Shabbat HaHodesh: Spring Awakenings

Here's some Torah for the season that I shared last Shabbat:

Shabbat HaHodesh: Spring Awakenings

The poet Rumi writes:

“The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you
Don't go back to sleep!
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep!
People are going back and forth
across the doorsill where the two worlds touch,
The door is round and open
Don't go back to sleep!”

This past week, I rediscovered a classic children’s storybook, Frog & Toad, by Arnold Lobel. The book opens with a story called, “Spring.” Frog pounds on his friend Toad’s door and comes bounding into his home. He finds Toad snoring in his bed, where he’s been for months. “Wake up, Toad!!” Frog says, “It’s Spring!” Toad would much rather stay asleep. He pulls the covers over his head. Frog negotiates with him - “How about you get up when May comes?” he suggests. Toad begrudgingly agrees and then proceeds to go back to sleep. Frog eyes Toad’s calendar, hanging on the wall, still set to the month of December. Frog begins tearing away the pages, January, February, March - And even though it’s still April, he gets rid of that page, too. “Toad! Wake up!” he says, it’s May!” And Toad pries himself out of bed, to venture outdoors, to begin the process of returning to life.

This Shabbat is known as Shabbat HaHodesh or as I’ll translate it for tonight - the Shabbat of "Wake Up - It’s Spring! - Don’t go back to sleep!" Even though there is still snow, greyed and crusted to the sidewalks. Even though news out of Washington and London and Israel hurts our hearts.

On the eve of the new month of Nisan, the start of spring, we read a special maftir, a passage in the Torah about the first mitzvah our people ever received - while still enslaved in Egypt - the mitzvah of marking time - of honoring the new moon, each month. 

“HaHodesh Ha-Zeh Lachem,” the verse reads. 

This new month is a gift for you.
You, in the stuckness of slavery.
All of you, whose schedules have been set by Pharaoh for as long as you can remember.
You will have the freedom to sculpt your own time and to sanctify it.
And you will soon get out of this place of exile, God promises.

Just as getting up and getting going was a struggle for our friend Toad - all the more so, for the Israelites. After centuries of exile, I imagine it was hard to believe that spring was on the way, that there was life beyond the narrow confines of Mitzrayim. In the Torah, God puts the wheels in motion for our journey toward liberation while it is still night - with only the smallest sliver of moon to light the path.
We are taught to seek the things that glow in the dark.

Keep your eyes out for the moon.
Start marking the months,
and before you know it I will take you out of here,
God promises,
And I’ll stay with you -
whether or not you are ready.
In the darkest moment,
when the moon disappears,
I will remember you.
Don’t forget me.

Afraid of being in the dark, sometimes we go for the wrong shiny object. In our Torah cycle, we have just come through the Golden Calf scandal. Worried that Moses and God were gone forever, we screwed up and built a metallic idol. In our parasha, Vayakhel, we are starting again. But before we follow through on God’s instructions to build the mishkan, the traveling sanctuary, we are given the most essential instruction of all -

שֵׁ֣שֶׁת יָמִים֮ תֵּעָשֶׂ֣ה מְלָאכָה֒ וּבַיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֗י יִהְיֶ֨ה לָכֶ֥ם קֹ֛דֶשׁ שַׁבַּ֥ת שַׁבָּת֖וֹן לַה'
Six days you can do your work, but on the seventh day, there will be a shabbat of complete rest, holy for you and for God.

The poet, Mark Nepo, and mindfulness teacher, Tara Brach, tell a story of a professional cyclist, who has been training for a big race for many years and many months. The day of the race arrives. He takes off and in no time, as expected, he is way ahead of all of the other riders. Suddenly a blue heron swoops down from the sky right in front of his bicycle and he brakes, stopping in total awe of this creature as all of the other riders pass by. After the race, a shocked reporter interviews him, “What cost you the race?” he asks. “I didn’t lose the race,” the cyclist responds. “I left the race.”

