by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Beyond the Days of Awe Slugfest: Sacred Arguing in an Age of Conflict

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5779/2018

By Rabbi Mark Glickman

In 1850, the spiritual leader of Congregation Beth-El in Albany, NY was Isaac Mayer Wise, the rabbi who would later become the founding father of North American Reform Judaism. At the time, Rabbi Wise was 31 years old. He had arrived from Europe a few years earlier, and in keeping with his training as a Reform rabbi, he had begun instituting some changes in the liturgy and practices of his congregation in Albany – instrumental music, a little less Hebrew, an abbreviation in the service here and there, etc. Believe it or not, there were some people in Rabbi Wise’s congregation who took exception to the changes that he was instituting. Evidently, some Jews in Albany who liked things just the way they were, and objected to the changes that their new rabbi had brought to the congregation.

The anti-Isaac-Mayer-Wise camp consisted of some very powerful members of the community, and shortly before Rosh Hashanah in 1850, they convened a long, drawn out congregational meeting, during which they succeeded in having Rabbi Wise deposed from his position as rabbi of the synagogue. Rabbi Wise’s supporters, of course, objected to the decision, and some of them brought the case to the New York Attorney General, who ruled that Rabbi Wise’s dismissal was of dubious legality, and that it was important for Rabbi Wise to be at the temple on the upcoming Jewish New Year to carry out his rabbinical duties…despite the dismissal.

At the time, the president of the congregation – and the leader of the anti-Wise camp – was a man by the name of Louis Spanier, and in his recollections that he wrote of these days almost fifty years later, you can almost hear Rabbi Wise spit out the president’s name – Spanier! As Rabbi Wise recalled,

I went to the synagogue on New-Years’ morning, appeared in my official garb, but found one of Spanier’s creatures…sitting in my chair. I took another seat. Excitement ruled the hour. Everything was quiet as the grave. Finally, the choir sings Sultzer’s great En Komokho. At the conclusion of the song, I step before the ark in order to take out the scrolls of the law as usual, and to offer prayer. Spanier steps in my way, and, without saying a word, smites me so that my cap falls from my head.

In other words, during Congregation Beth-El’s Rosh Hashanah services in 1850, at the beginning of the Torah service, the president hauled off and slugged the rabbi across the face right in front of the ark. (Kind of like what happens here sometimes.)

Pandemonium ensued. Wise’s young supporters jumped down from the balcony and ran to his defense. There they were met by Spanier’s guys, and a full-scale brawl broke out that only ended when a sheriff’s posse arrived on the scene to break it up. It was, to say the least, a memorable Rosh Hashanah in Albany.

On a personal note I’ll add that I hope such behavior on the part of temple presidents is a thing of the past, because I have a feeling that Cynthia could take me down hard.

After almost 170 years, it’s easy for us to laugh at what happened back then in Albany, but it really was an ugly event. In the wake of that brawl, the synagogue split into two, and soon after, Rabbi Wise left Albany altogether to take another pulpit in Cincinnati. Conflagrations of this sort can smash communities, and even without the public mayhem, many of us know very well what they’re like.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? After all, we Jews pride ourselves on the central role that arguing plays in Jewish life. It’s not unusual for one of our members to bring a non-Jewish guest to Saturday morning services and to have that guest become flabbergasted watching one of our Torah discussions. “You argue like that right in the middle of your worship?” they say. “And, what’s more, you argue with the rabbi?!?!” They don’t quite call it chutzpadik, but they would if they could.

We love the fact that we argue – we’re proud of it. You may have heard the story about what happened once when the newly arrived rabbi of a synagogue approached his recently retired senior colleague, “Rabbi,” he said, when I first arrived here, a group of congregants sat me down and told me that the tradition of this congregation is to rise for the Shema.”

“That’s not our tradition,” said the older rabbi.

“Yes, I know,” the younger man replied, “because shortly after that, another group of congregants came and told me that the tradition of this congregation is to remain seated for the Shema.”

“That’s not our tradition either,” said his senior colleague.

“And I’m getting concerned about it,” the young rabbi said, “because now the two groups are bickering and fighting about it all the time.”

“Ah!” said the old rabbi. “That’s our tradition!”

A good argument can be so very Jewish, but a bad one can destroy us.

Our Jewish tradition has understood this for many centuries. In fact, one of the great insights that our tradition offers us is that there are two kinds of arguments – one that our rabbis call a machloket l’shem shamayim, a disagreement for the sake of heaven, and another that the rabbis refer to as a machloket shelo l’shem shamayim, a disagreement that’s not for the sake of heaven. Now, I’ll describe what these two different kinds of arguments are in a minute, but before I do so, I’ll also note that you probably already know what they are without my even having to tell you. My guess is that you all have been in some really good arguments – arguments that were respectful and dignified, in which you really felt listened to, and in which you really listened to the others, arguments that may or may not have gone your way, but which felt really good to participate in, anyway. And my guess is that you’ve also been in the other kind of arguments, too – arguments in which you weren’t heard, arguments that turned ugly, arguments that were really just attempts on the parts of the arguers to vanquish their opponents rather than to arrive at a greater and more profound truth

What’s an argument that’s for the sake of heaven? Well, in Pirke Avot, the rabbis suggest that the paradigm of this kind of holy altercation was the kind of argument that occurred between Hillel and Shammai. Hillel and Shammai, as you may know, were two ancient rabbis, each of whom had their own group of followers, and the two schools clashed over and over and over again. In fact, the Talmud records no fewer than 316 different instances in which these two groups disagreed with one another. Sometimes, the Talmud doesn’t even tell us how the arguments were eventually resolved. “On Question X,” the Talmud says, “the School of Hillel says A, and the School of Shammai says B….Next topic. “

But despite their repeated disagreements, the rabbis teach that the two schools were always respectful of one another. They always acted truthfully and respectfully with regard to one another, even when they disagreed vociferously. On one matter, the Talmud recounts, they argued for three years, until finally a divine voice came down from heaven and said, “Both views are the words of the Living God.”

Both views are the words of the living God. What a magnificent challenge for each of us. When you argue, both views – your view, and the one you disagree with – are the words of the Living God. However convinced you are that you are right, the model of Hillel and Shammai reminds us that even your opponent – your misguided, mistaken, misbegotten opponent – has truth to teach. That person’s view, just like your correct one, is the word of the living God.

Why is this important? Well, for one thing, as sure as you are that you’re correct and your opponent is wrong, in reality could be the other way around. Caron won’t ever let me forget the time, years ago, when she and I had a now infamous argument about linen. Knowing full well that I was right, I told Caron that linen was made of cotton. Knowing full well that I was wrong, she insisted that linen is made of flax. She was right and I was wrong, of course, but the thing is, that at the time, I was convinced that I was the one who was right. I knew I was right, and that she was being utterly ridiculous about this flax thing. I couldn’t conceive of a world in which I was wrong…and boy did I have to eat my words later. Nowadays, whenever we disagree about anything, Caron just gives me that look of hers, smiles her victorious smile, and says, “Well, you might think you’re right, but don’t forget about flax.”

In your arguments, too. You might be convinced that your view is correct, but you always need to have the humility to remember that, however, convinced you are, it could be you who is the wrong one.

And for another thing, even if you are right, there still might be value to what the other person is saying. For example, when I lived in Tacoma, Washington, one of my closest friends was Rev. David Alger, a Presbyterian minister who ran the local ecumenical organization. One day, I asked him to come and speak to some of our high school students about Christianity, and at a certain point during his talk, I asked him a question. I said, “In the early 1960s, when the Israelis captured Adolf Eichmann, the architect of the Nazis’ so-called ‘Final Solution to the Jewish Problem,’ an Evangelical minister in the United States reportedly said, ‘Give me three hours with Eichmann – I can get him into heaven.’ Rev. Alger,” I said, “as a Jew, I find this notion abhorrent. A man can oversee the murder of millions of innocent people and get himself into heaven by simply mumbling some simple statement of religious belief? What do you think about it?”

My friend David paused, looked at me, and in front of the assembled group of high school students, said, “I don’t think any human being is irredeemable.”

It was so frustrating to me, because until that moment, I was so confident of my view that there could be and should be no redemption possible for someone who murders another human being, and yet, at the same time, there was value in what David said. People can turn around, and there’s value in turning.

Now, I hasten to add that it didn’t take me long to realize that David was ultimately wrong, of course. Eichmann might be able to turn around, but the enormity of his crimes meant that he’d never be able to turn enough to merit entry into heaven. Still, I learned something from my mostly-incorrect friend that day. There is value in turning. Murderers can never right their wrongs – Nazis can never undo their atrocities – but when these wrongdoers use their remaining days on earth to do something good with their lives, there is value to those good deeds. Yes, my friend David was mostly incorrect, but there was nevertheless a measure of truth to what he said, and in my disagreement with him, I came away having learned something important.

Both views are the words of the living God.

Right after the rabbis made this comment, they did admit that in the Hillel-Shammai disagreements, Hillel was usually right. Why? Because Hillel was not only kind and gracious, but he also taught both his view and that of Shammai, even going so far as to teach Shammai’s view first. Hillel was onto something important – one of the most valuable tools-of-debate that we can use is to re-state our opponents’ views just as compellingly as they did, if not more so. That way, your opponent can correct you if you’ve misunderstood them, your opponent will feel heard, and your dialogue can go deep rather than stay in the shallows.

