Month: June 2021

Parashah Ponderings

How beautiful are your tents?

Daniel Aronson's avatarDaniel Aronson Leave a comment

Parashat Balak 5781 / פרשת בָּלָק
Torah Portion: Numbers 22:2-25:9 

Emblazoned above the aron kodesh (holy ark) in our synagogue’s sanctuary are the Hebrew words Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov, mishk’notecha Yisra’el. “How beautiful are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Yisrael” (Numbers 24:5.) 

These are the words of Balaam, a prophet hired by the king of the Moabites to curse the Israelites so that Israel would fall to them in battle. As Balaam had informed his employer repeatedly, though, he could only utter the words that God placed in his mouth, and God would only bestow blessings upon Israel. Thus, after several failed attempts to curse Israel, Balaam comes out with a five-verse ode to Israel beginning with the verse above and ending with “Blessed are they who bless you. Cursed are they who curse you” (Numbers 24:9).

We begin our morning service with the opening line of Balaam’s ode as a way of welcoming worshippers into our sacred space. Implicit in this welcome is the idea that it is the worshippers themselves who make our “tent” beautiful. In addition, it is the worshippers who transform this “tent” into a dwelling place for the Divine. A famous Chassidic teaching says that God dwells wherever we let God in. It follows, therefore, that our sanctuary becomes a container for the Divine Presence only when it is full of people who are seeking God. On its own, our synagogue is architecturally very appealing. It becomes “tov” or truly beautiful when it is full of people.

I believe our synagogue is truly beautiful but that it can become even more beautiful as we welcome and include more individuals and families who are seeking a spiritual home. We can become more welcoming and inclusive the more we create a space where people can be their full, authentic selves. We become more beautiful when we declare publicly and unambiguously that we offer a space where all persons feel safe and validated. Just as Balaam declared loudly and clearly that Israel is a Godly community, so too must we let it be known that we are a Godly community that values people for being their full, authentic selves.

What do I mean when I talk about valuing people for their full, authentic selves? To use the lingo of LGBT Pride Month, it means letting people be “out” in our midst and embracing them for who they are. 

Balaam was not allowed to be his authentic self. As a prophet, he was tuned into the voice of God. Ultimately, Balak, the Moabite king, sent him packing and without pay because he could not become something he was not, which was an enemy of Israel. Balaam tried three times to curse Israel. After all, he accepted a job and he wanted to get paid. In the end, he was told he doesn’t belong in Midian.

Balaam was not the only one in the story who couldn’t be his authentic self. His donkey, upon which he rode from his home of Petor on the Euphrates, also was oppressed for being himself. He, like Balaam, was tuned into the presence of the Divine. God sent an angel to make Balaam’s journey to Midian difficult, so the angel stood in front of the donkey and caused him to veer into a field. Balaam hit the donkey. Then the angel stood in front of the donkey and caused him to bump into a wall, crushing Balaam’s foot. Balaam hit the donkey. Then the angel appeared in front of the donkey in a narrow alley and all the donkey could do was lie down in front of the angel. Balaam hit the donkey. And then Balaam saw what the donkey had seen the whole time — an angel wielding a sword. He had been punishing the donkey because the donkey was responding to the Divine Presence, just as Balaam knew that he, too, would respond to the Divine Presence. And yet, Balaam showed no mercy on his poor donkey.

We are all created in God’s image, but God’s image manifests itself differently in each of us. Some of us are Balaam, some of us are the donkey, but we all respond to the voice of God within each of us in unique ways. It is incumbent upon us to embrace the Balaams and the donkeys, not to beat them, not to send them packing, to let them know we welcome them.

This is the last week of LGBT Pride Month, also known as Gay Pride Month, a month that challenges us and all faith communities to reflect on how truly beautiful we are — how welcoming, inclusive, Godly we are. Pride Month challenges us to reflect on how well we welcome and embrace LGBT persons. Parenthetically, it should also challenge us to consider how we welcome and embrace all persons who historically have felt marginalized by society — persons of color, persons with disabilities, persons experiencing poverty, hunger and homelessness.

