Consequences

Today, the 20th of Av, marks my father’s yahrzeit.  I dedicate this d’var Torah to him, Bernard Wolfman, an accomplished speaker who gave me my first lessons in public address 39 years ago when I was preparing my Bat Mitzvah speech. And in the spirit of Eikev, he taught us to take responsibility for the consequences of our actions and inaction.

The circus is in town.  This weekend, Circus Smirkus performs at the Gore Estate.

What is the circus? It’s an opportunity to believe, if only for a couple of hours, in magic. 

And what is magic?  Wikipedia gives this definition:
The power of apparently influencing the course of events by using mysterious or supernatural forces.




TheFreeDictionary.com offers:
The art that purports to control or forecast natural events, effects, or forces by invoking the supernatural.

To promote this season’s act, with its Wizard of Oz theme, Circus Smirkus writes:
Grab your Ruby Slippers and click your heels together, as Circus Smirkus goes "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" ….

But in truth, a magical click of the heels does not bring a circus to fruition. The hard work that goes into perfecting acrobatics, clown acts, high wire precision and gymnastic prowess leads to an end result that makes it all seem magical.
 
As something that emerges from supernatural or mysterious forces, magic seems squarely in the realm of religion.  And in many contexts, religion focuses on the acceptance of unfathomable unknowns.  But Eikev asks us instead to look also at the hard, human work behind the supposed magic of the supernatural forces in our lives.

Eikev means, essentially, “as a consequence of.”  The commentary in the Eitz Hayim Chumash points out that it might seem odd that a portion begins with this word, as though in the middle of a thought.  But by beginning here it allows us to frame the narrative from here through chapter 8, which also ends with an Eikev clause.

What falls between these statements of consequence are, when you think about it, pretty magical concepts for any people at any time, but particularly for a group that just spent 400 years in slavery followed by 40 wandering in the wilderness.  The promise of no sterility among the people or their livestock.  No illness. Total dominance over enemies, regardless of their size and means. Unending resources of food, water and ore.  In fact the text seems to encourage ascribing these to magic, when defined as the supernatural, as Moshe says:
beware lest your heart grow haughty and you forget Adonai your God and you say to yourselves, “My own power and the might of my own hand have won this wealth for me.” Remember that it is Adonai your God who gives you the power to get wealth, in fulfillment of the covenant that God made on oath with your ancestors, as is still the case.

Yet the text anchors these fantastical concepts with eikev.  With consequences.  With cause and effect.  The promises that Moshe summarizes, as the embodiment of the covenant, depend upon the everyday actions of the people.  The parashah begins by telling us that eikev—as a consequence of—the people obeying the rules, good things will happen.  And chapter 8 concludes by telling us that eikev—as a consequence of—failing to heed God’s commandments, bad things will happen.

It’s a pretty radical concept.  We have influence interlaced with God’s power.  We have the will to help determine how God will act.  It is not enough to believe.  We must act.  We must act thoughtfully, purposefully, wittingly.  There are consequences to our actions that impact the forces in our world—even those we might call “supernatural.”

We should not be surprised, then, that in Chapter 9 Moshe warns against illusions of superiority, telling us “It is not because of your virtues and your rectitude that you will be able to possess their country; but it is because of their wickedness that Adonai your God is disposing of those nations…. Know, then, that it is not for any virtue of yours that Adonai your God is giving you this good land….” 

Having established that our actions and inactions have consequences, it might be easy for our good fortune to go to our heads.  In this complex relationship of human consequences and supernatural intervention, the role of God can help us to maintain our humility.

And suddenly, the text takes a hard turn away from the life to come across the Jordan, and how we might earn it, steering instead to a recap of all Moshe did to bring the Israelites to this point despite themselves.  In this interlude he seems to embody the very arrogance against which he has just cautioned.  Perhaps we are to take it as an example of the trap we must avoid.

What are we to make of a text that reminds us of God’s “majesty” and “mighty hand” in the plagues and the parting of the sea, while insisting on the cause and effect our own actions in determining the quality of our future?

I believe we are to understand that faith matters but it’s not enough.  It’s not the whole answer.  Nor is the elevation of our own power, impact and will.  Our future is born of both:  taking responsibility for our actions and respecting what is beyond us.

