February 19, 2021
As much as we all like the idea of vacations and even staycations have their appeal, it’s difficult to step away from work. The work never ends, the requests are unceasing, the needs don’t go away, and the combination of guilt for things undone and dread about the pile that we’ll return to can make it feel like a burden to walk away.
As usual, Jewish tradition has wisdom to share.
The traditional observance of Shabbat creates a break from the world of work and the acquisition of things. As Abraham Joshua Heschel says in The Sabbath, “The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time.”
By rejecting the tyranny of things of space one day a week, you gain freedom by giving up control. You don’t choose to walk away from work. Rather, you’re forbidden to work. You don’t choose to avoid social media and the constant onslaught of news, opinions, and requests. Rather, you’re forbidden to look at them. For 24 hours, the guilt is gone. The choice taken away. Sometimes, it’s easier to say “I can’t,” than it is to say “I choose not to and that’s reason enough.”
These concepts were among the thoughts that went through my head a couple of months ago when we made the decision that we would close the JVC office for President’s Day weekend. The JVC staff worked tirelessly through the national holidays for Christmas and MLK Day. We earned comp time for these days, yet there’s a difference in workload when you return from a day off than when the whole office is closed. We needed to close the office, to push people away from their to do lists and their email, and we needed to give ourselves the gift of a work Shabbat, the gift of guilt-free time off when the world slows down and you don’t have to scramble to catch up when you come back.
In a pandemic that has blurred the lines between work and home and has put almost all communication on the other end of a screen, it’s become even more difficult to create firm boundaries and protect our need to rest, to recenter ourselves, to remember miracles both large and small, to focus on gratitude. Accepting the gift of a day off means giving ourselves permission to look up and see the world around us.
Having a few days off and feeling the peer pressure not to check or respond to email was a good reminder to me about the gift that a mandated day of rest represents. In this area, as in so many others, the wisdom of our sacred tradition carries into today.
February 05, 2021
There are weeks that we read a portion of the Torah in shul and we struggle to make sense of it and find relevance to the world today.
This is not one of those weeks.
Last Saturday, we read the story of the Exodus from Egypt. We followed the Israelites as they fled slavery so fast that they didn’t have time for their bread to rise and in our minds, many of us danced along with Miriam and her timbrels as she stepped confidently into the path formed by the splitting of the Red Sea. Some of us felt the urgent pull of the future on the other side of that vast water. Others of us may have connected with the people at the end of the line, those who wouldn’t step into the path until they saw the community go before them. Or maybe we even empathized with the people who stayed behind, who couldn’t bring themselves to trust in an uncertain and unseen future. After all, the last time their ancestors had taken a long journey to an unknown land, it had led them into slavery.
For the Israelites, Egypt represented a life that was both utterly intolerable and yet familiar in its routines. They knew what to expect in Egypt, awful as it was. The path forward toward Israel represented a hopeful dream, yet there were so many unknowns and barriers in the way. Would they make it? Should they chance it? Would they even know when they were safe?
We’re in a moment like that right now. For a year (fortunately not 400 years!) we’ve stayed away from others, we’ve worked and learned from home in less than ideal circumstances, we’ve struggled with anxiety and isolation. Many people risked their lives every day to take care of others. We’ve parented while working; we’ve worked while being tech support and teacher’s aide. We’ve buried so many loved ones that the pain has become unbearable. We’ve been enslaved by the pandemic in so many ways, yet we made our way through each day until we reached a reality that felt both utterly intolerable and yet familiar in its new routines.
Now here, before us, is the Red Sea. The promised land is on the other side. The path is narrow and unsure – we must make sure that the most vulnerable get on it first. The walls of water on either side are unfamiliar– how is it possible to believe that this path will protect us? Like the Israelites, we see the enemy approaching from the rear and sneaking in on the sides, in the form of COVID and now its newly emerging and more infectious variants.
What do we do? Do we grab our timbrels and lead the way if given the chance? Do we wait and let others go first—after all, the path is narrow and our wait may serve to keep others safe? Do we gather everyone who cannot withstand the enemy and make sure they get on the narrow path first? Do we stand at the water’s edge, unsure of what the dripping walls may mean for us? Or do we hold back and stay where we are?
Psalm 118 includes the phrase “From the narrow place, I called to G-d, and G-d answered me from the wide expanse.” Consider how this phrase, sung as part of the Hallel service on Jewish holidays, invites us to step forward optimistically. We have dark days ahead and the enemy that haunts our path will come for us still. The path through the sea is a narrow one, though we hope to see it widening soon. As we wait our turn for a vaccine, we can consider what it was like for the Israelites to stand at the edge of the Red Sea and look forward with both optimism and fear, staring into the unknown with only faith and the support of each other to guide them.
January 22, 2021
In this week’s parsha, Bo, the Torah describes the final 3 plagues—locusts, darkness and the killing of the first born. It’s the continuation of the Exodus story that began last week, when Moshe and Aaron came before Pharaoh and said that the Israelite people needed to go “out” to serve Hashem. In this parsha, they make the same request and he asks them who wants to leave. The response is that everyone wants to leave – the people, their children, their animals, their aged, etc. Pharaoh says they can leave but their children have to stay. The Israelites aren’t leaving without their children and the response to this offer is the plague of locusts. After another false start and the plague of darkness, Pharaoh changes his mind again, saying the people can go but must leave their animals behind. This is also unacceptable because they need the animals for their sacrificial ritual.
In his “negotiation,” Pharaoh offers to let the Israelites have what they’re asking for . . . sort of. He’s willing to give them just enough to be able to say he did it (and to forestall the crisis being caused by the plagues) but not really enough to meet the needs of the people, or to change the status quo. Pharaoh tries to stack the deck by holding back something that is necessary to the Israelites’ continued survival – either their children or their livestock. That guarantees that they won’t be able to do anything to address the core underlying issue; their slavery. They will have to come back to Egypt.
The work of social justice is the work of changing systems, of understanding that many of the basic responses we put in place to address poverty, including the work of volunteers, can have the effect of perpetuating systems by giving enough to momentarily forestall the worst of the crisis but not changing the underlying reality. In JVC’s racial justice statement, we understand that risk and commit ourselves to making sure that volunteers understand the end game – a more just and equitable society. As Amanda Gorman said in her beautiful poem during the inauguration, “what just is, isn’t always justice.”
The parsha ends with the instruction to tell our children about the Exodus, to explain it and to see it as if we ourselves were coming out of Egypt. We are reminded that it’s not enough to meet immediate needs, or even to understand and advocate for the larger issues at play. We are all part of history and we bear the responsibility to make sure that the next generation feels invested and takes ownership over the work that needs to be done. As we are reminded in Pirke Avot, it is not ours to complete the work but neither are we free to desist from it.
This week, we marked the birthday of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He was assassinated at the tragically young age of 39, yet his impact and his legacy are part of the fabric of this nation. He did not live to see the enactment of the Civil Rights Act, yet it happened because he inspired others to continue his work. He did not live to see the first black president, or the inauguration this week of the first female vice-president of African and South Asian heritage. Yet their elections were made possible because of the work of Dr. King and many other leaders who both fought for justice and taught the next generation.
The story of the exodus from Egypt is one of the richest in the Torah. The path from slavery to freedom resonates on both a practical and metaphorical level and the instruction to teach the next generation is a reminder that we all have a place in history… and a role to play in bending the arc of the universe toward justice today and tomorrow.
December 25, 2020
I realized something recently that I’m not proud of. It’s been much too long since I’ve written about fire. I say this, not as an aspiring pyromaniac, but as a person who has always been compelled by the image of a flame as a spark of light and warmth. I realized it’s been hard for me to see and appreciate the light of optimism recently. Today I’ll share a few thoughts on the symbolism and power of fire.
We just celebrated eight nights of Hanukkah, the festival of lights. Each night, we used the shamash (helper candle) to add one more light than the night before. As we used one candle to light another each night, I was reminded of the teaching that a flame, like love, grows and does not diminish when it shares itself.
As we light candles, we can also see that even the small flame of the menorah or the Shabbat candles has the power to banish darkness far beyond the reach of the actual flame. When the power goes out late at night, the darkness can feel all-encompassing. Most of us aren’t used to deep darkness and the absence of the ever-present whirring of our electronic devices. Light a single candle in that moment and consider how full the brightness is, how the reach of the flame gives you confidence to walk forward in the darkness. When we use our own spark to light a candle for someone who sees only the darkness, we give them confidence too. We invite them to take cautious steps forward. This is as true when we invite someone to challenge their assumptions as it is when we assist someone in economic crisis.
There was a famous debate between Jewish scholars Hillel and Shammai about whether the proper way to light the menorah was to start with one candle and add one each night, or to start with eight candles and take one away each night until the light dwindles out at the end of the holiday. The rabbis, as they often did, acknowledged the validity of both arguments but ruled that Hillel’s approach was the way it should be done. His argument was that when given an opportunity, we should build holiness day by day, rather than take it away. Just as we add a new flame each day until the lights burn full and bright, we have the opportunity to add to our volunteer soul as we move forward. Maybe today it’s making a bagged meal, and tomorrow it’s taking the time to read the discussion guide, and the next day it’s exploring the root causes of food insecurity, and going to an emergency shelter to serve a meal, and then beginning to learn a new vocabulary and lens through which to see the world. And still we make those bagged meals because while the arc of the universe may bend toward justice, it isn’t there yet and people are still hungry. And maybe these flames are added over the course of years and not days. Still, we light the candles from one to eight and remember that Hillel teaches us to add holiness, and that we can add spread light to others without diminishing our own.
December 11, 2020
Many years ago, a student asked an intriguing question of a group of peers who were gathering to light candles on the Tulane campus where I was working for Hillel. He asked “what was the miracle of the first night of Hanukkah?” He went on to note that if we take the story of Hanukkah at face value, the Maccabees lit the eternal light with the one day’s worth of oil that they had. And it burned for a day, as one would have expected.
Now, at the end of the day, it didn’t go out. It burned on and on into day two, three, four, etc. That miracle was clear. The oil should have been gone and it wasn’t.
But on that first day, there was enough oil to burn—nothing miraculous really happened. So why do we celebrate the first day as one that represented a miracle? What was the miracle of the first day if it wasn’t the oil lasting.
He proposed that the miracle of the first day of Hanukkah was the decision to light the flame. With the flame already out, it made more logical sense to wait until there was a sustainable supply of oil before lighting the flame and risking it going out again. To have the eternal light go out while the Maccabees were in charge of the Temple could be worse than having them fail to light it at all. Nevertheless, the Maccabees lit the flame and trusted that it would all work out.
I find this level of faith inspiring and troubling at the same time. It takes tremendous faith to take action in the face of insurmountable odds. It takes courage and passionate commitment to act when the chance of public failure is high.
On the other hand, the path from passionate commitment to unbridled power and corruption is relatively short and straight. The Hasmoneans, who were part of the family of the Maccabees and inherited power from them, reigned for only a century and in that time, oppressed the people they ruled, broke tradition by anointing themselves both priests and kings, and forcibly converted a conquered population. The faith that inspires people to believe they deserve a miracle may quickly become the arrogance that leads them to deny rights to others.
So what do we do with these ideas in today’s world? How do we find the courage and faith to act when common sense tells us our actions are useless? I don’t know…but maybe I should ask Greta Thornberg, who started an individual school strike to protest inaction against climate change and who has inspired a global movement. Maybe I should ask Melvin Belli, the first person to bring a lawsuit to court against a tobacco company. Or Natan Sharansky, a Russian Jew who fought for freedom when merely identifying as a Jew was dangerous.
And when we do hold power, when our efforts have been rewarded with unlikely success, how do we maintain our humility? If we believe the adage that power corrupts, how do we avoid it for ourselves? 19th Century Hasidic Rabbi Simcha Bunim instructs us keep two pieces of paper in our pockets. One should say “the world was created for me” and should be looked at when we are suffering and unsure of ourselves. The other should say “I am but dust and ashes,” and should be used to remind ourselves that, however glorious the miracle we have received, we have no more right to expect good fortune and power than any other person.
As we live in this balance of taking risks when it’s the right thing to do, and maintaining humility in those moments when we are on top of the world, we understand this more complex miracle of Hanukkah.
November 26, 2020
Like nearly a year of holidays before it, Thanksgiving will be different this year. How will it be different? Well… that’s up to us.
Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday. The story that underpins it – happy pilgrims supported by cheerfully helpful indigenous tribe
s as they began to peacefully coexist in this land over a dinner of turkey and stuffing– doesn’t stand up to any level of historical scrutiny. Yet it’s a holiday dedicated to being grateful. Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t we all take the opportunity to add a little more thanks to our lives?
If we step away from the problematic origin story, what do we have left? What do we do with a holiday focused on giving thanks and gratitude? What does Judaism teach us about the importance of being grateful?
Jewish tradition’s focus on gratitude begins at the moment we wake up, as we’re instructed to begin our day with the Modeh Ani prayer (translation: “I give thanks.”) We move into the daily prayers and recite a series of prescribed blessings, thanking G-d for everything from our bodies to the world around us.
As we move through the day, we say blessings over the special and the mundane. There’s a blessing for seeing a rainbow, escaping danger, going to the bathroom, and eating food. Judaism gives us these blessings to add a level of mindfulness to our daily lives, to remind us that nothing in the world just happens and nothing in life is guaranteed. We should be grateful for each and every thing in our lives.
In today’s world, an awareness of our blessings also requires an awareness of the cost by which we acquired them. When we eat food, do we consider the cost in human labor and fossil fuels to bring it to our table? When we enter our home, do we consider the indigenous community that was displaced when the Europeans first settled here?
At JVC, we believe that people commit to things they care about, that people care about things that they’ve involved in, and that people get involved in things that feel accessible. Maybe Thanksgiving can become the low barrier entry point to a practice of daily gratitude. Maybe we begin with Thanksgiving Day – saying thanks for the blessings in our lives and taking a moment to understand their cost. Then we make a practice of one daily gratitude – whether it’s pulled from traditional Jewish blessings like Modeh Ani or from our own invention. We place that gratitude in context by considering who made it possible or who lost something in the process. As we articulate one gratitude a day, we become more aware of the world around us and maybe, just maybe, we understand better our place in it.
If a year from now, Thanksgiving is a day of gathering, perhaps of learning about the indigenous population whose land you now live on, but not the single day of giving thanks, then perhaps we will have claimed Thanksgiving 2020 as a turning point. For which I hope we will all be truly grateful.
November 13 2020
Amid the torrent of news that came out last Saturday was the announcement of the death of
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks z’l, the former chief rabbi of England and a giant in the field of modern Jewish thought. Rabbi Sacks wrote extensively about service and communal responsibility and his teaching on the intersection of kindness and justice as reflected in the complex word “tzedakah” has profoundly shaped JVC’s approach to deepening our work.
To honor Rabbi Sacks, I revisited his book To Heal a Fractured Word: The Ethics of Responsibility. I challenged myself to open to any page, choose any line, and see where it led me. Unsurprisingly, my finger landed on a line with profound relevance to the world today.
“Freedom is fearful, precisely because it involves responsibility.” (p. 137)
The line is from a paragraph about Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden, as part of a chapter called “The Birth of Responsibility.” Rabbi Sacks goes on to say that Adam and Eve fail to live up to the new potential unleashed by their acquisition of knowledge. They want to have both the freedom of doing as they choose and a lack of responsibility for the consequences of their choices. They want the freedom to make choices and they want someone to blame when they make bad ones.
What is the intersection of freedom and responsibility? As we grapple with the most active hurricane season on record, how do we balance the decisions that add convenience and joy to our lives with the harm that they cause to the planet? As we understand the freedom that comes with having income and wealth that are adequate for our needs, can we also accept the responsibility of knowing that we benefit from structures that deny that freedom to others?
I suspect that one key to integrating the concepts of freedom and responsibility is understanding and naming both the potential benefits and the potential harm of our decisions. That seems easy enough when applied to personal benefit and personal harm. Where it gets trickier is when you are applying it to personal benefit and communal harm. Or even personal harm and communal benefit.
Freedom means getting to make choices from among a set of options. Choices have consequences, both good and bad. Freedom does not absolve you of those consequences, even if you are not the one impacted by them. As Rabbi Sacks notes, freedom puts moral choices in our hands.
“Freedom is fearful, precisely because it involves responsibility.”
What choice will you make today as a free person? How will you use your freedom to make moral decisions? How will you use your freedom to restrict yourself for the benefit of others?
May Rabbi Sacks’ memory be for a blessing.
November 2, 2020
Recently on Shabbat, we read the story of Noah and the Ark. Most of us know the basic outlines of the story – the flood, the ark, the animals by twosie twosies, and the rainbow at the end that is G-d’s promise never to destroy the world by flood again.
This is a loaded
As we consider the rich but troubled history of the United States, I wonder if this idea of being righteous in your generation may be helpful. As we strive to balance the vision of freedom, liberty, and democracy held by men like Thomas Jefferson and George Washington with their embrace of slavery, I wonder… were they righteous men in their generation? The same question can be asked of many of the leaders of the suffrage movement, who were passionate advocates for women’s rights and simultaneously made anti-Semitic and racist statements. Were they righteous women… in their generation? Can we hold these leaders’ values sacred and strive to build a country that lives up to them while understanding that they themselves could never have imagined our expansive view of what it means to be “created equal,” that Jefferson and Washington in fact participated in a system that represented the very antithesis of equality. story. There are so many directions that we could go with it. This year, I’m struck by the description of Noah as “a righteous man in his generation.” The Torah calls Abraham a righteous man. Noah, by contrast, is a righteous man…in his generation. And considering that Noah’s generation is the one that caused G-d to regret creating humanity in the first place, that may not be quite the ringing endorsement that it sounds like at first.
I participated in an educational program recently about the history of racism in the United States. The presenter shared examples of the painfully ignorant and hateful writing of many of our most esteemed national leaders and cultural icons. The horror in the virtual room was palpable. . . . and quite honestly, it worried me. It’s not that I didn’t find the writings that were being shared to be horrible and horrifying. It’s that the more horrifying I found the things I heard, the harder it was to believe that I, the enlightened 21st century female leader, could ever think such hateful things. And the harder it is for me to believe that I could think hateful things like that, the harder it becomes to imagine that the things I do think could be hateful. And that’s dangerous. That limits us to, at best, being righteous in this generation. Righteous in the context of a culture that we can’t or won’t see beyond.
Instead, can we challenge ourselves to see Jefferson, Washington, Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and others as righteous in their generations? They were righteous and they saw the potential of expanding access to power beyond narrow confines of birth or gender. They were of their generation and failed to see expanding that access beyond the confines of white male landowners or white Christians in general. They were righteous leaders and had an important impact. They were of their generation and perpetuated, the prevailing misogyny and deadly racism of their day.
Will we be righteous in our generation? Will we be righteous? Perhaps the answer lies in how hard we try to see what’s not easy to see through the lens of our own generation. As Maya Angelou says, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
October 16, 2020
Every once in a while, I like to ask for ideas for my blog. This week was one of those weeks and I appreciate everyone who helped to inform these thoughts. The common thread among all the comments I received was a wondering about reality. What’s real? How do we perceive what’s real? Can our realities differ and still be real? What motivates us to “choose” a certain reality to become ours and does that change over time?
