Category Archives: Self


My installation remarks from Friday night, December 11. I had no idea, when I decided to craft these remarks around the seasons, and to teach about impermanence by looking to the trees, that our Religious School had created a huppah in my honor that teaches the very same thing, in the same way.  It was presented to the congregation as part of Sunday Morning’s Installation.

 Lots of folks have asked me, “Haven’t you been our Rabbi for quite some time? What changes on December 11?” And the answers are, “yes,” and “not much.” Certainly, some of the big transitional moments are already behind us. My election. Our first service together. Our first High Holidays. Other moments of transition are still out in the future. We haven’t yet celebrated Purim together, or Pesach, or Kabbalat Torah, or an Annual Meeting, to name but a few “firsts” that are still in the future. My colleague Barry Block has written about transition not really being finished until a rabbi has been in his or her position for two full years, and I’m inclined to believe him.


A gift from the synagogue, created by Galia Goodman

And yet, here we are, celebrating my “installation.” Lots of jokes about the similarities between rabbis and large appliances are just waiting to be made, but the truth be told, “install” is a verb that was applied to members of the clergy long before it was applied to washers and dryers. To “install” something is to put it in its stall. And clerics in the Middle Ages had semi-enclosed chairs called stalls in which they sat as a part of the choir. “Installation” was the act of getting into one’s stall for the first time. It is, essentially, the act of taking one’s seat, of settling in. Continue reading



That was how Helaine would ask to be held when she was a baby. “Holjumee.” When she started saying it, it took us a little while to figure out its origins, but eventually we got it. We would hold out our arms and say, “Do you want me to hold you?” She thought “hold-you” was the verb, all by itself. Thus, “Hold you me.” Or, “Holjumee.” Continue reading

“Our Kids”


Rosh Hashanah Morning, 5776 – Judea Reform Congregation, Durham NC…

Robert Putnam, the Harvard social scientist best known for Bowling Alone, his book about the erosion of social capital, authored a new study earlier this year. It is called Our Kids. The title hearkens back to a time when, at least in the author’s recollection, the adults in the Ohio town of his youth saw all the kids in town as “our kids.” Putnam’s claim, buttressed with loads of data (as is his way), is that the sense of shared responsibility and community that once characterized our nation has deteriorated. In its place, a vast opportunity gap has opened up in America. Multiple generations of wildly disparate educational and economic attainment are firmly entrenched, and two children growing up today are likely to lead vastly different lives based largely on accidents of birth, like their zip code or the color of their skin. Our Kids tells a story that is bad, and getting worse. Continue reading

Inner and Outer Worlds are One

Erev Rosh Hashanah, 5776 – Judea Reform Congregation, Durham NC…

On her 1974 double live album, Miles of Aisles, Joni Mitchell introduces the singing of “Circle Game” with an observation about the nature of the performing arts. In her oh-so-groovy Laurel Canyon-inflected patter, she says to her audience,

that’s one thing that’s always, like uh, been a difference between, like, the performing arts, and being a painter, you know. Like a painter does a painting, and he paints it, and that’s it, you know. He has the joy of creating it, it hangs on some wall, and somebody buys it, and maybe somebody buys it again, or maybe nobody buys it and it sits up in a loft somewhere until he dies. But he’s never, you know, nobody ever, y’know nobody ever said to Van Gogh, ‘Paint a Starry Night again, man!’ You know? He painted it. That was it.

Joni’s point was that people do call out to hear “Circle Game,” again and again. And in listening to it, and singing along, it remains new and fresh, each performance its own work of art.

I’ve often wondered if the sermon, as an art form, is more like a painting, or a song. Rabbis pour themselves into High Holiday sermons. Are these efforts best thought of as “one-and-dones,” if not hung on a wall then hung on a synagogue web site or a blog, frozen in time? Or can we sing them again and again? Continue reading


Bittersweet. That’s the word many of us have been using around Temple for the last weeks and months. It’s a great word, dating to the fourteenth century. At first it referred only to a type of apple, low in acids and high in tannins. But over time, “bittersweet” came to describe an emotion that mimics the experience of eating such an apple, where the initial smile is quickly followed by a lip-puckering, teeth-licking smack. Continue reading

Water those Camels!

