Anticipating Labor Day and the Season to Come

(NOTE: This was written in mid-August for the September edition of Fresh Day - a faith-oriented online magazine for which I write a monthly column. We were asked to write about Labor Day and the meaning of work. After this piece was submitted, the events in Charlottesville, SC took hold of our attention and our work was re-directed. You can find the September edition of Fresh Day here.)

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Much ado was made this summer about the Total Eclipse on August 21^st. Every day’s news seemed to have an increasing number of watching guides and cautions for protecting one’s eyes with the advance of this rare astrological event.

For me, looking to the heavens in the summer is nothing new. Back in the late 1970’s-early ‘80’s I worked at a summer camp in the Berkshires of Western, Massachusetts. I still spend a lot of my summer in the Berkshires, but so much has changed over the decades. Every few nights or so, as counselors, we were called upon to stay back in the bunk area to serve “OD,” ensuring the wellbeing of our camper charges. This was way before cellphones – smart or otherwise, and even before portable electronics of virtually any type. So, we’d sit, weather-

permitting on the ground outside the bunks. There was considerably less lighting then compared with camp today. Less light pollution, fewer electronic distractions, we had only one another, and the heavens above, to pass the time. It was glorious. On a clear, cloudless night it was as if the heavens conspired to put on a show for us. We’d search for constellations.  We’d watch for shooting stars. On a really clear night, the Milky Way was arrayed before our eyes. It was awe-inspiring.

As the years passed, my roles at camp – and indeed my time at camp – changed.  I still find myself there for at least a piece of each summer. Since rabbinic school, from which I was ordained in 1983, looking to the heavens in latter part of summer took on a new meaning. Since the Jewish calendar is a blend of lunar and solar, the phases of the moon were the markers by which I, along with Rabbis, Cantors, and other Jewish professionals, would mark the oncoming Jewish Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) which comes just ten days into the New Year.  As the moon goes through its paces each summer I notice my sleep patterns shift and my awareness of the coming Holy Days intensifying with each passing day.

I still find myself gazing heavenward this August. Yet, because of the transition I have chosen to make – out of the congregational rabbinate, into a new, non-congregationally-based path, the moon’s phases aren’t as anxiety provoking as they have been for the past three and a half decades. Summers past would find me pleading with the moon to slow down. But this year, it is I who has chosen to slow down, to chance pace, and focus differently.

The Eclipse will come and go, as will Labor Day, marking for many the “end of summer.” For me, my place in the audience for this year’s celestial performance holds a different meaning.  While I too, look ahead to turning to work, my schedule and life will be different.  It is as yet in formation. Indeed, for me, the very meaning of “work” is in flux. Summer without my familiar pacing has been a revelation. As the end of summer draws near, I look ahead with curiosity and excitement to the new form that life and work will take as I build into my future. 

Finding Glimmers of Light in the Darkness

This morning, in the midst of a torrential downpour, with fog and clouds blanketing Massachusetts’ Berkshire Mountains I found rays of sunshine.  And if there was ever a time when I needed light, it was this week.

I’d been invited to the Union for Reform Judaism’s Crane Lake Camp in West Stockbridge to lead an hour of learning with the nearly 150 teenagers who’ve gathered for their annual Summer Institute. These teens, from Reform Jewish congregations through the Northeast devote some of the final of their summer vacation to join with other youth in 5 days of song, prayer, learning and fun. That they choose to spend a piece of the end of their summer before the school year starts itself is always inspiring to me.

Given the events in Charlottesville, Virginia of last weekend, and the chaotic week of response to those events and the discourse arising from them, I thought that my time with the teens might be well spent in reflecting on Jewish tradition and values towards we might turn in challenging times, if not on a daily basis. As I was preparing for this morning’s session I came across a new trigger film from filmmaker Tiffany Shlain whose work always provides rich food for thought about character and values. Her new film, Engage runs a brief two minutes or so. Its message is deep, immanent and I found it a worthy way to open this morning’s session.

From Engage we moved into a discussion of our reactions to the film, and a selection of value concepts from the Jewish Mussar tradition. My teacher Alan Morinis teaches that Mussar allows our minds to learn the lessons our hearts already know. Given the tumultuous discourse of this past week, I can’t imagine that many of us have not been wrestling with what our hearts know, and we wish our eyes and minds would see as living values in the world around us.

Shortly before the session I was leading began, I also had the opportunity to join the teens in their morning worship, which in this case was led by a young woman from my home congregation. In choosing to invite her peers to reflect on our connection and responsibilities to one another, Laura quoted a teaching from the Rabbis of the Talmud: It is taught, “When the community is in trouble, a person should not say, ‘I will go into my house. I will eat and drink and be at peace with myself.” (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Ta’anit 11a) Wow, I thought! What a powerful teaching for a week such as this past one. Facing summer’s end, none of us can afford to tune out the unfolding drama across our nation. Our nation’s values and future are being debated. None of us can close ourselves off and “be at peace” with ourselves in the midst of this conflict. Hatred, wherever it comes from, must not be tolerated. I believe we are at a pivotal crossroads in our nation. It will impact us, regardless of our political persuasion or other differences.

We can debate our philosophies and ideals. At the same time, evil, hatred, bigotry, racism, and anti-Semitism are just plain wrong. Hatred of the other because of racial, ethnic, religious or other differences, especially when it leads to incitement and violence is wrong. The march in Charlottesville last Friday night with its hateful rhetoric, and the events of the next day are deeply troubling. There may be room to note that some on both sides of the divide on last week acted inappropriately. But there can be no equation of Neo-Nazi, White Supremacist, and other expressions of hatred and division with those who came to protest against the hatred. Freedom is speech is a cherished American value. But with our freedom comes responsibility to the other.

As I reflected on the past week with the teens this morning, we explored some of the core values of Jewish tradition, among them wisdom, social responsibility, compassion, patience, as well as many others. I was deeply moved by the serious reflection and deep thought evidenced by the teens. In what has been dreadfully dark and disturbing week, during a morning on which nature conspired to make the darkness seem that much heavier, the prayers, thoughts and sensitivity of these teens brought so much light. I pray that they will spread their light even as I pray that all people of good will and open-heartedness across our nation will stand up, speak out and work peaceably for the betterment of all. As our various faith communities face Sabbath/Shabbat, may we find the light within – within ourselves and within one another so that together, as we face the days ahead we, like the teens, will share and spread light.

I Get It

(NOTE: This was written Sunday morning. Due to a lack of internet connectivity it has taken time to post it. After much thought, I decided to post the original piece as written, without altering it in light of Monday’s Presidential news conference.)

I get it. I totally get it. Friends and acquaintances have been telling me for years how you see the world differently once you have grandchildren. It’s been 5½ months since Ian’s birth. All I need to do is look at the most recent pictures his parents have shared or even better, answer the FaceTime call from his father which I know means Ian is available for chat. It is instantaneous delight. It immediately brings a broad smile to my face as it takes me away from whatever I was doing, transporting me to a better, more hopeful place.

