We have a religious tradition that is very concerned with boundaries.  Every culture and group has them.  Boundaries are one of the ways we define ourselves.  Boundaries give us clarity about our values.  The system of priestly holiness expresses our culture’s values around life and death.  Our laws of kashrut also define the boundaries of our community and teach us to respect the food we eat.  Boundaries are important, because they define who or what is inside or outside.  But boundaries can also get out of hand.

A few months ago, the Los Angeles Jewish Journal ran a story[1] about a growing trend in the orthodox community toward greater strictness when it comes to insects in lettuce and other fruits and vegetables.  As you probably know, bugs are not kosher.[2] Until just a decade ago or so, for most of us who keep kosher that has meant that we keep an eye out for little critters while we rinse our vegetables.  But what has happened in recent years is that orthodox rabbis and kosher supervision agencies have become increasingly concerned with insects that are sometimes so small that they can only be seen under a black light using a magnifying glass.  For example, there is a lettuce grower in California that distributes romaine lettuce that it guarantees to be bug free.  It is grown in greenhouses using large quantities of pesticides and carefully inspected throughout the growing process.

Boundaries are important but they can get out of hand.  The orthodox community today, despite some of its touted successes, is anxious.  And they are nervous for good reason.  They are afraid of the influences of non-orthodox Judaism and non-Jewish society on their culture.  And, one of the results is this move to ever increasing levels of strictness in halachic practice.    But, as the article about ultra-kosher lettuce describes, the costs are also very high.  A head of uber-kosher lettuce can cost as much as $6-8; it’s drenched in pesticides and the quality isn’t as good.

You see, the thing we often forget about boundaries is that they have two sides.  It’s true that they define what is forbidden, what is outside, what is beyond the pale.  But, on the other side reasonable boundaries also open up the space for what is permitted and create the opportunity for a meaningful experience within.  When the torah is saying, don’t eat these certain things, it’s also inviting us into a meaningful relationship to the foods we are allowed to eat.  When the Torah says, don’t sacrifice an animal that is blemished, it’s also inviting us to bring an offering to the altar that represents the best of ourselves.

Of course, boundaries pose challenges in two directions.  There will be people who want to push against the boundaries or even step across them, and that’s a challenge to the system. And that tendency triggers an equally challenging impulse in the other direction: a move to ever narrower boundaries, which can become unsustainable and ultimately undermine the purpose of the boundaries.  If you are only allowed to eat wilted $8 lettuce, you can’t expect to be healthy.

The truth is, however, that most non-orthodox Jews are not terribly concerned with strict halachic boundaries.  I doubt anyone here buys $8 lettuce out of fear that we might accidently eat a microscopic bug.  But there is one area in Jewish life where even the most secular among us are concerned with boundaries.  In the Jewish community today, talking about Israel – its government’s policies, and its prospects for peace – has become like eating salad in the Orthodox community.  It is fraught with anxiety and it is exacting a high cost on us.

As with the orthodox concerns over kashrut, the leadership of the Jewish community has very good reasons to be anxious.  The situation is Israel is serious and there are a lot of haters out there who want to exploit the status quo in order to delegitimize the Jewish State.  It goes beyond defamation… there are also very real tangible threats to Israel’s existence.  Israel remains surrounded by enemies, some of whom are actively aggressive toward our Homeland.

It is not surprising to me that with all these threats, supporters of Israel around the world, especially here in the United States, are anxious.  And, as a result, many of Israel’s supporters are circling the wagons, building up walls, and setting ever narrower boundaries around our conversations on Israel.  To some extent, I get that… but like ultra-kosher lettuce, the price is too high.

We have come to a situation now where we no longer can talk about Israel.  To some of us, the boundaries appear so constricted that there is no room to maneuver.  For others, the people pushing on the boundaries appear dangerous.  The situation has impoverishes the conversation and actually weakens our community’s ability to face the real threats out there.  We’ve lost sight of who our enemies are to the point that well-meaning Jews are calling each other the enemy.  What it means to be pro- or anti- has nearly lost all meaning.  (And perhaps the discourse of pro- and anti- is part of the problem)

The result is paralyzing – we have become unable to have necessary and productive conversations about Israel’s future.  It’s dividing our community and draining valuable energy that we could be using to help Israel.  It’s causing many people – especially younger Jews – to disengage.  They don’t want to be yelled at or talked down to, so they walk away.  Rabbis are abdicating their responsibility to lead the community by refraining from talking about Israel because it isn’t worth the headache; or worse – they feel their job will be threatened.  And, the often-narrow boundaries of our conversation are making it difficult to enlist potential allies in to our cause.

To this dilemma, I want to offer two points from our parsha.  The first is an example of where even strict boundaries can be permeable when there’s a greater principle at stake.  As you probably know, a kohein is not allowed to come in proximity of a dead body.  But there is an exception. [3] A priest may defile himself in order to bury a close relative.  Not only is he allowed, he is obligated.  The reason is that his grief as a mourner and his obligation to show respect to his family outweigh the strict boundaries.  The principle is called kavod ha’briot, which roughly means “human dignity.”  Human dignity comes before purity.  The demand for ideological purity (of whatever stripe) in our conversations is coming at the cost of respect and dignity.  We are too quick to label other Jews “enemies”, “self-hating,” “appeasers”; and likewise others are quick to label their opponents as “racists,” “anti-democratic,” or “unjust.”  It’s undignified and wrong.  But that’s what happens when you don’t have boundaries broad enough to encompass healthy debate.  We need to be able to work out what is acceptable discourse and what is not, but most off all we can’t be afraid simply to talk.

The second point I want to make comes from the end of the parsha in which we read about a situation where a certain Israelite pronounces God’s name in blasphemy.[4] The interesting thing is that the people around him didn’t know exactly what to do about him.  So they bring him to Moses; and even Moses doesn’t know what to do. So Moses brings the matter before God.  Only when God Himself renders his judgment does the community carry out the penalty.  What I find so interesting about this is that even Moses is hesitant to condemn a person for something they said, even though it seems quite clearly to be a cardinal sin.  We have a situation in our community where fellow Jews are too quickly labeled blasphemers when it comes to Israel.  And we should have a little bit of Moses’ humility when passing judgment on what others say.  We should be more willing to assume good intentions from other Jews.  Words and ideas are powerful, but not everything with which we disagree rises to the level of blasphemy.  So let’s chill out!  The stakes may be high when it comes to Israel, but not that high.  An opening of debate, especially amongst ourselves, is not going to hurt anyone; yet we act as though an opinion with which we disagree is literally giving ammunition to our enemies.  We can afford to talk, especially when the conversation is amongst ourselves.  After all, Israelis themselves don’t have a problem with contentious debate.  Nowhere in the Torah does it say, “thou shalt not take Bibi’s name in vain… or Shimon Peres’ name in vain.”  You’re allowed to talk. It’s OK!

