Temple or Not Temple? September 2016

I have just returned from another energizing and engaging week at URJ Eisner Camp.  One of the hot topics in Jewish education over the last few years is how do we take the energy of camp and bring it to our religious school programs.  My wife Michelle, our former Director of Education, is actually one of the leaders in the field of figuring out what makes camp camp, Jewish camp Jewish, and how we can transfer those models to other spaces.

Outside of education, we can also look at the similarities and differences between (Jewish summer) camp and synagogue.  Both are intentional Jewish communities, where a stated purpose is for participants to engage their own Judaism more deeply and to grow Jewishly.  However, in some important aspects, camps are not only different from synagogues, but the complete opposite.

Camps are top-down: The program of a camp - from the food being served to who gets hired by the camp is decided by a camp director.  All of the staff at camp has one boss, and that boss gets to set the priorities, from high to low.  Synagogues are bottom - up:  Congregants are the ones who run committees, staff the Board of Trustees, and fill the offices that make the decisions for the Temple.

Camps are encapsulated experiences:  Every piece of the camp environment (except perhaps the weather) is controlled by the camp; especially who can be where when.  There is no choice not to attend t’fillah (services) or breakfast.  There may be electives, but everyone has to be in a sport during sports period.  Further, a camper cannot just decide to leave camp.  Even communication is restricted - with most camps banning phones and computers.  Children have to actually write letters to their parents, who can only see them on visiting day, or in the photos the camp chooses to publish. Synagogues are open and voluntary: Congregants spend as much (or as little) time inside the synagogue, in Temple activities, or with other congregants, as they wish.  There is no mandated attendance at services.  Congregants can talk to each other, or whomever they wish about whatever they wish - and they often do.

Camps are of limited duration: Attendance is only for a session.  This builds up excitement in the off-time, but also acknowledges a limit to the experience. Synagogue affiliation is open-ended:  Jewish life is life-long.  The level of engagement may change, but being Jewish (generally) does not.  Participation needs to remain exciting 24/7/365.

Camps are not the real world: Ask any camper - behaviors that are completely acceptable at camp are not only socially unacceptable back in school, but often unexplainable.  Lying in a pile of fellow campers, singing the camp alma mater, and crying hysterically is a normal behavior at camp, but bizarre elsewhere. Synagogues are the real world: While it may be ok to break out into song at services, everyone in the building may not be a “native” and so some behavior may feel embarrassing.

Yet, I would like to take a page from URJ Eisner Camp’s Director, Louis Bordman, that I think applies to both the camp and synagogue intentional Jewish environment.  At a faculty lunch this past week, Louis told us about how we wanted to create a simple rubric that helped staff (and later campers) judge for themselves appropriate behavior.  He created two separate circles - Camp and Not Camp (in Hebrew lo machaneh).  His staff was invited to put post-its with their ideas of what belonged in each circle.  In “Camp” went behaviors and things that should be a part  of the intentional Jewish environment of camp - things like “respect for others”, “helping those in need”, “being empathetic”, “meaningful worship”, “casual time with friends”, etc.  In the other circle, “not camp” went items like “smoking”, “bullying”, “belittling other campers”, “stealing”, “lying”, etc.  Once the staff (and later campers) had fleshed out together some of what should be in each circle, it became easier for them to generalize what was camp and what was not camp in other situations. Sometimes they had to be reminded by a counselor, “Hey, is that camp or not camp?”, but Louis found it was a simpler and more intuitive way to encourage positive behavior and eliminate negative, without having to have people remember an expanding list of do’s and don’ts.

I believe that this idea would be useful for the Temple as well.  Since we have seen that a synagogue is in many ways the inverse of camp, this job falls on all of us, rather than just one or two of us at the top.  We should think about our behaviors in our Temple Sholom community - Is this something that is Temple Sholom or does not live up to our ideal of Temple Sholom?  As we head toward the New Year, I encourage us to begin this conversation - what is a part of Temple Sholom and what does not fit in the Temple we hope to build?  Let’s work together to put the intention back in our intentional Jewish community.

