Let’s Go Mets

Here is the sermon I delivered at my pulpit, Congregation Beth HaSholom in Williamsport, PA, on Yom Kippur morning:

When I was 11 years old, I made a choice. Though it seemed small at the time, this choice would shape me as a person, and influence my life in unknowable ways. This choice was to become a Mets fan. That year, the Mets and the Yankees faced off in the World Series. My family had moved to New York a few years before, and attended both Mets and Yankee games. We had never felt a need to root for just one of them. But in fifth grade math class that morning, my teacher fatefully decided to use baseball as part of her lesson. She went around the room, and made tallies on the board. Who was a Mets fan, and who a Yankee? When my moment to declare my fandom came, all eyes were on me. I had no idea what to choose. “Can’t I root for both?” I asked. My classmates scoffed at this ridiculous idea. The pressure was on. I looked at the board and saw about a dozen tally marks in the Yankee column, and about three in the Met column. I knew what choice I had to make. I couldn’t take the easy way out and side with the majority. I added my tally to the Mets side, and sealed my fate.

I’m going to be upfront with you: this sermon could have gone two ways. I write this the morning after the 2016 National League Wild Card playoff game. After a season that started in a promising way, but then was riddled with injuries, the Mets clawed their way into a spot in a winner take all game to continue on in the post-season. I attended that game with thousands of others, held my breath through 8.5 innings, and was incredibly disappointed when our closing pitcher, one of the best in baseball, gave up a three-run home run to the other team at the very end. So while this sermon could have been happy, uplifting and inspirational, it won’t be, thanks to the Mets.

Isn’t that life, though? As much as we want things to go our way, and to lead ourselves to victory in every scenario, we know that we can’t win all the time. Even the Yankees, who have the most World Series wins ever, haven’t been to the playoffs in a while. Yet we still get invested. We still form sacred relationships. We still hold out hope that things will get better. As we grow, we learn to conduct our imperfect lives. We learn to be vulnerable and live with disappointment, while trying to create meaning and wholeness. This is what it means to be human.

The Torah portion that we read today, and the prayers that we say on Yom Kippur really exemplify this tension; this striving to lead successful and happy lives while knowing that we can’t win them all. In Nitzavim, God chooses us. God tells us that we are part of a sacred covenant. This special relationship comes with high expectations: do good, and you will be rewarded. Do bad, and you will experience God’s worst anger and wrath. This classic bible imagery is poetic and dramatic, but seems highly unrealistic. Not every choice is merely good or evil. Not every decision is merely sacred or terrible. And what about just being human? What about when we try, and fail? When we play with all of our hearts but don’t win the game? Can we still be a part of the covenant then?

Yom Kippur is all about acknowledging this gray area of imperfection. Naturally, we have done things wrong in the past year. We are supposed to admit that we have not done everything right, all of the time. We chant our alphabet of woe: ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu, we have been guilty, we have betrayed, we have stolen, acknowledging that we have not lived up to our highest hopes and expectations of ourselves. We have sinned. Yom Kippur is our reminder that we are human. We look into our hearts, and the faces of those around us, and see imperfection. We come together as a community to explore what it means for us, and resolve to do better. We allow ourselves to be caught in that grey area, between good and evil, between sacred and terrible.

Part of living in that grey area is navigating our participation in sacred relationships while knowing that they will never be perfect. Being a Mets fan, I certainly know that there were disappointments in the past year, and there will be disappointments in the next one. But that does not mean that I want to stop being involved. When I chose to become a Mets fan, I entered into my own covenant. No matter what they do, I now am deeply connected with them. When God tells us that we are entering into a sacred covenant, God knows that we won’t be perfect. When we form relationships with one another, we may hope that they may be perfect, but we are aware that nothing is. Rather than deny our problems or pretend they don’t exist, this time of year- the baseball playoffs and the High Holy Days- reminds us that it is essential for our growth to face them, and learn from them. Loving an imperfect baseball team has made me a stronger person. It has helped me to learn how to live with disappointment. It has helped me to feel part of a larger community, enthusiastically high-fiving strangers when things go well, and collectively sighing with thousands of others when things go not so well. I have had moments of extreme joy and extreme sadness while watching the Mets. I feel human when I watch the Mets, living with uncertainty and hope and anxiety all at the same time. That’s life- it doesn’t always go as planned. But we keep on building our sacred relationships, striving to find meaning in the brokenness we encounter along the way.

