YOM KIPPUR, 5782 / 2021--UNLIKE A ROLLING STONE

 

              G’mar hatimah tovah, everyone, good to see you all and with this tenth day of the Ten Days of Repentance, we hope and pray that we are able to finish the holidays secure in the Books of Life and Health and Fulfillment, and I wish you all a tzom kal, an easy fast.

              A friend of mine commented recently that he could not imagine how I must feel to finally come to what would be my last High Holiday sermon at Midway and was interested in what I would have to say. He raised the issue several weeks ago, and frankly my head had not yet risen to High Holiday altitude, and I told him that I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I wasn’t too worried because I usually come up with something. But his question got me thinking, not so much about a High Holiday sermon, as much as what a blessing it has been to be involved in this congregation and what a turn of good fortune it was to have landed here. And the irony of it all is that a big part of my having ended up at Midway has to do with a sermon, which is a story in and of itself. It’s a story that begins well over 20 years ago in my search for a new pulpit. As it turned out, the Rabbinical Assembly wanted me to interview at this wealthy and prestigious Philadelphia congregation, which I did, and after about six weeks, I received a letter from the chair of the Search Committee stating that there would be no future for me at that synagogue, in pretty much those words, which struck me as a bit overdramatic, but that was what he wrote. There was nothing to do about it and I forgot about it.

              Some years later, in 2002, a book was published, “The New Rabbi,” that chronicled the search for a new rabbi at that synagogue, and the author, Stephen Fried, devoted a page to my interview. According to Fried, I gave the wrong answer to the question, “What kind of sermons do you give?” And I remember that question because I didn’t know how to answer. It was curious that I was so caught off guard since at that time, I had already given eighteen years worth of sermons and one would think after eighteen years, I would know what kind of sermons I give. Anyway, not certain how to answer, I mentioned a recent sermon I had given, a review of Bob Dylan’s religious journey that took him from Judaism to Christianity and then back to Judaism, and since we are all on a religious journey of sorts, even if some of us have been parked at a rest stop for many years, I thought people would be able to identify with the struggles encountered when searching for not merely the truth, but a kind of ultimate truth in one’s life. So I told the Search Committee about that sermon, and that was apparently the end of the interview because they wanted a rabbi who would speak about “rabbinics, scholarly work, and religious sources” (page 152) and not Bob Dylan. Frankly, I don’t know of any congregation that wants its rabbi to speak about “rabbinics, scholarly work, [or] religious sources.” It sounds deadly, but who am I to tell anyone what the people in the pews want to hear? Anyway, that failed interview left me in a professional limbo for several months, until the Rabbinical Assembly told me that I should consider Syosset. And I may have said at the time, what is Syosset or where is Syosset? I had no idea. But I did come out for an interview. It went well. Midway hired me and I am now beginning my 23^rd year of delivering sermons to you, though if someone were to ask today, what kind of sermons do you give, I most likely would still not know how to answer.

              Though I have to tell you, and I’m just making an observation, sometimes people have come up to me after a sermon to say something like, “Rabbi, I really enjoyed your… uhm… your… uhm…well, what you call it—a sermon?” And I’ve always felt good about that because it seems to me that the best kind of sermon is the one that doesn’t sound like a sermon. So one way I could have answered that fateful question long ago is that I give sermons that don’t sound like sermons. But that answer also may not have worked because I have a theory as to what really happened in Philadelphia.

              This is the theory: The RA sends me to this wealthy and prestigious congregation in Philadelphia. The angels above hear what is going on and declare, Oh no—Rank is going to a congregation that will eat him alive. What to do? The good Lord steps in and says, “No problem—I’ll just have the head of the Search Committee ask ‘What kind of sermons do you give?’” Another angel turns to the Lord and responds, “What good will that do?” The good Lord says, “Rank has no idea how to answer that question. He’ll bomb the interview and we can save him from that pulpit.” Yet another angel asks, “But Lord, then what?” And the Lord says, “We’ll send him to Midway.”

              Now I can’t vouch that this cosmic conversation actually took place, but I will say this. Twenty-three years ago, I had no idea where I was going, but having landed here at Midway which has afforded me and our family so many fulfilling years, I can’t help but think that the hand of God wasn’t in it in some way. And putting aside all our preconceived notions about God, we might try to think of God as this invisible lure toward fulfillment. Why did you go to college at Binghamton and not Michigan? Why did you take that job in the city and not in Great Neck? Why did you marry you-know-who instead of you-know-how? All these decisions we make, some of which we make thoughtfully and some of which are executed in a fog or in the moment, lead us either closer or further from where we need to be. And when we make those decisions that bring us closer to where we need to be, it’s God working in the background, silently, unobtrusively in the extreme by which I mean we don’t even think God is there. But a big part of what faith is, after all is said and done, is recognizing where God is, or was, and whether we followed the lure or resisted it. And when you are able to recognize all the little signals and put them together, almost like those pictures you draw by connecting the dots, it ends in one big “ah-ha!” moment, and that’s the hand of God that has beckoned you to advance in the right direction.

              Over the years, I have probably spoken to you about faith and God a lot because, and I hope this doesn’t sound too ridiculously obvious, but this is a synagogue and if not here, where? The fact is that we don’t live in a world where we hear much God talk. This is partly due to the secular nature of our society and partly due to living in the Northeast. If we were down South, I suspect we would hear more God talk, but we don’t live in the South, we live in New York, and I think in order for Jews to be Jewish, especially for us who live hutz la’aretz, that is, outside the land of Israel, it’s very important to live with a sense of God’s invisible presence. The synagogue at best is the place where we need to reenergize, refuel, recharge our spiritual selves by thinking about God as the lure, the magnet, the pull that draws us toward the emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically satisfying space in life—the space where we need to be.

My good colleague, Rabbi Daniel Goldfarb of Jerusalem, and a former visiting rabbi at Midway over the holidays, whom we were most fortunate to have, reminded me that teshuvah, aside from meaning turning, also means “answer.” We could easily think of the Aseret Yemei Teshuvah as “The Ten Days of Answer.” So if teshuvah is an answer, what is the question? This is Jewish Jeopardy. And the question is the question God asks Adam, the question God asks all of us Adams and Eves, “Ayeka? / Where are you?” Are you in the space where you need to be? Are you home? Have you followed the Lure?

              You remember Rabbi Mordechai Waxman. Rabbi Waxman was one of the most distinguished rabbis of the Conservative Movement, and the spiritual leader of Temple Israel in Great Neck for many years. His influence and energy are still talked about today. Back in 1958, he edited a volume on the Conservative Movement entitled “Tradition and Change.” And what was so influential about that volume was the title itself, such that it became the slogan of our movement. The Conservative Movement was the the movement of tradition and change. I don’t know if anyone ever truly understood what the relative percentages of that two-ingredient recipe were. Was it 80% tradition and 20% change? Was it 20% tradition and 80% change? Was it 50/50? Did anyone dare establish what the percentages would be or was it meant to be undefined permanently? Looking back at all the changes that the Conservative Movement has instituted over the years, and there have been many and they have been substantial, each one was made with the intention to reach the greatest number of Jews and to meet Jews where they were at, in their own space. From driving on Shabbat, to the use of electricity, to counting women in a minyan, to ordaining women as rabbis, to homosexual marriage, each and every time we made a change it was to expand the tent. And we have been expert in expanding the tent, but we have not expanded the number of people in the tent. If anything, that number has shrunk. And that’s because religion is fundamentally about tradition, not change. Can you imagine—Midway Jewish Center: Warmth, Joy, Tradition and Change.  Hmmm…I don’t think so. It wouldn’t work, because religion is about tradition, not change.