I’m happy to say, that I think things are changing and I’m proud to say that our synagogue is leading the way.  And I have to commend Rabbi Dollin for being a statesman in this effort to heal the rifts in our community.  This coming week, on Wednesday evening, HEA will be hosting a panel discussion on what it means to be pro-Israel in America today.  Yes, the program is being sponsored by J Street – which means some people have already labeled the event treif and blasphemous even before the program has taken place.  Rabbi Dollin and I have received angry calls and emails simply for agreeing to hold the panel.  It really has to stop.  We can’t have a situation where it’s dangerous for Jews to talk to one another about something that matters so much to us.  We’re asking people to come and listen and ask questions.  Our goal is to model healthy productive conversation; and hopefully that will lead to more dialogue.  Is that really too much?  I promise you: we won’t be serving any treif salad.

Shabbat Shalom

[2] The Torah specifies a few varieties of locust that are permissible (see Leviticus 11:20-23), but most authorities hold that because we are not certain about which species are kosher, we should not eat any locust.

[3] See Leviticus 21:1-4. A kohein may defile his purity in order to bury a parent, sibling, or child.  Our Sages also interpret that a kohein may also do so for his wife (see BT Yev. 22b) or for a met mitzvah, an abandoned corpse which has no one else available to care for it (Leviticus Rabbah 26:8)

[4] See Leviticus 24:10-16.  The man is actually described as half-Israelite – his mother is Israelite and his father Egyptian.  It isn’t clear what he says, but he invokes God name in vain or in a curse.

On Yom Tov, kindling a new flame is not permitted, however, the use of an existing fire for cooking or other purposes is permitted.  On Shabbat, neither kindling a new flame nor transferring a flame are permitted.

To allow you to light candles for second day of Yom Tov (Saturday night), ensure you have a fire burning before the beginning of Shabbat that will continue to burn at least until after dark when Shabbat ends.  The most common way to do this is with a “yahrzeit candle” that burns for at least 25 hours.  A pilot light on a gas range may also be used.

On Friday night, you should light your candles before 7:11 pm.

On Saturday night, use your existing flame to transfer fire to the Yom Tov candles for the Second Seder.  (The blessings are in the Haggadah).  The candles should be lit after dark (8:12 pm).

Also note that since Shabbat ends with the advent of Yom Tov on Saturday night, the procedure for Havdalah is a little different and does not include spices.  Consult your Haggadah for the proper way to do Havdalah at your second night seder.

Remember that Friday morning is your last chance to remove Chametz from your home.  Chametz should not be eaten any later than 10:25 am and all chametz should be removed from your possession by 11:45 am.  If you haven’t sold your chametz and would like to do that by email, please find instructions on my blog: http://headenver.org/rabbigruenwald/2012/04/02/selling-your-chametz-by-email/

I hope your preparations for Pesach are going smoothly.  Among other things, Hametz (the foods forbidden on Passover) represents arrogance and self-absorption; whereas matza is simultaneously the simple food of a slave (lechem oni) and a symbol of our liberation. As you rid your homes of hametz, may the act of kashering for Pesach also bring spiritual renewal to you and your family.

Have a happy and meaningful Pesach,

Rabbi Salomon Gruenwald

For more information about preparing your home for Passover, please visit this helpful guide from the Rabbinical Assembly: http://www.rabbinicalassembly.org/practical-rabbinics/kashrut/pesah-guide

Please cut-and-paste the following text into an email message and send it to me at sgruenwald@headenver.org no later than Friday April 6, 2012 at 7:00 am.

Authorization to Sell Chametz

I/we (names) ____________________ fully empower and permit Rabbi Salomon Gruenwald of Congregation HEA, Denver, to act in my place and stead, and on my behalf to sell all chametz (as defined by Torah and Rabbinic Law) in my possession, whether or not its existence is known to me.  Rabbi Salomon Gruenwald is also empowered to lease all places wherein the chametz owned by me may be found, especially at the following premises (list your home address and any other locations where you might own chametz):

This transaction will be in effect for the duration of Pesach in the year 5772.  By transmitting this email to Rabbi Gruenwald, I authorize this transaction as though I had signed with my own hand.

As a kid, I never wanted to be the Rashah – the wicked child.  Now that I’m slightly more mature, I’ve come to appreciate the place each of the 4 children has at the seder table.  Today the Rashah is perhaps my favorite of the four children because he’s the one who asked the most interesting question of all.

The question of the “wicked” child is based on a passage from the Torah:

And when your children ask you, “What does this service mean to you?” you shall say, “It is the Passover offering to the Lord, because God passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt and struck the Egyptians, but saved our houses.  (Exodus 12:26-27)

In its context, there’s nothing particularly wicked about the question.  The Passover Haggadah instead takes the question out of context and reads into it a malicious tone of voice.  The Haggadah says that the Rashah’s question is cynical because he excludes himself from the community by asking “What does this service mean to you?” rather than “…to us?”  The Haggadah goes on to say that had the Rashah been enslaved in Egypt, he would not have merited liberation because of his attitude.  And, yet, here he is represented at the seder table.  What’s more, when you look closely, the Rashah’s question really isn’t all that different from the Wise Child’s who also words his question in the second person “you.”

The only conclusion that I can draw is that the four children are not meant to be taken literally – instead, the they represent four dispositions that are manifest in all of us.  At times, we are all wise – curious to know the details of Jewish observance.  At other times, we are all simple, asking nothing more than “what is this?”  At other times, we don’t even know what to ask out of apathy or ignorance.  And yet at other times we (rightfully) challenge the very premise of our Jewish practice.

All of these questions have a place at our Passover table.  In the dramatic reenactment that is our seder we are not, in fact, the children.  Our role as adults is to offer the responses to the questions.  We have to be able to answer the Wise Child by knowing how to observe the rules of Passover.  We need to be able to tell the narrative of the Exodus to the Simple child and explain the symbols of the holiday to the One Who Does not Know how to Ask.  And, perhaps most importantly, we have to be able to answer the Rashah who asks us “What does this mean to you?”

