Tonight I watched my beloved Boston Pops play a shortened concert because of weather concerns in Boston.  It was fun to remember other years. One right after college where the temperatures were over 100 and I wound up “babysitting” my college roommate who developed heat exhaustion. One with Simon and Gabrielle having been to see the musical 1776 first. One when the Pops turned 100 and my parents came to visit. We had our picnic supper on a piece of cement. We never went back on the 4th after that. (But Simon and I got engaged shortly after that, on Bastille Day!). We have been to rehearsals on the 3rd. Usually with Doria and Harvey Alberg. A little less crowded and the same great music. Tonight, because of the weather, they combined the music with the fireworks. And even watching on Simon’s iPad it was magical.

4th of July: Parades, John Phillips Souza, Music, Fireworks, Flags, Red, White and Blue. There is a rhythm. A ritual. Independence.

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

I love the 4th of July. Whether I am marching in a parade–in Elgin, in East Grand Rapids, in Leland, in Evanston. Or sitting listening to Pops–at Ravinia, or Tanglewood or the Esplanade or East Grand Rapids. Or watching fireworks. Or eating the traditional 4th of July foods-blueberry-raspberry lemon loaf, olive burgers, hot dogs, corn, peas and peanuts, deviled eggs or dare I even say it, the annual “ham ball.”  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 the 4th. And then celebrating my parents’ birthdays on the 6th and the 7th.

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, which I am exercising now, freedom of religion, freedom to 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 on this bright sunny Fourth of July morning have me especially concerned. Recently there was a Supreme Court ruling about how we pray. In Town of Greece v. Galloway, 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.  This seems to me a step backward and not 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.”

Nancy Kaufman, whom I know personally from her years in Boston as head of the Jewish Relations Council and is now the head of National Council of Jewish Women, released this statement:

“NCJW is deeply disappointed that the Supreme Court has ruled in favor of permitting government officials to seek out clergy and others to offer sectarian prayers that primarily represent one religious view at the start of public meetings. The ruling in Town of Greece v. Galloway, in which we filed an amicus brief, is a step backward from previous decisions which permitted prayers in legislative bodies when the prayers were nonspecific and directed at legislators. In this case, the majority disregarded how ordinary citizens, particularly in the intimate setting of a town governing body, would be impacted by sectarian prayer when they sought to do business with the town. NCJW agrees with Justice Elena Kagan that, ‘When the citizens of this country approach their government, they do so only as Americans, not as members of one faith or another. And that means that even in a partly legislative body, they should not confront government-sponsored worship that divides them along religious lines.’ This ruling leaves us deeply concerned for the fate of the principle of separation of religion and state in the next court case that will surely come.”

Our founding documents prohibit the establishment of a state religion. Our nation is a rare combination of Christian, all kinds, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, people who believe in G-d, people who believe in many gods, people who think the very idea of G-d is anathema. This ruling by the Supreme Court challenges my very right pray in the manner that I prefer. It challenges my very right to participate in government as a Jew.

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. Her words were good enough, 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.”

Good but not enough to sway the court and I fear this ruling will have lasting implications for me as a woman, as an American and as a Jew. So I will add my voice. I worry for the sake of my daughter. My daughter has been on birth control since she was 12. Not as birth control although she should be entitled to that, but to regulate and help manage a severe chronic daily migraine. Do we want to deny access to birth control because it doesn’t fit with some people’s religious beliefs? I can’t imagine that she would choose to work for Hobby Lobby, but what about the people who do? What about people who work for Hobby Lobby, or others who will cite this ruling,  in a minimum wage job and cannot afford birth control without the support of health insurance? What about my freedom of religion? Judaism teaches that birth control and even abortion is permitted. That the life of a fetus is a potential life but not a life until halfway out the birth canal. This ruling violates my freedom of religion.

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. I cannot imagine having to send my daughter as a young child on a thousand mile hike or hitchhiking across desert to get to the Promised Land. But that is exactly the difficult choice parents are making in countries like Guatamela and El Salvador and Honduras and Mexico. Is this any different than 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?

So on this birthday of America I pause. And after the parades, and the family reunion, and the backyard barbecue I will continue to work for freedom–freedom 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.”

My day started with such promise. We have out-of-town company from Massachusetts, seeing our home in Elgin for the first time. Dear friends. We have opened businesses together, shared holidays, celebrated our wedding, the birth of Sarah, any number of holidays. They come to us for Passover and Chanukah. We revel in clever Halloween costumes. We decorate their Christmas tree. We sit around the table and share stories and our favorite meal of steak, asparagus and baked potatoes. We discuss politics. This is a deep, deep friendship and we are excited to show them our new town of Elgin.

We met my nephew, a recent graduate from Swarthmore and four of his friends for coffee. They are driving from Swarhmore to Palo Alto to develop a new ap as a start-up company. They are full of life and excitement and promise. They are driving straight through a thunderstorm to camp in the Badlands. They are polite. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Delightful.

