The Happiest Place On Earth

Elu D’varim She-ein Lahem Shiur

These are the things that are limitless…

Peah 1:1

They say that Disneyland is the happiest place on earth. But I beg to differ; there is none happier than the City Clerk’s office of the City of New York. I know, it seems strange that this could be so. A city office? But the clerk’s office is the place that people come to obtain a marriage license or to register as domestic partners. (Yes, even with marriage equality in NYC, one can still register as domestic partners.)

I am not here for a marriage license. (I’ve been here before, to their older office.) This time I am here to register as a wedding officiant. It is June; there is a wait. As I sit here watching happy couples, I am tearing up. I wonder, how will I manage to officiate at a wedding, if I can barely make it through seeing strangers in white kissing?

There is a wall sized photo of City Hall where many stop to take photos. Two middle-aged men present their smiling faces for the camera. They lift their hands to show their rings while a young boy, a nephew perhaps, is jumping to get in the pictures.

A woman walks by with flowers in her hand, twirling her ring, adjusting to that new feeling. I look over and I see the man next to her doing the same thing.

In the alcove by the photo, there is a man and a woman reading, checking their phones and packing. Occasionally she will get up and practice the waltz and then break into a rock-and-roll dance. Finally, she gets him to dance with him.

A couple takes a picture with their two young girls. The youngest, about two, mugs for the camera. I am glad that her mommy and daddy are getting married.

The array of people here is amazing. Some people are old, some are young, some are in between. Some have children with them, some have them on the way. Some are dressed in beautiful wedding dress and some are in ethic dress. Some are funky. Some are grungy. Some are on their lunch hour. Everyone is here, smiling, laughing, celebrating.

Our tradition tells us it is our duty to rejoice with the bride and groom. And their is no limit to how much we can rejoice. But there is nothing written about how much joy we can receive from the bride and groom or the bride and bride and the groom and groom. I suspect may that be unlimited too.

So if you need a boost, come down to 141 Worth Street in NYC, or find the marriage bureau in your hometown. Take a seat. And watch the joy flow.

Ironically, this building used to be the Motor Vehicles office. I remember the dreaded lines when I came here for my driver’s permit so long ago. This time, I didn’t mind the wait so much.

Virtual or Real: Community is Community

Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community

Pirkei Avot, 2:5

Social media. For many, this is a way of life. For others, it is an non-entity. Or worse, it is an evil. But social media existed long before the internet. I remember from my childhood history class that in early America, news was spread by posters on walls. In Israel, deaths are announced by posters on the fences outside of homes. We have always found a way to spread the news and it is through the modern iteration through the internet that news is not just spread, but discussed.

I recently heard a story of how a rabbi attacked Facebook (fb) in her sermon a few weeks ago. She hates it and doesn’t like the way people present things on it. She felt that people say things that they wouldn’t ordinarily say and that it was better not to respond to comments. Presumably these were comments about her and the sequence of events she set into motion in her congregation. Certainly, this is one view of Fb, and unfortunately for this rabbi’s community, a view of her (and the board) that is probably accurate. Yes, I admit it. Facebook can be used to speak one’s piece or air one’s complaints, especially when one is part of a community that is not open to discussion. But this is just one side of this virtual community.

Even from people who do not have to face dissension, I hear that they don’t like social media because they want to have more personal relationships. But really, how many personal relationships can one have?

As an avid Facebooker, I would like to speak for the wonders of Fb. You may be reading this blog because you saw a link on Facebook or LinkedIn or Google+ or Twitter. So if I have ever said anything worth reading on this blog, it was only shared by social media. But that is the impersonal beauty of Fb. Sharing political ideas, world events, and community news is easy. And there is the fulfilling of real needs: Who has a contractor? Who has a dentist? Who wants a playdate?

On the personal side, I have felt that Fb has enabled me to build, strengthen, and renew relationships. There have been the renewal of relationships with old friends. Yes, some are just for the yent factor: What are my high school friends doing? Are they successful? Do they still have all of their hair?

And there is the relationship building piece which leads to community. Over the years I have attended many conferences and seminars. In pre-Fb days, we would get an address list or phone list and maybe I would keep in touch with one person for a short time or search for the paper list when I had a specific need. Now, in addition to receiving the lists, we “friend” each other immediately. It is through our reading of postings, which in another setting we might call “sharing,” that we get to know each other better. In some ways, it enables us to strengthen the connection. It makes it easier to reach out and create real, in-person relationships. For example, “I’m in coming to New York.” You respond, have lunch, and what would have been a casual meeting at a conference becomes a friendship.

