God told Noah about the cruelty of the earth's creatures. God said, "Look, I am bringing the Flood waters onto the earth to kill every living, breathing thing under heaven. Everything on earth will die" (Genesis 6:17). And Noah said nothing.

God gave Noah detailed instruction on how to build the ark — what kind of trees to use, how to seal it against leaks, where to put the windows and doors, and the dimensions of its length, breadth and height. What did Noah do? He got out his axe and started cutting down trees. And he said nothing.

God said to Noah, "Bring two of every living thing into the ark,   two of each form of life to keep them alive with you. They will be male and female" (Genesis 6:19). Noah assembled the menagerie. He did as he was told. And he said nothing.

Through the entire Flood story, Noah did not utter a single word. He followed God's every command. We are told three times of his absolute obedience. But he was silent. 

I want to consider what kind of hero Noah is in this story. And I also want to consider God. Frustrated with the creatures that filled the earth, God decided to ditch the whole project. God opened up the floodgates that separated "the waters above from the waters below" (Genesis 1:7) to return the earth to the chaos that existed before creation's first day. Not only that, God chose one lone human being to be a witness to the terracide. 

Noah played his part. Faced with the extinction of the human race, he never questioned God. He did not desperately bargain with God, as Abraham would later do in an attempt to save the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. Noah did not argue and plead with God as Moses would later do when God threatened to destroy the Israelites for the sin of the Golden Calf. No. Noah was silent, and that silence seems to speak volumes about him. 

We only hear Noah's voice later in this week's Torah portion (Noach), when he became a drunk and passed out naked in his tent. His son Ham saw Noah lying there and told his brothers, Japheth and Shem. They came to cover up their father, carefully avoiding the sight of his nude body. When Noah woke up and found out what Ham had done, he blazed in anger against him and spoke the only words ascribed to Noah in the Torah. He said that Ham's descendants, the Canaanites, would be cursed and would become slaves to serve the descendants of his brothers — all because Ham saw his father naked when he was drunk (Genesis 9:21-27). 

What is this story about? Noah was silent in the face of world-wide slaughter, but angrily cursed his own son for the "crime" of seeing him naked. God, who could not tolerate the cruelty of human beings, decided that it was better to kill them than to allow their imperfection to continue. The morality of the story seems upside-down. It inverts our expectations about right and wrong. 

And all of it comes from saying nothing.

God, up to this point in the Torah, did not have any relationship with any human beings. God had not conversed with them since the days of the Garden of Eden; God only gave orders. Maybe this was the reason why God so easily came to the conclusion that humanity could be discarded with no more feeling than a scientist gives to washing a petri dish clean of bacteria. Morality, it seems, only begins with connection — with having a relationship and an emotional bond. 

Noah, too, seems strangely aloof. He did not discuss the Flood with his wife and children. He just collected them and put them into the ark along with the pairs of aardvarks, guinea pigs and snakes. He did not talk to the God who did not know him, who did not relate to the struggles and conflicts of living a human life. Noah was silent, disconnected, and, therefore, without a sense of moral duty.

The Talmud seems to hint at this. Where the Torah says that Noah was "a righteous man, pure-hearted in his generation" (Genesis 6:9), the rabbis comment, "In comparison with his generation he was righteous, but if he had been in Abraham’s generation, he would not have been considered of any importance" (B. Sanhedrin 108a).

This is our lesson. To be moral requires connection. You cannot live a righteous life in isolation from humanity. Morality is a trait that emerges from the experiences of caring for others, knowing their lives, seeing them in pain, having compassion for their flaws, and loving them despite it all. It cannot come from silence.

By the end of the story, God learned the lesson, for the Torah tells us, "God remembered Noah" (Genesis 8:1). After one hundred and fifty days of the Flood, God saw poor Noah in the ark, taking care of the animals, wondering whether he too would eventually drown in the waters that consumed the rest of the human race. God saw Noah and learned how to care about one person … and that opening of God's heart opened the possibility of caring for every person. 