And then we got the news. The three Israeli boys–not much younger than my nephew and his four friends, were found. Murdered. Half-buried in a shallow grave. The news took my breath away. I read the news story, slowly, out loud. I couldn’t read it without crying. I don’t know these boys. And yet, like Brennan, they were full of life and hope and optimism. Just kids waiting to start their lives. Kids on their way home from school.

How could anyone think that this is a good outcome? Walking home from school should not be dangerous. Not for three boys on the West Bank. Not for the 223 girls. Not for children in Columbine, Paducah, a small Amish town, Sandy Hook. Not for children walking home from school in Chicagoland.

How do we respond to such unspeakable grief. Tears, fears, anger, vengeance, frustration, despair, doubt. We want justice. But what is justice? An eye for an eye? Life for life? As has been said before, that leave the whole town blind. That leaves everyone wanting, demanding, craving more life.

Early this morning, before the household awoke, I was reading My Promised Land. I am in the chapter about Lyddia. I put it down. It tells the story about what happens to an elite group of Zionists, trained to found a kibbutz but changed by invading Safed, then Lyddia. War changes people. The book speaks an uncomfortable truth we don’t want to hear.

As I write this, I am waiting out a thunderstorm. It is a scary one with possible embedded tornados. I wonder where the boys are that wanted to camp in the Badlands. Did they make it? Are they in a tent? Did they maybe stop at a hotel. I text them. Brennan answers they are in Minnesota. They are safe.

As I do this, CNN flashes on the screen that Israel has attacked Gaza by air. For several days now southern Israel has been under attack. 50 rockets fired into Israel. The news that Israel has responded with firepower of its own especially after learning that the boys are dead does not surprise me. But it saddens me.

When will this cycle of violence end? The killing of more children. The tearing down of houses. The air raids. These will not bring back our boys. These will not act as a deterrent or stop another terrorist attack. Instead, I fear, it will further anger, further alienate.

Judaism teaches that “I have placed before you life and goodness or death and evil…choose life.” (Deuteronomy 30:15) I understand the anger we all feel tonight. I wonder about another boy from another decade whose life was cut short by a terrorist bomb. I still wonder what might have been.

Judaism teaches “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” (Deuteronomy 20) It is something we have to actively run after. It also teaches that we must “Turn from evil and do good. Seek peace and pursue it.” (Psalm 34:15).

For me, then, the only response to this evil–and make no mistake–killing three boys is just that–evil–is to redouble my efforts to work for peace. To actively pursue peace. To run after peace.

Please join with me. Find a way to comfort the mourners and a way to choose life. Pursue peace.

Is it possible? Has it been 35 years since I walked down the hallowed corridors of East Grand Rapids High School? Apparently. When people write about reunions a lot of what gets written seems trite. People are anxious–what will I wear, will people like me, will people even remember me?

Saturday night about 150 people gathered in Grand Rapids, Michigan for a reunion. It had been thirty five years. I agonized what to wear. I went to get my hair and my nails done. I wondered who would be there–and if I would recognize them. I wondered if anyone would recognize me. I worried about whether I should bring my spouse and if others would bring theirs.

None of that mattered. As soon as I got out of the car, which was valet parked, I was hugged and warmly greeted. And hugged and hugged and hugged. People accepted my eccentric, pony-tailed, tie-wearing husband on his terms. People were sad to learn that both my parents are gone. Everybody seemed to know that I am a rabbi–and remember, this is Grand Rapids–what a rabbi is and does. People were genuinely proud of me and happy for me.

So why do reunions matter? They are a benchmark. They give you perspective to answer big questions: Where have I been? Who am I? Where am I going? What am I doing? Do I like myself?

Because for four years, or more, these people shared your history. With some of these people I went to one year of elementary school, two years of middle school and four years of high school. That’s seven years.

They remember stories I had forgotten, like the time it rained so hard and fast that our street flooded and we took the canoe out in the street. They remember track meets and my first Boston Marathon. They remember the construction of the track. They remember Girl Scouts. They remember Confirmation and trips to Israel. They remember lazy, summer days at the beach and winters where East Grand Rapids was the only school in the state not closed for snow. They remember teachers and coaches and counselors. People who made a difference in our lives and who mentored us. They remember those in the class who are no longer with us.

Sometimes when we get older (older, are we really older), our memories fade. Going back to a high school reunion is fraught with emotion. I was not the most popular kid in the school. I seemed to be a bridge between the academic brains the the social butterflies. I was never a football player or a cheerleader. And in Grand Rapids this seemed important at the time, I was not Dutch and I was not blonde!

I did participate. Girl Scouts (all the way through!), choir, French Club, ski club, track, cross-country (founding member of the Girls Cross Country team. Remember when Title IX was new?), Mini-Week, Lumber Jack Days. I did have friends. I still participate. That involvement began right at East Grand Rapids High School. Leadership skills were developed right at East Grand Rapids High School. For this I am grateful.

