Rabbi Dan Moskovitz

Voice thoughts, feelings

Yesterday, I cried in my car. You shouldn’t worry – I was parked at the time. I share this not for sympathy or even empathy. I share this because these are harrowing times, we all feel the tremendous weight of worry:

For ourselves, if we are relatively young, we know the vast majority of cases are mild to moderate, but some aren’t.

For our aged parents, if we still have them.

If we are older, we worry, as the danger increases with age, though, interesting to me, I have found among many of our elders a rationalism and calm that, if I wasn’t freaking out so much worrying about them, I would take comfort in.

For some, the worry is compounded, as they are beyond our reach in other cities or countries.

For our children, as normalcy evaporates. I told my children the other night, as we canceled plans for our son’s birthday party at the movies, that they will tell their own children how they survived the pandemic of 2020. And they will. The vast, vast majority of all of us, even the aged, will survive this. But we will be forever changed by it – I hope for the better.

For our city and country, as it attempts to “flatten the curve.” I long for the days when that phrase was most often rendered in my head as I looked in the mirror at my belly or hips.

I’d say that I worry for our world, as this pandemic is truly global, but the sweep of this virus is so vast that I can’t wrap my head around the whole world experiencing this crisis all at once.

If ever we needed a reminder that there are no true borders, that what happens here effects people over there and vice versa, this is an example.

Refugee crises. Climate change. Economic disparity. And, now, a pandemic. We are all connected.

There are no Chinese COVID-19 victims, or Italian or Israeli or Iranian or American or Canadian – there are just people living in different parts of the world all with the same fears, uncertainty, worries and prayers for healing. Just people, just human beings – there is nothing so different about any of us – except perhaps age, which is only a matter of time – that protects any of us more than the rest of us.

That’s why I cried in my car, and I share it with you because I learned from that cathartic cry that it is OK to be scared, it’s OK to cry. Not because I did it, and I don’t want to be the only one crying in my car, where the kids can’t see me, but because I felt a lot better after – and you might, too.

There was a cartoon that was being passed around on the internet, I guess we call that a meme. It was of a couple looking at their computer and the caption was, as the man turned to his wife over his shoulder, “That’s odd: My Facebook friends who were constitutional scholars just a month ago are now infectious disease experts….”

I thought it was funny.

I know very little about the science of all of this, though I am trying to keep up. British Columbia’s Dr. Bonnie Henry and Dr. Patty Daly and their teams are incredible in their competence and expertise, but I know almost nothing about science that is helpful here. But I do know a little bit about prayer.

What I would like to offer, what I think might be of help, is the power of prayer. Not to change God, not to change the course of this virus. Though this is a natural evil, I do not think it is punishment from God or within God’s control. My faith doesn’t work like that.

I want to suggest and teach for a moment the power of prayer not to change God, but to change each of us.

Sarah Hurwitz writes in her book Here All Along about the power of prayer. She describes a form of Chassid prayer called hitbodedut. The word, which sounds a bit like the last name of one of the former Democratic presidential candidates, refers to a practice of self-secluded Jewish meditation popularized by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov (1772-1810).

The practice, as he taught, is an unstructured, spontaneous and individualized form of prayer and meditation through which each individual establishes a close, personal relationship with God through a free-flowing monologue. Where some people go out into the woods and make a primal scream, Jews, at least Jews who are students of this practice, go out into the woods and kvetch.

Not only kvetch, but thank and question and plead and wonder and acknowledge. You unload your thoughts and angst without stopping to think or formulate them. You just talk to God. It’s a stream-of-consciousness practice that takes some practise, but, like the cry in my car, it can be incredibly cathartic and remarkably revealing of your inner thoughts and feelings.

It’s not unlike the famous Jewish folk story of the young uneducated shepherd who comes to the synagogue to pray. Not knowing the prayers of the established liturgy, he sits in the back row and sings the alphabet over and over again. (Maybe he was also washing his hands?) The men of the synagogue confront him: “Why do you disturb our prayers with your gibberish?”

The boy explains, “I don’t know the prayer. But I wish to thank God for my sheep and the stream, for the warmth of the sun and the silver moon that keeps me company when I sleep. I am singing the alphabet and surely God can put the letters in the correct order to make the prayers.”

In this worrying and frightening time, give voice, actual voice, to your thoughts and feelings, your fears and your anxieties. Not to change God, not to stop the virus, but to change yourself. To give you insight and courage, and patience and perspective, and confidence and hope, and calm and gratitude. In doing so, you might just find your prayers, not those in the siddur (prayerbook) but the prayers that are deep in your soul. Go out into the woods – they tell us the virus is not as communicable outside – and talk to God.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel taught: “Those who honestly search, those who yearn and fail, we did not presume to judge. Let them pray to be able to pray and, if they do not succeed, if they have no tears to shed, let them yearn for tears, let them try to discover their heart and let them take strength from the certainty that this, too, is a high form of prayer.”

Talk to God, cry to God, be silent with God, it’s all prayer, and it all helps. I know it is helping me; I pray that it will help you.

Rabbi Dan Moskovitz is senior rabbi at Temple Sholom and author of The Men’s Seder (MRJ Publishing). He is also chair of the Reform Rabbis of Canada. His writing and perspective on Judaism appear in major print and digital media internationally.

The supporting cast in our lives

Shabbat, Dec. 21
Vayeishev, Genesis 37:1-40:23

I am a rabbi because of a game of catch I played at camp with a rabbi more than three times my age. I found love and happiness and my partner in life because my best friend and my family helped me through a very difficult time. I survived the social pressure cooker of high school because my woodshop teacher took a personal interest in my well-being. I am alive today, I truly believe, because an anonymous man pulled me back from the curb as I was about to step into oncoming traffic in Manchester, England. (I was looking in the wrong direction for British traffic patterns.)

We have all sorts of names for these people in our lives. Some call them guardian angels, some call them heroes, and our tradition calls them shlichim, “messengers” or “emissaries” from God. I call them supporting actors. A rabbi, a friend, family, a teacher and an anonymous man in the movie that is my life: these are the people who have enabled me to play a starring role!

These are the people who, intentionally or not, gave the trajectory of my life a nudge at just the right moment and kept it on track, or steered it in a new and better direction. If awards were given to supporting actors in life as they are to movie actors, then they would each deserve an Oscar for the roles they played and for how their playing of their roles enabled me to play mine.

