Last week we read in the Torah one of my favorite words: vayakhel, which is also the name of the portion last week.

The common translation is convoked, as in Moses "convoked" the Israelites in order to give them the instructions for the building of the Tabernacle. The Torah has already told us about the details and nuances of the building of the Tabernacle, the sacred structure that the Israelites are to carry with them as they go, but that was when God told Moses the plans. Now Moses has to tell the Israelites the plan.

The English translation of vayakhel is limiting, because it doesn't reveal the full beauty of the Hebrew. One of the things I like about Hebrew is that parts of it are very logical: Hebrew is built upon 3 letter roots which have a meaning attached to it, and putting that root in various standard grammatical forms-nouns, active verbs, passive verbs, causative verbs, reflexive verbs, etc.-will give a different nuance of that root meaning.

In this case, the root is kuf, hey, lamed, which has the meaning of "community" or "gathering." We find this root most commonly in its noun form kehillah, which means "community." A synagogue name in Hebrew, as opposed to the English "Temple" or "Congregation" is kehillah kedosha, sacred community. The form of the word that the Torah uses do describe Moses' action is a causative verb: Moses "causes to come together as a community," or Moses "makes them in to a community."

Language and its power have been on my mind recently, especially as it pertains to Hebrew. Recently, the Hillel at Evergreen sponsored an event, Shir L'Shalom, Songs of Peace in Hebrew. I missed the event, prior commitments keeping me in my office until about and hour and a half after it started, and it was breaking up just as I got there. (I had thought it was going to go on longer-whoops!)

It was an event where folks got together in song in response to a posting in an art exhibit of photographs from the West Bank. The description of the exhibit included a sentence that "Hebrew has become the language of abuse." The offending aspect of this is the implication that a language-a cultural marker-has an inherent set of qualities and traits. And because language is deeply rooted in a society or people, that trait can then be seen as applied to that society or people. To say Hebrew is abusive is to say all those who speak and use that language are abusive.

I recognize that the intention may have been that in the context of the daily lives of Palestinians Hebrew is associated with soldiers and others who represent the authorities and occupiers. I would hope the statement is only the result of a lack of clarity. The irony then would be that an offending statement about language has come about because of a sloppy use of language. But to make such a statement can not go unchecked. To label all because of the actions of some is offensive and provocative. To essentialize a people through a characterization of language is untenable.

Hebrew is not any one thing. It is a language, and expression of a culture and society. Hebrew for me is not only the language of Israel, the language my Israeli relatives speak, but it is also the language of prayer, of Torah, of poetry and prose. It expresses contempt, but also love. It is the language of Judaism and Jewish community. When we moved into our building, we made a conscious effort to include Hebrew not only in the sanctuary through the biblical verses on the walls, and not only in our name on our sign. Hebrew also adorns the libraries, the offices and the social hall. It is the language of our Jewish community.

Previously I wrote about the Tabernacle, that the materials used to build this sacred structure were also used to build the idol of the Golden Calf. It wasn't the materials themselves that were good or evil, but the use given to them by the people. Language is the same way, language itself is not uplifting or abusive, it is how it is used that matters.

Which is why I thought the Hillel response was a great one. The response to hurtful speech is not less speech, but more speech. An offending statement about the Hebrew language should not be answered with seeking its removal (this is not something the Hillel students sought), but by answering with a different expression of that language.

[So many of our classic expressions of peace, which stretch across traditions and communities, were originally expressed in Hebrew. For example, the words from Micah: "And they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not take up sword against nation, they shall never again know war, but every one shall sit under his grapevine and fig tree with no one to disturb him." Wow.]

By using language in this way, we enrich our community. Language is a marker of a community, but how we use that language gives the community its character. And that is another reason why one of my favorite Hebrew words from the Torah is vayakhel. Not only because it is a wonderful demonstration on how that language works, but because listening to that word is what brought the Israelite together as one, in holy community, ready to build the sacred place of God.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

One of the key lessons I learned in rabbinical school is, don't leave your photocopying for right before the class you are about to teach. In other words, what can go wrong, will go wrong. The copier will be broken when you need to make copies, the microphone will not work if you just switch it on right before the service, and a snow day will come when you are supposed to write your weekly column.

I usually leave my weekly column to Wednesday night or Thursday morning. Usually ideas germinate, notes get written, but the fully formed message is rolled out Thursday morning, ready for a Thursday afternoon email "send." Alas, snow upset my plans today as school was cancelled, roads were hard to pass and although I did roll into TBH this morning, it was later than usual and plans needed to be changed.

So, I apologize, no full weekly words this week. But I will leave you with this poem for the season and for our wintery gift which descended on us this morning. I read poetry at most every service, firmly believing that lyric words can bring as much of a message as anything else.

[And as a side note, a future column (or two) will include a Rabbi FAQ, so if you have a question to include please let me know.]

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

    but he's restless-

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

    as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

             is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.

    In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

             he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,

    I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

             while the clouds-

which he has summoned

    from the north-

         which he has taught

             to be mild, and silent-

thicken, and begin to fall

    into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

    that is asleep now, and silent-

         that has turned itself

             into snow.

I have to admit to you that recently I have been guilty of violating one of the 10 Commandments.

Specifically it was "Thou shalt not envy" and the reason is the iPhone. Now, I am not the most techie person, always getting the next best thing. My technology purchases are few and far between. But when the iPhone first came out I was drawn to it-to the innovation, to its quirkiness, to its design. But I resisted. I was a Verizon customer, and I did not have a desire to break my service contract, plus my extended family was on Verizon so it was free to call them.

Then, recently, Verizon announced the iPhone and I gave in. Yohanna and I both got them, we even pre-ordered them on-line before they went on sale. My envy was satisfied, and I have been happy with it, it is an impressive machine.

I reflect on this, on this desire for a thing, as we read this week's Torah portion, Ki Tissa. It is in this portion that we read the story of the Golden Calf. The Israelites, who have just recently left Egyptian slavery, have been brought to Mount Sinai. There God is to give them the Torah which will guide their new community. Moses, their leader, ascends the mountain to meet with God, and is up there for 40 days and 40 nights.

The people begin to get restless. Their leader has disappeared, and there is no sign of the God who brought them out of Egypt and promised them a new life. They desire something new, something familiar-they desire an idol, a god they can see and touch. They ask Aaron, Moses' brother who was left in charge, to build them an idol, so he collects the gold from the Israelites and he crafts a figure of a calf. The people begin to worship it until Moses in his fury descends the mountain to punish the people.

The source for the idol, as is clear from the Torah, is the people. They come up with the idea, and when materials are needed for its construction, they provide them. The gold comes from the people. There is a dramatic juxtaposition here for immediately prior to reading the story of the Golden Calf we are given the description of the building of the Tabernacle, the Israelite's portable desert synagogue. The description is elaborate, with many intricate parts and luxuries. And in the building of the Tabernacle, the community itself is the source of the material. The Israelites are to donate their goods-gold, silver, bronze, linen, etc.-from which the Tabernacle is to be built.

So here we have two instances in which the Israelites donate their valuable goods for something to be built. The difference is in the product of the donations. In one instance it is for something powerful and holy and good-a communal gathering space that will be the location of the presence of God. The other is for something base and profane and bad-an idol which represents the antithesis of the limitless, unknowable power which the people are to strive towards. [I have recently begun showing the 7th graders, whom I teach on Sundays, the weekly "G-dcast." It is an on-line animated discourse on the weekly parasha with some intriguing insights. This idea about the two donations comes from that, from the video for parashat Terumah. Check them out at www.g-dcast.com].

The point, therefore, is not about the fact of the materials or the goods or the luxuries that the Israelites possessed, it was what they used them for. They had a choice, to make something positive or negative out of what they had. Judaism does not frown on material objects. It does not teach that we should not have what we have. But we are warned in this parasha that how we use our material objects and to what end they are applied is important. We can use what we have for good or for ill.

Ok, so maybe you are thinking this is one long justification for getting an iPhone. Its not, really. Judaism has never preached asceticism and this is another teaching that affirms that. So rather than being a justification for getting an iPhone, it is a good reminder that how I use it is of paramount importance. For it is not an end in itself, it is a tool that I can use for good or for ill. If it becomes an end in itself, it becomes an idol. If it is a tool, then it is a means of growth.

Indeed, this is true with all technology. How we use it and to what end is important. We saw that recently with the incredible events in Egypt. While Facebook and Twitter were not the cause of that revolution, those tools did make organization easier and communication faster. Technology being used for good.  I also watched this week as Watson, an IBM developed supercomputer, beat two humans on "Jeopardy." The future implications have yet to be seen, but we are here too faced with a choice, to use what we have, what we build, what we develop for good and not for ill.

This is the message the Torah is teaching. It is as if God calls out to us, "With what you have you can make a Tabernacle or a Golden Calf. That is your choice. Can you hear me now?"

Thank you for this opportunity to speak. My name is Rabbi Seth Goldstein, I serve the Jewish community in Olympia. I come here as a faith community representative in opposition to HB 1544.

In the Jewish liturgical tradition, we read the Torah, our sacred scriptures, section by section in order each Sabbath. This past week we read from the book of Exodus, chapter 22, which includes the verse "you shall not oppress a widow or orphan."

