Playing with Fire

Sermon Sinai Synagogue, Parashat Beha’a lot’cha 

Playing with Fire 

When I was reading my Facebook newsfeed three days ago, someone shared the lovely and heartwarming story from the Bradford Jewish community. The local Muslim community generously stepped up to raise funds for the synagogue’s leaky roof in a fantastic gesture of interfaith friendship. I immediately shared the story. I have a lot of Muslim friends on Facebook and I wanted to spread the goodwill. When I refreshed my newsfeed afterwards, still aglow with having my faith in humanity restored, I read about the gruesome Woolwich murder… 

I wondered for a long time whether this should be addressed in a sermon and if so, how. The media has covered the story in gruesome detail and pundits and ordinary people alike have descended to give their opinions. How do we see this – as a murder or as a terrorist attack? Were the two men ‘lone wolves’ or part of a wave of organised radicalisation? How does this gruesome act cast a shadow over the peaceful Muslim communities living alongside us? What will the larger political implications be as the Government seeks to formulate a response and possible policy in the wake of this? These are questions far too large and too sensitive to address here. 

What is important to look at is one larger question: the danger of religion. This is not about Islam or Judaism or Buddhism or Christianity. This is not about singling out a particular community in a blaming game. No, it’s about a process of introspection that each person of faith (or no faith) is obliged to engage in. Because if we play with fire, we can get burned. In this week’s parashah, we see both faces of organised religion: the good and the bad. Parashat Beha’a lot’cha starts off beautifully: ‘beha’a lot’cha et hanerot’ – ‘when you raise the lights of the Menorah’…, a symbol of the fire of religion bringing enlightenment and goodness, illuminating our souls. 

Then the parashah meanders through the restructuring of the religious cult as the Levites are elevated to their position of leadership. As Israelite desert society is restructured, each tribe is split up in a camp and assigned a banner and instructed to march upon the blast of silver trumpets. Religion then, is becoming less about the inner light that burns within all of us, and more about logistics and hierarchy. 

The parashah becomes more narrow, militaristic and authoritarian, even Yitro, the loyal convert, Moses’ father-in-law and the great democratic community organiser, leaves in protest. Things go from bad to worse in this as Moses’ leadership starts to spin out of control. The people complain and cry out for meat. God strikes them down and even Miriam speaks out against her brother. Religion has turned awry. Bitter. Cruel. Even God Himself has turned dark and unrelenting. 

Can there be any redemption and healing in this? 

The turning point in our text that forewarns us is a verse that we sing every time we start the Torah service and we usually think nothing of it. But what if we were to pause and reflect on what these words actually mean? 

“Vayehi binso’a ha’aron vayomer Moshe: kuma Adonai vayafutzu oyvecha vayanusu misanecha mifanecha.” 

“And it was that when the Ark would travel, Moses would say, ‘arise, Eternal, may your enemies be scattered and those who hate You flee from You.” 

And we sing this in our synagogues – across the denominational spectrum – every Shabbat. ‘May your enemies be scattered and those who hate You flee from You.’ Rashi’s commentary makes it even worse where he talks about ‘Israel’s enemies’. In the face of such hateful paranoia, where is the introspection? It’s a turning point because in the verse preceding this, God’s presence among the Israelites is still described in gentle terms: God is the ‘anan ha-kavod’, the cloud of glory, hovering over them. And yet, after this warlike charge, God becomes a raging fire consuming the Israelites. It’s important to focus on the moral ambivalence of this one verse. Beautifully embroidered tribal banners and burnished silver trumpets notwithstanding, this is the language of war. This is the language of an angry God, Who inspires an angry religion. This is the fire we play with when we engage in the business of organized religion. 

The Woolwhich murders were burning with this anger. Of course, it is not merely religion’s fault. The situation is too complex to pin on organised religion alone: there are individual psycho-pathological and even global geo-political factors involved. But given the violence that hateful exegesis can give rise to, it behooves us as people of faith to reflect on what such verses mean. 

One of the Woolwich murderers cited our Torah is his proof text – ironic given his conversion from Christianity to Islam – as he said that this is about ‘eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. He said he wanted to ‘start a war in London tonight’. Such religious hatred can only be countered by a religious openness of heart, by a healthy theology and a sound interpretation of our texts and values. The Rabbis of the Talmud already decreed that ‘eye for eye, tooth for tooth’ was about de-escalating violence in favour of monetary compensation, rather than perpetuating more communal violence. Let us then not descend into the miserable end of this parashah – the carnage of death – but reach back to its beginning where we raise the light. 

We may not be able to solve the world’s problems nor stop the aggression of the deranged. But creating a religious culture that is positive, empowered and peace-loving based on an authentic, honest and compassionate reading of our sacred texts is something that all of us can do. In our homes, in our places of worship, in our communities. Let’s make sure there are more stories like the solidarity and kindness of the Muslim community in Bradford and less like the murder in Woolwich. Time to put out the fire and let the light shine.

Parashat Vayishlach

Parashat Vayishlach Sinai Synagogue

Esther Hugenholtz 

Each of Us Has a Name 

"Each of us has a name, given by God and given by our parents... Each of us has a name given by our enemies and given by our love." 

These words by the famous Israeli poetess Zelda appear to be custom-made for this week's parashah, parashat Vayishlach. This touches on the deepest core of who we are and what we think we are. And those two things are not always the same. 

This week, Jacob, the perennial trickster, can no longer run away from his own destiny. He has to face the proverbial music and dance, or rather, wrestle. 

He has left Laban's house as a rich man, in possession of two wives, two concubines, eleven sons, one daughter, servants and herds of cattle, sheep and donkeys. His, shall we say, "entrepreneurial endeavours" have not been fruitless. But Jacob's creativity is not enough. It won't save him this time. Jacob's creativity has allowed him to sail the currents of his life's flow and prosper in the process. He has a knack for turning the odds in his favour as he tricks his elder twin out of his birthright, acquires two wives in the face of Laban's scheming (they really did deserve each other!) and turns Laban's fortunes against him as he amasses livestock and wealth. 

Jacob has done well for himself. The currents of life could have swept him under but rather he managed to stay afloat. But what he did not do was rise above them. Rise above the intrige and manipulation, above his own impulses and needs. The Jacob we know so far has not been able to self-reflect and truly grow as a human being. Each of us has a name, the name given by our parents. Ya'acov's name is related to him grasping Esav's ankle when he was born. This is the man we know: always grasping, trying to tackle the other and hold on to what he deems his right. The Midrash relates Ya'acov to Akvah, deceit (ayin-kuf-bet is the shared root). Did Rivkah and Yitzchak in a manner condemn Jacob with his name just as they did Esav, naming him Edom, the red one, fallen to his shortsighted passions, signing away his fate for a bowl of lentil stew? 

The names that parents give are truly important. Naming a child is a blessing, a calling and perhaps a prophecy. Name your children, then, with tender care and thoughtful insight! But of course things are not that simple. Judaism doesn't adhere a determinist worldview where either nature or nurture condemns us to the mistakes of our ancestors. If that were the case, well, then there is scant hope for us! The narratives of Genesis tell us of the weight of parentage and upbringing, warts and all. But also offers us a redemptive vision to use the gifts of our parents while discarding toxic or at least difficult baggage. But this requires us to step outside of ourselves, and take the God's eye perspective, so to say. 

Each of us has a name, given by our parents and given by God. It is in Jacob's greatest hour of need, during his most vulnerable moment, that he grows. That he forces himself to grow. He finds himself on the banks of the river Jabbok, a tributary of the great Jordan river and the scene almost seems a repeat from his travelling experience in parashat Vayetzeh. Here too, he lodges and anxiously faces the confrontation with his estranged brother Esav. Jacob is distressed and afraid, and as Rashi comments, on account of the prospect of violence between him and Esav, whether as a victim or as a perpetrator. He prays, for the first time acknowledging his humility. Placing his family out of harm's way, he crosses the river. He is alone, in the dark, and encounters a stranger on the banks of the Jabbok with whom he wrestles. "Vayivater Ya'acov levado vaye'avek ish imo ad alot hashachar." "And Jacob was left alone and wrestled with him a man until the break of dawn." It seems poignant. Does the break of dawn symbolise enlightenment or insight gained through his struggle? The unknown man demands he let him go and Jacob demands in return to be blessed by him. The angel asks his name. Who are you? The underlying question is. And what do you think you are? Who do you hope to become? 

When somebody asks our name it is a chance for us to redefine or reaffirm who we are. This is where the moment of transcendence happens. The anger renames Jacob Yisrael, 'he who wrestles with God.' As an angel, a shaliach, an emissary of the Eternal, Zelda's poem rings truer still. It is God Himself Who renames Jacob, Who recognises his existential struggle rather than a self-interested contest of wills, and blesses him through it. 

Just as Jacob has swam the currents of the Jabbok and prevailed, he has finally touched a life of true meaning, of service and of hard-fought dignity. He has conquered his fears not through trickery but through honesty. And he has wrestled with God not because of an ulterior motive but to truly seek God's Name and challenge Him in the proud tradition of Abraham his grandfather. He no longer goes with the flow and is no longer shaped by circumstance and impulse but has become a riper person, a more noble person, a person ready to reconcile with Esav after twenty years and who honours the memories of his wives. Who himself breaks the toxic family patterns in the end, through reprimanding his conflictive sons and celebrating the peace and joy of his grandsons through Joseph, Manesseh and Ephraim. 

