What if there was no sermon this Shabbat? Can I get an Amen? (Loud Amen)

Sorry to those who responded with Amen. 

Deuteronomy 27 paints the following scenario:

(11) Thereupon Moses charged the people, saying: (12. After you have crossed the Jordan, the following shall stand on Mount Gerizim when the blessing for the people is spoken: Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Joseph, and Benjamin. (13) And for the curse, the following shall stand on Mount Ebal: Reuben, Gad, Asher, Zebulun, Dan, and Naphtali. (14) The Levites shall then proclaim in a loud voice to all the people of Israel: 

(15) Cursed be any party who makes a sculptured or molten image, abhorred by יהוה, a craftsman’s handiwork, and sets it up in secret.—And all the people shall respond, AMEN (16) Cursed be the one who insults father or mother.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (17) Cursed be the one who moves a neighbor’s landmark.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (18) Cursed be the one who misdirects a blind person who is underway.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (19) Cursed be the one who subverts the rights of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (20) Cursed be the [man] who lies with his father’s wife, for he has removed his father’s garment.. —And all the people shall say, AMEN. (21) Cursed be the one who lies with any beast.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (22) Cursed be the [man] who lies with his sister, whether daughter of his father or of his mother.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (23) Cursed be the [man] who lies with his mother-in-law.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (24) Cursed be the one who strikes down a fellow [Israelite] in secret.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (25) Cursed be the one who accepts a bribe in the case of the murder of an innocent person.—And all the people shall say, AMEN. (26) Cursed be whoever will not uphold the terms of this Teaching and observe them.—And all the people shall say, AMEN.

Before 92,003 attendended a Nebraska womens’ volleyball game or 109,318 attended a Michigan Wolverines football game, this was the ultimate crowd event, a great moment of theater. In this corner…Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Joseph, and Benjamin…and in this corner Reuben, Gad, Asher, Zebulun, Dan, and Naphtali.

This is one of two sections in the torah that we call “the curses,”  but when you hear it recited out lout, it really could be called the “amens.”   

So as luck would have it, in thinking about the power of amens, and in figuring out this sermon yesterday afternoon, I luckily had a fantastic teaching from Rabbi Elie Kaunfer of Yeshivat Hadar in my email inbox from just a few days ago. We love Hadar’s weekly Dvash Parsha magazine , so why not utilize their torah teachings for this week’s portion. So I thank Rabbi Kaunfer in advance for taking over the next few paragraphs:

The use of “amen” in our parashah lays the groundwork for meaning #1: accepting the consequences of a statement. In Parashat Ki Tavo, Israel is accepting upon themselves the consequence of not following various laws (being cursed). R. Yosi bar R. Hanina, therefore derives from this scene in the Torah that one general function of reciting Amen is kabbalat devarim, accepting the consequences of a statement.

The word amen has two other meanings in prayer, beyond acceptance of a consequence. Meaning #2 is to express agreement about something that has happened or is currently the case. In this way, amen is similar to emet, meaning: I affirm what was said is true. Meaning #3 is to express belief in something that will happen, but has not yet come to fruition. This is also a form of request: I hope that this will happen. Here, the tradition that amen (אמן ( is an acronym for the statement: “אמן נ לך מ ל -א – God the king is trustworthy,” and will act in the future, is particularly resonant.

But the word “amen” is not limited to its meanings: it also has a role and function in ritual performance. The Mishnah describes the performative element of the amens in Parashat Ki Tavo: Mishnah Sotah 7:5 

 They turned their faces to Mount Gerizim, and [the Levites] opened with a blessing… and both groups of Israelites [standing on both mountains] answered “amen.” Then they turned their faces to Mount Eval, and [the Levites] opened with a curse… and both groups of Israelites answered “amen,” until they had finished [reciting and responding to] the blessings and curses. (Note that the Mishnah assumes all the Israelites said “amen” to the blessings, not just the curses, even though in the Torah itself amen is only explicitly recited in response to the curses.) 

This is a moment of deep symbolism, in which one mountain (Gerizim) represents the potential blessings, while the other mountain (Eval) represents the potential curses. When the Levites face each mountain in turn, they are directing their focus to the blessing or curse embodied. The people on the mountains provide the ritual response of the blessing or curse with their response of “amen.” The “amen” recited by the people, over and over again, is not only an indication of their acceptance; it is also a public ritual that elevates the moment. Imagine the power of hearing amen again and again, recited by the entire people, at each stipulation of the covenant. It is a powerful image of a group of people focused on words and responding with agreement and acceptance. 

This is the power of Amen:

Talmud Bavli discusses the importance of “Amen” in tractate Berakhot 53b:

R. Yose said: Greater is the person who answers “amen” than the person who recites the blessing. R. Nehorai said to him: By heaven this is so! Know that this is true, as the military assistants descend to the battlefield and initiate the war, but then the military heroes descend and prevail.. Aer R. Yose claims that the one who recites “amen” is greater than the one who triggered the recitation with a blessing, R. Nehorai attempts to explain this with a parable: the one who recites the blessing is simply preparing the way for victory. It is not until the appearance of those who recite amen that victory is assured”

Thus begins the origin story of the phrase, “Can I get an amen?” Blessings, even curses are a contract between the one blessing and the one hearing the blessing. There is no given that an amen will come your way. As we think of our bar mitzvah this morning- many of the major moments of Bar Mitzvah- the torah blessing, the haftarah blessing, are moments in which the kehillah, the congregation, responds verifying the eligibility of said blesser and affirming that they can be that shaliach, that emissary for all of us in the giving of the blessing. 

Last Shabbat, our city was in the national spotlight following the brutal murder of Angela Michelle Carr, Jerrald Gallion, and Anolt Joseph Laguerre Jr by a racist white supremacist, radicalized by hateful rhetoric.

The next day, I found myself downtown for a trio of events- The first two taking place at the Jessie downtown. THe first was a meeting of Jacksonville leadership spearheaded by Rudy Jamison, Jr., who now serves as the Executive Director of the Jacksonville Human Rights Commission. Following the meeting, a program (already on the books) marked the 63rd anniversary of the Jacksonville Youth Council NAACP 1960 Sit-ins and Ax Handle Saturday The program was led by activist Rodney Lawrence Hurst Sr and attended by our Mayor, the first time a mayor of Jacksonville attended such a commemoration in, well, 63 years. And finally a prayer vigil organized by Councilwoman Ju’coby Pitman and our Mayor. The bulk of the vigil, attended by New Town residents, members of the Jewish community, elected officials and more, was a place where many came to grieve, to share their frustrations, to pray. In fact, it was noted that before the 15 or so clergy spoke, they were told to “pray, not preach” for two minutes each. And throughout all these experiences, I listened. Yes, I heard anger, I heard “Jesus” mentioned once or twice, but I also heard “Amen” or rather “Can I get an Amen” throughout each prayer offered. And speaking in the vernacular and in the language of prayer, the “Amens” stood out. Those who offered an “Amen” knew what they were Amen-ing. And even if I as a Jew wasn’t always ready to Amen every blessing offered, I understood the blessing being offered, the power that the collective held in offering a congregational “Amen” and the power of those who offered prayer as a vehicle for change.  

