Abraham, the Odd Duck: A Drash for Parashat Lech Lecha, Friday 31 October 2014

 Whatever your profession, you doubtless regularly read a body of professional literature, and probably periodicals and papers from your professional society and your colleagues.  And if you’ve retired from your former profession or gone on to other things, chances are that you still read such things to keep up.

          A rabbi has all sorts of interests that shape his regular reading regimen.  In particular, my role of darshan, or ‘preacher’ leads me to read weekly offerings of those whom I consider to be great preachers.  As you’ve surely noticed, from time to time in my weekly drash on the Torah portion I will mention what one of my colleagues has said about the same words.  In particular, I frequently refer to Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, the former Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth.  His weekly blog, Covenant and Conversation, focuses on leadership in the Jewish tradition and community, and is most helpful.

          My regular reading also includes those who are not rabbis.  You have heard me refer to Dennis Prager, a Jewish thinker who is a Jewish layman.  He has a talk radio show, from which he offers commentary on religion, society, politics and ethics.  He has also written several books which I recommend.  In particular his book, Happiness is a Serious Problem, is a watershed book and I think everybody in this room, or reading this drash online, should get a copy and read it.  There are far too many patently unhappy people in this world.

But I also refer regularly to ‘preachers’ who are not Jewish.  In particular, I find that Jason F. Wright has great insights into life.  Wright has a column that appears weekly on Foxnews.com and elsewhere.  His own tradition is the LDS church, the Mormons.  But whilst he is a religious guy and makes no secret of his own context, his column is general enough to be edifying to a member of any religious tradition.  I certainly find it so.

This week, Jason Wright wrote under the heading:  Face It:  You’re One Odd Duck.  (http://jasonfwright.com/column/face-it-youre-one-odd-duck.html)  His premise was that each one of us, if we’re honest with ourselves, does not always ‘fit in’ neatly with everyone else.  This, even though we generally derive great comfort from seeing ourselves as fitting in, as being like everyone else.  He was writing this week specifically for teens and the angst they often feel about being ‘invisible’ and lonely because they don’t ‘fit in.’ But the phrase Odd Duck hit me in the face, because it’s a phrase I often use to describe people.  It’s a phrase I often use to describe…myself.

I was reading Wright’s column shortly after thinking about this week’s Torah reading, Lech Lecha, and as I was wondering exactly what to say to you tonight about the character of Abraham and what it has to teach us.  And it hit me:  Abraham was an Odd Duck!  And he embraced it!

  Abraham had many enduring qualities.  There is no shortage of reasons why he stands out as the archetype of the righteous man, worthy of emulation.  Reasons why we like to refer to him as ‘the First Jew,’ even though to apply that title is anachronistic in the extreme.  But one reason that never really struck me before is that he was unapologetically an individualist.  He went against the crowd, against the tide.  Remember the Midrash about him smashing the idols, then coyly suggesting to his father that, in the latter’s absence, they must have fought a war and destroyed one another?  The truth is that, if we look at the totality of Abraham’s life, we find a man who stood out from the crowd by simply being true to himself.  Instead of going along to get along, he followed his own heart.  In doing so, he answered G-d’s call unhesitatingly.  And of course, that’s why we revere him so much.  But he answered G-d’s call specifically because he wasn’t worried about what the neighbours, or even his own father, might think.  In answering G-d’s call, he was simply being himself.  He was being the best Abraham that he could be.  There’s no doubt in my mind that he embraced his own inner Odd Duck.

And that’s an important lesson for all of us to learn.  We should celebrate Abraham and others who outwardly embrace their own inner Odd Duck.  But we should also take it as a licence and inspiration to embrace our own inner Odd Duck.  It’s very easy to be critical of someone who is outwardly an Odd Duck.  In effect, someone who has embraced his Odd Duck to the point of expressing it outwardly, has set himself up for public scrutiny.  But instead of giving him scrutiny, may I suggest that we celebrate him!  When someone whom you know is unabashedly an Odd Duck, celebrate that he has the self-confidence to embrace and be his inner Odd Duck.  Chances are, his having done so comes along with a raft of positive qualities.  Chances are, his having those positive qualities is a result of his embracing his inner Odd Duck.

   I often say, when asked about the ‘difficult’ personality of someone in particular, that we all have our quirks.  And it’s true!  I look out at you this evening, and see each one of you as quirky.  And believe me, I’m not excluding myself!  Each one of us is, in some way, an Odd Duck.  Each one of us, if we’re honest about it, expresses himself in some way that is unique and distinctive.  And yet, we don’t often see ourselves that way.  We do see it easily in others.

When we embrace our own inner Odd Duck, it enables us to be more accepting of someone else’s Odd Duck.  When we acknowledge our own quirkiness, it opens our hearts to accept our neighbour’s quirkiness.  And that, my friends, is the secret to being a loving and supporting community.  We don’t allow others’ quirks to detract from their outstanding qualities.  Because we all do have quirks.  And we all do have outstanding qualities.

We are all Odd Ducks.  And that’s simply nothing to be self-conscious about.  Rather, it is something to celebrate.  And the sooner that we learn to celebrate our own Odd Duck-iness, the sooner we will be able to tolerate, and even celebrate, someone else’s.  And when we do, we will see what we’ll be able to achieve as a community.  Shabbat shalom.