              In the early 1900’s, our Reform brothers and sisters invested huge amounts of money into the Conservative Movement because they wanted us to change. They were a little embarrassed by us. Actually, they were a lot embarrassed by us. We were East European immigrants. We were poor. We dressed like we had come out of the shtetel, because we had just come out of the shtetel. We spoke Yiddish. We were grateful to be in America, but we didn’t understand America. Our already established Reform Jewish brothers and sisters in America knew that we would never feel comfortable in their Reform synagogues, with the organ, and the English, and the non-kosher foods. Moreover, they knew that they would not feel comfortable with us in their Reform synagogues. They wanted to create a middle ground movement that would help acclimate their poorer immigrant brethren, that’s us, to American culture. The first half of the 20^th century saw tremendous growth in the Conservative Movement thanks to, among other factors, Reform philanthropy. Solomon Schechter, the Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary in the early 1900’s, famously said, “You can’t be a rabbi in America unless you understand baseball.” That was a prescription for a new kind of rabbi. Schechter was saying something about Conservative Judaism, and that was its mission was to Americanize Jews. We succeeded. Long ago. We changed just as we were supposed to. I would call it a success on a scale of a grand slam, except in a grand slam, the players run around the bases and eventually come to home plate, the space where you are supposed to be. If the Conservative Movement were truly successful, it would have brought us back home to our Judaism. And it didn’t. At some point, 40 or 50 years ago, the movement’s leadership had to say: Okay—we all understand baseball. We don’t need another baseball player. Now we need Jews who embrace their Jewish identity as fervently as they embrace their American identity. And by Jewish identity, I mean more than just stating: I am proud to be Jewish. I mean behaving as Jews have behaved for centuries:  observing Shabbat, understanding Hebrew, praying regularly, keeping kosher, defending Israel the Jewish homeland, and loving—with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our might—the Lure, the Magnet, the Pull that draws us to the place where we need to be, that place called home. Our Jewish home. And I think that’s where our Conservative Movement, a movement I adore, a movement I have dedicated my professional life to, has come up short. The inability to reinvent yourself is the road to oblivion. It’s as if this movement has been on its own, with no direction home, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.

Oh, excuse me—I may have slipped into the Bob Dylan trap. You know, I was reading up on Dylan’s song, “Like A Rolling Stone.” It’s regarded as a transitional, revolutionary song for Dylan, moving him from folk into rock.  Rolling Stone, the magazine, rated it as number one in a list of “The 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.” Once, at a press conference, Dylan was asked if the song wasn’t about a girl he was trying to torment or if he wanted to truly change people by forcing them to see themselves. And he responded with a chuckle and said, “I want to needle them,” which I think is the kind of elusive answer one might expect from a young artist, as Dylan was at the time. Can you imagine if Dylan were a rabbi and someone asked him what kind of sermons do you give and he’d say, “Well, I like to needle the congregation.”

I don’t want to needle anyone—that sounds painful—but I do believe we need to recognize that a Jewish community that purports to be a vibrant Jewish community, has to intensify its observance of Yiddishkeit, Jewishness. The locus and future of religious development no longer rests with a national organization, certainly not ours, but rests within individual synagogues. We have seen many synagogues either close their doors or merge, and that trend will continue. It may be a blessing in disguise because the fact is the Jewish community spends way too much money on heating and air conditioning, plumbing and electricity, and the eternal and ever-present leaks in the roof, and too few dollars on effective Jewish education for adults, children, and school faculties. The joke about us in the 50’s and 60’s was that our movement was burdened with an Edifice Complex—we built buildings—beautiful, architecturally sophisticated, large buildings. We were telling America that we were proud to be Jews and we’ve made it in this country. But many of those buildings today have closed, and others struggle to remain open, and virtually none attract the numbers they were originally built for. We spend way too much time and money on buildings and way too little on the people in them. This has to change.

Midway is going to be one of those synagogues that make it. We have to commit today how we intend to address our Judaism that could use a good shot in the arm. I have had extensive talks with Rabbi Joel and our president Michael, and with a number of other members about how we must change in order to generate vibrant, smart, engaged Jews who themselves will be leaders in creating Jewish community here and elsewhere.

Later this year, beginning with Hanukkah, we’re going to return to a project that we started pre-Covid, writing a sefer Torah, completing a sefer Torah, which is a mitzvah, and that project we hope will generate some substantial dollars that will set Midway on a new initiative to reenergize the Jewish future. I envision it as a Midway Birthright, used to invest in our people, our children, ourselves, our Judaism. We won’t neglect the physical space; the Board of Trustees would never let that happen. But this special fund, separate from the General Fund and administered by a group separate from the Board of Trustees will substantially subsidize transformative Jewish experiences for the people who matter most—our children, our teens, our adults, our families and our faculties. In the next century, we build not buildings; we build people, we build Jews.

You know where you can find the best people? Right here at Midway. What a cast of characters we have had over my tenure here. You have kept me on my toes, thinking, laughing, strategizing, studying, and growing. We have, Barukh HaShem, a great community. I almost feel guilty on what a great time I’ve had.  It doesn’t feel like 23 years have passed. It feels like I got here maybe just a couple years ago. I still feel like the new rabbi, or as one famous Nobel laureate put it, forever young. That prescription doesn’t really work in the real world. El and I were on vacation, and this was several years ago. I was not yet eligible for Social Security. And we stopped at a small grocery to pick up a few lunch items—some yogurt, crackers—whatever was available in Montana that had a hekhsher on it. I paid at the register, handed the receipt over to El (she actually looks at receipts), and she says, the kid at the cash register gave you a discount. I said, what kind of a discount? She said, he gave you a senior citizen discount. I said, I didn’t ask for a senior citizen discount. She said, I guess you didn’t have to.

The truth of the matter is that the pulpit, not the rabbinate, but the pulpit requires young clergy, and thank God, Barukh HaShem, we have that in Rabbi Joel who is so talented and has brought multiple, engaging new programs to Midway, and we have it in Cantor Frei with whom it has been a privilege, an honor to work with, and we’ve embarked on a search for an assistant rabbi whom I’m sure will fit in and bring even more energy to the congregation.

