Thursday, February 27, 2014

Too Many Converts? A Drash for Saturday, 1 March 2014

Most Jews today would say the following of Judaism.  It’s not a proselytizing religion, but we do accept converts.  What we mean when we say that, is that we do not seek for people to convert to Judaism.  But we accept those who come to our door.  And that is largely an accurate statement. 
We Jews don’t ‘corner’ our non-Jewish friends and twist their arms to consider joining us.  This, in contrast to the way that some of our neighbours behave.  With Jews, it’s more often quite the opposite.  Many Jews, fielding an enquiry about becoming a Jew from a friend, would instinctively respond in a discouraging tone.  You want to become Jewish??!  Whatever for??!  Of course, there’s an exception to every rule.  Every now and then you’ll meet a Jew who will share the Jewish message in an almost evangelical manner.  But most of us fit between the two extremes:  welcoming but not working to convince.
We accept converts, and this room is proof of that.  Many of you in this room tonight have chosen Judaism after being raised in another faith or no faith at all.  Or, you are in the process of embracing and adopting Judaism.  And we have accepted you.  And that acceptance is nowadays the norm.  Just the other day, I received an e-mail from someone interested in conversion.  He began the process several years back, whilst living in Sydney, with one of my colleagues there.  After an exchange of a few e-mails, he remarked:  “I am always amazed at the welcome I have encountered in the Jewish community!”
That said, some Jews are not entirely accepting.  Some of us, even though we know we’re not supposed to, differentiate between Jews by Choice and Jews by Birth.  We may say admiringly that Jews by Choice tend to be more devoted, because that is an incontrovertible observation.  Logically, one would think that such admiration would lead us to greater devotion ourselves.  And yet I still hear disparaging comments about converts from time to time.  I understand that just last week, one week ago last night, someone in this congregation, whilst in this building in front of a considerable number of people, made a comment about converts that dripped with contempt and sarcasm.  And as far as I know, nobody rebuked him for it.  So we can celebrate our welcoming culture.  But we must acknowledge that we’re not, by any means, perfect.
In our age, there has been an explosion of interest in conversion to Judaism.  Right now in our congregation, I have seven candidates who have submitted paperwork and are formally in the process.  Most of them should be finishing their conversions by this winter.  I also have 15 more students whom you see regularly in shule.  They are all attending class but have not yet made their intent official.  They are still, so to speak, ‘testing the waters.’
That’s 22 people all told, and it’s incredible.  Others have enquired, but have not yet made the jump to actively pursuing conversion.  There are still others whom I’ve had to discourage, usually because of geography.  They simply live too far from us to be able to attend regularly enough for me to consider them as viable candidates for conversion.  I’ve had expressions of interest from as far away as Roma – Queensland, that is, not Italia.
I was recently asked if this veritable explosion of converts calls into question the authenticity of our congregation.  Because it was a serious and well-meaning, question, I gave it a serious answer.  Because I think that many of you – Jews by Birth and Choice alike – would be interested in my answer, I’ll repeat it for you now.
As I said, Jews by choice, or Converts, are known for their relative religious zeal.  Because religious faith, practice and knowledge are their only way in, they do have a tendency to take them more serious than Jews by Birth,  Our Jews by Choice tend to attend services more frequently, and pray with more fervor, than our members who were born into the faith.  They are much more likely to be enrolled in my Hebrew reading classes.  They are much more likely to spend time studying the weekly Parashah or Mishnah.  They add an important dimension to our congregation with their seriousness of purpose.
What they don’t bring is an automatic connection with ‘Jewishness’ beyond religion.  They have no Jewish memories other than recent ones.  They don’t have recipes for kneidlach.  They might not even know what kneidlach are!  Or kreplach.  And what’s a schnoorer?
So the little code-words and phrases of Jewish life have to be taught.  And because of a lack of Jewish memory, some of them don’t compute.  But here’s a bottom line.  Without a steady flow of Jews by Choice, there would be no future for Judaism.  We would be as good as gone in a couple of generations from now.  Certainly Progressive Judaism would be.  Judaism would be one-dimensional.  And in truth Orthodox Judaism would only be a few generations behind.  We Jews do not make enough babies to replace ourselves.  And most of those babies are growing up to have a tenuous connection at best to Judaism.  All of you in this room who are born Jews:  do your grown children connect in a meaningful way to Jewish life?  I didn’t think so.  The sad truth is that only a very few in our congregation could answer that question positively.  And what about grandchildren?  For those so blessed, probably even fewer of your grown grandchildren have anything to do with Judaism, or any meaningful degree of Jewish connection.  I’m not pointing this out to shame, rebuke, or criticise you.  Only to point out the sad truth.
That’s not to say that these un-engaged grown children and grandchildren will not, at some point in their lives, find themselves at the door to the synagogue wanting to go in for whatever reason.  But if they did, and we had not constantly renewed our ranks with Jews by Choice, the synagogue would likely not even be open for them.  Or, it would be a pathetic and emaciated group.  But we do accept – and embrace – converts.  Therefore, if your grandchildren one day decide to wander in, they will find a vibrant, alive group of engaged adults of all ages.  The surnames of the people will sound different.
These engaged adult Jews – many or most of them Jews by Choice – will have brought a new feel to the synagogue.  And so what?  Is Judaism all about gefilte fish?  Or is it about coming enthusiastically to the synagogue to pray, worship, and study?  To know and love the Torah?  To be a ‘light unto the nations’?  To be witnesses that there is one God of all humanity, and He has expectations of us?  Of course, it’s about these latter things.  And to the extent that our Jews by Choice remind us of what’s important, we need to cherish them.  And when they, through their actions, remind us of values that are the foundation of Judaism, we should emulate them.  Not suggest, sarcastically, that they should be ‘re-programmed.’  Any of us who think that, could use a little ‘re-programming’ ourselves.  Class is on Tuesdays at seven; see you there. 

