Thursday, January 31, 2013

My Drash for Tonight's Service...Enjoy!


Only one Drash this week, because after tomorrow's service we're going immediately into our Tu B'Shvat Seder.  And as you'll see, in my Drash I've not even referenced this week's Torah portion...something I do occasionally, if rarely. 
Spiritual…but not Religious
A Drash for Friday, 1 February 2013

I spoke recently about how I discovered that I’m ‘stuck’ in the music that was popular when I was a teenager and a young adult.  Many of you also love and miss the music that was popular in your formative years.  You listen to the music that is popular among your grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren today, and you ask yourself: “Is this really music?” Or perhaps it is more a declaration than a question: “This isn’t really music.”
                One musical act of my generation that is most memorable is an American band called The Eagles.  They were one of the most successful musical acts of the 1970’s.  They were successful because their music is so eminently singable.  When an Eagles song comes on the radio, you can bet that somewhere nearby, someone is singing.  Be careful…you may very well be that one!
Yesterday, as I was driving back from Brisbane, The Best of My Love, one of the Eagles’ greatest hits, came on.  Being alone in the car, I sang in full voice.  One line which I sang with particular gusto, was the line:  We tried to talk it over/But the words got in the way.
The words got in the way.  The same declaration in present tense, is the title of a ballad written and recorded by Gloria Estefan.  It’s a line that is familiar to most of us.  It means that words are imperfect; they often fail to communicate what it is that we really want to convey.  Even worse, the words that we use can actually hamper us from communicating what we want to.
                As you probably know because I have spoken about this before, I am concerned almost to the point of obsession with the problem of words getting in the way of our communication.  The aspect of this phenomenon that I tend to rail about, is the use of words to convey a sense of pejorative rather than fact.  In public discourse, people often use words because they attach a negative connotation to what the other party to the conversation is saying.  They use these words as a way of ‘winning the argument’ by discrediting the other speaker.  I will continue returning to this concern of mine, because I believe very deeply that it is unethical to use words as pejoratives in order to ‘win the argument’ or shut down the conversation.
                But what I want to talk about this evening, is a declaration one often hears.  I’m not religious…I’m spiritual.  The topic came up in a conversation yesterday just a little while before I heard that Eagles song on the radio.  Everybody has heard this dictum, and probably quite often in this age where religion is severely discredited in the public forum.
                So what does it really mean to be ‘spiritual’ but not ‘religious’?
Traditionally, ‘spiritual’ and ‘religious’ were almost inseparable.  There was no disconnect between the quest for religious truth on one hand, and the quest for spiritual connection on the other.  There were always differences in emphasis.  For example, in our own tradition, from the eighteenth century there was a phenomenon called ‘Hassidism’ that came out of the Jews of the Eastern European shtetl.  Hassidism endures today as an important force in Judaism, even if Hassidim are very small in number.  Hassidism as a phenomenon emphasises the experience of G-d.  The anti-Hassidic movement of the eighteenth century, the Mitnagdim, emphasised Torah scholarship.  The two camps were deeply antagonistic towards one another until the nineteenth century.  Then, both realised that they weren’t really that far apart.  That is to say, the Hassidim did not eschew Torah scholarship.  And the Mitnagdim did not eschew spiritual connection.
So too in other religious traditions.  Every tradition – Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam – has its adherents who emphasise religious teachings and truth.  And each has others who emphasise deep connection and experience.  This experiential aspect is what is often referred to as the ‘spiritual.’  The aspects of ritual practice in the repetitive sense, and the quest to grasp the truth of religious teachings, are usually identified as strictly ‘religious.’  They are not mutually exclusive, although they can certainly ‘get in the way’ of one another at times.
But the idea of ‘spirituality’ in the complete absence of ‘religiosity’ is a more contemporary phenomenon.  What does it mean?
It often means an individual’s distancing himself from the whole religious enterprise and framework, while not turning away from one of the major goals of religion – connection to G-d.  As a religious leader, I have no particular objection to this mindset.  If one can pursue – and achieve – one of the major goals of religion without religion, then that’s probably not a bad thing.  Religion should assist one with spirituality, but if it hampers one’s spirituality, then it gets in the way of something that’s too important to concede.
And if we’re honest, we should concede that religion can get in the way of spirituality.  I’m guessing that everybody in this room tonight, has at one time or another attended a religious service that failed to make them feel spiritual.
It may be that it was in the house of worship of another religion, one that was unfamiliar to you, or perhaps which contained elements that were objectionable to you.  For example, to many Jews the invoking of the name of Jesus as G-d is deeply antithetical.  Many Jews who attend a Christian service, for whatever reason, say afterward that the first mention of the name of the Christian saviour ‘ruined’ the experience for them – or at least, made it feel un-spiritual to them.
But one can also find that versions of Judaism other than one’s preferred one, hamper the quest for the spiritual.  I hear complaints all the time from Progressive Jews, that when attending an Orthodox service, they could not feel spiritual.  Perhaps the consigning of women to a segregated section, behind the mehitsa, did that for them.  Or perhaps the breakneck speed of the service, with few or no verbal cues as to the page number or whether to sit or stand, did it.  In fairness, Orthodox Jews who have visited a Progressive shul have sometimes complained to me that our service, while its content was nothing to quibble about, didn’t feel right, or authentic.  It didn’t feel spiritual.
But even the service in the style of one’s choosing, can hamper one’s spirituality.  One of you might, for example, object strongly to something that I say from the pulpit – to the point that you’re thus unable to achieve spirituality in the service.  Or you might come expecting to sing Lecha Dodi to a particular tune – and if I change the tune, that could ruin the experience for you.  Of course, it is my prayer that our services here will only help, never hamper your quest for spirituality.  But this quest is highly emotional.  It is a-rational.  It would therefore be unrealistic for me to expect that nothing here, either content-wise or stylistic, will ever hamper your spirituality.
So a declaration that one is spiritual but not religious, if truly meant in that way, is not necessarily a bad thing.  Spirituality brings goodness into the world.  If one can bring goodness into the world without a religious framework – and I believe that one can – that is something to celebrate.  Yes, even by us, tonight, here in this profoundly religious setting.
I have not exhausted this particular topic – the idea of being spiritual but not religious – so I reserve the right to return to it next week, and perhaps even the week after that.  Judging by the spirited conversation that the notion engendered yesterday, and often engenders when it comes up, it is an important topic.  I look forward to continuing to present my own analysis of what it means for us, as Jews, in Australia, in the year 5773.  Shabbat shalom.  

