Ki-Tavo
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

Contemporary Jewish philosopher Rabbi David Hartman tells the following story about his father, a traditional Jew. Each year the family built a beautiful Sukkah, inviting friends to share the joy of the festival. One year, writes Hartman, “a sudden rainstorm forced our family to leave the sukkah,” and “I cannot forget my father’s explanation to his children as we left the sukkah.” He told us, “God must be displeased tonight with the community of Israel. He does not welcome us into His ‘canopy of peace.’” The rain, continues Hartman, “was seen as a sign of divine anger and rejection.”

What Hartman’s father didn’t realize was that the rain season starts during Sukkot. And if it falls later in the calendar, it is plausible that it was a simple rain shower to start the wet season. Rabbi Hartman’s father believed that God deliberately sends curses and blessings upon human beings as a result of their observance or non observance of the mitzvot (commandments). In other words, if you follow the commandments as stated in our Torah narrative, you are rewarded by God. If you don’t, then you are punished.

Our portion this week, Ki Tavo, speaks to this understanding of how God works in the world. There is a short list of blessings for doing good things and a LONG list of curses for not observing the commandments. As Reform Jews who take a modern approach to life by taking into account what we know from science and an academic approach to the world, we have a hard time swallowing this theology. We know that, as Rabbi Harold Kushner wrote in a popular book, bad things happen to good people.”

Rabbi David Hartman even takes issue with his father’s understanding of how the world works. He reminds us that the world is imperfect. We make mistakes; we begin with an intention to help others and sometimes we end up hurting another. Our good intentions that were meant to bring blessings of justice, trust, mercy and love into our human relationships often fail, which turn into curses. Therefore, our goal is to “be sober and careful when performing a mitzvah. God,” he asserts, “will give you protection needed to perform mitzvot, but belief in God’s protection should not make you oblivious to real dangers. You must combine your trust in God’s protective love with a healthy respect for reality.”

But he doesn’t go as far as to say that we shouldn’t expect rewards for performing the mitzvot (commandments). “…If we are taught to expect rewards for mitzvot also in this world, then sometimes we may be disappointed, but we will also attach greater significance to the joyful moments in our lives by seeing them as signs of divine approval.”

What is Rabbi Hartman saying? His position is that if we approach life as if we can attain blessings or curses, it adds urgency to our relationship with God. Curses, for Hartman, are usually a warning of what not to do.

But again, this is still very difficult for us to swallow. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, a great 20th century rabbi and theologian, offers a different point of view. For Heschel, when reflecting on the purpose of the commandments, he says, “It is in deeds that human beings become aware of what life really is, of their power to harm and to hurt, to wreck and to ruin; of their ability to derive joy and to bestow it upon others; to relieve and to increase their own and other people’s tensions…The deed is the test, the trial, and the risk. What we perform may seem slight, but the aftermath is immense. An individual’s misdeed can be the beginning of a nation’s disaster. The sun goes down, but the deeds go on…”

What is Rabbi Heschel teaching us? That deeds have serious, sometimes unknown, and long-range consequences. Deeds have enormous power to bring blessings or curses, rewards or punishment, fulfillments or despair. And most importantly, for Heschel, “God depends on us, awaits our deeds.” The future of our planet, the future of our species, ultimately depends on us. As Heschel so eloquently puts it, “Not only the individual but the whole world is in balance. One deed of an individual may decide the fate of the world.”

This places the burden of reward and punishment, of blessings and curses, on us, humanity. Through our actions, we decide whether God’s presence is in our midst or it is banished, leaving a vast darkness in the world. And as we approach the HHD season, when we are reminded that our actions, the actions of each individual, have a profound impact on the world, Rabbi Heschel’s words begin to put our understanding of this week’s portion and the world into perspective. On Yom Kippur, you may recall that we recite a well known passage to many of us in this room from next week’s portion, Nitzavim: “I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day that I have set before you life or death, blessing or curse; CHOOSE LIFE.”

During this season, begin to think of steps that you as an individual can take to shed some of God’s light in those dark places throughout the world. Though we do not control the rain that strikes at inopportune moments as in Rabbi Hartman’s story, we can build sukkot (shelters) of peace, of wholeness for all through our sacred deeds.



Ki Tetze
Rabbi Alan Cook

Each year for the past 13 years, Ron Nief and Tom McBride of Beloit College in Wisconsin have released the so-called “Mindset List,” a list that seeks to contextualize the life experiences of the average entering college freshman. Nief and McBride have stated that the idea behind this list is to remind professors that these new students have different mindsets than the faculty members, and that certain illustrations the instructors might be inclined to use in their lectures might be lost on these young people. For instance, in the lifetimes of these students, John McEnroe has never played professional tennis, Leno and Letterman have always been rivals on different networks, Czechoslovakia has never existed, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg has always been on the Supreme Court. The memories these young people have are different from the memories of their parents, their grandparents, or their teachers.

What we choose to remember is, of course, subjective, as is the way in which we allow our memories to shape our lives.

