Rabbi's Messages

For Ourselves And For Future Generations

on Sunday, 26 April 2015.

One of my favourite stories tells that when the people of Israel were standing at Sinai, ready to receive the Torah, God first asked for some collateral – some proof that the Torah would be kept. Our people offered God their ancestors, the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of our people. And God replied that though our ancestors were good people, they were not good enough proof that we would keep the Torah.

And so we offered God our prophets, the teachers whose words and deeds helped us to build the ethical tradition we call Judaism. And God replied that those teachers had surely changed the world, but they were not good enough proof that we would keep the Torah.

Finally, we offered to God this idea: If we receive Torah, we will teach it to our children. And they will teach it to theirs, and they to theirs. And in that way, we can ensure that Torah will always be studied, loved, and kept.

And God said, "Your children are good guarantors. For THEIR sake, I give you My Torah."

Everything we do as Jews, we do both for our own sake, and for the sake of future generations. The community we build, the Torah we learn and teach. As we celebrate Shavuot this month, marking the anniversary of our experience at Sinai, we are aware of and grateful for the children who represent our Jewish future.

Please join us for Shavuot evening services on Saturday, May 23 at 7:30pm, as our Confirmation Class leads us in a creative and meaningful worship experience.

Afterwards, we will stay up late for a night of study. Meet us at Temple Har Zion at 10:30 pm for a TikkunLeil Shavuot. Bring a favourite dessert to share!

May the words of Torah always be as sweet as honey.

L'shalom,
Rabbi Micah Streiffer

on Tuesday, 03 March 2015.

Last month, my family and I traveled to my home town of New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras. As a New Orleanian, it was far from my first Mardi Gras, but it was my first time sharing it with my children. And I would call it a smashing success! The parades, the floats, the beads and doubloons, the masks and costumes. What's not to love?!

There is something about this time of year that makes us want to let loose and have a good time. Maybe it's the continuing snow and cold. Maybe it's the hope of Spring coming soon. And while Mardi Gras (like Montreal's Carnival) has its origins in the Catholic Church, the Jewish tradition of Purim grew up right alongside it.

Purim is, of course, the story of Mordecai and Esther defeating the evil Haman to save the Jews. It is a liberation story, a reminder that God works through the actions of human beings, and that God's presence can be felt in the world in our relationships and our TikkunOlam. It is also, by the far, the SILLIEST holiday we have.

On Purim, we wear masks. On Purim, we shout over Haman's name and shake noise makers and jump on bubble wrap. On Purim, we come together not only to celebrate, but to have FUN. We need that during this time of year. We need it all the time.

Often our Judaism is serious and solemn. That's not a bad thing: we need to take religion seriously. We need to study and learn, and make important choices, and work hard to make the world a better place. But we also need to enjoy being together – this month and every month. May this month of Adar remind us to imbue our Judaism with joy, wherever and whenever we come together as a community.

L'shalom,
Rabbi Micah Streiffer

on Monday, 12 January 2015.

A SERMON FOR SHEMOT 5775

This week’s horrific events in Paris have touched us deeply. For a lot of reasons – because Wednesday’s shooting at the Charlie Hebdo satirical magazine hit at the heart of our freedom of speech, one of our most sacred freedoms. Because today’s hostage situation occurred in a kosher grocery, in a Jewish neighbourhood. Because tonight, synagogues in France are dark for the first time since the Holocaust. People afraid to attend their houses of worship, being warned by the government to stay home.
 
When things like this happen, our natural human impulse is to want to find someone to blame. Whose fault is this? Is it the fault of a particular community? Of a specific religious group? Of religion in general?
 
This past week, Egypt’s President - Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, publicly worried about the increasing violentization of the Muslim world. He said: “It is unbelievable that the thought we hold holy pushes the Muslim community to be a source of worry, fear, danger, murder and destruction to all the world,” He called for no less than “a religious revolution” in the Muslim world. (NY TImes: Raising Questions Within Islam After France Shooting.)
 
And other voices expand that, blaming religion in general. Religion, they say, divides and polarizes people. It pushes us to hate one another and to focus on points of difference and contention, rather than commonality.
 
There is no doubt that religion has been the source of a great deal of violence throughout history. And there is no doubt that Jews have been the victims of a great deal of that violence, though we’ve been the perpetrators of some of it as well. But as a liberal Jew and a religious person, I have to reject the notion that religion is somehow inherently violent. That religion, by its very definition polarizes people. I have to reject the notion in itself leads to hate. But I have to accept that it plays a role in it. If not, there wouldn’t be so much religious-based violence around there world. There wouldn’t be so many people killing and dying in the name of God.
 
