Stone/אבן/Evan

Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. (Genesis 28:11)

Even if you like your pillow hard as a rock, I doubt that you would actually use a stone or a rock as a pillow. In Vayetzei, the Torah story we read this past Shabbat, that is exactly what Jacob did as he fled the wrath of his brother Esau. Maybe it is my modern sleeping sensibilities that prevent me from imagining sleeping comfortably on a stone pillow. However, If we follow along in the story we discover that Jacob’s uncomfortable choice led him to something much more significant than a stiff neck. Resting in this uncomfortable setting led him to … encountering the Holy One … in the dreamscape we know as Jacob’s ladder. And while there are countless interpretations and imaginings about the meaning and import of the ladder, the dream, etc…. I am stuck on the connection between the discomfort of the stone pillow and the gateway to divinity it appears to have opened.

I sense a deep, yet lofty, truth in this element of the story.

I am endeavoring to live this truth as the war in Israel and Palestine continues. My discomfort comes from my belief that there is more than one truth and more than one narrative at play in this part of the world that is so important to so many people … and the constant challenge of hearing, holding and honoring those truths in this moment. I feel pulled by fear and family, ideology and psychology, demographics and demagoguery to choose a side and to react accordingly. That pull is not as strong as the one that compels me towards the discomfort of creating and inhabiting spaces that allow for outrage for both Israeli and Palestinian injustice, injury and death.

I believe that whether it be informally in the conversations we have with one another or formally in the moments we gather, organize or rally that we must create spaces in which both narratives and truths have a place. The world is not very good at creating such spaces right now. All the more reason, we must strive to do so. How do we welcome and begin to acclimatize ourselves to this discomfort? Perhaps it begins within as we try and open our mind and hearts to the journeys, sufferings and fears of the other. As uncomfortable as it may be and difficult to maintain, I truly believe that this is the kind of stone pillow discomfort that opens the gateway towards the Sacred and the Holy. At this moment, we can use all of the sacred and holy space, spirit and energy that we can muster.

DUST – עָפָר – Afar
Your descendants will be as the dust of the earth … (Genesis 28:14)

Talk about a backhanded compliment. The promise God makes to Jacob is that his descendants will be like, uh, DUST – עָפָר – Afar. I don’t know about you, but my first reaction is … thanks, but no thanks.

DUST – עָפָר – Afar is one of those substances that gets everywhere. No nook or cranny is safe from its arrival. DUST – עָפָר – Afar is one those entities that even after one removes it, it returns and returns and returns. It is beyond time and space. Who thinks of DUST – עָפָר – Afar more than something that needs to be removed or even eliminated.

It seems that we have had too many reminders in the past few weeks and months about people out there who think exactly that way about us descendants of Jacob. We are (at best) annoying DUST – עָפָר – Afar. Yes, thanks, but no thanks.

And yet, here we are. Still, kinda DUST – עָפָר – Afar. DUST-like … living, dwelling and contributing everywhere across the globe. DUST-like … still hanging around after millennia, still clutching to our highest values.

DUST – עָפָר – Afar is the stuff of the earth … that fosters growth which can nourish and sustain communities, that forms bricks and mortar which helps to build civilizations, that contains – even in the smallest amounts – precious ores and minerals that are sources of wealth and beauty.

There have always been and I suppose will always be those who consider DUST – עָפָר – Afar something to despise and deny. AND, there has always been and continues to be a DUST – עָפָר – Afar that brings within its reach and stamina nourishment, sustainment and wealth to the world. This DUST – עָפָר – Afar shows up in our values of a just, compassionate and peaceful world.
And so, as we continue to annoy some, we must also continue to ally with others who yearn for the realization of those same values. And, together, work towards the ways that those values will become like DUST – עָפָר – Afar … permeating the nooks and crannies of our world and everywhere in between, rooting within our communities and their institutions in perpetuity.

TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar
I will not destroy, for the sake of the ten. (Genesis 18:32)

In one of the greatest negotiations in recorded history , God agrees to ‘save’ Sodom and Gemorrah if Abraham can find TEN righteous people. Well, we know how that story ended … and have been left with this number, TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar, guiding our understanding as an interesting metric for communal veracity and viability.

We are probably most familiar with the idea that TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asarpeople are needed for a Minyan … that designation which permits the reciting of specific prayers or rituals. Our tradition suggests that TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar is the number of people best suited to create, make or hold enough sacred space to comfort a mourner, welcome a child and celebrate the covenant between two souls.

We could questions the merits and meaning of TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar … How did that number came to be significant? What is the minimum number needed to create this kind of space in time? What number would be better suited to life in the 21st century?

I am more drawn to the questions about the kind of space in time that TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar purports to create. In a fractious and unsettled moment in the world, I find myself craving the kinds of communities — even if temporary – that cradle and empower me. In a time in which a handful of large voices can dominate and diminish civil discourse, I yearn to be reminded of the presence and be held by communities that preserve and inspire. If it takes only TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar then I feel we can actually wield some power against the voices and forces that appear so powerful. If it takes only TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar then I feel a little more safe and a little more hopeful.

Even when faced with two of the most despicable places described in all of human literature, Abraham believed in the power of TEN – עֲשָׂרָה – Asar. Perhaps this model of faith is a place for all of us to start responding to what we face and what we want our world to become.

RETURN – תּשׁוּבָה – Teshuvah

If you find yourself at this time of year connecting in any way with the Jewish community you might come across the word, תּשׁוּבָה – Teshuvah. We spend the first ten days of our New Year – and technically the last month of the previous year – on this תּשׁוּבָה – Teshuvah thing.  Most commonly translated as ‘repentance’, an aspect of תּשׁוּבָה – Teshuvah is realizing our mistakes, asking to be forgiven for them and offering forgiveness to those whose mistakes have hurt us. While any one of those things may be no easy task, it only scratches the surface of where תּשׁוּבָה – Teshuvah truly points us.

The Hebrew letters that make the SH and the U and the V in the word are all about turning. Turning behind us. Turning around. Turning upside down and inside out. Turning within. Re-Turning. We turn to get a different view of something. We turn to make sure our attention is evenly spread out. We must re-turn to eventually get back to our beginnings, our origins , our essence.

At the root of realizing our shortcomings, at the heart of yearning to be better, at the core of forgiving another as they walk that same path … is the idea that we have something at our root, heart and core that is worthy, wise and wondrous. It is to this center, this origin that we seek RETURN – תּשׁוּבָה – Teshuvah.

No matter what it looks like — with us at Micah, with another community, in self-crafted moments or some combination of these – I pray that the call of our tradition this time of year reaches out to you … that it taps you on the shoulder and you respond with a turn … and in that moment you get a dazzling glimpse of your essence, spirit and divinity.  May what you see, hear and experience inspire you towards a joyous and meaningful 5783.

Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah
“Put a curse upon this people for me.” (Number 22:6)

I feel like a lot like cursing. The last few weeks have given all of us a lot to fret, worry, fear, get angry …. to curse about. It is not simply the colloquial sense of cursing – like letting loose some choice expletives at frequent intervals and high volumes. No, I am talking about the biblical type of cursing … one takes their fear and anger and packages it into a metaphysical stink bomb for those creating the situation that has initiated those feelings.

It is this kind of Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah that we find in Torah this week. An enemy king, Balak, hires a local prophet, Balaam, to place a Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah on the Israelites. In Balak’s mind and heart, the Israelites bring him fear, anger and anxiety … so a curse feels like a natural course of action, one that I understand.

I want to place a Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah on anyone who who would shoot another human being in cold blood. I want to place a Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah on those in our society who want to make guns more accessible rather than less accessible. I want to place a Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah on those who would tread on the precious, intimate right of a woman to make a choice about her own body and well being. I want to place a Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah on a political system that seems to cater to the rigidity of extremes, rather than than cultivate the values that arise from and embraced by a majority and balanced, if uneven, middle ground.

Balaam does not end up cursing the Israelites, he encounters forces greater than himself that help him remember that Blessing ultimately trumps Cursing in the great calculus of what is most meaningful and essential. So, I find myself acknowledging what I am feeling – wanting to Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah. And, trying to remember to look for and to create Blessing. I am working on it and imagine that many of you are working on it, as well. In the coming days, weeks and months I look forward to working with you to move beyond Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah and towards Blessing. I look forward to hearing what is helping you, what your ideas are as to how we may go about creating Blessing and how our Micah community might contribute toward that essential end.

In the meantime, two poems spoke to me as I try to take the first steps in getting beyond the Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah.  I share them with you in the spirt of creating Blessing.

• I Am A Jew – Edmund Fleg
• Let America Be America Again, Langston Hughes

Also, specifically in regard to Reproductive Rights, our progressive interfaith community is beginning to rally together. It begins tonight (with apologies for the late notice) with a Holding and Healing Service at 7:30pm at Temple Emanuel and then next Thursday (at a location TBD) for a work session on how begin the work of advocacy.

Let’s get the Curse – אָֽרָה – Arah out of our system and begin the move towards Blessing.

Sovah – שֹׂבַע – Full
“… you shall eat your fill of bread … “ (Leviticus 26:5)

I love food. I love to eat so much so, that quite often even though there may not be room in my stomach for more food … the taste, the sensations, the feelings that come with something tasty override that sense of being Sovah – שֹׂבַע – Full. I wonder why it is that I am wired to ignore my fullness or satiety or abundance … even though there are consequences to this choice.

The preponderance of evidence suggests that we humans are all wired this way to some extent. This wiring is not limited to food. In fact it seems that we humans are inclined to not focus upon our sense of being Sovah – שֹׂבַע – Full. Rather, we focus upon what we lack. That compulsion to give attention to what we lack has its own set of consequences … feelings of fear, distrust and vulnerability. These feelings lead us toward isolating ourselves, acting callously toward others and in some case committing acts of violence against them.

And yet there are those who seem to achieve a mastery of this internal battle between looking out at our world and seeing abundance or scarcity … and then acting accordingly. I do not believe it is something we are born with, but more of a kind of spiritual musical that we can tone and strengthen. While these muscles serve most powerfully us in life’s difficult and challenging moments, we grow them in life’s more mundane moments.  The bad news, it is a lifelong exercise.  The good news, your next opportunity for this particular exercise is happening right now.

Pe’ah – פֵּאָה – Corner
When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the CORNER of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest. (Leviticus 19:9)

How big is a CORNER? Is it merely the point where the two lines of square or rectangle meet? Or is it the area contained in that space created by the intersecting point and two arbitrarily determined points along each of those lines?

(Are you about to stop reading because your were promised no geometry or anything resembling math?!?)

I am thinking about CORNER because of this fundamental commandment we find in the Holiness Code in Leviticus … to not harvest the Pe’ah – פֵּאָה – CORNER of your fields and leave them for the poor. I love the idea that we are commanded to leave a portion of our abundance for others. But, what is the size of the portion? How do we measure a Pe’ah – פֵּאָה – Corner?! How big is that Pe’ah – פֵּאָה – Corner?

