This is Martin Luther King, jr Weekend and it is also what has become the annual Women’s March. It is also the 24^th yahrzeit of my father, Donald Frisch. This is going to be a hard sermon. One that actually made me cry as I was writing it. Not because of the yahrzeit, but maybe.

Let’s go on a walk. I want to show you some photos. Including two of my rabbi, Rabbi Everett Gendler. Jews were at the forefront, literally the front lines of the Civil Rights movement. Because Jews understood that if there is persecution of one group, there could be persecution of any group, including Jews. We knew this all too well. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, a professor at Jewish Theological Seminary said about marching with King that he felt his feet were praying.

Simon is not here this morning because he is “praying” the prayer for peace at Elgin’s annual Martin Luther King, jr Prayer Breakfast. That same prayer he leads us in responsively, that ends with the famous quote from Isaiah, that I hear in Martin Luther King’s voice. “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” What you may not know, that translation is Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s translation.

It was also Heschel who said at a conference on race and religion who said, “At the first conference on religion and race, the main participants were Pharaoh and Moses. Moses’ words were: “Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel, let My people go that they may celebrate a feast to Me.” While Pharaoh retorted: “Who is the Lord, that I should heed this voice and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord, and moreover I will not let Israel go. The outcome of that summit meeting has not come to an end. Pharaoh is not ready to capitulate. The exodus began, but is far from having been completed. In fact, it was easier for the children of Israel to cross the Red Sea than for a Negro to cross certain university campuses.” https://voicesofdemocracy.umd.edu/heschel-religion-and-race-speech-text/

Folks, we are STILL NOT THERE YET. There is still not justice. Not equality. Not voting rights–which is the theme of this year’s breakfast. But there is not memory either. Those very pictures we went to see. Not part of the movie Selma.

I want to talk about just one phrase in this week’s parsha, portion. “There arose in Egypt a ruler who knew not Joseph.” And because he didn’t know Joseph and Joseph’s contributions, he enslaved the Israelites, fearing that this people who had grown mighty in number might make war on the Egyptians.

He knew not Joseph. Much of my adult life, much of my rabbinate can be described as building bridges between peoples who don’t know one another well or at all. Whether it was a class I taught at Tufts on Jewish-Christian Relations or the undergraduate internship I had with American Jewish Committee or the founding of The Merrimack Valley Project or other social justice activities, it has been about making sure that others knew Jews and that we were working for a world that supported the widow, the orphan, the stranger. There is a long history of working for systemic change, of finding my voice and speaking out.

Now my father, he loved the ethics and the history of Judaism. We spent many weekends working on civil rights and attending rallies in Evanston and living out his Jewish values. Not so much the theology. That is a sermon for another time. But having been born in 1933, the same year that Hitler came to power, he was very afraid of being visible as Jews. He was a bundle of contradictions, since he never denied being Jewish and we always had students for the Jewish holidays who had no place else to go. However, he was never happy with my decision to be a rabbi. Too public. Too visible. I would just be the first target.

I had another approach. Even before becoming a rabbi. I have spoken out, spoken up, engaged, build bridges. We wouldn’t fall into the trap of “a new ruler arose who knew not Joseph.” It turns out that there is an actual psychological term for this. “Interpersonal Contact Theory.” In rabbinical school, I had a whole class on Israeli-Palestinian Relations, taught by a Muslim and an Israeli. Much of the reading was on this theory. The academic research was disappointing, I felt. It wasn’t clear whether it works. But many organizations try it, including Seeds of Peace which brings Israeli and Palestinian youth to a summer camp in Maine. It has been featured in many articles and one of the organizations that I have given some tzedakah to.

As part of her research for a PhD in psychology at the Univeristy of Chicago, Juliana Schoeder studied Seeds of Peace. As she reported:

At the beginning and end of camp, the campers reported their feelings toward the other group, as well as some of their political attitudes and attitudes toward the peace process, rating their opinions on a scale of one to seven. From pre-camp to post-camp, we found that Israeli and Palestinian teenagers alike reported feeling more positive toward, close with, similar to and trusting of the other side. On average, for all of these questions, the teenagers moved up almost a full point on the scale from where they started, a statistically significant change. They also reported feeling more optimistic about the likelihood of peace and more committed to working for peace, and they expressed a greater intention to participate in other peace intervention programs. Four different sets of campers have consistently shown the same pattern of outcomes. Critics of such programs suggest that there is a “re-entry problem”: that any positive effect of the encounter will vanish when participants return to normal life. We therefore sent campers a follow-up survey one year after they returned home, asking them again about their attitudes. We found the participants’ attitudes did regress over time, but not enough to eliminate a positive effect. Even a year after the camp had ended, the Israelis and Palestinians who were surveyed still felt more positive about the other group than they did before the camp. https://www.seedsofpeace.org/peace-through-friendship-new-york-times/

There is no question in my mind that we are better together. That building bridges works. We are a small congregation. We can collect canned goods, help at occasional soup kettles, show up at a vigil, host national night out. But if we really want to make a difference. To really love our neighbors as ourselves, to take care of the widow, the orphan and the stranger, which our tradition demands, we need to work for systemic change. That’s hard. And we can’t do it alone. We need to build those bridges. Perhaps one of the hardest things I have ever done is my work with the Elgin Police Department around racism. Begun before Ferguson, it is difficult, often heart-wrenching work that I feel I need to be involved in for the long haul.

This weekend also marks the fourth year of the Women’s March. There is not one in Elgin today. I was a proud organizer of the first two Elgin Standing Together. We started that first one at a Women on the Brink meeting and I was a behind the scenes organizer. It was fabulous. And today’s portion was the same one that cold, blustery day. Today’s portion also talks about Shifra and Puah. They have a bit part in Torah. They were the midwives that defied Pharaoh’s order. It was an act of civil disobedience. When asked why the baby boys still lived, they said that the Israelite women were so vigorous, they gave birth before the midwives could even arrive.

So that cold afternoon—because Elgin Standing Together was an afternoon event to accommodate my Shabbat observance. I was not scheduled to speak, but was so taken with Shifrah and Puah that morning, I took the mike out of the mayor’s hand and did a very short d’var Torah. It was powerful. It felt like I was living out Psalm 30, a Psalm for the Dedication of the Temple:

What profit if I am silenced. What benefit if I go to my grave in the pit? Will the dust praise You? Will it proclaim Your truth and faithfulness?

Last year we decided not to do another Elgin Standing Together. The principle organizers were tired. The event would conflict with Martin Luther King, jr Weekend. And there were increasing charges of anti-semitism at the highest ranks of the Women’s March. Too much for me to take the full lead. This year, no one in Elgin even asked, although there is one today in Geneva and in Woodstock as well as Chicago. The underlying issues are still very real. There are still systemic changes that need to happen. As a woman, as a rabbi and especially as a women’s rabbi, I continue to speak out about women’s health care, women’s pay, domestic violence and rape, just not with the Women’s March.

