Sitting sipping my kosher for Passover, fair trade, Kenyan coffee from Starbucks seemed like a good time on this first day of the omer to think about my Kenyan project. First, I like the coffee. Dark but not too bitter. Just right.

I’ve been thinking about the use of Keurig pods. Thanks to Rosa Kramer Franck who posted this article http://qz.com/193138/the-worlds-growing-love-affair-with-the-most-wasteful-form-of-coffee-there-is/ I have learned how much the use of K-cups have grown and how wasteful and bad for the environment they have become.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my Keurigs. Yes, I have two. Both gifts. One at home and one in the office. It is nice to be able to offer a warm drink to someone who stops in to see me. My machines are easy to use. The coffee keeps better than opening a full bag. It is convenient. Not messy. I can provide lots of choices so everyone gets what they want. I can buy fair trade coffee from Green Mountain which is important to me.

We’ve tried recyclable keurig cups. They are messier and more time consuming. But for Passover that is exactly what we are using. And with practice we are getting better at it.

We have a commitment to use fair trade coffee. Why is this important? Truah, Rabbis for Human Rights has a good position paper on this: http://www.truah.org/images/stories/PDFs/hrs_teaching_fair_trade_principles.pdf

But for me, it is simple. Because as Jews, we are compelled to treat the widow, the orphan, the stranger with respect and dignity. Precisely because we were strangers in the land of Egypt. We were slaves in the land of Egypt. The big businesses that buy most of the United States supply of coffee and chocolate do not pay the farmers in the “Global South” a living wage. They treat them like slaves. So for years we have only been buying fair trade coffee. Either from Dean’s Beans, where you can check out their recent Fair Trade Audit: http://www.deansbeans.com/coffee/fair_trade_roadmap/audit.html  (Simon likes to roast their green beans. Come have a cup with him!). And by the way, Dean has now developed a ReCup! Or from Thanksgiving Coffee because they buy from a collective in Uganda of Jews, Christians and Muslims that is fair trade, kosher and organic called, “Delicious Peace” http://www.mirembekawomera.com/coffee.  Or frankly from Green Mountain or my beloved Starbucks.

In a similar vain because of the commandment repeated 36 times in Torah to support the widow, the orphan the stranger, we contribute to American Jewish World Service and Heifer International because they support micro financing for women. This is long before I applied to be an AJWS Global Fellow.

So what to do about the K-Cups? I think that at least for me, after Passover, I will continue to use our recyclable pods at home. I tend to only buy one kind of coffee for me anyway. All of the benefits of single pods, none of the waste and they are cheaper. It is the right thing to do. We are even saving the grinds now for our garden. It is the beginning of composting at the Kleins.

Back to my cup of Kenyan coffee.

This week there has been a lot of chatter of whether Christians hosting seders for themselves or Jews inviting non-Jews to seders or Jews helping churches to lead their own seders is a good idea or a bad idea. Here are two links:

http://sicutlocutusest.com/2014/04/11/no-christian-seders-please/

At first I thought I agreed with J. Mary Luti. And I even felt guilty for being complicit in helping churches, even some of her beloved United Church of Christ churches have a Passover seder. I agree. I don’t want my symbols reinterpreted into something they are not. I want to recognized as an authentic Jew, as an authentic religion. I don’t believe that Christianity superseded Judaism and I don’t hope that I will eventually “see the light.” I do understand that Judaism has continued to evolve and a seder today does not look much like a seder in Jesus’s day–or that of the rabbis of the Talmud.

Then I started thinking more. I was pleased when Rabbi Evan Moffic wrote this piece. seemingly in response:
http://www.religiondispatches.org/dispatches/guest_bloggers/7794/why_christians_should_have_a_passover_seder__a_rabbi_responds/

For me, having non-Jews at a seder, is something we have always done, as far back as I can remember. The Haggadah says clearly, “Let all who are hungry come and eat.” Growing up my father would invite lots of people from Northwestern where he was a professor and there were always non-Jews. In the 60s, there were lots of community seders. Opportunities for Jews and African-Americans to explore their common heritage of the Exodus and freedom from slavery.

In Grand Rapids, the pattern of inviting people , Jews and non-Jews, whomever did not have a place to go, continued (except the year he was in the hospital and we went to someone else’s house). In Grand Rapids, Good Friday was much more observed. Everything was quiet. Everything was closed. People either went to church (we did not) or stayed indoors from 12-3. In my family, we were painfully aware of how dangerous Good Friday had been for the Jews especially in Europe. We were always fearful that something like that could happen to us. It was ironic that my Bat Mitzvah was the Friday night of Passover–Good Friday.

Throughout my married life we have hosted seders in our home and led seders in any number of churches. There have always been non-Jews invited frequently members of the clergy, who are amongst my best friends. My father was never entirely comfortable with how open I was about my Jewishness. While he never denied his, and our home was open, he worried about my safety. I think that part of why I do as much interfaith dialogue work as I do is precisely from this fear.

If we are open and welcoming, then non-Jews come to know us on our terms, for who we are today, as real people. It takes some of the mystery and fear out of it. If G-d forbid there is an anti-Semitic incident in one of our towns, then we know who to call on and they show up. Fast. One year there was some graffiti spray painted on the synagogue in Lowell, just before Chanukah. We called the police, the ADL (standard) and I called the leaders of the Greater Lowell Interfaith Leadership Alliance. GLILA members showed up before the police got there. They were instrumental in rededicating the synagogue.

I would love to say that anti-Semitism doesn’t exist any more. I would love to say that we don’t need to be vigilant. The horrific events of this past week prove otherwise. I would love to think that it doesn’t happen here in Elgin. It does. There is not a student in our middle school program that doesn’t feel that he or she has been bullied, picked on, teased because he or she is Jewish. The local clergy council in McHenry is actively working on responding to an incident in one of the local schools.

Along the way, I have learned things about leading interfaith seders. They always enrich my own observance. When I can explain my faith, my practices, my celebrations to non-Jews, in language they can understand, it deepens my own celebration. The conversations are more meaningful. The casual exchanges over the meal itself are important.

This year was no exception. We had guests at our home seder from a noviate in Godfrey, IL. Catholics training to become priests from Zambia and India. They had never spent time with an American family. They had never met a Jew before they met Simon and me several weeks ago. We had an Episcopal priest and his partner. We had an attorney who had just returned from Tanzinia and an English professor who had taught there. We had Jews, non-Jews, blacks and whites, 16 of us in all.

At the synagogue community seder we had 65 people. We had Jews, people who were not born Jews but have converted, people in the process of converting for whom this was their first seder, people who were born in the congregation and people who just found us this year, non-Jews, the Lutheran pastor who bought our chametz and some of his congregation, people who found us on the internet, the police officer tasked with keeping the building safe.

Some longtime members were surprised to find non-Jews. They can’t remember other years where this had happened. They thought it was unique and meaningful to have visitors join us. One delighted in showing off the sanctuary and the Torahs after the seder ended. Perhaps previous spiritual leaders learned in the codes, as did I, the following Teshuvah in my codes class in rabbinical school:

There is a general prohibition against inviting non-Jews for Yom Tov meals, which is because of a decree, lest one cooks for him on Yom Tov (which is forbidden; see Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 512:1). However, in certain cases Chazal were lenient, for instance where he came uninvited. This is certainly true today for the night meal, which is never cooked after nightfall, and everything is ready in advance. In particular, one can be lenient for a non-Jew studying to become Jewish, as we find many matters for which we are lenient in such circumstances (see Minchas Yitzchak Vol. 3, no. 8). Another special leniency is for a housemaid etc. (Rema, Yoreh De’ah 113:4).

However, the Teshuvah concludes with this: “Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach also records that the custom of old was to invite non-Jewish dignitaries to the Pesach Seder; this was apparently important to promote good relations between the Jews and their non-Jewish neighbors or hosts (see Shulchan Shlomo, Yom Tov Vol. 1, p. 207, note 8).”

So yes, I will continue to invite non-Jews to our seders. And I will do it unapologetically. My hope is that it brings peace into the world. My hope is that it makes the world a better place. It makes my world better.

Have you ever made a snow angel or gone sledding down a hill? When the Chicago Board of Rabbis met recently for a study session prior to Passover, those were my definitions of freedom. Being totally in the moment. Laughing.

I didn’t think that we would experience freedom that way for Passover. This is a spring holiday. Then I heard the forecast. I bought the pansies anyway. This is a spring holiday. We had corrected the calendar by adding Adar II. We added the month of Adar. Then the flakes fell. I bought white tulips. Then the flakes really fell. We set the table. We got an inch and a half. It snowed through the entire evening.

