It is a tree of life

Parashat Chayei Sarah--Choosing Meaning

2009-11-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

They say that Abraham was the first Jew, because God said to him “Lekh l’kha!” (Go!) and Abraham went.

They say that Ruth was the first convert, because Naomi said to her “Go back to your people,” and instead she stayed, saying “Your people will be my people.”

And both of those accounts might be true, but I believe Rebekah was the first Jew by choice. Because, in this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Chayei Sarah, Rebekah’s family asks her, “Will you go with this man?” And Rebekah answers, “I will go.”

“This man,” by the way, is Abraham’s servant, sent by Abraham to find a bride for his son Isaac. And this servant believes Rebekah is not only the best choice for a bride, but someone sent by God for Isaac. What is incredible about this little piece of text is that it doesn’t really matter what the servant thinks, what Rebekah’s family wants, or what God ordains. The choice is Rebekah’s.

“Will you go?” they ask.

“I will go,” she says.

Rebekah is the first Jew by choice. Rebekah is asked and she agrees.

I imagine that Rebekah paused a long time before answering the question “Will you go?” I imagine that in her pondering she heard a divine whisper saying to her, “What will be the meaning of your life?”

(As long as we are imagining the question and divine whispers, we might as well imagine the answer, as anachronistic as it may be!)

Yes, I imagine that it was the twentieth century philosopher Victor Frankl who answered, “I doubt whether a doctor can answer this question in general terms. For the meaning of life differs from [person to person], from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.”

The moment that Rebekah answered, “I will go,” what she really said was, “My life will take on a new, unprecedented, and as of yet unknown meaning.”

In our lives, we are asked the question “Will you go?” again and again, in different forms and in new iterations, always with the same divine whisper “What will be the meaning of your life?” The answers we supply to these questions have ripple effects. They determine the purpose of our lives (if not forever, at least for a given moment).

This week, Torah invites us to reflect on the “Will you go?” questions of our lives, those already asked and answered and those, as of yet, still unimagined. The text encourages us to consider our own responses, and possibly even nudges us to take a risk or two. This is a Shabbat for renewed purpose and direction. This is a Shabbat for thanking Rebekah.

Shabbat Shalom!

Questions for further reflection (perfect for family-sharing during Shabbat meals):

Have there been moments in your life when you were asked to take a new direction in life? How did you answer and how did it effect things to come?
Right now, in one sentence, what would you say is the purpose of your life? How has your answer to this question changed over time?

Parashat Vayera--A Community of Welcoming

2009-11-06T12:34:00.000-08:00

This past Shabbat, I experienced pure joy as I gathered with many of our TIOH 6th Grade Religious School Families and our 6th Grade teachers (Libby and Manda) at the Karic family’s home for Shabbat dinner. As each guest arrived, the Karics greeted us warmly. And, soon, everyone was greeting one another. As the evening drew to a close, one parent told me she had spoken to many, many people she had never met before. This, to me, is what it means to be a welcoming community. This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Vayera, offers us the perfect opportunity to reflect on our own practice of welcoming.

The Torah Portion Reads:

Adonai appeared to [Abraham] by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. Looking up, he saw three men standing near him. As soon as he saw them, he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them and, bowing to the ground, he said, "My lords, if it please you, do not go on past your servant. Let a little water be brought; bathe your feet and recline under the tree. And let me fetch a morsel of bread that you may refresh yourselves; then go on—seeing that you have come your servant's way." They replied, "Do as you have said." (Genesis 18:1-5).

Parashat Vayera is considered by many to be our tradition’s definitive text on the practice of welcoming. The commentator Rashi teaches us that Abraham is sitting at the entrance of his tent because he is in the process of healing from his circumcision. He is at the ripe age of 99. So, Abraham is sitting outside his tent, on his land, focusing on his life, and his issues. At that moment, three strangers appear (later we are taught these strangers are actually angels). Despite all this, Abraham steps out of himself, his life, and his own experiences and welcomes the three men into his home. He offers them food, water, refreshment, and rest. From this text, we learn the value of hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests.

This past Tuesday night, a group of fourteen TIOH 6th grade families gathered. Each of these families has volunteered to host an Israeli student in their home during our Partnership visit with Israelis students from the Tzahala School. These families are living out the core values of TIOH: A welcoming community, connected to one another and to the land and people of Israel. Again, this past week, my soul was filled as I understood the kindness these families were extending to our soon-to-be communal guests.

In his book The Spirituality of Welcoming, Ron Wolfson writes:

The spirituality of welcoming elevates both the guest and the host. A warm greeting eases the unspoken anxiety a guest feels at being a stranger and immediately answers the first question anyone in a strange place asks: Will I be welcome here? For the host, the act of hospitality is a gesture of spiritual generosity, uplifting the soul. It is an offering of oneself, an invitation for connection between human and human and, in that meeting, between human and God.

Each week, we begin Sunday morning Religious School with our Flagpole gathering. This gathering is a time for students, parents, teachers, madrichim, and our TIOH clergy to connect with one another and, through that connection, to connect to the Sacred in our lives. Our Flagpole time, which is filled with much laughter and joyful singing, is our opportunity to open the doors of our Tent wide, and to invite all to enter. If you have not yet joined us for this weekly practice of welcoming, I invite you to do so (every Sunday at 9:00 a.m. in Miller Hall).

In our TIOH community, our roles are fluid. At times, each of us is a host and at times each of us is a guest. Sometimes we might even feel as if we are the stranger. When we acknowledge and internalize this reality, we realize that it takes all of us to sustain and build our community of welcoming.

As this year continues and time goes on, there will be opportunities for all of us to open our hearts, our homes, our souls, and our arms to one another. Parent and student, alike. This, I believe, is Torah’s call to us this week: How will you live out the spirituality of welcoming? How might you serve as a welcoming presence in our community? What will you do to ensure that we have a community of welcoming?

Parashat Lech L'cha--An Open Destiny

2009-10-30T14:55:00.000-07:00

Sarai and Avram are called the first Jews. In this week’s Torah portion, Lech L’cha, they are the first to pledge themselves to the one God. They are the first to leave their lives behind in search of a new destiny. In the chapters of Torah that unfold over the next weeks, we learn the complexities of Avram's inner and outer life. We learn the lengths of his faith. But what about Sarai? What does she have to say?

What follows is an imagined look into Sarai's thoughts and experiences. This is my reimagining of sacred text, an attempt to fill in the gaps. I invite you to leave your comments here and offer your interpretations, as well.

The text of this week’s Torah portion can be found online by clicking here.

Grace Paley teaches that “everyone, real or imagined, deserves the open destiny of life.” My life had no open destiny. Avram was my husband. He led, I followed. His God was my God; not by choice, but by circumstance. Yes, there were ways to subvert the subservience. Yes, there were opportunities for small changes along the way on our journey. Some days I would suggest that we stop a little longer. I would whisper into Avram's ear, "The animals need feeding, the people need rest." Yes, I would say, let’s not stay here too long, I feel danger around us.

In time, as we marched through the desert, I came to know Avram’s God. I came to know God, because when all else failed--my husband, my place in our family, everything known--God remained with me. And, I realized, it wasn’t just Avram who could talk to God. I could too.

God knew Avram well. Maybe even better than I knew him. God knew that with a divine directive of “Go,” Avram would go. God knew that with a divine whisper of “Follow,” Avram would follow. But, God also knew that if I said, “Help,” Avram wouldn’t. And, if I said, “Wife,” Avram would say “Sister.”

My journey was a troubled one. One day I was by Avram's side. His wife, his partner, his companion. And the next I was in the Pharaoh's court, a play thing for royal amusement. Avram said to me, plain as day, "Look now, I know what a beautiful woman you are! So when the Egyptians see you, and say: 'This is his wife,' they may kill me; but you they shall keep alive. Please say then that you are my sister, so that on your account It may go well for me…" (Genesis 12:11). One small move and I was no longer wife, I was sister. I was left on the side of a road, in a forgotten kingdom, to serve the Pharaoh. A stranger in a strange land? No matter. "Stay there," I overheard Avram saying as he settled in to reap his rewards. It did go swell for him. But I knew my story: No land is mine through inheritance. No land is mine through struggle or trial or journey. I have no property, I am chattel.

God had promised Avram children, but God never made any promises to me. And neither did Avram. And it wasn't until things started going not well for Pharaoh that he figured us out, and I was released. Sister no more. Who helped Pharaoh get there? Who helped him realize this purposefully mistaken identify? God.

And so, you see, Avram was chosen, selected by God. Faith through honor. I was rescued. Rescued by God when I felt forgotten in life. I was remembered.

And so, in this most sacred of texts, I remain. I am here to remind you that the desert and wandering of life can be lonely. And we may come to the holy through the most desperate of circumstances. But, I know, that in the depths of despair, sometimes God is waiting. Avram might have heard God's call, but God heard mine.

My legacy is a troubling one. Told in the spaces between the letters. Left for you to imagine. What else do you read here? Please post your comments.

Thank you to Soni Sanberg for first helping to read Sarai in a new light. My first insights into this side of Sarah came from Rosellen Brown and Ruth Behar writing in Beginning Anew: A Woman’s Companion to the High Holy Days.