So what is the connection, the bridge between religion and hate?
Mahatma Gandhi once said, “The enemy is fear. We think it is hate; but, it is fear.”
 
This week’s Torah portion teaches us about the danger of fear, and about the ways that it can lead us to hatred and violence. We read this week from parashat Shemot. It is the first portion in the book of Shemot, or Exodus, and it begins the saga of the Jewish people’s descent into slavery and our Exodus to freedom.
 
וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הַבָּאִים מִצְרָיְמָה אֵת יַֽעֲקֹב
These are the names of the children of Israel who came to Egypt along with Jacob. (Exodus 1:1)
 
And it goes on to list them: 2 Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah; 3 Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin; 4 Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher. 5 Seventy people in all, and Joseph was already in Egypt.
 
But from there, the story turns dark almost immediately:
 וַיָּמָת יוֹסֵף וְכָל־אֶחָיו וְכֹל הַדּוֹר הַהֽוּא:
Joseph died, and all his brothers, and all that generation.
 וַיָּקָם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָשׁ עַל־מִצְרָיִם אֲשֶׁר לֹֽא־יָדַע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף:
And a new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. (Exodus 1:6-8 )
 
This, of course, is the Pharaoh who will enslave the Israelites. The one who will treat them as an enemy and who will oppress them and embitter their lives. And the Torah begins its story by pointing out what about him? That he did not know Joseph. The Etz Hayim says, “He was ignorant of or indifferent to the extraordinary service that Joseph had rendered to Egypt.”
 
And it was that ignorance and/or indifference that led to his animosity toward the Jews.
 
The author H. P. Lovecraft wrote, “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”
 
It was fear that led the Pharaoh to enslave the people. Fear of something that he did not know, did not understand, and did not attempt to understand. The very next verse proves it. He says, “ הָבָה נִּֽתְחַכְּמָה לוֹ - Let us deal shrewdly with them. Otherwise in the event of war they may join our enemies in fighting against us."”
 
He had no real, rational reason to believe that the Israelites would join his enemies. But his fear led him to cruelty and hatred. It was fear that caused our oppression. It was fear that made us slaves. And it is is fear that leads people to do horrific things to each other, all around the world, in the name of religion or nationalism or whatever other excuse we come up with.
 
When we mourn the victims of the Charlie Hebdo attack, what we are mourning is that fear and ignorance have so violently and so disgustingly encroached on modern people’s right to express themselves, and to disagree with one another. When we mourn the victims of today’s hostage situation, what we are mourning is that fear and ignorance have hit violently at the heart of our own community, curtail our right to live and worship and believe as Jews. This is the tragedy of extremism.
 
Our prayer is this: If religion can help engender fear, it can also help dispel it. And this is true. If we look around us, we can see instances all over the world of religious communities working together to build bridges of understanding and peace between communities. We see this in Israel, where our Reform Movement is deeply involved in Jewish-Arab dialogue. We see it right here here, in our annual “Open Doors, Open Minds” lecture at Kol Ami. I would argue that the power of religion is that it has the ability to move people’s thinking and influence their actions. Whether that influence is for good or for evil, is up to us. 
In the 21st century, religion needs to be a force for good - to help us focus on commonalities rather than differences, to help us understand that we are all God’s children. We have a LOT of work to do.We can do so by increasing our dialogue with other communities – even those who are very different from us (maybe especially those who are very different from us.) We can do it by reaching out to those whose practices and beliefs are foreign to us.
Bertrand Russell once said, “To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom.”
On this Shabbat, as we mourn the victims of hatred and fear, may we commit ourselves, and commit our religious community, to be builders of wisdom, to be proponents of understanding and dialogue, to be champions of peace. And someday, may the world around us reflect those values as well.
 Amen.

on Saturday, 29 November 2014.

Chanukah is our least important holiday.
Except that it's not.

Rabbinically speaking, the Festival of Lights is a minor holiday with relatively little stature. It's not mentioned in the Torah (because the events it celebrates had not happened yet). It's not a day of rest, or one of the Pilgrimage Festivals. There aren't even any specific synagogue practices associated with this holiday.

And yet, Chanukah persists as one of the most celebrated holidays in modern Jewish life.

Why? Well, let's be honest, some of the reason has to do with its proximity to the non-Jewish holidays going on at the same time of year. It's nice to be celebrating something when our neighbours are also celebrating something.