A d’var torah for Shabbat Chayyei Sarah…

Even if all the dates were removed from this week’s handout, an astute observer might well be able to guess the season. With so many opportunities to give of one’s time, talent, and resources – mitzvah day, prepping a communal meal, supporting the Kelly Memorial Food Pantry, supporting our own youth through a Sisterhood fundraiser — it’s pretty plainly that time of the year when generosity and altruism come to the fore.

And as if on cue, Torah provides us with a striking example of generosity, altruism, and kindness, in one of the most touching stories in the book of Genesis: Rebekah’s introduction to the family of Abraham.

Let’s review: Abraham is aging, and knows he won’t live forever. His son Isaac, through whom the promise is to be fulfilled, is unmarried. Abraham wants to change that, and sends his servant Eliezer on a mission: to bring a bride for Isaac, someone from the Old Country, across a sea of sand. Heavy-laden with gifts and provisions for the journey, Eliezer sets out with his caravan, ten camels strong. After many days, we must presume, he arrives in Nahor, hundreds of miles from his starting point. He brings the camels to their knees in a resting position, and watching the young women drawing water, he devises a test: The woman of whom he asks, “Please, lower your jar that I may drink,” and who responds, “Drink, and I will also water your camels” — she’ll be “The One.”

Imagine his delight as the test works out so perfectly. No sooner had he finished expressing it than it came true. A beautiful woman, single and from a good family, immediately responds to his request for a sip of water, allowing him to drink his fill. He quenched his thirst in silence, and then, the magic words: “I will also draw for your camels, until they finish drinking.” She sets about doing just that. Ten camels who’ve traveled many days would drink something on the order of two hundred fifty gallons of water. It’s a Herculean task, and Eliezer can only watch in amazement as she completes it. In short order, he’s met the family, secured their and her willingness to make the match, and returned to the Land of Israel with a bride for Isaac, someone to comfort him after his mother’s death.

In this story, everything hinges on the camels. Camels make such a journey more bearable, and the camels’ prodigious thirst makes the beautiful Rebekah that much more impressive. The story is so reliant on the camels…which is interesting in light of our knowledge that camels weren’t domesticated until several centuries after the age of the Patriarchs! In telling the story of how Isaac and Rebekah came together, the biblical author has given us the equivalent of a tale set in Colonial times that turns on the bride-to-be’s ability to rebuild the servant’s engine and transmission while he waits. And, as biblical scholar Robert Alter points out, the anachronism is uncharacteristic of Genesis, which in nearly all other respects aims for a very accurate portrait of life in the age of the Patriarchs.

What’s going on here? Here’s my answer, which (not surprisingly, if you know me) hinges on a word-play. The Hebrew word for that newly-domesticated animal that was making the world a smaller place in the days when this story was first told around our ancestor’s fires is gamal. And no Hebrew-speaker can hear the word gamal without hearing an echo of the verb gomel chesed, which we usually translate as “perform acts of lovingkindness.” Rebekah, in watering those g’malim, becomes the very picture of g’milut chasadim. It’s a brilliant piece of writing, and teaches us a powerful message about what to look for in friends and teachers, to say nothing of the partners with whom we choose to share our very lives. Rebekah’s giving spirit, her energy for the task at hand, her willingness to go the extra mile…all these made her a fitting partner for Isaac, which is to say, a fitting Matriarch for us. No wonder the Torah tells us, a little further on, that Isaac loved her, and that she brought him comfort in the wake of Sara’s death.

Not totally convinced yet? I’ve got more. Remember how Eliezer made the camels kneel when they arrived at the well? In Hebrew, as in English, “kneel” is derive from “knee.” The Hebrew for that place where the femur and the tibia meet is berech, another word rich with spiritual meaning. B’rachah, blessing, shares those letters. Vayavrech hag’malim, “he caused the camels to kneel,” may just as well be vayavrech hag’malim, “a blessing to those who act out of lovingkindness.”