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Drashot for Shabbat Shirah


The Song in our Hearts
A Drash for Friday, 25 January 2013

A few weeks ago I jokingly told you about the trauma I experienced when I realised that I was addicted to songs that come under the rubric of ‘oldies.’  Oldies for the old, right?  Lots of things conspire to make us aware – sometimes painfully aware – of the passage of time.  Our preference in music is one of those things.  The songs that formed the soundtrack to our lives at that time of self-discovery, usually remain the preferred soundtrack to our later years as well.  Not long ago, I attended a party where the main attraction was karaoke.  It wasn’t surprising that I did not recognise the songs that the younger performers chose.  Nor that they looked on with blank faces when I sang It Was a Very Good Year, written by Ervin Drake and made famous by Frank Sinatra in the 1960’s.
                But even though there is a generational disconnect between choices of songs, each one of us goes through life with a song on our hearts.  Some time ago, I was listening to one of my favourite commentators on contemporary life, Dennis Prager.  A caller asked him if he could imagine a different life than the one he’d built.    He thought a moment before answering.  This is a man who is nationally known in the USA, and fairly well known worldwide thanks to internet streaming of radio.  He lectures around the world, in English Russian and Hebrew.  He writes columns and books that are widely read.  A few years ago, he was spoken of as a possible candidate for the US Senate.  And a caller asked him if he could imagine a different life.
                His answer was telling.  He responded that he was happy with his life but that nothing in it was essential.  Except two things.  One was religious faith.  Prager is a Jew, a Progressive Jew, and a proud one.  He could imagine himself belonging to another religion had the circumstances of his birth been different.  But he could not imagine not being religious at all.  He can respect and even appreciate another person’s faith, but he cannot imagine a life for himself that lacks faith.  And the other thing in his life, which he could not imagine being without, was music.  Prager is not an accomplished musician, but he is an educated consumer of music.  He plays interesting and edgy music on his radio program.  His tastes are far-ranging and eclectic.  And he can’t imagine a life in which he is denied the pleasure of music.
                I think that describes many of us.  Most of you in this room tonight are not accomplished musicians.  You may have played an instrument sometime during your lives.  But the process of making music – of daily practice to keep your technique fresh and to learn new songs – is not on your menu.  Nevertheless, in ways that are probably not always foremost in your consciousness, you have a song on your hearts.  At certain moments, in certain moods, it will come bursting to the forefront.  For some, it’s when they’re in the shower.  For some, it’s when driving alone in the car.  Ever seen people singing along with their car radios?  Singing with wild abandon in the privacy of their automobiles?  At least until they stop for a traffic signal and cars all around them stop and their occupants stare at the one singing?  Maybe you’ve seen drivers like that.  Maybe you’ve been a driver like that!
I’m also not an accomplished musician, although I probably ‘play’ at it more than most.  Of course, I’ve been using the ukulele as part of my pulpit persona for some time.  Recently, I’ve been seeking out for the first time, opportunities to play uke in groups.  Clara and I played with one such group this week, and it was delightful.  There’s just something incredibly happy about a group of ‘normal’ people, people like you and me, strumming little instruments and singing with abandon.
This Shabbat is known as Shabbat Shira, the Sabbath of the Song.  That’s because this week’s Torah portion is Beshallach, which contains the Song of the Sea.  It’s the song that Moses and the children of Israel sang at their salvation when the sea allowed them of pass and to flee Pharaoh’s chariots pursuing them.  It’s the song whose climax we sing when we sing, at each and every service, Mi chamocha ba’elim Adonai.  I hope you’ll come tomorrow to hear it sung, with a melody you probably have never heard, by Clara.
The point is that the children of Israel, when rescued at the waters of the Sea of Reeds, could have reacted a number of ways.  And the way they reacted was to break into song.  And this does not surprise us.  After all, even if you are not one given to singing in the shower, or whilst driving your car, you certainly understand the importance of having a song in your lives.
 In some ways, that song that plays over and over in our hearts defines us.  And each person’s song is unique.  Even if I and someone else are signing the same song, we are singing it each in our own way, with our own special lilt to it.  And with our own unique evocation of memories and emotions.  This is what makes music so special.  In hearing a song, each one of us has the capacity to make it our own.
The Song of the Sea, the unique song found in the fifteenth chapter of the Book of Exodus, is the song of our distant ancestors when they experienced deliverance from Pharaoh and Egyptian bondage.  It is a song the expresses the joy of a people freed to realise their potential.  They don’t yet know what that potential will be.  They have no idea of how their collective story will unfold.  But they know that the journey has begun.  The song, at least a portion of it, remains part of our soundtrack even today.
When the Dreamworks film The Prince of Egypt came out in 1998, I took my children to see it.  When parts of the Jewish story make it into the general culture, I – like many of you – feel a certain pride.  I remember sitting in the theatre watching the movie, and thinking ‘That’s my story.’ And then came the song When You Believe, which later won an academy award and was especially well-known after its being recorded by Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston sent it soaring on the charts.
I have a confession to make; I’ve been known to cry at movies.  So it wasn’t unprecedented that, during the song When You Believe, I cried.  Hopefully my children didn’t notice…but they probably did.  And especially was a blubbering when, in the middle of the song, a child began the refrain:
Ashira Ladonai, ki ga’o ga’a.  Ashira Ladonai ki ga’o ga’a
Mi chamocha ba’elim Adonai.  Mi Kamocha Nedar Bakodesh.
Each one of us has his or her song in their head.  And there will be times when that song will come out, either from one’s own mouth or from someone else’s.  And when it does, and one can share one’s song with the world, that’s something  of extraordinary beauty.  That, I think, is why so many of us enjoy following American Idol and its spin-offs, reality shows where ‘ordinary’ people are given an opportunity to share their songs with the world.
Because those songs define us.  And if we reach a point where the song is no longer in our heart, then we’ve lost something very precious.  So sing away in the shower.  Or in the car…even at red lights!  Or at a karaoke night.  Or at any opportunity.  Because each person’s song is precious.  Shabbat shalom.