And I thought to myself:

How can we as individuals, as a collective, be better equipped to offer “Amen,” as Rabbi Lubliner often says at the end of a service with a Bar/Bat Mitzvah, a “heartfelt amen”? As outlined before, Amen means a number of things:

Amen means understanding; literally. To know what we are Amen-ing 

Author and Liturgist Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, in an interview with Rabbi Mike Comins, author of “Making Prayer Real” explains the following:

I hear people say Hebrew is a barrier, or it’s not welcoming, and I say phooey! A book isn’t welcoming or not welcoming; a group of people are welcoming or not welcoming. In my former congregation in suburban Boston, we prayed the same service every week at the same time for thirty years and people came to know the whole service by heart. We have a lot of data from over fifteen hundred years that’s incontrovertible: the more you pray, the more likely you are to pray in Hebrew.

On the scale of linguistic difficulty from one to ten, of which Finnish or Turkish is a ten, and pig latin is a one, English is a seven and Hebrew is a three. There are five times more words in the English dictionary than the Hebrew dictionary. Once you get over the hump of the funny letters going in the other direction, you’ve got an easy language on your hands. And I think what rabbis Ought to say is, “Cut the complaining and learn the fricking language already.”

His words, not mine. But a friendly reminder that the great sage Rabbi Akiva started learning at age 40. And even if you don’t plan to learn a liturgy class at an Israeli university in 6 months time, how about learning about the structure of our tefillot, how about learning the meaning behind the blessings that precede the Amens, so that they become more meaningful affirmations – not only to you, but to the one reciting the brakha. 

Amen means active listening. Amen means showing up. If we aren’t there- in synagogues or the holy and ordinary places that our brothers and sisters offer prayer, how can we give an Amen? If we don’t show up for one another at all times- (because all times warrant blessing- the times filled with gratitude, the times marred by struggle,) how can we offer Amen??! What conversations are taking place that we aren’t coming to, or aren’t invited to, where we can offer “Amen”? What conversations should be taking place to offer “amen”?

Amen means that even if we aren’t the one talking,  we are the ones confirming and sealing the deal, for the blessing is not complete until someone else recites “amen.” We, as listeners, are part of the story. So as we approach a new year, and many of us will be in this space in just two short weeks, standing and sitting, standing and sitting, Amen-ing Ad nauseam, what can we do to better Amen others- to listen, to affirm, to know? What blessings in the coming year do we offer as blessings of merit, of gratitude, and humility, so that others will affirm their collective value? Whether you sit on this side of the mountain or that side of the mountain, may this year be one of blessing for you, of health for all and an opportunity be present for the blessing of others, Amen Amen Amen.  

This past week, I took a rare, sacred pilgrimage, also known as a “date night”, to Tinseltown to watch the new blockbuster movie, Barbie. 

At face value, Barbie is a toy, and like one of my favorite movies of all time, Toy Story 2, there is a power to simply referencing the toys of our youth. Whether it’s Barbie or Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head, little green men, or monkeys in a barrel, toys elicited moments of nostalgia. Like a melody or a scent, they have a power to transport us to our childhood, to simpler times. 

But sometimes, as outlined in Barbie, toys mean something much more. In traveling back in time, we see that the object represents a feeling: the hope, the potential of a better tomorrow; they take us to a time when we used our imaginations in a different way, when we dreamt of all that we could be. That’s the power of a single object. 

For the Jewish people, we have an object, a text that represents our Jewish future by linking us to our Jewish past. Each time we read from it, the stories and teachings come alive as if we are there in the story. The Torah- all of its iterations- from the tablets to the expansion of its teachings in the Talmud, stands as a constant symbol of our history- how we used our collective imagination to dream of Jewish peoplehood and a Jewish homeland, and of our future, as a guide to Jewish living in real time. And today, we’ll talk about how we broke that one sacred object.

We can look at our Torah reading from different perspectives: chronologically within the storyline itself, where its reading falls on the Jewish calendar, and how we, today, can relate to its message.

Last week we read the 10 commandments and the Shema, the pair that serve as the basis of our ethical and theological code of living. For the Israelites of the desert, who found themselves right outside the land of Israel, they needed to hear Torah that would lay the groundwork for a successful future in the Promised Land. That’s where we are chronologically. 

On the Jewish calendar, we commemorated Tisha B’av some 10 days ago,  the saddest day on our calendar; a day in which both temples in Jerusalem were destroyed. For the Israelites of the Second temple, the readings of last week and today serve a different purpose. Having experienced the loss of the temples, left bereft of a spiritual home, a place where the people would bring sacrifices to mark significant moments in their lives- where would they go? What could they do? What would Judaism look like for them?

A story is relayed in Avot d’Rabbi Natan, a companion volume to Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of our Fathers.

Once, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai left Jerusalem, and Rabbi Joshua followed after him. Rabbi Joshua saw the Holy Temple destroyed, and he lamented: ‘Woe to us, for this is destroyed—the place where all of Israel’s sins are forgiven!’”  [Rabbi Yohanan] said to him: My son, do not be distressed, for we have a form of atonement just like it. And what is it? Acts of kindness, as it says, “For I desire kindness, not a well-being offering.”(HOSEA 6:6).

As the Psalmist writes (Psalm 89:3), ע֭וֹלָם חֶ֣סֶד יִבָּנֶ֑ה, the world will be built on acts of lovingkindness, which is to say, our home is in our text and its teachings. Rabbi Yohanan and his disciples (including Rabbi Joshua) would go on to establish a yeshiva in Yavneh (BT Gittin 56b), formulating a new form of Judaism in a world where we long for Jerusalem and the temple, but they are no longer the epicenter of Jewish life. 

An object, the torah, the best of the best ethical teachings, can get us even through the darkest hours. But today is about a broken torah. 