Our ancient forebears told stories about their ancient forebears, and they did it with purpose. From Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob, Leah and Rachel, they learned how to act (and sometimes, how not to act). Rebekah is the picture of decisive action, grounded in compassion and connection. She sees in Eliezer a fellow human in need. She sees in his ten thirsty camels fellow beings, worthy of her concern. Is the story deficient because it includes a historical impossibility, domesticated camels in the seventeenth century before the common era? On the contrary, it’s the anachronism that makes it charming, and carries the point. Baruch sheg’malanu kol tov. Blessed be the One who has lovingly taught us these stories, so filled with goodness!

“Eilu d’varim, these are things without measure, which cost us nothing and reward us without end… acts of lovingkindness, g’milut chasadim.” Like Rebekah, may we find our energy boundless when it comes to demonstrating our compassion and concern for the other. Your handout is your guide. Find a way to give, to bless, to generate kindness and compassion in this world. Not only in this season of giving, but every day of our lives, may we be mashkim hag’malim, the camel-waterers, the ones who give the parched places in our world their due…and more.


Mortality is Good (Yom Kippur Yizkor, 5775/2014)

God saw all that God had made, and look! It was very good.” We’ve now explored that verse, from the first chapter of Genesis, twice during these holidays. On Rosh Hashanah, we saw how Rabbis Chaninah and Pinchas made an anagram of the word m’od, “very,” and heard in the words an optimistic, positive assessment of adam, humanity. Last night, the sixteenth-century biblical commentator Ovadiah Seforno showed us to another understanding, in which the word “very” indicates that the whole of Creation is so much greater than the sum of its parts.

And now it is Yizkor time, and our thoughts turn to family and friends who have died. Can we say, even now, that God sees the fullness of Creation as very good? What of the heaviness in our hearts as we remember a beloved, a parent, or God forbid, a child. Is this, too, “very good?” Continue reading

Reveling in our Multi-vocality (Kol Nidrei 5775/2014)

On Rosh Hashanah morning, I brought a text from the very first chapter of the Bible: “God saw all that God had made, and look! It was very good.” I told you then that we’d see the verse three different ways before the holidays were through.

We’ve already looked at it through the eyes of Rabbis Chaninah and Pinchas, Talmudic Sages who saw in the word “very,” m’od in Hebrew, an anagram for the Hebrew word adam, “human being.” For Chaninah and Pinchas, God’s assessment of Creation is positive, and we human beings are the reason why. In last week’s sermon on optimism, I suggested that we could read the verse as a reminder that the essential goodness of humanity — hineh tov “adam” — shines.

Tomorrow afternoon, we will see how Rabbi Meir, a contemporary of Chanina and Pinchas, plays with the sound of the word m’od, offering us a lesson fit for our Yizkor Service: that the “urgency of time” (to borrow a phrase from the prayer book) is a gift, and that immortality, if it existed, wouldn’t be much of a blessing.

Tonight, our lesson comes to us by way of sixteenth-century Italy, home to the brilliant biblical scholar Ovadiah ben Ya’akov Seforno. Continue reading

Are We Trees? Yes, We’re Trees (Shofetim, 5774/2014)

 Delivered at Temple Mount Sinai, August 29, 2014

Preparing my thoughts for tonight I was reminded, again and again, of the deep connection between mind-states and physical sensations. You see, typing away on my laptop (or trying to), my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing at me. It wasn’t emails or texts. It was the “Red Alert” app announcing rocket fire from Gaza toward Israel. One after another, the warnings reached my phone, each one representing a neighborhood seeking shelter. And with each alert, I experienced a wave of sadness felt in my heart, and a corresponding kick to my kishkes. Continue reading


My letter to the congregation, announcing our departure at the end of June, 2015…

Dear Friends,

Yesterday, I began my seventeenth year as a Rabbi at Temple Mount Sinai. It is with mixed emotions that I let you know that it will be my last. I will leave the Temple on June 30, 2015. I am looking forward to beginning the next chapter in my career, even as I look forward to continuing to serve Temple with energy and pride over the coming year. Continue reading