It depends. It depends on the nature our abundance. It depends on how the harvest went that year. It depends on how gracious we feel towards ourselves. It depends on how gracious we feel towards others. It depends on how fearful we are of having enough. It depends on how faithful we are in being vulnerable. It depends. It is subjective. It evolves and changes … from year to year, moment to moment, circumstance to circumstance, person to person.

What does not change with any variables is the fundamental recognition of the value of sharing of ourselves. At the heart of the Pe’ah – פֵּאָה – Corner ‘directive’ in the commandment is the understanding that there are others who benefit from our giving and sharing of our abundance. This truth speaks to the spiritual and material realms which we inhabit. We are better and stronger when we share our abundance with one another.

Take some time to assess your harvest this season … What is the size of your Pe’ah – פֵּאָה – Corner?  How will you share it with someone else?

Vayakarev – וַיַּקְרֵ֖ב – Brought forward
Next he brought forward  … the people’s offering (Leviticus 9:15); He brought forward  … burnt offering (Leviticus 9:16); He brought forward  … meal offering (Leviticus 9:17).

Hidden in plain sight in the voluminous account of the sacrificial cult in the book of Leviticus is this repetitive description of Aaron’s action for each sacrifice … Vayakarev – וַיַּקְרֵ֖ב – (Aaron) brought forward … Aaron brought forward, Aaron brought forward, Aaron brought forward.

Aaron was bringing forward the stuff for each sacrifice. Beyond the limitation of the literal text, how might we see the construct of the sacrificial cult pointing towards something more essential and relevant? What is Aaron (on behalf of the people) doing by bringing valuable stuff to God? It seems to me that by this act he (and they) are trying to affirm or deepen or grow that significant relationship. Aaron brings something of value, something that in the sharing of it makes him and the Israelites a little vulnerable. At the foundation of this act of sharing is the element of trust. Trust that is the secret sauce that makes relationships flourish and blossom.

The word – Vayakarev – וַיַּקְרֵ֖ב – (Aaron) Brought forward – is rooted in the idea of closeness. Hebrew speakers today still use this Hebrew root to connote one’s physical proximity and one’s emotional connectedness as well. To bring it full circle, one of the words that Torah uses for sacrifice – Korban – comes from this Hebrew root, as well.

For us, the construct suggests a simple truth … that bringing our own valuable stuff (thinking emotional and spiritual, rather than the physical stuff) to the people in our lives is what will affirm or deepen or grow our relationships. That exercise of trust and our willingness to be vulnerable is what has and always will bring us close to one another.  When we make that kind of sacrifice, holy things ensue.

Beged/Clothing/בֶּגֶד
They made Aaron’s sacral vestments—as the Eternal One had commanded. (Exodus 39:1)

There is a fine line between wearing clothes and … treachery?!

In our sacred story this week the Aaron and his sons are getting all dressed up for their role as priests in the brand new Mikdash. In a spin on the adage that the clothes make the man, it appears that the ‘holy vestments’ or beegday kodesh make the priest. The word garment, vestment, clothing is Beged בֶּגֶד. Apparently that same root is used in Hebrew to connote treachery or deceit. What a weird, wild and unexpected sharing of two disparate ideas with the confine of the same Hebrew root. And yet …

On a literal level, one could see the wearing of clothes as a cover-up of the truth of our pure raw physical selves. Each time we get dressed we put something that is not us. We place a barrier between the world and who we authentically, primally and plainly are. Yes, wearing clothing Beged בֶּגֶד is not that simple … environment, society, propriety, etc. demand that we clothe ourselves.

The challenge of the idea still grabs me. Beyond our physical needs, there are many ways that we don metaphorical clothing Beged בֶּגֶד in the shape or ideas or emotions. This kind of clothing Beged בֶּגֶד protects us, promotes us or simply establishes ourselves in relation with others. What is the balance between putting on these metaphorical vestments that might keep us safe or allowing us to make our way in polite society and being deceitful about what we think or feel? When do we cross the line from appropriately adorning ourselves with intellectual or emotional clothing Beged בֶּגֶד to covering up our true and authentic selves?

Wearing holy vestments … clothing Beged בֶּגֶד … is essential to living the world, but so is allowing ourselves to be vulnerable enough to be fully seen and known.

Meet /No-ah-d-tee/נוֹעַדְתִּ֣י

I will meet you there … Exodus 25:22

I wish that things worked more like they are described in the Torah.

As I reintegrate myself into the life of Temple Micah after my month of sabbatical time, I find myself reflecting on the experience and impact of this sacred time for me. I always feel as if being given the gift of this time, I need to use it wisely and well. It is not given to me by the community as vacation time – where I just relax, have fun and get away from it all. I endeavor for this time to be spiritually reflective and nourishing. And yet, I wish it could go like things are described in Torah.

In Torah this week, Moses and the Israelites are given a detailed plan as to how to construct the setting and context for them to encounter, to MEET, the divine. The designs for the Mikdash (sacred place or sanctuary) are laid out in great detail. Once Moses and company complete the instructions — almost as if they are marking a very concrete ‘X’ on the right time and place – God says: No-ah-d-tee/נוֹעַדְתִּ֣י/ I will MEET you … right there!

I am still working on finding, crafting and understanding the exact instruction manual that will secure me such a regular and definitive time and place to MEET up with the divine. Finding this divine meeting place and time is a far more imperfect science than implied in our sacred text. I think that the story of constructing the Mikdash points to elements of the formula … intention, increased awareness, setting aside special times and spaces, imbuing them with a sense of the sacred. And yet, securing such divine encounters are more art than science, more mystery than measurement.

I would have loved to follow the directions and determine where I might so clearly MEET up with the Divine. Alas, during my sabbatical time the nature of my divine MEET-ups were not as simple, clear and ordered in our sacred text. However, there were hints and glimpses of hearing those moments that the universe may have been calling out to me: No-ah-d-tee/נוֹעַדְתִּ֣י/ I will MEET you.   They were enough to remind and challenge me to make sure that I keep working on planning, crafting and preparing for more Mikdash moments – all of the time, sabbatical or not; ‘religious’ or not … that lead to some kind of MEET up with that divine, sacred and holy essence of being.

My covenant – בְּרִיתִי – Briti
I also established My covenant with them (Exodus 6:4)

Most people associate this word with that 8th day ritual.  Sometimes it involves bagels and cream cheese, but always involved the cutting of a foreskin. Bris. The full name of the ritual – spoken in Sephardic and not Ashkenazi Hebrew – is Brit Milah … the covenant of circumcision. And there it is, even at our very beginnings we — are reminded of the idea of covenant – Brit.

Covenant – בְּרִית – Brit is agreement with more depth. Covenant – בְּרִית – Brit is contract with more gravitas. Covenant – בְּרִית – Brit is citizenship with a nod to the grandeur of the social contract. Covenant – בְּרִית – Brit is relationship with sacred acknowledgment to the profound inter-connectivity of all human beings.

I think this word grabbed me as we all struggle to (still) understand how to live in a pandemic. The donning of a mask is an embrace of a Covenant – בְּרִית – Brit. Unless the mask is a K95, wearing a mask provides more protection for those around is that is does for ourselves. It is a physical manifestation of Covenant – בְּרִית – Brit … the participation in a sacred, bigger-than-myself kind of relationship. It feels to me like the kind of way I want to engage in all my encounters and relationships … with an acknowledgment that they are a part of a bigger web whose well-being is impacted by little old me. If only remembering that aspect of my relationships were only as easy as putting a mask over my nose and mouth.

Even in the midst of this terrible pandemic, I am thankful for this opportunity to participate in the Brit – Covenant in this way … and the way it might remind me to realize the fullness of Brit – Covenant in every relationship.

We Will Descend – וְיָרַדְנוּ – Vayaradnu

(Genesis 44:26)

When one lives in Colorado it can be very clear when we are standing on higher ground. If we are out for a hike or a ski in the mountains, it would not be uncommon for any of us to say upon our return to Denver that we are heading down the mountain into town. Perhaps Joseph’s brothers meant the same thing as they explained their conundrum to their father, Jacob. Pharoah’s #2 had just told them to return home and bring their youngest brother, Benjamin, back to Egypt with them. Explaining their situation to Jacob, they told him that only if Benjamin was with them, וְיָרַדְנוּ – Vayaradnu, could they go down or descend toward Egypt. Maybe they were – like us – speaking from a higher altitude, so Egypt was literally down. Maybe it is that phenomenon that happens when something is south of us on a map and we describe that place as under or below us. From this perspective, it is a destitution to which we have to go down or descend to travel.

And then, again, maybe it is another one of those things we human beings do that is so deeply wired into the way we navigate the world that we do not even pay attention to how it impacts the way we judge, categorize and engage in our world. We can draw a straight line to the idea of going down to Egypt to our very day. People still speak of moving to the land of Israel as making Aliyah — going up or ascending. Moving away from that same place is referred to as Yurida – going down or descending. There is a strong sense of categorization, judgment and hierarchy in using these terms. Maybe even when we speak of heading down into town from the mountains, we mean to say that Denver is actually lower than wherever we may be. Maybe we consciously or subconsciously think of the time we spend in the mountains as higher in quality.

It makes sense – whether we are aware of it or not – that we evaluate the places we go and spend our time. Some of these places are special, rich and life enhancing places. Others are challenging, draining and the kind of places that suck the life out of us. For each of us – whether we are paying attention to it or not – there are places we feel that we ascend to and others from which we descend. Natural. Normal. Authentically human. And yet, I am sure there are times that these natural and normal ways we organize and think about our world become limiting judgements or minimizing assessments. (For example, I would not suggest that my life in Colorado is any lower than or any less than a life I might live if I ‘ascended’ and lived in the land of Israel.)

One of our traditions name for divinity is Makom … which means ‘place’. Divinity is the very place where our world, the entire universe dwells. In this simple name is the possibility that every place we go is held by the same underlying nature.   If the world resides in this Makom or Place … can there be any place we go in which that spirit, essence or presence does not dwell?

Beyond the physical movement from 10,000 feet to 5,280 feet … We Will Descend – וְיָרַדְנוּ – Vayaradnu … do we spiritually ascend or descend when we move from one place to another?

Chanukah – חנוכה- Dedication

As we enjoy the way our Chanukah Menorot bring light to this dark time of year … we will start by shining some light on the name of this holiday. First of all, let’s get the ‘correct’ English spelling of it out of the way. There is NO correct way to spell Chanukah in English. It is a Hebrew word spelled ח–נ–ו–כ–ה. English is mere phonetics. Any way you spell it in English that gets it pronounced correctly … is correct!

The word is most commonly translated as ‘dedication’. Chanukah – חנוכה- refers to the reclaiming and re-sanctifying – the dedication – of the Temple after the Maccabees’ military victory. Interestingly enough, the same root of this word (חנכ) also forms the Hebrew word that us used for education. Chinooch. Education, dedication … training up a student , dedicating oneself to a calling, consecrating a new space. The spirit of this word Chanukah , seems to call upon us to open up closed spaces. Maybe the spaces were open at one time and closed to us because of neglect, violence or various things beyond our control. Perhaps these spaces are physical ones that allow us the security of gathering and community. Or ,they are the mental spaces we inhabit with our emotional or intellectual lives.

