What was he thinking? This is the question that I have been asked over and over again this week, starting with Mark Seigle on Sunday when it was breaking news and continuing at the Lions Club where I spoke Thursday night and at Weight Watchers. What was Sterling thinking? And in truth, I think he wasn’t. I am not going to try to explain it or excuse it. It was wrong. Period. There is no place in Judaism for racism. It is sad to have to call him Jewish, but we do. At least as someone who self-identifies as a Jew but who changed his name to sound less Jewish.

On the other hand, Adam Silver, the NBA commissioner, made me proud this week. Happy to call him a Jew.

Members of the congregation actually wondered why we were exploring this. “A waste of time” said one, as he rolled his eyes. “Oh, no,” said another.

So what is going on here? Why do people ask the question, “Is it bad for the Jews or good for the Jews?” What does it mean that this is a shonda, a shame?

The discussion centered on some expected answers. There are good apples and bad apples in every bunch. You can’t hold all Jews to a higher standard. What he did was wrong but he didn’t do it acting as a Jew so why should we care.  We don’t need to claim another bad guy (which I didn’t hear correctly and it sounded like black guy and that just sounded wrong. So glad I made that person repeat!)

Why this is important comes from this week’s Torah portion. We tend to gloss over it. It says that “you must treat them as holy,” referring to the priests. Now, I remember a very funny scene at a ritual committee meeting, where one member when we were talking about traditional duchening, the giving of the priestly benediction, thought that I meant a Catholic priest was coming to bless the congregation. Truth be told, we don’t have many functions for cohainim any more. They may duchen, have the first aliyah and officiate in a pidyon haben, the redemption of the first born. There are those who would argue that we should do away with all of that because no one can trace their lineage well enough to be called a cohain, and in this day and age we are not so big on hierarchies. That is a discussion for another day.

So since the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, a mere 2000 years ago, much of this portion, since the priests don’t offer bread to G-d, is irrelevant. And yet, and yet…

We are told that we are to be a light to the nations, a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. That’s all of us. A kingdom of priests and a holy nation. We are told that “Synagogues, study houses, and even homes are called mikdash me’at, a small temple. According to the Talmud (Megilah 29a), God will dwell in the holy spaces we create, for those small spaces are the Temple in miniature.

So our small spaces are to be holy. We are commanded to make the home a safe place (Deut 22:8) Not only physically safe, but emotionally safe. Our homes and our synagogues should be filled with Shalom Beit, peace in the home. Like Abraham and Sarah’s tent, open to all four sides to welcome guests, they are places of hospitality. We mark our homes and our synagogues as holy, set apart by putting a mezuzah on the door to remind us of the commandments and of G-d’s oneness. Our homes are a place where G-d dwells within, just like the Holy Temple.

For us, in this building, this mikdash me’at, it means we need to refrain from being judgmental of others. It means we need to refrain from gossip, of speaking badly of others. We are all in this game together. We are all volunteers striving to create a Jewish community dedicated to being a sacred community, a holy community, a diverse community of life long learners and meaningful observance. At its center is community, Kneseth Israel, an assembly of Israel.

I say all, including me, because I am not a priest. I am a rabbi. And while the portion says that you must treat priests as holy, “Rabbis and cantors are no different from other Jews. They have no special powers, no obligations devolve on them that do not apply to all Jews. “Ten shoemakers can make a minyan but nine rabbis can’t.” Nonetheless, they are considered klei kodesh, instruments of holiness because, through their knowledge and teaching, life character, and commitments they show the way to a life of holiness.” (Eitz Chayyim, page 718)

So I must strive to lead my life by example. I must be klei kodesh. But unlike the rest of the portion which specifies that a priest must be without blemish, I don’t have to be perfect. I am no different than any of you. Together we are all a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.

The problem with Sterling was his house was not a mikdash me’at, it was a not a holy place. And his speech was not lashon hakodesh, holy speech but lashon ha’ra, evil speech.

Coming out of this week’s portion we learn from the Mishneh Torah, “we are obligated to act in a way that reflects well on G-d, the Jewish people and our tradition (Kiddush hashem sanctification of the name) and to refrain from acting in a way that would bring dishonor to God, our people and its traditions Chilul Hashem (MT 5:1)”

Our tradition is very clear. We read it last week. We are to be holy because the Lord our God is holy. We are to welcome the widow, the orphan, the stranger, the most marginalized among us precisely because we were strangers, slaves in Egypt. We are not to put a stumbling block before the blind or curse the deaf. We are not to stand by while our neighbor bleeds. We are to have just weights and measures. We are not to withhold the wages of a laborer overnight. We are not to show deference to the rich or favor the poor in judgment.

