by Rabbi Mark Glickman

On Apology

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5780/2019

Rabbi Mark Glickman

Today, on this holy occasion, and in this holy place, I’d like for us to spend some time thinking about Jerry Springer. 

For those of you not blessed to be acquainted with this man’s oeuvre, from 1991 to 2018, Jerry Springer was the host of a syndicated tabloid talk show on TV, featuring episodes with such memorable titles as “I Faked My Pregnancy,” “Out of Control Catfights,” “Twin Brother Betrayal,” and about 4,000 others that would be inappropriate for me to mention from the bimah.

Jerry Springer will long be known and remembered for his TV show, but that’s not all he was ever known for. He was born in England in 1944 to two Holocaust refugees, and at the age of four, he moved to the United States. He grew up in New York, went to Law School at Northwestern University, and as a young man, he worked as a political advisor to Robert Kennedy. After Kennedy was assassinated, he moved to Cincinnati, Ohio, where he began working as a lawyer. Soon, Jerry Springer got involved in politics, and in 1971, he was elected to the Cincinnati City Council. His career went well until, in 1974, Springer chose to spend some time with a woman he shouldn’t have spent any time with…and he paid her with a check. (Watch 1981 Jerry Springer Mayor of Cincinnati Interview.)

He got caught, he publicly confessed to what he had done, he apologized, he resigned from the city council, and by all accounts, his political career was over. 

Except, it wasn’t. Because then a remarkable thing happened. Springer kept on talking about his misstep. He fully was open about it; he acknowledged that what he had done was wrong, and he owned up to the pain he had caused. The following year, in 1975, he ran for election to reclaim his council seat, and he won. And then, two years after that, Jerry Springer became the mayor of Cincinnati. Politics are usually complicated of course, and there were many factors that contributed to Springer’s comeback. But at some profound level, his redemption was rooted in the fact that the Cincinnati community appreciated Jerry Springer’s honesty and what was, by all accounts, the sincerity of his apology. By the time I moved to Cincinnati for rabbinical school in the mid-80s, Jerry Springer was doing a nightly news commentary – liberally minded, thoughtful, and a far cry from his later TV show. 

Say what you will about his dumb and often offensive TV show, the political biography of Jerry Springer in the 70s and 80s is, at least in part, the story of the power of genuine apology. And genuine apology is particularly important these days because there’s so little of it. Some people try to apologize – at least ostensibly – but so often their attempts to apologize are, shall we say, sorry affairs. 

A famous actress explains a racist tweet by saying she posted it because she was on Ambien at the time. A major Hollywood producer responds to hundreds of harassment charges with “I so respect all women and regret what happened.” One of the most powerful leaders in the world brags of assaulting women, and, when called to task, says, “I’m not proud of it, but this is locker room talk.” The list of half-hearted, disingenuous statements passed off as apologies could keep us here all day. 

Part of the problem with apologies is that the English language doesn’t always serve us very well here. In English, you see, the term “I’m sorry,” can mean one of at least two things – it can refer to regret, or apology. If, for example, I were to say, “I’m sorry your grandmother died,” I probably wouldn’t have intended that statement to be an apology for your grandmother’s death (unless I killed her, I suppose) – no, it would have been a statement of regret. It means that I’m unhappy that grandma died, that I feel for you, that my heart is with you. It’s a statement of sympathy rather than apology. And conversely, if I were to say “I’m sorry for bashing up your car,” that’s a statement of apology. It’s not that I sympathize with you because your car is damaged. No, here, I’m owning up to my own responsibility for the harm I inflicted on you.

This duality of meaning – the fact that “I’m sorry” can mean either “I sympathize” or “I apologize” – provides a huge opportunity for people who want to weasel out of genuine apology. For someone who has done something wrong, and who wants people to think that they’re truly repentant when they’re actually not, this is pure gold. It allows them to make a statement of regret and dress it up to look like a heartfelt apology. 

They say, “I’m sorry if I insulted you,” which might sound like an apology, but it really says “It’s too bad that you’re so thin-skinned as to be hurt by my innocuous comment.” They say, “I’m sorry, but when you said you like disco, I couldn’t help but call you an idiot,” when they really mean, “Don’t blame me – you’re the one who likes disco.” They say, “I’m sorry you were hurt when I said that dress looked a little tight,” when they really mean “My, my…we’re getting a little sensitive about our weight, aren’t we?”

Let’s be clear, the world “if” has no place in apologies. When someone says, “I’m sorry if…,” then they’ve made their statement conditional, and subtly put the blame of the conflict on you. Chances are that it’s not a sincere apology. Similarly, the word “but” rarely belongs in apologies, either. When a person says “I’m sorry, but…” then they’re probably trying to excuse their behavior, and chances are that it’s not a sincere apology. The same is the case with the word “you.” When someone says, “I’m sorry you…” then in all likelihood, they’re passing the blame for what they did from them to you, and chances are that it’s not a sincere apology. 

There are a lot of bad apologies out there, but what makes for a good apology? Well, rabbis throughout the ages have struggled with this question, and they’ve taught us a great deal of insight and wisdom as to how to say I’m sorry in a way that really counts. I’ve studied these lists, and I’ve been able to distill much of their teaching down to three requirements – three traits that an apology must have if it’s to be a good one. Conveniently, each of them begins with an R. 

The first R that a good apology demands is responsibility – you have to take responsibility for what it is that you did wrong. You have to not only own up to the fact that you fell short, but you also need to acknowledge exactly what it is that you did. That’s why every good apology needs to begin with the apologizer saying something to the effect of “I’m sorry that I _____.” Not “I’m sorry if…”; not “I’m sorry but…”; not “I’m sorry you…,” but “I’m sorry that I…” and then fill in the blank.  In other words, you need to own up to your own responsibility for your misdeed. You need to be concrete about what you did wrong, you need to be specific, and you need do so without making any excuses. 

Don’t say, “I’m sorry if what I said about that dress making you look fat hurt you.” Say instead, “I’m sorry I made that comment. It was insensitive and wrong, and I shouldn’t have said it.” Don’t say, “I’m sorry I betrayed your confidence, but I just got a little carried away.” Say instead, “I’m sorry I betrayed your confidence. Period. You trusted me, and I should have honored your trust.” Don’t say, “I’m sorry you were offended at my off-color joke.” Say instead, “I’m sorry I told an inappropriate joke.” 

Own up specifically to your misdeeds, and your apologies can really count.

At this time of year on social media, I see a lot of posts – sometimes even from rabbinic colleagues of mine – saying things like “To anyone I’ve knowingly or unknowingly wronged during the past year, I apologize.” Let me be clear – I’m not going to say that or anything like it to you. Instead what I’ll say is this: “If I’ve done anything hurtful to you during the past year – or even before that, I suppose – please tell me about it. It might be that you misinterpreted something I did, or that we had some sort of a communication glitch, or that you’re simply being a ridiculous kvetcher, in which case you’re not going to get any kind of an apology from me at all. But it could be that I really did do something wrong, and in that case, I’ll do everything I can to offer you the genuine apology that you deserve. But I can’t apologize for something I don’t know I did, and for me to offer you a blanket apology for something I might have done, without acknowledging the specific wrongdoing for which I’m offering it would be worthless and meaningless.” 

Apologies need to take responsibility for specific wrongdoings, and they need to do so without excuses.

The second R of a good apology is recognition – recognition of the harm that your misdeed caused. What’s wrong with responding to the release of recordings in which you brag of assaulting women by saying “I’m sorry, it was just locker room talk”? Yes, at one level you apologized, I suppose, but the way you did so was dismissive of the harm that your behavior caused. The fact is that countless women have been victimized by such groping and unwelcome advances, and that each such act has a way of creating horrible pain, some of it irreparable. To apologize for such acts – to really apologize – demands that you recognize and acknowledge this harm. You need to give voice to it, to show that you understand the depth of the injury you caused. And to refrain from doing so is to invalidate your apology.

Imagine a person saying, “Yes, it was me who pushed your husband off the bridge into the raging waters below. [Shrug] Sorry.” Or “By the way, honey, I’ve been having an affair with your best friend for the past two years, and I apologize. Wanna out to dinner?” Or “Yes, I’ll admit it, I embezzled the money and persuaded the boss it was you. Now can we be done with this?”  None of those apologies works, because apology demands empathy. It demands that we show ourselves to be sensitive, and aware of the damage our misdeeds do. Only when accompanied by such a recognition can our apology work.

Finally comes the third R of a genuine apology – restitution.  Once you’ve owned up to your responsibility for what you’ve done, and once you’ve shown that you recognized the harm you’ve caused, then you need to offer to make the victim of your misdeed whole again – you need to compensate them for the damage. Sometimes, such compensation is easy. If I spill wine on your clothes, I need to get those garments cleaned or replace them. If I drive my car into your garage door, I need to get the door fixed. If I sell you a faulty object, I need to replace it.