This morning that was precisely what I needed. I’d been sitting with my morning coffee, reading the Sunday paper, catching up on what’s been going on, most especially yesterday’s events in Charlottesville, Virginia. This morning was my first real chance to sit down and try to get a fuller picture, as I often do, from various sites which offer a range of takes on the news of the day.

The events of Friday and Saturday are deeply disturbing. In the ever-widening rift that divides our nation, a right-wing, White Nationalist rally was alarming to contemplate even before it convened. In what I believe must be called domestic terrorism, one of the attendees at the rally drove his car into a crowd of counter-protestors. He took the life of a 32-year old woman while injuring almost a score of others. Two state troopers lost their lives later in the day in a helicopter crash, as they were assisting with crowd control. Three lives lost in an ugly scene that should leave a bad taste in all our mouths.

Voices calling for calm were heard. Leaders from both sides of the political spectrum responded, on Twitter and other media, to call out the evil and banality of the racist, hate-filled gathering. Even our First Lady, Melania Trump, tweeted (well in advance of her husband) a responsible message in reaction to the violence and hatred.  Our Tweeter-in-Chief, however, seemed to be missing in action. Even popular author J.K. Rowling noted in a tweet that it was an ironic time for our President to “forget how to tweet."

As it happens, perhaps it would have been better had he not spoken out. While the President did condemn the violence, he served up moral equivalency. This I believe, bespeaks his continued support for the hate-mongering and divisive climate that his candidacy, and now his presidency, have nurtured across our nation. It is true that fault can be found on “many sides” when it comes to the divisions and intolerance found in our nation. However, yesterday’s events in Charlottesville were a poor choice for him to choose as an example of the many corners in which hateful rhetoric can be found. The hateful rhetoric, the overt expressions of racism, anti-Semitism, and bigotry on display in the past 48 hours were not “on all sides.” They were on one side – that of White Nationalism, neo-Nazi, anti-Black, anti-Semitic, and a host of other expressions of hatred which had gathered for the “Unite the Right” rally. Indeed, one white-nationalist outlet, The Daily Stormer saw in the President’s remarks an affirmation of the central message they had hoped to trumpet in Saturday’s gathering – America belongs to White Christians.

I feel as if each week’s outrages, which arise from the blustery pronouncements and rapid-fire fingers of our top elected official, have been feeding a slow burn in the blood in my veins. I know I’m not alone. This weekend’s events provided the context for many on the right wing of the political spectrum, who hold and pronounce loud messages of hatred and bigotry, of prejudice and intolerance, to allow their rhetoric and actions to be on full public display. They claim that theirs is a righteous anger and that they are speaking out to help fulfill the President’s campaign promises and national agenda. Well it’s way past time for those of us who hold a different vision of our country and its values to feel our own blood boil – not into anger, violence and hatred – but into strong, peaceful,
non-violent protest. Our protest must not be limited to condemnation of these past few days. It is well past time to call for accountability from our elected officials in our nation’s capital, Republicans, Democrats, and Independents, at all levels. To those who still say, wait, the pivot is coming, I say forget about it. There will be no pivot. As I have written previously, this President reminds me of Maurice Ogden’s powerful poem, The Hangman in which the protagonist in the end proclaims, “I went no further than you let me go.” Let’s take our President at his word, for he does not mince them. Rather he fearlessly and irresponsibly speaks hatred and division, every day of every week.  Stop waiting for the pivot, or for the latest grown-up like General Kelly to rein him in.

To me, our President is man-child and a self-absorbed, self-promoting, shallow person. I look at pictures of my young grandson playing with a stuffed New England Patriot’s football which his parents recently gave him. The images and videos make me smile. But then reality calls me back and I want to scream – somebody get that man-child in the White House a stuffed football, and let’s get that national security “football” (about which he has also been irresponsibly ranting in the past week) out of his reach.

I get the grandparent-grandchild connection and joy. I absolutely do not get why our nation, across the political spectrum, is not more alarmed and responsive to the rantings and damage our highest elected official is wrecking upon us. It’s time we all get it – and act, before it’s too late.

UIKEYINPUTDOWNAR

Torah All Around

The Berkshires of Western Massachusetts are a sacred place to me. Ever since my first summer working at the Eisner Camp, all the way back in 1973, the Berkshires have held a special place in my heart and my life.  That has become more profound as our family all claim this beautiful place (both the Berkshires and Eisner Camp) as a precious anchor in our lives.

But it is not just the beauty, or the cultural banquet table of this part of New England that is special. All the way back to that very first summer, this has been a place or Torah for me. To be sure there are many other “Torah places” I hold dear in my life – the communities in which I have served as a rabbi; Jerusalem in particular, and Israel more broadly; and the many coffee shops, batei midrash (learning spaces) and public libraries in which I have sat to share words of Torah with a colleague, friend or student.

But the Berkshires and Eisner Camp are high on my list. This past week has offered me at least two concrete examples which reinforce that sentiment. Having pondered why this is so over the course of four-plus decades, I am convinced that this “place” is extra special for me as it is not solely a place of learning Torah. Beyond the learning there is the living of Torah. 

Most people have long since forgotten (or perhaps never knew) that full name of Eisner Camp is the URJ Joseph Eisner Camp-Institute for Living Judaism. It is a place where campers and staff come together anew each summer to form a nurturing and nourishing organic community based upon Jewish learning and living Jewish values. Eisner offers the full array of what one expects at a summer camp: sports, swimming, lakeside activities, campcraft, arts and crafts, music, dance, drama and so much more. Watching my four children grow and develop into the people they are is in no small measure due to their experiences within what is lovingly referred to as “the Eisner bubble.” For each of them, camp has not only been a place where they were nurtured as campers.  Each, in his or her own way, has risen through the ranks of staff and leadership. This means a lot to me as I believe that so many of my own leadership skills and my important learning took place at Eisner in the 70’s and 80’s when I served for many summers on full-time staff.

Last night I had the fortune to be present for the closing events of camp’s annual Maccabiah, a three-day festival which allows campers of all ages to participate (and yes, compete) in events spanning the full gamut of camp’s activities.  What inspires me each year is the ways in which the campers, and staff stretch themselves in a supportive and nurturing way to allow each participant to feel accomplished, in spite of the outcome. The perennial chant of “it just doesn’t matter” after the identity of the winning team is revealed speaks volumes about the higher goals and ideals of camp and this part of its programming.  It’s hard not to feel that all are winners, even after one of the four teams has been declared victorious. The community has won as a whole because of the learning and living of Torah and Jewish values. Last night was a powerful reminder of why this place is so sacred for me in my life and the life of my family.