Every time we read about spring in the Haggadah, we laughed, we joked. Dip the parsley in salt water to represent spring? Really? For lo the winter is past? Not so much. We drink four cups of wine to represent the four seasons? Maybe. Did we make snow angels? No. But we did take pictures on the deck. And we did make a snow woman wearing a talit and a kippah (an upside down pansy flower!) Maybe she was Miriam.

With freedom comes responsibility. Perhaps this snowfall is a reminder of climate change and our responsibility to be caretakers of the earth. We are partners with God in creation. If the goal is to create Jewish memories, this is one Passover we will never forget!

Today is Shabbat Hagadol, one of only two times a year where the rabbi would traditionally give a sermon. Today I am not. You will create it yourselves. Eventually. After you prepare. Because that is why the rabbi would give a sermon on Shabbat HaGadol, so that you would have all the knowledge, tools, abilities to prepare for Passover correctly. So you could find the chamatz in your house. So you could be ready for Passover. It can be physically demanding and technically complex. But what if it is not.

Based on the recent Torah portions, we’ve talked a lot in the last few weeks about being ready. Being ritually ready. In a state of ritual purity. Today’s Torah portion continues that theme. It is about how to purify the sanctuary after the death of Aaron’s sons (at first I wrote sins and maybe that was not a typo!) Later about the two goats of atonement for Yom Kippur. It is about all of the sexual sins. Who may sleep with whom. And who may not. Traditionally this portion is also read on Yom Kippur. Like many Reform and Conservative shuls we don’t read it here. We read the alternative reading, the Holiness Code. About the ways we should behave. About loving our neighbor, our friend as ourselves.

Already I have answered questions this year about how to prepare physically: how to kasher a keurig, a dishwasher and a stand mixer. Whether the bottled water is kosher. What about pine nuts and quinoa? What about kitinyot? It makes me feel like the wise child.  And these are indeed important questions. If there are more of those, I am happy to answer them. If I can’t there is this wonderful book 1001 Answers and Questions for Passover. See you are not alone.

Today we are going to prepare for Passover another way. Not by searching for chametz under the refrigerator (I’ll probably still do that tonight) but by searching for spiritual chametz, by preparing our hearts to leave the narrow places, to exit Egypt.

I, too, am a lifelong learner. I come by it naturally. My father’s definition of a Jew is someone who questions, thinks and argues. So what are the big questions of Passover? What are the questions that never get asked? Why is this day different from the others?

The first question I became aware of…when do we eat? We have solved in our house by adding a platter of vegetables after karpas, the parsley, and letting people nosh during the rest of the service. I thought this was brilliant all on its own. A modern day solution. But in reading Sacred Trash, I learned, it was common in the 2^nd Century and spelled out in one of the Haggadot that were unearthed in the Cairo Geniza.

The second question of my year, sitting at the Chicago Board of Rabbis meeting I heard a verse we all know with new ears: “So the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror and with signs and wonders.” Deuteronomy 26. I had always heard the translation “awesome power.” What, then, is the difference between awesome power and great terror? What were the implications for the Israelites? What about us today?

The third question ties in nicely with today’s Torah portion. Why is there charoset on the seder plate? Think about it. We tell the kids it is to represent the mortar or the bricks that the Israelites used to build the pyramids. But other than using it for the Hillel sandwich, traditionally we don’t tell the meaning of the charoset at the seder itself. Why? Rabbi Arthur Waskow has an interesting answer….perhaps you caught it on Huffington Post this week. He describes it as the R-rated answer. We’ve explained the oral tradition (How fitting for something that tastes so delicious, he adds). He says that charoset is a full-bodied, full tongued, “Kisses sweeter than wine” taste of mouth. At first I thought he was dating himself with the reference to the song. But that song is even older than the Weavers song. It goes back to the Song of Songs which we read next Shabbat and is precisely his point. Song of Songs, that most racy of Biblical books, provides the recipe for charoset. Here are his proof texts from the Song:

“Feed me with apples and with raisin-cakes”
“Your kisses are sweeter than wine.”
“The scent of your breath is like apricots”
“Your cheeks are a bed of spices”
“The fig tree has ripened”

He concludes that Passover is about freedom. Included in that freedom to love. He gives a recipe, well sort of a recipe. Because he says that love is freeform and that the book itself says, “Do not stir up love until it pleases.” Keep urges us to keep tasting the charoset until it pleases. Or makes us giddy. That’s the idea. Love and freedom should make us giddy. So enjoy. Don’t worry about the chamatz so much. This is about freedom. For me this was a thrilling midrash. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rabbi-arthur-waskow/innermost-secret-of-passover-seder-charoset_b_5111719.html

The fourth question came from attending the Chicago Board of Rabbis meeting. Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg who was at Tufts Hillel and then Northwestern, is now working for Hillel International. They have a project called, askbigquestions.org. They distinguish between big questions and hard questions and they are ways to engage students on campus and the rest of us in ways that are meaningful. Hard questions require real knowledge and emphasize intelligence. They are best answered by experts. They might use technical language. They can be directed at an object. They close space and lead people to feel like spectators. The answers can be debated, argued. They lead to an either/or approach. Big questions are ones anyone can answer. They focus on wisdom and experience. They use plain language. They invite personal story telling. So in order to really prepare for Passover. To really feel as those we are each exiting Egypt, standing at the shores of the Sea of Reeds, wandering in the desert and standing at Sinai, we are going to ask the Big Questions. Divide yourselves into four groups.

Here are the questions:

When have you not been free?
When have you become free?
What are you thankful for?
For whom are you responsible?

And like there is a fifth cup of wine…there is a fifth question.
What now?

http://askbigquestions.org/sites/default/files/conversation_guides/Are%20we%20free-%20Ask%20Big%20Qs%20guide.pdf

QUESTION 1: WHEN HAVE YOU NOT BEEN FREE?

The traditional Haggadah offers several ways of thinking about what it means not to be free. “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt” is one way. “Our ancestors worshipped idols” is another. “An Aramean sought to destroy my father” is a third. In the first approach, the lack of freedom can be understood mainly as political: a slave isn’t free to make his/her own decisions, to own property, to live the way they want. In the second approach, the lack of freedom comes in not having spiritual freedom, of living in the service of false ideals. In the third, an outside oppressive force causes a loss of freedom.

Below are some images that reflect each of these approaches. Take a look at them and take some time to reflect on them. As you do, consider a couple of questions:

• Is there a difference between these different approaches to understanding a lack of freedom?
• When in your own life have you not been free? Does it follow any of these approaches?

QUESTION 2: WHEN HAVE YOU BECOME FREE?

The Haggadah tells the story of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt using the following passage from the book of Deuteronomy (ch. 26):

5 My ancestor was a wandering Aramean. He went down into Egypt with a few people and lived there and became a great nation, powerful and numerous.
6 But the Egyptians mistreated us and made us suffer, subjecting us to harsh labor.
7 Then we cried out to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our voice and saw our misery, toil and oppression.  8 So the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror and with signs and wonders.
9 The Lord brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.

As you read this passage, here are some questions to consider:

• Why do verses 6 and 7 use several words to describe what the Egyptians did to the Israelites?
• In verse 8, why are there multiple words used to describe what God did for the people to liberate them?
• Why is verse 9 a part of the story? Would it be enough to conclude with verse 8?
• Have you ever been set free, or freed someone else? How did it happen?

QUESTION 3: WHAT ARE YOU THANKFUL FOR?

When the ancient Israelites realized they were free, the Torah recounts that they sang out by the shores of the Red Sea. Since that time, Jewish tradition has made singing a basic way of showing gratitude for freedom. In more recent times, singer- songwriter Natalie Merchant created a song called Kind and Generous. (You can listen to the song and see the video at alturl.com/7tpjg.] Here are some of the lyrics:

You’ve been so kind and generous
I don’t know why you keep on giving
For your kindness I’m in debt to you
For your selflessness—my admiration
For everything you’ve done
You know I’m bound—I’m bound to thank you for it

You’ve been so kind and generous
I don’t know why you keep on giving
For your kindness I’m in debt to you
And I never could have gone this far without you For everything you’ve done
You know I’m bound—I’m bound to thank you for it

Oh I want to thank you for so many gifts
You gave me love and tenderness
I want to thank you
I want to thank you for your generosity,
The love, and the honesty that you gave to me I want to thank you, show my gratitude,
My love and my respect for you
I want to thank you

Oh, I want to thank you, thank you, Thank you, thank you…

Lots of thank-yous! As you listen to the song, here are some questions to think about:

• What do you think Natalie Merchant is so thankful for?
• What do you think she means when she sings, “For your kindness I’m in debt to you / And I never could have gone this far without you / For everything you’ve done / You know I’m bound–I’m bound to thank you for it”? Why is she in debt? Why is  she bound? Who is she bound to?
• Have you ever experienced gratitude on this level?
• What are you thankful for right now? To whom are you grateful for your freedom?

