Responding to Sandy Hook

December 22, 2012

            Eight days have passed. There still are no words to describe the sense of loss and emptiness, of unimaginable pain, and there never will be. A hurricane or tornado takes lives, and words like ‘tragedy’, ‘random’, ‘negligent’ and ‘inexplicable’ spring to mind. Drought gives way to famine somewhere in the world, and we speak about government corruption and ineptitude. Monks set themselves on fire in Tibet, and we speak about desperation and admire their struggle against an oppressive, persecuting regime. Civilians die in Syria, and it’s far enough away that we see their deaths as the devastating but necessary cost of their fight for freedom against a butcher, son of butchers. All these are tragedies, but tragedies that almost have a purpose. But this, this has no purpose. And it’s happened before, and it will probably happen again.

            The day of the Columbine shootings, Rick Barger, the Lutheran minister in Littleton, Colorado, spent the day as a victim’s assistant. His was the first face many of the students saw as they fled the building. Thirteen years later, he still carries those teens with him. He was interviewed frequently by the press in the early days following the shooting, and, whenever people asked about where God was that day, he would say, “God took a bullet and died in halls of Columbine.” [1] That the murdered in Sandy Hook were so young, and their deaths so brutal, makes it worse.

            Though we sometimes express it in different language, Jews and Christians share the belief that each and every human being is created in the image and likeness of God.[2] The phrase, ‘image and likeness’ is more ancient than the Torah and more potent than even our sages suggest. In recent years, scholars have discerned that, ‘Image and likeness,’ is the Akkadian way of describing a manifestation of God in this world. They used the phrase to describe the icon or statue of the god placed above an altar. The innovation of our Bible is to apply that phrase, image and likeness, to each and every human being.[3] Suddenly we understand why the first commandment in the Torah is p’ru ur’vu – be fruitful and multiply. Bring children into the world, nurture children, teach them, raise them to attain their destiny, and you have made God that much more real, that much more present. No other mitzvah gets the same amount of attention; story after story in Genesis and the first part of Exodus emphasizes the point that people of faith are to value having and raising children above almost everything else. One message of the Binding of Isaac, as it is written, is that even God, who requires all sorts of sacrifices on the part of the faithful, will never, ever ask for the death of our children. If you think you’re hearing God ask for the death of a child, the Torah tells us, you are the one who is mistaken.

            So, yes, as President Obama said on Sunday night, America finds the presence of God among those adults who heroically gave their lives to try to protect the children at Sandy Hook Elementary and among the emergency workers and first responders who put their own needs aside to deal with the carnage and serve the living. Yet as after every pointless, violent death, after Sandy Hook, we are also experiencing a diminishment of God’s presence. Our sages teach in the Talmud that one who saves one life is as if he has preserved an entire world; but who causes one life to be lost is considered as if he has destroyed an entire world. These children and their teachers haven’t been called back to God; God didn’t need any more angels, nor was he protecting them from a worse future; I can’t imagine a better place for a six-year-old than a first grade classroom. Rather, they are dead because they were in the right place, at the right time, when a man came by with big guns that held far too many bullets and committed a heinous mass murder.

            I hope you’ve joined in the international effort to try to console the bereaved. Vigils and prayer services are important ways to support those who are struggling to survive traumatic loss. By all means sign condolence cards that are circulating online, send flowers and contributions and acknowledge the grief of the bereaved. Nihum aveilim – comforting the bereaved – is a central practice of hesed, of love, and an important mitzvah. It brings strength and reassurance to those who receive comfort, reward to those who give it and hope to its witnesses. Please, please comfort the grieving: just don’t stop there. Confronting this event forces us to look inwards as well – although the details of his story are still emerging and probably will never be completely clarified, the one thing we know about Adam Lanza is that he, like us, was a human being. And that should be terrifying.

            Many in recent days have pointed to the breakdown of mental health care in the United States during and since the Reagan years. Many of us know of parents who wrestle with the challenges of raising children who have psychiatric disorders that predispose them to violent and abusive behavior. The resources for education and healing simply aren’t available… at least anywhere outside of the prison system. I believe I heard Alan Chartock this week crack that the core of the problem might be that mental hospitals don’t have alumni associations to fund them.[4] Families in this congregation have been affected and continue to be affected every day by people with mental illness – few of whom are as dangerous as Adam Lanza turned out to be – but all of whom require more care than is easily available to them.

            Valuing care for those who live with mental illness requires a significant amount of compassion - sharing in the suffering of another. That’s a hard thing for many people to do with respect to people with mental illness. Our tradition offers us a way to access that compassion by placing all of us on two continua: one regarding the yetzer hara, the other regarding the yetzer hatov, both innate forces in every single individual’s personality. The yetzer hara is what motivates each of us to serve ourselves – it is selfish, demanding and wily, tricking us into choices that benefit only ourselves even when we think we are being generous and fair. And its counterpart, just as innate though it usually emerges later, is the yetzer hatov, the part of our psyche that motivates us to serve each other and the greater good. The relative strength of each varies from person to person, yet, those engaged in the spiritual life seek to teach the yetzer hara boundaries and nurture the yetzer hatov in themselves, their students and their loved ones. Each yetzer grows only to the extent that we exercise it, and each becomes less powerful as we hold it back.[5]

            We find that place of compassion when we realize that a person whose yetzer hara is dominant and yetzer hatov is deficient should not be ostracized. Rather that is exactly the person who might benefit most from repeated, sensitive attempts to grow in character. Although some small percentage of human beings might be incapable of getting there, there are many people for whom such learning is difficult but not impossible. Although our sages affirm that it is the individual’s responsibility to choose life, each of us has innumerable opportunities to influence that decision in others. People who live with mental illness – diagnosed and undiagnosed, managed and unmanaged, medicated and unmedicated – are not that different from the rest of us; neither we nor our society are exempt from responsibility.

            The scarcity of effective mental health care is, however, just one of two themes that has captured attention in the wake of the murders in Sandy Hook. Reasonable people are looking at this as the latest in a disturbing series of incidents of gun violence against the public. And in particular, we are frustrated with the easy availability of assault weapons, whose sole purpose is to enable people to kill other people, as quickly and as conclusively as possible; the accessibility of guns and ammunition, without background checks, on the web and at gun shows; the lack of computerized tracking of gun purchases; and the prevalence of high-capacity magazines in civilian homes and hands. In the context of biblical values shared by the vast majority of Americans, this risk to walking image-and-likenesses of God, is perplexing.

            But in the context of American democracy, the veneration of the second amendment and of guns is completely incomprehensible. Frontier fantasies aside, Americans don’t actually live in John Wayne movies. We don’t resolve disputes by pulling out guns; may the biggest gun win. We live in a country with laws. We resolve disputes by going to court and arguing about them, then abiding by the judge’s ruling, which, in turn, we have a right to appeal. We deal with policy issues by electing representatives to local, state and federal government office and holding them accountable. And we rely, at least in theory, on the democratic principle of one person, one vote – not the violence principle: biggest gun wins argument.

