All my bags are packed. I’m ready to go…..It seems more like the “Travelers Blessing Tefilat HaDerech” than the actual one.

No actually I am here. I’ve arrived. With 11 other rabbis and some of the AJWS staff. Ruth Messinger the founder and executive director (safe to say my hero) will be here tomorrow.

First impressions of Guatemala.The avocados are amazing. After two years of studying it is good to finally be here. My colleagues are caring committed interesting fun. And they are good at taking care of one another. Guatemala City is a real city of 5 million people. It looks more like sections of Heidelberg or Jerusalem than Los Angeles. Very European in feel. Dinner at a traditional Guatamalan restaurant was yummy. And it was very pretty. The flowers are gorgeous and everywhere. So is the music. Our session started with a wedding downstairs and the Latin beat was palpable. Literally.

We began our reflection meeting with stating one thing we wanted to leave behind and one thing we would each individually bring to the group. I was asked to go first which I thought was a daunting task. I said that I wanted to leave behind my dependence on my cell phone but that it would be hard because it doubles as my camera. I think I bring to the group the diversity that is my community and our commitment to pluralism. What I realized as I spoke later in the evening about my Guatemalan son-in-law and my Cambodian nephew is how diverse my own family is. Others spoke of needed to leave work behind or stress or anxiety and uncertainty. I think it is fair to say we are all excited and also nervous.

When each person spoke he or she would say “Dabartti I spoke.” And we would echo “Shamati. I heard.” This is something that I taught my own congregation yesterday when we were working on active listening skills. So the synergy was palpable. Then Adina our staff person told us a d’var Torah that she remembers from when she was 15. If you leave out the vowels in “Sh’ma Yisrael” you can read it as “Sh’ma Yashar El” translated roughly “Listening leads straight to G-d.”

This became the theme for me for the evening—probably the whole trip. Listen. Learn. Listen. Learn. See the Divine in everyone. Hear their words. This is how we get closer to G-d.

In 48 hours I will be on a plane heading to Miami and then onto Guatemala. It is the culmination of a two year Global Justice fellowship with American Jewish World Service.

American Jewish World Service works in 19 Global South countries to partner with local agencies to ameliorate poverty. Along the way, they have discovered they need to work on a reduction of violence, especially for women, girls and the LGBT community.

I became a fellow as part of my commitment to professional development. I work hard on issues of social justice, especially partnering locally with organizations like Habitat for Humanity, the Community Crisis Center, the 16^th Circuit Court Steering Committee on Domestic Violence. AJWS’s global approach to these issues might inform the work I do here.

It has been a privilege to be part of this group. Along the way to Guatemala, I have learned much. Read much. Done all my homework (well almost, there is this nagging last project about the story of self that I have not completed). Learned the Wellstone Organizing method. Lobbied for IVAWA, the International Violence Against Women Act. Met my congressman in his office, at our synagogue and in Washington.

My congressman recommended that I read a book, The Locust Effect. It was not on the “official” reading list but I read it anyway. I have found this book especially haunting. The author shares much of the opinion of AJWS and Nicholas Kristof who wrote Half the Sky. But he seems to take it a step further. Its premise is that without an effective and safe legal system, violence against women and girls, the amelioration of poverty cannot happen.

These issues and more are part of what AJWS works on and I look forward to seeing the agencies that AJWS supports and the impact that involvement has had. I look forward to meeting real people and seeing how these issues effect them directly. I look forward to running and maybe meeting one of my running buddies. I look forward to the bright colors, the mountains, a mythical lake, some Mayan ruins. I look forward to chocolate and coffee. And all of the experiences I can’t really prepare for or predict.

This fellowship builds community too. It builds it with a network of rabbis who participate with me. We have studied in chevruta. We have discussed classical Jewish texts and difficult books like Bitter Fruit. We have spent time in Los Angeles, New York and Washington. Along the way we have become friends. We have become a community–virtually and occasionally in person. And in Chicago, there is another group of “fellow travelers” who work locally.

I am hoping to continue this blog, so watch this space. My understanding is I have free data, so text and email and not voice. And it will be over almost before it begins.

We are still in the period of time known as the Three Weeks. There is much to celebrate today. Thank you Risa for that opportunity. Unfortunately there are still things that are disturbing.

If you came today because you wanted me to address the Iran deal, I will but only after services and after Kiddush so we don’t spoil the Shabbat shalom moment that we create within these holy walls of the sanctuary. Similarly, if you wanted me to discuss Chattanooga and the rising threat of ISIS to our American way of life, you will have to wait, as we mourn the tragic loss of life.

Nonetheless, there are things that have happened this week, that need to be discussed. And I would like to suggest a framework to you. As I wrestled with what to say, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, a leading, Modern Orthodox rabbi, writing in the Jerusalem Post, reminded us in his D’var Torah that Unity does not mean Uniformity.

And while he was linking this week’s Torah portion and last week’s Torah portion together, I want to share with you three separate events this week. The first one seems simple enough on the surface. Can my seminary post an job listing for a male-only shofar blower? “That’s discriminatory,” you say. It might be. But, with all deference to Risa, my seminary is an institution that prides itself on pluralism. Within that spectrum is a halachic position that says that women are not obligated to time bound mitzvot, including blowing of shofar. Since they are not obligated, then someone hearing a shofar blown by a woman has not fulfilled his obligation. I don’t like it, but that is the baseline halacha. And, in truth, this very argument has come up in my rabbinate. Multiple times in multiple contexts.

When I was studying in Israel and the victim of a violent crime, one of my rabbi’s responses was to say that it was G-d telling me that I could not be a rabbi because I was a woman. That was egregious—and not good theology. However, I once attempted to apply for a job in a small congregation and was turned down by the coordinator, himself a Reform rabbi, before I even applied, because that congregation was only taking male applicants. I chanted Kiddush at a Jewish assisted living complex, and a woman, herself a member of a Conservative synagogue, told me that it was beautiful but now could a man chant so it would count. And just last year here at CKI when we hosted a Men’s Club regional meeting someone walked in and when introduced to him, he said, “Well I hope you are not davenning and we are not counting women.”

With all due respect to Peretz who would not like me to embarrass him, he approached me this morning and said he was still angry because of something I did. “Oh, no,” I silently thought to myself. “What have I done now,” because I never like to anger Peretz. It was my sermon. He didn’t like that some Jews in Israel were saying that Reform Jews are not Jews. “I don’t agree with everything you do, Rabbi. But, you are a Jew and as a rabbi you deserve my respect. We need more respect. Those Jews are praying for the Third Beis Hamikdash. How can they ever get it if they don’t have any respect? It is just wrong. It will never be rebuilt.” He reminded me that when the Torah was given at Sinai, it was given to all the people. “It wasn’t just the men. All the people. Men, women and children stood at Sinai. Even in the Talmud it says that women wore tefilin.”

