Rabbi's Messages

NEWS AND VIEWS FROM RABBI MICAH STREIFFER

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on Sunday, 28 September 2014.

RABBI STREIFFER'S SERMON FOR ROSH HASHANAH 5775

In a mountain village many years ago, there was a Jewish nobleman who wanted to leave a legacy for people of his town. So he decided to build a synagogue.

 
In the course of his planning, the nobleman decided that no one should see the plans for the building until it was finished. He built a wall around the entire area, and swore the workers to secrecy. They worked day and night. And the people of the town would gather around the walls, wondering what was inside.
 
Finally, the work was completed, and the people began to enter. What they saw astounded them. No one could remember so beautiful a synagogue anywhere in the world. They marveled at its magnificent windows, and admired its intricate designs. They stood in awe of its craftsmanship and attention to detail.

But then, one of the crowd noticed a serious flaw. “Where are the lamps?” she asked. “What will provide the lighting?” The crowd looked around, and indeed, there were no lamps. They began to talk amongst themselves, “He’s built such a beautiful building, but forgotten to provide any light, so that we can see when we worship.” The murmuring grew louder and louder.
 
Until finally, the nobleman held up his hand to silence the congregation. He pointed to a series of brackets that hung all along the walls of the synagogue. And he handed a lamp to each family. “The lamps,” he said, “belong not to the synagogue but to you. Whenever you come here, you should bring your lamp, so that your light will fill this place of prayer. And, each time you are not here, a part of the synagogue will be dark. Your community is relying on your light.”
                                                                         
In Judaism, light is a symbol for many things. It is a symbol for Torah, as it says on our ark doors. It is a sign of God’s presence, as we look to our Ner Tamid. And it is also a symbol for life, for the presence of our fellow human beings. The lamps in the story remind us, as we sit here in our own synagogue, of just how much we need one another. Just how much we rely on our connections with one another.
 
In the 21st century, we know all about being connected to one another. We are in touch with all kinds of people 24/7. Facebook told me yesterday that I have 1,337 friends. That’s very exciting.... but I have to tell you, I’m not entirely convinced that having Facebook friends is the same thing as having real friends.
 
A few years ago, I was invited to a youth group Chanukah party. As I walked in, I remember seeing strobe lights on, and hearing music blaring, and seeing 25 teenagers standing near each other, texting on their phones. There’s no doubt they were talking to someone; but it wasn’t to the people standing next to them. I’m sure this is not an unfamiliar scene to you. And it’s not limited to teenagers either. In fact, as I was writing this very paragraph in Starbucks two weeks ago, I looked up to see a four soccer moms all sitting around a table, looking down at their phones. Remember the old days when rabbis used to get aggravated at people for talking during the sermon. Well, these days, we long for people to talk to each other during services. Because it’s better than checking their Twitter feeds!
 
The irony of the social media age is that in a lot of ways, we are actually more connected to each other now than we’ve ever been. If I want to, I can find out instantly what the girl who sat in front of me in Grade 6 had for breakfast. And I can also post to let all of you know how many deadlifts and back squats I did this morning. We know more information about more people than anyone who has ever lived. And yet, something is missing. A lot of the information that we know is superficial. It’s what we choose to put out there, and it represents a persona, rather than a real picture of who we are. A generation into the information age, we know now that being “connected” virtually doesn’t necessarily mean that we have made a real connection.
 
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not here to blame cellphones. God knows I’m as addicted as anybody else in this room. But, I think our little cellphone problem is really only a symptom of a larger ailment. In the 21st century, we are finding it harder and harder to connect with other people in meaningful ways.
 
Consider this simple example. How many of us know the names of all of our neighbours? I don’t. When Shoshi and I talk about the people who live 20 metres from us, we refer to them by the following names: There are “the people with the matching white Acuras” on the left, the “loud party family” directly across from us, and of course “the guy who mows his lawn twice a week” on the right. And I’m guessing I’m not the only one here who has neighbours with those kinds of names. It’s the kind of lives that many of us lead. We rush out the door in the mornings. We carry our jobs with us in our pockets all the time. Fewer of us than ever have dinner with our loved ones. We are tired; we are stressed; we are busy. Our days are unbelievably full; but it’s not entirely clear that they are fulfilling us.
 