Going back to high school you learn things. Last time, our 25th, some of the people who were still in Grand Rapids, were thrilled I had “gotten out”. Those who were out, especially Chicago and Detroit, couldn’t wait to get back in, back to better school systems. There was a time where I too longed to be back in East Grand Rapids with those better schools. And yet, I was happy I was where I was–Boston, working in business and studying to be a rabbi. That was an important lesson, to be happy where you are–where ever you are.

This time I took less pictures. I was more in the moment. People seemed even more relaxed and comfortable with themselves making it easier. We are past proving ourselves. We have a common history and even after 35 years we can pick up right where we left off. Or maybe beyond, without some of the high school pettiness. We are who we are and we have turned out pretty damn good.

We stretch from Alaska to Boston, from California to Washington DC. We have classmates who work for NGOs in Africa, lawyers, doctors, politicians, manufacturers, insurance people, computer people, marketing and sales, a Girl Scout professional, training and development, real estate. We have talented actors, musicians and artists. We have a pilot. We have teachers and counselors, people who are paying it forward from our days at East Grand Rapids. And yes, we have one rabbi.

For me it was all good–from the moment I got out of the car. I learned that I am in pretty good shape. In a whole lot of ways. And so is most of my class. Most but not all. And I learned (again), that I have lots of friends. Lots and lots of friends.

So yes, I proudly say, I am from East Grand Rapids. I graduated from East Grand Rapids High School. I had teachers who cared passionately about us as students and people. I had Ms. Cullen. Mr. Froysland. Mr. Wicz. Madame Seger. Ms. Walker. Mr. Norman. Ms. Graham. I had Mrs. Yeagle and Mr. Blakee making sure that we succeeded.

I like where I am going. I love being a rabbi. I maybe working too hard (true story) but I am putting into practice what those teachers and counselors and administrators modeled so clearly for us. And maybe most important, I have learned to like who I am.

So I am grateful to the committee that put it together. It was a lot of work, I know. But for those of us who just enjoyed it was great. Thank you Andrew and Meredith, Mark and Anne, Lori, Dave and Julie, John and Skip and whoever else spent so much time. You done good! East Grand Rapids has done good.

Steak on the grill, asparagus chilling, a cold white wine. Sitting on the deck enjoying a cool breeze and the late afternoon sun. Does life get any better than this?

One of the things I love about summer are the longer days. Watching the sky. The colors change from bright sky blue to deep purple to night. Spying the fireflies as they come out.

I’ve been thinking a lot about light. Some of it is because we are just passed the summer solstice. The longest Shabbat of the year. But I learned that we only get five additional seconds of light. Five seconds. What did you do with five seconds?

I watched the sky. There is an old folk song that we used to sing at Temple Emanuel of the Merrimack Valley.

Watch the stars: see how they rise
Watch the stars see how they rise
You know the stars run down
At the setting of the sun
Watch the star see how they rise

Judaism has a lot to say about light. We talk about “Light is sown for the righteous and joy for the upright in heart.” We talk about Jews being a “light to the nations.” We talk about light being the symbol of the Divine. “The Lord is my light and my salvation.” And we know this, we absolutely know this because it says so in a responsive reading in the old Union Prayer Book right there on page 7 as we kindle the Sabbath lights. stitching together various Biblical verses about light.

Light is the first thing that G-d created. G-d said, “Let there be light and there was light.” This light was a bright light. So bright that it shattered the vessel containing it. Gathering the shards back together is what we call tikkun o’lam, repairing the world.

But sitting on the deck, listening the birds, watching the clouds, I think about the names in Hebrew for sunrise and sunset. The phrases are so evocative. Sure, we have different names in English, too: dawn, sunrise, sunup, sunset, twilight, dusk.

Somehow the Hebrew is more detailed, more poetic.

‘Alot HaShachar, is the beginning of daytime. When that first glimmer of light, non-direct light appears in the eastern sky. Barely discernible, it is an immeasurable transition from night to day.
Amud HaShachar is the pillar of dawn, that ray of sun that stands erect.

Morning light is important. We are taught that we can say the morning Sh’ma when you can distinguish blue from white, or more finely blue from green.

Mi-shey-yakir = “from the instant that can be noticed” earliest time to put on tallit and tefillin.

Netz HaChamah = sunrise; the first ‘beam’ of solar light over the mathematical horizon. The altitude of our calendar location is 1 meter (3.33ft) above MSL. Obstacles such as hills, buildings etc. are not considered. That doesn’t seem very poetic until you look at the root of netz. It means sparks or blossoms. So this is that sparkling light that dazzles and dances on the water. It was first described to me as the kind of light firecrackers exhibit so it seems especially appropriate this week. The sun as fireworks or blossoms. Love it!

There are parallel expressions for evening. Shkiat Hachamah is sunset of the last beam of solar light over the horizon. Bein HaShmashot, that in-between transition time between Shkiat Hachamah and Tzeit Hakochavim, when the stars come out.

Watch the stars, see how they rise. Watch the moon, see how it glows. Watch the wind, see how it blows. Watch the light, call it divine. What more could you ask for a summer’s night?

