Before Shabbat

I was up at 6 this morning. I’m not an early riser by choice, so being awake before dawn was not what I’d call a welcome situation. The bedroom was a bit chilly with the windows wide open. I truly wanted to fall back asleep, but it was very clear that this would not happen. I was conscious.

You know how sometimes when you wake up you have a particular thought in mind. It’s not disturbing, and may, in fact, be pleasant or calming. Maybe it’s the remnant of a dream or due to the music that’s playing as you rise. It’s a gentle way to start the day.

That wasn’t my experience. My eyes opened after 6 am and that was it. It was as if my brain were a chainsaw and somebody yanked on the starter cord.

Schedules, appointments, things that must be done, worries about people I care about, will I or won’t I get to the gym, sermons, High Holy Days, what about dinner… it all came crashing in on me. At once. Was I going to fall back asleep? Not this morning I wasn’t.

So I got up to make the coffee. And as I stood there the aroma of fresh coffee began to caress my olfactory nerves. All of a sudden, I wasn’t obsessing about the 25 things that had to happen immediately! At once! Right now! I was smiling about how good Peet’s Major Dickason’s Blend smells as it brews, which led me to remember my first taste of Major Dickason’s Blend at the Peet’s on Union Street in San Francisco 37 years ago which led me to remember the months I spent with Liza before we got married and how sweet and romantic a time that was, which led me to smile some more…

I could’ve stood there, working myself into a frenzy of anxiety. I chose, instead, to just stop it. I chose to chill. Will all of these things get done? Maybe yes, maybe no. Does anyone’s life hang in the balance over anything I am required to do today? No. Will my staff slash my tires? I don’t think so. Will my wife and kids and grandkids still give me a hug at the end of the day? So far so good.

Look: life is so very precious. Not just at the 30,000-foot spiritual overview general statement of principle level. But perhaps more importantly, at the up close granular level. Every little thing we do, every decision we make impinges on the sacredness of our lives.

Spending time planning one’s day is a wise and mature thing to do. Spending time slapping oneself upside the head and repeatedly saying “Gevalt!”, does nothing but waste time. It reminds me of a famous rabbinic quote (which rabbi? I’m still looking it up…), which I paraphrase: “One who obsessively talks about their flaws and failures and sins thinks only about their flaws and failures and sins and soon becomes their flaws and failures and sins. Stir filth this way it’s filth; stir it that way and it’s still filth. And during all this time of brooding, I could be stringing pearls for the Holy One. You’ve done wrong? Who hasn’t! Now turn away from the brooding and start doing good!”

All I can do is the best that I can do. And that has to be enough.

And now it’s time to string some pearls for the Holy One.

We all grew up with guys like Ryan Lochte: handsome, popular jocks who always had an entourage of dudes and girls. They were usually not the sharpest tools in the shed, but this didn’t seem to matter much to the adoring students and teachers who fawned over their athletic accomplishments and good looks.

They got away with all kinds of pranks and class disruptions while other less popular kids were slapped down. The excuse for these golden boys, no matter what they did, from being terribly rowdy at parties, not doing homework, or losing their car, was something like International Olympics Committee spokesman Mario Andrada’s statement.  “We need to understand that these kids were trying to have fun…“But let’s give these kids a break. Sometimes you take actions that you later regret. Lochte is one of the best swimmers of all times. They had fun, they made a mistake, life goes on.”

That notion of a chosen few to be judged differently due to their popularity or social standing has long been a part of American life. Celebrities often seem to benefit from a pernicious double standard. They “nudge-nudge, wink-wink” with all sorts of authority figures in thrall to their patina of fame.

But there is a flip side to this worship of the rich and famous. Woe to the celebrity who gets caught doing something ridiculously foolish or criminally egregious. In such cases, the public giveth and the public taketh away. Not to mention corporate sponsors…

I am not the first person to note that original IOC apologia for Lochte et al rings hollow. First and foremost, Andrada calls them kids. Only Lochte is 32. Which means the statute of limitations for kid behavior is in effect. It is true that to vandalize a service station bathroom is not a capital crime. But to lie about it and then get caught on video is an invitation to a real multimedia frenzy.