            In many quarters of our country, gun culture has strayed into idolatry. I’m not referring to people who keep one handgun in a secure gun safe to use in self-defense (though that’s probably not a rational decision, given the statistics), nor to most of the people who hunt or shoot for sport on gun ranges. However the positions taken by the NRA, the Gun Owners of America and similar groups on the primacy of the Second Amendment over every other freedom – including, apparently, the inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness – are the very definition of idolatry: the supplanting of our core values by trust in the gun.[6] Read Wayne LaPierre’s statement carefully and parse out his argument; you will find that he and his organization put their faith in guns. You won’t find that in Jewish scripture. You won’t find it in the Gospels or the Pauline letters. And it’s not the American way either.

            I actually understand how people could stake out a religious and ideological position to trust in guns; I don’t think they are monsters or aliens. Life is anxiety-provoking and unpredictable, especially when you meditate on the horrors that people commit against each other and the many ways we have created to exterminate ourselves and each other. There are many ways to cope with that uncertainty, and among the most tempting is to think there is a way we can defend ourselves against all threats and exercise complete control over our lives. There’s a reason biblical teachings on idolatry often employ the language of seduction – full control over our lives is tempting, desirable and ultimately an illusion.

Some people, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear, and seeking control, want to carry their guns everywhere – on their commute to work, to defend against an imagined road rage incident; at the office, in case a coworker gets out of control; into government buildings and courtrooms, lest a lunatic show up; and into churches and schools so that those who would think about acts of violence there will be guaranteed to get shot down first.

But just because so many have chosen this path doesn’t make it right, smart or wise. Its fallacy is in its false distinction of self from other; who’s to say that the other is the threat, and that I am not? Furthermore, no gun, no matter how powerful, works as a foolproof amulet against evil forces. Only as worshippers of idols do we, in our anxiety, turn to weapons as a sure defense against the chaos. As Americans, we ought to believe that the democratic process helps more than guns do; as people of faith, we turn our hearts to prayer, our minds to the yetzer hatov and our hands to mitzvah and acts of lovingkindness.

            We will have many opportunities to study and explore many facets of this issue over the next few months – among them will be a service in commemoration of the national Sabbath against gun violence on January 5. And we already have innumerable opportunities to take action. Hugging our children and then getting on with life without hearing some call is just not acceptable… The paralyzing illusion of powerlessness a manifestation of the yetzer hara. We need to put that voice in its place and listen instead to the yetzer hatov that insists that gratitude for our lives, there but for the grace of God, demands that we give freely of ourselves. Acting to transform our community and our society is what will bring us the greatest joy.

Please raise your hands: who contacted President Obama, Vice-President Biden, Senator Kerry, Senator-elect Warren, Representative Neal or a state legislator this week? I’ll ask that question again next week… One letter won’t be enough to keep our government, prone to inaction and gridlock, moving in the right direction. Is there anyone here who won’t write another letter in the week to come, to help keep up the momentum, attention and energy? President Obama said that the public would have to keep on top of these issues in order to keep Congress in motion; we can do this – it’s never been easier to write a Congressman than it is today. We must stand up for the principles we share, for the values that make us Jews and unite us as Americans and, in so doing, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity.

            As we reflect on how we go about finding tranquility in our unpredictable world, we hold in mind the blessing of the psalmist:

            Happy are they who find refuge in You, pathways in their hearts.

            Though they pass through the Valley of Tears,

            They regard it as a place of springs,

            As if the early rain had covered it with a blessing.[7]

            With God’s help, may our tears mingle with the tears of all the bereaved to nourish the growth of a better world.

***

I then read a prayer written by Rabbi Naomi Levy and recited the names of those murdered on Friday, December 14, in Newtown, before we continued with prayers for our country and peace.

---

[1] Rick Barger, Book Review of Jim Atwood, America and Its Guns: A Theological Exposé, The Alban Institute, 2012. www.alban.org.

[2] Genesis 1:27.

[3] See Benjamin Sommer, The Bodies of God and the World of Ancient Israel (New York, Cambridge University Press, 2009).

[4] Dr. Alan Chartock, CEO of Northeast Public Radio, local NPR station for the Berkshires.

[5] See Rabbi Ira Stone’s commentary on R. Moshe Hayyim Luzzatto, Mesillat Yesharim (Philadelphia: JPS, 2010).

[6] For more on guns and idolatry, see Rick Barger’s article and the book it reviews, cited above #1.

[7] Psalm 84:5-6.

After the Fire

I want to take a moment to thank those who have helped us out in our time of loss and need. We're just starting to figure out how to move forward, and the support of our community is sustaining, energizing and inspiring. Your embrace sustains us.

I've decided to share my sermon from last Kol Nidre in this forum; the resonances with what has just happened to us are both bizarre and meaningful.

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 There is a traditional blessing for children offered each Yom Kippur. Offered ideally with personalization to each individual child but even on its own, it cannot fail to bring tears to the eyes of a parent. The centuries-old blessing is as follows:

May your eyes look straight ahead,

Your mouth speak wisdom,

Your heart meditate with awe and wonder,

Your hands busy themselves with mitzvoth,

Your legs run to do the will of your father in heaven,

And may you be inscribed and sealed for a good, long life

Among all the people of Israel.

This blessing of the body and soul is usually accompanied by the priestly blessing – following the midrash, I propose the following rendering:

May God bless you with all that you need and protect you from anyone or anything that might take it away from you.

May God bring you enlightenment and favor in the eyes of everyone you meet.

May God transform your face into the face of the Divine, that you may bring peace to yourself, your family, your community and your world.

The sentiments of these ancient blessings, still evocative and moving, offer a language for our greatest hopes for the next generation. When life conforms to those aspirations, we receive it as a blessing, say a heartfelt thank you and give tzedaka as an expression of gratitude. But the very need for a blessing belies the fact that life, all too often, falls short of those dreams. Even for the best of us, there is sometimes no way around misfortune.

A story is told of a man, who, one year, in the hour just before Kol Nidre, was found crouched over, weeping on the floor of the synagogue. The beloved rabbi of that synagogue, none other than Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev, greeted the man, who, through the tears, told him his story: “Until a few weeks ago, I had all good things, and now I am in a terrible state. Rabbi, I lived in a village, and no hungry person ever went from my door unfed. My wife used to bring home poor travelers and feed them. And then God comes along and takes my wife and my house! There I was with six small children, without a wife, without a house! Now you tell me, Rabbi, can I forgive God?”

