I have not posted much on the blog this week because I am in the midst of physically moving my home. As I write this, I am surrounded by boxes that contain ... well, you could say, they contain the artifacts of my life. 

In what used to be my home, there are boxes containing the clothes I wore at my wedding, boxes of  toys that my children will not give up, boxes holding the dishes I use at special occasions, boxes of photographs of relatives living and gone, and (many, many) boxes of books. Tomorrow morning, the truck will come to take all the boxes and move my life 1,366 miles, south by southwest.

It is at this moment—on this threshold that separates yesterday from tomorrow—that I can't help but think about how I got to this moment in life and where I am heading. I think of those corrugated cardboard boxes as telling a story about my life ... as if it were knowable.

It's easy to think that life can be reduced to an accumulation of stuff that can be separated, sorted, categorized and explained. We tend to forget, though, that, in day-to-day experience, the story of our lives is invisible to us. There are no sharp, defining corners. There are no neat bundles that can be carried one at a time. Our lives, as they are lived, are more complex than we can describe, with origins we do not understand, and a destination we cannot perceive.

There is a nice commentary on this week's Torah portion (Mas'ei) that points to this truth. The portion describes how the daughters of Zelophechad, whom we met two weeks ago in Parashat Pinchas, were required to marry within their tribe because they had inherited land from their father when he died without a male heir. The land must remain within their father's tribe, so the daughters are required to marry men of the same tribe. This becomes a law for all women in the identical situation. 

However, many commentators have noticed that this law does not prevent some, or even most, of the situations in which a woman might inherit land. If a woman is already married to a man from another tribe when her father dies without a male heir, according to the law, she will inherit the land and the land eventually will pass out of her father's tribe. Why isn't there something in the law to prevent that situation?

The Ramban (also known as Nachmanides) says of this seeming inconsistency that, "The Torah does not want to concern itself with things to come in the future." That is, the Torah does not wish to prevent women from marrying outside of their tribe because of the mere possibility that they might someday inherit land.  The Torah is about life in the now. We cannot live properly in the present if we are forever shadowed by what might be in the future.  

To strengthen his point, Ramban quotes the book of Ecclesiastes, which asks, "Who can straighten what God has twisted?” (Ecclesiastes 7:13).

Life is filled with a seemingly endless series of false starts, plot twists, and surprise endings. Nobody knows exactly what possibile turns of fate have led us to the moment we now inhabit. None of us can say where the future might take us. The Torah is not concerned with where we might end up in a year—or five, or ten, or a thousand—from now. The Torah can only speak to the situation we are in right now, at this moment.

At this moment, the boxes surround me. At this moment, I cannot be sure about how I got here, or where this collection of memories may accompany me in the future. The only thing that matters is now.  God is going to keep twisting my life around me, whether I like it or not. The only thing I can do is appreciate the journey, wherever it takes me, and enjoy the blessing of now.

"I swear to God, I promise that I will pay you back every last penny." 

Have you ever noticed how common it is for people to swear in God's name? Also, have you noticed that, in our society, making a promise in God's name does not make much of a difference in how well the promise is kept?

This week's Torah portion, Matot, begins with laws regarding vows—promises made in God's name. It is clear that the Hebrew Bible takes these promises very seriously. The second verse of the parashah states:

"When people make a vow to Adonai or take an oath imposing an obligation on themselves, they shall not break their pledge; they must carry out all that has crossed their lips" (Numbers 30:3).

Now, it seems that keeping promises was very important in the ancient world. In a society where there were few legal courts to enforce the terms of agreements—in a culture where people really had to depend upon one another for their survival—there must have been tremendous social pressure for people to keep their word. 

That is part of the social background of this Torah passage and it does help us to understand why the Torah puts such emphasis on keeping promises. However, the Torah is about more than social conventions. The importance of keeping a vow, as stated in the Torah, is not just to keep society together, it also is to keep faith with God. Breaking a promise is an offense against God, not just an offense against the person to whom the promise was made. Why should that be?

In his classical commentary on Pirkei Avot, Yonah Gerondi states that we should regard our mouths as being like the sacred vessels used in the Temple. Like the sacred vessels, our mouths were created to praise God.  Also, like those vessels, anything placed within our mouths becomes holy. Our everyday words are holy and keeping a promise, therefore, is a sacred duty.

How would that awareness change the way that you think about your words? How would your life be transformed by thinking about the words you speak to your friends, to your spouse, and to your children as being sacred? 

We, too, in the 21st century have many social conventions about how we are supposed to use words. From an early age, we teach our children to use words like "please" and "thank you." We all understand the sometimes subtle differences between speaking respectfully and speaking hurtfully. People in many professions (including rabbis) are trained to keep some words confidential. However, we don't usually think of the rules of being polite, being respectful and keeping confidences as being sacred. But, maybe we should.

