From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life

Yizkor sermons tend to be challenging for rabbis because we give a lot of them. We say Yizkor four times a year. If you do the math year after year, that is a lot of Yizkor sermons, and what is there new to say? What is there to say that we haven’t said before? That you haven’t heard before? I wish we had that problem again this year. Unfortunately we don’t. This is a Yizkor with an entirely fresh angle. The last time we said Yizkor was October 7. I don’t need to tell you that the months since October 7 have been, and continue to be, the most harrowing for the Jewish people, since the Shoah. What is the impact of this hard new chapter on our private Yizkor mediations now?

I want to ask you to imagine for a moment that you are one of the Israelites fleeing Egypt. And let’s be granular. I want you to imagine that you’ve been a slave for decades. That your life is dictated by the whims of a cruel pharaoh, that your days are spent lugging huge stones, that you’ve been separated from your family, kept apart so that you can work harder. I want you to imagine that after decades of hard work, you are tired. Your bones creak. Your muscles are sore. When Moshe tells you that God has heard you, that he’s going to get you out, you can’t even process that possibility. You can’t even catch your breath. You might have stayed in Egypt, and simply enjoyed a few days off, but during this past week, Egypt has become more miserable than ever. You’ve endured water shortages, frogs, lice, hordes of wild animals, disease, hail, darkness, and widespread destruction. There aren’t enough resources to stay. And so, even though walking is the last thing you want to do, you’re marching with 3 million Israelites, following some cloud towards a “Promised Land.” After what seems like forever, walking day and night following God’s mysterious pillar of clouds and fire, you make it to the Sea of Reeds only to hear Pharaoh’s army following behind. Wearily you race ahead, walking through the water on dry land. In terror you watch as Pharaoh’s armies give chase, and then with relief you see the waters crash down on them. You’re safe. You’re exhausted. You’re relieved. What do you do?

Abe and Sarah have been happily married for more than 60 years. They share children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. One fine day, Sarah says, Abe: I’d like a banana sundae. Would you please go to JP Licks? Of course! It would be my privilege! What kind of banana sundae do you want? Abe, write it down. A banana sundae has a lot going on. Would you please get me three flavors: chocolate chip, Oreo, and cake batter. Then whipped cream. Lots of hot fudge. With a cherry on top. Abe, write it down. I don’t need to write it down. I’ve got it. Off he goes. Thirty minutes later, he comes back, smiling and triumphant. Sarah, I got you just what you wanted! A dozen hot, fresh bagels. And delicious plain cream cheese, which you always love. Abe, I told you to write it down. I told you you’d forget. I don’t want plain cream cheese. I want cream cheese with scallions. This is an old joke that my father in love used to tell, but the older I get, the more I realize that this joke is no joke. This joke has a deep pathos. The pathos that Abe is not the person he used to be. The pathos that Sarah is not the person she used to be. The pathos that their decline does not have an answer or a happy ending. The pathos that their children, grandchildren and caregivers are increasingly going to be called upon to help get them through their days safely. The pathos that their life is going to be changing in ways that they would not have chosen and cannot control. Abe and Sarah’s 60-year love story has complexity to it. A lot of joy. A lot of love. A lot of rich shared history. A lot of what matters most in the world. And a lot of pain and loss. How do we think about the totality of their story—and of ours? How do we make sense of not only the happy parts but also the rough patches? This morning we are trying to make sense of two things that have their own cycle, their own rhythm, their own ups and downs—and that at first blush do not seem connected but in fact deeply are. The first is Through the Decades membership in Temple Emanuel for folks who once celebrated their Bar or Bat Mitzvah here, as an adult or as a teen, and are still connected to our community. The second is the outburst of hatred on college campuses directed against Israel and the Jewish people.

