As we cross from 5774 to 5775, the Akeida (the Binding of Isaac, which is traditionally read on Rosh Hashanah) tells us to look both ways so we can perceive the fullness of our reality.
As he looked up, Abraham saw the place from afar (Genesis 22:4)—three days before, God commanded Abraham to offer his son as a burnt offering on a mountain. Even though he is still far away, the moment Abraham sees the mountain he begins to anticipate his grief. He doesn’t raise his eyes again for a long time.
We all know what this feels like. This past summer, many of us stopped looking up as well. We “saw from afar” news of rockets falling on Israel and on Gaza, the murder of another black child—this time in Ferguson—the Ebola outbreak in Nigeria, Robin Williams’ suicide, and the spreading threat of ISIS. We were flooded with images of beheadings, pleas from helpless parents for the release of their captive children.
And to avoid the pain, we learned to look down. And in looking down, we missed everything else.
Did you hear – just this month – about teachers at an elementary school in Cudahy California, who got together to donate 154 sick days to a Carol Clark, a sixth grade teacher who was diagnosed with breast cancer? Or about the zoo in Victoria that released five endangered species, including Tasmanian devils, back into the wild after their populations grew back to a healthy size? Or about the UN report that the ozone layer is recovering?
As Abraham looked up, he saw a ram (Genesis 22:13)—in Rashi’s commentary on the Akeidah, he quotes a midrash that the ayil, the ram, is one of the ten things in existence before the creation of the world. According to this midrash, the ram was always there and Abraham just never saw it. With his eyes cast to the ground, Abraham has forgotten something central about the very nature of the world around him.
And with his gaze lowered, Abraham nearly kills his son Isaac (and some say, the news of what Abraham has gone off to do actually kills Sarah). In the moment he raises the knife above his head, Abraham has come to imagine that nothing else is possible. But when he lifts his eyes, he sees a new possibility, a new way of being in the world.
Like Abraham, we learn to expect disappointment and loss, rather than to notice the unexpected wonders that surround us. In order to protect ourselves, we learn to lower our gaze. We get into the habit of looking down at the brokenness and shadows in our world, jobs and relationships. And like Abraham, we cannot perceive reality until we start to look up and see that something else is possible. The Akeida comes to us this year to teach us to look both ways before crossing.
How do we do this?
Before bed each night, my partner and I share with each other five things that we are grateful for. Some people keep a gratitude journal. There’s even a Facebook meme going around of sharing what you’re grateful for, and tagging other people to do the same. There are so many ways to strengthen our instinct to look up, and get better at noticing what is going right.
On Rosh Hashanah, we celebrate yom harat ha’olam, the birth and renewal of our world. As we cross into 5775, we aren’t merely surviving anymore. We aren’t just trying to hold back the knife, or protect ourselves from what is going wrong. We can and must work on flourishing—lifting our eyes to find a saving ram, connecting to the nourishment of our food, feeling the love of an old friend.
Before you cross into the new year, take on a practice that will help you break the habit of just looking down, and help you to look up and see what is good in this world.
For those not immersed in the British television phenomenon that is Doctor Who, TARDIS (an acronym for Time and Relative Dimension in Space) is the Doctor’s mode of transportation. Because I am not a Whovian, I asked my daughter about it and later verified her explanation with Wikipedia: “A properly maintained and piloted TARDIS can transport its occupants to any point in time and any place in the universe.”
Prayer, tefilah, is meant to serve the same function as the TARDIS. The words, the melodies, the movements, are all designed to transport us to another dimension, a divine dimension. For months, I have been thinking about this connection, dreaming about creating a Tefilah TARDIS to help me reach God. But I never did. It seems that I, too, was waiting for the arrival of a doctor—a spiritual doctor.
I got to see him on the second of Elul, the month in which we begin preparations for the High Holidays, at a meeting of the Atlanta Rabbinical Association. Rabbi Avi Weiss was invited to teach a professional development workshop, but I knew to expect something personally meaningful, and Rabbi Weiss did not disappoint.
In the section of his lesson, Teshuva: Rendezvous with God, Rabbi Weiss introduced a variety of texts about seeking and encountering God. Here I found the inspiration for my TARDIS, in the poetry of Yehuda HaLevi (translation by Nina Salaman):
I have sought your nearness,
With all my heart have I called You,
And going out to meet You,
I found You coming toward me.