Beyond the politics of Maccabees and the materialism of the ‘holiday’ season… is the challenge suggested to us each night of Chanukah as we light each candle. Point that light toward all of our closed spaces … and wonder how we might further open all of them … whether are spaces in our homes, in community, in our minds or in our hearts.

Vayeshev

Mayrachok – מרחק – From Far Away

They saw him *from far away*, and before he came close to them they conspired to kill him. (Genesis 37:18)

The brothers were /Mayrachok/ – מרחק from Joseph when they decided to kill him. What kind of distance was it — physical, emotional, spiritual? Yes! If they were not /Mayrachok/ – מרחק from Joseph would they have made the same decision? If they were in his physical proximity would they have felt the same anger or rage that led them to want to do violence upon him. If they were close enough to hear him speak and hear the nuance in his words, would they have still heard the brash, arrogant tones those same words contained in their minds. If they stood near to him and felt his presence, saw their familial resemblance, remembered his human frailties, would they have been able to see beyond their own insecurities, anxieties and frailties.

So, I ask myself … how often are my own judgements made /Mayrachok/ – מרחק? Do I place myself in the nearness and intimacy of another before I conspire against them? Do I place myself to sit close to them in all of their humanity? We may not find ourselves in greater alignment. I may not find myself less frustrated or angry. I may, however, find myself reacting and responding in a way that does not keep me /Mayrachok/ – מרחק.

MATZEVAH
Jacob took the stone that he had placed under his head and set it up as a *MATZEVAH* and poured oil on top of it. (Genesis 28:18)

One person’s talisman, may be another’s tzotchkee.  This week the Torah tells us the story of, Jacob, our spiritual ancestor and his life changing experience. There was a ladder, an ascending and descending angel and God standing next to him (or on him depending on how you interpret the text) bearing witness to watching it all. Jacob wakes up, profoundly impacted by the dream. So much so, he takes the rock pillow that served as the foundation for that evening’s sleep and anoints it as a MATZEVAH.

Most translations use the word ‘pillar’. Pillar does not quite capture what is happening to the modern ear.  We need a word that describes the act of taking an everyday, ordinary object — one that happened to be involved in an extra-ordinary event — and announcing or acknowledging at as something else. Something to preserve.  Something to cherish.  Something to honor.  A MATZEVAH.

No matter what word we may choose, chances are we all have MATZEVAHS populating the spaces we inhabit. It may be the object that some tradition or community tells us is significant. Or, it may be something that only you deem as worth of such a designation. Just like Jacob, we categorize and catalog these ‘rock pillows’ of ours to help us remember, capture and recreate the magic and the power of those experiences which made them into a MATZEVAH in the first place.

It is great, even important to make these MATZEVAHS. In our lives we need access to all of the magic and meaning we can get. We also have to pay attention, too, as we human beings have a penchant for transforming these objects – that serve as reminders of past moments or catalysts for future moments – into more. Sometimes, these MATZEVAHS, stop being the means but the ends themselves. Instead of pathways towards meaning, these objects become stumbling blocks that get in the way of us experiencing what we ultimately seek.

We do know that as impactful as Jacob’s ladder dream was to him … there will be more dreams in his future. I would like to think that his rock pillow MATZEVAH served as catalyst to open his heart and mind to the transformative dreams that will follow.

I will strive make sure my MATZEVAHS  do the same.

Last week I heard from a friend who worried – half seriously – that I might not be allowed into Israel the next time I travel there.   A couple of weeks ago the Israeli Knesset passed a bill banning foreign nationals who support the boycott of Israel from entering its borders.  The ban will target individuals who publicly call for a boycott of Israel or Israeli goods, including goods made in West Bank or East Jerusalem settlements.  I do not remember (I’ll have to read over my old sermons) everything I have ever said.  Is it possible that I said while speaking in public — which I have opportunity to do from time to time – that a boycott of goods made in the settlements is a just response to Israeli policy?   Yes, it’s possible. In fact I’ll even ‘say’ it right now in this public blog space: “If you believe that the Israeli treatment of Palestinians living under Israeli authority is unjust and you want to respond non-violently to that injustice, go ahead and stop sending money to institutions that perpetrate that injustice.”

Will this statement make me a marked man?  I hope so.

No matter the anxiety that allows us to embrace narrow views of the ‘other’ and no matter the fear that empowers us to hate and discriminate against them, we human beings must see more, we must be more.   Whether the ‘other’ takes the form of refugee families seeking a new life in the United States or the U.S. citizens whose lives are continually diminished because of racial or economic injustice or they are Palestinians who live under the oppressive authority of a Jewish State … we must seek to look at those who speak, eat, feel, smell, look, dress and especially think differently than we do and count them as we would count ourselves.

In this week’s Torah portion – Vayakel/Pekudei – we end the book of Exodus with a laborious counting and noting of each and every element of the Tabernacle.  

The 15th century Italian commentator, Ovadiah Sforno, teaches us in regard to such counting of sacred vessels:  “ …each one of them (the articles counted) was worthy to be considered as important and to be called by its private (individual) name, not only as part of a generic group (category). This is certainly justified (regarding) each one of the holy vessels …”

It is an interesting contrast to the way that our ancestors were ‘counted’ at the beginning of Exodus,  and an important reminder for us, as well.   The portion begins in Egypt — in slavery.  Slavery exemplifies the worst of this inability to see the divinity in the other.  It is the ultimate in seeing others as things to be used or to be disregarded when their utility ends.  We end Exodus in Pekudei — which derives from the Hebrew root that has to do with ‘taking a count’ or ‘taking note of’.   The act of counting these vessels is a way of remembering and acknowledging their inherent worth and value.  If such an approach is true of the articles of the Tabernacle, how much more so this concept is true for living beings.

This sacred counting of these vessels of the Tabernacle is a charge to us to how we count the ‘other’ among us.  When the act of counting the ‘other’ in this fashion, raises the ire of those in power, I take it as a sign that it our counting is accurate, complete and essential.  

On my next trip to Israel if the security at Ben Gurion airport wish to count me as one who supports non-violent means of opposing unjust treatments of Palestinians, Count Me In.

The Mediocrity Principle. I came across this scientific notion while listening to this week’s This American Life radio show podcast. Its premise is that no place in the universe is more ‘special’ than another place. All places are scientifically the same, mediocrity abounds. This philosophical construct is used to argue the position that there may be life on other planets – i.e. that earth is not unique or special and that there exist millions of other planets like earth that could produce life.

I do not think anyone (or any planet) wants to think of ourselves as mediocre. Once I finished feeling the rejection of being told that I lived on a mediocre planet … I began to acclimate to the idea, with a twist. The concept that many places could be similar in their potential for life … makes sense. It is a hopeful idea. I extrapolated the concept to the varied and diverse places here in our planet, in our country … to the varied and diverse people in our world … to the varied and diverse moments in our days. And, I liked the idea … that each was held equally the possibility for ‘life’. Every place, person and moment holds the same potential.

But, I was still stuck on ‘mediocrity.’ Potential for ‘life’ is not mediocre at all, it is anything but ‘mediocrity’. Mediocre is ‘Meh’. The potential for life is ‘Wow.’

Torah this week tells us the story of the Sinai moment and the revelation of the Ten Commandments to the Israelites. (Get that Mel Brooks version of this moment out of your mind!) In the course of our story (whether one reads it literally or as myth), Sinai is a singularly special moment of encounter with the Divine. Seen through the lens of the Mediocrity Principle, it is not at all singular and limited, but varied and diverse.

The great 20th century rabbi, Abraham Joshua Heschel, put it this way, “Sinai is an event that both happened once and for all and an event that happens all of the time. What God does happens both in time and in eternity.” Even though it may seem to us that this moment was at only one point on the storyline, such is not the true nature of Sinai or of our moments. Every moment is a potential moment for revelation, for connection to the holy … for life.

So, I humbly offer this spiritual spin on the Mediocrity Principle. For now, let’s call it the Divinity Principle. There is no place, no person and no moment that has any more divinity than the place you are in right now; the person with you whom you are interacting right now; or the moment you living right now …

So … forget the “Meh” and watch out for the ‘Wow.’

On June 11-12 Jews around the world will commemorate the most significant mountain experience in the history of the Jewish people – Sinai. On the festival of Shavuot we relive this mountain moment that is such an essential part of the Jewish story. At Sinai our spiritual ancestors stood together and directly engaged with the divine – and their lives were changed. In honor of that part of the Jewish story and in the spirit of opening up to such moments in our lives, I invite you to take a few moments to commemorate Shavuot in the next couple of days.

Bringing the Mountain To You – A Shavuot Reflection

Through the inundation of the presidential campaign, the established stalwarts of our calendar remind us of the bigger and larger cycles of our lives. In Jewish households, Passover is one of the most significant of these points in the mandala of time. Looking through the lens of our impending Seder(s) anticipating an historic outcome in this presidential election season … I see orange.

It was my first Passover Seder at Temple Micah. The tables were set with all the ancient symbols of our tradition that help us to celebrate freedom and its promise: among them matzah, a hard boiled egg, a shank bone, bitter herbs. Sitting rather conspicuously among these familiar elements was a large, round orange! There certainly were not citrus fruits in the bundles carried by our ancient ancestors as they left Egypt … and I had never seen an orange on the Seder plate in my grandparents’ home (my template for the Passover ritual). So, I asked the question of my new community members: What was an orange doing on the Seder plate?

The orange, I learned that evening, sat on the Seder plate to remind us of the historical exclusion (and more recent inclusion) of women into Jewish leadership and practice. It was not the most elegant or logical symbol. Apparently, the choice of an orange derived from an urban legend of some traditional rabbi uttering something to the effect of: A woman has as much business being a rabbi, as an orange belongs on the Seder plate!

While I did not fall in love with the symbol itself, the idea of it and the fact that someone chose to put it there reflects a couple of essential aspects of Judaism. The first of these elements is that Judaism is a living, breathing entity. It is changing and evolving and not static. While the rituals we do today have roots in tradition and can be traced back through time, they simultaneously integrate meaningful and relevant insights from our contemporary world. This openness to change suggests a willingness to continually examine what is just and fair. At our best we in engage in this process of examination through the lens of our core values and truths. It is one of these truths that lies at the heart of the orange’s journey to the Seder plate.

From the very beginning of our Jewish story we are challenged to remember and respect those individuals who have the potential to get caught on the fringes of society. The Torah accounts numerous times that the Israelites need to care for ‘the orphan, the widow and the stranger’, all individuals who tended to get lost in Biblical society. While these specific designations certainly fit the Biblical world, they also speak literally and figuratively to us and our world. The Biblical author did not possess the world view needed to acknowledge, for example, the exclusion of women. However, the Biblical author did understand the essence of compassion, mercy and justice and challenged the audience keep those values as at the forefronts of their hearts and minds. Through the eyes of his time and the lens of these values, he named ‘the widow, the orphan and the stranger’ as those needing our attention. Today, we Jews take the same lens and have the same obligation to name those in need of our attention. Whether those in need be widows, orphans and strangers … or women, immigrants or Palestinians.

