by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Forgiveness Doesn’t Matter

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon, 2022/5783

By Rabbi Mark Glickman

Lisa popped her head into my study one day with a friendly hello. She had grown up at Temple, and now, as a newly married adult, she was a Temple member with her husband, and an active volunteer in her many areas of congregational life. We sat down, and chatted about how her life was going, and about some of her current Temple projects, and as our conversation wound down, she said, “And now if I can just get through Rachel’s wedding, everything will be fine.”

Rachel had also grown up at Temple, and I knew she and Lisa had been friends since they were little. Rachel’s wedding was going to take place in just a few weeks.

“If you can just ‘get through’ her wedding?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

Rachel took a deep breath. “Can I share something with you confidentially?” she said.

“We’re in the vault,” I said.

“It’s the toughest thing,” Lisa explained, “and it’s all my fault.” Her eyes suddenly welled up with tears.  One night near the end of our last year at university,” she continued, “I had a one-night-stand with Lisa’s boyfriend, Dan – the same Dan she’s about to marry. It was stupid, I know. We were at a party, we’d had a few too many drinks, and I felt horrible about it afterwards. So did Dan.

“Dan and Rachel repaired things somehow,” Lisa continued, “but I’ve never been able to fully fix things with her. I apologized to her over and over again after it happened. I told her that I knew I’d hurt her, and that I never wanted to. I explained that I’d learned my lesson, and that I hoped she could forgive me and we could be friends again.  That was years ago, Rabbi, and since then we’ve sort of mended things, but not really. I mean…we travel in the same social circles, and she eventually started speaking to me. She’s been polite since then, but never warm. And she’s never forgiven me.

“Then, when Jim and I got married six months ago, I asked her to stand up in my wedding. I was hoping it might help repair our relationship. In response, I got a text from her saying. ‘Thanks for inviting me to your wedding. I will attend, but I don’t want to be in the wedding party.”

“Needless to say, rabbi, she didn’t ask me to stand up at her wedding, either. And I think the only reason I got invited is that there’s such a huge guest list. I wish there was something I could do to get her to forgive me.”

Forgiveness. It’s a theme we often come back to during these most Awesome of Days. In fact, during the years since I became your rabbi, I have stood at this bimah and delivered many, many hours’ worth of sermons on a variety of topics, and you have dutifully sat through them all. (I admire your devotion…or at least your courtesy.) Among those many sermons, one of them that received the most response – both positive and negative – was about forgiveness. In that sermon I taught that, contrary to what you will hear from many other Jewish teachers, Judaism at root doesn’t really emphasize forgiving others very much, because, especially during these days of awe, what really counts is earning forgiveness for the wrongs that you yourself have committed, rather than forgiving other people for their misdeeds. I went on to suggest that, to the extent that our tradition does call us to forgive other people, we’re supposed to do so only for the repentant wrongdoer, and that if a person who has wronged us hasn’t changed her ways, hasn’t apologized, and hasn’t made things right by you, then you don’t owe her a thing in way of forgiveness.

I stand by those words, and I continue to find myself saddened when I hear of people being pressured to forgive others who have caused them pain, even when the wrongdoers haven’t earned such exoneration.

Today, however, I’d like to look at forgiveness from a different angle – from Lisa’s angle. What are we to do if we, ourselves, have done something wrong…and we can’t get the person we’ve harmed to forgive us.

As I’ve mentioned, when we do wrong, Judaism calls upon us not only to apologize, but to truly earn forgiveness for our misdeeds. And as I’ve also mentioned, that act, teshuvah, is really hard – a five-step process designed to have us take full responsibility for what we’ve done, and to respond accordingly. And what are those five steps? By now you might know them. First, we need to acknowledge to ourselves what we’ve done wrong – own up to our transgressions. Then, even before we apologize, we need to change our behavior – change up. And only then do we ‘fess up – apologize. Fourth step is compensating the people we’ve wronged for the harm we’ve done to them – pay up. Then finally, fifth, we maintain those changes long term – keep it up.

