“When [Aaron] has finished purging the Shrine, the Tent of Meeting, and the altar, the live goat shall be brought forward. Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat and confess over it all the iniquities and transgressions of the Israelites, whatever their sins, putting them on the head of the goat; and it shall be sent off to the wilderness […]. Thus the goat shall carry on it all their iniquities to an inaccessible region; and the goat shall be set free in the wilderness” (Leviticus 19:20-22).
All your mistakes, all your second guesses, all your imperfections, all your regrets—lifted from your shoulders in one ritualized moment, placed as a burden on a goat who will be sent so far away, to a land so desolate, it will never return. Your sins disappear into the harsh desert on the head of a goat condemned to heat and hunger, thirst and sun. You are left feeling cool and light, with a chance to start over.
Aharei Mot, our Torah portion this week, gives instructions for the rituals for atoning for sin. Some of these rituals we keep each Yom Kippur, but many of them have become obsolete. For example, we no longer sacrifice two goats: one on the altar to the Eternal, and one, the scapegoat, burdened with our sins and released into the wilderness.
It is highly unlikely that we will ever personally know the feeling of release in watching that goat trot away into the wilderness, our iniquities and transgressions with it. But we might begin to understand that release—that freedom—as we rid our homes of chameitz in preparation for Passover.
Our ancestors could not wait for the leaven to rise to bake their bread before fleeing Egypt and slavery for the wilderness and freedom. In memory of their haste, we eat matzah, lachma anya, bread of poverty and affliction. We are commanded not only to eat matzah, but to completely rid our homes of chameitz. The Torah commands: מצות יאכל את שבעת הימים ולא יראה לך חמץ, Matzot ye’acheil et shivat ha’yamim, v’lo yei’ra’eh l’cha chameitz—“Matzah shall be eaten for those seven days, and no leavened bread shall be found with you” (Exodus 13:7).
To paraphrase the Haggadah, מאי חמץ—What is chameitz?
The word “chameitz” appears relatively few times in the Hebrew Bible. In most instances, it indicates leavened bread or the leavening process. But, as anyone who’s ordered extra pickles on their falafel sandwich in Israel knows, chamutz, from the same linguistic root as chameitz, means “sour.” Chameitz, the material that makes our bread rise to fluffy perfection in baking, can spoil, embitter, and sour. This type of chameitz is like the process that turns sweet cucumbers to sour pickles that make us pucker our lips, piercing our tongues with a sharp sensation. In the Bible, the root ח-מ-ץ (chet-mem-tzadee)—chamatz—also means to sour or to embitter.
At our seder tables, we recall the bitterness of Egyptian bondage. This bitterness utterly altered the lives of the people Israel. We will recall as we read from the Haggadah, “[The Egyptians] made life bitter for them with harsh labor at mortar and bricks and with all sorts of tasks in the field” (Exodus 1:14). They embittered their lives, וימררו Vay’mar’ru. Recalling this bitter bondage, we will eat maror, bitter herbs, during our seders. If you crunch into fresh horseradish, you will feel that quick burn, and your eyes might even well up with tears that echo the salted water into which we dip our greens. These are the tears of a people enslaved, a people whose lives were embittered by cruel oppressors, a people called to love the stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt.
But what if we are the enslaved and the taskmasters? What if the bitterness is not the bitterness of bondage but our own soured attitudes and habits? What if we sour our own experience by letting our pain fester into suffering?
Some people wake up each morning simply grateful to be alive to welcome another day. A pleasant smile never leaves their faces—even when someone cuts the long line at the grocery store or the pilot announces that it’s going to be another half hour waiting on the stuffy plane. They smile not only through these petty pains, but through their chemotherapy sessions.
But others of us are not so free from bitterness and doubt and worry and jealousy. Our minds spin out to so many “what ifs” that we cannot focus on the very moment we are living right now. We compare ourselves unfavorably to our peers, convinced we could never do as well—or, conversely, convinced we obviously could have done it better. We fight our negative emotions, trying to stuff them down and suppress them; we may not even realize how these negative emotions escape in other ways, hurting those around us. Pain can turn us chamutz; it can embitter and sour us.
Psychologist Marsha Linehan distinguishes between pain and suffering. Pain is inevitable; negative experiences are part of the human condition, and our negative emotional responses help us to understand and to cope with the full range of human experience. How we react to those experiences and emotions can sour and embitter us. When we sour ourselves in our pain—this is suffering. It is a place of chamutz, a sour stewing in all that makes our lives difficult and challenging.
Why do we sour our own lives? Is there a cure for this bitterness? Why do we rid ourselves of chameitz only once a year? Why not strive to rid ourselves of it permanently?
We do not make our lives sour on purpose. Linehan offers a way to integrate and accept all our emotions in our lives. On the contrary, she writes, “most people […] feel badly for good reasons” (Marsha M. Linehan, Skills Training Manual for Borderline Personality Disorder, The Guilford Press, 1993, p 85). Things turn sour when we forget how temporary and how inevitable painful emotions can be. Linehan reminds us, “Emotions come and go. They are like waves in the sea” (87). We can wait for God to part the waters miraculously. We can cling panicking to the shore, never crossing into freedom. Or we can begin to wade in, learning how to gauge the power of each swell and crest so that we stay afloat. Wading in requires courage and trust: we must be brave enough to cope with pain, trusting enough in our own resources, in our support communities, and in our faith to believe that we will not sink beneath the surface.
How can we escape the bitter bondage of emotional suffering? A cold, rational, logical approach might help us accomplish tasks, but all reasonableness drowns beneath the surface when we face pain (Linehan 65). A hot, emotional approach allows us to feel passion and connection, but when emotions take over completely, we can begin to slip beneath the surface ourselves, drowning in fear and worry, anxiety and depression. Where will we find the strength to wade into the waters? Linehan calls that place of strength “wise mind”—a balance between the logical and the emotional. Linehan writes, “You cannot overcome emotion mind with reasonable mind. Nor can you create emotions with reasonableness. You must go within and integrate the two” (Linehan 66).
Imagine yourself ridding your home of leaven, carefully searching the cabinets, separating the chameitz from everything Kosher for Passover. You are cleaning under all the cushions. You scrub out the refrigerator and the freezer. You pack away even the dishes and utensils that have touched chameitz in exchange for pristine Passover plates. You search for places you might otherwise ignore and dig out every last crumb. Just before the day of Passover arrives, you search again, in the dark, guided by a flickering candle, and sweep away any tiny piece of chameitz you might have overlooked. Finally, you recite an ancient vow nullifying whatever miniscule particles remain that we cannot hope to find, and we burn those pieces we recovered, watching the chameitz turn to smoke like the ancient sacrifices on the Temple altar.
Relief. And freedom.
We do not pack our chameitz onto the back of a scapegoat, sending it out into the wilderness. Instead, we make our best effort to gather the destructive chameitz and purge it from our lives for the days of Passover, turning over what we can to God, and making a vow to minimize the rest, like those miniscule particles of chameitz we can never sweep away.
Our chameitz cannot be destroyed completely like our sins on the scapegoat. At the end of the festival, we purposefully invite chameitz back into our lives.
Where does that leave us? The Torah itself links chameitz with something negative—the sour and the embittered. In the Psalms, to be chamatz is to be ruthless, unjust or evil (Psalm 71:4). In the book of Exodus, God twice warns Moses, “You shall not offer the blood of My sacrifice על חמץ, al chameitz—with anything leavened” (Exodus 23:18, see also 34:25). Indeed, the book of Leviticus repeatedly gives instructions for sacrifices, warning against mixing leaven into the meal offerings for the Temple (Leviticus 2:11, 6:10, 7:13).
Yet, when we bring our first fruits as an offering to God, the Torah tells us, “You shall bring from your settlements two loaves of bread as an elevation offering; […] תהינה חמץ תאפינה t’hiyehna chameitz tei’afehna—“baked after leavening” (Leviticus 23:17). When we bring to God the first fruits of our harvest, we bring also our chameitz.
At Passover, for seven days, rid your settlements of chameitz. And also, bring to God offerings of your first fruits, among them cakes baked with chameitz.
Chameitz is the tendency in us to spin from pain into suffering, from the maror of those events in our lives that embitter – to the chamutz of our own sour reactions. During Passover, we have an opportunity to examine our souls as carefully as we examine our cabinets for crumbs, separating out the chameitz and reflecting on how we will reincorporate it into our lives when Passover ends. We have an opportunity to practice being mindful not only of whether we ingest leaven, but of our own reliance on the emotional alone, or on the rational alone (See Linehan). We have an opportunity to learn where our personal place of “wise mind” rests.
This year, as we search our houses, let us also search our souls. We cannot sweep our embittered moods or tendencies or actions into a neat little pile and nullify them for all time with an ancient vow. But we can make Passover a time to rid ourselves of the chameitz that rises and rises in our hearts until it threatens to suffocate us. Like those miniscule particles over which we recite the vow, we may not be able to completely eradicate this spiritual chameitz, but we can search with our best efforts.
Baruch atah HaShem, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kideshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al bi’ur chameitz. Blessed are you, Eternal our God, sovereign of the universe, who sanctifies us with your mitzvot and commands us concerning the removal of chameitz.
All my chameitz: all my jealousy. All my chameitz: all the times I snap at my spouse when I am having a bad day instead of voicing my frustration calmly. All my chameitz: All the “what-ifs” that prevent me from seeing the positive opportunities and good moments. All my chameitz: All the stress that overwhelms me despite how hard I work to find means of relief and distraction. All my chameitz: All the “could haves” and “should haves” that lead only to regret and despair. All my chameitz: All the social messages that convince me I must always please and serve others and never take the lead.
We take a moment now, in this sacred community, to be mindful of our own chameitz—the fears and worries that threaten to turn to chamutz, to sourness.
Let us recite a vow together, releasing ourselves of the bitterness of guilt and the sourness of worry this Passover.
All spiritual hameitz that I have not removed from my heart, my soul, and my mind, or of which I am unaware, is hereby nullified and ownerless as the dust of the earth.
May we sweep away all that sours and embitters us. And, when the festival is over, may the chameitz we re-invite into our lives be leavening that bubbles us into action, allowing the best in us to rise.
I thank the community at Beth Am, where I gave this as a sermon for Shabbat Aharei Mot.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
My People and I
“I don’t understand why you have to tell everybody about your private life,” my dad said.
My dad and I weren’t arguing about my words. We were arguing about how I dressed. To be specific, we were arguing about a necklace I used to wear incessantly: rainbow-colored rings dangling from a silver chain. A symbol for the gay rights movement.
Each year, approaching Purim, I think about the conversations I’ve had with my dad since “coming out”—conversations about how and when I reveal this fact about myself. I think about why I wore the rainbow ring necklace: a symbol that I belonged in a certain community, a symbol of the struggle for visibility and acceptance. I think about why I wear a wedding ring: a symbol that reminds me of the love and commitment I renew each day. I think about why I wear a kippa: a symbol of my role and responsibility as a student rabbi. And I think about Queen Esther—no outward, visible symbol of her Judaism paraded before King Ahasueros. I think about Queen Esther, boldly approaching the king, demanding an audience rather than waiting to be invited. I think about Queen Esther, laying her life on the line to say: “Let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request. For we have been sold, my people and I, to be destroyed, massacred, and exterminated” (Esther 7:3-4).
Influenced by my personal experience and by the work of one of my mentors, Professor Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (may her memory be a blessing), I have often looked at Megillat Esther as one long coming-out story: the tale of a woman who hid a part of her identity and, at great personal risk, revealed the truth to improve conditions for her entire community (For more on this idea, see Sedgwick’s Epistemology of the Closet). The story of Esther certainly hinges on a dramatic moment of self-identification that Esther chooses.
