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I ask you in these times we live: How are we supposed to speak truth to power?

This week, we might do well to turn to our Declaration of Independence.

The Founding Fathers (yes, all men) really struggled with how to make their grievances known to the King. We’d already fought at Lexington and Concord, but before the vote on independence, the Continental Congress decided they needed a declaration “to place before humankind the common sense of the subject, in terms so plain and firm as to command their assent.”[1] And the declaration itself was edited almost beyond recognition from Jefferson’s original draft—one representative actually wanted to delete referring toKing George as a tyrant because it might offend him! And the South required that the paragraph calling slavery an abominationbe removed before they would agree to vote.

So our AmericanRevolution therefore offers a few answers to my question.

This week’s Torah portion, Pinchas, offers another. We read the beginning of the story of the five daughters of Zelophchad–Mahlah, Noa, Hoglah, Milchah and Tirtzah. Five women with no male protectors, and no inheritance rights to their dead father’s portion in the Promised Land. These terse eleven verses have been expounded at length in the Talmud, by the medieval commentators and of course by feminist interpreters.

27 The daughters of Zelophehad, of Manassite family— son of Hepher son of Gilead son of Machir son of Manasseh son of Joseph— came forward. … They stood before Moses, Eleazar the priest, the chieftains, and the whole assembly, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, and they said, “Our father died in the wilderness. He was not one of the faction, Korah’s faction, which banded together against יהוה, but died for his own sin; and he has left no sons. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen.” Moses brought their case before יהוה. And יהוהsaid to Moses, “The plea of Zelophehad’s daughters is just: you should give them a hereditary holding among their father’s kinsmen; transfer their father’s share to them…This shall be the law of procedure for the Israelites, in accordance with יהוה’s command to Moses.”

First, only 36 women arenamedin the Torah, and five of them (14%) are these sisters. Not only that, but the sages of the Talmud described these sisters as wise, exegetes (able to expound on the laws), and virtuous(see especially B. Bava Batra 116-120).

They were definitely wise: they knew how to present themselves and their arguments in a clearly patriarchal world, so as to be heard. They could have claimed that we are all children of God, all with tzelem Elohim, the divine spark, and should all have equal rights. While I am fairly certain that most of us agree with that argument, I think we can acknowledge that in that time, they would have been discounted, maybe even laughed at, although this very argument appears in Sifrei, an ancient text concurrent with the Talmud. Knowing their reality, instead, they appealed to the men by bringing up the idea that their father should not be forgotten, a fear their audience could relate to. They also made sure Moses knew that their father was NOT a member of Korach’s crew, because that group have been personally offensive to Moses, and he might harbor animosity toward them.

But the content of their argument was not the only way they showed their wisdom, and their powers of exegesis. They also timed their request perfectly. According to the midrash, they came forward whenMoses was expounding on the very topic of inheritance.

They also came as a group of five, together, recognizing strength in numbers. They made five statements, one for each sister. You can also imagine the strategy session, with someone taking notes, “Ok, Hoglah, you’ll say this one, and Noa, you make this argument; Tirtzah, you bring it home with this last clear demand. No wavering or pleading. Demand what is ours!”

While they knew right was on their side, Abarbanel (1437-1508/Spanish-Portuguese) noted that the list of people they spoke to: Moses, Eleazar the priest, the chieftains and the whole congregation means it is likely they had gotten a runaround…”talk to this person,” “Go talk to that person.”

And yet they persisted.

Here they were, unmarried, fatherless, brotherless women, surely at the bottom of society. They decide to speak up for themselves and for others like them. The voices of the vulnerable are always the hardest to hear, and yet the most important.

And they were not meek about it. They came forward together, to the front of the Tent of Meeting, before all these important men—not a place usually occupied by women. They stated their case. And they did not plead: they usedno petitionary language, “Oh, please, sir.” No, these sisters demanded: “Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!”

Let that be a lesson for us all. When we come with a reasonable demand to take care of the vulnerable, make your argument as persuasive to the audience as you can. Know before whom you stand, and tailor your argument appropriately. But don’t be meek. Don’t ask. Demand.

Moses didn’t know what to do with these five sisters, so he took it to his higher power. And God set him straight, telling him the five sisters spoke rightly. And so a new law was promulgated, right there in the Torah, written by and for women.

Even in the most patriarchal of societies, where the word of God is supposed to be inerrant, these five women forced a change. May we follow their example—putting forward as Jefferson and the five sisters did, the common sense of the subject, and then demand the assent.

Do not plead. Do not be meek. Come forward. Stand up. Make your voices heard.

[1]Sherman Edwards and Peter Stone, 1776.

Drash given at Congregation Shomrei Torah, June 29, 2018

Shabbat Shalom.

It’s been a week, as I’ve already said. It’s been a month, a year, a long time, when things feel hard. And we turn to our tradition to see if we can find solace or something to hold on to, or maybe even something to help us think about our current reality.