Now the Torah is not teaching us that we must only be concerned with those who have lost a spouse or a parent. Rather the text uses "widows and orphans" as a symbol for what they represent in ancient society-those who are the most vulnerable, those who are unable to care for themselves, those who require the assistance of the community in order to survive and to thrive. As a living document, a text which speaks to us today across the generations, we must therefore ask ourselves, who are the "widows and orphans in our midst? Who are those who are most vulnerable in our communities? And how can we provide the assistance they need in order to survive and thrive?

In our society those most vulnerable are the poor and those on the economic margins, the immigrant, the one seeking asylum, children and seniors. And in addition to general economic and emotional support, one form of that assistance that we are called upon to provide, Jewish tradition teaches, is health care.

Judaism teaches that life is precious and sacred, and that the preservation of life, through healing the sick and caring for the infirm, is paramount. It supersedes many other religious observances. Indeed, one can violate the observances of the holiest day of the Jewish calendar-Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement-in order to save a life. The great medieval Jewish scholar Maimonides, himself a physician, teaches that one of the foundations of a viable town is the presence of a health care system. A physician who withholds medical care is in Jewish law akin to one who sheds blood. I make this appeal for the maintenance of the Washington Basic Health Plan with maximum enrollment not because it is the right of the individual to have access to health care but because it is the obligation of the community to provide it.

This morning I took my 4 year old son to the pediatrician. Two years ago I had neurosurgery up at Swedish Hospital in Seattle. I feel blessed and full of gratitude that I have access to health care that makes both of these possible, easy and accessible. But is my life, or my son's life, any more valuable than anyone elses's? Than anyone's in this room, or in our state? My tradition teaches that the stories of Genesis, of Creation, are meant to teach us that we have common ancestry, thus no one of us is more or less worthy than another. Are we in the position to judge who is more or less worthy of health care? By passing this bill you may save money, but you do so by passing judgment on the worth of human lives.

In these difficult times, I take seriously the fact that faith communities are called upon by our government to help with social services in a time of scaling back. We do what we can with our own limited resources and lack of expertise. But at the same time we faith communities call upon you, our government, to do your part to provide for the citizens of this state. And that means ensuring all of us, and especially those most vulnerable, our "widows and orphans", have access to health care. If we do not care for those ailing around us, then it is we as a society which is ailing.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

A few weeks ago we marked as a nation Martin Luther King Day. This day, set aside to honor a great American and humanitarian, is a time to remember his life and legacy. Dr. King to me is an inspiring figure-one who transformed the way we think about ourselves as a nation and how we view our fellow human beings. His words continue to challenge us today, and I always appreciate taking time around MLK Day to reread his words and writings.

While he is remembered for the impact he had on social issues, it is also necessary to remember that King was first and foremost a minister-a man of God. His vision of the future and the possibility of the transformation of person and society was rooted in a deep faith. He drew inspiration from Scripture, and saw in religion the power to overcome obstacles and oppression. He saw in religion the power of love and compassion, interdependence and peace.

While I am inspired by calls to make MLK Day a "day on, not a day off," that is, a day set aside for service in the community, I admit I don't usually do anything for Martin Luther King Day. I always use the Shabbat of that weekend as a time to reflect on his inspiration, incorporating his words in our services, I haven't actively used that day to embody the work he challenged us to do.

This year, however, I had the opportunity to observe Martin Luther King Day by doing something in keeping with his legacy. That day I went to hear a talk in Bellevue by Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish, a Palestinian doctor with a tragic story to tell. He is currently on a book tour for his new book, I Shall Not Hate, and through a personal connection with Cantor David Serkin-Poole at Temple B'nai Torah (where Yohanna serves as Associate Rabbi), he made a stop at that congregation on Monday.

Dr. Abuelaish is a doctor from Gaza specializing in OB/GYN who studied at the University of Cairo. His life was difficult, having grown up in a refugee camp under the Israeli occupation. He was able to achieve education and success, and at one point he worked in an Israeli hospital, the only Palestinian doctor on staff. He is currently a professor of women's health at the University of Toronto, but two years ago, when he was living in Gaza, tragedy struck. During the Gaza War, an Israeli shell hit his home, killing his three daughters, and leaving one blind in one eye.

Dr. Abuelaish shared the unimaginable pain of this tragedy. All the more tragic since it came shortly after his wife died of leukemia. The loss for me is unimaginable. I cannot imagine what I would do or feel.

But I did hear what Dr. Abuelaish does and feels. Drawing on his Muslim faith, he sees a hope for a better world. He does not wish to dwell on the events of the past but what can be promised for the future. He seeks accountability for what happened to his family, but he also wishes that their lives will be redeemed through a future of peace. As a doctor, he says, he is focused on life, not death.

[As a side note, as a means of honoring his daughters, his wife and his mother, he also speaks out for women's empowerment and education, believing that the only way we will make progress in our world is if women are given the same opportunities as men.]

His is a powerful story which we need to hear and I look forward to delving deeper into it. (At the talk I picked up a copy of his book, an article in the New York Times with an excerpt is here.) It is a story which forces us to confront some of the terrible tragedies which the conflict has wrought, and the responsibility Israel bears for events such as this. And it is a story which forces us to confront that despite those tragedies we have the power of choice whether to hate or to love, to push away or draw close, to focus on differences or recognize our common humanity and history.

As part of his talk, he told the story of the woman throwing starfish into the sea. She would walk along the beach, and whenever she saw a starfish lying on the sand, she would pick it up and hurl it back into the water. She was approached by an incredulous man who said, "This whole beach is littered with starfish. Do you actually believe that by throwing one into the sea you will make a difference?" And she replied, "it made a difference to that one."

We as individuals are not going to transform the world by ourselves. But we do have the power to transform the part of the world we have direct connection to. If we make the commitment to love, not hate; to seek peace, not war; to seek redemption, not revenge; in the places we can make a difference, we will have contributed to the transformation of the world. The fact of his talk on MLK Day was not lost on the large crowd which came out to hear him speak. For Dr. King and Dr. Abuelaish share this powerful message.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

This week's Torah reading is the portion mishpatim. Mishpatim means statutes, or laws, and, following the story of the giving of the Torah read last Shabbat, is a list of many of the laws and guidelines the Israelites, and subsequently we, are supposed to follow.

It's an eclectic list in the Torah, seemingly not in any order or organization, which touches on family relations, ethics, business dealings, holiday celebrations, sacrifices, treatment of the poor, Shabbat, dietary laws and more. Needless to say it is a very rich portion, one which invites deep reflection and engagement. Some of the laws feel very familiar to us, others more remote. And some of those remote laws reveal themselves to have deeper meanings that speak to us, while others just seem completely removed from our world view (slavery, for example).

One law in the portion, which always brings a chuckle to parents, is Exodus 21:17-"One who insults his or her father or mother shall be put to death." While it is even unclear if the Torah text uses capital punishment for telling off your parents as a true punishment or a rhetorical deterrent, we think it funny because of the extremism implied. But we would be wrong to dismiss this verse simply because we wouldn't imagine condemning people to death for insulting their parents.

This verse usually falls under the larger category of family relations, of which the Torah and Jewish tradition has much to teach us. It teaches us about the respect and honor due to our parents and elders. (There are times when this is not the case, but that is for another time.) But this verse can also be put in the category of hurtful speech, of which our tradition also has much to say.

In this portion we also have the famous dictum, "do not oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." This verse and the other about insulting parents can be linked, for one of the ways we oppress others is through our speech.

I was reading recently of an initiative I hadn't heard about previously, called "No Name Calling Week," which is this week. It is focused primarily on youth and bullying, and serves as a means of bringing attention to and education on bullying. Bullying takes on many forms beyond the physical. Bullying can be emotional, through gestures or social exclusion, and it can be verbal, through taunts, teasing and name calling. The names we call each other have meaning, and unlike the old dictum, "sticks and stones..." names can really hurt us. And with the prevalence of computers, email, social networking, texting, etc., there is also cyber bullying, which is sending hurtful messages across these various media.

This initiative (you can read more about it here) is meant to bring attention to the harm bullying causes. Calling people names, putting them down, withholding encouragement, forcing isolation are damaging and dangerous behaviors that we all have a responsibility to watch out for. They may not show physically as other forms of abuse, but they can be just as harmful. I encourage you to look at the materials offered, and think about the young people in your lives.

But it doesn't stop with young people, for we can all benefit from thinking about "No Name Calling Week." How often do we use epithets, or inflammatory language when speaking about another? Whether in jest or true anger, we need to be careful about how and when we use the language we use.

Two verses before the one about insulting parents we find, "One who strikes his or her father or mother shall be put to death." So now we have the same punishment for physical injury as for verbal injury. And here is the meaning revealed: verbal injury must be treated the same way we treat physical injury, and the attention we pay to it must be as rigorous.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

Last week I had the honor of giving the invocation at the Washington State House of Representatives as it opened the 2011 Legislative session. I had the opportunity to sit in at the beginning of the session and watch the ritual of the opening-the walking in of the legislators, the  swearing in of the Representatives, the election of the Speaker of the House.