Judaism teaches that brokenness has been a part of life, even essential to it, since the earliest days of creation. Kabbalist Isaac Luria wrote that when God created the world, God had to contract to make room for what was being made. Then, God sent out ten vessels full of light. Too fragile to contain such holiness, the vessels shattered, and the pieces scattered all over creation. Without these broken vessels, the world would not exist. Without the brokenness that each of us contains, we would not be whole. As singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen tells us, “there’s a crack in everything- that’s how the light gets in.”

This year, let’s be more forgiving of ourselves and others- not just on Yom Kippur, but all year. We don’t immediately have to turn to wrath and anger when we sense wrongdoing, even though that’s what we see God threatening to do in the Torah portion we read today. We don’t have to have unrealistic expectations, demanding the sacred and good from others all of the time. Let’s use our brokenness to connect with one another, and see each other more clearly. And in the same way, let’s not have unrealistic expectations of ourselves. We sin, we go astray, it happens. There is no way we can be perfect all of the time. We live in a world somewhere between good and evil, between sacred and terrible. We’ve all experienced heartbreak. We’ve all been imperfect, whether it was on purpose, or unknowingly. We’re all human. Our cracks open us up.

Once the Baal Shem Tov commanded Rabbi Zev Kitzes to learn the secret meanings behind the blasts of the ram’s-horn, because Rabbi Zev was to be his caller on Rosh Ha-Shanah. So Rabbi Zev learned the secret meanings and wrote them down on a slip of paper to look at during the service, and put the slip of paper in his pocket. When the time came for the blowing of the ram’s-horn, he began to search everywhere for the slip of paper, but it was gone; and he did not know on what meanings to concentrate. He was greatly saddened. Broken-hearted, he wept bitter tears, and called the blasts of the ram’s-horn without concentrating on the secret meanings behind them. Afterward, the Baal Shem Tov said to him: “In the habitation of the king are to be found many rooms and apartments, and there are different keys for every lock, but the master key of all is the axe, with which it is possible to open all the locks on all the gates. So it is with the ram’s-horn: the secret meanings are the keys; every gate has another meaning, but the master key is the broken heart. When a person truthfully breaks his or her heart before God, he or she can enter into all the gates of the apartments of the Ruler above all Rulers, the Holy One, blessed be God.”

Today, we break our hearts before God, one another, and ourselves. In doing so, we give ourselves permission to enter into all the gates of being human. We cannot be complete without having experiences that hurt us, without straying off of the path of righteousness once in a while. By praying to be forgiven for our wrongdoings, and fasting, we acknowledge our own extreme humanity. We look our worst qualities and offenses in the face: Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu, we have been guilty, we have betrayed, we have stolen. Our mistakes and failures have shaped us, and made us who we are. Our relationships with imperfect people, and sports teams, help us to learn how to love, and grow when the outcomes aren’t always what we hope for.

There’s a crack in everything: that’s how the light gets in. Mets starting pitcher Noah Syndergaard, who played an incredible Wild Card game, tweeted the following after his team lost: “Baseball has a way of ripping your heart out, stabbing it, putting it back in your chest, then healing itself just in time for Spring Training.” May we not be afraid to open up our hearts to the world, even when we know it will disappoint us. May we embrace living in the gray area between good and evil, sacred and terrible. May our brokenness and our blessing intertwine, leading us to wholeness.



Come Together: AIPAC Policy Conference 2016

In the midst of a busy conference, I was thinking about this blog post. I was a bit sad, because this year’s Policy Conference marks the end of my 18-month experience as a Leffell Israel Fellow with AIPAC. I was going to reflect on my two policy conferences, trip to Israel, and relationships with fellow rabbinic students from 7 campuses. All of these travels and interactions have broadened my horizons, made me think, helped me to define and shape my values, and will make me a better Rabbi. I have learned about AIPAC, seen how it functions, and thought about how I can use it in my future rabbinate. I have really had an incredible experience as a Fellow, and I am grateful.