Too many converts?  Hell, bring me more!  Shabbat shalom.

A Good Death? A Drash for Friday, 28 February 2014

Our congregation has experienced death recently.  A number of long-time members have passed away in the last two months.  Each one is missed:  by close family members, and by the congregation as a whole.  In each case, these individuals were not so active in the shule in their last years as their illnesses took their toll.  Even so, you remember fondly when they were among the most active members of our community.  You remember them the way they were…just as you remember yourselves the way you were 10 or 15 years ago.
          As you know, I am periodically called upon to officiate at funerals for those who were not members of our congregation.  For the unaffiliated in our community.  We all agree that there are plenty of Jews out there on the Gold Coast who belong to neither shule, or go to Chabad.  Who do not even connect with the community through the handful of other ways that do not include synagogue affiliation, through organisations such as the NCJW.  They are simply out there; they call themselves Jews, but that self-definition does not lead to any specific acts of affiliation or connection.  Nobody can agree as to how many such Jews are out there.  Nobody could possibly know.  But we know they’re there.  We run into them:  accidentally, or through life events.
          So Jews die, and sometimes when they do I am called upon to perform the funeral service.  I’ve mentioned these occasions to you before, including from this bimah in my drashes.  Sometimes these encounters leave me especially sad because of the way that the deceased isolated themselves from the community.  We could have been there to comfort them in life, and to respect them in death.  But they took that opportunity away from us.  I do hope that, when I’ve mentioned such experiences, I’ve not given the impression of kvetching.  But rather of sadness over the tragedy of a Jew dying alone.
          I did another such funeral this week, for an unaffiliated person, and it was sad but also moving.  Let me explain.
          When people ask me how the Jews of Australia compare with those of America, I usually tell them that Jews are Jews, wherever you go.  And I mean that.  Jews in an Australian congregation have more in common with Jews in an American congregation, than not.  But if you press me on the issue, I usually offer the following observation.
          The Australian Jewish community has the largest percentage of members who are survivors of the Sho’ah, the Nazi Holocaust, and their children than any other Jewish community in the world except the Jews of Israel.  According to statistics, 48 percent of you either were yourselves in some way victims of the Hitler’s madness, or are direct descendants of those who were.  That fact, the overwhelming sharing of the one experience of your origins, really colours a lot of your attitudes about life…and Judaism.  There is no way around it.
          This week I buried a survivor.  A woman in her nineties.  A Dutch Jew who with her husband and young son, was rounded up after being hidden from the Nazis and their collaborators by some kind Christians.  Their story is remarkably similar to the more famous account of Anna Franck and her family.  But the difference is that this woman and her family were not further deported from the transit camp at Westerbork, east to one of the death camps as the Francks were.  Because she was a professional chef, and her husband a professional baker, they were kept in the Dutch camp to work feeding the thousands detained there.  They did not die but lived to try to transcend their experience.
          Unfortunately, most survivors are unable to transcend their experience.  It’s not only that the experience remains with them for the rest of their lives – that is a given.  A select number are able to rise up above their suffering and create lives of positive action, spurred on by the persecution they’ve experienced to make the world just a little better for the next generations.  But most, if we’re honest, are stuck for the rest of their lives in their prisons of memory.  Prisons of madness.  Prisons of unhappiness.  Prisons from which there is no parole, no release except death.  Such was this woman.  In her life, she was unable to transcend her experience.  Only in her death will she finally know that peace.  The peace she was unable to achieve in life.
          What does it take a achieve peace in life?  By peace, I do not mean quietude.  Although for some, quietude may be a prerequisite for peace.  Especially if one has live through tumultuous experiences.  But quietude is not, in of itself, peace.  Peace is wholeness.  How do we achieve wholeness?
          Often, for those who have experienced brokenness, achievement of wholeness comes from rising above the source of their brokenness.  If one is broken from having experienced persecution, one first does not persecute.  But then, one takes the further step of actively opposing persecution when one sees it.  That’s why Holocaust survivors, and their offspring, are often seen at the forefront of movements to raise awareness of, and stamp out, persecution of others.  Why Jews have a propensity to speak out against other peoples’ rights.  About compassion for refugees.  About the rights of GLBT people.  About genocide in Darfur or Tibet.
          Most of us in this room are not so active in causes.  We think of it as being ‘political,’ and therefore somehow distasteful.  We shy away from it.  I’m not sure I understand exactly why, but it’s a fact.  Logically, one who has known the sting of persecution or exclusion should be sensitive when others are persecuted or excluded.  And they should be more inclined to speak out about it.
          How about you?  I know many of you well, and I know many of your personal stories.  Holocaust survivors or simply displaced by the Holocaust and the Second World War.  Made homeless when regime change came to your native lands.  Having had to fight for your dignity as Jews in your own lands.  Having had to prove to yourselves and others, that you are just as good as anybody else.  If this describes you, then I have a question for you this evening.  Are you sensitive to the persecution and exclusion of others?  For whatever reason?  If not, then let me recommend that the way to transcend your unhappiness over your own treatment, is to go out of your way to treat others better.  Even if they are individuals – or groups – that you don’t particularly like.  That’s the way to happiness.
          Euthanasia.  We all know the word.  When we use it, it usually means someone taking active measures to end their own life.  Or being assisted in doing so.  But the word, which comes from Greek, simply means ‘a good death.’  The implication is that a ‘good death’ is one that enables one to avoid, or cut short, a life of suffering.
          In that sense, the woman who I buried this week had a good death.  Her loved ones should not feel guilty if they do not mourn her passing.  As long as they mourn her life itself.  Which they do.  It would have been far better for the woman to have a good life, than a good death.  But she was unable to give herself that gift.  And that, not her death, is the real tragedy in all this.