So let’s talk about that Talmud. Here is a page of it. The very page that contains the story I want to teach this morning. In the middle are the Mishnah and the Gemara. That makes up the Talmud. The Talmud is a redaction of the Oral Law. The tradition that was whispered by G-d to Moses on Sinai and then handed down generation to generation. You know what an etrog is? That lemonlike, citron fruit we use at Sukkot? What the Torah says is to take the fruit of a goodly tree. What, you might ask is the fruit of a goodly tree? An etrog. That is how Talmud works. And in the Talmud they never fully tell you the answer. All the arguments are preserved. The halachic answers appear in later law codes like the Mishneh Torah and the Shulchan Arukh. Around the traditional Talmud page are even more commentaries, including Rashi—whose daughters apparently wore tefilin and blew shofar.

On the Ark cover at the Academy for Jewish Religion, my seminary, hang these very important words: Elu v’elu. “These and these.” It come from this passage of the Talmud: “For three years the Academy of Shamai and the Academy of Hillel disputed. These said, ‘The Halacha is like us’ and those said, ‘The Halacha is like us’. The Divine Voice (bat kol) descended and said, ‘these and those are the words of the Living God…’” (B.T. Eruvin 13b)

This is the text that Rabbi Shlomo Riskin used in his d’Var Torah. And it is so appropriate for today. Whether we, as Riskin was, are talking about rabbinical courts in Israel and who has authority over conversions. Or whether we are talking about if a woman can read Torah at the Kotel. A woman was arrested this week for precisely that on Rosh Hodesh Av. Or whether it is how we post job listings.

Or maybe even more to the point, how we conduct ourselves in this congregation that prides itself on being an independent synagogue. Because this week, how we act in our “pluralistic” community was questioned too. Sorry Risa. But even Risa, who I was told when I first got here would never like the world pluralism has softened. What was the issue? Actually, there were more than one. Whether I had time to do pastoral care or adult study if my job is to grow the congregation. Whether there should be sermons on Friday night. Whether we do what we usually do because all of you are here or we try something new–even new melodies. Whether someone had enough Jewish background to serve on a committee. Whether something was Jewish or not. Oh, yes, I get these types of questions all the time.

We need to do so with respect. With careful listening. Without enflaming debate. Without knee jerk reactions. Without assuming something isn’t Jewish. Sometimes I think that the source of this tension is fear. Fear is a powerful thing. And it can be dangerous. Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav, one of our best known chassidic rabbis taught, “All the world is a narrow bridge. The important thing. The center thing, is to not be afraid.” It isn’t easy.

I know that Jews kvetch–we’ve been doing it for a long time, since the wandering of the Israelites in the desert. But I liked the attitude of one of our senior-seniors. The one who is 99. When I called her this week, mostly to make sure she had air conditioning, even before my question, she said, “I’ve got nothing to complain about. I am better off than 99% of the world.” That’s the attitude we need. Not complaining. Because, really, we are better than 99% of the world. Could things be better? Sure. Could we grow the congregation further? Sure. Could we be more intentional about our community and deepen the relationships and connections? Sure. Does our tradition tell us how? Sometimes.

It is hard to live in the tension between “these and these.” They both can’t be right. Or can they? I believe they can. And I believe that keeping this foundational text in mind, can help us avoid the screaming, name calling, frustration that sometimes occurs when we live in the 5000 year tradition and a democracy.

Riskin went on the quote another text: “The Mishna (Eduyot 1:5) magnificently explains that the reason for including also the minority opinion within the Oral Tradition, when the law is generally in accordance with the majority, is because a later generation (with different conditions) may decide to rule in accordance with the minority.

For this reason, throughout Jewish history different religious courts existed side by side, one in accordance with the more stringent Academy of Shamai and the other more lenient in accordance with the Academy of Hillel. Nevertheless, “Those from the Academy of Shamai were not prevented from marrying women from the Academy of Hillel and vice versa” (Eduyot 4:8).

So some were strict and some were lenient. And they managed to co-exist. Co-mingle. Even intermarry.

Riskin finished his sermon quoting the first chief rabbi of Israel, Rav Kook, whose works we are going to study on Tisha B’av: “Scholars increase peace in the world”: (would that people see me as a scholar and a peace builder!) “True peace cannot enter the world without there being many different expressions leading to peace, all sides and all views… a multiplicity of ideas which emanates from different minds and different educational traditions is what enriches and spreads wisdom and establishes a true building of peace.”

Unity does not mean uniformity. It may not mean concensus. It means being able to bring more that on idea to the table and to be able to listen with respect. It means doing so without fear. It means elu v’elu, these and these are both the words of the living G-d.

It’s been a week. It’s been quite a week. Just last Sunday we began marking the Three Weeks, that period that begins on the 17^th of Tammuz when the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Romans in 70CE and that culminates with Tisha B’Av when the Temple was destroyed. We are taught in the Talmud, in a text we will examine shortly, that the Temple was destroyed because of Sinat Chinam, senseless, baseless hatred. Jew of Jew.

So here are three news stories coming out of Israel this week. Right at the beginning of this period of mourning. And I mourn today, both for the historical injustices and the all too current ones. I mourn. I reflect. I act. Yes, you do have a rabbi that is an activist.

Some rabbis have stopped talking about Israel from the bimah. It has become too politically charged. Some say that as Jews we cannot say anything negative about Israel. That we can’t air our dirty linen in public. Some say that our biggest threats are not the external ones, that they are the internal ones. Quite simply I love Israel and I cannot remain silent.

On Sunday last week, the Israeli cabinet, under pressure from the ultra-Orthodox, reversed a decision on the Conversion Law, making it more difficult for the 330,000 people in Israel not considered Jewish by the Chief Rabbinate in Israel. These people are mostly Jews from the former Soviet Union and their Israeli born children.

http://www.jpost.com/Israel-News/Politics-And-Diplomacy/Liberman-Haredi-parties-control-government-Israeli-society-captive-to-extremist-elements-408032

The Jewish Agency has expressed “deep regrets” over the cabinet decision and explains that the establishment of local courts would have made conversion more accessible to immigrants and their children, who “desire to join the Jewish people in a more complete and recognized manner,” Jewish Agency Chairman, Natan Sharansky.

What this means for me as a Diaspora rabbi, as a woman rabbi, as a rabbi representing a non-Orthodox congregation, that my conversions will not be recognized. This is not really a new story. And when I meet with conversion candidates I always explain that while I will work with them, if they are thinking of making aliyah, they might want to consider an Orthodox conversion.

This story alone would have gotten my Irish ire up. But the news did not stop there. You see, this is partly my story.

