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One of my favorite things about West Philly are the many “free” things. Little free libraries. “Free table,” etc. I have this sense that anything I need can be acquired just by walking around the neighborhood. And more importantly, that anything I no longer need can be rehomed by simply placing it on my neighbor’s stone wall on my corner. This week alone I dropped off an old architect's drafting table (where the california raisin man once was conceived), cleats my kids had outgrown, 2 glass vases, and a bird bath I never managed to install. It was all gone by evening. There is a current in our neighborhood that allows things to travel without currency or tariff from home to home. West Philly’s great river of stuff!
There is a wonderful hebrew word that captures this sense of freedom – hefker. I first encountered the word hefker in rabbinical school when I came upon a table of snack remnants. A half eaten package of oreos. A platter of vegetable crudite with an unopened hummus. Some pretzels and a bit of soda. With a sign that read: ‘hefker’. Which is to say, up for grabs! In a more secular context you might have seen a “free” sign. But it meant something to me that there was a rabbinic term for this kind of exchange. This week we begin reading the book of Bemidbar - best translated as “in the wilderness.” The chapters resume the narrative of our ancestors wandering through the wilderness, uncertain, unhappy, unsatisfied. In just a week’s time we will celebrate the festival of Shavuot. In the Torah it is purely an agricultural holiday. But the rabbis later attached deeper meaning, describing it as zman matan torateinu - the time that commemorates the giving of the Torah in the wilderness of Sinai. Our parsha begins, וַיְדַבֵּ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֛ה בְּמִדְבַּ֥ר סִינַ֖י “And God spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai…” So the rabbis obviously ask and graciously answer the next obvious question: Why was Torah given in the wilderness? Why not in a more accessible place? Why would it be that in the place of greatest uncertainty (and greatest irritability), would we also receive wisdom and insight? We learn in midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 1), “Why does it say ‘And God spoke to Moses in the Sinai Wilderness’? Because anyone who does not make themselves ownerless, hefker, like the wilderness cannot acquire the wisdom and the Torah…" Which is to say, if we do make ourselves hefker, we can acquire the wisdom of Torah. Insight and understanding arise when our minds and hearts are more available, open, even unsure. I must admit, I need this instruction right now. In the last week or so, I noticed that I am finally beginning to thaw from the deep freeze of winter. In this case, I don’t really mean the winter weather (or not just the weather), so much as the harsh events that transpired. It was a hard winter. As my shoulders unclench and I allow myself some barefoot moments, I am noticing that my heart is more judgemental than I would like. There has been a narrowing within me. I think the best way to describe the feeling is defensive. And while I know it comes from a place of care for myself, even a form of protection, it doesn’t feel very good to be so quick to judge. The impact is subtle, but I can feel that my heart is less open, less available, less up for grabs. This year I am hearing the rabbis whisper, “Come on’ make yourself like a little free library - where ideas and stories can come and go. Make yourself available to the current of wisdom and unexpected connections. Free yourself to not know, to wonder, to be curious, to be willing to hear things differently. Take down all your lawn signs (after the election is over) and allow yourself to be undecided.” So this Shabbat, in preparation for shavuot, I am inviting myself to soften, to let down my defenses, to feel my own vulnerability and trust that will make more room in me for curiosity, for wild seeds to land, for insight, for Torah. We just wrapped up another year of Kol Tzedek Torah School, and I want to share a few insights from our students. I consistently learn so much from them, and I want to invite our community into that learning with me.