The disagreements between Hillel and Shammai were arguments for the sake of heaven – sacred disagreements. For many of us, the notion of a sacred disagreement or a sacred argument is anathema, but for these men hashing out the hidden meanings of Torah so many centuries ago, argument was the key to a sacred life.

As I imagine these two ancient word-warriors battling it out with one another, the picture I keep coming up with is of two groups of people arguing not to win, but to learn. And this too is something that can be of unspeakable value to us. It’s easy to cut people down. It can be so easy (and yes, sometimes even fleetingly gratifying) to make our opponents feel like idiots, but is there really anything of value that we accomplish in that process? Instead of trying to vanquish our opponents, perhaps we can go into our arguments with the humility to think that they – yes, even they, the people who are so obviously wrong in what they’re arguing – actually have something to teach us. Of course, challenge their ideas, but do so not to vanquish them, but rather to learn. Try to find the kernels of truth in what they’re saying. That way, both of you can be elevated through your argument, regardless of who is right.

So, the Hillel-Shammai conflicts were the paradigm of arguments that were for the sake of heaven. But what about the opposite? For a prototypical example of the opposite type of argument – an argument that was not for the sake of heaven – the rabbis cited the argument of Korach and his followers against Moses. As you may recall, Korach appears in the Book of Numbers as the leader of a band of rebels who rejected the authority of Moses and Aaron. Korach and his guys couched their argument in religious terms – “Why do you raise yourselves up above the rest of us?” they asked. “Aren’t we all holy?” Nevertheless, even though he tried to come across as all religious and everything, Jewish tradition paints a picture of Korach as a drunkard and a glutton, a conniver and a schemer, a person who disguised his own selfish lust for power in religious clothing.

Korach was a leader who pretended to be righteous, but in reality was just a power-hungry politician. Sound familiar?

Arguments that are not for the sake of heaven are attempts to vanquish opponents rather than learn from them, and they come in all different forms. Again, you know what they’re like, because you’ve seen plenty of them. These are the kinds of arguments that cut people down, they’re the kinds of arguments that involve far more posturing than listening, they’re the kinds of arguments that give politics a bad name. In these arguments, people tend not to listen, they just wait until they can make their own points – and that not arguing, it’s just serial speechifying, and it tends not to do anyone much good.

As with all of the misdeeds that we discuss at this time of year, it’s important not to just point fingers at everyone else, but also to take a deep and honest look at yourself. When have your own arguments been for the sake of heaven, and when haven’t they? When have you couched your own selfish agendas in the guise of something supposedly noble and more sacred? When have you sought victory rather than learning as the ultimate goal of your arguments?

Lawrence Kushner once said something about rabbis and congregations that merits a paraphrase here: In conflicts over personal power and individual advancement, then regardless of who wins, everyone loses. In conflicts over ethics and ideals, regardless of who loses, everyone wins.

When you can engage in a truly sacred argument, you can’t help but win, even if you do lose to your opponent.

My friends, our rabbis’ distinction between arguments that are and are not for the sake of heaven is an especially timely one these days. These days, the political arena is one not of impassioned, principled debate, but rather one of attack and vitriol. These days, Facebook and other social media forums fester with rancid, venomous attacks firing every which way but up. These days, many of us are scared to engage in political discussions when we’re in social situations because we know how bloody those discussions can become. And of course, the villains here – those who create this atmosphere that renders meaningful political dialogue so difficult – can be found all along the political spectrum: not only on the right, but also on the left, as well as everywhere in between.

We must engage, of course – we must argue. Struggling economies, the terrifying specter of war, and the looming threat of global environmental devastation leave us no choice. But when you argue, argue well. Argue respectfully. Argue not to win, but to learn; not to close other people down but to open up everyone’s minds; not because your opponent is your enemy, but rather because you both share a desire to make things right.

Isaac Mayer Wise and his temple president had to slug it out when they argued. We can do better. We can fight good rather than fight dirty; we can fight out of respect rather than hatred; we can fight fights that are truly for the sake of heaven. And we know that when we do, we’ll all end up winners.

Shanah Tovah

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Mysteries Revealed in a Teriyaki Restaurant

Kol Nidre Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5779/2018

By Rabbi Mark Glickman

When I lived in Washington State, I used to frequent a teriyaki restaurant near the synagogue where I worked. Teriyaki places are very common there, and this one could be counted on for decent workday lunches.

One day, right after I sat down, a man and his two kids sat at the table right next to mine. His daughter looked to be about six, his son looked to be about four, and he looked to be a guy with very full hands that day. At the time, my kids were only a few years older than his, so I knew exactly what he was going through. By all appearances, it was an afternoon out with Dad, so that Mom could have some time to herself. Maybe she had some errands to do, or maybe she was going to lunch with some friends, or perhaps he was even giving her an afternoon at the spa. Regardless, Dad had several hours to fill with those two little people – maybe at the mall, at the playground, or at the movies – and of course he had to get some food into them. That, I knew, was why they were at the teriyaki place that day.

He got hold of some booster seats, plopped the kids into them, pulled out a couple of activity books, and began to study the menu. “Rachel, do you want chicken, or beef?”

“Umm…I want beef, Daddy.”

“OK, one small plate of beef for you. How about you, Joey? Chicken, or beef?”

“I want chicken,” Joey said.

“Terrific,” Dad replied. “You and I will split a plate of chicken.”

“No, Daddy. I want my own plate.”

“I know, Joey, but those plates are really big. We’ll share one, and you can have as much chicken as you want off of it, OK?”

“No, Daddy. I want my own plate, just like Rachel.”

My heart went out to the guy. I’d been there. I knew full well that ordering restaurant food for small children is a challenge similar in magnitude to that of mapping the human genome. Very few people have figured out how to do it successfully, and I was pulling for the guy.

“Joey, we’ll share a plate. It will be fine.”

“Daaaad. I want my own!” There was now a little catch in Joey’s voice – a small hint of what we might call “youthful complaint.” Joey was ratcheting things up a little bit, and things were getting interesting.

“Come on, Dad!” I thought. “You can do this. You’ve already set aside this day to be with your kids. You got them loaded into the car, you’ve started your errands – you’ve got it all together. Now, rise to the occasion my friend. The I-want-my-own-plate monster is beginning to breathe fire. Stand up to that dragon, and slay it. I’ve been there and slayed some of those dragons myself, my friend. I know what you’re going through. You can do it.”

“Joey, you’ll be able to order your own plate when you’re older and bigger. Today you’ll be sharing with me. Now take out your crayons and color in your coloring book.”

“Daaaaaad!” Joey’s voice grew louder. “I want my own chicken!!!”

“Joey, be quiet, and color in your coloring book. Everything will be fine.”

The advantage in this battle was starting to swing toward Joey. Dad was losing ground. My heart really went out to him.

“But I want my own chicken!!!” Joey yelled.

“Joey! Either you stop yelling, or I’m going to have to take you out to the car.”

“Uh-oh,” I thought. “That’s it. Dad just fell into the I’m-going-to-have-to-take-you-out-to-the-car trap. This is not looking good for him. In the history of fatherhood, very few men have ever emerged from that trap alive.”

Now, Joey shrieked even louder. “I want my own chicken!!!”

“That’s it – you’re done,” Dad said. As Joey continued to scream over the ultimate injustice of his life, Dad picked the boy up, put him under his arm surfboard style, and headed out to the car.

Rachel sat alone the table, paging through her coloring book. What she didn’t realize was that her father’s hasty exit had just activated the Father Code of Ethics. Now, it was my job to keep an eye on Rachel until her father returned. That said, she looked like she was doing fine on her own.

At one point, Rachel and I did make eye-contact. “Does your brother do that very often?” I asked.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “All the time!” she said.

“Yeah,” I told her. “That’s kinda what little brothers do. He’ll probably get better, but it might not be until you’re much older. Do you think you can hold out until then?”

“I suppose,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes again.

After just a few minutes, Dad came back, holding the hand of Joey, who walked calmly beside him, wiping his nose, and rubbing the last few tears from his cheeks. “Atta boy, Dad,” I thought. “You have reasserted control. Good job!” Again, I had been where he was and done what he was doing many times before. I knew exactly what he was going through.

Soon, the waitress came to take their order. Chirpy and enthusiastic, she turned to the kids and said, “So, what are you doing today.”

“We’re going to the hops-pital,” said Joey. “Our Mommy is there.”

“Oh…I hope she’s not too sick,” said that waitress, trying to keep things happy.

“Well,” said the father, “actually, it’s cancer. Stage Four.”

“Oh,” said the waitress. “Sorry to hear that.” There was an awkward pause. “Well…what would you like for lunch, then?”

It turns out, that I was wrong about this man the whole time. I only thought I knew what he was going through. In my mind, I had painted a detailed picture of this man’s life – one that, coincidentally, looked a lot like mine. In reality, however, his life was very different than mine, and the lives of his kids were very different than the lives of my own. He was dealing with a dying wife. His kids were likely facing the prospect of living much of their remaining childhoods – not to mention much of their remaining lives – without their mother. My assumptions, it turns out, were nothing but smug projections of my own life onto theirs. Sitting there eating Japanese food with his kids, that man looked lonely. I hoped he had a community that could give him support. How could I have gotten him so wrong?