There is another term that is important in the discussion. Intersectionality. Coined in 1989 by Kimberlé Crenshaw to explain the discrimination of African-American women. Based on a case in 1976 between Emma DeGraffenreid and several other black women and General Motors, “arguing that the company segregated its workforce by race and gender: Blacks did one set of jobs and whites did another. According to the plaintiffs’ experiences, women were welcome to apply for some jobs, while only men were suitable for others. This was of course a problem in and of itself, but for black women the consequences were compounded. You see, the black jobs were men’s jobs, and the women’s jobs were only for whites. Thus, while a black applicant might get hired to work on the floor of the factory if he were male; if she were a black female she would not be considered. Similarly, a woman might be hired as a secretary if she were white, but wouldn’t have a chance at that job if she were black. Neither the black jobs nor the women’s jobs were appropriate for black women, since they were neither male nor white.  Wasn’t this clearly discrimination, even if some blacks and some women were hired?”Sadly, the court dismissed the DeGraffenreid’s claims, asserting that black women are unable to combine their race and gender claims into one.” https://www.forbes.com/sites/emiliearies/2017/08/30/the-imperative-of-intersectional-feminism/#661ed2271914

We see the difficulties of intersectionality play out today. With the Women’s March. With the Dyke March in Chicago when the Jewish group carrying a rainbow flag with a Star of David were asked to leave because that flag, similar to an Israeli flag might be triggering to Palestinians. In policing where multi-racial Jews are afraid of police brutality and yet synagogues are hiring more and more police officers.

My approach remains the same. We see others returning to it. When we see booths set up in New York by the Orthodox community, “Meet a Jew, Make a Friend” in neighborhoods like East Harlem.” I believe that we are safer here in Elgin because we have been visible. Because people have met other Jews. I believe we will not return to a time where “a ruler arose who knew not Joseph.” I believe we need to continue to speak out, just like Shifrah and Puah. Then as King and Heschel taught, “Justice will roll down like water, and righteousness as a mighty stream.”

Update:
Sunday was Torah School, just like always. We are in the middle of a kindness campaign. After making havdalah with the kids, I asked what they knew about Martin Luther King. I took them to see the pictures on the bulletin board of the rabbis, including Heschel and Gendler who marched with King. Then we made posters with verses from Torah about lovingkindness and we had our own indoor march so we could pray with our feet. It was one of the most meaningful King celebrations I have ever participated in.

It is January 6. I am sitting in one of my favorite coffee shops. It has been declared #JewishAndProud Day by American Jewish Committee.

So many thoughts as I sit here studying Talmud, wearing my Guatemalan kippah that I bought right here in Elgin. It was part of what solidified my coming to Elgin. They had fair trade Guatemalan kippot in the gift shop. I broke my own rules and bought one.

It is true that I have a kippah to match almost every outfit. And many times, as a woman rabbi many times people don’t even realize I am wearing a kippah. They just think it is some fancy headpiece.

Why is this important. Because I can. Because after the mass shootings in Pittsburgh, members of my own congregation got nervous about me wearing a kippah in public. I might put all of us in danger. But I met with each of my coffee shops. Diane and Brian at Arabica, Kathleen and Chris at Blue Box and Gregg at Starbucks. Each of them said, some variation on “Yes, please wear your kippah. You are safe here.” Well, one thought the Energizer Rabbi peace one with the sparkly studs might be a bit flashy.

Now we all know there is no guarantee of safety anywhere. It only takes one crazy person to interrupt the calm. But as I sit here in the first of many locations, not a nasty word has been said to me.

It hasn’t always been so. Jews have been persecuted for thousands of years. Sometimes even forced to wear a head covering to identify them. In World War II, Jews had to wear a yellow star with the word Jude, Jew written in the center. Their passports were stamped and their legal names were changed to include Sara for women and Israel for men.

My own Sarah, whose birthday is today, once had an issue in public school in the 90s. A girls told her that if Sarah were Jewish she couldn’t be her friend. We were a little stunned. Later that year, Sarah chose to read the Diary of Anne Frank for Biography Day. It was right around Halloween and it was how some of the older grades got around celebrating without celebrating. Each kid had to dress as their character. Oh why couldn’t my kid have picked Michelle Kwan like every other girl in class? We wrestled with how Sarah would dress. Would she wear a yellow star and sit at her desk all day like that?

We talked to her principal who didn’t think there would be any issues. We talked to a good friend who was a Holocaust survivor who figured out a way to do it. Anne Frank didn’t have to wear a star when she was in school. That law hadn’t been enacted before the Jewish kids were expelled from school. Why not, in order to make the point, make a star out of felt and pin it on. If she felt uncomfortable at all she could just unpin it.

In fact that is just what she did. Without any problems.May that always be so!

I sit here with my kippah on proudly. In the large picture window, without any fear or remorse. Proudly, wonderfully Jewish. And yet, I have the ability to take off my kippah if I were to so choose. Today I choose to sit here and wear it. Proudly, wonderfully Jewish.

This is a dreidle. One that we purchased in the late 1960s on Devon Avenue in Chicago. It is six sided. Israeli because it has a peh for poh. A great miracle happened here.

The “extra sides” have a menorah on them and the way I remember it, if you land on that, you get to spin again.

This year I was selected to be a principal for the day in U-46. I was at O’Neal, not far from here. I learned lots that day watching the principal, Marcie Marzullo, and her team. She greeted every student by name in the hall at the beginning of school. Her door is open, always, on two sides. She uses a standing desk. And she is visible, a lot of the day. I learned about the Legend of Old Befana, but that is a story for another time.

Together we visited most of the classrooms. I danced to the Nutcracker with a parachute in Miss Lila’s music class. I taught “Albuquerque is a Turkey” in a kindergarten cl ass. What the principal really wanted me to do is teach about Chanukah in her first grade classes. There were four dual language first grades. I chose a simple book, A Turn For Noah, about celebrating Chanukah in school and being frustrated that his turn to light the menorah hadn’t happened. Like Jewish parents in many schools, I brought dreidles for each child, so every child would have a turn to spin.

In the very first class, the teacher excitedly went to her desk to show us all what she called a “Tomo Todo”, a top that has the Spanish words for the rules of the dreidle game on each of the six sides. The kids immediately saw the connection. For me, it was breath-taking.

Elgin is 47% Hispanic. Every year I have a couple of people come to my office to discuss their possible Jewish roots. Someone might light candles on Friday. Some one might have the tradition of fasting on some day in September. Others have never eaten pork or only eat flat bread at Easter. Earlier in the year the CKI book group read Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean, that illustrates how Jews arrived in the New World, all the way back to Columbus. The Jerusalem Post featured a story that 25% of Hispanics and Latinos may have Jewish DNA. https://www.jpost.com/Magazine/Genetic-research-almost-25-percent-of-Latinos-Hispanics-have-Jewish-DNA-581959

There are other books as well. Kveller recently featured a story about the book Recipes of My 15 Grandmothers, about a woman who was born in Cuba in a Catholic family and can now trace her roots all the way back to pre-Spanish Inquisition Spain. She has now formally converted to Judaism and I am reading her other book, My 15 Grandmothers.

So what is this top? Is it a dreidle or just as the other name in Spanish, La Pirinola?

The history of the dreidle is shielded in some mystery. It was most likely a gambling game that the rabbis sanctioned that when they were not allowed to teach Torah openly during the Roman occupation, they could teach the miracle of Chanukah. “A great miracle happened there.” La Pirinola also has a history dating back to ancient Rome. https://www.spanishplayground.net/toma-todo-game-la-pirinola/

This site will also give you a translation of the words and a stencil with which you can make your own tomo todo, pirinola.

The earliest Pirinola in Central America seem to date to the early 1500s. Were these really dreidles used by “hidden Jews” to celebrate Chanukah? Who knows? But it is interesting to speculate about. I am most grateful to that teacher at O’Neal for introducing me to the Tomo Todo.

Learning about how to celebrate Chanukah in Latin America has proven to be interesting. A more quiet affair than here in the United States, celebrations feature a piñata shaped like a dreidle (one of which Peg, Simon and I made for our Oneg Shabbat table), fried food of various sorts and lighting the menorah. On the sixth night, which is tonight, there is also a special celebration of Rosh Hodesh, the new month. Luna Nueva. The Hanukkah Moon, which is now the name of another Chanukah children’s book.

