This Thanksgiving, I felt so grateful for the presence of beloved family. Yet I was also mindful of a friend’s recent comment on the need to have sympathy for those who did not have family with whom to share the holiday. Whether by geography, strained or broken relationships, illness and loss, many could not share the holiday with families.
Others endured the indignity of not being able to afford a Thanksgiving meal. Suffering at home on the holiday, or visiting soup kitchens, it can’t be easy to be outsiders in a culture that seems to elevate “things” over people.
The holiday season has crept earlier, beginning around Halloween. That means that for two months the season of “sharing” can be painful for many people.
Isn’t it ironic that the holiday of “thanks” is celebrated with feasts where abundant food is consumed and discarded? Where is the connection of thankfulness to gluttony? What does this mean for our souls?
The greater irony is that the season of “giving” begins on the holiday of “thanks,” as feasting quickly gives way to shopping. It has become a season celebrating conspicuous consumption.
Enter #GivingTuesday, designated for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving – after the Black Friday and Cyber Monday shopping feasts.
Founded in 2012 by leaders at New York’s 92nd Street Y, #GivingTuesday is a global day dedicated to giving back. Its common purpose is: “to celebrate generosity and to give.” It brings together charities, families, businesses, community centers, and students around the world.
How can we give generously? Many of us will write checks to charities at year’s end. These tzedakah dollars are essential to countless organizations doing so much good in the world.
Yet, as important as that giving is, it is not enough. The real impact on our world and on our life’s purpose comes through generous acts of doing. By getting involved, we can make a difference in people’s lives while living our values.
Doing good becomes a natural habit through experience. There are many hands-on ways to give. The Jewish Council for Pubic Affairs will participate in the Food Stamp Challenge, starting the Sunday after Thanksgiving, to raise awareness of hunger and poverty in the United States. For one week, participants will limit their food budget to the average food stamp (SNAP) benefit. The Jewish Federation of Greater Metrowest is holding a “Community Challah Bake” to benefit hundreds through Jewish Family Service and local food pantries.
It is important to contribute generously to sustain social justice, learning and religious organizations. But this week, we can commence the season of “giving” with mindfulness of our values and commitment to nurture generous living. True giving won’t be found at stores. It requires a heart-opening to the needs of others, and a commitment to make a difference.
I’ll be at the Challah Bake on Tuesday. How will you get involved?
I wore a white eyelet dress for my 1971 bat mitzvah. My mom bought it at a discount shop on Orchard Street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side while visiting my grandparents there. First, it was my mom’s dress, purchased for my brother’s bar mitzvah two years earlier. I made it mine by changing the color of the bow.
I was not embarrassed to wear a hand-me-down; I didn’t expect more.
When my kids became bar/bat mitzvah, expectations were different. For some girls there would be a new dress for the service and another for the celebration, and more dresses for each celebration they attended, many of which were similar to lavish weddings.
Our family consciously chose a different path. We worked to honor bar/bat mitzvah’s celebration of Jewish learning and values. It was not easy, but it was right for us, and we were not at all embarrassed.
But recently I did feel a tinge of embarrassment when my husband told me about a conversation with a colleague who asked his advice for her middle school-aged daughter. Her immigrant family was encountering bar/bat mitzvah for the first time. She didn’t know what it was about or what she should do. What kind of gift was customary? Did she really need to buy a new dress for her daughter each time, as she’d heard?
My husband advised her to give modest gifts unless they were close friends, and not feel pressured into buying multiple dresses. It pained me that this sacred event, celebrating a universal life passage, boiled down to this: money, clothes and fancy parties.
What does this mean to us as Jews? With so much of Jewish religious life focused on bar/bat mitzvah, what happens to the transformative power of Jewish living for all ages?
I wish that my husband’s colleague had been exposed to different questions: How does being Jewish enhance our humanity? How does Jewish belonging root our lives in compassionate community? How do Jewish values give purpose to our lives and meaning to our existence?
Think of what we could accomplish if bar/bat mitzvah were celebrated, not with gifts, but with tzedakah funds to feed the hungry. What if our resources helped send kids to Jewish camps where fun Jewish experiences create lifetime memories for meaningful Jewish living? What if we invested in innovative Jewish learning for all ages, so that Jewish knowledge can continue to transform lives? What if we structured the “event” on learning and meaning?
This critique is not new or unique. But with the growing number of Jews disconnecting from synagogues, alarm bells should be sounding. It is time for change. If we celebrate and laud families that make values-based choices, we can support each other in shaping Jewish life passages that would make our ancestors proud – along with us. That’s a real hand-me-down!