Judaism has long been aware that we function better when we make connections with others. That’s why halachah requires a minyan – a group of ten people – to hold a prayer service. And if we look closely in Torah, we find an awareness that this need for human connection is built into the very fabric of who we are.
 
Tomorrow morning we will Bereishit, the story of Creation. The Torah tells that as each new thing is created, God looks over it and says vay’hi tov – says that it is good. There is only one thing in the Torah that is referred to as “lo tov – not good.” It comes a chapter later, after God has created the first human. The Torah says “Lo tov heyot adam levado.” It is not good for a person to be alone.[1]
                                           
The commentator Ovadia S’forno says that this is what it means to be b’tzalmeinu kidmuteinu – to be created in the image and likeness of God. It means that we must we rely – in some way - on others. This is the human condition.[2]
 
And what the Torah teaches, science corroborates. Over the last decade, a series of neurological studies has set out to understand what happens in our brains when we feel distanced from others. In one study, participants were invited to play a virtual ball game, in which they were sometimes included and sometimes excluded. And their brain activity was scanned during the exercise. The study found that the anterior cingulate cortex, which is a section of the brain that regulates and registers physical pain, was more active during exclusion. And that other areas of the brain were actively involved in trying to mitigate that discomfort. [3]
 
In other words, being separated from others hurts us, physically. And our brains have built-in mechanisms for coping with that distress, and for encouraging us to seek out contact with familiar people. We literally need each other, at a neurological level. We thrive on relationships. We need friends and acquaintances. We need fellow worshippers, and study partners, and support groups, and communities. We need more than 1337 Facebook connections; we need real relationships in our lives.
 
During the High Holy Days, we should recognize that part of Tikkun HaNefesh – part of the the work of our souls – is asking ourselves whether we are putting the right priority and the right effort into our relationships. 21st century living isn’t always conducive to that, but Judaism can help.
                      
One of the primary tasks of Jewish life is to help us build a support system around ourselves. That’s why the synagogue is known in Hebrew as “Beit K’nesset” – not a place of prayer; not a place of study; but literally a “place where people gather together.” A synagogue, at its core, is a place where we build relationships with each other.
 
The Jewish writer Harry Golden tells that when he was young, he was confused why his father, a staunch atheist, insisted on belonging to a synagogue. So he asked his father, “You don’t believe in God, Why do you keep coming to shul?”
 
Harry Golden’s father looked at him, and looked out over the congregation. “You see Cohen over there?” he began. “Cohen comes to shul to talk to God. Me? I come to shul to talk to Cohen.”
 
Our members say something similar. Over the last 3 years, I’ve had innumerable conversations with Kol Ami families about what brought them here and what keeps them here. And nearly without exception, those conversations always follow the same pattern:
     -    We joined Kol Ami because.... [fill in the blank - Religious School, services, music]
     -    But we stay at Kol Ami because of the friends we’ve made and the community that we’ve found here.
If you search your own experience, I suspect that some version of this is true for most of us. We all got here for different reasons. But we are still here, year after year, because we have built rich relationships with people who have become very important to us. We come to shul to talk to Cohen.
 
And by the way, there’s nothing wrong with that. I often hear from people who genuinely wonder whether a synagogue is the right place for them, since they’re struggling with their beliefs; since they’re not so sure what they think about God. But one of the ongoing lessons of Jewish life is that Jewish community is the place where it is OK to wrestle with our beliefs. And in fact, for many of us, it is by forming relationships in a community that we experience God at all.
 
The philosopher Martin Buber wrote that God is what we encounter when we enter into what he called an “I-Thou” relationship – a relationship in which we strive to see the other person in real and authentic ways. You know that sense of higher purpose you sometimes feel, when you make a real connection with somebody? The sense that you’ve brought something into each other’s lives that wasn’t necessarily there before? For Buber, that sense is an indication of God’s presence.
 
And even if that’s too ethereal for us, we can agree that by entering into relationships, we enrich and deepen our sense of each other’s humanity, and our own.
 
I want to invite you right now to try something with me. This might be a little bit outside of your comfort zone, but please bear with me. I’d like you to turn to someone nearby you – someone you don’t know very well. You have one minute to have a conversation with that person about what you did yesterday. That’s it, just go through your day. Go.
 