The answer to this challenging question will be a little different for each of us and will probably change from year to year.  As we prepare ourselves for the Feast of Freedom, I hope you will give some thought to the Rashah’s question and enter this year’s Pesach with your own meaningful answer.  If you need some help, check out some of the resources listed below.

Have a happy and meaningful Passover,

Rabbi Gruenwald

Resources for a More Meaningful Passover

These are some of my favorite haggadot and resource books for making seder a meaningful and engaging experience for you and your guests:

Haggadot:

A Different Night, The Family Participation Haggadah, by Noam Zion and David Dishon

This is the haggadah we use at my home.  It is a wonderful resource for creative and engaging conversations around the table.  There is also a compact edition of the haggadah which is quite nice and very affordable.  The authors have also produced a helpful leader’s guide with additional materials and great advice.

Ten years after producing A Different Night, the authors, who live in Israel, produced A Night to Remember: The Haggadah of Contemporary Voices.  This haggadah was originally written in Hebrew with an Israeli audience in mind.

A Passover Haggadah: Go Forth and Learn, by David Silber

This is an excellent haggadah for learning more about the traditional seder.  It has a running commentary and essays that draw on biblical and rabbinic literature to explain the origins and significance of the Passover feast. Frankly, I’m not sure this is the haggadah I would use at my seder table, but it is an excellent resource for those that want an scholarly and erudite rendition of the traditional haggadah.

New American Haggadah, edited by Jonathan Safran Foer with translations by Nathan Englander.

This is a brand new haggadah out this year that is getting a lot of buzz.  I have not yet read it, but the reviews I’ve read have been positive.  If any of you read it this year, I would love to discuss it with you.

Passover Haggadah: The Feast of Freedom, edited by Rachel Anne Rabbinowicz.

This haggadah was produced by the Rabbinical Assembly of the Conservative Movement.  It preserves the traditional text of the haggadah and offers an excellent commentary that aims at being both scholarly and inspirational.  The haggadah was illustrated with the unique art of Dan Reisinger.  This is a very good haggadah for year-to-year use at your seder.

Resources:

Creating Lively Passover Seders, by David Arnow

This is an excellent source book to use when preparing to lead a seder or for anyone who wants to deepen their understanding of Passover.  It is arranged thematically.

Passover: The Family Guide to Spiritual Celebration, by Ron Wolfson

Dr. Wolfson was one of my favorite professors in rabbinical school.  This excellent book offers all sorts of ideas for creating lively and fun participatory seders.  A teacher’s guide is also available.

The Jewish Way, by Irving (Yitz) Greenberg

Rabbi Greenberg’s The Jewish Way is by now a modern classic.  It is an excellent introduction to the meaning and history of the holidays as well as an explanation of how they are practiced.

My People’s Passover Haggadah: Traditional Texts, Modern Commentaries (2 volumes), edited by Rabbi Laurence Hoffman and David Arnow.

After the success of his My People’s Prayerbook series, Lawrence Hoffman has produced an excellent commentary on the haggadah with contributions from 11 leading scholars, each focused on a different aspect of the text.  This is a must for anyone who wants to delve deeply into the text of the haggadah.

Following from the popularity of the new bima furniture, I’ve decided to redecorate the entire sanctuary.  To complement the salmon pink chairs that the clergy sit on, we will be reupholstering the pews in a variety of pastel colors chosen to heighten the visual experience of our sanctuary.

Many of you have observed that the Shabbat morning services aren’t “spiritual” enough.  I agree.  The Kabbalists of medieval Tzfat spoke of a mystical experience they called dveikut whereby the spiritual seeker meditates and prays in order to achieve a sense of closeness to the Divine.   This transcendent encounter is not easy to attain and it certainly can’t happen in the brief span of our Shabbat services.  Three and half hours is simply not long enough to contemplate our relationship to the Creator of heaven and earth.  For this reason, I’ve asked Cantor Goldstein to create a new mystical Shabbat experience in which he will sing no less than 18 (Chai!) notes per syllable.   By the time we finish around 5 pm, I’m sure we will all be at one with the universe.

As you know we are always looking for ways to run our shul more efficiently.  Cleaning and upkeep comprise a large part of our budget.  So in an effort to reduce costs, HEA will no longer be employing maintenance staff or outside cleaning services.  I have decided that all congregants will now be required to do custodial work around the synagogue as a condition of their membership.  This has the added benefit of building a sense of communal responsibility and moral character.  You will be receiving your weekly assignments shortly.

Even with these cost-cutting measures, the HEA needs more revenue.  For that reason, I am proposing some new fundraising ideas.  From now on, if parents want to speak at the bar or bat mitzvah, they will be charged $1 per word.  Also, the shul owns a lot of land we aren’t making good use of.  Perhaps we should get on the bandwagon and grow medical marijuana on the large field behind the building.  We could sell it at a tidy profit in the newly renamed Goldberger Youth Center & Kosher Dispensary.

Let’s face it; the Colorado lifestyle and Jewish observance don’t always mix.  Attendance at shul during the winter season drops when many families are enjoying the ski resorts on the weekends.  Believe me; I love an epic day of snowboarding as much as any of you.  So, I am implementing a new policy.  From now on, if the mountains get 6 or more inches of fresh powder on a Friday, Shabbat morning services will be relocated to the back bowl at Vail Resort.

Serving as the senior Rabbi of HEA for these months is truly a pleasure.  If you see my family, please tell them I’m having fun and I miss them.  To thank Rabbi Dollin for giving me this wonderful opportunity during his sabbatical, I am uprooting ten trees in Israel in his honor.

Thank you for reading this special Purim edition of my monthly article.  If you believed anything you read, please send a donation to the “Rabbi Gruenwald Recreational Fund” care of Congregation HEA.

Happy Purim!

What a person carries in their wallet can tell you a lot about them.  I carry a lot of membership cards.  I have a Costco membership, which allows me to buy enormous quantities of things I don’t really need.  I have an REI membership.  When I buy a bunch of over-priced outdoor gear, REI will supposedly give me back a small percentage of what I spend (it would be a lot easier if they just charged less).  I have a family membership to the Zoo so my kids and I can go whenever we want.  I’m a member of AAA.  I gladly pay my membership in the hopes that I never need to use it; but if my car were to break down, I want them to come quickly.

