Yom Kippur: Choosing Life in a Breathless Time

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

A few months ago, I took a quick trip to see my oldest child, Gabriella, who lives in Washington, D.C. about a 10-minute walk from the White House. On my last day there, Gabi was working from home, and we decided to do a DoorDash brunch before I had to leave for the airport. No sooner had I placed the order than Gabi said, ‘WAIT!’ ‘Cancel the order—we can’t do DoorDash, they will arrest our delivery driver!’ 

“What?” I ask, “Are you talking about?” I never heard of such a thing. 

What I now know, but didn’t then, is that the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, which is in full force, profiles and follows the delivery drivers, most of whom were not born in this country, and then arrests them before they can make their deliveries.  I was still in disbelief that this was happening when that evening, Gabi sent me a video clip of an Uber driver arrested by ICE a few blocks away from her apartment. Also, she told me, on that very same day, a housekeeper working in her building and then a resident who lives in her building, were arrested by ICE.  This is not normal. 

Masked ICE agents coming into our neighborhoods, the National Guard coming into our cities. These are not normal times. It is also not normal anymore for us to have Covid vaccines unavailable unless you have an underlying condition, which is what happened to me last week. It’s not normal for law firms and universities to be afraid of the President of the United States.

It’s a shock to the nation’s system that we are now seeing wide-scale hostility and demonization of law enforcement, something we have not seen since Vietnam. 

It’s not normal for the FCC to bully television networks and corporations. We are not living in normal times. 

The columnist David Brooks writes, “What is happening now is not normal politics. We’re seeing an assault on the fundamental institutions of our civic life, things we should all swear loyalty to — Democrat, independent or Republican.[1]

The times we are living in are not normal, and there should be no expectation that we should be okay. How can we feel okay when the political divide is wreaking havoc on our relationships, including those with our own family members, as well as in our institutions and organizations?  

How can we be okay as a Jewish People, when we are two years post the October 7thmassacre, the layers of grief still heavy: all the while we wait, plead, and pray for the release of all the hostages, dead and alive. How can we be okay when Palestinian civilians are grieving unbearable loss and are starving in Gaza? And here at home, Jews in our own neighborhoods are targeted with slurs, threats, and acts of violence. We are experiencing this Jew-hatred not in theory, but in local time, real time. 

How can we be okay? In short, many of us, if not most, are not okay. How do we choose to respond when the abnormal has become normalized?

Last year at this time, I spoke about joy, that those who sow in tears, might reap in joy, that having joy is an act of resistance against those who wish us harm. Seeking out joy and joyful moments is what our people have done since the days of the Gan Eden, the Garden of Eden. And even Yom Kippur is traditionally a time of joy. The rabbis of the Talmud  teach, “Yom Kippur is a day of joy, because it is a day of pardon and forgiveness.”[2]

While we are to seek out joy, we are also called on to understand and see that Yom Kippur is, as our liturgy teaches, “a day of awe and a day of dread.” On Yom Kippur, it is tradition to dress in white and to step back from the appetites that sustain daily life. Our tradition calls this day a rehearsal for our death—not to frighten us—but that we awaken to the fact that life will pass us by if we do not pay attention to it. This day, the holiest of days,  benevolently calls to us– life is fragile, each moment counts. Choose to live it to the best of your ability. 

In a central prayer of our high holiday liturgy, the Un’taneh Tokef  we read:  On Rosh Hashanah this is written;  on the Fast of Yom Kippur this is sealed:  How many will pass away from this world,  how many will be born into it;  who will live and who will die;  who will reach the ripeness of age….You, God, count and consider every life. You set bounds; You decide destiny. [3]

These are difficult words to read. I have always bristled at the theology of a cosmic arbitrator doling out decrees. I do not believe that God literally does or doesn’t write us into the Book of Life. I do not believe in the theology of a cause and effect, a providential God. 

Yet, there is a message in this poem that I do subscribe to, and think is critical.  This poem is less about God choosing whether we will live or die than it is about us choosing how we will live, even in the midst of suffering, even in these not-normal times. The central character of the Unetana tokef prayer is not God; it is us. For at the end of this poem, we proclaim: Repentance, prayer, and tzedakah can soften the harshness of life’s decree. The prayer begins as if destiny is imposed, but ends with the call for us to intentionally choose how we live. 

Friends, I understand that each one of us has a unique story to offer when we speak about the harshness of life’s decree. The one thing we have in common is that our lives will one day come to an end and that end will more often than not, arrive too soon. So between now and then—how will we choose to live?! 

In our Torah portion this morning we read: “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse—uvechartah ba-chayim—choose life.” This is a call to show up to and for the world as it is—achingly bittersweet—both broken and whole and, not normal. We choose life, so that we might benefit and receive real value for the real effort we put into this limited and blessed existence. 

These times are not normal. And it is in my experience, particularly difficult to show up to this life right now. It is hard to live with the harshness of the decrees around us, in the news, and in what is going on in this country, and also in Israel and in Gaza, all the while tending to our own life’s ups and downs.  

When the abnormal has been normalized, and a sense of powerlessness is so strong, what might choosing life look like as we move forward?

To start, choosing life means taking care of ourselves. It’s that flight attendant message– put your oxygen mask on first, only then can you help others. It’s a message we might hear over and over again but rarely pay attention to. Self-care isn’t selfish; it’s preparation for service. What wholesome practice—sleep, a stroll, a golf game, a cup of coffee with a long-lost friend, might we need to attend to? Acknowledging that self-care takes time, which we often don’t have enough of– Have we made the doctor’s appointment we’ve put off for too long? Have we left something unsaid that still stirs within? Can we finally set down the guilt and shame we carry, which this Holy Day invites us to release? 

As we tend to the self, we can also lean into that line from the Serenity Prayer—“the courage to change the things we can.” We may wish to mend every fracture and end all suffering, to bring about justice right now. But that goal seems unattainable and overwhelming at the moment. Where can we begin, here and now, to create the world we long to see? Of the three paths at the end of the Unetana tokef,– which path–“prayer or service, repentance, and tzedakah, that soften the harness of the decree, might we begin with? 

Perhaps setting aside five quiet minutes each day for gratitude will allow us to feel the preciousness of life and then motivate us to help others choose life? Can we choose life by seizing the opportunity to return to our best selves and explore what truly gives us a sense of purpose in life? Can we then find a way to pursue it, if we haven’t already? Can we engage in the kind of teshuva that emphasizes repentance and the mending of relationships? When we practice kindness, generosity, and basic human decency, we are choosing life and choosing not to live in the harshness of the decree. 

These are just a few examples of how to live in stressful, not normal times. I am sure you each have your own ideas of how to cope with the distress around us. I urge us to have conversations together about what we might need in order to make these days bearable, all while helping to make them better for others. Self-care and having the courage to change the things we can are an acknowledgment that it’s not that the suffering disappears or the injustices go away; it’s that we might avail ourselves to witnessing the wholeness alongside the brokenness, and instead of counting days, we make each day count. 

And still, I understand there is no easy answer  to linving in the normalized abnormalcey which we find ourselves in. 

Our people have always carried both the broken and the whole. A rabbinic midrash teaches that when Moses shattered the first tablets of the Ten Commandments in anger, the Israelites did not leave the fragments behind. They carried those broken tablets together with the second, whole set that Moses received upon returning to the mountain top. Across the desert and into the Promised Land, they bore both—the broken and the whole—as a lasting reminder of what we hold within us.  

You’ve gathered by now: this is not a sermon about mending every fracture in the world—though God knows the world cries out for repair.
It is not about curing every “not normal” in our country, or in Israel—though we dare not stop trying.

No.
In these days that are anything but normal, this is a call to tend the soul, to steady the heart, to summon courage enough to care for one another.
For without care, nothing heals.
Without courage, nothing holds.
Without one another, nothing good can grow.

I don’t know what the answers are for each of us. However, I do know this: we cannot let ourselves be consumed by the chaos around us. If we do, we lose our sense of normalcy—we forget what it means to be human.

Our task now is to rise up and choose life. To discover, together, what gives our days value and what makes us feel genuine, even in the face of dread.

“Choose life, that we may live.”
What will that mean for you?