Fortunately, in this case I had kept those assumptions to myself and didn’t act on them. But how often do our assumptions – our presumptions – seep into the way we interact with people? I invite you to think about it in your own life. Most of us assume things about others all the time. Someone snubs you at a party, and you think, “She’s still holding a grudge against me for that time I stood her up at dinner.” Your boss calls you three times to remind you to send out that email, and you think, “He’s such a control freak.” Someone else talks your ear off about something that doesn’t make any sense, and you think “He’s just a nut.”

All of those assumptions, of course, might be true. But, as I learned so well with that guy in the teriyaki place, they might not. Instead, there might be far more to the story than you ever dreamed of. She might have snubbed you at the party because that day she had just learned her job was in jeopardy, and her mind was simply elsewhere – not focused on the niceties of party talk. Your boss might be reminding you to send that email because that email is important to the completion of a huge project in ways you’re simply not privy to. And that other guy might be jabbering on because he’s all alone at home, talking with you is the first meaningful moment of human contact he’s had all day, and he doesn’t want to let you go because he’s afraid of the loneliness that will flood in when he does.

The reality is that we never know the totality of another human being’s story. What we see when we look at the person standing before us is only a tiny portion of the person who they are – the proverbial tip of their “otherness-iceberg.” Think about that person you said hello to on your way into services tonight. How much do you really know about them? Do you really know what it is that makes that person tick? Do you really know what happened to them before you saw them today? And if you do, do you think you really have a full sense of how those events resonated with them? You might be able to guess as to what those events would have meant for you, but that person is not you – what happens to them means something different than the same events do when they happen to you.

It’s even true of the people we know and love most. We might know a lot about our spouses and our siblings and our kids and our close, close friends, but do we really know it all? Of course we don’t. That’s why even good friends have arguments sometimes; that’s why being a parent can be so unpredictable. That’s why marriage is often so very complicated.

Of course, the fact that we don’t know what motivates other people shouldn’t let them off the hook when they misbehave. Nasty behavior is nasty behavior, and we should never tolerate it. But understanding the complexity and the otherness of the people with whom we interact can add compassion to the equation. No, it was not OK for that cashier to snap at you the way he did, but maybe the fact that you don’t know what his day was like before your encounter with him can allow you to give him the benefit of the doubt. Understanding and empathy humanize other people, and we need such understanding and empathy if we are ever to bridge the vast chasms that separate us.

This day – Yom Kippur – is in part about healing broken relationships. It invites us to look at what we can do to repair the rifts that have opened up between ourselves and other people. As we look at these fissures, I encourage you to remember that our tradition reminds us that God created each of unique – profoundly so. Each person you encounter in your life is vastly different than you, and what you know of them is only a small piece of who they are. In fact, more often than not, it is the part of them that you don’t know which leads to the breaks and tensions in your relationship with them. Our tradition also teaches that not only are each of us different from one another, but also that each of us was created for a specific purpose – different and distinct from that of everyone else. That person – the one that causes you such frustration and difficulty – God put that very person here for a reason. And the main reason that they’re so frustrating to you is that you haven’t yet figured what that reason is.

It’s a fascinating challenge, isn’t it? You meet someone and you learn about them, but something of them will always remain a mystery. And we’re left wanting to connect with them, anyway. Even despite the mystery. Even despite the holes in their story, some of which we’ll never fill.

You know this about people. Even the good ones can be so very puzzling. That’s why we spend our lives reaching out to others. We do try to connect despite those separating gaps, and even when we succeed, we know that we always do so with the chasms still there, waiting to be bridged by our ongoing attempts to connect.

At the time when I saw Joey and Rachel and their Dad at the teriyaki place, I was a regular religion columnist for the Seattle Times, and not long after that day at the restaurant, I wrote a column about my experience seeing them there. I changed their names (just like I did for this sermon, by the way), described my encounter with them, and shared my thoughts. Here I thought I knew so much about them, I wrote, when in reality I knew so little.

Not long afterward, I received an email from a woman I’d never met. “Dear Rabbi Glickman,” she wrote. “My name is Jennifer Archers, and a friend of mine recently showed me the article you wrote about that man and his children who you saw in the restaurant. I’m writing because I think that that man is my husband Matt, and that ‘Rachel’ and ‘Joey’ are our kids. From what Matt told me about the events of that day, you described it perfectly – it was a really hard day for him. But I’m writing you now because there are a couple of things I thought you might be interested in knowing about me. First,” she wrote, “contrary to what you wrote in your article, I’m not dying. I have a few more rounds of my treatments to go, but the doctors are pleased with the way things are progressing, and they’ve given me a pretty good prognosis. And second, believe it or not, I’m Jewish. I haven’t been involved in a synagogue for years, but I grew up as part of one, I had a Bat Mitzvah, and, even though Matt can’t understand it, I just love gefilte fish! I’ve always been proud of the fact that I’m Jewish, and I can’t tell you how amazed I am that you – a rabbi – chose to write this article about my family.”

I was shocked. Originally, I had thought I knew everything about Matt, but then I had overheard his conversation with his waitress and realized that I’d gotten his story all wrong. His wife was dying. His kids were going to grow up with no mother. It was horrible. But now, reading Jennifer’s email, I realized that my second version of the story was also a figment of my imagination. I’d gotten that wrong, too. How could I have been so wrong…again?

I wish I could tell you that there was a storybook ending to this tale. If there was one, it would have been great. I would have invited Jennifer to bring her kids to Temple, where she would have heard words and melodies that stirred her soul and reminded her of the beauty of her Jewish tradition. The family would have joined the Temple, the kids would have enrolled in the religious school, Matt would have taken my Introduction to Judaism Class and begun to think about conversion, Jennifer would have joined the board and put herself on track to becoming Temple president one day, and Joey and Rachel would both have decided to become rabbis.

Alas, that’s not what happened. I think I did invite Jennifer and her family to Temple, but they never came. Instead, Jennifer and I exchanged a few more pleasant emails, and then, as often happens, our connection drifted away.

Still, I now know more – much more – about Matt and Joey and Jennifer and Rachel than I did when I first laid eyes on them at that teriyaki place, but what I’ve also learned is that I am positive there is much more of their story that I don’t know. They, like everyone, show only part of themselves to the world around them, and the rest of them will always remain a mystery.

This is true even for you and me. In the two years that I’ve been your rabbi, many of you have shared bits of yourselves with me, and for that I feel unspeakably grateful and privileged. But there are also parts of you that I don’t know, and never will. You, too, are mysterious, and it makes the process of growing with you into one that is awesome, fascinating, and magnificent.

Think about the people in your life. You reach out. Another life touches yours, and yet it remains so utterly mysterious at the same time. Each human soul is infinite – revealing untold wonders, while also concealing worlds.

This year, may you be privileged to connect with others, and my you learn to love even as you acknowledge the glorious mystery of every human being around you.

Shanah Tovah.

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Scrolling Forward: The Torah, Its Role in Jewish Life, and Our Next 40 Years

Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5779/2018

By Rabbi Mark Glickman

There are a lot of things that I do very quickly, just to get them done, but when it comes to at least one thing, I’m very methodical. I eat oranges very slowly. It makes my family crazy.

Let me tell you how I do it – because I know you’re interested. First, I start with a big, juicy navel orange. I get out a small plate or a bowl, and a knife. The knife can’t be too large, or to small, and it needs to be sharp – I’ve found that a serrated steak knife tends to work best. Then, since this is going to take a while, I sit down in front of the TV. The show that’s playing needs to be good, but not too good, because I need to be able to take my eyes off the screen periodically to look at what I’m doing. The news or Seinfeld reruns tend to work best. Then, to begin, I take the knife, and very carefully cut through the peel around the top stem, cutting deep enough to slice through it, but not so deep as to penetrate the fruit itself. Yes, it’s true. I start by literally circumcising the orange.

If you do it right, you can remove the top part of the peel, and along with it will come the pith – the white stuff on the inside of the skin – all the way down to the core of the fruit. It’s great when that happens. Then, I carefully make a few downward incisions from the top of the remaining peel, maybe an inch long or so. This allows me to carefully work my fingers under the orange peel, and pull it away from the fruit. If at any point during this process, you penetrate the membrane covering the fruit so that juice starts to flow, you’ve ruined the orange – give it away to someone who doesn’t care about the integrity of this process, and start over again.

Once you’ve removed the peel, carefully remove any remaining pith from the orange. You might need to use the tip of your knife to get it off. By now, Seinfeld is coming to an end, or the news is airing its final human-interest story, and you’re getting close to being able to eat your orange – but you’re still not quite there yet. Carefully insert your thumbs in the center hole on top of the orange, and pull it apart. It’ll be easy, because by now your family will have long ago abandoned you and left you alone in the room. If, while you’re separating a section of the fruit, you break the membrane and the juice starts to flow, then track down a family member, give them the fruit, and start again.

If, however, you succeed in juicelessly removing sections of fruit, then you’re ready: “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, borei p’ri ha-etz. Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Creator of the fruit of the tree.” Then, eat your fruit. I can tell you, when you prepare your orange this way, it will taste sweeter than any ever before.