Each of us has a name, given to us by our parents. There is much beauty in that as well as challenge. But if Jacob's saga tells us anything is that being a Yisrael, a God-Wrestler, a Jew who stands firmly and lovingly in the tradition of his or her people, is about seeking the transcendence, both in God and in ourselves. 

We are meant to wrestle, to challenge and to grow. It may be painful and scary but it is our duty and the rewards are the gifts of a life of meaning and ethics bestowed on generations to come.

La alegría y la vulnerabilidad

Kehillat Beth Shalom, Barcelona 

La alegría y la vulnerabilidad 

¿Alguna vez has estado en un viaje por carretera o quería ir a uno? Deje la oficina, haz las maletas y marcharse hacia el atardecer, sin saber a dónde vas? Mi marido y yo hicimos algo como este para nuestras vacaciones el año pasado. Alquilamos un coche, hicimos nuestras maletas y nos cerró la puerta detrás de nosotros. Recuerdo que me sentí emoción - un zumbido real! - Cuando nos fuimos. ¿Dónde vamos a ir? He viajado mucho - así como yo he viajado a venir aquí - pero los mejores viajes son los viajes inesperados. Los recorridos que conducen a explorar y encontrar a su inseguridad. ¿En qué hotel vamos a dormir este noche? ¿Todavía hay un restaurante abierto a las 9 pm? (Ahora sé que en España esto no es un problema, pero en Holanda? Oy va voy!) ¿Y si nos perdemos en el camino? Pero es precisamente esta mezcla de felicidad y vulnerabilidad que hace que el viaje hermoso. No sé de dónde será el próximo y es todo una gran aventura. 

Para vosotros y para mí, este momento también es un tipo de viaje. No se conocen todavía y espero poder conocer a todos vosotros. Espero poder viajar junto con Beth Shalom durante este año. Todo es una experiencia nueva para mí, trabajar con una comunidad en Catalunya, escribir sermones (con un poco de ayuda de Google Translate!) y trabajar en español! Yo, también, puede perderse en el camino a veces. Yo podría tomar un giro equivocado. No bastante puede saber dónde voy. Pero también estoy muy ansioso por aprender y espero que tenga paciencia. Es un gran privilegio de compartir este "viaje por carretera" con vosotros. 

Nosotros, los Judios, somos buenos para viajar. A lo largo de nuestra historia, hemos viajado. Algunos de nosotros hemos descubierto o redescubierto el judaísmo como adultos. Otros de nosotros hemos crecido con él y han estado en este viaje desde hace mucho tiempo. Hemos estado viajando desde los días de Abraham y Moisés. Bueno, se perdió en el desierto durante cuarenta años, ¿no? Nosotros, los Judios no les gusta atajos ni soluciones simples. Los israelitas podrían haber llegado a la tierra prometida de Egipto sólo en unas pocas semanas. Pero eso no habría hecho el viaje valga la pena. Porque para nosotros, el viaje es el destino. Mientras que la ética y la idea de "yitzi'at Mitzrayim ', que sale de Egipto, está presente en todas nuestras chagim (incluso Rosh Hashaná y Iom Kipur!), Sucot es realmente la quintaesencia de' vacaciones 'de fiesta. Construimos nuestras chozas temporales, nuestra Sucot, y llueva o haga sol, nos sentamos en ellas. A veces cómodo (como aquí en Barcelona, supongo) ya veces no tan cómodo (en Holanda que estar bajo la lluvia). Nos hacemos vulnerables a propósito. Es 'camping religioso'! 

Es el momento en que nos liberamos de nuestro bienestar físico y dejar que la aventura, donde se llega a ver las estrellas a través de nuestros techos improvisados, donde contemplamos la eternidad a través del marco de la temporal. Y este es exactamente el punto. Hemos vuelto más feliz cuando somos vulnerables. Sukkot es "zman simjateinu ', la época de nuestro gozo. Y es también el momento en que leemos Koheleth, Eclestiastés, un libro sombrío existencial y en el momento que se trata de la duda y la fe, la alegría y la tristeza. Pero, sobre todo acerca de ser vulnerable y permitirse ser vulnerable. Incluso Koheleth, el rey sabio, reconoce los límites de su comprensión y la futilidad de todo. 

"Yo puse mi mente para estudiar y para investigar con sabiduría todo lo que sucede bajo el sol, un negocio infeliz, eso, que Dios dio a los hombres que ocupan. He observado todos los acontecimientos bajo el sol, y me pareció que todo es inútil y seguimiento de viento. "(Koheleth 1:13-14) 

A pesar de este panorama desolador, Koheleth todavía es capaz de disfrutar de la vida y tener una "actitud de gratitud" y tiene un buen consejo para nosotros sobre cómo vivir con alegría: "Anda, come tu pan con gozo, y bebe tu vino con alegría, por su acción fue hace mucho tiempo aprobado por Dios. Deje que su ropa siempre estar recién lavado, y su cabeza nunca carecen de pomada. Disfrute de la felicidad con una mujer que amas, todos los días fugaces de su vida ... "(Koheleth 9:7-9) 

Lo que une a la alegría y la vulnerabilidad en una nueva síntesis es la confianza sincera, el antídoto para el miedo existencial. Sucot nos manda a confiar. No es una confianza ingenua de que todo va a estar bien, pero una confianza madura que de alguna manera va a tener tanto la perspectiva y la fuerza para afrontar lo que venga.Entonces confiamos en Dios, en nosotros mismos, en nuestra comunidad e incluso en nuestra Sucot, que puede ser derribados por el viento o ahogado en la lluvia. Incluso cuando hace frío y estamos físicamente incómodo, debemos confiar en la razón y la experiencia de la vulnerabilidad. Y cuando podemos dejar que nuestra ansiedad y miedos - y también nuestras dependencias ir - que es cuando nos encontramos con la verdadera felicidad. Aun cuando sabemos que nuestros días son fugaces y fueron sólo son polvo. Porque nos damos cuenta de lo afortunados que somos de tener lo que tenemos y tenemos la obligación de regocijarse en ella. 

Tanto Koheleth y un viaje nos obliga a centrarnos en lo que es verdaderamente importante. No es el hotel lujoso, pero el placer de comer con sus seres queridos. No es la calidad del vino, pero las bendiciones que pronuncia sobre ella. No es la suavidad de la cama, pero el que se llega a compartir. No es el destino, el plan u objetivo, sino simplemente confiar en el horizonte. Tu puedes conducir, viajar, caminar y el resultado final será en algún lugar. Tu te sentirás el viento y la lluvia y el sol demasiado y te sentirás vivo y estar agradecidos por ello. Confiar, alegría fiel no es un subidón de adrenalina o una moda, sino que es algo duradero, el combustible que lo mantiene en el camino. Con los ojos en el horizonte. 

Estoy deseando comenzar esta aventura con vosotros y viajar contigos. ¿Quién sabe qué cosas bellas que todavía va a descubrir. 

Shabat shalom jag Sameaj!

Words are Wind?

Southport Reform Community 

Kol Nidré Sermon 

Words are Wind? 

“I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the table among my other birthday presents... on Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o ‘clock, which isn’t surprising, since it was my birthday. But I’m, not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity, until quarter to seven... A little after seven I went to Daddy and Mama and then to the living room to open my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicest presents...’ 

When she started scribbling her thoughts in her checkered blue-and-red diary, on that fateful 12th of June, 1942, did she know her words were eternal? That they would change the world – both hers and ours? 

Words bind our fate and shape worlds, as my fellow Dutchwoman and co-religionist Anne Frank would intuit. Words, words, words. Yom Kippur is heavy with them. Prayers that are given wings through our sacred intentions. Words that indict us and defend us. Words that praise and words that ring with the empty chime of our mortality. Ancient words from the Torah, Prophets and Sages and contemporary words from our Progressive rabbis. Words that speak of vows, of repentance, of prayer and charity. Words that condemn our abuse of words: of slander, of lying, of judgment. Words that ring true and words that ring hollow. Words that move us and words that leave us cold. 

Between now and Ne’ilah, many words will be spoken, too many perhaps. Even, or especially on Yom Kippur, there is a danger that words become wind. The machzor brims with them. It is a document that shows our struggle with God and ourselves, that maps our gratitude and exposes our weakness. It disseminates the mayor themes of our tradition, provides us with the roadmap into life’s most profound questions. It is a distillation of our Jewish tradition’s wisdom and theology, a rallying cry to justice and a whisper to bring the heart to contrition. The machzor is a beautiful document to be sure, but in many ways it is not ours. We might struggle with finding God on those pages that are so God-heavy, we might not recognise ourselves in the ‘Al Chets’, we might not be moved by the imagery of ‘Ki Anu Amecha’ and do we really need to ponder the want of our actions in ‘Avinu Malkeinu’? Even the Kol Nidré, the convergence point of many a Jewish community, may be rendered meaningless in our experience. What vows have we broken? What obligations have we forsaken? For what must we atone? 

As important as breaking down our ego is during these Days of Awe, it is equally important to build up our values, our intentions, our promises. From this Kol Nidré to the next. 

If Kol Nidré is about annulling and excusing the vows we’ve made between God and ourselves, from this past year to this present moment, then can we perhaps do the reverse? Can we bequeath a heritage of words that is lasting, positive and compelling in our lives? We know that Anne Frank did even in the darkest and direst of circumstances. Her diary encouraged her to see pinpoints of light in the midnight of the century. I can only stand in awe of what her spirit accomplished but it does prove the power of words. 

Words matter, for better and worse. Then how can we make our words count? In a way, Anne Frank’s diary is a complex and beautiful example of an ‘ethical will’. The ethical will is one of those wonderful concepts that the Torah bequeathed on humankind (together with monotheism and the weekend!) and that made its way in both the Jewish and Christian tradition. There are two important ethical wills mentioned in Torah: Jacob’s blessing of his children in Genesis chapter 49 and Moses’ song in Deuteronomy chapter 32 (yes, you can go home and read these and be inspired). 

Speaking words of wisdom and blessing to one’s progeny does seem very Biblical indeed. Not many of us may be granted that dignity, calm and lucidity when at death’s door. Hence, during the Middle Ages, rabbis developed the ethical will as a written document that could be written when the individual was still of sound body and mind. An ethical will grants us an opportunity to impart our values both to ourselves and to the next generation. It is a valiant storming of the gates of Eternity, to make sure that we are indeed inscribed in the Book of Life. I would invite you, then, to complement the fleeting words of the Kol Nidré and words of urgent morality from the machzor with writing your own ethical will – you can glean inspiration and tips from the website ethicalwill.com. 

For those of you who do not write on Shabbat and Yom Tov; this is a project that can be done right up till Hoshanah Rabbah, when the Gates of Repentance really close for the year. For those Progressive Jews who do choose to write on holy days, I invite you to consider taking up pen and paper when you come home tonight after services. You might even use the machzor as a source of inspiration. Consider the question you would like to ask yourself. If the machzor represents a meeting between God and the individual, then maybe you can see yourself from the God’s eye perspective. See yourself with both chesed and din, loving-kindness and judgment. What things did you get right this year and what things did you get wrong? Who is this person you are trying to become? Who are the people you want to honour, love and cherish in your lives? What are the timeless values you want to impart on family and friends? And how do you wish to be remembered? Write these words with tenderness – they can truly be a gift. 

It seems indeed that the ethical will can be an excellent metaphor and tool for the transformative experience of Yom Kippur. We can seal ourselves in the Book of Life; not out of presumption and arrogance but out of contrition and quiet dignity. 

This moral profundity is reflected in the first written ethical will known to us, from Eleazar, the son of the famous 11th century Ashkenazi rabbi Isaac of Worms. In this document, Eleazar writes advice fitting for this time of year: 

 “Think not of evil, for evil thinking leads to evil doing.... Purify your body, the dwelling-place of your soul.... Give of all your food a portion to God. Let God’s portion be the best, and give it to the poor.” 

Another scholar, Asher, the son of Yechiel, writes in the 14th century, leaving us with another appropriate set of values: “Do not obey the Law for reward, nor avoid sin from fear of punishment, but serve God from love.” 

I would like to close with the wisdom of our beloved Anne Frank - even the young can share transformative and prophetic insights. Allow me to read some snippets of the ‘ethical will’ she left the world, through the words of her diary. Consider these words alongside with the themes of the machzor:

“The final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.” Pair this with “Hachayim v’hamavet natati lefanecha, hab’racha v’hak’lalah, uv’acharta bachayim - I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse... choose life!” (Deut. 30:19) 

Or, “No one has ever become poor by giving”, which can be read in conjunction with, “al chet shechatanu lefanecha b’neshech uv’marbit – for the sin we have committed before You by financial greed.’ (Liturgy) 

Or, “I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart” with “Elohai, neshamah shenatata bi, tehorah hi – my God, the soul You have given me is pure.” (Liturgy) 

And finally, “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world” with “Limdu heitiv, darshu mishpat – learn to do good, seek justice” (Isaiah 1:17). 

The key word here is limdu, the imperative to learn. We are our own books, the stories of our own lives. It is never too late to write them, to be inscribed for goodness and eternity, in the reflections we share and the love we transmit, from one day to the next, from Rosh haShanah when we are written to Yom Kippur when we are sealed. The gates and the pages of our ethical wills are open. 

Give yourself and your loved ones this gift. G’mar chatimah tovah!

De verplichting van bevrijding

'Pink Shabbat', Gay Outreach Dienst 3 augustus 2012 – Beit ha’Chidush 

Rabbijn i.o. Esther Hugenholtz 

Parasjat V'etchanan - De verplichting van bevrijding

Kort nadat ik in 2008 in Los Angeles aan de rabbijnenopleiding begon brak de strijd rond ‘Prop Eight’ (Proposition Eight) los: het betrof een referendum voor het verbieden van het huwelijk voor mensen van gelijk geslacht. Op mijn opleiding was de stemming eensgezind: iedereen was tegen Prop Eight. We hingen campagneposters op in de ramen van onze appartementen en keken vol vertrouwen naar de datum van het referendum. In het progressieve Californië zou de meerderheid van de bevolking tegen het homo-onvriendelijke voorstel stemmen, toch? 

Toch uitte één studiegenoot, een goede vriend van mij, bezwaren. Hoewel hij absoluut het recht erkende van homo’s om relaties met elkaar aan te gaan, vond hij als rechtgeaarde en tikkeltje conservatieve ‘Midwesterner’ toch dat het huwelijk iets was tussen man en vrouw. Ik besloot meteen mijn tegenargument vanuit een onverwachte invalshoek te formuleren… 

Ik moet namelijk iets bekennen. Ik ben heel erg gelukkig, heel erg burgerlijk, heel erg heteronormatief getrouwd. Sterker nog, ik ben deze maand vijf jaar geleden in deze sjoel getrouwd. Ik vind het huwelijkse bestaan heerlijk en betrap mijzelf regelmatig op gelukzalig truttig gedrag (denk aan Ikea bezoekjes met manlief). En ik schaam mij er niet voor – in mijn persoonlijke beleving is het huwelijk een prachtig instituut van verbond en heiliging, van liefde, trouw en respect. Hoewel ik de redenen om sceptisch of zelfs afwijzend tegenover het instituut huwelijk te staan begrijp en respecteer blijf ik er een groot pleitbezorger van. 

‘Geloof jij in het heiligheid van het huwelijk?’ vroeg ik hem. Mijn vriend beaamde dat enthousiast. Ik vervolgde: ‘Juist omdat ik in het huwelijk geloof, geloof ik in het homohuwelijk. Die diepe voldoening van de hechte en heilige huwelijkse band, de rechten en privileges van het huwelijk zijn dingen waar mijn homoseksuele broeders en zusters net zo veel recht op hebben als jij en ik. Iedereen die gelooft in ‘family values’ zou hiervoor op de barricade moeten staan!’ 

Het gaf hem te denken. 

Het idee dat ieder mens heiliging kan vinden en dat bevrijding niet alleen rechten maar ook plichten met zich meebrengt is heel joods. Sterker nog; het huwelijk wordt vaak gebruikt als metafoor in Tora om de emancipatie en de verbondsgedachte tussen God en het Joodse volk tastbaar te maken. Tijdens het geven van de Tien Uitspraken, aldus de Midrasj, was God de Bruidegom en Israël de Bruid (ja, ook de Tora kan gender-queer zijn!) en de Tora zelf de ketoeba, de huwelijksakte. Ook in de relatie tussen de Eeuwige en de mens staan liefde, trouw en heiliging centraal. 

De parasja van deze week – V’etchanan – sluit goed bij dit thema aan. De lange en bitterzoete reis van Mosjé komt ten einde en hij weet dat hij het Beloofde Land niet in mag omdat hij het vertrouwen van de Eeuwige geschonden had. Het is zijn taak om de B’nei Jisraël aan de grenzen van het Beloofde Land te brengen opdat zij als volk verder gaan. Het is zijn taak om Israël verder te ‘emanciperen’ – hun bevrijding uit de Egyptische slavernij is pas compleet wanneer zij zich kunnen vestigen in het land, als symbool van hun waardigheid en vrijheid. De B’nei Jisraël moeten volwassen worden, verplichtingen aangaan, zich losmaken van oude trauma’s en met zelfbewustzijn het verbond met de Eeuwige bekrachtigen. Het is tijd voor hun ‘coming-out’. 

Een ‘coming-out’ is veel meer alleen dan toegeven of accepteren dat je homo- of biseksueel bent. Er zijn veel ‘comings-out’ voor vele moeilijke situaties en identiteiten, vooral wanneer er sprake is van een machtsverschil of gebrek aan sociale acceptatie. Het zijn vaak de minderheden, de kwetsbaren, de mensen die als ‘afwijkend’ worden gezien door de norm die de strijd van een coming-out moeten leveren. We kunnen er allemaal mee geconfronteerd worden. ‘Coming out’ is dan ook ‘coming into yourself’ – of zoals wij joden dat zouden zeggen, ‘lech lecha’, de Abrahamitische opdracht om ‘naar jezelf te reizen’. Ware bevrijding gaat verder dan het behalen van gelijkberechting. Het gaat om liefde en respect voor jezelf. 

