Celebrate Away!

There is a truism that we always remember where we were and what we were doing when we heard about certain pivotal events. Those who were around on the day of the assassination of President Kennedy, for example, remember where, when and how they received word. I was only a very small child in first grade in Queens, New York on that day, but I remember a sudden change in the school schedule, with an assembly being called at the end of the day to inform us of the events in far-away Dallas before dismissing us for the weekend. I have a similarly vivid memory of where I was and what I was doing when I heard about a much more recent event – the attacks on our country on September 11th, 2001.

I’m sure that many of you experienced one of those ‘pivotal events,’ as I did, last Sunday night, the First of May, 2011. I was sitting on the sofa downstairs in the family room, listening to the TV. I say ‘listening’ because I was soaking my eye with a warm compress and had my glasses off. Geraldo Rivera was on the tube, interviewing someone about something; I was paying scant attention. Then, suddenly Rivera’s voice went up an octave as he stopped in mid-sentence and began talking about the killing of Osama Bin Laden. This will be one of those moments etched in time for me; glasses off and the TV all fuzzy in front of me, and all of a sudden a clarity as reportage of the raid on that compound in Pakistan began to unfold.

I was happy, to be sure. Why would one cry crocodile tears over the death of such an evil man as Bin Laden? Even so, I was impressed when President Obama came on TV a while later, that he effected a serious and semi-somber tone. This, although I did imagine that the corners of his mouth were tending to curl upward as he made the announcement. But when I saw the video images of the crowds that had spontaneously gathered in front of the White House and in Times Square and at Ground Zero, celebrating jubilantly, I did feel some sense of disdain. Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, Proverbs 24 admonishes us. I cannot count the times I have heard that scripture quoted, or quoted it myself.

I’ve thought about that admonition quite a few times over this week as I’ve contemplated the reality that is the evil Bin Laden unleashed. I’ve thought about it as I’ve gone about my business in the days since Sunday. I’ve thought about it as I’ve seen everywhere faces full of new hope. Even in the cell blocks of the ‘Supermax’ prison in Florence, Colorado, where I went for my monthly visit with Jewish inmates, I noticed a more upbeat mood than usual. This, among the inmates as well as the staff!

I realize that this new hope, this jubilation at the killing of Bin Laden, is far more than gloating over the death of a bad man. It is an affirmation that, in addition to Evil, there is also Good in this world…and sometimes, Good wins. It is the same rejoicing that we experience – rightly so – when a serial rapist, or child molester, or murderer, is caught and brought to justice. We grouse when we see injustice; why shouldn’t we rejoice when we see justice?

On Monday night I received a mass e-mail from ‘Rabbi’ Michael Lerner, the publisher of the Jewish magazine Tikkun. In it, he cautioned us from rejoicing over the death of Bin Laden. He invoked the act we perform in the Passover Seder, spilling a drop of wine for each of the Ten Plagues visited upon the Egyptians. Just as our joy over our own deliverance is tempered by knowledge of the suffering of others, we should stifle any jubilation we may feel over the death of Bin Laden. So Lerner wrote, and he was not the only Jewish voice to express such sentiments. On Monday, Rabbi Shmueley Boteach posted similar sentiments in his blog on the Huffington Post.

Of course, in recent days I also heard the voices of a number of Christians who reminded their community of the admonition of Jesus that one must love one’s enemy. Rabbi Boteach reminds us that Judaism makes no such demand. He wrote the following:

Judaism stands alone as a world religion in its commandment to hate evil. Exhortations to hate all manner of evil abound in the Bible and G-d declares His detestation of those who visit cruelty on His children. Psalm 97 is emphatic: "You who love G-d must hate evil." Proverbs 8 declares, "The fear of the Lord is to hate evil." Amos 5 demands, "Hate the evil and love the good." And Isaiah 5 warns, "Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil." And concerning the wicked, King David declares unequivocally, "I have hated them with a perfect hatred. They are become enemies to me." (Psalm 139) Hatred is a valid emotion, the appropriate moral response, to the human encounter with inhuman cruelty. Mass murderers most elicit our deepest hatred and contempt.

Even so, Boteach went on to invoke the spilling of wine for the Egyptians at the Passover Seder, as well as the aforementioned admonition of Proverbs 24, as well as the Talmud’s rebuke of the people Israel dancing over the demise of the Egyptians in the Red Sea, to caution us against rejoicing over the death of Bin Laden.