On Sunday mornings, I have the privilege of leading our K–3rd–grade prayer service. The first prayer I teach them is Modeh/Modah Ani—“Grateful am I”—the words we say before our feet touch the floor in the morning. It begins, “Thank You, God, for returning my soul to me, and giving me this new day!” And ends with my two favorite words: rabbah emunatecha—“great is Your faith.” Not how great is my faith in God, but how great is God’s faith in me! I can do this day! Each morning is a holy vote of confidence: I am trusted with this day. Trusted to choose life-one day at a time.

May we have the courage to rise, and to choose life.
May we rise to care for ourselves and for one another—so the world may be blessed by our refusal to normalize what is happening around us.
And may all our efforts be a blessing: for us, for Israel, and for all the world.

Ken Yhi Ratzon. May this be True. 

Sermon Anthen: We Will Rise- Charlie Kramer

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/2025/04/17/opinion/trump-harvard-law-firms.html

[2] Bava Batra 121a

[3] Mishkan HaNefesh176 & 178

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Kol Nidre 2025: Do not miss the Chance: Welcoming the Stranger

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

When my kids were in BJE preschool many years ago, they had a Passover assembly for parents and extended family. At the assembly, they played the song “Out of Egypt to Be Free,” and along with the song, the kids marched. Eventually, they were to cross through the fake Red Sea towards the promised land. The kids, playing the role of the escaped slaves, carried bags, little backpacks, and they were given little dolls representing the baby Israelites, which they carried or waved in the air, depending on the child. The 3-year-olds and their teachers practiced the “Out of Egypt” march for weeks. When showtime came, some kids forgot the road map and cried, leaving the march. Others made their way to their parents, skipping the Red Sea altogether. It was, and remains, to Kyle and me, an absolutely hysterical reenactment of the exodus story. Occasionally, to this day, and at many a Passover seder, Kyle and I burst out in song, “Out Out of Egypt to be free”, while our now young adult children roll their eyes. 

From a very early age, Jews are taught: we were once slaves, and then we were freed. It is our job to welcome the stranger.

Why is welcoming the stranger so central to who we are? Because it keeps our memory honest. It says: let what happened to us never happen through us. We carry a spiritual muscle memory of being outsiders.

Sometimes welcoming the stranger, even seeing the stranger, is inconvenient. We are busy, we are tired, we are overwhelmed. We cross the street to avoid the man with the cardboard sign. We look past the young immigrant mother and child selling candy or flowers. Or we say we don’t have cash, or we’ll come back. We avert our eyes. 

Welcoming the stranger is foundational to Jewish law, identity, culture, and tradition. Rooted in Torah, the mitzvah, found in Exodus, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of  Egypt,”[1] is repeated and expanded not only in the Torah, but in our commentaries and rabbinic teachings throughout the millennia. 

This verse in Exodus is not unique. The Torah repeats this command, in various formulations, more than any other mitzvah. The commandment not to oppress the stranger appears 36 times in the Torah. This number alone indicates its profound significance. 

In another section of Exodus, we read, “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[2]

And Leviticus expands: “When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt”.[3]

The Hebrew term for “stranger” is ger (גֵּר). In the biblical context, the ger is typically a non-Israelite residing among the Israelites, and is someone without land, tribe, or protection — a vulnerable person. 

Importantly, the Torah makes no distinction between citizen and foreigner when it comes to ethical treatment.

We read, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.”

This verse stands out because it links law, legal imperative, with an emotional quality. It does not merely say not to oppress the stranger; it gives us a reason to follow this law, other than that it is a commandment. It says—don’t do it because you know what it feels like to be oppressed. From the expulsion to the emancipation, in most countries throughout Europe and the Near East, we lived as resident aliens without legal protection or status and were second-class non-citizens.

Judaism is calling on our collective memory, our own pain, to remind us why we should follow the commandment not to oppress the stranger. We know oppression.  

On several occasions, the Torah specifies: “You shall have the same law for the stranger as for the native-born.”[4] Not only must the stranger not be wronged, but they must also be included in Israelite society. Yet, it is more than this; the stranger must be loved. The Torah does not just warn against harming the stranger. It goes further: it commands us to love the stranger.

In Deuteronomy, we read, “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[5]  Here, the Hebrew word for love (ahavah) does not describe a feeling, but rather it is a verb. The stranger is not to be merely tolerated but is to be actively embraced and supported. 

The medieval philosopher Maimonides (Rambam) comments that loving the stranger is part of imitating God. God loves the stranger,[6] “providing him with food and clothing”[7] and so must we. Maimonides elevates this obligation to a divine imitation — to love the stranger is to act in the way of God.

This ethical demand extends to the judicial system as well: In Leviticus,[8] we read,  “When a stranger lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. The stranger living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were strangers in Egypt.”  And a few chapters later, we read “You shall have the same law for the stranger and the native-born, for I am the Lord your God.”[9]

This principle of equal justice is revolutionary for its time. It’s not enough to be kind to the stranger; Jewish law demands that the stranger be treated with legal equity. 

The Jewish historical experience — as immigrants, exiles, and refugees — has made this teaching painfully relevant. From the Babylonian exile to the Spanish expulsion to the Holocaust and the modern refugee crisis in Ethiopia, Russia, and beyond, Jewish communities have often stood in the place of the stranger.

Jewish tradition turned this painful history into an ethical obligation. For each year at the seder, we say out loud: “In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally came out of Egypt.”

This reenactment is not just historical — it’s moral. By remembering our own suffering, we can cultivate compassion toward others and act in their best interests as well.

Welcoming the stranger is one of the most consistent and insistent messages of the Torah. It is a command not just of law, but of the heart; not just for ancient Israel, but for us today. The Torah does not ask us to pity the stranger, or merely to tolerate them. It demands that we identify with them, love them, and ensure justice for them because we know. Because we remember.  The imperative to welcome the stranger is, of course, particularly urgent at this moment.

What is happening to the stranger among us today is antithetical to who we are as a people. To our faith, to Torah to our sense of communal moral obligation.  It is surreal to stand here, to be in prayer while our Chicago streets are patrolled with armed, masked government agents hunting down immigrants, as though they are capturing enemy combatants. It is appalling to note that many who have been captured and detained, and even deported, have legal US status. It is also repugnant that the vast majority of those forcefully apprehended are not violent criminals or threats to public safety; they are merely housekeepers, day laborers, and busboys simply trying to feed their families by doing jobs that no one else will do. It’s terribly upsetting. 

May we not look away with callous indifference, may we take the time to truly remember that it is the luck of the draw that we are in this room, or on zoom, attending this service, and weren’t born into poorer countries without hope or opportunities. We are quite fortunate. 

May we recognize and act on our moral obligation to love the stranger, to protect them, and to treat them with compassion and dignity.

Ken yehi ratzon—May this be God’s will. And may it be ours, too.

[1] 23:9

[2] 22:20

[3] 19:33-34

[4] 24:22, Exodus 12:49, and Numbers 15:16

[5] 10:19

[6] Mishneh Torah, Hilchot De’ot 6:4

[7] Deuteronomy 10:18,

[8] 19:33-34

[9] 24:22

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Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon: Sacred Listening: It’s as Difficult As It Is Necessary

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

A wife is concerned that her husband is losing his hearing. She decides to test him, but she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. One evening, while he is in the kitchen preparing dinner, she stands about 30 feet behind him in the living room and asks, “Honey, what are we having for dinner tonight?” No answer.

She moves closer and asks again, a little louder, “Honey, what’s for dinner tonight?” 

Still no answer. She inches up even closer a few more times and now, right behind him, she asks, “Honey, what are we having for dinner tonight?”. 

He turns around, looks at her, and says, “For the fifth time, we’re having chicken!”

That wife was me a few years back. I couldn’t understand what was with people—why was everyone mumbling? I had a rough go of it for maybe nearly a year. I was living my life, annoyed with the world because I had undiagnosed hearing loss. 

I finally admitted to my husband, Kyle, that I think I might have a hearing problem, and it was even longer until I did something about it. I am happy to say that, more than a decade later, with a hearing aid in my left ear, I am doing much better. My lack of hearing caused problems in my life, not because of the disability, but because I wasn’t slowing down enough to compassionately notice, pay attention, and take the time to listen. And what’s more, not only had I not slowed down to truly listen to you, I had not taken the time to listen to the still small voice inside me that would have alerted me that something was amiss. That- I could not hear very well. My hearing loss is what finally helped me slow down, pay attention, and listen. 