And then there is news that you don’t want to hear, but that you were glad you did. I met Cantor Sharon Kunitz at Hava NaShira last year. We were put together as roommates and hit it off. I was impressed with how she changed her life midstream. A parent of grown children and grandchildren in Huntsville, Alabama, she decided to become a cantor. She attended HUC-JIR in NYC and then took a pulpit in Harrisburg, PA. We had some emails after the conference. Then she had a health crisis which I followed on Fb. It was a way to communicate with a large group of people. I heard her downs and then ups. And then I heard about her shocking, untimely death. If not for Fb and listservs, I’m not sure that I would have heard this sad news. It was through Fb that I heard about the death of a friend’s brother-in-law and in that case, I was able to attend a shiva minyan and fulfill the mitzvah of comforting the mourner. I’m sure that I would have not made the “call list” for either case.

Fortunately for every case like this, I get to see pictures of friends’ babies or grandchildren that make me smile. One can not underestimate the power of the daily smile.

It is easy for many to say, “I don’t do Fb” or look down on those who do. But I think that my life is richer for the sharing.

Park or Shul? Who Decides?

As an American, I take a lot of rights for granted.  And when those rights are not available to all, I feel it in my bones.  For this is America.

When it comes to prayer, I assume that I can prayer as I want, as long as I am not hurting anyone else.  And while I understand that this doesn’t mean that I can walk into an Orthodox synagogue and disregard the mechitzah, it also means that Orthodox Jews can not come into a non-Orthodox space and tell me how to pray.  The same holds true for our use of public spaces.  One gets a permit and it’s yours to use for a group.  Or you simply go to a park and do your thing.  Not so in Israel.   In Israel, there is no freedom of religion.  The government determines who supervises prayer spaces and Torah, and the government funds these spaces.

In April I participated in a Rosh Hodesh minyan in NYC in support of the Women of the Wall.  (And it seems that I was right next to the photographer!)  Despite my recent ambivalence about wearing tefillin (that’s for another post) I wore them proudly because I believe that everyone has the right to pray the way they want to.  That’s the American way!

For years, the WOW have been coming together to pray at the Kotel in celebration of the new month.    During my year studying in Israel, I spent a few Roshei Hodesh with the WOW, as I have written before.  In Israel, certain prayer spaces are not open to everyone and the government has creative ways to permit or deny prayer spaces and Torah usage. Is it a religious institution?  Is it a national park?  The Kotel is deemed to be an Orthodox synagogue.

I’ve always wondered why the you cannot have an egalitarian minyan at the Kotel, but there are egalitarian b’nei mitzvah at Masada. This article from the Jerusalem Post lays this out nicely.  Although I wonder, could it possibly be that the real reason that you can have an egalitarian minyan at Masada is because it brings in so many tourist dollars and these are for outsiders? The Kotel is a place that people who live in Israel actually go to.

As an American, we talk about supporting Israel because it is a Democratic stronghold in the Middle East.  So, I wonder, how can Israel truly be a democracy when the Kotel is a theocracy?

The Jerusalem Post

Mon, May 20,2013 11 Sivan 5773

Masorti Matters

Sunday May 19, 2013

Separating the Torah from government

Imagine a family donating a very expensive piece of medical equipment to a hospital in Israel. A device with the potential to save many lives. The family, however, makes one clear stipulation: the machine may only be used for Jewish patients – Arab patients may not be treated with the device.

If the hospital were to accept the equipment and follow the family wishes – indeed lives would be saved. Maybe many lives. But I would hope that most clear thinking people reading this column would tell the hospital that they must reject the device or break with the family wishes. A government funded medical facility cannot discriminate. (I would hope the same would be true of a private facility too). Imagine the public outrage if the Ministry of Health allocated resources by examining the political or religious leanings of those seeking medical services.

The religious, national, gender, or ethnic background may not be taken into consideration by our health system. All should be treated equally. In a democratic country this should be self-evident.

Yet, Israel’s National Parks Authority has been allowed to accept donations on condition that the donated item be restricted in terms of who may, or may not, use it.

While egalitarian prayer at the Western Wall is a hot topic right now – many families opt to observe a Bar/Bat Mitzvah at Masada. Masada is under the jurisdiction of the National Parks Authority. Various spots atop this Herodian fortress are used for such simchas. But since it is not a synagogue, groups had to bring a Sefer Torah along with them in order to conduct a service.