In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tetze, we are reminded of the cruelty of the tribe of Amalek. Amalek, said to be the forerunner of numerous foes of the Jewish people throughout time (most notably, Haman), attacked the rear of the Israelite procession during their Exodus from Egypt. In this cowardly act, they struck at children, the elderly, and the infirm, who had been placed in the back in an effort to protect them. In retaliation, the Israelites are urged to utterly blot out the name of Amalek from the face of the earth; to this day, some Jews will test a fountain pen by writing out the word “Amalek” and then crossing it out. “Zachor,” the Torah chides, “Lo Tishkach”—remember, do not forget. And so we read this passage not only at this time of year, when it appears in our regular lexical cycle, but also on the Shabbat prior to Purim, known as Shabbat Zachor, the Sabbath of remembrance. So powerful is our desire—some would say, our need—to remember.

Though Barbra Streisand noted in song that often “what’s too painful to remember we simply choose to forget,” for us that is not the case. We remember the bad along with the good, the hurtful along with the hopeful, so that we may learn from our past, and grow stronger from it.
Shabbat Shalom.

Re’eh
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, the Serena and Venus Williams, Michael Phelps, Kobe Bryant, Tom Hanks, Meryl Streep, and Julia Roberts. What do these athletes and actors have in common? All of them had a great work ethic, spending several hours rehearsing and practicing to improve their performances. Without such devotion, their outcome would not have been the same.

This is similar to how we should approach the High Holy Days. If we were to walk into services on the High Holy Days without any sort of preparation, it would take us a long time to get our spiritual juices flowing, wasting valuable energy. Just as there is in any performance or sports game, there is a lot at stake. Our performance on the High Holy Days could determine how we engage others during the year and the greater world.

Abraham Joshua Heschel, a great 20th century Jewish theologian, revealed to us a story told by Rabbi Israel Friedman, the Rizhiner, about a small Jewish town, far off from the main roads of the land. But it had all the necessary municipal institutions: a bathhouse, a cemetery, a hospital, and law court; as well as all sorts of craftsmen—tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, and masons. One trade, however, was lacking: there was no watchmaker. In the course of years many of the clocks became so annoyingly inaccurate that their owners just decided to let them run down, and ignore them altogether. There were others, however, who maintained that as long as the clocks ran, they should not be abandoned. So they wound their clocks day after day though they knew that they were not accurate. One day the news spread through the town that a watchmaker had arrived, and everyone rushed to him with their clocks. But the only ones he could repair were those that had been kept running—the abandoned clocks had grown too rusty!

It is never too late to wind our own clocks. But, like the great performers, athletes, speakers we know, it takes much practice and effort to have a great performance, to deliver a great speech, to break records, and to imagine the impossible. As we approach the High Holy Day season, may we allow ourselves to give it its proper grounding so that we break records in terms of our impact on the world. As our Torah portion reminds us, it is up to us whether or not this will be a world full of blessing or curse. I pray that we will be inspired to work for blessing, erasing the curses from our world forever.



My family and I have just returned from a wonderful week at the URJ’s Camp Kalsman, a summer camp for our youth in Arlington, Washington. While the camp draws from all over the Pacific Northwest, including Alaska, Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and British Columbia, I am proud to say that TDHS is one of the best-represented congregations, with over one hundred of our young people attending at some point during the summer!

The camp is only in its fourth summer, and so it is particularly exciting to be present for the beginning of the process, as new friendships are forged, and new traditions are established.

Two such traditions which were new this year will hopefully continue to flourish as the camp continues to grow. The first was the planting of trees near the camp entrance by campers from the youngest unit. As they return summer after summer, these children will be able to gauge the trees’ growth along with their own growth.

The second tradition took place on Friday afternoon. As the camp began its “Shabbat Walk,” gathering all of the campers and staff in a parade of singing our way to Shabbat evening services, the Torah scroll was passed to a representative camper from each unit. This symbolized that the Torah belongs to all ages and all generations.

I like these two innovations in their own right, but also in relation to this week’s Torah portion. The name of the portion, Eikev, literally means “on the heels of” or “as a result of.” The portion itself speaks of the rewards that will follow if the Israelites obey the commandments, and the consequences that will ensue if they are not faithful. Similarly, the consequences that follow from camp attendance, and the establishment of strong camp traditions, are not difficult to comprehend.

Time and again, demographic studies have shown that camp attendance, youth group experiences, and other opportunities that give children a chance to engage Jewishly with their peers are the best means of ensuring continued Jewish pride and involvement. If we keep planting the seeds for future generations, and if we keep Torah in their midst, then we can reap wonderful rewards.

B’Shalom,
Rabbi Alan Cook


D’varim
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

Summer is a time when we are supposed to relax after a hectic school year for the kids or after a crazy work schedule. It is also a time when we take a few moments to breath and plan for the upcoming year. It’s the second part that we often forget. For some of us, during the summer, we get into a very good routine, almost too good. While we are supposed to relax, our tradition teaches us we should be planning for the future, striving to do better. And it is in this week’s portion, D’varim, the beginning of the Book of Deuteronomy, that we are told to move.