This is one of those weeks when the Torah portion is more challenging than usual. Oh, it starts out well—here at Balak, deep into Numbers. The story of the talking ass is entertaining and there is something to learn from it, and we find Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov–how goodly are your tents, Jacob…right there.

However, I find myself drawn to the story that ends the parasha and spills over into next week’s…the story of the whoring and idol worship of our men with the Moabite women.

25 While Israel was staying at Shittim, the menfolk profaned themselves by whoring with the Moabite women, 2who invited the menfolk to the sacrifices for their god. The menfolk partook of them and worshiped that god. 3Thus Israel attached itself to Baal-peor, and יהוהwas incensed with Israel. 4יהוהsaid to Moses, “Take all the ringleaders and have them publicly impaled before יהוה, so that יהוהs wrath may turn away from Israel.” 5So Moses said to Israel’s officials, “Each of you slay those of his men who attached themselves to Baal-peor.”  6Just then one of the Israelite notables came and brought a Midianite woman over to his companions, in the sight of Moses and of the whole Israelite community who were weeping at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. 7When Pinchas, son of Eleazar son of Aaron the priest, saw this, he left the assembly and, taking a spear in his hand, 8he followed the Israelite notable into the chamber and stabbed both of them, the Israelite notable and the woman, through the belly. Then the plague against the Israelites was checked. 9Those who died of the plague numbered twenty-four thousand.

Nine verses. So much to unpack.

Here in the midst of #MeToo, I noticed first the whoring with the Moabite women, who invited the menfolk to the sacrifices for their god. I’m actually kind of shocked that I don’t remember the explicitness of the whoring… Rashi blames it squarely on the women—he wrote: “When the man got aroused and said to the Moabite women, “Give in to me,” she would take an idol of Peor out of her bosom and say, ‘worship this.’” Nachmanides notes that it was not that the Moabite women were promiscuous: their husbands and the Moabite leaders told them to do this—to seduce the Israelites into the worship of Baal-peor.

That’s almost too painful to think about. Here, seduce these men as an act of war. It’s your duty.

While the text sounds very much like it’s the women’s fault, Rashi and Nachmanides seem to be saying, “You just can’t trust men when they are aroused, and well, the women were pimped by their menfolk to tempt the Israelite men into idol worship.” The whoring was only the entrance drug to idol worship.

Do you all remember the three cardinal sins in Judaism, the ones we should die before committing? Murder, sexual impropriety and idol worship. (B.Sanhedrin 76a)

There are a number of explanations for these three…One comes from the beginning of the Mishna:

Shimon HaTzaddik, one of the last members of the Great Assembly, used to say: On three things the world stands. On Torah, on Service of G-d, and on deeds of kindness. Al shlosha devarim: Al hatorah, v’al ha’avodah v’al gemilut chasadim…(Pirkei Avot 1:2).

The three cardinal sins, the rabbis taught, are the very opposite, what could bring down the very foundations of the world, or the fabric of society. Murder: we can’t just decide to kill each other. This is the opposite of acts of loving kindness.

Idol worship seems clearly the opposite of worship—avodah vs.avodah zarah(strange or idol worship).

The sexual improprieties…some teach that this is about people devolving to their animal instincts, as far opposite of what Torah is supposed to do: elevate us. Others teach that rape is akin to murder. (That surprised me. And made me happy. (Deuteronomy 22:26, B. Yoma 82a.))

All of these rip at the fabric of our society, our agreements about how to live together. Preying on women; killing people; following after false gods—greed, power, fame—all of these make us less than we could be.

With this in mind, let’s get back to our nine verses:

Some of the men of Israel attached themselves to the Moabite god and יהוה, our God, was incensed. God ordered Moses that the men who had strayed should be impaled and hung under the sun—in public—for their idol-worship…

Before the chieftains can fulfill this order, we hear much weeping and wailing. Clearly things were not good.

At that point, adding fuel to the fire, one more fellow brings a Midianite woman to the Tent of Meeting and does something egregious there. Some commentators claim he brought her to pass around to his friends. Others say they had sex in front of all the community, in front of the Tent of Meeting—you know, the place where God dwelled among us. But it met the criteria for one of the cardinal sins.

Now, Pinchas, Aaron’s grandson, leaves the weeping and wailing crew and comes back to impale the couple, and thus ends the plague that had been wreaking havoc and death. None of the heads of the people had to go out and kill their own sinners. Two people killed while in flagrante—and everything goes back to normal.

The rabbis intentionally split this story in two. It continues next week, when God gives Pinchas God’s covenant of peace—for having killed the two in front of the Tent of Meeting.

For years, I have railed against this idea. As did the rabbis—and indeed every torah scroll somehow marks the vav in the word shalom for covenant of peace—either making it smaller or showing a break in it—as their commentary on this “covenant of peace”.

