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!
Friday, February 26, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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