A New Posting From Israel.

Dear Ohav Family:

In my last posting, I wrote about the incomparable experience of being in Israel as a Jew and as a human being.  Lest you think that our missions (I like to refer to them as pilgrimages, but I’ll discuss the use of that word in a later posting) are exclusively about intense encounters with Judaism and Jewish identity, I assure you that is not the case.  Since our synagogue group arrived last week, we have certainly had our share of hands on lessons in history, archaeology, Hebrew, politics and comparative religion.  However, we have also had a lot of fun.  In one sense, a small group of seventeen people traveling together anywhere for twelve days should bond and have a great time.  This is the nature of groups like the ones I take to Israel every two years:  I like to think of them as portable retreat centers!  However, because we are linked to Ohav and the Capital District Jewish community (even our one couple from Rochester is now an honorary Capital District family) we share something unique that has made us open to enjoying each other’s company from the moment we left the ground at Newark International Airport.  This has consistently been my experience with all the Ohav Israel missions I have led since 1999.

We have also had a lot of fun because we have done enjoyable activities that are unique to Israel.  Let’s start with food.  Though I shy away from over the top pronouncements about Israel being  a country of indulgent Jewish mothers, Israeli Jewish culture does place great emphasis on everyone being fed well:  food is love, after all, and Jews from all walks of life have always made food a major focus for celebration, worship, and coping with loss.  From hotel breakfasts to the simplest road side truck stops and miznonim (fast food buffets) Israel offers the pleasures of food and drink, and plenty of it.  In traditional middle eastern fashion, Israeli restaurants for the most part fill a patron up with salads and condiments of all types prior to the main meal, almost as a way of fending off the possibility of hunger between the time you walk through the door and the time that you eat your main course.  The other  night we were truly blessed to meet our friends and fellow congregants, Jeff and Anne Rothenberg (part time residents of Jerusalem) at a typical middles eastern eatery, after which we “rolled out” and ate dessert at their lovely Jerusalem home. This is  the second time that Anne and Jeff have hosted an Ohav group, and the friendship is as good as the food.  Anne is fond of saying that one of the many wonderful things bringing her back repeatedly to  Israel (aside from her children and grandchildren) are the truly gigantic  and delicious strawberries grown here. One look at them reminds me of the gigantic grape clusters taken out of the land by the Israelite scouts mentioned in the Book of Numbers.

Finally, understand that, apart from its religious, historical, and political significance, Israel is incredibly beautiful and just lots of fun: a vacation paradise that is fueled by a powerful and well developed tourism industry.  Israel not only needs tourism as part of its economic lifeblood;   it is committed to tourism as part of its life mission as home to the three major Western faiths and an international center of culture, arts, and entertainment.  So far, we have ridden jeeps in the Golan Heights, participated in an archaeological dig, walked through the Western Wall tunnels, planted trees, checked out the excitement of Tel Aviv, enjoyed the Israel Museum, shopped in the great Arab Bazaar, walked through a beautiful nature preserve, and our mission has three more days  to go.  What we have enjoyed is a mere fraction of what one can do in Israel, whether you like to be very active or very quiet.  Our Ohav mission had some of the best fun at a wonderful simcha (religious celebration) on top of the breathtaking Masada, the summer home of the ancient Roman King, Herod.  Earlier this week, Sarah Spiro, one of our seventh graders at our Talmud Torah, became a bat mitzvah in front of her family and new friends.  There is nothing more pleasant or inspirational than this.  Mazal to, Sarah!

Finally, let me tell you about Pini the Pig, our preschool and Ohav mission mascot..  (See the picture.)  Before each mission, I pick out a stuffed toy animal who becomes our mascot.  Amie Bloom, our preschool director, and I make a big deal of our mascot with our preschool students.  When in Israel, I take numerous photographs of me and Pini in different parts of Israel.  They become part of a photographic travelogue for the kids and their families that teaches them about Israel.  Why a pig?  First, as I’ve explained to the preschool staff and our participants, Pini does best in Israel where so few people eat pig out of religious (Jewish and Muslim) conviction.  Also, as I told the kids, Pini really wanted to go to Israel, but his skeptical friends told him that this would happen when pigs fly!  I guess Pini fooled them all.  Hey, it’s a goofy story, but the kids and our participants get a kick out of it.