Two weeks ago, we welcomed a new year and began again to celebrate a cycle of holidays that have been part of Jewish tradition for thousands of years. And yet, by spring, we will surely complete a full year’s cycle of marking those holidays in totally new ways. On Sunday, we began again with the cycle of reading the Torah. We may read these stories with new eyes, though, as we consider what it means to eat from the tree of knowledge and what we would give up at
It’s also certainly true that children live in a reality all their own and we are but privileged observers. How do they establish their reality? What pieces do they pull from the world around them and what comes from a more basic place inside of them? We know that their version of reality will change—that they won’t always think that painting their own hands and cutting their own hair are empirically the best ideas EVER! And yet as we unintentionally guide them toward a version of reality that mimics our own, how do we both celebrate their reality and invite them into ours? How do we respond when their understanding of the world around them challenges our own? Again, questions with no easy answers. a call from G-d. If our traditions inform our reality and our traditions are cyclical, how do we continue to move forward in time? How do we map eternal wisdom and the guidance of our ancestors onto current scientific knowledge and expanding awareness of how inequitable power dynamics shape culture? I won’t even try to answer these cosmic questions.
As we grow from childhood to adulthood, as we try to find balance when the world around us seems to be spinning out of control, we may seek to ground ourselves in a reality that feels comfortable and makes sense, using that pre-determined version of reality to interpret the inputs that come our way. This is normal, even a natural coping mechanism… and it’s got the potential to be both healthy and dangerous. Believing that better times are possible in a time of chaos empowers us to keep moving, even when it feels that we cannot possibly make a difference. Believing that good people can’t do bad things shields us from seeing our own unintentional harm, or acting to repair it.
There are difficult days ahead. The pandemic is reasserting itself as we head into the cold months, and the divide between those who comply with public health measures and those who don’t grows more rancorous every day. The reality of pandemic is forcing itself upon us – it won’t change no matter what we choose to believe. The reality we choose is what we will do about it, how hopeless or empowered do we feel? What will tomorrow bring?
A friend of many years gifted me this thought in response to my query, which helped to shift my own reality from angst to hope. “There is a very powerful line in the haftarah that we read on the first day of Sukkot. It says that a really long day will come when there is neither light nor darkness – just kind of cloudy and gray. And then, at the time of dusk, ‘there will be light.’ Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch comments on this verse and explains it as follows: ‘there will be a day when all seems gloomy. The amount of light in the sky will resemble the times of both dusk and just before dawn. And people will not know, is it the dawn leading to day or the dusk leading to night? And just when it seems that everlasting night is coming, there will be light – a new day will dawn instead.’”
The light is the light, the dimness is the dimness. But what does it signify? What do we see when we see what is there? What we see determines what we feel, what we do, how we act.
Let us choose the reality of hope, help, kindness, and justice.
September 17, 2020
As promised, I took the opportunity of tashlich at the beach this year to think about what it means to throw your sins out to the water, only to have them returned to you on the next wave.
We have a rule in our house. You shouldn’t say sorry for something if you already know you’re planning to do it again. That doesn’t mean that people don’t make mistakes after genuinely expressing regret—we all do that and we understand that some of those mistakes are habits of long-standing and are hard to break. But it does mean that it hurts when someone does something hurtful. And it hurts more when they do it again. And it hurts yet more when they make you believe it’s going to get better and then hurt you again and again.
Maybe it’s a gift to see our own misdeeds wash back up on the next wave, to see when our participation in a ritual can serve to mask an unwillingness to make a hard change. One of the principles of racial justice work is to recognize the difference between intention and impact. Intention is throwing your metaphorical sins into the water and saying you hope you don’t do it again. Impact is bravely acknowledging the harm caused to the person who was hurt, asking forgiveness, and identifying the internal change that has to be made to prevent future harm.
Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I had the opportunity over the holiday to learn from Rabbi Steve Sager, the Rabbi Emeritus at the synagogue I grew up in. He shared a teaching about the shofar blasts. The first blast is a clear steady blast. We follow it with 3 blasts, each a third of the length of the first. Then comes the 9 blasts, each a third of the length of the ones before. The first is wholeness, the reality of the world as we know it. The second represents brokenness. The third represents shakiness or even a total shattering. And the closing tone is the wholeness of the single blast. Wholeness, brokenness, shakiness, wholeness – the path of history and the path toward necessary change.
We have to break the wholeness, choose the brokenness, endure the shakiness, and know that a new wholeness awaits us at the end.
What are we willing to break this year?
September 17, 2020
I stood on a dune overlooking the Atlantic Ocean on the Outer Banks last Sunday and I saw a fury I’ve never seen before in the waves. Hurricane Paulette was churning many miles offshore, ready to strike Bermuda, and we were seeing the extreme edge of the storm. The waves crashed, the wind whipped, and there was a constant roar as loud as a jet engine.
I stood on that dune and I pondered this feeling of standing at the edge of the storm, knowing much worse is just offshore, knowing that it wasn’t coming for us this time but that’s a moment’s respite only in today’s world, knowing that this storm was a manifestation of the constant physical and emotional buffeting that we are all experiencing today.
I stood on that dune and I cried. I cried for the future that my children will inherit – climate crisis, racial injustice, rising anti-semitism, a pandemic made worse by societal inaction. I cried for the helplessness of knowing that I could stand firmly against the wind and it wouldn’t make any difference if the storm came for me.
I stood on that dune and I prayed. I’m not entirely sure what I prayed for as the thoughts tumbled and jumbled about in my mind. The wave of hopelessness followed by the wave of commitment followed by the wave of fear followed by the wave of inspiration led me to pray for both the return of Red Sea-sized miracles and for the strength of character to actually live according to the values I espouse.
I’ll confess that most of the time these days, I don’t see a way out of the path that we’re on – the ravages of climate change, a rising distrust in knowledge and science, an increasing breakdown in public civility combined with a refusal to look honestly at history and a maddening focus on self-interest at the expense of communal good. I look back at human history and I take some small comfort in knowing that we aren’t the first generation to face mass catastrophes that piled on each other or to believe that there was no future to be faced, bravely or not. Still, the edge of the storm is terrifying and the worst is out there just offshore.
This weekend, I’ll stand back on that dune as we experience a Rosh Hashanah like no other. We will join the roar of the wind with the blast of the shofar. We’ll raise our voices proudly in prayer and song, as we merge tradition with spiritual innovation. We’ll make commitments to ourselves and to G-d and we’ll pray for mercy and to be spared harsh judgments.And as we stand on that dune and walk down to the water, we’ll consider what it means to do tashlich in the ocean, as we cast our sins into the water only to see them be brought right back to us on the next wave – but that’s a blog for another day.
September 4, 2020
When asked a few years ago to think about a teaching in Judaism that was particularly impactful for me, I chose the phrase “All Israel is responsible one for the other.” This concept of communal responsibility has always resonated for me. I see neighborhoods, communities and societies as the metaphorical boat in the story about the passenger who
drilled a hole below his seat and then didn’t understand why his fellow passengers were upset because, after all, “it’s just my floorboard that I’m drilling.”
Responsibility runs in multiple directions. It means holding personal responsibility for our own behavior and how it impacts people around us. It means holding communal responsibility for the ways that societal norms impact people for better or worse. On the flip side, it means knowing that there are people who feel responsible for you, for ensuring that in a crisis, you will be supported and carried.
I started thinking about this concept of responsibility the other day while talking with the executive director of one of JVC’s nonprofit partners, one that has benefited from dozens of meals each week since the end of April. She mentioned how the clients that they work with now know that they can show up on Monday afternoon for a meal, and how knowing that reduces a stress in their life, gives them something they can count on, and increases their level of trust in the case workers who want to work with them.
When we started the community Bunches of Lunches project in late April, we expected it to be a one-time activity, to provide a one-time gift of food to people experiencing hardship. When the result exceeded our expectations, we decided to make it a short-term regular project, knowing that the need was only going to grow as the pandemic spread out of control and the economic impact widened. When we realized we could sustain the program over the course of months, we accepted the additional work and logistics of managing it in the long term.
Somewhere along the way, we also accepted the sacred responsibility of being counted on, of being responsible for setting an expectation for hundreds of people around Baltimore and the organizations that support them. There’s an incredible privilege in that, in knowing that we have the opportunity to do something that matters to so many people. We will continue doing Bunches of Lunches because people are relying on us. We will continue doing Bunches of Lunches because it matters if we don’t.
On Yom Kippur, we will ask G-d to nullify all the oaths and promises that we made last year and to nullify in advance all the oaths that we’ll make in the coming year. Making a promise in G-d’s name is a serious business and not one that people should engage in lightly, or at all. At the same time, we have an opportunity to revisit the promises we’ve made each other in this last year and to think about the promises we want to be held to in the coming year. What are people counting on us to do?
It’s hard to feel responsible. It’s hard to know that someone’s counting on you, especially when meeting their needs is hard and inconvenient and you’re already exhausted because life is really hard right now.
It’s hard to feel responsible. And yet the feeling of knowing someone is really counting on you, that what you do really matters, is the most empowering feeling in the world.
Ultimately, we are all responsible for one another, whether we like it or not. So let’s dive in.
August 21, 2020
I have a confession. I moved out of Baltimore in the middle of June without a clear plan for when we would move back. I was pretty sure we would be back but it wasn’t clear if we’d be gone a month, two months, or six months. We had t
he most amazing cushioning, you see. My parents own a lake house in North Carolina, about an hour from where I grew up and only 5 hours from Baltimore. We spent two months there. We had two extra adults providing supervision so my husband and I could work and we had the lake, space for running and playing, and more bugs for the kids to study than I care to remember.
In many ways, it was a idyllic summer. Several times as I floated in the lake in the late afternoon, I caught myself thinking that I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I would always stop those thoughts with a jolt and remind myself that for the sake of the hundreds of thousands of lives that have been lost in this pandemic, I’d trade it in a minute. For the sake of better options for the millions of children and families that don’t have our kind of cushioning, I’d trade it in a minute. Still, it was awfully easy to let go of the crises I couldn’t see and sink into the peace of the world in my immediate orbit. We can find both a gift and a problem in that, as we all need those moments of respite yet we must simultaneously maintain our sense of communal responsibility for that which we do not always see directly.
This pendulum swing from moments of great peace and satisfaction to the ever-present stress of wondering what the future holds is well known to most of us, I suspect. We experience it in small ways as we move from the satisfaction of a project completed or a child entertained to the stress of seeing how much more there is to do. We experience it in big ways as we celebrate milestones with great joy, then move to a generalized anxiety about an unknown future under the specters of a global pandemic and climate change.
This week, we enter the Hebrew month of Elul. This is a month of comfort and peace, of soulful preparation for Rosh Hashanah, and of thoughtful consideration of the year that has passed. Each day during the month of Elul, we are invited to read Psalm 27 . I’ve loved this psalm since my freshman year of college, when my rabbi taught us a melody to the lines that begin “achat sha’alti.” In English, the full phrase is “One thing I ask of the Lord, for this I yearn. To live in the house of Hashem all the days of my life. To behold G-d’s peacefulness and to pray in G-d’s sanctuary.”
The psalm itself models the pendulum swing from grateful certainly in G-d’s grace and protection to personal requests, then back to confidence and finally on to end with an anxious plea that shows the true uncertainty in the author’s heart.
In preparation for writing this blog, I found the achat sha’alti melody online and listened to it. As I drifted back to that Rosh Hashanah many years ago when I was introduced to both the psalm and the melody, I reflected on what it means to ask to live in the House of Hashem all the days of our lives. For me, it means living in the love of humankind and the knowledge that we can do better for ourselves, our neighbors, and the planet. It means being aware of the many gifts we’re given and expressing gratitude by being responsible for the stewardship of them. It means, as Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks has talked about, seeing the world through G-d’s timeless eyes and understanding our temporary place in the world in that context.
As we enter this month of reflection, I hope that everyone will take a moment to listen to this melody and consider the question of what it means to live in the house of Hashem all the days of our lives.
August 07, 2020
Last week, we marked Tisha B’av, the saddest day of the Jewish year. On this day, we mourn the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. We wish for a day when it can be rebuilt.
Here’s the thing, though. Do we? I mean do we really? Do most Jews today really look longingly back at the good ol’ days when we had the Temple? The priests? The rituals in the Temple? The animal sacrifices?
In some ways, the answer is yes. The traditional prayerbook liturgy still calls for the return of the Temple and the daily sacrifices. For some people, that yearning is real. For others, more theoretical. After all, it’s easy to miss something in theory when there’s very little chance of it actually coming back any time soon.
It makes me wonder about memory and yearning for the past. We’re engaged in an important national conversation about history and national memory. At the same time, many of us are personally living in a pandemic reality that makes us look longingly back at a 2019 that frankly wasn’t the utopia we seem to remember. In both cases, our ability to engage fully with history and memory seems limited by the gap we need filled in our souls at the time.
I wonder if we can put this tendency to use by being more honest with our memories, while still holding onto those things that we’ve lost. Can I mourn the ability to freely move about, to have my children in school with their friends, while being honest in saying that I struggled with a lifestyle of rushing from thing to thing, grabbing lunch at 3:00 from the drive-thru Dunkin Donuts on my way to get the kids so I could get dinner ready before heading back out for an evening meeting. Can I imagine a future where we can move freely about and also preserve the relaxed family dinner?
We can mourn the past. We can resent the present. We can yearn for a history that never was. Or we can look backward honestly and forward with optimism, understanding that we can build a future that takes the best elements of the society we want to build and rejects the injustices that we were taught had to go with them.We are moving from the mourning of Tisha B’av to the rebirth we mark at Rosh Hashanah. This is a time for hope and optimism and critically, it’s a time for honest reflection.
July 24, 2020
July 10, 2020
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks talks about an inherent tension represented in the word tzedakah. The root of the word, tzedek, means justice. Yet the word is commonly used to mean charity. Charity and justice, points out Rabbi Sacks, cannot mean the same thing. Charity is something that you receive out of kindness, having done nothing to deserve it. Justice, by contrast, is something that you should have by right.
As an organization, JVC has longed lived with the tension between justice and charity. We recognize that many of the acts of volunteerism that we support are in facts acts of justice, not acts of kindness. They are acts made necessary by a societal failure to care for its most vulnerable citizens, by inequalities that benefit some at the expense of others.
JVC is clarifying its role in the overall arc of social justice and there will be more conversation about that in the coming weeks as we strengthen our commitment to bridging the gap between acts of service and the context in which they happen.
This week, however, I want to focus on the other side of the spectrum, on acts of kindness that are not, at their core, the result of injustice.
I think back six years, to the feeling of being cradled in the arms of community as my family experienced the trauma of my husband’s accident. People brought us food, shoveled snow, drove my husband to appointments – they did it not because we couldn’t have figured out how to do those things but because it was awfully nice not to have to. It was awfully good to know people cared.
When we see a friend or loved one struggling, we want to help. We want to make it better. We want to do anything to show them that they’re not alone. We want to clean their house, do their laundry, take care of their kids, bring them food… anything to lift the burden. We want to jump right in.
Enter the global pandemic.
What do we do now? When we have a loved one who’s ill with COVID or anything else, and we can’t do all those things that we’re used to doing, what can we do? How can we safely ease a burden when we can’t go in their house? How can we be satisfied by dropping food off at the front door, knowing it has to be reheated and plated and then cleaned up—and that we can’t go in the house to do it?
So we have yet another thing that the pandemic has ripped from us – along with our ability to gather for prayer and celebration and our summer plans and our kids’ schools and camps, and our sense of normalcy. Another thing that the pandemic has taken, along with the health and even the lives of our loved ones. The helplessness is hard.
Here’s a thing that we don’t have to let go of so easily though. No, we can’t go in to quarantined houses to clean and cook and play. We have to find new ways to show we care. We can help make appointments, send food, be available to talk, even provide child care over zoom. We can do our part to keep other people safe.
We can do it. We have to. Because an act of kindness is born of genuine caring, and genuine caring means figuring out how to do the best you can with what you’ve got.
June 26, 2020
The process of growing can be painful and requires a vulnerability that doesn’t come easily to me. At the same time, as I’ve turned to Pirke Avot (a section of the Mishnah full of ethical teachings) for guidance, I’m reminded by Ben Zoma that a wise person is one who learns from every person. He quote Psalms in saying “From all who have taught me have I gained understanding,” So I’m grateful to everyone who has taught me as I have gained understanding. And today I share a story that both shamed me and profoundly shaped me.
In my ninth grade Government class, we got into a discussion about a bill that would strengthen penalties for racial discrimination in certain cases. I asked if it was necessary, challenging my classmates by asking if any of them had ever actually seen a act of racial discrimination in person. To my surprise, most of the hands in the room went up – certainly, all of my black classmates said yes. I was stunned. My honest belief at that time was that the civil rights legislation in the 1960’s had made discrimination illegal and now that people had equal access to voting, education, and jobs, we were on an inevitable upward trend toward full equality.
I was wrong. And I’m so grateful to my classmates for being my teachers – for teaching me both reality and humility. In that moment, I came to understand both that there were many things in the world that were true despite my not having noticed them and that I needed to start paying better attention.
I’ve held that story for 30 years, never wanting to talk about it because I was ashamed of my ignorance and for having spoken it out loud. I’m telling it now for the same reasons.
In Chapter One of Pirke Avot, we are reminded that when we are growing up around wisdom, there is no better thing than silence. And we are surrounded by wisdom, if we remember to listen and trust the voices of people of color speaking about their own experiences, if we commit ourselves not to respond to their stories with “but…” or “don’t you think” or other phrases that diminish and question a person’s lived experience. Be silent. Challenge yourself to understand why you need to change another person’s narrative to fit your own worldview.
And in the same chapter, Hillel pushes us to understand that “whoever does not increase [their] knowledge, decreases it.” It’s okay to be embarrassed once in a while. It’s uncomfortable though. What matters is what we do with the discomfort. Do we learn from it? Or do we double down and dismiss opinions that challenge ours? Do we increase our knowledge or do we reject information, thereby decreasing our knowledge?
My own path toward becoming anti-racist has been stumbling and is far from complete. My commitment is to being silent when learning is required and to being vocal when the moment calls for activism. To being a learner among the wise and being a teacher among my peers.
I appreciate the wisdom of the sages and the wisdom of my ninth-grade classmates.
June 12, 2020
When a person dies, you often here Jewish people say May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem and May their memory be for a blessing.
What do those phrases mean? Why do we remind people at their moment of sadness that there are other people who are mourning too? How can someone’s memory be for a blessing?
Judaism is a religion centered in community. We pray as a community, live as a community, gather for both happy and sad life moments as a community. Or at least we used to. How do we understand the hope that someone will be comforted among other mourners in the context of a world in which we maintain physical distance? Yet this statement makes even more sense now, as we experience our joys, our griefs, and our mundane moments within our own four walls. May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. You are not alone in your grief – others are walking this path. You are not alone in your grief – there are people here for you. You are not alone in your grief – you belong to a rich tradition that has survived tragedies on a personal and communal scale.