          If you’re listening to this, or reading this, you’re alive.  It is not too late for you to have a good life.  Because whatever suffering you’ve experienced, goes away when you transcend it.  Not that it didn’t happen.  Of course it did, and it has become a part of the person you are.  But if you can transcend it – if you can bring your life meaning by making your life free of whatever spirit, whatever behaviours beset you in the past – then you achieve victory over it.  And in this life, victories do not come often or easily.  But you can have this one.  Shabbat shalom.   

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Why It Matters; a Drash for Parashat Vayak-hel, Saturday 22 February 2014

As we see in this week’s Torah reading, the people Israel respond with great aplomb to Moses’ instruction to bring forth gifts and offerings of specific materials for the building of the Tabernacle.  Oh, how they bring forth gifts!  So many gifts, that Moses has to say, Okay, enough!  As my colleague Rabbi Kim Ettlinger at Temple Beth Israel observes in her drash this week:  “I believe this is every shule treasurer’s dream.”  And she notes humorously:  “I think the Moshiach might come sooner.”
          I spoke about one aspect of this last night, about the juxtaposition of this narrative with last week’s, where the people so recently brought forth gifts and offerings for the Golden Calf.  Today I wish to focus on a different aspect.  What makes people give freely, or not, to the enterprise of religion?  There are obviously commonalities between the challenges in this area faced by us and our neighbours’ religions.  But of course, I ask, and contemplate, from a specifically Jewish point-of-view.
          Of course, in speaking on this topic, I realise I am taking something of a risk.  You may see it as a matter where I have a pecuniary interest, and you thus may dismiss what I am saying.  But I do hope that you don’t.  Because in reality, I have no pecuniary interest whatsoever.  When Clara and I no longer feel that we’re making a positive contribution to the enterprise that is Temple Shalom, then we will move on.  And, if we don’t feel we are contributing positively to Judaism, then we will move on from the rabbinate.  Whether that might be tomorrow, or five years from now, or ten, or whatever.  I will move on to other endeavours.  Whether income-earning, or just deciding how to spend my time in retirement.
          If this sounds smug, then forgive me.  But it is a gift to be a rabbi who is past being a ‘careerist.’  And frankly, it is a gift for you to have such a rabbi.  Because Clara and I thus have the freedom to look at your lives, at your congregation, and tell you what we really think.  And not to feel constrained in telling you for fear of our tenure here, or anywhere else.  Whatever you like, or don’t like about what we do and how we do it, I’m sure you would agree that that is an important gift we can give you.  If you don’t agree with what I’ve just said, then you are probably more concerned with trying to control me, then to let me give you something enduring and positive.
          So what makes people respond willingly to the call for support of religion?  It might seem self-evident, but since clearly not everyone responds in that way, I will tell you why I think they do.  Because religion represents our nexus with God.  We sense a need for God in our lives.  This, even though we don’t talk about it very much.  This, even though many of us don’t worry too much about traditional Jewish observance.  Many of us don’t worry about avoiding prawns, but not because we don’t believe that God lives and that matters.  Rather, because we rebel against the vision of a God who cares so deeply about that sort of thing.  So even Jews who (gasp!) eat prawns may give generously to keep the shule and other Jewish institutions alive because this God-meeting is important.
          It’s true that our shule is not the equivalent of the ancient Temple.  When our forebears made the transition to synagogue-based Judaism, the Judaism of prayer and study and mitzvot, it was an important departure from the Judaism of the cultic practices of ritual sacrifice performed by the Cohanim.  This place, and what we do here, is not a continuation of the Temple.  No, it’s more a substitution.
          And the later transition, that which our more recent forebears made or perhaps which we ourselves made, is no less important.  In transitioning from traditional Judaism, to progressive Judaism.  This transition was not so much a substitution, as it was a change of focus.  That’s why traditional and progressive Judaism now coexist and thrive side-by-side.  One isn’t a radical replacement for the other.  It’s just a different focus.  I never thought about this until an Orthodox colleague pointed it out to me.  As he put it:  The most non-traditional Reform Jew has more in common with the most traditional Orthodox Jew, than he has with a secularist.  To hear this, and reflect on it, was a revelation to me.  And it’s true.  That many Orthodox Jews would refute it, does not mean that it isn’t.
All this explanation of the relationship of the Judaism of our age to the Judaism of the Temple is interesting and instructive.  Does Temple Shalom represent a continuation, or a substitution of the ancient Beit Mikdash?  And does it represent a substitution for a traditional shule, or just a change of focus?  It really doesn’t matter that much.  And that’s not to say that Temple Shalom isn’t important.  God can be present wherever we are, whatever we are doing.  But here in shule, we intentionally call upon God, and we wait to feel His Presence.
And what about those who do not freely support the shule?  What is their reason?  And of course, the answer is…it depends.
Obviously, some of us simply have more discretionary income than others.  The more you have left of your monthly pay after you’ve paid the bills, the more generous you can be.  But I don’t think that explains why many Jews, whatever the modest circumstances of their financial situation, don’t give at all.  Not giving to the shule, even when you do spend money on entertainment, and dining out, and non-necessities such as the latest iPhone, is making an important statement.  That the shule probably doesn’t matter to you.  Or perhaps it does matter, but you’ve somehow internalised that it’s simply an entitlement.  Or perhaps, you don’t give because you are frustrated at the way the temple is run?  If the last, then withholding support to the shule is not the answer.  The answer is to make your voice heard above the background noise.  If you think change is warranted, and you’re not a vocal advocate for change, then what does that say about you?  It’s understandable to pull back – either by not contributing financially or by not being very involved – when one feels frustrated.  But if it matters, then a better course is to let your voice be heard.  Think about it.