I look forward to writing one more time towards the end of our mission, either on Saturday night or Sunday. 

From somewhere along the shores of the Kinneret (The Sea of Galilee), Shabbat shalom and only blessings.

Rabbi Dan

Finally, An Israel Mission Posting From Rabbi Dan!

Shalom U-Vrakhah (Peace and blessing!)

After six extremely intense days of travel, camaraderie, celebration of Israel and Jewish community, and new friendships, I am finally able to post this letter from Israel, along with some photos of our congregational mission.  My apologies to those of you who may have been checking for posts from me, only to find none here.  Between jet lag, very long days, and lots of things happening, this is my first opportunity to write.

It is late right now in Jerusalem, so in the interests of actually getting this note out to our congregation, I will be brief.  Short of living in Israel -with its deep Jewish rhythms and its place at the vital center of Jewish history and destiny- an Israel mission is an unparalleled opportunity to taste Israel. A  two week mission cannot begin to capture just what this land and this society (with all its pockmarks and imperfections) means to the Jewish people and to the world.  Yet as any of our 2010 participants would confirm, this kind of mission provides a person with the the grand sweep and spiritual depth of Israel and Jewish experience tightly compressed into relatively little time in a powerful way.  There is no comparison  between reading about David Ben Gurion's stunning declaration of the founding of Israel as a state, and actually hearing a recording of his famous speech in the very place -Independence Hall in Tel Aviv- where it  took place -under a portrait  of Herzl, founder of modern Zionism- on May 14, 1948.  To be here, to be embraced by the Jewish and Israeli experiences that pulsate with life and meaning, is without parallel, even in Albany!






In only five days, we have ridden a roller coaster of Jewish history. We have shared these experiences in the context of new friendships, new encounters with our Jewish identities, and new confrontations with the great questions of life and living that Judaism answers each day for us.

We got sweeping and close up views of Jerusalem, a city full of holiness, mystery and spiritual diversity. Imagine standing at the Haas Promenade in southern Jerusalem and not just reading about, but being where Abraham came to as he looked out to where God wanted him to bring his son Isaac for an offering:  what would later be the Temple Mount. 

We also made our small but significant contributions to Israel's and the world's environmental health by planting trees in the JNF Kennedy Memorial Forest. 








There is so much more to write about, but it is almost midnight.  Next time, I'll write about the fun things and celebrations we've been able to be part of!

Shalom Mi  Yerushalayim. 
Praying for peace from Jerusalem.

Rabbi Dan

A Tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, jr.

FROM MOSES TO MARTIN.

Dvar Torah For Torah Portion VaYera and Commemorating Martin Luther King Day 5770.

                It is a complaint that repeats itself so many times in the short span of a few biblical chapters, we almost want to shut our ears out of embarrassment.  I am referring to Moses’ persistent protests that he is the wrong man for the job of forcing Pharaoh to free the Israelite slaves.  Certainly, Moses is known in the Bible as anav me-od, extremely humble, as the book of Numbers, chapter 12 calls him;   yet this is not how Moses describes his inadequacy for the position of liberator and leader of Israel.  He refers constantly to his being an arel sefatayim and a kevad peh:  one who has uncircumcised lips and is slow of speech.  These phrases have been variously interpreted to mean that Moses had a severe speech impediment or that he simply was a poor speaker who could never hold his own before a big shot king like Pharaoh.  Whatever they actually mean, Moses clearly saw himself as unable to speak with force and eloquence before Pharaoh, which is why God dispatched his brother Aaron to serve as his speech maker and agent.

                Nowhere  is the role of Moses and Aaron as dynamic duo for the Lord expressed  more strikingly than in this morning’s Torah portion.  At the very beginning of Exodus, chapter 7, God tells Moses:  “See, I have made you as God before Pharaoh, and your brother Aaron shall be your prophet.”  This is a strange way for God to describe human beings, even two servants as close to God as Moses and Aaron.  Though Moses is described in biblical and later rabbinic literature as a prophet, referring to him as God feels  sacrilegious.  This is especially the case when we consider how forceful Judaism has always been in refusing to deify or even idealize Moses as a human being.  Further, referring to Aaron as a prophet or divine messenger seems so contradictory to the role he played throughout the Bible:  that of the conciliatory ritual functionary whose temperament at times clashed with Moses’ role as a truly fiery prophet speaking God’s admonitions to the people.  

