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Ten Thoughts About Being a Congregational Rabbi

6/30/2011

 
Today is my last day of eleven years serving Congregation Beth Israel as its rabbi, so I'm  in a rather reflective mood. I am thinking today about the nature or rabbis and the odd relationships they have with the communities they serve.  Here is just a random assortment of Ten Thoughts About Being a Congregational Rabbi:

1) As rabbi, you attend community events because being part of a Jewish community is one of the greatest joys of your life—but also because it's your job. Members of the community sometimes feel uncertainty about this duality. Is s/he our rabbi because s/he loves us, or because we pay her/him? For congregants who are anxious about their relationships with parent-like figures, the tension can be painful as they seek reassurance that the emotional connection is genuine and not just professional. You just live with that.

2) Being a rabbi is a lot like being a community organizer. The main point of your job is not to do things yourself (except writing the odd sermon or teaching the confirmation class). Your most important job is to collaborate with others and give them the pleasure of succeeding for themselves. It means that you accept a lot of blame but don't take a lot of credit. You learn humility. You learn to derive satisfaction from helping other people to feel good about themselves.

3) As a rabbi, you are present at some of the most powerful moments of other people's lives. I remember visiting a mother in the hospital just an hour after her child was born. I saw her staring into the baby's eyes with such love, I felt like someone who had just stumbled into the presence of a couple's passion. I also remember being in a nursing home room when a man was saying goodbye to his wife of fifty years for the last time, weeping and declaring his love. The truth is—as difficult as it is to remember at such moments—people want the rabbi to be there. They want your presence to be a token of the fact that something powerfully meaningful is happening. Through your eyes, they want the universe to witness their pain, joy, spirit and existence. If you're good at what you do, you will resist the temptation to try to say something meaningful at that moment. Just be.

4) People assume that you have a lot of power in the congregation. They think that you get to decide all the important questions. The truth is, the only power you have is the authority you earn by being a decent human being and by helping people in the way that they actually want to be helped. Rabbis who say "No" a lot, and think that it demonstrates their power, are not usually successful.

5) Rabbis should be allowed to be spouses to their spouses and parents to their children in full view of the congregation. If you try to keep those roles separate from the role of rabbi, you lose the ability to teach your greatest lessons about living a life of Torah.

6) When you're the rabbi, it's your job to tell the people who pay you that they are being ganifs when they are being ganifs. Also, you have to do this with great love and compassion. If you don't, you should be fired. Is there any other job like that?

7) You go through five years of rabbinic school, in which you are trained to be knowledgeable about the intricacies of Hebrew grammar, the underlying structure of talmudic discourse, the historical context of the biblical text, and the nuances of the philosophies of Saadia Gaon, the Rambam, Buber and Heschel. Then you enter a congregation in which you teach adults their alef-bet and Bible stories. You breathe deeply. You smile. You appreciate the fact that it is all Torah and it is all holy. You love them deeply.

8) You never stop becoming a rabbi. 

9) Your job is not to teach facts, beliefs or practices. Your job is to be the conduit through which other people fall in love with Torah. You must do this without them knowing it. You must make them believe that they are learning facts, beliefs and practices when, in fact, they are learning to become themselves.

10) It is not up to you to finish the job. However, neither are you free to desist from hearing people's stories, holding the hands of people in pain, shouting for joy at every wedding and bar mitzvah, striving toward God with every prayer (even when you're leading the service), feeling the loss experienced by every mourner, fighting like hell for justice, making every child feel great about being Jewish, learning more Torah, helping a community find its voice, hoping for the future, living with the past, accepting failure, saying you're sorry, returning to the place where you began, saying goodbye, and saying hello.

Goodbye, Congregation Beth Israel.

Hello, Temple Beit HaYam.

Chukat: The Reason for the Red Cow

6/26/2011

 
Last week, I wrote about the question, "Why Pray?"  With this week's Torah portion, there is an even deeper question to answer: Why observe any of the commandments? It is a question that goes right to the heart of our ability to understand the world around us.

Parashat Chukat begins with one of the strangest of all the commandments in the Torah. Moses instructs the Israelites to slaughter and burn a cow that is entirely red and to save the ashes for a ritual to purify people who have come in contact with a dead body. If that's not odd enough, the passage also contains this paradox: the person who gathers the ashes of the Red Cow is rendered ritually unclean by the same ashes that are used to purify others (Number 19:9-10).