But I don't think that's the whole story. The messages of Chanukah resonate deeply with us today. It is a holiday that teaches us that miracles can happen; that individuals or small groups can make a difference; that Jewish life will go on regardless of adversity. We need only look around us to understand the power of these ideas. The rebirth of the State of Israel, the flourishing of Jewish life following the Holocaust - these are miracles of Maccabean proportions. When we sing about the miracle of the oil, I think we also mean these modern-day Jewish miracles.

Perhaps above all, Chanukah is a way of bringing warmth into a cold world. And opportunity to bring light into the darkness that surrounds us at this time of year. We do so with our candles, and with our blessings. We do so with our special foods, and with our community.

At Kol Ami, we celebrate Chanukah with the "Night of a Thousand Candles." Please join us Friday, December 19, at 6:30, for a special Chanukah-themed ROCK SHABBAT service. Bring your menorah and candles, and we will fill the sanctuary with light. A Chanukah potluck dinner will be held afterwards. You can just show up for the service, but please RSVP to jaykowal@gmail.com for the dinner.

Chag Sameach!

Rabbi Micah Streiffer

on Monday, 06 October 2014.

RABBI STREIFFER'S SERMON FOR KOL NIDREI 5775

If I were to ask you to name the most important person in the Torah, you might say it was Abraham, the first Jew. Or maybe you’d name Moses. Or Miriam, the great prophet. But I’ll bet no one in the room would nominate Oznat. In fact, I’ll bet most of us have never even heard of her.
 
Who is Oznat? She is the wife of Joseph. She is only mentioned three times in the Torah, and really only because she is the mother of Ephraim and Menashe, Joseph’s sons who are born in Egypt. But that’s important. It’s especially important to us because they are the first Jewish children ever born outside the land of Isrel. The first Jewish children in history who had to live as a minority. Who had to struggle with maintaining their Jewishness while surrounded by a sea of Egyptian-ness.
 
We can imagine the kinds of questions that their mother had to contend with:
What do you do when the class pyramid visit coincides with Yom Kippur? What happens when the school chariot race is on Friday night? Like any parent, Oznat would have gently guided her sons through these difficult choices, helping them to balance their daily lives with their Jewish identity.
 
We know what that’s like. Menashe and Ephraim remind us of our own children. And Oznat reminds us of ourselves. So much so that it’s become traditional to bless your children at the Shabbat table with the words: Yesimcha elohim l’Efrayim v’chi-M’nasheh – May God make you like Ephraim and Menashe. Every single Shabbat we look upon our children in the light of these first Diaspora Jews; and every Shabbat and we put ourselves into the shoes of their mother Oznat. Because we know that she helped shaped and mould their Jewish identity. Because we know that without her guidance, there might be no Judaism today. She is in some ways, the most important influence in all of Jewish history. 

And you know something interesting? She is not Jewish.
 
Who is Oznat, wife of Joseph, mother of Epharim and Menashe? She is the daughter of Poti-phera, the Egyptian priest. And we are indebted to her for keeping Judaism alive.
 
A year ago, on Rosh Hashanah morning, I gave a sermon about inclusion in Judaism. I argued that the doors of the Jewish community are better open than closed. We talked specifically about inclusion of women, of gays and lesbians, and of interfaith families.
 
The response to that sermon was absolutely overwhelming. So many of you came up to me to tell me a story – about your daughter who is dating a non-Jewish man and struggling with issues of identity. About your cousin and his wife who are doing their best to teach their children about the holidays, even though the kids aren’t halachically Jewish. About people who are looking to be accepted and embraced by the Jewish community, but who have too often felt rejected.
 
I’ve spent a lot of time this year thinking about that response to my words; thinking about the stories you told me. And trying to figure out: What really are the barriers? What’s keeping us as a Jewish community from being as inclusive as possible?
 
As I started to write this sermon, I pulled down all of the books from my shelf that deal with interfaith marriage. And suddenly the answer was clear. I own a book called “Overcoming the Stumbling Blocks of Interfaith Marriage.” I own a journal of academic papers called “A Response to the Threat of Mixed Marriage.”
 
Now granted, those books were both written several decades ago, and things have changed considerably. We’ve become more open, more welcoming. But still, as a Jewish community, our basic assumption about interfaith marriage is that it is a threat to our way of life.
                                                                                      
I daresay that if Oznat had seen herself as a threat to Judaism, her choices would’ve been different, and Judaism might not have survived.
                                      
Rabbi Jeff Salkin writes
         

There are many “Asnats,” female and male, in the Jewish world today. They may not be Jewish, but their children are, and one might hope that their grandchildren... will be.”[1]
 

We want Oznat’s grandchildren to be Jewish . We want to do what is right for our people’s long-term survival, and we want to do right by those families who are seeking our acceptance. And that will require a shift in our thinking.
 