Parashat Noach 5770--Walking with Humanity

2009-10-23T12:51:00.000-07:00

“Noah was a righteous man (ish tzadik), blameless/innocent in his generation; Noah walked with God” (Genesis 6:9). Last week, I had the privilege of sitting down with members of Dorot Tzedek (Generations of Justice), a group of people at TIOH committed to working on behalf of justice. Noah and this group of folks from TIOH have something in common. He was called an ish tzadik and they are called Dorot Tzedek. Tzadik and Tzedek are from the same Hebrew root, meaning justice or righteousness. The similarities between them end here. You see, Noah learned that his world was coming to an end and he “walked with God” and “built and ark.” Folks from Dorot Tzedek see that our world is broken, and they have begun building relationships, accessing power, and publicly speaking words of truth to heal us.

Rabbi Moses Alshekh (c1498-1593) asks “Why are Jews not considered to be the descendants of Noah but rather of Abraham…?”

Alshekh answers:

The explanation is that even though Noah was righteous and perfect in his actions, he was not the ideal of the righteous Jew. “Noah walked with God,” not with people, not with others—he was not interested in humanity, in the environment. His righteousness was directed inward, to himself and his family…

In the face of brokenness, Noah was given a choice: Focus inward or focus outward? Focus inward: Either in despair, or personal triumph, or fear, or in an attempt to sustain life as he had known it. Or focus outward: Like the prophets of the biblical world and modern times, rail against injustice, seek ways to heal the brokenness, reach out to others, affect change. Noah focused inward.

Alshekh continues:

He was commanded by God to build an ark—he built it board by board and nail by nail, for a hundred and twenty consecutive years, and it never crossed his mind that there might be a way to avert God’s decree and save the world from destruction.

Noah was so focused on hammering and nailing (and how productive must he have felt in his toils!) that he never once looked up. No cries throughout the city, like the unwilling Jonah or the suffering Jeremiah. No speeches to move a nation like Martin Luther King, Jr. No attempts to turn prayer into action like Stephen S. Wise or Abraham Joshua Heschel.

Alshekh reminds us that we are the children of Abraham. Abraham and Sarah started their life journey as two individuals. The Torah doesn’t teach us that they were perfect. On the contrary, they were individuals who piled up a lifetime of flaws and hurts and mistakes. Much like all of us, if we’re being honest. But, Abraham and Sarah did something remarkable. They turned their two into hundreds and then thousands. They built relationships and sought to change their world.

I think back to the Dorot Tzedek meeting. And, I understand that we today are given a choice. Will we be the descendants of Noah or the descendants of Abraham? Will we build up the walls of an ark, nail by nail, surrounding us so thoroughly that we are no longer burdened by the sight of this world? Or will we build bridges that link us, inextricably, to the fate of humanity, and invite them along for the ride?

My deepest gratitude to Lila Foldes, from URJ's Just Congregations, for introducing me to this Alshekh interpretation.

Parashat B'reisheet 5770--The Infinite Within Us

2009-10-16T15:26:00.000-07:00

This week, we begin Torah anew. We read the first words of creation, Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning...” and our tradition hands us, once again, an invitation. The scroll is rerolled and our opportunity to start learning and connecting to Torah anew is granted. This Shabbat, I want to offer you a few suggestions of books that might give you a new doorway in to Torah, as well as share with you a spiritual gift. If you have been looking for a way to reconnect to sacred text, have always wanted to read the Torah from beginning to end, and/or are interested in exploring a new avenue of study, might I suggest a few gems, which have brought greater meaning to my own study. As always, if something grabs you, I welcome the opportunity to study together.

A few suggestions:

Genesis, by Stephen Mitchell, provides “a new translation of the classic biblical stories.” This book opens up Genesis in ways that are unique, provocative, and gripping. Mitchell resets the biblical text according to different accounts and reorders certain passages. If you are looking to have old assumptions about Genesis challenged, this is a wonderful place to start.

The Five Books of Moses by Everett Fox provides a fresh translation and wonderful commentary on the Torah.

The Torah: A Women’s Commentary by Tamara Eskenazi and Andrea Weiss is a publication with which many of you are already familiar. If you have not yet picked up a copy, I urge you to do so. I spent a number of years while in rabbinical school serving as Dr. Eskenazi’s assistant, working on the Voices section of this commentary, and co-writing the central commentary on one parasha. This truly was some of the most interesting work on text I have done as of yet.

And finally...

The Language of Truth, by Arthur Green, provides a translation and interpretation of a great Chasidic Text, “The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet, by Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger.” Green’s commentary provides a key to understanding this marvelously spiritual (and sometimes esoteric!) work.

And now, my spiritual gift to you for the week, a look at a gem from the Sefat Emet's commentary on this week's Torah portion (using Green’s translation and commentary).

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat B’reisheet, includes the following words in its description of creation: “Heaven and earth were finished...” (Genesis 2:1). The Sefat Emet explains that a midrash (rabbinic commentary) on this verse cites the following line from the Psalms, “I have seen an end to every purpose, but Your commandment is very broad” (Psalm 119:96). The midrash suggests, “Everything has a fixed measure, but Torah has no measure” (Green 6).

Yes, teach the ancients rabbis, there are limits to all of life. But, Torah has no limit.

The Sefat Emet takes this assertion a step further. It teaches:

Torah gives life to all of Creation, measuring it out to each creature. But that life-point which garbs itself within a particular place to give it life—it has no measure of its own, for it is beyond both time and nature. ...The same is true within everything: The inward point has neither measure nor limit (Green 6).

Jewish mystics teach that there is a Torah both of this (revealed, limited) world, and a Torah of the other (hidden, infinite) world. While the Torah of this world has, like all of creation, its own limits, the Torah of the hidden world has no limits. Jewish mystics teach that, like Torah, all of creation exists in two worlds. One: The revealed world of limits. Two: The hidden world of infinity. There is a link between this (revealed, limited) world and the other (hidden, infinite) world. This link between the two worlds takes the form of an essential point of limitlessness which is inside each of us.

The Sefat Emet continues:

This is true of the human soul as well; it, too, has no measure. ...The same is true of the world’s soul, because the person is a microcosm. The Sabbath is a revelation of this inwardness, and it is called ‘the day of the soul, not the body’ (Green 7).

The Sefat Emet understands the Torah, the human soul, the world’s soul, and Shabbat to all share the same fundamental link: We all have a core of the infinite inside of us.

Green, commenting on this passage from the Sefat Emet explains:

As each creature knows its deepest self, it knows Torah. Only when Torah enters into this-worldly human discourse, does it take on tsimtsum, the contraction that makes it take on limits. So, too, the soul; its root is boundless. Only as it lives in this world does it have to exist within limits. This is why the soul loves Torah; it recognizes within it a secret partner from the world of infinity (Green 7).

Yes, the Sefat Emet teaches, our souls are called to Torah because deep down our souls know Torah to be made of the same stuff we are, that which is infinite.

On this Shabbat, I pray that all of our souls come to Torah anew. May we find within it purpose and meaning. May we feel a renewed call to study and experience a fresh take on text. “In the beginning…”

Simchat Torah 5770--Cycling Again

2009-10-09T11:39:00.001-07:00

During Sukkot, we read from the biblical book of Kohelet or Ecclesiastes. Kohelet teaches us, “Enjoy yourself while you are young…make the most of your early days; let your heart and eyes show you the way” (Ecclesiastes 11:9). These are fitting words to hold close as Sukkot comes to a close and we begin our celebration of Simchat Torah tonight. Tonight, along with joyful Torah dancing, Torah reading, and words shared from TIOH congregants, we will offer a special blessing for all students in our schools who are new to Jewish learning.

On Simchat Torah, we read the last verses of the Torah, focusing on the end of Moses’ life, as well as the first words of the Torah, focusing on creation.

Often, in our daily lives, we experience time as linear (e.g. timelines and timetables). Our secular society likes to draw time in boxes and lines. Jewish time is deeply different. We experience Jewish time in cycles. Each day beginning anew, each week beginning anew, each month beginning anew, and most recently, a year beginning anew. Tonight Torah begins anew.

Why separate experiences at all, our tradition implicitly asks? On Simchat Torah, endings and beginnings are not two points on opposite ends of a line, but closely linked moments, touching in a circle. No neat boxes separating death from birth. But rather, we read in one fluid motion Moses’ death and the first word-acts of creation. Just like that, to life again.

Tonight, when we bless our newest students, they become like Torah itself. They are both beginning anew and inextricably linked to the young people they have already become. This is a blessing to mark who they have been, who they are, and who they will be. Within our community. Within their own lives. Tonight we consecrate them, that is to say we mark their lives and their learning as sacred, and in turn, they bless us by becoming the newest learners in our community.

“Enjoy yourself while you are young…make the most of your early days; let your heart and eyes show you the way.” Tonight, with joyful dancing and words of Torah, we all become young again. In our turning cycles, anything seems possible. New beginnings are the order of the day. On Simchat Torah, we let our hearts and our eyes lead us to a new cycle of living and learning. We celebrate those in our community who keep us young with their youthful joy and new ways of seeing. We commit ourselves to them as they commit themselves to us and our people.

Around and around, we dance. Flags and Torahs in hand. Life celebrated anew.

