A rabbi had three students, and posed them a question:
‘If you had one hour remaining in your lifetime, what would you do in that one hour?’
The first one read and studied and answered the question: “I would spend that hour studying the Torah.”
The second one closed his eyes then answered the question: “I would spend that hour in the ecstasy of prayer.”
The third one looked at the rabbi, and then answered the question: “I would spend that hour loving my family.”
The rabbi looked at her students, smiled and said, “Each of you has given a deep and holy answer.”
The students turned to the rabbi and asked her the question, “What would you do in your last hour?”
“Me?” replied the rabbi.” I would spend that hour doing what I’d been doing. For all of life is sacred.
The rabbi looked again at her students with a smile: “Doing what I had been doing, for all of life is sacred.”
As a general rule, we don’t like to be judged as human beings. Or rather, we don’t like being judged either unfairly or critically. We want approval; we want to know that others are looking at us positively. We want to know that we’re doing the right thing, in our family life, our work, our dress, our behavior and relationships. We spend a lot of time to win that approval—to wear the right clothes for the interview or lunch, to wear the right makeup, to read the right books, and that sometimes that thirst for approval can overwhelm our ability to function as individuals.
It’s not our fault really; as human beings we’re programmed to be tribal, to seek out community, at least that’s what the sociologists tell us. And really, what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with a little bit of agreement, a little bit of compliance to social norms? Isn’t that, on a certain level, what Judaism is all about?
In this Jewish month of Elul, we are supposed to be preparing ourselves for the Yamim Noraim, the days of awe that are about to be upon us, and especially for Rosh Hashanah. For in addition to being the New Year, it is Yom HaDin, the Day of Judgment, when we are told, even the hosts of heaven are judged. We would then assume that part of the judgment is whether or not we received the approval of others, whether we conform to society’s expectations.
In fact, the opposite is true. We are judged based on our individual qualifications, what we have done in the past year. As the prayer Unetaneh Tokeph quotes the midrash, each of us individual counted and evaluated based on what we did with our time. Did we treat each moment as if it were sacred? Did we recognize the potential, unlocked holiness of each moment and every action, or did we seek to hide ourselves in the cowardice of convention. This is repeated in our liturgy again and again, as well as our preparations for the High Holy Days. Our ancestors went so far as to collect the midrashim about Abraham’s life into a book, Ma’aseh Avraham Avinu: or the Deeds of our Father Abraham. It collects many of the stories about Abraham, our patriarch, that first great non-conformist, including the famous story of the destruction of his father Terach’s idol shop, and imagines him as a lone voice of conscience, a single man surrounded by those who would suppress truth and righteousness. And it was to be studied as we approached the high holidays: to prepare us for judgment, and to remind us of the criteria for judgment: did we stand up for what was right and good and sacred? Did we have faith, if not in God then in God’s creation, Humanity, and strive to reflect God’s goodness in our actions? We are reminded of the Talmudic story that the sage Zusia, awakened from unsettling dreams, teaches his students: ‘when judged in death, I was not asked, “Why were you not Abraham, or Moses?” I was asked, “Why were you not Zusia?”
In two more weeks, it will be a new year. In two more weeks, we will gather with our families, we will hear the cry of the Shofar, we will array ourselves for judgment before The Eternal One, who is both Justice and Mercy. As we prepare for that awesome day, may we be reminded that all of life is sacred, that every moment and every action is sacred, if we but open ourselves to the holiness, the justice, the truth within.
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Communication & Our Relationship with G-d
Michelle Stern
Congregation Beth Emeth, August 20, 2010
Parashat Ki Teitzei
What do you do when you can not communicate, nor understand the world around you? This was my challenge when I spent 3 weeks in July fulfilling a dream to study Spanish. My 3 weeks were spent in an immersion program in Guanajuato, Mexico, a culturally-rich, yet religiously conservative state capital, with colorful colonial buildings and a large university. I stayed with a lovely Mexican family of 3 a block from my school, but for my first 2 weeks in their home, we barely could communicate. We mostly used body language paired with the little Spanish I knew.
Since I could not stay in all day, ventures out into town required some bravery. For instance, I realized I needed a haircut, and went boldly into a salon only knowing how to ask about the price. Cuanto cuesta haircut? My haircut actually turned out great. This took a good sense of humor in order to be giggled at by locals and patience with myself.
