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.

There are always more questions that a rabbi gets at this period. The formal answer that one gives is called a teshuva, a response.

Some of the questions are logistical. Do we need tickets? Membership? Prayerbooks? What time is Kol Nidre? Why does it have to start so early? What time is break-the-fast? Why is it so late? Where are the bathrooms?

Perhaps you have questions, too.

One question asked was about this very parsha. How could Moses write down the whole Torah, given by G-d and then have the Torah still go on for another chapter and even describe Moses death. Since he believes that the Bible is divine, how is this possible; who wrote the Bible? That was a very big question and one that deserves its own discussion, adult class, or sermon. I did suggest reading Richard Elliott Friedman’s excellent book, Who Wrote the Bible.

The next question was what time is Kol Nidre. 5:30. Yes, that early.

This is the Shabbat for questions and answers. This is the Shabbat for return.

Some of the questions deserve full answers.

A student in the Torah School asked, “If we eat something that isn’t kosher, how do we return to being kosher?” It is a really good question. Is stumped several rabbis. One rabbi decided to do all of his high holy day sermons around this question.

So how would you answer our student?

Answers included, stopping what he is doing, not doing it again, saying you are sorry. As I pointed out the very steps of teshuvah that we will talk about shortly.

It is a really interesting question. And surprisingly the rabbis don’t talk about it much. Oh sure, there are answers about how to rekasher counters or plates or knives. There are answers about what happens if a drop of milk falls into a meat soup. But what if we take something into our bodies that isn’t kosher. How do we make ourselves kosher again if we have eaten something traif?

Here is our linguistic lesson for the day. Kosher really means fit or proper. It is something we are allowed to eat. But it can also apply to the Torah scroll we read from. It is kosher, fit for reading or pasul, unfit. Traif means something that is torn, or unfit. So something that isn’t kosher is torn, separated. It is separated in some way from being holy.

I think therefore, in puzzling it out with that other rabbi.

If you eat something that isn’t kosher, you can brush your teeth and wait some number of hours…and you are kosher again. That’s the simple answer. If we apply the idea that like that pot of soup, what he consumed is less that 1/60^th, a shishim of his body weight, then the kid wasn’t “not kosher” at all.

But maybe the question is a bigger question. How do we return? How do we return to being holy, set apart? How do we be good? Kedusha is being set apart. Keeping kosher, even metaphorically, is one of the things that set apart Jews from the rest of society. Just try to find a kosher restaurant here in Elgin. (Although Spirals, the frozen yogurt shop comes close—all of their product is hechshered).

We are to be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. We are to lead by example, as a light to the nations. You’ll hear more about that on Yom Kippur. So how do we lead by example by what we eat? Here at CKI, I have set the policy that we use fair trade, organic kosher coffee. We are trying to use less bottled water and single use plastics. We are using more real table clothes and real dishes.

How else can we return to a holy state with our eating? I am trying to eat less processed foods, more foods that are sourced locally, less meat and more veggies. Our bodies are our temple as Rabbi Sami Barth said in talking about Psalm 30, a psalm for the dedication of the Temple. If our body is our temple and we are supposed to care for it and dedicate ourselves to it, how do we treat it?

All this from this student’s question about returning our bodies to a kosher state after eating something not kosher.

But perhaps the question is really about how do we make our actions kosher, fit or proper again. How do we return to a state of kedusha, holiness? Then I would look at Yom Kippur’s Torah reading and haftarah readings. Are we living out the words of the holiness code. Is this the fast G-d desires or are we feeding the hungry, housing the homeless? Clothing the naked? As Isaiah demands. Not holding a grudge? Honoring our parents? Not putting a stumbling block before the blind or curing the deaf? Paying our workers on a timely basis? Leaving the corners of the field? Feeding the widow, the orphan, the stranger? In short are we loving our neighbors as ourselves?

The other question that may apply is how do I reconcile if the other person isn’t open to it. This came as a Facebook text message: I don’t see myself apologizing to him or asking forgiveness any time soon. I recognize I have some responsibility for us growing apart, but he’s been lying and cheating, and I’m feeling wronged. So I’m looking for prayers and strength to get through this.

Perhaps you are wondering this too. If you have asked for forgiveness and the person has said no, what next? If you have been wronged and the person hasn’t tried to make it right, what next? Sometimes it is impossible to reconcile.

From my next book, which is coming out later this month:

“Repentance is not forgiveness. That may be the other side of a coin and also one of the major themes of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Well ahead of Alcoholics Anonymous, Maimonides a leading Jewish commentator, scholar and physician of the 12th century, outlined 12 steps to repentance in his code, the Mishneh Torah. The basic four are:

1. Leaving the Sin
2. Regret
3. Confession Before G-d
4. Acceptance for the Future

Those may work for sins against G-d. As the Talmud tells us in Yoma 87b, “For sins against G-d, Yom Kippur atones. But for sins against another person, Yom Kippur does not atone until we appease our fellow.”