Yet despite the pomp and circumstance, there was a palpable tension in the air. Both in the words spoken and the feelings left unsaid, there was a tension in that everyone in the room knew it was to be a difficult session, with hard choices ahead. Due to the financial problems and shortfalls facing our state, and indeed many states, there will be some tough decisions to be made. Unfortunately what this may mean is that the social safety net is crumbling, and leaving our most vulnerable at risk.

It is a hard situation. So what can we do?

In the Torah reading last week, when we recounted the story of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea and finally leaving the grip of Egyptian slavery, we come across an interesting passage. The Israelites, after having suffered for centuries as slaves, after being led out of bondage by Moses, having physically crossed the Red Sea which miraculously parted for them, begin to complain. They complain because they do not have water to drink or food to eat. They want to go back to Egypt, they say. Yes, they were slaves, they argue, but at least they knew where their next meal was coming from.

In response, God tells Moses to tell the Israelites that indeed, food will be provided for them. God will send down manna which the Israelites are to collect and eat. The manna will be sent down every day except on Shabbat, and for that day the Israelites will gather a double portion the day before. They are told to gather what they need, each for his or her own household.

Then something astounding takes place: "The Israelites did so, some gathering much, some little. But when they measured it, the one who had gathered much had no excess, and the one who had gathered little had no deficiency: they had gathered as much as they needed to eat." (Exodus 16:17-18) Indeed, the ones who did gather too much and hoarded it discovered the next day that it was maggot-infested, and Moses was angry.

Each took according to what they needed, and no one lacked. Some needed more, some less, depending on the size of their family, but everyone was able to get what they needed. The resources were evenly distributed, and everyone in the community was supported and stable.

So what do we do when we are faced with poverty and inequality? What do we do when we are faced with a crumbling social safety net? We remember this story, we recall the lessons of the story, and we tell this story.

Earlier this week we remembered the life and legacy of a great leader, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. King was a modern day prophet who challenged America to live up to its professed ideals. King had many important things to say to us about civil rights, war and peace, and poverty.

King spoke his message not only on the mall in Washington or other civic gatherings, but from the pulpit of churches. For King was a religious man, a spiritual man, who had his grounding in his faith and scriptural teachings. The story of the Exodus which we read in the Torah was of great importance to King for he saw in it the power of transformation and redemption.

And just as he called out from his sanctuary, we can call out from ours. King had an important message to religious institutions: "The church must be reminded that it is not the master or the servant of the state, but rather the conscience of the state. It must be the guide and the critic of the state, and never its tool. If the church does not recapture its prophetic zeal, it will become an irrelevant social club without moral or spiritual authority." (Strength to Love, 1963)

So now is a time for us. A time for us to be the conscience of the state. This is a time for us to look back on our ancient teachings and remind our leaders what they say about how we are to structure society. We learn from what happened after the crossing that we must rise up against poverty. Against unfair distribution of resources. Against our government and civil society turning its back on the poor.

We have a voice of reason, of conscience, and we must use it. The next few weeks will be hard, there are difficult choices ahead. Help our leaders in the Capitol make them by raising your voice on behalf of those who need our support.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

This week's Torah portion recounts the story of the crossing of the Red Sea, when the Israelites make their way out of Egypt to freedom. Upon their crossing, they break out into celebration and song-a joyous moment for a people long oppressed by slavery.

What happens immediately following can be described as unexpected, even comic. As soon as they move away from the Red Sea, they enter into the wilderness and immediately begin complaining. Not once, but several times. First it is about not having water to drink, then about not having any food. This second time they essentially say, "we left Egypt for this?!" preferring to go back to a life of slavery in order to have their three hots and a cot.

It is a humorous story because of the juxtaposition of the story of freedom and the story of the complaining. Within 2 Torah verses the Israelites go from singing to grumbling. One would think that having just left years of slavery and forced labor, they would be grateful and relieved. Instead, they are angry and spiteful.

What leads to this tone? Perhaps we can look earlier in the story for a clue. Prior to the crossing of the Red Sea, God tells Moses to tell the Israelites that Pharaoh will pursue them, but not to worry, for God will "gain glory through Pharaoh." Later when the Egyptians do give chase, Moses tells the people, "God will battle for you; you hold your peace." After the Egyptians drown in the sea, part of the song the Israelite sing extols God's militarism and warfare.

Is it a surprise, then, that the Israelites feel entitled to complain, to express anger, to lash out? That is their experience up until this point. They lived a life of violence in slavery, then witnessed as their liberation was born of violence as well. A belligerent tone was set; the Israelites were merely reflecting that which they knew.

Coming home from Torah study at TBH last Shabbat, I was stunned to read about the events which unfolded in Arizona. The attack on Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, her staff and her constituents, was horrifying. I watched and read as new details emerged, learning about those who died and were injured, and learning more about the man who perpetrated such an act and the circumstances surrounding it. We mourn those lost, we pray for those who have survived and are in need of healing and we seek understanding about what brought about an act such as this.

There are several factors which we as a people will need to confront in the wake of this shooting. Services and resources available for the mentally ill, for one. Our nation's obsession with guns and the laxity we seem to perpetuate in the ability to obtain firearms. But we will also need to confront the tone and rhetoric of our civil discourse.

Judaism teaches that we can not take language lightly. In the stories of Genesis, God creates the world through speech. The 10 Commandments are more literally translated as the 10 "Utterances"-charges which God spoke to Moses. And there are volumes written about lashon ha'ra, "evil speech," about how speech can harm and be destructive.

And while people must be responsible for their own actions, we are all responsible for the tone and rhetoric which may foster particular actions. We can disagree without being disrespectful, and we do not need to use violent imagery to represent the civil practice of politics and governance. Unfortunately, we currently see the opposite.

There is hope to move past this. Earlier this week I had the honor of delivering the invocation at the opening session of the Washington House of Representatives. Because of this I was allowed to sit on the dais for as long as I wanted, and as someone who likes ritual I was taken in by the opening day ceremonies. After the vote for Speaker of the House, I was struck by how cordial Representatives Chopp and DeBolt, the two candidates, spoke with each other and towards each other in front of all assembled, despite the obvious political differences in what they said. And during the vote, I was struck when Chopp voted for DeBolt and DeBolt voted for Chopp. I don't know if this was law or custom, but the gesture I believe goes along way. [To contrast, the same did not take place in the U.S. House of Representatives: Rep. John Boehner abstained and Rep. Nancy Pelosi voted for herself.]

I also listened to the moving and powerful words of President Obama in his eulogy in Tucson on Wednesday. There, while mourning the victims, he did not cast specific blame but did call for a new movement towards civility in our society. I urge you to watch it if you missed it, and one line which jumped out at me was, "We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another is entirely up to us." We can not stop things from happening, but we can change our tone and language which creates a culture of incivility and violence.

This is our charge moving forward, just as it was for the ancient Israelites. The children of Israel, having been born of a violent time, react immediately in a belligerent way. This is what they have been taught, this is what they know. Their next challenge, having crossed the Red Sea successfully, is to grow and mature as a people, one based on law, practice and civil discourse. This is something that will take time as they wander in the wilderness. It is a journey that all communities take. When faced with a challenge (and in many cases an act of violence) we need to look deeply at from where we have come. It is then we can chart the course for the future.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

Today is Rosh Chodesh Shvat, the first day of the Jewish month of Shvat.

While today is the first day, this month is probably best known for the 15th day, which in Hebrew is Tu B'shvat. Tu B'shvat is a holiday commonly called "The New Year of the Trees." Traditionally it was a day ancient farmers would use to date trees, which was necessary in order to appropriately follow biblical tithing laws-a tree had to be three years old before its fruit was eligible to be brought as an offering in the Temple in Jerusalem. Over time, as this reason became less relevant, the holiday took on a more general celebration of trees and the gifts they provide to humanity. Indeed, as we celebrate Tu Bishvat today, we expand that notion of gratitude beyond trees to all aspects of nature. It is a day to celebrate the natural world around us.

One observance of Tu Bishvat is a seder, such as we have on Passover. The Passover seder tells the story of the liberation from Egyptian slavery and the exodus from Egypt through symbolic foods. The Tu Bishvat seder, developed by medieval Jewish mystics, uses different types of wine, fruits and nuts to tell the story of the cycle of the seasons, the elements of nature and the different types of sustenance nature provides. [At TBH this year we will have two seders-one family-oriented seder this Sunday during Beit Sefer time, and one adult-oriented seder on Wednesday, January 19 at 7:00 p.m.]

Tu Bishvat is marked not only through ritual but through action. For just as it is important to take the time to reflect on the importance of our interdependence on the natural world around us, it is also important to act on it as well. We can do this by taking direct action, doing tikkun olam ("repair of the world") work specifically with an ecological focus.

There are many things we can do and indeed, I am sure many of you are already engaged with this type of action. As we approach Tu Bishvat we can do it with a new type of kavannah "intention." But there are also different things we can do. I'd like to suggest two, in keeping with the original intention of the holiday.

The holiday of Tu Bishvat focused on trees. In addition, since it originally had to do with the Temple in Jerusalem, and the mystics who developed the seder were living in Tzfat (in Northern Israel), the holiday is not only connected to land in general but to the specific land of Israel. So we can mark the holiday by thinking about trees in Israel.

