Recently, I was invited to a dinner party at a friend’s home along with many guests. I sat down beside a woman I’d never met. I introduced myself, and she asked, “So what do you do?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. I could have provided a number of responses that were completely true, but none told the whole story. I could have said: ‘I’m a stay-at-home mom’ (or a ‘full-time mom’). Or ‘I teach’ (since I teach one course in the fall at the American Jewish University. Or ‘I’m a writer’ (but my book hadn’t been accepted for publication). Or ‘I’m a rabbi’ (but I wasn’t working in a congregational capacity). Or ‘I’m a student’ – since I’m working on a Ph.D. (albeit slowly, when the kids are in school)…
How should I choose between these possible responses? Should I pick the one that sounded most respectable? Or should I pick the one that was closest to my heart?
Before having my second child, the answer to this question would have been automatic. “I’m a rabbi of a congregation.” I could answer without a moment’s pause, and the response was well-respected. But now, I wondered: why was answering such a simple question so hard?
In this week’s Torah portion, Jacob’s sons faced a similar dilemma. Their occupation was straightforward: they were shepherds in Canaan. But then they came to Egypt during a famine and were reunited with their brother Joseph, who was a vizier in Egypt. When Joseph prepared to introduce his family to the Pharaoh, he warned them that shepherds were held in low esteem in Egypt. He told his brothers: When Pharaoh asks you what you do, tell him that you’re “breeders of livestock,” which was held in higher regard.
Nevertheless, when the brothers were introduced to Pharaoh, and as expected, Pharaoh asked: “What do you do?” the brothers responded, ‘We your servants have always been shepherds, from our youth until now, as were also our fathers.” The brothers answered honestly without hesitation. They were proud of their profession, regardless of what others (even those in power) might think.
A few days after the dinner party, my daughter provided me the real answer to the woman’s question. One day in the back seat of the car, Hannah said: “I’m a mitzvah-girl.” When I inquired further, I discovered that this concept was one she was taught in preschool. In Jewish tradition, a mitzvah is a commandment. When a child in the class did something good (such as helping a friend) the teachers encouraged them by singing a song, which said that the child “is a mitzvah-girl” or “mitzvah-boy.”
Reflecting on Hannah’s statement, I realized that all the activities I do have one thing in common. Teaching and studying Torah, raising a family, and helping others are all mitzvoth (commandments). I’m a mitzvah-girl. That’s what I’ve always been and what I’ll always be.
The brothers’ simple answer to Pharaoh bespeaks a deeper truth. Whatever our job titles may be, our job description is the same. We are all shepherds of each others’ souls.
The Kindness of Strangers
Recently, I lost my keys, as I walked to synagogue on a Saturday morning. I was pushing my daughter Hannah in her tricycle. Since my dress did not have pockets, I put the keys in a plastic bag which I attached to the back of the tricycle. I enjoyed the cool, crisp morning air and the pleasant walk. After the service, I discovered the bag had a hole in it, and the keys were gone. My family and I searched the synagogue and then retraced my steps for the two miles home to no avail. When I got home, I was sure I'd never see the keys again. Although the keys were replaceable, I felt unsettled to have lost them.
This week’s Torah portion focuses on feeling lost. The portion, called Vayeshev, means “and he settled.” The text opens: “Jacob settled in the land where his father had lived,” but then launches into a series of unsettling stories about strife between Jacob’s twelve sons.
The story unfolds that Jacob’s son Joseph recounted to his brothers dreams about them bowing down to him. Then, Jacob asked Joseph to go check on his brothers who were shepherding the flocks. Joseph searched for his brothers but couldn’t find them. An unnamed man then asked Joseph what he was looking for and told him where his brothers were. When Joseph found his brothers, they threw him in a pit and sold him into slavery.
This story is curious. Why did the Torah bother to include the incident of the man who gave Joseph directions? While this man was kind and helpful to Joseph, his directions led to Joseph’s demise. It would have been better if Joseph never found his brothers in the first place. With friends like this, who needs enemies?!
Yet, perhaps, the juxtaposition of the two stories sends an important message. In a world filled with cruelty, where families can be so dysfunctional, the kindness of strangers can be especially precious. Indeed, this message is one that Joseph seems to take to heart. Later, while in prison, Joseph is kind to those he meets there. He interprets dreams of fellow prisoners. One of these former prisoners remembers Joseph which leads to his release. Subsequently, Joseph pays this kindness forward by administering food to the Egyptian people during a famine.
Last weekend, I too experienced the kindness of strangers. On Sunday morning, I received a message from my gym that they had my keys. The message included the phone number of the man who’d brought them. He'd asked me to call so that he could reassure his son (who'd found the keys on his front lawn) that they were successfully returned. Since my keys had a membership card to the gym, the man took my keys there. The gym then scanned the card and called me.
My kids and I were so excited to hear the message on the answering machine. We immediately went to the gym to pick up the keys. As relieved as I was to have the keys, I was even happier to show my kids that people can go out of their way to help someone they’ve never met. Like Joseph, I will remember this act of generosity for a long time.
This Thanksgiving holiday, I am grateful for my family and friends and especially for the kindness of a stranger.
This week’s Torah portion focuses on feeling lost. The portion, called Vayeshev, means “and he settled.” The text opens: “Jacob settled in the land where his father had lived,” but then launches into a series of unsettling stories about strife between Jacob’s twelve sons.
The story unfolds that Jacob’s son Joseph recounted to his brothers dreams about them bowing down to him. Then, Jacob asked Joseph to go check on his brothers who were shepherding the flocks. Joseph searched for his brothers but couldn’t find them. An unnamed man then asked Joseph what he was looking for and told him where his brothers were. When Joseph found his brothers, they threw him in a pit and sold him into slavery.
This story is curious. Why did the Torah bother to include the incident of the man who gave Joseph directions? While this man was kind and helpful to Joseph, his directions led to Joseph’s demise. It would have been better if Joseph never found his brothers in the first place. With friends like this, who needs enemies?!
Yet, perhaps, the juxtaposition of the two stories sends an important message. In a world filled with cruelty, where families can be so dysfunctional, the kindness of strangers can be especially precious. Indeed, this message is one that Joseph seems to take to heart. Later, while in prison, Joseph is kind to those he meets there. He interprets dreams of fellow prisoners. One of these former prisoners remembers Joseph which leads to his release. Subsequently, Joseph pays this kindness forward by administering food to the Egyptian people during a famine.
Last weekend, I too experienced the kindness of strangers. On Sunday morning, I received a message from my gym that they had my keys. The message included the phone number of the man who’d brought them. He'd asked me to call so that he could reassure his son (who'd found the keys on his front lawn) that they were successfully returned. Since my keys had a membership card to the gym, the man took my keys there. The gym then scanned the card and called me.
My kids and I were so excited to hear the message on the answering machine. We immediately went to the gym to pick up the keys. As relieved as I was to have the keys, I was even happier to show my kids that people can go out of their way to help someone they’ve never met. Like Joseph, I will remember this act of generosity for a long time.
This Thanksgiving holiday, I am grateful for my family and friends and especially for the kindness of a stranger.
The Transitive Property
This week was tough. Someone in my life lost a job. Someone in my life was losing their home. A friend was physically assaulted by a family member. Another loved one was hospitalized for addiction. A friend’s mother is very sick. And that’s all just this week!
It seems that the more people you know and love, the more tsouris you encounter. Tsouris (which is Yiddish for trouble) has a transitive property. Each person’s struggle not only affects them but a web of family and friends. These supporters consequently walk around, trying to go about the tasks of their day while carrying around heaviness in their heart. Family and friends bear a combination of sorrow and powerlessness over situations that spiral out of control.
With this heaviness, I turn to this week’s portion and ask: what do you have to say What comfort can you offer my aching heart?
At the opening of this week’s parasha, the characters must have felt heavy-hearted as well. Abraham had nearly killed Isaac in last week’s portion, and Sarah dies in this week’s portion. According to the rabbis, Sarah died because she heard about Isaac’s near-death and couldn’t bear the news. So now, Abraham and Isaac each face dual traumas – that of Isaac’s near-death and Sarah’s actual death. They certainly had tsouris!
So what did they do with their tsouris?
The portion recounts that Abraham immediately sent his servant back to his hometown to find a wife for Isaac. Abraham didn’t leave the servant Eliezer with directions on how to find the right woman; he was left to his own devices. Eliezer’s plan was curious. He went to the well of the town and prayed to God for a young woman to come. He would ask for water, and if the woman gave water not only to him, but to his camels, then he would know that she was The One.
Lo and behold, a woman came and when he asked for water, she gave it both to him and his camels. Eliezer then knew he’d hit the jackpot. After some negotiations with her family, he brought the woman home to meet Isaac. When she arrived, “Isaac took Rebecca as his wife, Isaac loved her and thus found comfort after his mother’s death.”
Eliezer’s bride-selection method seems odd by modern standards, but it highlights what he was seeking – kindness. When Rebecca gave the camels water, she went beyond Eliezer’s request. As Rabbi Harold Kushner explained, “Abraham and Sarah, for all their pioneering religious achievements were sometimes insensitive to members of their own household. Rebecca’s kindness and generosity may have been what was needed to correct those family dynamics.” Like tsouris, caring too has transitive properties; it brings healing to wounded hearts.
In this cruel world, this week’s portion teaches: Seek out kindness, and when you find it, hold onto it with all your might.
It seems that the more people you know and love, the more tsouris you encounter. Tsouris (which is Yiddish for trouble) has a transitive property. Each person’s struggle not only affects them but a web of family and friends. These supporters consequently walk around, trying to go about the tasks of their day while carrying around heaviness in their heart. Family and friends bear a combination of sorrow and powerlessness over situations that spiral out of control.
With this heaviness, I turn to this week’s portion and ask: what do you have to say What comfort can you offer my aching heart?
At the opening of this week’s parasha, the characters must have felt heavy-hearted as well. Abraham had nearly killed Isaac in last week’s portion, and Sarah dies in this week’s portion. According to the rabbis, Sarah died because she heard about Isaac’s near-death and couldn’t bear the news. So now, Abraham and Isaac each face dual traumas – that of Isaac’s near-death and Sarah’s actual death. They certainly had tsouris!
So what did they do with their tsouris?
The portion recounts that Abraham immediately sent his servant back to his hometown to find a wife for Isaac. Abraham didn’t leave the servant Eliezer with directions on how to find the right woman; he was left to his own devices. Eliezer’s plan was curious. He went to the well of the town and prayed to God for a young woman to come. He would ask for water, and if the woman gave water not only to him, but to his camels, then he would know that she was The One.
Lo and behold, a woman came and when he asked for water, she gave it both to him and his camels. Eliezer then knew he’d hit the jackpot. After some negotiations with her family, he brought the woman home to meet Isaac. When she arrived, “Isaac took Rebecca as his wife, Isaac loved her and thus found comfort after his mother’s death.”
Eliezer’s bride-selection method seems odd by modern standards, but it highlights what he was seeking – kindness. When Rebecca gave the camels water, she went beyond Eliezer’s request. As Rabbi Harold Kushner explained, “Abraham and Sarah, for all their pioneering religious achievements were sometimes insensitive to members of their own household. Rebecca’s kindness and generosity may have been what was needed to correct those family dynamics.” Like tsouris, caring too has transitive properties; it brings healing to wounded hearts.
In this cruel world, this week’s portion teaches: Seek out kindness, and when you find it, hold onto it with all your might.
When Lightning Strikes
This week, we finish reading the last Torah portion of Deuteronomy and start again at the beginning of Genesis. I can hardly believe that it’s now been a year since I started writing these columns. In reflecting back on the year, I’m struck by how much writing these columns have enriched my life in ways that I couldn’t possibly have anticipated when I began.
The last portion of Deuteronomy, called V’zot Habrahah (And this is the blessing), begins with Moses blessing the people Israel before his death. The blessing recounts that God came from Sinai carrying lightening. The word for lightning is “esh dat” which literally means “fiery law” and according to the rabbis refers to the Torah.
This past year, I learned how Torah is indeed analogous to lightning. Like lightning, my thoughts for this column strike unexpectedly. I learned that I can’t make the inspiration for these columns come on my own schedule. Most often ideas come in the most unspectacular, everyday places — at the dinner table or when out on a walk around the neighborhood one of the kids makes a remark that somehow resonates within me.
Just as the time and place of lightning bolts can’t be anticipated, neither can the effects. In the Talmud, (Ta’anit 7a) the rabbis asked: “Why are the words of Torah compared to fire?” They answered “Just as fire does not ignite itself, so too words of Torah are not sustained alone.” The most unexpected blessing of writing these columns is the way that it has brought people into my life. It has helped me keep in touch with past congregants, colleagues, students and teachers in a substantive way and kept the light of those relationships burning brightly.
The column has brought new people into my life. Each week, I share it with friends and family. Over time, my list of friends and family has grown and now includes almost 700 people. This journey has shown me the intricate web of relationships in which I (and each one of us) take part. The column has brought old people back into my life — prompting reconnections with childhood friends with whom I had fallen out of touch. Just this past week, a babysitter from my childhood came across the column and contacted me for the first time in over twenty years! Through the incredible tool of the internet, the fire of Torah has a way of slowly spreading and bringing people together.
The most prominent fire recounted in the Torah is when Moses encountered a burning bush that was not consumed. What I learned most this past year is that the fire of Torah doesn’t run out. I was concerned when I began this project whether I would be able to write a piece on every Torah portion. As a congregational rabbi, I connected the lives of my congregants to the weekly Torah portion — but I hadn’t tried to link it to my own life (and particularly to parenting) each and every week. Genesis is filled with narratives about parents and children, but the subject matter of the latter books of the Torah is often remote from such themes. I wondered whether I would find an idea in every portion. Yet I found that the Torah portion always connects to the events of the week. The light of Torah never burns out.
I want to thank each of you for accompanying me on my journey, for your support and your insights. This week, on the holiday of Simchat Torah, the end of the Torah is read, followed immediately with Bereshit (the first chapter of Genesis). So too, as I complete this column, I look forward to starting all over again at the beginning with you.
The last portion of Deuteronomy, called V’zot Habrahah (And this is the blessing), begins with Moses blessing the people Israel before his death. The blessing recounts that God came from Sinai carrying lightening. The word for lightning is “esh dat” which literally means “fiery law” and according to the rabbis refers to the Torah.
This past year, I learned how Torah is indeed analogous to lightning. Like lightning, my thoughts for this column strike unexpectedly. I learned that I can’t make the inspiration for these columns come on my own schedule. Most often ideas come in the most unspectacular, everyday places — at the dinner table or when out on a walk around the neighborhood one of the kids makes a remark that somehow resonates within me.
Just as the time and place of lightning bolts can’t be anticipated, neither can the effects. In the Talmud, (Ta’anit 7a) the rabbis asked: “Why are the words of Torah compared to fire?” They answered “Just as fire does not ignite itself, so too words of Torah are not sustained alone.” The most unexpected blessing of writing these columns is the way that it has brought people into my life. It has helped me keep in touch with past congregants, colleagues, students and teachers in a substantive way and kept the light of those relationships burning brightly.
The column has brought new people into my life. Each week, I share it with friends and family. Over time, my list of friends and family has grown and now includes almost 700 people. This journey has shown me the intricate web of relationships in which I (and each one of us) take part. The column has brought old people back into my life — prompting reconnections with childhood friends with whom I had fallen out of touch. Just this past week, a babysitter from my childhood came across the column and contacted me for the first time in over twenty years! Through the incredible tool of the internet, the fire of Torah has a way of slowly spreading and bringing people together.
The most prominent fire recounted in the Torah is when Moses encountered a burning bush that was not consumed. What I learned most this past year is that the fire of Torah doesn’t run out. I was concerned when I began this project whether I would be able to write a piece on every Torah portion. As a congregational rabbi, I connected the lives of my congregants to the weekly Torah portion — but I hadn’t tried to link it to my own life (and particularly to parenting) each and every week. Genesis is filled with narratives about parents and children, but the subject matter of the latter books of the Torah is often remote from such themes. I wondered whether I would find an idea in every portion. Yet I found that the Torah portion always connects to the events of the week. The light of Torah never burns out.
I want to thank each of you for accompanying me on my journey, for your support and your insights. This week, on the holiday of Simchat Torah, the end of the Torah is read, followed immediately with Bereshit (the first chapter of Genesis). So too, as I complete this column, I look forward to starting all over again at the beginning with you.
A Sukkot Message
On Sunday morning, I woke up feeling refreshed and energized, grateful that Yom Kippur was done.
“Okay, kids,” I said. “Let’s go outside. We need to build the sukkah today.”
My son Jeremy asked: “Why do we have to build a sukkah?”
“We need to build the sukkah so we can eat in it,” I said.
He then questioned: “Why do we have to eat in the sukkah when we have a whole house to eat in?”
Jeremy had a point. Sukkot is one of my favorite holidays, and it’s also one of the strangest. The holiday provokes lots of questions: why do we have to build a hut in the backyard, and then a week later, take it down?
His questions reminded me of one of my favorite stories which takes place on Sukkot.
A folktale is told about the biblical King Solomon, the builder of the First Temple, who was known for his wisdom, and who was often sad.
He turned to his most trusted servant, Benaiah and said to him, “Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it.”
“If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty,” replied Benaiah, “I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?”
“It has magic powers,” answered the king. “If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy.”
Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of the poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by an old merchant who had begun to set out the day’s wares on a shabby carpet.
“Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?” asked Benaiah.
He watched the old merchant take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.
That night, the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity.