De Tora zegt ‘v’ahavta larecha kamocha’ – heb je naast lief zoals jezelf en de sleutel van deze opdracht ligt in het leren houden van jezelf, in het evenbeeld van de Eeuwige, opdat je waarachter kan leren houden van de ander. 

Ook op collectief niveau geldt dit: de Israëlieten moeten leren om met liefde en respect samen te leven omdat ze het waard zijn. ‘Ki mi goy gadol asher lo Elohim kerovim elav k’Adonai Eloheinu bechol karanu elav’ (Deut. 4:7) vraagt de Tora aan ons, ‘want welk groot volk heeft een zo’n nabije God zoals de Eeuwige wanneer wij God dan aanroepen?’ Vervolgens krijgt dit kleine, vertrapte slavenvolkje het antwoord: ‘Want jullie zijn een heilig volk voor de Eeuwige. Jullie zijn door de Eeuwige uitgekozen om Zijn gekoesterde volk te zijn, gekozen uit alle volkeren op de aarde. Het is niet omdat jullie groter waren dan de andere volken dat Hij jullie lief had en uitkoos – jullie waren het kleinste van allemaal! Maar omdat de Eeuwige jullie liefhad en zich wilde houden aan wat Hij jullie voorouders had beloofd, heeft de Eeuwige jullie met sterke hand bevrijd uit de slavernij, uit de macht van de farao...‘ (Deut 7:6-8) Van reddeloze slaaf naar gekoesterde verbondspartner met de Eeuwige, da’s nog eens een ‘coming-out’! 

De Joodse traditie is een symfonie met vele stemmen – sommigen dissonant en reactionair – maar het is onze hoop en taak als progressieve joden dat de stem van inclusiviteit en rechtvaardigheid de boventoon voert. De parasja leert ons dat liefde belangrijk is – de liefde tussen de Eeuwige en Mosjé, de liefde van de Eeuwige voor de hele mensheid en de liefde die wij koesteren voor elkaar. Klinkt het hopeloos romantisch en zelfs een beetje klef? So be it, ook daar schaam ik mij niet voor. 

Liefde overwint niet alles maar wel heel veel. Helaas volgde op het referendum een bittere nederlaag voor de Californische homogemeenschap en was de strijd nog voorlopig niet gestreden. Zoals Spreuken der Vaderen zeggen, ‘het is niet aan jou om de taak te volbrengen maar je bent ook niet ervan vrijgesteld’ (Avot 2:21). Wij kennen het recht van verbondenheid en de verplichting van bevrijding. Graag vecht ik mee. 

En die vriend van mij… hoe is het daar mee afgelopen? Hij werd gelukkig overtuigd door het argument van de heiliging en respect waar homoseksuele relaties recht op hebben en heeft tegen Prop 8 en vóór het homohuwelijk gestemd. Het Beloofde Land ligt aan de horizon maar we trekken op naar ons doel, stap voor stap. 

Sjabbat sjalom!

Covenant, Community, Caring

Shavuot Sermon Sinai Synagogue 

Covenant, Community and Caring 

Communities are interesting places. Communities can be nurturing or toxic, they can include and exclude, uplift and break down. In this sense, communities are just the sum of the parts of humanity that cement them together. Of course as a community, we hope and want to see the very best of ourselves. Yet there is a darker side to community as well. Who is in and who is out? Who participates and who is jettisoned? Who leads and who follows? This is part of the central question of what kind of a community we want to be. 

Shavuot, like any good Jewish holiday, is about many things. (We never make things simple in Judaism!) There is an agricultural component as we celebrate the harvest and offering of the firstlings. It is also, of course, about Revelation at Sinai and the giving of the Torah. Shavuot is a spiritual wedding, if you will, where Israel as the Bride enters into a sanctified and loving state with God as the groom. 

One of the central Shavuot themes is community and inclusivity. 

The Book of Ruth is a prime example of this. Time and time again, individuals in the Book of Ruth decided to be inclusive. They could have been exclusive but chose ‘chesed’, loving kindness, instead. Ruth, as a new widow from Moav could have chosen to stay with her own people. Yet ‘chesed’ compelled her to follow her mother-in-law, Naomi. Naomi kisses Ruth tenderly and tries to honourably turn her back with kind words, ‘go, return to your mothers’ house, may the Eternal deal kindly with you as you have dealt with the dead and me ‘ (Ruth 1:8) Yet Ruth matches Naomi’s ‘chesed’ with her own as she persists and utters the famous words: 'ki asher telchi, elech, uv’asher talini, alin, amech ami, v’elohaich, elohai’ – ‘for where you shall go, I will go; and where you shall lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God’. Naomi relents and does the right thing: she includes the poor Moabite woman, a member of the very community the Torah prohibits the Israelites from marrying, and brings her to her new home. 

Of course the story doesn’t end here. 

Ruth then gleans the fields to support herself and her mother-in-law – another act of chesed – and eventually Boaz, the kinsman who comes to love her on the threshing-floor – another act of chesed. And the greatest act of chesed is yet to come, for out of this downtrodden foreigner, the quintessential convert to Judaism, the Davidic lineage will flow, and with that, the Messianic redemption of the entire world. It is indeed true that ‘God works in mysterious ways’. Through the downtrodden He redeems, as the ‘Shomer gerim’ (Ps. 146:8), the Guardian of strangers. 

And yet this message is so easily forgotten. 

When communities do not feed the poor, do not welcome the stranger, do not act with chesed. By oppressing the downtrodden, they scorn the Divine Will, as happened only a few days ago in Tel Aviv. Thirty six times we are commanded to not oppress and even love the stranger, ‘for we were strangers in Egypt’ and ‘you know the nefesh, the life-feelings, of the stranger’. 

Yet on the 24th of May, thousands of Tel Aviv citizens converged in a demonstration against African asylum seekers, mostly from Eritrea and Darfur, where oppression, hunger and war run rampant. A right-wing politician described the African foreigners as a ‘cancer’ that needs to be ‘excised’ and sent back. The demonstration darkened into race riots when some of the demonstrators turned their anger onto the Israeli police and a car with African passengers.

I read the news on Thursday evening in Ha’Aretz and was left speechless. Only a few days before Shavuot, this festival of covenant, community and caring, a Jewish mob in Tel Aviv violates the very premises at the heart of Jewish ethics. Each one of those African immigrants could be a Ruth, crossing over from Moav, because there was ‘bread in the Land’. 

The parallels are scathingly obvious. This is when communities become vicious and turn to exclusion. The walls get pulled up to form an echo-chamber of exclusivist, if not racist, rhetoric. Us versus them. Human versus something somehow deemed diminished in humanity. The Torah counsels us against this. This is why the Name of God is invoked after so many of the ethical commandments: ‘And if a stranger dwells with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The stranger that dwells with you shall be unto you as the home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Eternal your God.’ (Lev. 19:33-34). God’s most sacred Name is to remind us of the divine spark in each of us, because as soon as we forget that each human being is created in the image of God, it is all too easy to forget our common humanity. 

Community is supposed to be the structure to help us remember this great commandment. 

Luckily, we also have plenty of examples in our communities on how you get it right. From the grandiose political to the parochially personal, I too, am a Ruth. Holland may not be exactly a Moav and Yorkshire may not be Beit Lechem (although the verdant hills might suggest otherwise!) but I crossed over into your community this past year and felt incredibly welcome. There was real ‘chesed’ practiced here. The community of Sinai Synagogue welcomed me into your shul, homes and hearts. I sat at your Shabbos tables, slept in your houses. I was picked up and brought back to the train station, fed endless cups of tea and offered friendship, hospitality and kindness. 

As this year comes to a close, I can look back on a wonderful year with you all, where I felt welcome, this stranger from Holland and London. You’ve offered me Northern warmth and I am grateful. Thank you. Thank you all for having me with you as your student rabbi this year. Communities can be interesting places and I hope to learn more about how to help you build that caring, covenant community, the kehillah k’doshah. I am certain we can do it, in the little and not-so-little ways, and then we can nurture the regulars and the newcomers alike. Who knows what blessings will flow from this. 

Chag Shavuot Sameach!

Stairway to Heaven

This article has been published in the Sinai Chronicle, Sinai Reform Synagogue, Leeds

Stairway to Heaven

Are you ready to count your way to personal transformation?

The Omer Counting can be seen as the world’s oldest ’12 Step Program’, an antique method of self-improvement. According to the Chassidic tradition this is certainly the case where each ‘sefirah’ (‘counting’) is aligned with a Kabbalistic description of the Divine, like ‘Gevurah’ (power) or ‘Chesed’ (loving-kindness) for us to emulate. Be what may, the message is clear – the Omer is not only a Biblical commandment (Lev. 23:15) in which we count our way from freedom (Pesach) to Revelation (Shavuot) – but also a stairway to Heaven into our deepest personal experiences.

A lot happens en route. From the first counting (on the 15^th of Nisan, second Seider night, for those who celebrate) to the 50th on erev Shavuot itself (6^th of Sivan), the tragedies and joys of the Jewish people pass us by. On our relentless march to receive Torah is interspersed with Yom haShoah (27^th of Nisan), Yom haZikaron (4^th of Iyar), Yom ha’Atzma’ut (5^th of Iyar) and Lag b’Omer (18^th of Iyar).