By the time I read all this, I had long since gotten over the initial disdain I’d felt toward the celebrants on the night of Sunday, the First of May. I had decided that they’d been right in following their instincts to spontaneously express their joy. The death of Osama Bin Laden is something over which to rejoice. For how many deaths has this man been responsible? Thousands directly, and many thousands more indirectly. We should spill out drops of wine for Bin Laden’s victims, not for him. Remember, at the Passover Seder we’re acknowledging the suffering of the Egyptians brought upon them by their ruler, the Pharaoh. We’re not crying for the fate of Pharaoh himself.

Rather than mute our celebration at the demise of one who caused so much evil, we should express solidarity with his victims. Our tears should be for the victims of evil, not its perpetrators. If we expressed a uniform regret at the loss of any human life, we would be in the position of equating an evil person with his victim. That for me is the supreme irony of the statement of Federico Lombardi, a spokesman for the Vatican. On Monday, he declared: “A Christian never rejoices in the death of any man, no matter how evil.” So for a Christian – at least according to this view – the value of one life is the same as another. I wonder how many Christians really believe this? Probably more than a few, since many Jews believe this also.

But the absurdity of this concept – that we should mourn the death of the evildoer just as we mourn the death of his victim – seems incredibly ironic in that it was published on Yom Hashoah, the day on which we memorialize the victims of the Holocaust. While not having been around then, I can’t imagine having felt anything other than jubilation at the news of Hitler’s death or that of the surrender of Germany in 1945.

What I’m trying to say, dear Jews, is that if you felt any sense of elation upon hearing the news of the demise of Osama Bin Laden, you needn’t feel any shame whatsoever. No, your happiness only indicated a moral clarity that enabled you to differentiate between an evil man and his victims. You should be proud that you possess such clarity. If that clarity enabled you to spontaneously rejoice – even loudly shouting U-S-A, U-S-A! then I hope you enjoyed the emotional release. It’s okay to celebrate raucously upon reading in the Megillah of Esther on Purim of the downfall of the evil Haman. So too it would have been okay to join the raucous crowds in New York, Washington and elsewhere on Sunday night in celebrating the downfall of an evil man. Or, to quietly say a shehecheyanu, as I did.

We don’t spill ten drops of wine over the death of Hitler, and we certainly shouldn’t do so over Bin Laden. We might spill wine, or simply express solidarity, with the people of Afghanistan whom Bin Laden and his allies the Taliban imprisoned in a prison of medieval hate.

I actually had an opportunity to do that in a very small way on a trip to New York in December, 2001. I was wandering around Times Square looking for a place to eat when on a side street I spied an Afghan kabob restaurant. Still wearing my Air Force uniform after the trip from Colorado, I marched in and sat down. It was a small place; the somewhat flabbergasted owner walked over to my table and stood over me with a questioning look on his face.

“It’s not your fault,” I told him, referring to his native country’s providing a base for Al Qaida. “Hopefully, this scourge will pass soon.”

I don’t remember the name of that little restaurant off Times Square where I ate that night. I do, however remember the smiles of the owner and the delicious kabobs I ate. And of course, that brings to mind the old joke about the common theme that runs through many Jewish holidays: They tried to kill us all, they didn’t succeed, let’s eat.

Bin Laden is dead. Let’s celebrate without guilt.

Finding Joy in Passover and Parenthood

As I'm sure you know, we Jews have been celebrating Passover this week. This year, I attended and conducted FIVE Passover Seders; two were the 'normal' ones on the first two nights of Passover, and three were 'demonstration' Seders for non-Jewish groups.

On the second night of Passover, we held a a wonderful community event at which almost 100 people came to Temple Beit Torah to celebrate the Festival of Freedom together; some were members of our congregation, and others were non-members from the community who came either as guests of our members or because they'd heard our Seder was open to the public.

As I was circulating during the meal at our community Seder and fielding questions, one from a woman present – not a member of Beit Torah – floored me. She asked, “How many years does Jewish identity remain strong when parents take ‘time off’ from ‘doing’ Judaism, for example making a Seder?”

My answer reflected my incredulity at having been asked such a question: “Why would one want to take any years off from doing Judaism, in particular Passover?” I further expressed that while to be sure exhausting (when making one for about 100 people), the reward for celebrating Passover is the great joy in having a part in the ongoing narrative of freedom that Passover celebrates. Unspoken was my sadness that someone would find it burdensome rather than joyful and ultimately energizing.