Sukkot 5770 -- Take your lulav & etrog

2009-10-02T12:37:00.000-07:00

Dr. Rachel Adler teaches that Judaism should be made more sensual. By this, she means that we should experience Jewish life using all of our senses. She talks of the importance of a multi-sensory Jewish experience and explains that a sensual Judaism is an embodied Judaism. Educators know that lessons taught with an emphasis on taste, touch, and smell are lessons well remembered. And this is why Sukkot is my kind of holiday. Sitting outside. Meals shared with friends and family. Fruit. Leaves. Trees. Decorations. It’s like camping. But Jewish. It smells good. It tastes good. It feels good.

This is the most sensual holiday of the year. Yes, tonight we enter into Z’man Simchateinu, the Season of our Joy. On Sukkot, we are commanded to be joyful and to embrace nature. The Torah tells us:

On the first day, you shall take the product of beautiful trees (citron), branches of palm trees, boughs of leafy trees (myrtle), and willows of the brook, and you shall rejoice before your God Adonai for seven days. ...You shall live in booths seven days, all citizens of Israel shall live in booths (Leviticus 23:40, 42).

In Hebrew, we call the fruit of the citron an etrog and we put the myrtle, palm, and willow branches together to make a lulav. Part of the great fun of Sukkot is taking these elements together and shaking them. For blessings and instructions of how to take the lulav and etrog click here.

For Sukkot, I would like to offer you a spiritual gift of three different understandings of what the lulav and etrog symbolize. I invite you to share these at your Sukkot meals. This is the week for family picnics and lots of time outside. Enjoy!

PARTS OF THE BODY
The palm branch is like the spine.
The myrtle is like the eye.
The willow is like the mouth.
And the etrog is like the heart.
“With all your limbs praise God.”–Vayikra Rabbah 30:14

AGRICULTURAL AREAS OF ISRAEL
The palm branch represents the lowland.
The willow represents the river.
The myrtle represents the mountains.
The etrog represents the irrigated areas.–Encyclopedia Judaica

THE JEWISH PEOPLE
The willow has neither taste nor aroma, symbolic of those people who neither study Torah nor perform good deeds.
The myrtle has a wonderful aroma but no taste, symbolic of those people who perform good deeds but do not study Torah.
The palm has no aroma, but has a delicious taste, symbolic of those who spend their time studying Torah but do not perform good deeds.
The etrog has a delightful aroma and a delicious taste, symbolic of those who both study Torah and perform good deeds!
“God says: ‘Let all four be held together so that they may protect and complement one another.’”–Vayikra Rabbah 30:12

QUESTIONS FOR YOUR FAMILY TO CONSIDER:

Which of these explanations resonates most with you? Why?
Can you think of your own interpretation of what the lulav and etrog might symbolize?
Each of the three different explanations talk about bringing different things together. What are ways you can make Sukkot a holiday for celebrating differences?

Yom Kippur 5770 -- Is this the fast I ask for?

2009-09-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

It may be due to my lowered sense of decorum when hungry, but I have an inappropriate reaction every year when I hear one particular line from the Yom Kippur Haftarah. In the portion, God asks the people what I would label as a snarky rhetorical question:

Is a fast like this the one I asked for?

A day for self-affliction, to bend the head like a reed in a marsh,
to sprawl in sackcloth on the ashes?
Is this what you call a fast, a day to seek the favor of God?” (Isaiah 58:5).

This line always makes me laugh because I think to myself, “Well, yeah?!? Isn’t that the fast You asked for?” While this reaction may seem chutzpadik, I actually think it is exactly the intention of the Prophetic writer. This question is meant to challenge the listener. It is meant to be heard as snarky. It is meant to be subversive.

The following verse of the portion delivers the zinger. God asks another, decidedly not snarky, rhetorical question:

Is not this the fast I ask for:
to unlock the shackles of evil,
to loosen the thongs of the yoke,
to send forth crushed souls to freedom,
to tear every yoke into two!
To tear your loaves for the hungry,
to bring the poor wanderer home,
when you see the naked, clothe them,
when you see your own flesh and blood, do not turn aside (Isaiah 58:5-7).

This is nothing short of a radical call for justice. And, it is this message of justice and morality that the rabbis ensured we would hear every Yom Kippur.

Fasting has a limited definition in the Western vocabulary; the Merriam-Webster On-line Collegiate Dictionary writes that “to fast” is “to abstain from food, or to eat sparingly, or abstain from some foods.” Meriam-Webster is clearly not reading its bible! In Biblical times, the term “fasting” had a variety of meanings. Fasting was a form of action; it was understood to be accompanied by a vast range of activities—from sleeping in sackcloth (Psalms 35:13), to going without food or drink (Esther 4:16), to limiting one’s diet (Daniel 10:3). Fasting was a leveler of social classes—an activity for royalty (2 Samuel 1:12) and common people alike (Joel 2:12-18). Fasts could be communal activities (Esther 4:16) or individual expressions (Nehemiah 1:4). And from our Yom Kippur Haftarah portion, we learn that fasting could be a call to justice.

The Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible, is full of descriptions of individuals who fast as a form of pro-activity. As explained by Jewish Gates, “There are…numerous private fasts mentioned in the Bible. They served a variety of functions, but their most important purpose was to gain God’s compassion and thus avert a personal or communal crisis.” On Yom Kippur, the purpose of a personal fast is inverted to create a new sort of communal fast. Instead of fasting as an individual for the purpose of getting God’s attention to change one’s own fate, on Yom Kippur we fast as a community (by abstaining from food, water, leather, and worldly pleasures) with the purpose of demanding justice in our world.

This leads me to an important question: WHY? Why do we continue to fast today? I would contend that the answer “we are supposed to, or, we are commanded to” is insufficient. I believe that our Haftarah portion suggests the same. Simply fasting, that is to say going through the motions of not eating, is insufficient. By simply abstaining from food and humbling ourselves before God, the Haftarah radically suggests, we miss the opportunity for holiness. Our fast must include acts of justice.

It is traditional to wish others a “tzom kal” on Yom Kippur, an “easy fast.” This Yom Kippur, I do not wish you a “tzom kal,” but rather a “tzom m’atger,” a challenging fast. I wish each of you a fast imbued with intention and integrity. I wish you a fast that calls you to justice. I wish you a fast that engages you in the ongoing work of creation. “Now this is the fast I ask for.”

Rosh HaShanah 5770

2009-09-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

I remember kitchen pomegranate picnics from my youth. During those adventures, my mother placed my younger sister and me on a towel in the middle of our kitchen floor. We were dressed in old shirts and were warned over and over again of the pomegranate’s unique ability to stain any article of clothing. The pomegranates of my youth were delicious and dangerous.

In recent years, my Rosh Hashanah celebrations have centered around a single piece of fruit, the pomegranate. My New Year ritual began eight years ago with one beautifully formed, homegrown pomegranate. This piece of fruit, sticky and deep red, was grown by my close friends, who live on a kibbutz in Israel. My Rosh Hashanah pomegranate was cut open on an outdoor picnic table in Kibbutz Gezer. This pomegranate was enjoyed with total abandonment. It was the complete decadence of the act, an exuberant shehechiyanu and then kernel after kernel of the fruit scooped into our mouths, that made it so powerful. Fruit picked off the tree, brought to the table, cut open, and eaten. Enjoyed in holyday white shirts. Stains and all.

Why was this particular piece of fruit so memorable? First of all, its intense sweetness, color, and form were a palpable reminder of the intense life that exists in the world, even in its darker moments. Second, it was an edible souvenir of the cycle of nature, to which Jewish time organizes itself. I ate that pomegranate in 2001, in the midst of the Second Intifada, in the wake of September 11th. That pomegranate was a tiny beacon of hope and life in a particularly dark time.

I have found myself thinking of that pomegranate this year.

As 5769 draws to an end, we close the book on the year gone by. This has been a year of global loss and instability. We have all experienced rapid change. None of can say that the world looks the same this Rosh Hashanah as it did the last. And yet, here we are.

And yet, here we are.

I think of that pomegranate, a reminder of goodness and sweetness in the world in a time of chaos and pain. And I find myself searching again this year. Looking on my neighbor's tree, down the aisles of a supermarket. I am searching for the perfect pomegranate.

This morning, I spent a few minutes in one of our TIOH Nursery School classes. Together, we looked at a shofar, and I talked to the students about its meaning. “This is the alarm clock of the Jewish people,” I told the students. “We use it to wake ourselves up.”

This year, I believe, the message of the alarm is more insistent. It is ringing loudly, reminding us, as we read in this past week’s Torah portion, “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life!” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

This is our challenge in the coming year! We must ask ourselves, despite what life has brought us, despite what chaos looms, despite the loss, and despite the change (and maybe even because of them): Am I living my life the way I want to live it? Our purpose over these next ten Days of Awe is not just to pray and contemplate, but to do nothing short of create a paradigm shift in our lives! “Wake up,” the shofar screams. “Choose life,” it wails. We are celebrating a new year, a new beginning. Our tradition teaches us that it was on Rosh Hashanah that the world was created. It is time to allow ourselves to access that first world of hope and color and light. Existence will always be a mixture of life and death, curses and blessings. Despite it all, choose life.