Sterling thought because of his wealth he was above the law. He was arrogant. Silver did exactly what he did according to Jewish law—he did not favor the rich. Megal in his article on Sports on Earth, summed it up this way: Silver is Gold.

“There have always been hateful, immoral people like Donald Sterling within every ethnic group. But to see him out front, the most famous man in the news right now, and that he can be called Jewish, with particular glee from those with hateful attitudes toward Jews, is deeply disturbing. But this isn’t just a story with a Jewish antagonist. The protagonist is Jewish as well. Adam Silver, commissioner of the NBA, is Jewish. I won’t claim that he is a spokesperson for all Jewish people; neither did he. But on Tuesday afternoon, before a packed ballroom at the Hilton in Manhattan and an international audience, Adam Silver spoke for me.” He spoke for me too:

“The views expressed by Mr. Sterling are deeply offensive and harmful; that they came from an NBA owner only heightens the damage and my personal outrage,” Silver said. “I am personally distraught that the views expressed by Mr. Sterling came from within an institution that has historically taken such a leadership role in matters of race relations and caused current and former players, coaches, fans and partners of the NBA to question their very association with the league.”

Lord Rabbi Sacks, writing before this story was breaking news, said this in his weekly message about this parsha:

We are God’s ambassadors to the world.

Therefore when we behave in such a way as to evoke admiration for Judaism as a faith and a way of life, that is a Kiddush Hashem, a sanctification of God’s name. When we do the opposite – when we betray that faith and way of life, causing people to have contempt for the God of Israel – that is a Chillul Hashem, a desecration of God’s name… When Jews behave badly, unethically, unjustly, they create a Chillul Hashem. People say, I cannot respect a religion, or a God, that inspire people to behave in such a way… No nation has ever been given a greater or more fateful responsibility. And it means that we each have a share in this task.

When a Jew, especially a religious Jew, behaves badly – acts unethically in business, or is guilty of sexual abuse, or utters a racist remark, or acts with contempt for others – it reflects badly on all Jews and on Judaism itself.

We are all, like it or not, ambassadors of the Jewish people, and how we live, behave and treat others reflects not only on us as individuals but on Jewry as a whole, and thus on Judaism and the God of Israel.

“Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon ‘em,” wrote Shakespeare in Twelfth Night. Throughout history Jews have had greatness thrust upon them…

God trusted us enough to make us His ambassadors to an often faithless, brutal world. The choice is ours. Will our lives be a Kiddush Hashem, or God forbid, the opposite? To have done something, even one act in a lifetime, to make someone grateful that there is a God in heaven who inspires people to do good on earth, is perhaps the greatest achievement to which anyone can aspire. Shakespeare rightly defined the challenge: Be not afraid of greatness.

My hope is that this story will go away quickly. Not because it is bad for the Jews, it is. But because there are so many more important things in this world. How are we going to feed the hungry? What has happened to the 200 girls kidnapped in Nigeria? How do we make peace in Israel?  And maybe most importantly here this week, how do we create a mikdash me’at, a holy community, right here, within these four walls and beyond. We are all ambassadors of Judaism. As Shakespeare and Sacks admonish, “Be not afraid of greatness.”

The Shulchan Arukh, Jewish law code teaches, “We bury non-Jewish dead and comfort their mourners so that we follow the ways of peace” YD 370.1.2010. This week I did something that seemed natural to me. I facilitated and officiated at my first non-Jewish funeral. I didn’t hesitate. The 90 year old was the mother-in-law of my ritual chairperson. She wasn’t Jewish. She was supportive of her son-in-law and her daughter raising her grandchildren as Jews. She had attended Bnei Mitzvah, weddings, funerals. Even the annual Chanukah latke lunch and the 120th anniversary brunch. She hadn’t been to church recently although she was anointed in the hospital.

When I learned she was in the hospital last week, taken unresponsive while we were in services last Saturday, I knew I would spend Saturday night or Sunday morning at the hospital with them. When my ritual chair asked me to say a few words, well actually uncharacteristically more than a few words, I didn’t hesitate. Whatever you need.

