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February 16, 2018 Sermond

02/09/2018 09:06:03 AM


Rabbi Robinson

Rabbi Yair Robinson

Parashat Terumah 2018


Permit me the luxury of ruining Gilbert and Sullivan, or perhaps even music, for you.


Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true

(hey but I’m doleful, willow willow waly)

Have you e’er a lover a-dangling after you

(Hey willow waly-o!)

I would fain discover

If you have a lover

(hey willow waly-o)

This song, Prithee Pretty Maiden from the Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta Patience has been STUCK IN MY HEAD since Saturday afternoon. Literally I’ve been walking around—throughout DC during L’taken, at home, in the office, at the hospital, humming this tune, tunelessly. Why? Well, it first got there this past Saturday, at my wife’s concert Performance of the Chester County Gilbert and Sullivan 30th anniversary Gala., which became a who’s who of the local G&S circuit. But it wasn’t just because it was performed at the Gala. Being an anniversary celebration, they asked past performers to come and revisit their old favorites. Interestingly, the song—which is a duet between two potential young lovers—was not sung by someone who had played the role in Chester County. Instead, it was sung by a 70-ish year old woman and her 90-ish year old longtime partner, who first played the role when he was a young man in the D’oyly Carte (those of you who know something about Gilbert & Sullivan will understand that that is a Very Big Deal). I’d heard them perform together before, of course, but to hear a nonogenerian sing a song meant for a callow youth, and sing it beautifully for someone that age, and with all the weight and gravity of decades of life experience, made a profound impression on me. Seeing the two of them on stage and hearing his voice in particular, was truly magical. You could hear the echo of his younger self in the performance, but with all these other layers of life, all at the same time.

As I’ve been unable to let go of this Victorian earworm (and by the way, you’re welcome), I’ve been thinking about the truth in the layers of this performance. What do I mean? Well, let me quote journalist Sarah Tuttle Singer for a moment. She wrote this week “The thing about the Old City is it's built on layers and each layer is true.” She’s talking archeology and culture, but I think there’s a truth there about life and memory as well. In the Old city of Jerusalem, we have a modern house built over a Byzantine church built over a Roman shop built over a Judean granary. And each existed in its own time and had its own integrity, which the archeological record allows us to see, and none could exist without the other, each structure literally supported by the other. And that’s true in the Torah, as layer upon layer of commentary and interpretation helps shape our reading and understanding of scripture, each influencing and relating to the other, and each with its own deep meaning. Each layer is true. And in our lives we have memory stacked on top of memory on top of memory. We remember our childhood and our youth and draw comparisons to who we are today, and each has its own integrity, and one cannot exist without the other. Each layer is true. So when we come to a synagogue, a sanctuary, we use the prayerbook that is there now, and sing the songs that are sung now, and hear the words of the rabbi who is there now, but we remember the texture of the prayerbook of our childhood, and the sound of the voice of the cantor of our youth, and the words of the rabbi when we were young parents. We look at the carpet today and remember the parquet floor of yesterday. We look at the Eternal Light of today but we remember the light that shone over our child’s bar mitzvah celebration. We hear the voices of the people around us, but we remember the voices who used to sing joyfully with us from before. Sometimes, when we sing Ein Keloheinu I can hear the voices of the old men who sang with gusto when I was a child, or when I pick up Mishkan T’fillah I can feel the pink ribbon from the blue Gates of Prayer between my fingers, or the rough, cloth-like texture of the Gray Gates. And sometimes when I read a prayer I can hear the voice of one of my teachers reading that prayer as I recite it, or I remember what it was like to stand on a bimah the first time and hear the congregation read responsively as I read. And all those layers are true. I know I cannot go back to the sanctuary of my youth, to the prayerbook and the music, to say nothing of the congregation; the past is in the past. But it is present within me, and it informs me, and as I pray today’s prayers in today’s sanctuary I give honor to those layers of experience. And all of those layers are true. And all of those layers are sacred.

A few moments ago we recited from the Torah God’s command to bring gifts, in order to make God a sanctuary that God may dwell among us. And we could spend a lot of time on the minutia of the various gifts and what it means to make a physical sanctuary, a mishkan, a tabernacle. And there is a truth to that understanding, of wealth utilized for sacred purpose. And, I would suggest to you that, among the gold and silver and lapis lazuli and dolphin skins and crimson thread, one of the gifts we bring is the layers of our experience and memory. And that when we share those layers we are sharing what is most true about ourselves, our experience, our love: our past and present and even our future. And more than that; the prophet Jeremiah, in what could be taken as a commentary on this portion, said, “I did not speak to your ancestors nor command them in the day that I brought them out of Egypt, concerning burnt-offerings and sacrifices; rather, this is what I commanded them, saying: ‘listen to my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people. You shall walk in all the ways that I command you, so that it will be good for you.” Through our memories, through the layers of our experience, we can hear God’s voice, we can feel ourselves renewed and inspired again to fulfill God’s mitzvah. Different now, because we are different. But honoring and celebrating what came before.

The past is a gift, the layers of memory an offering, and from them we build a sanctuary of meaning and inspiration. And in that sanctuary we encounter holiness. And like the Torah, like the Old City of Jerusalem, like the song of a young man sung by one who’s lived a lifetime, it is true. Hey, Willow waly-O.

February 9, 2018

02/09/2018 09:04:59 AM


Rabbi Robinson

Update th

Parashat Mishpatim


I don’t know if you heard the news, but Wilmington has a Kosher restaurant for the first time in years, perhaps decades. And it’s not what you’d think. Last month, the Va’ad certified Dropsquad Kitchen, on the riverfront at Justison Landing, as our first kosher eatery. This is a big deal; sure, we’ve had froyo and ice cream joints and a cupcake shop with kosher certification, and you could get kosher food at Lodge Lane and the JCC, but it’s been a while since you could buy lunch or dinner out at a kosher place.


The question then becomes, what is Dropsquad kitchen? It’s not a new place; they’ve been on the riverfront since 2012. They’re a vegan, African American owned and operated soul-food restaurant. The name was chosen by the owner, Abundance Child, who took it from a Spike Lee movie. It’s a quirky place, filled with books and board games, the kind of place I would have loved to hang out in when I was in high school. The staff (who are mostly family) are thoughtful and welcoming and kind, and the food is delicious.

I’d been there before they got their heksher, and you know something? I’m absolutely thrilled. I have to tell you, I love the fact that it’s not what you’d expect from a kosher place; it’s not a deli, not a bagel place. Nothing about it says ‘Jewish’: no kreplach, no latkes, and certainly no gribnes. But so what? Why does that have to be our idea of kosher? And why not an African American business, downtown on the Riverfront as opposed to another eatery in Trolley Square or on 202 in North Wilmington? We had our DERECH meeting there this Tuesday and it was so great to get out of our own ruts, our own comfort zones, and I can’t wait to see as others in the Jewish community do the same.

For Dropsquad Kitchen to become kosher (and for the Va’ad to give them the heksher) is, of course, a business decision. But it’s more than that; it’s an experiment in radical empathy. Will Jews who want Kosher be willing to go downtown and eat vegan tacos (which are pretty awesome by the way), and will Dropsquad Kitchen want to welcome these folks in? Why wouldn’t the restaurant stick with its usual clientele and the Va’ad wait for someone to open up a more “classic” Jewish eatery? Specifically, because it gets us to see each other as part of a shared community, a shared experience. By eating kosher soulfood, it challenges us to understand the value of kashrut as more than just a particular ethnic cuisine but as a collection of values that are meant to lift us up and better ourselves and the world around us. When we get beyond our own boundaries, we stop being strangers to each other, and we become neighbors. And I can think of nothing more Jewish than that.

A few minutes ago I reminded us that the idea of loving and caring for the stranger, something that we are so familiar with in the Torah that it verges on pablum, is one of the most radical ideas in the ancient world and, I would argue, today. To say that we should take our shared experience of being the stranger, the resident alien, in Egypt, our narrative of being oppressed and ostracized, and transform that memory into radical empathy, is nothing short of revolutionary. As Rabbi Shai Held reminds us in The Heart of Torah, Scripture could have said, “since you were tyrannized and exploited and no one did anything to help you, you don’t owe anything to anyone; how dare anyone ask anything of you?” But that’s not what it said and not what I read; “You shall not oppress the stranger for you know the feelings of the stranger having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” Our memory is transformed from ethnic experience to intense ethical obligation, from an act of remembering for its own sake to one of moral responsibility. It’s not rational; we aren’t told “be kind to strangers because you might get something out of it”, or, “be kind to the resident alien in case they take over and you find yourself on the wrong end of a sword,” or, “let’s be kind to the resident alien, but only the good ones, the right ones who look like us and bother to get off the couch.” The appeal is entirely emotional. We’ve been there, we know what it’s like, and because we do we have an obligation to help when no one helped us; the immigrant Dreamer who dreams American dreams, the refugee fleeing persecution and death, and the African migrant coming to Israel hoping for safety and refuge, raising families and children, converting sometimes to Judaism, only to be told by the Jewish state that they should go to Rwanda. To forget our shared experience, our narrative, or to think it doesn’t make a moral demand of us, is to betray God, our Torah and ourselves. That’s what makes Dropsquad kitchen being kosher so amazing; a simple act of radical kindness. And that’s what makes our current debate around immigration, both here and in Israel, so infuriating. Yes, there is a comfort in hiding behind walls of our own making, but Torah compels us, compels us as surely as it compels us to keep the Sabbath or the holidays, to do differently, and to do better. That’s why we must act and work with JFS Rise program to welcome refugees. That’s why we must join with the Religious Action Center to call for a clean DREAM act. That’s why we must do what we must do to make sure those who are not from here, the resident alien, the stranger, know that they are welcome.

One of my favorite stories goes like this (you might know it from that great source of midrash, The West Wing): "This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.

"A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

"Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on

"Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

We’ve been down here before, and we know the way out. And Torah reminds us what to do; we jump into the pit with them. Just let’s grab some vegan kosher tacos for the road first.

December 20, 2017

12/20/2017 09:29:26 AM


As Wilmington’s largest and most progressive Jewish congregation, we are saddened by the “for sale” sign out in front of our neighboring synagogue, Adas Kodesh Shel Emeth. The article in Monday’s News Journal describing their plans to sell the building and move was painful to read for the entire Jewish community and we will continue to be supportive of our friends at AKSE in whatever ways we are able.

As the leadership of a Congregation Beth Emeth, a thriving synagogue, we take exception to the allegation that synagogues in Delaware are in a race to the bottom that AKSE got unlucky enough to win. Our mission continues daily as we enrich and inspire each other and our greater community through teaching, learning, and rejoicing in our Jewish ideals and traditions while remaining committed to pluralism, diversity, and inclusivity.

The Reform movement of which we are a member, stresses building community both with our Jewish or non-Jewish brothers and sisters. We are working hard here in Delaware to connect people to an inclusive and joyful Judaism. And while yes, that Judaism may not resemble “traditional” Judaism, it is no less grounded in investing in a Jewish future than any of the other congregations in our state. We will continue to provide diverse and meaningful experiences for any who choose to be a part of our community, fulfilling the words of the prophet Isaiah, that we shall be a house of worship for all people.

Sermon October 27, 2017, Me Too

10/03/2017 01:33:39 PM


Rabbi Robinson

Me too.

Those are the words we're hearing and seeing again and again these few weeks. Girls. Women. Mom's. Grandmas. Black, white, Jewish. Affirmations that they, too had been sexually harassed.

Started as a campaign years ago by an African American activist, me too came back to the fore as a result of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, which turns out to be a cascading scandal of Hollywood and political leaders being outed as harassers, abusers of power and authority.

Like many men, I've been watching and listening, horrified. What can one say to seeing hundreds, if not thousands, of responses from family and friends and allies and colleagues about their experiences?

I teach Torah. Torah is the lense through which I see the world and I look to the Torah and see another Me too moment. Sarai (eventually Sarah) and Avram (eventually Abraham) will, after reaching the promised Land, go down to Egypt to avoid famine. There, Avram will ask Sarai to pretend that she is his sister, fearful that Pharoah will kill him for her. So she plays along with the rest, and see enough, Pharaoh wants Sarai for his harem. As her brother, Abvram benefits beautifully with great wealth-a bride price. It takes a plague by God to stop Pharaoh, who banishes Avram and Sarai due to Avram’s actions.

Me too, says Sarai. Me too, victim not just of Pharoah’s power mad antics but also her husband's fear and failure to see his spouse as anything more than a bargaining chip.

We might say his story is a product of its time, but the text itself seems to be calling out Avram for his behavior. Certainly the rabbis pull all their hair out trying to justify, rationalize, and indeed, call Avram on the carpet for his behavior.

Me too, says the Torah.


Each of us have, at some point, witnessed harassment. How many times did we stand up against it, take the offending person behind the woodshed, sounded the alarm? How often did we meekly apologize to the victim, and make excuses? How often, after hearing accusations, did we try to justify an abuser's actions? How often did we do nothing?


The text holds up a model of behavior for us. Not Avram and certainly not Pharaohz but God. God intervenes. God stops the actual abuse. Now, we can't hit folks with a plague, but we can speak out. We can stand up. We can take victims’ stories seriously. We can and must. Even when it's hard. Even when we are fearful. If these women are brave enough to describe their moments of abuse and harassment, can we as bystanders really say we lack courage?


Sarai says Me too. God says: be a blessing. Let's choose to be a blessing.

Kol Nidrei 5778 Sermon

09/30/2017 09:33:54 PM


Rabbi Robinson

Tomorrow, thousands of people will gather in a communal act of love and justice. Actually, Two. One, is the holiday we begin tonight, a holiday that calls us to task and asks us to be our better selves. The other is the March for Racial Justice, a march taking place on Washington on a day, tomorrow, that is incredibly significant for African Americans, a day commemorating the massacre of hundreds of African Americans in Elaine, Arkansas in 1919, one of too many days in American history drenched in blood. But by scheduling this march on Yom Kippur, it appeared as if the organizers were purposefully excluding Jews, who have been at the forefront of racial justice in North America, from David Einhorn and the abolitionists before the Civil War, to the Jewish Freedom Riders and rabbis who went to the south to fight for desegregation and voting rights, to today. It looked bad…until a day in late August, when the organizers put out an apology. A heartfelt one, recognizing the shared crisis of racism and antisemitism we are facing in the United States today and their own failure to recognize the date of Yom Kippur being in conflict. They could have stopped there, but they didn’t. They asked for forgiveness in the spirit of the holiday, recognized that self-denial and fasting is not just a spiritual act but one of resistance, and that we use the holiday to reflect on the ills of society and not only our personal failings. And while they couldn’t change the date of the primary march, they were adding other events afterwards and in other cities to create opportunities to include Jews as allies and partners in the work of racial healing and social justice.