After 40 years of wandering in the desert, it is time for the Israelites to enter the Promised Land. Moses, in his farewell speech to the Israelites, reminds the people that God has insisted, rav lachem shevet behar hazeh, “You have stayed long enough at this mountain.” For the Israelites, there is a danger that they will become too comfortable where they are, and unwilling to move on to the unknown, the Promised Land, the ultimate goal of freeing the Israelites.

In life we run the same risk of being too complacent and comfortable. There are times when our own growth as individuals requires us to leave the familiar and move on to our dreams. Every day we are confronted by opportunities that require us to branch out of our comfort zones. Like God nudges the Israelites to move on, children need the same encouragement. If my parents had never pushed me to be flexible and open to new things, maybe I wouldn’t be where I am today.
And these experiences don’t end when one becomes an adult. Each stage of life brings new challenges and opportunities that require us to be flexible and even allow ourselves to experience a certain degree of vulnerability. These experiences help us grow and reenergize our desire to fulfill our goals in life. In this sense, the Torah narrative serves as a guide to us on how we can understand our lives.

We’ve spent the first month or so reenergizing our bodies and souls. Now it is time to think, as we approach the High Holy Day season in only a few months, how we can do better in the year to come, how we can improve ourselves, to affect the world in which we live.

May we all have the courage and flexibility in our lives to leave the familiar, which leads us to new places of exploration and growth.



Balak
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

My father loved to have temper tantrums over computer issues. It often started when his computer would freeze, or he couldn’t figure out how to use one of the programs. It didn’t matter where we were in the house, because we would hear a very loud “GOSH DARNET!” At that point, my brother or I knew it was time to intervene and help me Dad. Once we showed him, it was as if a light bulb turned on in his brain.

This week’s Torah portion, Balak, has a similar story. Balak, king of the Moabites, saw what had been done by the Israelites to the Amorites and felt that the Israelites were too numerous. He invited Balaam, a soothsayer, to curse the Israelites. Balaam, who could converse with God, seeks approval from God and God disapproves. Balaam sends the dignitaries home. Balak, refusing to give up, sends even more dignitaries to plead their case to Balaam. Balaam again turns to God, and God gives permission to Balaam to go with one stipulation, that Balaam must do as God commands him.

The next morning, Balaam saddles his donkey and departs with the Moabite dignitaries. Showing too much eagerness to go on this journey, God becomes incensed. As Balaam is riding his donkey, there suddenly appears an angel with sword drawn in his hand. The donkey swerves from the road into the fields, and Balaam, unable to see the angel and perplexed that the donkey would get off track, beats the donkey to turn back. The angel then moves to a lane between the vineyards, with a fence on either side. The donkey proceeds to press himself against the wall, squeezing Balaam’s foot, so he beat him again. The angel then places himself in a spot where the donkey could not go right or left. Balaam is furious and beats the donkey for the third time. Suddenly, God opens the donkey’s mouth, and the donkey says, “What have I done to you that you have beaten me these three times?” Balaam answers, “You have made a mockery of me! If I had a sword with me, I’d kill you.” The donkey responds to Balaam, “Look, I am the same donkey that you have been riding all along until this day! Have I been in the habit of doing thus to you?” And Balaam answers, “No.” God then uncovers Balaam’s eyes and he sees the angel of God standing the road with his sword drawn.

In our busy lives, sometimes we get so entrenched in our daily business that we lose the ability to see outside the box, which provides us with new perspective on the world.

There is a blessing that we recite every morning: Blessed are You, Adonai, Ruler of the Universe, who opens the eyes of the blind. The rabbis didn’t intend for this to be taken literally, but rather, as a metaphor. There are times in our lives when we need help seeing what is right in front of us, but our own mind is unable to see it. It takes a conscious effort for us to pause and try to understand what is going on. Instead of trying to comprehend why the donkey exhibited unusual behavior, Balaam wanted a quick fix. We would do ourselves a great service if we took a few moments every day to pause, and think of ways of seeing the world differently. We don’t petition God to open the eyes of the blind; it happens constantly all around us. But, as partners with God, we need to take the first step to enlighten ourselves to new things and ways to seeing the world.

Hukkat
Rabbi Alan Cook

In Recently, a friend asked me whether it would be desirable to perform one mitzvah every day.   With 613 mitzvot according to tradition, she figured that this could be a long term project, an interesting experiment.  It would be akin to the undertaking in the book and subsequent film Julie and Julia, except the fat-laden French recipes would be swapped for virtuously walking in God’s way.

I can’t quibble with the intent behind such an endeavor, yet I’m not sure what, ultimately, would be accomplished by it.  First, American Jews living in the 21st century have no means of fulfilling all 613 mitzvot.  Many of them can only be fulfilled in Israel, and a large subset of those ceased to be actionable following the abolition of the sacrificial cult.  Furthermore, Judaism has never really been concerned with racking up the points—with trying to amass credit for mitzvot performed.  It’s also significant to note that a number of mitzvot are “mitzvot lo ta’aseh”, better known as “thou shalt nots.”  If we go through a given day and manage not to plow with an ox and a donkey yoked together, for instance, or to insult the deaf, then we have strictly speaking performed a mitzvah, however passively.

