How Jacob and I became defenders of Human Rights

How Jacob and I became defenders of Human Rights

I was originally asked to speak about how I came to become an activist for human rights, as part of our anniversary celebration. Knowing myself, if I were to give you my journey, we would never have time for lunch or to hear from our Human Rights panel. So I have decided that what really matters is not how I got here, but where I stand today.

In July of 2018, when I was on sabbatical, I had a dramatic encounter with a human rights activist from Guatemala while we drank coffee at JP Licks on a hot summer day. Having spent four hours every day at BU in an intensive Spanish course, I was excited to practice my new skills and eager to prepare for my upcoming visit to Guatemala with the American Jewish World Service (AJWS) Rabbinic Global Justice Fellows. But my conversation with Claudia Virginia Samayoa (in English) taught me more than I learned in the classroom. I learned about the internal armed struggle in Guatemala. I learned about the oppression of indigenous peoples in Latin America that began with Cortez and continues today. And I learned that what defines the life of a human rights defender, above all, is not fighting our enemies, but wrestling with our own conscience.

Wrestling is a time-honored Jewish practice. Not many of Jews are wrestling on mats or in public arenas. Our wrestling is different. Internal. And we owe it all to Jacob.

At the beginning of this week’s portion, we read about Jacob’s dark night of the soul, when he wrestled with some unnamed figure, just before he gathered his courage to meet his long-lost brother, Esau, his rival, a man he had tricked and a man whom he feared so much that he fled to a foreign land where he married, raised a family, and remained for over twenty years. I would argue that the time Jacob spent in Haran contributed to a deep transformation that culminated in that night of struggle.

According to two contemporary commentators, Yossi Quint and Ariel Mayse, “Jacob’s internal wrestling match has changed him, preparing him to meet Esau in a new way. He has tended and healed the long-ignored scars of his past, and can make amends for an altercation from which he fled decades before. Indeed, since Jacob has struggled with the divine element within him and come to recognize that the same spark lives in others, he can greet Esau as a fellow traveler and not an adversary. Jacob is now ready to acknowledge that Esau’s face is also ‘the face of God’.”

In other words, Jacob changes from a selfish, cowardly creature who lives by avoidance and deception to become a defender of human rights.

Why would I call Jacob, Yisrael, the one who wrestles with God, a human rights defender? I draw on a rabbinic midrash (as Rabbi Shoshana Friedman explains, midrash is rabbinic fan fiction) based on the first verse that follows immediately after Jacob reconciles with his brother:

(יח) וַיָּבֹא יַעֲקֹב שָׁלֵם עִיר שְׁכֶם אֲשֶׁר בְּאֶרֶץ כְּנַעַן בְּבֹאוֹ מִפַּדַּן אֲרָם וַיִּחַן אֶת פְּנֵי הָעִיר:

"Jacob arrived safe in the city of Shechem which is in the land of Canaan-having come thus from Paddan-aram-and he encamped before the city" (Gen. 33:18)

In the Talmud, the rabbis imagine that וַיִּחַן “he encamped before the city” really means "He was gracious to the city." What could Jacob have done for the city of Shechem that was gracious? Rav said: He instituted coinage for them. Samuel said: He established markets for them; R. Yohanan said: He established baths for them" (Shabbat 33b).

This may sound like Jacob was a colonizer, taking over the city and creating his own institutions. The key to understanding what Jacob did is found in the Hebrew word, here translated as “instituted” or “established.” That word is tiken (as in Tikkun Olam): repaired. A Hasidic commentary points out that what Jacob did was not to create something, but to repair it. Because Jacob is associated with the quality of "truth," he restored integrity to a world that had been filled with lies and deception. He “repaired the coinage” meaning he regulated the financial system to rid it of dishonesty. He “repaired the markets,” meaning he restored integrity to commerce. And he “repaired the baths” not merely to ensure public health, but more importantly, that the people might cleanse themselves of their wicked ways.

Jacob not only changed his ways, but he saw beyond his own needs. He did not impose his will on others, but worked within the system as an ally: to restore honesty, integrity, and accountability to society. Because he had wrestled with his own fears and failings, Jacob began to see others, friend or foe, as fragile human beings, like himself. In that moment, he became a defender of human rights.

Meanwhile back at JP Licks, I was mesmerized by the wrestling of a very impressive human rights defender from Guatemala, Claudia Virginia Samayoa. Claudia had risked her life as a leader of UDEFEGUA, La Unidad de Protección a Defensoras y Defensores de Derechos Humanos, Guatemala (Unit for the Protection of Human Rights Defenders in Guatemala). Claudia had dedicated her life to protecting other human rights activists: the brave journalists, lawyers, judges, and grassroots organizers who had dared to stand up to the corrupt government of Guatemala and even put some of them in prison. Just as their lives were in danger, so was Claudia’s.

And now she was spending her summer in the US, as a student of Theology and Divinity at Boston College. While escaping the existential threat and the overwhelming stress of working in Guatemala, Claudia was taking time for her own internal struggle, specifically wrestling with questions of sin and forgiveness. What shook me up most about her story was the question she was studying: Does God punish sin or does God seek justice as a force for liberation? Just as Jacob had sought a blessing from his unnamed night messenger, Claudia seemed to be seeking my blessing, as she asked me directly and painfully,

“Can you call a soldier sinful if being a soldier is the only way he has to feed his family?”

Claudia was wrestling with the root causes of the civil war that had ravaged Guatemala for over forty years. Her approach to human rights work was grounded in moral courage. And at the same time, her vision of justice required seeing her enemy, the soldiers who violated her people, as human beings as well. Like Jacob, she was facing her Esau as a whole person, a person worthy of redemption, rather than punishment. Claudia sought to do tikkun, repair, for all the citizens of her country, to bring honesty and integrity to her land.

Though I have done my best to speak out against injustice and to defend marginal and invisible people in society, including tomato pickers in Florida, hotel housekeepers in Boston, dining hall workers on college campuses, or migrant workers on dairy farms in Vermont, I know that I am no human rights hero. Claudia, and many others like her I met last January in Guatemala, risk their lives in daily struggles to restore human rights in their country. And they do it with the understanding that for human rights to endure, our efforts must include compassion for every human, including those we fear. For it is only by facing the humanity within our enemies and oppressors, by recognizing their desire to live with honesty and integrity, that we have any hope of bringing lasting tikkun to our world. And that is a struggle not of one dark night, but a life-long quest that we move forward every day. May we all be worthy to be called Yisrael, those who struggle with beings human and divine, and may we ultimately prevail.

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

Shabbat Vayishlach

Human Rights Shabbat at Temple Hillel B’nai Torah

December 14, 2019

Kol Nidre 5780: Sustaining Ourselves and Being Renewed through Life’s Changes

Who remembers this old song?

Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.
Turn around, turn around,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.

 This song, written by the great Harry Belafonte and Malvina Reynolds, speaks to us of turning, which is also how we think of teshuva, repentance. But more to the point, during this season, when some families gather around sumptuous tables, and when other individuals are far from their families, when we sit in pews surrounded by the loving presence of absent parents and grandparents, or when we find ourselves in a new place with strange melodies and unfamiliar neighbors, when we open prayerbooks and hear the whispers of our loved ones—praying, questioning, kibitzing, or lamenting—during this season it is nearly impossible not to spend time reflecting on how our lives have turned, and how we have changed. We have grown up or we hope to grow up soon. We watch our children growing by leaps and bounds and our parents growing old. At this time of the turning of the seasons, we can’t help but wonder, what changes are yet to come?

 Several years ago, I gave a sermon about the lessons I learned about change when we had to replace the carpet in our house. From a mundane task, I mused about the ways we can experience change. But that was a well-planned change, something our family chose to do, and which we prepared for with eager anticipation and which was a source of pleasure.

 This year, I want to reflect on the changes we do not choose, that are not planned, and that are often a source of fear and worry.

I have in my phone a photo that epitomizes for me the drama of life’s changes:  my mother-in-law, unable to walk, sitting in her hospital bed this summer. In her arms, she holds my grandson, her great-grandson, both of them lovingly gazing into each other’s’ eyes.

 No great-grandparent ever held my own children. I myself had little to no contact with my grandparents. Two of them died before I was born, and the others lived far away, our conversations curtailed by the high cost of long-distance calls. My second grandfather died in New York City while I was in grade school far away in Kansas. I only have memories, from when I was seven, of a brief visit with him in a nursing home. The one grandparent I knew, my father’s mother, traveled from Florida to come to my bat mitzvah, and my last visit to her was during my college years. So the image of four generations together in one room struck me with profound joy and sadness all at once.

 What a marvel to watch my mother-in-law hold her five month old great-grandson: a miraculous bond between two souls, one opening to the world at an astronomical rate, the other desperately trying to avoid being shut off from the world. And I noted that in both instances, neither knows what changes lie ahead, or how straight or crooked the road will be to get there.

Many of us are in the mysterious and anxious stage of watching parents age, doing our best to make their lives comfortable and meaningful, some of us at a distance and others around the corner. Our parents are in hospice care. Our parents have suffered serious illness from which they have miraculously recovered or are deteriorating slowly. Some parents are active and independent while others are confined. Some of us see this from the other side. We are the oldest generation and we are part of that dance with those who care for us, perhaps our children, perhaps other relatives, or other caregivers. What we all have in common is that we do not know what will come next, but we fear that is more likely to be a crisis than a slow, peaceful end. We worry about the health and safety of our elders.

At the other end of the spectrum, many here are in the equally mysterious yet joyful stage of watching children of every age as they explore and discover the world and become the unique human beings that we can only hope will be loved and treated with respect. And we also worry about their health and their safety.

