M’chayeh HaMeitim

When the Reform Movement came out with its new siddur, Mishkan T’fillah, one of the more spoken about changes was adding m’chayeh hameitim back into the second blessing of the Amidah as an option.  As we offer our prayers declaring God’s greatness, we traditionally declare that God gives life to the dead

Earlier Reform prayerbooks entirely rejected this line, preferring the notion that God gives life to all; but this newest siddur includes this idea of the resurrection of the dead as an option.  And, I admit, when I am in prayer servies as a congregant (not leading them and not there as a teacher), I sometimes include those words myself.

Not because I literally believe that the dead come back to life (except maybe as vampires and zombies, but that’s an entirely different post), but because of the ideas that I perceive as included.

Traditionally, when one sees a friend whom one has not seen in over a year, the traditional blessing is m’chayei hameitim, who brings the dead to life.  I long understood and embraced that idea as recognizing that when we don’t see someone for a long time, they are not alive to us in the same way as when we see them anew.  It is as if they have been revived.

But I recently came to understand this in a new way, having returned fro the last of several conventions where I had the chance to see many dear friends (most of whom I don’t get to see nearly often enough) and a vacation during which I had amazing time with other friends.

It’s not that those friends are revived for me–because they are always there; for themselves and in my heart, even when I don’t speak to them as often as I want.  It’s that there’s a part of me that’s revived when I’m with them…aspects of my personality that come out more vibrantly and more easily when I’m around them.

There are dear friends of mine who bring aspects of me alive that aren’t there, or aren’t noticable, when I’m not around them.  I need those aspects of me.  They are part of who I am.  I am so thankful that I have people in my life who remind me of that.  Who bring out those parts of me that sometimes like to hide.

And so I declare: Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, M’chayeh Hameitim.  Blessed are You, Eternal Our God, Ruler of the Universe, who gives life to the dead….

Acharei Mot, Kedoshim: This has been a week

My D’var Torah from this evening:

A poem by Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai,

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters

and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,

with four dead and eleven wounded.

And around these, in a larger circle

of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered

and one graveyard. But the young woman

who was buried in the city she came from,

at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,

enlarges the circle considerably,

and the solitary man mourning her death

at the distant shores of a country far across the sea

includes the entire world in the circle.

And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans

that reaches up to the throne of God and

beyond, making a circle with no end and no God

It’s been a challenging week in the world.  A week full of tears.  Full of fear.  Full of the unknown.  A week in which 2 young men brought a city of millions to a standstill, leaving families in mourning, individuals in pain, and a country stunned.  A week in which those 2 young men marred the celebration of an annual event that’s about community, about people coming together, about camaraderie, about mutual support, about personal accomplishment, and pushing one’s self to go further—instead bringing hatred and violence.  A week in which, just a few hours from here, a plant explosion brought even more tragedy to our collective conscience.

This has been a week for which I have no words, and yet for which silence doesn’t seem to suffice either.

A week in which, the world felt smaller.  Drawn together through sympathy and through empathy.  Drawn together around scattered computers and televisions and smart phones—hanging on to the bits of news as they came in, and sharing in a diverse chorus of prayers for the well being of all who have suffered from the events of this week.

And a week in which on the Jewish calendar and the Israeli calendar, we marked with sadness Yom Hazikaron—the Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers of Israel and victims of terror, before turning around and celebrating Yom Ha’atzmaut—Israel’s Independence Day.  Perhaps we can learn from Israel’s model of being able to turn from the grim sadness that is palpable throughout the country on Yom Hazikaron, and so quickly move to joyous celebration, during which the festivities pour into the streets and you can taste the elation in the air.  A model of mourning and then moving on to life.  But I’m not sure that we’re ready for that yet.  At least I’m not ready for that yet

And this is the week in which we read 2 Torah portions that are connected to each other, but yet which seem to have little in common.  Acharei Mot contains rules that are given after the death of Aaron’s two sons—laws about Yom Kippur, sacrifice, and forbidden acts of intimacy.  Kedoshim on the other hand contains the holiness code—the instructions we are given in order to be holy—the guidelines for how we should behave as human beings—the blueprint for establishing a community and a culture based on justice and right.  A connection has been made between these 2 portions, though, not by the content but by the titles.  A hidden piece of truth that is so fitting this week: Acharei Mot…kedoshim: After death, holiness.  After we experience death, the potential still exists for holiness.  When we have suffered, it hurts.  We hurt.  And yet, we are reminded that after darkness, there is light.  Even during the darkness, there is help.