No, my friend interjected, there would have to be some degree of intentionality.

It’s a fair caveat, but one that, for many, would still fail to up the ante.  There are some mitzvot that just wouldn’t capture the imagination of a modern American Jew, simply because they make little rational sense; they seem to do nothing to add to our feelings of personal holiness.  Examples abound; many can be found in the Torah portion for this week, Hukkat.  The portion focuses much of its attention on a ritual involving a red heifer.  The animal is offered as a burnt sacrifice, after which its ashes are mixed into a concoction and used in a ritual of purification.  What is the purpose and significance of this act?  We don’t know; it is classified as a “Hok” (same root word as Hukkat), a rule for which no explanation is explicitly given and none can be readily deduced.  We are asked to do these things merely “because God said so.”

While this may have been satisfactory for our biblical ancestors, it’s hard for many modern Jews to embrace a rule without regard to why they are being asked to do so.  Indeed, the early founders of Reform Judaism, in the 1885 statement of principles known as the Pittsburgh Platform, wrote, “We recognize in the Mosaic legislation a system of training the Jewish people for its mission during its national life in Palestine (sic), and today we accept as binding only its moral laws, and maintain only such ceremonies as elevate and sanctify our lives, but reject all such as are not adapted to the views and habits of modern civilization.”

Go ahead and do mitzvot to your heart’s content.  Do those that make sense for you, or the ones that heighten your connection to the divine.  If you want to, you can even do those that seem nonsensical.  But do them in a way that is meaningful to you.  Because ultimately, at the end of our time on this earth, we’ll be judged not by how many mitzvot we performed, but by the intent and spirit in which we performed them.


Sh’lach L’cha
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

In this week’s Torah portion, God sends 12 scouts, one chief representative from each tribe, to scout the land before they conquer it. The Hebrew, Sh’lach L’cha, literally means, “send for yourself”. That is, for your own purpose, not God’s. As we read in Bamidbar Rabbah (Numbers Rabbah), a commentary on Numbers, it is as if God is saying, “I have told you already that the land is good and that I will give it to you. If you need human confirmation of that, go ahead and send scouts” (Num. R. 16:8). Despite the miracles that the Israelites witnessed in Egypt and continue to view in the desert, they question their ability to conquer the Promised Land. Only two of the twelve spies, Joshua and Caleb, after returning from their scouting of the land, believe that they can conquer the land, trusting that God will help them in their quest to conquer the land. The other ten spies remark that the land is too fortified to take it over, as it is filled with giants and grasshoppers. And for the ten spies lack of faith, there is a great punishment. The generation that were slaves within the 10 tribes must die before their children can enter the land, hence we get 40 years wandering the desert.

What we don’t hear is from the rest of the people, as they were silent, and God sentences them to death. The rabbis claim that their greatest sin was keeping silent. When one stays silent, they seem to agree with the majority.

Rabbi Judah Loew, the Maharal of Prague, wrote: “Individual good will pale in the face of the sin of not protesting against an emerging communal evil. Not only will such good not avert the impending evil, but such a person will be accountable for having been able to prevent it and not doing so. Such is communal wrong that it prevails over individual merit.

We become responsible when we fail to fight against evil in the world by staying silent. We must be rodfei tzedek (seekers of Justice) and rodfei shalom (seekers of peace), sharing our thoughts and perspectives when evil persists.

Be-ha’alotekha
Rabbi Ala Cook

This past Sunday, a group of TDHS families prepared and served a meal to the residents of Tent City IV, a homeless encampment currently housed at Lake Washington United Methodist Church in Kirkland. The men and women who live in Tent City were very appreciative of our efforts on their behalf, and all who participated felt very good about the mitzvah they performed. A special thank you to Lori Riskin for coordinating our efforts, and to our volunteers Rich, Riley, Josie, and Ruby Riskin; Steve, Lisa, and Alex Weidling; Doreen, Hannah, and Sarah Butterklee; Heather and Sarah Kahan; Adina Florsheim; Stacey, Forrest and Alexander Kruus; and Robert, Debbie, Jacob, and Elizabeth Bensussen.

Following the meal, a number of us had the opportunity to take a tour of the campsite. Tent City IV is somewhat unique in that it is highly structured, established as a 501 c(3) entity and self-governed by its residents who serve on its organizing council on a rotating basis. The participants belie many of the pre-conceptions and stereotypes about homelessness: they are clean and lucid, and just seeking a safe place to rest their heads each night. Though some may have struggled with addictions or have had criminal charges on their record, for the most part they have worked to overcome these challenges and are attempting to contribute to society. They are part of an often-forgotten segment of the population sometimes called “the working poor,” who hold jobs, but are not bringing in sufficient income to provide for their basic needs.