But this year, in our #MeToo year, I am wondering (remembering that murder is the third cardinal sin—AND that God had called on leadership to kill the sinners): was killing 2 people the worst thing that was done in this story? Was killing two people to save scores of others reasonable?

What would you do?

What IS acceptable to do in the face of immorality? How far can we go to protest, to resist it? We can march in the streets. We can write our representatives. We can make our voices heard in restaurants. We can refuse to participate in the immoral acts.

But is there a time when something more might be called for? And if so, what?

Might there come times when violence is the answer? By the way, studies show that violent resistance is generally less effective than civil disobedience and peaceful protest. But never be fooled that civil disobedience will be viewed as civil by the powerful.

This feels vital to me as we listen to the debate about what is acceptable protest and what is not. On the one hand, I want us all to be polite—do what Michelle Obama urged us—when they go low, we go high.

But on the other hand, when their low—and by “their”, I mean the powerful, undermines democratic norms, puts the vulnerable at risk, separates children from their families because they are brown and not white, and—or imprisons them indefinitely, seeks to deny due process, and lies incessantly, then peaceful protest, even if it is loud, is acceptable—and even to be considered a mitzvah.

It is standing up against immorality, against the whoring and idol worship of our time.

But, back to the Torah portion: am I willing to endorse killing for it, give Pinchas his covenant of peace?

Maimonides reiterates that it is never okay to kill an innocent…better we should die instead. But what about someone who is sinning so flagrantly—akin to having sex in front of the Tent of Meeting? (Yesodei Hatorah 5:2) I’ve never been a supporter of the death penalty, an issue Jewish tradition is supremely ambivalent, if that’s not an oxymoron.

This week, with all the terrible news from the Supreme Court and the border and Lake County fires, I find that I have to hold my moral center—and I’d really really like everyone else to do the same. That means both being kind to each other and standing up to the powers that try to divide us, to destroy the good and sow the seeds of discord.

That means being mindful of what we are doing with our words. Would that instead of cursing each other as Balak ordered Bilaam to do to us, we could in turn bless each other—offer words and actions of kindness, caring and love…We’re not there right now. But each ripple of hope, each time we practice kindness to people without power, brings us closer to the day when we can do this.

I hold the words of Isaiah 10:

Woe to those who make unjust laws,
to those who issue oppressive decrees,
² to deprive the poor of their rights
and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people,
making widows their prey
and robbing the orphan.

Let’s stand up for those people, peacefully, and with resolve.

One of the great joys of Judaism, embedded in its longevity and ability to change and adapt to circumstances and geography, is the multiple layers of meaning that are attached to anything of moment.   An egg is never just an egg. Bread is never just bread. And a circle is never just 360 degrees of perfect shape.

We can look at the Passover story as a great tale of escape from slavery, with ten plagues, and a sea parting. Or we can look at the story as the struggle between a vulnerable minority against its mighty ruler, a class struggle, the universal story for freedom for all. Or we can look at it as the redemption from our inner struggles with self-slavery—to addictions or technology or food or overwork or inertia. Or we ce can—must, I think—relate it to our current realities. Or we can do all of these and more.

After all, the seder—the ritual itself, which means order (out of chaos and the prescription for the ceremony both (again))—is already a dual meal—we wash our hands twice in part because we are sharing a spiritual meal and physical one. We taste the maror (bitter herb), and we think of the bitterness of slavery and we taste the actual bitterness of the root. We see the matzah as the bread of poverty, the bread of affliction and the bread that was all we could take with us in a hurry. It stands for humility, none of that fluffy, yeasty stuff for us, because we have work to do now—on ourselves and on our world.

I also love the food…I save most of it for these eight days, so that I can really look forward to and savor it…Even matzah during the eight days tastes good (okay, egg matzah tastes good), but its meaning far outweighs the taste. I love our charoset. I love making horseradish. I love our matzah balls (thanks to Ron Duben). I love macaroons and flourless cakes. I even really enjoy our salmon gefilte fish. I especially love cooking with my family for this night.

I love the gathering of folks together to share the story and its multiple layers. Family and friends together. And I miss the people who can no longer be with us, because of distance—both physical and relational.

But mostly, I love—love—that this is our foundational story and that we are commanded to make a big deal out of it. We were slaves, we were strangers, we had to take those final steps to identify ourselves as Jews and then step into that sea, together. Our freedom was not just freedom from slavery, but freedom to live a life dedicated to the values of caring for each other, being responsible to each other, practicing kindness and generosity and courage and, yes, humility.

May this be a sweet Pesach for you and yours. Know that you are in our hearts as we finish cooking and cleaning.