Rabbi Joel N. Abraham

Jewish Stories #7 - We're Not in Heaven, Either, So Let's Play Nice - Summer 2016

One of the more famous rabbinic arguments in the Talmud is about the kosher status of a particular oven, called the oven of Akhnai.  All the rabbis of the Sanhedrin, but one, agreed the halakhah went a certain way.  That one, Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus, disagreed - holding out against the majority.  To prove his point, he performed several miracles, the pinnacle of which was when a voice from heaven called out that he was right. Rabbi Joshua, representing the rest of the rabbis, quoted the Torah in parashat Nitzavim saying, “Lo bashamayim hi - it is not in the heavens”, meaning that God had given us Jewish law to interpret, and therefore the voice from heaven was irrelevant. Rabbi Eliezer stormed off. Some time later, Rabbi Natan ran into the prophet Elijah and asked him how God had reacted to this ruling, and he was told that God had said, “My children have bested me.”  The story, however, ends on a tragic note: Rabbi Eliezer remains separate from the community and one day the bitter force of his prayers kills Rabban Gamliel, the head of the Sandhedrin, and his brother in law.

We think that we may have difficult or awkward Passover seders or Thanksgiving dinners - imagine how hard Ima Shalom (the wife of Eliezer and brother of Gamliel) had to work to live up to her name - “mother of peace” when her family came together.

Sometimes we think we are much better at trying to persuade others of our opinions that in listening to theirs.  When both sides persist in this intellectual egotism, the end is either shouting or the end of the conversation.  I heard about one congregation where the rabbi used her Temple bulletin article to declare a moratorium on all political conversations in the Temple, because they were too divisive.

I’d like to go in the other direction.

A few years ago, the Jewish Council on Public Affairs, looking at the difficulty that the Jewish community had in having conversations about Israel, between those with differing opinions, launched a civility campaign - not only for discussion of Israel, but for all the contentious issues in current conversation (http://civility.jewishpublicaffairs.org/resources/).  The PARDES Institute in Israel created a campaign urging rabbis to be leaders as rodfei shalom - pursuers of peace, creating communities where makhlokets l’shem shamayim -disagreements for the sake of heaven, could be held in peace (http://www.pardes.org.il/program/pcjcr/pardes-rodef-shalom-communities-program/)

In that spirit (and since we all will be voting in the New Jersey primaries on June 7th)  I invite you to join me and make June the month when, here at Temple Sholom, we talk about politics.  But, in order to make this a genuine conversation, a place where we can share our ideas in peace, there are a few rules.

1. B’tzelem elohim - The Torah teaches that ALL of us were created in the image of God. Therefore, please assume that the person you are speaking with is just as intelligent and thoughtful as you are, even if, to you, their conclusions seem to belie that fact.
2. L’shem shamayim - The purpose of the conversation is not to convince the other person, but to understand where they are coming from.  Only then can you find what you have in common, and where you both (and we all) can move forward together.
3. Kavod, kavod, kavod - Remember to have respect for that other person, even if you do not share their beliefs, or they are not convinced by your arguments.  They have had the courage to open themselves up to you, and have given you the courtesy of hearing what you have to say. Please give the same in return.
4. Rodef shalom - Be of the disciples of Aaron, seeking peace.  Peace is not the absence of disagreement.  The word shalom is related to the word shalem, which means wholeness.  To have peace, we must acknowledge everyone’s different opinions, whether or not we agree.  Otherwise, we are not whole and we are certainly not at peace.  Infuriated silence is not peace.
5. Anavah - Speak with humility.  Remember to start statements with “I believe” and “I feel” rather than telling other people what they are thinking.  You don’t know (yet), and you won’t find out if you tell them you already know.

I look forward to listening to you - and listen to you listen to each other, in the month to come.

Rabbi Abraham

Jewish Stories #6 - Meeting at the Holy Spot in the Middle - April/May 2016

There is a legend, not as old as perhaps it should be, about how the site for the Temple in Jerusalem was chosen from among all other mountains.  The story tells of two brothers -  one, married with a large family; and the other, single - who lived on either side of a mountain in what would one day be Jerusalem.  One year, when the harvest was perhaps not so abundant as usual, the single brother got to thinking about his married brother.  He realized that his brother had so many mouths to feed in his family, that this harvest might seem even more scant.  So, in the middle of the night, he gathered up some of his grain, and headed, in the dark, over to his brother’s granary, with the intent of leaving his gift in secret.  On that same night, the married brother reasoned to himself that his unmarried brother had no one else to help him tend his land, or bring in his harvest.  Therefore, the single brother would have even less of a harvest and find it more difficult to survive.  So, the married brother loaded up his arms with grain, with the intent of leaving it secretly in his single brother’s granary.  The night was dark, and the brothers made their way carefully over the mountain.  Just as they each reached the summit, they ran smack into each other.  They looked at the grain in each other’s arms and realized what was going on.  They dropped their bundles, and embraced.  The legend says that, because of the great and selfless love of these brothers, God chose to put the Temple and the holiest of holies on that spot.

