Haftarah-telling, 5779. Hannah demands some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Dear Sarah, Mother of Isaac, Wife of Abraham,

Chana here. It’s our day again – Rosh Hashanah, Take 1. The rabbis must have had something special in mind when they added two of the most famous barren women in the Torah to have their stories told on one of the highest traffic days in the synagogue. 

Did you ever think they’d be telling our stories, Sarah? My son? Yes. But me?

We lived 800 years apart, you and I, and I was around 3,000 years before any of the people in this room were born. But our stories are all here, together, now. (Your family’s story continues tomorrow, but you may not want to read ahead. At the very least, if Isaac asks to go on a hike to Mount Moriah with his Dad, say no.)

We are all here in conversation together. We barren women. We women of hope. You. Rivkah. Rachel. Me. Michal. And Samson’s Mother (Z’llppunith – such a name. No wonder we all just know her as “Samson’s Mom”.) But she had a name, and she had a story.

I am not a prayerful woman, Sarah. My approach was always a little more “Are you there, God? It’s Me, Chanah” than pious devotion. And unlike you, I don’t get angels as regular visitors to my home.

We come to Shiloh, to the temple, this ridiculous family of mine. My husband, Elkanah, always offers the right sacrifices, enough for that wretched second wife of his, Peninah, and all  of their children. I get one portion. I deserve a little more R-E-S-P-E-C-T. You’d better Think, I wanted to tell Elkanah. Think about what you’re tryin to do to me.

Peninah’s worth increases with every child she has following her skirts.

My worth withers as each season passes. And all the while Elkanah is telling me I am his favorite. Do you know what he says to me, Sarah?

“Am I not more devoted to you than ten sons?”

Well, yes. And… no.

And Peninah… year after year she taunts me, reminding me of what I can never forget.

I can usually save face, but this year…this year my heart was overflowing with anger, bitterness, and anguish. I was distraught, Sarah. I could not sleep. I could not eat. I could not stop crying. And all the while Elkanah asking me, why? Why? Why?

My heart broke--it broke into more pieces than I knew it had.

So I left the feast and came to the temple alone.

I can admit this to you, Sarah – I did not have faith, but I had hope, a desperate hope that drew from me an unimaginable promise. I made a deal, a bargain. If God would remember me, notice me, and give me a son, I would dedicate the boy’s life to the service of the Lord. I would have promised anything in that moment. Anything to make the pain stop.

There will come a time, Sarah, when prayers are written down, and people will follow along to someone else’s words. I doubt I could have read anything in that moment.

No, that prayer was ripped from me like a terrible sickness. I threw myself onto the Temple steps and let my despair rush out of me. 

Fall on your knees.

Oh Sarah, you should have seen the priest Eli as he approached me. He thought I was drunk! Can you imagine?

"How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? "’Sober up!".

I told him, “I am not drunk! I have been pouring out my heart, my anguish, my distress.”

He didn’t apologize, but he gave me a little blessing as he gently escorted me out. "…may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of Him."

At that moment I had no way of knowing if my prayer had been heard, but it had been said. God didn’t answer right away. I had no surety, Sarah, but… maybe even if the gates of prayer are shut, the gates of tears are not.

Elkanah’s ritualistic sacrifice had given me no comfort.

The festive meal no joy.

But the moment of desperation, pleading to be remembered, to be noticed…getting all that ugliness out was like a purge.

I got up off that floor, dried my tears, and went home with Elkanah, Peninah, and her children.

By the time the next yearly pilgrimage came around I was a mother of a son, Samuel (Shmuley to me), whose name means: "I asked the LORD for him."

As soon as I saw him, though, I was sure I’d made a terrible mistake by dedicating him to Temple service. How could I have made such a vow? How would I keep it?

Every year when we returned to the Tabernacle, Elkanah would ask, “So? Are you bringing the boy this year?” and every year I’d put him off.

He’s not old enough.

He doesn’t know his aleph-bet!

He’s not ready.

The truth was, I was not ready. But I did it, Sarah. I kept my vow. I brought him to the temple, and I left him there.

We all do it, don’t we?

We mothers.

We fathers.

At some point we all release our children.

Oh, it’s not always as dramatic as dropping them off for a lifetime of temple service…sometimes it’s the first day of preschool, the bus stop for summer camp, the end of the driveway, an airport gate, a college dorm room. 