What all these memberships have in common is that they provide me with a service.  They establish a commercial relationship that grants me certain privileges.  We live in a culture in which much of who we are and how we navigate our world is defined by these utilitarian affiliations. And while they serve some very important functions in my life, what these memberships cannot provide is a sense of belonging and ultimate meaning.  The auto club doesn’t hold regular gatherings where members can discuss the meaning of driving.  If you have an American Express Card, “membership has its privileges,” but other Amex holders aren’t going to attend your kid’s bat mitzvah.  My fellow zoo goers don’t know anything about me.  Costco doesn’t send out an email when a customer has a death in their family.

There’s a profound difference between membership and belonging.   Community is not based on a set of contractual rights which an individual can demand, but rather a set of mutually interconnected obligations and duties.  It’s what Judaism calls mitzvah.

Belonging to a Kehillah – a sacred community – helps us to transcend ourselves and offers us an opportunity to frame the experiences of our lives with meaning and purpose.  Synagogues such as ours are places where we gather to share our lives together.  Kehillah is not a place where we simply go and take; it is where we come to give something of ourselves and create something with others.  It is a place where we can bring our joy and our pain, our triumphs and our disappointments.  It is a place where if you are mourning, people will come to offer comfort.  If you are celebrating, it is a place where people will dance and feast with you.

Parashat Bo tells of our people’s last night of slavery in Egypt when God asked us to have a feast with our neighbors and our friends.  It was on that last night in Egypt that we started to heal from the atomizing and dehumanizing experience of slavery and, by sharing a meal together, started becoming a community.

And, each one of us throughout the generations is commanded to relive that night.  “You shall observe this [feast] as an institution for all time,” the Torah says, “… and when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this ritual?’ you shall say…, ‘It is because of what the Lord did for me when I went free from Egypt.’” (see Ex. 12:24-26 & 13:8).  As you know from the Pesach seder, it is incumbent on each of us to see ourselves as though we ourselves were liberated from Egypt.   Each one of us is part of this covenantal community, bound to each other and to God by the common experience of having been liberated.  At its essence, that is what it means to be a Jew: to see ourselves as part of a timeless story.

At our best, that is also who we are here at Congregation HEA.  We are a strong, warm, caring community that gathers around a shared set of values and sense of duty to one another.  And in addition to our communal story as Jews, we are proud of our story as a Synagogue.  In a few weeks we will be celebrating 85 years of our synagogue’s Sisterhood.  Our Sisterhood, as many of you know, is actually older than the shul itself.  The Beth David Sisterhood, which started in 1927, formed the first religious school on Denver’s West Side that taught a new generation of young Jews in English and Hebrew, instead of Yiddish.  Five years later, they hired Rabbi Manuel Laderman to serve as the principle of the school; but Rabbi Laderman insisted that the school had to be embedded in the communal context of a synagogue.  As the families of HEA, we owe a lot to the vision of the Sisterhood and Rabbi Laderman.

Those early years must have been heady days.  Building a community from scratch is an exhilarating thing to be part of.  I imagine everyone rolled up their sleeves and pitched in to set up the chairs, put out the Kiddush, and cleaned up afterward.   I imagine that the first few years in this new building were like that too.

And all that hard work and those volunteer hours paid off. Over the years, the Alliance has grown and also changed to meet the needs of our families.  Eighty years later we are a vibrant egalitarian Conservative synagogue with nearly 1000 households.  And despite our size, I think we’ve managed to remain friendly and welcoming.

But our success also comes with risks.  Today we find ourselves at a crossroads.  The Alliance continues to be successful, even despite the economy.  But, we are no longer the grassroots volunteer-driven shul we once were.  We run the risk of losing sight of the sleeves-rolled-up spirit that built this synagogue.  We run the risk of following the pattern of the society in which we live that has come to value commercial transactions over communal relationships.  We run the risk of treating the shul like any of the other memberships we carry in our wallet. For many Jews, synagogues are regarded like AAA: a place to call upon when they need something, but not the community to which they give of themselves.   For many Jews out there, Jewish life has devolved into a transactional relationship of fee-for-service.

But that’s not who we are at the HEA.  In a few weeks we will be holding our annual fundraiser in honor of the Sisterhood’s 85^th anniversary.  We need 300-400 people to attend.  I don’t usually make these sorts of appeals from the bimah, but I’m asking you to roll up your sleeves again.  On the one hand it’s true that it’s about meeting our operating budget… we need this fundraiser so that we can keep the lights on and pay our talented hard-working staff (who, by the way, operates this shul on a fraction of what other synagogues our size spend in a year).  But, it’s also so much more than making our budget.  I’m asking you to attend the fundraiser to support our community family.

This dinner is so important because it is an opportunity to recall where we came from and to look forward to where we are going.  It’s an opportunity for us to recapture the excitement of building a community together as we did in the 1930s and again in the 1990s.  Rabbi Dollin is on sabbatical right now precisely for that reason.  He reminds me often how important it is for communities like ours not to stagnate – to never be satisfied with the status quo.  He plans to return from sabbatical reenergized and ready to revitalize an already vibrant community.

But Rabbi Dollin can’t do it by himself.  The clergy and staff can’t do it by themselves.  If the next 80 years are to be as successful and energetic as the last 80, it’s going to be because we all come together to share our vision and to do our part.

Community calls on us to transcend ourselves – to see ourselves as part of a larger whole to which we have responsibilities.  Where else in our society do we have institutions that invite us to an attitude of reverence, wonder, and gratitude?  AAA doesn’t do that, Costco doesn’t do that; your gym doesn’t do that.  The synagogue community invites us to broaden the sphere of our concern beyond ourselves.  And it is with this posture of reverence and gratitude that we can step out of this building and better serve the broader world.  That’s what we are about as a people and that’s who we are as a synagogue.

So, I have a request and prayer for us.  My request is: don’t simply be a “member”; be a partner!  Belong to this community and give of yourself.  Give to each other.  You need us and we need you.  More than ever, HEA needs you.  Yes, I’m asking you to attend the fundraiser; but I am also asking you to give something far more valuable.  I am asking you to give your time, to put to use your talents for this community, and to open your hearts to ways in which belonging to a kehillah can change your life.

My prayer for us is that we continue to gather as a community and strengthen our ties to one another.  I pray that in the months and years ahead, we will broaden our spheres of concern, that we will allow ourselves to care and be cared for.  I pray that we find meaning and purpose in life through Torah so that we can continue to be the sacred community we are today.

To find out more about the annual dinner and to register, please click here.