“Well, my friend,” said Solomon. “Have you found what I sent you after?”
To everyone’s surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, ‘Here it is, your majesty!” The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: gimel, zayin, yud, which stood for Gam zeh ya’avor: This too shall pass.
This phrase could be a slogan for the holiday of Sukkot. The reason why we build a hut is to follow the commandment to dwell in a temporary structure (if the sukkah were left up all year, then it would no longer be Kosher.) Like the ring, the sukkah embodies the same message as the ring. The sukkah reminds us that our struggles are only temporary. It encourages us to hold onto the moments of joy just a little longer.
“When the people left Egypt to go to Israel they lived in huts. We build the sukkah to remember the people’s trip.” I told Jeremy.
“Okay,” he said, and we began building.
“Okay, kids,” I said. “Let’s go outside. We need to build the sukkah today.”
My son Jeremy asked: “Why do we have to build a sukkah?”
“We need to build the sukkah so we can eat in it,” I said.
He then questioned: “Why do we have to eat in the sukkah when we have a whole house to eat in?”
Jeremy had a point. Sukkot is one of my favorite holidays, and it’s also one of the strangest. The holiday provokes lots of questions: why do we have to build a hut in the backyard, and then a week later, take it down?
His questions reminded me of one of my favorite stories which takes place on Sukkot.
A folktale is told about the biblical King Solomon, the builder of the First Temple, who was known for his wisdom, and who was often sad.
He turned to his most trusted servant, Benaiah and said to him, “Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it.”
“If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty,” replied Benaiah, “I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?”
“It has magic powers,” answered the king. “If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy.”
Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of the poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by an old merchant who had begun to set out the day’s wares on a shabby carpet.
“Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?” asked Benaiah.
He watched the old merchant take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.
That night, the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity.
“Well, my friend,” said Solomon. “Have you found what I sent you after?”
To everyone’s surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, ‘Here it is, your majesty!” The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: gimel, zayin, yud, which stood for Gam zeh ya’avor: This too shall pass.
This phrase could be a slogan for the holiday of Sukkot. The reason why we build a hut is to follow the commandment to dwell in a temporary structure (if the sukkah were left up all year, then it would no longer be Kosher.) Like the ring, the sukkah embodies the same message as the ring. The sukkah reminds us that our struggles are only temporary. It encourages us to hold onto the moments of joy just a little longer.
“When the people left Egypt to go to Israel they lived in huts. We build the sukkah to remember the people’s trip.” I told Jeremy.
“Okay,” he said, and we began building.
Clean Hands
This past Sunday, I took the kids to our synagogue’s tashlich at the beach where we threw bread into the ocean to symbolically cast off our mistakes of the past year. At the beach, we saw several of our friends, so after the ritual was over, we took the kids for lunch. When the kids sat down to eat, I realized that there was no place nearby for them to wash their hands, and my hand sanitizer was in the car. I asked the other parents if they had any hand sanitizer with them.
This question launched us into a conversation about how hand sanitizer didn’t exist when we were kids, and how we worry now about a whole range of issues about which our parents were not concerned. Were our parents too lax? Are we too strict with our own kids? Not strict enough? Why is it so difficult to get parenting right?
This Friday night, on Yom Kippur, we will recite the Kol Nidre which cancels “all vows.” The Kol Nidre is puzzling. The most sacred prayer of the year is not actually a prayer at all, but rather a legal formula to cancel oaths. Oddly, rather than cancelling vows that we made and didn’t fulfill in the past year, the traditional formula cancels vows that we’ll make in the coming year. Why do we need this formula in advance? Perhaps, we’ll promise properly in the coming year? Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get it right.
At the holiest moment of the Jewish calendar, the Kol Nidre forces us to confront the impossibility of perfection. The prayer asserts that we will inevitably make mistakes next year, as we did last year. This realization is heartbreaking but strangely liberating at the same time.
When my son was an infant, I composed my own Kol Nidre, admitting all the mistakes I would make with him. I wrote:
God has entrusted me with a precious soul to raise. This task is both amazing and overwhelming. I wish for you, my sweet child, that you should know no pain or discomfort, but we don’t live in this kind of world. I can’t prevent all hurt, and sometimes I may even be its cause. I want to admit to you upfront that I will make many mistakes, large and small, with you, my darling, for I am merely human. Even with the best intentions, I will stumble along the way in parenting. I’ll occasionally lose patience and perspective. I’ll be overtired and frustrated, and at that moment, I won’t be the parent you deserve. Although I wish I could care for you myself every minute, you will have to share me with others and be cared for by others. In advance, I ask for your forgiveness. Yet I can promise that I will do my best every day to care for you in mind, body and spirit. You will know without a doubt that you are loved because I love you beyond measure.
Love, Mom
What is your Kol Nidre for the year? What mistakes do you need to admit upfront that you’re going to make?
May we go into this new year with clean hands and clean hearts, whether or not we can find the hand sanitizer.
This question launched us into a conversation about how hand sanitizer didn’t exist when we were kids, and how we worry now about a whole range of issues about which our parents were not concerned. Were our parents too lax? Are we too strict with our own kids? Not strict enough? Why is it so difficult to get parenting right?
This Friday night, on Yom Kippur, we will recite the Kol Nidre which cancels “all vows.” The Kol Nidre is puzzling. The most sacred prayer of the year is not actually a prayer at all, but rather a legal formula to cancel oaths. Oddly, rather than cancelling vows that we made and didn’t fulfill in the past year, the traditional formula cancels vows that we’ll make in the coming year. Why do we need this formula in advance? Perhaps, we’ll promise properly in the coming year? Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get it right.
At the holiest moment of the Jewish calendar, the Kol Nidre forces us to confront the impossibility of perfection. The prayer asserts that we will inevitably make mistakes next year, as we did last year. This realization is heartbreaking but strangely liberating at the same time.
When my son was an infant, I composed my own Kol Nidre, admitting all the mistakes I would make with him. I wrote:
God has entrusted me with a precious soul to raise. This task is both amazing and overwhelming. I wish for you, my sweet child, that you should know no pain or discomfort, but we don’t live in this kind of world. I can’t prevent all hurt, and sometimes I may even be its cause. I want to admit to you upfront that I will make many mistakes, large and small, with you, my darling, for I am merely human. Even with the best intentions, I will stumble along the way in parenting. I’ll occasionally lose patience and perspective. I’ll be overtired and frustrated, and at that moment, I won’t be the parent you deserve. Although I wish I could care for you myself every minute, you will have to share me with others and be cared for by others. In advance, I ask for your forgiveness. Yet I can promise that I will do my best every day to care for you in mind, body and spirit. You will know without a doubt that you are loved because I love you beyond measure.
Love, Mom
What is your Kol Nidre for the year? What mistakes do you need to admit upfront that you’re going to make?
May we go into this new year with clean hands and clean hearts, whether or not we can find the hand sanitizer.
The Phone Call
Last week, I received an extraordinary phone call from an acquaintance with whom I attended elementary and middle school. She had run into my father on a recent visit to my hometown. He told her how I was doing, so she looked me up and gave me a call.
We had a pleasant conversation, catching up on the last 25 years or so. About ten-minutes into the conversation, she said, “I actually have an ulterior motive for calling you.” “Okay,” I replied, wondering what would come next.
She explained that my father had reminisced with her briefly about the school that we’d both attended. He said I didn’t like the school very much because of a clique that had given me a hard time, and he mentioned the name of the group.
However, my father didn’t realize that she was part of the clique that he mentioned. In the fifth grade, a number of girls formed groups. Each group staked out different parts of the playground, and no one who wasn’t part of that group was allowed to walk in their territory. I wasn’t in any of these cliques, and therefore had only one or two friends during those years.
“I wanted to call and apologize.” She said. She explained that now that she is a mom, she looks back with regret at the way she had behaved as a child. “I don’t believe in a retributive God,” she said, “but with the High Holidays coming up, I figured that I should call and say that for everything I know I did, and anything I didn’t know that I did, I’m sorry.”
I was blown away by her words, which were entirely unexpected. I certainly would never have anticipated that I’d receive such a phone call. “We were kids,” I said. I offered my forgiveness, and told her that I appreciated her words. We agreed to keep in touch.
Although I hadn’t thought about that school in years, her call did give me a measure of healing. I felt like my childhood feelings were honored in retrospect — even if they weren’t at the time. My pain had been heard.
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses approaches his death, and he offers a poem to the people as they are poised to enter the Promised Land. The portion is called Ha’azinu (Give ear). The poem begins:
Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter.
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew.
Moses compares words to precipitation that bring life to plants. The poem’s theme is that repentance can ultimately lead to reconciliation between God and the people. The reading is appropriately read on Shabbat Tshuvah — the Sabbath during the ten days of repentance between Rosh Hashanah (the New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement).
Like Moses’ poem, this phone call reminded me of the power of words to bring healing — even many years after a hurt. Imagine how much renewal would result if during these ten days, each of us made just one phone call to ask for forgiveness.
We had a pleasant conversation, catching up on the last 25 years or so. About ten-minutes into the conversation, she said, “I actually have an ulterior motive for calling you.” “Okay,” I replied, wondering what would come next.
She explained that my father had reminisced with her briefly about the school that we’d both attended. He said I didn’t like the school very much because of a clique that had given me a hard time, and he mentioned the name of the group.
However, my father didn’t realize that she was part of the clique that he mentioned. In the fifth grade, a number of girls formed groups. Each group staked out different parts of the playground, and no one who wasn’t part of that group was allowed to walk in their territory. I wasn’t in any of these cliques, and therefore had only one or two friends during those years.
“I wanted to call and apologize.” She said. She explained that now that she is a mom, she looks back with regret at the way she had behaved as a child. “I don’t believe in a retributive God,” she said, “but with the High Holidays coming up, I figured that I should call and say that for everything I know I did, and anything I didn’t know that I did, I’m sorry.”
I was blown away by her words, which were entirely unexpected. I certainly would never have anticipated that I’d receive such a phone call. “We were kids,” I said. I offered my forgiveness, and told her that I appreciated her words. We agreed to keep in touch.
Although I hadn’t thought about that school in years, her call did give me a measure of healing. I felt like my childhood feelings were honored in retrospect — even if they weren’t at the time. My pain had been heard.
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses approaches his death, and he offers a poem to the people as they are poised to enter the Promised Land. The portion is called Ha’azinu (Give ear). The poem begins:
Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter.
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew.
Moses compares words to precipitation that bring life to plants. The poem’s theme is that repentance can ultimately lead to reconciliation between God and the people. The reading is appropriately read on Shabbat Tshuvah — the Sabbath during the ten days of repentance between Rosh Hashanah (the New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement).
Like Moses’ poem, this phone call reminded me of the power of words to bring healing — even many years after a hurt. Imagine how much renewal would result if during these ten days, each of us made just one phone call to ask for forgiveness.
The Anniversary Celebration
This weekend, my husband and I went away for a night to celebrate our ten year anniversary. I was initially apprehensive about going. It would be our first overnight outing away from the kids since our first child was born six years ago. My son had been on sleepovers before, but my three-year-old daughter had not. We reserved a hotel room near my in-laws, so that if the kids refused to sleep, we could pick them up and bring them to the hotel.
When the day arrived, the kids seemed excited about their first joint sleepover. They packed their favorite sleeping bag, sheets, pillows and my daughter’s baby doll. We brought the kids to my in-laws, kissed them goodbye and hoped for the best.
This week’s Torah portion also describes an anniversary of sorts. As the Israelites approached the Promised Land, Moses summoned all the people “to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” However, the people had already entered into the covenant at Mount Sinai. Why was this ratification necessary?
Rabbi Shneur Zalman (of eighteenth century Russia) explained that:
Just as husband and wife need to reaffirm their commitment to each other when the early days of romantic attraction have given way to the day-to-day struggle to overcome accumulated disappointments, so too God and the people Israel need to reaffirm the covenant at this later date.
Tell me about it! When I read those words in the Etz Hayim Torah commentary this weekend, they immediately resonated with me.
Luckily our anniversary plans worked. We had a delicious dinner and walked around the hotel grounds (which included a beautiful waterfall). When we called to check-in, my in-laws reported that the kids were fast asleep! My husband and I had a chance to reconnect — and get some R&R by the pool the next day. When we returned, my in-laws remarked that even though we were gone less than 24 hours, we seemed like new people — with a relaxed glow on our faces. Although it was challenging to leave the kids, it was good for us to have some time as a couple.
The Torah portion reminds us that our relationship with God likewise needs periodic renewal. The portion is generally read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). The timing is more than mere coincidence. Perhaps, the message is that Rosh Hashanah should be understood as akin to our wedding anniversary celebration with God — where we spend a few intensive days together talking and reconnecting, reflecting on the year that has passed and sharing hopes for the year ahead.
The High Holidays are often conceived of days of judgment, with the predominant metaphor of God as a judge who is evaluating our every deed. This imagery imbues the days with a stressful aura. By contrast, the anniversary metaphor creates a joyful atmosphere — which is appropriate to festively usher in a new year.
Our “anniversary” get-together with God may inspire us to try to spend more time together during the year and to be more present in the relationship. In this sense, we may be prompted to tshuvah, to return our hearts to God.
So instead of wishing you a Shana Tova, let me instead wish you a happy anniversary to you and yours!
When the day arrived, the kids seemed excited about their first joint sleepover. They packed their favorite sleeping bag, sheets, pillows and my daughter’s baby doll. We brought the kids to my in-laws, kissed them goodbye and hoped for the best.
This week’s Torah portion also describes an anniversary of sorts. As the Israelites approached the Promised Land, Moses summoned all the people “to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” However, the people had already entered into the covenant at Mount Sinai. Why was this ratification necessary?
Rabbi Shneur Zalman (of eighteenth century Russia) explained that:
Just as husband and wife need to reaffirm their commitment to each other when the early days of romantic attraction have given way to the day-to-day struggle to overcome accumulated disappointments, so too God and the people Israel need to reaffirm the covenant at this later date.
Tell me about it! When I read those words in the Etz Hayim Torah commentary this weekend, they immediately resonated with me.
Luckily our anniversary plans worked. We had a delicious dinner and walked around the hotel grounds (which included a beautiful waterfall). When we called to check-in, my in-laws reported that the kids were fast asleep! My husband and I had a chance to reconnect — and get some R&R by the pool the next day. When we returned, my in-laws remarked that even though we were gone less than 24 hours, we seemed like new people — with a relaxed glow on our faces. Although it was challenging to leave the kids, it was good for us to have some time as a couple.
The Torah portion reminds us that our relationship with God likewise needs periodic renewal. The portion is generally read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). The timing is more than mere coincidence. Perhaps, the message is that Rosh Hashanah should be understood as akin to our wedding anniversary celebration with God — where we spend a few intensive days together talking and reconnecting, reflecting on the year that has passed and sharing hopes for the year ahead.
The High Holidays are often conceived of days of judgment, with the predominant metaphor of God as a judge who is evaluating our every deed. This imagery imbues the days with a stressful aura. By contrast, the anniversary metaphor creates a joyful atmosphere — which is appropriate to festively usher in a new year.
Our “anniversary” get-together with God may inspire us to try to spend more time together during the year and to be more present in the relationship. In this sense, we may be prompted to tshuvah, to return our hearts to God.
So instead of wishing you a Shana Tova, let me instead wish you a happy anniversary to you and yours!
A Hole in One
On Sunday, my family and I went mini-golfing at a place called the Magic Castle. My three-year-old daughter Hannah had never gone golfing before. Nonetheless, she insisted on swinging the club herself and had a great time hitting the ball as best she could. On one of the holes, she took about ten strokes and then got tired of trying to hit the ball. She simply picked up the ball, put it in the hole and cheered with delight, “Yeah! I got a hole in one!”
This week’s Torah portion also deals with celebrating a moment of victory. Moses explains to the people that when they reach the Promised Land and settle in it, they should bring the first fruits of their harvest in a basket to the Temple and make a declaration. However, the declaration they are to make is not as simple as “Yeah! We won!” Instead, it’s fraught with both joy and pain. The people recited the words which since have become central to the Passover Haggadah:
My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor on us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched army, and awesome power and by signs and portents. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which you, O Lord has given me.
Rabbi Nancy Wechsler-Azen noted that this elaborate declaration not only expresses gratitude but also acknowledges the pain entailed in getting there. Our tendency in victory is to forget our struggles. Like Hannah, if it took us ten strokes to get the ball in the hole, we would prefer to cheer and pretend it was a hole in one. However, the portion encourages us to remember the challenges and thank God for surviving those struggles.
As we creep ever- closer to the New Year, this week’s portion calls on us to ask questions which can help evaluate the year that has passed. What dream has been realized for you this year? What object would you choose to put in your basket as a symbol of gratitude? What adversity have you experienced this year and how has God helped you survive that suffering?
In life, as in golf, many failed attempts are often required before success is reached. Yet, even when we get a hole in ten, we can celebrate as much as if we had achieved a hole in one.
This week’s Torah portion also deals with celebrating a moment of victory. Moses explains to the people that when they reach the Promised Land and settle in it, they should bring the first fruits of their harvest in a basket to the Temple and make a declaration. However, the declaration they are to make is not as simple as “Yeah! We won!” Instead, it’s fraught with both joy and pain. The people recited the words which since have become central to the Passover Haggadah:
My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor on us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched army, and awesome power and by signs and portents. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which you, O Lord has given me.