But of course, sometimes it’s not so easy. What if I break a confidence with you? What if we’re joking around, and, without thinking, I say something really hurtful to you? What if I do something so horrible to you that I couldn’t ever adequately compensate you for what I’ve done?

In these cases, it’s never easy to calculate fair compensation. But even when it’s complicated, the wrongdoer needs to try to figure out how to do right by the victim of his or her offense.  There are couples, for example, whose relationships successfully recover from horrible infidelities, and while the recipe for the recovery of those relationships always has many ingredients, one of the most important is a willingness on the part of the adulterer to make things right. Can you ever heal a relationship after you’ve said something hurtful to the other person? Yes, you can. It’s not always easy, and sometimes it takes time, but when you’re willing to do right by that person, the healing is always possible; redemption can happen.

Remember, compensating our victims – paying them for the damage we cause – is one of the most important steps in teshuvah, repentance. And Judaism says that teshuvah is possible for just about every sin we commit, even for some of the really bad ones. 

Think about the awesome nature of what Jerry Springer was able to do. He took a career in shambles, and, with the heartfelt recitation of what was effectively two words – I’m sorry – he recovered it, becoming (for better or for worse) a very successful person as a result. Redemption is possible; healing can happen; repair is achievable – even amidst the wreckage we often make of our lives. 

All we need to do is apologize and apologize well. Doing so isn’t always easy, but when we succeed, then just think of all the great things we can accomplish.

 

Shanah Tovah

in Sermons 0 comments
 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Conversations With Betty: The Challenge of Deep Compassion

Kol Nidre Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5780/2019

Rabbi Mark Glickman

Over the course of my life, I’ve had to face many difficult challenges. There have been educational and professional pressures; the stress of parenting; the frustration of my futile attempts to learn song lyrics; and my anxiety and utter befuddlement as to why long is a monosyllabic word, and monosyllabic is a long word.  It’s all part of what I often describe to my wife Caron as “the burden of being me.”

But in some ways, all of these challenges pale in comparison to the difficulties I’ve faced in trying to engage meaningful dialogue with my friend Betty.

Betty (not her real name) is a woman Caron and I knew from when we lived in Washington State. She’s about sixty – a bookkeeper – with short, stylishly-cut copper-colored hair, a weatherworn face, and a voice a that betrays her many years of smoking. Betty and I are Facebook friends – in fact, I helped her navigate the site a little when she first got on it five or ten years ago – and in her postings, Betty never makes a secret of her politics. Betty’s politics are, to put it delicately, a little different from my own. Her place on the political spectrum is, shall we say, a bit to the right of mine. Actually, Betty’s politics are WAY to the right of mine. In fact, her politics are so far to the right of mine that sometimes their transmission from her to me gets garbled because of the curvature of the earth.

Most of Betty’s political views concern what’s going on in her native United States. Betty, you see, wishes that a certain group of Democratic congresswomen would “go back to where they came from.” Betty bemoans the murderous acts of Hillary Clinton and the demonic corruption of the Obama regime. Betty is terrified of the invasion of rapists and murderers coming over America’s southern border, and is convinced that the “deep state” in her home country is bent on the destruction of western civilization.

Once, Betty shared a post complaining that illegal refugees to America get checks from the government of almost $4000 per month. I looked into it, and responded that, no, it’s not true. First, I noted, there is no such thing as an “illegal refugee”; second, the case she was talking about wasn’t from the United States, it was from up here in Canada; and, third, what really happened is that one refugee family with several children once received a one-time check for that amount of support. “Look,” I wrote, “here’s the article on Snopes [the fact-checking site] with all the details.”

Betty responded by saying that Snopes is a left wing, anti-Trump organization, and she shared twelve YouTube videos to prove it. 

Another time, Betty posted a rap video showing a six-pointed star beneath the words, “Destroy democracy,” with lyrics grumbling about how “today’s Rothschilds” are bringing down the nation. 

“Betty,” I pointed out to her, that’s an antisemitic video.”

“I’m not antisemitic,” she said.

I responded, “Invoking dark images of “the Rothschilds” is a hateful old trope referring to rich Jews. And then there’s that Star of David.”

“The Rothschilds were evil,” Betty said, “Jewish or not. And that’s not a Star of David, it’s a sheriff’s star!”

Once, without comment, Betty posted a video showing hundreds – maybe thousands – of Muslims worshipping on a street in New York or some other American city. “Isn’t it great?” I said. “So many people gathered together in one place to worship God. What a great country you live in!”

“They weren’t worshipping God,” Betty replied. “They were worshipping Allah. And it’s horrible.”

“Betty,” I told her, “Allah is simply the Arabic word for God. It’s the same God as you and I worship.”

“The same God?!?!” Betty said. “Are you blind? There is no salvation in such a religion. It’s Satanic!!!”

“They worship one God,” I said, “we worship one God. There can only be one ‘one God.’”

“How dare you insult me by saying that I worship Allah,” Betty said. “I would never do such a horrible thing!” 

“Betty,” I said, “it’s important not to demonize people just because they’re different than we are.”

“What do you know?” Betty retorted. “You only read half the bible!”

At this point, Caron began questioning why I was even bothering to engage in this conversation.

“Why bother???” I said. “Well, somebody has to call her out! If I don’t, then who will???”

Caron was making an important point, of course. It’s not like I was going to change Betty’s mind. Why bother getting into it with her?

The answer, I think, was that I just couldn’t bring myself to read such horrible things and not say anything about them. Somebody has to call this stuff out. And having seen all the amens that Betty was getting from her other Facebook friends, I figured that if that someone wasn’t going to be me, then nobody was likely to step up.

So, I called my childhood rabbi – a man who also happens to be my uncle, Rabbi Robert Marx. My uncle is in his nineties now, but during the 1960s, he was a leading figure in the civil rights movement in Chicago and elsewhere. He worked closely with Martin Luther King, he was an outspoken advocate for fair housing and other such causes, and in 1964, he founded the Jewish Council on Urban Affairs, which now, 55 years later, continues to thrive as a major advocate of social justice in Chicago. 

“Uncle Bob,” I asked, “during your civil rights work, did you engage directly with the individual racists, or did you focus your efforts on larger-scale advocacy.” 

“Oh, I didn’t focus on the individual racists,” he said. “It would have been a horrible waste of time.”

“Really.” I said. “Have you been talking with Caron.”

So now two people had told me not to bother with the Bettys of the world. But what was I supposed to do – stay silent? I’ve preached the importance of speaking up for decades now. Now that it’s in my face, isn’t it more important than ever that I say something? But of course, when I do chime in, Betty deluges me with horrible rhetoric, vitriol, and more ugly YouTube videos than I could watch in a lifetime. I want to speak up; I feel morally bound to speak up; but I don’t know that speaking up with Betty would do any good, and to even try would drain me of enormous amounts my time and energy – time and energy that you people in this room have already claimed for yourselves. 

How could I speak up? And how could I not?

And this, my friends, is what I’ve been thinking about this year.

The sad thing, of course, is that Betty is far from alone. Throughout North America, anti-immigrant sentiment (much of it downright racist) is rising – we saw explicitly in the election debate just last night. Hate crimes are more frequent; politics seem increasingly disconnected from facts; and conflict grows. In other countries, too, authoritarian leadership is on the rise, as the power of populist dictatorships becomes ever more deeply entrenched.  

What is going on? There are many factors contributing to this current climate, of course. Certainly, the economy has something to do with it, as this generation of young North Americans may be the first one in a long time not to exceed its parents in earnings and socioeconomic standing. Technology is changing everything, as machines take over many jobs long held by people, and skills that were once valuable are now seen as outdated and anachronistic. Related might be the new challenges that racial and ethnic privileges are facing, as throughout the western world being white and European no longer brings the automatic social and financial benefits that it once did. Surely, there are other factors as well.

I’m not a sociologist or a social psychologist, though, so I’ll leave it to the experts to explain in detail the causes of what’s going on. All I know is that I’ve got this Betty situation to deal with; and all I know is that talking politics – and talking about anything else of consequence – these days only feels safe once I come to feel assured that everyone I’m talking to agrees with me; and all I know is that there’s a whole lot of yelling out there right now, and that the world feels really divided. 

As my interchange with Betty unfolded, I independently began reading historian Robert Caro’s magisterial, award-winning biography of the former American president, Lyndon Johnson. The four volumes of this work published so far comprise more than 3500 pages, and the fifth volume when it comes out, will certainly put the total well over 4000. Reading so many thousands of pages on a single guy is a fascinating experience. The author, Robert Caro, has been working on this biography since shortly after Johnson’s death in the 1970s. It includes well over 100 pages devoted to the topography and culture of the Texas hill country where Johnson grew up. There are 150 or so pages on the history of the U.S. Senate before Johnson was elected to it, a 75-page mini-biography of one of Johnson’s mentors, 50 pages on a political ally of his, another 75 on a rival, and another hundred or so on the history of the American civil rights movement before Johnson sank his teeth into the issue. 

