Not one, not two, not three, not four, not five…This is how we count to make sure we have enough people for a minyan. Why? To avert the evil eye.

The musical Rent, in its song Seasons of Love, also talks about counting. How do we measure a year in the life of someone:

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure – measure a year?
In daylights – in sunsets
In midnights – in cups of coffee
In inches – in miles
In laughter – in strife

In – five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
A year in the life

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love

Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died
It’s time now – to sing out
Tho’ the story never ends
Let’s celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love
Measure, measure your life in love

Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Today we begin the book Bamidbar, and we heard a wonderful d’var Torah last night about being between Mitzrayim, Egypt, the narrow place and Eretz Zavat Chalav, the Land flowing with milk and honey, the Promised Land. In between there is a great deal of wilderness, midbar. How we wander, how we navigate that wilderness, the desert, is the important part of the journey of life.

In English we call this book, the Book of Numbers. We start by counting. Taking a census. Everybody counted, well at least all the men over 20 who were eligible to serve in the military. Not the women, children, slaves, senior, disabled, the Levites. It begs us to ask the questions, “Whose here? Whose with us?”

It is an Interesting portion for this day, which is the beginning of Memorial Day Weekend.

People think they don’t count. “Rabbi, I’m not religious” they say in an apologetic tone. “I didn’t go to Hebrew School.” “I didn’t learn anything” “I don’t keep kosher.” “The mumbo jumble makes me uncomfortable.” “I am not sure I believe in G-d.”

And yet, we are told that there are 6000 Jews in the Fox River Valley. Jews that the federation is willing in count. And yet, we are told the demographics are changing. And yet, we are told how we think about joining, belonging, affiliating is changing. Even how we count is changing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about memory and counting.

In this portion, each of the tribes is counted, equally. And then as we will see next week, each tribe presents a gift to be used in the sacrificial system, to get the ball rolling. These are of equal weight, of equal value, and none diminishes the other. 750 shekels.

The Torah census is clear, there were 603,550 men prepared to fight. And that count is broken down by the tribes: Reuven, Shimon, Judah, Issachar, Zevulun, Naptali, Asher, Dan, Gad, Ephraim and Menashe. 12 tribes. Rabbi Irwin Huberman points out, “Each of those tribes had a unique path, a unique skill and destiny. Issachar was the scholar. Gad the warrior, Naptali the free spirit. Benjamin was ravenous. Zevulun was the business person. Dan the judge. Asher was prosperous. They were not, a homogenous nation. Rather it was a collection of tribes—each with its own communal personality.”

Each one making a difference in there own way. Each one finding their own meaning. Each one needed. Each one counting.

That’s true for us today. People come to the synagogue to find meaning. To find community. To find G-d. To be part of something bigger. To be counted. Each in their own way. Some come for the services. Some come for the music. Some come to hear the ancient words. Some come to hear the modern words. Some even come for the rabbi’s sermon or teaching.

Some come to see friends and catch up. Some come for the social action. Some come for the Torah School. Some come for the Sisterhood or the Men’s Club. And some come for the cookie. Yes, as a children’s book tells us, G-d loves cookies too.

Each one seems to be its own tribe, expressing its connection to G-d and the Jewish people through its own lens. Some people express spirituality through the arts, through social action, through volunteering. Some are philanthropists or scholars. Some are leaders. Some champion Israel. Some pride themselves on being Americans, and then may debate whether they are Jewish Americans or American Jews. Some are proud agnostics or atheists and some cannot understand how that is possible and still be Jewish. All have a place in the tent.

The truth is, each brings their own gift, their own unique skill. Their own passion. Just like the tribes we are reading about this morning. And the truth is we need them all. We need each and every one of them to be counted. To find their own meaning and place in this tradition.

In Finding Joy, the book we are reading for the Omer, we learn that happiness is found in finding meaning. “We can experience transcendent joy during our entire life when it is filled with what interests, excites, and involves us and brings a personal understanding of ourselves and what raises us to a mystical level of joy.” Frederick Buechner might have agreed since it is close to his own definition of call, ‘The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.’ That’s happiness. That’s standing up and being counted.

In one of the Psalms, Psalm 90 that we use mostly during the High Holidays because it exhorts us to return, to do teshuva, to recognize that our lives are short and that G-d is Eternal, we read,

The days of our years are threescore years and ten or even by reason of strength fourscore years.
Yet is their pride but travail and vanity.
For it is speedily gone and we fly away.
Who knows the power of Your anger and Your wrath according to the fear that is due to You?
So teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom. Return, O Lord,

So teshuva in this Psalm is a two way street. We need to return, to come back, to repent,to do the hard work of reconciliation, and it seems G-d also needs to return. We sing something similar in Eitz Chayim Hee: Hashiveinu Adonai, Elecha V’nashuva, Chadesh, Chadesh Yameinu, Kederdem. Return to us O Lord and we shall return. Renew our days as of old.

The very first piece of Talmud I learned, was from Pirke Avot,

Rabbi Elieezer would say: Repent one day before your death. V’shuv yom echad lifnei miticha.

That begs another question, and the rabbis ask it. How do we know which is the day before we die? His answer is that we should return every day, today, for perhaps tomorrow we will die. (Talmud Shabbat 153a). And quoting Solomon in Ecclesiastes 9:8, “At all times your clothes should be white, and oil should be on your head ”

This was not because it was after Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer and now we could wear white. No, rather, so we would be prepared to go to our grave.

So teaching us to number our days, to make them count, to be always aware that life is short—and that we don’t know how short, seemed particularly appropriate when I began to put this sermon together.

Teach us to number our days. We do that at this season of counting, as we continue to count the omer. Day 46. Almost to Sinai.

Merely to survive is not a measure of excellence or even a measure of cunning our High Holiday machzor teaches.

No, our job is to invest our lives with meaning. Our job is to return, to meet G-d.

I thought that was the end of the d’var Torah.

Then I had a rabbi moment.

I was asked to help design a gravestone for a former member. He died two years ago this month. He was a bachelor, leaving no children. His guardian, not Jewish but a good friend of the man, a real mensch, took care of all the arrangements for the burial. When I got the call two years ago for the burial plot I was told there would be no funeral since there was no family. I agreed to meet them out there. There should be some words. That’s what Jews do. 18 of us showed up. 18 of us were counted.

So now it is time to do the gravestone. What was his Hebrew name? There was no record of it. There was no record of him. But he had his mother’s gravestone picture and his fathers. I deduced a Hebrew name from that. So there will be a grave marker with a Hebrew name.

Pirke Avot also teaches in the name of R. Shimon: There are three crowons. The crown of Torah. The crown of priesthood and the crown of kingship. But the crown of a good name excels them all. (Pirke Avot 4:17)

Harry Rose, now has been restored, has been elevated, he now has the legacy of a good name—Areih ben Peninah. Harry Rose lived a quiet unassuming life right here in Elgin. He served in the Navy from 1950 to 1952. He returned. He worked for the post office. He played cards. He attended Men’s Club events. And now we remember. How appropriate this Memorial Day Weekend. We have memorialized him and we have counted him.

Archibald MacLeish wrote this poem:

The young dead soldiers do not speak.

Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?

They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.

They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.

They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.

They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.

They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.

They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.

We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

That’s the call of this Memorial Day. That’s the call of our lives. Stand up and be counted. Return one day before our deaths. Find meaning in our lives. Find joy. Find G-d.

Last year I had an argument with a congregant in the middle of a sermon. It’s OK. Jews argue. We talk about two Jews and three opinions. A lot. It was Passover and I was talking about the prayers Geshem and Tal for rain and dew. It was also Earth Day. I was explaining that as Jews we have an obligation to take care of the Earth and that the mandate is sprinkled (Pun intended) throughout our literature.

He argued that climate change isn’t real. I was dumbfounded. So now on Earth Day this year I want to reply. I come by this very naturally (again pun intended). My father was an ecologist. He helped organize the original Earth Day in 1970. He spent countless hours arguing for good science. With the Field Museum, with the Evanston School System, with East Grand Rapids High School. He spent countless hours fighting for our environment before it was cool. He spent countless hours renewing himself in the woods on Northern Michigan.

