November 26, 2014
I had a professor once who thought that Jews didn’t cultivate an attitude of gratitude. Many in the class argued with him vehemently. I am not sure we ever convinced him. I had a congregant argue with me that according to Orthodox Jews, Thanksgiving isn’t a Jewish holiday so they don’t celebrate it in the Orthodox world. The Reform Movement this week sent out an email about how to make Thanksgiving more Jewish. If you are looking for ideas for your own Thanksgiving table it is a good article. http://www.reformjudaism.org/blog/2014/11/21/thanksgiving-jewish-holiday?utm_source=WU&utm_medium=email&utm_content=20141121&utm_campaign=Feature

But it doesn’t go far enough. She is correct. The original Puritans took their religion seriously (too seriously if you ask me and I worked as a Pilgrim at Plimouth Plantation where we were not allowed to joke or laugh or talk about Christmas. Christmas and birthdays were just other days, not something to celebrate). But they did take thanking G-d seriously. And they saw their role in cold, snowy New England, as a utopian society. They were a light to the nations. A light on the hill. Their celebration of Thanksgiving was based on the Jewish festival of Sukkot. The harvest festival. Governor Bradford learned to read Hebrew: “Though I am grown aged, yet I have had a longing desire to see with my own eyes something of that most ancient language and holy tongue, in which the Law and the oracles of God were written and in which God and angels spoke to the holy patriarchs of old time . . . My aim and desire is to see holy text, and to discern somewhat of the same, for my own content” (p. xxviii, edited by Samuel Eliot Morison, 1989).

This month my congregation has been focusing on prayer. It was very enriching. The conversations were wonderful. One older congregant explained that it is really very simple. He prayed, “To thank G-d. To praise G-d. That is all. That is why we are here.”

Another challenged me to think about the difference between grateful and thankful. Until last week I had always thought they were synonyms. Her feeling is that grateful is an internal sense and thankful is what we feel when someone is nice to us. A check of the web leads to many answers. One said that we use grateful when we talk about how we feel when someone is kind to us. “Thank you so much for helping us move. We are so grateful” “I would be grateful if you sent me information.” Thankful is used when we are relieved. “I am thankful to survive the accident.” I am not sure this settles it for me. I love this kind of word play and am delighted to have thought it out.

In any case, the rabbis of the Talmud teach we should say 100 blessings (at least) a day. It sounds difficult. The reality is that in the Birkat Hashachar, the introductory portion of the service, there are at least 50. We spent Saturday morning counting them.

So what I am thankful for?

I am thankful for G-d. For life. For family. For friends. For food. For shelter. For heat. For clothing. For health. For meaningful employment. For the ability to make a difference in the world.

These are good questions. How do you see grateful and thankful? What are you thankful for? Happy Thanksgiving.

How many of us have ever bargained with G-d? While it might seem audacious, we come from ancestors who did precisely that. This past week we read the parsha, portion that includes Abraham arguing with G-d. This argument, bargaining, is how we know that Abraham is a righteous man, for all time, not like Noah who was a righteous man in his generation. What is Abraham arguing about? He is trying to save Sodom and Gemorrah. “Surely you won’t destroy those cities if there are at least 50 righteous people?,” he demands of G-d. Surely not, G-d responds. But there are not even 50 righteous. Abraham bargains all the way down to 10. From this we learn that to have a community you need 10 people. In order to have a minyan you need 10 people.

In our quest to understand prayer this month, this is a very relevant question. Traditionally you need 10 adult Jewish men for a full, complete service. You need 10 for a minyan. You need 10 for Barchu (the formal call to worship), for the Torah service, and for the Reader’s Recitation of the Amidah, You need 10 people to say Kaddish. You need 10 people for Mourner’s Kaddish. Many have argued with me this week: that it is about intention.

• “I can say Kaddish at home and remember my father. I don’t need 10.”
• “We used to say Kaddish if there were 9 by counting a child or the Torah as the 10^th.”
• “We would count a minyan if there were 8 plus two non-Jews, two kids or a kid and the Torah.”

And while this is a tradition, maybe we don’t need a minyan. It is acceptable to pray alone. Many do just that. When we go to sleep we might say the Sh’ma. When we wake up we might say Modeh/Modah Ani. We may live somewhere where there is not a daily minyan. We may like meditating or praying on our own.

Pirke Avot, the Wisdom of the Fathers, part of the Mishneh teaches us:

Rabbi Hananiah ben Teradion says: When two sit together without any words of Torah between them it is just a setting for frivolous people, as it says (Psalms 1:1), that a person [who only desires God’s Torah] does not sit among frivolous people. But when two people sit together and there are words of Torah between them, the Shekhinah – Divine Presence – is between them, as it says (Malachi 3:16): ‘Then those who fear God engaged each other in conversation, each with their friend, and God listened and heard. Then it was written as a book of remembrance before Him, for those who revere God and who contemplate His Name.’ (Pirke Avot 3:2)

When there are just three people gathered, a full Birkat Hamazon, grace after meals is recited.

For two weeks now we have held an experimental, experiential, alternative service. The question has come up whether it is a minyan if there are not 10 in the room. My thought was that if there were at least 10 in the main sanctuary and some in the library, we were covered. Halachically that may not be quite accurate. Even if the door is open. However, I think that goes to intention, kavanah. It is our intention to have a service. The conversation has sparkled in there. Words of Torah have been exchanged. There has been deep learning. Deeper prayer. It has provided an opportunity to explore prayer and Judaism. The Shekhinah was clearly present—with or without a formal minyan. And isn’t that what prayer is about?

Last week I saw a post on Facebook I didn’t want to read. Our friend, Kathy Meyer, one of the first people we met in Elgin was not expected to live through the week. I quickly called Simon to see if he thought since I was in Deerfield I should just go to Hyde Park. We decided no, that we would go together later in the week. We had time. I was tired and didn’t want to drive through Hyde Park alone at night. I talked to Sarah and said, “I want more time with Kathy but I am not going to pray for a miracle here. That would be selfish. Kathy was ready to die and she wanted to sit at the foot of Jesus. She was so sure that is where she would be.”

By the time I got home that night, Kathy was gone.

I spend a lot of time talking to people, Jews and non-Jews about life-after-death. Jews seem less sure than Christians. We have a concept of olam ha’bah, the world-to-come, and yet we believe that the reward is in this life. We have a concept of hell—sometimes we use the word gehenna or she’ol. It is maybe the separation from G-d. We may have a concept of purgatory and that is why Jews recite Kaddish for a parent only for 11 months and not 12. We don’t want to think that the soul of our very own parent might hang in the balance, in suspension for the full twelve months. I don’t have clear answers to give people. I wish I did. It would be simpler. Easier.

And yet, I don’t think that life just ends.

Kathy was a remarkable woman. She cheated death more times than most can count. She has been on oxygen since before we knew her. Yet she was active. She walked Wyatt, their golden retriever, part of the reason we have a dog! Then she walked Wyatt and Walter. She was so active in her church—running their missions program, one of their Sunday School programs and doing a teaching on human trafficking. She loved coming to our house for Passover and she attended one Java and Jews and one Shabbat evening service. She was always curious. She was always learning. She loved to cook and to play games on Saturday nights. And she loved her family. Her goal was to get well enough to visit her newest granddaughter in Vancouver, WA just three weeks ago. And she did. She talked about her husband Mike, her daughters, her son and those two grandchildren constantly. And her G-d.

We could learn a lot from Kathy, in how she lived with passion and in how she died. Living fully, courageously. Beating the odds over and over again. Never quitting. Never (at least with us) being bitter.

One of my last conversations with her was about a family member that she described as a secular Jew. They just didn’t seem interested in faith or G-d or prayer and she wished for them the richness she had in her church. I talked to her about the book that Henri Nouwen wrote to his secular Jewish friend, Life of the Beloved. She was going to borrow my copy. I just ordered one for Mike, her husband, to give away.

The funeral was today. Sandwiched between my Java and Jews programs at three separate coffee shops. There was singing. There was story telling. There were tears and laughter. There were prayers. And the acknowledgement that sometimes our prayers don’t work. We all wanted more time with Kathy. There was a recognition that the human race has decided that death is the enemy. But death is not the end.

In the end, like Jewish funerals, there was food. Even deviled eggs. (or angel eggs, just ask me) And those eggs made me smile. Life is a circle, an egg. And Kathy lived hers so very, very fully. Perhaps our prayers, spoken and unspoken were answered.