All of that changed when a generous family from North America donated a Torah scroll to be stored permanently at Masada. Just one catch. The family stipulated that the Sefer Torah could not be used if women were to be called to the Torah. (I should point out that one major tour company has a Torah scroll at Masada that may be used by any and all. But there can be a demand by more than one group at any given time and the company certainly has first priority if there are multiple demands).

So, there you have it. If a family observing an egalitarian Bar/Bat Mitzvah asks to use the Sefer Torah owned by the government – they can ask until blue in the face – they will be left high and dry. OK, but does not the current situation benefit many clients? Is it not better than having no Sefer Torah provided at all? I would ask in response: Does not the restricted use of medical machinery benefit many patients?

How absurd it is that the National Parks Authority can check on the theological approach of a family and on the basis of their commitment to a non-Orthodox practices deny them the use of a government owned Sefer Torah.

This brings back a memory of a group of NOAM (the Masorti Movement’s youth group) soldiers who served in an army Garin. The male soldiers chose to follow the tradition of refraining from shaving during the counting of the Omer. Normally one may not suddenly grow a beard while serving in the army – but during the period from Pesach to Shavuot one may. Yet the young men were told that they must shave or be denied an extended weekend vacation. Only the Orthodox could refrain from shaving. Those who were not sufficiently committed to tradition, as interpreted by the base rabbi, could not observe this Omer tradition.

This is an absurd case of the government being “Bochen Klayot” – presuming they know the intention of an individual and giving priority to one practice of Judaism over another. Ouch!

The officials at Masada should have no right to make such decisions either. If they want to make a Sefer Torah available – then it is available on a first-come-first-serve basis. They cannot be Bochen Klayot. They cannot show favor to one practice of Judaism over another.

Yes I get that the analogy is not perfect. The hospital machinery may actually save lives. But our tradition tells us that the Torah itself is “a tree of life to all who hold it.”

via Separating the Torah from government | Jerusalem Post – Blogs.

Blogging the Torah: Parashat Emor, The Blasphemer Revisited

I heard a d’var Torah today that focuses on the blasphemer in Emor, this week’s Torah portion.  It sparked my memory that I had written the Dvar Torah below last year.  At that point, I didn’t know that the story of the blasphemer would play out in a devastating way in Boston.  If the blasphemer acted as I supposed last year, I’m not sure that I would feeling so comfortable with the punishment of stoning.  After the events last week in Boston, after two young men killed and maimed blaspheming God’s name, my progressive values are being tried.   It makes me wonder whether this is what the prohibition is really intended for.

Blogging the Torah: Parashat Emor, No One Acts Alone

Posted on May 10, 2012 by Gail F. Nalven

I am confused.  I am probably more confused than I ever have been in reading the Torah.  In this week’s Torah portion, Emor, after a lengthy discussion of the holiday cycle, a strange little story is tagged on. We learn that the son of an Israelite woman, the son who has no name, is a blasphemer.  He is brought to Moses who consults with God about what to do.  God speaks to Moses telling him to take the blasphemer outside the camp, let all who heard the blasphemy lay their hands upon his head, and then let the entire camp stone him to death.  It seems like a stiff penalty for cursing God, a statement that was sputtered after a fight.

This is a stunning scene on several counts:

• The man is the son of a Israelite woman and an Egyptian man.  There is no discussion of who the man is.  The Israelites have not been in the desert that long.  Does this mean that Egyptians and Israelites routinely intermarried or is this an anomaly?  The commentary in the Stone chumash says that in all of the years in captivity, this was the only case of intermarriage. Really? Several commentaries wonder if this shows that the alien in the camp faces the same penalty as any member of the community.  The Plaut chumash dares to ask if this is the text warning against intermarriage.  Was purity so important in the early stages of building a community that an outsider must be killed?

• This is one of only four instances in the Torah where Moses needs to consult with God before making a decision.  What part of this issue was difficult for him?  Condemning a person to death? Pointing out a family that is different?

• While the man and his Egyptian father are not named the Israelite mother is.  She is Shlomit, daughter of Divri, of the Tribe of Dan.  Her father’s name “Divri,” with the Hebrew root “to speak,” telegraphs that there is going to be something about speech.  Why is the tribe mentioned?  Rambam comments that although Judaism is derived from one’s mother, the tribal inheritance comes from the father.  Since the father was an outsider, it seems that the mother’s tribe is identified.  And the tribe is Dan, with the same root as the word dayan, judge.