A few months ago, I visited our 6th grade Torah School class to discuss some big questions that had come up in class. They had recently encountered a Torah text that was similar to the message of this week’s parsha, B’echukotai: If you do good things, you’ll be rewarded. If you do bad things, you’ll be cursed. And, of course, this didn’t match their experience of the world. I told them that they were in good company with this challenge, from ancient rabbis to modern philosophers. I shared ideas of collective punishment and natural consequences. When I left the room, they were clearly not satisfied by my lack of clear solutions. And I understand why. But I think the questioning, the conversation, even the rejection of this theology is core to the learning that they do here. We’ve worked for years to build a strong curriculum to give kids knowledge and skills that will serve them as Jewish adults. They learn about holidays, life cycle rituals, Torah and Midrash, rabbinic stories, prayers, and so many other things. I’m so proud of the many pages of resources we’ve created for students and teachers. But the curriculum only matters because students also have space to bring their whole selves. We give our students opportunities to share their own beliefs as soon as they start Torah School. Each age group spends some of their time on Sunday afternoons doing tefillah (prayer) with me. This is a time for them to learn prayers and to learn about prayers, and to pray and sing together. For our younger kids, this is about understanding prayer more than it is about learning specific words. This time is playful. We use imaginary instruments for praise. We chant blessings for things they are feeling grateful for, whether that is family, a card game, or a recent favorite of mine “Judaism and popcorn.” We had years of deep theological discussions, where I reminded kids over and over that we can use any pronouns for God, that there are many names for the Divine, and that they don’t have to believe any specific thing, or anything at all. Last year, with our younger students, we stopped talking about it as much and instead worked these questions and reminders directly into our prayers and songs. I introduced a chant for our younger students that starts with the words from the end of the Sh’ma, “Adonai eloheichem emet- Adonai is your true God.” The chant then continues by replacing the name Adonai with different names for God or different divine attributes. Students suggest divine names and we all “try on” the suggested name, singing it together. We don’t all have to believe it, we just want to see what it feels like to use a different name. We’ve used names in Hebrew and English, gendered and not, new and old. Two weeks ago, on our last day of tefillah for the year, many of our 2nd and 3rd graders were eager to share their suggestions. First, we tried on The Supreme Ruler of the World. This student was referencing a discussion from the previous week, about gendered words for positions of power like King, Queen, and Emperor, and sharing a solution. Next, we sang “Maybe Isn’t Real eloheichem emet.” This second grader said he shared this name because “I think God is really just us being nice to people.” Our doubts have a place in our prayers. Third we took a breath instead of using a word for God’s name. These children may not yet know about the idea of an ineffable name, but they understand that some things go beyond words. Last, we tried on The Dude. I was so happy to try calling God The Dude , knowing that our students’ theologies won’t be limited to one gender, one relationship, or one definition. I hope our kids, and all of us, will always be open to many names, to doubt, and to creating space for those who don’t believe at all. For me, this is part of the answer to this week’s parsha and the reward and punishment in Torah. God as Judge is one system for trying to understand what we will never be able to fully grasp. Try it on. If you don’t like it, try another option. Try out “Maybe Isn’t Real.” Take a breath instead. Or imagine The Divine Dude. The book of Leviticus is what one might call a mixed bag. We seem to read the best and the worst of Torah all at once. For example, last week’s parshiyot alone contain some of our most beloved teachings (Love your neighbor as thyself!) and some of our most homophobic and violent verses (I’ll spare you the quotes).
There’s a rigor to staying in relationship with the best and worst all at once (a practice I find helpful for the rest of my life). I am convinced that we read Leviticus in the glory of spring to make it bearable. Ironically it's the time of year when everyone wants to become B’nei Mitzvah, so I have become very practiced in finding the relatable tidbits, close readings that connect to a curious teen’s mind, the ways to redeem an ancient and problematic text. But not this week. Over the years I have made much meaning about the priestly tradition. I tend to focus on the korban, the ritual sacrifice. What qualifies and disqualifies an animal? Why and when do we offer a korban? My first Yom Kippur at KT I gave an entire sermon about the subject. But this week I approached parashat Emor through the lens of Rabbi Julia Watts Belser’s book, Loving Our Own Bones (with gratitude to the omer book group). She devotes an entire chapter to the subject of priestly blemishes, focusing not on the offering, but on qualifications of the priest to who makes the offerings. Leviticus 21 lays out the biblical criteria for determining those priests who are forbidden to come before the altar: The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say, “No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a mum (a “defect” or “blemish”) shall be qualified to offer the food of his God…” Rabbi Julia puts in stark relief how hurtful and ableist this text is – how it assumes that our blemishes disqualify us from sacred service. And she rightly asserts the exact opposite must be true. Which based on my own life experience, I too feel in my bones. That ability and disability are deeply human experiences that give us unique insights and draw us closer to the Divine. And even more so, she has helped me understand that ability and disability is a false binary, as most every human experiences disability in their lifetime, even the most able person is only temporarily so. The text is particularly painful because it ascribes our worst human prejudice to God, which surely inscribes the sentiment in every aspect of our culture. And it is then up to us to reclaim our own bodies and redeem this scripture (as we have done with so many other verses). So to close I offer you the liberatory theology of Rabbi Julia: “What shall we make of this portrait of God? … When I read Leviticus 21, I read a text that has been shaped by human prejudice, a text marked by human assumptions about the beautiful and the good… The God I know does not require the semblance of symmetry. The God I know does not share this human fascination with standard-sized bodies all lined up in tidy little rows. The God I know has made a world brimming over with difference, has fashioned mind and limbs that unfold in their own particular ways… When I read Leviticus 21, I take it as a reminder of those false judgements, the way they have been scripted even onto God. I hear this Torah as a different sort of call: a call to witness the long shadow of stigma and exclusion that has shaped the lives of so many disabled people, a call to confront and to challenge entrenched patterns of social and religious violence that have contoured our lives (63-65).” This shabbat I pray we each can hear this different sort of call, can more fully embrace blemish, disability and difference, can feel the ways we are each uniquely qualified to be of service. |
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General Questions: (267) 702-6187 or [email protected]
Shabbat Services: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #1, Philadelphia, PA 19143