The author Seth Godin wrote that “Change is not a threat; it is an opportunity. Survival is not the goal; transformative success is.”
 
Transformative success for 21st century Judaism means moving from seeing threats to seeing opportunities. It means moving from tolerating interfaith families to considering them an integral part of the community. It means recognizing – both in word and in deed - that interfaith families are Jewish families.
 
Not long ago, I was doing some Jewish reading, and I stumbled onto a pretty provocative argument regarding non-Jews in the Jewish community. The book I was reading essentially argued that we need to stop worrying so much about who is and who is not. That if someone wants to opt into the Jewish community, into our practices and our learning, they should be invited to do so.
 
You might be wondering what book I was reading? What radical, left wing author would argue such a thing. It was the Torah.

וַיְדַבֵּר יְהֹוָה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵאמֹֽר
Adonai spoke to Moses, saying....
וְכִֽי־יָגוּר אִתְּכֶם גֵּר וְעָשָׂה אִשֵּׁה
When a stranger takes up residence with you, [and that person wants to] present an offering before God, they shall do as you do.... The same ritual and the same rule shall apply to you and to the stranger who resides among you.[2]
           

                                    
3000 years ago, the Torah already recognized that there was a group of people who lived among the Israelites and who followed Jewish practices, but who, for whatever reason, chose not to formally join the Jewish people. The Biblical name for this group is Ger Toshav – the “resident stranger,” or “the one who lives among you.” There are laws about the Ger Toshav all over the Torah – you’re supposed to share tzedakah with them; you’re supposed to treat them with respect; you’re supposed to include them in communal life.
 
That’s not to say that there was no distinction. Biblical society most definitely did differentiate between Jew and non-Jew. But what’s remarkable about the Torah’s approach is that it treats the Ger Toshav essentially as a member of the community. And in Judaism, being part of the community means being part of the covenant.
 
A second passage from Torah: The parashah that we will read tomorrow morning is about an ancient covenant ceremony. It says:
 

 אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹֽהֵיכֶם

You stand this day, all of you, before Adonai your God.
 
This takes place at the end of the 40 years in the wilderness. Our people are standing before God for the purpose of taking upon themselves the obligations of Jewish life before crossing into the Land. But the commentators want to know why. Didn’t they already stand before God at Sinai? Didn’t they already accept the Torah? Why are we doing this all over again?
 
The reason, we learn, is that the covenant is being expanded to include more people. The first time around, back at Sinai, it was all of the Israelite men who stood before God. But here, the Torah specifies: “Atem nitzavim kulchem – ALL of you are standing:”
 

כֹּל אִישׁ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל: טַפְּכֶם נְשֵׁיכֶם
All the men, women and children of Israel
וְגֵרְךָ אֲשֶׁר בְּקֶרֶב מַֽחֲנֶיךָ
And even the stranger – the non-Israelite – who lives within your camp,[3]
 

Men, women, and children. Israelite and Ger Toshav, are all standing together to enter into covenant with God. That’s an extraordinary and very powerful statement written into a very ancient text. It tells us that from the very dawn of Judaism, our community has been made up of Jews and non-Jews who were committed to Jewish life. In ancient times, they were Egyptian princesses and resident strangers. In modern times, they are the Christian, Muslim, Hindu, and Humanist men and women who are married to Jewish spouses and who are raising Jewish children, who are living as part of the Jewish community. And they are having a lasting and positive impact.
 
In his book Inside Intermarriage, author Jim Keen tells the true story of a man he calls Rick, a Christian Dad raising two small children with his Jewish wife Rachel. One Friday night, Rachel unexpectedly had to work an extra shift, and Rick – home with his children - realized that the kids would still expect to have their usual family Shabbat rituals. Rachel had always taken the lead, for obvious reasons, but he knew how. So Rick set out the challah and grape juice on the table, and he searched all over the house for Shabbat candles. The closest he could find were some birthday candles. He figured it was better than nothing, so he reluctantly put those out on the table, and he and the children joyously sang the Shabbat blessings together. They blessed the candles; they blessed the wine; they blessed the challah. And at the end of the last blessing, the two small children unexpectedly made a wish, and blew out the birthday candles.
 