This year, on the 8th day of Pesach, we will say Yizkor. In a recent clergy conversation as we were planning out this class, Michelle asked the simplest and most profound question, one I had never thought about before. Why do we not say Yizkor for fallen ideas and ideals? For broken hopes and dreams? If we did, there would be so much to say Yizkor for this year. Think of all the ideas and ideals that have fallen since October 7. Think of all the hopes and dreams that feel utterly vanquished. Michelle’s question shined the light on a simple fact: we only say Yizkor for dead people, not for dead ideas and ideals. We say Yizkor for parents, spouses, children, siblings, friends—people. We don’t say Yizkor for a peace process that feels terminally derailed; for a sense of pre-October 7 normalcy in Israel; for the rise of eliminationist Jew hatred on college campuses throughout our country; for the golden age of American Jewry that is either over or seriously threatened; for democracy in our own country and throughout the world that feels so very tenuous. Why not? What wisdom is encoded in our holiest and wisest sources for how to think about ideas and ideals, hopes and dreams, that feel not realizable in our lifetime?

April 23, 2024

Do you remember where you were last Saturday night when we learned that Iran was firing more than 330 drones and cruise missiles into Israel? Shira and I spoke to several Israelis, and they used three words to describe last Saturday night. One word was apocalyptic. We spoke with an Israeli woman living in Boston who spoke to her Israeli sister living in Tel Aviv, and the sister said the sirens are blaring, we are going into the bomb shelter, and I do not know what will be on the other end of this attack, whether Israel will be, whether we will be. Please know that I love you. The Israeli sister who received this called it apocalyptic. Can you even imagine what it would be like to make or to receive a call like that? Thank God, Israel and Israelis survived. Thank God, there were no fatalities from Saturday night. But the Israeli sister who went with her three young children and husband into the bomb shelter did not know that at the time, nor did the Israeli sister in Boston. Then there was a second word: surreal. We spoke with our brother and sister-in-law in Jerusalem. They said the night was surreal. When the sirens were sounding, they went to their safe room where they could not sleep. When the sirens were not sounding, since they could not sleep anyway, they cleaned their kitchen for Pesach for the umpteenth time. Their kitchen has never been so clean. And the morning after, it was over, the missiles and drones had been shot down, the sun was shining, and people went about their Sunday, seemingly as if they had not been attacked by 330 drones and missiles. Surreal. And then a third phrase, courtesy of Micah Goodman. Radical uncertainty. There is radical uncertainty about the narrative that best captured Saturday night and its aftermath. One plausible narrative: This was an evening of miraculous strength and success for Israel. After all, virtually all 330 drones and missiles were shot down by Israel’s defense systems, and by Israel’s partnership with its allies--America, England, and other unnamed regional partners. They worked in concert to produce a biblical miracle. 330 fiery agents of death, zero deaths. But there is a second narrative, also plausible. Israel was attacked by Iran in a brazen way. Israel’s citizens were forced to scurry to shelters. This time they emerged okay, who knows about next time. Which leads to the next radical uncertainty: what to do next?

Within the last few weeks, something has happened to give me a new lease on life. A new glide in my stride. We are all looking for hope and energy, and I got mine from an unexpected source: the release of Beyonce’s new album of country music, Cowboy Carter, in particular one incredible song, a duet with Miley Cyrus called II Most Wanted. I have listened to this song easily 100 times in the last few weeks. I listen to it in the kitchen when I am doing dishes. I listen to it in the family room when I am folding laundry. I listen to it in the gym when I am working out. I listen to it in my bedroom when I am getting dressed. Shira thinks that listening to the same song 100 times is excessive. Can you believe that? Every time she walks into a room where the song is playing, she says: again? I love this song for so many reasons. Beyonce’s voice is beautiful, Miley Cyrus’s voice is beautiful, and their voices together are beyond gorgeous. I love this song because the melody is also gorgeous. But mostly I love this song because of its message.