This week, we read the Torah portion known as Beha’alotecha. In it, God reiterates a moral imperative also found elsewhere in our scripture: “There shall be one law for you, whether stranger or citizen.” We have a responsibility to provide both for the “haves” and the “have-nots.” We should not allow the residents of Tent City IV, or any less fortunate in our community, to be treated as second-class citizens.

Also in this week’s portion, Moses’ sister Miriam becomes afflicted with leprosy, and Moses issues a plea for her affliction to be removed, as he plaintively declares, “El na r’fa na lah,” “O God, please heal her.” It’s a simple formula, but it works, and Miriam is saved.

We similarly pray for healing: healing of a broken system that allows homeless individuals to continue to fall through the cracks; healing of our hard-heartedness that allows us to turn a blind eye to the downtrodden of society; healing of our broken world into the perfect world that God envisioned at the moment of creation.
Ken y’hi ratzon; so may it be God’s will.

 

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim/B'Midbar
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

When I tell people from the Northeast that I am from Texas and I am Jewish, they have a puzzled look on their face, both Jew and non-Jew: “There are Jews in Texas? “ “Yes,” I say in response to their incredulous look. “As a matter of fact, I am a 5th generation Houstonian and my niece and nephew are 6th generation Houstonians.” By now, their jaws are dropping, wondering how it could be that Jews live in the South. And I usually go on to tell them that there are well over 100,000 Jews in Texas alone, about the history of Jews in Texas and throughout the South, and how Jews played an integral role in local and state governments in many states throughout the South. Most people, by the end of the conversation, still don’t believe me. When my father, a New York City native, got engaged to my mother, a 4th generation Houstonian, it was considered an intermarriage of some sorts.

Southern Jewry is a great example of how Jews adapted and acculturated to the culture in which they lived, as did Jews throughout history when living in foreign lands. While some were tempted to and did assimilate, almost removing any trace they were Jewish, most American Jews embraced their Jewish heritage in creative ways.

Why didn’t our ancestors assimilate when it would have been easier to just adopt the practices of our neighbors?

Our Torah portion a few weeks ago, a double portion, Acharei Mot/Kedoshim , addresses this issue in clear terms: “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you…You shall keep My laws and My rules, by the pursuit of which man shall live.” And this week’s Torah portion, B’midbar, in the wilderness, speaks to our on-going struggle with assimilation vs. acculturation, trying to free ourselves from the practices of Egypt while establishing new ones before entering the Land of Israel.

God is denouncing the practice of assimilation. But why? Isn’t it natural to adopt and adapt some of the cultural norms around us? Our rabbis tell us that we cannot blindly adopt the standards of other people and simultaneously remain true to the values of the Torah and rabbinic traditions.

But most of our commentators are not so restrictive when understanding this verse. They look at the context of this time period, when the Israelite community was trying to establish themselves both as a people and a religious community, as a more difficult time. Our Sages remind us that we have learned much wisdom from the non-Jewish community.


And they go further; what can strengthen our community should be welcomed. After all, the Torah teaches us that every human being is created in the Divine image. And ironically, taking the insights we gain from our non-Jewish neighbors augments how we understand Torah and the world.

In other words, it goes both ways. It is necessary to maintain our uniqueness as a Jewish community and how it contributes to the outside world. It is also important that we open ourselves to the wisdom around us.

Jewish communities throughout our nation have done exactly that. Our Christian neighbors in Texas and in the South have always had a strong connection to their religion, leading to very high affiliation rates. This has positively affected the vibrancy of Judaism in the South. Jews in the South take pride in attending synagogue, in learning about their heritage and spirituality.

And Jews have taken pride in affecting Southern culture as well. It goes both ways.

In this Torah portion, we see the beginnings of a people and a religious community, vulnerable to outside influences. But as we have grown over the past several thousand years, our passion for Judaism has too. And by incorporating the values that only augment how we understand the Torah, Judaism has matured as well.

If all human beings in this world would see the value of each and every human being, the world will only come one step close to peace. We recognize our uniqueness, but we also cherish another’s uniqueness as well.

Several years ago, there was a serious railroad accident. Many people were killed or injured when a passenger train hurtled into a cargo train that had been parked on the track ahead. In the cover of darkness and heavy snow, the engineer had not been able to see the obstacle until it was too late to apply the brakes.

An investigation was opened, and various railroad employees and surviving passengers were interviewed in an attempt to determine the cause of the crash. Among those questioned was a veteran signal man, who had been responsible for waving a lantern to indicate that the track was obstructed. During hours of testimony, the man continually affirmed that he had, indeed, displayed the lamp. But as the investigation wore on, the signal man ultimately dissolved into tears. The attorneys asked what was wrong—had he, in fact, neglected his duties that evening? No, replied the man, he had indeed waved the lantern. However, it had done no good. For, he explained, he had neglected to light the wick.