It seemed especially apt to talk about Rosh Hodesh this year. The codes are very clear. It is not only permissible but encouraged for women to light Chanukah candles. In fact the codes go on to say that But this year one of the chief rabbis in Israel declared it is not. Rosh Hodesh is a half-holiday for women and the Talmud clearly states in Shabbat 23a, for Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: The [mitzva of the] Chanukah candle is obligatory upon women, for they too were part of that miracle. In fact in later codes, women are exempt from working while the Chanukah candles are burning.

Later in the service, when our music director played his lovely setting of Ahavat Olam that leads into the Sh’ma, the proclamation that G-d is one, I had goosebumps. I listened to his playing which has often sounded like a heart beat to me, and I realized that the Maccabees had fought for that very right to sing the Sh’ma. To not go underground. That is what the dreidle and la pirinola are really about. Not being hidden. Being able to practice our Judaism wherever we are. In Israel, in ancient Rome, or right here in Elgin. May this be a season of light and proud visibility, no longer hidden, like the history of the dreidle.

Last night was a shehechianu moment. More than one actually. Last night was the first night of Chanukah in our new house. It was the first Chanukah Sarah and her boyfriend were together. Those are both worth a Shehechianu. But something else happened last night that was important.

Last night I spoke at a Chabad event. Let me say that again. Last night, I, a woman rabbi, spoke words of Torah at a Chabad event.

This has been a difficult year for the Jewish community. We have been confronted with violent anti-semitism. Since last Chanukah, there have been two deadly attacks on Jews—one at Passover at the Chabad in Poway, CA and one just last week at a kosher grocery in Jersey City, NJ. There have been countless acts of vandalism, physical attacks and threats. Actually organizations like the FBI, Homeland Security and the ADL track such acts. The numbers are grim. Anti-semitism is on the rise. On the left and the right.

I have been the rabbi in Elgin for seven years. So has Rabbi Mendel Shem Tov. We came to Elgin the same time. For seven years he has hosted an event in the city of Elgin, with the full participation of the mayor, the fire department and the police department. Many of my congregants attend. Some years I go. Other years I don’t. It confuses people, both elected officials and my congregants when I am not there.

This year, sometime after Poway, we planned early. And then we forgot. Last week I texted him that “I would love to participate and do some small part. A poem, a story, even a song.” and got an immediate response. “Absolutely”.

I tried to write my own poem. But my daughter said, correctly, that it was too dark. That poem maybe available later. I’ll rework it. But I needed something and so I went hunting again and found something better.

So last night found me at the Centre of Elgin, shoulder to shoulder with other Jews—of all kinds, watching a menorah be carved in ice, listening to the kids shout with glee as the fire department dropped gelt from the hook and ladder, and speaking, just after the mayor and the police chief and ahead of the lighting of that ice menorah. Stunningly beautiful.

This is what I said:

I didn’t know much about Chabad growing up in a small Midwestern town, not unlike Elgin. There was a Chabad but they were always separate and not much like us. The police chief talked about “an incident” last year. That was at a Chabad in Poway, CA and while the chief was away at the time, she immediately had squad cars at CKI, before we even knew what had happened. We cannot thank the Elgin Police Department enough.

This past year, the CKI book group read Teluskin’s The Rebbe about Rabbi Menachem Schneerson. I was impressed with just how much of what I do as a rabbi comes out of what he taught. Out of his vision. My dollar project I do with the kids that I learned at NewCAJE, Jewish summer camps, giving a mezuzah to every bride and groom, baking challah on Rosh Hodesh. So much. So for that I am grateful.

I am grateful for tonight. That we can stand here shoulder to shoulder. That the mayor and the police chief and the fire department bless us with their presence. Being visible, being proudly Jewish is the best way to combat the fear and hatred. Your presence, all of our presence, together brings light. For the idea that the light we kindle tonight comes from deep within—another idea of the rebbe. Not unique to the rebbe as we learned about it as well last week from Apostle Larry Henderson at the Kingdom Advancement Center. I thank the rabbi for his graciousness and his leadership. And I offer this poem of Alden Solovy:

Lamps Within

A lamp glows inside your heart,
With eight ways to light it,
Eight ways to keep it shining,
Eight ways to keep its glow.

Light it with your joy.
Light it with your tears.
Light it with this song.
Light it with the works of your hands.
Light it with hope.
Light it with service.
Light it with this prayer.
Light it with praise to God’s Holy Name.

Bring the lamp of your soul out into the street
So that all who have forgotten
The miracles around us
Will remember the beauty within,
So that all who have forgotten
The miracles of old
Will remember to rejoice.

A lamp glows inside your children.
Keep it shining.
Watch it glow.

Light it with your joy.
Light it with your tears.
Light it with song.
Light it with the works of your hands.
Light it with hope.
Light it with service.
Light it with prayer.
Light it with praise to God’s Holy Name.

© 2017 CCAR Press from This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day

 The light does shines brightly in Elgin. It is up to each of us to bring it forth.

Today I got out the Chanukah boxes. Somehow, through the decades they have grown to four large plastic tubs. We own something like 30 menorot. Some from my parents, some that we made as kids, some that our kids made. Some from every period in our lives. My little girl menorah from the apartment in New York. One our neighbors gave us in Evanston. My first menorah in college. Our first menorah when we were married. Our first home. The one I bought for my not-yet baby who was supposed to be born during Chanukah and was not. (More on that one later.) A modern oil lamp I bought our first year in Elgin. In fact, I am looking for a new one to represent this important year for us, for the new “Lake House.”

One of my favorite chanukiot is a large one I bought in Philadelphia. I was working for SAP the large German software company headquartered in Waldorf, Germany. I had flown from Waldorf to Newtown Square, PA, its North American headquarters. It was Chanukah time and my flight to Boston was delayed. I wandered into the US Constitution Museum Gift Shop and found this replica of an 18^th Century, Silver (plated) Early American Menorah. I bought it. Beyond my budget. After all I was in the shadow of the Liberty Bell with its message of “Proclaim liberty throughout the land.” After all, I can quote the letter of George Washington to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, RI. “To bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance,” which continues with the hope that “every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and figtree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.” After all, I was an American Studies major with a speciality in colonial American History, focused on the Puritans and the witch trials. The real witch trials.

After all, I am an American. Period.

Our obligation as Jews is to publicize the miracle of the oil that lasted for eight days. (Even if we think that other miracles were even more important, like this ragtag band of Maccabees were able to reclaim the Holy Temple and to fight against assimilation). Our obligation is to place the chanukiah outside in a courtyard for all to see when they are returning from the marketplace. (Shabbat 21b) Our obligation, according to Hillel is to keep adding light, one each night to increase our light and our joy at this darkest time of year.

Except in a period of danger.

So what to do this year? Some have argued that this is a time of danger. The rising anti-semitism could easily suggest that. However, the codes are clear. A time of danger is described as a time when the authorities actively prohibit the lighting of chanukiot. We are not at that point. That is not to minimize the fear that the rising anti-semitism has caused. It is not to be polyannish or naïve. Sadly, these are scary times. I feel it too. Deeply.

Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg and I were on a similar discussion. Her Washington Post op-ed is worth the read. https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2019/12/18/hanukkah-calls-jews-light-darkness-this-year-we-need-it-even-more/

The picture, which I had never seen of the menorah in the window with the Nazi flag displayed on the other side of the street, photographed in 1932 from the Yad V’shem collection is chilling.