Who are the supporting actors in your life? Who are the people, past or present, who, at critical crossroads in your life’s journey, gave you directions, held your hand and walked a bit of the way with you? Who are the people who, upon reflection, were it not for them, everything would be different and so much would not have been possible?

Consider for a moment the story of Joseph and his coat of many colours in this week’s Torah portion, Vayeishev.

Here, we meet Joseph, son of Jacob, grandson of Isaac, great-grandson of Abraham, who, by all accounts, is a leading man in the story of the Jewish people. Joseph, in my estimation, is the second most pivotal person in Jewish history. The most pivotal one is a man whose name we don’t know and the Torah doesn’t record, but whose role as a supporting actor in one scene of Joseph’s life changes the arc of Jewish history.

In this week’s portion, Joseph goes out searching for his brothers, who are supposed to be in the field tending the flock. He searches in all the usual places but can’t find them. Along the way, he meets a man whose name we never know: the Torah refers to him simply as ha-ish, “the man” who saw Joseph wandering in the field (Genesis 37:15).

There is an allusion here to the nameless man or angel that Jacob, Joseph’s father, wrestled with in the previous parashah, Vayishlach. We note that, sometimes, when the Torah does not name a character, that character comes to play a pivotal role in the unfolding story. Such is the case in this instance. The man sees that Joseph appears to be lost and approaches him. He asks: “What are you looking for?” Joseph responds, “I’m looking for my brothers. Can you tell me please where they are tending the flock?” (See Genesis 37:15-16.)

The nameless man remembers seeing Joseph’s brothers, he overheard them talking about heading toward a place called Dothan. On the anonymous man’s advice, Joseph seeks his brothers there and finds them. Shockingly, they are not happy to see him. They conspire against him, abuse him, threaten to kill him and, eventually, sell him into slavery to a band of traveling nomads who are headed to Egypt. Through a series of events, Joseph, the boy who looked for his brothers in a field, becomes the chief advisor to Pharaoh and ascends to the second-most powerful position in all of Egypt.

Meanwhile, a famine occurs in the Land of Israel and these same brothers are sent by the leader of the Israelites, their father Jacob, to find food. They travel to Egypt and, this time, it is they who are surprised to find their brother – not only alive, but also in a position to help them. After a series of encounters, Joseph embraces them, asks after his father and makes all the arrangements for the entire nation of Israel to immigrate to Egypt. His position and power save the Jewish people and, for many years, they live well in Egypt and thrive.

Then, a new pharaoh comes to power and forces the Israelites into slavery. A prophet named Moses rises up from among them and, through plagues of frogs, lice, boils and so on; the splitting of the Red Sea; and, ultimately, the giving of the Torah, the people return to the Land of Israel. And that’s pretty much the story of our people.

But what about this nameless man? Who or what was he?

The commentators offer a variety of answers. The 11th-century scholar, Abraham ibn Ezra, reads the text of Genesis 37:15 with a p’shat, a “straightforward” interpretation and concludes this was a passerby. Rashi, on the other hand, delves further and concludes: “This [the man] was the angel Gabriel, as it says (Daniel 10:21), ‘and the man Gabriel.’” (Rashi on Genesis 37:15) Rashi draws inference from the definite article that is used to identify “the” man.

Ramban explains that he was an ordinary man (a passerby), yet he was unwittingly fulfiling God’s design. He was actually “sent” by God to guide Joseph, though he himself was not aware of the significance of his actions. In Hebrew, the word malach means both “angel” and “messenger,” because every malach, human or supernatural, is one of God’s messengers, activated to implement His will on earth. (See Ramban on Genesis 37:15.)

Menachem Mendel Morgensztern of Kotzk, known as the Kotzker Rebbe (1787-1859), goes in a completely different direction: “The angel taught Joseph that, whenever one is straying in the ways of life, when one is downtrodden or downcast, one should speak to oneself and clarify for oneself what one is really asking for, looking for, seeking, and what one really desires, so that one can return and first explain to oneself what one needs.”

The Kotzker Rebbe seems to disagree with Ramban, Rashi and Ibn Ezra, saying, it’s not a passerby, God or an angel that points the way. Rather, he says that the supporting actor in this unfolding mystery is Joseph’s inner voice and that, sometimes, our inner voice can be our own supporting actor.

Whatever or whoever he was, were it not for ha-ish, the man Joseph met along the way, the man who told Joseph where to find his brothers, how different it all could have been.

We never know in the present tense which people or events will be the most instrumental and transformative in our lives but, in hindsight, nothing is clearer. Upon reflection, the pieces of the puzzle and the paths of our lives are perfectly clear, even if they may be filled with uncomfortable observations.

This week’s parashah is a reminder to all of us to recognize the supporting actors who have guided us on our path and pointed us to our direction. It compels us to acknowledge, honour and thank them – even to give them awards – for the important roles that they’ve played, for doing so teaches us something greater still: in recognizing the transformative influence of supporting actors in our lives, we become keenly aware of how important we are in the lives of others. And we come to appreciate the capacity each of us has to help our friends, neighbours, even strangers achieve wholeness in life and find what they are seeking.

Rabbi Dan Moskovitz is senior rabbi at Temple Sholom and author of The Men’s Seder (MRJ Publishing). He is also chair of the Reform Rabbis of Canada. His writing and perspective on Judaism appear in major print and digital media internationally. This article originally appeared on reformjudaism.org.

The wisdom of an oxymoron

Shabbat, Nov. 23
Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1-25:18
Haftarah, I Kings 1:1-31

I am an American citizen living in Vancouver, B.C., and serving a Reform congregation for the past six years. This juxtaposition of two increasingly disparate identities has given me a unique perspective on this week’s parashah, Chayei Sarah, and its introduction of the term ger toshav, resident alien.

In Chayei Sarah, we read the rather peculiar line, “Ger v’toshav anochi imachem” – “I am a resident alien [foreigner] living for a time among you; sell me a gravesite among you, that I may bury my dead here.” (Genesis 23:4) This is what Abraham says as he petitions the owner of a field for the right to purchase land for a gravesite for his wife Sarah.