Rabbi Nancy Wechsler-Azen noted that this elaborate declaration not only expresses gratitude but also acknowledges the pain entailed in getting there. Our tendency in victory is to forget our struggles. Like Hannah, if it took us ten strokes to get the ball in the hole, we would prefer to cheer and pretend it was a hole in one. However, the portion encourages us to remember the challenges and thank God for surviving those struggles.
As we creep ever- closer to the New Year, this week’s portion calls on us to ask questions which can help evaluate the year that has passed. What dream has been realized for you this year? What object would you choose to put in your basket as a symbol of gratitude? What adversity have you experienced this year and how has God helped you survive that suffering?
In life, as in golf, many failed attempts are often required before success is reached. Yet, even when we get a hole in ten, we can celebrate as much as if we had achieved a hole in one.
The Right To Grieve
“I miss Gan Edna,” my three-year-old daughter told me this morning at breakfast. Gan Edna was the nursery school Hannah attended two years ago, but out of the blue, she decided she missed it. We spoke about it, and I assured her we could go back and visit it if she’d like. She loves her new school, and I was surprised to hear that after so long, she still missed her former school. As the new school year approaches, meeting new teachers and classmates and getting to know a new space will be exciting; but at the same time it also means a loss of past teachers, classmates and cherished space.
“I’m a little bit big,” Hannah explained. Becoming big inevitably entails the loss of being small.
In light of this experience, a troubling part from this week’s Torah portion resonated for me in a new way. This week’s parasha, Ki Tetzei (when you go out), begins with a difficult passage. The text stipulates: if you go out to war and see a beautiful woman among the war captives who you want to marry, you shall first bring her to your house and she shall shave her head, trim her nails, and sit in your house for a month so that she could cry for her father and mother. Only afterwards can you marry her.
The passage is disturbing. Why couldn’t it have simply said: you shall not marry war captives — or don’t take war captives in the first place.
Nonetheless, what struck me in reading this passage is how the Torah honors the most disempowered members of the community’s right to grieve.
The text asserts that mourning is essential to human dignity. Perhaps in the month of waiting, the soldier would get over his desire for the captive and release her, or maybe, seeing her in her distressed, disheveled state, he would come to care for her for who she is, rather than what she looks like. In any case, the Torah asserts that the right to grieve is integral to human self-worth.
Unfortunately, human life is chock-full of loss. The transitions of growing up entail a myriad of losses — from relinquishing a crib, diapers, or pacifiers, to saying goodbye to beloved teachers at the end of each school year. Some of these losses may seem trivial to adults but are profound for a child. Adulthood is likewise full of loss — from people we love to dreams that don’t materialize. For each of these losses, we need to give ourselves permission to mourn. This idea sounds simplistic but is extremely hard to do.
This past week, Mimi Strichard, a beloved member of my former congregation, passed away at the age of eighty-eight. Mimi was a rare, unique soul — sweet to the core with no edge whatsoever. She never said a harsh word about anyone and was the epitome of kindness. Her death was sudden; she had been in synagogue perfectly healthy a few days before her passing. I saw her close friend at the funeral. She said, “I’m okay; It was just such a shock.”
“You’re allowed to be not okay,” I responded gently. I remembered how difficult it has been for me to accept how not okay I’ve been in times of mourning.
From previous schools to dear friends and dreams, the losses of life are manifold and profound. This week’s portion teaches us to honor the sanctity of grief.
“I’m a little bit big,” Hannah explained. Becoming big inevitably entails the loss of being small.
In light of this experience, a troubling part from this week’s Torah portion resonated for me in a new way. This week’s parasha, Ki Tetzei (when you go out), begins with a difficult passage. The text stipulates: if you go out to war and see a beautiful woman among the war captives who you want to marry, you shall first bring her to your house and she shall shave her head, trim her nails, and sit in your house for a month so that she could cry for her father and mother. Only afterwards can you marry her.
The passage is disturbing. Why couldn’t it have simply said: you shall not marry war captives — or don’t take war captives in the first place.
Nonetheless, what struck me in reading this passage is how the Torah honors the most disempowered members of the community’s right to grieve.
The text asserts that mourning is essential to human dignity. Perhaps in the month of waiting, the soldier would get over his desire for the captive and release her, or maybe, seeing her in her distressed, disheveled state, he would come to care for her for who she is, rather than what she looks like. In any case, the Torah asserts that the right to grieve is integral to human self-worth.
Unfortunately, human life is chock-full of loss. The transitions of growing up entail a myriad of losses — from relinquishing a crib, diapers, or pacifiers, to saying goodbye to beloved teachers at the end of each school year. Some of these losses may seem trivial to adults but are profound for a child. Adulthood is likewise full of loss — from people we love to dreams that don’t materialize. For each of these losses, we need to give ourselves permission to mourn. This idea sounds simplistic but is extremely hard to do.
This past week, Mimi Strichard, a beloved member of my former congregation, passed away at the age of eighty-eight. Mimi was a rare, unique soul — sweet to the core with no edge whatsoever. She never said a harsh word about anyone and was the epitome of kindness. Her death was sudden; she had been in synagogue perfectly healthy a few days before her passing. I saw her close friend at the funeral. She said, “I’m okay; It was just such a shock.”
“You’re allowed to be not okay,” I responded gently. I remembered how difficult it has been for me to accept how not okay I’ve been in times of mourning.
From previous schools to dear friends and dreams, the losses of life are manifold and profound. This week’s portion teaches us to honor the sanctity of grief.
The Downtime Day
This past weekend was packed with activities — Friday night dinner at a friend’s home, my father’s birthday celebration festivities both at synagogue and at his home on Saturday, and a barbeque with friends on Sunday. By the time Monday morning came around, my kids and I were pooped. I decided that rather than telling my children what we would do on Monday, I would instead follow their lead for a change. If they asked to go somewhere, we would go, and if not, we would stay home. I put in a load of laundry and waited to see what would happen.
I was surprised to discover that for most of the day, the kids didn’t ask to go anywhere. At 2pm, they asked to walk around the block to the Bagel store for lunch, and we went. In the meantime, they made tents out of blankets, and played in them. They cut paper chains, played Legos and generally kept themselves occupied. I had to mediate a few brief conflicts over toys, I played a few rounds of tickle-monster and Hullabaloo, but mostly was able to do the laundry and let the kids be. They seemed to relish the chance to do just that.
This week’s Torah portion contains one of the most moving passages in the Torah. Moses explains that God “set before you a blessing and a curse.” Moses explains that when the Israelites finally reach the Promised Land, they will stand on two mountains and recite “the blessing at Mount Gerizim and the curse at Mount Ebal.” What a stirring, visual image of blessings on one peak, curses on the other with a vast valley between them.
Yet, in life, the blessings and curses can often seem closer together, separated not by an abyss, but by a thread. Our blessings can often feel like curses. By over-scheduling, our lives can come to feel like an unending series of obligations, bereft of joy. By taking downtime, we can regain enthusiasm.
In her book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, psychologist Wendy Mogel identified over-scheduling as one of the major problems plaguing “too wired” families today. She wrote, “Treat daydreaming and fooling around as valuable activities. Being messy, noisy, silly, goofy, and vegging-out are as essential to the development of your child’s mind as anything else s/he does.”
Who knew?!
Well, I guess Mogel would have been pleased with our lazy Monday! By the end of the day, the house was a giant mess, but the laundry was done, and we were ready to face the world again.
I was surprised to discover that for most of the day, the kids didn’t ask to go anywhere. At 2pm, they asked to walk around the block to the Bagel store for lunch, and we went. In the meantime, they made tents out of blankets, and played in them. They cut paper chains, played Legos and generally kept themselves occupied. I had to mediate a few brief conflicts over toys, I played a few rounds of tickle-monster and Hullabaloo, but mostly was able to do the laundry and let the kids be. They seemed to relish the chance to do just that.
This week’s Torah portion contains one of the most moving passages in the Torah. Moses explains that God “set before you a blessing and a curse.” Moses explains that when the Israelites finally reach the Promised Land, they will stand on two mountains and recite “the blessing at Mount Gerizim and the curse at Mount Ebal.” What a stirring, visual image of blessings on one peak, curses on the other with a vast valley between them.
Yet, in life, the blessings and curses can often seem closer together, separated not by an abyss, but by a thread. Our blessings can often feel like curses. By over-scheduling, our lives can come to feel like an unending series of obligations, bereft of joy. By taking downtime, we can regain enthusiasm.
In her book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, psychologist Wendy Mogel identified over-scheduling as one of the major problems plaguing “too wired” families today. She wrote, “Treat daydreaming and fooling around as valuable activities. Being messy, noisy, silly, goofy, and vegging-out are as essential to the development of your child’s mind as anything else s/he does.”
Who knew?!
Well, I guess Mogel would have been pleased with our lazy Monday! By the end of the day, the house was a giant mess, but the laundry was done, and we were ready to face the world again.
Confronting Mortality
Last week, I attended the funeral of a member of my former congregation. The funeral fell on a weekend, and we were out with the kids for the day. In the afternoon, my husband Tal and the kids dropped me off at the cemetery, went to the mall for ice cream, and then picked me up. I explained to my kids where I was going, and they were fine with that plan. I didn’t think they thought much of it.
When I put my six-year-old son Jeremy to bed that night, he said: “Mom, I love you so much. Even if you die, I still love you.” I assured him that I loved him too. Then he asked: “Does everyone die, and when you die do you get to come back?” Oy vey, I thought, here goes!
I began by answering as honestly as I could, “Yes, sweetie everyone dies…”
The moment that I said it, I wished I could take it back. Jeremy knew about death — my mother died a year ago — but before that moment, he didn’t know that everyone dies, and by extension that he would die someday. How wonderful that he had lived for six and a half years without this realization. How awful it is to face that knowledge.
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses grapples with the fact that he is going to die without entering the Promised Land. This week’s parasha begins the book of Devarim (Deuteronomy) which is Moses’s final teaching before he dies. The entire book can be understood as his attempt to accept his impending demise. This portion is read on the Sabbath before Tisha B’av (the 9th of Av) which commemorates the destruction of Jerusalem. Therefore, reading about Moses grappling with death coincides with the ritual which confronts our collective mortality.
Even though Moses led the people through the desert for forty long years, he would die without getting to experience his life’s dream of seeing the land. I remember when I learned of this story as a child. We were sitting at a Passover Seder. I was eight or so and I remember being so overwhelmed with sadness for Moses that I almost started to cry right there at the table. I suppose that was the moment that I internalized the idea that everyone dies — and also that one can die even without obtaining one’s life dream.
Now the story of Moses doesn’t seem quite as bad to me. In last week’s parasha, Moses drew up plans for the settlement of the land. What a thrill this must have been for him to make these preparations, knowing they would settle the land because of his life’s work. As parents, dreams shift to focus on the next generation more than our own.
“Most people die when they’re old,” I told Jeremy. I explained that “Big Bubby” his great-grandmother, (my mother’s mother) is 91 years old. “Wow,” he said. I reminded him that we attended her ninetieth birthday. “When she reaches 100, we’ll have to have another big party,” he said, smiled and closed his eyes. I guess when you’re six, 91 seems like a billion light years away, so he felt like death was not something he needed to worry about right now. He snuggled in tighter to the bed.
As I lay beside Jeremy, I realized that I had dodged the second part of his question: “Do you get to come back?” In Judaism, particularly in Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism) there is an idea of gilgul neshamot (cycle of the souls), otherwise known as reincarnation. To be honest, my daughter reminds me so much of my paternal grandmother of blessed memory, for whom she’s named, that I have often wondered whether my grandmother’s soul has returned in her. I once read a book by Rabbi Elie Spitz called “Does the Soul Survive” which persuasively argued that reincarnation does take place. But did I believe in this idea? Did I believe in it enough to tell him definitively: “yes, sweetie, you get to come back,” or more tentatively: “I think you get to come back?”
As a rabbi, these questions are not new to me, but Jeremy’s questioning was different from those I regularly receive from congregants. This was not an intellectual discussion of the various ideas in our tradition. It was a straightforward, yes or no question about how the system of life and death works. He expected a simple, definitive answer.
Since Jeremy seemed comforted with the idea of his great-grandmother’s birthday celebration, I figured I’d leave the reincarnation question alone for now. But I did want to leave him with some hope. I didn’t want to leave him knowing that he would die someday a long time from now, without any further consolation. So, I said, “There is an idea in Judaism that someday God will fix the world and lift up the people, back to life …” Jeremy said, “That’s what my name means: ‘God will lift up the people.’ (On a previous occasion, I had explained to him that his Hebrew name yirmiyah literally means ‘God will lift up’ and that his middle name Yehudah is also the name of the Jewish people.)
“Yes, it sure does,” I said, and kissed him goodnight as he fell asleep.
When I put my six-year-old son Jeremy to bed that night, he said: “Mom, I love you so much. Even if you die, I still love you.” I assured him that I loved him too. Then he asked: “Does everyone die, and when you die do you get to come back?” Oy vey, I thought, here goes!
I began by answering as honestly as I could, “Yes, sweetie everyone dies…”
The moment that I said it, I wished I could take it back. Jeremy knew about death — my mother died a year ago — but before that moment, he didn’t know that everyone dies, and by extension that he would die someday. How wonderful that he had lived for six and a half years without this realization. How awful it is to face that knowledge.
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses grapples with the fact that he is going to die without entering the Promised Land. This week’s parasha begins the book of Devarim (Deuteronomy) which is Moses’s final teaching before he dies. The entire book can be understood as his attempt to accept his impending demise. This portion is read on the Sabbath before Tisha B’av (the 9th of Av) which commemorates the destruction of Jerusalem. Therefore, reading about Moses grappling with death coincides with the ritual which confronts our collective mortality.
Even though Moses led the people through the desert for forty long years, he would die without getting to experience his life’s dream of seeing the land. I remember when I learned of this story as a child. We were sitting at a Passover Seder. I was eight or so and I remember being so overwhelmed with sadness for Moses that I almost started to cry right there at the table. I suppose that was the moment that I internalized the idea that everyone dies — and also that one can die even without obtaining one’s life dream.
Now the story of Moses doesn’t seem quite as bad to me. In last week’s parasha, Moses drew up plans for the settlement of the land. What a thrill this must have been for him to make these preparations, knowing they would settle the land because of his life’s work. As parents, dreams shift to focus on the next generation more than our own.
“Most people die when they’re old,” I told Jeremy. I explained that “Big Bubby” his great-grandmother, (my mother’s mother) is 91 years old. “Wow,” he said. I reminded him that we attended her ninetieth birthday. “When she reaches 100, we’ll have to have another big party,” he said, smiled and closed his eyes. I guess when you’re six, 91 seems like a billion light years away, so he felt like death was not something he needed to worry about right now. He snuggled in tighter to the bed.
As I lay beside Jeremy, I realized that I had dodged the second part of his question: “Do you get to come back?” In Judaism, particularly in Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism) there is an idea of gilgul neshamot (cycle of the souls), otherwise known as reincarnation. To be honest, my daughter reminds me so much of my paternal grandmother of blessed memory, for whom she’s named, that I have often wondered whether my grandmother’s soul has returned in her. I once read a book by Rabbi Elie Spitz called “Does the Soul Survive” which persuasively argued that reincarnation does take place. But did I believe in this idea? Did I believe in it enough to tell him definitively: “yes, sweetie, you get to come back,” or more tentatively: “I think you get to come back?”
As a rabbi, these questions are not new to me, but Jeremy’s questioning was different from those I regularly receive from congregants. This was not an intellectual discussion of the various ideas in our tradition. It was a straightforward, yes or no question about how the system of life and death works. He expected a simple, definitive answer.
Since Jeremy seemed comforted with the idea of his great-grandmother’s birthday celebration, I figured I’d leave the reincarnation question alone for now. But I did want to leave him with some hope. I didn’t want to leave him knowing that he would die someday a long time from now, without any further consolation. So, I said, “There is an idea in Judaism that someday God will fix the world and lift up the people, back to life …” Jeremy said, “That’s what my name means: ‘God will lift up the people.’ (On a previous occasion, I had explained to him that his Hebrew name yirmiyah literally means ‘God will lift up’ and that his middle name Yehudah is also the name of the Jewish people.)
“Yes, it sure does,” I said, and kissed him goodnight as he fell asleep.
List To Remember
On Sunday night, my family went to the July 4th celebration at the Hollywood Bowl. The concert was by the LA Philharmonic, accompanied by Vince Gil, and concluded with fireworks. The music was fantastic; the fireworks were spectacular. The evening included an awe-inspiring tribute to members of the five branches of the armed forces. Those in the audience who had served in the military were asked to stand when their branch’s anthem was played, and everyone clapped in thanks for their service to the country. To me, though, the most meaningful part of the evening had nothing to do with the concert itself.
We had wonderful seats, several sections back from the front, but on the left hand side. At one point early on in the concert, I looked around and behind me. Seeing the back rows, I remembered the first time I’d been to the Hollywood Bowl – when I had sat there. Thirteen years ago, my classmates and I went to the Bowl during orientation week of rabbinical school, just a few days after I moved to Los Angeles. That night, I sat next to a fellow student, Rachel, who soon became my study partner and best friend. I remember being both excited and nervous that night. I wondered whether I would make friends and enjoy my life in this new city where I knew practically no one. I hadn’t thought about that night since, but returning to the same spot brought back the memories of that time, and caused me to reflect on how far my life has come since then.
In this week’s Torah portion, the people in the desert have a similar experience. As they approach the Promised Land, Moses recorded all the places that the people had stayed in their forty years in the desert. This list is long and boring: “They set out from Ramses, and camped in Sukkot; they left Sukkot and went to Etham …” The text continues in this riveting fashion for another 42 verses!