In my reading of many books on anti-semitism, including two this year, First the Jews by Rabbi Evan Moffic and How to Fight Anti-semitism, by Bari Weiss, the best solution seems to be not cowering. Live your Judaism loud and proud. Be out there. Display your menorah, proudly.

Others will join us. That is an important message of Chanukah, too.

One of my favorite Chanukah books is The Christmas Menorahs: How a Town Fought Hate. In Billings, MT one year, a rock was thrown through a window of a house celebrating Chanukah. The response of the town, driven in large part by the local paper, was to stand in solidarity with the family and the Jewish people. Every home wound up displaying a menorah, much like the Jews of Denmark who wore a yellow star. This story from Billings is not ancient history. It was 1993. This book is an important way to start this very discussion.

In Elgin, we have many opportunities to come together as a community. At Winter Wonderland, at the Chabad celebration at the Centre, at CKI, in individual homes. Gail Borden Public Library has a display as do many schools, hospitals, nursing homes. Generally, I feel safe in Elgin. Respected. Valued. Appreciated.

This year, I have an opportunity to do exactly that in a way I have not before. In our new house, the front porch is an alcove. It is almost like a courtyard. So each night, we will place a menorah outside for all the world to see. Or at least my little corner of Elgin. Starting with my Early American one.

Early this fall I got a phone call from a trusted colleague. An African-American pastor from a neighboring church had received a gift. Of a chanukiah. “Do you have a Temple Menorah? We don’t have a use for a nine-branched menorah. We don’t celebrate Chanukah.” I assured him we did have two! And I raced over to see his new chanukiah. We agreed to arrange a swap.

This Friday night, we dedicated both candelabras for sacred service. It was part of our regular Friday night Kabbalat Shabbat service. It was also Human Rights Shabbat and a week before Chanukah, which means dedication.

When we planned this service, with a focus on light, we didn’t know how much we would need a service. It was a difficult week for the Jewish community. Rising, violent anti-semitism was evident in an attack at a kosher grocery store in Jersey City, NJ left six people dead. The president’s executive order on anti-semitism had Jews arguing about the role of the government plays in defining anti-semitism and who is a Jew. To say nerves were frayed might be an understatement.

But Shabbat came, like it does every week, offering the gift of calm and peace, if we are able to receive it. We met in the sanctuary and read the Psalm of the Dedication of the Sanctuary, Psalm 30. We sang songs about light—Or Zarua, Light is sown for the righteous and joy for the upright of heart. Or Chadash, Let a new light shine upon Zion. “This little light of mine.” “Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary.”

I had pre-lit Shabbat candles and one shamash, the helper candle in each menorah. We blessed the candles with the reading from the old Union Prayer Book. “Light is the symbol of the divine.” And se sang boldly: “Light one candle for the Maccabee people, give thanks that their light didn’t die.”

Apostle Larry gave a brief sermon on racism—and why each of us has to be the light. He talked about the triangle of Prejudice, Discrimination and Racism that is outlined in the book White Fragility. And he talked about the power structure of Exodus Chapter 1. Pharaoh who enslaved the Israelites. Pharaoh who wanted to kill every newborn Israelite boy. Pharaoh who was black, who had prejudice against the Israelites, who didn’t really know them, who then discriminated against them and used his power to institutionalize that discrimination. That’s racism.

I spoke briefly about Exodus Chapter 25 and building a mishkan, a wandering tabernacle full of beauty, a place to meet G-d, where the offerings of our hearts will be accepted. Where we ourselves become klei kodesh, holy vessels, just like the menorah.

We ended the service by singing Olam Chesed Yibeneh, You shall build this world with love, a text from the Psalms arranged by my friend and colleague Rabbi Menachem Creditor. It truly was an evening of Unity on Division Street and just what this rabbi needed.

This is the tale of two menorot. But even more so, it is the tale of two communities. Kingdom Advancement Center and their leadership team have worked with CKI on important things like National Night Out, distributing food with the mobile food pantry and bringing the Gail Borden Public Library Book Mobile to our corner of Division Street.

More importantly, their leaders have been thoughtful and careful partners with us in the aftermath of the police shooting that occurred in March of 2018. Once a month a few select leaders meet with the police chief and her command staff to talk about really difficult topics. Racism. Mental Health. Parenting. Gun violence. Healing. Forgiveness. (We’re not there yet.) Police policies and procedures. We spent a long Sunday afternoon on the shooting range seeing demos of equipment—a robot, a bat (that’s an armored vehicle and it is not used for what you think it might be.), a rope, pepper guns that they practice with baby powder, a 40 MM, and some life sized video scenarios. When I tried my hand at it, I was shot dead in 32 seconds. By a white guy in a white hoodie. Oy!

We are working our way through some books, On Killing, White Fragility, Emotional Intelligence 2.0. Just this week, at our monthly meeting, I gave everyone a copy of the Sunflower. This is hard, deep work. Painstakingly slow. Bridges are being built as trust is regained over mac and cheese and black and white cookies. Last month, we all ate corned beef together.

It would be impossible to capture the nuance of some of the conversations that happen at the police station. It is even more difficult to capture what happened after the service were able. People stayed and stayed and stayed. There was genuine warmth. And light. And food. And dreidels.

Two menorot. Two communities. Two meanings.

In the words of “Light One Candle,” “Don’t let the light go out.” I don’t think it will.

This Shabbat has been designated, #ShowUpForShabbat and #PauseforPittsburgh.

Organized by American Jewish Committee and local federations, we read these words penned especially for this evening:

https://www.ajc.org/renew-our-days-as-of-old

And we thank the Seigles for making sure this evening happened, both the spiritual nourishment and the physical sustenance to follow.

One year ago we were horrified at the massacre of 11 Jews as they worshipped on Shabbat just like we are doing today. We join with 18 other congregations in the Midwest, with hundreds across the country, doing precisely this…ShowUpForShabbat.

We opened our doors. Had visitors join us. Some even became members. We held a vigil in the middle of our street, Unity on Division Street, together with Holy Trinity Lutheran Church and their pastor Rev. Jeff Mikyska as well as other clergy and city leaders. We had over 600 people show up. We had painful conversations—around safety and security, around whether to open the front door or just the back door, whether sitting in a coffee shop with my kippah makes every body in the coffee shop less safe.

Much has been written about rising anti-semitism. Just this week there was a new study published by American Jewish Committee, AJC, the national organizers of tonight, https://www.ajc.org/AntisemitismSurvey2019

They headline it that 88% of American Jews believe that anti-semitism is a problem and the 84% believe it has increased in the last 5 years. However, if you keep reading, you find that very few, only 2% have been the target of a physical attack and only 23% have been the recipient of an anti-semitic joke or remark online or in person. That is 2% and 23% too many. But it is not 88%.

Nonetheless, the statistics coming out of the FBI, the ADL and the Southern Poverty Law Center are clear, anti-semetic hate crimes are on the rise. A look at recent media—whichever source you choose, includes these kinds of acts of vandalism and hate on an almost daily basis. The vast majority of hate crimes, 56% are directed at Jews. The congregation that I grew up in, Temple Emanuel in Grand Rapids, had anti-semetic posters delivered a couple of Sundays ago. I learned about it first from my Holocaust teacher in Boston who read about it in the Jerusalem Post. I am not naïve. In the current environment, it can happen anywhere. Any time. Any place. Even Grand Rapids, Even Brooklyn. Even here.

But this Shabbat has a different name. This is Shabbat Bereshit. The Shabbat of the Beginning. Where we begin the reading of the Torah again.