One of the silver linings of our modern synagogue is the ability to catch a musical moment or a word of torah from thousands of miles away- whether in real time or later on Facebook or YouTube. Over the past few years, I have found a sincere voice of Torah through the -8-12 minute sermons of Rabbi David Wolpe, Max Webb Senior Rabbi at Sinai Temple in Los Angeles. And just a year ago, David Wolpe announced his retirement after 26+ years in his congregation. He now serves, amongst other roles, as the Inaugural Rabbinic Fellow of the Anti-Defamation League.  Throughout the past year, I would find myself listening to the Rabbi’s sermons as he marked his farewell tour, creating a window into his rabbinate and his congregation. His final sermon was just a few weeks ago, and you guessed it, it was about broken tablets. 

Wolpe tells a story of his first ever drash/sermon at Sinai Temple, Parshat Ki Tissa, the story of Moses shattering the first set of tablets. He quotes the biblical scholar Arnold Ehrlich, who 

“believed that Moses saw the calf and thought: If the Israelites worship this calf, which they created with their own hands, what will they do when they see the tablets carved by God? Surely, they will turn these tablets, which are so much more precious than the calf, into an idol! If I don’t destroy the tablets, they will commit the ultimate desecration. By smashing the tablets, Moses was making a declaration to all of Israel: Even the handiwork of God, which you might think of as inviolable, is nonetheless just another thing. It is not a God – it is a physical artifact. I am destroying it to return you to the greater truth, which is that you were not delivered from Egypt by a thing, but by an intangible, unfathomable God, no more embodied in the tablets than in the calf.” 

At first glance, broken tablets are a reminder of where we went wrong, a low point for Moses and the people of Israel. It’s also a reminder of our humanity. Wolpe argues that Moses loved the people so much, he broke the tablets so they could get a redo; the Israelites would get a chance to grow as a people, make a few mistakes on the way, and ultimately be judged on other merits. Not this moment. 

Wolpe points to his own evolution on why Moses broke the tablets. He points out something he never saw when he delivered that first sermon a generation ago; time and experience paint a new perspective. In this his last message to his congregation, he says that  “He broke the tablets, so his heart could be whole.”

We explored our Torah from the perspective of those wandering in the desert, to those who lost their spiritual home, and now, we come to us, those who as I said earlier re-enact this story each and every time we read from the Torah. What does the story hold for us? Well today, Parshat Ekev, reconfirms that the brokenness is part of our story.  

“At that point, God said to me—carve two stone tablets…and I will write upon those tablets, the words that were on the first tablets which you shattered, and put them in the Ark” (Deuteronomy 10:1-2).

From these two verses, our rabbis derive the idea that both sets of tablets, the broken and the whole, made their way into the Ark. The Israelites carried both sets, not as a reminder of the bad. In carrying the broken, they included the whole story. 

The rabbis of the Talmud echo this idea that broken isn’t always bad:

Regarding the tablets, which represented the entire Torah, and Israel at that moment were apostates, as they were worshiping the calf, all the more so are they not worthy of receiving the Torah. And from where do we derive that the Holy One, Blessed be He, agreed with his reasoning? As it is stated: “The first tablets which you broke [asher shibarta]” (Exodus 34:1), and Reish Lakish said: The word asher is an allusion to the phrase: May your strength be true [yishar koḥakha] due to the fact that you broke the tablets. (Shabbat 87a)

Every time someone returns from an honor, we offer a “yasher koach.” One may find it ironic that we say “yasher kokacha”, a reference to breaking the tablets, to someone who has upheld torah, but the Ashkenazi greeting makes a lot of sense. Each of us, human, is a keeper of Torah. There are moments when we feel broken, and moments when we feel whole. We live in both realities, often at the same time- we can love and not stand our kids, love our jobs while not liking them all the time; we make mistakes even if we strive for perfection. The greeting “may your strength be true” is symbolic of the ark that each of us holds, filled with the broken and the whole; the “broken” as much a part of us as the whole. That’s what life experience offers us. 

Parshat Ekev reminds us that ideas live forever; the temple, the scrolls, humans not so much. And when we feel broken, as if the point of our journey is to be repaired, we’re reminded that life is a journey towards wholeness, marked by the experiences, good and bad, happy and sad, that make up our existence. No shame attached. As humans, the “brokenness” we feel is a core, sacred chapter of our Torah, a story that will far outlive our place in this world. We are co-authors in its ongoing writing. If we continue to play a role, then it’s our story that lives on in perpetuity. We find purpose in knowing it’s our life experience that can partner with our tradition, looking back and building forward towards a real, lived Torah. May we all find a place for the broken, the real, the raw, the whole Torah that is in each of us.

A little more than 15 years ago, my fiance asked if I was going to cry at our wedding. I explained that all she had to do was put a television behind her playing the final scenes of the movie “Rudy” starring Sean Astin, and I’d be a goner. Needless to say, that didn’t happen, and while I’m not a “cryer” at many things, I have become one to choke up while watching sappy movies, tv shows, or reading about inspirational stories of hope and perseverance. But what really gets me to the point of tears are the moments when I read bedtime stories to my children. And no story gets me EVERY time like Robert Munsch’s I’ll Love You Forever.

“I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

as long as I’m living,

my baby you’ll be.”

A mother starts singing this song to her son when he’s a baby, and then the story follows him through all the stages of his life. At every step of the way, his mother is there, singing him to sleep with their special song — even after he’s married, moved out, and has kids of his own. In a full circle moment, the son holds his mother in his arms:

“I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

as long as I’m living,

my baby you’ll be.”

But before “Love You Forever” was a nursery staple, it was a simple, four-line song too painful to sing out loud. Robert Munsch would sing silently to himself after his wife gave birth to a stillborn baby. It was the second stillbirth the couple had to mourn.

For a long time, he couldn’t even share it with his wife. 

“[The song] was my way of crying,” Munsch told The Huffington Post. Munsch often performed his material in front of crowds before writing anything down. One day, the song was in the back of his mind while he was performing at a theater. He made up a story to accompany the song on the spot, and just like that, “Love You Forever” poured out on stage. 

The song, and the story, were a source of comfort amidst loss. The book became a best seller for people of all ages, in all stages of life; a tribute to the unending love of parents to their children. 

This is the promise we make to our children- proclaiming that until our last breath, we will be there for them- physically and emotionally; with all our hearts, with all our souls, with all our might; unadulterated, unconditional love.  

With all your heart with all your soul with all your might. 3 times a day we remind ourselves that we should love with every fiber of our being, and what, or rather who should we love?…God. The hope is that God, our parent, will be there for us, God’s children, a relationship steady through the storms and adversities that would derail other relationships 

Medieval commentator Rashi explains “V’ahavta” AND YOU SHALL LOVE [THE LORD] — Fulfill His commands out of love, for one who acts out of love is not like one who acts out of fear. He who serves his master out of fear, if God troubles him overmuch, leaves him and goes away (Sifrei Devarim 32:1).

