Recently my husband has said that I am the most negative person he knows. He may be right. I know that am difficult to live with—and for that I am sorry. I will admit it. I have been depressed lately. Usually I see my job as being a cheerleader. OK without the body of a University of Michigan cheerleader but by being optimistic, positive. By championing Judaism, by making it relevant and meaningful and joyful and fun. By thinking anything is possible.

But now I am not so sure. How can we be anything but depressed? How can we not be? Missing, kidnapped girls, planes shot out of the sky, the trip to Kenya now officially cancelled. The Pew Study. And then there is Israel.

I checked in with a friend. An eighty something. He was surprised. “You’re too young. The world has been bad before. World War II, Korea. Vietnam. This is not new.” How can we be repeating this again? How can it seem to be every continent?

How? How? How?

In Hebrew the word is Eicha. It is the opening word of the book of Lamentations which we will read on Monday night as part of Tisha B’av, the saddest day of the Jewish year. Maybe my mood just reflects the impending fast day.

It is in today’s Torah portion. You will have to listen carefully for it. “How can I bear this alone?”

Eicha is also the question G-d asked Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Here the question sounds more like “Where” Where are you? How are you being?

Today’s Torah portion talks about Caleb and Joshua. Only they will be allowed to go into the land of Israel. Caleb was a faithful friend. A loyal friend. Caleb recognized what others did not—that the land was a good land, with good fruit. He was an optimist. The kind of person I want to be. We have Moses’s record. All of Deuteronomy that we begin reading today is his reflections. We have Joshua’s. What would Caleb’s scroll sound like. A colleague, Rabbi Zoe Klein, does precisely that. She begins to answer the question “Why Caleb?”

I am you. Yes, I, Caleb son of Jephunneh, am you, you in the business suit, you in the summer dress. I am you when you were in the desert hundreds or thousands of years ago. And I am you now. I am you when you look at yourself and see not the long shadows of the past but the blossoming future. I am you when you look at your neighbor and see no ugliness there, but God’s radiant image.

For three weeks I have studying with Rabbi Michael Balinsky, the executive director of the Chicago Board of Rabbis. He is a master teacher. In the middle of my depression, studying has brought me pleasure.

We looked at some traditional texts from Berachot, the first tractate of Talmud I ever studied. It too begins with a question. From when may you say the Sh’ma? It asks other questions too—who is obligated to say the Sh’ma. And then where? Can you pray on the road? Can you pray in a ruin?

This week, our congregation looked at that very text. And in the process we found hope. Our synagogue building is not a ruin. In fact, it is a very nice building. So we have no issue. We can pray in our building. That is a relief.

But we also decided that it is permissible to pray in a ruin—because G-d is everywhere and we can hear the voice of G-d anywhere—even in a ruin. We talked about the recent study from NASA, sounds of space. Is this possibly the Bat Kol? http://deadstate.org/listen-nasa-probe-records-sounds-from-space-and-its-absolutely-terrifying/. If so, I find it comforting, not terrifying.

Last week with Rabbi Balinsky we studied a text from Rabbi Nathan Zevi Ben Moses Finkel. (1849-1927) Finkel was a leader of the mussar movement and had his own independent yeshivah, Kneseth Israel. In addition to being a rabbi, he was a store owner. I identified immediately with him. He too, was looking for hope out of the ruins. He went back to a midrash about the creation of the world.

“When God created man, he formed him in His image, the image of God, so that he would not be forced to fulfill the command of God like other creatures. Rather, inherent in him is free will, and he is able to act in any way he desires, similar to God, and he has the capacity to destroy and build. We find, therefore, that just as God came to the knowledge of the establishing the earth through, if one dare say thus, the destruction of 974 worlds that He created and destroyed, similarly through the aspect of hava aminah (I would have thought) and maskanah (conclusion). All of this is created in the image of God, and it is this wisdom which is greater than the angels who were not created in this way.”

That is a complicated piece of text. Let’s break it apart.

We know this idea that we are all created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of God. That means that each of us—even our enemies have that Divine Spark within them. Sometimes it can be very difficult to see it, but the very idea should give us hope.

The idea that we have free will is not new either. And since we have free will, we have the ability to choose good. We have the ability to return to good. That is what Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, what t’shuvah, return, repentance is about. That too fills me with hope.

What may be surprising to some is the idea that God seems to have made mistakes and created other worlds before this one. He bases this idea on Genesis 6:5-7. “And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. And the Lord repented that he had made man on the earth and it grieved Him at his heat. And the Lord said, I will blot out man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man and beast, and the creeping thing and the birds of the air for I repent that I have made them.”

So God repents. And God destroys. And God tries again. Just like us. God is like us and we are like God. It is both scary and comforting. The text from Berachot says it was God that destroyed the Temple and it was God who exiled the Israelites. And the voice of God, the bat kol, wept.

I can picture God like a small child, building with Legos and then smashing His design, His creation and building again.

Or maybe it is like a forest fire. If you have ever been to a National Park immediately after a forest fire, it is very sad. It looks so desolate. But out of that fire, out of ruin, almost immediately, little sprigs grow. The destroyed world becomes green again.  This too brings me hope.

Then for me the hidden part and the complicated part was the one about Talmudic arguments. Finkel seems to compare Talmudic argumentation, putting up a hypothesis and then knocking it down until you come up with a conclusion to either the scientific method or to God creating and destroying. Immediately I was transported back to a time with my father—the Jewish atheist, the Jewish scientist. The Northwestern professor. How I was drilled in the scientific method and the Socratic method too. I never won an argument with him about God. But he always loved a good Talmudic debate. Maybe now I understand why.

This too brings me hope.

I reminded the group at the Chicago Board of Rabbis about the midrash that is in Siddur Sim Shalom about Rabban Yohanan Ben Zakkai. Yohanan Ben Zakkai and Rabbi Joshua were walking in the ruins of the Temple. Rabbi Joshua said, “Woe to us that the place where the atonement for the sins of Israel was made has been destroyed!” But Rabban Yohanan Ben Zakkai replied, “Do not be grieved, my son. Do you not know that we have a means of making atonement that is as good as this? And what is it? Gemilut hassadim – acts of loving-kindness, as it is said, ‘For I desire hesed – loving-kindness – and not sacrifice!'” (Hosea 6:6). Avot d’Rabbi Natan 4:21.

Rabban Yohanan knew that the world as he knew it was fundamentally changed. The Temple was no more. People were still mourning. People did not know how to carry on. Judaism would have to change or just die out like any number of other civilizations. This was a huge paradigm shift.

But out of the ashes, like after the forest fire, there was hope. Gemilut chasadim are those sprigs of new growth that bring us hope.