God smelled the sweet odor of Noah's sacrifice and decided, "No more shall I curse the earth because of the humans. Their desires are ill from their youth. So, no more shall I destroy all life as I have done" (Genesis 8:21). After the story of Noah, God reached out to connect with Abraham and formed a covenant — a lasting relationship based on compassion and trust.

This is the story, at last, of God forming a tender and caring connection with humanity. This also is the story of just how wrong things can go when we allow ourselves to become lost in the silence of fragmentation and disconnection. We can treat each other like petri dishes of bacteria. We can curse our own children. We can destroy worlds. 

E. M. Forster said, "Only connect!" and it is the great lesson for our spiritually disconnected age. If we try to live only in the cocoon of our narrowing comfort zones, cut off from meaningful connection to others, if we pursue only our own selfish interests, we will drown. Always, at any cost, end the silence. Connecting with others is our only way to become human. In the end, it is our only way of becoming godly.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Noah: The Redemption of God
Counting from Freedom to Covenant: Connection

The Hebrew month of Tishrei is one long marathon of Jewish rituals. We blasted into this month with Rosh Hashanah. We raised ourselves up with the White Fast of Yom Kippur. We entered the comfort of Sukkot's shelter. We are now in the last hurrah of Tishrei with the holiday of Sh’mini Atzeret and Simchat Torah.

Tomorrow evening, we will light the candles for the holiday on which we read the last words of the Torah and — immediately after — begin again by reading the first words. Traditionally, everyone in the congregation receives an aliyah on Simchat Torah.

(The day on which this ritual is performed varies by movement and by congregation. In the Reform congregation I serve, we will celebrate Simchat Torah on Friday night).

People often ask me about this practice. Why do we not start reading the Torah anew on Rosh Hashanah when we begin the Jewish year? Why is the Torah reading cycle ended and begun on one of the most obscure of all Jewish festivals, when we are exhausted by all the other holidays of this month?

The Chasidic master known as Me’or Einayim (Menachem Nochum Twerski) explained that Simchat Torah is the day on which each of us is reconnected to Torah in a way that can only happen after all the other holidays of Tishrei are finished (Me'or Einayim, Emor). He said that since there are 600,000 letters in the Torah and there were 600,000 Jews who received Torah at Mount Sinai, we conclude that each Jewish soul has a spiritual connection to one of the Torah’s letters. Simchat Torah is the day on which each of us reconnects with our special letter. We can only do this after we have been purified by repentance on the High Holy Days and comforted by dwelling in the sukkah. On this day, each of us finally merits to have an aliyah — to come up to the Torah — to meet the letter that sings to our souls. 

Seen from this perspective, Simchat Torah is not just a day for rolling the Torah from one end to the other. It is the day on which we unroll ourselves to discover our unique place within the Torah. This is the task for which we have been preparing all month.

In what letter will you find your soul? Are you the letter Vav that begins the commandment, V’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha, “Love your neighbor as yourself”? Are you the Zion of Zachor et Yom haShabbat l’kad’sho, “Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy”? Are you the silent Aleph that yearns for God as it whispers, Ani Adonai Eloheichem, “I am Adonai your God”? There are a multitude of different kinds of Jews, each with his or her own place and mission in the cosmos of the Torah.

You have traveled a long journey to reach this day. You have listened for the voice of the divine in the shofar’s blasts. You have dug deep into your past mistakes to seek atonement. You have sat under the roof of the sukkah to contemplate the stars. Now comes the culmination, the moment of ascending into Torah to discover your soul.


Other Posts on This Topic:
End Beginning End Beginning
Vayakhel-Pekudei: Being a Dwelling for God

"All seven days we treat our sukkah as our regular dwelling and our house as our occasional dwelling."  –Mishnah Sukkah 2:9

This is an odd holiday. We build a small, flimsy structure and —  for one week — get comfy in it. We put up our feet, relax with a nice meal, and call it "home sweet home." 

If we should happen to notice that nice solid looking building next to the sukkah — the one where we keep our bed, furnishings and books — we think to ourselves, "Yes, that is my temporary shelter. It's sort of an out-building. A shed. I acquired it almost by accident. This lovely hut with the roof made of branches — this is my real house. This is where I live." 