But I’ve also been thinking about the Book of Esther in terms of the symbols of our identities, the brands we display and the loyalties and values we communicate through our choice of wardrobe. It might be a rainbow necklace or a wedding ring or a Steelers jersey. It might be a discreet star of David pendant or a tall black hat. What do these markers of self-identification serve? What do the symbols we wear communicate?
When I eat my breakfast on Sunday mornings in the Hampton Inn dining room, I am usually wearing my kippa. People always stare at me, whisper to one another—last month two women laughed at me openly. I definitely heard the word “Jew.” Rarely does anyone smile at me, say hello, and ask me about my “strange” head covering. And, I admit, I’ve never initiated such a conversation myself. I usually sit there, stunned and a bit annoyed, eating my oatmeal. I sit there, displaying a symbol that does not communicate what I intend it to communicate.
Symbols inspire solidarity. Wearing a symbol can be a welcoming wink to those “in the know”—like the rainbow rings I wore, which often brought supportive comments from older gay and lesbian people on the street, and which certainly signaled to other gay students on my college campus that I was a safe person to approach to discuss coming out issues. But wearing a symbol can also be a brick wall blocking out those who are not “on the inside.” Symbols insulate and isolate. And symbols can backfire, as we know all too well when the Star of David was cruelly transformed into the yellow star of the ghetto and the camps.
Although they can be misused, symbols still hold power. Some people wear their Judaism all day, every day. Why does it seem that more and more people, not just in faraway places but in Pittsburgh and the surrounding area, display their Judaism by wearing a certain style of clothing? A member of this community recently spoke with me about this phenomenon, asking, “Does it matter a great deal” to the God of Israel whether Jews walk in public with our heads uncovered?
For some Jews, the kippa is a sign of piety and humility. One wears a kippa to remind oneself that God reigns above us, that we are small in a vast universe. In the Talmud, we read about Rabbi Huna, who would not walk even a short distance with his head uncovered because, as he explained, “The Shechina—the Presence of God—is above my head” (Bavli Kiddushin 31a).
Over time, the custom of covering one’s head as a sign of piety or humility before God became Jewish law. No longer a symbol of personal faith or a physical reminder to the self, the kippa became the object of a law, formulated in cold, impersonal terms: “It is forbidden to walk four cubits with an uncovered head” (Shulhan Arukh Orach Hayyim 2:6).
And not only that, but the kippa has become, for some communities, a way to identify insiders and outsiders. In Israel, one learns to label men by their kippa: Is he a Breslav Hasid? A Hareidi Jew? An ultra-conservative religious Zionist? An environmentalist? The color, shape, style, and even placement of a kippa often sends a message that has nothing to do with God or humility or faith. It is a message of belonging and not-belonging, inside and outside. A kippa can cut off communication. A kippa can become a symbol of insulation or fear as much as it can be a symbol of pride or humility.
Why wear our Judaism on our sleeve?
In Jerusalem, I once saw an ultra-Orthodox boy and his little brother, tousling over a book while they waited for their mother on a park bench. Another woman saw the older brother slap the younger brother’s hand and she shouted out, איך מתנהג ילד עם כיפה? –“Is this how a boy who wears a kippa behaves!?”
A kippa might be a personal reminder of our smallness before God’s vast power and love. A kippa might be a sign of humility and faith. A kippa might indicate our status in a certain community or political group. A kippa might indicate our unwillingness to connect with those who are different from us. Or a kippa might signify that we are modeling Jewish behavior.
Like the kippa of that little boy in Jerusalem, our symbols indicate that we represent our communities. Our behavior reflects on the entire community—whether we like it or not.
For many in the gay community, this sense that we are representing more than just ourselves is keenly felt. I am sure that many of you feel such a sense of responsibility toward other Jews, living in a majority-Christian region. I have heard many of you tell stories about being the only Jew—or one of a handful of Jews—in your graduating class. I have heard stories of suspicious neighbors who wondered whether your hair was hiding those infamous Jewish “horns.” I have heard about the judgments ignorant non-Jews have made against you. How do we respond to those stereotypes and fears? Do we seek solace in symbols? Do we fear labels will hem us in? Do we use outward markers of our identity to raise awareness?
Esther didn’t wear her Judaism on her sleeve. On the contrary, she hid her true identity. Like many of us, she had a second name—rather than the Persian “Esther,” her everyday name, she also had a Hebrew name, “Hadassah.” Modern Orthodox Rabbi Joseph Telushkin calls Queen Esther “highly assimilated” (Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know about the Jewish Religion, Its People, and Its History, 103). Part of the surprise of the Book of Esther, Rabbi Telushkin suggests, is that this “unlikely” character would “risk her life on behalf of her people” (Ibid.). And yet this is precisely what Esther does: we read in the Megillah, ““I shall go to the king, though it is contrary to the law; and if I am to perish, I shall perish!” (Esther 4:16).
Esther lives out her Jewish values, risking her life to put a stop to Haman’s murderous plot to destroy the Jewish people. Esther doesn’t don a symbol. She stands up. She speaks out. She takes action.
Esther risks being judged based on stereotypes about the Jewish people. Many of us know what it feels like to be seen only as the member of a misunderstood or maligned group. Gays and lesbians in the 1970s and 80s faced stereotypes that painted us as degenerates. Gays and lesbians were judged to be sick and depraved. We could not be productive citizens. And so many groups sought to counter these stereotypes. One group of women sought to let their actions demonstrate their values, changing social perceptions about the gay community. These women, like any good citizens, would help strangers in need—assisting someone climbing up onto the bus, carrying heavy groceries out to the parking lot, signaling for traffic to stop to allow the person in the wheelchair to make it safely across the street. After offering their help as they would naturally do, these women took one more step—a risky step. They identified themselves as lesbians by handing out a small calling card before walking away. The card read: “You’ve just been helped by a lesbian.”