So this year, on Earth Day, I want to tell the story of Honi the Circle Maker, in memory of my father, in hopes for the future.

You know about Honi. We tell this story almost every Tu B’shevat. Honi lived in the 1^st Century BCE, in the Second Temple Period. One day, Honi was journeying on the road in Northern Israel and he saw a old man planting a carob tree. Honi asked the old man, “How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?” The man replied: “Seventy years.” Honi was amazed and asked, “Are you sure that you will live another seventy years?” The man replied: “I have already found carob trees growing in the world; as my ancestors planted for me so I shall plant for my children.”

That is the story for Earth Day. We are the generation caught between our ancestors who planted for us, who were caretakers of the earth for us and our children and our children’s children. This is Earth Day, and on this Earth Day we read the story of Aaron when his sons were killed. Aaron’s response is silence.

But I cannot be silent when the future of our children is at stake. Psalm 30, the Psalm for the Dedication of the Temple asks,

“What profit is there if I am silenced. What benefit if I go to my grave. Will the dust praise You?”

When I was a kid, we didn’t use any aerosol sprays because my father was concerned about the ozone layer. We didn’t buy anything made by Dow Chemical because we were worried about Agent Orange. My father, as a scientist argued passionately for science, taking on the East Grand Rapids Schools who at least one biology teacher wanted to teach creationism along side evolution. “Evolution is a fact,” he argued. I never won an argument with him about religion. Not quoting Albert Einstein who apparently believed in G-d. Not Lewis Thomas who wrote a beautiful elegy, “The Lives of Cells.” Nonetheless, he knew that everything he did was within Jewish values and ethics.

So I cannot be silent. Too much is at stake. The very future of our planet maybe at stake. I believe it is about balance. I believe there is no conflict between Judaism and science. I believe that there is no conflict between Genesis and science. And I believe we have a responsibility to take care of this earth. To be partners with G-d in this glorious creation.

The Talmud in Ta’anit 19a teaches us another story about Honi. It is the story he gets his name from. Once there was a terrible drought in the land of Israel. It was already Adar, that usually marks the end of the rainy season, but much like this winter in Chicagoland with very little snow, there had been no rain all winter long.

The people begged Honi the Circle Maker to pray. He prayed, but still no rain fell. He drew a circle in the dust and stood in the middle of it. Raising his hands to the heavens, he vowed, “G-d, I will not move from this circle until You send rain!” It began to sprinkle, just a few drops. The drops hissed on the hot stones. The people were not satisfied and complained, “This is only enough rain to release you from your vow.”

So Honi prayed again, “I asked for more than this trifling drizzle. I was asking For enough rain to fill wells, cisterns, ditches!” The heavens opened up and poured down rain in buckets. The parched earth began to flood. The cisterns overflowed. There was too much rain! The people of Jerusalem ran to the Temple Mount for safety. “Honi! Save us! We will all be destroyed like the generation of the Flood. Stop the rains!”

Honi again prayed. This time for the rains to stop. They did and he told the people to bring a thanksgiving offering to the Temple. Then Honi again prayed, and said to G-d, “This people that You brought out of Egypt can take neither too much evil or too much good. Please give them what they want.” This is the Goldilocks moment. Not too little. Not too much. Just right.

Then G-d sent a strong wind that blew away the fierce rains and the storm calmed. Shimon ben Shetakh, the head of the Sanhedrin wanted to put Honi in cherem, to excommunicate him, for his audacity, but decided against it.

Honi is a little like Nachson Ben Aminidav. Nachson is the one who put his toe into the Sea of Reeds. He waded into up to his nostrils, the midrash says. Then the sea parted. He had faith and by his actions he demanded that G-d rescue the Israelites. He had audacity. He had courage.

This story would not be one my father would have loved—although he loved a good story and relished reading Zlateh the Goat, a collection of IB Singer stories out loud as the Chanukah candles burned down.

No, this story about the power of prayer, would not have been rational enough for his scientific brain. On the other hand—and this is Judaism, so there is always another hand—he might have. Not only is this about the power of prayer. It is also about the power of action. Only when Honi was in the circle he had drawn was his prayer effective.

The power of prayer. That’s what Friday nights, Kabbalat Shabbat are all about.

That’s what the Barchu, the formal call to worship, is about. As my students taught me this year, it is not just about calling us together for prayer, it is about demanding that G-d be present. Come, here, right now, G-d. It’s about Sh’ma Kolenu, G-d, hear our voice, demanding G-d to listen to us. Audacious.

Recently I had my own story of the power of prayer. My cell phone died. It wouldn’t reboot. The wireless company said I would have to wipe it clean and start over. The second store said the same thing—but maybe if I went to Apple they could do something. Getting increasingly anxious, I was on call as a police chaplain, I drove to the mall to the Apple Store. I pleaded that I needed my phone. That I was a rabbi. That I was on call. I was not leaving that store unless my phone was restored. (Politely, of course).

They were not optimistic. I followed them back to the genius bar. I stood there silently while the genius plugged in my phone. I put my legs together and stood straight up like I was davenning the silent Amidah. I held my breath. He said he would have to wipe it clean, was that OK. No, I wanted to scream but what choice did I have. He told me to say whatever prayer I had—that he had seen miraculous things happen. I wasn’t sure what the words were for a cell phone. I continued to hold my silence. He hit the button. In seconds, the phone was restored. All of the data was there. All of the contacts. All of the photos. All of the text messages. All of the applications worked. Perhaps all my silent supplications worked.

I can’t explain how my phone “resurrected”. It seems to be at that intersection between science and prayer. I can say that I have seen very powerful things happen that don’t make rational sense. I stood in awe with an ICU nurse as the blood pressure of a patient dropped when I sang Adon Olam. I stood in silence with my daughter’s pediatrician as his mother lay dying. Medical science had nothing else to offer, perhaps prayer would. She died on her own husband’s yahrzeit.

It is clear from our tradition, that we are commanded to be caretakers of this earth. To be partners with G-d in G-d’s glorious creation. That we are to fulfill the mitzvah of bal taschit, to not destroy.

So on this Earth Day I say. Don’t be silent. Our children and children’s children deserve no less. Stand in that circle and pray. Don’t just pray. Demand action. Be bold. Be audacious. Be courageous. That is the message of Honi.

“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…
Now hear the word of the Lord.”

You know this one. Sing with me. Actually I know two versions, both I learned at Girl Scout camp and both are appropriate for this morning.

I’ll admit it. I’m tired. Bone weary tired. Passover preparation, two seders, services last night and a full day of doctor’s appointments will do that. This morning’s portions address that weariness and bring me hope.

One year on this Shabbat of Passover I got a call from a dear friend, a fellow Hebrew School teacher, saying, “Margaret, I was just at a Bar Mitzvah, and you’re not going to believe the haftarah, it was all about resurrection—and tomorrow is Easter. Jews don’t believe in resurrection! I can’t believe what I was hearing.”

I calmly explained to her that Jews do believe in resurrection. In fact, Judaism is where Christians got the idea from.

So let’s start with this morning’s text in Ezekiel, Chapter 37—which clearly Jesus and his early followers knew.

It’s all about those bones rising again. About G-d breathing life into us, even if we are tired. About G-d restoring us to the land, the land of Israel that G-d promised our ancestors. Listen to the language about “son of man”. That’s one of the phrases that people called Jesus and that the officials used against him.

Ezekiel was an 8^th century BCE prophet who foretold the destruction of Jerusalem, the restoration of Jews on the land and the rebuilding of the Third Temple. He brought the people hope. He brought the people G-d. He is one of the prophets from which we learn about Merkevah Mysticism, the Mysticism of the Chariot. We hear hints of it in the beautiful piyyut, the acrostic El Adon that we sing in the morning service, but Merkevah Mysticism is a story for another day.

The prophet Daniel shared this belief in resurrection: “Many who sleep in the dust shall awaken, some to everlasting life, and some to ever lasting shame and reproach” (Daniel 12:2).

In II Kings Chapter 4 we have the story of the rich woman of Shunem. She provided a room for the prophet Elisha, where he could rest and revive himself while he was travelling. Several years later, her son complained about his head and then died. She sent for Elisha, who came, and revived her son, resurrected him by breathing new life into him. It sounds exactly like CPR.