Is this a holiday for us to lose touch with reality? In a way, yes.

Sukkot is about changing your perspective and looking at things in a completely different way from the usual. It is about intentional disorientation. For seven days, we convince ourselves that everything we thought we knew is wrong. Up is really down; right is left; in is out; and, most importantly, permanent is really temporary, and vice versa. 

We engage in this odd behavior because we need to. We need to remember that the things in our lives that we are most prone to regard as solidly, permanently real — our homes, our possessions, our identity, even our our physical existence — are really quite temporary. In truth, the things that are most real in life are the things that we usually think of as fleeting and ephemeral — convictions, ideals, values, faith, friendship and love. Sukkot invites us into a topsy-turvy world in which huts with loose branches for a roof are permanent, and steel-framed buildings with poured concrete are temporary. It does this so we can see what is really real.

In fact, almost every holiday and ritual has some aspect of intentional disorientation. On Shabbat we live in a time beyond time where work is unnecessary. On Passover we affirm that we personally were slaves who left Egypt. On Shavuot we hear and see the voice of God from Mount Sinai. On Yom Kippur we live as if food and drink were unnecessary for our existence. On Purim we enter a state in which there is no difference between "blessed is Mordechai" and "cursed is Haman." We choose to depart from our ordinary reality in order to glimpse the deeper truths that underly our world.

In my mind, the intentional disorientation of Sukkot stands above them all. There is something so very physically real about a sukkah. It is our most elaborate and massive ritual object. When you are sitting inside a sukkah, you truly can convince yourself, "Yes, this is the way things should be. I could sit in here forever and be happy." 

Why should it not be so? This week, may it be your reality.

Moadim l'simcha, chagim uzmanim lesason!
May these days bring you joy. May these festivals and seasons bring happiness to you!


Other Posts on This Topic:
Sukkot: Reconnecting to Our Food
Sukkot: Building Something from Nothing

If you are at all familiar with Jewish worship, you will have heard the prayer called the Aleinu. It occurs near the end of most services. It serves as a sort of anthem that sums up the service's message of praising God.

When I was a child, the prayerbook used in the Reform Movement called it "The Adoration," and the prayer expressed how we "adore the everliving God and render praise unto God." It was only with the adoption of a new Reform prayerbook in the 1970s that the original form of the traditional prayer began to emerge. The Aleinu is not just a prayer about adoring God; it is a prayer of submitting oneself to God in recognition of God's complete sovereignty over our lives and all creation. 

The opening word, "aleinu," says it all. The word literally means "on us," but just as the English preposition "on" can mean obligation or responsibility (as in, "the onus is on you"), the Hebrew also denotes a requirement. We start the prayer by saying, "It is our obligation to praise the Master of all, to declare the greatness of the Shaper of all creation." 

Another curious thing about the Aleinu is the prayer's climactic moment. We declare: va'anachnu korim, umishtachavim, umodim lifnei melech mal'chei hamlachim, HaKadosh Baruch Hu. The phrase, literally translated, means: "We bow, and prostrate, and give thanks before the King of kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed is He." There is a tradition of bowing on these words, but you don't usually see people prostrating all the way to the floor when they recite the Aleinu. 

Originally, however, that is exactly what happened. 

The Aleinu was not written to be an anthem at the end of the service. It was composed for one very significant moment in the Jewish annual holiday cycle — at the beginning of the shofar service on Rosh Hashanah. 

The most important soundings of the shofar are during Musaf (the additional service) on Rosh Hashanah. Those soundings are delivered during three blessings: Malchuyot (Kingship), Zichronot (Remembrances), and Shofarot (Ram's Horns). The Aleinu originally was the introduction to the Malchuyot blessing to declare God's kingship over all reality. When recited during a traditional service on Rosh Hashanah, the prayer leader literally follows the instructions embedded in the prayer. The prayer leader falls to knees on the words "We bow," puts hands on the floor on the word "and prostrate," and touches forehead to the ground on the word "and give thanks." It is one of the most dramatic moments in all of Jewish liturgy.