Why my obsessive attention to detail here? Because I love eating those oranges. They taste so sweet, and I relish each and every bite. I eat a lot of food on the fly – quickly and without thinking much about it. But oranges are different. I take my orange eating seriously, and when I do, I enjoy every single moment of the process.

Now, maybe some of you think this is foolish. “Glickman,” you might be saying, “why don’t you just peel the darn orange and eat it. You could be done even before the newscasters finish the top stories, and the orange would still taste just the same. Why do something so slowly, when you could accomplish just the same thing far more efficiently.

Well, if you feel that my nuanced and refined method of orange consumption is foolish, I’d like to point out that we as a community do something that many outsiders might see as equally foolish. I’m referring, of course, to the scrolls that sit in the ark just a few feet behind me even as I speak. As you know, we live in an age of desktop publishing and high-speed printing, and yet, every week right here in this building – either in this room or in the small chapel down the hall – we read out of a book that takes a long time to make. It makes my orange-eating seem lightning-fast by comparison.

As a text, the Torah exists in all kinds of formats, many of which are easy to create, quite affordable, and would be easier to read from during services. There are hardcover Torahs, paperback Torahs, bound Torahs with vowels, bound Torahs without vowels, and bound Torahs both with and without vowels. There are Torahs with commentaries, and Torahs without. There are Torah translations in Old English and Modern English and Hipster English, as well. There are Torahs in every language from Korean to Kazakh to Klingon. There are beautifully bound Torahs, collector’s edition Torahs, and Torah apps for your smartphones and iPads. And if I wanted, I could go down the hall right now, call a Torah up from the internet, and have the whole thing printed out for you in just a few minutes.

Yes, the Torah is one of the most accessible texts ever, often in neatly packaged, very convenient, and eminently affordable formats.

And yet, every week, and on holidays, too, we come into this room or into our small chapel and read the thing out of a bulky, unwieldy scroll, handwritten with a feather quill onto parchment.

In case you don’t know, let me describe to you what goes into making one of these scrolls. Each scroll, as you may know, is painstakingly created by a scribe using a feather quill. There aren’t a whole lot of scribes these days – the work takes a lot of training, there isn’t a huge market for it, and most scribes are therefore reluctant to take on apprentices. Sadly, most scribes these days are men, although, fortunately, there are some women getting involved in this work now, too. Most of a scribe’s work typically involves making Torah scrolls, mezzuzahs, and tefillin, though when they train, they practice by making Scrolls of Esther. You see, if a scribe makes a mistake, he or she can often fix it, but if the mistake is on one of the names of God used our sacred texts, then the scribe has to scrap that whole piece of parchment and start over again. Scribes don’t like it when that happens. And because the megillah – the Scroll of Esther – is the only book in the bible that doesn’t explicitly mention God by name, it’s a good place for scribes to cut their teeth in this painstaking work.

To create a Torah scroll, the scribe takes a specially treated piece of parchment and, using a stylus, carefully etches barely visible lines into the parchment guide his writing – two vertical lines and, typically, 42 horizontal ones for each column. Then, to prepare the ink, the scribe mixes together several ingredients – oak galls, gum arabic, copper sulfate, and soot. Oak galls, as you all know, are small pods made by the secretions of wasp larvae growing on the branches of oak trees. Gum arabic, of course, is the sap of an acacia tree. It takes only about a cup of ink to make an entire scroll, but that’s deceiving. The scribe mixes the ink special for each parchment so as to maximize its power to grip onto the writing surface and hold on tight.

Before even beginning to write, the scribe immerses in a mikvah, writes out the name “Amalek” on a scrap of parchment, and crosses it out. Amalek, you see, was one of the worst bad-guys in the bible. The Torah commands us to blot out his memory, and the scribe does just that before commencing work each day.

Then, the scribe recites a blessing, and begins to write. The scribe will never write from memory, but instead will check each letter in a book called a Tikkun before writing it. He or she will check the letter, chant its name, and write it on the parchment. Then the scribe checks the next letter, chants its name, and writes it on the parchment. Over and over and over again.

As you know, the Torah scroll contains the text of the Five Books of Moses. Those five books consist of 54 weekly Torah portions, which are in turn made up of 187 chapters, and those chapters are subdivided into 5,844 verses. The verses consist of 79,976 words, and those words are in turn made up of 304,805 letters. 304,805 letters.

And because I know you’re so fascinated by these statistics, I’ll continue. Of those 304,805 letters, 27,057 of them are alefs, 17,344 of them are bets, 2,109 of them are gimmels…. Would you like me to continue?

In the most common Torah format these days, all those letters are arrayed into 254 columns of text, and I’m told that a solid day’s work for a scribe will yield one of those 254 columns. That’s 254 days of writing for a single scroll. Add in Shabbat and holidays, as well as several days of proofreading, and you can see that it takes a scribe about a year to create one of these scrolls.

Yes, I think we can safely say that the Torah scroll is the Glickman orange of Jewish ritual life.

So, still, we’re left with the question. Why bother? Printing a Torah scroll would be so much easier that writing one out. Buying a Torah in book form would be so much more affordable than getting a handmade scroll. And frankly, using a bound book would be far, far easier than using a scroll – a book would be lighter, a book would make it easier to find our place, a book wouldn’t demand nearly as big an ark as a scroll does.

In order to answer that question, I invite you to reflect on the role that Torah plays in Jewish life. We Jews consider the Torah to be the greatest gift that God has ever given our people – even better than gefilte fish, and bagels and rugelach. Our tradition teaches that the answers to all of life’s most profound questions can be found in that book – we just need to study it right. How can I balance between work and family? What’s my place in the world? What does it mean to live a good life? Study the Torah, and you’ll find wisdom, and guidance, and, yes, with the right kind of incisive reading, you can even find answers to those questions. They say that life doesn’t come with an instruction book, but for Jews it does – and we write it on a scroll and we keep it in an ark and we rise before it whenever we take it out.

That’s why our tradition is so full of rich metaphors for Torah. “It is a tree of life to those who hold it fast, and all who cling to it find happiness.” Think about it – a tree of life; hold onto it, and you’ll be happy.  In Judaism, Torah is fire – aish haTorah. It warms us; it energizes us; and if we’re not careful, it can burn us, too. Alternatively, in Judaism, Torah is water – it nourishes us; it cleanses us; it falls down like dew from the heavens.  The Torah is love – God loves us so much that God gives us this wonderful treasure as a gift. God loves us like a parent, and gives us the Torah’s rules. God loves us like a teacher, and gives us the Torah’s wisdom. God loves us like a friend, and tells us great stories that we can tell over and over again, finding new meaning in them each time.

More profoundly, the Torah is the way we connect with God. As Rabbi Louis Finkelstein once said, “When I pray, I talk to God. When I study, God talks to me.”  In Judaism, we don’t climb to a mountaintop to hear the voice of God, nor do we even sit down here or at home and pray. No, in our tradition, to hear the voice of God we study Torah.

Christians have Jesus as their conduit to God. We have Torah. It is that central in Jewish religious life.

We sing the words in every evening service. “Ahavat olam beit yisrael amcha ahavta. You have loved Your people, the house of Israel, with eternal love.” And how did You express that love? “Torah umitzvot, chukim umishpatim otanu limad’ta. Torah and commandments, laws and statutes you have given us.” Torah is nothing less than an embodiment of God’s love for each and every one of us.

So yes, we cherish our Torah scroll. We dress it in beautiful clothing and adorn in with precious decorations. We rise whenever we open the ark. We carry the Torah around the congregation, and many of us kiss it. We’re careful never to drop it, and we sing its praises over and over again whenever we gather for worship.

Why our seemingly obsessive attention to these bulky scrolls? Because we love studying their words. We love these words – I can’t believe I’m saying this – even more than I love my oranges. They taste so sweet, and we want to relish each and every one of them. I read many words on the fly – quickly and without thinking much about them. But Torah is different. We take our Torah seriously, and in so doing we make the most of each and every one of its wonderful words.

We here at Temple B’nai Tikvah have our own scrolls, each of which has its own story. One scroll we inherited from the Jewish community of Medicine Hat, Alberta when their synagogue closed. Another was originally in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and then went to Regina before it finally made its way here. A third scroll is one of the famous “Westminster Scrolls.” It survived the horrors of the Holocaust, and was then restored at the Westminster Synagogue in London before finally coming here to Calgary. And the big scroll – the one we use for our Shabbat and holiday Torah readings – was donated by a non-member. It was only after Ron Bing went to pick it up that the donor said he was only giving half the money – Ron had to scramble to raise the rest of it in short order. (I’m skipping many details of that story – I’m sure Ron will gladly supply them to you later if you want to hear them.)

Of those scrolls, one is on long-term loan to a congregation that needs it in the States, two aren’t really kosher (old scrolls often suffer from fading or chipping ink, which renders them unusable). That leaves just the big one that we read from during services. It’s heavy – and that makes it difficult to use sometimes, but its script is dark and clear and beautiful. Its’ the one we use every week, and we love it.