Moses faced the challenge of turning gifts away when all the needs for the Tabernacle were met.  Our treasurer probably thinks he should have such challenges!  In our day and age, keeping a shule running is a more tenuous enterprise than establishing, and running, the ancient sanctuary.  But instead of just grousing about our reality, we should ask ourselves why we contribute – or don’t.  If we’re honest with ourselves, it speaks volumes about what it means in our day and age to have a meeting with God.  How we support this endeavour offers important insights into what motivates us, and why.  It is an important element in the self-awareness we should strive for as we look at the choices we make.  Shabbat shalom.   

Idolatry Part Two: The Roller Coaster; A Drash for Parashat Vayak-hel, Friday February 21, 2014

Do you ever get the sense that your life is a roller coaster?  I sometimes do, but truly I’m not complaining about it.  Why complain about something that is so incontrovertibly a part of life?  We experience ‘highs.’  Moments of great joy.  Moments of transcendent joy.  Moments of profound happiness.  Moments of pleasure.  And those moments are, by necessity, balanced by the ‘lows.’  Moments of tension.  Moments of questioning, when things puzzle or confuse us and we don’t know what to do.  Or when we simply must accept an outcome that is not what we wanted.  Like it or not, these moments are as essential to our lives as are the ‘highs.’  Essential because, if there were not ‘lows,’ the highs would simply pass unnoticed.  Unappreciated.  Uncelebrated.  So that ‘roller coaster effect’ – alternating highs and lows – is an essential rhythm.  And we should embrace it.  Because the alternative would be a flat existence.  No particular frustrations and disappointments.  No ‘lows.’  But also no moments of joy.  No ‘highs.’  Only mediocrity.  I’m guessing that is not the kind of life that most of us want.
          So too, in the collective sense, for the people Israel.  Last week’s Torah reading was the narrative of the Golden Calf.  It was a low point for the people Israel.  Having just been saved at the shores of the sea by God’s miraculous intervention, they react to an unreasonable fear of Moses’ absence by building, and worshipping, an idol.  So soon after their deliverance from the Pharaoh’s violence, they seem to forget everything.
          And this week?  Having been instructed by Moses to bring forth all sorts of materials for the building of the Tabernacle, the Israelites respond.  Oh, how they respond!  They bring forth so many gifts that Moses has to cut off the donations.  Enough!  We have enough!
          As my colleague Rabbi Kim Ettlinger humorously stated in her drash this week, “I believe this is every shule treasurer’s dream…I think the Moshiach might come sooner.”  No doubt such generosity would make Herb happy.  And if it happened, we would be forgiven for thinking it a harbinger of the Messianic Age.  But I think there’s a deeper lesson to be found in this text.
          Last Saturday morning I spoke about idolatry in our age.  I posed the question of what we should take away from the Golden Calf narrative, since we’re very unlikely to even consider worshipping a material object in a cultic-like practice.  And I responded that we should look past cultic practices and understand that the equivalent of idolatry in our age is materialism.  I made it clear then, and will now as well, that I’m not talking about wanting, and affording ourselves things that we desire – and can afford.  That’s just self-indulgence, and we should all be able to do a little of it.  Materialism, as I mean it, is the attaching of salvific powers to material objects.  That is, thinking that things will ‘save’ you.  Will solve your problems.  Will make you happy.  That’s what I mean by the ‘materialism’ that is the equivalent of idolatry in our age.  You don’t have to melt down your gold or other metals into a calf to commit idolatry.  You only need to elevate some object to the status of god.
Now let me juxtapose the two week’s readings, and perhaps in doing so make it clear why I think this practice of idolatry is something that trips us up so easily.  In last week’s reading, the people willingly brought forth their material wealth to create the calf.  In this week’s reading, they willingly brought forth their material wealth to create the Tabernacle.  Of course, you see the common thread.  Willingly bringing forth your material wealth.  The lesson is that this willingness is not, in and of itself, a virtue.  If it’s done for bad reasons, it’s bad.  If it’s done for good reasons, it’s good.  A willingness to sacrifice is not automatically meritorious.  So, when you are asked to make such a sacrifice – to give to a cause – you must do so with open eyes.  Is the cause a good one?  And am I giving for a good reason?  The second question is probably the more difficult to answer.  Because after all, most of us simply aren’t given to frequent, and deep, self-searching.  In saying this, I am not criticizing.  But, to really do the right thing, we must learn to search ourselves.  To clarify our motives.  And if this self-searching reveals that our motivations are not worthy, then we should reconsider them.  Sacrificing one’s wealth to build a Golden Calf, and sacrificing one’s wealth to build a tabernacle seem similar.  They both involve…sacrifice.  But one brings a bad result, and one brings a good result.  And herein lies the reason for these two events being chronicled next to each other in the Torah. 
But allow me to expand the message just one more way.  Giving materially to a cause is often referred to as a ‘sacrifice.’  Because when you give you, make a choice between that cause, and the countless other things you might have done with your resources.  And that’s a sacrifice.  But it isn’t the biggest sacrifice.  No, the biggest sacrifice you can make is that of your time.
You’ve heard me say this before.  Money spent can always be replaced.  You can always earn more.  But time can never be recovered.  We have had several deaths among our members recently.  Being close to death sometimes makes us reconsider how we spend our time.  As it should.  And reminded that our time is finite, we can then consider the things we’ve been doing and ask ourselves:  Are they worthwhile?  Of course, the less time we have remaining, the more likely we are to ask this question.  My prayer is that each one of us will have the presence of mind to ask it whilst we still have time to change the course of our lives.  I’m younger than many of you.  Please, don’t think I’m bragging!  But I do find myself asking myself, more and more, if the course I’m on is the one that will lead to a sense of having done worthwhile things when I’m near the end.  It’s an important question to ask.  And if you are blessed to have an answer, it is important to act upon it.  Are we sacrificing our time for idolatrous pursuits?  Or just something unworthy of the sacrifice?  Or are we truly spending our time on that, which matters?
As you remember, I started this drash with a premise.  That our lives are almost by necessity like a roller coaster of good and bad moments.  And we should embrace the ride.  That is, we should acknowledge the wild ride that we experience in varying degrees and accept it as preferable to a ‘flat’ ride of mediocrity.  But in saying so, I am not telling you that the Golden Calf was not regrettable.  Of course it was.  As is any ‘bad’ decision that we make.  And decision that brings a bad result.  We must accept that the alternative to making occasional bad decisions is…to never make a decision.  But that does not mean that we shouldn’t endeavour to make good ones.  And if we see a bad result coming from our decisions, that means we have not made the best decision.  
We should therefore not be tripped up by idolatry.  As our ancient forebears were.  Let us, rather, learn from their experience.  When our decisions result in regrettable result, then that means we need to learn to decide better.  Let’s make that – the quest to make the best decisions – our life’s endeavour.  We owe ourselves nothing less.  Shabbat shalom.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