This past Sunday I had the good fortune to be on the lawn at Tanglewood for the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s performance. I relish the opportunities to attend concerts each summer. I especially enjoy the confluence of my ability to attend when the concert includes a performance by master cellist and musician extraordinaire, Yo-Yo Ma. Last Sunday was one such occasion.  I have used Mr. Ma’s artistry and skills as lessons, “Torah” if you will, on numerous occasions in my past High Holy Day sermons. This past Sunday, Yo-Yo Ma lifted it to a new level for me. He played with the BSO in the second of its three selections for the afternoon, Schumann’s Cello Concerto. While I could not see the orchestra nor Yo-Yo-Ma from my vantage point on the lawn, from past experiences I knew he was totally immersed in the piece.  Friends who were sitting in the Shed confirmed, noting that they had never seen a soloist interact with the different sections of the orchestra as Ma had that afternoon.

Then came intermission. People all around us were standing up to stretch when suddenly a voice came over the loudspeakers. “Excuse me. I don’t if I’ve ever done this before . . .” It was Yo-Yo Ma  asking for our attention. It was not for himself. Rather he was sharing that the afternoon’s conductor, David Zinman’s dog had gotten lose from the home in which he and his wife were staying. Ma was calling attention, not to himself, nor to the orchestra. He was enlisting the help of the audience, which as he noted, surely included many who’d be returning to Stockbridge and Lenox neighborhoods in locating the Zinman’s beloved pet. Seemingly a simple matter, yet as pet owners know, and share in common, a beloved pet is a cherished family member. We were all stunned. Though with whom I was (now) standing and I noted, here is a man who could have asked for our attention for a million different reasons. His request was totally selfless, totally an act of kindness and, I would say, of menschlikiht. To me it was Torah values come alive, from a teacher, not Jewish himself, from whom I have learned many Torah lessons over the years, simply by sitting in his audience and watching this incredible human being make music, and live life.  It’s a moment of kindness and the best of humanity that will long remain with me.

Summer Light

It’s mid-summer! It’s been quite a ride on my annual readathon.  Summer always affords me more time – and brain-space for reading.  As always, I’m reading a pretty diverse set of books, somewhat simultaneously.

I returned from Israel almost three weeks ago with a copy of my teacher Micah Goodman’s newest book. I was determined to challenge myself to read it by reading Hebrew for 30-45 minutes everyday. So far, so good. In English, its title would translate to “Catch-67.” In this profoundly thought-provoking work Micah delves into Zionist history, Israeli identity, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Jewish values and more. The last thing I expected from the book was a page-turner. But I am tearing through it – and loving the Hebrew.  (Micah tells me the English edition is at least a year away. You might consider adding it to your list.)

For “fun” I’ve been listening to a series of audiobooks on my car treks to and from Newton and the Berkshires, mostly mysteries. And I’m reading a book given to me by a friend back in early June. It’s called The Bottom of the 33^rd -Hope, Redemption, and Baseball’s Longest Game, by Dan Barry. The author recounts the story of the epic Pawtucket Red Sox game on the Saturday night before Easter Sunday in 1981. Given the book’s title, the game obviously ran to an incredible, historic length. It’s a delicious peek behind the scenes of baseball, mostly smaller town, minor league baseball. I’ve enjoyed the minors since my years living in Jackson, Mississippi.  We loved taking in AA Jackson Mets (and then Generals/Astros) games.  Berry’s book has been a fun addition to my summer dose of baseball.

I always set as a goal reading some books that I think of as weightier. (Certainly Catch-67 fits this bill.) Ofttimes this is both a matter of intellectual pursuit as well as what we rabbis call chomer l’drush, which I’ll render as “sermon material.” I won’t be delivering sermons during the upcoming Holy Day Season. Nevertheless I treasure the exercise in terms of reading and thinking. In my time of transition, this has been especially meaningful. One book which has me thinking is Henri Nouwen’s Aging: The Fulfillment of Life. It was recommended by a colleague and, I have to admit, it has me thinking a lot about life and the changes I am pursuing. In one sense, Nouwen’s book follows other books about later life and career transitions I read during the Spring. What I especially finding meaningful in Aging is Nouwen’s gift of rendering facets of life through a spiritual prism. Though he writes from a Christian perspective, he touches the human soul without regard to doctrine. Writing primarily about life’s later stages and the life of elders, Nouwen talks a lot about “letting go.” It’s a powerful message for me as I let go of one bar and look for the next one ahead of me.

In one section of the book, Nouwen offers a selection of vignettes under the heading of “Aging as a Way to the Light.” So often, our visions of the latter part and the end of life, are shrouded in darkness. In a bril shift, Henri Nouwen makes it about light and speaks of the importance of hop, humor and vision. These themes spoke powerfully to me as I look for where I might share my light and benefit from that of others.  Some examples of what has brought light to the path for me:

“Every time life asks us to give up a desire, to change our direction, or redefine our goals; every time…. we start a new plan, we are invited to widen our perspectives and to touch, under the superficial waves of our daily wishes, the deeper currents of hope.” Yes, I thought. These words I want to carry with me in the months and years ahead.”

“I have found it very important in my own life to try to let go of my wishes and instead to live in hope. I am finding that when I choose to let go of my sometimes petty and superficial wishes and trust that my life is precious and meaningful in the eyes of God something really new, something beyond my own expectations begins to happen for me.”

And finally, “Humor is knowledge with a soft smile.”  As I read these words I thought about how often I could have used those words in recent months, even as I mark them so I can recall them on the journey forward.

Summer marches on. I still have many books on the pile I yet hope to tackle. Each one – fun, serious, thought-provoking – offers its gifts for this season of renewal and introspection.

May the “rest” of summer bring you hope, humor, and vision!

Wanted: A New Reality

I’m no technophobe.  Yet, as comfortable as I may be with our ever-expanding digital world, I’ll never be what my friend and colleague, Rabbi Neil Hirsch calls a “digital native.” I was an early user of America Online, back in the days of dial-up modems that ran at 300 baud (I’ll let you look that up on Google.) I was an early owner of a VCR back in the day. I was even able occasionally to successfully program it to record something I was going to miss. I’d watch it “later.” Later came to mean countless tapes I never got around to watching. I am playing some "catch up" this summer as I’m finally watching The West Wing. I can’t count the number of friends who’d told me that I’d love it. I even purchased the complete series on DVD when it came out, which one of my sons quickly made off with. So I’m seizing the moment. I am deep in Season 2 – and I am loving it - for more reasons than the simple artistry of this highly acclaimed television series. The writing is smart, and the acting is excellent. It’s no surprise that the series garnered over 275 nominations and won almost 90 awards. Better late than never – I’m catching up.

I am enjoying The West Wing for more than its artistry. As this summer and my viewing winds on, this fictitious American reality is better and more tolerable than the real one in our nation’s capital and our current Administration. This series, which went off the air in 2006, is proving its staying power and it’s strengthening my faith in our long-running experiment in democracy. As I traveled abroad this summer, spending time in Prague, Krakow, Warsaw and Israel, it was interesting to listen to folks living in the cities I visited share their perceptions of our country and our President. It was often not pretty. I did not hear much admiration. My casual interactions, as well as my time with longtime friends who cover a broad spectrum of opinions, were no echo chamber. Neither have I been isolating myself since returning home. If anything, I have broadened the scope of my online news sources. In the less than two weeks that I have been back home in Massachusetts, I find myself surrounded by disbelief as we seem to keep sinking to new lows. I no longer leave the tv tuned to one or another news channel as background noise. DVDs and online streaming are providing me with alternatives which cushion me from the bizarre reality that is our government in the summer of 2017. At least when the credits role, I know I’m watching fiction. But too much of today’s true reality is beyond incredible. And yet, it is reality.