Then I thought about the consequences. Would people judge us? I decided I didn’t care. Would people assume that they got better care than someone I know less well? Again I didn’t care. I would do this again, again under the right circumstances.

Our tradition teaches that “These are the ways of the Holy One: “gracious and compassionate, patient, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, assuring love for a thousand generations, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and granting pardon.” (Exodus 34:6). This means that just as God is gracious, compassionate, and forgiving, you too must be gracious, compassionate, and forgiving.” (Sifre on Eikev) It continues, “Follow the Lord your God” (Deuteronomy 13:5). What does this mean?…The verse means to teach us that we should follow the attributes of the Holy One…As He clothes the naked, you should clothe the naked. The Bible teaches that the Holy One visited the sick; you should visit the sick. The Holy One comforted those who mourned; you should comfort those who mourn. The Holy One buried the dead; you should bury the dead. (Sotah 14).

It doesn’t say, only the Jewish sick, only the Jewish bereaved, only the Jewish dead. This, then, is the definition of compassion: visiting the sick, comforting the bereaved, burying the dead. This, then is what community does, reaches out and offers comfort.

After I offered or accepted, then I started to think. “What would the neighbors say?” “How could I make everyone feel comfortable?” “What would be most meaningful to the family–all the family?” I called my good friends, a UCC pastor and an Episcopal priest, a senior rabbi. All of them have been ordained for some 40 years each, so lots of experience. None of them had been asked to do a funeral service for someone not in their tradition. All of them thought it was possible. No one thought it was wrong. All were helpful.

Do you know that the outline for a funeral service is nearly the same. “Use Psalm 23, the Lord is my shepherd, and Psalm 121, I lift up my eyes to the mountains.” I was told, “Sometimes I use, “There is a time to be born and a time to die,” or a Woman of Valor.” There is a committal prayer. I chose to use “The Lord’s Prayer”, the prayer that Jesus taught his disciples and which is based on traditional Jewish prayers. I figured that would comfort the Catholics that were sure to be present. I have had it memorized since a 7th grade Hebrew School retreat where we learned a rock version. Of course, I stumbled over which is the Catholic version and which is the Protestant version. I am still not sure I picked the right one.

In all traditions, part of the function of the funeral is the eulogy, the telling of the stories about the person who died. It is part of how we keep their memories alive. It is part of how we keep them close.

Judaism teaches that burying a loved one is the last act of compassion, since it cannot be repaid. My hope is that by my congregation and me opening our hearts to people who were grieving we showed compassion, compassion without judgment and that we brought the family comfort.

Was it easy? Not entirely–more because I was worried that it would be comfortable for everyone. One person did say, “I didn’t realize she was Jewish.” another said, “I have never seen a rabbi lead the Lord’s Prayer.” The preparation took me a little out of my own comfort zone. Would I do it again? You bet. It was compassion. It was comfort. It was the right thing to do.

I spoke at the Lions Club tonight. The topic was Social Justice in Judaism. This speech is easy for me. So much of what I do, as a person, as a rabbi, centers around tikkun o’lam, healing the world. So much of the social justice agenda comes from last week’s portion, the Holiness Code. I began by quoting “Don’t put a stumbling block before the blind or curse the deaf.” It seemed like the right place for a group that is dedicated to helping people with sight issues. The organization is the embodiment of this verse. I talked about welcoming the stranger and taking care of the widow and the orphan. About feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, housing the homeless. This group gives money to FISH a local food pantry and to the Community Crisis Center.

Then it happened, I was asked about Sterling and about anti-semitism. I told them that anti-semitism is on the rise. That we have only to look at an incident like Overland Park to see the results in this country or fire bombings of synagogues in the Ukraine to see it in Europe. I explained that all of my middle school students, in three different school systems, U46, District 301 and District 300 feel bullied, isolated, teased because they are Jewish. That groups like FaithBridge in McHenry County and CERL the Coalition of Elgin Religious Leaders and organizations like the Anti-Deflamation League of Bnai Brith and the Southern Poverty Law Center actively work on these issues and do a better job of tracking such things than I do. That in Elgin, we feel pretty safe, but never entirely. That we actively partner with the police and our ROPE officer.