What's Your Golden Calf? A Drash for Parashat Ki Tissa, Saturday 15 February 2014

Idolatry.  The very word conjures up images of statues to which people – idolaters – bow down and worship.  The idea is very foreign to us, to say the least.  Most Jews – or non-Jews for that matter – in this day and age cannot imagine bowing down to, and worshipping a statue or other representation of the Holy.  It just isn’t attractive to us, on any level.
          Yes, we may know that there are other religions around that use statues, icons, and other kinds of physical images to represent the Holy.  We may know that Catholic Churches, shrines and even homes are full of statuary.  We may know that Eastern Orthodox Christians fill their churches, shrines and homes with painted icons, usually set in very ornate frames.  We may know that Buddhist temples, shrines and homes usually have a statue of a pot-bellied Buddha displayed prominently.  But have you ever discussed the how’s and whys of using these images with an educated Catholic, Eastern Orthodox or Buddhist?  If so, you learned that these are just representations used to help the believer visualise the Holy.  They are objects of veneration, not worship.  This sounds like subtle wordplay, but I don’t believe it is.  We Jews do not make any images to represent the Holy, because our Tradition forbids it.  But we understand that other traditions are looser in this area.  Yet, this does not mean that those other traditions are, by definition, idolatrous.  They’re just different.
          So, other religious traditions use various kinds of images.  But their adherents do not necessarily believe that those images truly are gods.  We Jews, therefore, have more in common than we might think with our neighbours whose religions are more visually expressive.  Really, I’m guessing that few of us have any attraction for the practice of idolatry.  As least, for the notion of idolatry that involves cultic worship of objects.
          If that’s so, then what are we to learn from this week’s Torah reading, concerning the Golden Calf?  If we have no desire to craft one, and worship it, what is supposed to be our take-away from this chapter of Torah?  Let me put it differently.  When the Torah prohibits specific acts, we can assume that, in its time, the prohibited act held a popular attraction for the people Israel.  So, the Torah is insistent about avoiding idolatry.  And yet, we would be hard-pressed to find a Jew for whom idolatry is attractive.  Does that mean that we’ve advanced beyond this attraction?  Should we be patting ourselves on the back because we do not see statues as gods, and pour out libations to them?
          Much as I think that we should see ourselves as deserving an occasional pat on the back, I don’t think that we rate it in this case.  Because idolatry is still very much alive and well, including amongst us Jews.  But it is a more difficult form of idolatry to recognise, than the statue-worship of the ancient past.
          Idolatry, by definition, means to attach salvific powers to some material object.  In other words, to look upon something as having the power to ‘save’ you.  From falling into the abyss.  From a future of oblivion.  From an unhappy life.  We don’t look to statues, and worship them, so that they would save us in this way.  But we still practice idolatry.  We call it something else:  materialism.
          Some of us think of materialism as an impulse to collect stuff.  But what it really is, is something more.  It’s the deep-seated belief that stuff will make us happy.  Will save us from oblivion or falling into the abyss.  Will, in effect, ‘save’ us…from whatever it is that we fear.
          You’ve heard this from me before.  I can hear the rolling of eyes out there…even with my hearing loss!  But it’s something worth repeating, because it is such a common pitfall.  When we believe that something is going to bring us the life we yearn for, then we are engaging in idolatry.  Plain and simple.  The point of the Golden Calf narrative is not that the people felt a desire to craft a lovely and expensive object.  It’s that, once it was crafted, the people proclaimed:  This, Israel, is your God, who brought you out of Egypt.