Just last week I finished reading a novel called Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult.  It is a rich, absorbing novel about a Columbine-type school shooting.  As the story unfolds, we learn about how the shooter felt like an outsider by being bullied throughout his short life.  Was the man in the Torah bullied for being different?  We learn about how his parents struggle to cope with the actions of their son.  I wonder, how did this man’s parents cope with their son’s crime and punishment?

I wish I had some great wisdom to explain this incident.  Bradley Artson, in The Bedside Torah, reminds us that “Rashi recognizes a message about human responsibility and belonging: ‘The wicked bring shame on themselves, their parents, and on their tribe.’ Similarly, the righteous earn ‘praise for themselves, praise for their parents and pride for their tribe’.”  Our actions reflect on others and affect the others around us more than we can imagine.

Rabbi Artson closes with “Our deeds implicate those who love us and those who are connected to us through family or through culture.  We may think we act alone, but we touch more lives than we know, and our deeds have the power to taint or adorn the lives of those who love us.”

Pikei Avot tells us “Kol Yisrael aravim zeh l’zeh — all of Israel is responsible for one another.”  In this case, maybe it’s because while our merits reflect on the people closest to us, so do our faults.

Source:

Bradley Shavitt Artson, The Bedside Torah, Contemporary Books, 2001

Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes, Atria, 2007

W. Gunther Plaut and David E. S. Stein, The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition, 2005

Nosson Scherman, The Chumash: The Stone Edition, (ArtScroll) (English and Hebrew Edition), Mesorah Publications Ltd; 11th edition, 1993

Bread of Affliction: One Crust at a Time

As with most Jewish educators, Sunday mornings are generally not spent with the paper, coffee, and a lovely brunch with friends. We are up early, sometimes ridiculously early, to make Jews. We are teaching holidays, hearing Hebrew, and this time of the year, singing the “Four Questions” over and over again. (The fall variation is the repeated singing of the Hanukah candlelighting blessings.) We are participating in the sacred act of trasmitting our heritage. It is our routine, which makes us love that holiday or summer Sunday off all the more special.

Last Sunday morning, with the onset of Daylight Saving Time, I was especially tired and decided to splurge on a taxi. Really, it was not so much of a splurge. While I wouldn’t do it everyday the $16 didn’t make a difference to my overall budget, although it was an indulgence to not schlep uptown on the bus and the train at 7:45 am. I quickly found a taxi and my only irritation was the annoying noise of the t.v. in the back seat which blocked the driver’s radio playing NPR. (I am still amazed that we have television in cabs.) All in all, I did not think much of this luxury.

As we journeyed uptown, the driver stopped at a red light. We both groaned as we saw a homeless person, dress in rags, with lots of hair in various states of disarray, tearing apart a garbage pail in front of a pizza parlor on the corner. I was really angry. What a mess he was making, throwing boxes and other garbage around. For what? A bottle or can to redeem? Could the nickel really be worthy mucking up our streets? But then he found what he was looking for, a crust of pizza, which he promptly put in his mouth and ate. The man was so hungry that he ate from the garbage!

A lifelong New Yorker, I remember the New York City of the 1970s. It was not so safe to walk the streets and the homeless were all over the place, sleeping on subway grates to keep warm in the winter. It was not unusual to see homeless people panhandling, trying to wash your windsheilds, and doing all sorts of unseemly things on the city streets. But then New York City became bright and shiny. Disney came to Times Square along with Starbucks, the Gap, and the mallification of New York. We became America, the economy improved, new skyscrappers went up, and New York City flourished. But times seem to have changed again.

In a little over a week, we will sit will our friends and family, point at the matzah and say:

Ha Lachma Anya

This is the bread of afliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.

Let all who are hungry come and eat.

Let all who are in need, come and share.

In fact, I was on my way to teach these very words when I saw this man eat from the garbage pail, not by choice, but by necessity. (No, I do not know his story, but I feel fairly sure that he is not eating dirty pizza crusts by choice.) I told the children the story of Berel and Schmerel. You might have heard of them by different names. Berel and Schmerel were so downtrodden by slavery that they were unable to look up and see the light of freedom. So when they went were redeemed from slavery, all they saw was sand. When they walked through the Sea of Reeds, all they saw was mud. And when they entered the Promised Land, they did not see milk and honey. All they saw sand and dirt. It all seemed the same to them so they turned around and went back to Mitzrayim, to the narrow place, the land where they were enslaved.