In this week’s Torah portion, Tzav, we read of the command to have an eternal light that burns continuously in the Tabernacle. By extension, every place where Jews worship in modern times typically displays a Ner Tamid, an eternal flame. But what about our own flames; what about the fires that burn within?

Like the signal man, we should recognize that just going through the motions is not sufficient. We must have that inner fire that imbues our life and our actions with meaning.

As we prepare to commemorate the holiday of Passover, we are reminded of the rabbinic injunction that in every age, we are to look upon ourselves as though we each, individually, experienced the Exodus from Egypt. For well we know that had the Exodus not taken place, we would not have the opportunity to enjoy the freedoms of our modern life. By connecting ourselves with those Israelites of long ago, we bring the holiday to life, and keep our devotion to our faith burning within.

May you all enjoy a happy and healthy Passover.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of taking our senior class to the European cities of Amsterdam, Budapest and Prague. We visited several sites in each of the cities, learning the history of the area and the Jewish community. Much time was spent covering what the Jewish community looked like pre-Holocaust, and what hardships it endured during the Holocaust.

The highlight of the trip, however, was seeing the resurgence of Jewish practice in these communities, despite the horrible tragedies they endured during World War II. In Budapest our senior class was hosted overnight for Shabbat by the local Reform congregation, one that is continuing to grow. We then gathered for Shabbat morning services at the local Jewish center. As difficult as it may be, the community is making progress. And we learned the same for the communities of Prague and Amsterdam.

Our Torah portion this week, Vayakhel, is a recapitulation of the fashioning and building of the Tabernacle. The commentators wonder why the Torah emphasizes this point of building the Tabernacle, a tedious and never ending task. Their conclusion is that this was a meeting place for all people, a place to restore unity and share a common purpose.

Not only did the Nazis and their followers almost destroy the Jewish communities throughout Europe, but Communism--what followed Nazi Germany in several cities throughout Eastern Europe such as Prague and Budapest--didn’t allow freedom of religion either. Only recently did Communism fall in 1989, 21 years or so ago. Since the fall of Communism, communities such as Prague and Budapest have tried to rebuild their mishkan, their sacred space, an often tedious and enduring task, but necessary for the vibrancy of the Jewish communities.
The tabernacle, therefore, becomes a symbol of restoration and purpose for the Israelites of the past, and continues to be today for those trying to rebuild their communities today.


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For thousands of years, communities have built enormous structures, temples and stadiums where they could gather to admire art, worship and watch some of their greatest spectator sports. The Roman Empire built magnificent coliseums. The Greeks constructed some amazing architectural houses for their gods. Medieval Christian Europe erected awe inspiring churches. Today, Europeans gather for football (or soccer in American terms), rugby and other sports that hold close to if not over 100,000 people.

In this country as well as others, we seek to build stadiums that suffice for large numbers of people while providing a sense of intimacy in the midst of 10’s of thousands of people.

Although our intentions may be different, our goal remains the same when we build houses of worship. We want a place that can be a house of worship for all peoples while providing a sense of intimacy and inspiration.

Our congregation has the greatest contrast of styles of architecture. In Bellevue, we have one of the most modern and intimate sanctuaries in the country. Our sanctuary is designed so that it can fit a fair number of people, but can also be adjusted if there are a few. In Seattle the architecture is a product of the mid-20th century, which sought to elevate our hearts and souls to God through the grandeur of the structure in addition to the music and prayer that was offered in the building. The structure itself is awe-inspiring and has for years elevated people hearts to do good will.

In this week’s portion, Parashat Terumah, God commands the Israelites—v’asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham. “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” God then lays out specific patterns and details on how to construct it. Just as we spend much time and resources on building our houses of worship, so too did the Israelites when they constructed the first Tabernacle.

The rabbis ask an important question: Why does God command the Israelites to build a sanctuary? Doesn’t God reside in the hearts and souls of every human being and is present everywhere in the world? Why do we need these houses of assembly and worship if we can pray anywhere?

A midrash or story suggests that the tabernacle was fashioned to meet God’s needs as well as Israel’s. It tells of a king who gave his only daughter in marriage to a prince from another country. He told his daughter, “I cannot prevent you from moving away with your husband, but it grieves me to have you leave. Do this for me, then. Wherever you live, build an apartment for me so that I can come and visit you.” Thus God says to Israel, wherever you travel, build a shrine for Me that I may dwell among you.”[1]

God is found everywhere in the world. However, we as a community striving for holiness seek to build a structure that we can sanctify and consecrate as holy.

We invest our resources and time into building an edifice that reflects who we are as individuals because we seek not only to say thank you to God for numerous things in our lives—we also want to fulfill our part of the covenant. Our covenant with God says that we are to be a holy people.

First we assemble in a place that we can physically sanctify. This space gives us pride; it is a place we can call home and in which we feel safe to learn and worship.

But ultimately, this sacred space is there to inspire us to take a little of the holiness that we create in this community and spread it to others through our actions. Through acts of Tikkun Olam, of repairing the world, we bring God’s sanctuary to everyone.

