The blog of the Roaring Fork Valley (Reform) Jewish community
77 Meadowood Drive • Aspen, CO • 81611
Rabbi David Segal and Cantor Rollin Simmons

Sunday, September 28, 2014

The Closing of the American Jewish Mind?

Rabbi David Segal
Aspen Jewish Congregation
Rosh Hashanah 5775
25 September 2014

The Closing of the American Jewish Mind?

Once upon a time, not long ago, there was a young man named Joe. Joe was a nice Jewish boy from Anywhere, USA who did well in high school and got accepted early to one of his top choice colleges – let’s call it University of Middle America, or UMA. As Joe’s high school graduation approached, he found it hard to focus on homework and class, often lost in thought about what campus life would be like.

Joe daydreamed about the wealth of classes and professors he’d have at his fingertips; he daydreamed about learning that would happen in and out of the classroom through the open exchange of ideas. That’s what college is for, right? he asked himself. Not avoiding disagreement but seeking it out? Intellectual sparring with students and faculty? Joe had always excelled at that. It’s part of why he did so well in high school: by offering his own ideas to be crystallized and honed in the crucible of debate. He knew that’s how real learning occurs.

Needless to say, what happened around UMA’s commencement that spring surprised and disappointed Joe. He was finishing high school while closely following events on the campus he was about to call home. The University had invited a prominent leader to address the student body at graduation. But then a well-organized group of liberal students and faculty, who opposed the speaker’s political views, started a petition. Their outcry led to the disinviting of the speaker from that year’s commencement. Joe’s politics tilted liberal, but he was troubled by the bigger picture at stake here. On a university campus, of all places, a small vocal minority was able to stifle someone’s ideas simply because they were disagreeable? And this wasn’t the only campus where a speaker with “unpopular” views was disinvited. What did that say about the state of these supposedly “liberal” institutions of higher learning that their students and even some faculty couldn’t stomach hearing dissenting views? Nothing good, thought Joe.

The press was all over these disinvitations. One Jewish observer wrote, "College was once about preparing boys and girls to become men and women, not least through a process of desensitization to discomfiting ideas. Now it’s just a $240,000 extension of kindergarten" (Stephens; see also Wisse). 

And a Yale law professor wrote: 
In my day, the college campus was a place that celebrated the diversity of ideas… Your generation, I am pleased to say, seems to be doing away with all that… How marvelous it must be to realize at so tender an age that you will never, ever change your mind, because you will never, ever encounter disagreement! How I wish I’d had your confidence and fortitude. I could have spared myself many hours of patient reflection and intellectual struggle over the great issues of the day. (Carter)
Troubled by the developments on campus, Joe spent the summer packing for college, meeting his roommates online, and registering for fall semester classes. Though worried about a lack of real debate on campus, he took some comfort in knowing that he would always have a home among the Jewish community at Hillel. There, he knew, he’d find willing partners for debate. His childhood rabbi had always encouraged thoughtful dissent. They’d even studied Jewish texts about it, how the rabbinic tradition was founded on engaging seriously with your opponents’ positions.

With the Jewish community on campus, Joe looked forward to engaging in the age-old practice of chevruta study – arguing over texts and ideas, challenging your fellow learner and inviting him to push back, elevating your mutual learning together.

Needless to say, what happened at Hillel that fall after Joe arrived on campus surprised and disappointed him. The Hillel’s Israel Task Force had invited a speaker to address the campus community. This speaker was a Jewish educator who would speak about his attempt at reconciliation with the Palestinian family of the terrorist who bombed the Hebrew University cafeteria in 2002. That attack had killed two of the speaker’s friends, and nearly killed his girlfriend, too. He had gone on a personal mission to find the killer’s family because he wanted to see where such misguided, murderous hatred could come from.

As it turned out, the speaker had also written a blog post about BDS – the movement for boycott, divestment, and sanctions against Israel. The BDS movement is especially active on campuses, its members ranging from progressive Zionists who want to end the occupation, to anti-Semites who want to delegitimize Israel. The speaker’s blog post said that BDS is a legitimate form of nonviolent protest against certain policies of the Israeli government. When this came to light, the Hillel rabbi informed the speaker that a pro-BDS stance disqualified him from speaking at Hillel because of the parent organization’s Israel Engagement Guidelines. Although Hillel promises to “encourage students’ inquiry” and welcome “a diversity of student perspectives” in a “pluralistic community,” they also set limits on speakers allowed to appear under Hillel’s name. That includes barring anyone who supports “boycott of, divestment from, or sanctions against the State of Israel.”

Bound by these guidelines, and backed by a small but vocal group of Jewish students, Joe’s Hillel rabbi disinvited the speaker. Joe didn’t get it. He didn’t support BDS himself, but he wanted to hear what this thoughtful, committed Jew had to say. Joe was on campus to learn and grow, and he could handle himself in an argument. He was not afraid to be provoked to think critically, even — or especially — about Israel. 

When Hillel withdrew its invitation to the speaker, the Muslim Student Union stepped in to host him instead. Joe had reservations about that group’s intentions, but this was a conversation he wanted to be a part of, so he went to the event. The speaker stated his support for Israel as a Jewish and democratic state, a dual commitment demanded by his Zionism. As he started to say that the occupation threatens Israel’s democratic character, and therefore violates his Zionist principles, a group of pro-Israel students stood up and shouted him down.