As I looked at my 5^th graders, with their iPhones in their back packs, I reminded them that their imperative was to look up and see the world around them as it is and to make a difference. No, I was not suggesting that we open our doors to Elijah and invite the homeless in the streets to our seders. But there is much we can do. We can support the hungry funding organizations like Mazon and Dorot. We can support our local food pantries and soup kitchens with our dollars and our hands. And we can have an extra protein bar or piece of fruit in our pocket to share with the hungry.

Yes, at our seders we point at the matzah and say “this is the bread of affliction.” This is one or two nights a year for most of us. For some, it is every night of the year.

Memories of Jewish Education, When You Least Expect Them

A Serious Man, in the making

I was sitting on a train, looking at the Virginia countryside, and checking my email when this post came through. For the second week in a row, I am stunned by negative memories of childhood Jewish education.  In my last posting, there simply was none, and the request for some Jewish education was denied.  Here, it sounds as if the poet (and yes, I understand that it is poetry) had an old-fashioned sit-and-repeat education.  It reminded me of the Hebrew school segments in A Serious Man. If you remember that movie, the kids are sitting in their rows of desks in Hebrew School while the teacher goes on & on without really noticing them.

As a Jewish educator, I aim to create classes and programs that are engaging and inviting.  Although there are still topics for which serious “tush time” is needed, as one of my grad school friends used to say.  I do not believe that we can leave our children with everlasting skills if we only make art projects.  But if we do not do a song and dance, both literally and figuratively, will our students flee after that magical day at age 13?

I am saddened to read about prayers that made the author feel like a “prisoner.”  I am disheartened when I read about Jews who flee after their Bar or Bat Mitzvah.  And, since this is poetry and I am limited by what is here, I am unsure about the author’s reference to his experience at the Catholic College.  Is this just a teaching gig or is there something more?  Or does the experience bring back memories of his more active Jewish past that might set him on a new path?  Is their a glint of hope here?

What do you think of this poem?

Crosses on the Wall

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

My father sent me to Hebrew school,
where mournful prayers kept me a prisoner,
preventing me from playing first base
for my beloved Little League team.
On the High Holidays, I dreaded wearing
my wool suit which made me scratch.
I looked all around the synagogue, bored,
counting the number of lights on the memorial wall.
I kept sneaking looks at how many pages remained.
Liberated at 13, I ran free, but was slowed by guilt.
Years later, I am a speaker of literature
at a conference at a small Catholic college.
Two nuns sit in on my workshop,
and on the wall floats a giant cross.
“So boychik, my ancestors seem to be saying.
“How are you feeling these days?
See how your lack of Jewish education has cost you?
Are you now playing first base for the other side?”

 

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy,  edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

reprinted with permission of The Jewish Writing Project

A Case for Shabbat

Shabbat? How?  Why?  Does it seem possible–or impossible–to set aside a day to sanctify God or simply to rest our bodies?

I am reblogging this piece from the Alban Institute’s blog.  I think it makes the case quite well.

http://www.alban.org/conversation.aspx?id=10180

Good Work

by Lee Hull MosesRob finds me in the kitchen, passive-aggressively slamming dishes into the dishwasher. I am thinking dark thoughts about the injustice of it all: how I am the one who takes care of everything around the house. I say none of this out loud, however, because it is utterly unfair. Rob has spent the evening mowing the grass, giving Harper a bath, running to the grocery store. It is 10:30, and neither of us has stopped moving since we got home from work. We are weary. He can read my mood, because we’ve been married six years and have played out this scene many times, so he approaches cautiously. “Can you be done?” he asks. 

He doesn’t mean my pouting. He’s asking—kindly, really—what else I need to do before I can be finished for the night, before I can sit on the couch for a few minutes and watch the news or put my pajamas on and crawl into bed. But there are still clean clothes to fold, food to prepare for tomorrow’s dinner, and I’m not prepared for my morning meeting. 

I long, most days, to be done. 

I watch other parents dash from one activity to the next, from office to school to baseball diamond, gasping for breath, and I am occasionally shocked to discover that I am one of them. Harper isn’t even old enough to be involved in activities, and still, we always seem to be rushing. When I leave the office at the end of the day, there is always another phone call to make, another e-mail to send, another article to read. At home, the dishes pile up faster than we can wash them. We’re amazed at how many dishes three people can use in the course of a day and how many times the floor needs to be swept. There is always a load of laundry to be done, another bill to pay, a bathroom to clean. 