QUESTION 4: FOR WHOM ARE WE RESPONSIBLE?

The seder doesn’t end with the meal. It ultimately takes us from looking at our own enslavement and liberation to expressing thanks and looking outward. By the end of the seder, we should be asking this fourth question: For whom are we responsible? How do we act on our freedom and bring freedom to the lives of others?

Below is a story by Rabbi Herbert Friedman, an American Reform rabbi who died in 2008. Friedman grew up during the Great Depression. His family was poor. One night, his mother attended a meeting of her synagogue sisterhood, where a representative of the U.S. National Refugee Service made an urgent plea for Jewish families to “take into their homes German-Jewish children whose parents were willing to let them emigrate to the United States, not knowing if they would ever see those children again.” Here is the rest of the story:

Of the more than 100 women assembled, all mothers, no more than a dozen raised their hand. My mother stood and announced that she would take three children. God has been good to her, she said, giving her three healthy sons; this was her opportunity to repay. She added without embarrassment that her family was living in a small apartment, with only two bedrooms, because their house had been foreclosed by the bank during the Depression. Hence, she could take only boys, who could sleep mixed in with her sons.

Mother came home with the affidavit forms, placed them under my father’s nose at the kitchen table, and told him of her commitment. Signing the forms, as far as she was concerned, was only a formality. He saw it differently, because of the legal obligations his signature would impose… He could not envision for an instant how they could handle the additional expense of food, clothing, school, etc., for three more persons.

My mother answered him quietly, but with great passion. Even though we were poor, how could we refuse to save Jewish lives if we were given the chance to do so? She was ashamed of the other sisterhood members. All of them should have volunteered, and she would not hesitate to tell them so at the next meeting. “If we have enough food for five of us,” she asked, “why can’t we simply make it enough for eight?” If I must wash shirts for six boys instead of three, what’s the difference?”…

The parental argument raged all night—the only time I remember my parents raising their voices in anger and disagreement. She won. In the morning, my father signed the affidavits, and she proudly took them back to the sy nagogue.

As I mulled over the matter, I decided that my mother’s fight with my father symbolized the whole problem, and the only conclusion was therefore to act according to moral Jewish values, without permitting rationalization, delay, or any other diluting factor. “When history knocks, you answer.”

~ Quoted in Noam Zion and Barbara Specter, A Different Light (2000), pp. 79-80

As you reflect on this story, here are some questions to consider:

• How do the characters in this story understand whose freedom they are responsible for?
• How do they act on their sense of responsibility?
• Are there people they feel more responsible for than others? How do they prioritize? If you were in the same situation, would you do the same?
• How do you decide for whom you are responsible?

A FIFTH QUESTION: WHAT NOW?

The seder is the longest-running symposium on the meaning of freedom in history. For over 2,000 years, families, neighbors, and groups of citizens have gathered together for this uniquely Jewish exploration of universally human questions. The experience of the seder (like much of our learning) should help us achieve a sense of gratitude for what we have, a wider feeling of responsibility for others, and a commitment to act on those sentiments. As we conclude this conversation, here are some final questions to consider:

• Has this experience helped you come to any new insights about your own freedom?
• Has it helped you feel a deeper or wider sense of responsibility?
• What is one thing you want to do in the next 24 hours to act on something you discovered in this conversation?
• What could we do together to improve our community based on what we’ve talked about here?

Every year I take on a project during the 50 days between Passover and Shavuot. Some years it is really basic: remember to buckle your seatbelt every time you get in the car. Some years it is more difficult: sort a box of paper in the basement. One year it was actually “Kiss Simon every day.”

Since I will be going to Kenya this summer with American Jewish World Service as one of 18 Global Justice Rabbinic Fellows, I realized how little I know about Africa. I didn’t even know what language they use in Kenya. (It’s Swahili! duh!) In order to prepare for this trip, in this season of preparation, I will undertake one of my most complex projects for Omer ever.

Every day I will learn something new to me about Africa. Here’s where you can help. Become my clipping service. If you see something about Africa, especially Kenya forward it to me. If you think there is a book I should read, tell me. If you, yourself spent time in Africa, come join me for coffee. I bought Kenyan, fair trade Kosher for Passover whole bean coffee at Starbucks!  Our seder will feature some Kenyan and other African food, like Moroccan carrots in addition to the usual ones. Several of the guests live in Africa or have taught in Africa or have just come back from a safari.

During the seven weeks I will read seven books (starting now!) about Africa. My current list includes:

I started this sermon a couple of different ways. But let’s do it the most traditional way. Let’s look at the text. Leviticus 14:8 says, “The one who is to be cleansed must wash his clothes, shave off all his hair, and bathe with water; he is clean. Afterward he may enter the camp, but he must remain outside his tent for seven days.” Last week we also talked about purity and impurity, being ready and not yet ready. We learned amongst other things the baldness is not a sign of impurity. Good to know. My father, balding, used to say that bald is a four-letter word. The correct term is sparse. And many people are uncomfortable with it, try to avoid it, go through treatments to prevent it. Traditionally Jewish men are prohibited from shaving their beards, so what is going on here? Why the need to shave in order to be pure, to be ritually ready, to resume your place in the community?

An interesting discussion ensued. Maybe it is like when a baby is born with no hair, this is like being reborn. And this is why Torah discussions are so important. They create holy moments!

What if you chose to be bald? A young girl in Colorado also recently shaved her head to support a friend battling cancer and losing her own hair because of the chemotherapy treatments. That decision caused her to be suspended from her school which has a policy of no shaved head. Kamryn Renfro told the Today Show yesterday, “I was pretty sad that they didn’t let me go to school. I was feeling that I was punished.” The school after much public outcry and an emergency school board meeting relented and let Kamryn back into school. She illustrated the mitzvah of “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

That is precisely what happened this week. 73 rabbis, in Chicago for the Central Conference of American Rabbis chose to “Shave for the Brave.” To go bald to support children undergoing cancer treatments who are being so very brave and to support pediatric cancer research. Never did they think their actions would have been so inspiring. Yet they raised over 570,000 for cancer research. I am proud of them because their actions speak louder than words. They brought comfort, caring, and real tachlis attention and organizing to real problem. They fulfilled the mitzvah, “Do not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds.” They may have even saved a life.

And while these are both feel good stories, what do they have to do with this week’s Torah portion which focuses on purity again. Last week I spent a lot of time talking about the mikveh as a way to be spiritually ready. Again, picking up on what was said, coming out the mikveh is like being reborn.

As I have said before, I don’t ask members of my congregation to do anything that I am not willing to do as well. One of the spiritually transformative things in my life is water. It can be Lake Michigan, either side. It can be Walden Pond. It can be the coast of Maine.

Or, it can be a mikveh. So after talking about it last week and knowing that is a part of my traditional Passover preparations, to rid myself of spiritual chamatz, it was time to go again. Yesterday morning was the appointed hour. Now in order to be ready to enter the mikveh there are seven preparatory steps, matching the seven steps that lead into the water. For me, this is a chance to slow down, think deeply and sigh audibly.

My preparations began at dawn. I chose to do most of the preparations at home. It gave me the opportunity to listen to “mikveh music”. Yes, I have an entire playlist of it. And it gave me the opportunity to write.

One of my insights was about hair. There can be no barriers between you and the water. No clothing, no jewelry, no bandaids, glasses, hearing aids. Even nail polish comes off. You shower or bathe. Even a single strand of loose hair is a barrier. A separation between you and the Divine. An imperfection. An impurity.

A single strand of loose hair is a very fine line. Think about it. Touch your own hair. A single strand of loose hair can be the difference between being tameh, ritually not ready and tameh, ritually ready, pure.

But what is this really about? Why did they have to shave their hair? More holy moments. Maybe it is because hair hides the impurities or itself is impure. Or maybe hair is really dead cells so somehow it is connected with death itself.