I guess I always knew my mother was right. This is good because the next story came out on what would have been her birthday. According the Minister of Religious Affairs in Israel, I am not really a Jew. Shocking, yes?

http://www.jpost.com/Israel-News/Religious-Services-Minister-Reform-Jews-arent-Jews-408224

http://www.jpost.com/Israel-News/Religious-Services-Minister-Reform-Jews-arent-Jews-408224

So how does it feel to have a rabbi that isn’t Jewish? As one of our members said immediately. “The haredim, they’re crazy.” And if were just me and my mother and by extension my daughter, I wouldn’t care as much. But allow me to tell her story:

My grandmother, was born in Ireland and sent to a Jewish orphanage in Milwaukee. In the late 1890s. So she could have a better life. She was adopted by the L. Fish family in Chicago (a famous furniture company family) and raised as Jewish. My mother was raised as Jewish (excuse me, as a classical Reform Jew), was confirmed in 1938 at Sherith Israel in Saint Louis, a founder of Temple Emanuel Saint Louis, married by a rabbi in Saint Louis (a Reform rabbi but still), raised her children as Jews. I was a Bat Mitzvah and a Confirmand at Temple Emanuel Grand Rapids (Reform) and then went on a NFTY summer program. I fell in love. I went to college. I went to Israel. I resumed the relationship with my high school sweetheart. We thought we would get married but the State of Israel decided I wasn’t a Jew and would have to convert. I did not. Instead I proved that my grandmother had been born Jewish in Ireland and sent to that orphanage precisely because it was Jewish. Then I did what any angry 20 year old does. I threw the research out.

As you know I worked for Jewish educational organizations, became a rabbi, worked at a mikveh (no real doubt I am Jewish by now, can’t count the number of times I have immersed!) and still work for a Jewish organization. But really, these kinds of stories, these ongoing stories still hurt.

Now we have congregants whose conversions I helped facilitate who wonder, “Am I really a Jew” and sadly I have to explain again–as I do in the conversion process, that for me you are Jewish, for this congregation you are considered Jewish. However, in Israel you may not be considered Jewish. Or should that language be Jewish enough?

Don’t worry, most of you here are not Jewish either. No Reform Jews. No Jews who are not ultra-Orthodox—and as Saul said—they didn’t even fight to make the State of Israel a State, they are still waiting for the Messiah. Here is the shocking quote from the Minister of Religious Affairs, Shas MK David Azoulay: “Let’s just say there’s a problem,” he said in an interview with Israel’s Army Radio, before adding “I cannot allow myself to call such a person a Jew.”

Of course, these comments raised international criticism immediately. Predictably, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, head of the Reform Movement. But also the head of American Jewish Committee, “The American Rabbinate is charged with mustering pro-Israel support among constituents. Repeated humiliation of so many within the Rabbinate, and failure to revise the laws governing personal-status issues, risks alienating the bulk of American Jewry and will make it more difficult to secure that support.” See more at: http://www.ajc.org/site/apps/nl/newsletter3.asp?c=7oJILSPwFfJSG&b=8478375#sthash.L503tELw.dpuf

Even Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu said, that Azoulay’s views, “do not reflect the position of the government” and clarifying that Israel “is home to all Jews.” And he did apologize, sort of, claiming that Reform Jews are still “sinners” and the ones to blame for assimilation.

The best line, came from my colleague and friend, Conservative Rabbi Menachem Creditor who is in Israel as part of the Hartman Institute. He wrote to Netanyahu to express his dismay and it was carried in the Times of Israel: “To put it as painfully and as simply as is possible: I’m too busy protecting Israel from delegitimization to protect myself, as a Conservative rabbi, from Israel’s delegitimization. On this day, the 17th of Tammuz, over 2,000 years ago, the walls of Jerusalem were breached. On this day, the 17th of Tammuz of this year, again a great harm has been done to the People Israel. But, as opposed to the mythic re-understanding of the Romans destruction of Jerusalem, this time it’s painfully clear: we’re destroying ourselves from the inside out.”

But those two stories were not enough. Also this week, a woman studying at the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem went to the Kotel. The last remaining place of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. The focus of many of our prayers for 2000 years. And she wore a kippah. Just as she does in Colorado. Just like she does at the Conservative Yeshiva. Just as I do here this morning. Most mornings and at the Kotel. She was not allowed access to the Kotel Plaza. The security guards demanded to know “who authorized you to wear a kippah.” They attempted to arrest her and was escorted off property. Let me be clear. She was there as an individual, wanting to daven as she sees fit—as many of our members do here. This was not, as some suspected, an organized Woman of the Wall event. I remain a proud member of the Women of the Wall, precisely because of these kinds of provocations. The Rabbi of the Western Wall, Rabbi Shmuel Rabinovitch, eventually apologized, first saying he knew nothing about the incident. His apology is similar to that of Azoulay’s. “If such an incident did take place, the Kotel ushers were wrong to prevent Linda from entering… the Western Wall is open to every man and woman. I would like to send my sincere apology and the ushers’ apology to Linda, and I hope she will come back and visit the Kotel soon,” “Unfortunately, there has been a difficult atmosphere of suspicion and lack of faith in the Western Wall recently as a result of the Women of the Wall’s loud struggle,” the rabbi explained. “It’s an atmosphere which affects many worshippers, and Linda was affected too.”

Does anyone else see the problem here? A woman can wear a kippah in Colorado or Elgin without fear of arrest and cannot in Israel? The woman is being blamed for what she is wearing? This is a blame the victim apology. Now here is the irony. This very same rabbi wrote this week’s d’var Torah for Jerusalem Post, where he praises the daughters of Zelophehad for speaking out and continuing their father’s name by being granted a share in his inheritance. He calls them courageous women.

http://www.jpost.com/Opinion/Parshat-Pinhas-Woman-and-hope-408543

This, the very week, where there are three sections that show how inclusive the tradition is for women. We are given the rules for Rosh Hodesh, the new month, the half holiday for women. We are told, as Rabinovitch explains in his own D’var Torah, how the daughters of Zelophehad are courageous in demanding to inherit their father’s land. All five of them. Their names are preserved. Malah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah. And we are told that Yocheved gave birth to Aaron, Moses and Miriam. All three siblings. In the very same verse.

These women are our inheritance. We have to care about these outrageous stories from Israel to protect their very legacy. Our legacy. We have to care about these stories because we cannot give into sinat chinam, we must embrace what Rav Kook called sinat ahavat.

These are the Three Weeks. I would urge you to do Three Things:

1. Study the texts below:
2. Speak out. Don’t hide these stories. Don’t hide your story. Find your voice. Explain how they affect you personally. Write to Benjamin Netanyahu. Take a photo of you with your kippah or your tallit and send it to Women of the Wall for their campaign, My Tallit, My Perogative. http://womenofthewall.org.il/campaigns/my-prerogative/
3. Give generously to JUF. Taking our support away from Israel at this critical time will only make it easier for the ultra-Orthodox. My former boss used to say, “Follow the money.” If we continue to give, Israel will have to listen. Our own Harry Seigle, brother of Mark and Michael is chairing this year’s JUF annual campaign. I am sure we will hear more of this in later months. Or give to New Israel Fund.

Talmud Bavli Yoma 9b:

Why was the First Temple destroyed? Because of three evils in it: idolatry, sexual immorality and bloodshed . . . But why was the Second Temple destroyed, seeing that during the time it stood people occupied themselves with Torah, with observance of precepts, and with the practice of charity? Because during the time it stood, hatred without rightful cause prevailed. This is to teach you that hatred without rightful cause is deemed as grave as all the three sins of idolatry, sexual immorality and bloodshed together.
[AJWS translation]

Avot De Rabbi Natan:
Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai once was walking with his disciple Rabbi Joshua near Jerusalem after the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Joshua looked at the Temple ruins and said: “Alas for us! The place which atoned for the sins of the people Israel through the ritual of animal sacrifice lies in ruins!” Then Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai spoke to him these words of comfort: “Be not grieved, my son. There is another way of gaining atonement even though the Temple is destroyed. We must now gain atonement through deeds of lovingkindness.” For it is written, “Lovingkindness I desire, not sacrifice” (Hosea 6:6).  Siddur Sim Shalom, (Avot DeRabbi Natan)  Jules Harlow, ed. (New York: United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism)

Rav Abraham Kook, First Chief Rabbi in Israel:
“If we were destroyed, and the world with us, due to baseless hatred, then we shall rebuild ourselves, and the world with us, with baseless love — ahavat chinam. (Orot HaKodesh vol. III, p. 324)

It would seem the current Israeli rabbinate has forgotten these fundamental texts. It is our job to remind them, to teach the texts and make them our own. To that point, on Tisha B’av itself, we will gather here at CKI to study more of Rav Kook’s work. Please join us.

Sometimes you are in the right place at the right time and you are privileged to do the right thing, even if that is not clear at the time.

Today I went to make a routine hospital call. I had become friendly with the chaplain at the hospital and so before going I called and left her a message. I was hoping maybe she could take a break and have coffee. I didn’t hear back and I didn’t even know if she was working.

It was impossible to park. I valet parked the car. I asked the valet if he had seen Karen. He said no. But there she was, meeting me excitedly at the door. “This is nice,” I thought.

Beshert—Destined. This turned out to be anything but a routine hospital call.

Three years ago, this was the first hospital I was called to visit when I arrived in Elgin. A youngish woman was struggling with a recurrence of breast cancer. Her daughter was getting married that year. They had already moved the date of the wedding up to September. Now she was told that morning she may not make it to the wedding. I went. That was the day the pink fire trucks to support breast cancer awareness were at the hospital. I checked in with the chaplaincy office as I always do when I go to a new to me hospital. We made sure that our patient got to go outside to see the fire trucks. Her mood improved immeasurably. She had hope for the first time in apparently weeks.

But as August turned to September it was clear to all that she was slipping. It wasn’t clear that she was going to make it to the wedding. By the week of the wedding we knew that our patient would not be able to attend. We began to make plans to have a pre-wedding in our patient’s hospital room. It was scheduled for a Thursday afternoon just before the wedding rehearsal. The chaplain, now my friend, arranged for a wedding cake and liquid refreshments through concierge services. She decorated the report room. I brought a chuppah. My daughter made a wedding bouquet. She brought a glass in a white organza bag.

The entire wedding party was there, dressed in their wedding attire. All of the nurses stood in the hall. The priest was there. But where was the rabbi? She couldn’t make it out from Deerfield in time. I would have to go this alone.

You see, like our patient who herself was in an interfaith marriage to a Catholic who had raised two Jewish daughters, the bride and groom were embarking on an interfaith marriage and had arranged for a rabbi and priest to co-officiate.

Problem—my contract stated that even though I am not a member of the Rabbinical Assembly I had to uphold their four mandates which include not performing an intermarriage. Was I somehow violating my new contract by doing this death-bed wedding? I hoped not as I chanted the Sheva Brachot, the Seven Blessings of Jewish weddings. I was convinced that it was the right thing to do and I would do it again.

The next day, the “real wedding” happened on schedule but without our patient present. I attended the wedding and sat in the back row. It was lovely in the late Friday afternoon sunlight. I went to lead services at the synagogue and other people continued to enjoy the wedding festivities.

Back at the hospital, our patient’s condition continued to worsen. Late at night, the husband and several members of the congregation went back to the hospital to describe the wedding and to just sit with our patient. She died sometime that night, after midnight, not on her daughter’s wedding day. The funeral was held on Tuesday and I thought that was the end of the story.

No—the staff was so moved by the wedding in the hospital they continued to tell the story, over and over again. Today, the chaplain, my friend, had been asked to present the story as part of the Northwestern Medical’s (Central Dupage is now part of Northwestern Med) monthly leadership team. 300 upper eschelon management medical professionals were gathered in the auditorium to listen to updates about budget, hospice, admissions, etc. The chaplain was the last agenda item called “Patient Experience.” She presented the story above and people were clearly moved. Then she explained that I just happened to be in the building.

Beshert. She called me forward. 300 people stood up and applauded.

Now there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I choked out the story about the pink fire trucks which had been omitted in the chaplain’s remarks. I thanked them for their commitment to patient experience and going above and beyond.

Beshert? This was my father’s birthday. He had been a Northwestern Medical professor. When I was a little girl I had dreamed of being a medical school professor just like him. I loved to go with him to Northwestern, downtown, and listen to him lecture. Here I was, in a Northwestern lecture hall doing precisely that. On a topic that would have been so very foreign to him. However, he never liked the idea of my being a rabbi. It didn’t fit with his rational, scientific brain. Here were medical professionals who understood the very real connection between the spiritual and the medical. Between mind, body and spirit. And then getting applauded for my “out-of-the-box” creative thinking. Of making a difference in one patient’s life–and the life of her family. When we set out to support our patient, we didn’t do it looking for applause. We did it because we were in the right place at the right time and did the right thing. I would do it again.

As I right this, Frank Sinatra is playing in the background at Starbucks. My father’s favorite. And I cry again.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy 4th of July. I teach this morning in honor of my mother, whose birthday was July 6^th. In our family, the question was never where will you be for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. No, the question was where will you be for the 4^th of July and Thanksgiving—the two most American holidays. And also somehow profoundly Jewish as well. I think that was the point. These holidays were a measure of how American we were.

Today is also the 17^th of Tammuz. Ordinarily a fast day, it is the day the walls in Jerusalem were breached by the Romans, three weeks ahead of the observance of Tisha B’Av, when the Second Temple was destroyed. Shabbat suspends that mourning. And if you are so inclined you can fast tomorrow. This year some rabbis are fasting for the churches that have been burned. Since I cannot fast, I will be contributing the amount of money I would have spent on food to T’ruah, Rabbis for Human Rights. Because this year, when the 4^th of July and the 17^th of Tammuz cross, just like they did in 1776, I have to pause and wonder at the connections.

Today we have three seemingly simple texts:

1. “How good are your tents, O Jacob. Your dwelling places O Israel?” These words are the words we sing every morning service when we first enter the sanctuary. But these are the words of a non-Jewish prophet. Hired by the King of the Moabites, Balak, every time Balaam opened his mouth to curse the Israelites, G-d filled his mouth with blessing. These are the very words we use to open our services. Think about that, a non-Jewish prophet trying to curse the Israelites, uttering words of blessing and we still use them. Every day. What does that say about the role of the non-Jew? What does it say about blessings?

2. The second text is my mother’s favorite verse of all time. So much so that when the Dead Sea Scrolls came to Grand Rapids for the first time out of Israel, she calligrpahed the verse. It seems so simple. “What does the Lord require of you? Do justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly with your G-d.” That’s it. That’s all we have to do. But as our discussion indicated, can justice and mercy co-exist? Does mercy have any role in our court system? I think the answer to Micah is YES! And that is precisely what makes Judaism radical. Yes, we have to do justly, act righteously. And yes, we have to, at the same time love mercy. It is a both/and. It isn’t easy. It isn’t simple. It is what we are called to do. And it is these very words that we, as Jews are still obligated to follow. And like Micah, speak these very words to power. That is part of our mission on this, America’s Independence Day.

Of course there are other possible translations. Ahavat Chesed. Love lovingkindness? Chesed is almost impossible to translate. My mother’s friend, Dr. Nelson Glueck, wrote his PhD thesis on this topic. He went on to be president of Hebrew Union College. I tried to tackle it in my rabbinic thesis, concluding with Glueck that it is not possible to translate and yet, we understand the sense.

And since this is the 17^th of Tammuz, as we begin again to contemplate the ruin of Jerusalem, we are taught:

“Rabbi Joshua said: ‘Woe to us, for this house that lies in ruins, the place where atonement was made for the sins of Israel!’  But Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai replied, ‘My son, be not grieved, for we have another means of atonement which is as effective, and that is, the practice of loving-kindness, as it is stated, ‘For I desire loving kindness and not sacrifice’ (Hosea 6:6)” Babylonian Talmud, Avot de Rabbi Nathan 20a

Simple? No? Do justice. Establish courts. Love mercy. Be nice to everyone. Do the right thing. And walk humbly with G-d. It is not the 613 commandments. It is not animal sacrifice. It is deeds of loving kindness. It is loving mercy and doing justice. Both, in the name of G-d.

3. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Again, simple, no? But people have argued over this text much like a Biblical text. All men? Only men? All people? What happiness? Whose happiness? What’s included? And that is the point on this Shabbat Independence. To pause to reflect. To look at our foundational texts.

Later I am going to do something to help us celebrate the 4^th of July and Shabbat. I am going to sing part of the Declaration of Independence in Haftarah trope. There was a lot of discussion about this online this week in one of the groups I participate in. Does this make the Declaration of Independence a “holy” text? Divine? An idol? Some argued that it is prophetic. Does the trop marks make us hear it better. Trop is, after all, a system of punctuation. Does it make it uniquely Jewish? Only Jewish?

And maybe that is the point. We Jews in America have participated in life almost since America’s inception. The earliest congregations were founded in the 1600s. I can imagine Jews in their synagogues praying and celebrating the morning the Declaration of Independence was pronounced, on July 4^th which just like this year was a Saturday and the 17^th of Tammuz. Later, there were Jews like Hayyim Solomon and Rebecca Gratz that were at the vanguard of funding the Revolutionary War.

We have Washington’s address to Touro Synagogue. And we have the letter that he wrote to Touro which became the basis of the Bill of Rights. He was very clear and the writing is so eloquent:

“It is now no more that toleration is spoken of as if it were the indulgence of one class of people that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights, for, happily, the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens in giving it on all occasions their effectual support. It would be inconsistent with the frankness of my character not to avow that I am pleased with your favorable opinion of my administration and fervent wishes for my felicity. May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”

We have the prayer that the congregation in Richmond, VA wrote for Washington in 1790. I love that it is an acrostic that spells out Washington’s name. I can’t wait to see it some day in person at the Jewish Museum in Philadelphia, a new museum right near the Liberty Bell, which declare, “Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof.” (Lev. 25:10) The sentiments of the prayer are very similar to our “Prayer for the Country” and we will use it as such later. These are foundational texts too.

The Hagaddah that we use at home, a compilation of many begins talking about living in two communities. The Jewish community and the American community.

“We share common histories— both the Exodus and the American experience; we share common dreams of equality, justice, and peace. …And so we join together to send out a message of freedom which we hope will ring through the hills of our land and across the seas.

It spells out what some of those freedoms are that we celebrate:

freedom from bondage        and freedom from oppression,
freedom from hunger          and freedom from want,
freedom from hatred           and freedom from fear,
freedom to think                 and freedom to speak,
freedom to teach                 and freedom to learn,
freedom to love                  and freedom to share,
freedom to hope                 and freedom to rejoice,

It would be my hope that we continue to uphold the dream, rededicate ourselves to this dream. To be a light to the nations. To speak truth to power. To do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with G-d. That our words, like Balam’s are heard as words of blessing. Then as Washington, quoting Isaiah and Micah, will be right. This is a nation where “every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.” Then we will be able to say, “How goodly are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.” Here. In this country. Today. Amen.

Today is a day of celebration. But it wasn’t easy to get here.

I thought I knew what I was going to talk about. For the second week in a row, I threw out what I prepared and started over. And somehow the stories are linked but more on that later. And they are even linked with my own personal story—the recent death of my beloved thesis advisor, Rabbi Dr. Bernard M. Zlotowitz. So I offer these words in his memory, as students have honored their teachers for generations.

Let’s look at this morning’s parsha. The community was without water. That’s it. Miriam died. And the community was once again without water. That is all of what we are going to talk about today.

This is about the haves and the have nots. It is a story of scarcity. It is a story of fear. It is a story of still being enslaved. Maybe we should go back to Egypt. At least we had water. We are going to die here in the desert. If the Israelites were graded they would get an A in kvetching. In complaining.

