Message To A Bat Mitzvah: Bechukotai.19

Message To A Bat Mitzvah

Shabbat B’chukotai, June 1, 2019

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We are facing a fearful world.

Not really encouraging words to say to a child about to embark on her path as a young adult. 

But that’s the thing about growing up. The first step is recognizing who the Tooth Fairy really is, and then, step by step, the understanding that, for the most part, life is what we make of it, not what we wish it to be.

And, after all, would it be better if we sent a teen off to face the rest of his or her life with the lyrics from the Disney movie Pinocchio, “When you wish upon a star/Makes no difference who you are/Anything your heart desires/Will come to you?”  Really now? “Makes no difference who you are?” I think we all realize by now that we live in a world and a time when the differences between us are more marked than almost ever; when your gender, your race, and your religion will almost definitely make a difference in which doors and opportunities will open up for you.

Now, don’t get me wrong. “When You Wish Upon A Star” is indeed a beautiful song. It speaks to the inner child in each of us, which accounts for its enormous popularity. It was recorded by countless artists, from Glenn Miller and Louis Armstrong to Barbara Streisand and Idina Menzel. Even the Beach Boys admitted to being influenced by it, stating that it was the inspiration for their mega-hit, “Surfer Girl.”

We all love wishful thinking.  And truthfully, without dreams and hopes, we would have nothing to look forward to, nothing to strive toward. Even the Hebrew word for “prayer,” tefillah, is tied into this very human sense, our need to imagine, to wonder, to strive toward something, no matter how far away it seems.

But prayer is only a starting point. We love to send thoughts and prayers, but aside from the warm and fuzzy feeling that such wishes evoke, they don’t really accomplish much. 

Prayers do not stop violence; prayers do not end hunger or stop a disease in its tracks. Prayer may set us off on the right track, but it will be the work of our hands that will take us the rest of the way. 

And so yes, we are facing a fearful world. The challenges facing young adults today are enough to keep all of us awake at night. I won’t list them here. We come to synagogue to find shelter from our fears, not to be troubled by them!

In some Native American cultures, coming-of-age rituals include sending a young man off on a vision quest, hopefully to find a purpose or a mission in life. For most Americans, however, transitioning from child to adult is a longer process, one that takes several years to complete. In the Jewish tradition, the process is simpler. It does require, however, years of immersion in prayer and study, learning to chant some verses from the Torah—in Hebrew yet!—and then leading the congregation during a worship service. And at the end of this process—voila!—you’re an adult!

At least for one day. The next day you’re back in middle school again.

So what advice to give a young adult about to start off on the road to maturity?

First, I would say: Yes, go ahead and dream. Dream, wish, imagine! Visualize a future where justice, equality and freedom are the lot of every human being. Strive toward a world without hunger, war, or need. Pray for strength to overcome the challenges and obstacles.

Secondly, learn from all your teachers and role models—including your parents, no matter how silly they may seem to you now. Mark Twain once famously said, “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in 7 years.” Experience is the knowledge of what works and what doesn’t, and that is probably the greater part of all wisdom. Of course, along the way you will find some who will tell you that something is impossible. They may be right, but don’t let them discourage you from trying anyway. You may, after all, succeed where others have failed. Use common sense, by all means, but at the same time don’t stop trying to find a way that will lead you from where you are to where you want to get.

Work hard. Success is never easy. In the Torah, the book that most encapsulates Jewish wisdom, one of the first lessons that Adam has to learn is that the earth doesn’t easily yield its produce. “By the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread,” God tells Adam—and, by extension, all of us, too. There is no easy route to the top. You have to keep at it, and if you once fail, try and try again.

And just as importantly—don’t rely only on yourself. The human being is a social animal. We survive as members of a group. We help one another, watch out for one another; we are there for one another.

Becoming an adult in the Jewish community means that you have a built-in support group. Friends will come and go. As you grow and move from middle school to high school, then to college, and from there on to the next stages of life, you will make new friends. Some you will leave behind; others will remain with you for as long as you live. Your family, too, will always be there for you.  But beyond that, you will always also find yourself welcome in any Jewish home, in any Jewish community around the world. Dispersed as we may be, we are one people, one nation. Our collective wisdom and experience provide lessons at every stage of a person’s life. Not to mention food. 

