An Imam, a Priest, and a Rabbi

Earlier this week I hosted a panel discussion with interfaith clergy at The Davis Academy Middle School. The whole experience, from start to finish, felt very sacred. From our pre-huddle where we connected as colleagues and human beings to the discussion itself, which was driven by thoughtful questions from the students and deep listening. It felt like a small tikkun (mending) amidst the brokenness of the world around us.

After the formal discussion ended, a faculty member approached us. She introduced herself, explained a bit about her rich and varied faith background, then took a small figurine of Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, from her pocket. She explained that she planned to give the figurine to a close friend who is experiencing difficulty conceiving a child and asked if each of us might bless the figurine as a gesture of spiritual support.

I’m pretty sure the three of us, “experts” at faith, were caught off guard by the invitation. I know it took me a second to confirm that it was “kosher” for a rabbi to bless a Catholic figurine. I can’t speak for my colleagues, but I suspect they had a similar moment. After a few seconds of reflecting on what was being asked, each of us took turns holding the figurine and offering authentic words of blessing. It was a joy listening to my colleagues and seeing what it all meant to the four people involved.

The whole experience only lasted about two minutes, but it’s something I’ll never forget.

Often the premise of, “an imam, a priest, and a rabbi,” feels like the setup for a bad joke. And while humor has its time and place, and is often a healing force unto itself, there’s so much more than a punchline and a cheap laugh that can come into the world when we come together in mutual respect and common purpose.

Enjoy the Music– A Footnote to Yossi Prager’s Speech at Prizmah 2019

Approximately 1,100 lay and professional Jewish Day School leaders had the unique privilege of “being in the room” as Yossi Prager reflected on the legacy of the AVI CHAI Foundation as well as the future of the Jewish Day School movement. The feeling in the room was one of profound appreciation and solidarity. Literally every person in that room, regardless of role, geographic location, or religious denomination, has been directly impacted by AVI CHAI Foundation programming and funding. I think it’s fair to say that each of us appreciated Yossi’s thoughtful reminiscences and were inspired by his optimistic outlook toward the future.

For those that weren’t in the room, the speech is now circulating thanks to eJewish Philanthropy. It’s an important read. Yet while the essence of the speech is preserved there, I noticed one omission that is, in my opinion, quite significant: the final three words. At the end of his speech, Yossi invited those of us in the room to “enjoy the music.” That invitation is missing from the printed version of the speech.

The peshat (straightforward) reason why Yossi invited us to “enjoy the music” is because his remarks were followed by an inspiring and uplifting performance by the band, Distant Cousins, a perfect capstone to the evening. Since there’s no live musical performance following the reading of Yossi’s speech in its current format, it makes sense that this exhortation was removed from the published version of his remarks because it lacks context. At the same time, I think the omission of these words renders the speech somehow incomplete.

What I heard in Yossi’s call to “enjoy the music” was more than the peshat, more than a straightforward invitation to enjoy the infectious sounds of Distant Cousins. I heard, in those three words, a call to appreciate the beauty, power, and possibility that surrounds us in each moment.

To me, “enjoy the music” means enjoying the sounds of the conversations of the people in the room that night. It means enjoying the heartfelt applause, expressions of gratitude, clinking of silverware, smiling faces, and sounds of friends and colleagues embracing one another. To me, it was a call to be fully present for the DSLTI Reunion and other evening receptions that followed that evening, including a fabulous poetry reading by Jake Marmer. To me, it was a call to listen closely. To pay attention. To honor the collective sound of our earnest and deep devotion to the Jewish People, Jewish education, and Torah. “Enjoy the music” is, in my humble opinion, an orientation toward life that encompasses mindful awareness, conscious listening, and acknowledgment of the beauty that surrounds us in each moment.

During Yossi’s speech, I had the good fortune of sitting next to two colleagues. On my left was Dr. Deborah Skolnick Einhorn, associate dean and professor at Hebrew College. I enjoyed the music of our conversation, especially because it included a shared appreciation of Rebecca Good, one of her advisees and one of my beloved colleagues at The Davis Academy who was also at our table that evening. On my right was Dr. Bruce Powell, one of the most audacious and pioneering leaders of the Jewish Day School movement. At the end of Yossi Prager’s speech, I turned to Bruce and suggested that “enjoy the music” wasn’t only a great way for Yossi Prager to end his speech, but a great way for anyone to end any speech. For the reasons I’ve alluded to here, I stand by that observation.