Listening is not easy. Many of us actively avoid listening because, more often than not, we hear something we dislike or profoundly disagree with—and then our anger, fear, or stress rise. Listening takes effort. In a world flooded with painful news, not listening, not tuning in, can feel like self-preservation. But when we stop listening altogether, harmful voices go unchecked, polarization deepens, and our capacity to safeguard democracy erodes. Not listening is mostly not helping our world and ourselves, and it’s dangerous. 

Polarization and discord are high. All the more reason to listen—especially to friends and family, whether we agree with them or not—so the people closest to us feel heard and seen. When we stop listening to others, we are also more likely to not listen to our own inner, still small voice. Letting our inner voice surface means facing our fears and worries, and that’s hard to do. When we don’t listen inward, we do a disservice to ourselves and those we love. As the prophet Elijah teaches, God’s presence is found in the kol d’ma mah dakkah—the still, small voice.[1]   

Listening is as difficult as it is necessary, and it is a sacred act. Sacred listening about paying attention with our entire being, mind, body, and heart, to the voices of another and the still small voice within. 

Our Prophet Isaiah calls to us: “Listen that you may live. Incline your ear and come to [God]; listen, and you shall be revived![2]” On this day of Rosh Hashanah, the first day of the new year, when creation of the world is celebrated, and when together we return to God and to our best selves, the primary commandment of this day is to listen to the sound of the Shofar. The Shofar calls us to wake up! Pay attention, listen to the cries, the sounds, the beauty, the pain, and the joys of the world. The mitzvah isn’t to sound or to blow the Shofar; The mitzvah, the primary commandment of this day, is to listen. We listen to the Shofar and we wake up! 

The most famous six words in our tradition — Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohainu Adonai Echad— do not begin with “Believe,” “Obey,” or even “Love.” They begins with Shema: “Listen Up! Hear, oh Israel! This Shema is not a passive hearing, but the command to be an active, attentive presence in this world! The word Shema comes from the word lishmoa, meaning ‘listen and respond’. It’s relational. It’s covenantal. We do not listen to hear—As Jews, the purpose of our sacred listening is to act for goodness, and repair. The Shema is not about the biological act of hearing. 

In 2011, Rabbi Darby Leigh, a rabbi who is deaf and leads a congregation in Concord, Massachusetts, created a series of videos in which he signs Hebrew prayers in American Sign Language. He says, “If you tell me that the Shema, the most fundamental prayer in Judaism, is about auditory perception, then you have excluded me from the tradition,… The vast majority of my career has been spent listening. My ears may be broken, but I’m a good listener.”[3]

Listening lowers the temperature. Listening lets love get a word in edgewise.

Research on listening indicates that we spend 45 to 50% percent of our day listening to people, music, TV, radio, and sound bites.[4] And, about 75 percent of that time, we are forgetful, preoccupied, or not paying attention. One of the factors influencing this statistic is that the average attention span for an adult in the United States is 22 seconds. It’s no surprise, then, that the average length of Ads and social media posts is no more than 34 seconds.[5]

How many of us listen to our own family members while scrolling through social media or checking emails on our phones?  

In today’s climate of intense polarization, listening is hardly the norm. The great divide that exists in our country, where neither side of the aisle listens to the other, has trickled down to our families and our friendships, causing rifts of deep pain, worry, and angst. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes, “Listening lies at the very heart of a relationship. It means that we are open to the other…that their perceptions and feelings matter to us. We give them permission to be honest, even if it means making ourselves vulnerable in the process. A good parent listens to their child. A good employer listens to their workers. A good company listens to its customers or clients. A good leader listens to those they are leading. Listening does not mean agreeing, but it does mean caring. Listening is the climate in which love and respect grow.”[6]  

The divide in this country is vast, and we’ve ceased listening. There is so much that we find objectionable. And this path of tuning out will, I fear, lead to ruin. We don’t listen to change our mind on command or to score points; we listen to show up with decency and to maintain our own sense of humanity, even if what we are hearing is distressing. And most of all, we listen so we can answer what we oppose responsibly—and bring repair. If we mute others or turn away, we also often mute our own inner voice.          

In the Bible, in the Book of Kings, God appears in a dream to the young King Solomon, who has just succeeded his father, King David. In the dream, God asks him, what might he need in order to prosper in his new role of King of Israel? What did he need to succeed? Anything he wanted would be granted. Power? Riches? Land? Solomon responds: “Grant me a Lev Shomea,” a “listening heart.”[7] God is surprised and taken with this request and responds: “Because you asked for this—you did not ask for long life, you did not ask for riches, you did not ask for the life of your enemies, but you asked for … a wise and listening heart, I now do as you have spoken.[8]   King Solomon’s request that he be granted a Lev Shomea, a listening heart, is a strong invitation to us to tune in to our listening and discerning heart. To engage in sacred listening with another human being is the highest gift to humanity. And it takes practice and skill. 

A few years ago, the Institute for Jewish Spirituality offered a course called the Shema Project—led by my friend Rabbi Myriam Klotz. She taught a three-part practice of sacred listening: Shemi’ah, receptive listening, Shmirah, pausing to allow for silence, and Asiyah, responding. We open to listening, we pause, we respond. Listen. Pause. Respond. This practice helps us meet one another in our fullest humanity.

Ideally, we listen to engage in dialogue. But listening is a partnership. When the other person isn’t willing to engage in civil discourse, or when what we hear feels too hard to take in or bear, we can pause, maybe we respond with an acknowledgment: “I hear you.” Then, listening to our own inner voice, we can choose the next step. In the pause, we can let our listening heart guide us. And should we hear words of hate, we listen so we can name it, resist it, and protect each other.

Additionally, when we practice listening, pausing, and responding, we become more attuned to our own voice and humanity. Perhaps, like Solomon and his request for a lev shomea, with a listening heart, we, too, might be led to bring wisdom and goodness into the world. 

In the Unetaneh Tokef poem, which we read this morning, we proclaim, ‘The great shofar is sounded, and the still, small voice is heard.’ Real power isn’t in volume but in paying attention. Sacred listening means we’re not loading a rebuttal or waiting for our turn; we’re attending—fully—to what is being said. We listen to take in. 

We listen because if we ignore what is being said, ultimately, we are the ones who lose. Listen. Pause. Respond. This is how we begin the work of repair.

Sacred listening is a skill, and like any skill, it takes practice. I’d like you to join me in the practice of sacred listening. On your way out of the sanctuary this morning/afternoon, the ushers will be handing out a ‘listening practice card’. It’s a business-size card with the first line of the Shema prayer on one side and the listening practice on the other side. If you are on Zoom and you want a card, please email me or Carol in our office. We will also have extras at the synagogue. I keep my listening practice card in my wallet and on my desk as a reminder to listen. As a Beth Am family, we’ll return to this listening practice in many ways throughout the year. Listening and paying attention: It isn’t easy, but it’s holy work—and it’s critical to do.  And if we don’t practice it now, when? If not now, when will we listen and seek repair? 

Listening to those we love ultimately leads to fewer escalations. 

Listening across differences won’t make us agree, but it can help us recognize each other’s humanity—or at the very least, motivate us to mend the brokenness we are witnesses to in this world.  Listening to the still, small voice within directs the heart toward our own self-care and love—and opens us to the holiness within and around us.

May the One who listens to all—Shomea Tefillah—help us receive a listening heart that will guide us all towards healing, blessing, and repair. Shanah tovah u’metukah.

Ken Yehi Ratzon. May this be True. 

Sermon Anthem: If Not Now, When, Carrie Newcomer

[1] I Kings 19:12

[2] Isaiah 55:3

[3] https://www.jewishboston.com/read/paying-attention-the-inspiring-rabbi-darby-leigh/

[4] https://mospace.umsystem.edu/xmlui/handle/10355/50293

[5] 8 Ways School Leaders Can Practice Empathy in Listening – Valerie Brown. https://valeriebrown.us/blog/8-ways-school-leaders-can-practice-empathy-listening/

[6] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/eikev/the-spirituality-of-listening/

[7] I Kings 3:9  

[8] I Kings 3:11-12

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It is Possible to Worry Less.

Posted on September 30, 2023 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

Yom Kippur 5784 Congregation Beth Am, Buffalo Grove, IL

There’s an old joke about a Jewish telegram, it read “Start Worrying. Letter to follow.”[1]  

Then there’s the joke about four people who get lost while hiking in the desert together. It’s hot, they are tired and thirsty.

“I’m so thirsty,” says the Englishman. “I must have tea.”

“I’m so thirsty,” says the Frenchman. “I must have wine.”