This story is not old. It is new. Talk to any body in California lately? Water is a serious issue. And I urge you in the strongest possible terms to conserve.

But there is another message here. G-d provides the answer. There is enough water, if you know what to do. There is enough water if you trust G-d. G-d’s presence goes with them. G-d told Moses what to do. Strike the rock. Once. Only once.

But Moses does something else. He is afraid. He strikes the rock twice. Water gushes forth. Success! Or is it? For this he loses the privilege of entering the Promised Land.

Let’s think about us a little bit.

Sometimes we as a community, we whine. We complain. We kvetch. We are not a whole lot different than the Israelites. We don’t have enough water. Once I even got a phone call from someone no longer here. “They are stealing our water.” What are you talking about? I asked. The garden hose was hooked up and they are stealing our water. Watering their lawn. It looked like that on the surface. But no actually, we were watering our neighbors’ lawn on purpose. Repairing some damage we had done to their lawn.

Other complaints: We don’t have enough food—although I am sure we do today. We don’t have enough money. We don’t have enough time. We don’t have enough members. We remember the old days…we want to go back to the 1950s or the 60s or the 70s to when Rabbi Scharf was the rabbi or Hazzan Smolen or….

Sometimes we are afraid about doing it right. That Judaism doesn’t look like the Judaism that we remember. That Judaism is becoming something other.

I think what G-d is calling us to do in this portion is to dream bigger. To trust G-d. Instead of a theology of scarcity, what G-d wants is a theology of abundance. It isn’t always easy. What would we dream of?

More members, more money, more time. But what would we do with it?

Create more meaningful programming. Buy more books. Study more. Daven more. Host a retreat. Bring in a big name speaker. Have a scholar-in-residence. A cantorial concert. Give more money to more charities. Feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. House the homeless. Educate our kids.

It is not a whole lot different from Tevye who dreamed. “If I were a rich man I’d have the time that I lack to sit in the synagogue and pray and maybe have a seat by the eastern wall. And I’d discuss the holy books with the rabbis seven hours every day. That would be the sweetest thing of all.”

What if we build a culture of acceptance. Of excellence. Of abundance.

What if we are more like Field of Dreams. If we build it, they will come. If we believe it, it will happen. It is like Herzl who said, “IF you will it, it is no dream.” Or Walt Disney, who said, If you can dream it, you can do it.” But Walt was practical too and he said, “You can design and create and build the most beautiful place on earth, but it takes people to make a dream a reality.”

So today we dream of abundance. And that abundance takes many forms. It is sort of like Maslow’s pyramid. We need food, shelter, clothing, love, before we can ascend the other levels of the pyramid. We need security and an absence of fear. That is real abundance.

My favorite Psalm is Psalm 81. Now Rabbi Zlotowitz, it can be said he was an expert in Psalms. After all, here is this big thick book of Psalms to prove it.

Psalm 81 is the psalm for Thursday so we don’t usually do it on Shabbat Morning. It is actually written about this very story in our parsha this morning. And it begins with thanksgiving, although it doesn’t use any of those words like give thanks.

Sing with joy to God, our strength
Shout with gladness to the God of Jacob.

It continues that we should strike up a melody, sound the timbrel, play the harp and lyre, sound the shofar—we should make music. This is a happy song. A happy dance. And I feel like doing that happy dance this morning. That is actually very appropriate for today in this country. And for us as Jews in this country.

The reason to sing with joy and shout with gladness and make music is because we feel grateful. For what are we feeling grateful? For God, our strength, who rose against the land of Egypt. All of this is communal, in the command form, in the plural form. In a historical sense.

But the text continues—and it switches to the personal. The translation in Siddur Sim Shalom is more liberal than literal:

Then I heard a voice I never knew.
“I removed the burden from your shoulder
Your hands were freed from the load.
When you called in distress I rescued you
Unseen, I answered you in thunder
I tested your faith in the wilderness.”

Think for a moment about when you might have rescued just that way. I know I can.

The actual Hebrew is more specific as Rabbi Zlotowitz’s translation shows. It refers to the Exodus from Egypt—and removing the Israelites from the burden of slavery. The load was the actual basket of bricks that the Israelites carried in the building projects of Pharaoh. The wilderness is named in the Hebrew; it is waters of Meribah. Meribah itself means strife and is a reference in Exodus 17:7 and Numbers 20:13 the wilderness where the Israelites stayed after fleeing Egypt. That place we will read about shortly where they were complaining because there was no water!

There is another reference to removing a burden. In Exodus 33, with a very similar concept. When Moses is tired after the Golden Calf and does not want to go back up Mount Sinai to get another set of tablets. God reassures Moses of God’s presence saying, “I will go in the lead and lighten your burden.” Or as another translation says, I will give you rest. How wonderful. G-d will lead us and give us rest. We don’t always have to fight. This is one of those mornings. Some of the fight is over. For some it was a 40 year fight of being in the wilderness. Of not being secure in this country. Of being afraid of being visible as they are. I say all this not as a member of the LGBTQ community but as an ally. And I am an ally precisely because I am a Jew. Because it fits with my theology.

A theology of abundance. Starting at the very beginning. G-d created us in G-d’s image. We are all created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of G-d. We are all humans, yet look around you. We are all different. This congregation more than many as we embrace our diversity. We have members from 17 different countries. From China, Japan, Mongolia, From Argentina, Brazil, Chile, El Salvador, Mexico. From Canada. From France, Germany, Russia, Poland, Bosnia, Morocco. And yes, I count Norway and Israel too. We are white and black, Asian and Hispanic. We are a rainbow of diversity. We are a rainbow of abundance. Because this diversity is part of our richness.

The symbol of a rainbow is part of how I, the daughter of two Jewish scientists came to believe in G-d. That represents some diversity as well. The rainbow, however, is the perfect balance between rain and sun. Without that balance there can be no rainbow. Without the science, there can be no rainbow. Ever gone out to chase one? You usually can’t find one. It seems that you can only find one when you are not looking. When you are surprised by one. And they are the reminder of G-d’s covenant. That G-d will never destroy the world again, by flood. Again, it is about water. Having just the right amount of water. Mayyim Hayyim. Living water.

The word rainbow in Hebrew is keshet. There are two organizations that use that word as part of their names. Both to talk about inclusion. One is right here in Chicago and we at CKI partner with them. Keshet provides “a rainbow of hope for individuals with special needs.” Some of our members have used their services. Their educational professionals have come out to teach our teachers how to work with students of differing abilities.

The other organization is also called Keshet which works for the full equality and inclusion of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender Jews in Jewish life.

