Over the years that I have been privileged to lead this spiritual gathering, many of you have gotten to know me a bit, at the very least in terms of my service-leading style. As this community has continued to flourish, creating and strengthening relationships formed both within and beyond, you’ve grown accustomed to my approach to giving sermons. I come from the school of thought that says to start with something that gets your attention, something that invites you in from the get-go and says, “Come along for the ride.”
But that’s not going to happen tonight. Tonight there’s no anecdotes or stories, no jokes or movie quotes or song lyrics or commercial taglines. Tonight, on this Shabbat, the story of the Jewish people picks up in Egypt, as the epic battle between Moses and Pharaoh commences. We know, from our Passover seders, how it all goes down: Moses demands that Pharaoh free the Israelites, Pharaoh refuses, and what happens? Plagues. With each word of refusal from Pharaoh’s mouth, the plagues that God wreaks upon the Egyptian people increase in impact and severity. Which might make the first plague seem relatively insignificant, a sort-of leadoff plague, if you will. But it’s not. And what is that first plague upon Egypt, that first of God’s ultimate scare tactics aimed at Pharaoh and his people? Blood. Blood that courses through the Nile and overflows it, terrifying the Egyptians and leaving them without water to drink.
My friends, there is no cutesy story or humorous anecdote tonight because we, the citizens of this supposedly great nation, are inundated with that very same plague, the plague of blood. But, sadly, it’s not the first. This plague of blood is, instead, secondary, the result of the primary plague upon our country: the plague of guns.
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the rabbi had to eventually give a sermon in response to what happened just a few weeks ago in Newtown. And while that makes perfect sense, it’s actually not true. No, one of the saddest and worst parts of all of this for me is that I had circled this date on the calendar several months ago as a night that I would preach about gun violence. Long before Adam Lanza walked into Sandy Hook Elementary School, I had marked tonight as a night I would broach this volatile topic. And why? Because two years ago this week, Jared Loughner marched through the parking lot of a Safeway supermarket in Arizona and fired a semi-automatic weapon on a constituent gathering of Representative Gabby Giffords, killing six, including nine-year-old Christina Green-Taylor, and wounding 19, with the Congresswoman somehow surviving, despite taking a bullet to the head at point-blank range.
Since then, since that fateful day, what has happened? What have we lived through, what have we been forced to bear witness to as a nation? In July, James Holmes clad himself in full bulletproof armor, a ballistic helmet, and a gas mask, and proceeded, under cover of tear gas grenades, to unload a 12-gauge shotgun, a semi-automatic rifle, and a Glock 22 handgun, killing 12 and wounding 58 more. Just two weeks later, white supremacist Wade Michael Page stormed a Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin, killing six and wounding four more with a 9-mm semiautomatic pistol. And then, of course, Friday, December 14th, where 20 children and six adults had their lives callously ripped from them by bullets from two handguns and a .223 caliber rifle.
62 mass shootings in the past 30 years. 25 of them since 2006. In 49 of the 62, the weapons used were obtained 100% legally. Just some of the more than 30,000 people a year who die from gun violence. 30,000. And every time it happens, every time we are sent reeling into sadness and anger and frustration by these massacres—for, indeed there is no better word for what they are—what are we told?
We’re told, “Now is not the time to talk about gun control; it’s time for us to support the families of the victims.” We’re told, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.” We’re told, “We need to be better at enforcing the laws that already exist rather than adding new ones.” We’re told, “It’s sad, it’s a tragedy, but guns are our Constitutionally guaranteed right.”
To those people I say: If now is not the time to talk about our obsession with guns, when is? Maybe they’re right, maybe it’s not now. Maybe it was in April of 2007 after the Virginia Tech massacre. Maybe it should have been in April of 1999 after the murders at Columbine by high school students. Maybe, just maybe, the time for the conversation, was in March the year before, fifteen years ago, when a 13-year-old and 11-year-old stole ten different kinds of guns and used them in a murderous ambush of their teachers and classmates.
If now is only the time to comfort the families and the communities, then, my friends, that is what we will be forced to do forever. If now is not the time to have these conversations, to use just an iota of common sense, if for nothing else, to make our schools, our community centers, our places for worship, safer for our children, then shame on us. Shame on us that we retreat behind the 2nd Amendment, when it clearly states the right to bear arms is for the sake of a “well-regulated militia.” Shame on us that the highest-ranking lawmakers and judges of our country somehow feel that the right to amass and fire dozens of rounds of ammunition with a single squeeze of the trigger falls under, and is thus protected by, that 2nd Amendment. Shame on us that so many in our country are fighting tooth-and-nail to keep open the loophole that allows people to purchase weapons at gun shows without so much as a simple criminal background check. Shame on us that so ingrained in our society is this love affair with guns that both presidential candidates avoided even tangentially addressing any of these questions for fear of losing votes. Shame on us that we needed to see the pictures, to hear the hopes and dreams and loves of 20 six- and seven-year-old children, now lying in little coffins underground, to wake us up from our self-induced slumber. Shame on us that the agony and tears of their parents’ worst nightmares now a devastating reality, one they will never have the chance to wake up from—shame on us that that’s what it took for our country to get serious about this issue, no, this plague upon us.