Joe had seen similar behavior when Palestinian students shouted down pro-Israel speakers. He and his fellow Jews would dismiss them as thugs who couldn’t handle having their ideas subjected to actual debate. Now Joe’s fellow Jews were using the same tactics. Ironically, these Jewish students were violating another of Hillel International’s guidelines, barring individuals who “exhibit a pattern of disruptive behavior towards campus events or guest speakers or foster an atmosphere of incivility.”

Joe was fed up with the hypocrisy on both sides. He had considered a degree in international relations with a focus on Middle Eastern affairs, but he decided in that moment to major in something less controversial, like particle physics or underwater basket-weaving. He never really set foot in Hillel again, except occasionally for the High Holidays, and he lost his passion for discussing Israel, too. There were too many lines drawn in the sand, everywhere he turned.

*    *    *

Joe’s story is fictional, but not by much. Last spring, a long list of colleges disinvited speakers because of  “unpopular” views. Blistering critiques were written about college students’ need for intellectual coddling. At the same time, Hillel has been embroiled in a national debate about what qualifies as a sufficiently “pro-Israel” event to bear Hillel’s name. Speakers have been invited and then disinvited when deemed out of bounds (e.g. at Harvard). The tension came to a head last December when students at Swarthmore publicly rejected the parent organization’s guidelines and named themselves the first “Open Hillel.”

The organized Jewish community is sending a message, a mixed message, to our college kids: we want you to engage in stimulating intellectual debates, get involved in the open exchange of ideas, challenge your views — but just not when it comes to Israel. On that topic, you’re either with us – unconditionally, uncritically – or against us.

Let’s consider for a moment what one critic said about all those disinvited commencement speakers, and apply his thinking to the context of Hillel, even though the author wasn’t writing about that situation:
Ladies and gentlemen, you are graduating into a world of enormous complexity and conflict. There are corners of the globe where violence and war and abject oppression still dominate… Traditional societies are caught in an increasingly desperate struggle between the perils of fundamentalism on the one side and the perils of modernism on the other. Given your generation’s penchant for shutting down speakers with whom you disagree, I am assuming that you have no intention of playing any serious adult role in mediating those conflicts. And that’s fine. We should leave the task of mediation to those unsophisticated enough to be sensitive to the concerns of both sides. (Carter)
One of the main reasons we don’t foster a healthy Israel conversation among college students, let alone within congregations, is that we have substituted pro-Israel advocacy for Zionism. Zionism’s goal was to change the status of Jews in the world with regard to power, agency, and responsibility. “Statehood was a means to that end, not an end in itself” (Goldberg). Now we can’t see past the question of supporting or criticizing the state, as if that’s the substance of Zionism. We’ve forgotten, or never learned, that Zionism is not just about Jews having the power to defend ourselves – it’s also about Jews having the responsibility to treat others who live within our power in a Jewish way. It’s not just about creating a Jewish majority – it’s also about shaping that society to reflect the values of Jewish tradition. It’s a conversation, I’m proud to say, that we had for nine weeks this summer with the help of the Hartman Institute’s iEngage curriculum: 20 Jews around a table, arguing, disagreeing, pushing back, but sharing a commitment to respect each other as we studied our tradition’s views on power, sovereignty, self-defense, war, and human rights.

Peter Beinart wrote on Monday that during these High Holidays, American rabbis should not speak about the Jewish state, but rather about Jewish texts. The real crisis facing our community, he says, is not the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but illiteracy about Judaism. In other words, we are so alienated from Jewish tradition that we aren’t ready to have a real conversation about Israel, let alone Zionism. So we cling to defensive pro-Israel advocacy, at the expense of a richer engagement with Zionism and the future of the Jewish people.

College campuses are ground zero for this problem. The organized Jewish community pours money and energy into defending Israel on campus, sometimes from real enemies but often at the expense of building Jewish community or cultivating students’ Jewish identity. Rabbi Oren Hayon, Executive Director of the Hillel at the University of Washington in Seattle, experienced this firsthand. He spent two years gearing up to fight BDS legislation at the university, and fight they did. Reflecting after a successful campaign to defeat BDS, Hayon asks us to consider the cost of these victories. He said, "The moment a BDS resolution is introduced on a college campus, a mighty political advocacy engine roars to life and, before long, the entire community becomes characterized by a relentless scorched-earth approach” (Hayon). This machine is distracting and alienating. It forces Hillels to forego more substantive programming, and it shuts out students whose questions about Israel get them banished from the tent.

Rabbi Hayon compares this approach to the Akeidah, the famous binding of Isaac, which we will read later this morning. In the case of Abraham, his own son Isaac became a tool in his quest, the means to prove his faithfulness to God. Hayon says, “When we fail to treat college students as persons, and instead relate to them as objects to be manipulated for our political or ideological goals, we hasten our own downfall.” Rather than calling students “thinkers, partners, or colleagues,” activists on both sides of these campaigns refer to them as troops, vessels, and assets. What does it say about us that we treat students as pawns in our own defensive game, and not as the future leaders of our community? What kind of leaders will they be?

And what will become of our hypothetical Joe once he graduates, if this was his experience on campus? If Joe had been encouraged to learn and grow in an atmosphere of intellectual freedom and rigorous debate, wouldn’t he be a stronger Jew, poised to confront the complex challenges of his generation? On the other hand, if Joe is brushed aside as not pro-Israel enough, then what do we expect? Why would he want to live Jewishly, if that’s the shallow Jewish identity he’s been sold? Why should he join a synagogue, or support a Jewish organization, when his experience of the organized Jewish community is that you either fall in line or get out of the way? What gifts of Jewish leadership, what potential contributions to the ongoing story of our people, are we sacrificing on the altar of pro-Israel advocacy? 