When you read Yossi’s speech, I hope you will indeed “enjoy the music” not only of his remarks, but of this sacred journey upon which we find ourselves.

A Rabbi Walks into a Church of Scientology

Today I took a step outside my comfort zone. I visited and toured our local Church of Scientology here in Atlanta, GA.

A bit of context. I’m a member of the Sandy Springs Interfaith Clergy Association. The group meets monthly, and this month’s meeting happened to be at the Church of Scientology located in Sandy Springs. That’s how I ended up there.

And to be honest, visiting a house of study and prayer of another faith tradition isn’t exactly outside of my comfort zone. In fact, it’s very much within my comfort zone. At the same time, like many people that I know, I started my day fairly ignorant of what actually takes place at a Church of Scientology.

This post isn’t about the many things that I learned about Scientology while I was on site today. It’s not an endorsement or a critique of the specifics of Scientology as they were explained to me today. Instead, it’s about the simple act of replacing ignorance with knowledge, of seeking experiences that expand our appreciation for ideas and beliefs that are foreign to our own.

Visiting a Church of Scientology isn’t an act of heroism. It’s not praiseworthy. It’s not even admirable. But it is a small step in the direction of deeper understanding and awareness of the social fabric that makes up the broader world in which I live. I learned something today. I spoke with some people that I might otherwise never have interacted with. I saw something in person that others, including myself, have spoken about without any actual insight or experience. Having done so, I’m more ready for the next such encounter, and even more curious about all there is to learn and discover in the lives of the people around me.

From the Depths

Last Saturday, 11 Jews in Pittsburgh, Pa were murdered during their Shabbat morning prayers. Each had a name. Each had a story. Each had a life behind and ahead of them. Each should still be with us today. But they are not. They join the countless dead who have been murdered by their fellow human beings, filled with hate, turned toward violence. We live in a world where the simple act of living each day has become an act of courage. But maybe it’s always been that way. In fact, it probably has. Being a human being takes courage. Life, and the affirmation thereof, take courage.

I’ll never forget the feeling of disbelief, numbness, heaviness, and helplessness I felt last Saturday morning as I sat in a Moe’s restaurant with my family, having an early lunch. Unable to comprehend, unable to look away. Feeling like my phone had become a messenger of the most sickening and devastating news. At a certain point, all I could do was eat lunch and then walk a bit with my family.

But since then, I have seen so much good in the world that it’s hard to know what to do with it. From the heartfelt immediate responses of the Middle School students of The Davis Academy to the outpouring of support from all corners of the interfaith community in Atlanta and around the country. From the kind and comforting support of law enforcement and civic leaders to the urgent voices of my rabbinical colleagues simultaneously speaking words of comfort and prophetic critique. I have seen beauty. I have seen courage. I have seen dignity. I have seen blessing. Never has the urgency of Judaism felt more clear. Never has the possibility of communal and cultural transformation felt more real and within reach. There’s something happening here. Or at least there might be. Have we suffered enough, individually and collectively, to begin the process of transforming our suffering?

Tonight I joined more than 1,000 fellow human beings for Shabbat evening services at The Temple. The large numbers were a response to what happened in Pittsburgh, but also an intentional effort to bring Jews and non-Jews alike to #ShowUpforShabbat. And they did. Most meaningful to me was talking with two men, individually, neither of who had ever been to synagogue. It felt so sacred to welcome them to our house of worship and to affirm and bear witness to their desire to be among the Jewish people in our hour of need and on Shabbat.

I am certain that what took place at The Temple tonight took place across the country at synagogues of all types and denominations. Tonight the American Jewish community had a chance to say, “This is who we are. This is what we value. This is how we come together. This is how we pray.” Our clergy said it. Our leadership said it. And most importantly, our teens said it. We sang it. We prayed it. We preached it. And we shared it with others.