The rabbis of the Talmud teach that the impurities discussed in this week’s Torah portion are really about impurity of speech. They draw a connection between the leper and the sinner, between the physically marginalized and morally culpable. They resort to a play on words, metozra, the leper is like motzi shem ra, one who slanders another. And they use Miriam in Numbers Chapter 12 as their prooftext. Miriam is seemingly punished after she speaks evil of her brother for marrying the Cushite woman (stay tuned, that will be part of the Fast of the First Born study session!) She was punished with leprosy, whatever that is, and put outside the camp. But something remarkable happens. Moses, the very one she slanders, prays to G-d for her healing. El na, refana la. Four words. Very simple. Please G-d, heal her. Sing it with me.  And she was healed.

It can be a very fine line between lashon hara, evil speech and lashon hatov, good speech. Lord Rabbi Sacks’ D’var Torah this week was about that. There is power in speech. Evil speech can hurt for a long, long time making it difficult to heal. Good speech, praise, can help build up people and create leaders. What I realized while thinking about that tiny strand of hair, is that when I slip over to lashon hara, when I yell at Simon or Sarah (and I sometimes do) or when I say something mean about someone who aggravates me (and they sometimes do), it is when I am out of balance.

Ultimately I think that is what this complex recipe for achieving purity, for removing imperfections, for removing a single strand of hair, is about achieving balance.

The sooner we return to balance, to equilibrium, the sooner we find the strand of hair the easier it is to fix. The Talmud teaches that the kiss of death, the most gentle form of death, the one that Aaron, Miriam and Moses each experienced is so gentle it is like removing a hair from a glass of milk. (Berachot 8a)

Still thinking about strands of hairs and cracks in walls, I was reminded of the story of a king.  This king once had a prized jewel, a perfect diamond. So perfect, so beautiful, he kept it under wraps and locked away. One day it would be part of his royal crown but not yet. Not until the setting could be achieved with equal perfection. Every morning he arose and would carefully unwrap the precious treasure to make sure it was still perfect. One morning the king awoke, and in his morning ritual to check the perfection that glinted from every luminous facet, he found a single think crack descending down one facet. His precious diamond was ruined. It was no longer perfect.

He called in all the best jewelers of the entire kingdom, hoping someone could fix it. Nothing could be done. The crack was so deep that any effort to remove it would make it worse. But one craftsman, from a neighboring kingdom thought he could save the diamond. The king laughed. Everyone else said it was not possible. How could this simple man hope to save it? However, seeing that there was nothing else that could be done, nothing else that could be lost, the king said that the jeweler could spend a single night with the diamond. If he succeeded in fixing the diamond, there would be a great reward. If not, he would be put to death.

The jeweler took the diamond and locked in his room, examined the diamond carefully. It was beautiful, sparkling like the fire of the sun on the surface of the water. But the crack, even though as thin as hair, could not be removed without destroying the diamond further. What could he do? He worked all night and emerged in the morning with the diamond and a look of triumph on his face. The entire royal court, the king, the queen, the ministers, even the jester, gasped. The scratch had not been removed. Instead it had become the stem of a beautiful rose, etched into the diamond, making the diamond even more unique and beautiful. The king embraced the simple jeweler. “Now I have my crown jewel. The diamond was magnificent until now. The best. The most perfect. But it was no different than the other stones. Now I have a unique treasure.”

This is true in our lives too. What we learn from this story is that we cannot just remove imperfections. We need to learn to incorporate them into our own lives. We need to integrate them. We tend to shun the lepers, put them outside the camp. And yet, we are taught that all human beings are created in the image of G-d. If we take this teaching to heart, we need to be the warm and welcoming community we talk about. We need to welcome the marginalized into our community. That is part of what Passover is about. Let all who are hungry come and eat. 36 times in the Torah, more than any other commandment it tells us to welcome the orphan, the widow the stranger, the marginalized because we were slaves in Egypt, so we remember what being marginalized is like.

Once a leper is cured and once that person becomes purified, he or she is welcomed back the community with all the privileges of social acceptance. Shimon be Azzai said, “Do not disdain any person or underrate the importance of anyone, for there is no person who does not have his hour and there is no thing without its place in the sun. (Avot 4:3). There are people in our midst we treat as lepers. Modern day lepers. Who are they? People who are tragically marginalized. People with physical deformities. People with mental illness. People who are different from us. Immigrants. Other categories that we could brainstorm at Kiddush. Since we all like the diamond, have cracks and imperfections, it is time to incorporate those into our lives and welcome those lepers back into the camp. That is exactly what the young girl who shaved her head did for her friend and exactly what the 73 rabbis who shaved for the brave did. Now how do we do it here? By using our speech for good and not for evil, to build people up. And maybe our actions speak even louder than our words.

“Rabbi, it’s weird that you run.”
“Why?” “It just is.”
I was surprised by this and told her that it was my rabbi when I was about her age, Rabbi Albert M. Lewis, who first took me to the track and taught me that I could run. It was Rabbi Dick Israel, z’l who kept me running through several Boston Marathons.  There are so many rabbis-in-training at the Academy for Jewish Religion that run we have joked that we should start a marathon team! Each of those rabbis run for different reasons, no doubt,

When I was in college the movie “Chariots of Fire” was released. The Sh’ma can be sung to the theme song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RY3XiM7oGj0. Try it. Singing this kept me going through many miles. So did a song they sing at Catholic Masses based on Isaiah. “You shall run and not be weary. You shall walk and not faint.”  (Isaiah 40:31)

Running increased my endorphins. And kept me healthy. And deepened my spirituality. Then I stopped. Why? I am not sure. I grew uncomfortable with my body, like many women. I broke a leg and that ended my serious training. I had a kid (though she is not to blame, sir). I had a successful business. I was commuting to New York for rabbinical school while working full time, raising a child, being a wife and being active in a congregation and as a Girl Scout leader. I had no time. I had a serious car accident that that ended any serious dream of returning. All of those are excuses.

Ultimately, I no longer thought I could do it. Running, as a coach explained to me this week, is 90% mental. That is especially true for long distance running.

Here is what I have learned since I am back. I CAN do it. I can be mentally tough (although at the moment I struggle with Mile 2 to Mile 3). It does augment what I am doing at Weight Watchers. It helps me sleep better (unless I overdo!). It helps my blood sugar numbers and my mood. It gives me something to do outside of my synagogue life and sometimes, if the weather is good, outside. It role models something important (although there are days I am not sure what). I have rejoined the running community. And there is a running community. Never was that more obvious than in the immediate aftermath of last year’s Boston Marathon bombing. Or when Mayyim Hayyim announced it was putting together a ritual for Jewish runners of the Boston Marathon.

For me, as a rabbi, there is something else. There is a deep connection to spirituality. To G-d. This is how I become one with G-d. I think there is something about running, like mikveh, that is a whole body experience. So much of what I do, like writing this blog, is in my head. Running gets me out of that mode.

These days it is also an opportunity to give back. My first race back was the Disney Princess Half Marathon. My daughter and I raised over $5200 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society to help save lives and had fun (most of the time) while doing it. My next race is for the Gail Borden Public Library. We Jews are, after all, People of the Book.

This 10 year old, had just gotten her hair cut. I told her that running isn’t weird for rabbis. What is weird, and totally special and awesome, was the 50 rabbis were going to shave their heads–even the women rabbis. That day is today. It is not something I think I could do and I don’t think I am particularly vain. One rabbi to help make this transition easier for her immersed at Mayyim Hayyim. The rabbis are here in Chicago for the Central Conference of American Rabbis national convention.

Why are they doing this brave thing? Because earlier this year, a little boy, Sammy, Superman Sam, lost his battle with Leukemia. Before that he lost his hair. His mother, a rabbi in Chicago, wrote a blog about the experience. http://supermansamuel.blogspot.com. Many of us followed the family’s painful (does that even begin to describe it?) journey. We talked recently about Aaron’s silence. Rabbi Phyllis Sommer has handled her grief with grace (although I am sure there were tears and screams and silence) and by writing powerfully about it, by not keeping silent.

The 10 year old did not think shaving a head was weird at all. “That’s cool,” she said, “But running for a rabbi is still weird.”

So this is what I learned this week. Rabbis make a difference in the world. Having whole body experiences, immersing in a mikveh, shaving a head, running a race are important to spirituality. Like much of Judaism there are many choices about how to express that whole body experience and different people have different ways and different needs. Some may be weird and some may be cool. Consider making a donation to the 36+ Rabbis who Shave for the Brave. I just did.