That means that we need to not only regret our mistakes but actually ask for forgiveness, promise to never do it again, make restitution and if confronted with the same scenario not repeat the mistake.

Teshuvah which often gets translated as repentance, is more like turning back around, turning towards G-d. G-d will take us back in love if we return.

Hauntingly, haltingly, we beg God during the Torah service “Hashiveinu Adonai, elohecha v’nashuva. Chadesh, chadesh yameinu, chadesh yameinu kekedem. Return to us Adonai, and we shall return. Renew our days as of days of old.” (Lamentations 5:21)

Are you capable of forgiving and loving the people around you, even if they have hurt you and let you down by not being perfect? Can you forgive them and love them, because there aren’t any perfect people around, and because the penalty for not being able to love imperfect people is condemning oneself to loneliness?
Are you capable of forgiving and loving God even when you have found out that He is not prefect, even when He has let you down and disappointed you by permitting bad luck and sickness and cruelty in His world, and permitting some of those things to happen to you? Can you learn to love and forgive Him despite His limitations, as Job does, and as you once learned to forgive and love your parents even though they were not as wise, as strong, or as perfect as you needed them to be?
And if you can do these things, will you be able to recognize that the ability to forgive and the ability to love are the weapons God has given us to enable us to live fully, bravely and meaningfully in this less-than-perfect world?”

Rabbi Harold Kushner in When Bad Things Happen to Good People

You don’t have to forgive as a gift to the perpetrators. You may choose to forgive as a gift to yourself. When you are ready. On your own timetable. And maybe not even once and done. Maybe more like the layers of an onion at different stages in different ways or maybe not at all.

In thinking about deeply about this topic over many years, I have come to the conclusion that until a person feels safe, truly really safe, forgiveness may not be possible.”

Let me be clear here. If you are being abused, I am not saying you should reconcile or you should forgive. Forgiveness is not forgetting and forgiveness can only come once someone is safe.

Yesterday I “prayed” at the Community Crisis Center’s annual Partner in Peace breakfast. October is National Domestic Violence Awareness months. This simple breakfast is one of my favorite events of the year. This year in particular they were honoring four leaders in loving our neighbors, in looking out for the widow, the orphan, the stranger, the marginalized. Four people all of whom retired on June 30, 2019. Gretchen Vapner the founding executive director of the Crisis Center, Ed Hunter, who worked for St. Joe’s for 31 years, Karen Beyer, the executive director of the Ecker Center and the Rev. Karen Schlack, retiring minister at First Presbyterian in Elgin and the wife of our own Daniel Schlack. There was no were else I would have been on Friday morning, except honoring these four. My prayer follows this sermon.

And then finally, one of my colleagues, Rabbi Irwin Huberman, was asked at Tashlich last year, by a kid named Micah, about a verse from Micah, from today’s haftarah portion and the basis for the ceremony called Tashlich, You will cast (Tashlich) all your sins into the depths of the sea.” (7:19)

This modern day Micah wants to know: “Why all this emphasis on sin.”

This, too, is a good question. Most of us haven’t done even any of the alphabetical list of sins, the Ashamnu, that we will recite in the plural multiple times on Tuesday and Wednesday. We don’t want fire and brimstone. We don’t want to be made to feel bad. So what do we do with it?

Rabbi Huberman answers that Archie Gottesman, the co-founder of an organization called JewBelong, dedicated to bringing spirituality and meaning back to Judaism:

“Everyone craves meaning, and if Jews are not going to get it from Jewish practice, then they are going to find it, with Yoga or somewhere else.

Rabbi Huberman’s cousin, Rabbi Yisroel Roll, has an important take on this. As a former pulpit rabbi and a therapist, he encourages us, as the long list of ancient sins is recited in synagogue, to tap our hearts with our fists and recite the words, “I can do better.”

“I can do better, by using words to build rather than destroy.”
“I can do better, by gossiping less.”
“I can do better by softening my heart.”
“I can do better by being less stubborn.”
“I can do better by letting go of grudges and resentments.”
“I can do better by seeking less pleasure and more purpose.”

Maybe this prayer, I can better…would help our first student. The one worried about what happens if he eats non-Kosher food. The answer, don’t beat yourself up…you can do better. Sin in Judaism, Cheyt, is an archery term meaning to miss the mark. He missed the mark. Next time, he can do better. We all can.