These words perfectly capture my intention when I pray, whether I am praying alone in my living room or surrounded by others in a synagogue. The goal is to be transported, to be elevated to where God is and to bring God to where I am. I regret that I am often unsuccessful in achieving this goal. My prayers, a perfunctory recitation of a fixed liturgy, fail to transport me.
In his book, Holistic Prayer: A Guide to Jewish Spirituality, Rabbi Weiss writes that prayer is “reaching inward to stir our soul, outward to embrace our fellow human being, and upward to encounter God. Here, holistic prayer enters a new realm.” I don’t know if he envisions the use of a Tefilah TARDIS, but Rabbi Weiss certainly recommends a properly maintained and piloted prayer experience, one that transports us to anywhere in the universe where God will meet us.
Could I create a tool with which to attempt a rendezvous with God? While Rabbi Weiss guided us through his lesson, I returned to this passage and imagined it inscribed on a Lucite box.
It took the better part of a week to collect the materials, paint the lid and exterior, and design the interior of my Tefilah TARDIS. Once it was completed, I began integrating this box into my daily routine, setting it on the table to remind me that the goal of prayer is to seek God. Sometimes I take a piece of chalk and write what I’m praying for—strength, patience, forgiveness, peace—on the lid. Other times, before I begin reciting a psalm, I remove the CD to write the names of friends in need of healing. Occasionally, I look up from my prayer book and turn the box to reveal the notes I’ve placed inside it.
As Elul ends and the High Holidays begin, I am ready to be transported.
Generally speaking, much of history is about war, territory, and the exploits of kings. Traditionally, kings have a motive for celebrating themselves. They have the funds to write, publish and circulate stories of their successes and, occasionally, their distresses.
The books of Bamidbar and Devarim do style themselves as historical texts, narrating events and offering snapshots of legal traditions. Some academic scholars credit the early Israelite kings for commissioning and overseeing the books. Perhaps that accounts for the books’ preoccupation with war and its philosophical justifications.
Current events are heavily focused on war, too. Governments, resistance groups, and advocacy organizations publicize sympathetic accounts of their successes and distresses, too. When we read about unfolding events, however, we recognize and try to respond to urgent needs for relief. Thus it seems appropriate, ethical, and results-oriented to focus on war – not odd at all.
As Torah attempts to tell a religious history, its focus on war seems to present war as a religious experience. Sociologist Max Weber theorized about the roots of this view. The spiritual covenant we prize, Weber argued, was not originally an agreement between the Israelites and God. Instead, it was a confederation agreement between the twelve Israelite tribes to support each other in times of war. But the army’s leader, figurehead, and supreme general could not be recruited from any particular tribe. The leader was God, Commander of Commanders. Thus, worship of a warrior God was important social glue in ancient Israel.
Weber’s contemporary, philosopher Hermann Cohen, saw the exact opposite. The true nature of the Israelites’ God, he wrote, was and is peace. God authorizes the priests to place the Divine name upon the people. This fifteen-word name, known now as the priestly blessing, concludes, “May God lift the Divine Face towards you, and place within you shalom” (Numbers 6: 24-26). For Cohen, God’s true face and most accurate name is “peace.” An essential, fundamental, spiritual yearning for peace holds us as we stumble through war’s posturing and politics.
Two views: war and peace as fundamental religious experiences. Sure, depth psychologists would say, both war and profound peace are numinous experiences. Unearthly and otherworldly, they yank us out of ordinary consciousness, showing us a different order of reality. No wonder some people speak of war as a religious experience, and others speak similarly of peace.
A midrash teaches that during the month of Elul, “the king is in the field,” i.e., God is especially close to us. Perhaps this month we can deliberately focus on our own inner tendencies towards war and peace. Where and when, in your relationships, do you find yourself poised for conflict? Where and when do you find yourself yearning to make peace? Both can be done with intention, grace and justice. And both should begin with reflection, consultation, prayer, and planning.
To adapt Worf’s words slightly, “The true warrior, and the true peacemaker, begin the work within.”