“I’m so thirsty,” says the German. “I must have beer.”

“I’m so thirsty,” says the Jew. “I must have diabetes.”[2]

We Jews are known to worry.  We laugh and make jokes about how much we worry, and these jokes are relatable because there is an element of truth into them. 

We worry because life is filled with uncertainty, and we are reminded of this time and again.  We are reminded about life’s uncertainty 

  • When we hear about another heat wave reaching life-threatening temperatures, 
  • When we are reminded about life’s uncertainties when we hear about wildfires and floods killing not thousands, but tens of thousands,
  • Or when we learn of another mass-shooting, in the malls, at schools, and religious institutions. 
  • We are reminded of life’s uncertainties, when we hear and experience the national, uptick in antisemitic acts, and with the ever-increasing concern about our own security and safety. 

In our own lives, we might worry about our children, and loved ones, and also about our own healthy and wellbeing, we want everyone to be safe, healthy, and happy, and God forbid, when there is a sign that we or they are not, the worry of the unknown can overtake us. 

So yes, Jewish worrying jokes work because embedded in the punchline lies the truth that we live with a profound amount of uncertainty, and this is never easy and always uncomfortable.  

Living with great uncertainty, along with a degree of fretting has been the story of our people, throughout our entire history. Rabbi Toba Spitzer writes: 

“We can’t change our fate; the truth is, we can’t even anticipate our fate. We have no idea what’s going to happen in this coming year. So what can we do?” She asks.  

I think that we might find ways to help us navigate the times when suffer from an acute awareness of life’s uncertainty, by bolstering our faith, developing a sense of ongoing hope, and being in a caring community.  Faith, Hope and Community might lead us towards suffering less and living with more ease. 

Jews know what means to live with the unknown, it is in our DNA. When God calls to Abraham- Lech Lecha—go to a land that God would show him, just pick up and leave, with out knowing the details, Abraham and Sarah go, they leave and we do not hear of them complaining about it,  they are not arguing about directions,  or wondering how long it will take. Abraham and Sarah, the very first Jews, go.   They venture forth into uncertainty. And as the therapist Estelle Frankel writes, “Abraham and Sarah become “ivrim, Hebrews, or ‘boundary crossers’ – those who leave the known for the unknown.”[3]

Despite living in uncertain times, our ancestors were not known to be mostly worriers.  And they didn’t just have  “blind Faith.” They didn’t just automatically have faith or trust that all will be well.  After all—when the angels, disguised as the travelers told Sarah that she would finally have a beloved child at the age 90, her first reaction was not one of faith—that God provides, it was to laugh in their faces, at such ridiculous news. 

When Abraham answered God’s calls to sacrifice his son, for sure, some people think that that was Abraham passing the ultimate test of faith, but in this story, its Isaac who taught us about faith. He questioned his father, he knew something was up—but he did not despair, and he, was the one who saw the ram, sacrificed instead, and in this way, Isaac taught us about faith. 

“Faith”, Author and Activist Sharon Salzberg, writes is “not a commodity that you either have or don’t have enough of, or the right kind of. It’s an ongoing process. The opposite of faith is despair.” 

To have faith is to not give up. No matter if we believe in God or we believe in the power of the goodness of humanity, or in science or in a universal spiritual energy, to live a fully imperfect life that acknowledges the uncertainty in the world and that we have very little control over, is to not give in to despair. 

To be of faith is to rise in the face of our own suffering, and the suffering of the world, with humility and respond, here I am.  To be 

of faith is to rise in honor of our own humanity and to show up—being present to what is, even when we wish it were otherwise.  

There is no one here today who has not waited for test results to come in, who has not experienced the pain of loss. Many of us are worried about our own mental health, or that of loved ones, many of us have experienced financial insecurity and uncertainty as to how we will pay our bills.  Living in the face of uncertainty, not giving into despair, is a heroic act of faith, handed down to us, by our ancestors through the generations.  

Living with uncertainty and worry is made easier by having hope.  We rise with hope knowing that while we don’t have control over much, we do have some control—mostly over our actions and our outlook on life.  

I remember, years ago first hearing about Wangari Maathai– 

She was the first African woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize. She was responsible for the planting of 30 million trees in Kenya. In Kenya, women had been complaining of deteriorating environmental conditions in their rural regions. With streams drying up, and poor harvests, women had to walk further and further afield in search of firewood. Wangari mobilized thousands of women and men to plant tens of millions of trees throughout their land.[4] Until one tree at a time, relief in the area was finally had.  Our sages teach, is not our job to complete the task, but neither are we free to not do anything.[5]

To have hope is to realize that each of has power. Power to choose how we think, how we orient ourselves. 

In 1944, a 13-year-old boy name Hugo and his family were deported to Auschwitz. From Auschwitz to a work camp, then on to death marches and only a few days after liberation Hugo’s father died from typhoid and starvation in his son’s arms. Hugo Gryn became a leading Reform Rabbi in England.

He tells this story– The Jewish prisoners in our barracks—Block 4—decided that we would celebrate Chanukah by lighting a menorah every night. Bits of wood and metal were collected and shaped into light-holders and everyone agreed to save the week’s meager ration of margarine that would be used for fuel. It was my job to take apart an abandoned prison cap and fashion wicks from its threads.

On the first night of Chanukah…most of Block 4 gathered around the menorah—including some Roman Catholic Poles, several Protestant Norwegians and… a German count who was implicated in the attempt on Hitler’s life. Two portions of margarine were placed down—my wicks in place.

We chanted the blessing, praising God who “performed miracles for our ancestors in those days and at this time,” and as…I tried to light the wick, there was only a bit of spluttering and no flame…. What the “scientists” in our midst failed to point out was that margarine does not burn!

As we dispersed and made our way to the bunk beds I turned not so much to my father, but on him, upset at the fiasco and bemoaning this waste of precious calories. Patiently, he taught me one of the most lasting lessons of my life and I believe that he made my survival possible.

“Don’t be so angry,” he said to me. “You know that this festival celebrates the victory of the spirit over tyranny and might. You and I have had to go once for over a week without proper food and another time almost three days without water, but you cannot live for three minutes without hope!”

Hope might not change an outcome, but it can bring us to meaning. It can allow us to rise in the face of uncertainty. The late Czech President and author, Vaclav Havel, wrote, “Hope is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart….[It] is not the same as joy that things are going well…but rather an ability to work for something because it is good not just because it stands a chance to succeed. Hope, he continues, is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.[6]

We rise in the face of uncertainty with faith, in that we do not despair, we rise in the face of uncertainty with hope in that we value what is good and true and work to make that goodness seen in the world and we rise in the face of uncertainty because we are in community with one another. 

Our Beth Am family knows the value of community and friendship when facing uncertainty and worry.  We are, after all, celebrating our 10th anniversary at Abbot court.  Ten years since we moved from 225 N. Mchenry Road. This very space. At the time, people told us we would shut our doors, that we’d not survive the move, and there were well meaning synagogues that told us they would 

take our membership when we closed. We survived Beth Am’s greatest period of uncertainty because we had faith, we had hope and we had each other. We know in the life of the synagogue, and in our own lives, it is so much easier to face uncertainty, when we are with others who understand. To know that even in the worst of times, there are people in this world who can help us, and also, that there are people who need us, can help us to live a life of more ease and less worry, less fear. 

We rise in community because our ancestors knew that without community we could not, we would not, survive. 

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks teaches, “For us, faith is the redemption of solitude. It is about relationships – between us and God, us and our family, us and our neighbors, us and our people, us and humankind. Judaism is not about the lonely soul. It is about the bonds that bind us to one another and to the Author of all. It is, in the highest sense, about friendship.”[7]

Friends, in the coming year 5784, may our worries dimmish as we rise in Faith, Hope, Community and friendship. May we be blessed. 

Ken Yihe Ratzon May this be true.

[1] https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/classic-jewish-telegram-joke-start-worrying-details-to-follow/

[2] Heard from Rabbi Elaine Glicksman, Rosh Hashanah 2023

[3] Estelle Frankel, The Wisdom of Not Knowing (Shambala, 2017), p. 16

[4] https://wangarimaathai.org/wangaris-story/

[5] Pirke Avot 2:16

[6] Václav Havel in Disturbing the Peace: A conversation with Karel Hvížďala, (Knopf, 1990), p. 181. Originally published 1986. Translated from the Czech by Paul Wilson. Also available in The Impossible Will Take a Little While: A citizen’s guide to hope in a time of fear by Paul Rogat Loeb, (Basic Books, 2004),  p. 82.