Reading this book gave me an insight into who this man was as nothing I’ve read ever has done before. Reading it made me stand in jaw-dropping awe of certain elements of Johnson’s personality, and it made me despise others. Most important, however, the biography helped me understand Lyndon Johnson better than I do almost any other figure from history. With the vast amounts of context, knowledge, and insight that this biography brought me, I can comprehend what made him tick far more readily than I could before. Having read his 4,000-page biography, I can better appreciate Lyndon Johnson for the fullness of who he was as a human being. 

Now what do Lyndon Johnson and my friend Betty have in common? Well, aside from the fact that they both had two arms, two legs, and one head, not so much. 

In fact, now that I think about it, I’m not sure what they have in common, because I don’t know very much at all about Betty’s life – certainly not nearly as much as I know about Johnson’s. I know that she grew up in a small, working-class semi-rural community in eastern Washington State; I know that her father abused her when she was a little girl; I know she’s been married a couple of times, struggled with alcoholism, that she’s got a couple of kids, and some cute grandchildren whose pictures she’ll show anyone at the drop of a hat. 

That’s pretty much what I know of Betty’s story. It amounts to just a fraction of a typewritten page here – far less than the thousands I’ve read about Johnson.

I wonder what would happen if I could read the 4,000-page Betty biography. Maybe it would help me understand something about her father, and give me some insights as to what led to his terrifying abuse. Maybe it would tell the story of the community where she grew up, and help me understand the impact that growing up there continues to have on Betty as an adult. Perhaps it would tell the narrative of Betty’s first-ever sip of alcohol, and give some insights as to its impact up on her – chemically, emotionally, and in other ways, too. Maybe Betty’s 4,000-page biography would bring me to her church, and help me understand how perspectives that I see as so offensive she sees as so deeply religious. Maybe it would introduce me to her friends, and her first love, and her ex-husband. And maybe it would describe how Facebook gave her a voice political voice that she never had in the pre-Facebook era. – the one I find so objectionable.

Unfortunately, however, nobody has written Betty’s 4,000-page biography. The Bettys of the world rarely become subjects of published works of even a fraction of that length. And unfortunately, I’ll admit, I haven’t asked for anything beyond the briefest details of Betty’s life-story. I did a little bit at first, but then when I started reading her Facebook posts, I got so angry that I stopped being curious. 

It occurs to me that this might be the source of the problem. I’ve gotten so angry at Betty during the past few years, that I’ve forgotten to be curious about her. Of course, I don’t have time to read very many 4,000-page biographies, but I’m pretty sure that the closer I can get to knowing somebody’s full story, the more fully I will be able to appreciate where that person is coming from. I highly doubt that knowing Betty’s story will make me agree with her, but maybe knowing where she is coming from would keep me from wanting to wring her neck in frustration.

We Jews, I’ll note, are called upon to learn the stories of others – especially the stories of people who oppose us. Our tradition is full of biographical material about our enemies. Reading the midrash, you can learn all about their backgrounds. Pharaoh, Haman, Amalek, you name the enemy of Israel, there’s all kind of stuff to read describing where he came from. Much of it is imagined legend, of course, but it’s all part of our tradition’s urge to help us understand our enemies. 

And the rabbis? They also provide us with some good guidance here because they disagreed with one another all the time. In fact, having good juicy disagreements is a big part of what being a rabbi is all about.  Last Yom Kippur, I spoke at length about the sacred art of disagreement in Judaism. I spoke of what our tradition called a machloket l’shem shamayim – a disagreement for the sake of heaven. As I reminded you then, according to Judaism, disagreement isn’t necessarily bad. It can actually be quite a good thing, provided that you do it respectfully and kindly. Plus, everyone – every single human being – has something to teach us…even the people with whom we disagree. And one ingredient of respectful disagreement is the act of really hearing what another person has to say. The great rabbi Hillel was so revered, it is said, because whenever he went up against his archrival, Shammai, he always gave voice to Shammai’s argument before his own; he always made sure he understood the opposing view before articulating his own.

Our friend Peter Walker recently pointed me to a teaching from the late Reb Zalman Schacter-Shalomi about the 23rd Psalm. Psalm 23, Reb Zalman points out, describes God as setting a table before me in the presence of my enemies. Why would God set a table before me in the presence of my enemies? Because, Reb Zalman notes, God wants me to sit down with them and share a meal! Because God wants me to talk with them! Maybe we could talk about our disagreements, but maybe we could talk about the roast beef. Or maybe we could talk about sports, or maybe we could sing old show tunes, or maybe we could tell one another our stories. The point is that God wants us to figure out a way to connect with our enemies rather than just vanquish them.

It’s an important teaching. Everything I know about God – or at least everything I think I know – tells me that God wants me to oppose Betty’s odious politics with every morsel of my being. But that’s not all that God wants me to do. God also wants me to get to know Betty – to understand where she’s coming from and why she’s saying what she’s saying. Even though I’m pretty certain that she’s wrong, understanding her story may help me find some truth hiding somewhere in her hate, or it may help me show her how she’s wrong. Until I get to know Betty, I can’t ever hope to even have a chance of engaging in a meaningful dialogue with her.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who died in 1972, was a leader in the field of interfaith relations and interfaith dialogue. Modern religions, he argued, need to avoid falling into religious disputations. Christians, Heschel might have said, will never persuade us Jews that Jesus was the messiah, and we’re never going persuade them that gefilte fish is delicious. What we should do, Heschel suggested, is try to learn from one another rather than persuade one another, to help one another rather than defeat one another, to engage in what his daughter, Susannah Heschel described as not just “theology,” but as “deep theology” – the kind of theology that propels us to go beyond all that separates us and to find the common humanity with which we can all connect.

My friends, this is a time that calls upon us all to do what Rabbi Heschel taught us to do. It’s a time that calls upon us to demonstrate not only compassion, but deep compassion. Compassion calls upon us to welcome the homeless and the refugees into the confines of our own borders; deep compassion calls upon us to extend hands of friendship even to those who would have us turn them away. Compassion inspires us to make the world a gentler and more loving place; deep compassion reminds us that people who reject those values are the way they are for a reason. Compassion beckons us to protect our children and loved ones from needless violence; deep compassion drives us to reach out to the very ones whose actions contribute to the atmosphere that allows violence to grow. Compassion calls upon us to feed the hungry; deep compassion calls upon us to address the real needs and be sensitive to the real stories of those who make the world more selfish.

Of course, we must never allow our compassion – even our deep compassion – to excuse improper behavior. We must stand up to it now just as we’ve always done. But resistance alone will not make our world good, only love will – and real love, genuine love, rarely comes easy. It means that we need to push ourselves beyond ourselves, and acknowledge others around us in the full measure of their humanity.

We read in the Talmud that Rabbi Abba Isi ben Yochanan taught in the name of Shmuel Hakatan that when you look into a person’s eye, you’re really seeing a map of the world there. The white of the eye is the ocean; the iris is the world; the pupil is Jerusalem; and the face you see looking back at you is the holiest of all, the sacred Temple.

To look at another human being is to look at an entire world. That’s true even for the people we disagree with; even for the people who act so objectionably – Betty and all the rest. Let’s look deep into their eyes. Let’s remember that they, like us, each have compelling stories to tell. Let’s learn from their stories, even as we affirm the call of our tradition to stand for what is right and good in all that we do.  We may not agree with them, but when we disagree, we must do so with deep compassion – the kind of compassion that can only enrich us all as we navigate the choppy waters of our lives today.


Shanah Tovah

 

in Sermons 0 comments
 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Israel and Zionism: An Invitation to Talk

Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5780/2019

Rabbi Mark Glickman

I’d like to tell you about a conversation that happened several months ago just down the hall from here, a few meters from where we now sit. It took place at a Temple board meeting in our library this past spring. The topic at hand was whether to add an option to our Temple membership forms that would allow you to pay five extra dollars to become members of ARZA Canada, the Canadian branch of the Association of Reform Zionists of America.

A long discussion ensued – it was a board meeting, after all – and at times, believe it or not, the discussion became somewhat…spirited. “Of course, we should support our nation’s Reform Zionists,” one board member said. “Israel is besieged these days – sometimes literally, but always politically. Israel needs all the help it can get.” “Well,” said another board member, “I’m not so sure. Does joining ARZA implicitly mean that we support all of Israel’s policies? If so, I’m not so comfortable with it.” “Do we have the right to ask our congregants to stand behind Israel these days?” asked one board member. “We’re Jews. How dare we refrain from it,” replied another. 

Then, a board member we’ll call Amy spoke up. “I’m all for Israel,” she said. “I only want the best for it. But ARZA – the Association of Reform Zionists of America – is a Zionist organization,” Amy said, “and to be honest, I’m a little uncomfortable with the word ‘Zionism.’”  

Across the room, another board member we’ll call Bob responded with a jolt. “You’re not comfortable calling yourself a Zionist?” Bob asked. “How could you say such a thing? How could any Jew say such a thing these days? Especially after the Holocaust? As Jewish leaders, we need to stand with our people. We should wear the Zionist badge with pride. We need to! I can’t believe that a Jew today could dare not call themselves a Zionist!”