Last Sunday we had two new kids consecrated. Two new families who are willing to be here and celebrate being Jewish. We unrolled the whole Torah. At the end of the Torah the last word is Yisrael, Israel. Ending in a lamed. At the beginning is Bereshit, beginning with a bet. Together that spells Lev. Heart. We encircled these new students with heart. With love.

In today’s Torah portion we learn about love. G-d made Eve, Chava, which means life because it was not good for man to be alone. Adam needed a helpmate. Someone to partner with him. That’s love.

Love. It is a very important Jewish concept…and it is what I really want to talk about tonight. We are commanded to love. Love G-d. V’ahavata et Adonai Elohecha. With all our heart, with all our soul. With all our might. We are commanded to love our neighbors as ourselves. V’ahavta l’rayecha kamocha. And we are commanded to love the stranger in our gates.

But wait, you say, you can’t command an emotion. That’s true. But we demonstrate that love in lots of ways. That’s leadership. When we hear the call. When we answer hinini, here am I. When we show up at the soup kettle or the lunch program at Holy Trinity. That’s love. When we collect food for the Crisis Center, that’s love. When we grow vegetables for ECM that’s love. And it is all mandated. When we go to city council and pray for our government, that’s love. When we visit someone in the hospital or take a shut-in flowers, that’s love.

And love is reciprocal. That’s why we have guests sitting amongst us this evening/morning. People from Greater Elgin who care about us. Who love us. City Councilors. Members of other congregations. Clergy.

That’s why when something happens in Germany, on Yom Kippur no less, the police department is here before we are, making sure we are safe, half a world away. That’s why when we have kids drinking in our parking lot, our neighbor Maria calls me. That’s why when we have hosted National Night Out, we are now joined by our friends at Holy Trinity and at Kingdom Advancement Center. That’s why when anti-semitism first started to rise and there was a rash of bomb threats, and here’s where I get teary eyed every single time I tell this story, Pastor Jeff went to his board and we have the key and the code to his building—G-d forbid we need it.

That’s why we, here at CKI, wanted to take this Shabbat to #PauseforPittsburgh…but also to say thank you. We cannot say it enough. Thank you for standing with us. To Holy Trinity. To Kingdom Advancement Center. To CERL. To Maria. To the EPD. To the mayor and city councilors. To the Chamber of Commerce. To all who are willing to show up and show the love…and stand with us.

But if we as a congregation only focus on fear and anti-semitism, thinking they are all out to get us, we would be wrong. There is so much more to Judaism. So much more to our spiritual roots, to our legacy. I cannot cower in fear. Our doors are open. We have much to give. So much more to who we are. What is it that we want the world to know about us…

These are the words of last year’s Confirmation Class, based on a text by Edmund Flegg who wrote to his grandchildren in France in another scary time and place:

I am a Jew because my parents wanted me to be.
I am a Jew because I wanted to be and I enjoy being Jewish.
I am a Jew because it is in my blood.
I am a Jew because I believe in one G-d.
I am a Jew because my fellow Jews wrestle with G-d.
I am a Jew because I like the traditions and everything I grew up with
I am a Jew because I enjoy being a Jew.
I am a Jew because Jewish communities are nice communities.
I am a Jew because we are accepting of other people and we embrace diversity.
I am a Jew because of our commitment to tzedakah and gimilut chasidim, acts of love and kindness.
I am a Jew because we value knowledge, debate and free thinking.
I am a Jew because I am the last of our kind, since only 3% of the world is Jewish
I am a Jew because we never give up. We’re still here.
I am a Jew because the ethics of Judaism help us to understand morality and right and wrong.
I am a Jew because it gives me new perspective.

Confirmation 5779

All was not perfect. Even in Biblical times. The Garden of Eden didn’t last. Love was not perfect. And so Cain killed Abel. That’s in the longer version of this week’s portion as well. Listen how the Talmud retells it:

It says in the Talmud, Sanhedrin 4:5 to be precise:

Therefore but a single person was created in the world, to teach that if any man has caused a single life to perish from Israel, he is deemed by Scripture as if he had caused a whole world to perish; and anyone who saves a single soul from Israel, he is deemed by Scripture as if he had saved a whole world. Again [but a single person was created] for the sake of peace among humankind, that one should not say to another, “My father was greater than your father”.

This is the very text I took with me to jail yesterday to study with some inmates who are learning about Judaism.

This is the same text that is essentially repeated in the Quran:

Now listen: For this reason we have ordained for the Children of Israel that whoever kills a person, unless it be for manslaughter or for mischief in the land, it as though he had killed all men. And whoever saves a life, it is as though he had saved the lives of all men. And certainly our messengers came to them with clear arguments, but even after that many of them commit excesses in the land. 32nd verse of the fifth Sura, or chapter, of the Quran

Our text tonight tells us we are all created b’tzelem elohim. In the image of G-d. But that doesn’t mean we all look alike. Once I had a confirmation class with a kid from a multi-racial family, one with Central American roots and one who was adopted from China. The black kid said, “All Jews look alike”. I just looked at him, mystified. The white kid said, “Yeah all Jews have big noses.” Still stumped I talked about Jews and stereotypes. I then took them into my office to show them themselves in the full length mirror. Tzelem, image, really is closer to mirror. None of them looked alike. All of them were created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of G-d. It was a Mr. Rogers moment. The same Mr. Rogers who lived and worked in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh.

Each of you is created in the image of G-d too, with a divine spark within each of you. Finding that divine spark is our obligation. Having the courage to love is our obligation. That’s leadership.

So as Lin Manuel Miranda said after the massacre at the Pulse Nightclub, that I repeated at another vigil:

“Love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love, cannot be killed or swept aside.”

I hope I never need to lead another vigil. But I know here in Elgin there will be others standing with us expressing that sentiment and working for the time where we can live in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. He told people, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”

That’s what I want to take away from this evening. Love is love is love. The helpers who surround us. And the image of those two young girls and their proud mothers encircled by the Torah.

Other readings we used:

“They Sat in the Back”: A Poem for Those Killed in Pittsburgh
BY HANNAH DANIEL , 10/24/2019

We sat in the back.
We were 13 years old, itchy, tired, and we didn’t want to be there.
We were anxious to leave our seats—
we sat in the back to sulk,
to count on our fingers how many more Saturday morning services
we would have to endure before we could check
the box for our b’nai mitzvot.
We picked at our nails,
but we sang the blessings because we loved them even still.
The minutes limped along.
We shifted in our dresses and our ballet flats that were getting a little too small.
Our stomachs rumbled as we waited for kiddush
and we sat in the back of the room.

They also sat in the back.
Our matriarchs, our door-holders,
the ones who had prepared our kiddush that morning.
The ones who knew the code to the building was the same year it was built,
the ones who drove us to this service.
They were the ones who sang in the choir,
the ones who taught your children their aleph bets.
They sat nearest to the entrance, the ones who walked with walkers.
The ones who parked right outside the temple doors to rest
their stiff backs on stiffer benches each Saturday morning.
The ones who have seen their children
and their children’s children
through the sanctuary’s doors.
They built this place up from the ground
and they sat in the back.

We did not want to sit in the front, where we might catch the eye of the rabbi,
where God might see our lips stumble on our prayers.
We sat in the back so we might easily slip out to use the bathroom,
to get a drink of water, to check the broken clock in the hall.
We sat in the back so that we could be the first to leave.

They sat in the back because they arrived early.
They were our living ancestors, our minyan makers.
They sat in the back and they knew your name
because they had been the first ones to welcome your family into the synagogue
with a warm hug and boker tov.

We sat in the back; we wanted to leave.
They sat in the back; they didn’t have time.

