Because it's June!

“June is bustin’ out all over” is the song rising in my heart this time of year. From Rogers & Hammerstein’s “Carousel,” the song opens with the following intro that might sound familiar to New Englanders (especially after this past winter):

March went out like a lion
Awakin' up the water in the bay;
Then April cried and stepped aside,
And along came pretty little May!
May was full of promises
But she didn't keep 'em quickly enough for some
And the crowd of doubtin' Thomases
Was predictin' that the summer'd never come

But it's comin' by dawn,
We can feel it come,
You can feel it in your heart
You can see it in the ground

You can see it in the trees
You can smell it in the breeze

Look around! Look around! Look around!

Look around indeed! This song describes the jubilation that many of us feel as we finally put away our winter coats and sweaters, take out the patio furniture, get on our bikes, and enjoy the fresh breezes that smell of peonies and carry hints of ocean waves.

June seemed like the perfect time for the 2014 HBT retreat. Last year’s congregational retreat fell on Mother’s Day, a bit early for the beach. Yet it was such a huge success, that we immediately scheduled this year’s return to the Cape for the first open date we could find: June 15-17. Last year, we impinged on Mother’s Day; this year we tread on Father’s Day. In any case, we have 97 individuals registered this year, including 28 kids (ages 2 - 19). I’m looking forward to the beach, of course, and also to slowing down and spending time as a community over Shabbat meals, singing, dancing, playing and schmoozing.

Look around! Look around! Look around!

Look around and you’ll notice that some of our members who would have liked to come will not be joining us. June is a month for family events (weddings, b’nai mitzvah), graduations, and other summer activities. Not surprisingly, June is also the time for the annual Gay Pride Parade in Boston, and it falls this Saturday. This created a conflict for some individuals, and perhaps for our congregation as well.

In yesterday’s Boston Globe, this same tension was highlighted by this weekend’s conflict between the Pride Parade and the Democratic State Convention in Worcester. While some political leaders will shuttle between the two events, most people who would like to attend both will have to make a choice. As the Yiddish saying goes, “Mit eyn tokhes, ken men nit tantsn af tsvey khasenos,” or “With one behind, you can’t dance at two weddings.”

It’s a tough choice, just as it is for participants in the HBT retreat.

The lingering question, one worthy of conversation, is, how does this conflict speak to our temple’s espoused commitment to LGBT inclusion?  Should we have skipped the retreat this year if this was the only available date?  In what way can our congregation demonstrate that this conflict between dates is not a repudiation of our values? These are serious questions.

As the poet Rilke once wrote, “Those tasks that have been entrusted to us are difficult; almost everything serious is difficult, and everything is serious.”

What goes into our decision-making process for temple events? The first criterion will always be the Jewish calendar. That is our primary mission. We schedule and reschedule events around holidays and Shabbat.

In addition, we have many principles and constituencies we care about. We aspire to include as many people as possible in a way that is as welcoming as possible. Yet the retreat is not accessible for members who are aged or have disabilities. Some of our members who come regularly on Shabbat morning will have no service to attend at HBT while we are away on retreat. As a congregation that holds community as a central tenet, it is important that we remain mindful of the many constituencies in our community, and how our choices to support one may affect another.

Our choices may reflect our overall values, and they may also reflect what we feel is important for that moment. Some choices, like what fruit to eat from the lunch buffet, are fairly undemanding. Some choices, like whether to steal or whether to pay for our purchases, are straightforward. And sometimes, the choices are between two things that seem equally important.

The struggle that ensues in difficult decisions is called in the Mussar tradition, a bechira (choice) point. Alan Morinis explains (in Everyday Holiness) that the bechira-point provides an opening “where you have the greatest potential to ascend spiritually. It is important to recognize that each choice you make can be a rung on the ladder” of your spiritual life. They are opportunities to reflect on what motivates us. They have power to make us even more committed, or they can transform us.

Next year, the Pride Parade will take place on Saturday, June 13. Head’s up: we have a bar mitzvah scheduled for that morning.

Happy Pride – may the parade be joyful and may your streets be lined with love.

Happy June to all, wherever you may be this weekend! For those who will not to be at the retreat, we will miss you, we know you’ll be missing us, and we hope to see you at the next retreat.

Paying back the earth for all of its kindness

What is our obligation to the earth? And what are the consequences of reneging on that obligation?