What is a Noahide, and Why Should I Care? A Drash for Parashat Noah, Friday 24 October 2014

There is an old argument over which verse of Torah provides the most profound lesson.  One authority offers what might be called the ‘obvious’ answer:  Leviticus 19:18.  This pasuk contains the dictum that everyone should recognise:  ve’ahavta lereyeicha kamocha; Love thy neighbour as thyself.  It is difficult to argue that this verse contains a most profound lesson.  But the argument has nonetheless been offered that it isn’t the most profound lesson.  One dissenting opinion is that Genesis 6:9, which opens this week’s Torah portion, has an even more profound lesson.  The verse in question proclaims:  eyleh toldot Noach; these are the generations of Noah. 

What’s so profound about this statement?  It precedes the naming of Noah’s three sons.  And it sets the scene for the account of the flood, in which all humanity was destroyed except for Noah, his wife, their three sons, and their wives.  The point being that, in the aftermath of the flood, the world would be re-peopled by the offspring of one man.  Which means that all humanity – even today, with seven-point-two billion people in the world – is blood-related.  Without this understanding, love your neighbour – the Hebrew actually means more precisely ‘love your kinsman’ – doesn’t seem quite as profound.

In reality, the two verses don’t ‘compete’ with one another but rather compliment one another to create the most profound principle:  all humanity are one kin, and one should love one’s kinsman as oneself.

Despite this, we Jews are as likely as others to divide the world into ‘us’ and ‘them.’  We do it with regards to the Jewish and non-Jewish world.  But we also do it within the Jewish world, creating categories of innies and outies.  That we do this is the ‘dirty secret’ of Jewish communal life.  Because we are Israel, the people called by G-d’s very Name, the fact that we do it is a chillul Hashem – a desecration G-d’s Name.  We sometimes argue that our history of persecution and exclusion makes this tendency understandable.  But to say it is understandable that those who have experienced exclusion would exclude, makes no sense.  If anything, we should be sensitive and work to overcome it in ourselves because of our history.  And in truth, Jews generally try very hard to see the other’s viewpoint, honour his humanity, and treat him well because of our history.  But conspicuously, not all Jews.  In particular, when Jews gather in a religious congregation, it should be a given that they work to overcome the tendency to exclude and separate.  But our record is less than stellar.

So the point of recognizing humanity’s common lineage through Noah, is to recognise that we are all one kin.  But if so, why do we Jews not proselytise?  If we believe that Torah is life-giving, then why don’t we try harder to win over our neighbours to Torah and Judaism, just as they sometimes try to win us over to their religious viewpoint?  If we truly do consider all of humanity to be ‘family,’ why would we not want the rest of our family to know the truth that we have recognised?  The logical answer would be that we want it absolutely.

But the answer is too complex to be entirely logical.  It includes elements of sociology, psychology, and historical fear.  These are beyond the scope of tonight’s presentation.  The one element I will focus on, is the theological.

Jewish luminaries since antiquity have recognised that one need not be a Jew in order to serve G-d.  The Jewish religion, centred on the Written and Oral Torahs, is the unique calling of the Jewish people.  It is a part of our being singled out as ‘a national of priests…a light unto the nations.’  But ‘the nations’ not only are not required to adopt the Jewish religion, but according to some authorities they are to be discouraged.  Rather, they should be encouraged to follow a code found in the Torah.  Rabbinic wisdom holds that all humanity must integrate it as a pathway to G-d.  And that code is called the ‘Noahide Code.’  A gentile who lives according to it, is often referred to as a ‘Noahide.’ 

          It is so called, because whilst six elements of the Code are presented in the opening chapter of Genesis, the seventh is found in with the ninth chapter, in this week’s reading.  There, in the aftermath of the flood, G-d instructs Noah:  Every moving thing that lives shall be to you as food.  As with plant vegetation, I have given you everything.  But you may not eat flesh of a creature that is still alive.  Of the blood of your own lives will I demand an account.  I will demand such an account from the hand of every wild beast.  From the hand of man – even from the hand of a man’s own brother – I will demand an account of every human life.  He who spills man’s blood shall have his own blood spilled by man, for G-d made man with his own image.’

The prohibition on murder is already stated in the fourth chapter of Genesis when G-d reacts to Cain’s slaying his brother Abel.  So the dictum you may not eat flesh of a creature that is still alive is considered the seventh of the Noahide laws. Actually, the Hebrew is unclear and has been translated in various ways.  But its message is clear:  do not cause undue suffering to animals, even when you use them for food as I have given you licence to do.

So, from the first nine chapters of the Book of Genesis, one derives Seven Laws, here presented in the simplest terms possible:  (1) establish courts of justice; (2) no idolatry; (3) no blasphemy; (4) no murder or injury; (5) no forbidden sexual relationships; (6) no theft; (7) no meat from a live animal.

I like to refer to them as Seven Principles, as they are not quite so simple as they seem on the surface and should engender extensive study and discussion as to their deepest meanings.  But most importantly they are universal.  They are incumbent upon all humanity.  This, according to the Rabbis.