As a friend said, “Jews do well in times of crisis.” Which is true. And which raises the possibility that future weeks will see the predictable “return to normal” for Jews and the rest of us out there. But I’m hoping for a different story. I’m hoping that the time has finally come when all decent people of all walks of life realize that our entire age is a time of crisis and that the only way to make things better and avoid falling completely into chaos and despair, is for all of us to join forces, break down walls, learn to listen, soften our hearts, embrace our differences, leverage our commonalities, and start to mend the wounds that cripple us.

An American Pogrom- An American Response

Yesterday, on October 26th, 2018, the American Jewish community experienced what I am calling an American Pogrom. Historians and scholars may rightly object to my appropriation of this term, but I’ll make my argument nonetheless. As most of us know, the site of the pogrom was the Tree of Life Synagogue in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh.

For those that aren’t familiar with the concept of a pogrom, a pogrom is the organized and intentional intimidation and/or massacre of a particular ethnic group, typically Jews. Throughout Jewish history, and especially in the 16th-19th centuries, the pogrom was a consistent feature of Jewish life in Eastern Europe where Jews generally lived in Jewish neighborhoods and towns, called shtetls. Typically carried out by uneducated, poor, anti-semitic neighbors or local townsfolk and largely condoned by local authorities, pogroms ranged from destruction of Jewish property to physical assault and murder. The message of a pogrom is quite simple and clear– you aren’t welcome here and you aren’t safe here; you are powerless, we are powerful.

When an anti-semitic, hate-filled gunman, walked into the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh on a Shabbat morning and began to open fire on those Jews who had gathered for Shabbat worship, I couldn’t help but think about this horrific act of violence in terms of the pogrom. While a dear and much respected friend has pointed out that what took place in Pittsburgh is not a pogrom akin to what took place in previous centuries and even today in other countries, it evokes for me, a taste of what Jews in these other settings might have felt. These resonances, along with the fact that the murder was carried out with an automatic weapon, like so many recent tragedies, is what leads me to call it an American pogrom. Gun violence is, undeniably, an American issue and one that needs immediate and enduring resolution.

An American pogrom. Like many Jews, people of faith, Americans, and people of conscience, I wanted to believe that pogroms were a thing of the past. But like anti-semitism, and racism/bigotry/hate more generally, it seems that the pogrom has a certain staying power. A stain on humanity, we haven’t yet figured out how to wash these and other forms of hatred and violence away. But we will.

An American pogrom requires an American response. An American response to this cowardly and pathetic assertion of White Supremacy will have to be multifaceted. Here are a few of the key components, as I understand them.

  1. Interfaith solidarity and action. Americans of all faiths and no faith must come together to denounce this act as well as the culture and ethos from which it was born and which it exemplifies. Every synagogue, church, mosque, mandir, and meditation center must understand that while this act specifically targeted Jews, it is an affront to all Americans, to all people of faith, and to virtually every core American ideal that’s worth fighting for. We need more interfaith dialogue, more interfaith civic action, more interfaith voices teaching our political leaders how to exercise moral and spiritual leadership. Initial indications from here in Atlanta and from colleagues across the country is that this is already underway and will only grow stronger.
  2. Jewish solidarity and action. Alongside a more general mobilization of good people, Jews need to express solidarity with one another and take action as well. We need to grieve and heal. We need to express our outrage, fear, and anguish. And quickly, we need to reassure our children that they are safe in our synagogues, schools, and Jewish Community Centers. While redoubling our efforts to secure our communities is necessary, it isn’t sufficient. We need to convey to our children, and to one another, the unique value of Jewish teaching and tradition. We need to demonstrate the vibrancy of Jewish life and Jewish practice. We need to elevate that which is vital in Judaism. Dare I say it, we need to lift up that within Judaism that might actually be worth dying for. This is the only way that we can even incrementally redeem our innocent dead.
  3. The Jewish Voice in American Life. We need more and louder Jewish voices in American civic conversations today. That’s because Judaism is a tradition founded upon a belief in human dignity. That’s because Judaism is a tradition that is relentless in its commitment to the pursuit of peace and justice. That’s because Judaism is a tradition that simultaneously holds a grand vision for the redemption of all humankind alongside a vision of how people should go about their daily lives in a way that emphasizes kindness, compassion, and love. The prophetic voice is alive and well within Judaism, but sometimes it prefers to speak in a whisper. It’s time, to use the prophet Isaiah’s words, to “raise our voices like a shofar.”
  4. To Our Children. When our children learn about a tragedy many process the news by asking what they can do. For now, the message is quite simple– they can live their lives in a way that recaptures and emphasizes that which seems to be banished from the world in moments like these. They can be kind to one another. They can nourish their own hearts and minds with good ideas. They can make an effort to get to know people who are different from them. They can express gratitude to the helpers and heroes in their lives. By emphasizing these things, we will eventually be able to help them see how these basic decencies, once (and hopefully still) emblematic of America, are in fact much more than simple interpersonal gestures. By accustoming our children to kindness, thoughtfulness, curiosity, and respect for dignity and difference, we will be setting them up for a better life and a better world and reclaiming our rightful role as the true heirs and guardians of what it means to be an American.