Here is a bottle of Purity from the Hampton Inn. What’s in it? Shampoo. I saved it for a moment like this. I wish that it just came out of a bottle. That would be easy.

Today’s Torah portion is one of those complicated ones and it feels so dated. When I was a kid sitting at Temple Emanuel in Grand Rapids, we would read a responsive reading from Psalms. Every week we said, “Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord and who may stand in G-d holy Temple?  Only those with clean hands and a pure heart.” And I knew that wasn’t me, that couldn’t possibly be me. My mother was always saying, “Wash your hands.” So clean hands, not so much. How did clean hands and pure heart get linked?

What is purity? Freedom from contamination. Cleanness, clearness, clarity, freshness, healthiness. As someone in the congregation pointed out, the ads for “Pure Michigan” And if you watch those ads you will see water prominently featured.  Pure is something not mixed with anything else, pure gold, not an alloy. Or Ivory soap, 99.44% pure. And as someone quickly pointed out. But not 100%. And that is exactly the point. Once we are not 100% pure, and none of us are, then what? Pure is free from harshness or roughness or being in tune, like a musical note, a pure note. Pure is free from what weakens or pollutes. Or free from moral fault or guilt. Ritually clean. Back to cleanliness is next to Godliness.

We know this…particularly at this season of spring cleaning, of Passover cleaning. We borrowed it from the Puritans. Please note their name. Puritans! Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

And this has been inculcated in the culture. A few weeks ago we celebrated scout Shabbat. Now I am a third generation scout, making Sarah a fourth and my granddaughters, fifth. We’ve been doing this for a long time. The Girl Scout law has had many versions. 1912: “A Girl Scout Keeps Herself Pure.” In 1920 it was “A Girl Scout is Clean in Thought, Word and Deed.” The current one is to “show respect for myself and others through my words and actions.” There seems to be a connection between purity and cleanliness, between words and actions.

We know this. Think about the song we sang all the way back in the beginning of the service. Elohai neshoma sh’natata bi t’horahi. “The soul which You have given me is pure.” This is one of the things that separates us from Christians who think that because of Adam and Eve we are all born with what they call Original Sin. There is something holy, profound, pure about breath itself. Later we sing, Kol haneshama t’halal yah. Let every breath of life praise G-d. And then almost immediately, Nishmat kol chai.

So life and breath in its very basic form is pure. Then what goes wrong?

What are the things that make us not pure?  I think that they are things that cut us off from the Divine. I think it is about behavior. About not following G-d’s commandments, mitzvot, or even that Girl Scout law. Behavior that is not righteous, is not correct, is not proper, the real meaning of kosher.

Then there are the things in our parsha. Things that erupt from us—blood, rashes, semen, puss—that seem to be against the normal flow.

Tameh and tahor are often translated impure and pure, unclean and clean, unfit and fit. Many women get upset by this language. If we call a woman who is menstruating or who just had a baby unclean, it is not a big jump to call her dirty. And since we have dropped the requirement for men to immerse after an emission, why this seemingly unequal burden on women. Some suggest misogyny. Some suggest that it was the men who wrote the rules. I would suggest fear—blood, other fluids, the source of life spilling out.

How do we become pure again? Three ways. The priest offers a sacrifice for us. We don’t do that any more. We separate ourselves from the community until we heal. We don’t have a formal process for that, although some people do it intuitively. And we can immerse in water. Either in a natural body of spring fed water or in a mikveh, a Jewish ritual bath.

Let me suggest another translation or tameh and tahor, one I learned at Mayyim Hayyim, the community mikveh and education center in Boston. Ritually unready and ritually ready. Ready for what? Ready to approach the Divine. Ready to reconnect. Ready to come close.

So what does this have to do with us? We don’t have sacrifice (thank G-d). We don’t put women outside the camp in some kind of Red Tent. We don’t cut ourselves off from community when we feel a need to become pure. How do we do this? Do we need to do this at all.

At Mayyim Hayyim where I was a mikveh guide and educator, and a staff person briefly, we talk about this connection. There is no magic in the water, and yet people come out changed. It changes your status from impure to pure, from non-Jewish to Jewish, from ritually unready to ritually ready. There are three remaining commanded reasons for mikveh—becoming Jewish, becoming a bride and after a woman menstruates. Mayyim Hayyim has successfully developed other uses for the mikveh. Before chemotherapy, after chemotherapy, after tamoxifin, after divorce, before Bar or Bat Mitzvah, after sexual abuse, for a milestone birthday. They have revitalized some uses like in the 9^th month of pregnancy, before a major Jewish holiday, before Shabbat. I suspect the list would be limitlessness. So if there is no magic in the water, what is this about? Why does this work?

There was a good discussion. Someone said that when she does a lot of gardening, she loves taking a shower because she washes off layers and layers of dirt. “You feel so good when you come out.” And while you go into the mikveh clean, since you shower or bathe first, it does feel good. 95 degree water, softer than in my house in Chelmsford or South Elgin. My skin always feels better! Someone added that what she was trying to explain is being “reborn”.

I think it is because it is a whole body experience with nothing that separates us from the Divine. Not clothing, not jewelry, not bandaids, not even nail polish. No barriers. I think part of why Mayyim Hayyim works, why immersing fully in water with no barriers between you and G-d is that there is a strong connection between the spiritual and physical.  Many describe this experience of being in womb and being reborn, returning to that sense that the soul is pure. Coming out clean, pure, ritually ready. Able to continue or go on. Able to connect.

Mayyim Hayyim does a lot right. From the moment you walk through their gates there is a sense of warm and welcoming, of beauty, of calm. You have a sense that whatever burden you have, you will be taken care of. If you have joys to celebrate, they will celebrate with you. If you are going through a difficult time, they will cry with you, or create a ritual, a ceremony with you that is meaningful to you. Or they will just give you the non-judgmental space you need, a broad smile and a warm hug.

Shortly after Mayyim Hayyim opened almost 10 years ago, just such a thing happened After years of struggling with psoriasis, someone found a cure. He wanted to immerse, to celebrate his newfound wellness. His rabbi in Detroit had linked the painful disease with tzaarat that we read about in the Torah, in this very parsha Often translated as leprosy, maybe psoriasis is closer. The ritual team created a liturgy that included a prayer of gratitude:

“In gratitude I come today to celebrate the blessings in my life. I honor those who have helped me along the way and give thanks for their supportive presence. As I prepare to immerse in the waters of the mikveh, I appreciate the journey that has brought me to this moment.” Immersion Ceremony for Gratitude.

How does this connect to these parshiyot?  As Mayyim Hayyim said about this parsha, “Tzara’at is the physical manifestation of a spiritual disease.  Fittingly, a spiritual yet physical disease comes to its close when you enter a physical yet immensely spiritual place, the mikveh.”

While it can be hard to see the connection between the various strands in this parsha—they all have to do with life and death and culminate in immersion. Why would birth and the recovery from a repugnant disease be marked the same way—with immersion? What is the connection between niddah and brit milah, between menstruating and circumcision? Again, Mayyim Hayyim helps us by teaching “Rabbi Yosef Bechor Shor (12th century France) suggests that the menstrual blood that women monitor in observing niddah functions for them as covenantal blood, parallel to the blood of circumcision.” Is it possible then, that perhaps they are not that repugnant after all.

Today we also read Chapter 12 of Exodus as we continue to get ready for Passover. Rav Kook writes that we only achieve true redemption and freedom on Passover through removing all boundaries, everything that impedes, all the chametz (leaven) in our lives.  Some people have the tradition of immersing in the mikveh before Passover. How can immersing in the mikveh as a way of cleansing ourselves from spiritual chametz make our Passover more meaningful, more redemptive? I suspect it is not cleaning under the refrigerator. That’s schutz, not chamatz!

The end of the Psalm 24 with which I started with is important. It had been truncated at Temple Emanuel. It ends by saying “Such are the people that seek G-d, who long for G-d’s presence” That is the function of the mikveh, of removing things that are tameh, ritually not ready.  That we are doing here today, becoming ritually ready, becoming pure, by our prayers, by our deeds, by our thoughts.

In this holy place, let’s take it a step further. Let’s learn from Mayyim Hayyim and make this a safe, non-judgmental space. How do we do that? Some people have a tradition of a Shabbat box. When they come home on Friday afternoon, they leave their keys, their cell phones, their money in a box on the counter, to be picked up again after sundown on Saturday.