And then, I attended the general session at which the Republican presidential candidates spoke. I did not walk out. I sat in the room, because it is not AIPAC’s fault that a racist, arrogant (I could go on and on) extremist is a contender for President of the United States. Who knows, I may have congregants who are Trump supporters one day. While he was speaking, I read a text sheet about dignity and integrity that the Reform Movement had provided me.  And after the session was over, I felt disgusting. I felt physically dirty. Trump’s words (and Cruz’s, too) had made me feel nauseous and gross. And so did the reaction of the crowd. Trump got tons of applause, and multiple standing ovations for saying terrible, baseless, even non-sensical things, including words against President Obama. That was the truly scary part. How could thousands of Jews stand and applaud for that man? I began to doubt everything. For over a year, I’ve worked to learn about AIPAC, and support it. I believe its mission is important, and I’ve tried to give it a good name to my classmates and non-Jewish friends. After that session, I wanted to throw that all out the window. I went to bed that night feeling disheartened, hopeless, frightened and sad. I wanted to support and advocate for Israel with all my heart, but I did not want to be in the same group as those people who had stood for the very things that Jews are supposed to stand against.

The next morning, AIPAC leadership came onstage at the general session and made a statement that they did not condone attacks against the current President of the United States. This statement was unprecedented. While it did not undo my lingering negative emotions from the previous day, it made me feel better. There is a lot of rhetoric involved with any political group. That statement, and the many notes and articles that came out immediately following the conference about how those who cheered for Trump were not representative of Jews, and even shameful for them, helped me to see that AIPAC does try to be bi-partisan. And it showed me how important it was for me to attend Policy Conference, and be a part of the pro-Israel movement.

As citizens, members of various groups, and humans in general, we care about things. Being a part of AIPAC has shown me how important it is to show up, express ourselves, and advocate for those things. If we leave the room, if we don’t attend, if we don’t raise our voices when things bother us or interest us, we cannot be part of the conversation. And it is crucial to be part of that conversation, especially in today’s world where common human decency and respect are at stake. I was quite inspired when Rabbi Denise Eger, President of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, told us how important it is for us Reform clergy and our congregants to go to the AIPAC conference. It made me wonder- what if more liberals had come this year? There would have been fewer people cheering for a terrible man. It is crucial for us to be attendees, and add our Progressive Jewish voices to the mix. If we don’t do it, who will?

By being part of the Leffell Israel Fellowship, and AIPAC, I have been challenged. I have faced difficult questions, both in examining my relationship with Israel, and with fellow rabbinical students from different movements. Interacting with others who have a wide range of views has compelled me to reflect on and strengthen my own identity, and continue to shape my values. I am so grateful to have built connections with rabbinic colleagues from across the movements. I am so grateful to have been forced to grapple with tough questions. I am so grateful that those connections have helped to support me, and given me the strength to not walk away from the tough questions.

If you care about something, read about it, donate to it, show up. If you don’t think you belong, all the more reason to express yourself. Your voice can only be heard if you use it. This Fellowship taught me that my presence- a Reform Jew, liberal, future clergy person, who cares deeply about Israel- matters as part of the conversation. There is great power in community, but only when each of us comes together.



Leffellows in Israel

I didn’t truly understand why my Rabbinical School program requires us to spend our first year in Israel until I returned again, a year and a half after leaving, thanks to the Leffell Rabbinic Fellowship and AIPAC. The first two times I went to Israel, for Birthright and my first year of HUC-JIR, I definitely felt at home when I arrived. This time, though, was different. In the days leading up to the trip, I was deeply excited and anxious. As the plane took off, my heart fluttered in anticipation. As I watched our descent into the Holy Land, my palms were sweaty and my stomach did flip flops. I wasn’t just on an educational seminar, I was reuniting with a country with which I had an intimate bond. I had lived there, had special places I longed to return to, felt a deep emotional connection, hated some of the things that went on there, and adored others. I was visiting a part of my family. I was home.