Zionism calls us to imagine and enact the ideal Jewish future. It demands a proactive vision for the state of the Jewish people, not a defensive apology for the status quo. Jewish tradition challenges us to balance self-defense and the rights of others, to take care of our own without diminishing our moral commitment to humanity. As Rabbi Hillel himself famously said, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?” Upholding these dual commitments is not childish or naive — it’s exactly the kind of sophisticated Jewish leadership we urgently need.

It’s time to let go of our insistence on simple answers to complex questions. It’s time to study, argue, and act — like adults.


Sources and Recommended Reading

Classical

Contemporary

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Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Getting in Touch with Your Inner Hypocrite

Rabbi David Segal
Aspen Jewish Congregation
Erev Rosh Hashanah 5775
24 September 2014

Getting in Touch with Your Inner Hypocrite

Two boys were playing hockey on a pond in Boston Common when one was attacked by a rabid pit bull. Thinking quickly, the other boy took his hockey stick, wedged it down the dog’s collar and twisted, breaking the dog’s neck. A reporter strolling by saw the incident and ran over to interview the boys. As he started writing in his notebook, he said, “Young Bruins Fan Saves Friend from Vicious Animal Attack.”

The boy replied, “But I’m not a Bruins fan.”

“Oh, sorry,” said the reporter. “Since we’re in Boston and you’re playing hockey, I assumed you were. Let me start over. ‘Red Sox Fan Rescues Friend from Rabid Dog.’”

The boy replied, “I’m not a Red Sox fan either.”

The reporter said, “I assumed everyone in Boston was for either the Bruins or the Red Sox. What team do you root for? The Celtics?”

The child answered, “Nope. I’m a Yankees fan.”

The reporter began writing in his notebook, “Little Bastard from New York Kills Beloved Family Pet…”

Bias is everywhere. It’s starting to feel like there’s no news anymore – it’s all opinion peddling, agenda pushing, slanted editorializing. Pundits pump up their side of the story at the expense of their opponents, without much regard for the truth. Jews are particularly sensitive to bias in the media. We fund many organizations whose sole purpose is to be watchdogs against anti-Israel and anti-Semitic bias in reporting. 

This time of year, though, we are called to look inward — to aim our critical eye at ourselves. It’s a good thing, too, because bias is alive and well in each of us.

Consider this example. Earlier this month, President Obama gave a speech announcing the use of force to confront the terrorist threat of ISIL (Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant) in the Middle East. Now, just my mention of that person and event already triggered a non-rational response in you, based on where you sit on the political spectrum. Your rational brain lags behind and rationalizes how you already feel. “His speech was weak and he waffled on confronting our enemies”; or, “He showed measured restraint in the face of a conflict he didn’t choose.”

We like to tell ourselves that our opinions “are the result of years of rational, objective analysis.” But in truth, they are “the result of years of paying attention to information that confirmed what you believed, while ignoring information that challenged your preconceived notions” (McRaney, Smart, 27).

Let’s get more specific. President Obama said in his speech: “ISIL is not ‘Islamic.’ No religion condones the killing of innocents, and the vast majority of ISIL’s victims have been Muslim.”

 I’m not interested in debating that point right now. Instead, I want to ask you to monitor your own reaction to it. Most likely, your emotional brain kicked in, generating a feeling of agreement or disagreement based on whether your underlying attitude is “boo Obama” or “yay Obama.” That’s key: before you even analyze the arguments, your brain has already flipped the switch to direct the locomotive of your rational mind down a particular track. That’s because you care more about maintaining your worldview and your group identity than you do about reaching a reasoned, objective conclusion. 

Truth is, there’s something legitimate to say on each side of this discussion. Conservatives were quick to criticize the President for saying that ISIL is not Islamic. Not only does it identify itself as such, they argued, but it takes its core teachings from the Quran.

Liberals came to the President’s defense, explaining that ISIL is not Islamic merely because it claims to be, just as it’s not a “State” despite calling itself that. Mainstream Muslims, they say, reject ISIL’s interpretation of the Quran as an extremist distortion of true Islam.

Again, I’m not trying to convince you of either position. I want you to notice how you reacted to each one, which was probably some version of, “THIS view is right, and THAT one is biased and wrong.”

Let’s go one step further with this example. In 2011, a man named Anders Breivik went on a murderous rampage in Norway, killing 77 people. In his extensive writings, he called himself a Christian on a crusade against the infidel, and the media began referring to him as a Christian extremist.

Bill O’Reilly and other conservative commentators came out strong against this claim. O’Reilly said, “Breivik is not a Christian. That’s impossible. No one believing in Jesus commits mass murder. The man might have called himself Christian on the net, but he is certainly not of that faith.”

For some of you, just the mention of “Bill O’Reilly” set your emotional brain into action. You just thought to yourself, without really thinking, either “Boo O’Reilly, so boo to his opinion!” or “Yay O’Reilly, he’s right!”

So is Breivik a Christian? Is ISIL Islamic? Is your gut fighting your intellect to reach a consistent answer to both questions? Are you having trouble agreeing with both Bill O’Reilly and President Obama? Are you uncomfortable and starting to sweat? (Are we having fun yet?) Don’t worry, your discomfort is just a symptom of cognitive dissonance. Close your eyes, visualize your warm and cozy echo chamber, and the feeling should pass.