As the weeping man continued to lament his mounting losses – his beloved, generous wife, the mother of his children, his home, his possessions, his security, his future, the man snarled the following words: “And I had a thick prayer book, and all the hymns were in it in just the right order. And that burned up along with everything else. Now you tell me, Rabbi, can I forgive God?”

Levi Yitzhak remained silent, then after a few moments, directed his students to look for a prayer book for the man, and when they found one, they brought it to the man for inspection. The weeping man looked carefully at the book, checking each page to make sure that it was exactly how it should be, as the rabbi looked on. Finally, the rabbi asked, in a soft, gentle voice, “Do you forgive Him now?”

“Yes,” said the man.

At that moment, Levi Yitzhak ascended the bima and began the prayers of Yom Kippur.

Even after soul-shattering loss, the weeping man found healing in being listened to and in the words and feel of the prayers of his ancestors in his hands. One small hint that there was still order in the world ended this round of the emotional spiral of grief and began again the discovery of faith and hope. The most important question of the weeping man turned out not to be exactly, “Can I forgive God?” to which the unspoken answer was, “It’s not up to God – it’s up to you.” Instead the Rebbe heard the question of the weeping man as, “Having lost so much, how can I move forward?” The rebbe and the community provided the answer, not as much through words as through presence and support.

          Even when our suffering is not quite as extreme as that of the man huddling in the corner of Levi Yitzhak’s synagogue, some of us find ourselves offering songs of alienation, frustration, betrayal, anger and despair. I hear these notes sounded in many a hospital room, in homes where shiva is being observed, when someone comes to my office suddenly in dire straits. Some of us enjoy lives without these emotions for years on end and are surprised when finally besieged; others have lived in light of them for decades. We have a lot to lose. Loss of a loved one, good health, a job, a home, a future, a marriage, youth, or a dream… Any loss can elicit another verse of the song of grief. Usually the community, given the opportunity, responds in chorus by listening and offering an embrace. Still, grief comes in waves, and healing takes patience, hope and time.

         

Many of the prayers of Yom Kippur speak about the experience of living through the suffering of self and others. In just a few minutes, for example, we will be singing one of the most heart-wrenching poems of the High Holy Day season, one that tackles the question of the origin of the trials we face.

כי הנה כחמר ביד היוצר

We are like clay in designer’s hand,
As he wills—to contract, as he wills—to expand,
So are we in your hand to lovingly define

The poem, with its many stanzas and metaphors, yields multiple interpretations. Some focus on the way the poem presents human beings as dependent on a divine Designer and hoping for only gentle shaping. Still others note the division of responsibility between Designer and clay – God and individual. Like a loving parent, the designer skillfully shapes and molds, expands and contracts, lengthens and cuts short. At the same time, the composition and consistency of the clay make a big difference in the quality of the pot that will emerge.

          Yet there is a third force involved in pot-making besides clay and potter. M.C. Richards points to it as she writes, “The potter does everything that he can do.  But he cannot burst into flame and reach a temperature of 2300 degrees Fahrenheit for a period varying from eight hours to a week and harden plastic clay into rigid stone, and transform particles of silica and spar into flowing glaze… He can only surrender his ware to the fire, listen to it, talk to it, so that he and the fire respond to each other’s power, and the fired pot is the child.”

Richards reminds us that the significant relationship that yields a pot has not two parties but three: clay, potter and fire, each essential to the finished product. We are the clay. The potter, the Creator, shapes us in God’s image with love but cannot complete the task. It is, instead, life in the blazing fire of this world hardens us and takes the final role in the transformation of clay into pot. We have control over neither Creator nor fire. And so, the practice of Yom Kippur, while encouraging us to reflect on our origins and our journey, focuses our attention on how we respond to our God-given nature, as well as the things that happen to us. It challenges us to develop our character so that we can better survive the fire and emerge transformed in the image of our Creator.

There are many ways in which our tradition conceptualizes this journey. Our prophets, our sages and in many cases our closest friends and wisest family members phrase it differently. As we studied on Rosh Hashana, our literature is replete with questions that spur discussion of how the clay can become the best possible pot or vase: “What does Adonai your God ask of you?” “Who may ascend the Mountain of Adonai?” “What will we be asked on the Day of Judgment?” Humbly we note that none of the short lists that result speak about daring one-time achievements; rather all are inventories of how we should live with some combination of character traits that include but are not limited to a strong and keen sense of justice, personal integrity, careful speech, fairness in relationships, humility, openness to insight and hope.

          Among the most pointed guidance about how to live comes by way of Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, the 18^th century teacher who advocated character development as key to Jewish living. Like the poet of the mahzor, Luzzatto teaches life’s central challenge by way of a mechanical metaphor. He holds that we naturally connect with the transcendent like iron to a magnet but that sometimes encounter barriers that interfere with the attraction. Sometimes those barriers come from outside– things that others do to us or that happen to us – and sometimes they are barriers we leave up or even erect ourselves. Luzzatto’s advice is clear yet nuanced: “An individual should prevent his soul from being held captive by things which hinder the realization of nearness to God.”

Luzzatto reminds us that sometimes we get stuck in the wrong places, places that keep us from recognizing just how close we are to connection, hope and faith. Luzzatto isn’t telling us not to feel those emotions – such advice would be counter-productive, never mind insensitive. Instead, he is encouraging us not be held captive by them. Pain, anxiety, suffering, anger, sadness and despair separate us from each other and interfere with our sense of connectedness. They are ever-present, a product of human nature and the lives we lead. They are barriers that rise and fall, thicken and thin over the course of our lives. But they are not necessarily the limit of our destiny. How we prepare for, interpret and ultimately respond to these barriers, however, is entirely up to us.

The Book of Elijah (23), a tenth century collection of midrash, reiterates this message to keep our head in the game, to actively set our course and not just roll with where life takes us. It reminds us to always see ourselves as heirs to our biblical ancestors, who, in the face of adversity or perhaps because of it, continued to do good deeds and engage with God. No matter what challenges arise, no matter how much primordial chaos enters our lives through our exposure to fire of this world, every one of us is ultimately called to internalize and reiterate a central message of Torah: For my sake was the world created. Although we are entitled to time to heal and figure out how to recover from setbacks, we are not to acquiesce and surrender to the current of our lives.

This midrash, like the prayers of this sacred day, motivates us to think about the extent to which we allow our kishkes to lead us through life, even when there are better choices. Do we stay remain behind barriers like sadness, righteous anger, betrayal and alienation, or can we transcend them? When we enter the fire, as we must, are we oblivious to or even complicit in our own destruction? Or will we, over time, be transformed into vessels more resilient, more empathetic, and ultimately more inspiring?

