It’s been a week. It’s been quite a week. Just last Sunday we began marking the Three Weeks, that period that begins on the 17^th of Tammuz when the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Romans in 70CE and that culminates with Tisha B’Av when the Temple was destroyed. We are taught in the Talmud, in a text we will examine shortly, that the Temple was destroyed because of Sinat Chinam, senseless, baseless hatred. Jew of Jew.

So here are three news stories coming out of Israel this week. Right at the beginning of this period of mourning. And I mourn today, both for the historical injustices and the all too current ones. I mourn. I reflect. I act. Yes, you do have a rabbi that is an activist.

Some rabbis have stopped talking about Israel from the bimah. It has become too politically charged. Some say that as Jews we cannot say anything negative about Israel. That we can’t air our dirty linen in public. Some say that our biggest threats are not the external ones, that they are the internal ones. Quite simply I love Israel and I cannot remain silent.

On Sunday last week, the Israeli cabinet, under pressure from the ultra-Orthodox, reversed a decision on the Conversion Law, making it more difficult for the 330,000 people in Israel not considered Jewish by the Chief Rabbinate in Israel. These people are mostly Jews from the former Soviet Union and their Israeli born children.

http://www.jpost.com/Israel-News/Politics-And-Diplomacy/Liberman-Haredi-parties-control-government-Israeli-society-captive-to-extremist-elements-408032

The Jewish Agency has expressed “deep regrets” over the cabinet decision and explains that the establishment of local courts would have made conversion more accessible to immigrants and their children, who “desire to join the Jewish people in a more complete and recognized manner,” Jewish Agency Chairman, Natan Sharansky.

What this means for me as a Diaspora rabbi, as a woman rabbi, as a rabbi representing a non-Orthodox congregation, that my conversions will not be recognized. This is not really a new story. And when I meet with conversion candidates I always explain that while I will work with them, if they are thinking of making aliyah, they might want to consider an Orthodox conversion.

This story alone would have gotten my Irish ire up. But the news did not stop there. You see, this is partly my story.

I guess I always knew my mother was right. This is good because the next story came out on what would have been her birthday. According the Minister of Religious Affairs in Israel, I am not really a Jew. Shocking, yes?

http://www.jpost.com/Israel-News/Religious-Services-Minister-Reform-Jews-arent-Jews-408224

http://www.jpost.com/Israel-News/Religious-Services-Minister-Reform-Jews-arent-Jews-408224

So how does it feel to have a rabbi that isn’t Jewish? As one of our members said immediately. “The haredim, they’re crazy.” And if were just me and my mother and by extension my daughter, I wouldn’t care as much. But allow me to tell her story:

My grandmother, was born in Ireland and sent to a Jewish orphanage in Milwaukee. In the late 1890s. So she could have a better life. She was adopted by the L. Fish family in Chicago (a famous furniture company family) and raised as Jewish. My mother was raised as Jewish (excuse me, as a classical Reform Jew), was confirmed in 1938 at Sherith Israel in Saint Louis, a founder of Temple Emanuel Saint Louis, married by a rabbi in Saint Louis (a Reform rabbi but still), raised her children as Jews. I was a Bat Mitzvah and a Confirmand at Temple Emanuel Grand Rapids (Reform) and then went on a NFTY summer program. I fell in love. I went to college. I went to Israel. I resumed the relationship with my high school sweetheart. We thought we would get married but the State of Israel decided I wasn’t a Jew and would have to convert. I did not. Instead I proved that my grandmother had been born Jewish in Ireland and sent to that orphanage precisely because it was Jewish. Then I did what any angry 20 year old does. I threw the research out.

As you know I worked for Jewish educational organizations, became a rabbi, worked at a mikveh (no real doubt I am Jewish by now, can’t count the number of times I have immersed!) and still work for a Jewish organization. But really, these kinds of stories, these ongoing stories still hurt.

Now we have congregants whose conversions I helped facilitate who wonder, “Am I really a Jew” and sadly I have to explain again–as I do in the conversion process, that for me you are Jewish, for this congregation you are considered Jewish. However, in Israel you may not be considered Jewish. Or should that language be Jewish enough?

Don’t worry, most of you here are not Jewish either. No Reform Jews. No Jews who are not ultra-Orthodox—and as Saul said—they didn’t even fight to make the State of Israel a State, they are still waiting for the Messiah. Here is the shocking quote from the Minister of Religious Affairs, Shas MK David Azoulay: “Let’s just say there’s a problem,” he said in an interview with Israel’s Army Radio, before adding “I cannot allow myself to call such a person a Jew.”

Of course, these comments raised international criticism immediately. Predictably, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, head of the Reform Movement. But also the head of American Jewish Committee, “The American Rabbinate is charged with mustering pro-Israel support among constituents. Repeated humiliation of so many within the Rabbinate, and failure to revise the laws governing personal-status issues, risks alienating the bulk of American Jewry and will make it more difficult to secure that support.” See more at: http://www.ajc.org/site/apps/nl/newsletter3.asp?c=7oJILSPwFfJSG&b=8478375#sthash.L503tELw.dpuf

Even Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu said, that Azoulay’s views, “do not reflect the position of the government” and clarifying that Israel “is home to all Jews.” And he did apologize, sort of, claiming that Reform Jews are still “sinners” and the ones to blame for assimilation.

The best line, came from my colleague and friend, Conservative Rabbi Menachem Creditor who is in Israel as part of the Hartman Institute. He wrote to Netanyahu to express his dismay and it was carried in the Times of Israel: “To put it as painfully and as simply as is possible: I’m too busy protecting Israel from delegitimization to protect myself, as a Conservative rabbi, from Israel’s delegitimization. On this day, the 17th of Tammuz, over 2,000 years ago, the walls of Jerusalem were breached. On this day, the 17th of Tammuz of this year, again a great harm has been done to the People Israel. But, as opposed to the mythic re-understanding of the Romans destruction of Jerusalem, this time it’s painfully clear: we’re destroying ourselves from the inside out.”

But those two stories were not enough. Also this week, a woman studying at the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem went to the Kotel. The last remaining place of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. The focus of many of our prayers for 2000 years. And she wore a kippah. Just as she does in Colorado. Just like she does at the Conservative Yeshiva. Just as I do here this morning. Most mornings and at the Kotel. She was not allowed access to the Kotel Plaza. The security guards demanded to know “who authorized you to wear a kippah.” They attempted to arrest her and was escorted off property. Let me be clear. She was there as an individual, wanting to daven as she sees fit—as many of our members do here. This was not, as some suspected, an organized Woman of the Wall event. I remain a proud member of the Women of the Wall, precisely because of these kinds of provocations. The Rabbi of the Western Wall, Rabbi Shmuel Rabinovitch, eventually apologized, first saying he knew nothing about the incident. His apology is similar to that of Azoulay’s. “If such an incident did take place, the Kotel ushers were wrong to prevent Linda from entering… the Western Wall is open to every man and woman. I would like to send my sincere apology and the ushers’ apology to Linda, and I hope she will come back and visit the Kotel soon,” “Unfortunately, there has been a difficult atmosphere of suspicion and lack of faith in the Western Wall recently as a result of the Women of the Wall’s loud struggle,” the rabbi explained. “It’s an atmosphere which affects many worshippers, and Linda was affected too.”

Does anyone else see the problem here? A woman can wear a kippah in Colorado or Elgin without fear of arrest and cannot in Israel? The woman is being blamed for what she is wearing? This is a blame the victim apology. Now here is the irony. This very same rabbi wrote this week’s d’var Torah for Jerusalem Post, where he praises the daughters of Zelophehad for speaking out and continuing their father’s name by being granted a share in his inheritance. He calls them courageous women.

http://www.jpost.com/Opinion/Parshat-Pinhas-Woman-and-hope-408543

This, the very week, where there are three sections that show how inclusive the tradition is for women. We are given the rules for Rosh Hodesh, the new month, the half holiday for women. We are told, as Rabinovitch explains in his own D’var Torah, how the daughters of Zelophehad are courageous in demanding to inherit their father’s land. All five of them. Their names are preserved. Malah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah. And we are told that Yocheved gave birth to Aaron, Moses and Miriam. All three siblings. In the very same verse.