1 minute elapses.
 
Now here’s part 2. Please turn back to the same person. And this time, we’re going to go a little deeper. This time, I want you to tell them about the one person in your life who has influenced you the most. You have 3 minutes. Go.
 
3 minutes elapse.
 
I wasn’t privy to all of your conversations, but I know what’s happened when I’ve participated in similar exercises – at rabbinical conferences, and at last month’s Board Meeting. I know that when we share something real of ourselves, we begin to see each other in more authentic ways. I know that we benefit from finding out what we have in common, and that we build a stronger community when we really care about each other. To use the language of the story I told earlier, this is how we share our light with one another.
 
Lately, the members of our Board of Directors have been reading a book called Relational Judaism. It’s by Rabbi Ron Wolfson, who is the founder of what’s called the Synagogue Transformation movement. Rabbi Wolfson argues that we need to be paying a lot more attention to the importance of relationships in a synagogue community. In fact, he argues that we need to completely redefine what understand as the purpose of the synagogue:
           

                                                                         
The goal of Jewish institutions is not self-preservation; it is to engage Jews with Judaism. It’s not gaining more members; it’s gaining more Jews. It’s about people, not programs. It’s about deep relationships.[4]
 

Great synagogues are the ones that engage Jews with Judaism, and engage members with one another. Great synagogues are the ones that connect us with God, and with each other. Great synagogues nurture us spiritually, and help us build relationships that will carry us through life.
 
Can you imagine what would happen if, after services, we didn’t just shake hands and say “Gut Yontiff?” If instead we continued the conversations that we had started here today? Can you imagine what would happen if each of us went up to one person that we don’t know very well and shared a story about ourselves? Imagine what we might find in common. Imagine the strength we would bring to our community. And imagine how much more strongly we would feel this community in our lives.
 
Kol Ami is a great synagogue. We have always been on the cutting edge in music and learning and programming. Now it is time now for our community to put into practice the principles of Relational Judaism. And I am standing up here today to ask for your help in an initiative that has the potential to transform our congregation.
 
Some of you have noticed that in the last couple of years there’s been a subtle shift in the name of our community. We’ve begun to deemphasize the word “Temple,” and sometimes to replace it with “congregation.” What’s the difference? Well, a Temple is a place of worship and holiness. But a congregation is not a place at all; it is a group of people. People who come together to worship, to study, to be part of each other’s lives. And we, of all people, know that a building is nice.... but the measure of a synagogue is not in its Temple, but in its congregation.
 
That’s why this summer we struck a new committee, which we are calling the Relationship Committee. The mandate of that group is very simply, to create opportunities for our members to get to know each other better, to build relationships. And there are a few initiatives that you’ll be hearing about in the coming months. For example, our New Member Luncheon has been renamed the Member Appreciation Lunch, and we’d like to invite the entire congregation to come and get to know each other on November 1. We will be weaving relational activities, like the small conversations we had this morning, into many of the things that we do. We’re going to be building on our social programming, offering opportunities for people to be together. The goal is to build into the culture of this community the idea that each of us is a relationship builder, that every program or service or class is an opportunity to strengthen our connections.
 
So what are we asking of you? Well, as Woody Allen once said, “Showing up is 80% of life.” Some of these initiatives may take you outside your comfort zone. But the stakes are very high, and the possibilities are very exciting. Please, let’s enter the new year with a sense of openness to trying new things, with a sense of faith in our own ability to strengthen and transform our community. If you want to join the committee, that’s wonderful. If you want to host a dinner, that’s even better. If you can greet visitors, or come to a program, or even just strike up a conversation with the person next to you, we need you. We need your excitement; we need your passion; we need your expertise. We need the light of the lamp that you bring into this place each and every time you enter these walls. Our sanctuary is brighter and more beautiful and holier because of what we mean to each other.
 
In this new year, let us reach out to one another. May we recognize the light that our friends and loved ones bring into our lives, and may we strive to be truly present for those who need us. May we work together to build a synagogue community that is a haven during times of need, a support in times of joy, and a home for every moment of our lives.
 
 
Amen.

[1] Genesis 2:18.
[2] Sforno to Gen 2.
[3] Eisenberger, Lieberman, Williams. “Does Rejection Hurt?” Science. Vol 302, October 10, 2003, p. 290.