This has been a week which is full of hope.  A week in which as people came together, they reached out their hands to one another.  They offered courage.  They offered what they could.  A week in which Mr Roger’s now famous quote was shared again and again, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”  And throughout this week there have been so many signs that such wisdom is true.

Yes, this is a week in which we have seen both acharei mot and kedoshim.  As we continue to confront the reality of this week’s news, continue to learn more about what happened, hope to see the end of this chapter, we must continue to bring more of that holiness—to ourselves, to our neighbors, to the world.

I’d like to end with a prayer, composed by Rabbi Joe Black:

 A Prayer in the Aftermath of the Boston Marathon Bombing

Our God who dwells in the highest heights and in the souls of our feet:

We find You in the passion of those who delight in testing and celebrating the power of their bodies:

·    The runners who push themselves to find new challenges in the rhythm of the road and the camaraderie of the race;

·    The doctors, medics, police, fire fighters and bystanders whose dedication to humanity drives them to run into the fray – towards the bruised and bloodied bodies in the streets.

On this day of destruction, we need to remember that the race is not for the swift[i]; there is no finish line for those who seek a better world.

Neither bombs, nor blood, not death, nor destruction can deter us from running, O God.

We run to You.

We run towards a vision of perfection that is always in our sights.

We run determined to never allow hatred to obscure Your presence.

We run to build a better world.

Be with those who have lost loved ones on this tragic day.

Send comfort and healing to the injured and the maimed.

Heal them – heal us all – body and soul – as we strive to find You.

Give us hope.

Help us to use our arms, our legs, our breath, our determination to unite in a common purpose.

In our grief may we find the strength to keep on running.

AMEN

As Jordana Horn wrote this week, “Goodness itself is a marathon.”  Let us all push ourselves to bring more goodness, more holiness, into this broken world.  And with the prayer in our hearts that we, indeed, run towards a better tomorrow, a time where there is more holiness for ourselves and throughout the world, let us rise together for the prayer with which we commit ourselves to embracing that dream and towards building our future.  The Aleinu can be found on page 283.

Position Purple, Strange Fire, and Yom Hashoah: A few thoughts on Parashat Shmini

A bit of thematic music while you read:

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to take part in security training through a company called Position Purple, through my work at the Union for Reform Judaism.

The training included a variety of skills, ranging from dealing with an unfamiliar person on camp to using a fire extinguisher to actually running through fire, to basic self-defense, to finding and dragging people out of a room with low visibility and poor air quality to securing an offsite location.

Over the course of the training, we kept returning to one overarching theme: that of preparedness. When a crisis occurs, we were taught, all people go through 2 physical stages: shock and panic, before being physically and mentally able to respond. While living most of life in a general routine, we are often unprepared for an emergency; by being more prepared, knowing what to do, and being more alert to what is around us, we are able to shorten the time of both shock and panic.

The name of the company, in fact, comes from this idea—if blue represents routine and red represents emergency, we must focus on becoming purple— heightening our awareness and becoming more alert, even in times of routine, so that we can better respond to crisis when it occurs. If we are aware and alert, we are less surprised when an alarm goes off—because of that, we respond more quickly and more effectively.  The more prepared we are, we are taught, the quicker we are able to get through shock and panic and respond effectively.

In this week’s Torah portion, Shmini, we read of the disturbing incident in which Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Abihu, offer strange fire before God and are instantly consumed by fire.  Moses reacts by running around, shouting out orders, and spewing out platitudes to try to make sense of it all.  And, as we read, Aaron is silent.

In those 2 reactions, we see models of panic and shock.  From this, we can learn that we all react differently to tragedy–and that at different points, we each have moments of shock and panic.  We must recognize that others, even their mourning looks different than our own, still mourn from the same depth of emotion. And that we all have to go through moments of not being able to truly react, before we can begin to respond to anything.

