Velveteen Rabbi

In this week’s Torah portion Hukat, the prophet Miriam dies and the people have no water. They rise up against Moshe in anger. God tells Moshe to speak to a rock so that it will give them water. Moshe snaps at the people and hits the rock instead. (Hold that thought.). Water is often a metaphor for Torah herself: the wellspring of wisdom and inspiration that nourishes us. Through that lens, the loss of Miriam and her well means a kind of loss of Torah.

Miriam’s death means losing access to the spiritual flow of blessing that enlivens us. Grief can make us feel as though our access to that flow has been turned off. I imagine that grief is part of why Moshe made such poor choices here. The wise traditions of shiva offer us time away from work to feel our way through our grief, but Moshe doesn’t seem to take time off: he’s immediately faced with the people’s demands, and he responds to them… not well. 

Because Moshe acted out – speaking angrily to the people and hitting the rock with a stick, instead of speaking gently to it – God declares that Moshe will not enter the Land of Promise. Many commentators wonder, is it really fair to deny Moshe the chance to make it to the place he’s spent forty years trying to reach?! But this year, this passage feels to me like a teaching about how the journey toward the land of promise is perennial. 

The critical word here is toward. Like Moshe, we’re journeying toward promises that were made to our ancestors and their ancestors before them. Like Moshe, we may not “get there” in our lifetime. But that doesn’t mean we don’t keep trying. Every step we take toward our ideals is one step closer to where we want to be and where we want our children to be. This year, this parsha makes me think about our nation as a land of promise – the promise of liberty and justice for all. 

Our ideals matter, and so do the means by which we pursue them. Torah reminds us that anger and violence don’t get us closer to the promise of a better world. Instead we need to lift each other up with kindness and curiosity and humility. That’s how we tap into the life-giving waters that can nourish us on the journey toward embodying our ideals. We might never reach those ideals, but what matters is that we keep aiming toward them.

Just now I chanted some familiar lines in haftarah trope, the melody system we use for the Prophets: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all [human beings] are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  All human beings are created equal. All means all: no class of human beings is superior to any other, no matter our skin color or gender or birthplace.

Human rights are unalienable: impossible to take away or give up. And among these fundamental rights are our lives, our freedom, and our capacity to pursue meaning. Everyone deserves these: this is one of the core ideals on which our nation was built. We have not yet lived up to that ideal. When our nation began, rights were extended only to white men. To varying degrees, women and people of color were considered to be the white men’s property.

We’ve come a long way, but our work is not done. People with a uterus can no longer choose reproductive health care in many states. The right to birthright citizenship is also at risk. (Historian Heather Cox Richardson explains that history.) The right to due process is at risk, especially for immigrants or for people of color mistakenly assumed to be immigrants. Programs like Medicaid and food security programs, on which many depend, are now very much at risk. 

Granted, health care and food are not among the rights enumerated in the Declaration of Independence. But Professor Brent Strawn explains what the framers meant by “the pursuit of happiness.” It’s not about being “happy.” They meant something more like: living under a government that establishes policies designed to further the flourishing of all people. Perhaps through things like clean water, affordable medical care, enough to eat, and education.

Of course, I’m reading the Declaration of Independence through the lens of Jewish tradition. Our tradition teaches that every town should include certain civic institutions, among them a public school and a trustworthy court. And our tradition teaches that it’s our responsibility to care for the poor within our gates, and to grapple with the question of how to balance caring for “our own” and caring for others. These teachings are part of our tradition’s ethical core. 

All human beings deserve life, liberty, and circumstances in which we can flourish. As Jews, I think part of our obligation in the world is to help create those circumstances for others. That’s part of what I take from Pirkei Avot’s insistence that the world stands or depends on the three pillars of Torah (learning); avodah – which can mean both spiritual life (e.g. “services”) and service of others; and gemilut hasadim – acts of lovingkindness. (Pirkei Avot 1:2)

In what turned out to be his final sermon, Dr. King preached, “I’ve been to the mountaintop … I’ve seen the Promised Land.” He knew that, like Moshe, he might not make it there. And probably neither will we. Fully living-out the promises of our nation is a goal we may never be able to reach. But we still try. Learning, service, and lovingkindness can support us in our work toward life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness – toward our ideal of liberty and justice for all. 