These women are our inheritance. We have to care about these outrageous stories from Israel to protect their very legacy. Our legacy. We have to care about these stories because we cannot give into sinat chinam, we must embrace what Rav Kook called sinat ahavat.

These are the Three Weeks. I would urge you to do Three Things:

1. Study the texts below:
2. Speak out. Don’t hide these stories. Don’t hide your story. Find your voice. Explain how they affect you personally. Write to Benjamin Netanyahu. Take a photo of you with your kippah or your tallit and send it to Women of the Wall for their campaign, My Tallit, My Perogative. http://womenofthewall.org.il/campaigns/my-prerogative/
3. Give generously to JUF. Taking our support away from Israel at this critical time will only make it easier for the ultra-Orthodox. My former boss used to say, “Follow the money.” If we continue to give, Israel will have to listen. Our own Harry Seigle, brother of Mark and Michael is chairing this year’s JUF annual campaign. I am sure we will hear more of this in later months. Or give to New Israel Fund.

Talmud Bavli Yoma 9b:

Why was the First Temple destroyed? Because of three evils in it: idolatry, sexual immorality and bloodshed . . . But why was the Second Temple destroyed, seeing that during the time it stood people occupied themselves with Torah, with observance of precepts, and with the practice of charity? Because during the time it stood, hatred without rightful cause prevailed. This is to teach you that hatred without rightful cause is deemed as grave as all the three sins of idolatry, sexual immorality and bloodshed together.
[AJWS translation]

Avot De Rabbi Natan:
Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai once was walking with his disciple Rabbi Joshua near Jerusalem after the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Joshua looked at the Temple ruins and said: “Alas for us! The place which atoned for the sins of the people Israel through the ritual of animal sacrifice lies in ruins!” Then Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai spoke to him these words of comfort: “Be not grieved, my son. There is another way of gaining atonement even though the Temple is destroyed. We must now gain atonement through deeds of lovingkindness.” For it is written, “Lovingkindness I desire, not sacrifice” (Hosea 6:6).  Siddur Sim Shalom, (Avot DeRabbi Natan)  Jules Harlow, ed. (New York: United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism)

Rav Abraham Kook, First Chief Rabbi in Israel:
“If we were destroyed, and the world with us, due to baseless hatred, then we shall rebuild ourselves, and the world with us, with baseless love — ahavat chinam. (Orot HaKodesh vol. III, p. 324)

It would seem the current Israeli rabbinate has forgotten these fundamental texts. It is our job to remind them, to teach the texts and make them our own. To that point, on Tisha B’av itself, we will gather here at CKI to study more of Rav Kook’s work. Please join us.

Sometimes you are in the right place at the right time and you are privileged to do the right thing, even if that is not clear at the time.

Today I went to make a routine hospital call. I had become friendly with the chaplain at the hospital and so before going I called and left her a message. I was hoping maybe she could take a break and have coffee. I didn’t hear back and I didn’t even know if she was working.

It was impossible to park. I valet parked the car. I asked the valet if he had seen Karen. He said no. But there she was, meeting me excitedly at the door. “This is nice,” I thought.

Beshert—Destined. This turned out to be anything but a routine hospital call.

Three years ago, this was the first hospital I was called to visit when I arrived in Elgin. A youngish woman was struggling with a recurrence of breast cancer. Her daughter was getting married that year. They had already moved the date of the wedding up to September. Now she was told that morning she may not make it to the wedding. I went. That was the day the pink fire trucks to support breast cancer awareness were at the hospital. I checked in with the chaplaincy office as I always do when I go to a new to me hospital. We made sure that our patient got to go outside to see the fire trucks. Her mood improved immeasurably. She had hope for the first time in apparently weeks.

But as August turned to September it was clear to all that she was slipping. It wasn’t clear that she was going to make it to the wedding. By the week of the wedding we knew that our patient would not be able to attend. We began to make plans to have a pre-wedding in our patient’s hospital room. It was scheduled for a Thursday afternoon just before the wedding rehearsal. The chaplain, now my friend, arranged for a wedding cake and liquid refreshments through concierge services. She decorated the report room. I brought a chuppah. My daughter made a wedding bouquet. She brought a glass in a white organza bag.

The entire wedding party was there, dressed in their wedding attire. All of the nurses stood in the hall. The priest was there. But where was the rabbi? She couldn’t make it out from Deerfield in time. I would have to go this alone.

You see, like our patient who herself was in an interfaith marriage to a Catholic who had raised two Jewish daughters, the bride and groom were embarking on an interfaith marriage and had arranged for a rabbi and priest to co-officiate.

Problem—my contract stated that even though I am not a member of the Rabbinical Assembly I had to uphold their four mandates which include not performing an intermarriage. Was I somehow violating my new contract by doing this death-bed wedding? I hoped not as I chanted the Sheva Brachot, the Seven Blessings of Jewish weddings. I was convinced that it was the right thing to do and I would do it again.

The next day, the “real wedding” happened on schedule but without our patient present. I attended the wedding and sat in the back row. It was lovely in the late Friday afternoon sunlight. I went to lead services at the synagogue and other people continued to enjoy the wedding festivities.

Back at the hospital, our patient’s condition continued to worsen. Late at night, the husband and several members of the congregation went back to the hospital to describe the wedding and to just sit with our patient. She died sometime that night, after midnight, not on her daughter’s wedding day. The funeral was held on Tuesday and I thought that was the end of the story.

No—the staff was so moved by the wedding in the hospital they continued to tell the story, over and over again. Today, the chaplain, my friend, had been asked to present the story as part of the Northwestern Medical’s (Central Dupage is now part of Northwestern Med) monthly leadership team. 300 upper eschelon management medical professionals were gathered in the auditorium to listen to updates about budget, hospice, admissions, etc. The chaplain was the last agenda item called “Patient Experience.” She presented the story above and people were clearly moved. Then she explained that I just happened to be in the building.

Beshert. She called me forward. 300 people stood up and applauded.

Now there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I choked out the story about the pink fire trucks which had been omitted in the chaplain’s remarks. I thanked them for their commitment to patient experience and going above and beyond.

Beshert? This was my father’s birthday. He had been a Northwestern Medical professor. When I was a little girl I had dreamed of being a medical school professor just like him. I loved to go with him to Northwestern, downtown, and listen to him lecture. Here I was, in a Northwestern lecture hall doing precisely that. On a topic that would have been so very foreign to him. However, he never liked the idea of my being a rabbi. It didn’t fit with his rational, scientific brain. Here were medical professionals who understood the very real connection between the spiritual and the medical. Between mind, body and spirit. And then getting applauded for my “out-of-the-box” creative thinking. Of making a difference in one patient’s life–and the life of her family. When we set out to support our patient, we didn’t do it looking for applause. We did it because we were in the right place at the right time and did the right thing. I would do it again.

As I right this, Frank Sinatra is playing in the background at Starbucks. My father’s favorite. And I cry again.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy 4th of July. I teach this morning in honor of my mother, whose birthday was July 6^th. In our family, the question was never where will you be for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. No, the question was where will you be for the 4^th of July and Thanksgiving—the two most American holidays. And also somehow profoundly Jewish as well. I think that was the point. These holidays were a measure of how American we were.