What happens to love in a world of not love? Consider this past Sunday at Temple Emanuel. In the morning Shai Held was in dialogue with Marc Baker about his new book Judaism is About Love. It was a truly inspiring conversation. After their dialogue, I heard many people offer some version of the following statement which, to my mind, is the single greatest compliment any rabbi could ever earn. “Shai Held inspires me to want to be a better human being.” Totally beautiful, and totally well earned. There is only one catch. In their dialogue, there was no mention of October 7; Gaza; the hostages; the war. Their dialogue did not explicitly deal with the mess that is—and raised the question, can we deal with the mess that is, and still be inspiring? After Shai and Marc’s dialogue, there was a robust TE contingent at the rededication of the wall at the home of Jeff and Miriam Kosowsky, the wall whose photos of the hostages were blacked out, faces blotted out, names blotted out, and “Free Gaza” written on their wall of hostages. What happens to love in a world of hate? Can love survive? Click here to view Chapter 11 of Shai’s new book, Love in the Ruins. Three questions to guide your reading: Shai quotes a rabbinic text that after the destruction of the Temple the Jewish people’s best move was to engage in acts of lovingkindness (hesed). What is the role of hesed for you now? (pg. 249) Shai talks about how the 9th of Av was the day of endless pain and destruction. And yet not six days later, on the 15th day of Av, before shiva was over, there was a day of love, renewal, blessing as the maidens of Israel would find their partners. What does this “dizzying transition” (pg. 251) say to us now? Shai quotes Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik as teaching that when inexplicable suffering befalls us, we don’t try to explain it or analyze it or understand the hidden ways of God. Rather, we try to act in helpful ways. (pg. 252-253). What does the Rav's insight teach us now? Can love survive in a world that is the opposite of loving? Can these three moves get us there?

This Shabbat, we hear reflections from two visiting members of Brothers for Life. Since October 7, Amit Gilboa has served 155 days of active duty in the IDF and is currently participating in a workshop to facilitate support groups for newly wounded soldiers. Shahaf Segal, who served in the Golani Brigade, volunteers with Brothers for Life visiting newly wounded soldiers, showing them there can be a better future.

I must tell you that whenever I have entered this sanctuary, I am reminded of the Starship Enterprise of Star Trek….and now I have the honor of speaking from the Control Room, And I flash to Spock communicating “Beam me up Scotty”… For me, this is a metaphor of how we use the spiritual power of this Sanctuary to create a Place For Healing. A true story. When my 40 year old son Adam Goldman-Yassen was in second grade, they brought the class to the Temple Emanuel sanctuary…and they showed them around and said of these chairs back here, “ These is where the rabbis sit. And Adam, having been brought up the the Newton Centre Minyan, the precursor of Minyan Ma’Or, A LAY-LED CONGREGATION, raised his hand and asked :“What’s a Rabbi?” I share that story with you because I believe Psychotherapy is the attempt to create a secular clergy to supplement what the religious clergy can offer. We are ALL the Purveyors of Hope.

For Talmud this week a different kind of move, in two ways. First, we are actually going to study a page of Talmud, tractate Megillah 14a. Second, we are going to examine a halakhic question: why do we not say Hallel on Purim? We say Hallel on Pesach, when we were rescued from Egyptian slavery. We say Hallel on Hanukkah, when we were rescued from the Syrian Greeks. We say Hallel on Yom Haatzmaut, when we established the State of Israel. Why do we not say Hallel on Purim, when we were rescued from genocide in the Persian Empire? And what does this halakhic conversation teach us about how traditional Jewish sources value Israel and value the diaspora as places for Jewish living?

I want to start with something lovely, a little bit of serendipity. I meet from time to time with a good friend to catch up. This friend has a tradition, after our conversations, of giving me a book to read. He is a big reader, a person of ideas. So often he gives me a new book, usually hard cover, that just came out, and that he had read right away. But on this last occasion, for reasons I do not know, he gave me a book off his shelf, a used book, a paperback that he had read long ago. The book is called Have a Little Faith by Mitch Albom, who had achieved fame with Tuesdays With Morrie. I love the title. I would love to have a little faith. At first I wondered whether this book could possibly speak to our world today. It came out in 2009. That is not only 15 years ago. That is a different universe ago. All the places that I love: America, Israel, Harvard, the Jewish community in North America, were so different back then. Could a book written before October 7, before Israel’s longest war, before the scary rise of anti-Semitism, before the toxic division in our own country, could such a book speak to us now?