-- Rabbi Daniel Septimus



Last Sunday, a record-setting audience turned to CBS to watch the New Orleans Saints defeat the Indianapolis Colts in Super Bowl XLIV. And those who weren’t snacking on chicken wings or taking a potty break during halftime were treated to a performance by seminal British rock band The Who.

Or were they? The lineup that performed at Sun Life Stadium last weekend was only half of the original, classic Who. Keith Moon, the iconic drummer for the group, passed away in 1978, and bassist John Entwistle died in Las Vegas in 2002. So while Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey may still have delivered a rocking performance, it is fair to ask whether billing the group as The Who was entirely honest. After all, Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney have jammed together on a number of occasions over the past few years, but no one would deem these performances a reunion of The Beatles.

Our experiences are subjective. What is “real” for you might not be real for me. You might be content listening to Townshend and Daltrey reprise “Baba O’Reilly” or “Pinball Wizard” for the umpteenth time, while I might prefer the soft-rock stylings of Air Supply. To put it in slightly more lofty terms, you might experience God in a sunrise or in the majesty of Mount Rainier, while others might imagine a God more like the figure depicted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. There is no concrete, empirical evidence of what it means to have a divine encounter, and so we are left to our own devices to determine what is “real” or “true.”

In the Torah portion for this week, Mishpatim, we read of Moses’ preparations to ascend Mount Sinai in order to receive the Torah. The general populace must stay at a certain distance; seventy elders climb with Moses to a sort of “base camp”, but only Moses is permitted to climb to the summit. In the process of the climb, he receives a curious instruction from God: “heyeh sham—be there.”

We might ask, how could Moses be anyplace else but THERE? Why was this instruction necessary? But the truth is, we often have experiences without being fully in the moment, without fully being there.
Just as Moses needed to be conscious of the task he was about to undertake in order to fully appreciate its gravity, so should we strive to be fully “in the moment” in all our undertakings. Our experiences, whether concrete and definite or fleeting and subjective, will be all the richer if we do so. And then we can really ensure that “we don’t get fooled again.”


Parashat Be-Shallah
Rabbi Daniel Septimus

If there ever was a super bowl of torah portions, Parashat B’Shalach may just be it. Not only do we read about the liberation of the Israelite slaves by God, the pursuit of the fleeing Israelites by Pharaoh and his army, the splitting of the Red Sea, with Israel crossing safely beyond and Pharaoh’s forces drowning in the waters, but we also know that this episode in our Torah narrative becomes an integral part of our consciousness as Jews. The celebration of Passover has become an important aspect of our year, as more Jews will sit down to celebrate Passover and recount this awesome episode of our Jewish history than any other holiday celebration.

And it is not just history; we are told to imagine ourselves as if we were there, at the splitting of the sea. By experiencing this moment, we are reminded of God’s love for the Jewish people and our covenant to redeem the world from injustice, wherever it may be. These are indeed miracles; these are significant moments in Jewish history.

And despite the great miracles--the significant moments in our biblical narrative--the people quickly forget how extraordinary these acts were. Following this great miracle of the splitting of the sea, what do the Israelites do? They complain about a lack of water, they complain about a lack of sustenance, and they begin to realize that they are no longer in Egypt, a place, though rough, was familiar.

Miracles, clearly, seem to be an ineffective way to compel obedience and understanding of the world. And what we learn is that it takes much more than a significant moment or “special effects” to reform our character. To transform our character, therefore, takes time and patience. It requires constant and gradual education, reinforcement, discipline and community.

This Shabbat is called Shabbat Shirah. On this Shabbat, when we imagine ourselves as if we were crossing the Red Sea, joining with others in gratitude as we sing, let us use this moment to create a routine which provides us the nurturing we need to take care of ourselves and the world around us. After all, we are all working for the day when we can sign as one universal religion, joined together, praising God as we complete our task in the world.

Parashat Bo'
Rabbi Alan Cook
We are well into the book of Exodus in our weekly reading cycle.  Last week, in Va’era, we read of the plagues of blood and frogs; this week we read in Bo of the remaining plagues, and the adventure culminates next week in Beshallach as the Israelites finally go free from their captivity.

We confront the plagues at least twice a year: during the lectionary cycle, when the stories of Exodus are told, and again during our Passover seder.  It is easy to dismiss the plagues as part of a fantastical account of God’s miraculous powers.  We can give glancing mention to them, or think of them as a convenient milestone in the seder (“When we get to the slaying of the firstborn, it’s time to heat up the matzah ball soup”).  There are even plague magic kits or finger puppets, which further diminish the impact of the plagues by turning them into child’s playthings.

We must remember, however, that the plagues did inflict devastation and destruction upon Egypt- from the blood and frogs that may have been mere nuisances to the later plagues which destroyed people’s crops, livelihoods, and, ultimately, their families.  Certainly these were not mere trifles, and they were no laughing matter.

Troubles continue to plague us today.  We can take a fatalistic approach and proclaim that the devastation wrought by these modern plagues is an “act of God,” divine retribution for some imagined sin.  I won’t reiterate the distasteful comments made by pundits such as Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh, who are more concerned with blaming the victim than with providing them relief.

