Maine’s hub for a diverse Conservative Judaism, and I want to better understand and respond to the many kinds of diversity within our Jewish community.

Interestingly, this notion of feeling like an outsider came up years ago, when the non-Jewish partners of our members told me that they felt invisible in our community. As a way to acknowledge and embrace our non-Jewish partners and outline what that means in our community, together we created a pamphlet called, “You are welcome here.” At the time, they wanted to understand Conservative ( Masorti ) parameters of inclusion and communicate them broadly. I have always wanted to continue that series in some fashion and create avenues through which we can begin to understand the diverse experiences and identities those in our community possess.

On Monday, as a country, we remember Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. His words and actions are an inspiration for me every day. These words, in particular, resonate with me right now:

“…I am convinced that men hate each other because they fear each other. They fear each other because they don’t know each other, and they don’t know each other because they don’t communicate with each other, and they don’t communicate with each other because they are separated from each other.”

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Cornell College, Mount Vernon, Iowa

October 15, 1962

We must learn from each other, so that we can live in a world with less hatred and fear and more compassion and understanding. Some of our community may feel uncomfortable or threatened or feel that this kind of exploration is unnecessary, but I see it as a challenge and an opportunity to really live Masorti Judaism. Perhaps, as a believer, I see this exploration as a tikkun , as an antidote to the hatred and name calling, bias, and fear that surrounds us. I hope to come out of this pandemic - not just the virus, but our pandemic of fear and oppression - stronger and wiser.

Uniquely Maine, Meaningfully Jewish

Tue, 15 Dec 2020 20:22:11 GMT

Among the many lessons of Chanukah, the one that has stood out to me this year is a lesson about identity. For many of us, this is the time where we can proudly display our chanukiot, eat our culturally oily food, and celebrate with others - Jewish and not Jewish, religious (whatever that means) and non-religious - for any or all 8 days. This year, social media has lit up with Hamilton star Daveed Diggs singing " Puppy for Hanukkah. " Be sure to catch it, if you can! Meanwhile, Christmas is all around us too and, if we wanted, I bet we could ‘deck the halls’ Chanukah style. As Jews, our feelings about Christmas and Chanukah are varied; always complex: sometimes confused, sometimes worthy of eye rolls, and sometimes just happy to be part of the festivities. The truth is that we are formed with many identities which we juggle over time. Perhaps that is why every morning in daily prayer, the liturgy asks us, “What are we? What is our life? Our goodness?...Our achievement?” Each one of us is a blend, like a delicious soup of many ingredients. I know that I feel whole when I can accept and rejoice in all that I am.

Not only does this Chanukah season bring all this into focus for me, but so does our new logo, as well as the whole package that is the new branding for TBE. I just received, as many of you have as well, a wonderful letter from Kate, explaining the design. I can’t possibly express all the time, thought and energy that went into this new design, but I do know that those who were involved were constantly asked those same liturgical questions: Who ARE we? What IS our life at TBE? What are our values and aspirations? I don’t know if any one logo can express the depth of our identity, but ours says ‘We are Jews in Maine.” We are attached to the natural and uniquely Maine beauty around us (pine branch), we are interested in peace and offer an olive branch, even in the most difficult and confusing of times. We are Hebrew, we are English; we have a history and we have an exciting future. We are uniquely Maine (remember the amazing blueberry challot that Daniel used to make?) and we value meaningful engagement with our tradition. So what makes us different from other Maine Jewish organizations? I would have to answer that sometimes nothing distinguishes us, and that is one of the reasons we can slip so easily into a Statewide Chanukah or Shabbat celebration. But other times, it’s just the Beth El vibe. Hard to put my finger on it, but maybe it’s characterized by our informality or the wacky ideas we attempt to carry out. Or it’s the people who walk into our doors; or Bob’s coffee cups all around the place… whatever it is, we have tried to portray that vibe in our logo as we strive to be our best TBE selves.

Look around your house at all the Jewish items you have, specifically if you have more than one chanukiah (Chanukah menorah), but also look at your candlesticks or mezuzot or decorations. They are all probably very different; yet they represent YOU, your family, your history, your humor, your taste in art, and what you couldn’t give back because you really love the person who gave it to you! Alone, or together at TBE, or as part of society, we are composed of several identities. Maybe that’s the miracle of Chanukah.