 A friend recently described the journey of raising children as like getting on a plane without knowing where you’re going to land. We don’t always end up at the destination we had hoped for.

 Truthfully, we are all constantly going through changes, living in the shadow of the unpredictable. And that is the heart of what I have been thinking about this past year. Change is inevitable. We try to plan for it. We seek to control it. Sometimes we are even fooled into believing that we have delayed it indefinitely. But whether we are caring for aging parents or for our children, or whether we ourselves are noticing the aging process in our own bodies and minds, the change is coming. In the words of the Israeli poet, Dalia Ravikovitch (translated from the Hebrew by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld) in her poem, Pride:

 Even rocks crack, I tell you.

and not on account of age.

For years they lie on their backs in

  the cold and the heat,

so many years,

it almost creates the impression of calm.

They don’t move, so the cracks can hide.

A kind of pride.

Years pass over them as they wait.

Whoever is going to shatter them

hasn’t come yet.

And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed is cast about,

the sea bursts out and slides back,

and it seems the rocks are perfectly still.

Till a little seal comes to rub against them,

comes and goes.

And suddenly the stone has an open wound.

I told you, when rocks crack, it happens by surprise.

Not to mention people.

 Unlike home improvement, most of the time changes take us by surprise. But the gift of being human is that we can prepare for how to respond to them.

 And isn’t that what these Ten Cays of Repentance are about? This time of turning, of trying to change ourselves can also be a time to consider how to respond to change, whether we seek it out or are surprised by it. As we retrace our steps, longing to discover where we went wrong, what we might have done differently, and how we might repent and repair, it’s also important to acknowledge that many changes arrive in a shroud of mystery. The answers, even in hindsight, are not always clear. How can we get past chasing our own tails, coming back to the beginning without reaching a conclusion?

 While health and safety are often paramount in our concerns, there are other important aspects of our changing lives, like developing resilience, creating and maintaining our unique identity, and sustaining our spiritual health that form the foundation for growing up and aging well. The Hasidic masters taught a spiritual response to change in three simple steps: Hachna’ah, yielding; Havdalah, discernment, and hamtakah, sweetening. Acceptance, exploration, and transformation.

 John Lennon famously taught us, “life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans.” He probably didn’t know the Yiddish expression, Mann trachut, un Gott lacht, man plans and God laughs. Acknowledging the inevitability that everything changes helps lower our resistance when it comes. Hachna’ah, yielding or accepting change, can help sustain us, whether we have lost our mobility, or are caring for a parent who is developing dementia, or embracing a child who has taken a different path than we had hoped.

 I like to call this step of acceptance “softening to reality.” Psychologist Marsha Linehan describes this form of acceptance as "the ability to perceive one's environment without putting demands on it to be different; to experience one's current emotional state without attempting to change it; and to observe one's own thoughts and action patterns without attempting to stop or control them." To soften to reality does not mean we give up, or that we stop feeling, or we pretend everything is ok. Rather, it means paying attention to those feelings as a way to understand ourselves. Knowing how we feel, we can begin to have compassion for ourselves, for our losses, and for our frailty. And I would add, all the more so when we are accepting someone else’s situation; we dare not try to change them or change their minds.

 In softening to a new reality, we can still ask questions. In fact, acceptance may even raise more questions than answers. What will I do now? Who will be there for me? What other changes may come from this? But there is one question that is not helpful in this situation, “why?” We can get stuck in the endless circle of why. Why me? Why now? “Why” can lead us deeper into our own dark place, a place of fear, anger, and isolation, while “what can I do now?” brings us back into the light. By softening to reality, we may find that instead of facing a dead end, we have been pointed in a new direction. The gift of hachna’ah, yielding, is that it allows us to continue to grow.

 When we begin to ask questions of the new reality, we can experience Havdalah, discernment or curiosity. Exploration and inquiry, whether into the situation or into our own thoughts and reactions, opens us up to see a bigger picture.  With discernment, we can replace fear with awe. We can channel our resistance into renewal.

 Years ago, my sister’s son, Chayim Zevi, was involved in a terrible accident. When he was eight years old, he was hit by a car and went flying into the air. He was rushed to the hospital with a cracked skull, a broken leg, broken nose, and broken jaw. It was terrifying. The doctors performed surgery to repair his broken leg and broken jaw. They also did a CAT scan, where they were grateful to learn that he had not had a concussion. But they did discover an undiagnosed brain tumor. After successful brain surgery, Chayim Zevi recovered fully from his injuries. Aside from needing regular MRIs, and an ugly scar on the back of his head, my nephew is now a healthy young man who celebrated his wedding three weeks ago. He is a remarkably joyful person, who lives life with gusto and a tremendous sense of awe and gratitude.

 As Rabbi Heschel has taught, “The meaning of awe is to realize that life takes place under wide horizons, horizons that range beyond the span of an individual life or even the life of a nation, a generation, or an era. Awe enables us to perceive in the world intimations of the divine, to sense in small things the beginning of infinite significance, to sense the ultimate in the common and the simple; to feel in the rush of the passing the stillness of the eternal.” (God in Search of Man) Exploration helps us cultivate awe and wonder, opening us further to new possibilities.

 Then we come to the third step, which can only come after softening to reality and discernment. That step is hamtakah, literally, sweetening. Like putting sugar in your tea, sweetening what is bitter holds the possibility of transformation.

 Sweetening can begin by telling ourselves a new story, opening a new chapter that changes direction from what came before. A child we hoped would go to college and get a degree has given us new eyes to see that her path is right for her. She has taught the value of patience. The experience of illness has allowed us to accept help from others who we did not realize were so kind, devoted, and capable. It has taught gratitude. Losing a high-paying job has opened our eyes to how miserable we have been, and given us the prospect of more meaningful work, despite the financial impact. It has taught abundance.

 When faced with the helplessness and despair of an unexpected change, we have the uniquely human capacity to awaken new ways of thinking. As we age and lose some capacities, we can ask ourselves: What can I still do? What do I enjoy? What do I have to look forward to? What wisdom can I share, what stories do I have to tell?  Our lives can become sweeter with the gifts of gratitude, of creating and nurturing our relationships, and finding pleasure in the here and now.

Throughout Yom Kippur, listen for the prayers for “chayim tovim.” Not just life, chayim, but chayim tovim, a good life.  It’s not enough to be written in the Book of Life to survive. Commentators often suggest that the image of God writing our fate in that Book is a metaphor which we can understand in a different way. As Maimonides teaches, people can be considered as dead even in their lifetimes because they do not understand what it means to be truly alive. When we read “Choose life!” in tomorrow’s Torah portion, it is a reminder that we have a choice about how to live. We may not have a say in why things turn out as they do, but we can choose to see a different path, to learn a different way of being, to tell a different story.

 Here’s another secret to responding to changes:  the more we cultivate these practices throughout our lives, the better off we will be when the rocks crack open. In explaining the biblical verse to follow the Torah and mitzvot in order to live, Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk teaches: “Do not wait to become pious when you are old.” Like learning to read and write, practices that lead to openness and resilience are tools that needs to be developed over time, beginning with early childhood and continuing as a life-long practice. Those who come to understand that we are not in control more easily navigate life’s changes.

 As Rabbi Rachel Cowan and Dr. Linda Thal describe in their book, Wise Aging, “[people who have aged well] have learned to be patient and trusting, though not passive—allowing events to unfold more slowly, accepting other people’s foibles and not rushing to judge or blame them. They are joyful, though not necessarily ebullient, so they find more to celebrate in the day.” (p.172)

 I have known many people with those qualities, and many of you are sitting here in this room tonight. You may be struggling with all kinds of worries, limitations, or challenges. You may live with a chronic illness, have suffered a terrible loss, or find a new challenge every day. Yet you find a way to see the world with eyes full of wonder and gratitude. You may observe Shabbat and pray regularly, or perhaps you don’t consider yourself religious. You might be the kind of person who when asked, “how are you,” responds “never better.” You have a gift. You are a joy to be with and an inspiration.

 And I know others who feel hopeless. You have suffered unbearable trauma. You may be laboring with unspeakable challenges. We dare not blame or judge you. Instead, on this Yom Kippur, praying together for chayim tovim, our words include all of us, and truly all of humanity, in that prayer, the prayer for a good life, that we might find a path to make the most of each day.

 As my teacher and colleague, Rabbi Richard Hirsh has written:

“Life is broken into discrete pieces, often experienced as a series of moments whose only connection is that they follow one upon the other. … We go through good years as well as difficult ones; we have some moments when we soar and others when we crash. We age, and as our experiences accumulate and the decades pass, we increasingly sense an urgency to tie it all together, to see the patterns emerge, to connect the dots. We seek meaning, both the meaning we create and the meaning we can discover.”

 Sometimes, when answers evade us, we are blessed to find meaning: the meaning we discover as well as the meaning we create. Through all of life’s changes, unpredictable as they can be, may our lives be sustained each day, with a sense of purpose, possibility, and meaning.         Ken yehi ratzon.