This year, as you know, our congregation will celebrate its 40th anniversary. We started as a group of just 13 families meeting in the Bings’ living room, and over the years, slowly we grew. It took hard work and commitment on the part of many people, several of whom are with us here this morning. The congregation got its Torah scrolls, eventually moved to the JCC, and finally, through a lot of hard work and commitment – not to mention money – we moved to this building. Along the way, this congregation has become the center of Reform Jewish life in Calgary. We’ve gathered together on Shabbat and holidays, we’ve studied Torah together both as adults and as children in our religious school. We’ve celebrated weddings, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs and other simchas with great joy, and we’ve wept and comforted one another in times of grief and difficulty, as well.

I’ve spoken with many longtime members of our congregation, and I often ask them what the greatest moment or moments were in the history of Temple B’nai Tikvah. More often than not, the veteran members of our congregation respond that the most exciting time to be a part of Temple was when we moved into this building. This little group, once small enough to meet in a modest-sized living room, had grown, pooled its resources to purchase a synagogue home, and thus literally put itself on the map. Moving into this building not only meant that we’d have more room in which to conduct our activities, but it also signified our having made it in this community. Reform Judaism now had its own address – right here on 47th Avenue. Right here beneath these beautiful kippot and the eternal light that illumines them. Right here, before our own ark and the Torah scrolls it holds.

That was a great accomplishment, and this congregation – its leaders and all of its members – should feel proud for having made it. And now that we’re here, and now that it’s time to begin looking ahead to the second forty years of our existence, we have an opportunity to do something else that’s really amazing.

My friends, this year, we are going to celebrate our fortieth anniversary, and we’re going to do it with gusto! Betsy Jameson and a team of volunteers are hard at work planning a major celebration for next spring, and you’ll be getting details about that soon. And additionally, we’re going to something else to celebrate this milestone birthday – something that, on the one hand, we’ve never done before, but on the other, affirms and celebrates what is most important to us as a synagogue community devoted to the ideals of Judaism.

My friends, to celebrate our 40th anniversary, we’re going to make a Torah.

Here’s what’s going to happen. A group out of Miami called Sofer on Site (“sofer” means scribe) is going to help us identify a scribe in Israel who will do the bulk of the work on our Torah. But before that work starts, one of the scribes is going to come here and be with us as we kick off this project. Each and every one of you – as individuals or as family groups – will have the opportunity to guide that scribe’s hand as he carefully pens one of the 304,805 letters of the scroll. If you want, you can even sponsor one of the letters in that scroll, or a word, or a verse, or a Torah portion, or even a whole book. And with the resources that we raise in the process, we’ll be able to guarantee our ability to remain a center of Torah here in Calgary for a long, long time in the future. With the help of a group of generous donors, we’ve already raised the seed money for the project itself. Now, as we create this new Torah, we can build for the future.

Working with Sofer on Site, we’re going to see blank parchment, and we’re going to help transform it into a sacred object. And in the future, our young people will read out of the scroll we create during their Bar and Bat Mitzvah ceremonies. Our congregation will read its words on the holidays. Our community will cherish it as it sits in the most central spot in our sanctuary – right here in the aron hakodesh, the holy ark.

Along the way, we’ll learn more about how a Torah is created. We’ll learn about the role it plays in Jewish life, and how we can play our own role in its creation.

This year, you and your family will each have your own letter – or your own verse or chapter or book – in what will become our Temple B’nai Tikvah Torah scroll. And as a result, our congregation will be able to study that letter and many others for generations yet to come. Torah scrolls typically survive for a few centuries. Not only will you study from this scroll, but so too will your children, and grandchildren and countless others many generations from now.

My son Jacob once participated in a similar project at Camp Kalsman – the Reform Jewish summer camp near Seattle where he worked. Not long after that, I told my son that I was planning to see that same scribe at another event I was attending. “Oh,” said Jacob “tell him I said hi. And if he forgets who I am, just remind him – I’m mem.” That was his letter – the letter he made in the Torah scroll. What will be your letter in our scroll?

Even though there are 304,805 letters in the scroll, one rabbinic tradition teaches that there are actually 600,000 letters in it – one for every Israelite who made the exodus from Egypt. One of them will be yours. Which one that is will be up to you and the rest of us to figure out.

Torah has always sat at the very heart of Jewish existence. We have embraced its holy words, dancing with them during times of celebration, and carrying them with us as we’ve fled burning towns and villages. It’s considered a mitzvah for each Jew, at some point in his or her life, to create a Torah scroll of his or her very own. This year, we as a community are going to do just that. More details will be coming soon, but it promises to be the experience of a lifetime for us all.

We’re going to make a Torah this year, and in so doing, we’ll make the words very sweet indeed. Just like eating my orange, it’s going to be a long, slow, and wonderful process – one whose fruit will last here in our beloved Temple for many generations yet to come.

For now, however, let’s continue our Rosh Hashanah celebration by doing something we Jews love to do. Let’s read some Torah.

Shanah Tovah.

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

The Magnificent Fruit Plate: Why I’m Proud to be a Reform Jew, and Why You Should Be, Too

Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5779/2018

 

The largest and oldest Reform congregation in Atlanta, Georgia is a temple called, “The Temple.” For a few decades during the mid-20th century, the spiritual leader of The Temple was a man by the name of Rabbi Jacob Rothschild. Back then, Reform Jews and Orthodox Jews in the United States had very little to do with one another, and yet Rabbi Rothschild became good friends with his Orthodox colleague, Rabbi Emanuel Feldman, rabbi of Atlanta’s Beth Jacob Synagogue. Rabbi Rothschild would often invite Rabbi Feldman to banquets and other events at the Temple. These were sumptuous affairs, and the tables were laden with copious amounts of beautiful, delicious, and decidedly un-kosher food. Rabbi Feldman, of course, wouldn’t eat such fare, and, as a result, Rabbi Rothschild arranged it so that when Rabbi Feldman arrived at his seat he’d find a very nicely prepared fruit plate waiting for him there. The fruit couldn’t hold a candle to the food that everyone else was eating, but at least it was kosher.

Well, one time, the Orthodox Rabbi Feldman invited Reform Rabbi Rothschild to a dinner at the Orthodox synagogue – Beth Jacob. Everyone sat down at their places and were served plates heaped with wonderful kosher food. But when Rabbi Rothschild received his food, what was it? A fruit plate.

My friends, we live in a wonderful time for the Jewish people. In terms of religious expression and religious opportunities, we have more choices now than our ancestors could have ever dreamed of. If you doubt it, just imagine, if you would, what it would be like to go back in time to, say, 17th century Europe, meeting one of our ancestors, and asking him or her about one of the most important Jewish choices we make today. If you were to ask that person, “What kind of Jew are you?” they would have looked at you like you were nuts! “What kind of a Jew am I?” they would have said. “I’m just a Jew. I eat kosher food, I observe Jewish holidays, I live in the ghetto…I’m a Jew.” Nowadays, of course, the question – What kind of Jew are you? – makes must more sense. We can be Reform Jews, Conservative Jews, Orthodox Jews, Reconstructionist Jews, Renewal Jews, or even Secular-Humanist Jews. We can be Gastronomic Jews who just like Jewish food, Pediatric Jews who focus their entire identity on their kids’ religious lives, or Agricultural Jews who are in it just for the cemetery plots. Unlike our ancestors, we can be any kind of Jews we want, and it is a blessing almost beyond words. For us Jews, it’s good to live in the 21st century.

Most of us in this room, of course, have chosen to identify ourselves as Reform Jews. As Canadians, the choice to identify as Reform is a bit unusual. We are a minority here.

Reform Judaism, you see, was created in Germany during the first half of the 19th century, and in the 1840s there was a huge wave of German Jewish immigration to the United States, and Reform flourished there, as a result. But, for the most part, German Jews didn’t come here to Canada. As late as 1881, there were only 2400 Jews in all of Canada, and not a single Reform synagogue. The first Reform congregation was founded a year later, in 1882 – Temple Emanuel, in Montreal (which, by the way, was the synagogue where some of the founding members of our congregation grew up).

Here in Calgary, the story is similar. Temple B’nai Tikvah is much younger than the Conservative and Orthodox congregations here in town. We haven’t even hit 40 yet – and we won’t until this coming April. Beth Tzedec is by far the largest congregation in town (or at least the congregations that merged to form it are), and many members of Calgary’s longstanding Jewish families belong there.

For me personally, experiencing Reform Judaism as a minority marks a real change….one that has taken me some time to get used to. In the US where I’m from, Reform is by far the largest of the Jewish denominations. Here, we’re a minority, and being a minority can sometimes be challenging. And yet, even though we’re a minority, I, for one, am proud to be a Reform Jew, and tonight I’d like to share with you a few reasons why I feel that way. And even though I’ll be speaking personally, I hope you’ll agree with me that there are a lot of good reasons to feel just the way I do.

So, why am I proud to be a Reform Jew? I’ll tell you in a few minutes. But first, in order to understand why we should feel proud of our Reform Judaism, I think it’s important for us to understand just what Reform Judaism is…or, more precisely, to understand what it is not. And here is one of the most important things I want to share with you tonight: Reform Judaism is NOT “Judaism Lite.”

I’ll say that again: Reform Judaism is NOT “Judaism Lite.”

Reform Judaism does not mean being less Jewish than other denominations, and Reform Judaism isn’t necessarily an easier form of Judaism than Conservatism or Orthodoxy. Actually, in many ways, to be a committed Reform Jew is harder than it is to be a committed member of one of the more traditional denominations.