Our tradition is abundantly clear: Isaiah’s charge to remove the scourge of weapons among us rings ever true today, to “beat our swords into plowshares, our spears into pruning-hooks.” Deuteronomy tells us, “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” The Psalm tells us, “Turn from evil and do good, seek peace and pursue it.” And the Talmud tells us that saving just one life is like saving the whole world. If that’s true, and I believe it is, how much the more so to save 30,000.
So what can we do? Call your representatives in Congress. Call your Senators. Call the President. Write letters, write op-eds in the newspapers. Better yet, go see them at their offices. Your Congressmen and women all have local offices; go find them. Whatever is there for you to do, whatever Facebook or Twitter petition comes into your feed, do it, sign it, pass it on. It may not feel like much, but every little bit counts. Only when we turn the tide, when the voices of common sense and peace are louder and more unified than those of the selfish and the violent-minded, then and only then will we be able to scourge ourselves of this horrible plague. Only then will we make our country, our world, a little bit closer to achieving shalom, to achieving peace.
Because, as the great Hillel once said, “If not now, when?
AMEN.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Friday, January 4, 2013
So Much More Than Sh'mot - Reflections on Our First Ever Teen Exchange Program
This Shabbat begins the book of Sh’mot, the book we call Exodus. It is the seminal story of the Jewish people, of our freedom and redemption, the leaving of Egypt for the Promised Land of Israel. Two weeks ago yesterday, ten of our teenage chalutzim, or pioneers, along with Hope Chernak, Linda Minton, and myself, embarked on an Exodus of our own, the first ever Teen Exchange program between Shaaray Tefila and our partner congregation in Haifa, Ohel Avraham and the Leo Baeck Education Center. But Exodus is the Greek translation of Sh’mot. What it really means is “names.” And the sh’mot, the names of our chalutzim are Talia, Jordyn, Lauren, Lauren, Hannah, Samantha, Julia, Bernie, Jack, and Jack. Brave, adventurous souls, most of whom had never been to Israel at all, they had no idea what was in store for them.
And the honest answer is: neither did we. Sure, Hope and Rabbi Dagan and Lital and Rivi had worked for hours upon hours upon hours crafting an incredible itinerary. We knew that all of the activities planned all over Haifa, Jerusalem, Akko, Tzfat, and Tel Aviv would be wonderful. We had no doubt. But how would our teens connect with theirs? What if they didn’t connect at all? We literally had no idea what to expect.
But, after all the careful planning, to quote my favorite group Phish, “the trick was to surrender to the flow.” And from the moment we cleared customs and came through those sliding doors, there, waiting for us with balloons and signs and warm smiles and open arms, were most of the Israeli delegation. We learned their sh’mot, their names: Adi, Alice, Shir, Rinat, Noa, Rotem, Yuval, Noy, Yuval, Itay, Itamar, and Maayan. And then we got to know them, the people behind the names, their lives, their stories, their families, and how they came to be living in Israel, in Haifa. At the end of our first full day there, having spent the day in the Druze Village of Daliat El Carmel, we shared Havdalah with the students and their parents, all crowded cozily together in a small tea lounge. As it turns out, that Havdalah was more than just the separation between Shabbat and the rest of the week. It was, in fact, for all of us, a separation between the people we were when our plane landed at Ben-Gurion, and the people we were about to become.
Over the next ten days, we acquired a lifetime of knowledge—about ourselves, about each other, about what it really means to be part of the worldwide phenomenon that is the Jewish people. We established and deepened our own personal connections with the land and the holy sites that have bound Jews together for thousands of years. We learned that some things are universal, like shopping and Facebook and Doritos and terrible hip-hop and that hand-clapping game that I have no idea what it’s called. We learned that a lot of things are different, like the Knesset as compared to Congress, like the fact that anyone can sit in on a Supreme Court case, like what high school kids are thinking about and concerned with in the years immediately following high school. We learned that count-offs, in any language, are utterly useless. We learned that sweet talk and charm can get you an awful lot in the Machne Yehuda market of Jerusalem, for just a shekel, or even less. (Ask Bernie, he somehow came back to us with a fish head in a bag!) We learned that photobombing, the act of sneaking yourself into others’ pictures, is in fact a skill, dare I say, an art form, and one in which I am nearing levels of mastery. We learned that ten minutes following a full meal is exactly the time to begin looking towards the next time you’ll be eating, that Bamba and Bissli are addictive, and that Krembo, the Israeli version of a Mallomar, is even better than a Mallomar. (Sorry, Linda).