I just returned from an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And, after six whirlwind days delving deeper into issues, hearing many stories from all different kinds of people and discussing thoughts and feelings with 27 other rabbinical students from the Reform, Conservative and Orthodox movements, I have developed and shaped my own thoughts and feelings about Israel. I have explored my identity as a Jewish American, a Jewish woman, a Jewish leader. I am ready to state some of my truths about this place (keeping in mind that I just got off a plane after 7 days of very little sleep, and this probably won’t be the most articulate thing in the world):

I love Israel. This means that it exhilarates me when I get to live on Jewish time, hear Hebrew spoken everywhere, and absorb all of its wonderful elements. This means that it infuriates me when I feel that it is being unjust to Palestinians and Arabs and Progressive Jews. Love doesn’t mean that I think that Israel is perfect, just as we know that our friends and family who we care about are deeply flawed and make mistakes. And as much as we want the best for the people and things we love, we know that nothing is without faults. I desperately wish that many things were improved about Israel, internally and externally. That doesn’t mean that I don’t care about it with all of my being.

I believe that the Jews and Palestinians should each have their own state, mutually recognized and respected by each other and by the world. I believe that the people residing in those states, no matter what their religion or ethnicity may be, have a right to live in peace and safety, without fear of attack or violation of their human rights. I am really sad when I think about how long it will probably take for this to happen. We met with top negotiators from both sides during the trip, and each of them expressed a strong desire to save lives by finding a compromise. Each of them was frustrated with their own perceptions of the failings of the other side to help make it happen. Each of them had his own narrative that he brought to the table. I so appreciated the nuance of these conversations, which gave me hope but also made me strongly question why this hasn’t happened yet, since each of them said that they wanted it to. This leads me to my next point…

If you think its simple, you’re so stupid” (as said by one of our speakers, a prominent academic and scholar). There is no single correct statement that can solve the conflict. It frustrates me when Americans just pick a side and say its right, especially when they have only read one media source, or haven’t even been to Israel to see what is going on firsthand. The word “complicated” was used by practically every single speaker on the trip and in all of our processing sessions, so much that it became our joke within the group. The situation is complicated. This conversation is complicated. It is not fair to Israel or to the Palestinians to make generalized, one-sided statements about what is wrong and/or what should be done to fix it.
The complication was emphasized by the broad range of speakers and stories we got to hear on the trip. We listened to a representative for Peace Now, a settler, an Israeli Arab, two members of the Knesset, Israeli generals, the police spokesman, journalists, a political analyst, a rocket scientist, and so many more. They spoke their own truths, yet they were all speaking different languages. All of them were right in their own ways, and they displayed very different images of what daily life in Israel is like. There was no one speaker I can pick out who is the “correct” one. We toured the security fence, and visited a border crossing. We saw documents in the National Archives, and discussed the Temple Mount. Israel is a place with a rich history, which includes many valid and passionate voices. It is important and crucial to listen for all of them.

Israel needs empathy and openminded-ness. It is held to a different standard than most other countries. It is not even 70 years old yet, and is still adjusting to its existence and the challenges of being the only democracy in the Middle East. And, it needs to protect itself from unprovoked bombings, stabbings and other attacks. One of the journalists we met with said that Palestinian deaths are an easy headline. The world tends to villainize Israel, but look around. There are terrible genocides happening in other countries. There is terrible racism happening in America. We are not living up to our claim of providing “liberty and justice for all”.  It is not fair to hold Israel to a different standard. Especially when there are a good deal of people and organizations that don’t want it to exist, and don’t think that it has a right to. Plus, many forget that Israel is more than violence and occupation- what about all of its achievements in technology, security, culture, etc? Yes, my gut instinct as a Jew is to be protective of my homeland. But I think there is lots to identify with and be proud of, no matter how it is depicted in the media.

We have a lot of work to do. As an American Jewish leader, I feel the challenge and responsibility of continuing this conversation with my colleagues, and my congregants, and anyone else who wants to be a part of it. This trip was a unique opportunity for Conservative, Orthodox and Reform Rabbinical students to come together and listen to each other’s voices, along with the stories of the speakers. When we processed and debated about Israel, some internal Jewish issues surfaced as well. As a people, and as humans, we have many wonderful values, but we don’t always live up to them. After this trip, I have some new insights, and many questions. I would love to talk, debate and share more with whoever wants to discuss. This seminar showed me that there is always more to learn. Even though I feel at home in Israel, I am still uncomfortable with many of the things that happen there. There is a lot to despair about, and even more to work towards and hope for.