While, I still do not love the orange, itself, on the plate … I am thankful for the opportunities that we have to see our world through the lens of these values that I still believe hold true today. I relish those ways in which Jews thoughtfully update our tradition to address the needs and realities of our contemporary lives. I look forward to the ways that we creatively integrate these new perspectives into our rituals and traditions … even if they are oranges on Seder plates.

It’s easy to spot the Hamans out there, it’s hard to embody Esther when we encounter him.

In this current political season, it is not hard to imagine Donald J. Trump sporting the three-sided, Hamentashen-looking hat donned by our least favorite Purim villain. It is not a stretch to see the same bigotry, prejudice and fear-mongering woven into the narrative of the Book of Esther echoing today when we watch and listen to the message emanating from the camp of the presumptive Republican presidential nominee.

In listening to Mr. Trump’s recent speech at the AIPAC convention, I am reminded how difficult it is to confront Haman. I do not think I have spoken with any Jews who are not at the least uncomfortable with this candidacy and at the most outraged by it. When the scheduled speech was announced, my inbox was flooded with reactions and plans by those in attendance at the AIPAC conference to protest in some form or fashion. And yet, as I watched and listened to his speech on YouTube … I was surprised to hear ovations and cheers as the candidate offered the platitudes about Israel, the U.S. and Iran that for which the 19,000 Jews in attendance were waiting.

All 19,000 of the attendees were not cheering and there were some people who actually did protest and walk out. And yet, it is probably safe to say that there were still thousands of Jews applauding and cheering on the candidate with the Hamentaschen on his head. After all, his inflammatory remarks have not been about Jews … and he did march as marshal in the Friends of Israel parade in New York City … his daughter is a Jew, about to give birth to a Jewish child … and it seems by the things he is saying about Israel as if we Jews might be ‘safe’ in the crazy world in which Donald J. Trump is elected to the one of the most powerful positions in the world.

It’s easy to spot the Hamans out there, it’s hard to embody Esther when we encounter him.

Esther’s challenge was in overcoming her relative comfort and safety. Chances were, or at least it appeared, that her status within the kingdom would preserve her life in the face of Haman’s decree to kill the Jews. He did not appear to be a direct threat to her. By standing up to Haman and the King, she threatened her relative comfort and safety. Her genius, her courage lay in her risking this lack of immediate threat … and remembering her highest values and paying attention to the larger realities … she named and confronted Haman. The consequences of her safety and security be damned.

It is easy to confront Haman when he threatens us directly, it is more uncomfortable and unsettling to do so when the threats are toward the other. The other who seems not like us, but in truth in not very far from us. In this case it is the ‘illegal’ immigrant, the muslim … but there are plenty more ‘others’ out there whom Haman threatens.

The challenge of Embodying Esther is about using our Jewish lens on the world … the lens shaped by our values of justice, mercy and peace … to recognizing the injustice and intolerance that impacts others. Embodying Esther is not simply about recognizing such things, but putting aside our relative comfort and security and confronting them. Whether the other who faces injustice is a Muslim, an immigrant, a woman, a Palestinian, an African American … anyone whose security, liberty and dignity is threatened by someone donning the three-sided, Hamantaschen-looking headwear.

The Mediocrity Principle. I came across this scientific notion while listening to this week’s This American Life radio show podcast. Its premise is that no place in the universe is more ‘special’ than another place. All places are scientifically the same, mediocrity abounds. This philosophical construct is used to argue the position that there may be life on other planets – i.e. that earth is not unique or special and that there exist millions of other planets like earth that could produce life.

I do not think anyone (or any planet) wants to think of ourselves as mediocre. Once I finished feeling the rejection of being told that I lived on a mediocre planet … I began to acclimate to the idea, with a twist. The concept that many places could be similar in their potential for life … makes sense. It is a hopeful idea. I extrapolated the concept to the varied and diverse places here in our planet, in our country … to the varied and diverse people in our world … to the varied and diverse moments in our days. And, I liked the idea … that each was held equally the possibility for ‘life’. Every place, person and moment holds the same potential.

But, I was still stuck on ‘mediocrity.’ Potential for ‘life’ is not mediocre at all, it is anything but ‘mediocrity’. Mediocre is ‘Meh’. The potential for life is ‘Wow.’

Torah this week tells us the story of the Sinai moment and the revelation of the Ten Commandments to the Israelites. (Get that Mel Brooks version of this moment out of your mind!) In the course of our story (whether one reads it literally or as myth), Sinai is a singularly special moment of encounter with the Divine. Seen through the lens of the Mediocrity Principle, it is not at all singular and limited, but varied and diverse.

The great 20th century rabbi, Abraham Joshua Heschel, put it this way, “Sinai is an event that both happened once and for all and an event that happens all of the time. What God does happens both in time and in eternity.” Even though it may seem to us that this moment was at only one point on the storyline, such is not the true nature of Sinai or of our moments. Every moment is a potential moment for revelation, for connection to the holy … for life.

So, I humbly offer this spiritual spin on the Mediocrity Principle. For now, let’s call it the Divinity Principle. There is no place, no person and no moment that has any more divinity than the place you are in right now; the person with you whom you are interacting right now; or the moment you living right now …

So … forget the “Meh” and watch out for the ‘Wow.’

When you light your Chanukah candles this coming week – in addition to using that flame to bring light to this dark time of year – I ask you to use those same flames to ignite another kind of fire.

In recent weeks, especially since the bombings in Paris, many people in the Micah community have reached out to me about the crisis of the Syrian refugees. Driven by concern, compassion and justice people have asked me, “Can we do something?”

While these families are not the only families in the world seeking safety and security, the plight of these Syrian families seemed to have struck at something deep and significant for many of us.

In the next week we will gather in various settings and gatherings to light the Chanukah menorah. We will enjoy latkes, exchange gifts and most importantly bask in the glow of love, security and peace. Among these physical, emotional and spiritual blessings of Chanukah, I ask you to make some room in your hearts and in your minds for these families fleeing or seeking to flee Syria.

In our Chanukah story it is the Syrian Greeks who violently confront the Maccabees. Some 2200 years later, let’s change the narrative. In pursuing their highest values our ancestors turned against the Syrians of their age. Let us pursue our highest values and turn our hearts towards these Syrians of our day and age.

I ask you to take One Night and kindle One Light for the Syrian Refugees this Chanukah. Use that light to ignite the fire of compassion, justice and peace. And then, let us see where this ignited fire will take us in the coming weeks and months.

Here is what I propose that our community begins this Chanukah…

1) One Night, One Light for Syrian Refugees … Take one night this Chanukah and dedicate it to the plight of the Syrian Refugees. What would this dedication look like? Here are some ideas, but use your own creativity:

The news of President Obama’s new Twitter feed was not much of a news flash to me (Didn’t he already have one?).

The news of the rapid response of the racists to President Obama’s new Twitter feed made me sad, angry and dispirited.

I know that we are probably speaking of such a small percentage of people who actually would post such nasty, mean-spirited and hateful things. In our day and age, it is does not take many people to stir it up. We live in a world in which the more outrageous or extreme voices gets attention – and, usually, the extremity of those voices are inversely proportional to the amount of people with those views and perspectives.

I want to be counted – along with what I suspect are the plurality of voices – who are outraged that any person – yet less the President of our county – is treated in such a manner. I want to be counted and have the world hear — MOST of us do not feel this way.

I have the same reaction when I pay attention to other ways that racism and prejudice rear their ugly heads in our world. Last summer it was in Ferguson, MO. Just recently it was in Baltimore. I believe that most people in our world want safety, security and opportunity for everyone — regardless of race or socioeconomic status. It seems that we do not have an effective way to say so. I feel strongly about these very fundamental justice issues, but I do not know quite what to do with my convictions.

Can we get our voices heard? Can we be counted?

In our weekly Torah portion, Bemidbar, our spiritual ancestors are, quite literally, being counted as they begin their trek through the wilderness to the Promised Land. In an interesting use of language the command to ‘take the count’ by God, translates literally to “‘Raise the heads’” of all of the people of Israel.’ Rabbi Abraham Twerski suggests that this ‘counting’ is more than a simple act of logistics, but an act of empowerment:

“The Divine words were therefore carefully chosen to avoid misrepresentation of the symbolism of the desert: ‘Elevate the heads of the entire congregation.’ Every individual should know that he or she is capable of being elevated, of achieving the greatest heights.”

When we raise our heads (and probably our hearts and our souls, too) – it is then we are counted. When we raise our heads, we remember that we can elevate ourselves and the world around us to heights we envision.

Perhaps, we can start being counted in this way in regard to these issues in our own backyard – which for our Micah community is Park Hill. Park Hill is a very diverse community – and in many ways it is a microcosm of our larger society. I know we live all over the Denver Metro Area. I realize, too, that our reach to the Oval Office or to Ferguson or to Baltimore is limited at best. By being a part of Temple Micah we are all deeply connected to a neighborhood where we can be counted. When we stand and be counted anywhere, we are taking the steps toward everyone being counted, everywhere. Come let’s begin being counted together …

REAL Park Hill – a burgeoning grassroots coalition of religious institutions and communal support organizations – is coordinating a Community Walk through ‘our’ neighborhood. We will walk together – Black and White (and all the ‘colors’ of the rainbow that make up Park Hill); Jew and Christian (and all of the religious expressions and non-expressions that make-up Park Hill); ‘Middle’ Class and ‘Lower’ Class (and all of the various distinctions we put on one another). We’ll sing, maybe tell a few stories and get to know the Other – whoever the Other may be. As we walk together we intend to let those with whom we share all of our neighborhoods know that we value justice, compassion and peace. And, that we are willing to stand, walk and be counted in order to make our values energize, enliven and encompass our world. We will gather on Friday, May 29th at 7:00pm at 3333 Holly St (the Vicker’s Boys and Girls Club).

Eating matzah is not really about eating matzah. You want to get a good discussion going? Ask a few Jews about what they do or do not eat at Passover … you will find proof of the adage: two Jews, three opinions (at least) … and probably heatedly-expressed ones, as well.

What is it about religion that so polarizes people? Sometimes it is people empowered by their faith to impose rigid and judgmental beliefs on those around them – like legislators in Indiana who recently empowered their citizens to express their religious beliefs at the liberty and expense of others? Sometimes it is people impassioned by a fear or hatred of a religious communities values, history or standing – like the individual(s) who sought to unsettle the folks in Boulder by sending envelopes with harmless white powder and accompanying it with (poorly written) threatening messages.

Religion gets – and sometimes deserves – a bad rap. And sometimes, it is quite difficult to face and take that rap. Difficult and challenging because ‘good’ religion ain’t easy. Good religion is the kind that honestly acknowledges the mystery and complexity of the world and the universe – one that does not commonly offer easy black and white responses to the rainbow of living that goes on in our world. Good religion is the kids that when confronted with that mystery and complexity aids us in finding comfort and meaning.  Good religion is the kind that challenges even the most agreed upon sacred cows – especially when those ‘cows’ embody or employ ideas that encourage rigidity, stagnation or oppression. Good religion – while rooted and living at the pure core of the religious traditions we know – cannot help but to be related to, intertwined with and inhabiting the same space as bad religion, too.