The Aleinu prayer was so popular among Jews in the Medieval era that it spread to other parts of the liturgy. It is recited again in Musaf on Yom Kippur with the full prostration. It also came to be adopted as the anthem at the end of most services, but with only a bow in place of the prostration.

I find the prostration to be a beautiful practice. When I lead services for the High Holy Days, I invite members of the congregation to find a place in the sanctuary where they will have a small piece of floor in front of them so they can prostrate along with me to the prayer. Even when only a few people do the prostration, it signals a moment of tremendous power for the whole community. 

Think of it this way. Yom Kippur is the day when we make ourselves completely vulnerable before God and (more importantly) before ourselves. This is the day when we own up to all the things about ourselves that are difficult to admit. It is not only hard to admit our sins and mistakes; it is also hard to face the very nature of our existence. 

On Yom Kippur, we look into the abyss and admit that our lives are temporary, fleeting, and largely futile. There is no better day of the year to lay yourself flat on the floor and give up all your pretenses and conceits. This is our day to be spiritually naked and admit that the things we usually think are so important — our accomplishments, prestige, learning and wisdom — are just a facade we use to convince ourselves that we are something big and important. The truth that Yom Kippur comes to teach us is that we only matter to the extent that we live our lives in service to something greater than ourselves. We have an obligation to do that. Everything else is window dressing.

In just a few hours, Yom Kippur will begin again. The day is long and it grinds us down. It is meant to. This is our day to accept upon ourselves the obligation to see ourselves as we really are, to lay down our egos, fall flat on the ground, and awaken to the highest within ourselves. 

G'mar chatimah tovah.
May you be sealed for a good year.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Steve Jobs and Yom Kippur
Bo: Hitting Rock Bottom

Saturday will be the third consecutive Yom Kippur that Temple Beit HaYam will be praying the Al Cheit confession with words composed by members of the congregation. 

Two years ago, I asked children and adults in our congregation to write down on index cards the way they would complete the prayer, "For the sin we have sinned against You by … forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement." The responses were anonymous. They also were deeply personal, heartbreaking and inspiring. I created a new version of the traditional Al Cheit prayer using their words, and I have done the same thing each year since. We use it only at one service, Yom Kippur morning.

I posted the first year's prayer here on this blog, and last year's prayer is here.

This year's prayer is similar, but different. Each year, I notice recurring themes. There are personal heartaches that are common among many people. You'll see them in the prayer below. 

Let me wish you a meaningful and fulfilling Yom Kippur. May you be sealed for a good year.



Al Cheit Prayer 5774

For the sin we have sinned against You by being impatient with others, and for the sin we have sinned against You by being too hard on ourselves.

For the sin we have sinned against You by holding onto grievances, and for the sin we have sinned against You by failing to forgive.

For the sin we have sinned against You by dismissing other people’s problems, and for the sin we have sinned against You by exaggerating our own troubles.

For the sin we have sinned against You by speaking unkindly, and for the sin we have sinned against You by spreading gossip.

For the sin we have sinned against You by not treating others fairly, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not speaking when we see bullying.

For the sin we have sinned against You by thinking hateful thoughts, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not making peace where there is strife.

For the sin we have sinned against You by allowing resentments to fester, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not speaking our minds.

For the sin we have sinned against You by thinking only about ourselves, and for the sin we have sinned against You by ignoring others.

For the sin we have sinned against You by dismissing people who think differently, and for the sin we have sinned against You by being intolerant.

For the sin we have sinned against You by breaking promises, and for the sin we have sinned against You by lying.

For the sin we have sinned against You by telling secrets, and for the sin we have sinned against You by keeping secrets.

ועל כולם אלוה סליחות, סלח לנו מחל לנו כפר לנו
V’al kulam, Elo’ah s’lichot, s’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu.
For all of these, God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement!


For the sin we have sinned against You by not stepping up to give our time, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not sharing our talents.

For the sin we have sinned against You by failing the ones we love, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not paying attention to our families.