Refugees trying to reach Australia

Strangers in the Wilderness
A Drash for Saturday, 26 January 2013

I joked a few months back, that I remain addicted to closely following politics in my home country, the USA, for a number of reasons.  And one primary reason is that the political show here in Australia seems tame – and therefore boring – by comparison.  And if you heard my comments as a criticism then, or hear criticism now, please don’t!  True, boring is not complimentary.  But sometimes boring is good.  Look at the USA, which has lurched along from one political crisis to another during recent months.  The latest one involves Secretary of State Hillary Clinton banging the table like a petulant child under examination by members of Congress.  But the last crisis, the one over a combination of legislation and executive order to curb the circulation of guns after the most recent mass killing, has not yet wound down.  And still looming is the fight over the debt ceiling.  My crazy country provides no small amount of political theatre for the drama-starved masses around the world.
Here in Australia, apart from the ongoing Julia-and-Tony Show of constant barb-throwing, the biggest ongoing public policy drama seems to focus on the question of refugees.  How should they be received?  Where should they be received?  How do we separate the real refugees from those who simply don’t want to wait their turn?  What kind of reception do they get when they finally are allowed to live in Australia?  I ask all these as separate questions, because they are indeed separate questions even if they are all part of the greater question of how a country receives newcomers.
In this morning’s Torah reading, the Song of the Sea, the children of Israel are depicted as breaking out into ecstatic song upon their deliverance at the Sea of Reeds.  In their intense joy over their final break from Egypt, they cannot know what sort of challenges await them.  They can only know that they have been freed from involuntary servitude in a ‘narrow’ place and are entering the expansive wilderness of their potential.
In the wilderness, the children of Israel will be on their own, except for God who will provide for their needs in ways they cannot yet know.  They will experience many tests of their faith in their ultimate destiny.  Many will be the times when they will implore Moses to just let them return to Egypt.  There, while they lacked freedom and security, they at least had some measure of predictability in their lives.  That brings a certain amount of comfort.  But Moses, despite his periodic frustration with his people, stands fast and leads the people up to their entrance to the Promised Land.  And then Joshua, his chosen successor, takes over.  After their grand exit from Egypt, in fits and starts and with a 40-year delay, the people find their way to the Land of Israel where they begin to live out their destiny.
Along the way, others seek to hamper them.  Amalek attacks them from the rear, a cowardly attack that serves as the leitmotiv for all cowardly behaviour by nations forevermore.  But they fight off adversity and find their way to their land.
This is our shared story as Jews.  We repeat it every year.  Every Shabbat as we read our way through the Torah, the story unfolds.  We act it out during our Passover Seders, as we shall in two months’ time.  Because we continue to repeat it, it has become part of who we are.  The aspect of Jews as refugees is almost unavoidable.
Of course, we don’t need to look all the way beck to Egypt to remember the experience of being a refugee.  Most of the people in this room came to Australia as refugees after the Second World War, or they are children of those who came then.  And what about those who came more recently, as they no longer felt secure in their homes in South Africa?  They probably didn’t meet the definition of ‘Refugee’ used by the UN or by the Australian Government, but they still felt the sting of uprooting themselves from all that was comfortable and predictable.  So Jews, including the Jews of Australia, know how it feels to be a refugee.
The current controversy over refugees is extremely complicated.  I’m sure that, if I polled the Jews in this room, I would hear quite a variety of opinions as to whether the current crop of refugees even deserve the name, or the status.  But I think you would all agree that everybody who comes to live on these shores should be able to build a life here in dignity and security.  One of the complaints I heard most often about those who come here as refugees, is their inability – or perhaps unwillingness – to integrate into Australian society.  We want them to not just live in Australia, but to become Australian.  And whether we think individually that certain members of the refugee ‘class’ should have that status or not, we probably all agree that it is good for them, and good for all of us if they are able to navigate the shoals of life in their new country.
And that’s what I want to address this morning.  Some weeks back, I expressed a desire for us as a congregation to do some good works together in the sphere of interfaith relations.  I asked for your ideas about how we might contribute.  I have to be honest; I did not get a lot of feedback from you.  This is not a criticism – you’re clearly looking to me for leadership.  But as a newcomer myself, I’ve felt rather clueless about how we as a congregation might chip in.
But I finally did get some feedback and, coming as it did shortly before Australia Day weekend, it resonated immediately.
One of our members has suggested that we pool our talents to provide some kind of assistance for new residents, especially refugees.  To provide advice and assistance with figuring out how to live in Australia.  How to be marketable in one’s job search.  How to find the best education for one’s children.  How to protect one’s best interests legally.  How to figure out what government entitlements one is due, and how to get them.  How to master the subtleties of the English language.  These folks face so many different challenges.
If we remember our own history as refugees, we might feel some measure of identification with these newcomers.  If we remember how alone we might have felt when we came to Australia, or how our parents may have felt.  About the heaving saga of Jewish refugees, wandering the earth for a secure place.  In their exit from Egypt.  In the various exiles that came after that.  To be a refugee, and an outsider, and a newcomer, is something that each one of us carried around as part of our baggage.  While each of us might have a different opinion on public policy, we can all empathise with the refugee on a personal level.
That we read The Song of the Sea on Australia Day Weekend is a pleasant convergence.  It’s an opportunity for a nexus between this chapter in the Jewish story with the unfolding story of Australia, which each one of us have made our home.  And it is an opportunity to reflect on ways that we, as individuals and as a congregation, might help the latest newcomers to Australia to overcome the challenges of being a refugee, a stranger, a newcomer.  I am therefore offering this for your consideration on this Shabbat.  If you have thoughts or ideas as to how we can do this, please don’t hesitate to talk to me about it.  During the coming weeks, I’ll be putting heads together with you who are concerned about this issue and would like to help.  Let’s make Australia Day about more than picnics and parties.  Let’s use it as an impetus for pooling our talents and resources to do some good as a congregation.  Maybe by Passover, we will have a concrete plan as to how we can contribute.  Think about it and talk to me soon.  Shabbat shalom.   

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Drashot for Shabbat Bo...Enjoy!