In other words, they made Teshuvah.

Tonight, we begin our Day of Atonement, our last chance to reflect on our actions from the past year and decide what kind of people we want to be. The next 24 hours we will be focused, as commanded, on self-denial, mostly fasting, and concluding these 10 Days of Awe, themselves part of several weeks of penitence; a final, last-ditch effort to make Teshuvah, to turn in true repentance and try to live up to our better selves. Even more than that, the scholar Adin Steinsaltz describes Teshuvah as “the ever-present possibility of changing one’s life and the very direction of one’s life”, and “the possibility of altering reality after the fact.”

When we talk about Teshuvah, repentance, and kapparah, atonement, we often talk about the idea of selicha, of apology.  Classically, Teshuvah is made up of three parts: we are supposed to apologize for what we’ve done wrong, make amends or restitution to those we’ve offended, and make changes in our lives so that we don’t make the same mistake or cause the same harm again. But the focus is so often on asking forgiveness. Our liturgy emphasizes that idea of verbally saying “I’m sorry”, and we see all over social media and in person people saying something like, “if I have offended you I apologize and I forgive anyone who has offended me,” a catch-all reciprocal act of forgiveness. But Teshuvah is more than just the words we speak; it must be predicated on our actions as well. To merely ask for forgiveness without doing the hard work of literally turning ourselves around is really an invitation to failure. It’s setting an expectation that we will do better and be better without having prepared ourselves to do either. It’s the spiritual equivalent of running a marathon without having ever done any exercise; without the training, the buildup of muscle and endurance, both physical and mental, the race is already lost. Doesn’t matter if you paid the registration, got your number and had every intention of running and finishing; without the prep work, it’s over before it starts. The same is true for Teshuvah. To apologize is to set an expectation; that things will be different, that I will be better. That I will just somehow miraculously stop doing whatever it is I was doing to make the other person miserable. But without recompense and change in behavior, without doing some real hard work within my soul, then the words are only sounds.

And we each know someone who simply cannot apologize. To ask them to say, “I’m sorry” is a step too far. It doesn’t mean that they’re bad people or incapable of being thoughtful or self-reflective; they just can’t say those words. Or perhaps that description resonates within us, ourselves. Maybe it’s too embarrassing, or it feels like weakness. But for whatever reason the words “I’m sorry”, meant to be a phrase that facilitates catharsis, instead becomes an obstacle to real Teshuvah.   

Is real Teshuvah, real repentance, possible without an apology? That’s tough. For many of us, hearing an apology is a necessary moment of engagement; it’s that point where we evaluate the sincerity of the offending individual. And, frankly, it’s sometimes self-satisfying to be told by someone that they were wrong and we were right. It’s gratifying to have someone come to us in humility. But is it truly necessary?

To understand that I want to share what I think is one of the greatest examples of contrition and Teshuvah in the modern experience, and the words “I’m sorry” were never spoken.

Many people wondered what President George W. Bush was going to do when he left office in 2009. At the time a deeply unpopular president, one who had presided over a Recession, two enormous wars, and one of the worst natural disasters to ever hit the United States, “Dubya” was never one to apologize. In fact, he cast himself as a man of steely resolve, the “Decider” who, despite initially wanting to create a humbler presidency, never could admit a wrong, at least publicly. Surely there were tears shed privately, as we learned later, when confronted by the parents of soldiers sent off to war only to return broken, or not at all. But that was never articulated to the public.

So, it was a surprise to learn that this least-introspective president had taken up painting. Taking lessons and self-teaching, he seemed to be cultivating a quirky hobby in his political retirement, painting self-portraits, including of him coming out of the shower, which no one wanted to see. There were a lot of laughs at his expense as a result. But it turned out all of this was practice, laying a groundwork to focus on a specific project. Last year, it was revealed that former-President Bush had been learning to paint so he could paint the portraits of men and women he had ordered to serve in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, many of whom were profoundly wounded, either physically or psychologically. He released a book this year of his portraits, called “Portraits of Courage”, which highlight the biographies of the former soldiers he painted, many of whom suffered post-traumatic stress and brain injuries. The proceeds from the book go to an organization that helps wounded warriors with employment, treatment and recovery for their injuries, etc.

Friends, George W. Bush never apologized in the way the organizers for the March for Justice did. He never apologized for the forever wars we are still fighting. He never apologized for sending our children into harm’s way. He never asked this country’ forgiveness for his choices, and we’ll never know if he apologized to those men and women who did their duty, be it with enthusiasm or reluctance. But is there any other way to understand this effort? And how could we not open our hearts to this action, this choice, this act of contrition, no less profound than that of the March organizers gearing up for tomorrow. Each in their own way made a choice to alter reality after the fact, to open themselves up to the possibility that they could turn, and in turning, be reborn. That very same choice is before us; tonight, tomorrow, and each and every day. It’s only up to us to resolve that we will embrace those opportunities to alter ourselves and our experiences. May we have the courage to do so. Amen.



Yom Kippur Day Sermon 5778

09/22/2017 09:20:27 AM


Rabbi Elisa Koppel

When I was in sixth grade, a classmate of mine drew a swastika on the cover of one of my text books.  I’m not going to name him, because it doesn’t really matter.  And because I don’t think he really understood what he was drawing.  And because he’s a nice person.  And because we’re facebook friends and I don’t want to shame him.  I saw him at our last high school reunion and had a great conversation about religion and our own personal journeys.  I think that, at the time, when we were in sixth grade, he wanted to pick on me, knew I was Jewish, and knew that drawing that particular symbol was a way he could accomplish that—I doubt he really knew why.  I don’t really remember how I responded.  I think I erased it and tried to move on.  I’m fairly certain that I didn’t tell a teacher or my parents.  

The phenomenon of victims of hatred based acts, due to any kind of hate, no matter how small or large the act, not saying a thing, is a common one.  More than half of hate crimes go unreported, according to the Department of Justice.  Perhaps because those who are the receivers of such acts don’t want to make waves, or are embarrassed that something happened to them, or because they don’t think anything will realistically be done about it…too often, things happen and no one says a thing.  Which has the effect of the perpetrator of the act never learning that what they did was wrong.  And of any sort of real, systemic change being slow, because few realize or recognize the reality of what happens to individuals.

For this particular instance I shared, I think I just wanted to move beyond it.  Maybe to pretend it didn’t happen.  I’m fairly certain that this man does not recollect this incident—I don’t think it was a defining moment of his childhood, and I don’t think he did then or does now actually hate Jews.  

But quite frankly, the fact that this was a fairly innocent act, and not a hate fueled statement, actually makes the whole thing all the more frightening to me.  Because it shows that a swastika is a common enough symbol, that even someone who was neither Jewish nor a Nazi knew that it was antisemitic.  Because casual antisemitism was a thought that crossed the mind of this boy in the mostly white middle class suburb where we grew up.  Because such an act of hate was not something that likely had a lasting impact on him.  Because while I understood that this symbol on my book would worry the adults in my life, I wanted to hide it.  Because, to this day, I still think he’s a nice guy.  A nice guy who drew a swastika on the cover of my text book.

Antisemitism, prejudice, various forms of hatred have existed in this country since the beginning of its history.  But we’ve been able to largely pretend that they no longer exist, or that they aren’t at all wide spread.  Until recently, at least. 

When our JCC had repeated bomb threats earlier this year. When news of swastikas defacing all sorts of places became regular news stories, including some drawn on message boards outside of some dorm rooms at my alma mater, Brandeis University, just this week. And this summer, when we all watched images of torch bearing white nationalists, wielding confederate flags and nazi flags, marching in the streets of Charlottesville, VA.  Shouting, “Jews will not replace us.  YOU will not replace us.”  Forcing the members of a synagogue that was along the path of their march to leave Shabbat services through a back door, sneaking the Torah scrolls out to keep them safe, as well.  I don’t need to go into the violent details of that day,  which woke a lot of us to a realization that racism in this country is a real and present problem.

For many of us, the color of our skin does not mark us as different, so we often don’t think of ourselves as victims of racism.  But, in fact, by virtue of our connection to Judaism, our whiteness is conditional.  We, of course, are able to hide our Judaism—we are able to pass as white. But our passing whiteness doesn’t remove the hatred that exists. Charlottesville made it clear that racism and antisemitism not only go hand in hand, but are one in the same. 

We live in an odd time, in which Jews can and have risen to the highest of positions, but at the same time, face roadblocks and hatred.  While the glass ceiling may have been shattered for us, we still exist within glass houses, and have been taught not to throw stones.  Which, when stones are cast in our direction, becomes challenging.  And when stones are cast at others—because of their difference—we may want to help, but we don’t want the hatred to spread to us.  And we’re not the ones who are hating.   And we’re not sure what to do.  And, all too often, we do nothing.

The words of Martin Niemoller echo in our heads:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

A message both powerful and troubling, speaking to the need to speak out for others—and yet limited to speech and so focused on inaction, that they serve more as a confession than as an inspiration.  Earlier this year, my friend and colleague, Rabbi Michael Latz wrote the following in response to Martin Neimoller (z”l):

First they came for transpeople and I spoke up -- because God does NOT make mistakes!

Then they came for the African Americans and I spoke up—

Because I am my sisters’ and my brothers’ keeper.

And then they came for the women and I spoke up—

Because women hold up half the sky.

And then they came for the immigrants and I spoke up—

Because I remember the ideals of our democracy.

And then they came for the Muslims and I spoke up—

Because they are my cousins and we are one human family.

And then they came for the Native Americans and Mother Earth and I spoke up—

Because the blood-soaked land cries and the mountains weep.

They keep coming.

We keep rising up.

Because we Jews know the cost of silence.

We remember where we came from.

And we will link arms, because when you come for our neighbors, you come for us—

and THAT just won’t stand.

Indeed, the hatred we see in our world cannot stand—we must speak out and we must stand up.  Whether the hatred is against us because we are Jews, or against others because of the color of their skin, racism is real and we cannot stand for that.

We can do better.

We can start by listening.  To noticing hateful acts when they occur.  And to really hear when others point out racism that they’ve seen or experienced.  To not argue against it but to accept that the person experienced it, and consider how we can help them, or even how we ourselves can act differently.  And maybe even ask questions so that we can learn more. And enter into dialogue to better understand.

It’s been virtually impossible this past week to not be aware that something is happening with the NFL, other than football games, as some players from every team knelt or stood arm in arm with teammates during the National Anthem, in solidarity with Colin Kaepernick, who started kneeling during the anthem last year, to protest racial oppression.  At first, he sat during the anthem.  But then, Nate Boyer, a former green beret and NFL player, wrote a public letter to Kaepernick, in which he expressed, “Even though my initial reaction to your protest was one of anger, I’m trying to listen to what you’re saying and why you’re doing it.”  Kaepernick responded by inviting Boyer to sit down and have a conversation—and then the men talked.  Eric Reid, another player, joined them.  According ESPN, “Boyer, Kaepernick and Reid agreed that the divided nature of the country right now is making it difficult to communicate clearly about complicated issues. They hope that people see and understand their conversation, and that it will lead those who can effect change to have similar discussions.”  It was out of that conversation, honoring the views of each of the 3 men, that the 3 men collectively decided that Kaepernick should kneel instead of sit—an act still problematic to many, but one that was formed out of 3 people having a complicated conversation, which can lead to others having such discussions, which is the only way that we can see change.  And they’re right.  

Change needs to happen.  And change is difficult and sometimes messy.  But change is necessary.  And we can only see that change when we hear each other, when we listen to each other, and when we try to understand the perspective of another.  To learn to use the experience of others in order to notice and respond to the racism around us.  

We should do better.

Let us be aware that this is a problem that exists even within the walls of synagogues.  A rabbinical student, my friend Eric Uriarte, in his recent student sermon at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles, spoke about his experience as a Jew of Color.  He said, “When we take off our Jewish garb, our skin color and our ethnic markers continue to make us the target of white supremacists.  But when we put them on, I’m sorry to say, those same elements can make us feel excluded in Jewish spaces.”  His experience is not unique.  For many Jews of color, they have been welcomed into Jewish spaces with questions of their legitimacy as Jews—what they are doing there, what their Jewish background is—or assumptions are made that they do not know how to follow a service.  That they must be at the synagogue for another reason, other than to pray.  That because of their color, they must not be Jewish—or not really be Jewish. 

None of these stories are ones that I have heard about this community.  But I’ve heard enough such stories—and even witnessed some—that I recognize Jews of color not feeling included is an ongoing challenge for the Jewish community as a whole. 

We must do better.  

I am not suggesting that racism is the fault of any of us.  I am not suggesting that any of us are racists. 

But let us remember that the Hebrew word for sin, het, actually means missing the mark—it’s an archery term.  And that definition recognizes that even when we are trying our best, even when we are aiming to get things right, sometimes we make mistakes.  We must be open to that idea, and we must determine to continue to try.  We must know that even though we are not racists, we might sometimes do something or say something that has been perceived by a person of color through the lens of race.  Just like we can name moments at which someone innocuously said something to us or around us that we experienced as antisemitic, even though they didn’t mean it, we must be open to the idea that sometimes we have unintentionally participated in racism.

And I do believe that we bear a communal responsibility.  Our liturgy on these High Holy Days reminds us of that with the plural language of our confessional prayers; words that we all read, even if we ourselves have not committed a particular act.  We have gone astray.  We have sinned.  We have done these things.  We might not have acted through hatred based prejudice, but we still confess.  We might not be racists ourselves, but we know that there are others who are.  We may not be the cause, but we still participate in, and sometimes even benefit from, a system in which racism is inherent and bias is real. Al chet shechatanu l’faneicha—for all the ways through which we have missed the mark in ending racism, we pray for forgiveness.  And we resolve to change.  