Perhaps this is why we love the circus.  The ability to perform results from the choices people have made to work hard honing their skills and practicing their acts.  It could not have happened without the hard work, and we do appreciate it all the more for knowing the effort behind the act, but we’d rather not see the sweat.  Instead, we want to suspend our disbelief and feel the magic. To some degree, we want to go on faith.

We must make decisions with an understanding that our choices, our actions, yield consequences.  And we must have faith that those actions happen within a context greater than ourselves.  This combination of perspectives just may bring out the strong yet graceful in us, or the practical yet idealistic in us.  It gives us dimension and makes us whole.

May we all feel the wholeness that comes from the comforting weight of knowing that our actions have consequences and the freeing lightness of knowing that we have the capacity to soar—even if it’s not on the flying trapeze.



Thank you to my fellow congregants at Temple Beth Israel in Waltham, MA--our new community--for inviting me to deliver the d'var Torah this morning.

Don’t let others’ “vestments” blind us

On Saturday, I participated in a discussion about the weekly Torah portion. The elaborate nature of the high priest’s vestments became a touch point for how we outwardly symbolize our Jewish identity, how much of that is traditional (and traditional to exactly when?) vs. a reflection of the culture in which we are contextualized, and how much of that in turn is a form of assimilation.  It was a fascinating and engaging conversation.  At the end, however, I voiced a caution:  Let’s be careful not to judge others based on their outward symbols of Jewish identity that differ from our own.  It will tear us apart. I’ve seen too many situations in which infighting ensued from focusing on others’ “vestments” of their Judaism rather than on the positives we can learn from and bring to each other.   If we bring our principles of civil discourse to the forefront, we can seek to learn from each other and find common ground.

Are you interested in bringing civil discourse to our political, religious, cultural and community organizations so we can learn and build together?  If so, please see what we are doing at The Bernard Wolfman Civil Discourse Project, which I established to honor my father’s legacy.

Here’s where to click:

• For more information and to register for our free civil-discourse-based public policy forum on March 28. 
• For our informative postcard about the Project and this year’s forum topic and nationally-renowned speakers. 
• For our Facebook page. 
• And for our Twitter feed.

What We Need: Balanced, Civil Discourse

My father, in his office at Harvard

It’s hard for me to contain my excitement about a new program in memory of my father, Bernard Wolfman, who died just over a year ago.  We soon will develop a more engaging public name for what we are now calling the Bernard Wolfman Memorial Public Policy Forum at Beth Sholom Congregation. 

My father was a scholar of tax law and legal ethics also widely known for his work in public interest advocacy.  After serving in private practice in Philadelphia, he went on to teach at University of Pennsylvania law school, where he also served as Dean, and then at Harvard University law school. Deeply committed to inquiry, thoughtful discussion and high public and academic standards, he not only practiced law, he sought justice. He also was proud and deeply connected to his Jewish heritage and in particular to what he perceived as a connection between that heritage and the pursuit of justice.

For these reasons, we are establishing The Bernard Wolfman Memorial Public Policy Forum at Beth Sholom Congregation in Elkins Park, PA, the synagogue community with which he was most closely connected in his adult life. The goals of this project are to develop an annual forum that provides the community with:

• An opportunity to learn about issues in contemporary American public policy in a balanced way
• A forum for experiencing public civility, academic inquiry, and pluralism
• Elevation of the level of discourse through engagement of high level scholars and facilitators to present and discuss current public policy issues
• The presentation of public policy issues through a Jewish lens

We wish both to present public policy issues and, in recognition of my father’s commitment to education, action and civil debate, to enable the community to more effectively engage by:

• Presenting both sides of the issue from scholars of great expertise in their fields
• Providing the tools for civil discourse and debate-we will ask scholars both to teach an issue and to model respectful, passionate disagreement
• Asking speakers to offer ideas and venues for participants interested in engaging in activism for a particular position

 We will determine each year’s topic to reflect current critical issues. To extend the educational opportunity as much as possible, the program will be free of charge and open to the community at large, entirely underwritten by a fund established at Beth Sholom Congregation. We intend to partner with other organizations that can assist in broadening the reach, including educational institutions and policy oriented groups on all sides of the issues. And we will market the forum, as we want this not to be not only about exposing the 900 people that the historic Beth Sholom sanctuary can hold each year for the event, but about using the event as a springboard to reach many, many more with the civil discourse concept that is becoming an increasingly critical issue in our society—as the current political debate vividly illustrates.