The Gold Coast Spit, one of several sites proposed for a cruise ship terminal

Paradise Lost?
A Drash for Friday, 18 January 2013

Many inhabitants of our Gold Coast, perhaps some in this room tonight, go out of their way to talk up their little corner of the world as being a paradise of beauty.  And indeed the beauty of the Gold Coast is sometimes stunning.  The interplay of sunshine, water, and subtropical flora create a lovely environment indeed.  But of course we have to acknowledge that it is far from pristine.  I was out on the Broadwater last weekend and was sometimes a bit disgusted at the degree, to which we have failed in our stewardship of our natural environment.
                It is easy to shrey gevalt over what we have done to our planet, and perhaps we should!  I’m not saying that we should decry that it is not in its pristine state.  But anybody with eyes and a soul must acknowledge that we have done a poor job of preserving the best of our earth.  That we have left our mark is not the shame.  It is that we have left our mark far in excess of what would have been necessary, given the benefit we’ve derived from our planet.  And often with no acknowledgement of what we’ve lost in the process.
                And I’m not talking about Global Warming, or Anthropomorphic Climate Change as it is now popularly called.  Look, one has to have his head buried in the sand to fail to acknowledge that the earth is experiencing a gradual warming.  It’s no hoax that the polar ice caps are receding.  Here in Australia, where we’re now experiencing a particularly hot summer and the fires of consequence are interrupting thousands of lives with death and destruction, this warming is easy to see.  The hoax is not the climate change itself.  The hoax is the placing its cause at the feet of our production of carbon dioxide.  The hoax is ignoring the earth’s history of warming and cooling, events which occurred even before we burned fossil fuels in large amounts.  Events which the earth survived even if they changed it. 
Look, Greenland is not very green; we all know that.  In fact, one of the scares being mongered over Global Warming, is that Greenland will probably again be green, rather than the frozen wasteland that it is now.  And my answer is, so what?  If Greenland was green recently enough to earn its name, then its returning to that state in the current climate shift is not a tragedy.  Should we so radically change the way that we live, so as to shut down industries and throw millions and more out of work, displacing untold numbers of workers and changing our way of life, out of fear for this?  I think not.  So I’m not the alarmist, seeing the world as we know it as being in a free-falling meltdown because of the latest climate shift, and needing the strongest possible medicine to prevent it.
                That said, we can and should become better stewards of our earth.  The more we abuse the planet, the more we hamper our enjoyment of its beauty.  The orthodoxy that carbon dioxide is going to kill us off by roasting our planet alive is largely without basis.  But that does not call into question the need to take better care of the earth.
                Although the ‘minor’ festival of Tu B’Shvat is a week away, I’ve been thinking about these things as I prepare to once more celebrate what has become a sort of Jewish ‘Earth Day.’  The point of celebrating Tu B’Shvat is to refocus on how we use, and misuse our natural resources.  It is to motivate us to decide not to waste, and take positive steps to curb our wasting. 
                I keep using the word ‘orthodoxy.’  The problem with environmentalism is that it has become tantamount to an orthodox religion with its own inviolate ideology.  Science in general today, has become a slave to ideologies.  Environmental science and climatology epitomise this.  And this tends to obscure the truth that the quality of life on earth is something largely in our hands.  It is up to us to transcend the orthodoxy now being enforced upon the academic and political practice of the natural sciences, while nevertheless advocating the taking of sensible steps to protect our environment.  And those steps do not require a totalitarian regime that would dictate to people how they are to live.
                When the extremes are so passionately guarded and held, the middle ground becomes difficult to claim and hold.  We see this again and again in the public debate over the Big Issues of contemporary life.  And it is certainly true in the case of the debate over the environment.  We see it manifest locally in the ongoing argument over whether to develop a cruise ship terminal here on the Gold Coast.  Clearly this is an issue which elevates local passions.  Every week when I open the local newspaper, most of the letters to the editor are on the subject.  So clearly we care about our environment and acknowledge that our ultimate well-being is caught up in the degree to which we take care of it, or fail to.
                And Tu B’Shvat?  Let it be a reminder of the principle that our Tradition teaches:  that we should be good stewards of the world to which we’ve been entrusted.  But even as most of us in this room avoid orthodoxy in our expression of religion, let us avoid orthodoxy in our positioning ourselves in the various disputes over how to protect the environment.  Let’s try hard to be reasonable, and to inject reason into the debate.  Let’s do what we can, to change Paradise Lost into Paradise Reclaimed.  Shabbat shalom.

Moses confronts Pharaoh, from the film 'The Ten Commandments'
               