What if we have a Shabbat box here? Not for keys and cellphones—although we could do that too. What if, like at Mayyim Hayyim, we suspend our judgment when we walk through the door. Here we embrace diversity. Some are Orthodox. Some are Reform. Some are intermarried. Some are not. Some stand for Kaddish, some sit. Some seek silence, some sing out loud. Some sit with family, some sit alone. Some shuckle, some dance, some stand up straight. All of these ways to daven are within normative Judaism. All of us are Jews. Just Jews.  All are trying to do the same thing—connect with the Divine, find that sense of purity, or wholeness, of peace.

So we are living out this Psalm. “Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord and who may stand in G-d holy Temple? Only those with clean hands and a pure heart.” Seeking the Lord in the spirit of holiness, purity. As such, that is our reward. Together—if we create this non-judgmental, safe space. Come let us ascend the mountain of the Lord! For me, I’ll jump into the water. I may bring that bottle of shampoo with me. It is a kind of hide and seek game as the Psalm suggests. Ready or not here I come!

So I wrote this before the article came out in the Boston Globe this weekend about Mayyim Hayyim, celebrating its 10^th anniversary. Kol hakavod Mayyim Hayyim, you have made a lasting difference in the Jewish community. Not only in Detroit, Australia, Israel as your article suggests but in this Jew now in Chicagoland. http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/regionals/west/2014/03/29/after-years-mikveh-newton-embracing-new-rituals/p0NyW0clopYzCrxXqteNXI/story.html

Happy Birthday!

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
–Simon and Garfunkel

 This Simon and Garfunkel song was the first poem I analyzed. When I was still a student in Evanston. What does the sound of silence mean? Isn’t that a contradiction? I won’t ask my congregation to do anything I am not willing to do myself. And maybe my friend the Rev. David Ferner is right—we always preach the sermon that we ourselves need to hear. This is one of those mornings.

 This morning we are going to read one of the most difficult portions of the entire Torah. This is the portion that includes the death of Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu. Let’s look at it.

“And Nadav and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, took each of them his censer, and put fire therein, and laid incense thereon, and offered strange fire before the LORD, which He had not commanded them. And there came forth fire from before the LORD, and devoured them, and they died before the LORD. Then Moses said unto Aaron: ‘”This is it that the LORD spoke, saying: Through them that are nigh unto Me I will be sanctified, and before all the people I will be glorified.’ And Aaron was silent.” (Leviticus 10:1-4)

What is going on here? What is strange fire? Do other translations help—alien fire, idolatrous fire? What about the phrase that this was something that G-d had not commanded? Is this something over and above what G-d wanted, demanded, commanded? Something over the top? Were they being narcissistic, thinking they were above the law and they knew best? Were they being passive aggressive as one member suggested?

What about the punishment. Fire from G-d? Struck by lightening? G-d devouring them—consuming, eating them, what does that mean? As one member pointed out, we should not be surprised by this. In the previous chapter, G-d seems to eat the sacrifice Aaron has prepared. G-d maybe kind and compassionate, but G-d also seems to have His own anger management issue. So watch out. Do exactly what G-d says or watch out!

What is the role of Moses here? How is he like Job’s friends? Does he jump in immediately? Too quickly? Does his explanation ring true—“It is G-d’s will. They are with G-d now. G-d is sanctified, made holy because they are close to G-d.” if you had been Moses, how might you have responded?

And my real question. What about Aaron’s response? Aaron is silent. Aaron kept his peace. We are told he is the only one in the Torah who was silent. What would your response be to, G-d forbid, the death of a child? To Moses trying to comfort you?

Let’s talk about silence. Have there been times in your life when you have been stuck silent? What emotions were contained in the silence?

There is that old adage, “Silence is golden.” I have a t-shirt we bought for my mother that says “Silence is golden but duct tape is silver.” There are times when we might wish we could duct tape someone’s mouth. We can probably all remember our mothers saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Maybe that ideal came from Eishet Chayill, A Woman of Valor in Proverbs, “She opens her mouth with wisdom and the law of kindness is on her tongue.” For me, still working on that one!

It seems Judaism puts a premium on silence. We learn from Psalms, “Silence is praise to You” (62:2). From the Talmud: “Words are worth a perutah, silence is worth two” (Tractate Megillah) and “What should a man’s pursuit be in this world? He should be silent” (Chullin 89a). From the mystical tradition: “Silence is the means of building the sanctuary above [the godhead] and the sanctuary below [the soul]” (Zohar 2a). “It is often more effective to fast with words than with food. As fast of words, a struggle with silence, can teach us how often we misuse words” (Vilna Gaon). The Maggid, the disciple of the Baal Shem Tov, declared “It is best to serve God by silence.” So is Aaron’s silence an example of his deep faith?

For many of us, in a world we never turn our electronics off and CNN is blaring in the background, silence makes us uncomfortable. I am not very good at silence.

And sometimes we shouldn’t be silent. Just last week at Purim, we read that Esther was not silent. The artwork in the front hall that we put up specifically to tie in with Purim says, :”For the sake of Jerusalem I will not be silent.” (Isaiah 62:1) So when should we be silent?

Back to our text. In times of terrible tragedy, the natural response seems to be to cry out in grief and anguish. Just think about recent images of grieving families in China and Malaysia—or families in Newtown, Connecticut after the horrific shooting at Sandy Hook. However, as we know, people respond to grief in many ways—some cry, some withdraw, some tell stories, some channel their energy into cooking, some write, some laugh.  We read a Psalm this morning for the dedication of the Temple, praising G-d for turning the Psalmists’ mourning into dancing, his tears into joy. That takes time.  Dancing can be a sign of joy but it can also be an expression of grief.

Aaron was silent. How profound his grief must have been! How hurt! How amazed! How shocked. How confused? He just witnessed this inexplicable event. What had his sons done to cause this? What had they done that he hadn’t done. Remember this was a brand new rite. Had they gotten caught up in the moment? Why was he still here and not them? Survivor’s guilt? Moses’s words don’t help much.

Many of the words we say at funerals and shivas don’t help. Let’s build a list. Things I hope you never say to someone at a funeral or to someone who has just lost a child. Things like:

• It was G-d’s will.
• G-d needed a little helper up in heaven.
• He is in a better place now.
• Time will heal.
• You can have another child.

These kinds of comments make me nuts.  They make me want to scream. That’s why we learn from Job’s comforters that silence really is golden. When you go to a house of mourning, traditionally, you are supposed to let the mourner speak first. Only when he or she is ready. Not before.

I want to find just the right words to comfort Aaron. And maybe that is the point here. Aaron’s silence is so compelling because in the face of this tragedy there are no words.

The rabbis were uncomfortable with Aason’s silence. They invent midrashim around it. But the rabbis traditional interpretations don’t help me. I thought about using them, and they are appended to the end of this d’var Torah. In a sermon about silence, maybe we should just use less words. Maybe we can’t explain what happened and maybe we shouldn’t try.

Maybe the sages are right and silence is a sign of wisdom. That wisdom can reflect contradictory emotions. Maybe Aaron’s silence reflects those contradictions. It can be a sign of keeping the peace–between Aaron and Moses (I might be a murderous rage towards Moses), between Aaron and G-d (how could G-d do this! WHY!) or even with himself. It can be a sign of discretion or a sign of guilt. We can be silence out of anger or sorrow or because there simply are no words.

I have rambled too long. Meditation and silence has a long history in Judaism. I will be really honest here. Like was mentioned earlier, many people are scared of silence, uncomfortable with it. That would include me. I am always afraid that if I slow down long enough, I will either fall asleep (embarrassing!) or I will cry and will not be able to stop. I feel like I can’t take that chance.

Nan Gefen talks about the power of silence in her book, Discovering Jewish Meditation. “Over the years, you’ve undoubtedly had experiences that were spiritual in nature. Perhaps they took place while you were reading a poem, or holding a sleeping child, or walking in the woods, or watching the sunset. Or while you were praying. These experiences and more have helped you know that something exists beyond your regular, everyday reality. This “something” is what I call, “the silence within.” To many of us this state seems both familiar and mysterious. It has the quality of spaciousness and it appears to have no boundaries. Like a pregnant pause, the silence within contains all possibility. It is the raw material of creation, the formlessness that exists before the concrete emerges. When we enter into this state, we have our most intense spiritual experiences and receive our most significant moments of understanding.”

Gefen continues, “If you are like many people, you probably don’t pay much attention to the silence within as you rush from place to place. (YES! That is me exactly!), juggling responsibilities and meeting deadlines. But you sense its existence. In the quiet moments it hovers just outside your consciousness and you are drawn to it. (OK, for me maybe not drawn to it, maybe prefer to avoid it, to keep running away from it!) It might even frighten you, the scary unknown. (Yep, that’s me!)