This week has been a challenging week. I really don’t like hearing or reading ad nauseum—really never has a Latin phrase seemed so appropriate—the vile words coming out of the president’s mouth in regard to people who are not white, not wealthy, not living in stable living conditions. I have been grateful to hear people speak up for people from Africa, Haiti, El Salvador, and remind us that Jews, as well as Irish, Italians, Poles—really almost any group of immigrants at some point or another, were not really welcome here. We were called all sorts of names…We have to accept the fact that the Electoral College, with 46% of voters, allowed a known racist to run freely through the White House, the People’s House…setting policies that weaponize his words.

None of us in this room can—I think—lay claim to the Mayflower, most of our families likely came in the 1900s—or late 1800s… Most of them came by steerage, I think, certainly most with little money. My ancestors would not have gotten into this country with a merit based system. And we were beneficiaries of chain migration…And I’m thinking mine is not the only family in this room for whom that is true…And look at us now!

The current Administration and Congress seem hell bent on denying rights our families were blessed to receive. They are hell bent on trying to end programs that helped our forebears up the ladder. Many of my high school teachers benefited (and so, hence did I) from the free education offered by CUNY. They didn’t have to carry crushing student debt.

But we know the president comes from a long history of racist behavior and words. (David Leonhardt offered a long list in the NY Times on Monday.) And this long history is not going to end until he chooses to do something about it and then actually does the work…And I am not holding my breath.

I’ve thought of all this in relation to this week’s torah portion—Bo… It’s the third portion in Exodus, and these few portions are the basis for the Passover story…we are at the last three plagues—locusts that devour everything that wasn’t already destroyed by the hail and beasts, darkness so dense you could touch it and then finally makat becorot—the killing of the first born…

Whether you believe the story as told or take it metaphorically, one of its lessons is about the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart—first by Pharaoh himself and then by God.

Throughout the story, three words are used for the hardening, kasha (to make hard), khazak (to strengthen) and kaved (to make heavy, like a stone, or also to honor with someone’s weightiness and importance)… Kavod, as in God’s glory, comes from the same root…In this week’s portion we see two—khazak and kaved.

One interpretation of the plague narrative is about trying to change the heavy, oppressive practices of an entrenched government that sees itself as all-powerful.

Another is that this heart hardening is both personal and political, as Pharaoh’s behavior is both intensely personal and very political.

The personal: think about the psychological slavery we keep ourselves in: addictions, depression, fear, thought patterns we can’t or won’t stop.

In his book, Mindsight: The New Science of Personal Transformation, Dr. Daniel Siegel, a psychiatrist, explores neurology and the choices we make. He defines mindsight as “a kind of focused attention that allows us to see the internal workings of our own minds,” that allows us to make connections and forge neural pathways that change the brain and how we react.

The book quite captivated me because it is akin to Mussar, the Jewish spiritual practice that teaches us to step back and explore our behavior in light of our texts and traditions.

The practices of Mussar and Mindsight share important insights. Both Jewish tradition and neuroscience show us that our nature or our genetic make-up challenge us to overcome the millennia-old habits of flight or fight, or the fear of loss that propelled the building of the golden calf when Moses was late down the mountain. Change takes time and is hard work that requires us to work consciously and mindfully every step of the way, to get past our reptilian brains. It is so easy to harden our behavior and our hearts.

All of this returns to the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart.

Maimonides (1135-1204) had an answer to this, as told by R. David Hartman, z”l, one of the great teachers of our time: Maimonides taught that none of the biblical instances of God’s taking away someone’s freedom should be read literally. We are all on board with this concept, yes? These freedom-removing instances, he wrote in his Mishneh Torah, (Hilchot Teshuva 6), were a result of each person’s own actions. He understood, back in the 12^th century, that we create habits of behavior, which, when practiced over a long enough period, obliterate the possibility of change. So the more Pharaoh hardened his heart, the harder any empathy became.

Maimonides believed that God helped those who “come to purify themselves” –built into the laws of nature, in the very essence of our nature—it is as though he could imagine what neural pathways could do. He taught that God structured our universe so that we humans would be driven to act righteously, or as Martin Luther King said, “The arc of the universe is bent toward justice.” To Maimonides, God is in the very structure of human reason and nature. But we can also see the psychological wisdom of Maimonides’ teaching without having to bring God into it. Once we set out on a path, for justice or our own selfish interests, and we make ourselves at home there, we become wired to keep on that path.

Thus, Pharaoh, through his own habits, his ongoing refusal to let us go, created his own self-perpetuating reality, within the laws of nature. Pharaoh is the antithesis of freedom, the embodiment of slavery of both himself and us.

Our behavior creates the neural pathways that determine how hard we have to work to become the people we could be. We know that people who become entrenched in addiction often have to hit bottom before they see a reason to change, and that change requires activity and commitment every single day, one day at a time.

And as we sit here, on the Friday after Martin Luther King Day, I think we have so many ways to look at how we can lift the kaved, the heaviness of our hearts, the lingering heaviness that makes change so hard. This year, 52 years after the march on Washington, we are again having a conversation about race and justice, and it is fraught with powerful feelings. Because racism is woven into the structure of American culture, just as antisemitism is woven into Western civilization and misogyny is built into most human societies.