Last summer, when I launched this new blog, I stated that I had "chosen to launch this new Blog on which I can more freely share my musings, thoughts and questions, in ways which might be inappropriate on a site linked to my congregation.” At this point last summer, I remember trying to wrap my brain around the reality of our current president as the nominee of one of our two major political parties for our nation’s highest office. I wrote last summer about Maurice Ogden’s poem, “The Hangman” as a cautionary message for our time. I mused about how far a candidate could stretch the boundaries of our political system. I wondered then, and still wonder now: How far can the limits of what is tolerable and intolerable, or what is true and what is a lie, be extended? It’s now a year later. I am still thinking about what I wrote a year ago as I paraphrased the Hangman’s words to his final victim, for whom there was no one left to turn. They still echo loudly in my ears: “They have done no more than we’ve let them do!” 

I am trying hard not to view this through the prism of Republicans, Democrats, and Independents; women and men; gay or straight – and I could go on . . . At what point do we rise up and declare that our President’s words and actions are unacceptable? How low will we allow our stature as a proud nation to go before we cry, “Enough?”  A year ago, I could not imagine the reality in which we find ourselves. I was not alone then and I know I am still not alone. I am alarmed at the lessons our children may be learning from the behaviors of our Administrations, and many of our elected officials. I am concerned by our President’s words and actions. I am concerned about where he will yet take us given the power inherent in his office, and the reality that being created daily through his words and tweets.

It’s still summer. We all seek a bit of escape in summer, at the beach, in the mountains, in books and at the movies. My summer escape is being fed (and nourished) by The West Wing. But as a nation we can ill afford total escape. Our reality is too fragile and too important to continue unfettered. May we – and our leaders in our nation’s capital awaken – now, before reality is too far gone for rescue.

The Ache in My Heart

It has been nice coming home - to the US, to Massachusetts, to the Eisner Camp community, and most especially, home to my family. My three plus weeks in Europe and Israel were terrific. But it’s a long time to be away.

Yet, even in coming home, there is some unsettling in my heart and soul. I left Jerusalem and Israel just days after the events at the Temple Mount in Jerusalem’s Old City erupted. Now, a bit over a week later, I find myself anxiously reading the news from Israel. As happy as I am to be home, I also feel a little like I’ve abandoned my friends and family in the cauldron that is Jerusalem in these days.  In my final days in Jerusalem I could feel the tension rising.  My apartment-mate, Rabbi Howard Jaffe, and I heeded the warnings to avoid the Old City. We’d planned a visit for our final days but understood that the authorities were eager to keep anyone who did not “need” to be there away. For both of us this was likely our first time in Jerusalem without even a brief visit to the Old City.

Now I watch from a distance and my heart aches. The precipitating incident, in which three Israeli Arabs charged out of the Temple Mount complex guns blazing, and their murder of two Israeli Police officers was horrific. For Israeli security forces to pursue the attackers should make sense in any civilized society. The subsequent decision, to place metal detectors at the entrance to the plateau, sacred to both Jews and Muslims, seemed sensible. But it is not uncommon for the seemingly sensible to make no sense in the volatility of the Middle East. One colleague left Israel to travel with his family in Italy before returning home. In a post on Facebook a few days later he captured a bit of the irony and complexity of making sense in a perplexing place: “A little reminder to my cousins protesting on the Temple Mount. (I’m) visiting the Vatican today. They have 4 Million visitors every year. Each one passes through a metal detector. Each one.” Additional security in the aftermath of a terrorist attack might seem sensible. But Jerusalem and its Holy sites may be exempt from sensibility. It’s hard to listen to a seeming lack of perspective about security needs at that holy site. But I am watching from my perspective, a Jewish, pro-Israel perspective.

Since my return I have been engrossed in reading my teacher, Micah Goodman’s newest book, Milkud-67. In English, this translates as “Catch 67.” I first heard Micah address the topic with the group I brought to the Hartman Institute in December during our Israel trip. I heard him speak at greater length in Jerusalem a few weeks ago. I set myself the goal of reading his book once home - an exercise in both expanding my Hebrew skills and reading this important addition to the ongoing debate over Israel-Palestine and the future in that tense region. Just this morning, I was reading Micah’s analysis of the conflict through the prism of early Zionist history. Though in this morning’s chapter he was only discussing the divides in the Israeli community, in his "Introduction" he makes it clear that he sees divides on both sides of the conflict.

Sadly the events of the past 10 days have thrown the conflict into a more complicated and fragile state. The precipitating act was one of violence initiated by Arabs against Israeli police officers (who ironically were Druze - a cognate faith group related to Islam.) Yet, the outcry from the Palestinian leadership, and Arab leaders more broadly, seems to ignore that fact. The silence from Palestinian and other Arab leaders about the heinous attack on a family sitting to Shabbat dinner in their home this past Friday night is also difficult to comprehend.  Furthermore, it is also a sad commentary on the state of affairs in our own country, that our president seems to be oblivious to the events of the past ten days. While the Administration is involved, I still want to believe that we can expect moral leadership in the face of world events from our top leader.

Daily I pray that the spiral of events can be brought under control. No one in that fragile place needs the sacrifice of more blood and lives. While I do not presume to have “the answer” to this current violent episode, I pray that the leaders - on all sides will bring the best of their thinking and leadership to calming the city, the region, and the peoples who share it.  In the meantime, my heart aches and breaks as events continue to spiral. While I am thrilled be at home with my family, there is a part of me keenly focused on where I have been.

Micah Goodman writes in the Introduction to Catch-67, our Rabbis teach that “Torah scholars increase the peace in the world.”  He notes, that they are not meant to create that peace, but through their actions, to increase it. Micah writes that it may be time to give up on the notion of complete peace and focus on how we increase peace. May all who so desperately need greater peace find it – through the actions of our leaders, through their own individual actions, and through what I continue to pray will be a more broadly held commitment to increasing the peace.

Taking a Walk

“I want you to go for a walk with someone you wish could be at your side.”  That was the instruction. It was Day 3, maybe 4, of my week at Kripalu with Jack Kornfield in January 2014. I’d been struggling with this notion of "Walking Meditation."  Each day had been a blend of teaching mixed with various forms and durations of meditation. As instructed, at various points each day, I walked the hallways of the main building at Kripalu. The ground outside was frozen, covered in snow and ice.  Most of us chose to do our Walking Meditation in the hallways. Each time we were sent forth to walk, I set out anew, trying hard to lower my gaze, focus on my breath and to keep my balance all at the same time. Each dose of Walking Meditation was a struggle.  The sitting practice was fine.  As the week went along, I was, more often than not, “in the zone.”  But the Walking was challenging. Now you want me to share the walk with another!?!  “It can be someone you knew, someone you would like to be with.  It can be an historical figure you wish you had met. Go, take a walk.”