                Numerous commentators found God’s descriptions of Moses and Aaron troubling as well.  Understanding that Pharaoh saw himself as a god, and had already refused to recognize the existence and supremacy of the God of Israel, these Torah teachers explained our strange passage in a number of interesting ways.  Moses was indeed God –more accurately God’s stand in- to Pharaoh, for Pharaoh would only be humbled by what and whom he could see.  According to our ancestors, God sent Moses to be “God before Pharaoh” in a number of ways:  as a master teacher, as a fear inspiring angel, as a judge, and as one with superior power.  Surely, only God can be God, but Moses would be the human conduit through which God would act to wreak judgment upon the arrogant oppressor.  Aaron would extend Moses’ divine agency through words of warning and admonition, as the mouthpiece of divine power.   Ultimately, these two brothers were flawed human beings who would die before reaching  the promised land with the Israelites.  However, in their lifetimes they concretized God’s battle with Pharaoh, and pressed God’s case against the king’s egomania and unjust  treatment of the Israelites.

                It is the rare leader fighting for justice who has the credibility and moral weight to be compared with Moses and Aaron.  The Reverend Martin Luther King jr., whose birthday and legacy we celebrate this weekend, was one of those rare leaders  for whom the comparison was appropriate.  Like Moses, he saw himself as God’s servant fighting for civil rights for the future generations descended from African American slaves, and for all Americans.  He lived and died by the words of the old African American spiritual that demanded of every Pharaoh in every age to “Let My people go” as Moses had done before him.  Like Moses, Dr. King was part master teacher, part awe inspiring angel, part judge who stood in judgment of a racially divided American society and found it sorely wanting. Like Aaron, Dr. King fought his war with the Pharaohs of bigotry and discrimination, not with plagues and violence, but with words:  eloquent words that showed people life could be better, that  America could behave better;  demanding words that organized boycotts and sit ins, pressed hard on the laws and law makers of America, and  inspired thousands to dedicate their lives to the cause of freedom; healing words that showed America that human rights are not some marriage of convenience between a government and its citizens, but an eternal truth embedded in the word and will of God, Creator of all human beings.

                The night before he was murdered, April 3, 1968, Dr. King delivered a speech at the Mason Temple in Memphis TN, in support of striking sanitation workers in that city.  Eerily alluding to what may have been his recognition that his life might soon end, he spoke these famous words, through which he connected himself once again to Moses and his legacy of fighting for freedom:

"Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." 

An old Jewish aphorism states that from Moses to Moses, there was no one like Moses.  It is referring to Moshe Rabbeinu and to Moses Maimonides, our great Torah teacher of the middle ages.  Reflecting upon the life of Martin Luther King jr., I might amend that saying in honor of this weekend:  From Moses to Martin, there was no one like Martin.  And that has made all the difference in this, our promised land.  Shabbat shalom.

(c) 2010 By Rabbi Dan Ornstein                

Willows

WILLOWS.

Please note: Each of my public radio essays was written and aired at different times between 1999 and now. None of them is posted in chronological order. Hopefully, the ideas and insights in each of them will transcend the times and places about which I’ve written. I hope you enjoy what I have to offer.

When we moved into our house a number of years ago, the two old, sprawling willow trees on each side of our lawn stood like lazy guards at an open gate. They graciously waved their long, leaf drenched branches at us, ushering us into our new home. Over time we settled into a lackadaisical relationship with our trees; we let their chaff choke our gutters, and we fought back very little as their roots pushed up under our driveway. Branches large and small fell with increasing frequency under the weight and pressure of snow, ice, and wind, yet we looked on and cleaned up after our aging neighbors. We left them in peace, and they let the breezes whisper to us through their thick leaves as we sat on the steps of our house on summer nights. An ice storm broke off very large limbs of both willows, littering our property and endangering passersby. Realizing that we had waited too long to care for them, we contacted an arborist who owns a tree service. After a brief check, he told us that the old willow on the right side of our house was rotting. With its massive, drooping branches forming a looming canopy over our street, large parts of it –or the tree itself- would eventually fall down as it continued to rot and die. The tree would have to be cut down.

