Hope and Love and Leprosy (portion Tazria)

A remarkable Talmudic tale recounts a mythical encounter between Rabbi Joshua ben Levi and the prophet Elijah.  Since Elijah is supposed to herald the arrival of the Messiah, Rabbi Joshua asked: “When will he come?”

Elijah replied: “Go and ask him yourself.”

“Where is he?”

“Just outside the city gates.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“He sits among the lepers.  The rest of them unbind all their bandages at the same time and then rebind them all together.  But the Messiah unbinds one at a time and then binds it again before treating the next, thinking, ‘Perhaps my time will come, and if so, I must not delay.’”

Rabbi Joshua went there, found the Messiah, and said, “Peace be to you, master and teacher.”

The Messiah answered: “Peace be to you, son of Levi.”

“When will you come, master?”

The Messiah replied, “Today.”

Later, Rabbi Joshua returned to Elijah, who asked, “What did he tell you?”

“He spoke falsely to me,” said Rabbi Joshua, “for he said he would come today, but he has not arrived.”

Elijah answered him: “This is what he told you—Today. . . if you will but hearken to God’s voice.”   (Tractate Sanhedrin 98a)

It is notable that in this story, the Messiah is portrayed as the ultimate outsider, poor and despised, sitting beyond the safety of the city gates.  Why does Talmud present our long-awaited Redeemer as a lowly leper?

Perhaps the Rabbis wanted a counter-balance to this week’s parshah and their own predominant line of commentary upon it.  Portion Tazria describes the skin affliction of tzara’at, commonly (mis)translated as leprosy; it prescribes that those who suffer from it be quarantined outside the camp.  Commentators saw tzara’at as the physical sign of a deeper spiritual malady.  They linked the disease to malicious speech, suggesting that the affliction was a kind of divine punishment for lashon ha-ra, the “evil tongue”.

But our Talmudic tale serves as a warning against the kind of judgment and simplistic moral calculus that points to suffering as retribution for sin.  It teaches that our calling is not to castigate lepers and other outcasts as unworthy of God’s favor; just the opposite, we are charged to hear their voices, heal their pain, and see their faces as the face of God.

This Shabbat is also known as Shabbat HaChodesh, the Sabbath just before the beginning of the new month of Nisan—the month of Pesach, time of our liberation.  As we approach this sacred season, may we open our homes and our hearts to the promise of freedom and love for all, including, especially, our contemporary outcasts.  None of us can be truly free until we learn to share our blessings with those most in need of them.  Who knows—perhaps the Messiah may even be seated at your forthcoming seder table, if we but hearken to Her voice.

The Sounds of Silence (portion Shemini)

A fire came forth from God and consumed [Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu]; thus they died at the instance of the Eternal.  Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what God meant in saying, ‘Through those near to Me, I show myself holy and gain glory before all the people.’”

And Aaron was silent.

                                                            Portion Shemini, Leviticus 10:2-3

What do we make of Aaron’s silence?

What do we make of any silence?

 Not all silences are the same.

Silence is our ultimate speechlessness in the presence of awe and beauty and love—and silence is our inability to speak to one another on account of anger, jealousy and spite.

Our silence can be used to hurt or to heal.

To create or to destroy.

Silence can be the very definition of true dignity—or the tragic product of shame and disgrace.

Silence is at the heart of all great art and music—and silence is the censorship that destroys such art.

Silence is God’s highest praise—and silence is the most brutal instrument of tyrants.

Silence is our truest form of worship—and silence is idolatry.

Silence can be our most powerful tool for protesting injustice—and silence, imposed, is the epitome of the injustice that we protest against.

Silence is life. 

Silence is death.

Silence is life and death and life and death and life and death.

Silence is life.

Silence is grief.

Silence is healing.

Silence is the sound of the aleph, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, the first letter of Anochi, of  “I am. . .”

In our silence, we are most alone.

And in our silence, we are most together.

The psalmist taught: “For you, God, silence is praise.”  (Psalm 65:1)

So may it be with our silences, this week, as we move from the raucous joy of Purim toward Pesach’s liberation.

How Sweet the Heat (Shabbat before Purim)

After careful consideration, CABI’s staff, board of directors, and expert legal team have concluded that the Idaho legislature’s new law allowing guns on our state’s colleges and universities is, in fact, applicable and even mandatory here at our CABI campus as well.  This clarification led to an emotionally-charged discussion over how we might best respond to this political sea change.  While a few of our community’s cowardly bleeding hearts suggested that we proceed with caution or even (God forbid!) commit an act of civil disobedience and break this law, the majority opinion here (including my own) is to enthusiastically embrace the abiding wisdom of our governor and legislators and incorporate it fully into our synagogue culture.  I sincerely believe that this law will help us revitalize our own programming as we align our future with the brilliant path set by our lawmakers.

With that in mind, I am pleased to announce that next month we will be launching some exciting and radically revamped versions of classic CABI programs.

