National Foster Care Month

foster parent.jpg

Since we began our Foster Care journey in 2016, May has consistently been an intense month for us. After being licensed in April, both of our long-term placements came to us in May, one year after another. One of those foster placements resulted in adoption.

After this weekend, we will begin taking foster placements into our home again. When we return from Los Angeles, we will provide respite to another foster family for 10 days by taking care of a five-month-old boy whom they are fostering. During this placement, we will asses how fostering other children is for our two-year-old daughter.

Adina is excited to provide care for another baby. She thrives on being part of a team of case-workers, behavioral therapists, social workers, medical professionals, and lawyers who together create a safety-net for children in the foster care system. She has acquired the skill-set to advocate to meet the needs of the child during this critical time of development in the first months of life.

I am passionate about fostering because it provides the care and love for the child in the moment, while his or her family is receiving the support from the state to repair whatever it is that prevented them from providing adequate care. The primary goal of Foster Care is reunifying the child with his or her family. If the parents are not able, then the extended family is asked to stand up; if they are not available then the community of friends is approached; if they aren’t available, then the foster parents are asked to adopt the child.

In our case, we are privileged to have developed an ongoing personal relationship with our child’s extended biological family. This added element of love has not only enriched our child’s life, it has enriched ours, too.

While circumstances can often make this fostering process a challenging one, the values and priorities are correctly aligned. Within this system, I cherish the opportunity to provide this child with love and care, while being a positive force in the child's larger family and community.

One last note: There is a critical shortage of foster parents throughout our country and within our communities. What do you think is blocking families from stepping up into the breach to support our children? People often say that they could never be foster parents because they wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. If we are looking at this issue from what is best for the child, rather than what is best for ourselves, perhaps our perspective would change and more parents would be willing to foster.

My Favorite Kippah


When I began Tucson Hebrew Academy, I was required to wear a kippah during school. Walking through the Swap Meet, my Nana’s favorite flea market in Tucson, I came across a table filled with these rainbow-colored knitted kippot. I tried one on. It covered my entire head. I was proud to wear a kippah of my own, especially such a unique one.

In college, as I became observant of my own choice, I began to wear a kippah in my daily life. I returned to my favorite rainbow-colored knitted kippah. One day, a Guatemalan man approached me, inquiring why I was wearing this head covering that comes from a specific region in Guatemala. This specific knowledge about my kippah added another layer of meaning for me. By observing this Jewish tradition, I was also connecting with Guatemalan culture.


As a young rabbi in Chicago, I discovered a Fair Trade organization called Maya Works. They purchase art from women in Guatemala at a fair-market price based on its sale in the United States. Such ethical business practices have transformed the lives of individuals and communities. Kippot and Tallitot are this organization’s best-selling products. This cross-cultural/social justice component enhances the kippah’s meaning.


In Talmud Shabbat 118b Rav Huna, the son of Rav Yehoshua states he wouldn’t walk four feet without having his head covered since God’s presence is above him. My unique journey of wearing a kippah connects me with God, values of justice, and peoples’ distinct cultures all over the world.

A Prayer From Tucson City Hall

As a Rabbi and Jewish educator, I offer these prayers for our children and their education. I gave my social media community the opportunity to share their prayers on this crucial subject and will incorporate their prayers as part of this invocation. 

“The world only exists on account of the breath of children at the school-house.”

This statement was made by Resh Lakish in the name of Rabbi Yehuda the Magistrate around 2000 years ago recorded in the Talmud on page 119b of Shabbat. 

The issue of education perennially remains the central way to shape our society, to make the ultimate investment in our future. The breath of our children engaged in learning ensures that our civilization will persist. That order will prevail over chaos. That future generations will preserve, build, and create. 

On that same page in Talmud Rabbi Hamnuna suggests that the inverse is true too: that Jerusalem was destroyed because children stopped attending the school-house.

We know this violent reality in our society all too intimately. I share with you a prayer by Dan Alexander, the Chief Administrative Officer at Great Lakes Academy Charter School in Chicago. 

He offers this prayer in the wake of a drive-by shooting late at night last week outside the school where a young man and woman were badly injured: “I pray for God to help us construct schools, economy, law, and religion to cause our young people to have the inner strength to reject gangs and the violence they bring.”


How do we teach our children this basic tenet of choosing life?

One of my main mentors, my mother-in-law, addresses this fundamental question with the prayer she shares:

“A Prayer on Learning for a Child I Love”

By Sally Weber

What do I want you to learn?

To speak, to read, to write of course.

And to excel.

But to excel in learning from all around you.

The people who love you, the people who don’t;

The people you agree with, the people you don’t;

Those who speak loudly, those who speak softly.

I want you to learn that you have a moral base.

I want you to excel in discerning how to share that with the world.

I want you to learn to say ‘yes’ and also how to say ‘no’

And to understand why you’re making those choices.

I want you to learn from the love that’s offered that you have love to give.

I want you to learn that you will always be loved.


Her prayer challenges us to ensure that the basic skills we prioritize in our schools don’t replace basic human values that we must teach our children so that they understand that they matter in an absolute way.

The family is the primary place where we teach our children these lessons of being loved. Yet transformative teaching in the classroom at every age emanates from relationships between teacher and student, and student and student. 


One of my former students who lives in Jerusalem, Dafna Guttman shares her prayer that recognizes how this profound encounter must be the basis of how we educate our children. 

May we be guided and successful in (educating) providing a space for our children to express their needs and desires to us freely and without shame. For them to know that they are seen, cared for, and supported. After which, they will go on to do wonderful things in this world.

I add my own humble prayer to these prayers: 

May we educate our children to appreciate the beauty of nature and mystery of existence; to simply learn how to be kind; to have hope.