When you go off to college, no matter how far away from home you may find yourself, Hillel, the international Jewish student organization, will always be there to give you a taste of home—literally and figuratively—and the sense of comfort and familiarity that come from having common roots, common traditions, and a common history.

Israel, the homeland of the Jewish nation, is there once again, to be there for you at times of hardship and need. Rebuilt after two thousand years of lying in abject poverty and degradation, the restored State of Israel will welcome you with open arms should you need refuge, shelter or inspiration.  That is its purpose, after all.

Most importantly, however, never lose sight of the values and ideals you learned at home, in your synagogue and at religious school. These, after all, have been providing the Jewish people with goals and direction for more than 3,600 years now. Our vision and perception of God may have changed through the ages. But not so our understanding of what God wants of us: To walk humbly, to pursue justice, to make peace where we see strife, to heal the sick, to feed the hungry, to teach the ignorant. And above all, to be loving and accepting of others, no matter how different from us they may seem at first. 

With these lessons at your side, you will never lose sight of the road ahead. Your feet will easily find the path before you; your hands will always find the strength to accomplish your goals, and your heart will continue reaching for the highest goals and aspirations.

In every legend and fairy tale, there is a seed of truth. Perhaps that’s true of “When You Wish Upon A Star,” too.  Don’t be afraid to reach for what may seem at first too far away to be attainable. Don’t let others discourage you from trying. Be as strong as you can be—physically, emotionally and spiritually—and you just might make it to that star. Or at least half way there. And don’t worry, even if you don’t reach it, there will be others who will follow you, who will take your hopes and dreams and make them grow. Who knows, perhaps one day we will yet get there. And it will all be thanks to your first steps upon that path.

Chazak, chazak v’nitchazek—be strong, be of good courage, and we will all be strengthened with you.

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman

Holiness In Time: Emor.19

Holiness In Time: Emor

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

May 17, 2019

This week’s portion, Emor (“Speak,” Leviticus 21:1—24:23), gives further instruction to the priests and the Israelites regarding their responsibilities as leaders as well as members of a people that strive for holiness.

Unlike some of the other major religions of the time, the Torah’s focus is on the here-and-now, rather than on the life thereafter. In ancient Egyptian and Greek mythologies, strong emphasis was placed on the afterlife. Food as well as other provisions were supplied for those traveling their final path into the netherworld. In the myth of Orpheus, we actually see an example of a living person who charms his way into the world of the dead in an attempt to release one of its inmates (though without success, due to lack of sufficient faith). Speaking to the dead and consulting with spirits were common practice back then (and based on the popularity of the movie Ghost, still have great appeal even today).

One of the early tenets of Judaism was that nothing but memory remains beyond this life, that in fact even God’s power extends only to that point. (In time, this philosophy was enriched by other influences and God began to be seen as Author of life and death, with God’s redeeming power reaching even beyond the grave).

In Emor, then, the priest’s behavior when coming in contact with death, even in the case of a beloved family member, is severely restricted. In public at least, the priest’s complete devotion to life, to life’s holy moments and sacred duties, has to be unwavering, strictly observed at all times. 

Life was seen as God’s gift, and as such it was considered holy, to be sanctified and not defiled.

It was Moses’s intent, however, that all Israel should be a holy nation, a nation of priests (see Exodus 19:6); as such, sanctifying life becomes the people’s responsibility as much as the priest’s. At every moment, then, with each breath, we must strive upwards from the earth and reach for the highest ideals possible. Our time here is precious. It must not be wasted. 

Only God’s time is perfect, eternal, infinite; ours is all too finite and marked by loss and imperfection. To make up for the time we spend earthbound, in toil and worry, we are commanded to set aside special moments and seasons, to proclaim Sabbaths and holy days and sanctify them. 