These are complicated issues on which reasonable people can disagree. You tell yourself that you’ve sifted through the available evidence and made a reasoned judgment, but you probably haven’t. Your decision was made already because of which group you’re a part of: liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat. 

Our ancestors evolved to identify with a tribe. Tribal loyalty increases safety and survival, but it also leads to demonization of other groups as a way to strengthen one’s own identity and group cohesion. And so instead of analyzing new ideas with intellectual honesty, we determine whether they confirm or challenge our existing narrative, and we affirm or reject them accordingly.

The lengths we go to in protecting our identity and worldview can be quite striking. In the late 1950s, a psychologist named Milton Rokeach brought together three delusional men to try and cure them of their insanity (as recounted in McRaney, Dumb, Chapter 1: “Narrative Bias”). He did not intend to set up an experiment; he wanted a cure. These three men — Clyde Benson, Joseph Cassel, and Leon Gabor — with three very different backgrounds suffered from a surprisingly similar delusion: each man held the firm conviction that he was “the living reincarnation of Jesus Christ” (McRaney, Dumb, 18).

Rokeach hoped that throwing these men into daily social interaction with each other would cause their delusions to “cancel one another out.” And here’s where it got really interesting. Rokeach regularly brought their conversation around to the impossibility of there being three Christs. He tried to encourage each man to acknowledge that impossibility and, as a result, give up his delusion. But here’s what happened instead:
When forced to explain, they didn’t come to a sudden realization that they were being delusional; they didn’t reel in awe after being struck by the insight that their identities were showing cracks. No, they just dismissed the other two men’s claims. Benson said the other two were some form of cyborg and not actually alive… Gabor believed the other two men were lesser gods who came after him… Cassel’s explanation was the most accurate and prosaic. He said the other two men were insane patients in a mental hospital. (McRaney, Dumb, 19-20)
Although Rokeach was writing about profoundly delusional men, his conclusion applies to us, too: “These three Christs were, if not rational men, at least men of a type we had all encountered before; they were rationalizing men” (McRaney, Dumb, 20; emphasis added). That’s what we all are – rationalizing men and women. When confronted with beliefs that challenge the story we tell about ourselves, we rationalize them out of our way. “It’s part of life — watching other people lie to themselves to get by. Yet, when you do it, it gets swept under the mental carpet” (McRaney, Dumb, 21).

Our tendency toward bias should concern us, because bias is the handmaiden of hypocrisy, “the practice of claiming to have moral standards or beliefs to which one’s own behavior does not conform” (New Oxford American Dictionary). Politics makes otherwise decent people into unwitting hypocrites. We trash our opponents for ignoring the facts, we call them delusional — and then we turn around and play fast and loose with the facts ourselves to support our side. We look the other way rather than admit our own delusions and rationalizations. 

You won’t be surprised to learn that our tradition does not take hypocrisy lightly. In the rabbinic academy, hypocrisy was grounds for expulsion. Rabban Gamliel used to say: “No disciple whose inside is not as his outside may enter the house of study” (Talmud Berachot 28a; Book of Legends 695:59). According to another source, we have a responsibility not only to avoid hypocrisy ourselves but also to speak out against it in others: “One should expose hypocrites to prevent the profanation of the Name…” (Talmud Yoma 86b; Book of Legends 523:152). 

Most damning in rabbinic tradition about hypocrites is a parable about Rome and pigs: 
“Why is the kingdom of Rome said to be like a boar?” the sages ask.
Because like the boar, which extends its cloven hooves when lying down, as if to say, “See how kosher I am,” so the wicked kingdom of [Rome] robs and despoils, yet makes it appear that the legal tricks it resorts to are fair practice. 
It happened that a Roman ruler who kept executing men guilty of theft, adultery, and sorcery confided to his counselors: “In a single night I committed all three of these acts.” (Bereishit Rabbah 65:1, Vayikra Rabbah 13:5; Book of Legends 356:171)
In the rabbinic mind, Romans and pigs are the lowest of the low. Hence, so are hypocrites. They show their split hooves as if to say, “Look at me, I’m kosher!” — when in reality, “Surprise! I’m bacon.” 

We all do it. Maybe that’s reassuring? We’re all in this hypocrisy boat together. 
Once upon a time, a lapsed synagogue member ran into the rabbi in town and said, “I never go to temple. Perhaps you noticed that, rabbi?”
“Yes, I noticed that,” said the rabbi.
“Well, the reason I don’t go is because there are so many hypocrites there,” said the man.
“Oh, you shouldn’t let that keep you away,” said the rabbi, with a smile. “There’s always room for one more.”
It’s hard to rise above our psychological tendencies, but it’s not impossible. The first step is noticing we have a problem. It requires humility and inner strength to admit when we apply a different standard to ourselves than to others. Our sages said, “Reproach not your neighbor for a blemish that is yours” (Bava Metzia 59b; Book of Legends 695:48). In other words, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. My friends, we all live in glass houses, so let’s put down the stones, pick up a mirror, and do some honest self-reflection.

If our arguments are always zero-sum, with a winner and a loser; if political debates are less about truth and progress than about waving our group’s banner and circling the wagons; if ideas only resonate with us based on a gut judgment of the messenger rather than the merit of the message — then the future is bleak indeed. 

So when you find yourself thrust into a knee-jerk reaction to an idea someone lobs your way, try to step back and ask yourself, I’m reacting viscerally to this argument, but what do I really believe? Do I like or dislike this idea because I think it’s true or false, or because it confirms or denies my narrative about myself and the world? Can I fully explain my opponent’s position – or even my own?

