V'Higad'ta L'Vincha: What Will We Teach Our Children?

It's a New Year.  As we sit here early in January of 2014, the blank calendar pages point to a year of opportunities ahead of us.  At the same time, we can look back on the past year and marvel at what happened- what we were pleased with, what we wish we could have done differently.

And as the secular calendar gives us this opportunity, so, too, does our reading of Torah.  This week, as we considered Parashat Bo, we read of the preparations for the Exodus.  The Israelites are told that in future generations, they will continue to reenact the experience of departing Egypt.  And when their children inquire about their past, the Israelites are told, "V'higad'ta l'vincha bayom hahu: You shall teach it to your child on that day."  The Torah also is asking us to reflect on the past and to use it to help shape the future.

So what will we teach our children?  How will we learn from our past and impart lessons that will help create the mensches of the future?  In looking back on the past year, we have several examples- some positive, some negative- from whom to learn.

Will we teach our children to embrace our sacred scripture in a way that encourages them to seek and celebrate the best in each individual, and to look out for the less fortunate in our communities, or will we let them hide behind scripture as an excuse for bigotry, xenophobia, homophobia, sexism, and classism?

Will we teach our children to deal compassionately with those facing the challenges of mental illness, or will we sweep it under the rug, praying that it will have no impact on our lives?

Will we teach our children to recognize that too many people are dying as a result of preventable violence, or will we continue the fetishization of guns in our culture?

Will we teach our children that women and men have equal value in our society, or will we tacitly condone the continued objectification of females in American society?

Will wze and vilify any whose opinion differs from their own?

Will we teach our children to seek peace and pursue it  or will future generations continue to engage in meaningless warfare?

Will we teach our children the art of listening, negotiation, and compromise, or will we permit them to demonize and vilify any whose opinion differs from their own?

May we learn to teach our children well, and may they be inspired to heed our lessons.

Coming Out of Your Closet, Even if It's Not Rainbow-Colored

Ash Beckham is a lesbian and an LGBTQ-rights advocate.  In September, she presented at a TED talk in Boulder, Colorado on the topic of "Coming Out of Your Closet." (note: one inadvertently PG-rated image appears at 9:37, but it's significant to the context of the talk)

The idea of "coming out of the closet" is usually spoken of in the context of the LGBTQ community.  But as Beckham points out, the metaphor is apt for any of us who are keeping a secret, who are sitting on information that they may be concerned about sharing with others.

Beckham cautions against drawing comparisons between the challenges we face and the challenges others face.  For instance, some may fear having a conversation about being in financial distress; others might be nervous about a medical diagnosis.  "Hard is not relative," Beckham notes, "hard is hard."  Yet we can commiserate on the fact that we all, at one point or another in our lives, have experienced "hard," and we can all appreciate that, whatever our personal closets may look like, "a closet is no place for a person to truly live."

In the Torah portion for this Shabbat, Parashat VaYigash, we find that Joseph has been living in his own closet.  Having risen to second-in-command of Egypt, he has put aside the attire of his youth, and many of the customs as well, adapting to the Egyptian way of life.  In so doing, he has become virtually unrecognizable to his brothers.  Now, as he reveals himself to them, they are dumbfounded, and Joseph himself is so emotionally overcome that he weeps loudly and uncontrollably.

In next week's portion, Parashat VaYechi, Joseph will be reunited with his father, Jacob.  Jacob exclaims, ראה פניך לא פללתי ra'oh panecha lo pallalti- "I did not ever dream that I would see your face [again]."  The early 20th century satirist Gerson Rosenzweig opined that this was not only because Jacob had become convinced that Joseph was dead, but also because even once it was revealed that Joseph was alive in Egypt, Jacob was certain that Joseph would be unrecognizable in his Egyptian costume.  The masks we wear can sometimes obscure our true selves.