This is an exciting time for us all and in spite of this crazy pandemic, we’re in a good space because it’s time for me to move on, and I’m ready to move on. Of course, El and I have no idea where we’re going. I guess somewhere far enough to give the new clergy configuration the freedom to operate unhampered and close enough to always stay connected to you. Where is that? Who knows? And as I enter this final year of service to you, you may also be wondering where the synagogue is going. And there is undoubtedly some uncertainty about that. Well, you know, life is a journey. And when you really don’t know where you are going, you just have to have a little bit of faith, and a little bit of courage to go forward. You have to pay attention to the Lure, the Magnet, the Pull. And wherever you are in this journey, and we all are on a journey, we have to stick to the synagogue and to tradition, because when we do that, we will never be on our own, and we will never be at a loss for the direction home, and we will never be a complete unknown, because in this chain of tradition that reaches back 3500 years of which we are the most recent links, we can never be merely a rolling stone. How does it feel? That feels pretty good.

G’mar hatimah Tovah!

ROSH HASHANAH, 5782 /2021--FEAR AND SHAPIR—IT’S ALL GOING TO WORK OUT

 

Shanah Tovah, everybody. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here this Rosh Hashanah. It’s wonderful to see more of you this year than I did last year. And for those who are streaming our service, I wish I could see you, but I hope you are as happy to see me as I am happy to see everyone here. Next year, God-willing, we will truly be beyond Covid and all will feel more comfortable about being at an in-person service. Clearly we have some way to go in fighting back this pandemic. We’ll get there. I am sure. Much of life requires a great deal of patience.

              In addition, to borrow a famous line from Charles Dickens, a Tale of Two Cities—"It was the best of times and the worst of times…” I think that pretty much summarizes our family’s experience this past year. Our daughter, Shuli, met a wonderful young man, Aaron Shansky, and the two married and that was just the best of the best this year. But Rami, our eldest, also died tragically and that was just the worst of the worst. El and I want to thank you all for your kindness and compassion and your understanding during that very difficult time. We sent out many notes of thanks but most likely were not able to reach everyone, but we both thank you all for your cards, and emails, and donations, and concern. Thank you, thank you.

              A guy goes to a psychiatrist and says “Doc, you got help me, I can’t sleep at night.” The psychiatrist asks, “What seems to be the problem—family issues, work issues, money issues? The guy says, “No, it’s the ghosts underneath my bed. They’re very, very noisy.” The doctor says, “You have ghosts underneath your bed?” The guy says, “Yea, they’re huge, ugly, and above all, very, very noisy!” The doctor knows he’s got a tough case here but says, “I think I can help you. It’s going to require a lot of therapy. Can you see me twice a week for about a year?” The man says, “That’s fabulous, Doc. I don’t know how to thank you. I’ll start next week.” Next week rolls around, and the man doesn’t show up. Two weeks, three weeks, four weeks go by, and the man never calls or makes an appointment, and the doctor basically forgets about him, until a full six months later, the doctor meets the man at a local bar and the two immediately recognize each other. The doctor says—“So good to see you but how are you sleeping these days? “Like a baby,” the man responds, “thanks for asking, Doc. I got the whole thing solved.” The doctor says, “I guess you were able to find another psychiatrist to help you through those sleep issues?” No, the man replies, “I saw a carpenter.” “The psychiatrist is now totally puzzled and says, “A carpenter?” “Yea,” the man says. “For $50 bucks he sawed the legs off my bed and now the ghosts can’t crawl under there anymore.”

              I don’t know if you have any ghosts underneath your bed, but I do know that for many of us, there have been a whole lot of sleepless nights, with so much to worry about, even to fear, during the past 18 months. The two candidates for the scariest developments of 2021 are the pandemic, with its Delta variant adding a substantial scare element into our lives, and also anti-Semitism, which has been on the rise for a few years already.

              You know, I serve on the Board of Ethics of the Town of Oyster Bay, which has really turned into a lovely experience, far more satisfying than I could ever imagine, and one day, I was speaking with one town volunteer and we were talking shop—she about her church and me about our synagogue. She wanted to know all about what we were doing to keep everyone safe. So I told her about social distancing, reconfiguring the sanctuary, streaming, zooming, masks, and so forth. She was fascinated and then she said, “Rabbi, what are those ugly white cement boxes lining the synagogue?” “Oh, those,” I replied, “those are security barriers to keep anti-Semites and other crazies from ramming the building or the people in and around it.” She was so taken aback, really shocked, and then realized the kind of issues a Jewish community has to think about, and what a smart move we had made. By now, I’m sure she has seen how beautiful they look thanks to Sisterhood and Men’s Club and all of you for contributing to giving them a happy floral face. And they are beautiful, though when we think about why they need to be there, the bigotry and the violence in our society, those reasons remain truly ugly facts of life in America these days.

              I was ordained in 1981. If anyone had told me that 40 years later, in 2021, I would be presiding over active shooter exercises in our Religious School, herding the kids into safe rooms where they would have to know how to lock the door and sit quietly, I would have thought the prediction unbelievable. But that’s what we started doing pre-Covid, and we will most likely have more such exercises in the future because as a responsible and conscientious leadership will tell you: pray for the best; prepare for the worst.

               I have a better feeling about beating Covid than I do about beating anti-Semitism. And that is for the simple reason that at least for Covid, there’s a vaccine. Anti-Semitism, in contrast, is a virus, a cancer, a disorder, for which there seems to be no treatment. If anyone thinks that by writing more letters to the editor, or staging more rallies, or hounding our representatives in government for stricter legislation will in the end finally neutralize this disease, they are operating under a grand illusion. Anti-Semitism has been with us for centuries and will most likely continue for centuries more. But even with no cure, there is a way to manage it, and it’s not by running scared, it’s by standing fearlessly, with resolve and conviction, that Jews are true Americans, that they are as good and decent as any other Americans, and that Jews have as much a right to a national homeland as any other ethnic minority or majority. When Ilhan Omar, the Minnesota representative, groups America and Israel along with Hamas and the Taliban, she’s thinking irrationally and speaking out of ignorance. When Wyoming representative Marjorie Taylor Green equates Covid precautionary mandates with the treatment of Jews during the Holocaust, she is thinking irrationally and exposing her own profound ignorance of the Shoah. When irrational claims of this nature are made, it is our duty to point out just how irrational and ignorant they are, but the one thing we should not do is let statements like these scare us. In our hands, we have the greatest weapon known to humankind—the truth. And when we speak the truth, whether to power or the powerless, we need never be afraid.

              Actually, let me tell you a story about fear. Rabbi Avi Weiss, the former spiritual leader of the Hebrew Institute of Riverdale, and the founder of Yeshivat Hovevei Torah, an open Orthodox yeshivah, once had an opportunity to introduce Ariel Sharon, the former prime minister of Israel, as a hero of the Yom Kippur War and a fearless general. And Sharon got up and said, Rabbi—you think during those wars I had no fear? I had plenty of fear.  But one must act as if one has no fear.

              The prime minister’s confession is not only quite a public admission, but it’s grounded in good, kosher Jewish philosophy. Yitzhak ben Yehudah Abarbanel (1437-1508), a Portuguese financier, philosopher, and Bible commentator, wrote as follows:

Those who go to war thinking they will not die are not real heroes.

Just the same, those who give charity but have no concern about money, are not serious givers.

Heroes and patrons are those who act contrary to their feelings, their fears.