I chose to speak of the Noahide Code at length this evening, because it is clear that the phenomenon of gentiles embracing the code and calling themselves ‘Noahides’ is becoming ever more noticeable.  For example, a few weeks ago I dropped in on Rabbi Serebryansky for the Shabbat morning service and lunch.  After the service, I found a group of people waiting in the lounge of the rabbi’s home who had not been present in the worship service.  They self-identified as ‘Noahides.’  They seek instruction from the rabbi, and attend his table, but do not attend his services.  This is one manifestation of Noahidism, but not the only one.  During the course of my rabbinate, I have encountered a number of individuals, not Jewish, self-identified as Noahides.  I wouldn’t be surprised if there were such an individual, or two, in the room tonight. 

I have been studying Noahidism since my seminary days.  Knowing then that I was called to the military chaplaincy, I knew that I would wrestle more than some of my colleagues with the notion of a universal code for humanity.  I knew that I could use it as a tool to deal with the fractiousness of the world religions scene.  When humanity practices so many different religions, how does one arrive at a universal ethic?  The Noahide Code provides the key.

Chabad-Lubavich has embraced Noahidism; just as I met a number of self-proclaimed Noahides at the Serebryanskys’, one can often find them gravitating to their local Chabad representative.  Chabad encourages those who come to their doors enquiring about conversion to Judaism, to become a Noahide and leave it at that.  

But to other Noahides, the status is a stepping-stone toward full conversion to Judaism.  The Seven Laws are a starting point in adopting the Jewish tradition.  Since the Noahide Code is articulated in a source of Judaism – the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sanhedrin – accepting the Noahide Code means de facto acceptance of the authority of the Jewish Tradition.

Finally, there are those who do not believe that the Noahide Code demands that the Noahide abandon his existing religious loyalties.  In other words, any religion is ‘good’ if it teaches and inspires its adherents to live by the Noahide Code.  If not all a religion’s adherents do live by the Noahide Code, that does not constitute an indictment of that religion.  After all, do all Jews live by these Seven Laws, not to mention Judism’s more extensive list of 613 commandments?  No, of course not; there are Jews – even Jews who are outwardly quite religious – who are quite challenged to live by the Seven Laws.  So the point is not whether a particular religion’s members are Noahides.  Rather, that the religion in question teaches a spiritual ethic that embraces the Seven Laws.

   We Jews often get nervous when we see others adopt the rituals of our religion as trappings of their own faith.  For example, when Christians perform and attend Passover Seders, because they believe the Last Supper of Jesus was a Passover Seder.  Some Jews find that off-putting.  Probably because it blurs boundaries that we find comforting.  So, some of us may find a non-Jew attending Jewish services and events and telling us that he is a Noahide, vaguely discomforting.  But we need not feel that way.  As novel as the Noahide phenomenon may be to some of us, it is something that has been around since antiquity.  And it is a singularly ethical expression of the individual’s desire to live a life that is pleasing to G-d.

So don’t fear the Noahide.  Embrace the notion that someone can find that Torah resonates with him, and yet he is not called to be a Jew.  Celebrate that, when the rabbis formulated what it is that makes humanity worthy, they created a formula that would endure thousands of years.  That despite all the humiliation and persecution that Jews have been subjected to in the last 2,000 years, so many individuals believe the Rabbis got it right.  Celebrate the richness and truth inherent in your tradition.  That it would be attractive enough that individuals raised in another tradition would leave that behind and join the Jewish way through conversion.  And that others, unconvinced that Judaism is for them, would embrace an important element of the Jewish worldview by self-identifying, and working to live, as a Noahide.  Shabbat shalom.

Jewish Journeys is Live!

As many of my readers already know, my partnership with Temple Shalom Gold Coast ended in June.  In the wake of this I had to ask myself:  am I here in Australia because I’m supposed to be here?  That is, is there some reflection of the Divine Will active in this?

     We can never truly know G-d’s Will, except in that Torah provides the general blueprint for the conduct of our lives.  But the Torah will never answer the questions ‘What am I supposed to be doing with my life?’ and ‘Where am I supposed to be?’  On the other hand, when our work bears fruit, and in particular the fruit of lives touched and enriched spiritually in a very positive way, then it is hard to argue that we are then working our true vocation, a concept I spoke about several years ago on Yom Kippur.  And that we’re where we’re supposed to be.  That we experience hardship whilst exercising our vocation in a given place, that does not call our vocations into question.  It only points to the reality that so much of humanity is not at all listening for the Voice of G-d.

     So I’m here on the Gold Coast, with a vocation to fulfil, yet without a ‘job.’  What to do?  Thankfully, I am not alone; friends and supporters encouraged me and helped me to find a way to continue my work.  We created a vehicle for this to happen.  And the vehicle is Jewish Journeys, LTD.

     I am the only non-Orthodox rabbi living and now actively working in the rabbinate, in the state of Queensland.  Actually, I am the only one in Australia, north of Sydney.  That’s a lot of territory left unserved, since rabbis tend to stay more than busy enough with their own congregations and work outside that framework and geographic boundary very little.  In the territory I’m taking about, there are sadly a number of congregations (of which Temple Shalom is now one) which have nobody to provide the teaching and leadership that is a rabbi’s – and indeed a congregation’s – raison d’être.  And there are also Jews in this territory – one cannot truly know how many – who don’t have a congregation to serve them…not even a rabbi-less one.  So the concept of Jewish Journeys was born.  The idea is to provide a rabbi-at-large to serve the needs of small groups and individuals in this great and expansive land.