I returned to the hallway and set out. With whom would I share this walk? Step, breath, where’s the wall? Am I too close to the person walking in front of me?  It seemed just like the same challenging walk of the days before. Suddenly, I felt a presence.  Something in me had summoned Rabbi Hillel.  I’m not sure why. I'd been hearing stories about this larger-than-life first century Rabbi since childhood.  And I’ve been telling some of those same stories during over the years I’ve served as a rabbi. Okay, I’m walking. I’m breathing. And it seems I am not alone. I figured as long as we were walking together, I should ask some questions.  Frankly I don’t really remember what they were. I only know that having Rabbi Hillel by my side seemed to make the walking easier.  Was that it?  Did I need an “imaginary friend,” a companion to divert my attention from the mechanics to help it make sense?  I still don’t know.  Yet, along we walked, down and back, down and back.  One aspect of that week of meditation was that it helped me be less conscious of time. I found I was more focused on my breath and letting my thoughts “pass like clouds in the sky.”  Maybe the old salt is true, “practice makes . . .”  No, not perfect, but better.

After decades of studying Jewish tradition, I felt privileged, as if I had actually been granted an audience with a major figure of this tradition which is so precious to me. Then it happened. Something shifted. I could not understand how, or why.  I only remember that suddenly Rabbi Hillel was no longer by my side. I wasn’t sure whether he had fallen a few steps behind, or whether he gone off to grab some coffee downstairs.  Yet, I was still not alone.  Another Rabbi, another cherished teacher had taken Hillel’s place.  It took a few moments. Then I realized I was now walking alongside my cherished teacher, Rabbi David Hartman z”l.  I knew in my gut that Reb Dovid, as we called him, could not really be at my side. He’d died 11 months earlier. Was it really any more fantastic to imagine Hillel at my side who’d died two millennia ago, than someone who I actually knew and had only been dead not quite a year? Step, breath, balance . . . step, breath, balance. Having found some level of comfort I was determined to keep going as long as I could. Or at least until the bell rang for us to return to the main hall.

Walking with Reb Dovid was different from walking with Rabbi Hillel. With Rabbi Hillel I asked the questions. Reb Dovid was a different story.  I guess I knew that would be the case once I noticed him. I'd first heard Rabbi David Hartman speak sometime in the Spring of 1977. I remember little of what he said, but I can conjure that moment and the impression he'd made on me. Fast-forward to Summer 2004.  I'd come to Israel to spend two weeks at the Shalom Hartman Institute as part of their annual Rabbinic Torah Seminar. Who should turn out to be the elder statesman of the Institute? Rabbi David Hartman. I’d heard his name over the years.  I'd read some of his books.  But here he was. We both looked 30 years older.  But his passion and dynamism took me right back to the stadium at K’far Maccabee.

A few years later I was invited to participate in the Institute’s more intensive 3-year Rabbinic Leadership Initiative. At K’far Maccabee I sat amongst thousands. At the Summer Rabbinic  Seminars I have sat amongst 150-200 rabbinic colleagues. Now I was suddenly one of 27 rabbis sitting at Reb Dovid’s feet, where we relished sitting over the three years of our RLI experience.  To be sure, those years brought me face-to-face with some of the most influential and impactful teachers with whom I have ever studied. Though he was increasingly in failing health, Reb Dovid was, nonetheless, still the elder statesman of this Institute he'd founded in his father’s memory in the late 1970s. Sadly, Reb Dovid died just days after our group left Jerusalem following our third and final Winter session at the Institute.  The following summer would mark our graduation from the program. He would not be there as we marked our transition to a different place in the life of the Institute which would now and forever be different for the absence of its founder and elder statesman, Rabbi David Hartman z”l.

And there I was in  January 2014, walking the halls of Kripalu, with my teacher, Reb Dovid by my side. I don’t know if he pushed Hillel aside, or if Hillel invited him to take a turn. I do know, the dynamic of my walking meditation experience changed. I was no longer asking the questions.  It was Reb Dovid’s turn, and he really only had one question for me. “Eric,” he began. I was never quite sure he even knew my name. But walking down that hall he certainly knew who I was. “Eric, what’s your Torah?”  “Excuse me, Reb Dovid?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I had heard him correctly. I was so conscious, not only of his presence, but also of my breathing, my gaze and my steps.  I certainly did not want to stumble and fall against my elderly teacher, whose own walking was not all that stable.  “Eric,” he repeated.  “What’s your Torah?”  “What’s my Torah?” I echoed.  I opened my mouth and began to answer.  At least I think I did. Then suddenly someone gently struck the meditation bell signaling that it was time to return to the Great Hall, to our cushions, and to our learning with Jack Kornfield.

“What’s my Torah Reb Dovid?”  If I’m honest with myself, I have spent over 34 years as a rabbi wrestling with that question. But that day at Kripalu, I really felt my teacher asking me. I don’t know if we will ever have the chance to walk together again. But whenever and wherever I walk, whenever and wherever I teach, you are with me. You are with me, along with all the the incredible, dynamic teachers you allowed me to meet and learn with, including your son Donniel.  Indeed I'd practically forgotten about that day until just a week ago, at this summer's Rabbinic Seminar, Donniel asked us all, "What's your Torah?" That walk came right back to me. You are all a part of the Torah I am forming into words as my Torah. I only pray that as my journey takes a new pivot the Holy One grants me the time to make sense of it, that I might share it with others with one percent of the passion, intellect and soul with which you, my teachers, have shared your Torah with us!

From Zeal to Zealotry

In the opening of yesterday’s Torah portion, Parshat Pinchas, we read: “The Eternal spoke to Moses, saying, “Pinchas, son of Eleazar son of Aaron the priest, has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I did not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion. Say, therefore, ‘I grant him My pact of friendship. It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time, because he took impassioned action for his God, thus making expiation for the Israelites.’ ” (Num. 25:10-13)

This passage has long puzzled commentators.  The Torah states that Pinchas is rewarded with Brit shalom – God’s eternal covenant of peace (which JPS translates as “pact of friendship”).  Some see in Pinchas’ actions bravery, courage and valor.  Others see it as an act of zealotry, in which Pinchas arrogated to himself the role of judge, jury and executioner as he killed the Israelite Zimri, and his Midianite consort, Cozbi. As the highly regarded medieval French commentator Rashi often says, “this passage cries out – darshaini – “Explain me!”

I was reminded of this passage more than once over the two weeks since I arrived in Israel. No matter which way Pinchas’ actions are read, for good or as an act of arrogance, they are always linked with the concept of zeal, or zealotry. One dictionary defines zeal as “fervor for a person, cause, or object.” Zealotry as “fanatical and uncompromising pursuit of religious, political, or other ideals; fanaticism.”  I suppose that one’s view will almost always be based on one’s perspective or views.