Now, I do not know the sexual orientation or gender identity of every adult and child who is a member of my congregatoin, but I do know that many of us are parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, children or dear friends of people who identify as LGBT. I would like to believe that all of our LGBT friends, family members and congregants do, in fact, feel safe, welcomed, included and fully embraced.

It’s one thing to believe, even to know, that all who are part of our community feel safe and fully embraced, but how is our community perceived by people who are not yet members who, for whatever reasons, aren’t so sure they will feel safe, welcomed, included and fully embraced by our community? What about those people who have been traumatized by “organized religion” either at home, in their places of worship, or in their communities? Do we do a good job of signaling to them that they belong in our community? In what ways do we express our warmth and inclusivity well before they dare cross our threshold? What could we be doing better in our signaling? These are not just rhetorical questions. They are real questions that all of us must be asking ourselves if we are to become the version of ourselves that we aspire to be. To be sure, they are questions we should ask ourselves when it comes to all kinds of people who could enrich our community through their presence and unique contributions.

On this, the final Shabbat of Pride Month, I want to invite us to consider these questions. As we read the words “How beautiful are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel!” may we find the courage to ask how we can make this tent, this dwelling place for God’s presence, an even more welcoming space for LGBT people and, indeed, all who are searching for a spiritual home.

Parashah Ponderings

My Children, My Well

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Parashat Chukat 5781 / פרשת חֻקַּת
Torah Portion: Numbers 19:1-22:1

One of the greatest joys in my life is fatherhood. Not only because I take pleasure in being with my children. Not only because I delight in watching them grow into compassionate adults. Not only because I am proud of their achievements. But also because my children have helped me be present in the world. Because they’ve helped me be a more compassionate person. Because they’ve inspired me to achieve. Because they’ve taught me. They are for me a wellspring of Torah.

In the famous rabbinic collection of pithy aphorisms known as Pirkei Avot (6:6), we read that “Torah is acquired through 48 things.” Among these “things” through which we acquire Torah are joy, an understanding heart, and feeling loved, but also “a minimum of sleep,” “critical give and take with others,” “sharing in the bearing of a burden with another,” and humility. These and all the other things are integral to my life as a parent.

Not all of these things are easy and fun, of course. What parent hasn’t experienced strings of sleepless nights when their children are babies? What parent hasn’t engaged in lively exchanges, sometimes heated and angry, with their children. And what parent hasn’t needed a partner or a village to share the burden of parenting some of the time, if not always. Who hasn’t felt totally humbled by their children? All these things AND joy and love and an understanding heart are part and parcel of fatherhood for me.

Even the mundane and aggravating parts of fatherhood are worthwhile. There’s laundry and food preparation and schlepping and kvetching and all those other things that are part of living in the world with growing beings underfoot. But we find Torah in these parts of parenting, too, if we choose to see them that way. A friend once said to me, “We love what we put work into.” Nothing could be truer than loving our children.

As the Israelites made their way through the wilderness, they encountered boredom, hunger, thirst, rebelliousness, warfare, death, lack of faith and quite often the wrath of God. And yet we learn that it was through these experiences over 40 years that the Israelites acquired Torah for themselves. In the first year, Moses acquired Torah directly from God, but it took another 40 years for Israel to really ingest and absorb Torah for themselves. 

Once, shortly after Miriam died (Num. 20:1) , the wells that had sustained Israel throughout their journey only because of Miriam’s merit — the Sages teach us — dried up. These wells, according to the great hassidic master Rabbi Yehudah Leib of Ger, otherwise known as the Sefat Emet, symbolize the Oral Torah, that Torah which is acquired through the stream of life as we experience all of these 48 things of which Pirkei Avot speaks. And so, you can imagine, how parched our ancestors became in those days following Miriam’s death, how thirsty for Torah they were.

But then something wonderful happened. First, God brought forth water from a rock (20:11). And then God led Israel to a place called Be’er (21:16), which means “Well.” And the Torah says, God brought them to that place with a well, “which is the well where the LORD said to Moses, “Assemble the people that I may give them water.” You see, God didn’t abandon the Israelites. They still had water. They still drank in from the source of Torah. But they also had to work to dig the well and make the waters flow.