 (Based on Abarbanel to Genesis 32)

 

This idea, so at odds with the generation that grew up thinking do it if it feels good, is urging us to consider our feelings only up to a certain point. Feelings are certainly not to be ignored, but neither should they be in charge. Sometimes the right thing to do doesn’t feel good at all. To admit an error is humbling, but it’s most likely the right thing to do. Keeping a promise even though it’s going to cost us big bucks, is painful, but it’s most likely the right thing to do. To openly protest hateful speech may itself make you the target of other people’s irrational wrath, but it’s most likely the right thing to do.

              The fact is that there are many things we do in life that provoke anxiety and fear, but we do them because they are either the right thing to do or they are important enough for us to take the risk. There is virtually nothing in life that doesn’t entail some level of risk, some fear. But much of life is not about avoiding risk, which is impossible, but rather its managing risk, which is unavoidable.

              Let’s talk risk. Based on the National Center for Health Statistics data, what do you think is the greater mortal risk—bungee jumping of canoeing? Canoeing is riskier. What is riskier—skydiving or a dance party? The dance party is more dangerous. What is riskier—flying in an airplane or driving a car? The answer is driving a car. https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/564015/probability-being-killed-everyday-activities-chart

              What about your risk of contracting Covid? Well, there is a risk, obviously, but like all the other aspects of our life, we make smart decisions, we don’t tempt fate, and we put into play those precautionary measures that the best of the medical community advises, which means maintaining a distance from others, wearing a mask, washing hands, avoiding big crowds, and above all, getting the vaccine. These behaviors are not based on fear, but on managing the Covid risk we all face when we venture forth to do whatever it is we need to do.

One way to draw the Covid risk down to the bare minimum would be to stay at home, but then, oddly enough, one has to take into consideration the risk of staying at home. Household accidents account for three times as many deaths as do injury from auto accidents. Believe me—I totally understand the desire to maximize time spent at home. El and I don’t go out that much at all. But the point is this: try as we may, we never bring the risk factor down to zero. It’s just not possible.

              Can you imagine what life would be like if we kept every risk factor in mind every second of our lives? We would be paralyzed, literally, with fear. And that is no way to live.

 There is a lovely passage in the Mahzor, in the Shaharit Amidah, in which we ask God:

Let fear of You [God} descend upon all Your works

Well, after all we have had to say about fear, of what possible value is there in asking God to bathe us all in some sort of cosmic, divine fear? To answer this question, we turn to the writings of Rabbi Joseph Soloveichik (1903-1993). He was the Rosh Yeshivah of the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary of Yeshivah University. He was known simply as the Rav (the Rabbi), and he was and still is held in great esteem by Orthodox and liberal Jews alike. He wrote that there is a certain kind of fear that in a sense dispels all other fears, and that is, as you might expect, pahad Adonai, or fear of the Lord  (Al HaTeshuva by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik). Why is that? Because you and I are expert worriers. We worry about things over which we have no control. We worry about things over which we do have control. We worry about things that haven’t happened yet, as if we know what the future brings. Our wise ancestors knew all this and though they did not quite say, there is nothing to fear except fear itself, what they did say, is let the fear of God be your only fear, because to fear God is really a dramatic way of saying, let’s all use our God-given brains, our seikhel, our wit, our intelligence, to manage the risks, the fears in our lives. We are not helpless. And if the only fear we allow is the fear of God, then everything else is going to be okay.

              The term shofar is a curious name. Some say it has to do with a root meaning curvy. A shofar has to be curvy. It’s a reflection of the twists and turns of life. But I think the term comes from the same root as the Aramaic shapir, which means—it’s good, it’s kosher, it’s all right. The shofar blasts let us know that however broken the world may be, however broken our lives are (and life can get pretty broken) and scary), with the help of family, friends, community and the Kadosh Barukh Hu, shapir, it’s going to work out. Maybe not the way we ever imagined, maybe not the way we ever desired, but shapir—we are resilient, we are flexible, we are adaptable, shapir—we are going to be okay, kosher, it’s all going to work out.

The beginning of wisdom is the fear of God (Psalm 111:10)

Wisdom, the ability to see the big picture, the wide screen, the long term, the beginning of all that is yirat Adonai, the fear of God, which ultimately gives birth to the courage to act, in spite of our fears.

              I know you have been living with some fears because I have been living with some fears. You think I have no fears? I do. Plenty of them. And with this year beginning a year of transition, as I prepare to move onto the next phase of life, I have a few more fears, and you probably do as well. I don’t think I can convince you or anyone else, to be free of fear; I can’t even convince myself of that. But I’m going to keep on trying because I’m not going let hateful, bigoted, loud-mouths ruin my day, and I don’t want a virus to ruin my life. So when it comes to the bigots of the world, we’re all going to call them on the carpet for being hateful and irrational, and when it comes to Covid, we’re going to follow the predominant medical recommendations and we are going to continue living, cautiously, but living and going forward.

The beginning of Psalm 27 reads:

The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?

And there’s the challenge the Psalmist presents to us. Whom shall we fear? Whom shall we fear? Will it be Covid? We’re going to do what we need to do in order to manage it. Will it be the anti-Semites? You know, hatred usually consumes the people who spout it, besides which we can take the wind out of their sails by merely speaking the truth. Will it be God? I hope so. Because the fear of God is the fear that puts all the other fears to rest. When it comes to our fears, a carpenter cutting off the legs of our bed will not help. Because the problem is never the ghosts underneath the bed, the problem is always the ghosts in our head. And there’s no one else in charge of our heads, but us. Shapir—it will be okay, it’s all going to work out.

              Thank you, everyone, and Shanah Tovah.

REFLECTION AND EULOGY FOR RAMI: i.e., ABRAHAM SIMSON RANK (1982-2021)

I want to thank everyone who is with us here today and who may be streaming this service from elsewhere. We have with us multiple communities that were in some way connected to Rami. We have his friends and neighbors from LA, the wonderfully giving Temple Aliyah community of Woodland Hills guided by my colleague and friend, Rabbi Stewart Vogel. We have Ellen and my own wonderful community of Midway Jewish Center in Syosset, Long Island, streaming. A special thank you to my colleague, our associate rabbi Joel Levenson, training now to be a chaplain for the New York National Guard. Rabbi Joel has seen me at my worst and has guided our synagogue during my absence for which I am deeply grateful. A special thanks to our president, Michael Schlank, now the CEO of the NJ Jewish Community Center camps, a prestigious position. He has been eminently understanding during this difficult time and we are very grateful to him as we are so very proud of him. And to our Executive Director, Genea Moore, who is handling many of the shivah arrangements back home and keeping the synagogue running smoothly as always. Genea is the best. We have family from all over—California, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, Maryland, Israel, Canada, and even Australia. And we have many business associates who have been working with or in some other way connected to Rami. In addition, we have Rami’s sister and brother-in-law, Shuli Rank and Aaron Shansky, and we have Rami’s brother, Rabbi Jonah Rank and I know his wife, our daughter-in-law, Rabbi Dr. Raysh Weiss is streaming from Pennsylvania. We have also with us our mehutanim, Dori Lieberman of Calabasas, CA, and Dan & Melodye Warshauer of Calabasas, CA. We have Rami’s step siblings, Amanda and Andrew. Above all, we have our daughter-in-law, Rami’s wife, Lauren, and her two beyond delicious kids, our grandchildren, Nathan and Aiden. And, of course, there’s Ellen and myself, Rami’s parents, and on behalf of all of us, we thank each and every one of you for being with us today.

It really is amazing to me just how many ways and how many times one can say, “I can’t believe this,” or some variation on that theme. There is:

I can’t believe this is happening.

This is unreal.

This is incredible.

I can’t believe this has happened to Rami.

I can’t believe this has happened to us.

After awhile, you realize that you have uttered this statement or some variation thereof 200, 300 times or more.

And the fact of the matter is that there is little else to say. I think there is good reason why, in the Torah, after one of the more prominent tragic episodes, the death of two young priests, Nadav and Avihu, their father, Aaron, the High Priest is silent. Vayidom Aharon, Aaron, the man who served as Moses’s spokesperson, the man who always found the right words to say, failed to find the right words to say (Lev. 10:3), because there are no right words, let alone words, to say, except some variation on, I can’t believe this has just happened.

Whenever we are faced with the unspeakable, it’s best to begin with words that are always good words to speak, and those are words of Torah. From Ecclesiastes, the biblical author known as Kohelet, we learn:

 

Lo lakalim hameirotz / The race is not won by the swift,

V’lo lagiborim hamilhamah  / Nor the enemy defeated by the valliant;

Vegam lo lehakhamim halehem  / Nor is bread obtained by the clever,

Vegam lo lanevonim osher / Nor is wealth accumulated by the intelligent,

Vegam lo layodim hein / Nor is favor secured by the learned,

Ki eit vafega yikreh et kulam / For the time of mischance comes to all.

(Ecclesiastes 9:11)

The time of mischance comes to all. And Kohelet states the occurrence of mischance not as a punishment from God, even though it may feel like one, not as a test from God, even though it may feel like one, but simply as a reality of life. And the mischances in life are not born equal. Sometimes the mischance is an annoyance, sometimes it’s disruptive, and sometimes it really changes your whole life. But Kohelet reminds us that they will come. His words were meant perhaps to prepare us, though we are never truly prepared.

I never worry about the people who shed tears at the loss of a loved one. I worry about the people who don’t. They are the ones whom I feel have lost nothing and that is a shame. But for those of us who grieve over Rami, the blessing in those tears is that they mean that Rami’s life touched us in some deep way. And Jewish ritual—shivah (the seven days of mourning), the lighting of a seven-day candle, daily recitation of kaddish, getting to the synagogue for Yizkor, the special memorial service four times each year, all these are designed to make sure that we gain a handle on our loss, and that the loss never gain a handle over us. And we begin that process by telling stories. And the good thing here is that Rami, unbeknownst to him, has left us a huge amount of material. So let me share a few stories about Rami, right from the beginning.

As a baby, the kid never slept. El and I had to rock him for a long time before he would go to sleep. That was undoubtedly a trait anticipating a life that was full of activity, motion, fun, laughter, getting things done. As an adult, he needed a good nap now and then but on balance, he didn’t need much sleep to operate on all six cylinders—or maybe all eight, maybe ten. When he was little, as the family traveled down the Garden State in New Jersey, when we went under and overpass, and the overpass naturally diminished the daylight, Rami would shout—“Hey who turned out the lights?” That became a kind of game we played whenever we went through a tunnel or under the overpass, and the light would dim, we’d shout, “Hey—Who turned out da lights?”

Rami was never one to be fully engaged in school. That really saddened me because he was just so bright. Growing up, he didn’t think of himself as intelligent or capable, but I knew he was. And this based solely on his ability to listen to an episode of “The Simpsons” and then repeat the script from beginning to end almost verbatim. And then repeat that episode over and over, multiple times. It was uncanny. He took great pleasure in knowing that his proper English first and middle names are Abraham Simson, the character of Homer’s father in “The Simpsons,” and to make matters even better, he was growing up in a town named Springfield (Springfield, NJ). That made him a bona fide character in “The Simpsons.”

Our family lived in Springfield, NJ, for 12 years but Rami for 13. When it was time to leave Springfield for our new home in Syosset, Long Island, Rami stayed behind. He was a senior at Jonathan Dayton High School the same high School that Ellen, his mother, and Rami’s uncle, Gary, graduated from, and having been elected president of HaGalil, which was the New Jersey region of USY, that is the Conservative Jewish youth group, Rami wanted to remain in New Jersey and not move with us to New York. USY loved Rami and Rami loved USY. He loved it ever since one of the earliest programs he attended—a canoe trip on a sleepy river during which the kids were caught in a sudden and ferocious thunder and lightning storm, they were trapped beneath a bridge sheltered from the pouring rain, the fire department was called out to rescue the kids and when he finally got onto terra firma, Rami blurts out, “That was best USY event we’ve ever had!”  It made sense to me that he would be chosen president because he was respected among his peers, was a person with substantial organizational skills, and someone with a respectable understanding of what it means to be a Jew. Rami was a real “let’s get things done” person. And he got things done.

Of course, the trick in staying in Springfield was needing a residence to stay at, and that was easily accomplished through his grandparents, Marvin and Millie Simson, who lived in town and who graciously, I would say courageously, took on the responsibility of housing and looking after Rami in that senior year—1999-2000. On the one hand, staying with Grandma and Pop was a no-brainer. All of our kids felt perfectly at home at Grandma and Pop’s—it was truly their second home. Where else could you get pizza or hamburgers for breakfast? Grandma was driven to satisfy her most precious customers and she did. On the other hand, both Grandma and Pop took on the responsibility of hosting a teenager, and one with ambitious (one might say “wreckless) plans like driving at night or right after a major snowstorm---or during a major snowstorm. Rami would say—“Grandma, trust me!” which Grandma later confessed to us that of all the words that ever came out of Rami’s mouth, those three were the most terrifying.

Before the days of NetFlix and Disney Plus, and before Block Buster, there was a small video shop in Springfield, across the street from Bagel Supreme (great bagels there) and a block from our home, and there the owner, John, knew what kind of films we all loved. And that’s when we started watching these totally ridiculous films that made us howl with laughter—Airplane, Naked Gun, Hot Shots, Kindergarten Cop. Again, Rami would memorize dialogue from these movies and then recite the scripts for us. Then later on he would watch more serious films and absorb them as well. And he was a reader—this young man who did not really care for school all that much would read novels and books that were challenging, like Moby Dick—not exactly light reading. He loved it. And later on he’d read through biographies and listen to podcasts, absorbing all sorts of random information. He was fascinated by history, politics and economics.

When Rami was somewhat established in LA and told us that he wanted to pursue an MBA, I said—Rami: Graduate School? He said, well I find the material “intellectually stimulating.” I said, Did you just use the word “intellectually” and “stimulating” in the same sentence where one word was modifying the other? He got his MBA studying remotely at Arizona State University. And if any of you have followed him on Facebook, you know that every so often, mixed into photos posted of his family, of Lauren and of Nathan and Aiden, he would write social commentaries on political and economic matters, and these pieces were brilliantly crafted and reasoned beautifully. It didn’t matter whether you agreed with his position or not. He was a masterful essayist. He eventually began creating his own podcasts, zeroing in on a host of colorful characters to interview in his light-hearted yet serious way.