A month ago, just a month ago, just after the first travel warning was announced I wrote about all the reasons I was going to Kenya. Today I need to write the other piece. Why am I not going to Kenya. At least not this summer.

The need is still there. And I am glad that American Jewish World Service has feet on the ground to deliver critical services though its partners and grantees. Even participating in the Global Justice Fellowship thus far, I have learned an incredible amount. About Africa, about Kenya, about delivery of services in Third World countries, (now called the Global South). I have learned about advocacy and organizing. Skills I can use here, nationally and right here in Elgin.

At some levels, I do not need to justify my decision to anyone. And yet, I am still justifying it to myself. When I wrote in May I was already scared. There had been two bombings and a warning from the US and British State Departments. But it didn’t involve the parts of the Kenya we would be going to. I was excited. I was gung-ho. I even had my shots!

Here’s what I know now:

• The Kenyan government did not anticipate the latest terrorist attack in the  small, coastal farming village. Nor did they expect round two in that same village the next night.  The president of Kenya said he was “mostly satisfied” with his security operations. In the next two months there is not enough time to fix the problems in Kenya. It will take years. http://www.ivpressonline.com/news/world/kenya-leader-s-allegation-trivializes-massacre/article_5aa0da9e-cb83-5b96-9d95-056e50f4c036.html

• By admitting they have brought in Israelis to help with the terrorism threat, it means they are already behind where they need to be. http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xo11hl_kenya-asks-israel-for-help-fighting-terrorists_news and  http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Latest-News-Wires/2013/0923/Why-Israel-is-advising-Kenya-in-mall-attack-response

• There have been many calls this past week for various ministers to resign. If they do, that will further destabilize the country.  If they don’t resign who will take responsibility for fixing the problems? I learned about lots of grafts and bribes.  http://www.voanews.com/content/kenya-law-group-demands-security-secretarys-resignation-/1939086.html

• There is not reliable connectivity or electricity in some of the places we were going, so that if I personally had an issue getting help from my support team stateside could be compromised http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303287804579447323711745040

• There is even less good medical care. For instance, we read an article about a girl who had been gang raped. The punishment was for the rapists to cut the lawn at the police station. Shocking? You bet. But not nearly as shocking as learning that the girl had serious issues because medical care in that village was so lacking. Her mother has already sold the family chickens, their most prized possession to pay for her care. She may be confined to a wheelchair forever. http://www.nation.co.ke/lifestyle/DN2/When-rapists-go-scot-free/-/957860/2022572/-/skd9s8z/-/index.html

• I am, and will always be white, American, woman. In this case I would be traveling with a Jewish group working on women and girls and LGBTQ issues. That is five strikes against me. The terrorists are using litmus tests to determine who to kill. I could never pass such a litmus test similar to what we are seeing in Iraq about being a Muslim. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/africaandindianocean/kenya/10904888/Kenya-attack-al-Shabaab-claims-new-attack-that-has-left-at-least-10-dead.html

The process of deciding was gut-wrenching for me.

There were tears. Plenty of tears.

There was a lot of reading—news of all kinds. American, British, Canadian, African, Israeli, some of which is reflected above.

There were phone calls and emails, around the globe. As it turns out, I know an incredible number of people who are in high positions who could help make this decision: congressional staffers, president of an NGO, military and competitive intelligence personnel in Israel, Germany and the US, the owner of a coffee bean importer. And rabbis. And ministers. Lots of rabbis.

I finally understand why people had issues with Senator Kerry’s “flip-flopping”. I must have changed my mind 24 times in 24 hours, driving my husband especially and others nearly crazy. I really wanted to go. I was thrilled to be chosen and to be honored by American Jewish World Service. I never did the Peace Corps and that has always been one of my biggest regrets. This was to be like my own Peace Corps.

Ultimately, the risks became too high. I felt I would be too anxious on the trip. Instead of healing myself by continuing to work on issues that are important to me, I could do further damage to myself. And if something, G-d forbid, happened, would there be US Embassy personnel or doctors or a Level One Trauma Center available?

I am not going to Kenya because it was making the people around me too anxious. I am not going to Kenya because I couldn’t even buy “key man” insurance in case something happened to me. None of us are indispensable. But what would happen to my family if something happened to me? What would happen to my congregation this close to the High Holidays.

I am not going to Kenya because I felt I could do more here in the United States to prevent violence against women, girls and the LGBTQ community than if I were in Kenya.

I am still sad.

There is a lot that could be said about this week’s portion. We could talk about Korach’s rebellion. We could talk about leadership and how leaders handle differences of opinion. We could talk about whether this portion is a model for pluralism—the same pluralism we embrace here and which both the Israel Religious Action Center of the Reform Movement and Rav Kook seem to point towards. We could talk about whether the punishment was just. We could talk about how for the last three weeks we have been told in each Torah portion why speaking ill is bad—Miriam, the spies and now Korach. But we are not going to.