     After a lot of background work, Jewish Journeys is starting to look like something very real, something with a true potential to make a difference here in Queensland.  Their first client, which I have been serving for a couple of months, is the start-up fellowship Beth Hamitzvot, meeting here on the Gold Coast at the Southport Community Centre on Friday evenings.  And I’m poised to begin teaching “(Re-) Discovering Judaism” the course in basic Jewish concepts, practices, and history that will likely become Jewish Journeys’ signature product.  By November, I hope to be teaching three sections per week of this course:  one in Southport, one in Carina, Brisbane, and one via online teleconferencing.  Additionally, this Saturday morning I will begin offering an informal Torah study and worship service at my home, also in Southport, as a direct service of Jewish Journeys.

     You can learn the details of all these initiatives, and get a fuller picture of the Jewish Journeys concept, by visiting Jewish Journeys’ website (www.jewishjourneys.com.au) or Facebook page (www.facebook.com/jewishjourneysaustralia).  I certainly invite you to check out either or both, and to avail yourself of the service that Jewish Journeys is committed to provide.        

The March of Time and The Cycle of Life: A Drash for Parashat Bereishit, Friday 17 October 2014

There are two ways of looking at time:  linear and cyclical. 

Of course, time is linear in the sense that it marches on.  Once a particular point in time has passed, we simply cannot return to it.  There is no way to relive it.  There is no way to replace it.  It isn’t, as Seals and Crofts sang, that we may never pass this way again.  Rather, that we won’t.  There simply is no doubt about it.

It is said that the idea of linear time permeates Western thought.  The idea of Progress, a very Western notion, hinges on the notion that time is linear.  That time marches forward, leading towards ever-better conditions.  That there is a goal of time, and that is perfection, the ultimate expression of Progress.  That it is our task to be a part of the march of time, to contribute to Progress and the quest to perfect the world.

Of course, if you know anything about Jewish thought, you know that Progress is an essential element of the Jewish notion of time.  We see the world as marching forward to a logical conclusion of the Will of G-d.  To a point where the Divine Will and humanity’s shall find their nexus.  In Jewish circles, we refer to this point in time as The Messianic Age.  We refer to the quest to reach this point, as Tikkun Olam, the perfection of the world.

We would be forgiven, then, if we saw Jewish time as linear time.  And if we saw Jewish time as the very basis of Western time.

The alternate view is that time is cyclical.  There is nothing new under the sun because we and our world continually turn in cycles.  Each new cycle, is basically a rerun of a previous one.  Whether the cycle we’re looking at is a day, a week, a month, a year, or whatever…each one is an opportunity to revisit a concept already studied, or return to an experience already…experienced.  Thinking of the cycle of life, we realise that time renews itself again and again.

The idea of cyclical time is considered organic to aboriginal cultures.  It is also essential to Eastern thought.  In the Eastern mindset, it is our goal to fit in with the pattern, to go with the flow of the continually turning cycles of time.  It is by finding our place within these cycles that we find meaning.

So the question is:  is the notion of cyclical time antithetical to the Jewish worldview?  This, since we’re already ‘determined’ that Jewish time is linear?  In a word, no.  Because the two notions – linear time and cyclical time – are not mutually exclusive.  Time does indeed march on.  But it also renews itself.

Of course, you may have recognised the declaration that I made a moment ago – there is nothing new under the sun – as coming straight out of our sacred Jewish literature.  In Hebrew, ein chadash mitachat lashemesh.  It comes from the Book of Ecclesiastes, or Kohelet, part of the ‘wisdom literature’ of the Hebrew Scriptures.  It is traditionally attributed to King Solomon, supposedly written in his old age. 

The Book of Ecclesiastes is read, either on Shemini Atzeret, which occurred Thursday this week, or on the intermediate Shabbat of Sukkot when there is one.  There are two separate traditions regarding this.  It’s interesting that this book, seen to offer a rather blasé view of life, is read specifically during this festival, which we refer to as Mo’adim Lesimcha, or the Season of our Joy.  It seems, on the surface, like a contradiction.  But in reality, it is just looking as one reality through different aspects.

Time marches on, but in repeating cycles.  The cycles are opportunities to reach and grow and learn something new from the experience.  They’re not meant to be akin to a treadmill.

This week, on Thursday or Friday depending on how traditionalist you are, was Simchat Torah.  Simchat Torah is symbolic of the ultimate, ever-repeating cycle that should never be like a treadmill.  On this festival, we complete the annual cycle of reading the Torah publicly, and begin anew with the next cycle.  We read the final chapter of Deuteronomy and then proceed immediately to read the first chapter of Genesis.  And this Shabbat, the first Shabbat following Simchat Torah, is Shabbat Bereishit, when we read Bereishit, the first weekly portion in the Torah, which means ‘in the beginning.’

We read familiar words:  Bereishit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve’et ha’aretz…  But we’re not supposed to read them in a mindset of, oh, here come the same old words again.  Rather, we’re to read them in a spirit of, what new aspect will I discern this time I read these words?