The paradox has been apparent since ancient times. In the midrash, wise King Solomon is said to have exclaimed, "I succeeded in understanding the whole Torah, but, as soon as I reach this chapter about the Red Cow, I searched, probed and questioned. 'I said I will get wisdom, but it was far from me.'" (Yalkut Shimoni 759; Ecclesiastes 7:23).

Ever since, there has been an argument in Judaism about how inexplicable laws in the Torah should be viewed. Some say that God's laws are beyond question and must be observed without question or explanation. According to this point of view, the mitzvot are their own justification—we fulfill them because God has asked us to do so. The more inscrutable a law is, the better it is to teach us this lesson.

This is the logic of the Vilna Gaon (Rabbeinu Eliyahu of Vilna), who taught that any attempt to explain a law would lead to the violation of the law. He says that once people begin coming up with reasons for observing a law, they begin looking for cases in which the reason does not apply and excuse themselves from observing the law in those cases. 

For example, if I believe that the reason for the prohibition on playing musical instruments on Shabbat is to prevent me from repairing an instrument that breaks on Shabbat, I might think that it is okay to play the instrument as long as I don't repair it. The rational explanation, argues the Vilna Gaon, actually leads to the law's violation. He says that it's better not to explain the laws and just to observe them without question.

If that seems like shaky reasoning to you, you are not alone. The Rambam (Rabbi Moses Maimonides) ridicules the Vilna Gaon's objection (five hundred years before the Vilna Gaon was born!). According to the Rambam, those who believe that it is impermissible to consider rational explanations for the commandments suffer from "a certain disease of the soul." He explains:

Those people imagine that if the laws appear to make any sense at all or to serve any purpose, others will assume that the laws must have come from human reason and not from God. It is only if the laws have no reason and serve no purpose that people will attribute them to God, since no human being could come up with something so inexplicable. According to this weak-minded theory, human beings are more perfect than our Creator! For we do things that have a purpose, while God's actions are different; God commands us to do what is of no use to us, and forbids us to do what is harmless. Far be it from so! On the contrary, the sole object of the Torah is to benefit us. (A Guide for the Perplexed, Section 3, Chapter 31)

So, then, how would the Rambam explain the law of the Red Cow whose ashes render the impure pure and the pure impure? The Rambam says that the laws of ritual purity serve to create awe and reverence for God and the Temple in the hearts of the Jewish people. He seems to suggest that the ashes behave the way they do simply because there needs to be a way to purify the ritually impure and it needs to be something miraculous. Red Cow ashes are as good at fulfilling those requirements as anything else might be.

Still not satisfied? Here's my take on inscrutable laws: the explanation is that there is no explanation. 

In the time of giving of the Torah, laws like that of the Red Cow made sense to people based on their traditions, customs and understanding of the world. There is no reason to assume that the Torah's first audience was more mystified by the ritual of the Red Cow than we are mystified by the pageantry of halftime at the Superbowl. On reflection, the ancient Israelites surely saw the strangeness of the law,  but they accepted it as "the way we've always done it." Even if they did ask, "What is the point of this?" the answer could only have been the same one we give about the Superbowl: "That's just the way it is."

The common cultural understandings for these laws disappeared millennia ago (long before the time of the rabbis of the Talmud and midrash), and we are left only with the mystery. But that's a good thing. Mystery is much more interesting than a cultural oddity. Our reflection on the Red Cow reminds us that there is so much about the world that we do not and cannot understand. We find that we don't really understand the past. We certainly don't understand the future. And, perhaps, we will learn at last that we don't really understand the present, either. 

The purpose of the Red Cow is to remind us that we submit ourselves to a universe and a God that is beyond our ken. We don't observe commandments just because we understand them, we observe them also because we wish to celebrate a world that we don't understand.

Why Pray?

6/22/2011

 
Worshiping God with prayer is a Jewish invention. Yet, many Jews today are baffled to answer the most basic question about worship: "Why pray?"

To begin to answer that question, let's look at how prayer has developed in Jewish tradition.

After the destruction of the Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, the ancient Hebrews could no longer worship God by offering sacrifices. The Torah demands that the Temple is the only legitimate place for offering sacrifices to God, and so Judaism might have died along with the Temple. Instead, the ancient Hebrews kept their devotion to God alive by developing a new form of worship, one composed entirely of words of prayer.  Later, with the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, worship by sacrificial offerings ended for good and prayer was established as the primary spiritual practice of Judaism. 