For another perspective, here is an article written by one of our Rabbis-in-Residence on the trip: http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/an-open-letter-to-the-aipac-leffell-fellows/

Happy Hanukkah

The front page of today’s Daily News reads “God Isn’t Fixing This”.

I understand why many people feel that way. The recent acts of violence in our country, and in our world- the ones we see all over the media, and the ones we don’t- are horrible, devastating acts. They have left me in a permanent state of sadness, that permeates my heart and makes me shake my head at humanity. We are supposed to be so progressive and civilized. Why is this happening?

The Jewish calendar has an uncanny way of resonating with what is going on in the world. Hanukkah starts in just a couple of days. I don’t know about you, but I could really use some flickers of light in what seems like insurmountable darkness. The story of the small gang of fearless Maccabees triumphing over a huge, evil army gives me hope in a world where we see daily headlines about violence and terror and cold-hearted politicians who refuse to let helpless people take refuge in our land.

The Maccabees didn’t win because God controlled their steps, or because God liked them more than Antiochus and his cronies. They won because they were scrappy. They won because they stuck together. They won because they had something powerful to fight for.

I have never believed in a God that dictated everyone’s every move. I laugh when people thank God in awards speeches, because they think that God appreciated their performance more than the other person’s. I think God is too busy to help us score well on our tests, or get a seat on the subway.

But, I believe in God.

I believe that God is awareness of the miraculous world we live in, and how lucky I am to be typing this and you are to be reading this. I believe that God  is the love we have for our friends, family and partners, and the compassion that we are capable of possessing for other people. Guess what? Those are all things that WE do. Whatever force created us gave us those tools, and the capacity to experience those emotions. But it is up to us to act on them. Judaism teaches that each of us has a spark of God within us. When we recognize that every single one of our fellow humans possesses that spark, and strive to truly connect with one another, then God is present. We are partners with God in making the world whole.

So no, Daily News, God alone isn’t fixing this. But maybe God can fix this, through us. Republican candidates’ prayers themselves won’t do anything to change our reality (and frankly, it annoys me that they are giving prayer such a bad rap). But we can use our holiness to bring holiness into the lives of those who need it. God is present within us, but it is us who need to take action. Some of the things we can do are: read multiple news sources to stay fully informed, sign petitions, contact congress people, and donate to organizations we think are doing meaningful work.We can exercise our right to vote, when the time comes.

You or I cannot singlehandedly stop all the awful, despicable events in the world, even when we wish with all of our hearts that we could. But like the Maccabees, we can work hard. We can stick together. We have something powerful to fight for.



Moving Forward

Like everyone else, I was shocked and horrified this morning to hear of the murders of some newspaper staff by terrorists. The event was outrageous and terrifying, and one of many, many recent signs that this world is not so modern and sophisticated as we would like to think we are.

The shooters believed strongly in their ideas, so strongly that they thought others processing their own ideas through their own art deserved to die, because that art happened to contain thoughts that showed the shooters’ beliefs in a different light.

This should not have happened. People in a civilized society do not go on rampages against writers and artists who use their basic right of freedom of speech to comment on whatever they see as deserving of a comment. We are individuals, we are allowed, and should be encouraged, to process, to express ourselves, to create. This is what makes us human. We make sense of the world however we can. Doing this should not cause us to fear shooters bursting in to our place of work and killing us.

But, I have to say this: one way of that making sense of the world, that processing, expressing ourselves and creating that is so vital to our humanity is religion. And I am deeply saddened that one of the results of this and other recent tragedies is a backlash against religion in general. You hate that religious extremism caused these and so many other senseless deaths. So do I, believe me. I’ll be the first to admit how much destruction religion has caused throughout history. But when people say that all religion is as awful as what happened this morning, they are thinking in a similar vein as those extremists, who maintain that everyone who does not believe the way that they do is wrong.