Most of these events are solemn remembrances of death, loss and tragedy and so in traditional circles, the Omer period is seen as one of semi-mourning where joys are tempered. Yet at the same time, the Omer period reminds us equally of all that we can rejoice in and what we can look forward to – being alive to accept Torah anew each year at Sinai. As with many of our festivals and experiences, this ‘mixing’ of both the difficult and the beautiful is what makes our tradition real, tangible – and deeply personal.

How can we become fully ready to embrace the covenant at Sinai? The Omer count is supposed to prepare us for this transformative experience, it is like steps leading into our collective mikveh. Are you ready to take the proverbial plunge?

It is so easy to focus on the clichés of Shavuot: Ruth the Moabite, conversion and the inclusion of converts to Judaism. Revelation, the Ten Commandments, (all-night) Torah learning. Even the fresh flowers in the Sanctuary and a big slice of cheesecake! All of these are important and positive values, worthy of discussion. But maybe it is helpful to focus on the process of Shavuot instead. How do we get to that point? What forces shape our experiences on the way? Perhaps a more conscious experience of the Omer count can help us with that question.

The Babylonian Talmud (Tractate Yevamot 46a) discusses the requirements for conversion to Judaism (circumcision for men and immersion in a mikveh for both genders) and deduces that when our ancestors stood at Sinai, they all were converts to Judaism. It is a lovely sentiment, of course, both for Jews-by-birth and Jews-by-rebirth, but the question begs itself: how did they ‘get there’? What transformation happened along the way to turn this haphazard and traumatised band of ex-slaves into a covenant people, ready and worthy to receive the Divine Presence?

They went through the 12 Step Program. They faced both their traumas and joys and were willing to work with them, move with them and move beyond them. They placed their pain in the crucible of faith and forged hope from it. Sure, they were fallible – and the Torah is a testimony to their frequent backsliding (and Moses’ relentless kvetching!) – but our ancestors took the plunge because they knew from their personal experience what Torah could mean to them. They were liberated physically and honed their souls to be liberated spiritually.

What are you readying yourself for this year? What Torah values would you like to immerse yourself in this year as you stand at Sinai? Is there a new mitzvah – however small – that you would be willing to take on? And how do you feel about choosing your Judaism, mind, body and soul? You still have a little while to think, reflect and feel these questions. Just remember, the Holy One Blessed be He is ‘counting’ on you!  

Exodus - Movement of Jah People!

This article appeared earlier in the Sinai Chronicle.

Exodus – Movement of Jah People

When I was a teen, I listened to a lot of Bob Marley. I was an avid Reggae fan and even paid homage to his grave when I visited Jamaica on a family vacation. What I loved about Bob’s music, apart from the irresistible rhythms and melodies were his spiritual, Biblically-inspired lyrics. For people the world over, black and white, rich and poor, young and old, Bob Marley’s rousing words rang like a Prophetic call to social justice and transformative faith.

In one of his most popular songs, ‘Exodus’, Bob sings the following in his Jamaican Patois:

“Open your eyes and look within: are you satisfied with the life you’re living?”

Although Bob Marley was not Jewish, he echoes the sentiments of the Haggadah which tells us to every generation is to regard themselves as if they personally had exited Egypt: ‘chayav adam lirot et atzmo ke’ilu hu yatza mimitzrayim’.

What is remarkable about this commandment, rooted in Exodus 13:8 (‘and you shall tell your son, on that day, saying, ‘it is because of what the Eternal did for me when I came out of Egypt’) is that it appeals to our own, personal lives. But there’s more to it than that. Exodus 13:8 and Mishnah Pesachim 10:5 (which finds its way into the Haggadah) are ultimately echoed in the lyrics of Bob Marley’s song: ‘open your eyes and look within: are you satisfied with the life you’re living?’

There can be no external change without internal transformation. To Judaism, the personal is political. And Judaism will always prompt us to ask questions.

What does it mean that the Eternal took us out of Egypt? It means that we are not only partners in creation but also in redemption. It means that we can look at the experience of oppression and internalise it, that we can cultivate empathy with those oppressed today. It means we read the newspapers and watch the news through the lens of Eternity.

It’s okay to be angry. But it is only half of the perspective. By acknowledging that it is God Who redeemed us, the Torah tries to instil upon us an ‘attitude of gratitude’ to accompany our ‘righteous indignation’ as well as teaching us that political liberation relies on ideas greater than our own. Pesach likes mixing metaphors. At the Seder we speak of the bread of affliction while we dine on delicacies. We recline on comfortable seats while speaking about the burden of relentless work. I think the mixing of metaphors is intentional: were we to only focus on our liberation, we might become complacent. Were we to focus only on our oppression, we might become disenchanted. By emphasising both, the Haggadah hopes to spurn us into action. Or as Bob Marley would sing, ‘movement of Jah people’.

The value of the Exodus story, therefore, is not whether it historically took place or not. Its eternal relevance does not lie in archaeological evidence or antique relics on display in the British Museum. In fact, whether it happened or not might be completely irrelevant. What we do with it in our experience today is what matters.

So when you are seated at your Seder open your eyes and look within. Engage your guests and yourself with pointed questions about our lives and our world. Like the four sons of the Haggadah, it is good to ask even when it seems difficult or inappropriate to ask. What binds you in ‘slavery’ today? And what sets you free? What social causes do you find important and in what historical developments do you see both the hand of Pharaoh and the Hand of God? Today’s newspapers and newsreels supply us with endless food for thought. Bring snippets of articles to the table. Do a little research into a social issue you’re passionate about. Present your cause and encourage discussion. Enhance the brilliant pedagogy of the Haggadah with your own chiddush, new contribution.

The genius of Pesach is that its message is always just right. Like matzah, in times of prosperity, it keeps us humble. And in times of hardship, it nourishes us.

As I will set the table and place my silver Eliyahu’s cup on my fine brocade tablecloth and as I thank God for another season of freedom and another feast of food, I will hum Bob Marley in honour of fighting the good fight in times past and present. It is fitting that Bob, a modern-day prophet who was himself a descendant of slaves, should lend me the vocabulary that points towards Pesach’s ultimate goal:

“Jah come to break downpression, rule equality, wipe away transgression, set the captives free!”

Chag Pesach sameach!

Sermon Leo Baeck College / Sinai Synagogue Leeds

Parashat Mishpatim

The Shadow Side of Torah

If last week’s parashah (Yitro) was the wedding ceremony, this week’s reading should be the honeymoon. Last week’s parashah was so easy to fall in love with. There was the wisdom of Yitro, the romance of Revelation and the drama of the Ten Utterances to woo the reader. We collectively experienced the marriage between God and the people of Israel as we became His bride and as He presented us with His ketubah. So, a romantic honeymoon seems to be in the making!

There is much to love in Parashat Mishpatim. God and Israel are starting to build their relationship and working out the details of living a covenanted life together. Up to this point, there is much to be happy about. Mishpatim is the parashah that gives us such moral classics as ‘do not oppress the stranger for you were strangers in Egypt’ (Ex. 22:20) and ‘you shall neither side with the mighty to do wrong—you shall not give perverse testimony in a dispute so as to pervert it in favour of the mighty...’ (Ex. 23:2) and ‘You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan. If you mistreat them, I will heed their outcry as soon as they cry out to Me’... (Ex. 22:21).

In true honeymoon-style, this is ethical monotheism at its finest.

But even new relationships can start to show cracks. With increased emotional intimacy comes increased awareness. Neither God nor Israel are perfect in this marriage. Both partners, so to say, bring their own baggage. Between the brightness of Mishpatim’s most uplifting words, the taboo, the difficult, and the hateful lurk in the shadows.

Amidst lofty sentiments of protecting the stranger, the widow and the poor, there is a voice of condemnation. Amidst verses extolling the beauty of the relationship between God and man, there is a voice fraught with fear and superstition. Amidst humanising the Other, there is a call to genocide. And amidst the rational, there is simply the bizarre.

A triad of Mishpatim’s most obtuse verses can be found in Ex 22:17-19. ‘You shall not allow a sorceress to live... whoever lies with an animal shall surely die... whoever sacrifices to a god other than the Eternal shall be proscribed.’

Here they sit, wedged between the realities of tort law and the prophetic voice of social justice. Three bizarre verses that deal with transgressions punishable by death. They feel taboo. They embarrass us. They cannot easily be explained away. Even our classical commentaries remain quiet. Rashi apologetically argues that these sins apply to men as well as women. Our discomfort is palpable and justified.

The verse ‘you shall not allow a sorceress to live’ was a cause of marginalisation and persecution among pre-modern women in Christian Europe. Scholars think that about 40,000 to 60,000 women were put to death through witch trials and lynching between 1480 and 1750.

The verse condemning bestiality makes us turn away our gaze in embarrassment. What on earth were the Biblical authors thinking by addressing such sexual deviance? It seems very Freudian. And of course, the verse extolling us not to make offerings to other gods lest we risk excision is as old as religious persecution itself. This is religious totalitarianism at its fullest. How many wars have there been fought in the Name of the One True God? I cannot even begin to list the death toll in the name of religion. These verses make us cringe and avert our eyes. Is this our Holy Torah which we dress so lovingly, read so painstakingly and study so ardently?