I believe that we have seen more than a few examples of abundant zeal, and even zealotry in recent weeks.  I’ll mention just two.  I’m not equating them per se. I offer these two as a reminder that zealotry comes in different forms.  (I could easily select other examples from home in the US.) The first follows upon actions taken by Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu in cancelling the agreement from nearly 18 months ago wherein a compromise was struck regarding access to the Kotel (Western Wall) for Jewish streams from across the spectrum, from liberal to orthodox.  In face of a threat by his Ultra-Orthodox coalition partners to leave the government and thereby cause it’s collapse, Netanyahu cancelled the agreement. Coincident with that decision, leaders of the Haredi community pushed forward with a bill to change Israeli law as regards conversion to Judaism. There has been a ramping up of denouncements of Reform and Conservatives from haredi leaders. A week or so ago a “Black List” of Diaspora Rabbis, compiled by the office of Israel’s Chief Rabbi from around the globe was published. Some of my colleagues have taken umbrage that they were not included on the list. Others have declared the list meaningless. Virtually all of us see these actions as a form of religious zealotry in which the Ultra-Orthodox community here in Israel is attempting to consolidate its political clout and arrogate to themselves all decisions as regard all Jews, wherever they may live. This string of pronouncements and acts have driven a deep wedge into the heart of our Jewish people. How we step back from this precipice, or can we do so, remains to be seen. In spite of the cause, and potential outcome as regards the Kotel and the Conversion bill, I do take some comfort that an unusually broad coalition of Jewish organizations, who often find themselves at odds, have in this instance aligned to prevent this from going any further.

Zeal and zealotry are hardly limited to the realm of words and pronouncements.  This past Friday, like the Israelis around me  I was stunned to learn of the horrific events in and around the Temple Mount in Jerusalem’s Old City.  Three Arab-Israeli cousins from the Israeli-Arab village of Umm al-Fahm, burst out of the Temple Mount complex guns blazing. They killed two Israeli Border Police officers and wounded another. Israeli police officers responded quickly and ultimately cornered and killed the attackers who’d fled back into the Temple Mount complex from which they launched their attack in the first place.  The initial terrorist act has rattled Israelis – Jews and many Arabs.  There is an uneasy pall today as the Temple Mount complex will be reopened for Muslim worshippers.  I’ll leave the varying responses from Israel’s Arab neighbors, the Arab League and others aside for this moment. Certainly we can debate what caused these three young men to act as they did. But what they did was an act of terrorism. The Israeli police below the Temple Mount complex were doing their job in responding to their attack. There seems to be some evidence that the three Arab cousins sought to ignite a broader Middle Eastern conflict by their actions. There is can be no question that this awful chapter was set in motion by the zealotry of three cousins from an Israeli-Arab city.  These were not attackers from beyond Israel’s borders but rather Israeli-Arab citizens.  Only time will tell whether Israeli, Palestinian and other leaders can calm the waters and use this moment as a possible opening to addressing the ongoing grievances of both sides, or if a new round of violence is about to erupt. I pray for peace and calm with leadership on all sides.

Zeal and zealotry have been a part of the human behavioral and attitudinal repertoire for a long time. Yesterday’s Torah reading is a reminder of that.  Be it the Ultra-Orthodox Rabbis here in Israel, young Arab men from an Israeli-Arab town, or even political leaders here in in Israel or back home in the US, there must be a way to channel passions so they do not cross the line from zeal to zealotry.

One last note:  Commenting on Pinchas’ act, my colleague Rabbi Micky Boyden from Hod HaSharon here in Israel, responding to recents events notes: On the face of it, Pinchas is awarded with "a covenant of peace" (b'rit shalom) for his act of religious zealotry. However,” in the Babylonian Talmud, “Rav Nachman points out that the Vav in the word "shalom" is broken in the middle because Pinchas was not shalem (whole) but chasseyr (lacking). The same can be said of Israel's religious and political establishment, but our love of Israel is not conditional upon their behavior.”

In the aftermath of these recent weeks, we as a people are not shaleym – we are not whole. That’s not exactly new. But we need to find a way towards a great sense of wholeness with and in regard to one another – as a Jewish people, as co-inhabitants of this fragile planet, and its nations.

A Breath of Fresh Air

It had been almost two weeks since I’d left home. My anticipation had been building towards my first Shabbat in Jerusalem in quite a while. With only one Jerusalem-based Shabbat this time I felt my choices weighing on me. Where to go? In which worship community should I place myself in order for my soul and spirit to be nourished.  I miss the days when my summer Jerusalem stays included three or even four Shabbatot.  Then I could float around to various synagogues and communities, as if I were at a buffet.  Rather than gorging myself on just one taste sensation, I could mix it up.

Last Friday night I chose to return to Zion, a congregation I'd only visited once before. It was in Summer 2014 that I’d heard the buzz about Zion.  Friends told me, “it’s warm and the singing is incredible.” In the interim, I've become a supporter of this community and even shared copies of their recent CD which features many of the melodies which have been composed for the congregation.

In the days leading up to last Friday friends suggested that Zion would be mobbed – it was.  Some warned me it would be stiflingly hot – it was not.  I arrived about 15 minutes into the singing. With not one empty seat in the hall I stood on steps for about 30 minutes until a seat did open up.  Seated, I found myself able to close my eyes, and focus on my breath and the community’s voice. It was a powerful worship experience, as were the messages shared at strategic points in the worship by a member of the congregation, the community’s Rabbi, Tamar Elad-Applebaum, and a rabbi visiting from California. For me, one pivotal moment came as we were singing the traditional Kabbalat Shabbat piyyut (liturgical poem), L’cha Dodi. The poem was written by Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz, one of the pillars of the Kabbalistic (Jewish mystical) community situated in 16th century Tzfat. It is custom in synagogues around the world that for the final stanza the congregation rises and faces the entrance, symbolically welcoming Shabbat HaMalka (the Sabbath Bride) into the midst of a community ready to fully enter Shabbat. As we stood and turned I felt a sudden rush of air pouring through the open windows. It was refreshing. It was invigorating.  Coupled with the exuberant sound of the community singing powerfully, I could not help but feel as if that rush of air was the Sabbath Bride herself entering and greeting each one of us in the room. As I left  a short while later, making my way to the home where I’d been invited to Shabbat dinner, I felt light and buoyant.  A spirit was carrying me from worship to dinner.

Shabbat morning found me at another synagogue I love to visit when I am in Jerusalem. I was first introduced to Shira Chadasha (“a New Song”) in 2004.  Now, I try to make it to this community at least once whenever I am in Jerusalem. Shira Chadasha meets in a community center in Jerusalem’s German Colony.  They have no rabbi, or other staff as far as I can tell.  They gather on Shabbat and Holy Days for worship, as well as at points during the week for study. I can truly say that Shira Chadasha is the Orthodox congregation in which I have felt most comfortable in all my years of worshipping in such settings. Both men and women take part in leading the worship, carrying and chanting from the Torah, and delivering the week’s D’var Torah (homiletical interpretation of the week’s Torah reading.)   The singing is invigorating, and the community is welcoming, even to those of us who only visit when we are in town.