Good religion reminds us that eating matzah is really not about eating matzah. It is not really about changing dishes or avoiding corn or rice or tortillas. It is about reminding us (i.e. putting it back into our minds) of our obligation to participate in the ongoing process of liberating ourselves from Egypt, or as it known in Hebrew: Mitzrayim: The Narrow Place.

I am sad. I am disillusioned. I am angry. It is not that the recent Israeli election changed the status quo. There will be a similar ratio of a ruling ‘conservative’ block and an opposing ‘liberal’ one. It is not even that there were any true surprises coming from Prime Minister Netanyahu — he was manipulative, combative, parochial and … consistent. My sadness, disillusion and anger result from how his efforts were rewarded by the electorate. This response gave him – at least in the context of Israeli politics – a landslide victory. It is a harsh reminder of the kind of rigidity, chauvinism and myopia that has Israel’s present and future in what is akin to a death grip.

How fitting for me that the mysterious machinations of our spiritual tradition would present the beginning of the book of Leviticus as the Torah lens for me to reflect on these feelings. Each year as we are confronted by Leviticus’ antiquated and anachronistic notions and practices: ardous sacrificial offerings; an officious and domineering priestly caste and all the graphic descriptions of how’s, what’s, when’s and who’s involved. Yes, we endeavor (with moderate success) to translate the sacrificial system into some mythic and metaphorical meaning. At the end of the day – no matter the eloquence of our transformative tale – we have no problem rejecting the relevance of these obligations and relegating them to their appropriate place in our past. I became a Reform Jew – because I was drawn to this willingness to unashamedly, unabashedly and respectfully leave such attitudes and practices where they belong – in our past.

Using this levitical lens, I examine these elections and the things that are said, done or promised to be done in the name of Judaism. With the same vehemence with which I reject the relevance of sacrifices in our present and future view of the world, I am compelled to reject these narrow (Mitzrayim like?) attitudes toward other human beings — no matter how one may label these human beings: Arabs, Israeli Arab Citizens or Palestinians. I am compelled to reject such attitudes that embrace a supposed divine promise for a swath of land while negating the actual divine gifts of compassion, justice and peace.

No, the election has not changed the status quo in the Knesset, the Israeli electorate or even Prime Minister Netanyahu. The election, however, has changed me.

It was my intention to blog while we travelled in Israel … I had done it before when I co-chaperoned the Student Interfaith Peace Project trip in the summer of 2008. Perhaps I had more energy then or I underestimated the energy needed in leading a trip, but I found myself at the end of each day physically and emotionally spent — with the idea of writing as difficult as contemplating running 10 miles, too.

A few have asked for my impressions and reflections from the trip and I have been endeavoring to place those in a sharable construct … and even though I am past my jet lag and have the time and energy to write – the sharable construct has not yet been constructed. Our group will reconvene soon and discuss the ways in which we all might share what we saw, felt, thought and experienced. I trust there will be some in person and some virtual opportunities for us to share with our community what we did.

Perhaps my writer’s block – if I can call it that – is this sense and need to honor the group-ness of this experience. In all of my travels to Israel, this trip was the first time that I have led a group from my community. I have formed community while in Israel, but I have never traveled with, shared and guided the experience of Israel with a previous existing community. The sense of Micah – Park-Hill-residing, Colorado-mountain-loving – being in Israel became a prominent element of the experience of the trip for me. I found myself eager and anxious about the prospect of introducing Micah to Israel and Israel to Micah. I watched and wondered about the interaction and exchange of these two distinctive and significant entities. I embodied the role of of mediator and counselor as I facilitated this increasingly reverberating encounter between the two.

And so my first reflections on our trip begin with this observation of the sense of ‘us’ being ‘there’. This thing we call ‘community’ is the combination and permutation of so many varied kinds of relationships. It is an unruly mess to categorize and quantify (and organize, too!). No matter how we understand it and try to contain or cultivate it, I can say with confidence that ‘community’ is something that transcends time and place – because that is exactly what we did.  And the the way in which we did so – to encounter Israel together – enhanced not only the trip we took, but provocatively impacts the way I understand the community to which we return.

(A digest of my D’var Torah from Kabbalat Shabbat services on 1.2.15)

Rabbi Joe Goldman died just more than a week ago … and he added something to your life.

‘What?!” you say, ‘I never knew Rabbi Joe Goldman!’ You may have never met Rabbi Joe Goldman, but if you are reading this email and you have a connection to me or to Temple Micah or to someone else who values Temple Micah … then you owe a debt of gratitude to Rabbi Joe Goldman.

Rabbi Joe Goldman was Temple Micah’s first rabbi in the 1960’s. It was his spirit, character and vision that set the tone for our community, our values and how a rabbi and congregation partner to create a kehilah kedosha — a sacred community.

This one hits very close to home. I doubt that if I had ever met my colleagues who were murdered on Tuesday in Jerusalem. I doubt, too, that we would have had much in common or to agree upon if we had the chance to know one another. (I must admit, I have been wrong on such assumptions in the past.) And yet, the fact that the violence occurred in a such a sacred space and time; while the victims were doing something that I do so frequently – in a synagogue participating in communal prayer – feels like a cosmic punch to the gut.

In the last couple of weeks through the medium of video … some very sad, disturbing and tragic events in remote or more private places have been seen by millions of people around the world.  ISIS or ISIL has recorded and shared the dastardly beheading of two American journalists.  The start to the NFL football season has been overshadowed by the release of a video that records one of its star players punching his then fiancé. In both cases, the videos released contained events that, sadly, are not new – either in human history or in the daily lives of some of the world’s inhabitants.  And yet, the sharing of the videos served as potent catalysts in dramatically impacting reactions toward those who perpetuated the violence. ISIS/ISIL has been acting in the Middle East for months, but these videos seem to have been part of the impetus for the President to respond in the public and aggressive manner in which he did and plans to lead the country.  The NFL had already punished its player for the suspected violence, but the punishment was dramatically increased once the video was released to the public.

These are two very negative and powerful examples of how actually seeing something, affects us more profoundly than hearing about it, reading about it or even just thinking about it.  There exists a potent element to taking the time, utilizing the tools or technology we have to examine and understand the events that unfold around us … and within us.  Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur serve as a kind of spiritual technology that can be used to see our lives more closely and clearly.  It is a kind of seeing that is beyond the scope of our physical senses.  It is a kind of seeing that one does with our spiritual ‘senses’.

These High Holydays stake claim to set aside sacred time from our lives to examine our choices and their consequences for us and the world around us.  The close viewing – witnessing – of those aspects of our lives that we many not give such close attention to the rest of the year – can be empowering and frightening; transforming and intimidating.  This spiritual technology demands self-awareness and the constructive actions that follow.  As raw, honest and vulnerable that we may feel by seeing ourselves so closely and clearly – those feelings cannot compare to the numbness, rigidity and stuckness that results when we do not bear witness to the life of our own souls.

As Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur approach us once again, I pray that we may all see them for the challenge, utility, necessity and opportunity they present … to look honestly, justly and compassionately on the state of our lives … and understand enough from what we see to make this next  year one of growth, joy and meaning.

The weapons of war are heartless, inexact and utterly destructive. Bombs, missiles, shells, bullets, grenades, knives, fists and feet bring pain, injury and loss. Those of us outside the physical theater of war find our hearts heavy with sadness, shock and anguish as we glean the news about and lament the violence and destruction of people and property. We are not soldiers in these battles and cannot feel or know the anxiety, shock and fear that accompanies being there. Nonetheless, It is from afar we feel and experience faint aftershocks of each act of violence.

However, there is another battlefield that is not limited to a military theater – bounded by geographic constraints and physical boundaries. It is the battlefield of identity, ideas and values. It is the battlefield of communities, nations, peoples. These battlefields cannot be constrained by geography, distance or any physical border. And while there are times when we encounter some of the weapons used in the military theater of battle, these are not the most prevalent weapons in this virtual theater. In this theater, in this battlefield words – and the ideas, feelings and meaning behind them – are the weapons used by the masses for destruction. We are quite impotent when it comes to directly affecting the use of weapons on the physical battlefield, such is not the case with the verbal weapons we witness, experience and utilize in this larger battlefield.

This week’s Torah portion begins the book of Deuteronomy or Devarim. The portion and the book begin: “Eleh Devarim – These are the words that Moses addressed to all of Israel … “. The entire book of Deuteronomy/Devarim (34 chapters) are Moses’ words of reminder, encouragement, chastisement and guidance to the Israelites. A simple, yet pithy teaching speaks of the power of these words used by Moses. It also speaks to us about the way that the power of words may be wielded for destruction or construction. A midrash teaches that the word: devarim (meaning ‘words’) can be vocalized in Hebrew to also read d’vorim (meaning: ‘bees’). It suggests that just as sharp, painful and even destructive that a bee’s sting may be – a bee’s honey may also be sweet, pleasing and nourishing. Moses’s words – the words of Torah – contain the nourishing nature of honey and the pain inducing nature of the stinger.

Even though we may be overwhelmed by the physical violence and destruction of the implements of war, we would be wise not to ignore or underestimate the power contained in the implements of our battlefield – the words we use. It will be the words of politicians, diplomats, soldiers AND the words of the individuals of those communities that will tear down or build up. After this fighting ends – and hopefully it will soon – it will be devarim – words that either continue the destruction wrought in this conflict or somehow, someway begin the work constructing a peace.

Let us keep these words, these devarim and the message behind them prominent in our minds and hearts as we process and respond to the events unfolding on the physical battlefield in this place so precious to the Jewish people and to the rest of the world.

It may not be on your radar, but the Jewish holiday of Shavout is upon us. Historically, it is a big one … one of the three pilgrimage festivals for which our ancestors congregated in Jerusalem at the Temple. Currently, as far as popular recognition or observance goes, it could be said that Shavuot does not reside on the Mt. Rushmore of Jewish Holidays.

Originally, an agriculturally based observance of first fruits, Shavuot also became the medium to celebrate a fairly significant event in the mythic life of the Jews – the Sinai moment. In our story that is told in Torah, the Sinai moment is where God speaks to the Israelite community directly (not through Moses as is commonly thought in the collective Jewish psyche — or as Mel Brooks or Cecil B. Demille portrays).

For most liberal Jews this significant moment in our collective story is hard to embrace. Accepting the literal or figurative truth in the story can be challenging. For me, I certainly lean in that direction … and yet, somewhere and somehow I do not want to completely reject the possibility of an encounter or experience that wow’s us, moves us and transforms us. When I consider the Sinai story and its implications, I understand it as our tradition’s code for expressing the possibility of encounters with the divine … and its challenge to think about our readiness and openness to such encounters.

So, Jews around the world will focus on the Sinai moment this week. (Tuesday night or Wednesday are the actual days on which Shavuot falls this year). In the spirit of encountering the divine, perhaps you have a few moments (actually on Shavuot or sometime this week) for consideration, cogitation or contemplation of Sinai-esque moments. If you are so inclined, please use this Shavout exercise as a guide.