24 December 2011

I want to begin by thanking you all for your kind words and your generous condolences on the passing of my grandmother, Rebeca Korngold.  I dedicate my d’var Torah to her today.

I was so encouraged by the numerous cards and emails and phone messages that I found upon my return to Colorado.  Yet it is difficult for me to be on the receiving end of condolences.  It is challenging for me to be seen in this way.

It’s been a tough several weeks for me and my family.  We got back from California last Friday and I had to hit the ground running since Rabbi Dollin went on Sabbatical as of Sunday… and I’ve been in a pretty terrible mood.  But I kept telling myself, I was OK.  Even at Shiva, I thought I was OK; when, in fact, I realize now that I was masking my sadness.  Reflecting on my awful mood this week, I realized that I’ve been hiding.  I’ve been concealing myself… and this sort of behavior is a pattern for me.

I’ve also been hiding from my friends and people who care about me.  This is how I cope… this is my pattern… so when we went to LA for the funeral and shiva, I told my best friend, Gary, but pretty much no one else.  I didn’t want my friends coming to my mom’s house.  I didn’t call people.  I just didn’t want to talk.  I made all the mistakes that I counsel grieving families not to make.

Why do we hide like that?  I suspect I’m not the only person who does it.  I think, at times, probably all of us have concealed ourselves when we’re sad or angry or frustrated.  We put on masks that say, “I’m ok.”  Why?  What purpose does it serve?

This week we read in the Torah the tale of Joseph who conceals himself from everyone he knows and cares about.  You’ll remember that earlier, Joseph had been left for dead in a pit by his jealous brothers, then sold into slavery, and then imprisoned in Egypt.  At the opening of Parashat Miketz, Joseph is brought before the Pharaoh.  While in prison, Joseph had gained a reputation as an interpreter of dreams and Pharoah had a vision he couldn’t figure out.  When Joseph tells the pharaoh that the dream predicts seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine, Pharaoh – recognizing Joseph as a talented person – appoints him as viceroy over all of Egypt.  The Pharaoh gives Joseph a new name and a new identity and marries him into Egyptian aristocracy.

Joseph went from the bottom of a dark and frightening pit all the way up to the pinnacle of success and power.  And under this assumed identity, Joseph thinks his troubles are over.  He deceives himself into thinking he has put the past behind him.  But we are given a subtle clue about his mixed feelings.  The Torah says, (Gen 41:50) “before the years of famine, Joseph became the father of two sons… He named the first-born Menasseh meaning, ‘God has made me forget completely my hardship and my parental home.’ And the second one he named Ephraim, meaning ‘God has made me fertile in the land of my degradation.’”  On the surface, this seems like a moment of closure or resolution… but it is far from it.  In naming Menasseh, Joseph claims he forgot the hardship of his youth… but clearly he hasn’t because if he had, he wouldn’t bring it up.  And, if he had truly liberated himself from his past, why would he refer to Egypt as the “land of my degradation”?

When Joseph’s brother’s come down from Canaan to get food, the Torah says Joseph recognized them, but he made himself unrecognizable to them.  He concealed himself and accused them of coming to Egypt to spy.  He says to them “you have come to see the land in its nakedness!”  As though to express his fear that his brothers are coming to victimize him again.  So, Joseph keeps up the façade.  Even though he overhears them expressing remorse over what they had done to him, Joseph refuses to reveal himself… and yet we see the mask breaking down little by little in the story.  He can’t contain his anguish and his ambivalence.

Next week we will read about how Joseph finally reveals himself to his brothers, but in Parashat Miketz, we see the beginning of that process.  It starts when Joseph sees his brother Benjamin for the first time.  Benjamin was the only one of the 12 brothers who shared a mother with Joseph.  When he saw his little brother I wonder if Joseph saw himself.  I wonder if he saw who he once was and who he had become.  I wonder if what breaks through the mask is the ability to see yourself in another.

Why do we hide from others, and what makes it possible for us to come out from behind the masks we create?  I don’t think hiding or concealing yourself is necessarily a bad thing.  For Joseph it served a very important purpose.  It protected him for a time from some very difficult feelings.  But the masks we wear, the ways we hide ourselves, run their course.  They only serve us for a time.  They don’t help us answer the questions or resolve the feelings from which we are hiding.

Joseph’s deception ran its course and it allowed him to see his brothers in a different way.  It allowed him to see the possibility of tshuvah – of repentance and repair.  And seeing Benjamin allowed Joseph to see himself again as part of his birth family.

So, on Thursday night I went out with a good friend.  We went to this awful little dive bar that smelled of testosterone and stale beer.  Aside from my wife and my best friend in LA, I don’t have too many people with whom I feel I can be totally myself.  I never really have, but being a rabbi makes it that much harder.  But this one friend and I are very similar.  And I told my friend stuff that was on my mind; things I don’t talk about with anyone; things that have been weighing heavy on me for months.  And he told me his stuff too… and his stuff looked a lot like my stuff.  In fact, the questions we have and the struggles we have are so similar that it was like I was listening to the voice in my head when he spoke.

And when I went home, I felt a little better.  I felt better not because my friend helped me solve my problems.  In fact, the conversation didn’t help me solve any of my problems.  Since we’re so alike, his suggestions were all things I had already come up with myself!

And, yet, I felt better.  I went home feeling a little lighter; a little less frustrated; a little less confused.  I felt better because I felt heard; I felt understood.  I felt less alone.

Too often, we hide because we don’t want to confront the darkness inside.  Like Joseph, we remember what it was like to be thrown into a dark pit and we never want to go back.  So, we convince ourselves that if we just don’t gaze into the darkness, it isn’t really there.  But it doesn’t work.  The masks we wear conceal us, but they also obstruct our view… so instead of avoiding the dark pits, we just fall back into the same ones over and over.

As it happens, Parashat miketz is almost always read during Hanukkah.  I don’t think it is a coincidence that at the very darkest time of the year we celebrate a festival that is all about the power of a little light.  Parashat Miketz and Hanukah come together at this moment to teach us some important lessons.  The lights of the Hanukiyah are very special.  They are like no other candles we light during the rest of the year.  On Shabbat and Holidays, the candles we light are specifically to be used for their illumination.  But on Hanukah it’s the opposite… one is not allowed to use the light for any utilitarian end.  On Hanukkah the light is for nothing else but for joy.  We are to look at the candles and be encouraged and comforted and feel their blessings; and we are to see that light glow in our homes and reflect off of the faces of our family and friends.  And the other requirement is that we have to share our light.  That’s why you’re supposed to put the menorah near the window where others can see it.  You aren’t allowed to hide on Hanukkah.  You have to come out into the light.