I’m trying to separate my schadenfreude (pleasure derived by someone from another person’s misfortune), from the facts in regards to Ryan Lochte. Which is not easy. But his sudden plummet from lovable rascal to pathetic, fixated adolescent has a kind of justice to it.

Our tradition teaches us that everything we do has consequences. Coming up to the High Holy Days we are particularly cognizant of this time period as the commencement of a judgment process that culminates on Yom Kippur when God decides who shall live and who shall die. The evidence that God reviews is not our thoughts, but our deeds. It’s not what we meant to do or not do. It’s only about what choices we made.

There is no book of life and a book of death. God does not punish the evil and reward the innocent. Those are metaphors, images to help us feel more deeply about the dimensions of our own choices. But I do think God cares about our behavior. I do believe that any one person’s bad choices have implications for them and for others far on down the line. This notion of the deep reach of our actions is why repenting and forgiving are so crucial to the High Holy Days.

We are called upon to examine our behavior over this past year and acknowledge where we’ve fallen short. We are reminded of the implications of our misdeeds in regards to others. And we are called upon to surmount our own rush to judgment and forgive those seeking pardon.

So far, Ryan Lochte hasn’t apologized: to the Brazilian people, to the service station owner, to the other guys who were with him and got thrown under the bus, or to the American people whom he is supposed to be representing. All he’s done so far is to say he’s sorry for “not being more careful and candid in how I described the events of that early morning.” By me, that doesn’t count for much at all.

As one the people who watched the “popular” guys get it all, a la “Revenge of the Nerds”, I am happy to see a 2-dimensional punk laid low. But as a rabbi in his 60s, I think I’m ready to let it go. I hope and pray it’ll be that easy to find forgiveness for others – and for myself – this coming High Holy Days.

I don’t know Aaron Persky, the now infamous judge from Santa Clara CA, who gave Brock Turner, a 20-year-old Stanford student, a 6-month jail sentence for raping a 23-year-old woman. I have never met Judge Persky. Palo Alto public defender Gary Goodman, says that ” Judge Persky is a kind, gentle soul — very well considered and bright.” He graduated from Stanford. He once coached men’s lacrosse. He’s spent much of his career prosecuting sex crimes. And he’s touted himself as a defender of battered women. He served as an executive committee member of the Support Network for Battered Women, and he received a state award for civil rights leadership. Judge Persky ran unopposed this week for another  6-year term in the Superior Court.

Given these essential facts, and given Judge Persky’s seemingly clear, respected acumen, how can a man make such a colossal blunder? There is no question about what happened. One day in January 2015, at around 1 a.m., two male Stanford graduate students from Sweden who were riding bicycles spotted Turner, then a 19-year-old freshman, on top of a woman behind a Dumpster outside the Kappa Alpha fraternity house on campus. The graduate students could see that the woman wasn’t moving. When they got off their bikes to intervene, Turner tried to run away. They stopped him and called the police. The victim, a college graduate who was 22, was “completely unresponsive,” according to the authorities. She was taken to the hospital, where she woke up about three hours later.

Earlier in the evening, she’d gone to a party at the fraternity with her sister, a Stanford student. Turner was also there, and they each had several drinks. The victim’s blood-alcohol level was about three times the legal limit when it was tested. At some point during the party, she blacked out, and in the hour or so before she was assaulted, she made incoherent calls to her boyfriend and her sister (who’d left the party), which she couldn’t remember afterward. She also couldn’t remember what happened between her and Turner. His blood-alcohol level was twice the legal limit, and he told the police that though he was drunk, he could “remember everything,” according to the police report, and that he’d “consciously decided to engage in the sexual activity with the victim,” digitally penetrating her and then thrusting against her with his pants on. He also said she “seemed to enjoy” it.