It is so powerful to me that each week, our tradition hands us an invitation to leave the race temporarily. We are given the gift of Shabbat, a prescription for life, a sanctuary in time, a radical opportunity to taste liberation. Shabbat is at once a reenactment of our Exodus from Egypt and a rehearsal for our future redemption. We are offered the choice to pause, to tune into the life force within us, around us and beyond us. To put our to-do lists, our despair, and our worries in the parking lot. For one day a week, we alter the rhythm of our lives, and we are reminded that indeed, we have the power to make change. We have the agency to create a different reality for ourselves and for our world. Shabbat is a holy incubator for the revolution. Paradoxically, the rest that we take on Shabbat shakes us out of hibernation. It is rest that is wakeful and life-giving.

I want to offer us a blessing -
On this Shabbat Ha-Hodesh,
as we pause together to mark holy time,
May we help one another to wake up, to stay awake,
to stay woke, in these times,
To keep our eyes open to the tiniest traces of moon glowing in the dark,
To keep our hearts open to the liberation that is always on the horizon.
This season, may we seek renewal for ourselves and for all those who long to be free.

Shabbat Shalom.

Counting the Omer: One Day at a Time

According to the Zohar, when the Israelites were in Egypt, things were so tough within us and around us that we fell to the forty-ninth level of impurity. We hit our rock bottom and just before the point of no return, the Holy One took us out of Egypt, out of subservience to all of the negative powers that had laid us low, and led us to the forty-ninth level of wisdom so that we could receive Torah.

As we count the omer for forty-nine days, we are reminded of God's great kindness in leading us step-by-step out of the stuckness and straits of Egypt toward a life of expansiveness and possibility. This period between Pesach and Shavuot is a season of recovery that unfolds one day at a time. As we learn from the wisdom of those who struggle with addiction and from the philosophy of 12 step programs, recovery is an ongoing journey, counted one day at a time, and sometimes one minute at a time.

As we count the omer, let's hold in our hearts all those in our lives and in our communities who are struggling with addiction and all those who are on a path of recovery, of any kind. For all of us who yearn for healing of body, heart and spirit, may the Holy One walk with us on our journey out of Mitzrayim, step by step, one day at a time.

 From Memory to Action - Pesach 5776

"I want to heal you, heal you. I want to heal you, heal you. I want to heal you, heal you. Deep down in my soul. . ." We gather around the magnolia tree and sing these words. We are black and white and brown women from all across the United States. We pause from our work in our home cities to come here to Eastern North Carolina to pray in our different faith traditions and to imagine together what redemption might look like and how women organizing can bring about a vision of justice for our country. We stand on land that was once a plantation, where human beings from Africa were brutalized and dehumanized, torn from their families and stripped of their names. We stand on land that was later purchased by a woman named Julia Bricks, who created one of the first accredited schools in the South where African American children could study. We stand on land that is now a retreat center operated by the United Church of Christ, a space open to all who are working for a better world. We take time to honor the memory of the ancestors who stood and lived and suffered and resisted and died and survived on this very land; whose bodies were tortured at this very magnolia tree. We sing out, "I want to heal you, heal you. . .. Deep down in my soul. . ." We sing out for healing of the land and for healing of souls. We read aloud the names of women enslaved in this place (at least those names that are known), and we read the names of women of color who have been killed this past year by race-based violence. We recite Mourner's Kaddish. We recite our own names, and the names of our parents and grandparents - feeling the presence of all of the generations beside us, giving us courage to work for the healing of our hearts and our country. "I see you," we respond to one another. "I see you."

Last week, I had the blessing of participating in a gathering of "Women's Theology of Liberation" in Whitakers, North Carolina, representing POWER along with organizers, lay leaders and clergy from PICO (People Improving Communities through Organizing) affiliates throughout the country. It felt particularly fitting to be there in this season of liberation, reflecting on our country's legacy of slavery and racism, and of memory and movement, as we prepare for Pesach.

We are getting ready to go out of Mitzrayim. Each year, we are called to see ourselves and our world in the story, to imagine ourselves as going out of the narrow places, to remember and to walk beside all those who are longing to be free.