The experience was also frustrating. I’m an adult, and I should know how to talk with other human beings. And yet, there I was in central Mexico, in my very own Towerof Babel, crashing around me. In a country where I did not understand, I needed to listen more deeply, move more slowly and observe more closely. Time in class helped me finally build a bridge of understanding with my host family and other Mexicans.
This experience prompted my thinking about communication in general and how very important it is. We form bonds and deepen relationships through communication and understanding.
Communication can also be difficult, even when we speak the same language. For many of us, no matter how hard we try, there is someone out there in our lives with whom we have trouble communicating—a family member or a co-worker perhaps. With this person communication pitfalls may exist, such as interrupting, shouting or shutting down completely. In these instances, the way we communicate divides rather than binds us.
How and where we communicate can make a big difference to whether we make connections or chasms between ourselves and others. I have found that email, while helpful, can often be misunderstood because the reader misses the writer’s inflection and tone. Much is lost in cyberspace.
In Mexico, I regressed to making plans in an old fashioned way--face to face, because most of my classmates did not have Mexican cell phones. We were totally unplugged, and our communication felt more personal without easy technological speak. We were stripped of the instant satisfaction of contemporary modes of communication--texting and Blackberry’s portable email.
So too, with G-d, we do not have the luxury of cell phones that also take pictures, slice, dice, deliver email and your folded laundry—just wait, I’m sure there is an App for that coming soon. Not unlike my initial weeks in Mexico, or a difficult relationship, it can be really hard to understand how to best communicate with G-d.
It is almost unfair how easy the Torah makes this communication seem. For Abraham and Moses, for instance, G-d just shows up. G-d calls, tests and argues with Abraham; Moses speaks with G-d Panim el Panim, face to face, on mountain tops and through fire. Even the Jewish people receive miracles such as the sea splitting, and lightning and thunder at Sinai. How are we and G-d to communicate today?
On Yom Kippur, we are given an opportunity to speak with G-d panim el panim. While Yom Kippur in many ways feels communal, various practices some of us do on that day prepare us for the personal conversation we will have with G-d: fasting, wearing white, refraining from wearing leather shoes as well as intimate relations. But before Yom Kippur, we need to break down the language barriers between us and G-d so that we are ready to communicate.
The Jewish calendar offers us 4 weeks of free language immersion in the form of the month of Elul prior to the High Holy Days. This month is a time to prepare ourselves, through reflection and study, for our upcoming meeting with G-d. This month is also spent on teshuvah, making amends with those in our lives we may have difficult relationships. As a means of preparation, I want to share with you a Jewish teaching reflecting on how G-d communicates.
Nahmanides, a 13th century Spanish Jewish leader focuses on G-d’s communication style in the story of the Garden of Eden. After Adam and Eve eat the fruit in the Garden of Eden, the Torah says in Genesis 3:8 that “Va-Yishm’u et-kol Adonai Elo-im mithaleich ba-gan l’ruach ha-yom: They heard the voice/kol of G-d moving in the garden at the breezy time of day.” Nahmanides teaches that the voice Adam and Eve hear is the Shekhinah, the dwelling presence of G-d on earth. The Shekhinah is moving within the garden. Our commentator’s concern is whether or not She is coming or going.
Some may think that G-d would abandon those who sin, but Nahmanides asserts that the Shekhinah is arriving, for when one sins, as Adam and Eve did in the Garden, G-d comes closer. This is G-d’s non-verbal communication, body language if you will.
Another concern of Nahmanides is: Why does the Torah mention the time of day, l’ruach ha-yom, the breezy time of day, when G-d arrives? Nahmanides says it is because when the Shekhinah approaches, the wind comes, too. It is natural after all for G-d to appear as a weather pattern. For example, Elijah experiences a wind which breaks stones (I Kings 19:11) and G-d appears to Job within a tempest (Job 38:1). In contrast to these cases, the Shekhinah here presents Herself to Adam and Eve as a breeze, Nahmanides argues, in order not to scare them. Our G-d is empathetic and compassionate to those who sin. Not only does G-d move physically closer to us when we do wrong, but we are also graced with gentleness.
When we utilize the language of our tradition in the Mahzor, our High Holy Day prayer book, to communicate our penitence to G-d, this rabbinic commentary assures us that we will be met with kindness and understanding. G-d’s communication with us, while not Jobian tempests, is a more subtle voice—a breeze. Through open ears, eyes and heart, we will come to know Gd is approaching gently. Our job, not unlike mine in Mexico, is to listen deeply for G-d’s presence. If we unplug ourselves from all the noise in our lives to listen, then we will truly be able to Shma, hear G-d in our lives, and ultimately carry this type of listening to our own relationships with others. This is our task not only in the month of Elul, but always.
