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.