When you sign on to love without condition, we love even when things are tough. DOes that love always manifest as unwavering, confident, and overflowing? No. Unconditional love doesn’t mean it’s easy, or that it’s beautiful 24/7.

Professor and Researcher Brene Brown explains in a podcast on love and vulnerability: 

So I have to start by debunking one of the worst myth in the world, and that is the myth that strong, lasting relationships are always 50-50. I call BS. That is not the case. Strong, lasting relationships are rarely 50-50, because life does not work that way. Strong, lasting relationships happen when your partner or friend or whoever you’re in relationship with, can pony up that 80% when you are down to 20, and that your partner also knows that when things fall apart for her, and she only has 10% to give, you can show up with your 90, even if it’s for a limited amount of time

Brown and her husband check in by telling each other their levels in terms of “energy, investment, kindness, patience.”

And what about the times when neither partner is doing well, and no one has anything to give? When Brown and her husband are both running on empty, she said they “sit down at the table anytime we have less than 100 combined and figure out a plan of kindness toward each other.” -Even that moment, -in other words, the “how do you not kill the other person?” moment, you find a relationship built on trust. 

The pact we make with our loved ones is at its core a mindset; a mindset that we are doing as much as we can, lovingly; that even the most difficult moments are informed by the love that guides them. 

Our V’ahavta prayer teaches a love of the divine, and in turn, a love of all who are created in God’s image. All of us. Why should unconditional love be a gift we give to an exclusive group. Is it a capacity issue- that we don’t have a full enough heart to embrace all the world’s tzuris? No, in fact Brown’s model reassures us that we DO have the capacity to love. 

We are here on Shabbat Nachamu, a shabbat of comfort, a shabbat that follows our darkest hour as a people. The aftermath of the 9th of av meant we had to find other reminders of our relationship with the divine- through teaching our children, everywhere and at every moment, giving us reminders that God is still with us in the depths of despair. It is sometimes in the darkness that we see how love manifests itself, even towards a stranger.

When we gather to bury a loved one, our clergy often speak of the most selfless act one can perform hesed shel emet, an act of true lovingkindness. Burying a member of a community is an act that we do without an expectation of reward or even a simple thank you, but we do so out of obligation, and really, out of love. When there are mourners in our midst, who in Brown’s criteria are hovering over 0%, we have the capacity, collectively, to be that other 100. We do so well in honoring the dead, comforting the mourner; it’s time to think of ways we can honor the living, and comfort the struggling. 

In practical terms, it means running the full range of a human decency scale- holding off on judgment when you think you’ve been wronged but don’t know the whole story; raising someone up through the act of hakarat hatov– acknowledging the good- be they a stranger, coworker, or loved one. Each act is an affirmation that we all are co creators of a future we can all be proud of. Empathy and compassion are the ingredients to move us past mere civility and into a spiritual space, a Jerusalem on high. The mourning of our temples is a “we’ve all been there” reminder to not be quick to anger, but quick to offer an open hand and an open heart.

The stresses of life are rampant…they bog each of us down and the weight, the anxiety is often overwhelming. But each of us has the capacity to be a little more decent, a little more understanding , and a little more loving. With all our collective souls and all our collective might, we’ll build a new Jerusalem of unconditional love and support, a community on high and down here on Earth.   

This week, Ben Frazier passed away following a 9 month battle with cancer. Ben was an award-winning civil and human rights leader — a long-time broadcast journalist who became the first Black anchor of a major news show in Jacksonville. He received the NAACP’s Rutledge H. Pearson Civil Rights Award for his advocacy and outstanding contributions to civil rights over many decades. He founded the Northside Coalition of Jacksonville to “empower, educate and organize our communities in an effort to establish greater self-sufficiency.” He had a VOICE and used it.

Growing up, I always felt that my rabbi had “a voice”- as the expression used to go, someone you could listen to read from a phone book, when those were actually a thing. He happened to give a great sermon, too. That dynamic duo shared by my rabbi and Ben — a worthwhile message and a voice to carry it — is hard to come by. What a voice!

I knew Ben peripherally, but I wish I knew him better. Dealing with health issues, he still showed up these past few years to fight for a number of issues of equity and equality. In 2016, Ben joined Rabbi Tilman and other faith leaders for a memorial service for those lost at Pulse Nightclub, echoing our hope that our city’s Human Rights Ordinance would expand to cover ALL of its citizens. This past November, a month into his cancer diagnosis, he brought Northside Coalitions members to James Weldon Johnson Park when our OneJax partners held a vigil of Unity & Hope following the desecration of our downtown spaces by antisemitic messages. It was important to him to show support for the Jewish community.  

In a few days is the 17th of Tammuz, a day that commemorates the siege that led to the destruction of the holy temple in Juersalem. We are about to spend nearly a whole month speaking about the cause of that destruction, sinat chinam, useless hatred… and we see the embodiment of useless hatred right before us.

3 years ago, after the lynching of George Floyd, I quietly worked with partners in a number of local Jewish and non-Jewish organizations to create a series of learning sessions. Rabbi Lubliner and I participated in a dialogue series under the umbrella of Where Race Meets Religion. The Rabbi and Dr. Richard Wynn, UNF’s Chief Diversity Officer, held a forum on Intersectionality and Identity, while my session covered Allyship with Dr. Kimberly Allen, the dynamic founder of 904orward. 

Ben was also supposed to be a participant. His kickoff learning session was tentatively called, “Real Talk: Encounters with Race and Racism,” but that program was canceled before major publicity was sent out.       

Why? A quick Google search of the event’s co-sponsor, a national Jewish organization Bend the Arc, revealed a political campaign with overt anti-Trump sentiment, with slogans promising to “free America from [him].” At the time I wrote to our community partners: “I don’t always agree with speakers or organizations that are brought to the greater Jacksonville Jewish community, but there is a difference between not endorsing and silencing. I hope we can find ways to lift up voices and conversations in a constructive way.” But the image of the co-sponsoring organization was already tainted too much. Today, you won’t find the same rhetoric on their homepage — I can only provide conjecture as to why that is. But in name calling, in that being the focus of their message, they foolishly stopped a conversation before it could even begin, conversations that needed to happen about the fight against white supremacy, antisemitism, and racism in this country. 