The “Lesbian Helpers,” as they called themselves, tried to challenge negative stereotypes by doing good deeds. Their actions were neither publicity stunts nor insincere “tricks.” Their actions were genuine. But they did take that extra step to self-identify as lesbians. Why? Doing so motivated the people they had helped to rethink their perceptions about the gay community. Someone who thought all gays and lesbians were anti-social, destructive, sick people now had to integrate into their definition of “gay” this story of a complete stranger who had helped them kindly. I am sure you have encountered the kind of non-Jew who says, “Well, you’re not like other Jews, you know how they are.” You represent the “exception,” the Jew who is different than other Jews. But hopefully, eventually, the “exception” becomes the rule, and people learn that hurtful stereotypes inaccurately describe a multifaceted Jewish community.
Esther didn’t need a kippa or a rainbow necklace. She needed her own powerful voice, the support of her family and community, her convictions, and her courage. And yet, even if Esther did not rely on symbols, she did identify her Jewishness. In a way, Esther handed out her own calling card. The favored queen, Esther could have asked King Ahasueros to spare the Jews without identifying herself as “one of them.” And yet she spoke to the king as part of a community, as part of a we. “Let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request,” Queen Esther said. “For we have been sold, my people and I” (Esther 7:3-4). Esther cast her lot in with the entire people. Esther risked punishment for brazenly approaching the King this way. Esther risked death if Haman’s decree were carried out in the end. And Esther also risked ridicule and rejection at the hands of a man she called husband. What would he think when he learned that his beloved and beautiful Esther was … one of them? Queen Esther of Shushan—a Jew! Queen Esther of Shushan, kin to that “certain people, scattered and dispersed among the other peoples in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king’s laws” (Esther 3:8)!
And yet, here stands Queen Esther, tall and proud and beautiful, saying four short but immeasurably brave words: “my people and I.” Esther’s revelation could have brought death and destruction. Instead, the King changed his mind about the Jews, letting their actions (and not Haman’s lies or stereotypes) speak to their values.
When I think about Queen Esther, I think about my old rainbow necklace. I think about how I hid behind that symbol, used it—more often than not—to push people away.
We can let symbols cover and hide us like masks, like walls to keep insiders in and outsiders out. Or we can use symbols to remind us that we belong to something larger than ourselves, a Jewish community that lives Jewish values.
Now, when I think about my rainbow necklace, I think about other models for living our values and revealing our identities: Queen Esther pleading for the Jews not in the dispassionate voice of a humanitarian queen but with the very personal cry, “my people and I.”
[This post reflects my own views and does not necessarily represent the views of the congregation I am privileged to serve.]
My dad and I weren’t arguing about my words. We were arguing about how I dressed. To be specific, we were arguing about a necklace I used to wear incessantly: rainbow-colored rings dangling from a silver chain. A symbol for the gay rights movement.
Each year, approaching Purim, I think about the conversations I’ve had with my dad since “coming out”—conversations about how and when I reveal this fact about myself. I think about why I wore the rainbow ring necklace: a symbol that I belonged in a certain community, a symbol of the struggle for visibility and acceptance. I think about why I wear a wedding ring: a symbol that reminds me of the love and commitment I renew each day. I think about why I wear a kippa: a symbol of my role and responsibility as a student rabbi. And I think about Queen Esther—no outward, visible symbol of her Judaism paraded before King Ahasueros. I think about Queen Esther, boldly approaching the king, demanding an audience rather than waiting to be invited. I think about Queen Esther, laying her life on the line to say: “Let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request. For we have been sold, my people and I, to be destroyed, massacred, and exterminated” (Esther 7:3-4).
Influenced by my personal experience and by the work of one of my mentors, Professor Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (may her memory be a blessing), I have often looked at Megillat Esther as one long coming-out story: the tale of a woman who hid a part of her identity and, at great personal risk, revealed the truth to improve conditions for her entire community (For more on this idea, see Sedgwick’s Epistemology of the Closet). The story of Esther certainly hinges on a dramatic moment of self-identification that Esther chooses.
But I’ve also been thinking about the Book of Esther in terms of the symbols of our identities, the brands we display and the loyalties and values we communicate through our choice of wardrobe. It might be a rainbow necklace or a wedding ring or a Steelers jersey. It might be a discreet star of David pendant or a tall black hat. What do these markers of self-identification serve? What do the symbols we wear communicate?
When I eat my breakfast on Sunday mornings in the Hampton Inn dining room, I am usually wearing my kippa. People always stare at me, whisper to one another—last month two women laughed at me openly. I definitely heard the word “Jew.” Rarely does anyone smile at me, say hello, and ask me about my “strange” head covering. And, I admit, I’ve never initiated such a conversation myself. I usually sit there, stunned and a bit annoyed, eating my oatmeal. I sit there, displaying a symbol that does not communicate what I intend it to communicate.
Symbols inspire solidarity. Wearing a symbol can be a welcoming wink to those “in the know”—like the rainbow rings I wore, which often brought supportive comments from older gay and lesbian people on the street, and which certainly signaled to other gay students on my college campus that I was a safe person to approach to discuss coming out issues. But wearing a symbol can also be a brick wall blocking out those who are not “on the inside.” Symbols insulate and isolate. And symbols can backfire, as we know all too well when the Star of David was cruelly transformed into the yellow star of the ghetto and the camps.
Although they can be misused, symbols still hold power. Some people wear their Judaism all day, every day. Why does it seem that more and more people, not just in faraway places but in Pittsburgh and the surrounding area, display their Judaism by wearing a certain style of clothing? A member of this community recently spoke with me about this phenomenon, asking, “Does it matter a great deal” to the God of Israel whether Jews walk in public with our heads uncovered?
For some Jews, the kippa is a sign of piety and humility. One wears a kippa to remind oneself that God reigns above us, that we are small in a vast universe. In the Talmud, we read about Rabbi Huna, who would not walk even a short distance with his head uncovered because, as he explained, “The Shechina—the Presence of God—is above my head” (Bavli Kiddushin 31a).
Over time, the custom of covering one’s head as a sign of piety or humility before God became Jewish law. No longer a symbol of personal faith or a physical reminder to the self, the kippa became the object of a law, formulated in cold, impersonal terms: “It is forbidden to walk four cubits with an uncovered head” (Shulhan Arukh Orach Hayyim 2:6).