          Asceticism has never been popular among Jews.  Common among our people is a work ethic and drive to get ahead.  These have resulted in success after success among Jews, even in times and places where our very existence has been precarious.  Successful Jews have historically displayed a strong tendency to philanthropy, generously supporting causes both internal and external to the Jewish community.  But we’ve also internalised that there is no shame whatsoever in enjoying the fruit of one’s wealth with whatever possessions one desires.  Whether it’s ornate and well-furnished homes, expensive automobiles, fine dining, holidays abroad, salon and spa indulgences, whatever!  Jews generally do not criticise one another for their conspicuous consumption.  We don’t begrudge it of one another.  When one of us buys some new indulgence, how are other Jews likely to react?  By telling them:  “Use it in good health.”  Or, simply: “Enjoy!”  We simply take it for granted that it is natural to enjoy the fruits of our labours and success.  We only look askance at conspicuous spending by those who do not also support causes generously.
          So when I caution against materialism, I’m not suggesting that spending money on ourselves is in any way ‘sinful.’  I certainly counsel moderation in spending, avoiding the use of credit as much as possible, and making judicious economic choices.  But nothing in our tradition condemns us when we indulge ourselves a bit.
          When I caution against materialism, what I’m afraid of is the tendency to attach the assumption of salvific powers to material objects.  And sadly, we do it all the time.  If I only had that new sports car, I’d be happy.  All the women would flock to me and I’d never want for anything.  If I only had that diamond, I’d be satisfied.  I would know that my partner loves and cherishes me.  The pitfalls of thinking that stuff will bring you happiness, are two.  First, stuff never brings happiness.  It may bring some pleasure.  But never happiness.  So your quest to find happiness in stuff, is doomed to failure from the start.  The second pitfall is that, whilst you’re seeking happiness through stuff, that quest is deterring you from what really brings happiness.
          So maybe that’s the lesson we can draw from this week’s Torah reading, from the account of the Golden Calf.  I’m guessing that, for most of us in this room, there’s no particular attraction to building, and bowing down to, and worshipping through sacrifice and other acts of devotion, objects.  Statues and the like.  But the more subtle form of idolatry, the form that leads us to collect objects and believe that they will bring us happiness, is something that we do instinctively.  And it’s wrong.  But more importantly, it prevents us from achieving happiness.
          But it’s not only physical objects that can be idols for us.  Our emotions, our passions, can also be, in and of themselves, idols.  Think about it.  The Israelites built a Golden Calf.  And then they proclaimed it to be the God that led them out of Egypt.  And that proclamation – and the belief upon which they based that proclamation – formed an instant barrier between them and their True God.  In the same way, we form feelings towards one another.  Sometimes, those feelings are positive.  But often they are not.  And when they are not, they form barriers between us.  They stand in the way of what we see as the rational commitments that we owe one another.  I know I’m supposed to love you…but I’m so mad that I need to strike out at you.  Physically or as some other sort of expression of our will.  So we have a tendency to treat one another poorly.  Even though we know we’re not supposed to.  Because our emotions get the better of us.  And we cling to those emotions.  We cling to them, until they absolutely rule the way that we act.  To the point that we have no particular desire to step back from those emotions.  Let alone, know how to step back.
          Our emotions are what make us human.  But when we allow them to lead us to mistreat one another, then we have made idols of them.  We have become idolaters.  We have stepped away from the Jewish ideal, as much as we would have, had we crafted a Golden Calf and worshipped it.
          So I ask you this morning:  what is your Golden Calf?  Is it the stuff that you’ve gathered around you, in the hopes that it will bring you happiness?  Or is it the raw emotions that lead you to mistreat someone else, that is to treat them in a way you would find hurtful?  In either case, you would be practicing a form of idolatry.  And that would be unfortunate.  Because it would not be a very good statement about a Jew who identifies with God and the Torah.  And it will ultimately, not bring you happiness.  Idolatry, of whatever kind, will only bring you misery.  And you were not born to be miserable.  Shabbat shalom.