• Carve out some time where you can sit, relax and reflect.
• If you can make it a space where you can experience of bit of the majesty that is part of our Colorado mountains, better yet! 
• Bring along something to write with (if that is something you prefer) or something to sip on (if that is something you prefer). 
• Make yourself comfortable … first physically, make sure you are good to sit for some time. 
• Then mentally, take a few moments, focus on your breathing, empty your mind of what you have to do or what you did not do … just clear out your mind of the clutter of the everyday. 
• Let’s put aside trying to get our heads and hearts around the actual experience of the divine encounter. Let’s consider the preparation or readiness for such an encounter. 
• Read this description from Torah about the organization of the Israelites in the wilderness (as they prepared for their spiritual journey) and the explanation of it from the Etz Hayim Torah Commentary: 

NUMBERS 2:1: The Israelites shall camp each with his standard, under the banners of their ancestral house; they shall camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance.

My garage is a disaster right now. Between planting the garden, helping a friend with a building project, upgrading kids rooms with new beds (which means the old beds live in the garage until they are sold) and the usual collection of bric-a-brac that resides in it … my garage (have I mentioned?) is a disaster. Now, most people who know me (and definitely those who live with me) would not consider me a neat freak by any means. Still, this level of disorder unseats and unsettles me. It frustrates me and makes me impatient with the other contributors to the mess. It inhibits my creativity (the garage is where I do most of my woodworking). In a small, but not insignificant way it makes my home base feel a little less homey.

In this week’s Torah portion, Bemidbar … the Israelites are being ordered and organized for their march through the wilderness to the Promised Land. I imagine that this collection of stubborn, unruly  and recently liberated slaves had the potential to mythically resemble the state of my garage. Perhaps it is for this reason that they are given very mundane, specific instructions – tribe by tribe and person by person – where and how to stand and with what implements and adornments. Apparently, reaching the Promised Land needs some level of order and even discipline.

We meet Abraham and Sarah (or Abram and Sarai, as they are known at this early point in their story) this week again in Torah … The portion is called Lech L’cha and these are the words that Abram hears from God. These words are the first clue we receive into the character of Abraham. God tells Abram to, ‘Pack Your Bags! … go, leave your homeland, the land of your birth, your parents’ house … to a place that I will show you.’ Abram, in order to become Abraham (and Sarai, in order to become Sarah) needed to leave what was familiar, comfortable and insular. This journey was not a mere physical one – but an existential, emotional and spiritual journey. In order to grow, evolve and mature – Abram needed to pack his bags (physical and emotional) and leave home.

Anyone one of us who is a parent or a child (which I think should be most of us!) understands this important aspect of becoming a person. As much as our parents may love and guide us, as much as our homes or homelands may be familiar and life giving to us … there comes a point (often a painful one) in which we need to extract ourselves in order to better become ourselves. We do not cut off or reject these important relationships, people or the ways that they have impacted us. We do, however, heed the same call that Abraham heard from God: “Leave what is safe and familiar and go to a place that I will show you … and I will make your name great.”

As the Rocky Mountain Rabbinic Council began its iEngage Israel class this week … I hear echoes of God’s call to Abraham within the class materials, lectures and discussions. The class (and its supporting curriculum from the Shalom Hartman Institute in Israel) is designed to give Jews across the political, denominational and age spectrums a chance examine our relationship with Israel and with other Jews in our community. It is a class that will challenge its participants to re-examine our Jewish community’s accepted narrative about why Israel is important and how we translate that importance into relationship. The participants are being asked to leave the friendly confines of their intellectual and emotional homes – at least in the context of their relationship to Israel. They are being asked to extract themselves from a life long narrative and perspective about Israel – in order to consider other ideas about how that relationship may grow, evolve and mature.

And like those journeys from our parents’ homes for Abram, us and our children … this intellectual one may be painful and cause anxiety, but it also promises greatness. We must remember no matter the journey upon which we may find ourselves: the place that God wants us to see, the greatness … only comes if we are genuinely ready to pack our bags and and go.

The festival of Sukkot begins tonight (September 18th). Many Jewish Coloradans and their families and friends will find their way to physically sit, eat and/or sleep in a Sukkah this year. As with any ritual, the physical choreography is a way to directing the one observing the ritual to encounter an awareness of a spiritual reality. For many in Colorado – Jewish or not – I believe that the last week of rains and flooding have already opened their hearts and minds to an important spiritual reality related to building and dwelling in the Sukkah.

The recent flood waters devastated so many lives – destroying homes, businesses and taking lives. Across the spectrum of this impact were realizations by tens of thousands of people in Colorado that no matter how physically secure we feel, we are actually quite vulnerable. And in our vulnerability, we discover the true nature of our power and strength. This awareness is a fundamental intention of the mitzvah to build and dwell in a Sukkah. The 14th century Spanish scholar known as the Menorat HaMaor framed is this way: “The human being must leave his or her permanent home and move into a temporary abode that is devoid of wealth and security to remind her or him how deeply each person depends upon God.”

The Sukkah is a temporary hut. It is fairly sturdy for something that is supposedly easily put up and torn down. The Sukkah building at Micah every year seems to coincide with at least one good windy, storm. A couple of times in the past few years I arrived at Micah to see the Sukkah on its side, feet away from its original location. I think this uncertainty is part of the intended feel of the Sukkah. We get ourselves out of our comfortable and secure homes, erect these huts with almost open roofs and flimsy walls and spend our time within those walls and under that roof with those we love. If it rains (or even snows some years) we simply move our meal inside. Perhaps, though, for even a fleeting moment (or more if we are fortunate) we appreciate our blessings; acknowledge how little control we have over the forces of nature and where or upon whom our true dependence lies.

We build a Sukkah and dwell in it so that we understand where our dependence and strength dwells. So, when we realize the vulnerability in ourselves and in other – we know where to turn and we know when to help. As we dwell in our Sukkot this year – the ones in our yards or the ones in our hearts – let us turn to one another and help one another.

For the first time in three years official representatives of Israel and Palestine are sitting down to engage in formal discussions about creating parameters for peace. We do not have to look very far to find those who think such an endeavor meaningless, hopeless or even dangerous. Cynics question the sincerity of either side’s intentions toward peace, pundits warn that very little movement is possible and then there are those who tell us the talks themselves are too little (Israeli-Palestinian Peace Talk Charade) or too much (Christian Israel-Backers Blast Obama on Peace). If this most recent round of talks were a horse race, the filly called ‘Peace’ might make the odds of a long shot look good. Forget about betting on ‘Peace’, is it even worthwhile watching the race?

Yes.

Admittedly, the more that the current situation between the state of Israel and the Palestinian people continues the less optimistic I become about a resolution (even) in the near-distant future. Each side continues to become more and more entrenched in its position – building walls (both physical and psychological) between one another. Peace seems like an unattainable, naive abstraction. Reality is too messy, disjointed and plain unfair. Should we just batten down the hatches and defend ourselves against those who would threaten and take what is ours?

No.

I came across a verse in this week’s Torah portion that – while I am sure that I have read it before – surprised me. This week’s portion, Re’eh, continues recounting Moses’ final speeches to the Israelites. This week Moses is reviewing various laws that relate to preserving the community’s holy place and helping to create a community in which holiness is cultivated. As Moses speaks to the people about being aware of and caring for the poor and needy in the community, he tells them: “There will never cease to be needy ones in your land, this is why I command you to open your hand to the poor and needy … “ (Deuteronomy 15:11) Never?! For all the talk and promise of covenant; for all of the possibilities in redemption from slavery … I was surprised by this non-utopian, messy, gray vision for the society that they will create. I find two important ideas in this statement: (1) An acknowledgement that no matter what the Israelites might do – their community will always have those in need, those who lack. It will be messy, imperfect and unfair. (2) Despite the messiness, imperfection and unfairness the Israelites are still (choose your own word here:) expected/obligated/commanded to confront it and do something about it. In the face of the size of the task at hand (in this case, hunger and homelessness), it is not acceptable to resign oneself to impotence.

Is it irony? Paradox? A sense of divine humor? Or, maybe it is just a Jewish way of seeing the world. No matter how dire or insurmountable before us the iniquity in the world may seem, we cannot stop opening our hands, our minds or our hearts to those whose lives are impacted by these iniquities. With this nudge from Torah, I will pay attention to the discussions between Israelis and Palestinians. While I will be all too aware of the messiness of our situation, I will also strive to to see the possibilities.

Being a young baseball fan, my son is having a hard time getting his head around the concept of an All-Star game. All of the players and teams have been playing so hard against one another (especially those hated Yankees) and then they just stop in the middle of the season and play with each other? Then in a few days they are going to go back to playing against each other? Seriously? When, where and which lines we cross can be a confusing concept for a young baseball fan.

Even for those of us who can wrap our heads around the idea of baseball’s midsummer classic, still may have a tough time with other kinds of lines and the conditions, variables and situations that mandate crossing them or not. Ask President Obama. As president he looks around the world and sees turmoil, injustice, cruelty and violations of basic human rights. When is it the right time and what is the right way to cross the lines between sovereign countries and governments and say something or do something? Ask any Jewish person who cares about the land of Israel. We look across the ocean and see things we love and see things that seem dissonant from our deepest values. When is the right time and what is the right way to cross that line of loyalty and support and offer loving and respectful critique and feedback? Ask any human being. We see a family member or dear friend in trouble (or at least what we perceive as trouble). When is the right time and what is the right way to cross the line to say something that may not be heard or understood and quite possible may injure that person or the relationship?

Unlike baseball’s mid-summer classic, there are no clear and fast rules that tell us when to cross what lines. These life decisions vary, change and depend upon the particular relationship, situation and other variables at play. Then how do we know the right time and right way to cross those lines between us and those around us? In this week’s Torah portion, V’etchanan (from the book of Deuteronomy), we find what may be the most often recited verse in Jewish history: The Shema. “Listen Israel, YHVH/Adonai is our God, YHVH/Adonai is One.” The Shema is not a declaration of monotheism, but something else. It is a declaration of Israel’s relationship to this deity – that YHVH/Adonai is the ONE and ONLY understanding of divinity for the community called Israel. ‘YHVH/Adonai is OUR god.” This declaration is Israel’s attempt at definition and differentiation. This declaration of self-understanding guided, guides and continues to guide Israel as it grows, loves and acts.

In wondering when and how to cross the lines in our lives, we all need what the Shema provides Israel – an understanding of who we are and where we begin and others end. There is not a steadfast template as to when to step on or over those lines between us and others. There is no handbook that guides us how to constructively involve ourselves in the problems of a friend – whether that friend is another country or another person. In each of those moments of decision perhaps the most helpful template is having a clear understanding of how each of us understands the nature of justice, compassion … of divinity.

We don’t have to pay attention too closely to hear messages from people telling us things that we do not want to hear. These messages originate from varied communication methods we access in the public domain and from the people with whom we work, live and love. The messages relate to all kinds of matters: what we put on or in our bodies to what we put through and in our minds. The packaging of these messages can be harsh, loving or somewhere in between. Because these kinds of messages do not feel good, our first defense is to deflect, deny or destroy them by whatever means we have at our disposal. And yet, even though these messages may be unasked for, unexpected, unrefined and even hurtful … some of them, maybe even just a few might actually contain something of value.