The Torah continues (21:17-18), “Israel sang this song: Spring up, O well—sing to it—The well which the chieftains dug, Which the nobles of the people started with maces, with their own staffs.” In the midst of their difficult journey, in the midst of a series of unfortunate events, Israel sang! They sang to the well that fed their bodies and their souls.

Notice that they didn’t sing to God, and they didn’t sing because they experienced a miracle. They sang because they worked to dig that well in Be’er, and their work was good. With their own hands, they made the waters flow and that water would sustain their bodies. In the same vein, through their own encounters with whatever life put in front of them, they learned the Torah that sustained their souls.

So here we are on the Shabbat of Father’s Day weekend. As I pause to think about my journey of fatherhood, I give thanks to God for the many gifts and blessings that have graced my life. I, too, want to sing a song to the children I have co-parented with my own two hands and who have, in turn, taught me Torah, for Jacob and Katie are the well I have dug and their lives are the water that nourishes my soul. And I am grateful.

Psalms 128

(1) A song of ascents. Happy are all who fear the LORD, who follow His ways. (2) You shall enjoy the fruit of your labors; you shall be happy and you shall prosper. (3) Your wife shall be like a fruitful vine within your house; your sons, like olive saplings around your table. (4) So shall the man who fears the LORD be blessed. (5) May the LORD bless you from Zion; may you share the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life, (6) and live to see your children’s children. May all be well with Israel!

Parashah Ponderings

Prayer as an act of transformation

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Parashat Korach 5781 / פרשת קוֹרַח
Torah Portion: Numbers 16:1-18:32

Jewish worship is supposed to be transformational. People come to services on Shabbat, holy days and on weekdays for many reasons, but they are not always aware that Jewish prayer is an active experience that changes them, whether they want to change or not. If you leave a Friday night service the same as when you entered the synagogue that evening, you didn’t really pray.

At the heart of the Hebrew word for “prayer,” tefilah, is the root pallel, meaning something like “to execute judgment, clarify, and decide.” What is the object of our judgement, clarification or decision-making? We are. Our selves. In fact, the word for “to pray,” l’hitpallel, is reflexive, suggesting that prayer is an act of self-judgment, self-clarification, an act of deciding who we are and where we stand in relation to God, Israel, Torah and the rest of the world. One is inherently changed by virtue of achieving this heightened awareness.

No human being is entirely perfect, but prayer helps us change and improve. Prayer provides us with time and space to look both deep within ourselves and to look far beyond ourselves toward the realm of mystery, Divinity and infinitude to discern how we can become less imperfect. We enter the prayer space with whatever thoughts and feelings we bring — a hodgepodge of concern, gratitude, worry, contentment, despair, joy and sadness — and, if we’ve been intentional and present in our prayer, we leave having taken a step, even if imperceptible, toward putting everything in order.

As a reminder of why we come to pray, our synagogue’s aron kodesh (Holy Ark) is adorned with the symbols of the Twelve Tribes of Israel hammered into sheets of copper. To understand how this beautiful object of ritual art comes to inform our worship, one need only look at Parashat Korach, our Torah reading this week. 

Parashat Korach tells the tragic tale of rebellion against the authority of Moses and Aaron by the Levite Korach and the Reubenites Dathan, Abiram and On. As Rabbi Charlie Scwhwartz of Hillel International writes in his commentary to Parashat Korach on MyJewishLearning.com, “Parashat Korach is a chaotic mess. Within the 95 verses of this Torah portion are multiple active rebellions accompanied by multiple acts of divine punishment, all intertwined in a confusing and complicated narrative…” In the midst of all the chaos, Moses directs Korach and his followers to appear before God at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, each with an offering of incense in his fire pan. (As custodians of the Tabernacle, the men would each have possessed a fire pan used to gather up the charred remains of sacrifices burnt on the Tabernacle’s altar.) At the moment the rebels gather, God punishes them by consuming them in fire. 

What became of the fire pans, which had been consecrated for service in the Tabernacle? God speaks to Moses, telling him to instruct Eleazar the priest to “remove the fire pans of those who have sinned at the cost of their lives, and let them be made into hammered sheets as plating for the altar — for once they have been used for offering to the Lord, they have become sacred — and let them serve as a warning to the people of Israel” (Num. 17:3). Then we read that Eleazar “took the copper fire pans” and did as God had bidden.