Yet, what seems to us like a dry list must have been a moving walk down memory lane for the people. According to Numbers Rabbah (a collection of rabbinic interpretations on these verses), God performed a miracle for the people at each of these places. The list includes where manna first fell down from the sky, and where Moses struck the rock to bring forth water. Therefore, listing the places would have reminded the people of all the miracles that God did for them.
For me, returning to the Hollywood Bowl had the same effect. When I looked back at the seats, I realized that had I been told the first time I went to the Bowl that I would become a rabbi, meet and marry my husband, have two beautiful children, and live in a house, how thrilled I would have been at this news which seemed entirely out of reach at the time. I was overcome with gratitude.
Indeed, I’ve recently discovered a spiritual trick that helps brighten up almost any day. The only caveat is that this method only works if now is not the worst time in your life.
The trick is that you think of the worst part of your life and get into the mindset of that time. You remember what you wanted and how unattainable those desires were, and then you view your current day through those eyes. For example, a few weeks ago, I went downtown to buy tickets to the circus. I was a bit annoyed to be running this errand. It entailed my driving around in an unfamiliar area. I have no sense of direction and get lost very easily. I was worried about navigating by myself. I also was concerned about how long it might take, as I had a lot of work to do that day.
Then I thought about myself at age seventeen. At that time, my parents were going through a nasty divorce, and all I wanted was to live in a home where people weren’t fighting, to grow up and have my own peaceful family. At the time, this dream seemed impossible. Through my seventeen-year-old eyes, my errand seemed entirely different. I suddenly felt grateful to have a family for which to buy circus tickets, and my day brightened.
Actually Vince Gil conveyed the same idea in his concert. Gil is a famous country singer who has won 20 Grammy awards and sold some 22 million albums. In the concert, he mentioned that he had come to Los Angeles briefly in 1976 with his Banjo trying to make a name for himself. At that time, he said that “he never would have dreamed that he would one day play at the Hollywood Bowl,” and so it was “the thrill of a lifetime” for him to be there. He must play at large amphitheatres all the time now, but the fact that he remembered the perspective of the earlier times in his life was the key to his gratitude and humility. I bet he doesn’t know that he embodies the lessons of this week’s Torah portion.
For the fireworks exhibition, I was holding Hannah on my left lap and had my arm around Jeremy on my right. As the kids marveled at the fireworks, I was also in awe — not only of the pyrotechnics but of my children. Watching the fireworks, my kids screamed, “Oh My God, Oh My God.” I couldn’t have agreed more!
We had wonderful seats, several sections back from the front, but on the left hand side. At one point early on in the concert, I looked around and behind me. Seeing the back rows, I remembered the first time I’d been to the Hollywood Bowl – when I had sat there. Thirteen years ago, my classmates and I went to the Bowl during orientation week of rabbinical school, just a few days after I moved to Los Angeles. That night, I sat next to a fellow student, Rachel, who soon became my study partner and best friend. I remember being both excited and nervous that night. I wondered whether I would make friends and enjoy my life in this new city where I knew practically no one. I hadn’t thought about that night since, but returning to the same spot brought back the memories of that time, and caused me to reflect on how far my life has come since then.
In this week’s Torah portion, the people in the desert have a similar experience. As they approach the Promised Land, Moses recorded all the places that the people had stayed in their forty years in the desert. This list is long and boring: “They set out from Ramses, and camped in Sukkot; they left Sukkot and went to Etham …” The text continues in this riveting fashion for another 42 verses!
Yet, what seems to us like a dry list must have been a moving walk down memory lane for the people. According to Numbers Rabbah (a collection of rabbinic interpretations on these verses), God performed a miracle for the people at each of these places. The list includes where manna first fell down from the sky, and where Moses struck the rock to bring forth water. Therefore, listing the places would have reminded the people of all the miracles that God did for them.
For me, returning to the Hollywood Bowl had the same effect. When I looked back at the seats, I realized that had I been told the first time I went to the Bowl that I would become a rabbi, meet and marry my husband, have two beautiful children, and live in a house, how thrilled I would have been at this news which seemed entirely out of reach at the time. I was overcome with gratitude.
Indeed, I’ve recently discovered a spiritual trick that helps brighten up almost any day. The only caveat is that this method only works if now is not the worst time in your life.
The trick is that you think of the worst part of your life and get into the mindset of that time. You remember what you wanted and how unattainable those desires were, and then you view your current day through those eyes. For example, a few weeks ago, I went downtown to buy tickets to the circus. I was a bit annoyed to be running this errand. It entailed my driving around in an unfamiliar area. I have no sense of direction and get lost very easily. I was worried about navigating by myself. I also was concerned about how long it might take, as I had a lot of work to do that day.
Then I thought about myself at age seventeen. At that time, my parents were going through a nasty divorce, and all I wanted was to live in a home where people weren’t fighting, to grow up and have my own peaceful family. At the time, this dream seemed impossible. Through my seventeen-year-old eyes, my errand seemed entirely different. I suddenly felt grateful to have a family for which to buy circus tickets, and my day brightened.
Actually Vince Gil conveyed the same idea in his concert. Gil is a famous country singer who has won 20 Grammy awards and sold some 22 million albums. In the concert, he mentioned that he had come to Los Angeles briefly in 1976 with his Banjo trying to make a name for himself. At that time, he said that “he never would have dreamed that he would one day play at the Hollywood Bowl,” and so it was “the thrill of a lifetime” for him to be there. He must play at large amphitheatres all the time now, but the fact that he remembered the perspective of the earlier times in his life was the key to his gratitude and humility. I bet he doesn’t know that he embodies the lessons of this week’s Torah portion.
For the fireworks exhibition, I was holding Hannah on my left lap and had my arm around Jeremy on my right. As the kids marveled at the fireworks, I was also in awe — not only of the pyrotechnics but of my children. Watching the fireworks, my kids screamed, “Oh My God, Oh My God.” I couldn’t have agreed more!
The Gender Question
“Do big girls have bikes without training wheels?” my daughter Hannah asked me, as she rode her tricycle. Hannah knew that her brother’s bike didn’t have training wheels, but she wasn’t sure why. Hannah is three, and her brother Jeremy is six. She knows that she can’t do some of the activities he can, but she’s often unsure whether to attribute these differences to age or gender. So, she’s asking a lot of questions lately about boys and girls.
This week’s Torah portion also deals with sisters asking about gender. In the parasha, five sisters — Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirsah, the daughters of Zelophechad — approach Moses with a poignant concern about gender and inheritance. According to biblical law, sons inherit after the death of their father, but Zelophechad died without sons. Therefore, his daughters asked if they could inherit his land. Moses consulted with God, who agreed to their claim and explained that in all future similar cases, daughters should inherit the land. How remarkable that God changed the law in response to the sisters’ request — toward greater justice for women.
We normally think of feminism as beginning in nineteenth century with a second wave in the 1970’s, but this text demonstrates agitation for greater equality even in biblical times. The success of the sisters was limited; the law still only allowed women to inherit if they had no brothers. Nevertheless, the daughters of Zelophechad left us with the legacy of their courage and with divine recognition of the justness of their cause.
More broadly, the text challenges us to face the question of what legacy we leave our children. What does the next generation inherit from us — not just in terms of material goods but spiritual inheritance as well. This question has been particularly poignant for me recently. My mother passed away a year ago, and I’ve had to sort through the complicated legacy she left me. At her funeral, I said I was grateful that my mother taught me to dream big and that one’s dreams need not be limited by gender. This gift was perhaps the greatest one she gave me.
This weekend marks the July 4th holiday where we celebrate and reflect on our American values. Among the greatest benefits of living in the U.S. is the place of women relative to many parts of the world. How fitting that this week’s Torah portion corresponds to the confirmation hearings for Elana Kagan, who would be the second Jewish woman on the U.S. Supreme Court.
I feel blessed to live in a democracy where laws can and do change towards greater fairness. Like the daughters of Zelophechad, each generation must continue to work where the last generation left off.
“Yes, you can have a bike without training wheels when you get bigger,” I replied to Hannah. “Actually, when you’re six, you could have Jeremy’s bike if you’d like,” I suggested.
“No, Mom. I want a girl bike without training wheels,” Hannah explained.
“Sure, sweetie,” I said. “That sounds great.”
This week’s Torah portion also deals with sisters asking about gender. In the parasha, five sisters — Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirsah, the daughters of Zelophechad — approach Moses with a poignant concern about gender and inheritance. According to biblical law, sons inherit after the death of their father, but Zelophechad died without sons. Therefore, his daughters asked if they could inherit his land. Moses consulted with God, who agreed to their claim and explained that in all future similar cases, daughters should inherit the land. How remarkable that God changed the law in response to the sisters’ request — toward greater justice for women.
We normally think of feminism as beginning in nineteenth century with a second wave in the 1970’s, but this text demonstrates agitation for greater equality even in biblical times. The success of the sisters was limited; the law still only allowed women to inherit if they had no brothers. Nevertheless, the daughters of Zelophechad left us with the legacy of their courage and with divine recognition of the justness of their cause.
More broadly, the text challenges us to face the question of what legacy we leave our children. What does the next generation inherit from us — not just in terms of material goods but spiritual inheritance as well. This question has been particularly poignant for me recently. My mother passed away a year ago, and I’ve had to sort through the complicated legacy she left me. At her funeral, I said I was grateful that my mother taught me to dream big and that one’s dreams need not be limited by gender. This gift was perhaps the greatest one she gave me.
This weekend marks the July 4th holiday where we celebrate and reflect on our American values. Among the greatest benefits of living in the U.S. is the place of women relative to many parts of the world. How fitting that this week’s Torah portion corresponds to the confirmation hearings for Elana Kagan, who would be the second Jewish woman on the U.S. Supreme Court.
I feel blessed to live in a democracy where laws can and do change towards greater fairness. Like the daughters of Zelophechad, each generation must continue to work where the last generation left off.
“Yes, you can have a bike without training wheels when you get bigger,” I replied to Hannah. “Actually, when you’re six, you could have Jeremy’s bike if you’d like,” I suggested.
“No, Mom. I want a girl bike without training wheels,” Hannah explained.
“Sure, sweetie,” I said. “That sounds great.”
Looking Into Our Own Tents
Last weekend, I was at a gathering mostly of families with small children. When a young couple (who’ve only been married a couple years) came, one of the dads pointed to a child and joked: “Who said you could come to the party without one of these?!” The next day I was at a different party with the same couple and heard an acquaintance ask them: ‘So are you thinking of having kids soon?’ The couple desperately wants children but for a series of very good reasons, they’ve decided to wait one more year before trying. Until then, they have to deal with such questions on a regular basis.
I wish I could say that such questions end when you have kids, but they don’t. I was once with a friend who has three young kids, when she was asked by an acquaintance whether or not they plan on a fourth!
Likewise, a friend of mine recently decided to leave a job that she’d been at for several years. For good reason, she doesn’t yet know what her next professional move will be and will need some time to research options and decide. In the meantime, she has to respond to students and colleagues asking each day about her plans and admit that she’s not sure.
These incidents reminded me of a story from this week’s Torah portion and made me think about it in a new way. This week’s Torah portion is named for Balak, the King of Moab who asked a great sorcerer named Balaam to curse Israel. Balaam followed Balak to a mountain overlooking Israel’s campsite. However, when Balaam saw the people from above he was suddenly inspired to bless them instead. He exclaimed: “How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.” These words are the source of the Mah Tovu blessing which is recited when entering a synagogue.
The rabbis of the Talmud rightly asked: What did Balaam see that changed his mind and prompted him to bless the people? He didn’t get to know the people, so what could he have possibly seen from above which changed his opinion? They answered that “he saw that the doors of their tents did not exactly face one another and said: ‘these people are worthy that God’s presence should rest upon them.’” Since they had arranged their entrances so no one could see inside their neighbor’s tent, Balak was impressed by how the community protected each family’s privacy.
This teaching not only pertains to how to arrange our homes but our words as well. Often when we ask questions, we inadvertently seek to peer into our acquaintances’ tents, so to speak. We want to know their plans and to get a better glimpse into their family life. Yet, this Talmudic teaching encourages us to focus on our own tent instead.
When making personal life decisions — about jobs, kids and relationships — we need to examine our own home and heart to determine what is best for our family. We need to summon the strength to ignore others’ comments and questions to find our own path.
With the rise of reality television and social media, our society seems ever more eager to reveal the details of each other’s personal lives. In such an atmosphere, this teaching is an important corrective.
By declaring a moratorium on pressuring questions, by looking into our own homes rather than each other’s, we too can become worthy of the blessing: “How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.”
I wish I could say that such questions end when you have kids, but they don’t. I was once with a friend who has three young kids, when she was asked by an acquaintance whether or not they plan on a fourth!
Likewise, a friend of mine recently decided to leave a job that she’d been at for several years. For good reason, she doesn’t yet know what her next professional move will be and will need some time to research options and decide. In the meantime, she has to respond to students and colleagues asking each day about her plans and admit that she’s not sure.
These incidents reminded me of a story from this week’s Torah portion and made me think about it in a new way. This week’s Torah portion is named for Balak, the King of Moab who asked a great sorcerer named Balaam to curse Israel. Balaam followed Balak to a mountain overlooking Israel’s campsite. However, when Balaam saw the people from above he was suddenly inspired to bless them instead. He exclaimed: “How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.” These words are the source of the Mah Tovu blessing which is recited when entering a synagogue.
The rabbis of the Talmud rightly asked: What did Balaam see that changed his mind and prompted him to bless the people? He didn’t get to know the people, so what could he have possibly seen from above which changed his opinion? They answered that “he saw that the doors of their tents did not exactly face one another and said: ‘these people are worthy that God’s presence should rest upon them.’” Since they had arranged their entrances so no one could see inside their neighbor’s tent, Balak was impressed by how the community protected each family’s privacy.
This teaching not only pertains to how to arrange our homes but our words as well. Often when we ask questions, we inadvertently seek to peer into our acquaintances’ tents, so to speak. We want to know their plans and to get a better glimpse into their family life. Yet, this Talmudic teaching encourages us to focus on our own tent instead.
When making personal life decisions — about jobs, kids and relationships — we need to examine our own home and heart to determine what is best for our family. We need to summon the strength to ignore others’ comments and questions to find our own path.
With the rise of reality television and social media, our society seems ever more eager to reveal the details of each other’s personal lives. In such an atmosphere, this teaching is an important corrective.
By declaring a moratorium on pressuring questions, by looking into our own homes rather than each other’s, we too can become worthy of the blessing: “How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.”
Recharging Our Batteries
“I’m fine,” I lied to my friend on the phone, but the truth is I’m burned out. I was seriously ill a few weeks ago. Thankfully my symptoms are gone now, but I have yet to recover the spring in my steps. My three-year-old daughter (who recently transitioned from a crib to a bed) woke me up at 3:30 each morning for the pas few — which doesn’t help. I’m nearing the end of one leg of a professional project I’ve been working on for a long time, and I feel like a marathon runner who collapses five feet shy of the finish line. I turn to this week’s Torah portion looking for guidance — for anything to uplift my spirit.
There, I discover a bizarre ritual — that of the red heifer. The portion is called Hukkat (which means law), and it begins with an unusual statute. God commands Moses and Aaron to instruct the people to give the priest a red cow “that is unblemished which has no defect and on which no yoke has been laid” to sacrifice. The heifer’s ashes would purify anyone who had become impure from contact with a corpse.
This rite is so remote from our experience today. What could I possibly take away from this text?
Firstly, this ritual is honest. It admits that loss creates spiritual unease which lingers long after the crisis has passed. The red heifer ritual acknowledges human vulnerability — rather than pretending everything is okay. The ritual also recognizes something must be done to address spiritual malaise. You can’t just wish it away but have to take steps to remove it.
The remedy the Torah proposes to that vulnerability (purification via the heifer’s ashes), however, is very odd. What are we to make of it today when we no longer can (nor would we want to) enact this ritual?
The commentators have given many explanations for this ritual over the centuries, and some — including even the wise King Solomon — have been unable to offer any explanation at all. Instead, they’ve understood this law as one of life’s great mysteries. Yet some modern commentators have noted that by killing an unblemished cow, the ritual asserts that perfection simply doesn’t belong in the world.
None of us are without defects or flaws; all of us carry great burdens in life. The red heifer ritual symbolizes relinquishing the dream of perfection. Only by recognizing our limitations can the process of healing begin. This idea is as true now as it was then — cows or no cows.
Tomorrow, in honor of my birthday, I am going to a day spa for some R&R. I hope this outing will work as well as the ritual of the red heifer!
There, I discover a bizarre ritual — that of the red heifer. The portion is called Hukkat (which means law), and it begins with an unusual statute. God commands Moses and Aaron to instruct the people to give the priest a red cow “that is unblemished which has no defect and on which no yoke has been laid” to sacrifice. The heifer’s ashes would purify anyone who had become impure from contact with a corpse.
This rite is so remote from our experience today. What could I possibly take away from this text?
Firstly, this ritual is honest. It admits that loss creates spiritual unease which lingers long after the crisis has passed. The red heifer ritual acknowledges human vulnerability — rather than pretending everything is okay. The ritual also recognizes something must be done to address spiritual malaise. You can’t just wish it away but have to take steps to remove it.
The remedy the Torah proposes to that vulnerability (purification via the heifer’s ashes), however, is very odd. What are we to make of it today when we no longer can (nor would we want to) enact this ritual?