In addition to Shabbat, Emor repeats and expands earlier instruction regarding the rituals and sacrifices that must be offered on the Three Pilgrimages—Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot. Originally seasonal pagan holidays, Judaism raises these festivals to a level of sanctity.  The Torah commands every Israelite to bring food to the Temple during these sacred times, provisions meant not for the dead, but rather to be distributed among the poor and needy. 

In the Torah, the functional is never far from the ideal. Holiness is firmly anchored in the grainy reality of time and place. God’s answer to hunger is the commandment to feed the hungry. Holiness is found in the kindness we show to others.

But Emor does more than that. This portion teaches that, in addition to mitzvot—acts of charity and kindness—holiness is encapsulated within time itself.  Our time on earth is our portion of God’s eternal time. When we set aside special times and celebrate them, be they birthdays, anniversaries, Shabbat or other holy days, we activate the Divine spark embedded in the moment. When we observe the sacredness of time, we experience a taste of God’s eternal timelessness, and, at least for that moment, our lives, too, become holy.

As we read in Psalm 118, “I shall not die, but live, and I shall declare God’s works.”

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman

Being Prepared For Fires: Acharei Mot.19

Being Prepared For Fires

Sermon on Shabbat Acharei Mot, May 3, 2019

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

There is a lesson of sorts in the series of coincidences that came together this week. The weekly Torah portion—Acharei Mot (“Following the Death,” Leviticus 16:1—18:30) describes the aftermath of the disaster of the death of two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. Additionally this week, we also observe and commemorate Yom Ha-Shoah v’hag’vurah—Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day. And by a sad, strange and frightening quirk of life, this week we are also mourning the loss of life and innocence in a Chabad synagogue near San Diego, California.

In each of these instances, Jews die because they are Jewish; because they insist on remaining true to their tradition and heritage; and because they persist in maintaining an intensely personal—and therefore dangerous—relationship with God.

Yet, despite the outward similarities, each of these tragedies is also unique. Each has its own story and trajectory, its own heroes, and its own repercussions.

In the Torah’s story, Nadav and Avihu, sons of the High Priest and priests themselves, are said to have offered a “strange fire,” an improper sacrifice to God. Unbidden, perhaps drunk, perhaps in open rebellion against Moses and Aaron, whatever their sin was, Nadav and Avihu were instantly killed by a “fire that blazed forth from before God.” The disaster resulted in rethinking and restructuring the way that, from that point on, the Priest must prepare himself before drawing near to God. Holy fire is dangerous fire. It must be approached with proper care and preparation.

Three thousand years later, another sort of fire broke out, not in the Sinai Wilderness, but rather in civilized, modern Europe. It happened on the first day of Passover, in 1943. As the Nazis prepared to liquidate the Warsaw Ghetto, an uprising shattered the orderly evacuation the Nazis were expecting.  A handful of Jews with a few rusty handguns and primitive Molotov cocktails held off the entire Nazi army for an entire month.  

Famed historian, author and scholar Elie Wiesel famously said that no lesson must be drawn from the Shoah. The Holocaust, Weisel stated, must remain forever unique, an unparalleled, monumental and iconic testament to the immeasurable depravity and cruelty that the human race had fallen to.  And yet, like the tragedy of Nadav and Avihu, the Shoah gave birth to many lessons and conclusions, not least being the creation of the State of Israel.  For while some will—correctly—state that Zionism and Israel actually stem from the two thousand year history of European anti-Semitism, the truth is that the world’s acceptance of the modern State of Israel came right on the heels of the Holocaust, as a direct product of the shame and guilt that the world sensed when they realized what they had done, the extent of the evil they had unleashed upon the Jewish people.  

Anti-Semitism is one of the oldest and most pernicious evils in the history of humanity. Though at times it seems to subside, it never really goes away. Sadly, today we are witnessing a resurgence of this evil. In its latest manifestation, it has caused the death of Lori Gilbert-Kaye, of blessed memory, a loving wife and mother who came to worship and celebrate Passover in the Chabad synagogue of Poway, near San Diego, California.  

What lessons can we learn from this latest outburst of fire?