The Torah specifies that the pans should be “a warning to the people of Israel,” but they serve another purpose as well. Later in the Book of Numbers we find out that “the sons of Korach did not die” (Num. 26:11). In fact, Korach’s descendents go on to compose half a dozen Psalms, one (Psalm 47), which we read before the sounding of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, and another (Psalm 49) that is traditionally read in a house of mourning. Though Korach may have instigated a deadly rebellion against Moses, Aaron and, by extension, God, his descendants chose a different path. Perhaps they were not rebellious to begin with. No matter, the legacy of Korach’s lineage does not end with his fateful quarrel. Rather, it ends with acts of faith, piety, trust, and celebration of God’s greatness. And so, the copper fire pans that become part of the altar also remind us of the power of teshuvah (return, repentance), the ultimate proof of humanity’s power to transform itself into something better than it has been and is.

Many synagogues incorporate copper into their arks, Torah reading tables, and other ritual objects. By doing so, the copper does more than complement the synagogue’s decor. It stands as a reminder that we are all capable of becoming better than we are, of becoming less imperfect, if you will. We are all capable of adding holiness into the world, just like the descendents of the rebellious Korach. Even more, because we see the copper before us as we pray, it reminds us to use this time of prayer to look within and to look beyond and to begin our transformation in that moment. May we all realize whatever change we seek.

Parashah Ponderings

Sticks and Carrots in the Wilderness

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Parashat Sh’lach 5781 / פרשת שְׁלַח־לְךָ
Torah Portion: Numbers 13:1-15:41

Sometimes in life we need a stick to keep us in line and moving forward. At other times, a carrot will do just fine, if not better. There are times when it is appropriate to remind people of the negative consequences of their behavior and occasionally to rebuke people for their misdeeds, but for people to change, they also need incentive and positive reinforcement.

We’ve just celebrated three b’nai mitzvah in our community. All three of the children who became b’nai mitzvah did honor to themselves, their families, the community, Torah and God. As with most b’nai mitzvah, these three made minor mistakes here and there — a slight mispronunciation of Hebrew, a wrong note when chanting Torah, leaving a mask on when it should have been taken off or taking a mask off when it should have been left on — but I doubt very much that most people in attendance noticed. If they did, I doubt they will remember those mistakes when they recall the celebrations a few years hence. All they will remember is how well the children did. And our children did well.

I’ve never heard of a child failing his or her bar or bat mitzvah. Why is that? On one level, you could say it’s impossible to fail because becoming a bar or bat mitzvah requires nothing more than coming of age, turning 13 for boys, 12 or 13 for girls. Even when tragedy strikes and a young person’s life is cut short before coming of age, we may remember those lives years later and hold a symbolic bar or bat mitzvah in their memory.

On a practical level, though, the children don’t fail because those of us who help prepare them have in our educational toolboxes both sticks and carrots. We correct their mistakes. We chide them when they don’t practice. But we also praise them when they show improvement. I suspect the greatest stick is the one most children want to avoid — utter humiliation as they stand before their friends and families. And the greatest carrot is the prospect of nailing their prayers and Torah readings and speeches and enjoying that feeling of success. If these were not “Covid times,” I would add that the bar or bat mitzvah party is the ultimate incentive for children to stick with their preparations until the end. Even in Covid times, though, many of the children look forward to a post-Covid party.

Just as b’nai mitzvah need sticks and carrots to shine on their big days, in getting through the pandemic that has plagued the world for the last year and a half, all of us have needed sticks and carrots. For some people, the fear of catching and transmitting Covid has hung over them as they’ve masked up, washed up, and shut up. For those same people, the prospect of preserving life and one day resuming life as usual has been a positive incentive. These same dynamics are at work as we talk about becoming vaccinated. There is a consequence that individuals and communities may pay if they’re not protected against Covid and its variants, but the idea of being safe from the virus and having all our children enjoying a normal school day is, for many, the most powerful motivator.