Later in self-reflection, I thought a bit more about the question and my thoughts took me back to my years teaching Philosophy at the Air Force Academy. It’s no secret that the vast majority of young people who attend USAFA do so with the ambition of ending up in an Air Force cockpit as a pilot. During their busy four years (that’s an understatement) at the Academy, to everything which they must do, they apply the ‘cockpit test’: How well must I master this that it will help, or at least not hinder me in my goal of getting into a cockpit? The course that I taught, Ethics and War, apparently scored low; I saw little of the vaunted USAFA excellence in the way my students prepared the readings for my class. Rather, I saw a minimalism as many of my cadets cynically worked just as hard as they thought they had to, in order to pass the class with a ‘C’ and stay off academic probation, which status would interfere with their social lives. But many of the cadets miscalculate, get a lower grade than they’d expected, and find themselves on academic probation anyway as well as missing out on the enrichment they may/would have received had they applied themselves to the class with the Air Force Core Value of ‘Excellence in all we do.’

What does this have to do with the question I was asked last night at the Seder? It's the essential cynicism of the inquiry, which reminds me of the unfortunate cynicism I found when teaching at USAFA. The attitude expressed represents a cynicism about Jewish life that only contributes to the weakening of Jewish identity. If that’s your attitude toward Jewish observance – I really don’t want to do it, but I’ll do it as much as I think I have to in order to keep my kids thinking of themselves as Jewish – you’ve probably already lost the game. Jews and Judaism will survive, but your kids will probably be on its margins, or completely outside. We parents teach our children volumes by our enthusiasm – or lack thereof – for the things we do in life.

It’s hard to feel we’re ‘forcing’ our kids to do something that they complain about. Just because I’m a rabbi, doesn’t mean my kids are always enthusiastic about Jewish observance. But Clara and I make them do it anyway. At the community Seder I received a reward, or at least a confirmation that some of my enthusiasm has indeed rubbed off on my kids. I was doing one more demonstration Seder the night after (on the third night of Passover) at a church. Mentioning it to my kids, I told them they were exempt; after three nights in a row they could stay home and ‘chill.’ But they wanted to attend with me.

So my kids' appreciation of our traditions does not come from my being a rabbi; it comes from them observing that I derive authenitc joy from engaging in Jewish observance, even when it isn't convenient and requires a lot of work. It is the antidote of the attitude of the parent who want to know how much Judaism they have to 'do' to make sure their kids will respond positively to it. The answer is: your kids aren't stupid; when you're too tired, busy, or unmoved to want to do it, they get that.

Dennis Prager, one of my favorite commentators on contemporary life, loves to talk about happiness as an obligation. Even if you don't feel happy, you have an obligation for the sake of those close to you to act happy. And - surprise, surprise! - when you act happy you often end of being happy!

I think that Jewish observance for parents, who wish to be role-models for their kids, is analagous. If you don't feel that is brings you joy and moves you, try acting as if it does. At the very least, you'll teach your kids an important lesson about commitment, but then again, you just may end up moved and joyful.

Take Time to Mourn

This week’s portion Acharei Mot, begins with an instruction for Aaron concerning the things he must not do immediately after the loss of his two sons. G-d tells Moses to instruct his brother not to enter the Holy of Holies until a period of time has passed. Aaron must allow his grief to pass before he can resume his duties as High Priest. He must give himself time to recover lest he enter the presence of G-d with thoughts of his own loss rather than of the needs of his people. He must take a Time Out. When he is ready to resume his duties, he must bring a sin-offering to atone for himself.

Two weeks ago, in Parashat Tazria, we similarly read that a woman, having given birth, must also wait a prescribed period and then bring a sin-offering.

But wait a minute – what is the Torah trying to tell us? Does having a baby, or losing one’s children, make one stained by sin? Is the implication tantamount to ‘blaming the victim’? In a word, no.

Ibn Ezra explains concerning the woman giving birth: the offerings are for any bad thoughts she might have had toward her husband while in the throes of labor. In other words, this acknowledges that when we experience trauma, we may think, or even say out loud, oaths that we will regret later. The sin-offering is the ancients’ way to move beyond our thoughts and words, and get on with our lives despite them.