Tucson City Hall

Tucson City Hall

I am grateful for how these public forums -- City Council and Social Media – can be used as a powerful and positive force for change in our society. May God establish the work of the hands of educators, public-policy makers, Religious leaders, parents and the hands of our children as we shape our world.

Here is the official video of me reciting your prayers. It’s the first two minutes, enjoy!

A Seder Supplement to Maximize the Family Value of Your Seder

The essence of the Seder experience is to create a family educational experience. At each part of the Seder, from start to finish, the goal is to transmit our foundational Jewish story to the next generation. Below is a supplement that follows the order of the Seder highlighting the educational aspects of each element. It includes questions at the end of each section to apply the concept to your family around the table.

1. Afikoman:

We break the middle matza and lift up the smaller half saying, “This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate…”

Like an animated film, this opening part of the Seder is simultaneously sending one message to the adults and one to the children. While the adults are getting prepared to delve into the story of oppression, this act signals to the children that the game of seeking the afikomen is about to begin. The larger half of the broken matza represents redemption, our hopes and dreams for a better world. Unlike the smaller half, the bread of affliction that is being showcased, the larger half is wrapped up and hidden away to capture the imagination of the child who is poised to seek it out. What an appropriate way to set the stage for the Seder: while the adults are discussing the problems of the Jewish people and the world, the children are eagerly engaged in seeking out the solution. Two different mindsets are formed that will influence the way each one experiences the Seder. Hopefully by the end, the two generations will come together along with the pieces of the broken matza.

How do we empower our children in the face of the challenging realities of life? What tools does Judaism and the Seder offer us in doing so?

2. The Four Questions:

According to the Mishna, “And here the child asks [questions to] the parent. And if the child has no understanding [in order to ask questions], the parent teaches the child [to ask the four questions]… And according to the child's understanding, the parent instructs him or her.” (Mishnah Pesahim 10:4)

Questioning leads to discovery and research. This is the heart of Judaism. The first command in the Shema after loving God is to teach your child. We do this by teaching our children to ask questions. In the above source, the rabbis wisely teach that the parent instructs the child according to the child’s understanding. What interests our child? What is our child ready to explore? What are the best ways for our child to learn? Perhaps this is why the tradition arose to have the youngest child ask the questions. We need to engage all of our children, all ages, abilities, and learning styles.

The rabbis suggest beginning by pointing out to the child how this night is different from all other nights. These basic questions can lead to deeper questions:

Why do we only eat matzah tonight? According to the Torah, one reason why we eat Matza is to remember the hurried manner in which the Israelites left Egypt. They didn’t even have enough time for the bread to rise. Typical of Judaism, we bring the stories of Torah to life through our actions, mitzvot. We translate moral messages into actions. It is our responsibility to explore the meaning of the actions that the Torah mandates so we can infuse them with the values they were meant to carry. What values does another mitzvah, mandated Torah behavior, communicate?

Why do we specifically eat bitter herbs tonight? This is recognizing the oppression that exists in our lives. How would you explain this to your children? Why is it important that we taste the bitterness?

Why do we dip foods twice tonight? This is a custom from Roman feasts, which the Seder meal is loosely based on. Engaging in such a feast, including dipping foods into delicacies, is the custom of free people. What meaning does mimicking the actions of free people give the Seder?

Why do we recline? Again, this was part of the Roman custom, but we added another meaning: We are acting out the story of going out of slavery. In what ways are we free today as Jews?

And the question that binds all of these questions together: why do you engage in these rituals?

What other questions are important for you to instruct your child to ask regarding Pesah and Judaism.

3. Four Children

“And you shall tell your child on that day…” (Exodus 13:8, 14)

The Hebrew for the word “tell” is the same word for Hagada. The central mitzva of Pesah of telling the story comes directly from the Torah. The Torah is so concerned about transmitting the memory and lessons of this experience of the Exodus that this command to tell the story comes while the people are in the process of leaving.

The answer to each child is in the first person. In fact, later in the hagadah it explicitly states, “Each person is obligated to see him or herself as if he or she went out of Egypt.” We need to make this our story. How do you relate to this story? What has been your process of learning this story? Did you grow up with a family Seder? Or, did you come to Judaism as an adult? How does your story intersect with the Pesah story? Tell the story in first person, “When I or we came out of Egypt…”

What about your experience of Pesah do you want to tell the next generation so it continues? Why does your experience of Pesah and Judaism matter to the next generation?

4. The symbols on the Seder Plate:

These symbols come from the Torah’s account of the first Passover meal that took place on the eve of redemption in Egypt (Exodus 12:3-4):

“Speak to the whole community of Israel and say that on the tenth of this month each of them shall take a lamb to a family, a lamb to a household. But if the household is too small for a lamb, let him share one with a neighbor who dwells nearby, in proportion to the number of persons: you shall contribute for the lamb according to what each household will eat…They shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they are to eat it. They shall eat the flesh that same night; they shall eat it roasted over the fire, with unleavened bread and with bitter herbs. 9Do not eat any of it raw, or cooked in any way with water, but roasted…”

Our family Seder is simulating the experience that each family had in Egypt according to the Torah. The Torah instructs each family to experience this event as a family. By eating the Pesah sacrifice together the family was protecting its household from the tenth plague by putting blood of the sacrifice on the doorpost. The accompanying foods have also become symbolic of leaving slavery – bitter herbs and matza.

What family customs of yours communicate the value of togetherness? What actions does your family do that connects you to the Jewish people? How can you connect these family traditions to the explanation of the traditional Pesah symbols?

5. The Ten Plagues:

The slaying of the first-born rips apart every Egyptian household to save every Israelite one. The Pharoah’s dynasty was diminished by killing the first-born son as the Children of Israel emerge as God’s people. Destroying one family while establishing another. How do we approach destruction that was brought about for the sake of our redemption?