The play of light and darkness in parashat Mishpatim prompts bigger questions about the shadow side of Torah. It prompts questions about the eternality of the text, of modern sensibilities versus ancient principles. At what point does a text become so reprehensible that the only thing left to do is to... close the book and walk away?

In my own studies, I’ve asked myself this question. During my study of Talmud and Midrash, I have read texts that violently scream out at me. Texts that objectify women, that condemn the Other, that speak scathingly of non-Jews and that reinforce unhealthy social hierarchies. Women are treated as chattels, their bodies as battlefields. In these texts, Jews at the periphery of rabbinic society are sometimes treated with contempt: mamzerim (children from forbidden unions), foundlings, slaves, converts. I have been tempted to get up and walk out in disgust and anger.

But we cannot walk or edit out. We cannot rip the pages from our Tanakh. We must face these difficult texts head-on with the courage to stare into the heart of darkness; and then embark on a mission even more difficult - to mine these texts for meaning, if there is any to be found.

What do disturbing verses about witchcraft, bestiality and idolatry teach us about our world today? Can we square these with our values as Progressive Jews? They touch upon the taboo in human culture, they make us feel a little dirty and a little unhinged and in an ironic way they endanger our sense of moral purity, as the famous anthropologist Mary Douglas would argue. Does witchcraft allude to the fatalistic superstitions and fears that drive us to this day? Does idolatry reference how we bow down before gods of subprime mortgages and national debt? And does the ban on bestiality suggest something about how we abuse and objectify both our animals and our own bodies in an age of factory farming and sexual confusion? Or are these texts lost to us forever in their weirdness?

I am not sure. I am asking the question, not offering the answer. And that is exactly the point of a living tradition. Perhaps the wedding metaphor offers us insight. Torah is a passionate love affair but also a difficult relationship. Religion is a messy business and, just like marriage, requires work. We may fight with our spouses and wrestle with our darkest feelings. But in the shadows and through the cracks, there is a great and holy light. God never promised us a bed of roses. Is that not the theme of many a love song? But He did promise us a covenant that keeps us and challenges us and lifts us up to great moral heights. Even in the lows. Even in the shadows.

Do not be afraid to fall in love with our Torah. And do not be afraid to tell this great love of your life where she fails. That way we can help her light shine, upon the darkness of the world and the darkness of her own innermost places.

Parashat Yitro

Sermon Birmingham Progressive Community

Esther Hugenholtz

Parashat Yitro – We Are All Jews-by-Choice

What does it mean to be Jewish?

I am sure there are as many answers as there are Jews and – you’ll find this very Jewish of me! – there’s not one ‘right’ answer.

Some of us may say that Judaism is about a profound sense of history. Others will say that being Jewish is about being a mensch. I am sure some of you might say that being Jewish is to feel an inextricable connection to the land (and people) of Israel. And yet for others, being Jewish is about tapping into a deep spirituality.

And the list goes on. We have so many ways of ‘being Jewish’. Flavourful matzoh ball soup on Friday night, the white-and-blue JNF tin for loose change. Faded sepia photographs of trade unionist grandparents in the garment industry. But also the habit of perking up with pride when a famous Jew is mentioned in the newspaper. For Jews of the Near East, being Jewish may mean kibbeh and choumous and Torah readings with every ayin and chet crisply pronounced. For Jews in America, being Jewish may mean kosher marshmallows toasted over a bonfire at summer camp.

Of course all these ‘ways of being Jewish’ are wonderfully clichéd. Being Jewish is so much more than ethnic stereotypes and Hollywood references. It is love, community and ethics, ambivalence, anger and a feeling of ‘I-don’t-know-what-I’m-supposed-to-do-with-this’. Being Jewish is chafing against our tragic, horrible, painful collective history and yet also taking great pride in that same history. It is about being called to serve the one God, in Whose image all of humankind is created.

But most of all, being Jewish is all about choice.

See, here’s a secret. We’re all converts - Jews-by-choice. Jews-by-choice come in many shapes and sizes. It might be the cherished cheder teacher. It might be the young parent who beams with pride when their child reads Torah for the first time. It might just be the completely ordinary congregant sitting next to you. Or it might even be the rabbi. In any case, it is all of us, whether we are born or reborn into the covenant.

And it has never been any different.

As special as many of the Torah’s parshiyot are, this week’s parashah feels particularly unique. Parashat Yitro is the joy of b’nei mitzvah children, cheder teachers and rabbis alike—a Godsend (pun intended). The reading is brimming with a riveting narrative and all the important Jewish themes you can think of: Covenant, the Aseret haDibbrot (the Ten Utterances), Revelation, the Giving of the Torah and even some pyrotechnics (because there’s nothing wrong with telling a good story with spectacular special effects). In fact, this parashah is so action-packed that you don’t really know where to start mining it for meaning.

But Parashat Yitro also sets the stage for some of our most beloved heroes in the Torah: Jews-by-choice.

The perennial Jew-by-Choice is the one man this parashah is named after. Yitro. Yitro is Tzippora’s father and Moses’ father-in-law. He is a ‘Kohen Midian’, a Midianite priest. The Midrash claims that Yitro was quite the religious pluralist: he worshipped every deity and idol under the sun.

I imagine Yitro to be a kindly and wise man, tolerant, with a sound, practical perspective on things. He gives Moses sound management advice and warmly welcomes Moses into his clan, during his hour of need.

Yitro was a man of many names. Yet, according to Rashi, when he felt compelled to choose Judaism, he, like Abram and Sarai before him, added a letter to his name, Yeter. Where Abraham and Sarah added the letter Hey, Yitro added the Vav. It is fitting that both these letters are part of the most sacred Name of God, as they chose to enter the Eternal’s covenant.

Tzipporah, his daughter, is another Jew-by-Choice. Like her father, the Sages of the Talmud indicate that she converted. And like her father, she is a personality writ large: a brave young woman who follows her husband Moses in his compelling yet controversial vision of deliverance. She sires two sons whom she names Gershom and Eliezer. Interestingly, these names hint at a deeper truth that we all as Jews experience: ‘Gershom’ means, ‘ger haiti be’eretz nochri’ah’- ‘I was a stranger there [in a foreign land]’ while ‘Eliezer’ means ‘ki Elohai avi be’ezri’ - ‘God [of my father] is my Help’ (Ex. 18:4). Perhaps these names point us to an answer of the question what it means to be Jewish. Matzoh balls and choumous aside, there is a complex yet beautiful dichotomy that we Jews experience. We sometimes may feel very alone in the world. Different, alien, unique, strange. But we also know that we find our strength in God, in the values that God represents, in the best and holiest and noblest of our tradition.

Parashat Yitro sets the stage by introducing these two monumental characters. (And let us not forget that Moses himself, although not a convert, is a Jew-by-Choice as he consciously embraces his Israelite identity!) Soon after, the narrative shifts: from individual stories to a collective experience. It is then that Israel stands at the foot of Har Sinai, ready to enter the covenant with the God Who bore them out of slavery ‘al kanfei nesharim’ - ‘on eagle’s wings’ (Ex. 19:4).

The preparations for Revelation are unique. The Israelites are commanded to wash their clothes and bathe. The Babylonian Talmud (Yevamot 46b) indicates that what the Israelites went through was a conversion ceremony and immersed in a mikveh. Until that point, they had been privileged to inherit the covenant through the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, though through no merit of their own. But now, they were invited to choose.

And choose they did. ‘Na’aseh v’nishmah’, they responded at the foot of the mount, overwhelmed by the glory of flame and thunder and the deep, eternal silence within. ‘We will do and we will hear’.

The Torah instructs us. We are to follow Yitro and Tzipporah, this phenomenal father-daughter team, to embrace the covenant on our own. Love your Judaism, hold it close. Cherish it, believe in it. It is our beautiful ‘segulah’, treasure. It is only when Judaism becomes more than just a stereotype and a cliché that we can truly fulfill our mission of what our parashah calls us to be: a ‘mamlechet Kohanim’ and a ‘goy kadosh’ – a kingdom of priests and a holy people (Ex. 19:6). Every covenant is conditional. The contract has been written, the terms are set but the conditions are compelling. We made that choice thousands of years ago. Every moment we can choose again to be the best Jews we can be., Then we can, in the words of the prophet Micah, ‘love mercy, do justly and walk humbly with our God’. Now that’s something worth converting to!

Shabbat shalom!

Let It Shine

(This article was first published in the Sinai Chronicle, publication of Sinai Reform Synagogue, Leeds)

Jewish holidays are strange, really – topsy turvy if you will. During the bright heat of summer, usually a happy and relaxing time, we mourn the destruction of the Temple and the many ills that have befallen the Jewish people during Tisha b’Av. During the autumn when the wheel of the year spins towards sleepy endings, Rosh haShanah celebrates new beginnings. During Sukkot, we subject our vulnerable selves to the fickle elements of autumn. During the verdant abundance of spring with plenty of fresh foods to enjoy, we honour Pesach with dietary restrictions and contemplations on the meaning of freedom. And now, after a welcome repose offered by the quiet month of Cheshvan, we will find that Chanukkah is not all that different.