Beyond our rituals of remembrance, our matzah and maror, our songs and seder tables, our prophets insist that we take action. In the Haftarah from this past Shabbat, the prophet Malachi tells us that if we want God to bring about redemption, we have to partner with God in caring for the widow, the orphan and the stranger and in sharing the resources of the earth.

This Pesach, I want to offer a question - one of many big questions that we will raise during this Passover holiday and beyond. This Pesach, how might our memories move us to action? How might the memories and stories we carry lead us to act for liberation in our world?

Parshat Metzora/ Spring Songs

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

       When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—

   When he beats his bars and he would be free;

   It is not a carol of joy or glee,

       But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

   But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —

   I know why the caged bird sings!

- Paul Laurence Dunbar

Spring has arrived. Outside, the birds gather twigs for their nests. They return to Carpenter’s woods after long travels. They and we remember our songs.

In our Torah portion this week, we meet two birds involved in a ritual of reintegration for those who have been on the margins. Parshat Metzora describes the process of purification for an Israelite who has been diagnosed with tzara’at, a particular affliction of spirit and skin. While in this state of tzara’at, the individual is barred from coming close to sacred space. Rather, he or she must sit outside the camp until the condition clears.

Only the priest goes out to visit the metzora. When he sees that the metzora has been healed, the priest gathers ingredients.  Cedar wood, crimson cloth, hyssop and two live birds. One bird, he slaughters over a vessel of rain water. The second bird, he dips in the blood of the first.  He then sets this living bird free, to fly out into the open field.

Birds are a powerful symbol of freedom. Freedom yearned for, freedom thwarted and freedom unleashed. The commentator Hizkuni describes how the living bird in our parsha represents the metzora. At first isolated and immobile, the metzora is like a caged bird. After the illness passes, he is transformed. Like the bird released, he is free to return home.  Having survived an ordeal, he is full of new life and the potential to choose good, to come close to God and community. Like the living bird dipped in the blood of the bird that was sacrificed, he does not forget what he has been through. He will remember always that in order to become free, he had to leave parts of himself behind.

The ancient rabbis understood tzara’at to be a consequence of lashon harah, of mindless speech or hurtful gossip. For the commentator Keli Yakar, the two birds stand for our choices in each moment. The bird that is sacrificed represents the yetzer harah, the impulse to do harm, while the bird set free is the yetzer ha tov, the force inside us that leads us to life and to good.

The moon of Nisan is here. Outside, the birds call out, scope out treetops and pluck up worms. Inside, we sift through the contents of our pantries, amass boxes of matzoh and bottles of wine. We are gearing up for Pesach, getting ready to go out of Egypt again, to pass through the sea into the vast wilderness. We are relearning our freedom songs.

In the spirit of the seder, here are a few questions to chew on:

This Pesach, what parts of ourselves do we want to leave behind in Mitzrayyim? What parts of ourselves do we want to give the space to soar?

Missing

It has been raining for two days. This morning I woke up without a voice. Praying for this bug to pass, I am shaken awake to the miracle of my vocal cords. Fragile ribbons that serve each day, as I sing and praise and question and connect. I spent the first part of the day worried about canceled appointments. My whole life I have struggled to trust the wisdom of the body.  Today when it hurts to talk, I am reminded that it is also my livelihood to listen.  A day inside and inward. Blankets and a busy electric kettle. A pull back to the page. A search for missing words. Here's hoping . . . Talk soon.

Parshat Tazria: Spirit & Skin

Parshat Tazria deals with the mysteries of the human body. Our ancestors, as they wandered through the wilderness, wondered and worried about their bodies. Our parsha speaks at length about skin conditions, scaly patches, rashes, sores, boils, burns and baldness.