There’s also an expectation that somewhere in all this, we’ll find time for rest from our labors. “Pamper yourself!” all the parenting magazines command, urging me to get a pedicure, take a walk, go out with friends, or hire a babysitter and go to a movie. But there are still unwashed dishes, unfolded laundry, and unswept floors, so even those rare moments of quiet are tainted by the pressure of all those unfinished tasks. I would never rest if I waited for the work to be done. 

The command to rest is one of the most ancient in the Judeo-Christian tradition. It’s right there in the Ten Commandments, given to the Israelites in the wilderness as they were learning what it meant to be God’s people: “Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work” (Exod. 20:8-10a). A whole day of rest, without any work. For centuries, faithful people have practiced sabbath-keeping as a way to put aside the worries of the world and commune with the Divine. 

The sabbath commandment itself is rooted in God’s own day of rest after six busy days of creating the world: “And on the seventh day God finished the work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all the work that he had done” (Gen. 2:2). That word finished glares at me from the page, and I search desperately through other translations, but it’s there in nearly every English version. The hard part about Sabbath-keeping, it seems to me, is the stopping—especially when the work isn’t done. Must I really fold all the laundry before I can sit down? Must I cross off every item on my to-do list before I go home? Must I really finish all the work before I rest? 

“God,” I think irreverently, “did not have a toddler at home.” 

Abraham Joshua Heschel, an American rabbi who wrote eloquently about the sabbath and its importance in the Jewish tradition, calls the sabbath a “palace in time.” The seventh day, he suggests, reminds us that the world has already been created and will get along without us for a while. Heschel notes that rest—ormenuha in the original Hebrew—means “much more than with­drawal from labor and exertion, more than freedom from toil, strain, or activity from any kind.Menuha is not a negative concept but something real and intrinsically positive.” He quotes the ancient rabbis: “What was created on the seventh day? Tranquility, serenity, peace, and repose.” 

I don’t know many families with young children who use the words tranquility, serenity, peace, and repose to describe their lives. 

I know that quiet time spent with God is important, and I adore that image of Heschel’s “palace in time.” I know my life can get overrun by all the tasks of the day. Carving out and protecting sabbath time helps me pay attention to my relationship with God. I’ve always loved the idea of an early-morning prayer time, when I sit with my Bible and my coffee in my quiet kitchen and look out the back window and ponder God’s goodness. About twice a year—usually just after New Year’s and again in early September, when school starts and the church program year begins—I decide I’m really going to do it. I pick out a devotional book, get the coffee ready the night before, and set my alarm early. I usually stick with it for a day or two, and then something happens: Harper gets sick and we’re up all night, or I have an early meeting, or I sleep through my alarm and am lucky to get out the door on time. I always feel vaguely guilty when my morning prayer “habit” fades, because, I suppose, it’s yet another thing on the should-do list. But I don’t feel disconnected from God when I stop. As good as that quiet time sounds, it’s been my experience that God is found not only in the still moments but also in loud, busy, never-ending days. 

Rest is important, and so is quiet time in the presence of God. It’s important to stop sometimes and be reminded that we are not indispensable, that the world will go on without us. But the work is important, too. It occurs to me that maybe the most important word in the Genesis creation story isn’t finished. It’s good. At the end of each day, God looks on all the work and declares it good. Maybe it’s not just the creation but the very work of creating it that is good. And maybe the work that God has called me to do—the holy work of tending to a congregation and caring for my children, even the mundane work of washing the dirty cereal bowls—maybe there’s goodness and wholeness in that work, too. 

After all, even after God closed up shop on the sixth day, the work wasn’t really over. The work of creation continues as God’s grace forms and re-forms our lives. I need look no further than my daughter, making “worms” out of orange Play-Doh and singing to herself, to believe that God is still at work. Harper is so busy all the time—exploring her world, learning new words, creating, imagining, discovering. That is her work right now—all that learning—and she delights in it. It is very good work. And while Rob and I don’t always delight in mopping the floor or folding the laundry, I’d venture to say that that’s good work too, and that God is at work even there, forming us into the parents our kids need us to be. So, sure, the work doesn’t ever get completely finished; the to-do list never fully crossed out. But maybe it’s not the finished-ness of our work that gives us reason to rest; perhaps it is the good-ness—the God-ness—of our work.   