As our Board and Temple leadership introduce a new concept of how to support and maintain our synagogue, they are looking at what makes up our community of choice.  The reality, that we all know, is that no one, in this day and age, is forced to be a member of a synagogue.  Unlike other countries, where public monies support religious institutions, based on the number of adherents who so identify in the general population, churches and synagogues and mosques and temples are supported by the voluntary giving of their members and supporters.  Not just by the giving of money, but by the time, presence, and hands-on work offered by those members.  One of the things that we are thinking about is the why.  Why should it be that people should give of themselves for a place they do not have to belong to?  What is it about this congregation that is worth our love and our toil?

The story of the two brothers can serve as an ideal for how we view Temple Sholom.  We can see that the brothers are not asking what they get out of the harvest, but worrying about what the other will have or lack.  Once they have reached that level of compassion, they then pick themselves up and do something to meet that need - not publicly, not in a way that would embarrass the other, but quietly, and without fanfare.

There is a reason that we have come together in this holy place to build (and re-build) Temple Sholom.  The reason is the community that we have built together, over the last century, and that we imagine into the next century.  We want a place where we know that we are taken care of, where we trust that others will consider our needs, even as we consider theirs.  We want a place where we may even enjoy spending time with the people that we do not know yet, because we know that we share the same values of community.

We meet not in our own homes, but in a place which we have chosen together - a place that may not perfectly fit exactly what we want, but is stronger because it is a balance of what we all need.  Temple Sholom is not the dream of one individual; it is the collective vision of all of us.  We meet together, with an armload of grain, in the dark of night, on top of a mountain, and we find the care and concern that we need.  We may not embrace every time we meet, but we feel the holiness of this space - the sacred meeting place of our people.

Jewish Stories #5 - Two Pockets Full - March 2016

A few weeks ago, Rabbi Jonathan Spira-Savett from New Hampshire stole my Temple Topics article in a question to presidential candidate Hillary Clinton (http://forward.com/news/332949/meet-the-rabbi-who-asked-hillary-clinton-a-question-and-got-whole-nation-th/).  Over this year, my plan has been to feature certain non-Biblical stories that should be a part of every Jew’s knowledge.  I guess, since this rabbi chose the same story, and that the Secretary was so moved, shows that this story, short though it is, definitely should be on this list.

The story itself is not so long.  It’s not even really a story.  It is told that Rabbi Simcha Bunim said that everyone should keep two pieces of paper - one in each pocket.  The first should feature the quote - “I am but dust and ashes.”  The second should read, “The world was created for my sake.”  The trick of the two slips of paper is in the timing.  When one is feeling full of one’s self, and somewhat self-impressed, that is the time to read the first piece of paper.  The one that says, no matter how important we think we are at the moment, we are made of the same stuff as everything else on the earth.  We are not immortal and even we will die.  On the other hand - or in the other pocket - is the saying to be read when we feel all too keenly the impossibilities of life, and the fleeting of time.  Then, we are at our lowest, we should remember that we are the result of a long series of creations; that no one else just like us has or will ever exist again.

The moral, of course, is that we should seek to find balance in life.  Without humility, we run roughshod over others.  We forget that we are not the only people who have feelings.  Without ego and ambition, we lack the spark to create and innovate - to move forward.  The idea is not unique to Judaism.  History tells us that when a Roman emperor would proceed in triumph - with all of the civilized world praising him, a slave was assigned to whisper in Caesar’s ear that he too was mortal.

Mortality, of course, is both a curse and a goad.  Each of us may remember the time when we realized that we could not do everything that we wanted in our lifetime - read every book, travel to every place, meet everyone, accomplish everything.  Perhaps that caused a moment of depression.  However, the realization that our time is limited is also an inspiration to act now, and do what we can, while we can.  The Talmud, too, says to live every day as if it were your last - because we fear regret so much, that we want to make sure we get things done.

“You are but dust and ashes.”  In all our strivings, we are still limited in what we can achieve.  Yet, the strength is that we know that so are all those around us.  What we can achieve can also be appreciated by others, who are also limited.  Just as those who came before did not despair, and built the world we live in - “The world was created for your sake.”  We can rejoice in the world that we live in, as long as we remember our job is to continue that creation for those who come next.  The world was also created for their sake.  Our job is to remember that - and get about creating it.