[7] https://www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/behaalotecha/faith-and-friendship/

Posted in Congregation Beth Am, Fear, Gratitude, High Holidays, Holocaust, Jewish Jokes, sermons | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Caring about Israel is to Care about Democracy.

Posted on September 30, 2023 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

Kol Nidre 5784 Congregation Beth Am, Buffalo Grove, IL

One particular day when I lived in Israel as a first-year rabbinic student was particularly memorable.  Friends and I gathered to watch the historic Oslo Accords in my small apartment—the old city with the Western Wall a 10 minute away. 

The Oslo Accords were signed on the White House lawn on September 13, 1993. After the signing and commentary from the news pundits concluded, my friends and I, and thousands of other folks, left our homes  and apartments and joined together on Ben Yehuda street, the State Street of Chicago for  fireworks, music, food and dancing in the streets.  We were celebrating the historic agreement and iconic handshake between Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and Chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization, Yasser Arafat. Although there was much skepticism about what the Oslo Accords would accomplish, there was so much hope for possibility and potential for peace to prevail; for Arabs and Jews to coexist together. I had hope. 

Thirty years after dancing in the streets at the signing of the historic peace agreement, and 40 years since my first visit, I was back in Israel this past February. Kyle and I flew to Tel Aviv for few days before our Beth Am trip was to start. We had arrived to find the Israeli’s with more internal angst, that I had previously experienced. Less than a few months before we arrived, Prime Minister Netanyahu, formed a coalition with a far-right political faction resulting in the most extremist government in Israel’s 75-year history.

 Soon after this coalition was formed, people took to the streets protesting the extremist government and the polices they were there were just beginning to put forth.  

Kyle and I felt it was essential for us to join the well over one hundred thousand protesters calling for an end to the proposed judicial overhaul reforms the Netanyahu coalition government advocated.

I want to stop here for a second and tell you that I am aware that until this very moment, I have not on the Holy days, given a talk about Israel that was political. I have always thought it to be more important that we care about the country and her well-being than to choose sides about her political future. First, we learn to care about her, and then we decide, on our own, which side the political spectrum we align ourselves with. I don’t think this way anymore because our entire relationship with the State of Israel is at stake and mostly, because Israel is on the verge of losing her soul, her purpose and her light. 

For a historic 37 weeks, truly unprecedented in Israel’s history, hundreds of thousands of Israelis and friends have been marching to restore and maintain Israel as a democratic nation; from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, from the North to the South, the cities, suburbs, Kibbutzim and Moshavim—people are demanding  a democratic Israel and are protesting the current fascist government, its ideology and agenda. 

It was very important that Kyle and I join the protests. 

To be a part of the pro-democratic protests in Israel is to be surrounded by a sea of Israeli flags and choruses sung of the both National Anthem- Hatikvah and hear the Hebrew calls for  ‘demokratia”, demo-crat-ye-ah –democracy. About a quarter of the Israeli population is involved with the pro-democratic protests, this is the equivalent of 70-76 million Americans.[1]

The protesters are young people and senior citizens, men and women, orthodox and secular, soldiers, and veterans, including veterans from the most disastrous of wars, the Yom Kippur War of 1973. At the protests, these veterans are wearing tee shirts that say, “Fighters from Kippur in 1973 battle for the character of the State.” This year we observe the 50th anniversary of the most deadliest of wars.”  

At the protests, there are also businesspeople, students, and homemakers, and we the Reform movement from the states and around the world, are there as well. The stakes are too high not to be present in the call for a democratic state. 

Many of you have read or watched the protests. And part of understand these why these protests is to understand the complicated Israeli political system.  

In the United States, we have 50 states plus territories with their own state legislature and judiciary. In addition, we have three branches of federal government – executive, legislative, and judiciary – that all have checks and balances on each other. We have a constitution that guarantees the checks and balances. 

Israel is such a small country that there are no states; there is one centralized government that controls everything. There are  two branches of government, the Parliament with its ruling Prime Minister and the courts.  Therefore, the Israeli Supreme Court is the only check on the Prime Minister and his party, which controls the Knesset, the combined executive and legislative branch.  

When Israel has elections the parliament, the Knesset, is awarded representation proportionally from the vote.  And because right now, there is not one party with a clear majority a coalition with smaller parties needs to happen in order for the government to run.   That is how in this case, we see single issue parties many of which are extremist and fringe, having representation. The current Prime Minister assembled a ruling coalition by taking in many of these fringe, ultra-orthodox, ultra nationalist elements giving them a disproportionate voice in the Knesset. 

Again, che current coalition won by the slimmest majority, after four failed elections in four years, is made up of the most radical right-wing Israelis. Some of them are far-right settler leaders, those who continue to promote the illegal settling by Jews in the West Bank and Gaza Strip,  some of them are far-right fanatics – most of whom until now, were never given ‘air time’ and some, like Itamar Ben-Gvir, National Security of Minister, who was banned from conscription in the Israeli army because of his for his far right wing views, are known for their ties to terrorism, racism, and corruption. These people, their pollical parties, have captured the narrowest margin of majority in the Knesset. Their aim is clear: take control over the military, police, education and finance. They want to exclusively fund ultra-orthodox yeshivas- learning academies that ban secular education. Thus, creating thousands of men who neither are required to join the Army nor are able to get a job, all of whom are all subsided by the government.  Additionally, the current Israeli government is not only hostile to the Palestinians, but they also illegally enter Palestinian territories and homes and worse.  They have used the police to instigate violence against the three million Palestinians who live in the West Bank. Much can be said about the Palestinians, their lack of leadership, antisemitism, terrorism, Iran’s sponsorship of terror and Hamas, and so on, but that’s not what this current issue is about. This conversation is that the current government is an internal threat to the State of Israel. The Israeli government is endangering the security of the State. Security and safety is of prime importance as is our rights, that are on the verge of being eliminated.

Netanyahu and his government will and have started to reverse protections and rights for women, LGBTQ citizens, Israeli Arabs, and other ethnic minorities. 

This government is working quickly. In July, the Knesset passed a bill stating that the Supreme Court has no check on their power, making them, this far-right coalition of thugs, solely in charge. This bill stripes the court of one of its vital oversight tools, the ability to overturn administrative decisions made by the government based on their reasonableness. Whether the bill will become law is yet to be determined. But this is the first of many anti-democracy reforms that are slated to happen. When the Knesset, returns to session after the holidays, we will surly see more anti-democrat reforms come to the floor and they will be passed. 

On this Yom Kippur, we can dedicate and rededicate ourselves to working for democracy in the Jewish State. We do not take democracy for granted, and we have to speak out to support democracy, upholding the values of Israel’s Declaration of Independence which reads in part, Israel, “will uphold the full social and political equality of all its citizens, without distinction of race, creed or sex.”  

We protest this government knowing, that there is much to be done to create a truly, democratic Jewish State.  

My colleague Rabbi Beth Kalish reminds us:

Standing for democracy in Israel should not mean working for a return to the prior status quo but working instead toward a fuller expression of Israeli democracy. As Americans, we know very well what it is to love a country, and the promise of what that country could be, even when confronted with its darkest moments and worst sins. The darkness is not a reason to throw up our hands, but to step up our commitment.”[2]

I hope you will join me in caring about Israel and calling for a truly democratic State. If this issue speaks to you, and I hope it does, there are things we can do. Please make sure you are a member of ARZA– the Association of Reform Zionists of America. You can become a member through Beth Am, there is a box you might have checked while filling out your Beth Am membership information.  Honestly, most of our Beth Am members have not yet become members of ARZA; I think that is mainly because we are not familiar with what ARZA does, or perhaps the word Zionism, had become a four-letter word in many circles. As Reform Zionists, we strive to make the State of Israel a true inheritor of the prophetic tradition of the Jewish people: a nation devoted to pursuing justice and creating a complete world. Our love for Israel is channeled into efforts that advance the vision of what we believe Israel can – and must – yet be.[3]

Additionally, there has never been a time such as this that we might realize our own rights, as American secular, reform and conservative Jews, are at stake. Should this right-wing government succeed in its agenda, Rabbi Prass, I, and all non-orthodox clergy would lose our rabbinic authority in Israel. This means the marriages at which we officiate, the conversions we perform, the divorces we support with a ritual get, will no longer be valid and binding in the Jewish State and this as great implications for our rights and, the rights and legal status of our children.  Lastly, women’s rights, LGBTQ rights, and more will be nullified, should this government remain in power. 