We said we’d have him back for a later event. Our community needed to hear his VOICE. But that ended up never happening. To be frank, Ben’s political leanings might have seemed foreign to many in our midst, and yes, part of his story is that he spoke truth, often to closed ears. But in speaking truth, in his own voice, he reached a far-ranging audience. And I wish that the Jewish community could have been more a part of his story. In a planning call for the program, Ben poignantly stated “Where our missions intersect, is where our collaboration begins.” He understood that we can’t all agree on everything, but there has to be a place where we can come together, to have a conversation.

This is the climate synagogues and synagogue professionals must operate under. Dr. Shuly Rubin Schwartz, Chancellor of JTS and our Shorstein lecturer this upcoming winter, wrote this past week, “We face an acute shortage—of rabbis, but also of educators, cantors, organizational leaders, camp staff, chaplains, youth leaders, and even lay leaders.” The shortage isn’t solely a pipeline problem, and isn’t solely one for the Jewish faith. It’s exacerbated by a mass exodus of clergy of all faiths from the professional ranks. 

The Christian research organization Barna reported that in March 2022, “the percentage of pastors who have considered quitting full-time ministry within the past year sits at 42 percent” 

In an article titled” Why Pastors Are Burning Out” Anglican priest 

Tish Harrison Warren writes  

“That the top reported reasons for clergy burnout were the same ones that people in the population at large face: stress, loneliness and political division. But these stressors affect pastors in a unique way. Pastors bear not only their own pain but also the weight of an entire community’s grief, divisions and anxieties. They are charged with the task of continuing to love and care for even those within their church who disagree with them vehemently and vocally. These past years required them to make decisions they were not prepared for that affected the health and spiritual formation of their community, and any decisions they made would likely mean that someone in their church would feel hurt or marginalized.”

The tightrope dance of speaking up on issues without alienating congregants is a top reason for clergy burnout, but avoiding the “hot topics” altogether doesn’t alleviate the stress, either. 

In our torah portion, the main character, Balaam, sought to curse the Israelites, only to have God intervene as puppeteer in order to bless Israel, despite Balaam’s objections. Faith leaders, on the other hand, have the capacity, and the desire, to be facilitators of difficult discussions; to have freedom of the pulpit because they have the trust of a congregation to speak from a religious perspective that is authentic, thought-out and thought provoking. Theirs are the mouths open not in curse but in conversation.

This isn’t the first sermon on civil discourse, but I do think it helps to remind us all that there is a space in this ohel (tent), in this mishkan (portable sanctuary)- on Saturday morning, in adult education classes, in print, to have meaningful conversations about reproductive health, Israel, and gun control. 

Balaam famously blesses the people of Israel:

 “Mah tovu ohelecha yYaakov, mishkinotekha Yisrael.” 

How good are your tents Jacob, your dwelling places Israel? 

The rabbis asked why the doubling of the language? Why not say “How good your tents Jacob” OR “how good your dwelling places Israel?”

The Gemara asks in Bava Batra 60a: 

From where are these matters, i.e., that one may not open an en-trance opposite another entrance, or a window opposite another window, derived? Rabbi Yoḥanan says that the verse states: “And Balaam lifted up his eyes, and he saw Israel dwelling tribe by tribe; and the spirit of God came upon him” (Numbers 24:2). The Gemara explains: What was it that Balaam saw that so inspired him? He saw that the entrances of their tents were not aligned with each other, ensuring that each family enjoyed a measure of privacy. 

Our dwelling place, our synagogue, is also a tent- open to difficult conversations, open to all; but our rabbis remind us that there is room for each of us to have our own space; we can all dwell together even in our measure of privacy.

So what does meaningful dialogue look like? Can we find a way to hear people’s voices? And is there a point and place when and where we can rally around each other beyond our mutual disdain for Nazis and antisemitism? 

Philosopher Martin Buber, writing in Tales of the Hasidim: Early Masters, says:

“There is genuine dialogue – no matter whether spoken or silent – where each of the participants really has in mind the other or others in their present and particular being and turns to them with the intention of establishing a living mutual relation between himself and them.

There is technical dialogue, which is prompted solely by the need of objective understanding.

And there is monologue disguised as dialogue, in which two or men, meeting in space, speak each with himself in strangely tortuous and circuitous ways and yet imagine they have escaped the torment of being thrown back on their own resources”

Let us aim for genuine dialogue. For while our synagogue is a misgav, a haven, a safety net from the noise and chaos of the outside world, it is also a mishkan, a place to dwell- to sit with difficult topics and sit in conversation with one another; to challenge ourselves; to grow. 

To paraphrase Ben Frazier’s words, “Where our mishkans, our missions  intersect, this is where our collaboration begins.” May we collaborate on a mishkan, a portable sanctuary we take wherever we go, a sanctuary built on trust, respect, curiosity and love. May we have faith in our leaders to guide us, and in our own potential to better ourselves and this world. Mah tovu – how good is the tent we can build, all of us, together?  

Growing up, a secret society met in our home. Members included husbands or wives sneaking away from their spouses, parents shunned by their children. Individuals long forsaken by society would come to our house because they possessed one unifying character trait: they loved sweet and sour tongue. My mother prepared the dish, and as witness to this prep I no longer have the stomach for the dish. The group was known as the “lashon tov” club, meaning “the good tongue” club, a play on the prohibition to gossip, aka to speak lashon hara, or “evil tongue.”

I learned a lot about Lashon Hara as I prepared for my Bar Mitzvah, Shabbat Hagadol, Parshat Metzora. In a strange quirk of our triennial cycle, this week we “read” Tazria Metzora, but because it’s the 1st year of our cycle, we don’t actually read from Metzora itself. And our haftarah is the special haftarah for Rosh Chodesh. So while we don’t speak these words this shabbat, it’s important to hear their message.

In Parshat Metzora, we encounter a skin ailment that spreads, just as gossip spreads from person to person. Our Rabbis concluded that there are different types of gossip so I’d like to take a moment to explore 3 in particular:

Lashon hara is defined as saying something negative about a person- through face-to-face conversation or by letter, email or text. These comments are mean spirited, but true. It’s because of that mean spirit that a local rabbi has a bumper sticker that says in hebrew “Lashon Hara- Lo Mdabeir Alai.” By contrast, motzi shem ra (lit. “putting out a bad name”) – is slander or defamation. Lies. Motzi shem ra is a greater sin than lashon hara. Lies are much easier to come by. We learn this in our weekday morning tractate of study:

The letters of the word truth (emet) rest on two legs [aleph -mem -, tav – ], while the letters of the word falsehood (sheker) have only one leg [shin -, kof – , resh -]. Truthful actions stand firm; actions based on falsehoods do not. The letters of emet are far apart [the first, middle, and last in the alphabet], whereas the letters of sheker are bunched together. Truth is hard to attain, but falsehood is readily at hand. III YALKUT SHIMONI, GENESIS, 3

And finally, there are times when a person is permitted or even required to disclose information whether or not the information is disparaging. For instance, if a person’s intent in sharing negative information is for a to’elet, a positive, constructive, and beneficial purpose that may serve as a warning to prevent harm or injustice, the prohibition against lashon hara does not apply. 

