A Time Such as This

"And who knows that you have not come...for a time such as this?" (Esther 4:14)

In December of 1983, I celebrated my Bar Mitzvah.  In the area of the Soviet Jewish refuseniks (those who were not permitted to practice their Judaism freely in the USSR, and who were not permitted exit visas to emigrate to Israel or the west), such a practice was in vogue.  As I stood on the bimah and proclaimed that I was sharing my service with Karmi Elbert of Kiev, I had my first inkling of understanding that Judaism was not about being, but about doing.  Subsequently, I participated in telephone calls for the Greater Miami Jewish Federation, aimed at raising funds for Operation Moses (bringing the Jews of Ethiopia to the land of Israel).  And I vividly recall a rally for Soviet Jewry at which Mary Travers from Peter, Paul, and Mary performed and our community showed the power that can be derived from singing, praying, and working together for social change.  (I wrote a bit about this experience a few weeks ago)

So when I became a rabbi, I did so with the desire to be involved in moments such as that- to engage with fellow Jews, embrace the social justice messages of the prophets and the moral imperatives imposed by our textual traditions, and change the world for the better.

Don't get me wrong: in my [nearly eleven] years in the rabbinate, I know that I have made an impact. I have counseled individuals through difficult times, celebrated simcha'ot with families, stood with others through illness or bereavement.  But while I am fully cognizant of the significance of these moments for the individuals involved, that impact in each case was extremely localized.  I thirsted to be involved in something that would have a broader impact- something that would help to "move the needle" on a significant issue.

It turns out that I didn't have to go searching for the issue; it found me.

In June of 2012, I noticed that my friend, Rabbi Phyllis Sommer, who ordinarily posted very cheerful messages on Facebook, had posted a cryptic, distressed-sounding status update.  I immediately texted her out of concern, and soon learned the news that eventually an entire network of friends worldwide would come to discover: Sam, Phyllis and Michael's then-7-year-old son, had been diagnosed with leukemia.  As my wife and I were celebrating with friends and family the kindergarten "graduation" of our son, Gabe (just a few weeks older than Sam), Phyllis and Michael and Sam and their family were enduring scans and tests and so forth.

Throughout the ups and downs of Sam's battle, my heart ached for our friends and I tried to dream of ways that I could offer meaningful support.  In October of 2013, our friend and colleague Rabbi Rebecca Einstein Schorr posted to Facebook that she was looking for 36 brave rabbis.  Soon I had the full information about the project that she (and Phyllis) had concocted, and I was on board to raise funds and awareness for pediatric cancer.

Fast forward to Tuesday, April 1.  I stood on a stage at the annual meeting of the Central Conference of American Rabbis with about sixty of my colleagues.  Having raised well over half-a-million dollars for the St. Baldrick's organization, we prepared to have our heads shaved.  Phyllis and Michael went first, and within the hour, all of us were shorn.

Words cannot begin to describe the combination of excitement and nervousness, joy and sadness, anticipation and elation that accompanied those moments.  When the shave ended, I embraced a number of of my fellow "shavers."  My friend and colleague Rabbi Eric Siroka and I marveled at one another through our laughter and tears.  "This is some awesome [stuff] we are doing," Eric said.  "This is why I became a rabbi," I responded.

On this blog's draft page, I have about four posts that I started at different junctures, trying to explain my love for my friends the Sommers, and trying to articulate why I was participating in the shave.  All of them were abandoned at various stages because they weren't expressing the full depth of my feelings.  And now, the moment of the shave has come and gone, and I feel compelled to record once and for all why I did it...

I did it because I believe in the ability of love to assuage even the deepest, most painful wounds, and I pray that the love extended by my colleagues and our families to the Sommer family provides some comfort as they (and we) continue to mourn for Sam.

I did it because Isaiah's declaration ("Here I am, send me) and Hillel's musing ("If I am not for others, what am I?") resonate deeply with me as the inspirations for my involvement in the Jewish community as a leader and teacher.

I did it because I believe in the power of individuals to be catalysts for great change.  We do not know whether it will take one people or a million to cure cancer.  We don't know if the research will be funded by the millionth dollar raised or the ten-millionth dollar raised.  But we know we must start somewhere.

And who knows, maybe it was for a time such as this that we have come to this station.

My sincere thanks to all who have already given so generously of their time, energy, and finances to support 36rabbis Shave for the Brave.  The fundraising continues throughout 2014 here.

Does God Hate? (A Meditation on Fred Phelps, Sr.)

