Before Shabbat

I am so sickened by Harvey Weinstein and his plethora of stories. These sleazy, repugnant renditions of foul behavior continue to flow unabated, like a broken sewer main. Story after story recounts how this man used and abused women without regard for their feelings, their dignity, or their very personhood.

Every time I see Weinstein’s name or hear it pronounced, I feel a particular ache of anger and disgust. I want to yell, “Jewish men do not behave like this! How could you?” I know his Jewishness is not germane to the crime, but his transgressions tar us all. He’s a guy from our tribe. He should have known better. Weinstein’s transgressions are an assault on the primary values of our tradition.

I am not naïve. I know that there are most definitely Jewish men who behaved and behave like this. Being Jewish does not automatically inoculate anyone with a conscience and a sense of boundaries. Menschlichkeit: behaving with respect for all others who like us are created in God’s image, takes time and empathy to learn. It’s something Weinstein never learned. In public, he sought to project an image of decency and philanthropic excellence. In private he was a pig, a selfish boor whose only modus operandi was to use and abuse women.

As a part of the males of the world team, I get sick as I read the accounts of women who were treated so contemptuously by Weinstein, Bill O’Reilly, Bill Cosby, Roger Ailes, etc. Powerful men, studies show, overestimate the sexual interest of others and erroneously believe that the women around them are more attracted to them than is actually the case. Powerful men also sexualize their work, looking for opportunities for sexual trysts and affairs, and along the way leer inappropriately, stand too close, and touch for too long on a daily basis, thus crossing the lines of decorum — and worse.

How is that for thousands of years, men have behaved like this? Why have men gotten away with such contemptible behavior for so long? Perhaps because other men have not called them out.

Contexts of unchecked power make many of us vulnerable to, and complicit in, the abuse of power. We may not like what’s going on, but many of us wouldn’t do anything to stop it. This doesn’t excuse the rest of us any more than it excuses the powerful for their crimes, but it should prevent us from telling ourselves the comforting lie that we’d behave better than the people in The Weinstein Company who reportedly knew what Weinstein was doing and failed to put a stop to it.

Yesterday, the director Quentin Tarantino acknowledged in an interview with the Times, that, “I knew enough to do more than I did. There was more to it than just the normal rumors, the normal gossip. It wasn’t secondhand. I knew he did a couple of these things. I wish I had taken responsibility for what I heard. “If I had done the work I should have done then, I would have had to not work with him.”

Men have too often looked the other way at the demeaning behavior of men with women. The uses of sexual intimidation and violence can no longer be tolerated. We know too much. Brave women have dared to step up and accuse their attackers. Brave women and girls have written #metoo on Facebook in response to the recent stories by many victims of Weinstein et al. They are true heroes and champions, speaking truth to power in the strongest way possible.

Roxane Gay wrote an op-ed piece today in the Times. She said, “Men can start putting in some of the work women have long done in offering testimony. They can come forward and say “me too” while sharing how they have hurt women in ways great and small. They can testify about how they have cornered women in narrow office hallways or made lewd comments to co-workers or refused to take no for an answer or worn a woman down by guilting her into sex and on and on and on. It would equally be a balm if men spoke up about the times when they witnessed violence or harassment and looked the other way or laughed it off or secretly thought a woman was asking for it. It’s time for men to start answering for themselves because women cannot possibly solve this problem they had no hand in creating.”

I’ve never behaved like Harvey Weinstein. I’ve never engaged in sexual harassment, and I don’t have any friends who have done it. As a parent and a rabbi and, yes, a man, I must continue to explicitly speak up about having zero tolerance for sexual harassment of any sort. I must continue to speak out against the corrupt uses of power to hurt and abuse others.

I am not responsible for Harvey Weinstein or others of his ilk. But I am most definitely obligated, as a rabbi and as a man, for speaking up and out, for teaching boys and reminding men that there is never an excuse for objectifying girls and women. It’s time for some serious evolution.

It’s a crisp, clear Friday morning. Autumn is announcing its official presence. But for me, Fall comes, not with the equinox, the weather, the foliage, or the sudden omnipresence of pumpkins and Halloween decorations. I know it’s Autumn when I hear the shofar.

The tekiya is an unambiguous sound. It is loud and raucous – there’s nothing smooth or beautiful about it. Maimonides said it best: the sound of the shofar is an alarm, a wakeup call.