Today is also the 17^th of Tammuz. Ordinarily a fast day, it is the day the walls in Jerusalem were breached by the Romans, three weeks ahead of the observance of Tisha B’Av, when the Second Temple was destroyed. Shabbat suspends that mourning. And if you are so inclined you can fast tomorrow. This year some rabbis are fasting for the churches that have been burned. Since I cannot fast, I will be contributing the amount of money I would have spent on food to T’ruah, Rabbis for Human Rights. Because this year, when the 4^th of July and the 17^th of Tammuz cross, just like they did in 1776, I have to pause and wonder at the connections.

Today we have three seemingly simple texts:

1. “How good are your tents, O Jacob. Your dwelling places O Israel?” These words are the words we sing every morning service when we first enter the sanctuary. But these are the words of a non-Jewish prophet. Hired by the King of the Moabites, Balak, every time Balaam opened his mouth to curse the Israelites, G-d filled his mouth with blessing. These are the very words we use to open our services. Think about that, a non-Jewish prophet trying to curse the Israelites, uttering words of blessing and we still use them. Every day. What does that say about the role of the non-Jew? What does it say about blessings?

2. The second text is my mother’s favorite verse of all time. So much so that when the Dead Sea Scrolls came to Grand Rapids for the first time out of Israel, she calligrpahed the verse. It seems so simple. “What does the Lord require of you? Do justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly with your G-d.” That’s it. That’s all we have to do. But as our discussion indicated, can justice and mercy co-exist? Does mercy have any role in our court system? I think the answer to Micah is YES! And that is precisely what makes Judaism radical. Yes, we have to do justly, act righteously. And yes, we have to, at the same time love mercy. It is a both/and. It isn’t easy. It isn’t simple. It is what we are called to do. And it is these very words that we, as Jews are still obligated to follow. And like Micah, speak these very words to power. That is part of our mission on this, America’s Independence Day.

Of course there are other possible translations. Ahavat Chesed. Love lovingkindness? Chesed is almost impossible to translate. My mother’s friend, Dr. Nelson Glueck, wrote his PhD thesis on this topic. He went on to be president of Hebrew Union College. I tried to tackle it in my rabbinic thesis, concluding with Glueck that it is not possible to translate and yet, we understand the sense.

And since this is the 17^th of Tammuz, as we begin again to contemplate the ruin of Jerusalem, we are taught:

“Rabbi Joshua said: ‘Woe to us, for this house that lies in ruins, the place where atonement was made for the sins of Israel!’  But Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai replied, ‘My son, be not grieved, for we have another means of atonement which is as effective, and that is, the practice of loving-kindness, as it is stated, ‘For I desire loving kindness and not sacrifice’ (Hosea 6:6)” Babylonian Talmud, Avot de Rabbi Nathan 20a

Simple? No? Do justice. Establish courts. Love mercy. Be nice to everyone. Do the right thing. And walk humbly with G-d. It is not the 613 commandments. It is not animal sacrifice. It is deeds of loving kindness. It is loving mercy and doing justice. Both, in the name of G-d.

3. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Again, simple, no? But people have argued over this text much like a Biblical text. All men? Only men? All people? What happiness? Whose happiness? What’s included? And that is the point on this Shabbat Independence. To pause to reflect. To look at our foundational texts.

Later I am going to do something to help us celebrate the 4^th of July and Shabbat. I am going to sing part of the Declaration of Independence in Haftarah trope. There was a lot of discussion about this online this week in one of the groups I participate in. Does this make the Declaration of Independence a “holy” text? Divine? An idol? Some argued that it is prophetic. Does the trop marks make us hear it better. Trop is, after all, a system of punctuation. Does it make it uniquely Jewish? Only Jewish?

And maybe that is the point. We Jews in America have participated in life almost since America’s inception. The earliest congregations were founded in the 1600s. I can imagine Jews in their synagogues praying and celebrating the morning the Declaration of Independence was pronounced, on July 4^th which just like this year was a Saturday and the 17^th of Tammuz. Later, there were Jews like Hayyim Solomon and Rebecca Gratz that were at the vanguard of funding the Revolutionary War.

We have Washington’s address to Touro Synagogue. And we have the letter that he wrote to Touro which became the basis of the Bill of Rights. He was very clear and the writing is so eloquent:

“It is now no more that toleration is spoken of as if it were the indulgence of one class of people that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights, for, happily, the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens in giving it on all occasions their effectual support. It would be inconsistent with the frankness of my character not to avow that I am pleased with your favorable opinion of my administration and fervent wishes for my felicity. May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”

We have the prayer that the congregation in Richmond, VA wrote for Washington in 1790. I love that it is an acrostic that spells out Washington’s name. I can’t wait to see it some day in person at the Jewish Museum in Philadelphia, a new museum right near the Liberty Bell, which declare, “Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof.” (Lev. 25:10) The sentiments of the prayer are very similar to our “Prayer for the Country” and we will use it as such later. These are foundational texts too.

The Hagaddah that we use at home, a compilation of many begins talking about living in two communities. The Jewish community and the American community.

“We share common histories— both the Exodus and the American experience; we share common dreams of equality, justice, and peace. …And so we join together to send out a message of freedom which we hope will ring through the hills of our land and across the seas.

It spells out what some of those freedoms are that we celebrate:

freedom from bondage        and freedom from oppression,
freedom from hunger          and freedom from want,
freedom from hatred           and freedom from fear,
freedom to think                 and freedom to speak,
freedom to teach                 and freedom to learn,
freedom to love                  and freedom to share,
freedom to hope                 and freedom to rejoice,

It would be my hope that we continue to uphold the dream, rededicate ourselves to this dream. To be a light to the nations. To speak truth to power. To do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with G-d. That our words, like Balam’s are heard as words of blessing. Then as Washington, quoting Isaiah and Micah, will be right. This is a nation where “every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.” Then we will be able to say, “How goodly are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.” Here. In this country. Today. Amen.

Today is a day of celebration. But it wasn’t easy to get here.

I thought I knew what I was going to talk about. For the second week in a row, I threw out what I prepared and started over. And somehow the stories are linked but more on that later. And they are even linked with my own personal story—the recent death of my beloved thesis advisor, Rabbi Dr. Bernard M. Zlotowitz. So I offer these words in his memory, as students have honored their teachers for generations.

Let’s look at this morning’s parsha. The community was without water. That’s it. Miriam died. And the community was once again without water. That is all of what we are going to talk about today.

This is about the haves and the have nots. It is a story of scarcity. It is a story of fear. It is a story of still being enslaved. Maybe we should go back to Egypt. At least we had water. We are going to die here in the desert. If the Israelites were graded they would get an A in kvetching. In complaining.

This story is not old. It is new. Talk to any body in California lately? Water is a serious issue. And I urge you in the strongest possible terms to conserve.

But there is another message here. G-d provides the answer. There is enough water, if you know what to do. There is enough water if you trust G-d. G-d’s presence goes with them. G-d told Moses what to do. Strike the rock. Once. Only once.

But Moses does something else. He is afraid. He strikes the rock twice. Water gushes forth. Success! Or is it? For this he loses the privilege of entering the Promised Land.

Let’s think about us a little bit.

Sometimes we as a community, we whine. We complain. We kvetch. We are not a whole lot different than the Israelites. We don’t have enough water. Once I even got a phone call from someone no longer here. “They are stealing our water.” What are you talking about? I asked. The garden hose was hooked up and they are stealing our water. Watering their lawn. It looked like that on the surface. But no actually, we were watering our neighbors’ lawn on purpose. Repairing some damage we had done to their lawn.

Other complaints: We don’t have enough food—although I am sure we do today. We don’t have enough money. We don’t have enough time. We don’t have enough members. We remember the old days…we want to go back to the 1950s or the 60s or the 70s to when Rabbi Scharf was the rabbi or Hazzan Smolen or….

Sometimes we are afraid about doing it right. That Judaism doesn’t look like the Judaism that we remember. That Judaism is becoming something other.