Rosh Hashanah 5780: Hearing the Call to Moral Courage

I learned about moral courage in a faraway land in Central America, in the midst of volcanos and coffee plantations. On a trip to Guatemala with the American Jewish World Service, I learned about moral courage from the lawyers of el Bufete Jurídico de Derechos Humanos who defend the human rights of indigenous people and who successfully prosecuted corrupt generals and presidents, despite threats from those very powerful men. I learned about moral courage from citizen journalists La Prensa Comunitaria who were threatened and even arrested for their online reporting of mass displacement of entire villages by corporate interests who rob indigenous people of their land, with the support of the government, for mining or drilling that deprives people of their livelihood and poisons the land. I learned moral courage from Anna Elizabeth and three other women who traveled 27 hours by bus to tell us how she stood up to her own father to be able to go to school, and how their organization, Nuevo Horizonte, taught them the skills to stand up to the male-dominated leaders of their town, to run for a seat on the city council, and fight to give women a voice and a budget for economic opportunity, for access to food and health care for women and children, and for an end to violence against women. I learned about moral courage from people who may never become famous or powerful, but who risk their lives every day to defend human rights in their homeland.

Each day when I wake up, I fortify myself with the stories of everyday people who choose to take a moral stand. Despite the risks to themselves and their families, despite the setbacks that lead to despair, despite the power of the government itself to shut them down, these people do not give in and they do not give up. In fact, when we asked them why they did it, many of them told us that for them, there is no other choice. Anna Elizabeth told me that they are planting seeds together and though she doesn’t know when they will bear fruit, she will die trying.

But we need not look to Guatemala for models of moral courage. Here in the United States, I recently learned of a journalist and two doctors who took risks to uphold the moral principles that were fundamental to their jobs.

Susannah Sirkin shared the story from Physicians for Human Rights, of two doctors who defied their superiors to tell the truth about medical conditions for immigrant children in detention. A year ago, Dr. Pamela McPherson and Dr. Scott Allen, who serve as subject matter experts for the Department of Homeland Security’s Office of Civil Rights and Civil Liberties blew the whistle on their own department in a letter to the Senate’s Whistleblowing Caucus. The doctors described cases in which children experienced severe weight loss, accidental vaccinations with adult doses, and dangerously slow medical attention.

Judith Levine shared another story of the son of a dear friend who gave up his job as a journalist a few weeks ago over journalistic integrity.

Jeffrey Dale, the copy editor of The Patriot Ledger and Brockton Enterprise, was reading over a story set to appear on the front page, titled ‘Braintree man accused of brandishing gun, yelling racial slur.’ Deep into the story, the editors had decided to publish a quote that spelled out the N-word fully in print. To give some context to this story, Dale said, “I have worked for six papers directly and hundreds of papers indirectly in my short 10-year career in the newspaper industry and I’ve NEVER EVER seen that word published in full.”

Seeking to change the published version, Dale tried to find out who made the decision and why, but all of the senior editors had left for the evening. It was at that point that he packed up his desk and quit on the spot.

As it turned out, within twenty-four hours the paper reversed itself and changed the online version. But at that point, this man with deep moral courage, decided that the decision reflected a serious problem at the paper, and as long as those decision-makers remained, he could not.

These brave individuals remind me every day how privileged I am. And they remind all of us that, despite the American insistence on profit and self-sufficiency, there is a moral bottom line. And that is the Jewish teaching that I believe is at the heart of what we are here for today.

To celebrate community in response to rugged individualism.

To care about people as well as profits.

To cultivate hope in place of helplessness.

To press for change in a time of challenges.

To take action in the face of adversity.

In these perilous times, when our rights are being violated, democracy is being hacked away, and leaders blatantly disseminate lies to win votes, when the American ideals of “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free” have been eradicated by leaders who keep children in filthy cages, without medical care to keep them alive and without their parents to give them comfort, and when our very earth is being stripped, poisoned, baked, and brutalized, we are called to uphold the ideals of respecting the dignity of human beings that is embedded in our Jewish souls. On this holy day, we must pray that we can face each day with the courage of our convictions, wherever we are called to make a difference.

Courage is a rare and hard-won commodity these days for most of us. This past year the Jewish community has collectively experienced a level of fear unheard of in my own lifetime. The deadly shootings at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh and at the Chabad synagogue in Poway, California, the arsons attempts at the homes of local Chabad rabbis, and threats from White Supremacist groups across the country reminded us that, yes, it can happen here.

We have been targeted because we are Jews. We have been targeted for our love of Israel (whether that love is expressed through critique or through wholehearted support). We have also been targeted for standing with immigrants. For standing side by side with Muslims. For daring to suggest that a growing unrepentant racism and xenophobia are reminiscent of Germany in the 1930s. Our own president called us “disloyal.”

The times could lead us to retreat from our principles, to hide in our homes, to lock our doors in fear. Fear is a natural response to threats. But fear can also prevent us from taking any action, or it can lead us to act without judgement. Instead, I urge us all to carry with us the teaching of Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav. He did not say “do not have any fear at all.” Instead he proclaimed: V’ha’ikar lo lehitpached klal. What is essential is not to be overcome by fear.

Two years ago, I spoke of the importance of proudly resisting white supremacy and anti-semitism by courageously expressing our Judaism. That takes a certain amount of courage in itself.

Today, I urge each one of us to cultivate moral courage.

What is moral courage? In 1897, at the first Zionist Congress, Ahad Ha’am prophetically warned the gathering delegates that “the secret of our people’s persistence is that… at a very early period the Prophets taught it to respect only spiritual power, not material power.” 

The Jewish tradition offers a different lens on the world and our own place in it. We are reminded by the teachings of the prophets: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, Micah, that there is more to living our lives than amassing property, profits, and power. There is a different kind of power that has sustained our people through oppression, through poverty, and through exile. We have survived through spiritual power. And spiritual power comes from moral courage. Moral courage is the Jewish heritage and the Jewish legacy.

In the last century, at the March on Washington on August 28, 1963, Rabbi Joachim Prinz, who had come to the US in the 1930s from Germany, who was a longtime defender of civil rights and an organizer of the march, was invited to speak. You may not remember him or his words. He came to the podium in front of the Lincoln Memorial immediately following Mahalia Jackson singing “How I Got Over,” and just before Martin Luther King delivered his famous "I have a dream speech."

Rabbi Prinz declared:

“I speak to you as an American Jew.

“As Americans we share the profound concern of millions of people about the shame and disgrace of inequality and injustice which make a mockery of the great American idea.

“As Jews we bring to this great demonstration, in which thousands of us proudly participate, a two-fold experience -- one of the spirit and one of our history.

“In the realm of the spirit, our fathers taught us thousands of years ago that when God created man, he created him as everybody’s neighbor. Neighbor is not a geographic term. It is a moral concept. It means our collective responsibility for the preservation of man’s dignity and integrity….

“When I was the rabbi of the Jewish community in Berlin under the Hitler regime, I learned many things. The most important thing that I learned, in my life and under those tragic circumstances, is that bigotry and hatred are not the most urgent problems. The most urgent, the most disgraceful, the most shameful and the most tragic problem is silence.

A great people which had created a great civilization had become a nation of silent onlookers. They remained silent in the face of hate, in the face of brutality and in the face of mass murder.

America must not become a nation of onlookers. America must not remain silent…”

Every time I read these words, a chill of recognition runs through my veins. These words touch every fiber of my being. They call me to make my voice heard. Rabbi Prinz has described the difference between courage and moral courage.

One need not be a famous rabbi preaching on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to have moral courage. Any one of us can face a moment when we feel called to speak out, called to act. In the story of the Exodus, our tradition tells a story of an average man, Nachshon, who demonstrated moral courage. As you may recall, the Israelites stood in a quandary at the edge of the Red Sea, with Pharaoh, his army and his chariots approaching from behind, and the uncrossable sea blocking their way forward.

According to the midrash, Nachshon came to a decision. The decision would not guarantee their survival. Both ways, going back or going forward, threatened certain death. While others argued, while Moses prayed, Nachshon made a choice. He stepped into the water. Then he walked into the water. He kept walking until the water reached his nostrils, but he did not back down. He did not give up. And at that perilous point, the sea parted and the entire Israelite nation moved forward.

Where did Nachshon think he was going? He used his moral compass. He refused to go back to Egypt, refused to submit to Pharaoh, refused to surrender his dream. He moved forward. He set his sights in front of him, not into the sea, not across to the other side. Nachshon’s compass pointed him to the only destination that the people had ever set: toward the Promised Land. It was that principle that led him to make that fateful choice, to overcome his fears, to recognize that fear was not going away, but this opportunity might. In doing so, Nachshon chose survival of the spirit. And the sea parted because of him.

Some might say that Nachshon had faith, emunah. I would argue that it was not faith that drove him, it was faithfulness, amana. There was no guarantee that he would succeed. After all, even the Talmud says, don’t trust in a miracle.

Rather, Nachshon acted out of faithfulness to his principles. Everything that Moses had taught them hung in the balance. Would the people return to servitude? Or would they move forward to the Promised Land? In that decisive moment, Nachshon trusted in his moral and spiritual grounding, which gave him the courage to take the first step.

As a Jewish community we know our destination. We have a vision of where we want to get to, grounded in Torah and proclaimed by prophetic voices from Isaiah to Heschel: to a world of mutual and collective responsibility, a world of justice tempered by compassion. A world where everyone has access to health care and education, and where every child is treated as the most holy of all beings, deserving of every benefit to help them grow and thrive. A world where we cherish and guard and protect the earth. A world where we value teshuva—the capacity to change and grow, where we welcome the stranger, and where we pursue peace.

Nachshon knew, like Rabbi Prinz, that his action was not solely for his own benefit. If he was heroic, it was in order to lift up all the others surrounding him who needed a beacon of hope, so that they too would have the moral courage to step forward toward the Promised Land.

While the women of Nuevo Horizonte inspired me, they looked to our group of fifteen rabbis for inspiration as well. Watching our collection of women and men as we worked together as partners, they saw in us their own Promised Land. That memory, along with the stories of moral courage they told, obligates me to continue to lift them up, to magnify their voices, and to take risks myself. Though my words feel paltry compared to the life-threatening risks they take, I don’t hold back, because words do carry significance.