The other phrase – May their memory be for a blessing—has taken on particular resonance in the last few weeks as the death of George Floyd has sparked a global movement to recognize and address racial injustice. What does it mean for someone’s memory to be a blessing? We can understand it on a personal level, that remembering a loved one should bring the mourner peace and comfort. We can take it out a level, that the memory of a loved one should intensify our awareness of the world around us and our responsibility to it. Just as we say a blessing as we eat to remind ourselves not to take the food for granted, a person’s memory can be a reminder to live fully in the world.
What happens when we take it out yet another level? When a person’s memory becomes the spark for something far larger than they could ever have imagined? George Floyd didn’t choose to die. He didn’t choose for his death to become the flashpoint of a movement. Yet it is. The world will be better for it. Rabbi Ruth Abusch-Magder of Be’chol Lashon suggests that we use a different phrase in this case – May his memory be for a revolution. A comment on her social media post reminded readers that in Israel, the term “May her memory be for a revolution” is used to memorialize victims of domestic violence. Mourner express a hope that through their memory, other lives with be saved.
A blessing can be a comfort. It can be a reminder. It can be an invitation to remember your personal responsibility. A blessing can be the spark of a revolution. May George Floyd’s memory and the memory of all those who died unjustly and unnecessarily be for a blessing, a revolution, and a call to each of us.
May 28, 2020
There is a story told about Rabbi Haim of Romshishok in Lithunia. Rabbi Haim had a dream in which he was shown both heaven and hell. He started in hell where he saw that people were sitting at a table full of food, more than they could ever want. Yet the people were starving and miserable. He looked at their arms and saw that they had spoons attached to their hands but their elbows were splinted and the spoons were long and they could not bend their arms to bring the food to their mouths. After this sad sight, Rabbi Haim traveled to heaven where, much to his surprise, he found that the people
were similarly sitting at a table loaded with food and their arms too were splinted at the elbows with a spoon attached to their hands. Yet in heaven, the people were satisfied, happily talking and looking content and well-fed. Rabbi Haim looked more closely and saw that in heaven, people filled their spoons and fed their neighbors and were fed by them in return.
The story goes on to say that Rabbi Haim rushed back to hell to share this news with the people there. Upon telling them how to solve their problem, he was devastated to hear them say that they would rather starve than help the other occupants of hell, whom they held in much contempt.
So let’s talk about masks.
Like the occupants of heaven and hell in the story, we cannot change our circumstances right now. We live in a world with a deadly disease that can spread asymptomatically and strikes unfairly and unpredictably. It seems we should all lock ourselves in our houses and never come out.
And we also live in a world where people need to work to earn the money to pay their bills, where some people must be exposed day after day because they run the hospitals, clinics, stores, and infrastructure that must be maintained in order for the basic necessities of life to function. We live in a world where we can’t lock ourselves in our houses and never come out. Not all of us anyway.
As we learn more and more about the spread of the novel corona virus, we are able to make more informed choices about how to behave and how to protect others. Experts are increasingly confident that droplets are the main transmission source for the disease, droplets that spray from our mouths when we talk, laugh, sing, cough, sneeze, and to some extent in our regular breath. Droplets that are largely captured by cloth masks and surgical masks.
As we come to understand that while respirator masks protect us and others, the more available and durable cloth masks largely protect others more than they protect us. My mask protects you and your mask protects me.
So here we are, standing with Rabbi Haim at the entrances to heaven and hell. Our elbows are splinted. The food sits in our spoon. We have a choice to make.
What are we going to do?
May 15, 2020
My thoughts this week are dedicated to a rabbi who has served as mentor and teacher and helped shaped every aspect of my Jewish identity, with wishes for his full and complete recovery from serious illness.
This rabbi’s Caring Bridge page features a poem by Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai, in which he considers “the precision of pain and the blurriness of joy.” His point is that people are able to describe pain in graphic, detailed terms of how, where, when, and why it hurts. Yet when asked to describe a joyful moment, the response is “it was great.” Why do we do this? Why do we focus our attention so much on pain and allow joy to wash over us?
There’s value in being able to provide a detailed description of pain; the goal, after all, is to identify it and make it go away. We want to be able to describe pain with precision. We want to offer detailed, nuanced information about the how, where, and why of communal pain and inequity too. After all, in the work that JVC does, we want to challenge the idea that pain and suffering are simply how things are.
Perhaps in some cases, the experience of joy should not be examined too closely. The feeling of standing at the edge of the ocean fills my soul with joy. I have no interest in learning why. It binds the pieces of my soul together and I’m content to simply feel it.
And yet, as we seek to find joy in these dark moments and to find ways to bring joy to others, perhaps it would be worth a closer examination of the precision of joy. What is it about a child’s drawing that fills us with joy and how does that translate to decorating a brown bag meal before delivery? What is it about a quick conversation with a stranger in line at the coffee shop that brightens our day and how does that translate to a friendly calling program? What is it about welcoming people to our home that fills our souls and how does that translate to preparing our favorite casseroles to freeze and donate.
As we all think about the influences in our lives that have brought us to this moment and to our own unique way of walking in the world, perhaps it’s time to look at both the blurriness and the precision of joy.
May 1, 2020
Growing up in a progressive southern town in the 1980s, I was taught that it was deeply offensive to cross the street to avoid walking too close to another person. Even today, crossing the street or stepping off the sidewalk are signs that a person doesn’t feel comfortable with the person they are about to encounter – these are classic microaggressions used to communicate to minorities that they are seen as a threat and not to be trusted.
I was also taught that it was unconscionably rude to stand idly by while someone else works hard at work that you could help with – for example, a person should not stand by and let someone else carry in the groceries or haul supplies from one place to another.
And then there’s today. On those rare occasions that I leave my house to go for a run (or a walk, if I’m being totally honest,) I’m the first one to step off the sidewalk or cross the street to maintain physical distance – it’s not a microaggression, it’s a public safety measure and a way to honor the people who are out because they have no choice. I’m doing the right thing. I know I am, no matter how awful it feels. I look people in the eye as I move away from them. I wish them a good day. I smile sheepishly. And I hope they understand because I want to hide my head in shame every time.
Earlier this week, I stood idly by as friends and strangers unloaded hundreds of beautifully decorated bagged meals in the carpool line at Krieger Schechter Day School. I did not offer to help. I could not offer to help. My job was to point them in the right direction and pick up the boxes after they had walked away. I followed our established protocol and the guidelines of the CDC. I was doing the right thing, no matter how hard it was to do. I explained over and over again why I was not helping. We laughed together at the discomfort of the moment. And I hope the people I was avoiding understood, because it went against every fiber of my being.
It’s a struggle to take the values of a religion of action like Judaism and enact them through inaction. I’m learning, though, that this moment does not call for inaction after all. It calls for different action. It calls for a rethinking of what constitutes right and necessary. It calls for a thoughtful and creative engagement with traditions and norms. It calls for intense intentionality and strong communication.
It’s a new normal. It’s uncomfortable. We’ll do what we must. Yet we’re fortunate to be able to dive into the discomfort because it means we’re free to choose the right thing to do. And to know and to say why we’re doing it. And through it, we build community through distance.
April 17, 2020
The period from Passover to Shavuot is, simply put, a weird period in the Jewish year. We are simultaneously marketing the precarious time from the first planting to the first harvest, the journey from Egypt to Mt. Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments, and the anniversary of a 2nd century plague that killed thousands of Rabbi Akiva’s disciples. We watch the skies, we study, we mourn. It is in some ways a time when we recognize the things we can’t control, seek understanding and wisdom about the world around us, and regret the losses we can no longer stop.
In this new and different reality of physical distancing and virtual connections, each of these commemorations means something different than it did a year ago.
How many of us have a new appreciation of food shortages, even ones that exist primarily in our own minds? How many of us have planted a garden, in preparation for a time when we cannot access fresh fruits and vegetables? If you have planted a garden, watch the plants grow and consider the miracle of circumstances that have to happen together for them to thrive. If your plants suffered in this week’s storms, think about the fickleness of nature and be grateful that your livelihood doesn’t depend on your garden.
As the Israelite people left Egypt to begin their journey to Mt. Sinai and on to Israel, they had to shed their identity as slaves and take on the identity of a free people, one that accepted responsibility for the welfare of the community and understood that the law of G-d was a law that required people to care for each other. Traditionally during the Omer, many people read a chapter from Pirke Avot, the Ethics of the Fathers, a section of Mishnah that deals more with ethics than law. As we enter the Omer this year, we are also faced with more ethical decisions than legal ones. Do we need that item enough to risk our own health or someone else’s to get it? Do we protect our own health or do we prioritize the needs of a neighbor who is at heightened risk? How do we cope with our own isolation and loneliness, when all we want is a hug from a friend? Where do we look for guidance? How do we value the wisdom we’re offered, especially when it conflicts with our own desires and comforts?
The plague is particularly interesting this year. Tradition teaches that Rabbi Akiva’s students were stricken with a plague after they lost their ability to engage in civil discourse. They could not argue without denigrating their opponent. They could not honor another perspective as having any value at all. And if that hits a little too close to home these days, the plague itself was thought to be something like diphtheria, or maybe croup. In other words, they got a fever, a cough, and lost the ability to breathe freely. Now I would not argue that the current pandemic is a literal plague sent by G-d but whether it’s literal or metaphorical, I do think the opportunity to see the connection is here so we should take advantage of it. We’re trapped away from each other—what have we given up? We cannot engage in person— did we appreciate our connections when we still had them? . The virtual connections are vital but they’re a pale imitation of in-person connections. How will we value what we’ve lost? Will we choose to see the sacred humanity in every person, even those with whom we profoundly disagree, or who make us uncomfortable in their difference? How will we bring civility back to the world?
This year, the Omer is an opportunity. Time has lost all meaning, yet we focus diligently on counting each day. It seems possible that the slow return to our new normal will occur sometime around Shavuot, at the end of this period. What will we be like then? What will we take from this time?
April 3, 2020
Judaism is defined by its communal approach to life. We gather to pray. We gather to learn. We gather to eat. We gather to mark holidays. We gather to celebrate life’s joys and to support people in times of loss. We gather, sometimes just for the sake of being together.
One of the things that makes this moment in history so painful is that our instinct to gather can cause dreadful results. We’ve seen family dinners, choir practices and minyans result in clusters of disease and death. We must fight our instinct to reach out in communal solidarity every day as we see people suffering and lonely and grieving. How do you hug someone from 6 feet away? Can we redefine communal Judaism to provide an answer for this moment?
As with most moments, we can look to our history and our tradition and discover that painful as this moment is, it is not totally unprecedented. More than 2000 years ago, the destruction of the first Temple forced the Jewish people into exile and fundamentally ruptured their understanding of ritual practice. Judaism was, up to that moment, a sacrificial cult. People repented for sins, celebrated bounty, and marked holidays through sacrifices of both produce and animals at the Temple. People traveled to Jerusalem three times a year to bring sacrifices. Until they couldn’t. Until the Temple was destroyed and Jerusalem was inaccessible.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sachs talks about the radical act of redefining Judaism in light of the destruction of the Temple. What could we be if we couldn’t be what we were? Would Judaism simply fade away? The leaders of the time decided that it wouldn’t. They replaced sacrifice with prayer, Temples with synagogues, and priests with rabbis and scholars.
What can Judaism be if we can’t gather in synagogues and homes for months on end? What will we do if the guidance not to kiss the mezuzah becomes permanent? How will we celebrate our Seders if the generations of our families are separated?
In the last week, I read Haftarah for my synagogue and participated in a shiva call via Zoom. Neither action felt comfortable. One pushed me outside of my traditional screen-free Shabbat practice. Both felt radical. Both felt profoundly necessary. As I “sat” with a friend to mourn her father and considered how eye contact feels different through a screen, I also thought about the fact that we were living in different states and in normal times, I would not have participated in this shiva at all. I thought about the gift of that opportunity and the unfathomable pain of a mourner who could not travel to her father’s funeral.
We all hope that social distancing is a short-term phenomenon, yet we would be missing an opportunity if we don’t also consider how the need to be physically separated invites us to rethink our understanding of what Judaism “must be.” Perhaps our need to gather should be challenged to include more virtual experiences. Perhaps once we can travel and we can gather again in people’s homes, one of the traditional practices of mourning should still be a zoom night so that friends from far away can become part of the circle of support. Perhaps once we can go back to the synagogue for services, we should still spend Shabbat afternoon on the porch, talking to neighbors as they sit on their porches.
Moments of change and disruption can feel hopeless. Yet we know that we can adapt to even drastic disruptions. We can because we must. And if we’re lucky, this disruption will leave us with a reminder neither to take our gatherings for granted or to assume that they can only happen in one way.
March 20, 2020
I should be thinking about Passover. It’s just a couple of weeks away. My mind and my children’s backpacks should be full of creatively harmless plagues and questions and matzo covers and recipes for chocolate matzo.
Instead, I’m back at Rosh Hashanah. All those months ago, we sat in the synagogue as we pondered the book of life. Who will live and who will die, we asked? Who by fire and who by water? And who by plague? We wished each other well and that we should all be inscribed in the book of life.
The doleful tune that accompanies these words in the high holiday services has been running through my head. As I look on social media, peer out my window at neighbors sitting on their porches and taking walks, and occasionally brave the store to pick up groceries, I can’t get it out of my head. Who will live and who will die?
I’m not one to stay stuck in this painful inaction, though it’s tempting and I spend more time here than I want to. I’ve forced myself to ask how we can still help to tip the scales. While JVC is taking every recommendation around social distancing, we also recognize that humans are social creatures. We need to know we’re not alone. It’s been gratifying to see the enthusiastic response to our calls for volunteers, both direct service volunteers to take meals to our most vulnerable community members and indirect service volunteers who are looking for creative ways to get busy helping others. We are increasingly developing virtual volunteer opportunities with our community partners, as the need to reach out to people who are isolated becomes a non-physical activity.
Who will live? We will. Our community will. We can emerge from this moment stronger and more cohesive, if we choose to. We can save lives by staying away from each other. We can save lives by coming closer to each other in new and different ways.
May we all be the answer to this plague.
March 6, 2020
As we approach the holiday of Purim next week, there are lots of lively debate about who the real hero is of the Purim story? Is it Queen Esther, who put her own safety at risk to approach the king and tell him of Haman’s evil plot? Is it Mordecai, whose leadership pushed Esther in the right direction? Today, people even suggest it might be Vashti, whose act of rebellion in refusing to perform for the king has been demonized but perhaps served as an example of a woman claiming ownership over her own body.
I want to offer another suggestion. I believe one vastly overlooked hero of the Purim story was the king’s servant. The servant was asked to read to the king and instead of choosing a story from the royal chronicles in which this arrogant and empty-headed king figured as the hero, the servant chose to read to him the story of how Mordechai had uncovered a plot against the king and having reported it, succeeded in saving the king’s life.
How does this make him a hero? Knowing that his job was to soothe the king, the servant managed to call out the best of the king’s nature and both inspire his gratitude and direct it toward Mordechai, who was known to be a Jew. When the very next night, Esther revealed Haman’s evil plot against the Jews, including herself and Mordechai, the king was enraged, Haman was executed and his plot was foiled.
Assuming that the servant didn’t know the ultimate consequences of his action, is he a hero? A wise friend recently noted that the entire Purim story is full of tiny, spread out, circumstances that are either miracles of miraculous coincidences. These small miracles go unnoticed until you see the entire arc of the story and recognize how each little thing allowed the miracle of the Jews survival to happen. Which doesn’t answer the question – is the servant a hero?
I propose that he is, though likely an unwitting one. Perhaps the choice he made was unintentional. Maybe he just stuck his finger into the scroll and decided that was the place to start reading. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he knew that the king could be influenced to the good or to the bad and chose a story that pushed the king toward the good.
Perhaps we can all be that kind of a hero. In each interaction, we have an opportunity to influence the people around us and, in turn, to be influenced by them. Are we intentional in the way we act? Do we draw out the best of the people we’re with, celebrating their best selves and challenging them when they need to be challenged? Do we seek out people to surround ourselves with who do the same for us?
We can strive to be brave like Esther and wise like Mordechai. We may see our roles in life play out on a public stage, or in the halls of power. Or we may not. We can also strive to be intentional like the servant, to use our influence quietly to bring out the best in the people in our lives.
Let’s all be like the servant.
February 21, 2020
On Shabbat last week, we read the portion of the Torah called Yitro. Yitro is Moses’s father in law and becomes an advisor to him as Moses takes on the role of leader of the Israelite people. This week’s parsha features
two significant moments. First, Yitro helps Moses understand that his role is to lead, not to manage everything by himself. He suggests to Moses that he create a leadership structure that builds from small group leaders to leaders of leaders and on up the chain to Moses as the (mortal/non-divine) head of the people. In other words, Yitro helps Moses to develop an organization that can grow exponentially and still function as a whole because it’s held together by a connected leadership structure and a common set of values. If you’ve ever wondered what the Biblical origin of the VolunTeam concept is (and I’m sure you have!) this is it.
Yitro, as a close confidante who did not experience the daily burdens of leadership that Moses was feeling, was able to see that shared, peer-based leadership was necessary to solidify the foundations of this emerging nation. In many ways, Moses had to let go of leadership in order to establish himself as the leader. He had to learn to trust others.
As JVC has expanded peer-based leadership opportunities with VolunTeams, Live With Purpose, and multi-site Days of Service with projects led by volunteers, our staff has also had to learn to trust others. We’ve learned that peer-led recruitment can be vastly more successful than top down marketing and JVC’s growth has proven that point over and over again. We’ve learned that peer-led learning can be intimidating for the leaders and we need to provide the right resources, including training. At the same time, when peer-led learning works well, it can be transformative for both leaders and participants. Like Moses, we’re learning as we go.
After creating this leadership structure, the people reach Mt. Sinai, where they experience the revelation of being proclaimed “chosen” and are given the ten commandments as the most basic rules of their emerging nation. With a solid leadership structure and the opportunity to choose their chosenness (although there’s a story that the mountain itself was lifted up and held over their heads to “encourage” them to make the right choice), the Israelite people are ready to become a nation, to take on the role of being a light unto the nations, to be a righteous and ethical people.
At JVC, we strive each day to live up to our mission, vision, and values. As we’ve created structures that empower volunteers to take on leadership and to bring their wisdom to this work, we’ve been able to grow in depth and breadth and to expand our impact on volunteers and on the community.
February 07, 2020
In Judaism, there’s a prayer for everything. There’s a prayer when you get up in the morning, a prayer when you eat, a prayer when you see a rainbow, even a prayer when you go to the bathroom. When I was in San Diego, my colleagues and I talked about this as I fulfilled a lifelong dream by heading to the beach to watch the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean. As we drove, we asked what the Jewish prayer was for the sunset.
Turns out that in Judaism, there’s a prayer for almost everything. But there’s no specific prayer for seeing the sunset.
As I reflected on my trip to San Diego and my two visits to the beach, I wondered why that is. What is it about the sunset that invites us to come up with our own prayer?
Sunset is an interesting time in the day, especially in Jewish tradition. Sunset is the end of the day, a transition to darkness and rest, a time of fragility as we lose confidence in our ability to see and control the world around us. Sunset is also the beginning of the day, as we light candles to welcome holidays, as we feel strength in the reminder that we’re part of a greater whole. As we choose our perspective, we choose our prayer.