To both the student of Torah and the student of the English language, this phrase, ger v’toshav, resident alien, piques interest and draws attention. It is an example of one of those delightful and often poignant turns of a phrase in any language, an oxymoron – the bringing together of two seemingly incompatible and opposite terms, like sweet sorrow, recorded live, act naturally, good grief, passive aggressive and, though not kosher, but still illustrative, jumbo shrimp.

I have always enjoyed how this literary device can be used to construct biting commentary on the incongruity of frequently paired things. That commentary can have a powerful effect, causing a moment of silence to hover over a room as we contemplate the phrase’s meaning. We recognize this when we dwell on the underlining message of ger v’toshav, resident alien. The oxymoron challenges us to see compatibility – even harmony – in seemingly incompatible things.

So, what is a ger v’toshav, a resident alien? In our Torah portion, and in Jewish legal texts that have followed, a ger v’toshav was an individual of special status in the community, one who lived permanently among the citizens of a place but did not have the status of a citizen. A ger toshav enjoyed all the protections a society offered its citizens but was exempt by virtue of his (it was not gender inclusive back then) special status from many of the requirements of citizenship. A ger toshav was a protected visitor and honoured guest in a society. Central to this was the public obligation for the health and welfare of a ger toshav. This was the sacred responsibility of each citizen in that society and of the society as a whole.

Jewish law is emphatic about our responsibility to the stranger who lives within our midst. Thirty-six times in Torah we are commanded to “love the stranger.” Every year at Passover, this theme serves as the narrative thread of the seder. At the very centre of the Torah, in the Holiness Code, we read, “The strangers who reside with you shall be to you as your citizens; you shall love each one as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:34)

In this week’s parashah, Abraham, the emissary of Judaism to the world, the individual whose merit and relationship with God, above all others, is the reason we were given the Torah, is presented not as a powerful, wealthy businessman or as a man who regularly talks with God. Instead, he is presented as a helpless stranger in a land that he now calls home, seeking aid and assistance from its citizenship.

The text is both graphic and poignant. His dead wife literally lays at his feet, he owns nothing in this land and he asks to purchase a place so he may bury her. He does not seek a handout; he is willing to pay a fair price for the land, but wants permission to do so. And the Hittites who owned the land sell him a burial plot, breaking with their tradition, breaking the law against allowing aliens, even resident aliens, from owning land. (See Manfred R. Lehmann, “Abraham’s Purchase of Machpelah and Hittite Law,” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, February 1953.) They sell him the land because they see themselves in his shoes; they imagine their own dead lying at their feet and they make a new law – and they help.

We hear the echo of this story in our own times, at borders north and south, east and west of wherever we are. How do we treat the strangers who show up in our land? Are they to be feared, incarcerated and ostracized? Or are they to be allowed some comfort, as our forefather Abraham was in his hour of great sorrow and despair?

When we are reminded of the kindness shown to our ancestors, when we are reminded that it was also a kindness shown to us, because we too were once strangers in the land, then the solution Judaism demands of us is obvious no matter the challenges. We must care for those who cross freeways, deserts, oceans and mountain ranges to get here, just as (or better than) our nations cared for our parents and grandparents as they were running for their lives. We must reach out to the strangers in our midst, to the resident aliens who live and work here, but for whom economic, social, medical and educational systems have no place. Torah commands us to make a place.

As is our tradition, when Abraham buried Sarah, he placed a stone on her grave as a sign to all who would see it: a sign with its own double meaning, like an oxymoron. The stone signified that beneath this ground lay Sarah, the wife of Abraham, the mother of Isaac. But it also said that this ground, this portion, belonged to Abraham, a resident alien in the land of the Hittites, who purchased this land though he had no legal claim to it. The stone is a sign for all times, a symbol of the kindness and sense of responsibility shown by the Hittites to the ger toshav, the resident alien, the stranger in their land, and a symbol of the universality of human life.

We all mourn our dead. Every person’s life has meaning, even if he or she speaks a different language than ours, comes from a different country, is a member of a different tribe. When we fail to act to heed this mitzvah, our Torah is clearly misunderstood.

People are not bricks in a wall

Shabbat, Nov. 2
Noach, Genesis 6:9-11:32
Haftarah, Isaiah 54:1-55:5

W.C. Fields said, “Never work with animals or children, [they steal the spotlight].” Though no one ever accused him of being a Torah scholar, his insight was certainly applicable to last week’s Torah portion.

Parashat Noach, the second portion in the Book of Genesis (and my bar mitzvah portion) is perhaps the most universally known and, at least by children, most adored portion in the entire Torah. This is in part, no doubt, because it has not one animal, but all animals – and they come in pairs! So beloved and recognizable is this Torah portion that we tend to forget that there is more to it than the animals coming on the ark, two by two, the dove sent to find dry land, the rainbow, and our ancient ship builder, Noah. Tucked in at the end of the portion that bears his name is a small, poignant story about how the people (Noah’s descendants) focused their energies after the waters and fear receded, and they were once again on dry land.

We are told: “All the earth had the same language and the same words … they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there…. Then they said, ‘Come, let us build a city with a tower that reaches the sky, so that we can make a name for ourselves and not be scattered over all the earth!’” (Genesis 11:1-:4)

A midrash explains: “Many, many years passed in building the tower. It reached so great a height that it took a year to mount to the top. A brick was, therefore, more precious in the sight of the builders than a human being. If a man fell down and met his death, none took notice of it: but, if a brick dropped, they wept, because it would take a year to replace it. So intent were they upon accomplishing their purpose that they would not permit a pregnant woman to interrupt herself in her work of brick-making when she went into labour. Molding bricks, she gave birth to her child and, tying it round her body in a sheet, she went on molding bricks.” (“Yashar Noah,” in Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, 1909)

How do you measure your day? I once asked my friend who is a bricklayer this question, and he explained that the universal standard for a good day of bricklaying is 1,000 bricks day. It got me thinking, what would my 1,000-brick-day look like? What is my universal standard for a successful day?

As a parent, I could say it’s getting all the kids washed, fed, off to school and then to soccer or hockey, and back home again. Then it’s getting them to do their homework, brush their teeth and get to bed at a reasonable hour.

As a working adult, I could say it’s getting to work on time and responding to all my emails and messages – the modern-day equivalent of bricks. Then it’s meeting with constituents, handling synagogue programs and business, and getting home in time for dinner with my family.