As we think about Anna Elizabeth and the human rights defenders in Guatemala, about Dr. Pamela McPherson and Dr. Scott Allen, the whistleblowers in the Department of Homeland Security, and about Jeffrey Dale, the journalist who would not put up with the implicit bias in his newsroom; as we hear the call of Rabbi Prinz and retell the story of Nachshon, my question for you today is this: What can you do to be courageous in the New Year? What is the Promised Land for you? What are the principles that you will think twice about before turning back?

If you need encouragement to take that first step, take to heart this poem by Rabbis Janet and Sheldon Marder. I will close with their charge for every one of us as we enter this New Year 5780.

Do not wait for a miracle

Or the sudden transformation of the world.

Bring the day closer, step by step,

with every act of courage, of kindness,

of healing and repair.

Do not be discouraged by the darkness.

Lift up every spark you can

and watch the horizon

for the coming of dawn.

Look closely!

It has already begun. 

Shanah tovah—may this be the year that our moral courage brings our world a few minutes closer to the coming of the dawn.

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

Temple Hillel B’nai Torah

Rosh Hashanah 5780

Teshuva, tefilla, tsedaka

Teshuva, tefilla, tsedaka—repentance, prayer, and generosity—help alleviate the severity of the decree.

In the Unetaneh tokef, one of the central prayers for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we can be easily distracted by the image of a stern deity meting out reward and punishment in the Book of Life. That image is terrifying and repelling to many of us. Yet we continue to sing those words while standing before the open ark. Why do we keep this in our liturgy?

I believe it hits a deep chord in us. At its heart, the prayer reminds us: I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, so what will I do with today?

Then the prayer answers that question:  Teshuva, tefilla, tsedaka. As my Reconstructionist colleague Rabbi Richard Hirsh translates them: direction, reflection, and connection make it possible to live within boundaries not of our making and beyond our control.”

Whatever is to come in the New Year, and whatever trials we have weathered this past year, are mitigated by our overall approach to life.

The mitzvah that I’m focusing on for this week is the middle word, tefilla/prayer/reflection. We offer you several opportunities to enter into prayerful reflection in the coming week:

50th anniversary celebration of Temple Hillel B’nai Torah (Shabbat morning, 10 to noon followed by festive Kiddush)

Welcome guests who grew up at Temple Beth Hillel of Mattapan and Beth Torah of West Roxbury and learn about the history of the Jews of Boston. What is the legacy of these two congregations? What can we gain from the experience of those who grew up in these two communities?

Selichot program (Saturday night 8 to 10pm)

With our sister congregation Dorshei Tzedek, Rabbi Toba Spitzer will lead us in an exploration of the Jewish take on reparations, and Tracy Rich and I will lead a half hour of chant and meditation on the themes of the holy days. What is my purpose and what connections do I need to strengthen during the days of repentance?

Make Your High Holy Days Awesome (Sunday 10am to noon)

Bring your questions to all or part of this workshop on the themes, prayers, and practices of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  How can I deepen my experience of being in the synagogue, to get past boredom, confusion, vulnerability, and resistance to find meaning?

See the notices in the newsletter for details.

Shanah tovah – wishing you and yours a sweet New Year, filled with opportunities for direction, reflection, and connection,

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

Mitzvah of Teshuva

This being the first week of the month of Elul, in our countdown to the end of the Jewish year, the mitzvah this week is teshuva. Translated as “repentance,” the word stems from the Hebrew for “return.” Repentance lies in a process of returning to the scene of the crime as it were, returning to our best selves, returning to the people from whom we should ask forgiveness, and in other words, returning to God.

In the words of Rabbi Jack Riemer (one of the rabbis of Temple Beth Hillel* in its heyday):

God, help us to turn—

From callousness to sensitivity,

From hostility to love,

From pettiness to purpose,

From envy to contentment,

From carelessness to discipline,

From fear to faith.

Changing our ways begins with changing our attitudes. When we turn inward to understand why we make mistakes, why we harm others (whether intentionally or inadvertently), why we sin, we are at the beginning of the process of teshuva.

So for this week’s act of teshuva, I recommend thinking about one individual with whom you feel some sort of breach. It can be as small as feeling awkward to as large as feeling guilty. When you’ve identified that person, consider what happened in your own mind to lead to the breech. What role did you play? Consider how you can return to your best self, and imagine how that could bring healing to even a small place in your life. I recommend starting with someone you expect will accept you fully, as a rehearsal for the harder conversations.

When you are ready, reach out to that person. Send a note or an email. When you feel really ready to do teshuva, make a date to meet face to face. Do not ask forgiveness or apologize in writing, especially by email, unless you truly believe that the breach can be repaired that way. Better to look that person in the eye, have them see you fully, and be prepared to listen with an open heart.

This week, consider how to repair one relationship as an act of teshuva, an act of moving from a place of anger or fear to a place of true connection.

Wishing you an Elul full of connection!

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

*Beth Hillel and Beth Torah merged in 1970 to become Temple Hillel B’nai Torah, and this year we are celebrating the 50th anniversary of that merger.

Our mitzvah this week is to honor workers

In honor of Labor Day, our mitzvah this week is to honor workers. From the Torah throughout Jewish texts, moral and legal imperatives provide protections for workers.

We learn in the very beginning of the Torah that work is holy, creative, and blessed, and that work should also be accompanied by a day of rest. Yet many workers in America have no opportunity for rest. Many migrant workers who milk the cows on bucolic Vermont dairy farms, get no days off, ever. Many fast-food and big store employees have unpredictable schedules and never know whether they will have enough work to provide for their families.

In Deuteronomy, the book of the Torah we are currently reading, we are instructed not to oppress hired workers, whether they are “of your brothers, or of foreigners who are in your land within your gates.” (Deuteronomy 24:14). In today’s environment, many immigrant workers who keep our homes and businesses clean and produce much of our food, are fearful of detention and deportation, which makes them vulnerable to exploitation by their employers.

The next verse specifies that all laborers should be paid immediately, before the sun sets. There are plenty of workers today who don’t receive their paychecks when promised and often are cheated out of hard-earned wages. Coal miners in Harlan County, Kentucky have not been paid for their work for two months because of a bankruptcy filing by their employer, Blackjewel. Wage theft is an issue in Massachusetts too, particularly in construction.

It is a Jewish moral obligation, a mitzvah, to support workers in unfair power relationships with unscrupulous employers. Some of us are careful to treat our employees fairly and compassionately. For others, advocating for workers, standing on picket lines, and protesting may be regular, year-round activities. Here are a few ways everyone can make this Labor Day weekend an opportunity to do this mitzvah.

·       Remember that Labor Day is a holiday, so when you encounter a worker while shopping or eating in a restaurant or staying at a hotel, thank them for working. (Hourly workers should be getting time and a half, but it’s still time away from their families.)

·       Look cashiers and servers in the eye. Smile. Thank them.

·       Remember the “invisible workers” like hotel housekeepers, cleaners at your office or your gym, cooks, farmworkers, and so many more.

·       Leave a tip. Leave a better tip than usual.

·       Enjoy the Bread and Roses Festival and learn more about the history of working people in the US.

·        Read this Op-ed in The Forward (a Jewish online paper) from Ari Fertig, Executive Director of the New England Jewish Labor Committee (of which Ashley Adams and I are co-chairs).

·        Put September 28 on your calendar for Labor on the Bimah, with speaker Ashley Adams.

And if you are working on Labor Day, I’m sending you a smile and a thank you for the important work that you do. If you need support in your workplace please contact me or the New England Jewish Labor Committee.

Happy Labor Day!

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

Shabbat Shelach-Lecha: Journeys

As many of us prepare to go on summer vacation or to welcome summer visitors, the Torah gives us an inspiring send-off in this week’s portion. En route from Mt. Sinai to the Promised Land, the Israelites send out twelve scouts, a leader from each tribe, to investigate the land and bring back a report. It was somewhere between a reconnaissance mission and a tropical vacation:

They reached the wadi Eshcol, and there they cut down a branch with a single cluster of grapes—it had to be borne on a carrying frame by two of them—and some pomegranates and figs. (Numbers 13:23)

When they return, the scouts eagerly tell Moses, “We came to the land you sent us to; it does indeed flow with milk and honey, and this is its fruit.” (Num.13:27)

Just as God had promised, the land was flowing with milk (probably goat milk) and honey (many say it was date honey, not bee honey). If the scouts had ended their report there, the entire camp probably would have packed up and headed straight to their destination.

But.

The very next word is “However.” No matter how enticing the description of the land, regardless of the tangible fruits of the journey, ten of the twelve add their own contrary editorial slant. They claim that the land would be too difficult to settle. The people, fearful of the inhabitants of the land, refuse to move on. Long story short, the Israelites end up wandering in the wilderness for another 38 years (they had already been traveling for two). And all ten scouts who frightened the people off are doomed to die in the wilderness. Only Caleb and Joshua are privileged to live to enter the Promised Land, with Joshua as Moses’ successor.

My prayer for all of us is that we take the time to appreciate the fruits of our travels. Before you get to “However,” before revealing the uncomfortable plane ride, the inadequate accommodations, the rude guests, the poor weather—or whatever interfered with the “perfect” vacation you had anticipated—stop! Remember what a gift the vacation, or the visitors, have been. Give thanks for the good and hold onto it.