In Ancient Israel, there was no such thing as a dermatologist. If an Israelite saw a strange patch on his or her skin, he or she would consult the kohen, the priest. The kohen would visit with the person and make a diagnosis as to whether or not it was a condition called tza’ra’at. Tzara’at has no precise translation into English or medical terminology. A person deemed by the priest to have tzara’at was sent into isolation. Once the condition improved, the priest would perform a ritual to bring him or her back into the community. Tzara’at was viewed as a spiritual affliction as much as a physical one. The ancient rabbis understood tzara’at to be a punishment for speaking malicious gossip. In this case, the prescription given of isolation from others, was meant to stop the spread of hurtful rumors. Sitting outside the camp, a person with tzara'at could take time to reflect and to curb his or her habit of gossip. Those with tzara’at are not banished forever. They are given a time-out of sorts, a chance to transform spiritually and physically and then to re-enter the community.

Moving from Ancient Israelite medicine to views of wellness today, how does each one of us experience the relationship between body and spirit? I want to share one perspective from Elizabeth Lesser, a teacher, healer and founder of the Omega Institute for Holistic Studies. In her book, Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow, Lesser tells a story about a connection she made with a participant in one of her workshops. He was a heart surgeon who worked at a high profile hospital in a period of personal crisis, at once grieving for his father and going through a divorce. At the end of the workshop, the participant came up to Elizabeth to thank her. He said “I crack open people’s hearts every day for a living, but you do the real kind of open-heart surgery.” He told her that before the workshop, he hadn’t cried in years. Seeing everyone in the room, like him, going through something big in their lives, without knowing what to do, made him feel less alone and gave him permission to cry. Moved by the opportunity to watch Elizabeth’s work, the surgeon invited her to come to the hospital to watch him at work. Elizabeth took him up on this opportunity.

Reflecting on this experience of witnessing open-heart surgery, Elizabeth Lesser writes:

“It reminds me of our dual nature: our spirit, which beats to the big sound of the universe, and our human form, which relies on the perseverance of the heart and the lungs. I have fallen in love with hearts and lungs. While I am here, contained within bones and muscles, organs and skin, I want to take care of the gift of my body. I want to feed it well, move it gracefully, and rest it deeply. I know that the life force beats on, even when the heart has stopped, but while I have a heart and lungs, I want to treat them with sacred awe. And while I dwell with others who are just like me, I want to see them for who they really are, in all of their fragility and all of their majesty.”

Our Torah, in Tazria, speaks to the fragility, majesty and interconnectedness of our bodies and spirits. As we revisit these ancient words, may we be inspired today, to treat ourselves and others as the holy vessels that we are.

G'shu Na! Come Forward!

G’shu Na - Vayigash 5774

In 2004, I spent a semester in South Africa, studying at the University of Cape Town.

It was the tenth anniversary of the end of Apartheid.

I lived in a house with roommates from Connecticut, Ohio, Johannesburg, Zimbabwe, 

and Seychelles, an island I had never heard of before that year.

I remember the steep climb to campus each day;

Breathing heavy and pushing uphill

with an eye on Table Mountain, flush against the horizon.

Each time I reached the Jammie Steps, the gathering place at the center of campus,

I would turn around to look out

at the sea of corrugated metal shacks that seemed to stretch on forever.

When I studied at UCT, ten years after the official end of Apartheid, students of all colors were admitted to the University.

South Africa, the Rainbow Nation, had a new constitution that recognized fourteen official languages.

On election day, lines stretched around street corners,

as people proudly displayed ink stains on their thumbnails,

a sign that their votes and voices counted.

Still, the Rainbow Nation remained divided,

with gated neighborhoods for Whites buffered by golf courses,

set apart from the crowded townships where those labeled Black Africans, Coloureds and Indians had been forced to live decades earlier.

Where people grappled with poverty and alarming rates of HIV and AIDS

Where Black women spent most of their wages on transportation to and from work.

That year, the media and classrooms and arts and cultural scenes buzzed with talk of the ten years.

People spoke about how far the country had come and the distance left to travel,

We asked questions about how to tell the stories of Apartheid,

of neighborhoods razed to the ground, of uprisings, of stagnation and struggle,

of burnings and lacings and poisonings, of the disappeared, of the heros, of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, of fear and forgiveness.