Judaism is on the edge of a paradigm shift again. The numbers from the Pew Study show us precisely that. I don’t, on this Shabbat Hazon, the Sabbath of Vision, have enough vision. I do have some clarity. The synagogue, what replaced the Temple, is changing.

Gone is the need for the synagogue as community center as a social outlet. We are not living in the 1950s anymore where we needed big buildings to prove that we have made it in America. We have. We don’t need large dance floors because we can’t join the local country club. We can. We don’t need the same kind of classroom space, so much of learning is now done online.

What we do need is gemilut chasadim—acts of love and kindness, inside the building and outside the building. By doing acts of love and kindness we overcome the despair and depression. When we reach out to others we build community. We become like Caleb, filled with optimism and hope. We fulfill the demands of this week’s haftarah. 

 “‘Learn to do good, seek justice; relieve the oppressed. Uphold the orphan’s rights; take up the widow’s cause. Come now,’ says the Eternal One, ‘let us reason together'” (Isaiah 1:17–18)

When we take care of each other, when we visit people in the hospital, when we call one of our seniors or reach out to someone who has family in Israel, when we plant vegetables for Food for Greater Elgin or help build a house with Habitat for Humanity, we are doing what Yohanan Ben Zakkai was advocating for. It answers the question, “How are you being?”

And…going back to the Torah portion, “How can I bear this alone?” I can’t. I need friends. I need colleagues. I need like-minded people. I need partners. I need community. We all do. For me, that is what all of these texts are teaching.

Rabbi Zoe Klein, providing the voice of Caleb:

And you, too, will reach your promise, when you are true to your highest self. You are as worthy as I, and you need not be afraid of your potential. You were created for a reason. No creature big or small is superfluous in this abundant garden. Just as I, from Egypt, reached the Promised Land, you, from whatever low place you think you are, can reach your promise, fulfill it, and enter the living dream.

Out of the ruins, there is new growth, sprigs of green. Community. Kneseth Israel. Hope.

There will be other accounts of today’s events, I am sure. But I started life as a journalist and recording events as I see them is part of what I do.

Simon and I got up early, walked the dog and drove to Elgin to take the Metra Commuter Rail. It seemed earlier than we wanted but we really wanted to try this method, especially after it took so long last week to drive into Chicago. We barely made the train but once on, it was a pleasure. As a first, it could be a Shehechianu moment. It was fun to be able to check email and Facebook and know that others were with us, at least in spirit and still others were attending rallies, especially New York.

We got in early enough to have coffee at Union Station and then walk leisurely to the Thompson Center. I spent that walk trying to figure out why I felt so compelled to go. It is Monday, my “day off”. Did my congregants expect me to be there, even if they could not? Especially if they could not? Maybe. Did I feel I owed it to someone like Rabbi Michael Balinsky, head of the Chicago Board of Rabbis, from whom I received the initial announcement? Maybe. What about my Israeli friends or my other rabbinic colleagues? Perhaps. Ultimately, this is one of those moments where we need to stand up and be counted. Even if we don’t agree with every Israeli policies. Ultimately, I decided I owed it to myself. There was no place else I could be.

While I read that there was heavy security and sharpshooters on rooftops, it seemed pretty tame. Yes, police. Yes, security with dogs. Yes, barricades. But no bag checks. We walked right onto the plaza.

We were given Israeli and American flags. There were signs. On one side, Chicago Stands with Israel. On the other, something for everyone. I chose “Build Hope Not Hatred.” It fits my peacenik side and made me feel welcome and included.  Other options included “Stop Hamas Terror” “Shield Humans not Human Shields.”

My overwhelming thought was “This is sad. Sad that we need to do this at all.” But right across the street was the counter-demonstration. I had about last week’s counter demonstration in Chicago. Thousands of people had shown up. I had read about a counter demonstration in Toulouse earlier in the day where the synagogue had been firebombed. I had seen the photo of a car in Westchester, NY that had been spray painted with swastikas. That can’t be allowed to happen here.

We saw a few people we knew, including Rabbi Balinsky. Despite the crowds they were fairly easy to spot. There was a real mix of people–young, frequently wrapped in Israeli flags or with flags stenciled on their cheeks. Babes in arms, lots of strollers. Old–with canes and walkers, sitting on the planter walls. Rabbis, Cantors, Laypeople. Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Chabad. Peaceniks and hawks. Singing Am Yisrael Chai. Singing Hava Nagila, which seemed like an odd choice. Pausing to hear the names of the IDF soldiers killed, the names read by this summer’s JUF interns–likely the same age as those killed, followed by El Maleh Rachamim. The crowd grew quiet. Drowned out by the crowd across the street.

There were painful moments, take your breath away moments. The story of riding up the elevator with the parents of a lone soldier killed. The story of calling a young family friend and asking how he is. “Not so good.” His friend, named Yuval, had just been killed. I thought I might just crumple right there. I thought I might burst into tears or scream. Or have to leave. Why did I think coming was a good thing?

Hearing the consul address the counter-demonstration in Arabic wishing them a happy Eid. Watching the American and Israeli flags fluttering in the breeze. They look so pretty in the bright, noon sunshine. We ended singing the Star Spangled Banner and Hatikvah back to back. Have you ever noticed the line, “the bombs bursting in air” and then sung about hope? The contrast was too much.

I cried. I don’t know what else we can do.

Last night I had the privilege of going to Ravinia with Simon’s cousins. We sat outside and listened to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Joshua Bell play the Bruch Violin Concerto #1 in G Major.

It is no secret that I love to go to an outdoor summer concert–Tanglewood, the Boston Pops on the Esplanade, a band concert on Chelmsford Common. All of those would remind me of Ravinia and hearing Aaron Copeland conduct Copeland when I was a child and we lived in Evanston.

Last night I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear the birds and the crickets blend with the music. Occasionally there was the giggle of a child. I could hear echoes of another Bruch piece. Kol Nidre. The sky was blue with fluffy clouds. A plane flew far overhead, not on its way to O’Hare. Slowly the sky turned to purple and the stars came out. For 25 minutes I was transported away. For 25 minutes I experienced peace.

The world seems simple. The world, at least my little corner of it, sitting in my beach chair, was at peace.

Listening to CNN, that peace seems elusive. Today is Rosh Hodesh Av. Our mourning intensifies in the summer heat as we remember the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem and the expulsion of the Jews from Israel on Tisha B’av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. The world was not at peace in 586 BCE or 70CE or 1492 CE or 1942. It is still not today.

Rosh Hodesh Av means that we are just 60 days away from Rosh Hashanah. The preparations have begun. The choir has started rehearsals.  The honors list has been drafted. I am working on Selichot, Kever Avot, Tashlich, Yizkor, to provide more meaning.

But what about peace? Can it be as simple as sitting at Ravinia? Maybe.