And if you’re ready for advanced placement, try this: next time you get into a heated argument with someone, switch sides with them. Each of you argue the other’s position. You’ll quickly see how well you really understand your opponent’s case, and if he/she gets yours. And you’ll get to hear what your argument sounds like coming back at you.

Learn to love critique and correction. In the words of one psychologist: “In science, you move closer to the truth by seeking evidence to the contrary. Perhaps the same method should inform your opinions as well” (McRaney, Smart, 31). 

Maybe the best way to combat your hardwired bias and hypocrisy is by changing the story you tell yourself about your identity. Start to see yourself as not simply a good liberal or good conservative, but as an independent thinker – or as a liberal or conservative who wants to understand the other side. Cultivate that identity. Tell your friends so they can hold you accountable. Then, when your knee-jerk reaction kicks into gear, the identity it bolsters will not be partisan faithful, but rather intellectually honest, critical thinker. That may allow your rational brain to do its job better – namely, to sift through available evidence and make a reasoned judgment.

It won’t be perfect. We are only human, after all. But it’s worth the effort. In fact, our ability to grow as a species and confront the challenges in our future depends on our capacity to think more honestly about how we think. You may even learn something new along the way, find wisdom in an unlikely source, connect with someone you’d previously dismissed as having nothing in common with you. That makes a for a better story to tell about who you are, doesn’t it? 

Think about it.

Sources and Recommended Reading

Special thanks to Maurice Emmer, raconteur extraordinaire, for supplying comic material.
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Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Architects of Sacred Time

Rabbi David Segal
Aspen Jewish Congregation
22 August 2014 • Parashat Re'eh
Natasha Kotzubei Bat Mitzvah
Pelican Hill Resort • Newport Beach, CA



In a setting like this, it's easy to feel like you're away from it all. Beautiful spaces, the ocean view, the food and drink – it all makes this like a paradise village. In places like this, you can really feel the transcendent.

That's why, I think, in this week's Torah portion God is so worried about the sacred sites of the tribes living in Eretz Yisrael, and commands the Israelites to destroy them all, "on lofty mountains and on hills or under any luxuriant tree" (Deuteronomy 12:2). There's an anxiety that we will start to worship them, as in, all hail the god of Pelican Hill! I'm joking of course, but breathtaking places and spaces do something to us, something profound. The setting matters.

Our tradition often pictured God in a Palace, because in the ancient mind, the most powerful thing was a king. Preparing for entering the Promised Land, the Israelites receive the command not to worship any longer however they please, wherever they please. Now it's time for a temple, THE Temple, centralized in Jerusalem. One true palace for the one true King.

But the Israelites and we Jews also learned the hard way that palaces crumble over time, and they can be destroyed. So we learned a new way to meet God, to connect spiritually and in community.

It's how Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel described Shabbat: building a palace in time. Making the effort to set aside a moment and to invest the intention to make it as transcendent in time as a palace is in space.

Space matters, too. Don't get me wrong. Coming here to mark this life cycle milestone makes it special, sacred, memorable. We can create a feeling here that is unique to this special place. The challenge, then, is how to sustain and cultivate that sense of the sacred, so immediate here, in our everyday lives.

A Hasidic rebbe once taught: just as, when looking at a beautiful mountain (or ocean view), a mere thumb placed in front of the eye can block the whole thing from view – so too does our every day routine obscure the holiness that surrounds us in every moment.

And so, an invitation, a challenge, for all of us: can you be so present this weekend, as witnesses to the miracle of this threshold moment in Tashi's life, that the sacredness of it continues to resonate throughout the next week, month, year, more? Can we, inspired by this palace in space, learn to be architects of sacred time, building a palace where we can dwell in holiness no matter where or when we find ourselves?

Shabbat shalom. May we find peace and wholeness together this weekend, and may we carry it with us when we leave this place.
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Friday, July 25, 2014

Some thoughts about Israel

Rabbi David Segal
Aspen Jewish Congregation
July 25, 2014 • Parashat Masei

I have been reticent to speak or write about the current situation in Israel. In trying to articulate exactly why I've been so hesitant, I came up with three reasons. There may be more.

First, it is still very emotional for me. Every time I read about the conflict, in particular about casualties, it touches an already raw nerve. I'm usually a news fiend, checking Facebook constantly to see what people are reading and posting and discussing, but I've had to stop. 

The second reason has to do with what typically happens when we talk about Israel. If you saw the Daily Show recently, you know what I'm talking about. Jon Stewart started to speak to his previous coverage of the Israel/Gaza conflict, but as soon as he uttered the word "Israel" or "Hamas", four other correspondents jumped up around him and shouted him down. That's often what it feels like to talk about Israel these days. It's less an exchange of ideas and more a series of emotional outbursts. There has been so much nastiness and misinformation online, too, and especially on social media. Friends I otherwise respect have posted Facebook updates that make me angry and concerned. Yet another reason I've had to take a hiatus.

Third, it often feels like I have nothing to add to the whirlwind of punditry and journalism that publishes opinions and reports on the conflict every minute. Either I'm saying what's already been said, or I'm saying something that will be obsolete momentarily.

In spite of these reasons, I want to share some thoughts with you tonight, to give you a sense of how I've been thinking about Israel and the conflict. I share these thoughts not because I expect you to agree. Perhaps you will find something in my words that resonates with you. Perhaps you will, in reacting against what I say, clarify how you think and feel.