The Pacific Coast exhibits this same type of contrast. Crashing waves hit against rocks that have not yet broken down to sand and then onto cliffs that rise far overhead. The sense of power is overwhelming as I looked at the water. When I looked up at the cliffs, I was struck by the utter fragility of the scene. What keeps those cliffs standing against the waves? Was my prayer determined by the waves or by the cliffs?
Each day, we’re confronted with situations that we can choose to perceive in different ways. Is that person on the street just lazy and unwilling to work, or did they lose their job and their home after a medical crisis? Did the person who just offended me do it in malice or in unintentional ignorance? How will my perspective affect my reaction?
What perspective do I choose to take? What’s my prayer for this moment? What’s yours?
January 24, 2020
In connecting fine wine with great leadership at the board meeting last week, Kenny Friedman commented that in order to make a great wine, the grapes have to undergo stress or pressure while they’re on the vines – so winemakers will deliberately create some sort of environmental stress. He compared that to great leaders, who must also undergo some stress and pressure – often having to push themselves out of their comfort zones and be tested in some way, even taking risks.
As we pushed ourselves to go deep in our work as part of the Martin Luther King, Jr. Day of Service, I considered the risks that Dr. King took in his own leadership. Despite our rose-colored national memory, Dr. King was not always the much beloved figured that he is today. He was pushing the country hard in a direction where much of society had very little actual interest in going. Among people who held power, he knew that his views were unpopular at best, dangerous at worst. He kept going. He hardened under the pressure and thereby inspired others to change the world.
This week’s parsha, the section of the Torah that we’ll read in the synagogue this week, also contains some fascinating examples of leadership under pressure.
Last week and this week, the Torah portions describe the Israelite people’s experience as slaves. Concerned about the size of the Israelite slave population, Pharaoh decreed that all sons be killed and he tasked the midwives with carrying out this horrific order. The midwives refused, claiming to Pharaoh that the Israelite women were so fast in childbirth that they just couldn’t get there in time. While their rebellion couldn’t be an open refusal to carry out these killings, they nonetheless took significant risk to do the right thing. They’re a model for us in understanding that following the rules can have drastic and unthinkable consequences and that conscience must be part of decision making and leadership.
Following his rescue from the Nile River and his childhood in the household of Pharaoh, Moses kills an Egyptian taskmaster and flees to the desert. While there, he encounters G-d and is invested with the role of representing G-d to the Egyptian Pharaoh and the Israelite slaves. While Moses begs not to be given this leadership role, he ultimately accepts it and pushes himself outside of his comfort zone while at the same time cultivating the public leadership of his brother Aaron.
For us, the question of leadership is how today’s strains and stresses will hone our leadership and our community for the future? What kind of leader do we seek to be?
January 10, 2019
Yesterday marked exactly six years since my husband Alan fell off of a ladder from more than 20 feet in the air.
Yesterday marked exactly six years since I began to understand what it means to have a village and to have to learn to depend on one.
Today I’m conscious of being part of more than one amazing village and of helping people navigate through difficult times.
A few weeks ago, I pondered the process of going from being a helper to being a recipient. I touched on the idea of building a village then and decided to return to it now.
I would venture to say that most people don’t build a village with the idea that someday, they’re going to have a crisis and need to turn to them. Most people don’t actively seek out relationships with an imbalance of need. Then again, most people believe that really bad things can’t happen to them. It’s called magical thinking and while it’s often presented as an aspect of adolescence, it’s one that I suspect most of us don’t outgrow until it’s forcibly ripped away from us.
So how do we build ourselves a village? Each time that we do a kindness, each opportunity at which we say “sure, I’ll help you with that,” we’re building a village around reciprocity. Each time we accept someone for what they have to offer, we’re building a village around valuing each other. Each time we say to the least educated person in the synagogue, “you’re the one who is allowing us to make a minyan today and we couldn’t do it without you,” we’re building a village around honor. Each time we say to a person we don’t know that we will help them anyway, we’re building a village around dignity.
That’s not to say that people who find themselves without a village at a time of crisis have failed in any way. There are many reasons why people may find themselves isolated, not all of them easy to resolve. At the same time, we all have an opportunity to notice the people around us who are struggling, to show up for the people who need it the most and can repay us the least.
In the Torah this week, we will read about the death of Jacob. As he lays dying, he calls his son Joseph to him and makes one request – he wants to be buried in the land of Canaan, not in the land of Egypt. This request, like any request having to do with death and dying, connects us to the idea of a village. It’s a request that Jacob certainly cannot fulfill on his own, nor can he ever repay his son for fulfilling it. A village shows up for requests like this, as Joseph does. A village shows up when it’s inconvenient, when there’s no expectation of repayment, when the only reason for doing it is because it’s the right thing to do.
Judaism is built on the concept of community. Baltimore, with its tight knit niches and neighborhoods, is built on the concept of community. The community I grew up in, for all that we have spread ourselves far and wide, was built on the concept of community. For these truths, I am deeply grateful.
December 13, 2019
The Torah portions being read in synagogues last week and this week are among the best known in the Biblical narrative. The story has, in fact, made it all the way to Broadway in the form of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It’s the story of the patriarch Jacob and his twelve sons, including his favorite and much-favored son Joseph. Jealous of Joseph, his brothers conspire to kill him until they’re stopped by their oldest brother Reuben. Reuben intends to save Joseph but he lacks the courage to confront his brothers directly, instead convincing them to throw Joseph into a pit with the intention of going back later to rescue him. Reuben’s “rescue” plan is thwarted and Joseph ends up being sold into slavery in Egypt, thus setting into motion the chain of events that will lead to the entire Israelite people becoming slaves.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks cites this story and others to paint a picture of Reuben as a character whose impact never quite lives up to his intentions. He wants to do good but by doing it subtly, by trying not to antagonize those around him, by not risking his own position to stand up for another, he fails to accomplish his aim. He fails to be a leader and a role model and therefore fails to protect the people he wants to protect.
Contrast this story to the traditions and history of Hanukkah. The Hanukkah story recounts the fierce battle to reestablish Judaism in Jerusalem, to refuse to accommodate to the power of the ruling authority (how the Maccabees handled power when they won it is a different topic and one worth examining another day). Traditionally, Jews are encouraged to light their menorahs in the window, to proclaim ourselves proudly for all to see.
As we come to the secular new year with its frequent talk of new year’s resolution, I find myself thinking about these two ways of doing good. There are times, without question, when the prudent course of action is to act with discretion, to do the best you can without risking too much. How much more could we gain, however, by proclaiming ourselves more publicly? By stepping out of our comfort zone? By being willing to give something up for a cause we believe in?
When we risk a little more, we become a model for others. We give other people permission to step forward as well. In this secular new year, my commitment is to examine my own practices – to use less and conserve more, to avoid less and embrace more, to confront beliefs that are toxic and to stand for what’s right. Where I can, I hope to share these moments publicly. Not for the sake of the “humble brag,” but for the sake of shining the light in the window.
December 13, 2019
In just under a month, my family will mark the sixth anniversary of my husband’s accident. Though those days feel far behind us, this time of year always inspires me to think about one of the most challenging parts of that time – the feeling of going from being the helper to being the recipient. I’m grateful to my friend Diana, who my colleagues know as the “Mitzvah Day knitter from Atlanta” and who is currently recovering from surgery, for bringing me back to this reflection this year. She’s had to adjust to accepting help – from people opening doors for her to letting go of some of her traditional volunteer responsibilities to letting people bring her things so she doesn’t have to get up. As she traveled for work, she witnessed the simple goodness of many people as they helped her get through the airport and on to her snowy destination. She is deeply grateful for it all.
What does it feel like to be the recipient of volunteer help? It’s not easy. It’s really not easy when you’re not used to it. It’s ego-bruising. It’s hard to ask. It may not be clear who to ask when your need is sudden and urgent, or when the size and scope of your village is unclear. Sometimes, it feels easier to just do it yourself. It feels easier to take that last little bit of strength and energy and keep getting it all done. Until you just can’t.
So where does that leave us? What’s our responsibility to people we see struggling?
Though this isn’t the season for it, I’m reminded of the Passover seder and the story of the four sons. The Hagaddah tells the story of four very different sons and asks how the parents should tell the Passover story to each of them. One son has done his homework and is prepared to ask for exactly what he needs. Give it to him, exactly as he asks for it, says the text. I’m reminded of a friend who gathered her village to help her family prepare for a difficult stretch and who asked for exactly what she needed to help her family prepare. Her friends happily rose to the occasion, grateful to be told what to do. How did she nurture and sustain a village to be there for her in that moment? That’s a topic for a different day.
The next son is angry, denying that he has a place in the story. The text treats him harshly, which is uncomfortable, but I would suggest that sometimes you have to push someone who may not yet be willing to deal with the situation they’re in. Give them a place to pour out their anger but unlike the text, don’t let go and walk away.
The third son, a simple son, only asks “what is this.” For this person, the Haggadah says to give a simple explanation. This son reminds me of the role I’ve played with the family members of other brain trauma patients. When all someone can say is “what is this,” find someone to guide them on the path.
The fourth son doesn’t even know how to ask. The Haggadah says we must start from the beginning and tell the whole story. Take care of everything. I would suggest that this is the son who resembles most people who find themselves in the unexpected role of recipient. This son doesn’t know where to begin and perhaps is ashamed to ask. Today, there’s a lot of literature on how to help people experiencing an unexpected trauma, especially those who aren’t asking for help. The consensus is not to wait to be asked. Push help. Don’t ask someone to come up with a task for you. Tell them you’re bringing dinner and ask them what they want. Remind them it’s okay not to be okay and be present to listen when they’re ready to talk.
Like my friends who are currently going through rough patches, I’m deeply grateful for the help that was offered, both the help I knew I needed and the help that showed up unexpectedly. I’m also grateful for the Facebook responses to my inquiry that helped me develop and guide these thoughts.
November 27, 2019
In his recent visit to Baltimore as a scholar-in-residence at Beth Am Synagogue, Rabbi Shai Held from the Hadar Institute took on the question of what it means to Love Your Neighbor. This command is one of the most fundamental in Judaism and yet there is no consensus on what it means. Is loving your neighbor a feeling or an action? Is it both? Can a person be commanded to feel a certain way? If a person’s actions are loving but their feelings are not, does it matter?
I won’t try to capture all that Rabbi Held taught in the confines of these few paragraphs, although I would recommend listening to his interview on NPR as Rabbi Held, reporter Sheila Kast and producer Melissa Herr explore this question both in the studio and out on the streets with Baltimore area residents.
What struck me about the question is how we understand change over time. If, yesterday, I refused to give money to a stranger in need, it’s clear what I did and what I need to do differently in the future. It’s clear that I cannot change my past action and it’s equally clear that I can do better in the future.
But what about feelings? When do they change? How often do we acknowledge when we feel something that’s inappropriate? How often do we say “I feel resentful about giving money to people and I think I need to work on that”? Are we really that honest with ourselves? It’s far easier to say “I’ll do what I have to but my feelings are my feelings and that’s just the way it is.”
Rabbi Held suggests that emotional honesty is a part of fulfilling the commandment to Love Your Neighbor and that if we don’t, then we habituate ourselves to doing good actions with great resentment or a sense of superiority. At JVC, this is one of the key reasons that we focus on service learning. We invite people to participate in volunteering for any reason and we assume that not every volunteer has the best of intentions, even those who think they do. Our challenge is helping people to do the internal work of challenging assumptions, overcoming fears, and connecting values with actions.
Actions are easy to see. Actions are easy (sometimes) to change from one moment to another. Feelings are hard. Feelings flow. We strive for the “aha” moment that signals a change in knowledge or feeling. We recognize it’s far more likely that we have a lot of “hmmm….” moments that result is a slow change over time.
We are commanded to love our neighbor. Is it an action or is it a feeling? The answer, as with so many things in Judaism, is yes. And we are invited to explore what it means over time, as we grow and learn and begin to care.
November 15, 2019
On our recent trip to Israel, I did something that scared me. Something, in fact, that I had previously said I would never do. I rented a car—and I drove it.
Now this might not sound too scary to many of you but for me, it was a pretty big deal. While most traffic signs in Israel are in both English and Hebrew, many don’t have words at all and street name signs are. . let’s just say “inconsistently present.”
As I try to do, I dived into this experience for what it could teach me. I used the rule of 1/60 (understanding one experience to be 1/60 of a deeper experience), which I’ve written about before and which helps us to understand that we can have an experience that builds empathy without trying to create equivalency.
In this case, I considered what it must be like to be an immigrant, to move permanently to a new place where you don’t speak the language, don’t understand local jargon and culture, and may or may not have someone to guide you as you learn.
Not only was the experience of both driving and generally being in Israel intimidating, it was also inspiring. If you want to learn about Israel, take a cab. You would be hard-pressed to find someone more interested in making sure you know everything about the country than an Israeli cab driver. We also made friends with waiters, shopkeepers, train travelers, and even the staff at the rental car office who assured me over and over that we had “full insurance coverage.”
And of course, then there were the friends and family we were there to see. The increased level of comfort I felt when we were out with our Israeli hosts was palpable. It’s intimidating and frankly embarrassing to have to start every conversation with the words “M’daber Anglit?” (do you speak English.) It’s far easier to fade into the background and let the natives handle everything. When they’re there to do it, that is.
So what did this moment of dipping my toe into the experience of being a foreigner in a new land teach me about the immigrant experience and how we can support newcomers, and especially new English speakers?
Be kind. Be generous with your time. Try to understand what is being asked. As my mother likes to say “answer the questions they don’t know they need to ask.”
Honor their bravery. Ask yourself if you could start over in a place where you have to learn a new language, especially as an adult.
Honor their effort. Ask yourself how many languages you speak before criticizing a new English speaker.
Stretch your boundaries. Go someplace where you don’t speak the language and try to navigate. Bring back the memory of that stress, while also understanding that your travel stress from a time-limited, well-funded travel experience doesn’t compare to the trauma of a refugee. Remember the rule of 1/60th and understand that empathy is not equivalence.
Remember that we are instructed to welcome the stranger, because we were strangers ourselves.
November 1, 2019
Jewish tradition says that the prophetic era ended around 300 BCE, with the death of the prophet Malachi. Since then, people have been left to figure things out here on Earth through study, prayer, discussion, and experimentation. Today, two thousand years removed from the days of the prophets, we generally dismiss those people who say they speak for G-d. We call them crackpots, we question their sanity, we reject their warnings. After all, there are no prophets today.
There were 56 prophets and prophetesses, according to Jewish tradition. Many of them shared words of warning. They reminded the Israelite people to heed the laws of the Torah. They described the coming doom, destruction, and exile should the people fail to change. They were generally successful as future-tellers, describing a future that would indeed come to pass, yet they failed in their core responsibility, which was to get people to heed their warnings and change their behavior. One notable exception is the reluctant prophet Jonah, whose story we will read on Yom Kippur. Jonah fled the responsibility of delivering a warning to the people of Ninevah but, after a three-day stint inside the belly of a “big fish,” actually achieved the objective of motivating them to repent and be spared.
Why does this matter? After all, there are no prophets today.
As I watched images from the Global Climate Strike in the last few weeks, I began to wonder. What is prophecy? What is it that allows one person to see what others don’t . . . or won’t? What is it that gets one person noticed and allows her to build a movement, while others go unheeded or are utterly dismissed? Is prophecy always the ecstatic experience of hearing G-d speak, or might prophecy also come from hearing the message of the voice in the everyday world? Is prophecy a choice to speak up and speak out, to say aloud what others can’t hear?
Can we, in this year to come, strive to be prophets? Can we heed the words of the prophets among us?
Can we make the choice to hear the things that are uncomfortable to hear? After all, we may all be prophets today.
October 18, 2019
Sokkot is a joyous holiday, a reminder of the joy of bringing in a harvest and a reminder of the path from slavery to freedom. It’s a celebration, coming on the heels of ten days of soul-searching and repentance.
It’s also an invitation to think about the meaning of home. In the most traditional observance of the holiday, people actually move out of their comfortable, permanent homes and into these temporary dwellings. More commonly today, people decorate their sukkah, bring out tables and chairs, and make the sukkah their dining room for the week. In both cases, the sukkah is more than a simple shelter; it’s an extension of home.
What can a sukkah teach us about the difference between shelter and home?
A shelter keeps the rain off (as does a sukkah,) and provides some semblance of security through walls (as does a sukkah.) It can keep you safe and dry, possibly even warm and comfortable. But a shelter, like a sukkah, is temporary. It’s not a place to create long-lasting traditions, or to memorialize your “forever memories.”
A home, by contrast, is a place to settle. It’s a place to feel both physically and emotionally safe. It can be a place for a person to begin moving beyond focusing on their most basic needs and to begin dreaming of the future. It can be a place for children to begin collecting books because they have a place to keep them. It can be a place for people to make healthy food choices because they have the storage for tools to prepare their meals. It’s a place, like a sukkah, to hang artwork and decorate in ways that express the owner’s personal style and values.
Shelters are important. They matter. They meet basic needs. It took 40 years to get from Egypt to Israel. 40 years of wandering in temporary shelters and learning what it means to be free. 40 years of eating manna that fell from heaven but not producing a harvest or preparing a meal. 40 years of not being quite home yet.
Home was the goal, though. Home is always the goal.
As we increase our relationship with organizations that help people transition successfully from shelters to permanent housing, we understand the importance of home. We will look at ways to bolster the sense of emotional safety that comes with stability and permanence. We will look at our sukkot and at our homes and ask ourselves what we do differently when we feel safe and stable.
Home is always the goal.
October 04, 2019
Jewish tradition says that the prophetic era ended around 300 BCE, with the death of the prophet Malachi. Since then, people have been left to figure things out here on Earth through study, prayer, discussion, and experimentation. Today, two thousand years removed from the days of the prophets, we generally dismiss those people who say they speak for G-d. We call them crackpots, we question their sanity, we reject their warnings. After all, there are no prophets today.
There were 56 prophets and prophetesses, according to Jewish tradition. Many of them shared words of warning. They reminded the Israelite people to heed the laws of the Torah. They described the coming doom, destruction, and exile should the people fail to change. They were generally successful as future-tellers, describing a future that would indeed come to pass, yet they failed in their core responsibility, which was to get people to heed their warnings and change their behavior. One notable exception is the reluctant prophet Jonah, whose story we will read on Yom Kippur. Jonah fled the responsibility of delivering a warning to the people of Ninevah but, after a three-day stint inside the belly of a “big fish,” actually achieved the objective of motivating them to repent and be spared.
Why does this matter? After all, there are no prophets today.
As I watched images from the Global Climate Strike in the last few weeks, I began to wonder. What is prophecy? What is it that allows one person to see what others don’t . . . or won’t? What is it that gets one person noticed and allows her to build a movement, while others go unheeded or are utterly dismissed? Is prophecy always the ecstatic experience of hearing G-d “speak”, or might prophecy also come from paying attention to the spark of the divine in the everyday world? Is prophecy in the modern era a choice to speak up and speak out, to say aloud the sacred messages that others can’t hear?
Can we, in this year to come, strive to be prophets? Can we heed the words of the prophets among us?