I want to talk about just this one verse.

“And he stood between the dead and the living. And the plague was stayed.” Numbers 17:13

Look at it closely. What does it mean? Who is the he? Put it in a context? Now what it is it talking about?

Rashi helps us understand:

He stood between the dead…: He took hold of the angel and held him against his will. The angel said to him, “Allow me to accomplish my mission.” He [Aaron] said to him, “Moses commanded me to stop you.” He said to him, “I am the messenger of the Omnipresent, and you are the messenger of Moses.” He said to him, “Moses does not say anything on his own volition, but only at the bidding of the Almighty. If you do not believe [me], the Holy One, blessed is He, and Moses are at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting; come with me and ask.” This is the meaning of the statement, “Aaron returned to Moses” (Mid. Tanchuma Tetzaveh 15). Another interpretation: Why with incense? Because the Israelites were slandering and vilifying the incense, saying that it was a deadly poison; through it Nadab and Abihu died; through it two hundred and fifty people were burnt. The Holy One, blessed is He, said, “You shall see that it will stop the plague, and it is sin that caused their death.” – [Mid. Aggadah. See Mechilta Beshallach (Vayassa 6:5, Ber. 33a]

What does it mean to stand between the dead and the living?

Aaron, a high priest who is not supposed to come in contact with the dead, does it anyway. Why? As someone pointed out because sometimes there is an obligation that supersedes the rules. This is one of those times. He stands up and the plague stops. He stands up and is counted.

Who does that today? Doctors, nurses, those compassionate care teams that I have been witnessing and praising. Rabbis, sometimes, and when we do it is a privilege. We witness something important. We stand between life and death.

What if there are not people who are willing to stand between the living and the dead?

In this country, we take access to medical care for granted. And in truth we are lucky.

American Jewish World Service’s weekly D’var Tzedek talks about this verse and points out that in Africa there is a severe shortage of doctors. Citing the World Health Organization, they said, “The World Health Organization estimated in 2006 that one in four African-trained doctors leaves the continent for work in wealthier regions, with the workforce shortage believed to only have worsened since then.5 In Sierra Leone, a country of over 5 million people, there are only 75 state medical doctors and 25 medical specialists; and in Liberia, population 3.5 million, there are a total of 122 doctors. In Malawi, there are two doctors and 56 nurses for every 100,000 people; in Mozambique the ratio is three doctors and 20 nurses per 100,000.6 By contrast, in those wealthier countries comprising the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), there are, on average, about 310 doctors for every 100,000 people.”

Those are scary numbers. In truth, independent of these statistics, health care, or the lack of it, was part of why I decided going to Kenya this summer was not right for me. I’ll discuss more of that later.

I think, however, what this verse is pointing towards something even more important. How we handle liminal time.

What is liminal time?

• It is that time in between.
• It is a time of transition:
• Between spring and summer, like today
• Between daytime and night time—as we watched last night, or as we watch waiting for Shabbat to end.
• Between jobs, between houses, between school
• Between public space and private space
• Between applying for college and being accepted.
• Or as this very verse suggests, between life and death

I, for one, love to sit on a certain section of Lake Michigan beach and watch the sunset, preferably with a glass of wine and some smoked whitefish. In our electric light world, we rarely take the time to notice the subtle gradations of light. There is something about sitting at the beach that makes it possible. Maybe the expanse of sky and water. Maybe the intentionality of it, the kavanah of really watching, of taking the time.

But liminal time isn’t always easy. Why is liminal time hard? How do we mark liminal time?

Liminal time is hard because we get anxious. Change is hard. We are going into the unknown and that scares us. We mark these times with rituals. If you were an ancient you might build Stonehenge to mark the Summer Solstice.

Judaism marks liminal time:

• Mezuzah to mark the space between public and private, right on that doorpost to remind us of who we are every time we go in or out of our houses .
• Kiddush to mark the beginning of Shabbat and Havadalah to mark the end.
• Kaddish to mark the transitions between parts of the service.
• Bar Mitzvah to mark the transition between being a child and being an adult.
• Yom Kippur to mark being forgiven and starting the new year renewed, cleansed
• Mikveh to mark time—between being ritually not ready, and ritually ready, between being niddah and being tahara, between being not Jewish and being Jewish. When you go into the mikveh, you come out changed in some way.

Dr. Erica Brown spoke about liminality at the National Mikveh Conference. Yes, there is one! She said, “What we’ve identified are space, time, and milestone events which are actually transitions,” Brown says, and she notes that all religions are intrigued by transitional times, which produce anxieties; we place rituals in those moments for that reason.  We’ve just come to the same conclusions!

What are some of those anxieties and why do rituals help?

• Bedtime rituals: reading a story to a young child, saying Sh’ma, settling down in some way, that last glass of water (or wine)
• Birthday rituals: candles, cake, making a wish, presents
• The tooth fairy

What about death? What about standing between life and death?