As I stand before you in my rainbow tallit, perhaps you are still wondering. Really? This is a Jewish issue? Or you were raised to think that homosexuality is a sin in Judaism. This may be hard for you. Or perhaps you have been swayed by some of the politicians who keep saying that marriage is a sacrament and cannot be changed. It may feel that world is changing too fast. In Judaism, we recognize the diversity of opinion. This is worth a conversation. A real conversation. And I would be privileged to study the texts with you. Today, is a day for celebration. Not for prooftexts.

Let me be really clear. This ruling is not counterintuitive to Judaism. It is not against Judaism. What happened yesterday at the Supreme Court, is something that we as Jews can be thankful for. Today is a day for celebration. It is a watershed moment. A shehechianu moment for preserving us as Jews, and enabling us to reach this moment. For preserving and protecting us as a minority group. For protecting freedom of religion. For protecting love. For anyone.

I could stand here and recite all of the Jewish organizations that were part of the Amicus brief. There were 13 of the 25 in the brief. They included Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative, Renewal. ADL, AJC, Hadassah. All saw the very deep connections of freedom, liberty, civil rights, human rights. And if you need the details, I have them. They are right here. You are welcome to come up and read them. They are eloquent and majestic. Poetic and even fun. It has been fun to talk to old friends who are finally legal in 50 states. It has been fun to watch the feeds on Facebook.

The Israelites wandered for 40 years always complaining, unsure of their next meal or where the water was coming from. They lived a life of scarcity. We, too, have lived a life of scarcity. But today, we know that there is abundant love.

Because these words of the court, echo our own tradition. Because they fit within this idea of a theology of abundance. Because it is part of the rainbow of our diversity. Because everyone is created b’tzelem elohim. Because there is enough love to go around. Today love won. Hallelujah. Sing a joyful song to the Lord.

I got the word sitting in a class on police chaplaincy. Somehow I could see the twinkle in his eye and his impish grin. And that made me smile. Because words fail.

My thesis advisor died today. Rabbi Dr. Bernard Zlotowitz, of blessed memory. He always thought the Rabbi title should come first because it was more important than his doctorate. He was a formal instructor having been raised by his German professors. In class we would be called on in alphabetical order, with title. Ms. Klein followed by Dr. Levinson. He was always Rabbi. If you called his house, his wife, his partner, Shirley, after inquiring how you were would say, “Hold on. I’ll get Rabbi for you.” Perhaps that is why when people call me Rabbi without the rest of my name, I am not comfortable. I am not Rabbi . Only Rabbi Zlotowitz has that name. And while he was always Rabbi, he was a down-to-earth guy.

He was much more than my thesis advisor. He was my champion. When others doubted whether I would ever be ordained, he went to bat for me. He mapped out an academic program that worked. He appointed Rabbi Peg Kershenbaum to help edit the thesis so that all the “t’s were crossed and all the footnotes consistent. When I would uncover a new insight, that grin would light up the room.

Rabbi and I argued over the role of Sharon in the 1982 incursion into Lebanon. We argued over the word rayecha in “Love your rayacha like yourself.” Does it mean neighbor, fellow, kinsman, friend? I taught that argument just this morning. We argued over the meaning of chesed, and whether grace was a Jewish concept or something only Christians discuss. I am not sure we ever finished those conversations. They will have to wait until the world-to-come. But he was a man filled with chesed, lovingkindness, of that there is no doubt. However you translate it.

I had several classes with Rabbi Z as I fondly called him. Reform Judaism. Responsa. Isaiah. Job. It was in Job’s class where we learned how to comfort a mourner. With silence. Without any words at all. Just with presence.

And Rabbi Z had a presence that filled a room. He was a consummate storyteller. Some of them we heard over and over. And that was OK—because every time we heard them they seemed new and even wiser. Many have already been written and rewritten today as the tributes have poured in. Each one makes me smile. He would tell a story about when he was in rabbinical school. His professor, recently from Germany, would say, “Boychiks, today we are going to study the basement of Judaism.” His professor had confused basement and foundation. Every time I pushed the elevator button for my basement office at SAP in Germany I would smile.

He was filled with practical advice. He was a rabbi who made house calls—but always taking his wife Shirley or his secretary with him. When he because a regional director for UAHC (now URJ), he took on New York and the Caribbean, guaranteeing a warm winter vacation if he went to Puerto Rico on business first.

He was a scholar. No question. But he was a people person first. He took real interest in his students. And their families. When my daughter was struggling the most with her chronic daily migraine, he always remembered to ask. If he saw a new treatment in the Times, he would call. When my mother was dying—they actually shared a birthday—he would check in. When my daughter graduated from Hofstra cum laude, it was hard to tell who was prouder, me and Simon or Rabbi Z, who broke out into that big grin. And he always, without fail remembered to ask on the phone as recently as two weeks ago how her acting career is doing. So did Shirley.

There were some sentences that became Zlotowitzisms. If you sneezed in class his automatic response was “You sneezed on the truth.” Now I once had a Bar Mitzvah student who started sneezing just at his aliyah blessing. I told the story, attributing my own teacher, Rabbi Zlotowitz, and everyone laughed. Now it is also true that when I am about to cry, I sneeze. It seems to be my defense mechanism, an unusual one I am told. Even as I write these words and start to tear I know I am also about to sneeze.

We learned in that Responsa class whether students should rise before a scholar or not. We learned whether they should sit ahead of their teacher or behind their teacher in the beit midrash. Ultimately it was about respect, Rabbi Z would explain. Today, we know that it is more than respect. It is love.

It is said that teacher’s students become their children. Rabbi Zlotowitz had many students. We are all his children and we have lost a great mentor and friend.

Apparently I wrote the last thesis under Rabbi Zlotowitz advisement. He was scheduled to be part of my beit din but was not well enough to attend. I journeyed out to Fair Lawn and he graciously signed the smicha document at his home.

His presence goes with me. Always. And in between my tears and my sneeze, I smile.

Today I, as Rabbi Lev B’esh said, I wish Jon Stewert were my rabbi. Because in the face of tragedy sometimes only silence works. Jokes, as Jon Stewert announced do not. I’ve got nothing,” he said. And then he stared at the camera. Rabbis all over the country threw out the sermons they were working on. We all feel the need to say something about Charleston.

I am sad. I am angry. And I have wrestled with what to say to you this morning.

There is something that is broken here in America. It is about how we welcome the widow, the orphan, the stranger, the most marginalized amongst us. It is how we think of the other. And in this country, it is wrong. After almost three centuries, it is still wrong. And we, those of us of white privilege of which I am lucky to be, need to own it and need to name it.

This is not just about Treyvon Martin or Michael Brown or Eric Garner. And there are nine new names to add to this growing list.

This is not just a story about Charleston or Baltimore or New York or Ferguson. It is about right here, right now.