Can we make the choice to hear the things that are uncomfortable to hear? After all, we may all be prophets today.
September 20, 2019
As Hurricane Dorian devastated the Bahamas and then made a path up the east coast to strike my beloved Outer Banks, I found myself reliving the heart-breaking days during and after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. In 2005, when Hurricane Katrina hit and devastated a city I’d called home for three years, I remember wondering if the city would ever be the same. As rescue and recovery workers went house to house in the impossibly difficult work of searching for bodies, as homeowners dealt with the trauma of learning that their homes had been moved off their foundations or collapsed completely, as people who knew no other world began to understand that they couldn’t return home, we saw both the utter destruction and the profound coming together of a great American city. When JVC took its first volunteer mission there just four short months after the storm, we saw destruction but we also saw resiliency, commitment, and a welcoming attitude that even nine feet of flooding couldn’t drown.
The Bahamas are there today. The storm destroyed whole towns. People are missing whose fate won’t be known for weeks or months, if ever. It’s unclear how to begin to rebuild and the ever-present threat of the next storm begs the question of how to prevent it all from happening again. This is the face of a new reality for us all and one without easy answers. Yet we know the people of the Bahamas, supported by the people of the world, will survive and thrive one day. That’s community. That’s humanity.
While the destruction in the Bahamas is at a scale where JVC isn’t able to engage from a hands-on perspective, we did look toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina as a possible volunteer site. Our partners at Nechama, a Jewish organization dedicated to disaster response, did an immediate assessment and ultimately decided not to set up a project site there. Why not? The community was inundated, they said. Not by water, not by sand, but by volunteers. Residents, neighbors, and volunteers from surrounding counties were already hard at work clearing out the damage and rebuilding homes and businesses. Neighbors who were spared stepped up for neighbors who were impacted. That’s community. That’s humanity.
In just over a week, Jewish people around the world will gather in synagogues and communal worship spaces to commemorate the creation of the world. We will focus on the many blessings in the world. We will express gratitude through prayer and reflection. We will all, I hope, ask ourselves what we’re doing to support the work of creation. We will all, I hope, dedicate ourselves to the work of supporting community and to the care of both the natural world and the people and creatures in it.
If I see you in the coming weeks, I may ask you what your commitment to the world is this year. I hope that you will do the same for me. We can all help each other to help each other.
L’shanah Tovah. Have a healthy and sweet new year.
September 06, 2019
What does it mean to feel safe? What does it mean to be comforted?
We are in the midst of a seven-week cycle of comfort and consolation that leads us from the depths of despair at Tisha B’av to the height of optimism as we celebrate the birth and continual rebirth of the world at Rosh Hashanah. On Shabbat morning during this time, we read messages of hope and affirmation from the Prophets, and we’re reminded each week that this world is special in the eyes of the Divine.
It’s affirming, no doubt. But what it is about these messages of divine comfort and these reminders that difficult times are temporary that makes us feel safe?
A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I took the day off from work to celebrate our tenth anniversary. We began our day with a hike at Lake Roland, where a cloudy day became a rainy one at about the halfway point of our walk. As we continued walking, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops, I realized something surprising. I was not getting wet. In fact, the tree canopy was so heavy that as long as we kept to our path, we were actually in a blissfully cozy environment where we could listen to the rain but be protected from it reaching us.
And I felt safe.
And I felt comforted. The sound of the rain, the cool and comfortable temperature, the hand of my husband clasped in mind – in that moment, everything was good.
As volunteers, we are part of helping people feel safe and comforted. When volunteers serve food, tutor children, visit isolated seniors, or participate in the myriad other volunteer activities in our community, we are providing a canopy that protects people from the threatening storm. When volunteers engage in service with dignity, with an ear toward listening and hearing the people whom they are serving, they are offering the support of their presence.
In this new year, we will all find opportunities to spread a canopy of peace and comfort over each other and over people we’ve never met. It’s one of our most sacred obligations.
August 23, 2019
Why should I care about other people’s children?
I have my own children. I’m busy. I have enough to worry about.
So why should I care about other people’s children? Really—why should I?
Why was I sitting at my desk last week, crying at the news that a friend’s nephew had lost his life to gun violence? I’ve never even met this child. Why should I care?
Why was I checking Facebook obsessively the other day until I saw that my friend who I haven’t seen in 20 years got the all clear on her son’s most recent brain MRI? Why should that matter to me?
My point, of course, is that it does matter. That I do care. And that I should. We all should.
Our tradition reminds us that we’re all made b’tzelem elokim, in the image of G-d. We are reminded that each person has a spark of the divine presence. We are asked to care for the stranger, to love our neighbor as ourselves, to care for the widow and the orphan. We invite the hungry and the lonely to our Passover Seder. We give tzedakah, even when we’re barely making ends meet.
In so many ways, Judaism demands that we pay attention to each other and that we live in community and in responsibility one to another. It is perhaps that lesson that has allowed us to be the “light unto the nations” that we are instructed to be. It is perhaps that communal care that has given us the resilience to withstand some of the greatest tragedies of human history – on a collective scale and on a personal level. It is, perhaps, that by knowing that we never let anyone else be utterly alone, we also know that we are safely enmeshed in a community safety net.
Why should I care about other people’s children? Why should any of us care about people we’ve never met?
Because it’s who we are. And it’s who we must always seek to be.
August 9, 2019
This week has been tough. Multiple mass shootings around the country, continued violence in Baltimore, an increase in divisive rhetoric even as we mourn together as a nation.
This week is always tough. It’s the third and final week in a downward spiral toward the nadir of the Jewish year, marked by Tisha B’av (the 9th day of the Jewish month of Av.) This day, which we will mark this year on Saturday night and Sunday, August 11 with a fast and the reading of the book of Lamentations, is the anniversary of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem. During the three weeks leading up to Tisha B’av, we read the three “haftarot of admonition,” which are passages from the Prophets full of warnings and grim descriptions of the destruction to come. Historically, these warnings from the prophets went unheeded and the chaos they described became reality as the Temple was destroyed and the Israelite people sent into exile.
Following Tisha B’av, the cycle begins to build again. Each week in the synagogue, we read one of the seven “Haftarot of consolation.” These are readings from the prophet Isaiah, which paint a hopeful picture of a better future and remind the Jewish people that G-d continues to support them. These seven weeks culminate with Rosh Hashanah, a celebration of the birth, and continual rebirth, of the world.
Three weeks down. Seven weeks up. Why?
I’m reminded that things fall apart far more quickly than they are built– that friendships, societies, and lives can be destroyed far more quickly than they can be created. I’m reminded that it takes one hurtful word to cause pain and many thoughtful ones to relieve it.
At the same time, I’m reminded that what can feel like utter and permanent destruction may ultimately be rebirth in a new reality. The Jewish people did not die out with the destruction of the Temple. Religious practice shifted from Temple sacrifices to synagogue and home-based prayers. Many people were killed during those dark moments in history. Those who survived clung to a collective identity that has allowed the Jewish people to thrive through the centuries. The number seven has spiritual significance in Judaism, as it represents the cycle of creation. The Jewish people that emerged from the catastrophe of Tisha B’av truly had to create their world anew with their faith intact.
I look around at the challenges in the world today. I wonder where we are in the cycle of destruction and rebirth. I wonder if we can control our destiny. We are taught that the Temple was destroyed by causeless hatred. Can we define our own low point here and now, commit ourselves to causeless love, and start our seven weeks of rebirth?
July 26, 2019
Last Saturday night marked the 50th anniversary of American astronaut Neil Armstrong becoming the first human being to step foot on the moon. Coming off of our annual trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where we paid a visit to the Wright Brothers Memorial, I am fascinated by the speed at which we moved from the first powered flight to landing a person on the moon. 66 years. It took 66 years from the Wright Brothers’ first flight across the sandy dunes of Kill Devil Hills for human beings to set foot on the dusty surface of the moon.
How did these technologies emerge? How did flight go from a dream, to a theory, to an experiment, to a test and on to a proven fact? How did a 59 second flight across a sandy plain on a breezy December day inspire the idea of reaching for the stars? How many people were inspired and motivated by that first flight to become the engineers and scientists who created the reality of human space flight?
I am reminded of Theodor Herzl’s inspiring statement – “If you will it, it is no dream.” Herzl dreamed of a Jewish homeland in the modern world. The Wright Brothers dreamed of people moving vast distances through the air. President Kennedy dreamed of putting a person on the moon. Each of these men took their dreams and helped to will them into being, through their own work and through inspiring leadership.
Each day, I look out at the world and am overwhelmed by the challenges – global climate change, inequity, causeless hatred, human cruelty . . the list goes on and on. I dream of a sustainable future. I dream of an end to inequity and a society that balances kindness and justice. I dream of a world where people are as willing to see each other as they are to see themselves.
Herzl reminds me, “If you will it, it is no dream.” That’s the challenge, though. It’s easy to dream. It’s harder to will it into existence.
I don’t have answers. I have dreams. Each day, I try to ask myself what I can do to bring my dreams to life. I wish I could say my will always matches my dreams and my intentions.
Saturday night also marked the beginning of a Jewish day of mourning that falls each year on the 17th day of the Hebrew month of Tammuz. This date marks the anniversary of the fall of Jerusalem prior to the destruction of the Temple.
While separated by thousands of years in actuality, I found it interesting to juxtapose these anniversaries. The hopefulness of the moon landing and the tragedy of the fall of Jerusalem perhaps point to two fates that lie before us. Will we choose our dream? Can we will it into existence? Can we sustain it in the long term?
I hope so.
July 12, 2019
In the town I grew up in, the 4th of July fireworks were set off from the football stadium. No one was allowed to be in the stadium during the show because of the inherent danger of being too close to the fireworks, and also because it’s easier to watch the show from farther away so you don’t have to look straight up. Therefore, people watched from parking decks and buildings and fields nearby.
The reason the stadium was kept closed during the show made a lot of sense to me growing up.
Also. . it’s not true.
The truth is that I was terrified of loud noises as a child. As a result, my parents avoided the stadium with its live music and other entertainment and instead, brought us to my father’s office parking deck near the stadium where we (and others) watched the fireworks from a safe and quieter distance. I made up the rest of it to make the facts fit into my understanding of the world as I saw it. I must confess that I didn’t “unlearn” this story until I was in college.
Why do I tell this story? It’s an example of one of the things that I “knew” when I was younger that, as it turns out, was not true at all. I also “knew” that Orthodox synagogues were always in the basement of conservative synagogues, that fathers called their mothers “mom” while mothers called their mothers “stepmom” (this was done to avoid confusion, obviously), and that all schools brought TVs into their classrooms to watch basketball the Friday of the ACC conference basketball tournament. I “knew” quite a lot back then.
These reflections make me wonder what I “know” today that I will need to unlearn at some point in the future. The things I must unlearn now and in the future are likely of greater consequence—they cover areas of unconscious bias and cultural norms. As a leader and a parent, the things I know impact a wider circle than they did when I was a child.
In Pirke Avot, Ben Zoma asks “Who is wise? One who learns from every person.” (4:1.) It takes a certain level of humility to learn from every person. It takes even more to unlearn our understanding of the world and to relearn it through the eyes of people whose voices we have not always heard. While I tell these stories of the things I “knew” with a nostalgic smile, it is far more challenging to face those things I must unlearn today.
So I ask. . . what do you “know” today? Are you willing to unlearn and learn something new?
June 28, 2019
Is it possible to be utterly happy and painfully sad at the same time? It is. It surely is.
Those two emotions dominated my experience during our family vacation on the Outer Banks of North Carolina last week. As I sat on the beach, as I played with our children, as I watched their love and comfort for the ocean grow, I experienced moments that were as close to perfection as I ever expect to be.
At the same time, I felt profoundly aware of the fragility of the location where we sat. The Outer Banks are a thin, low-lying strip of land between the mighty Atlantic Ocean and the waters of the Sound. With rising sea levels and increasingly powerful hurricanes, I’ve accepted that this beach will not be there for my children’s children. Each year, as we say good-bye to the cottage we’ve come to love, I know that we may not be back.
The Torah tells us that G-d gave Adam “dominion” over the earth, both plants and animals. The Midrash (oral tradition that accompanies that Torah) explains that this dominion is a responsibility, not a power. It records that G-d told Adam, “See to it that you do not spoil and destroy My world; for if you do, there will be no one else to repair it.” As the children of Adam, we are failing utterly in our charge.
What will we do? What can we do? What can JVC do in service of our responsibility to the planet? On Good Deeds Day, volunteers cleaned streams and prevented trash from reaching the Chesapeake Bay. It was a small step, yet an inspirational one to volunteers and neighbors who expressed interest in continuing to monitor and clean this strip of stream.
We will continue to take small steps. Much of the work that JVC does falls into the category of “micro-actions,” individual activities that impact one person or a small group. That’s our work. That’s our task. We add up micro-actions, we take care of one need at a time, we come together to create collective good. Yet we still must keep our eye on the larger picture. We must and we will continue to ask how we can meet urgent needs. . . and we must ask how to change the world so those needs never become urgent in the first place.
I look forward to continuing our work.
June 14, 2019
I often encourage people to use their daily experiences to connect with and build empathy for people who are struggling – financially, emotionally, physically. Yet even as I’ve written and spoken those words, I’ve struggled with them. Empathy helps to build understanding, helps us to touch another person’s pain. Yet empathy also runs the risk of becoming equivalency, which devalues the experience of another by trying to equate it with one of your own.
A simple example is that of budgeting. My experience of having to budget for camp, private school, and vacation can give me empathy for the frustration of working hard to make a life for your family and of occasionally struggling to make ends meet. It should not, however, be mistaken for the stress of having to budget for food, medicine, and housing — and of regularly having to choose between paying one bill or another but being unable to pay both.
So how can we understand and build empathy without falling into the trap of equivalency. Do our Jewish sages have wisdom to offer? Of course they do!
In the Talmud (brachot 57b,) the authors wrote about the concept of 1/60th. A dream, they write, is 1/60 of prophecy. Sleep is 1/60th of death.
When we wake up from a dream, we may have a moment of confusion, a moment when we are unsure of what’s real and what was the dream. As we emerge back into consciousness, however, we know the difference. We know that a dream is something to remember, something to interpret, something to revisit even. We equally know that it’s not prophecy, not a sure sign of what’s to come. For the most part, especially when our dreams take on the characteristics of a Hollywood movie, we’re probably even grateful for that knowledge.
So we can do the same with empathy-building experiences. We can take the feelings they inspire – the frustration, the stress, the grief, and we can use those feelings to connect with the experience of another person. And we can. . . we must. . . understand the rule of 1/60th. We can accept that while we can touch another person’s experience, we cannot know it. We must not equate it. And if our own experiences inspire us to want change, let us apply that inspiration to our empathy and work toward a more just future for everyone.
May 31, 2019
In anticipation of the Star Wars Episode IX movie coming out in the theaters this winter, I’ve started showing my two sons all the Star Wars movies. This led to an interesting debate in our house – what order is the “correct” order to watch these movies? Should they be viewed in the order in which they were made or the chronological order of the plot? How would the kids’ experience be shaped if they watched Anakin Skywalker as a young child and troubled teen, without the context of knowing (spoiler alert) that he would become Darth Vader. How would they feel about the development of an army of stormtrooper clones to “protect” the republic without having the visceral reaction of associating stormtroopers with the Empire?
This led me to speculate on how often people judge others for making decisions without “seeing” something that may in fact be unseeable to them. I have heard people say they don’t understand why the Jews of Europe didn’t see the Holocaust coming and I would suggest to them that in a world where the Holocaust hadn’t yet happened, the idea of it was virtually unimaginable. As a country, we are wrestling with this issue as we grapple with how to understand and honor (or cease to honor) historical figures that both shaped the nation and were themselves deeply flawed human beings. If Obi-Wan Kenobi could have seen the future, what might he have done differently? Would it have made a difference?
In the end, we showed the kids the original 1977 movie first, after which we went back to Star Wars Episode I and are now working our way forward chronologically. I do wonder, though, how they would understand a path that began with hidden greed, untreated psychological trauma, and the stoking of fear, if they didn’t already know that it ended with tyranny.
May 17, 2019
Beginning on the second day of Passover, Jews traditionally “count the Omer.” This Biblically dictated process of counting each day from the beginning of the harvest to its peak was originally focused on the sacrifices and offerings being brought to the Temple. Since the destruction of the Temple, the period has also been seen as connecting the holidays of Passover (when we left Egypt) and Shavuot (when we received the Torah at Mt. Sinai).
Both approaches to the counting of the Omer are really about the process of going from potential to full actualization. From an agricultural perspective, the period from the beginning of the harvest to the peak is a race against time. The crops have grown, the yield looks good, yet until it’s out of the fields and in storage, many things could still go wrong and what looked like a bountiful harvest may turn into a year of struggle. Similarly, the act of Exodus from Egypt gave the Israelite people the potential for freedom. Yet until they reached Mount Sinai and were given the Torah to guide the creation of their own society in the land of Israel, they were not really free – they had liberty, but not a structure to maintain that freedom through the taking on of responsibility.
At the same time that we look forward to commemorating the receiving of the Torah and experience the heady anticipation of a good harvest, the period of the Omer is also one of semi-mourning, marking many tragedies and massacres that occurred during this time. This juxtaposition of mourning against great anticipation has relevance to us today. As we work to build a culture of service, empathy, and care for the other, we also recognize that the more successful any social movement is, the more voices of hate and anger may try to interrupt it. We work diligently. We feel optimistic. We celebrate our success. At the same time, we also stay attuned to voices that seek to sew discord and keep people apart.
May this period be one of optimism and introspection for us all.
May 3, 2019
My week began with an interfaith dinner at the Muslim Community Cultural Center and will draw toward
its close with Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. At the interfaith dinner, Rabbi Daniel
Burg cited Holocaust survivor , who proposed that the United States should be bordered by the Statue of Liberty on one coast and a Statue of Responsibility on the other. These two concepts – liberty and responsibility – must work in tandem to ensure a just and safe society. By itself, liberty is insufficient as a goal because it focuses only on a person’s own self-interest. A society that is truly “free” is one with a sense of communal responsibility. Anti-Semitic and anti-Muslim acts of violence have increased in both frequency and scale in this country. At the same time, every act of service, every relationship built, every stereotype challenged, strengthens the threads that tie this nation together. As we commemorate Yom HaShoah, we remember that unthinkable things can happen when a society fails to feel responsible for the humanity and human rights of all of its members.
April 19, 2019
In a Facebook group of Jewish educators, a recent post suggested that while we all look for ways to keep the Seder relevant and engaging, we need to be careful about making the 10 plagues into too much of a game. The toy jumping frogs, cotton ball hail, and small rubber locusts can make us forget that the plagues were, in fact, plagues. They caused suffering and destruction, even death. They were a punishment on the people for the actions of their leader.
The Haggadah reminds us of this fact. As we recount the name of each plague, we spill a drop of wine onto our plate. We can’t fully rejoice when our freedom comes at the cost of another’s suffering. The spilling of a drop of wine shouldn’t be confused with an apology. The Haggadah never suggests that the plagues were the wrong thing to do, or that the Egyptian people weren’t both complicit and in some cases actively involved in the suffering their leader inflicted on the Israelite people. Still, we take a moment from our rejoicing to remember that our freedom came at a cost.