A Chasidic rabbi was asked what he does before he prays. He answered he prays for an hour that he might be able to pray. I told that to our president last week as we were both running around the sanctuary adjusting the heat while other people were praying. But it is true, most Shabbatot I have prayed and prepared for at least an hour before I ever get to CKI. This morning was no exception. I tried the exercise I want us to try as a group shortly. I made myself slow down enough to hear the silent sound of silence. And what I heard amazed me. It wasn’t while I was trying to sit in silence. It was actually while I was getting dressed. It was very simple. Very quick. And VERY profound.

When we move into Passover mode, we talk about Elijah, and G-d’s “still, small voice.” What I heard was “You are loved.”

So we are going to try this. The women of Mayyim Hayyim, the community mikveh and education center in Boston, wrote a wonderful book, Blessings for the Journey, A Jewish Healing Guide for Women with Cancer. It is especially appropriate this morning, since in the haftarah we will read about a purification rite that actually mentions the phrase Mayyim Hayyim. Part of the beauty of this book is that it is a non-judgmental reference, giving practical suggestions for spiritual practice for someone has cancer—or really any crisis. There is even an entire chapter on what to do if you are angry with G-d, giving you permission to be angry with G-d, which is OK in my book, and maybe even a necessary stage.

One of the sections includes a way to be silent. If you are willing, let’s try it. It is a shortened version of the same exercise that I went through earlier this morning. Close your eyes gently. Focus on your breathing. Ruach is the Hebrew word for breath or spirit. The Divine breath. Think of the Divine entering your body as you breathe in. Exhale through your moth with a big breath and let out anything you don’t need. Keep following the natural flow of breath. Each breath is a miracle. G-d’s breath out, expression, is your in=breath, inspiration…If tears well up, let them flow, watching and letting go of the stories about the tears, while maintaining your awareness of sensations of greif or joy, anger or safety of love—whatever precipitated your tears. (page 136)

Come back gently to the room. Open your eyes slowly. Now we know the gift of Torah study this morning. Something Aaron already knew. The power of silence.

The Classical Rabbinic Material:
The rabbis wrestled with Aaron’s silence too. The Midrash tells us that G-d rewarded Aaron for his silence. That it is through him, not Moses, that the we learn the prohibition of performing the Temple service intoxicated. Now I want to scream. NOT GOOD ENOUGH! I want my kids back.

The word here for silence is not the usual one sheket. Instead it is dom. It appears only one other place, in the story of the battle at Gibeon. Battling the Canaanite kings, we learn that God stopped the sun in its path so Israel would have time to defeat its enemies: “Stand still (dom), oh, sun, at Gibeon; oh, moon, in the valley of Aiyalon.” (Joshua 10:15) The term, dom, implies a moment of complete and absolute paralysis. That must have been Aaron’s response. Complete paralysis, utter disbelief and shock. He was unable to respond. He was unable to move. His life comes to a crashing halt. A state of suspended animation. A state of inertia.

It also means something like singing. I can understand where being inert goes with grief. You just don’t want to do anything. Even getting out of bed is hard. But what about singing? How is that connected to grief and to silence? By being silent, by not moving can we achieve inner peace, inner happiness through silence? Is that too much to ask of a grieving father?

The rabbis teach that meditating in silence, leads to a sense of inner harmony and happiness leads to singing. Apparently in that split second, when Aaron’s sons were taken from him—let’s use the real words—were killed, the rabbis believe that Aaron was able to achieve that sense of inner harmony and be silent. Some say his faith was that profound, so profound. He did not react with an outcry of pain. He dealt with his sorrow within the confines of his soul. He bowed to the will of the Creator with perfect acceptance. Here are the texts:

Babylonian Talmud, Zevachim 115b
When the sons of Aaron died, he [Moses] said to him: ‘Oh my brother! You sons died only that the glory of the Holy One might be sanctified through them’. When Aaron perceived that his sons were the honored ones of the Omnipresent, he was silent, and was rewarded for his silence, as it is said, “And Aaron was silent.” And thus it says of David, “Be silent before the Lord, and wait patiently [hith-hollel] for Him,” (Psalms 37:7) this means, ‘though He casts down many slain [halalim], be silent before Him.’ And thus it was said by Solomon, “A time to keep silence, and a time to speak” (Ecclesiastes 3:7) sometimes a person is silent and is rewarded for his silent; at others a person speaks and is rewarded for speaking. And this is what Rabbi Hiyya ben Abba said in the name of Rabbi Johanan’s: What is meant by, “Awful is God out of your holy places, mi-mikdasheka?” (Psalms 68:36)? Read not mimikdasheka but mimekuddasheka [through your consecrated ones]: when the Holy One executes judgment on His consecrated ones, He makes Himself feared, exalted, and praised.

Lamentations Rabbah 1:17, #52 (Quoted in Sefer Ha-Agadah)
The congregation of Israel said also: Master of the universe, my soul is desolate within me, for when I pass Your house, which is destroyed, and am plunged in utter silence, I ask myself: The place where the seed of Abraham used to bring offerings to You, where priests used to minister on the dais, where Levites used to intone praise with harps–is it right for foxes to be romping about in it? “How I passed on with the throng, and led them (eddaddem) to the house of God” (Psalm 42:5). …According to Rabbi Berekhiah, the people of Israel also said to the Holy One: In the past, we used to go up carrying baskets of first fruits on my head, but now [we go] “in silence” (eddaddem) – we go up in silence (demumah) and come down in silence (demumah). In the past, we used to go up with songs and psalms of praise before the Holy One. But now we go up with weeping and come down with weeping. In the past, I used to go up in “a festive throng” (Psalm 42:5), throngs and throngs caught up in festivity – but now I sneak up like a thief, and like a thief sneak down. (Note the connection between eddaddem – led them – and demumah – silence.)

Babylonian Talmud Megillah 18b
Rabbi Judah of the village of Gibborayya–according to some, of the village of Gibbor-hayil–interpreted  “Silence is praise for You,” (Psalms 65:2) as meaning that silence is the height of all praises of God.

Lamentations Rabbah 1:1
It is reported in the name of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi: The Holy One summoned the ministering angels and asked them, “When a mortal king loses a dear one and wishes to mourn, what is customary for him to do?” They replied, “He hangs sackcloth over his door.” God said, “I will do likewise.” Hence it is written, “I clothe the heavens with blackness, and I make sackcloth their covering” (Isaiah 50:3)…..”What else does a king of flesh and blood do?” They replied, “He sits in silence.” God said, “I will do likewise.” Hence it is stated, “He sits alone and remains silent, because he was taken away” (Lam. 3:28).

“Who can retell the things that befell us,
Who can count them?
In every age, a hero or sage
Came to our aid.”

Oh wait, that is a Chanukah song. Try this one:

“Oh, once there was a wicked, wicked man 
And Hamen was his name sir, 
He would have murdered all the Jews, 
Though they were not to blame sir. He lied and lied about the Jews, though they were not to blame sir. 
Oh today, we’ll merry, merry be 
Oh today, we’ll merry, merry be 
Oh today, we’ll merry, merry be 
And nosh some hamentaschen”

It raises the question. What do we teach our children. Years ago I remember a story on NPR that talked about music that families would teach children in Bosnia. It instilled hate for generations, for over 500 years. I remember thinking, “We Jews do that too—and for a lot longer than 500 years!”

And no, I didn’t start with two songs because we are going to do the Great Latke-Hamantaschen debate that they do at places like MIT and University of Chicago. We all know this one….”They tried to kill us. We survived. Lets eat!” So tonight we will eat. Hamantaschen—Haman’s hat, pocket or ears. And we will read the whole megillah later but before we get there, this is Shabbat Zachor. The Sabbath of Remembrance.  We are commanded in today’s Torah portion to “Remember not to forget.”

We Jews are good at remembering. We remember the creation and the exodus from Egypt each time we make “Kiddush” on Friday night, when we sanctify time and set it apart for Shabbat. We remember our loved ones with Yizkor, a memorial service (same root as Shabbat Zachor) or on their yearly yahrzeit.  Our holidays are tied to remembering. None more so than Purim.

So what do we remember today? What is so important that we need to be commanded to remember not to forget? The Amalekites. What do we know about the Amalekites? They attacked the Israelites leaving Egypt, the rear flank. The part was weary, hungry, thirsty.