What makes those days good days is not the quantity of work I do or the number of interactions I have, it’s the quality. The bricklayer, if reasonably competent at his task, can be irritable, antisocial, half asleep and day dreaming as he lays each brick. He can take his anger out on the bricks; he can curse at the bricks as he shleps them up the wall. He can listen to music, talk on his cellphone; it doesn’t matter. As long as the wall is solid at the end of his day and it contains 1,000 new bricks, it’s a good day of bricklaying.

But people are not bricks: we can’t take out our anger on people without consequence. We can’t ignore them or tune them out if the purpose of our day is to interact with them with care, compassion and attention. The great sin of the Tower of Babel’s builders was that they treated people like bricks and bricks like people. They wasted the one thing that set them apart from machines, which, had they existed in ancient times, could have helped build the Tower even better – they neglected their own humanity. When the bricks of our life become more important than the people in it, we, too, build a tower that is an affront to the purpose of our creation.

The midrash continues that, after God confounded the people’s language and scattered the people throughout the globe, the tower

remained: “a part sank into the earth and another part was consumed by fire; only one-third of it remained standing. The place of the tower has never lost its peculiar quality. Whoever passes it forgets all he knows.” (ibid., Ginzberg)

When we treat people like bricks, we forget what we know about ourselves and about others. We forget that the measure of our day is not how many bricks we lay, how many emails we answer, how many lunches we pack, how many children we shlep: the measure of our day is whether each person we touch, including ourselves, feels valued as a person, a blessing and a gift from God in our lives – not a brick.

The knowledge that we die

Shabbat, Oct. 26
B’reishit, Genesis 1:1-6:8
Haftarah, Isaiah 42:5-43:10

One Yom Kippur, a rabbi was warning his congregation about the fragility of life.

“One day, everyone in this congregation is going to die,” he thundered from the bimah.

Seated in the front row was an elderly woman who laughed out loud when she heard this.

Irritated, the rabbi said, “What’s so funny?”

“Well!” she said, “I’m not a member of this congregation.”

Membership and affiliation aside, the most important lesson we learn in life is that one day it will end: one day we are going to die.

This is the great lesson and gift of the parashah B’reishit, with its iconic tale of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Amid all the lush greenery, flowing rivers and natural beauty of the garden, at its centre stood two trees. All of the trees and their fruits were permitted to human beings as food, except for the Tree of All Knowledge and the Tree of Life. We read: “God Eternal then commanded the man, saying, ‘You may eat all you like of every tree in the garden – but of the Tree of All Knowledge you may not eat, for the moment you eat of it you shall be doomed to die.’” (Genesis 2:16-17)

When they eat from the Tree of All Knowledge, the knowledge they get is that, one day, they are going to die. Before the forbidden fruit, they didn’t even know death was part of the equation. Now they know and it scares them – to death. They like the garden: life there is beautiful, they don’t want it to end and, standing right next to the Tree of All Knowledge, is the answer to their anxiety – the Tree of Life. One bite from that fruit and they will live forever. This terrifies God. We read: “God Eternal then said, ‘Look, the humans are like us, knowing all things. Now they may even reach out to take fruit from the Tree of Life and eat, and live forever!’ So the Eternal God drove them out of the Garden of Eden to work the soil from which they had been taken.” (Genesis 3:22-23)

God kicks them out of the garden – not as punishment, but as a blessing. If they think they will never die, then how will they truly live? If you have eternity, then there is no urgency for anything; with unlimited tomorrows, everything can wait.

The German existentialist Martin Heidegger, in his masterwork Being and Time, taught this: he said that, in order to truly live authentically, we have to confront death head-on. In other words, knowing that I am going to die is what allows me to truly live. Heidegger wrote: “If I take death into my life, acknowledge it and face it squarely, I will free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life – and only then will I be free to become myself.”

But, as Ernest Becker wrote in his Pulitzer Prize-winning masterwork The Denial of Death, even though we objectively know that we are all going to die, we don’t actually believe what we know to be true.

Becker’s work is important because of his astute observation that our obsession with not dying actually gets in the way of our fully living.

We are so focused on outwitting, outlasting and outplaying death, staying in our own Garden of Eden, that we make amazingly selfish choices in life. We set up what Becker calls “immortality systems” – non-rational belief structures that give way to the belief that we are immortal.

For example, we try to buy immortality by accumulating possessions and wealth, as if our things will somehow protect us when death comes knocking. We take on heroic roles in our business or our household: we think that, if we make ourselves indispensable, death can’t touch us. “I can’t die this week; I have a sales meeting on Thursday.”

Judaism suggests a different approach to death and to life. Rather than deny death, Jewish tradition instructs us to embrace it. Judaism teaches that we should live each day as if it is our last because we don’t know, it very well may be (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 153a).

Imagine, as God does in this parashah, if human beings directed all the energy they focus on not dying toward the more sacred goal of truly living. How would you fill each moment of every day if you truly knew and understood that you will never get that moment back once it has passed; that it is gone forever?

The psalmist declares: “The span of our life is 70 years or, given the strength, 80 years … and they pass by speedily and we are in darkness; teach us to count our days rightly, that we may attain a wise heart.” (Psalm 90:10, 12)

The wise person, our rabbis teach, counts each day and makes each day count. Knowing that our days are numbered helps us clarify our priorities and our purpose. Our most precious possession is not money or things: you can always get more of those. No, our most precious and finite possession is time.

Henry David Thoreau wrote: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately…. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.” (Walden, reissue edition, Princeton University Press, 2016)

When Adam and Eve are kicked out of the garden, the Torah records the very first thing they do. “And Adam knew his wife Eve and she bore him a son.” (Genesis 4:1) They have a child: the very realization of “I’m not going to live forever” is answered with our best attempt at immortality – progeny.

And so, a final question remains. Where is the true paradise? Is it in the Garden of Eden where no one ever dies and time is limitless? Or is it East of Eden, outside the garden, where every moment is precious, every decision is life-changing and the fruit, sometimes bitter, compels us to appreciate the sweet?

Join the effort to help refugees

For me, it was those little blue shoes. In the picture of little Alan Kurdi, laying there like he was sleeping on the beach in Turkey. Only he wasn’t sleeping, I had been sleeping, we have been sleeping.