Love is Love...a Drash for Shabbat evening and Valentine's Day, 14 February 2014

Love.  Can you feel it?  I mean, can you feeeeel the looooove?
          Why am I saying the word ‘love’ in a mocking way?  Well, because I can.  And because it is a problematic word.  Why problematic?  Because it carries so many possible meanings.  When we utter the word ‘love’ we mean it to convey one of those meanings. But we can never be sure that the one hearing the word attaches the same meaning to it in that instance.
          So then, what is love?
In the past I’ve used a cute song ‘As the Years Go By’ as an illustration for this dilemma.  The song was written and released by a Canadian band called ‘Mashmakhan.’ It was an almost accidental addition to their first, eponymous album.  The name of the band alludes to a variety of hashish.  And that should tell you why memory of this band and its work has largely gone, pun intended, up in smoke.  But the song was memorable because its lyrics rang so true:
(first verse) A child asks his mother, ‘Do you love me?
And it really means, ‘Will you protect me?’
His mother answers him, ‘I love you.’
But it really means, ‘You’ve been a good boy.’
(second verse) At seventeen a girl asks, ‘Do you love me?’
But it really means, ‘Will you respect me?’
The teenaged boy answers, ‘I love you.’
But it really means, ‘Can I make love to you?’
(third verse) At sixty-five his wife asks, ‘Do you love me?’
But it means, ‘I’d like to hear it again.’
Her husband answers her, “I love you.’
But it really means ‘I’ll love you to the end.’
(final verse) Now you’re asking me if I love you.
But it really means, will I marry you?
And I answer, ‘Yes, I love you.’
And it really means that I’ll be true to you.’
(chorus) And as the years go by/True love will never die.
It’s a wonderful example of why I, as one who is generally sceptical about the value of pop culture, am nonetheless open to occasionally finding gems of profound truth in its messages.  This song purports to answer the question:  what is love.  And the song’s answer is:  it depends.
It would seem that, in English, the word ‘love’ carries so many possible connotations that its meaning depends entirely on the cotnext.  So too for Hebrew.  Some of you know that the Hebrew word for ‘love’ is ‘Ahava.’  One word only.  For ‘love of God.’  For ‘love of one’s fellow Jew.’  For ‘love of the non-Jew.’  So it’s the same situation:  the word not carrying an exact meaning which must be drawn from the context.  What is love?  It depends.
Or does it?  Maybe at any given time the exact sentiment of the speaker can be different.  But perhaps, in the end, love is love.  Think about it.
Today is Valentine’s Day.  Our Israeli cousins call it, Yom Ha’ahava – ‘the day of love.’  Now obviously, the sentiment alluded to by the theme of the day is romantic love.  The love that makes your little heart go pitter patter, pitter patter, boom!  Right?  Emotional love.  But is that really something unique and special?  Or, is love really just love.  And the emotions that we attach to the concept of love something separate and situational?
That’s my thesis.  What I’m trying to say to you tonight in my convoluted, rabbinic way, is that ‘love,’ itself, has nothing to do with emotions.  It is a rational impulse.  We make a decision to love.  Or not to love.  And having made that decision, we decide what to do about it.  That is where the emotional content comes in.  That is where our impetus to act on that love may vary.  What is Love?  Love is love.  But what it leads us to do, is situational.  And what we do do, is driven by our emotions.  Sometimes, unfortunately so.
Love is love.  I love my wife, Clara.  Out of the love I decided to have with my wife, I committed to spend my life with her.  To raise children with her.  To care for one another until my dying day…or hers.
I love my children.  My love for them is also, in effect, a decision.  After all, Clara and I decided to make our children.  But even if the children had been ‘unplanned,’ we still decided to commit the act that, in the end, resulted in their coming to the world.  So out of the love that I decided to confer upon my children, comes a commitment.  But a different one.  A commitment to protect and nurture and teach them and ultimately, inspire them to become good people and productive citizens.
I also love you, the members of my congregation.  That love does not lead to the same commitment I have made to Clara, nor that I have made to my children.  My love for you is the basis of a different commitment.  The commitment to lead and teach.  And interpret the Jewish wisdom of the ages.  And hopefully, to inspire you to lead better lives.  A different sort of commitment.  But the same love.  What is love?  Love is love.
I’m speaking in First Person, because obviously I can only speak for myself…and not for anybody else in this room.  But you might ask yourselves:  whom do you love?  And what sort of commitment, and treatment, should result from that love?  Think about it.  Do you love one another?  I mean, the other human beings in this very room.  The other members of this congregation, as well as our guests.  Do you love them?  You should.  Guess what:  you’re commanded to do so, in the Torah.
Va-ahav-ta la-re-acha kemocha.  You shall love your (fellow Jew) as yourself. (Levicitus 19:18)  Ke-ezrach mikem yih-yeh lachem hager hagar itchem, ve-ahav-ta lo kamocha.  The (non-Jew) who lives among you shall be as one of you, and you shall love him as yourself. (Leviticus 19:34)  If we’re to be obedient to this call, what sort of commitment to one another, does it call for?  Close your eyes, and try to visualise the sort of treatment that would follow.  What it would look like.  If you have decided to love one another, then what should that translate to, in terms of the way that you treat one another?  Ask yourselves:  does the commitment, the way that you treat one another, even resemble the picture you see when you try to visualise it?
Think about it in terms of how we treat one another tonight.  How we invite, or fail to invite, someone who is alone tonight to sit with us at dinner after the service.  I’m going to be upfront with you.  The last time we had an Oneg Shabbat, some of you rushed into the Jacobs Hall and immediately tilted groups of seats to save them for the members of your own party.  Now I get this practice.  You want to sit with your family or friends.  But think about it:  does this help the person who happens to have come alone tonight, or with one other person, feel welcome?  Ask yourselves.  And if you decide that it does not?  Well then, maybe saving seats is not the way to act at a communal Oneg Shabbat.  Maybe the way to act, is to look for someone whom you know is alone or not with a group…and invite them to sit with you.
This is just one example, but it struck me at the time as, perhaps, not being compatible with the notion that we are a warm, welcoming, and yes, loving congregation.  What do you think?  If we see ourselves as a loving group, if we think that we love one another or at least like to think so, then what sort of behaviour vis-à-vis one another should that translate into.  When we gather for Oneg Shabbat.  And at other times.  All other times.
So love is a rational choice, and depending on the relationship, that choice should lead to a certain mindset and a certain set of behaviours towards the one who is the object of that love.  Behaviours that, themselves, aught to be rational decisions.  But many of us cannot break from the notion that love is an emotion.  And because we internalise it that way, our love – the way we treat one another – is hostage to the way we may feel about the other at any given time.  And that, my friends, is what results in sometimes un-loving behaviour towards one another.  Whether that other is our spouse.  Or our child.  Or our neighbour in the contemporary sense, meaning the one who lives in close proximity to us.  Or our neighbour in the Biblical sense, meaning our fellow Jew.  Meaning a fellow member of Temple Shalom.
It’s Valentine’s Day.  Yom Ha-ahava.  The ‘day of love.’  We are conditioned to use this as an occasion to express our love towards one particular person, the person with whom we’re in a unique relationship.  But since love is love, after all…let’s use it as an occasion to take stock of all those we hold that we love.  And take stock of the way we express our love for them.  And if we’re honest, we’ll realise we fall short in at least some of those relationships.  Each one of us.  Because we’re all, after all, human. 