Well, this time that I read these words I did hear something new, and frankly it was thanks to our friend and member, Paul.  Sometime in the past year, he suggested to me that the word ‘et’ implies completeness since it is spelled alef-tav:  the first and last letters of the Hebrew alphabet.  Well, I’m something of a grammarian, so I insisted on the simple meaning of the word:  it doesn’t translate, it just signals that the word that follows is the direct object of the sentence.  You know, as in:  subject-predicate-object.  Paul chided me a bit at the time for discounting the mystical qualities of the Hebrew language, but I stuck to my guns.

Well, guess what?  Today when I heard the words Bereishit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve-et ha-aretz, I heard it!  I heard not just, what follows is the direct object.  I also heard:  what follows is complete. And so it is.  G-d gave us a world that is complete, at least in the material sense.  And also complete in its potential to reach perfection.  If only we would participate as G-d’s partners and make it so. 

And to do so, we must see time as being linear.  We must buy into the notion of progress, the notion of Messianic redemption.  But we must also see time as being cyclical.  We must be ready, as we repeat festivals and re-visit texts, to learn something new.  To re-examine them and be open to something beyond what we learned and believed before.

The March of Time is very real.  But so is the Cycle of Life.  And they’re not mutually exclusive.  It’s not either-or, but both-and.  And we will have mastered time – mastered life, for that matter – only when we manage to truly grasp this truth.  Shabbat shalom.

Practice a Little Timtzum: A Drash for Friday, 10 October 2014

Last night I went to a ukulele group that I haven’t played with in a few months.  At one point, Stu, the group leader called me forward to play and sing at the microphone in front of the group.  Familiar with my baritone voice, he wanted it behind the lead singer for a particular number.  But I didn’t really want to get up; I was happy to play from my seat in the front row.

          “C’mon, don’t be shy!” he coaxed.

          If you know me, you know that I’m not shy.  But I was simply happy to sing from my seat, I assured Stu that I would be heard since I project nicely, and we proceeded to sing the number.

          Driving home later in the evening, I thought about why I’d been happy to stay in my seat and not get up to the mic.  I was, in reality, practicing a principle called tsimtsum.  The principle is from Kabbalah, and the closest English translation of the term would be something like ‘self-diminution.’

          The principle comes to explain why G-d is not always immediately discernable through our senses, why G-d chooses to dwell only in the spirit realm.  If G-d inhabited the material world as a physical being, He would so fill the world that there would be no room for us, humanity, to act independently and of our free will.  And that would not be a good thing, since we’re supposed to have free will.  In fact, where we’re told in Genesis 1:27 that we are made ‘in the image of G-d,’ our tradition understands that phrase to mean that we, like G-d, have free will and knowledge of good and bad.  This, in contrast to our close cousins, the animals.  Whilst we share certain characteristics with the animals – with some species more than with others – animals do not have the same moral agency.

          So in order for us to not be completely overwhelmed by G-d’s Presence, G-d practices tsimtsum, self-diminution to give us space to develop our own moral agency.

          Since I learned the principle whilst in school, I’ve tried to practice tsimtsum during the course of my rabbinate.  It’s not that I’m comparing myself to G-d, lehavdil!  But a rabbi’s presence can be overwhelming to others at times.  As a result, in the interests of bringing out others’ talents and abilities, I’ve made it my habit to practice tsimtsum, to try to avoid asserting myself when such assertion is unnecessary.  That way, other Jews can feel that their own talents and abilities are a cherished and necessary part of the mix.  The goal is that my congregation would not be a congregation of spectators, but rather of congregation of doers.  By stepping back to allow others to express themselves, I believe I provide the space for others to develop…and that’s important.

          As in the rabbinate, so too in the ‘real world’!   I’ve learned that many of the roles I ‘play’ call for a bit of tsimtsum to allow others to develop their talents and abilities.  Whether it is the role of husband, father, son, or friend, the principle is the same.  Sometimes, it’s important to speak up when you’re convinced that you’re right.  But sometimes it’s important to give others the space they need to figure things out for themselves.  Probably the ‘role’ in which this is most important is that of parent.  When you have growing children on the cusp of adulthood, it is important to give them space to make their own decisions, even if they make decisions with which you, the parent, disagree.

          So tsimtsum is an important principle, not just for those of us who toil in the rabbinate, but for everybody.  In the course of our lives, each one of us comes upon situations where a little tzimtsum, applied at the proper time, will help someone else – more than giving them advice or doing it for them would help.

          Perhaps one can find that message in the festival of Sukkot, which we’re celebrating this week and next.  One of the principle themes of the holiday, is G-d’s protective care over us.  And yet…observance of the holiday requires that we break out our inner builder and erect a sukkah, a temporary shelter that alludes to the moveable tents of the Israelites in the wilderness of Sinai, as well as to a farmer’s harvest shelter.  Either symbolic allusion, indicates that G-d’s protecting care requires that we take some initiative and effort.  Likewise, for us to learn and grow, requires initiative and effort.  And if we’re cast in the role of teacher or leader, we sometimes have to practice a little tsimtsum – to let someone else take the initiative and make the decisions – that they would be able to learn and grow.  It’s an important lesson – and for some of us, a difficult one – to learn.