The Hebrew word Kaddish has the same root as the Hebrew word Kiddush. That root is Koof, Daled, Shin, and it means “holy.” Kiddush, a blessing of holiness, is said over the fruit of the vine, a sweet and juicy reminder of joy. Kaddish is said in order to praise God for our lives, especially as we remember those loved ones whom we have lost. The message of both is clear: We should choose life and be grateful for the Holiness that infuses all life, that infuses each our lives.

On this Rosh Hashanah, I pray that each of us is able to awaken inside of ourselves the spark of life. Wish the people around you a shanah tovah u’metukah, a good and sweet year, and mean it! Focus on that hope, that undeniable desire for life, and live it. Find a perfect apple. Dip it in fine honey. And feel the crisp, sweet possibilities that this New Year holds for you.

Shanah Tovah! May this be a Good Year for you!

Parashat Nitzavim-Yayeilekh 5769--Writing your own Torah

2009-09-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

The Torah, we are taught, is sprinkled with 613 Mitzvot or Commandments. From the esoteric to the obvious, from the offensive to the inspiring, from the irrelevant to the meaning-filled, we struggle to understand, to accept, to reinterpret, and to challenge. In this week’s double Torah Portion, Parashat Nitzavim-Vayeilekh, we are given the 613th mitzvah (commandment).Parashat Ha’azinu, which we will read in two weeks).

The commandment seems to be delivered by God to Moses and Joshua or the entire people. The ancient rabbis were not so tied down to minor issues of context. They explained that this 613th Mitzvah is as follows: A person must write a Torah Scroll. Deuteronomy 31:19 declares, “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.” In the context of the Torah verses, it seems clear that “the poem” to which the verse refers is the chapter-long poem that follows shortly after (this poem is found in

Ralbag (Rabbi Levi Ben Gershom, a 14th century Biblical interpreter) has a different take on the verse. He says that “the poem” to which this verse refers “is the entire Torah from beginning to end.” He adds: “And this was the purpose of the commandment, that each man should write a complete Torah scroll for himself, including the poem [Ha’azinu] within it, so that nothing shall be missing from all the things that are in the Torah.”

I read this with an egalitarian eye and understand: Each person should write a Torah for him/herself.

And I ask: What does it mean to write a Torah?

In explaining this verse, Rabbi Abraham Chill explains “It is not sufficient to be related to the Torah in a detached and objective way. What is required of the Jew is to involve himself personally and subjectively—body and soul—in the commandments of Torah...” I agree.

When I speak with people (parents, in particular) about the purpose of Jewish Education, I often explain that my goal is to bring each student to Torah. When I say this I have a few particular assumptions in mind:

- Different people have different paths to Torah. Each person’s path to Torah is unique.

- Different people arrive at different Torahs. Each person’s Torah is unique.

- The process of coming to Torah never ends. The route is ever-changing. Torah is ever-evolving.

I love the 613th Mitzvah for these very assumptions. Each of us is commanded to write a Torah for ourselves. Our Torah is unique. Our selves are unique. And all of us, we as individuals and the Torahs we write, are hugged tightly by our tradition, cushioned in the words of our People’s Torah. And our People’s Torah seems to know: Torah is only relevant when it is owned by every individual.

This 613th mitzvah holds particular meaning as we enter the last week of Elul. We are in the heavy work of reflection. We are taking stock of our lives and reflecting on where we have been, where we are going, and where we want to be. We are reflecting on who we have been, who we are, and who we want to be.

“Write yourself a Torah” and live it with delight.

On Sunday, we will begin a new year of Religious School. Our students will walk back into their Temple Home and rededicate themselves to Torah. They will begin authoring Torah anew, finding their path, and coming into Torah wholly with body and soul. Write for yourselves a Torah!

As adults, our work of teshuvah (of turning and returning) this week is to ask ourselves: How will I write a Torah for myself? What will be my path? What will be my Torah? We should ask and seek not only for ourselves, but also for our children. They are looking for our guidance and our love along their way. Write for yourselves a Torah!

Parashat Ki Tavo 5769--Elul Reflections

2009-09-04T13:11:00.000-07:00

A recent article in the New Yorker magazine discussed what is known by economists as the “status-quo bias.” Economic studies have shown that once a “default” option is identified, people tend to choose it. And, once making a choice, people tend to stick with what they’ve elected. In fact, “just designating an option as the status quo makes people rate it more highly” (James Surowiecki, August 31, 2009, 29).

As we continue navigating this month of Elul (the 29 days leading up to the High Holydays), such reflections on change jump out at me. Yes, these observations by economists ring true. It is often easier to simply stick with the status quo, the default option, the known entity. And yet, our Jewish calendar compels us to stop and reexamine. This is a time for us to recognize that which is unsatisfactory in our lives and to make efforts to change.

This we know. This we have heard again and again. But, still we remain the same. Still we choose the default. Still we stick with the known. Why?

The New Yorker article continues:

Some of this may be the result of simple inertia, but our hesitancy to change is also driven by our aversion to loss. Behavioral economists have established that we feel the pain of losses more than we enjoy the pleasure of gains. So when we think about change we focus more on what we might lose rather than what we might get. Even people who aren’t all that happy with the current system, then, are still likely to feel anxious about whatever will replace it (James Surowiecki, August 31, 2009, 29).

This year’s season of Elul is different. We are called upon to change ourselves internally in a time of great upheaval and external change. We have spent the past year watching and experiencing gas prices, personal savings, home values, places of residence, jobs, benefits, economies, corporations, budgets change. Often not for the better. Often to places that feel intolerable.

This has been a time of deep loss for our society. We must recognize this as we head into Elul. This loss shapes our own process of teshuvah. This loss affects the way we are able to change. How can we risk changing and losing again when it feels that so much has already changed and been lost?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Ki Tavo, the people stand on the edge of the Promised Land. Moses speaks to them of the ritual of first fruits, which they will be called upon to enact once they enter their New Land. They are told, “When you enter the land that Adonai your God is giving you...you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil...put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai your Good will choose to establish the divine name” (Deuteronomy 26:1-2).

Amidst the many commandments reviewed by Moses, this commandment holds deep importance, not only to the Israelites, but also to us today. Amidst the loss, the change, the wandering, and the harsh realities of the desert, Moses makes us a subtle promise: You will still yet know sweet new fruit. Your wandering is not all there is. Or, as the Psalmist declares, “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy” (Psalm 126:5). Every new season brings with it the opportunity for hope and new life.

Our tradition asks us to change, to risk loss (even at this time of great upheaval), because our tradition is cyclical. We are taught that life is an ever turning circle. We are taught that “One may lie down weeping at nightfall; but at dawn there are shouts of joy” (Psalm 30:6). This year, we may not know which songs of joy are still to come. They may be different tunes than we had planned. The text may be altered from the versions we have known. The rhythm may be reimagined. But the joyful song will be pleasing to our souls all the same. This is the promise of Elul. Let us embrace it.

Rosh Chodesh Elul 5769--Counting and Accounting

2009-08-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

Today is Rosh Chodesh Elul, the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul. The month of Elul is a time not only of counting, but also of accounting. Our tradition teaches us to spend the 29 days of the Hebrew month reflecting on our lives, taking stock of our actions, and beginning the essential work of teshuvah, the essential work of repentance. This is a time for actively turning, or returning, to the selves that we want to be.

There is another period of counting in our tradition, the period of the Omer, in which we count the 49 days between Pesach and Shavuot. Counting the Omer is, at its core, a communal experience. By “communal,” I mean that it has an external, shared meaning: We count in order to relive the days between the Exodus from Egypt and the Receiving of the Torah on Mt. Sinai. In many ways, this counting creates a sense of communal order in a period of historical chaos: We count in order to give structure to a time when we lived in freedom from slavery, but in absence of Torah.

There are significant differences between the Counting of the Omer and the Accounting of Elul, but there are also important parallels. While the Counting of the Omer is an inherently historical, communal experience, the Accounting of Elul is meant to be intensely present- and individually-focused. And yet, I would suggest that the basic structure of our work during Elul reflects that of the Omer: We recognize each day of Elul in an attempt to assert order in a time of potential chaos. In Elul, we are meant to open the floodgates of reality. We are invited to take stock of our lives, to look deep within ourselves, and to shed light on the realities of our lives. We are meant to hold not a candle, but a bright fluorescent light, to our souls and examine the places we feel are darkened.

We need some sort of a routing beacon to navigate the muddy waters of Elul. I believe that our tradition provides us that beacon in the lessons of the Omer. As my spiritual gift to you this Elul, let me suggest this ritual, which draws upon the powerful images of communal counting usually associated with the Omer.

The Accounting of Elul: A ritual for Elul

This weekend, take a trip with your family into nature. Choose the natural setting according to your own sensibilities and the place that you live: You might find yourself in a wooded area, in a park, at the beach, or in the desert. You may want to organize a small group to go together. Once you arrive, spend a few minutes in silence.

Directions:

As a family or a group, answer the following questions:

Reflection Questions:

What do I think is most important to me in life? What do I act like is most important to me life?

How do I want to spend my time? How am I spending my time?

How do I want to make the world better? How am I making the world better?

How do I want my life to be Jewishly? How am I living my life Jewishly?

How do I want to treat those closest to me? How am I treating those closest to me?