It was the shoes that woke me from my slumber, from my disregard for the suffering of the Syrian people in the midst of the greatest humanitarian refugee crisis since the Second World War. More than 10 million people have fled from chaos … into chaos. There are 360,000 refugee children under the age of 11 in Turkey alone.

But it only took one. It was those tiny shoes, on those tiny feet, with their tiny toes. I know those shoes, those feet, those toes, my own children have them. They should not be laying there lifeless on the beach – they should be running through sandcastles, stomping in puddles, chasing the tide in and out.

Two hundred thousand people have died in the fighting, or while running or swimming for their lives, many of them children like Alan and his brother Galib. Millions of children are suffering from trauma and ill health. A quarter of Syria’s schools have been damaged, destroyed or taken over for shelter. More than half of Syria’s hospitals are destroyed.

But “it’s the children that catch us,” wrote Sarah Wildman for the Jewish Daily Forward. It’s the children who “bring those dizzying numbers into full focus. Their eyes round, their faces tired or hidden behind a parent’s legs. They are asleep on their parents’ shoulders; they walk beside them or are strapped to their bellies, legs dangling, as their mothers or fathers stride ever forward.

“They are far younger than the Syrian conflict so many of them flee. They have been trapped the entirety of their young lives, and now we see them, lying lifeless on beaches.”

Jonathan Sacks, Britain’s former chief rabbi, wrote: “I used to think that the most important line in the Bible was ‘love your neighbor as yourself.’ Then I realized that it is easy to love your neighbor because he or she is usually quite like yourself. What is hard – is to love the stranger, one whose color, culture or creed is different from yours. That is why the command ‘Love the stranger because you were once strangers’ resonates so often throughout the Bible. It is summoning us now.”

Sacks suggests a modern-day kindertransport, like that which was organized to save Jewish children on the eve of the Shoah.

But “save the children” is not “love the stranger.” To love the stranger, you have to take the parents, too. To love the stranger, you have to love the Syrians, who were taught to fear and hate Israel, to fear and hate Jews.

“Love the stranger” does not mean you have to open wide the borders to Islamists, fundamentalists or terrorists. But, in these numbers the world is dealing with, how many innocents will die while we carefully screen for the next Osama bin Laden?

I hear the concern, the alarm, the plaintive note of caution in our community and beyond.

“Think before acting.”

“It’s a Muslim problem, let those countries come to their aid. They hate us anyway.”

“Allowing millions of Syrians and others from the Muslim Middle East into Europe will end up as a catastrophe for Europe and, therefore, for the West.”

I read these statements and I can’t help swapping the word Muslim for Jew. Re-read them that way and they are indistinguishable from the statements that were issued when it was our people, the Jewish people, trying desperately to get out of Europe ahead of the Nazi menace.

Jews were desperate to leave. Yet country after country shut its doors. Nation after nation, in effect, said it wasn’t their problem. Or, more precisely, said they didn’t want it to be their problem.

We know well the tragedy of the St. Louis, one of the last ships to leave Nazi Germany in 1939 before Europe became involved in the Second World War. Denied entry at every port from Cuba, to the United States, to Canada, the ship sailed back to Europe and the Jewish passengers ended up in Nazi concentration camps, a third of them died there.

We know the infamous response of an unidentified Canadian immigration agent who, in early 1945, was asked how many Jews would be allowed in Canada after the war. He replied, “None is too many.”

This is not the Shoah, thank God.

What’s happening in Europe is a humanitarian crisis of the first order, but it’s not genocide. It shouldn’t need to be said that the Holocaust was the determined effort by one of the world’s leading industrialized powers to murder all the world’s Jews in the course of a nearly successful effort to conquer the globe.

Raising images of the Holocaust may help draw attention to the crisis. But it also shuts down reasoned discourse, and thus drowns out urgent questions that need airing.

“If the borders are opened wide, how many millions will want to flee the world’s no-longer-liveable regions for the safe haven of a continent that works?”

Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu, rightfully, reminds us that Israel is a small country that lacks geographic and demographic depth – it cannot take in masses of Syrian refugees. Yet Israel is not standing idly by. Quietly, so as not to endanger those it is helping, Israel is treating hundreds of Syrian wounded on its northern border.

“But,” as J.J. Goldberg wrote in the Forward, “in an atmosphere where every dinghy is the St. Louis, where refrigerator trucks smuggling migrants into Austria become boxcars transporting Jews to the gas chambers, where numbers thoughtlessly scrawled on refugees’ forearms in felt-tip pen by Czech police frantically trying to keep track of the human tidal wave are transformed into numbers tattooed on death-camp inmates – in such an atmosphere, there’s nothing left to discuss.”

Is Canada the best place for Syrian refugees? No, it would be better to keep them near their homeland so that, when troubles are over, they are in position to return to rebuild. Lebanon, Turkey and Jordan have taken in two million; the rest of the oil-rich Gulf States have refused – they need to do their part.

But, as Irwin Cotler reminded us at the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver campaign launch, quoting Rabbi Tarfon from the Mishnah (2:16): “It is not our responsibility to finish the work [of repairing the world], but we are not free to desist from it either.”

On the Thursday between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (Sept. 17), five Vancouver synagogues, their rabbis and lay leaders met with the Jewish Federation and our interfaith partners in the Anglican Diocese and the immigrant aid service agency

MOSAIC to explore the possibility of each synagogue sponsoring a refugee family. We will meet again after the federal elections to continue our planning and due diligence in preparation for family sponsorships.

This will not be a small project. We will be responsible not only for raising enough money to show the Canadian government that we can support a family for a year; we will also be responsible for everything from meeting them at the airport to finding them a place to live, from helping them learn English to helping them find work and schools. If you are interested in getting involved, I urge you to contact your rabbi or the Jewish Federation and offer your support to those who are in desperate need.

We will be responsible long after their images and stories have disappeared from the headlines of our news. But we will stand together with other synagogues – and people of other faiths – across North America, stepping forward to do what we can, to love the stranger because we were once strangers.

This is an excerpt from a sermon delivered by Rabbi Dan Moskovitz on Kol Nidrei 5776 at Temple Sholom. The full sermon can be viewed at youtu.be/2cHd_FV2MWs.