This week’s portion, Behukotai, closes the Book of Leviticus. This portion contains a section known as the Tochecha, the Reprimand. Similar to a section near the end of Deuteronomy, also called the Tochecha, this section starkly contrasts the rewards and punishments that follow when the people either follow the laws or disobey them. In many congregations, the words of the Tochecha are so frightening that they are chanted in an undertone, as if to speak them aloud might cause them to come into being.

Unlike the horrific passage towards the end of Deuteronomy, Leviticus chapter 26 is shorter and less graphic. There are no “blessings” or “curses.”  Could the section in our portion have a different message? While the version in Deuteronomy begins with the phrase “When you enter the land,” this portion opens with “If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments….” (Lev.26:3)  The two occasions for the reprimand may have different purposes.

What does Behukotai mean by “follow My laws”?  The closing verse of last week’s portion, Behar, was, “You shall observe My Sabbaths and give reverence to My sanctuary, Mine, the Lord’s.” (Lev. 26:2)  Medieval commentator Ibn Ezra interprets “My Sabbaths” not as the weekly day of rest, but the sabbatical year, which was the subject of Behar. Throughout that portion, we were reminded that the earth does not belong to us; it is a gift. In the sabbatical year, we must allow the earth a Sabbath of its own, a time to lie fallow. Every seventh year we are to cease from working the fields and vineyards. “For the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me.” (Lev. 25:22) We do not own the land and have no right to abuse it for our own benefit.

In this context, we might conclude that “My sanctuary” is not a building or a single place, but the whole planet. Therefore, to “observe My Sabbaths” would mean to give the land a rest, and to “give reverence to My sanctuary” would mean to respect and care for God’s dwelling-place, the earth and sky.

With this interpretation, the Tochecha of our portion makes sense. As the 12^th century French commentator, Bechor Shor, teaches “If you do what you are supposed to do, then the clouds and the land and the trees that were created for your benefit will do what they are supposed to do.”  There is an integral relationship between our actions and the natural world.

When one follows these rules, the immediate result will be rain in its proper season, so that the fields will yield abundant produce and the trees will bear rich fruit. “You shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land.” (Lev. 26:4)  One midrash explains that “rain in its proper season” is a rain that gives us security and comfort, falling when we need it. This rain feeds the earth and helps humanity.

However, if we refuse to obey, the sky will turn to iron and earth to copper. We will face drought and destruction.  Social unrest will ensue: “Your land shall become a desolation and your cities a ruin.” (Lev. 26:33)  The earth will turn against us because we have turned against it: “Then shall the land make up for its Sabbath years throughout the time that it is desolate…throughout the time that it is desolate, it shall observe the rest that it did not observe in your Sabbath years…” (Lev. 26:34-35) If we rebel and do not pay reverence to the land, the land will respond by rebelling against us. These are the consequences of our own abuse of the earth.

This ancient warning of reward and punishment is eerily similar to the description of the impact of climate change found in the 2014 National Climate Assessment (NCA) released last week. It’s here. It’s happening. And it’s already having a big impact on our lives and the lives of our children. Drought. Intense storms. Coastal flooding due to sea level rise and storm surge.  Longer growing seasons that will also foster more insect pests and disease. These will, in turn, lead to food shortages, diminishing supplies of clean water, illness, and death. Much like the Tochecha describes.

Furthermore, the NCA demonstrates that we humans are responsible for the dramatic warming over the past fifty years, primarily through burning coal, oil and gas. As our portion teaches, our actions toward the created world have consequences.

The natural world can be saved, if we change our ways. The Rabbis observed that the earth itself provides a model for human beings to change. They noted a discrepancy in the first chapter of Genesis between how the earth was supposed to be and how it turned out. On the third day of Creation, God calls forth “fruit trees of every kind.” (Gen. 1:11). What the earth brought forth, however, were “trees that bear fruit.” (Gen.1:12) With this tiny linguistic change, the Rabbis imagined that every part of the tree was supposed to be edible. The earth sinned by producing trees whose fruit alone could be eaten. For this, the Torah tells us that the earth was cursed. (Gen. 3:17) What caused the earth itself to rebel against the divine command?

A Hasidic teacher, the Ohev Yisrael, explains that the earth was acting out of compassion for human beings, recognizing that the first human, Adam, was imperfect and was bound to disobey God. The earth feared that humanity would be so devastated by this act of rebellion that we would never recover. By choosing to disobey God first, the earth sacrificed itself for our sake. At the same time, it demonstrated the power of teshuvah, the fundamental ability to repent and change.