How do I want to treat myself? How am I treating myself?

How do I want God in my life? How is God in my life?

Directions:

Now go out into your natural surroundings. Collect 29 small natural objects (these may be dried leaves, small stones, twigs, feathers, seashells, etc.). Each one of these objects stands for a day of Elul and an aspect of your life for which you want to do teshuvah.

Directions:

Take these 29 objects home with you. Place the objects in a glass jar, bowl, or vase. Next to the filled glass container, place an empty glass container. Each day, either in the morning or the evening, gather as a family and take one object from the filled container and place it in the empty one.

Reflection:

What is my teshuvah-focus for today?

Teaching:

This physical accounting (each day placing one object from a full container into an empty container) helps to focus our spiritual accounting; it helps us to visualize Rosh Hashanah’s approach. Physically moving the objects from one place to another also helps us to see the work of our reflection reified. No longer must we focus only on abstract acts of teshuvah, now we can, in essence, see our acts of teshuvah present before us.

Optional Activity:

You may want to keep an Elul journal that records each day’s act of teshuvah.

Directions:

On the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah, when we gather at the beach for tashlich, take these objects with you. As we perform tashlich, return these reminders of your teshuvah to the earth.

Optional Activity:

You may want to keep the empty glass containers out in your house. Use these containers as reminders for the accounting that you did during Elul, as well as for the acts you still need to take in order to realize your own potential. You may want to remove the empty containers after Yom Kippur, Sukkot, or even Hannukah!

Let me know:

If your family decides to do this Elul ritual. Email me to let me know!

Parashat Re'eh 5769--Crossing the Jordan

2009-08-14T14:03:00.001-07:00

When you cross the Jordan…

I visited Israel for the first time when I was seventeen years old. I traveled there on a high school study program, living and learning in the land for two months. During that time, my eyes were opened to a distant geography I had learned about in Religious School and at Jewish summer camp. I arrived in IsraelParashat Re'eh, one memory of that trip stood out. and thought, “Now I am home.” As I read this week’s Torah portion,

As we piled onto the tour bus one day, we were told we were going to see the Jordan River. I had images in my mind akin to the James River, which flows gently through the bluffs behind my parents’ home in Missouri, or the Nile, which I imagined to be a winding snake of a desert river. In reality, the Jordan River looked a lot more like a creek. Or maybe an irrigation ditch. Certainly not raging. Certainly not roaring.

“This is the Jordan?” I thought.

I have since learned that human environmental impact has caused the Jordan to shrink. Or, maybe the river’s size at the time of my visit was purely seasonal. The impression lasted, though.

The words “cross the Jordan” are repeated nine times in the Torah, twice in this week’s parashah, all for the same effect. They spell out a definitive boundary.

Here you are homeless. When you cross the Jordan, you will be home.

Here you are in limbo. When you cross the Jordan, you will be free.

Here you want. When you cross the Jordan, you will have.

Here you are hungry. When you cross the Jordan, you will be sustained.

As a teenager, the Jordan loomed large in my imagination as a mighty boundary. It separated the people between what was and all that could be.

It was THE JORDAN.

Funny how, in reality, it was so small. Funny how, in reality, it seemed so inconsequential. Funny how, in reality, I never would have noticed it if my teacher Yossi hadn’t point dramatically and said, “This is the Jordan River your ancestors crossed as they marched into the Promised Land.”

As an adult, I am comforted by the image of the mighty Jordan River shrunk down to size. In our lives, again and again, we are called upon to walk to the edges of our own Jordan Rivers. For our ancestors the Jordan was physical. For us it is emotional and spiritual. We move from brokenness to wholeness, from grief to acceptance, from pain to wellness, from sadness to joy, from fear to peace, from anger to forgiveness. In between these states of being lies the Jordan.

In the weeks leading up to the High Holydays, I find that we talk about our own “Jordan crossings” even more than usual. This is the time to cross over, to move forward. It can be a daunting task, this crossing.

When I first read this week’s Torah portion, I pictured the Jordan as a mighty, definitive, and intimidating boundary. “When you cross the Jordan...” But, my mind was playing tricks on me. The Jordan River may actually be diminutive is size. Maybe it is only in significance and symbolism that it looms so large.

Might the Jordan Rivers of our lives be easier crossed if we shrink them just a little?

This is a secret hidden in this week’s parashah: The boundaries between one state of being and another are often not that mighty. Nor that definitive. In our lives, we don’t cross our Jordans one time; rather, we skip back and forth across them, dancing between two states with regularity. Maybe even with ease.

And so, on this Shabbat, I pray that we are blessed with the wisdom to see that the Jordan that separates us from where we are and from where we want to be is not all that daunting after all. It does not take a long, intricate bridge and many years of wandering to cross over. It is just a few steps. And a leap of faith.

Parasht Eikev 5769--Making Meaning

2009-08-07T15:00:00.001-07:00

I do not necessarily believe that things happen for a reason. I do believe that we make reasons out of the things that happen. Viktor Frankl, a philosopher, Holocaust survivor, and author of Man’s Search for Meaning, teaches that it is up to us to decide how we will respond to what life brings us.

Frankl teaches that there are those who see daily life as an opportunity and a challenge. These people see life as a test of their inner strength. They seek to grow spiritually beyond themselves (Frankl 93). Frankl writes, "One could make a victory of [his/her] experiences, turning life into an inner triumph, or one could ignore the challenge and simply vegetate" (Frankl 93). Yes, we make reasons out of the things that happen. Whether life brings us pain or joy. Whether we find ourselves at low points or high. We hold the power to make meaning.

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Eikev, Moses explains the meaning he has made out of the Israelites’ troubled wandering in the desert. Nearing the end of his life, he looks back on what he has experienced and suggests the following to his people:

Remember the long way that your God Adonai has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, in order to test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts: whether you would keep the divine commandments or not. [God] subjected you to the hardship of hunger and then gave you manna to eat, which neither you nor your ancestors had ever known, in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything that Adonai decrees. The clothes on you did not wear out, nor did your feet swell these forty years. Bear in mind that your God Adonai disciplines you just as a parent disciplines a child. Therefore keep the commandments of your God Adonai: walk in God’s ways and show reverence. For your God Adonai is bringing you into a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey (Deuteronomy 8:2-8).

According to Moses, the years of desert wandering served two purposes: To test the people’s faith and to help the Israelites come to know and rely upon the divine (see The Torah, A Women’s Commentary, “Parashat Eikev”). This is certainly one way to interpret the desert narrative. Interestingly, in another portion of the Torah (Numbers 14:26-38), God articulated a different meaning behind or reason for these same circumstances. God suggested that the forty years of wandering were meant to punish the Israelites, not to the test them or teach them.

There are a number of significant lessons here:

1. The Torah suggests that there can be multiple reasons for and meanings made out of a singular event.

2. God does define the reason or the meaning out of what life brings. We too can articulate reasons and meanings.

3. As we grow and change, our understanding of circumstances and events can also change.

This past week, you should have received your High Holy Day packet from TIOH. The packet, like the first sprouts showing in a newly seeded garden, reminds us that the High Holy Days will soon be upon us. As we spend the weeks ahead reflecting on our lives, let us open ourselves up to the possibilities of new meaning. Let us welcome the opportunity to reflect and recalibrate. Let us understand that we are blessed with a most precious gift, the gift of interpretation. Let us cherish this gift and may it bring us wholeness (shleimut) and peace (shalom).

Parashat Va-Etchanan 5769--Jewish Knowing

2009-07-31T14:01:00.000-07:00

I recently sat with a woman who was weeks away from her formal conversion to Judaism. She and I had studied together for two years, she was raising a Jewish family, and she was actively engaged in adult Jewish learning and prayer. She said to me, “I don’t feel Jewish yet.” As we talked, I assured her that many Jews don’t feel fully Jewish yet. But, she was not calmed. The dissonance between her and her Jewish identity had come to light for her during the Passover seder. As she imagined the Israelites and the Exodus and the desert and the wandering, she thought: Who is this Israel and where is my part in it? What is this desert and where are my steps in it? What is this Mount Sinai and where is my place at it?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va-etchanan, Moses, nearing the end of his life and the Israelites’ entrance into the Promised Land, stands before his people and reminds them of who they are and what they have seen. He says:

But take utmost care and watch yourselves scrupulously, so that you do not forget the things that you saw with your own eyes and so that they do not fade from your mind as long as you live. And make them known to your children and to your children’s children. …You came forward and stood at the foot of the mountain. The mountain was ablaze with flames to the very skies, dark with densest clouds. …Adonai spoke to you out of the fire; you heard the sound of words but perceived no shape — nothing but a voice. God declared to you the covenant that God commanded you to observe, the Ten Commandments; and God inscribed them on two tablets of stone. (Deuteronomy 4:9-13)

There is a shocking secret behind this beautiful passage. The Israelites that Moses addresses in his passionate speech are not, on the whole, the Israelites who stood at Mount Sinai. As Rachel Farbiarz writes in her D’var Tzedek, distributed by American Jewish World Service, “The generation to which [Moses] speaks was born in the desert, to parents now buried beneath its sands. And it was those parents who saw the revelation at Sinai, who trod the dry depths of the split sea.” Yes, Moses is reminding a people of events they never witnessed.