Speaking up and speaking out against injustice and slanderous speech is not only allowed, it’s an imperative.

This could be a sermon about a whole boatload of contemporary topics and current events, from defamation suits to the unfortunate heavy workload of the Anti Defamation League, but I wanted to focus this Shabbat, as Tazria Metzora falls on Rosh Chodesh Iyyar, on something very specific. 

The First Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel took place on December 28, 1949, following a decision of the Chief Rabbinate of Israel that an annual memorial should take place on the Tenth of Tevet, a traditional day of mourning and fasting in the Hebrew calendar. In 1951, the Knesset began deliberations to choose a date for Holocaust Remembrance Day. On April 12, 1951, after also considering as possibilities the Tenth of Tevet, the 14th of Nisan, which is the day before Passover and the day on which the Warsaw Ghetto uprising (April 19, 1943) began, and September 1, the date on which the Second World War began, the Knesset passed a resolution establishing the 27 Nisan in the Hebrew calendar, a week after Passover, and eight days before Israel Independence Day as the annual Holocaust and Ghetto Uprising Remembrance Day. 

Wikipedia

This past Tuesday was Yom Hashoah, and this upcoming Monday night, our community gathers again to commemorate Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, followed by Tuesday night, Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. Having Yom Hashoah in the month of Nisan is strange to some- a month in which we omit tachanun, our daily supplication prayer, because we are on a spiritual high having left the bondage of Egypt en route to the promised land. Having a week “buffer” between the nationalist holidays of Passover and Independence Day means we Yom Hashoah does not get lost in a laundry list of “yoms.” And just as a yahrzeit can fall on any day of the Jewish calendar, from Purim to Hanukkah to Rosh Hashanah, Yom Hashoah falling on a day amidst joy reminds us to stop, reflect, and remember. 

As a child, our local kids choir, Kolei Shira, sang at one large performance each year in front of hundreds and hundreds. That was Yom Hashoah. Yom Hashoah also meant hearing the stories of Pinchas Gurevich and Rabbi Baruch Goldstein, two Holocaust survivors from our Jewish community in Massachusetts.

Amidst my own childhood, a number of seismic shifts happened in Holocaust awareness and observance in the late 80s and early 90s. Since 1988 in Poland, a memorial service has been held after a three-kilometer walk by thousands of participants from Auschwitz to Birkenau known as the March of the Living. The group just commemorated their 35th March a few days ago. With the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, many of the places of memory- the sites where synagogues once stood, the sites where communities thrived for generations, the sites of ghettos and death camps of nazi occupied Europe, became more accessible. Visiting these sites became a powerful way to remember what Nazi propaganda led to. On this date, April 22, 1993, the US Holocaust Museum opened its doors, enabling each visitor to personalize in a small way the experience of someone who lived, and in many cases died, during the Holocaust.  

Places of memory. Museums to teach generations to come about the atrocities of the Shoah. These were two ways to remember and to tell the true story of what took place. A third was found in the world of cinema, as 1993 was the year that the movie Schindler’s List was released. Over the next 10 years, Hollywood would see a trio of Holocaust related movies recognized for the stories they told- Schindler’s list, winner of 7 Academy Awards including best picture, Life is Beautiful, starring Academy Award winner Roberto Benigni, and The Pianist, starring Academy Award winner Adrien Brody. All 3 stories humanized the victims of the Shoah. 

Over the past 20 years, we’ve seen a second seismic shift in holocaust education with the death of most survivors alongside the rise of antisemitism and new forms of propaganda. And so how do we connect to the holocaust so it doesn’t become just another page in Jewish history’s novel of martyrology? 

I mention these examples, created in my formative years, because they all had varying impacts on my life. To visit places of Jewish history- of life and of loss, was the most impactful Jewish experience of my life. Watching the Academy Award nominated films? Not so much. Not for me at least. But their importance on spreading truth to the masses is undeniable. And it reminds us that there can never be an oversaturation of Holocaust related resources to teach the next generation. Because we all connect in different ways.  

For some, it’s trying to understand the number 6 million, just as children in Whitwell Tennessee did when they collected 6 million paper clips some 20 years ago. Or it’s a statistic that sticks out- walk roughly 3 miles a day,  each foot representing a name, a person, and it would take you an entire year to name 6 million Jews who were killed. Truth is in a number.

Truth is even in fiction. 

The play Leopoldstadt is currently running on Broadway through July 2. 

Set in Vienna, the play takes its title from the Jewish quarter. This passionate drama of love and endurance begins in the last days of 1899 and follows one extended family deep into the heart of the 20th century. 

By focussing so much of the play pre-1933, the audience is able to better understand the culture and stories of those who were lost, especially those who thought they were too assimilated to be in danger when the Nazis arrived. 

Truth is in fiction, as in comic books! Comic books have long had Nazis as villains, so it’s no surprise that the TV show Agents of Shield focused on an evil Nazi network known as Hydra. When Agents of Shield wrapped up filming in 2020, so began a time in which every major streaming platform has produced a Holocaust centered tv show.

On Amazon Prime: Hunters is a conspiracy drama focusing on American Jews who literally hunt Nazis following WWII. Dark and gory, but very different from Prime’s other hit, Man in the High Castle, an American dystopian alternate history television series, a world in which Nazi Germany had prevailed. While I watched every episode of Hunters, I never got beyond the title screen of Man in the High Castle which depicts a map with the Nazi flag spreading throughout Europe and into America.

As I was halfway through writing this sermon, Journalist Lior Zaltzman, wrote an article, entitled “There Is a Lot of Excellent TV About the Holocaust Right Now.” She states:  

Earlier this month, we got a new, incredible limited Netflix series from Anna Winger, the creator of “Unorthodox,” which itself touched on Holocaust memory in present day Berlin. Her new series, “Transatlantic,” retells the story of Varian Fry and the ERC, the precursor of the modern day IRC, which helped rescue over 2000 anti-Nazi refugees from Europe — including Marc Chagall and Hannah Arendt.