In our long history as a people and even today, we have frequently been caught in a struggle for survival. The moment that we lose sight of the humanity of the group with whom we are in conflict is the moment that we lose sight of our own humanity. The physical action of spilling out a drop of wine, of reducing our joy and remembering the suffering of an enemy in the process of our own liberation, reminds us that all people are made in the image of G-d.
April 12, 2019
Don’t look now but Passover is coming up fast! In two weeks, Jews around the world will sit down at their Seders and recount the story of the Exodus from Egypt. In fact, studies show that participation in a Passover Seder is one of the most common expressions of Jewish participation, even for people who are not otherwise engaged in Jewish life or ritual practice.
These Seders will be diverse in form, varied in length, and will range a spectrum of Jewish ritual practice. Yet the Seder, at its core, is an invitation from our sages to engage in experiential education at its finest. We’re given props—mostly edible ones like charoset and matza. We’re given thought-provoking questions – four of them, to be exact. Most importantly, we’re told that each of us must see him/herself as if we personally had come out of Egypt. We’re given the opportunity to dive into the story. Whether we take that mandate literally as some Sephardic traditions do, setting up water to create a literal splitting of the sea, or whether we adopt a more metaphorical approach, talking through the experience of slavery, the plagues, and the flight from Egypt, we are invited into the exodus narrative.
At JVC, we talk a lot about empathy and the importance of trying to see the world through the eyes of another person. The Seder is designed to be an empathy building experience. This year, before the Seder, I invite you to read the Haggadah. Find something in the story that speaks to you, that intrigues you. Ask yourself what it would feel like to have to choose between a terrible present and a dangerous journey toward an uncertain future. Ask yourself what it would feel like to have to pack up and leave your home at a moment’s notice, not knowing if you would ever return. As you spoon the charoset onto your plate, ask yourself what it would feel like to work all day every day and still not be able to improve your situation. Understand those parts of our history and know that they are today’s reality for many people.
The Passover Seder, like much of Jewish tradition, contains lessons that are relevant for today. It has a special connection and appeal as it invites us into the experience and reminds us that but for a miracle, we would all be slaves today.
March 8, 2019
Two times in the last couple of months, we have been outraged by news reports of vicious crimes committed against innocent people. The first, a stabbing allegedly perpetrated by a homeless individual asking for help. The second, a hateful attack on a famous actor in Chicago. Both stories fed into deep societal fears. Both stories made us angry. Both stories made us want to reach out in deep compassion– to the victim in one case or to the victim’s family in the other. And both stories, apparently, were false. The husband and stepdaughter of the stabbing victim have now been arrested and charged in her murder. The actor, while the story is still incomplete, has been accused of staging his attack for unknown reasons.
Now what are we to do with the residual damage caused by these false accusations? What are we to do with the knowledge that people in Baltimore and far beyond stopped rolling down their windows to give blessing bags, money, and a human connection to people on the street? Can that damage be undone? Once people are given license to fear, how do we reconnect them with empathy? Once people are given license to doubt the accusations of victims, how do we reestablish their sense of justice?
There is a Jewish folk tale, told in many versions, of a person who sees the community rabbi accidentally eat an apple off the fruit seller’s
cart without paying for it. The person whispers the story to a few people, speaking in greatest secrecy. The story, of course, spreads like wildfire, as secrets usually do. The rabbi is shamed and the source of the rumor guiltily asks his forgiveness for spreading the story. The rabbi instructs him to take a feather pillow to the town square, open it, and spread the feathers everywhere. He then gives the person the impossible task of gathering up the feathers once again. The rabbi’s point is that words, like the feathers, can never be fully gathered once they begin to spread and it’s often hard to know even how far they’ve traveled.
So what do we do? We double down on our empathy. We tell the stories of the people we meet on the street. We treat people with dignity. We remember that the story of one does not define the reality of all. We send our words like feathers into the world, not to do harm but to do good.
February 22, 2019
I’ve become fascinated recently with the concept of optimism, of daring to believe that the best
outcome is both possible and likely. In Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ book To Heal a Broken World, he highlights a moment when the Israelite people are invited to choose optimism. In the dessert, as they are about to enter Israel, they are instructed that they have before them “life and death. Choose life.” To a people who have known only slavery for generations and who’ve spent 40 years wandering in the dessert as penance for their lack of faith, this is an extraordinary thing to ask – not only must they be able to imagine a better future but they also have to believe that this better future is a possibility for them and not just for others.
As I read further into Rabbi Sacks’ philosophy on optimism, I was reminded of a story about Coach Dean Smith, the legendary former coach of the North Carolina Tar Heels. The story is that the team was losing badly at home in one particular game. Carolina was down 22 points with just over 11 minutes to go. Coach Smith called a time out, gathered the team and, as legend tells it, he smiled at them and said “all right guys. . .we’ve got ‘em right where we want ‘em. This is gonna be fun.” He then proceeded to explain exactly how the rest of the game would play out. He pointed at one player and said he would get things started with a three pointer, then told another to steal the inbounds pass and get a lay-up. He predicted that the other team would get flustered and start making mistakes. Carolina would capitalize on them and would retake the lead at around the five-minute mark. True to his prediction, Carolina won that game by several points. It all began with a confident statement, an optimistic outlook, and faith in the players.
While I can’t say for sure if the story of what happened in that huddle is true, I do remember the game and the electric feeling of optimism that spread through the entire building as the team clawed its way back. As JVC builds optimistically toward a future where service is a priority in every household in Jewish Baltimore and where recognition of the inherent humanity of the other is a priority and Jewish value, I’m often reminded of that philosophy. Choose life. Where we are right now is exactly where we need to be. We have everything we need inside ourselves and as a community to get where we’re going. We have optimism. We have talent. We have each other. We have the conviction that this work matters.
This is going to be fun.
February 8, 2019
Did you know that the first American-built steam engine train once lost a race to a horse-drawn carriage? Personally, that is one of a near infinite number of train facts that I never thought I needed to know until I had children. I find this one particularly fascinating however, as I put myself in the place of the engineers and entrepreneurs who had staged the race to prove the merits of this new technology. I can imagine that there were some people in the crowd that day who scoffed at the idea that a machine could ever outrace a horse and who gloried in its failure. Fortunately for us, there were others who recognized the potential and understood that failure is a necessary piece of progress. Jewish history is replete with stories that highlight the decision to proceed in the face of uncertainty, to believe and to work toward an uncertain future. From the very beginnings of Jewish people-hood at Mt. Sinai, as the Israelite people are given a law code that will guide their future nation, there is a statement that “we will do and we will learn.” In other words, “we believe it’s possible – let’s get started.” We saw this optimism in the early days of the Zionist movement, as kibbutzniks and other Jewish settlers turned swamps into forests, deserts into gardens—day by day, challenge by challenge, toward a future they believed could be. We see it today, as scientists and engineers advance sustainable energy technologies, even in the face of derision at every set back.
Do we believe in what we are trying to build? Do we believe that something better is possible? Do we commit to learning from every failure and mistake? If we do, then we can fly – remember that the path from steam engine to jet plane ran straight and short.
January 25, 2019
I have to.
There’s no other way.
We often live our lives with these statements of certainty. Subconsciously, these terms demonstrate an absolute belief in things happening in the one and only way they can and a decision that we can’t handle things going any other way.
But what happens when things don’t go that way? When the world doesn’t cooperate with our absolute certainty that it “must be” a certain way? I thought about these questions last week as I looked forward at a calendar packed full of meetings and I thought “everyone better stay healthy next week. I’m really busy. I can’t handle anything going wrong.” I thought about these questions a lot more this weekend as my two sons were diagnosed with the flu and my husband and I scrambled to balance their need to stay home and recover with our need to fulfill our work commitments.
Did we handle it? Of course we did. That we did it with no real consequences is a reminder that we’re fortunate to have flexible jobs and people in our lives that can support us. And in the end, we were grateful for the gift of an inconvenient but ultimately mild (as the flu goes) illness, and for the modern technology that allows us to work remotely.
3,000 years of living in Diaspora (away from the Jewish homeland of Israel) has created a Jewish tradition that is steeped in the idea of transience, that values community over physical location. As Tevye says in the play Fiddler on the Roof, “we’ve been kicked out of many places. Maybe that’s why we always wear our hats.” Confronting the unexpected helps to both clarify our values and bolster our sense of community and our feeling of empowered self-worth. Can you handle it? Of course you can – you have no choice.
So the next time I find myself giving in to a statement of certainty about the way things have to be, or what I can and cannot handle, I’ll remind myself that in this life, few things are certain. One thing that is certain is the human ability to cope with what we must. As we all see people around us and on the news who are coping with unimaginable circumstances, we can both celebrate their ability to manage the unmanageable and consider ways to support them in their journey through an uncertain life.
November 16, 2018
I took my younger son to the playground a couple of weeks ago and since there was no one around, I took a turn on the swings. I went higher and higher, relishing in the memory of how much I’d enjoyed the swings as a child. Suddenly, I experienced a feeling that the enthusiastic child inside me didn’t understand– sheer, abject terror. My stomach dropped, my fingers clenched, and I tried desperately to stop as fast as I could. What happened?
As I pondered that moment, I recalled that a year ago, I’d had a similar experience as we plummeted down the “big slide” at a water park. Ahh, I thought, I’m afraid of falling. No, I argued with myself, I just spent a week at Disney World and didn’t have that reaction to any of the roller coasters.
What was the difference?
The difference, I realized, is that I was buckled in for all those roller coasters whereas the swing and the slide are free falls, with nothing holding you in but gravity and faith.
Why is that relevant to JVC?
We live in scary times. It’s challenging to find a feeling of safety, even when we’re inside our safe spaces at home, at the synagogue, at work, and at school. Threats, both natural and human-made, seem to surround us everywhere. How do we face it all?
To me, my connection to Judaism is the “buckle” that keeps me grounded, that keeps me feeling safe even when it feels we’re hurtling out of control. Judaism is a religion, a faith, a people, a tradition, a community, an ethical system, and more. Whatever Judaism is to you, my hope is that it can serve as the grounding force that keeps you feeling safe in challenging times, and ties you to community in all its forms.
November 1, 2018
There’s a well-known Facebook meme of Mr. Rogers, which quotes him as saying that in any tragic situation, people should “look for the helpers.” They’ll always be there. The helpers always show up to provide assistance, comfort, and a helping hand.
As our nation begins to process the horrific crimes committed by a man filled with hatred and anti-semitism, we should simultaneously take a moment to look for the helpers. In this case, the helpers I mean are the volunteer members of the community’s chevra kaddisha, the burial society that takes on a sacred commitment to honor the Jewish dead by ritually preparing their bodies and escorting a person from the time of their death until they are buried.
As I read a compelling NY Times article (note: this article contains graphic details) about the work of the chevra kaddisha, I was reminded of a conversation I had with my father years ago. My father has been the volunteer head of the chevra kaddisha for their community since I was a child. Not particularly religiously observant himself, this role has connected him to Judaism in so many meaningful ways.
In this conversation, my father commented that while there are a number of doctors on the chevra kadisha list for their synagogue, they rarely volunteered to perform a tahara (the ritual preparation of the body.) My father speculated on the reasons for this but he was clear about why they would always be on the list. They got called in for “special cases,” situations where the state of the body meant that most volunteers would find it difficult to participate.
The context of the conversation was the sudden and tragic loss of a 20 year old member of the congregation, whose life ended in a violent accident on Erev Rosh Hashanah. At services the next day, as news spread among the congregation, one of those doctors approached us and simply said to my father, “Whatever you need. I’ll be there.”
This is what we do. We show up. “Whatever you need. I’ll be there.” This is the sacred promise that Jews make to each other. This is the sacred promise that volunteers make when we connect meaningfully to the work that we do.
October 5, 2018
With the high holidays now behind us, we prepare to enter the Jewish month of Cheshvan. Cheshvan is unique in being the only month of the year with no holidays (except for Shabbat.) After the intensity of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah, the emptiness of the month of Cheshvan can be both comforting and disquieting.
Because of this lack of holidays, Cheshvan is known as the “dark” month of the Jewish year. I like that image. Not darkness in the sense of emptiness, but darkness as in a blank slate. Judaism is a ritualistic religion. With each holiday, we are told what to do, what to eat (or not eat,) what to say, how to act, and even how to feel. Cheshvan gives us a whole month with no such guidelines.
Therefore, the question of the month of Cheshvan is “what will you choose?” What will you choose to imprint on this blank slate of a month? How will you choose to act? How will you choose to feel as you are driven by modern events rather than rituals built around historic ones?
If Cheshvan is the “dark” month, then we have the opportunity to bring light to it. An organization in Israel has deemed Cheshvan “Jewish Social Action Month,” and while I generally reject these “Hallmark holidays,” I do like the idea of bringing light into darkness, of bringing meaning to the blank slate. Perhaps with the holidays behind us, each of us can find a little extra time for one more act of service. Knit a scarf. Visit an isolated friend or neighbor. Check out Bookworms and see what a difference volunteers make in the lives of children.
Cheshvan begins on Tuesday, October 9. Let it be a month of light and hope.
What makes something sacred? Are spaces inherently sacred? Can a moment be sacred by definition?
These were questions raised by Rabbi Posner of Beth Tfiloh on the last night of shiva for Sam Gold, Pammy Franklin’s grandfather.
Maimonides says no. He argues that space and place are not inherently sacred; rather, their sacred nature comes from actions that have happened there, from the decision of people to name the place as sacred. Israel is a holy land, he says, because we believe it to be sacred, because that is where G-d entered into a covenant with the Jewish people.
To me, this raises a larger question of the nature of things. How do we define sacred and profane when it comes to a place or an object? Who defines those things? Can they ever be redefined?
This question came to the front of my mind this week as students and protesters at UNC-Chapel Hill, my alma mater and hometown, forcibly removed a statue of “Silent Sam,” a confederate soldier who has stood in the middle of the campus for generations. Many people cheered this action as long overdue, others condemned the action while celebrating the intent, and still others argued that this statue, like other confederate monuments, represents a history and tradition that should be honored even today. For me, seeing the story and commentary flaring up on social media brought me straight to the question of how we define the sacred and the profane.
Silent Sam, like most confederate monuments, went up on campus in the early 20th century, during the height of the Jim Crow South. The speech made during the dedication was rife with racist vitriol and white supremacist sentiments. Can a statue so dedicated ever shake its profane nature? Can a statue honoring a movement dedicated to the continuation of human slavery ever shift its identity to honor bravery and dedication to home? At the same time, can the space be redefined, likely absent Silent Sam, as one of memory and history?
Maimonides says that we the people are the arbiters of sacred and profane and I agree with him. As the nation wrestles with a history full of promise, progress, and deep inequity, we will confront this issue more and more often. We must ask ourselves how we choose to define our shared spaces, how we will understand history in the context of our modern values.
Each year at Rosh Hashanah, we look forward and we look backward. This year, I invite everyone to look forward, backward, and inward. I invite you to think about the spaces and places you see as sacred or profane. I invite you to also look at those spaces through the lens of someone who disagrees with you. May we all gain in wisdom and empathy as we choose to create the sacred and shun the profane.
August 9, 2018
“It is not your responsibility to finish the work. Neither are you free to avoid it.” (Pirke Avot)
It can be overwhelming to face the challenges in the world today. What can we do? What can we impact? Can we really make a difference?
I’ve been asking myself these questions as the tide of daily news brings story after story of hunger, hatred, inequality, destructive fires and on and on.
Then I saw a story on the internet, the story of a single act, intended only to provide a limited benefit but which ultimately changed an entire ecosystem. The story, recounted here, describes the release of only 14 wolves into Yellowstone National Park. The goal of the release was, simply, to reintroduce wolves into their former habitat. The results ranged far beyond that one simple goal. The wolves preyed on the deer population, decreasing their presence and creating a host of other benefits, from increasing the diversity of plant and animal species to stabilizing the river banks. All from the reintroduction of 14 wolves.
Our scholars understood this. They said “Whoever saves a single life is considered to have saved the whole world.” (Sanhedrin, 37a) We may never truly know the impact of our actions. Who will be the beneficiary of an act of kindness? The one we help, certainly. And the one they then have the strength to help. And the next one and the next one. Who will be saved when we save a life? The ones we save, certainly. And their children, and their grandchildren and on and on through the generations.
As we begin our preparations for Rosh Hashanah, this is a good time to think, not of big things that need to happen but of the little things we can do each day. Now is the time to do what we can, when we can, and how we can, and trust that with each small action, the arc of the universe bends ever further towards justice, a notion championed by faith leaders throughout history.
July 27, 2018
On Tisha B’Av, we marked the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. As I mentioned in the last Schmooze, we’re taught that the Second Temple was destroyed because of “causeless hatred.” The story of that causeless hatred is a complex one, about two men named Kamtza and bar Kamtza, the enmity that another man felt towards one of them, and what happens when a misdirected party invitation creates a moment of stubbornness, pleading, humiliation, anger, and revenge, followed by a cascading series of decisions that led to the invasion of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple. The story is too long to recount here but you can read it on this Chabad website.
The question is often asked—who was most at fault in the dramatic scene in which bar Katza arrives at the party to which he was not invited, begs to stay, and is unceremoniously thrown out by the party’s host? Who is most at fault in his subsequent decision to inform against the Jewish community to the Roman emperor? The answer, generally, seems to be that there’s plenty of fault to spread around.
I want to highlight one group that sometimes goes overlooked in this discussion. The guests at the party, particularly the community’s leadership (the Rabbis,) stand by and do nothing to stop as bar Kamtza is thrown from the house. Could they have intervened? Was it their place? What is, after all, the role of the “innocent” bystander?
These questions plague me. Social media is rife with videos of verbal and physical assaults, of bullying, and of other instances of tragedies in progress. In many of them, you can see bystanders stepping in, using their voices and their bodies to intervene. I wonder for myself, and I encourage you to ask yourselves, what would you do? What would you risk?
In moments both big and small, we have the opportunity to use our voices as our power. To stand beside the person who needs to be defended, to align ourselves against causeless hatred. It’s uncomfortable and risky. It may be thankless. It is, simply, the way to save the world.
June 29, 2018
The Talmud says that Sleep is 1/60 of Death, and Dreams are 1/60 of Prophecy (Brachot 57b.) The amount 1/60th seems to constitute the merest taste, the edge of experience. Why so little? Perhaps it’s all we can handle – prophecy must be an overwhelming experience and death is certainly an experience not to be pursued. Or perhaps a taste is all that’s really needed. Perhaps we can use that experience to project and empathize with the full experience.
I’ve been troubled recently by what seems to be a decrease in empathy in civil discourse and even in basic human interaction. Have we lost the ability to understand anyone whose experiences don’t mimic our own? Could the concept of 1/60th help us to regain that ability?