For several years I have asked you, my congregants, readers and friends, to write something during the month of Elul. One year it was about forgiveness. One year it was about the 13 Attributes of the Divine. This year we will write about peace.
We will culminate this project on Yom Kippur, 40 days later. Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, of at one ment. Maybe that is peace. Being at one.

What is peace to you? Maybe it is lighting Shabbat candles. Maybe it is sitting on the beach watching a sunset. Maybe it is curled up with the dog (or the cat?). Maybe it is driving on the open road or watching a baseball game. Maybe it is a piece of music or piece of art. Whatever it is–tell us.

Send me your writings by August 15st to be included. Pick one aspect of peace. Tell us why it is important to you. Include a personal story of how you understand peace or what peace means to you. Make it 250-750 words. In this way you will help enrich all our understanding and the celebration of Rosh Hashanah.

May this be the New Year of Peace

L’shalom,

Rabbi Margaret Frisch Klein
Congregation Kneseth Israel
330 Division Street
Elgin, IL 60120

www.theengerizerrabbi.org

I got a call from one of my chevruta partners today. She has just returned from Israel. What can I possibly say to her. She just spent several weeks in Israel, in Jerusalem studying, in Tel Aviv and in Haifa, the city she was born in and where family still lives. In each city she spent time in safe rooms and shelters. She said never had sirens gone off in Haifa and it was disorienting. She was haunted by memories of her childhood and other wars.

I, too, am haunted.

I am too young to remember 1948 or 1956. By 1967 I was beginning to understand the optimism that occurred after the 6 Day War. We–and I use that term deliberately–won and we were David to the Arab world’s Goliath. Jerusalem was ours again. All was right with the world. Of course, I was still young and I could sing Hebrew songs for peace as well as I could sing Girl Scout Day Camp songs. The bigger question was which good deed was enough to turn my Brownie pin right side up.

In 1972 we moved to Grand Rapids. That first summer I spent high jumping in the back yard and watching Mark Spitz in the Olympics. One day I too would be an Olympian. Then the world stopped. We watched the hostage crisis live. Who could forget Jim McKay broadcasting live for ABC Sports. The PLO held a press conference. I remember thinking with all the cameras in the room shooting photographs someone should shoot Arafat–with a gun, a real gun. And I couldn’t believe I could even harbor such thoughts. They didn’t fit with Oseh Shalom, Sim Shalom and Hiney Ma Tov!

In 1973 I was in temple when the Yom Kippur War started. I remember shortly thereafter going to Ahavas Israel for a fundraiser for the Jewish National Fund. I was amazed at my young age how peer pressure upped the amount of the pledges. I also remember a song that came out after the war, “Ani Mavtiach Lach. Yalda shell katanah. Sh’zot Yehiyeh hamilchama ha’achronah. I promise you my little girl that this shall be the last war.” And I believed it.

In 1977 I went with my Confirmation class to Israel. I raised half the needed fund by delivering papers, raking lawns and babysitting. With every lawn I sang, “Im tirtzu, ayn zo agadah.” Herzl’s words, “If you will it it is no dream.” The trip to Israel was wonderful. Six wonderful weeks. We toured the country, celebrated Shabbat and Tisha B’av, worked on a kibbutz, climbed Masada and Mount Sinai, sang Eli, Eli on the coast of Caesaria where it had been written. So much of what I do as a rabbi came out of that trip. And I met my first boy friend. He would be coming to Grand Rapids as an exchange program in the fall.

In 1981 I lived in Israel and reconnected with that boyfriend. It was a complicated time. But I learned the standard Israeli philosophy that Israel can’t give into terror. We must continue living normal lives. I spent some time teaching all those camp songs to kids stuck in the bomb shelter with me. I worked on a kibbutz where in the plastics factory we made two things: high chairs and practice bombs. I argued that it didn’t make sense to sell these bombs to Argentina and Chile, two of the most anti-Semitic countries in the world. I was told I didn’t know anything. I was the victim of a violent crime and yet still I loved Israel.

In 1982 Israel entered the first incursion into Lebanon. My boyfriend called on Yom Kippur afternoon to tell me he hadn’t been involved in Sabra and Shitilla, the massacre in southern Lebanon. On my birthday in 1983 my mother called at 7:30AM. I assumed to wish me happy birthday.  She had called to inform me that Yuval had been killed. She had no details. Today there was a picture posted from the IDF of the girlfriend of Tal Yifrah lying on his grave, curled in a fetal position. It is heart wrenching.

And it could be me. How does she ever go on? How can she not? Only time will tell. There are two ways (at least) to respond to tragedies of this magnitude–on the personal level and on a global level. We can curl up–and that is appropriate. We can grow bitter. We can become afraid. We can hate all Arabs. And some do that.

Or, we can realize that this fighting has not worked. It doesn’t even matter who started it and why. It doesn’t matter how many have been killed on each side and what they stood for and whether they are civilian deaths or military. All you need to do is look at the pain of this girl friend. When will her life return to “normal?” It has been 34 years since Yuval died. You tell me.

My approach was different. In the semester before Yuval was killed, Brandeis published an article I wrote explaining how the incursion into Lebanon was justifiable under traditional Jewish halacha. I stand by that paper. I stand by Israel’s right to defend itself. I don’t want friends to live in constant fear of running to shelters. I was moved to tears when I read about the little boy who woke up with a bloody nose who thought he had been bombed and the one who heard phantom sirens who woke his mother up to take them to the shelter. Hamas cannot be allowed to build tunnels and rain missiles down. They should be held accountable for using their own civilian populations as human shields and using money for weapons while keeping their own citizens in poverty.

But no one needs to experience that pain again. Ever. Yesterday I asked someone how to carry on. I was echoing a song of Peter, Paul and Mary’s.

“Carry on sweet survivor
Carry on my lonely friend
Don’t give up on the dream
Don’t you let it end.”

I first heard these words at a rally for Soviet Jews. My youth groupers, now adults with children of their own remember holding the banner for Peter and Mary. I remember crying at these words as I was trying to live them out.

I am crying again. How do we live out the optimism of 1967? How do we live out the dream of Herzl? How do we pray our ancient words for peace? Perhaps Golda Meir had it right. It has been quoted recently in the last few weeks.

“We can forgive the Arabs for killing our children. We cannot forgive them for forcing us to kill their children. We will only have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.”

During the second incursion into Lebanon, I was in Germany. I was writing my rabbinic thesis which included a chapter on the Israeli-Palestinian crisis. My question, based on the Thirteen Attributes of the Divine which includes God will visit the sins of the fathers on the children and the children’s children to the third and fourth generation, could the cycle of violence be stopped. I looked at many groups doing the work of peace. I concluded that unless people feel safe there cannot be peace.

Then I heard an interview on CNN–it was the only news broadcast I could understand well enough in Germany. It stopped me in my tracks. A young father was standing in front of his recently bombed apartment building holding his two month old daughter. He said he hadn’t had a problem with the Israelis. But he feared for his daughter. He feared that he and his country had just lost twenty years–a whole generation.

I am writing on that topic again tonight. My book about the Thirteen Attributes will be published next month. I spent part of the day looking at photos of Mount Sinai that I took on that first trip to Israel in 1977. I still believe that God is a God full of lovingkindness. And maybe we ourselves are responsible for visiting the sins of the ancestors on the next generations. How many generations, O God?

After every surge of violence. After wave of terror. During every incursion. During every intifada I would read this poem at services:

THE YOUNG DEAD SOLDIERS DO NOT SPEAK
Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.
They say, We were young. We have died. Remember us.
They say, We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done.
They say, We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.
They say, Our deaths are not ours: they are yours: they will mean what you make them.
They say, Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say: it is you who must say this.
They say, We leave you our deaths: give them their meaning: give them an end to the war and a true peace: give them a victory that ends the war and a peace afterwards: give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.
(Archibald MacLeish)

When my daughter went to Brandeis for a high school summer program, she met Israelis, some of whom upon their return, went into the army. Some of the kids on that program responded, good, go kill some Arabs. My daughter wondered where her voice was. What could she say to her friends? Where was the voice of peace?

I cried driving down the Merritt Parkway listening to Ani Mavtiach Lach. I promise you, my little girl, that this will be the last war. I hadn’t heard it in years. It wasn’t the last war in 1973. It wasn’t the last war (sorry incursion) in 1982. It wasn’t in 2006. I fear that this will not be the last war either. I no longer feel I can make that promise to my little girl who has friends who are fighting in this war.

Perhaps I am just a child of the sixties, raised on peace rallies in Evanston. I hear echoes of Blowing in the Wind. “How many deaths will it take ’til we know that too many people have died?”

Are we there yet? O God? Are we there yet? Because we cannot go on this way. There must be another way.

Tonight I am not speaking as a rabbi. I don’t have answers to large geo-political questions. I speak as someone who has loved and lost. I speak as someone who has mourned for too long. I speak as a mother.  It is so painful to see these images. I cannot answer the haunting question of MacLeish’s poem. The young soldiers have died, and now died again. Did their deaths have meaning? I don’t know.

I do know we cannot sacrifice another generation. We cannot afford to.  I fear we already have.

Immediately after 911, it was Rosh Hashanah. Most rabbis changed their sermons. Mine was about Hagar. She was desperate. She put her child under a bush and cried out, “Do not let me look on while the child dies.” I wondered how desperate a mother is when the prayer is “I don’t want to watch” rather than “Save my child.” But God opens her eyes and she find the water that was already there, allowing her to save her child. She found another way. We have to find another way. We have to find the people who want to make peace. Who want to save their children. And ours.

I can’t promise you that this will be the last war. There needs to be safety. On both sides.

Tonight we mourn. For the Yuvals. For the Tals. For Tal’s girlfriend. For the Sarahs. For Hagar and Ishmael. For Abraham and Isaac. For all the children who wake up to the sound of sirens. And those who wake up to the sound of bombs and no sirens. For the death of innocence. For the death of the dream.

I promise you, that in Yuval’s name, I will continue to work for peace. Not just pray for peace. Actively work for peace. Pursue peace. Run after peace. We have to find another way. It is the only response that makes sense to me. No one needs to go through this pain again. Ever. Period.

Truah, Rabbis for Human Rights, published my D’var Torah for this week. http://truah.org/resources-91356/divrei-torah/583-sanctuary-cities-no-walk-in-the-dog-park.html

It is remarkable how current and timely Torah can be. This week we read about setting up ir miklat–cities of refuge, shelter. The very word miklat is the word in modern Israel for a bomb shelter. While most of my thoughts are on Israel and the continuing tragedy there, I cannot forget what is happening on our southern border either. Think this is just about Tucson and San Diego and Texas? No so. There are implications for all of us. Here in Elgin, where 40% of our population is Hispanic. For Lowell, a city of immigrants.

In preparing the D’var Torah, I learned much–much more than could be put in a short, online D’Var Torah. I challenge each of you to learn more about this topic–from a halachic standpoint and from a humanitarian crisis standpoint. Then let’s figure out what each of us can do.

What does the word “Kum” mean? To stand up. We use it in our liturgy, “Tzur Yisrael, Kuma b’ezrat Yisrael,” “Kuma Adonai….” They demand that God stands up. They also work as stage directions as we stand up.

Earlier this week, Simon and I went to a restaurant that has become a favorite. We were celebrating the 29^th anniversary of our engagement. Yes, it is Bastille Day and while I condemn the rising anti-Semitism in France, I still enjoy good French food. Their mustard vinaigrette is the best that I have ever had, with the exception of the family’s favorite French restaurant in Manhattan. And the white sangria is celebratory like the mimosas we drank 29 years ago.

However, there was a pair of women sitting at the table next to us. They were discussing home improvement projects, one in a lilting Irish accent. It was impossible not to hear. At one point the Irish woman expressed dissatisfaction with her interior decorator. It seemed she was routinely late, by as much as an hour and half and didn’t have good supervisory skills over her contractors. I don’t know why the interior decorator wasn’t fired from the description. That’s what I would have done. Then the woman described the painting bid. It was for a half a million dollars. She thought it was high. But here is the bombshell. “But what can you expect? She’s Jewish.”

I didn’t say anything. But for me, lunch was ruined. Then I have spent the rest of the week wrestling with whether I should have said anything…

Today’s Torah portion, teaches us that we need to speak up. That even though we may believe that silence is golden (and duct tape is silver I have the t-shirt to prove it), silence means assent. For me, I think that means I should have spoken up. By not doing so, even though the conversation was not directed at me, I gave tacit approval.

Today’s portion describes the procedure for canceling a vow. It may seem a little dated, as it explains how to cancel a vow of your wife or daughter. But the underlying principle holds. Silence is assent.

What is a vow? A vow is an oath, a promise, an obligation. You shall not take the name of the Lord in vain. (Exodus 20:6) You shall not swear falsely by My name (Leviticus 19:12). If you make a vow, you need to fulfill it. Orthodox Jews go a long way to not making vows, promises in God’s name—they start promises with the phrase, “b’li neder, without a vow.”

If you are the husband or father and hear a vow that your wife or your daughter makes, you can cancel it, disassociate yourself from it, disavow it. If and only if you do so on the day you hear it. Only on the day you hear it. Otherwise, the assumption is that you approve. You are giving tacit acceptance. You agree with what your wife or daughter has promised.

But you have to stand up—and actively say you disagree. You cannot remain silent. Silence means assent. Silence means you agree.

Sometimes it is hard to speak up. Sometimes we want to look away. Sometimes we want to ignore. Sometimes there are plenty of other things we would rather do.

This week’s haftarah addresses this concept too. Here we find “the call of Jeremiah”, when Jeremiah was appointed by God to speak for God. Jeremiah doesn’t want to. He joins a long list of “reluctant” prophets that include Moses (I can’t speak, I am slow of speech) and Jonah (they won’t listen to me and if they do it will the quintessential “I told you so” moment so I am going to run away!). Esther also was afraid to speak up. God reassures Jeremiah, “Before I formed you in the belly I knew you, and before you came  out of the womb I sanctified you; I have appointed you a prophet unto the nations…Be not afraid of them; for I am with you to deliver you,”

The medieval commentator Sforno teaches “When a person has the ability to protest and remains silent, his silence is similar to verbal consent. When you do not say something to disagree, it is as if you agree with what was said or done.”

When looking at the root causes of the Holocaust, we teach students about bystander behavior—those who just stood by and watched and did nothing and upstander behavior, those who took a risk and stopped the action. They demonstrated great courage.

This has implications today.

So my question this morning, what are the things we want to stand up and be counted for. What are the things we cannot be silent about?

The list the congregation brainstormed included:

• Immigration reform
• Israel
• Honesty and Truth
• The environment
• Peace
• Education

This becomes the social action agenda of the congregation.

It mirrored the list that I had derived:

• Standing up for the right to education for all girls, all boys everywhere
• Standing up for the right to medical care for all
• Standing up to take care of the widow, the orphan, the stranger
• Standing up for Israel
• Standing up for justice
• Standing up against anti-Semitism
• Standing up for peace

As we enter the second week of Operation Protective Edge, this need to stand up and be counted and stand up for truth and honesty is so painful and so clear. This week’s parsha can be divided into two sections. The second section uses the ancient Hebrew that sounds like Israel Channel Two broadcasting this week’s news. How many soldiers are called up from each tribe. What each branch of the army, tzava, is supposed to do.

As we are standing up and speaking out—I urge caution. Be careful what is true. Check and double check each Facebook posting. Read responsible news sources. Do not inflame an already dangerous situation. Do not fan the flames of hatred. Saying that Israel has a right to defend itself is responsible. Saying that all Muslims want the death of all Israelis or that Israel should bomb the Palestinians to smitherines is not helpful.

Rabbi Larry Moldo, reflecting on the parsha as his Facebook status said this:

The portion this week teaches us that silence after being informed means assent. I have seen a partial list of atrocities committed worldwide this past year, and I declare that they have not been committed in my name, with my permission, or at the behest of the God or Judaism I believe in. A point of pressure should be found against the Boku Haram, so that no more innocent girls are targeted for slavery and death. All children should be educated and fed enough to survive, and nobody should be targeted simply because of their religion. No country should be involved in killing its own people, and leaders who are interested in that should all go into the same padded cell and leave their countries to a peaceful existence without them. All leaders (including our own) should, once they are elected, only have as much to live on as the poorest person in the country or state,with no gifts allowed at all. That may mean no further travel anywhere or communication with their constituents until after they have served their term, but if that helps increase the empathy level of the government (or at least reduces the tendency to get rich off the masses), it might be worth a shot. In the meantime, let us strive to be nice and kind to each other, for that is one thing over which we have some control.

The congregation liked Rabbi Moldo’s list. I like his formulation. It reads like the formulation for Kol Nidre. “I declare that they have not been committed in my name, with my permission or at the behest of the God or Judaism I believe in.”

Some of the things we have seen this week are just wrong. The shooting down of a civilian aircraft. The loss of innocent lives on both sides of the Israeli-Gazan conflict. The death of more Kenyans. Children on our southern borders being held in jails. Children going to bed hungry at night. Closer to home, the continuing gun violence in Chicago. None of them have happened with my permission. I disavow myself of them all.

Maybe I can’t prevent the whole world from sin, or my community or family or even myself. But I am still accountable if I do nothing. And maybe, just maybe, I could have saved my lunch if instead of silence, I had stood up, and spoken out.

Yesterday was the 17th of Tammuz. Here in Chicagoland, it rained off and on and I thought maybe that those were the tears of G-d. There is much to cry about. The hope of a cease fire, shattered by Hamas before it even began. The idea that the only solution is to smash Hamas into oblivion. The death of innocents. How can any of this be good.

The 17th of Tammuz is a Jewish fast, not well observed in modern American Judaism. It commemorates the day that the walls of Jerusalem were breached in 69 CE ahead of the siege and eventual destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. It also commemorates the day Moses smashed the 10 Commandments after witnessing the Israelites dancing around the Golden Calf. That last piece I didn’t realize–but the Torah portion for the 17th of Tammuz is my Bat Mitzvah Torah portion, the very one that led me to become a rabbi and that I wrote about for my rabbinic thesis. The very one that I have a book being published later in the summer.

That portion talks about reconciliation–that G-d is a forgiving G-d, endlessly patient and slow to anger. I actually talked about it last night without knowing that it was the actual text for the day.

Last night I was at the Batavia Islamic Center. I had said that I was going to fast for peace (as much as I as a diabetic fast). This is also the month of Ramadan. When we arrived at the mosque we were immediately greeted with water and “Iftar”. I had heard about iftar, I thought it was the “breaking of the fast.” and it is. Those are the appetizers! After noshing on yummy Indian food and lots of discussion, the women at one table, the men at another, we were told it was time for dinner. And feast we did. Fruits–watermelon, pineapple, figs, almonds, grapes, blueberries, strawberries. There were vegetable samosas, and lentils, and yoghurt, zucchini cakes, potatoes, a dish we were told was moussaka with chickpeas, tomatoes and eggplant. Everything was yummy–and so plentiful.

And that is the point. Most of the people who gathered to celebrate Ramadan were from India and Pakistan. They were not Arab Muslims. They welcomed us into their home–their spiritual home (which they rent from an Episcopal church), greeted us warmly, gave us water, fed us ambly. They live out the idea from Abraham and Sarah that we hold in common–of radical hospitality. Their “tent,” just like Abraham and Sarah’s–is open to all. They shared their traditions about fasting and feasting, about prayer and purity, about peace and submission. They shared their pain, concerns and hope for the future.

I said in my brief “formal” remarks that I thought I was not so naive to think that the world was more peaceful because of this evening. That bombs were still raining on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. That while Judaism and Islam both teach peace, it seems it is politicians who muck it up.

I was challenged by the Imam, who said that when he lived in New Mexico in the aftermath of 911, he participated in a dialogue that included rabbis and imams called by a two-star American general. This Jewish woman was convinced in the need to dialogue, to reach mutual understanding, to pursue peace. And it was a rabbi who argued with her that it was wrong to “spy on Muslims, spy on mosques.” When the imam asked why the rabbi was speaking up so strongly, the rabbi explained that he could not remain silent. In words that echoed Niemoller after the Holocaust:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

The imam said that events like ours last night–impromptu but tied to others doing the same thing–show the world and the media another way–the way of mutual respect, of peace, of reconciliation. This is exactly what the “selichot” prayers are about. This imam, who I had not met until last night returned something precious to me–my hope. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps by speaking out, by speaking up, eventually we will have a world that is at peace.

Jews are about to enter the three weeks of mourning. They begin on the 17th of Tammuz which is Tuesday of the coming week. These three weeks culminate on Tisha B’Av, the 9th of the month of Av. They are the saddest days in the Jewish year. On the 17th of Tammuz, the walls were breached in Jerusalem. By the 9th of Av, the First Temple and then centuries later the 2nd Temple was destroyed. The Jews were expelled from Spain (and Portugal and Italy) on the 9th of Av. The Warsaw ghetto fell on the 9th of Av. We are still mourning all of this.

I wrote to a friend who will be away for the next three weeks saying I can’t believe she will be gone while world events seem to be spiraling out of control. When I wrote the words “Three weeks” I saw the connection. I realized that traditionally the 17th of Tammuz is a fast day. I figured I would fast. In my circle it would be lonely. I would probably be the only one.

It turns out, I am wrong. Rabbi Arthur Waskow has already reclaimed this fast. He is calling it “Hunger Strike Against Violence.” https://theshalomcenter.org. He has suggested doing this in response to the crisis in Israel. He has suggested doing this to honor his good friend, Rabbi Zalman Shachter Shalomi, of blessed memory who died last week. I had the honor of studying with Shachter Shalomi. He was a man of deep spirituality, of vision, of insight and had a way of crossing borders and cultures that made everyone feel comfortable. He was, in essence, a man of peace.

Fasting on the 17th of Tammuz this year is something that both Jews and Muslims can agree on. Muslims are spending this month observing Ramadan. Since we are all looking for things to do during this time of crisis, fasting is one more option. It is a long standing tradition in Judaism. There is the Fast of the First Born, those people who are first born who are grateful to have survived the 10th plague. There is the fast of Esther, she herself fasted before she went to the king. There is the fast of Gedaliah, just the day after Rosh Hashanah.

Jews teach that the Second Temple was destroyed because of “sinat chinam”, baseless or senseless hatred. I talk about this almost every year. Now, more than ever (haven’t I said that before?), we need to reduce baseless hatred. We need to find safety, where children can go to sleep without worrying about bombs and rockets. We need to find a way to work for peace.

Sinat chinam needs to stop. I am reminded of the song, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.” As we approach Shabbat, longing for Jerusalem, let us make that commitment. Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me. As we approach Shabbat, may our houses be filled with Shalom Bayit, peace of the home. May they be joyous, filled with laughter and music, love and food.

On Tuesday I will be fasting. And the money that I save on my food, will go to those organizations that are working for peace. Join me.

Tonight I had the pleasure of going out to dinner to celebrate my step-daughter’s birthday. It seems so calm, so ordinary, so peaceful. We had the opportunity to see their house. In their yard they have a fig tree and a grape vine. Next door there is an avocado tree and a pomegranate tree. They seem to be living out the verse, “Every man ‘neath his vine and fig tree shall live in peace and unafraid.”

On their porch they are growing herbs, tomatoes, flowers. They could easily build a sukkah. It could have been Jerusalem, or Tel Aviv. It reminded me of the verse in the song “Bashanah Haba’ah” “Bashanah haba’ah neshev al hamirpeset….Od tir’eh, od tir’eh kama tov yihiyeh.” Next year you will see how good it will be when we sit on our porch.

We strolled slowly to a restaurant, passing more flowers and trees. Myrtle, cork, bougainvillea, birds of paradise. We enjoyed walking down a quintessential Main Street USA street, stopping for California fusion food–Mexican and Asian, with baseball and World Cup games on big screen TVs. It was fun. It was festive. It was safe.

The contrast could not be more clear. Half a world away, the world does not feel safe. Thousands of miles away, peace is elusive. Dozens of Kenyans were killed in the coastal province. Al Shabib, an offshoot of Al Queda has again claimed responsibility saying that it is in retaliation of Kenya invading its Muslim neighbor, Somalia.

Thousands of children arrive in the US as unaccompanied minors. Children who have lived in unspeakable poverty and have witnessed unspeakable violence. Our country’s solution, put children in detention camps.

40,000 Israeli reservists called up for duty. 130 rockets fired into southern Israel since Sunday night. Jerusalem and Tel Aviv have been hit. Friends of mine sit in bomb shelters. Israelis have downloaded the app for their phones, “Tzeva adom, red alert,” to warn them of incoming missiles. This is no way to live.

I worry that we will have another generation where people will not sit under their vine and fig tree. We are too afraid. We need to protect our people. Iron Dome works–sometimes. As of 4:26PM today Israeli time, it has intercepted 16 rockets, just today, including one aimed at Tel Aviv. It missed another one that fell into open space in Tel Aviv . It boasts an 85% success rate, limiting most injuries to shrapnel wounds and shock.

What can we do here in the United States? We can stay informed. We can reach out to colleagues, friends and colleagues in Israel–and Israelis living overseas. We can continue to support Israel. Buy Israeli products. Eat Israeli food. Support Israeli causes. Two of my favorite organizations: Rabbis for Human Rights who works to promote peace in the occupied territories by reminding us of the Deuteronomy law of not cutting down fruit trees–those very figs, date palms and pomegranates. Oh, and olives!  http://rhr.org.il/eng/ and  The Parents Circle which works with parents who have lost children on both sides of the conflict to promote tolerance and peace. http://www.theparentscircle.com

Let’s just talk about the children. In Kenya, in Israel and in the US. Who will speak for the children? Who will find a way to make it safe to live for children? I hope that my granddaughter enjoys many days playing on her marpeset in California. I hope that she kicks a soccer ball and plays with dolls and sits under her vine and fig tree.

I speak about peace routinely. Tonight I pray for all those mothers who send their children off to fight war, for all those mothers who must put their babies to bed in bomb shelters, for all those mothers who must find ways to sing songs of hope. My favorite lullaby: “Ufros Aleinu Sukkat Shlomecha”, Spread over us the shelter, the sukkah, the fragile, temporary shelter of Your peace.” Apparently it has to be G-d who makes peace. We humans can’t seem to find it. Maybe one day we can play on our porch, under our vine and fig tree and none will make us afraid. Maybe next year. But tonight, I am very sad and very, very afraid.