Biggest improbability?

In September of 1978, U.S. president Jimmy Carter was at his wit’s end after 12 days of face-to-face negotiations between himself, Egyptian president Anwar Sadat and Israeli prime minister Menachem Begin.

Neither party was at all inclined to make peace, both had legitimate grievances with the other nation, advisors were telling them peace was not possible and that the leader and the nation each man represented could not be trusted. Things got so heated that all three parties had packed their bags and prepared statements that the talks had failed. Cars were idling in the Camp David driveway and Marine One, the presidential helicopter, was being readied to return Carter to Washington empty-handed.

Failure then, in the midst of the Cold War, would have meant an opening for the further arming of Egypt by the USSR and the nuclearization of the Middle East, where ultimately the fanatical forces that were then lurking in the shadows could very well force the Superpowers into a feared nuclear standoff. This was much like what was happening in East and West Germany at the time, only in the hot desert sands of the Middle East, it was far more likely that tempers would boil over.

These were the stakes at Camp David. The proposition was that Israel give back the Sinai Desert, land it had captured in the Six Day War, land that served as their saving buffer zone in the Yom Kippur War just five years earlier. Land that contained settlements of Israeli citizens that Begin had pledged on his life never to abandon. To do all of that in exchange for a piece of paper that promised peace, signed by three men who did not trust each other.

No one thought it probable or possible, not between these three men, Begin and Sadat, who had spent a lifetime fighting each other, and Carter, who lacked power at home and credibility abroad.

And, yet, they signed a lasting peace treaty. Israel had been at war with Egypt in one form or another for literally millennia, since the days of Pharaoh. They have not been at war since and, next to Jordan, Egypt is Israel’s closest ally in the region today.

Mark Twain said, “History doesn’t repeat itself but it often rhymes.” No two eras or events are the same, but many if not all have similarities.

Three years before Camp David, president Gerald Ford had announced that the United States would be reevaluating its relationship with Israel because of Israel’s power play, along with France, in the Suez Canal. A crisis, if you recall, that nearly, like the Cuban Missile Crisis, was only a series of missteps away from another nuclear confrontation between the United States and the USSR.

You could not have had Camp David if you had not also had the sobering realization of the Suez Canal Crisis. Carter could not have pressured Begin to do the good and hard thing for the future of Israel if Ford had not created enough daylight between the United States and Israel for Begin to see the light at the end of the endless wars with Egypt tunnel.

“History doesn’t repeat itself but it often rhymes.” I am neither a politician, nor a political scientist – though in truth I have a degree in the latter and every rabbi must ultimately learn the skills of the former. I am a student and teacher of history, the history of our people both in the land and yearning for the Land of Israel – and in all that has happened in these past many years, really since the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin (alav ha’shalom), I hear the rhyme of history.

Call it “darkest before the dawn,” but while I am filled with worry, the seriousness of the matter gives me hope that it can no longer be ignored or put off. That the pressure of absolutes that made Camp David possible has returned to make peace between the Israelis and Palestinians possible, though still improbable once again.

The region and its people are under near-bursting pressure. But pressure such as faces Israel also clarifies priorities. The greatest achievements of diplomacy have often come in the face of the most extreme pressure or, as Carl von Clausewitz wrote, “War is diplomacy by other means.”

Let’s examine the pressures in play.

In Israel, the status quo between Israelis and Palestinians is set to devolve into a third intifada. Meanwhile, there is a seismic schism between the Jews in Tel Aviv who voted overwhelmingly for the left and the Jews in Jerusalem who voted overwhelmingly for the right. Israelis on left and right are living two different realities, and they want two different futures for themselves and for the Palestinians.

In the Arab world, the forces of fundamentalism have shaken what little remains of the nation-states from their complacency with and tolerance for radicalization. Arab armies are mobilized against radicalism and terror. Yes, there is a vacuum of leadership throughout the Arab world, including among the Palestinians – but that also creates space for a leader to emerge.

Outside of the Middle East there is a fundamental disagreement between Western democracies that want Israel to act more like them, and Israel that wants the West to see that the terrorist threat confronting its democracy today is coming to their shores tomorrow. And for much of Europe tomorrow is today.

Jews are under attack around the globe. Antisemitism has come out of hiding once again. Much of antisemitism is ignorance and, yet, where do we find it? Most shockingly in our institutions of higher learning, where, in the most distorted and twisted forms, they equate Jews with Nazis. We see this happening particularly in the BDS campaigns that are sweeping across North American university campuses and right here at the University of British Columbia. These same antisemites defend terrorists as “heroes,” inviting them as speakers on campus. The Talmud says, “olam hafouch,” the world is upside down. Indeed, bigotry masquerades as fairness.

The pressure is not only external; it is internal, as well. The relationship between Jews in the Diaspora and Jews in Israel is becoming a dysfunctional marriage. It’s not headed for divorce but maybe separate bedrooms, as each tries to focus on things they love about the other, even when they are disappointed in the other.

It seems hopeless, I know, this election result whether you are left or right – the winner of the election was “hopelessness” itself. As Binyamin Netanyahu declared, in his view, there will never be a Palestinian state while he is prime minister. Those who voted for him believe that to be true and those who voted against him believe that to be true. That is the very definition of being without hope.

There is no solution to this conflict in this neighborhood, in this region, in this time. And, with no Palestinian leader who can do the same, it’s just not possible.

And, yet, we said the same before Camp David. We never thought Rabin would shake Arafat’s hand or make peace with Jordan. That Sharon, who built the settlements in Gaza would dismantle them, and that it didn’t lead to civil war.

Begin, Rabin, Sharon. These were not peace seekers, these were warriors, evolved Hawks.

We are not ready for another Camp David today; Netanyahu is not anywhere near ready, and there is no leader on the other side who can be a Sadat or a King Hussein of Jordan, a warrior who has the credibility to make peace.

By the same token, the only one in Israel right now who has the credibility to make peace with the Palestinians is Netanyahu. If he signs off on it, the people will believe it.

We are in a dark period and it may get darker. The pressure on Israel will only increase. The choices the country will have to make are impossible to understand right now. Our own solidarity both with Israel and with each other as fellow Jews will be tested, and there will be cracks. But that is nothing new for us, or for Israel. We don’t always agree, as Jews here or there, past or present, we seldom agree. In the end, however, what we have always done is survive. There’s the biggest improbability of all: that we are still here.