I think what G-d is calling us to do in this portion is to dream bigger. To trust G-d. Instead of a theology of scarcity, what G-d wants is a theology of abundance. It isn’t always easy. What would we dream of?

More members, more money, more time. But what would we do with it?

Create more meaningful programming. Buy more books. Study more. Daven more. Host a retreat. Bring in a big name speaker. Have a scholar-in-residence. A cantorial concert. Give more money to more charities. Feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. House the homeless. Educate our kids.

It is not a whole lot different from Tevye who dreamed. “If I were a rich man I’d have the time that I lack to sit in the synagogue and pray and maybe have a seat by the eastern wall. And I’d discuss the holy books with the rabbis seven hours every day. That would be the sweetest thing of all.”

What if we build a culture of acceptance. Of excellence. Of abundance.

What if we are more like Field of Dreams. If we build it, they will come. If we believe it, it will happen. It is like Herzl who said, “IF you will it, it is no dream.” Or Walt Disney, who said, If you can dream it, you can do it.” But Walt was practical too and he said, “You can design and create and build the most beautiful place on earth, but it takes people to make a dream a reality.”

So today we dream of abundance. And that abundance takes many forms. It is sort of like Maslow’s pyramid. We need food, shelter, clothing, love, before we can ascend the other levels of the pyramid. We need security and an absence of fear. That is real abundance.

My favorite Psalm is Psalm 81. Now Rabbi Zlotowitz, it can be said he was an expert in Psalms. After all, here is this big thick book of Psalms to prove it.

Psalm 81 is the psalm for Thursday so we don’t usually do it on Shabbat Morning. It is actually written about this very story in our parsha this morning. And it begins with thanksgiving, although it doesn’t use any of those words like give thanks.

Sing with joy to God, our strength
Shout with gladness to the God of Jacob.

It continues that we should strike up a melody, sound the timbrel, play the harp and lyre, sound the shofar—we should make music. This is a happy song. A happy dance. And I feel like doing that happy dance this morning. That is actually very appropriate for today in this country. And for us as Jews in this country.

The reason to sing with joy and shout with gladness and make music is because we feel grateful. For what are we feeling grateful? For God, our strength, who rose against the land of Egypt. All of this is communal, in the command form, in the plural form. In a historical sense.

But the text continues—and it switches to the personal. The translation in Siddur Sim Shalom is more liberal than literal:

Then I heard a voice I never knew.
“I removed the burden from your shoulder
Your hands were freed from the load.
When you called in distress I rescued you
Unseen, I answered you in thunder
I tested your faith in the wilderness.”

Think for a moment about when you might have rescued just that way. I know I can.

The actual Hebrew is more specific as Rabbi Zlotowitz’s translation shows. It refers to the Exodus from Egypt—and removing the Israelites from the burden of slavery. The load was the actual basket of bricks that the Israelites carried in the building projects of Pharaoh. The wilderness is named in the Hebrew; it is waters of Meribah. Meribah itself means strife and is a reference in Exodus 17:7 and Numbers 20:13 the wilderness where the Israelites stayed after fleeing Egypt. That place we will read about shortly where they were complaining because there was no water!

There is another reference to removing a burden. In Exodus 33, with a very similar concept. When Moses is tired after the Golden Calf and does not want to go back up Mount Sinai to get another set of tablets. God reassures Moses of God’s presence saying, “I will go in the lead and lighten your burden.” Or as another translation says, I will give you rest. How wonderful. G-d will lead us and give us rest. We don’t always have to fight. This is one of those mornings. Some of the fight is over. For some it was a 40 year fight of being in the wilderness. Of not being secure in this country. Of being afraid of being visible as they are. I say all this not as a member of the LGBTQ community but as an ally. And I am an ally precisely because I am a Jew. Because it fits with my theology.

A theology of abundance. Starting at the very beginning. G-d created us in G-d’s image. We are all created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of G-d. We are all humans, yet look around you. We are all different. This congregation more than many as we embrace our diversity. We have members from 17 different countries. From China, Japan, Mongolia, From Argentina, Brazil, Chile, El Salvador, Mexico. From Canada. From France, Germany, Russia, Poland, Bosnia, Morocco. And yes, I count Norway and Israel too. We are white and black, Asian and Hispanic. We are a rainbow of diversity. We are a rainbow of abundance. Because this diversity is part of our richness.

The symbol of a rainbow is part of how I, the daughter of two Jewish scientists came to believe in G-d. That represents some diversity as well. The rainbow, however, is the perfect balance between rain and sun. Without that balance there can be no rainbow. Without the science, there can be no rainbow. Ever gone out to chase one? You usually can’t find one. It seems that you can only find one when you are not looking. When you are surprised by one. And they are the reminder of G-d’s covenant. That G-d will never destroy the world again, by flood. Again, it is about water. Having just the right amount of water. Mayyim Hayyim. Living water.

The word rainbow in Hebrew is keshet. There are two organizations that use that word as part of their names. Both to talk about inclusion. One is right here in Chicago and we at CKI partner with them. Keshet provides “a rainbow of hope for individuals with special needs.” Some of our members have used their services. Their educational professionals have come out to teach our teachers how to work with students of differing abilities.

The other organization is also called Keshet which works for the full equality and inclusion of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender Jews in Jewish life.

As I stand before you in my rainbow tallit, perhaps you are still wondering. Really? This is a Jewish issue? Or you were raised to think that homosexuality is a sin in Judaism. This may be hard for you. Or perhaps you have been swayed by some of the politicians who keep saying that marriage is a sacrament and cannot be changed. It may feel that world is changing too fast. In Judaism, we recognize the diversity of opinion. This is worth a conversation. A real conversation. And I would be privileged to study the texts with you. Today, is a day for celebration. Not for prooftexts.

Let me be really clear. This ruling is not counterintuitive to Judaism. It is not against Judaism. What happened yesterday at the Supreme Court, is something that we as Jews can be thankful for. Today is a day for celebration. It is a watershed moment. A shehechianu moment for preserving us as Jews, and enabling us to reach this moment. For preserving and protecting us as a minority group. For protecting freedom of religion. For protecting love. For anyone.

I could stand here and recite all of the Jewish organizations that were part of the Amicus brief. There were 13 of the 25 in the brief. They included Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative, Renewal. ADL, AJC, Hadassah. All saw the very deep connections of freedom, liberty, civil rights, human rights. And if you need the details, I have them. They are right here. You are welcome to come up and read them. They are eloquent and majestic. Poetic and even fun. It has been fun to talk to old friends who are finally legal in 50 states. It has been fun to watch the feeds on Facebook.

The Israelites wandered for 40 years always complaining, unsure of their next meal or where the water was coming from. They lived a life of scarcity. We, too, have lived a life of scarcity. But today, we know that there is abundant love.

Because these words of the court, echo our own tradition. Because they fit within this idea of a theology of abundance. Because it is part of the rainbow of our diversity. Because everyone is created b’tzelem elohim. Because there is enough love to go around. Today love won. Hallelujah. Sing a joyful song to the Lord.

I got the word sitting in a class on police chaplaincy. Somehow I could see the twinkle in his eye and his impish grin. And that made me smile. Because words fail.

My thesis advisor died today. Rabbi Dr. Bernard Zlotowitz, of blessed memory. He always thought the Rabbi title should come first because it was more important than his doctorate. He was a formal instructor having been raised by his German professors. In class we would be called on in alphabetical order, with title. Ms. Klein followed by Dr. Levinson. He was always Rabbi. If you called his house, his wife, his partner, Shirley, after inquiring how you were would say, “Hold on. I’ll get Rabbi for you.” Perhaps that is why when people call me Rabbi without the rest of my name, I am not comfortable. I am not Rabbi . Only Rabbi Zlotowitz has that name. And while he was always Rabbi, he was a down-to-earth guy.