          Just as G-d practices tsimtsum to keep us from overwhelmed by His Presence, we should learn to practice tsimtsum so that we can prevent ourselves from stunting the growth of others.  And what about my ukulele group?  I remained in my seat, for a change enjoying not being the featured ‘performer,’ and the group did just fine on the number.  Let’s make sure that we learn to keep our own presences within limits that, for those with whom we work, are manageable.  Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach!

Waddaya Got to Lose? A Drash for Yom Kippur Closing Service 2014

I have a confession to make.  Ready to hear it?  I play the lotto.  Yes, I know that the lotto is declassé.  It’s supposed to be an affectation of the uneducated.  Everybody knows that your odds of winning the lotto are so small as to be statistically meaningless.  And yet, I buy a ticket now and then.

A quick pick.  I don’t even play numbers that are especially meaningful to me.  I ask for a mini quick pick, fork over my seven dollars and change, and a few seconds later I take the ticket.  Not every week; sometimes I forget or I am nowhere near the newsagent’s on Tuesday, the day of the Oz Lotto.  There’s a lotto every day of the week, but the Tuesday Oz Lotto is the one I like.  Why?  Because it has the cheapest quick pick.  Seven dollars and change is enough for me.  If I’m not mistaken a quick pick for most of the other days’ games is $11. 

So once a fortnight or so, I remember when I’m at the shopping centre.  And I buy one.  Even though I know it’s almost impossible to win.  But the truth is: Waddaya got to lose?

Waddaya got to lose indeed?  Seven dollars?  If I drop seven dollars for the lotto, it doesn’t mean my important bills aren’t going to get paid.  It doesn’t mean I won’t be able to retire when the time comes.  It won’t jeopardise my children’s education.  It might take the money I would have spent on a couple of ice creams whilst out and about.  And though I do love a nice creamy Magnum Classic now and then, I’m willing to sacrifice a couple per fortnight for the little thrill of playing the lotto.

Yes, it is a thrill of sorts.  The day after the draw, if I can, I get myself down to the newsagent’s, take the ticket out of my wallet, and insert it in the scanner device wondering what would be the reaction if I were the multi-million dollar winner.  Would it be bells and whistles?  Most times, the machine tells me, predictably:  Not a winning ticket.  But who knows?  Maybe someday!

Sometimes, I don’t get around to checking the ticket for a day or two.  On those occasions, I joke with Clara whilst driving around that I might be sitting on a couple million or whatever the jackpot was that week.  Okay, so I shouldn’t hold my breath that I’m going to win…but this little thrill and entertainment is worth the seven dollars.  Waddaya got to lose?

I think Wadday got to lose is a good watchword, a good mantra to remember when taking little chances on doing little things that, like holding a winning lotto ticket, could very well result in big gains.

I counselled a young officer once whilst I was a chaplain stationed in Germany.  He had just been promoted to Major, and I gave the invocation at his promotion ceremony.  A couple of weeks later, the guy came into my office to talk.  He was having tensions with his wife.  As happens to so many married couples over time, they had drifted into a matter-of-fact relationship where there was little overt affection for one another.

The young man told me that his wife had complained that he didn’t show affection in the ‘little ways’ that would make a difference with her.  Such as, for example bringing home flowers now and then to show his appreciation for her.  So I decided to play devil’s advocate.  Why not bring home flowers once a week or so?  I asked him.

“Well,” he replied immediately without having to stop to think, as if he’d already thought this through. “She might not appreciate the gesture in the end.  After all, she herself suggested it.  She might think it insincere.”

It didn’t take me long to react to the man’s logic.  “Waddaya got to lose?”  I asked him.  “What’s the risk if you buy flowers, and she reacts in that way?”  (BTW, and I didn’t tell him this, I thought this possibility was quite far-fetched in any case.)

“What do you mean, what’s the risk?” he asked me.

“What did you lose if she thinks your gesture insincere?” I clarified. “The price of the flowers?  The ten minutes if took you to make the extra stop on the way home?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said after a moment’s thought.

“So this risk is ten minutes of your time, and fifteen dollars,” I said, since that’s how much a bouquet of flowers cost then, at the little flower stand in the Base Exchange. “She might not appreciate the gesture.  So you lost fifteen dollars.  I happen to know that you just got promoted to Major.  Fifteen dollars on a Major’s salary – especially since you have no kids – is a pretty small risk.”  Waddaya got to lose, indeed?

We do that, you know?  I don’t mean avoiding bringing home flowers.  I mean, we take small risks where the potential gain is huge, if unlikely.  Seven dollars for a quick pick.  But on the other hand, we’re less inclined to take similarly-small risks when the potential gain is far more likely.  Fifteen dollars for a bouquet of flowers.  And it’s far more likely that the investment will yield a desirable outcome, than when buying a lotto ticket.  Think about it.

Right now, we are in waning hours of the one day that could be called the religious climax of the year for us Jews.  The sands of time are spilling through the hourglass.  Soon Yom Kippur 5775 will be but a memory.  Soon we’ll be standing around at the break-the-fast, enjoying a morsel of food and a laugh with our friends.  The day that many Jews consider to be the most spiritually challenging – and most spiritually important – will be over for another year.  Some of you will avoid coming to shule regularly until the next important holiday.  Some of you will feel a bit of burn out.  Some of you, while you continue to come regularly, will come in such a mindset that you will not be spiritually moved for some time.  For all of the above, I have a question.  Waddaya got to lose?

