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

I, too, am haunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This has implications today.

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

The list the congregation brainstormed included:

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

This becomes the social action agenda of the congregation.

It mirrored the list that I had derived:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How lovely are our tents….O America!

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

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

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

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

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

So on this birthday of America I pause.

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

I remember the promise of Micah.

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

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

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

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

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.