Antisemitism is as old as Jews, and the other hatreds also ancient. It’s part of the fabric of the planet. It is surely due, in large part, to hardened hearts, hearts that were taught to feel a particular way, and the effort required to change it is monumental. Because change is monumental.

On Wednesday, in Bible study, we had a fascinating discussion about the seeds of patriarchy that is being challenged in the #MeToo movement…we were reading Genesis 12:10-20, in the scene when Avram—our patriarch—and his wife Sarai (before they got their name changes) went down to Egypt because there was a famine in Canaan. Our patriarch tells his wife how beautiful she is, and therefore his life is in danger, and so they should pretend to be siblings, so that when she inevitably is taken into the Pharaoh’s harem, he will survive. We argued about whether this was Avram pimping out his wife. One person—I’ll let you guess what gender this person was—could not accept that Avram was doing this. All I could think was—have things changed at all since that time?

This week I read about an experiment done in a college class, in which male students were asked what they do to protect themselves from rape. Not a sound was heard for awhile, until one young man asked, “Why would we do that?” Then women students were asked what they do, and without losing a beat, they offered a long list: don’t go out alone at night, be careful what you wear, hold your drink next to you so no one can spike it, carry your keys in your hand, make a plan, etc. The men had never considered how much effort it was for women, whereas for the women these methods are second nature, and yet still not always effective.

That’s part of the act of mindfulness—and mindlessness. Just as most white people don’t grasp the necessity of the Talk that African American parents must have with their children, especially their sons, about what to do when they are stopped by the police, most men don’t understand the threat women endure everyday.

To overcome that hardness of heart, we can strive to achieve mindfulness, awareness, mindsight and conscious reflection—to notice our blind spots, to watch what others must endure that we don’t have to. We have our tradition, and Martin Luther King, to help us imagine a world in which black lives matter, women’s rights are human rights, and we are judged by and judge by the content of our character, not by the color of our skin or the religion we practice or the tribe we were born into. We can turn the kaved of the hardened heart into the kavod that speaks of honor, if we build the neural pathways… Let us live as Dr. King urged us, and as our tradition urges us:

“Make a career of humanity. Commit yourself to the noble struggle for equal rights. You will make a greater person of yourself, a greater nation of your country, and a finer world to live in.” (18 April 1959, Washington, DC)

May it be so.

We Jews are big on gratitude—it’s built into our name: when our matriarch Leah, one of Jacob’s wives, had her fourth son, she named him Judah, which she said means, “I give thanks.”  From his name came the tribe of Judah—or Yehudah; from which came the land Judea and the term Yehudim—from which comes Jew: our very name means gratitude.

Judah or Yehudah comes from the same root for saying thank you in Hebrew—todah! And it has many meanings–both thanks and acknowledgement: acknowledging the good that has been given us, acknowledging whoever has given us the gift.

It is the same word that appears in the first prayer we say in the morning: Modah ani, with basically says—Thank you—I acknowledge before You, the living and eternal breath of the universe—that you have returned my soul to me and with lovingkindness and faith.

Modeh/modah ani lefanecha, melech chai v’kayam, sh’hechezarta bi nishmati, b’chemla, rabbah emunatecha.

Another version of the word is Hodu, a word of thanks that appears in a number of psalms, for example, psalm 136 repeat Hodu…ki l’olam chasdo, with means “Let’s thank…for God’s kindness is eternal.” (Then it lists many reasons to give thanks.)

Interestingly, hodu is also the Hebrew word for turkey. (There’s a long etymological story.)

Another Hebrew term for gratitude is hakarat hatov, which means, literally, “recognizing the good.” Practicing gratitude means recognizing the good that is already yours—even being able to see the good in things we might not initially think of as good. Really cultivating the attitude of gratitude…

Another way of looking at it come from a poem by a 20^th Century rabbi, Ben Zion Bokser (1907-1984:

I did not make the air I breathe

Nor the sun that warms me…

I did not endow the muscles

Of hand and brain

With the strength

To plough and plant and harvest…

I know

I am not

A self-made man.

We also have a practice of saying a blessing as an acknowledgement for what people do for us, for what we have. We can even recognize the good we receive from inanimate objects. The Talmud has a long discussion about whether the liturgy should start with prayers of thanks or prayers of request first. What works for you?

The rabbis decided better to start with prayers of thanks, then prayers of request. We ask for entirely different things when we have found our gratitude place.

And indeed, they encourage us to say 100 blessings a day—to recognize 100 times the good that has come our way. And to say it out loud. If one were to pray the traditional liturgy the traditional way—3 times a day and before and after meals, that’s 100 right there… But I think it’s even better to recognize…how great the cup of coffee was; what a great job someone did bagging groceries; the delicious flavor of the tomato picked ripe from the garden. See if you can reach 100 in a day.