The choices we make when we use words are about more than just following society's rules. They are about our connection to something beyond ourselves. When I maintain an awareness of the sacred obligation to use words wisely, I feel that have submitted myself to a truth that is deeper than my own interests, and wider than the interests of my community. When I regard my words as forming a sacred trust, I feel that I have entered into an agreement with eternity. 

So, the next time you say, "I swear to God…," mean it. The next time you talk to a friend about your day, do so with reverence for the bond between you. The next time you tell your children to say, "Please," think about how you are engaged in an act of holiness.

"How good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel!"
-Numbers 24:5

The words of the non-Israelite prophet, Balaam, are the first words read by the congregation at every morning service: "Mah tovu ohalecha Ya'akov; mishkenotecha Yisrael!"  The words, which begin the piyyut (liturgical poem) are followed by words from the book of Psalms:

I, through Your great love, enter into Your House. I prostrate myself before Your holy Temple in reverence to You. (Psalms 5:7)
Adonai, how I love the refuge of Your House, the place of the dwelling of Your glory! (Psalms 26:8)
I prostrate and bow; I offer blessing before Adonai my maker! (Psalms 95:6)
I offer prayer to You, Adonai, at the time when it is accepted; God, in Your great love, answer me faithfully with Your redemption! (Psalms 69:14)

Together, these verses form a poem about being in sacred space. We begin the morning service by reminding ourselves what it means to stand on the sacred ground of God's House in worship.

But, why should that be necessary? If we are in the synagogue, the sacred gathering place of the Jewish people, why should we need to declare ourselves to be standing in sacred space? Aren't we there already?

The answer, of course, is that, from a Jewish perspective, holiness is a matter of intention, kavanah. Without the right kavanah, a synagogue is nothing more than a fancy building with a closet at one end to store some old scrolls. The building does not become a synagogue until we enter the space with the intention to be in a synagogue.

In a very real sense, we recite the verses of Mah Tovu in order to sanctify the space in which we stand. Every morning, as we begin the service with the words of Balaam, we turn a building into a synagogue and create sacred space all around us.

This is the secret of Mah Tovu. With a turn of the heart, we place ourselves in sacred space. We discover that we can spend our entire lives living in holiness just by having the intention to be aware of God's presence.

Tomorrow is Independence Day, the day on which we Americans celebrate our independence from Great Britain and the freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution. It is a day that American Jews embrace and celebrate with joy. 

America—called the "Golden Medina" by a prior generation of Jewish immigrants—is the country that gave Jews freedom of religion when Europe offered pogroms and antisemitism. The Fourth of July, the holy day of American freedom, can be seen as the secular Passover. Barbecues and parades take the place of gefilte fish and seders for American Jews who remember the escape from persecution and entrance into a new promised land.

American Jews often talk  about how the values of American democracy parallel the ideals of Judaism. Respect for the integrity of the individual, concern for the welfare of the downtrodden, and belief in people's ability to choose their own destiny are all values common to American and Jewish aspirations. Yet, it is worth remembering that the belief systems of American freedom are not always consonant with those of Torah.

The building blocks of American freedom are rights. American freedom is equated with the right to free speech, the right to practice ones religion, the right to bear arms, the right to privacy, the right to a fair trial, among all the rights guaranteed in the Constitution's Bill of Rights. We are so steeped in the language of rights that it sometimes comes as a surprise to realize that "rights" are completely absent from the Torah.

The language of freedom in the Torah is expressed as obligations, not as rights. Where the U.S. Constitution protects the rights to life, liberty and property, the Torah speaks of the obligations not to kill, not to oppress the stranger, and not to steal. The distinction may seem like a mere matter of rhetoric. If everyone is required to pursue justice, for example, then the right to justice is guaranteed, isn't it? But notice how the language of rights is intrinsically different from the language of obligation.

A right is something that affirms what others owe to you. An obligations affirms what you owe to others. The Constitution protects the individual from the abuses of the many. The Torah requires the individual to serve the needs of the many. The Constitution promotes a focus on the self. The Torah promotes a focus on others. 

This does not mean that we should say that the Constitution is morally inferior to the Torah. In truth, they serve different purposes. The Constitution defines the relationships between the people and the government. The Torah defines the relationship between the people and God. Both are needed. 

On this Independence Day, take some time to be grateful for the blessings of liberty that we enjoy as Americans. No other government in history has stood so strongly for the rights of human beings to speak what they wish to say, or to worship as they choose. But, we should also remember that the rights guaranteed by the Constitution are not an end in themselves. They are merely the foundation that makes it possible for us to choose to serve others and, by so doing, to serve God.