As you may have heard, earlier this year Israel suffered its worst forest fire in history. A fire near Haifa raged for four days, claiming 44 lives and burning thousands of acres of forest in the Carmel forest reserve. This is one of those tragic instances in which we are reminded that fire, one of the four elements of nature, an element that is essential to life through the light and heat it provides, can also be very destructive. One thing we can do in the wake of this fire is to do an act of tikkun by helping those who are working to rehabilitate the area and restore the forest, which could take some time. You could donate through the New Israel Fund, the Jewish National Fund or others.

While this forest fire was put out, different fires in the Land are causing more destruction. Unlike the fires in the north, however, these are being set deliberately, and the tragedy is not only in the fact that fire is destroying trees, but that there are those who see fit to use fire as a weapon against others. In the West Bank, the conflict between Jewish settlers and the Palestinians living there has escalated to where radical settlers are attacking and vandalizing Palestinian olive groves during harvest season. In the worst incident this past October, it is believed that settlers set fire to an olive tree grove belonging to four Palestinian villages, destroying hundreds of trees. The destructive power of fire, used deliberately by one against another. So I invite you to join me in another act of tikkun, and assist Rabbis for Human Rights in its campaign to replant these olive trees. Its campaign is more than just about trees, as it says on their website: "The goal of our tree planting initiative is to plant not just trees, but peace, dialogue, and concern for the Other amongst the Holy Land's inhabitants."

In Jewish tradition the Torah, our most sacred text, is called "Tree of Life" in recognition how it provides us spiritual sustenance. Underlying this metaphor is the idea that trees give life. Just as trees give us life, so too must we give them life through planting and tending. And when trees are destroyed, we work to replace them in an act of tikkun olam. And in the case of the West Bank, trees are not only about life but about livelihoods, so the trees we plant not only give life, but peace.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

Someone remarked to me recently the true statement we as Jews get two New Years-Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year which falls in the fall, and New Year's Eve and Day, which marks the beginning of the Gregorian calendar and falls in winter.

Having multiple New Years to mark is not new to Judaism, and is ingrained in our practice. In a few weeks we will celebrate Tu Bishvat (literally "the 15th of [the month of] Shvat") which is referred to as the "New Year of the Trees"-the date used by our ancient ancestors to date trees for the purpose of knowing when a tree was old enough to produce fruit for consumption and Temple offerings. Both Rosh Hashanah and Tu Bishvat are referenced in the Mishnah, the ancient code of Jewish practice from the year 200 CE, which also notes a new year for kings (think Inauguration Day) and a new year for animals (also for tithing purposes).

While the last two have dropped off of common practice, we still maintain the first two. And to those two we have added others, most notably New Years Day. (Our birthdays are also a form of New Year celebration-a personalized Rosh Hashanah.) This is a product of living in our multiple civilizations and influenced by multiple cultures. Just as we celebrate our Jewish cycle of the seasons and holidays, we also mark our time by using the secular cycle of seasons and holidays. New Years Day is as much a holiday to us as Rosh Hashanah.

There are commonalities in how we mark the two days: we spend time and share food and drink with family, friends and loved ones; we offer greetings and well-wishes; we look back over the past year and look forward to the future.

But there are differences as well. New Years Day is primarily festive with parties, gatherings, toasts and fireworks. Rosh Hashanah is marked not only by festive meals but by synagogue services and special liturgies. While the mood of New Years Day is celebration, the mood of Rosh Hashanah is contemplative. While on New Years Day we make our resolutions and our commitments for the coming year, the commitments we make in the coming year on Rosh Hashanah must be accompanied by reflection on and atonement for our missteps during the past year.

And these different meanings and weights don't cancel out each other but rather complement each other. They could even inform each other. Perhaps we could add more festivity and fun to our Rosh Hashanah observance. And perhaps we should add more serious reflection to our New Years Day. Or we can look at New Years Day as a supplement to Rosh Hashanah. Since the former falls three months later than the former, we can use New Years as an opportunity to check in with ourselves to see how we are doing on our commitments made on Rosh Hashanah. This New Years, ask yourself how you are doing not only at the end of 2010 and the beginning of 2011, but how you are doing at the end of the first quarter of 5771.

This New Year's Eve coincides with Shabbat. So as we lift the Kiddush cup to sanctify the holy day of rest, we can also raise a toast to the new year and what New Years Day represents-a time to take a break so we can spiritually recharge for what lies ahead. And that sounds very Jewish to me.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

This week in the weekly Torah reading we begin the book of Exodus, and that epic story of the Israelites' liberation from Egyptian slavery under the leadership of Moses. This story is a seminal one and a cornerstone of the Jewish worldview. We recall it often in our liturgy, celebrate it each year on Passover and now, read it as part of our weekly Shabbat reading. It is seminal because of the paradigm it puts forth-the movement from slavery to freedom, and the power we have to overcome oppression. We recall the story often not as a history lesson, but as a window into our present and future: we are meant to see opportunities for liberation in our own day and be inspired by the story of our ancestors.

It is a powerful story, and recalling the details as we read it closely over the next few weeks on Shabbat allows us time to sit with it and linger on the wonderfully powerful details. One detail that we read this week is when Moses attacks and kills the Egyptian taskmaster. The story up until this point is the introduction of the Israelites in slavery. Generations after the Israelites first move down to Egypt from Canaan (when Jacob and his sons are reunited with their long lost son and brother Joseph), a new king enslaves the Israelites believing them to be a threat to national security. (In other words, perhaps, the king institutes indefinite detention for enemy combatants.) After the king orders all first-born males killed, the mother of one Israelite child places her son in a basket and sends him down the Nile, only to be found by the Pharaoh's daughter, who raises him as her own. Named Moses, the boy grows up in the royal court unaware of his Israelite origins.

Not much detail is given in the time between Moses' rescue and the story of the taskmaster. More is told in midrash (commentary) and by Cecil B. De Mille. But as the story goes, Moses happens upon an Egyptian taskmaster beating a Hebrew slave. Something in Moses snaps, and he rushes up and kills the taskmaster. Afraid for his own life after committing a capital offense, Moses flees Egypt.

This episode is peculiar and fascinating. What makes Moses, who presumably is completely identified as an Egyptian, who would view the Israelites as the Egyptians would, in that instant identify with the suffering of the Israelites? And what would make him do something about it? Perhaps, the act wasn't a lightening flash as the text might imply. Perhaps something was stirring in Moses for awhile, his experience living in a society that condoned slavery changed him and the act of the taskmaster was the proverbially straw that broke the camel's back. This "revolution" for Moses was both gradual and instantaneous. The groundwork was laid for a long time, but when the moment of action came, it seemed to some very quickly.

This is, perhaps, as much a lesson about how social revolutions happen as the overall story of the Exodus. That in order to affect true and lasting social change, the groundwork needs to be laid for a long time. It is a gradual and deliberate process. When the change happens, though, it appears to come suddenly and out of nowhere. But that act of change could not have come without the gradual change in attitude that preceded it.

Last Shabbat we saw a powerful moment of social change as the United States Senate passed a repeal of the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" law, allowing gays and lesbians to serve openly in the United States military. When the law was passed under President Clinton, it was meant to be a step forward; previously one could be asked if one was gay. Under DADT one couldn't be asked, but still one had to remain in the closet, forcing gays and lesbians to always be on guard, to have to lie at times and to live in fear of being discovered and discharged. Thousands of troops were discharged under DADT. This institutionalized discrimination was just as, if not more, harmful than previous policies.

I turned on the TV to watch the Senate vote. The machinations of the voting seemed uneventful and banal, but the implication was huge. A wall of discrimination fell, and our nation took a giant step to overcoming institutionalized homophobia and discrimination. It felt like a lightning bolt, and the power of the moment continued through the signing by President Obama later in the week.

But of course though it felt like a lightning bolt, that change could not have happened without the deeper, more gradual revolution that happened. People's attitudes about gays and lesbians are changing in a positive direction. Fear and caution are disappearing as people experience living in communities (and families) where gays and lesbians live openly, and realize that sexual orientation can not be a basis for discrimination. There is still a way to go-and I look forward to the day when same-sex marriage is made legal-but we have come a long way to this point.

The watershed moment last Saturday took a long time to arrive, but perhaps that was what was needed. Social change takes time. And when change happens in this way, the new social norm is imposed not from outside, but from within and will be more effective. Moses' moral awakening was his own, and that spurred him to action. And perhaps it was that lasting conviction, developed over years within him, which allowed him to successfully lead a people to freedom, moreso than God calling from the bush.

 Rabbi Seth Goldstein

Sorry there were no Weekly Words last week, but I was travelling. Last week I was in New York to attend the biennial conference of Rabbis for Human Rights-North America. (I also took a few days off to visit family and friends; see the links below for some of my other New York activities.) Rabbis for Human Rights is an organization I have been affiliated with for several years. RHR was first founded in Israel over two decades ago as an organization dedicated to a just peace between Israelis and Palestinians and to provide a voice in Israeli society to stand up to human rights abuses. A decade ago Rabbis for Human Rights-North America was founded to support the work of the Israeli organization as well as to focus on issues of human rights that are closer to home.