The author would like to dedicate this work to Joyce Fienberg, Rose Mallinger, Richard Gottfried, Jerry Rabinowitz, Cecil Rosenthal, David Rosenthal, Bernice Simon, Sylvan Simon, Daniel Stein, Irving Younger, and Melvin Wax.

Hannah Daniel is a junior studying biology and creative writing at Carnegie Mellon University. Her poem, “They Sat in the Back,” was the recipient of the first prize in college poetry at the 20th Annual Martin Luther King Jr. Writing Awards. Her home congregation is Temple Beth El in Harrisonburg, VA, and she is a member of the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ) College Leadership Team and an alumna of NFTY-MAR and URJ Mitzvah Corps.

Wherever I go, I hear footsteps:
My brothers on the road, in swamps, in forests,
Swept along in darkness, trembling from cold
Fugitives from flames, plagues and terrors.
Wherever I stand, I hear rattling:
My brothers in chains, in chambers of the stricken.
They pierce the walls and burst the silence.
Through the generations their echoes cry out
In torture camps, in pits of the dead.
Wherever I lie, I hear voices:
My brothers herded to slaughter
Out of burning embers, out of ruins,
Out of cities and villages, altars for burnt offerings.
The groaning in their destruction haunts my nights.
My eyes will never stop seeing them
And my heart will never stop crying “outrage”;
Every one will be called to account for their death.
The heavens will descend to mourn for them,
The world and all that is therein will be a monument
on their grave.

Dear God, so much innocent bloodshed!
We are supposed to be created in Your image,
But O How we have distorted it.
When we recall the beastly acts of people,
We are ashamed to be human.
When we read of the nobility of their victims,
We are proud to be Jews.
Teach us, O God, to honor our martyrs,
By being vigilant in defense of our people everywhere,
And by fighting cruelty, persecution and H.
But must cruelty always be?
Must viciousness ever be the signature of humanity?
No! No! We refuse to accept that!
We refuse to give H the last word,
Because we have known the power of love.
We refuse to believe that cruelty will prevail,
Because we have felt the strength of kindness.

We refuse to award the ultimate victory to evil,
Because we believe in You.
So help us, O God, to draw strength from our faith,
And help us, our Father, to live by our faith.
Where there is H, may we bring love.
Where there is pain, may we bring healing.
Where there is darkness, may we bring light.
Where there is despair, may we bring hope.
Where there is discord, may we bring harmony.
Where there is strife, may we bring peace.
Make this a better world and begin with us.
We mourn them and vow not to forget them.
We are heirs to their horror, their heroism, their hopes.
We see no reason, we sense no purpose, we claim no justice in this vast martyrdom.
Yet, weeping, we affirm the sanctity of life,
God’s elusive wisdom and compassion,
The hidden, waiting goodness within Man,

The eternal destiny of the House of Israel.

            Rabbi Jeffrey Myers, Tree of Life Synagogue, Pittsburgh

Tree of Life, Pittsburgh
Tree of Life,
Revive our souls,
Enrich our days,
Entreating Your blessings.
O, God of Peace,
Fill our hearts with comfort,
Letting Your Torah shine,
In the fullness of our love.
Faith in You, our God,
Eternal Source of blessings.
Praying for healing
In the depths of despair,
Thanking God for the survivors,
Thanking God for the first responders,
Sorrow crushing our hearts,
Bereaved beyond belief,
United in our love,
Returning to You in faith,
God of Israel,
Healer of generations.
Tree of Life,
Redeemer of Israel,
Enliven this moment with healing,
Enliven this moment with hope.
Oh, Rock of Israel,
Forget not the Jews of Pittsburgh.
Let Your love flow
In the days ahead
For justice and peace
Everlasting.

© 2018 Alden Solovy and tobendlight.com.

In the beginning G-d created the heavens and earth.
Then G-d created people, male and female, G-d created them.
Then even though they were created in the image of G-d.
That’s when the problems began.
I sat on my deck.
Watching night descend. The sky was beautiful
Intensely orange and pink
Firey yellow searing against the red maples

Why can’t we just live this way?
Why must there be anger and animosity?
Why do we live in fear?
Why can’t there be peace?

For 25 hours, on this Shabbat of Creation
I want to return, return to days of old.
Not to some nostalgic view of the shtetl
It was never so good.
Not to the days of the Temple.
Even if I like steak and barbecue
That’s not how I draw close to G-d.

Not to Sinai
With its rules and regulations.
No, I want to return to a simpler time
To the Garden of Eden
To Paradise
To a time of peace.
Shabbat is that time of peace.
Shabbat is a foretaste of the world to come.

Help me be ready
Help me to live without fear.
Help me to be a messenger of peace
An angel of peace.
Your angel of peace.
Welcoming and unafraid.

Margaret Frisch Klein, Shabbat Bereshit 5780

(working backwards. Here is the previous week’s d’var Torah and discussion)

One hundred and twenty and seven. And Sarah died. In Kiryat Arba, now Hebron. (Trivia question, where is the only other reference to 127 in the Bible?)

The rabbis ask, why the extra ands. The Torah could have just said, one hundred twenty seven. Since there are no extra words in the Torah, the vuvs, the ands must come to teach us something.

The midrash explains, “when she was twenty, she was as seven for beauty […] when she was one hundred, she was as twenty for sin.” (Gen. Rabbah 58:1)

All year we are looking at leadership. Sarah was a leader. She is even designated one of the seven women prophets. How is she a leader?

• She was a creative problem solver—giving her handmaiden, Hagar to Abraham, forming the first surrogate mother.
• Abraham was told listen to her, by no less than G-d.
• She laughed at the time to come and planned for it.
• She was kind, not repeating all of G-d’s message to her husband.

After she dies, then Abraham buys a burial plot, a cave. And he eulogizes her. The midrash continues that his eulogy is Eishet Chayil, A Woman of Valor. It is an interesting way to read text, backwards and forwards. Eishet Chayil is in the Book of Proverbs, a much later text.

When I sat down for breakfast on Tuesday morning at the AJR Retreat, Eishet Chayil was part of the conversation. One colleague, Rabbi Laurie Gold, remembered that my mother never liked this reading. While I believe my mother was a woman of valor, she hated the reading and viewed it as antithetical to her feminism. She forbade using it at her funeral. In our house, I use this poem as a checklist every week. Yes, I was kind (I hope). Yes, I gave tzedakah. Yes, my candle burned at both ends—and why is that a value for a woman? Yes I gave food to my workers—and the poor. Still working on opening my mouth with wisdom and kindness.

There are some modern versions of Eishet Chayil:

https://jwa.org/node/23715

This one intersperses the traditional translation with modern examples:

https://www.ritualwell.org/ritual/todays-woman-valor

While these are closer, they don’t quite make it for me. I tried to write my own once. And I tried to write for Anita Diamant who put out a call to write one for her latest version of the New Jewish Wedding book but nothing quite worked.

This week is the week before Thanksgiving. Last night we looked at things for which we might be grateful. The rabbis of the Talmud teach that we should say 100 blessings a day. Eishet Chayil is both a eulogy, a hespod in Hebrew and an ethical will, a listing of the values and blessings that we want to pass down to our children and children’s children. Some people have the tradition of writing their own ethical will—not how to disperse the physical wealth, but rather looking at the spiritual wealth and blessings. Let’s spend a few minutes starting that. Using Eishet Chayil as a model, what are those values, those blessings we want to pass down to our children and our children’s children.