He was much more than my thesis advisor. He was my champion. When others doubted whether I would ever be ordained, he went to bat for me. He mapped out an academic program that worked. He appointed Rabbi Peg Kershenbaum to help edit the thesis so that all the “t’s were crossed and all the footnotes consistent. When I would uncover a new insight, that grin would light up the room.

Rabbi and I argued over the role of Sharon in the 1982 incursion into Lebanon. We argued over the word rayecha in “Love your rayacha like yourself.” Does it mean neighbor, fellow, kinsman, friend? I taught that argument just this morning. We argued over the meaning of chesed, and whether grace was a Jewish concept or something only Christians discuss. I am not sure we ever finished those conversations. They will have to wait until the world-to-come. But he was a man filled with chesed, lovingkindness, of that there is no doubt. However you translate it.

I had several classes with Rabbi Z as I fondly called him. Reform Judaism. Responsa. Isaiah. Job. It was in Job’s class where we learned how to comfort a mourner. With silence. Without any words at all. Just with presence.

And Rabbi Z had a presence that filled a room. He was a consummate storyteller. Some of them we heard over and over. And that was OK—because every time we heard them they seemed new and even wiser. Many have already been written and rewritten today as the tributes have poured in. Each one makes me smile. He would tell a story about when he was in rabbinical school. His professor, recently from Germany, would say, “Boychiks, today we are going to study the basement of Judaism.” His professor had confused basement and foundation. Every time I pushed the elevator button for my basement office at SAP in Germany I would smile.

He was filled with practical advice. He was a rabbi who made house calls—but always taking his wife Shirley or his secretary with him. When he because a regional director for UAHC (now URJ), he took on New York and the Caribbean, guaranteeing a warm winter vacation if he went to Puerto Rico on business first.

He was a scholar. No question. But he was a people person first. He took real interest in his students. And their families. When my daughter was struggling the most with her chronic daily migraine, he always remembered to ask. If he saw a new treatment in the Times, he would call. When my mother was dying—they actually shared a birthday—he would check in. When my daughter graduated from Hofstra cum laude, it was hard to tell who was prouder, me and Simon or Rabbi Z, who broke out into that big grin. And he always, without fail remembered to ask on the phone as recently as two weeks ago how her acting career is doing. So did Shirley.

There were some sentences that became Zlotowitzisms. If you sneezed in class his automatic response was “You sneezed on the truth.” Now I once had a Bar Mitzvah student who started sneezing just at his aliyah blessing. I told the story, attributing my own teacher, Rabbi Zlotowitz, and everyone laughed. Now it is also true that when I am about to cry, I sneeze. It seems to be my defense mechanism, an unusual one I am told. Even as I write these words and start to tear I know I am also about to sneeze.

We learned in that Responsa class whether students should rise before a scholar or not. We learned whether they should sit ahead of their teacher or behind their teacher in the beit midrash. Ultimately it was about respect, Rabbi Z would explain. Today, we know that it is more than respect. It is love.

It is said that teacher’s students become their children. Rabbi Zlotowitz had many students. We are all his children and we have lost a great mentor and friend.

Apparently I wrote the last thesis under Rabbi Zlotowitz advisement. He was scheduled to be part of my beit din but was not well enough to attend. I journeyed out to Fair Lawn and he graciously signed the smicha document at his home.

His presence goes with me. Always. And in between my tears and my sneeze, I smile.

Today I, as Rabbi Lev B’esh said, I wish Jon Stewert were my rabbi. Because in the face of tragedy sometimes only silence works. Jokes, as Jon Stewert announced do not. I’ve got nothing,” he said. And then he stared at the camera. Rabbis all over the country threw out the sermons they were working on. We all feel the need to say something about Charleston.

I am sad. I am angry. And I have wrestled with what to say to you this morning.

There is something that is broken here in America. It is about how we welcome the widow, the orphan, the stranger, the most marginalized amongst us. It is how we think of the other. And in this country, it is wrong. After almost three centuries, it is still wrong. And we, those of us of white privilege of which I am lucky to be, need to own it and need to name it.

This is not just about Treyvon Martin or Michael Brown or Eric Garner. And there are nine new names to add to this growing list.

This is not just a story about Charleston or Baltimore or New York or Ferguson. It is about right here, right now.

Yesterday I signed a petition to remove the Confederate Flag from public spaces. It seemed easy, almost too easy. Some have argued that flying a Confederate flag is a symbol of their freedom of expression, guaranteed by the US Constitution. It seems to me it is too loaded a symbol. And I use that term guardedly. It is like yelling fire in a theatre and then actually starting one.

A recent NBC-Wall Street Journal poll says that 49% of Americans believe the symbol is racist and 49% believe that it is southern pride.

So I asked a question after I signed. What do we do about the Confederate flag that hangs at a private home in South Elgin? Yes, there is one. And I doubt that it means southern pride. Then I asked more questions. Why do they fly it? What does it represent to them? And why after the events in Charleston is it still up?

There have been many pundits that have jumped in to tell us how to interpret the events of this week.

The “child” was just mentally ill. My own physician said that was appalled by that. It was an affront to her. She wanted me to convey this message clearly and strongly. Most mentally ill people do not become violent. Period. And while we need better mental health care and better access to it, in this case the underlying case is racism and hatred.

This child, older than Michael Brown, was given a gun for his 21^st birthday. 21 in this country is the age of majority. This was no child. And he knew what he was doing as he sat there calmly and calculatingly at the Bible Study on Wednesday night.

Others have argued that we need gun control. I, personally, would argue for that. The statistics are overwhelming that there are more incidents of gun violence here in this country than in any other similar country. That is an argument for another time.

But underlying this most recent tragedy was hatred. And racism. And fear. And that is the boil that we in this country need to own and lance. When I spoke with Traci O’Neil Ellis, one of our school board members, she said that no individual could do this alone. It is a community wide problem. A national problem. I believe she is right.

But I can only work as an individual and locally, very, very locally.

This is not a new phenomena. It goes back hundreds of years. We can talk about how the Declaration of Independence stalled because of a debate about slaves. Did the life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness mean all people or just white men? And this was not just a southern issue. In Chelmsford, MA, my previous hometown, in order to vote you needed to be a white, male, Christian, landowner. So had I lived there in at the town’s founding I would not have voted.

But I don’t want to talk about Philadelphia or Plymouth or Chelmsford. I want to talk about right here. Right now. When I first came to town here. Right here at CKI, there was a family who wanted to be a member or at least check us out. The mother, a black woman, had recently died and the Jewish father wanted to provide some structure for his kids. Someone here, no longer a member, told them they couldn’t join because the kids were….dare I even say it…mulato…a dated, pejorative word I hadn’t heard since the 60s meaning multiracial. This made no sense to me at the time because we have other multi-racial families. And we are proud of our diversity and we embrace it.

And lest you think that has been the only time I have heard the word here at CKI you would be wrong. What was going on here? In this case, it was the mother who wasn’t Jewish so the person was afraid that the children weren’t Jewish or wouldn’t become Jewish. Let me underscore that, the person who made the comment—not just to me but to the family—was afraid. Afraid of the other. Guess what, we never saw that family again at the time they probably needed us most.

We’ve gotten better through the years. But we are not perfect. Not yet.

Fear does powerful things. It prevents us from being who we are meant to be. When Baltimore erupted the news media talked about the thugs who were responsible for the looting. Make no mistake. Looting and arson are wrong. However, at the same time the kids in our religious school were reading a Choose Your Own Adventure story about coming to America. They were at the point in the book where they were deciding whether to continue a strike to improve working conditions for garment workers. The organizers of the strike who were preventing crossing the picket line were called in the book thugs and I wondered about the usage there and in the current media. Could they both be thugs?