I clearly said that Sterling’s comments were wrong and not representative of Judaism, that we were at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement with the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act being signed on the conference room desk of the Religious Action Center in Washington and the NAACP was founded with help from Kivie Kaplan. That the African American community and the Jewish community share the experience of the Exodus from Egypt, having been slaves and becoming free. That Adam Silver, the commissioner of basketball is more representative than Sterling and that Sterling is a “shonda” a shame for the Jewish people.

I explained that Jews and African Americans still partner on social justice projects. That the JCUA hosts an annual seder that is usually sold out.

And then it happened. Someone said, when he was a youth, he was a member of an anti-Semitic group and how could I say that anti-semitism is on the rise. He wondered if the cause is economic and that maybe a piece of the puzzle. Someone else said that the world is so different than it was in the 50s. His brother had married a Jew and serving that Catholic wedding mass as an altar boy was a nightmare. I let the comments go. I think I was too shocked. No one has ever admitted to me in public that he belonged to an anti-Semitic group. However, that was not the punch line. Later he told me he is sure that anti-semitism is lower. How does he know? He was widowed two years ago and his new girlfriend that he met online through a classical music website is Jewish.

It is true that Jews have experienced unprecedented assimilation and that in this country we experience freedom, including freedom to choose whom to date and marry. It is true that there are not quotas at major academic institutions, hospitals and law firms. It is illegal to discriminate in housing or hotels.

Our ancestors fled Europe rather than being persecuted or killed. They escaped conscription into the Tsar’s army by leaving Russia under hay in a wagon. They came in steerage in ships that left Germany, France, Italy rather than face pogroms and to make it in America, the goldeneh medinah. We, their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren have access to our elected officials. With that freedom, with that access comes responsibility.

There is a responsibility to speak out, to speak up so that the terrors of antisemitism in Europe that led to the Holocaust do not happen again, anywhere to anyone. There is a responsibility to work for peace as the leaders of CERL do, to work for an age without hunger, homelessness, poverty, racism., A world where our environment is protected and we are partners with G-d in this glorious creation. To protect the widow, the orphan, the stranger. To not put a stumbling block before the blind or curse the deaf. To not stand idly by while our neighbor bleeds. To love our neighbors as ourselves.

I am glad I went last night–but it illustrates just how much work there is to be done.

Tonight is Rosh Hodesh Iyyar, the beginning of the new month of Iyyar. In the middle of counting the omer, day by day by day, Rosh Hodesh seemed to sneak up on me. It almost seems to be a missing month.

Every month has a theme, usually tied to the holiday of the month. For instance, Kislev with Chanukah is about light, Sh’vat, with Tu B’shevat the new of the trees is about growth, planting, trees. Adar is about joy. Nissan is about freedom. But Iyyar? What is it’s spiritual theme?

Maybe after the frenetic pace of Nissan with all of the Passover preparations and then celebrating Passover itself, it is about rest. Our calendar seems to do that with Heshvan as well. Right after all of the four fall holidays are celebrated, then comes Heshvan without any holidays. A chance to catch our breath. Maybe Iyyar is another chance to catch our breath.

This second month also has Pesach Sheni, a second Passover. For those who missed the opportunity to celebrate Passover on the 15th of Nissan, here is a second chance. It is a mandated make-up day. Lag B’Omer the 33rd day of the counting of the Omer is the 18th of Iyyar. And maybe that is why the month of Iyyar seems to get lost. We have had the frenetic pace of Passover and the daily counting of the Omer. Each week of the Omer has its own special flavor, its own attribute. This week is about tiferet, compassion.

On the first day of Iyar following the exodus, the thirsty Israelites reached a well of bitter water. Moses cast a rod into the water and it miraculously became sweet. God promised that if Israel followed commandments: “The diseases I have placed on Egypt I will not place upon you, for I am the Lord your Healer.” Mannah, the food that was a gift from God, began to fall during Iyyar. The Hebrew letters Iyyar form an acronym of I am the Lord your Healer, therefore Iyyar is an especially propitious time for healing.

Iyyar has another name in the prophets. It is referred to as Ziv. “Now it came about in the four hundred and eightieth year after the sons of Israel came out of the land of Egypt, in the fourth year of Solomon’s reign over Israel, in the month of Ziv which is the second month, that he began to build the house of the LORD.” (Kings I:6:1). On the exact same day, hundreds of years later, Ezra began the construction of the Second Temple (Ezra 3:8). So this is the month that the construction of the Temple was begun.  Maybe the theme then is about building.