And next month, “A Small Light” from Hulu/Nat Geo/Disney+ will be premiering. Jewish filmmaker Susanna Fogel is involved in the production of the show, and it stars Jewish actress Bel Powley as a non-Jewish Holocaust heroine, Miep Gies (khees), the Austrian Dutch secretary who helped hide her boss, Otto Frank, and his family, including daughter Anne, in that secret annex in Amsterdam.

A show based on the incredible book “We Were the Lucky Ones” is also slated to come to Hulu sometime soon, directed by Jewish “Hamilton” director Thomas Kail, who is also working on an upcoming “Fiddler” movie. It tells the unlikely story of survival of one family.

These shows aren’t focused on the usual Holocaust imagery we’re used to — barbed wires, concentration camps, emaciated Jewish bodies, the kind of visuals that have almost been fetishized at this point. These shows also don’t give us an idyllic World War II narrative about American heroism versus Nazi evils. They don’t romanticize Nazis or make them more relatable or likable. They do give us heroes that are human and flawed.

https://www.kveller.com/there-is-a-lot-of-excellent-tv-about-the-holocaust-right-now/

Truth is in numbers. It’s in fiction. And truth is…truth. 

On Tuesday night, PBS began airing the documentary How Sabba Kept Singing. Musician David “Saba” Wisnia believed that he survived the horrors of Auschwitz by entertaining the Nazi guards with his beautiful singing voice. The documentary joins David and his grandson Avi (a classmate of mine at NYU) as the pair embark on a journey exploring the mystery of Saba’s past. The movie is now available for free on PBS with an extended Director’s Cut on YouTube. PBS re-aired the documentary Traces: Voices of the Second Generation” by our very own Stacey Goldring following the premiere of How Sabba Kept Singing.

WJCT’s Brendan Rivers writes, 

“Stacey Goldring, filmmaker and founder of Searching for Identity, produced “Traces, Voices of the Second Generation” to inspire all of us to join the resilient “second generation survivors” and ensure these stories and their influence on the next generation are remembered. The resilient “second generation survivors” share their parents’ remarkable accounts of surviving history’s darkest evils. They reveal how the Holocaust affected their lives through its generational and inherited effects.”

Many familiar faces are featured in the film, available this past week on our local PBS. Stacey’s Second Generation group shares stories that are honest, raw, and the new truth of having 2nd generation survivors be the torch bearers of this legacy. Third generation groups like the organization “If You Heard what I heard” continue the collection of stories. From their website:

In May of 2020, after seeing yet another news report of an antisemitic incident at a los angeles area synagogue, we thought about our grandparents’ stories, and how if more people today knew about the holocaust, perhaps these incidents would not be so prevalent. 

We thought about how our generation would be the last to hear our grandparents’ stories firsthand, in the same room, over the course of decades, directly from them. 

We knew we had to do something, and we kept thinking, if you heard what I heard, you would never forget. from the desire to make our grandparents’ stories relevant  and relatable for today, this project was born.

https://www.ifyouheardwhatiheard.com/our-founding-story

Some of us are film lovers, others are fans of a good book. And many times, we are not in control of what moves us or doesn’t move us. As we move from this week of memory to the next, I hope you’ll challenge your sensitivities to see, listen to what’s out there to teach the legacy of the Shoah. There are so many mediums to choose form. Find the story, the medium that you find most meaningful- and share it- on social media, with your co-workers, with your families. Have difficult conversations. Speak and spread the only allowable Lashon Hara- through sharing of a difficult past, we will ensure that hate and injustice have no place in our future. 

This week we marked the retirement of an 18th round draft pick of the Montreal Expos, a once summer intern for Merrill Lynch. That’s right, Tom Brady! Who is Tom Brady? To some, he is a Moses-like figure, delivering a New England Patriots squad from the slavery of mediocrity to the promised land of 6 NFL championships. To others, such as members of the AFC East, he is Pharaoh, punishing the division for almost two decades. He is also Pharaoh to the NFC East foes, who used their underdog status to supplant the mighty Brady. Or, even to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, he is Pharaoh, changing his retirement status as often as Pharaoh changed his mind about freeing the Israelites.  

In debating this Moses or Pharaoh question, I’ve been thinking about my connection to Brady and to my childhood team, the New England Patriots. To clarify my allegiances, I began my Jaguars conversion in 2008 and reaffirmed my commitment to the Jaguars when #MylesJackwasn’tdown the Jaguars played the Patriots in the AFC championship 5 years ago. Now that that is settled, the Patriots have won 3 of their 6 championships since we moved to Jacksonville- 2015, 2017, and 2019. 

2015- Where was I? At home. Our family was invited out to Robin and Jefrey Morris’ house. Before kickoff, I said I was already stressed out and that if the game were tied 14-14 at halftime, I would have to go home to watch the rest by myself. Well, at halftime the score was 14-14, so I went home, as I watched Malcolm Butler’s interception clinch a Patriots victory over the Seattle Seahawks.

2017- Where was I? At home! The stresses of 2015 informed my decision to watch the game at home using my DVR, doing laundry/busy work around the house only to fast forward through commercials to watch the 4th quarter in real time. The Patriots came back from 28-3 to beat the Atlanta Falcons, securing the largest comeback in Super Bowl history.  

And finally 2019- where was I? You guessed it, Uganda. Waking up in the early morning hours, the Superbowl could only be “watched” via a refreshing webpage on espn.com, a game that ended 13-3, with me celebrating in my hotel room some 7,000 miles away. 

3 NFL championships, all experienced alone. None of those experiences compared to a game I attended a few weeks ago. An opening playoff round miracle. A miracle because the scheduling gods waited for Aaron Rodgers to lose to the Detroit Lions in the final game of the season so that the Jaguars would host a Saturday night playoff after Shabbat. A miracle that toes still have circulation in 30 degree temperatures. A miracle, in seeing the lows and highs of being down 27-0 only to triumph over the Los Angeles Chargers 31-30. Where was I? In a sea of teal, a single ticket holder amongst tens of thousands of fans united under a single cause, for it was always the jags. No it’s not a superbowl victory, but so much sweeter than those other victories because it was experienced in a community. 