In Torah this week Moses and the Israelites receive a decidedly unfriendly message. In the portion that bears his name, Korach (with some of the Israelites firmly behind him), stands up to threaten the authority of Moses and the Levites. Korach and his followers joined together and confronted Moses: “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Eternal One is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the community of the Eternal One?” (Numbers 16:3) In the account that follows in the Torah (and in the generations of commentary, as well) Korach and his followers are taken to task for their arrogance and ambition. Korach’s rebellion ends as he confronts Moses before the entire community in a high-noon-esque showdown … and he and his band are swallowed up by the earth.

It does not seem that Moses or God had any intention to listen to their claim that the entire community should enjoy access to divinity and the holiness that follows such access. And while the form and presentation of the message may have been suspect, the actual message seems downright, uh … Jewish. At least to my contemporary Jewish ears. Despite their dramatic reaction and violent rejection of Korach, it seems that the core of Korach’s idea has some staying power. How many of us – if reading Korach’s statement completely out of context – would disagree or even reject its meaning? And yet, the people who delivered that message – one that Moses and the Levites did not want to hear – were deflected, denied and summarily destroyed.

I would not suggest every message we hear has the same amount of accuracy or truth. I would suggest that there is probably a significant amount of truth that we reject out of hand because we are not open to hearing it. It may be the messenger or the way that message is delivered that turns us off … that turns on the mechanisms of deflection, denial and destruction. Whatever it is, we allow that kernel of truth to be swallowed up so that it is out of sight and out of mind – just like Korach. And so, we may miss out on important truths — truths that help us grow as individuals or ones that help us to understand the people who bring us these truths and in turn strengthen our relationships and our communities.

There is a Korach out there who will soon confront and challenge you … pay attention and listen before you deflect, deny and allow him and his message to be swallowed up.

Tonight and tomorrow Jews around the world will commemorate the most significant mountain experience in the history of the Jewish people – Sinai. On the festival of Shavuot we relive this mountain moment that is such an essential part of the Jewish story. At Sinai our spiritual ancestors stood together and directly engaged with the divine – and their lives were changed. In honor of that part of the Jewish story and in the spirit of opening up to such moments in our lives, I invite you to take a few moments to commemorate Shavuot in the next couple of days.

Bringing the Mountain To You – A Shavuot Reflection

I am thinking about the heinous crime that was committed on Monday near the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Each and every time a tortured soul chooses violence in this way we all feel more vulnerable. We feel more open – than we already are – to pain, loss and death. It is our gut reaction to minimize that vulnerability in the face of such wickedness. And yet, we cannot forget that when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable is when it is possible that we experience incredible things …

The marathon itself is an exercise in vulnerability. Each runner exposes herself or himself to her or his physical and emotional limits – in the hope of pushing oneself to higher levels of experience. To approach those limits is to spend some time ensconced in vulnerability. Each runner knowingly and trustingly accepts that a community of organizers, volunteers, civil servants, medical professionals and citizens will be present – witnessing that vulnerability and each (in their own way) helping every runner find the transformation she or he seeks by allowing for and facing that vulnerability. Without this community, the runner cannot realize that goal.

Speaking of goals, in Torah this week our spiritual ancestors are given quite a goal. In the portion of Leviticus called Kedoshim, the Israelites are charged and challenged: Be Holy – Kedoshim Tihyu. Commentators like to make note that this charge is given not to each individual (in the singular), but to the entire community (in the plural). The idea being that the state of Holiness is something that needs to be achieved – not merely among others, but with others. I like how Martin Buber might have understood this concept: “For Buber, holiness is found not in rising above the level of one’s neighbors, but in relationships, in human beings recognizing the latent divinity of other people, even as God recognizes the latent divinity in each of us.” (Etz Hayim Torah Commentary)

The experience of the marathon – for the community it takes to host a marathon – is emblematic of this concept of Holiness. The criminal or criminals who planted those bombs at the Boston Marathon sought to strike directly at this vulnerable and holy place of ours. Even as we reel at the images and stories from the scene, we cannot abandon that charge to ‘Be Holy’, we cannot stop seeking to realize and liberate the divinity in others, we cannot stop running marathons.

When was the last time you blushed? Physiologically speaking, when was the last time you were in a situation when uncomfortable circumstances caused an irregular flow of blood to your head and caused a reddish tone to appear in some form on your face (often the cheeks)? Emotionally speaking, when was the last time that you felt embarrassment or shame because of something you heard, said or did that was inappropriate, disrespectful or disgraceful??

We do not live in a society in which we blush a lot. We live lives in a more public eye – everything we do seems to get quickly and abundantly documented and shared via the wonders of the web. So, perhaps we are immune to frequent moments of shame. We live in an era that encourages (and even rewards) personal expression (the more outrageous, the better). So, perhaps a feeling like shame inhibits such pursuits and developments.

Are we evolving past the point as a species that we find shame a useful emotion or blushing as a productive physiological response to shame? Will shame and the blush go the way of the appendix – as anachronistic remnants of once useful ‘organs’? Or, do these built in ‘defenses’ of shame and the blush hold some deeper meaning or purpose for we human beings as we continue to understand our existential place.

In this week’s foray (Shemini) into the book of Leviticus, we continue wading through the accounting of the priestly and cultic laws and customs. Early on in the portion – in a seemingly innocuous line in the text – the Torah says that Moses told Aaron to approach the altar where the sacrifices were to be done. Aaron was the high priest, so it seems rather obvious that he would be the one approaching the altar. Not so obvious for the 11th century French commentator, Rashi. Rashi wanted to know why Aaron – who was the high priest – needed Moses to tell him to approach the altar at all. Rashi’s answer to his question: Aaron was ashamed. (He does not tell us why.) Not only does Rashi suggest that Aaron was ashamed (he may have been blushing, too), but Rashi teaches that Moses said something very helpful to Aaron (to help get him to the altar) and instructive to us as we consider the emotion of shame: “Why are you ashamed? For this you were chosen!” Moses (or Rashi) suggests that because Aaron was able to feel shame, that he ascended to this sacred role of high priest.

Our tradition suggests to us to consider the powerful place that shame may hold in our lives. Our spiritual development depends partly on our ability to emotionally and physically experience the impact of actions that are inappropriate, disrespectful or disgraceful. This kind of healthy shame empowers us to understand our limits and to establish healthy boundaries between the human beings with whom we share the world.

We can be too much for our own good …

As many of us look at our Seders in the rear-view mirror (and I hope they were joyous and meaningful Seders), we still have the prospect of plenty of Matzah in our near future. Matzah is the symbol of the Exodus from Egypt, the bread of affliction and ultimately it is the culinary actualization of a chametz free-world.

Chametz is the name for those things that do not pass the Passover test. It is the name for foods that have been allowed to leaven – to puff up, to expand or to enlarge. The foods we eat during Passover are the ones that fall in line behind the Matzah and limit their amount of puffing, or expanding or enlarging.

Let us not only think of Chametz as a culinary category, for that only touches the surface of the depth of Chametz. Chametz names a spiritual element, as well. It describes what happens to human beings when we make choices that cause ‘puffing up’, expansion and general enlargement that is detrimental to our collective well being. While, this kind of Chametz may be more difficult to find than the food related Chametz that we find in our pantries each year – this kind of Chametz may be more pervasive in our lives.

Now that Passover has arrived and houses around the world have been successfully searched for Chametz, it is time for another kind of search for Chametz to commence. Pay attention to the puffiness, expansion and enlargement in your life. What choices have you made that have caused an unnecessary and possibly harmful expansion of your physical world? Parts of your body or your home may feel as if there is too much of something (or many things). What decisions have you made that have caused a destructive and limiting puffiness in your spiritual world? You may be feeling emotions or harboring attitudes that have become so large that they inhibit your ability to make loving connections with those closest to you.

This week I am wondering why I am not so outraged that Rand Paul will not shut up … Senator Paul is engaging in a ‘Mr. Smith Goes To Washington’ kind of filibuster, protesting President Obama’s nomination to head the CIA. The point that Senator Paul keeps returning to is his grave concern that the President holds the power to order a drone strike on American citizens under ‘extreme circumstances’. I have never found myself on the same side of a political issue as Senator Rand. Nor I as I try to understand the reasons behind his filibuster, do I see a lot symmetry in this case between our political ideologies. And as outrageous as his claim and fear of drones striking Americans on American soil may be, I have studied too much history to blithely discount such a concern.

It is not at all an uncommon historical occurrence for those in power (or those who seek power) to consider their fellow human beings an impediment or threat. Such situations occur when those in positions of authority or influence stop seeing the humanity of the other human beings who inhabit the same state or community. (i.e when governments see their citizens as drones, then it is easier to send drones to deal with them – (seeing) drones beget (using) drones). Instead of seeing human beings – who contain and emanate sparks of Divinity and the Sacred, they see obstacles and threats. And then they act accordingly.

In this week’s Torah portion – Vayakel/Pekudei – we (again) have an accounting of the structure, elements and various details of the portable Tabernacle that traveled with the Israelites in the wilderness. One would hope for a more dramatic and fitting end to the book of Exodus — the book that begins in slavery in Egypt, then sees the dramatic redemption of the Israelites and then their revelatory encounter with God at Sinai. Instead, we get a rehashing (It is the second or third time already!) of the pieces, parts and instructions for the Israelites wilderness DIY project.

Within this rehashing is a subtle, yet helpful perspective as we consider the ways that – when at our worst – we human beings tend to regard one another. The book of Exodus begins in Egypt — in slavery. Slavery exemplifies the worst of this inability to see the divinity in the other. It is the ultimate in seeing others as things to be used or to be disregarded when their utility ends. We end Exodus in Pekudei — which derives from the Hebrew root that has to do with ‘taking a count’ or ‘taking note of’. We end Exodus with a laborious counting and noting of each and every element of the Tabernacle.

Here I turn to Ovadiah Sforno (15th century Italian commentator) who had something to say about this counting and noting:

This week I am wondering why it is so hard for us to get ‘it’. By ‘us’ I mean not only the Israelites in this week’s Torah portion, but ‘us human beings’, as well …

In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa, we encounter our ancestors’ dramatic plunge into spiritual philandering. One Redeemer, who is not seen for forty days. One Golden Calf, which is constructed. (In a frenzied panic the Israelites feel abandoned by ‘that man, Moses’ and cajole Aaron in to building an idol and facilitating all of the debauchery required by the worshipping of such an idol) That One Golden Calf is destroyed by that One Redeemer. (Moses has none of it, smashes the hot-off-of-the-divine-press tablets of the law into the aforementioned calf, grinds the remainder of the calf to dust and forces the Israelites to drink a Golden Calf cocktail – guaranteed to cause internal and intestinal distress.)

Clearly, the bad guys, the antagonists, the fools in this week’s installment are the Israelites. (Alright, Aaron should get his fair due, as well …) This group of spiritually stunted slaves are just a few minutes (figuratively, not literally) removed from their redemption from centuries of slavery through a series of miraculous natural events: darkness that fills the Egyptians homes, but not their own; death that comes to the first born of their overlords, but to their children; a body of water that splits in time for them to cross to safety and then conveniently un-splits to wipe out the greatest military force known in that corner of the world. Then following their exodus from Egypt, the entire group of them settle in at Sinai for an unprecedented, yet intimate encounter with God. After these events are still in their rear view mirror, despite their current reality (freedom), the evidence (there seems to be some powerful entity who has their collective backs) and the consequences (how about this little ditty from Sinai: I remember the iniquity of those who turn against me until the THOUSANDTH generation) … they still look to Aaron and say: “Hey, you … we’ve got this idea about a calf.”