Own up, change up, ‘fess up, pay up, and keep it up. That’s a lot of work.

In Lisa’s case, she clearly feels remorse for what she’s done, so she’s owned up. And if we are to believe her, she learned her lesson and hasn’t recommitted that offense, so she’s also changed up. Third, she apologized to Rachel, so she’s fessed up, too. And to skip to the fifth step, she’s evidently kept up those changes since she made them.

What’s complicated for Lisa is that fourth step – pay up. That step is easy to figure out when we’ve harmed somebody’s property, or caused them monetary damage. If Lisa had dropped and broken a nice vase in Rachel’s house, for example, she would just need to pay Rachel the value of that vase, or maybe replace it for her. But of course, here we’re dealing with a personal betrayal, and with the emotional harm that came with it. Compensation for those kinds of wrongdoings is much harder to calculate. And, of course, Lisa and Rachel might disagree as to what kind of compensation would be fair.

But even though we might disagree with Lisa, for the sake of discussion, let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s extended herself to Rachel, she’s tried to be kind, she’s done whatever she could to mend the relationship and be good to her longtime friend. Let’s assume for the sake of discussion that she’s paid up, too.

That means that Lisa has gone through her five steps. She’s done everything she could, and Rachel is still holding what she did against her. Lisa’s done all she could, and Rachel hasn’t forgiven her. What’s Lisa supposed to do now?

Judaism’s answer to this question is clear. If you’re genuinely remorseful for something you’ve done wrong, and if you’re doing your teshuvah, and if apologize to your victim, and if that person refuses to forgive you…then you’re supposed to ask them for forgiveness again. And if they refuse you a second time, then you ask them a third time. And if they refuse you that third time, then…you’re done. You’ve done everything you could, and Judaism considers your teshuvah complete, even without the forgiveness of the person you’ve wronged.

(The only exception to this process, I should add, is if the person you’ve wronged is your rabbi. Then, you’re supposed to ask them over and over again, as many times as it takes for them to forgive you. I’m just sayin’.)

To help us visualize this, our tradition teaches that we all have a scale somewhere; when we fulfill a commandment, a weight gets added to one side of the scale, and when we transgress a commandment, a weight gets added to the other side. Do what God wants and the scale tips one way, do what God doesn’t want, and it tips the other way. The direction in which that scale tips at the end of our lives will determine the destiny of our souls.

But, when a weight gets added to the sin side, it doesn’t have to stay there. If we do our teshuvah – if we go through the five steps I discussed earlier – we not only remove that deed from the sin side of our scale, we actually do one step better. We remove it from the sin side, and move it over to the mitzvah side. In other words, teshuvah has the awesome power to take a sin, and not only neutralize its harm, but actually to transform it into something good – something in our favor.

And what about forgiveness? Well, when a truly repentant sinner comes to you, as we said, you’re supposed to forgive that person. And if you refuse them that forgiveness – once, twice, three times – then something else amazing happens. Not only does that sin get transformed into a mitzvah on the scale of the person who committed it, but a carbon copy gets made of that sin and gets added to your own scale on the sin side.

In other words, if someone who has wronged you comes to you with their heart in their hands, remorseful, apologizing, and having changed their behavior, you’ve got to forgive that person. And if you repeatedly refuse to do so, then at that point you come to own their sin. Their wrongdoing is cleared, and now you’re accountable for it.

In Lisa’s case – if, for the sake of discussion, we can assume that her teshuvah was genuine – then Rachel should have forgiven her. But Rachel didn’t, so Lisa apologized over and over again. And Rachel still held it against her. In this situation, Lisa’s sin-slate is clear – she’s done everything she could. And now, the burden of change is on Rachel’s shoulders.