Sympathy for the Devil?
A Drash for Saturday, 19 January 2013

In all the conflicts that have ever raged between peoples over the history of the world, there has always been more than enough suffering to go around.  When political rulers decide to go to war, we don’t usually see the ruling class as suffering to the same degree as the common person.  We tend to express a certain degree of schadenfreude over the fall of leaders, no matter how gruesome their end.  I didn’t expect any sympathy to be expressed when Saddam Hussein was hanged after a very public trial, and I heard none.  Saddam was, after all unrepentant and made a show of publicly proclaiming himself to still be the rightful ruler of Iraq.  When fellow madman Muammar Kaddafi was lynched by a mob during his downfall years later, I head no expression of sympathy even then.  And perhaps none was due.
Not long ago, I saw the movie, Nuremberg, about the trial of Nazi leaders who survived the Second World War.  Nuremberg was of the genus we call ‘docu-drama.  That is, it was  played up more than a ‘straight’ documentary but made with effort to adhere to historical accuracy.  The one glaring inaccuracy was Hermann Goering’s surrender with his family to the wing commander at a US air base followed by hijinks with the American airmen.  The screen writers clearly intended this bit of dramatic excess to establish Goering early as an unsympathetic character.  All the leading Nazis on trial, save Speer, come off as unsympathetic.  They proclaim their loyalty to Hitler and the Nazi ideology to the end.  They admit no regret over the suffering of the German people, and the evil crimes committed against Jews and other persecuted minorities in Germany and occupied Europe.  The only regret they express is over their failure to win the war and therefore secure the Thousand Year Reich.
Because the leaders seldom find it within themselves to express regret, the common man often does not.  But the leaders could have opposed an ideology and actions that were wrong.  And the common man also could have.  And to be sure, many did.  And because they largely suffered and died in obscurity, they largely escape our notice.  That’s why the developers of Yad Vashem, the museum and memorial to the Shoah in Jerusalem, established the Avenue of the Righteous and the Garden of the Righteous.  The message is that people did stand up, and often suffered personally, but they made a difference.
Anyway, I was thinking about Nuremberg this week while I reflected about how we read the story of the Exodus from Egypt.
At the typical Passover Seder, one doesn’t hear a lot of sympathy for the unnamed Pharaoh of the story.  He is portrayed as completely obstinate and evil.  He is portrayed as bringing down the Wrath of G-d on the people of Egypt because of his stubbornness regarding the people Israel.  Thanks to the way he’s portrayed, we would be forgiven if we thought that he was so demented as to define his rule over Egypt by his treatment of the Israelites.  After all, that’s how we define his rule.
But the truth is, at the Seder one also doesn’t hear a lot of sympathy offered to the Egyptian people who surely were not all evil.  They suffered the plagues of G-d, up to and including the smiting of the firstborn of each house, because of the Pharaoh’s stubbornness.  And yes, I know the part about the spilling out of the ten drops of wine to show our sympathy with the suffering of the Egyptians.  This is supposed to show that our joy at our own deliverance is tempered by our acknowledging the suffering of the Egyptian people.  I don’t know about you, but I never hear a lot of sympathy in the gleeful shouting out of the plagues – Dam!  Tzefardea!  Kinim! – against the Egyptians.
And this is not a criticism that, on our most joyous festival, we find it difficult to muster much sympathy toward the Egyptian people.  The Passover Seder is supposed to be an emotion-driven event.  On the other hand, it’s good that we read the narrative of the events that we celebrate on the festival, a couple of months earlier.  We can read the story more dispassionately and reflectively.  We can consider aspects to the story that are lost in the glee that we work so hard to foster when we gather on the 14th and 15th of Nissan.
So now, this week, as we read the Torah portion that recounts the birth of the people Israel, we can do so with sympathy toward the people of Egypt, and even toward the Pharaoh.  What’s that you say, Rabbi?  I should have sympathy for the Devil??!
Okay, okay!  I’m looking at your faces and I see you’re still not buying!  Let me try again…
There is a reality that our destinies result largely from the chain of decisions we make.  Of course, there are elements over which we have no control.  Those who are born to privilege tend to succeed out of proportion with others.  The children of musicians tend to become gifted musicians in their own right.  But more telling, the children of celebrities achieve celebrity even when they lack talent or possess it only in marginal degree.  Chelsea Clinton has been characterised as a singularly uninspiring TV journalist, but given her famous parentage she’ll probably never lack employment in that field, or any other of her choice, unless she chooses obscurity. 
And the opposite is also true; the children of failures too often grow up to fail.  The children of alcoholics tend to become alcoholic.  The children of abusers tend to grow up to abuse.  We all know this.  And we all know that, therefore, the world is not fair.
But we also know that each child born, no matter how humble or depressing their circumstances, has the power to transcend their beginnings and achieve greatness.  Figure after figure in history rose from obscurity to make a tremendous impact on the world, and often for the better.  And the fact that not every one of the humble-born achieves this, does not negate the possibility.  This possibility is behind the outrage when a child experiences trauma or is killed.  It’s not only the sense of that child’s innocence of whatever the assailant’s complaint, although that surely is an element.  But more than that is the sense that each child whose life is ended prematurely could have grown up to achieve greatness.  Yet we’ll never know.  W heard this so much in the hand-wringing that followed Adam Lanza’s recent killing spree in Sandy Hook Elementary School.
So even though we grouse about the unfairness of life, we acknowledge that each one of us is born with unlimited potential.  But over time, that potential is either realised or hampered largely by the decisions we make.   For example, the girl who becomes pregnant as a teenager, is almost certainly not going on to become a physicist or physician.  While other young adults are studying and expanding their horizons, she’s changing diapers.  And this is not to belittle the enterprise of child-rearing.  It’s just to acknowledge that it’s a full-time job, precluding the young mother from many other pursuits.  Except for the very rare young woman with the pluck and energy to pursue a doctorate while wiping runny noses.
And other decisions we make, also impact negatively on our later possibilities.  A convicted criminal can serve his time and turn his life around, but he won’t be elected president.  Or sheriff.  It just doesn’t happen.  So, by choosing to engage in criminality, the young man may have deprived the world of a great leader.
These are obviously examples that are exaggerations.  Most of us eschew greatness simply by embracing mediocrity.  We spend our lives pursuing relatively inconsequential pleasures and entertainments, when we could have focused on bigger things.
So what does this have to do with Pharaoh and the Egyptians?  Only everything…
This week’s Torah reading records that G-d hardened Pharaoh’s heart, in order to make a point.  For the people Israel to achieve the dramatic deliverance, and for them and the world to acknowledge the superiority of their G-d, it was necessary to humble Pharaoh and his entire nation.  Look, the common man is often a pawn of capricious powers, but the idea of the G-d of Israel being such a capricious manipulator is supremely distasteful.
But the truth is likely something quite different.  The combination of Pharaoh’s upbringing, and the decisions he makes along the way, strongly influence him to stubbornly refuse to let the Israelites go.  Even when his advisors chide him, telling him ‘Egypt is lost,’ he is unwilling to give in enough to stave of destruction for his people.  Thanks to a combination of upbringing and his own will, Pharaoh’s choices narrow to the point where he really has very little choice in the matter.  The author of this Torah text was intent on chronicling events, but was likely not very sophisticated in understanding their causality.
That’s why now, as we read this passage, weeks before the hubbub of our Passover Seders, we can feel some regret over Pharaoh’s narrowness.  We can even feel some sympathy towards the embattled king of Egypt.  And even more toward Egypt as a whole. 
We can see, if we so choose, all of Egypt as guilty and deserving of whatever suffering they experienced.  This, in the way that Daniel Goldhagen indicted the entire German nation of being Hitler’s Willing Executioners.  The Germans don’t deserve a complete exoneration any more than the Ancient Egyptians do.  There are consequences when one people oppresses another.  Each one of us must stand before G-d and take account for the choices we’ve made that have hurt others.  So, too the Egyptians and Germans.  But one has to be unfeeling, if one is to refuse to acknowledge their humanity and the loss they experienced.
If you listen to me this morning, you will feel some identification with the Egyptian people today even if not necessarily at your Passover table in March.  And if so, so what?
Well, the so what is this.  Let’s acknowledge that Pharaoh, while not terribly meritorious, was not evil personified.  Sympathy for Pharaoh is ultimately not tantamount to sympathy for the Devil.  Let’s acknowledge that he ultimately made a string of decisions that narrowed his choices going forward.  Let’s acknowledge that there was a tragic element of his behaviour:  both for himself and for his people.  In so acknowledging, we come to understand, a little better, the power of our decisions.  We come to understand that we ultimately choose our destiny.  We come to understand our freedom of choice, and the consequences of our choices.
Just as the Pharaoh made a series of choices that he probably lived to regret, so too we find ourselves sometimes regretting the results of our choices.  The narrowing of our destinies is clearly not as dramatic as that of Pharaoh.  But still, we often deprive ourselves of the potential of greatness by choosing less.  For most of you hearing my words today, it is probably too late.  But you have the power to influence younger souls.  You have the ability to make them understand the greatness that is in their own hands to achieve.  That’s the importance of this lesson.  May we take it to heart.  Shabbat shalom.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Drashot for Shabbat Va'era...enjoy!