The rest of us have some power to obviate the impact of these plagues that others suffer.  We can help those struggling with abject poverty by contributing to causes such as kiva.org, a microlending organization (check out TDHS’ team!).  We can provide assistance to the people of Haiti by donating to the International Red Cross, or to the Union for Reform Judaism’s relief efforts (check out urj.org).  And we can embrace causes in our community and in our congregation that provide much-needed help to those less fortunate than ourselves.

We recite the plagues so frequently, I believe, because they serve as a reminder that “There but for the grace of God we go.”  If circumstances were different, and you were suffering, wouldn’t you long for help from your neighbor?

Ani V’Atah N’Shaneh Et HaOlam- You and I can change the world.  Let’s start now.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Alan Cook



Parashat Sh'mot
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus

Our Torah portion this week tells us of the beginnings of a great leader—Moses. But when he is called upon by God to lead the people, he responds, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from Egypt?”

We ask ourselves the following questions: Why didn’t Moses happily and quickly accept God’s call to leadership? Why does he offer excuses? Is he afraid? Has he no courage? Or is it a way of showing humility? There are certainly commentators on both sides.

But conventional wisdom leads us to humility and we can see a hint in the text. The tanchuma, an ancient midrash from the 5th century, tells us that if Moses had not turned aside to save a young sheep, he would not have qualified as leader of the Israelite community. His concern with the entire flock, not just the perceived best of the flock, left an impression on God.

And we know that Moses truly believed that he did not possess the leadership and speaking skills to plead on behalf of the people, as he stuttered.

Anavah, humility, is an integral value in Jewish leaders. Rabbi Eleazar ben Judah once said: No crown carries such royalty as that of humility. Many of our prophets such as Amos, Isaiah and Jeremiah were similar. They were realists. They understand the complexity of the situation.

Maybe it was fear, but what we need are leaders of our communities, Jewish and non-Jewish, who can weigh the difficulties of today and realize they can’t do it alone. God is with us on our journeys in life, guiding and providing us with strength through what can be vulnerable times.

Parashat Mikketz
Rabbi Daniel A. Septimus
The Underdog Phenomenon

Can you name some of your favorite sports movies?  Most of them involve sports teams or individuals overcoming great odds to win a championship.  The Natural, Hoosiers and the newly released movie, The Blind Side, are among some of my favorites.  One of the greatest basketball players to play the game, Michael Jordan, had an underdog story, as he was cut from his high school basketball team.  But he came back and persevered, studying how to improve his game to become a better basketball player.  
Our country has always been captivated by the underdog.  Why?  The underdog represents the hope that one or a few human beings will come together and surprise us.  They remind us that we are in control of our destiny and we can persevere, even when faced with insurmountable odds. 

One of Judaism’s great underdog moments is the story of Hanukkah.  The Hasmonean dynasty is able to overcome the great Greek Seleucid empire, to regain control of what they cherish—freedom to practice Judaism in sacred space.  If you were to ask someone on the street about the Hasmonean odds of winning against the Greeks, I bet it was pretty low.  But the perseverance of human beings again surprises us.

Our Torah portion this week, Mikketz, also portrays an individual who is able to overcome great odds, Joseph.  Joseph, who is left to die and eventually sold into slavery by his brothers, is able to use his strengths and humility to gain the confidence of Pharaoh and eventually, the Egyptian people, becoming an integral part of the great Egyptian empire.  It is a pretty remarkable story for an individual who is left in the middle of the wilderness alone, without family. 

During this season of light, we pray that for those who seem to be the underdogs, trapped in what we think is darkness, that they will find a spark of light, which will guide them through dark times to achieve an underdog story of perseverance.  And I look forward to being a part of this moment in history, as we help them find God’s light. 
Shabbat Shalom and Chag Hanukkah Sameach, Happy Hanukkah!
             


Parashat Vayetzei
Rabbi Daniel Septimus


ay, Ray Kinsella is walking through the corn fields of his Iowa farm and hears a voice that says, “If you build it, he will come.”  At first, he thought he was going crazy.  The thought that a voice was calling out to him in the middle of a corn field in Iowa seemed a bit crazy.  But after trying to repeatedly dismiss the voice, he accepts that it is speaking to him.  Not knowing the ultimate outcome of his actions, he interprets the voices as a command for him to build a baseball field.  His fellow neighbors and citizens of the town believed he was going crazy, sacrificing a significant part of his crop. 

Suddenly, one evening, Shoeless Joe Jackson appears on the field.  Now, remember, that Shoeless Joe Jackson played on the infamous Chicago “Black Sox” who threw the 1919 World Series, and were later banned from baseball by the new commissioner. 

Eventually, the entire Chicago “Black Sox” team comes back with Shoeless Joe Jackson to once again fulfill their dream of playing baseball.  The field that Ray Kinsella builds becomes a place for those baseball players who were robbed of their dreams before dying, to have an oppo

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