Today, absent the Beit Miqdash, we don’t have such a neat way to turn from anything we may have said at a bad moment. Instead, we must get together with the one against whom we have said the negative things, and beg their forgiveness. Some Jews ritually go around among family and friends immediately before Yom Kippur and ask for a blanket forgiveness “for anything bad I might have said to you, deliberately or inadvertently, in the past year.” Perhaps there is some value in such statements. They remind us that we often do have loose tongues and do say negative things – knowingly or not – to and about those who are closest to us. But the ritual falls far short of what we would ideally do. And that would be to recognize immediately or soon after we have attacked someone with our words, and beg forgiveness then.

But I want to return to the premise in the opening verses of this week’s Torah portion. That Aaron must take deliberate steps, and allow some time to elapse, between losing his two sons, and the resumption of his duties.

In normative Jewish practice today, we have certain ritual behaviors that are prescribed when we lose a close relative. Most of you know the term, shiva, as in sitting shiva. Of course, the word is Hebrew for ‘seven’ and it refers to the practice of remaining in one’s house for seven days after burying a loved one. Some of you know some details of the practice. The mourners sit on low stools and do not groom themselves. Mirrors are covered. Friends and acquaintances come to the house of mourning, bring food, sit with the mourners and provide a minyan for thrice-daily prayers so that the mourners can say Kaddish.

In our contemporary world, many Jews eschew these practices. Those who generally see themselves as being not-very-religious, or not religious at all, see them as a burden. In our go-go world, the idea of stopping all activity for seven days to mourn seems out of synch and will only push back other daily needs that do not stop. Just as an example, if you’re working, your employer is unlikely to grant you a week off to sit shiva. Instead, you’ll have to take a week of paid vacation, a precious commodity for most working Americans. But when we fail to mourn effectively, we rob ourselves of an important tool that can help us to come to terms with our loss and help us to contextualize it and move on with our lives.

Yesterday was the yahrzeit for my own father, who passed away six years ago. I did not observe shiva, nor did I observe sheloshim, the second stage of mourning for the remainder of the first month. Clara, the kids and I travelled from Germany where we were living then, to Virginia as my father was dying. The day after the burial, we were winging our way back to Germany. Two days later, I was on my way to Kuwait to help our troops there celebrate Passover. I’m not trying to make myself a hero. The trip had been planned for months and I was loath to cancel it in order to observe shiva. But the truth is really more wrapped up in our go-go lifestyle and buying into the mentality that I did not need to sit for seven days to Get Over It. I buried myself in my work, especially the important work of helping deployed troops celebrate a major holiday. That would be more therapeutic than taking a week of my life to sit and mourn. I fell for the mentality that has, and will overcome many of you when you experience a loss. Let me get up, dust myself off, and get on with my life. But that is exactly what our mourning practices are designed to achieve. To balance this need, with the need to remember, and honor, the one whom we’ve lost.

Over my rabbinic career, including my three years here at Beit Torah, I have officiated at many funerals and tried to help many families through the mourning process. As a liberal rabbi, I’ve never ‘pushed’ families against their inclination to do the traditional Jewish funerary practices. A time of loss is, after all, not a time of judgment; it is not a time to give even the appearance of trying to use guilt to make someone do what they’re not inclined to do. But in all honesty, as I think back upon the experiences of those whom I’ve served – as well as my own experience of loss – I don’t think I’ve done them a favor by not suggesting the traditional mourning practices, at least in some modified way.

In our contemporary world, it is indisputably difficult to stop our busy lives for a time to observe shiva and sheloshim. In the same way, it is against the grain of our mentality to stop our busy lives every Friday evening to observe Shabbat for a day. All these practices feel burdensome in the context of our rational mindsets. But in eschewing them, we rob ourselves of something precious. We transgress traditional Jewish practice, and that is unlikely to trouble us. But we also deny ourselves important and therapeutic tools for living lives of balance.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a column in the congregational bulletin on the importance of being present here on the weeks of your yahrzeits. To have the opportunity to say the Kaddish prayer in the embrace of community. To spend just a moment remembering and honoring the one whom you’ve lost. Most of the congregation did not take my words to heart. I continue to read the weekly list of names for Kaddish and note that few of the families are represented here in our sanctuary. One member actually took me to task about my column; she telephoned to tell me that she was “offended” that I should suggest that mourners have an obligation to be present for the weeks of their yahrzeits. That’s very sad. I wasn’t trying to lay guilt, but to use my knowledge – both the theoretical and my personal experience – to help you to work through your respective losses.