If you are not yet a member ARZA and would like to be, please email me, and I will connect you to our Beth Am ARZA membership. The membership fee is $50 per family. 

In addition to speaking up, to joining ARZA, is there more we can do together.  In the near future I will be teaching a series of classes about Israel, and if you would like to be a part of the next Beth Am trip there,  please let me know. We need a minimum of 25 people, Beth Am members or otherwise and we will go. Let me know if you have a serious interest in going with us to Israel.  

Democracy is worth fighting for. Our rights are worthy of preserving. Human rights are all of our responsibility. May our efforts be a blessing and stem this tide of hatred. May Israel truly become a beacon of Light to the Nations. Hatikvah. This is the hope.

 

[1]https://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/2023-07-11/ty-article-opinion/.premium/massive-protests-show-israelis-understand-democracies-die-gradually/00000189-4408-ddfa-abdf-74ef45790000#

[2] Rosh Hashanah Sermon 2023

[3] https://arza.org/reform-zionism/

[4] with thanks to Rabbi Joseph Meszler

Posted in Congregation Beth Am, High Holidays, Israel, sermons, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Enough

Posted on March 14, 2020 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

I have never talked or heard about toilet paper so much in my life. I have also not been to as many grocery stores.

I am saying out loud now: I. Have. Enough.

We are living in a stressful time; of course, my mind is telling me that I need more, this is a natural reaction to stress, fear, uncertainty, and challenge. “I need more!” my mind tells me. I need
More time
More money
More control
More space
More food,
More sugar,
More more more.

When I remember to take a step back into reality, and pause for a moment, I realize, and I know in my gut: I have enough. The mind’s cravings are just that, desires: the mind wants and the mind fears so I try and quiet it. Breathing helps. Slowing down and sitting or standing or lying on the yoga mat helps ease the chatter and desires.

Then I can ask: What is it exactly that I want more of? Because I can honestly say, I have enough toilet paper. I have enough food, space, money. I do want more time—of course, I do. Okay.
Bringing the mind back into compassionate conversation with the rest of me, I feel my heart full, I feel its beat. I speak tenderly, and say to myself, “Honey, you are going to be okay—no matter what.
More is not going to help you.
Some people literally do not have enough.
There is food insecurity.
There is homelessness.
There is such a thing as not having enough, but be grateful you do.”

Some people literally can not afford one roll of toilet paper, let alone the mega Charmin from Costco.
I have enough. Will I be there for people who do not?

The Gardner—by Mary Oliver

Have I lived enough?
Have I loved enough?
Have I conquered Right Action enough
Have I come to any conclusion?
Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?
Have I endured loneliness with grace?

I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it.
Actually, I probably, think too much
Then I step out into the garden,
Where the gardener who is said to be a simple man, is tending to his children, the roses.

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Ease during COVID-19

Posted on March 13, 2020 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

Some thoughts I sent today to Congregation Beth Am – Buffalo Grove, IL.

These are times of considerable uncertainty and anxiety. I am feeling it myself; actually, that is, when I don’t ‘catch’ myself and remember to breathe and to take it easy. It is not so easy to do, I know.
I was in Costco (with the rest of the world) yesterday, lines were a block long, and it felt surreal: I could not believe what I was seeing, what I was a part of, what was…is happening: The unknown is difficult to live with. Living with uncertainty is a great challenge to the psyche, the body, and spirit.
While standing in line at Costco, feeling the anxiety set in, I heard a voice within, a familiar voice say, “It’s temporary. This, too, shall pass.” I took a deep inhale and longer exhale until I felt better, and that kind of utzy panic subsided. Now, this breathing practice doesn’t always work so quickly for me, but it did yesterday, And I was grateful for the restored calm and for getting some of my sanity back.
At this moment of uncertainty and fear of the unknown, I place my feet on the floor and take a posture of dignity, remembering that I, a child of Holiness, stand between the Heavens and Earth and am breathing. I am alive.
I trust there will be a vaccine for the COVID-19 virus. I remind myself that there are specialists who are working around the clock to find one. May it be soon. I pray that we will take care of each other, that we will not feel alone, that we will reach out in the ways that we can right now and remind each other that we are loved, that we matter, and that yes, this is temporary.
May the healing of mind, body, and spirit prevail.
I am sending much love to each of you. See you online soon!

Rabbi Bellows

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Suing the Nazis: A Rosh Hashanah Sermon

Posted on September 30, 2019 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

In my early twenties, I dreamt a version of the following dream many times:  I was a young adult in a Nazi concentration camp, and I was trying to save young children and babies from extermination. The dreams always ended before I found out whether I lived to tell the story or if I perished with the ones I was trying to rescue or even if I was able to save anyone. Of those nightmares, I only remember that I was there, in the scene of the terror, I was scared, and the story never had a conclusion.  To this day, my body remembers what it felt like to wake up from one of these dreams. With the passage of time and as I tell of these recurring nightmares, it’s not the details that I remember, it’s not the tangible fear that I felt, no, what remains for me so long after these dreams, is the very question on my mind, each time I woke from the dream.  I asked: “What if….” “What would I have done?” What would I have done had I lived in Nazi Germany around the year 1938, or in Eastern Europe around 1942? What would I have thought, felt or done if I were a child then? What would I have done as a Parent? A Grandparent?  An Adult? What would I have done if I was not a Jew? Would I have been among the righteous gentiles? Would I have kept quiet, not admitting or seeing anything wrong?  

The question, “What would I have done?” feels like it has always been with me, even before those dreams and from time to time throughout the years it has surfaced in my mind or shown up in conversation as the ‘what if game.’ Maybe you have played it too. To be honest, it never occurred to me that it was a question which required an answer. The question was never about the answer, actually.  In the last few years, however this question has resurfaced in a different light. While we are certainly and thank God, not living in Nazi Germany, the question, “What would I have done in the midst of virulent hatred and Anti-Semitism, is no longer hypothetical and it is the answer to this question that matters most now.   

On August 11th and 12th 2017 neo-Nazi’s, white supremacists, white nationalists and another other far-right extremists descended on Charlottesville, VA for a rally they called, “Unite the Right.”  The event was planned for months via the underground web.  The Jew-haters discussed how they would congregate in Charlottesville, who would bring the tiki torches, where they would congregate, who would bring the arms, they even went back and forth on how to sew a swastika on a flag and they even asked each other questions like how long would a gluten free sandwich last in a plastic sandwich bag the day of the rally.[1]  

At their siege on Charlottesville two years ago, there happened to be an interfaith church service going on and when participants in service heard the clamor outside the Church door, they barricaded themselves in, thinking they were literally going to die that day. They didn’t die, but Heather Heyer, a protester in the crowd did die that day after a neo-Nazi purposefully ran her down. Countless others were injured. A block away from the incident was a synagogue which moved all but one of their Torah Scrolls, to safety in member’s homes.  The one Torah scroll remaining was a Holocaust scroll they had on display. The irony is maddening. It was 2017 and a holocaust scroll is the only remaining scroll in a synagogue closed down because of the neo Nazis marching towards it!?! Although the marches began Friday night, members of the synagogue attended shabbat morning worship the next day.  Synagogue members arrived early to pray and realized they needed to end services early, the Neo-Nazis were coming towards them. They escaped out the synagogue back door.  The hired security guard at the shul soon after called the president of the congregation and said, “I’m scared for my life; they intend to burn down the synagogue, what do you want me to do?” The President responded, leave and find safety.  

The Extremists carrying lit tiki torches in the streets of Charlottesville, chanted: “Jews will not replace us.” “White Lives Matter.” “Blood and Soil.”  “Whose streets? Our Streets?” They chanted as some of them hurled lit tiki torches filled with fuel into the crowd, trying to light the counter-protesters on fire.  