Yesterday I signed a petition to remove the Confederate Flag from public spaces. It seemed easy, almost too easy. Some have argued that flying a Confederate flag is a symbol of their freedom of expression, guaranteed by the US Constitution. It seems to me it is too loaded a symbol. And I use that term guardedly. It is like yelling fire in a theatre and then actually starting one.

A recent NBC-Wall Street Journal poll says that 49% of Americans believe the symbol is racist and 49% believe that it is southern pride.

So I asked a question after I signed. What do we do about the Confederate flag that hangs at a private home in South Elgin? Yes, there is one. And I doubt that it means southern pride. Then I asked more questions. Why do they fly it? What does it represent to them? And why after the events in Charleston is it still up?

There have been many pundits that have jumped in to tell us how to interpret the events of this week.

The “child” was just mentally ill. My own physician said that was appalled by that. It was an affront to her. She wanted me to convey this message clearly and strongly. Most mentally ill people do not become violent. Period. And while we need better mental health care and better access to it, in this case the underlying case is racism and hatred.

This child, older than Michael Brown, was given a gun for his 21^st birthday. 21 in this country is the age of majority. This was no child. And he knew what he was doing as he sat there calmly and calculatingly at the Bible Study on Wednesday night.

Others have argued that we need gun control. I, personally, would argue for that. The statistics are overwhelming that there are more incidents of gun violence here in this country than in any other similar country. That is an argument for another time.

But underlying this most recent tragedy was hatred. And racism. And fear. And that is the boil that we in this country need to own and lance. When I spoke with Traci O’Neil Ellis, one of our school board members, she said that no individual could do this alone. It is a community wide problem. A national problem. I believe she is right.

But I can only work as an individual and locally, very, very locally.

This is not a new phenomena. It goes back hundreds of years. We can talk about how the Declaration of Independence stalled because of a debate about slaves. Did the life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness mean all people or just white men? And this was not just a southern issue. In Chelmsford, MA, my previous hometown, in order to vote you needed to be a white, male, Christian, landowner. So had I lived there in at the town’s founding I would not have voted.

But I don’t want to talk about Philadelphia or Plymouth or Chelmsford. I want to talk about right here. Right now. When I first came to town here. Right here at CKI, there was a family who wanted to be a member or at least check us out. The mother, a black woman, had recently died and the Jewish father wanted to provide some structure for his kids. Someone here, no longer a member, told them they couldn’t join because the kids were….dare I even say it…mulato…a dated, pejorative word I hadn’t heard since the 60s meaning multiracial. This made no sense to me at the time because we have other multi-racial families. And we are proud of our diversity and we embrace it.

And lest you think that has been the only time I have heard the word here at CKI you would be wrong. What was going on here? In this case, it was the mother who wasn’t Jewish so the person was afraid that the children weren’t Jewish or wouldn’t become Jewish. Let me underscore that, the person who made the comment—not just to me but to the family—was afraid. Afraid of the other. Guess what, we never saw that family again at the time they probably needed us most.

We’ve gotten better through the years. But we are not perfect. Not yet.

Fear does powerful things. It prevents us from being who we are meant to be. When Baltimore erupted the news media talked about the thugs who were responsible for the looting. Make no mistake. Looting and arson are wrong. However, at the same time the kids in our religious school were reading a Choose Your Own Adventure story about coming to America. They were at the point in the book where they were deciding whether to continue a strike to improve working conditions for garment workers. The organizers of the strike who were preventing crossing the picket line were called in the book thugs and I wondered about the usage there and in the current media. Could they both be thugs?

The Jewish history in this country and the African American history in this country are linked. We have both been called thugs. We have both been marginalized people. Jews were at the vanguard of the Civil Rights movement and I am delighted that we have a strong partnership in this congregation with Second Baptist and with Martin Luther King jr. Celebration. Singing We Shall Overcome at Hemnes or here at CKI gives me goose bumps.

Some of you were concerned when I went to Ferguson. Would the rabbi get arrested? Would she get hurt? Why is she supporting those hoodlums? Yes, it was that word that was used that time. Can’t she just leave it alone? I don’t think I can.

I am not sure I ever explained why I went. I went because I have always gone to things like that, when I can. Simon and I have been members of the Southern Poverty Law Center since before we were married. They released a study this week saying that the average number of hate crimes EVERY year in this country is around 260,000. The FBI on the other hand tracks only 6000 for 2013 the last year the statistics are available. Why the discrepancy? Because many hate crimes do not get reported and then do not get prosecuted.

The glaring reality of Ferguson was not in the fact that a kid, remember, younger than the perpetrator in Charleston, got shot. Police officers are under pressure every single day. As a police chaplain I know that what they most want to do after their shift is go home. Black, white, Latino, Asian, they just want to get home to their families. And none of them ever want to draw a gun. But in the instant they feel they must, mistakes can be made.

The problem of what happened in Ferguson, unfortunately wasn’t that Michael Brown got shot. The problem was he lay on the cement for 4 hours and 32 minutes and no one came to his aid. The problem was that the mayor never was out in front of the story. The problem became an over militarized police force responded to a problem that spiraled out of control.

I went to Ferguson because I was asked to go. I went to Ferguson with the Chief of Police and the mayor, knowing I was going. I went to Ferguson because I wanted to be a witness. I went to Ferguson to deliver a message that there are other ways of policing. Because here in Elgin, the clergy, the police and the Mayor were already involved in a conversation about race and the police. We still are. Because I believe here in Elgin we have already found better ways of policing with the resident officer program, with the commitment of the police to prevent such things from happening here.

But Ferguson is not an isolated incident. We have seen it over and over again this year. And Charleston is no exception. We are at a cross roads again. And while Elgin is ahead of many communities, we are not perfect and something can happen here too. We are naïve if we think that is not the case. On Thursday morning the first call I made was to Pastor Nat Edmond at Second Baptist. How was he, I asked? He replied he was sick watching CNN News. I asked him whether there was going to be an Elgin response. He told me he sent an email to his staff reviewing security procedures. We each reviewed ours on the phone. Because we both know that a similar kind of thing could happen here, at either place, even if we are prepared. I promised that the Jewish community stood in solidarity and support with him and his community.

Make no mistake. This is a Jewish issue too. Not just because we are commanded to welcome the widow, the orphan and the stranger. But because if a black pastor and eight others can be attacked in a church during Bible study, we can be attacked too. Already we know that the perpetrator was a white supremacist. I imagine it will only be a matter of time until we hear that he hated Jews too.

In the Haggadah that Simon and I use at our home there is a famous quote:

In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for me
and by that time no one was left to speak up.
Martin Niemoller

It is our job as Jews to speak up. That is what I am doing. And while sometime silence is enough or words are enough, sometimes they are not. Sometimes it requires action. And that is the point.