First: there is no question in my mind that Israel is justified in using force in its own defense. I feel that's especially true given the revelation of the Hamas tunnel network, and their plan to send Hamas fighters dressed as IDF soldiers into Israel to massacre Israelis. [Since I wrote this, new details have come to light – surprise – indicating that Israel knew about the tunnels for about a decade already. Read J.J. Goldberg's round-up of Israel news on the topic here and here.]

Second: there is no question that civilians are dying in Gaza. Saying that and feeling deeply saddened by it does not undermine Israel or our support for Israel. Rather, it confirms our humanity. And there's no way we can credibly claim the moral high ground, as we like to do in this conflict, unless we care about Gazan civilian deaths.

Third: Yitzhak Rabin used to say, "We shall fight terror like there's no peace process, and pursue peace like there's no terror." As far off as peace may seem right now, I do stand with Israel and the USA in continuing to aggressively pursue a negotiated resolution. If we stop aspiring to peace, even in the midst of war, then what have we become? Power and self-defense are not ends in themselves. Israel exists both to protect Jewish lives and to cultivate a nation rooted in Jewish values. Let's stay committed to both and resist the false choice of taking only one or the other.

Fourth: In this week's haftarah, Jeremiah denounces the Israelites' idolatry and blames that for their defeat by foreign powers. This is a classic move by many of our prophets. Jeremiah castigates Israel for trusting in "wood" and "stone" – that is, the works of their hands – rather than the spirit of God. So even as I stand behind Israel's use of force in Gaza against Hamas – even as I support Israel being a sovereign power despite the cost of exercising that power, both for Israel's youth and for innocent Gazans – even then, I continue to stand behind the need for a peace process. Because, as strong and exemplary as the IDF is, military force is a necessary but insufficient tool for bringing a lasting resolution to this conflict. Let me say that again: military force is necessary but insufficient for bringing about a lasting resolution to this conflict.

Fifth: It is altogether fitting and proper (as a great American once said) to mourn Israel's fallen heroes. Some have suggested, in recent days, that American synagogues should read the names of the Gazans killed in the conflict when we say Kaddish as a community. I know this idea is coming from a goodhearted place, a humanitarian place, but it doesn't feel quite right to me. I believe there is a time and place for reading those names, each of them suggesting a story of loss and a family forever changed – a peace vigil, a news story, a worship service of their faith. But here, our first responsibility is to mourn our own, locally and globally.

Let that not be taken as a call to care only for Jewish lives, to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others. No. Quite the opposite. As we mourn our own, let it be a reminder that all humanity lives in concentric circles of loyalty and affection, starting with the self. Let it also remind us that empathy and care for the other start with proper care for the self.

As we mention these 35 names [the number has risen already since last Shabbat], let us also feel gratitude for their sacrifice on behalf of the Jewish people, for us. And let us feel responsible in our own ways to the greater good of the Jewish people (e.g. Stop the Sirens). May we honor their memories by working toward the peace they died fighting to achieve.

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Sunday, May 11, 2014

Proclaim "liberty" throughout the land...

Rabbi David Segal
Guest Sermon
Aspen Community United Methodist Church
Sunday, 11 May 2014

“Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.” (Leviticus 25:10)

For all you American history buffs, this verse should ring a bell (sorry…). It was inscribed on the Liberty Bell in 1751, based on the King James translation of Leviticus. The Liberty Bell wasn’t known by that name until a group of abolitionists named it in the 1830s. The bell’s symbolism resonated with their mission to abolish slavery and thus “proclaim liberty throughout the land.”

It’s a beautiful message and a powerful symbol of our nation’s values. Only one problem: it’s not a very good translation of the verse in Leviticus. It is rather an example of something we are all probably guilty of in one way or another: taking a Bible verse out of context to express an idea we care about, with little sensitivity to the original intent of the text.

The verse appears in Leviticus in this past week’s Torah portion (B’har), which we just read in my congregation on Shabbat. It’s part of the description of the Jubilee year. 

First we hear the rule about the farming Sabbath: just as we must rest on the seventh day, so too shall our fields rest in the seventh year. It’s a Shabbat for the land, known as Shmita. No reaping allowed, although whatever grows naturally may be eaten by us, our servants, our laborers, and our animals. It feels like letting the land return to a state of nature, living for a year as gatherers who depend on the land rather than as farmers who dominate it. Perhaps it’s a way of expressing gratitude to the land for its sustenance, and to God.

One commentator I came across finds another message in this Shabbat for the farmland: “Sometimes the wealthy don’t believe that poor people are actually suffering, suspecting that they are just too lazy to provide for themselves. Let the wealthy undergo the experience of not knowing whether there will be enough to eat, and their attitudes will change.”

This economic justice context frames the appearance of the Liberty Bell verse. Moving from the Sabbatical year to the Jubilee year, the text tells us to count off seven weeks of years –seven times seven, or 49 years. Then in the 50th year, on Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), sound the shofar and observe the Jubilee. (The word Yovel, Jubilee, comes from the word meaning ram’s horn.) In that special year, not only is there no sowing or reaping, but there is also to be d’ror proclaimed throughout the land. The King James and Liberty Bell translate it as “liberty,” but that’s not exactly right. More accurate would be, “release.” The text continues: “Proclaim release throughout the land… and each of you shall return to his holding and to his family” (Leviticus 25:10).

So what is this “release” and “returning to holdings”? It refers to people “evicted from their homes and farms due to foreclosure” (Etz Hayim, p. 740, note on Leviticus 25:10). In other words, every 50 years there is to be a radical release from debt, a systematic loan forgiveness program, and an undoubtedly inconvenient process of people moving back to their original homes.