Much of the details of what happened in Charlottesville 2017, I heard directly from two of the three powerful, smart, Jewish women who are suing the Nazis.  Robbie Kaplan, the litigator who won the Equal Marriage case in the Supreme Court who herself, heard of the rally on the news flew down to Charlottesville that very day to gather evidence and witnesses and within 48 hours garnered support for and the beginnings of a plan to sue the Nazi’s, getting at the heart of the leadership of these dangerous anti-Semites.  Robbie Kaplan, and Amy Spitalnick of Integrity First for America told their powerful and courageous story to the Central Conference of American Rabbis at our convention this past March.  They are suing the top leadership of White supremists, overt Nazis and an assortment of hate groups whose sole purpose is to rid the country of Jews. These groups of course don’t only hate Jews, they hate Blacks, gays, women, and Muslims, but their core, most fundamental hatred is towards the Jews who they believe are out to destroy democracy and freedom.[2]

The basis for the lawsuit is the 1871 Ku Klux Klan Act stating that it is unlawful to engage in a conspiracy to commit violence based on racial animus.  The KKK Act was passed by a reconstructionist Congress to prevent Southern states in the South from re-enslaving the newly freed slaves. This law was used in the 1920s, and with the freedom riders and now, to sue the Nazi’s and take down their infrastructure.  The ultimate goal of the suit is to send the very infrastructure of these hate groups back into basements and to quiet them for good.  

The case is moving slowly, but at each step they have won, for justice is on our side.  It takes a tremendous of amount of money, security, time and people power to fuel this case. Ultimately the law team believes they will win in the courts, as they have thus far.  All of us need to not only be aware of this potentially landmark case and support it, but we need to acknowledge and talk about the fact of why this case is so vital to our democracy and freedom.  Violent extremism is on the rise and we have the power to stop it. 

  • Right-wing extremists killed more people in 2018 than any year since 1995-the year of the Oklahoma City bombing (ADL)
  • The majority of domestic terrorism, which by the way is not a federal crime, is motivated by White Supremacy. (FBI)
  • More often than not, each extremist attack is used as inspiration for the next, with far-right nationalists seeking to galvanize other extremists to action (IFA). Remember, the Pittsburg murderer, and the gunman who murdered 51 in a Christchurch, NZ mosque and the Poway killer, all used the same anti-sematic rhetoric.
  • The Anti-Defamation League found a nearly 60% increase in anti-Semitic incidents from 2016 to 2017, the highest one-year jump since the 1970s.  
  • In last year—our Country had two mass shootings in synagogues, Pittsburgh massacre in 2018 and murder in Poway on Pesach, 2019. A 117-year-old shul in Duluth, MN was destroyed by arson just a few weeks ago. 
  • Illinois and Wisconsin have seen an increase this year in anti-Semitic vandalism and hate crimes (ADL) 

Anti-Semitism has reared its ugly head with a vengeance.  Social activist and community organizer, Eric L. Ward who I heard at the Religious Action Center’s Consultation of Conscious this past May, reminds us that Rosa Parks wasn’t just tired on one day, but that she was sick and tired of being sick and tired and was not going to take being sent to the back of the bus one more time. But it wasn’t her courageous act alone that sparked the Civil Rights movement. There were many other small and significant courageous acts that helped bring about a bus boycott and it was each and every one of the small acts of speaking truth to power that caused a movement to rise up in the name of justice and equality. It wasn’t Rosa alone who sparked the flame for civil rights, it was those who came before her, it was all of the folks who were sick and tired and who stepped up and said, “enough!” and it was those who took the mantle of the call for justice after her that allowed for civil rights to advance in this country.  

Mr. Eric Ward, who is African American, infiltrated the White Supremist movement and had much to teach the 2000 Reform Jews attending the RAC’s, Consultation on Conscience.  He said go us, “Anti-Semitism is on the rise and what we know is that anti-Semitism is a driver, its purpose is to seed fear not only in the Jewish community but other vulnerable communities as well. The danger of Anti-Semitism,” he goes on to say,  “is that it seeks to deny vulnerable communities like immigrants, African Americans and others of their agency. It denies that we have legitimate grievances in terms of racial and economic inequality.  Anti-Semitism doesn’t exist just on the right or on the left, it is in the air we breathe.” He concludes,  “Let’s be clear, hate groups don’t bring Anti-Semitism in our communities, they simply organize the Anti-Semitism that already exists. Anti-Semitism is a direct assault on democratic values and institutions.” 

The once hypothetical question, “What would I have done if I were living in Nazi Germany or in Eastern Europe?” emerges now loudly and clearly. I am reminded of the famous quote by Pastor Martin Niemoller who served the German Lutheran Church during the rise of Nazism.  In his time, as much of the public continued to look away from the anti-Semitism, and Niemoller came to the realization that his personal security in the face of increasing oppression was an illusion.  His quote is posted at the US Holocaust Museum in Washington DC: “First they came for the Communists And I did not speak out Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists And I did not speak out Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists And I did not speak out Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews And I did not speak out Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me And there was no one left To speak out for me.

What would I have done? Is no longer relevant. The only question to ask ourselves and our community now is, “What Will I Do?” 

There are not nice people on both sides.  We know that there are no two sides to hate. There is just hate and it kills.  And we are targets of baseless hatred.  I am not saying this to scare you or to be overly dramatic.  I think it is the truth and the statistics back this up.   

Anti-Semitism has been around for millennia and we are people who know how to live with courage, resiliency, determination and engage in civic duties that uphold our values of fixing this broken world and not to ‘stand idly by the blood of our brothers and sisters.” (Lev:19:16).  We are a people loyal to democracy and freedom. 

We are a people loyal to the democratic values of justice for all, of non-discrimination, of taking in the stranger, the widow, the orphan, of hesed, of love and kindness, of speaking up against injustice like our ancestor Queen Esther did when she heard of Haman’s plot to exterminate the Jews.  We read in Esther Rabbah (8:6) “What is the meaning of ‘you keep silent?’ [The meaning of this is] if you are quiet and do not advocate for your people now, your destiny will be to be silenced for all eternity.  Why? Because you had the opportunity to speak out in order to do good in your lifetime and you did not.” 

We live in a democracy and we have the ability to be change agents towards love.  To ending the hate.  This moment in history demands action.  It demands that our actions speak louder than words.  It demands that we answer the question, “What will I do?”

What will we do in times of increasing Anti-Semitism and hate? 

We can confront. 

We can educate

We can support Integrity for America First, helping them fight extremists leaders and sue the Nazi’s. 

We can partner with interfaith organizations who also know that there are not two sides but there is only one and its love —we love and build up we don’t hate and tear down.  

You can travel with me to Israel in June to learn about and understand our past as we visit the sacred sites which offer hope and an understanding of what resiliency really is. We will visit the Holocaust Museum, Yad Vashem, that we might be strengthened by the resilience of our people and be inspirired with fervent determination to never let such hatred happen again.  We will also see the Avenue of the Righteous Gentiles, reminding us that we are not alone and that there are people who are working with us and for us. 

We can our own Beth Am Committee against Anti-Semitism and Hate.  We have developed a more specific action plan which you will receive as a handout on your way out of the sanctuary this morning, to combating hate, including the plethora of online hateful rhetoric.  The action plan will also be posted on our facebook pages and weekly email update.

We read in Proverbs, Ner Adonai nishmat adam. “God’s lamp is the human spirit.” (20:27) which shines light on the soul, illuminating the dark places.  Each of us is a light with the capacity to illumine the dark places and the dark times.  Each of us is a light that can bring love and peace into this broken world.  Like the great Rabbi Jeochim Prinz in late 1930s Berlin who, when the Nazi’s intruded into his worship one Friday evening at the Berlin Reform Synagogue and marched down the aisle towards him, he stood tall, the lights of the Sabbath candles around him and said to the bearers of hate and darkness:  Go Home!  Go Home!  and That evening they did. Darkness came and left.  Light remained.   Rabbi Prinz eventually was asked to leave his home and he made it to the shores of this country.  He became outspoken supporter of the civil rights movement and an organizer of the 1963 March on Washington.  Speaking right before Martin Luther King Jr’s famous address to the crowd, Rabbi Prinz said, “The most urgent, the most disgraceful, the most shameful and the most tragic problem is silence.[3]

What will I do when faced with increasing hate?  Today we say to the forces who bring the darkness and disrupt our nation’s democratic values, who thrive upon hate,  Go home.  Go Home. We are not silent, and we speak up.  For bearers of light and love know that if we are silent the past repeats itself.  We have an action plan.  We will rid our community of the Jew-haters in our own state and neighborhoods, we will call out hate and not be afraid.  And we will support the strong Jewish women who have had to hire nearly full-time bodyguards and wear custom fitted bullet proof vests in order make it illegal to plan and carry through acts of hate in our country.  