As this week’s end approaches Shabbat is again on the horizon. I eagerly looking forward to welcoming Shabbat at the Port of Tel Aviv with Beyt Tefillah Yisraeli.  I have been attending their Shabbat evening services for many years – in the summer months on the Promenade in the port; and otherwise at a nearby community center.  When Beyt Tefillah gathers in the Port, it’s not uncommon for there to be between 700-1000 folks who join the gathering. The last summer I spent here, 2014, due to the War with Gaza, and the countless missile launchings from Gaza large public gatherings were prohibited.  I am eager to see this tapestry of Israelis and others gathering to joyous celebrate lie, its blessings, and Shabbat in its outdoor setting.

Set against the backdrop of tensions surrounding the Kotel (the Western Wall) and the proposed change in the Conversion Law (about which I will write in the days ahead) the spirit and vitality I find in these, and other uniquely Israeli communities is inspiring. Worshipping in these unique Israeli congregations, I find a sense of the thirst of Israelis who do not wish to be forced into worship experiences that do not speak to them.  Rather than simply staying away, there are a growing number of Israelis and Israeli congregations exploring and expressing their Jewish identity in ways that speak to them.

Maybe it was the Sabbath Bride’s gust I felt last Shabbat at Zion.  Or maybe it was the fresh air that is coursing through ever-growing segments of Israel’s Jewish communities. Either way, it felt good!

Keyn yirbu – May they continue to increase.

Today

At the remains of the Mila 18 bunker 

What a difference a day makes! Right?

Yesterday, the NFTYites and I awoke in a chilly, rainy Warsaw. We spent a full day visiting important sites and learning about the history of Warsaw’s Jewish community and the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.  Along with a new friend, I was also treated to some sites then group did not visit, including the main Synagogue in Warsaw. At day’s end we headed off to the airport for our overnight flight to Israel.  This morning we arrived in a hot and humid Israel.

Before leaving the Warsaw, I sat with another of the Eisner groups to listen in as they unpacked, not only their visit to Warsaw, but their entire Eastern European experience.  Yet again I found myself deeply touched and inspired by their words.  They reflected on Prague and Terezin, Krakow, Auschwitz-Birkenau, and the many stories of horror and courage they heard along the way. They recalled specific moments and they remembered stories they’d heard. One young man called the experience “humbling.”  I dare say that few, if any, among the 79 Eisner participants, not to mention the other 140 others in our larger contingent left Eastern Europe the same people they were just a week ago when we touched down at the Prague Airport.

Over the final days of our visit, especially while we were at Auschwitz-Birkenau, I found myself recalling a poem by Avraham Shlonsky which was in the Gates of Prayer as a part of the liturgy for Yom HaShoah. It’s called “The Oath” --

In the presence of eyes

which witnessed the slaughter, 

which saw the oppression the heart could not bear, 

and as witness the heart that once taught compassion 

until the days came to pass 

that crushed human feeling. 

I have taken an oath: 

To remember it all, 

to remember, not once to forget! 

Forget not one thing to the last generation 

when the degradation shall cease, 

to the last, to its ending, 

when the rod of instruction shall have come to conclusion. 

An oath: 

Not in vain passed over 

The night of the terror. 

An oath: 

No morning shall see me

At flesh-pots again. 

An oath: 

Lest from this we learned nothing.

I had wished I’d had those words at our closing Tekes (ceremony) at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I was only able to recall the ending, which I shared.  I have little doubt that the young people with whom I had the privilege to share this pilgrimage will not forget what they have seen and learned.  Surely facts and details will slip from memory. Yet, I have faith that their hearts and souls, as well as their identity as Jews, committed Jews, has been deepened.  I pray that they – and I – will not only remember, but will weave what we have learned into the fabric of our lives, “lest from this we learned nothing.”

Today, my young friends are resting near Tel Aviv. I am sitting in one of my favorite cafes in Jerusalem as I await the start of my ten days of study at the Shalom Hartman Institute with some 150 rabbinic colleagues and some of the most important teachers I have ever had.  Tomorrow, our studies will plunge us into Israeli and Jewish history – and unavoidably the conflicts which are erupting all around our people, both here in Israel and at home in North America.  There’s so much work to do.  That’s for tomorrow and the days to come.

Today I sit and process the past week. As Miles Stern, an Eisner participant from my home congregation put it in our closing circle: The question we must ask ourselves is, “what impact has this experience had on how we see the Holocaust?” It was a magnificent reframe of the question put to our teens. Indeed, how has this experience impacted these young people – and I ask myself as well.  As I shared with the group, the answer lies partly in how that impact and that answer guides us as we live in this complicated world.

Tomorrow will come. Today, as it was a few days, ago I am feeling uplifted and hopeful from the time I spent with these magnificent young people. I am especially grateful to have shared this experience with many young people I have shared other experiences with over the years at camp. (I hope to see many of them back at camp on Yom Olim in August – if not on Jerusalem’s pedestrian mall at the end of Shabbat later this week.) For today, I send them the sweetest of wishes for the adventures that lie ahead as they travel Israel over the coming four weeks.

Tomorrow

June 25th at JFK

I spent this evening with a group of nearly 40 Eisner Camp teens and their counselors, as we prepared for tomorrow’s visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau.  I was profoundly moved by tonight’s conversations: first about pictures, facts and quotes related to the Holocaust; and ultimately by the profound sensitivity, thought and feelings expressed as we went around the circle sharing whatever each person wished to share. We sat together, on the eve of what I can only imagine will be a profoundly moving, disturbing and unforgettable visit.  As Mai, the senior group leader told the teens, “Later this summer we will visit what is often called the lowest place on earth, the Dead Sea. But,” Mai explained, “I think tomorrow we will visit the lowest place on earth.”

I shared with the group that I have been anticipating this day for longer than any of them, staff included, have been alive. I explained that tomorrow’s visit is particularly meaningful for me for two reasons beyond the visit itself. The first is the reality that all four of my own children have been to Auschwitz-Birkenau on trips with NFTY and their Eisner friends. Two of my children have visited twice.  For as much as I have studied, read and taught about the Shoah, I have been unable to fully understand what my own children shared with me and their mother following their visits.  Tomorrow I will be able to speak with my children about our experiences and reactions in an entirely new light.

The second reason is because of the roles that Eisner Camp and my own NFTY experiences played in my decision to pursue the rabbinate. I shared with them that I am honored, and even comforted, to be making this visit with this group of Eisner Camp travelers. I have known many of these young people over the years as I have been a member of the Eisner faculty.  As I told them, “I feel privileged to make this visit with them.”