Israel is 67 years old. By comparison, it took the United States 150 years to reconcile slavery, a process that included a civil war, incomprehensible social disorder and civil unrest. And the United States, which is almost 200 years older than Israel, is still not yet resolved on the issue of race, as Ferguson – among many other events – reminds us.

Canada could say some of the same about true reconciliation with First Nations. We are not yet there.

This election was part of the growing pains of a nation and, in the age of nations, Israel is barely a teenager. Israel is the bat mitzvah girl who stands proudly, if not ironically, before the congregation and declares, “Today, I am a woman!” And we all smile and say to ourselves, “Not yet, but today you gave us a glimpse of the woman you will one day be. It would be more accurate to proclaim, “Today, I will no longer act like a child.”

“The arc of history is long,” Martin Luther King Jr. preached, “but it bends toward justice.” That’s the history of the world and it’s the story of our people, a story we are telling again around our seder tables this week.

What do you take away from the seder? That Pharaoh was cruel? That slavery was terrible? Yes, but also that we were redeemed; that the pressure on Pharaoh ultimately helped him see the light.

“La’yehudim hayta orah” we sang just recently on Purim and every week, as we end Shabbat with Havdalah. “The Jews enjoyed light and gladness, honor and joy. May we, too, experience these same blessings.” In another dark time, when all hope appeared lost, there was light. Let there be light once again!

Dan Moskovitz is senior rabbi of Temple Sholom in Vancouver.

Bringing Judaism into the public sphere

A 28-year-old struggling writer walks up to a checkout counter at Whole Foods. “Where is the Torah study?” he asks. “Oh, the class with the rabbi? That’s in the back, near the nuts.”

The clerk wasn’t being pejorative – the Torah study really is in the back, near the bulk bins of nuts and trail mix. I should know: I’m the nut teaching Torah in the store every Wednesday.

In my 20-plus years as a Jewish educator, I never dreamt I’d be teaching Torah in a supermarket. But, then again, I’m pretty sure the two dozen or so students who regularly participate in the class never thought they’d be studying Jewish text each week, let alone doing so surrounded by organic Swiss chard.

There is nothing new in all this. When the Israelites returned from Babylonian exile in 537 BCE and rebuilt the Temple, Ezra the Scribe noticed that the people were too busy with the pressures of the day to make time for Judaism. On Mondays and Thursdays – the two busiest market days – Ezra stood in the street and read Torah out loud to a people who had all but forgotten their own story. From this seminal moment sprang the practice of reading the Torah on Mondays and Thursdays that continues in synagogues to this day.

Millennia later, public space Judaism is again an emerging trend. I began my own work in this field as a congregational rabbi at Temple Judea in Tarzana, Calif., inspired by Rabbi Kerry Olitzky’s teaching: “In a place where you can be Jewish anywhere, we should grasp the opportunity to be Jewish everywhere.”

Torah study at Whole Foods expanded to a host of Jewish events. On Sukkot, our youth group built a sukkah on Whole Foods’ outdoor patio, a banner explained the structure. We nurtured a mutually beneficial relationship with the store manager and staff, and the store sponsored food and activities at temple events. A year later, the relationship had solidified to the point that the store manager invited our congregation to lead a menorah lighting at Chanukah time. At that moment, I knew that we’d not only engaged Jews beyond our shul’s walls; we had changed the public face of Judaism in our community.

For Jewish communities like Vancouver that lack great Jewish population density, public space Judaism is a bit like online dating: if you want to meet someone, you need to let people know you’re looking.

Afterwards, the room was electric with everyone talking about how wonderful it was to connect with a larger Jewish community while on vacation and brainstorming how we might do this again.

How do we accomplish this? My colleague at Temple Sholom, Rabbi Carey Brown, teaches a Talmud class for millennials in a coffee shop once a month; I teach a text-based Jewish current events discussion at lunchtime in an office boardroom. Ringing in the 2014 year, we led a Shabbat service and Havdalah at Whistler Blackcomb. More than 60 people came to the dinner and service, about 45 to Havdalah. Afterwards, the room was electric with everyone talking about how wonderful it was to connect with a larger Jewish community while on vacation and brainstorming how we might do this again. A few local Jewish families asked if we could help educate their remote community. We now have plans to bring Hebrew school and family education to them.

When the rain and snow subside and the sun shines on Vancouver’s beaches, our congregation leads relaxing, open Shabbat services on the beach. We unfurl a banner and post signs welcoming all who wish to join us. And, like at Whole Foods, they come – Jews and “Jew curious.”

Howard Schultz, the man who developed Starbucks Coffee’s identity, famously explained his business model as trying to create a “third place” between work and home where people could gather and feel they belonged. For generations, the synagogue was that third place for Jews.

Like most rabbis, I have tried everything short of standing on my head to get people into my shul for prayer or study. While many come, some regularly, many others don’t or won’t. We can bring synagogue to them. We can meet in a third place of our own creation, filling it with meaning and a measure of Yiddishkeit.

One group in particular was easy to find but hard to reach: Jewish men. They were everywhere in our larger community, but not at synagogue. I asked a socially connected man in my Los Angeles congregation to host a Guys’ Night with the Rabbi in his home. I suggested he invite anyone he wanted and encourage guys to bring a friend.

To my surprise, 23 guys showed up. When we asked them why, they answered, “Because you asked.” Note that the “you” was not me, but the guy they respected and liked who had invited them to his home. Again, it was all about relationships.

We began that “Guys Night” with a simple but powerful exercise – introduce yourself without saying what you do for a living. Men so often define themselves by what they do, how they provide for their families. Our group would only work, we realized, if we could retrain ourselves to change this damaging, isolating pattern that is related to male competitiveness. We would have to see other men as brothers, each one with good things to give and to receive.

We established ground rules about confidentiality and cross talk. In the first months, we discussed Why Do We Work So Hard?; What Kind of Fathers We Had, What Kind of Fathers We Are; Being a Husband: How Has Your Partner Influenced the Way You Think?; Power and the Male Identity.