We all do it. We open the circle of our embrace and let them walk out into the world. And we stand there, arms wide, waiting for them to step back in.

You did let Isaac go on his trip up the mountain with Abraham. It may have butchered your heart, but you waved good-bye, and you watched them go.

They all go. They all find other men and women to love; they leave our houses and make homes of their own. We give them to the universe and we hope, and maybe pray, that the universe treats them kindly.

Parenthood can make anyone turn to prayer:

Lord, help me get through this day!

Lord, keep her safe…

Misheberach…Please, God, heal him.

So many of the stories we tell from this bimah end in the middle. (Most good stories do.) 

You died offstage, Sarah.  There are 54 parshas in the Torah. One is named after a woman, and you die in the first verse.

After my triumphant declaration of victory at the end of this haftarah, I’m never heard from again. 

My first prayer was the anguish of my heart

My second was a record of my joy, my thanks, my conquest!

It’s not how I’d wanted to be quoted, honestly, and if I could go back and change it, I would.

There’s a little too much bragging.

It’s very self-serving, all “I gloat over my enemies… the barren woman bears seven; the mother of many is forlorn…”

That barb for Peninah was unnecessary. I know you understand the sentiment, Sarah.

It’s so easy to say yes to that ugly impulse inside us, to want to win.

To want someone else to lose.

I understand Peninah much better now.

I’m betting you “get” Hagar as well.

When we felt unnoticed, we were cruel.

When we were blessed, we forgot to be kind.

It was a miserable journey home after leaving Samuel at the temple for the first time. My arms ached with the weight of his absence, feeling his phantom body in my embrace.

We returned to Shiloh every year, and as time passed I had more children to shlep along.

And every year…. Every Year… I’d bring Samuel a new set of robes, guessing how much he’d have grown.

Before I knew it, he was taller than me.

He’d tease me, but I secretly enjoyed looking up to my son, the leader, the prophet, the musician, the artist.

I hope he does not judge me too harshly for my vow, my promise made for him without his permission. It was my words, but his life.

He went on to become a big deal, a real macher. 

He was the last of the judges, and he appointed the first of the kings.  He fought with his elders, and he was a warrior who protected the holy ark, and the covenant inside.

He was gifted with prophecy, but he was always my baby, my little Shmuley. 

My first born. 

My gift from the universe and back to it… the prayer of my heart.

Hollow Words

for Ben

After Sandy Hook, we told you that you are safe. There are over 33,000 elementary schools in the United States, and there has been a shooting at one.

After you heard about Aurora, we told you that you are safe. Millions of people go to the movies every year, safely. Meanwhile we check emergency exits reflexively during films and plan where to run.

After Orlando, we told you that you are safe.

After Paris, we told you that you are safe.

After Las Vegas, we told you that you are safe.

We told you it was OK to go to concerts and festivals and large outdoor gatherings. We played the numbers game.

It’s more likely that you will

• Get hit by a car
• Crash a car
• Get run over by a bus
• Fall down the stairs and break your neck
• Be hit by lightning
• Lose a fight to a wild animal in the woods

We tried to comfort you and assuage your fear by listing other ways you could die.

It’s more likely you will live to 75 and get to know your grandchildren than get shot by someone in your school, a movie, theater, a club, a concert, your workplace, a synagogue.

As you grow older and you listen to the news and your friends and follow social media, where shootings are turned into memes, our “new math” doesn’t diminish your fear. You see the error in the calculus.

Videos of kids huddled in classrooms look like you and your friends. That could be me, you think.

You drill and drill and drill and lock down and lock down and practice for what we tell you is an infinitesimally small probability.

And when you march in protest, someone puts a sticker on your chest that says #AmINext?

And it scares you.

And it scares me.

You walk up to me with that sticker on you and all I can see is that you might be next and that playing the odds is no way to play this game when the house always wins.

My 16 year old son is scared to go to school.

It’s been 19 years since Columbine.

It’s been 5 years since Sandy Hook.

It’s been too many years that we have been trying to keep the barrage of mass shootings from entering his world. The shootings just kept coming, and his access to the media and the news and his friends kept bringing them into his world, into his mind, and into his psyche.

And his mother keeps telling him that he is safe.

And he says, Mom you keep saying that.

You keep saying that.

You. Keep. Saying. That.

You know who else said that Mom?

Every parent of every kid who died in Florida and Vegas and Paris and San Bernadino and that church in Texas and 100 other places that I can’t even name.