See also Crothers, Kolbert, Albright, Hughes, Wells. “Nerulogical Contributions to Bullying Behavior.” Bullying in the Workplace. Lipinksi and Crothers, ed. Applied Psychology Series, p 121.
[4] Wolfson, Ron. Relational Judaism. Jewish Lights. Woodstock, Vermont; 2013. p. 22.

on Monday, 04 August 2014.

THOUGHTS DURING A LONG DRIVE

Sitting in traffic on Highway 400, I decide that my six-year-old son has stared long enough at his iPod screen, so I try to make conversation:

"So, Yair, what are you looking forward to the most at camp?"

We are on our way, for the fourth summer in a row, to URJ Camp George, the regional Reform Jewish camp. I will serve as rabbinical faculty for the week, and he will be what is lovingly referred to as a "faculty brat" - shadowing the campers because he's too young to be in a cabin.

Yair loves camp.  He looks forward to it every summer. So I figure there are any number of possible answers to my question of what he is looking forward to most: sports; arts & crafts; swimming.  His actual answer blows me away, and makes me laugh out loud.

"Well...." (He pauses to think.) "I think my favourite is...making challah."

Making challah? Making CHALLAH?? Of all the things to do at camp, he chose braiding bread! This kid loves to run around; loves to swim and play... and his favourite thing is Jewish cooking! I love it!

And then it hits me. At age 6, he doesn't differentiate between which activities are Jewish and which are not. He just knows that he loves all of the things he does at camp.

THAT is what Jewish camping is all about.

I am a product of Jewish camp also. I can trace my earliest and most formative Jewish experiences back to sweltering hot summers at Jacobs Camp in Utica, Mississippi, where we prayed in Hebrew with a southern drawl, dressed in all white on Shabbat, and sweated our way through Shabbat song session. I have seen first hand, from having spent many summers in in many different camp roles, just how influential camping is on Jewish identity. Kids who grow up attending Jewish camp feel like Judaism belongs to them. They use Hebrew words naturally; they feel comfortable with services and ritual; and they integrate Jewish thinking and values into the everyday - moving seamlessly from swimming to challah baking, from eating meals to chanting blessings.

The camps are often referred the as the "crown jewel" of Jewish education in North America. They are a veritable Jewish identity factory, a hothouse of creative ideas and new approaches. Much of what liberal Judaism looks like today was born in its camps. I have no doubt that the liberal Judaism of tomorrow is being incubated there right now. Maybe even in the mind of my 6 year old son.

So I press further: "Challah baking? That sounds like fun.  Why is that your favourite?"
He answers: " I don't know. I just like it."

That's OK. He doesn't have to know yet. We can leave the philosophizing for later. For now, let's just get to camp.

on Sunday, 25 May 2014.

RABBI'S MESSAGE FOR JUNE 2014

Cheesecake and blintzes.
Torah and Sinai.
Maturity and Responsibility.
These are the themes of the holiday of Shavuot. Although it is not as widely celebrated as Passover, Shavuot is in fact one of the most important festivals on the Jewish calendar. And through the ritual of Confirmation, Reform Judaism has imbued it with added meaning.
The name Shavuot means “weeks,” because the festival falls seven weeks after Pesach. It is known as Z’man Matan Torateinu, the Season of the Giving of our Torah, and it is traditionally understood to be the day on which our people stood at Sinai and received the Torah from God. And as for the cheesecake... we eat sweet dairy products on Shavuot because the Torah is said to be as sweet as milk and honey.
Equal to all of that, we Reform Jews have come to associate Shavuot with Confirmation. Ironically, Confirmation is not even a traditional ritual! It was created in the 19th century to address two perceived problems with the ancient institution of Bar Mitzvah:

1. As a mark of adulthood, holding Bar Mitzvah at the age of 13 seemed too early.
    
2. In its traditional incarnation, the Bar Mitzvah excluded girls. (Remember, Bat Mitzvah wasn’t invented until 1922!)
    

To solve those two problems, early Reform leaders did away with Bar Mitzvah almost entirely and replaced it with a group ritual at an older age (usually 16), that included both girls and boys. They called it Confirmation, borrowing from the Protestant tradition. They placed it on the holiday of Shavuot, since it was in line with the themes of receiving Torah and accepting Jewish responsibility.
Today, Confirmation – also known as Kabbalat Torah, or “Receiving Torah”, has become an accepted Jewish rite of passage. At 13, standing alone on the bima, our young people begin the journey into Jewish adulthood. At 16, standing together with their class, they confirm the choices that they have made and outline positive steps toward continued Jewish involvement.
Our Confirmation class has been working hard all year studying their beliefs, and preparing to lead us in prayer. Please come and support them as they chant the 10 Commandments and receive a special blessing. Our Erev Shavuot Service will be held on Tuesday, June 3, at 7 pm.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Micah Streiffer

on Monday, 07 April 2014.

A SERMON FOR METZORA 2014

Note: On Tuesday, April 1, I was privileged to participate, along with 74 other Reform rabbis, in the "Shave for the Brave" to raise money and awareness for childhood cancers. Following is the sermon that I delivered last Friday.  To donate to the initative, please click here.

Shabbat Shalom.

For some reason, people have been looking at me funny all week. I don’t know why – it must be this “Ask Me Why I’m Bald” button I’ve been wearing. The truth is, it’s been an absolute privilege for me all week long to explain to people why I suddenly look the way I do. I’ll say more about that in a moment. But first, let’s talk some Torah.

 
This week, we read parashat Metzora. Metzora is the Hebrew word for a person afflicted with tzara-at – the scaly skin disease that is described in last week’s portion. Tazria described for us this frightening disease that would afflict people in the ancient world. As many of you know, the rabbis understood tzara-at as a punishment for the sin of Lashon Hara­ (evil speech or gossip) and also for the sins of stingness and haughtiness – the ones that have the most to do with whether we are treating people nicely around us. If someone was found to have that disease, they would have been quarantined outside the camp for at least 7 days. That’s last week’s portion.
 
This week’s parashah describes the ritual by which the person was welcomed back into the camp, once they had been cured. It is a ritual in several parts. First:
 

Leviticus 14:4
וְצִוָּה הַכֹּהֵן וְלָקַח לַמִּטַּהֵר שְׁתֵּֽי־צִפֳּרִים חַיּוֹת טְהֹרוֹת וְעֵץ אֶרֶז וּשְׁנִי תוֹלַעַת וְאֵזֹֽב:
4 the priest shall order two live clean birds, cedar wood, crimson stuff, and hyssop to be brought for him who is to be cleansed.
 

And they perform a sacrifice on behalf of the afflicted person. Then:
 

Leviticus 14:9
וְהָיָה בַיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי יְגַלַּח אֶת־כָּל־שְׂעָרוֹ אֶת־רֹאשׁוֹ וְאֶת־זְקָנוֹ וְאֵת גַּבֹּת עֵינָיו וְאֶת־כָּל־שְׂעָרוֹ יְגַלֵּחַ וְכִבֶּס אֶת־בְּגָדָיו וְרָחַץ אֶת־בְּשָׂרוֹ בַּמַּיִם וְטָהֵֽר:
On the seventh day he shall shave off all his hair -- of head, beard, and eyebrows. When he has shaved off all his hair, he shall wash his clothes and bathe his body in water; then he shall be clean.
 

So first, he performs a sacrifice – a way of atoning for the past. And then, he shaves of all of his hair – makes himself clean, and bathes in renewing waters as a way of “being reborn” (so to speak) and moving forward – away from the disease and toward regular life.
 
I have to tell you, I can’t believe that this happens to be in this week’s Torah portion!
 
Earlier this week, I was privileged to take part in something called the “Shave for the Brave.” The initiative was inspired by a young man who is known as “Superman Sam.” Sammy Sommer was the child of 2 of my colleagues – Rabbi Phyllis Sommer and Rabbi Michael Sommer. They were about 4 or 5 years ahead of me in rabbinical school. (They were those nice older students who invited us to their homes for Shabbat when we arrived in Cincinnati.) Fast forward about 10 years, and in 2012 their 8 year old son was diagnosed with childhood leukemia. Phyllis – and many of you have seen this – lovingly and painstakingly shared their life on her blog, called “Superman Sam.” So that 18 months later, when Sammy died, there were thousands of people who had come along on the journey with them.
 