So during this Hanukkah, I’d like to make a resolution together.  Let’s share our light with one another.  Let’s come out from behind the masks we wear.  Let’s not hide who we are and how we feel from one another.

If you’ve been hiding; if you’ve been wearing a mask to cover your sadness, your frustrations, your worries, your regrets, whatever; if you’ve been wearing that mask, find a friend you trust who is willing to see you as you are and take off that mask (even just a little).  I can’t guarantee that it will solve your problems, but my guess is you won’t feel so alone.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Hanukkah.

I am very happy to report that this week, the Board of Directors of HEA approved a renewal of my contract – which means that until at least July 2014, you’re stuck with me!  Melanie and I are very happy.  We both love this community and we love living in Denver.

I love being a rabbi; and I owe it to you for giving me the chance to start my career at this shul.  It’s hard work and sometimes I put in long days; but when I walk out of this building at night, I thank God for leading me down this path.  No matter how much I do in a day; it rarely feels like work.  I find being a rabbi deeply gratifying and meaningful.  It is truly a privilege and honor to serve God and the Jewish people in this capacity and I’m very grateful to you for giving me the opportunity to do that work here. But being a rabbi also has its challenges.

The truth is most of the challenges are really just the flipside of the blessings (which is often true of life’s challenges).  I became a rabbi because I love the Jewish people and I love touching lives.  At the same time, as you know, people can also be challenging too… especially Jewish people.  Another thing I love about the work is the diversity and variety.  A typical week can include teaching classes, hanging out with religious school students, singing songs with pre-schoolers, celebrating the birth of a baby, mourning with a grieving family, counseling, planning programs, writing sermons, attending community events, and on and on.  Again, it is deeply gratifying to do all these things, but sometimes it can also be exhausting both physically and emotionally.  But, as I said, most of the challenges are really just too much of a good thing.

But there is one challenge I find to be the most difficult.  The one truly dangerous hazard in the rabbinate is despair.  What I mean by that is that rabbis and other leaders in the Jewish community have to deal with a very difficult fact; which is that despite all our efforts, we can only reach a small percentage of the Jews out there.  If you listen to the demographers and sociologists; if you pay too much attention to the numbers and statistics, it’s incredibly depressing.  The fact is, most American Jews, have little interest in practicing their religion.  What I have dedicated my life to as a rabbi – love of Torah and tradition, a commitment to God – doesn’t seem to matter much to many Jews.  The most difficult thing for a rabbi is fighting the feeling that despite all your efforts, the vast majority of Jews out there will assimilate and essentially stop being Jewish.  If all you pay attention to are the numbers and statistics, you’ll want to throw in the towel.

This week, as I was studying parashat Noach, I reflected on the work I do and its challenges.  It isn’t entirely clear in the Torah why God chooses Noach.  He is described as “ish tzadik, tamim haya be’dorotav” – “Noach was a righteous man; he was blameless in his generation…”  The traditional commentaries all focus on what seems to be a superfluous qualifier – what does it mean to say he was blameless in his generation. Our sages debate whether this is a true compliment or conditional praise: some say he was only considered righteous in comparison to the wicked people around him.  Others say he was truly a good person and that it was to his credit that he could remain righteous in the midst of a corrupt society.  But, this year, reading the story and reflecting on the challenges of my work, I wondered if there were other qualities that God looked for when choosing Noach.  Besides being righteous, I imagine that Noah was also a very resilient and optimistic person.  I can only imagine the weight of responsibility on Noach’s shoulders.  What did it feel like to know that all living things would be wiped out except him and his family and the pairs of animals he brought on board the ark? He too faced bleak demographic projections.  I wonder if despair crossed his mind. I wonder if he considered giving up. And I wonder about the courage, optimism, and faith, it took to be the one responsible for repopulating the earth.

One of the lessons I think we can take away from the story of the flood is the power of individual encounters.  For whatever reason that isn’t clear in the story, Noach cannot save all of humanity.  Perhaps the corruption was just too enormous.  Maybe one righteous person was just not enough to change the ways of an entire society.  Whatever the reason, the way Noach saves the world is by gathering a relatively small group of individuals together and connecting them to one another.  It could not have been easy and there was no way to know if it would work, but it reminds us that the building blocks of a community, the basic units of a society, are individuals coming together, connecting with one another and then those lives connecting with others and so on down the line.

Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, the dean of the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, always admonished us not to measure our success by numbers.  Numbers do matter, he would tell us, but they don’t really tell you if you’re doing a good job.  The measure of success is a rabbi’s ability to touch individual lives.  Whether you have a big synagogue with a thousand families or a little shul of a few dozen people, your job is to teach Torah and a love for our tradition.  The measure of success for a rabbi is not how many people you can get in the room, it’s the experience they have once they get there.  If people walk away having learned something, having felt something, if they are moved to action, moved to tears, touched in some way, that is the measure of a rabbi’s success.  If you do that well, he would tell us, the numbers will take care of themselves (hopefully).

It is a lesson I’ve carried with me into the rabbinate and it is also the ethic of this synagogue.  Rabbi Dollin reminds me of it all the time.  Our job is to bring individuals together to feel more connected to their heritage and to one another.  And, this year, I’ve also been reflecting on this idea in the work we are doing with young adults.  As many of you know, with the help of a generous grant from the Rose Community Foundation, we started a project called JConnect.  The goal of JConnect is to reach out to Jews in their 20s and 30s and help them find their way into the community.  And the core of this work is the one-on-one encounter and building community one connection at a time.  To do this work, we have our own Noach, she is a young woman named Danielle Menditch.  Like Noach, she goes out into the world and finds stray Jews and, one-by-one, brings them together.  It starts with an individual encounter, a phone call, a meeting, a conversation.  She learns about their lives, what they care about, and what being Jewish means to them.  She then empowers these folks to create their own programs and Jewish experiences with other like-minded people.  I help her with this work and I do what I can to infuse substantive Jewish content into the programs we do.  But it is Danielle’s legwork that has made JConnect a huge success.

Just this week, one of our participants approached me and told me that after having lived in Denver for 10 years, this is the first time he has Jewish friends and a link to the community, and it’s because of JConnect.  Many of our participants have told us that the meeting with Danielle or with me was the first time anyone from the organized Jewish community actually asked them what Judaism means to them.  It’s enormously powerful work, but it is also labor intensive. And, getting Jews together can make you feel like Noach trying to herd animals onto an ark.