Since its invention, however, Jewish worship through prayer has gone through many changes and Jews have understood prayer in many different ways. The prayer service may have begun as a way to perpetuate the rites of the Temple and maintain a national/communal link with God, but in time the ancient rabbis turned prayer into a personal and spiritual act. The rabbis developed a philosophy of prayer that included the heartfelt qualities of intention and deepening a personal attachement to God. 

The rabbis also made daily prayers part of their system of mitzvot—the sacred obligations of fulfilling God's will. So, performing prayers also became something that a Jew would do simply "because God told you to." 

Later, kabbalah turned prayer into an act of mystical unification of the cosmos. By reciting daily prayers, a Jew would rise higher on the ladder toward ultimate attachment to God and effect restorative changes within the divine realm. Jewish mystical tradition transformed the meaning of prayer. To the kabbalists, prayer was not just a way to serve God; it was an act that turned the praying individual into God's partner in the repair of the world.

Of course, worship services are also social gatherings. By praying together, the community affirms its highest aspirations to its values and to God. Many Jews today put the experience of gathering together as a community as the most important reason for participating in prayer.

There is yet one more reason why Jews pray. Prayer is a tool of personal transformation. Like yoga and meditation, Jewish prayer can be viewed as a practice for personal development and honing a sense of personal equanimity, peace, self-awareness, and, ultimately, happiness. For many of today's Jews, this understanding of prayer is bringing a new sense of spirituality and meaning to their prayer practice.

What makes the most sense to you? Why do you pray? Or, if you don't, which vision of prayer would be most likely to draw you into the practice?

Korach: Walking into Trouble's Tent

6/20/2011

 
When I know that someone is angry or upset with me, my instinct is to stay away. I don’t, go “looking for trouble,” as the saying goes.  "If trouble wants me," I think, "let it come and find me."

That's a natural human reaction.  But staying away from trouble is often where real trouble starts.  

In this week's Torah portion, Datan and Abiram foment a rebellion with Korach against Moses. Why? Maybe they were afraid that Moses would lead them only to slow death in the desert. Maybe they felt marginalized by Moses' authority. Whatever their reasons—good or bad—it made sense to them to challenge Moses.
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In response to the rebellion, Moses first fell on his face to the ground in a stunning display of modesty. He did not argue with his accusers or act defensively. Instead, he put his trust in God and said, “Tomorrow, God will make known who belongs to God and who is holy.”

Later, Moses called for Datan and Abiram to appear before him. They refused to go to Moses, and their words were as far from modest as can be imagined. They said, "We will not come!  Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?”

Moses, it seems, wouldn't go to them, either. Nobody likes to go looking for trouble.

Who is the good guy and who is the bad guy in this story?  Most of the classical commentators are quick to paint a picture in black in white—Moses is the man of God and the rebels are selfish, narrow and power-hungry. But nothing in Torah is ever truly black and white. Moses may be a well intentioned leader and faithful to God, but that may not be enough.

Listen to what Rabbi Simchah Bunim of P’zhisha has to say. This hassidic master is one of the few commentators who is willing to find fault with Moses’ behavior. He asks, “Why did Moses have to send for Datan and Abiram and wait for them to attend to him?” Moses failed to bring peace to the Israelites during this, his greatest challenge, because he did not bother to go to them and try to appease them. Instead, he waited in his tent and sent to have them brought to him.

When I, like Moses, say, “If trouble wants me, let trouble come and get me itself,” in my mind I have reduced a human being to being nothing more than “trouble.”  I have neglected to see the human aspect of the person whose needs and desires—no matter how base I may consider them—are nothing but a source of bother to me.  

If I were to look at the human beings behind my “trouble”—I would begin to learn about who they are and what needs lie behind behaviors I, at first, labeled “selfish, narrow and power-hungry.”  I would see people in pain, I would see people who feel excluded, people who want the same things I want—love, acceptance and an ear to hear their plight.

When our communities overcome the human tendency to see those who think or behave differently as “trouble,” we begin to create peace. When we take the time to see the human being on the other side of the divide, it becomes much harder for us to see the other person as a villain.

The Torah teaches that Moses was the most modest man on the face of the earth.  Yet he, in all his modesty, was too busy burying his face in the earth—bemoaning his own sense of persecution—to walk to the source of his “trouble,” and begin to see, instead, a person.

May we, who have many points of view—we who are human beings who have each known pain, exclusion and isolation in our lives—come to truly see each other. Let us not wait for trouble to come to us, even when we believe ourselves to be in the right. Let us stand up, walk to trouble’s tent, and come to know the human face across from us.