A few weeks ago, I celebrated the marriage of two dear friends. Along with the biological and chosen families of the bride and groom, I spent the weekend at a rustic campsite in the Oregon woods. To set the tone for this magical weekend, the couple requested that we not bring our phones into public spaces. Seeing this invitation, I decided to use the weekend as an opportunity to turn off my iPhone for the three days I was in the woods.
Over the course of the weekend, I partook in the mitzvah of misameach chatan v’kallah, the joy of celebrating these dear friends’ commitment to each other. Though mitzvah is popularly translated as “good deed” or “commandment,” it also means connection (from the Aramaic word, tzavta). When you do a mitzvah, you connect: to other people, to the world around you, or to something greater than yourself. During the wedding weekend, by inviting us to disconnect from our phones, the couple invited us to connect with their friends and family, the magnificent river near the campsite, and the Mystery that brought these two individuals together.
A growing majority of us sees our smartphones, tablets or computers promising us greater connection. The word “connecting” literally shows up on our screens when phones are finding the nearest available wireless signal! But if these devices are offering us more connection, why do we feel so profoundly disconnected from the real world around us when we are looking at our Facebook feed? Or, conversely, when we are out to dinner with a friend, why is it so hard to ignore the impulse to see if we’ve received any new e-mails or texts?
The rabbis of the Talmud establish the rule: osek b’mitzvah patur min hamitzvah, which literally means “the one engaged in a mitzvah (connection) is exempt from another mitzvah (connection)”. This guideline calls into question the possibility of “more” connection. As many recent studies have shown, while technology may make it increasingly easy for us to multitask, we are still human beings, and (with rare exceptions) can only actually connect to one…thing…at…a…time.
My partner and I know that spending time together is a mitzvah—an opportunity for sacred connection. Over the last year, we’ve established the practice that when we go out together (and know we don’t have to be anywhere else), we leave our phones at home. In engaging in the mitzvah of going out together, we know we are exempt from checking our e-mail, or looking at our Facebook feeds. But for the rest of the summer, I was in Vermont, and he was in New York City. During this time, we used our computers (or iPhones, or iPads!) to Skype with each other. And when we Skyped, we weren’t doing anything else, like checking e-mail, or talking with our roommates. This is how we remembered that we were connecting to each other.
Before we mindlessly fall into the endless world in our pockets, we need to pause and make a conscious choice about what, and whom we are connecting with.
These past weeks have brought a recipe of complication and hardship which have sent us reeling in disbelief. From Ebola, to ISIS, to racial strife, to the suicide of a comedic hero, to existential danger in Israel. I find myself waking in the middle of the night to check the news wire and see if things have gotten any worse.
I know I am not alone in my concern for our fragmented world. And yet, I also wonder and worry about us….you and me. I don’t just mean “worry about us” as it relates to world events. I worry that the world keeps throwing so much at us that we stop making time to look in the mirror to be sure that we ourselves are in balance. I am not suggesting that we be selfish. But I wonder if we use the complications of our world as a disguise from doing our own inner-work.
I fret that we obsessively watch the world; react to the world; yell at the world—and, then, well, we forget to look at the mirror and inquire about our own role in the drama we call life.
We rabbis are beginning to prepare for the Jewish Holy Days. The coming season is one we refer to as the season of Teshuvah—of turning; of change, of reflection, of renewal. In the coming weeks, we will be reminded that we all have primordial purpose; a reason we are here on earth. During the year, our vision becomes clouded and unclear. The burden of our responsibility is heavy; indeed, we work diligently to fulfill everything we are supposed to get done and be for everyone else. And, so, we forget to remember why we were put here in the first place. We forget that we are unique and important and vital to the cosmic process of our beautiful universe.
These days, we cannot help but be called by events in the world. We are summoned to do our part in picking up the pieces of brokenness. I hope we feel the need to create clarity in the fog of confusion. But, we are also called upon to change and evolve as human beings if not first, then at least simultaneously.
I am asking my community during these days to pay attention to the complexity of the world, but to also take a few minutes away from the world’s noise and reflect. I am asking them to think about how they are doing; to think about why they are here; to think about how fulfilled they are in life; to think about their relationships; to think about their jobs; to think about how they act; about the way they are treated.
How are we doing in the midst of the madness? While the world has gone a bit mad, I wonder about all of us, who constitute in small pieces, the makeup of our world. The world does not just exist on CNN; it exists within our own reflections as well. When we look, I wonder how it is that we love, speak and share. I wonder about our sense of compassion, sensitivity, jealousy, anger, guilt, joy and sadness. I wonder which parts of ourselves we need to change, so the world can change also.
The world is trembling. There is much for us to say and do in response to it all. But in the meanwhile, I am thinking about what we owe ourselves in our own process of evolution.
I hope as we head towards the Season of Change, that we find the renewal within to help renew our world.
Although he has now healed into death, I prayed for the recovery of my rebbe, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, z”l, for many weeks this summer, folding into my daily practice a prolonged chant of Moses’s plea on behalf of leprous Miriam: Ana, El, na, refa na la. Please, God, please heal her.
Just a few months ago I was with Reb Zalman as he chanted the morning liturgy accompanied by whirling Sufi Dervishes, this, in itself, an ecumenitical healing. Now, as I mourn and review what my teacher has taught me, I recall my own first experience collaborating in prayer across religious modalities and dogmas.
It was the second week of my residency in interfaith hospital chaplaincy, and looking over my shoulder as I scanned my patient census, our department chair noticed a patient had identified as a member of the Church of Christ. She offhandedly pointed to this patient name and said: “You’ll want to pray in the name of Jesus Christ.” I probably blanched visibly, most definitely not wanting to pray in the name of Jesus Christ, wondering what I was to do if this was the expectation?
I headed to the neuroskeletal surgery unit with trepidation.
There, I visited with Ruth, recovering from numerous spinal fusions. When I asked about her experience, she explained, smiling: “Jesus is filling in my cracks!” This reminded me of a story the Integrative Medicine doctor Rachel Naomi Remen tells about her final therapeutic session with an oncology patient wherein she returned to the patient a picture he’d drawn at their first meeting, of himself as a broken vessel. She asked if, now, these many months later, he’d like to emend the drawing in any way. The patient picked up a yellow crayon and drew rays of light pouring out of the cracks.
My patient was deeply moved by this story and we spoke of what it is to be filled with supernal light, and how that seems even more possible when one is broken open. Ruth said that when we’re sick we need a healing God and I saw that she was able to visualize God healing her as God filled her with Presence.
Then Ruth told me she’d never met a Jew, and asked if I spoke Hebrew. Could I pray in Hebrew? I said yes, and that we could pray Moses’ biblical words of supplication when his sister Miriam was so very sick. Oh yes, she would like that, and could I hold her hand?
So I chanted Ana El Na in the late Rabbi Aryeh Hirschfield’s haunting melody… And in the intervals where I was accustomed to hear members of the community intone names of those in need of healing, Ruth began to murmur and then call out: I see you, Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Thank you, Baby Jesus!
I smiled to myself. Here we were, collaboratively praying in the name of Jesus Christ and I had not sublimated my identity or compromised my theology. Rather, Ruth’s completion of my prayer to her own satisfaction had deepened my part in the mitzvah of healing the world.Ana El Na, Aryeh Hirschfield, as sung by Hannah Dresner
“We are not a country that should turn children away and send them back to certain death,” -Maryland Governor, Martin O’Malley.
I’m proud of the stance taken by the governor of my state. The plight of young children coming into the US, fleeing persecution is one we can relate to. The Jewish tradition has reminded us for millennia, that the land is not ours free of charge, but rather that it is God’s, to distribute to whom God will, and that our souls are weighed by the way we remember our privilege, and to what extent we share it.
The Talmud teaches, “The men of Sodom waxed haughty only on account of the good which the Holy One, blessed be He, had lavished upon them. …. They said: Since there cometh forth bread out of [our] earth, and it hath the dust of gold, why should we suffer wayfarers, who come to us only to deplete our wealth. Come, let us abolish refuse to allow strangers to come to our land, as it is written, The flood breaketh out from the inhabitants, they are forgotten of the foot; they are dried up, they are gone away from men.(Job 28:4) (Sanhedrin 109a)”
But it seems that in every generation, we had need of a reminder: a story is told of the Gaon of Vilna, who sat with voice but no vote on the Council of the Jews of Vilna. His task was to comment from a Torah perspective on new legislation proposed before the Council. When there was no such new legislation, he did not take part in the meeting.
One day a member of the Council put forward a proposal for ending or greatly reducing the influx of Jews from poorer regions into Vilna, where they hoped for a better life. The Gaon rose to leave the meeting. “But Rabbi,” said a Council member, “we need your comment on this proposed new legislation!” “What new legislation?” said the Gaon. “This was already the law of Sodom, long ago!” And he left. The proposal was dropped.
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On Thursday, I landed in San Francisco on the first day of a family vacation. As I turned my phone back on as we pulled into the gate, the first news I saw was the announcement of Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi’s passing. On Monday, my colleague Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan wrote eloquently about Reb Zalman’s overall approach to Jewish life—an approach to renewing the spiritual heart of Jewish practice. That approach to renewal, while leading to the creation of an organized group of students, communities, a rabbinic program, and much more under the umbrella of ALEPH (Alliance for Jewish Renewal), reached far beyond any particular denomination. And that was of Reb Zalman’s design. His gift did not fit in just one vessel, and he was eager to see the wisdom and innovation shared widely. I’m not sure that I can identify another rabbinic figure whose teachings and wisdom have, in our time, shaped and inspired so many others in so many different parts of Jewish life.
While I am ordained by Hebrew Union College, and work under the auspices of the Reform movement for a Reform congregation, my soul has been and continues to be rooted in Renewal, the teachings of Reb Zalman and the many other teachers that he inspired and empowered to spread their light in the world. In much of my work in Jewish communal settings, my reputation is for bringing spiritual awareness and practice into mainstream settings in ways that are accessible and experiential. When I stop and think about what, specifically, people are drawn to and respond to, so much comes from all I learned from Jewish Renewal.
Once a month, I offer a creative service which borrows Hayyim Herring’s label (from his book Tomorrow’s Synagogues Today)—”Ritual Lab.” In fact, this forum, which allows us to deepen our experience of our worship together and the inner meanings of our prayers, is my own iteration of “Interpretive Davening”—a gift from Reb Zalman and his students. Sometimes these services include chanting—a gift shared by Rabbi Shefa Gold, whose chanting wisdom was blessed, appreciated and encouraged by Reb Zalman. In one service, my cantorial soloist and I modeled before the congregation how to take a psalm and, one line at a time ,taking turns, read and drash on that line to more deeply experience and connect to the verses. A gift from Reb Zalman. Sometimes, at a Torah service, I’ve invited people to see if they feel ‘called’ to the Torah for an Aliyah because there is a teaching from the week’s parsha that connects to the fabric of their lives. And every week that I bless a bar or bat mitzvah student with a Mi Shebeirach blessing, I trust that the spirit will inspire an appropriate, spontaneous blessing in the moment that recognizes that student’s spiritual link to the Torah they have just shared with us. All this, and so much more I learned from Reb Zalman or from one of the many students who were inspired by him.
There is so much more Jewish creativity and spiritual inspiration, today found in settings across all denominations and none, that owes, either consciously or unconsciously, a debt to the gifts that Reb Zalman either taught directly or encouraged and blessed in others. Take the success of Storahtelling and the wonderful work of Amichai Lau Levi. Inspired by the earlier work of the Institute for Contemporary Midrash—a part of the Jewish Renewal world. Ever sat in a Jewish meditation service? Many of the early teachers who brought forth a practice that, for centuries, was primarily only to be found in mystical or Hasidic contexts, did so first to a receptive community in Jewish Renewal. Ever been transformed by a niggun—a wordless melody—at a Shabbat gathering? These tunes, lying at the heart of Hasidic musical spirituality, were brought into the heart of communal gatherings in the context of Jewish Renewal. Not only there, but so many of those who learned melodies and shared them first learned them in a Jewish Renewal setting. I know that I did, and all of my early work in Jewish communities, focusing on spirituality through music, prior to entering rabbinic school, was inspired by those experiences.