There is a midrash, a rabbinic teaching, when the Israelites crossed the sea and they witnessed the Egyptians drowning in it, they broke into song praising God. The angels join in this song with the Israelites. At this point, God rebukes the angels, “Will you praise me while my children are dying?” In this midrash, God doesn’t rebuke us for rejoicing in our freedom.

However, when we recount the plagues we take out some of our wine from our cups to symbolically diminish our joy. We must always maintain our humanity while we ensure our survival. These teachings do not allow us to exult in the value of revenge or moral superiority; rather they guide us to focus on our humanity and compassion. This call for civility is especially challenging to maintain in our culture of uncivil discourse and the polarization in our politics when it comes to the state of Israel. How do we as Jews respond in a Jewish way?

How do we teach our children to stand up for ourselves in the face of aggression while maintaining our values and not becoming aggressive ourselves?

6. Meal:

This is a time for relaxing and reflecting upon what you have gone through to reach this moment, bonding as a family. This is a good time to assess if you are enjoying being with your family while trying to transmit the story.

7. Eliyahu:

Malachi 3:22-24

“Be mindful of the Teaching of My servant Moses, whom I charged at Horeb with laws and rules for all Israel. Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord. He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction.”

In the quote above, Elijah the prophet uses one criterion to determine if we are forces of redemption or destruction, and that is our relationship with our children. What happens when we are not connecting as a family? What happens when the Jewish rituals are obstacles to bonding rather than tools? This is an opportunity to step back and ask if our lifestyle and values are aligned to strengthen our core, our family. If not, what needs to change? We need to apply this same question to Judaism. How can Jewish traditions specifically strengthen our family? Remember, this is the very purpose of the Seder and of Judaism. We can’t effectively transmit the story to the next generation if we don’t have this basic piece of relating in place.

I know it’s getting late, but ask if everyone is able and willing to come back to the table to finish the Seder. If so, Rabbi Harold Shulweis introduces the beautiful ritual at this point to pass Elijah’s cup around the table and have everyone pour a bit of wine or grape juice into it, representing that we all have what to contribute to our hopes for our family, for our people, for our future. Debbie Friedman’s beautiful Eliyahu Hanavi melody that is commonly sung after Havdallah lends itself to bonding too.

8. Songs

Playfulness and song are Jewish values in themselves. The songs we are singing are fun and an opportunity to be silly. However, the themes of the songs are all serious ones. How effectively can we have fun with the children around the table while retaining the high level of consciousness of what we accomplished through the Seder. These songs lend themselves to functioning on both of these levels.

Do you carve out time to play as a family? How does this value lead to building other values that strengthen your family?

Love is Stronger than Death

We complete the book of Genesis this Shabbat. After we read the last line, the congregation declares together Hazak Hazak V’Nithazek, “Strength, strength, let us be strengthened.” These last few lines, themselves, end on a note of strength as the family members of Jacob are emerging as the People of Israel. Here they are personally addressed as “The Children of Israel” for the first time (Genesis 50:25).

God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah in the covenant is being realized. Yet, there is a minor problem: the Children of Israel are still in Egypt, and we know that the book of Exodus is going to take our people into slavery. Even though we know the present and future challenges, this last chapter plants the seed of redemption. The Torah connects us, through the burial of Jacob, to the Promised Land, when he is buried at the Cave of Machpelah, the family plot, if you will, where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, and Leah are buried.

In the last lines, this connection to the Land is made even more explicit:

“Joseph said to his brothers, ‘I am about to die. God will surely take notice of you and bring you up from this land that He promised on oath to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob.’ So Joseph made the Children of Israel swear, saying, ‘When God has taken notice of you, you shall carry up my bones from here.’” (Genesis 50:24-25).

Where and how we are buried is a powerful statement about who we are, the connection to our posterity and our values. With this decision, Joseph fully identifies with his family instead of the Egyptian society that hosted him and gave him power. Joseph connects himself to and assures God’s future redemption of the People. Indeed, this oath was fulfilled by Moses when he the people went up from Egypt in Exodus 13:19.

In our hyper-mobile society, many long-standing Jewish cemeteries are struggling. Family plots are a thing of the past since families are dispersed all over the country. As a result, many people are choosing to be cremated. These decisions regarding death reflect the breakdown of our values and the future of our Jewish community.

Each year, Rabbi Eisen takes the 5th-6th Grade students to the cemetery to learn about Geniza, the tradition of burying documents, books, or even a Torah in order to obey the mitzvah not to destroy God’s Hebrew name. On this field trip, he also gives a tour of the cemetery. He demonstrates the historical strength of the Tucson Jewish community by pointing out the burial plots of the families of our lay and professional leaders, i.e., Rabbi Marcus and Bertha Breger and Cantor Maurice and Bessie Falkow’s plots.

Honoring our connection to past generations, to our relatives and friends who have died, reinforces our values and identity for future generations. When an ancestor dies, the Torah says, “he has been gathered to his people” (Genesis 25:8). The greatest decision is to make our eternal resting place part of theirs. By doing so, we deliberately and securely link ourselves in the mysterious chain of life and death. When we make such a decision to be buried among our ancestors, we become like Joseph, directing our children and future generations towards redemption even in the face of serious challenges.  

This Winter Break, I encourage you to carve out time to visit the cemetery. Take your children with you. Demonstrate to them that even death does not end our connection to the ones we love. Our love and values are stronger than death.

Parashat Vayigash 5779: The Blessing of a Negative Attitude

My wife’s grandmother, Grandma Florence, of blessed memory, had a hard life in many ways, but she maintained a positive attitude. Whenever she would see me, she would say, “You are beautiful!” Then she would often share her life philosophy: “Remember, love makes the world go around.”