My prayer this Shabbat is:
Eloheinu, P’tach Libeinu b’Toratecha—Our G-d, open our hearts to your Torah that we may hear your kol/your voice and speak with you. May this holy connection inspire our communication with others at this season of turning. Amen. Shabbat Shalom.
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Yair D. Robinson
Yom Ha’atzmaut/Yom HaZikaron 5770
4/16/10
The day was warm, the sun especially bright and uncomfortable. I was with my parents in Israel, my first trip that I could remember. I was maybe six years old. We had driven up in a dusty white compact to this place. There were hills everywhere, and fields. In the middle of the road there was a gate of some kind. We parked the car, and my father took me by the hand and led me to a place on the road. We were playing a little game: we stepped in one place, he told me, and it was another country, step back, and we were back where we started. Suddenly, we had to get out of the way. There was a traffic jam of some kind, an endless line of green trucks trying to get through the gate, with men speaking in a rough and hurried speech. The green trucks drove through the gate, each one filled with men who looked so old to me, but were probably no older than eighteen or nineteen, boys really. My mother sat down and began to cry. It was 1982, and we were at the so-called ‘good fence’, the border between Israel and Lebanon. Those boys were going off to fight; many of them to kill, and many of them to die. It was the first time I saw my mother cry, and I did not understand.
Today, we understand too well. We’ve watched our own boys and girls load onto trucks and planes and sending them through a gate to fight, to kill, and many, to die. We watch the situation in Gaza, in Lebanon, in the territories, in the Sinai, and we worry. Worry for children we’ve never met, knowing that they could be our children. Worry for the very soul of that country, of our country. Regardless of our political leanings, we find ourselves asking questions that are nearly impossible to answer: how we can ask—order, really—young people to surrender their limbs, their lives? How can we bear this burden, never mind place it on the shoulders of those who should be our future.
At the dawn of Israel’s birth, Chaim Weizmann was quoted saying “The state will not be given to the Jewish people on a silver platter”. Truer words were never spoken, as soon after Israel found itself in a war for her very survival. Now she is in another war—for physical survival, no doubt, but for her spiritual survival as well. There is a war within the hearts of Israelis, a war between settlers and those living within the green line, Orthodox and secular Jews, a war among the ghosts of the past, a war waged by leaders so concerned with short-term security they forget the long-term ramifications, a war for the hearts of Jews in America who are waiting for Israel to not be a ‘normal’ country in David Ben-Gurion’s words, but to be a Light to the Nations. The State will not be given on a silver platter, neither her security nor her soul. It will only succeed so long as we are committed to her survival to be sure, but also her nourishment as a Jewish state, as an egalitarian state, as a state that is devoted to its own future and the future of her children.
Upon hearing Weizmann’s words, Natan Alterman wrote this poem in his regular column in Davar Newspaper:
And the land grows still, the red eye of the sky slowly dimming over smoking frontiers
As the nation arises, Torn at heart but breathing, To receive its miracle, the only miracle
As the ceremony draws near, it will rise, standing erect in the moonlight in terror and joy
When across from it will step out a youth and a lass and slowly march toward the nation
Dressed in battle gear, dirty, Shoes heavy with grime, they ascend the path quietly
To change garb, to wipe their brow They have not yet found time. Still bone weary from days and from nights in the field
Full of endless fatigue and unrested, Yet the dew of their youth is still seen on their head
Thus they stand at attention, giving no sign of life or death
Then a nation in tears and amazement will ask: "Who are you?"
And they will answer quietly, "We are the silver platter on which the Jewish state was given."
Thus they will say and fall back in shadows And the rest will be told In the chronicles of Israel
This poem is still read in Israel at Yom Ha’atzmaut, celebrated this weekend. Because just as Israel’s physical survival depends on those children, those boys and girls sent off in those trucks through that gate, so does her soul’s survival depend on our remembering those children, how they gave up the dew of their youth for us.
In just over a week, we’ll be cleaning and cooking and gathering our family and friends to celebrate Passover, zman cheiruteinu, the festival of Redemption. We’ll have out the usual assortment of hagaddahs, plague bags, Seder plates, Elijah’s cup and other Kiddush cups. And if you’re like my family, you’ll have one of these [hold up bowl], a little bowl (this one was painted by Marisa) designed to hold an orange.