The Jewish history in this country and the African American history in this country are linked. We have both been called thugs. We have both been marginalized people. Jews were at the vanguard of the Civil Rights movement and I am delighted that we have a strong partnership in this congregation with Second Baptist and with Martin Luther King jr. Celebration. Singing We Shall Overcome at Hemnes or here at CKI gives me goose bumps.

Some of you were concerned when I went to Ferguson. Would the rabbi get arrested? Would she get hurt? Why is she supporting those hoodlums? Yes, it was that word that was used that time. Can’t she just leave it alone? I don’t think I can.

I am not sure I ever explained why I went. I went because I have always gone to things like that, when I can. Simon and I have been members of the Southern Poverty Law Center since before we were married. They released a study this week saying that the average number of hate crimes EVERY year in this country is around 260,000. The FBI on the other hand tracks only 6000 for 2013 the last year the statistics are available. Why the discrepancy? Because many hate crimes do not get reported and then do not get prosecuted.

The glaring reality of Ferguson was not in the fact that a kid, remember, younger than the perpetrator in Charleston, got shot. Police officers are under pressure every single day. As a police chaplain I know that what they most want to do after their shift is go home. Black, white, Latino, Asian, they just want to get home to their families. And none of them ever want to draw a gun. But in the instant they feel they must, mistakes can be made.

The problem of what happened in Ferguson, unfortunately wasn’t that Michael Brown got shot. The problem was he lay on the cement for 4 hours and 32 minutes and no one came to his aid. The problem was that the mayor never was out in front of the story. The problem became an over militarized police force responded to a problem that spiraled out of control.

I went to Ferguson because I was asked to go. I went to Ferguson with the Chief of Police and the mayor, knowing I was going. I went to Ferguson because I wanted to be a witness. I went to Ferguson to deliver a message that there are other ways of policing. Because here in Elgin, the clergy, the police and the Mayor were already involved in a conversation about race and the police. We still are. Because I believe here in Elgin we have already found better ways of policing with the resident officer program, with the commitment of the police to prevent such things from happening here.

But Ferguson is not an isolated incident. We have seen it over and over again this year. And Charleston is no exception. We are at a cross roads again. And while Elgin is ahead of many communities, we are not perfect and something can happen here too. We are naïve if we think that is not the case. On Thursday morning the first call I made was to Pastor Nat Edmond at Second Baptist. How was he, I asked? He replied he was sick watching CNN News. I asked him whether there was going to be an Elgin response. He told me he sent an email to his staff reviewing security procedures. We each reviewed ours on the phone. Because we both know that a similar kind of thing could happen here, at either place, even if we are prepared. I promised that the Jewish community stood in solidarity and support with him and his community.

Make no mistake. This is a Jewish issue too. Not just because we are commanded to welcome the widow, the orphan and the stranger. But because if a black pastor and eight others can be attacked in a church during Bible study, we can be attacked too. Already we know that the perpetrator was a white supremacist. I imagine it will only be a matter of time until we hear that he hated Jews too.

In the Haggadah that Simon and I use at our home there is a famous quote:

In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for me
and by that time no one was left to speak up.
Martin Niemoller

It is our job as Jews to speak up. That is what I am doing. And while sometime silence is enough or words are enough, sometimes they are not. Sometimes it requires action. And that is the point.

This weekend I was in New York. At a Bat Mitzvah. Privileged to participate in this Bat Mitzvah. And words do not quite explain it. This was a Bat Mitzvah at a Modern Orthodox synagogue. And the concept is not new there. They hosted the first Women’s Tefilah Group in the 1960s and it continues strong. Supreme Court Justice Elena Kagen had her Bat Mitzvah there. The incoming president is a woman. She is terrific. They have had women clergy before but they were not called rabbis.

In other news, this weekend there were eight women ordained in the Orthodox world. http://www.haaretz.com/jewish-world/jewish-world-news/.premium-1.660857 They join several others in recent years. They struggle with what to be called. Rabbah (a possible female form of rabbi)? Maharat?

It is important to remember that Orthodoxy is not a monolith. There are different customs from community to community. Here at Lincoln Square they do not open the ark for Aleinu, but everyone stands for Mourner’s Kaddish.

I was not there in an official capacity. I was there as my husband’s spouse whose first cousin’s daughter’s daughter was the Bat Mitzvah. Hey, it is mishpocha! Family!

However, I was given the privilege, the kavod, the honor, of leading the brief mincha service. I admit it. I alternated between nervous and surprisingly calm. Who am I to walk into a mid-town Manhattan synagogue and lead the davenning, the worship? Do I really know this material? Do I understand that community’s minhagim, customs? Will they find the fact that I am a rabbi offensive? And what do I wear?

A skirt or dress obviously. And modest clothing. But not necessarily stockings. And here, not every woman covers her hair. (I wish I had brought a hat. I felt naked without my kippah. I kept touching my head. But I felt wrong without a hat. But no one commented or asked about it.)

They made it so easy. As it turns out, there were two B’not Mitzvah that morning. Each gave a d’var Torah, a speech from the main bimah on Saturday morning. Each spoke eloquently and was poised and confident. The rabbi was gracious, effusive even, in thanking the families and he had clearly connected with each girl. In fact, each girl in her own way, helped me to write my installation speech which I gave last night.

At 6:30, my cousins joined the Women’s Tefilah group that met in the Beit Midrash (study hall). The women were on the main side and 8-9 men were on the other side of the mechitza, a dividing wall between the men and women. I passed out siddurim to the members of our family and we sat together, me next to Simon’s cousin, the grandmother of the Bat Mitzvah. Since this was a women’s service there could only be 9 men or halachically it would be a men’s service and the Bat Mitzvah could not read from the Torah. The negotiations involved in orchestrating this reminded me of the CLAL retreat where students rabbis from the Academy, HUC, JTS, RRC and Yeshiva Chovevei Torah all navigated davenning together. There too there was a mincha with a mechitza. (That could be another blog post!)

Like mincha everywhere, we started with Ashrei, in more hushed tones than I am used to. I wondered if this is because the leaders of this section, were women and there are still questions about the voice of a woman. Then the Torah service. The mother of the Bat Mitzvah had learned her aliyah well. It was the first time she had done one and she was so proud. I was too. Her daughter leined (read, chanted) three perfect aliyot. Then we put the Torah away. Carrying the Torah was a very powerful experience for me. Words fail here.

When I got to the lectern I noticed that the Torah was encased in a Torah cover that said “Women’s Service LSS”. This was their Torah. The women of the Lincoln Square Synagogue had bought it years ago specifically to use in this Women’s Tefilah Group. I thought of my friends at Women of the Wall who are still denied access to a Torah. Here was a Modern Orthodox group that from my perspective gets it right. Torah is for everyone. And I cried a tear or two. Because I was there. Because I have enough learning to do this. Because I was so proud to be honored this way. Because this is a group that understands that educating girls builds community. And I can tell you—my Hebrew—for portions I know by heart—was not perfect. I couldn’t see the words. And it was OK. As I often tell the kids, being a shliach tzibbur, the messenger of the congregation, the service leader, is not a performance. It is a conduit between the congregation and the Divine. And I felt it palpably.

We davvened the Amidah. The same words that are used in every congregation. Out loud I sang the words on the page. Inwardly, I found myself silently adding the matriarchs to the patriarchs since this group of women is an unbroken chain in the line from Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. In the Women’s Tefilah Group they don’t do Kaddish. They don’t do a full aliyah starting with Barchu….any of the prayers that require a minyan. Yet the service felt full. It was full of ruach, spirit, and it was full of community.