At this point, a wave of tension swept across the room. It was palpable. You could cut it with a cheap plastic oneg-knife. 

Sadly, this was far from the first time that Israel has become an item of tension for us Jews. And sadly, this was far from the first time that Israel has become an item of tension for us here at Temple. Other board meetings have become difficult when Israel-based topics have come up, and many of us are scared to even bring it up. Some of you have come into my office to tell me that you feel lonely here because you don’t feel like your fellow congregants are supportive of Israel. Others – many others – have also come into my office and said, “Rabbi, I have to tell you that I’ve become critical of Israel lately, but I don’t dare say anything out loud around here about how I feel – they’ll run me out of the place!”

Talking about Israel these days has become difficult. In fact, for many of us, the very notion of talking about Israel – even and especially within the Jewish community – has become downright scary. And to tell you the truth, it’s even become frightening for us rabbis. I know for a fact that many of my colleagues have become scared to preach about Israel lately for fear that whatever they say is going to get them into trouble with one group or another. I can also tell you that my own computer hard drive overflows with fully written sermons about Israel that I never delivered, and instead simply scrapped, for fear that they’d create more heat than light. 

More often than not, speaking about Israel has become like speaking to a large group of people standing on the face of a clock with moving hands. You don’t know what’s going to happen; all you know for certain is that somebody is going to get ticked off!

But the discussion at that board meeting troubled me, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. As a result, today I’m going to break my pattern of letting my Israel sermons say safe inside my hard drive, and I’m going to share some thoughts with you about Israel, instead. In fact, I’m going to share five of them.

My first point is the simplest and most fundamental – Jews should care about Israel. There was a time, of course, when I wouldn’t have had to say that to a room full of Jews. Israel, as many of you know, was established as a state in 1948, when the smoke of the Holocaust still hovered dark and new over world Jewry. To Jews everywhere, it had become clear that our people needed a safe haven, and they thanked God that the time of Jewish political powerlessness had come to an end. Plus, for years, Israel was a dangerously imperiled country, its borders constantly violated by terrorists, its citizens living under the ongoing specter of terrorism and military incursions. At the time, there was a worldwide Jewish consensus – not complete, but certainly widespread – that the existence of the State of Israel was crucial for the Jewish people, and a blessing that we must protect at all costs.

That consensus lasted for the most part, for about 25 years – until the Yom Kippur War, back in 1973. At that point (for complex reasons that we don’t have time to go into today), something about Israel shifted in the eyes of many Jews. Israel, in the wake of the Yom Kippur War, was no longer an imperiled David; to many it had become a ruthless Goliath. For many, the youthful shine of the fresh young state had worn off, leaving a flawed, imperfect country behind. 

And since then, of course, things have gotten really problematic for many of us. Yes, Israel has remained a haven for oppressed Jews, but it also occupies lands inhabited by people who don’t want it there. Yes, Israel as laboratory of Jewish independent life in modern times thrums with vitality, but for many it is also a place of religious intolerance and oppression. Yes, Israel is an island of democracy in a sea of Middle Eastern totalitarian repression, but it is also a place of palpable and very concerning antidemocratic threats.

In short, Israel has gotten so complicated these days, and through it all, it has become easy for us to forget what an amazing blessing the State of Israel truly is. Despite all of its faults, despite everything that can make thinking about Israel so confusing, the fact remains we Jews in the post-1948 era live in a era when, for the first time since the destruction of the Second Temple in the Year 70, there is an independent Jewish state in our ancestral homeland. Now, as has never been the case for almost 2000 years, Jews living under oppression have a safe – or at least safer – place to go, and Israel has been able to welcome millions of our people from places like the Former Soviet Union and Ethiopia, not to mention countless Arab countries where they had been living with great difficulty. Now, moreover, there is a place where it’s standard to stay home from work and school on Shabbat and Jewish holidays, where you can write the Jewish date on your checks, where the citizenry might not agree whether buses should run on Friday nights, but at least they need to ask the question, and they get to debate it as Jews living in their own country and as people in charge of its own destiny.

At the very least, Jews should be concerned about Israel because it is home to the largest Jewish community in the world. More than six million Jews live there – our people – and we should hold their safety and security and wellbeing in our hearts. When bombs fall on Jewish cities and towns, it’s our brothers and our sisters and our cousins that they’re falling on. When Israel comes under threat of widespread attack from its neighbors bent on the demise of the Jewish State, it’s our people whose lives are imperiled. And as Israel struggles to figure out what it means to be a modern Jewish democracy in a region populated by countless people who feel threatened by all three of those adjectives – modern, Jewish, and democracy – it’s our people who are undergoing that struggle.  

So, without necessarily addressing all of the complexities of Israel today, let’s start by reminding ourselves how lucky we are to be alive during a time when once again, the Jewish people is literally on the map, in a country committed to guaranteeing the safety of our people, and where, once again, Judaism has the opportunity to face the challenges of modern life on its own terms and in its own way. 

For the reality of modern Israel, we should feel profoundly grateful; for the wellbeing of the state and its citizens, we Jews should feel deeply concerned. 

Second: Not all criticism of Israel is antisemitic. Israel, as we know, is a modern country, replete with all of the complexity and confusion that being a modern country involves. It has a right to exist, it has a right to ensure the security of its borders and the safety of its citizens, and sometimes, like all countries it makes mistakes. And sometimes, like all countries, it embraces misguided policies, not to mention a misguided leader or two. And sometimes, like all countries, it falls short of what it can be. 

And today Israel faces a lot of difficult challenges. What should it do with the occupied territories? How can it be a Jewish state if its Orthodox Jews feel it should be run one way, its secular Jews feel it should be run another way, and its growing Reform and Conservative movements feel differently still? How can it both guarantee its safety while also embracing the Jewish values of its people’s history.

This isn’t the place to delve into these difficult questions in detail, and I’m not sure I’m the best guy to do the delving. What I will say, however, is that thinking, reasonable people who care about Israel can differ on these issues. As a result, even people who love Israel can be critical of it. In fact, sometimes, people who love Israel need to be critical of it. Just as I’m not going to stand by silently when I see my family members doing things that bring harm to themselves, so too will I speak up when I see Israel doing something I think is wrong. Certainly, the stakes for me aren’t nearly as high as they are for the people who actually live in Israel, but nevertheless, loving Israel doesn’t mean agreeing with its every move. Loving Israel means helping it be great and speaking up when it goes astray.  

Third: Sometimes, criticism of Israel is antisemitic. To criticize Israel alone while tolerating or staying silent about worse abuses in other countries; to suggest that the world boycott, divest from, or sanction Israel as a veiled way of delegitimizing the entire state; to use antisemitic tropes to undermine Israel’s legitimate security concerns – all of these and many more are ways in which people who hate Jews channel that hatred into attempts to undermine the legitimacy of the Jewish State. Not all criticism of Israel is antisemitic, but nevertheless, some criticism of Israel certainly is.

Fourth, lately, the political right has kidnapped Zionism. In the old days – like, until just a few years ago – it used to be easy for political liberals to be openly Zionist. Lots of Zionists were socialists; the Israeli government was leftist; in North America, most of the liberal political parties were ardent supporters of Zionism and Israel. It was the Republicans in the States and the Conservatives here in Canada who were opposed to supporting Israel. Lately, however, the landscape has changed. Now, many of Israel’s most ardent critics in the West are liberals. Think of the four American congresswomen who were recently so outspoken in denouncing Israel. And, on the flipside, in North America, the people who are most outspoken in their support of Israel are often those on the political right. When he speaks to Jewish groups here in Calgary, Jason Kenney inspires standing ovations galore when he proclaims support for the State of Israel – support that is, by all indications, quite genuine. And in the United States, there’s a certain leader who insists that he’s the best friend that Israel has ever had, and he implements policies with which he tries to prove it. That leader will remain nameless here, but his name rhymes with “Donald Trump.”

As a result, supporting Israel these days has come to sound a lot more conservative than it once did. And for liberals – liberals like Amy at the board meeting and many others here today – that makes them feel uncomfortable. “I don’t want to call myself a Zionist,” people think. “Being a Zionist means not caring about Palestinians, and being in favor of settlements in the Occupied Territories, and being deaf to the plight of oppressed peoples. Being a Zionist is so…Trumpy. I guess I’m pro-Israel,” they say, “but please don’t even think of calling me a Zionist.”

If you are a liberal who falls into this camp – if you’re a person who is reluctant to be identified as a Zionist for fear that it will put you in bed with people whose politics you reject – then I have something to say to you: Please don’t do it. Don’t cede Zionism to people whose politics you reject, because that way, they win. Instead, claim Zionism as your own. You can be a lover of Israel, a passionate Zionist who cares about the future of the Jewish state, in a way that affirms rather than denies your core values. There is room for you within this thing called Zionism. 

In other words, to say that Israel should and can exist as a safe and secure state alongside an equally safe and secure Palestinian state – that’s Zionism, just like being opposed to territorial compromise is Zionism. To say that every time Israel treads on the human rights of its non-Jewish citizens, it destroys a part of its own soul – that’s Zionism, just as the desire to wall off the occupied territories is Zionism. To argue that Israel mustn’t ever close its borders to refugees, or close its gates-of-entry to non-Orthodox converts, or close the Wall to women wearing tallises – that’s Zionism, too…as are countless other ways of showing love for the Jewish state. 

Of course, your Zionism might not always be Trump Zionism, and it might not always be Netanyahu Zionism, and it might not even be the Zionism of the person here in Calgary wearing an Israeli flag pin on their lapel, but none of those people own Zionism. Not Trump, not Netanyahu, and not the Israel supporter down the street. The Jewish people owns Zionism – all of us, including you.

Fifth, finally, and perhaps most important: Folks, let’s make build an atmosphere – here at Temple and elsewhere – in which it’s safe to talk about these issues. If you’re frightened to share your views about what’s going on, I want to encourage you to share them anyway, even if they’re at odds with the people across from you. Not to do so would be to let the other views carry the day unchecked. I know it can be scary, but it’s important that we put this stuff on the table. I may or may not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll go to the barricades to defend your right to share your thoughts. And if you hear views with which you disagree, please don’t pounce. Don’t attack. Instead, listen, probe, challenge, learn. That’s the way we grow as a community.

My dream is to build a spirit in this community in which we can have discussions about topics that came up at that board meeting down the hall that aren’t permeated by waves of tension – in which disagreement can be a welcome opportunity to learn rather than an intolerable threat to us all, in which our discussions – even and especially when we disagree – can be spirited, and affectionate, and challenging opportunities for us all to learn and grow.

My friends, we do live during an amazing time – a golden age in the history of the Jewish people. Part of that gold is what we create here at our synagogue and at countless others around the world. And part of the gold is the result of the amazing revival of Jewish life in a small country halfway around the world from here. When we do it right, we and they can engage in a relationship of push and pull and learning and support and growth for us all. Let’s keep talking about how to make that happen, for when we do, this age for the Jewish people can only become more golden for us all.

 

Shanah Tovah.

 

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Big Little Things

Rosh Hashanah Evening Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5780/2019

Rabbi Mark Glickman

 

I have something to confess to you tonight. It’s a secret, so let’s just keep it between you and me.

When I was a boy, growing up in the Chicago suburbs, I was a bit of a problem child. My school teachers, you see, didn’t like it when I punched them, and by March in the year I was in grade 3, they decided they had had enough. Yes, it’s true. When he was nine years old, your rabbi got expelled from school.

My parents were beside themselves – they didn’t know what to do. They put me into special education classes the following year, and they had me see our family psychiatrist, Dr. Jay Hirsch. My mother blamed herself for my misbehavior, and wondered aloud to Dr. Hirsch whether I’d be OK in the long run. Dr. Hirsch was a gentle and very wise man, and he reassured my mother that this wasn’t her fault, and that he was pretty sure that I was going to turn out just fine. 

I remained in special education classes for all of grades 4 and 5. In grades 6 and 7 – junior high school – I was back in the regular classes, but I was still having problems, and I almost got kicked out again. Then, in grade 8, they put me into what was, at the time, a cutting-edge program, called “Liberal Arts.” It was originally set up for gifted students, but eventually they let in kids like me. We had to go to each class once a day, but we could decide on our schedule each day for ourselves. We made our own assignments; we learned at our own pace. 

That year, for some reason that I still don’t fully understand, I made a 180-degree turnaround. Not only did I start behaving in school, I actually started excelling. If they had given us grades in that newfangled Liberal Arts program, I probably would have gotten A’s. I wasn’t punching the teachers any more, I was learning from them. And to my surprise, I found that I really enjoyed it. 

I liked all my teachers that year, but my favorite by far was Mrs. Becicka. Mrs. Becicka was old – like, fifty or so. She was a short woman, slightly stocky, with her hair neatly done in bleach-blonde curls. She looked, in other words, just like an 8th grade social studies teacher is supposed to look.

At the time, we 8th-graders in the State of Illinois were required by law to pass two state-mandated tests – one on the United States Constitution, and another on the Illinois State Constitution. As our preparations got underway, Mrs. Becicka told us that she’d never had a student get 100% scores on both tests. She’d had students get 100% on one test or the other, but nobody had gotten hundreds on both.

Right then and there, I decided that I’d be the first one. First came the test on the US Constitution. I studied and studied and studied, and I got 100. Then came the state constitution test. I studied and studied and studied, and the day after the test, Mrs. Becicka called me to her desk.

“Mark, come here,” she said. When I walked over to her desk, I saw that she had my test paper in her hand. “Look here,” she told me, “there’s a blank question on your test sheet. You got all the other answers on the test right, but this one’s blank.”

I looked at the sheet, and saw that she was pointing to a multiple-choice question. It looked like I had chosen answer C, but then later erased it. 

“So,” Mrs. Becicka asked, “what’s the right answer?”

“C,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, wait a minute,” I said. “No, it’s B – the correct answer is B.”

“That’s right!” Mrs. Becicka said. “You’re my first student to get one-hundreds on both of the constitution tests!

Suddenly, I was hot stuff in that school – everyone was simply abuzz at my accomplishment. All the pretty girls oohed and ahhed over the achievement (I was still terrified of them), my other teachers told me what a great job I had done. And the principal (whom I had gotten to know really well the year before) made a special trip down to my class just to congratulate me in front of my friends.

Years passed. I grew up, got married, had kids, and always remained proud of that 8th-grade achievement. When my son Jacob was about six years old, I told him with great pride the story of what I had accomplished back then. And as I was telling him the story, I thought to myself, “You know, it’s kind of strange that I left that answer blank. I distinctly remember going over that test, and making sure that I’d answered all of those questions correctly. I wouldn’t have left an answer blank.”

Then, I realized what had happened: Wait a minute…of course…I wouldn’t have left that answer blank. I didn’t. It was Mrs. Becicka who had erased my incorrect answer and given me another chance. For a quarter of a century, I had thought that I’d actually gotten 100’s on both of those tests, but then I realized that I’d only thought so because Mrs. Becicka had cheated for me!

I wanted to thank Mrs. Becicka. I reached out to the school to see whether they might know how to reach her – no response. I Googled her – nothing. Later, I did another online search, and I found a reference to her – it was in Mrs. Becicka’s obituary.

We often tend to think that the great lessons that one person conveys to another are contained in words. In Mrs. Becicka’s case, however, the greatness came in another way. Yes, she taught me a lot of civics. But now, many years after studying with her, I realize that her greatest teaching came to me in one small act – an act which I only recognized long after she performed it, and which she may never have mentioned to anyone.

There’s an old tale about a Chasid who traveled great distances to pray with a certain rebbe. “Why did you travel so far just to pray with that rebbe?” someone asked him. “Couldn’t you have prayed just as well at your shul at home.” “Why?” the Chasid answered. “Why did I come? It’s because I wanted to see how the rebbe ties his shoes.”

None of you have ever expressed much interest in how I tie my shoes (just sayin’), but if only I could have had more time to learn the little things from this great teacher of mine. She taught social studies really well, but, as my memory of this one act reminds me, she lived her life even better. She will always be my teacher

Somehow, partly with the help of Mrs. Becicka, I finished Junior High School. Some well-timed and helpful appointments with Dr. Hirsch, our family’s psychiatrist, certainly helped. “Don’t worry,” Dr. Hirsch told my mother. “He’ll be fine.”

I went to high school; I went to college; I was accepted into rabbinical school and spent a year in Israel, and then moved to Cincinnati for four more years of study. 

Shortly after I got to Cincinnati, I decided to get away one weekend to visit a friend of mine in Pennsylvania. Along the way, the Pennsylvania Turnpike took me through a mountainous area, and at one point, I rounded a bend only to see a pickup truck on the shoulder of the road leaning on its side almost vertical up against a rock abutment. Passing the pickup, I glanced into my rearview mirror, and found – to my surprise – that there was a person inside that pickup. Immediately, I pulled over, and as I did so, I looked to the other side of the highway and saw that a semi-truck had pulled over as well. The driver and I both started walking toward the upended pickup truck at the same time.

The semi driver was a big guy – maybe 6’5” or so, well over 300 pounds, about three months past due for a beard trim. He wore old jeans, and a threadbare, black, AC/DC T-shirt that was trying in vain to cover up his prodigious belly. “My name’s Jake,” he said. “I just called this in on my CB – help is on the way.” (This was before cell phones.)

Looking into the pickup, we saw that the woman inside seemed to be in her late 40s. She had short hair, big rounds eyeglasses, and in her eyes was a look of fear, but not panic.

“What’s your name?” we shouted.

“Margaret,” she called back.

“Margaret, are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, glancing from side to side. “I think I’m OK.”

My first thought was that I needed to do something to remedy this situation. But what was I supposed to do? We couldn’t move the car – it was sitting firmly on its side, and moving it might injure Margaret. Even if I could get to Margaret, there wasn’t any first aid to administer – she wasn’t hurt. “I know,” I thought to myself. “I’ll clean up; look, there’s broken glass all over the place.” Nope, that wouldn’t work – no broom. Plus, broken glass…it could cut me.  “I know,” I thought, “I’ll direct traffic – someone always directs traffic at the scene of bad accidents.” But then I looked up, and saw that the traffic was flowing just fine. 

Just as I began trying to decide between writing up a report or running off into the nearby woods to find a vine for a tourniquet (just in case), Jake-the-trucker did something that I’ll never forget. Without saying a word, this huge, hairy, mountain of a man kicked aside some of the bigger pieces of glass, hitched up his faded pant legs, laid down on the pavement, snaked his arm through the wreckage of the pickup truck, and simply held Margaret’s hand until the emergency vehicles arrived. 

I had wanted to fix the situation, but fixing wasn’t what Margaret needed from me. She was a scared woman in a scary situation, and simply needed the reassuring presence of someone else until help could arrive – which was just what Jake provided her.

Comforting our people after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the prophet Isaiah reports God saying “I have taken hold of your hand, and kept you, and set you as a covenant people, a light to the nations.” When things fell apart, in other words, God didn’t swoop down and fix everything. Instead, God held our hands until we could get our lives back together. 

God holds our hands during times of need. In fact, can we imagine anything more Godly than the simple act of holding the hand of a struggling or scared person? 

Since then, years have passed, and I often think of the great model that this burly truckdriver set for me back then along a windswept road in the mountains of Pennsylvania.  Like Mrs. Becicka, Jake is, and will always remain, one of my greatest teachers

Finally, in 1990, I was ordained a rabbi. That week, I received many gifts and good wishes, but one of them has stuck with me. It came in the mail – a white, business-sized envelope from, of all people, Dr. Hirsch, our family psychiatrist from when I was a kid. I hadn’t seen him in years; I was surprised he even remembered me. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. On it, Dr. Hirsch had drawn a cartoon picture of a little choo-choo train going downhill. There was no cover letter, no note, just a caption. Dr. Hirsch wrote, “I knew you could, I knew you could….” 

Our rabbis taught us that, while there are those who achieve eternity over the course of many years, there are others who achieve it in a single moment. Sadly, Dr. Hirsch died not too long after I received that picture of his, but I can’t help but think that during the few minutes it took him to draw it and send it to me, he achieved an eternity that I can only dream of achieving myself. 

My friends, during these Awesome Days, we along with Jews everywhere take honest account of our world and our lives so that we can transform them for the year ahead. Our task is nothing less that perfecting ourselves and perfecting the world, and it’s up to each of us. And transforming the world? It’s a really big job – so big, in fact, that it can seem daunting.

And yet, what I have learned from these great teachers of mine is something that I imagine you have learned from your own experience, too. Sometimes, transforming the world isn’t so difficult. Because sometimes, transforming the world demands not that we split a sea, or lead a worldwide campaign against tyranny, or that we inspire humanity with words like “I have a dream,” or even stand before the UN to call out the nations of the world for their shortsighted environmental policies. Sometimes, it’s the little acts that can transform things, and when they do, sometimes those little acts end up not being so little at all.

As we sit here in this room tonight, conflict and division and ugliness of all kinds swirl around us. We might not be able to fix all of those things during 5780, but let’s resolve – each of us – to start with the little things. Let’s look for opportunities to show kindness; let’s strive to show compassion; let’s work to mold not necessarily the entire world, but simply our own actions into deeds that are truly good. One deed at a time, moment after moment, day after day. Remind someone how good they are; reach out to a person who is afraid or suffering; maybe perform a little act of subversion if it means helping someone feel good about themselves. All those things are so easy to do if we only remind ourselves, and many of them are completely free.

In his great treatise on repentance, Hilkhot Teshuvah, Moses Maimonides tells us that every day, each of us should see our own lives and indeed the entire world as evenly balanced between innocence and guilt. Do a mitzvah, Maimonides says, and you’ll tilt the world toward virtue; commit a sin, and it will tip toward guilt. 

The world is in the balance, waiting – just waiting – to see what you’re going to do next. What will it be? When you keep your eyes, and ears, and heart open people around you, you can move the world. And when you remind yourself to do that every day, there is little that you cannot do.

It’s so easy, so cheap, so possible. Your life has been touched by the simple, grand goodness of others – I know it has. The world is waiting for you to do the same. And when you do, you can each achieve your own eternity.

 

Shanah Tovah.

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Opening Prayer: Vigil for the Victims of the Pittsburgh Shooting

The following Opening Prayer was delivered by Rabbi Mark Glickman at the Vigil for the Victims of the Pittsburgh Shooting, held on October 30, 2018 ar Beth Tzedec Congregation, Calgary, Alberta.

O God, we didn’t want to have to be here tonight. We would much rather have been out to dinner, or at the movies, or at home with our families. But the violence that reared its ugly head at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life Congregation last Saturday has torn our lives asunder, and we have come together tonight seeking one another’s support as we cry out in grief, in anger, and in fear.

Tonight, our hearts break for the victims and their families. Heal their loved ones, O God; restore the injured to full health, and please, we beseech you, let the memories of the murdered endure as blessings for all eternity.

Tonight, our sympathies are with the Jews and non-Jews of Pittsburgh – may calm and peace soon return to their city and their synagogues.

Tonight, our tears fall along with those of compassionate people everywhere, as we remember that despite the goodness that blossoms all around us, our world remains a broken place.

Tonight, we pray for a better world. But, God, know this and know it well. We will not stop with prayers, for in the wake of Saturday’s bloodshed, prayers alone are far from enough. Instead, as the sound of Saturday’s gunshots still echo through the world, we will take up arms – not guns and knives and other instruments of violence, of course, but our arms, the ones attached to our shoulders. We will reach up, stretching to grasp hold of highest and greatest manifestations of what it means to be human, insisting that the leaders of our nations and communities do what it takes to prevent such acts of violence, and doing what we need to build communities of love and respect. We will reach out in care, as we tend to the fallen, and the wounded and the vulnerable. And we will reach in love toward those around us, just as we do tonight, feeling the warmth and strength of one another’s embraces.

Adonai oz l’amo yitein. O God, give strength to Your people – to good people everywhere – as we work for a kinder, gentler world. Adonai y’varech et amo vashalom. And God, bless Your people – bless all people – with Your gift of peace, and may we find the way to be your active partners in making that blessing become a reality for us all.

Kein y’hi ratzon – so may this be Your will.

– Rabbi Mark Glickman

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Divrei Torah for the Adult B’not Mitzvah class of 2018

Caron Glickman – D’var Torah

Rebecca read a prayer earlier in our service by Rabbi Norman Hirsch called “Becoming”. It starts: “Once or twice in a lifetime a man or a woman may choose a radical leaving, having heard Lech lecha—Go forth.

Our parashah makes it clear that Abraham chose this “radical leaving” of an incredible journey away from his home and the only land that he knew, but was there more to this leaving than meets the eye?

“Lech lecha” was the command that God gave to Abraham, so that he would start his physical journey from Haran to the land that God would show him. Our sages have taught us that “Lech lecha” can also be translated as “get to yourself”, or find yourself, or embark on a spiritual journey. So maybe Abraham had more than one “radical leaving”?

I propose that he had at least three, which may be more than most men and women, according to Rabbi Hirsch’s poem. There was the spiritual journey early in his life when he concluded that there was only one God, counter to what his father, Terah, an idol worshipper, and most others at the time believed—around the same time that he smashed his father’s idol statues. Then there was the physical journey of which I read, away from his home, to a place he did not know, with the trust in God’s promise to make of him and his descendants a great nation. I believe, and many of our rabbis teach, that a third journey of his was spiritual also. Abraham continued to faithfully trust God throughout his long life, while at times enduring hardship and pain, and lived his life in a manner which would allow for the making of a great nation, the People of Israel.
Certainly, Abraham is special—he is the first Jew and the progenitor of all Jews. But he is not the only one who has chosen a radical leaving. People do this all the time. Refugees flee terror and war and poverty for promise of a better life. People make huge sacrifices so that their lives and the lives of their loved ones, or even strangers, will be better.

I bet if you looked at your own lives, or the lives of your parents or grandparents, you could identify instances of “radical leaving” or significant physical or spiritual journeys taken. I, for one, would be interested in hearing your stories, because they can reveal a lot about your core values and your authentic selves—and I find that fascinating.

I have a few stories of journeys myself. How about if I briefly share the three most impactful in my life?

First, I’m the eldest of two children, born to parents who were not even old enough to vote, one with a high school diploma and the other with a GED certificate, struggling to make ends meet, both of whom were from abusive families. They worked hard to improve my lot—mine was a mostly loving but moderately dysfunctional family. As a teenager, I decided that was not the kind life that I wanted, so I found a well-respected college that offered excellent financial aid and boasted high acceptance to professional school. I applied and was accepted. My father knew that Mills College (where Donna Ree-back attended), in Oakland, CA, was a good school, as his sister wanted to attend there, but their family couldn’t afford it. I had never been to California before, and thus had not visited Mills prior to the road trip with my parents to drop me off, towing a U-Haul trailer with all my possessions. They waved good bye, and I prayed I had not made a huge mistake. Thank goodness it all worked out. Three years later, in fulfillment of my life-long dream (albeit a short life thus far) I was attending dental school at the University of Washington, in Seattle. I would call that time in my life my first real physical journey, with a sprinkling of spiritual journey thrown in, as I was trusting in God to help me make it through. I did though, try to do my part by being president of the Mills College’s Interfaith Council as well as an active member of the Catholic club. This journey helped provide me with a solid foundation for what was to come later in my life by giving me a feminist focused education and extra confidence that came in handy during some really difficult times.

My second journey was definitely a spiritual one—100%. I had become disenchanted with Catholicism for many reasons. I’m happy to explain over tea sometime—a loonnnggg tea. I wanted my children to have a religious foundation in their lives, and I wanted a faith that would help me grow personally in a deep and authentic way. When my children were small, about 23 years ago, I embarked on a quest to find that religion, and found Reform Judaism. It was a practically perfect fit for me, and my children came along for the ride. So did my mother. Twenty-two years ago, in the year 5757, my mother and I, as well as my children Taylor and Kyleigh, with their father’s support, were converted at Temple de Hirsh Sinai in Seattle, WA. Coincidentally, that is the same synagogue that both Jacob and Shoshana work at today, but I would not meet them, or their father for 5 more years. And incidentally, I have a couple of friends here from Seattle who I met at that time in my early Jewish life.

The second part of Rabbi Hirsch’s poem reads: “God disturbs us toward our destiny by hard events”. Abraham experienced some hard events, like the ordeal with Sarah, Hagar and Ishmael, and the binding of Isaac. I’ve definitely had some hard events in my life, just as many of you have. But I think for Abraham, and I know for me, and I hope for you, that the good times outweigh the difficult times, and that our destiny, or destination was worth the hardship to get there.

Now for my third and most recent journey. I would say that it’s mostly physical but with a significant portion of spiritual mixed in—and it’s not entirely completed yet—or at least I hope not. A little over three years ago, my husband mentioned that he was applying for the permanent rabbi position at Temple B’nai Tikvah in Calgary, Alberta. I knew that Calgary was somewhere between Vancouver and Toronto, but that was about it. Our friend, Rabbi Jordan Goldson told us that it was a nice place with nice people, and personally, I was ready for a “radical change”. Plus, Mark had been willing to put his career on ice for several years, while I ramped up mine, and I figured that now it was his turn.

And what a wonderful journey this has been. I have found a city that is beautiful and fresh and lively and a temple community that is warm, welcoming, authentic and stimulating. I am exceedingly grateful and I’m really loving this destination!

Rabbi Hirsch’s poem ends: “We don’t like leaving, but God loves becoming”. What this means to me is that change can be difficult and painful at times, but that it is necessary for us to grow into the people that God knows we can be, and wants us to be. That “with letting go and trusting” we can find ourselves at amazing destinations or situations or lives—even beyond our wildest dreams. Had Abraham not veered from his father’s beliefs and not formed his own belief of monotheism and not trusted God and taken the journey, we might not have Judaism at all—not to mention today–thousands of years later. Had I not trusted God on my sometimes-scary journeys and to get me through my difficult times, I may not have met a most amazing man who has always helped me be the best person I could be and gave me more family to love and then, later, made it possible for me to become your Rebbitzen and friend. God loves becoming, and I think I do too.

Shabbat shalom!

 

 

Roz Mendelson – D’var Torah

When I signed up for the Bat Mitzvah class, I was looking for an intellectual, educational and social experience. What I did not anticipate was the personal challenge of trying to reconcile the rational side of myself with which I am very familiar, with the more hidden spiritual side.

In the verses that I chanted, God appears to Abraham for the fourth time, and despite the previous encounters, God provided Abraham with an introduction. “I am El Shaddai—walk before me and be pure of heart.” God then offered Abraham a covenant, explaining that Abraham would be the father of many nations, that God would give Abraham and his descendants the land, and will be our God.

My first reaction to having to write about God’s covenant with the Jewish people was panic – If I am to talk about God, what do I say about my belief in God? The rational side of me says I don’t know who or what God is. Even so, it seems that I live my life as if there is God. Jewish ritual is important to me, especially at the most meaningful moments in my life. My children were named in synagogue and David and I had a Jewish wedding. In times of crisis, I find myself praying, with the rational side of me wondering if I am reaching out to God or just trying to comfort myself or perhaps just wishing. Nevertheless, I pray for people’s healing and feel these prayers deeply; and I am comforted by the prayers of others. None of this seems rational.

So hence the panic. Given my uncertainty, how can I talk about Abraham’s encounter with God? Well, the parashah gave me insight. Later in the parashat, in this discussion between God and Abraham, God promised Abraham and Sarah a child. In response, Abraham laughed and thought/wondered how can he and Sarah have a child, given their ages. The rabbis interpreted this laughter as joyous. That may be true, but it is also possible that Abraham’s laughter demonstrated disbelief or perhaps both joy and disbelief. Yet despite questioning God’s promise, Abraham did what he was asked, and lived his life as God asked him. This suggests to me that ambivalence about belief in God dates to Abraham, which makes sense to the rational me because as humans we cannot fully understand the Divine.

So let’s look at the verses I chanted and what they tell us about God. These verses begin with God’s introduction to Abraham, “I am El Shaddai.” El Shaddai is often translated as God Almighty, but it literally means God of my breasts, which I learned makes Israeli children giggle when learning Torah. However, what El Shaddai or God of my breasts really means is that God is a nurturing God. So, at the time that God wants to create a covenant with Abraham, God presents as a nurturer and demonstrates nurturing by saying: Walk before me. This conjures an image of parents walking behind their children so they can watch them and make sure they are ok. This gives children a sense of security and an ability to find themselves- which in fact is the overall theme of this parashah – Lech L’cha, go forth to find yourself. It is always easier to go forward if we know that someone is watching over us or has our back.

And then God said “and be pure of heart.” Why? It seems that God accepted Abraham’s imperfections, but also asked Abraham to be pure of heart; to be the best that he can be.

I really like it that God provided Abraham with a choice about entering the covenant. An all-powerful God could have threatened, commanded or coerced, but instead, God approached Abraham by saying this is what I will do for you, and I will take care of you. I will ask things of you, but you will gain from this relationship – and we will have an agreement that is sacred. God looked to Abraham to choose this agreement freely, without coercion or threat.

So in this parashah, God’s approach to Abraham serves as a model of good, even sacred, human relationships: that is relationships that are nurturing, entered into willingly and with respect, where our imperfections are accepted but we are asked to be our best selves. I see these qualities in the most important relationships in my life. For example, just as God – El Shaddai – was a nurturer, so too did my mother nurture us and accept us unconditionally. Just as God established a mutually respectful covenant with Abraham, so too were honesty and commitment of utmost importance to both of my parents. My father’s handshake was his word, and his word was a binding contract. And just as God called Abraham to be of pure heart, to be a good person always, so too was being our best selves important to both of my parents. After my mom had a stroke, words did not come easily to her. When we would say goodbye after a visit, her struggling parting words to all of us were “I love you. Be good.” To me, this meant, “Be pure of heart,” just as God instructed Abraham.

In my husband David, I have found these very same qualities. This is part of what accounts for me falling in love with him, and it is with these values that we have striven to raise our own daughters. Having studied for my Bat Mitzvah, I conclude – No, I may not understand God fully, but I do believe that by living these values – nurturing, honesty, commitment and goodness – we adhere to our side of our covenant with God.

Shabbat Shalom.

 

 

Carla Atkinson – D’var Torah

I was particularly drawn to take part in this adult Bnot Mitzvah when I found out the portion would be Lech Lecha; Go forth …
For many reasons it resonated with events in my life both past and present.
In my portion, Sarai speaks to Abram and offers her slave, Hagar, to him as a wife. She justifies this by saying she hasn’t had a child. When Hagar becomes pregnant there is friction between the two women. Hagar runs off and an angel “finds her”.

This is the start of a story about 2 mothers who each become the mother of a nation. Sarai treats her slave like an object, even though they have lived together for more than 10 years. I am a little embarrassed to admit this as a psychiatrist, but it was hard for me to empathize with Sarai’s plight.

I struggled to find learning with this story, becoming overly concerned that ancient customs don’t connect to the 21st century. Over time, I realized there are some things that never change. This family is not so different than the dysfunctional families of the present. People make mistakes and can be surprised by their reaction to events. the other is that, even though the bible often emphasizes men’s stories, many times it’s the women who really make things happen.

When Sarai gives her slave to Abram because of infertility, she didn’t anticipate her feelings when Hagar quickly became pregnant. Perhaps when she made her offer, she expected to raise Hagar’s child as her own. Torah says that for Hagar “her mistress became an object of scorn”/contempt. Like modern surrogates, perhaps Hagar changed her mind once she became pregnant. She ran away to keep the baby for herself, like some modern novels, not considering that the baby needs a father.

It’s curious to me that God made a covenant with Abram, but it is the women who each became mothers of a nation. In this story, divine intervention affects the course of the narrative. Abram seems to be “following along” with God while Sarai takes some initiative.

Studying this portion showed me that the Torah is not a chronological narrative and big events are shrunk into short verses.

In the end, I’m not sure if I found what I was searching for, but I have become more accepting of the journey and this “new normal”.

 

 

Rebecca Krel – D’var Torah

Everybody lies. That’s even the title of a book about big data. But of course, there are all sorts of lies. In Lech Lecha, Abram goes to Egypt with Sarai. Once there, he asks her to lie for him and pretend to be his sister so Pharaoh’s henchmen won’t kill him; he is afraid he might be killed if they know she is his wife.

So they do lie, and Abram is well rewarded by Pharaoh (as Sarai’s brother), but eventually the truth comes out when G-d strikes Pharaoh and his household with various afflictions.

So I started to wonder: were they right to lie? And more generally, is it OK to lie?

Although we all tell our children not to lie, this question doesn’t have a straight-forward answer. There are several sorts of lies:

  • A lie someone tells for their own benefit
  • A lie someone tells for someone else’s benefit
  • “White lies” and/or lies to preserve peace

First, let’s talk about lying for your own benefit. That could be the merchant who has not calibrated the scale properly, or the child who says, “The dog ate my homework”. In these cases, when the lying is done to gain an advantage (in the case of the merchant, extra money, and in the case of the child, an exten-sion to return the homework), it is morally wrong to lie.

In Exodus 23:7 (parashat Mishpatim), the Torah says “Keep free from a false charge; do not bring death on those who are innocent”. This is the extreme ex-ample of this type of lie, where an innocent person is wrongfully accused and/or convicted. Because truth and trust are the cement that binds communi-ties, you can see how this type of lie could be very harmful.

Then there is the lie we tell for someone else’s benefit. When my mom was a baby in France during WWII, she was hidden with a French Christian family. If the Nazis had come to the door and asked “Are you hiding any Jews?”, of course I would have wanted these people to have lied and said “no”. They would have been lying to save my mother’s life, and I’m deeply grateful to them that they did lie, in actions if not in words, by hiding her among them so she could be safe. In this case, lying is the (morally) right thing to do. You’re not lying to gain any benefit for yourself, you’re lying to protect or save some-one (and it doesn’t hurt anyone else).

Finally, there are the “white lies” we all say all the time. For example, when you ask your husband “Does this outfit make me look fat?”, he may say “No, it’s fine”, regardless of what it looks like, because he wants to preserve Sh’lom Bait (peace in the home) and make you feel better. By the way, Mel, please don’t do that, when I ask, I really want to know how I look.

Or, and that’s an example from our own rabbi, when you’re at a wedding, you may say “what a beautiful bride!” when she is not really beautiful. (I thought all brides were beautiful, but when I mentioned this to our rabbi, he told me he’s been to a lot more weddings than I have, and he wasn’t totally sure). That’s permissible, because you’re preserving somebody’s dignity without hurting anyone else.

In Lech Lecha, Abram did ask Sarai to tell a lie to potentially save his life. This would appear to put it in the “righteous lies” category. What is troubling, though, is that he’s asking Sarai to lie to save himself from possible harm, but at the same time, he’s putting her in harm’s way: Pharaoh ends up taking her for his own wife, and he could mistreat her or rape her. Another troubling point is that Abram is well rewarded as a consequence of this lie: he receives cattle, and flocks, and servants, as some kind of dowry, as he’s assumed to be Sarai’s brother; in essence, he profits from the lie.
And finally, it’s Pharaoh who suffers the consequences of Abram’s lie, although he was (obviously) totally unaware of it.

In the end, I think Abram doesn’t show himself in a good light in this portion, and Sarai and Pharaoh are both the victims of his lie. Abram may originally have thought of the lie in order to not be killed, but in the end, he’s the one en-joying the profit of the lie, while Sarai and Pharaoh both suffer the consequences. This would put Abram’s lie in the “lie for your own benefit category”.

So the Torah, in this parashah, is teaching us that lying to get out of a sticky situation is not the answer; lies may have devastating consequences, even if they were created out of fear and without any bad intentions.

Yes, everybody lies. But while some lies are permissible, or even right (like ly-ing to save someone’s life or preserve someone’s dignity), lying for your own benefit is wrong, and can have very serious unintended consequences.

Shabbat Shalom!

 

 

Tracey Rumig – D’var Torah

Shabbat Shalom.

The verses I read today described the details of the covenant between God and Abraham, and really the whole of the Jewish people. More specifically, God tells Abraham that he will have to circumcise himself, all the males in his household, and all of the generations after him.

Now, before I begin in earnest, I wanted to share Rabbi Glickman’s recipe for a most savoury and delectable dvar torah. The first ingredient is, of course, a joke. So I searched high and low for a joke about circumcision and could not find one – books, Google; I even looked in my wallet, the one that turns into a suitcase?, but to no avail. Finally, I asked the Rabbi and he gave me a few tips.

The second ingredient is to disclose why you chose the particular verses you’re addressing in your d’var Torah. At first glance it might have seemed it was because my four classmates got to the good verses first.

But upon reflection, I know I chose these verses purposely because, as a feminist, I wanted to know if, and how, women fit into the covenant, if at all.

And second, I wanted to know why God put Abraham, his first and most loyal follower, through so many trials, and why at 99, God would ask him to circumcise himself and then give him a child at 100. Yes, a child is a blessing – but at 100? So, I looked at my own life and the things I have asked of people.

I concluded that I have asked the biggest things from Steve, my husband. I asked him to commit his life to mine, I have asked him to take care of me, to love me even when I am mean to him, to rescue me from a crisis and to wear the sign of his covenant to me with a ring. I think it is true of everyone: we ask the most from the ones closest to us and whom we love the most. So, then I can see why God asked all that he did of Abraham: he loved him the most.

But why did God wait until Abraham was 99 to demand his circumcision? Now you may not know this from the way I chanted my Torah portion, but I wasn’t born Jewish. In fact, I did not become Jewish until I was 32. What I take from my waiting and Abraham’s as well, 3 times as long, is that it is never too late to find your true self. to become a Jew. You might be born a Jew or you might decide to convert when you are 99. The key is when you know it, when you embrace it. Are you more jewish for having been born a jew, or for being a jew by choice? I don’t think that is the important question, the important question is have you committed to God and are you striving toward being a better jew.

Then, I asked myself, why did God ask Abraham to circumcise himself? Cruel and unusual punishment? It’s almost like asking a woman to deliver a child…

After some reflection, I thought about the hard things I have done in my life; being a mother, earning a degree, working at a job, keeping a home. While recognizing these may not be as difficult as self-circumcision, they are all things that increased their worth because I did them myself. Having done those things does not, however, make me a perfect person now. I need to keep working on being a good person and a good Jew, physically, mentally and spiritually.

Perhaps God is teaching us that in order to truly become a good or better Jew, each of us needs to do the hard work ourselves. We need to commit to it, we need to work through the difficult challenges ourselves, and we need to persevere and continue towards being better Jews if we want to reap the rewards. In Abraham’s case, the reward was God’s covenant and the first Jewish child. We can never become perfect human beings or perfect Jews, but we should never stop striving to be.

Now back to my first question. Why are women not explicitly included in this covenant?

Much has been written on this question and I wanted to avoid subjecting you to all of the scholarly arguments so I chose the one that makes the most sense to me.

Rabbi Elyse Goldstein writes that “women know the incredible bonding that occurs through the act of giving birth…no matter how sensitive, how involved, how sympathetic, a man can never physically participate in that mystical encounter.” There ought to be, she suggests, a moment when the birthing experience is shared, when men birth through blood, when they connect as physically as women do. If a father is able to “give birth” at least symbolically to his child, he takes equal responsibility as a giver of life. The act of circumcision could be God’s way of giving men that opportunity.

It’s also just possible that since God created women as they are and made no attempt to change them in any way, that shows us women are created as they should be and it is men who need to work on themselves to achieve the same standard. But maybe that’s too obvious an answer?

And finally, the last ingredient for a great dvar torah, especially when you are the fifth bat mitzvah, is brevity, so I will conclude mine here.

Thank you, and Shabbat shalom.

 

Featured image by Edna Miron Wapner.

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