Wait, what? An orange? This is a new tradition, one that has grown up in the last thirty years, and goes back to an apocryphal story that Susanna Heschel, the daughter of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (z’l) was told that a woman belongs on the bimah the way an orange belongs on the Seder table.
Now, Susanna Heschel will tell you that she is the originator of the tradition, and it was meant to represent any and all minimized and excluded members of the tribe: women, children, gays, the intermarried, the elderly, etc. but like any good tradition it’s taken on a life of its own.
It seems like a curious tradition to have in our day and age. Women, especially in the liberal Jewish traditions, but also in modern Orthodoxy, have very much come into their own since the 1960s. We’ve had women ordained as rabbis in our movement since the early 1970s, invested as cantors since the early 80s, and as presidents of congregations for a lot longer than that. The Reconstructionists began ordaining women in the 70s as well, and the conservative movement in the early 1980s. Even some streams of Orthodoxy have begun experimenting with ordinations of women, and expanding their liturgical role. Adas Kodesh here in Wilmington is on the cutting edge of orthodoxy, with women reading megillat Esther from the bimah this past Purim for the first time. Women make up the majority of our boards in our congregations, made up the entirety of my year’s cantorial class, have written our new movement’s prayerbook and have caused the Men of Reform Judaism to reevaluate what it means to be man in Jewish leadership.
But all you have to do is scratch a little beneath the surface to realize things are not what they should be. As many know, this past week, while Joe Biden was having a far-too-exciting trip to Israel, Haredi worshipers at the Kotel, the Western Wall in Jerusalem, hurled chairs at women from nashot Hakotel, women of the wall, who were there celebrating Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the new Jewish month. This group of orthodox, reform and traditional women were gathered on the women’s side (which didn’t exist 40 years ago) and were ‘following the rules’, not upsetting the status quo, when they found themselves again under attack. Two men were arrested (which is better than the last time, when it was the women who were arrested) , but this is already following years of attacks, as well as a concentrated effort by the right-wing fundamentalist parties in Israel to enforce other sexist laws. For example, there was an attempt in Israel this year (loudly shouted down) to make all buses gender segregated throughout Israel. Its one thing to offer some routes in Orthodox enclaves a level of cultural sensitivity, but it’s another thing entirely to enforce a particularly stringent view on a secular populace. Once again, Israelis flew placards and banners proclaiming ‘we are not Iran’.
Of course, we don’t even have to go that far. I had the opportunity last year to sit in on an amazing discussion with my double-x chromosome colleagues from all movements, who were discussing the travails of being a woman in the rabbinate. From the issue of dating when you’re a woman rabbi, to being minimized by their congregants over their gender (sometimes in combination with their age) or having their benefits, like maternity leave, be eviscerated and find themselves called back not for funerals or emergencies but to cover committee meetings, to not having their senior rabbis or other staff support them or make inappropriate jokes at their expense, to the fact that they’re qualified as ‘female rabbis’, not ‘rabbis’. And how many cantors have lost their job or not been hired because in the mind of the congregation, the liturgy ‘sounds better’ coming from a man’s voice? I know of at least one circumstance where a rabbi lost her maternity leave and had to resign her position while she was pregnant, a violation of the law and our own ethics guidelines. And even we, in our progressive congregation, have found ourselves lost in the woods. How long did it take to bring b’not mitzvah to this congregation, long after Mordechai Kaplan introduced the practice?
As far as we’ve come, it seems that there’s that much further to go. As transformative as women’s roles have been in the rabbinate, leadership, liturgical writing, inventing and reinventing rituals and traditions, there are those who are resentful, mistrustful, ignorant, or reactive. It's up to us to advocate, to speak out, and to reach out to those who don’t understand what it means to support their colleagues or committee chairs; that see weakness instead of strength, foolishness instead of wisdom. And while we can isolate a few real bigots who choose to live in the 18th century, there are many among us today who still get weirded out by a woman in slacks on the bimah, or by a man lighting candles. And what’s even more surprising is when it is the women themselves who perform this act of self-removal or denial. I got in trouble at Oberlin—Oberlin for crying out loud!—for counting the women as part of the minyan, and some of the most strident opponents were the smart, educated, intelligent women who were there who were profoundly uncomfortable with having been counted.