Yet Joseph has had the courage to "come out of his closet"- to end the charade and reconcile with his brothers for the sake of the family and its future survival.  And perhaps what we can learn- from Joseph and from Ash Beckham- is that as daunting and frightening as it may seem, it is better to open that door and take a step outside than it is to cower in the darkness.

Beckham offers three rules for having the difficult conversations that can take us out of our closets:
1. Be authentic- certainly Joseph succeeds here.  He lays his emotions bare, so much so that "his sobs were so loud that all the Egyptians could hear."
2. Be direct- again, Joseph has got it covered.  "I am Joseph," he proclaims, "Is our father still living?"
3. Be unapologetic- in reuniting with his brothers, Joseph extends a hand in peace, telling them that they need not feel ashamed or sorrowful for selling him into slavery, since it all ended up working out positively.  But never does he apologize for who he was as a youth- or for all the times he bugged and pestered them- which made them hatch the plot in the first place.  Beckham opines that it is actually OK to apologize for what we've done, but that people should never feel forced to apologize for who they are.

So how about it?  Can we learn from Beckham's and Joseph's examples?  Can we find the courage to emerge from the closets- whatever shape or color they may be- that have been concealing our true selves?

Surely, God Was In This Place and I, I Did Not Know

I'm not the biggest of sports fans.  I don't mind watching sports, but I don't rabidly follow any team, and  I don't make a point of keeping up with players or statistics in the manner of a true fan.  But, when I was growing up in Miami, in an era before the Marlins or the Heat, one could not help but have some awareness of the Miami Dolphins.

The Dolphins came back on my radar screen recently when they made an unfortunate leap from the sports pages into national news.  Richie Incognito, a leader of Miami's offensive line, was accused of harassing his teammate, Jonathan Martin, an offensive tackle.  Apparently, the abuse was so upsetting to Martin that he took a leave of absence from the team to seek treatment for "emotional distress."  In recent days, recordings have surfaced showing that Incognito racially harassed and intimidated Martin. Incognito has been suspended from the team indefinitely, and will likely be cut.  There is some evidence that other players besides Martin were victims, and that coaches may have encouraged Incognito's actions.

Some sports fans will argue that Martin needs to "toughen up," that such "hazing" comes with the territory when one chooses to play professional sports.  I'd rather, though, that we called it what it is: bullying.  Bullying has no place in any setting, even among "tough men" who play football (refreshingly, this high school coach in Utah agrees).

Unfortunately, our patriarch Jacob was also a bit of a bully, at least in his younger years.  True to the etymology of his name (Ya'akov comes from the Hebrew word meaning "heel" and the pun works in Hebrew as well as in English) Jacob is indeed a "heel."  He fights with his twin brother Esau in the womb; he takes advantage of Esau's hunger and compels him to relinquish his birthright; he tricks his elderly father in order to secure the blessing that should have been reserved for the firstborn.

But in this week's Torah portion, Vayetze, Jacob comes to a crossroads, literally and figuratively.  Having fled his home, he finds himself in the desert.  He has his famous vision of "Jacob's Ladder," and when he awakes, he proclaims: אכן יש יי במקום הזה ואנכי לא ידעתי- Achen Yesh Adonai BaMakom HaZeh Va'Anochi Lo Yadati, Surely God was in this place, and I, I did not know.  The majesty of this apparition shakes Jacob out of his self-centeredness, and he is able to finally acknowledge that others around him have needs and feelings.  Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, in his book God Was in This Place & I, i Did Not Know, parses the meaning of the seemingly extraneous "I" that appears in the Hebrew through the lens of different rabbis from Jewish history.  Kushner cites the work of Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk to teach that until we let go of our own "I"- our ego- we cannot possibly make room for God.

In addition to the continuing unfolding of the story from the Dolphins' locker room, another story has more quietly made its way through the internet this week.  On the Q train in New York City, a young black man boarded the train, lay his head on the shoulder of the Orthodox Jewish man sitting next to him, and fell asleep.  When a fellow passenger offered to wake the man, the other man replied, "He must have had a long day; let him sleep.  We've all been there, right?"