So, if Reform is not Judaism Lite, then what is it? Well, it’s a lot of things, but the main difference between Reform and, say Orthodoxy, has to do with the authority we ascribe to Torah and the other classical texts of the Jewish tradition. Orthodox Judaism holds that the Torah as we have it today came straight from God – that God gave it to Moses on Mt. Sinai in exactly the form we have it now, and that our ancestors passed it down through the ages without changing a single letter. As a result, Orthodoxy argues, the Torah is a perfect document. Its every story is literally true, and, maybe even more important, its every law is utterly binding upon us as Jews. We might not like some of those laws, they say, and some of those laws might not make sense to us, but that doesn’t matter, because the laws are from God, and we don’t have the right to change them. What’s more, the Orthodox argue, since the Torah is perfect, it is also complete. It might be ancient, but, they say, it’s all we need to answer the all of questions that we face in every generation.

Reform Judaism disagrees. In the eyes of Reform, the Torah is a sacred document, perhaps inspired by God, but it is also a human one. It was written by people in a certain time and place striving to understand their world, their God, and their role in the developing drama of human history. Those people had a lot of wisdom to teach us, but they were also fallible – sometimes, they got it wrong. If you believe that the Torah really said that we’re supposed to execute homosexuals, Reform Judaism would say that, in this case, the Torah is wrong. If you read the Torah, as many people do, as having commanded us to commit genocide against the Midianites, Reform Judaism would say that, there too, the Torah got it wrong. And if Torah really does teach that it’s just as important to avoid combining wool and linen fibers in our clothing as it is to be a kind and compassionate person, we would say that that’s wrong, too.

Now, to be fair, I don’t know of any Orthodox Jews who really think that we should go around killing homosexuals, but they need to go through some legal gymnastics in order to get there. Technically, in Orthodox Judaism, that law is still on the books.

Think about it. If you were an Orthodox Jew, and a family were to walk in here tonight and tell you that they’re Midianites, you would be duty bound to kill them. We Reform Jews would respond differently. We’d probably invite them to stay for the Oneg.

Since the Torah was written, Reform says, we’ve learned some things. Among other lessons, we’ve learned that one’s sexual orientation is irrelevant to one’s worth as a human being. We’ve learned that sometimes you can be a nice person – and a valuable person – even if you are a Midianite. And we’ve learned that religious values like kindness, dignity, compassion, and justice are far more important than many of the minutiae of religious observance to which other Jews give equal emphasis.

So, Reform Judaism isn’t just Judaism Lite. No! Instead, it’s a Judaism that celebrates the sanctity of Torah while also acknowledging that there are other places to learn truth, too. Reform Judaism agrees with Orthodoxy that we’re always supposed to do what it is that God wants us to do, we just discern what it is that God wants of us in very different ways.

Reform Judaism is also a type of Judaism that emphasizes the importance of personal choice, particularly in ritual matters. Those choices, should be based on knowledge, of course, but ultimately, they’re our choices to make. Should you keep kosher? I’m not going to say yes or no. What I will say is that you should study the laws and the principles of kashrut, and you should even experiment with keeping those laws. But, in the end, the choice of whether to eat the foods permitted by Jewish law are yours and yours alone to make.

The same goes for other rituals, too. Should you fast on the ninth day of the month of Av (Tisha B’av)? Study it. Try it. Then decide what works for you. Should you put on tefillin? Study it. Try it. Then decide what works for you. Should you build a sukkah in your back yard? Study it. Try it. Then decide what works for you. Should you eat matzah rather than bread during Pesach? Should you say the Shema before you go to sleep? Should you celebrate Havdalah when the sun goes down on Saturday night? The answers are still the same. Study it. Try it. Then decide what works for you.

That’s why, unlike at other synagogues, nobody is ever going to tell you that you need to wear a kippah or tallit when you come here to Temple. If you want to do wear a kippah or tallit – if doing so deepens your spiritual connections or is meaningful in some other way, go for it. But if you’d rather not wear them, that’s fine too. And if somebody tries to tell you otherwise, I want to know about it. Because here, these practices are matters of personal choice.

Don’t get me wrong. Even though these are matters of personal choice, as your rabbi I’m going to try to influence those choices, and I’ll try to influence them often. I love it when you choose to make Shabbat observance a meaningful part of your lives. I love hearing about it when you build sukkahs in your backyards (and I like getting invited even more!). I think it’s terrific when you come to services, and have Passover Seders, and get drunk on Purim, and do any of the myriad of activities that comprise a meaningful Jewish life. But ultimately, these are your choices to make, and nobody else’s.

So Reform Judaism is about personal autonomy, but it’s important to note that this isn’t all that it’s about. From the time of its inception, our movement has placed profound emphasis on the importance of prophetic ethics, the principles of goodness and justice that the biblical prophets implored our people to embrace. In fact, in 1885, the members of the Central Conference of American Rabbis – the professional association of American Reform rabbis to which my colleagues and I belong – met in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, and there composed the first platform of Reform Judaism – the first comprehensive statement of what it means to be a Reform Jew. Their statement, which came to be known colloquially as “The Pittsburgh Platform” concluded with these words:

…[W]e deem it our duty to participate in the great task of modern times, to solve, on the basis of justice and righteousness, the problems presented by the contrasts and evils of the present organization of society.

Now, their conception of Judaism as being about repairing the world might sound like a no-brainer today, but back then, it was revolutionary! To the founders of our movement, Judaism wasn’t just about rituals. Understood correctly, these rabbis argued, Judaism is also about building a better world. It’s about racial and economic justice. It’s about ending and end to war and hunger. It’s about making sure that the poor and the widow and the orphan are taken care of. It’s about what we now call Tikkun Olam, repairing this broken world that we all share. Such a view of religion broke the molds of what people thought religion was back then, as it does today. Many religions see themselves as havens from the troubled world out there. Many religions see themselves as being about ritual and about the private relationship between the individual and God. Even other Jewish groups often emphasize the importance of ceremony over and above that of dealing with universal problems. Reform Judaism, on the other hand, has from the very get-go affirmed the importance of universal Jewish values as well as the particular ones. Ours was the first movement to open a lobby on Capitol Hill in Washington DC, and now our movement has an active social action life here in Canada, as well. We have led the charge in teaching the modern Jewish world that it is not good enough just to fix our own house – we need to repair our worldwide neighborhood, as well.

All of the synagogues here in Calgary do great work, but there’s only one that regularly feeds needy people at the Drop In Centre, and there’s only one that used to host Inn From the Cold. And last weekend, there was only one synagogue that marched as a group in Calgary’s Pride Parade, and that was ours. These activities reflect the commitment to social justice that has been so central to Reform Judaism ever since it was created.

So why am I proud to be a Reform Jew? I’ll tell you in a few minutes. But I want to add some additional comments, as well. Reform Judaism, from its very inception, has been at the forefront of showing the world what kind of magic can happen in the awesome encounter between Judaism and modern life. Reform Judaism, in other words, is magnificently modern. Other movements have social action operations too – ours was the first. Ours was the first denomination in Jewish life to welcome women into roles of Jewish leadership, and in 1972, ours was the first to ordain a woman – my colleague, Sally Priesand – as a rabbi. Later that same decade, under the leadership of Rabbi Alexander Schindler, our movement became the first to prioritize outreach to interfaith families. The very first Reform synagogues in 19th century Germany weren’t called Reform synagogues, they were called “organ synagogues,” because one of the most notable changes they instituted was that of bringing modern instrumental music into the synagogue – and back then, having modern religious music meant having an organ. And ever since, our movement has led the way in creating modern Jewish music. Many of the most prominent composers of today’s Jewish music have come out of our movement, and that’s why, these days, even in synagogues affiliated with other denominations, you’ll often hear music that originated right here in Reform.

Our movement is also at the forefront of liturgical reform to keep Jewish prayer relevant. We’ve worked hard to use gender-sensitive language in our prayerbooks, we’ve incorporated prayers for healing into our services (the Mi Shebeirach), our liturgies acknowledge the importance of the State of Israel and the Holocaust and other such modern realities. For Reform Judaism, worship isn’t just a set of old unchanging Jewish practices that are frozen in time. Instead, it’s modern; it’s dynamic, constantly changing and responding to contemporary realities while also connecting us deeply with the Jewish past.

And it’s not only with respect to rituals that we’re dynamic. Early Reform Judaism was opposed to the creation of the State of Israel – it was anti-Zionist. Today, Reform Judaism overwhelmingly embraces Zionism. Sometimes we’re critical of Israel, of course, but always from a position of deep love, support, and genuine care for its wellbeing. Early Reform Judaism was actively opposed to things like kashrut, and kippot and other such “unmodern” and “irrational” Jewish practices. Today, we welcome them as exciting options for those Jews who choose them. At the first congregation I served after I was ordained, I wore a kippah to one of the first services I led, and in so doing I raised the eyebrows of some of the oldtimers. “Is he Orthodox?” they wondered. Here, if I didn’t wear a kippah, some of your eyebrows wouldn’t only rise, they’d fly off your faces. Reform Judaism changes just as Judaism has always changed. This is part of what makes it so exciting to be a Reform Jews.