Here is how Exodus describes it: “Then Amalek came and fought with Israel at Rephidim. So Moses said to Joshua, “Choose for us men, and go out and fight with Amalek. Tomorrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the staff of God in my hand.” So Joshua did as Moses told him, and fought with Amalek, while Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill. Whenever Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed, and whenever he lowered his hand, Amalek prevailed. But Moses’ hands grew weary, so they took a stone and put it under him, and he sat on it, while Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side, and the other on the other side. So his hands were steady until the going down of the sun. And Joshua overwhelmed Amalek and his people with the sword. Then the Lord said to Moses, “Write this as a memorial in a book and recite it in the ears of Joshua, that I will utterly blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven.” And Moses built an altar and called the name of it, The Lord is my banner, saying, “A hand upon the throne of the Lord Jacob! The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation.” (Exodus 17:8-16)

From this verse we learn to blot out Haman’s name, considered a descendent of Amalek. That’s why we make so much noise on Purim.

And here is how it is described in today’s portion: “Remember what Amalek did to you by the way as you came forth out of Egypt. How he met you by the way, and smote the hindmost of you and all that were enfeebled in your rear, when you were faint and weary and he feared not God. Therefore it shall be when the Lord your God has given you rest from all your enemies round about, in the land which the Lord your God gives you for an inheritance to posses it, that you shall blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven; you shall not forget.” Deuteronomy 25:17-19

When Saul was King there was a war with the Amalekites. Saul was told by Samuel that he needed to completely eradicate the Amalekites and when he didn’t he lost his kingship. That is the haftarah we are reading today.

“Thus says the Lord of hosts, ‘I have noted what Amalek did to Israel in opposing them on the way when they came up out of Egypt. 3 Now go and strike Amalek and devote to destruction all that they have. Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.” (1 Sam. 15:2-3).

So my next question. Are there sins that cannot be forgiven? What are they? Deuternonomy 5:9-10 and Exodus 34:7 seem to say that there are some sins that God has a hard time with, especially those when the sin involves hating God. Then God will visit that sin of parents on the third and fourth generations. God wasn’t happy with the sin of the Golden Calf. No that is not strong enough. God was downright angry! We are even told that even in the tenth generation Israelites could not welcome a Moabite or an Amorite because they did not offer food or water to the Israelites when they were fleeing Egypt. Pretty harsh language.

But completely destroy an entire people? The Amalekites? The men, women and children? Even the sheep? That’s genocide. I think I am like Saul. I must have heard this wrong. Why the children? Why the sheep?

Many Jews see an Amalek in every generation. Haman, Hitler, today I read language about Iran, the Palestinians. To be clear. Iran is a real threat, the recent arms shipment that was intercepted proves that. To be clear, the rockets that fell from Gaza into southern Israel this week—over 80 of them—proves that some Palestinians are real threats. But in my mind, let’s underscore, SOME, maybe. Certainly not ALL.

Chabad has an interesting take on this. Even though the name Amalek “refers to a real nation, it also describes a character trait within ourselves. Just as Amalek stood in direct opposition to the Jewish people, the trait symbolized by Amalek defies the very foundations of our divine service.” Chabad continues that “Amalek represents the cold rationality which makes us question everything we do or experience.” Boy, we know that I do that. All the time.  They point out that there is a numerical equivalence between the word Amalek and the word safek, Hebrew for doubt. “Amalek causes doubt and hesitation which cools the ardor of our divine service.” An interesting thought when we remember that the Book of Esther is one of two books that doesn’t even mention God!

There is a dark side to Purim. How many people did the Jews kill defending themselves since Ashaverous’s decree could not be rescinded? 75,000. That is a lot of people. Innocent or maybe not so innocent. If these were residents of the 127 provinces from Ethiopia to India under Persian rule who were willing to carry out Haman’s order, doesn’t it show that anti-semitism is everywhere? Even back then? Just like the song says?

Does anyone remember what happened 20 years ago this weekend, on Purim? In Israel? Does anyone remember the name Baruch Goldstein? Today is the 20^th anniversary of the 1994 Hebron Massacre. When Baruch Goldstein walked into a mosque, the Cave of Patriarchs, a holy site we share with the Muslims and murdered 29 Palestinians. Many Jews feel a “twinge of embarrassment.” Jews don’t do that. They don’t murder 29 people in cold blood. It is not living up to the ideal of a “light to the nations”. But where did the fear come from that was so strong Baruch Goldstein felt he had no choice? What about the assignation of Yitzhak Rabin? Why is peace so scary? So for me, quoting the Forward this week, “But a mere twinge of embarrassment is too easy.” Goldstein’s grave has become a shrine for a whole community of Israelis. I am not comfortable when the oppressed, the survivors of unspeakable tragedy and trauma become the oppressors. That’s why I am a proud member of Rabbis for Human Rights, T’ruah.

Last year I was moved by Yossi Klein HaLevi who talked about two kinds of Jews. Passover Jews and Purim Jews. I even used it in the letter that went out with the yellow candles for Yom HaShoah that the Men’s Club sends out. “Jewish history speaks to our generation in the voice of two biblical commands to remember. The first voice commands us to remember that we were strangers in the land of Egypt, and the message of that command is: Don’t be brutal. The second voice commands us to remember how the tribe of Amalek attacked us without provocation while we were wandering in the desert, and the message of that command is: Don’t be naive. The first command is the voice of Passover, of liberation; the second is the voice of Purim, commemorating our victory over the genocidal threat of Haman, a descendant of Amalek. “Passover Jews” are motivated by empathy with the oppressed; “Purim Jews” are motivated by alertness to threat. Both are essential; one without the other creates an unbalanced Jewish personality, a distortion of Jewish history and values.”

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach—who I rarely quote, or even sing his songs for other justice reasons, told a story that the Forward picked up on. The Chasidic master Zvi Elimelech of Dinov (1783-1841) stopped his Purim festivities and said, “Saddle the horses and get the carriages, it is time to blot out Amalek.” His Hasidim were petrified. “What could the master mean?” Being obedient disciples, they got in their carriages and followed their rebbe. He rode into town to a local inn where the Polish peasants (the Amalekites of his day?) were engaged in their own drunken bash. The rebbe and his disciples entered the inn. When the peasants saw them, they stopped dancing. The music stopped. Everyone circled around the rebbe and the Jews as they walked to the center of the dance floor. The room was silent. The rebbe looked at one of the peasants and put out his hand with his palm to the ceiling. Silence. The peasants looked at one another. Suddenly one of them stepped forward and took the rebbe’s hand. They slowly started dancing. The musicians began playing. In a matter of minutes, all the Hasidim and peasants were dancing furiously with one another.

Purim is important. Lord Rabbi Sacks points out that out in his weekly message. He describes it as the most boisterous of holidays. (In fact it is Simon’s least favorite!) But Sacks thinks that it is odd, for many of the reasons that have bothered me (and maybe Simon!) He asks, “Why such exhilaration at merely surviving a tragedy that was only narrowly averted? Relief, I can understand. But to turn the day into a carnival? Just because we’re still here to tell the story?

He answers, “Slowly, though, I began to understand how much pain there has been in Jewish history, how many massacres and pogroms throughout the ages. Jews had to learn how to live with the past without being traumatised by it. So they turned the day when they faced and then escaped the greatest danger of all into a festival of unconfined joy, a day of dressing up and drinking a bit too much, to exorcise the fear, live through it and beyond it, and then come back to life, unhaunted by the ghosts of memory.

Purim is the Jewish answer to one of the great questions of history: how do you live with the past without being held captive by the past?”

For all of us, this becomes the central question. How do we live with the past without being held captive by it? How do we not only survive—but thrive? How do we make meaning out of our lives? How do we take our own traumas and learn to continue, and then to celebrate life unabashedly. The Forward asks, “You want to blot out Amalek? Go to the mosque at the Tomb of the Patriarchs. Or any mosque. Reach out your hand. And dance. That is how you blot out Amalek. Crazy? Ask Zvi Elimelekh of Dinov. That is what it means to take Purim seriously after 1994.”

So for me, tonight, I will be celebrating. I have turned Purim into a “really big show”, a big top this year. Maybe the greatest show on earth. We will have fun—no doubt—in the service of God, dare I say. We will dance, we will sing, we will be silly, we might have just a drop too much to drink. We will blot out Haman’s name. And then we will do it all over again in the morning, when we will teach our children how to have fun. Along the way and we will make memories. We will remember not to forgot. Come celebrate life with us.