Even before death, if we are lucky and we take the time to think about it, we have prepared. We might have written an ethical will. I hope you each have a living will, an advanced directive, a power of attorney. I hope you have told your own families what you want to have happen once you die.

We Jews are good at death. We have lots of rituals for marking this liminal time of grief:

• Saying Sh’ma and Baruch Dayan HaEmet
• Organizing the community to support the family, to bring food and attend the funeral and shiva.
• Burying quickly
• Tearing a garment and throwing dirt on the grave
• Washing your hands after returning from the cemetery
• Lighting a candle
• Sitting on low stools, covering mirrors
• Eating an egg, symbol of life
• Reciting Kaddish, praising G-d for life

We mark time differently from the first intense 7 days, then the first thirty days and the first year.

Rituals help us experience these transitions in a powerful way. They force us to pay attention to the subtle gradations of how our experience changes over time.

We experience these transitions in a powerful way anyway; the rituals force us to pay attention to the subtle gradations of how our experience changes over time. The rituals allow us to experience what we experience within certain structures. They enact transformation and provide us with a cushion between times.

And they allow us, even in our insecurities and uncertainties to know that we are part of something bigger something greater than ourselves. That there is order in the chaos. That there is a wider community. That there is G-d. And this brings us hope.

Rituals connect us not only horizontally (to friends and family members who are celebrating with us, wherever we are) but also vertically (to people who came before us and people who will come after us and to G-d.)

The intentionality, the kavanah is important. It allows our multi-tasking brains to slow down enough to be present in the moment. To feel. To feel G-d’s presence. To bring G-d into the pause, as Erica Brown said. But you can’t wait for that perfect moment of inspiration (remember inspiration comes from the word for breath too!). If you wait for perfect inspiration and intention, you will never write a book!

It is not always possible to achieve great kavanah. Sometimes prayer connects us to G-d and sometimes to our kids, our family, our community and that can be enough. It is the difference between keva and kavanah. Structure and intention. Abraham Joshua Heschel talked about the need for keva to support the days when he didn’t have the kavanah.

Blu Greenberg says it this way in How to Run a Traditional Jewish Household:

But how, the reader might ask, can one perform ritual without perfect and pure intent? Is it not a sham? The answer might be, ‘Once more, with feeling.’ Even so, should ritual or rite happen to be devoid of inner spirit at any given moment, it does not mean that it is devoid of meaning. Sometimes, in ritual, we simply feel part of the community, and that is enough. Sometimes, ritual serves to generate a sense of self, and that is enough. Sometimes it strengthens the family unit, and that is enough. And sometimes, it connects us to the Divine, and that is enough.

If we sit in a sukkah and don’t experience joy, it is enough.
If we light Shabbat candles and we don’t direct our hearts to making Shabbat, it is enough.
This is true for almost all Jewish rituals.

But there are two rituals that if we do them without kavanah, they don’t count. Saying Sh’ma and mikveh. Because both are about being present in the moment.

Later in the text we will read the word Hiney. It means Behold, or Here. It is a marker that something important is about to happen. Brown understands it as “I am fully present.”

The Hebrew word “hineni” means “I am here.” Brown understands it as “I am fully present” This is hard to do, in this age of technology. I swear I heard someone’s cell phone beep since I started this discussion. Are each of you fully present to this moment?

Being right here. Right now. That is the function of a ritual.

Not just because we have to, because it is an obligation, because it is a commandment, because G-d said to. It was never very effective when as parents our children said, why do we have to do something and we answered, “Because I said so.”

Rituals help us mark liminal time. They help us manage change. They allow us to wrestle with our anxieties and uncertainties. They enable us to be like Aaron, to stand between the living and the dead.

For some reason I love this Shabbat. There is a feeling of expanse of time. Creation seems closer. I try to spend as much time as possible outside.

This Shabbat was no exception. We began with “Shabbat Under the Stars”, 30 people joined us for Kabbalat Shabbat services and a potluck dairy dinner. The service was outside, much like the Kabblistic rabbis in Safed, the ancient mystical town in northern Israel. They would go out into the fields on Friday afternoon to welcome Shabbat, to receive Shabbat. They would dress all in white to welcome the Shabbat bride, the Shabbat queen. They based this new (1500s CE) service on the rabbis of the Talmud who would dress in their best clothing and greet each other with, “Lecha dodi likrat kallah, Come, my beloved, to welcome the bride.” This quote became the basis for the song Lecha Dodi.

People gathered in lawn chairs, on the deck, standing, and we sang those words of Lecha Dodi. It gave me shivers. We were out in the field, singing, watching the clouds, a bird flying overhead, the wind rustling the cattails in the wetlands. We were living out the words of Ma’ariv Aravim:

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe,
who speaks the evening into being,
skillfully opens the gates,
thoughtfully alters the time and changes the seasons,
and arranges the stars in their heavenly courses according to plan.
You are Creator of day and night,
rolling light away from darkness and darkness from light,
transforming day into night and distinguishing one from the other.
Adonai Tz’vaot is Your Name.
Ever-living God, may You reign continually over us into eternity.
Blessed are You, Adonai, who brings on evening.