In the coming month, while I’m away from you, I will be doing a little traveling myself. Thanks to the Jewish Community Relations Council (JCRC), I’ll be on a trip to Israel with the Jewish Labor Committee and Boston-area labor leaders to learn about workers in Israel, visit Roots (a joint venture between Palestinians and Israelis in the West Bank), and see Israel through the eyes of first-time visitors.

At the end of July, we will visit Brian’s parents in Tucson, Arizona, along with Aviva and Colin. This will be my in-laws’ first meeting with their great-grandson.

And after that, I’ll head down to Immokalee, Florida for my annual visit to the Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) as we strategize the coming year’s actions for allies in the faith community.

I don’t think I need point out that July is probably not the best time to visit Israel, Arizona, or south Florida. BUT, I am eager enjoy the fruits of all of these journeys and perhaps, bring back a frame of grapes to share with you.

Have a good summer! Kayitz na’im,

Rabbi Barbara

Senator Ed Markey with AJWS staff Tracey Gurd, Rabbi Penzner, AJWS President Robert Bank, and Boston- area Rabbis Michael Rothbaum and Jill Perlman.

Photo courtesy of Chuck Kennedy for AJWS

Earlier this week I exercised my civic and sacred duty as a citizen of the United States to speak to our representatives in Washington, D.C. about issues of global human rights. Telling stories from our recent trip to Guatemala, of the Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh who are living in starvation, squalor and fear of returning to their home country, and of the chilling effect of the US Global Gag Rule (preventing any health care organization from providing, advocating for or even mentioning abortion) on the health of women and girls and LGBT folk across the world, we met with people who truly have the power to make a difference. With rabbis and staff of the American Jewish World Service (AJWS), we made 63 visits to our Senators and Members of Congress, as well as staff at the State Department and USAID. It was an important lesson in the power and responsibility of individuals living in a democracy, a topic I hope you will discuss with your children, and consider getting involved in yourself.

For those who have not yet heard what brought me to Guatemala and what I learned there, below you can read an op-ed that I have written to explain the crisis in Guatemala. Very soon I will recommend ways to make your voice heard on this, and on the other two issues..

In awe and gratitude,

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

There definitely is a national emergency—in Guatemala.  

What would you do if your own government evicted you from your home, destroyed your town, then chased you into the woods where soldiers pursued you and your family?

This happened to a Holocaust survivor in my congregation, who barely survived while the rest of his family was murdered in his Polish town. This also is the story of many people in Guatemala, who are on the evening news as they flee their homeland to seek asylum in America.

I witnessed these Guatemalans’ struggle last month on a study trip led by American Jewish World Service (AJWS), the leading Jewish organization working to end poverty and support human rights in the developing world. As part of the Global Justice Fellowship of AJWS, I was one of fifteen rabbis from the U.S. who spent a week meeting local heroes in Guatemala. We heard heartbreaking tales from civil society leaders, lawyers, journalists, midwives, and advocates for women’s rights. They each risk their lives daily.

Most Guatemalans can’t earn enough to feed their families. Nearly half of children age 5 and under suffer from chronic malnutrition.  In all, 11 million people, nearly 60 percent of the population, earn less than two dollars a day, according to the World Bank. And 23% live in extreme poverty, earning less than a dollar a day.

I was struck by the courage and commitment of the people we met. Even now, back in Boston, I am inspired by a young woman named Anna. She traveled 27 hours in buses to tell her story to us, a group of Jewish foreigners. In her region, women are not expected to get an education. Though she stopped going to school after fourth grade, the organization that Anna now represents helped her graduate from high school and get a degree. Today she fights to end violence against women and girls, and she works to give women job training and leadership skills. Because of her achievements, her father overcame his opposition to allowing her nine younger siblings to pursue an education.

Anna admitted that she has been tempted to leave for the U.S. because she can barely eke out a living. But she has decided to stay in Guatemala—she feels a duty to fight for rural women.

When I asked her what her dream job would be, she responded, “I would defend women’s rights, as I do now…only, I would get paid for this work.”

Unbeknownst to most Americans, the democratic government of Guatemala is quickly becoming a dictatorship. As a result, more and more Guatemalans will make the painful choice to leave their homeland, taking their families on the dangerous journey through our southern border in hopes of finding a better life in the U.S.

Guatemala lives with the legacy of a 36-year-long internal armed conflict sparked by a U.S.-sponsored military coup in 1954.  During the conflict, close to a million people were displaced from their homes, and 200,000 people were murdered or “disappeared.” And since a peace agreement was reached in 1996, Guatemala has faced rampant corruption and impunity for elites, politicians and perpetrators of war crimes.  

In 2006, an anti-corruption commission called CICIG was created by the Guatemalan government and the United Nations. Over the last decade it succeeded in prosecuting 310 government officials, military officers, and business leaders—including a former president. But while the overwhelming majority of Guatemalans support these investigations, the current president of Guatemala, Jimmy Morales—who is himself under investigation—expelled CICIG from the country last month.

During our visit to Guatemala City, thousands of protestors blocked roads and converged on the presidential palace. Everywhere we went, people warned that the president is undertaking a “technical coup,” quietly using the military to eliminate political rivals.

The individuals we met are taking great risks, not knowing whether they will see any results in their lifetime. They are planting seeds for a better tomorrow for their children and grandchildren, but those seeds will only able to grow and flourish in Guatemala if democracy is upheld. We must therefore demand that Congress and the Trump Administration put pressure on President Morales, standing up for democracy and the rule of law in Guatemala. We must recognize the true national emergency—the one in Guatemala.

Standing at the Bottom of the Mountain

A kavvanah for the last day of the AJWS Global Justice Fellowship in Guatemala

Rabbi Penzner invites members and friends to come hear about her trip to Guatemala

with AJWS and learn how you can defend human rights on

Thursday evening, January 31 from 7:30 to 8:30.

Please contact the temple office if you plan to come.

If you miss this date, there will be another session on Sunday morning, March 3.

After a week in Guatemala with the American Jewish World Service (AJWS) Global Justice Fellows, our circle of rabbis and staff spent our final moments together reflecting on the many powerful experiences we had shared and discussed how to bring them home with us. All week, we had connected those stories to the stories of the Book of Exodus, as we encountered courageous midwives and celebrated inspiring leaders who were fighting for justice. As we entered into this week’s Torah portion, Yitro, I felt a magnetic connection between the image of standing at Sinai and our time in Guatemala. That image provided a context for carrying the experience back home that I shared with my colleagues.

It certainly helped that on the horizon from our balcony at a lovely coffee plantation, we had a clear view of an active volcano. Like our ancestors who stood at Sinai, we saw it smoke and it filled us with awe.

The Torah tells us that the Israelites stood b’tachtit hahar—usually translated “at the foot of the mountain.” However in the Talmud one rabbi interprets the phrase literally, “under the mountain.” He explains that the Holy One lifted up the mountain and flipped it over like a tub, holding it over the people, saying “If you accept Torah, good, and if not, this place will be your grave.” And they responded, Na’aseh v’nishma. We will do and we will obey.

I’ve never liked this threatening midrash. Fortunately, neither did other rabbis in the Talmud. A second rabbi argued that this version implies that the Israelites were coerced into accepting Torah, thereby making our commitment to accepting Torah involuntary, Finally, a third rabbi countered that eventually, the Jewish people accepted Torah of their own free will in the Book of Esther. I remained unconvinced.

The Hasidic commentary from Rabbi Dov Ber, the Maggid of Mezritch, redeemed this midrash for me. The Maggid explained that the Israelites stood at Sinai in a state of expanded consciousness. They committed to Torah because, in that state, they were able to discern its deep meanings.

The problem is that the Israelites could not remain in that exalted state. (Mordecai Kaplan once said, “It is as possible to continuously believe in God as it is to stay continuously awake.”) After leaving Sinai, they were bound to fall to a lower rung of awareness. Thus the Holy One turned the mountain upside down and held it over them for a future time when they would need to be reminded of their commitment. With the mountain above them, they realized that when they are not at such an elevated state, they must recommit to Torah as if their lives depended on it.

The fifteen rabbis of the AJWS Global Justice Fellowship had a profound experience that enabled us to understand the deeper meanings of life in Guatemala. Looking beyond the obvious and simple explanations for historic injustices of poverty and violence, we absorbed the nuances and complexity of this land, its people, and its history.

As we return to our homes, when people need us and other pressing issues call to us, we must remember and recommit to sharing the stories and acting on behalf of the people of Guatemala, not because our lives depend on it, but because their lives do. 

We came to this country having prepared, as the Israelites did before receiving the Torah. We sprayed our clothes with insect repellent and took anti-malaria pills, we got our documents in order and read about Guatemala. We helped prepare those who stayed behind and who made our trip possible, by buying groceries and making lists, saying goodbye to children and partners and co-workers. We are grateful to them for continuing to do our work while we were away.

In Guatemala we witnessed the mountain smoking and heard the cries of the people, and were filled with awe and trembling. We also had intimate encounters with people, seeing their faces, entering their homes, and looking into their eyes. We have met them panim el panim, face to face as Moses spoke to God, and were filled with compassion.

We were not coerced to travel here. We came by choice. However, we met many people who have known coercion from their government and the military.

We left with deep gratitude to our leaders from AJWS, our Moses and Miriam and Aaron who guided and inspired us at every step.

We also expressed gratitude for the Torah we received from every person and organization whose heroic stories we heard in Guatemala. Their Torah is just as important as the Torah at Sinai. What is Torah, after all, if not the stories of people’s experiences passed down, not to think of them as ancient tales, but so that we can touch their experience? In the end, the values and teachings come from the same place.