Aaron is told to put aside his duties for a period of time, to give himself time to breathe, time to mourn. The message isn’t that his duties aren’t important – he is, after all, the High Priest. Rather, the message to take away is that his own mental health is important if he is to continue to serve in his vital role on behalf of the People Israel. But you don’t need to take it from the text, take it from me: it’s important for each one of us to find the time to honor both the memory of the dead, and our own need for context and closure. Jewish practice provides us with tools to achieve these ends. They are not intended to be burdensome. They are there for your benefit.

A Defense of Religion

I'm not going to be so arrogant as to entitle this post "THE Defense of Religion"; there are clearly a number of ways to make the case for a particular religion, or for religion in general.

What prompts this post is a recent public conversation I had with a Secular Humanist. His main premise was that religion - any religion - represents a primitive expression of human longing by clinging to that which is illogical and unprovable. According to this chap's argument, only suspension of belief in the Supernatural - epitomizing notions that 'cannot be proven' - can lead one to the clarity necessary to see the world as if REALLY is and to begin to work towards perfecting our world. The argument against religion (in general) goes on to blame religion for most of the world's ills, for most of the violence committed by man against man, and for all manner of oppression of Human Rights.

It is irrefutable - and quite unfortunate - that much human blood HAS been spilled in the name of religion. But in the century recently completed, the 20th Century of the Common Era, far more violence, suffering, and death was caused by secular, anti-religious systems: specifically, Communism and National Socialism (Nazism). Almost-unimaginable millions of people lost their lives, often only after incredible suffering, and untold millions were displaced, losing the homes and the lives they knew, thanks to the wars waged by governments in the name of these two systems. It boggles the mind, and it really far overshadows the misery caused by all dark events perpetrated (e.g., Crusades, conquest of the Mediterranean by Islam) by all religions in previous centuries. At the same time, it was largely devout religionists (Christians more than any other group) who resisted, for example the Nazi terror by hiding and secreting away Jews and other who were in danger of being rounded up and slaughtered. Does this exonerate religion for its excesses over the centuries? Of course not! But it does point to the truth that religion, in and of itself, is far from the biggest problem facing humanity.

Religion generally, when at its best, is a force for good for the world. One shouldn't judge a religion beased on whether one accepts its dogmas; by definition, if you accepted any particular religion's dogmas, you would become a member of that religion. For example, if I accepted the basic premises of Christianity, I would (if I had integrity) become a Christian; it is therefore a given that I find the tenets of Christianity unbelievable.

Another false premise is that one should judge a religion besed on a selective reading of its holy text(s). It is easy to 'cherry pick' someone else's text for passages that one thinks would, for example, incite to violence. But, absent any proof that the adherents of the religion in question DO, in fact commit violent acts in the name of their faith and with reference to their text, that is a false premise. For example, one can point with disdain to the Torah's recording of G-d's instructions to the People Israel to wipe out the Canaanite Nations in their conquest of the Land of Canaan. But the REAL question is: is there any proof that Israel ever did, in fact commit atrocities against the Canaanites to begin with - or is there any documentation that the Jewish people have, since then, committed similar atrocities against any other people? If the answer is no (as I am asserting it is), then there is no logical reason to think of the TOrah as a bloodthisty book, used by the Jews as a rationale for committing bloodthirsty acts. (I would make the same challenge concerning anybody else's holy text.)

No, one should judge each world religion by the degree of goodness spread in its name by its adherents. My religion is as unbelievable to you as yours is to me, but that doesn't call either religion into question; it's simply the wrong question to ask. Michael Medved suggested this approach back in 2008, during the presidential primary season, when some Evangelical Republicans questioned whether Mitt Romney, a Mormon, could be the Party's standard bearer. I think it's an approach that supremely makes sense; we should not judge another person's religion based on whether we accept its tenets but based on how much goodness its members bring into the world. In that way, I can have a great deal of respect for, say, the Mormon faith (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Days Saints), even though I personally find many of its doctrines rather unbelievable...even silly.