So why am I proud to be a Reform Jew? I’ll tell you in a minute. But first I do want to make one more comment. It’s no secret that I’m partial to Reform Judaism, but at the same time, I feel blessed beyond words to live at a time when there are so many wonderful Jewish choices available to our people. Each one of the many movements of modern Jewish life brings its own truths and its own blessings to our people, and we should rejoice that all of them exist. Orthodoxy’s deep commitment to Jewish continuity is a treasure. Conservatism’s commitment to deeply affirming Jewish law while also embracing modern sensibilities is a blessing as well. So are the new possibilities we learn from Reconstructionism and Jewish Renewal and other movements, too. Some people argue that we Jews live in a post-denominational era – a time when we can all be “just Jewish.” I disagree. Of course, we’re all “just Jewish” but each movement’s core principles have added profound value to modern Judaism. They are part of what makes this time a Golden Age of Jewish life for our people everywhere.

So why am I proud to be a Reform Jew? Funny you should ask.

I’m proud to be a Reform Jew because ours is a movement that teaches how important it is to repair the world while also enriching Jewish life in particular. I’m proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform Judaism allows me to find my own meaning in the time-honored values and practices of my people. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform teaches me that salvation can’t happen to me alone – I can’t be saved, until the whole world around me is. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform Judaism is a meeting ground between traditional Judaism and modern realities – and when Judaism and modernity encounter one another, magic happens. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because guitars and pianos and violins as well as beautiful vocals help me sing from my heart, and I not only love to sing, but I think God likes it when we sing together. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform was at the forefront in teaching the Jewish world that we’re all equal in the eyes of God – men and women, gay people and straight people, the powerful and the oppressed – each of us. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform forces me to be true to Jewish values and cognizant of modern change. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform makes room for me to find my own Jewish path, just as it does for you, too. I am proud to be a Reform Jew because Reform has and will continue to lead the way in building a robust, meaningful, Jewish community embracing both old-time Jewish values and modern Jewish realities.

Reform Judaism, of course, is a relatively new phenomenon in Jewish history – it’s less than 200 years old. And yet, even in its short history, this movement has transformed Jewish life. I’m proud to be a part of it, and I hope you are, too.

When we get together with other Jews, some of us might get to eat brisket, and some of us might just eat fruit. But when we embrace a Judaism that brings us closer to a life of holiness – whether it be the Reform Judaism I love or any of the other wonderful choices before us – they we’ll all feast on the magnificent banquet that we call modern Judaism.

Shanah Tovah.

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

‘Keep it Religious’ and Other Lessons from the Real Chanukah Story

Most of us have known the Chanukah story since we were little. During the Maccabean Revolt in the 160’s BCE, the story goes, the Jewish forces resis ng Roman oppression were victorious over their enemies. They took the Temple back into Jewish hands, and went to rekindle its eternal light. But when they went to do so, they found only one little jar of oil to use for the flame – enough to last for just a single day. They lit the flame anyway, and to everyone’s great and eternal relief, a great miracle happened there. God intervened, and the little jar of oil lasted for fully eight days, long enough to get their oil supplies replenished to keep the fire burning on.

Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but historically speaking, it probably didn’t happen quite that way. In fact, the most contemporary account we have of the Chanukah tale comes from the Books of Maccabees – books which, by the way, didn’t even make it into our bible. If you read the account of that war in the Books of Maccabees, I’m afraid you won’t find any reference whatsoever to the story of the little jar of oil. Instead, the festival it describes to celebrate what we now call Chanukah is a military festival, celebrating the very human victory of the Maccabees over their foes.

In fact, the Books of Maccabees don’t even call the festival Chanukah. Instead, there the festival is called Sukkot B’Kislev – December Sukkot. Evidently, the festival was originally eight days long because it commemorated the late celebration of Sukkot after the ravages of war prevented the Jews from celebrating Sukkot on time during the rebellion.

The story of the jar of oil only appears in the form we now have it in the Talmud, which was codified around 600 years after the event. Until then, as I mentioned, Chanukah was a military festival – a celebration of the Jews’ uprising over the ruling powers and really whumping them.

Evidently, during the centuries following the Maccabean Revolt, it became unwise for Jews to have a holiday celebrating the defeat of their rulers. That’s because, for Jews living at the whim of the ruling powers of their day, celebrating a time when we overthrew those powers would have been, shall we say, impolitic, at best.

The story of the jar of oil, then, was added to our understanding of Chanukah to transform the event from a military celebration into a religious one. In fact, as you may know, Chanukah has always been a minor festival in Judaism, and this is probably because of the discomfort our sages had with a festival that they knew had secular, military roots.

“Glickman,” many people cry when I teach this story, “you’ve ruined Chanukah for me!” It was such a nice little holiday when it celebrated the jar of oil, but now you’ve taken away the magic!”

Well feel this way if you must, I suppose, but I don’t think you have to. After all, while the story of Chanukah has certain military roots, the broader story about the Chanukah story itself is undeniably a religious one. Ours is a people that have decided not to celebrate this wonderful military victory, and instead remember God’s often miraculous role in our lives. Ours is a people that celebrate not a secular story of human agency, but rather the magical story of God’s intervening presence in the world. Ours is a people that celebrate not nitzachon, victory, but rather Chanukah, dedication – our dedication to all that is good and sacred and godly in our world.

In that light, I hope this is truly a wonderful Chanukah festival for you. I hope it is a time of light, and hope, and great, miraculous, and magical transformation for you and everyone you love.

From me to you, best wishes for a Chag Sameach, a very wonderful Chanukah, 5778.

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Forgiveness: When to Do It and Why It’s Important

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
September 30 2017 – Tishri 10, 5778

 

There’s been a bit of a drought going on around here lately, in case you haven’t noticed. We didn’t have much rainfall at all this past summer, and while the sunny days were nice, the dry conditions affected crops, and they contributed to wildfires, which affected our air quality, and the dryness caused other problems, as well.

Of course, our recent drought is far from the first drought in history. There have been many others in the past, and today I’d like to focus on one of them that happened many centuries ago, because the people who endured that drought learned some lessons that still bear value for us many centuries later.

This particular drought happened in the late first or early second century of the Common Era, and it happened in the land of Israel. It was a horrible drought, and unlike today, Ancient Israel didn’t have plentiful water reserves and hi-tech irrigation systems to get them through the dry times. They needed water to survive, and a drought like this was very perilous indeed. It was a matter of life and death.

The Jewish community proclaimed fast-days. Jewish leaders offered special prayers. Jews did everything they could to curry divine favour and bring the water they so desperately needed.

At one point, according to the Talmud, the great Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus stepped forward and began to pray. He prayed not one prayer, not two or three prayers – instead, Rabbi Eliezer offered fully twenty-four prayers to God, pleading for rain to help his community survive. And after his final prayer, Rabbi Eliezer stopped speaking, there was a moment of silence, and then…nothing happened. Everyone looked outside, and saw to their great dismay that they sky was just as blue as it had been for weeks.

Then, Rabbi Eliezer’s student, Rabbi Akiva, stood before the congregation, and said, “Avinu Malkeinu, Parent and Sovereign, ein lanu melech eleh atah, we have no Ruler but you; Avinu Malkeinu, Parent and Sovereign, rachem aleinu lema’an sh’mecha, have mercy upon us for Your sake.” (Yes, the origins of the Avinu Malkeinu prayer that we recite during these Days of Awe can be traced back to this very moment.) Immediately after Rabbi Akiva finished praying, the skies darkened, and the rain began to fall.

As soon as they realized what had happened, all the rabbis who were present began murmuring about what they had just seen. Evidently, God had been quite ready to heed Rabbi Akiva’s plea, but not Rabbi Eliezer’s. Had old Rabbi Eliezer lost his touch? Was he over the hill? Was there something about his twenty-four prayers that God didn’t like? Could it have been that God just liked the fact that Akiva was so much more concise than Rabbi Eliezer? Maybe, they wondered with horror, God actually likes the concise rabbis far more than the long-winded ones.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long for a definitive answer, because soon a divine voice spoke to them from the heavens. “It is not because Akiva is any greater than Eliezer that his prayer was answered,” God said. “Instead, it’s just because Akiva is a forgiving person, and Eliezer isn’t.”

Because Akiva is forgiving. Now I’ve spoken about forgiveness from this bima before. Many of you will recall that last year I gave a sermon about forgiveness. Not all the sermons I deliver from up here hit home – far from it. But evidently there was something about that particular message that resonated with many of you. Several people came up to me in tears afterward, and shared the way it touched them. It was actively discussed at the Yom Kippur afternoon study session last year, and I’m told that it’s gotten a lot of hits on our website, too.

What was it that I said in that sermon? Well, don’t worry – I’m not going to redeliver it in its entirety today. But, in short, what I suggested was that, in Judaism, forgiveness might not be all that it’s cracked up to be. I said that, during the Days of Awe, Judaism has us focus not on forgiveness, but on atonement – not on letting people off for their misdeeds, but rather on atoning for our own. I said that Judaism takes issue with the teachings of other religions and all the modern psycho-drivel suggesting that we should forgive everyone who has ever wronged us, and I went on to say that Judaism teaches us to forgive only those people who have earned our forgiveness, that we should only forgive those who are repentant. Those who haven’t apologized, I said, don’t deserve one whit from us in the forgiveness department, and we shouldn’t forgive them until they have sincerely apologized and made right the wrongs they did to us.