A summer night. Shabbat had arrived.

While I had worried about having enough food, I need not have. Plenty of food. Good food. Good conversation. Good friends. And people lingered on the deck. A Shabbat moment. As we continue to watch day turn to dusk, dusk to twilight, twilight to night.  And yes, we ate ice cream!

In the morning, we gathered at the synagogue. I called out the liturgical references to Creation and to changing seasons. I spoke about liminal time. More on that in the next post. My bimah partners covered much of the service, allowing me to have a spiritual moment while standing in the back of the sanctuary.

After services, Simon and I had a lovely meal outdoors. Artichoke, avocado-cucumber soup and salad. We skipped dessert. I took a nap. We tried to go for a bike ride. We went for a walk. We watched a storm outdoors from the safety of our front porch. After the storm we were treated to a beautiful sunset.

“And on the seventh day God finished His work which He had made; and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had made.” (Genesis 2)

When the Torah describes God as “resting,” it says in Exodus, in the familiar words of “V’shamru”, shavat vayinafash. Shavat is related both to rest and to sit/dwell. Some relate it as well to Sheva, seven, since G-d rested on the seventh day. That is probably a linguistic stretch. Shavat really means then, to refrain from work. The next word is va-yinafash. This signifies another forrn of leisure. Va-yinafash and the noun nefesh, means the soul, the spirit. It also means breath. So what it is saying is that G-d rested and took a breath. That, according to Rashi, G-d was refreshed. So Shabbat is the pause that refreshes. (I couldn’t resist!)

This has been a Shabbat, with its 5 extra seconds of daylight, where we enjoyed the leisure of Shabbat. The pause. Like G-d we actively stopped working and we actively paused for a breath, for a chance to take it in. And we gave thanks. For creation. For life. For healing. For storms. For strength. For courage. For food. For naps. For dreams. For rest.

A whole day.

It is a peaceful, quiet morning here in South Elgin. I went outside, checked the garden and saw a heron fly overhead. Magical.

This is the garden that my husband put in. He found a “recipe” in a book and followed it to a t. I was skeptical. Downright mean about it. Couldn’t possibly work. I am pleased to report we will have tomatoes, peppers, lettuce and lots of herbs. Not sure about the peas and beans yet.

Think that Father’s Day is not a Jewish holiday? It is just a Hallmark holiday? Think again, the Bible teaches us to Honor our father and mother. It is one of the Ten Commandments. The top ten. So it must be important. It is something we are supposed to do every day. Not just on Father’s Day. But it is good to pause. Right here. Right now.

It continues so that we will live long on the land that the Lord, our G-d is giving us. Ordinarily, I would think that the land being referred to is Israel. But maybe it just means earth. Maybe Simon’s idea that we should plant (or farm as would be his real love) isn’t so ridiculous. Maybe how we honor our parents is by taking care of the land. It is generational.

Maybe, in our case, the land that G-d is giving us, Simon and Margaret, really is Chicago. Chicago, you say? Chicago is a long way from Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel. But here we are. Back in the land of our ancestors. Simon’s great grandfather, the original Simon Klein, the founder of Klein and Mandel, ultimately Mandel Brothers, came from Germany to Chicago in the 1840s. My mother’s family came in the 1840s from Alsace Lorraine. Our ancestors are buried in the same cemetery, Mount Maariv, part of Waldheim. This is our land. And we honor their courage, strength and determination to make a new life here in Chicagoland.

My father loved Father’s Day. And I miss him. It usually involved doing something outside, then coming back to the house and grilling steak. And corn. And the debate about whether corn should just be passed through the boiling water or boiled forever, like Coney Island corn.

Roles for parents have switched dramatically in my lifetime. It is not uncommon now for a father to stay home with the children and the woman be the primary bread winner. My husband likes to cook and knit and sew. And plant. He did much of the child care with Sarah while I was working in international business. Described as a non-traditional father.

He does not love Father’s Day. Yet, he is the father of four. And I love him for that.  Anna, Richard, Gabrielle, Sarah. They each love him and will honor him in some way–although none of them will be present. They are all spread out geographically. Here is a rare photo of them together with Simon holding the “famous” picture of his ancestors at some other celebration:

Do we always agree how to parent. No. We have very different styles. I am a more hands-on manager. I check in on the kids, all of whom are adults, on a regular basis. He has a more independent approach. If the kids need him, they will come to him. But I respect him for it. (Most of the time. At least I try to.) What is clear is that I couldn’t have been the mother I am without the father I had or the husband and partner I have.

That’s the point. Honor your father and mother. Revere your mother and father. We are lucky. We have a partnership. Many families do not.

So on this Father’s Day, I salute all the father figures–fathers, uncles, brothers, teachers, mentors, priests, rabbis, ministers. I was lucky here too. I had other father figures besides my own and I think of them today too.