We need to practice the open-mindedness that we wish existed everywhere. Muslims didn’t cause the events of this morning, ignorant, intolerant, awful people did. And sadly, those kinds of people will never go away. That’s also part of being human. We will never be able to fix these terrible issues, or solve all of the world’s problems, but in this big, beautiful world, so full of potential, we can strive to be the best versions of ourselves and not let tragic events transform us into the ones who hate. We can’t bring those people back by placing blame, so let’s honor their memories by appreciating our own abilities to process, express ourselves and create, and those of everyone else, however they wish to do so.

Till We Reach That Day

Below is a sermon about this week’s Torah portion, Vayeshev, that I wrote as part of my final for Professional Development class. 


An article in the Jewish Daily Forward on Friday, December 05, 2014 tells of four Rabbis being arrested for marching peacefully and saying Mourner’s Kaddish. They were attending a rally organized by a group called Jews for Racial and Economic Justice, protesting the fact that, a few days earlier, a police officer who was caught on camera choking a man to death was not indicted. These Rabbis did nothing wrong, in fact, they were doing their duty as Jews to step up and speak out for those who do not have a voice, or, in this case, someone whose voice was strangled out of him in a moment of extreme helplessness. The Rabbis were striving for justice, but justice escaped them.

We see something similar happen in this week’s parashah, Vayeshev. Potiphar’s wife continually tries to get Joseph to lie with her, and he does the right thing and refuses. On a day when no one else is inside, she coaxes him again, and he still does not give in, but “ya’azov beegdo b’yadah va’yanos va’yetzei hachutzah” he left his coat in her hand and got away and fled outside. Yet when Potiphar returns home, his wife accuses Joseph of lying with her, “va’yikach Adonay Yosef otoh va’yitnehu el beit ha sohar”, and Joseph’s master had him put in prison. Joseph flees from a potential sin, but justice escapes him too.

Justice seems to be an elusive thing in our country these days. There have been a rash of legal proceedings that have ended controversially, and social media shows that many are frustrated, disillusioned with and disheartened by our supposed justice system. It is almost 2015, yet legal decisions are happening based on skin color, not content of character. In the musical Ragtime, based on the EL Doctorow novel about the turn of the 20th century, a group of firefighters trash Coalhouse Walker Jr.’s brand new car because he is black, and then no one wants to advocate on his behalf, because he is black. In a moment of desperation, his fiancée Sarah, who is also black, goes to plead with the Vice President, and as she is screaming and crying for help, policemen see her as a threat and shoot her. Sound familiar? Her friends and family mourn her with these words: “There’s a day of peace, a day of pride, a day of justice we have been denied…it will happen again…why does nobody care? We have voices and souls. What is wrong with this country?” Acting on pure emotion, Coalhouse becomes aggressive, goes on a killing spree and ultimately gets killed himself because of his violent actions.

In this week’s parashah, Joseph reacts to his injustice in the opposite extreme, and does not violently protest his fate. After Joseph gets thrown in jail, the Torah tells us that he did well, because God was with him. God shows kindness to Joseph and inclines others to behave favorably towards him. But Michael Brown and Eric Garner did not have a God watching over their every move, and their lives ended tragically too soon. In a modern world in which we shape our own fates, how can we raise our voices to combat injustice? Can our country heal from its internal wounds and move forward progressively, so that we disprove the lyrics of the song, and these things won’t happen again?

In his Dvar Torah on this parashah, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner quotes the Sefat Emet, which he says is one of the greatest texts about Jewish spirituality ever composed. The Sefat Emet comments that the language used in the Torah throughout Joseph’s ordeal does not change. The Torah continues to use the word “vay’hi”, meaning “and he was” to describe Joseph’s state, and we should take this as a symbol of Joseph’s inner strength. Rabbi Kushner quotes the Sefat Emet as saying, “Joseph did not change who he was in any of the many and radically different places in which he wound up. No matter where his astonishing journey took him, Joseph remained the same Joseph.”