In the darkest months, Chanukkah is all about light. On a practical and psychological level, this makes sense. Like other winter festivals such as Christmas and Divali, Chanukkah seeks to uplift sombre spirits by chasing away the gloom. On a spiritual level, however, Chanukkah feels more counterintuitive. During the short days of November and December, many of us feel a natural inclination to ‘cocoon’: to stay inside and retreat from the world. We may feel low on energy and why on earth would we want to go out and share our light?

Yet, this is exactly what Chanukkah wants us to do.

Chanukkah is both the consequence of and contrast to the High Holidays. The High Holidays represent an internal process; both on a personal and collective level. Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur challenge us to look inward and fix what needs fixing. The liturgy of the season affirms our specific covenant with the Eternal and seeks to improve the relationship between the individual Jew and his or her God.

Chanukkah, on the other hand, follows suit on a more external mission. We have received an opportunity to recharge our spiritual batteries over the past holiday season in order to let our light shine in the darker days. Perhaps the High Holidays were the moment to press our own miraculous vats of oil, carefully stashed away to be found when the right moment arrives.

This notion of ‘shining your light’ is known in our rabbinic texts as ‘pirsumei nisa’ – Aramaic for ‘the advertising of the Miracle’. The miracle, of course, being the rededication of the Temple after wresting it out of Antiochus Epiphanes’ Hellenistic hands, and finding one last vat of oil with which the temple Menorah burnt bright for eight whole days.

Chanukkah could have been an inward-looking festival. We could merely have lit candles inside, huddled around our dreidles and gelt and nibbled on hot latkes and sufganiyot in the company of family and friends. Of course, Chanukkah is all those things. But it is also more. Jewish tradition actually mandates that we place our Chanukkiyot in full view off all the world to see: in a door-opening, or – more conveniently – in the windowsill, looking out. After blessings and Maoz Tzur, we light our Chanukkiyot, where the light gathers force each subsequent evening as per the directive of Rabbi Hillel (Bavli Shabbat 21a).

Just as the Menorah in the Temple represented our eternal flame amidst a darkened world, so too do our Chanukkiyot defy the coldness and dark to send out its light. Chanukkah is not just a winter festival but a proud affirmation as well as a mission: of our Jewish identity, culture and faith in the context of the larger world. Having stocked up on spiritual fuel in the preceding months, we are now commanded to spark our wicks and share our light. With this light, we reflect our deepest values that are woven into this season. The belief that every human is created in the Divine Light, the value that every human being should be able to practice their way of life in freedom and the hope for a world of brotherhood where flames of conflict will make way for lights of peace.

Now that’s a miracle worth advertising. Commit to your values, be proud of who you are and let your light shine.

Parashat Vayeshev

Sermon Glasgow Reform Synagogue

Passion and Restraint

Like every good story, B’reishit is assembling the stage for a final drama: the settling of the B’nei Yisrael in Egypt. When the book of Shemot opens, we all know what happens next. ‘A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph’ (Gen. 1:8) and soon the Israelites are enslaved and embittered by hard labour.

The Joseph Story is a bridge, where adventures of individuals become the fate of nations. Joseph forms the fulcrum between B’reishit and Shemot.

But there is more to Joseph than that. He, like his father Jacob, is a passionate and proud man. But unlike his ancestors, Joseph knows restraint.

Restraint, especially when pertaining to matters of intimacy, is a recurring theme in this part of the Torah. The examples of this are many. Jacob is forced to work another seven years for his beloved Rachel. Reuben fails to restrain himself when he sleeps with Bilhah, his father’s concubine (Gen. 35:22). Chamor, the son of Shechem fails to practice sexual morality when he rapes Jacob’s daughter Dinah. Judah falls for the wiles of a prostitute who is actually his widowed daughter-in-law claiming her rightful heritage: a child in the name of her deceased husband (Gen. 38).

I am not even listing the many plural marriages of our patriarchs. The Torah’s men are driven on by an internal fire which is their rise and downfall. Is this a concession to human nature then, that the movers and shakers in the world are often unruly in matters of the heart? Certainly, when we look at politicians, pop stars and celebrities, this seems very much the case.

Yet Joseph manages to practice restraint.

Joseph’s restraint in a way seems unexpected. Joseph is a proud young boy, handsome and arrogant. A dreamer, he conjures up visions of grandeur, soliciting the contempt and hatred of his hot-headed brothers. Joseph seems doomed to make all the mistakes of his impulsive and manipulative father Jacob. Will he rashly execute his vision of grandeur? Or will he bind himself with the silver cords of conscience?

We know what happens next. His brothers throw him in a pit, almost killing him, and selling him into slavery. The terse narrative of the Torah says nothing about how Joseph reacted. Did he fight them off? Did he try to run away? Did he wail with fear and misery, pounding his fists against the muddy walls of the pit? Maybe already then, Joseph was turning from a dreamer into a visionary and willed himself to silence.

Joseph finds himself in Egypt, at Pharaoh’s court. He is bought by a courtier named Potiphar who ‘took a liking to Joseph’ (Gen. 39:4). The young entrepreneur becomes successful. And as often happens with good-looking and successful men, he draws the eye of the mistress of the house.

I imagine a tantalising scene. Joseph is young and aware of his appeal. He is a golden boy, seventeen years old, full of fire and passion. Potiphar’s wife must have been an aristocratic beauty, dressed in crisp and sheer white linen, her proud head, slender neck and long limbs adorned with gold and lapis lazuli, her eyes encircled with dark kohl. How enticing it would be for a young man, heady with power and privilege and passion, to succumb to her forward advances. ‘Lie with me’, she demands, her voice laced with honey and edged with venom.

He refuses.

We can only imagine the moral fortitude this must have taken. Of course, falling for Potiphar’s wife would have been extremely dangerous. Yet history is littered with examples of death-defying risks taken in the name of love or lust. It is not the risk of punishment or death that stops Joseph. ‘V’eich e’eseh hara’ah hagedolah hazot v’chatati l’Elohim?’ – ‘And how shall I do this great evil and sin before God?’ (Gen. 39:9). Even when Potiphar’s wife pursues him and corners him, he does not relent. She grabs his garment (it seems ironic and telling that Joseph’s clothes figure so prominently in the narrative) but he flees. Scorned, she turns the tables on him and accuses him of rape. When Potiphar’s listens to his wife’s account, he is furious and throws Joseph in jail. Even there, Joseph wills himself silent. Why does he not advocate on his own behalf? Instead, he sits in his dirty and cramped cell and ponders his future.

The young Joseph grows into a discipline and intelligent planner. He keeps his head cool. The foundational stone of the structure of Joseph’s life is his ability to dream and envision. His dreams are not merely passionate or indulgent fantasies but strategic and focused projections of what could be. He is a visionary.

It is Joseph’s visions that allow him to break the chain of familial discord. It is not that he has no emotions; rather he controls them, even when his alienated brothers come down to Egypt to seek his help. Joseph is deliberate; in how he faces the challenge of feeding Egypt during the famine and in how he heals the rifts in his own household. We might not like Joseph, this cocky and precocious child, but we can admire him for the level-headedness with which he shapes his destiny.

Finally, he is rewarded. He too begets two sons, Menasheh and Ephraim. And the Joseph story, like any classic, ends happily with a long life lived out in peace, prosperity and love. Joseph’s largest success and greatest legacy lies not in his wealth but in the heritage his restraint and vision bequeathed upon us. It is not for naught that we bless our sons on Shabbat that they may become like Menasheh and Ephraim. After all, they were the first sibling pair who lived in harmony with each other.

It is Joseph’s moral passion coupled with intelligent vision, bound by the cords of restraint that redeems him. Toxic patterns of anger and abuse, of impulse and danger can be broken. Although the Joseph story eventually leads into the physical slavery of our people, its message is ultimately hopeful. No matter how roped in we may be, we need not be slaves of our passions but can be free to serve God with a pure conscience and clear vision instead.

Parashat Vayishlach

Sermon Sinai Synagogue

Parashat Vayishlach

Esther Hugenholtz

Overcoming Our Fears

Like many of the Torah’s characters, Jacob invites feelings of ambivalence on part of the reader. On the one hand, we feel a certain warmth and reference towards him – he is one of our patriarchs, after all.

On the other hand, Jacob elicits a less charitable response as well. He is a perennial trickster, a conman, a thief of birthrights and a breaker of women’s hearts. Does he do justly, we are left to wonder. He dupes his ‘all brawn-but-very-little brain’ brother Esau out of his birthright. Then his uncle Laban tricks Jacob in return. Swapping Leah for his beloved Rachel at his wedding, demanding an extra seven years’ hard labour. Jacob does gets his own back. He in turn swindles Laban. Meanwhile, his wives vie for his attention and clamour for his love. Just as Jacob and Laban have a stand-off through the amount of livestock they can produce, Leah and Rachel, with the help of mandrakes and handmaids engage in a fierce breeding competition of their own.

In short, the Jacob narrative is blighted by avarice and jealousy, pettiness and deception, passive aggression and greed. None of the protagonists involved manage to hold onto higher moral ground. All are less-than-perfect human beings, driven on in search for recognition and validation. The Torah almost seems to warn us: the family unit is not always the safest place to be. Families can be battlefields, cruel and treacherous lands.