Her life-affirming philosophy stands in contrast with Yaakov towards the end of his life. After he is reunited with Yosef and settled in Egypt, he is presented before Pharaoh:

“Yaakov blessed Pharaoh. Pharaoh asked Yaakov, ‘How many are the years of your life?’ And Yaakov answered Pharaoh, ‘The year of my sojourn are one hundred and thirty. Few and hard have been the years of my life, nor do they come up to the life spans of my fathers during their sojourns.’ Yaakov blessed Pharaoh and left Pharaoh’s presence.” (Genesis 47:7-10)

Another translation for “hard” is “bad,” which makes his evaluation of the years of his life even more disturbing. Yes, Yaakov experienced many challenges throughout his life, but such a negative evaluation of life is not befitting of one of our patriarchs. Furthermore, he represents our unique covenanted relationship with God as he comes before Pharaoh. What does this negative perspective say about Yaakov’s view of himself and his relationship with God, let alone in the public eye?

It is instructive to contrast Yaakov’s negative attitude with Cain’s after God doesn’t accept his offering. God warns Cain:

“Why are you distressed,

And why is your face fallen?

Surely, if you do right,

There is uplift.

But if you do not do right

Sin couches at the door;

Its urge is toward you,

Yet you can be its master.” (Genesis 4:6-8)

This Divine warning to Cain privileges action. A negative attitude can lead to sinful action. However, the determining factor is not one’s attitude, it is mitigated or even remedied by the actions one takes. Immediately after this warning, Cain rises up to murder Abel. He let his attitude determine his actions. In contrast, we don’t see Yaakov take any negative actions. The manipulative behaviors from his youth are absent. Instead, from his deathbed, he gives blessings, warnings, and instructions to his children and grandchildren.

Perhaps Yaakov is giving a dose of reality to Pharaoh who is implicitly seeking wisdom when he asks this venerated head of the clan his age. Yaakov’s stark words to Pharaoh are an Ecclesiastes type of rebuke: “Don’t think that you can escape death just because you can purchase power and pleasure in life. I have faced directly and withstood the great challenges of life; have you? As a result, I leave the legacy of my family, and the values of my God as I face the reality of death; what are you leaving behind?” This same negativity expressed to Pharaoh can be detected when Yaakov delivers blessings and rebuke to his children from his deathbed. Yet this is an example of how he uses his clear-eyed perspective, even if it’s negative, to ensure the legacy of his family.

With dwindling numbers of affiliated families in in Jewish life and synagogues specifically, there is justification to have a negative outlook. While it is instructive to look at reality with open eyes, the question is what action your attitude spurs you to take. It is the actions of that small group of families whose involvement secures the success of a program and even creates a community. It is those few leaders, like the two spies in the desert, who stand up against the majority culture because they know that their blessed path will succeed despite the challenges.

Let us be like Yaakov, willing to state the negative reality even in the face of the powerful. Then take constructive action to secure the future of our family and our people.

The Need for Darkness

The bulb needs the cold for its flower to blossom in the spring. It draws strength from its inner resources during the cold. Bulbs are thus planted right before the winter and gain nourishment from their dark subterranean climate. Bulbs grown in Tucson are planted when the temperature falls below 80 degrees. Some varieties of bulbs like Tulips and Hyacinths should be placed in a paper bag and placed in the vegetable crisper of the refrigerator for a few weeks before planting.

Bulbs are a symbol of how life needs the dark cold to grow. Like bulbs, human beings need to regenerate each night in the quiet darkness. We, too, are shaped by the seasons of the natural environment.

Morally and spiritually, we need the darkness as well as demonstrated by one of my favorite rabbinic texts from Talmud Shabbat 88b:

Our Rabbis taught:

The ones who are insulted but don’t insult back,

Listen to their shame but don’t respond,

Do (mitzvot) out of love,

(Retain) joy in suffering,

The text says about them:

“The ones who love God are like the sun rising in its might.”

The sun rising in its might refers to the time right before dawn. Surrounded by darkness, the sun quietly, confidently, naturally rises dispelling all darkness. The ones who love God even while surrounded by darkness are being compared to this moment of sunrise. The ones who can be surrounded by darkness but maintain their core do so because they nurture themselves from a deeper inner source. The darkness directs one to turn inwards. Like the sun, the light that emanates with strength from the core ultimately bursts outwards.

At the end of last week’s parashah, Vayeshev, Joseph is forgotten in the dungeon, a similar place to where he started his journey, in the pit. Between these two places of darkness he grows with the spirit of God making his way successful. He begins to learn who he is in darkness. He defines himself inwardly, regardless of the external circumstances. In this week’s parasha, Miketz, he rises to power in the light of day, in front of everyone. He does so with a deliberate strength that has been forged through darkness.

During Hanukkah, the darkness of this time of year directs us to tap into our inner resources. The darkness teaches us to find strength in our spiritual core. May the candles we light in the darkness be a symbol of this inner light. Like the sun that is rising, our light shines forth from the Source of light.

Dedicated in memory of Hans Spear.

Bridging the Inner Divide

Parker Palmer -- author, educator, and activist who focuses on issues in education, community, leadership, spirituality and social change -- addresses a common spiritual problem in his book A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life. He describes how people’s inner lives – who we are at the core of our identity: our values, passions, our relationships -- are divided from what we are doing in the world. In his words:

The divided life comes in many and varied forms. To cite just a few examples, it is the life we lead when

  • We refuse to invest ourselves in our work, diminishing its quality and distancing ourselves from those it is meant to serve

  • We make our living at jobs that violate our basic values, even when survival does not absolutely demand it

  • We remain in settings or relationships that steadily kill off our spirits

  • We harbor secrets to achieve personal gain at the expense of other people

  • We hide our beliefs from those who disagree with us to avoid conflict, challenge, and change

  • We conceal our true identities for fear of being criticized, shunned, or attacked

    (A Hidden Wholeness, p. 6)

“As adults we may ask, ‘Whatever happened to me? How did I lose that capacity to be here as I really am?’ We have to find a way to build a bridge between our identity and integrity as adults and the work that we do in the world.”