To accept barriers as our destiny and then deny responsibility for that choice, says the midrash, is to walk the path of the fool. Yet, as author Dani Shapiro reminds us, there is great potential in keeping our wits about us, in choosing our path even as we live in the fire. She tells the following story:

My Aunt Shirley lives in a stately home on a tree-lined street in Brookline, Massachusetts, where the phone never stops ringing. She is a mother of four, grandmother of sixteen, great-grandmother of forty-five and counting. Recently widowed, she had just put her home on the market when, during a visit to a daughter in Chicago, a pipe burst, flooding several floors full of antiques and artwork. A significant part of that elegant home had been —turned, in her words, into “a barn.” So she had just begun the process, arduous for anyone much less an octogenarian, of filing insurance claims and rebuilding her home.

“Come in, darling!” She swept me into what had once been her living room. “It’s a mess, isn’t it? But look how lucky we were. None of Uncle Moe’s books were damaged.”

I looked at her. “Lucky?” I thought, “This wouldn’t have been my definition of lucky.”

“I was just writing a letter to the insurance company,” she went on to say. “I wanted to let the president of the company know how wonderful his people have been to me.”

I watched my aunt, beautiful, beaming, lit from within.

          Life happens; be it flood or fire, bereavement or betrayal, trial is an inevitable part of being a human being - a pot in the hands of the potter, hardened in the kiln of this world. What happens to the formed lump of clay, how it will respond to the flames, relies some on the practiced technique of a loving potter and some on the nature of the flame. But so much depends on the character of the clay, though sometimes it feels like nothing more than dust mixed with water.

          Let’s get our part right this year.

Let's Be Stubborn?

The post-golden calf conversation between Moses and God ends with a promise from God to walk with the people and forgive them, though they have committed a grievous sin. But Moses, in soliciting the Divine Presence, uses an argument that might work one of two ways. The verse is Exodus 34:9:

ויאמר אם נא מצאתי חן בעיניך א-דני ילך נא א-דני בקרבנו כי עם קשה ערף הוא וסלחת לעוננו ולחטאתנו ונחלתנו:

(Moses) said: “If I have gained Your favor, Adonai, pray, let Adonai go in our midst, (כי) this is a stiffnecked people. Pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your own.”

The Medieval Spanish commentator Ibn Ezra renders the problematic preposition כי twice over: “Rabbi Marinus teaches, ‘even though they are a stiffnecked people.’… But by my reckoning, … ‘I admit that it is a stiff-necked people, and you will forgive.’” The second approach, disconnecting the phrases from each other, gives no moral valence to being stiff-necked. However the New Jewish Publication Society translation of the Torah picks up on the first approach – Moses’ argument is, “Even though they are a stiff-necked (i.e. stubborn, tenacious) people, please walk in their midst.” For Ibn Ezra, being stiff-necked is clearly not something the Israelites would have posted on their J-Date profile. Indeed that very phrase, kishinu oref/we have been stiff-necked, features prominently and repeatedly in the list of transgressions in the confessional prayers of Yom Kippur.

            However, Ramban, commenting on this verse, takes an opposite tack. He writes, “The meaning of this verse is as it is written: God will walk in their midst because they are a stiff-necked people.” For Ramban, Moses is presenting the Israelites’ stubbornness as something attractive to a prospective deity. What’s so alluring about their behavior? Avivah Zornberg (The Particulars of Rapture, Ki Tisa) suggests that the Israelites dancing around the calf are not so much forgetting Sinai as remembering the style of hundreds of years of worship and divine service they’ve witnessed and participated in for generations. If the Israelites as a people are so tenacious about maintaining their ancestral ways, argues Moses, then once they figure out the whole monotheism/Jewish worship idea, they are never going to let go of it.

            Is Jewish stubbornness a virtue? Has it served God well in the covenantal relationship with the Jewish people? Listen to Martin Luther rant about Jewish tenacity in his anti-semitic screed, On the Jews and their Lies.

It is not my purpose to quarrel with the Jews, nor to learn from them how they interpret or understand Scripture; I know all of that very well already. Much less do I propose to convert the Jews, for that is impossible…

They have failed to learn any lesson from the terrible distress that has been theirs for over fourteen hundred years in exile. Nor can they obtain any end or definite terminus of this, as they suppose, by means of the vehement cries and laments to God. If these blows do not help, it is resonable to assume that our talking and explaining will help even less…

We propose to discuss their argument and boast, and prove convincingly before God and the world - not before the Jews, for, as already said, they would accept this neither from Moses nor from their Messiah himself - that their argument is quite empty and stands condemned.

Apparently Moses, as understood by Ramban, was quite right to suggest that our tenacity would make us particularly suited to and passionate about the way of life we know as Torah and Mitzvah.

Being stiff-necked, it turns out, is both something to regret on Yom Kippur and something to celebrate about our people’s culture and character. Our inherited resistance to new ideas protects us from the fad of the hour or the year; yet it can also impede our taking the next step. When we get stubborn in foolish ways, we end up building golden calves, ‘sacred cows’, if you will, that then impede us in small-minded ways from reaching our potential. However, when we get stubborn about the right things, we give life to our people’s tradition of the search for meaning even as we embrace our own potential. We’ve heard the fourteenth century sage Ramban tell us that our tenacity is precisely why God chose us to receive the path of Torah, why God chose to walk in our midst after the Golden Calf incident. Once we sink our teeth into something, when times get challenging, we hold on tight.

It’s important to check in now and again – as individuals and as a community – about what we choose to be stubborn about and what we’re just giving in for want of energy or passion. Are we sufficiently stiff-necked about being a supportive, tightly knit yet welcoming community? About being treating each other with decency and respect? About providing a quality Jewish education for the next generation? About living not just for our own comfort but also in the service of the other, and of the greater good? The places we’re most stubborn say a great deal about who we are and what we care most about.

Over the coming few weeks, you will begin to hear about a number of areas of communal life that will benefit from a good infusion of stiff-necked people (or, if you prefer, a solid dose of Jewish tenacity). We’re going to have to talk about invigorating minyan after two regular attendees (one of whom drove others to services) passed away this winter and another has been injured; about finding ways for intensive Jewish education to persist in Pittsfield even as the community’s day school is in financial straits; about redoubling our efforts to support the Jewish Federation of the Berkshires and thereby head off damaging cuts to services provided; about those who are able transcending what’s comfortable and embracing new leadership roles in our community.

The people of Knesset Israel and the Jews of the Berkshires have repeatedly accomplished important goals by coming together in creative, focused ways to build community. We didn’t get this far by impulsively letting go of what’s most important to us. Let’s challenge ourselves to be stiff-necked and stubborn in the right ways, so that we can continue to welcome God’s presence into our midst.

New Introduction to Judaism Course Beginning This Spring at KI

What is essential to understanding Judaism as an adult? Are there particular concepts, values, facts and events? Are there particular books an educated Jew ought to know of, to have read in part or in their entirety? How does an individual become comfortable in synagogue services? At a seder table? At a celebration of Israeli culture?