The question of which is superior, religion (in general, or one religion in particular) or secularism, would be easy to settle if all religious people could be shown to be good, and all secularists bad (or vice-versa). But of course that is not the case: there are many good people and scoundrels who belong to each world religion, and secularists are both good and bad. My defending religion would undoubtably be easier if all religious people could be shown to be better people than the non-religious, and the opposite would make the secularist's case easier.

But life isn't that neat and orderly. We all know both religious people and secularists who are good, and both kinds of people who are bad. My recommendation, then is for those who are religious or secular to be willing to explain to others how and why their belief system spurs them to goodness.

I can tell you personally that I use daily Jewish rituals as tools to remind myself of G-d's enduring presence when I let Him be in my life. I don't imagine that G-d cares, as it were, whether I pray three times daily or what text I use when I do. But the act of regular prayer helps ME...it keeps me directed toward the Holy. Likewise Jewish dietary discipline (kashrut). It isn't important to me whether G-d minds whether I eat shrimp or cheeseburgers. But when I stop and choose not to eat those things it helps me to keep my mind and heart directed to the Holy One and to think about how I'm supposed to live. Likewise the Sabbath, although keeping the Sabbath uncluttered with obligations (except such as are important to my community) also helps me directly: to unwind and de-stress as I prepare for the coming week.

Some non-orthodox Jews complain that the intricate system of practices only trips them up and makes them feel inadequate if they can't follow EVERYTHING. Some Christians claim that G-d's Law is in fact intended to do exactly that, and to teach us why we need the grace that the Christian faith offers. I personally don't find either mindset to ring true. If I sometimes slip and transgress, it only serves to remind me of my humanity and that Yetzer Hara (the selfish impulse) is always present and the thing to do is ask G-d for the strength to make our selfless and good acts outnumber the others.

The Power of the Assembly

Vayak’hel Moshe et Kol Adat B’nei Yisrael…Moses assembled the entire people of Israel.

There is an incredible energy when an entire people is gathered in one place. On the occasion chronicled in this week’s Torah portion, Moses starts his oration by exhorting the people, in the name of Adonai, the G-d of Israel, to keep the Sabbath. He then launches into a long and complex charge for the people to bring forward, as their hearts may move them, materials for fashioning the Tent of Meeting, its furnishings, and the priests’ vestments.

I don’t want to focus so much on Moese' message here, rather on the power of the mass assembly. Moses is talking to the entire assembled nation. And we can only imagine the power of such a gathering. In our lifetimes, we have seen repeatedly the power of mass gatherings to change less-than-desirable situations.

Who can forget the gathering of about 200,000 souls in front of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963, where a certain civil rights leader eloquently told the assembled throngs about his dream for America? The power of the assembly, and the eloquence of the speaker, cannot be denied; the results speak for themselves. Who, after all, can rationally argue with Barack Obama sitting in the White House, that Reverend King’s dream has not largely been realized?

Twenty-six years later and half a world away, an equally large crowd gathered in Tiananmen Square in Beijing to rally peacefully for democracy. With the fall of the Soviet Union and most of her client states, the Peoples’ Republic of China was then the only globally-significant hold-out in the totalitarian world. Her people smelled and savored the fragrant breeze of freedom and wanted it for themselves. But the results were not comparable to those of the 1963 gathering in Washington DC. The Peoples’ Army moved in and brutally quashed the demonstration, killing many in the square. Others were dispatched by bullets to the head later, after interrogation and torture. Others still suffered – and even continue to suffer – hard labor in ‘re-education’ camps that rival the worst of the Soviet Gulag for their brutality. The People of China are still waiting for the Peoples’ Republic to offer them significant advances in liberty. But the Peoples’ Army still maintains a robust presence in the square, ready to quash any first stirrings of a reprise of the demonstration a of generation ago.

Today, we sit and watch with much consternation at waves of protest against authoritarian regimes in the Arab world. We wish to be optimistic as we watch throngs in Egypt and Libya stand tall against government forces, demanding freedom and democracy. Seeing ourselves as enlightened, rational people, we wish our Arab cousins the best. We hope that a radiant new awakening will engulf the Arab world, washing away the tyrants that we see as a holdover of earlier times. We want desperately to believe that, with the exit of those tyrants who have fomented hatred of Israel as a way to deflect criticism of their thievery and duplicity, the Arab street will be caught up in a new spirit of brotherhood. That they will join hands with their Jewish neighbors and the resulting cooperation will harness an incredible energy to address and solve the problems that beset the greater Middle East.