1. Hey! Guess what? You are mortal. You are finite. That means every day is a gift. That means what you do and say should not be nahrishkeit, Yiddish for foolishness. Everything counts.
2. You’re not perfect. In fact, you blew it this year. You hurt people’s feelings. You hid behind the “I couldn’t help it” banner. You didn’t always do the best you could do. Own it! Acknowledge it.
3. Say you’re sorry. Not like a little kid forced by parents to say the magic words, but like an adult with a heart and soul. Find the people you knowingly hurt and ask their forgiveness. Your partner, parents, kids, associates… whoever in the world you injured.
4. What about now? Make some decisions about where you’re going from here. How will you try to do better? How will you change to adapt to the needs of the people around you?

This is the agenda for tonight and tomorrow. Not an easy one. But I can promise you that if you do this work, if you think about this during services, by the time you hear the shofar on Saturday night you will feel exultant. You will feel nourished and alive – and that’s even after fasting!

It is that time for me, too. I want to ask your forgiveness, too. For times when I was not sufficiently attentive to your needs. For times when I was late responding to your call or email. For times when I disappointed you. For all these and more I ask your forgiveness.

Twenty years ago I walked into our sanctuary for Kol Nidre. Everything was new and beautiful. That first Yom Kippur is a blur. But I do remember thinking, “This feels right, this new marriage.” Twenty years later I will walk into that same beautiful, blessed sanctuary. It still looks good with all of its various renovations and enhancements. And it still feels right.

My friends call me the happiest rabbi in America, because… well, because maybe I am. I consider myself lucky and supremely blessed to be with you after all these years. And it’s all because of you. It’s because of your love and support. It’s because I have a staff that is nonpareil. Thank you.

My shofar alarm is ringing: time to get back to that agenda. Have an easy fast. Please stay for the last part of the service, Neila. It’s one of the best things that happen here.

One day a scorpion asks a Frog for a ride across the river. The Frog responds, “Are you kidding? Of course not! I know you, Scorpion, and you would sting me and I’d die. No way will I carry you on my back!” The Scorpion challenges the Frog, “Why would I do that? If I sting you and you die, we both drown. You have nothing to fear by carrying me across the river.” The Frog decides that what the Scorpion said makes sense, so he agrees to the request.

Midway across the river, the Scorpion stings the Frog. As the Frog gasps his last breath before drowning, he implores the Scorpion, “Why? Why did you sting me, knowing we will both drown?” The Scorpion replies, “It’s my nature.”

This well-known story is a proof text for a commonly held belief. We are who we are, wired from birth with our flaws and talents, likes and dislikes, and attitudes and character traits that are immutable. This deterministic perspective essentially seals us off from any true chance to alter the trajectory of our lives.

The notion that the die is cast from birth is so depressing. Jerry Maguire says to his recently wedded wife who sees their marriage tanking because he can’t open up his soul to her, “What if I’m not built that way”? In other words, what if his fear of intimacy is in his DNA? What if whatever he’s doing is all he can do?

Are our lives predetermined by our biochemistry?  Are we doomed just to keep kicking the same old dented can down the road? Is there nothing we can do about our rough spots? Is it all about repetition compulsion, just repeating the same mistakes over and over again?

While this debate continues in philosophy, psychology, and neuroscience circles, in our tradition there is no argument or ambiguity. Judaism teaches that we are a work in progress. We are not held captive by inborn twisted character flaws. “What if I’m not built that way,” doesn’t work in the Jewish tradition.

Judaism doesn’t work if we don’t have the freedom to choose right from wrong. God does not predetermine ANYTHING about what we do in the world. The Holy One provides an ethical foundation, and then it’s up to every individual to decide how to interface with that foundation.

It is, of course, no accident that I chose this topic for today’s Before Shabbat. With High Holy Days coming up, with all of our liturgical references to repentance and forgiveness, it’s worth reiterating that we truly do believe in this process. We can become better human beings. We don’t have to keep shlepping the angst and pain. There are no rewards for stubbornly sticking to one’s story, even when we know we’re maybe a little wrong. For the Jewish people, biochemistry aside, if you decide you want to change, then you can change.

This process of self-improvement, of repenting one’s sins and forgiving people who have hurt us, is not easy. In fact, it’s extremely difficult. We adopt so many bad habits. We pursue foolish goals that divert us from the task of living life to its fullest. We get caught up in the cycles of avarice and greed. We don’t take a stand.