So you can see, the underpinnings of resurrection exist throughout our later Biblical writings, our prophets. Christianity’s adoption of it, should not come as a surprise and be seen within the historic context of Judaism and Christianity’s Jewish roots.

But it doesn’t end in the Bible. In the beginning of our Amidah prayer, in the G’vrurot, which acknowledges G-d’s power, written by the rabbis of the Talmud, we say these ancient words outlined in Berachot 23a, “Atah gibor l’olam Adonai, machayah matim. You are powerful forever, giving life to the dead.” For a while the Reform movement was not comfortable with that language and changed it to machayah hakol, giving life to all. The newest Reform prayerbook, Mishkan Tefilah, has put back the option for machayah matim. If you want more detail on how our prayerbook evolved, Rabbi Larry Hoffman’s excellent commentary, My People’s Prayerbook will help

Maimomides, the Rambam, 1135-1204, the Torah and Talmud commentator, philosopher, physician and astronomer, compiled the first code of belief, the 13 Articles of Faith. Sometimes, given the time period he lived in I think it must have been a polemic against Christianity—or at least a vey clear statement of his beliefs. The very last one is the belief in the resurrection of the dead.

1. Belief in the existence of the Creator, who is perfect in every manner of existence and is the Primary Cause of all that exists.
2. The belief in G‑d’s absolute and unparalleled unity.
3. The belief in G‑d’s non-corporeality, nor that He will be affected by any physical occurrences, such as movement, or rest, or dwelling.
4. The belief in G‑d’s eternity.
5. The imperative to worship G‑d exclusively and no foreign false gods.
6. The belief that G‑d communicates with man through prophecy.
7. The belief in the primacy of the prophecy of Moses our teacher.
8. The belief in the divine origin of the Torah.
9. The belief in the immutability of the Torah.
10. The belief in G‑d’s omniscience and providence.
11. The belief in divine reward and retribution.
12. The belief in the arrival of the Messiah and the messianic era.
13. The belief in the resurrection of the dead.

Many congregations recite these after each weekday Shacharit, the morning prayers.

We sing the 13 Articles in a more poetic form on Friday nights in the Yigdal prayer which says in its last verse, “God will revive the dead in His abundant kindness – Blessed forever is His praised Name.”

That’s hope. That’s power. G-d will revive the dead and give us life.

It is good to study Rambam today, this Shabbat of Passover. Many Jews of Sephardic origins, particularly those from Morocco celebrate Rambam with a special feast the night after Passover called a Mimouma. http://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/maimouna-a-post-passover-celebration/ Some believe it celebrates Rambam’s yahrzeit. Believe me, if you have an opportunity to go to one, do not miss it. They excel at hospitality and their cooking is out of this world—well beyond our usual pasta feasts after Passover, but how they do it so quickly after sundown is a mystery to me! Part of that Passover magic. That’s hope.

This is a season that is about freedom and transformation. It is about rebirth and renewal. It is about hope.

It is not surprising that Christianity took the concept of resurrection changed it, making it more an individual reviving the dead. This seems less likely to me. In Judaism these kinds of things are usually collective. Our understanding of the messianic age is a collective. We are more concerned with the saving of the nation of Israel than individuals. Our prayers, for the most part are written in the plural.

One of my favorite books is the Active Life by Parker Palmer, an activist, a poet, and a bit of mystic within his Quaker roots. This book shows the necessity of a balance between spirituality and activism. He tells the story of activism from each of the world’s major religions. The last chapter is called, “Threatened by Resurrection”, which is a poem written by Julia Esquivel, a Guatemalan poet in exile and published right here in Elgin by the Church of the Brethren Press. I talked about it in my Skype interview because I found the poem so powerful.

When I went to Guatemala I took the book with me and used it as part of a teaching I did about this very topic. When I tried to print it out in a Hilton Garden Express hotel in Guatemala City I was blocked, censored. The concept of Threatened with Resurrection still too revolutionary.

Threatened by Resurrection:
They have threatened us with Resurrection
There is something here within us
which doesn’t let us sleep, which doesn’t let us rest,
which doesn’t stop the pounding deep inside.

It is the silent, warm weeping of women without their husbands
it is the sad gaze of children fixed there beyond memory . . .

What keeps us from sleeping
is that they have threatened us with resurrection!

Because at each nightfall
though exhausted from the endless inventory
of killings for years,
we continue to love life,
and do not accept their death!

In this marathon of hope
there are always others to relieve us
in bearing the courage necessary . . .

Accompany us then on this vigil
and you will know what it is to dream!

You will know then how marvelous it is
to live threatened with resurrection!
To live while dying
and to already know oneself resurrected.

Julia Esquivel

Parker Palmer is so eloquent about this poem: “For Esquivel, there is no resurrection of isolated individuals. She is simply not concerned about private resurrections, yours or mine or her own. Each of us is resurrected only as we enter into the network of relationships called community, a network that embraces not only living persons but people who have died, and nonhuman creatures as well. Resurrection has personal significance – if we understand the person as a communal being – but it is above all a corporate, social and political event, an event in which justice and truth and love come to fruition.” (152)

The very last verse we read in Ezekiel today is about that collective resurrection and it is on the exit gate to Yad V’shem, the Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem. One way to look at resurrection is to see the rebirth of Israel as a resurrection, a collective resurrection We walk out of the destruction, out of the horror of the Holocaust, back into the light, back into the land. Our bones, those very dry bones live again. The breath of G-d lives again within us, breathing new life into us.

Have you ever noticed the Israeli medics in their bright yellow vests after a terrorist attack? They are sadly collecting all of the parts that remain so that each victim can have a full and complete burial. It is that hope of resurrection, of life everlasting.

There is a connection to today’s Torah portion. Probably more than one. For me, it goes back to what I said at the beginning. Remember I said that I was bone weary tired. So was Moses. In today’s Torah portion, just after Moses has smashed the 10 Commandments. G-d demands that he go back up Mount Sinai. Moses doesn’t want to go. Why should he? Why should he lead this stiffnecked, stubborn people? In a masterful argument, he pleads with G-d and reminds G-d that this is G-d’s, not Moses’s people—and besides what will the Egyptians think. The argument works—and G-d promises that G-d will go with Moses and give him rest and lighten the burden. G-d renews that promise in Psalm 81, “I removed the burden from their shoulders;  their hands were set free from the load.” G-d has lightened our load. G-d has given us rest.

Hope. Resurrection. Life everlasting. That is what today’s parsha is all about.

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones with be watered, refreshed, revived, and brought back to life. These promises bring me hope.

Tonight is the first night of the counting of the omer. 50 days between now and Shavuot. Seven weeks of seven days. Shavuot, the holiday that celebrates first fruits and the giving of the law at Sinai. It solidifies our freedom that we celebrate this week.

For decades I have planted winter wheat or winter rye with students at Sukkot and then watched as it miraculously, magically grows starting at Passover and fully heading out by Shavuot. It is a wonderful tradition I learned from Rabbi Everett Gendler. It ties the agricultural nature of the Jewish holidays, especially the pilgrimage festivals, together. This year was no exception. But this year, for the first time ever, no winter wheat.

Counting the omer is something that has often appealed to me. It is a spiritual practice, a discipline. It seems simple. Count 50 days. Sounds simple, no? Remembering to count every day is hard. Looking at the underlying spiritual and mystical roots is harder. The mystics tie each day to a different soul-trait. Week one is all about chesed, lovingkindness.

This year we needed a new idea. Harvest our joy. It fits nicely with finding joy which we have been studying all year. 50 days of photos, images of happiness. Each of these will then be printed on 4×6 paper and hung in the CKI entrance way.

I will start with one. Simon loves everything University of Michigan. He was the student manager of the football team one year in college. We watch every UofM football game and many of the basketball games. For him the Big House is the Promised Land. This past weekend he had the opportunity to run a 5K which ended on the Michigan 50 yard line. Here is Day One’s Image of Joy.

I woke up singing a song.
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” a song from Godspell, a line from Mark 1:3, borrowed from Isaiah.