Before we rhapsodize of the New World dawning, we need to ask ourselves: why have some popular revolutions resulted in positive change for humanity while others did not? Why did the civil rights protests of the 1960’s lead to a sea-change in American Society while the Tiananmen Square protests did not accomplish the same for the people of China? I would like to offer what I see as the primary reason for the difference in outcomes.

Peaceful assembly and demonstration ‘works’ when the target of the demonstration is an entity characterized by Rule of Law, and Goodness. There is no doubt that the stain of slavery and the legacy of racial separateness sickened American society. This sickness prevented us from clearly seeing the truth of how deleterious black suffering was to the society as a whole. That is, until a series of peaceful demonstrations against the order of things, opened the eyes of America. When white America saw the gathering of Black America on the Capital Mall, and heard the eloquence of Reverend King’s plea, it opened our hearts to the truth. The creation of an equal and just society didn’t then happen overnight, or even in a year. But today, our children are growing up in a far different America, in many ways a far better America, than the one we Baby Boomers grew up in.

There can be no comparison between the America of 1963 and the China of 1989. The former was good but flawed, while the latter was – and still is – a regime of evil oppression. This is surely the primary reason for the difference in outcomes. It wasn’t that the protests did not propound equally righteous purposes. It wasn’t that the two groups of protestors were not equally ready to stand up to violence and maintain their peaceful stands.

Watching recent and continuing events unfold in the Arab world, our experience of the Civil Rights Movement of America of the 1960’s counsels us toward optimism. On the other hand, our witness of the aftermath of the Tiananmen Square massacre leads us toward pessimism. Obviously, the protests in the Arab world are fully analogous to neither historical event. Each mass movement is as different as the respective countries that provide their backdrop. We therefore look on, from the assumed safety of our own secure and free homeland, with a certain ambiguity, with a mixture of hope and fear.

And while we look on with a layman’s befuddlement, we hope and pray that our government has a much higher degree of discernment than we private citizens. Some of us are confident in that regard, while the rest of us are deeply skeptical. Recent national polling suggests that the latter group outnumber the former. We watch the Administration’s confused response to unfolding events and wonder if the President or anyone close to him has a clue.

But there is one thing, upon which we can all agree. What is now happening in Egypt, Libya, and other Arab countries matters to us. Despite our assumption of safety, if we’re honest we acknowledge that these earth-shaking events in far away places can and will affect our own interests deeply. What sort of regime will follow the deposed Mubarak in Egypt? And what will replace the soon-to-be deposed al Qaddafi in Libya, may it happen speedily? These outcomes matter profoundly to us: as Americans, and in particular as Jews. May the Holy One grant the Arab Street – and our own President – the wisdom to work diligently for the creation of just regimes of law and Goodness, amidst the ashes of bygone autocracies.

Pirkei Avot and Evil Speak

In Pirkei Avot (1.15) Rabbi Shammai enjoins us: “Say little, but do much.” Is this ever an enjoinder we need! The air around us is dense with words. While some words do inspire and goad us to good deeds, most of the words we hear do not. So many of the words we hear are not words of inspiration or instruction, but words designed to denigrate and de-legitimize. We are not careful with our words, and the world around us is worse of for it.

Our tradition lays out very specific and detailed laws for controlling our tongues. For example, we are forbidden to speak negatively of others; this is called lashon hara (evil speak). And this even applies (in most cases) to information that is true! But isn’t it important to inform others about negative truths regarding others? In a word, no. If we’re honest, most of the time when we make negative statements about others, we do so with no particularly good end in mind. We do so in order to show ourselves as having some exclusive knowledge, to cast aspersions, or to make someone else look better, truer, cleverer.

We’re permitted to give negative information about others only in specific circumstances. For example, in order to save a life, or to prevent serious harm to somebody. For example, if a friend is about to hire a babysitter, where you have absolutely true information that he has a history of making bad decisions that would endanger a child, or even (G-d forbid) child molestation. Or when giving testimony in a criminal trial.

Therefore, unless the negative information you have meets one of these limited criteria, hold your tongue and keep it to yourself. This prevents the besmirching of someone’s good reputation. This is tantamount to stealing, but worse; a person’s property can be reinstated, but their good reputation cannot be given back once taken away.