The organization has a mission of education and advocacy. In looking at human rights issues through a Jewish lens, we tap into our tradition and its teachings about our more universal obligations we have to one another. As we are created b'tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, as our tradition teaches, we all have an element of the sacred within us which is worthy of respect an honor. In contemporary language, in the language of RHR, because we are b'tzelem Elohim, we all have certain rights as human beings which must be recognized and protected.

The conference was powerful, overwhelming and inspiring. I learned a lot, connected with friends and colleagues, and was moved by a call to action. As I continue to digest over the next few months all that I took in during the two days, I will be sharing more and more with you. But for the time being, please be satisfied with a synopsis of what I did and the sessions I attended over the two days.

·        Opening plenary on the most pressing human rights issues of our day which we need to pay close attention to both in Israel and America with Dr. Naomi Chazan, a leading Israeli feminist leader and founder of New Israel Fund and Iain Levine from Human Rights Watch.

·        A panel on continuing issues on "indefinite" detention, primarily relating to Guantanamo Bay and U.S. policy.

·        A study session using the Israeli Declaration of Independence as a study text, using other Jewish texts from throughout the ages as commentary, similar to a Talmud text

·        A lunchtime gathering to remember Rabbi David Forman z"l, one of the founders of Rabbis for Human Rights in Israel, and a family friend of Yohanna's family. Rabbi Forman spoke at TBH in 2005, and he stayed at my home.

·        "Human Rights 101 for Jews"-a session with the executive director of RHR and the general counsel of Human Rights Watch on basic ideas of what we mean when we speak of "human rights" and how this fits into a Jewish framework.

·        Talmud study on the theme of our circles of responsibility-to ourselves, our community or global issues-and how we prioritize.

·        A panel on human trafficking and its prevalence (more people are enslaved now than ever before in history) and efforts to combat it.

·        A briefing on Park 51, the Muslim Cultural Center planned for lower Manhattan, the response to the proposal and the Jewish and interfaith response to the response.

·        A presentation on RHR's work in the West Bank helping Palestinian farmers plant and harvest olive trees, build schools for Bedouins and other peace building activities.

·        A group discussion among rabbis on talking about Israel in our communities.

·        Closing plenary featuring Peter Beinart, an author who has recently wrote an important article about Israel, liberalism and the next generation of American Jews.

All in all it was a wonderful conference. I was even given the honor of leading the shacharit (morning) service on the first day. I was moved by all I learned, and will be continuing to share it with you. Stay tuned, and thank you for your support of TBH which allows me to take advantage of these learning opportunities.

 Rabbi Seth Goldstein
 

I went out and bought one of those "happy" lights the other day. This brand is really called a "happy" light, it is one of those lamps meant to counteract our lack of sunlight here in Olympia. You are meant to put it on your desk for up to an hour and soak in the bright light while you do what you normally do.

I haven't had it long enough to know if it works, but I'll give it a shot. When I moved to Olympia it was never the rain that got to me but the early darkness in winter. Even in winter in New York you get a lot of sun. So rather than supplement with more coffee and sweets to counteract the seasonal induced fatigue, I'm going with the light.

I have always found it fascinating that many traditions including ours include a festival of light during the darkest time of the year. It is a fundamental human response to the change in season and the passage of time. As we enter the darkest time of the year when the days are the shortest, we light candles to provide hope that the days will lengthen. It is very ancient and visceral.

But the darkness of the season is not the only darkness we hope to counteract, and we have our own lights to light. Just as this "happy" light is meant to ward off fatigue, the "happy" light of the Hanukkah menorah is also meant to ward off fatigue. The fatigue in this case is not physical, but emotional and spiritual, and the light is not meant to affect our bodily chemistry, but our emotional and spiritual chemistry. We light the candles at this time of year as an antidote to the darkness which surrounds us.

There is plenty of darkness which surrounds us. The economy has brought about dark times. People across the globe suffer under oppression. Hunger and homelessness continue to plague our communities. The enormity of it may bring on fatigue, or the feeling that the problems of the world are so enormous that there is no way to counteract them. So we let the darkness not only surround us, but seep into our bodies. Or the darkness comes from within. Personal challenges arise against us. We carry our individual difficulties which bring about emotional and spiritual fatigue.

So we light the menorah. The lights of the menorah provide us with hope out of darkness and illuminate the way forward. The lighting of the menorah reminds us of the story of Hanukkah, of how a small band of fighters was able to overcome tyranny. So too does the lighting of the menorah remind us of our own tyrannies, and how they can be overcome. The challenges which present themselves to us may seem like an overwhelming darkness, but we have the power to create light and dispel them.

This "happy" light I bought is supposed to be on for 30 minutes to an hour, during which time the light is absorbed into our bodies and we are able to better face the darkness of the season. This is about the same length of time your standard Hanukkah candles are lit. So as you light the Hanukkah candles, absorb this light into your bodies and you will be able to face the darkness.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

From the Torah, Book of Exodus, Chapter 23, Verses 4-5: "When you encounter your enemy's ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back to him. When you see the donkey of your enemy lying under its burden and would refrain from raising it, you must nevertheless raise it with him."

What is the Torah trying to teach us in these powerful verses? The very basic yet crucial principle that when we see some one with a need, we should meet it. When we see someone who needs assistance, we should assist them. When someone is weighed down by burden, we should lift them up. This is the mitzvah, the sacred act, which we are taught to observe and do.

But there is something important the Torah points out to us here. For in this case who is it we are helping? Our enemy. In order to fulfill this mitzvah you must first have an enemy. Enemies in the English is a strong word, the Hebrew does not have the same connotation. Here what is meant are the people we do not get along with. And this is a reality of life that the Torah acknowledges: There are some people we wish to avoid. We all have them in our lives. There are those who do not like us, and those we may not like.

"Love your neighbor as yourself" says the verse in Leviticus. But can we truly be commanded to love? To feel? No. We can not tell others how to feel. Our emotions are beyond us, we can not control them. They wash over us like water. But what we can control, is our reaction to those emotions.

For while emotion can not be commanded, action can be commanded. The ancient Jewish sage Rabbi Hillel reformulated this foundational principle of "love your neighbor as yourself" to be that which is harmful to you do not do to your neighbor. This is a principle that is found in many of our faith traditions. We are told to do, not feel. Action, not emotion. Love your neighbor as yourself means to act towards your neighbor in a loving way.

And as with love, so too with fear and suspicion. We think of our children. We turn to our children at their most vulnerable and we tell them, "don't be afraid." But what are we telling them? We are not telling them to not feel fear, for that is impossible. That would be denying who they are in that moment. Rather what we are telling them when we say "don't be afraid" is to face their fears, to take the step into the dark room, or look under the bed. For it is by acknowledging fear, that we can overcome it. And by standing along side our children as they face their fear, we will see them learn and grow as they realize the room is the same in the dark as it is in the light, and that there is nothing under the bed.

While the Torah labels as "enemies" those we do not like, we in our time label as "enemies" those who are different from us, or who we do not know, or have not met. We attribute, we assume, we project characteristics on those who are unlike us, who hold different opinions, who worship in a different way, and in turn we develop a culture of fear and suspicion.

And as we tell our children, so too do we tell ourselves. We must face our fears. And we do that through action. We may feel fearful, we may feel suspicious towards others, but we should not, we must not, treat them with fear and suspicion. For even though we may not feel it. We must treat everyone with compassion, and mercy and love.

And here's the rub. For when we treat others with compassion and love, we begin to feel compassion and love.

We talk of dialogue, of sharing, of speaking and listening. And this is important. For we all have needs to speak and be heard, of learning and teaching. It is through dialogue that we are able to converse and grow shaped by ideas, narratives and reason. But dialogue is not enough. Dialogue may change how we think, but it will not change how we feel. For that we need experience, we need relationship, we need personal connection. It is though our personal experience with each other that we are able to change how we feel, how we are able to see someone unlike us and see the places we are similar, while still honoring the differences, how we are able to overcome fear and suspicion. What we are able to give and receive to another will turn our hearts. How we treat each other will change how we feel toward each other.

Which brings us back to oxen and donkeys. The Book of Deuteronomy, Chapter 22, Verse 1 and 4: "If you see your friend's ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow...If you see your friend's donkey or ox fallen on the road, do not ignore it; you must help him raise it."

The verses are strikingly similar save for one difference. The first speaks of enemies, the second speaks of friends.

The Talmud-the ancient Jewish work of law and commentary--asks in its very logical and Talmudic way. Taking the two verses together, the verse from Exodus and the verse from Deuteronomy, it asks: what happens if you come across two animals under burden, one belonging to your friend, and the other to your enemy? Which do you help first?

The answer, the one of your enemy, for it is in this way that you are able to overcome your ill feelings. By showing compassion to one you do not like, you are able to transcend your feelings of dislike. By seeing humanity in one you fear, you are able to overcome your feelings of fear. By lifting up the burden of your enemy, you will lift the burden of suspicion from yourself.