But what of tragedy that is in the past? Tomorrow, we will commemorate Yom HaShoah; we will remember the catastrophic events of a time that sits somewhere between memory and history.  Still at a time when we can hear the stories of those who were there, yet recognizing that we must learn those stories and make them our own so we can retell them.  Still mourning the horrific losses, yet not with the pang of new tragedy, but instead with the familiar ache of years of heartbreak. Surely, with the immensity of the atrocity and the temporal distance, neither the response of Moses or the reaction of Aaron is appropriate.  We cannot offer banalities and prosaicisms, or try to make sense of what happened.  We can certainly not be silent.  Instead, we can turn to the ideal of the Divine, and try to allow God’s actions.  Following the incident of strange fire, God gives new laws to Aaron and to the people–new structures, new rituals, new guidance–to help Aaron and Moses through the moment, to give them the tools to move forward, to make sure that such tragedy does not happen again, and to create a community with a sense of preparedness and a spirit of readiness.

Like God, we must create structures in order to create a sense of preparedness, an he awareness of the world around us, a readiness to respond in order to prevent such things from happening in our world.  It is our sacred mission to learn the stories of the Shoah in order to tell them to those that have not yet heard them—to the generations yet to come—like God instructs Aaron to teach the laws to the people.  We must use our voices to speak out against hatred, against prejudice, against those forces in our world who wish to bring violence upon those who are different.  While we cannot make sense from the tragedy, we can learn from the experience so that Never Again is more than our words, but our mandate.  As we remember: as we honor the memory of those who were killed and as we honor the struggle of those who survived, may our collective memory compel us towards action.  Towards a sense of cognizance of what is wrong in the world—and a sense of responsibility to right it.

#BlogExodus 12 Redeeming, slightly belated

Rav Ferris Bueller Omer

It’s good advice.  He even gives it again

Life moves pretty fast.  If you don’t stop and look around once and a while, you could miss it.  Rav Bueller was wise.

And perhaps that’s part of the message of Pesach.  The holiday makes us do things differently–it makes these nights different from all other nights.  As a result, we notice the ordinary in a new way.  Perhaps we should give ourselves the opportunity to stop from the norm more often and look around.  Maybe part of what we can take from Pesach is to use the opportunity that Shabbat brings more often.  Perhaps that’s where our personal redemption from the day to day can begin.

#blogexodus 13: changing

excerpted and slightly adapted from a recent sermon on change

A poem by Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai:

My father was a god and did not know it. He gave me
The ten commandments neither in thunder nor in fury;
neither in fire nor in cloud, But rather in gentleness and love.
And he added caresses and kind words And he added “I beg you,” and “please.”
And he sang “keep” and “remember” In a single melody and he pleaded and cried quietly between one utterance and the next,
Do not take the name of God in vain, do not take it, not in vain,
I beg you, do not bear false witness against your neighbor.
And he hugged me tightly And whispered in my ear
Do not steal. Do not commit adultery. Do not murder.
And he put the palms of his Open hands On my head with the Yom Kippur blessing.
Honor, love, in order that your days might Be long On the earth.
And my father’s voice was white like the hair on his head.
Later on he turned his face to me one last time, Like on the day when he died in my arms and said, “I want to add Two to the ten commandments:
The eleventh commandment—“Thou shalt not change.”
And the twelfth commandment—“Thou must surely change.”
So said my father and then he turned from me and walked off
Disappearing into his strange distances.

Indeed, this is the challenge we all live with—to balance the need to change with the need to stay the same. And I believe that the message here is not only about the changes we make in ourselves and the change that we effect in the world, but also about the changes that we make to Judaism. How do we both form and Re-Form our own Jewish life that is, on the one hand true to ourselves and on the other hand true to our heritage…a Judaism that is both unique and authentic?