The party was surreal for me. Although this is not my usual community, I knew people there. My own Dean of Students and Director of Placement is a member there and we had the opportunity to speak afterwards. She was surprised I was there. My Talmud professor is connected. The parents of my daughter’s friend from her summer at Bimah at Brandeis are members there. People were amazed at how many people I knew. I think it just shows that Rabbi Larry Milder had it right. “Wherever you go there’s always someone Jewish.” The world falls away. If there are 6 degrees of separation in the world between people, there are probably only 3 in the Jewish community. So playing Jewish geography creates community too!

And wherever you go, you can pick up a prayerbook, a siddur, and just davven.

Things I will take back to my community.

• Even in Orthodoxy there is diversity.
• Don’t sweat the small stuff. Forget to put on a kippah. No big deal.
• Be warm and welcoming yet aware of your surroundings.
• Having an eruv makes Shabbat observance easier.
• Taking a real break from the work week and electronics makes Shabbat even sweeter.
• We are all just Jews.
• All of this is about serving HaShem.

Much later, when we were leaving the party, on the rooftop deck, I thanked the woman I sat with in the morning who allowed me to davven with her. She warmed my heart when she said, “No, I should thank you. I really enjoyed your davvening.” I cried again. Who would think that a daughter of a classical Reform Jew and my father, the non-practicing Orthodox atheist would ever be in the Lincoln Square Synagogue, let alone be recognized as a rabbi and a shliach tzibbur. Like my experience at the Ramhal Synagogue in Old Akko, it is an experience I will carry with me for a lifetime.

This past weekend we had a Bar Mitzvah at the synagogue. This year we have four. Usually they are joyous events. For the child. For the family. And for the community. It helps our community, any community, sit back and take stock. We are proud of what the individual child has accomplished and what the community has, by teaching, by nurturing, by modeling community. We celebrate with the family. It deepens the conversations and the commitments. It builds community.

And the question is what does Bar Mitzvah mean? Do we have a Bar Mitzvah? Make a Bar Mitzvah? Become a Bar Mitzvah? And what about a Bat Mitzvah?

What are the expectations of a Bar Mitzvah? What are the expectations for a Bar Mitzvah?

Historically a Bar Mitzvah was an age. At 13 a boy became responsible for the mitzvot, the commandments. We say that a boy becomes an adult in the eyes of the Jewish community. He can count as part of the minyan. He can lead services. He can read from the Torah. But that is about it. Adult? Not so much. He can’t vote. He can’t drive. He can’t drink. He can’t serve in the army. He can’t marry. And the same is true for the girls. Essentially.

Most of our students enjoy the experience. They work on a project to improve the world that is unique to them. They get to demonstrate mastery of some of the liturgy, make a speech, have a party, some times get gifts. For some this process is intimidating. They are shy. They think they can’t sing. They don’t like to be up in front of people. For some it is close to torture. They are angry or sad or scared. They don’t think they like Judaism. They don’t think anyone likes them. They are not sure they believe in G-d. Their parents are making them or forcing them for reasons they don’t understand. 13 can be a very awkward age.

And the secret is, that you don’t need to do anything to become a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. You just need to turn 13. That’s all. Having an aliyah in front of a congregation is an affirmation. It is a public recognition of something that just happens. It is a celebration of who you are becoming. It is a beginning of a journey not a graduation. So if you don’t want to have a ceremony, don’t.

Bar Mitzvah is not a statement of faith. It is a celebration marking a coming of age. That is all.

But what if your government said you can’t have a Bar Mitzvah? Or a Bat Mitzvah? And what if that government is the State of Israel, the Jewish State? That is precisely what happened almost a month ago. The Masorti Movement, the Conservative Movement in Israel, has been preparing special needs children for Bar and Bat Mitzvah for more than a decade. These children work hard. They are excited. They are prepared. They are ready to take their unique place in the Jewish community.

But this year, the mayor of Rehovot, decided the week before that these children did not deserve to have a ceremony and cancelled the event. Essentially because a Masorti (Conservative Movement) rabbi would be officiating at a Masorti Synagogue. While some said that this was not about the children being disabled, others said that not all the Orthodox would allow children like these the opportunity since it is unclear how much they understand or how much they can be responsible. Either explanation could put some of the families attending in an awkward position. Could there be an Orthodox synagogue and an Orthodox rabbi for a new venue?

Imagine being a child who has worked for a whole year to master material and being told the week of that your ceremony is not happening. Imagine being the mother of one of those children.

The parents were outraged. The community was outraged. Worldwide opinion, especially from the Conservative and Reform Movements applied pressure. After watching part of a movie, Praying with Lior, our own Torah School students recorded three songs of peace which we shared with their fellow students in Israel.

What does it mean to pray like Lior? Lior has Down Syndrome and yet he was able to lead his congregation in worship for his Bar Mitzvah. What do we learn from students like this? His father, Rabbi Modechai Liebling said, “You could see that he ignited something and by the time he was just a few years old it was very clear that he could change the energy in the room…” Isn’t that what we want from prayer? To ignite something? To change the energy in the room?

What about the Hasidic tale about the little boy who didn’t know the words who played his flute? Wasn’t the rebbe clear that his prayer was so sweet that it went straight to heaven?

If we are all created “b’tzelem elohim,” in the image of G-d, doesn’t that mean that all the Liors of the world are included? If we are not supposed to put a stumbling block before the blind or curse the deaf, doesn’t that mean we have to help them learn how to pray? Maimonides taught that “Every member of the people of Israel is obligated to study Torah, whether one is rich or poor, physically able or with physical diability. (Mishneh Torah Hilchot Talmud Torah, Chapter 10)

The week the ruling initially came out in Israel was the week of Parshat Emor. We spoke about it that week from the bimah and it created one of the most heated discussions since I have been in Elgin. One person said that he was unsure what if anything these kids understand of what they are doing. Maybe they really shouldn’t lead services. Maybe it doesn’t really mean anything. If they don’t comprehend what they are doing, maybe they cannot be a Bar Mitzvah, responsible for their actions, responsible for the mitzvot, a responsible adult.

The parsha itself seems to set some limits. It commands that offerings need to be without blemish. That the cohanim, the priests need to be whole, without broken legs for instance. These limits seem wrong in our modern age. And limits that seem wrong in our modern age. How do we reconcile our desire to be warm and welcoming with priests that need to be whole, perfect?

When we present offerings, we need to offer G-d our best. Why? The Conservative Movement Torah Commentary, Eitz Chayyim says, “It is not because G-d’s vanity demands it, but because it reflects our attitude toward G-d.” We want to bring the best we can bring to G-d. It is an expectation of excellence. We can’t settle for second best. We need to strive toward perfection—realizing that we will never get there—quite—but that is the goal.

Leading services is not a performance. It is leading the congregation in worship. It is helping the congregation to pray, to reach towards the Divine. It is the offering of our hearts. The shaliach tzibbur, the messenger of the congregation, is tasked with propelling our prayer.

That is precisely what Lior did—and these other children should be allowed to do, under the direction of the rabbi that prepared them.

Fast forward to this week. The pressure worked. Almost. This week those children will finally be marking their Bnai Mitzvah. At the President’s Residence.

But here is the catch. Without the rabbi who trained them. No less than the president of the State of Israel said that because he is a Masorti rabbi he could not officiate. There are charges and counter charges from President Rivlin’s office and from the Masorti Movement offices, both in Israel and the US. These children should not be pawns in some political battle. They should just be able to have an aliyah. To mark their Bnei Mitzvah. Period. And then to celebrate.

This weekend I am off on an adventure. I will be with Simon’s family in New York at a Modern Orthodox Bat Mitzvah. I am excited and a little nervous. But the fact remains a generation ago in this country this idea of a Bat Mitzvah with the girl reading Torah would probably be unthinkable. In some Orthodox communities today, it is pretty standard.

That’s great. Because becoming a Bar Mitzvah or a Bat Mitzvah means the world is full of possibilities.