Our tradition teaches all of us, young and old, that we ourselves went out from Egypt and that we ourselves stood at Mount Sinai. These traditions, which are central to our people’s identity, go beyond imagination and empathy. We, like the second generation in the desert, were freed from slavery, were wanderers in the desert, were amongst those who stood at Mount Sinai. Even those of us who were not born Jewish. Even those of us who feel disenfranchised. Even those of us who question or challenge or rail against tradition. We all wandered and we all stood. We just might not know it.

The foundation of Jewish learning and living, for Jews of any age and stage, is the continual reworking of the metaphor, the ongoing bending of the mind, the active stretching of the soul until the impossible knowing is reached: I too was freed. I too wandered. I too stood at Mount Sinai.

On this Shabbat, I believe we are invited to join the second generation standing before Moses. We are invited to stretch our minds, just as they were invited to stretch theirs. We are invited to open ourselves up to this fundamental knowing. We are invited to join the Jewish people. Again.

Parashat D'varim 5769--Words and Power

2009-07-30T13:55:00.000-07:00

One of the highlights of my work as a Jewish Educator has been to take groups of high school students to Washington D.C. for a weekend of teenage activism organized by the Religious Action Center, the political arm of the Reform Movement (TIOH 9^th graders go every year!). During this weekend, teens learn what it means to speak truth to power. As they write and deliver speeches to their Senators and Members of Congress, they come to understand that our tradition considers this sort of speaking both a sacred and central part of being Jewish. Yes, we all know, words have power. There is just something especially extraordinary about witnessing a member of our community recognizing that power.

This week, we begin reading the final book of Torah. The ancient rabbis called this book “Mishneh Torah,” or the “Second Law,” (Deuteronomy 17:18), because much of this book focuses on a repetition of the laws Moses had previously delivered to the people. The term Mishneh Torah was later translated into the Greek “Deuteronomy,” “deuteros” meaning second and “nomos” meaning law.” In Hebrew, the book is simply called “D’varim” or “Words.”

The names we attribute to people and things tend to shape the way we understand them.

When we call this book “Deuteronomy,” we suggest that its overarching purpose is a reiteration of law. This shapes the way we read its text. As we read, we bend our ears toward Moses’ repetition of the laws of Torah. I believe that when we call this book “Deuteronomy,” we gloss over its central purpose.

By calling the book D’varim, we come to a deep truth in the text: the last book of Torah holds a similar purpose to the first book of Torah. In Genesis, we witness God creating the world through word. In D’varim, we witness Moses leaving the world through word. This book, then, is wholly about words.

Indeed, there are no laws at all within the words of this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat D’varim. The entire parashah involves Moses standing before the people and retelling their story. This is a parashah of words. In it, Moses retells the triumphs and frustrations of his leadership, the complaints the Israelites made to him, the intricacies of the relationship they have built with God, and the interactions they have had with others along the way. As Moses nears the end of his life, he is compelled to speak, to re-utter, all that happened to him along the way.

A simple lesson: Our words hold enormous power. The words we speak frame the way we (and the people close to us) live our lives. We shape and give meaning to our experiences by the stories we tell and retell. Moses could have just stood before the people and restated law, but instead he poignantly recites his own interpretation of the events of his life and the Israelites’ lives.

When our teenagers go to Washington D.C., they speak truth to power by framing social and political issues within their own experiences and values. When Moses stands before the people, he empowers his own truth, by speaking the story of his life as he knows it to be.

How might you retell the central stories of our life? (to yourself, to your children, to your community?)
What is the purpose(s) of your retelling?
What overarching themes or messages emerge?
Who in your life needs to hear these stories?

In my third week at TIOH, I am engaged in what I consider the holiest of work, telling my story and hearing the stories of others. I want to hear your family’s story. Just as Moses’ words shaped the way the Israelites saw themselves, each of your stories shape the TIOH community and the way I will come to see us. I invite you to share your words with me. Sweet or bitter, Torah teaches us, words are the building blocks of creation.

Parashat Mattot-Masei 5769--Making Vows

2009-07-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

As a young child, I declared often and with a great deal of earnestness, “When I grow up, I am going to be an orange juice taster.” As a child, my younger sister declared she would only leave the house if she were wearing a bathing suit and tights under her clothes (this lasted almost a year). As a teenager, I declared I would no longer eat meat, I would go to a small liberal arts college on the East Coast, and that one day I would travel to Turkey. These childhood pronouncements stay with me until this day. The vows of young people often pass, and sometimes they don’t.

As an educator, students will often share the vows they take with me:
“When I grow up I will be a…”
“From now on, I will not eat…”
“I will only wear…”
“I will never…”
“I will always…”

Childhood is a time of professed absolutes—some misguided, many inspired. As parents, educators, and members of the TIOH community, we have a series of choices as to how we respond to the vows taken by the young people around us. The first part of this week’s double Torah portion, Parashat Mattot-Masei, speaks to these reactions.

The Torah declares, “If a man makes a vow to Adonai or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips,” (Numbers 30:3). The Torah, it seems, takes the oaths of grown men seriously. Not so, with young women. The Torah declares, “If a woman makes a vow to Adonai or assumes an obligation while still in her father's household by reason of her youth, and her father learns of her vow or her self-imposed obligation and offers no objection, all her vows shall stand and every self-imposed obligation shall stand. But if her father restrains her on the day he finds out, none of her vows or self-imposed obligations shall stand; and Adonai will forgive her, since her father restrained her” (Numbers 30:4-5).

The ancient rabbis, medieval Jewish commentators, and modern scholars alike spent much energy re-interpreting this deeply non-egalitarian text. For example, the medieval commentator Rashi attempts to limit the age range of the young woman to which this verse might refer. He suggests that this verse excludes both a young girl and a woman who has reached the age of majority. Quoting Mishna Niddah 45b, he writes “Our Rabbis said: A girl of eleven years and a day, her vows are examined. If she knew in whose name she vowed, or in whose name she consecrated something, her vow stands. From the age of twelve years and one day, she does not need to be tested.” Essentially, Rashi says it is only the vow of an eleven-year-old girl that can be questioned.

In this series of developments, we realize that it is not only the vows of men and women that should be taken seriously, but also the vows of young men and women. Why do the commentators of later generations attach such value to youthful declarations? Why are they so concerned with their validity? I wonder if behind these seemingly fanciful statements is the very stuff of identity formation. Young people try on new aspects of self through the declarations they make.

I find that parents and educators most often approach the vows of young people with equal measures of creativity, concern, humor, and respect. These well-balanced responses allow young people to express who they are in any given moment without feeling overly constrained by the sometimes rigid walls of pragmatism or reality. This is a liberating way to be and imagine in the world.

What happens as we grow older? Do we allow ourselves this same creativity? Do we allow ourselves the same opportunities to try on new identities, to change the way that we see ourselves or act in the world? Or, do we limit ourselves through the very constraints from which we liberate our children?

On this Shabbat of vows (mistaken or otherwise), I hear a playful message from Torah: Remember the vows of your youth. Dust them off from the recesses of your mind. Try them on. Do they speak to who you have become as an adult? Do they inform how you might hear the words of your children? Do they inspire parts of yourself now dormant?

This, indeed, is the gift of Torah. Imagine well!

Parashat Pinchas 5769--Being Punctual

2009-07-10T10:13:00.000-07:00

While in Rabbinical School, I trained in broad based community organizing. One of the most significant lessons I learned in the training was to be intentional about how I use my resources. I was taught to define resources as where we put our time, our energy, and our money. I often ask myself in both my professional and personal life: Am I using my resources wisely? This week's Torah portion, Parashat Pinchas, calls upon the Israelites to ask a similar question of themselves.

In this week's Torah portion, in the middle of the Israelites' desert wandering, it becomes clear that Moses is nearing the end of his leadership tenure. He will not be going with the people into the Promised Land. The Israelites need a new person in charge. This week, God tells Moses that this new person will be Joshua son of Nun, "an inspired man."

What becomes clear at the outset is a very simple fact. Joshua is not Moses. And, the people will need guidance as to how to respond to this new leader. The Torah explains:

Moses did as Adonai commanded him. He took Joshua and had him stand before Eleazar the priest and before the whole community. He laid his hands upon him and commissioned him-as Adonai had spoken through Moses. Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: Command the Israelite people and say to them: Be punctilious in presenting to Me at stated times the offerings of food due Me, as offerings by fire of pleasing odor to Me (Number 27:22-28:2)

I can imagine the confusion Joshua, Moses, and the people felt at this moment. Here, in a time of great transition, God responds not with sage advice or words of blessing, but with a reminder to be punctual. To be punctual?!? On the surface, this advice may seem to be inconsequential (or at least non-sequential). I believe, though, that there is a deeper message inherent in the statement. God is telling the people to use their resources wisely. God is saying to the people: In moments of change, you have an opportunity to reflect not only on how your community is changing, but also on what your community chooses to invest. God seems to be reminding the people to apply their resources to that which is sacred in their lives.

This is a time of change in the Religious School. It is a time for us to ask ourselves the very questions to which the Torah hints this week:

What are our central needs and how can we seek to fill them?
How can we invest in that which will bring real meaning to our lives?
How can we create relationships that are rooted in our community?
As a school community, how do we best define and use our resources?