This week, we will celebrate Passover. And the seder is the perfect example of this balance. Each seder is unique, while at the same time has a core that remains. My own family’s seder may include some drums and egg shakers, beating each other with scallions, and dipping strawberries in chocolate—yours may include something unique to your family—but at both, we will all taste the bitterness of slavery and the saltwater tears. If truly, the essence of the seder is that in every generation, each of us must see ourselves as if we ourselves came out of Egypt, then surely the experience of the holiday must be one that is both evocative of the past as it is relevant to our present. Even as we look to the symbols—the call us to remember our collective past—our slavery, our freedom—and also to look ahead to our sacred future—our rebirth, our renewal. The traditions of the seder are full of this balance of changing and not changing—of being true to our elders as we celebrate the voices of our children.

One newer tradition which especially speaks of this balance between the old and the new is the orange on the seder plate. This tradition has come to symbolize for some feminism and the equality of women in Judaism. The original story, though, from Susannah Heschel, comes from an experience she had at Oberlin College in the 80’s, where she was shown an early feminist haggadah which suggested including a crust of bread on the seder plate, as a sign of solidarity with Jewish lesbians. She changed the tradition to an orange—symbolizing the fruitfulness of Jewish life when all are included and contribute to the community—and also the pits of hate that should be spit out. She broadened the definition to include all who are marginalized in Jewish life. To her, the crust of bread implied that those who were other were somehow hametz—that they violated the spirit of Judaism like bread is forbidden on Pesach. Over time, the story itself transformed into the legend of a women speaking in Florida, at which a man heckled from the audience, saying, “A woman belongs on the bimah as much as an orange on the seder plate.” For me, the orange symbolizes equality and inclusiveness of all within Jewish life…and also the idea of how stories change over time…a symbol, perhaps, of this very idea of the balance of our sacred obligation not to change and that which demands change.

May our Passover celebrations help us to call upon the voices of the past, even as we shout towards the future.

May we honor the eleventh commandment: Thou Must Not Change
As much as we honor the twelfth: Thou Must Surely Change.

#BlogExodus 11 Counting: Numbers we can count on

• 1 day until I fly back east to be with my family for the seders
• 2 days until I get to eat real a real NY bagel and a slice of pizza
• 3 days until the seder
• 4 days until the second seder
• 5 days until I fly back here
• 6 days until I get to do some Pesach cooking with some really cool people
• 7 days until Shabbat
• 8 days until the Machar Seder
• 9 days until I don’t have something on my calendar
• 10 days until the last day of Pesach (at least on the Reform calendar)

Phew.  I’m exhausted already.  And not exactly feeling free from my calendar.  We spend so much time counting down to things.  And paying attention to what’s coming next.  Perhaps all this counting is a reminder of the fact that I need to enjoy the moment, too.

It’s so easy to get caught up in counting…how many people have looked at this blog, what’s my Klout score, who is on my friend’s list, how many followers do I have, how much longer until what’s next on my schedule, and what do I have on my calendar tomorrow? And forget that maybe it’s not the numbers we should focus on.  

It’s more important to know not how many people were there (wherever there happens to be), but how the experience was for each of them.  How can we create moments that count instead of just counting moments.

My challenge to myself, as I enter Shabbat and the coming days: even as I count down each day, and even as I am aware of what’s next, how do I create this moment as one that really matters?

#BlogExodus 10 Leaving

Leaving anywhere, never easy:

I’ve never liked goodbyes.  Even if I’m not the one leaving, the parting means that the moment is leaving–the time together.

And yet without leaving, one can never have the joy of returning.  Or the pleasure of memories.  Or the stories through which we recall times and places long gone from our lives.  Or the becoming.

Sometimes, it is the leaving that allows us the freedom to move forward.  Without the Exodus, we’d have been stuck as slaves and never attained the Promised Land.  There are times in life when it’s leaving for a short time that allows us to realize something about our lives, simply because we’re in a new place.  Other times, we need to move ourselves in order to get to a new phase of our lives–either because we are walking away from something that’s holding us back or because we’re walking towards a new opportunity.  Or because it’s just time to go.

And the leaving is scary.  And the leaving is sad.  And the wilderness is frightening–those moments between having left and having arrived.  And yet there’s power in it, as well.  And there is potential in it.

And it’s necessary.

#BlogExodus 8 & 9: Learning & Asking: A Kitchen Full of Lessons

Family legend has it that when my Great Aunt was starting to age and had already begun to decline, her granddaughters asked her about her chicken soup recipe, hoping to gain a piece of the recipe, or at least the wisdom of some good tips for making it special.