Our first step in pursuing justice is not to change ourselves in reaction to the injustice around us. While we might want to act on our passions, letting raw anger overwhelm our emotions, such as Coalhouse did in the story, we need to act like Joseph and maintain our own inner strength. Many protestors in Ferguson became violent mobs when the officer was not indicted, and their reckless actions caused permanent damage to innocent people who happened to have their cars parked nearby, or owned stores on surrounding streets. Those people did nothing wrong, and there was no reason to spread the injustice to them. We do not want to become perpetrators of violence just because there is violence around us.

In an article for Ten Minutes of Torah, Rabbi Jacob Segal writes that our Torah “comes to teach us a lesson about responding to violence in the world without compromising our own humanity…Jewish tradition imposes limits on our use of force…it invites us to consider how to fight evil without becoming evil.” In this way, we play a key role. We need to respond to the injustice we see in the world with dignity, not evil, otherwise we will never be able to break out of that cycle of anger and hostility and move forward.

At the same time, we cannot just sit back. We need to remember that as Jews and as American citizens, we have voices and souls, and unlike Sarah’s friends in Ragtime, we are not helpless. We can use our voices and souls to make a difference, seeing the actions of the Rabbis who were unfairly arrested as an example. The Huffington Post writes that, after being held at the police station overnight, Rabbi Jill Jacobs commented that the protest was crucial to her as “a religious act” to highlight the “dignity of every single human being…Rabbis and all Jews need to stand up and say that every single person is a creation in the divine image — that black lives matter,” Jacobs said. “We put our bodies on the line to show how crucial it is that the systems meant to protect us do protect all of us.”

We may not be directly involved in the injustice occurring in our country, but it is happening all around us, and we have the ability to be allies. It is important to read the news and be informed, and also for us to use our voices when we can, as a reminder that we are all human beings, and we all deserve respect. Each one of us- black or white, gay, straight, Jewish, Christian, Muslim- was made in the image of God, and as American citizens, each one of us has unalienable rights. When those rights are not honored, and when people are not respected based on who they are, it impacts all of us.

On one of the occasions in which Potiphar’s wife is trying to get Joseph to lie with her, there is a special trope mark, a shalshelet, above the word “va’ymaen”, “he refused.” This mark only appears a total of four times in the entire Torah, so each time it is present is significant. As our country continues to struggle with what justice means and how to execute it, this shalshelet seems to be to be a call to action. Just like Joseph, we have the power to refuse sin, even when we are in the most vulnerable positions. Just like Joseph, we can refuse to compromise our actions even throughout changing circumstances. Just like Joseph, we have the inner strength to maintain our identities, and act on our good impulses, refusing to give in to the evil in our world and refusing to let it overwhelm our humanity.

In painful circumstances, it is easy to be like Coalhouse and let our emotions get the best of us, compelling us to kill and to destroy. But if we are going to contribute to a better future, to that day of peace, pride and justice that, so far, we have been denied, we need to refuse to yield to those impulses to fight back violently. We need to act with the dignity we expect from our government and from our legal system, honoring the sparks of the divine within our own selves as much as the ones within others. We need to remain “vay’hi”, strong and steadfast, throughout changing circumstances, and be inspired by those Rabbis who peacefully prayed for the victims of injustice. We need to refuse to move backward.

Sarah’s friends’ song of grief for her unjust death ends with these words: “Let the new day dawn, oh Lord, I pray. We’ll never get to heaven till we reach that day.” May we be inspired by these words, and the actions of our role models, from our ancestor Joseph to the four Rabbis arrested last week. May we refuse to let injustice win by remembering the sparks of God in each of us. May we work towards that new day with dignity, peace and pride. Ken Y’hi Ratzon, may these words be worthy of coming true.

So Many Questions: The End of the Beginning Part Two

I was resisting writing a “final” (because while my physical time in Israel is over, the journey is still going on) entry about my first year of graduate school, but this past week I had the opportunity to speak at Shabbat services at my Temple, which gave me the motivation to write something about my year.  The words I gave are below:


Imagine a place where the street signs are in the same language as your prayer book.  Where the words you hear on the street sound like what your people have been reciting for thousands of years.

Imagine a place where the busses wish you happy holidays on Purim, where you can eat everything in restaurants on Passover and where the streets are so empty on Yom Kippur that you can lie down in them.

Imagine a place where people don’t consider you a Jew. Where people make nasty comments to you for practicing your religion the way you want to.