Ideas that were mentioned:

• A sense of wonder
• A connection with G-d and Judaism
• Finding joy and happiness
• Meaningful work
• Work/home life balance
• A passion for lifelong learning
• A commitment to community and family
• A life of friendship
• Many hugs and puppy dog kisses, and snuggles
• Snuggling on the couch with a roaring fire
• A desire to make the world a better place
• Being caring and compassionate, warm and welcoming

Here are two samples:

http://archive.jewishagency.org/jewish-community/content/24055

Many have written ethical wills including Sholom Aleichem, Hannah Shenesh, and many many more collected in Rabbi Jack Riemer’s book: Ethical Wills and How to Prepare Them.

Here are some exercises to get you started:

https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/writing-an-ethical-will-how-to-get-started/

If this captivates you—as it has my husband who wrote a LONG ethical will to our daughter on the occasion of her Bat Mitzvah,

If you are still stumped but intrigued you can join my class on Wise Aging. We meet on Tuesdays at 1:30 PM.

Writing an ethical will is a blessing we give our children. May this Thanksgiving be a season of gratitude and blessings and values we hand down to our children and our children’s children.

(Trivia answer: 127 shows up in the Book of Esther. There were 127 provinces that the King of Shushan ruled over from India to Eithiopia.)

(I am woefully behind in my writing but will use this week to catch up.)

Toldot. These are the generations of Isaac. You are part of the generations of Isaac.

We spend a lot of time working on genealogies. Online research. Ancestry.com. 23 and me. Just curious how many of you have done your 23 and me? Some even believe that you can trace whether you are a Cohein to your actual DNA. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Y-chromosomal_Aaron) Or whether you are a crypto-Jew living in a Latin-American country. At least once a year I have someone sitting in my office wondering if their “weird” family traditions were a vestige of Judaism and if they themselves are Jewish. https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2018/12/dna-reveals-the-hidden-jewish-ancestry-of-latin-americans/578509/At

Thanksgiving is all about family traditions—whether you came as a Puritan, or an immigrant from Eastern Europe or you were a hidden Jew from Latin America. Last week we talked about the values we want to pass down to our children and children’s children. Once one of my step-daughters said that our family had no traditions. It simply isn’t true, I realize, as we make all our family’s favorite Thanksgiving Day specialities–and we celebrate Thanksgiving Sheni tonight. Because, it is a traditional Jewish holiday. Two nights of festive meals.

Today, let’s talk about the traditions we want to pass down. What makes Thanksgiving special? What makes Judaism special?

At Thanksgiving, I miss my parents—and I often wonder what my father the geneticist would think about all this genetic testing. We can have a discussion over Kiddush about the pluses and minuses of testing.

Since this is Shabbat Thanksgiving, I am going in a slightly different direction. For many, sadly, Thanksgiving itself is a time of loneliness. That maybe true for some of you. And some of how that sense came to be may have come right out of this morning’s portion.

Our Biblical heroes are far from perfect. They are leaders nonetheless as they pass down traditions to their children. It’s a good thing. It gives us hope. We can be like Abraham and Isaac, or Rebecca and Jacob. How could you expect anything less. Isaac is wounded, damaged by his own father as he is nearly sacrificed. He takes Rebecca to be his bride and he loves her, the text tells us this, and is comforted by her after the death of his mother. They even live in her tent. When we next meet him, he is nearly blind. The midrash tells us from the tears he shed at his own binding and almost sacrifice…the Akedah.

Now Isaac and Rebecca are about to become parents, after a long bout of infertility. Twenty years! But the children are struggling in her womb. She goes to l’derosh, to seek out from an oracle, what was happening to her. L’derosh is where we get the word midrash from, it is where we seek out meaning from the text. It is also where we get Beit Midrash, House of Study and in Arabic Midrasha, their houses of study.

I introduce the Arabic deliberately here. Arabic and Hebrew, as you know are sibling languages. So very similar. And still the siblings struggle.

Here’s the thing. Isaac and Rebecca, the best of friends, the lovers that they were just chapters ago, here flunk parenting 101. Isaac who likes game prefers Esau, who enjoys the hunt. Rebecca prefers Jacob. Eventually Jacob lives up to his name of “heel” and tricks his blind father out of Esau’s natural blessing. Esau is so upset he wants to kill Jacob.

This is a story of sibling rivalry and a fear of scarcity. Even the text uses some pejorative language to describe these brothers. Esau, the other, is ruddy, hairy. And we Jews, we love our book-learning, Mama’s boys. At least we did. We prized the yeshiva bacher—the paler the better because that meant he was learning. And it is true that as AJ Liebling might have said—the freedom and the power of the press is limited to those who own one. Others have also taken credit for that quote. But this is part of what we hand down to our children and grandchildren, based on this text. Jacob is good—even though he tricked Esau out of his birthright. Esau is bad.

Anyone struggle through Thanksgiving dinner? Anyone have those old feelings of childhood that “she loves him more” or who didn’t even want to go because there would be someone you didn’t want to talk to or maybe you were worried that someone wasn’t even going to show up. There is so much written in the popular literature and women’s magazines on the etiquette of Thanksgiving dinner. We are past that now, for this year, however there are six more weeks of holidays to go through. The roots of that anxiety may go back to here. Imagine the conversation at the lentil stew dinner as Jacob is about to trick Esau and Isaac. Imagine the conversation after when Rebecca tells Jacob to flee before his brother can kill him.

Then the text continues. And it gets even more complicated, maybe bizarre. There was a famine in the land…we’ve been here before. And we are back to scarcity. Isaac goes to Abimelech. The same King that Abraham went to earlier, in Chapter 20. And Isaac tries the same ruse, passing off his wife as his sister. Really. Long before a #MeToo movement. So Abimelech protects both Isaac and Rebecca. And Isaac becomes wealthy—which causes the Philistines to become jealous. So, they stop up all the wells that Abraham had dug with earth. Again, it is a text of fear and scarcity. The rest of the text reads like a text over water rights. It could be a modern saga. The stuff I learned about as a global justice fellow with American Jewish World Service.

The arguments over the wells continue throughout the remaining part of our parsha. As noted Bible scholar, James Kugel says, Abimelech and Isaac have “rather frosty relations.” The Philistines suggest a sworn peace treaty, a covenant, to smooth things over. And they conclude this treaty with a feast. Play the images of the Puritans and Native Americans here. Or not. Because that story too isn’t the way we learned it. The Philistines leave and “that same day Isaac’s servants come to him and report about a well that they had dug; they said to him, “We found water.” (Gen. 26:32)

However, as Kugel teaches, that in another version of the text, the Septuagint, Old Greek translation. Here, the text is one letter different. Our text says, “they said to him, ‘lo’ spelled lamed vuv.” But in the Septuagint it says lamed alef, “we did not find water.” What a difference that alef makes, changing the meaning of the verse entirely.

Kugel continues that in the Book of Jubilees which did not make it into our canon but is the basis of much of what the Hashmoneans taught and is considered sacred by Ethiopian Jews and Eastern Orthodox Christians. Jubilees is an incredibly xenophobic text, dealing with non-Jews and assimilation which is to be avoided at all costs—that’s why the Maccabees embraced the text. How appropriate to be discussing this morning as we move into Kislev and Chanukah mode. What the Maccabees were really fighting against was assimilation. What, then, is the plain meaning of the text? Which text? How do we relate to this text of scarcity?