Jewish Stories #4 - There’s No Place Like Home for a Treasure Hunt - February 2016

There is a story by the Chasidic sage, Nachman of Bratslav, about a poor Jew who lived in a small town in Austria.  Night after night, he dreamed that there was a treasure buried under a particular bridge in Vienna.  Finally, he hitched up his wagon and headed into the capital city. There he quickly realized that it would be difficult to dig in such a public place during the day and at night there was a guard who patrolled the bridge.  At wit’s end, he approached the guard one evening and told him the whole story, offering to share the treasure, if they found it.  The guard laughed at the man and said that if he believed in dreams he would travel to this little town outside of Vienna and dig in the basement of a Jew called Yaakov the Tailor.  Yaakov the Tailor, for this was our poor Jew, was stunned.  He took his wagon back home, dug in his own basement, and found the treasure.

As a Rabbi, one of things that is most useful about Jewish stories is that they can have many meanings.  Just like the Wizard of Oz, the meaning of this story could mean there is no place like home, and we seldom recognize the treasure of where we live.  Nachman of Bratslav meant it to mean that we cannot appreciate what we have until we seek knowledge from outside ourselves - he meant that each person must travel and find a Rebbe to find his true self.  We could also interpret this story to be about faith and perseverance.  Yaakov has both - heading to Vienna to fulfill his dream, while the guard at the bridge does not.  Yaakov therefore ends up with the treasure, and the guard ends up marching back and forth on the bridge.

Or, perhaps, we could take it as a metaphor for our own Judaism.  So many Jews find meaning in ritual or worship practices outside of Judaism (meditation or yoga to start with two), not realizing that there are deep spiritual practices and traditions within Judaism as well.  I hear on good authority that our Rosh Chodesh women’s group (which meets near the beginning each Jewish month at the New Moon) has been exploring various Jewish spiritual practices.  The Cantor leads a meditative service on a Saturday morning each month, and we even have a bit of guided meditation at Friday night services - not to mention the dancing and singing at the early service at the end of the month.  Interestingly enough, we even have congregants who travel to other synagogues and tell us about the great things that happen there - when we may be doing the same thing at our own Temple home.

On the other hand, perhaps the message is that we need to see the world around us and bring back that knowledge to find the treasure in our synagogue.  Reform Judaism, at its foundation, is based on the belief that Judaism has changed over time based on the cultures with which it has found itself.  We find what might be meaningful, adapt it to our Jewish practice, and strengthen ourselves in doing so.  Our month names (and pants) came from the Persians.  More recently, we have taken musical styles, and (last month) even mashed together the spiritual “Wade in the Water” with Mi Chamocha.

What is in the Judaism of which you dream?  Travel as you will, but do not forget to come back - perhaps the real treasure is lying there waiting to be discovered in your (Temple) home.

Jewish Stories #3 - The Difference is the Silver

Rabbi’s Column - Dec/Jan 2015/6

In the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe, it was often the rabbi’s job to make sure that there were enough funds for the poor. While the poor might be turned away at the door, people felt they could not turn away the rabbi.  One such rabbi called upon a rich man in his town who was known for not giving tzedakah.  The rabbi took the man to his front parlor and told him to look in an ornate mirror that hung on the wall.  “What do you see?”, the rabbi asked.  “I see myself,” said the rich man.  The rabbi then took the man to the window and asked him what he saw.  The rich man said that he saw the town square: merchants selling their wares, porters carrying packages, women hurrying home with their purchases, and the poor begging for money.  The rabbi asked the rich man if he knew what the difference was between the two views.  The man was confused.  The rabbi explained that both the window and the mirror were sheets of glass, but the mirror was backed by silver - and that silver caused the rich man to see only himself, not the people outside.

The simple meaning of this story is that money (silver) can blind us to the needs of others.  Possessions have a lure of their own, that leads us to see only what we have.  For us, perhaps, there is a more complex lesson.  What is the silver that blocks us from seeing others, instead causing us only to see our own reflection?

For some, the silver is our political outlook.  We read every news event, every public poll, every opinion piece through a predetermined lens.  Anyone who disagrees with us is a socialist or a fascist.  We are the only ones who see clearly, and anyone who disagrees in an idiot - or, at best, willfully ignorant.  Polishing our mirror, we delete the posts and defriend those who disagree with us.  Our views are reflected back to us from a thousand similar mirrors.

For some, the silver is the opportunities that we have had on our own journeys through life.  We see the struggles that we have overcome, as if everyone had the same tools, the same starting point, the same difficulties.  We wonder why others complain about not being able to achieve as we have, not realizing that our experience is not universal. that we may have had advantages we did even realize.

For some, the silver is our own difficulties.  We are so overwhelmed by what challenges we face, from day to day, that we cannot lift our heads up to see that not only might there be those worse off than we, but there may also be those around us struggling with the same things that we are - possible allies in our fight.