These people just plain don’t get it! They are dense. They are clueless. They are … us. Yes, I said that they are us. It is very easy to pile on the Israelites at this point. The narrative of the story encourages us to do so … from God and Moses’ anger, to their imbibing of the remains of their sin, to the eventual killing of those who Moses feels do not learn from this incident. I think that we are missing a larger picture if we simply look down our noses at ‘those poor, misguided and ignorant Israelites’ without at least acknowledging a larger truth that is a spiritual reality for you and I. Despite everything our ancestors knew about God and Moses, despite their own experience and despite their understanding of the facts on the ground – it was still exceedingly difficult for them to overcome their upbringing, their slave mentality or the immediate impact that building and worshipping the calf would bring them.

Do you know anyone like that? Someone who knows from their own experience the significance of a certain course of action. Someone, who sees the concrete evidence that suggests avoiding this course of action would be advisable. Someone, who understands the negative consequences that will follow such a course of action. And yet, there are powerful forces – internal and external – that push that individual to decide to act in contrast to all of this experience, evidence and potential harm.

I do – and I do not have to look farther than the face staring back at me in the mirror. I do – and I do not have to look further than stories entrusted to me of families who struggle with addiction or abuse. I do – and I do not have to look further than than politicians and ideologues who cling rigidly to destructive economic or social policies. This reality – as revealed in this week’s story – is one we confront every day in both mundane and monumental moments. Mundane moments when (like in my case) they are deciding whether or not to enjoy that maple frosted donut, again). Monumental moments when they are struggling to not take that drink or trying to express their fear, anxieties or even love in a manner that is not hurtful or destructive.  Whether the moments are mundane or monumental, we can each fill in the blanks.

I do not believe that we should make excuses for our ancestors or for ourselves. We should not be investing our bodies, minds and souls in pursuits – like Golden Calves – that block our way from the Sacred. However, we should not underestimate – when judging ourselves or others – the profoundly powerful forces we confront when reaching for the Divine in our lives. Our ancestors found these forces – on their journey to their Promised Land – to be genuine, real and formidable. We, too, are on a journey and to reach our ultimate destination must honestly acknowledge these forces and unwaveringly commit ourselves to facing them, overcoming them and instead of building calves – to welcome the Sacred and the Divine into our lives.

I am thinking about Haman this week. Purim arrives this Saturday night and Jews around the world will be retelling – in various and sundry forms – the tale found in the book of Esther. Haman, as you may remember, serves as villain to the Jews of Shushan in the story and as the archetypical antisemite in our hearts and minds. His dastardly plans are thwarted by our heroes: Mordechai and Esther. In the end Haman swings (from the gallows) and the Jewish community sings (in celebration).

The story evolves as it should – people who value justice, compassion and peace should always stand up to those individuals and institutions who seek to limit, hurt or destroy these values and the people who hold them dear. Such epic confrontations make great stories and teach important ideals. So, why do we first defeat him and then eat him?

The Jews of Shushan defeat Haman and foil his plans. When we tell the story each year we gobble up Hamentaschen – Haman’s Ears. Am I being too literal? Perhaps taking this story and its accompanying snacking a little too seriously? I love a Hamantaschen as much as the next guy (make mine poppy seed, please), but seriously what are we doing? Are we – in a symbolically barbaric manner – signifying our success by eating the spoils of victory or attempting to display our dominance over the defeated foe?

There has got to be more to Haman and his role in the story (and our metaphorical ingesting of his ears). When we read and engage with our sacred texts, we don’t stop on this initial level. I wonder if this story is about Haman and the consummate evil he embodies or if this story more about us and the way we respond to the Hamanesque people and institutions in our lives?

There is part of the story on the book of Esther upon we often do not focus. After Esther confronts Haman and the King agrees to have Haman killed, there is still the small problem of the decree that Haman ordered to destroy the Jews of the kingdom. Since this decree cannot be rescinded, the king puts Mordechai in Haman’s post and gives the Jews permission to bear arms and defend themselves. The ‘defense’ that ensues produces more than 75,000 deaths of those who were foes of the Jews and a ‘pachad hayehudim – fear of the Jews’ – that falls across the kingdom. (Don’t believe me? — Look it up: Esther Chs. 8-10).

After fighting the injustice, hatred and intolerance promoted by Haman … the Jews kill tens of thousands of people. They become feared by their fellow countrymen and women. Was killing and instilling fear the most effective way to confront Haman? Was such a result inevitable in fighting evil? What happened?

Perhaps when we tell the story each year – the whole story; and, when we eat the Hamantaschen each year, the whole Hamentaschen – we have an opportunity to remember the trials, tribulations and pitfalls of fighting the Hamans in our lives. The danger exists that we may end up internalizing (eating, ingesting) what we fight. We might find ourselves, our ideas and even our actions tainted by the methods we choose to defeat that which threatens us.

When we tell this particular story of ours, we are bidden to name and acknowledge the Hamans in our world AND pay attention to how we confront them. Hamans take many forms – they might be corrupt and immoral political leaders; they may also be other important figures in our lives; they may be institutions that have influence over our lives; they may even be physical, emotional or spiritual maladies that threaten our well being. Whatever form these Hamans take — when we confront them just as Esther and Mordechai did – we must remember that how we fight them may be as important as defeating them.

What got me thinking in this week’s Torah portion is: What God was thinking? … but I’ll get there in a moment.

As the calendar winds around towards Valentine’s Day and and even though it is not a big day on the Jewish calendar, there is a spiritual aspect of relationship that this ‘Hallmark’ created day brings to light. In preparation for Valentine’s Day Couples are considering what to give or not to give to one another. In the actual exchange of gifts between the millions of people who do so on Valentine’s Day, the odds are that a fair percentage of these millions will deal with unmet expectations. After all of the proper and polite responses and expression of gratitude for what the gift in question may be – the receiver of said gift will turn inward and internally ask the age old questions: What was she/he thinking?! If she/he knows me at all, if she/he loves, then how or why would they choose this gift for me?  You shouldn’t have! No really, you shouldn’t have.

Shallow, you say? To be so ungrateful for such gifts from another? I believe this happens to us all of the time in the course of relationship … and in deeper ways than the exchange of elegantly wrapped doodads. We look to others to meet our expectations and our needs … and often decide only within the narrow confines of our expectations and needs the proper measuring stick of our loved ones response. We keep a scorecard – not necessarily with malice – but a tally of how they respond. The metric may be time, words, gestures, decisions or even actual wrapped gifts. And often as we review this ongoing scorecard, we find ourselves far behind in this game we play.

Now onto: What was God was thinking? This week’s Torah portion is called: Terumah – from the book of Exodus. Following their direct encounter with God at Sinai, the Israelites accept the terms of the commandments that Moses offers them on God’s behalf. God now wants the people to ‘Make Me a Sanctuary, so that I may dwell among them.’ Through Moses, God instructs each person to bring a Terumah – a gift – for the construction of this place where God will dwell among them. So, they are building a pretty important place. A place for the deity/entity/being who just kicked some serious Egyptian butt and saved them from generations of slavery. A place that will serve as a conduit for them to maintain a connection to this deity/entity/being who at their Sinai rendezvous revealed to the people an opportunity to glimpse at the mystery and reality of the universe. Speaking of expecting some pretty serious gifts …

And yet, the expectation for the gift is not so high at all (or maybe it is). The Torah describes that the gifts shall be accepted from those ‘who hearts so move them’. It is not simply that God does not expect incredible gifts from everyone, it is that God does not expect gifts from everyone? (Not even a thank you note!) God only expects what each person would genuinely give. Even if that gift is way less than what they should give. Even if that gift is no gift. It is only an acceptable gift – no matter its quantity or quality – when it comes from one whose heart so moves him or her.

Perhaps it is something worthwhile (and challenging) to consider, as we look to those we love and through our needs and expectations determine what ‘gifts’ we expect from them. In the process of building a place where divinity dwells, the only expectation – was in essence – the willingness to receive whatever was wholeheartedly offered. In building the Sanctuary, it was more than enough … in our lives with those we love, can it be the same for us?

What got me thinking in this week’s Torah portion – Mishpatim – is something said toward the end of the portion. Most of the portion is Moses communicating ‘mishpatim’ – laws for the people to follow. As the end of this long list. Moses goes before God and the Torah says that to Moses, God was an ‘all consuming fire’. Literally, an ‘eating’ fire. What got me thinking is that there is another little more known instance of Moses communicating with God – their first encounter at the Burning Bush – God also appears to Moses as fire. However, the Torah tells us that this fire was the exact opposite — it was a non-eating fire, it did NOT consume the bush (or Moses for that matter).

What gives? If we seek to disprove the immutability of the text or search for evidence of the ongoing historical game of ‘telephone’ that lies behind the Torah, then the appearance of these dual, opposite God-fires may offer helpful evidence. These are not my goals — my goal is take this small snowball of a question and then push and prod it down the slope of my mind and see where it goes …

So, what about all of the dualities in the world? What about the constant parade of two ideas/feelings/natures that seem to live on opposite ends of important spectrums in my life? Often I find myself with a strong affinity towards one and an equally strong indifference or aversion to the other. This constant dance along these spectrums of opposites take place in the realms of the intrapersonal and extrapersonal. Take the consuming and non-consuming fires of introversion and extroversion. Wherever we each fall along this spectrum, we must admit the dynamic tension between the two is essential to our lives. If you would label yourself as ‘introvert’ — it is not only to upon you to be aware, honor and cultivate the strengths that come from that way of engaging the world – but to welcome the spirit of extroversion into your life, as well. Complete with the gifts and challenges it offers. When you, as introvert, encounter and engage with the extroverts in your life it is upon you to do so with understanding and appreciation as to how both of you bring essential aspects to one another and to the larger whole that is the dynamic of life.

I think about the way that the Jewish mystical tradition understands the interplay of such opposites. Within one of the mystical blueprints of reality – known as the Sefirot – there are two distinct and different sides. The interplay of the energies of each side is essential to the forward progress of all aspects of life. Not unlike the introvert and extrovert model, one side exhibits the power of restraint and the other the power of embrace. The energies of these two sides of the blueprints come together toward other energies that can only be harnessed by such a union. It is a spiritual Venn diagram of how the dialectic of life grows and progresses.

Too much wordy, foggy, ambiguous mystical language? Think of it this way … Think of light and water. How completely different they are … in how they are experienced, their make-up. And yet, there are times when as different as they are … say right after a thunderstorm wraps up, they join together at some intersection on their spectrum of differences … and wow, it’s a rainbow.

Duality seems to be a reality. The reality of duality might be two-fold — just like the two God-fires – they may or may not consume you. These internal or external opposite poles energize and enervate. They intimidate and elevate. They motivate and frustrate. So, pay attention – for these fires can both burn you and bring you light.