Shared with gratitude to my teenager for reminding me of the Pirkei Avot teaching.

This is the d'var Torah I offered at Shabbat morning services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

They claim that we who protest the actions of our government "hate America." What a thin, attenuated understanding of love one must need to have in order to mistake protest for hatred. 

I protest because I love America -- or maybe better to say I love the dream of what America could yet be. I love the dream of liberty and justice for all. We've never wholly lived up to it, but we keep trying. 

I love the dream of an America that truly gives "to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance." (Those words are from George Washington, in his 1790 letter to the Jewish community of Newport.)

I love the dream of an America that values diversity and pluralism, knowing that we are stronger when we learn from each other. An America that includes all of us, of every race and creed and origin. 

I love the dream of an America that uplifts what's fair and right. I dream of an America that cares for the vulnerable, leaves no one homeless or hungry, and uplifts the inherent human dignity of all people.

Does this describe the nation in which I live, to date? Nope. We're nowhere near those ideals. But the fact that I recognize that doesn't mean I hate my country. It means I want my country to be better.

Just as I want myself to do better, and be better, and live up to my own ideals better! Not because I hate who I am, God forbid; but because I am always striving to be the best version of who I can be.

I show love for my country precisely when I challenge my country to live up to its own ideals. When I say "we can do better than this; we can be better than this." We aren't there yet, but we will keep trying.

This week’s parsha, Korah, begins with a rebellion. The titular Korah gathers 250 of his friends and they “rise up against” Moshe and Aaron, accusing them of “raising themselves above God’s congregation.” In response, Moshe falls on his face: he lowers himself to the ground, a gesture of humility. The rebels rise up against; Moshe does the opposite, bending to the earth.

Things do not go well for the rebels. In the morning they take up their fire pans, and God, incensed, threatens to destroy the whole community. Moshe and Aaron fall on their faces again, pleading with God for mercy. In the end, the earth opens and swallows up Korah and his band. God instructs Moshe to hammer the fire pans used by the rebels into plating for the altar. 

Three things stand out for me. First: our story begins with Korah and his followers falsely accusing Moshe and Aaron of seeing themselves as better than everyone else. How differently this story could have gone if Korah had come to Moshe and Aaron – not “assembling against” them, but in a spirit of curiosity, asking for a conversation instead of making assumptions.

Second: Moshe’s response is to fall on his face, the way we do on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur when we engage in prostration practice during the Great Aleinu. Every year when I let myself sink to the floor it feels like a giant spiritual exhale, like relaxing into the embrace of the earth. What a powerful choice: before he responds, Moshe “lets go and lets God.” 

And third: after the catastrophe, God tells Moshe to repurpose the fire pans and turn them into part of the altar. I see deep wisdom in this act of spiritual recycling. It reminds me of one of my favorite short poems by Yehuda Amichai z”l: 

Earlier this week I was reading updates from friends running to their bomb shelters – and thinking with anxiety and dread of those who don’t have bomb shelters and cannot hide from bombardment: in the Negev, in Gaza, in Tehran. 

“The people of Israel, Gaza, and Iran are human beings. No one deserves to live under constant rocket, missile, and drone fire.” These are words from Standing Together / עומדים ביחד / نقف معًا that landed deeply in my heart. “This is not a football game. This is real life, and entire worlds are being shattered day after day.” How much more can our hearts take? And what can we do?

Standing Together is raising funds to bring bomb shelters to underserved Bedouin communities in the south of Israel. NATAL provides trauma support in Israel. The PCRF feeds and supports children in Gaza, and the Sameer Project provides food, shelter, and medical aid. And United4Iran has a fund for survivors of the Iran-Israel war, and their work is well-respected.