You may think this is odd. A rabbi singing a line from the Gospel. But I can’t shake it. It is so appropriate today for two reasons. This is Shabbat HaGadol—the Big Sabbath. Usually we tie the name of this Shabbat to the end of today’s haftarah, “Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord.” It’s not a great translation. Yom Adonai, Hagadol, v’Hanorah.”Maybe better, The great and awesome day of the Lord. The verse with its reference to Elijah hints at Passover that is coming. It hints at the Messianic era and a world to come that will live in peace. It hints at our need, our responsibility to prepare for the day of the Lord.

The second reason is that this is one of two Sabbaths that in the old days, the rabbi would give a sermon. Today is the day you all would learn how to prepare for Passover. If you need all of the details, read my email from earlier this week which will direct you to the OU site. You can also check the CRC site and I am happy to answer any questions. I even have a book about the 1001 Answers to Passover questions. So far I have answered questions about stand mixers and Passover towels. People really do care about these things and they want to get it right. But there is more to the preparation than the physical labor.

Prepare. How do we prepare? One way is to search out the leven, the chamatz, that we have. You know the drill. Cleaning and scrubbing and pitching. It is spring cleaning on steroids. And since only you men are here, I can only assume that your wives are home working, and that you will go home and help. Please, go home and help.

That physical labor is important. Simon finds dish washing meditative. I am not sure I do, but as I was cleaning the refrigerator, and scrubbing the schmutz off the shelves and then boiling them, I was thinking about Simon’s meditation.

Lot going to lie. My first thought was “Why am I doing this?” Then I wondered, “What is the purpose of cleaning the fridge?” “How does it help us prepare?” “How does cleaning the fridge make me a better person?”

And here are my answers.

I do it because once a year my house should be sparkling. I do it because it links me to my people, friends all over the country who are doing exactly the same thing. People in generations past, long ago—maybe not their iceboxes—yes we called it the icebox and I still, occasionally make ice box cake, but not for Passover! I do it because we are commanded to prepare for Passover, to rid our houses of leven. Commanded. That’s the word for the day. Tzav. In the imperative form.

The mediation cleaning the fridge continued.

I am really luck to have this refrigerator. It is the one I have always wanted. With double doors and a freezer on the bottom. It is easy to clean and arrange with enough space. Many people in lots of parts of the world don’t even have a little refrigerator. And yet again we are wasting too much food. Almost an entire garbage bag went out. Even after our emphasis on feeding the hungry. Many people have significantly less than we do.

Leven—yeast. Things that rise. Things that are puffed up. Things that take up more space. Last week we talked about the humility of Moses and the humility of the lowly letter alef.

Matzah is the opposite of things that are puffed up. It is the bread of affliction. The poor bread. Lechem oni. The bread of humility.

Humility is one of the soul-traits that mussar talks about. The first one that we should study. I have spent years studying mussar and am still not there yet.

Rav Kook says that humility is associated with spiritual perfection. But it is subtle . The key factor, is honest accuracy, according to Alan Moranis who teaches courses in American mussar.

I have always wondered about people who sit in the same spot every week. I thought maybe it is a little arrogant to assume that seat belongs to you. Sometimes even rude if you say to a newcomer—hey that’s my seat. How warm and welcoming is that? But then, while studying humility with Alan Moranis, I understood. Someone who sits in a predictable place makes room for others to occupy their own space too. Therefore, Alan teaches, humility is occupying just the right of space in life that is appropriate for you while making room for others. Humility is not an extreme quality, but a balanced moderate accurate understanding of yourself that you act on in your life. It is not being chamatz. It is not being puffed up.

This is the beginning of the spiritual preparation of Passover.

Today’s parsha also talks about humility. When G-d commands Moses to tell Aaron about the ritual of the burnt offering, it needs to be kept burning all day and all night. Moses has to take a back seat. This is about Aaron and his children, the priestly class.

Myron and I had a good conversation about this. When he read these lines, his eyes lit up and he proclaimed, he knew he had a job to do— to keep my fires burning. to keep me enthusiastic. He based it on the note at the bottom of page 613 in our chumash, Etz Hayim, “The congregation, for its part, must recognize its responsibility to see that the enthusiasm and dedication of the clergy is never extinguished.” What a lovely, lovely thought.

Yet there is another message as well. The high priest has a job. To keep those fires burning. Night to morning. Morning to night. Each and every day. Every morning, he is to take off his holy vestments and take the ashes outside the camp to the “pure place,” nothing more than the ash heap. Essentially, he has to take the garbage out, each and every day. Just like everybody else. This way, he can never forget his link to the mundane. It kept him humble. It keeps us all humble.

I have a good friend, Dr. Lisette Kaplowitz, who is a retired principal of an elementary school and a reading specialist. When Sarah was about to start kindergarten I took her to Lisette’s school and she introduced Sarah to everyone. The first person she introduced Sarah to was the janitor. Mr. So and So, I want you to meet my good friend Sarah. Mr. So and So cleans my school. I can’t run my school without him.” It was a powerful lesson. For Sarah and for me. I can’t run CKI without Lljuban, without Susan, without Peg, without all the talented volunteers who help make this place run day in and day out. Lisette’s lesson was so dignified and so humble. When Lisette retired every single janitor showed up at her retirement dinner. I know. We sat at their table.

This week I read a story about the college admission process. An admissions director for Dartmouth received a letter of recommendation from the school janitor. She was surprised. It was unusual to get a letter of recommendation from the janitor. But this student stood out—to the janitor and now the admissions counselor—because the kid would talk to the janitor, clean up after himself and others and urge others to do so. Bottom line—he was kind, he was humble, and yes, he got into Dartmouth.

Rabbi Everett Gendler used to say that a rabbi is nothing more than someone who moves tables and chairs and in New England (maybe Chicago) turns the heat on. It kept him humble. It keeps me humble. I thought about that as I moved tables this week and helped set the tables for the community seder. Congregants, here and elsewhere, often argue that it is not my job to do so. Nor take out the trash. But those tasks are critical to the work of the congregation, to building community. They are about meeting people where they are.

Kindness and humility go hand and hand. Rabbi Sacks in his weekly sermon talks about what enabled the Jewish people to survive. We are commanded to make sure the perpetual light, the eternal light, the ner tamid never goes out. Yet, we no longer have animal sacrifice. What is this sacrifice? Is it still necessary? What keeps it from going out today?

The Israelites managed to figure out five things that replaced the sacrificial system.

The first was gemilut chasidim. Acts of love and kindness. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai told Rabbi Yehoshua, “My son, we have another atonement as effective as sacrifice, acts of kindness, as it is written (Hosea 6:6) I desire kindness and not sacrifice. (Avot deRabbi Natan 8)

Acts of kindness. I have spent a lot of time thinking about that this week. I talked to the kids about G-d leading the Israelites out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm. Go ahead, just like the kids do it. Make a strong hand. Now reach out and touch someone. That outstretched arm is the helping hand. If it is outstretched and not clenched, it cannot be a hand of warm. It is the hand of kindness, the hand of friendship, the hand of humility.

Rabbi Sacks rounds out his list with Torah study, prayer, teshuvah, fasting, hospitality. Each of these helps us connect authentically with the divine, since there no longer is sacrifice.

He teaches that what is remarkable is “rather than clinging obsessively to the past, sages like Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai thought forward to a worst-case-scenario future. The great question raised by Tzav, which is all about different kinds of sacrifice, is not “Why were sacrifices commanded in the first place?” but rather, given how central they were to the religious life of Israel in Temple times, how did Judaism survive without them?”

For the rabbis, the sacrifices were metaphors, “symbolic enactments of the processes of mind, heart and deed.” They were designed so that the people could draw close to G-d. So that they could experience the indwelling presence of the Divine, the Shechinah. It doesn’t happen when we are not kind to one another.

The Haggadah is designed for us to tell our children what the Lord did for us when G-d led us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. All of the preparation. The scrubbing, the cleaning, the cooking is designed to get us to ask some pretty important questions.

1. Why is this night different?
2. How do we rid our lives of chamatz?
3. What is the narrow place we need to be freed from?
4. How can we be humble, kind, loving, hopeful?