And yet, as wonderful and enriching as all of that knowledge is, that alone cannot conjure the magic of deep, intimate personal connections we were so blessed to witness among the students. Something else was at play, some invisible hand, and of course, for me, that’s God, making things happen in a way that is so, so much greater than the sum of the parts. And standing in front of the congregation at Ohel Avraham, the same exact place where I had stood just a year ago as part of a small delegation of dreamers, sharing words in lashon ha-kodesh, the holy language of Hebrew, and looking out over the interwoven, yet seamless tapestry of Israeli and American students, I was absolutely overwhelmed with emotions, and had to fight back tears throughout the rest of the evening. To have the opportunity to see our dreams come true, right before our very eyes, was something I will cherish in my heart for the rest of my life.
Before I conclude with the beautiful words written by one of our Israeli students, I need to say thank you. Thank you to the Israel Engagement Committee, for starting to dream some two years ago, and for choosing so wisely to partner up with Ohel Avraham and the Leo Baeck Education Center. Thank you to Linda for spending her winter vacation with a few adults and 22 teenagers, and for taking thousands of pictures. Thank you to our students, our brave chalutzim, for blazing the trail that we hope will be traveled by Shaaray Tefila teens for many, many years to come. And thank you, lastly, to Hope and Rabbi Gabby Dagan, Ohel Avraham’s amazing spiritual leader, and now a very very dear friend of mine. As I said in Haifa on that last Shabbat, I sometimes receive too much credit for this amazing adventure, simply because I’m the rabbi accompanying them. The truth is that none of this—and I do mean none of this—would have happened without Hope and Rabbi Dagan, who is with us tonight. Even though Hope couldn’t be here tonight, as she’s out of town celebrating her birthday, it’s so important that you know how wonderful she is.
Here are the words written by Adi Chen, a teen from the Israeli delegation, in a note for our whole group upon our leaving:
“Dear brothers and sisters, my new brothers and sisters,
I’m not a religious man, yet it’s quite amazing that I met you on the same Shabbat that Joseph gets to know his “lost brothers.” If we think about it we all are brothers and sisters, that life and events had separated us before, but this past week we got a chance to make a reunion of brothers and sisters. Only people who are brothers and sisters, as you are to me, could connect with each other and feel so close, so related, as we did this past week. Just yesterday, after the party, Jack M. told me that he feels he has known me so much more than a week. That is the essence of being sisters and brothers—to be connected without being physically together.
There is a song in Hebrew that is called Rikma Enoshit Ahat, which means “One Human Tissue.” We are all “one human tissue.” This week I began to learn about a different culture, and yet that you are kids just like me. The differences on the one hand, and the shared identity on the other hand, is amazing to me.
From now on, you are all part of my “human tissue”—different, yet the same.
It’s funny that the week you leave is the week that Israel (Jacob) leaves his children. I’m sure that you will be part of Israel forever and ever, and that wherever you will be, we will be for each other.
I say to you today only L’hitraot, meaning “we will see you again.” This is not goodbye!
Love you and already missing you all, my new family,
Adi Chen”
L’hitraot. “See you soon.” Not just in March, when it will be our turn to host our newfound Israeli family. But hopefully, the powerful connections forged on this sacred pilgrimage will inspire us to create and deepen our own relationships, with Israel and her people, for the rest of our lives.
AMEN.
And the honest answer is: neither did we. Sure, Hope and Rabbi Dagan and Lital and Rivi had worked for hours upon hours upon hours crafting an incredible itinerary. We knew that all of the activities planned all over Haifa, Jerusalem, Akko, Tzfat, and Tel Aviv would be wonderful. We had no doubt. But how would our teens connect with theirs? What if they didn’t connect at all? We literally had no idea what to expect.
But, after all the careful planning, to quote my favorite group Phish, “the trick was to surrender to the flow.” And from the moment we cleared customs and came through those sliding doors, there, waiting for us with balloons and signs and warm smiles and open arms, were most of the Israeli delegation. We learned their sh’mot, their names: Adi, Alice, Shir, Rinat, Noa, Rotem, Yuval, Noy, Yuval, Itay, Itamar, and Maayan. And then we got to know them, the people behind the names, their lives, their stories, their families, and how they came to be living in Israel, in Haifa. At the end of our first full day there, having spent the day in the Druze Village of Daliat El Carmel, we shared Havdalah with the students and their parents, all crowded cozily together in a small tea lounge. As it turns out, that Havdalah was more than just the separation between Shabbat and the rest of the week. It was, in fact, for all of us, a separation between the people we were when our plane landed at Ben-Gurion, and the people we were about to become.