The reoccurring dreams I once had have not come back.  My dreams have not scared me for decades and despite all that hate and violence out there, despite having to increase our synagogue security on every level, I know that hate will end one day and anti-Semitism will diminish allowing goodness and love to flourish.  I don’t believe we will fail.  There is too much at stake and we know it. 

May we in this new year, be fearless and speak out against hate.  May we be blessed with courage and fortitude, a sense of safety and ease.  May we live with love in our hearts and all around us. 

Ken Yihe Ratzon. 

May this be true.  

[1] Conversation with Robbie Solomon and Amy Spitalnik at the Conference of Central American Rabbi convention, Cincinnati March 2019

[2] To find out more about the case, see https://www.integrityfirstforamerica.org/newsroom/charlottesville-case-overview-legal-case

[3] http://www.joachimprinz.com/civilrights.htm

Posted in Anti Semitism, Congregation Beth Am, Hate, High Holidays, sermons, Shana Tova | Leave a comment

Staycation

Posted on January 4, 2019 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

For my family, a “staycation” is code for many things. It’s code for, we can’t afford a vacation right now. It’s also code for, we will stay in the cold and snowy, damp and dark  Chicago winter instead of soaking in the warmth of the ocean and eating tacos at the condo in PV.  A staycation is code for we will all be home together. All. Home. Together. It’s a code which says to the three teenagers in the house there are no time restrictions on your phone because your parents to have to work.  It may even be a code for let’s go out at the spur of the moment and see a play or a movie, go for dinner, or take a walk in the middle of the day.  A staycation is code for there will be lots of arguments, fights, and yelling in the house for the next two weeks + because we are all in the house with nothing much to do.

We are nearing the end of our first winter-break staycation in over a decade.  Last night, after cooking and serving yet another family dinner, I sat down at the table and was about to announce that I felt neither appreciated nor respected when one of the kids blurts out, “Let’s go around the table and share what we are happy or grateful about.”   And we do.  And I am on everyone’s list. Staycation is code for we don’t have to travel far in order to appreciate the power of our family.
School Starts on Tuesday.

The Lanyard by Billy Collins

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room
bouncing from typewriter to piano
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the ‘L’ section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word, Lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past.
A past where I sat at a workbench
at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips into a lanyard.
A gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard.
Or wear one, if that’s what you did with them.
But that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand
again and again until I had made a boxy, red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold facecloths on my forehead
then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim and I in turn presented her with a lanyard.
‘Here are thousands of meals’ she said,
‘and here is clothing and a good education.’
‘And here is your lanyard,’ I replied,
‘which I made with a little help from a counselor.’
‘Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth and two clear eyes to read the world.’ she whispered.
‘And here,’ I said, ‘is the lanyard I made at camp.’
‘And here,’ I wish to say to her now,
‘is a smaller gift. Not the archaic truth,
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took the two-toned lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom
would be enough to make us even.’

Posted in Gratitude, Love, Mindfulness, parenting, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

We Mourn. We Get up. #SolidarityShabbat

Posted on November 6, 2018 by Rabbi Lisa Sari Bellows

Here is a sermon I delivered Friday night November 2nd,  one week after eleven Jews were murdered at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh on Shabbat Morning.  The sermon was delivered from an outline, written-out a touch more fully here.  

The Lord Is Close to the Broken Hearted (Psalm 34:19)

It is with sadness that we come together on this Shabbat. It was supposed to be a November celebration of our Veterans.  It was supposed to be a ‘get out the vote’ Shabbat.  It was never supposed to be a ‘#SolidarityShabbat We Stand with Pittsburgh’ Shabbat.  And here we are.  The Shabbat after the largest massacre of Jewish people on American soil: A minyan plus one and we will most certainly never be the same.

Our Shabbat was taken from us in hate last week and this week, we gather together to reclaim our sabbath with LOVE.  No one, no act of hatred, no vile rhetoric, will take away our faith, our sense of pride in who we are, in our people, and our history.

We come together to mourn and weep and like our father Abraham who sat beside his wife mourning and weeping her after her death. For in this week’s Torah portion, Chaya Sarah, the Life of Sarah, Sarah dies at 127 years old, Abraham weeps and wails by her side and then he gets up from his wailing and goes out to purchase a grave for his beloved.

Abraham mourns and he does a mitzvah. His sadness is not over, but he does not let it stop him from what needs to be done, from fulfilling his obligation.  Abraham provides us with a good lesson today: A day when we do not put mourning aside.  A day when we do not hide from our very purpose:  To Live! To be God’s partners on earth.

We mourn.  And we get up.  We get up because we stand against hatred and we get up because we know that silence is the enemy.

  • We mourn and we get up because we know Anti-Semitism is on the rise
  • We mourn and we get up because 14 months ago we were witness to a gang of white supremacist thugs in Charlottesville with AK 47s in their hands
  • We mourn and we get up because in 2017 we saw a 12.5 % increase in hate crimes –the 4thannual rise in a row and the highest total in over a decade
  • We mourn and we get up because Anti-Semitic acts rose by 57% since 2016
  • We mourn and we get up because # of hate groups is growing and the statistics continue…

And these statistics, they should not surprise us, although I know they are unsettling.  Our history is a history of these statistics—of acts of hatred against us because of our faith; because people don’t want to get to know the other, because people fear what they do not know.

  • We mourn and get up and do Justice because we are a people who are intimately aware of the effects of SILENCE
  • We mourn and we get up because it is how we survive and how we thrive and how we flourish and because our tradition demands it.

We read in the Talmud: What is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor (Shabbat 31a) and act on Rabbi Hillel’s teaching, in a place where there is no human strive to be human (Pirke Avot 2.5).

We are a people who believe B’tzelem Elohim—we are all created equal & in the image of God. Oh, how the Jewish doctors and nurses lived this dictum while taking care of the injured killer on Saturday all while he was shouting hate against the Jewish people.

Yes, we work for the healing of the world. Not just some of the world. All of it.  That is our job: Our Rabbis taught, God formed Adam out of dust from all over the world: yellow clay, white sand, black loam, and red soil.  Therefore, no one can declare to any race or color of people that they do not belong here since this soil is their home. (Yalkut Shimoni 1:13)

We mourn and we act not from fear but from a love that responds to hate.  We act not from FEAR: Face Everything And Run but from FEAR: Face Everything And Rise! Acts of Hatred will not take our soul from us.   Acts of hatred against anyone are acts of hatred against all of us and when we work for the liberation of one, we work for the liberation of all.

We meet these acts of hatred and destroy them with the power of love. Of Hesed—of loving-kindness. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr said: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate; Only love can do that.”

We mourn and we offer love.  We respond to this most recent ugly, horrific murder of our people, this baseless hatred with getting up and doing the spiritual work of loving- kindness. One action at a time:

  • We call out racial bias and discrimination
  • We donate to and support HIAS
  • We celebrate diversity
  • We invite others into our homes
  • We study and learn so we can grow together
  • We educate ourselves and others about the evils of hate and we work to stop it.
  • We have our hearts open to the suffering of each other and the other
  • We show our love in countless ways.

We mourn.  We Get Up. We Love.  and in doing so, we receive a measure of comfort.  We know this is not easy, for offering love in challenging times takes courage.

At the end of this week’s Parsha, Abraham dies, and his two sons, Isaac and Ismael come together, to bury their father (Gen. 25:7).  I imagine it took courage to not only bury their father who had hurt and disappointed each of them, but this act of love, of burying their father took courage for them to show up to each other. I imagine that each received a measure of comfort from this mitzvah, from seeing each other in an act of giving, of kindness for each other and their father.

A few verses before Abraham’s death we read: “Isaac took Rebecca as his wife.  Isaac Loved her and found comfort after his mother’s death.” ( Gen 24:67).  This is the first time the Torah mentions love between people.  It is Isaac, the one whom his father placed on the Alter, and who is in mourning at the death of his beloved mother,  who is said to have found love.  It is Isaac who found comfort through the love and kindness of another.

May the Holy One who weeps with us, send us comfort and love.  May our people and all people everywhere be held with tenderness and love this sabbath. May our mourning and the memory of our eleven sisters and brothers help us Get Up and serve the living with fearlessness, peace, and love.

Ken Yihi Ratzon. May this be true.

 

Posted in #Solidarity Shabbat, Anti Semitism, Congregation Beth Am, Death and Mourning, Fear, Hate, Jews and Trump, Love, sadness, sermons, Uncategorized | Leave a comment