Rami majored in Film and Television Studies at Boston University, did his senior internship in film production in LA, and following graduation, wanted to stay in LA because that’s where the action was. I was mildly concerned about allowing him to pursue something for which the risk of failure was substantial, but then again, failure is a mighty mentor, and I figured, let the kid follow his dreams. And as our cousin Clyde put it (that’s Clyde and Toby of our LA family), people were losing their jobs and getting fired all over the place, but Rami kept on getting hired. El and I are deeply, deeply grateful to Clyde and Toby for looking after Rami during those early years when he was out on his own. And the attention they have given to Rami over the past few months has been extraordinary and invaluable to Lauren, El and myself as they daily visited Rami, for extensive periods of time, interfacing with the medical staff and making sure that he was never alone.

Some of you might appreciate this tale from his earlier days in production when one of his supervisors told us how much she enjoyed working with Rami and how responsible and conscientious he was. And then she added—And you know, the set can be crumbling, the actors may be quitting, and Rome may  be up in flames—but Rami is taken’ lunch.

The most important part of Rami’s experience in LA was meeting and falling in love with Lauren, our daughter-in-law. Together they created two of the most delicious kids, and two of the biggest fans of Shin Godzilla in the world:  Nathan 8, and Aiden 6. Lauren—you and Rami had something special together the first time you met. Your love of family, of fun, of sports, of the movies, of Jewish tradition, were all very real and held you together. This past Shabbat, June 26, was your tenth wedding anniversary. Rami didn’t make it by two days. But all told, it has been a 12-year association. And Nathan and Aiden adored their Daddy so much. Rami was a great Daddy, introducing his kids to his own loves—trains, golf, video games, and of course, film. Maybe someday Nathan and Aiden will take up piano, and play like their father would, usually a Billy Joel tune which he so loved—Piano Man or Angry Young Man.

Rami’s most recent completed venture was the Amazon Prime series Goliath where he was co- Producer with a talented and dedicated group of people for whom he had great respect. And I know it was a thrill and honor for him to work with the show’s central character, Billy Bob Thorton, whose performance in Bad Santa was yet another one of those comedies, this one a tad edgier, that early on Rami and I watched together and howled with laughter throughout.

During the pandemic, Rami gained an expertise in Covid testing that few in his field could lay claim to. He was integral to keeping the set clean and the actors safe from exposure to Covid. I actually consulted with Rami on a few matters related to what we were doing at Midway back on Long Island, maintaining reasonable precautions as we conducted in-person services beginning in June of last year.

When Rami was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, we were given to understand that this was the kind of cancer that is treatable with the proper therapies, and Rami was all set for that. His attitude was, as usual, Let’s get it done. Rami and Lauren called us on the way to the hospital, as they so often called us when they were on the road, and Rami was joking and laughing the way Rami was always joking and laughing. Lauren commented, “It sounds like he’s going snowboarding and not about to have major surgery.” And she was right. That’s exactly the way he sounded. Things didn’t go quite as planned. And here we are.

At one point, while I was alone with a doctor, I asked what to expect of Rami after we weaned him off all the drugs, what might he be like when he woke up. And he said, “We’re concerned that he may never wake up. And I thought well that’s not possible because he’s the kid who never slept. Surely, he would wake up.

During the days leading up to the MRI that would confirm our worst suspicions, I slept poorly. We all slept poorly. We all had many dreams, disturbing dreams, mostly nightmares, but I had this one dream that really stood out. I was walking along a beautiful path, not far from a calmly flowing stream, and beside a park of manicured bushes and trees. It was a sort of resort, very California-ish, and there were lovely colorful homes along the path. I came across one home with a door wide-opened, and I thought, I will enter that house, even though I certainly did not belong there. I entered the house. It was dark but light enough to see that inside was not a small homey cottage but a huge space, big enough to house a large yacht, and there it was—a sailing yacht, with three masts and a massive hull. It was made of polished mahogany and fitted with gorgeous riggings, cables and shiny copper accents. I wanted to board this sailing ship. I did not belong there, but I wanted to see it up close. It was very dark. I walked on the deck admiring the yacht, it was so beautiful, and the ship rested in silence, I n its place, but I still needed the light in order to truly see. So I started searching for the lights, you know, to find the switch.

It was so dark and the sailing ship was so vast and intricate, and really I did not belong there.

And then a voice called out and I knew I was in trouble, walking around this ship, trespassing, within some random house, again trespassing, and the voice inquired, politely, what was I was doing there. So I said, “O—I’m just here looking for the light switch. Are you the captain of the ship?” And the voice replied, “No, I’m a neurologist,” and I thought, O—this is great. I need a neurologist. I’ve got all sort of questions for the neurologist. I have hundreds of questions for the neurologist, except I couldn’t remember exactly what the questions were. There were so many, but I could not remember a single one. And so I asked the only question that came to mind, which was, “Who turned out the lights?”

That’s when I woke up. I woke up because I asked the question that had no answer.

No one knew who turned out the lights.

And no one knew how to turn them back on.

This boat would never sail.

And this boy, our boy, the kid who never slept, was not going to wake up, for the time of mischance comes to all, not as a punishment, even though it feels like it, and not as a test from God, even though it feels like it, but just as a reality of life. And this one is one that truly changes our lives. We will never be able to rid ourselves of the mischances in life. We will only be able to control how we respond to them. And so we connect to a power greater than ourselves that says, when it happens, as it will, choose life. Make sure that you get a handle on the loss so that the loss does not get a handle on you.

Okay. I think we can live with that. What to do? Well, I don ‘t think I can offer a recipe on what to do. But I think it best to begin very simply. What do parents do for sleeping children? They sing lullabyes. I’m not sure if Rami was into lullabyes, but maybe a few bars of Billy Joel. As Rami might say—Abba, you got this! Okay, Ram, I got it. Because Billy Joel actually composed a lullabye, a very beautiful one, under circumstances much different from those we know face, yet with lyrics eerily fitting for this time.

He sang:

Good night my angel now it's time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay

And like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark

and deep inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me

 

Zihrono L’evrakhah—Whenever we think of you, Ram, we’ll remember your smile, your jokes, your laughter, your intelligence, your love of family, your love of life. And all that will be a blessing.

Alav  hashalom—Rest in peace.

ARE YOU A ZOOM ROOM UN-SENSATION?

It’s coming up on a year’s time that we have all been sent to our rooms, that is, Zoom Rooms. With the pandemic forcing us to take special precautions, prayer, meetings, conferences, and even social gatherings have taken place virtually, in the virus-free, sanitized world of cyberspace.  The experience has been liberating and oppressive all at once, but the better part of ourselves should recognize the blessing in having such a tool at our disposal, especially during a crisis like this one. Nonetheless, as with other social interactions, the following proposed conventions will minimize the awkward and uncomfortable faux pas that so many of us have experienced or witnessed. A few tips are in order to avoid becoming a Zoom Room Un-Sensation:

 

YOUR NAME

We all have one, and it’s not Batman, Supergirl, or “The Beaver.” In a session with multiple windows and people who do not necessarily know each other, use your name, your proper name, and no other. In the very least, it should be your first name, but preferably, it should be your full first and last names.