Today is my seventh day at TIOH, and I am delighted that we have already begun asking and answering these and other important questions together. I deeply value your thoughts and invite you to reply to this email with any reflections you might have on this D'var Torah (or with anything else on your mind!). I so hope you will come in and meet with me over the summer, or at any other time this year. I look forward to getting to know you and your family. This is the real sweetness ahead.

Parashat Chukat-Balak 5769--Standing at the rock

2009-07-06T07:03:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law, who lives in Israel, recently spent a month visiting Tali and me here in Los Angeles. Yael is a successful immigration lawyer and her job requires long hours and hard work. A familiar story. The time she spent with us here was focused on renewal. And so, almost spontaneously, she decided to fill her hours by writing her life story.

For almost four weeks, Yael was chained to her computer. One night, during dinner, she let us know that she had put the life story down in pursuit of a simpler goal. She would write a 140 character story. A microstory.

The idea of the microstory comes from twitter, which forces users to limit their messages to 140 characters. An impossible task? Yael told us that the great author, Ernest Hemingway once wrote a story, which he called his best story, in only six words, “For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”

The idea of the microstory came to my mind as I read this week’s double Torah portion Chukat Balak.

In this week’s parashah, the Israelites are complaining of thirst. God commands Moses to assemble the people Israel. God tells Moses to hold up his staff and “speak to a stone.” From this stone, God promises, water will flow out and quench the thirst of the stiff necked people. God says, speak to the stone. And inexplicably, Moses doesn’t. Or he can’t. Or he won’t.

In any event, Moses disobeys, he smashes the stone twice with his staff.

Water comes forth. The Israelites drink.

And God tells Moses he will not enter the Promised Land because of it.

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A few years ago, I spent a summer teaching at a Jewish preschool. During my first day on the job, I learned the sentence that every early childhood educator must know: “Use your words.” A child approaches crying, inconsolable and the teacher responds, “Jacob, use your words.” A child grabs a toy from another student, and the teacher responds, “Erin, use your words.” A child stamps her foot in frustration and the teacher cooes, “Naomi, use your words.”

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Use your words. Hemingway did it in six. A microstory develops in 140. And Moses, our great teacher and leader, fails to utter even one.

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As a young man, Moses witnessed deep injustice. We know this story. He saw an Egyptian taskmaster strike an Israelite slave. He looked left and right and mirrored the violent act, striking and killing the Egyptian taskmaster. No words. Action.

The next day, Moses witnessed a second injustice, two Hebrew slaves fighting. He approached them and asked “Why do you strike your fellow.” The Israelite responded, “Who made you chief over us? Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?” Moses was frightened. He realized that his secret was out and he fled. No words. Action.

Moses fled to Midian and there God approached him in a burning bush. God told Moses, “I will send you to Pharaoh, and you shall free My people, the Israelites, from Egypt.”

Moses replied, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh…Please, Adonai, I have never been a man of words.” Moses knew himself. He was not a person of words.

But God was insistent. God said, “Who gives man speech? Who makes him dumb or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, Adonai? Now go, and I will be with you as you speak and will instruct you what to say.” God believed that he could change Moses. That he could make him a man of words.

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I wonder if Moses reflected on this exchange as he stood by the beaten rock, the flowing water, his brother, his people. Moses struck the rock, water flowed out, and God said, “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.”

Did God get it right? Was this really about mistrust? Or a negation of sanctity? Or was this about something much more fundamental. Moses’ inability to change. And God’s inability to teach him.

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What might Moses have said to the rock if he would have spoken?

140 characters? Six words?

140 characters: I am tired. The people won’t stop moaning. My sister is dead. They’ve risen against me twice. Give me water. Give me silence. Promised Land.

Six words: Stark desert. Desperate people. Water, please.

---

“Use your words.”

God gets it wrong this time. There is no divine cure for Moses. God can tell Moses, use your words. But the command is where it ends. The speech—the growth, the change, the evolution—was up to Moses.

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Ecclesiastes tells us, “a time for silence and a time for speaking.”

But, in the end, this week’s parashah is not only about speech and silence. It is about Moses facing the rock. And rising above his own limitations. Or not. It is about realizing full potential, or missing the moment.

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And so it is for us, each one of us here. We too have found ourselves, or find ourselves, or will find ourselves in the desert. Wandering. This is the nature of existence.

We too have limitations. Limitations that repeat themselves. Again and again, aspects of ourselves that hold us back. That we seek to change.

And we too will be called upon again and again to stand before our own rock. We will have our own opportunities to rise above our limitations. Or not. For us, the Promised Land is still so very much a possibility.

---

And so my prayer for us this Shabbat is simple. “Still yet, sweet water…will flow.” Six words. Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat B'haalotcha 5769--Saying Goodbye

2009-06-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

It has been a true honor to write a weekly D’var Torah for the Temple Beth Sholom community these past years. Each week, I look forward to diving into Torah anew and to engaging in conversation about sacred text with you. This has been both a spiritual and learning practice for me. While I will be moving on from TBS on June 15, Torah will remain very much central to this community.

In the weeks to come, April Akiva, the incoming Director of Education, will begin writing a weekly D’var Torah for TBS. April’s keen mind and love of study is sure to enrich this community.

If you would like to continue following my weekly D’vrei Torah, you can always find me online at my Torah Blog.

If you have not already done so, I encourage you to sign up for the following insightful and meaningful D’vrei Torah:

The Union for Reform Judaism distributes a weekly Torah commentary, featuring the words of a variety of prominent scholars and rabbis from our community.

American Jewish World Service sends out a weekly Torah commentary, which highlights the connections between the weekly parashah and our own commitments to justice.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi of England, writes an insightful weekly Torah commentary called “Covenant and Conversation.” You can sign up to receive it.

In this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat B’haaltocha, the Israelites take down their tents and travel on from their encampment at Mount Sinai. The Israelites camped at Mount Sinai from Exodus 19:1-Numbers 10:11. The Israelites were taught to watch the Divine Pillar of Cloud and Fire that rested over the Tabernacle or the mishkan. If the pillar stayed, they stayed. If the pillar lifted, they traveled. When the pillar lifted in Numbers 10:11, the Israelites knew it was time to travel onward.

I read these words anew this week. I think of our ancestors and the profound experiences they had while camped at Mount Sinai. Life changing experiences. Even though they journeyed onward, their hearts and souls were always inextricably connected to the community they created and all that they lived through at the base of the mountain.

And so I think of my own life. My time at TBS has rooted me in this community forever. Temple Beth Sholom will always be a home to me. And while I may journey onward, I remain forever connected with and grateful to this all of you. I leave deeply blessed from knowing you and honored for having had the opportunity to serve you.

Thank you for all you have given me. May your lives forever be blessed with the light of Torah and the joy of learning.

Parashat Nasso 5769--Adult B'nei Mitzvah

2009-06-08T16:42:00.001-07:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Nasso, we read the ancient words of blessing, the Priestly Benediction, creatively translated as:

The Eternal One spoke to Moses, “Speak to Aaron and his sons, ‘Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them,

May God bless you and keep you!

May God’s countenance shine up you and be gracious with you!

May God’s light shine upon you and grant you peace!'

Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them" (Numbers 6:22-27).

These words, which we utter at moments of celebration and on special holy days, provide us with a deep mystery of meaning. And while ancient commentators, like Rashi, read into this blessing promise of material wealth, spiritual fulfillment, and Divine favor, I see no such grand promises in the words. In my humble estimation, these ancient words of blessing do not speak of great rewards, enlightenment, or grandiose plans. They speak of something much more foundational, that of presence.

Any parent, pet owner, friend, child, gardener, employee, or spouse knows that presence is one of the most important and foundational gifts we can give to another person, and one of the most important gifts we can receive. Individuals thrive when they are given the blessing of another’s care, compassion, and availability. We know this to be true: No matter what life brings us what we need most is someone there with us. We need companions on our journeys.

In this week’s parashah, we are promised nothing more and nothing less than Divine Presence. Come what may, we are told, Adonai will be with us. In moments of joy and celebration, we can’t make false promises—promises of wealth, enlightenment, contentment, or good luck. Life hands us unexpected and unwelcome presents sometimes. What we can promise is presence. As God’s partners in the ongoing work of creation, we can understand that this Divine Promise is manifest in our own ability to be present for one another.

This coming Shabbat, sixteen extraordinary TBS congregants will be called to the Torah for the first time as adult b’nei mitzvah. This group and I have been studying together for the past two years. Beyond their growing competency in Hebrew and their joys of Jewish learning, they have come to understand the gift of being present. They have, in the past two years, formed a learning community, they have celebrated with one another, and they have supported one another. How fitting that they will read these words aloud to our community this Shabbat. I invite you to join us for this sacred occasion.

Beyond that, I invite you hear Torah anew this Shabbat. I invite you to consider where your presence is needed in this world, and then to offer it up. May you be blessed with divine light shining in your life, and may you bless others with your light in their.

Shavuot 5769--Standing at Mount Sinai

2009-06-01T17:23:00.001-07:00

On Shavuot, which this year begins on Thursday night, May 28, we read the book of Ruth. The book orbits around the stories of two women, Naomi and Ruth, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, and the relationship they create. Ruth, a Moabite, marries Naomi’s son, an Israelite. After the untimely death of her husband, Ruth pledges her loyalty to Naomi and chooses to journey with her away from Moab and back to the land of Naomi’s people.

The story of Ruth is an ancient story and the soul bearing line she delivers to her mother-in-law is one that has been remembered for generations. Ruth says, “Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16). With these famous words, Ruth pledges herself to her mother-in-law and to Naomi’s people. Ruth, we are taught, is the first convert to Judaism.

What is most striking about Ruth’s pledge of loyalty is the order of the verse:

I am with you
I will journey with you
I will live with you
Your people will become my own
Your God will become my own

There are many roads into Jewish life. Our Jewish identities are often based on the choices we make along the way: The families and places from which we come, the schools and camps we attend, the places we travel to and settle in, the people we know, and the beliefs we hold central. The story of Ruth emphasizes what we all know to be true: At different stages in our lives these components hold different weight. Being Jewish does not always center around belief, ideology, or location. But, sometimes it does. Being Jewish does not always center around community, family, and friends. But sometimes it does.

Ruth understands the complexity of creating a Jewish life She understands that sometimes a close relationship with another person allows us to open our hearts to those things that person holds dear. Sometimes a move to a place brings us unexpectedly into a new Jewish community. Sometimes an existential yearning develops into a course of study, or a search for meaning leads us to a prayer practice. Life is full of doors. It is up to us which doors we choose to see, to open, and to walk through.

On this Shavuot, I invite you to consider Ruth’s pledge to Naomi anew. Ruth speaks of deep relationships, personal growth, created community, articulated meaning, and spiritual curiosity.

Which aspects of this pledge resonate closest to your current life experiences? What fills your life?

Which aspects of this pledge feel far from where you are right now? What is missing from your life?

On Shavuot, we stand again at Mount Sinai and receive Torah anew. We have the ability to articulate the Torah of our lives. We have the ability to choose what we will value and what will shape our existence. On this Shavuot, as you stand at Sinai once again, open your heart to choosing your life anew. Who knows where it might take you!

Parashat Bamidbar 5769--the roots of existence

2009-05-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

This week we begin a new Book of Torah, the book of Bamidbar or Numbers. Bamidbar begins with a census taking. All of the Israelites are counted and the number comes to 600,000. There are many famous commentaries on this counting. One of my favorites comes from the Sefat Emet, a collection of hasidic teachings written on the weekly Torah portions. The Sefat Emet was written by Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter, and was published in Poland in the first years of the twentieth century.

The Sefat Emet explains:

The midrash refers to this counting of the children of Israel as being ‘like the scribe’s count.’ Just as the Torah has words and letters that are subject to counting but its root is high above, beyond all count, so, too, are the souls of Israel countable in this world, while in their root they are beyond number. Thus the holy books say that the 600,000 Jews [who came out of Egypt] are parallel to the 600,000 letters in the Torah.

The Sefat Emet cites here a well known mystical teaching, one which equates the number of souls that came out of Egypt with the number of letters in the Torah. While the Torah actually has just over 300,000 letters in it, the spiritual lesson here is worth reflecting upon.

Two questions to consider:

1. Why would Jewish mystics make this link between people and letters?
2. Why would Jewish mystics assert that the roots of both letters and people were beyond their counting?

The answers to both questions lie within the Sefat Emet itself:

The Torah that lies before us is in the garb of Torah. It is by means of study that we arouse the force that lies within it. That is the real power of Israel: to awaken the root of Torah. For the same is true of the human soul; the nefesh is but the garb of the neshamah that lies within it. And that neshamah, or deeper soul, is part of God above.

Mystical Jewish teachers believe that the Torah as we know it (the Torah of letters and words) is actually only a garb, a cloak covering the real essence (the roots) of Torah. It is by study and deeper reflection that we are able to unlock the true Torah from its shell. The same is true of human beings. The true essence of who we are (our roots) is covered by our shell. Underneath that shell is our truest form, our neshamah, our deeper soul, the divine spark within us. That divine spark is only unleashed when we attend to our own spiritual work and contemplation.

According to the mystics, what we see around us, including Torah and ourselves, is only the outer layer of true existence. If we take the time to peel back that which is apparent, we will uncover the true deeper unity that defines existence.

Our spiritual work this Shabbat is clear: Let us take moments to search beyond the obvious, to peer into the core of what we know, and open ourselves up to the deeper reality that pulsates all around us.

Parashat Behar-B'hukkotai 5769--Gardening

2009-05-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

I am growing a vegetable garden for the first time. Words cannot describe to you the deep delight I feel each morning as I walk out to my garden patch, coffee cup in hand, ready to see what happened over night. I feel the wonder of a small child. I examine each and every new bud, watch small peppers and strawberries beginning to form, help pea vines cling to their trellis, carefully water delicate leaves, and smell the fragrant herb leaves. It is like a mini Eden. And it is one of the most “Jewish” things I am doing these days.

A recent article in LA Times reported:

With Sabbath candles burning and 14 guests seated around her dinner table, Joanna Arch held up a cup of kosher red wine and chanted the kiddish prayer in Hebrew:

"God blessed the seventh day and made it holy because on it he rested from all his creative work."

As is the custom, the guests observed the holy day of rest with a meal, but with a twist: They were sharing a "sustainable" Sabbath dinner on this Friday evening, with food that was locally grown, mostly organic and intended to elevate their practice of Judaism.

Click here to read the rest of the article.

There is a current flowing through our world right now, one which links the renewed (organic victory) gardening movement with spiritual traditions.

Since Torah times, our tradition has expressed a deep connection between Jewish life and the land we live on. In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Behar-Bechukotai, we read of this connection. “Adonai spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai: Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a Shabbat of Adonai. Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield” (Leviticus 25:1-3)

Our Torah makes the assumption that the Israelites were a people who tilled the land. In fact, the Israelites work the land to such an extent that the land needed its own a Shabbat, a year-long rest. (I wrote of this relationship in my D’var Torah last year http://rabbihudson.blogspot.com/2008/05/parashat-behar-5768.html) And I wonder: Might we need to take a reverse approach? Is it time for our community to make a commitment to a year of planting?

In a recent edition of National Public Radio’s Speaking of Faith, Krista Tippett interviewed theologian Vigen Guroian in a segment called, “Restoring the Senses,” which explored the relationship between Greek Orthodox Easter and gardening. Some of Guroian’s writings, as well as a downloadable podcast, can be found here. And, while it is clear that Guroian is speaking from a faith tradition different from our own, his message is clear: one encounters creation when one grows new life.

In times of uncertainty and change, planting a few seeds or starters and watching them grow can be deeply centering and fulfilling. It can also be a reminder of our tradition’s deeper commitments to food, ethical eating, and creating a sustainable world (check out Hazon for more on this). On this Shabbat, let us re-explore our relationship with ourselves and our world by re-connecting with the land.

Inch by inch, row by row.

Parashat Emor 5769--Rally for Darfur

2009-05-08T13:46:00.001-07:00

On Sunday, May 17, at 2:30 p.m. the Orange County Jewish community will join together at Mile Square Park for an unprecedented action. Together, we will stand side by side and march in a Rally for Darfur. Together as one community, we will protest the ongoing slaughter taking place in Darfur, Sudan.

Many of you gathered last Sunday to hear Holocaust Survivor Leon Leyson speak at Temple Beth Sholom. Still others joined two weeks ago with Hadassah to hear TBS Congregant and Holocaust Survivor Sarah Schweitz’s story, and still others joined with our TBS Teens to hear Jenny Unterman’s story. Yes, we have been deeply honored to have many in our Orange County community come together to hear first-hand accounts of the horrors of the Shoah, the Holocaust, in commemoration of Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, which took place on Tuesday, April 21.

We say “Never Again” and we gather to hear the sacred memories of those in our community who suffered at the hands of the Nazis. We say “Never Again,” and yet violence continues in our world. What is our moral responsibility as a Jewish people when we witness acts of violence and genocide in our own times?

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Emor, continues to explore that which makes life holy and ritually pure. Like the rest of Leviticus, Parashat Emor goes to great lengths to describe details of ritual purity, including the ways in which Israelite priests must remain ritually pure, as well as the rhythm of the Jewish holy days. And, while the ancient particulars of the Levitical Authors may seem removed from our own sensibilities, I believe their deepest intentions are well in-line with our own.

The Levitical Authors intended to construct a world, a world of order and holiness, a world that mirrored the Divine and the Divine’s intention. A world which, illustrated through ancient sacrifices and rituals, breathed out messages of wholeness, holiness, and life. We too aim to create a world of wholeness, holiness, and life. And, we at times succeed. And, we at times fail.

We know in our hearts that what takes place in Darfur each and every day is a crime. We know that the crisis in Darfur is the antithesis to all that our Torah and we hold dear: wholeness, holiness, and life. We know and yet we feel overwhelmed by the scope of the task.

On May 17, we have an opportunity to take another important step against the outrage in Darfur. Let us gather as one community. Take one hour out of your life to spread a message of wholeness, holiness, and life. Our brothers and sisters in Darfur cry out for our help. Never Again. May it yet be so.

Please check out details regarding the May 17 Rally for Darfur in Mile Square Park at www.jewishworldwatch.com.