At 6pm on Friday, April 4, we will introduce “Tot Shot Shabbat”.  All children under the age of eight will be issued handguns and live ammo at the door.  Then, when Rabbi Dan presents his puppet show recalling Pesach and the Exodus, the kids will be encouraged to blow off Pharaoh’s head, effectively re-enacting and teaching the lesson of the eleventh plague.  Bulletproof vests will be available for fainthearted parents and grandparents.

Three weeks later, the Moody Jews will get in on the fun for our first ever “Shabbat Plugged”.  The band will be taking requests for all of your liturgical favorites.  If we like your choices, we will honor them, encouraging everyone to sing along.  If your requests do not suit us, then one lucky band member (either chosen by an impromptu lottery or the one with the highest caliber weapon) will immediately shoot you.  This will encourage everyone to think more carefully about the role of liturgical music and which “Adon Olam” you really want to hear.  For all of you non-musicians, don’t worry—reprisal time will come at the oneg, which promises to be an exuberant free-for-all.

Finally, on Sunday morning, April 27, the Adult Learning committee will sponsor our first-ever “Bagel, Lox and Load” brunch for whoever is still standing.  Our special guest speakers will be our heroes, NRA lobbyist Dakota Moore and Nampa Republican (and the bill’s sponsor) Curt McKenzie.  Should you survive the first two events, you won’t want to miss this opportunity to thank them for their extraordinary wisdom and sagacity that has so inspired us here at CABI.

Happy Purim, all—

Rabbi Dan

Freedom's Call (portion Vayikra)

Praised be the Holy One of Blessing. . . who frees the captives.

For many years, these words from the traditional siddur have been part of my regular prayer practice.  But this blessing has taken on a heightened spiritual power and urgency since I was released from the Ada County jail last Thursday night, after getting arrested as part of the “Add the Words” civil disobedience demonstrations on behalf of Idaho’s LGBT community.

This is, of course, not to say that the Creator showed up in person to plead my case or pay my bail.  My God does not work that way.  But make no mistake, She was very much there for me, a true redeeming presence that liberated me and has continued to sustain my spirit in recent days.

God was present, freeing the captives, in the person of Jeannette Bowman and Terry McKay (proudly wearing his Teletubbies kippah)—who were at my side as fellow demonstrators, and in the person of each and every one of the other protestors arrested with us, gay and straight and transgendered, young and old, of all faiths (including Mennonite, Presbyterian, and Episcopal clergy) and of none. God was present in the vast team of organizers, videographers and supporters that sustained our efforts.  And God was and is present in the LGBT community for whom we labored, and whose members filled our ranks.

God was present in the person of Chris Einhorn, a new CABI member, who saw reports of our demonstration and arrest on Facebook and immediately drove down to the jail to give me a ride home—after waiting patiently, for many hours, until we were all released.

God was present in the person of Julie Zicha, who met with all of the demonstrators just before we left for the Statehouse, to share the story of her teenage son, Ryan, who committed suicide after he was relentlessly bullied for three years, just for being gay.  We carried pictures of Ryan, and of Maddie Beard, another gay teenage suicide victim, who died in Pocatello just two weeks ago.  Ryan and Maddie are gone from this world, but in their absence, God is powerfully present, and She is struggling to liberate Her children from bigotry and hate, so that Ryan and Maddie and countless others’ deaths shall not be in vain.

God was present in the words of Republican former Governor Phil Batt, who spoke out on behalf of his gay grandson and urged his colleagues and fellow lawmakers to do the right thing and add the words.  God was—and is—present in the hearts of those lawmakers who are even now sincerely striving to hear the voice of conscience and choose integrity over political expediency.  God is there, changing hearts and minds, bending the long moral arc of the universe inexorably toward liberating justice.

God was—and is—extraordinarily present in the prophetic leadership of Senator Nicole LeFavour.  This week’s Torah portion, which begins the book of Leviticus, is known as Vayikra, meaning: “And God called. . .”  It opens with God’s call to Moses, who responds with the utmost of humility.  In reading this passage this year, I have been thinking constantly of Nicole, who has led the march toward freedom for our LGBT brothers and sisters with that same sense of sacred and faithful calling, and with that same remarkable humility that so inspires all who follow to hear and trust the better angels of our own souls.

And God is present, ever and always, for me, in the abiding presence of you, my community, the presence of all who have enabled me to play my small part in this work by way of your steadfast compassion and support.  I am overwhelmed by your chesed, your unconditional love, with which you have graced me.  When others might have easily groused about their rabbi going to jail, you have shown pride and showered me with kindness.  I am blessed by you all, far beyond my inadequate ability to express.

I would like to conclude with some powerful and poetic words that Senator LeFavour wrote and posted on her Facebook page a week ago.  Her language is secular, but for me, her message is deeply sacred, a faithful testimony to God’s liberating power in our lives:

In my heart, the coyotes and owls, the creatures of darkness, slumber.

I will tend the light, set despair scuttling across pastures on clawed feet.

Sleep and dream of love and peace.

Know I stand guard at the gates of darkness when they call you.

You belong to the sun.

Turn now; there is a meadow dappled in shadow and light.

Lay there.  Lift your face to the sky

Til hope find you.

Praised be to the Holy One of Blessing, who, indeed, liberates the captives.