Before I end, I want to thank Kate Shalvoy for persevering through this intense process. No matter what was going on, she found the time and energy to help us to look at who we are, and then to put that reflection and vision to pen and ink. Oh, and wait until you see the new logo for KBE!

Chag Urim Sameah . May you share, receive, and enjoy the Chanukah lights.

Politics, Polarization, and Healing

Fri, 17 Jul 2020 19:15:28 GMT

Recently, a song which I’ve known since 1968 came back to me, and it won’t leave my mind. I am haunted by the chorus:

There’s grievin’ in the country

There’s sorrow in the sand.

There’s sobbin’ in the shanty

And there’s anger in the land.

Right now in our country, there is grieving, sorrow, sobbing, and, almost most importantly, there is anger. Individual and collective hurt and anger impairs our ability to be compassionate, to listen, and to give each other the benefit of the doubt (dan l’chav zechut). Now, “politics” are not my job. We may not agree what is and what is not political in a synagogue context, but I know that my expertise is not in the political realm. What I do think we all can agree on is that we are hurting, our country is hurting, the world is hurting, and even the land is hurting. I see a great need for healing because of this tremendous hurt. My expertise is in healing, and healing is very much a part of my job.

It is almost cliche to say that our society is polarized, but it is. Sometimes, too, is our own little community here at TBE. And that hurts, too. I am told that some don’t feel comfortable in our “liberal” environment, that there isn’t a place for a diversity of opinion. I am told that if we don’t take a stand, or if we do take a stand, it is too little or too much. I expect that many of our disagreements come from the need to make some sense of a world that is changing rapidly. My job is, in part, to help us make some sense out of things and to apply our consistent Jewish values to our current situations. On that point, there will be some that agree and some that disagree, and I am comfortable with that. What makes it challenging, though, is when agreement or disagreement becomes discomfort, or a feeling of not fitting in. I don’t know if I have an answer to that, but I’d like to find one.

The song I referenced at the beginning of this piece is called “There’s Anger in the Land.” I probably became familiar with this song when Peter, Paul and Mary sang it in 1968, but it was written in 1964 by Don West, a poet, coal mine laborer, and organizer from Northern Georgia. His daughter, Hedy (who wrote and sang “500 Miles”), composed the music. It was written after a lynching. I didn’t know that in 1968, because the PP&M version made it more comfortable for us. Mr. West’s original verses included these words:

O, there’s grieving in the plum-grove

And there’s weeping in the weeds,

There is sorrow in the shanty

Where a broken body bleeds.

For there’s been another lynching

And another grain of sand

Swells the mountain of resentment

O, there’s anger in the land!

Did you ever see a lynching,

Ever see a frenzied mob

Mill around a swaying body

When it’s done the hellish job?

The version I heard was:

There's grieving in the country

There's sorrow in the sand.

There's sobbing in the shanty

And there's anger in the land.

A woman broods in silence

Close beside an open door;

Flung on her flimsy doorstep

Lies a corpse upon the floor.

"You'll not ask me why I'm silent"

The woman said to me;

Her two eyes blazed in anger

And her throat throbbed agony.

Once my heart could cry in sorrow

Now it lies there on the floor

In the ashes by the hearthstone;

They can't hurt it anymore.

Oh, let the wind go crying yonder

In the tree-tops by the spring

Let its voice be soft and feeling

Like it was a living thing.

There's grieving in the country

There's sorrow in the sand.

There's sobbing in the shanty

And there's anger in the land.

So much pain, and so much anger. If each one of us faces it, if each one of us talks about it, we may be closer to healing. If we ignore our beliefs, or sweep the uncomfortable stuff under the rug, we risk damaging our very souls.

In this polarized society where us and them is louder than we, I want Temple Beth El to be a safe place to have strong opinions AND feel part of a greater good. We can have hard conversations AND be a community. I have a colleague and friend that I intend to invite by Zoom, to help us move further in that direction. My job, our job, is to apply our Jewish values to our lives, and to help us heal together.

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Welcome, Friend!

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I've Been Thinking....

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Politics, Polarization, and Healing

Kol HaOlam Kulo
Rosh Hashanah/Kol Nidre

Day 2

5763/5782