In much more modern times, despite the omer being a period of semi-mourning, we celebrate Israel Independence Day, Yom Ha’atzma’ut on Iyyar 5 and Jerusalem Day on Iyyar 28. While these real historical events are worthy of celebrating, they seem to pull focus away from the traditional counting of the omer and our ability to number our days to make them holy.

So Iyyar is a time of healing, meditating on God and being ready for the revelation at Sinai. It helps to develop our mental and spiritual capacities.  It is about building, and about Israel. Tonight is Rosh Hodesh Iyyar and I am listening to the sound of birds and the sounds of men and the sounds of women all praying at the Kotel, at the Western Wall. The sounds are beautiful. Perhaps that is what we are building, finally. Beauty.

Last night we had dinner in Evanston at a lovely Italian restaurant. It seemed a little surreal. Small plates of pasta laden with black truffles or butternut squash, bruschetta with tuna, capers, lemon and fennel, gourmet Italian cheeses, good bread, roasted garlic. Good conversation. Time seemed to stop. We could have sat there all night into the wee small hours of the morning.

We were meeting with the organizer Amit Smotrich, for Chicago with American Jewish World Service. Our conversation covered easy topics like what to pack for the trip to Kenya. What the balance might be between hands on service projects, meeting with partners and government officials, and would we get to go on a safari. Serious life or death topics like 19,000 food insecure people in Elgin and why U-46 may not be able to provide school breakfasts any more. Really–while eating black truffle pasta!  How do we talk about peace in the Middle East without being polarizing?

How to pass the International Violence Against Women Act in the US House of Representatives when my sitting congressman voted against the domestic bill. Why the rights of women have been linked to abortion. Why in order to deliver poverty services in Africa with AJWS and its NGO partners you need to end violence against women. Duh! Check out their campaign. It is a no brainer and you can sign a petition to your own congress person supporting this action.

http://webelieve.ajws.org

Let’s be clear. I know a lot about the topic of forgiveness. It was a chapter in my rabbinic thesis. I got an A in the class Justice, Forgiveness and Reconciliation in Jewish and Christian Thought and I passed another class entitled Forgiveness. (that professor only graded such a topic pass/fail!).

Forgiveness is tough. It became really clear to me as I read Gated Grief. It became increasingly clear as I sat through the various presentations that were offered last week at the domestic violence conference specifically on this topic.

Today is not only the 12th day of the Omer but it is also Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. How can we forgive? Should we forgive? Can we ever forgive such atrocities? Simon Wiesenthal wrote a powerful book, the Sunflower, which wrestles with that very question. During the war when he was interred as a Jewish prisoner in a forced labor camp, he was brought to a dying SS officer who demanded precisely that–to forgive the SS officer for burning Jews alive in a synagogue. Wiesenthal spends the rest of his life wrestling with what he did. Read the book, it is important!

What I learned is that Jews and Christians, probably others have a way of using the words just slightly differently–and then expecting each other to understand. That is why I wanted people at the conference to wrestle with real texts of our various faith traditions. How I understand a passage may be very different than how someone else who is Christian understands the very same text.

We heard from the Baptist minister using the Holman Bible Dictionary that forgiveness is “an act of God’s grace to forget forever and not hold people of faith accountable for sins they confess; to a lesser degree the gracious human act of not holding wrong acts against a person.” Later in the day we heard the Merriam Webster definition: “To stop feeling anger toward, to stop blaming, to stop feeling anger about, to forgive someone for, to give up on resentment of or claim to requital.” Those are very different working definitions.

We differentiated between forgiveness, amends and reconciliation. And to be clear, according to that speaker, is “not forgetting, reconciliation, excusing, or tolerating abusive/controlling behavior. And it is NOT required. It is optional.”

Looking at the story of Luke Chapter 5:17-25 where Jesus heals the paralyzed man, we learn that it is really a story of healing and forgiveness. The Lutheran bishop suggested that forgiveness is really the freedom to move forward. However, he cautioned that there are really two outcomes of forgiveness. Reconciliation when the abuser admits his wrong doing, makes amends and his behavior changes so that the abusive behavior is not repeated. He has mended his heart and his actions. This enables a victim to eventually to set the offender free–but only once the offended one feels safe.  Another outcome is release, where the offender is confronted with the truth but he cannot or will not acknowledge guilt, feel remorse or change. The offended is set free from the responsibility to forgive. Maimonidies, the twelfth century Jewish philosopher would counsel a similar thing. The two who were together can now lead separate lives–maybe even from a different zip code.