But the good news is that tomorrow is a new day.  And each tomorrow gives us an opportunity to work on the way that we treat one another.  And decide to make it better.  And then, make it better.  Love is love.  And let us act towards one another, in love.  Shabbat shalom.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

In All Our Splendour; a Drash for Shabbat Tetzaveh, Saturday 8 February 2014

In My Big Fat Greek Wedding, one of my favourite films of all time, Gus Portakalos has a schtick where he tells whoever will listen:  Give me a word, any word.  And I’ll show you how it come from the Greek.  So in one of the opening, flashback scenes, one of the girls riding in the car says:  How about ‘kimono’?  Gus thinks for a moment, then he has a flash of insight:  Chimonas is the Greek word for ‘winter.’  And what do you wear in winter when is cold?  A Robe.  Chimonas, Kimono.  There you go!
          A lot of words that we use in English daily come from Greek, and I don’t think ‘kimono’ is one of them.  But ‘gynecologist’ is!
          Today’s Torah reading opens with a description, not of a kimono, but of the robe worn by the High Priest as part of his vestments for performing the duties of his office.  It was not enough that he performed his duties correctly.  Since his role was seen as serving as intermediary between God and man, he needed to do so in all his splendour.
Now I tend to chafe under any suggestion that my office, that of the community’s rabbi, bears any resemblance to that of the priests of the ancient Temple.  It’s true that the synagogue and what we do in it, is a substitute the Temple and its service.  We see what we do here, as reaching towards God in our time and place.  But my role is not really the equivalent of that of the priests.  I’m here to teach, interpret, and perhaps inspire.  I’m not here to serve as an intermediary between you and God.  Even so, there are certain parameters of my role that you expect me to express in certain, specific ways.  But there is really not a unique vestment for me to wear.  Even so, most of you would think it inappropriate if I dressed casually on the pulpit.  You want to see me in all my splendor.
As you can see, it is my custom to wear a pulpit robe topped by a narrow tallit when I’m on the pulpit.  It isn’t an allusion to priestly vestments, but really is supposed to resemble academic wear.  This style of dress on the Bimah became popular when Reform Judaism had its genesis in the nineteenth century, and it remains popular and appropriate today.  One mindset introduced by Reform, is adopted from Protestant Christianity:  the idea of the clergy as being of scholarly bent.  The black robe alludes to that.
I like wearing a robe, because it takes away the need for wearing a tie, a piece of clothing I don’t especially like.  Still, nobody ever told me the robe was required.  But I sense that many of you find it comforting in a way.  It sets me apart and makes me into a symbol of sorts.  This recognizes the symbolic role I fulfill.  For me in my role, a black robe with a narrow tallit represents a way for me to stand before you in all my splendour.
          My pulpit robe, unique to my office though it is, cannot be compared to the splendor of the High Priest’s vestments.  But it is a special garment, for a special purpose.  There was a time when most of us would have had special clothes that we wore to shule, and nowhere else.  Again, not to compare with the splendor of the High Priest’s robes and accessories.  Rather, just to mark off coming to shule as a special activity – so special, that we would wear something that we don’t wear any other time.  Each and every Jew would endeavor to appear in shule in all his splendour.
          Over the years, the idea of a special suit of clothes for shule gave way to just dressing nicely for shule – wearing our ‘dressiest’ clothes.  And now, very few of us would think to wear anything that we would not necessarily wear any other day of the week.
          It really wasn’t that long ago, that women were expected to wear dresses or ensembles with skirts to shule.  And men were expected to wear a jacket and tie.  There still are congregations where those standards hold.  But in Progressive Judaism, we seem to have largely abandoned the idea of dress codes except for perhaps a minimal standard of covering one’s shoulders.  And wearing something clean and in good repair. 
I’m a casual sort of guy and therefore not really nostalgic for the days when it was considered ‘required’ to dress up for shule.  I don’t get at all upset when you show up for shule in your everyday clothes.  Oh, I suppose I prefer not to see a lot of bare skin in shule, and that you come only in clothing that is clean and not torn.  And that you be freshly bathed and otherwise clean.  But I’m not one to prescribe a specific dress code, because frankly I would rather that you come – even with bare shoulders, even without freshly-washed hair – than not come at all.
          There are those who would disagree with such sentiments.  Dennis Prager, a commentator with whom I usually agree, thinks that the tendency to dress down, indicates a lack of respect.  Not just for religious services.  Every year at graduation time, he points out that it was once the custom to dress in your best to attend someone’s commencement ceremony.  He does not think that casual dress at times when it was once customary to dress up, is simply an indication of an overall casual ethic.  Rather, he thinks it indicates a lack of respect for these events that were once thought pivotal.  As he points out, few people dress casually to a wedding.  Or a funeral.
          Prager may have something there, and I don’t deny the connection between dress and respect.  But as I said, I prefer not to prescribe what people wear to shule.  I would rather you come to shule in everyday wear than not come.  If you were not here, today, how would I have had an opportunity to get you thinking with my words?  Or to uplift you with the words and sounds of our prayers?
          My colleague Adi Cohen, in Wellington, NZ, made the point in his drash this week that, when we wear something special to shule – or on Shabbat, period – we in effect create a little sacred space for ourselves.  It helps us to ‘fence off’ the time we spend in Shabbat worship as special.  And additionally, it makes us special, because it makes us feel special.

          I agree that it is important for us to feel special when we come to shule, and to the extent that dressing in some suit of clothes set aside for the occasion helps you to feel special, I certainly recommend it.  Or, at least, going out of your way to look nice.  But before we sit down together to hammer out a specific dress code for any who would enter these premises on Shabbat or any other time, I would ask that you consider what I’ve said.  Much as I’d like to see people dress with particular care and concern to come here, I want first and foremost that they come.  In the hierarchy of values, this stands out for me.  Let’s always keep things in perspective, and remember what is most important.  Come in all your splendour if you find it uplifting to do so.  But come either way.  Shabbat shalom.