A hypothetical based on a real-world situation, not at Temple Emanuel, but at another Jewish organization: Imagine you are on the rabbinic search committee for some institution near and dear to your heart: shul, Hillel, federation. You read the resume of a candidate. Superb. Excellent education. Deep experience at Jewish summer camp. Has lived Judaism in a rich journey. Doing exceptionally well in rabbinical school. You go into the interview very favorably disposed. At the interview, you like this candidate. You feel a connectivity. Chemistry is good. Then you ask this candidate about Israel. The candidate responds: I am not anti-Zionist. I am just not into Israel. I want to teach Torah, mitzvah, Shabbat, chagim, tikkun olam, a Torah of love and bridge-building. And I can’t do that with Israel. Israel is just too divisive. Israel does not build bridges. It creates rallies and counter rallies. So I am not against Israel, it’s just not part of my religious identity nor will it be a part of my rabbinate. Should we hire this candidate, reject this candidate categorically, or reject this candidate with some ambivalence? Here is a lens. At the upcoming Pesach s’darim, there is that classic kneged arbaah banim, The Four Children. The voice that says “I am very into Judaism. I am training to be a Rabbi to teach Torah and mitzvah. But I am not into Israel. I am not anti-Zionist, I am just not a Zionist”—is that Wise, Wicked, Simple, or the One Who Does Not Know what to Ask? One last layer of complexity: Last year Hebrew College’s Rabbinical School changed its admissions policies so that intermarried rabbis can get admitted and ordained (a move that I enthusiastically agreed with and supported). How do you think of the non-Zionist rabbi in the larger context of the fact that intermarried rabbis are now being admitted and ordained? Are you good with both? With neither? With one but not the other, and if so, how does your thinking work? Complexity. It may be coming soon to a seder table near you.

The IDF has an intelligence unit whose name does not exactly roll off the tongue. It is called Terrain Analysis, Accurate Mapping, Visual Collection and Interpretation Agency. As Dan Senor and Saul Singer point out in their new book The Genius of Israel, which came out on November 7, 2023, the job of this intelligence unit is to analyze millions of details in millions of images gathered by Israeli satellites, airplanes and drones For example, if the war in Lebanon happens, Israel would need to send paratroopers into enemy territory. How do they get resupplied with food and other essentials? Israeli technology has captured millions of images which have to be interpreted for the light it sheds on where food and drink might be found. While this unit uses computers and algorithms to help process all this big data, computers only get you so far. Human beings need to read and analyze the data. The challenge is that this work is extremely tedious and painstaking. Another word might be boring. It takes an unusual capacity for patience and attention to detail. It’s not a job for everyone. But Israel has figured out a way to solve this problem. The title of the book is the genius of Israel, and Israel’s solution is genius. Israel has created a special unit filled by Israeli soldiers who are neurodiverse. Pairing autistic soldiers with this elite intelligence unit is a win win. It is a win for the IDF because these neurodiverse soldiers have the smarts and patience to interpret millions of details in millions of images. And it is a win for these soldiers and their families. Serving in the IDF is a badge of honor. Not being able to serve is stigmatizing. Pairing neurodiverse soldiers with a special unit that utilizes their distinctive intelligence gives these young soldiers a feeling of accomplishment, of being needed and valued. And it also gives them analytical skills that they can use when their army service is over.

No good options. All options are bad. There is a hard-to-understand Bible story, 2 Samuel 24, about what do we do when there are no good options. King David commissions a census. How many soldiers are there in Israel and in Judah? The text assumes, without stating why, that this is a grievous sin. King David’s general Joab knows this is a sin but does it anyway because the King has commanded it. What makes the sin particularly puzzling is that God incited David to do the census. God punishes David and Israel for the very census that God instigated. What is that? Once King David has the answer to how many soldiers he has, he learns from the prophet Gad that God is furious with him. Punishment is coming, and King David gets to choose from among three horrific options: a 7-year famine, a 3-month military defeat, or a 3-day pestilence. The pestilence that follows claims the lives of 70,000 perfectly innocent citizens of Judah and Israel. To King David’s credit, he owns that he has made a mistake, and he seeks atonement. The story raises so many questions: Why is taking a census is a sin? And why, if God instigated it, is it a sin? How can God punish David and the kingdom for a census God instigated? Why is there collective punishment? Why, if King David sinned, do all the citizens of his kingdom have to suffer? How does King David secure atonement? What does this rich story teach us about our world today, where there is a lot of suffering and not a lot of good options?