And not only that, but the kippa has become, for some communities, a way to identify insiders and outsiders. In Israel, one learns to label men by their kippa: Is he a Breslav Hasid? A Hareidi Jew? An ultra-conservative religious Zionist? An environmentalist? The color, shape, style, and even placement of a kippa often sends a message that has nothing to do with God or humility or faith. It is a message of belonging and not-belonging, inside and outside. A kippa can cut off communication. A kippa can become a symbol of insulation or fear as much as it can be a symbol of pride or humility.
Why wear our Judaism on our sleeve?
In Jerusalem, I once saw an ultra-Orthodox boy and his little brother, tousling over a book while they waited for their mother on a park bench. Another woman saw the older brother slap the younger brother’s hand and she shouted out, איך מתנהג ילד עם כיפה? –“Is this how a boy who wears a kippa behaves!?”
A kippa might be a personal reminder of our smallness before God’s vast power and love. A kippa might be a sign of humility and faith. A kippa might indicate our status in a certain community or political group. A kippa might indicate our unwillingness to connect with those who are different from us. Or a kippa might signify that we are modeling Jewish behavior.
Like the kippa of that little boy in Jerusalem, our symbols indicate that we represent our communities. Our behavior reflects on the entire community—whether we like it or not.
For many in the gay community, this sense that we are representing more than just ourselves is keenly felt. I am sure that many of you feel such a sense of responsibility toward other Jews, living in a majority-Christian region. I have heard many of you tell stories about being the only Jew—or one of a handful of Jews—in your graduating class. I have heard stories of suspicious neighbors who wondered whether your hair was hiding those infamous Jewish “horns.” I have heard about the judgments ignorant non-Jews have made against you. How do we respond to those stereotypes and fears? Do we seek solace in symbols? Do we fear labels will hem us in? Do we use outward markers of our identity to raise awareness?
Esther didn’t wear her Judaism on her sleeve. On the contrary, she hid her true identity. Like many of us, she had a second name—rather than the Persian “Esther,” her everyday name, she also had a Hebrew name, “Hadassah.” Modern Orthodox Rabbi Joseph Telushkin calls Queen Esther “highly assimilated” (Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know about the Jewish Religion, Its People, and Its History, 103). Part of the surprise of the Book of Esther, Rabbi Telushkin suggests, is that this “unlikely” character would “risk her life on behalf of her people” (Ibid.). And yet this is precisely what Esther does: we read in the Megillah, ““I shall go to the king, though it is contrary to the law; and if I am to perish, I shall perish!” (Esther 4:16).
Esther lives out her Jewish values, risking her life to put a stop to Haman’s murderous plot to destroy the Jewish people. Esther doesn’t don a symbol. She stands up. She speaks out. She takes action.
Esther risks being judged based on stereotypes about the Jewish people. Many of us know what it feels like to be seen only as the member of a misunderstood or maligned group. Gays and lesbians in the 1970s and 80s faced stereotypes that painted us as degenerates. Gays and lesbians were judged to be sick and depraved. We could not be productive citizens. And so many groups sought to counter these stereotypes. One group of women sought to let their actions demonstrate their values, changing social perceptions about the gay community. These women, like any good citizens, would help strangers in need—assisting someone climbing up onto the bus, carrying heavy groceries out to the parking lot, signaling for traffic to stop to allow the person in the wheelchair to make it safely across the street. After offering their help as they would naturally do, these women took one more step—a risky step. They identified themselves as lesbians by handing out a small calling card before walking away. The card read: “You’ve just been helped by a lesbian.”
The “Lesbian Helpers,” as they called themselves, tried to challenge negative stereotypes by doing good deeds. Their actions were neither publicity stunts nor insincere “tricks.” Their actions were genuine. But they did take that extra step to self-identify as lesbians. Why? Doing so motivated the people they had helped to rethink their perceptions about the gay community. Someone who thought all gays and lesbians were anti-social, destructive, sick people now had to integrate into their definition of “gay” this story of a complete stranger who had helped them kindly. I am sure you have encountered the kind of non-Jew who says, “Well, you’re not like other Jews, you know how they are.” You represent the “exception,” the Jew who is different than other Jews. But hopefully, eventually, the “exception” becomes the rule, and people learn that hurtful stereotypes inaccurately describe a multifaceted Jewish community.
Esther didn’t need a kippa or a rainbow necklace. She needed her own powerful voice, the support of her family and community, her convictions, and her courage. And yet, even if Esther did not rely on symbols, she did identify her Jewishness. In a way, Esther handed out her own calling card. The favored queen, Esther could have asked King Ahasueros to spare the Jews without identifying herself as “one of them.” And yet she spoke to the king as part of a community, as part of a we. “Let my life be granted me as my wish, and my people as my request,” Queen Esther said. “For we have been sold, my people and I” (Esther 7:3-4). Esther cast her lot in with the entire people. Esther risked punishment for brazenly approaching the King this way. Esther risked death if Haman’s decree were carried out in the end. And Esther also risked ridicule and rejection at the hands of a man she called husband. What would he think when he learned that his beloved and beautiful Esther was … one of them? Queen Esther of Shushan—a Jew! Queen Esther of Shushan, kin to that “certain people, scattered and dispersed among the other peoples in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king’s laws” (Esther 3:8)!
And yet, here stands Queen Esther, tall and proud and beautiful, saying four short but immeasurably brave words: “my people and I.” Esther’s revelation could have brought death and destruction. Instead, the King changed his mind about the Jews, letting their actions (and not Haman’s lies or stereotypes) speak to their values.
When I think about Queen Esther, I think about my old rainbow necklace. I think about how I hid behind that symbol, used it—more often than not—to push people away.
We can let symbols cover and hide us like masks, like walls to keep insiders in and outsiders out. Or we can use symbols to remind us that we belong to something larger than ourselves, a Jewish community that lives Jewish values.