In this sense, the earth gives us the ability to change our ways. We must exercise this opportunity. Because the earth took care of us, we are forever obligated to care for and protect the earth. 

This column was originally published in The Jewish Advocate, May 16, 2014

 

- (Hametz) + Matza = Simplicity + Awareness + Gratitude

What are you doing to prepare for Pesach?

I read about a synagogue in New York where “cleaning out the hametz” is being given a 21st century meaning. Staff and members have pledged to clear out the electronic “hametz” by not answering email during the Passover week, and not answering any email that arrives during Pesach, on the Jewish legal principle that we cannot use any hametz that we owned or received during the holiday. How can anyone manage this? They are urging everyone to call and speak on the phone during the Pesach week instead of shooting an email.

When we give up hametz, we understand that it’s not permanent. It’s a simple respite. The idea of “giving up” email reminds me of the practices of Lent, when people decide to live without something that is a temptation, or perhaps, an oppressive habit.  Many practices of Lent require self-renunciation.

I learned this week, however, that some Christian clergy are urging people to think of what they will add spiritually during the season of Lent, instead of what they will subtract. Perhaps that’s the principle behind picking up the phone instead of sending email. We could consider adding that personal touch to our communication. (Do you remember what it was like when friends actually made phone calls?)

I believe we can approach the week of Pesach in both directions: adding and subtracting. This week we add matza, a mitzvah and a spiritual practice that can help us focus on the dichotomy of slavery and freedom, as well as poverty and wealth.  We begin the seder with the Aramaic invitation:

            Ha lachma anya—this is the bread that our ancestors ate.
            Let all who are hungry, join us for the meal!

Lachma anya, or in Hebrew, lechem oni, can be translated as bread of affliction or bread of poverty. Either way, matza is intended to remind us of what it is like when you have no freedom. Matza is the most basic sustenance we can think of: flour and water. It is the bread of hunger—for food and for freedom.

On the other hand, matza is the bread of freedom! The story in the Torah that we retell at Passover is that in order to get out of Egypt, the people could only take the minimum, and they had to leave in a hurry. Without hesitation or planning, the Israelite people propelled themselves out of slavery into a new life. In this way, they were transformed into a free people.

Having matza, then is a sign of wealth. As we learn in the ethical teachings of Pirke Avot,

Who is rich? One who is content with what he or she has.

Matza, that simple food made of the simplest ingredients, is a treasure—especially in the face of all the hungry people of the world. When we add matza, we add awareness and gratitude.

But matza is only a mitzvah on the first day, and only at the seder. For those who get tired of eating matza and matza products, that’s good news. No need for the matza meal cake mixes or matza pizza.  (Of course, they come in very handy when providing for kids who yearn for carbs, but it’s still a poor substitute).

More than eating matza, the underlying mitzvah of Pesach is to subtract hametz from our dwellings. Hametz consists of any product of wheat, barley, spelt, rye or oats that hasn’t become matza. For me, that means no breakfast cereal, no tortillas, no pasta for eight days. Yet we could live well all week on vegetables and fruits, fish, eggs, dairy, and meat if we wanted to.

An article in The Boston Globe, “Five Ways to Freshen your Home for Spring,” caught my eye as I am in the process of “turning over” our house for Pesach.  Spring cleaning is also a way to let go and simplify. The author shared a few tips from an architect/interior decorator. Among them:

Roll up the carpets and enjoy the nice clean floor.

Take out old furniture and enjoy more space.

Open the windows and enjoy the fresh air.

All of these suggestions help us subtract one thing so that we end up adding another .

Some of us find spiritual value in thinking of hametz metaphorically. Hametz puffs up, like the ego. Hametz is a source of desire. To subtract hametz might involve a practice of living within our means, simplifying our lives, experiencing the bare minimum. When we subtract, we open up space (in our cabinets or our email) to discover other aspects of our lives, like the people who surround us, that we may not have given sufficient attention.

As we approach Pesach, in whatever way we are preparing, I suggest we take the attitude of “less is more.”  Even if you have a lot of planning the seder, cleaning the house or cooking yet to do, do it in the spirit of simplicity.

It’s not about giving up—it’s about opening up.

 

Chag same’ach—wishing you and yours a liberating, simple, and joyous Passover holiday!

 

Healing is both an exercise and an understanding*

How does one recover emotionally from illness, loss or suffering?