A month later:

I started writing this one a month ago. It is a longer version of the sermon I gave just after May’s board meeting. I wanted to get the language just right (write?). Which is funny because the portion is called, Emor, about speaking/saying.

I just want to look at one verse. This congregation took a big step forward this week, with a historic vote and you should be applauded for it. Our bylaws now state that someone can be a member who is married to a Jew. It means that person can vote. It means that person can serve on the board, not as president or vice president, or on a committee who isn’t Jewish. So to our new members, “Bruchim Ha’baim, Blessings of Welcome.”

This is a big deal. It is not true in every Jewish congregation. It does put us in line with both the national Conservative Movement’s Men Club bylaws as well as the Women’s League bylaws. Some of those changes reflect the numbers that we already know but that were concretized by the Pew Study.

One of the things that was asked during the congregational meeting is what do we call ourselves if non-Jews are allowed to be members? The answer is a synagogue. Which, by the way is a Greek word, showing the assimilation of that day. Or maybe a shul, meaning school in German and Yiddish, showing again some assimilation. Maybe Beit Knesset might be the even better term, meaning House of Assembly and reflects our own congregation’s name. But that is another sermon.

But in this question I hear the hint of superiority. The “We’re better than everyone else.” And that scares me. We may be the chosen people. We are special, unique, holy. But that doesn’t mean we need to be holier than thou. So what does choseness mean? The conversation was rich and varied, as you might expect for a congregation that embraces diversity. And we are better for that range of opinion.

We are a light to the nations, an am kadosh, a holy people. A treasured people amongst all the nations on the face of the earth. (Deut 14). It is a central concept throughout the Bible, Talmud, philosophical, mystical and even contemporary literature. And sometimes it is used against us.

So what does choseness mean? Chosen for what? Some see it as Israel becoming the bride, with the encounter with God as Sinai as the wedding and the mountain itself as the chuppah, and the Torah as the dowry or the ketubah. We will have the opportunity to experience this as we celebrate Shavuot in a few weeks. The rabbis of Tzefat actually wrote a ketubah which we will read.

Another midrash teaches us that G-d offered the Torah to all the other nations first. Each one objected to one commandment or another. One nation objected to not stealing. Another to not murdering. Only Israel was willing to do them. (Midrash Sifrei Deuteronomy 33:2)

Another midrash (Shabbat 88a) tells us that the Israelites took their places at the foot [or, on the underside] of the mountain (Exodus 19:17).  Rav Avdimi the son of Hama the son of Hasa said, “This teaches that the Holy One, lowered the [detached] mountain over them like a vat and said to them, ‘If you accept the Torah, fine; but if not, there will be your grave.’”

All the people answered the call to Torah together as one. Midrash teaches us that we all stood at Sinai, men, women and children, even those yet unborn, even us today. Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotsk explained that not all commandments can be understood until they are performed or done. By doing we come to understand and to hear.

Another midrash teaches that G-d wanted sureties that if given the Torah we would obey. At first the Israelites said that our ancestors would be our guarantors, then they tried the prophets. Finally when the Israelites said that our children would be our guarantors, G-d gave the Torah. (Midrash Rabba, Song of Songs 1:4)

Because Israel was given the Torah, it seems that God holds us to higher standard. “You alone have I singled out of all the families of the earth. That is why I call you to account for all your iniquities” (Amos 3:2).

I studied this very topic with our Chai School students this year. If we are the chosen people, what happens to the rest of the nations? Two thousand years ago this was also a debate. The Talmud teaches us that the “righteous of all nations will have a share in the world to come.” (Sandhedrin 8b). Is this an apparent contradiction?

What the class decided is that when it says we are to be a light to the nations what that means is that we are to be teachers. And part of what we teach is how to be mensches, how to be good people. One way of doing that is to make G-d known in the world.

So we were chosen to receive the Torah, under some duress, and we were chosen to be teachers. OK—we can live with that. No superiority there. We can be rpud of the idea that Abraham gave the world the idea of monotheism, the belief in only one God.

And that’s where the verse from Micah that we will study at Shavuot fits in. Just after the famous verse, “Everyone ‘neath their vine and fig tree shall live and peace and unafraid. And into plowshares beat their swords. Nation shall learn war no more,” we are told, “For let all the peoples walk each in the name of its god, and we will walk in the name of the Lord our God for ever and ever.” (Micah 4:4-6). What does that we mean? Just us? Us and them? Somehow together? The Hebrew isn’t clear. For me, however, it is a clarion call for tolerance. And more than tolerance. Acceptance. Peace. Wholeness.

This sense mirrors our own vision statement that says that we embrace diversity. It is a both/and. Jews were chosen to receive the Torah. We affirm that in our most basic blessings including the blessing over the Torah, which says that God has chosen us amongst all peoples. So at CKI aliyot will be reserved for Jews alone. Non-Jewish parents of a Bar or Bat Mitzvah student will be welcome to stand behind or next to their Jewish spouse. There are other prayers that they can recite to reflect their joy of reaching that moment.

And while this is a historic moment at CKI, it is not new to Judaism. At the congregational meeting I said that all the way back when we left Egypt we were a “mixed multitude.” It seems there has always been room for these “fellow travelers.”

In this week’s Torah portion, it says “When any man of the house of Israel or of the strangers in Israel presents a burnt offering as his offering…it must be acceptable.”

Non-Jews, the “strangers amongst us”, offered sacrifices at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. And it was acceptable. It was even welcomed. The ger, the word we use today to mean convert, really meant something closer to resident alien, or the stranger among us. This was the person who chose to live among the Israelites. Because Israelites were strangers in a strange land, Egypt, we understood the plight of the ger. 36 times in the Torah, as I have often said, we are to welcome the stranger amongst us. In fact, one rabbi argued with me that even calling such people strangers is not fair to them. These are the people who choose to be with us. So in that Holy Temple, there was a men’s court, a women’s court, the priest’s court and the one for the gerim.

Perhaps one of my Bar Mitzvah students is right. God chose us and we choose God. Debbie Friedman sings of this in her song “613 Commandments. “Had we not made a promise to be chosen and to choose…”

At some level in this day, we are all Jews by Choice. There is so much that competes for our time and attention it would be very easy to opt out or to actively choose another way. Yet we don’t. We are here. And we are here to stay. This vote makes it much more possible.

But what about those who choose to be among us? That actively become Jews? Rabbinic Jewish law is clear—When a proselyte comes to be converted one receives him with an open hand so as to bring him under the wings of the divine presence (Lev. Rabbah 2:9). This is the opposite from the custom of pushing someone away three times. That’s not very warm and welcoming, is it?

The ger is expected to follow the laws incumbent upon native born Israelites and there is only one standard for both ritual and ethical laws. This will be different from Christianity, in which, Paul trying to make it easier for converts, says that there is one law for the Jews and one law for the Gentiles and that those converting in do not need circumcision or kashrut.

In fact, quite the contrary is true—if a ger wanted to eat of the Passover sacrifice, he and all the males of his household must be circumcised. This requirement became the basis of centuries of Jewish halacha when circumcision is required for conversation, (BT Yev 46b)

Sometimes I think we make this all too complicated. It seems we can easily get lost in the minutia. And I am not sure that is what G-d wants. The often told story of Hillel and Shammai bears repeating here.

It happened that a certain heathen came before Shammai and said to him, ‘Make me a proselyte, on condition that you teach me the whole Torah while I stand on one foot.’ Thereupon he repulsed him with the builder’s cubit which was in his hand.12  When he went before Hillel, he said to him, ‘What is hateful to you, do not to your neighbor.  That is the whole Torah, while the rest is the commentary; go and study it.’ Shabbat 31a

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Love your neighbor as yourself. Don’t hold a grudge. Welcome the stranger, the widow, the orphan. I am proud to serve CKI as we continue to live out our vision statement and be a welcoming place for all.