What if you made a personal commitment to celebrate Shabbat in a deeper fashion every week for the next year?  What if you committed to keeping your Friday evenings free to celebrate the onset of Shabbat with your community here?  And to keep everyday concerns and tasks from encroaching on the rest of the Day of Rest?  Since we don’t have a Shabbat morning service at this time, how about responding to Karen who is looking for the level of commitment to a morning service, that yes, you are ready to commit for starters to one Saturday morning per month?  And then, when your commitment and that of others in this room results in such a service being offered, follow through and participate.  Waddaya got to lose?  A couple hours of your time and whatever it was that you might otherwise have been doing then.  For the possibility of gaining what?  Well, in all honesty I think the potential gain in the uplift you might receive is so huge that it is well worth risking what you might have done with a couple hours of your time on Saturday morning.

Another example.  In this week’s congregational newsletter, you’ll be informed that I am going to start a (Re-)Discovering Judaism class starting this month.  It will meet Tuesday evenings at my new home.  Soon afterward, a basic Hebrew reading class will be offered for those of you who never learned or who need remedial instruction.  Waddaya got to lose?  The two combined, will cost you three hours per week of your time to attend class, and a couple or three more hours for the reading and other preparation.  And a few dollars of your cash.  And for what potential gain?  That of being a literate and knowledgeable Jew.  Look, we all acknowledge that our religious tradition is a very complex construct of texts, ideas, history and culture.  Most of us, whatever our religious upbringing, at some point feel inadequately prepared to participate fully.  And if you’re interested in converting, the classes will propel you towards that goal.  That’s a small risk, for a substantial potential gain.

And the likelihood of your realizing that gain, is far more than the likelihood of winning the lotto.  I’m not asking for a show of hands, but I’m guessing I’m not the only one in this room who buys a chance at the lotto now and then.  Okay, I know I’m not the only one!  It’s a small risk for a great potential gain, even if the odds are infinitesimally small.  

The likelihood of significant gain from making a deeper and more literate Jewish life, is really more in line with the likelihood of hitting pay dirt when bringing flowers home.  Let me ask you…how many of you bring home flowers for the Significant Other in your lives?  And how often, compared to how often you buy a chance at lotto?  No show of hands, thank you just the same.  But I have to admit on this score.  Chatanu lefanecha rachem aleinu.  I have sinned before You, please have mercy upon me.  Okay, I know flowers are more expensive now then they were a decade ago at the BX in Germany.  But still…the risk is pretty small because the odds of not bearing fruit are much better than your odds of winning the lotto.

And what about the odds of gaining something significant from an increase of time and effort in your Jewish life?  To the point of attending Friday evening regularly, trying to clear the decks for a relaxing Shabbat, committing to one Saturday morning per month, and attending a few classes.  Okay, if you did all those things it would be a bigger investment than buying a quick pick once a fortnight or so.  But your odds of gaining something significant are much, much greater.  And frankly, what you might gain is far better than a paltry million dollars or two.  Far more transformative.

This is a good time to think about it and consider making such a commitment.  Now, as the sun sinks toward the western horizon and one more Yom Kippur comes to its conclusion.  Waddaya got to lose?  Indeed, not much.  And you’ve got so much to gain.  G’mar chatimah tovah.  May your final destiny be a good one!

Taming the Green-eyed Monster: A Drash for Yom Kippur, 4 October 2014

We certainly talk a lot about sin on this one day of the year.  I might add, only on this one day of the year.  We Jews don’t use the term ‘sin’ very often.  We’ve largely expunged it from our religious vocabulary.  For this reason, the repeated use of the word ‘sin’ – either as a noun or a verb – on Yom Kippur is potentially very jarring.  It takes us out of our comfort zone.

Of course, the use of the word ‘sin,’ in and of itself, shouldn’t be jarring.  ‘Sin’ is just a translation of the Hebrew chet.  But the Hebrew carries a connotation that seems to get lost in the English.  Chet specifically means ‘missing the mark.’  It means not quite getting it, not quite reaching the goal.  It means not succeeding in guiding ourselves to the behaviours we know we’re supposed to manifest.  Sometimes, we sin, or miss the mark, for lack of effort.  Sometimes, for lack of information.  Sometimes, because we’re distracted by something we want more than to behave in the way we know we’re supposed to.

So, why does the very language of sin, the very word, repel us?  Probably because of its association with a concept that some of our neighbours advocate.  And that is, that we are necessarily wallowing in sin as a result of our being human.  That we are fundamentally flawed, and that flaw causes a death sentence to be imposed on us from birth.  The Jew, rightly, questions this premise with all his soul.  If God created us, how and why could He have created us only to implant in us from birth a guilt that deserves the death sentence?  So we tend to leave the idea of sin, even the very word, to our neighbours.