The other passenger, moved by the sight, snapped a picture with his camera phone.  It made its way through various social media sites until someone finally identified the Orthodox Jew as Isaac Thiel.  Thiel's daughter was quoted as saying that this was not out of character for her father.  She noted, "Who [else] lets a random stranger sleep on his shoulder in germ-filled New York City?"

But, as some commenters have pointed out, perhaps this should not be such an out of the ordinary occurrence.  Perhaps we should be more willing to open up to others around us with compassion.  As Richard Renaldi discovered in his photos that I wrote about previously, sometimes all it takes is forcing ourselves to go beyond our comfort zones to recognize the humanity and innate value in others.  The Thiel story intrigued people because of the race and backgrounds of the two individuals, but it really could have been (and should have been!) any one of us.

When we learn to open our hearts and minds to others, then we can come to recognize, as Jacob did, that God is among us- and hopefully, we will know it.

There Are No Strangers Here, Only Friends Who Have Not Yet Met

Greetings, all.  It has been quite a while since I last posted.  I'm going to try to get more consistent with my posting.

I have, in the past few years, started giving my sermons in a fairly extemporaneous fashion.  I like the feeling of having a few notes, but otherwise "working without a net" and seeing where my mood takes me.  One difficulty with this style, however, is that if someone likes a particular message and asks me for a copy, I'm unable to oblige them.  So, I've gotten this idea of writing blog posts based on my sermon notes.  They may express the same ideas as my sermons, or they may veer off into completely different territory.  Hopefully the experiment will work...


The title above comes from a quote that has made its way around the internet.  As is the case with many  an internet quote, its exact provenance is unclear.  You will find a number of people who claim that it is from William Butler Yeats, but I've found no trustworthy corroboration of that attribution.  I first recall reading it on the wall of an Irish pub called Tommy Nevins in Evanston, Illinois (where I didn't personally find it to hold true, so I never returned...)  It reminds me of a lyric from the original Muppet Movie, in which Gonzo declares, "There's not a word yet/ for old friends who just met."

I've been thinking about the distinctions that we draw between friends, strangers, and family as I've studied this week's Torah portion, Parashat Toldot.  It tells the story of Isaac, Rebekah, and their two sons, Jacob and Esau.  From the moment of their gestation, we read, the boys are at odds with one another; once they are born, their parents only exacerbate matters by playing favorites.

Before the portion has concluded, familial relations will be strained.  Rebekah effectively disowns Esau, Esau swears to kill Jacob if he ever again lays eyes on him, and Jacob feels compelled to flee his home.  It's not exactly a picture of a functional family dynamic.

But sometimes, family is not comprised of those who are bound to us by blood or marriage; sometimes we construct family beyond those conventional confines.  We may have friends whom we embrace as our closest confidants, with whom we feel as comfortable (if not more comfortable) as with our biological family.

Photographer Richard Renaldi has begun a project he calls "Touching Strangers"(see more of the photographer's work here).  It is based on a simple concept: Renaldi stops strangers on the street and asks them to pose with one another as though they knew each other intimately.  At first, some of the subjects appear standoffish.  Eventually, the presence of Renaldi and his large-format camera helps to disarm them, and the images are a striking look at how we can interact with one another on a human level if we are willing to let down our guard.  I do not own or claim any rights to the images below, but I post them here for illustrative purposes:

 

These photos help to drive home for me that, truly, "There are no strangers here, only friends who have not yet met."  Whether Yeats said it or whether it's the fabrication of some anonymous blogger or bartender, the statement still resonates.

There is a rabbinic principle: sever panim yafot.  Most literally translated, it means "Put on a happy face."  But idiomatically, it can be taken to refer to the value of treating everyone with dignity and kindness.  When we work toward this goal, the sharp distinctions between friends and strangers begin to fade, and we better see ourselves as part of one human family.