______________________________________  

This article is adapted and excerpted from Hopes and Fears: Everyday Theology for New Parents and Other Tired, Anxious People  by Bromleigh McCleneghan and Lee Hull Moses, copyright © 2012 by the Alban Institute. All rights reserved.   

Answering the Call: What Would Jeb Bartlet Do?

President Jeb Bartlet

I love to listen to podcasts.  Mostly I listen to podcasts of NPR radio shows that I never have a chance to listen to.  I also love the Slate Gabfests!  Now that I am out of my car and into public transit for my daily transport, I am catching up on my backlog.  I’ve been so diligent in this task that I have even been able to make a dent in my five years of Fresh Air.  If you are not familiar with this show, it is one of NPR’s best, with Terry Gross doing the most interesting interviews of people, many of whom you might have thought wouldn’t be too interesting.

Today I heard an interview with the TV writer Aaron Sorkin.  As a West Wing fan, he made me appreciate intelligent television.  In an interview that only Terry Gross could do, Aaron Sorkin talked about wanting to be an actor.  He also talked about how, although he was Jewish, there was no Judaism in house.  He received no Jewish education.  But when he was in seventh grade, he spent nearly ever Saturday going to a friend’s Bar or Bat Mitzvah.  It was around the time that he was developing his love of theater.  He would go to these events and feel as if he really missed out.  “You get to go up there.  And you are wearing a costume. There were theatrics, and there is singing. And there is an audience.”  His brothers had a party on their thirteenth birthdays, but there was nothing religious about their experience.

So a few weeks before his thirteenth birthday he “opened the phone book and called a local rabbi.”  He asked the rabbi if he could become Bar Mitzvahed.  (His words:  Bar Mitzvah is not a verb!) The rabbi told him it was not that easy.  Sorkin suggested that he could just learn the words phonetically and he didn’t need to learn Hebrew.  The rabbi told him that it didn’t work that way.  Terry Gross pressed Sorkin for what had happened and Sorkin explained that he ended up learning the Hebrew to “bless the bread” and he proceeded to correctly recite Hamotzi, remembering the prayer to this day.  Sorkin then said that he didn’t know what he was saying and had not “blessed the bread” since.

As I walked up Third Avenue with the interview in my head, I thought, “What if?”  What if the rabbi had not hung up?  What if the rabbi had found a way to welcome the family and teach them a little Judaism?  What if Sorkin had learned that he wasn’t “blessing the bread” but using the bread to declare how blessed God is?  Who knows?  I know nothing about his life and whether he and his siblings have created Jewish families.  To use Christian language, were they lost? Could they have been saved?

In Ashrei we say: Karov Adonai L’Chol Korav — Adonai is close to all call on God.  This is a phrase that the Reform movement has added to Reztei in the Amidah.  I don’t know whether the twelve year old Sorkin was really “calling on God,” but it does seem that he came as close as he might have.  And who knows what have might happened for him, his family, and the future Sorkins to come?

As a rabbi, as an educator, I often do not know whom I have an effect on.  Will I say something or teach something that a student will remember in twenty years?  Will the warmth I convey cause a former student to seek out a Hillel service or join a synagogue with his/her family?  I do not know.  But I do know that if we do not answer the bell, respond to the knock, we cannot open the door to possibilities.

Make Your Own Kind of Tefillah

I’ve been remembering Mama Cass’s song “Make Your Own Kind of Music,” thinking about this anthem of the early ’70s for doing your own thing.
This year, in conjunction with teaching the traditional prayers, we have been asking our fifth graders to create their own prayers.  For every “Please God give me an X Box,” there were thoughtful contributions praising God for the gifts our students have been given.

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe, that gives us siblings to play with.

…who gives us friends

…who gives us fun deeds to do.

Thank you God for my friends, family, home, and food and cookies, and cupcakes.

…for the 10 Commandments, and for my parents because I respect them (mostly).

I am happy for life.

I am happy for a nice family.

…for letting us have chocolate.

…for letting me win in basketball

…for honoring us with the awesomeness of brownies

…for letting us have an XBox60

…for letting me win my first Fastbreak game

Thanks for everything, you created it.

Thanking God for freedom

Thank you God for my family, food, water, and life.

I am grateful for my home, friends, family, and education.

Thank you God for everything I have and helping us get the world to what it is today.

Thank you for the Torah and the prayers and we should follow most if not all of them.

Baruch Atah Adonai, who invented the aspect of friends.

…thank you for friends and family.