Shelach Lecha: Getting Up Close and Personal

6/16/2011

 
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses sent out spies to check out the people who lived in the land of Canaan. Ten of the spies returned with a report that the Canaanites were giants.  They said that Israel would never be able to conquer them. The spies’ report spread fear among the Israelites, and resulted in God’s decision to have them wander in the wilderness for another forty years. 

This week's haftarah reading, from the book of Joshua, tells a parallel story in which things are turned around. It is Israel’s enemies, the people of Jericho, who are scared to death. The spies whom Joshua sent to check them out return to say that the land is already as good as conquered because the people who live there are already trembling in fear of the Israelites.

In both stories, the spies’ reports do not say nearly as much about the military capacity of the enemy (what you would expect spies to report!) as they do about the emotional state of each side in relation to the other. Those who are confident are presumed to prevail and those who are fearful are presumed to fail. Perceptions become reality.

One of the major differences between the story in the Torah and the story in the haftarah is that, in the latter, the spies made personal contact with Rachav, a member of the enemy city. They got up close to see the full extent of the enemy they faced. In the Torah story, the spies merely looked at the Canaanites from a distance and made no personal connection. From a distance the Canaanites looked like giants. Would they have looked differently if the spies had gone right up and engaged them in conversation? 

Fear is a natural and normal response to a threat. That's why we are programed instinctively to fear things that are strange to us. However, fear that is automatic and unquestioning can be destructive. The two stories we read this week—the story of the fearful spies and the story of the confident spies—can be understood as a challenge to confront the things that make us fearful. We are urged to get close enough to the things we perceive as threatening to see their true nature. When we do this, we may discover that the things that scare us actually are as weak and unthreatening as were the cowering people of Jericho.

Summer

6/13/2011

 
According to the calendar, summer does not yet arrive for another week and a half. However, for those who live and work in the Jewish community, we know that with the completion of Shavuot, summer already is here for the synagogue.

Everything changes in the summer. Whether the numbers go up or down (depending on the local demographics), the summer synagogue crowd is different from that of the rest of the year. The folks who come to services to fulfill religious school obligations or to be part of a social scene are mostly gone in the summer. The folks who just can't get enough Torah and who worship out of a sense of spiritual hunger and heartfelt commitment are now the majority. Summer changes the whole tone of the synagogue.

I am curious about how we take advantage of this turning of the seasons. What do you do in your community to keep your summer congregation in step with the tune of the time? How do you keep the synagogue a joyful place in the summer, and how do you compete with the many distractions the summer offers? What will you do to keep people interested in the life of the Jewish community between now and Rosh Hashanah?

Please share your thoughts by adding a comment below.

Beha'alotcha: The Light of the Menorah

6/9/2011

 
I can't read the opening passage of this week's Torah portion--Beha'alotcha, in the book of Numbers—without thinking about that burning bush we read about six months ago at the beginning of the book of Exodus. There has to be a connection between that burning bush and the menorah that stands in the Tabernacle. How could there not?

This week's Torah portion begins with a mention of the menorah, the seven-branched lampstand in the Tabernacle. We were told back in Parashat Terumah (Exodus 25:31-40), that the menorah was hammered out of a single piece of pure gold. It has parts that are all described in botanical terms—petals, calyxes and blooms. Its central shaft is surrounded by six branches. It is a golden tree that blossoms with fire in the sanctuary of Israel. 

What do we make of the detail that begins this week's reading? What is the significance of the fact that that the lamps on each of the branches shine in the direction of "the face"? According to Rashi, the great medieval commentator on the Torah, the word "face" in this verse refers to the middle shaft of the menorah. All of the lamps face the middle—that is, the light of each branch shines upon the center. 

The effect must have been to create a tree with light from each branch reflecting from the shiny surface of the central shaft. To those who saw it, that brilliant, golden tree, with the light glowing from its center, must have been a reminder of that first moment when Moses heard God's voice coming from a bush lit at its center with eternal flames.

That is as close to an image of the Creator as Judaism will allow. At the center of all reality, there grows a living tree that is an absolute and pure unity. It is the place where beams of light from different sources combine.  At the center, all differences disappear and all apparent contradictions are resolved in a single shaft of brilliant oneness.