I choose to find ways that we can embrace the other. That’s part of why we are opening our building for the filming of Fargo on Monday. Love your neighbor and love the stranger. Remember. It is like Rabbi Harold Kushner says. “But at the end, if we are brave enough to love, if we are strong enough to forgive, if we are generous enough to rejoice in another’s happiness, and if we are wise enough to know that there is enough love to go around for us all, then we can achieve a fulfillment that no other living creature will ever know. We can achieve Paradise.” This is part of the tradition that I pass down to my children and grandchildren. That’s part of how I exercise leadership. There is truly enough to love around—at your Thanksgiving table, or even with water rights.

I am tired. Really, really tired. I heard that at least four times last week. From congregants struggling with health issues. From well meaning volunteers. From people who had been traveling. From people who are exhausted by the news cycle. From cantors and rabbis all across the country. I heard it so often this week, I almost didn’t give this sermon. And I changed my introduction to reflect what I was hearing. I even said it on Sunday morning.

Brene Brown in her book, Dare to Lead, makes an interesting observation. She was doing a workshop for the army and asked the group to do one thing more, to take on yet another task. One brave soldier raised his hand and said, “I can’t. I’m tired.” She asked how many of the soldiers were tired and they all raised their hands. So I ask, how many of you are tired? Go ahead, raise you hands.

You are not alone. So what’s going on here? Brene Brown went back to do some research. She shows that tired is actually a code word for lonely. So let me try asking the question again. How many of you are lonely? You don’t have to raise your hands.

But if you are lonely, that’s OK , too. Again you are not alone. And you are loved.

One of the editors of my upcoming book asked me to look hard at one phrase I had repeated. You are not alone. I used it over and over again. I believe that is a message that people need to hear. We walk with you. Next to you. I couldn’t find a phrase that was as powerful. So let me say it again. You are not alone. And you are loved.

But being tired and lonely lead to other issues. In 2004 study, 1 in 4 Americans had no one in their life they could confide. Vivek Murthy, the former US Surgeon General said, “Loneliness and social isolation are ‘associated with a reduction in lifespan similar to that of smoking 15 cigarettes a day and even greater than that associated with obesity.” Dr. Atul Gwande, author of Being Mortal said that the three plagues of aging are boredom, loneliness and helplessness. Rachel Cowan in her book, Wise Aging, said that seniors fear invisibility, isolation and being without purpose.

Social isolation leads to a host of issues: it interferes with problem solving ability, concentration, memory, your sleep cycle. It also lowers your immune, system, is a risk factor for Type 2 diabetes and, arthritis and is as dangerous as obesity, and chronic Alcoholism, dementia, heart disease and depression.

And while much has been written about loneliness and the elderly, it is not limited to the aging. Rather, in analyzing the results of a study of 3.4 million people, the prevalence of loneliness peaks in adolescents and young adults and then much later in the oldest old.

You can be in a room full of people and still feel lonely. You can be in a committed relationship and still feel lonely. Or you can be living independently and be lonely. Our electronic devices while they connect us quickly across the globe have added to our isolation. As I said recently, I know more about all of you who I see routinely, frequently, than I know about my own kids and grandkids who live in three separate states. Facebook and phones help, but it is not the same as being in the same place. As a working mother, there were frequent debates about quality of time versus quantity in parenting. Do you think our children ever felt lonely or isolated?

There is an antidote to loneliness. At its root meaning, religion, from the Latin religio, means to tie back up into. People are searching for something to tie back up into, to replace

The Psalm for these days of teshuvah, Psalm 27 has this verse:

Though my mother and my father leave me, yet, the Lord will take me in.

The Psalmist demands of G-d that G-d not hide his face. We hear echoes of this in the Sh’ma Koleinu prayer. Lord, hear our voice. Don’t hide your face. Don’t abandon me.

Somehow, being united with the Divine is an anecdote for loneliness.

And we are reassured that G-d is always present, that G-d neither slumbers nor sleeps. That G-d will give us rest and lighten our load. Often at hospitals I will sing the last verse of Adon Olam in a lullaby version:

Bayado afkid ruchi
B’eit ishan v’hira
V’im ruchi giviyati
Adonai li v’lo ira.

Into God’s hand I commit my spirit
When I sleep, and I awake
And with my spirit, my body
Adonai , is with me, I will not fear.

When you sing to someone in the hospital, when you visit, the person you are visiting feels less alone. They are less scared. And the most remarkable thing….it can have real, lasting medical benefits. Standing at the foot of a bed with a nurse, we have watched as blood pressure and heart rhythm returned to normal.

You are not alone in your loneliness or your fear.

In our study of leadership, the two most valued qualities of a leader were being a good communicator and a good listener. That’s leadership. It is also being a good friend. Being empathetic and caring. Hearing what your friend is saying. Sometimes hearing what your friend is not saying.

Telling someone to “buck it up and not be lonely,” isn’t very empathetic. It is not even very effective. Frequently, it only makes the person feel worse. Perhaps it is better of offer what is sometimes called the “gift of presence”, just sitting with someone. Offer to go for a walk. Go get a cup of coffee. Babysit the kids.

I am not alone in talking about loneliness this week. My colleague Rabbi Peg Kershenbaum shared a book she was speaking about:

Rabbi Marc Katz wrote, “The Heart of Loneliness, How Jewish Wisdom Can Help You Cope and Find Comfort.” He points out that many of our Biblical heroes, leaders, were lonely. Eve was mostly ignored by Adam after they ate of the apple. Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Hannah, struggling with infertility and its inherent shame in those days.

Katz even shows how G-d was lonely when rejected and dismissed by the Jewish people.

It is not a question of saying, “So you think you have troubles? Take a look at what happened to this Biblical forebear.” Rather, he uses these archetypes to show that our tradition is just the place to turn for comfort.

Aaron, Moses, Miriam, Jeremiah, Jonah all experienced loneliness. Rachel and Leah each married to Jacob were rivals, lonely and eventually friends. Moses who had to learn to delegate so he wasn’t alone judging the people. Miriam who with her skin disease was put outside the camp.

Abraham died alone. Only after his death did his two sons, Isaac who he almost sacrificed and Ishmael who he sent out into the wilderness to almost certain death, did they come back together to bury their father. Perhaps that is really the work of Yom Kippur, coming back together. Finding the courage to make amends or to phone a friend and break the isolation.

So often when I go to the hospital or assisted living places are people sitting there with no one to visit them. For days on end.

Rabbi Kershenbaum tells the story of the students of a famous rabbi who wanted to dispel darkness and so rid the world of evil. They ask their teacher how they should go about accomplishing their goal.

He tells them to take stiff, new brooms, go down into the cellar and sweep out the darkness. Down they all go, brooms in hand.

They sweep for hours but, not surprisingly, fail to sweep away the dark. Up they come to the rabbi. This time he tells them to go down and shout at the darkness. Down they troop and holler fiercely at the dark. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t budge. Up come the students to consult the sage. Beat it with sticks! he tells them and they dutifully bludgeon the dark cellar until their arms ache with the effort. A bit crestfallen, they go back to their rabbi. This time he tells them,

“Light a candle and the dark will flee. Then seek to be the candle wherever you meet the darkness.”

How then are can we, at CKI, be that candle?

We offer community, a way to be with friends. We offer services, education programs for kids and adults, amble chances to schmooze over Oneg Shabbat and Kiddushes, chances to celebrate and to mourn. People who will visit you or reach out a helping hand. A chance to not be lonely.

Each of you has the opportunity to be a candle. Don’t be like the punchline to the old Jewish joke. How many Jewish mothers does it take to screw in a light bulb? Never mind, I’ll just sit in the dark. Here we have the opportunity to seek out friends who may be suffering—or just need a hug or word of encouragement. This is your chance to return, to tie back up. G-d is waiting for us to come home. Our souls are waiting for us to come home. We are waiting for the the light.