As part of my spiritual preparation I always read a new Haggadah. This year I chose two, the (unofficial) Hogwarts Haggadah which I really enjoyed, even though I am not especially a Harry Potter fan. It has plenty to say about chametz. And the Ayeka Haggadah Hearing Your Own Voice. This one is really helping me with my own spiritual preparation. Every page has a different question to answer. Like “What was one holy moment in your journey this year.” Ultimately it is about finding ourselves in the story, in the journey.

The very act of cleaning the fridge is an act of sacrifice. It keeps us humble. It helps us meditate and find the Divine. It gives us the space to begin to answer the real questions of Passover.

The Israelites were freed from Egypt. Next year in Jerusalem. Next year, all the world redeemed. That’s what Isaiah and Mark meant when they said, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord.” Indeed, this is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Cleaning my refrigerator helps prepare us, physically and spiritually.

Today we start reading the book of Leviticus. In Hebrew we call it Vayikra, We translate it as “And He called” but have you ever looked at how it is written in the Torah? Also in our Chumash, the Torah Commentary and in the Tikkun that I practice from. The last letter is a very little alef. Take a look. It has been this way for two thousand years and no body really knows why. The little Hebrew note in the Chumash can be translated as “according to received tradition”.

This little word, with its little Alef, teaches us much. Even today.

As Rabbi Len Levin, a professor at the Academy for Jewish Religion reminds us, there are two issues with this word. The first is that the clause is missing a subject. “Vayikra el Moshe.” We usually translate this as “And he called to Moses.” Who called? Perhaps as the Kabbalists suggest it is G-d, perhaps “Ehyeh”. I wonder about the word “el” which can be translated as “to” but the very same word can be translated as G-d and the usual direct object marker is “et”. Rabbi Levin points out that modern scholars suggest that it completes a sentence at the very end of Exodus, thus linking the books together. “Moses was unable to enter the Tent of Meeting (that portable mishkan) because the Presence of the Lord (Shechinah) filled the Tabernacle..so He (the Lord called to Moses from the Tent of Meeting.”

I like it.

The second issue is that little Alef. Now we know that Alef is the first letter of the Alef Bet. And we know that it is a silent letter. The rabbis have a field day with what this little alef could mean. I call it the “Little Alef that Could.”

Rabbi Levin teaches that his favorite is Rabbi Abraham Saba (1440-1508) who taught in his commentary Tzeror Hamor that the small alef is that “Moses because of his humility, distanced himself from assuming authority and would run away and make himself small until G-d had to call him.” Or perhaps it is because Alef is the first letter of the word “Anochi—I” and therefore represents a small ego. Both these teachings seem to be about a leader with humility. It reminds me to turn around and look at our ark. “Da lifney mi atah omaid—Know before whom you stand.” That phrase strives to keep me humble as I lead the congregation in prayer. It is something Moses certainly knew.

And I will tell you something else. I once flunked a Bible exam about where I had to translate a passage about Moses and humility. I translated something as “Moses was humbled” because I knew that it was the past tense. But apparently there is a difference between “Moses was humble” and “Moses was humbled.” “Moses was humble” implies an internal state of humility. “Moses was humbled” is something I was trying to say happened to him at the hands of Aaron and Miriam.It was a humbling experience.  I still think you could read that text either way.

But I want to tell you two more stories about Alef. The first is from the Zohar. It has been illustrated by Ben Shahn and called the Alphabet of Creation. All the letters of the Alef Bet present themselves before G-d and begs, entreats G-d that G-d should use that very letter to create the world. This parade of letters begins with Tav, the last letter of the Alef Bet. After all the very word Tov, good, begins with Tav and so does Torah. Each letter is rejected, until Bet presents himself. Bet is given the honor because Baruch, Blessed begins with Bet. So the world is created with the word, Bereshit. In the beginning. But what about Alef.? Why did Alef not present herself? Alef answers G-d, “All the other letters have presented themselves before Thee uselessly, why should I present myself also? And then, since I have seen Thee accord to the letter Bet this precious honor, I would not ask the Heavenly King to reclaim that which He has given to one of his servants.” G-d responded, saying, “Oh Alef, Alef. Even though I have chosen the letter Bet to help Me in the Creation of the world, you too shall be honored.” And so G-d rewarded Alef for her modesty, her humility, by giving her first place, the first letter of the 10 Commandments.

And that is the next story. Rabbi Larry Kushner tells this one in his Book of Miracles for Young People. “No one really knows for certain what happened at Mount Sinai. Some people believe that G-d dictated the entire Torah word for word. Others believe that it included the Oral Law as well. Some believe that G-d inspired Moses. In Makot 23a and b, the rabbis of the Talmud were having just such an argument—what happened at Sinai. It teaches us that G-d didn’t give the ten commandments, but only the first two sayings. One who remembers that there is a G-d who frees people and who has no other gods will be religious. Another rabbi argued that it was just the first saying. Still another said that it was just the first word of the first saying, Anochi. But Rabbi Mendl Torum of Rymanov said, “Not even the first word. All G-d said was the first letter of the first word of the first saying, the first letter of the Alef-bet, alef” Now this is somewhat problematic, since Alef is silent. Almost but not perfectly. You see alef makes a tiny, little sound that is the beginning of every sound. Open your mouth (go ahead, do it). Stop! That is alef. G-d made the voice of Alef so quiet that if you made any other noise you wouldn’t be able to hear it. At Sinai, all the people of Israel needed to hear was the sound of Alef. It meant that G-d and the Jewish people could have a conversation.”

We also learn from the Zohar that the whole Torah is contained in the letter Alef. This really is the little Alef that could.

But there is more. Usually we think that most of Leviticus is addressed to the priests. It is all about the sacrificial system and the role of the priests in executing it. It is about drawing the people closer to G-d. One of the words for sacrifice, Korban, actually has the same root as draw close. But there are two notable exceptions to this speaking to the priests. Right here, right at the beginning it says, “And He called to Moses from the Tent of Meeting, saying, Speak to the Israelite epople and say to them…” Speak to all of them. Not just the priests. That means that G-d calls you. In the Haftarah we learn that G-d chose us. While some are uncomfortable with Jews being the chosen people for fear that it sounds like we are better than everyone else, we still hear echos of that in our Torah blessing—who chose us among all people, and in the Ahavah Rabbah prayer. I always liked one of my Bar Mitzvah students understanding of this that while G-d chooses us, we choose G-d.

Nonetheless I think that G-d does call and G-d does choose. Even today. Every year I buy a Haggadah or two for my collection. This year I bought the Unofficial Hogwarts Haggadah and a small little volume called the Ayekah Haggadah, Hearing Your Own Voice. Ayeka means “Where are you?” and it is the question that G-d asked Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It is the question that is asked each of us as we confront the Passover story and place ourselves in it. Where are we? Where are we on our journey? What is the narrow place we are being called to leave? What is the place we are called to be? Each of us is to see ourselves as experiencing the miracle of the Exodus. Each of us must tell our child on that day, what the Lord did for me when I went forth from Egypt. Oh, and Ayeka begins with the letter Alef.

Frederick Buechner taught that “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

So close your eyes for a minute. See if you can hear G-d calling to you. Ayeka—where are you? Vayikra. What does G-d want you to do? What is G-d calling you to do? (Hold silence here)

What does G-d want you to do? Micah thought it was simple—“To do justly, to love mercy and walk humbly with your G-d” (Micah 6:8)

One last thought as we prepare for Passover. This portion teaches that no grain offering can be made with any leaven, chamatz. As we rid our homes of chamatz and scrub our kitchens clean, the harder job is to rid our selves of spiritual chamatz. Chamatz is a metaphor for being puffed up and taking up more than our rightful place. It is the opposite of humility.

There you have it. The little Alef that could. May this be a Pesach were we are humble but not humbled, where we can hear G-d call to each of us, and where we can find ourselves going forth from Egypt, out of the narrow spaces of our lives.

Passover is my husband’s favorite holiday. He loves the words of the seder. He likes the rhythm of the seasons. The rebirth of spring. The clarion call of social justice and freedom. The food.

Every year we try to do something a little different. This year we need a little magic.

Magic, you say. You bet. The plagues were magic tricks. Pharaoh’s change of heart might have been a magic trick. The Angel of Death passing over. BIG magic trick. The parting of the sea was a giant magic trick. Getting the matzah balls done at the right time and be fluffy may be a magic trick. Keeping the kids awake? The afikomen disappearing? Elijah appearing? Having enough room at the table is always something of a trick.

Once I remember making the waters of the Red Sea part in a bowl. I no longer have the recipe.

Maybe my collection of magic wands and pixie dust will help. I just bought The (Unofficial) Hogworts Hagaddah. Perhaps there will be something in there.

There is a kit to add magic tricks to your seder. And a PJ Library book called Passover Magic.

So I have some questions. Four. It’s Passover.

1. What is the most magical place to have a seder? (I vote for the Adventure Rabbi in Moab UT, although I have never been!)
2. What was your favorite seder and why? What made it magical?
3. What elements of magic can you add to your seder this year?
4. What food for the seder can you make that will be magical?

Send me your ideas and I will incorporate them into the Community Seder at Congregation Kneseth Israel on the Second Night, April 11.

Passover should be celebrated with joy. It should be fun. Sometimes we make it too complex. Maybe the magical moment is having everyone gathered around the table. Maybe it is using paper plates so clean up is magical. Or the kids proudly asking the Four Questions. After all, one of those questions asks us why on this night do we recline, to relax. The answer is because we are free.

Maybe this Magical Passover will be just what this rabbi orders.

Other Passover offerings at CKI:
Fast of the First Born Study Session and Breakfast
8:00 AM April 10^th
Come finish learning about the Joy of Welcoming and then join me for the last chamatz breakfast at Arabica Café. We will be done by 10! You don’t have to be a first born, you don’t even have to be Jewish. Just come learn.

Second Night Community Seder: A Magical Passover
6PM April 11^th.
Get your RSVP in. They are due March 31^st (That’s tomorrow!)

Kabbalat Shabbat Services with special Oneg Shabbat:
7:30 April 14

Shabbat Morning Services with special Kiddush:
9:30 AM April 15

Omer Study Project:
Immediately after services and Kiddush until 1PM on Saturdays, for seven weeks
Finding Joy: A Practical Spiritual Guide to Happiness. We will spend the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot reading this book that gives us a very Jewish framework for finding joy. Each week’s reading is short with some exercises to try, or not, during the week.

Yizkor Services
8:00 AM April 18

Sisterhood Post-Passover Pasta Event
Details to follow

Today is Shabbat HaHodesh. It marks the beginning of the month of Nissan, the month of Passover. Passover, even though it falls in the seventh month is another new year. Today’s maftir portion tells us about the preparation for that first Passover. How to sacrifice a lamb and put the blood on the doorposts. How G-d will pass over the houses so marked. How to eat lamb together with matzah and maror.

The Passover seder is set up to get our children—and our chidlren’s children and their chidlren’s children to ask a question. A simple question. Why? What is this service to you? Why is this night different? Why are we doing this? Why? Stephanie Marshall who is teaching our Alef Bet Hebrew told me this week that she wrote a master’s level paper on why a seder was the best lesson plan ever. The rabbis really understood pedagogical methodology. Kids, of all generations remember the Passover story. Passover is the most celebrated Jewish holiday in the American Jewish community. It has staying power.

One part of the seder, shortly after the Four Questions, are the Four Children. What I want to do this morning is look at how various Hagadot treat the Four Children. I don’t know about you—but I always figured out how to read the Wise Child section as a young girl. I know I didn’t want to be the wicked child or the simple child or the one who didn’t know how to ask. OK—so maybe that was the Wise Guy child.

There are lots of versions of the Four Children. They have been debated throughout the generations by rabbis and by people at every seder. One of my favorite haggadahs is “This Different Night”, partly because it shows many illustrations through the generations of the Four Children. (I passed around my falling apart copy of this Haggadah and I ordered a new one after Shabbat).

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev adds this to the discussion: “The one who knows not how to ask, that is myself, Levi Yitzvhak of Berditchev. I do not know how to ask you, Lord of the world, and even if I did know, I could not bear to do it. How could I venture to ask you: Why…we are driven from one exile into another, why are foes are allowed to torment us so much? But in the Haggadah, the parent of the one who does not know how to ask is told, ‘It is for you to disclose the answer to the child.’ And the Haggadah refers to the Torah in which it is written, ‘And you should tell your child.’ ‘Lord of the universe, am I not your child? (Even if I cannot begin to formulate the question, you, Lord, can begin to answer them for me.)”

This morning I want to talk about the “Wicked Child”. There are several interpretations of the wicked child. The first that makes sense to me is that each of us, is each of these children. So from time to time each of us is the wicked one, the black sheep of the family, the rebellious teenager perhaps, or the one who gets frustrated with synagogue politics and backs away or just doesn’t show up. I don’t know if that makes you wicked.

We are told that the wicked child is the one who separates himself or herself from the community. That has never resonated with me. Isn’t the wicked one right here in our midst, sitting right here at the seder, arguing with us?

On the Chabad website—yes, I read that too, I found an in-depth analysis of the Four Children that really resonated with me. I am excerpting it here, and it was excerpted from Yosef Marcus, who recently edited a new Haggadah: http://www.chabad.org/holidays/passover/pesach_cdo/aid/1486118/jewish/The-Four-Children-Explained.htm

He points out that the Haggadah mentions the wicked one right after the wise one. He teaches that the wise cannot ignore their “wicked” siblings, since we are all responsible for each other. This idea is not new. It is part of the story of Cain and Abel. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” And the answer was supposed to be, “Yes!”. We sing it in Psalms—“Hiney Ma Tov. How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together.”

Yet, this text adds a more spiritual dimension. “Every Jew is like a letter in a Torah scroll: If even one letter is missing, regardless of what that letter is, the holiness of all the letters is compromised. Similarly, the condition of the entire nation is dependent on each individual…the wise should not imagine themselves so far removed from the reality of the “wicked.” The “wicked”—the potential for self-destructive distractions—is the immediate neighbor of the wise.”

Ultimately, he concludes that we need to learn to embrace the “wicked child.” Perhaps because the wicked child is us.

It is like Abraham Joshua Heschel who said, “Few are guilty. All are responsible.” This is not a “blame the victim” idea but the idea that we look deep within and learn. Pirke Avot teaches, “Who is wise? One who learns from all people.” For years that was my email tag line. We can learn even from the wicked. And sometimes what we learn is about ourselves. How do we conduct our seders, our lives, our communities so we don’t push people away and turn them into “the wicked child”?

This week, we experienced something as a Jewish community that was so unexpected; it is difficult to talk about. The wound is too deep. Too fresh. I think this story of the Four Children helps.

This week we learned of the arrest of a 19 year old Israeli-American teen who is alledgedly responsible for the rash of JCC bombing threats. Why would a Jewish youth do that to other Jews? What would make him so disgruntled that he would put so many Jews at risk? Some have said that he had a mental illness. Others have said that he had a brain tumor. Others have said that he didn’t get drafted into the Israeli army.

I don’t want to jump to any conclusions here. I am not sure that we should label this teen ager “wicked” or “mentally ill”. I always worry about that kind of coverage. We do not want to demonize this individual or all people with mental illness. However, he does seem to fit a pattern of children who feel isolated, who feel bullied, who want to strike back, who have removed themselves from community.

Those of us who are gathered here today are the ones who have not removed ourselves from the community. We have chosen to be here. It may even be true that we want to be here. That we derive meaning from being here. And that is a good thing. It is like the rest of our Torah portion where G-d tells Moses to tell the people of Israel—all the people of Israel—even the women—to build the mishkan, that portable, wandering sanctuary in the desert. That sacred place, where G-d and the people of Israel meet. Everyone whose heart was so moved who wanted to bring a gift, a freewill offering, brought gifts. And it was enough.

When the Israelites left Egypt, they were a mixed multitude. It is important to remember that fact. We are commanded to love the stranger amongst us. Even as our own communities continue to be threatened from within and without, we need to stand up and be counted. .

Today, we need to strive so that everyone’s gifts—material, spiritual and volunteer hours are accepted, appreciated and valued. Today we need to strive to make sure that every person feels welcome. We need to look deep within and make sure that we are caring for everyone. Perhaps then we will not have people who feel the need to separate themselves from the community.