And yet, all of this aside, we do have the ability to change, to reach for something more. We can be more than what we are. It “just” takes time and effort and dedication. This is a lifetime struggle, not just a quick reflection before the new year.

You can think and think about change, but ultimately you’ll have to start. Yes, change is hard. Yes, it involves taking responsibility for your life. Yes, it requires you to give up the familiar, which no matter how unpleasant can still feel comforting. And yes, change will put you face-to-face with loss. But what’s beautiful about this loss is that while you might have to give up the hope for a better past or a less painful present, the future is squarely in your court.

There is no finish line on this. There is no completion, no perfection. There is only free will and our courage and resilience to look in the mirror and acknowledge that we have lots to do to make the world – and ourselves – better, more viable.

The theme of Teshuvah – repentance – is not some hypothetical suggestion. It’s a real challenge to each of us. So come to temple. Come be inspired to stand tall. Come rededicate yourself to living a life of openheartedness and meaning. Come remember how to be a mensch.

Don’t forget that Saturday night is Selichot. At 8 pm there will be lots of contemplative space for prayer and meditation. Join us; it will absolutely put you in the right frame of mind and soul.

Shabbat Shalom,

rebhayim

I had planned that my first Before Shabbat of the season would be a breezy, schmoozy, “What I did this summer” report. And it was a wonderful summer, hanging out with friends and family, reading some great books, chillin’ with my grandson, grilling fresh fish and veggies for every dinner, and spending quiet time with my wife. But something happened. Charlottesville happened, and I need to connect with you, my temple family.

There have always been people around who hate Jews. There are so-called explanations for their hatred: Jews are the quintessential outsiders who don’t fit in. Jews are cheap. Jews own Hollywood and Wall Street. Jews are rich. And that old stand by, the Jews killed Jesus.

These tired old lies have floated around such a long time, some for millennia. We’ve seen how these antisemitic slurs have been effectively used against us over the centuries. We’ve experienced the despair of being singled out, isolated, persecuted, rounded up, and murdered.

As American Jews, we’ve seen instances of true antisemitism. Quotas kept Jews out of universities and grad schools and hospitals. We’ve been discriminated against by country clubs and real estate developers. We have felt the sting of prejudice in a million little cuts.

Today, American Jews are prosperous and exceptionally successful. We are, in a word, everywhere. Sure there are places where Jews may not be comfortable or where management keeps a lid on too many Jewish hires. But our presence in every aspect of American political, cultural, and economic life speaks to our extraordinary perseverance. It also assures us a kind of safety that we’ve never known in our long history.

It is precisely our success and acceptance in this great country that makes the events at Charlottesville so troublesome and heartbreaking. I’ve seen neo-Nazis over the years, their pathetic strutting and ‘seig-heiling’ so reminiscent of dull, unwashed school yard bullies. Then there’s the KKK in their bizarre superhero capes and hoods, screaming about white superiority while proving how not superior they are just by standing there… No, I don’t much worry about these sad, powerless people and their limited understanding of the world.

What did give me pause was the candlelight vigil and the alt-right white boys marching through the University of Virginia campus in their polo shirts and khakis. This is a new look of hatred. These are the people who once believed that their racist ideology was contemptible in American society, that they had to hate quietly. These are the guys who tell Jew jokes at work, but only when the coast is clear. These are the haters who never, in their wildest dreams, believed that they could walk around in public, chanting antisemitic epithets out loud. This is the personification of the despicable rhetoric of hate loosed in the presidential campaign of 2016.

What do we do? We stand together. We are resolute. We refuse to allow Jews to be victimized by the alt-right. We remain vigilant not only for own safety but for the safety of minorities who the alt-right also objectifies and threatens.

We demand that those charged with our public safety, locally and regionally and nationally, be adequately prepared for the antics of the white supremacists. When they move from the exercise of free speech to hate speech, when they resort to terrorist attacks to kill innocent people, law enforcement must unambiguously crack down on them.

We call on our elected officials to speak out, to call Charlottesville exactly what it was: a white supremacist demonstration that gave way to violence. We ask our elected officials to safeguard the rights of innocent men, women, and children, to stand with them, to state that without exception, such behavior is anti-American to its core. We must hold our elected officials accountable for their words and deeds in these times.