            Knesset Israel’s Introduction to Judaism course will consist of 21 classes, each with a particular theme, encompassing themes of Jewish identity, sacred books, Jewish time, Jews in America, ethics and values, lifecycle and medieval and modern Jewish history. This accessible course is especially suitable for interfaith couples looking for understanding, individuals considering conversion and inquisitive people who have not participated in Jewish education since childhood. The class assumes that most participants will be new to Jewish education and welcomes all who are interested in broadening their Jewish experience as adults.

Taught primarily by Judith and Rabbi David Weiner, classes will incorporate dynamic activities to pique participants’ interest and maximize their learning. While some will choose to register for all 21 classes, each class will be open to the community for general enrollment. Classes will meet on Sunday mornings, 10:10-noon and babysitting will be available from 10-12.

            The Sunday morning schedule will be as follows:

           

8:45-9:30 a.m. – Pathways of Prayer Learners’ Service (Library)

            9:30-10:10 a.m. – Breakfast (Social Hall)

            10:10 – Introduction to Judaism Class (Social Hall).

Class will vary in length but always end before noon.

           

If you are interested in signing up for part or all of the class or have questions, please contact Chris Kelly-Whitney in the Knesset Israel office. Upon registration, participants will be offered a reading list to enhance their experience of the class, as well as access to class materials via the congregation’s website.

            Registration in advance of class is required so that we can prepare appropriate lessons. Substantial work and time is going into the preparation of materials for this course. Knesset Israel suggests a donation be made by students – $10 for each session per household or $100 for the series.

Class Schedule (Subject to Change)

Date	Title
April 22, 2012	Introductions/Jewish Perspectives on God
April 29, 2012	Tanakh - Bible
May 6, 2012	Ancient Jewish History & Literature
May 20, 2012	Rabbinic Literature in its Historical Context
June 3, 2012	Halakha: An Overview of Jewish Law/Shavuot
June 24, 2012	The Jewish Calendar
July 1, 2012	Shabbat: A Palace in Time
July 8, 2012	Prayer: Structure, Nature & Music of Jewish Worship
July 15, 2012	The Services of Shabbat: Making Sense of the Siddur
July 22, 2012	Medieval Jewish History
July 29, 2012	Anti-Semitism, The Shoah (Tisha B’av; no breakfast)
August 5, 2012	Zionism & The Modern State of Israel
August 12, 2012	Jewish Values Roundtable I
August 19, 2012	Kashrut, Medical Ethics, Jewish Values Roundtable II
August 26, 2012	Days of Awe
September 9, 2012	Jews in America/Four Streams of Contemporary Judaism
September 30, 2012	Women & Judaism/Season of Joy
October 14, 2012	Lifecycle: Early Life, Midlife
October 21, 2012	Lifecycle: Late Life, Jewish Thoughts on Afterlife
October 28, 2012	Passover: As if You Came out of Egypt
November 4, 2012	Hannuka, Conclusions

KI Travel: New Destinations, New Types of Journey

A Message from Rabbi Weiner & Bobbi Cohn:

KI Travel: New Destinations, New Types of Journey

            Knesset Israel’s trips to Cuba and Israel and Jordan over the last two years were very successful. Each and every participant has found the itineraries enjoyable, the company excellent and the journey meaningful. Travelers returned home moved, rejuvenated and inspired.

             We have been working on plans for future KI travel experiences, and it’s important to determine interests in various options – who might like to travel, when, and to where – so that we can focus our resources on planning trips that will appeal to prospective travelers. A quality group tour requires advance planning. Please be in touch with Rabbi Weiner – rabbiweiner@knessetisrael.org – or Bobbi Cohn – bcohn41680@aol.com if the following possibilities for guided tours might interest you. Or let us know if there’s a different sort of travel experience you think KI should offer. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

1A) A Jewish Heritage Tour of South America, Winter/Spring 2013 – Explore sites of Jewish and general interest in 2-3 South American cities: Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paolo, Montevideo, Buenos Aires and Santiago and the surrounding countryside. Opportunities to experience Judaism, including shabbat, with a Spanish accent. (When it’s snowy in the Berkshires, it’s summer in South America…) An approximately ten-day adult trip escorted by Rabbi Weiner, with accommodation in 5-star hotels.

- OR -

1B) A Jewish Heritage Tour of Central Europe, Spring 2013 – Tour cities such as Prague, Vienna and Budapest (or Bratislava, Venice, Salzburg, etc… no itinerary has yet been determined) with an eye towards prominent local sites as well as Jewish history and the contemporary experience of European Jewish communities. Opportunities to meet Jewish leaders and visit synagogues and Jewish institutions on shabbat and during the week. An approximately ten-day adult trip escorted by Rabbi Weiner, with accommodation in 5-star hotels.

2) A Multigenerational Family Mission to Israel, Summer 2014 – Children, parents and grandparents exploring the Promised Land. Activities might include meaningful Jewish experiences, opportunities for outdoor recreation, shabbat in Jerusalem, archaeological exploration, Ein Gedi/Masada/Dead Sea, service projects, Tel Aviv, hiking and/or wine tasting in the Golan Heights, free nights in various Israeli cities, ceremony for recent bar/bat mitzvah at the Southern Wall Excavations in the Old City, and an optional extension to Eilat & Petra. Counselors available from Ramah Israel Programs for programming for children and/or teens, and some separate programming based on interest & physical ability. The trip itinerary will be custom-designed to reflect the ages & interest of participants. An approximately two-week trip escorted by Rabbi Weiner; accommodation in 4-star hotels & kibbutz guesthouses.

Please let us know of your enthusiasm about joining one or more of the above tours or of suggestions for tweaking the program (cities, programming, length of trip, timing of trip, etc…) to be more interesting to you.

Rabbi's Report from KI Israel-Jordan Trip

            On Friday, December 9, I had dinner with the group at the Leonardo Plaza hotel – some of you know it as the Sheraton - in the center of Jerusalem. As I evaded stares (some puzzled, some derisive, some admiring) from ultra-orthodox hotel guests and waited for folks to finish washing their hands in preparation for Hamotzi, one of the waiters came over to me, lifted up two challot, put them together, handed them to me and said, “here, like this.” I couldn’t help but put my arm around him as we – and the whole group - shared a hearty laugh. I’ve been around Jewish life for a while now, but this was the first time I’ve ever been coached on how to say a brakha by an Arab.

            It felt good to be back in Jerusalem last shabbat. For the first time in years, I remember what it’s like to really feel connected to the land and its people, its triumphs and its challenges. Questions about the meaning of history, the nature of the Hebrew language and Jewish culture, the purpose of mitzvot and the fabric of Jewish identity always resonate differently for me in Israel than in the United States. It was also energizing to watch my traveling companions experience moments of insight and kinship and find themselves immeasurably enriched by the air of the Land of Israel. I returned with more questions than answers.