But, it’s worth it.  And, while it isn’t about the numbers, our success has been impressive.  To date, we’ve had nearly 200 individual meetings; we’ve had almost 50 programs, attended by over 350 individuals, 85 of whom have attended 5 or more events.  Most of the programs are small, intimate gatherings of people who share a common interest.

But now comes the second big challenge rabbis face for which there is no easy solution.  How to pay for it all.  In December, our funding from the Rose Community Foundation will run out.  We’ve been fortunate to receive a generous gift from the Merage Foundation and this week, the HEA board took the courageous move to extend some of the synagogues funds to JConnect.  But, while these commitments buy us some valuable time; in the long run, we need to figure out a way for JConnect to be sustainable into the foreseeable future.

This sermon is not an appeal.  But it is an attempt to spread the word about this valuable cutting edge project.  We are one of the only synagogues in the United States doing a program like this.  And, despite all the demographic data and all the bad news about the future of the Jewish people, JConnect is working.  It is bringing young Jews into Jewish community – and our synagogue in particular.  Rabbi Dollin and I are working hard to find a way to continue doing this valuable work.  We are determined to see it succeed.  And, we have good reason to be optimistic.

I hope you will share my enthusiasm for JConnect.  If you do, I would love to talk with you about it.  If you know individuals or foundations who might want to support this work, come talk with us.  And, most importantly, if you’re kids are in their 20s and 30s… give us their phone number.  We’ll call them and take them out to coffee.

Getting young Jews excited about Judaism isn’t easy, but it certainly can’t be any harder than getting hippos on a boat.

Shabbat Shalom.

It always seems strange to me that we say Yizkor on the three pilgrimage festivals.  Historically, it hasn’t always been this way.  Yizkor originated in the middle ages to commemorate those who were slaughtered by marauding bands during the Crusades.  Back then it was recited only on Yom Kippur; but, eventually, Yizkor was expanded into a memorial for all of our loved ones and became part of the liturgy for the concluding days of Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot.  But there’s a tension in that choice.  On the one hand, the festivals are intended to be joyous occasions.  Indeed, we are commanded by the Torah to rejoice and feast on the holidays (see Deut. 16:13-15). Sukkot is known as zman simchateinu… it is considered the most joyous of the festivals.  On the other hand, we have yizkor – a service that brings to mind sadness, nostalgia, and sometimes painful memories.  The Torah says we are to have nothing but joy on the holidays, yet we have a service that is so sad.

Perhaps our ancestors in the middle ages, who experienced so much violence and persecution, could not bring themselves to have only joy on the holidays.  Maybe they understood that life is more complex than that.  Joy and sadness often exist in tandem to one another.  Our feelings are seldom pure… more often they are mixed.  In the midst of our holiday celebrations, we can’t help recall those who are not with us around the festival table.

During this year’s celebration of sukkot, many of us are relating to this ambivalence in another way.  On the sixth day of sukkot, Gilad Shalit was returned to his family alive.  It is a momentous occasion for Israel and Israel’s supporters around the world.  For 1,491 days, we have prayed along with Gilad’s family for his safe return.  As a result of an unprecedented public relations campaign, Gilad Shalit became something bigger than himself.  He became a symbol standing in for our concern for Israel.[1] For better or worse, during these 5 years, Gilad Shalit became our son, our brother, our friend.  Gilad Shalit is home now and that gives us all a reason to celebrate with him and his family.  I can only imagine their joy.  When we recited Hallel during sukkot this year, I felt as though we were saying Halleluyah (Praise God) for Gilad and his parents.

At the same time, there is also a lot of sadness and anger.  For over five years, Israel failed to secure his release.  In the end, Israel struck a painful deal, setting free over 1000 Arab prisoners, hundreds of whom have blood on their hands.  Today, the families of their victims must be having a hard time celebrating with the Shalits.  The families of those killed in terrorist attacks are losing whatever modicum of justice they received when the perpetrators were sent to prison.  And, today, Israel may be less safe because of this swap.  Not only did Israel release some very dangerous people who will certainly return to terrorism, this bargain with the devil has emboldened Hamas by demonstrating its ability to force Israel to meet its demands.

But, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know or didn’t read in the papers.  Rabbi Dollin and I have had many conversations about this and we both feel ambivalent.  Personally, I’m torn in two.  My heart says Gilad Shalit deserves to be home and his parents deserve to have their boy back.  My head says that the deal is morally and strategically risky because it will encourage more such kidnappings.[2]

I don’t have a good answer to the predicament.  I can only point out that it is a perennial Jewish dilemma. On our holidays we celebrate and feast but we also say Yizkor and cry over our dead. That’s where we are right now.  We should celebrate the return of Gilad Shalit, but we must not forget those who are suffering and may suffer in the future as a result.

Perhaps it is fitting that on Sukkot we read the book of Ecclesiastes: “everything has its season” says Kohelet, “…a time to weep and a time to laugh…a time to wail and a time to dance,…a time to rend garments and a time to mend.” Ecclesiastes seems to be saying that there are distinct times for each of these emotions.

Yehuda Amichai, the great Israeli poet, understands it differently.  He writes:   “Ecclesiastes was wrong about that…A person needs to love and hate at the same moment. To laugh and cry with the same eyes…To make love in war and war in love.”

Amichai captures a uniquely Israeli form of manic-depression.  Today, at this bipolar moment, when we simultaneously lift up our voices to celebrate Shmini Atzeret and shed a tear as we say Yizkor, I’d like to suggest we embrace the ambivalence rather than run from it or choose one side.  Today we offer prayers of gratitude and a sigh of joy for the return of Gilad Shalit, but in our Yizkor, we should also add a prayer for those whose hearts have been shattered by loss – for whom there is no release from the captivity of grief.  And, we should pray for the safety and security of those who remain vulnerable.

Today we live with these impossible contradictions.  We somehow must endure the good and the bad, the joy and the pain.  To that, I can only offer a prayer.  We say it in the Birkat HaMazon (the grace after meals) that is chanted on the holidays, “Ha-Rachaman, Hu yanchileinu yom she-kulo tov.”  “Merciful One, grant us that day which is only good.”

[2] For a good overview of the ethical dilemma around redeeming captives and what Jewish law has to say about it, read what my mentor and teacher Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson wrote in the Huffington Post.