Forgiveness is not about forgetting. It is about letting go. And while I heard the theme song of Frozen which seemed so apt, it seems too easily said and not easily done. Hope of letting go of a better past. Hope of a better future. Getting rid of the if onlys. Getting rid of anger. Letting go.

The Lutheran bishop argued that there is a price of non-forgiveness. “No one gets to the Promised Land without leaving Egypt.” I would say, “We need to leave the narrow spaces of Egypt to reach freedom and the hope that comes with it.” That is the gift of Passover which we just celebrated. That is the gift of forgiveness.

I can buy into a lot of this. Until I listen to a survivor say that all domestic violence victims need to forgive or they have not fully healed. That made me angry. How dare she. She can speak for herself but cannot speak for all the women I have worked with. Until I remember the Holocaust. Simon Wiesenthal argues that according to Judaism only the wounded party has the power to forgive the offender. So Wiesenthal couldn’t forgive the SS guard. The only people who could were dead. We who survived am not obligated to forgive the Germans, and we certainly don’t have to forget what the Germans did. Then we are doomed to repeat what they did. And repeat the world seems to do. Breaking these cycles of violence seems to be almost impossible.

What then can we do? The question that Rabbi Harold Kushner asks is not why do bad things happen to good people but when. How do we respond when bad things happen to good people? What is our responsibility when we are free? If forgiveness makes us free, what are we free for? The Lutheran bishop argued compassion, justice, gratitude, outreach. I would concur.

We have a responsibility, those of us who survived, the Holocaust, domestic violence, other trauma, to be compassionate, to work for justice, to be grateful. To figure out what this thing called forgiveness is. To break the cycles of violence. To work for a world without genocide, without domestic violence. It is a daunting task.

When I think of Africa, I think about Darfur. I think about Sudan. I think about Rwanda. I wonder what my people’s cry of “Never again!” means. I think about ethnic violence in Kenya, in the slums of Kibera. Can we prevent another Holocaust? I think I must learn to speak out. Pirke Avot teaches, “Ours is not to ignore the task, neither are we free to ignore it.”

As you know, yesterday I presented at the conference on domestic violence. Too much trauma this week between preparing for the conference and Yom Hashoah and my trip to Kenya. But here comes Shabbat. And this Shabbat in particular. This Shabbat we read Kedoshim, the Holiness Code, the very center of Leviticus in the very center of the Torah.

So what is holiness? The text says, “You shall be holy because I the Lord your God am holy.” Chapter 19 then goes on to quote some of the most famous verses of scripture. It details how we become holy.

Holy means to set apart, to separate. We have lots of words we use with this root, kuf, dalet, shin. Kadosh, Holy. Kiddush, the prayer over wine that separates Shabbat from the rest of the week, Kaddish, the prayer that separates or demarcates different parts of the service, and kiddushin, marriage because when we marry we are set apart, one for the other and no other. Ironic, since one of the words for prostitute is kadasha, because she is living without the bounds of marriage.

So kedusha, holiness, has something to do with boundaries. Setting boundaries. Which is exactly what G-d does before the 10 commandments are given. G-d tells the Israelites not to come up the mountain, to set bounds around the mountain. Then they will become an am segulah (a treasured nation) and an Am Kadosh, a holy nation.

The Torah, a system of rules and laws is a boundary. It separates for us right from wrong. It is what allows us to be an Am Kadosh and an Or hagoyim, a light to the nations. The Torah is that light. Being that light is what God chose us for–after, according to the midrash G-d went to all the other nations first and each one rejected the terms in turn. Only the Israelites were will to do and to hear.

Our portion after telling us that we shall be holy, kadosh because G-d is holy, then goes on to tell us how to separate ourselves, how to distinguish right from wrong, how to live morally and justly, how to become holy. It is a balance between how to worship G-d and how to live with other people.

It tells us that this is for all the people of Israel, not just the priests, the cohanim. In the middle of the Torah, in the middle of Leviticus, the text breaks away from its instruction to the priestly class. This law is for all of us. It repeats some of the 10 commandments. Fear your mother and father, observe Shabbat, don’t turn to idols or make graven images, don’t murder, don’t steal don’t deal falsely with your neighbor.