            I designed the trip around the theme of coexistence, asking, “How do people who are different live as neighbors?” We looked at as many facets of diversity as we could, some I anticipated and others I did not: Jews and Arabs; Jews, Muslims and Christians; immigrants and native-born Israelis; religious and secular; Orthodox, Masorti and Progressive; rich and poor; left, right and in between; Muslim and Bahai; Palestinian Arabs, Israeli Arabs, Jerusalem Arabs and Palestinians who hold Israeli passports… all of whom, in some cases, might belong to the same family; Israeli settlers and Palestinian laborers; ethnic Jordanians, Bedouin and Palestinian refugees; Jordanians and Israelis; residents, pilgrims and tourists. We explored this theme not only in the present moment but also throughout history. A visit to the Atlit refugee camp from the 1940’s allowed us to explore coexistence during the British Mandate, and a stop at Tsippori revealed a mosaic synagogue floor from the first century with Hebrew lettering, Greek lettering, a representation of the Zodiac, figures of humans and animals, representations of biblical stories and donor inscriptions in at least two languages.

            Among Yehuda Amichai’s poems is a piece set on the Yom Kippur immediately following the Six Day War. The Hebrew year was 5728 – oddly known by its Hebrew initials as sh’nat tashkach, the year of forgetting. He introduces us to the complexities of coexistence by sharing his half of a conversation that almost happened.

On Yom Kippur in 1967, the Year of Forgetting, I put on

My dark holiday clothes and walked to the Old City of Jerusalem.

For a long time I stood in front of an Arab’s hole-in-the-wall shop,

Not far from the Damascus Gate, a shop with

Buttons and zippers and spools of thread

In every color and snaps and buckles.

A rare light and many colors, like an open Ark.

I told him in my heart that my father too

Had a shop like this, with thread and buttons.

I explained to him in my heart about all the decades

And the causes and events, why I am now here

And my father’s shop was burned there and he is buried here.

When I finished it was time for the Closing of the Gates prayer.

He too lowered the shutters and locked the gate

And I returned, with all the worshippers, home.

(transl. Steven Mitchell)

The poem raises so many questions: Why is the speaker wearing dark clothes for Yom Kippur, and why is he worshipping at the ark of an Arab’s shop instead of in synagogue or at the newly opened kotel? How does his impression of the old Arab merchant connect with his memories of his father? Does time always run out, does the gate always close before we have the conversation? To what extent are our lives and identities and stories determined by circumstance, rather than being under our control? Why am I here, and not there? And what does it mean to be here?

            This poem resonated for me not so much at the obvious moment – after walking through the Arab souk in the Christian Quarter – as in Jordan. It turned out that our guide, Rami, and I were the same age, having graduated from college the same year – I was in St. Louis studying religion and Hebrew, while he studied English in Baghdad. What brought me to Jordan with a group of American Jewish tourists was a conviction that it is important for us to experience Jordan firsthand – to hear about the challenges related to water and fuel shortages that are the same as the struggles we hear about in Israel; to understand the economic, political and social impact of the peace accord; to hear another angle on the Arab Spring, the repeated sabotage of the Egyptian natural gas pipeline and the repression in Syria; to explore another facet of Palestinian history; to discover how King Abdullah keeps a diverse population satisfied; and to show our support for a country that, against all odds, has chosen a path of practicality, peace and, though it will take a while to get there, prosperity. Investment from the Gulf States not pouring into Damascus, Beirut and Cairo is now flowing into Amman.

What brought Rami, our guide, to Jordan was simpler - birth to Jordanian parents. A religious Roman Catholic, Rami knew the book of Numbers as well as I do, and as we retraced in reverse order the steps of our ancestors wandering through the wilderness of Ammon, Moab and Edom, he described each stop using the language of the Bible. We spoke about what had once drawn me to study in Israel, to try to learn spoken Arabic and to travel in Jordan. We discussed why he had stayed in Jordan rather than taking a higher-paying job in Oman or Kuwait. We even began to plan his first visit to Israel, which he hopes to make within the next year or two, to visit holy sites and develop a better understanding of his clients and neighbors. I don’t know that we talked enough, but at least we began the conversation.

            Diversity and coexistence are always multifaceted. Being around people who are different changes us, whether we like it or not. The basilican synagogue with Greco-Roman style mosaics, the hummus served on tables throughout Israel and the Arab waiter ready to coach a rabbi through hamotzi are, on some level, different faces of the same coin. Over the course of the trip, travelers’ ideas about the interlocking challenges and hopes had become markedly more grounded, nuanced and refined.

            Yet our trip was not just an intellectual exploration of the nexus of politics, history, culture and identity. It was also a journey to the sacred. We stood on the hillside in Tzefat that once marked the boundary of the city, the otherwise undistinguished field where rabbis named Isaac Luria, Yosef Karo and Shlomo HaLevi Alkabetz would go out on Friday afternoon to greet the shabbat bride. We spent time in three holy cities, ascended the very same steps our ancestors would have climbed as they returned to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. We stood on paving stones laid more than 2000 years ago alongside the Temple Mount. With joy we climbed to the roof of the recently restored Hurva Synagogue, which towers over the Old City once again as it did before it was destroyed in 1948. We visited the renovated Yad VaShem, the Shoah Memorial that is not a Museum; it bears witness without requiring interpretation or meaning. And paying our respects at Har Herzl Cemetery gave us a sense of the sacrifice required to make Israel what it is today – I spend a lot of time in cemeteries, but this one is different - it is a graveyard full of children. And pushing one’s way through the shuk at midday among a throng of people madly preparing for shabbat is also a one-of-a-kind religious experience.

            The itinerary challenged me to ask what it is that makes a place sacred? Is it God? A holy book? A people? A community? The kotel is one good example. The Orthodox establishment, for example, maintains a tight hold on the plaza in front of the kotel, enforcing certain norms of dress and behavior, separating the sexes and banning women from wearing tallitot and reading Torah. That plaza has been there only since 1967. But three feet to the north or south, along the same 2000-year-old wall, there are no such restrictions. The Southern Wall is an archaeological excavation, not a place that people treat as God’s mailbox, and the Eastern Wall is not visited at all. There’s a kotel, and then there’s a kotel.

I can note similar idiosyncrasies about Christian and Muslim holy sites we saw or visited – the now-debatable location of stages of the cross, the relatively recent replacement yet continuing veneration of some of the relics in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the different ways people of various faiths treat the Temple Mount and what lies underneath it. To put it another way: It is clear that Jews approaching the kotel and Christians entering the Holy Sepulcher behave in much the same way… Christians visiting the Western Wall might be pilgrims, following in the footsteps of Jesus, but Jews visiting the Holy Sepulcher, as we did, are always tourists. For Christians, Israel is the Holy Land; for us, it’s the Promised Land. The difference is about more than word choice.