We will do better.

We must speak out.  Just as thousands are marching against racism in Washington today, as Rabbi Robinson spoke about last night, I am protesting racism through my words today.  I hope that we all take our place in the chain of Jewish tradition of Kivie Kaplan and Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner and Abraham Joshua Heschel, and speak out against the systemic racism that still exists.  This is the prophetic voice that must inform us.  This is the fast, as Isaiah reminds us, that is demanded.

We must speak out and we must also speak up.  We must not stand for racist comments—and let it be known when we observe racism happening.  And we must do this for ourselves, as well.

Allie Gurwitz, a student of mine from San Antonio is now at Georgetown University.  In response to swastikas being painted around her campus, she recently posted the following:

I don't normally post things like this on Facebook but as Elie Wiesel said, "Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented." To whatever individual or group is responsible for the growing number of swastikas being painted in different locations on campus: I am not afraid. We are not afraid. The Jewish community at Georgetown is strong and proud. Your hate has no place here and will not be tolerated. Spread love today.

She’s right.  We must speak out.  We must not be afraid.  And we must combat hate through love.  And darkness through light.  To pursue justice is our sacred mandate.  Our holy task is to bring the light of justice into our world.  We are taught so many times in the Torah that we must care for the stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt.  Through our communal history, and through our personal experience, we must remember that we will not stand for hatred expressed towards us nor towards anyone else.  We must act in accordance with building the world that we want to see—to be the light for justice so that we can know a world of justice.  A world of righteousness.  A world of peace.  

Ken Y’hi Ratzon, may this be God’s will.

Ken Y’hi Ratzeinu, may this be OUR will.

Rosh Hashanah Sermon

09/22/2017 09:16:00 AM


Rabbi Robinson

In the village where I grew up, down the street from the home-made ice cream place and the library, across the street from the playground where I went as a kid and I used to take my son, there is a magical place. It’s a red-painted barn- like building, kind of out of place for New England, with the words 1856 Country Store on the side, but everyone knows it as the Penny Candy Store. It’s the place in the village to get sweatshirts, soap, doodads, knickknacks, a newspaper, and yes, penny candy. It’s the perfect spot to meet your friends or take your kid after story time or some time on the playground, and the best spot to stand in front of to watch the Memorial Day parade every year. On either side of the door are two white, painted benches; one says “Democratsdemocrats” on it, the other “Republicansrepublicans”. It’s supposed to be for a laugh, these two benches divided by the entranceway, a cute photo you take. This past summer as I was walking with my family past I looked at those benches, and suddenly it wasn’t so cute any more.

There’s been a lot of discussion since last high holidays on how divided we are, and how ugly and angry those divisions have become. We read about neighbors who can’t stand to look at each other anymore getting into screaming matches and even spitting on each other; racist and anti-Semitic and homophobic attacks in the wake of the election. And it isn’t just Rightright vs. Leftleft; it seems to me that we’re increasingly in the middle of an all-out scrum of all versus all; left-wing organizations shunning Jews because of Zionism, right-wing groups and individuals threatening those who don’t observe intellectual purity. And all those discussions have been filled with a great deal of blame and accusation; whose fault is it that we’re so divided. Which, of course, fosters more division, more hostility, more anger. I don’t know about you; maybe you’re over it. Maybe you feel like this issue has been talked to death and you just want to be left alone. For me, as a father, as a rabbi, as a man, it’s scary. It’s exhausting. And it’s sad. It’s increasingly clear that we cannot move forward as a country and a community in this fashion. As human beings, we ache for connectivity; we are social animals and we want to be able to be in relationship with one another in peace. Forget about politics for a moment; in my neighborhood, there are two neighbors that are having a constant war with one another about the Lord knows what, but it’s constant and they are always trying to suck everyone else into this fight. Perhaps you have had similar experiences. It’s really uncomfortable, to the point of worrying about folks’ safety. I’m not saying we all have to be best buddies, but a minimum level of civility goes a long way to keeping the peace. We hunger for that civility, need to reclaim it and restore it to a prominent place in our society.

Therefore, as Jews, as human beings, we are compelled to act. Our tradition teaches us the importance of peace: in text after text we are reminded that the pursuit of peace is among the most important tasks before usu. Famously we are taught Bakesh shalom v’rodfei hu; Seek peace and pursue it. And the sages of old have understood that text to mean that, while other mitzvot are conditional, circumstantial; perhaps we could do whatever we’re commanded to do, perhaps not; this. This mitzvah, however, is not conditional. If there is no opportunity to make peace, we make an opportunity to make peace.  And in the spirit of the new year, I’d like to suggest that we now could make that opportunity, to start over, and spend this year in our daily lives rebuilding what has been broken, healing the divisions we see in our midst.

To pursue peace, we must ask the question: what do we mean by that word, peace? The word can too easily conjure up a certain kind of cynicism; “can’t we all just get along” type stuff. Let me be clear by what I mean by this action, and what I don’t mean. In the spirit of Maimonides, I’ll begin with what I don’t mean. I do not mean capitulation on deeply held beliefs. I do not mean moral ambivalence or relativism, that somehow ‘many sides’ can all be equally right. Peace doesn’t merely mean quiet or order. This is not about shutting people up or shutting people down. Indeed, I’d argue that doing so is no peace at all. Many of us feel quite strongly about a whole range of issues, have attended rallies and vigils and protests; peace does not mean going home and shutting up. It does not mean minimizing folks’ lived experiences. None of those things lead to peace. They may lead to quiet, and it might lead to order, but the ache, the anger, the issues that were there before will still seep out, will still curdle our relationships with one another. I’m guessing all of us have apologized at some point or another for something we didn’t feel guilty of, just to get the conversation over and avoid the conflict. And I’m also guessing each of us have tried to share a deeply held belief—perhaps even with close friends—only to be shouted down, perhaps without the other person even understanding our point of view. Maybe we were doing the shouting. How many of us are still carrying the scars from that, still holding onto the anger we felt, the frustration we felt. How many of us are still carrying that around with us? Does that sound like peace to you?   As we read in the prophets, we are forbidden to proclaim “peace! Peace! Peace! When there is no peace.”

So, what is the pursuit of peace, really? What does our tradition mean when it compels us to seek peace and pursue it? First and foremost, it means recognizing our shared humanity. If we take seriously the idea from our Torah that all of us are created in God’s image, then we have a moral obligation to lift that up for ourselves and each other. Sounds easy, but it’s really, really hard. To stop for a moment, stop our own anxieties, our own agenda, our own business long enough to look at the person and see that it is, in fact, A PERSON you’re looking at, requires a great deal of compassion and patience. Especially if they’re yelling at you. Rabbi Amy Eilberg, who has done a tremendous amount of conflict transformation work, especially between Jews and Palestinians, talks about when she’s in difficult conversations, sometimes painful conversations with others, and before she responds with her own anger, her own need to be right, takes a deep breath and, looking at each person, says silently to herself ‘betzelem Elohim, betzelem Elohim, betzelem Elohim.” –“Created in God’s image, Created in God’s image, Created in God’s image.”

In those moments, when we want to just take the other person apart, to respond defensively, it takes a willingness to put down our own weapons, to not, in conflict, fight to win. Rabbi Elisa Koppel last year shared the idea of makhlokeht l’shem shamayim, a disagreement for the sake of heaven. Our tradition does not presume that conflict will cease to exist; there will always be conflict. But, how can we make said conflicts constructive, thoughtful, and productive?. How can we avoid demonizing the other side, making broad generalizations of everyone who disagrees with me? It might feel good in the moment, but is the hangover worth it? I’ve been a Rotarian for a few years now, as is my father, and the hallmark for the Rotary organization is something called the Four-Way test. The Four-way test asks us to take the following questions into account before we speak with one another: Is it the truth? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it build goodwill? Is it to everyone’s benefit? It’s meant to be nonsectarian and nonpartisan, but I can’t help but think of it as awfully Jewish. Can you imagine having those four questions in your head before you spoke? I don’t know about you, but I think it would help make a whole lot of conflicts much more meaningful, and who knows, perhaps we might learn something from the other as a result.

That idea of learning, of being open and curious rather than closed and determined, is essential to the work of pursuing peace as well. That doesn’t mean being soft. It doesn’t mean giving up what we believe. It does mean being humble; listening to the other without interruption, even when it is hard. Perhaps especially when it is hard. It means being quick to listen carefully and slow to interject. It means being aware of one’s own feelings in the heated moment and recognizing them as authentic but not letting them drive the conversation. I’ve often shared my teacher Rabbi David Ellenson’s story of how, when he and his wife would get into a disagreement and the conversation got too heated she would say “David, this is where you can either be right or be married.” Our need to win cannot and should not take precedence over our need to maintain a relationship; we must respond graciously and acknowledge our own limits. So, when the person shares their pain, their own lived experience, we would be wise to listen respectfully, and expect the same from the person we’re speaking to, and apologize quickly if what we say in reflection turns out to be hurtful. That’s not being politically correct, it’s not being policed, it’s being a mensch; it’s being kind. And I think we can agree that we could use a little more kindness. Last Sukkot Ivan Thomas, who created #wearelove, came and led our congregation in a process where we could listen deeply and respectfully to each other’s stories. I doubt anyone who was there that night could say that they didn’t learn something new about the world, the person they interacted with, or themselves. And when we open ourselves up, when we respond with curiosity, we create the opportunity to do exactly that kind of learning. In contrast, Rabbi Eilberg recounts in her book From Enemy to Friend how she went to an academic panel where the moderator asked each panelist to ask the other a question, and one admitted she honestly couldn’t think of one question she could ask the others. They were so used to articulating their point of view, defending their point of view, that they hadn’t thought what it would mean to listen to one another.

By now you’ve probably realized that the kind of peace I’m describing is hard to achieve, especially in a world where it’s easy to go on the internet, see something that makes our blood boil and then go bananas. To do this work takes intentionality, self-awareness, humility and courage. Yes, courage: the courage to be vulnerable in the moment, to open yourself up to someone else’s world view. It takes compassion, honoring the holiness in the other, and a generosity of spirit. It’s not easy; we’ve fallen out of the habit. We want to repost memes and scream into the face of the other—and there’s always an “Other”. But just because something is hard doesn’t mean it isn’t worth doing. What if we committed to taking these values and, when we encounter someone with whom we disagree, someone with whom we’re in conflict, work to make them a part of the encounter. What if we strive, each one of us, to be a little more curious, a little humbler, a little more willing to listen to each other. A little more willing to hear someone else’s pain, and be aware of our own. A little more willing to transform the conflict rather than avoid it. Look, we’re not going to magically become the Dalai Llama or Reb Nachman of Bratzlav or Pope Francis—and frankly, each one of them have had moments they weren’t proud of. Each one of us, no matter how hard we try, will fall. God knows I have. But that’s not the point; the point is to pursue peace. We may never achieve it, not fully nor perfectly, but we must still seek out those opportunities and embrace them to the best of our abilities. Maybe we only change one conversation; sometimes that’s all it takes to make a difference in this world.

The poet Yehuda Amichai wrote the following:

In the place where we are right

Flowers will never grow in the spring.

The place where we are right

Is hard and trampled like a yard.

But doubts and loves dig up the world like a

Mole, a plough.

And a whisper will be heard in the place where the

Ruined house once stood.

Do we want to be right or in relationship? Do we want to continue to trample the ground and each other in service to our rage and pain, or do we want to plant new flowers of love and understanding? In this new year, I am going to commit myself to pursuing peace. I am going to commit myself to seek understanding, to respect and reflect, and to do what I can to shape the conflicts I encounter into conflicts for the sake of Heaven. And I deeply believe that, if each of us commits as well, we can begin to change the world around us, to move toward a culture of peace. As you leave today you will find the Rodef Shalom Agreement, a brit, a covenant you make with yourself. I encourage you to take one, and begin to do the work of exploring what it would mean for each of us to be that person in our lives. May it be so. Amen.


Erev of Rosh Hashanah Sermon 2017

08/24/2017 01:05:06 PM


Rabbi Robinson

It was a hot day this past July, and it looked like the Old City of Jerusalem was going to explode. A few days before, three Israeli Arabs had killed two Israeli Druze police officers near the Temple Mount. Security forces had closed off the area and then reopened it with metal detectors. Israeli Arab leaders and the leadership of the Waqf, the religious authority that supervises Muslim holy sites in Israel, staged a protest, and began calling for a day of rage. Three Israelis were killed when someone broke into their home, and three Palestinians were killed in rioting. For those of us watching this past summer, it appeared that once again Israel would be embroiled in violence.

In response to the increased tensions, Sarah Tuttle-Singer, an American Israeli journalist who has been living in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, stood outside and, with a few friends, handed out popsicles to passersby. She started with popsicles she had paid for out of pocket, and by the end of the day merchants were donating them entire boxes.

She wrote the following of the experience:

On Thursday, a group of us stood in front of the Austrian hospice at the intersection of Al Wad and Via Dolorosa and handed out (parve) popsicles to anyone who would accept.

Men carrying prayer rugs on their way to the Mosque.

Guys going to the Western Wall.

Families walking north and south and back again.

A baffled looking priest and two nuns.

A guy in Border Police with braces on his teeth.

A pilgrim from Russia wearing a giant cross and strappy sandals.

A bunch of tourists from Ohio.

Lots and lots and lots of kids.

Anyone who would accept a popsicle got one.


Because it's *** hot out.

And we may come from different cultures and religions, we may speak different languages and see the world through different eyes, but we are all a sum part of chemical and biological processes, and we all get hot.

And when we get hot we get irritated and the tensions that are already there can ignite.

Also, the Old City is my home and I believe in treating my neighbors with respect during good times, and bad.

As it happened, the next day, Israel removed the security apparatuses and tensions were calmed.

I suspect many of us, as touched as we are by Sarah’s gesture (on her birthday, no less) find it lovely but Pollyanna-ish. How do popsicles solve the crisis between Palestinian and Jew in the area between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan RIver? How does this account for the Waqf’s incitement, fanning the flames of violence? How does it deal with the Palestinian Authority continuing to pay the families of terrorists, including the three who killed the Druze police officers? How do popsicles deal with olive groves destroyed by settlers who build on hilltops that don’t belong to them? What do popsicles do to protect our kids at college when someone paints a swastika on their dorm room door? How does this really resolve anything? We see the picture of Sarah handing out popsicles, and it’s lovely, and kind, yet by the time we’re done thinking about the matzav, the situation, we get ourselves so worked up that it feels futile and hopeless and irrelevant.

When I was a kid I had a book from AIPAC called “Myths and Facts”, a guide to talking about the Arab-Israeli conflict, that was meant to help someone who would get caught up in a conversation about Israel and quickly get overwhelmed. That’s because the conversation is overwhelming. Because when we speak of Israel, we are often very quick to speak of technicalities: dates and maps and green lines and technical marvels, who did what when, who is to blame and who is responsible, who really actually truly cares about others? And what’s worse, the diversity of Zionist organizations on the left and the right has created increasing fracture within the Jewish community, including here in Delaware. Myths And Facts was meant for Jews to speak with non-Jews, but it seems that we have reached the point where we may feel that we need it internally, not just externally. It was one thing to combat well-meaning non-Jewish peaceniks who would carry the claim that Zionism was racism. Now we have the ZOA, AIPAC, J-Street, ARZA, IfNotNow, Open Hillel and many other organizations whose relationship with Zionism is complex and nuanced, which would be great, if we were living in a time of complex and nuanced discussion and debate. But increasingly, we have been living in a world of alternative facts, fake news, insistence that if the person across from me disagrees with me even in the slightest bit, they are not just wrong, they are my enemy and the enemy of all I hold dear. To be a J-Street supporter in the eyes of many is to betray the Jewish state to an Iranian Nuclear Weapon, while to be an AIPAC supporter is to capitulate to an Israeli Prime Minister unwilling and unable to make peace. Is ARZA fighting to create space for Reform Jews to practice an egalitarian Judaism at the Western Wall, or a distraction undermining the fabric of Israeli society and Judaism as we know it? Does the ZOA advocate for a strong Jewish State or is it a racist organization advocating bigotry against Arabs? These are actual discussions that are taking place, if you can call them ‘discussions’. More like weaponized sentences, screaming matches, skirmishes that have casualties. As one example, a student of mine, now in college, shared this experience with me: She was getting ready to go on a birthright trip, one geared toward LGBT individuals, that would coincide with Israel Pridefest. She wrote: “Before the trip I had gotten anti-Israel hate on campus (anti-Trump protests saying if you didn't vote to divest then you don't believe in human rights, friends saying Zionism has no place in feminism) and my best friend told me she cancelled her trip with me because she couldn't "morally go to Israel" but nobody was like actually attacking me for going cuz I kept it on the down low since I knew so many of my friends legitimately hated Israel and would make laugh about terrorism on twitter. Only after I went did I have people be blatantly anti-Semitic to me on twitter because of my trip and people passive aggressively post articles about pink washing the day I got back” . Can you imagine having friendships ruined, trips ruined, relationships blown apart? That is what is happening, and this is being repeated over and over again. My friends, we are tearing each other apart.

Friends, if we keep talking about Israel through technicalities, as if it were a zero-sum game, without nuance or complexity or an acknowledgement of each other’s lived experiences, then we are not going to resolve the Palestinian-Israeli crisis. We are not going to stop dumb college kids from saying dumb and terrible things and doing dumb and terrible things. We aren’t going to be able to support the kind of Israel we want to see—strong and diverse and safe. We are creating a no-man’s land within the Jewish community; no one wants to talk about Israel. I’ve seen it for years: a survey came out two years ago of rabbis across all three major movements that indicated the majority refrained from discussing Israel because they feared for their jobs; one prominent rabbi in the Northeast who does a great deal of social justice work told a group of us ten years ago to approach the topic of Israel gingerly, and treat it as a third rail in synagogue politics. And we see it in Delaware. How many people are still giving to ARZA, or are willing to go to an AIPAC or J-Street policy conference, or at least tell others? How many look over both shoulders while at Temple before talking about Israel so as not to get into a fight? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been without an Israel Advocacy Chair for more than two years, a Board position! Because no one wants to touch it.

So let’s go back to those popsicles, shall we? Did some blonde woman from LA who now lives in Jerusalem handing out popsicles resolve the borders, water rights, Palestinian Right of Return and the boundaries of Jerusalem? Nope. Did it resolve the issue on the Temple Mount? Nope. Did it bring back the lives of those killed—the policemen, the family, the young people at the protest? Sadly, no. But it was a human gesture, a recognition that the people shared a city, shared a love for that city, and a love for each other as well. It was neighborly, it was kind. And it allowed the people to be people, to recognize the humanity in one another, even for one brief, cool, sweet, drippy moment.

We need more of those moments. We need more opportunities that are safe, where we can sit with our fellow congregants and speak from our lived experiences, talk about what Israel means to each one of us personally. We need to start not at 30,000 feet, at borders and drip irrigation and the like. That doesn’t mean that isn’t interesting, that doesn’t mean it isn’t cool, but that’s not our starting point. Our starting point needs to be each other. Why do we care about Israel? What does that look like to me, or to you? Where does it come from? How does it relate to the rest of our lives? How can we listen and affirm that connection, deepen it, relate to it, let it resonate for ourselves? How does Israel challenge us, upset us? How do we create space to listen to one another, not scream the so-called correct answers at one another?

This year, I want to try an experiment; an experiment in listening. Over the course of this year, there will be sessions, held over several months, beginning in October and culminating in May. The purpose of them is to create the space to talk about Israel, to listen to each other in a safe space, and to build relationships. No other agenda, no convincing one another of being right or wrong, no yelling, no screaming, no Myths and no Facts. Only listening deeply and seeing the humanity in one another, and acknowledging each other’s experiences. I can’t promise there will be popsicles, but my prayer is that we’re able to come together and speak honestly and compassionately, to hear one another even when it’s difficult. Because it’ll be no good if we only speak platitudes and avoid the subject; that’s what we’ve got now and it’s not doing anything either. We need to be able to be honest, but to be able to hear one another clearly as well, not just prepare our next fusillade. Rabbi Amy Eilberg, in her book From Enemy to Friend, talks about “skilled disagreement”, and this will help guide our conversations. Ideas like: we can be critical of ideas but not people, we can separate our personal worth from criticism of our ideas, we listen to everyone, even when we don’t agree, we try to understand one another and stand in a posture of curiosity, asking questions. I’ll be going into greater detail about those ideas tomorrow, but that is the intention. I cordially invite you—all of you, each of you—to come and participate, to share, to be present, to create those moments of empathy with one another. Perhaps it will lead to something concrete for the synagogue—a new Israel committee, a new program—or perhaps it will just mean that the participants got to know each other better and learned how to speak thoughtfully. Perhaps we will choose to extend the conversation: to the rest of Delaware’s Jewish community, to the non-Jewish community, or perhaps not. What’s most important is that we do it. Because if we do not start here, each one of us, in this congregation, then I fear our relationship with Israel will become increasingly tenuous, and our relationship with one another ever more brittle. And should that happen, then we cannot advocate for Israel, at least not effectively. And are we really ready to give up on the Hope and the dream of a Jewish people, Free in our land?

The rabbis of old ask, “Who is the hero of heroes? The one who makes an enemy into a friend.” May we, through our listening and our kindness learn to keep our friends “friends”, and see those around us not as enemies but as potential friends, then may our words be as sweet to one another as a popsicle on a summer’s day. Amen

Rabbi Robinson Sermon August 25,2017

08/24/2017 01:02:44 PM


In the summer of 1958, Groucho Marx took his daughter Melinda, friend Robert Duan and Robert’s daughter Judy for a six week trip to Europe, including a visit to Germany. While in Germany, they attempted to visit the cemetery where Groucho’s grandmother was buried, only to find the entire Jewish section had been eradicated by the Nazis. A few days later, Groucho hired a car to take them to East Berlin, where he asked to see the remains of Hitler’s bunker and last resting place. They found it much the way it was right after the war; a heap of wreckage and rubble. Marx got out of the car, stood atop it, and proceeded to do a frenetic Charleston routine; an ultimate act of defiance. No one laughed. They left Germany the next day.

It’s worth reflecting on that image, of Groucho Marx literally dancing on the grave of Hitler, without even a hint of humor in the moment, as we continue to process the events of the last few weeks. Rabbi Koppel, in conversation with me, reflected that it seemed as if the march in Charlottesville sent the entire Jewish community into shock, and that we were—are—still wrestling with what we should be doing. I mentioned this to a non-Jewish colleague, who said that he shared with his congregation the following question, based on the prophets: are we responding to the Tiki-torch Nazis out of righteousness or out of rage?

We might ask the question whether or not it matters; why shouldn’t we respond out of our own rage and pain? Wouldn’t we be justified to react in that fashion? To meet the forces of evil—and lets be clear, we are discussing evil—in the same manner they approach us?

This week we read in our Torah those words that we as Jews, and especially as Reform Jews, have clung to for generations; tzedek tzedek tirdof, Justice, Justice you shall pursue. The Hasidic leader Rabbi Simcha Bunim understands the repetition of the word tzedek—Justice—to mean that we must pursue justice in a just way. We cannot, must not say the ends justify the means, for to do so means that we are no longer truly pursuing a just, compassionate and sacred world. Instead we are pursuing our own agenda, one filled with bad intentions. Or, through our actions, no matter our intent, instead of spreading justice, we create the fertile ground for more injustice in the world. We have seen this again and again as people who once pursued righteousness now seek to feed their own egos, or well-intentioned programs and efforts turn out to backfire on the very people they were supposed to help. So it is with us as well in this moment. I know it’s scary right now, and exhausting, and sad, and infuriating. The old punk in me would like nothing better than to curb-stomp some skinhead thugs. But that isn’t justice; it’s not even close. Surely the times demand that we act and act we must. But we won’t become them. We will not allow their hate, their penchant to violence, their disdain for justice to make us act out of fear and rage. We will not let them dictate the rules of the game. No; we will act with a defiant love in our hearts, a love for God and this world and our neighbors and our tradition as radical and provocative as dancing on Hitler’s grave. We will not shrink from our mission as Jews, but step forward, reminding others of God’s hidden light in the world, that will only be revealed when we lift up the poor, support the oppressed, and care for the stranger in our midst, for we know what it means to be the stranger. We will act with courage, but not hate, strength but not rage, justice but not zealousness. The moment is calling to us, and we must answer the call, to do justice justly in the world and cause the shadow of hate to crawl back under the rock.

In 1941 Woody Guthrie put the words “This Machine Kills Fascists” on his guitar. His music was his weapon against tyranny and hate. Groucho’s weapon against injustice was a crazy Charleston. Our weapon is Torah, guiding the work of our hands and the words we speak. We move forward, mindful of the words of the psalmist we say from now until Rosh Hashanah, Hope in God! Be strong and of good courage. Hope in God! Amen.

08/24/2017 01:02:23 PM


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Scattering Light: Shabbat Sermon August 18, 2017

08/18/2017 09:41:41 PM


Rabbi Elisa F. Koppel

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It’s been a challenging week in the world. A week full of hatred. Full of violence. Full of fear. A week in which torch wielding Nazis rallied in the streets. A week which brought injury to many and death to one who opposed the white supremacists. A week in which Boston’s Holocaust Memorial was vandalized for a second time this summer. A week in which multiple vehicle attacks led to one of the most violent days in Spain’s recent history, injuring hundreds and killing more than a dozen individuals. A week in which reports on those attacks indicate that even worse violence had been planned. A week for which I have no words, and yet for which silence doesn’t seem to suffice either. 

A week in which, the world felt smaller. Drawn together through sympathy and through empathy. Drawn together around scattered computers and televisions and smart phones—hanging on to bits of news as they came in, and sharing in a diverse chorus of prayers for the well being of all who have suffered from the events of this week. Drawn together through fear of what comes next, and what this all means. Drawn together by shared emotional shock, and the need to respond, and not knowing how to even begin.

A week in which many of us bought glasses to safely view the coming solar eclipse, as we watched an unfiltered moral eclipse form around us. In the face of the reality of evil, theologian Martin Buber suggested that there is an Eclipse of God. That God is present, but hiding. Rabbi Jeff Salkin, my colleague, mentor, and friend, who will visit us in February for our Scholar in Residence Weekend, wrote a piece this week in which he (in his words) picks a fight with this theology. He writes: 

"As compelling as it might sound, and as powerful the image might be, I do not believe that God is in eclipse when evil happens.

What went into eclipse in Charlottesville, and in the days after Charlottesville?

Yes, it was a coming attraction of the solar eclipse.

What went into eclipse was:

    •    The human conscience.

    •    Human decency.

    •    The ethics of historical memory

…It is not human sinfulness that creates eclipses (as the sages taught; that is why there is no Jewish blessing for the sighting of an eclipse).

Rather, human sinfulness pushes our own humanity into eclipse."

As we watch the eclipse this week, perhaps we can use it to remind us of what is eclipsed in our world—and as a call to us towards action. To right that which is wrong—to bring the light of justice and righteousness to a darkened world. 

Rabbi Neal Gold wrote this week about Charlottesville. He notes that,

“In this week’s Torah portion we read two seemingly contradictory verses:

אֶ֕פֶס כִּ֛י לֹ֥א יִֽהְיֶה־בְּךָ֖ אֶבְי֑וֹן

There shall be no needy among you (Deut. 15:4)

כִּ֛י לֹא־יֶחְדַּ֥ל אֶבְי֖וֹן מִקֶּ֣רֶב הָאָ֑רֶץ

There will never cease to be needy ones in your land (Deut. 15:11).

Which is it? Will there be people in need in the future or not?”

Citing the commentary of Richard Elliott Friedman, he continues: 

"Verse 11 doesn’t mean that there will always be people in desperate straits; the Hebrew word yehdal ("cease") means that it won’t come to a stop on its own. If you want suffering to disappear, you’ve got to do something about it, reaching out to hurting brothers and sisters.

So it is with extreme hate. It isn’t just going to go away—not unless people of good faith come together and clearly articulate our vision of a decent and just society, and demand that elected leaders make it so."

That must be the vision towards which we rise.  That vision of a world that is brightened as the eclipse fades into memory is what we must work towards.  And while we cannot complete this task on our own, the rabbis remind us that it is still our responsibility to begin this work.  This is our mission: to stand up against hatred with messages of love, of justice, and of righteousness.

Exactly 227 years ago (to the day), President George Washington wrote his famous letter to the Jews of Newport, RI. His words hearken as true today as they were likely read in their original time. He speaks of the United States government, “Which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.”  And in the final lines, he offers the following hope:

"May the children of the stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid. 

May the father of all mercies scatter light and not darkness in our paths, and make us all in our several vocations useful here, and in his own due time and way everlastingly happy."

May we know a time in which all citizens of this country, of this world, know a world of peace in which none are made to be afraid. May this week, as we usher in a new month, leading up to a new year, bring renewal, hope, and light. May light be scattered upon each of our paths, and our collective paths—and may we be among those who scatter that light. 

Ken Y’hi Ratzon

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July 28, 2017

07/27/2017 01:37:37 PM


Yair D. Robinson

Parashat D’varim


In several of his books, Martin Buber tells the story of a famous Hassidic rabbi, Abraham Yaakov of Sadagora. The rabbi insisted that something can be learned from everything, even from the inventions of his time.

"Everything can teach us something, and not only everything God has created. What man has made has also something to teach us."
"What can we learn from a train?" one [student] asked dubiously.
"That because of one second one can miss everything."
"And from the telegraph?"
"That every word is counted and charged."
"And the telephone?"
"That what we say here is heard there."

This week we begin Deuteronomy, whose Hebrew name is “Words”, Devarim. Specifically, these are the words Moses shares before Israel enters the land, the words Moses has chosen to inspire and educate his people before they fulfill their destiny without him. The rabbis imagine him not just speaking from the mountaintop, but also speaking quietly to each Israelite in the way he or she could understand, taking the time to speak to each person with care. Compare that to our current experience with words. It seems that every day we see what happens when words are treated thoughtlessly, and the damage that can happen when we fail to account for our words, or who might be listening. Whether it’s damaging and offensive words in a tweet or hurled directly at someone with whom we disagree, regardless of relationship, our words and the timing of those words matter.

Next week is also Tisha B’av, the holiday commemorating the destruction of the Temple, and the Rabbis of the Talmud understood the reason for that destruction being sinat chinam, senseless hatred, inspired by callous and careless words. I don’t observe the 9th of Av for a host of reasons, but let me suggest that we should spend this week reflecting on how we use our words. Are we taking a good account of our words? Are we mindful of who is listening? Are we taking the opportunity to speak lovingly with one another? May we fulfill the words of our prayerbook, the words of the psalms, O God, open our lips that our mouths may proclaim you Glory, in all we say. Amen.

May 19, 2017Rabbi Robinson·         Proclaim Liberty throughout the land” . Where do we find these words?o   On the Liberty bell, and also in this week’s Torah portion ·     

04/28/2017 09:28:40 AM


Rabbi Robinson April 28, 2017

Once Rabbi Elimelekh had his friend Rabbi Mendel as a guest for dinner. As it happened, that night, Rabbi Elimelekh’s servant forgot to set out a spoon at Rabbi Mendel’s place. Everyone was eating except Rabbi Mendel, who sat looking at his soup. The Tzaddik observed this and asked: Why aren’t you eating? Well, said Rabbi Mendel, I don’t have a spoon.

Look, said Rabbi Elimelekh, one must know enough to ask for a spoon, and a plate too, if need be!

There are two ways to look at this story. One is that Rabbi Elimelekh should have made sure that Rabbi Mendel had a spoon. Quite rude and unwelcoming. But the other is Rabbi Elimelekh’s point; that Rabbi Mendel, seeing his situation, should have asked self-advocated, and asked for help. We can’t wait for someone to notice whether we’re in distress; we have to ask.

And here’s the thing; we’re not good at asking for help. We’re great at offering help. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited someone in the hospital after surgery and asked if they wanted the caring committee to reach out, only to be told with a dismissive wave of the hand that they used to be on the caring committee. We’re happy to be the one who supports; we’re less thrilled to be on the receiving end. Maybe it feels infantilizing, or as Americans, it feels weak. I don’t know. What I do know is that our tradition teaches us that the point of being in community is as much to have a shoulder to lean on as it is to offer that shoulders to others. And that no one is keeping score. We see that in our torah portion, which talks about a person with Tzaraat; sometimes called leprosy but really some kind of spiritual skin disease. We are told right at the beginning that as soon as a priest hears about the person having tzaraat, he’s to go to that person outside the camp to address his needs. This tells us that someone had to tell the priest, and that the priest has to go to that person as soon as he hears of their suffering. I know that sounds self-evident, but too often I find that we’d rather suffer in silence or hope someone notices that we don’t have a spoon than admit frailty and get the help and support they need. And when we close ourselves off like that, in a way, we push our friends away, we tell them that we don’t trust them to be there for us. And we tell ourselves that we aren’t worthy of love and support.

Rabbi Mendel deserves a spoon. The metzorah—the person with tzaraat—deserves to be seen by the priest, to have his illness attended to so he can reenter the camp. And we are deserving of love and support. But sometimes, folks, we have to ask. Let’s be brave enough, trusting enough, to do so. Amen.

Rabbi Robinson, May 26, 2017Sermon

04/28/2017 09:28:40 AM


Yair Robinson

Parashat Bamidbar


It’s late May and early June, which can only mean one thing: graduation. Next weekend is high school graduation, and for the last several weeks we’ve seen article after article, Facebook post after Facebook post celebrating various college graduations throughout Delaware and Pennsylvania and Maryland and beyond.

One graduation that was especially poignant this week was at Bowie State University, more for who was not graduating than who was. A seat was left with the cap, gown and stole of Richard Collins III, who would have accepted a business degree before taking his place as a second lieutenant in the US Army. Instead, his family accepted his diploma, for Richard Collins III was dead, killed in a knife-attack. And not just any knife attack (as if that isn’t bad enough). Richard Collins III, who is black, was killed by a man who belongs to a white-supremacist group. Here was a young man who was preparing to serve his country, who was going to make something of himself and his life, but instead, mostly likely because of the color of his skin, is now only a memory, an unfulfilled promise. 

Did Richard Collins III matter? Did his life matter? Should his life matter to us? Does he count?

That question is the question before us in our Torah portion this week. What does it mean to matter, to count, and be counted? That is what our Torah asks us this week in parashat bamidbar, the first Torah portion in the book of numbers. God commands Moses to take a census of Israel, but not any kind of census. Moses and the elders are to count the able-bodied men of Israel, to prepare to enter the land and, really, invade it, or at least be ready to combat the locals. By definition, that means that this census is exclusionary; we don’t count women, the old, the young, the non-Israelite, and so forth.  For the text, it seems clear that not everyone necessarily matters for everything.

In our lives we are counted in various ways. The census, to be sure. Various statistics. Every click we make online. We are measured and evaluated through our behavior, our apparent wealth or lack thereof, our ethnicity, the way we talk or walk—or don’t. All of that is used to size up whether or not—or how—we matter.

And yet, the command to take the census begins with the words Take a census of the whole Israelite community, literally, “lift up the heads of all the Israelite community”. Well, that’s very different. This isn’t exclusive but inclusive. And even more than that; to lift up their heads, as the midrash says, to lift them up to greatness. In that same Midrash God says “I have made you like Me. Just as I hold My head up high over all the creatures of the earthy, so too with you.” Israel is not merely to be counted in its entirety and not merely to be counted for the sake of going to war but each person is to be counted to lift them up, to remind them that they are created in God’s image, that each one has value and merit and holiness.

It seems to me that the difficulty that is taking place in the text is the same difficulty we as a nation are wrestling with right now. Who do we count? Do we only count certain people—because of their wealth, or position, or status, or ethnicity, or gender—or do we acknowledge the inherent value of each and every person? Do we only matter as commodities to be sold goods and services, or are we truly in God’s image? Was Richard Collins life one of value, of worth, or was he another sad statistic?

To be sure, not every data point is relevant to every issue. But can we truly say that Richard Collins III didn’t matter? As his parents mourn him rather than celebrate his accomplishments and potential, shouldn’t we join them in mourning his loss as well? For me the answer is yes. For me the text challenges us to see those around us not merely as data points, but as lives to be lived, people whose heads should be lifted up—by each one of us. And so long as we only count those we choose to count—those who look like us, sound like us—then we cannot say we are ready to enter the land God has promised us. So let us lift up the heads—the lives—of all, and remember that they—and we, and you—count.

April 14, 2017

04/13/2017 02:45:49 PM


Rabbi Yair D. Robinson

Congregation Beth Emeth

Chol HaMoed Pesach


I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s a holiday this week. That’s right, Passover isn’t just one or two nights but a week of carb-free bliss. Or something like that. I certainly noticed at Rotary when the person next to me had the chicken salad sandwich on croissant and I had the fruit cup. Oh, well. I would argue that the opportunity to be with others and celebrate our freedom is worth skipping the occasional sandwich or pasta dish.

It’s not just our dietary habits that get interrupted this week, but our Torah reading as well. Rather than continue with the text of Leviticus, we take a detour and jump into Deuteronomy, specifically a recitation of the holiday calendar, especially the shalosh regalim, the three pilgrimage festivals of the Bible: Shavuot, Sukkot and Pesach. Our text tells us that we should have nothing but joy, in our festivals, that when we come to the place where God will make the Divine Presence known we shouldn’t come empty-handed. Rather, each person, we are told, should bring gifts, as God has blessed us.

There’s a lot to unpack in this text. More obviously is this idea that you should bring gifts as God has blessed you.  What a deep understanding of our condition! Not all of us have been blessed with the same gifts. The economist and pundit Robert Reich talks about how, no matter how much he loves the game of basketball, he can never play it at a high level, at least in part because he’s less than 5 feet tall. It’s just reality, but that reality doesn’t make him less of a person because he’s not LaBron James. Likewise, that LaBron James has never been a cabinet secretary doesn’t make him less of a person either. To recognize that our gifts, our blessings, no matter how different, are still of value, still worthy of presenting to God, should be an inspiration to us.

But I want to focus on this earlier text, the idea that we don’t come empty-handed. That’s not exactly what the text says. Rather, it says that we should not come ‘reikim’, literally empty. Sure, the pshat, the plan meaning of the text, is that it’s talking about bringing stuff, but let’s explore that idea of emptiness for a minute, especially in a week where we’ve cleaned our houses out. What does it mean that you shouldn’t come to God empty? Well, read it in the context of the other two commands, that we should have nothing but joy and that we bring as God has blessed us. What if this is not about bringing a physical offering, but rather taking the opportunity to look inside: to see who we are and what we’re about, to see our own inherent value, the gifts we’ve been given, the person that we are. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are a time to reevaluate the person that we’re becoming, to correct the flaws that we see. What if Pesach is a time to accept ourselves, to see our own worth, to fill ourselves neither with haughtiness nor pride but with a real sense of our blessings.

Rabbi Dennis Ross, in one of his books, talks about overhearing one end of a phone conversation, presumably between spouses, where the one says to the other, “If you can’t do that, then what good are you to me.” We spend a lot of time worrying about being on the receiving end of that call, of worrying about what good we are to others, of evaluating our self-worth in relationship to other people’s gifts, other people’s blessings; and we spend a lot of time dismissing those gifts God has blessed us with. Pesach invites us to see ourselves full of God’s blessings, our own blessings. May we bring those blessings forward, and as a result have nothing but joy. Amen

March 3, 2017

03/03/2017 11:29:30 PM


Rabbi Elisa F. Koppel

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired.  I’m really tired.  Tired of cemetery desecrations, and bomb threats—attacks on our own community.  Tired of mosques being burned.  Tired of people being killed because of the color of their skin or their ethnicity.  Tired of having to focus on security instead being able to focus on program.  I’m quite simply exhausted.

I was speaking with a colleague yesterday—one of the colleagues with whom I am studying in the Executive Masters program through Hebrew Union College, to get a Masters in Religious Education.  This was the program with which I traveled to Israel recently, as part of our studies.  My friend reminded me of our trip to a community near the Gaza border, Moshav ntiv haaserah, at which a woman who lives there told us about her experience living there, particularly during the summer of 2014, in which rockets were fired into their community from Gaza daily, thousands in all.  Because of the Iron Dome, very few caused any real, physical damage.  However, as she showed us one of the rockets that fallen into her backyard, she said words that stayed with me, “This is a psychological weapon.”

And, indeed, while I understood what she meant then—I get it in a much deeper way now.  There are weapons that are meant to do physical damage—and those are awful.  But there are other weapons that are designed to hurt psychologically.  To bring fear, to make us wonder, to attempt to destroy the spirit—those weapons, I believe, are just as awful.

An hour later, we saw something else at that same Moshav—we saw the huge, enforced cement blockers which mark the border between Gaza and Israel.  We heard the sound of gun shots, from the Israeli Army practicing.  We saw exactly how close we were.  And on those giant barriers, we saw something else.  We saw what fueled the woman with whom we spoke, what fueled the community we were visiting, and indeed what fuels the world—we saw hope.  We saw hope in the form of a project called N’Tiv L’Shalom, the Path to Peace, a mosaic project on the border wall, created by individual contributions of on-site visitors, “in the hope that one day our collective desire for a life of tranquility and peace will be fulfilled.”  The mosaics are full of bright colors, rainbows and flowers, houses, trees and smiling faces.  And the name of the place, with its hope and perhaps its internal prayer, in English, Hebrew, and Arabic.  And, perhaps, it is only this sense of hope, this sense of working towards peace in small ways, that is the counter weapon against psychological warfare.

That same day, while we were still at the Moshav, we heard about a terror attack in Jerusalem—a truck ramming into pedestrians at a bus stop. Later, as we visited S’derot, a city devastated by rocket fire, we all wrote home or posted on social media that we were safe—we were safely in S’derot and near the Gaza border.  It was a surreal moment.  And it was only 2 days later, sitting in a cafe, enjoying dinner with my cohort of educators from across the country, that the first Bomb Threat was called into the JCC here.  I happened to be sitting next to an educator in Kansas City, who well remembers the shooting at the JCC there just 2 years ago.  She understood. She also understood that my concern didn’t subside when I learned that there was no bomb—little did either of us know that this would be only the first round of bomb threats put upon the Jewish community.  A month or so of psychological terror attempted.

And, I’m tired.  I’m really tired.  But I’m also comforted, knowing that the community is around us.  Knowing that the students at the Religious School at the Islamic Center of Delaware each made cards last weekend, to be sent to each of the synagogues here in Delaware as statements of support.  And knowing that the Interfaith Service that was put together primarily by the African American community this past Wednesday gathered together Jews with Christians and Muslims to stand together in solidarity and comfort.  Standing hand in hand with so many, singing We Shall Overcome—as tears came to my eyes—I believed it.  And I had hope.  And I knew that it was through hope that we shall, indeed, continue to thrive, as our people have done for millenia.

And I also know that our tradition gives us a guide of how to persevere.  This week’s Torah portion, Terumah, is at the heart of this guidance—giving us a moment at which where we are in the Torah is perfect for what is going on in the Torah.  In this portion, Moses is given instructions to build the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary to carry through the wilderness, in order to bring God’s presence throughout the desert and into the promised land.  

God commands, “Asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham.”

“Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” 

Within this verse is the recognition that humanity needs things which are holy—we need sacred space, and here is the original creation of such a thing.  Previous to this, there had been instances of places being recognized as holy—but this is the first time that something is made by human hands (although by Divine instruction in this case) for the sole purpose of being sacred.  Two terms in Hebrew are used to designate the Tabernacle: mikdash and mishkan.  Literally, a place of holiness and a place of dwelling.  Indeed, both descriptions are apt in describing a holy space such as this.  By way of recognizing that a space is holy, we allow God’s presence to be in that space. 

Whatever our personal conception of the meaning of “God’s presence,” that presence is invited in when we treat a space as holy, as sacred—as valuable in a way that no other possession can be valuable.  Sanctity is a matter of human declaration.  Through our actions and through our words does a space become holy.  We intuitively know how to treat such spaces in order to designate them as holy, and how to treat them once we understand that they are holy.  In modernity, we continue to create such spaces.  We are within one right now.  We created them and see them created in so many different places.  And it is these places that give us a sanctuary—not only as a holy place, but as a hopeful place—a place away from those aspects of the world which try to take hope away from us.  This is our sanctuary.  Not just the room we are in, but the community we are with.  

Because physicality isn’t always important—it’s what lies within which really matters.  Honi the Circle Maker, a character from rabbinic literature, is named so because he drew circles on the ground, and stood within them to pray.  The most simple way of creating a sacred spot…not building anything, but drawing shapes in the sand.  Standing within the circle, he was able to pray most honestly to God.  His prayers were answered.  If a circle of ground can be holy, then certainly any space can be holy as well.  If we treat a place as sacred, then it is.

And when we are a k’hillah k’dosha—a holy community—we are able to bring that sanctity to every space where we dwell.  

Wherever we are, it is when we recognize that within each of us is the Divine Spark, and treat each other as if God is a presence within the relationship, and within the community, this is truly a sacred space. 

This synagogue—our synagogue—is a sacred space.  Each time we treat this place as sacred, we engage in the constant process of creating this modern Tabernacle.  This place was built in order that God may dwell here.  We need to recognize that inherent sanctity, as we continually work towards building it.  And through that, we find the hope we need.

But we do not finish there.  Abraham Joshua Heshel taught that Shabbat is a sanctuary in time.  If we recognize that our tradition offers not only holiness in physical spaces, but also sanctity in moments, then we can recognize that our lives are full of opportunities for sanctuary—for refuge, for comfort, and for hope.

As we wish each other a Shabbat Shalom, may those words move us beyond the realm of greeting to the realm of hope.  May Shabbat bring us a sense of Shalom, of peace and of wholeness, for each of us, for all of use, and for the world.  May this Shabbat offer a sanctuary to us all.  May this Shabbat bring us the rest that we seek.

Shabbat Shalom.

Ken y’hi ratzon.

February 24, 2017

02/23/2017 10:10:42 AM



Rabbi Yair D. Robinson

Parashat Mishpatim

February 24, 2017

If you went to Oberlin back in the 1990s then you would know that mild February weather would bring a special visitor to Tappan Square. Brother Jed. Who was Brother Jed? We never got his full name, but he was a part of a Christian religious organization where clearly part of the mission was to go to places of so-called godlessness and hedonism and bring the Gospel. So he would stand there in dress shirt and slacks with a sign quoting the Bible to justify some hostility to homosexuality (usually) and a Bible and would proclaim his values in a calm but loud voice. This being Oberlin there would be all kinds of shenanigans as a result: gay couples would frolic behind him, an Orthodox buddy from Hillel once stood about 15 feet away and countered his statements with quotes from the Talmud, and a lot of people just ignored him. But a number of us would gather, listen, and debate and discuss with him. Sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for an hour. This was a liberal arts college, after all, and at liberal arts colleges you engaged in discourse. One time, as Brother Jed was packing up for the day, he made an off-hand comment about how he loved coming to Oberlin. It was hard to tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic so someone asked him why that was. He said it was because we actually engaged with him and listened to him. We talked to him. At the other colleges and universities he went to, they would throw beer bottles, yell obscenities at him and one time even chased him. They were hostile, they were cruel. To be sure our discussions could get heated and no one ceded any ground, but at no point were we cruel.


We weren’t cruel. This week we read parashat mishpatim, the portion of laws. It follows right after the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai and it always feels, narratively, like such a downer. After this amazing transformational moment Israel gets to listen about personal injury law, property management, criminal justice, witches, sexual morality, how to care for a slave, animal husbandry, holidays, a whole potpourri of regulations that seem to have nothing to do with each other. Except they do. Taken together, they are all an exhortation against cruelty. How you treat the slave, the widow, the orphan, your neighbor, the stranger, the animal in the field, how you participate in communal life--all pointing to a life that minimizes cruelty to others. That to be God’s people, to live by God’s light, to receive God’s blessing, we simply cannot treat others as obstacles, as things, as objects, as enemies. As Monsters. But people. And people are deserving of respect and love. Again and again, exhaustively, as my friend Josh Garroway wrote this week in Voices and Values, our portion exhorts us to care for the least of us, to protect the least of us, to see them not as strangers but as neighbors, as brothers and sisters.


We don’t have to be cruel. I have been thinking about the idea of cruelty more and more this last month, seeing families separated by religious bans, headstones overturned in Jewish cemeteries, as ICE agents take parents from their children at their kids’ football practices, and guidance come down reminding vulnerable transgender kids of their vulnerability. I’ve heard from teachers in the Christina school district that parents won’t come to conferences because they’re afraid it’s a trap set by ICE to take them away. The liberal thinker Richard Rorty often wrote that the choice before us wasn’t one of conservative versus liberal, but of solidarity versus cruelty. Were we going to, in policy, in behavior, in our expression of our values, act out of cruelty, or were we going to stand in solidarity with the most vulnerable, the most exposed to harm. Is it possible to disagree about values and beliefs without resorting to open hostility and cruelty? Well, we did it with Brother Jed. Why couldn’t we do the rest of the time?


Our Torah declares: You shall not follow a multitude to do evil; nor shall you speak in a cause to incline a multitude to pervert justice. That text speaks volumes today. Our age is presenting us Richard Rorty’s question, his choice, which is also God’s choice, though I doubt he would have thought of it that way. Will we act out of cruelty, hate, anger, hostility? Or will we act in solidarity, recognizing the humanity in the other, refusing to make the other ‘Other’ at all? The desecration of Jewish graves in St. Louis was met by a Muslim organization raising over $100,000. The Muslim Ban and Refugee restrictions have been met by Jews and Christians, including in our own community, saying loudly and proudly you are welcome here. Linda Sarasour, one of the leaders of the Women’s March, has said “We can disagree and still love each other, unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression & denial of my humanity and right to exist.” We can disagree and still love each other. We can choose solidarity. We don’t have to be cruel. We can choose solidarity. We don’t have to agree, we can hold onto our beliefs and cede no ground, but we can do it with respect and compassion for the other. But only if we choose. May we choose wisely, amen.

January 2017

01/21/2017 03:32:32 AM


Rabbi Elisa F. Koppel

In rabbinical school, we had many homework assignments, unsurprisingly.  Many were meaningful.  Some were, well, not.  And several were somewhere in the middle.  One sticks out as incredibly monotonous and apparently meaningless, but from which, in the end, I gained Torah--unexpected wisdom and perhaps even truth.

The assignment, one of the first in our Bible class during our second year of rabbinical school—soon after we got back from our year in Israel, when the “real learning” began, was to find every time the phrase “Beit Yisrael” The House of Israel appears in the Tanach (the Hebrew bible).  It appears a lot.

First off, before that sounds completely overwhelming and unacchievable, it was, in part, a task in teaching us how to use the Concordance (lift up conCordance)—this big book that lists every word in the Hebrew bible, every time that it is used, in every form that it’s used.

Now, students these days have it easy.  This is all computerized—there’s even apps that can do this work.  In my day, by the end of rabbinical school, there was one program that could somewhat search for words by root—and it was incredibly helpful.  But it wasn’t good for nuanced searches like this, especially not with very common words--or words that could be confused with other words (like beit and bat).  Also our professors had a somewhat inherent distrust of technology (and, at the start of my education, it didn’t really exist yet—or at least we didn’t know about it or have access to it).  And the technology just wasn’t there yet for it to be a truly usable tool.  Also, books are an essential part of Judaism, and remain an important tool.  Rabbinical students still learn how to use a concordance--they just don't actually use it as much as we did.

And, believe me, we used the book.  It was a book we used a lot in Bible class. It’s helpful for understanding Biblical Hebrew, by seeing how words are used, by their context throughout their usage.  I admit, I’ve even looked things up in the concordance since Rabbinical school.

But this assignment—looking up Beit Yisrael? This was tedious.  Because, well, as you can imagine, the phrase appears a lot.  I mean, think about how many times The House of Israel comes up.  But, well, it did teach us how to use the book well.  But, here’s what was truly interesting--and made me learn to appreciate the concordance.

It showed us explicitly that Beit Yisrael means 2 different things: in some places, especially early on, it means Israel’s Household—Jacob’s wives and kids, essentially.  But, in other places, it means the House of Israel—what becomes the Jewish people.  And, it’s in the first paragraph or so of Sh’mot—the Book of Exodus and this week’s Torah portion, that the meaning shifts.  It’s at that moment that our ancestors transform from an extended family into a people—into our people.  Into the House of Israel.  So what I took from that assignment and that idea, is that our people is still connected to the connection of having once been a family.  So what does it mean to be a part of this House of Israel?

Other than the fact that we are at our source, one big, extended, sometimes messy family, what does being the extended House of Israel call us to do?

Looking at this week’s portion, we can see in our own ancestors, the models of Moses and Miriam that it means that we need to be connected.  We need to look out for one another, and we need to keep an eye on each other, even when it isn’t obvious.  We need to make sure that each other’s well being is being taken care of.  And, we need to recognize that we aren’t perfect—none of us.  Sometimes, we make mistakes.  Sometimes, situations get out of our control—but that doesn’t remove us from the household. In some cases, even leaders make mistakes.  And, if those leaders are able to learn from those mistakes—do t’shuva, so to speak, they can still be great leaders.

And we can see in others, like Shifra and Puah, the Egyptian Midwives, that even those that are not of our people, are still part of our house.  These women, who defied the King’s orders to save the Israelite babies, working bravely for what they knew was right.  They were not part of our direct family, but they were certainly part of the greater House of Israel.  In today’s parlance, we’d call them allies.  

We can see also the wisdom of Jethro, a Midianite Priest who becomes both father in law and advisor to Moses.  And Zipora, who gives Moses love and shows wisdom of her own.  And their son Gershom, who is named for being a stranger there—for as the house of Israel we have so often been strangers where we have dwelt—a minority, even when accepted.  And yet we have also learned from this that we must—we MUST—welcome the stranger—it is our mandate, our sacred obligation.

We are a people who stands strong, who does not give up, who does not submit or give up, or become weak, but a people that thrives despite the odds.

This is our heritage.  We are the House of Israel.  This is who we are and who we always have been.

And looking more broadly, we are the House of those who struggle with God.  The people who always must question.  They people who always seek answers and ask questions.  And the people for whom an answer usually leads to even more questions and sometimes even takes the form of a question.

We are a people for whom prayer comforts the afflicted and yet afflicts the comfortable, so that we help one another, and yet always seek to find that in the world which needs to be fixed.

We are a people who is taxed with tikkun olam, repairing a world which is irreparably broken, knowing that the task is insurmountable, yet having been taught that even if the task is great, and we are not responsible to finish it, we are also not allowed to run from it.

We are the house of Israel, a people responsible for one another, and yet responsible for those around us more vulnerable than ourselves.  A people at times unsure of how to strike that balance.

I got back last week from a trip to the land of Israel, a place as complicated and complex as the people for whom it is named, or is the naming the other way around?  The bulk of my trip was a seminar with the Executive Masters Program I am doing through the Hebrew Union College - Jewish Institute of Religion towards a Masters in Religious Education.  The trip was amazing, as trips to Israel often are.  I could say much about it.  I probably will at many later dates.  But at this moment, I share just a few words.  The main focus of our trip was the idea that there are many narratives that make up the story of Israel—there is no one single story, no one lens through which Israel can be viewed or understood.  There are sephardim and ashkenazim and mizrachim, there are Haredim and Reformim and secularim and Masorti and Masorati, There are Jews and Arabs and Arab Jews and Christians and Muslims, there are right wings and left wings and those in between, there are those that want to fight and those that want peace that just want to live their lives, there are those that want to make conversation and those that make the city streets their canvas and those that want to make music.  And they all tell their own story. There are so many truths and narratives and stories, all of which are held together in the swath of land we call Israel.  

And I think that is also at the essence of what it means to be part of the people we call the House of Israel.  We are a people that holds together contrasting and, perhaps, conflicting truths.  Not always at the same time, but sometimes.  Not always in the same person, but sometimes.  And yes, when there are 2 Jews, there are quite often 3 opinions.  Because that is who we are.  And it is how we continue to be the continuation of what was once just a family. 

We are the house of Israel; we are Jacob’s kids.  We struggle with the divine in the universe, and with the world around us.  We try to do what is best, and sometimes we err.  We watch out for each other, and for those who need help.  We try to make a better world.  We defy authority when righteousness is on the line.  We know what it is to be the stranger.  And we try to prevent others from feeling strange.  And we do our best when we ourselves feel strange.  We are the House of Israel.  We struggle because it is our essence.  It's what our family has always done.

January 6, 2017 Sermon

12/21/2016 02:35:16 PM


Rabbi Yair Robinson

Congregation Beth Emeth

Parashat Vayigash 1/8/17


This past Tuesday I saw a Facebook post from a friend who works at the University of Cincinnati, up the street from the Hebrew Union College, where I went to rabbinic school. He passes by the sign for the college every day, and ever since the election has been waiting with trepidation to see if something would happen. Sure enough, Tuesday morning, someone had spray-painted a Swastika on the sign for the oldest Jewish seminary in North America still in existence. As far as I’m aware had not happened before, though I’m sure someone will correct me. Certainly I didn’t experience anything like that in my time there.


It’s ironic that this would happen to an institution that was formed to help shape an American Judaism, an American rabbinate, one that would be native to this country and speak to its Jewish and non-Jewish populations in a way that was both wholly Jewish and wholly of this nation and its values.


In so many ways this begs the question of assimilation; where do we draw the line at separating ourselves from society at large, and where do we maintain our own distinctiveness. It’s an important question, one every Jew asks of him or herself probably on a daily, if not hourly basis. Do I hide my Judaism, do I mention it? Do I make choices that make it more difficult to interact with non-Jewish society; where do I make compromises, and to what end?


We see something of that question in this week’s Torah portion. After reconciling with his brothers, Joseph wants to bring his family to Egypt to wait out the famine. But it’s not that simple; Joseph needs Pharaoh’s permission. And even though he is the number 2 in the whole land, he seems edgy about the request in the text. Joseph warns his brothers about calling themselves Shepherds, because Shepherds are ‘an abomination’ to Egypt; an idea that Rashi upholds. When he goes to present his family he takes only 5 of his brothers, Rashi suggesting that he only takes the weakest ones. What’s going on? Joseph seems to be embarrassed about his origins, and ashamed of his brothers, his family, and their Canaanite ways. Ironically, his Brothers are not embarrassed, and proudly proclaim that they are shepherds. Not only are they not embarrassed, neither is Pharaoh, who gives them legal protection, the land of Goshen, and puts them in charge of his own livestock.


So what are we to make of this?

Joseph is the first example of assimilation; he has left Canaan for Egypt—against his will—and as a result has found tremendous success. But that success comes at a price, where he had to surrender something of his difference. Not only that, but he’s found that history embarrassing, something to be ashamed of; he’d rather be more like those around him, and if that means losing some of his identity, then so be it.

His brothers are comfortable with their identity, and aren’t so interested in casting it aside. They don’t see what’s wrong with who they are—their Canaanite, Israelite, Shepherding ways. And they are able to accomplish much for themselves while maintaining their own authenticity.

And that is the question that every Jew must face all the time, and the question that is most important today. How different are we, really, from the people around us, and how different do we want to be? How much do we want to compromise our own Jewish values in order to be counted as part of society, and how much are we willing to stake out a position where we acknowledge our differences and use them to call those around us to task? Are we Joseph, who sees our dissimilarity as a sign of weakness and embarrassment, or his brothers, who see that same dissimilarity as a sign of strength, an ability to speak truth to power?

The spray paint on the sign gives us a choice: to hide or to stand up, to shrink back and try to disappear into white America, or to continue to put ourselves out there, our voices out there, and challenge injustice and wrong where we see it. I can’t tell you what to do, but I choose to side with Joseph’s brothers, to be a shepherd, even when it’s hard, perhaps especially when it’s hard.

Update this content.

Parashat Vayetzei - 12/9/16

12/15/2016 12:29:57 PM


Yair D. Robinson

So this past week I met Marisa at the new diner on Marsh Rd. There was a couple of women there with their kids, and the kids were being pretty terrible. Adorable. Sweet, but terrible. At one point one of the mom’s was letting her kid sit on the table itself. The waitress was clearly having a time of it. Now, what would you do? We could have sat in judgement, we could say something. When I got up to pay for our meal, I tipped our waiter, and then tipped the waitress of the kids table as well.  Was it the right thing to do? The best thing? No idea. But at least it was doing something to acknowledge that waitress.

When I was a teenager and I used to go to youth group events, my favorite song at song session was Mitzvah goreret mitzvah, by Andy Vogel. Like most kids reared on Debbie Friedman and Kol Beseder I learned my Pirkei Avot in the form of a song I could dance to with other nerdy Jewish kids like me. I never really thought about the lyrics—nobody did—we were too busy stamping our feet and injecting various “oh ohs” and the like. The words, of course, come from Pirkei Avot 4:2—One Mitzvah leads to another, while one sin leads to another, and when one acts justly it is very good.

It doesn’t get sung nearly as often these days—it’s thirty years old at this point—but I feel like we need to start singing it again. Or at least be reminded of the text: one mitzvah leads to another. Our kindness, our actions—no matter how small—matter. The way we treat each other matters. And we can choose to live in little bubbles insensitive to the needs of others, drawing up the drawbridge and hiding behind our own ramparts. Or we can choose in our everyday actions to acknowledge the needs of those around us.

We see that clearly in our Torah portion. Jacob has left Canaan, has dreamed his dream, and has come to Haran, whereupon he sees Rachel and sees the stone covering the well. It should say “there was a large stone on the mouth of the well” but that’s not the actual order of the text. It actually says “the stone was large on the mouth of the well.” The s’fat emet understands this as a metaphor: the stumbling block—our evil urge—may be everywhere, but it is heaviest and largest on the mouth of the well. What is the well? Our words, our mouths, our hearts, our intentions, our own actions, pick whichever one you want. The point is, once Jacob understands the situation, he by himself removes the stone from the well. He takes the action. Now, we know this is in part to impress Rachel, or at least inspired by Rachel, but so what? He does what is right in that moment. His actions improve the lot of the shepherds around him. His actions mattered.

Jacob’s actions matter and so do ours. When we chose to act with kindness, even if the action is small, it changes the life of that person. To do otherwise is to leave the stone upon the well, to allow ourselves to act selfishly, to allow people’s pain to persist. May we each find the strength to move that stone and live those words: then surely our lives will be just and it will be good.Update this content.

A statement from Rabbi Robinson about the Presidential Election

11/09/2016 12:33:58 PM


And after the fire, a still small voice… (I Kings 19:12)

This morning, we as Americans woke up to a different world, a world transformed. After the most contentious election in a generation, one filled with animosity and enmity, and far too much anger and pain, we have felt the earth shift under our feet. But as our scripture reminds us, God is not found in the thunder, the earthquake or the fire, but in the still, small voice.

At Rosh Hashanah I asked us, begged us, to find a way to hear each other's’ stories. To listen beyond partisanship and listen deeply to what each other is truly saying. To create space for respectful disagreement while still loving each other. I reiterate that call now. We clearly have a lot of work to do, and we as a congregation will continue to do that work, just as we did at Sukkot with Ivan Thomas and #wearelove. We may be tempted, depending on our political outlooks, to rage, to point fingers, to gloat, to blame, to turn our feelings outward. Today, I ask us instead to embrace, to support, to listen, to be present for one another. To be, in the words of the prophet Isaiah, repairers of the breach. We have enormous brokenness, and now is the time of repair and rebuilding.

We know there are people who are hurting right now, in our community and beyond it. And there are many people who are terribly afraid. We see you. We love you. And Beth Emeth will always be a safe space for you. If you are struggling on this day, please reach out to our clergy team for support. We will have an opportunity to process the election results on Friday, November 18th immediately after services. I invite us to join together in prayer and healing, and to hear one another’s voices.

As a Reform synagogue, we remain committed to the values of equality and justice, and a democratic Israel. We will continue to partner with our brothers and sisters of other faith traditions locally to repair the world under God’s sovereignty. Our next opportunity is November 20th, when we will gather at Christ Church Christiana Hundred at 4:30pm to pack Thanksgiving meals for the needy. I invite you to share in that work. Long term, I invite you to join our delegation to the Religious Action Center’s Consultation On Conscience April 30-May 2. It’s time to go to work.

On the outside of our building, and inscribed in every prayer book we give to every b’nai mitzvah student, are the words of the prophet Micah: Do Justly, Love Mercy, and Walk Humbly With Our God. Previous generations chose those words for a reason; let them be our mission, moving forward in love, in justice, and in humility. Chazak, chazak v’nitchazek. Be strong, and together we will strengthen one another.

Yom Kippur Morning: Changing the Course of Discourse

10/18/2016 04:58:35 PM


Rabbi Elisa Koppel


To paraphrase William Shakespeare: I come to bury this election, not to praise it.


More precisely, I wish not to not actually discuss the upcoming election itself, but instead I want to talk about how we talk about this election.  It goes without saying, I hope, that it is our mandate to take part in democracy and to vote; it is a mitzvah, a sacred obligation, to do so.  We should educate ourselves in order to make make informed choices in our voting—for President and for all other state and local decisions for which we have the opportunity to vote.  I could speak this High Holidays about that idea, about how it’s a very Jewish idea, but that is not what I wish to address this morning, nor what I feel I need to address.


Last week, Rabbi Robinson spoke about our need to listen—to radically listen.  And I affirm that need.  Today I want to add the sequel to that sermon, and talk about how we respond.  Yes, surely, we need to listen, but I also believe that we sometimes have a need to engage in discussion—to have dialogue—to share our own story, even as we hear the story of another.  When Rabbi Robinson and I sat down months ago to discuss our sermons, we realized that we each had themes that were both distinct and connected.  And that both were vital to this Holy Day season.  And so, we decided to each give our sermon both to stand alone, and also to be offered as a larger message in 2 parts.  On Rosh Hashanah—how do we hear.  And on Yom Kippur—how do we engage in conversation.


And I fear that we’ve forgotten how.


A few months ago, someone who is on my friend list on Facebook but I do not know personally, posted something in support of a candidate, espousing views which are counter to Jewish values as I understand them.  Knowing that this person takes his Judaism seriously, I questioned him about it—wanting to understand his approach—how the same set of text and tradition could lead us to vastly different conclusions.  Knowing that the other side of any issue generally comes from a place as honest and real as our own, I sought to understand.  By the end of the conversation, after being called a bully, overly nosey, self-righteous, and told I was only asking the question to feel superior, I came to the conclusion that it is so rare for us to talk to people with opposing viewpoints, about those opposing viewpoints, that it had somehow become natural to assume that my purpose was one of negativity.  When did we forget how to have a conversation about ideas that are different from our own? Or forget that doing so could be a positive act?


I am not claiming that we should agree with everyone.  I am not saying that we should not make known our opinions and stand up for them and for what we believe is right.  I am not saying that a leader’s words or behaviors should not be brought to light.  But what I am saying is that we can do all that with a sense of civility.


I have lost count of how many comments I’ve heard in person or read on social media, disparaging supporters of the other candidate—comments that come from supporters of multiple candidates.  I have, at this point, taken for granted that many of my Clinton and Trump and Johnson and Stein and Sanders supporting friends will almost undoubtedly unfriend and possibly block people who believe another way.  Almost daily, I see messages posted about how another person was blocked because of their viewpoints.  I hear stories about how family members aren’t speaking to each other until after November and of relationships destroyed.  And I’ve seen and heard in countless conversations, a shutting down of disparate opinions and a digression towards playground taunts. 


I understand the need to create spaces for ourselves in which we can feel safe—and I appreciate the need to remove ourselves from individuals who cause us hurt—or to avoid people whose responses may lead us towards behaviors or words that we want to ourselves avoid.  But, that said, it saddens me that so much of the disagreement that causes that reaction is so full of hatred and anger in the first place that it brings people to the point of wanting to avoid any conversation at all.  It saddens me that too many conversations about important ideas devolve into personal attacks being thrown at each other—and towards the leaders and potential leaders of this country.  All too often, even between those leaders.


I find it hard to believe that this is the discourse of democracy that our founding fathers sought.  And, assuming that the early cabinet meetings weren’t actually rap battles, I believe that when they discussed ideas that were diametrically opposed, that they did so with a sense of respect for each other’s ideas.  They did so with a sense of respect for each other. They debated, but with due honor.  In recent months, I do not see that this is how this election is being discussed—in recent weeks, I do not see this in the Presidential and Vice Presidential debates.


I do not believe that this is an issue that is unique to this country or to the topic of politics.  But this election has made it more than evident that as a society, we’ve lost the art of discourse—the ability, or at least the willingness, to engage in respectful disagreement.  No, not always, and no, not all of us.  But like we read the Vidui, the confessional prayer with the collective “We,” we are all part of the society that has forgotten how to disagree.  And we have all taken part in some part of this—even if only as a bystander.  


Perhaps we need a communal vidui for this season, an Ashamnu for this Age, An acrostic of our society’s behavior during this election cycle:


We all have committed offenses; together we confess these human sins: The sins of Abrasiveness, Body Shaming, Callousness, Disregard, a lack of Empathy, Failing to see injustice, and Gaslighting.  The sins of senseless Hatred, Insensitivity to the suffering of others, being Judgmental, Kicking out those who are different, Letting fear eclipse reason, Mocking people because of differences, Numbness to tragedies, Othering, and abuse of Privilege.  Of Questioning the intelligence of people because we disagree with them, Racism, and Sexism.  Of Tolerance of injustice, Using shame as a weapon, and Violence in words and in deeds.  Of Willingness to believe whatever we read, Xenophobia, Yelling, and Zoning out when we should be paying attention.


And indeed, I pray, that God will forgive us, pardon us, and grant us atonement.  But we know that we are only granted that Divine forgiveness when we have done t’shuvah.  When we have turned ourselves around from the wrongs we have done, made right what we may have made wrong, and determine to be different in the future.  


And I do believe we can change—each of us and all of us, and those beyond these walls.  We can change the course of discourse in our time.  And, indeed, that is what the ideals of Judaism teach us we must do.  