It’s the great communal experience of the Jewish people. We fill halls and sanctuaries and homes in eager anticipation. Some came simply because they are Jews or married to Jews; this is what we do on the High Holidays. Some came for the camaraderie; it feels good to be with our people. Some came to be with family, some came to be with friends and communities, a touchstone of connection whether frequent or occasional. Some came to pour out their hearts in prayer, connect with traditions and values, and with the Holy One of Blessing.
Holy Days preparations were reflected in the Jewish and secular press; a lot of expectations and wishes were shared. There were many columns on what rabbis should or should not say on the holidays. Rabbis spent many weeks developing ideas, learning together and refining their craft of High Holiday sermons and prayer. If a complete outsider looked at the Jewish world they would perceive a fairly high level of anxious anticipation. Were we happy or were we worried?
Yes. We were both. But we were also in it together. Together, we laughed and cried and reflected and prayed—using the words of the machzor (holiday prayer book) or not. And we ate some great holiday food, the holidays nourishing our bodies as well as our souls, which, of course, go together! The great gathering connected us to something larger than ourselves.
Today, some of us will build our sukkot (sukkahs) for the upcoming holiday of Sukkot, five days after Yom Kippur, extending the season of joy, community and Jewish experiences. We may be exhausted, but we are riding the wave of spiritual high straight through to Simchat Torah, 12 days from now.
But most of us will settle back into our routines, perhaps relieved that it is over. The holidays were an island in our secular lives, though hopefully uplifting and meaningful. Whatever the takeaway from the High Holy Days, it gets tucked back into the box called “Jewish” or “religion” that we open only when needed.
Yet, the need for spiritual nourishment and the need to belong remain. The questions of the High Holy Days, “Who am I?, Where am I?” live in our souls all the time. How can these needs be met in meaningful, satisfying, accessible, accommodating ways?
This is a conversation worth continuing. There are lots of great answers to these questions, and now is the time to share them together. Jewish tradition is a path for meaningful spiritual living; a treasure that enriches those who hold it. If it’s out of reach, let’s get there together. This is the good stuff—the day after the holiday, when, filled with possibility, the reboot of our souls begins.
Years ago, I faced a summer’s end with a series of five deaths in the tiny congregation I served as a young rabbi. High Holiday preparations that year were especially difficult. I remember the funeral director observing that deaths seemed to cluster around holiday times.
Liminal moments are fraught. Indeed, my own father and my brother each died within two weeks of Rosh Hashanah, both at a young age. Life and death are on my mind at this time of year.
This year brings a heightened consciousness of life and death. The barbaric beheadings of two American journalists terrorizes us. Massacres of thousands of innocents by fanatical Islamists are incomprehensible. How could this death cult come from a religious tradition?
David Brooks, (NY Times, 9/4/14) reflected, “By going beneath even the minimal standards of modern civilization, the militants in the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria…show contempt for us and our morality.” They terrorize us by their “unbounded violence,” denying our common humanity. Brooks observes: “ISIS will get inside our heads in the darkest way” because a beheading is “a defacement of something sacred that should be inviolable.”
At the New Year, we pray that the quality of our lives will align with our hopes and dreams through repentance. One High Holiday prayer, Unetaneh Tokef, written during dark times of violent persecution, imagines a heavenly court judging us on the New Year. It voices a deep fear that we may fall victim to a terrible fate or die with unfinished business. But it proclaims that “repentance, prayer and tzedakah” (righteous acts) can “avert the evil decree.”
We know that life is fragile; any day could unexpectedly be our last. We pray that we can complete our soul’s mission before we die. We yearn to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for good. We yearn for life. We have the power to shape the quality of our living, to fulfill our soul’s purpose.
Why does murder specifically by beheading make us so sick? David Brooks wrote, the “infusion of the spiritual and the material is mysterious.” For Jews, the human body is a “transcendent temple worthy of respect.” These murderous zealots violate our basic belief that life is good. “The truest version of each Abrahamic faith revels in the genuine goodness of creation.”
The Torah instructs, “I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life — if you and your offspring would live — by loving the LORD your God, heeding God’s commands, and holding fast to God.” (Deuteronomy 30:19 – 20)
How will we cope this trauma and our fears this holiday? We will choose life, through repentance, prayer and tzedakah/righteous acts. Indeed, we will celebrate goodness and the potential for godliness. Our antidote to the cult of death is a life of faith in goodness.