In Psalm 145, which has been incorporated into our liturgy as the "Ashrei" prayer, we read, "Shomer Adonai et kol ohavav, v'et mol ha-r'sha'im yashmid- God preserves all who love God, but all the wicked, God shall destroy."  Many Jews likely recite this verse without considering the theology behind it.  Does God really pick sides?  What is the dividing point between a good person and a wicked one?

Fred Phelps, Sr. long thought that he had the answer to that question.  In a selectively literalist reading of the Bible, he and the followers of his Westboro Baptist Church determined that homosexuality was the greatest affront to God, and set out to let the world know that God hates gays (though the church's preferred signage used far more colorful language).  Westboro Baptist became infamous and Phelps was widely excoriated for promoting hateful messages, rather than celebrating God's love.  More recently, they drew themselves further into the annals of infamy by picketing the funerals of American servicemen and -women, victims of school shootings, and others whose deaths they claimed were acts of divine retribution against American immorality.

Since Phelps' name became so strongly identified with his bigoted actions, it seems that few would be disappointed if he were to fade from the national scene.  And indeed, when news reports stated that Phelps had entered hospice and was close to death, many who had been the target of Phelps' ire took a degree of delight in seeing their adversary confront mortality.

But, even for someone who appears to be irredeemably, unrepentantly evil, can we not find a bit of rochmanus (compassion)?  Should we delight in another's demise?  Jewish tradition seems to reject such behavior, noting that when the Jews emerged victorious onto the far shores of the Sea of Reeds, God paused for a moment to mourn for the drowned Egyptians, for they, too, were God's creation.  In that vein, should we not also show a degree of mercy to an enemy such as Phelps?  In suggesting this, I do not mean to diminish for a moment the pain inflicted by Phelps and his followers on my LGBTQ friends and the other targets of the Westboro Baptist Church.  But I do feel that two wrongs don't make a right.

If the news stories are correct (and, admittedly, they may not be; the church is very private, and has refused to corroborate reports from Phelps' estranged sons), Phelps died late on March 19, reportedly he spent his last days as a fairly sad and lonely man, having been excommunicated last year from the church he founded.  We can only speculate as to whether this exclusion was due to Phelps perhaps repudiating past statements and behaviors, or whether perhaps other things led to the rift.

I can't help but feel that there is a parallel to be drawn here between Phelps' demise and the Torah portion for this Shabbat, Parashat Shemini.  In the portion, we read about the inaugural public offering that Aaron and his sons made to Adonai.  It must have been quite the spectacle, as "fire came forth before God."  Later, we read that Nadav and Abihu- perhaps in an effort to replicate the majesty of that first offering- burnt strange incense in tribute to God and met an untimely death.

This episode is strange and troubling; Nadav and Abihu were among God's most elite (and, presumably, most beloved).  That they should meet such an ignominious end runs counter to our expectations.  Shouldn't they, of all people, have been in God's good graces?  Shouldn't they have known what would please God and what would be upsetting?

The biblical episode concludes somewhat abruptly and shockingly.  God proclaims, through Moses, בקרובי אקדש bik'rovai akadesh, "I am made holy by those who are closest to Me."  And, rather than recording any expression of emotion, the Torah states, וידום אהרון vayidom Aharon, "And Aaron was silent."

These two statements have long troubled many readers of this text.  In part, that's the beauty of Torah- it invites us to grapple with difficult passages and does not sugar-coat things.  Nadav and Abihu do not get off easily n our tradition; the rabbis are certain that if they died so violently, there must have been good reason.  And so they trip all over themselves to find or invent one.  But the bottom line is this: even though they were sanctified as priests, and specially selected to do God's holy work, they erred in some way that forced God to make an example of them.  God had to destroy them, as if to say, "They thought, because of their special station, that they were protected and no harm could befall them.  But they were presumptuous in exploiting their special connection to Me.  This is what I mean when I say bik'rovai akadesh: 'By those who are truly close to Me, who take the time to understand My true nature and desires, do I wish to be sanctified."

Phelps was just the latest in a long line of sanctimonious, self-righteous religious figures who claimed to have direct insight into God's needs, and desires.  Undoubtedly, others will arise to take his place.  But ultimately, I don't think God is pleased by individuals who stand in judgment of their fellow human beings.  I don't think God is sanctified by homophobia, bigotry, and other forms of hatred that hide behind religiosity and the Divine Name.

Instead, I think we do best to recall more words from the Ashrei prayer: Karov Adonai l'chol kor'av, l'chol asher yikrauhu b'emet- "God is near to all who call/ to all who call upon God in truth."  If we seek closeness and community with God for God's glory, and not for our own, then we become holy, and we may bring God to a higher level of holiness as well.

(tl; dr: God hates hate)