Look, we want good, strong, long-lasting relationships in our lives. And sometimes, when we mess up, we want the ability to repair those relationships. Sometimes we can, of course, but repairing relationships is a two-way street – it involves a willingness of both the doer and victim of wrongdoing to fix things. And sometimes, as hard as we try, the people we have wronged, for whatever the reason, are simply unwilling to forgive. In such a situation, Judaism reminds us that it’s not up to us to singlehandedly make everything better again – doing so is sometimes impossible. Instead, it’s up to us to do right by our victims. Sometimes that will result in renewed bonds, and, sadly, sometimes it won’t.

Here’s the point. Having done what she did, it’s not Lisa’s responsibility to persuade Rachel to forgive her. Instead, Lisa’s responsibility is to do her teshuvah whether or not Rachel offers forgiveness. In other words, Lisa’s job in this situation is not to get forgiveness, it is to earn forgiveness…whether or not she actually receives it.

We all mess up – if you haven’t noticed, that’s one of the things our Yom Kippur liturgy reminds us of quite repeatedly. And when we do, our Jewish tradition calls upon us to do teshuvah – to genuinely apologize and genuinely change, and thus to become good people despite and because of our wrongdoings. And when we succeed in doing that – when we succeed in earning forgiveness, then whether or not the people we’ve wronged actually do forgive us becomes beside the point.

At the end of the day, ensuring that others forgive us, then, really doesn’t matter. What matters is to become the kind of person who deserves forgiveness regardless of what they do.

Maybe we could put it in a more religious way. People can sometimes be good judges of others, and sometimes they can be lousy judges. And when we invest our own sense of self-worth in whether people give us their human and very fallible thumbs-up, we subject that sense of worth to human whim, however capricious it might be. What we should do instead, is act in a way that God wants us to act – to make it so that we could earn a thumbs-up from God…if only God had a thumb.

In my office that day, I listened to Lisa’s description of what had happened with Rachel. “Lisa,” I said, “whose fault was it that you betrayed Rachel?”

“Mine,” she said, “and I guess Dan’s, too.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Actually, my own betrayal was my own fault…I can’t blame anyone else for it.”

“Have you done anything like that since then?”

“No….”

“And you apologized?”

“Over and over and over again,” she said.

“And you’ve tried to make it up to her?”

“I think so….”

“It sounds like you’ve done everything that could be expected of you,” I said. “And I just find it sad for both Rachel and you that she won’t forgive you. I don’t know what else you can do.”

I paused. “And for what it’s worth, Lisa, even though Rachel still holds this against you, I have a feeling that God must be pretty happy with the work you’ve done to do right by her.”

I’m not sure that was satisfying for Lisa, but I hope it was. One of the great tragedies of life is that we are incapable of singlehandedly determining what our relationships will be. But one of the great opportunities of life is that we are nevertheless almost always capable of doing what we should. That might not satisfy and estranged friend, but it remains sacred work anyway.

I hope Lisa came to be able to see that, and I hope that each of us can find the strength, even when others don’t appreciate it, to engage in the sacred work of Teshuvah that we are called to perform this day and every day.

Shanah Tovah – may you have a good, sweet year, filled with growth and holiness at every possible moment.

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

On Apology

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

Rabbi Mark Glickman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Shanah Tovah

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Conversations With Betty: The Challenge of Deep Compassion

Kol Nidre Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5780/2019

Rabbi Mark Glickman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not antisemitic,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Shanah Tovah

 

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Opening Prayer: Vigil for the Victims of the Pittsburgh Shooting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Rabbi Mark Glickman

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 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

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

Caron Glickman – D’var Torah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom!

 

 

Roz Mendelson – D’var Torah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom.

 

 

Carla Atkinson – D’var Torah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Rebecca Krel – D’var Torah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

 

 

Tracey Rumig – D’var Torah

Shabbat Shalom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, and Shabbat shalom.

 

Featured image by Edna Miron Wapner.

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 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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