I mention sticks and carrots because in this week’s Torah reading, Parashat Sh’lach, God presents Israel with sticks and carrots in order to secure their fidelity to the Covenant as they wander through the wilderness. We find in this Torah portion a pivotal moment in the post-exodus experience of our ancestors. This is where twelve scouts, representing twelve tribes, return from a reconnaissance mission in Canaan and report their findings to Moses, Aaron and the whole community of Israel. It is noteworthy that in this telling of the story — as opposed to the telling later in Deuteronomy — it is God who tells Moses to send the scouts to check out the land. Perhaps God here is conceding that the people need to see the land for themselves as their faith in God continues to develop amidst the hardship of their wanderings.

Rather than exude confidence that they could conquer the people who lived there — veritable giants who made the scouts feel like grasshoppers in their own eyes — rather than relish the thought of being a free people in this lush, fertile land that produces clusters of grapes so heavy that they require two men to carry them, ten of the twelve spies proclaim that the land “devours its settlers” and they argue that this is yet another example of God wrenching them from their relatively comfortable lives as slaves in Egypt only to suffer and die in unfamiliar territory. Ten of the spies hold up a stick of fear. For them, the only carrot is to be found in returning to Egypt.

Joshua and Caleb, on the other hand, hold out a grand carrot, one of hope and optimism, and a smaller stick, a reminder that spurning God would bring certain disaster: “Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it… If the Lord is pleased with us, God will bring us into that land, a land that flows with milk and honey, and give it to us; only you must not rebel against the Lord.” (Num. 13:30,14:8-9). 

For instilling confidence and offering a vision of ultimate redemption, Joshua and Caleb are rewarded by God with the opportunity to accompany Israel into the land. The reading from the Book of Joshua that accompanies this Torah portion, in fact, recounts Joshua’s preparations for overtaking the region of Jericho once in the land.

Meanwhile, the other ten scouts die of a plague and the entire generation of Israelites who left Egypt are doomed to wander for 40 years in the wilderness, with only the children born after the exodus being able to enter the land for which they are headed. Watching the older generation die during those 40 years, in turn, becomes an effective stick that helps the younger generation strive to be faithful to God’s commandments.

But as we read about the spies, something odd happens in the Torah immediately after this story. We read: “Adonai spoke to Moses, saying… When you enter the land that I am giving you to settle in, (here’s how you shall) present a gift to Adonai from the herd or from the flock…” (Num. 15:1-3) And shortly thereafter, we read about the mitzvah of wearing tzitzit on the corners of our garments to remember the mitzvot (Num.15:32-41).

Why the sudden shift from the drama of the spies to the talk about sacrifices and fringes on our garments? Here I am struck by the commentary in the Jewish Publication Society’s Eytz Hayim Torah and Commentary (p. 850):

The sages find a connection between the story of the scouts and the commandments to bring offerings and to wear tzitzit. Ibn Ezra (a medieval Spanish commentator) imagines the Israelites cast into despair. God has written them off, and the dream of settlement in the Promised Land now seems impossible. To revive their spirits, God commands Moses to tell them “When you enter the land that I am giving you.” These words affirm that God still communicates with the people, that God has not written them off permanently. They affirm further that the promise of the Land is still in force, although it will be their children who will enter it and put these laws into practice.

In other words, the parashah ends not with the threat of annihilation, a massive stick, but with a message of promise, a grand carrot. God is with you, despite your mistakes. Your descendants will thrive in the land. This whole journey is not for nothing, and God didn’t bring you out of Egypt only to die in the wilderness. 

This is the lesson we should carry with us as we face all of life’s challenges, whether it be becoming a bar or bat mitzvah or surviving a pandemic or anything else. Yes, there are real, if not always dire consequences for shirking our responsibilities. Yes, there is sometimes something to fear — humiliation, sickness, even death. But, the reward for maintaining discipline and for persevering even at the most difficult of times is great. In overcoming all the obstacles before us, we ultimately get to bask in the glory of our success and shine. (How can we be “a light unto the nations” if we don’t shine?)

We all have our own challenges. Each challenge comes with its own sticks and carrots. May we not cower in fear of the sticks, but instead, heed the call made famous in the fight for civil rights: “keep your eyes on the prize.” With faith, hope, optimism and great effort, we will reach that prize.

Shabbat Shalom!