Ma tovu ohalecha Ya’akov. Mishkenotecha Yisrael. How lovely are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.

Look around. This is a lovely place. We all enjoy being here. The light in the stain glass windows is beautiful. This is the place we dwell. Where G-d presence dwells. It is good. It is lovely. But it is not quite good enough. We are not fully handicapped accessible. We can do better. So today we are taking the Torah down from the bimah so that everyone has access. Today, we will begin a project so that our bathrooms are handicapped accessible. This is part of our pillar to “embrace diversity” and it makes our dwelling more lovely for all.

Our dwelling places include here, this great country of ours, the United States of America whose birthday we celebrated yesterday. And Israel, our spiritual home. How lovely are your dwelling places, O Israel. Did everyone have fun yesterday? Good. 4th of July: Parades, John Philllps Souza, Music, Fireworks, Flags, Red, White and Blue. There is a rhythm. A ritual. Independence. Freedom.

That is what the 4th of July is about. Independence. Freedom.

I love the 4th of July. I am proud to be an American. No one ever asked me where I would be for Rosh Hashanah. The question was always about being “home” for the 4th. And then celebrating my parents’ birthdays on the 6th and the 7th. So this sermon is dedicated to my mother, who would turn 90 tomorrow—and some of the things she taught me.

Her favorite line of the Bible is in this week’s haftarah. What does the Lord require of you, “Only to do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your G-d.” Think about that for a minute. What does that mean? I think it is about having a balance between justice and mercy, between being strict and being lenient, between rushing to judgment and being non-judgmental, between discipline and lovingkindness. Her Judaism did not say “Are you kosher and if so how kosher are you? It did not say, “Are you Shomer shabbes and if so how much?” She would have a hard time also understanding the recent battles between Sunni and Shiite.

She cared that we were good persons. Do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your G-d. That is all G-d requires of you to be good. It is simple. Walking humbly has to do with not being too haughty, not being too proud. Remembering as the sign that hangs over the ark says, “Know before whom you stand.” Again it is about balance. If we are too humble we can become like a doormat and let people walk all over us. If we are too proud, we wind up with narcissistic character disorder. Where is that balance?

Our tradition begs that we keep two truths in our pocket. “For my sake the world was created.” And “I am but dust and ashes.” How do we hold those at the same time?

And sometimes the word humble, is translated as modest which is what Eitz Chayyim does. How does that change our understanding?

The concept of modesty comes from this week’s portion. Balam was sent by Balak to curse the Israelites. Leaving the whole talking donkey, the original Mr. Ed out of the story, eventually he arrives and he tries to curse the Israelites. He says, “How good are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.” Think about that. “How good are your tents O Jacob. Your dwelling places O Israel.”

From this verse we derive an important halacha: The Mishnah teaches, In a courtyard which he shares with others, a man should not open a door facing another person’s window.” Now probably none of us have a courtyard, but we might if we lived in Europe or in Israel. Or maybe it is the common space in some condo developments. I was relieved to know that in our new house, we cannot see into anyone else’s house, fulfilling this verse. Somehow modesty is about privacy. In the Gemara we learn from Rabbi Johanah we derive this from our verse, “And Balaam lifted up his eyes and he saw Israel dwelling according to their tribes.”4 This indicates that he saw that the doors of their tents did not exactly face one another, whereupon he exclaimed: WORTHY ARE THESE THAT THE DIVINE PRESENCE SHOULD REST UPON THEM! Rashi explains that we were living b’tzni-ut following a code of modesty.

Now sometimes that means we should dress appropriately—arms covered, women in longer dresses with their legs in stockings and their hair hidden. And tzniut, modesty, comes from tzanuah, hidden. Our tents were positioned in a manner that would afford each family, privacy. We did not, nor did we desire to, look into each other’s tents without permission.

Now maybe my mother overdid that part. We were not supposed to “air our dirty laundry” in public. For her that meant never saying we had a problem. So when my father was sick, we never told people he was in the hospital. I just went “home” to work in the bookstore. It meant that sometimes I was tagged with the name “Big Mouth” for not being humble enough. You should never toot your own horn. And as parents we shouldn’t say we are proud because the child might get a swelled head. That understanding of the verse was probably misguided and later in life, when she had to do a toast at my brother’s wedding, she finally understood that saying that you are proud of your children is good.

If we are modest, if we are private, if we are humble, then the Divine Presence will dwell among us and will not be hidden. But sometimes that is exactly what seems to happen. The Divine Presence seems lost, hidden.

Once I was sitting at Plum Island, on the second morning of Rosh Hashanah. It was a beautiful day. We had just blown shofar at sunrise—a wonderful tradition, and I was sitting on the beach looking out at a very calm ocean. I was flying the next day to Germany—and the world, like the world this week—seemed very complex and very scary. A terrorist plot had been unraveled for the airport in Frankfurt and the airbase in Heidelburg. The rabbi in Frankfurt had been stabbed walking home from shul. Why was I going? Why couldn’t everyone just get along?

Why couldn’t people remember the Golden Rule or Love your neighbor as yourself or this verse. Do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your G-d. You do those things and my mother was right; the world is simple. But unfortunately it is not. It has been a hard week.

Where is the Divine Presence? Don’t hide Your face from me! Once again, our houses have been exposed again for all the world to see. And it isn’t pretty. It isn’t lovely. Ma tovu? How lovely? How good do we have to be? Do justly and love mercy. Both. Not one of the other. Although the investigation is not over, it would seem that some Israelis forgot this very verse.

While there are calls to “Love our Neighbor as ourselves,” by no less than Finance Minister Lapid, who said as part of his eulogy, “But today, at this funeral, in the presence of this family, we need love. We need to speak in one language. We need to rediscover the paths that connect all of us. If in fact we seek to punish our enemies, there is no greater punishment than for them to behold this sight and to see that nothing can divide us. If we want to take revenge on these murderers, and we find them and punish them, the true revenge will be the ability to transcend the differences among us and to embrace one another, despite all of our shortcomings and the disagreements among us. If indeed we want to sanctify Gilad’s memory, we need to choose what to sanctify: the hostility towards the other or the love for each other – that which divides us, or that which binds us; the suspicion or the trust among ourselves. Children don’t write wills, so we must therefore write Gilad’s will. If the family and those assembled here permit me, I would submit that we begin the writing of this will with the words of the Holy Ari, “I hereby take upon myself the commandment of loving thy neighbor as thyself and I hereby love each and every child of Israel as my own soul and my own being.”