 

YOUR FACE

Look at that punim (Yiddish for face)! I am—and it’s a fine photo but, hey—are you there? I don’t know because I can’t see you. I can only see your photo. Showing up to a Zoom event with only your photo in the window gives new meaning to the tongue-in-cheek reprimand—Earth to Jerry, earth to Jerry…. A photo in your window, in place of you in the window, suggests that you are not fully present, unless there are such extenuating circumstances as you might offer in advance of the session.

 

YOUR DRESS

The Zoom era has generated more jokes about wearing pants (or more accurately, not wearing pants) than I’d care to repeat, but how about the dress from the waist up. Have you been invited to a Bat or Bar Mitzvah? A memorial service? A conference? That ceremony calls for something other than pj’s or jeans and your old college sweatshirt. Skip the high heels if you so like, but appearances in a visual medium matter. Consider the circumstances and dress accordingly.

 

YOUR TECHNICAL TOYS

You are probably accustomed to the television blaring in the next room, but the people in the Zoom Room trying to hear one another are not. Turn off, or at least turn down, the volume of that device. Your cell phone ought to be silenced as well and it’s best not to answer during a Zoom session, unless you suspect an emergency. Finally, the device on which you have connected to Zoom most likely offers you an opportunity to multi-task—write that report, shop for new shoes, play solitaire. etc. But everyone knows when you are distracted. Avoid multi-tasking, be present, even though your presence is only a whisp of digits in cyberspace.

 

YOUR BACKGROUND

Zoom offers the tantalizing option, through alternate backgrounds, of placing oneself in the jungles of Amazon, a bustling rue in Paris, or outer space. We all like creativity so you may indulge, as long as the background is appropriate for the session at hand. If you are at a business meeting, you may not want to show up in the Sahara Desert. Moreover, unless you are seated in front of a green screen of sorts, your own apparition in the virtual background will become ghost-like, as your face and body disappear and reappear with your own natural movements. It is disturbing to interact with anyone who is missing a limb, a chest, or a head. A mundane, real background, like your living room, is a far better choice.

 

YOUR CONVERSATIONS

Zoom offers the opportunity for private conversation in Chat, an area running vertically on the right sign of the screen where one may chat with the entire group or a single person. But what you ought to avoid is calling out to Mrs. Goldberg about a personal health issue, or any private issue for that matter, that would compel others to stop speaking. Etiquette would demand that we not speak over one another, so when you initiate a private conversation with that Mrs. Goldberg, you force others to shut up or be as rude as you are in dominating the room. The chat area is reserved for your private conversations. And that’s where they belong.

 

YOUR SPELLING

As long as we have given up on oral communication in favor of the written word, if texting can be so described, it is important for you to pay attention to spelling, so that your words are not misconstrued. As one Zoomer wrote as he was trying to get his camera on, “Please bare with me.” Thanks for the invite but I’ll pass. Moreover, please don’t use CAPS which is the written equivalent of shouting. Whether spelling out your name or tapping out a chat, write for maximum clarity, and that includes following the conventions of the written word.

 

YOUR LANGUAGE

Is your mic on? It probably is which means that the last expletive that fell from your lips was heard by the others in the windows on your screen. Zoom can be frustrating for newcomers, but there is no excuse for broadcasting that frustration via the @#$%^& words that far too often pass for acceptable language. They aren’t. It is of some interest to learn that Aunt Sadie can pull her own weight with the pirates flying the Jolly Roger. But when those words are transmitted to the 50 other people in the Zoom Room, what can I say but—ARRRGH!

 

You might ask me, with a great deal of justified righteous indignation—Exactly who made you the Zoom Czar, the Cyber Kaiser, the Internet Imperator?  Okay—I hear you. This is a self-appointed position perpetrated with a maximum of hubris. But I bet I write for more than just a few who have been annoyed by one or two of the above realities. The pandemic is not over yet. We have a longer future of interactions in the Zoom Room than anyone ever thought. There’s a deliberate equality in a Zoom Room where all the windows are of equal size. There’s nothing wrong with striving to be unique or different, but if you do, make sure you do so for all the right reasons, and not those that will make you a Zoom Room Un-Sensation.

A MACCABEAN CHALLENGE FOR 21ST CENTURY JEWS

Let’s admit it: Hanukkah is no match for Christmas. Put the two in a boxing rink and Christmas would knockout Hanukkah in the first minute of the first round. Then again, it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Christmas is one of the two major holidays in the Christian faith and Hanukkah is a minor holiday among any number of other really important Jewish holidays. That’s not to say that Hanukkah is unimportant or irrelevant. To the contrary, it deserves better than its reputation among our young folk as the “holiday when you get gifts.” But the minor designation does stem from a few glaring deficiencies about this holiday—

1.       There is no mention of it in Torah;

2.       There is no mention of it in Tanakh or the Jewish Bible;

3.       It involved few restrictions unlike Shabbat or a major festival like Pesah;

4.       Even the rabbis weren’t sure what to make of it and wondered: What is Hanukkah?

Fair question. In truth, Hanukkah was as much a second century BCE Judean civil war as it was a war against the Syrian Greeks. They were Judea’s overlords and unabashedly espoused Grecian values. They glorified the human body, found circumcision abhorrent, chose to embrace the existence of many gods unlike the Jewish insistence on only one, found Shabbat a waste of time, and bristled at the national aspirations of the Judean community. And yet there were plenty of Jews who found common ground with the Syrian Greeks. Frankly, many 21^st century Jews would see the exposed human body as artful, circumcision problematic, the Sabbath as no impediment to labor, and any condemnation of pagans or polytheists as bigoted. The Maccabees, in contrast to Jews then and perhaps today, saw danger in the wholesale acceptance of such foreign values and were willing to wage war to oppose them.

 

It is very difficult to resist a dominant culture that you want to be part of. But what happens when the dominant culture is chipping away at your own? What to do? The Maccabees knew what to do. But in our own day, do we? The fundamental problem with the liberal Jewish world is that even when recognizing the debilitating factors working against our spiritual selves, the resistance needed to oppose those factors contradict everything we have worked for during the past 100 plus years. We wanted to become Americans and did, but did, knowingly or unknowingly, at the expense of our Jewishness. And the fruits of our lopsided efforts are evident in a liberal Jewish world that is largely illiterate in Hebrew, either uninterested in or alienated from Israel, disenfranchised from its own spiritual heritage, and searching for meaning everywhere but in the incredibly rich 3000 years of Jewish meditations on the meaning of life and the human raison d’etre.

 

Bleak a picture as this may be, I have to believe that the will to deepen our own Jewish identities remains intact, and all it takes is a bit of prodding to release that subdued passion. I’m no Maccabee, but let me offer a few ways to reclaim our authentic Jewish selves:

1.       When people say that God is not a fact, believe them. But remind them that man does not live by facts alone. God is a reality, and a reality that has inspired thousands of generations to vigorously pursue liberty and social justice. We dare not abandon such a powerful faith.