Giving tzedakah is meaningful, and in Jewish tradition all are commanded to give tzedakah, even we who receive tzedakah ourselves. But I know what I can afford to donate barely touches the ocean of need. Primarily what I feel able to do is internal. I pray for peace. I extend support to the human beings I know, and I try to extend compassion to the ones I don’t know. 

I want to emulate the humility I see in Moshe. I know I don’t have the answers. I’m not in charge of the world, and that’s probably a good thing! I think falling on our faces is a great spiritual practice, especially in times of overwhelm – which is most of the time, these days. It’s a reminder that we’re not in charge. A practice of yielding, acknowledging what we don’t control.

And I want to honor God’s instruction to hammer the instruments of idolatry into tools to serve the sacred. Granted, Korah and his followers were making sacrifices to YHVH, so was it idolatry? I think it was – because I think they were putting themselves on a pedestal. I think their accusation that Moshe was elevating himself said more about them than about him.

I keep coming back to the Amichai poem about turning the swords not only into plowshares but into musical instruments, which I have on a poster on the wall in my office. As difficult as it might be to hammer an instrument of war into an instrument of music, I think it might be more difficult to hammer and reshape the human heart into one that truly beats for justice and for peace. 

And still I believe that it is possible to transform the heart, to transform ourselves. It takes a lot of work. Character work, spiritual work, cultivating middot (inner qualities) that help us live our values in the world. But here’s what I know as this week draws to its close: we can’t control the world in which we live. We can only control our own choices and who we become.

Later this summer, during the seven weeks before the Days of Awe, I’ll be co-teaching a class with my friend R. David Markus on seven core teachings / spiritual practices / qualities to cultivate. I think it’s the best response I have to a world that may feel broken and chaotic and unfair: yielding to what we can’t control, and embracing our agency to be the best we can be. 

This is the d'varling I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

My favorite thing to do on Friday mornings, that long-ago summer in Jerusalem when I was in rabbinical school, was to walk the 25 minutes to Machane Yehuda market. It was especially busy on Friday mornings, because everyone in west Jerusalem was preparing for Shabbes.

We had a little wheeled basket to carry food home. I shopped at the supermarket also; there was one right around the block. But the shuk was so much better. The sounds and the scents. A hubbub of languages around me. Gorgeous produce. The air redolent with spices and coffee and zaatar.

The first time I went I worried that I stood out in my capris and tank top and kippah, but no one seemed to mind. I barely knew how to cook, in those days, so my housemates and I dined on a lot of fish and vegetables: fresh things that were hard to mess up.

Before coming home I always stopped at one particular bakery for burekas, triangular pastries filled with potatoes or mushrooms or cheese and topped with sesame seeds. They are a Sephardic Jewish cousin to Turkish börek or burek, which has roots in Türkiye and Central Asia.

Burekas made the best Shabbat morning breakfast. Especially if I also had fresh apricots or figs, maybe some watermelon and feta. I taught my Hebrew school students how to make a simple variation on them, this spring, in our class on Jewish Cuisines and Cultures. 

Yesterday -- worried in heart, mind, and soul about everyone across the entire region: the people I know, whose updates I await in anxiety; and the people I don't know, who are equally precious in God's eyes -- I made a batch of burekas to eat for breakfast this week. 

Before I eat I will thank the Holy One of Blessing for my food, and pray for every human being who is in jeopardy across Israel and Palestine and Iran. Maybe it seems naïve to pray for peace at a time like this, but it is what I yearn for. A just and lasting peace, and safety, and hope, for everyone.

The verse says "Jesus wept," but
it's in the wrong tense.
Jesus is still weeping.

He takes turns with Rachel
still lamenting her children
and Shekhinah, perennial exile.

This week they're crying
for children in bomb shelters
and even more for children outside them.

For the anorexia patient
who can't force themself to eat,
the mother whose hope has curdled,

the infant with HIV
no longer receiving medicine,
every heart in need of care.

The Holy One of Blessing
reminds them: they didn't promise
our path would be smooth.

They promised to walk with us.
It's up to us to notice
we're not alone.