I struggled to keep myself grounded with the pragmatic rationale that cutting it down was the sensible, responsible thing to do. Yet on the morning that the tree service was scheduled to arrive, I woke up with the queasy feeling that we were about to euthanize a dying grandparent. Turning to my wife, I whispered my fear that our youngest daughter -a great lover of these trees- would be traumatized by the day’s events. A compassionate and practical woman, yet still half asleep, she whispered back to me: “It’s just a tree, she’ll get over it.” Annoyed by her response, I bounded out of bed to start the day in a state of agitation.

The tree servicemen came and went, mustering their impressive arsenal of saws, cables, and cherry pickers that dismembered Old Man Willow from canopy to stump with tidy, almost robotic dispatch. Watching them, I could not shake the powerful images of trees personified as people that are found in the Bible. Yet as increasingly large pieces of the old man thudded to the lawn, I allowed my fascination with the technology to push aside my uneasiness, and I reasoned to myself: “It’s a rotted old willow tree, Dan. You’ll get over it.”

That afternoon, my wife, daughter and I stood around the stump, as we easily poked holes in its spongy center and half heartedly attempted to count its many rings. We performed an informal ritual of “arboreal memorial” by alternating between quiet murmurs of regret, acknowledgment of the stump’s rotted sponginess, and respectful silence. Neighbors and friends stopped by over the next couple of days to comment wistfully on the tree’s sad remains, almost as if they were paying the traditional shivah visit in a Jewish house of mourning. Looking over at our surviving willow, I was mildly shocked by its lonely lopsidedness: a twin bereft of its sibling and swaying forlornly on our lawn.

I gradually got over the “tree-as-family member” thing; yet something about this routine, if regrettable, act of property maintenance continued to bother me. A few weeks after we cut the willow down, I came across the 1937 painting, Willlow Tree, by the abstract painter, Arthur Dove. Upon first glance, I assumed that he had drawn a cross section of a stump that can either be viewed sideways or from above. However, looking more closely, I realized that the supposed “stump” resembled a fetus curled up in the womb, hardly the shape or life form I would expect to find inside the stump of an old willow. The personal significance of Dove’s work became painfully apparent to me. Our deceased tree possessed a kind of fetal memory. Its trunk, branches, leaves and rings encoded a long, rich history of birth, growth, decline and death that patterns all life and living things. Necessary and routine as it may have been, by cutting down our willow, we had also erased one small piece of that memory.

Now that the willow’s stump and roots have been ground and the top soil has been replenished, I have planted a Japanese maple sapling and small shrubs in its place. Their mix of light maroon and dark green will capture the sunlight and fill our lawn with color. They will grow through the seasons, and the willow’s rough brown branches and light green leaves will slowly fade from memory. On late afternoons I will sit on the steps of my house, pausing to consider that, after all, it was a very old tree.

Dan Ornstein is rabbi of Congregation Ohav Shalom and a writer living in Albany, New York.
© 2010 By Rabbi Dan Ornstein

So, Here Is A Shofar That I Wrote To God (Poem)

Note: I wrote this before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, 5770 (September 2009) after learning of the illness of the child of a friend.

“SO, HERE IS A SHOFAR THAT I WROTE TO GOD…”

Guardian of Israel, Who neither slumbers nor sleeps,
Wake up!
Master Builder, Who fashioned the human brain
And planted on its sides two elegant ears,
Take the cotton out of Your own, and get it through Your head
That I am here,
Angry, pleading, shivering
On the lawn outside of Your heavenly home.
I whisper, weep, and wail,
Loudly gasping for Your attention
As You sit there, dozing divinely on Your throne.