Albert Einstein said, “A hundred times a day, I remind myself that my inner and outer life depends on the labors of other men and women and nature, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the measure I have received and am still receiving.”

We have a strong ethos, embedded in a great Talmudic proverb which asks, “Who is rich?” and then answers, “One who rejoices in their own lot.” (Avot 4:1)

A story on gratitude from one of our great teachers…

Rabbi Yisrael Salanter once noticed that a fancy restaurant was charging a huge price for a cup of coffee. He approached the owner and asked why the coffee was so expensive. After all, some hot water, a few coffee beans and a spoonful of sugar couldn’t amount to more than a few cents in the 19^th Century.

The owner replied: “It is correct that for a few cents you could have coffee in your own home. But here in the restaurant, we provide exquisite decor, soft background music, professional waiters, and the finest china to serve your cup of coffee.”

Rabbi Salanter’s face lit up. “Oh, thank you very much! I now understand the blessing of Shehakol – ‘All was created by God’s word’ – the blessing before drinking water. Until now, when I recited this blessing, I had in mind only that I am thanking the Creator for the water itself. Now I understand the blessing much better. ‘All’ includes not merely the water, but also the fresh air that we breathe while drinking the water, the beautiful world around us, the music of the birds that lift our spirits, the flowers with their splendid colors and marvelous hues, the fresh breeze – for all this we have to thank God when drinking our water!”

As you gather with friends or family, or help at a shelter, or work to serve the community, remember to give thanks for all that you do have. Many of us in my communities have lost so much this year: home, almost every possession, a sense of safety, loved ones, health, a sense that our democracy is strong enough to withstand the current administration. But we are still here; many of our loved ones are too; the first responders stepped up even as they were losing their homes or who came from outside to help; the resistance has so far saved the ACA; that sexual harassment and assault are being called for what they have always been: wrong. For me, I am grateful for

my beloved husband and his devotion and care for our family and his continued basically good health,

My sweet and kind daughter, whose thoughtfulness is inspiring,

my cats who shower me with love on their terms (and the humility they instill as I accept their terms),

my dear friends who walk spiritual paths with me, the ability to serve communities, to listen and share stories, love, kindness and compassion.

As Psalm 150 ends: Kol haneshama t’hallelya, halleluyah: may everything that breaths, every soul praise the divine, the mystery at the core of the universe, the still small voice within.

Recently a friend and dearly respected colleague posted on FB that he had been the victim of a small but upsetting FB attack, comprised of a single word: queer. He’s been a gay activist most of his life, he’s a mensch among mensches, he’s experienced homophobia before, but he marveled how it was possible that he could still be “instantly destroyed” by it.

It’s a core wound of his.

Recently, in the space of a few days, I was attacked online by two people I would never have expected…One, a Buddhist chaplain, had misread my email that 20 other people read correctly and took offense where none was present; another, a rabbi who teaches mindfulness, attacked me on FB because I responded to a request from a friend about suicide awareness. It wasn’t even one of those that says, “I know only a few of you will respond.” It was just about awareness.

Both people apologized to me, but, like my gay friend, I was instantly destroyed. In the case of the chaplain, it took me an hour to be able to go to the patients’ room to be present to people in pain.

It’s a core wound of mine, to be falsely accused of being unkind.

And no matter how much work we do on those core wounds, they never go away. We learn to manage them, we learn to put space between the match and the fuse, we learn to ask for help. But they are there.

The chaplain apologized a few days later, acknowledging that she hadn’t understood the email. The rabbi apologized almost before the words were out of her message, and excused herself because of her overwhelm about all the things that are wrong in our world right now. The list seems endless, and overwhelming, and those of us who tend toward catastrophizing and apocalyptic thinking are seeing the end of democracy or a repeat of 1933, and worse.

And all those raise our stress levels and our short fuses.

We live in a time when people spew whatever is in their thoughts, with no regard for whether it might hurt another person, especially a person not right in front of them. The President says “there are many fine people” among Neo-Nazis and white supremacists, people chant, “Jews will not replace us” or “Go back to where you came from” or pretend—or maybe they really believe—that racism is worse for whites than for African Americans. And it’s not just words: some in Congress are eager to take health coverage away from more than 20 million Americans. The Justice Department wants to restart the war on drugs, impose maximum sentencing that will adversely affect the African American community…the end of DACA, the attempts to defund Planned Parenthood’s family planning and cancer screening programs… I have to stop. But you know the list goes on. And on.

And social media communication—non-verbal communication—poses a particular problem: since only 7 percent of communication is the words alone—7 percent, social media communication is dangerous from the beginning. We don’t know a person’s intent based solely on the words. We don’t. That’s true of regular old snail mail, or letters, too, and of course emails. But social media draws rapid fire response, so that we hit the ‘send’ or ‘post’ button before we’ve thought through how our words might be construed by others. And the anonymity and distance it provides seem to encourage people to use words people would never dream of saying to a person’s face.