            The sense of the holy is confined to place. An understanding of what is sacred to us, and sacred to others, underlies meaningful relationship. Jordanians, by and large, consider the peace with Israel sacred – it is something that cannot be called into question. Settlers postulate the holiness of every inch of the Land; some will resort to violence to protect their interests. Israeli society values human dignity, well beyond the limits of reason. There are those who find halakha as interpreted by their rabbi and their community infallible; there are others who put their trust in democracy, equality, law and basic freedoms as pathways to the transcendent. It’s important for us to know what is truly sacred and what is not and be able to talk about it. When we engage with neighbors who have a different understanding of what is holy, it behooves us to be aware, educated, creative and astute. We’re better off not making assumptions but instead engaging in conversation. What begins as a nothing more than stilted formal dialogue can become deeper, more authentic and more trusting over time.

            The most inspiring moment on the trip for me came by way of B., the vice president of the travel agency that organized our trip, who joined us for our three days in Jordan. An American by birth who made aliyah with her husband and their children several years ago, B is a resident of Tekoa, a settlement between Jerusalem and Bethlehem. It was her first time traveling in an Arab country. Like many in the group, B. found the days in Jordan remarkably reassuring and comforting, as it became clear to all of us that Jordan has fully embraced its role as the quietest country in the Middle East. Jordan will not turn its back on its slowly burgeoning prosperity and violate the peace treaty with Israel. So, while riding on a horse on the way out of Petra, when the Bedouin horse driver asked her where she was from, B. responded honestly, “I’m from Israel.”

            The Bedouin responded, “From Israel? Very good people.”

            Curious, she replied, “Really? How so?”

            Without missing a beat, the man responded, “My daughter was born blind in one eye. She went to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem, and she came back able to see.”

            This moment would not have happened were Hadassah Hospital not true to the highest ideals of the Jewish and Israeli people. It also would not have happened if we had not gone to Jordan to see and listen for ourselves. Similarly none of the insights participants gained from their trip would have happened had we not chosen to get on the flight and plant our feet in the gates of Jersualem, to witness and to connect with the land, country and people of Israel. What we learned will come to inform our speaking about and support of Israel in the Berkshires and beyond.

I’m ready for my next visit… who’s coming with me?

At JFK

everyone has arrived, and we are eagerly awaiting departure from jfk. lots of excitement, much anticipation, some shpilkes

KI Israel Trip - See What We're Up To

Throughout the KI Israel-Jordan trip, travelers will post notes, updates, photo and video here. Keep checking back daily for updates.

Thanksgiving Notes from Myrna

Dear Families,

May you and your extended friendship and family circles have wonderful gatherings over this long week-end.

Have you ever thought of starting your get-togethers with HaMotzi to give a Jewish flavor to Thanksgiving?   This week’s holiday, derived from Sukkot, the biblical harvest festival cherished by the American colonists who had escaped from religious oppression, reminds us of our own ancestors who left their native countries to reach America—for us, their descendants!!  We all have so much to be thankful for.  Let’s encourage our children to develop an attitude of gratitude in a historical context on Thanksgiving. The blessings after meals, Birchat HaMazon, would also be appropriate.

Coming up early next month will be, of course, Hanukkah.  The staff is working diligently to develop an interactive program on December 7^th where significant subject matter will be covered and the inspiration of celebrating as a Jewish learning community will be experienced.  Rabbi Josh Breindel, Esther Benari Altmann, Myrna Hammerling, Susan Federspiel, Darlene Weeks and Nancy Shulman will welcome the different age groups at a variety of stations during the afternoon. 

We hope to conclude the afternoon with candle-lighting and songs.  Although we won’t light your personal hanukiyyah (leaving the ritual lighting of the seventh candle to be enjoyed at home), could you please send your child with a hanukkiyah for the display table we will set up for all to share?  Thank you.

Reminder:  Please bring in, starting December, items to help our homeless brothers and sisters.  See attached list of items they need the most.

B’Shalom u’vracha (in peace and blessing),

Myrna Hammerling

Thoughts on KI's Jewish Solidarity Mission to Cuba

         R. is a fifty-nine year-old man who lives with his family in Santa Clara de Cuba, a city most known as the site of the last battle in the Cuban Revolution and as the final resting place of Che Guevara. The streets of R’s hometown are lined with fading buildings that are crumbling back into the earth. The roads, traveled by bicycles, cars new and antique and horses pulling buggies, are rutted and potholed, though traffic, for want of fuel and spare parts, is light. Lacking jobs, men play dominos while their families live off a dole that allows them just enough to survive.

          Santa Clara is neither the most primitive nor the most developed city in Cuba. It lacks Havana’s tourist infrastructure, with its hot running water, burgeoning private restaurants and few functioning flush toilets. At the same time, it does not suffer from the isolation of former sugar center, Trinidad, which today is a UNESCO heritage site lacking any sort of industry to employ the people who remain there. Like many Cuban cities, Santa Clara has a hospital with plenty of doctors and little medicine; stores with plenty of shelves but few products; a surfeit of arable land but no farming – after a fifty-year ban, personal gardening was only legalized a few months ago; and plenty of people but little motivation - if not great disincentive - for them to take responsibility for their own lives.

There are about 25 Jews in Santa Clara, with about another 60-70 living within an hour drive of the city center, and R is the president of the community. And R is a maker of miracles. R dreams up projects – after constituting the community, his first project was the placement of a holocaust memorial in Santa Clara’s postage stamp of a Jewish cemetery. R’s passion lit a spark in American Jews on solidarity missions, who, with the help of an inspired young non-Jewish tour guide, brought funds for the memorial. Visitors carried stones from the market street of the Warsaw Ghetto into Cuba, one by one, to pave the path in front of the modest monument. Even as teens from Atlanta were putting the finishing touches on the memorial, R was already hatching a plan to refurbish the cemetery, repairing the graves and the walls and planting a grove of trees modeled after the grove at Yad Vashem. And as the cemetery project was nearing completion, R was already, in his magnetic, charming way, campaigning for a synagogue and community center building, inspiring donations with his passion and vision for a peaceful, harmonious future. A testament to a vibrant Jewish present is now rising in what is, to all appearances, the epitome of exile at the end of the earth.

There aren’t many people like R in this world, who use their gifts for the benefit of the Jewish community with such skill and panache. And yet as we traveled around the island of Cuba, we met with many leaders of the Jewish community who are curious about their Judaism, passionate about learning and making meaning and devoted to rebuilding connections among Cuban Jews and with the world at large. It’s no small task – though anti-Semitism is not really in issue in Cuba, religious expression has only been legal since 1992. And yet, with change in the air, resourcefulness, creativity and hope prevail.