 

We Come Full Circle

We Come Full Circle

A circle is opened.

Sitting in the circle:

People

of different faiths, backgrounds, experiences, colors, voices, faces, hopes, fears, loves, names.

Singing:

to punctuate the silence.

Silence:

to punctuate the song.

Eyes closed:

visions unfold.

Eyes open:

seeing the love between.

Together:

a healing.

A circle is closed.

Film Review: RBG

Having heard great things about the recently released documentary, RBG, my wife and I decided to see it. We don’t see many films in the theater these days, so this was something of an event in and of itself. After watching the film we both had the same assessment: mediocre. Typically, I wouldn’t review a piece of media that falls into the “mediocre” category, but I want to express my thoughts and feelings as to why.

My main issue with the film is its relative superficiality. It takes an interesting and unique subject and treats it in a fairly mundane and predictable way. It essentially traces her life story, intertwining personal and professional narratives. It paints a picture of an exceptionally energetic and passionate individual with a great sense of humor who was a true fighter for equal protection under the law. Beyond that, there’s not much that it adds to an already robust portrait of RBG.

The filmmakers had exceptional access to RBG. I wish they had explored her personal relationships with Supreme Court Justices like Antonin Scalia, providing an honest and nuanced example of how people with radically different legal and political beliefs could still extend one another mutual respect and remain in conversation. I wish they had, as my wife pointed out, probed RBG to express what it feels like to issue dissenting opinions and rulings from the Supreme Court. And lastly, I wish they had explored the concept of “dissent” more thoroughly, demonstrating how dissenting opinions empower the minority by ensuring that its voice is heard and documented for posterity.

A few years ago, we purchased a children’s book about RBG to read to our kids. That short book did more to highlight RBG’s Jewish identity, her accomplishments, and her vital role as a dissenting opinion more effectively that the documentary did.

Not a horrible film, just a series of missed opportunities.

Visits to Drepung Loseling Monastery

On the past two consecutive Thursday evenings I’ve visited the Drepung Loseling Monastery here in Atlanta. The monastery, devoted to the practice of Tibetan Buddhism, has been on my radar for many years. Finally curiosity got the better of me and I found a convenient time to attend one of their weekly public meditation gatherings.

Walking into the monastery, I happily took off my shoes and sat down on one of the comfortable cushions on the floor. I felt very relaxed and open-minded as I looked at the beautiful images of the Buddha and other figures from Buddhist tradition while waiting for the instructor to begin.

Both instructors (a different one each week) began with a short talk about Cognitive Based Compassion Training– the type of meditation being offered those evenings. Part mindfulness, part analytical meditation on themes of self-compassion and compassion for others, CBCT is a modern manifestation of ancient Tibetan practices on these themes. Following the short discussion, we had an opportunity to meditate.

I appreciated being able to walk into a prayerful space with complete anonymity. I felt no judgment during my time there and I also felt seen/beheld by the instructor. I found the practice to be soothing, meaningful, authentic, and spiritually engaging. I felt like I was in the company of fellow practitioners committed to cultivating compassion. I felt no tension or conflict between the practice and my Jewish religious and spiritual practice. In fact, I felt quite the opposite– a synergy.

Overall, a positive experience that I plan to further explore in the coming months and years.