One’s Personal Name is…Personal!
A Drash for Friday, 11 January 2013

One time during my military career, I took over an office whose last occupant had been a Baptist colleague.  Sometime after his departure for his next station, I was looking at the documents he’d left on the computer’s hard drive, cleaning things up a bit.  One document I found was a sermon he wrote, rueing the realities of our contemporary world.
          The sermon went on and on about how the lives of people living in medieval times, before the European enlightenment, would have been better.  They would have had a much surer faith, because the temporal rulers would have ruled the lives of their subjects according to their Christian faith.  Since their lives would be more integrated in this sense, the ‘typical’ individual would have been happier.
          When I finished rolling around on the floor with laughter, I was appalled.  This colleague was a really smart and educated man, a graduate of our Air Force Academy and a former line officer.  He had just been promoted early to the rank of Major and, in conversation his name was often followed by predication that he would someday attain general’s rank.  Although such predictions were more than a bit premature, it was clear that this young man was going places.
          I therefore could not fathom the ignorance-by-choice of ignoring the realities of disease, early death, infant mortality, lack of freedom, even serfdom that would have been the peasant’s lot before the enlightenment.  And for the city-dweller, long hours in sweatshops at wages calculated to keep the worker barely above the starvation level!  And all this for an ‘integrated’ life where one’s religious principles – if one were of the proper religion – were the law of the land??!
          If you’re getting the idea that I have little patience for unthinking nostalgia, you’re correct.  The closest Jewish version to what I’ve outlined above is nostalgia for the shtetlach of Eastern European Jewry of the late nineteenth century.   Sholom Aleichem’s delightful stories notwithstanding, Jewish life in the shtetl revolved around grinding poverty, exploitation by various authorities, and periodic pogroms as a device to let the Christian peasants ‘blow off a little steam.’  Within the shtetl, Jews were greatly limited in the types of occupations they could follow to make a living.  And there were severe restrictions on their moving to larger towns and cities in search of greater opportunities.  We really should feel no nostalgia for the world that vanished with the coming of the Shoah.
          So Rabbi Don is not nostalgic for a rose-coloured view of the past.  But one indulgence to nostalgia that I do make is that I rue the erosion of respect for one another that contemporary life has brought.
          Remember when a merchant, if he wanted your business, would address you respectfully?  If I were a customer of a business I would expect to be addressed as ‘Mr. Levy.’ After my rabbinic ordination, I would not criticise the honorific ‘Mr.,’ even though correctly speaking the title ‘Rabbi’ should be used instead.  After all, the clerk or owner in the shop would probably not know that I was an ordained rabbi.  And if he did know, but in ignorance addressed me as “reverend’ or some such, I would only correct him in the most gentle way.
          But today, it seems to be accepted that people in retail call their customers by their given names.  To me, it is presumptuous for someone from whom I’m making a purchase to call me, ‘Donald.’
          It’s worse when the person in question is phoning me to solicit my business, or my charitable donation.  When my telephone rings and I cannot identify the caller, I always immediately identify myself. ‘Hello, this is Rabbi Levy; how can I help you this afternoon?’  And then the caller almost inevitably asks, ‘Is this Donald?’  Whatever slim chance there had been that I would listen favourably to a pitch for a product or service, or for a charitable cause, has just gone right out the window!
          I mention this, because our Torah reading for tomorrow begins with G-d’s identifying Himself to Moses by His Personal Name.  You know – the four letter name that we don’t even try to pronounce.  When we encounter it in a text, we instead say ‘Adonai,’ meaning ‘My Lord.’  In Orthodox circles, they take it a step farther.  Except in prayer, they will not even say ‘Adonai’; instead they will say ‘Hashem,’ meaning ‘The Name,’ instead of uttering the name.
          G-d reminds Moses that he appeared to the three patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – but did not reveal to them his personal Name.  Moses therefore knows that his relationship with the Deity is unprecedented in its familiarity intimacy.  Because this dialogue is preserved in the Torah, we understand that Moses had a relationship with G-d unlike any figure before or after.  Millennia later, the Great Rambam placed Moses at the very pinnacle of the hierarchy of prophets in the history of the Jewish people.
          It is said that nothing is quite as sweet as the sound of one’s own name.  That is to say, hearing one’s own name adds intimacy to any conversation.  Until addressed by one’s own name, a conversation can be and often is impersonal, nothing more than a business transaction.  Please don’t hear this in any way as a criticism of business or of business people.  Business people – at the least the successful ones – know the value of knowing, and using the names of their customers.  But to use the customer’s given name, at least in a superficial business transaction, seems inappropriately familiar.  At least, it does to this somewhat old-fashioned individual.  Whatever business manual tells salesmen today that their using their customer’s first name will help them make a sale, did not ask me!
          And this is not to criticise our use of first names in our encounters within the congregation.  I am very comfortable with being addressed as ‘Rabbi Don’ by members of my community.  After all, we are ideally partners in creating a strong and caring community.  And while I expect that you would want me to address you by your given name, I’m always sensitive to the possibility that you will not.
So too with G-d.  Despite his revelations, and unique promises, to the patriarchs He did not reveal His most intimate, personal Name.  Only with Moses, whom he met in the desert and sent to argue with the Pharaoh, did He completely reveal himself.  Clearly the Deity anticipate a long sojourn with Moses as the latter did G-d’s bidding in leading the people Israel to the Promised Land.  That long relationship would require of level of intimacy beyond that which Abraham, Isaac and Jacob had required.
So G-d reveals Himself, through his most personal name, to Moses before anybody else.
And I find myself gnashing my teeth almost daily when other people, in situations where it is inappropriate to my mind, try to establish a level of intimacy with me!  Shabbat shalom!



