Dvarim: Telling our Stories

Kabbalat Shabbat – Parshat D’varim

August 1, 2014 

Rabbi Jaclyn Cohen

Raise your hand if you know the name of the first female rabbi ever. (pause)

Anyone?

If you answered Sally Priesand, well … good guess, but she’s not it.

Rabbi Sally Priesand was the first woman ordained by the Reform Movement in America, by the school that just ordained me, Hebrew Union College, in 1972. But – she is not the first known woman rabbi of all time.

That title – that honor, belongs to Regina Jonas.

Has anyone ever heard that name – Regina Jonas?

Rabbi Regina Jonas was ordained in Germany in the year … 1935.

She was born in 1902 and perished at Auschwitz in 1944. Regina Jonas left a legacy that stretches all the way to this day – for it is an indisputable fact that my being here with you this evening is in some way connected to this this inspiring woman, this intrepid rabbi. I want to tell you her story … because it is my story. It is your story. And story is at the center of this week’s Torah portion, D’varim.

Many don’t realize that the roots of Reform Judaism stretch all the way back to mid-19^th century Germany … when Abraham Geiger and his contemporaries were questioning what it meant to be both a Jew and a modern citizen of the state. No longer citizens of the shtetl relegated to the outskirts of both land and society, the modern Jew was pushed to evolve his or her Jewish practice in order to thrive.

The creation of new, liberal synagogues – places that often mimicked the customs of churches and pushed the boundaries of Jewish practice – coincided with the founding of the Wissenschaft des Judentuums – a progressive branch of education that focused not only on Jewish history and rabbinic literature, but also German culture, science, arts, and European history at large.

The historian Amos Elon wrote, “The purpose [of this modern type of beit midrash], "was to bring ordinary Jews into the orbit of German culture and at the same time reinforce their Jewish identity by bridging the gulf between secular and religious education.”

The Hochshule fur die Wissenschaft des Judentums – the Higher Institute for Jewish Studies - was ground zero for Reform Judaism’s intellectual and spiritual roots. As a seminary, it served as a training ground for liberal rabbis. And eventually, Regina Jonas became a student there, uplifted by this progressive and accepting atmosphere infused by Torah.

Rabbi Jonas’ thesis was titled, “Can a Woman be a Rabbi According to Halachic Sources?” Jonas argued that yes, one could, and her private ordination in 1935 demonstrated that she proved her theorem.

For several years Regina Jonas served God and community, all while Europe hovered on the brink of World War II. In 1938 Berlin, Regina wrote, ““If I confess what motivated me, a woman, to become a rabbi, two things come to mind: my belief in God’s calling and my love of humans. God planted in our heart skills and a vocation without asking about gender. Therefore, it is the duty of men and women alike to work and create according to the skills given by God.”

Jonas was deported to Terezinstaadt in 1942. She and her fellow prisoners Viktor Frankl, the famous psychoanalyst, and Rabbi Leo Baeck, a leader of the German Jewish community, were tasked with greeting incoming trains and providing counseling to frightened and bewildered Jews as they arrived. During her two years at Terezinstaadt, Rabbi Jonas presented dozens of lectures on Judaism and Jewish topics. She functioned as a rabbi – as a scholar and pastoral presence – under the worst imaginable circumstances.

When she perished at Auschwitz in 1944, she had no children. She left no tangible legacy. Few people knew of her, and those that did added little to the history of the Wissenschaft des Judentuums. It was not until the early 1990s when the discovery of papers – including her rabbinic thesis – shed light onto her incredible past … and scholars, lay people, and clergy slowly grasped who this woman was … and found themselves, past and present … in her story.

(pause)

Regina Jonas was on the mind of many women and men of every denomination of Judaism last Thursday, July 24^th, when she was honored with a plaque at Terezinstaadt. In a moving and emotional ceremony, those gathered chanted El Maleh Rachamim in her memory, asking God to grant her eternal peace.

Present for this ceremony were Regina Jonas’ fellow first women, each from their own respective denominations. Rabbi Sally Preisand was there, joined by Rabbi Amy Elberg, ordained in 1985 by JTS, the Conservative seminary; Rabbi Jacqueline Tabick, ordained in 1975 by Leo Baeck College, the liberal seminary of England named for the same rabbi that once served Terezin’s prisoners with Rabbi Jonas, and also involved was Rabbi Sara Hurwitz, the first known woman ordained through an Orthodox seminary.

These names – these individuals – are people on whose shoulders I stand; on whose shoulders we all stand. Indeed, they are trailblazers … pioneers … women who faced backlash resistance, roadblocks, and torment – from peers, family, friends … yet kept pushing forward so that we could tell their stories.

So that we would be inspired by their stories.

Especially today … when the world seems darker, more dangerous, and more hostile each day.

(pause)

In this week’s parsha, D’varim – words – our text begins to recount our story. Moses, knowing that he will soon part from the people as they move forward without him, engages them in a series of reflections and retellings of their journey.

The book of Deuteronomy seeks to teach us – we who study this text year after year … we who belong to and believe in community – lessons for the future. Through the retelling of our story, the text reinforces our commitment to and Covenant with God.

The text itself reminds us just how essential it is to tell our story. To know on whose shoulders we stand. To remember our past … so that we may look to our future. 

(pause)

Each and every moment of our lives we have an opportunity to tell a story.

Each and every moment of our lives we are able to share words – d’varim – of inspiration, challenge, humor and hope.

May we choose our words wisely.

May we use our words to inspire others.

May we always remember on whose shoulders we stand.

And may we be blessed with the ability to continue telling our stories … and the stories of our people … for generations to come.

Shabbat Shalom.

Shades of Gray

Many years ago, I worked as the arts and crafts specialist at the family camp I'd attended with my own family for many years. Just on the cusp of my twenties, I was young and silly and thought I knew everything. My own work with teens over the last decade has taught me these things don't change.

The first summer I worked there was incredible. I loved and was loved by staff, campers and families, and it was a fantastic, positive summer of work and growth. The second summer, however, things were not as great. My new supervisor and I weren't as good a fit, my responsibilities were different, and I found that the culture of this camp had shifted in a way where I didn't feel quite as comfortable. Some of it was hard to articulate; these changes existed in feelings, not fact.

A situation arose in which I was accused of things that, from my perspective, I simply had not done. Unfortunately, my supervisor handled things poorly, I was dealt with way too harshly, and when push came to shove my parents and I concluded I could no longer finish out the summer in my position. The air was too thick with animosity, I felt emotionally unsafe in my work environment, and no one saw an opportunity to start fresh.

I was devastated. I was quitting a job for the first time and felt like a failure. I was certain that this would stay with me for life; that it would haunt me forever. (And it has - just not in the way I'd anticipated)

However, I also felt completely let down by a group of people who had held some significant presence in my life since childhood. I did not understand how they could treat me so poorly, or back me into a corner where I felt my only option was to quit.

And so, my prevailing feeling became one of anger and defiance. When I quit, I quit in a maelstrom of strong-woman fiery passion, where I made sure my point of view was heard loud and clear.. I had done nothing wrong, they were the villains, and I was leaving with my head held high.

Looking back, I'm pretty impressed that nineteen-year-old me was such a rabbi-in-training; that I had the guts to stand up to the big boss and say, this is not okay, and I am leaving because this situation has become untenable. So, bravo to that.

However.

As I reflect on this moment in my life - to date the only job I have ever quit - I realize just how brash and arrogant I was.

The reality was this: I was a young, immature kid who probably did something stupid and my immediate supervisor didn't like me very much and so she exaggerated the story and I got a bigger slap on the wrist than I should have.

I would love to believe that I was somehow superior; that I was in the right, that there was black and white and I was good and they were bad. But that's [likely] not entirely correct.

Sometimes we hold ourselves to a higher standard because we are taught and conditioned to believe we are better than the circumstances we find ourselves in. Sometimes we are arrogant, complacent, or just have a bad attitude. Sometimes we have to reel ourselves in, take stock, and hit refresh.

I share all this as a long introduction to an article in the Times of Israel that has circulated on Facebook and Twitter today, shared below. I share all this as a way of reminding those who read this blog that I am human, and we all are human, and being human is sometimes really, really hard. I share all this because I truly believe that these words are powerful, that they cut to the heart, and that we as individuals and as a community must always remember just how many shades of gray exist in our lives and in our work.

The article is below, and I look forward to reading your comments.

http://www.timesofisrael.com/a-sobering-moment-for-complacent-israel/

B'shalom,
Jaclyn

Perspective is Everything

This past Friday evening - July 4th - I gave my first drash at Temple de Hirsch Sinai in Seattle. It was awesome. I'm sharing it here with all of you and look forward to sharing many more sermons, divrei Torah, and life musings in the future:

Shabbat Shalom.

The father of one of my closest friends has a blog he updates fairly often, titled “Perspective is Everything.” This blog chronicles Michael’s daily activities, musings on life, love, family, and politics, and often serves as a platform for a cause about which he is passionate. Normally, a blog like this might make me feel as though I was peeking into someone’s online diary, snooping around someone’s personal business. But Michael’s blog is unique … Michael himself is incredibly unique … and the blog’s tagline should tell you why:

Living with a Disability … What a Blessing.

For as long as I’ve known him, Michael has lived with advanced MS – Multiple Sclerosis. Over the last decade I have watched his physical health deteriorate. Today he is bound to a wheelchair, unable to work or drive; he needs round-the-clock supervision and help doing even the most mundane tasks.

And yet – Michael genuinely considers himself to be truly fortunate. He sees himself as deeply blessed. And when you ask him whether he sees his cup as half-full or half-empty, he will look at you with his huge, Matinee-idol grin and tell you, “neither … because my cup runneth over.”

Perspective is everything, Michael constantly reminds me. What could have been the most horrific curse on his body and his family – he has chosen to see it as a blessing. (pause)

How we choose to view the world around us defines who we are; it sets us on a path toward our future, no matter what roadblocks stand in our way. For many of us, it’s simply natural to wallow in pain and despair when life goes awry, when we are delivered hard news, or when our greater, global community suffers. But for others, those very curses can be spun into blessings and opportunities. For them, it’s all about perspective.

This week’s parsha, Balak, shows us the people of Israel inching closer to their Promised Land. The parsha is named for the evil Moabite king Balak, who sees the Jews as a threat and hires the sorcerer Balaam to curse them.

Balaam sets out on this “cursing mission” on a donkey – one who miraculously speaks to him over the course of their journey. Balaam finds three separate vantage points from which he attempts to curse the Jews – three separate visuals on the people Israel. Yet three times, only blessings emerge from this non-Jew’s mouth, culminating in Ma Tovu O’halecha Ya’akov Mishkenotecha Yisrael – how good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel – a prayer that, today, opens our morning liturgy.

The text tells us that it is God who intervenes; that it is God, working through angels and talking donkeys, who spins these curses into blessings.

Balak, the Moabite king, is … disappointed … that this hotshot sorcerer couldn’t actually do what he was hired for. He calls out to Balaam, “I called you to curse my enemies, but you have blessed them three times! Now, flee back to your place. I said I would honor you greatly, but God has prevented you from receiving any honor from me.”

In parshat Balak, curses are spun into blessings because God intervenes.

Today, thousands of years later, how can we spin that which plagues and stymies us into blessing and opportunity? (pause)

It’s not an easy task. We cannot simply snap our fingers and choose to suddenly view the world through a totally different lens. We are human beings, and we are infinitely more complex and dynamic than that.

However – we can begin by shifting our perspective. We can remove our shoes and step into those of another. We can look at troubling, frustrating situations from alternate angles and vantage points – just as Balaam attempted to do on his “cursing mission” – and move forward with that information as our guide. We can always see a different side.

For example …

We can look at today – at the Fourth of July – as a noisy, crowded circus of hot dogs and Americana. Or – we can see it as a celebration of our nation’s independence; an opportunity for family and friends to gather together on a warm summer evening.

Or …

We can take what is currently happening in Israel, this horrific and tragic escalation of violence, and quietly, angrily sit in our frustration and hopelessness. Or, we can shift our perspective ever so slightly, reach out to those with whom we disagree, and seize an opportunity to foster dialogue; to pursue peace in the face of war. (pause)

Again, none of this is easy. None of this just … happens overnight. And sometimes we really do have the right to sit and wallow in our anger and despair. But in parshat Balak, we are reminded that it is possible to spin curses into blessings; that we can shift our perspective; that we are capable of adapting, regrouping, and … starting over. (pause)

On March 5^th of this year, our friend Michael posted the following on his blog: “Today … is an unusual anniversary. Today … is the anniversary of my diagnosis of MS. It is the date that my life, and the life of my family and many of our friends, was forever changed. Although some of the changes have been quite dramatic, they are not all bad. In fact, many of the changes have been quite positive and that makes it an anniversary worth celebrating… Today is my thirteenth anniversary. Today I feel grateful for what I have learned from living with a disability. It has truly been an opportunity.” 

May we – as individuals and as a community – be blessed with the ability to shift our own perspectives; to see our curses as opportunities, and to recognize and celebrate the abundant blessings in our lives.

Shabbat Shalom.  

Erev Rav

Tonight is my last night ever being "just Jaclyn." 

I mean, I'll always be Jaclyn, that's for sure. And I don't anticipate very much about myself changing after tomorrow. I'll still be the same-old, irreverent, loud n'proud JFroCo I've always been. 

But. 

(there's always that 'but...")

Tomorrow I become a rabbi.

Tonight, I'm really, actually, at-lastily ... erev rav.

Tonight I'm perched at the threshold. Tomorrow I cross it. 

Because tomorrow, I'll be ordained. 

No more student rabbi. No more intern. No more graduate school. 

Rabbi. 

It doesn't seem real. Maybe that's why I keep repeating it; to sort of let myself take in the hugeness of it all. 

When you're on the slow train for six long years, slogging through what feels like endless cycles of classes and homework and papers and finals and projects and meetings and uphill battles, you become locked into this mentality that this is your life forever. Coming to the end of that ... well, it doesn't all sink in so easily. 

Yet, everything is shifting in this beautiful direction. We're going to an awesome city, where my husband already has a job and we have a beautiful home in which to live. I'm so incredibly excited to finally begin working, and in a great community, no less! 

Maybe tomorrow it will really sink in, when I'm standing there at the threshold becoming ordained by the president of our school. Or maybe it will be immediately after, when everyone starts calling me "Rabbi Jaclyn" and I no longer have to correct them. Or maybe it will sink in six months from now after my first High Holidays in Seattle. 

No matter what, tonight is my last night being "just Jaclyn." Tomorrow the hard work, blood, sweat, and endless tears will all finally prove worth it. 

Because tomorrow, I'm a rabbi. 

Laila tov.

-Jaclyn

B'derech

The past two weeks, I've been neither here nor there.

I'm physically in Los Angeles ... in the apartment that has become our home three miles from the ocean. It's filled with so much stuff. (How do we physically amass so much stuff?) But also memories. Remnants of celebrations past. The classy loot we were gifted in the months before, during, and after our wedding. Things. And photos. So many photos. We were each big on hanging and displaying pictures of friends and family before we met. Then we started dating, fell in love, moved in together ... and, naturally the pictures came, too.

I'm mentally in Seattle ... the city that will become our home in a little over three months. I spend a significant amount of time each day looking at apartments, neighborhoods, and maps. So many maps. I'm thinking about the logistics involved with moving 1,000+ miles north. I'm worried about getting us the right rain boots. I'm nervous/excited (nerxcited?) about making new friends in a big new city. I think a lot about the food.

And ... oh yes. I'm going to be a rabbi. For real. Because I got a job. A full-time one. No more internship. No more grad school. This is real time. It's happening. And I'm excited. So very excited. But also deeply humbled. (And a tad nervous) And filled with questions about what this position will be like and what this synagogue - this fantastic congregation - will be like.

But those questions must remain largely unanswered until my physical presence is in Seattle. Until I hit the ground running in July. Until I begin to develop relationships with the people I'll be working for and with. Until I get into a groove and it really settles in that yes, I did make this move. We made this move as a family. We started this new chapter together.

But we're not there yet.

Because we're neither here nor there.

Heightening the experience of being b'derech (which loosely means 'on the way') is the fact that I am done with just about every single thing I need to do in order to be ordained. And that's pretty fantastic. I'm going to stop right there and give myself a little pat on the back. Because getting to that point took a tremendous amount of energy, hard work, and commitment. And I did it this way - the Jaclyn way, I guess - because I wanted to be able to enjoy this transitional time of being neither here nor there.

So let me assure you, I am finding many ways to enjoy it.

However.

Complicating the experience of being b'derech is reality. The pain of loss; of change. Of leaving significant relationships behind. Our families have been overwhelmingly supportive of our move and it's been amazing. Many of our friends have, too.

But there's something very difficult about telling the people you love that you've made a decision that involves you not being around them regularly anymore. When you really, truly love people there's something tremendously deep and visceral and hard in knowing you will soon say goodbye. You know it won't last forever; you tell each other Seattle and LA are only a two-hour plane ride apart. But deep in your heart you know that everything will change, and some people will handle it better than others, and maybe you're really going to struggle with it the most, and it just hurts. That's the pain of truly loving and caring about someone other than yourself.

But we're not there yet.

Because we're neither here nor there.

There's so much to be excited about. There's a new adventure on the horizon for Josh and for me. Every day that passes we realize more and more that this was the best decision we could have made for ourselves and for our marriage. As difficult as that is for some people to hear. (And as difficult as it is to say out loud)

As I said in my own sermon on Rosh Hashanah this past fall, "it's ironic, but the only real constant in this bizarre world of ours ... is change." Change is what keeps us dynamic and growing; it shapes and shifts us and helps us learn to be the best people we can be. We know that this is a change that we needed. We are confident that we will embrace it together.

But ... we're not there yet.

Because we're neither here nor there.

A Dvar Torah on Vayikra

This morning I shared some brief words of Torah with the Jewish Legislative Caucus of the California Democratic Party. (Many thanks to my dear friend, Claire "Rainbow" Conlon, for the opportunity!)

I present them here to you, faithful blog-followers:

Shabbat Morning with the California Democrats - Jewish Caucus

Parshat Vayikra – March 8, 2014

Good Morning and Good Shabbos!

Yesterday … many of us in the Jewish professional world shared and spread around a Facebook post on this week’s Torah portion, Vayikra … in the form of a blog entry from “Punk Torah,” an unaffiliated, independent, mostly online community run by Rabbi Patrick Beaulier in Atlanta.

The title of the post was: “Is Judaism Programming Itself to Death?”

When I clicked on the link, the image that popped up was one with which I am all too familiar: a completely packed, all-blocked-out, weekly Google calendar snapshot. Lots of color, and events, and things going on … and very limited blank space.

I would imagine that many of us in this room know the image of the packed calendar all too well – whether we use Google or Outlook or … even … an old-school, actual, handwritten paper calendar. We know that image because … our lives are busy, our schedules meticulous, our “free time” not really that “free.” (pause)

Rabbi Patrick suggests that today, we who work in and serve the greater community structure our entire careers around “the calendar,” and specifically: programming and promotion … getting this person in the door, or reaching out to that segment of the population. We set a date, pick a location, promote the hell out of something, and put on an event … whether it’s Israel Advocacy, a Young Democrats breakfast, or even Election Day.

Now, back to Torah. Punk Torah, that is. Rabbi Patrick reminds us that at first blush this week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, is a horrifying read. It’s all about animal sacrifice. We go from the grandiosity of Exodus – the crossing of the Red Sea, the giving of the Ten Commandments, the building of the Tabernacle … to fire and brimstone and bloody, burned animals.

Of course, sacrifice here serves a greater purpose … it reminds us to draw near to God and community … the Hebrew word for a sacrificial offering, korban, is the same root as the verb, “to draw close,” likrov.

Rabbi Patrick suggests that the modern-day parallel of sacrifice … is the calendar. It’s the schedule that we so protect and keep. The endless programming we put ourselves and our communities and our families and our careers through … that’s our modern-day version of bloody, burning animal parts. It’s death by scheduling … and the worst part? It ignores the very reason people are drawn to Judaism … and progressive politics … in the first place…

Change. Relevance. Meaning. Making daily life a little bit more secure … ensuring that the future is a little bit brighter for the next generation.

And at the core of all that? People. Relationships. Connections. (pause)

Our imperative as modern Jews is to repair the world, not dominate it – to mend what has been broken. That is the essence of tikkun olam and it is a hallmark of social justice.

But tikkun olam at its best isn’t really about the olam – the world. It’s about the anashim – the people – who reside within it, utilize its resources, help it to grow and flourish and progress … people are at the root of this endeavor that we call life. (pause)

When we begin to lose sight of that … when we become so dependent on our highly developed programming and our terrifyingly complex schedules … then, we lose sight of our real, authentic goals. We forget for whom we’re programming and scheduling in the first place… and we need a Shabbos … a respite … a re-fresh … to remind ourselves who we’ve committed our lives to and why. 

So this Shabbat morning, take a breath. Take a moment. Look around you. Look at the faces of those who are our future – the next generation of progressive politics in this state. Put down your smart phone and your Google calendar app … and I promise to do the same.

Remember that time – our time - is an extraordinary gift. A gift we must use wisely.

To paraphrase the philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel, “six days a week we wrestle with the world, wringing profit from the earth. On the Sabbath we care for the seed of eternity planted in the soul. Six days a week we seek to dominate the world; on the seventh day, we finally attend to the self.” (pause)

In the coming weeks and months as we in this room head into our respective busy seasons, let us remember … to take that breath. To connect – or reconnect – with the people for whom we do the work that we are so privileged to do.

Let us not be so bold as to throw away our calendars entirely … because then it might actually throw the world off its axis … but let us at least try to wean ourselves from that meticulous planning …  sit a little more comfortably in those blank spaces … and instead look up, lean out, and reach toward those whose hands meet ours.

Imagine the possibilities. Imagine the connections; the conversations. Imagine the power in those exchanges – however brief they may be. (pause)

It is my hope … and my prayer … that these breaths, pauses, and reconnections will enhance the work that we are already doing, and the people we already are. That they will make us even better at dancing with the busy-ness that rules our lives.

Then, and only then, will we truly work towards the California of our dreams – a California of dignity, strength, and promise.

Kein Yehi Ratzon. Shabbat Shalom.

-Jaclyn 

February 2014: A Retrospective

My, what a long, strange month it's been!

February 2014 has been the longest, most fascinating, challenging, eye-opening and soul-stirring month of our lives. And I cannot believe that tomorrow it finally comes to an end.

At the beginning of February I began the Placement process to determine where I will wind up next year as a full-time rabbi. From the speed-dating-style initial interviews (on Super Bowl Sunday, no less) with wonderful congregations to exciting callbacks to the busy yet fulfilling site visits themselves; each aspect of this process was a phenomenal learning experience for me. 

What a privilege it has been to see what Judaism looks like through the eyes of these communities I have visited. To hear people articulate why their community matters to them. To meet senior rabbis and associate rabbis who love what they do and are passionate about building community. To teach people, and speak openly with people, and do my best to share a little bit of myself with people. 

And, most importantly, to see these communities excited, passionate, and invested in what will be the next chapter in their congregation's life. 

Yesterday I read through this week's parsha, Pekudei. I noticed that it was yet another Torah portion about the building of the mishkan; the tabernacle. When I looked back a few chapters, I was reminded of the first charge concerning the tabernacle God speaks to Moses in Terumah: build me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them. (Exodus 25:8)

I did a little math and saw that Terumah was the portion we read at the beginning of the Placement process. And this week, Pekudei is the conclusion of that narrative. It's the final parsha in the book of Exodus. It closes out the discussion on the structure, content, and sanctity of the tabernacle itself. The sometimes repetitive descriptions of God's vision for the mishkan conclude beautifully in Pekudei.

The significance of this timing struck me. How apropos to this Placement process; this long, arduous, at times repetitive, beautiful, poignant, taxing, and meaningful month.

Each congregation that has interviewed us emerging rabbis was immersed in the building of their own mishkan; their own holy space. Additionally, each of us students has searched for the right mishkan in which to create holiness, meaningful relationships, and bring people closer to Torah. As I have said throughout this process, it's all about fit. It's about match. It's about rabbis feeling that they can bring their gifts and talents to a congregation and congregations feeling that same energy; that same excitement.

I do not know what will happen tomorrow morning, or the next day, or in the weeks and months and years ahead. But I do know that the Placement process has taught me so much about myself, about my peers and colleagues, about who I am as an emerging rabbi, about the family and friends who love and support me endlessly, about congregational life, and about what it means to be a Jew in America in the 21st century.

Finally, to my mishkan - the dwelling inside my heart in which my friends and family reside - I thank you for bringing me to this place and to this moment. I love you.

B'sha'ah Tovah,

Jaclyn