Joseph suffers from this painful divide during his late adolescence at the beginning of the narrative in this week’s Torah portion, Vayeshev. He desperately wants to find his place within his family, amidst his competitive brothers; yet, his brothers reject and despise him. This division leads him to dream twice of his entire family bowing down to him. Perhaps the pain of the actual divide between who he aspires to be and the reality that prevents him from being himself, blinds and leads him to the foolish act of telling his brothers about his dreams which make them hate him even more intensely.

The conflict comes to a head as his father sends Joseph to locate his brothers when they are out shepherding in the fields. As he is searching, he encounters a man wandering in the field. The man asks Joseph, “What are you seeking?” He responds, “I am seeking my brothers...” (Genesis 37:15-16).

This incidental encounter and question more subtly highlight Joseph’s internal void. “What is it that you are seeking?” should be read as an existential question here. His response, “My brothers” indicates, from this perspective that the only thing he is seeking in life is his brothers. What does this say about his sense of self? He is reduced to defining himself based on their acceptance of him. He has lost his own integrity. Not surprisingly, this seemingly simple question foreshadows the impending disaster with his brothers that awaits him around the corner.

At times, life asks us, “What are you seeking?” as we are aimlessly seek answers that can only be found within ourselves, hence the divide.

It is not until after Joseph is alone in the darkness of the pit that he embarks on a journey that teaches him to find the answer within, in the language of the Torah, “The spirit of God was with him.” Once he turns this corner, even though he faces other hardships he does so with integrity and wholeness. This journey ultimately prepares him to find his place among his brothers years later, serving as the leader who brings them together and to safety from the clutches of famine and grief.

The lesson of Joseph and Parker Palmer can help us directly face the divides in our lives with courage. There is direction when we are looking for answers for which we don’t even know the right question to ask. “What are you seeking?” can be a question that comes to us from unexpected sources, like a random person in a field. Let us first sense if there is a division between our inner selves and what we are doing in the world. Then we can be open to the explicit and subtle signs that life sends to us. We will recognize the form of the question: “What are you seeking?” At that point we can turn the corner to search for answers on the path we are genuinely meant to take.

A Jewish Thanksgiving Poem

In honor of Thanksgiving, I want to share this poem with you written by the first Chief Rabbi of Palestine, Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak HaCohen Kook (1865-1935), popularly known as Rav Kook, immediately before the establishment of the State of Israel. Not only was Rav Kook a nation builder – recognizing and bolstering the contributions to the Zionist project of secular and religious pioneers alike -- he was a mystic. This poem reflects that mystical sense of ultimate unity that exists inside of each person and the universe.

It may be nice to read this poem around the Thanksgiving table as a form of prayer. It praises the particularistic and universalistic elements that are both integral to Judaism and to our identity as Americans.

Rav Kook reinterprets the very name of our people, Yisrael, the name that is bestowed upon Ya’akov, in this week’s Torah portion, Vayishlah, as he wrestles with a strange figure he encounters at night, the night before he confronts his brother Esav from whom he fled some twenty years ago. As Ya’akov gets the upper-hand, he wont let this strange being go until he blesses him: The being says: “Your name shall no longer be Ya’akov, but Yisrael, for you have struggled with God and people and have been able to withstand,” (Genesis 32:29). This incident serves as the origin of his name. He was essentially an effective God and people wrestler. The Torah was prescient as this became the name of our people who would wrestle with God and people and be able to withstand two thousand years of exile.

In the poem’s last climatic stanza which weaves together the four levels of song, Rav Kook crowns this symphony with an inspiring reinterpretation of our people’s name with a poetic word-play shifting Yisrael to Shir El, the wrestlers of God to singers of God. With this brilliant shift, Rav Kook re-frames and lifts up the essence of our people, as a people who transforms our protracted struggle for survival into a song textured by our perennial hope and values.

This Thanksgiving, let us celebrate the individual freedoms that the constitution of the Unites States protects. As we gather together with our families, let us be grateful how our largerJewish family contributes to the rich fabric of American society. May this poem and our prayers bolster our hope and comfort even when we are embroiled by struggle inspiring us to transform our struggles into song.

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A Jewish Approach to Life: Oy Vey and Thanksgiving

A waiter checks on his table where a Jewish family is dining and asks, “Is anything ok?”

At the conclusion of his presentation entitled, "Jewish Humor: What the Best Jewish Jokes Say about the Jews," Rabbi Joseph Telushkin wraps up with a few jokes about the way we, as Jews, have used humor to manage the existential challenges of life (go to minute 43:00-44:26 of the presentation). He quips in summary, “Because of Jewish history we are pessimists, because of Judaism we are optimists, so we are optimists with worried looks on our faces.”

The stereotype of Jewish negativity is a strong one and, as mentioned above, there is good reason for it based on Jewish history and current events. However, as Rabbi Telushkin points out, the Jewish impulse does not let negativity define us. Yes, we must see reality for what it is, however, we must also figure out, through humor, re-framing, or faith, how to manage it with optimism and hope. This is true for us as a people or as individuals.

We see a paradigmatic example of this on the personal level in this week’s Torah portion, Vayetze. Since Ya’akov explicitly loved Rachel but was tricked into marrying Leah, Leah felt deprived, which finds expression when she gives birth to her first three children:

Reuven: "...for she said, 'The Lord saw my plight [ra'ah...b'onyi]; yes, now my husband will love me.'" (29:32)

Shimon: "...and [Leah] said, 'The Lord heard [shama] that I am despised and has given me this one too.'" (29:33)

Levi: "...and [Leah] said, 'Now, this time, my husband will be attached [yelaveh] to me, for I have borne to him three sons."

Leah is struggling with God, her husband and her sense of self-worth as she seeks through her sons to fill the void of intimacy with and love from her husband. This negative example of projecting the issues with which she is struggling with her husband onto her sons is a painful one for all involved. Yet, with her fourth son, she transforms her negativity into pure gratitude:  

"...and [Leah] said, 'This time I give thanks [odeh] to the Lord.' She therefore named him Judah [Yehudah]." (29:35)

What happened that she made such a change? We don’t see any shift in the relationship between her and her husband in the text. She is still losing in this painful competition with her sister for the love of her husband even though she is the one succeeding at having children. This time, however, she manages to transform her empty bitterness into passionate praise.

Our great rabbis, sensitive to this shift in attitude and being, recorded in the Talmud in the name of Rabbi Yochanan in the name of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai (Berakhot 7b), “From the day the Holy One, Blessed be God, created the world, no one thanked the Holy One, Blessed be God, until Leah came and thanked God, as it is stated: ‘This time I give thanks....’”

While such a claim may sound exaggerated, it is a recognition of the transformative power involved in Leah’s inner shift of how she related to her place world that was able to transform bitterness into gratitude. Where else is there such an example in the Torah before this moment gratitude expressed with full intentionality and awareness?

As Rabbi Gail Leibovitz PhD and professor of Talmud at American Jewish University notes in her commentary on this portion: “One might thus observe - as both the commentary in Etz Hayim does and as Tammi J. Schneider notes in her comments to this parashah in The Torah: A Women's Commentary - that it is not coincidental that it is particularly this name that comes to form the basis of the name of our people at large.”

As Jews today, we are hyper aware of the dangers that threaten us and our world. The traumatic lessons of our history are marked deep into our being. Do we have the spiritual strength that has also been transmitted through the generations to find the opportunities to express gratitude even with full awareness of reality? The ability to do so is the very basis of our name as a Jewish people. Maintaining hope in the face of despair, faith in the ditches of oblivion, and the desire to live even in exile may be the very characteristic that has kept our people alive through the millennia.

This is the Jewish response to loss that guides the individual in the face of the death of a family member to recite kaddish, the affirmation of God’s sanctity and meaning in life in the midst of one’s community.

As Dr. David Hoffman, Vice Chancellor and Chief Advancement Officer at the Jewish Theological Seminary writes at the end of his commentary on this parashah:

“Fifty years ago, Heschel presciently warned: the human being will not perish for want of information but for want of appreciation. With our Torah reading this Shabbat and in these weeks before Thanksgiving, let us learn from Leah and renew a daily practice of gratitude.”

My Grandfather was a Peddler

Shavuot: Giving of Torah, First Fruits, and Yizkor

My Grandpas on both sides of my family were peddlers. One sold fruits and vegetables and one sold plastic bags. They both ran small local companies, selling to restaurants and bakeries. I worked for a summer with my grandfather who sold produce out of his van to people and businesses looking for a better deal on produce than they could find in the supermarket. He woke up at 4:00am, loaded the van, sorted through the good and bad produce, made individual bags, determined the price in his head, and off he would go. He would often barter with people, i.e., trading produce for coupons at restaurants. While he had a stern exterior (his last name was Sternberg), he had a warm heart, always sharing his goods with his children and grandchildren.

He taught us life lessons: Regarding the dignity of work, "You need to start at the bottom and work your way up;" about treating everyone with respect regardless of their status, "Everyone puts his pants on one leg at a time" or the more crude version, "everyone's sh*t smells;" concerning going the extra mile, "Make sure you ask your boss at the end of the day if there is anything else that you can do;" and lastly, about keeping perspective, "You can't win every ball game."

When I was in rabbinical school, whenever I would come home for vacations, it was my grandfather who would understand what I was going through and share with me the perfect words of advice. He did this without understanding higher education or rabbinic study; he understood life. We had a class in which we would critique each other's sermons. Public speaking was not my strong suit, and having my words, ideas, and style torn apart by my peers and professors was not so constructive for me. Without knowing any details about what I was  experiencing in school, when I saw my grandfather over vacation out of nowhere he said to me, "You know that they are rooting for you!? The people who will be listening to you speak. They don't want to hear a bad speech. They want you to succeed." This profound insight transformed the way I interfaced with groups when speaking publicly.

At the end of his life, my grandfather left the hospital and decided to enter hospice at home. He was propped up while laying on his bed. He would open his large soft hand, worn from years of hard work, at the side of his body to receive the hand of each person who visited him. We took turns going up to him like Jacob's children did for their final blessings. My grandfather would crack a joke,  drawing from the reservoir of his wry humor. We had the precious opportunity as individuals and as a family to say goodbye.    

I woke up very early on New Year's day, and decided to go to minyan, taking a break from the vigil our family created to make sure he wasn't alone. I stopped at his home on the way. When I arrived, one of the caretakers told me he was at the end. He left the two of us alone. I sat with him amazed by the length of time between each inhalation and exhalation. Then he no longer inhaled. I take solace in this mysterious moment of transition between life and death. 

This is my way of honoring my grandfather as we approach the holiday of Shavuot, the day we present our First Fruits before God, receive Torah, and one of the four times of the year that we say yizkor, the special memorial prayer. These memories are my Torah and the First Fruits of the year that I humbly offer as I declare, "My grandfather was a peddler..."

Here is nice article written in the local paper after he died:




Parashat Tetzaveh: The Strategically Absent Leader

7 Adar 5778/ Feb. 22, 2018

The rabbis strategically divide this week's Torah portion to begin with the last lines from Exodus Chapter 27 that describe the ner tamid, the continuous flame. This light serves as a symbol of God's presence in the mishkan, God's dwelling place among the Israelites in the desert. By placing this section at the head of our Torah portion, the rabbis frame the symbolic nature of the main subject of the Torah portion which is about the clothing the leaders who serve in the mishkan must wear - kohanim, the priests and Aaron as the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. By doing so, our Torah portion is teaching that the leader's symbolic presence, like the eternal light, points us to the sacred.