Jewish tradition has a complicated relationship with this law, because it presents a hardship for farmers, not to mention landlords and lenders. It throws real estate into confusion every 50 years – can you imagine instituting that rule here in Aspen! To make it simpler, the law has been interpreted as applying only in the Land of Israel. The rabbis found other ways around the hardship, for example by permitting Jews to sell their farmland to non-Jews during the seventh year so it could continue to be plowed, and then to buy it back after the shmita year ends.

These laws and loopholes got me thinking about the conversation going on in our country now about the economic challenges we face. In particular, there is a hardening of opposing views in an increasingly divisive political arena. On one extreme we have liberty being defined as getting the government out of our lives and out of the economy; on the other extreme, there’s a call for radical redistribution by government intervention. Not only do we disagree on how to alleviate poverty, but it seems like we can’t agree on whether it’s even our responsibility to address it.

On this question – if you’re a religious Christian or Jew, if you take the Bible seriously – then there’s not much room for argument. Our traditions and our God demand that we care for the poor and address economic injustice. I know we are gathered here in a Methodist Church being addressed by a rabbi, but Pope Francis has much to teach us in this regard. He has been a godsend by refocusing the Catholic Church back on the authentic biblical legacy of care for the poor. He even tweeted last month, in Latin, Inequitas radix malorum – “inequality is the root of evils.” Since his election, he has been pushing an anti-poverty agenda and criticizing capitalism to a surprising degree. The point is, you can disagree with his proposed solutions, and even with his diagnosis, but not with his emphasis. We should be talking about this problem, of the great disparities in poverty and wealth, of systemic inequity and economic injustice. These are global problems, moral challenges that confront us as Christians, as Jews, as Americans, as citizens of the world.

It is possible to rise above the partisan bickering, hard as that is to imagine. For one example, let us turn to Israel, and new Member of Knesset Ruth Calderon of the Yesh Atid (There is a Future) party. Calderon is a Talmudic scholar and founder of a groundbreaking “secular yeshiva” – a place for Israelis of all religious backgrounds and beliefs to come study Torah, to learn the tradition, to benefit from its wisdom. Calderon is applying the spirit of the law of shmita and jubilee, of letting the land rest and releasing debts, to contemporary Israeli society. She has called on other Members of Knesset to make the Shmita year 5775 (starting September 2014) a year of meaningful activism, awareness, and responsibility.

She is advancing an economic recovery program, in which Israeli families in dire financial need are selected for help. Then, through a public-private partnership, the families will get debt forgiveness and help with loan restructuring and repayment. Banks will cut interest rates, government subsidies will provide some aid, and the families will be required to pay off part of the remaining debt themselves. It’s a practical and compassionate solution, rooted in biblical values, and transcending the usual mire of left vs. right politics. I started to do a thought experiment about the US Congress undertaking a similar initiative… but it got so depressing I had to stop. Still, I believe there is hope, as far off as it may seem at times. 

A few verses after the jubilee, we read God’s words: “the Land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me”(Leviticus 25:23). What would our politics, our business, our everyday lives look like if we lived as if we were merely sojourners here? If we saw ourselves as stewards of this place, responsible to an eternal presence much greater than ourselves? 


This perspective doesn’t dictate any one political solution but rather an attitude, a spirit in which we should approach our neighbor, and our social problems. In the end, the Bible doesn’t call us to be a Republican or a Democrat, or to support the nuts and bolts of one economic policy over another. It charges us to be responsible, humble, and grateful. It demands that we care, and that we act.
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Friday, March 21, 2014

"Cowboy's Prayer" by Badger Clark

I heard this a few weeks ago at a local funeral and was very moved. Thought I'd share it.

A Cowboy's Prayer
Badger Clark (Written for Mother)

Oh Lord, I've never lived where churches grow.
I love creation better as it stood
That day You finished it so long ago
And looked upon Your work and called it good.
I know that others find You in the light
That's sifted down through tinted window panes,
And yet I seem to feel You near tonight
In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.

I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,
That You have made my freedom so complete;
That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell,
Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street.
Just let me live my life as I've begun
And give me work that's open to the sky;
Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,
And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.

Let me be easy on the man that's down;
Let me be square and generous with all.
I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town,
But never let 'em say I'm mean or small!
Make me as big and open as the plains,
As honest as the hawse between my knees,
Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,
Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze!

Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget.
You know about the reasons that are hid.
You understand the things that gall and fret;
You know me better than my mother did.
Just keep an eye on all that's done and said
And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside,
And guide me on the long, dim, trail ahead
That stretches upward toward the Great Divide.

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Sunday, March 16, 2014

Purim: On Bending the Rules

Rabbi David Segal
Aspen Jewish Congregation
Parshat Tzav • Purim • 14 March 2014

Consider the following two statements: 
• “That new rabbi is really assertive.” 
vs.
• “That new rabbi is really bossy.” 

In your mind’s eye, was there a gender difference between the two, assertive and bossy? If Sheryl Sandberg is right, there was: women are called bossy; men are assertive. 

Sandberg’s view has gone viral with the success of Lean In, her book on women, the workplace, and leadership. She is on a mission to strike “bossy” from our vocabulary. As a word, it is used not merely to describe, but to deride and marginalize women.

Writing today in Tablet Magazine, Rachel Shukert offers a tongue-in-cheek counterproposal to Sandberg’s anti-“bossy” crusade. We will still need, she asserts, a word to describe people like that – people who look over our shoulder and dictate how we should be doing things – you know, backseat drivers. Let’s follow Sandberg’s lead, she says, and choose a word that doesn’t have all the anti-feminist baggage of “bossy”, but rather “merely” some anti-Semitic resonance: how about “pushy”?