Some of you know that I am a Beauty and the Beast aficionado. It was the first movie Sarah went to in a movie theater. I had married the Beast. Actually, before we were married I called him the Pest. Beast, Pest, it’s the same thing. And I tamed him. Sort of. Yes, I can say all this this weekend since we celebrate our anniversary. Sarah went on to be in a musical version at the high school for which she also won a state award for costuming that very show. She was a great dish and “Be our guest” makes me smile every time. To help, we took her to Broadway to see it live. And yes, we just ran the Beauty and the Beast 5K as part of the Glass Slipper Challenge. So, no surprise, all three of us were at the theater, with both Sarah and Simon on Thursday night for opening night.

Any one else there?

It remains a Tale as Old as Time…It is about the triumph of love. About transformation and some would argue resurrection.

By now you are wondering…how does this connect to the parsha. How does this possibly connect to my life?

Here’s the connection. This week’s parsha is about the Golden Calf. Moses was up on the mountain for 40 days and 40 nights. That’s a long time to be on a hike all alone. Something must have happened to him. The people are afraid they have lost their leader. They are scared. Deeply afraid. Panicked. They don’t want to lose their leader. They don’t want to have been brought into the wilderness only to die right here. They go to Aaron. His brother. They demand he do something. He has to tame their fear. He demands their gold. The gold they carefully absconded with as they were leaving Egypt. And they make a golden calf. They throw the gold into the fire and it comes out a calf. Something they can dance around. Something they can rally around. Something they can worship.

Moses comes back down the mountain. He is shocked and appalled. He is angry. He saw that the people were out of control and they were being led by his own brother. He can’t believe he has been betrayed. He smashes the original tablets. Destroys them. Then he tells the people that “Whoever is for the Lord, come here.” And he commands those to “slay brother, neighbor and kin.” Together with the Levites, they kill 3000 people.

That seems to be the very opposite of the commandment to “Love your brother, your neighbor, your kin as yourself.” What happened here? The rabbinic commentaries try to mitigate the brutality of Moses’s response. .

As Rabbi Michael Pitkowsky points out: “On the words “and slay brother, neighbor, and kin,” the Midrash Tanhuma commented “anybody who has witnesses [who can testify to their wrongdoing] and was forewarned [before they acted], was killed immediately.” (Tanhuma, Ki Tisa, par. 26) We find here an attempt to read back into the Biblical text procedures that are found in later rabbinic literature without which the death penalty could not be carried out. The fourteenth century Midrash Hagadol expanded upon the explanation found in the Tanhuma: “Since Moses saw [the people worshipping the Golden Calf], he sat with his court (beit din) and said “Whoever is for the LORD, come here!” Anybody who didn’t participate in the act [of the Golden Calf] should come to me…”Go back and forth from gate to gate throughout the camp,” He said to them, “establish many courts, anyone about whom witnesses will come and testify that they worshipped idols after they were forewarned will be put to death.” (Midrash Hagadol, Ki Tisa, par. 26-27)”

Establishing courts holds people accountable. There need to be real witnesses and in capital offenses at least two (males). This makes good sense to me.

Nachmanides, the 13^th century Spanish commentator was also troubled by the apparent arbitrary killing. He wrote:

“Since there were many worshippers of the calf, and they could not have all been brought to the court, therefore Moses commanded all of the sons of Levi to put on their swords, in a similar way to that which our Rabbis said, that if you cannot administer to the guilty the specific kind of death mentioned for his case, you may execute him by any means that you can. Now this procedure was a decision only for an emergency, (hora’at sha’ah) in order to sanctify God’s name, (lekadesh Hashem) since those who worshipped [the calf] had not been forewarned [of the death penalty], for who had warned them beforehand? The sons of Levi, however, recognized those whom they killed as the worshippers of the calf. (Ramban: Commentary on the Torah, trans. Charles B. Chavel)”

Clearly, we are not comfortable with the Moses’s or the Israelites response. Not now. Not then. What each of these commentators are describing is mob mentality. How do we limit this kind of mob mentality? One way is by not giving into fear. One way is by establishing courts. These concerns are not new.

I don’t go to movies very often. I tend to fall asleep. But once I went to see Passions of the Christ. This Mel Gibson film tells the story of the crucifixion of Jesus. I went with my dear friend and colleague the Rev. Larry Zimmerman. The Catholic Church paid for the tickets. We were the only non-Catholics in the audience on that opening night. I had just been elected president of the Greater Lowell Interfaith Leadership Alliance. The press wanted our comments, especially on whether it was anti-semetic. It was a very violent film. I had to look away, close my eyes. I wanted to be anywhere else.

After the movie, Larry and I sat in his van for a very long time, about a half an hour without speaking. Unusal for us, who more frequently have lots to say. Finally he said, “I now understand the holocaust.” I was stunned. My take away was that this the best argument against the death penalty. Somehow I managed to ask, “Why”. He said, it was an argument against mob mentality. Once it was decided to kill Jesus, it couldn’t be stopped. The mob couldn’t be stopped. The Holocaust remains a primary example of what happens when a charismatic leader preys upon the people’s fears and stirs up a mob.

The sin of the Golden Calf is one of the sins about which the rabbis argued. Did G-d really forgive the remaining Israelites? Perhaps every subsequent generation bears some of the guilt of the sin of the Golden Calf? Perhaps it is one of the reasons given for the idea that the entire generation that been slaves in Egypt had to die before the Israelites could enter the Promised Land.

That mob mentality—both the people’s and the leaders is one that we need to keep in check—and this is not a new idea as we have seen in the commentaries. But it plays out in Beauty and the Beast.

The demand to kill the beast. Gaston plays on the townspeople’s fears…

Gaston: The beast will make off with your children,
he’ll come after them in the night.
We’re not safe ’till his head is mounted on my wall.
I say we kill the beast!

Man: We’re not safe until he’s dead.
Man 2: He’ll come stalking us at night.
Woman: Set to sacrifice our children to his montrous appetite.
Man 3: He’ll wreak havok on our village if we let him wander free!

Gaston: So it’s time to take some action boys!
It’s time—to—fol—low—me!

Through the mist, through the woods,
through the darkness and the shadows.
It’s a nightmare but it one exciting ride.
Say a prayer, then we’re there,
at the drawbridge of a castle,
and there’s something truly terrible inside.

It’s a beast, he’s got fangs razor sharp ones.
Massive paws, killer claws for the feed.
Hear him roar, see him foam,
but we’re not coming home,
’till he’s dead, good and dead. Kill the beast.

Belle: NO! I won’t let you do this!

Gaston: If you’re not with us, you’re against.
Bring the old man!

Maurice: Get your hands off me!

Gaston: We can’t have them running off to warn the creature.

Belle: Let us out!

Gaston: We’ll rid the village of this beast, who’s with me?!

Chorus:
Light your torch, mount you horse,

Gaston:
Screw your courage to the sticking place.

Chorus:
We’re counting on Gaston to lead the way.
Through a mist to the wood, where within a haunted castle,
something’s lurking that you don’t see every day.
It’s a beast, one as tall as a mountain,
We won’t rest ’till he’s good and deceased.
Sally fourth, tally ho! Grab your sword, grab your bow!
Praise the Lord and here we go!

Gaston: We’ll lay seige to the castle, and bring back his head!

Belle: We have to warn the beast. This is all my fault.
OH papa what are we going to do?!

Maurice: Now, now. We’ll think of something.

Chip: AWWWWWW!

Chorus: We don’t like what we don’t…
understand and in fact it scares us,
and this monster is mysterious at least.
Bring your guns, bring your knives,
save children and and your wives,
we’ll save our village and our lives!
WE’LL KILL THE BEAST!

We’ve heard language like this before. And even recently. I even read a version of this very song for Purim redone as Kill the Jews. It was chilling. Playing on all the old stereotypes, all the old scapegoating of Jews. We’ve heard those _______ before.

So this Monday I will be attending a workshop at JUF on synagogue safety and security. Last week we talked about Purim Jews and Passover Jews. What we concluded is we need to be both.

And that is the message here too.

Here there is hope—even in this parsha. Where we begin reading today, we are still learning about the klei kodesh, the holy vessels that G-d is instructing Moses how to make. We learn about Shabbat being a sign of the covenant between G-d and the people of Israel for all time. Sacred vessels, sacred time. Then immediately thereafter the Israelites panic and demand that Aaron do something. The result—the construction of something else out of gold—the golden calf—the antithesis of a sacred vessel.