Turner’s father wrote to Judge Persky, asking for leniency:  “[My son’s] life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life. The fact that he now has to register as a sexual offender for the rest of his life forever alters where he can live, visit, work, and how he will be able to interact with people and organizations. What I know as his father is that incarceration is not the appropriate punishment for Brock.”

I suppose some fathers would beg a judge not to incarcerate their guilty sons, that they’ve learned their lessons, that they will behave differently forever after. But the very fact that Mr. Turner claims groping and penetrating an unconscious woman is nothing more than “20 minutes of action” is appalling. Perhaps it gives us more insight than we care to have into Turner family ethics.

A California jury found the former student, 20-year-old Brock Allen Turner, guilty of three counts of sexual assault. Turner faced a maximum of 14 years in state prison. Last Thursday, he was sentenced to six months in county jail and probation. The judge said he feared a longer sentence would have a “severe impact” on Turner, a champion swimmer who once aspired to compete in the Olympics — a point repeatedly brought up during the trial.

I don’t have much to say to Brock Turner or his dad. Another privileged white man has squeaked by the judicial system, avoiding serious time. Father and son have dehumanized the victim, blaming alcohol as the actual culprit. They played the system, which, let’s face it, always has gone easier on white men of privilege.

To Judge Persky, I would say thus: Your honor, as the father of 3 daughters and 2 sons, and grandfather of 2, as a Jew, I find your sentencing to be ethically indefensible. Your cavalier attitude about the pain and suffering the victim has endured as opposed to your deep concern for the “steep price” Turner has paid for his actions is utterly ludicrous. Our tradition mandates that we first and foremost attend to the needs of the victim. It further teaches judges that:  You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality. (Deut 16:19) And yet you have done just that.

You looked at Brock Turner as a fellow Stanford student, an archetype of the California kids from your own student days: blonde, athletic, and rich. And you came to his rescue. You could much more easily relate to him than to the passed out unconscious girl behind the dumpster.

Judge Persky, you insulted the only victim in this case, the unnamed female who was raped and assaulted. In your haste to mitigate the “severe impact,” incarceration would have on the rapist, you looked away from your prime directive: justice.

I tried to discover whether or not you have daughters, Judge Persky. I couldn’t find out, even though I’m a good Google researcher. I wanted to know because I can’t imagine a father of a daughter would find it so easy to minimize the violence done to the victim in this case. So let me say that fathers worry about their daughters every day. We worry that they will be safe, that no idiot man will catcall, or humiliate them. We pray that they will know their limits when out on the town. We pray that if they’ve had too much to drink that some slimy drunk won’t grab them and take advantage of their state. I’m the father of 3 grown women, 3 responsible, bright and fun women. And I will worry about them every day of my life. I will worry less about my sons because I know that this kind of crime is not in their makeup. But I will reassert that like the 2 Swedes who rescued the victim and subdued the rapist until police came, as mensches who witness such behavior they are obligated to do something.

When a judge like you rules to shield a man of privilege who thinks being drunk gives him carte blanche to rape, handle, finger, grope or kiss women because we live in a culture of booze and drugs and sex, then I worry more. You don’t give permission. But you don’t slam the gavel down and throw Turner behind bars for a few years anyway. Your bio claims you worked with women who were victims of domestic abuse. How does your knowledge base from that world not lead you to do justly?

Judge Persky, I don’t know what you’re supposed to do here. Can you apologize for a miscarriage of justice? Can you call a mistrial? You were just ushered into another term on the Superior Court. Would it not be a time to step down, to acknowledge that you made a terrible error?

What you do is your call; yours and the voters of Santa Clara. As a rabbi, as a father and grandfather, as a naïve believer in the possibility of justice in this nation, Judge Persky, it is time for your atonement. Anything less besmirches the damaged life of this victim and the millions of women who have suffered the indifference and open ridicule of the American justice system on every level.

I imagine our ancestors, on the other side of the Sea of Reeds. They watch the waters collapse on the Egyptian chariots and realize that their enemy has been utterly vanquished. They sing, they dance, they celebrate. They must’ve felt like the end of the story. As it says in the Haggadah, once we were slaves, and now we are free.