And I am also grateful for the Torah of this remarkable group of rabbis. Rabbis who string words together like pearls. Rabbis who teach. Rabbis who tell stories. Rabbis who make us laugh. Rabbis who inspire. Rabbis who sing and rabbis who give us the gift of silence. And rabbis who pulled at our heartstrings and made us weep.

In a state of expanded consciousness in Guatemala, we came to discern the deeper meaning of human rights and of humanity. With that mountain above us, instead of na’aseh v’nishma, we committed to na’aseh venidaber: We will do and we will speak.

There is a Jewish tradition to say a blessing of thanksgiving when we embark on something new

I had the privilege on Wednesday of offering a benediction to close the opening session of the Massachusetts General Court (the House) on Beacon Hill. It was moving to be present for the swearing in of the members of the House, standing with the governor, our two U.S. senators, the mayor of Boston, and all of the House members, their families and invited guests. I was among four clergy who offered prayers for our Commonwealth  and its leadership from the Christian, Muslim, and Jewish traditions. The room was filled with a sense of new possibilities, and respect for the weighty responsibility of representing and serving the people of Massachusetts.

it was also a pleasure to be at the State House for my husband Brian Rosman's first day as legislative director for incoming Senator Jo Comerford, who was sworn in at the Senate opening. We stood in the newly-renovated Senate Chamber after the conclusion of the House ceremonies.

You can read my remarks below and see a video with an excerpt of the blessing. 

With hope and prayers for new beginnings for our Commonwealth and our country in this new legislative session.

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

There is a Jewish tradition to say a blessing of thanksgiving when we embark on something new. The blessing thanks God for giving us life, for keeping us alive, and for enabling us to be present at this moment. The moment that I know you are all grateful to reach is about to arrive: adjournment.

I thank you for remaining here, for being alive and awake right now.

We awakened today to a new year, a year full of promise, bursting with new vision for our Commonwealth, yet seething with trepidation for events beyond our control. With this new legislative year, one might harken back to Charles Dickens, “It was the best of times and it was the worst of times.”

For many who are prospering, this is the best of times. Yet there are so many problems that this legislative body needs to confront and address in this worst of times.

As a person of faith, at times like these I reach back into the bookshelves to find ancient words of prophecy for inspiration. In the words of the prophet Micah: Humanity, God has instructed you how to live: do justice, love compassion, and walk humbly with your God.

That’s all we need in this world. And as representatives of the people of this Commonwealth, these words should be as sacred as the oath of office you have taken.

As members of the General Court you are called to do justice.

Today you have sworn to bear true faith and allegiance to this commonwealth and to support the constitution. I urge you to use your days to bring justice, and to end injustice. Craft just laws, and enact them in a just manner.

You are called to love compassion.

Your constituents have placed their faith in you—including those who voted for you and those who did not. When they come to you to advocate for just causes, hear their stories with compassion and respond by tempering strict justice with mercy.

And you are called to walk humbly.

This may appear to be the most challenging instruction of all. Remember, you are servants of a higher calling. Whether you walk  humbly with your God, or with the people of Massachusetts, whether you walk humbly with what your parents and grandparents taught you or with the purpose and the principles that propelled you to seek higher office, remember to walk humbly with them. Seek out wise counsel, pay attention to colleagues and staff and constituents.  None of us can carry this burden of bringing justice and compassion to our world alone.

Do justice, love compassion, and walk humbly with.

I call on the Infinite Power of Justice and Compassion to bless these officers of the Commonwealth, their families, the staff, and all those who work in this building and all who work on behalf of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Imbue them all with your gifts of vision, justice and love, so that at the end of this legislative session, our people and our communities, our neighborhoods and homes, will rejoice and say wholeheartedly, yes, these are the best of times. Ken yehi ratzon. May it be so.

Amen.

To View the BENEDICTION

Opening Session of the Massachusetts General Court

January 2, 2019

To be Embraced Fully in Body and Spirit

A man went to see his physician because he wasn't feeling well. "Doctor," he said, "I am suffering from a dark and unshakable depression. Nothing I do gives me any relief. I am overwhelmed with pain and most days, I can't even make it out of bed. Doctor, what should I do?" The doctor thought for a moment then offered the following treatment plan. "This is what you need to do. Tonight, go to the theatre where the Great Carlini is performing. He is the funniest man in the world. He is guaranteed to make you laugh and drive away your depression." Upon hearing these words, the man burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably. "But doctor," he said, "I am Carlini."

This story sounds eerily familiar, reminding us of entertainers, like the late Robin Williams, who harbored such deep depression that they took their own lives. I share it to illustrate the way that mental illness can be invisible to outsiders. It also demonstrates that the ways that we choose to help others, even with the best of intentions, may have nothing to do with what a person truly needs.

I won’t ask people to raise hands, but I suspect that many, if not most of us, have encountered mental illness in our families. You understand better than most the stigma surrounding mental illness as well as the destructive impact of discrimination and of silence. Still, rarely do we feel safe enough to talk about the distress of people we know and love, or especially, our own struggles.

Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav suffered bouts of depression in the midst of his inspired leadership. He taught his followers, “Sometimes, people are terribly distressed but have no one to whom they can unburden themselves. If you come along with a listening heart, you uplift them and help them find new life.”

At our congregational retreat in June, a dozen adults gathered with a listening heart. We shared stories of our own experience with mental illness in our families. Parents who attempted suicide. Children who could not find a bed in a mental health facility. Siblings who required life-long attention and support. The open-hearted discussion reminded me of the heart-stopping Personal Offering that a mother gave several years ago about her son’s ongoing bouts of depression. She revealed that he had spoken of wanting to end his own life from the time he was four years old. Listening to these stories, our community can began to recognize how many of us know the frustration, pain, and helplessness of mental illness. Through these openings we begin to speak honestly and listen patiently. In these conversations we can bring light and comfort to the darkest corners of people’s lives.

This year Ed Levy invited Dr. Tanisha Pinckney to speak about the impact of the criminal justice system on people who have mental illness. She described how police can respond more effectively to someone who is acting strangely if they are made aware that the suspect has a history of mental illness. The difference can be a matter of life and death. Dr. Pinckney opened our eyes to look at mental illness in new ways.

In these perilous times, I sense a higher level of anxiety, depression, anger, and isolation among us all. Many of us are blessed to have support systems, spiritual practices, and the inner resilience to live our lives in tension with the never-ending cycle of breaking news and broken hearts.

For those of us without a diagnosis of a chronic mental illness, such emotional swings are often temporary. Grief, illness, and trauma can touch anyone, and yet we find ways to overcome them, or at least live with them.

Imagine how much harder it is for someone who is already living with social anxiety or chronic depression to “bounce back” after a day’s bad news? Imagine how much worse it is for those who live with the existential fear of being deported, or experience harassment and abuse for being gay or trans, and people of color who encounter racial profiling every day and live in fear of being shot, whether on the street or in their own home.

More than any time in my life, I believe we all need to be aware of the prevalence of mental illness in our midst. More than any other place, our synagogue, this holy community, should be vigilant in creating a safe space for people living with mental illness.

Because they are among us, whether we know it or not. One in five Americans experiences a form of mental illness in a given year. Severe mental disorders among youth between the ages of 13 and 18, is shockingly also one in five. Mental illness is the leading cause of disability in America today.

The Centers for Disease Control reported this summer that suicide rates are on the rise. More people die by suicide than in automobile accidents. Someone is twice as likely to die from suicide as homicide. Twice as likely. Children, veterans, and the elderly are particularly vulnerable. Worldwide, suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death for those aged 15-24 years. Among LGBT youth, three times as many contemplate suicide as their straight friends.

Experts tell us that 90% of those who take their own lives have suffered from mental illness, though many have not been diagnosed. We also know that proper treatment can prevent most suicides. Fully 80-90% find relief from their symptoms and pain through treatment, continuing to live full lives.

Unlike broken limbs, the flu, or a debilitating physical condition, mental disorders are often hidden from view. And we treat them differently. As a congregant of another local synagogue wisely noted, “When someone is in the hospital, we send them a brisket. We visit them. We check in on them after they get home. But when someone is at McLean (which specializes in psychiatric care) we do nothing.”

Mental illness is not a new phenomenon, but it has not always been hidden in the shadows. In our own tradition, we read of King Saul’s ruach ra’ah, the “bad spirit” that manifested in uncontrollable anger that led to violent eruptions against young David and against Saul’s own son, Jonathan. In the Torah, Moses himself declares to God,

"I can no longer bear the burden of this people alone...it is too heavy for me...Please kill me, let me no longer see my wretchedness."

Rabbi Elliot Kukla of the Bay Area Jewish Healing Center explains that, "What the biblical stories teach us is that mental distress is a natural part of human life and a part of every society. Surviving our own moments of emotional suffering and finding the strength to walk with others through incredible pain are ancient and sacred obligations."

Many of us who do not live with chronic depression or experience serious mental disorders are troubled, anxious, or depressed these days. Still, our own emotional turmoil can open our hearts in compassion to walk with those whose suffering and pain often take control of their lives.

It is not our community’s privilege to diagnose others. Just as we can’t set a broken limb or diagnose cancer, we are not equipped to provide therapeutic services. What then is our synagogue’s responsibility? What can we do?

One of my favorite verses in the evening service of Yom Kippur reads: Haneshama lach vehaguf p’olach, chusa al amalach

Our soul comes from you. Our body is your work. God of mercy, have compassion on us, the fruit of your labor.

Within our tradition we find confirmation that our physical and emotional selves are intertwined, equally in need of compassion.