Synergize!
A Drash for Saturday, 12 January 2013


Recently, an acquaintance asked me what is the most difficult part of my job.  I had an immediate answer, and it was exactly the answer the questioner expected.  I told him that there was no particular task I have to do, that taxes my abilities.  Thanks to my training and experience,  any particular task that is ‘on my plate’ – be it reading Torah, preparing sermons, leading services, teaching classes, preparing funerals or weddings or any of the other special ceremonies that are part of my job – is not especially difficult.  What provides the challenge, is getting people of divergent personalities to work together for common goals.  In other words, the most difficult part of my job is people issues.  Politics, if you like.
I hope my saying this is not off-putting to you.  It certainly shouldn’t be!  Most of us, especially if we have been doing the same job for a while, develop a competency that makes that job largely second nature.  Mind you, I would probably make certain exceptions.  I'm guessing that neurosurgeons never find their work ‘routine’ given the life-critical nature of that work.  And perhaps a handful of other professions.  But for most of us, repetition enables us to develop a certain ease.  And I’m guessing that for you, too, the aspect of working with other people is the most challenging part of your jobs.  This is especially so, if our jobs incorporate some leadership function.  The main function of a leader is not to do, but to get a group of people to do, all in their separate tasks and separate ways.
I know that I have referred before in my writing and speaking to The Seven Habits of Highly Efffective People, one of the greatest self-help books of all time.  It was written by the late Dr Stephen Covey back in 1989.  The book became so popular that it spawned a series of live workshops, taught by specially-trained facilitators that were offered in many settings.  Clara and I once took one of those workshops when I served in the US Air Force.  The book and workshop were, for both of us, life-changing.
Habit number six of the Seven Habits is, Synergize.  The Habit is defined as:  Combine the strengths of people through positive teamwork, so as to achieve goals no one person could have done alone.  If you have been a boss, or if you have worked for a boss, you probably know that this is one of the most difficult tasks of leadership.  A congregational rabbi is not, strictly speaking a ‘boss.’  But this is still one of my biggest challenges.
I can work 60-hour weeks and produce all kinds of programs and content that cannot but benefit this congregation.  But I can achieve far better results by encouraging you to join me as a team, accomplishing through our synergy far more than I could ever do, or any one of us could, on our own.
 Moses was definitely a synergizer.  In this week’s Torah reading, G-d charges him with confronting Pharaoh to gain freedom for the people Israel.  He demurs, citing an unspecified speech impediment.  I referred to this in my drash last week.  If there’s one ability that a leader definitely needs, it is the ability to communicate clearly, forcefully, and with vision.  Here, G-d won’t let Moses off the hook.  He teaches Moses an important lesson in synergy.  He brings Moses’ brother, Aaron into the picture. For the near term, Moses will speak to Pharaoh through Aaron.  Aaron will bring to the table, an ability that Moses feels he lacks.  Aaron’s speaking ability will serve as the ‘force multiplier’ for Moses’ vision.
And Moses takes the lesson to heart.  As we follow his career as leader of the people Israel, we see him accepting the counsel of others and integrating their ideas into his leadership style.  Three weeks from now, we shall read from the portion Yitro.  In it, Moses accepts the counsel of his father-in-law with regard to delegating tasks and authority to others.
There is no question that the Torah depicts Moses’ strength as a leader as coming from his obedience to G-d.  Moses’ position stems from his election by G-d and his willingness to take on the role – if reluctantly at first.  But what makes him truly effective as a leader is his ability to absorb and apply the lessons of leadership.  In today’s reading, we see Moses learning the habit of synergizing.
None of us has been elected for such a task as that, which faced Moses.  None of us can take on a task of anything approaching the enormity of Moses’ task.  Even so, each one of us can learn important leadership lessons from the Great Leader.  And the lesson we see the Great Leader absorbing today, is to synergize.  To build a team where each person’s particular strengths are utilised to their fullest.  This, for the greater benefit of the entire team.  The ‘team’ in this case, the people Israel who went out of Egypt, number 144,000 souls.  If there’s any truth to the number, it would have actually been far greater, because it did not include women, children below military age, or senior men above military age.  It also did not include the ‘mixed multitude’ who left Egypt with the Israelites.  So it would probably have been close to, or upwards of, a million souls all told.  None of us in this room today has been charged with the care of so many, for so great a purpose.
But that doesn’t mean our work is not important, because it is.  So we can learn the lesson of synergy from Moses.  If we take this lesson to heart, it will make us all more effective in our tasks.  Shabbat shalom.
       

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Drashot for Shabbat Shemot...Enjoy!

Part of Something Bigger
A Drash for Friday, 4 January 2013

I traveled to Israel for the first time when I was 30 years old.  I was then serving in the US Navy and was stationed in Athens, Greece.  I flew to Israel on Olympic Airlines, Greece’s national flag carrier.
          Back then, the old Hellenikon Airport was still in use.  All the foreign airlines used the East Terminal.  Olympic used the West Terminal, on the opposite side of the airfield.  The West Terminal had a much more ‘Greek’ feel to it.  It was somewhat more chaotic and bazaar-like.  Most of the signage was in Greek, rather than English.
          When my flight to Tel Aviv was ready for boarding, the announcer on the public address instructed passengers manifest on the flight to walk through the gate.  After handing my boarding pass to the agent standing by, I walked toward the door to the air bridge and looked up.  A sign above the door read:  EXODOS.  How apropos, I thought!  I’m leaving Greece to fly to Israel under a sign that says ‘Exodus’!
          Of course, ‘exodus’ simply means ‘exit’ in Greek.  It’s also the common name of the second book of the Torah, which we’ll begin reading tomorrow morning.  This, because the dominant theme of the book is the people Israel’s exit, or departure from Egypt and trek toward the Land of Israel.  The word – Exodus – sounds so exotic and evocative.
          In Jewish circles, we follow a different convention by which we call the books of the Torah; we use the first word, or the first distinctive word.  In Hebrew, the book begins:  Ve’eileh shemot; And these are the names.  We therefore call the book, ‘Shemot’ – names.  Aren’t you glad that Leon Uris chose the more common name of the book for his novel about the birth of the modern State of Israel?  I can’t imagine a bestselling novel, not to mention a blockbuster motion picture, called ‘Names.’  But I certain can imagine one called ‘Exodus.’
          With the start of the second book of the Torah, we see a very distinct phase shift in our sacred narrative.  Genesis, for the most part, is about the Patriarchal family.  It’s the story of the great patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  About their wives Sarah, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel.  About the children they made and the conflicts between them.  It reads somewhat like one of the made-for-TV miniseries we’ve watched over the years.  Or, perhaps, like an ongoing Soap Opera…
          But in tomorrow’s reading, the very first chapter of the book of Exodus, there’s a distinct change.  From an epic about an extended family, the narrative becomes something larger.  It becomes the story of a nation.  It begins with a recounting of the names of the sons of Israel who went down to sojourn in Egypt.  And then it tells us that they “…were fertile and prolific…so the land was filled with them.”  And immediately we see the Pharaoh, the new king who knew not Joseph, declaring that the Israelites had become “too numerous” for Egypt to contain.  So he decreed that Egypt should “deal shrewdly with them” lest they ultimately become a Fifth Column in Egypt.  And as we know, “deal shrewdly” translated into enslaving the people Israel.
          So the Torah starts out, after establishing G-d’s sovereignty over the earth and showing that all people are related by blood, with the very personal, narrative of the ‘Ben Avrahami’ or ‘Abrahamson’ family.  And now, it shifts to a national narrative, to show us that from the patriarchal roots an entire nation was born.
          As in our sacred literature, so too in our individual lives.  We began reading the first book of the Torah, as we do every year, immediately after the High Holy Days, those most reflective days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Ideally, every person in this room was touched by those days in such a way that they began the Jewish year with a focus on being the best and most effective person they can over the new year – in this case the year 5773.  But if we spend the entire year focusing only on ourselves, we risk being narcissistic.  At some point, we must focus outward and think about the ‘big picture.’  Each one of our lives matters.  In the words of the sign in front of the Anglican Parish Centre just down the street: “Your Life Counts.”  But ultimately, our lives count mostly because of the way that we band together with others to form important alliances.  Strong, loving and functional families.  Congregations that uphold our common values and provide the community in which we celebrate important moments of our lives and the seasons.  Communities and nations where we contribute positively to the enrichment of our, and others’ lives.  The Torah, by making the shift we observe this week from the personal to the national narrative, reminds us of this.
          The lesson, then, is clear.  Periodically, we must return to focus on ourselves and those closest to us.  But if we maintain that focus – and only that focus – we are not living up to the best that is in us.  We must participate in the greater associations that make life as we know it possible.  And that includes our Jewish associations.  Congregation.  The larger local community.  The Progressive Movement, both in Australia and worldwide.  And finally, the totality of world Jewry.
            You’ve heard me say that I find the Patriarchal Narrative the most delightful part of the Torah. From it we learn so much about human nature. From it we gain insights to apply to our own personal and family lives. But if the Torah ended with the close of Genesis, it would be missing the greater point. And that point is that, through our larger connections, G-d enables us to participate in events and circumstances that matter globally. Ultimately, each one of us must put our individual houses in order. Then we must transcend the concerns of our own houses, and see ourselves as part of something far larger. Shabbat shalom.