Shavuot: The Torah is Your Lover

6/5/2011

 
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We have spent the last seven weeks since Passover counting the days and weeks to Shavuot, which begins this Tuesday evening. What does this suggest about the holiday we call the "Time of the Giving of the Torah"? We await the Torah's arrival like one would await the arrival of a beloved friend...or a lover. We count every day in growing anticipation of Torah's passionate entrance, as this classical midrash suggests:

Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:12-13
“Give me the kisses of your mouth!” (Song of Songs 1:2).  When was this said? Rabbi Yochanan answered: It was said at Mount Sinai!


An angel carried each of the Ten Commandments from the Holy One of Blessing and brought it to each Israelite and said, “Do you accept this commandment? These rules are attached to it, these penalties, these precautions, these precepts, these lenient and strict rulings, and these rewards. Do you accept?” The Israelite would answer, “Yes!” The angel then said, “Do you accept the Holy One of Blessing as your God?”  The Israelite would answer, “Yes, Yes!” Immediately, the angel kissed the Israelite on the mouth.

The rabbis, however, say that it is not an angel that kisses each Israelite. It is the commandments themselves.

There is no question about the kind of kiss that the Torah's commandments are delivering. Song of Songs, after all, is not about chaste pecks on the cheek! This is a passionate, amorous kiss that comes with the acceptance of the Torah. Does it seem strange that we would think of the laws of the Torah as sensuous pillow-talk between lovers? How can we re-imagine the Ten Commandments as a cosmic come-on that God is whispering into our ears?

This is exactly the way the rabbis intend for us to understand Torah. Beneath the outer garments of laws and rules, Torah is a love-song between God and Israel in which the deep secrets of divinity are revealed. God is wooing us to enter into the ways of the Torah, to walk along paths that draw us into the deepest joy of living life fully and meaningfully. The laws of the Torah are a tantric courtship stimulating us to the highest levels of awareness in our relationship with God. 

On Tuesday night, the Torah will call to us, beckoning us to come spend the night together (!) in the practice of Tikkun Leil Shavuot, the all-night study session on the night of Shavuot. The wait has been long—we've been counting the days and weeks—but when your lover arrives, you, too, will say, "Yes! Yes!" 

Naso: Two Ways of Seeking God's Face

6/2/2011

 
How do we come to see God? What must we do if we yearn to know God's face?

This week's Torah portion, Naso, gives the strange instructions for a person who wishes to be a Nazir, a person dedicated to the service of God beyond the usual requirements. The portion describing the Nazir is followed immediately by the instructions for the priestly blessing, the fifteen words that the priests use to bless the community.

What is the connection? Why does chapter 6 of Numbers contain these two, apparently unrelated elements, the Nazir and the priestly blessing? It is possible that they are two different answers to the same question: How do we come to see the face of God? 

The Nazir is a person (either a man or a woman) who has taken a special vow to sanctify his or herself to God for some definite period of time. The Nazir obligates him or herself not to drink anything with alcohol and not to eat anything made from grapes—not just wine, but also vinegar, raisins, grape skins or fresh grapes. The Nazir also must not cut his or her hair for the entire time of the vow. The Nazir also must avoid all contact with death and forego participation in any funeral,  even for a mother or father.

The rabbis of the Talmud viewed the whole idea of a Nazir with great suspicion. They found hints in the text to suggest that the Nazir was really someone who wanted to aggrandize him or herself by taking on extra obligations to flaunt his or her piety. Today, we might say of such a person that he or she is "holier than thou," someone more interested in how they are perceived by others than in developing a sincere love of God.

If the Nazir represents the person who must saddle him or herself with an ostentatious display of piety in order to feel closer to God, the priestly blessing represents a more modest approach.  The blessing at the end of chapter 6 states:

May Adonai bless you and guard you.
May Adonai's face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May Adonai's face be lifted to you and grant you peace.

This is the other way of seeing God's face. There is no need to make elaborate vows or to punish yourself with severe restrictions. All it takes is the willingness to be blessed—to allow God's face to shine upon you graciously with no questions asked and no extraordinary demands made. 

The chassidic master, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Efrayim of Sudylkov, went even further. He stated that the words, "May Adonai's face shine," means that your face should shine like God's face. May you yourself become the face of God (Degel Machaneh Efrayim).

In order to see God's face, you don't have to make yourself into a martyr or make a great show of how pious and scrupulous you are before God. All you have to do is to allow yourself to know that you are blessed by God, just the way you are. Then God's face will shine on you. Then your face shall be God's face.

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