And when you perform this mitzvah, the two verses no longer become opposites, but rather complementary, for by returning your enemy's ox, you will have turned your enemy into your friend.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

Sibling Rivalry 11/18

I remarked the other day in services that these stories in Genesis which we are reading now as part of our Torah reading cycle take on new meaning since I have two sons.

The stories of our ancestors in Genesis are steeped in sibling rivalry. From the opening stories of Cain and Abel-an example of sibling rivalry that ended in fratricide-through the tension between Isaac and Ishmael now to the conflict between Jacob and Esau, these stories relate the conflicts that perhaps come natural to siblings. Not to mention the tension between Rachel and Leah, two sisters who are both married to Jacob, and we haven't even read the story of Joseph and his brothers yet.

Sibling rivalry is an issue that stretches across the generations from the Bible to today. I see it in my own boys as they squabble over toys, attention, or what have you. And I understand why it happens to some extent. Unlike their parents, who choose to live together in one roof, these two kids are forced to live together. It was not their choice, it was ours.

This is something that I see my boys wrestle with. (And this sometimes means not just figurative wrestling but physical wrestling.) As they face their own individual challenges of growing older-changes in physical abilities, or intellectual challenges through school, or identifying and pursuing their own likes and dislikes-they also contend with another doing the same. And here is the challenge, and it is a challenge for growth: How to take this forced living situation and navigate it. It is a way of growing into what it means to live with and be connected to others. We go through life by being in relationship, and the sibling relationship is the relationship in our lives that generally will last the longest.

Wresting plays a role in the story we read this week. Jacob is about to meet his estranged brother Esau after they have been separated for some time. He gathers up his family and holdings, and sends them across the river towards where the meeting will take place. Part of what he brings with him are gifts for his brother. And as everyone else makes their way across the river, Jacob is left alone. There an angel comes down and wrestles with him throughout the night, until Jacob, pinning the angel, demands a blessing. The angel blesses him and gives him a new name, Israel, "one who wrestles with God."

Jacob was obviously dealing with a lot as he prepared to meet Esau. The years of emotion about his relationship with his brother that he carried with him is represented in the figure of the angel. Jacob "wrestles" with these thoughts and feelings as he prepares to move forward and be reunited with his brother. We can identify with Jacob as we face our own tensions and anxieties, whether with siblings, other people, or ourselves-it oftentimes feels like we are wrestling with the forces surrounding us.

And we do identify with Jacob to this day. For inasmuch as Abraham and Isaac are our forefathers, it is Jacob's new name that we carry with us. Israel is the name that throughout centuries of Jewish history, liturgy and theology signifies the Jewish people. The use of this name as a communal moniker is ancient, it transcends time and place. We are Israel.

And what a name it is. For it is a name that embodies struggle and tension. It is a name that signifies not finality but process. It is a name which means that we are not content on one side or another but that we will continually live in the grey areas. We wrestle with God, with a sense of the sacred, with what is right, with what path to take, with our identities, with ourselves and with each other. This is what it means to be Israel. But it is not wrestling for the sake of wrestling. It is a challenge, and a commitment, for growth.

Thus I know that for all the bickering that goes on now between my sons, as they grow and mature their relationship will grow and mature as well. They will find through the rivalry that they are all the more closer for it, that this rivalry is an expression of affection, and it has provided them with the opportunity to become better people.

Well, I hope so, anyway.

.

 Rabbi Seth Goldstein

It doesn't always happen this way, but this year Veteran's Day falls in the Hebrew month of Kislev. The new month of Kislev began this past Monday, and Veteran's Day is today. Usually Kislev begins in mid or late November, but this year the Gregorian and Hebrew calendars coincide such that many of our holidays are "early" (witness Rosh Hashana coming right after Labor Day). The significance in this case is that Kislev is the month of Hanukkah. Combining the two calendars, Veteran's Day thus falls in the same month of Hanukkah.

Aside from being a day off, or a day when the banks and post office are closed, Veteran's Day became more apart of my conciousness as an adult, as I met more veterans. Both my grandfathers had served in World War II, but growing up that seemed like the distant past. Now however I have met more people who have served in the military and for whom that military service was a significant life experience. I have met people who have been in combat situations, and living close to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, we have military families as a part of our Jewish community. Veteran's Day is now for me not just a day on the calendar, but a day to stop, reflect and reach out to and recognize those who have served our country in the military.

As we move towards Hanukkah, having entered the month in which it falls, we bring to mind the story of the holiday.. We are familiar with the narrative: Syrian-Greek rulers of the Jewish population force assimilation and desecrate the Temple. The Jewish population revolts, overthrows the Greek rulers and restores the Temple. Looking for oil to light the Temple menorah, only enough oil to last for one day was found, but the oil miraculously lasted for eight days.

There are really two parts to this narrative. The second part, the oil story which is more popular, is only part. It is a story, whether factual or not, which is meant to serve as an inspiration, a symbol of faith and determination, a note of the sacred and divine. It is the first half, however, that points more towards actual history--a victory by an oppressed population against the ruling power. This part of the story is not about miracles, it's about militarism.

Which brings us to a (sad) truth of history: that no matter how much we would like to avoid it, military action is sometimes necessary. Sometimes the only recourse to attaining a just end is combat, and sometimes military defense is warranted. Hanukkah teaches us this fact. Yet, we don't celebrate the warfare, rather we celebrate the values that those who engage in the warfare held. Thus the two parts of the story complement each other. We couldn't have the light of the Temple menorah without the military victory, and we couldn't have the military victory without the light of the Temple, i.e., the light of the spirit and of justice.

Those who serve in the military are serving the higher ideals and values which we hold as a nation. They embody that which is necessary at times to do in defense of those ideals and values. We don't hope for war and the damage it brings. That is not what we celebrate. But we do celebrate service and sacrifice, and those who served and sacrificed. The ancient Maccabees who emerged from the battles with the Greeks emerged with a renewed commitment to Jewish life and community. We learn from their service and renew our commitment of Jewish life and community at Hanukkah. And today on Veteran's Day, we too can learn from the service of our contemporary veterans and renew our commitment to the values for which they served.

 Rabbi Seth Goldstein
 

I am glad that the elections are now over. All of the build up, all of the campaigning, all of the signs and rallies lead up to one day when everyone casts their ballot and the weeks and months of planning comes to an end. We are now able to spend some time reflecting on the results, what they mean, or, in some cases, still wait for results to be finalized (as of this writing the Senate race has not been decided.)

But what makes me glad about the end of the election season is the end of the negative ads. I do not watch much commercial television these days--between flipping channels during commercials to watching programs on such commercial-free services as Hulu on line or On Demand on cable--I try to avoid commercials. But during election season, they are so numerous that it is hard to avoid them.

And watching the commercials it became abundantly clear that most of the commercials, by a great degree, are not promoting a particular candidate but putting down the other. And the influx of national monies into local campaigns simply increases the possibility for negative ads.

It is a disturbing trend--the need to put down others in order to prop oneself up. In the political commercials, this involved not only making factual claims, but distortions of facts as well--taking things out of context, using long ago actions as proof of present day attitudes, or simply saying something in a particular way or to a particular soundtrack. (One would think that by the way it was repeated, "voting with Pelosi" without any context or definition is that same as "hating baby kittens.")

One would think that this negativity would not be effective and thus abandoned, but its persistence seems to make me think that it works. Why else would those ads still be around? If they didn't work, one would think that campaigns wouldn't spend millions of dollars on them. So the negativity cuts in multiple ways. The campaigns promote negativity through the ads they run, but we are culpable as well in making them part of the discourse.

I can understand this because this dynamic does not just appear in political campaigns. We often times need to put others down in order to raise ourselves up. It is not enough to promote our own merits or ideas, but we need to talk ill of others. It is not enough to endorse a person or a course of action, but we need to denigrate others. Either because we truly feel it will advance our cause, or we do it to make ourselves feel good, the end result is the same--we have not achieved solely because of our merits, but we have stepped on others to get there.

To say we need more civility in our discourse is an understatement. We need to treat each other better in our civil discourse, which means not putting others down, listening to what they have to say, not ascribing values and ideas to others and generally not using others to advance our own goals. The Jewish Council on Public Affairs recently launched a civility campaign and pledge on their website, making this issue not only of the public sphere but of Jewish values as well. Check it out at www.jcpa.org. By being civil, we not only maintain respect for others, but we maintain respect for ourselves.

 Rabbi Seth Goldstein

When I was growing up, a perennial question around this time is, should we as Jews be celebrating Halloween?

It is an interesting question, as the roots of it can be found in a variety of sources. Some of it is theological and spiritual-with the roots of Halloween being in Celtic practices around the harvest and keeping the spirits of the dead away, is this antithetical to Jewish practice? Or since that holiday was co-opted by Christianity and turned in the evening before All Saint's Day, is this even more reason why Jews should stay away?

These concerns strike me as related to other concerns that may have been inherent in the question as I was growing up three decades ago: we Jews are outsiders, and do we really fit in to this "American" holiday? And, does this dilute Jewish practice, for after all we have our own dress-up holiday of Purim.