I am the child wailing with pain,
I am his parent weeping with fear,
I am the one whispering hoarsely-
“Where are You?”-

You tell me that, when that shofar blasts,
I –like it- should let out a whimper.
You tell me that, when that ram’s horn sounds,
I –like it- should let out a groan.
You tell me that, with the first blasted note,
I –like it- should let out a wail…
But I’ll tell You what:
I –like it- will gather my breath
With the force of hurricane wind in a sail
And I’ll shout and shriek and shake my fists
At You, demanding You be there when I call,
I’ll rattle Your walls and shatter Your windows,
As I shake You, wake You from the conspiracy
Of Your Deaf-Mute Complacency.

Say hello to my little friend, Lord:
This bent, stooped, bowed, crooked shofar,
Symbol of humble petition, submission, contrition
No more.
This weapon of the wounded
That wounds Your cast iron heavens,
Its bullets whistling
Anguish and hope.
Together with every piercing note-
Every voice of every person
Who ever loved, lost, smiled and suffered-
We’ll march on Your property:
An army of shofars bellowing like grown ups
And crying inconsolably like children.
Hooting and hollering,
With love, lust for life
And that limitless mix of joy and fear
For what this year may bring,
We’ll get Your attention,
As we scream Tekiah in Your ears,
And get in Your face…
Only to realize when, face-to-face,
That You were awake all the time:
The anxious Parent up at 3 AM in tears
Waiting for us to come home, away from all harm
Whispering to us, “I’m here, it’s ok.”
Letting us fall silent, and cradling us like babies
In Your arms.

© 2010 by Rabbi Dan Ornstein. All Rights Reserved.

A Poem I Published In The Jewish Forward

From time to time I'll be posting poetry that I've been privileged to publish. Unfortunately, I"m still figuring out how to insert links, so you'll need to cut and paste for now. I hope you enjoy it.

http://www.forward.com/articles/104830/

Whales

WHALES.

Please note: Each of my public radio essays was written and aired at different times between 1999 and now. None of them is posted in chronological order. Hopefully, the ideas and insights in each of them will transcend the times and places about which I’ve written. I hope you enjoy what I have to offer.

My wife and I recently spent a few days in Santa Cruz, California, on the shores of Monterey Bay which is home to the National Marine Sanctuary, one of the largest and biologically richest marine life preserves in the world. A favorite pastime on the bay for locals and tourists alike is to get on a boat and go whale watching. All year long, depending upon the season, you can see different species of these beautiful creatures, along with their cousins the dolphins, as well as sea lions, otters, seals, and a host of graceful seabirds. Each of the whale watching programs -and there are many- markets the superiority of its tours with fantastic claims such as, “whale sightings guaranteed or your next trip is free,” as if marine life will perform on command for the pleasure of us humans who gawk from these boats, insisting on getting our money’s worth with a great show. The whales, of course, have an agenda which is radically different from ours. They swim, breed, rest and play at their own pace, unaware of little else except employing the skills of survival with which they have been endowed over billions of years. Unlike dolphins, who relish chasing and swimming near the boats that come out to sea, whales like to keep to themselves, content to dive and surface where and when they choose, oblivious to the humans invading their homes.

Out in the boat, a few miles away from shore, on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, we were surrounded by the peace and stillness of endless water, along with pods of dolphin and beautiful grey whales. A once endangered species, greys are now estimated to number over 26,000 along the Pacific coast. Marine biologists, two of whom were conducting our tour, study these mammals with great care and respect, and they work hard to enlighten the layperson about how these creatures live. Our guides taught us some incredible things. Did you know that the greys migrate yearly from the Bering Sea near Alaska to Baja California and back? That is a 12,000 mile round trip between their winter and summer homes with their entire families. Imagine trying to take your kids or your grandchildren on a three hour trip from Albany to New York City in a car. Think about what that involves and you’ll realize that we do not hold a candle to the whales. Did you know that greys have such huge lung capacity that they only need to come up out of the water to breathe every seven to eleven minutes? (Remember, whales and dolphins are mammals, not fish. They do not have gills.) The most conditioned swimmer or diver would be lucky to stay under water without scuba gear for a few minutes before gasping for air. Did you know that like a lot of marine life, greys use echolocation, a built in sonar system which allows them to guide themselves through pitch black water without ever having to see a thing? I can’t find my way from Albany to some parts of Latham, even when using a map in broad daylight. The guides had me hooked. To quote America’s children, the greatest of all scientists, whales are mad cool.