And the corollary of holding your tongue, is doing much. If the energy that we waste in speaking negatively of others were channeled into good deeds, imagine how much better this world would be.

One can’t change the world single-handedly, but one can bring significant goodness into the world by changing one’s own behavior. If all of us practiced these simple words of Shammai, imagine the good result possible!

All the best…

Rabbi Don Levy

Sisterhood Shabbat Sermon

I'm posting this a few days later; it is my sermon from Friday, when my congregation celebrated 'Sisterhood Shabbat,' honoring the contributions to our local temple life by our congregation's women's club known as 'Temple Beit Torah Sisterhood.' Since my remarks were well-received on Friday, I thought I'd share them here.
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A famous person once said: “If you want something done, your best bet is to ask a Jewish woman to do it.”

Of course many of you here tonight know that the person I just quoted is Gabrielle Giffords, the Arizona congresswoman. She was shockingly cut down by the bullet of a disturbed assassin last Saturday. But she is, thank G-d, in the midst of a breathtakingly-swift recovery that has her doctors – and the entire nation – optimistic for her future prospects.

Giffords made her quip about the power of a Jewish woman during her first campaign for congress in 2006. She further said: “Jewish women — by our tradition and by the way we were raised — have an ability to cut through all the reasons why something should, shouldn’t or can’t be done and pull people together to be successful.”

It is interesting and heartening that Giffords’ words resonated with the voters in a district where Jews are relatively thin on the ground. It makes her words ring true that she was reelected three times and is extremely popular with her constituents, whatever their party affiliation. It is of course, extremely distressing that Jared Lee Loughner, who lists 'Mein Kampf' on his list of favorite books, has been obsessed with Representative Giffords since at least 2007. It is even more distressing that a chorus of voices including the Sheriff of Pima County, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, members of congress and of the Commentariat, have spent most of this week blaming Loughner’s actions on the likes of Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck, both of whom had been virtual unknowns in 2007. But I digress…

Gabrielle Giffords’ claim about the power of a Jewish woman is, of course well-known to us here at Temple Beit Torah. After all, this temple has long been the beneficiary of the initiative and energy of its women’s auxiliary, the Temple Beit Torah Sisterhood which we honor this evening. Our Sisterhood has so much energy, they were not content to sit back and bask in our admiration this evening…they even insisted on leading this evening’s service as a group.

Most members of our congregation cannot begin to appreciate just how much the TBT Sisterhood has blessed us all. Yes, they undertake projects that raise significant financial support for the temple. But perhaps even more important is the function implicit in their very name – Sisterhood. Not just a quaint designator, a holdover from previous generations, the name ‘Sisterhood’ accurately describes the feeling of sisterly solidarity that our Sisterhood fosters among its members.

Men, we do well when we look at our women and see how they band together in mutual uplift. They teach us that the relationships we form and nurture, define the people we are. They provide us with an eminently emulate-able example of what is most important in life. But our women provide more than this all-important glimpse into the Good Life.

Our women provide the music that brings beauty to our lives. Yes, men can make music also. Some of us have been known to sing a bit, or to strum a ukulele. But without women in our lives, the music of life is muted – our lives are colorless and dull. Our women dance. That’s why the Torah gives us the example of Miriam and the women taking up the timbrel and dancing.

Last weekend was a difficult one for Jewish women, and for all Jews by extension. It was not only the attack on Gabrielle Giffords that created a void in our world. Last weekend saw the taking of Debbie Friedman from this world. Debbie Friedman, as I mentioned last week was an inspiration to Jews everywhere. She brought us a new era of sacred music; she revived the idea of singing out joyfully to G-d. Anyone who has attended a Union camp since the 1970’s, or who has attended a Reform congregation, has seen and heard the influence of Debbie Friedman’s music. One of Debbie’s most inspirational songs was Miriam’s Song, about the wonder that Miriam experienced at the shore of the sea, and how she led the women in dancing through the parted waters. In just a moment we shall sing this song.

Men, we must learn to fully appreciate the song, the dance that our women bring to our lives. In identifying this, I’m not trivializing women and their contributions to a caricature of a harem dancing and entertaining us. No, I’m literally talking about the music by which we dance through life, by which our lives are made joyous and worthwhile.

In honor of this music and dance, we expect that a few of the women here may feel led to spontaneously stand up and dance around our sanctuary in just a moment. Men, let’s see if we have the courage to stand up and dance with them.