For the sin we have sinned against You by losing our temper, and the sin we have sinned against You by fighting.

For the sin we have sinned against You by not giving our partners the respect they deserve, and for the sin we have sinned against You by taking them for granted.

For the sin we have sinned against You by yelling at our children, and for the sin we have sinned against You by talking back to our parents.

For the sin we have sinned against You by hurting our friends and family, and for the sin we have sinned against You by hurting ourselves.

For the sin we have sinned against You by not helping around the house, and for the sin we have sinned against You by letting others do our work for us.

ועל כולם אלוה סליחות, סלח לנו מחל לנו כפר לנו
V’al kulam, Elo’ah s’lichot, s’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu.
For all of these, God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement!


For the sin we have sinned against You by excusing evil deeds and for the sin we have sinned against You by condemning unintentional acts.

For the sin we have sinned against You by taking things too seriously, and for the sin we have sinned against You by treating serious things too lightly.

For the sin we have sinned against You by indulging in self-pity, and for the sin we have sinned against You by becoming paralyzed with guilt.

For the sin we have sinned against You by confusing being busy with being helpful, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not giving ourselves a chance to rest.

For the sin we have sinned against You by accepting less than we should, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not believing that we can be better.

For the sin we have sinned against You by trying to hide our souls from You, and for the sin we have sinned against You by not opening our hearts to You.

For the sin we have sinned against You by walking through Your world of wonders with eyes that do not see, and for the sin we have sinned against You doubting the certainty of Your love.

ועל כולם אלוה סליחות, סלח לנו מחל לנו כפר לנו
V’al kulam, Elo’ah s’lichot, s’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu.
For all of these, God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement!


Other Posts on This Topic:
For the Sin We Have Sinned Against You...
For the Sin We Have Sinned Against You (II)

Well, here's something I can count on as a congregational rabbi. If I write a blog post two days before Rosh Hashanah about birth, I'll be doing a funeral on the afternoon before the holiday begins. That's what I did today.

Mind you, I'm not complaining. I don't find it humorous or ironic. It's just the way things go in this profession that's all about life. Since death is part of life, it's bound to show up, even when we don't expect it.

Actually, it was a beautiful funeral. I had to warn the family that I would not be able to meet with them beforehand or to prepare a eulogy. In my thirteen years as a congregational rabbi, it's the first time I've ever done that.

The family was very understanding, though. They were just grateful to have a rabbi for the funeral at all only hours before Rosh Hashanah begins.

It worked. The deceased's sister, her husband, and a friend spoke so wonderfully about the man. It was a reminder to me, on the eve of my biggest show of the year, that sometimes you don't really need a rabbi.

I take some comfort in that. It's nice to be needed, but sometimes it's better not to be. People can love, remember, grieve and console without much help from a trained professional.

Just as it ought to be.

L'shanah tovah.

My youngest turns nine today. It is, by far, her favorite day of the year. She talks about her birthday all year long, and today she is positively glowing with excitement to be the center of the family's attention for the day.

Of course, my wife and I love to celebrate our children's birthdays, too. For us, as for them, it is an occasion to celebrate and to make a fuss. We give them presents and we delight in seeing them bounce around the house with joy. For us parents, though, there is another reason for warm feelings on this day. If you have ever given birth, or witnessed the birth of your child, you know what I'm talking about.

For my wife and me, this is the anniversary of one of the greatest miracles of our lives. Today I cannot help but think about that moment when this dear child was placed in my arms for the first time. I cannot watch her blow out the candles without remembering the first time I saw the top of her head crowning from the birth canal. (Too much information? Sorry. The image is seared into my memory.)  

It may have occurred to you that September is not the ideal month for a rabbi's family to celebrate birthdays. Despite the fact that both our girls were born in the month of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I try to give them the attention they deserve on their birthdays even while I am sweating out my busiest, craziest season. Every year, I put aside half-written sermons so I can cook a favorite meal or organize a birthday party. I did not plan it this way, but I've never regretted it. In fact, I'm grateful for the reminder of what Rosh Hashanah is supposed to be about.