Now, when I think about my rainbow necklace, I think about other models for living our values and revealing our identities: Queen Esther pleading for the Jews not in the dispassionate voice of a humanitarian queen but with the very personal cry, “my people and I.”
[This post reflects my own views and does not necessarily represent the views of the congregation I am privileged to serve.]
Monday, February 21, 2011
Collaborative Freedom
[Thank you to the community at Temple Beth Am in Monessen, PA for your amazing and valuable feedback on this sermon, given on 18 February, Shabbat Ki Tissa.]
Chaos replaced Law. The people gathered, but their leader could not discern whether their gathering was a rebellion or a celebration, a war or a party. After days and days of his absence, this leader finally descended into the throng. Enraged, he smashed the Tablets of the Law at the foot of the mountain.
Tonight, we stand at the foot of Mount Sinai. We, the people Israel, in despair and confusion, worried that our leader Moses would not return. We yearned for some tangible proof that the God who led us out of Egypt would not abandon us in the desert. We regressed to what we had learned in the land of our slavery. We made a mistake. Our minds still enslaved, we tried to fashion an outward sign of power and authority because we understood neither an invisible God nor a covenant with that Ultimate Being. We did not know how to be free.
Yet God, a God compassionate and gracious, taught us about freedom.
In this week’s paresha, we read about Moses’ ascent to the summit of Sinai to receive the Tablets of the Law from the very finger of God. Twice the Torah describes these remarkable tablets, shaped and carved by God from the stone of Sinai: in Exodus, chapter thirty-one, they are called “stone tablets written by the finger of God” (31:18), and in chapter thirty-two we read, “the two tablets of the Pact, written on both their surfaces […]. והלוחות מעשה אלוהים המה והמכתב מכתב אלוהים הוא חרות על הלוחות – The tablets were God’s work, and the writing was God’s writing, inscribed upon the tablets” (32:15-16). The Torah tells us that these Tablets represent nothing less than the Law of God inscribed by the finger of God on Tablets carved by God. Talk about the word from on high… Power and authority descend to us from the summit of Sinai in the hands of our leader Moses.
The Tablets bear the Law, our responsibilities under the covenant between us and God. The Torah tells us these tablets were “inscribed by the finger of God.” “Inscribed”—in Hebrew, חרות (harut). In the Mishnah, the rabbis play with this word, reading not harut but heirut—freedom. The Tablets are freedom, say the rabbis, “for no man is truly free until he occupies himself with study of Torah” (Pirkei Avot 6:2).
Law is freedom, heirut, say the rabbis. We are free when we study the Law, inscribed, harut, by the finger of God upon the Tablets.
We might read the rabbis’ statement as an endorsement of submission to law and authority. The finger of God inscribes the words and, following those words to the letter, we are free.
But, in this week’s Torah portion, God sends us a different message about freedom.
The Tablets of the Law, written by God, inscribed by the very finger of God upon tablets carved by God out of the side of the mountain—these remarkable Tablets lay shattered at the foot of Sinai, broken in Moses’ anger. But the covenant was not shattered with them. After anger and punishment come forgiveness and a new freedom, symbolized by a second set of Tablets. Are these second Tablets exact replicas of the first? Not quite.
God instructs Moses, “Carve two tablets of stone like the first, וכתבתי and I will write upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you shattered” (34:1). We already see a difference here: Moses must participate more actively in the creation of these new tablets which will bear the terms of the covenant between God and Israel. Moses will carve the shape of the tablets from the stone of Sinai, but God will write the words and inscribe them upon the tablets.
And yet, a few verses later, God speaks to Moses again, commanding: “כתב לך Write down these commandments” (34:27). Now it seems that God wants Moses to not only carve the new tablets but to write the words as well. The Torah says, “And [Moses] was with the Eternal forty days and forty nights; […] ויכתוב and he wrote down on the tablets the terms of the covenant, the Ten Commandments” (34:28).
Wait a minute, ask the rabbis. Who wrote on these Tablets, the very Tablets preserved in the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies? Was it Moses, or was it God? Who is the subject of the verb ויכתוב, and he wrote? Our rabbis, thinking of God as “he,” worried over whether God wrote on the second set of Tablets or whether Moses did. Many classical commentators say that of course the Torah means that God wrote the second set (Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Sforno). The rabbis note the apparent contradiction in the text: How do we reconcile verse 1, וכתבתי, God saying, “I will write upon the tablets,” with verse 27, the command to Moses to כתב לך “Write down these commandments”? The rabbis resolve the contradiction by ignoring God’s command to Moses to “write” and focusing on verse 1, the verse that says, Moses, you carve the tablets yourself, since you broke the first ones, but I, God, will write and inscribe upon them the Law. The worried rabbis seem to be saying, of course these sacred Tablets, carefully preserved in the Ark of the Covenant in the Temple’s very Holy of Holies, of course these Tablets were written by the finger of God.
But what if they weren’t? What if the second set of Tablets bore words spoken by God but written by Moses?
The rabbis envisioned freedom, heirut, through God’s Law inscribed, harut, in stone. Follow the Law to the letter and we are free.
But what if we think about freedom as emerging from that second set of Tablets, the ones written by Moses? Then heirut, freedom, emerges from a collaborative process—human beings and God working together. Freedom emerges when God speaks the words and Moses writes them, when Moses writes them and passes them down to the people, and when the people—when we—interpret those words so that we can live them out in freedom.
At the foot of Sinai, the people Israel felt lost without their leader. They did not understand a God they could not see. In their fear and confusion they turned to the ways of slavery, the habits of a people habituated to submission. God punished them for their idolatry and for their refusal to stand by the God of their ancestors, yet God also forgave Israel and re-established the covenant. God re-established the covenant through a second set of Tablets created in collaboration with Moses. God recognized that, in order to teach an enslaved people to live in heirut, in freedom, the harut, the inscribed law, had to emerge from power shared between God and human beings. כתב לך You write. Or, write for yourselves. And then you will be בני חורין, free people.