The Gift of Possibilities
A Drash for Saturday, 5 January 2013

It’s exciting, and terrifying, to be the parent of a teenager who is right on the cusp of making choices that will largely determine his fortunes in the coming years.  One of the young adult’s biggest enemies is self-doubt.  Self-doubt is natural; all of us possess it to one degree of another.  If you can remember when you were first starting out in the independent phase of your life, you probably remember doubting your abilities to some extent.  It is part of a parent’s job to encourage teenagers through their periods of self-doubt.  To buck them up, offering them insights into their own characters that will give them the confidence to go the distance.  There are many things my parents said and did that I have forgotten.  But I have never forgotten how my mother in particular, drilled me again and again, telling me that I could accomplish anything I chose.
Tell your children this, and you will set them up for life.  Oh, they will doubtless experience defeats and disappointments along the way.  But they will believe in themselves.  And they will believe that they can overcome all setbacks and find success and happiness.  And as a result of so believing, they will!
If you’re grown and your parents did not give you this gift, please don’t resent them!  It is a rare gift, a difficult thing to give one’s children in the face of one’s own life disappointments.  If you did not benefit from it, push yourself even so.  You can find that encouragement within yourself.  And you can forgive your parents for being…well, normal.  But do something to pass on the gift of self-confidence and possibility to your children, your grandchildren, or any young people whom you have the privilege to influence.
That Moses was a great leader is beyond dispute.  In our tradition, no individual rose to heights such as he did.  Two thousand years ago, at the time of the great ferment over the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, the Jews by and large, ignored the upstart religion.  Why should they have gotten caught up in it?  A charismatic teacher comes along, and people proclaim him to be the Messiah, the saviour of humanity.  To the Jews, if anybody would be the saviour of humanity it was Moses, who was indeed saviour of the Jews.  But Moses was not seen as Messiah, because he made no claim to the office.  He was, indeed humble and self-depreciating at times.  He attributed everything he accomplished, to G-d Himself.
So why have large numbers of Jews followed other false messiahs who have arisen over the years?  Perhaps we are not reflecting enough on the legacy of Moses.  Or perhaps, we are too attracted to the emotional attachment to the charisma of the would-be messiah.  But I digress…
It is so easy to pooh-pooh Moses and his accomplishments.  After all, to say that he had a privileged childhood and young adulthood is a ridiculous understatement.  He grew up in the household of the Pharaoh.  And even if lacking the proper bloodline he was not groomed to be a Pharaoh, he was certainly a prince in Egypt.  From such beginnings, where every advantage through training and education was afforded him, we shouldn’t be surprised that he grew up to be something really special.  And yet, we know that he had challenges as well.  He ultimately shook off his upbringing to identify closely with the people, to which he was born.  So closely, that he stood up to the Pharaoh and led the People Israel to freedom.  Forsaking his privileged position, he stepped out in faith into uncharted waters, leading a sometimes-problematic people through an epic adventure.  Remember what Bilbo Baggins said about adventures:  We…have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!"  As we read the narrative of the Israelites’ wandering in the desert, we can see some of this sort of sentiment on the minds of our distant ancestors!
But Moses overcame more than that.  We know that he had some kind of speech impediment that made him extremely self-conscious about being a leader.  If you think about it, one of the things a leader must have is an ability to communicate clearly.  Moses in his self-awareness realised he lacked this quality and tried to demur from the role.  But G-d saw through this speech impediment, and lack of self-confidence, and knew Moses possessed the greatness that his role would require.  And G-d encouraged Moses, as surely his adopted father and family had in the palace of the Pharaoh.
Moses received the greatest gift a parent can confer.  And as a result, he gave to the People Israel the gift of his leadership.
We should not expect of ourselves to rise to the level of a Moses.  We should not set the bar so high for our children either.  But if we give them the gift of self-confidence, their potential is limitless.  Whether or not your child grows up to be a Moses, he or she will indeed achieve great things.  Is there any guarantee of this outcome?  Of course not!  Raising children is, after all, akin to a crap shoot!  But we do it anyway.  Because we understand that it is an inescapable part of life.  A part that brings great meaning to our lives.  And a part that can ultimately bring us great joy.
Michael and Shoshana have brought their young daughter in front of the congregation this morning, to publicly name her.  To publicly proclaim their intent to raise her with Jewish values.  To say, in effect, that this child is dedicated to the service of G-d and the Jewish people.  This is indeed a sacred occasion.
On this occasion, I wish to offer my encouragement for a value that transcends peoplehood and religion.  Even so, it is a value that we Jews, of all peoples, seem to cherish.  And that is the value of possibility.  The value that says that each child’s potential is limitless.
Michael and Shoshana, we encourage and challenge you to give Yannina the gift of self-confidence.  The gift of possibility.  The gift of encouragement.  She will grow and delight you with her sweetness.  With her intelligence.  With her goodness.  But it is ultimately up to you to encourage her to reach for the best that is within her.  You two are no strangers to the concept of reaching for the best within you; your lives attest to this.  Now, we encourage you to offer this child the gift of unlimited possibilities.  There are many gifts you can offer your children.  You will doubtless, and selflessly, give many of them to your children.  But this one will be the greatest.  Mazal tov, and may G-d bless you in this adventure!