We cannot look away and pretend that this is nothing but an aberration. It is not an aberration – it is a new form of fascism crawling out from under a heavy rock.We must identify it and chase it to the garbage heap of history. How? By aggressively prosecuting them. By pointing out just how out of synch they are with postmodern Western culture.  By proving that we can live in a multi-cultural nation. By not being afraid.

Yesterday I went to a gathering at City Hall in Newton. Mayor Setti Warren was there along with Congressman Joe Kennedy. They decried the violence in the streets of Charlottesville. They challenged all of us to see ourselves as responsible for gathering together for reassurance and courage. They reminded all of us that we have to stand strong in the face of insidious hatred.

This Friday night, Susan and I will be on the bimah, rallying our congregation. We know that there’s not a lot we can do to change things quickly, if at all. We aren’t naïve. But we understand this much: we need each other. We need to know that we care for and about each other. We stand together in strength. We pray for God’s sheltering presence, and that in God’s presence we gain a true resilience born of experience and action. Let’s gather for peace and empowerment. Shabbat service is at 615pm.

PS The events in Spain and Finland remind us just how vulnerable the many are to the few who hate. Our thoughts are with all those who have lost friends or loved ones in this latest paroxysm of outrageous violence. As members of the human race, we are all diminished when the innocent are targetted.

As I was doing last minute prep for my Bar Mitzvah – going over the Torah and haftarah, learning how to put on tefillin, reviewing English readings – Israel was under siege. We were all glued to every news report that mentioned Israel. And as you can imagine, it was mentioned with increasing frequency and urgency in the spring of 1967.

In mid-May of that year, President Nasser of Egypt started moving thousands of troops and armor divisions into the Sinai in direct violation of an agreement they made with the UN. He then ordered the UN to leave the Sinai Peninsula. Though Nasser had no authority to do this, The UN responded and withdrew their peacekeeping forces. And Jews everywhere began holding our breath, brooding over when Nasser would take his incendiary rhetoric about destroying Israel to its logical conclusion.

I always loved reading the news and listening to Walter Cronkite, so I was current on the situation. It was so long ago, yet I clearly remember that on June 1^st, as the situation continued to escalate, it dawned on me that there might be a war in Israel before my Bar Mitzvah. What would I do? Would the Bar Mitzvah be canceled?  Would something horrible, unthinkable occur?

I asked my tutor if there was some contingency plan for a canceled Bar Mitzvah. What if, I asked him slowly, what if Israel is attacked? What if Israel is captured? What would we do? Cantor Bernstein looked at me. tears welled up in his gentle eyes, and, in mine, too.  He was a Holocaust survivor, and he had family in Jerusalem. Cantor Bernstein told me that no matter what happened, my Bar Mitzvah would never be postponed. “Life always rolls forward. Shabbat comes, in good times and hard times. In peace there is Shabbat. In war, too. Even in Auschwitz, there was Shabbat.”

“Ok,” I said, “But what if something terrible happens? What happens if Egypt attacks and Syria and Jordan attack, too?” “Number one, you will have your Bar Mitzvah. Number two, Israel will survive whatever is going to happen next, because it has to survive. Because after what Hitler did, Jews can’t be victims again. We won’t be victims again.”

He seemed so sure of himself! I took his certainty and made it my own. When Israel launched the surprise air attack against Egypt on June 5^th, I somehow knew that, in the end, everything would work out. Because Cantor Bernstein said so. Because we could never allow for defeat.

In the few weeks that followed, the Jewish world reveled in the extraordinary victory of what came to be called the Six-Day War. My Bar Mitzvah ended up being a Shabbat of celebration. I talked about how cool it was for Jerusalem to be back in Jewish hands. I remember saying something about how one day I would pray at the Wailing Wall.  But I remember most clearly when the Cantor came up to me after the service and gave a bear hug. As he did, he whispered to me, “You see? We will never be victims again.”

I will always remember that hug. And I will always be grateful for Cantor Bernstein’s faith and strength. He enabled a frightened boy about to have a Bar Mitzvah, feel confident, not just about a ceremony, but most significantly about the future of Israel and the Jewish people.

That confident feeling I acquired 50 years ago still lingers, as does my great love of Israel. The hard truth, however, is that since the Six Day war, peace remains more elusive than ever. And in the end, Israel’s greatest legacy cannot be about a fantastically executed war. The only legacy that will have lasting meaning is to make peace.