Each time we offer the prayer for healing, the mi shebeirach, we acknowledge equally those who need healing of body and spirit—refu’at hanefesh v’refu’at haguf. We easily share that a certain individual is recovering from an accident, someone else had surgery, or another person has a terminal illness. And yet, when someone has been hospitalized for psychiatric reasons, how do we share that?

First of all, it is not up to us to decide. If we ask, those with a mental disorder will tell us how they see themselves and want to be seen.

For some, mental illness is a fact of life, something one wishes that others would simply accept. We want others to treat us with respect, without trying to change us or even expecting us to change. Others would rather not live with the illness and would love to be different.

In either case, we can’t presume to know what they need. Each individual may be doing everything he or she possibly can to attend to their mental health. Sadly, our health care system does not provide enough doctors, beds or affordable care for people with mental disorders. For example, only half of Americans who experience a serious episode of depression receive proper treatment.

Despite the wisdom I’ve received from congregants, teachers, and colleagues, I’m left with many questions.

How do we, as individuals, respond to people whose minds work differently from our own? Are they shunned? Ignored? Tolerated? Pitied? Embraced?

How do we respond when someone’s behavior frightens us?

Do we seek safety? Do we consider whether that person is in danger?

Do we ask appropriate questions? Inappropriate questions?

How do we respond when we hear of a diagnosis? Is it a relief, a comfort, knowing the source of someone’s words or behavior? Does it spur us to want to help, to fix, to direct? How can we be respectful of the different ways that individuals experience their diagnosis?

Can we learn to notice and hold back our own need to diagnose others, without having real expertise or direct understanding of the individual?

How can we be supportive without projecting our own needs on others?

When is it appropriate to help someone who is not asking for help?

And what are respectful ways to find out what people want?

Today I have more questions than answers. Fortunately, in the coming year our congregation has two opportunities to delve into these questions further and perhaps arrive at some answers. Thank you to Ed Levy for arranging for Dr. Tanisha Pinckney to return this year. Those who missed her last year will not want to miss her again.

I am also pleased to announce that Hillel B’nai Torah has been invited to participate in the Ruderman Synagogue Inclusion Project, in partnership with Combined Jewish Philanthropies. With the help of the Ruderman Foundation, we will consider what we need to expand our congregational resources to be more welcoming to people with all kinds of disabilities, mental illness included. We will begin by forming an Inclusion Task Force, a group of congregants and staff to do a thorough inventory of our synagogue’s strengths and weaknesses. Following the slogan from the disability community, “Nothing about us without us,” we invite anyone with an interest, especially those who are living with a disability of any kind, to volunteer for this task force. You will be hearing more about this soon.

Over the years, our congregation has laid the groundwork for considering how we welcome marginalized individuals. Members of Hillel B’nai Torah have engaged in multiple conversations about race, sexual orientation, and gender. Our school spent a year in a reflective process to better serve students with different abilities. These conversations have led to concrete and visible changes in how our synagogue looks, how our teachers teach, and how we talk about ourselves with honesty and ongoing self-assessment. These past experiences can help us enter into this new discussion with compassion, openness, and our accumulated wisdom to guide us.

Tonight I invite you to enter into this conversation. Quietly, in prayer, we can each begin a private internal dialogue with the Source who endows each one of us with a pure soul.

May the prayers this Kol Nidre night, cause our hearts to break open with compassion for the fragility of every human being. May we find the patience to listen, the attention to truly hear, and the genuine capacity to care. May we never lose hope of repair, reconciliation, and redemption.

Together on this holy night, pouring our hearts out to God each in our own unique voice, may we plant the seeds to cultivate a holy place where every one of us is embraced, body and soul.

Ken yehi ratzon.

Rabbi Barbara Penzner/Kol Nidre 5779

Mining our Tradition for Guidance in Tough Times

JUDAISM’S TOP TEN:
Mining our Tradition for Guidance in Tough Times

There was once a man by the name of Reb Isaac ben Yekel who lived in Cracow. He lived in poverty for many years, not knowing where his next crust of bread would come from.

One night, someone came to Reb Isaac in a dream, telling him to go look for a treasure under the bridge to the royal palace in Prague. Like most of us, when he awoke he forgot about the dream. After all, who doesn’t dream of riches? But when the dream repeated itself night after night after night, he decided to set off for Prague.

When he arrived there he saw that the bridge was heavily guarded day and night. Yet every day he returned to the bridge. Finally the captain of the guards asked him, “Why do you come to the bridge every day? Are you looking for something? Are you waiting for someone?”

Reb Isaac told them about the dream that had brought him from his village far away. The captain began to laugh. “You came all this way because of a silly dream? If I had such faith in dreams, I would have picked up and gone to Cracow because someone in a dream told me to go there to dig for treasure under the stove in the home of a certain Jew. What was his name? Isaac ben Yekel, yes that was it! I can just imagine knocking on the door of every house, where half the Jews are named Isaac and the other half are named Yekel.”

Reb Isaac thanked the guard, and hurried off to return home to Cracow. Sure enough, when he shoved the iron stove out of the way and began digging at the hard dirt floor he uncovered the treasure. With the money he took care of his family’s needs and then, out of gratitude, he built a synagogue there.

I offer this tale as a reminder of why we gather together in this synagogue, on this holy day in the Jewish year.

We come together on this first day of a New Year with a lot of hope. Hope to be embraced by community. Hope to be inspired by meaningful stories and teachings. Hope to quell the anger and to dispel the despair.

And we return to dig under our own Jewish stove, to find answers in our texts and in our past. Today we will take a look under our stove, to dig into one of the most quoted and least understood of all biblical texts: the Ten Commandments.

Do you ever think about them? Are they important to you?

Can you name them?

Or are they so obvious or so unchallenging or so antiquated that they are meaningless to you?

Let me share two things you may not already know about the Ten Commandments. We don’t know that there are ten. And they are not commandments.

The Torah itself does not count them. It never evens acknowledges that there are ten of them. That accounts for the variant traditions between Jews and Christians of how to divide them.

In Hebrew we call them Aseret hadibrot, meaning, Ten Utterances. They are not mitzvot, not commandments. Dibrot comes from the same root as dvar, as in dvar Torah. Davar is a word, and a dvar Torah is a word of Torah. And these Aseret hadibrot are essential words.

I have drawn on the help of two 21st century teachers, Dr. Jeremy Benstein, Associate Director of the Heschel Center for Environmental Learning in Tel Aviv, and Ana Levy-Lyons, author of No Other Gods: The Politics of the Ten Commandments. Digging into the meaning of Aseret Hadibrot, both of these scholars interpret this fundamental Jewish text, not simply as a list of do’s and don’ts, but as the very foundation of a sustainable life and a sustainable world.

So imagine today that you are standing at Mt. Sinai. The ground is shaking, the lightning is flashing, the shofar is sounding. Hear these words again, as if you have never heard them before.

(If you’re worried that ten is a lot to cover this morning, be grateful that, as Mel Brooks pointed out, Moses started off with a third tablet, telling the people, OH HEAR ME! The lord Jehovah has given unto you these fifteen... (drops stone tablet) Oy. Ten! Ten commandments.)

1. I am the Lord Your God, the One who took you out of Egypt

Who knows One? Most of us don’t. What kind of instruction can we find in this statement? It doesn’t tell us to do—or not to do—anything. Among the ten utterances, this one stands alone. It is the preamble, the foundation, the essential teaching that underscores all the rest.

The most important aspect of this verse is not the beginning, but the ending: I am the One who took you out of Egypt. Not, I am God the all-powerful and all-knowing. Not, I am the Creator of the Universe. But I am the Power of justice and liberation, who took you out of Egypt.

With this first statement we draw a direct line between Egypt and Sinai. Jews cannot have one without the other. When Moses approaches Pharaoh, he asks him to “let my people go to worship in the wilderness.” Moses wants the people to have much more than physical liberation. He has a spiritual revolution in mind.

While Moses did tell the people of a Land of Milk and Honey, the first and most important stop on the journey was at Sinai, where all the people—former slaves, men and women, outsiders who were travelling along with them, elders and children, heard these very words. They learned the purpose of the Exodus. They learned the meaning of freedom. And they learned that freedom is not free of responsibility.

In the Biblical context, freedom does not mean freedom of the individual to do whatever we want. Freedom functions within community, and freedom must be shared equitably. Because God took us out of Egypt, we are not to turn around and become oppressors ourselves. Because God took us out of Egypt, we are called to be vigilant in protecting others’ freedoms.

Egypt in Hebrew, Mitzrayim, means a narrow place, As we read in Psalms, God takes us from our narrow place and brings us to a broad, open place. God gives us the possibility to expand: expand our understanding, expand our perspective, expand our compassion.

In contrast with Mitzrayim, God is an ever-expanding force for life. Because God is expansive, God cannot be contained in an idol or a word or a philosophy. And because God took us out of the narrow place of Egypt, we thrive by living our lives with awareness, with respect, and with gratitude.

In the words of Mordecai Kaplan, founding thinker of Reconstructionist Judaism: “You shall love your God intellectually, emotionally and with all your deeds. Whatever you love most in these ways is your god. For the Jewish people, the deepest love should be for freedom, justice and peace.”

2. You shall have no other gods beside me

Idolatry in itself is a kind of slavery. Idolatry is by definition limited, narrow, contained. In the children’s book, Abraham’s Search for God, Abraham is a boy who asks a lot of questions and senses that there is something more powerful than the idols his father makes. He stays out in the field so long one day that darkness falls and he sees the moon rise. He decides that the moon is more powerful than the idols and prays to the moon. Then the sun rises and seems to push the moon away, so he decides that the sun is the ruler. But then clouds cover the sun, so they must be even more powerful. The clouds are blown away by the wind. You get the picture. At the end of the story, the moon rises once again, and Abraham has a flash of insight: there is something bigger that made all of this happen.