But it extends beyond that to create a just society. Leave the corner of your field and your vineyard. Don’t oppress your neighbor or rob them. To not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind. Do not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds. Do not take vengeance or bear a grudge. Love your neighbor as yourself.

It is easy to type the words. It is harder to do them. When it says to Love your neighbor as yourself, isn’t that what Love Elgin Day is about. If we are observing Shabbat which we are, does that mean we cannot participate in Love Elgin Day?

If we don’t have a field or a vineyard how do we give the corners of our field to those who need them? Does the community garden fulfill that function? Is it enough?

If we have members who cannot hear or cannot see or cannot walk how do we remove the obstacles so that they can participate fully?

This last one we tackled in situ this morning. We brought the Torah down from the bimah so that everyone could have access that wanted, then we rolled the podium up the aisle. We brought the Torah to the people. One man cried because he hadn’t had an aliyah in 5 years and thought he would never again.

This action was creating sacred time and space, exactly what Shabbat is about. It was holy time. It was Shabbat at its best. And it was exactly the antidote I needed about my week about domestic violence, Holocaust and the slums of Kenya. May we continue to create holy moments, that way we will fulfill the promise that we are a holy people, am kadosh and a light to the nations.

Today I present at the annual domestic violence conference sponsored by the 16th Circuit Court Faith Watch Committee. In the mystical Jewish tradition each day of the counting of the omer has a unique quality. Today’s quality is tiferet of gevurah. These words are not easy to render into English. Beauty in discipline. Compassion in discipline. Or crown of strength. Yesterday was gevurah of gevurah. Strength of strength.

I’ve been thinking about that as I prepare my materials. I am helping the participants study texts about forgiveness. Forgiveness is frequently a stumbling block of healing from domestic violence. Forgiveness is not forgetting. Forgiveness involves letting go of some of the anger. Forgiveness does not happen all at once, but slowly over time. Forgiveness is not always possible nor is it always necessary. However, our religious traditions, almost all of them, require it. Or do they?

Are there any situations where forgiveness is not possible?

In order to prepare today’s materials I read more again about domestic violence and forgiveness. I read across Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism. Sometimes the reading took me out of my comfort zone. Sometimes I wanted to scream. I needed to remember that like Judaism there is a range of opinion on forgiveness in each of the traditions I was researching.

In addition to my work on domestic violence I am reading Gated Grief about GIs who liberated concentration camps and On the Way to War. Too much trauma. Too much destruction. Too much anger. Too much silence. Very little forgiveness. In light of the Holocaust and other genocides, how can there be forgiveness?

Forgiveness takes strength. It takes compassion. It takes discipline. Forgiveness is healing, slowly over time. But only when the survivor of domestic violence or the Holocaust or a war is ready. Only if they feel safe. Only on their terms.

I had a friend in rabbinical school who every year hosted a party on the night after Passover. Not unheard of, right? First chance to eat bread, pasta, pizza, popcorn. People have their favorite post-Passover meal. One cousin even ships in pizza from Chicago to his office at the Department of Justice in Washington.

But my friend’s tradition is to host a Mimouna, a custom of the Moroccan Jews. In fact, after the founding of the State of Israel in 1948, this is one of five state holidays in Israel. The origins of this festival are shrouded in mystery. It may be named for Rambam’s father who either was born or died on this day. Maimon was important in the Moroccan Jewish community. He was instrumental in Muslim-Jewish relations. He kept the peace. Something we could use a lot more of, given the news out of Israel this week (every week?).  Bombs falling down on Israel from Gaza are never OK. But neither are tires slashed in neighborhoods of Jerusalem with graffiti saying that gentiles are the  enemy in Israel.

http://www.jpost.com/National-News/Tires-of-34-vehicles-found-slashed-in-Arab-neighborhood-of-east-Jerusalem-346298

The Israel Religious Action Center hosted a Mimouna party both in Tel Aviv and in Jerusalem, to get Israeli Muslims and Israeli Jews talking again. In recent weeks when peace talks have broken off and have been on again and off again and I think as of this writing on again but with bombs flying in the south of Israel and tires slashed in Jerusalem, I applaud IRAC for working for Muslim-Jewish relations. I applaud them for working for peace.

Or it could be that the word Mimouna comes from the Hebrew word, faith or belief, emunah, the idea that we should trust G-d. They suggests that it links the redemption from Egypt with the future redemption in the time to come. In the Talmud, it is written, “Just as they were redeemed in Nisan from Egypt, so too in Nisan they will be redeemed again.” Maimonidies himself thought that it was an Arabic adaption of Ani Ma’amin.