We will spend a quiet day. Maybe weeding that garden or riding a bike on one of the many bike trails. We may go canoeing or kayaking. We may go to the cemetery where his father, grandfather, great grandfather are buried.

And yes, there will be steak. Grilled. His choice. If the weather holds.

Today was Flag Day. We chose to use the day to honor one of our graduates who has enlisted in the Navy as well as our other military veterans. I decorated the shul with American flags and pulled special readings. I didn’t give a traditional sermon but if we had tried we couldn’t have picked a more perfect portion.

Here is a series of vignettes.

Reflection One:
Flags are important in many cultures. Each Israelite tribe had its own flag. This portion teaches us about how 12 scouts, one from each tribe. went out to spy out the land. It also contains the portion that we read as the third paragraph of the Sh’ma, about putting fringes on our clothes as a reminder of the mitzvot, of G-d’s Divine Presence. These fringes are attached to a tallit, a four cornered garment. Traditionally, these garments are white with blue stripes. Originally one of the threads would be a shade of blue, techelet in Hebrew. How to make that dye was lost after the destruction of the Temple. Recently the Israel Antiquities Authority announced that it had fabric that may be dyed “techelet”. http://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/biblical-artifacts/artifacts-and-the-bible/ancient-fabric-dyed-biblical-blue/ There is a continuing debate if this is a “royal blue” or closer to purple. In any case, while the tallit is quite ancient, the Israeli flag reflects today’s Torah portion.

Reflection Two:
I learned this portion best at the feet of Ben Gilad, president of the Academy of Competitive Intelligence. Himself a former Israeli military officer and professor at Rutgers, he would use this portion as the first example of military and competitive intelligence. Moses, the CEO, sent twelve analysts into the competitor, Canaan, to gather information to make strategic and tactical decisions about how to enter a new market. Ten come back and say, “You can’t do it. They are entrenched. And large. As large as grasshoppers. They will eat you alive. Don’t even try.” Only two, Joshua and Caleb, look at the data and say that it worth attempting. It is a good land. A land flowing with milk and honey. How we take disparate data and not be blindsided or even worse have a blind spot, is part of what the classes that Ben teaches. What I learned about competitive intelligence from Ben and from Leonard Fuld and Mike Sandman is part of how I approach synagogue management.

Reflection Three
But what about the American flag? How do we approach that symbol? I have so many memories of the American flag. Any number of flag ceremonies as a Girl Scout. Marching in Memorial Day parades in Evanston. Raising the flag over the governor’s summer residence on Mackinac Island in Michigan. Rushing to raise the flag over the high school as the presidential motorcade passed by. 4th of July in Grand Rapids, Michigan and the roaring of Stars and Stripes forever. All of the flags after 9/11.

Flag Day was always the last day of school. It was when the flag in front of the school was lowered for the last time of the year. It was very special with lots of pomp, then everyone rushed to Heather Downs pool for popsicles.

There is something thrilling about seeing an American flag and I have been known to tear up during the National Anthem or God Bless America. Even at a ball game.

And yet, I remember a conversation in the social hall of an Episcopal Church. I was leading a Brownie troop, and the rector, walked through during a flag ceremony. He pulled me aside and wondered what we are teaching our children and how the flag does not become an idol. It took me aback. He is right. If we only teach America right or wrong or if we don’t feel free to question, then we run into the same trap the Israelites did. We can have blind spots. We can be blindsided. The flag itself can be used as a symbol we never intended.

Reflection Four:
What about the US Flag and Jews. We proudly display the American flag and the Israeli flag in our building. We pulled them out from the walls especially for this service. Is there any tension between the two flags? Can we have allegiances to both? We are entitled to joint American and Israeli citizenship. Our group did not think that there should be tensions. We are loyal Americans and the question seems to be from another era. And yet, as someone pointed out, there is the case of Jonathan Pollard. And later in the day, a high school class mate of mine was questioning the Federal Reserve on Facebook. You know, it is all a conspiracy. You can fill in the blanks but those old charges still exist. For me, I love my t-shirt with the American flag, the one I didn’t wear. Keep America Beautiful. Plant a Tree, Be Kind to Nature, Conserve Energy, Volunteer. So that is how I choose to show my loyalty to America, whom I love. Having lived in other countries, there is no place better. Perfect. No. Best place on earth? You bet.

Reflection Five:
And so that beauty, that freedom, does need to be protected. Do I wish that we did not need a trained military? Sure. Do I pray every day for peace? Absolutely. Am I grateful for those who choose military service? You bet. So as part of our service, we thanked those who have served. We prayed for our country, its leaders and advisors. We memorialized those who gave the ultimate sacrifice, their lives, with a reading before Kaddish. And we wished a young man who has chosen to enter the Navy, safe voyages.  It was a full and rich morning.

Since I have been back from vacation, and even before I left I have been on a hospital tour of Chicagoland. I wouldn’t have guessed that it was possible to visit three families in three hospitals in three counties in one day. Make that four. Recently this is what I wrote to my congregants about why this is important: