Rabbi's Chayva's Chat

Note: There will be no Dispatch Message from Rabbi Chayva next week.

What do Mah Tovu and talking donkeys have in common? They both appear in Parshat Balak!

Balak is a Torah portion made for Pixar. An evil king (the eponymous Balak) summons a good-hearted wizard, Bilam, from his home to curse the Israelite people as they try to cross his land. Bilam is reluctant, but after significant pressure, he acquiesces and hops on his donkey to ride to Balak’s side overlooking the Israelite camp.

Not long into the ride, Bilam’s donkey suddenly starts veering toward the wall and crushes his leg into the fence. Furious, Bilam hits his donkey, trying to correct the course and free his leg. She turns her head to look at him in the saddle and says, “What have I done to you? Haven’t I been good all this time? Why are you punishing me?” Suddenly, Bilam can see what the donkey has already seen: an angel with a flaming sword blocking the way! (I imagine a scene as in Lord of the Rings when Gandalf bellows, “None shall pass!”)

The angel lets Bilam go after chastising him for beating his donkey, and eventually Bilam makes it to King Balak, who is practically tapping his foot in impatience. Bilam, ready for the gig, makes a set of altars for sacrifices so that God will curse the Israelites. Each time he starts to utter the curses, though, he can only speak words of blessings about them. Finally, on the third attempt, he gives us those words that we sing so often: Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov; mishkenotecha, Yisrael. “How good are your tents, Nation of Jacob; your dwelling places, Nation of Israel.” (Numbers 24:5)

The 16th-century Italian rabbi and physician Ovadia Sforno says that “ohalecha” refers to the people’s homes, and “mishkenotecha” encompasses all the synagogues of the Diaspora. But he doesn’t say (and neither do many of the major commentators) what it means that our homes and synagogues be good.

I have been thinking about what makes a building good for all those who enter it this month, because July is Disability Pride Month, in honor of the Americans with Disabilities Act, which was signed into law on July 26, 1990. Disability Pride Month helps us remember that one in four American adults live with a disability, whether or not they identify as disabled. After all, who counts as disabled is a social construct. In an episode I recommend of the podcast “Ologies,” Sociologist Guinevere Chambers points out, “Many folks wearing hearing aids might be considered to have a sensory disability, but so many of us are out wearing glasses for correcting our vision [and that’s] not received the same way socially.”

There’s a common trope in the disability community: everyone is only temporarily abled. We can affect change, whether for ourselves or others, and whether physical challenges are temporary or long-lasting. We can advocate that buildings be installed with elevators, which is an increasingly rare practice. We can study the new terrain of the field of disability and accessibility research. We can make our synagogues and dwelling places easier to enter and navigate, both physically and emotionally.

Rabbi Julia Watts Belser, Ph.D., published a book last year that we need to read. It’s called Loving Our Own Bones: Disability Wisdom and the Spiritual Subversiveness of Knowing Ourselves Whole. I’ll conclude with excerpts from her final chapter:

Several years ago, I was sitting in synagogue one Shavuot morning, listening to the reader chant the first chapter of the book of Ezekiel. Ezekiel was part of the ragged group of elites and aristocrats the Babylonian general forced into exile. I imagine Ezekiel walking beside the other captives, the memory of that smoke stinging his face like shame. Zeke is twenty-five years old, his world turned to ash. By the banks of the Kebar River, in the land now called Iraq, he opens up to prophecy. 

Ezekiel sees his God. He sees God as a radiant fire, borne on a vast chariot, lifted up by four angelic creatures. The chariot itself is barely described, save for one extraordinary feature: its vast, vibrant wheels. I felt the recognition shiver down my bones. God has wheels.

God on Wheels puts a striking twist on a familiar religious claim, the claim that humans are all created in the image of God, b’tselem Elohim.

And God blessed them. And God saw all of God’s creation, and how truly good they all were.

May we fulfill Bilam’s blessing that our tents, our synagogues, our homes, and our cities be good to all who enter them.

The following text is excerpted from Rabbi Chayva’s op ed in the J. this week. For the full text, click this link.

“You’re a strong candidate for rabbinical school,” the Hebrew Union College admissions team member said to me, smiling. “Just let us know when your boyfriend converts.” 

I was shocked. I had grown up in an interfaith family, attending Congregation Beth Am in Los Altos Hills because we felt welcome there. How could the Reform rabbinical seminary, which trained Beth Am’s rabbis, turn me away because I was in an interfaith relationship just like my parents?

That was 2015. Later that year, the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College started admitting students with non-Jewish partners — most of whom were Reform Jews who couldn’t apply to HUC because of their spouses. I began my rabbinic studies at RRC in 2017, but later transferred to HUC.

For many years, HUC resisted the tide of interfaith relationships. But earlier this month, the school wisely reversed course and decided to begin admitting rabbinical and cantorial students in interfaith relationships.

Some have argued that prohibiting interfaith partnership was the last frontier of respectability that kept HUC tied to the Jewish mainstream. They say that without this boundary, HUC has dropped all its standards. Yet we know that there are many valid ways to be Jewish.

Forcing rabbinic school admissions to use interfaith partnerships as the litmus test for legitimacy in the Reform movement robbed the community of leaders who could directly address one of the biggest issues in American Judaism from a place of personal experience. 

At the same time, the main institutions of the Reform movement have been misaligned. The Union for Reform Judaism, the umbrella organization with Reform synagogues, prioritizes interfaith family inclusiveness. The Central Conference of American Rabbis, the professional organization of working Reform rabbis, does not have a policy on rabbinic interfaith partnership. HUC stood alone, rejecting intermarried candidates for admission and ordination. HUC’s updated policy aligns it with the rest of the movement, national trends and its own stated value of maintaining an inclusive spirit.

Finally, the role of the clergy’s partner has changed. Instead of needing someone to lead the religious school or sisterhood, rabbis need a partner whose support, love and understanding can sustain them through their busy and deeply personal career. Leaders of RRC and HUC have pointed out that there are plenty of Jews who don’t want to be married to a rabbi, and plenty of people who aren’t Jewish who think that their beloved’s rabbinic calling is wonderful.

Last week, we studied Beha’alotcha, the Torah portion in which Miriam and Aaron challenge Moses about his marriage to a Cushite (non-Jewish) woman. “Has God not spoken through us as well?” they ask. Miriam and Aaron also speak words of Torah; we must remember that our tradition honors machloket l’shem shamayim, argument for the sake of heaven, over groupthink. Nevertheless, God chastises them for suggesting that Moses’ interfaith marriage makes him a less legitimate leader for “he is trusted in My household, and he beholds the likeness of God.” 

May we, too, trust rabbis in interfaith relationships in our households and see the likeness of God in their faces.

It seems so fitting that we are concluding Shavuot, the holiday of receiving the Torah, on 6/13, given that tradition says there are 613 mitzvot (commandments). In the Talmud (Makkot 23b), Rabbi Simlai breaks the number 613 into two parts: the 248 positive mitzvot (“do X” rather than “do not”) correspond to the number of a person’s organs and limbs, and the 365 prohibitions correspond to the number of sinews in the human body. Calling all doctors and anatomists for a fact check!

All kidding aside, Rabbi Simlai saying that the things that we are asked to do - being kind, being honest, sharing what you can with those who need it, loving your fellow person -  are the beating heart of life. The things that we must not do - to not spread gossip, not steal, not become worshipful of people or vacuous ideals - these are the boundaries and connecting pieces that tie everything together. We must have both the things that fill us and the boundaries that keep us on the right track.

So what are the mitzvot that will keep us on the right track this summer? Perhaps we’ll have time for a self-improvement practice such as meditation, gardening, reading, or taking long walks. Maybe we can find some extra time for family and friends. We can celebrate the magnificent human and natural diversity of the world in many ways: at Pride this month, on walks in the woods or by the beach, in the way the fog turns into sun and then into sunset. We can spend time doing the work of tzedakah and tikkun olam, setting the world back into balance. And we can give this season a flavor of Shabbat, with its added spaciousness, joy, and love. 

Chag Shavuot Sameach, Happy Pride, and here’s to the start of summer!

Welcome back to Ask the Rabbi! Let’s cover a few very important questions that have come up in the last month or two. Before we begin, I’d also like to add an aside that I will be away on vacation from tomorrow, May 24 through Thursday, May 30. I hope everyone has a good Memorial Day and Lag Ba’Omer! Which brings us to our first question…

Why do we traditionally cut our hair on Lag Ba’Omer?

Traditionally, during the beginning of the Omer (the days counted between Passover and Shavuot) one does not cut one’s hair because it is a partial mourning period for Rabbi Akiva’s many students who died of a plague during the Omer. That period ends on the 33rd day of the Omer. The letter 33 is represented numerically in Hebrew by the letters ל (lamed = 30) + ג (gimmel = 3), which, when combined, can be pronounced “Lag.” Lag Ba’Omer, therefore, is the 33rd day of the Omer and the day when the mourning period ends, so people often do the things from which they have abstained: haircuts, parties, etc. 

This is particularly relevant for Am Tikvah because, as you’ll see below, next year we are going to celebrate Lag Ba’Omer with a party (Lager Ba’Omer) in which anyone who would like may cut their hair and donate them to nonprofits that make wigs. I have already started growing my hair out to reach the minimum 10-12” and I invite you to join me and share this with your hirsute friends!

Did Jesus have a bar mitzvah?

No. Though there is one Talmudic mention of being a bar mitzvah (literally “a son of commandment”), it is not connected to the tradition we know of reading from the Torah to celebrate coming of age at 13. Early versions of becoming bar mitzvah might have included donning tefillin (phylacteries) for the first time, or perhaps by the year 400 CE included having one’s first aliyah to the Torah. Some sources say there was no evidence of a bar mitzvah service until 1400, and most say that even that would not have looked much like our modern b’nai mitzvah. In any case, the lifecycle moment of becoming bar/bat/b’nai mitzvah came well after Jesus.

Are satyrs kosher?

Satyrs are mythological Greek creatures who were most commonly portrayed as having a lower body of a goat and the upper body of a man. Unsurprisingly, humans are not kosher. Goats, however, are kosher: they are mammals that have cloven hooves and chew their cud. One might say that only the goat parts of satyrs are kosher, or satyrs are kosher if their digestive system is part of their goat half and not their human half (so that they would chew their cud). However, I would never recommend eating something that is so highly sentient as a satyr. Furthermore, the issue at hand might not be kashrut; it might be more an issue of kilayim, or forbidding mixture and combinations.

After several months of planning and preparation, tomorrow night we will have our installation. I look forward to introducing you to my mentor and friend, Rabbi Evon Yakar, who will join me in leading services and will officiate the installation. And though the attention sometimes makes me feel a little bashful, I am deeply moved by the conversations I have had as this occasion approaches. Tomorrow night will be a meaningful moment. I’m bringing tissues.

There are many jokes to be made about what it means to “install a rabbi,” as if the rabbi were a dishwasher, a work of art, or a software program, and I’m sure we’ll tell some of them. They speak, however, to an underlying question of what we’re doing and why we put so much work into it, so I think it might be worthwhile to step back and consider what, exactly, this occasion is.

The installation of a new rabbi is a congregational lifecycle event that celebrates the shared commitment of a congregation and its rabbi to their shared future and to Jewish tradition. If “celebrating commitment to a shared future and Jewish tradition” sounds like a wedding, you’re not wrong; one of the ways I think of this is that when a new rabbi starts a congregation, that’s the moment of engagement, and the installation is the wedding celebration. Since neither rabbi nor congregation exists in a vacuum, the installation will be a moment to bring many different parts of ourselves into the space at one time: many congregant participants, attendees from outside of Am Tikvah, the guest clergy to lead the service, and family and friends. One of the best things Rabbi Evon taught me was how important it is to be fully, authentically yourself, and I hope we can all bring that feeling into the room tomorrow.

Whether you will be there or not, I want you to know how incredibly grateful and thrilled I am to be at Am Tikvah. A few months ago, I looked back at the spreadsheet I had made of different opportunities last year, and next to Am Tikvah I had written, “#1 Choice.” That is even more true now that I know you - know us - with all of our compassion, love of music, love of learning, clarity of thought, and our strong sense of peoplehood and ethics. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the honor and privilege of being your rabbi. Shabbat shalom.