So what do we do? First, we have to talk about it openly, not only those moments of discrimination that are dramatic and obvious to even the most casual observer, but also the so-called small acts of minimization that take place in our work and our synagogue . We must stop it when we see it, with kindness and thoughtfulness when possible, with loving rebuke when necessary. While we cannot go marching into AKSE and just get one of our b’not mitzvah to start leyning torah in the middle of their service, we can be clear about our values of true egalitarianism and embrace the woman’s voice in our liturgy and our tradition, eliminating male-exclusive language in our liturgy and study (where possible). We must promote and support organizations like Nashot HaKotel, the Israel Religious Action Center, and our own movement, for which you can find links to their organizations through the BEN, our website and the reform movement website. And we must continue to teach our children: by using non-gendered (or openly gendered) names for God in our learning and through the rituals and traditions that encourage them to ask questions and push the envelopes of their own thinking.
In just over a week we’ll engage in rituals and handle symbols that are designed to encourage questions and storytelling, and the orange bowl will be among them. Someday, God-willing, my son will have his own seder, and when his kids ask him about the chipped orange bowl on the table, it will be to them a relic of a bygone era, a reminder of a time when women in Judaism had come far, but not far enough. Amen.
As many of you know, I was at the CCAR conference in San Francisco this past week. :it was a wonderful experience, both because of the city but most especially because of the chance to be with other colleagues, to do some learning, and share best practices.
This was my first conference as a “Senior” rabbi, and it was interesting speaking with friends who are still associates or about to transition into solo or senior positions themselves. We had a lot of time to talk about what it means to transition, joke about this and that, but there was one question they kept asking me: what's been the hardest part of the job? What has been my most difficult challenge?
I hate this question. It’s almost as bad as ‘so, what size is your new congregation?’ and all the variations (mine was the largest of my peers, by the way). Why not ask ‘what’s your mission statement?’ or ‘how do you handle this demographic?’ Wouldn’t that tell you more about a congregation? Likewise with the one they asked. It sounds like one of those interview non-questions, like ‘what’s your worst quality’ (correct answer: I care too much and work too hard!). But rather than blow this question off, I gave it some serious thought and reflection, which led me to this week’s portion (yes, I’m that nerdy), specifically, to Exodus vs. 35:30-34. Let’s take a look at those verses, shall we? (It’s on p. 193 in the JPS).
So work has begun on the mishkan, the freewill offering or terumah has been collected, and those who are willing to contribute their wisdom, wealth and work have been gathered, and Moses tells the people that Bezalel and Oholiab have been filled with the Spirit of God to do the work. A cursory glance suggests that they two of them are supervising and doing the more complicated work while the rest of the crowd does the basic stuff--think licensed contractors vs. volunteers at a Habitat for Humanity build.
But a more careful look at the Hebrew of verse 34 shows something else happening. It says that Bezalel and Oholiab will lehorot natan b'libo hu, which is usually translated as 'to supervise' as in the JPS) or 'to give directions'. But it can also be translated as 'to teach' ; indeed, the word teacher, moreh or morah, comes from this word. Ibn Ezra understands it this way in his commentary and pointedly says "because there are many wise people for whom it is hard to teach others..."
This is an important distinction. There’s a difference between a teacher and a supervisor or delegator, isn’t there? What happens when you teach someone? Certainly there is the transmission of skill and knowledge, but something else, quite profound, is happening: the student is being given the opportunity for ownership; by teaching, the instructor is imparting wisdom with the understanding that the student now can take that talent, that skill, that knowledge, and doing whatever he or she wants with it. The teacher, on a certain level, has to let go, and accept that the students are going to go in different directions with the knowledge imparted. Indeed, a good teacher hopes the student will internalize and build upon the lessons shared, creating something new and different that the teacher could never have imagined.
Indeed, the rabbis point out that, while Moses was given the theoretical instruction on how to build the Mishkan back in parashat Terumah, the people, under Bezalel's instruction, didn't build it 'by the book'. They built it their way, in their order, with their expertise. Was it perfect, as Moses had envisioned it through God's revelation? How could it be, it was made by human beings (women and men, by the way). But it was good enough, and everyone had a sense of ownership, a sense that their contribution wasn't going to make someone else grander, but rather was increasing the kavod of the whole community.
So back to the question from the conference: what's been my greatest challenge? As an associate, the job is to realize the senior rabbi's vision, to work at his or her pleasure. And so I spent most of my energy working on individual projects--Shabbatot, Tikkun Olam DAy, the 20s and 30s group, classes, etc.-- that brought me tremendous joy and allowed me to build my skills, but kept me very much in the trenches.