“Nana…tell us how you make your chicken soup.”

She looked that them, with an expression of wonder at how they could ask such a question and exclaimed, “You make it!”

Sometimes, we don’t get the answers we’re looking for, but some questions we just have to ask.  And, little by little, if we listen enough and watch enough, we can piece together the knowledge we need. And sometimes we have to ask.

When I asked my mother recently for her tzimmes recipe (Hi, Mom!), she sent me two recipes and told me she usually combines them.  I then asked her how she combined them, and she said she made one of them and added a few ingredients from the other.  I then called her and asked a question to clarify that, and she went into greater detail and then told me about how she also adds turnips and parsnips, like her mother had done.  I then asked her about the matza balls she puts in and she said, “Oh, yeah! I forgot about those.  Put those in, too.”  Piece by piece, with the right questions, I think I have a complete recipe.  So that I can make it and enjoy its flavors, and pass the experience of enjoying it on to others.

So much of Passover preparation is about the food.  What we can and can’t eat.  How to make this dish just perfectly.  That one favorite recipe that we just have to include.  And how to make a version of most of the foods that can be eaten by those with allergies, or who don’t eat meat, or who are intolerant to a variety of foods…so that everyone can have a satisfying meal.

When I look back at memories of my extended family, so many of them take place in the kitchen. Even when we aren’t cooking, the kitchen is a center of life.  And from every crumb (and I’ve always said Passover is a crumby holiday) and every spill and every taste and every extra serving, we gain a lifetime of memories–and learn from generations of wisdom.  Even as we add our own wisdom on.

Taste and memory are so connected.  There are foods that I eat that whisk me away to another place, another time.  And flavors that I have yet to be able to taste again.  Throughout our lives, we gain so many recipes! Some written down, others in the warehouse of our memory.  And as we share our meals with others (such an essential part of the Passover tradition), we enjoy the opportunity to teach–so that our guests may learn new tastes.  And maybe even ask for the recipe.

“May all who are hungry come eat!”  Indeed.

Cross posted on Kol Ishah: the WRN Blog

#BlogExodus 7 Blessing: To the amazing people in my life

Sitting here, thinking about the subject of blessing, I realize that my greatest blessing is the people in my life.  My teachers, students, friends, family…all of you offer me blessings that are greater than anything else…and which remind me of how blessed I am in my life.

Just over the past day or so, I’ve been reminded of how I can make someone smile…of how I can remind someone else that they are amazing…that I’m still a valued teacher and mentor…that I can give someone else a bit of comfort on a challenging day…that I’m a friend…that someone loves me…that someone cares about me…that I care deeply about someone…that my connection with another has so much potential….that another person can make me feel better….that I can make another person feel better…that a simple word can change a day entirely.  And so much more.

That’s the greatest blessing I know.  I can only hope that I am able to offer you a taste of the blessings that you offer me.

#BlogExodus 6 Cleaning…sweeping away old ideas for new

Creating a Pesach seder experience that’s meaningful is always a challenge. How do you lead a seder that is on the one hand steeped in tradition, but on the other entirely relevant.  We are taught that we must see ourselves as if we came out of Egypt as individuals.  So how do we create a seder that reflects that goal? The seder is, at its best, an example of experiential education.  So how do we best use that teaching opportunity?

This year, as I prepare to lead my own family’s seder (an honor i’ve had for a few years now and I’m still a bit awed at the fact that i’m leading it) and a seder for Machar, the 20′s, 30′s, and 40′s-ish group at Temple Beth-El, I find myself digging through old ideas and figuring out which ones I want to use. It’s kind of like cleaning through old ideas, and dusting them off, and figuring out what I want to keep and how I want to keep it.  and how I can make room for new ideas

So, as you figure out what to do for your own seder, here are my top 13 thoughts.  To some extent, creating the right experience depends on who is at our own seder.  But here are a few thoughts.  Perhaps, as you clean through your own files, they’ll give you some new thoughts:

1. Eat after Karpas:  Once you’ve said the blessing over the greens, you can eat anything other than matzah.  So serve veggies and dip (which is what karpas is based on).  Have the gefilte fish.  Dip the eggs and eat them.  If you have munchies out from this point on, people are WAY less antsy and don’t really ask “When do we eat?” because they’re eating already.