…I go to school and Hebrew school.

Blessed are you Adonai for giving me great parents.

…for giving me new days everyday.

Thanks God for the human ability to move forward.

Blessed are you Adonai, for school because a lot of people in other countries don’t have school.

Thank you God for bringing enjoyment.

Blessed are you God for making cats.

…for being God.

…we enjoy your might against our enemies. Amen

Thank you for giving me chocolate.

Thank you for commanding us to have a Bar Mitzvah.

I have friends, pets are cool!  We love them.

Thank you, thank you for everything.

The  commandments that I follow makes me holy.

Shabbat is my favorite time of week.  Thank you for making it a commandment.

Blessed are you Adonai, who commands us to help other people with loss.

…who commands to be thankful.

…commanding to not waste energy.

And thank God for such remarkable children who can stretch their minds to really create some wonderful prayer.  Amen!

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Guest Blogger: Parashat Vaera, Free Will and Bad Habits

Guest Blogger:  Noah Goldmann

This week’s Torah portion is Vaera, from the book of Exodus. Vaera begins with God ordering Moses to free the Jewish people from Egypt. God reminds Moses that Pharaoh will initially refuse to set the Jewish people free because his heart had been hardened. Next, the first seven plagues take place: Blood, frogs, lice, a swarm of wild beasts, pestilence, boils, and hail. During each plague Pharaoh pleads with Moses to stop it; and in return promises to let the Jewish people leave. But after each plague stops he immediately changes his mind. I chanted the 7^th plague, where “fiery hail struck down every man and beast in the open.” This is the last plague where Pharaoh’s heart hardened without God’s direct intervention. In the next three plagues, Pharaoh’s decision was altered because of God’s interference.

Free will is a talking point in my portion that really stood out to me. Was Pharaoh able to control his decisions after God hardened his heart? Did he ever have free will at all? And, did God want any person, even Pharaoh, to make a bad decision? I will talk about all these questions, and share my views on God and Pharaoh’s actions.

Free will is the power to make your own decisions. During the first seven plagues, the torah says “yechezak,” or that “Pharaoh’s heart hardened.” This probably means that it hardened without God’s intervention, and Pharaoh had free will. During the last three plagues, the torah says “vaychazeik,” or that God stiffened Pharaoh’s heart and took away his free will. I believe that you always have free will until your attitude erases it. What I mean by this statement is that a person has free will until their choices become a habit. That habit will overpower their attitude and eventually even change it. Pharaoh had absolute free will during the first 7 plagues and decisions, but while he was choosing not to let the Jews go again and again, a habit formed. Then this habit transformed his attitude, and set it against ever letting the Jewish people go. Therefore, at some point, your attitude “hardens” and you aren’t able to change anymore.

Over the past month, I’ve had some great discussions with my extremely smart Aunt Connie. Together, we compared Pharaoh to someone with a bad habit. Clearly Pharaoh’s bad habit was his stubbornness in refusing to let the Jewish People go. Every person in this room has at least one bad habit. It could be small and harmless, or it could be big and very serious. I would like you to take a moment and remind yourself of your bad habit.

God introduces three ways of helping Pharaoh realize and change his bad habit. These three ways are will power, external behavior modifications, and a personal disaster. In the first seven plagues, God gives Pharaoh the chance to make the most of the first two options. Pharaoh chose to ignore them, and hardened his own heart. Contrary to Pharaoh’s actions, I urge all of you to always take advantage of strong will and external behavior modifications. Strong will is probably the most efficient of these two options, but it’s often hardest to use. Seeking help from others can also help someone break out of a bad habit. Whatever you do, do not ignore these two options. Pharaoh refused to change, which led him to the third option: personal disaster.

When Pharaoh wouldn’t change on his own, God took more extreme measures to make sure that Pharaoh knew he was doing something wrong. God sent the final plague in the form of a personal disaster. The death of all of the Egyptian first-born finally changed Pharaoh.

Think one more time about your bad habit.

I hope you agree with me that changing it could lead to a better life. No one should ever wait for a personal disaster to change their bad habits. I think God wants us to change before a personal disaster happens, and I believe that you’ll be happier knowing that you managed to break your bad habit before it managed to change your life.

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NOAH GOLDMANN is a cellist, a reader, and a dancer. He is an 8th grade honors student at MacArthur Barr Middle School in Rockland County, New York, and just recently celebrated becoming a bar mitzvah. He wrote his dvar Torah about the plagues in Vaera.