We may not know what God is exactly, but the second utterance instructs us not to fall for the false gods.

Just as slavery reduces the human being to an object, idolatry elevates objects to gods. We begin to confuse ends and means. We might not think that we worship money, but who hasn’t made incessant work into a god? We might not think that we worship fame, but every time we post photos on Snapchat or FB, aren’t we chasing that god too?

These may seem harmless, but idols also limit the scope of our perspective, justifying our actions without regard to their impact. I didn’t abandon my child by working so much; I did it so they would have a better life. I didn’t intend to hurt my friend by sharing a funny photo of her on Instagram; I just wanted to make other people laugh. I wasn’t thinking about global warming when I cranked up the ac and kept it on even when we left the house; all I wanted was comfort. These small everyday acts do have an impact, and the choices we make reflect the gods we worship.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote,

“Truly, the gods we worship write their names on our faces. A person will worship something—have no doubt about that.... That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives and character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship for what we are worshiping, we are becoming.”

If you hear nothing else this Rosh Hashanah day, contemplate this for these next ten days. Be careful what you worship for what you are worshipping we are becoming.

3. Do not take God’s name in vain

To take God’s name in vain, is to use God in an empty, useless way. It is to try to control God into doing what you want. That is the way that the ancients prayed: they bribed their gods with gifts. They used their god’s name in magical ways to bless or to curse. But the God of Moses, the God described by these ten utterances, is beyond our control. As the prophets explained, God does not need food or drink. God doesn’t even need our praises! So why try to bribe God? There is no way that humans can control God. God is most often found in those moments when we have very little control: at the birth of a child, in the kindness of a stranger, or in a sudden breakthrough to a new way of understanding.

Not only that, how can we claim to know God’s mind? Those who make political arguments by claiming that it’s God’s will are actually trying to control God too. Rabbi Joseph Telushkin points out that this third utterance was routinely violated by Americans who claimed that slavery was God’s will. Likewise, attacks on the LGBTQ community are justified today by the claim that God abhors all forms of sexuality outside of straight marriages. Those who cite the Bible as their proof of God’s will casually forget other statements in the Bible: fundamental assertions that every human being is created in God’s image, love your neighbor as yourself and do not oppress the stranger.

No individual or group, no matter how holy, can lay exclusive claim to God. I once heard the late Bishop Tom Shaw, Episcopal Bishop of the Boston diocese, teach at an interfaith clergy gathering that we should not make our religions into idols. In other words, none of us can claim that we alone know God’s will.

And if you don’t consider yourself religious, you’re not off the hook either. We shouldn’t worship political movements or philosophies, None of us has the full truth, not our parents and not our children. Not even our sports teams. And by the way, God does not take sides in the Super Bowl. (The World Series, perhaps.)

By extension, we take God’s name in vain when we shut down possibilities for change, by saying “this is what I was brought up with,” or “this is how it’s always been” or “people will never change.” To claim to understand humanity based on our limited experience of reality is to cling to another idol. To refuse to change is to be enslaved to false gods. “Boys will be boys” is no excuse. It is irresponsible to pretend that things cannot change. It is another way we try to control God. And it just doesn’t work.

While it’s important to notice what is truly wrong with our world, injustice, inequality, corruption, and lies (we will get to these later), we bring harm by believing these evils are immutable. Despair kills hope, and it robs us of our faith in the inherent goodness of our world. If the first utterance is about liberation, then the third utterance is a reminder that God’s name should always be linked with goodness and hope.

4. Observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy

Shabbat is the ultimate reminder that liberation is possible. Once a week, we pause to reignite our passion for freedom and renew our capacity for goodness. On the Sabbath we declare a moratorium on destruction as well as creation. We suspend work, not only for ourselves but for those who work for us, who enable us to rest.

Shabbat is not just day of rest for us but the world’s day of rest from us. Shabbat is a cease-fire between people and the environment. It is a day to do and to be and to think differently. It is a day devoted to non-material ends. It is a day dedicated to spirit and to community.

The best way to defy the idols of money and power is to pretend they don’t even exist for one day a week. The best way to disentangle ourselves from the lies and desecrations is, for one day a week, to simply ignore them. The best way to gain perspective on the idols we worship is to refuse to worship them for one day a week.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel already in the middle of the twentieth century called attention to the oppression of work and the demands of capitalist society that plague us today. In his short poetic treatise entitled The Sabbath, which I recommend to everyone, Heschel asked:

“Is our civilization a way to disaster, as many of us are prone to believe? Is civilization essentially evil, to be rejected and condemned? The faith of the Jew is not a way out of this world, but a way of being within and above this world; not to reject but to surpass civilization. The Sabbath is the day on which we learn the art of surpassing civilization.”

Once a week, at least, we need a reminder that the world is essentially good, that liberation is always possible, and that we need to slow down and simply be part of the human community if we want to get there.

5. Honor your parents that your days may be prolonged

Several years ago, I began to look at this differently when I was teaching the Aseret hadibrot to the sixth graders. As I repeated “honor your father and your mother,” one girl looked puzzled, if not a bit annoyed. As I read her expression, I realized that she, like others in our school, had two mothers, and no father.

So we need to understand “father and mother” in a broader way that represents the experience of every child: children brought up by two moms or two dads, or by a single father or by an aunt and uncle. Our parents, then are those to whom we owe our lives, who made choices for us (for better or for worse), and who provided for us (for better and for worse).

To honor our parents is to acknowledge that we did not create ourselves. And whether we are following in our parents’ ways or whether we have abandoned them decisively, we are still the products of those who came before us. We are here because of them.

Utterance Number Five is the only one that states a reward: “that your days may be prolonged on this land that God gives you.” Honoring those who came before us not only connects us to our past; it connects us to our future, “that your days may be prolonged on this land that God gives you.” Our responsibility to our parents is a responsibility to preserve this planet for the next generation as well.

In the Talmud, the mystic known as Honi the Circle-maker came upon an old man planting a carob tree. He asked, "How long does it take for this tree to bear fruit?" The man replied: "Seventy years." Honi looked at the man and laughed, "Are you certain that you will live another seventy years?" The man replied, "I found carob trees in the world; as my forefathers planted those for me, so I too plant these for my children."

To honor those who came before is also to honor those who will come after us, to remember that all generations are interconnected. To honor our parents is to honor our responsibility to the earth, knowing full well that others handed the world off to us in the best way they knew how.

So far we have looked at the first five utterances, each of them pointing us toward a more sustainable way of life, a life devoted to liberating our bodies, minds and souls, to hearing different ways of thinking, to nurturing hope and faith, to creating connections to the past and to the future, and to dedicating one day a week to cherishing these foundational ideas.

Next comes the easy list, the ones we all know, and yet we could dig deeper into each of the next five as well. I will briefly remind you of the last five. Your homework for your Rosh Hashanah gatherings, is to consider how to think about each of these more broadly as well.

6. Do not Murder.

Do not take someone’s life—unless they are coming to take yours.

In our complex world, “Do not murder” is not only a call for a personal morality but a demand that we take responsibility for the systemic violence that plagues our planet.

7. Do not commit adultery

What are the roots of adultery? What drives someone to find a new partner, even casually, thereby breaking a life-long commitment?

The desires that lead to adultery can teach us a lot about the way our society encourages us to follow any and all desires, and to dispose of what no longer serves us. We need to learn to be true and faithful, to cherish what we have, and to find pleasure in knowing that what we have is enough.

8. Do not steal

This should also be pretty straightforward. But the Rabbis specify that stealing does not apply only to property. According to some, we are stealing whenever we benefit by paying someone else unfair wages, whenever we put someone else’s life in danger for our own comfort or enjoyment. Whenever we make our relationships transactional, we have turned a human into an object. Stealing is akin to slavery, and all the aseret hadibrot are rooted in the idea that we should never enslave another human being, or treat them as a means to an end.

9. Do not testify against your fellow as a false witness

It would have been easy for the ninth utterance to be formulated like the last three: do not lie. But that’s not what it says. ”Do not testify against your fellow as a false witness” involves something greater than telling a lie. It involves fraud. This commandment demands honesty and transparency in all our dealings, from the personal to the public.

10. Do not covet anything that is your neighbor’s

You can’t legislate feelings. But coveting means more than to desire. To covet means to want something that someone else has. If I’m hungry and I want a sandwich, that is a natural appetite. If I’m not hungry and I want your sandwich, that is coveting.

This last instruction reminds us that our sins are most often committed unwittingly. Our unchecked desires actually take away our freedom to choose. Desire itself is not necessarily harmful. But blindly following desire, without forethought or restraint, turns us into slaves once again.

Today, we begin a New Year. In the hours that we spend together in prayer and contemplation, around your holiday table, and in the quiet moments of these 10 days leading up to Yom Kippur, we set aside time for our souls to be watered by the flowing streams of ancient texts and the tributaries of the generations who taught them before us.

These ten utterances, these words, are meant to be spoken. They are a spiritual gift from the Jewish people to the world. Discuss how they impact you today. Speak about them with your children. Teach them to notice the idols that occupy their minds and drive their actions. Instruct them how to be liberated from slavish desire.

And may these ancient ideas help you start this New Year with renewed purpose, restored hope, and revived faith. Ken yehi ratzon.

Rabbi Barbara Penzner/Rosh Hashanah 5779