Growing up, my favorite day was the annual Israel day parade in Philadelphia. It was a celebration of belonging and identity. We sang Israeli songs with pride, waving our Israeli flags. The crowd converged on Independence Mall, celebrating at the cradle of American democracy. In the late 60’s/early 70’s, Jewish pride was “in,” and it felt completely American.
I never felt unsafe publicly demonstrating Jewish and Zionist pride. Until I experienced an incident as a young rabbi in the small mid-western town where I served, I had never personally encountered anti-Semitism. I was fortunate to grow up in a region and a time where we could be fully American and Jewish.
Jews in America enjoy unprecedented acceptance and empowerment. Yes, pockets of anti-Semitism still occasionally pop up. In 2002, my New Jersey congregation was directly targeted, a frightening experience for all of us. But still, it felt to me that the outbreaks of irrational hatred could be overcome with the friendship and support of our Christian neighbors who would stand with us against hatred, as they did in both of my personal experiences.
I have invested my life in advancing positive Jewish ideas and experiences, shying away from any narrative that rests on the notion of remaining Jewish to defeat 2000 years of hatred. Joyous Jewish pride has remained my driving force.
This summer, my optimism, or call it denial, has been dented. There are very frightening and distressing stories of resurgent and violent anti-Semitism coming out of Europe. This is a serious crisis.
Still, I felt personally separate from that reality. Then last week, I realized that even in here in northern New Jersey, we are not immune. Sadly, the convergence of anti-Israel sentiment and Judeophobia has tipped the scale.
At a recent local “support Israel” rally there was huge police presence, including two county “command center” police trailers and horseback police patrol. This spoke volumes; we could not be safe without their protection. Thankfully, there were no problems. Was it because the event was only strategically announced and not advertised, out of concern for security? Anti-Semitism wearing the mask of Anti-Israel has come to threaten us.
I found myself returning to a recent Moment Magazine symposium, “Anti-Semitism: Where Does it Come from and Why Does it Persist?” (March/April 2014.) It’s helpful, but the desire to understand is insufficient. We must pour our energies into building bridges of relationship and understanding with many groups. First, invest in Jewish internal dialogue, so that concerns about Israel do not infect Jewish unity and strength. Second, our ties with Christian and moderate Muslim neighbors and friends are essential for turning back the tides of hate.
This is no time for hysteria (have you too received emails and seen posts of this nature?) But the veil of denial must also be avoided. The moment to address this crisis is here.
A week after coming home from a month in Israel, my soul remains immersed there. The tension in Israel, charged with fear and worry, can become like a cloak around your shoulders, enveloping you.
After arranging to come home a day earlier than planned, I was lucky to catch one of the last flights out before the temporary shut-down. Some colleagues were significantly delayed—one more stress added to the anxious experience of living in the midst rocket fire. But still, it was nothing compared with the suffering of Israelis living under constant fire in the South, or those whose loved ones were sent to fight in and near Gaza.
When I called the airline to change my ticket, I had a passing and ridiculous superstitious thought—what if I made a decision that put me in harm’s way? In a crisis, especially in the psychological warfare of rocket fire, irrational thoughts happen. I got a grip, emerging with still more sympathy for all the folks living under fire.
But something else remained with me. The airline agent, hearing that I was in Israel, said, “I’d high-tail it out of there right away.” After thanking her for her sympathy, I became protectively defensive of Israel, insisting it was no problem to stay there. My changed plans shouldn’t reflect on Israel, Israelis, or on my personal commitment to being there in support.
With kindness, she replied, “OK, well, keep the faith. No charge for the changed itinerary—after all, you’re in a war zone.” My reaction caught in my throat while I pondered “keeping the faith.” What does that mean in this situation?
We all know the aphorism “there are no atheists in foxholes,” but it’s not so simple. In Israel I heard that an ultra-Orthodox rabbi had told his followers that the IDF didn’t need to defend Israel—if everyone prayed, God would do the work. I was sickened. Didn’t he read the many rabbinic statements about human responsibility in partnership with God in completing the work of creation? Or the ethics taught by our Biblical prophets, often recited in synagogue as haftarah? Our tradition teaches us to repair the world on God’s behalf; empowering us to fight hatred, evil, cruelty, injustice and violence. We have all the tools we need to bring caring, compassion and healing to our world.
I was glad to have been blessed by that airline agent, even though I am guessing my approach to “keeping the faith” isn’t what she meant. It doesn’t matter. When the world feels out of control, there is a very real way to regain agency. Coping with crisis by “keeping the faith” isn’t irrational, superstitious or magical thinking. It’s a way of being, rooted in meaning, transformative and completely empowering.