2.       That faith and science are forever at odds disparages both faith and science. Faith is about following truths that help us live full lives. Science, in contrast, offers no way to live our lives, but does provide us with tools for ascertaining certain truths. That is why there are many scientists and medical professionals who are themselves people of faith. There need not be any contradiction between the two.

3.       English is the lingua franca of the world, but Hebrew is the lingua Judaica—the language of the Jewish people and we should take pains to enhance our Hebrew vocabulary. It is as difficult to be Jewish with no Hebrew skills as it would to be an American with no English skills.

4.       The fact that the Jewish heritage may have evolved during the Dark Ages (if not earlier) does not make it a relic of the Dark Ages. It was then, as it remains today, an invitation to eternity,  connecting us with ancestors stretching back generations, as with descendants stretching forward for endless centuries. The modern disdain for the past contrasts with the value Jews grant tradition.

5.       Israel is the Jewish homeland and all Jews, citizens of Israel or not, are connected to it. Israel is not a foreign country like Italy or Spain. Love of Israel does not suggest disloyalty to the country of one’s citizenship, no more than close friends undermine the integrity of one’s marriage.

6.       Jewish identity should be based on Jewish values and principles, which may or may not incorporate aspects of the dominant culture. But the guiding hand in the formation of Jewish identity should not be the demands of the dominant culture, but the Jewish values and principles that have guided us throughout the generations.

Every system requires a shot of energy now and then in order to maintain itself. The Jewish world is long overdue for that shot. Which brings us back to Hanukkah. The above six points is what the Maccabees might tell us were they around today. And so Hanukkah, no matter how minor a holiday it may be, delivers a message with a major punch. Anything less than the above prescription for Jewish life is a crude hybrid of Jewish and western secular culture. The first Maccabees would never stand for that. Why should we?

AN ANTI-SEMITE WALKS INTO A SUKKAH…

Among a handful of topics I find the least appealing to address is the issue of anti-Semitism. I primarily don’t like it due to its abuse by Jewish professionals who have used it to galvanize Jewish community. After all, when Jews feel threatened, we tend to regroup, band together, and lift our voices in protest. Hatred generates fear in the hated, and fear compels the vulnerable to seek security in numbers. It’s good to belong to a group. 

Anti-Semites would undoubtedly agree: it’s good to belong. In their case, they seem bound by a common hatred, directed against us, which provides an easy way for disparate personalities and groups to coalesce. Hatred is a fellowship generator. And it’s so easy. Hatred requires doing nothing for the hated, it accesses one’s righteous anger to produce feelings of superiority, and it’s free. Hatred works. Community organizers know that. Politicians know that. Terrorist groups know that. And by this time in our lives as a people, we should know that too. When we actively combat hatred, we are telling people that the group they belong to is founded on a false premise, which means that the whole group is bound by a lie. That’s a threatening message to deliver effectively. It not only calls into question a person’s belief system, it questioning the group itself, the very mechanism that creates fellowship. Even when your group is based on a lie, it still feels good to belong. 

We have reason to be concerned with the fate of our nation. With the waning of the Judeo-Christian ethic in the western world, America’s Christian love has faltered and created a void. It seems that people’s sociological lives abhor a vacuum as does nature, and a host of hatreds have moved in to fill the void, with results markedly different from the effects of Judeo-Christian love. One may argue that given a long history of religious wars and crusades, the whole Christian love thing didn’t work out so well, a point well taken. The difference is this. When people talk of love while beating up their neighbor, it creates a dissonance which may lead to a reconsideration of how one thinks and acts. But when people preach hatred and beat up their neighbor, there’s nowhere to go. It’s honest and consistent, despite it being unconscionable. God’s love was meant for all humanity, and humanity is still grappling with the ramifications of that principle. People who are serious about their love for God must also be serious about their love for God’s creations. 

If you are a Mexican, Moslem, Black, or female, you have been hated. 

If you are a law enforcement officer, a politician, a Democrat or a Republican, you have been hated. 

If you are an evangelical, a scientist, an Asian, or a white male, you have been hated. 

And, of course, if you’re Jewish, you have undoubtedly been hated. 

Actually, if you don’t belong to a group that has been the target of someone’s hate, you should feel insulted. If it all didn’t erupt into violence now and then, anti-Semitism would be comical, but there is nothing funny about it or hatred. 

When I want the Jewish people to gather, I want the impetus to be positive. I want them to gather for a celebration, for prayer, for study, for justice. I want Jewish passion to ignite over the fact that we are each 3500 years of age, and bear a message of a life lived with justice and godliness in a world with a deficit of both justice and godliness. But that, of course, is part of the problem. How often have we heard that anti-Semitism persists due to ignorance and fear? When we remain divorced from our neighbors, it’s far easier for them to indulge in fantasies about how horrible we are. 

I’m not a huge football fan but I did take note in the exchange between the Patriots Jewish Julian Edelman and the Eagles’ DeSean Jackson after Jackson posted anti-Semitic comments on his Instagram story. Edelman offered to take Jackson to the Holocaust Museum and offered to go with Jackson to the African American History Museum, both in Washington DC, and afterwards “grab some burgers and…have those uncomfortable conversations.” Edelman’s response was a touchdown. With a click of the “post,” social media allows millions of people to send nonsense and abuse to millions of others out there in invisible and anonymous cyber-land. But real dialogue requires two visible bodies, with two sets of eyes that are connecting, and conversation emanating from two mouths. Social media is a kind of body slam to true dialogue, but people like Julian Edelman have the courage to help it get back on its feet. 

I know some Jews who have gotten really angry about the anti-Semitism that is surging these days. Their anger is understandable, but it remedies nothing. Anti-Semitism has been around for over 2000 years. It’s not going away any time too soon. But if you want to be in the business of combatting antiSemitism, here are three positive actions to take: 

1. Support the Anti-Defamation League that combats anti-Semitism, hatred and bigotry of all forms; 

2. Support AIPAC in its defense of the State of Israel, the hatred of which is anti-Semitism in disguise; 

3. Take to task, politely, those who use anti-Semitic tropes, or engage in stereotypic slurs, that is, take a tip from Julian Edelman; 

And finally, and perhaps most importantly, keep the door of your sukkah unlocked. Ahhh—you thought I forgot the whole sukkah connection by now. I didn’t. Sukkot are famously open for anyone to come and visit and for all of us to generously invite guests into. Of course, this year may not be the best to overindulge in such invitations but the fact is that the sukkah is an abode for everyone to come into and sit, eat, drink, talk, discuss, bond, laugh…eat some more…and wonder about the miracles in our lives. God has given us a world full of mysteries and jaw-dropping beauty. We may be guests in God’s world but we should never be strangers to each other. And should the sukkah become a place for burgers (kosher) and an uncomfortable conversation, that’s a sacred task to be fulfilled—a mitzvah we should all be immersed in, just like sitting in the sukkah.