2. Strawberries and Chocolate: My favorite addition to karpas. Strawberries are a symbol of springtime and therefore appropriate.  Also, it’s dipping.  Also, it brings chocolate into tradition and that can only be a good thing. Also, it gets folks to ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” The original intent of the 4 questions was to suggest questions for those kids that had trouble coming up with their own.  This is another opportunity to encourage questions.

3. Ask Questions: And on that point, the seder is all about questions.  Give people a forum to ask.  Go around and give space to ask questions or have people write them on note cards (depending on your own interpretation of halachah).  But give space for asking.

4. So May Ways To Ask: In my family, we’ve long been asking the 4 Questions in as many languages as we can muster.   It’s a fun way to get everyone involved and to hear the questions in a variety of ways.

5. Kiddush Cups: I’m not sure when my parents started collecting kiddush cups, or if it was even a conscious decision, but they’ve acquired many over my lifetime.  It’s always a fun project to decide who gets what glass, and to go around and share who has what glass, and to remember where that glass came from and whose had it before and why that person has it.

6. Signing In: At my aunt and uncle’s seder, we all sign our names in the haggadah that we have that year.  It’s wonderful to see who had it last year, and sometimes poignant.  When a relative who has now passed had it in a past year, it’s a moment to remember them.  When you notice a stain from a previous year, it’s fun to tease someone who had it before you. It’s a wonderful way to keep the chain of tradition.

7. Welcome the stranger: My family has long taken this idea seriously, and we often have many “seder orphans” at our seder–people who can’t get to their own family, or who don’t have a family that celebrates.  We invite them to join us.  It’s a great way to keep things lively, and to take seriously the idea of the seder of “May all who are hungry, come eat.”  And we’ve gotten many new insights from brining new people in.  As an added bonus, many of them return, year after year (you know who you are).

8. Music: Last year, I decided to make a Pesach playlist.  We listened to it in the background over dinner.  It was a combination of secular music on the themes of the holiday and contemporary Jewish music from Pesach or on the themes.  It was a nice way to connect the meal itself to the seder.  And a fun way to have relevant background music.

9. Beat Each Other with Scallions: During Dayenu, we beat each other with scallions.  The tradition comes out of Iran and Afghanistan, from the suggestion in Numbers that the Israelites yearned for onions, and also because the green onion shape is reminiscent of the whips that would have been used against the Israelite slaves.  At any rate, it’s fun.

10. Coloring: I put out coloring pages and crayons for the younger people at the seder. I can’t expect that they’ll be entirely focused on what’s going on, so I give them something else on topic on which they can focus.  If they’re sitting coloring, then they’re still at the table so they’re still hearing what’s going on, and their parents don’t have to take them away.  And I get fun things to hang on my fridge.

11. Afikoman: So, I learned at some point that my family does the afikoman in the opposite way of most families.  In my family, the kids hide it and the leader has to find it.  This encourages cooperation, and team work, and the whole thing is not competitive, but a fun game for all of the kids.  Whichever relative of mine came up with this was clearly ahead of his time in terms of how to teach and engage kids.  I highly recommend this way of doing things.  Usually the kids steal it during the hand washing, and then go to hide it.  When it comes time to eat it, the leader goes to find it and it turns into a game of hot and cold.  When the leader “can’t find it,” s/he offers ransom money so that the kids reveal the hiding place and the seder can be completed.

12. The second half of the seder is the best part.  Some of the most fun comes after the meal.  If you need to start earlier so that it doesn’t go late, then do so.  The singing, the fun, the cup of Elijah all come after the meal.  I encourage you to not let this part just be ignored.

13. Experiment: Don’t be afraid to try.  Sometimes, something won’t work. Sometimes, it will. You’ll never know until you try.  This also, incidentally, works as a life lesson.  But for the seder, our tradition itself gives us permission to innovate. So go for it.

So what are your ideas? How do you create a unique seder experience? What are some fun ideas you’ve tried?