We announce this now, during the Jewish high holy days, when we seek to return to the better path for the coming year.  For it is our hope that the forum will help us all along that path. 

Similarly, we plan to hold the forum each year during the intermediate days of Passover.  It is a holiday that my father loved, in large part because it brings family together but also very much because of the message of freedom that the festival embodies.  That message fits well with the concept of our public policy forum.  By delving into key issues in a balanced manner, and by raising the bar for civil discourse, perhaps we can help free ourselves to explore, interact and move forward with impact.

Writing Reality

I enjoyed a matinee of Ruby Sparks this weekend.  The premise is that a brilliant young writer, somewhat less brilliant in his emotional life, writes a character with whom he falls in love.  And beyond the bounds of what we accept as real or sane he writes her into existence.

Why is this beyond the bounds?  Long ago, people developed foundational stories that were brought together to form what we know as the Bible.  These stories essentially wrote God into existence for what would become generation upon generation upon generation.  Ironically, within the stories God authors us into existence with words of creation.

Yet even with this history, we find it unbelievable that a young man might write his lover (or anyone) into being.

The movie leaves us with plenty of questions to ask ourselves.  For now, I'm at: How is it that we humans are at once so expansive and so small minded?  How do we determine which approach is sane (or crazy) in any given circumstance? (Spoiler alert:  I'm particularly fond of the French fluency test in the movie.)

My First Prayer

During the synagogue service, after reading to myself the silent Amidah, the central prayer, I take a few moments for personal reflection.  Never has this individualized prayer taken the form of words.  As comfortable as I usually am in the realm of written and spoken language, the idea of developing my own prayer--whether in my head, on paper or aloud--has made me decidedly uncomfortable.  Instead, during that personal prayer time I pull images of people into my thoughts, and this is the closest I come to saying, in my prayer, "She needs help right now," "I hope he'll have strength during this tough week he's facing."  When I have contemplated talking to God (as opposed to ritually repeating what others once wrote or said to God), the idea has seemed at once arrogant and naive.

This Friday evening, before Shabbat set in, my congregation hosted a prayer writing workshop.  Despite, or because of, my hesitation about the topic I felt drawn to attend.  Despite, or because of, my struggles with this type of writing I questioned my desire to attend.  It took me until the deadline to register.

Writer and teacher Janet Judith Falon gave us examples of prayer writing in various forms: poetry, prose, haiku, acrostic, epistolary. We even glanced at Facebook and Twitter examples.

Most effective, she gave us an exercise to prepare for writing prayers.  Janet presented eight questions and asked that each of us draft a private list in response to at least one of them.  I chose three:

• What are your dependable joys?
• What would be the chapters in your spiritual autobiography? (This is a cheat category--I simply jotted down "The chapters in Creative License," the book of my collected sermons.)
• What resources do you have to do good in the world?

From this, each of us was to find inspiration, choose a form, and write a prayer.  And we did.  And I did. 

Here is my first prayer:

As we hiked Hawk Mountain,
Brad and I on one of our small adventures,
Light thrust through the heavy canopy
A dramatic shaft cutting a path
Through the clouds and leaves
To direct a path before us
From the sun yet I am not sure where, but
I knew your presence in that brief moment.
I gasped
With the weight and the light
And the lightness, all at once.

In adventures since, a sliver of
That day, that instant of you,
Continues to rain down light.

Helping Some Children in Grief; Turning Away from Others

After reading with hope Stacey Burling’s excellent Philadelphia Inquirer pieces last month on the resources now available for children coping with grief, the January 5th Inquirer article by Kristin Graham on the Philadelphia School District’s decision to cut its special representative from the payroll challenged my optimism.