The self-taught, excitable guide we met at the botanical garden of Cienfuegos, a city in south-central Cuba, unintentionally provided a metaphor for the Cuban experience when he enthusiastically described his favorite plant, bamboo, which was introduced to Cuba decades ago. Bamboo can grow three feet in one day; you can actually watch it grow and flourish.

It doesn’t take much for people to thrive like bamboo. Given the slightest of opportunities, we push our way into the light. Visiting a place like Cuba underscores the drive for survival, prosperity and fulfillment. Yes, decades of a misguided, large-scale socioeconomic experiment have turned the economy upside-down. It is more lucrative in Cuba to be a restroom attendant – a human toilet flusher – than a physician. Yes, laws were written and a secret police established to discourage private enterprise. Yes, the buildings are literally falling apart for want of materials for repair, and fertile fields lie fallow even as capable workers sit on street corners. Certainly many people are entirely dependent on the regime for their subsistence allowance of bread, milk, rice, beans, pork, butter and eggs. (That’s four eggs a month per person.) Still, human beings are incredibly resilient. Creativity is innate, and art flourishes even when things get worse than could ever be imagined. Ambition is instinctual and transcends even the most counterintuitive limitations placed upon it. In the face of exorbitant licensing fees, usurious income taxes and the ever-present threat of imprisonment or execution, the most enterprising Cubans have still begun to open private craft stalls and restaurants. Defying all odds, David’s tiny Jewish community yearns for a better world and a better lot for themselves. Like bamboo shoots, given a little bit of land, a little bit of space and even an unfair shot at a better life, they grow, and grow and grow. Watching hope spring up in the least hospitable of climates makes t’hiyyat hameitim – resurrection of the dead – seem real. Death and despair not the end; they are the necessary precondition for hope and rebirth.

Knesset Israel’s trip to Cuba coincided with the parshiyot that describe Jacob’s sojourn in the household of Lavan. I was volunteered to read Torah last shabbat, and chanting Jacob’s response to his dream – “God was in this place, though I was not aware… How awe-inspiring is this place; this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gateway to heaven.” – was both jarring and inspiring. And furthermore the juxtaposition of Jacob’s journey and travel in Cuba, invited comparison between the journey of our ancestor and the experience of the Cuban people.

Jacob’s journey is framed by dreams: first, having left the house of his father, Jacob dreams of finding comfort in the midst of his anxiety. Angels are ascending and descending a ladder. God is standing at its top, sharing a message of safety and hope with Jacob. Jacob’s initial dream is one of lofty ideals and abstract promises and it accompanies him as he goes into exile from the comforts of home and the habits of ordinary life. He travels with anxiety but also a sense of purpose and hope into the ‘experiment’ of a different sort of life. He expects prosperity and protection, and his dreams are of God. This is the same ethereal, idealistic sort of dream that ostensibly motivated the revolution of 1959.

But Jacob’s experiment works out poorly, to say the least. His trusted uncle turns out to be a shyster of the first order, tricking Jacob into years of hard labor, a disingenuous marriage and menacing indenture. As the years go by, despite all the promises, Jacob is still virtually enslaved to his uncle and father-in-law. He asserts that he has been a good boy throughout, doing everything for the benefit of his employer and holding himself to a higher standard than would an ordinary shepherd. Yet his dreams are changing. No longer does Jacob dream of God; Jacob dreams of sheep, envisioning how to manipulate the rules to increase his personal herds at the expense of his scheming uncle.

Our sages and even the Torah itself are pretty hard on Jacob for that second dream, suggesting that it is this dream that signals to God that it is time for Jacob to go. Materialism has absorbed our otherwise holy, focused ancestor. Yet, after traveling in Cuba, I am no longer eager to condemn Jacob’s dream of a few sheep to call his own or his sudden obsession with gaming the twisted system established by his uncle. When an individual lives a life of privation and compulsory sacrifice, when the path to sustenance is so labored as to be nearly impossible, when enormous energy must be expended in order to put a few extra eggs in the family’s pot or to search out an antibiotic, who can judge that person’s dream of becoming master of his own future? Economic muscle and political power are intimately related. When an individual frees himself of servitude and poverty, he assumes control of his destiny; a people may do the same. Perhaps Jacob’s materialistic dream of sheep is actually a message not of reprimand but of growth: only now that Jacob is ready to take care of himself and his family is he ready to move on. He has grown from dependence into responsibility. It is time for Jacob to use his ingenuity to set the stage for present and future, accepting the risk and welcoming the reward.

Yet Jacob’s journey and Jacob’s dreams are far from complete. There is one long, terrible, frightening night still ahead of him, a night during which, alone, he will struggle with a demon, perhaps sent by others or by his own conscience. He wrestles all night with this being, rolling in the dust, never sure of whether or how he will emerge. Jacob will not be the same as he was before the journey, but no one ever is. I fear that Cuba is heading in the direction of a long, dark night. Disorganized liberalizations of the economy remove some of its safety net. The secret police seem to have fewer eyes and ears than ever before. And the reemergence of a class society (instead of all have-nots, Cuba now has have-nots and have-a-little-bit-mores) inspires petty crime. I doubt Cuba will long remain as ‘safe’ as it is today, and I am sure that whatever transitions are coming will involve painful moments for its citizens. Perhaps there is no other way.

By traveling to Cuba and by supporting its people – through personal connection with our fellow Jews and their institutions - we provide a taste of that hope. Our presence is as welcome as our presents. Though Knesset Israel will not be leading another solidarity mission for at least two or three years, I would encourage participation in other trips that take American Jews to see not only Havana but also other parts of Cuba. Knesset Israel is now a part of the Jewish network that sends aid to Cuba; though direct mail is prohibitively expensive, we are able to send packages of toiletries, medication, school supplies, books and the like with other groups planning missions. And finally, I believe that we have a moral obligation to lobby in the United States against the embargo on financial transactions with Cuba. That policy is only providing a convenient excuse for the Castro regime to oppress the Cuban people. To take action that necessarily loosens Castro’s economic stranglehold on the people of the island is to give the Cubans more freedom and control over their destiny.

We must remember throughout whatever happens in Cuba over the next few years that Jacob’s nighttime struggle is not permanent. The Torah tells us, as day broke, as it eventually does, the sun shone for him for the first time since he first left his parents’ house. Jacob’s unquenchable spirit and his remarkable passion set him up for a new destiny. No longer Jacob the Trickster, he is also Israel, the one who fights with God and with men and prevails. Though his trials are far from over, he once again experiences light and hope. And in bringing light and hope to our brothers and sisters in Cuba, we find ourselves inspired.