My concern is that we are losing our souls in this environment, that we are wounding or being wounded to our core, that we are becoming inured to the daily onslaught of attacks on ourselves, our loved ones, on what the torah would refer to as the widow, orphan and stranger—that group of vulnerable folks, and we will forget both how to be with each other and forget that we are all connected. That each instance of being “instantly destroyed” makes coming back from it that much harder.

So how do we come back from all this?

Judaism offers us several paths, including this High Holy Day reflection period.

I am student of Mussar, the Jewish psychospiritual practice that helps us put space between the match and the fuse. Its main proponent in the 19^th century, Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, taught that we can’t just rely on our intellect to change ourselves to align our behavior with our values. We must engage the heart and emotions. My teacher, Rabbi David Jaffe notes, “No matter how many times someone studies the verse “Love your neighbor as yourself,” one will not love one’s neighbor more unless one feels in one’s heart what it means to love oneself and one’s neighbor.” [1]

Mussar, which means something like instruction or self-reflection, is perfect for the High Holy Day season—it’s perfect for every season, really, and if you’re interested in learning more, please let me know…It guides us to take a serious spiritual accounting of ourselves, to take stock of who we are and what we are doing.

It also stresses the Jewish concepts of responsibility and mindfulness and improving our characters—becoming mensches.

My Mussar chevruta—study—partner was bemoaning how hard it is to live life right now with the desire to keep informed, the need to study, the need to work, to care of her dog, and her husband and her home, and maintain relationships and practice self-care. Her kids are gone, but she is still overwhelmed by all the input that comes her way.

Can any of you relate to that?

We were discussing a passage from Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzato’s Path of the Just—Mesillat Yesharim, an 18^th ethical text about the kavannah—intention—we need to prepare to do what he called Divine service and mitzvot…I think of it as the kavannah for doing good in the world, for attaching to what is important. He says we should not approach those actions impulsively, when we are unable to “think clearly about what” we are doing. [What would he say about Twitter, I wonder?] Rather, we should arouse ourselves and patiently prepare our hearts until we enter a state of contemplation; then we should enter that stage and consider what we are about to do. This is basically the same instruction I give wedding couples after we sign the ketubah and before they process down the aisle on the arms of their parents: center yourselves together, block out all the family and friends, be there with each other and recognize that you are about to change your life—you are becoming part of a couple, no longer an individual responsible only to yourself. Be present. Be ready.

For each of us, when the potential for hurting someone else appears, center yourself—make a space between the match and the fuse—and ask if this is really necessary and if it is kind. If you answer either of those two questions with a “no”, then don’t do it. It goes without saying that it must also be true, even in this time, in this country.

Take the time to stop and consider. A friend told me that he rarely communicates via social media, because it takes him two days to think through all the permutations of how his words might be taken, given the responses he has received from people in the past, who don’t read his sense of humor off the screen. He might be a model to us all. Whatever you can do to be more mindful, do it. Whether it’s meditation, Mussar, prayer, affirmation reminders on your mirror, therapy, journaling…Reb Mel Gottlieb, the president of my seminary taught us, “Any way is a way if you make it way.” Practice, practice, practice…

If someone has not taken that time for mindfulness and you feel attacked, let me suggest that you take a moment, center yourself, and—this is really hard—judge that person for the good. (We call this

דַן לְכַּף-זְכוּת

Dan l’kaf z’cut in Hebrew). Imagine some reason that isn’t about you that lets you forgive. For example, if someone cuts you off on the freeway, consider that they might be rushing to their child’s hospital bed. If someone sends a nasty email, recognize that they might be projecting their own hurt onto you. Or they might not realize how their words sound without their tone of voice. Be gentle. Or, experience it as an opportunity for growth yourself.

The Talmud tells the story of Nahum Ish Gamzu, a man whose response to everything was Gam zu l’tovah – this too is for the good. Everything. Was for the good.

Rabbi Nahum was once sent to Rome to try to persuade the Emperor to treat the Jews more kindly. He was entrusted with a gift to the Emperor, a box filled with gold and diamonds. On the way, he stopped at an inn for the night. The next morning, he continued his journey, not knowing that the innkeeper had stolen the contents from the box, replacing them with sand and soil.

When Rabbi Nahum reached Rome, he handed the box to the Emperor. The Emperor was enraged when he found the sand and soil, thinking that the Jews wanted to mock him. Nahum was thrown into prison and certain death awaited him. However, Nahum was not dismayed and said, as usual, “Gam zu l’tovah” – “this too is for good.”

At his trial, one of the Emperor’s advisers averred that the Jews could not have dared to mock the Emperor. He suggested, therefore, that perhaps this was no ordinary sand and soil. The advisor had heard that when our patriarch Abraham fought against the kings, he threw sand and soil at them, which God turned into arrows and weapons, which won the day. Maybe this sand and soil were of the same kind!