In 1973 when I was 11 years old, my teachers were notified before my return to school that my mother had died—and they’d already long known of her illness—yet my science teacher raised his voice in front of the other students, asking why I’d not completed my week’s work.  “Because my mother died,” I yelled back, mortified but too angry to stay quiet though I'd never previously been one for outbursts in the classroom (nor for slacking in my work).  That was the extent of faculty’s and staff’s interaction with me about my loss.   And this was at the private school my parents chose so I’d receive personal attention, given my mother’s terminal illness.

I had tremendous support at home, and I Remember Mommy's Smile, my memoir for children to read with their caregivers—along with the accompanying video guide for adults—models a path while providing a means to dialogue, honesty and hope.

It is through this lens that I consider the dismissal of the special representative as Philadelphia School District struggles with many layoffs in an attempt to grapple with significant budget issues. I appreciate the economic pressures. But in a school district serving many communities where so many suffer losses, removing the one individual who helped them cope seems shortsighted.  If the district’s goal remains the education and safety of its children, then should we not help them and their families cope with loss? If not because it's the right thing to do, then at the very least so the children are able to learn and to avoid lashing out in school.

Time

I run two miles in 20 minutes from 5:45 to 6:05 am.  That's what I do, on a treadmill in front of the early morning news, so in my mind that's what I can do.

But earlier this month, I ran about four miles miles in 45 minutes, on a country road in the north hills of Wisconsin. It was an opportunity to spend time with colleagues and enjoy clear, brisk air and extraordinary autumn colors.

I was quickly back to my 20-minute run.  Now I know: it's not about what I can do, but about time and circumstance.  On a typical day, twenty minutes is all I'm giving up to running.

I thrive on schedules and like them full.  Holding to them matters to me.  My day goes by more quickly, I feel more accomplished, and I know what to expect.  With a clear view of my agenda and the strategic goals  underlying it, I also adjust more nimbly to changes and interruptions.

But a changing perception of time has crept into my experience.

When my father died on August 20, time changed.

First, there was that day, a Saturday.  Before the call I'd bought groceries and had my nails done, which took about two hours combined and felt like two hours--the passage of time was identifiable and quantifiable.  After the call, moments both merged and stood still; time collapsed and expanded.  All at once.  It seemed then chaotic and confusing and yet in crystalline relief, and it's how I recall it now.  However illogical this sounds, it holds logic for that day.

That time had changed first entered my consciousness that evening, when I reentered the room in which I'd received the call hours before.  I saw my shoes on the floor, my full glass of iced tea on the table, my book open on the sofa, border markers of the Dina who had been there earlier and been lifted out of the scene into another time.  After.  At first I could not fathom how those items had arrived where they lay.  Before seemed too distant for its artifacts to persist.

Sunday and Monday filled with activity, but not on any schedule I had devised.  That existed somewhere, in Before, but it no longer mattered in After.  Funeral arrangements, people arrangements, family, rabbi, funeral director, medical examiner, phone calls, phone calls, meetings, phone calls.  And the funeral.  The family ushered into a room where we see my father's body, and suddenly I shift from constant movement to a halt.  A breathtaking halt.  Until we are in the sanctuary, and the pace accelerates, people come, they greet us, the service proceeds, we speak with love of my father, we move on to the cemetery, we're ushered home, people arrive, so many who loved my father. And so many who love me make sure I have what I need.  It's all decided what the pace will be, that's clear to me, I just wasn't consulted and have no inside knowledge.  So I follow, adjust, feel thankful that others know and I don't have to.

And from there, a week of a nothing-that-is-not-nothing punctuated by evening visits from those mourning my father and comforting us. Nothing but home.  And yet time did not seem to slow. Reflection takes time. Mourning takes time. They may not be on the calendar or fit a schedule, but they occupy time, and the time given over to them possesses its own texture, density and color, as though physical.  Mourning and reflection do not simply take time, they give it also, provide a gift of knowing time in a new way.  Painful yet sweet.

And Now I live in Before and After.  Appointments, full schedules, productivity.  Reflection, appreciation, sadness.  Speeding up and slowing down, sometimes it seems in the same moment.  Slow not equaling drawn out.  I don't know for how long this will last.  I expect that Now will become more and more like Before, but it's not on a time line.  And I can work with that, just as sometimes I can slow down, look at the scenery, and run twice as far.