Or it could be that Mimouna comes from the Arabic word for wealth, ma’amoun, literally protected by G-d. As we start the agricultural year with Pesach at the same time we drop the liturgical prayer for rain, this makes sense.

Throughout northern Africa, Jews opened their homes to all to celebrate. Libyans made challah with a hard boiled egg in it (sound like Greek Easter bread? Lots of cross pollination!). Children dressed in native costumes of Berbers, people hosted potlucks with the Muslims bringing the flour that the Jews hadn’t owned during Passover so that Jews could make muffletas. Food included rich breads, milk, honey, butter.

At my friend’s house, there would be lots of rosewater. In any case, this tradition from Africa, northern Africa, enriches our understanding of Judaism.  This year there was also a Mimouna in Chicago hosted by AVODAH. Here’s how the organizer reflected on it. “Beyond the food and music, the celebration of Mimouna in the Chicago AVODAH community was an attempt to recapture the narrative of Moroccan Jews and use it as a bridge to build relationships with individuals across national and religious backgrounds. I am hopeful that as Jews pursuing social justice we can learn to revisit and tap into the richness of our histories, knowing that not only can they bring us joy, but also power to pursue the change we wish to see in the world.”

Mimouna makes me hopeful too!

My mother always used to play golf on her birthday. It was part of how she established whether she was still alive and how good her quality of life was. When she was younger it was always 18 holes and she walked the course. When my father was gone, it was nine holes, with or without a cart. Later she would drive a bucket, but she was still playing golf. Still later it was mini-golf with her granddaughter. If she couldn’t play golf…well, then…

For her, golf and her birthday were a touchstone. Even when she was in the hospital, she dreamed of golf. Heaven was a golf course and she beat my brother, an almost impossible task. So driven (pun intended) was she to play golf, that at her funeral, we actually threw a golf ball into the grave. Hey, she may need it there in heaven!

Today was the Boston Marathon. One year after the horrific bombings. I have been anticipating this day for a long time. It seems like an important anniversary, a yahrzeit. Anita Diamant, author of the Red Tent and founder of Mayyim Hayyim and someone I am proud to call friend said it so well. http://cognoscenti.wbur.org/2014/04/15/yahrzeit-anita-diamant

But why am I affected? I don’t even live in Boston anymore. Because Boston is my city. Because I have run Boston five times. I lived in Boston for 30 years. I love that city. I love that race. I haven’t run it since 1987. Life intervened. I broke a leg. I had a kid. I was in car accident. Rabbinical school and business travel was its own kind of marathon. No matter where I was in the world, every year I sat on the couch and said, “I just want to run one more.” Usually I linked it to just showing Sarah that I really could do it. Last year was no exception. I sat on my couch, watching the start, saying, “Just one more.” Sarah said, “Why not?” and we began to make plans to run a tune-up race, the Disney Princess Half Marathon. We have now done that. Couch potatoes no more.

Today our day began with a run/walk. Together. 2.6 miles. 10% of the Boston Marathon. Only then could we watch. We watched it all. We cried. We laughed. We tracked friends of ours who were running for themselves. Friends who were running for charity. Friends who were running in honor or in memory of those who were so devastated by last year’s race. We planned other races we would like to do, separately and together. We made deviled egg ducks to look like the sculpture Make Way for Ducklings.

And we wore blue, me my Boston Strong t-shirt.

The Boston Globe ran a story on Sunday about marathoning and healing from trauma.http://www.bostonglobe.com/opinion/columns/2014/04/19/along-marathon-route-trauma-runs-its-course/jd3yEaAHKASjC77k3EruWL/story.html  I found it right on the money. And as a five time Boston Marathoner and a trauma survivor, I know every step they describe.

And here is the important thing. Boston survived. It is back stronger (and more beautiful) than ever. I have survived. I am back stronger (and maybe more beautiful than ever). Like my mother and her golfing, Marathon Monday has become a day to reflect on my life. I am still here. I am still a runner. I am still alive. Thank you Boston–even from a distance. Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, shehechianu, v’ki’imanu, v’higianu lazman hazeh. Praised are You, Lord our G-d, (my G-d), Ruler of the Universe who has sustained us (and me), and enabled us (and me) to reach this milestone.