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I experience the world through Jewish history. I came by it honestly, having been a lifelong avid student of Jewish history. The story drew me in, like learning about my family’s past.
I feel Jewish history like the blood in my veins. So this week I had a chance to retrace a certain Jewish journey, of sorts. While visiting my daughter in Spain, I felt the history of our people there, with visions of the Golden Age when Jews were a thriving community. I heard the names of Jewish communities all over the Iberian peninsula reverberating in my memory, then felt grief and sadness for the fate of those communities under the Inquisition. The fear and hatred wrought by the Inquisitors, the heinous torture they inflicted on suspected Conversos, secret Jews are a great stain on history. The journey of the Jewish people, so marked by our wanderings, was forever changed.
Thankfully, the relationship of the Spanish people to our people has changed, and now the Spanish government is discussing the offering of citizenship to Jews of Spanish origin—even 500+ years since the Inquisition.
I left Spain, boarding a flight to Istanbul, where I had visited several years ago with the warm hospitality of Turkish hosts. In Turkey I felt Jewish history in my bones, in what was once a significant destination for Jews fleeing the Inquisition. The Ottoman rulers welcomed Jews and offered safe haven and new homes. Our people owe a great debt to Turkey for the friendship offered at such an important time.
History marches on, and now there are few Jews in Turkey. We Jews continued to wander, eventually finding unprecedented opportunity to settle in our ancient homeland in the late 19th century. Fleeing European persecution yet again, our people established a refuge for all Jews by creating the State of Israel.
So when I boarded my next flight, this time to Tel Aviv, I smiled at the sweep of history. Here we are, a Jewish people with our long-awaited rebirth. Now we can travel and live in Spain, visit and enjoy Turkey, and also walk the paths of our ancestors in Israel. I am warmed by remembering just how remarkable that is.
Israel is the destination from our wanderings. Yes, I will return home to New Jersey next month, but I carry this place with me everywhere. And I wonder, and I worry, will my children, and their peers, growing up in a time when historical memory pales in comparison to the opportunities presented by the global community—will they carry it in their hearts? Our biggest challenge today is to nurture both cultural openness and Jewish pride. The key lies not only in recalling the sufferings of our past, but in experiencing the remarkable. Israel is a complicated and imperfect place, but it is indeed extraordinary. Israel is uniquely a product of Jewish experience and skillful survival. We did this together, and that includes today’s youth too.
Yesterday, during preparations for the graduation ceremony for the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, I caught a glimpse of the glow on the face a soon-to-be-ordained rabbi. It was magical. In my mind’s eye I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks 27 years ago when I received the title “rabbi” after 5 intense years of learning at RRC. Mazal tov to this year’s new “rabbis and teachers in Israel”!
But yesterday’s rabbinic becoming/ordination also hit me with some worry. The role and significance of rabbis in progressive Judaism is shifting, and the changes are happening more rapidly than many of us can easily absorb.
In today’s unfolding reality, the fastest growing non-Orthodox American Jewish group is unaffiliated Jews. While denominational attachment is diminishing, the mainstream movements and their member congregations are struggling. Rabbis are wrestling with this reality, working to craft new approaches to their leadership to meet shifting needs.
Rabbis devote their lives to Torah and the Jewish people out of love. Just as Moses struggled with the formation of his leadership for a frightened, searching, sometimes confused and frustrated people in the wilderness, so too do rabbis walk through this wilderness.
A friend who has given considerable time, money and leadership to synagogues and his national movement—and a long-time supporter and booster for rabbis, was just telling me about a congregation he enjoys visiting that does not have a rabbi. It has a “spiritual leader.” They are not alone—non-traditional leaders, with various titles and training, are becoming more accepted.
Independent rabbis who help individuals, couples and families are increasingly in demand. Jews still want to do Jewish—but as the Pew report highlighted, many are looking for different types of relationships with spiritual leaders. Filling this void, many “officiants” advertising in the marketplace have not had the depth of learning and professional training that rabbis have attained. Everything’s changing.
We are about to celebrate the holy day of Shavuot, placing us back into the wilderness with our ancestors, when, as one united people, the people of Israel experienced revelation. Their response, “na’aseh v’nishma—we will do and we will listen,” shored up their relationship not only with God, but with Moses, their leader.
Moses found the inspiration and support to lead in the changing reality of the wilderness. So can we, if we take a reflective stance as Moses did on Mt. Sinai. This is about the future of American Judaism—a vitally important communal conversation. This Shavuot, let’s hold that inspiration close, climbing the mountain and returning with faces aglow with God’s holiness, alive with new possibilities.