Their moms said to them, you are safe. It won’t happen here.

What do you have to say to me now, Mom?

What do you have to say?

8 Songs of Chanukah: 2. Put Your Lights On

Hey now, all you sinners
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you lovers
Put your lights on, put your lights on

Hey now, all you killers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you children
Leave your lights on, better leave your lights on

8 Songs for Chanukkah: 1. Scarlet Begonias

(Disclaimer: I haven't blogged a lot lately. To be completely transparent, taking on the role of the Religious School Director at my synagogue has made me overthink my posts, and there are many many drafts which I just haven't had the courage to publish. So let me say at the outset, any opinion expressed on Western Jew is mine, mine alone, and it not endorsed, approved, proofread, or in any other way associated officially with the Congregation Har Shalom Religious School. It's all me.)

8 Songs for Chanukkah: 1. Scarlet Begonias by The Grateful Dead.

Tonight is the first night of Chanukkah, the Jewish holiday which commemorates the victory of the Maccabean warriors over an anti-Jewish king (Antiochus) and his army, who had desecrated the holy temple in Jerusalem in 167 BCE and did their best to force Jews to give up practicing Judaism. Antiochus made it illegal to observe Shabbat, study Torah, or even celebrate the new moon, which is how the Jews scheduled holy days.

It was a dark, dark time, but the Maccabees took up the fight, eventually defeating their oppressors and rededicating the Temple. As part of that dedication (the literal meaning of the word Chanukah) the menorah in the temple was re-lit, and just a little bit of oil miraculously lasted for 8 days. Imagine your nearly-dead phone battery lasting an entire day without a recharge!

Not a chill to the winter, but a nip to the air.

It's remarkable warm this winter in Colorado. But the early setting of the sun has not been delayed along with the cold temperature. These are dark, dark times. Darkness is one of those things you can only appreciate by knowing its opposite. Many of us felt a sense of lightness about America from 2008-2016.

• Gay marriage legalized nationwide. 
• The Affordable Care Act, if not perfect, acknowledged the health care gap in America. 
• A bi-racial @POTUS. 
• Three women on the Supreme Court. 
• Intentional diversity in The Cabinet and among presidential appointees.
• Increased visibility and acceptance of LGBTQ people. 
• Justin Trudeau. 
• Always Justin Trudeau.

That hopey-changey thing was actually working pretty well for me.

These past 12-and-a-half months have been like a never-ending descent into a bizarro America, where the light has not only faded, it has been purposely snuffed out, with glee and a sneer.

People in my community have been digging deep for ways to fight back against the wave of darkness. We snark on Facebook, we donate to every organization we can who is fighting the good fight, we stand on street corners, we text and email our representatives, and we vote in every election every time.

It's exhausting. And honestly, it doesn't feel like we're getting anywhere. It is literally and figuratively getting darker and and darker earlier and earlier every day.

It could be an illusion, but I might as well try, might as well try.

Chanukkah makes us do what perhaps we should be doing anyway -- seek the light. Tonight, the light is pretty small. We light just one candle, and if you haven't seen them, Chanukkah candles are pretty small as far as candles go. They stay lit for about 45 minutes or so, less if the wick is wonky. It's a short respite from darkness, but we should not discount it just because it's quick.

We can perhaps be accused of creating a temporary illusion of light on Chanukkah. But I fully support our absolute right to refuse to engage in the darkness for as long as the flame can hold out. I do it by shutting off the news, changing to my "cute animals only" Twitter feed, reading romance novels, going to see live music, and watching kind and gentle TV like the Great British Baking Show, where even the fiercest competitors are supportive of one another and every episode ends in a group hug. Lighting the menorah certainly fits into that category.

Seldom turns out the way it does in a song.

I wouldn't normally light any candles on a Tuesday night, and certainly not for 8 nights in a row. What an amazing power we have, to strike a match or push a button and create what Torah tells us God created with just words: Vayehi Or.

Let there be Light.

In the story of creation, darkness does not disappear when light is created. Instead, the light is separated from the dark, but they turn over and over and switch places in a never ending cycle, night becoming day and day becoming night. Darkness will always be there, but...

Once in a while you get shown the light, in the strangest of places if you look at it right.

Chanukkah is a strange little Jewish holiday. It's not mentioned in the Torah, or the Writings (Ketuvim), or the Prophets (Nevi'im). It's message of religious freedom, bringing light to darkness, and shining a light into the world is ancient, and timeless. Hag Sameach friends.