The commentators have given many explanations for this ritual over the centuries, and some — including even the wise King Solomon — have been unable to offer any explanation at all. Instead, they’ve understood this law as one of life’s great mysteries. Yet some modern commentators have noted that by killing an unblemished cow, the ritual asserts that perfection simply doesn’t belong in the world.
None of us are without defects or flaws; all of us carry great burdens in life. The red heifer ritual symbolizes relinquishing the dream of perfection. Only by recognizing our limitations can the process of healing begin. This idea is as true now as it was then — cows or no cows.
Tomorrow, in honor of my birthday, I am going to a day spa for some R&R. I hope this outing will work as well as the ritual of the red heifer!
The Korah Within
Last Friday, my son’s class put on a show to celebrate their completion of kindergarten. The kids sang songs recalling all they had learned in school this year – complete with choreography and props. The evening was just wonderful! My husband and I and both sets of grandparents watched eagerly, kvelling with pride at Jeremy’s enthusiasm. Afterwards of course, we all told Jeremy how proud we were of him and what a great job he had done. One of the relatives told Jeremy, “I think you did the best in your class.”
The comment was well-intentioned, but I wondered: why introduce competition into a situation where it’s not inherently present? Why isn’t it enough to have done a great job? Why do we feel the need to be “the best”? That same night, we also celebrated another accomplishment. I had just received an acceptance from a publisher for a book I’ve written on spirituality and parenthood. My father opened a bottle of champagne and made a toast, saying “May this be the first book of many.” His toast expressed his pride in me. But again I wondered: why isn’t one book enough to celebrate, without the expectation of many to come? Why is it so hard to enjoy an accomplishment without thinking of what’s next?
This week’s Torah portion speaks to these questions. In the parasha, a Levite named Korah instigates a rebellion against the leadership of Aaron and Moses. Korah challenged Moses and Aaron’s authority by asserting the holiness of the congregation and asking: “Why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?”
Moses realized that Korah’s real problem was his inability to be content with his responsibilities as a Levite which fueled his impulse to challenge Moses and Aaron for more. Seeing through Korah’s question, Moses responded: “Is it not enough for you that God has set you apart from the community of Israel to bring you close to God to serve in God’s tabernacle and to stand before the congregation to serve them?”
After an elaborate series of confrontations, Korah and his followers are killed (when the earth swallows them up), but later in Numbers we read that “the sons of Korah didn’t die” (Numbers 26:11). Korah’s discontent exists in each generation — indeed perhaps in each one of us. Pirkei Avot (The Chapters of the Ancestors) contains Ben Zoma’s famous dictum: “Who is wealthy? The one who is content with his portion.” He makes it sounds so simple, but finding contentment is one the hardest spiritual challenge in life.
Indeed, Moses’ question haunts me. Why is it so difficult to be content with one’s portion and not always be looking for more? For example, I always wanted two children — a boy and a girl. Now that I have them both, I wonder should I have more? Will I regret it later if I don’t have more children? Whatever I accomplish either professionally or personally, I’m always wondering what’s next. The Korah within is ever eager to load more expectations on me and to compare myself unfavorably with others.
Friday night, as I tucked my son into bed, I told him again how much we enjoyed the celebration. “You did a great job and all your friends did wonderfully too. I am so proud of you and your whole class.” He smiled and gave me a hug. The evening reminded me to stay vigilant against the Korahs within and without.
The comment was well-intentioned, but I wondered: why introduce competition into a situation where it’s not inherently present? Why isn’t it enough to have done a great job? Why do we feel the need to be “the best”? That same night, we also celebrated another accomplishment. I had just received an acceptance from a publisher for a book I’ve written on spirituality and parenthood. My father opened a bottle of champagne and made a toast, saying “May this be the first book of many.” His toast expressed his pride in me. But again I wondered: why isn’t one book enough to celebrate, without the expectation of many to come? Why is it so hard to enjoy an accomplishment without thinking of what’s next?
This week’s Torah portion speaks to these questions. In the parasha, a Levite named Korah instigates a rebellion against the leadership of Aaron and Moses. Korah challenged Moses and Aaron’s authority by asserting the holiness of the congregation and asking: “Why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?”
Moses realized that Korah’s real problem was his inability to be content with his responsibilities as a Levite which fueled his impulse to challenge Moses and Aaron for more. Seeing through Korah’s question, Moses responded: “Is it not enough for you that God has set you apart from the community of Israel to bring you close to God to serve in God’s tabernacle and to stand before the congregation to serve them?”
After an elaborate series of confrontations, Korah and his followers are killed (when the earth swallows them up), but later in Numbers we read that “the sons of Korah didn’t die” (Numbers 26:11). Korah’s discontent exists in each generation — indeed perhaps in each one of us. Pirkei Avot (The Chapters of the Ancestors) contains Ben Zoma’s famous dictum: “Who is wealthy? The one who is content with his portion.” He makes it sounds so simple, but finding contentment is one the hardest spiritual challenge in life.
Indeed, Moses’ question haunts me. Why is it so difficult to be content with one’s portion and not always be looking for more? For example, I always wanted two children — a boy and a girl. Now that I have them both, I wonder should I have more? Will I regret it later if I don’t have more children? Whatever I accomplish either professionally or personally, I’m always wondering what’s next. The Korah within is ever eager to load more expectations on me and to compare myself unfavorably with others.
Friday night, as I tucked my son into bed, I told him again how much we enjoyed the celebration. “You did a great job and all your friends did wonderfully too. I am so proud of you and your whole class.” He smiled and gave me a hug. The evening reminded me to stay vigilant against the Korahs within and without.
In Sickness and In Health
For the past 10 days, I’ve been sick. After two trips to urgent care, one to the ER, two visits with the regular doctor and even a brain scan, they think I have Viral Meningitis (but aren’t yet sure). Whatever the name of this illness, it’s not fun. With daily fevers and excruciating headaches, I’ve been completely incapacitated. My folks and in-laws are taking turns watching the kids when my husband’s at work because I’m out of commission.
This week’s Torah portion couldn’t be more apropos to my current condition. The parsha recounts how Miriam became ill with Tzara’at, a mysterious disease which turned her skin “white as snow,” during the people’s desert trek towards the Promised Land. Her brother Moses prayed on her behalf a short, poignant prayer: “El na refa na la” (“God please heal her.”) The text recounts that the whole community stopped their journey and waited for seven days for Miriam to recover before traveling again.
Reading this passage while being sick, I wonder whether Miriam was changed by these events. The name of the portion is Beha’alot’kha — it means “when you raise up” (and refers to lighting the candles of the menorah.) When Miriam finally arose from her illness and recovered, I wonder whether her life got back to normal or was different somehow — having faced her vulnerability and endured.
Unfortunately, the Torah doesn’t say. The text simply states that the people subsequently resumed their journey. The next time Miriam is mentioned is when she dies (eight chapters later). The Torah’s silence invites speculation. Miriam’s illness was immediately preceded by her and Aaron speaking about Moses and his “Cushite wife.” Perhaps her subsequent silence demonstrates that she had a new appreciation for the power of words. I imagine that Miriam must have been moved by the community waiting for her and by her brother’s prayer. When you’re sick, acts of kindness mean so much. I was so grateful this week for my step-mother’s chicken soup, my mother in law’s chicken and for the phone calls from family and friends.
What surprised me is how being sick immediately and completely changes your outlook. Thankfully, I’ve been healthy most of my life and I didn’t realize how much I take my health for granted. But when health is taken away, you realize it’s all that matters. Suddenly my other worries, plans and goals slipped away, and my sole desire is to be healthy enough to care for my family and be with my loved ones.
In the grand scheme of things, my condition is relatively minor. At the ER, I saw a women sobbing uncontrollably because her daughter had been shot. I saw a man with a metal neck-brace which seemed only tentatively holding his head on to his body. There’s nothing like a trip to the ER to snap life back into focus and make you stop “sweating the small stuff”!
I honestly don’t know how Miriam was affected by her illness. As for me, I hope that this virus leaves my body as soon as possible — and I hope that the appreciation it’s given me stays a lifetime.
This week’s Torah portion couldn’t be more apropos to my current condition. The parsha recounts how Miriam became ill with Tzara’at, a mysterious disease which turned her skin “white as snow,” during the people’s desert trek towards the Promised Land. Her brother Moses prayed on her behalf a short, poignant prayer: “El na refa na la” (“God please heal her.”) The text recounts that the whole community stopped their journey and waited for seven days for Miriam to recover before traveling again.
Reading this passage while being sick, I wonder whether Miriam was changed by these events. The name of the portion is Beha’alot’kha — it means “when you raise up” (and refers to lighting the candles of the menorah.) When Miriam finally arose from her illness and recovered, I wonder whether her life got back to normal or was different somehow — having faced her vulnerability and endured.
Unfortunately, the Torah doesn’t say. The text simply states that the people subsequently resumed their journey. The next time Miriam is mentioned is when she dies (eight chapters later). The Torah’s silence invites speculation. Miriam’s illness was immediately preceded by her and Aaron speaking about Moses and his “Cushite wife.” Perhaps her subsequent silence demonstrates that she had a new appreciation for the power of words. I imagine that Miriam must have been moved by the community waiting for her and by her brother’s prayer. When you’re sick, acts of kindness mean so much. I was so grateful this week for my step-mother’s chicken soup, my mother in law’s chicken and for the phone calls from family and friends.
What surprised me is how being sick immediately and completely changes your outlook. Thankfully, I’ve been healthy most of my life and I didn’t realize how much I take my health for granted. But when health is taken away, you realize it’s all that matters. Suddenly my other worries, plans and goals slipped away, and my sole desire is to be healthy enough to care for my family and be with my loved ones.
In the grand scheme of things, my condition is relatively minor. At the ER, I saw a women sobbing uncontrollably because her daughter had been shot. I saw a man with a metal neck-brace which seemed only tentatively holding his head on to his body. There’s nothing like a trip to the ER to snap life back into focus and make you stop “sweating the small stuff”!
I honestly don’t know how Miriam was affected by her illness. As for me, I hope that this virus leaves my body as soon as possible — and I hope that the appreciation it’s given me stays a lifetime.
The 614th Commandment
My friend Orley took my daughter Hannah to the park. Hannah showed her the two ways to climb up to the slide — one which only has a few steps and one that has monkey-bars. Hannah explained that she goes up the few steps and isn’t big enough to climb the monkey-bars. “I’m just a little bit big.” She said, “I’m three. I don’t want to get bigger. I like being three.” Orley was impressed by Hannah’s peacefulness with the stage that she is in.
I wish I could say the same. I’ve been sick this week, and I’d love to fast forward until I feel well again. I’m in the middle of a couple professional projects that I wish were done already. I can’t make the moment of completion come any sooner than it will, but in the meantime I have an abiding sense of frustration.
In this week’s Torah portion, the people finally conclude a project that they’ve been working on for a long time — the tabernacle, the portable sanctuary for use on their desert journey. When Moses completed the final preparations for use of the tabernacle, the chiefs of each tribe presented gifts for the tabernacle — one per day. The gifts by each of the chiefs were identical and incredibly specific; the weight and worth of each donated item is elaborated. Therefore the same paragraph describing this gift repeats twelve times. (This week was my bat mitzvah portion, and I practiced that paragraph so many times I could recite it in my sleep!)
I wonder why the Torah which is usually extremely concise repeats the same paragraph 12 time. Instead the paragraph could have just been written once with a sentence stipulating that the same offering was given by each of the chiefs on the subsequent 11 days. Or better yet, all the gifts could have been given on the same day!
Perhaps, by specifying the offering for each day, the Torah subtly makes the point that each gift is equally worthwhile. Each tribe had its own special moment. Rather than grouping the days together, the Torah notes that each day has its own blessings.
The same point is made by the counting of the Omer — the seven weeks leading up to the holiday of Shavuot (which we celebrated this week). These weeks were a period of intense anticipation for farmers. On Shavuot (which is also called Hag-Ha-katzir, the holiday of the harvest), the wheat would finally ripen, and the farmers would know how well their crops had done. The natural inclination would be to count down until the day of the harvest. Instead, the Torah stipulates that we should count up the days. This reversal implies that each day is valuable.
As we celebrate the giving the Torah with its 613 commandments, I would add just one more commandment: “Thou Shalt Not Miss Thy Life.” John Lennon understood this when he wrote that “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” This newest made up commandment reminds me not to miss the trees for the forest. Each day’s gifts should be appreciated on their own terms, not merely as a prelude to a future hope.
In this week’s ordination ceremony for the Ziegler school’s newest rabbis, Reb Mimi Feigelson noted that the Hebrew words hamtanah (the waiting) and hamatanah (the gift) are spelled the same. Even waiting can be a gift.
I hope to learn from Hannah to be content in my present stage. There will always be more ladders to climb in the future, but in the meantime, we can enjoy the gift of today.
I wish I could say the same. I’ve been sick this week, and I’d love to fast forward until I feel well again. I’m in the middle of a couple professional projects that I wish were done already. I can’t make the moment of completion come any sooner than it will, but in the meantime I have an abiding sense of frustration.
In this week’s Torah portion, the people finally conclude a project that they’ve been working on for a long time — the tabernacle, the portable sanctuary for use on their desert journey. When Moses completed the final preparations for use of the tabernacle, the chiefs of each tribe presented gifts for the tabernacle — one per day. The gifts by each of the chiefs were identical and incredibly specific; the weight and worth of each donated item is elaborated. Therefore the same paragraph describing this gift repeats twelve times. (This week was my bat mitzvah portion, and I practiced that paragraph so many times I could recite it in my sleep!)
I wonder why the Torah which is usually extremely concise repeats the same paragraph 12 time. Instead the paragraph could have just been written once with a sentence stipulating that the same offering was given by each of the chiefs on the subsequent 11 days. Or better yet, all the gifts could have been given on the same day!
Perhaps, by specifying the offering for each day, the Torah subtly makes the point that each gift is equally worthwhile. Each tribe had its own special moment. Rather than grouping the days together, the Torah notes that each day has its own blessings.
The same point is made by the counting of the Omer — the seven weeks leading up to the holiday of Shavuot (which we celebrated this week). These weeks were a period of intense anticipation for farmers. On Shavuot (which is also called Hag-Ha-katzir, the holiday of the harvest), the wheat would finally ripen, and the farmers would know how well their crops had done. The natural inclination would be to count down until the day of the harvest. Instead, the Torah stipulates that we should count up the days. This reversal implies that each day is valuable.
As we celebrate the giving the Torah with its 613 commandments, I would add just one more commandment: “Thou Shalt Not Miss Thy Life.” John Lennon understood this when he wrote that “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” This newest made up commandment reminds me not to miss the trees for the forest. Each day’s gifts should be appreciated on their own terms, not merely as a prelude to a future hope.
In this week’s ordination ceremony for the Ziegler school’s newest rabbis, Reb Mimi Feigelson noted that the Hebrew words hamtanah (the waiting) and hamatanah (the gift) are spelled the same. Even waiting can be a gift.
I hope to learn from Hannah to be content in my present stage. There will always be more ladders to climb in the future, but in the meantime, we can enjoy the gift of today.
The Mother's Day Present
Last week, my husband kept asking me, “What do you want for Mother’s Day?” “Nothing,” I replied, which was the truth. Thankfully, I have everything I need, and there was no gift I wanted which came to mind.
My grandmother flew into town from Connecticut for the weekend, and we spent Friday afternoon with my father-in-law who is an avid photographer. So the visit was well-photographed. Also one of the mornings, my six-year-old son Jeremy took my cell-phone and started snapping pictures around the house.
I noticed a big difference between the types of pictures my father-in-law took and the pictures my son snapped. My father-in-law took a series of polished, posed photos of various family members, well-dressed and smiling. He took pictures of the kids playing piano among other cute moments. These kinds of pictures fill my photo-albums. By contrast, my son took photos I would never put in an album. He took a picture of me in my bathrobe and of family members when no one was paying attention. He didn’t take photos of “Kodak moments;” but regular, around-the-house moments.
This week’s Torah portion marks a change in focus from Kodak moments to non-Kodak moments. The parasha begins a new book of the Torah — B’midbar meaning in the desert — and as its title suggests, the shift is geographic. The people move from Mount Sinai — which was the name of first part of last week’s portion B’har (on the mountain) — to the wilderness where they march on their way to the Promised Land. This switch in location also mirrors a shift in content of the Torah. The previous book of Vayikra dealt with lofty laws while B’midbar deals with the day to day struggles of the people wandering through the desert for forty years — complaining every step of the way.
The first portion of B’midbar is not dramatic. It recounts the census that was taken of the people — the precise numbers of each tribe as well as the arrangement of the groups as they marched in the desert. The portion is dry reading, but perhaps its lesson is that spirituality can also be found in the ordinary, day-to-day times.
This year, Mother’s Day felt a little ironic to me. To honor mothers, adults create an event. Whether it’s a family brunch or a celebration at school, we create a ceremony complete with photo-ops or video, a present, and flowers. These celebrations are thoughtful and lovely, but the real lesson of motherhood is precisely the opposite.
The greatest thing about young children is the way they find fun in the non-events of life; they enjoy running errands and hanging out. Yesterday, my three-year-old daughter enthusiastically helped me press the buttons on the bank ATM and put away laundry. Children infuse the regular times of life with a joy that’s infectious. If we’re lucky, we catch a bit of their worldview. We too can see that the “bathrobe moments” count as much as the “Kodak moments” of life. This year what I really want for mother’s day is to see the world through my children’s eyes—enjoying even the duller moments to the fullest.