Just before Sammy passed away, his parents came up with the idea to get 36 rabbis to shave their heads to raise money and awareness for childhood cancers. 36 is a nice number – because it represents double chai (life) – and because it is traditionally number of truly righteous people who exist in the world at any given time, according to Jewish mysticism. Plus, they thought they it would be hard to get 36 rabbis to shave their heads. But they were wrong. 36 grew into 40, and 40 grew into 60, and this past Tuesday, 74 Reform Rabbis shaved their head – most of us together in Chicago at the rabbinical convention, but others by themselves around North America. And in the meantime, the group has managed to raise an unbelievable $582,000 toward childhood cancer research. And that number is still growing, because, of course, donations can be made at any time.
 
So on Tuesday night, I sat among colleagues and friends and participated in this strange ritual. Some of you watched it live streaming, and you know that the mood was an eerie mix of celebration and sadness. Celebration, of course, because it was an amazing thing to be part of – to have raised money, to have raised awareness, to have brought a community together in this very unique way. And so we were happy – cheering each other on, singing songs from “Hair.” But there was also sadness, because Sammy Sommer wasn’t there. And because there are still way to many Sammys in all of our lives. I didn’t really know Sammy, but I know plenty of people - children and adults - whose lives have been changed or affected or cut short. And I’m sure you do too.
 
In the Torah portion, the Metzora shaves as a way of atoning for the sins of haughtiness and lashon hara. Our shave was not that – I don’t feel like we were atoning for anything, but it was humbling. It is humbling to realize just how quickly your appearance can be changed in really obvious ways. That often happens to people who get cancer. It’s humbling to realize just how powerful we are, and just how powerless. We can raise $600,000, which really and truly will help people. But we can’t bring back the people that we miss. All we can do is try turn grief into inspiration; try to turn memory into motivation.
 
So that’s the answer to “Ask me why I’m bald.” I’m bald because my friends went through something terrible. And because other people in my life have suffered in similar ways. I’m bald because I believe that we human beings do have the power to make the world better – to prevent some future people from having to go through the same thing. And I’m bald because it was the least I could do in a situation where I could do nothing.
 
יְגַלַּח אֶת־כָּל־שְׂעָרוֹ
"He shall shave off all his hair." And by doing so, begin to move forward, back into life.
 
May we recognize that we are never powerless, even when we feel so.
And may the memory of our struggles, our pain, and our losses inspire us to make the world a better place.

on Thursday, 20 February 2014.

RABBI'S MESSAGE FOR MARCH 2014

Last High Holy Days, I gave a sermon in which I argued that our congregation should be prepared to embrace intermarried families for who they are, and to welcome them into the community. Afterwards, I was absolutely overwhelmed by the response from the congregation: many of you came up to me to affirm the message, to tell stories about your own journey and your own evolution in thinking.
Right now is an exciting but uncertain time in Jewish history. In some ways, everything is changing. Today, Jews are more welcomed and better accepted than in any other moment in history. Today, we are part of the fabric of society. Intermarriage, which historically frightens the Jewish community, is actually a by-product of these positive developments. To quote Rabbi Rick Jacobs, President of the Reform Movement, in his December Biennial address: “[Intermarriage] is a result of the open society that no one here wants to close. In North America today, being "against" intermarriage is like being "against" gravity.”
We have two choices. We can circle the wagons, or we can open our doors, embrace interfaith couples, and give them the tools to raise Jewish families. To quote Rabbi Jacobs again: “We practice outreach because it is good for the Jewish people. Interfaith couples can raise phenomenally committed Jewish families.”
It is clear to me that Kol Ami has chosen the path of openness and acceptance. It is time for us now to begin to discuss what that means. At its last meeting, our Board of Directors voted to appoint a new Interfaith & Outreach Task Force, whose mandate is to explore the programmatic and policy matters surrounding interfaith families: How can we be most welcoming? How can we include non-Jewish spouses in congregational life in authentic yet comfortable ways? What kind of presence should our congregation and clergy have at the life cycle events of intermarried members? These are crucial questions that will influence the nature our congregational life for generations to come.
I invite you to join us on this important journey. If you are interested in being part of the Task Force or would like to provide input, please email me or call the office at 905-709-2620.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Micah Streiffer