With their heirut, their new freedom, Israel created a portable reminder of God’s presence. In the next Torah portion, they build the sanctuary in the desert. They build it with their own hands and through their own free will. The place that will remind Israel of God’s presence among them, the site of communal rituals and gatherings—this place was built not by Moses alone or even by its primary artist, Bezalel. The sanctuary was built by כל אשר נדבה רוחו, by every single person whose spirit was generous (Exodus 35:21), by האנשים על הנשים כל נדיב לב, by the men together with the women, all whose hearts were generous (25:22). Indeed, this people who only recently became so frightened at the prospect of freedom and covenant gave so much of themselves that Moses had to tell them to stop. “Their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done,” says the Torah (Exodus 36:7).
God took the risk to say to Moses, כתב לך, write for yourselves. Write these words, although you may make a few mistakes. Write these words and live them in freedom, although you may misinterpret them at times. Write these words and build a community with the contributions of all its members, men and women, young and old—all whose hearts are generous are welcome to build this community, to live out this Law in heirut, not in submission to the Law, but in freedom through a collaborative covenant. כתב לך, write for yourselves. God will share the power and the responsibility. God will trust you to interpret the words and live them.
God understood how to transform an enslaved people into a free nation. God understood collaboration. And if tradition claims that even God was willing to take the risk to share power, then so much the more so ought power among human beings be shared. So much the more so should human political freedom emerge from collaboration.
Tonight, Egypt stands at the foot of its own Sinai of sorts. We have watched anxiously the anger and the violence, the demands and the celebrations in Tahrir Square—Freedom Square. We have heard the cry of a people demanding, as one protestor’s sign read, “Pharaoh Mubarak, Let the People Go!” We have worried about the involvement of the Muslim Brotherhood and the implications for Israel—a reasonable response, for freedom is risky. How have we listened to the people’s cry for freedom, open access to information, and self-determination? Can we listen to that cry with our second set of Tablets in mind? Can we listen to that cry as the outpouring of so many—men, women, children, professionals and workers, religious and secular—so many individuals, each נדיב לב, willing of heart to write and interpret their own freedom?
We do not yet know what form Egypt’s freedom will take. And we tremble in fear, for the stakes are immeasurably high. Egypt is deciding how they will participate in the community of democratic nations, how they will live their collective national identity, how they will pursue freedom while allowing citizens to express their religious and political convictions. These struggles are so like the struggles of the Jewish people, trying to live out a covenant in freedom, trying to interpret and reinterpret ancient words while never, ever letting go of those Tablets, trying to elicit the willing hearts and contributions of each member of our community. Ours is a freedom that carries responsibility. Ours is a freedom that requires us to partner with God. I pray that Egypt’s freedom will be such a freedom: humble and responsible and collaborative.
[I am thankful to my homiletics instructor, Rabbi Margaret Wenig, and my classmates Jillian Cameron, Rachel Maimin, Lisa Kingston, Vicky Glickin, Daniel Kirzane, and Ilene Haigh for their comments on a draft version of this sermon. In thinking about the second set of tablets as written by Moses, I was inspired by an article by Bowdoin College Professor Aviva Briefel in which she talks about Moses as “plagiarist” (“Sacred Objects/Illusory Idols: The Fake in Freud’s ‘The Moses of Michelangelo,’” American Imago 60,1, 2003, pp 21-40).]
Chaos replaced Law. The people gathered, but their leader could not discern whether their gathering was a rebellion or a celebration, a war or a party. After days and days of his absence, this leader finally descended into the throng. Enraged, he smashed the Tablets of the Law at the foot of the mountain.
Tonight, we stand at the foot of Mount Sinai. We, the people Israel, in despair and confusion, worried that our leader Moses would not return. We yearned for some tangible proof that the God who led us out of Egypt would not abandon us in the desert. We regressed to what we had learned in the land of our slavery. We made a mistake. Our minds still enslaved, we tried to fashion an outward sign of power and authority because we understood neither an invisible God nor a covenant with that Ultimate Being. We did not know how to be free.
Yet God, a God compassionate and gracious, taught us about freedom.
In this week’s paresha, we read about Moses’ ascent to the summit of Sinai to receive the Tablets of the Law from the very finger of God. Twice the Torah describes these remarkable tablets, shaped and carved by God from the stone of Sinai: in Exodus, chapter thirty-one, they are called “stone tablets written by the finger of God” (31:18), and in chapter thirty-two we read, “the two tablets of the Pact, written on both their surfaces […]. והלוחות מעשה אלוהים המה והמכתב מכתב אלוהים הוא חרות על הלוחות – The tablets were God’s work, and the writing was God’s writing, inscribed upon the tablets” (32:15-16). The Torah tells us that these Tablets represent nothing less than the Law of God inscribed by the finger of God on Tablets carved by God. Talk about the word from on high… Power and authority descend to us from the summit of Sinai in the hands of our leader Moses.
The Tablets bear the Law, our responsibilities under the covenant between us and God. The Torah tells us these tablets were “inscribed by the finger of God.” “Inscribed”—in Hebrew, חרות (harut). In the Mishnah, the rabbis play with this word, reading not harut but heirut—freedom. The Tablets are freedom, say the rabbis, “for no man is truly free until he occupies himself with study of Torah” (Pirkei Avot 6:2).
Law is freedom, heirut, say the rabbis. We are free when we study the Law, inscribed, harut, by the finger of God upon the Tablets.
We might read the rabbis’ statement as an endorsement of submission to law and authority. The finger of God inscribes the words and, following those words to the letter, we are free.
But, in this week’s Torah portion, God sends us a different message about freedom.
The Tablets of the Law, written by God, inscribed by the very finger of God upon tablets carved by God out of the side of the mountain—these remarkable Tablets lay shattered at the foot of Sinai, broken in Moses’ anger. But the covenant was not shattered with them. After anger and punishment come forgiveness and a new freedom, symbolized by a second set of Tablets. Are these second Tablets exact replicas of the first? Not quite.