Or as Rabbi Sid Schwarz, the founder of PANIM on Jewish leadership, once suggested to me personally at a retreat, rather than doing a negative hesbon hanefesh an accounting of the soul, how about creating a positive one. Rather than hearing the negative voices of ages past, try something like this:

I am articulate, beautiful, courageous, determined.

This takes the emphasis off of sin…

Perhaps we should do one for the congregation:
We are zealous (in a good way), yearning, welcoming and wise, valued and valuable, understanding, Torah based, service oriented, respectful, quiet, peaceful….

May this be a year of reconciliation and return, hope and renewal. A year of teshuvah, of asking and answering questions, of returning to a place where we can each do better.

Here is the prayer I offered from Jewish Women International:

“May the One who blessed our ancestors Sarah, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel, and Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, provide protection, compassion, care and healing for all those who have known violence and abuse within their families. May those who have been harmed find pathways to understanding and wholeness and those who have caused harm find their way to repentance and peace. May our community be a source of support for those who have suffered in silence or shame. May those whose homes have become places of danger find their way to a sukkat shalom, a shelter of safety.
Amen.—Jewish Women International

There are also prayers that can be said during Yizkor if you had a parent who hurt or for victims of abuse because life is really complicated and messy.

A Yizkor Meditation in Memory of a Parent Who Hurt

By Rabbi Robert Saks

Dear God,

You know my heart.

Indeed, You know me better than I know myself, so I turn to You before I rise for Kaddish.

My emotions swirl as I say this prayer. The parent I remember was not kind to me. His/her death left me with a legacy of unhealed wounds, of anger and of dismay that a parent could hurt a child as I was hurt.

I do not want to pretend to love, or to grief that I do not feel, but I do want to do what is right as a Jew and as a child.

Help me, O God, to subdue my bitter emotions that do me no good, and to find that place in myself where happier memories may lie hidden, and where grief for all that could have been, all that should have been, may be calmed by forgiveness, or at least soothed by the passage of time.

I pray that You, who raise up slaves to freedom, will liberate me from the oppression of my hurt and anger, and that You will lead me from this desert to Your holy place.

A Yizkor Prayer For Victims of Abuse

by Rabbi Ira F. Stone

May God remember my (father) (mother)

_____________________ben/bat________________

who has gone to his/her eternal home.

May he/she be granted an opportunity

to expiate the sins of his/her

terrible acts against me.

May the loving fire of God’s justice

relieve him/her of the pain which corrupted

the natural love of a parent for a child.

May God help me remember

that my mother/father joined

with God in giving me the gift of life

and for that gift, despite the pain

that has at times accompanied it,

I am grateful.

Mindful of that gratitude

and as an offering on behalf of my

father’s/mother’s penitence, I pledge

to do acts of loving kindness and charity.

May my father/mother at last fine peace

in the eternal bond with God.

May I find peace in this world

and salvation in the world to come

“It’s alright to cry…crying gets the sad out of you.
It’s alright to cry…it might make you feel better”

Free to be you and me…Rosie Greer

Sometimes we don’t want to do what we are supposed to do. Many of you may have wanted to stay in bed a little longer this morning. But we’re glad you are here. Sometimes our leaders don’t want to do what they have to do either. Moses thought he wasn’t capable because he was “slow of speech” according to the midrash. Jonah felt that it wouldn’t matter if he went to Ninevah and he tried to run as far away as possible all the way to Tarshish. We will hear that story again on Yom Kippur. Esther didn’t want to go to the king, she was afraid for her own life until Mordecai convinced her she might be in that very place and time just for that reason. She found her voice.

It’s alright to cry…G-d will hear our cries.

Yesterday we read the story of Hagar and Ishmael being sent into the wilderness by Abraham at the behest of Sarah. It is not a pretty story. After the water and bread run out, Hagar places the lad under a bush and cries out, “Do not let me look on while the child dies.” She can’t even use his name; she is so pained. Then something remarkable happens. The Lord hears the cry of the lad. Wait, what? Didn’t Hagar just cry out? Then Hagar’s eyes are opened and she finds the water from the spring that was there all along. The message is keep trying, again and again, and you will find the life giving water.

The message is that G-d hears our cries. All of our cries. Even the silent ones.

When the Israelites were slaves in Egypt, they cried out, and their cry came up to G-d. And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt and have heard their cry.

The message is G-d hears our cries. All of our cries. Even when we are enslaved. Even when we are in pain.

Yesterday, we also read about Hannah, barren, who prayed long before the Lord and wept bitterly. She prayed without her lips moving, so that Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk. Yet, the Lord heard her weeping and gave to her a son who she called Samuel, Shmual, The Lord Heard.

The message, again, is that G-d hears our cries. All of our cries. Even when we have no words.

