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.

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.