Shabbat shalom!

What makes something holy? First of all, to be holy is to be to be dedicated or set apart for some particular function or purpose. It may or may not involve something religious or spiritual, although it often does. What makes something holy is that we recognize it as such, either when we declare it special or treat it in a special way. In this week’s Torah reading, parashat Shemini, we read of the consecration of the mishkan, the portable sanctuary that the Israelites constructed and carried with them on their 40-year journey through the Sinai wilderness. This consecration – declaring the mishkan holy – effectively announced that the mishkan was open for business and ready for use. The consecration involved an 8-day ceremony of offerings and rituals, at the end of which daily offerings would be made in accordance with the prescriptions of the Torah.

At this point we learn:

Now Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the Lord alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord (Leviticus 10:1-2).

In short, Aaron’s two sons – who themselves were priests and therefore authorized to make offerings in the mishkan – were punished by God for offering “alien fire.” The commentators ask, what is “alien fire”? There are a number of possible answers. First, it is possible that the action that they performed – burning incense – was not something that was supposed to be done in the mishkan. It was an improper act. Second, it is possible that the act, itself, was acceptable, but it was performed the wrong way – either at the wrong time (when it was not prescribed) or by the wrong people (Aaron’s sons, rather than the High Priest – Aaron, himself). Third, it is possible that the right offering was performed in a technically correct way, but the brothers were drunk, making their ritual inappropriate because they could not perform it with clarity of mind and intent. Fourth, it is possible that the right offering was performed in the right way, but that a particular attitude accompanied the brothers’ ritual: they assumed a degree of importance they did not deserve. Either they displaced Moses and Aaron from their rightful positions of leadership, or they believed they could perform the offering better than their elders, or they schemed inappropriately about when they would become the legitimate leaders of the people after the deaths of Moses and Aaron.

What did Nadav and Avihu do wrong? It is impossible to know for certain, but what is clear is that their actions did not promote the holiness of the mishkan. They did not make the mishkan set apart, distinct, and important. They behaved in a way that diminished the holiness of the mishkan.

Final questions: did the punishment fit the crime? Ought God to have punished them so severely for offering this “alien fire”? What about the fact that this was the first day that the mishkan was even in use – it had just been dedicated? Was the “alien fire” offered inadvertently, because the brothers did not know the proper rituals yet? These questions remain and weigh heavily on us, as we attempt to know how to bring holiness into our own lives today.

How do we answer these questions? Let’s ponder the answers together. Post your responses here and we can discuss this as a community.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat shalom!

Does ritual matter in our lives? If so, how does it work? Is there something fundamentally transformative about performing a ritual? Does it magically cause the universe to change in some way? Take Kiddush at the beginning of Shabbat and Festivals, for example. The purpose of Kiddush is not to bless or sanctify the wine, per se (contrary to popular belief), but rather, to declare the holiness of the day that is about to begin. What if we do not say Kiddush, then – is Shabbat not holy? Of course it is! If we do not say Kiddush, Shabbat is still inherently holy, but in allowing the beginning of Shabbat to pass unacknowledged, it likely goes unappreciated in our lives. Ritual, then, is generally meaningful not because it changes something on the outside, but because it affects our perspectives and experiences of the world on the inside.

This week we begin reading Sefer Vayikra – the Book of Leviticus, which is the third book of the Torah. It is sometimes difficult to look at the opening chapters and find meaning in the value and purpose of sacrificing animals in service to God: slaughtering and burning the animals, sprinkling their blood around the altar, and becoming cleansed of our sins. The rabbis teach us that traditionally, young children begin their study of the Torah with Sefer Vayikra because they are pure and the sacrifices are pure. Therefore, it stands to reason, children would have an easier grasp of the meaning of the sacrifices. By extension, it seems that adults would have a more difficult time with the concept.

How do we, as adults, make sense of the sacrificial system prescribed by our sacred Torah? Not by dismissing it as archaic. Not by calling it unenlightened. And not by lauding its perfection, either. Rather, we acknowledge the power of ritual and realize that our ancestors needed a way to express their remorse about misdeeds performed and their appreciation of what is holy in our world. Today, we do not use the sacrificial tradition of our ancestors to express these things. We do benefit, however, from their role modeling when we allow ritual practices to infuse meaning into the daily experiences of our lives. We mark holiness in time when we celebrate holidays; we note significant moments in life through life cycle rituals; and we infuse our lives with purpose by observing rituals in our daily behavior.

The message of this week’s Torah reading is clear: holiness exists when we allow it to enter our consciousness. Our job is to let it in. How do you do it? Share your thoughts, reactions and ideas here.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat Shalom!

Have you ever encountered God? Where do you feel God most profoundly? What does it feel like? Perhaps you do not feel God’s closeness – either not very often or never at all. What would it take to discover the presence of God in your life?

If these sound like difficult or impossible questions, then know that you are in good company. None other than our great teacher and leader, Moses, felt equally confused. In this week’s Torah reading, parashat Ki Tissa, Moses says to God:

“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…” (Exodus 33:12-13)

God replies that it is impossible for a human being to comprehend God fully, but that it will be possible for Moses to develop a better understanding of some of the most profound qualities of God. Moses will thus be inspired as he grows into his leadership role.

By this point, Moses has shattered the two stone tablets of the covenant after seeing the Israelites worshipping the golden calf. God summons him back to the top of Mount Sinai to receive a second set of tablets to replace the shattered ones. When Moses returns, the Torah says, “the Lord came down in a cloud; he stood with him there, and [he] proclaimed the name Lord” (Exodus 34.5, italics added). Apparently, Moses and God met at the top of the mountain; and for symbolic purposes, we might imagine that this is the half-way point between God’s domain (the heavens) and Moses’ domain (the earth). Then, the verse continues, “he stood with him there”, but who did the standing with whom? Did God stand with Moses, or did Moses stand with God? Of course, the practical outcome is the same (they stood together), but what is the intent of the verse? And further, who “proclaimed the name Lord” – God or Moses? The traditional commentators are divided: some say the subject is God and others say it is Moses. I believe that the answer lies somewhere in between. Namely, I think the text is intentionally vague, in order to convey that each one is standing with the other, and that they are standing together, unified by their quest for connection with one other. And then, just possibly, they both call out the name of God in unison.

If this is indeed the case, then what we learn is that God seeks closeness with us just as we yearn for a connection with God. In order for that relationship to work – just as in any relationship – both partners must demonstrate their willingness to turn to each other, to desire each other, and to understand each other. So may it be as we search for God’s presence in our lives each and every day.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat shalom!

When we gather to celebrate Purim on Saturday night and Sunday, we will watch the children prance around in their costumes eating hamentashen, singing songs, and drowning out the name of Haman during the reading of the Megillah. We must keep in mind, however, that amidst the fun and joy of the holiday is a serious message. Namely, the possibility of evil lurks just around the corner. This is evident near the beginning of the story of Esther, when Haman tells the king: “There is a certain people, scattered and dispersed among the other peoples in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king’s laws; and it is not in Your Majesty’s interest to tolerate them” (Esther 3:8).

This, unfortunately, is a story that has repeated itself numerous times throughout Jewish history – that of a political leader who does not like the Jews, usually just because we are different in some ways from our neighbors. We understand that it is possible to live as Jews within a broad, diverse society. We know that it is possible to draw a balance between our interests in “secular” life and Jewish heritage. Our loyalties to both are not compromised by our commitment to either.

Purim reminds us that not everyone perceives us the way we perceive ourselves, and so the world is not always a safe place. And though we should not live in fear and paranoia, we should be vigilant in preserving freedom and understanding for all groups in our society, so that we, too, may enjoy the benefits of the same freedom and understanding.

Shabbat shalom, and hag Purim sameah!

Shabbat Shalom

Above the new and beautiful aron kodesh (holy ark) in our renovated sanctuary is inscribed a verse that reads: “And they shall make for Me a sanctuary and I shall dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8). The calligraphy was appropriately created just for this purpose by our Rabbi Emeritus, Gordon Freeman, as a way of honoring the integral role that he has played as a leader and member of our holy community for so many years. The words are excerpted from the very beginning of this week’s Torah reading, parashat Terumah, in which God instructs the Israelites standing at Mount Sinai to construct a portable sanctuary that they can carry through the wilderness on their journey to the Land of Israel.

The classic commentators ask the following question: if the Israelites are to construct a sanctuary, why does God express an intention to dwell among them (referring to the community), rather than within it (alluding to the sanctuary, itself)? The wording seems wrong, but of course, it never is. Rather, it instructs us specifically regarding two things: first, defining the role of each individual in creating holy space, and second, locating the presence of God within the community.

In terms of the first, the text makes clear that each Israelite is expected to contribute one-half of a shekel – the same amount for each person. This teaches us that everybody must share equally in the process of creating the mishkan (tabernacle/sanctuary), and that nobody is entitled to a greater share of the honor of participation by virtue of his or her available resources. I would propose a slight refinement to this guideline: each member of the community has a unique ability to contribute to the growth of the community. For some, it will be financial capacity, for others, energy and hard work, and yet for others, knowledge, wisdom and talent. In some ideal sense, it would be wonderful for each individual to contribute extensively, without comparing the contributions of one to the contributions of the other. Further, each of us should feel needed and necessary in promoting the overall welfare of our community.

This leads to the second point: the text teaches us that God’s presence will dwell within our midst if we do the work of constructing holy space. To be sure, God does not need a physical structure to live in, and such a thing is even impossible to imagine. Rather, we learn that when we invite holiness into our lives – by creating distinction and meaning within our places, our relationships, and the moments in our lives – we invite God to be present with us. The magic of what is eternal and true can abide with us in everything we do and everywhere we go.

This coming week, think about what special gifts you have to offer to the community and to those around you, and what you can do to bring God’s presence – or holiness in some fashion – into your life.

I hope you will share your thoughts and reflections here.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat Shalom

What does God want from us?

For some people, the answer lies in the Torah, and for others, it makes more sense to intuit the answer from life’s experiences – perhaps some system of universal morality, for example (there are other ways, as well). If we look in the Torah, where do we find the answer? An easy first step is to read the Ten Commandments, which are part of last week’s Torah reading. This week, we read parashat Mishpatim, which consists of a very long list of instructions – mitzvot – that God instructs us to perform in our daily lives. The question is, how do these mitzvot rank in comparison to the Ten Commandments? Were they intended as clarification or elaboration, or possibly just as an afterthought?

At first glance, it appears that God delivers the instructions of just the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, but if so, where do the rest of these mitzvot come from? Rashi, citing earlier commentaries, notices the first words of this week’s Torah reading: “And these are the laws that you shall place before them…” (Exodus 21:1). Why, he wonders, does God begin speaking to Moses here with the word “and”? It is because the following laws are intended to supplement the first ten that were already enumerated. In other words, Revelation – which begins at Mount Sinai – continues throughout all generations. It is not a one-time event, but the beginning of a relationship that continues for all time. We look back on the experience of our ancestors at Mount Sinai as the basis for a continuing relationship with God as we strive constantly to know, understand, and draw nearer to God. The instructions – or mitzvot – form the basis of Jewish tradition, not because they are exhaustive in nature, but because they stimulate our quest for what is right and what is true in the world – things we sometimes attribute to God.

Therefore, God encourages us to enter into relationship. God initiates that relationship at Mount Sinai (actually, long before that, in many ways – but in a formal sense through the Revelation), and then the relationship evolves and matures through time. Where do the rest of the mitzvot come from – God or human beings who seek to elaborate upon the content of the original message? Either way, Jewish practice consists of much more than just the original Ten Commandments from last week’s parashah. In every generation, we seek to discover the meaning of God’s presence in our lives, and the choices that we make result in the further articulation of the mitzvot. Maybe they come from God, perhaps from us. Possibly from a partnership between us and God.

Whatever it is, the Torah and all the rest of Jewish tradition has come to us from the generations past. It is ours to cherish, to preserve and to pass on once again, because it encourages us to ponder exactly this question: what does God want from us? Our passion to discover the answer connects us to our ancestors, who asked the same question, and to our descendants, who will ask the same question in generations to come.

Sometimes, the magic is in the question, even if the answer is elusive.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat Shalom

About fifteen years ago, I taught Bible at a Jewish high school in Los Angeles. I vividly recall introducing the syllabus to my 10th grade students on the first day, when David P. raised his hand and interrupted my train of thought. “But I don’t believe in God,” he said, and although I took him at his word, I also understood his implication that absent a belief in God, there was no point in studying the Torah. “This class is not about your theology,” I answered, “it’s about understanding the heritage of the Jewish people and the impact that this text has had on hundreds of generations of people across history.” He was not going to be excused from taking the class. These days, the way I often respond to such a protest is by pointing out that the image of God that comes to your mind – the one you do not believe in – is one that I do not believe in, either. Typically, it involves an old man with a long white beard perched upon a cloud pulling the strings of the human marionettes below or throwing lightning bolts at us. In truth, it is much easier to describe what we do not believe in than to capture in words what we do believe in.

We are confronted with this issue this week in Parashat Yitro, which tells of the Israelites at the base of Mount Sinai when they witness the presence of God and receive God’s Instruction. The Torah is explicitly clear that what the people observe is the trembling of the earth, thunder and lightning, fire and smoke, loud noise and the sound of trumpets, and clouds covering the top of the mountain. Somewhere in the midst of that multi-sensory experience, we assume, is the presence of God. But later in the Bible we learn of a totally opposite description of God’s presence when God appears to the prophet Elijah (I Kings 19):

And lo, the Lord passed by. There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by the power of the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind – an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake – fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire, a still, small voice [the voice of God].

So which is it? How is God’s presence experienced? In the great noise and chaos of Mount Sinai, in the time of Moses or in the still quiet of Mount Horeb (another name for Mount Sinai, no less!) in the time of Elijah?

Each of us experiences God’s presence differently, and we even experience it differently at different moments in time. What unifies us when we say the words of Shema Yisrael, declaring the one-ness and uniqueness of God, is not that we all accept the same description of God, but rather that we agree that God’s presence is unique and unparalleled in the universe (whatever that might mean). Does God hear and answer our prayers? Does God intervene in our daily lives? Does God have a physical form? Does God speak? These questions challenge us and they are ultimately unanswerable (by definition – that’s what makes God transcendent, beyond anything that human beings can know or relate to completely). However, the mystery that is God cannot paralyze us, as it did my student in the high school Bible class. It cannot hold us back, because what we do know to be true is that there is a Force that brought the world into existence, a Reason that it continues to exist, and a Purpose that compels us to make every day of our lives count. That Force, that Reason, that Purpose – we call it God. Moreover, we know that we are Jews because we have inherited a rich and complex tradition and history from our forebears, and that experience originated at Mount Sinai 3,200 years ago, no matter what it is that may have occurred there. The Israelites experienced God at Sinai. We experience God every day. Not a man, not a cloud, not a lightning bolt. God.

Now go and seek the meaning of God’s presence in your life.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat shalom ... a week late!

Pivotal moments in our lives are etched into our memories like photographs. We can return to them most any time, and we can place ourselves in the scenes preserved like they were yesterday. Many of us take pictures or movies of these events so that we can document them for future reference and experience them over and over again as we view the records. Some of us write about our experiences in journals, capturing the emotions and the details that might be lost over time. Our Torah records important times by expressing them in poetry or song, as seen in this week’s reading, Parashat B’shallah, which tells of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea to a long-awaited freedom from Egyptian slavery.

Shirat ha-yam, the Song of the Sea, is situated in the middle of the Torah reading. The reading begins with the Israelites fleeing from Egypt after the devastation of the tenth and final plague, the death of all of the first-born in Egypt. God leads the people on a convoluted path in order to avoid encountering the Philistines, which might have caused the Israelites to panic and turn back to Egypt out of fear of attack. They eventually reach the Red Sea, where they proceed to cross to safety when they realize that the Egyptians have had a change of heart and are pursuing them to bring them back to Egypt. At the end of the Torah reading, the Amalekites wage war with Israel, and the people are forced to do battle to fend them off.

The experience of our ancestors as described in our parashah reflects the way we experience life, as well. Sometimes there are positive moments – victories and accomplishments – while other times there are disappointments and even danger. In our parashah, the highlighted moment of redemption is embedded within accounts of trial and difficulty, and if you pause to reflect on it, you realize that the crossing of the Red Sea is successful, while the attacks on our people are not. Perhaps we can seek to understand our own lives the same way: there may be times of difficulty, loss and failure, but there just might be opportunities for redemption embedded within them, if we can only open our eyes and discover them.

Shabbat shalom - 1/22/10

This week, in Parashat Bo, we read of the final preparations for the Israelites’ journey out of Egypt. God declares, “This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you” (Exodus 12:2). And so it is. From this point forward, the Torah refers to the month in which our ancestors left Egypt as the first month. As a result, the month which begins with “the day of the sounding of the shofar” – what we know as Rosh Hashanah – becomes the seventh month. That seems strange: how could Rosh Hashanah – the celebration of the beginning of the year – be in the seventh month and not the first?

Like with so many things, our tradition offers multiple explanations. Primarily, however, we understand from the text that we begin counting time from the moment of our liberation. This makes sense, because slaves have no need to count time: every day is the same as the last and the same as the next; there is nothing to plan for, nothing to look forward to. By contrast, free people must be responsible for their time. The Israelites needed to make plans for the future and organize themselves through a consistent accounting of time. In addition, they had the opportunity to track the events they had experienced as they looked back in time to their journey to freedom. So the time of the exodus becomes a critical juncture in the lives of our people. It marks the establishment of the unique identity of our people.

Rosh Hashanah, too, is an essential moment in our calendar. On it, we celebrate the anniversary of the creation of the world, which, according to the rabbis (but not mentioned explicitly in the Torah) occurred at that time. Rosh Hashanah, therefore, is associated with a universal theme, one that is associated with all of creation and all people everywhere. It stands in clear contrast to the particular nature of Passover as a moment of significance for Jews, and not specifically for all people.