In our post-Freudian western world, we benefit from the work of therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists. Talk therapy can help us process what has happened and develop strategies for moving on. Pharmaceuticals can help rebalance the chemicals in our brains. Some people find new pursuits that give life fullness and meaning. Many of us rely on the compassion and support of family and friends to guide us.

This week’s Torah portion, Metzora, begins with a description of the purification ritual for a leper who is about to return to the community. In last week’s portion, Tazri’a, we learned that the kohen (priest) is responsible for watching over those afflicted with skin diseases. We read of the care and attention the kohen took to examine the growth on the sufferer’s skin, to discern whether the victim should be separated from the community, and finally, to decide when she might return to communal life. This week we close the circle as the kohen escorts her back from isolation.

The process of purification is quite elaborate, taking 32 verses to explain. The strange ritual of purification brings together a seemingly random assortment of ingredients:  two live pure birds, cedar wood, crimson thread, hyssop, fresh water, and an earthen vessel. The kohen slaughters one of the birds over the fresh water in the vessel, then dips the live bird, along with the other ingredients, into the blood of the dead bird. He sprinkles the blood seven times on the person to be purified and then lets the bird go free. (Lev. 14:4-7) After this ritual, the one who has been purified must wash his clothes, shave off his hair and bathe in water before returning to the camp. Still, he cannot enter his own tent until the eighth day, when he has brought additional offerings and the kohen declares him pure, ready to be reunited with his household.

What is the message in this elaborate set of rituals?

Clearly, the kohen is not treating or curing an illness. The Book of Vayikra (Leviticus) is intensely concerned with maintaining boundaries, especially boundaries between what is holy and what is not. Terms like tahor (pure) and tamei (impure) signify the boundary between what can enter the holy precincts of the Tabernacle and what must remain outside. The role of the kohen is to restore the leper to a level of spiritual holiness in navigating the passage from illness to health.

Being ill or suffering a loss can bring on spiritual crisis. Struggling with circumstances that are unanticipated and unexplained, one might feel distant from the divine. Add to that the debilitating effects of pain or the overwhelming changes in daily living, a person can feel distant from one’s own self. Without the usual routines and comforting presence of others one can become depleted and near despair.

The rabbinic commentators focused on the odd juxtaposition of cedar and hyssop, both unusual items in the priestly toolbox. Ibn Ezra, of 12^th century Spain, points out in his methodical, non-judgmental way, that cedar and hyssop are the tallest and smallest of plants.

Bechor Shor, a French commentator of the 12^th century, takes this further, teaching that the person who is ill has gone from the heights of the cedar to the lowliness of the hyssop.

When we are sick or grieving, there are days when it all feels too hard, when all we can see is the challenge of the basic needs of living. It takes everything we have just to breathe. Part of the process of coming back to life is to restore spiritual balance.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel of Apt, a Hasidic rebbe who died in 1825, teaches that the low-growing bush is a symbol of humility, while the lofty cedar reminds us of our heavenly nature. They are combined to help us reach a healthy balance. This interpretation is reminiscent of the famous teaching of Reb Simcha Bunim, a contemporary of the Apter rebbe, who taught that a person should always have two pockets. In each, there should be a slip of paper.

One reads, “I am but dust and ashes.”

The other says, “The world was created for me alone.”

When the world seems hostile and hope is beyond our reach, that’s when we take out the second slip of paper.

When we are filled with the power of our own ego and forget to be grateful and compassionate to others, that’s when we take out the first slip of paper.

We can no longer count on priestly purification and sacrificial offerings to help us transition from the isolation of illness, loss or suffering. One ritual from ancient times has remained: immersion in the mikveh (ritual bath). We are fortunate to have a special place in our community, Mayyim Hayyim Mikveh and Education Center in Newton, where people often come to mark life transitions. Those who wish to celebrate healing or mark the end of mourning can find rituals to help ease this passage through immersion.

To return to the community, feeling different from those who have not known our suffering, catching up on what we have missed, and wondering what happens next calls for spiritual balance. How does one recover emotionally from illness, loss or suffering? With compassion for ourselves and gratitude for the gifts we have received. We return, forever changed, in ways we will only begin to recognize. But first, we need to cross that boundary, physically recharged and spiritually renewed.

*From the poem "Intention" by Margaret Torrie

This column was published in The Jewish Advocate on April 2, 2014 titled 
"Recovering from Woes with Compassion and Gratitude."