That sounds like a great sermon. Be there. Experience community. Do things together. It’s the storyline of a movie released just this past week, 80 for Brady, in which four best friends live life to the fullest when they embark on a wild trip to see their hero, Tom Brady, play in the 2017 Super Bowl. Sounds great, but more likely than not, it’s a great drash for next week, when we consider how our tradition views the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai. A midrash suggests the idea that all Jews; past, present, and future, stood at Mt. Sinai to receive the revelation of Torah

 “In order to establish you today as his people…,” so that I would not go back on the word that I swore to your ancestors. Deut. 29:13), “And not only with you [have I made this covenant and this oath].” But rather the generations that have yet to come were also there at that time, as stated (in vs. 14), “But with those who are [standing (‘md)] here with us [today… and with those who are not here with us today].” R. Abahu said in the name of R. Samuel bar Nahmani, “Why does it say, ‘those who are [standing (‘md)] here […]; and those who are not here’ (without using the word, standing)? Because all the souls were there, [even] when [their] bodies had still not been created. It is for that reason [their] existence (literally, standing, rt.: ‘md) is not stated here.” (Midrash Tanchuma Nitzavim 3:1)

You see, all Jews were at Sinai. What a moment to be there, together, at that “you had to be there” moment in history. Sounds great, but again it’s not the sermon for this week.

If Sinai is the Super Bowl, Shirat Hayam, the song of the sea, is the long road to and through the playoffs. And tradition does not suggest we were all there at the foot of the water. We weren’t there. We didn’t have a ticket. It wasn’t a recording we can later watch as a primetime special. So what do we do when we weren’t there for such a moment of celebration, such a moment of weight coming off our shoulders? We beat the odds, we overcame Pharaoh and mass oppression, and we weren’t there for the game or the post party celebration.   

We find the answer in the torah portion itself. We recite the Song of the Sea in its entirety, and Miriam responds with her own take on the song in the lyrics that follow: 

כִּ֣י בָא֩ ס֨וּס פַּרְעֹ֜ה בְּרִכְבּ֤וֹ וּבְפָרָשָׁיו֙ בַּיָּ֔ם     וַיָּ֧שֶׁב יְהֹוָ֛ה עֲלֵהֶ֖ם אֶת־מֵ֣י הַיָּ֑ם     וּבְנֵ֧י יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל הָלְכ֥וּ בַיַּבָּשָׁ֖ה בְּת֥וֹךְ הַיָּֽם׃ {פ}

For the horses of Pharaoh, with his chariots and riders, went into the sea; and יהוה turned back on them the waters of the sea; but the Israelites marched on dry ground in the midst of the sea.

וַתִּקַּח֩ מִרְיָ֨ם הַנְּבִיאָ֜ה אֲח֧וֹת אַהֲרֹ֛ן אֶת־הַתֹּ֖ף בְּיָדָ֑הּ וַתֵּצֶ֤אןָ כׇֽל־הַנָּשִׁים֙ אַחֲרֶ֔יהָ בְּתֻפִּ֖ים וּבִמְחֹלֹֽת׃

Then Miriam the prophet, Aaron’s sister, picked up a hand-drum, and all the women went out after her in dance with hand-drums.

וַתַּ֥עַן לָהֶ֖ם מִרְיָ֑ם שִׁ֤ירוּ לַֽיהֹוָה֙ כִּֽי־גָאֹ֣ה גָּאָ֔ה ס֥וּס וְרֹכְב֖וֹ רָמָ֥ה בַיָּֽם׃ {ס}    

And Miriam answered them:

Sing to יהוה, for He has triumphed gloriously;

Horse and driver He has hurled into the sea.

Miriam, made the story, the song, the dance, her own. Moses had his spin, and Miriam, with a tambourine in her hand, added her own story to the mix.

A few weeks ago, singer David Crosby, passed away at the age of 81. Crosby’s father, Floyd, was an Oscar-winning cinematographer – traveling to pre-Israel Palestine in 1946 to make the documentary My Father’s House, a story not only about displaced Jews, but of the birth of a permanent Jewish state. In many ways, Floyd was a trailblazing story teller himself, adapting the old adage that if a picture says a thousand words, a moving picture transports us to another world. 

Now David Crosby was a strong opinionated, charismatic leader of both the Byrds and Crosby Stills Nash (and Young). He played a role in the counterculture movement in spite of being a descendant of two well established families, the Van Cortlandts and the Van Rensselaers. He had demons that materialized in the form of drug addiction, resulting in health issues that plagued him for most of his adult life. But he also made magnificent music. As Miriam before him, Crosby took a metaphoric timbrel, or a metaphoric tambourine in his hand in popularizing the song “Mr. Tambourine Man” with his band the Byrds back in April 1965. 

Crosby’s story, and the song he is most often associated with, Mr Tambourine Man, parallel how we might view another song, the song of the sea.

As many of you might know, Mr Tambourine Man isn’t an original Byrds song at all. It’s a Bob Dylan song. Dylan released the song a few days AFTER the Byrds did in April of 1965, but he had signed off on their arrangement back in January of that year. Crosby loved Dylan’s writing style, his storytelling, and added his own take on the song.

So what was in the arrangement? As bandmate Roger McGuinn once said,

“I give the credit to Crosby…He was brilliant at devising these harmony parts that were not a strict third, fourth, or fifth improvisational combination of the three. That’s what makes the Byrds’ harmonies.”

Where did that ear for harmonies come from? Maybe it was from his youth, as Crosby notes in his autobiography that as a child he used to harmonize as his mother sang, his father played mandolin and his brother played guitar. 

Dylan the lyrics, Crosby the harmonies, and I imagine the Byrds played the instruments, right? Well, sorta. McGuinn played his 12 string guitar, but everything else on the track (outside the tight harmonies of Roger McGuinn, Gene Clark, and David Crosby) was performed by the Wrecking Crew, a group of top-tier Los Angeles session musicians. 

One person, Bob Dylan, was present at the birthing of the music and lyrics to Mr. Tambourine Man. But as we can see, the song we know today has been nurtured, adapted and beautified by those who heard its call. Each person contributed their own layer to its story. 

The art of storytelling, and the art of song-writing, is making the story come alive in new and creative ways. We make it our own AND we join in conversation with the past as partners in forming its legacy- not as a song of yesterday but as a song that continues to grow and develop. 

So were we there at the edge of the water? Were we there to witness every moment of unease and exaltation? Maybe not. But in retelling the stories of Egypt, the stories of pain and suffering alongside the stories of hope and of relief, of watching the waves surge open and close; in making those words and melodies come alive in our own hearts, we add our voice to the story, and make it our own.   

Our stories, our songs, are built on the melodies and souls that came before us. They are uniquely ours- songs informed by history and our story. These are the layers of history, of Jewish history, the harmonies and chords built on the foundational notes of those first moments as a people. As we approach a new year in the week ahead (Tu Bishvat), may we be reminded to appreciate the roots as much as we appreciate the budding flower, for in hearing of our people’s original triumph, we appreciate the triumph of being able to tell their story, in our own way, each and every day.