This lesson of symbolic leadership is most clearly demonstrated in our Torah portion, ironically, through the absence of Moshe's presence. This is the only Torah portion in the last four books of the Torah in which Moshe's name is completely absent. Perhaps this is teaching us that sometimes the best thing a leader can do to point people in the sacred direction is to pull oneself back. In the context of this Torah portion, Moshe's absence creates space for the Torah to focus on the leadership role of Aaron and his sons. His shadow is not even cast over the critical symbolism of how the priestly garb directs us to the sacred.

In the context of the larger narrative, Moshe is receiving these instructions from God on top of Mt. Sinai for 40 days, hidden from the people in a cloud. Again, perhaps the Torah is teaching the people to learn how to function without the constant presence of the leader. We know the dangers of how the cultic style of leadership strips away the autonomy and independence of individuals and the community, and, ultimately, their direct relationship with God. The people learn this lesson through their failure in Moshe's absence in next week's Torah portion about the Golden Calf.

However, we see this strategy of the leader contracting him or herself (or in this case God) again, but this time successfully, in the Purim story. God's name is completely absent from Megillat Esther. God leaves space in the Purim story for humans to take active steps to bring about the necessary redemption. Resulting in God's presence permeating the story through the bold actions of Esther and Mordechai.

There are opposite circumstances when the leader needs to minimize his or her role to emphasize God's role. Like Joseph did when Pharoah asked him to interpret his dreams: "Not I! God will see to Pharaoh's welfare." (Genesis 41:15) Perhaps this is why Moshe's name is also absent from the Hagaddah. The lesson that persists from the Exodus from Egypt is that God cares for the vulnerable. Moshe symbolized God's care in this circumstance, but God's care for the oppressed transcends these circumstances and this particular leader. Hence, the rabbis who composed the Hagaddah teach this lesson by absenting Moshe's role from the telling of the story.

It is often challenging for us to restrain ourselves in one area of our lives to do what we most value in other areas. Hopefully, the lessons from the Torah portion and leaders in our day can help us evaluate the proper balance of our own leadership responsibilities in parenting, on behalf of our communities, or at work.

Parashat Terumah: Stepping Into Sacredness

There is an important custom that has developed at the beginning of the Amidah, literally the "Standing" prayer: We take three steps backwards and three steps forward while reciting a verse from Psalm 51:15 that has six Hebrew words, saying a word at each step. What does this specific practice and Jewish prayer (tefillah) in general teach us about fostering sacredness in our lives?

In this week's Torah portion, Terumah, God shares the mitzvah to build a dwelling place for God that will travel among the people of Israel in the desert and ultimately be placed in the Temple in Jerusalem, the Mishkan: ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם "They shall make for Me a sacred place so I may dwell among them." (Exodus 25:8) Just as Israelites passed from the regular space of their daily lives into this sacred encampment, so too does each individual take these steps to move into a sacred space whenever he or she approaches God to recite the Amidah. This practice teaches us that when we carve out dedicated spaces, be it our individual prayer space, the family dinner table, or communal places of prayer in synagogue, we can access God's presence. It also teaches us that we need to approach such spaces with proper intentionality, hence the verse we say as we take these steps, or saying blessings before the meal, and the special mah tovu prayer we say upon entering the synagogue.

In his book The Sabbath, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel teaches that Judaism's contribution is not the building of great edifices since the majority of our history has been in exile; rather, by observing Shabbat and holidays, we have constructed palaces in time. Setting aside specific times from the rest of the week, and filling these times with joy and pleasure, reflection and prayer, family and community, we enter into and delight in an elaborate palace. We commune with the King of kings as we immerse ourselves in what is most meaningful and the purpose of our lives. There is a mitzvah, a Jewish obligation to pray three times each day - morning, afternoon, and evening. At each prayer session, we recite the Amidah. When we take these three steps backwards and forwards we are dedicating our time to this sacred experience of time.

In the priestly book of the Torah - Leviticus, Vayikra or Torat Kohanim - an important world view about how to approach the sacred is presented. Simply put, one has to be in a pure state of being, tahor, to enter into the sacred precincts of the Temple, especially a Kohen, one serving as priest. One becomes impure, tamei, by coming into contact with the dead, certain diseases and bodily fluids. To become tahor, one needs to wait a certain amount of time from having such contacts and immerse in a mikveh, a living body of water. This ancient system thus predicates contact with the sacred upon the spiritual state of being of a person. In our modern society, do we have a sense of what it means to be spiritually fit to approach the sacred? Are we sensitive to moods, physical disposition, mental awareness as we enter into place of prayer? Perhaps those who meditate have developed such a sense of themselves. When we take three steps forward to approach God, can we assess our spiritual readiness? Are we ready? Are we pure? Are we distracted? Have we come into contact with something in our lives that we have to deal with before we can enter into a sacred place? These questions may seem strange to many of us. Perhaps that is why prayer is so foreign to many Jews today. What do we need to do to prepare ourselves to pray? These three simple steps can remind us that we have to exert such effort to approach the sacred.

Stepping into sacredness during the Amidah teaches us that we need to dedicate sacred spaces is our lives, even if that space in a place that we simply walk into with intentionality. Observing Shabbat, holiday, or the daily practice of Jewish prayer reminds us of the importance to dedicate specific times in our lives to what is of ultimate importance. Finally, we need to do inner work to ready ourselves to approach the sacred. It isn't realistic that such experiences happen magically. Thus, we need to step with great awareness of ourselves into the sacred.   

On a personal note, dedicating myself to the sacred has come naturally at certain times of my life, and at other times I have had to reach towards it because it has been distant and challenging. I am grateful that it remains a goal that directs my life and values. 