God instructs Moses, “Carve two tablets of stone like the first, וכתבתי and I will write upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you shattered” (34:1). We already see a difference here: Moses must participate more actively in the creation of these new tablets which will bear the terms of the covenant between God and Israel. Moses will carve the shape of the tablets from the stone of Sinai, but God will write the words and inscribe them upon the tablets.
And yet, a few verses later, God speaks to Moses again, commanding: “כתב לך Write down these commandments” (34:27). Now it seems that God wants Moses to not only carve the new tablets but to write the words as well. The Torah says, “And [Moses] was with the Eternal forty days and forty nights; […] ויכתוב and he wrote down on the tablets the terms of the covenant, the Ten Commandments” (34:28).
Wait a minute, ask the rabbis. Who wrote on these Tablets, the very Tablets preserved in the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies? Was it Moses, or was it God? Who is the subject of the verb ויכתוב, and he wrote? Our rabbis, thinking of God as “he,” worried over whether God wrote on the second set of Tablets or whether Moses did. Many classical commentators say that of course the Torah means that God wrote the second set (Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Sforno). The rabbis note the apparent contradiction in the text: How do we reconcile verse 1, וכתבתי, God saying, “I will write upon the tablets,” with verse 27, the command to Moses to כתב לך “Write down these commandments”? The rabbis resolve the contradiction by ignoring God’s command to Moses to “write” and focusing on verse 1, the verse that says, Moses, you carve the tablets yourself, since you broke the first ones, but I, God, will write and inscribe upon them the Law. The worried rabbis seem to be saying, of course these sacred Tablets, carefully preserved in the Ark of the Covenant in the Temple’s very Holy of Holies, of course these Tablets were written by the finger of God.
But what if they weren’t? What if the second set of Tablets bore words spoken by God but written by Moses?
The rabbis envisioned freedom, heirut, through God’s Law inscribed, harut, in stone. Follow the Law to the letter and we are free.
But what if we think about freedom as emerging from that second set of Tablets, the ones written by Moses? Then heirut, freedom, emerges from a collaborative process—human beings and God working together. Freedom emerges when God speaks the words and Moses writes them, when Moses writes them and passes them down to the people, and when the people—when we—interpret those words so that we can live them out in freedom.
At the foot of Sinai, the people Israel felt lost without their leader. They did not understand a God they could not see. In their fear and confusion they turned to the ways of slavery, the habits of a people habituated to submission. God punished them for their idolatry and for their refusal to stand by the God of their ancestors, yet God also forgave Israel and re-established the covenant. God re-established the covenant through a second set of Tablets created in collaboration with Moses. God recognized that, in order to teach an enslaved people to live in heirut, in freedom, the harut, the inscribed law, had to emerge from power shared between God and human beings. כתב לך You write. Or, write for yourselves. And then you will be בני חורין, free people.
With their heirut, their new freedom, Israel created a portable reminder of God’s presence. In the next Torah portion, they build the sanctuary in the desert. They build it with their own hands and through their own free will. The place that will remind Israel of God’s presence among them, the site of communal rituals and gatherings—this place was built not by Moses alone or even by its primary artist, Bezalel. The sanctuary was built by כל אשר נדבה רוחו, by every single person whose spirit was generous (Exodus 35:21), by האנשים על הנשים כל נדיב לב, by the men together with the women, all whose hearts were generous (25:22). Indeed, this people who only recently became so frightened at the prospect of freedom and covenant gave so much of themselves that Moses had to tell them to stop. “Their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done,” says the Torah (Exodus 36:7).
God took the risk to say to Moses, כתב לך, write for yourselves. Write these words, although you may make a few mistakes. Write these words and live them in freedom, although you may misinterpret them at times. Write these words and build a community with the contributions of all its members, men and women, young and old—all whose hearts are generous are welcome to build this community, to live out this Law in heirut, not in submission to the Law, but in freedom through a collaborative covenant. כתב לך, write for yourselves. God will share the power and the responsibility. God will trust you to interpret the words and live them.
God understood how to transform an enslaved people into a free nation. God understood collaboration. And if tradition claims that even God was willing to take the risk to share power, then so much the more so ought power among human beings be shared. So much the more so should human political freedom emerge from collaboration.
Tonight, Egypt stands at the foot of its own Sinai of sorts. We have watched anxiously the anger and the violence, the demands and the celebrations in Tahrir Square—Freedom Square. We have heard the cry of a people demanding, as one protestor’s sign read, “Pharaoh Mubarak, Let the People Go!” We have worried about the involvement of the Muslim Brotherhood and the implications for Israel—a reasonable response, for freedom is risky. How have we listened to the people’s cry for freedom, open access to information, and self-determination? Can we listen to that cry with our second set of Tablets in mind? Can we listen to that cry as the outpouring of so many—men, women, children, professionals and workers, religious and secular—so many individuals, each נדיב לב, willing of heart to write and interpret their own freedom?
We do not yet know what form Egypt’s freedom will take. And we tremble in fear, for the stakes are immeasurably high. Egypt is deciding how they will participate in the community of democratic nations, how they will live their collective national identity, how they will pursue freedom while allowing citizens to express their religious and political convictions. These struggles are so like the struggles of the Jewish people, trying to live out a covenant in freedom, trying to interpret and reinterpret ancient words while never, ever letting go of those Tablets, trying to elicit the willing hearts and contributions of each member of our community. Ours is a freedom that carries responsibility. Ours is a freedom that requires us to partner with God. I pray that Egypt’s freedom will be such a freedom: humble and responsible and collaborative.
[I am thankful to my homiletics instructor, Rabbi Margaret Wenig, and my classmates Jillian Cameron, Rachel Maimin, Lisa Kingston, Vicky Glickin, Daniel Kirzane, and Ilene Haigh for their comments on a draft version of this sermon. In thinking about the second set of tablets as written by Moses, I was inspired by an article by Bowdoin College Professor Aviva Briefel in which she talks about Moses as “plagiarist” (“Sacred Objects/Illusory Idols: The Fake in Freud’s ‘The Moses of Michelangelo,’” American Imago 60,1, 2003, pp 21-40).]
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