We, of course, always celebrated Halloween in my family, as did all of my Jewish friends. Now as a parent, we continue to celebrate Halloween and it is a day my children look forward to. The "theological" concerns seem remote-despite the origins, Halloween has taken on its own "secular" meaning, ritual and observance. And besides, if you look hard enough and far back enough many Jewish practices were influenced by outside forces and the origins of many Jewish holidays are probably rooted in folk practice. And culturally, we Jews have fit into the fabric of this society, and by participating in these "American" holidays we should see ourselves not as losing our Jewish identity and character, but participating in a greater whole and shared culture and ritual.

This last point is interesting to me, for as a Rabbi I do stress, that yes, we have our own dress up holiday, Purim. I want us to associate dressing up in costume with Purim and not just with Halloween. I want us to connect more deeply with our Jewish celebrations. But I recognize there is room to balance the two, and we can participate in both when we find value and meaning in both.

We have a rule in my house, we are not allowed to plan for Halloween until after Sukkot. Our Halloween box in the basement comes out when we return our Sukkot box. While the stores and towns get Halloween fever beginning in September, we carefully balance the two and take the holidays in their turn, balancing our uniquely Jewish festivals with those that reach across cultures. Both make up the fabric of our family. And my kids have just as much fun planning their Purim costume as they do their Halloween costume.

And I have moved beyond the "concession" to Halloween I felt growing up to fully embracing it and celebrating it now. For as one with a sweet tooth, I do enjoy the collection of candy. But it goes beyond that. In a time in which we are increasingly isolated from our neighbors, and communicating from behind computer screens and smartphones, Halloween is one night during the year when we actually go out side, pour out onto the streets, meet and greet our neighbors and exchange gifts of sweetness with each other. And that, in and of itself, is a treat.

 Rabbi Seth Goldstein

The debate which points to professional sports evolving with the times along with everything else is the one around the use of instant replay and play reviews. As technology gets better, camera pictures more exact and controls refined, the question is asked, should there be standard reviews of close plays with the potential to overturn calls of umpires and referees?

Every time there is a close play in sport, this question gets asked. Earlier this week, during Game 4 of Major League Baseball's American League Championship Series, this issue came up when a potential home run was ruled a foul ball after review. The human call was not enough, instant replay was needed.

Sometimes these plays have no clear consequence in the moment (though may later on looking back after the game). Other times these reviews may be more determinative. Earlier this season, a perfect game--the greatest achievement of a pitcher in which the opposing team does not get any hits or walks--was ruined on the last play of the game when an umpire made the wrong call, calling a runner safe at first base when review revealed that he was out. However, since there is not standard review in baseball, the call stood, and the player was safe. (The viewers at home, of course, have the benefit of instant review.)

Opinions are divided as to whether there should be such review of these calls. For this is a human sport, based on human achievement, and thus also subject to human error. Indeed, in baseball errors are recorded as statistics, for a fielder's misplay of a ball affects the game just as much as a well played ball. Umpires and other arbiters are also subject to error on close plays.

In that last example of the perfect game, was the runner out or safe? He was safe, because the umpire called him safe. Review of events after the fact can yield apologies and regret, but do not change the outcome. The play was subject to a human call based on human perception, and that perception is what created the reality.

This is something which we are mindful of all the time. Many times our reality is subject to our perception. This week's Torah portion picks up the story of Abraham, and relates that challenging tale of Abraham banishing Hagar to the wilderness. Sarah, initially unable to conceive, gives Abraham her handmaid Hagar to serve as a surrogate, and she gives birth to Ishmael. Later, when Sarah does bear a child, Isaac, she gets jealous of the other boy and has Abraham send them away.

Abraham sends Hagar and Ishmael out into the desert, the limited water supply that they had runs out, and Hagar is distraught over their situation. She resigns herself to Ishmael's impending death as she places him under a tree, then moves some distance away to cry. She cries out to God in sorrow and anger, and God answers her prayer, "opening up her eyes" until she sees a spring of water.

From the story in the Torah it is not clear if God created that spring of water in the moment. Indeed, the text can be read that it was there all along. Hagar just needed to see it. Her distress did not allow her to see what was right in front of her, her perception was not attuned to reality. Only after God helped her was she able to perceive a new reality and new solution to her trouble.

We are like Hagar. And we are like the umpire for that matter. We need to make the calls in life, to make judgments on reality and choose the correct path. But as humans, those calls are subject to our perception. We may, like the umpire, make the wrong call in the moment, then need to reflect back to see how our misperception has changed things. Or we may, like Hagar, be unable to truly see the right path until we take the time to reflect and try to see things in a new way.

We need to be aware of our powers of perception. Our perception can create our reality. If we see defeat, will we not be able to succeed? If we see opportunity, will we be able to grow in new wisdom and experience? If we see the other side, will we be able to become more compassionate, and peaceful?

While I am all for fairness, part of me does not want to see instant replay. Human achievement, and human mistakes, are part of the game of baseball, as they are a part of life. We are human, subject to human error. But also in being human we can have the power to create and recreate our realities based on how we choose to see and interpret events, encounters and opportunities.

This week we read the story of Noah, the familiar tale of the decision by God to destroy the world by flood, God's charge to Noah to build an ark to save himself, his family and the animal kingdom, 40 days and nights of rain, and a fresh start on the world after God's creation seemed to go awry. 

In reading this story, its hard not to wonder that there must have been some major corruption for God to want to destroy the earth. In the narrative of the Torah, the text says that "God saw how great was humanity's wickedness on earth, and how every plan devised by the human mind was nothing but evil all the time." (Genesis 6:5) and "The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with lawlessness." (Genesis 6:11).

The Torah is silent on the actual nature of the evil. Midrash (rabbinic commentaries) comes to offer some suggestions such as adultery, idolatry and theft. But perhaps it is purposefully left vague, so we can read into the text what we would perceive to be evil, wicked and corrupt. That way we can truly understand the text-we ask ourselves, what can we imagine to be so evil that would warrant the downfall of society.

In contrast to everyone else, Noah is introduced in the text as a "righteous man." But the text goes further, and labels Noah as "blameless in his age." (6:9) This last clause is interesting. Jewish tradition reads this as an insult. Noah is righteous in his own generation-i.e., as compared to everyone else-but compared to someone like Abraham, who is seen as righteous for all time, Noah doesn't rate. A midrash compares this to a flask of mediocre wine in a cellar with jars of vinegar. By itself the wine might not stand out, but in the cellar of vinegar it would stand out. Noah, therefore is seen as a relative tzadik (righteous one), relative to the people in the time he lives in, rather than a tzadik for the ages.

But we can read this a different way. Rather than righteous for his time, meaning as compared to everyone else of his generation, perhaps he was righteous for his time, meaning, he was righteous in relation to what his generation demanded of him. He was able to see the evil, wickedness and corruption of his time, of his age, and respond to that. He was able to identify what was wrong with his world and work to combat it. Thus he was "in his age" because he was in tune to the evil of his age.

That is the challenge for all of us, to see the wickedness of our age. And unfortunately, there is a lot we can identify.

Recently you may have read about Tyler Clementi, a student at Rutgers University in New Jersey who committed suicide by jumping off a bridge into the Hudson River. His death came after an intimate encounter with another man was taped and broadcast over the Internet. Tyler's death is tragic. The fact that it came after being harassed and bullied for being gay is unconscionable. And the fact that his death is not isolated, that suicide among young gay teens who are victims of homophobia and harassment is prevelent, is unspeakable.

Recent stories have made news which adds to Tyler's. A 13-year-old boy hanging himself in his backyard in California. Another 13 year old boy in Texas shooting himself. And a 15-year-old in Indiana also hanging himself. All the victims of harassment, bullying, verbal and physical assaults. All the victims of homophobia.

In these deaths we can recognize corruption, evil and wickedness. In these stories we can see such blatant disregard for human life which can bring down a society.

Last week, when we read the beginning of the Torah, the story of Creation, we speak of humanity being created b'tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. All of us are created with this divine spark, regardless of sexual orientation. Which is why we as Jews must work to identify and combat the evil of homophobia in our communities.

Keshet, a Jewish LGBT organization, has started an on-line campaign "Do Not Stand Idly By." It is a pledge which reads "As members of a tradition that sees each person as created in the divine image, we respond with anguish and outrage at the spate of suicides brought on by homophobic bullying and intolerance. We hereby commit to ending homophobic bullying or harassment of any kind in our synagogues, schools, organizations, and communities. As a signatory, I pledge to speak out when I witness anyone being demeaned for their actual or perceived sexual orientation or gender identity. I commit myself to do whatever I can to ensure that each and every person in my community is treated with dignity and respect." I signed this pledge, and I urge you to do as well. (www.keshetonline.org)

Signing the pledge is one step. Acting on it is another. By continuing to address homophobia, we too can be like Noah, acting righteously in the face of the evil of our time.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein 

Time for Time 9/29

You may have noticed that there was no "Weekly Words" last Thursday. And you may have noticed that this week's edition is coming to you on Wednesday rather than Thursday. And that was already after I took 2 weeks off for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. "What happened?" you may have thought. Sukkot is what happened.

Last Thursday and this Thursday were holidays. In the Jewish calendar, though Sukkot lasts a full week, the first and last days have a different status. They are full non-working holidays, similar to Shabbat. The intermediate days, while a part of the holiday, are like regular days. So in observing the holiday, "Weekly Words" was on break.