We also learned about some profoundly disturbing features of the life of whales. Our guides quite matter-of-factly described to us the predatory battles which take place between female grey whales and their cousins the Orca, or killer whales who share the water with them. When hungry, Orca will attack baby greys and eat them. Like all mothers since the beginning of time, female greys fend off Orca fiercely by slapping them with their powerful tails or biting them until they leave the babies alone. Commenting on this grotesque whale-on-whale violence, our guide Frank mused nonchalantly, “What are you gonna do? Orcas also have to eat.”

Unable to enjoy anything without taking at least a few moments to ponder anxiously its moral significance, I couldn’t help thinking about what Frank had said. With all of their highly evolved intelligence and social behavior, you would think that whales would have found ways to survive which are less brutal to their own kind, but they haven’t. Even more vexing are the scary, apparent similarities between whale behavior and that of human mammals. We pride ourselves on our moral and social sophistication, yet we can be just as predatory, whether we are engaged in war with each other or simply eating other animals. For all of our presumed evolutionary superiority, we continue to exploit and to prey upon other species and upon each other.

It was the philosopher Thomas Hobbes who taught that when we are left to our own devices in the state of nature, our lives remain “nasty, brutish, and short,” with no purpose to living except to attack one another out of selfish motives, and then to die. Even out of the state of nature, in what passes for society, life often appears to fit Hobbes’ description perfectly. It is no wonder that Hobbes was committed to the idea of an autocratic, iron fisted regime which people would impose upon themselves for the purposes of maintaining moral and social order. It is interesting that Hobbes referred to such a regime as the Leviathan, the monstrous and powerful mythical whale mentioned a number of times in the Bible. Perhaps we should go one step further than Hobbes: rather than live under the watchful eye of the great political whale, maybe we should give up being human, slink back into the sea from which we emerged at the beginning of time, and become like the great sea creatures. We might spare ourselves a whole lot of pain that way.

Yet each time I ponder the pain caused by our predatory side that makes us look more whale than human, I realize that my very ability to ponder is part of what makes us more human than whale. Though I have no intimate knowledge of the inner life of whales, I believe it is safe to assume that when Orca attacks a baby grey, it isn’t thinking about how a morally free choice is being made or about its disastrous consequences for the victim. Orca is responding in a very primitive and instinctive way to hunger, and nothing else. Over billions of years, Orca and grey whales have evolved the capacity to hunt, the tools of echolocation, great lungs, and the ability to travel enormous distances. These things are their gifts which help them to survive and which make them wonderful. Yet the burden and the glory of having to choose between brutality and beneficence, and having to accept responsibility for these choices, belong to human beings alone. For all of their sophistication, whales do not argue about good and evil, or fight, or kiss and make up, or feel remorse, or ask forgiveness, or repent, or accept apologies. Since the day that Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil we have been blessed and cursed with that knowledge and with the ability to act upon it. Admittedly, human freedom is often an unbearable paradox. Our lives possess dignity and meaning precisely because we are equally free to prey upon each other as we are to pray for each other. Were we programmed to be consistently good our world would be much nicer but we would be irrelevant because our moral choice would have been obliterated. Human freedom is as indispensable as it is terrifying.

There are times in my life when I wish I could be like the whales, floating gracefully in the sea and living in the moment, free of the anxieties of moral, emotional, and spiritual struggle and ambiguity. I suspect that we all fantasize about how pleasant it would be just to be from birth until death. Yet, thankfully, this is not our reality. Since that time when we climbed out of the sea to begin the journey called living, our visions, our choices, our beastliness and our beauty have made the human story perhaps the greatest one ever told. If I may badly misquote Robert Frost, we have taken the roads less traveled by...and that has made a whale of a difference.

Dan Ornstein is rabbi of Congregation Ohav Shalom, and a writer living in Albany.
© 2010 By Rabbi Dan Ornstein.