Over the next ten days, we acquired a lifetime of knowledge—about ourselves, about each other, about what it really means to be part of the worldwide phenomenon that is the Jewish people. We established and deepened our own personal connections with the land and the holy sites that have bound Jews together for thousands of years. We learned that some things are universal, like shopping and Facebook and Doritos and terrible hip-hop and that hand-clapping game that I have no idea what it’s called. We learned that a lot of things are different, like the Knesset as compared to Congress, like the fact that anyone can sit in on a Supreme Court case, like what high school kids are thinking about and concerned with in the years immediately following high school. We learned that count-offs, in any language, are utterly useless. We learned that sweet talk and charm can get you an awful lot in the Machne Yehuda market of Jerusalem, for just a shekel, or even less. (Ask Bernie, he somehow came back to us with a fish head in a bag!) We learned that photobombing, the act of sneaking yourself into others’ pictures, is in fact a skill, dare I say, an art form, and one in which I am nearing levels of mastery. We learned that ten minutes following a full meal is exactly the time to begin looking towards the next time you’ll be eating, that Bamba and Bissli are addictive, and that Krembo, the Israeli version of a Mallomar, is even better than a Mallomar. (Sorry, Linda).
And yet, as wonderful and enriching as all of that knowledge is, that alone cannot conjure the magic of deep, intimate personal connections we were so blessed to witness among the students. Something else was at play, some invisible hand, and of course, for me, that’s God, making things happen in a way that is so, so much greater than the sum of the parts. And standing in front of the congregation at Ohel Avraham, the same exact place where I had stood just a year ago as part of a small delegation of dreamers, sharing words in lashon ha-kodesh, the holy language of Hebrew, and looking out over the interwoven, yet seamless tapestry of Israeli and American students, I was absolutely overwhelmed with emotions, and had to fight back tears throughout the rest of the evening. To have the opportunity to see our dreams come true, right before our very eyes, was something I will cherish in my heart for the rest of my life.
Before I conclude with the beautiful words written by one of our Israeli students, I need to say thank you. Thank you to the Israel Engagement Committee, for starting to dream some two years ago, and for choosing so wisely to partner up with Ohel Avraham and the Leo Baeck Education Center. Thank you to Linda for spending her winter vacation with a few adults and 22 teenagers, and for taking thousands of pictures. Thank you to our students, our brave chalutzim, for blazing the trail that we hope will be traveled by Shaaray Tefila teens for many, many years to come. And thank you, lastly, to Hope and Rabbi Gabby Dagan, Ohel Avraham’s amazing spiritual leader, and now a very very dear friend of mine. As I said in Haifa on that last Shabbat, I sometimes receive too much credit for this amazing adventure, simply because I’m the rabbi accompanying them. The truth is that none of this—and I do mean none of this—would have happened without Hope and Rabbi Dagan, who is with us tonight. Even though Hope couldn’t be here tonight, as she’s out of town celebrating her birthday, it’s so important that you know how wonderful she is.
Here are the words written by Adi Chen, a teen from the Israeli delegation, in a note for our whole group upon our leaving:
“Dear brothers and sisters, my new brothers and sisters,
I’m not a religious man, yet it’s quite amazing that I met you on the same Shabbat that Joseph gets to know his “lost brothers.” If we think about it we all are brothers and sisters, that life and events had separated us before, but this past week we got a chance to make a reunion of brothers and sisters. Only people who are brothers and sisters, as you are to me, could connect with each other and feel so close, so related, as we did this past week. Just yesterday, after the party, Jack M. told me that he feels he has known me so much more than a week. That is the essence of being sisters and brothers—to be connected without being physically together.
There is a song in Hebrew that is called Rikma Enoshit Ahat, which means “One Human Tissue.” We are all “one human tissue.” This week I began to learn about a different culture, and yet that you are kids just like me. The differences on the one hand, and the shared identity on the other hand, is amazing to me.
From now on, you are all part of my “human tissue”—different, yet the same.
It’s funny that the week you leave is the week that Israel (Jacob) leaves his children. I’m sure that you will be part of Israel forever and ever, and that wherever you will be, we will be for each other.
I say to you today only L’hitraot, meaning “we will see you again.” This is not goodbye!
Love you and already missing you all, my new family,
Adi Chen”
L’hitraot. “See you soon.” Not just in March, when it will be our turn to host our newfound Israeli family. But hopefully, the powerful connections forged on this sacred pilgrimage will inspire us to create and deepen our own relationships, with Israel and her people, for the rest of our lives.
AMEN.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)