But that doesn’t change our existential truth:  each one of us struggles mightily all our lives between how we know we’re supposed to behave, and how we want to behave.  The Rabbis account for this by identifying Yetzer Hatov and Yetzer Hara:  the Good and Evil Inclinations.  In the Rabbis’ way of explaining our reality, we have forces within and without that counsel, on the one hand, the Good, and on the other hand, the Bad.  As we go through life, we struggle constantly to follow one or the other.  To me as to many of you, this resonates deeply.  At each ‘fork in the road,’ when faced with a decision, we struggle to make the best decision.  Sometimes we succeed, and sometimes we do not.

In my generation, that of the Baby Boomers, we solved this problem handily:  we rejected any absolutes.  All standards of behaviour became simply relative.  That is, the standard itself depends entirely upon the situation.  We call this, ‘situational ethics.’  And there’s some merit in the concept.  We have to live in the real world, the world that actually surrounds us, and not in some theoretical construct.  And yet…if there are no absolutes, then there’s only preference.  So real world can certainly be used to temper an absolute.  But there still are limits.

We talk about sin most extensively on Yom Kippur.  And because it is unfamiliar to our lips, it seems jarring.  But really, Yom Kippur is supposed to jar us out of our accustomed comfort zones.  That’s really the whole point of it.

I like to refer to the Ten Commandments as the Top Ten Commandments, because there are after all 613 Commandments altogether.  But these ten rate two mentions in the Torah:  one in Exodus and one in Deuteronomy.  The last of the ten is Do not Covet, meaning do not envy the things your neighbour has.  Generally speaking, Jewish law and ethics focus on behaviours, not thoughts.  So why would the Top Ten include a negative commandment concerning only what’s in one’s head?

A logical answer would be that Envy of one’s neighbour’s possessions is a likely genesis to one being tempted to steal them.  And of course a proscription of stealing is also one of the Top Ten.  And I don’t think it’s refutable that Envy does indeed lead to much stealing.  You got it, I want, I’m gonna take it.  Sounds simplistic, but that’s at the heart of much thievery.  Probably, nearly all.  That, and a sense of entitlement that often extends to feeling entitled to our neighbours’ goods. 

But I think that the reason for the prohibition of Envy goes far deeper.  When we allow ourselves to be consumed by envy, we can never be happy.  No matter how many blessings any one of us enjoys, one can always make long, long lists of things that someone else has in greater measure.  Of course, I mean material things, meaning the wealth to buy them.  No matter how much wealth you have, there is always somebody – likely a long list of somebodies – who have more.  But I also mean personal characteristics.  We envy others because they’re more attractive, taller, more svelte, more blonde, smarter, more talented, or healthier.  And so on.

 When our children were young, we often invoked the mantra Count Your Blessings.  We would interject it whenever they expressed envy about someone else’s things or situation.  We would tell them to count their blessings – to remind themselves of all the great things we had – and then we would begin reciting the list.  For example, our son might express envy because a friend of his had a house full of electronic toys.  We never thought that we owed our children such things, and our home always compared ‘poorly,’ so to speak, in this area to the homes of his friends.  Even friends whose family income was considerably lower than ours.  So when Eyal complained of this, we would start listing the things that we enjoyed, which his friends did not.  For example:  our children had homes and patrimony in two different countries.  We’d just taken a family vacation in Italy.  We went skiing together the previous winter.  We had the loving embrace of a close community.  You get the point.  It’s nice to have the latest game console, along with a shelf full of the latest games.  But our priorities were different, and our children enjoyed blessings that were not shared by all their friends.  But as long as we’re focused on what others have, which we do not, it is difficult to keep that in mind.

Like children, like adults.  We find that our adult friends, no matter how old, are very likely to slide into the Envy trap often.  It may not lead them to thievery, but it is guaranteed to engender unhappiness.  And that unhappiness is so unnecessary!

You heard me say it.  You’ve heard Clara say it.  And I daresay you’ve heard others say it.  Happiness is a choice.  It is not an emotional state.  It should be an entirely rational choice.  And yet…how can you rationally choose happiness when your eyes are full of the things that someone else has, that you desire.  The solution is not to close your eyes, or pluck them out so that you won’t see what your neighbours have.  Rather, it is to open your eyes to what you have.  Each one of us has been blessed in various ways.  Each of us in a special way.  And if we’re honest with ourselves, in measures far exceeding what we deserve.  We can spend a lifetime envying our neighbours for what they have.  Wallowing in our grievances that someone else had the luck to be endowed more than us in some way.  Without deserving it.  But all of us are blessed in ways that we don’t deserve.  Life isn’t about what you deserve.  It’s about what you’ve been blessed with.  And what you do with  that, with which you were blessed.

My recommendation, then is a simple one.  Choose happiness.  Choose to cast envy aside.  On Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about taking inventory of the excess baggage we’re carrying around with us.  I spoke about how we should be honest about it.  And jettison it rather than let it weigh us down as we move into a new year.  Envy is just the sort of thing I was talking about.  It is nothing but excess baggage.  Deadweight to carry around, to drag us back and prevent us from reaching the place we desire to be.  Once we recognise this truth, and make the commitment to cast envy aside, we are on the way to a good and successful year.  Let’s make this commitment now.  G’mar chatimah tovah.

Drash for Kol Nidrei - Yom Kippur Evening

Just so you aren't left wondering what I'm going to say from the pulpit this evening, I'm going to give the last drash below, Suriviving your Synagogue, which I did not give after all on Rosh Hashanah morning.