I’ll give one small example. When we left the beach on Sunday, my children went home with my parents while my husband and I drove back to Baltimore. I miss them terribly. Yet I know they are safe, happy, on a scheduled vacation, and I have the plane tickets ready to go to bring them home. My experience is the merest taste of what a parent would experience if their child were taken from them against their will. As I read stories of families separated at the border or forced apart by other circumstances, I grabbed back onto that feeling, nurtured it, allowed myself to dive into it and consider a reality where my children were lost to me. Painful as it was, I used my taste to further develop empathy for people who are genuinely suffering. My goal is not by any means to equate my experience with theirs, but to foster and develop empathy for a trauma happening at a scale that I can’t begin to imagine, and to use that empathy as an impetus to action.
It would have been easier to simply cover the feeling, to dismiss it and enjoy our free evenings. It would have been easier not to make any connection between my short-term, chosen experience and the terror being experienced by other families. It would have been easier not to engage empathetically. It would have been easier. And it would have been wrong.
As members of a community, we have a responsibility to seek opportunities to connect, to develop empathy, and to relate to others. Perhaps 1/60th is all we can handle. Perhaps 1/60th is all it takes to begin.
June 14, 2018
If I asked you to tell me how you know a day has passed, you would probably talk about the rising and setting of the sun. If I asked you how you know a month has passed, you might talk about the phases of the moon. If I asked you how you know a year has passed, you might offer me points about the seasons, the stars, or even the position of the sun.
What if I asked you how you know when a week has passed?
There is no way to tell from nature that a week has passed. That’s because a week is entirely a human/divine construct. Seven days make a cycle. Why? Because the Torah says so. G-d created the world in six days and rested on the seventh day. We are instructed to do the same. Seven days = one cycle = one week. The boundary marking the change from one week to the next is Shabbat.
We spent time last year engaged in a deep and thoughtful conversation about the role volunteerism may play in defining Shabbat for some people. The conversation turned around making a separation, defining a moment as special, though perhaps in a non-traditional way. Shabbat is sacred because G-d decreed it so. Shabbat is special each week because people make it so.
Next week, my family and I will travel to the North Carolina Outer Banks for our annual pilgrimage to the beach. For me, this week at the beach often serves as one long, extended Shabbat. It is an opportunity to step away from the hectic schedule of “regular” life, to do some deep reflection, to find spirituality in the waves, to read, to think, and to reset for a return to Baltimore and the busy, wonderful, chaos of daily life.
I encourage each of you to find the opportunity to retreat into a deeper contemplation of life, whether that’s each week on Shabbat or at more sporadic intervals. As we seek to see, understand, and serve others around us, we must first and foremost ground ourselves.
Shabbat Shalom (and thank you for your patience if I don’t return emails next week).
May 31, 2018
In honor of Memorial Day this weekend, I paid close attention to the “Prayer for Our Country” that we read in the synagogue each week. In that prayer, we beseech G-d to “Pour out blessings. . . .” to our country and its leaders. I was struck by the word Harek, meaning “pour.” It’s a graphic term and creates an image of a jug overturning, spilling its contents far and wide. It feels much more effusive than a simple “please bless them,” which sounds like a discreet and more limited request.
What’s necessary in order to “pour out” blessings? (it’s worth noting that the word Harek is also used in the Haggadah when we beseech G-d to pour out G-d’s wrath upon the nations but for here, we’ll concentrate on the positive uses of the word.) For a jug to pour out its contents, it must be filled; there must enough in the jug for something to be available to come out.
For G-d, this is no issue. But what about for us? Are we prepared to pour out our “blessings” of care, nurturing, attention, patience, thoughtfulness, and all the others things that are asked of us each day? Do we have enough in our metaphorical jug to pour out for those in our inner circle and even more to reach those people we don’t know but who need our attention nonetheless?
In May, the JVC Live With Purpose project was making sugar scrubs, which were given to clients of CHANA with the hope that the women can engage in a measure of self-care while navigating the traumas and uncertainties of being survivors of domestic violence. Through this project, it was our goal to help women fill their proverbial jugs, to achieve a level of self-care that will enable them to continue to pour out love, care, and blessings for themselves and their children.
For each of us, the use of the word “pour” when describing the process of blessing others is important. Remember that you cannot pour out what you do not have, and that the continual process of refreshing, refilling, and pouring out the goodness in our souls is the very process of living in community. I hope that everyone has a chance to refresh, refill, and pour out blessings to others this summer.
May 17, 2018
On Saturday night, we begin the holiday of Shavuot. Known as the “Festival of Weeks,” Shavuot marks seven weeks since the beginning of Pesach and traditionally commemorates both the beginning of the grain harvest and the giving of the Torah to the Jewish people at Mt. Sinai. One tradition during Shavuot is the reading of the Book of Ruth, which tells the story of Ruth, a Moabite woman who marries an Israelite man. Upon his death, her mother-in-law Naomi encourages her to return to her people and begin her life anew, but Ruth insists on staying to support Naomi, potentially at the risk of her own future remarriage and any possibility of having children. Ultimately, Ruth’s dedication is rewarded as she not only marries the Israelite man Boaz, she becomes the ancestor of King David.
This story fascinates me, as our society increasingly engages in a conversation about “the family you choose.” A few years ago, Bar Mitzvah student Matthew Grossman led a JVC-supported project at Dru/Mondawmin Healthy Families, a program serving parents of young children in central west Baltimore. Through the project, participants made Family Trees, on which they listed not only their biological relatives but also the “families they chose,” whether they be neighbors, teachers, relatives, or friends. In a recent conversation with the Executive Director of Dru/Mondawmin Healthy Families, she reminded me how impactful that project was and how families still talk about it today.
The “families we choose” are, ultimately, our community. They are the people we rely on and for whom we feel responsible. They are the people we celebrate with and who we support and are supported by in times of crisis. They are the people to whom we feel most connected. They represent a fundamental belief that family and community cannot be defined externally; they must be developed internally.
As we head into Shavuot, I encourage each of you to think about the “family you choose” and to reach out to let people know that they matter to you. I hope that we can each make sure that those people we encounter who are isolated also have the chance to find their families of choice, to know they have a community that supports them.
Hag Sameach (have a happy holiday.)
May 4, 2018
As you read in the email that I sent earlier this week, this has been a tough week at JVC. The sudden death of former JVC Program Associate Sara Feldman’s fiancée Mitch Liebeskind has left us all reeling and devastated. It has also prompted a lot of thinking for me about Jewish rituals in mourning. Traditionally, the week following the funeral is called shiva, during which bereaved family stay home and are comforted by a steady flow of visitors who provide both emotional and material comfort in the form of visits, food, and daily prayer services. It is a period of deep grieving, when everything else is put on hold while mourners cope with the initial magnitude of their loss. The community is there, not to fill the void left by the loss of a loved one, but to remind mourners that they are not alone, that while the specter of loneliness and isolation may loom large in the path ahead, there are people who will be there to walk that path with them, who will support each mourner in taking those first hesitant steps back into a normal routine and who will be there for each painful “first” in the future.
I draw two important lessons from the practice of sitting shiva. By forcing the mourner to step back from the daily rituals of life, the practice of sitting shiva insists that the mourner confront his/her grief. Trauma cannot be ignored. Grief should not be minimized. Engaging with grief and trauma is a key step to healing. As we confront some of Baltimore’s most challenging issues and strive to make an impact through volunteerism, I believe that underpinning our work with a sense of empathy toward trauma and grief is critical to creating successful and meaningful relationships.
The second lesson is that of community. While each mourner must find his/her path forward and will walk that path alone in many moments, Jewish rituals in mourning are all built around community. People are social animals. We understand the risks of isolation. The challenge comes when we are asked to find the time to reach out to the isolated senior, the lonely relative, and the grieving friend. By understanding the demand that Judaism puts on us to comfort the mourner as a reminder of the importance of seeing those people who live on the edges of community, we find the motivation to notice, to reach out, and to be present.
April 19, 2018
Who have you lost? Who do you remember? Who do you honor?
As we commemorate Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) and Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day,) these are the questions that come up in conversation and on social media. In the last few days, I have seen stories about grandparents, parents, siblings, friends, and neighbors who were lost to the horrors of the Holocaust or in the defense of the state of Israel. Each one of these stories had one thing in common – connection. Though we all bear the responsibility to remember those who have no one to remember them, these particular stories were not about strangers. They represented the opening of people’s hearts to expose the pain within and they give life to the departed through the sharing of memory and the commitment that their lives should not have been lost in vain. I am grateful to read their stories, to commit their memories to mind and heart.
Now on Thursday, the mood has shifted abruptly as Israel marks its 70th anniversary. 70 years ago, the Jewish people became the first people in the world to establish a modern state in an ancient homeland from which we had been exiled for 2,000 years. As renowned educator Avram Infeld reminded me several months ago, “Because of Israel, there are no Jewish refugees today.” In other words, because of Israel, Jews everywhere have a safety net should we discover that our citizenships around the world are not as secure as we believe them to be. That is one lesson of the Holocaust. It is also a reality that ethnic groups throughout the world face every day.
Israel is our answer to the question of where we would go if we couldn’t stay where we are. What is our responsibility to people who have no answer to that question because they’ve become refugees from their homes? What is our responsibility and what is our opportunity? What is the lesson we have learned from our own history?
April 5, 2018
One of the better known aspects of the Passover Seder is the song Dayenu. The word Dayenu translates to “It would have been enough for us” and the song narrates the experience of leaving Egypt and traveling to the land of Israel to set up a nation with laws, rituals, and ethical boundaries. After each statement, we sing the refrain “Dayenu.” If only G-d had done this but not that, it would have been enough. Again and again, we’re reminded of G-d’s bountiful blessings.
This song has long puzzled me. I appreciate the overall message that we should count each and every blessing, every miracle in our lives, and not take any one for granted, yet I often find myself wondering “what if.”
What if Moses had led the people out of Egypt and the Red Sea hadn’t split? Would the voices begging to be taken back to the seeming safety of slavery have won?
What if G-d had taken us out of Egypt but not helped us in the desert by providing food, water, and all the necessities of life? Would the Israelite people have survived? Would they have developed a national identity or devolved into small survivalist groups?
What if, having survived 40 years in the desert, the Israelites settled in the land of Canaan with no laws, no ethical grounding, and no sense of peoplehood? Would that people have formed a nation?
As I pondered these questions this year, I began to reflect on the American experience of slavery and particularly the experience and aftermath of emancipation. Perhaps “dayenu,” freedom from slavery was enough. But freedom begun where education was previously prohibited, where income or the prospect of income was insecure at best, freedom without full rights and equal treatment under the law, was not a full freedom at all. While the Israelites had 40 years to transition from slavery to freedom, 40 years of being cared for and 40 years of learning how to live and wield power in the nation that would be theirs, the experience of slavery in America provided the opposite experience. From the indignity of slavery to the indignity of racism codified into law, emancipation in America was far from a smooth experience. As we sing Dayenu and ask ourselves “what if,” we may also ask our American selves “what if” and “what now” as we confront a history that, like the story of the Exodus from Egypt, shapes our identities today.
March 21, 2018
Next Friday night, Jews around the world will sit down at their seder tables to recount the story of the Exodus from Egypt. Throughout the text, we will be challenged with the question “why.” Why is this night different? Why do we eat certain foods and not others? Why should we recount the story of the exodus from Egypt? Why does this all matter?
The answer to almost all of these questions can be summed up in the mandate to see ourselves personally as having come out of Egypt. The retelling of the story, the traditions around food, the mandate to tell the story to others. . . .all of these are about helping us live an experience we did not actually live, to develop empathy toward a narrative that may feel foreign.
At JVC, our service learning curricula draw wisdom from this tradition. We often ask questions that encourage volunteers to put themselves in the shoes of the clients they serve. “What would it feel like?” “What would you do in this situation?” Just as the Haggadah invites us into the story of the exodus from Egypt and reminds us that it is our story because it is the story of our ancestors, we are invited each day to join the story of the people we serve and reminded that their stories are our stories because we are neighbors, citizens, and human beings.
As you gather around the seder table next week, I invite you to bring yourself into the story of the exodus, a story that plays out anew every time refugees flee a desperate situation, every time a family loses their home to eviction or foreclosure, and every time a woman or man leaves a dangerous living situation. We care for the strangers because we were strangers ourselves.
Hag Sameach (have a happy holiday!)
March 8, 2018
Joy and sadness, terror and relief, light and dark. . . . Judaism is a study in contrasts.
The holiday of Purim which just passed commemorates the story of the Jews of Shushan, who were threatened with destruction by the evil Haman and saved at the last minute by the courageous intervention of Queen Esther, who had hidden her Jewish identity up to that point. The story takes us from the depths of despair to the freeing joy of relief and on to the triumph of military victory over an enemy bent on our total destruction. This pattern repeats throughout the Jewish calendar, inviting us to examine the world between two extremes. With the seismic swings of fortune that are not only possible but routinely appear in Jewish history, we are reminded never to get too comfortable. . . or too uncomfortable. . . . in any situation.
Jewish philosophy follows a similar pattern. A professor once reminded my graduate school Ethics class, “if you can see the validity in two different sides of an argument, keep looking. You’re missing at least a dozen more.” His argument was not for moral relativism. He believed strongly in a traditional understanding of Jewish law and ethics. Rather, he reminded us that polar extremes of perspective rarely lead to strong communities. I think about that reminder often as I encounter people whose perspectives on social issues vary widely from mine. I think about it when I speak with someone whose life experiences are foreign to me and whose choices defy my easy understanding. I remind myself of it frequently when I find myself quick to judge, eager to present the “easy” answer that another person has “clearly” missed.
As we connect people with volunteer opportunities that challenge their sense of comfort and even their perception of safety, we invite them into a rich Jewish tradition of seeing the world between two extremes. The experience of service through the lens of dignity invites people to find the commonality between “us” and “them” and to remember the swings of history that move people and communities from joy to despair and back again.
February 21, 2018
There’s a well-known teaching from Pirke Avot that says “It is not your obligation to complete the work. Neither are you free to desist from it.” I’ve been thinking about that phrase a lot lately, because of its resonance in so many areas of my life.
I’ve been challenged often with the question of whether our work, particularly our indirect service projects, truly meet JVC’s mandate to serve “vital community needs.” Are these projects the answer to society’s most pressing needs? And the answer, very honestly, is no. These projects are not the answer. They are one answer. They are today’s answer. They are the answer to one individual, one family, one person who will breathe a little easier knowing that the chronic stress of food insecurity has been lifted for one moment. And we will continue to be today’s answer even as we strive to find ways to push for longer term, more systemic solutions. Because if we each do our part, we can make lives easier, not just moments.
Recently, I’ve also found myself pushed more toward political advocacy than I ever have before. I have tended to leave the work of advocacy to others while I take leadership in the area of direct service. I’ll admit to feeling that my lone voice didn’t matter. As I consider the admonition from Pirke Avot, however, I recognize that each voice does matter. I am not alone, nor am I free to isolate myself. That applies to all areas of life.
February 9, 2018
At the end of my trip to Florida for the conference last week, I spoke with a group of Associated donors in Palm Beach Gardens, including former JVC Chair Laurie Luskin and the father of former JVC Chair Lynn Baklor. It gave me the opportunity to think about JVC’s path over the 17 years of our existence. Three directors, nine chairs, at least three significant changes in direction. . . and each time building from strength to strength, all leading in a straight line from the radical idea that people need an easy access point for volunteering through a Jewish lens to today’s JVC that has already engaged volunteers in more than 10,000 acts of service by the midpoint of the year.
In just a few weeks, Jews throughout the world will sit down at their Seder tables to recount the story of the Exodus from Egypt. The Haggadah reminds us of the importance of retelling the story every year, even though we may know it well. Why? We’re told that we each must see ourselves in the story, that one of our responsibilities is to remember that if not for the miracle of the Exodus and the faith of our ancestors, that we and our descendants would still be slaves today.
As I consider my legacy in the line of JVC leaders, I remind myself that if not for the bold vision of The Associated in creating JVC, and if not for so many dedicated lay leaders and staff over the years, we wouldn’t be where we are today, a leader in the growing field of Jewish volunteer engagement.
January 24, 2018
Rabbi Chanina, a 3rd century scholar, is quoted as saying “I have learned much from my teachers, more from my colleagues, and most from my students.”
I’ve been thinking about this text as the JVC staff prepares to travel to Florida for a gathering of a national cohort of Jewish Federation-based Volunteer Centers. JVC is one of the largest and arguably the most multi-faceted of these centers, and we often serve as consultants to colleagues around the country. As I’ve stepped into an informal leadership role with this growing national cohort, I’ve been privileged to work with inspiring and dedicated colleagues from around the country. JVC Baltimore is recognized as the national leader in most areas of Jewish volunteer engagement. At the same time, I’ve been struck by how many questions I want to ask colleagues about their programming, approaches to outreach, and strategies for service learning.
Jewish scholar Ben Zoma asks “Who is wise? One who learns from every person.” As I prepare to stand in the front of our national cohort as the leader of next week’s conference, I look forward to learning from each and every person that I encounter.
January 12, 2018
One of my Rosh Hashanah resolutions this year was to spend more time learning. For the first time in six years, I’ve stepped away from reading books primarily for escapism and picked up books that are rich and deep in content. I’m currently reading To Heal a Fractured World by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sachs, the chief rabbi of England. I highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to explore the deep connection between social justice and Judaism.
Rabbi Sachs notes an inherent contradiction. “The word tzedakah is untranslatable because it joins together two concepts that in other languages are opposites, namely charity and justice. Suppose, for example, that I give someone $100. Either he is entitled to it, or he is not. If he is, then my act is a form of justice. If he is not, it is an act of charity.” How then, he wonders, does Judaism insist that tzedkah means both?
JVC exists at the nexus of justice and charity. Our mission and our mandate is to help people see the connection between those concepts, to remember that volunteering isn’t only something we do because it feels good. Volunteering is something that we do because it is the right thing to do.
December 29, 2017
I’ve written before about the short periods from one holiday to the next when we’re invited to reflect on life, relationships, and our place in the world. I’m about to enter another such nine day period. You won’t find this one on any calendar, though. It’s the nine days between my husband Alan’s birthday on New Year’s Day and the fourth anniversary of his fall off a ladder from a height of twenty-five feet. We’ve marked this period in different ways each year. We’ve hugged our children close and tried not to dwell of “what might have been.” We’ve asked ourselves if we’ve earned this second chance he was given. We’ve tried to appreciate each day.
There’s a tradition in Judaism that invites us to say 100 blessings a day. Many of these blessings are prescribed at certain points of the day or as a person does certain activities—eating, learning, even going to the bathroom. Others come along as they come up—seeing a rainbow, hearing thunder, reaching a destination safely. To achieve the goal of saying 100 blessings a day, though, one must become profoundly aware of everything that is both wondrous and fragile in the world – from the functioning of our bodies to the majesty of nature to the extraordinary benefits of modern technology.
For me, profound awareness was an outgrowth of trauma but it has become a blessing in itself. I hope that each of us can find the opportunity to notice and appreciate 100 blessings a day.
December 15, 2017
During Hanukkah, we light candles, fry foods, and recall the miracle of a small amount of oil lasting far longer than it should have following the rededication of the Temple. We celebrate the holiday for eight days because, we are told, that’s how long the small amount of oil lasted.
I never questioned that story until a friend who was both student and teacher to me asked a simple question.
“What was the miracle of the first day of Hanukkah?”