Others felt that maybe they should take justice into their own hands and exact an eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth. It is wrong. Even by Talmudic times, the very Talmud that Steinsaltz has made so accessible to us with his modern English translation, we knew that the verse meant some kind of monetary damages, not an actual life for life. Now I will leave to people like Risa or Rachel in the insurance industry, or people in the courts to figure out what that life is worth,. People like Ken Feinberg have had to do exactly that with the 911 fund and other funds he has administered. But it is clear, that my role as a rabbi is to say, clearly and loudly. Enough. Murder is murder and one murder does not justify another. Ever.

Rabbi Shai Held said, “As we mourn, let’s resist the temptation to use these three kids to grind our ideological axes. Screaming for vengeance, calling for wars we ourselves will not fight, accusing those who don’t share our politics of being traitors, or, conversely, mouthing tired formulas about cycles of violence or enough blame to go around, or whatever– none of this does honor to these three children and their families. If all we are doing today is deploying these three murdered people to make the same point we’d have made yesterday, only louder and with greater shrillness, then we are not mourning but using them. And that is, to put it bluntly, a desecration of their memory.”

Rabbi Jill Jacobs said, “Too much pain and suffering already; too many grieving families; too many terrified children. Revenge will not bring back the boys or ease our pain; it will only lead to more death and more mourning.”

My tradition says, “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord.” (Deut. 32:25)

My tradition says, “You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge…but your shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (Lev. 19:18).

This prevents me from taking action into my own hands. Even if I am enraged. Even if I am furious. Even if I want revenge.

So when we gather as a group and someone says, that he doesn’t want revenge, he just wants all the Arabs gone. I am concerned. Very, very concerned. When I am told that Israelis are chanted “Death to Arabs” or when American Jews tell me, as they sometimes do that the only good Palestinian is a dead Palestinian. I am concerned. Very, very concerned.

I am reminded of Golda Meir’s words. “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our children. We cannot forgive them for forcing us to kill their children. We will only have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.”

It has been a hard week. Not only in Israel, where we mourn three Israeli boys and one Palestinian boy but we mourn what Israel has become. The promise of early Zionism seems to have faded out of reach. How can we be a “light to the nations.” How can we love our neighbors as ourselves when we fear for our own lives? Rockets continue to rain down on southern Israel. One hit a summer day care center. Riots continue in the West Bank and in Old Jerusalem. Those are wrong too and must be condemned in the strongest of possible language.

When I read, My Promised Land, and Ari Shavit describes in detail the War of Independence in 1948, I begin to understand better the roots of the Israeli Palestinian crisis and why it is so intractable. He uses the actual words of soldiers of that day who captured cities like Tiberias and Safed and Lyddia. Their words are haunting. And I am very, very sad.

Yet there is hope. By Thursday night, there were rallies throughout Israel calling for a cessation to the violence. 3000 people turned out in Tel Aviv. 1000 turned out in Jerusalem.

If you read my last blog post, this is a revised version of what I talked about on the 4th of July. You have my permission to skip to the end.

It has been a hard week, not only in Israel but here in the United States, as well. I am proud to be an American. We have the best legal system. We have the best health care. We have wonderful educational opportunities. We have a system of government that includes checks and balances. We believe in “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” We have a bill of rights that includes freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of assembly, freedom of the press, and freedom to bear arms.

I am proud to be an American, but what if some of those freedoms are in conflict? I am an American. But I am also an American Jew (or a Jewish American, that is a debate for another time). I am proud to be an American but it seems to me that some of my values as a Jew, based on how I understand Torah and Jewish law, are in conflict with current policies and how I understand the intentions of our founding fathers.

Three things concern me greatly. The Supreme Court ruling in Town of Greece vs. Galloway, about how we pray. The Hobby Lobby decision. And how we are treating immigrants, especially children, unaccompanied minors, on our southern borders.

In May, the Supreme Court ruled that sectarian prayer is acceptable. This means that in Lowell, they could go back to reciting the Lord’s Prayer before every city council meeting. This means that in Elgin, where there are currently three clergy associations, Interfaith Thanksgiving may be less Interfaith and more Christian in nature. In neither case would it reflect the ethnic and religious diversity of the community.

On this Fourth of July weekend, this seems a step backwards from what George Washington was talking about in his famous letter to the Jewish community in Newport: “The Citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for having given to mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy: a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship. It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights. For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.”

Our founding documents prohibit the establishment of a state religion. It lives out the words of a non-Jewish prophet, trying to curse the Israelites who actually winds up blessing them.

How lovely are our tents….O America!

The Supreme Court made another ruling that challenges me as a Jew. Much has been written about the recent Hobby Lobby decision. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg wrote a 35 page dissent. Three women voted against, five Catholic men voted for. Her words were excellent but not good enough to sway the court: including:

▪ “Would the exemption…extend to employers with religiously grounded objections to blood transfusions (Jehovah’s Witnesses); antidepressants (Scientologists); medications derived from pigs, including anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and pills coated with gelatin (certain Muslims, Jews, and Hindus); and vaccinations[?]…Not much help there for the lower courts bound by today’s decision.”

▪ Approving some religious claims while deeming others unworthy of accommodation could be ‘perceived as favoring one religion over another,’ the very ‘risk the [Constitution’s] Establishment Clause was designed to preclude.” And the ruling challenges my very right as a Jew to practice my religion, not just as woman.

And finally, on this day of freedom. What about the children on our southern border? What right to freedom do they have? This is a humanitarian crisis of epic proportions. Is this any different between this and the hard choices Jewish parents made in another generation in countries like Germany and Poland and Hungary and Russia. We have a congregant who spoke to a group of mostly Hispanic youth attended a summer camp at the Renz Center. She was describing her father’s journey from Germany to England to America during World War II. He was one of the lucky ones. He was saved. By the foresight of his parents who sent him away and by the mercy of those in England and his uncle in America. He survived. His parents did not. How do we now put children in “detention camps” in unspeakable conditions?

Emma Lazrus penned it well as the promise of America: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

So on this birthday of America I pause.

I remember the prophecy of Balam, that non-Jewish prophet whose curses turned to blessing.

I remember the promise of Micah.

The poetry of Lazrus and the present of my mother, that of balance.

She would always say quote Micah. Micah becomes the answer to Balam. How good are your tents? They are good when we do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with your God. Every time I would drop Sarah off at day care I would use my mother’s words, “Be good.” Eventually the director took me aside and said, “Why do you say that? Most parents say ‘Have fun.’ Or ‘I love you.’” So we changed it. “Be good and I love you.” Micah’s balance. We need it.

And after the parades, and the family reunion, and the backyard barbecue I will continue to work for freedom–freedom and peace–for all.

So that as Washington said in his letter to the Hebrew Congregation at Newport, “May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and figtree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.” Everyone sitting under his vine and figtree, enjoying a cold beer on the porch, and not being afraid. Then we can live out the promise of this country and the hope of Israel. How good are your tents? Do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with your G-d. I love you, Mother.