Of course, we can explore the dysfunctional dynamics further. We only need to skip back one generation back to the troubling relationships between Abraham, Isaac and Ishmael, Sarah and Hagar. There is plenty in the narratives of B’reishit to be ambivalent about.

And yet, despite (or perhaps because of) the pain, conflicts and struggles, there is an emotional depth to be found as well. It is easy to dwell on the theme of conflict. After all, conflict reigns supreme and is externalised further when Jacob wrestles the anonymous angel on the bank of the River Jabbok. But what about if we see this parashah in light of overcoming fear?

The pivotal moment, after all, is when Jacob stops running away from what he fears most: the confrontation with his alienated brother. When Jacob is presented with the reality of being reunited with his twin, he is afraid. The Torah states:

“Vayira Ya’acov me’od va’yetzer lo’ – ‘And Jacob became very afraid and was distressed...’ (Gen. 32:8).

A bit further on, the text elaborates his fears as he prays:

“Hatzileini na meyad achi meyad Esav ki yare ani oto” – ‘Now deliver me from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau for I am afraid of him...’ (Gen. 32:12)

It is not hard to imagine what Jacob fears. He fears vengeange and reprisal, he fears inviting violence at the hand of his strong, warrior sibling in retribution of the hurt he caused Esau all those years ago.

What is remarkable is not that Jacob is afraid. On the contrary; it is very unremarkable – and therein lies the key. It is entirely understandable because we would be equally afraid in his position. What is remarkable, however, is how Jacob’s fear transforms him. He could respond in two ways, flight or fight. He could easily retreat into his own emotions, flee the scene, run away, give up on the project of reconciliation. Or he could overcompensate his fears through the age-old strategy of the attack being the best defence. He could choose to attack his brother and his tribe. He could try and hurt him yet again.

But Jacob uses his fear to transform himself.

The Midrash in both Genesis Rabbah and Tanchuma comment on Jacob’s fear and break it down into two components. He was afraid that he would get killed. This clearly is a knee-jerk response of Jacob’s reptilian brain, a logical but amoral conclusion geared towards self-preservation. But interestingly, Jacob’s fear becomes a launching pad for a broader concern. He is equally distressed that he may be killed himself.

Out of Jacob’s darkest night of the soul emerges his first noble sentiment.

This is a man who has always taken, so to say, good care of himself. He is not a violent man; a dweller of tents. But that does not make him wholly good. He has made sure to turn every opportunity to his advantage, through sleight of hand and powers of persuasion. Has Jacob ever looked out for anyone else?

In his fear, then, lies his first selfless act. And so when he prays to the Eternal, he prays on behalf of his brother. ‘Achi’, he says, ‘my brother’. It is superfluous, really. The text could merely have said ‘meyad Esav’, [deliver me from] Esau’. It is his fear that prompts Jacob to reach out and restore a broken relationship, to think of the other, rather than himself. In true Buberian fashion, this is when Esau stops being an ‘It’ but becomes truly ‘Thou’, the wholly humanised Other. For the first time, perhaps, Jacob saw Esau for who he was. Not a brawny fool to deceive nor a wild warrior to run from, but his long lost twin.

It is then that he is given the strength to wrestle the angel – identified by some Midrashim as Esau’s guardian angel – and to seek the angel’s blessing.

Jacob is transformed. And through this, he becomes Israel. And Israel is redeemed.

Is it any wonder that this transformation takes place at a riverbank, a silver ribbon cutting yet binding one liminal moment to another? It is often at borders and boundaries, at the edges of the sea and world that we become changed and better.

Israel’s secret was not his trickery. But rather that he stopped tricking. Not only others, but more importantly, himself. He looked himself hard in the eye and found compassion for others. May we pray that our fears – as dark and debilitating as they can seem – can lead to goodness and healing. Among the brokenness of the relationships of our lives, we can all face our fears, wrestle them to the ground and meet goodness and love all the days of our lives.

Shabbat shalom!

Parashat Vayera

Sermon for Sinai Synagogue, Parashat Vayera

It’s Always Time for Tea Time

I have a problem: I am addicted.

I always had an inclination towards this substance but it is you Brits who’ve send me over the edge. It is readily available and always on offer. It’s affordable, indulgent and easy. How can I say no... to a cup of tea?

Tea is everywhere. A gentle cup of Earl Grey wakes me up in the morning and a stout cup of Yorkshire tea sees me through a long day of classes. And there’s always a moment for a ginger infusion just before bed. I simply cannot express how much I love tea. And I have Britain to thank (and blame) for it.

There are many things to love about tea. There’s the obvious perk of caffeine, the nectar and ambrosia of graduate students and office dwellers alike. There’s the comfort of a steaming ceramic mug held in cupped hands. There’s the pomp and ceremony of a proper Afternoon Tea. And like most converts, I am a bit fanatic about it. I probably love tea more than the British. What is there not to love about scones (did I pronounce it right?) clotted cream and the cutest little sandwiches known to humankind?

Lest you think I obsess over tea and this sermon becomes completely silly, the reason I love tea the most is because of the values it represents. Serving tea is a small but warm gesture of ‘gemilut chasadim’ – an outpouring of typical British ‘hachnassat orchim’, hospitality.

Of course Avraham Avinu would not have put the kettle on the stove for a ‘cuppa’, but we do know that he served ‘curds and milk and a tender calf’ - ‘chem’ah v’chalav u’ben habakar’ (Gen. 18:8) - when three mysterious men revealed themselves at the entrance of his tent.

It is in this Parashat Vayera that Abraham’s legendary hospitality makes itself known. Only three verses back, in last week’s Parashah, Abraham circumcised himself and his kin. Now, on a hot day, Abraham is recovering in the shadow of his tent. We can only imagine how miserable he must have felt.

Even so, he immediately sprang to action when three anonymous men approached him. He offered them water for bathing and the choicest of foods. He did not demand to know who they were or what the purpose of their visit was. If Abraham would have been a Brit, sitting on the curb in front of his house, looking out at the drizzling rain, I am sure he would have welcomed his guests with PG Tips – or better yet – Fortnum and Mason’s Royal Blend!

The Talmud identifies hachnassat orchim – the welcoming of guests – as a key expression of gemilut chasadim. The Gemara (Bavli Sukkot 49b) engages in a lively debate: what is preferred? Tzedakah, an appropriate redress of social imbalances or gemilut chasadim, acts of loving kindness? Intuitively, one would opt for tzedakah. Is it not better to pay workers a living wage, aid the poor and heal the sick rather than pouring whimsical cups of tea for guests? And yet, Rabbi Eleazar decides that deeds of loving kindness are preferable – because we go beyond the letter of the law and do not expect reward. The ultimate gemilut chesed then, is burying the dead because certainly they can’t repay you!

The key to understanding this lies in personal transformation. We can legislate workers’ rights and impose socially just laws. But the political stays political. It is easy for new social norms to be taken for granted and to be neglected. Gemilut chasadim, however, engages us in a deeper and more personal way, calling us to individual accountability. The personal is political. Of course, one should not get mired down in navel-gazing; on the contrary. Gemilut chasadim hosts our idealism. It opens the door and offers it a seat at the table of our conscience. The moment we transform our own actions and immediate surroundings, we may very well feel empowered to make bigger and bolder changes yet.

It is no surprise then that the same Parashah that opens with a mundane story of Abraham feeding his guests, leads into the Sodom and Gomorrah narrative. Only when Abraham experienced the personal transformation through providing his guests with loving kindness, was he able to see their divine humanity fully revealed, as the verb ‘vayera’ suggests. Once you see the Divine Image in the faces of those near and dear you, it becomes easier to translate that concern for humanity as a whole. Only then did he have the courage of his conviction to argue for the depraved denizens of Sodom. His ‘gemilut chasadim’ provided a launching pad for his audacious call to tzedakah – justice: ‘hashofet kol ha’aretz lo ya’aseh mishpat?’ - ‘shall not the Judge of all the earth act justly?’

But the ironic symmetries do not end there. Abraham’s great virtue was hospitality. Sodom’s great vice was the lack thereof. Both Ezekiel (16:49) and the Midrash (Midrash Rabbah 49:6) explain that ‘the great outcry’ (tza’akat) was on account of Sodom’s oppression of the poor. It is ‘middah k’neged middah’ – measure for measure.

But not only that. The Rabbis of the Talmud created an ideal moral category of ‘lifnim meshurat hadin’ – ‘going beyond the letter of the law’, which is a logical outflow from gemilut chasadim. This to counter its greatest opposite: the principle of ‘middat sedom’, ‘the character of Sodom’, where the law is abused to oppress and where original ideals of tzedakah and mishpat become unhinged and corrupted.

Gemilut chasadim and the principle of lifnim meshurat hadin, then, are the counterweight to cynicism and self-interest that can slip into legalised cruelty. Our sacred and random acts of kindness can tip the balance towards a kinder world.

So next time you invite someone round for a cup of tea, consider the import of a gesture so small. A friend, a relative, a lonely soul, a congregant, a stranger. Invite people into your homes and hearts. Imagine a world where all are seated around the table of righteousness, enjoying the feast of kindness. All great things start small, when the humanity and divinity of each of us is revealed.

Shabbat shalom!