My grandmother flew into town from Connecticut for the weekend, and we spent Friday afternoon with my father-in-law who is an avid photographer. So the visit was well-photographed. Also one of the mornings, my six-year-old son Jeremy took my cell-phone and started snapping pictures around the house.
I noticed a big difference between the types of pictures my father-in-law took and the pictures my son snapped. My father-in-law took a series of polished, posed photos of various family members, well-dressed and smiling. He took pictures of the kids playing piano among other cute moments. These kinds of pictures fill my photo-albums. By contrast, my son took photos I would never put in an album. He took a picture of me in my bathrobe and of family members when no one was paying attention. He didn’t take photos of “Kodak moments;” but regular, around-the-house moments.
This week’s Torah portion marks a change in focus from Kodak moments to non-Kodak moments. The parasha begins a new book of the Torah — B’midbar meaning in the desert — and as its title suggests, the shift is geographic. The people move from Mount Sinai — which was the name of first part of last week’s portion B’har (on the mountain) — to the wilderness where they march on their way to the Promised Land. This switch in location also mirrors a shift in content of the Torah. The previous book of Vayikra dealt with lofty laws while B’midbar deals with the day to day struggles of the people wandering through the desert for forty years — complaining every step of the way.
The first portion of B’midbar is not dramatic. It recounts the census that was taken of the people — the precise numbers of each tribe as well as the arrangement of the groups as they marched in the desert. The portion is dry reading, but perhaps its lesson is that spirituality can also be found in the ordinary, day-to-day times.
This year, Mother’s Day felt a little ironic to me. To honor mothers, adults create an event. Whether it’s a family brunch or a celebration at school, we create a ceremony complete with photo-ops or video, a present, and flowers. These celebrations are thoughtful and lovely, but the real lesson of motherhood is precisely the opposite.
The greatest thing about young children is the way they find fun in the non-events of life; they enjoy running errands and hanging out. Yesterday, my three-year-old daughter enthusiastically helped me press the buttons on the bank ATM and put away laundry. Children infuse the regular times of life with a joy that’s infectious. If we’re lucky, we catch a bit of their worldview. We too can see that the “bathrobe moments” count as much as the “Kodak moments” of life. This year what I really want for mother’s day is to see the world through my children’s eyes—enjoying even the duller moments to the fullest.
The Lunchbox Lesson
Each weekday morning, my day begins the same way. I roll out of bed and make the kids’ lunches. I pack a sandwich in a Tupperware box and then gather the fruit, granola bar, and cheese-stick, and shove them all in the lunchbox. Some mornings, the items fit in the lunchbox with ease. Other mornings (if I’m too sleepy and not paying attention), I have to take everything out and rearrange the items. As I do this mundane task each morning, I am reminded of something one of my teachers taught me in rabbinical school.
Rabbi Ron Shulman, my homiletics instructor, once recounted a principle he learned from Dr. Stephen Covey, the author of “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.” He explained that when filling a rectangular jar with rocks and pebbles, if you put the large rocks first, the pebbles will fill the remaining space, and both will fit. However, if you put the pebbles first, all the rocks will likely not fit as there is less room for the rocks. (Likewise, if I put the Tupperware in the lunchbox first then all the rest of the food items fit with ease. However, if I place the snacks in first, the Tupperware just won’t fit!)
Rabbi Shulman explained that what is true of space is also true of time. The “smaller” items (such as checking email or making phone calls) take up a great deal of time. They’ll take up all our time if we let them. He recommended that when crafting our weekly calendar, we make sure to schedule the larger, more important items first — such as making time for our continued study and writing. That way, all our goals will fit into our week. Applying the “rocks” principle is easy when making lunches. However, applying the principle in regular life is more complicated. We are engaged in many important, time consuming projects every day. How do we choose between competing priorities?
This week’s Torah portion begins with a conflict between professional and personal obligations. In the parasha, called Emor (Speak), God instructs Moses to speak to the priests about how to handle this dilemma. The ancient priests who worked in the Temple were supposed to avoid ritual impurity (which was acquired by coming close to a dead body). The portion begins with God specifying that the priest should nevertheless make an exception for “his closest relatives: his mother, and father, son, daughter, brother, or sister.” In this conflict between work and family, the Torah asserts that family comes first.
Oddly, the priest’s wife doesn’t appear on the list, but the rabbis of the Talmud clarified that the phrase “his closest relatives” surely refers to her, too. In reading this passage, I was struck by the idea that the person he was presumably closest to — his wife — wasn’t mentioned explicitly but was taken as a given.
This textual omission reflects a tendency in life. Sometimes, among our many tasks, the relationship between spouses can be taken for granted. This relationship is the foundation of the family, but we easily forget to prioritize it. My husband and I are coming up on our tenth anniversary this year. We’re still very much in love — and extremely busy with all the demands of our personal and professional lives. Recently, we realized that we should make more time to connect with each other. For the first time in a while, we went out two weekends in a row, not for any occasion, but just to be together.
Sometimes the power of Torah is in the questions it raises. This week’s portion asks: What is the biggest item in your lunchbox? Are you putting it in first?
Rabbi Ron Shulman, my homiletics instructor, once recounted a principle he learned from Dr. Stephen Covey, the author of “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.” He explained that when filling a rectangular jar with rocks and pebbles, if you put the large rocks first, the pebbles will fill the remaining space, and both will fit. However, if you put the pebbles first, all the rocks will likely not fit as there is less room for the rocks. (Likewise, if I put the Tupperware in the lunchbox first then all the rest of the food items fit with ease. However, if I place the snacks in first, the Tupperware just won’t fit!)
Rabbi Shulman explained that what is true of space is also true of time. The “smaller” items (such as checking email or making phone calls) take up a great deal of time. They’ll take up all our time if we let them. He recommended that when crafting our weekly calendar, we make sure to schedule the larger, more important items first — such as making time for our continued study and writing. That way, all our goals will fit into our week. Applying the “rocks” principle is easy when making lunches. However, applying the principle in regular life is more complicated. We are engaged in many important, time consuming projects every day. How do we choose between competing priorities?
This week’s Torah portion begins with a conflict between professional and personal obligations. In the parasha, called Emor (Speak), God instructs Moses to speak to the priests about how to handle this dilemma. The ancient priests who worked in the Temple were supposed to avoid ritual impurity (which was acquired by coming close to a dead body). The portion begins with God specifying that the priest should nevertheless make an exception for “his closest relatives: his mother, and father, son, daughter, brother, or sister.” In this conflict between work and family, the Torah asserts that family comes first.
Oddly, the priest’s wife doesn’t appear on the list, but the rabbis of the Talmud clarified that the phrase “his closest relatives” surely refers to her, too. In reading this passage, I was struck by the idea that the person he was presumably closest to — his wife — wasn’t mentioned explicitly but was taken as a given.
This textual omission reflects a tendency in life. Sometimes, among our many tasks, the relationship between spouses can be taken for granted. This relationship is the foundation of the family, but we easily forget to prioritize it. My husband and I are coming up on our tenth anniversary this year. We’re still very much in love — and extremely busy with all the demands of our personal and professional lives. Recently, we realized that we should make more time to connect with each other. For the first time in a while, we went out two weekends in a row, not for any occasion, but just to be together.
Sometimes the power of Torah is in the questions it raises. This week’s portion asks: What is the biggest item in your lunchbox? Are you putting it in first?
Finding Our Place on the Map
My six-year old son, Jeremy loves maps. He enjoys playing with Google Earth and finding our home and the homes of his friends and family. The other day, I was reading the weekly Torah portion and left my bible on the table. Jeremy picked it up and discovered that it contains maps. “Where do we live on this map?” He asked.
I explained that this map was of Israel and showed him where his aunt and uncle live (near Tel Aviv) and where his cousins live (in Jerusalem). I also pointed out to him an area which contained his middle name (Judah) and a town with his father’s middle name (Shilo). I felt grateful that I could highlight the many connections he has with Israel’s places and people.
This week’s Torah portion also seems concerned with Jeremy’s question: Where do we belong on the map? The people are wandering in the desert but God instructs Moses to tell the people that they are heading to “a land flowing with milk and honey.” God explains the laws of how they should live to “be holy” en route and when they reach that special land.
The double Torah portion for this week is Aharei Mot/Kedoshim (After the Death/Holiness) and is particularly apt for this week’s observance of Yom Ha-Zikaron (Memorial Day for Israel’s fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism) and Yom Ha-Atzmaut (Israel’s Independence Day). The first Torah portion recounts God’s words to Moses after the mysterious death of two of Aaron’s sons. When his sons died, the Torah recounts that “Aaron was silent.” Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.
Anyone who has been to Israel on Yom Ha-Zikaron has experienced the poignancy of silence. On both the morning and evening of remembrance day, a siren sounds and everything comes to a halt. People stop their cars and stand for a moment of silence. I experienced this myself when studying in Israel during rabbinical school. I happened to be in the library (which is already fairly quiet) when the siren rang, but this silence had a unique power.
Like the linking of the two Torah portions, the juxtaposition of the two holidays makes the clear statement that the celebration of Israel’s independence is only possible because of the sacrifices of those who died. Only because of their suffering and that of their families, are the Jewish people able to live on the Torah’s map.
On Tuesday, Israel celebrated its 62nd birthday. There’s a great deal of worry in the air about Iran developing nuclear weapons, the current strains in U.S.-Israel relations and future prospects with the Palestinians. Nonetheless, the news doesn’t overshadow the fact that people in Israel continue about their daily lives — getting married, having children, running errands, and engaging in normal business.
This week, we celebrate the fact that the Jewish people have a place on the world map and remember those who gave their lives to make it so.
I explained that this map was of Israel and showed him where his aunt and uncle live (near Tel Aviv) and where his cousins live (in Jerusalem). I also pointed out to him an area which contained his middle name (Judah) and a town with his father’s middle name (Shilo). I felt grateful that I could highlight the many connections he has with Israel’s places and people.
This week’s Torah portion also seems concerned with Jeremy’s question: Where do we belong on the map? The people are wandering in the desert but God instructs Moses to tell the people that they are heading to “a land flowing with milk and honey.” God explains the laws of how they should live to “be holy” en route and when they reach that special land.
The double Torah portion for this week is Aharei Mot/Kedoshim (After the Death/Holiness) and is particularly apt for this week’s observance of Yom Ha-Zikaron (Memorial Day for Israel’s fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism) and Yom Ha-Atzmaut (Israel’s Independence Day). The first Torah portion recounts God’s words to Moses after the mysterious death of two of Aaron’s sons. When his sons died, the Torah recounts that “Aaron was silent.” Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.
Anyone who has been to Israel on Yom Ha-Zikaron has experienced the poignancy of silence. On both the morning and evening of remembrance day, a siren sounds and everything comes to a halt. People stop their cars and stand for a moment of silence. I experienced this myself when studying in Israel during rabbinical school. I happened to be in the library (which is already fairly quiet) when the siren rang, but this silence had a unique power.
Like the linking of the two Torah portions, the juxtaposition of the two holidays makes the clear statement that the celebration of Israel’s independence is only possible because of the sacrifices of those who died. Only because of their suffering and that of their families, are the Jewish people able to live on the Torah’s map.
On Tuesday, Israel celebrated its 62nd birthday. There’s a great deal of worry in the air about Iran developing nuclear weapons, the current strains in U.S.-Israel relations and future prospects with the Palestinians. Nonetheless, the news doesn’t overshadow the fact that people in Israel continue about their daily lives — getting married, having children, running errands, and engaging in normal business.
This week, we celebrate the fact that the Jewish people have a place on the world map and remember those who gave their lives to make it so.
Just another Boring Day
Each day, when I pick up my son up from school, I ask him: “How was your day?” His answer is always the same: “Boring.” When I then ask him what he did, he tells me about activities he enjoyed, who he played with on the jungle-gym, and the new things he learned. Whenever I see him at school, he’s running around, happy as can be, and doesn’t want to leave at the end of the day. Still, his initial response is always that it’s boring.
If I read this week’s Torah portion and was asked: ‘How was it?’ the first adjective to come to mind would be ‘boring’ – or even gross. If a contest were held for the least-exciting Torah portion of the year, this portion would win by a landslide! This week’s double portion, called Tazria-Metzora (Delivery-The Leper), deals with an ailment called Tzara-at which can afflict the skin or even a house. Thankfully, this condition no longer exists today. The portion describes the process for diagnosis and recovery from the disease.
Although the portion is filled with detailed, yucky descriptions of skin rashes and mold, it also contains one of my favorite teachings of the entire Torah. In describing the diagnosis procedure, the priest is instructed to examine the affliction on the patient’s skin and then to “look at him.” The priest is required to examine the infection, but also to see the whole person.
Often in life, flaws are readily apparent, but we need to look at the whole picture to see the strengths too. The pain of life is easily recognized; the blessings require a second look.
Today is Yom Ha-Shoah where we recall the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust and the promise to “Never Forget.” For myself (and many in this generation), we have been so inundated with Holocaust movies, books and images that we couldn’t possibly forget. The real question is: what do we do with this memory? How does remembering change us?
The first and most important result of remembering the Holocaust is that it spurs us to speak out against injustice – and particularly against genocide all over the world. “Never Again” is a powerful call to action.
Yet, on a personal, spiritual level, the memory of the Holocaust is harder to swallow. The Shoah reminds us that the world is an unsafe place and that people have tremendous capacity for evil. Since I knew about the Holocaust from a very young age, to this day I occasionally have nightmares with terrifying, Holocaust images. For me, the memory of the Shoah has been like a kind of spiritual darkness that is always with me.
However, more recently, I’ve discovered that remembering the Shoah can also have the opposite spiritual affect. It can bring vibrancy to commonplace moments. In her acceptance speech at the Oscars in 2008, Holocaust survivor Gerda Weissmann Klein recalled “those who never lived to see the magic of a boring evening at home.” She said that there is no better way to honor the memory of those who died “than when you return home tonight, to realize that each of you who know the joy of freedom are winners.”
The memory of the Holocaust can give us a second pair of eyes with which to see our lives. Like the priest, it can help us see the bigger picture. By comparison, so many of our problems are trivial. Our complaints are not worth complaining about. Even the most boring moments of our lives are spectacular.
If I read this week’s Torah portion and was asked: ‘How was it?’ the first adjective to come to mind would be ‘boring’ – or even gross. If a contest were held for the least-exciting Torah portion of the year, this portion would win by a landslide! This week’s double portion, called Tazria-Metzora (Delivery-The Leper), deals with an ailment called Tzara-at which can afflict the skin or even a house. Thankfully, this condition no longer exists today. The portion describes the process for diagnosis and recovery from the disease.
Although the portion is filled with detailed, yucky descriptions of skin rashes and mold, it also contains one of my favorite teachings of the entire Torah. In describing the diagnosis procedure, the priest is instructed to examine the affliction on the patient’s skin and then to “look at him.” The priest is required to examine the infection, but also to see the whole person.
Often in life, flaws are readily apparent, but we need to look at the whole picture to see the strengths too. The pain of life is easily recognized; the blessings require a second look.
Today is Yom Ha-Shoah where we recall the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust and the promise to “Never Forget.” For myself (and many in this generation), we have been so inundated with Holocaust movies, books and images that we couldn’t possibly forget. The real question is: what do we do with this memory? How does remembering change us?
The first and most important result of remembering the Holocaust is that it spurs us to speak out against injustice – and particularly against genocide all over the world. “Never Again” is a powerful call to action.
Yet, on a personal, spiritual level, the memory of the Holocaust is harder to swallow. The Shoah reminds us that the world is an unsafe place and that people have tremendous capacity for evil. Since I knew about the Holocaust from a very young age, to this day I occasionally have nightmares with terrifying, Holocaust images. For me, the memory of the Shoah has been like a kind of spiritual darkness that is always with me.
However, more recently, I’ve discovered that remembering the Shoah can also have the opposite spiritual affect. It can bring vibrancy to commonplace moments. In her acceptance speech at the Oscars in 2008, Holocaust survivor Gerda Weissmann Klein recalled “those who never lived to see the magic of a boring evening at home.” She said that there is no better way to honor the memory of those who died “than when you return home tonight, to realize that each of you who know the joy of freedom are winners.”
The memory of the Holocaust can give us a second pair of eyes with which to see our lives. Like the priest, it can help us see the bigger picture. By comparison, so many of our problems are trivial. Our complaints are not worth complaining about. Even the most boring moments of our lives are spectacular.
The Ferris Wheel of Life
The other day, my son Jeremy discovered an unopened birthday present in his closet. It was a Kinex Ferris wheel building set. We took out all parts, and I was instantly overwhelmed. The game had 25 pages of assembly instructions! Despite my reservations, we started putting it together. The process was inordinately complicated. Although the box said it was for ages seven and up, I wondered why I, being three decades older than that, was having such difficulty figuring it out. Maybe I needed a Ph.D. in engineering.
We kept going step by step, and we became hooked. Bath-time came and went; bedtime passed, but we couldn’t stop. Even though it took all evening (and much of the next day), Jeremy was completely engaged throughout — helping to find each piece that we needed and snap them in. I must admit, it was the most fun we’d had in a long time.
I wondered why this was so much fun. What about this game so captivated our energies?
Like the center of a Ferris wheel, this week’s Torah portion is smack in the middle of the Torah. The parasha is from Vayikra (Leviticus), the central book of the Torah, and the portion called Shemini (which means eighth) contains both the central words and the central letter of the Torah. The ancient rabbis actually counted the letters of the Torah (which must have taken an awfully long time) and determined which was the middle letter of the Torah.
The letter is a vav — in the middle of the word gachon, which means belly. The context is the laws of keeping kosher, where God instructed Moses and Aaron to tell the people not to eat any animal which crawls on its belly. So, that letter is the belly button of the Torah, literally!
In the Torah scroll, this vav is written bigger than the others (with the ancient equivalent of a larger font) to draw attention to it. What difference does it make? Why did the rabbis bother with this tedious, time consuming exercise?
Like a spoke in a wheel, the letter vav is a straight line, extending vertically. When used as a prefix, it means “and,” and therefore is very common in the Torah. In fact, some special Torahs are written so that almost every column begins with the letter vav. These Vav Torahs are especially expensive because they’re tricky for scribes to write. Again, why is this innocuous, little letter so significant?
The vav is important for the same reason that the Kinex set was so much fun. Since vav means “and,” it highlights the connections between words or ideas. Rather than operating in isolation, the words are bound together. As the vav’s vertical line bridges between above and below, it shows that heaven and earth (or the human and divine realms) are inextricably linked. Each of us is connected to each other, and we are all linked to God. Therefore, the vav embodies the essence of Torah. (Indeed, the laws of Kashrut are intended to remind us of our connections to animals, to fellow Jews worldwide who follow these practices, and to God.)
Likewise, the Kinex game was fun because we enjoyed discovering how these seeming isolated parts fit together into a larger whole. People love puzzles of all kinds not only for intellectual stimulation but also because they reflect the spiritual essence of the world in which we live. Like Lego pieces, none of us is alone. We are all part of a web of intricate links to each other, to all living things, and to our Creator.
It all “Kinex.” If we understand this truth, then we comprehend the entire Torah.
We kept going step by step, and we became hooked. Bath-time came and went; bedtime passed, but we couldn’t stop. Even though it took all evening (and much of the next day), Jeremy was completely engaged throughout — helping to find each piece that we needed and snap them in. I must admit, it was the most fun we’d had in a long time.
I wondered why this was so much fun. What about this game so captivated our energies?
Like the center of a Ferris wheel, this week’s Torah portion is smack in the middle of the Torah. The parasha is from Vayikra (Leviticus), the central book of the Torah, and the portion called Shemini (which means eighth) contains both the central words and the central letter of the Torah. The ancient rabbis actually counted the letters of the Torah (which must have taken an awfully long time) and determined which was the middle letter of the Torah.
The letter is a vav — in the middle of the word gachon, which means belly. The context is the laws of keeping kosher, where God instructed Moses and Aaron to tell the people not to eat any animal which crawls on its belly. So, that letter is the belly button of the Torah, literally!
In the Torah scroll, this vav is written bigger than the others (with the ancient equivalent of a larger font) to draw attention to it. What difference does it make? Why did the rabbis bother with this tedious, time consuming exercise?
Like a spoke in a wheel, the letter vav is a straight line, extending vertically. When used as a prefix, it means “and,” and therefore is very common in the Torah. In fact, some special Torahs are written so that almost every column begins with the letter vav. These Vav Torahs are especially expensive because they’re tricky for scribes to write. Again, why is this innocuous, little letter so significant?
The vav is important for the same reason that the Kinex set was so much fun. Since vav means “and,” it highlights the connections between words or ideas. Rather than operating in isolation, the words are bound together. As the vav’s vertical line bridges between above and below, it shows that heaven and earth (or the human and divine realms) are inextricably linked. Each of us is connected to each other, and we are all linked to God. Therefore, the vav embodies the essence of Torah. (Indeed, the laws of Kashrut are intended to remind us of our connections to animals, to fellow Jews worldwide who follow these practices, and to God.)
Likewise, the Kinex game was fun because we enjoyed discovering how these seeming isolated parts fit together into a larger whole. People love puzzles of all kinds not only for intellectual stimulation but also because they reflect the spiritual essence of the world in which we live. Like Lego pieces, none of us is alone. We are all part of a web of intricate links to each other, to all living things, and to our Creator.
It all “Kinex.” If we understand this truth, then we comprehend the entire Torah.
Zooming In and Out
My six-year-old son Jeremy recently became obsessed with Google Earth, a computer program which shows a satellite picture of the world. When you type an address, the program zooms in and displays an aerial photo of exactly where the building is located. Jeremy loves inputting the addresses of family and friends and watching the program go to each place.
Since Jeremy started using this program, he and I have been engaged in an ongoing debate. He was taught in school that we live on earth, but he doesn’t believe it. He claims that since when you zoom out you see the earth, and when you zoom in you see our house, this means that we don’t live on earth. I’ve been trying to explain to him that the program demonstrates that we do live on earth. So far, neither of us has managed to convince the other.
In this week’s Torah portion, God and Moses also reach a similar impasse. The Torah reading for Shabbat during Passover is appropriately from Exodus. It recounts that in a moment of crisis, Moses begged to see God’s presence. God explained that no one can see God and live but agreed to make God’s goodness pass before Moses. God instructed Moses to stand in a cleft of a rock and agreed to reveal God’s back (but not God’s face).
What does this enigmatic scene mean? The Hatam Sofer (of nineteenth-century Hungary) explained that we can’t see God directly, but can only recognize the difference God has made after the fact.
In this interchange, Moses conveys the essential frustration of human life. Hindsight is 20/20. Our choices are easily evaluated in retrospect. Yet since we don’t know the future results of our actions, we often can’t tell whether we’re making mistakes until afterwards. Moses’ plea to see God directly reflects the human desire for a sign to know in advance whether we’re making the best decisions. God’s reply — that one can only ascertain God’s presence in hindsight — is sad but true.
Yet, perhaps God was suggesting that to really see God, Moses needed a different vantage point. Often when we look at our lives close up, we get confused and mired in our daily struggles, but when we look from a distance, we get a better perspective.
In the Passover seder, there’s a song which helps us to attain a birds-eye view: Dayenu (which means ‘It is enough for us.’) The song reviews Jewish history and offers thanks for each particular blessing along the way. These blessings include: being freed from slavery in Egypt, given the Shabbat and the Torah, and brought to Israel. The song reminds us of the preciousness of freedom and of the Torah’s guidance — gifts which can so easily be taken for granted.
I recently read People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks a moving novel about the history of the Sarajevo Haggadah. The book recounts stories about people in different periods from the Haggadah’s creation in 1480 through the present — including the expulsion from Spain in 1492 and the Holocaust. Viewing my life from the perspective of the characters in the story, I suddenly felt this overwhelming gratitude to be living in contemporary times. The day-to-day difficulties I face felt trivial in comparison to these epic struggles for survival.
This Passover, may we zoom out to recognize our blessings and zoom in to help those who are suffering, here on Earth.
Since Jeremy started using this program, he and I have been engaged in an ongoing debate. He was taught in school that we live on earth, but he doesn’t believe it. He claims that since when you zoom out you see the earth, and when you zoom in you see our house, this means that we don’t live on earth. I’ve been trying to explain to him that the program demonstrates that we do live on earth. So far, neither of us has managed to convince the other.
In this week’s Torah portion, God and Moses also reach a similar impasse. The Torah reading for Shabbat during Passover is appropriately from Exodus. It recounts that in a moment of crisis, Moses begged to see God’s presence. God explained that no one can see God and live but agreed to make God’s goodness pass before Moses. God instructed Moses to stand in a cleft of a rock and agreed to reveal God’s back (but not God’s face).
What does this enigmatic scene mean? The Hatam Sofer (of nineteenth-century Hungary) explained that we can’t see God directly, but can only recognize the difference God has made after the fact.
In this interchange, Moses conveys the essential frustration of human life. Hindsight is 20/20. Our choices are easily evaluated in retrospect. Yet since we don’t know the future results of our actions, we often can’t tell whether we’re making mistakes until afterwards. Moses’ plea to see God directly reflects the human desire for a sign to know in advance whether we’re making the best decisions. God’s reply — that one can only ascertain God’s presence in hindsight — is sad but true.
Yet, perhaps God was suggesting that to really see God, Moses needed a different vantage point. Often when we look at our lives close up, we get confused and mired in our daily struggles, but when we look from a distance, we get a better perspective.
In the Passover seder, there’s a song which helps us to attain a birds-eye view: Dayenu (which means ‘It is enough for us.’) The song reviews Jewish history and offers thanks for each particular blessing along the way. These blessings include: being freed from slavery in Egypt, given the Shabbat and the Torah, and brought to Israel. The song reminds us of the preciousness of freedom and of the Torah’s guidance — gifts which can so easily be taken for granted.
I recently read People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks a moving novel about the history of the Sarajevo Haggadah. The book recounts stories about people in different periods from the Haggadah’s creation in 1480 through the present — including the expulsion from Spain in 1492 and the Holocaust. Viewing my life from the perspective of the characters in the story, I suddenly felt this overwhelming gratitude to be living in contemporary times. The day-to-day difficulties I face felt trivial in comparison to these epic struggles for survival.
This Passover, may we zoom out to recognize our blessings and zoom in to help those who are suffering, here on Earth.
Getting Messy
Recently, when I was finishing up the dishes after dinner, my son Jeremy came to me and said, “Mom, we have a surprise for you.” I followed him to his room wondering what the surprise was. Had the kids drawn me a picture or built a tall LEGO tower? He opened the door to his room to show me that my two-year old daughter had taken all the clothes from her bureau and spread them across the floor. Oy Vey!
I am continually amazed by how untidy children are. My friend, Rabbi Sherre Hirsch put it well: “Being born is messy, and it only gets worse from there.” I remember on one of my first days back to work after maternity leave, I got all dressed in my suit in the morning. Then my infant son promptly spit up all over me. At that moment, I knew I was in a whole new ballgame.
At such times, I often think of a teaching from this week’s Torah portion. The parasha is called Tzav (which means command), as it contains the instructions to the priests on how to offer sacrifices. The directions begin with the burnt offering which remains on the altar all night. God explained that the first thing the priest should do each morning is put on ordinary clothes, clear out the ashes from the altar and carry them outside the camp.
I read once that Julia Roberts cleans her own home. Even though she can obviously afford help, she instead does the cleaning herself. She was quoted as saying simply: ‘If you mess it up, you should clean it up.’ I imagine that this practice has helped keep the actress grounded in an environment where fame and fortune can easily degrade one’s soul.
Cleaning the ashes each morning must have had a similar affect on the priest. He couldn’t become arrogant and think himself above this mundane task. Rabbi Simhah Bunem (of eighteenth century Poland) noted that this habit would keep the priest connected to ordinary people who likewise do such tasks.
In our day, the messier jobs (like garbage collecting or child-rearing) tend to be less well paid and respected than neater office jobs. People with financial means often delegate unpleasant tasks to housekeepers or personal assistants. In this context, the Torah sends the opposite message.
This week, Jews around the world gear up for the arduous task of cleaning our homes for Passover. The preparation often feels like coming down with a collective case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder — as every nook and cranny of the house is searched for any trace of chametz (bread, grain or leavened product).
Yet, this week’s Torah portion reminds us that there’s a deeper, spiritual lesson to be found in all the scrubbing. If you want to be free, you have to get your hands dirty.
On that note, I better go do the laundry.
I am continually amazed by how untidy children are. My friend, Rabbi Sherre Hirsch put it well: “Being born is messy, and it only gets worse from there.” I remember on one of my first days back to work after maternity leave, I got all dressed in my suit in the morning. Then my infant son promptly spit up all over me. At that moment, I knew I was in a whole new ballgame.
At such times, I often think of a teaching from this week’s Torah portion. The parasha is called Tzav (which means command), as it contains the instructions to the priests on how to offer sacrifices. The directions begin with the burnt offering which remains on the altar all night. God explained that the first thing the priest should do each morning is put on ordinary clothes, clear out the ashes from the altar and carry them outside the camp.
I read once that Julia Roberts cleans her own home. Even though she can obviously afford help, she instead does the cleaning herself. She was quoted as saying simply: ‘If you mess it up, you should clean it up.’ I imagine that this practice has helped keep the actress grounded in an environment where fame and fortune can easily degrade one’s soul.
Cleaning the ashes each morning must have had a similar affect on the priest. He couldn’t become arrogant and think himself above this mundane task. Rabbi Simhah Bunem (of eighteenth century Poland) noted that this habit would keep the priest connected to ordinary people who likewise do such tasks.
In our day, the messier jobs (like garbage collecting or child-rearing) tend to be less well paid and respected than neater office jobs. People with financial means often delegate unpleasant tasks to housekeepers or personal assistants. In this context, the Torah sends the opposite message.
This week, Jews around the world gear up for the arduous task of cleaning our homes for Passover. The preparation often feels like coming down with a collective case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder — as every nook and cranny of the house is searched for any trace of chametz (bread, grain or leavened product).
Yet, this week’s Torah portion reminds us that there’s a deeper, spiritual lesson to be found in all the scrubbing. If you want to be free, you have to get your hands dirty.
On that note, I better go do the laundry.
We Plan, God Laughs
This week felt to me like a comedy of errors. My son came down with a cold which he was kind enough to share with me. So on Saturday morning, I woke up with laryngitis. The problem was that I was invited to speak as a guest rabbi – but giving a sermon is a little tricky if you can’t speak! Having laryngitis any other week would be no problem, but the one week I needed to speak, I couldn’t.
On Monday morning, the gas in our house went out; my son Jeremy had apparently inadvertently triggered the earthquake shut off valve with his basketball. My week was filled with these types of minor but annoying problems. There’s a Yiddish expression: “Mann traoch, Gott lauch,” which means ‘man plans, God laughs.’ This week reminded me that God has a great sense of humor.
Indeed, this week’s Torah portion also seems like a list of everything that could possibly go wrong. The portion begins the book of Vayikra (Leviticus) by outlining the instructions for animal sacrifices. God explains to Moses: “If a person sins unwittingly against any of the commandments”… then give this type of offering. Each paragraph begins with a problem or mistake that could be made deliberately or inadvertently, and then stipulates what to do to rectify each situation. All the sacrifices follow this pattern except the Zevach Sh’lamim: (‘the offering of well-being). The word sh’lamim is from the word shalem (meaning whole), which is from the same root as shalom, peace. If by some miracle, everything goes well, then there’s an offering for that too!
Although the system of animal sacrifices is foreign to us, the underlying message of the portion still resonates today. Life is unpredictable, but no matter what happens, there is a way back to God, to ourselves, to the sense of wholeness that we crave.
People often say: “Everything turns out for the best” – which is utter hogwash. The Torah portion is more realistic than that. The parasha recognizes that sometimes things do go terribly awry. Some of our dreams go up in smoke, and we have to make painful sacrifices for all that we achieve. But no matter what, there’s a path back to God.
In ways large and small, life has a way of reminding us of all that we can’t control. For some reason, having children heightens the unpredictability of life. Yet it also heightens our sense of wonder when by some miracle, we do feel okay and are able to accomplish something that we planned.
Through the ups and downs of daily living, despite all the mistakes we make along the way, we can make our lives an offering of wholeness to God.
On Monday morning, the gas in our house went out; my son Jeremy had apparently inadvertently triggered the earthquake shut off valve with his basketball. My week was filled with these types of minor but annoying problems. There’s a Yiddish expression: “Mann traoch, Gott lauch,” which means ‘man plans, God laughs.’ This week reminded me that God has a great sense of humor.
Indeed, this week’s Torah portion also seems like a list of everything that could possibly go wrong. The portion begins the book of Vayikra (Leviticus) by outlining the instructions for animal sacrifices. God explains to Moses: “If a person sins unwittingly against any of the commandments”… then give this type of offering. Each paragraph begins with a problem or mistake that could be made deliberately or inadvertently, and then stipulates what to do to rectify each situation. All the sacrifices follow this pattern except the Zevach Sh’lamim: (‘the offering of well-being). The word sh’lamim is from the word shalem (meaning whole), which is from the same root as shalom, peace. If by some miracle, everything goes well, then there’s an offering for that too!
Although the system of animal sacrifices is foreign to us, the underlying message of the portion still resonates today. Life is unpredictable, but no matter what happens, there is a way back to God, to ourselves, to the sense of wholeness that we crave.
People often say: “Everything turns out for the best” – which is utter hogwash. The Torah portion is more realistic than that. The parasha recognizes that sometimes things do go terribly awry. Some of our dreams go up in smoke, and we have to make painful sacrifices for all that we achieve. But no matter what, there’s a path back to God.
In ways large and small, life has a way of reminding us of all that we can’t control. For some reason, having children heightens the unpredictability of life. Yet it also heightens our sense of wonder when by some miracle, we do feel okay and are able to accomplish something that we planned.
Through the ups and downs of daily living, despite all the mistakes we make along the way, we can make our lives an offering of wholeness to God.
Encore
Sunday was my daughter Hannah’s third birthday party (which came just three weeks after my son Jeremy’s sixth birthday party). My husband and I threw the same kind of party for my daughter as for my son. We had Hannah’s class over for a party in the back yard, just as we did for my son – with a Moon Bounce and entertainment.
Although all the elements of preparation, set up and clean up of my daughter’s party were the same as for my son’s, I found the experience much more relaxed this time. The whole process felt less of a production. I wondered what had I done differently to make the event go so much more smoothly? I did the preparations exactly the same as before, so I could find no explanation for why things felt calmer this time.
As I repeated the party preparation, this week’s Torah portion was also a reprisal. The double parasha, called Vayakhel-Pekudei (which means: And he gathered-accounts), contains virtually no new information. The first portion recapitulates the commandment to keep the Sabbath and the instructions for fashioning the tabernacle – both of which have been previously explained in detail. The second portion simply tallies up the expenditures that were already spent in fashioning the tabernacle and its furnishings. This repetition is particularly puzzling because the Torah is normally sparing in its use of language.
In reading the parasha, I had a déjà vu experience – the weekly potion for my daughter’s birthday party was virtually identical to the one coinciding with my son’s birthday three weeks ago. Since the portion contains nothing new, I wondered why the Torah even bothered to include it.
Perhaps, however, the lesson of the parasha is to be found precisely in it repetitive quality. Often times, in life, we get things better the second time. When we read a book (or see a movie) for the second time, we pick up on nuances that we didn’t see before. My friend Michael teaches the same class (to a different group of adults) five times each week. He said by the fifth time, the session is absolutely fantastic – because he’s perfected it through each repetition.
Children understand this spiritual lesson far better than adults. Toddlers and preschoolers love to hear their favorite story over and over again. (I’ve read My Little People School Bus to my daughter multiple times a day for the last few months, and I now can recite it in my sleep!) Likewise, my son likes to hear his favorite song on repeat for forty-five minutes at a time – until I start to lose my mind.
As adults, we are far more wary of repetition. If we read a book once, we’re finished with it. We won’t go to the same show twice. Perhaps, there’s a spiritual lesson to be learned from children about the power of encore performances.
On reflection, I think Hannah’s party went more smoothly simply because it was so soon after Jeremy’s party. We knew precisely what to do and therefore felt more relaxed. Indeed, the lesson from this week’s portion can be summed up with the great phrase from Casablanca. To really enjoy the music of life, just “play it again, Sam.”
Although all the elements of preparation, set up and clean up of my daughter’s party were the same as for my son’s, I found the experience much more relaxed this time. The whole process felt less of a production. I wondered what had I done differently to make the event go so much more smoothly? I did the preparations exactly the same as before, so I could find no explanation for why things felt calmer this time.
As I repeated the party preparation, this week’s Torah portion was also a reprisal. The double parasha, called Vayakhel-Pekudei (which means: And he gathered-accounts), contains virtually no new information. The first portion recapitulates the commandment to keep the Sabbath and the instructions for fashioning the tabernacle – both of which have been previously explained in detail. The second portion simply tallies up the expenditures that were already spent in fashioning the tabernacle and its furnishings. This repetition is particularly puzzling because the Torah is normally sparing in its use of language.
In reading the parasha, I had a déjà vu experience – the weekly potion for my daughter’s birthday party was virtually identical to the one coinciding with my son’s birthday three weeks ago. Since the portion contains nothing new, I wondered why the Torah even bothered to include it.
Perhaps, however, the lesson of the parasha is to be found precisely in it repetitive quality. Often times, in life, we get things better the second time. When we read a book (or see a movie) for the second time, we pick up on nuances that we didn’t see before. My friend Michael teaches the same class (to a different group of adults) five times each week. He said by the fifth time, the session is absolutely fantastic – because he’s perfected it through each repetition.
Children understand this spiritual lesson far better than adults. Toddlers and preschoolers love to hear their favorite story over and over again. (I’ve read My Little People School Bus to my daughter multiple times a day for the last few months, and I now can recite it in my sleep!) Likewise, my son likes to hear his favorite song on repeat for forty-five minutes at a time – until I start to lose my mind.
As adults, we are far more wary of repetition. If we read a book once, we’re finished with it. We won’t go to the same show twice. Perhaps, there’s a spiritual lesson to be learned from children about the power of encore performances.
On reflection, I think Hannah’s party went more smoothly simply because it was so soon after Jeremy’s party. We knew precisely what to do and therefore felt more relaxed. Indeed, the lesson from this week’s portion can be summed up with the great phrase from Casablanca. To really enjoy the music of life, just “play it again, Sam.”
Works in Progress
A few days ago, my son Jeremy was drawing a picture. He took a picture of a robot and was coloring it in. I walked by him and noticed the bright colors and interesting pattern. I also noticed that his drawing skills were improving, relative to when he was younger. “I love the picture you’re making,” I said. He replied, “You don’t really love it because it’s not finished.”
A while later, he came to me, and excitedly presented the completed picture, his eyes sparkling, and said: “Now, you’re really going to love the picture.” Again, I told him that I did.
In this week’s Torah portion, called Ki Tissa (when you take), the people are waiting for a masterpiece to be completed. At the foot of Mount Sinai, they anticipated Moses’ descent with the Ten Commandments. Moses told them he would return in forty days, and on the fortieth day, when he hadn’t returned, the people panicked. They built an idol, a golden calf, and began to worship it. One wonders, what got into the people? Couldn’t they have waited another day or two? Why were they willing to give up so easily on the covenant?
The answer is one Yiddish word: Shpilkes. This word sounds like a disease (like herpes or leprosy). However, this term describes a feeling of antsy-ness. When you’ve been waiting for something so long that you can’t stand it anymore and feel as though you’re going to lose your mind, that’s shpilkes!
The people at Mount Sinai came down with a collective case of shpilkes. They got frustrated because they couldn’t see concretely the results of the covenant, so they made something that they could see right away. They donated gold jewelry and made a statue. Trying to stall them, Aaron announced, “Tomorrow will be a festival to the Lord.” They could wait until the next morning, but no longer. They wanted results, and they wanted them now.
Like Jeremy, we often think that our efforts aren’t worthwhile until they’re done. Like the people, we get frustrated when projects take longer than we thought they would. The parasha warns us against the danger of shpilkes. It reminds us that all good projects take time. Inscribing the Ten Commandments took forty days. Crossing the desert to the Promised Land took forty years. And even then, they weren’t done. When the people finally received the Torah, they faced the challenge of living by its precepts. When they reached the Promised Land, they struggled to settle the land and create a new society.
Similarly, the most important projects of our lives are time consuming. Pregnancy takes forty weeks. Just when we think the baby will never emerge, it finally comes and we discover that it’s just the beginning. Raising a child takes at least eighteen years. However, parents often discover that they’re still not done; their role shifts but the job isn’t over. Indeed, the biggest projects of our lives are never complete. The task of tikkun olam (repairing the world) is never finished; likewise the task of tikkun atzmi (refining the self) is a lifelong endeavor. We are all artworks in progress.
So when you take stock of your life, remember that God loves our handiwork, even when it’s not finished.
A while later, he came to me, and excitedly presented the completed picture, his eyes sparkling, and said: “Now, you’re really going to love the picture.” Again, I told him that I did.
In this week’s Torah portion, called Ki Tissa (when you take), the people are waiting for a masterpiece to be completed. At the foot of Mount Sinai, they anticipated Moses’ descent with the Ten Commandments. Moses told them he would return in forty days, and on the fortieth day, when he hadn’t returned, the people panicked. They built an idol, a golden calf, and began to worship it. One wonders, what got into the people? Couldn’t they have waited another day or two? Why were they willing to give up so easily on the covenant?
The answer is one Yiddish word: Shpilkes. This word sounds like a disease (like herpes or leprosy). However, this term describes a feeling of antsy-ness. When you’ve been waiting for something so long that you can’t stand it anymore and feel as though you’re going to lose your mind, that’s shpilkes!
The people at Mount Sinai came down with a collective case of shpilkes. They got frustrated because they couldn’t see concretely the results of the covenant, so they made something that they could see right away. They donated gold jewelry and made a statue. Trying to stall them, Aaron announced, “Tomorrow will be a festival to the Lord.” They could wait until the next morning, but no longer. They wanted results, and they wanted them now.
Like Jeremy, we often think that our efforts aren’t worthwhile until they’re done. Like the people, we get frustrated when projects take longer than we thought they would. The parasha warns us against the danger of shpilkes. It reminds us that all good projects take time. Inscribing the Ten Commandments took forty days. Crossing the desert to the Promised Land took forty years. And even then, they weren’t done. When the people finally received the Torah, they faced the challenge of living by its precepts. When they reached the Promised Land, they struggled to settle the land and create a new society.
Similarly, the most important projects of our lives are time consuming. Pregnancy takes forty weeks. Just when we think the baby will never emerge, it finally comes and we discover that it’s just the beginning. Raising a child takes at least eighteen years. However, parents often discover that they’re still not done; their role shifts but the job isn’t over. Indeed, the biggest projects of our lives are never complete. The task of tikkun olam (repairing the world) is never finished; likewise the task of tikkun atzmi (refining the self) is a lifelong endeavor. We are all artworks in progress.
So when you take stock of your life, remember that God loves our handiwork, even when it’s not finished.
Jewels on the Heart
On Sunday, my daughter Hannah (who’s almost three) had her first ballet class. When we arrived, Hannah was wearing a t-shirt and shorts, while all the other children wore pink leotards and tights. Hannah enjoyed the class and immediately asked for dance clothes. I thought we’d go buy them sometime during the week before the next class, but she wanted to go right away. Somehow, she sensed that the class was incomplete without the proper attire.
At the dance clothes store, she chose a lavender leotard — which she wanted to be sparkly. She tried on the outfit with a shiny hair band and ballet slippers. She smiled from ear to ear while spinning around and admiring herself in the mirror. Now, she was really a dancer.
Later that afternoon, I took my kids to the Purim carnival at our synagogue. Kids were dressed up in a wide array of costumes, and some adults were too. Our head security guard, who normally wears a suit each day to work, wore instead a basketball player’s outfit. Most adults wore jeans and casual attire, except the rabbi, who wore a button down shirt and slacks. Whether in dance class, at the Purim Carnival, or at our daily jobs, I wonder why the outfit is such an essential part of the experience.
This week’s parasha too is focused on outfits — the priestly robes including that of Aaron, the high priest. Aaron’s robe was purple (with shades of blue and crimson) and extremely sparkly. The robe, covered with gold chains and rings, was filled with gold embroidery, a gold breastplate with twelve colored stones, and complete with a headdress and sash to boot. (Hannah would love that outfit!)
The Torah almost never describes what people are wearing, and we don’t normally think of the Torah as appearance oriented. Whereas a modern novel will often give details of how the characters look and what they’re wearing on a given day, the Torah doesn’t typically tell us anything about the appearance or attire of the patriarchs and matriarchs. Why then does the text describe the outfit of the high priest in such inordinate detail? Why does the high priest need to wear such an elaborate getup to perform his duties? This practice seems at odds with the Torah’s general focus on humility.
Like the rabbi at the carnival, the high priest showed respect for his task through the clothes he wore. The unique uniform reminded Aaron that his work was a sacred duty of the highest magnitude. The most important part of the outfit was the breastpiece containing twelve colored stones to represent the twelve tribes of Israel. God instructed Aaron to carry the names of the tribes on the breastpiece over his heart “as a remembrance before God always.” Likewise, he wore a band on his forehead engraved with the words “holy to God.”
Earlier in Exodus, God instructs the people to be “a nation of priests and a holy people.” This verse teaches that each of us should be engaged in sacred work every day. Being a good friend, spouse or parent are sacred jobs. Everything we do — even what we wear — can remind us that our most mundane daily tasks are holy to God. Like the high priest, each of us carries precious jewels of the people we care for in our hearts. Surely the image of Hannah dancing in her tutu is one that I will keep in my heart forever.
At the dance clothes store, she chose a lavender leotard — which she wanted to be sparkly. She tried on the outfit with a shiny hair band and ballet slippers. She smiled from ear to ear while spinning around and admiring herself in the mirror. Now, she was really a dancer.
Later that afternoon, I took my kids to the Purim carnival at our synagogue. Kids were dressed up in a wide array of costumes, and some adults were too. Our head security guard, who normally wears a suit each day to work, wore instead a basketball player’s outfit. Most adults wore jeans and casual attire, except the rabbi, who wore a button down shirt and slacks. Whether in dance class, at the Purim Carnival, or at our daily jobs, I wonder why the outfit is such an essential part of the experience.
This week’s parasha too is focused on outfits — the priestly robes including that of Aaron, the high priest. Aaron’s robe was purple (with shades of blue and crimson) and extremely sparkly. The robe, covered with gold chains and rings, was filled with gold embroidery, a gold breastplate with twelve colored stones, and complete with a headdress and sash to boot. (Hannah would love that outfit!)
The Torah almost never describes what people are wearing, and we don’t normally think of the Torah as appearance oriented. Whereas a modern novel will often give details of how the characters look and what they’re wearing on a given day, the Torah doesn’t typically tell us anything about the appearance or attire of the patriarchs and matriarchs. Why then does the text describe the outfit of the high priest in such inordinate detail? Why does the high priest need to wear such an elaborate getup to perform his duties? This practice seems at odds with the Torah’s general focus on humility.
Like the rabbi at the carnival, the high priest showed respect for his task through the clothes he wore. The unique uniform reminded Aaron that his work was a sacred duty of the highest magnitude. The most important part of the outfit was the breastpiece containing twelve colored stones to represent the twelve tribes of Israel. God instructed Aaron to carry the names of the tribes on the breastpiece over his heart “as a remembrance before God always.” Likewise, he wore a band on his forehead engraved with the words “holy to God.”
Earlier in Exodus, God instructs the people to be “a nation of priests and a holy people.” This verse teaches that each of us should be engaged in sacred work every day. Being a good friend, spouse or parent are sacred jobs. Everything we do — even what we wear — can remind us that our most mundane daily tasks are holy to God. Like the high priest, each of us carries precious jewels of the people we care for in our hearts. Surely the image of Hannah dancing in her tutu is one that I will keep in my heart forever.
The Gifts We Make
Sunday was my son Jeremy’s sixth birthday party, and I spent the few days prior baking his birthday cake. On Thursday, I bought ingredients and on Friday I baked four rectangular cakes. Saturday night, I decorated the cake. First, I made white, red and black frosting. I then assembled two layers, shaped the cake like The Cat in the Hat and frosted his striped hat, whiskered face and body — even adding a black liquorish for his tail.
I don’t cook much in general, and I’m not an artsy kind of person. But for some reason, for my kids’ birthdays, I become obsessed and feel compelled to make this elaborate cake. Every year, my husband asks: Why can’t we just buy a cake from the store? Wouldn’t that be easier? He’s right; it would be far simpler to buy a cake (which would take about 10 minutes rather than three days). However, my mom always baked our cakes with us as children, and even though baking the cake takes longer, I can’t imagine doing it any other way.
In this week’s Torah portion, the Jewish people also embark on a consuming art project. In the parasha, God gives extensive instructions on how to build the mishkan, the portable sanctuary which housed the ark and the tablets during the forty-year desert trek. These detailed architectural plans fill nearly the entire last third of the book of Exodus. Thirteen chapters of the Torah are devoted to this topic. By contrast, the creation of the world takes only two chapters!
The instructions for making the tabernacle are incredibly specific and frankly tedious to read. Why then does the Torah devote so much attention to this topic?
The reason God gives in Exodus is: “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotsk (a 19th century Hasidic master) noted that God did not say, ‘that I may dwell in it’ meaning in the sanctuary but rather “that I may dwell among them,” — among the people. Kotsk explained that each person should build a sanctuary in their heart for God to dwell there.
The reason the Torah devotes so much attention to the mishkan construction is the same as why I feel compelled to bake the birthday cake each year. When cooking with my children, we create a kind of magic. The joy of the birthday begins not on the day of the party but in the anticipation of baking together. It’s my way to thank God for another year of life.
Likewise, after fleeing Egypt and entering the covenant at Mount Sinai, the people needed to do an art project for God. They longed to thank God for the covenant — not through words but by making something beautiful. They yearned to express their gratitude for their precious freedom and newfound relationship with the divine.
When we were finally done with the three day cake ordeal, Jeremy turned to me and said, “Wow, Mom, it looks like the real Cat in the Hat!” At that moment, I smiled and knew that all the effort was worth it. I imagine that my mom and God were smiling too from above.
I don’t cook much in general, and I’m not an artsy kind of person. But for some reason, for my kids’ birthdays, I become obsessed and feel compelled to make this elaborate cake. Every year, my husband asks: Why can’t we just buy a cake from the store? Wouldn’t that be easier? He’s right; it would be far simpler to buy a cake (which would take about 10 minutes rather than three days). However, my mom always baked our cakes with us as children, and even though baking the cake takes longer, I can’t imagine doing it any other way.
In this week’s Torah portion, the Jewish people also embark on a consuming art project. In the parasha, God gives extensive instructions on how to build the mishkan, the portable sanctuary which housed the ark and the tablets during the forty-year desert trek. These detailed architectural plans fill nearly the entire last third of the book of Exodus. Thirteen chapters of the Torah are devoted to this topic. By contrast, the creation of the world takes only two chapters!
The instructions for making the tabernacle are incredibly specific and frankly tedious to read. Why then does the Torah devote so much attention to this topic?
The reason God gives in Exodus is: “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotsk (a 19th century Hasidic master) noted that God did not say, ‘that I may dwell in it’ meaning in the sanctuary but rather “that I may dwell among them,” — among the people. Kotsk explained that each person should build a sanctuary in their heart for God to dwell there.
The reason the Torah devotes so much attention to the mishkan construction is the same as why I feel compelled to bake the birthday cake each year. When cooking with my children, we create a kind of magic. The joy of the birthday begins not on the day of the party but in the anticipation of baking together. It’s my way to thank God for another year of life.
Likewise, after fleeing Egypt and entering the covenant at Mount Sinai, the people needed to do an art project for God. They longed to thank God for the covenant — not through words but by making something beautiful. They yearned to express their gratitude for their precious freedom and newfound relationship with the divine.
When we were finally done with the three day cake ordeal, Jeremy turned to me and said, “Wow, Mom, it looks like the real Cat in the Hat!” At that moment, I smiled and knew that all the effort was worth it. I imagine that my mom and God were smiling too from above.
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