Dronme Davis tells a powerful story. She was nine. At the time, she had developed the habit of biting her nails until they were raw and sometimes even bleeding. A teacher told her, in all seriousness, “if you keep biting your nails, one day you’re doing to meet a boy and you’re going to want him to date you and he’s going to be holding your hand and will look down and see how disgusting your hands are and he’s not going to want to date you.” Even as a nine-year-old, Dronme knew that there was something very wrong with this picture. How could it be that her teacher didn’t see the pain that she was holding, the pain that was pushing her to self-harm in this way? How could it be that at nine, she is getting the message that her relationship to her body should be predicated on the perception of a potential partner? That her body exists to make someone else happy?

Please look at this iconic photograph of a chair at the Constitutional Convention. The chair has a sun which is ambiguous. Benjamin Franklin famously wondered out loud, is the sun rising or setting? https://files.constantcontact.com/d3875897501/094c58c3-688a-4ef0-a325-c75a886b067a.png Now please read this evocative article entitled “The New American Judaism” by Shira Telushkin published recently in The Atlantic. https://files.constantcontact.com/d3875897501/abe8a1a9-3ebd-45aa-b776-e060145674b6.pdf?rdr=true The presenting problem is the great rabbi shortage. There are not enough rabbis to serve the congregations that need them. In Rabbi Chiel’s day, the Seminary ordained 60 rabbis a year. In my day, 35 rabbis a year. Today, between LA and New York, the Seminary and Ziegler ordain 12. Ziegler sold its campus and its few rabbinical students meet in the religious school classroom of a local synagogue. So too HUC is ordaining fewer and fewer rabbis, as a result of which it closed its Cincinnati location, its flagship since 1875. What does the great rabbi shortage mean for American Judaism? Shira Telushkin opens with a congregation that simply could not find a rabbi and, after some time, was reduced to getting a rabbi that would do fee for service, officiating at Shabbat and holiday services, paid by the service, but not being a pastor or otherwise involved in the leadership of the synagogue. Shira Telushkin treats the great rabbi shortage as a symptom of a systemic change. Something is going on here. Deeper trends are at play. What is her analysis? Do you agree with her assessment? She entitles her article The New American Judaism, meaning, quite explicitly, that an older American Judaism (and the institutions that served it) are being eclipsed. Let’s bring the chair of the Constitutional Convention and the Telushkin article together. Does she think American Judaism is rising or setting? What do you think?

This week we enjoy the reflections of Sonia Saltzman, Noah Rivkin, Rhiannon Thomas, Michael Gardener, and Rabbi Wes Gardenswartz on their Mitzvah Mission to Israel.

The Temple Emanuel 50-person mitzvah mission to Israel last week experienced the confusing reality that diametrically contradictory truths can both be true. Normal or not normal? Is Israel a nation in mourning, as Rachel Korazim taught? Or is Israel getting past October 7, not in mourning, trying to live a normal life, as Donniel Hartman taught? Yes, and yes. Returning the hostages? Is it absolutely essential that Israel do everything possible to bring the hostages home? Or will it undermine the success of Israel’s war effort if it has to fight with one hand tied behind its back in order to secure the release of the hostages and free terrorists who will jeopardize the lives of Israelis in the future? Yes, and yes. Unity? Is Israel’s unity post October 7 real, or beginning to seriously fray? Yes, and yes. Is there a diplomatic or military solution? Do Israelis believe a two-state solution is possible after the betrayal of October 7? No. Is a military solution possible meaning that war will go on and on generation after generation? No. So many Israelis have stories of Gaza civilians whom they trusted who turned out to be Hamas operatives and gave Hamas intel which they used to lethal effect on October 7. Every Israeli knows soldiers who have died. (Two people in my brother-in-law’s Jerusalem minyan are fathers saying Kaddish for their sons who fell in battle. Such infinite grief is all over Israel, palpable.) Peace is not the answer. War is not the answer. What do you do when there is no answer? To be in Israel now is to experience profound contradiction. And yet, here is one more: to a person, all 50 of the TE travelers felt deeply anchored and at peace being in the Gaza envelope. Many expressed the view that they felt better in the Gaza envelope than in Newton because showing up for Israelis felt just right. 50 out of 50 were glad that they had come. Such unanimity is rare. In Talmud tomorrow we unpack what these living contradictions mean for us now.

February 17, 2024