When you become a senior or solo, an act of tzimtzum, of humility, needs to happen. The job is not to do everything myself or to delegate, but to share ownership with the community, to teach so that people can bring their very best selves to the making of our sacred space, and to not let the perfect be the enemy of the good, but rather appreciate the sense of joy and sacred partnership people feel when they work on some component of the greater puzzle we call congregation.
Greg Mortenson, in his book Three Cups of Tea, talks about the first school he built in Pakistan, and his watching over the process like a hawk, until his friend, the village elder, pulled him aside and said, 'you've done a lot of good here, but you're making us crazy. We know what we're doing. Now sit down and be quiet.' It's not enough to be one person with a vision, or even to share that vision with others; we have a responsibility to take a deep breath, a step back, and let others shine. And in doing so, not only see your own vision for a place realized and internalized, but also learn from those around you about how that Judaism is lived daily.
And this is what I wanted my colleagues to understand, that just as I believe that God's presence is felt everyday through those we love and who love us, I believe that it is only by sharing the work with others, giving others the ball and letting them run with it, always willing to teach, but also willing to let go, let mistakes be made, let people learn from the experience, grow the project into a vision and take pride in their work, can we form not just a congregation, but a kehilah kedosha , a sacred community.
How do I know this? Because the story of Exodus doesn't end at the revelation at Sinai. It is said we all stood at Sinai, waiting for Moses to bring the Word of God down with him, but God didn't dwell in our midst until everyone had the opportunity to participate in the creating of sacred space. Revelation may have been an act by one person, but real redemption came only when all the people could stand back and look at their handiwork, knowing they had shared fully of themselves. May we, all of us, find our ways to share our sacred gifts with each other, and in doing so, feel God's presence dwelling amongst us.
A story: a number of years ago a professor of mine was sitting next to her niece at the Passover Seder. She was young, perhaps in Kindergarten, and quite inquisitive, so when the Seder began she started asking questions, finally culminating with, "'Why are we doing all of this?" The perfect question for Passover! So the professor began, "once we were slaves in Egypt..." but was cut off by the girl, who with her best Eloise at the Plaza voice quipped, "I was not!"
Well, of course she wasn't, and neither were we. In fact, we're so historically and psychologically removed from our ancestors' experience of hardship and exile that it is, in fact, hard for us to understand and appreciate how good we have it in contrast to the Israelites of this week's portion, before the liberation from Egypt. As American Jews, we look at the horror of Haiti even before the earthquake, or the squalor of Johannesburg or Durban, or even certain parts of Philadelphia or Wilmington, with disbelief. We have at our command as individuals, as a community and as a nation the ability to bring tremendous resources to bear when tragedy strikes, such that our great-grandparents couldn't even imagine. As Rabbi David Saperstein of the Religious Action Center recently pointed out at the Parliament of World Religions, we have enough food to feed every mouth worldwide for the first time ever in human history. We are far removed from our ancestors, weighed down by bricks and mortar, too tired to even listen to Moses or appreciate the plagues that came to rescue them.
And that is part of the problem.
Our ancestors were wise in making us reenact the Exodus every Passover, invoking our servitude and exile again and again in our liturgy, reminding us of our humble origins. For it is too easy for us, in our comfort, our wealth--suffering personal tragedies large and small to be sure but as a community safe and warm--to fully appreciate our standing. It's only when modern-day plagues strike at random--a Tsunami in Indonesia, an Hurricane in New Orleans, an earthquake in Haiti--that we remember to say 'there but for the grace of God go I.' How else can we explain the shallow and cruel comments of such people as Pat Robertson who, in blaming the victims quite literally of their plight in Haiti, he performs the ultimate act of antipathy, of callousness. Whatever he may have experienced, he has not been a slave in Egypt.
As Jews we remind ourselves continually of our experience, for we know we forget at our peril. No matter how good we have it, Egypt and Egyptian bondage can never be far from our experience, for we know what our Torah teaches; that we can only truly appreciate our personal liberty when we embrace the need for everyone's Redemption.
This weekend is, as well you know, Martin Luther King Jr. day. It should not just be a day off but a call to action--to bring redemption to those near and far, around the corner and in misery in Haiti and all corners of the globe. To redeem ourselves from our own short-sightedness and comfort. To redeem by remembering our own bondage, our own deprivations, that we might come at last to fulfill the words invoked this week:"I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant. Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am YHVH. I will take you out from the labors of the Egyptians, and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments, and I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God." (Exodus 6:5-7)