She explains, 
It’s a word mainly applied to things like jostling for bar mitzvah dates and looking for loopholes in medical-school applications, and you know what? I say we give it back to the world. True, it’s not a perfect synonym for “bossy,” but it’s close enough, and once it’s everyone’s, it’s no one’s. Maybe this time next year [since we’ll have reappropriated “pushy”], we’ll be debating a new term for the person cutting in line at Bloomingdale’s –for example, “Jewish.”
Every year, Purim confronts us with a story of gender and power, of blurred identities, of leadership that is either bossy and pushy or bold and assertive, depending on your perspective.

This year, as Batya Ungar-Sargon reports, two viral Purim videos from Orthodox corners of the Jewish world made their own gendered statements about this holiday. One, a parody of “What does the fox say?” entitled “What does Haman say?” casts the Haman-Mordechai conflict as the central narrative of the story. Esther has barely a bit part and doesn't speak at all. 

Another, entitled The Story of Lester, removes Esther entirely. In this hour-long computer-animated tale, a young yeshiva boy who is responsible for producing his shul's Purim spiel hits his head and time travels back to ancient Shushan, on the eve of the Purim events. Knowing the ending, he warns Vashti what will happen to her if she doesn’t obey the King – so she isn’t banished, and Esther never appears. It’s Lester’s job to save the day.

In both stories, anxiety about a female heroine – for whom, lest we forget, the biblical book and the ritual fast are named – prompted the substitution of male characters (in Lester’s case, quite literally) for Esther’s queenly leadership. But as the article points out:
...any child who understands the bare minimum of the holiday’s text—the Megillah—will be forced to confront the gloriously discomforting fact that a woman with power was given her own holiday. And not just any woman; a woman with what can only be called sexual power becomes a leader of her people by using said power to save the Jews. So while we might (please, let’s!) debate whether the text is a feminist text or not, there is no question that the text is not only about female power, but about...canonizing it.
She goes on to warn readers that if they are deeply concerned about exposing their children to this discomforting, gender-role-bending, provocative story – then they definitely shouldn't go to shul on Purim.

And especially not to OUR shul, where we’ll be taking the gender-bending theme to a whole new level… It’s not just for the cheap thrill of seeing a man in a dress or a woman in a mullet wig (although that may be worth the price of admission). There’s something deeper going on that gets to the heart of what the holiday of Purim is all about.

When we talk about gender-bending, we are talking about bending the rules. In this case, rules about gendered clothing. Tomorrow, when you see men in skirts, and women with mustaches, you may be both amused and somewhat uncomfortable. That’s because of how deeply we have internalized our culture’s rules about gender identity and presentation.

This is true any time we bend the rules. It is destabilizing, even threatening. It invites chaos, anarchy. It might just feel wrong. But when we dwell in that discomfort, we can begin to learn the powerful lesson of Purim. 

Jews are a people of rules. We have a tradition of halakhah. We have 613 mitzvoth. This week’s parashah, Tzav, contains detailed rules upon rules about making sacrifices. Mitzvoth pervade our tradition – and mitzvoth are good! They define our relationships to God and others, they teach us our obligations to the world and ourselves, they allow us to maintain a functioning society and enforce justice, they train us to walk in the ways of righteousness. Mitzvoth and halakhah are paths to goodness.

Except when they aren’t. As with most things in our world, even mitzvoth, even rules, can become idols. They can become ends in themselves, disembodied from the real lives and situations they affect. When we become too fixated on rules, too obsessed with the letter of the law, we risk losing its spirit. We compromise our humanity. Rather than paths to righteousness, rules can become obstacles to what really matters. They cause us to forget that every human being is a unique soul, created in God’s image, who often doesn’t fit the neat categories that the law or social convention lays out for us.

And so on this day of Purim, we bend and suspend the rules. We dress up (and perhaps cross-dress). We get rowdy (and perhaps tipsy). It’s like Thomas Jefferson said (although he wasn't talking about Purim): “I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical” (letter to James Madison, 1787). Well, it’s necessary in the religious and spiritual world as well. For one thing, a night of irreverence helps us celebrate and laugh as a community, and that’s a holy thing. Everyone’s soul has wounds and dark places that welcome the soothing light of laughter.

But it’s not that alone. Purim’s suspension of rules, its blurring of lines, should shake us out of complacently following rules without minding their purpose. It should ease our fear that the sky will fall if things aren’t always “by the book.” No one’s going to get struck by lightning because a man wears a dress and heels, or a woman puts on a fake mustache. 

Of course, it’s not just about breaking down traditional gender roles. It’s about seeing all people for who they are beneath all the layers of stereotype and artifice that culture and religion and good manners impose. Purim is trying to teach us to see past disability, language, faith, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, political party, age, intelligence, net worth – all the ways we let ourselves be defined and define others – too look past those things and really see each other as a neshamah kedoshah, a sacred soul with its own God-given dignity.

Don’t worry though, the only stripping we’ll be doing tomorrow during the spiel is the stripping away of preconceived notions, of judgment, of insecurity. In Purim’s perfect irony, we dress up in costume to dress down our shortcomings. We put on masks in order to really see each other. And in light of the very serious and difficult work we have to do, as individuals and as a community, to walk in God’s ways, we can’t help but laugh.

Shabbat Shalom, Chag Purim Sameach.
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