It is easy to call this tragic death “senseless,” but that would not be correct. A straight and direct line runs from Biblical times down to our own day. The death by gunfire of Lori Kaye is no different from the genocide of the Jews in ancient Egypt, in the days of Pharaoh and Moses. It is the same hatred which also caused the massacre of entire Jewish communities during the Crusades, the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and, of course, the Shoah, the Holocaust.  Last Shabbat’s shooting, coming exactly six months after the mass murder of eleven Sabbath worshippers in a synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA, is no different. However, what makes Pittsburgh and San Diego stand out—at least for us, modern-day Americans—is that they both took place right here, in the United States. Somehow, we who grew up in post-world-war America were lulled into thinking that anti-Semitism did not cross the ocean with the Pilgrims; that the ancient hatred was left as so much unwanted baggage in “the Old World.” 

But we were wrong.

The first lesson, then, that we must draw from Pittsburgh and Poway would be the recognition of our mistaken thinking. 

In this week’s Torah portion,  we read how the death of Nadav and Avihu brought about a rethinking of the way in which we approach God. What lessons have we drawn from the Holocaust? In his book With God In Hell, Rabbi Eliezer Berkovitz draws one important moral, writing:  “We were unprepared.  Not because of cowardliness, but because we did not see clearly the moral implication of self-defense; we never understood how wrong it was to tolerate evil when it was directed towards ourselves. We were insufficiently prepared to reconcile the Jewish teachings of anti-militarism and respect for all life with the resistance to evil demanded by the circumstances….”

Perhaps that should be our next lesson, in the aftermath of the shooting at the Poway Chabad. Evil must be resisted by all possible means.

Going forward, then, how do we prepare for the latest emergence of the ancient hatred? How do we rise to defend ourselves?

While I see Israel and the Israel Defense Force as legitimate and proper response to the Shoah, I do not propose that American Jews on the whole take up arms.  Here we do not live surrounded by enemy states. Nor is this Czarist Russia, where, following the 1903 Kishinev pogrom, Jewish youth formed self-defense groups. I am also not suggesting that we revive the JDL, the Jewish Defense League.  American Jews are protected by the Constitution, a social and legal covenant which grants us the right to live as Jews, to pray and celebrate as Jews. Within that framework, and for as long as it holds, we do everything in our power—short of vigilante justice—to protect ourselves. We lock and secure our homes and gates. We install security cameras. We make sure that police and other officials and agencies are aware of our concerns and are ready to respond as needed. 

But there is yet more that we can and must do.

First—we must never show fear. Anti-Semites would like nothing better than for us to hide and disappear. We must not allow that to happen. We must demonstrate our presence en masse—in synagogues and community centers, as well as on the streets and city-hall plazas.

Secondly: We Jews are great idealists.  We believe in tikkun ‘olam, the repair of the world. Many of us engage in social action that strives to bring freedom to the oppressed and justice to the persecuted. While not discontinuing this, we must now examine our relationships with individuals or groups that have formerly welcomed us, but which now encourage and support anti-Semites and anti-Semitism. We can’t just automatically vote for a political party without examining its associations. If an elected official or journalist spouts anti-Semitic hate speech, we must not turn a blind eye or deaf ear to them. On university campuses where Jews are excluded—simply by virtue of being Jewish—from participating in public discourse, we must protest, withhold donations, and loudly demand safe space and full rights for Jewish students.

We must continue supporting a strong Israel; and additionally we must offer whatever help we can to American organizations such as AIPAC, the ADL and the American Jewish Congress. We have come a long way since the days when we faced discrimination, exclusion and quotas on a daily basis. We fought hard to earn our rights, and we must not be afraid to demand and defend them now.

For years, our motto has been NEVER AGAIN! Now we must examine what these words really mean. Have they become hollow and meaningless? In the next few weeks and months we will have to ask ourselves difficult questions and come up with some good answers. 

Otherwise the fires will continue to consume us, and we will continue to feel unprotected and unprepared. And that must never again be the case.

May peace—shalom—always be the goal towards which we reach; but may strength always be at our side as we do so.

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman