Don’t Look Back? An Election Week Sermon for Shabbat Vayera, 5781

Friday, November 6, 2020

Don’t look back.

If we learn anything from the sad tale of Lot’s wife—recounted in this week’s Torah portion, Vayera—it is this:  Don’t look back.

Perhaps a little recap is in order:

Our story concerns the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, two of the five “Cities of the Plain” that, the Bible tells us, were located in the Jordan Valley, near the Dead Sea.  If you’ve ever visited the region, you will recall a landscape as barren as any on Earth:  fierce desert heat; a body of water so glutted with salt that nothing can survive; jagged outcroppings at every turn; and the all-pervasive stink of sulfur.  The last time I led a temple trip to Israel, we had to re-route our visit to the Dead Sea on account of a mysterious sinkhole that appeared out of nowhere and threatened to swallow up any hapless passersby, tour bus and all.  It is a wasteland of wreckage and ruin; a desolate wilderness that surely fueled the Biblical imagination.

Sodom and Gomorrah were bad places.  How bad?  When I think of Sodom and Gomorrah, I call to mind Obi Wan Kenobi’s grim appraisal of Mos Eisley Spaceport on the desert planet of Tattooine: “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”  

How bad were Sodom and Gomorrah?  Think 2020, but worse.  Cruelty, arrogance, and mendacity ruled the land.  Rabbinic legend is replete with references to the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah as greedy, self-absorbed, and particularly suspicious of, and inhospitable to, immigrants and foreigners.  In this week’s parasha, an angry mob assembles at the doorstep of Lot, Abraham’s nephew, threatening to assault those inside, all because Lot had the audacity to harbor two visitors.  Lot begs the mob to leave the men alone; appallingly, he even offers up his two daughters instead.  Such was the effect that Sodom and Gomorrah seemed to have on its residents. 

God prepares to do away with these cities of sin, but first discloses the apocalyptic plan to Abraham, who pushes back:  “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent along with the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” (Gen. 18:25) 

A famous round of bargaining ensues.  Abraham persuades God to spare the cities for the sake of just fifty innocent people, should they find them, then forty, thirty, twenty, even ten.  

How bad were Sodom and Gomorrah?  So bad that not even ten righteous souls can be counted.  God’s plan proceeds.  The wayfarers whom Lot had sheltered overnight turn out to be divine messengers.  After repelling the fevered mob, they all hunker down for the night.  The next morning they bring Lot outside.  “… And one said, ‘Flee for your life!  Do not look behind you, nor stop anywhere in the Plain; flee to the hills, lest you be swept away!’” (Gen. 19:17)  

Lot and his family make their escape while God rains down sulfurous fire on the cities and all the surrounding farmland.  The Torah describes the scene as one of utter devastation, with “the smoke of the land rising like the smoke of a kiln” (Gen. 19:28).  

Lot’s wife turns around and immediately turns into a pillar of salt.

I think many of us can relate to poor Mrs. Lot.  For the last few days we’ve turned into zombies, our gaze constantly on the election returns, paralyzed, hardly able to do much else.  I’ve been teaching classes online for teens and adults since Wednesday and my cheerful greeting, “How’s everyone doing?” has been met with vacant stares and gape-mouthed mumbles of exhaustion.    

The story of Lot’s wife is a cautionary tale.  The moral?  “Don’t look back.”  Midrash elaborates.  The Rabbis teach that Lot’s wife was punished because in gazing back at the burning cities, she indulged her nostalgia, her longing for the life she was leaving behind—specifically, a life of luxury and ease, but also a life of greed, self-absorption, and inhospitality, as elaborated elsewhere in the legends about Sodom and Gomorrah.  Lot’s wife failed because of her attachment to the status quo, because she fully embraced and did not repudiate the ruinous society she was ordered to leave behind.  

Other midrashim view her more sympathetically.  One fable explains that Lot’s wife looked back anxiously to make sure that her grown daughters had made it out.  And while the Torah never says so, we learn in midrash that Lot’s wife went by the name Edith, or Idit in Hebrew, which comes from a root word meaning “witness.”  Indeed, much interesting folklore has accrued around one particularly evocative geological formation at Mount Sodom near the Dead Sea that everyone, to this day, calls “Lot’s Wife”: 

This formation is one of many rock pillars across the world also nicknamed “Lot’s Wife,” including one in Dover, England and another in Singapore.  The difference is that the one in Israel is made of halite, or rock salt.  There she stands, a forlorn testament to the obliteration of her home.  Like salt itself, a preservative that allows food to be eaten long after it should have expired, Lot’s wife remains frozen in time, fixed, unmoving and unmoved.  A witness.

Whether we sympathize with Lot’s wife or disapprove of her, the Torah clearly wishes for us to learn from her example.  Consider that, in the Torah, every time the Israelites fail to move forward, they suffer.  Time and again they complain to their leaders that they’d rather go back to Egypt than to the great land and destiny that God has in store for them.  Time and again, God punishes them for their backward gaze.  

Don’t look back.  Don’t dwell on what has passed.  We have endured an excruciating election season and a period of partisan rancor unseen in generations.  Let’s move forward.  This is no time to wallow in endless recrimination and reprisals.  If you are hurting from this election, it’s time to stop longing for the past and move forward.  If you are pleased with the results, now is no time to gloat or re-litigate old grievances.

Or so goes the conventional wisdom.  

The Gap—the casual clothing chain—capitalized on this theme the day after the election with the following tweet:

The image depicts a Gap hoodie, one side blue, the other side red, joined at the zipper, with the caption, “The one thing we know is that together, we can move forward.” 

The backlash was swift and merciless.  Twitter users went ballistic, blasting the brand, according to Time Magazine, “for appearing to gloss over polarizing political divides—divides that were dramatically clear in the lead-up to the 2020 election—in service of marketing. It was also confirmed that the sweatshirt was not an item actually for sale.”

“The message might have seemed noncontroversial,” the report continued, “but in many ways the reaction to the tweet illustrated just how deep American wounds run. Feel-good messages of unity, once considered bland and unremarkable, have become themselves the subject of division.”

Less than two hours—and close to a million views—later, The Gap pulled the offending tweet and published the following message:

“From the start we have been a brand that bridges the gap between individuals, cultures and generations. The intention of our social media post, that featured a red and blue hoodie, was to show the power of unity. It was just too soon for this message. We remain optimistic that our country will come together to drive positive change for all.”

I’m not sure I’m ready to hire The Gap’s marketing director, but I think it was a pretty good save—and one that comments better than just about any cable news pundit on the meaning of this moment.  

And what is the meaning of this moment?  We learn from the tragedy of Lot’s wife that  danger lurks in looking back; but we also know from our own experience—from our heads as well as our guts—that it’s premature to move forward.  Where does that leave us?

The answer, of course, is, here:  in the uncomfortable—dare I say painful—present.  In an America that is, for all intents and purposes, as bitterly divided today as it was last Monday, and will so remain tomorrow and, conceivably, for much time to come.  

To think otherwise would be naïve.  Twenty-five years ago this past Wednesday, Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in cold blood at a peace rally organized to bolster his efforts to pursue a two-state solution with the Palestinians.  Rabin had hoped to show his country that millions of Israelis still supported the peace process, which had in the months prior to the assassination been assailed by protests and sporadic violence perpetrated by both Palestinians and Israelis.  

Any such hopes were dashed by the two bullets fired into the 73-year old Prime Minister’s arm and back by a 27-year old Jewish law student and religious extremist named Yigal Amir who was immediately arrested by Israeli police.  At his arraignment, Amir explained that he murdered Rabin because he planned “to give our country to the Arabs.”  

Only after the assassination did it begin to dawn on most Israelis that their country had become irreconcilably divided.  Only after the assassination did most Israelis undertake a kind of collective soul-searching which continues to this day, a quarter-century later, in a country still scarred by Rabin’s murder, still divided along ideological lines, but perhaps more wary of the danger of political and religious fanaticism.  

At the time, in November of 1995, I was a first-year rabbinical student renting a small apartment in Jerusalem just three blocks from the Prime Minister’s residence. 

I have seen with my own eyes what can happen when a nation fails to acknowledge its own brokenness. 

I am a witness.  

So let us take the time and make the effort to recognize and reckon with the import of this moment.  We may have a new President come January, but we should not conclude that all that much has changed.  Let’s sit, for a moment or longer, in the stuck-ness of the now, in the right where we are:  perhaps not pining for the past, but hardly ready to march arm-in-arm into the future.  Let’s each be a witness to the tattered state of our Union:  a union divided, a union still without a clear direction.

The outcome of the battle for this presidency may appear, at least for the moment, close to decided, but the outcome of the battle for the soul of our country remains very much an open question.  By “battle for the soul of our country,” I refer to the unresolved questions about the character and direction of our nation, issues of dramatic significance not just for us as Americans but for us as Jews, because they touch on so many issues about which Judaism offers its wisdom and raises its voice.  Questions such as these:

  • At a time of a devastating global pandemic, what will be our approach to public health and safety?
  • As we grapple with a concomitant economic crisis, what will we do to ensure the financial viability and dignity of workers and all who depend on our economy for their livelihoods?
  • At a time where the effects of climate change become more undeniable with each passing week, each new devastating fire or hurricane, what will we do to address the devastating human impact on our fragile planet?
  • At a time when we are having a hard time telling facts from fiction, truth from conspiracy theories, what will be the role of science and rigorous investigation in shaping policy?
  • How can we create a society founded on mutual interest when we remain so divided over the role of racism in providing opportunity to some while denying it to others?  
  • How will we regard the immigrant, the refugee, the foreigner who comes to our country seeking safety, opportunity, or both?
  • How will we safeguard the liberties of all people, especially at time when communities of color fear rising hostility, Jews fear rising anti-Semitism, Muslims fear rising Islamophobia, and the LGBTQ+ community fears rising homophobia and transphobia?
  • At a time when we are more divided than ever about the role of guns in our society, how will we deal with the fact that, every day, more than 100 Americans are killed with guns and 200 more are shot and wounded?
  • What will be our orientation to the rest of the world, toward countries both friendly and hostile to our interests?  How will we even define these interests, going forward?
  • What kind of relationship will we pursue with Israel and its role—and our role—in the Middle East?  

I share these vexing questions with you in the context of a Shabbat sermon because I believe that Judaism offers us the opportunity to join an age-old conversation filled with relevant wisdom that does not follow this or that political party, but which also does not allow us the luxury of disinterest on urgent public matters.  As the Rabbis wrote in Pirkei Avot, “al tifrosh min ha-tzibur”:  “Do not withdraw from the public” (Mishna, Avot 2:5).  

Or, as I remind my students:  Judaism isn’t only that thing you do when you’re in synagogue, or only when you’re around a holiday table at home.  Judaism is a comprehensive way of looking at, and responding to, the world.  Inasmuch as “politics” refers to our public lives, “the total complex of relations between people living in society” (as per Merriam-Webster), then Judaism most certainly has a voice to bear on these important matters, one that we can, and should, bring to our civic engagement.  

And as we remain stuck in this tense and tumultuous moment in the life of our nation, let us also affirm that, at WRT, our values remain steadfast—no matter who’s in the White House or Congress. 

Presidents, Representatives, Senators—they come and go. 

But our Jewish values abide:  

In the name of pikuach nefesh, the mitzvah of saving life and preserving life, WRT will continue to do all that we can to protect and promote the health, safety, and security of our congregation, community, nation, and world—especially in the face of this pandemic, and in a climate of rising hostility against Jewish communities.

In the spirit of tzedakah—righteous action on behalf of the disadvantaged—and with a particular eye toward the challenges of today’s economy—WRT will not discriminate against anyone who wishes to participate in the life of our congregation on account of financial need.

In the spirit of Reform Judaism, which grew out of the Enlightenment, and in accordance with the teachings of Maimonides, we will strive to “accept truth from whatever source it comes,” and to pay particular heed to how science and fact must inform all our pursuits, including spiritual pursuits.  Ours is not a blind faith but rather what the great Jewish theologian Hermann Cohen proudly called “a religion of reason.”

In accordance with the Torah’s oft-repeated mandate to acknowledge and address the plight of the widow, the stranger, the orphan, the immigrant, and the refugee, WRT will continue to respond to the needs of some of the world’s most vulnerable people and groups.

In keeping with Reform Judaism’s unwavering commitment to equality, WRT will insist on justice and inclusion for all of God’s children, regardless of ability, age, gender, sexual orientation, background, faith, or skin color.  

In the interest of Klal Yisrael, the unity of the Jewish people, WRT will always remind us that we are part of a global community, with special ties to Israel—and therefore special responsibilities to safeguard, support, and invest in the physical, spiritual, and moral vitality of the world’s only Jewish State. 

In the name of Tikkun Olam—repairing the world—we will strive to transform the world as it is into the world as it ought to be. 

It is my hope and prayer that, with these principles to guide us, WRT will provide us with sufficient strength, inspiration, and shared commitments to move us forward, out of the stuckness of the present, our gaze, with God’s help, ever on the horizon.    

Shabbat Shalom

Masks – Yizkor, Yom Kippur 5781

September 28, 2020

Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, New York

When the story of 2020 is told, some day long from now, we will see a picture of the total devastation wrought by Covid-19, painted in stark and staggering numbers.  

What may not come through so clearly will be the spiritual and psychological toll it has inflicted.  How do you measure the pain of a millionfold broken hearts?  How do you describe the collective loneliness of human beings deprived of human contact, of sleepless nights thinking about a faraway loved one facing a life-threatening disease, or the terror of slipping away without a hand to hold, without a kiss on the forehead, without a proper goodbye?  

Enforced distance compounds our loss.  And the wearing of masks—while a simple, necessary, lifesaving measure—has imposed on us yet another dimension of distance, another layer of loss.  What used to be a rare neurological condition called “Face Blindness”—the inability to recognize or remember peoples’ faces—has now become a societal syndrome.  I sometimes feel embarrassed when I don’t recognize a congregant’s face behind the mask, even one familiar to me over many years; I console myself with the knowledge that we are all in the same boat.    

I also console myself in the knowledge that you wear your mask to protect me, and I wear my mask to protect you.  And when I do, I also get to wear–with affection and admiration–one of the many beautiful and highly functional masks that Kelly has sewn during the past six months.  Never having before touched a sewing machine, necessity did indeed become the mother of invention over these months of quarantine, and Kelly took to the art and craft of sewing masks with characteristic alacrity.  

She had an assist in the form of a congregant, who, after a pandemic spring cleaning, dropped off a real warhorse of a sewing machine of around 70 years’ vintage, and with a great back story, too.  His mother, a talented seamstress, had used it to sew Mamie Eisenhower’s celebrated 1953 Inaugural ball gown, a gorgeous pink peau de soie dress designed by Nettie Rosenstein and embroidered with more than 2,000 rhinestones.  In any case, I am grateful not only for my many masks’ protective benefits, but also for their sartorial stylishness.  (As most of you who know me already know, I never met an accessory I didn’t like.)   

Turns out that the word mask also has a fascinating backstory.  It derives from the Italian maschera, but may also be related to the Arabic word maskhara, which means “mockery” or “buffoonery,” and which is preserved in the English word mascara.  There is a fine line, it would seem, between putting on makeup and putting on a disguise, between dressing up and dressing to deceive.

And then there’s the curious story of the Hebrew word for mask, masecha, which may or may not be related.  What we do know is that the Torah uses this word, מסכה, when it discusses molten or graven images:  idols, like the Golden Calf, which in the Torah is called Egel Masecha.  That unholy relic was a counterfeit, a decoy god, and so its name is fitting.  A mask, after, is all a kind of lie:  a false front, a deception.   

Masks hide, conceal, obfuscate.  In Shakespeare, masks figure prominently in comedies that traffic in cases of mistaken identity.  In Melville, the mask is a metaphor for the way in which the physical world conceals deeper truths that always elude us.  While Ahab’s rage is externally projected onto Moby-Dick, the white whale, what Ahab really hates is the uncertainty, the mystery, the inscrutability lurking in the heart of existence.  “All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks,” he fumes.  “But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed — there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask!”  In Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, the mask—particularly the mask of blackface—symbolizes how society imposes an artificial and grotesque identity on Black Americans.   

But today is no day for disguises, no time for hiding.  Today is Yom Kippur, a day for stripping away all pretenses, dropping the armor we carry into the world, standing before God and humankind and ourselves with total honesty.  We come as we are.  We take off our masks.  

I think of Eleanor Rigby, that indelible character in the Beatles song that bears her name; she, like so many of us, just one among “all the lonely people,” “wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door.” 

“All the lonely people; where do they all belong?”

On this Yom Kippur, we do not have to stretch our imaginations to conjure up images of lonely people wondering where they belong.  We are witnesses to a whole world of people who have had to confront being alone, and in too many cases, there have been none to comfort them. 

If you have come to Yom Kippur seeking comfort, trying to access your intimate personal relationship to God, then now is your moment, during Yizkor, to remember people that you have loved and who loved you, who remind you of your best self. 

“All the lonely people; where do they all belong?”  On this Yom Kippur—and especially at this hour of Yizkor—they belong here.  We belong here, we, especially, who have been marked by loss, and touched by grief.  We come here with our masks removed:  exposed, vulnerable.  

Back in prehistoric times, by which I mean February of this year (I refer to anything pre-pandemic as prehistoric, for so it feels, and might as well be), Kelly and I availed ourselves of an opportunity to travel to Egypt with a delegation of rabbis.  Among the many eye-popping artifacts on display in The Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, right behind our hotel in Cairo, were a number of ancient funeral masks, including that of the Pharaoh Tutankhamun or King Tut.  Such a mask was believed to strengthen the spirit of the mummy and guard the king’s soul from evil spirits on its way to the afterworld.

By contrast, Jewish tradition declares that death is the greatest unmasking of them all.  We traditionally bury our dead, unembalmed, in plain shrouds and unadorned boxes, so as to declare that all the stuff we accumulate in life, even the physical stuff of our bodies, matters not at all when compared to the spiritual attainment of a good name and a life of loving good deeds.  

We mourn for all the stuff behind the mask, beneath the veneer.  We continue to love our dead at this Yizkor hour precisely because these are the ones who let us in behind the mask.  We knew them for who they truly were, in all their contradiction and complexity.  The rest of the world got to see a persona:  another wonderful word, taken directly into English from Latin.  That word also means “mask”:  the public figure; the face that she keeps in a jar by the door.  But we saw the essence beneath the mask, and our lives were made so much the more rich, more relevant, more real, for that reveal.  

Others saw persona.  We beheld character—a word that means, “deeply etched.”  The stuff that cuts deep and true.  

Today we stand before God in that place where no masks are worn and only truth is spoken.  We pour out our souls before the altar of a God whose compassion for the wounded, the bereaved, knows no bounds, who loves us just the way we are, including our own broken hearts; the God who asks of us only one thing:  that, for the sake of all whom we have loved and lost, we keep on living.  

Let us acknowledge with special sympathy all those who have lost loved ones to Covid-19 and its related impact; those who had to let go without being able to hold a family member’s hand, with only a computer screen for connection and consolation.  In this time of so much death, so much loss, we stand with you on this Yom Kippur, unmasked in our anguish, sharing the pain and bewilderment that the past year has inflicted on every feeling heart and every caring soul.

God:  Do not hide your face, even when, in order to be safe, we must hide ours.

Turn us, God, to your face, on this day where nothing is hidden.  We pray:

יְבָרֶכְךָ֥ יְהוָ֖ה וְיִשְׁמְרֶֽךָ׃

May God bless you and protect you.

יָאֵ֨ר יְהוָ֧ה ׀ פָּנָ֛יו אֵלֶ֖יךָ וִֽיחֻנֶּֽךָּ׃

May God’s face shine light on you, and be gracious to you.

יִשָּׂ֨א יְהוָ֤ה ׀ פָּנָיו֙ אֵלֶ֔יךָ וְיָשֵׂ֥ם לְךָ֖ שָׁלֽוֹם׃

May God’s countenance be lifted up to you, and give you peace.

Other? or Brother? Yom Kippur Morning, 5781

September 28, 2020

Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, New York

Let me tell you about my brother, Jacob.

Though we share the same last name, we could not be more different:  

I am forty-seven.  He is twenty-nine, eighteen years my junior.

I live in the Northeast and he lives in the Midwest.

I am named Moshe in Hebrew, for my late grandfather, Morris Blake, z’l.  He is named for his late grandfather, the Rev. Jacob Blake Sr., a Civil Rights activist.

I am a Jew. I don’t know anything about my brother Jacob’s religion, what God he prays to, what tribe he affiliates with. We do know that his outspoken father has a dismaying record of making outrageous antisemitic and anti-Christian statements and supporting the notorious antisemite Louis Farrakhan. 

Like I said, my brother and I could not be more different. 

I am White, and my brother is Black.  

And right now, I am standing on my own two feet, while Jacob Blake is  paralyzed from the waist down, having taken seven bullets to the back, in Kenosha, Wisconsin, on August 23rd.  

Blake is, of course, only one in a long list of names of Black men and women brutalized by law enforcement, a list that includes George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery and Daniel Prude, and so many, so many names before theirs.  

I come here today not to acquit or convict, although I would remind us, that in America—as in Judaism—extrajudicial killings violate the law, even when a person is suspected of a crime.

No, today I bring a different message, one for the Day of Reckoning, this day of Yom Kippur.  There will be other days to talk about what’s broken and needs mending in our politics, what’s broken and needs mending in our system of policing, what’s broken and needs mending in our public discourse.  But today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  Today, I want to talk about what’s broken in my heart, what needs mending in our humanity.   

Today, I want to talk about brothers.     

Now, brothers are all over the Bible, and it would be an understatement to say that the business between and among Biblical brothers can get complicated.  Cain murders the first brother, Abel, in a frenzy of jealousy and then rages back at God, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Gen. 4:9)—a question that God never directly answers but which echoes throughout the Torah, down to the present day.  

Ishmael and Isaac, common sons of Abraham, live a life estranged.  The bitter rivalry of fraternal twins, Jacob and Esau, occupies ten full chapters of the Book of Genesis.  And what can we say about Joseph and his brothers that hasn’t already been sung in an amazing, technicolor Broadway musical?

And then there’s the troubling fact that the Jewish tradition can’t even agree on what the Torah means when it uses the word “brother.” 

Does it mean only a sibling, one who shares the same family unit?  The Book of Leviticus uses the word “brother” much more broadly: 

וְכִֽי־יָמ֣וּךְ אָחִ֔יךָ וּמָ֥טָה יָד֖וֹ עִמָּ֑ךְ וְהֶֽחֱזַ֣קְתָּ בּ֔וֹ גֵּ֧ר וְתוֹשָׁ֛ב וָחַ֖י עִמָּֽךְ׃

If your brother falls on hard times, and is unable to support himself in your midst, you should support him as if he were a stranger or sojourner, and let him live among you.

אַל־תִּקַּ֤ח מֵֽאִתּוֹ֙ נֶ֣שֶׁךְ וְתַרְבִּ֔ית וְיָרֵ֖אתָ מֵֽאֱלֹהֶ֑יךָ וְחֵ֥י אָחִ֖יךָ עִמָּֽךְ׃

Do not take any profit or interest from him, but rather, act out of reverence for God and let him live by your side as your brother (Lev. 25:35-36).

Clearly, what’s meant here is something more than a literal sibling; we’re talking about a person in need, whom the Torah considers more like a resident alien who has become poor, requires assistance, and we are expected to do the right thing and treat another human being as part of the family.

Along comes the Book of Deuteronomy with a modified take on “brother.”  The context in which the word appears is similar; we’re still talking about the prohibition against lending at interest or financially exploiting the disadvantaged:

לֹא־תַשִּׁ֣יךְ לְאָחִ֔יךָ נֶ֥שֶׁךְ כֶּ֖סֶף נֶ֣שֶׁךְ אֹ֑כֶל נֶ֕שֶׁךְ כָּל־דָּבָ֖ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר יִשָּֽׁךְ׃

You shall not deduct interest from loans to your brother, whether in money or food or anything else that can be deducted as interest;

לַנָּכְרִ֣י תַשִּׁ֔יךְ …:

but you may deduct interest from loans to foreigners (Deut. 23:20-21, emphasis added).

So, by adding one tiny clause, two Hebrew words, l’nochri tashich, “but you may take interest from foreigners,” Deuteronomy implicitly changes the meaning of “brother,” defining it more narrowly.  Your “brother,” it seems to say, means, one of your ownNot a “foreigner.”  Not “other.”  Someone from your tribe.  What we might call in Yiddish, landsman, a fellow Jew, or, even more narrowly, a fellow Jew from the same part of the Old Country, maybe even the same shtetl.  (This same passage, by the way, gives rise to the concept of a “Hebrew Free Loan Society:”  a lending association by Jews, for Jews, specifically developed by already established American Jews to help their landsmen obtain a foothold in the New World.)

This passage also made it possible for Medieval Jews to work as much-reviled moneylenders in Christian Europe, a vocation considered dishonorable for good, God-fearing Christians.  With Deuteronomy’s more narrow read, Jews could lend at interest to Christians, so long as they did not charge interest to their fellow Jews.  (You can imagine how this played out in Christian European society, where antisemitism had already run rampant for centuries, in the worst cases actively sponsored by the Church, and the State, which were often indistinguishable from one another.) 

Still, I am not convinced that what the Torah originally meant by “brother” referred only to one’s own “folk” or “tribe” or “landsman.”  The Book of Leviticus, by not qualifying the term at all—by simply saying, let the needy “live by your side as your brother,” without any special treatment stipulated for fellow Jews, nor exceptions made for non-Jews—suggests to me that, at its most noble and expansive, our Torah tradition sees every human being as our brother, our sister.  

Such a read derives as much from Levitical laws of lending as it does from the Torah’s opening words, which declare that God created humankind B’tzelem Elohim, in the Divine Image.  “Male and female, God created them.”  Every human being, of every color and creed, ethnicity and nationality.  Every human being, of every state and social station, every gender and sexual orientation, every ability and disability.  Every human being, of every size and shape, age and language.  Every human being might be my brother, my sister.  Surely, by beginning with this lofty declaration, the Torah wishes to set out its overarching vision for humanity (cf. Gen. 1:26-27).  

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”  Cain’s question is still alive.  Each of us must answer with our actions.  

So how shall we respond to the manacled and the maimed, the marginalized and the murdered, when we see their faces on TV?  Do we see them, and think “other?”  Or “brother?”  Stranger?  Or Sister?  Which impulse do we follow?  

Before you answer, let me share with you a Yom Kippur story, from the Yerushalmi, the so-called “Jerusalem Talmud,” which was compiled in the Galilee around the same time that its more famous sibling, the Bavli, or Babylonian Talmud, was being written in Babylonia.  It’s a story about a venerated teacher of Torah named Shimon ben Shetach, and it goes like this:  

Shimon ben Shetach was struggling in the cotton business.  His students said:  “Rabbi, … let us buy you a donkey [to ease your travels], so you will not have to work so hard.”  They went and bought a donkey from a Gentile, which had a precious pearl [tucked away in the saddle bag] hanging from its neck.  They returned to [Shimon] gleefully, saying, “With this good luck, you’ll never have to work again!”  When Shimon learned about the pearl, he asked his students whether the Gentile had known of it at the time of sale.  When they said no, he ordered them to return [the jewel] (Talmud Yerushalmi, Bava Metzia, 2:5). 

So far, so good.  Here we have a Master Teacher of Torah living out Torah values.  Shimon assesses a case of potential fraud here—that his students have taken something of value from another person, without the seller’s knowledge—and orders the property returned.  But listen to how his students respond.

Well trained in the intricate study of Jewish texts, Shimon’s disciples know a thing or two about how to argue with their Rabbi.  They quote another teaching right back at him, with an impressive pedigree of Rabbis to back them up.  They retort:

“But did not Rav Huna Bivi bar Gozlon teach, in the name of Rav—and authorized by none other than the great Rabbi Yehuda Ha-Nasi—that even if we agree that outright stealing from a heathen is forbidden, nonetheless, appropriating his lost property is totally permitted?”  

Now, Shimon’s students are no dummies.  They are also no saints.  When they made the purchase of the donkey, and found this precious jewel in its saddlebag, don’t you think it occurred to them that keeping it was, well, not exactly kosher?  So they come up with a way to rationalize their decision.  They think to themselves:  “This Gentile, who sold us his donkey–it’s not as if he’s our brother.  He is ‘other.’  What difference does it make if we profit from his loss, especially if he doesn’t even realize what’s happened?  What’s the harm?  And, not only that, do we not have a teaching from some of the most esteemed rabbis who ever lived that suggests that it’s okay to ‘appropriate lost property’ from another person, so long as it’s not a fellow Jew?  Who is this heathen to us, anyway?”  

So they present this legal argument to their Teacher, who loses his patience and exclaims, 

“What?  Who do you think I am, a barbarian?!  I would rather hear [others say], “Blessed be the God of the Jews” than have all the money in the world! (Ibid)

End of story.  You see, Shimon understood that the issue at hand is ethical, not legal.  Shimon cared not only about what was permitted, but also–and more importantly–what was right.  Shimon wanted Jews and Judaism to be not so much smart, or clever, but righteous.

Now, I have promised you that I would “talk about what’s broken in my heart, what needs mending in our humanity,” and we have arrived at the moment of truth.  Because, as I studied the story of Shimon and his disciples, I realized that, no matter how much I wish that our religious tradition would declare unanimously and consistently that the word brother always and forever means any other member of the human family, I arrive at a different conclusion—a more complicated conclusion, a conclusion that requires each of us to search our hearts—which is that Judaism (which rarely gives anything less than two opinions for any big question) offers two competing outlooks, two perspectives at odds with each other:  on the one hand, the universal, to see ourselves first and foremost as part of all humankind; and, on the other hand, the particular, to see ourselves first and foremost as part of a small and specific group of people, one with a unique history and destiny, different from everyone else.

Come to think of it, we Jews need both of these outlooks:  the universal and the particular, the global and the tribal.  Without a tribal outlook, we miss the beauty and power of our specific religious tradition—our Torah, our ways of expressing ourselves, our language and culture and holidays and foods and music, our calendar and our customs, our mores and our mitzvot.  And without a global outlook, we miss the overarching function of Judaism, what the Rabbis called L’taken Olam b’Malchut Shaddai, “to restore the world under the sovereignty of the Divine,” or Tikkun Olam for short.  

With only a tribal outlook, everyone else becomes OtherOnly my fellow Jews are “brother.”  Or, worse, we subdivide ourselves into smaller and smaller clans with pettier and pettier distinctions and definitions.  Only my landsman.  Only the landsman from my shtetl.  Only the ones who affiliate the way I do, Reform or Conservative or Orthodox.  Only the ones who come to Shabbat services or Torah study or Freebirds events or who have the same teacher as my kids.  Only the ones who support Israel the way I do, or who vote the way I do.  They are my brothers. The others are just that, Other.  

Keep this up and we end up like Cain, wiping our hands of our own sibling’s blood.

But the fact remains that Judaism gives us both the choice, and the textual justification, for how we shall view every human being:  either as brother, or other, either as a member of our family, or as part of the human family.  

It’s easy—easy for me; easy, I think, for most of us—to look at Jacob Blake and see Other.  Somewhere along the way, our paths diverged.  His ancestors came to America under very different circumstances from mine.  Both of our great and great-great grandparents were surely persecuted minorities; but our family’s destinies in America took different roads.  

The fact of our shared surname is, at the end of the day, nothing more than a coincidence.  My ancestors did not come to these shores with the name “Blake,” of course.  In the Old Country, it was Blecher, Yiddish for “tinsmith.  When my paternal great-grandfather, Abraham Blecher, emigrated from Russia at the turn of the 20th century, he arrived through Ellis Island.  Believing that America was a country in which a Jew could openly be a Jew, he determined that he would in fact be a “top Jew”— a Kohen.  

His documentation was altered so that he assumed the surname “Cohen” under which he lived, married, and had children of whom my grandfather, Morris Cohen, was one.  Undeniably bright and ambitious, and having attained a high school diploma, he nonetheless could not find better than menial employment.  He and two brothers, Harold and William, correctly deduced that the name “Cohen” was not an asset in the troubled years of World War II, and had it changed back to the original Blecher with one important modification:  they now shared a surname with a famous non-Jewish English poet.   

Within weeks, Morris Cohen, re-Christened Mo Blake, found employment at the Trenton Pipe & Nipple Company, a vital war industry supplying the Navy, and soon became Plant Superintendent.  

But then again, as Rabbi Reiser taught us in his Rosh Ha-Shanah remarks, American Jews seeking to assimilate into a White, Christian milieu have always had an advantage over our Black brothers and sisters.  Like most American Jews of the post-war Era, my grandparents, parents and I all have benefited from being seen as White.  My family had an opportunity to change their name.  Jacob Blake and his family will never have the opportunity to change the color of their skin.

CODA

So, today, I ask us to reckon with the choice before us:  how, in this new year,  in a world riven by division, will we regard our fellow human beings?  As Other?  Or Brother?  Sister?  Or Stranger?      

I don’t know if asking this question will mend the brokenness in our world.  But I do think we could use this Yom Kippur to work on what’s broken in our hearts.  “If the Earth were your body, you would be able to feel the many areas where it is suffering,” says Zen Master Thich Nhat Hahn.  Compassion begins with the awareness of suffering.  Empathy comes from the hurt places in me that recognize the hurt places in you.  

My own broken heart will begin to heal when the world sees the bond between Blakes as deriving from the fundamental fact of our shared humanity, and not the coincidence of our shared surnames.  I began by saying that my brother and I could not be more different.  I conclude by saying that we—brothers and sisters, each of us, all of us—could not be more the same.  Jacob Blake deserves to be standing upright on his own two feet, the same way I stand before you today.  Each one of us deserves to fulfill our human potential as reflections of God, creatures made in the Divine Image.

The essential truth of our existence is this:  that there is only one thing, and we are all it.  

So let us give thanks:  first, to our Jewish tradition, which teaches us the value in perspectives both particular and universal, both local and global.  

Let us give thanks, as well, for having reached another Day of Atonement, still alive, and perhaps a little wiser, a little more humane, and a whole lot more inspired to do God’s work here on earth. 

And let us give thanks, above all, to the Eternal, in whose Unity, every difference becomes part of the grand mosaic of life; in whose totality each one—each individual life, every nerve ending and every ocean, every beating heart and every pulsing star—becomes part of the One.

Blessed be the God of the Jews.

Blessed be the God of the human family.

Blessed be the God of all Creation.

Amen.

A New Covenant: Rosh Ha-Shanah Morning, 5781

September 19, 2020

Rabbi Jonathan Blake

Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, New York

Suppose someone had come to you this time last year to tell you that something bad was coming:  something earth-shaking, something so cataclysmic that people all over the world, in its wake, would come to understand time itself as riven in two:  Before.  And After.

Suppose, further, that this someone had told you that all hope was not yet lost; that, yes, there was no stopping the disaster—that fate already having been sealed—but that you still had a choice:  to save life—your own and others’—that you had, what’s more, a responsibility:  to warn others, to bring them on board, or, disregarding the warning, to be swept up in the undertow. 

Suppose all this, and you may have an inkling of what it felt like to be Noah.

And yet Noah endured all manner of ridicule.  For 120 years, midrash speculates, he planted and felled trees, over and over, planting and chopping, planting and chopping.  When people asked him what he planned to do with all that gopher wood, Noah told them that he was building an Ark, to escape catastrophe.  But the people ignored him.  They mocked him.  They hurled obscenities at him.  They even resorted to violence.

Noah, undaunted, kept at it.

For fifty-two years, midrash tells us, Noah assembled the Ark, taking his sweet time, the Rabbis reason, so that the people would see him hard at work, repent of their foolishness, and get on board.  But they did not repent, and—needless to say—they did not get on board. (Aggadah, Jewish folklore, records these traditions in various locations.  See Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 108a-b; Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 22; Genesis Rabbah 30:7; Leviticus Rabbah 27:5; and Sefer Ha-Yashar.)

The day came.  The terror arrived with such blinding force that, before long, the waters had covered the tallest mountains, and “all flesh that stirred upon the earth perished:  birds, cattle, beasts, all the creatures that swarmed over the land, and all humankind.  The breath of life was squeezed out of every nostril….  All existence was blotted out… so that only Noah was left, together with the creatures inside the ark” (Gen. 7:22).

There’s a meme circulating the internet depicting Noah’s tempest-tossed Ark, with the caption, “World’s First Quarantined Family.”

Imagine the scene, as perhaps, only now, you can:  The Bible tells us that, in addition to Noah and Mrs. Noah, their three grown children, and all their spouses, all boarded the ark.  Forget the animals; how did Noah’s family get along?

Further, consider this:  When you examine the timeline of the Noah story, a striking detail emerges.  Noah and his crew stayed cooped up in that ark for a whole lot longer than “forty days and forty nights”; that was just the period of rainfall.  The actual time aboard the Ark would tally a year and ten days, all told, and as weeks turned to months, Noah had no idea when it would be safe to disembark.    

So he devised a testing protocol:  he sent out a bird—

a raven—which flitted about to and fro but still found no place to land.

Seven more days and a second bird, this time, a dove: 

וַיְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶת־הַיּוֹנָ֖ה מֵאִתּ֑וֹ לִרְאוֹת֙ הֲקַ֣לּוּ הַמַּ֔יִם מֵעַ֖ל פְּנֵ֥י הָֽאֲדָמָֽה׃   

He sent forth a dove from himself, to see if the waters had receded from the face of the earth (Gen. 8:8).

Still no place for the bird to land.  So it flew back, perching on Noah’s outstretched hand.  And then:

וַיָּ֣חֶל ע֔וֹד שִׁבְעַ֥ת יָמִ֖ים אֲחֵרִ֑ים וַיֹּ֛סֶף שַׁלַּ֥ח אֶת־הַיּוֹנָ֖ה מִן־הַתֵּבָֽה׃

He waited another seven days, and once again, sent forth the dove from the ark (Gen. 8:10). 

This time, success!  The dove came back that same evening, an olive branch in its beak, signifying that the water had come down, at least to the treetops.  It had now been nearly ten months since the start of the flood.

And still Noah played it safe.  Once more he sent out the dove; this time it did not return.  Noah looked around and saw the surface of the earth drying.  And finally, finally—one year and ten days from the first raindrops—Noah, his family, and the remaining survivors of life on earth, took their first cautious steps on terra firma.  In the sky above, a rainbow, and the Voice of God:

I have set my bow in the clouds; it shall serve as a sign of the covenant between me and the earth (Gen. 9:13). 

To this day, whenever a rainbow appears, we say this blessing:  Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam, Zocheir Ha-B’rit.  Blessed are You, Sovereign of Creation, who Remembers the Covenant.

So, here we are, this first day of a new year, we Americans more or less exactly half a year into the Great Pandemic of 2020, or, in Noah-terms, perhaps, about halfway through the ordeal.  Who knows?  Maybe it’s more, maybe less.  Even Noah seemed to have a more reliable testing protocol for knowing when it was safe to leave the Ark.    

Today I want to reflect with you on what wisdom Judaism offers for living in a world forever changed by the deluge, and propose that this moment calls for a New Covenant between ourselves and the world.

Like the howl of the shofar piercing the dawn, the period of massive upheaval through which we are living is a cry of alarm, a wake-up call, a hard reset.  It declares:  We need to do so much better at taking care of each other.  Because we’re all on this little Ark together.  

We learn much by studying the Noah story, and, in particular, from the details surrounding the birds that Noah sent forth to survey the waterlogged world.  The raven went to and fro but found no place to land.  Noah then sent out a dove; it returned empty-beaked.  Noah waited another week and sent out the dove a second time.  Only then did the dove’s mission meet with success.  What made the difference?

The first time, the text says וַיְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶת־הַיּוֹנָ֖ה מֵאִתּ֑וֹ, that Noah “sent forth the dove me’ito,” literally, “from himself.”  It was Noah’s personal bird, on a personal mission.  Some have even interpreted the dove as Noah’s pet, distinguished from all the other animals.  When Noah sent out the dove me’ito, from himself, the dove came back, and, indeed, came to rest on Noah’s very own, outstretched hand.  

But the second mission is different, by a factor of one Hebrew word:  instead of me’ito, “from himself,” this time Noah sends out the dove min ha-teivah, from the Ark.  The dove now has a greater mission:  not to serve one man, but to serve the entire, fragile, floating ship.  Only when carrying the responsibility for all life, together, does the dove’s mission meet with success, the olive branch in its beak a sign of hope, for all life.

These months we’ve spent cooped up in the Ark have cast in high relief both the greatness of generosity, the nobility of human beings striving for the collective good, and the pettiness of egocentrism, the meanness of human beings striving out of naked self-interest, heedless of the needs of the collective.   

My heart has swelled with appreciation and hope, these months, as heroes in our midst—both lauded and unsung—have exemplified the truest measure of sacrifice, the selflessness that animates true holiness.  

Today we sound a shofar of thanksgiving to all of our healthcare workers, both those on the frontlines of the crisis, who have, day after day, and night after night,  for days and nights on end, donned whatever personal protective equipment available at the time, and ministered to the sick, the dying, the lonely, the scared.  At the end of March, our congregant Darlene LeFrancois, doctor of internal medicine at Montefiore in the Bronx, wrote:  

“The best we can often do is hold a patient’s hand for the minute they pass, as they lie there alone.  Maybe we can ask about a family member we can call before they die.  Acknowledge them by saying their name aloud, and keeping silent for 5 seconds before moving on to the next patient.  When the patient in the next bed dies, you see the terror in the roommate’s eyes.  They know they’re next, and we do too.  Many of these patients have never been sick before, or even ever in a hospital before.”  

Let that shofar sound for all the doctors who continued to practice telemedicine, all the nurses, and aides, and ambulance drivers; the hospital custodians, and clinic workers, and medical technicians swabbing anxious patients’ noses, the phlebotomists and lab techs, and equipment suppliers; all the therapists and social workers who will be tending to broken hearts and despondent thoughts, for a long time to come.  

Let that shofar sound for all the delivery drivers, and the grocery workers, the mail carriers and the childcare providers, the bakers and chefs, the teachers and construction workers and mask-makers and manufacturers of hand sanitizer. 

And, oh!, for all the plumbers and electricians!  (Kelly and I went through two fridge repairs and one dishwasher replacement in the first three months of quarantine and we’re still putting our kitchen through more abuse than ever.)

For all of you who have sent forth a dove of hope and help on behalf of this whole rickety Ark:  thank you.

And yet.

And yet, my heart, which has swelled with admiration at the best of humanity on display, has also—in just a half a year—shrunk in revulsion at some of humanity’s worst, meanest, stupidest, most ignorant, most entitled, most selfish behavior.  

The sound of our shofar has been muted as close to 200,000 American voices have fallen silent in death, an outcome made more horrific, more tragic, because tens–if not hundreds–of thousands of lives could have been saved, potentially millions of deaths across the world, prevented.

And still we fail to buckle down and make the necessary sacrifices to bring the spread of the virus under control:  keep your quarantine and wear a mask in public.  I wear my mask to protect you.  You wear your mask to protect me.  Why is this so hard?  You can blame foreign countries; you can blame our leaders; but when it all comes down to it, the responsibility for getting this disease under control—and the blame for failing to do so—rests squarely with us.

The Talmud includes a best-seller, a small handbook of Rabbinic aphorisms called Pirkei Avot,  which includes this teaching:  “A person who says, ‘what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours’ is an average person, but also a Sodomite” (Mishna, Avot 5:13), referencing the doomed Biblical city known for its avarice and cruelty.  

“What’s mine is mine; what’s yours is yours”:  Mind your own business.  Keep to your own lane.  Or, as Billy Joel put it:  “I don’t care anymore what you say, this is my life; go ahead with your own life, leave me alone.”  It’s a perspective deeply embedded in the American psyche.  

It’s also deeply un-Jewish.  In Judaism we have, “your business is my business,” which, if you’ve ever had Jewish in-laws, you already know.  And yet, if we ever hope to prevail—as a country, as a collective, as a human family—we need to understand what these six months have been telling us all along:  that we are all interconnected.  What I do affects you.  What you do affects me.  

“Globalism” is not a political choice anymore; it’s a fact:  what happens over there affects me over here, and vice versa.  The virus does not heed its hosts’ political preferences or nationality.  It preys with special ferocity on those with underlying health conditions or who have the misfortune to be born poor, or Black, or Brown, or Indigenous, without access to the kind of health care, nutrition, education, and social services that our community takes for granted.  

And if that isn’t our collective problem, and our collective responsibility, then whose is it?  

When Noah sent out the dove me’ito, “from himself,” the world remained underwater.  Self-interest will drown us.  When Noah sent out a dove min ha-teivah, for the benefit of the whole Ark, in the interest of the collective, the mission succeeded.  Remember the Hindu proverb:  “Help your brother’s boat across, and lo!  Your own has reached the shore.”    

The societal model envisioned by the Torah places the welfare of the collective above the success of the individual.  Those who work in agriculture must leave behind the fallen fruit for the poor and the stranger, must leave the corners of fields unharvested and of vineyards, unpicked.  Shepherds must sacrifice of the flock; ranchers of the herd; every laborer must contribute tithes and offerings; no one was exempt from giving.  Again and again the Torah exhorts us to help the poor, the stranger, the orphan, the widow—the unseen, the neglected—to give without hesitation or reservation, recognizing, in language that Noah himself might have understood, that “a rising tide lifts all boats.”  

Most boldly, the Torah provides its own “hard reset” for when accumulated wealth and property and power began to privilege the very few over the very many.  With words now famously engraved on the Liberty Bell, the Torah announces:  “Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof” (Leviticus 25:10).  Every fifty years, with this very pronouncement, the Torah declares a Yovel, a Jubilee year:  a rebalancing of the scales of economic justice, during which slaves would go free, debts would be forgiven, and so-called “landowners” would be reminded that their relationship with property was nothing more than a lease, and the land would be redistributed to its ancestral tribes.  

The word Jubilee, Yovel in Hebrew, is a Biblical word referring to the blast of the shofar.  The wake up call.  The sound we need to hear today, after our own fifty years and more of unchecked accumulation by the few at the expense of the many.  Throw in a vicious pandemic which has exposed the human face of inequality, and you see what happens to society.  “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours” paves the way to Sodom.  The dove of hope circles overhead with no safe place to land, and returns defeated.  The suffering mounts.  

We need a New Covenant.  One that begins and ends with the recognition that everything is connected.  The great teachers, in every religion and every philosophy, all arrived at this same, fundamental truth:  There is only one thing and we are all it.

Listen to Albert Einstein who understood the nature of existence better than, well, anyone:  

A human being is a part of the whole, called by us, “Universe,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. (Excerpted from a letter that Einstein wrote in 1950 to an ordained rabbi, Norman Salit, who was seeking in vain to comfort his 19-year-old daughter over the death of her 16-year-old sister.)

Einstein was talking about a New Covenant, a covenant with all life, a covenant with the Cosmos.

Of all the things that break my heart these days, the politicization of ethical stewardship for the world, the politicization of environmentalism, perhaps ranks highest of all.  It didn’t have to be this way.  We get one planet, one Ark, on which we all have to live together.  And yet we continue to treat our home like an AirBnB that’s someone else’s problem to clean up after we leave, expending and discarding with little heed to the suffering we are already inflicting, in a way, that, once again, injures with special ferocity the world’s most vulnerable people, creatures, and habitats.  

I echo the Biblical Amos who said, “I am not a prophet nor the son of a prophet.”  And yet I find in all the great Israelite Prophets a refreshing disregard for saying the popular thing and instead speaking the truth.  And the truth is this:  whether the “point of no return” for the climate crisis is now, or twelve years from now—as the more alarming models suggest—or as much as seventy years from now, who really cares?  Why would we gamble with the risk so staggeringly high?  Why would we treat even a 70-year window as anything other than a blunt wake-up call, today?  Why waste even a minute, while our own West Coast burns?

And yet, we continue to act me’ito, each person for him and herself, instead of min ha-teivah, each one of us acting for the good of the whole Ark.  

On this first morning of a new year, here is the only “prophecy” worth considering:

Schools will come back.

In-person services at the temple will come back.

Football will come back.

Theatre will come back.

Concerts will come back.

Restaurants will come back.

Travel will come back.

Dating and romance and falling in love and all that jazz will come back.

The economy will come back.

And none of it will matter unless we come back to our senses and stop acting as if “what’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is yours.”

CODA

One evening after a refreshing spring rain, Kelly and I took to one of the new practices we adopted during quarantine, a “daily constitutional,” a long neighborhood walk.  It’s good for the body, the mind, the soul, and the connection between homebound people.  These walks have been just lovely, an opening of all the senses.

Without cars barreling up and down Soundview Avenue, we could hear a cacophony of rival birds—no ravens or doves, alas, but the shriek of a hawk, the song of warblers—and leaves rustling in the breeze, chipmunks scampering and all of it suddenly punctuated by the squeal of a boy being chased across the lawn by his big sister.  

Without exhaust glutting the air, we could distinguish individual scents:  each flower with its own aroma, the smell of freshly-cut grass, from this backyard the smell of a charcoal grill, from that patio, a propane grill; underneath it all, wet moss and rich soil, and bags of slowly decomposing branches and twigs.  The hydrangeas bloomed electric blue and neon magenta, as if finally allowed to attend the debutante’s ball, coming out in all their splendor.  

And everywhere we walked, the dance of living things:  earthworms crawling out of the saturated ground, and squirrels trying their darndest to raid our vegetable garden, rabbits holding court on every lawn.  We came back from our walk, sat on our back deck, and I swear that we heard the throaty grumble of a coyote padding around underneath the floorboards, just days after learning of a family of black bears encroaching on nearby streets.  All around us the world was re-wilding, Nature asserting herself, inevitably, inexorably, reminding us that we are just visitors, lessees, tenants in God’s world.  Reminding us that there’s only one thing and we are all it.  

Up above, I could have sworn I saw a rainbow.      

Baruch Ata Adonai, Zocheir Ha-Brit.  Blessed is the One who remembers the covenant.

On Zionism & Annexation

June 29, 2020 / 7 Tammuz 5780

I write to you today with reflections on time-sensitive developments in Israel and the West Bank, namely, the Netanyahu government’s stipulated intention to annex, unilaterally, parts of the West Bank. My thoughts are rooted in my analysis of Jewish history and Jewish destiny. As always, I welcome dialogue on this subject and would be happy to provide a time in the coming days for discussion.


Zionism is the national liberation movement of the Jewish people. It begins with a moral imperative: that the Jewish people, having suffered centuries of persecution as unwanted or, at best, merely tolerated “guests” of foreign regimes, would at last enjoy freedom, sovereignty, security, and peace, as an independent Jewish nation.



Israel’s Declaration of Independence envisions a thriving Jewish democracy. Balancing the Jewish character and self-determination of the Jewish State alongside its intention to protect the rights and aspirations of its non-Jewish citizens and neighboring peoples has often proved difficult and painful. Yet promoting and achieving such balance remains critical to Israel’s success, both politically and morally.



Today, attacks on the Zionist dream abound. My rabbinate remains committed to defending Israel and, by extension, the Jewish people. Over the last twenty years, I have forcefully and consistently opposed BDS. I presently serve on Aipac’s National Council. I have refused to indulge the lie that support for Israel disqualifies one’s allegiance to other progressive causes and liberation movements.

I’ve also called out attacks from the right, when it weaponizes support for Israel for partisan political gain, and when it proposes that any critique of Israel—a basic right within any thriving democracy, one on which Israelis themselves depend—constitutes a betrayal of Israel.

But nothing breaks my heart more than watching attacks on the character of Zionism come from the Israeli government itself.



Zionism’s morality derives from its promise of national self-determination for the historically oppressed Jewish people. Zionism finds no virtue in interminable Jewish subservience and second-class citizenship. Rather, Zionism presents an alternative to Jewish powerlessness: to embrace national self-determination, and to wield power, ethically and responsibly.

Jewish nationalism can and must exist alongside Palestinian nationalism, no matter how difficult these two national aspirations have been to reconcile.

Zionism must not deny to others what it seeks to provide for Jews. My unwavering advocacy for two states for two peoples derives from my understanding of Zionism. Two states for two peoples remains the only way that a thriving Jewish democracy can hope to be preserved. Unilateral steps to undermine the status quo function only to undermine the essential character and principles of Zionism itself.

This is why I oppose all talk of annexation.

Many challenges inhibit the attainment of an enduring peace between Israel and the Palestinian people. Threats to Israel’s security are real and ongoing. Israelis and Palestinians and, especially, their current leadership, have given ample reason for each group to fear and mistrust the other.

Now more than ever we must double down on the true character of Zionism. We must reject the mercenary politics of division and cynical point-scoring that betrays the Zionist vision of a thriving Jewish state that guarantees the rights of its non-Jewish citizens and co-exists peaceably with its neighbors.

Zionism is a movement of liberation, not subjugation. Annexation would erode not only Israel’s security but also its moral credibility. Indeed, annexation threatens not only to undermine Zionism’s character, but also to erase its gains.

For the Jewish past, the Jewish future, and for the sake of all who seek peace and justice, annexation must be opposed.

Please join me in praying for the peace of Israel, the region, and all of God’s children.

L’Shalom,

Rabbi Jonathan E. Blake

Juneteenth 2020: Introducing Rev. Dr. Stephen W. Pogue, Pastor, Greater Centennial A.M.E. Zion Church, Mt. Vernon, NY

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Juneteenth.

There’s a song on the new Bob Dylan album—and I mean new, as in released today—called “Crossing the Rubicon,” in which Dylan invokes the old phrase attributed to Caesar, who, in the year 49 BCE, upon crossing the river Rubicon which separated Italy from Gaul, committed to a course of action from which there was no turning back — and which led to a war against rival Pompey and the Roman Senate.

Crossing the Rubicon.  No turning back.  We have reached such a Rubicon moment in American life—indeed, multiple such crossings from which there will be no turning back.  Whatever comes next after this terrible global pandemic will not be the same as what came before.

And whatever must come next in our country’s unfolding saga of justice denied and opportunity withheld, when it comes to our relationship with Black Americans and all American communities of color—whatever must come next cannot be a turning back to the way things were before, the way things have too often been.

And, it so happens, as my colleague and friend Rabbi Noah Farkas, who serves the congregation of Valley Beth Shalom in the LA suburbs, points out, “[i]n this week’s Torah portion Shlach Lecha, the Israelites have reached their point of no return” (emphasis added).  

Moses sends out 12 spies, one for each tribe of Israel, to scout out the land that God has promised them.  Fully ten of twelve return impressed with the lush landscape and natural resources but frightened to death of the so-called “giants” who live in the land, whom, they fear, will eat the Israelites for lunch.  And so these disheartened spies lead a campaign to demoralize the rest of the Israelites.  Their campaign slogan is, “Let’s go back to Egypt.”

But they’ve already reached their Crossing the Rubicon moment.  Once the Israelites taste the fruit of the promised land, there is no going back to Egypt.  No going back to bondage, oppression, the invisibility of the Israelites’ lives under Pharaoh.  No, there is only going forward.  

My friends, for us, now, especially, there is no going back.  No going back to the Egypt of denial and defensiveness when we talk about race in America.  In recognition of the urgency of this Rubicon moment, we have reached out to our community partners in the interest of listening, learning, partnering, and shouldering together both the pain and the responsibility to face our fears and move forward together.

The congregation of Greater Centennial A.M.E. Zion Church in Mount Vernon, and its pastor, our friend, the Rev. Dr. Stephen Pogue, have stood with WRT, and we with them, in times of joy and sorrow.  When, five years ago this week, a white supremacist committed mass murder in the Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston, our congregations stood in solidarity.  When, almost two years ago, a white supremacist murdered Jews in prayer at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, Dr. Pogue and our Greater Centennial friends were there for us.  

Today, this Juneteenth, must not just be a moment for pledging solidarity, not just a moment to affirm that Black Lives Matter, but also, this must be a time for our WRT community to listen to the voices of our neighbors and heed the demands that our respective faith traditions—and that our common God of justice and mercy—now ask of us. 

It is, as always, a distinct pleasure for me to introduce my friend and yours, Rev. Stephen Pogue.

When the World is Burning

A Sermon in Response to the Murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd

Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, New York

Friday, June 5, 2020

A true story:

Seventeen years ago, just days after beginning my new job as the Associate Rabbi of Westchester Reform Temple, I was invited to participate in a conversion ceremony.  It takes three rabbis to make one Jew.  That is to say, a Beit Din, a rabbinical court, a panel of three duly ordained rabbis is convened to authorize a conversion to Judaism, so I joined my WRT colleagues, Rabbi Rick Jacobs and Rabbi Angela Buchdahl (and our soon-to-be-official Jew) at the local mikveh, the ritual bath, at Temple Israel Center in White Plains.  

I was walking back to my car when I noticed a plume of dark smoke streaming from a nearby house.  Rick and Angela immediately identified the burning building as our neighboring congregation, Bet Am Shalom, which, by the way, is just a few blocks from where Kelly and I presently live.

We rushed to the adjacent parking lot and met the firefighters, police officers, Rabbi Les Bronstein, Cantor Benjie-Ellen Schiller, and Bet Am Shalom congregants managing the evacuation.  Moments after the fire had been extinguished, but before an all-clear had been issued to re-enter the building, some of my colleagues approached an officer and rushed into the smoldering synagogue with hospital stretchers, emerging minutes later with the miraculously undamaged Torah scrolls that they had rescued from the sanctuary.

In that moment, I felt deeply connected not only to our local rabbis and cantors, to our neighboring synagogues, and to these sacred scrolls that had been saved from danger, but also to Abraham, father-figure of our faith.  A midrash, a Rabbinic legend, about Abraham, goes like this:

An ordinary man is going about his business, traveling from one place to another, when he notices a building all in flames.  This man, Abraham by name, exclaims, “Why is no one doing anything?  How can it be that there is no one to look after this place?”  Suddenly, a voice calls out from the highest balcony—itself almost engulfed in the inferno—saying, “I am the owner.”  At that moment, the story goes, God—the “owner of the building,” so to speak, the One whose world is on fire—selects Abraham to be the father to a multitude of nations, and to lead them from the darkness of superstition into the light of faith (Midrash Bereshit Rabbah, 39:1).

Why Abraham?  What special qualities did our ancestor possess that merited his divine election?  In other words, what did God see in him?  

The answer, according to this parable, is twofold:  first, that Abraham walks with eyes open, that he pays attention, that he notices the fire; but also, that Abraham wonders aloud why this is happening, why is no one else paying attention, why is no one doing anything; and then he demands a response.  What makes Abraham special is that he sees things not only for what they are, but for the way they ought to be, and then roars out his objection.  

Abraham’s journey begins, that is to say, in an act of holy protest.

The world is an inferno.  Who shall we be, in this moment?  How shall we respond?

When I was a kid, we learned that the response to a fire is “stop, drop, and roll”—not, “run into the inferno.”  We practiced this maneuver on the floor of the cafeteria of Parkway Manor Elementary School in Allentown, Pennsylvania.  I was pretty good at the “stop” and “drop” parts, less coordinated around the “roll” — I usually ended up careening all 44 pounds of my first-grade body straight into Brian Chu’s kidneys.   

And yet, this is no time to stop, drop, and roll away from the fire.  

I am not talking, by the way, about that small percentage of lawbreakers who have seized upon this historic moment by breaking into stores, vandalizing buildings, or setting cars ablaze.  The actions of this small and misanthropic few diminish, disgrace, and distract from a vital and just cause.  We condemn them.  There is no holiness in havoc.  

But they are not the story, despite what some media choose to portray.

No, the fire of which I speak is a flame of righteous anger over a centuries-old legacy of American racism that continues to treat Black lives as less valuable than White lives, that continues to treat Black bodies as expendable, that continues to confer disadvantage on communities of color, adversely affecting access to quality education, professional mobility, and equal treatment under the law.

An admirably principled and forthright figure you may have encountered in this week’s news, Marianne Budde, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, speaks for so many of us religious leaders who cherish the Bible, who study the Bible every day, and who find in the Bible a wellspring of wisdom acutely suited to this moment. 

“Scripture is clear,” she says:  “Justice, which is the societal expression of love, matters most to God. Justice is also what is most important to those who are exercising their right to peaceful protest. They are expressing what we all know to be true:  It’s past time to fix a law that allows police officers and vigilantes to go unpunished for crimes against people of color. It’s past time to correct the gross disparities in health care that Covid-19 has revealed.  It’s past time to change economic and educational systems that privilege white people (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/04/opinion/trump-st-johns-church-protests.html).

Racism finds expression not only in vile words and violent abuse.  Such overt racism is grossly offensive, deserving of censure.  But that kind of racism is, truth be told, the easier kind to address. 

The hard racism to extirpate is covert: the racism that insidiously burrows into the fine print of policy and the distribution of resources, into how wealth is accumulated and inherited, in the infrastructure of our cities and the all-too-intentional placement of highways and factories.  If you want to confront racism, first you have to see the building burning.  

In early March—it might as well have been a lifetime ago—Rabbi Levy and I traveled with 63 WRT members, eighth graders and their parents, to the American South.  We marched across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.  We got up close with a history-making bus ride at the Rosa Parks Museum in Montgomery.  We prayed at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, where the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King was baptized, where he preached, and where he was eulogized.  And, most heartrendingly—at least for me—we visited the Equal Justice Initiative, a nonprofit organization that works to end mass incarceration, excessive punishment, and racial inequality.  

Founded in 1989 by Bryan Stevenson, a public interest lawyer and the author of Just Mercy, which last year was turned into a compelling biopic movie of the same name, the Equal Justice Initiative provides legal representation to people who have been illegally convicted, unfairly sentenced, or abused in state jails and prisons. 

(The film Just Mercy has been made available for free online, for this month of June. Watch it here: https://www.warnerbros.com/movies/just-mercy)

The Equal Justice Initiative challenges the death penalty, excessive punishment, and helps formerly incarcerated people return to lives of purpose and productivity.  We toured the EJI’s museum and The National Memorial for Peace and Justice, which opened to the public just two years ago.  It is America’s first memorial dedicated to the legacy of enslaved black people, people terrorized by lynching, African Americans humiliated by racial segregation and Jim Crow, and people of color burdened with contemporary presumptions of guilt and police violence. 

📷 : Jonathan Blake

Set on a six-acre site, the memorial features over 800 steel monuments engraved with the names of racial lynching victims, one massive column for each county where a lynching took place.  There are more than 4,400 names.  Like visiting Yad Va-Shem in Jerusalem, or the National Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, you leave such a place transformed—not just aghast at the horror of it all, but awakened, aware that you share in a terrible legacy; you inherit a profound responsibility; you cannot just go back to “business as usual”; you may not control history, but you must exercise what agency you have over future destiny.  

The poet Rilke described such a moment of transformation:  “…[H]ere,” he wrote, “there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life” (“Archaic Torso of Apollo,” 1908, translated by Stephen Mitchell).

“You must change your life.”  

That is the message embedded in this American moment.  

Before today, we could walk along and not even notice the palace going up in flames.  We could glide along, silent among the passers-by.  

Today we must be Abraham.  

These are tremendous times, terrible times, transformational times, times that demand courage, not complacency; sacrifice, not smugness; curiosity, not close-mindedness. 

This is no time to stop, drop, and roll ourselves away from the flames.

Fortunately, it turns out that “Stop, Drop, and Roll” is not what they teach kids nowadays.  Today, the concept we want children to internalize is this:  if there’s a fire in your house, you should get yourself to a designated meeting place and wait for your family there.

And so, here we are, tonight.  We are at our designated meeting place—it’s called Shabbat—and we are among family.  

Tonight, we take comfort and shelter in one another.  But we will not hide from the fire.  Judaism exists in order to model a more perfect world.  It demands that we not hunker down in fear of what is, but rather, challenge ourselves and our world to become what it ought to be.

Today, with our WRT family, our Jewish family.  Our nuclear family, as it were.  Tomorrow, with our extended family—the human family.  

Because we can’t do this work alone.  If this crazy time—mass demonstrations colliding with a mass pandemic—has anything to teach us, let it be how deeply and inextricably interconnected we are, and must remain.

Tonight, this Shabbat, with our WRT family.  Tomorrow, with the family of humankind, each soul an image of God, each life a divine flame.

Shavuot-Confirmation 5780

The Angle of Your Tent, and Why it Matters

Rabbi Jonathan Blake, Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, NY

Confirmation Class of 5780!

Well.  This is weird. 

Let me begin my remarks this morning by acknowledging that I am fully aware that you’ve been texting each other and using the Zoom Private Chat feature this whole time, just outside the view of the camera. 

To which I say, just remember what the Torah says:  Two can play at that game. What, you think your rabbis and cantors haven’t been doing the same exact thing?

Anyway.  Let me share with you an interesting observation about Zoom, derived from from the Babylonian Talmud. 

The Talmud mentions that, when they camped in the wilderness, the Israelites positioned their tents at an angle so that people couldn’t look into their neighbors’ homes.  

I wonder what would’ve happened if they had Zoom. 

Because on Zoom, it doesn’t matter what angle your house sits at.  Everybody is checking out everybody else’s homes.  All of a sudden, our placid, friendly neighborhood has become a bastion of voyeurism, all thanks to Zoom.   

Come on.  Admit it.  You’ve all done it.  You’re probably doing it right now. 

Like, you’re on a Zoom with friends…. And you just can’t help yourself.  You start looking around their bedrooms, like, whoa, what do they have that I haven’t got? 

Or, maybe, you’re putting up a virtual screen, so other people can’t look into your room, because you just know they’re checking out your room, too….  Right? 

So, that’s a thing we’ve all been doing.  

Which takes us to a line in this morning’s Torah portion, which Sam Medvinsky so beautifullychanted:

Exodus 20:14

לֹ֥א תַחְמֹ֖ד בֵּ֣ית רֵעֶ֑ךָ לֹֽא־תַחְמֹ֞ד אֵ֣שֶׁת רֵעֶ֗ךָ וְעַבְדּ֤וֹ וַאֲמָתוֹ֙ וְשׁוֹר֣וֹ וַחֲמֹר֔וֹ וְכֹ֖ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר לְרֵעֶֽךָ׃

You shall not covet your neighbor’s house.  You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, nor his servant, whether male or female, nor his ox, his donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.

That’s the 10th commandment.  The last commandment.  And also, I think, the weirdest commandment, because it’s the only one that tells you what to feel or not to feel, and not what to do or not to do.  

At the same time, it may also be the most relatable commandment, the one most in touch with the human psyche.  I mean, most people I know don’t ordinarily contend with the temptation to steal or to murder, but they do have to contend with the 10th Commandment, the one that says, “You shall not covet.”

Confirmation Class of 5780, you can all relate to the 10th Commandment. 

Well, the starting part and the ending part of it, anyway.  You guys do have houses, but no servants, wives, or donkeys.  At least not yet.  So, let’s just abbreviate the Tenth Commandment as, “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house,” dot dot dot, “Or anything that belongs to your neighbor.”  That, I think, we can all wrap our heads around.

But what is this commandment really about? 

First, what the 10th commandment is NOT about:

It’s not about craving.  Everyone has cravings, just naturally.  “I want a pizza.”  Just wanting something is not a problem in and of itself. 

Nor is the commandment about wanting what “everybody else” has, or seems to have, something akin to “FOMO,” Fear Of Missing Out:  “Wow, everyone else in this restaurant already seems to have gotten their pizza; I really want my pizza.”  Also, totally fine.  Normal.  Natural.  Understandable. 

No, what the 10th commandment is trying to say, is that David Appel can’t just say, “I want, specifically, Audrey Gendel’s pizza.  Maybe I should take it.”

This is a very specific kind of craving – wanting what does not belong to you, what you have no right to. 

You can want any pizza on the menu, but Audrey also has a right to enjoy her pizza without looking over her shoulder the entire time she’s eating it, worrying about what David is up to. 

Acknowledging all of this, I want to add here my own conclusion that there’s no comprehensive way for us not to want what others may have.  It’s pretty natural, pretty widespread, pretty human nature-ish.  You can’t just stop your heart from wanting what it wants. 

We may never be able to suppress these urges, these desires, at least not entirely, at least not forever.  I think that they may have put this commandment last of Ten because they knew it was the most likely to be broken. 

That doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be done, that we are all hopelessly burdened by our own human frailty.  It is true that desire, craving—even that which belongs to our neighbors—exists everywhere, and yes, it exists very much here in our community, or so I am led to believe.   

But there also exists a counteracting force that we can actively bring into our lives. It’s called Gratitude. Contrary to what you may think, Gratitude is not inborn; it is learned.  Gratitude is not a feeling; it’s a practice. 

Back, for a moment, to those Israelite tents, each one pitched at an angle, so that neighbors could not see into each others’ homes:

The passage in the Torah from which this observation derives is one with which you may or may not be familiar.  

In the Book of Numbers, an enemy king summons a sorcerer named Bil’am to curse the Israelites.  Bil’am shows up for the job, stations himself on a hilltop, along with his sinister employer, gets ready to curse the Israelites who are encamped down at the base of the hill, gazes down on their tents, and, unexpectedly, and much to his employer’s chagrin, his curse comes out as a blessing—one of the most famous blessings in Jewish tradition. מַה־טֹּ֥בוּ אֹהָלֶ֖יךָ יַעֲקֹ֑ב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶ֖יךָ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל, says the seer.  “How good are these tents of Jacob, these dwelling places of Israel!”  

What made these Jewish tents “good,” says the Talmud, is that the sorcerer immediately recognized, from the angle of the tents, that nobody was looking into anyone else’s tent.  

When we don’t care all that much about looking into our neighbor’s tents, when we stop caring, that’s exactly when we are able to say, “Ma Tovu” about our our own tents.  

And, vice-versa:  If we remember to look around our own tents and acknowledge what makes them “good,” we stop caring about what’s in everyone else’s tent—even if just for a few moments.  The two concepts go hand-in-hand:  Gratitude for what I have; not coveting what my neighbor has.      

Confirmation Class of 5780:  none of us denies that this milestone moment comes laden with accumulated losses.  We had hoped to celebrate Confirmation in Westchester Reform Temple’s beautiful sanctuary, with the whole class singing in unison, accompanied by piano and guitar, wearing robes, carrying flowers, standing side-by-side, enjoying a sumptuous luncheon together afterwards.  We had hoped to remove a Torah scroll from our holy Ark and chant the ancient words from its timeworn parchment.  

You had hopes, too:  of in-person classes at temple and at school, of athletic play and competition, of chorus and band and drama club, of happy milestones with family and friends, of big Passover Seders and Memorial Day Cookouts and end-of-year parties.  I do understand how loss upon loss contributes to longing upon longing, longing for what might have been, longing for what we wish we had that we do not have.   

At the same time, our losses require a context in which to understand them.  After all, little more than a few months ago, we never could have fathomed numbers like: 5 million confirmed infections, over 300,000 dead—100,000 of them, Americans—41 million unemployed.  I am sure that all over our country and our world there are people looking at their neighbor’s houses, as it were, coveting a hot meal, a warm bed, a now-absent loved one to care for them, a job to get up for in the morning.  

And so, Gratitude.  Gratitude as a discipline, not a feeling.  Gratitude as a daily practice, not a spontaneous experience.  Gratitude as something you do by yourself, for yourself, not the reflexive saying of “Thank You” when someone does something nice for you.  

May I suggest, Confirmation Class of 5780, bringing into your daily routines, a quiet moment for a prayer of gratitude?  Let me qualify the word “prayer.”  You don’t need to know any Hebrew; you don’t even need words.  You don’t need to believe in God; you don’t really need to “believe in” anything.  You just need to take a moment to get in touch with one thing in your life that you can acknowledge with a heart full of thanks.  

And let me qualify that, too:  not just a thing.  I mean statements like this:  

“Today I helped my little brother with his homework. I have the gift of knowledge that I can share with others.”

“Today I was able to help without being asked.  I live in a home, in a community, where by abilities, opinions, feelings, and contributions are valued.”

“Today I was in my back yard, and I noticed that I am connected to a vast ecosystem of living things.  Amazing!”  

And so on.

We all may just find that such a daily practice will make us so much the more aware of all the good in these, the tents of our People, so that we might proclaim, together:

מַה־טֹּ֥בוּאֹהָלֶ֖יךָיַעֲקֹ֑במִשְׁכְּנֹתֶ֖יךָיִשְׂרָאֵֽל

“How good are these tents of Jacob, these dwelling places of Israel!”

May God bless you, Confirmation Class of 5780:  you, together with all the people who share your tent.  

And May God keep all of our tents safe and well until we can meet again, and embrace.

Mazal Tov and Chag Sameach!

The L.O.G. (Lox, Onions, Greens) Matzo Brei

This morning I conducted my first “Instagram Live” broadcast.  It featured me, alone in my kitchen, demo-ing how to make a savory Matzo Brei on the Sunday of Chol Ha-Mo’ed Pesach.  (Hilariously, my computer just autocorrected “Chol,” which means the intermediary days of a Festival, as opposed to “Chag,” the Festival Days themselves, which bookend the week, to “Cholesterol.”)FgRbZwnCQu6smpgC0QbOXA

A few nice folks who joined me Live have asked for the recipe.  So, here you go.  I didn’t really measure anything, so bear with me.

The L.O.G. (Lox, Onions, Greens) Matzo Brei by Jonathan Blake – Serves Four (4)

Cooking Time (including prep): 30 minutes

[Cooking Time for basic Matzo Brei (including prep):  5 minutes]

INGREDIENTS

4 Sheets of Matzo (any type will do; if you’re using gluten-free, please plan to use less water to moisten the matzo)

Butter (3-4 TBSP) (You can substitute a neutral vegetable oil, like grape seed or safflower oil; I advise against olive oil for Matzo Brei, especially if you’re making a sweet (not savory) variation.  If you want to go super old-school, use schmaltz (chicken fat).

4 Eggs, whisked

2 medium onions, diced or thin-sliced

2 cups of chopped leafy greens (I used Swiss/Rainbow Chard; you can also use kale, spinach, arugula, or a mix)

1/4 lb. smoked salmon, chopped (I had on hand some cracked-black-pepper Nova)

Chopped herbs (e.g., chives, parsley) for garnish/finishing

Salt & Pepper to taste – go easy, throughout, if you’re using salty smoked salmon, which will flavor the dish.

DIRECTIONS

Melt 1 TBSP butter in a nonstick skillet until it’s foaming and just staring to brown (don’t let it burn).

Add your onions and sauté until translucent, with browned edges – nice and caramelized is good.

Maybe a little salt & pepper here.

Add your greens and another 1 TBSP butter and sauté until completely wilted and maybe even a touch crispy, if you like that.

Remove the veggies from the pan, and set aside in a bowl.

Crumble 4 sheets of matzo in a separate bowl, into bite-sized pieces.  Don’t pulverize.  Just break it up.

SPRINKLE (do NOT douse) your matzo pieces with warm tap water, JUST ENOUGH to moisten the matzo.  DO NOT over-soak.  If it’s gluten-free matzo, even less.  You don’t want the matzo to disintegrate.  Use your hands to toss the matzo pieces around so that they’re all equally dampened.  Pour off any excess water.

Add your 4 whisked raw eggs to the matzo and toss/stir gently to incorporate completely.

Add another 1-1.5 TBSP butter to the skillet and set the heat to LOW.

When the butter is melted, add your matzo+egg mixture, gently spread throughout the pan, and let set for a couple of minutes.  When the butter is foaming along the edges of the Matzo Brei, use a spatula to toss the mixture around a bit – but go easy.  It’s like scrambling eggs the French way.  Low heat, slow & easy does it.

Incorporate your veggies and toss through.  Let cook for another minute.

Toss in the chopped lox and distribute evenly.  Cook for one more minute.  Don’t overcook, which will dry everything out.  Matzo Brei should be a bit moist (but not runny).  Maybe another dash of salt & pepper here.

Serve in bowls, or on plates, and finish with your chopped herbs.  Enjoy.

Chag Sameach, Mo’adim L’Simcha – Happy Passover!