So which one marks the beginning of the year? In true Jewish form, they both do. The first day of Nisan – the month of Passover – marks the new year for the Jewish people, and the first day of Tishrei – the month of Rosh Hashanah – marks the new year for the world. With a final note of perfect balance, those two dates stand exactly half a year apart from one another, so that when you reach the end of the cycle of the year on one calendar, you are exactly halfway through the other calendar cycle. In that way, we never reach a complete and final end. There is no moment where we are not somehow engaged in the work of improving the world. Even when we reach the end of the year, we find that we are still in the midst of a year according to another system of accounting.

May we continue to be worthy of living in both calendars of time, a universal one that guides us to bring goodness to the world, and a particular one that inspires us to live fully as Jews, affirming our covenant with God and embracing the richness of the traditions we have learned from our ancestors over so many generations.

I invite you to share your comments on this week’s Torah discussion here.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat shalom -- last Sunday's Installation

Dear friends,

This past Sunday's ceremony celebrating my installation as your rabbi was a very moving event for me. The spirit of joy and optimism was palpable in the sanctuary, and I felt truly welcomed and embraced by our community. I am so grateful to you for your support and your warmth, and I look forward to many years together in which our relationships will blossom and grow. I particularly want to thank all those who dedicated so much of their time and resources to make the day successful and beautiful.

It was an important day not only for me, but for all of us. It was a moment in which we together honored the special history of our congregation and looked ahead to the opportunities and challenges that we will face. Rabbi Artson reminded us of the distinct experiences of our ancestors as they forged a relationship with God, and the presence of so many long-time congregants testified to the commitment of our people in every generation to establish a kehilla kedosha -- a holy community. As we look to the future, we will need to endeavor to strike a delicate balance between preserving the richness of our tradition and embracing the new dimensions of our lives that unfold every day.

This balance is reflected in this week's Torah reading, as well. In parashat Va-era, God promises Moses that God will bring the Israelites out of Egypt so that they can serve God. In other words, they will be freed from slavery for the purpose of taking on new and meaningful responsibilities in the world, not simply becoming autonomous individuals. As they move forward in their journey, they will draw upon their past experiences in order to face the future. The lessons they have learned will inform the choices they make as they go to the Promised Land and create a community for themselves there.

I have great faith in our ability to create a beautiful and meaningful future for ourselves and for our community. I feel blessed to take this journey with you and I thank you for this opportunity.

If you would like to share your reflections on last Sunday's installation ceremony, I invite you to post your comments here.

Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat shalom, 1/8/10

Sometimes our fortune in life changes suddenly. Things may be progressing well, when all of a sudden tragedy, loss or disappointment befalls us. Other times, we may find ourselves plodding along, enduring the challenges and difficulties of our lives when suddenly we find ourselves blessed by new opportunities, gifts, or relationships. It is true what is said that the only thing that is constant in life is change.

As we turn to a new book in the Torah this week, the book of Shemot(Exodus), we see that life changes quickly for our ancestors living in Egypt. Recall that things went well for them during Joseph’s reign as a political leader. He guided Egypt through years of famine, and when his family came from Canaan they were welcomed with open arms and settled in a choice area where they could live and thrive. Soon, we learn, “a new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1:8). Really? How could Joseph – and his leadership – be forgotten so easily? Rashi cites a Talmudic explanation: either there was actually a new king who was ignorant of history, or perhaps it was the same king who adopted a new perspective and chose to disregard the successful tenure of Joseph. In either case, Joseph’s family was in for a change.

Sometimes we elect to make changes in our lives; sometimes they are imposed on us. In the case of our ancestors in Egypt, the change was externally-motivated. The people were enslaved, they suffered, and they cried out in pain. There was a new king – or a king with new ideas – who had plans for the people, but there was a bigger plan off in the distance: God’s plan to bring the people out of Egypt and to the Promised Land. This plan, too, would be imposed upon them at first, but soon, they would become partners with God in the work of tikkun olam (repairing the world) by accepting the covenant at Mount Sinai. They – and we – would choose a destiny rooted in good values and a vision of optimism for the future.

We cannot control everything that happens to us, but we are not powerless to participate in shaping our destiny. When we focus on what is most important, we have a chance to make a difference. There will be hurdles and challenges, but there will also be opportunities and possibilities. Our job is to embrace the good and endure the bad, as Moses will teach us immediately before his death: “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life – if you and your offspring would live” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

The story of our people is a story of hope and promise. So may it be for us today.

Shabbat shalom.