I haven’t written much lately and people are beginning to wonder where I am. Maybe it is writer’s block. Maybe it was the intensity of the high holidays. Maybe it was writing 40 days or almost 40 days about peace. Maybe it is in not quite completing that project and leaving people who wrote beautifully hanging. For that I apologize. Maybe it is in balancing my own need to write for my own spirituality with the needs of a congregation that is traditional in approach. Historically, Jews did not write on Shabbat. It is one of the 39 categories of prohibited work based on building the Temple in Jerusalem. So if I write on my computer is it writing? Even the Orthodox in Jerusalem are figuring out how to text on Shabbat. Is that possible? http://www.thejewishweek.com/news/international/new-shabbos-app-creates-uproar-among-orthodox-circles Like all things, maybe yes, maybe no.

If I write on my day off, as I am now doing, is it a day off? Do rabbis ever get a day off? Is it possible to turn off my brain from thinking about these really deep theological, philosophical realms?

So I am back to writing. Thank you Jim, for asking for it, cajoling for it, demanding it, nudging for it, even during a football game.

This month my congregation is focused on prayer. Jewish prayer to be clear. We are trying a shorter, more relevant (?) service on Saturday mornings at 10:30 in parallel with our traditional one that begins, like always at 9:30 on Shabbat morning. We are struggling with what to call it. Is it an alternative service? Experimental? Experiential? Some wonder if it is even a service if it is shorter.

As part of this month long focus, I am thinking deeply about the issues, challenges, pleasures of prayer. I am asking questions—of everyone—the kids, the parents, our senior members. I am asking questions of myself.

This week I asked the kids, “What is prayer.” They answered that it is a conversation between them and G-d. They do it in appreciation, gratitude, thanksgiving, to ask for something like a goal in a soccer game or to do well on a test or for a family member who is sick. The adults who came to the first service pray to achieve comfort, community, serenity, peace, calm, healing. As one of our older members said, “It is simple. To praise G-d. Nothing more.”

Why do I pray? For those reasons and to be reassured. To realize that there is something beyond myself. To not feel alone.

So come join Congregation Kneseth Israel’s conversation. How do you pray? Why do you pray? What do you want to get out of a prayer experience?

There has been lots written about the clergy “protest” in Ferguson yesterday. None of it completely portrays what I experienced and before I forget I want to record my version of the events.

I went with a fair amount of trepidation. I am no stranger to rallies, protests, demonstrations and marches. Pick your word. But this one felt different and I couldn’t articulate why. Yet, one of my favorite organizations, T’ruah, Rabbis for Human Rights put out a national call. It was my day off. Saint Louis is a place that is near and dear to my heart and it was doable. Added to that my good friend, classmate and colleague, Rabbi Maralee Gordon, from up the road also wanted to go and my best friend, Father Jack Lau, lives just across the river in Godfrey. The WalMart that they talk about in the news in Ferguson, is his WalMart!

It felt different because here in Elgin, we do a good job working with the police department and Chief Soboda to prevent issues like erupted in Ferguson. In fact at today’s clergy council meeting we are planning a city wide event in January to train people in de-escalation techniques. I want to work with the police, not against them. I want to partner with them and not turn these kinds of things into an us versus them kind of thing.

But I went. And I am glad I did. It was extremely powerful. I was in Ferguson for maybe 7 hours. It will take me longer than 7 hours to process it. It is a series of vignettes. It is a series of ripples in a pond. (water metaphors are rampant!)

I admit it. I was scared. I was scared of the threat of tear gas. I was scared of the threat of arrest. I was scared of losing control. I was scared of physical violence. I was scared about what my own community would think. I was so scared that when I got on the highway I found I was going on 90 East not 90 West. My own Jonah, how far can I run away to Tarshish (maybe Boston?) moment. I was glad to share the experience with Jack and Maralee. I don’t think I could have done it alone.

So the vignettes.