Parashat Mishpatim 5778


 25 Shevat 5778/ Feb. 10, 2018

Parashat Mishpatim: A Balanced Relationship with God

"...Warm yourself by the fire of the sages, but beware lest you are burned by their embers..." Pirkei Avot 2:10

As the people of Israel experienced the revelation at Sinai, they were overwhelmed by God's presence. They beseeched Moshe to speak with God on their behalf, afraid for their very lives (Exodus 20:16). In a way, they felt the "burn of God's embers." Yet when Moshe ascended Mt. Sinai for 40 days, they couldn't deal with the absence of their physical connection to God, Moshe, so they built the Golden Calf as a substitute. They felt cold from the distance from God. This week's Torah portion, Mishpatim, challenges us to find the right balance in relationship with God: not too cold, not too hot, but just right.

What does it look like today to be so distant from God that we feel cold? Or, on the flip side, what does it mean to approach too closely to God getting burned by God's embers?

For many of us, God language itself is problematic. How can we use such human terminology, anthropomorphism, to describe God? Furthermore, after the Holocaust, it becomes even more challenging to talk about relationship with God unless we do so in a traditionalist judgmental manner. Hence, it is easier not to deal with such questions. That leaves us, however, with poor resources to understand our place and purpose in the world. Perhaps we should just accept the new reality: We are distant from God and need to battle against the chills of reality the best we can.

There are others who claim to know God's truth. Their book, be it the Torah, the New Testament, or the Koran, prescribe the way to relate to God. Those who are blind to the one absolute path are blind stubborn sinners who refuse to let God into their lives. Such religious zealotry burns by holding God's coals in their bare hands. In the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel: "To equate religion and God is idolatry ('No Religion is an Island,' p. 13)."

So how do we find that balance of engaging in a humble relationship with God? Can we pursue ultimate meaning with an open heart by not only listening to the experience of others, but by studying the wisdom inherent in our respective traditions? Can we seek to live a righteous life by not only abiding by the norms of our society, but by being brave enough to experiment with counter-cultural religious practices that may critique or restrain our lifestyle, i.e., pausing on Shabbat or refraining from non-kosher foods?

Living in America provides the beautiful freedom to make independent choices to live according to our own values in our own way. I know many good Jewish people who choose to live apart from the community. I respect their choices, because I don't feel like Judaism has the monopoly on the truth or the "good" way of life. However, I choose to dedicate my life as a leader and as a member of a Jewish community because I find meaning in this communal path as we perpetuate our balanced relationship with God, like a fiddler on the roof.

Torah is Going forth from Berlin

When we take out the Torah for the public ritual reading, we chant the following quote from Isaiah 2:3, "Torah is going forth from Zion, the word of God from Jerusalem."  In the biblical context, this verse describes the divine instruction emanating from Jerusalem that will guide the nations of the world to usher in an era of world peace. 

On Tuesday evening, May 30, it is the holiday of Shavuot during which we celebrate the original revelation of Torah at Mt. Sinai. The description of this numinous event that we read about in Exodus 20 has inspired the idea that God has and continues to communicate with us. Isaiah takes this idea of continuous revelation and shifts the location from Mt. Sinai in the wilderness to Mt. Zion in Jerusalem, where the Temple was built in the heart of the Israelite kingdom. 

In the following article I describe how Torah is being revealed today. I am honored to participate in the upcoming momentous ordination of Nizan Devorah Stein, the first Conservative rabbi to be ordained in Germany since the Shoah on June 18 and the significance of this resurgence of Torah in the life of our people:

Meaning-making in Chaos, a Personal Response to Yom HaShoah

*How should we commemorate Yom HaShoah?  On a personal level, my initial inclination is to do nothing.  The loss is so great that any ritual can not adequately capture its enormity, nor do I feel a need to do so since it’s dark cloud is so much a part of who I am.  Yet how can I go through my normal routine of the day without doing something?

Perhaps, standing silent here in America at the moment that the siren is sounded in Israel would be appropriate. By doing so, I would be standing in solidarity with my people who have persevered in the face of destruction and thrived in its wake.

Perhaps, I should volunteer to read names of the victims or go to listen to others who are reciting them at the local Jewish center  At least this conveys the commendable attempt to commemorate the loss of so many people.  How long does it actually take to read six million names, their ages, and their birthplaces?

Perhaps, we should fast on this day like we do on other days of destruction. Viscerally, depriving myself of food when remembering my relatives who were starved day-in and day-out is anathema to me.

Perhaps, attending the official community Yom HaShoah ceremony.  By standing up to make meaning in the face of chaos seems like a moral imperative — dare I say a mitzvah?  Yet, it just takes so much energy to trudge up the willingness to do so.

Perhaps we should look to God. Perhaps.

Through all of this we say, “Never Again” with some semblance of conviction as wars rage, terror reigns, and governments oppress their own people. At least we stand up to defend ourselves while still trying to commit ourselves to caring about the other.

Standing up against the meaninglessness in our world is worth every and any attempt to do so, even if it feels feeble.  Committing ourselves to meaning in the face of chaos, however we do it, is sacred.

We may come up short in our attempts to recount the horrors of the decimation of one third of our people and the destruction of European Jewry; to preserve the memory of each precious person — man, woman, and child — who was murdered; to reflect upon and understand the human capacity for evil by some and apathy in the face of evil by many; to acknowledge the bravery and sacred acts of gentiles who stood up to save Jews at the risk of their own lives; to remember the tens of millions of others who died in the war.

At least, I can attempt to overcome my own apathy as I commemorate Yom HaShoah.  This may be my small but sacred contribution to make meaning out of this day.

*Delivered at the community Yom HaShoah program in Savannah, GA., and posted in Times of Israel