Forgiveness has its place in Judaism, I argued, but that place is a far more limited one than many people today would have it occupy.

And then comes this story about Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Eliezer, telling us that the only reason that God listened to Rabbi Akiva’s prayer was that he was forgiving, and I’m sure that right about now, many of you are wondering just what in the world is going on. Does Judaism consider forgiveness important, or doesn’t it?

Well I still stand behind every word that I shared with you in last year’s sermon – forgiveness should be reserved only for those who repent of their sins. But today I’ll confess that, although last year’s sermon was correct, it wasn’t complete; it was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Today, I’d like to remedy that by filling out more of the picture.

In order to do so, I’d like to loop back to the story of Akiva and Eliezer. The text praises Akiva for being more “forgiving” than his teacher, but, in this context, I wonder what that word – forgiving – really means. Reflecting upon it, I think that the word as the rabbis used it in this Talmudic story could mean a few things, and that looking at the possibilities can help us complete our picture of forgiveness in Judaism.

One possibility is that, when the Talmud tells us that Akiva was more forgiving, it meant to say that he was more tolerant of people’s foibles than Eliezer was. Maybe Eliezer was the kind of guy who just didn’t have any time or patience for people when they fell short, while Akiva was more easygoing. Maybe Eliezer corrected people’s grammar all the time, while Akiva didn’t seem to mind if you said “irregardless,” or “me and” or “sherbert.”

Akiva’s wife was named Rachel – maybe Akiva didn’t make a big deal about it when Rachel ran a little late, or got grouchy, or overcooked the chicken. Eliezer’s wife was named Ima Shalom – Peace Mamma. Maybe he was the kind of guy who did make a big deal the things that Akiva let slide. Maybe to him, punctuality, good cheer, and well-cooked chicken were important, and for Ima Shalom to demonstrate anything less was simply unacceptable.

And maybe Akiva’s tolerance, and Eliezer’s lack of tolerance, went even deeper. Maybe, as Akiva interacted with people, he sometimes found real moral or ethical shortcomings in them, but still made room for those flawed people in his life. Maybe he had friends who were unfaithful to their spouses, or maybe he saw people cheating in business, or maybe he even felt the personal sting of gossip, and still was able to find in his life room for the people who did those things. I can’t imagine that Akiva would have ever sanctioned such behaviour. To the contrary – he must have railed against it wherever he saw it. But maybe, even as he told these people that what they were doing was wrong, Akiva was still able to stay connected with them.

When the text says that Akiva was forgiving, in other words, maybe what it meant to say was not that he forgave anything people did wrong, but rather that he acknowledged that nobody is perfect, that that he was able to see the good in people even when they weren’t being all they could be.

Well just like the people in Akiva’s life, you’re not perfect either – none of us is. (We’ve reminded you of that often during the past few hours, haven’t we?) But even though you’re flawed, you still have enormous worth as a human being. You know this about yourself, I hope, but do you remember that this is true of other people, as well? Even the people you love most will disappoint you sometimes. Your friends, the members of your family, the people you like at work. Every one of them has a tendency to fall short from time to time. Can you love them, anyway? Is your heart big enough to make room for all of those imperfect people who populate your world? I certainly hope so.

Again, I’m not saying that we should forgive everyone for everything they do wrong. No, last year’s sermon still holds – we love best when we hold the people we love up to the highest moral and ethical standards we can. But even if you haven’t forgiven them, can you still make room for these flawed people in your life? And even more to the point, can you still make room for them in your heart? Sometimes, of course, the answer will be no, because sometimes people do things that are so horrible that we need to cut them off. But if the answer is always no – if every flaw in everyone we encounter merits a total cutoff, you’re going to end up being one very lonely person. Do you have the strength, do you have the generosity of spirit, to make room in your life for other people even though they’re not perfect? For their sake, and for yours, I certainly hope so.

So maybe, in telling us that Akiva was forgiving, the Talmud was trying to teach us an important lesson about human frailty and imperfection. But maybe it was trying to say something else either in addition to that or instead of it. Maybe it really was trying to tell us something about forgiveness.

As I said, Judaism insists that we forgive only the repentant sinner. That means that if somebody harms us, and they want us to forgive them, they have to go through a process we call teshuvah to earn that forgiveness. And teshuvah is far from an easy process to undergo. It demands that the wrongdoer admit what he or she did wrong, change their behaviour, apologize, compensate the victims, and maintain their changes over the long haul. In other words, if you’ve done something wrong, you have to own up, change up, ‘fess up, pay up, and keep it up. It’s difficult work, because it involves changing yourself, and making yourself vulnerable, and working hard for a long, long time to be better.

And I’ll remind you, that if you’re the victim of someone else’s wrongdoing, you don’t need to forgive the person who harmed you unless that person is going through that teshuvah process. At the same time, the flipside is also true – and this is something that I didn’t emphasize last year. If the person who wronged you is undergoing teshuvah – if he or she really is remorseful and is committed to changing and righting the wrong that he or she has done, then Jewish law tells us that you have to forgive that person, even if you don’t want to. You don’t necessarily need to be friends with him anymore, but you need to forgive him…like you forgive a debt.

Maybe that’s what Akiva did. Maybe the text was trying to tell us that when someone wronged him, and then genuinely apologized and tried to make things right, Akiva was willing to forgive that person. That guy who backed up into his car, and left a note with his phone number on it, and paid for the damages, and apologized and improved his driving? Maybe Akiva forgave that guy, and that’s why they called him forgiving. Or maybe it was because he forgave Rachel, who used to be so snappy at him when he got home in the evenings, and who finally realized what she was doing, figured out how to hold things in check, and apologized. Maybe it was because he forgave her, too. Maybe, when people who wronged Akiva did their teshuvah, Akiva was the kind of guy who let them off the hook.

No, we shouldn’t forgive anyone unless they repent, but when they do repent, then we need to forgive them even if we don’t want to. In fact, Judaism teaches that if you remain adamant in your refusal to forgive a repentant sinner, then not only does God clear them of their sin, but God also adds their misdeed onto your account. Refusal to forgive a sin when the person who committed it is repentant, in other words, means that you get to own whatever it was that they did wrong.

People can hurt us so deeply sometimes. And often they don’t own up and do what they need to do in order to fix it. But sometimes they do, and when they do their teshuvah – when they’ve truly righted the wrong they committed – then the obligation to forgive falls upon the shoulders of the victim. And when that happens, sometimes we won’t want to forgive, because we still hurt, but they’ve done their work, and we should forgive them anyway.

Knowing that we’ve been wronged can actually be of comfort sometimes – it helps us remember that we’re OK morally, and that the perpetrators were the bad guys. Having to forgive those very same people can be hard, because it means letting go of our feeling that they still owe us.

You were wronged. The other person comes to you sincerely apologetic, changed, begging your forgiveness. Can you find it within yourself to tell them that you forgive them? I certainly hope so.

There’s a third possibility as to what the Talmud meant when it said that Akiva was forgiving, too. Maybe the Talmud was simply trying to say that Akiva didn’t bear grudges very often. People did wrong by Akiva, for all of us fall victim to the misdeeds of others sometimes. But maybe Akiva was the kind of guy who did what he could to put these things behind him.

The Torah tells us specifically, “Lo tikom v’lo titor. Do not take vengeance or bear a grudge.” (Lev. 19:18) What’s the difference between taking vengeance and bearing a grudge? The rabbis explained it often in the ancient literature. If you ask your neighbour to borrow his axe, and he says no, and then later he asks you to borrow your shovel, then if you were to respond to him saying “You wouldn’t let me borrow your axe, so I’m not going to let you borrow my shovel,” that’s taking vengeance. On the other hand, if you respond to him saying “You wouldn’t let me borrow your axe, but I’m much better than you, so unlike you, I’m going to be generous and let you borrow my shovel,” that’s bearing a grudge.

When somebody wrongs you, the question is this: Are you going to let their misdeed continue to define who you are, or are you going to put your memories of what they did to you into a place where they don’t control you, where they don’t define you? Maybe by calling Akiva forgiving, what the Talmud really meant to say is that Akiva didn’t let his memory of being wronged continue to weigh upon him. Maybe the Talmud was attesting to Akiva’s ability to avoid letting past misfortunes determine his behaviour.

It all comes down to this. As much as you might want the people around you to be perfect, they never will be. They all have faults; they all have foibles. They may be really good, but they, like you, are striving for a perfection that nobody can ever fully achieve. It’s fair to expect them to grow; but can you love them along the way, even when they still have improvements to make? It’s important never to forgive them until they repent, but can you actually go ahead and give them that forgiveness when they do? It’s normal to feel hurt when they let you down, but do you want that hurt to continue to define you? Can you, like Akiva, approach these complexities of life with a spirit of forgiveness, settling for nothing less than full repentance, while striving for love and connection even without it?

Akiva made room in his life for people even though they were imperfect; he forgave people when they earned it; he remembered his pain, but didn’t let it define him. His model was a model that we all should strive to make real today.

It’s been dry out there, my friends. We thirst for love, we long for connection with others. Maybe if we can be forgiving like Akiva was, then when such thirst plagues us, our prayers too, will be answered with love and true human connection.

Ken yehi ratzon. So may this be God’s will.

Shanah Tovah.

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