But then after G-d gets angry and after Moses gets angry and he is back on the mountain for a second time, he hears the most remarkable thing. That the Lord, the Lord, G-d is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, full of lovingkindness and truth, extending forgiveness to the 1000^th generation, forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin.

And since we are to be like G-d, this passage of our ability to be moblike is surrounded by text reminding us to be G-dlike. Make time and space holy. Observe Shabbat. And be like G-d. Merciful. Compassionate. Slow to anger. Full of lovingkindness and truth. Forgiving. Do not become a mob.

I have a question. How many of you think of yourselves as Passover Jews? (Most of the hands went up.) And how many of you think of yourselves as Purim Jews (some hands but not many).

Originally I had thought that Passover Jews were the ones who liked seders—the preparation, the meal, the family, even though in some families it is hard work which can be a labor of love. I love Passover—but not as much as my husband does who so loves the words that he compiled his own hagaddah. He is not happy unless the seder goes to midnight—and would probably do four if I let him. It is his favorite holiday. Purim Jews, I thought were the ones who enjoy getting silly, letting the kids have a good time, baking hamantaschen and delivering shlach manot baskets. It is the holiday where you can be anything you want.

But that is not quite what this is about.

This is Shabbat Zachor. The Shabbat just before Purim where we remember not to forget what the Amalekites did to the Israelites as they were leaving Egypt. It ties the two holidays together in some ways.

What did the Amalekites do that was so unforgivable? They attacked the rear guard, the most vulnerable amongst us, the women, the children, the elderly. The text actually says those who were tired. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, particularly with the recent bomb threats. Those pictures of empty cribs from JCC day care centers pushed into the parking lots. Those vulnerable children. How dare they terrorize and intimidate those children and those tasked with taking care of them.

King Saul was commanded to kill all the Amalekites and he did not. For this he lost his kingship. In every age, a tyrant rises up against the Jews. Typically we say they are descendants of Amalek. Haman. Hitler. Maybe there is one today. I am usually not comfortable with this language. But this year feels different.

Then I remembered, a few years ago, on Shabbat Zachor, I gave a sermon quoting Yossi Klein Halevi. Yossi is a fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute and he divides the Jewish community into Passover Jews and Purim Jews. (He also is the speaker at the Chicago Board of Rabbis meeting this week on Jewish-Muslim Dialogue and I am excited to hear him in person. But I digress).

I went back to look at my sermon. You can read it here: http://www.theenergizerrabbi.org/2014/03/17/shabbat-zachor-remembering-amalek-and-moving-onto-purim/

A Passover Jew is the one who remembers that we were slaves in Egypt and that we need to welcome the stranger, love the stranger. That’s what I usually tell you. 36 times it tells us this in the Torah, says the Talmud. This means that we need to welcome refugees and asylum seekers. That we need sanctuary cities—and churches and synagogues. This is not new material for me. Or for you since I talk about this frequently. I am a Passover Jew.

Purim Jews are ones who remember not to forget Amalek, and Haman and Hitler. Who plead, don’t be naïve. We need protection. They are out to destroy us. I am not a Purim Jew. I refuse to live in a world where fear dominates. I remember an early class at Hebrew College where the then president, Rabbi David Gordis said if we only teach the Holocaust we should fold up our tents and go home. It is not enough to survive as Jews to prevent Hitler from earning a posthumous victory. Judaism must have an intrinsic meaning of its own.

This year, however, I thought maybe there needed to be one more piece. Maybe it is not an either/or choice. I was looking for balance. There is a danger in being just a Purim Jew. We can go too far. We run the risk of becoming like Baruch Goldstein who heard the message of Purim and the need to defend ourselves and went and shot up a mosque, killing 29 and wounding 125. Passover comes just in time to temper the message of Purim. I want to be a Passover Jew.

But this year, with rising anti-semitism, 148 recent bomb threats, the Chicago Loop Synagogue vandalized and at least three cemeteries with toppled gravestones, maybe we need the message of Purim. We need to not be naive. Maybe we need to be both Purim Jews and Passover Jews at the same time. And that, it turns out was precisely Yossi Klein HaLevy’s point.

“Jewish history speaks to our generation in the voice of two biblical commands to remember. The first voice commands us to remember that we were strangers in the land of Egypt, and the message of that command is: “Don’t be brutal.” The second voice commands us to remember how the tribe of Amalek attacked us without provocation while we were wandering in the desert, and the message of that command is: “Don’t be naive.” The first command is the voice of Passover, of liberation; the second is the voice of Purim, commemorating our victory over the genocidal threat of Haman, a descendant of Amalek. “Passover Jews” are motivated by empathy with the oppressed; “Purim Jews” are motivated by alertness to threat. Both are essential; one without the other creates an unbalanced Jewish personality, a distortion of Jewish history and values.

It is critical to understand that. And to understand what we at CKI do to ensure our safety to the best of our ability.

First there is a protocol and procedures committee that has written all sorts of safety protocols—including tornado and fire drill procedures. And a bomb threat protocol. I was relieved to be able to go over it with Peg and other staff. It is the reason we practice.

Second, we have outstanding relationships with our police department and our city government. I was touched that our mayor called me after one of the recent rounds of threats, apologetic that he felt the need to order more patrols—for the synagogue and the cemetery. Those patrols continue and we thank the mayor for being proactive. The police are always responsive to our calls. We have been promised that nothing will happen here. Not on their watch.

Third, the Elgin Human Relations Commission turned out in force at our recent ADL presentation. Many members of the wider community did. It was almost evenly split between members of CKI and the wider community. That brings me hope and courage.

Fourth, the U46 School Administration is committed to making sure that no student gets bullied in U46 for being Jewish. Their mission statement includes as its final plank, “All means all.” When there was an incident last year, Assistant Superintendent Ron Raglin was quick to address it. In fact, Ron reached out to me after the last wave of bomb threats to make sure we were OK.

Fifth, members of the Coalition of Elgin Religious Leaders have reached out to me, again, with a similar promise, not here in Elgin, not on their watch.

All of this makes me think we are very, very lucky in Elgin. We have not seen much anti-semitism—although every Jew at the ADL presentation has had some negative encounter in their life. Nonetheless, no matter how proactive we are, no matter how lucky we are, it would only take some kook. That’s why we build these relationships. That’s why we practice these drills.

Yossi Klein Halevy is right—we have to be both Purim Jews and Passover Jews—at the same time. We have to welcome the stranger and not be naïve. It is a hard but necessary balancing act.

There’s more though to Shabbat Zachor, and this is important too. In ways that therapists tell us that we are every part of our dreams, perhaps we are the Amalekites too. Not in a blame the victim sort of way. More like this Chassidic commentary teaches, as Rabbi Shawn Zevit reminded me earlier this week. I the Iturie Torah, it says: “Had the children of Israel not forgotten about the slower ones in back but instead, brought them closer under the protecting wings of God’s Presence, binding the slower to all of Israel, the Amalekites would not have succeeded in their attack. But because you allowed the slower ones to be aharekha (meaning both “behind you” and “other”), that you separated them off from you and made them “other”, and you forgot about your brothers and sisters, Amalek could viciously attack the. Therefore, the Torah tells us to remember Amalek, so that we never forget to bring our brothers and sisters who need special attention into our midst.”

And as Rabbi Toba Spitzer adds from nine years ago in Jerusalem, “As Jews we are commanded to erase the memory of Amalek, symbol of evil, and to combat wickedness, even that which resides within us.  For us: Amalekism is the evil inclination; Amalekism is baseless hatred; Amalekism is cruelty to the weak who live among us; Amalekism is the discrimination against the strangers and the aliens who dwell in our gates; Amalekism is racism.” (Gili Zivian, in Shabbat Shalom – Purim 5773)

We have to do both. We have to remember the Exodus from Egypt and that we were strangers, slaves, in a strange land. And we have to remember to never forget what the Amalekites did to us. We cannot afford to be naïve, especially, again in this time and place. And we must vow never to become like them. That is how we become Passover Jews and Purim Jews at the same time.