“How are we to remember the past and to see how it lives in the present?” we asked,

“How can South Africa achieve the dream Nelson Mandela voiced of a future of dignity, equality, justice and peace for all?”

When my great grandmother left Lithuania for the U.S., some of her siblings went to Israel and others went to South Africa. The week before I left South Africa, I went to meet my distant relatives in Johannesburg. My cousin Maureen Sandler worked at a gift shop at the Sandton City Mall. Towering above the luxury stores, there was an enormous bronze statue of Nelson Mandela. I remember coming up to Mandela’s ankle, looking up in awe.  

Nelson Mandela, zichrono livracha,

Nelson Mandela, a giant in courage, a master of forgiveness, an architect of teshuvah for his country.

Emerging from twenty-seven years in prison, Nelson Mandela led the South African people toward life,

Brought them together to find a way forward from years of violent conflict and oppression.

A few years ago, Mandela was asked, after everything he had been through in his life,

“How do you keep hatred in check?”

He responded, “Hating clouds the mind. It gets in the way of strategy. Leaders cannot afford to hate.”

I think of this week’s parsha - in which we witness Yosef’s leadership

and a striking moment of reconciliation between Yosef and his brothers.

Years after he had left him for dead in a pit, Yehuda bows before Yosef, second in command to Pharaoh, as he appeals for the release of their youngest brother, Benjamin.

Yehuda has demonstrated that he has changed, that he is capable of teshuvah.

In rabbinic commentary, he is viewed as the archetype of the Ba’al Teshuvah.

He finds himself in a familiar situation, with the power to decide the fate of his brother.

Once again, he could easily sell out his brother.

Only this time, he makes a different choice.

When Yosef reveals his true identity to his brothers, they are dumbfounded.  

Yosef speaks, “G’shu na. Come forward to me . . . I am your brother Yosef, the one you sold into Egypt. Now, don’t be distressed or angry with yourselves that you sold me down here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.”

Yosef weeps and embraces Benjamin.

He weeps and kisses all of his brothers.

He promises them he will take care of them.  

He sends them with provisions to return to their father Jacob, to tell him the news that his beloved son is alive, and to return with all of their households to make a life in Egypt.

I am moved by Yosef’s ability to embrace his brothers, to take them back in love, to not get stuck in bitterness over the grave wrongs of the past. 

The Torah tells us that only after the brothers receive Yosef’s embrace do they speak.

Perhaps Yosef’s embrace gives them permission to forgive themselves.

To know they aren’t locked into who they have been in the past.

To see themselves as those who have become different,

human beings who are worthy of life.

“G’shu - Na!  Come forward to me.” Yosef says.

G’shu Na.

Come forward.

Please.

Nelson Mandela called out to an entire nation. G’shu Na! Come forward.
The time has come. Though we are afraid and hurt and angry. G’shu Na!

Nelson Mandela, in his wisdom, knew that in order to find a way forward,

people had to speak the hurts of the past, to give words to the wounds of Apartheid.

He orchestrated the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, creating an official framework for people to tell their stories,

to publicly name the suffering caused by the State,

to piece together bridges across treacherous societal divides.

Mandela’s life and leadership was imbued with faith that people and societies are capable of teshuvah, of making changes to live as their highest selves.  

Can we, too, believe that in every society torn at the seams,

that amidst the fear and the terror of the unknown -

there are those ready to do teshuvah -

those on all sides of divides, with the courage to restore and repair,

those who can make a change and see a way forward?

Moving forward while carrying the memory of the past in all its truth and complexity.

May the memory of Nelson Mandela be a blessing for the people of South Africa and for all those in our world who long for dignity and justice.

May we hold onto our own stories in all of their complexity.

May we trust in the potential within ourselves and within other human beings to step forward in teshuvah.

May we hear the voices of Yosef and Nelson Mandela calling to us,

G’shu Na!