I always prepared a contemporary text and a Jewish text to help guide our talks, but soon we needed no more than a trigger to get started. The group of about 60 regulars has now met for eight years. Our annual retreat attracts more than 100 and there’s also an annual Community Men’s Seder, based on a Men of Reform Judaism model, that a core group of guys lead for friends and colleagues, which is growing every year. And many of the men who were once absent from synagogue life are now present.

Public space Judaism has taught me that, even in the congregational context, I need to reach out to members. If I wait for them to come to me, they might never come.

Public space Judaism has taught me that, even in the congregational context, I need to reach out to members. If I wait for them to come to me, they might never come. On my first day at Temple Sholom, for example, I was handed the Kaddish list for the coming Shabbat. I didn’t know any of the names, so I started calling members who were observing yahrzeits. Introducing myself, I explained that it would be my first time reading the name of their loved one. Could they tell me a little bit about the deceased, so I had a context for their memory as I read the name on Shabbat?

One by one, congregants told me their stories. They remembered things about their parents, spouses and siblings they hadn’t thought of in years. Tears flowed on both ends of the conversation. When the mourners came to synagogue that week to recite Kaddish, it was easier for them to walk into the place that had been made unfamiliar because of the change of rabbis, and easier for me to stand before them. We were no longer strangers.

Many of those talks also led to my visiting members’ homes or meeting them for coffee to hear their stories. Whenever possible, I set those meetings away from my office. Like Ezra the Scribe, I feel I need to engage the people in their space, not mine.

Yes, public space Judaism is a blind date, and that takes a bit of chutzpah. It begins with the sukkah, the phone call, the get-together at Whole Foods near the nut department. More often than we think, it leads to a relationship – a relationship with other Jews and with our Jewish selves that endures.

Rabbi Dan Moskovitz is senior rabbi at Temple Sholom and co-author of The MRJ Men’s Seder Haggadah (MRJ Press 2007). You can follow him on twitter @rabbidanmosk. A longer version of this article was originally published in Reform Judaism Magazine.

Battle for the bronze is where the real excitement lies

As the Winter Olympics returned to the headlines these past few weeks and we were filled with memories of four years ago in Vancouver, I decided this time around to root for the bronze medal winners.

I cheered for the bronze because, in my opinion, the most exiting Olympic competition is not the race for the gold, but the battle for the bronze. While it is exciting to see who will win (I did root for gold medal winners, too), I was particularly drawn to cheer for the ones who didn’t lose.

In 1995, a study was carried out by social psychologists Victoria Medvec, Scott Madey and Thomas Gilovich on the psychology of Olympic medal winners. The study showed that athletes who won the bronze medal were significantly happier with their results than those athletes who won the silver. Those who placed second were more frustrated because they had missed the gold medal, while the bronze medalists were simply happy to have received any honors at all (instead of a fourth-place finish). This is even more pronounced in knockout competitions, such as soccer’s World Cup, or the NCAA Final Four competition, where the bronze medals are achieved by winning a playoff; silver medals are awarded after a defeat in the final.

The truth is that the competitions would seem incomplete without a third-place finisher. Imagine if they only gave out a gold medal. It would be all about one person, too egocentric and too exclusive. For that matter, two is really not much better. The silver medalist is merely the guy who didn’t win. Without a bronze, he or she can’t even say, “Well, at least I didn’t come in third.” Number three, on the other hand, has a sense of fullness, of completion. Like the old saying, “three’s a crowd,” everyone is represented. Or, better put like the TV show, “three’s company.”

We know this in our own colloquialisms, as well. Three is the predominant way we categorize the world around us. What do we call the alphabet? The ABCs. What do you tell your kids when they are trying something and can’t get it right? Third time’s the charm (unless it takes more than that, of course). What does the starter say for a race? On your mark, get set, go! You tell a joke, it has to be: a priest, a minister and a rabbi – leave one out and you risk offending by not being inclusive in your offending humor. Nobody stands up at a wedding and shouts two cheers for the bride and groom. At Starbucks, it’s tall, grande and vente. Even made-up terms have a hierarchy. And, in those cases where the expanse of society has necessitated a fourth category – as in small, medium, large and extra large – it has the clear connotation of existing outside the norm, beyond the scope of what is necessary. It just doesn’t fit – pun intended.

Our rabbis knew this, as well. In the Mishnah, Rabbi Shimon the Righteous proclaims, “Al shlosha d’varim ha’olam omed: al haTorah, v’al haAvodah, v’al gemilut chasadim”: “The world stands on three legs: Torah, prayer and deeds of loving kindness.” Leave out any one of these and the world collapses in disarray. The Vahavtah of the Shema gives the same message: love God with all your heart, soul and might – miss one of these and you have not loved God completely. More positively: do all three of these and you can feel a closeness to God that would otherwise escape you.

Three is a very Jewish number. Three patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. It was three days into the journey from Egypt when the Israelites encountered God in the desert. Traditional Jews pray morning, noon and night. Hebrew verbs have three-letter roots, which serve as the foundation for the whole lexicon of Jewish expression. The list goes on.

One of the most powerful instances of three in Jewish tradition is the custom of placing three shovels of earth on a grave at a funeral. I am frequently asked, “Rabbi, why three shovels of earth?” We place three shovels of earth for the same reasons mentioned above. Three is complete; it shows intention and a fullness of action. One could be inadvertent, two is somehow just not enough, but three means that you have fulfilled the mitzvah.

One of my favorite teachings from Jewish tradition is about the mezuzah and why it rests on an angle on the doorpost. Rashi said it should lie flat, while his grandson, Rabbeinu Tam, said it should be vertical. In a rare moment of compromise between these two schools of thought, a student of them both, Rabbi Jacob ben Asher, ordained a third way, a compromise position. It rests on an angle because, among the many given reasons, the key to a peaceful home, to shalom bayit, is compromise, finding a third way.

Bronze medalists give meaning to the achievements of the others, they place everything in perspective. They are not to be forgotten as last of the best, or even remembered as first of the worst. Rather, they are the essential pillar of the competition, the bridge between just making it and not making it at all.

We live most of the moments of our lives on that bridge – balanced precariously between success and failure. Celebrate the bronze medals in the many moments of your life: they are hard fought and hard won.

Rabbi Dan Moskovitz is the senior rabbi of Temple Sholom. Follow him on Twitter, @rabbidanmosk.