All these holidays, and they are almost at an end. The fall holiday season comes to an end Thursday night as we gather to celebrate Simchat Torah ("Rejoicing in the Torah"), the holiday when we mark the end and new beginning of another Torah reading cycle. Each Shabbat we read a section of the Torah in order, and on Simchat Torah we read the end of Deuteronomy and the beginning of Genesis. It is a joyful holiday--before the Torah is read we dance the Torah around the sanctuary in 7 circuits, and as we prepare to read the text we will unroll the entire scroll.

Simchat Torah is a holiday that entered the Jewish calendar later than the others we celebrate this month. While Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot are biblical festivals--although the forms they take now have varied some since biblical times, they are found in the Torah--Simchat Torah is not. Indeed, it is only later in Jewish practice, in the rabbinic era of the Talmud, when the practice of reading the Torah became standard, that Simchat Torah was developed. It was appended to the end of Sukkot.

Put all together, these are not 4 different holidays (or 5 if you throw in Shemini Atzeret, the last day of Sukkot which is viewed as a separate festival on which we recite a special blessing for rain). Rather, all of these holidays in fall form a coherent whole. There are different ways to think about how they all work together, and once recent teaching I learned relates the different holidays to aspects of our bodies and our selves.

In a teaching by Rabbi Bahir Davis (and thanks to Marcela Abadi for bringing this to my attention), the four holidays are related to our head, our heart, our hands and our feet. Thus we engage our whole selves over this holiday period, and touch on different aspects of our spiritual lives.

Rosh Hashanah is the holiday of the "head," indeed, the word Rosh means "head." Rosh Hashanah is literally the "head of the year." It is the heady holiday because it is a time for planning and processing. It is the time we take stock of where we have been, review our past year, and make plans for moving forward. We identify where it is we want to grow, and how we might go about to do that work.

Yom Kippur is the holiday of the heart. It is a powerful day during which we neglect our bodies by not eating or drinking and focus purely on the emotional. We seek to reconnect with God and with each other. We humble ourselves and admit where we have done wrong. We don't plan like we do on Rosh Hashanah, we let it all out and open ourselves to give and receive. It is a day of the heart.

After the High Holidays we move to Sukkot, the holiday of the hands. There is much involved physically in these days. We first build a sukkah, using the labor of our hands. We then pick up and shake the lulav and etrog, the four plant species, to connect us with the world around us. We celebrate the fall harvest and the bounty that must come from the work of our hands. And dwelling in the sukkah we are reminded of issues which require action: homelessness, poverty and others. Sukkot is the time of "getting to work," of using our hands.

And to end these days--after the planning of Rosh Hashanah, the emotion of Yom Kippur and the getting down to business of Sukkot--we celebrate and dance. Simchat Torah is the holiday of the feet because we dance with the scroll which serves as our root, our grounding document, our guide to the past and our path to the future. We stand, unroll the scroll and read its words. We are then fully prepared to take the next steps of our journey as we move deeper into the new year and a new reading cycle. (Do join us as we celebrate Simchat Torah at TBH on Thursday 9/30 at 6:30 p.m.)

Head, heart, hands and feet. We have engaged them all over this month. And as we move past this holiday season, may you continue to carry into the new year the plans made, emotions felt, work begun and steps taken.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

What is Selichot?

It sits up there on the top of the TBH High Holiday schedule. On the Saturday night before Rosh Hashanah, there is a Selichot program, beginning with Havdalah, the brief service that marks the end of Shabbat. For the past several years this has been a time to gather to study, to read Jewish texts and to reflect on the major themes of the High Holidays: forgiveness, repentance, and atonement. Last year we watched and discussed a movie, "The Power of Forgiveness" as part of this time.

"Selichot" means "forgiveness" or "supplication." (In Modern Hebrew, slicha is used for "excuse me"). Traditionally, selichot are penitential prayers that are recited in the evening every day beginning on the Saturday night before Rosh Hashanah. The term applies to the service itself as well as the specific prayers and piyyutim (liturgical poems) that are recited as a part of the service. The service traditionally is recited late night/early morning--between after midnight and the morning time every day. The first night, though, has always been of the greatest importance as it is the first, and thus ushers us closer to the High Holiday season which began a few weeks before at the beginning of the month of Elul.

Contemporary liberal synagogues like ours have taken this first night of selichot as an opportunity to formally begin the High Holidays with a program or service. Before we gather for the actual days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we are given a taste of the services, a preview of the themes and an "overture" to some of the melodies. It is around this time that the synagogue itself is transformed for the High Holidays--the mahzors (High Holiday prayer books) come out, and the special white covers are put on the Ark, tables and the Torah scrolls. (White being a symbolic color of purity and forgiveness.)

Two of the piyyutim which make up the Selichot service are the viddui and the recitation of the 13 attributes. The Viddui, or confession, is the acrostic recitation of sins--"ashamnu, bagadnu..."--which is written in the plural and recited in unison. We thus join together as a community in atonement--each with our own personal transgressions yet noting the transgressions of the whole as well. The other piyyut, the 13 attributes, is one of my favorites: "Adonai, Adonai, El rachum v'chanum..." Usually repeated 3 times, it lists off God's 13 attributes of mercy and forgiveness. Thus, first we list off sins, then we list off steps to forgiveness.

So while Rosh Hashanah begins on Wednesday night, I invite you to gather on Saturday night to help yourself prepare for the holidays. We will begin this Saturday, September 4 at 7:30 in the sanctuary. Our theme this year is "Forgiveness 2.0: Teshuvah in the Digital Age" (The topic is based on this article from the New York Times Magazine: The Web Means the End of Forgetting, if you wnat to get a head start.)

Rabbi Seth Goldstein

When I was in New York at the beginning of the summer, I headed into downtown Manhattan to visit J & R, a huge electronics store. It is a block long, and indeed is more like several stores, as different departments have different street entrances. I popped in to do some browsing, some shopping. When I was done, I walked a few blocks to Ground Zero, the site of the World Trade Center.

The events of September 11 are such a touchstone that we remember where we were when we heard what happened. I was in Israel for a year of rabbinical school, and was just sitting down in a class when a fellow student got a call from family in New York that something was happening. Class was cancelled, I went home, and sat in front of CNN for the rest of the day.

A few years later, I had the opportunity to be in New York, so I went to Ground Zero. The clean up was over, but nothing else was happening there yet. What struck me most was the silence, this large swath of downtown New York City, usually bustling, was quiet. I was not the only one there looking; a lot of people were taking in the site. There were souvenir sellers, posters and placards, but tones were hushed and a spirit of reflection and awe permeated the air.

This past June when I visited, I was struck by the noise. Construction was underway as the site was being rebuilt. There was a spirit of renewal and normalcy that I felt as the hustle and the bustle was back, and fewer people were standing around gazing. Indeed, the large numbers of people walking to and from work or the subway did not betray that this site was any different than any other construction site. This was a new phase of the life of the site--the location was being reclaimed and brought back to life (albeit in a different form).

Currently, the big news about Ground Zero is not the general rebuilding that is going on, but one particular project in the neighborhood: Park 51, the Muslim cultural center that is being planned for a former clothing store two blocks away from the World Trade Center site. The green light to build has not stopped the controversy and arguments surrounding the project, one that promises to continue through the election season at least.

I can not fathom to understand what it must be like to be close to a victim of the terrible tragedy that occurred on 9/11 and struggle with that loss. (The closest I came was an acquaintance from summer camp, but we were not friends and had not been in touch since we left camp.) But I do know what it is like to be part of a minority faith tradition and culture in this country and struggle with issues of freedom of religion.

Today, Jews are mostly immune from arguments over freedom of religion in regards to building synagogues and sacred space. The presence of a synagogue does not prevent ideological issues for society in general. This was not always the case, and it is interesting to note that in its early years Jews were forbidden to build synagogues in lower Manhattan, not far from the site of Park 51. We do, however, struggle with issues of freedom of religion in regards to sacred time, especially here in Olympia. Depending on when Jewish holidays fall we are forced to make accommodations and pleas for excusals, which are sometimes met graciously and sometimes with hostility. Rosh Hashanah falling on the second day of school this year puts many people in an awkward position.

This alone leads me to support the construction of Park 51. I believe that as Jews, we need to be especially sensitive to and supportive of other minority faith traditions. The vitriol that has come out--anti Muslim bias that seeks to condemn the whole for the actions of a few, and gross generalizations about the nature of Islam--also should be disturbing to us as Jews. As we are harmed as the victims of anti-Semitism in all its forms, we need to be vigilant about anti-Muslim bias.

But we can not react merely but opposing the negative, we have to embrace the positive. For just as Ground Zero is physically rebuilt, we need to rebuild from the psychic and emotional wounds that day has brought. And a compelling way to do that is to reach out and accept the gestures of those who seek healing. To build community with those who are different than us. To expand our understanding and our knowledge. In this season of Elul and the High Holidays, we must look to healing and moving forward. It is difficult, no doubt. But it is necessary work that will pay off in the long term. This is the work that compels us, as Jews, this season.

Rabbi Seth Goldstein