In the "Secret Synagogue" at Terezin

That second reason holds yet another meaning for me which I did not share in our circle. Tomorrow is June 30th.  It marks my last official day as Senior Rabbi of my congregation where I have had the joy and privilege of serving for 18 years.  While there will yet be a path forward within the congregation, that lies down the road. As tomorrow comes and goes, I close one chapter of my rabbinate as I anticipate with curiosity and excitement the next chapter, which I will begin to write in the coming year.  For me to close this chapter as a chaperone and rabbi-in-residence with this summer’s NFTY L’Dor VaDor participants brings me back, in a very tangible way, to the way in which my rabbinic journey began as I entered the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion to begin my studies in 1978.

Earlier today at "Schindler's Factory"

These have been difficult months, and even years, in our world.  I cannot think about tomorrow’s visit without thinking about some of the horrors other people are experiencing our world today. Listening to the young people with whom I sat in a darkened room, as one-by-one we shared our thoughts about tomorrow was uplifting. So many times as the 39 teens shared what was in their hearts, on the eve of our visit to darkness, I felt hope and found light. None of them were denying what lies ahead in tomorrow's itinerary. But so many spoke about how this week (really only four days so far) in Eastern Europe has caused them to reconsider what it means to be a Jew. So many spoke of how they are certain that so much they have taken for granted, they will now approach mindfully and willingly. I cannot possibly fully express the gratitude I feel – to NFTY, to Eisner Camp – and to our young people for allowing me to share this journey with them, and for the words they spoke which cause a great sense of hope for tomorrow. Not tomorrow as June 30th, with all it holds, and all it means (including on a very personal level.) I am speaking of tomorrow as these young people continue their journeys, and take their place and leaders and active members of our Jewish communities. We are blessed!

Closer to the Edge

Some months ago I made a somewhat dramatic decision. After 36 years serving as a congregational rabbi, I decided to step out of that role (which I've now held in my current community for eighteen years.)  It was almost as if something was pushing me, or perhaps pulling me. I felt a calling to explore a different path, to write a different chapter before I finally settle into retirement, which is a good ways off.  Yet I was feeling the need to grow in a new direction, that I might yet have something new to share in a different way.

Around the time that my decision became public, a friend, also a rabbi who had faced a similar crossroad in his own life some years back, shared a piece he’d found helpful during his transition. It’s by Danaan Perry and is entitled “The Parable of the Trapeze: Turning the Fear of Transformation into the Transformation of Fear.”  I read it, and found that Perry had described my inner landscape quite accurately.

Now it’s early May and June 30^th is on the horizon.  I just finished a coffee visit with a young man whom I’d first met when I came to my congregation 18 years ago.  In the ensuing years, I have officiated his Confirmation, his sister’s Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation; his wedding and the naming of his now 1-year old daughter. He asked me about my role and availability for future life cycles.  That's a puzzle yet to be solved. I assured him that I am not leaving Boston and the broader community that has become home over these 18 years. While my role will change, relationships are the stuff of which successful ministry (and living for that matter) are made. Change is inevitable.  As I clear out my study at the synagogue, discarding files I’ve accumulated over 36

years, and giving away or donating books I will no longer have space for, I’m not discarding the people with whom I have life’s ups and downs.  When we meet again, the terms and context will be different.

For months I’ve been joking when asked about my plans that “As of July 1^st I have nothing on my calendar . . . for the rest of my life.”  That’s not entirely true.  I have some teaching gigs. There a number of active conversations about roles I may yet play elsewhere in the broader community in the year (or years?) ahead.  And I have already begun laying the groundwork for a study project which may evolve into a Scholar gig I might one day offer, or even a book.  I find myself looking forward with incredible optimism. I’m also looking around, and occasionally backwards, with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the people and opportunities who have been so much a part of focus of my life over these 36 years.

I’m nearing the edge of the platform.  My hands are about to grasp the bar I will use to leap from the comfortable perch which has been my professional life for a long time.  I don’t quite see the next bar out there ahead of me.  Rather I see a myriad of possibilities and, I pray, opportunities which will enable me to grow as a person, a husband, father and now grandfather.  And yes, I hope, to grow as a rabbi. These have been months of letting go and refocusing. The true journey hasn’t yet even begun.  But it’s close now. 

The thing that has sustained me more than anything else, along with my family’s love and support,

has been my spiritual practice, Mussar.  It nurtures me and calls me to work at strengthening the traits of my soul: humility, respect, gratitude, and so many more.  And among the Mussar soul-traits upon which I have been focused, it’s bitachon (trust) and emunah (faith) that have helped me steady my feet, my mind and prepare for the leap with a sense that in ways I do not yet know or understand, my hands will yet rest on another bar which will carry me to my new place in the community.

What Will Your Question Be?

The preparations had been going on for weeks: shopping, eating up the remaining bread products, the annual spring cleaning of the pantry, refrigerator and freezer; and the schlepping of dishes, pots, pans and miscellaneous gear up from the basement. 

The tables had been set for days. Then there’s the cooking, baking, and more cooking – it started weeks ago. Out-of-town family have arrived. Friends and our children would soon arrive.  Passover, or Pesach as it is known in Hebrew, is upon us. 

A few days ago, I was reviewing our new Haggadah (the special book used as the script, as it were, for the Passover Seder.) This year’s is a new one written by a friend and rabbinic colleague from Israel. Yet it wasn’t just the reality of a new book for this year’s Seder that held my attention. It was a line in the text of the Haggadah narrative that caught me. In Exodus chapter 12 we read: This day shall be to you one of remembrance: you shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord throughout the ages; you shall celebrate it as an institution for all time. Seven days you shall eat unleavened bread . . .“Yocu shall observe this as an institution for all time, for you and for your descendants. . . And when you enter the land . . . you shall observe this rite. And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this rite?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to Adonai, because God passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt . . .”

“And when your children ask you . . .” This is the basis of so much of the ritual which will be observed in Jewish homes the world over. Each year I invite those at our Seder to add their own questions to those handed down for nearly two millennia, and known as “the Four Questions.” Each year, the questions are fascinating, often shaped by the state of the world in which we are living. (I can only imagine what this evening’s query will bring!) 

Those words, “And when your children ask,” takes on new meaning for our family, for at this year’s Seder, for the very first time in my life, four generations of Gurvis family members will be seated. As I held my one-month old grandson Ian the other day, I wondered, “What will you ask me? What will your ask your parents in years to come? Tonight, perhaps we’ll hear a squeal or a coo from Ian, which I will undoubtedly interpret as his question as the youngest person at the table. According to the rabbis who framed this entire ritual nearly two millennia ago, it is that question which is necessary to kick off the retelling.

Tonight’s gathering will have a deeper meaning than any before. To be blessed with the first of an entirely new generation is surely a moment to savor. As we rejoice in our celebration of freedom, we will reflect on the lessons of Passover for us this year: the plight of refugees, the degradation of human beings in so many corners of our world, ongoing enslavement in many forms, and so much more. 

I, for one, will be reflecting on words I spoke to my grandson when I first held him a bit over a month ago. As I held him close, I whispered, “Ian, we are so thrilled to welcome you. I am sorry for the state of the world into which you have been born. But you and I are going to do something to change that.”