Imagine a place that evicts certain people from their homes and redraws borders. Where everyone eats challah on Friday nights around the table together. Where Orthodox men and sometimes women thrive, where the hummus is so good that you can never eat it anywhere else again.

Well, you may have guessed by now that all of these places are the same: Israel, where I studied for the past year, my first year of Rabbinical School at HUC. I think the Israel year is essential for future American Jewish leaders; it helped me to gain some firsthand insight into the multifaceted, controversial country that is so important to our people. 

I was so fortunate to study there during a time of relative peace, in which we did not have any threats of rockets and the army reserves weren’t being called up en masse. I know that this newest surge of violence is on everyone’s mind, but tonight I would like to focus on my experiences over the course of my time there.

This week’s Torah portion is “Mattot”, tribes. Living in Israel really prompted me to ponder this idea. On one hand, I felt closer to the tribe of the Jewish people since everyone and everything around me was Jewish. It was a miraculous feeling to be the majority in Israel, to live in a place that runs by the Jewish calendar, and especially to not have to listen to Christmas carols for six weeks in the winter.

On the other hand, the tribes within contemporary Judaism are very clearly delineated, and I didn’t necessarily fit in. In Israel, you are either “secular”, which means that you don’t really observe Judaism on a day-to-day basis, yet still have Shabbat every week with your family, or you are “religious”, which means that you are Orthodox. Our tribe, Reform, does not really have a place in modern Israel, a disturbing fact that prompted most of us HUC students to feel alienated from our homeland. The struggle to open Israelis eyes to Progressive Judaism, in which people can be authentically Jewish without being Orthodox is a slow, uphill battle within Israeli society, but it is continuing to make small strides.

Throughout the year there was much discussion about Israel’s Judaism. Did we, as future Reform Jewish professionals, truly belong to Israel’s tribe? Will Progressive Jews ever fully be a part of Israeli society? Is that all irrelevant, because we are lucky to have a Jewish state at all?

My questioning of my tribe began even earlier in the year, when I went on a trip to Bethlehem, sponsored by J Street, a non-profit that works towards a two-state solution. I heard firsthand from multiple Palestinians about Israel’s unfair actions towards them, how Israel did such things as put them through daily humiliation at the border when they tried to get to work, or re-zoned their village so that their home did not belong.

This happens this week in the Torah, too, when God instructs Moses to lead an attack against Midian. Why would members of our tribe, whose inhabitants know plenty of suffering, put other tribes through such terrible ordeals? How do we justify our actions when there is not an audible voice of God telling our leaders what to do? 

Throughout my learning, I explored these difficult questions and many others with classmates and teachers.  We were told to absorb as much of Israel as possible, but many of us came away with uncertainty about our relationship with it. As American Reform Jewish leaders, what is our place in the tribe of Israel? Can we ever feel truly accepted there? And how do we internalize what we learned and bring it back to share with other American Jews without presenting a biased perspective?

In one section of this week’s parashah, the descendants of Reuben and Gad actively choose not to enter the land of Israel. Moses asks them, “Shall your brethren go to war while you stay here? Why do you discourage the children of Israel from crossing over to the land which the Lord has given them?” This section hits home for us Diaspora Jews, especially now. Israel is incredibly important to our tribe, but how do we, a segment of the tribe that has chosen not to enter the Holy Land, fit in?

I don’t have any answers to all of my questions, but I am grateful for my time in Israel, which gave me the knowledge to ask them. For now, I say to pay attention. Read about Israel, visit if you can, and be conscious of what is happening there. That controversial section of desert in the Middle East seems far away at times, but we have a strong connection to it. Where else in the entire world can you imagine busses saying Chag Sameach at holiday time?

When I think of Israel, I imagine an incredibly important place for my tribe. I imagine a place I love, even when I disagree with its actions, a place I have a gut instinct to protect and defend. The actions of my tribe are not perfect, and I have chosen not to permanently enter the Holy Land. But, I hope to remain connected with it, and continue to explore the way our smaller tribe fits into the whole, as I pray for peace for all tribes, each imperfect in its own way. Shabbat Shalom.