There was enough oil for a day. The oil should have lasted that day. Therefore, one might argue, no miracle actually happened on that first day.
Or did it?
“What was the miracle of the first day of Hanukkah?”
The miracle on the first day of Hanukkah was the decision to light the flame.
It was the Maccabees’ leap of faith that if they took the first step, the rest would work itself out. The belief that by acting immediately instead of later, a miracle could occur.
I believe that we’re all faced with those moments in our lives. The moments when we have the opportunity to take a leap of faith. The moments when our actions can serve as an inspiration and a call to action. During this Hanukkah season, I hope that we can all take a moment to think about the miracles we’re trying to create, and to have the courage to act on them.
November 17, 2017
Recently, I had the opportunity to travel to Washington, DC with a delegation of leaders from The Associated system and area synagogues. Our delegation met with both of Maryland’s senators as well as Congressman Andy Harris and Congressman John Sarbanes. When Congressman Sarbanes spoke, he made the point that “proximity matters.” In order for people to identify and come together around common areas of interest, he said, they must first meet each other. They must get to know each other and move beyond stereotypes and misconceptions to a place of real human knowledge. As I listened to him, I was reminded of the oft-repeated message in the Torah to love the stranger, care for the stranger, and protect the stranger in our midst. The two concepts work in concert. You can’t care for the stranger if you don’t know the stranger. Relationship requires proximity. Much of the work that JVC does is about creating opportunities for relationships to build by creating experiences where people from diverse backgrounds come into proximity with each other. As we work to develop our low barrier Live With Purpose programs, one of our challenges and opportunities will be to ensure that we work to build from low-barrier experiences to those that create proximity and therefore the opportunity to truly know the “other” in our lives.
November 2, 2017
A recent New York Times article by Nicole Karlis highlights the important benefits of volunteering, not only for the recipient but also for the volunteer. The article notes that human beings are social creatures and are not meant to exist in isolation. As a result, the instinct to protect the group is strong, especially following natural disasters like the ones that have pummeled our country and our world this summer and fall. Volunteering is inherently a deeply satisfying act of self-preservation. These concepts strike a powerful yet familiar chord in the Jewish community. The concept of “peoplehood” and common responsibility are threaded through every aspect of Jewish life – the need for a minyan of 10 to say certain prayers, the creation of a chevrei kadishe (burial society) as one of the first acts of many nascent Jewish communities, and the existence of a communal charity fund are only a few examples. We recognize that what is good for the community is ultimately good for us.
On Wednesday, November 1, our colleagues at the New York Time for Good program (the JVC equivalent in New York City) traveled to St. Thomas with the Afya Foundation to deliver medical supplies to residents struggling to recover from the summer’s hurricanes. While there, they met a woman who has been organizing volunteers, identifying needs, and connecting with humanitarian organizations to provide relief. At the same time, the volunteers discovered, her own home is damaged and her income is gone. Read Agi’s story on their Facebook page for an example of how helping leads to healing and also how important it is for the caregivers themselves to be taken care of.
We all know how good it feels to do good. We all recognize the inherent value of helping. It’s comforting to see that the instinct to do good is a healing tool that is built into both our human psyche and our Jewish tradition.
October 20, 2017
This weekend, we mark the beginning of the Jewish month of Cheshvan. Traditionally known as the “dark” or “bitter” month, Cheshvan has the distinction of being the only month of the Jewish year without any holidays or other commemorations (other than Shabbat.) Following a month of both joyous celebrations and heartfelt atonement, Cheshvan is a quiet time. I’ve spoken recently about the “in between” times as we move from holiday to holiday, from commemoration to commemoration. Cheshvan doesn’t have those defined boundaries and, on the surface, it can feel like a vast and open desert. At the same time, this gap in the calendar allows us the space to do reflection at our own pace, to begin the process of living those High Holiday promises we made to ourselves. As the leaves turn colors and the natural world stores its resources for the cold winter months ahead, Cheshvan offers us the opportunity to take stock of our own worlds and to notice those around us who may feel isolated when the calendar stands empty. We are given more control to build our own celebrations, to reach out to our neighbors “just because,” and to create our own communities. I look forward to using this time to restore, refresh, and recommit.
October 9, 2017
At first glance, our decision to make our October Live with Purpose project the “Soup-Kot Soup Kits” project may seem to be more about a catchy name than any strategic connection between the project and the holiday. In truth, however, the connection goes much deeper. Soup Kits are containers of ingredients that will make a hearty, nutritious meal for four people when boiled with water and a can of tomatoes. They are targeted for people who have stable housing and yet experience food insecurity, meaning that their income is insufficient to meet their basic needs for food, housing, medicine, etc.
Similarly, Sukkot represents the celebration of the harvest, the end of a long period of food insecurity – not economic insecurity but the insecurity of an agricultural people who don’t know until the harvest comes in whether it will provide bountiful plenty or be lost in the fields to a sudden storm, a disease, or any other calamity. Sukkot invites us to appreciate not only the harvest and the divine and natural forces that bring it in, but also the return of a feeling of food security. At the end of the harvest, an agricultural people can take stock and know what they have to store for the winter. They may not have all they want but they know what they have and they’re able to plan.
As we address issues of food insecurity through JVC’s programmatic initiatives, I invite everyone to remember that providing food is only one step toward addressing the issue of persistent hunger. We should also stay attentive to opportunities to enhance dignity by putting control in the hands of the recipient. In The Associated system, Jewish Community Services does this by providing gift cards to grocery stores rather than packages of food, giving control and dignity to the recipients. At JVC, we do it by ensuring that gifts of food are delivered packaged as a gift and not a handout, as well as by working with organizations that encourage people to achieve economic self-sufficiency and that strive to provide healthy food in neighborhoods that are food desserts and lack access to fresh, affordable, and healthy food options.
September 25, 2017
The story of Jonah and the Whale is one of the better known stories in Jewish tradition. In this story, which is traditionally read the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the prophet Jonah is instructed to go to the city of Ninevah to warn them to repent before they’re destroyed. Unwilling to go, he flees aboard a ship, which encounters a storm. Jonah is cast overboard, where he’s swallowed by a whale (actually, a “big fish.”) After three days inside the whale, Jonah is deposited on land, where he fulfills his mission and successfully gets the people of Ninevah to change their errant ways.
There’s a lot to unpack in this story and I want to focus on an aspect that I’d never thought about until I heard a d’var Torah by Rabbi Phil Miller. Phil speculated about what happened to Jonah inside the whale. What did he do with his three days? Perhaps being in the whale for three days gave him time to reflect on his life, to get his priorities in order, to confront his anxieties directly, even to take a much-needed break from his daily responsibilities in order to focus on his mission and purpose. Perhaps having three days of introspection was actually more valuable to Jonah than the more overt message of being chased down, scared, and swallowed by a whale in the first place.
Each year during the 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I try to find time to “get inside the whale,” whether that means taking a walk, finding a spot in the woods, or simply finding a place in the house to do some quiet reflection. I invite each of you to do the same. Whether it’s 3 minutes, 3 hours, or 3 days, try to find time to step away from the daily grind and focus on the year that’s passed and the year to come.
May we all be inscribed in the book of Life for a good year.
September 8, 2017
Even as Hurricane Harvey bore down on Houston, the country marked the 12 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. As a former resident of New Orleans, I was profoundly impacted by that storm and carry the memories of it and the impact of our volunteer work in that community with me to this day. JVC’s first volunteer group arrived in New Orleans three months after the storm and mere weeks after the last of the flooding had subsided. Our work focused on rebuilding – not buildings, but lives and hope. As we helped homeowners clear the destruction from their homes, we sought to salvage any memory we could. How do you help a family cling to their memories when you open a closet door and see photo albums stacked floor to ceiling, all waterlogged to the point where they can’t be opened? You sit and you listen and you share in their joy at finding a Kiddush cup that can be cleaned and used again. That trip taught me more about the Jewish value of kehillah, community, than any other experience in my life. If you would like to see the impact that volunteers have following a disaster, I invite you to watch this documentary made by a volunteer on our December, 2005 trip to New Orleans. As we mobilize for a response to Hurricane Harvey and likely Hurricane Irma, I know without a doubt that people recover best from disaster when they feel the embrace of a community that feels responsible for them.
August 11, 2017
Next Monday will be the last Monday of JCamps. While this date may not seem to be of great significance, it was seared into my memory two years ago. On that date, I remember the phone ringing in the middle of the morning. “There’s been a terrible accident,” said my friend.
Our community lost a leader, a mensch, a friend, and a change-maker that day with the death of Neely Snyder z’l.
It’s been difficult to say what Neely’s full legacy is, or rather which of her many legacies is most prominent. Because of her, children at the Historic Samuel Coleridge Taylor School in West Baltimore worked in partnership with Pearlstone to create a community garden. Because of her, LGBTQ Jews in Baltimore have an organization dedicated to creating an inclusive community. Because of her, those of us who knew her are more intentional in our work, more present in our family lives, more aware of those members of our community who are isolated and excluded, and more willing to step up in moments of need.
The anniversary of Neely’s passing comes as we enter one of the “in-between” times of the year, with camp wrapping up and a few weeks before the beginning of school. It’s a good time to reflect and set goals for the year.
In Neely’s memory, my commitment is to keep my eyes open for the most vulnerable among us and to use my place, my power, and my privilege to ensure that everyone knows that they are valued.
I invite you to join me in making a commitment to making the world a better place this year.
In Neely’s memory. Zichron L’vracha (May her Memory Be for a Blessing.)
July 28, 2017
In today’s world of “rush, rush, rush”, and information overload, it can be challenging to find time to reflect. The “next thing” often crowds our thinking, even as we try to focus on where we are and what we’re doing. The Jewish calendar recognizes this challenge, and creates reflection points throughout the year, times when the schedule of holidays and observances both offers and requires a period of reflection.
We’re in one such reflection period now. The nine days between the 1st and 9th days of the Jewish month of Av are a period of communal mourning leading up to Tisha B’av (the 9th of Av) the day that commemorates the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem. During this time, many people refrain from eating meat, avoid music, and focus their thoughts on the many tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people throughout time. As I mentioned in the last Schmooze, there’s a tradition that the 2nd Temple was destroyed because of “causeless hatred” and this nine day period can provide each of us the opportunity to reflect on our own role in building or breaking down community. In both my personal life and in my role with JVC, I feel fortunate to have this gift of structured reflection time built into the calendar as a reminder to check in with myself on my intentions, my actions, and the role I want to play in this world.
July 14, 2017
The 17th Day of Tammuz (July 12 this year) on the Jewish calendar is commemorated as a fast day from sunrise to sundown. Tradition teaches that several calamitous events happened to the Jewish people on this day, including the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem three weeks before the destruction of the Second Temple on the 9th of Av (Tisha B’Av.) There is an additional teaching that the Second Temple was destroyed because of “causeless hatred.” (sinat chinam.) Causeless or baseless hatred is conceived of as hatred for no reason, with no rational explanation. How often, I wonder, do we use this strong word “hate” to describe our feelings toward a person about whom we have little or no knowledge, simply based on a different political, racial, or religious identity, or even a different sports team preference. How easy is it to walk down this path of causeless hatred as the algorithms of social media technology feed us information that reinforces our own beliefs? As we enter this three week period, I hope that it can be a period of reflection for each of us, an opportunity to consider how and why we make judgments about people. Much of JVC’s work focuses on building bridges across communities by bringing people into contact and communication with each other. As we get to know the “other” on a deeply human level, we have the opportunity to break down much of the causeless hatred that keeps us apart.
June 30, 2017
My summer began last week with a trip to Nags Head, North Carolina with my family. For the third summer in a row, I stood on the beach where I stood as a child and watched my kids play in the sand, test their sense of adventure in the waves, and generally embrace nature in a way they don’t often get to at home. Several times during the week, I looked around and thought “this is altogether good. This is everything I need in the world right now.” It’s nice to have moments like that, even if they require you to briefly shut out the world beyond your immediate view.
One morning, as I stood looking out over the horizon, I remembered reading that in Judaism, there is a blessing for every moment, whether momentous or small. You can see some of these blessings on this website. Upon seeing the ocean, we are reminded to bless our Creator who “re-enacts the work of creation.” That struck a particularly powerful chord with me during this trip, as we watched the beach in front of our cottage get redesigned several times by passing storms. The gentle slope to the beach became a cliff one day and then returned to its gentle slope the next. As each individual grain of sand moved according to the force of wind and waves, I was reminded that we are all engaged in acts of creation and re-creation all the time. Sometimes, we don’t even notice the change at first but with our persistent and committed efforts, we can truly move mountains.
June 16, 2017
I recently finished reading the book Daring Greatly by Dr. Brene Brown. In the book, she describes the gremlins that begin to whisper in our ears when we are getting ready to make a bold and uncertain move—when we’re ready to try something new, step into a leadership role, or make ourselves vulnerable. In this week’s parsha, Shelach Lecha, Israelite scouts face the same dilemma as they are sent to inspect the land of Canaan in preparation for bringing the people into the land. Upon returning, all but two of the scouts give in to their “gremlins” and spread lies about the size and strength of the inhabitants of the land, in order to make people too afraid to try to enter. Only two scouts have the courage to dare greatly and believe that they will be successful, with G-d’s help.
How often do we look at the challenges facing our world today and see, as the Israelite scouts did, giants that cannot be overcome? How often do we fail to act because we simply don’t believe that we can make a difference?
As I write this, Baltimore City is reeling from a spike in violence and struggling to secure funding for education, youth engagement, and basic city services.
Can we fix these problems? On first glance, we cannot—as the Torah records one scout saying, they are giants and we are grasshoppers. Can we make a difference? Can we put in our best effort and trust in the future? We can. In fact, we must.
May 24, 2017
The holiday of Shavuot begins next Tuesday evening at sundown. In preparation for this holiday, which commemorates the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai, the Center for Jewish Education (where the JVC office is located) put out a display of books related to the holiday. I found myself intrigued by the children’s book “No Rules for Michael.” It tells the story of Michael, a child whose teacher decides to have a day without rules. Initially excited at being “free from rules,” Michael becomes more and more distressed at discovering that not having rules means his friends don’t share, the classrooms toys aren’t put back where they belong, and he never gets a turn. Like the Jewish people at Sinai, Michael discovers that having boundaries and guidelines for life creates freedom rather than restricting it because people learn to live in community with each other. Jewish law demands of us that we care for the stranger, protect the weak, and educate children. These laws set the basic outline for civil society, a community in which people recognize their interdependence and the inherent humanity of each person. At JVC, we strive to ensure that our volunteer work protects the dignity of the recipient and honors each person’s essential humanity. By doing so, we work to build a society where the “rules” benefit everyone.
May 5, 2017
In the last week, we have commemorated three important holidays—Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day,) Yom HaZikaron (Israeli Memorial Day,) and Yom HaAtzmaut (Israeli Independence Day.) On both Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron, the entire state of Israel comes together for two minutes of collective memory as a siren blasts throughout the country. If you’ve never seen it, I suggest checking out this video to see the power and camaraderie of this moment.
In reflecting on these two days, spaced only one week apart, a Facebook friend recently noted that “We have two memorial days in Israel every year: one to remind us the cost of having a state. One to remind us the cost of not having one.”
As we look forward to the American Memorial Day in a few weeks, I hope that we’ll all remember to honor the service of those individuals who gave the last full measure of devotion to their country and to look for opportunities to serve those who have served us and who carry their wounds both inside and out. And may we also honor and serve those members of our community who survived the Holocaust and commit to carrying their stories forward to the next generation.
April 21, 2017
As I prepared my kitchen for Passover this year, I encountered, for the briefest of moments, the feeling of scarcity. While pondering the Passover groceries, looking for a snack, I thought, “if I eat that now, I won’t have any for later. . . and what if one of the kids wants it and it’s gone.” In that moment, I felt a fraction of what it must be to live with food insecurity, to have to make every food choice with great thoughtfulness and consideration for both future needs and the needs of others. It was a false equivalence, to be certain. My fridge was full, my “scarcity” temporary and of my own choosing. Still, I chose to embrace the feeling and will use it to be more thoughtful and empathetic in the future. At Passover, we celebrate the Exodus of the Jewish people from Egypt and their emergence as a free people and a nation. Food insecurity enslaves millions of people in this country and I’m proud of the work that JVC does to address this issue in the Baltimore community. When a person’s basic need for healthy food is met, they’re able to focus on larger issues such as education, work readiness, and family care, thus creating a path out of poverty and into self-sufficiency.
February 11, 2017
On Shabbat this week, we will celebrate the Jewish holiday of Tu B’Shvat. Tu B’shvat, often known as the “birthday of the trees,” represents the first signs that spring will return as the earliest budding trees in Israel begin to emerge from their winter slumber. It’s a good reminder that even in challenging times, we hold out hope for the spring to return and new life to emerge. This holiday, which is traditionally celebrated by eating fruits, is a good opportunity to reconnect with the natural world and I encourage you to spend time outside this weekend, reflecting on the wonder of the natural world and considering the role that each of us can play in connecting people to the earth and to each other.
January 27, 2017
Earlier this week, I attended a workshop entitled “How To Have Difficult Conversations” taught by educators from Pardes, Institute for Jewish Studies. The workshop focused on the importance of engaging with people with whom we have honest disagreements, and discussed how to have challenging conversations “for the sake of heaven.” (Pirkei Avot 5:17) In the discussion, we learned that the willingness to acknowledge another person’s perspective is one of the most valued qualities in Jewish scholarship and law.
I find myself intrigued by this idea of sharing another person’s perspective. How easy is it to assume we know how a person ended up in the situation they’re in, why they’ve made the choices they’ve made, and what they should do to fix their situation? Do we take the time to understand the perspective of another person, especially one with whom we disagree?
I’ve identified a challenge for myself and I encourage you to join me. My goal is to have a conversation with at least one person with whom I have a strong, philosophical disagreement, and at least one person whose life is, on the surface, very different from my own. In having these conversations, I will seek to understand their perspective and be able to share it as a story I “own,” even though it will not be mine. By understanding each other, we build community and strengthen our world.
January 6, 2017
JVC Assistant Director Erica Bloom recently sent me a link to a “Personal Impact Canvas” exercise. Linked here, the canvas helps to guide a person from intention to action, focusing on each person’s issues of passion, personal impact circle, and short and long term trajectories. In many ways, this canvas encapsulates the work that JVC does. It asks “what do you care about?” “how can you help?” and “who can you get involved?” The exercise reminded me of a story about Rabbi Israel Salanter, founder of the Modern Musar (Ethical Mindfulness) Movement. Rabbi Salanter recounts that as a young man, he wanted to change the world. He learned that he couldn’t make the impact he wanted so he focused instead on changing his community. Faced with frustration again, he turned next to trying to change his family. Ultimately, he realized that the only thing he could change was himself. By changing himself, however, he began to influence his family, his community and ultimately the world.
As we enter the secular new year, I encourage everyone to take the opportunity to engage in a Personal Impact Canvas, to consider the impact you want to have on the world and what resources you have to achieve your goals. Consider also the role that JVC can play in moving forward your goals and please let us know how we can be involved. Together, we can change ourselves, our families, our communities, and our world.