• We got there early. CNN and ABC were already there. So no real secret. The church wasn’t quite ready but there was a group from a seminary in Kentucky that was already there. We found we had friends in common. Soon two local rabbis showed up. Still more friends in common. The pastor welcomed us. It was his day off but he opened the church for everyone and apologized that the coffee wasn’t ready. Later, since his support staff wasn’t in, he was the one mopping the floor, not once but twice. Always with a smile. My kind of guy. And even after 6 rabbis offered to do it for him or with him, it was still he who was mopping.
• During the training I got up to go to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure when I would see another one. There was a long line. When I got back the (black) lady in front of me was staring at me. She thought I was laughing at her. She had just said that she was scared to go to jail and didn’t want to even though she was a marshal. Together we laughed—and shared that neither of us wanted to go to jail. I felt chicken. More laughter. The good kind. Later I saw her in the parking lot and we hugged. And we laughed. And we didn’t go to jail.
• At some point the rain came “tumbling down.” Not just rain but a deluge. Apparently it was a tornado watch but we didn’t know that. I can’t explain how wet I got. Or all of the water metaphors. Was it a baptism? A mikveh? Healing rain? Forgiving rain? Was G-d punishing us? Punishing the police? I can say that I am grateful to the local (white) couple who shared their big red umbrella with the three of us. They were there with the Unitarian Universalists and were concerned about their minister who might have been arrested. Singing “Wading in the Water” a song that we use at Mayyim Hayyim events from time to time was one of the more powerful experience of the day.
• Both Jack and I gave interviews. He to an affiliate of CNN which was picked up nationally and posted on Facebook: http://www.cnn.com/video/?/video/us/2014/10/14/dnt-cheatham-missouri-protests.cnn&video_referrer=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fl.php%3Fu%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.cnn.com%252Fvideo%252Fdata%252F2.0%252Fvideo%252Fus%252F2014%252F10%252F14%252Fdnt-cheatham-missouri-protests.cnn.html%26h%3DhAQHa4xK8 . It helped clarify why were there. For Jack it was about solidarity. For me it was about presence. Being present in that place, at the request of Rabbi Susan Talve. Even in the rain. The pouring rain. If that boy could lay in the street for four hours and 32 minutes then I could stand in the rain for four hours. Cold, wet, tired, hungry. But alive. And present.
• At some point I noticed a woman in red approach a police officer. She was in his face. She took a step closer. Uh oh, this isn’t going to be good. I backed away. I figured she would be the first to be arrested. But no, to my amazement, the “encounter” ended in a hug. A long embrace. The singular most important moment of the rally for me.
• Not knowing completely what had happened but knowing it was significant, I kept watching the police in their riot gear. I wondered how hard this was for them. All of these insults hurled at them. They handled the situation professionally and with grace. But then we were a diverse, mixed group of clergy. It would not be good to arrest all those clergy. It might be different at midnight if the protesters were all teenagers or all black and if they were hurling rocks and not insults.
• This rally was safer than I had first thought. I got my own courage up. I approached a officer, a younger one and thanked him. Yes, thanked him. For doing his job. I shared that I thought Elgin might be different. He said that this kind of violence was inevitable, anywhere and that they know how to do this professionally because they have been doing it now every day for two months. It saddened me to think that it is inevitable. And that is part of why I was there.
• It got tense again. The prominent clergy made a line (it was still pouring), linking arm in arm, elbow to elbow, face to face with the police line. They did not, as reported in the press break through the police line. They just stood. Or kneeled. One clergy person in front of each police officer. They offered to hear police confessions. Some held up a mirror. They were peaceful. There was a call for a moment of silence. It was more like 10 minutes. It was powerful. I watched the back of T’ruah’s, Rabbi Rachel Kahn-Troster’s head with its purple kippah. She was on the very front line. Face-to-face with an officer. Unflinching. Prepared to go to jail. But she was not arrested. No rabbi was.
• After the rally, back in the church, we debriefed. The woman who embraced the police demonstrated what had happened. It was picked up on Facebook and this is what happened before that embrace: “While holding a sign that said “YOU ARE KILLING US” on one side and “DON’T SHOOT” on the other, Sister Dragonfly approached a Ferguson officer and attempted to make eye contact. She implored him to look at her, and when their gaze connected, she asked, “Why do you all hate us so much?” The officer responded, “I don’t hate you, ma’am.” She replied with “I don’t want to hate you, I’d rather hug you.” And when he said, “Then hug me,” she promptly put her arms around him, and they embraced whole-heartedly for nearly a minute.
• Also at the debriefing, a man came up to the group of rabbis clustered at the back. He was wearing a bright green hat from the National Lawyers’ Guild. They were the Legal Observers and providing legal support. There were tears in his eyes. He was raised Jewish and was overwhelmed by the rabbinic presence. “Your commitment to Tikkun Olam makes me have faith. In a higher power. In the work that I am doing. I love that you are here.”
• We drove out of Ferguson. We wonder if our clothes will ever dry. Did our shoes survive? We drove past Jack’s WalMart, the same one they would be boycotting. The same one we heard earlier in the day refused to sell batteries to one of the organizers for the bullhorn.