But of course, the story isn’t over. Yes, we were redeemed, but much to the chagrin of the Israelites, the journey had just begun. We continued to March toward the Promised Land and en route, we received the Torah. Thus, our ancestors learned that with freedom comes responsibility. Lots of responsibility.

Since the Second Passover seder, we’ve been counting the Omer every night. Well, maybe we don’t count it every night, but we are aware that the tradition teaches us to count 50 days from Passover, ending in Shavuot when we received the Torah. The omer (“sheaf”) is an old Biblical measure of the volume of grain.

Being Jewish is not a static experience. It requires study and learning. It requires certain rituals and observances. It demands that we maintain a sense of family. It requires that we work toward a sense of connectedness that spans generations as well as class and socioeconomic differences.

To imagine that Judaism can flourish by asking someone else to do our Jewish practice in our name cannot work. It reminds me of the scams I see in the back of various Jewish magazines or online for that matter. It goes something like this: “Send us money and we will say the Mourner’s Kaddish for your relative.” That’s simply not how it’s done. If one wants to remember and honor a deceased loved one, paying someone off to do it in one’s stead is absurd and has no place in a Judaism of integrity.

Sometimes Jews who do not belong to synagogues will send lots of donations to Chabad. The thinking goes, “I don’t really want to take the time to live a Jewish life. But those guys, they do all the Orthodox practice and they look so Jewish, they’re the ones that will keep Judaism alive.”

Not that this is a competition, but the fact is that Judaism, at least Judaism in America, will only survive if Jews like us: Reform Jews, postmodern Jews, stake a claim for our own Judaism. We must commit not to maintaining a Judaism of the past, but nurturing a Jewish life that is about right now and about tomorrow. Otherwise, we become like the practitioners of the Druze religion, which is so secret that most people who call themselves Druze don’t know what the religion stands for.

TBA offers a prodigious set of tools that can be utilized to build a Jewish life of meaning. We provide opportunities to participate in Jewish learning. We provide the opportunity to engage in acts of social justice. We provide ways to better understand modern Israel and our connection to it. We provide a path to insight into identifying and cultivating Jewish ethics. And all of this, most importantly, in the context of being a part of a community.

None of these tools can be used without community. It is the medium that nourishes and shapes who we are, what we’ve been, and what we can be. While I fully believe in the principle of virtual community and the power of social media, there is something so profoundly powerful and necessary about people gathering together, seeing each other, acknowledging that we are part of some meta-family, some collective that spans over time.

This Jewish juggernaut only works when people share a common sense of why being Jewish is worth something. Because if it’s really not worth much, then why bother? And that, of course, is one of my biggest fears-that not enough younger people and not enough parents and grandparents will acknowledge the unique treasures of living a Jewish life.

Counting the Omer is a good metaphor to remind us that there’s always more to be found. There are always reasons to celebrate. There is so much to be learned. And it’s all there for us in our community, to learn together, to truly be a blessed people.

Shabbat Shalom

rebhayim

“We’ve gotta have a great show, with a million laughs… and color… and a lot of lights to make it sparkle! And songs – wonderful songs! And after we get the people in that hall, we’ve gotta start em in laughing right away! Oh, can’t you just see it… ?”

So says Judy Garland to Mickey Rooney in the Busby Berkley movie musical Babes in Arms.  Somehow all of that little speech has morphed into a single exclamation erroneously tied to Mickey Rooney, who supposedly says, “Let’s put on a show!”.

Putting on a show is a very gratifying experience for every big time or small time volunteer involved on stage. It’s a kind of bug that once in your system is hard to lose. Ask people like Judy Dorf and Bev Cohen and Harvey Weiner, who are veterans from over a dozen TBA shows.

We’ve been putting on a show for decades at Temple Beth Avodah. And by now, hundreds of us have felt that thrill of the spotlight. We’ve sung along with an orchestra, danced to a choreographer’s instruction, jumped, ran, crawled and tumbled across the stage.