Watch this space tomorrow for Song #2.

Abraham Sits By The Tent

In the cycle of the Torah, we are spending lots of time with Abraham. In the last parsha, Lech Lecha, God came to him and said, “Hey. Abe. Get up, leave your family, take your wife, and go. Where? You want to know where? I’ll show you later. You want to know what the land is called? Later, later. Just go.”

Maybe the destination didn’t have a name yet. Maybe God was just keeping secrets, or maybe the place needed to earn its name like Beth El, or “House of God,” where Jacob built his altar. Regardless, Abraham went. Last week was the shabbat of going forward, going out.

This week we read from Vayera (And God revealed himself). Abraham isn’t wandering anymore. In fact, we meet at his tent. He’s recovering from his days-old circumcision and God himself is paying a sick call.

One thing to note: Abraham is sitting outside his tent. In the rabbinic imagination, Abraham’s tent was open on all sides in order to welcome the wanderers and wayfarers. The other people who weren’t quite sure where they were going.

Abraham was sitting and waiting for these travelers when God stopped by for a visit. They kibitzed and schmoozed, caught up on this and that, yadda yadda.

In the middle of this talk, Abraham spotted three travelers. He jumped up, left God, ran to greet them and asked them to rest a while in his tent.

He did not stop to ask what they believed, what they held valuable, where they were from, where they were going, or who their leader was. He stood and, despite his own pain, began the welcoming.

Rest here.

Eat here.

Be my guest.

Nourish yourself. Nourish your self.

There are two ways to live in this world. One is to live with the doors and windows closed and the other is to throw them wide open. If you live with the doors closed, you concentrate on the needs of your house -- security, food, safety, shelter. And these are all important things, but it’s easy to shut out the world and forget about the needs beyond your doorway and your wifi connection.

In the writings of the rabbis, having your concerns bounded by the walls of your house is called Sodom, which is also in this week’s portion. The sin of Sodom was the elevation of private property to the level of religious belief, to the level of idolatry. God destroyed Sodom after hearing the cry of a young woman who was being tortured for the sin of sharing her food, her portion, with another person. Kindness was a sin. The rabbis knew that Sodom is the sad, logical, tragic end of “What is mine is mine. What is yours is yours.”

Abraham is the opposite of that.
"In the ultimate act of chutzpah, Abraham challenges God when the holy one decides to destroy the people of Sodom for their wickedness. Abraham, the spiritual father of mankind and its protector, rises to their defense: “Shall you destroy the righteous together with the wicked?” “It would be sacrilege for you to do such a thing… shall the judge of the world not do justice?” To God he says this. God offers a bargain. If he finds 50 righteous people, he will spare the entire area for their sake. Abraham speaks up again and says, “I have already said too much before my Lord. But what if there are only 45?” God says he will not destroy it if there are 45. What about 40? Abraham persists? 35? 30? 20? 10? We know how the story ends. There were not even 10 righteous ones, and God destroyed the cities, judging them irredeemable. Every year we read it the Torah sends us a different message. This is not the same Abraham I met last November [2016], or 5 years ago. This year's Abraham brings with him a message of hope. It only takes 10. If there were just 10 righteous people in the city, everyone would be saved.

Why? If there were 10, would the other suddenly become righteous? Worthy of being saved because a minyan among them was good? Of course not. But the power of those 10 was that they held the possibility of change. The possibility of influence. If as few as 10 were like Abraham and offered radical hospitality, radical empathy, radical compassion, and radical understanding to their neighbors…. Those neighbors might change. And then there would be 11, or 12, or 15, or 20, or 50. They would be an ever-growing light in the darkness, for only the light can drive away the darkness and the fear and uncertainty and the walls that come with it."

Abraham did not believe that the boundaries of his house were the boundaries of his responsibility or his humanity. He moved fluidly through the public and private spaces, the inside and the outside, his and not his, the friend and the stranger.

It is time for all of us to go and sit outside and see who is wandering by. If there is a way to build a more perfect union, community, kehilah, state, or country, it starts by leaving our tent -- even if God dropped by for a chat -- to take responsibility for those wandering on the road. Perhaps if we offer rest, a nosh, and a compassionate ear, we can give it a worthy name when we arrive.

We can call it justice.

We can call it Shalom.

We can call it home.