Rosh Hashanah seems like a holiday of tears. Sarah is happy at giving birth, but then as we read this morning, there is the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. She may have died of a broken heart. And Isaac, the midrash teaches that he went blind from his tears. And in the haftarah, Rachel cries for her children.

Over and over again in our liturgy, we beg G-d. “Sh’ma koleinu, Hear our voice. Do not hide Your face from us.” We want to be seen. We want to be heard. We need to be.

Yet we are told in Psalm 30, “I cried out and You healed me…Weeping may tarry for the night but joy comes with the dawn.” It reassures and comforts.

Why do we care in this day and age if G-d hears our cries? Why do we cry out to G-d at all? In Brene Brown’s book, Dare to Lead, the ability to cry, the ability to express our own vulnerability is an important part of leadership. Leadership is not about titles or the corner office. It’s about the willingness to step up, put yourself out there, and lean into courage.” Ultimately the goal of her book is to live and lead wholeheartedly. To be wholehearted means to operate from a place of worthiness—that regardless of what might or might not happen during the course of the day, you are enough.

Our Biblical leaders exhibit exactly that. They are not perfect, not by a long shot, but they are living and leading wholeheartedly. Authentically. Even when they don’t want to, even when it means they have to cry. Remember, it’s alright to cry.

That’s what G-d demands of us. Not that we be perfect, she talks about perfectionism in her book too, but that we strive to be whole. The word Shalom in Hebrew, which we translate as peace, has that sense of wholeness or completeness.

Soon we will hear the voice of the shofar. It is the only commandment for Rosh Hashanah, that you hear the sound of the shofar. We have a master shofar blower here at CKI…and several budding ones.

The shofar cries too. A wordless cry. From deep within. Three different notes, all to sound like crying. Tekiah, a long battle cry, an alarm clock waking us up, preparing us for action. Shevarim, three short notes, broken sighs or weeping. And Truah, nine staccato notes that some say sound like whimpering.

But this is Judaism, so there was an argument, a debate about how those second notes should sound. Perhaps it should sound like groaning. Woe is me. Or, perhaps, it should sound like crying. I am terribly sorry about how I misbehaved. And so we have the 3-part Shevarim, the groan, the sigh and then the 9 part Truah, the nine part piecing cry.

Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz teaches us, “…This is the theme of Rosh ha-Shanah. We were whole, we became broken, but we shall be whole again. We were whole, broken, even shattered into the fragments of the teru’ah but we shall yet be whole again.” [quoted in The Jewish Holidays, Michael Strassfield; p. 100]

When we listen carefully to the notes of the Shofar, we are listening to our whole self and our broken self. The challenge is to bring them together.

The shofar service is an ancient service. The rabbis of the Talmud mandated 100 blasts of the shofar, based on the 100 cries of the mother Sisera. (Talmud Rosh Hashanah 33b). She is waiting for her son to return from battle and is losing hope. She begins to weep. Soon she learns that her son has been killed in battle.

This day itself is called Yom Truah, the Day of Groaning or Wailing, not Rosh Hashanah, the head of the year, in the Torah. The word Truah is in Psalm 150, the last Psalm in the book of Psalms. Praise G-d with taka shofar, b’tzelah truah.

The Ben Ish Chai writes that these sounds are meant to contrast with the tekiah. The tekiah, he explains, is a sound of triumph and joy, while the shevarim and teruah are sounds of pain and suffering. Because of the opposing feelings they represent, when one blows the shofar, he is not to connect the tekiah with the others, by blowing the sounds with the same breath.

There is so much pain and suffering in the world that when Rabbis for Human Rights of North America, of which I am a proud member for over a decade chose a new name, we are called Truah. It offers a clarion call for justice, just as the shofar demands.

Sherri Mandall writing for Aish.com teaches: “The shofar’s cries tells us that inside of all of us there is a place of brokenness, of darkness, of shock, of tears. But the shofar also reminds us of the word shipur, to improve, to get better. The shofar is supposed to remind us of the fact that Isaac was spared, that a ram was offered instead of a person. That is the purpose of the tears, of the wordless cry. Not to surrender to despair. To be shocked, not into complacency but into elevation, into making our lives an offering — not by dying but by living and loving God.” https://www.aish.com/h/hh/rh/shofar/48964221.html

We show that love by our very actions.

But before we can act. Before we can show that love of G-d, we need to hear the wordless cry from deep within. We need to bring our wholeness and our brokenness together. That is the message of the shofar’s cries. That is the message of the leadership of Hagar and Hannah, Sarah and Rachel. We lead with our vulnerability. It’s alright to cry. The message of the shofar is that G-d will hear our cries and make us whole.