The declaration, “Let’s put on a show!” is a powerful call to action and useful shorthand for the longer Garland quote. It captures the raw excitement of putting on a play. It reflects the rare feelings of joy, terror, and fulfillment that accompany an actor, amateur or professional, who stands before an audience and performs.

As much fun as it is, we don’t do it for the attention. When Amy Tonkonogy called out, “Let’s put on a show!”, a lot of people came running. They didn’t rush because it’s about putting on a fundraiser. We’ve spent a lot on putting on plays over the years, and some made money, and many broke even and a few lost money. To be very crystal clear, the TBA plays have never been about raising money.

When Amy Tonkonogy said, “Let’s put on a show!” like her mother before her, people came running because it’s about building community. Backstage at a TBA performance is all about collaboration and cooperation. The connection people feel after months and months of rehearsals is indescribable. By the time of the first performance it feels like a family reunion every time we gather before a show.

We put on a show because it has become a part of the fabric of TBA. We do it to express a kind of love for our temple. We do it so we can meet and make friends and create lifelong connections with others who are members of our temple. The play is a collective gift of the heart from the micro community of actors and painters and stage hands and seamstresses and dressers and musicians and the clean up crew to you, our fellow TBA members and friends.

You say you don’t like amateur productions. I get it. You say you don’t like musicals. I understand. But… it’s not about Broadway, it’s about Puddingstone Lane. So stop making excuses, and come see Barnum. Buy tickets online. Think about it as supporting your relatives and friends, because they are – even if you don’t know a soul in the cast. They’re doing this for you.

Shabbat Shalom

rebhayim

I want to talk about my right elbow. Now bear with me. There is a context…

I chose to fire up my grill for spring cooking last week. Of course, it was raining, but I would not be deterred. Soon I was literally cooking with gas on my Webber grill, getting it to about 700 degrees, to then clean the cooking surface.

In the process of prepping and scraping, I used my spatula to pry up the corner of a cooking grate. Somehow this action wreaked havoc with the tendon in my right elbow (diagnosis anyone?). In other words, it really hurt, like yell out loud cursing hurt. But the show must go on and dinner must be served. I managed to cook everything to the desired level of doneness.

My elbow still hurt. A lot. And I would be reminded of this every time I banged into something. Which was more often than I would have anticipated.  Apparently we – or at least I – regularly use our elbows to locate ourselves in space. It’s as if my elbow is a sensor that automatically keeps me at appropriate distances from various surfaces.

For instance, I have some steep steps in my home. I found out the hard way when carrying something big downstairs that I lean my right elbow against the wall as I descend to keep myself from falling. In fact over the course of a day or two, I learned just how vital my right elbow is to my well being.

That’s my elbow story, or in rabbinics what they call the mashal, the parable. The nimshal, the teaching or the lesson is all about gratitude. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the need to explicitly stop and thank God for my elbows. Other organs, yes. My elbows, no.

Elbows are so … plain. Or worse. Elbows are often plagued with dry skin or eczema or granuloma, or God knows what. They’re wrinkly. And then there’s the funny bone thing – which is not funny at all.

But we need these elbows for all the obvious reasons, like bending our arms for instance. Or, as I’ve learned, for keeping myself from falling down. It’s all these little things, so much of which I take for granted that mean so much. And so I want to give thanks for elbows, for all the things coalesce to enable me to navigate reality. It won’t surprise you to know that there is a blessing that helps us find the words to give thanks for our bodies. And even though it doesn’t specifically mention elbows, I think it sets the stage and the direction of offering thanksgiving.

Blessed are You, our God, Spirit of the World, who wisely formed the human body. You created it with openings here and vessels there. You know well that should even one of these stay opened, or one of those stay closed, we could not long survive. Blessed are You, Healer of all flesh, who makes the wonders of creation.

Blessed are You, our God, for all the little things that make such a difference in our lives. For taste buds and tear ducts. For ear lobes and eyelashes. For cones and rods and receptors. And yes: thank you, God, for elbows.

Shabbat Shalom

rebhayim