For some, the silver is religion.  Either their faith gives them pat answers that fail to awake a sense of outrage, or encourages questioning and action to help others, or their rejection of certain aspects of religion has blinded them to the good that is found in religious community, in Divine inspiration, in the call to heal the world.

Again, we return to the words of Hillel. There is a time for the mirror - “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”  But we cannot define ourselves and fulfill our desires without seeing others as real people, co-existent on this earth - “If I am for myself alone, who am I?”  How do we know when we have been too self-focused?  “If not now, when?”  We are constantly called to look out the mirror, and to see ourselves in the larger context of the world that we live in.

Tap that camera icon.  Instead of a selfie, look at the other side of your phone.  Refocus past the length of your arm, to see everything else.  We were not created to idle our hours in self-reflection, without being drawn into the world to interact, to build, to heal, and to improve.  Peer through the murky glass to see the world outside.  Then open the door, take a step out, meet some people, hear what they have to say, and do some good, together.

Jewish Stories #2 - You're Right, Too

You’re right, too.

Once, in a small town, there were two old friends who were engaged in a bitter and long-standing argument.  What the exact subject of the argument was is not important, nor does anyone now remember.  However, the argument was not only impacting their friendship, but the rest of the town was pulled into choosing sides.  Finally, a mutual friend persuaded the two to bring their argument to the rabbi.  The three proceeded to the rabbi’s study, where each side laid out their case.  After the first friend had presented her argument, the rabbi nodded sagely and said, “You’re right.”  The second friend, somewhat indignant, laid out his version of the case, in which version the details led to exactly the opposite conclusion.  Again, the rabbi nodded sagely and said, “You’re right”.  Exasperated, the mutual friend of both said that the arguments were diametrically opposed, and that it was impossible for both to be right.  The rabbi nodded sagely and said, “You’re right, too.”

This summer, while I was on faculty at URJ Eisner Camp, we took the opportunity to teach the older units in a beit midrash.  Each faculty member, and a few staff, picked a favorite subject, and taught a quick ten minute lesson several times, as the campers selected which sessions to attend. I sat under a tree with the words, “You’re right, too” over my head, and I taught about how I believe this story is fundamental to understanding Judaism (and also the impetus for writing this Temple Topics’ series on canonical stories in Judaism).

I told the story and then gave two examples. The first is from the Torah.  I asked them to remember the first two chapters of the Bible.  Chapter one and chapter two each tell a creation story. The first story details how the world was created in six days, and humanity was created - male and female - as the last act of creation.  The second story has a single human being created first, no time mentioned, and the story ending with God separating the first human being into male and female individuals.  Many commentators have attempted to reconcile the two stories, but the simple fact is that they are different and contradictory.  How interesting that our most sacred text, that we read through, over and over again, each year, begins with such a contradiction.  There must be a lesson.

Second, I pointed out the statement from Pirke Avot (the foundational document of Rabbinic Judaism, found in the Mishnah) that states - הכל צפוי, והרשות נתונה- hakol tzafui, v’hareishut n’tunah - everything is known in advance, but free will has been given.  In other words, there is predestination and we can make our own choices. “And” and not “but” - two mutually exclusive theological understandings.  On the one hand, God, who is all-knowing and created the world, knew and knows everything that will ever happen, and therefore set each action at the beginning.  On the other hand, we as human beings have the ability to make whatever choices we may will; we are in control of our own destinies.

Some faiths would attempt to reconcile these statements - and even in Judaism there are attempts.  Rather, however, let us ponder the nature of a religion that accepts at its core that there are fundamental dichotomies in the world, and then moves on.  Self-aware compartmentalization is not a rationalization, but endemic to the Jewish understanding of the world.  Sometimes, two opposite things are true.  We can imagine that God - like a computer with infinite computing capacity - can have seen all the variables of each neuron firing from the beginning and therefore created that first moment with the end in sight.  Yet, we cannot live our lives without the equally important knowledge that our own individual choices matter, that we have the ability and responsibility to change the world that we live in.  We can both acknowledge the omniscience of God in the same moment as we celebrate our right to choose.

Sometimes arguments which fall apart in logic class can be better illustrated by stories.  Obviously, the being that could exist before time and could create this universe would know what would happen in each and every case.  That’s right.  Just as obviously, we feel the import of every path taken and not taken, every choice made and every disaster averted.  That’s right.  Two ideas incompatible with each other - and yet they are both true.  That’s right, too.