Have you ever had to explain sukkot to a non-Jewish friend or co-worker?  It’s not easy… sukkot is probably our strangest holiday.  The symbols and practices of sukkot must seem really weird to an outsider.  You sit in a hut for a week and shake some leaves and a bumpy lemon around in what must seem like a primitive fertility dance (that’s because it kind of is).  But, As difficult as it can be to explain to others, Sukkot is my favorite holiday.  I love the rich symbolism and the rituals.  Most of all, I love the sukkah itself.  My family and I love building the sukkah and we thoroughly enjoy spending time in it.

I take a lot of pride in my sukkah even though building it every year is a big ordeal.  I know Rabbi Dollin wrote an article in the Highlights singing the praises of the pre-fab sukkah that his kids can click together in 30 minutes.  I’ve got nothing against that  I’m all for anything that makes observance easier; but when it comes to my sukkah, I’m very old-fashioned.  I build it out of wood using tools.  Every year I get faster at building it, but it still takes at least 4-5 hours to erect…. And I love it, splinters and all.  My kids love it too.  Building the sukkah is a big deal in my house and when it’s all done and people come over and see it, I have to admit I take a lot of pride in my old-fashioned sukkah.

Because we invest so much time and effort into our sukkah, Melanie and I feel like we have to invite as many guests over as possible.  That too is a lot of work, but it gives us a lot of satisfaction.

I love the sukkah.  It is one of my favorite Jewish symbols because it is so rich with meaning.  According to the Talmud there are at least two explanations for the sukkah.  The first is that it represents the Ananei Kavod – the “Clouds of Glory” that accompanied our people on the journey through the wilderness from slavery in Egypt to freedom in the Land of Israel.  The Annanim were a marker of God’s protective presence.  Alternatively, the Talmud, citing the torah itself (Lev. 23:42-43), also offers the idea that the sukkah recalls the actual shelters our ancestors lived in on that journey.  It serves as a reminder that for 40 years we were a nomadic people without a permanent home.

The sukkah also comes out of our agrarian heritage.  In ancient Israel, farmers build sukkot in their fields during the harvest.  What is so wonderful about Judaism is that these explanations – the mythic, the historical, and the agricultural – can all exist together and be simultaneously true.  It also means that every year and at any given time, they can mean something different.

This year, I’ve been focused on the agricultural aspect of the holiday.  As I built my 5-hour sukkah, I felt a strong sense of kinship and solidarity with my ancestors.  I’ve been trying to imagine what our ancestors experienced building their sukkot and dwelling in them for a week.  I’ve been trying to picture what it looked like and how it felt.

In Israel, it is the end of the dry hot summer.  Sukkot, which is also called Hag Ha-Asif, marks the end of the summer fruit harvest.  I imagine that after a good season, a farmer in ancient Israel must have felt himself to be very rich at this time of year.  It was a time of abundance and good fortune.  I can imagine that a farmer could feel very satisfied with what he had accomplished as he brought home the bounty of his fields.

So, I wonder what it would have meant to have the religious obligations of Sukkot.  Just at the moment of greatest abundance and wealth, the farmer is required to dwell in a shack for a week.  Just when he feels most rich, he is required to live like a poor person.  Instead of going home, he spends the end of the harvest living outdoors, just when the rains are starting to come.  Instead of digging right into the fresh produce, the Torah demands that the farmer offer up his first fruits as a thanksgiving offering to God.  And, on Sukkot, the farmer is obligated to share his food.  In its description of the festival, Deuteronomy (16:13) says that in addition to your family you must feast “with your slaves, the [landless] Levite, the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow.”  And in the same section that describes the harvest festivals (Lev. 23:22), the Torah reminds us that we are to leave the corners of our fields for the poor and recognize that our harvest is a gift from God.[1] .

The symbol of the sukkah – the temporary dwelling is indeed powerful.  And this year, it strikes me as a particularly poignant and timely symbol.  I can’t help make the association with other temporary dwellings popping up around the world.

In cities around the globe, people are putting up their own kinds of sukkot.  Some of them are Jews, most of them are not.  Around the world this year, people are using the symbol of the temporary dwelling to make a powerful statement that I think resonates very much with the lessons of our sukkah.  People are camping out on Wall Street and in cities around the country. They’re setting up tents in Europe; and in Israel a powerful movement is also using the symbol of the temporary dwelling. The in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem are protesting the fact that they have nowhere affordable to live.  These demonstrations have a lot in common and they are all using “sukkot” of one kind or another to draw attention to an alarming disparity between the ultra-rich and the rest of us.

This year, during sukkot, I can’t help make the connection to people camping out around the world.  Their message isn’t entirely clear, but they are calling attention to a serious problem.  We can argue about the causes of the problem, and smart well-intentioned people on any side of the political spectrum can disagree about what to do about it, but I think nearly all of us recognize that growing economic inequality is a serious problem with dire social consequences.

And, despite the rhetoric heard today about scarcity and lack, the truth is that we live in a time of great wealth and abundance.  What the sukkah-dwellers around the world are pointing to is that we don’t have a scarcity problem, we have a distribution problem.

The lessons of sukkot are very relevant to the challenges we face today.  We would be wise to learn from our experience as sukkah-dwellers.  We as a people have a yearly reminder of what it’s like to live in a humble sukkah.  We have a yearly reminder that our wealth brings with it responsibility to others.

There are so many lessons to draw from the rituals of sukkot.  Sukkot teaches us to have a healthy and humble perspective on what we have.  It teaches us that, like the rickety sukkah, our lives are precarious, subject to so many forces out of our control.  It reminds us that what we have is only in small part the result of our efforts.  It teaches us that our wealth and possessions are inherently transient.  Sukkot reminds us, precisely at the moment of our greatest abundance, that what we really need in life is pretty modest.  The mitzvah to invite guests into our sukkah teaches us about our obligation to others, especially the most vulnerable in our society.  It teaches us that with wealth and abundance come responsibility to community.  And dwelling in the sukkah has an equalizing effect.  Whether you have a pre-fab snap-together sukkah or a stunningly impressive hand-made wood sukkah, it’s still a sukkah!  It’s a temporary hut with a leaky roof and a dirt floor.  On sukkot, none of us is rich or poor.  We are all temporary residents living off the earth.

A lot of people seem to be waking up to those lessons.  I only hope that more people can learn them.   Shabbat Shalom and Moadim L’Simcha.

For more about Sukkot celebrations at “Occupy” demonstrations around the country, click here. http://blogs.forward.com/forward-thinking/144381/