This story is about all of us. This story is not black and white. It is not simple. It is not pretty. As we chanted, “This is what democracy looks like. This is what theology looks like.” It is complicated. It is messy. The boy who lay on the ground for four hours and 32 minutes has become a catalyst for change. Necessary change. Necessary discussion. There is racism in America. There is a system where justice is not balanced.

I went because there was a national call for clergy to go. I went because I work with the clergy of Elgin, and the before hand the clergy of Lowell WITH the police to prevent these kinds of things. I went because there are too many examples of police brutality and system abuse everywhere.  I went because we are all created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of G-d. Teens, of whatever color, and police officers alike. I went because as one congregant put it, “You went because you continue to inspire those of us who believe it will get better but that we need to be active for Tikkun Olam to be more than a dream.”

So why was I there? I was there because we are told “Don’t stand by while your neighbor bleeds.” I could not stand by. I needed to stand up and be counted.

Our next guest, Gareth Sitz, is a retired theater and language teacher. She has acted extensively as well as directed, produced and written scripts. She has written many of her own songs. Currently she directs a troupe called Femmeprov. She is an active member of Congregation Kneseth Israel and enjoys singing in the choir. Her post made me chuckle. I remember being in Israel watching Woody Allen’s Bananas which includes the line “What do the Jews do when they get in trouble? They sing.” This morning I woke up singing some of the High Holiday liturgy and a song from Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. May all of your music for Yom Kippur bring you peace.

Singing is a meditative and peaceful act for me.   When I’m writing a song, I sing the words and melody over and over again. After I’m pretty happy with the lyrics, I’ll write them down, only to revise them over time. I’ll play with the melody as well, sometimes changing it completely. The process makes me unbearably happy and at peace.

Sometimes, a song I write makes me cry. I’ve been known to sing through my tears, like the time I wrote a soulful ballad about my childhood friend who was killed in a motorcycle accident when he was 17. I cried and I cried and I cried, cradling my guitar in my lap. Then, when the song was finally done and I typed the lyrics, I felt at peace.

At their very best, my songs reflect what’s in my heart, and in their very simplicity, they allow me to express my feelings on a deep level. Writing a song and singing it is one of the ways I take care of myself, a way I find peace.

In synagogue, while singing the prayers in a communal setting, I also find peace. No matter what’s going on in the world or in my personal life, I can let the familiar melodies carry me along, helping me to center myself in a peaceful place. I used to wonder why there was so much repetition in the services, until I was able to embrace the meditative aspect of the prayers and ritual. Each time I return to a familiar and comforting litany, it brings me peace to hear my own voice joining others, and I am filled with a sense of gratitude.

Gareth Sitz

Tishri 7: Seek Peace and Pursue It

From Rabbi Rachel Barenblatt, the Velveteen Rabbi. From a post of hers on August 22, 2014 She can be found at http://velveteenrabbi.blogs.com and is the rabbi of Congregation Beth Israel in North Adams, MA. Her ordination is from ALEPH and she considers herself part of Jewish Renewal movement. She is one of the early Jewish bloggers and I have long admired her work.

Lately I’ve been working on finding the right balance between paying attention to the world and its many injustices, and cultivating an internal sense of peacefulness and compassion. Against this backdrop, a friend recently shared with me a teaching from her Buddhist practice. According to this way of thinking, if one increases one’s own suffering, one adds to the suffering of the universe; if one increases one’s own peacefulness, one adds to the peacefulness of the universe.

My first reaction, upon hearing this, was that it’s a way of justifying contemplative practice. It’s easy (for some folks) to knock prayer and contemplative practice by saying that we who engage in prayer and contemplative practice aren’t “doing anything” to heal the broken world, and that therefore these spiritual practices are self-centered at best. But in this Buddhist way of thinking, if I can cultivate peace and compassion in my heart, I will add to the overall peace and compassion of the whole cosmos.

This makes some sense to me. If I can cultivate peace and compassion, I’m likelier to relate to others with those qualities instead of with impatience or anger. When I am feeling grounded and mindful and kind, I think I’m a better parent; I suspect I’m also a better partner, rabbi, and friend. That’s a small-scale change which might have a ripple effect. But can my acts of meditation and prayer shift the peacefulness in the cosmos in a bigger-picture way? When I work on myself, do I really change the universe?

The Zohar speaks of itaruta d’l’ila and itaruta d’l’tata, “arousal from above” and “arousal from below.” Sometimes God pours blessing, love, divine shefa down into creation entirely of God’s own accord, and that divinity streaming into creation further awakens us. That’s (what the Zohar calls) arousal from above. And other times it is we who initiate the connection — with our cries and prayers and contemplation, we stimulate the flow of blessing and abundance from on high. That’s arousal from below.

Contemplative practices — meditation, prayer, chant, even the internal work of teshuvah (repentance or return) which is the primary focus of the coming month of Elul and the holidays which follow — are practices designed to facilitate that arousal from below. When we cultivate peacefulness, or enter into teshuvah, or make a conscious effort to practice kindness, perhaps we awaken parallel qualities on high. At least, that’s how the Zohar understands it. Our prayers and meditations can awaken God.

The psalmist teaches “turn from evil and do good; seek shalom/peace and pursue it.” (psalm 34:14) We usually understand shalom to mean peace and wholeness in an external sense, between people(s). But I wonder whether we can also read it as an instruction to seek internal peacefulness. Maybe when I cultivate peace within myself, I stimulate the divine flow of more peace into the world. (Or, in the Buddhist framing with which this post began, I add to the net peacefulness of the universe.)

“Seek peace and pursue it” seems at first to be repetitive. If I’m seeking it, surely that means I’m pursuing it too, right? But our sages teach that there are no extraneous words in Torah — or at least that we can find or make meaning even in the most apparently repetitive of phrases. Ergo there must be a difference between “seeking” peace and “pursuing” it. All well and good, but what might that difference be? Here’s one traditional answer, from the collection of midrash called Vayikra Rabbah:

Great is shalom, peace, because about all of the mitzvot in the Torah it is written, “If you happen upon,” “If it should occur,” “If you see,” which implies that if the opportunity to do the mitzvah comes upon you, then you must do it, and if not, you are not bound to do it. But in the case of peace, it is written, Seek peace, and pursue it—seek it in the place where you are, and pursue after it in another place. (Vayikra Rabbah 9:9)

In other words: the other mitzvot ask us to make certain choices when opportunity presents itself. But in the case of peace, we have to be proactive. We have to cultivate peace not only where we are, but also in the places where we haven’t been yet (or where peace hasn’t been yet). We have to cultivate external peace, and internal peacefulness, precisely in the places — and the hearts and minds and souls — which aren’t yet peaceful. And when we do this work, we can hope that we awaken God on high to do the same.

Our next guest, Leonard Kofkin, is a retired attorney with expertise in transportation law. He is widely traveled and enjoys finding relatives wherever he goes. He is one of our usual Shabbat morning attenders, when he isn’t globe-trotting. Here are his reflections:

War, we understand, is the state of open conflicts, general hostilities, armed antagonisms, and offensive struggles among states and forces. These common definitions describe a series of events extrinsic to the ordinary individual and usually beyond his or her influence.

But what is Peace? Can peace coexist with war or are they mutually exclusive conditions? Is it beyond peradventure that in war, there can be no peace, and in peace, there can be no war?   In contrast, my view of this dichotomy is that in war one can find peace and there are those who, even absent war, cannot find their own peace.

I see peace as an intrinsic state, the essential attribute or goal of a thoughtful, religious person exposed to the ghastly events of a war in which one has no culpability, where one can find solace and quietude.

I believe this is shown in the many stories of heroism in war.   Is it not an inner peace that permits martyrs to suffer vicious crimes against their mortal bodies, as they await the inevitable death of their bodies? Was it not the inner peace of the victims of the Holocaust which carried them to their deaths with few words beyond their recitation of the Sh’ma and the certainty that God will reward their lifetimes of devotion? For me, these examples demonstrate that at the end of one’s life under dire circumstances, one can find such peace.

But in the end, the peace that one finds amid war must be based upon an inner religious strength and a love of God. As it is said often, there are no atheists in foxholes. That which frightens them, including the fear of death, can only be dispelled by finding inner peace emerging from the sense that God cares for us, providing we have earned His respect by deeds of loving kindness during life and at our death.

This is the season to seek and to find that inner peace despite the turmoil in the world around us.

Yesterday we heard about how the Groton Interfaith Council visits each others’ religious services and how Amy hopes for more than tolerance. She wants acceptance. I agree. For more than 30 years I have participated in various interfaith dialogue exercises. At Tufts as an undergraduate I taught a class in Jewish Christian relations to freshman. I did an internship with American Jewish Committee helping the local logistics for the National Workshop on Christian Jewish Relations that was held in Boston the spring of my senior year. I wrote a senior honor thesis on the topic of Elder and Younger Brothers in Conversation: Jewish Christian Relations Post 1948.

When I started doing all of this I think I believed that promoting interfaith understanding would help prevent another Holocaust. It was the subject of many arguments with my father.

What I have learned is that participating in dialogue has increased my own understanding of Judaism. Having to explain the nuanced answers to complex theological questions to non-Jews, helps me explain them to Jews. It deepens my own engagement. Along the way I have found tolerance, acceptance, respect and understanding. Along the way I have found partners in social justice issues. Working on a Habitat for Humanity house, writing letters to preserve emergency oil subsidies, providing an interfaith kids camp so that kids could have lunch during the summer, keeping pools open so that kids have a safe place to play in the summer have been rewarding and lead to peace. Having partners in prayer to express gratitude at Thanksgiving or to respond to local or national tragedies have stretched my understanding of the Divine. Speaking at various conferences like Faith in an Age of NASA at University of Massachusetts Lowell help me realize how similar the religions are. There is much to unite us rather than divide us.

When a synagogue I worked in had anti-Semitic graffiti spray painted on it, I called the police, then I called an Episcopal priest and a Catholic director of religious education. They arrived before the police.

Through the years we have laughed together, cried together, celebrated together, mourned together, played volleyball and studied together.

Along the way I found life long friends.

Our next guest lives in Groton, MA. She is a Hebrew School teacher specializing in Holocaust education and has been trained by Facing History and Ourselves both in Brookline and in Israel. She brought the movie and its producers Paper Clips to her small town and built a Holocaust memorial there. She is one of the most optimistic people I know and she works tirelessly for peace.

So I have been avoiding writing about this because what do I know about World Peace and how to achieve it? But today something happened that made me realize why it wasn’t the time to write until tonight.

I believe that “tolerance” doesn’t go far enough. I want ACCEPTANCE. Accept that someone is different than you are and just move on. Don’t judge, don’t be condescending, don’t think “your way is the only way.” To really walk the talk I have become involved in interfaith work.

I truly believe interfaith work is the answer to understanding, learning and accepting others’ religions I am on the board of the Groton Interfaith Council and together we have provide education to the community about Islam, Judaism and Christianity and what we have in common. We are attending each other’s worship services. Today I attended the Universalist Unitarian Sunday service. The service was about Yom Kippur and they included two Hebrew songs in their service. I was particularly struck by their choir singing in a round “Eli Eli”. How powerful to hear the words sung around the room (the choir sings by standing around at the end of the pews) and feeling embraced by the words. To me this is how we will achieve World Peace.

What else can I do in a little New England town in Massachusetts? Ten years ago, a middle school teacher started an after school club called “The Bookmakers and Dreamers Club” . After much discussion with the kids, they decided to make the World’s Largest Book. After the teacher attended a Jimmy Cliff concert where he said at the end of the concert “what are you doing to teach your kids about peace?” the teacher suggested to the kids they make a book about Peace. For the past 10 yrs., this club as it evolves each year with new students, have tackled obstacles concerning the printing, layout, obtaining letters and financing this project. I volunteered for a few years to help in any way I could by fundraising, obtaining letters and promoting the book. In October 2014 the book will make its first Museum visit to the Kennedy Library in South Boston, MA where pages will be displayed. For more info, you can go to their website at www.pagesforpeace.org

This Peace book just happened to be in my town’s middle school. What else could I be involved in to help promote World Peace? I recently joined the Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom which is starting chapters around the Country for Muslim and Jewish women to get together and become friends. I look forward to not only understanding each other’s customs but eventually be able to see what it is like to step into each other’s’ shoes. I am attending a retreat in Philadelphia on November 1st where Muslim and Jewish Women will be getting together to discuss conflict resolution.

I recently heard a NPR interview with a Muslim man who was taught to hate the “other”. When he left home he became close friends with Jews and some homosexual men who he was taught to hate. He returned home and told his mom and her reaction was relief because she was exhausted from hating. She was proud of him and felt released from the chains of hate.

World Peace is an overwhelming task. Sometimes working person to person, community by community is a way we can make a difference. As the Ethics of Our Fathers’ says “You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it (2:21).”