We see this in Rabbinic Literature in the relationship between Hillel and Shammai.  If these names are new to you, they are both rabbis who lived around the year 0.  The most important thing to know about them is that they disagreed.  A lot.  The Talmud includes more than 350 examples of disagreements between them or, later, between their followers: The House of Hillel (Beit Hillel) and the House of Shammai (Beit Shammai).  They were known for their disagreement in their own time and through history.  In fact, Hillel Street and Shammai Street in Jerusalem are parallel to each other—like the ideologies of their namesakes, the 2 never meet.  But, despite their differences, these men and their followers showed loved and friendship towards each other—the followers of one school would even marry the followers of the other.  Their disagreements are viewed as being for the sake of Heaven—having lasting value.  They were both attempting to find truth—to interpret the tradition in the way that each felt was best to meet the needs of their generation.  And they both listened to each other and honored each others’ opinions.


The Talmud (Eruvin 13b) tells a story about a disagreement between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai that lasted 3 years.  Each side insisting that their way was the right way.  For 3 years: “The law is in agreement with our views.”  NO! “The law is in agreement with our views.”  Until finally, there came a Bat Kol —a Divine Echo, a Heavenly voice.  Essentially, the rabbinic version of Deus Ex Machina.  And what did this Bat Kol say? “Eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim Chayim.  These and these are the words of the Living God.”  


What a concept.  The notion that our ideas and interpretations are, themselves, Divine Speech is itself profound, as is the idea that Divine Revelation is ever-present and continuing.  But that 2 different interpretations—2 opposing opinions—are equally Divine is astounding.  Both sides are equally true.  Perhaps because both sides exist, there is an even greater truth.


But then the Voice goes on: But the law is in agreement with Beit Hillel.  


From this, we learn that sometimes, the discussion has to come to an end—there has to be a conclusion. We can’t argue forever.  And the question we may be asking ourselves as we hear this, is asked and answered in the very next line of Talmud: If both these and these are the words of the Living God, then why does the Law become fixed according to the views of Beit Hillel? It is because they were kind and gracious.  And they taught their own ideas as well as the ideas from Beit Shammai.  And not only that, but they went so far as to teach Shammai’s opinions first.


It is hard to imagine a world that is built on this value: of kindness and graciousness being the deciding factors in the choice of authority.  And in which those who are chosen teach the ideas of those who are not, even before they teach their own.  And in which it is understood and appreciated that the Truth of one can be as True as the Truth of another.


There is a concept in Rabbinic Literature that there are several practices that are accepted mipnei darchei shalom: For the sake of the paths of peace.  These practice are all things that set up to prevent disagreements between people; avoid unfairness or unintended hurt, especially for those who are vulnerable; and to avoid disputes between members within and outside of the community.  What is interesting about this phrase is that it speaks of darchei shalom, the paths of peace, and not derech shalom, the path of peace.  The very language teaches us that there are multiple paths towards peace, and that it is because of those different paths that wholeness can exist.  To disagree is not bad—it is necessary and even good. But our disagreement must include paths towards wholeness, and not roadblocks which keep this world divided—instead of fragmented pieces, we must work towards peace.


Perhaps the Bat Kol ended the years long debate between the schools of Hillel and Shammai, mine darchei shalom.  Perhaps, for this same reason, we can begin to change the way we disagree in our own age.


Perhaps we can have arguments that are for the Sake of Heaven.  Have the recognition that these words and these words are both the words of the Living God.  That while we take many different paths, those paths all can move towards peace.  And that we realize that the person on the other side of a debate on an issue that we hold dear, is equally passionate about wanting a better world.  None of this is easy.  But we are Yisra-el—the people who wrestle with God.  Disagreement is in our name and is an element of our very essence.  And so, let us do t’shuvah together—and turn ourselves away from the destructive discussions, full of disrespect.  And turn towards building a society in which our conversations can include both disagreement and respectful discourse.



I dream of a time when it isn’t newsworthy to see a joyful embrace between the First Lady and a past president, even though they are from 2 different political parties.  I dream of a time when there are more friendships like that between Antonin Scalia and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  I dream of a time when parents do not need to question if their children are old enough to watch a presidential debate.  I dream of a time when we can discuss challenging topics with those with whom we fundamentally disagree—and do so with respect.  I dream of a time when we do not disparage others, neither because of their beliefs nor because of their difference.  I dream of a time when in disagreements and debates, we talk to each other and not at each other.  I dream of a time when we recognize not only that the words of 2 sides of disagreement can both be the Words of the Living God, but that the people on both sides of the disagreement are both made in the Image of God.  I dream of a time in which together, we travel the paths of peace.


I believe that this dream is possible.  But it is up to us to build it.  We can begin by taking the smallest of steps, and consider how we can change our own conversations and our own responses to different ideas.  And at the end of the evening on November 8, may we hear through the buzz of reports of who won each election, a Bat Kol ending this argument, and reminding us that the paths of peace are right in front of us, for us to step towards healing and wholeness.

Erev Yom Kippur: I Am Not God

10/18/2016 04:56:20 PM


Rabbi Yair Robinson

Yehuda Amichai: The Children: 
Every day the children run on the playground
They run on their little legs, which rotate the planet like a circus
They want to be acrobats and magicians
Every night the children thank us for having brought them into the world
With beautiful politeness, they take their gifts and with their small arms they
Cling to the future stubbornly, as they cling to their parents, and their toys.
Then they lie on their backs 
In order to paint beautiful skies
Like the ceilings of the synagogue...
I sit next to the children until they fall asleep
And I say seven times
As the closing prayer of Yom Kippur
“I am not God.”
Seven times
“I am not God.”
There is an account in the Talmud (Bavli Eirusin 13b): 
For two-and-a-half years the house of Shammai and the house of Hillel argued. Shammai said:
Better for man never to have been created than to have been created. And Hillel said: 
Better for man to have been created that not to have been created. 
This is an extraordinary debate: would it be better for humanity to exist, or not to exist? 
It is especially extraordinary for the times we are living in, as we anxiously raise the question, fundamentally: whose life matters? Does my life matter? Does anything matter? 
In the end, they counted and decided: 
Better for man never to have been created than to have been created. Now that he has been created, he should examine his actions.
We spend so much of our lives trying to be God, trying to be in control: over our own lives, the lives and choices of others, the lives of our children, perhaps especially our children. And we curse and criticize those who struggle with their inability to be God over their own lives. 
We try to pretend that we are in control. 
But we are not God. And no matter how tempting it may be, we cannot be. We oughtn’t be. 
We do this because we see the space between our is and our ought to be and we struggle with that space. We try to cover it up, to pretend it isn’t there, to make that space seem very small, because we are afraid that, should we expose it, should we let people see, if we exposed it, we would plummet into the chasm between what is and what should be. 
We can’t be God. But that doesn’t mean we don’t matter. It doesn’t mean our choices don’t matter. Rather, we can choose to live our lives and examine our actions carefully. We can take that space, that wide space of our failings, and leave it open. We can keep ourselves open-hearted. We can say to each other, to our children: I am not God, I am not perfect. Nor am I merely accepting my failures either. I’m struggling, just as you are. And I accept your struggle, and hope you accept mine. 
Rabbi Eliezer Berkowitz, in his book Prayer, wrote: “appealing to God’s mercy and lovingkindness, we ourselves must believe in mercy and lovingkindness, otherwise, there is no ground left of us on which to stand…” And it’s true. We must believe in mercy and lovingkindness; for ourselves AND FOR OTHERS. Otherwise, what right do we have? 
My friends, on this day of Atonement, let me say: you matter. Each and every one of you matters, deeply and profoundly. 
Our choices matter, and our choices must be examined, sifted through carefully. 
Our forgiveness matters. 
Our ability to be open-hearted matters. 
On this day of Atonement, I ask you to say, seven times, before the gates close: 
I am not God
I am not in control: of my circumstances, of everyone around me
But I have choices, I have freedom.
And I matter
And my choices matter.  
And the people around me matter. 
I am not God, 
But I matter. 


Rosh Hashanah Morning: Truly Hearing

10/18/2016 04:52:51 PM


Rabbi Yair Robinson

A man is standing outside the Republican National Convention in Cleveland. He is standing next to a sign that says “free listening”. Mostly what people have shared are stories about their travels to Cleveland for the convention, their family and work lives, mundane stuff, but soon a woman comes over, looks carefully at the man, and says that she doesn’t believe that abortion should be legal, that it is murder.

What would you do? Would you challenge her statement? Would you smile weakly and thank her for her response, and let her go on her way? Would you get into a shouting match? Would you post angrily to social media or share your disdain for this person with your friends?

This man did none of those things. Instead, he invited her to share her story. To tell him how she came to that conclusion. He offered to listen more.

The woman, at first defensive, then went on what we might call a rant about why she thought abortion was wrong and terrible. And then, at some point, her speech shifted, and she began to talk about how she was told as an 18 year old woman that she couldn’t have children, that she would never have children of her own. She talked about her sense of unfairness, of lack of justice, that other people who could have kids were choosing not to, while she was left barren.

I’ll be honest with you, when I first read about this from the blog post by Benjamin Mathes, I struggled mightily. I struggled because I think of myself as a pretty good listener, someone who does this professionally, after all, and I’m not sure I would have had the willpower or ability to stand there and listen to this woman’s story. And I suspect many of us are in the same boat, especially over something as controversial as abortion. I know I would want to rush in and tell my stories—the texts I’ve studied, the learning I’ve done, the stories of friends and loved ones who have each had to struggle with this issue from a personal, rather than a political or academic posture. And sometimes it seems that’s how we all are, fighting to get a word in edgewise, or waiting until we have the perfect response and sharing it later on Facebook. After all, we already know the right answers, don’t we? We, jaded and world-weary, exposed to so much media, so much data, so much raw information, have already come to all of our own conclusions. Sometimes it seems like we have nothing more to learn from one another, and even if we did, would we want to teach it anyway? Or do we merely want acknowledgment and affirmation of our own truth? Do we really want to sit in judgment of the people around us?

 And yet, I think it’s clear that Mathes’ approach—letting this anonymous woman tell her story without judgment or interruption—was valuable. It was loving. It allowed both of them to get to the truth of the matter, to get to, what he calls, the biography, not just the ideology. It was forgiving. It was sacred.

This is a strange time of year for us as Jews, and a strange time as Americans. We are in the midst of our days of judgment and our days of awe, but when we call them that, when we talk about this being the time when even the hosts of heaven are judged, we are reminded that WE are not doing the judging. We are, in fact, the ones coming to be judged—by God, by our own consciences, reflective of the past year and the choices we’ve made. But it is also our time of forgiveness, of atonement, when we release others of their sins, and we look for release ourselves. We cry out “Shma Koleinu”: hear our voice! And I suspect many of us worry—or already presume to know—that no one is listening.

I believe that God, however we understand her, is listening. That someone hears our cry; hears us when we second guess our choices, when we look back on the year and focus so much—too much—on where we stumbled, hears us when we turn our victories to defeats, hears us when say we want to do better, to be better, but we don’t know how to get there. I truly believe this, even if it is only the part of us that we hide away, that we dare not reveal, that hopes beyond hope that we can live up to our best selves, that still small voice within us, I believe with perfect faith that we are heard.
But I would suggest that part of the reason we worry that there is no audience for our cry is because we have stopped listening to each other. And I mean really listening, listening in the way that Benjamin Mathes did. We don’t hear each other’s stories. We don’t create space for dissent, for difference, to be challenged. We can only be right.

It’s very American, isn’t it? And has been for years—this is not a new phenomenon. Even Alexis de Tocqueville wrote back in the 1800s that Americans don’t discuss, they don’t even argue, but make speeches at one another. And that’s what we’re used to, that’s what we’re trained to do, we make parallel speeches in the same way that toddlers parallel play alongside one another, not really engaging the person in front of us.

It’s very American, but it isn’t very Jewish. In fact, I would argue that there is nothing Jewish about the idea of not listening to the other person. Even when they disagree. Especially when they disagree. Especially when they say things that challenge us to the core of who we are. I’m not speaking of antisemetic attacks or slander, now, but rather the kind of discourse that happens in a free society between diverse people. Jewish tradition has always been about listening. Think of how often in the Torah we read the word shema—hear! Hear O Israel! Hear the voice of God! Hear the voice of the Mitzvot! Hear the voice of the generations that came before; the voice of conscience within ourselves. Again and again we are compelled to listen, and listen deeply. Words are precious to us as Jews, more than any other art form, and we take those words seriously. Think of the generations of Jews who study Torah not cloistered in some room as an island alone, but with a study partner, the text between them, sharpening their thoughts against each other, challenging each other, each bringing their own perspective and world view and experience to the other in order to arrive at a new understanding, a new idea. We joke that it is Jewish to disagree, and it is true; but in saying that we acknowledge that it isn’t Jewish to dismiss the voice of the other, or to make the person across from us the other at all.

And yet, and yet, that is what we are doing, at every level, macro and micro. And not just about the election. We do it around Israel. We do it around the way we express our Judaism, what movement we affiliate with. We do it around policy and programming. We do it, fundamentally, around each other’s stories. When we dismiss an idea or a position, when we try to change someone’s mind, when we argue passionately against the person in front of us, without intending it, we run the risk of dismissing their story, their journey to where they are. In our own anxiety at being right, we lose the opportunity for understanding.

I’m as guilty of it as anyone else. And it’s hard; this kind of listening takes time, it takes patience, it takes a willingness to put aside our need to be right all the time, and our own anxiety that, deep down inside, we may be wrong.

Friends, I don’t know what you have resolved to do in this new year of 5777, but if you choose nothing else, I would ask you to listen more, and listen better. To invite people to share their stories, to speak to their believes and ideas, to not rush to judgment or to win. Someone posted online, you don’t need to attend every argument you’re invited to; wouldn’t it be great to, yes, respond with regrets to those arguments, but also find ways to make them real discussions, a chance to share beliefs? When we talk about the value of African American lives, before we respond with our own dismissal and anxiousness, can we ask where they’re coming from? When someone says they don’t know how they feel about Israel, can we ask them to tell their story? The same for the way they worship, the way they vote, the way they live their lives and make choices. It doesn’t mean we need to be persuaded by their arguments, or change our mind; it doesn’t mean we need yield ground on an issue we care deeply about. It does mean we need to let our guard down and acknowledge and accept—really accept—that the other person’s experiences, the other person’s life, is sacred. And in doing so come to a greater understanding.

Thu, June 20 2019 17 Sivan 5779