The brides were sequestered in a tiny room at the banquet hall less than an hour before their wedding, fixing their hair and makeup. They greeted me anxiously. “Just a minute,” one told me, “We’re not ready yet.” A moment later they opened the door to welcome me inside. Standing there in gorgeous cream-colored gowns, similar but not identical in design, they both looked stunning. The decades of their adult lives, successful careers and raising a wonderful son to adulthood melted away in their beauty at that moment. One of them expressed a wordless sigh, emotion written all over her face, her body momentarily tensing. With worry, I asked, “What is it?” As the tears welled up she said, “I’ve been to a lot of weddings, and dreamed of being a bride, but I never thought it would really happen. It’s so amazing!” We were ready to weep with joy.
When the happy couple walked down the aisle to the huppah, or wedding canopy, under which they would sanctify and legalize their long-term relationship, the guests jumped to their feet bursting with applause. Amid cheers, tears and immense joy and love, the brides and their son came to the huppah. The ceremony transported everyone to another dimension; when the breaking of the glass broke the spell, the guests once again rose up to cheer. It was a release of joy after years of being on the outside of society’s formula of acceptable marriages by laws that did not recognize the families created by same-sex couples.
I will carry these images to my seder next week along with many joyous celebrations with couples in the past year since same-sex marriage became legal here. I will think of this as I assemble my Seder plate, for the first time with an orange.
“An orange?” you may ask. Perhaps, like many in the progressive Jewish community, you heard the 1990’s myth that feminist leaders began to put oranges on seder plates to symbolize the need for women’s equality in Judaism. One version told that the orange symbolized the need to accept women rabbis. While both are nice stories, the actual events that led to the placement of an orange on a seder plate arose from a conversation about the exclusion of lesbians (and gays) from Jewish life and ritual. (See this great resource for the narratives.)
Years ago, after I heard the mythic meaning ascribed to the symbolic orange, I lost enthusiasm for the new ritual. Yet, every Passover I was sure to talk about it, along with the call for justice that defined it.
This year I am rethinking the orange; this year I am celebrating justice. And I am mindful to remember that LGBTQ justice is incomplete, in this country, and in the world. I invite you to join me.
Did you hear the recent story on NPR about the professor who is living in a dumpster for a year? No, not a dirty, grungy kind of place, but a sanitized garbage dumpster. Environmental science professor Jeff Wilson, Ph.D., the dean of Huston Tillotson’s University College, rallied support from students as he prepared the space, which is located on the college’s campus.
The story, documented here by KVUE.com, has reverberated for me all week. Maybe it’s because my own home is now an empty nest. I wonder if the abundance of the often-empty spaces, once filled with the tumult of a busy family, is now an over-abundance.
Dr. Wilson will live in a 36 square foot space, one percent the size of the average home. In this tiny living space, it is estimated that a mere one percent of the average home’s water and energy will be consumed. Likewise, the dumpster-home will produce a tiny one percent of the average waste as well.
In the first phase of the project, Dr. Wilson is just “camping out.” I thought of my kids’ love of wilderness camping, and the experience we shared living only on the supplies that we carried on our backs. It’s incredibly liberating and empowering.
In the second phase of the dumpster project, it will be connected to the grid, to become a slightly more regular home – with appliances. The professor and his students will measure its consumption of water and electricity. What a powerful lesson this will generate – as Dr. Wilson instructs his students in new ways to consider what we really need in a home.
Home ownership is often called “the American Dream.” But somewhere along the way, the American credo “bigger is better,” shifted our values. Many Americans have aspired to and acquired large homes – proclaiming, “We have ‘made it’.” These cultural values have led many people to stretch beyond their means in purchasing homes, with potentially tragic consequences.
Dr. Wilson’s lessons in consumption and sustainability are a prompt for recalibrating. How much do we really need? How can our choices help us to sustain our natural resources for a healthy planet?
In the third and final phase of the project, the dumpster will be fitted with solar panels to produce its energy. But since those panels (in the sunshine of Austin, Texas) will collect far more energy than the home can use, it will replace energy back into the grid.
Dr. Wilson will live in the dumpster most of the time, but some of his enthusiastic students will take turns living in it while he is away. I wonder, after the novelty of the project recedes, will the experience shape their values and choices?
I hope so. The generation who is inheriting the world that consumes beyond its means can reshape our culture with wiser values.
I am not ready to downsize just yet, but I am inspired by the professor’s courageous example, and even more, his students’ expanded potential.