The Emperor had been at war for some time, but could not defeat a particular enemy. So, he ordered this sand and soil to be used. Indeed, the miracle happened, and the enemy was defeated!

Nahum was immediately freed from prison and the petition of the Jews was granted.

His attitude was rewarded, and while God’s deus ex machina saves the day… the message resonates. The story Nahum told himself was that it would all be okay. And, I think that if Nahum had died, he would have been okay with that too.

Just the act of thinking outside your normal frame of mind can bring a measure of calm to you.

On the other hand, the reverse can also be effective. When Sheryl Sandberg’s husband died, and she was working through her grief, Adam Grant, their friend and her co-author of her excellent book, Option B, told her to think of the worst that could happen when she was feeling hopeless. She looked at him like he was crazy, and told him, “What could be worse?? I lost the love of my life with no warning, before he was 40, and now I’m raising two young, fatherless children alone!!” The friend, a psychology professor at Wharton, replied quietly, “He could have had his heart attack while he was driving with your kids in the car.” She immediately felt a wave of gratitude that she still had her children. Try it. It really works. For me, it works every time. And you can come up with some truly epic worst case scenarios…About two weeks ago, I slipped in my kitchen, breaking a bowl, spreading wet cat food that was covered in ants all over the floor, hitting my head, and generally shaking myself up. Really, ants all over me, the floor, the kitchen…But we came up with much worse scenarios, including a concussion, broken elbow, larger insects…And we felt better.

Another way of looking at this is to rewrite your story. Don’t feel stuck in the version in which you are the victim—even if you were. Figure out what lessons you can learn from the experience and move on. Each year I come back to the idea that Rabbi Alan Lew expressed—that forgiveness means being able to give up the hope for a better past. If we can let go of hurt sooner rather than later, and use the past as learning opportunities, then we have a chance for growth. Stop holding onto the grievance: let it go. Even if you don’t mend the relationship, at least stop letting the person rent so much space in your head. Now. Today. Let it go.

Another lesson—that is really challenging right now, I think, is to practice optimism. That doesn’t mean ignoring the reality of a situation—but accepting the reality and moving on from there—recognizing your strengths and previous episodes of success and mining them for the lessons you can draw from them. Think, “This will be hard, but I can rise to the challenge.” And then, figure out how to rise to the challenge.

Don’t personalize it. As the former queen of personalizing, I have finally (almost) learned that most unkind words and acts people do to me, or to others, is not about me (or others), but about the person. If you think about it, you know this is true, even if it feels really personal. That chaplain who let loose at me: whatever triggered her truly had nothing to do with me. And the mindfulness rabbi noted the same thing in her apology: she had been too stressed out. Her harshness directed at me was NOT about me.

Practice gratitude. This technique is foundational to our people—indeed the word Jew comes from Jacob’s son Judah, whose name includes the word for gratitude… Count your blessings. Recently, at work, we had a patient who was mostly in the hospital for months, until she died two weeks ago. She was a beloved person—four months in the hospital and she still had a crowd of friends and family visiting her. Staff came by regularly—and she remembered everyone’s name and was grateful for what we gave her. I prayed and talked with her every day I was there for 4 months. She soaked up our love. The weekend before she died, I gave her my last prayers, and love and gratitude, and left her room, in tears. A nurse let me cry on her shoulder and reminded me what a blessing it had been to know her. I continued to cry, but I felt instantly better, because she reminded me of what I knew but couldn’t access at that moment. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to know her.

Gratitude practices have been shown to improve our cardiac health, our memory, our longevity, our relationships… Whether it’s keeping a gratitude journal, remembering to say thank you every time something has come your way or someone has done something, or recounting your blessings or gratitude at the end of the day… do something. Every day. The more we do something, the more it strengthens our gratitude muscles.

And here’s my favorite one: HELP others. Research shows that people who help others experience more resilience when things are hard than people who don’t. Small acts of kindness—giving directions, holding doors open, listening to someone in pain…decrease the impact of a stressful day. That patient who died, even in her dying process, gave love and caring to the rest of us. And she received it back in spades.

We are living in hard times. People are throwing all sorts of anger, unkindness, harshness at others. Our lives are more complex. Our health might be challenged. But we can use the tools of our tradition—that are being shown to be verifiably successful to foster our own resilience to withstand the slings and arrows aimed at us. Let’s send the lessons out, practice them, and send love back into the universe, as we choose life.

Many thanks to Reb Irwin Keller, Rabbi David Jaffe, Rabbi Lisa Bock, Don Kaplan, and Tara Pope’s article in the New York Times, How to Build Resilience in Midlife.

[1] David Jaffe, Changing the World from the Inside Out: A Jewish Approach to Personal and Societal Change.