Needless to say, Rick was horrified. But when he told his wife about it later, the two of them decided that actually, there was something nice about adding a “Shabbat wish” to their weekly ritual. So starting the next Shabbat, they did just that. After all three blessings, each family member would make a wish...but not blow out the candles. And Rick - a non-Jewish father – had added a meaningful and deeply Jewish element to his children’s religious experience. Those children will grow up a little more connected, a little more moved by Jewish ritual because their Dad made the effort to light candles with them.[4]
 
We have plenty of Ricks in our own congregation – men and women who have made a commitment to raise Jewish children and build Jewish households. They are lighting candles and chanting blessings; they are driving to and from Hebrew School; they are attending services and Torah study, and singing Hebrew prayers, and cooking kosher recipes, and sometimes answering their children’s Jewish questions. They are lovingly and commitedly constructing the Jewish future. They are standing at Sinai.
 
If we see someone as standing with us as Sinai, then we will understand their place in the community differently than if we see them as a threat. If we recognize that a person has opted into the covenant, then we will treat them differently than we would an outsider. If someone has taken on the obligations of Jewish life, then the Jewish community has obligations to them as well: to include and welcome them, and to give them the tools they need to live the Jewish life that they are seeking.
 
Some congregations around North America are offering a program called the Mother’s Circle. It is an educational course designed for non-Jewish women who are raising Jewish children. The impetus behind it is that people who don’t grow up Jewish don’t usually have the memories or the knowledge associated with Jewish life, but they they are very often responsible for the religious life of the household – for making sure the seder happens; for lighting Shabbat and Chanukah candles. So it’s the synagogue’s job to teach about these things.
 
But it isn’t a conversion class. This is designed for people who want to participate actively in Jewish life along with their families, but not to become Jewish themselves.
 
One participant said: “It is a huge comfort to know we are not the only family that has made this journey. [I’ve gained] the confidence to raise strong Jewish children!”[5]
 
I don’t think Oznat could have said it better if she tried.
 
This is only one example. But the bottom line is, we have a responsibility: To recognize and appreciate the contributions of the non-Jewish members of our community. To affirm their choices and open doors for them, rather than saddling them with a preconceived notion of what we think they ought to be. To embrace interfaith families as Jewish families, and embrace the opportunity to help them build Jewish lives.
                                                                                        
And so, I’d like to invite you to participate with me in a dialogue this year. A dialogue about how our community can better fulfill these responsibilities to the Jewish families in our midst that include a Ger Toshav. And I have some ideas of things I think we should talk about. I think we should do some learning together, explore what our traditional texts have to say about being part of the Jewish community. I think we should talk about our congregational membership policies; about the rules surrounding burial and the fact that we currently have no place for interfaith couples to be buried together. We should talk about how we can reach out into the community to let people know they are welcome here, and what kind of resources we can offer them when they are here. And finally, I think we need to have a discussion – an honest, respectful, open-minded discussion - about interfaith marriages, and whether they under certain circumstances they should be considered Kiddushin, Jewish marriages, and whether under certain circumstances our clergy should consider being involved in them.
 
I’ve scheduled the first of our discussions for Saturday, November 1 at 9:00 in the morning. There’s even breakfast, so I hope you’ll come and join us.
 
I’ll tell you ahead of time that I haven’t settled my own opinions on all of these matters. I don’t know exactly where this discussion is going to take us, but I know that we need to have it. I know that we cannot continue to treat Oznat as a threat, and then wonder why Ephraim and Menashe don’t enroll in Hebrew school. I know that there are families out there who are clamouring for a welcoming Jewish home. And I also know that Kol Ami is the kind of embracing and open-minded Jewish community that can become that home. I know it, because you told me so.
                                                                                            
The rabbis of the Talmud were once engaged in heated debate over a matter of Jewish law. Each side brought argument after argument, until all possible words had been exhausted. Finally, in exasperation, Rabbi Hanan turned to Abaye, the greatest Sage of the era, and asked “How will we ever know how to proceed?
 
Abaye responded: פוּק חָזִי מַאי עַמָא דָבַר – Go out and see what the people are doing.[6]
 
In times of uncertainty, we should trust in our people. We should go out and meet them where they are, and build Jewish life together.
 
As we embark on this journey together, may we be guided by our love for the Jewish tradition and by our commitment to the Jewish community. May we work to fulfill the ancient words of the prophet Isaiah: Beiti beit t’filah yikara l’chol ha-amim – May this, God’s house, be a house of prayer for all people.
 
Amen.

[1] Salkin, Jeffrey. Righteous Gentiles in the Hebrew Bible. Jewish Lights; Woodstock, NY. p. 121 (ibook edition).
[2] Numbers 15.
[3] Deuteronomy 29:9-10.
[4] Keen, Jim. Inside Intermarriage. URJ Press; 2006. p. 88.
[5] www.themotherscircle.org
[6] Based on B. Eruvin 14b.