Two days after the birthday cake, I will be standing in front of the members of our congregation as we listen to the sound of the shofar. In two days, I will sing with them the words, "Hayom harat olam," "Today is the day of the world's birth." I want that moment to be one in which I feel some measure of the emotions I experienced nine years ago today. I want to be blasted with awe as I consider the miracle of a world that was given to me without my deserving it — just as I was given miraculous children whom I struggle to deserve each day. 

Birth awes us. Birth opens our hearts to appreciate the wonder of creation. Birth makes us want to be better people. Birth betrays our feelings of being unworthy. Birth reminds us that we are temporary creatures. Birth reveals that the poetry of our lives is to be found within the physical realities of our existence, not beyond them. Birth makes us real.

I wish you a shanah tovah umtukah, a good and sweet new year, on the coming birthday of the world.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Rosh Hashanah: Celebrate Creation
Shanah Tovah Umtukah!

Tomorrow is Labor Day in the United States, the first Monday in September. Labor Day became a federal holiday in 1894 as a direct result of the Pullman Strike, which pitted the American Railway Union against most of the American railway industry and, eventually, the police powers of the federal government. 

Thirty people were killed in the massive strike and boycott. It was the conflict that set the tone for relations between labor unions, employers and government in the United States for the century that followed. 

It is ironic — perhaps tragic — that Labor Day has come to be more associated with sales at retail stores than with the labor movement that gave birth to it. As many as a quarter of all Americans now work in the retail industry. Labor Day, for them, is one of the busiest days of the year — far from a day of rest that honors workers.

The history of the labor movement in the United States is inextricably linked to the history of Jews in America. The vast majority of the Jews who came to this country in the late 19th and early 20th centuries were working class men and women who were employed in industries  — notably the garment industry — that had a history of exploiting workers with sweatshop conditions, low pay, and of putting children to work in adult jobs. Jewish Americans fought for workers rights, not just out of a theoretical attachment to the values of the labor movement, but out of self-interest and to improve their lives and the lives of their family members. 

Yet, there also is a strong link between the principles of Judaism and the ideals that the labor movement struggles to defend. The Torah teaches the basic moral basis for treating workers with dignity: "You shall not abuse needy and destitute workers, whether fellow countrymen or strangers within the communities of your land … else they will cry to Adonai against you and you will incur guilt" (Deuteronomy 24:14-15). Our tradition, which allies itself with the cause of the oppressed against the oppressor, supports the idea that the individually powerless can act collectively to even the scales of power. 

Tomorrow, members of the congregation I serve will join with members of other local faith communities to demonstrate support for the Coalition of Immokalee Workers. The CIW is made up of Florida farmworkers who pick about half of all the tomatoes sold in the United States. The CIW has been remarkably successful in using collective action to thwart inhumane treatment in the fields, including a history of modern-day slavery. (A dozen people are now serving sentences in federal prisons for enslaving Florida farm workers). 

International food suppliers, supermarket chains, and restaurants — like Aramark, McDonalds, Burger King, Subway, Whole Foods and Trader Joe's — have signed agreements spurred by the CIW to buy tomatoes only from growers that pledge safe working conditions. In addition, the agreements call for an extra "penny per pound" for farmworkers for the tomatoes they pick. In this way the CIW is working to end the cycle of poverty caused by lower-than-minimum-wage pay for farmworkers that has not increased in thirty years. 

Tomorrow, thoughtful and dedicated members of our community will be urging Publix, the largest supermarket chain in Florida, to make the moral choice and join with others in the food industry to stop selling the products of slavery and exploitation. What a perfect way to spend Labor Day — much better than a shopping spree.

American Jews can identify with the kind of oppression suffered by today's farmworkers. We can empathize, because many of our grandparents and great-grandparents experienced something similar. What is more, we know from thousands of years of reading Torah that we have an obligation to remember that we were once slaves and that we, therefore, must join in the cause of the downtrodden to improve the lives of all. 


Other Posts on This Topic:
Slavery in Florida (And Why It's Bad for the Jews)
Vayakhel: Being Part of Something Bigger