And there’s more. A couple of years ago a young woman, now a Youth Advisor, and I got talking at Kutz Camp, the leadership camp for the Reform movement. It turned out that I had been her religious school teacher in the UK 20 years ago! She told me that there were two things that she specifically remembered about those classes (I was amazed; I don’t think I can recall anything from Religious school at the age of 10). She remembered being shown how all the festivals fit to the seasons and had a different emotional feel, presented in a big pie chart diagram on the wall. And she remembered our classes on Eco-Kashrut. I taught these things because I had been inspired by my teacher, Reb Arthur Waskow, one of Reb Zalman’s earliest students. How incredible – Reb Arthur and Reb Zalman were talking and writing about Eco-Kashrut decades before these topics entered the mainstream awareness in other branches of Jewish life.
As I approach every festival, consider how to invite a community into an experience that will translate ancient words and rituals into the hills and valleys of an inner landscape that we are called upon to explore and come to understand, Reb Zalman’s teachings and the teachings of those he inspired are my guides time and time again.
Reb Zalman cared passionately about a Judaism that would be deeply meaningful and spirituality inspiring. He is the source and the inspiration for so much; truly a gift to us all.
Today, among the many other things you do in your busy life, pray for the safe return of three kidnapped Israeli teens:
Naftali Fraenkel 16, Eyal Yifrach, 19, and Gil-Ad Sha’er, 16
Take a moment any time today to pray for Naftali, Eyal, and Gil-ad. You can add the 250 Nigerian school girls, and all children around the world that have been forcibly taken from their families.
If prayer isn’t your usual thing, it might not come naturally. So, here is a very simple prayer anyone can say today (please cut, paste, or forward it as you see fit):
Holy Blessing One, my heart is heavy with fear and sadness on behalf of Naftali Fraenkel, Eyal Yifrach, and Gil-Ad Sha’er. I am overcome by the worry of their parents, family, friends, and community. I pray too for the safe return of all children around the globe who have been taken from the loving embrace of their families. Let them be safe. Let them be reunited with their families—alive. Let me feel safe and appreciative of those in my life. Let us all feel the safety of our connections. Amen.
What does it mean to pray for an outcome you have no direct control over?
- Prayer changes the person praying. To pray means an expression of empathy. It means to hold these children in your heart and mind. To feel or imagine their fear and their family’s pain.
- Prayer means a cultivation of hope. To pray means to hold on to hope, to keep alive possibility, even remote possibility of a positive outcome.
- Prayer changes the Universe. For outcomes that are not certain, we keep open the possibility that our sentiment, does indeed effect the universe. In religious language we speak of a flask of tears—our prayers—that God collects. God, the “Rock” is actually shaped by the drip-drop of our collected tears. We change God in the unspoken but clear language of our sincerity. In more “scientific” terms, we are conscious that every action, every molecule effects its surrounding. In that sense, we are all connected. When we pray, we hope to be part a movement that changes outcomes for the better.
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At a construction site at the Jerusalem bus station there is a multi-paneled chalkboard with space for people to fill in what they are grateful for.
If I were making the list today it would read, the ocean, the stunning weather, my children’s health. A shift in the carpool this morning gave way to an extraordinary view of the Pacific on the way to work. On another day, I might have not even seen it and concentrated on the flowers or trees instead. The weather today is oddly perfect for San Francisco. There is little chance we will have many more days like this. And despite their general good health, I know better than to believe in the false security that this is in any way a guarantee for my children’s future. I am grateful for the graces of the moment. For that which I see, appreciate right now.
We are counting the Omer. It is a strange practice, which I don’t fully understand. I can of course quote the meanings and explanations that the tradition gives but it remains a bit mysterious to me. Why the need to number our days, to account for the passing of time so very carefully?
But I know it is too easy to let time pass. Days go by without notice. One set of flowers, blends into a sunset, into a fight with a loved one, into a day at the office and errands and then a year goes by. Last week when we observed Yom Hashoah, I was struck by how in my remembered lifetime the pervasive presence of survivors has given way to the dominance of memory and recordings. Time, which once stood still in ghettos and camps, has gone by quickly. In my children’s lifetime the Holocaust will pass into distant memory.
Every day and every moment matters, but for these seven weeks, between Passover and Shavuot we stop daily and take a moment to mark the passage of time. We heighten our awareness of the ancient journey that Israelites took from slavery to revelation. Like the passersby near the Jerusalem bus station, we are given an opportunity to consider the gifts that we have. Noticing does not make the time go any faster or slower but it does help us appreciate what we have in the moment.