Parshat Vayeira begins with the following story:

God appeared to him by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. (2) Looking up, he saw three figures standing near him. Seeing this, he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them and, bowing to the ground, (3) he said, “My lords!  If it pleases you, do not go on past your servant. (4) Let a little water be brought; bathe your feet and recline under the tree. (5) And let me fetch a morsel of bread that you may refresh yourselves; then go on—seeing that you have come your servant’s way.” They replied, “Do as you have said.” (6) Abraham RAN into the tent to Sarah, and said, “Quick, three seahs of choice flour! Knead and make cakes!” (7) Then Abraham ran to the herd, took a calf, tender and choice, and gave it to a servant-boy, who hastened to prepare it. (8) He took curds and milk and the calf that had been prepared and set these before them; and he waited on them under the tree as they ate.

Abraham offered morsels of bread and a little water. He returned with a feast- cakes, meat, and milk. It’s also the first example of chutzpah in the bible, as he really gets others (Sarah/servant boy) to do the bulk of the work while he does the running.  Collectively, that’s the power of audacious hospitality. 

The Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 127A) relays the following discussion:

Rabbi Yoḥanan said: Hospitality toward guests is as great as rising early to go to the study hall…And Rav Dimi from Neharde’a says: Hospitality toward guests is greater than rising early to the study hall…Rav Yehuda said that Rav said on a related note: Hospitality toward guests is greater than receiving the Divine Presence, as when Abraham invited his guests it is written: “And he said: Lord, if now I have found favor in Your sight, please pass not from Your servant” (Genesis 18:3). Abraham requested that God, the Divine Presence, wait for him while he tended to his guests appropriately. 

Welcoming others into our tent comes first, even before welcoming God. 

Looking at our own community- how can we show acts of audacious hospitality- to those we know, and those we might not know?

It was back in February of 2009, roughly 15 years ago, that our Safer Shabbaton Scholar-in-Residence was Dr. Ron Wolfson, professor at American Jewish University and author of a recently penned book entitled “The Spirituality of Welcoming: How to Transform Your Congregation into a Sacred Community.”  Using his research as our guide, our board and staff at the time began exploring best practices and what might prevent us—as individuals or as a community—from being fully welcoming?

Greeter training, better signage, colorful handouts, transliteration guides, come as you are, our doors are always open…  A number of great ideas came from out of this Shabbaton. Some ideas were implemented, but with the passage of time, many of them were not – staffing and budgetary constraints, or conflicting ideologies (imagine someone being interested in a Green initiative while also printing hundreds of Shabbat handouts each week) played a factor.  But in reality, the world changed a few times over. The board of directors (none of whom are the same from 2009), the professional staff (only 2 remain), and even the shabbat regular crowd (most of you weren’t shabbat regulars here at the JJC in 2009), is a different makeup from 15 years ago. We are the same synagogue, but we aren’t the same group of people that filled these pews back then.

That being said, there were four events that changed the trajectory of how we welcome people into our community. 

When you enter our building, you’ll notice a large “Stand with Israel” banner created in the summer of 2014, following the kidnapping and murder of three Israeli teenagers in the West Bank, leading to the 2014 Gaza War. It was in its aftermath that we began to add more security measures than ever before.  

5 years ago, the brutal murder of 11 souls at Tree of Life, meant a full time security staff; more training, cameras, and other security measures. It’s the reason I wear a smart watch with SOS capabilities. This is the new normal.

2020. Covid taught us about protecting each other; we returned to worship with no shared kippah bins or shared scarves, but rather with hand sanitizer and masks; we balanced the hybrid of welcoming those in person while trying to maintain a welcoming atmosphere online (often leaving both parties wanting something different), and as we emerged from that point to recognize the concept of mitigated risk- we can never prevent everything from going wrong, but we can be more mindful of how to prevent further harm.

And almost one month ago. Israel is at war with terrorist monsters. And we are broken, scared, and uneasy.       

All of this has meant that we, collectively, have had to recalibrate the art of welcoming. And for November 2023, in this moment at least (or in the moment I wrote this sermon) it seems like I am consumed with the feeling, that this is a place, this is a safe space for Am Yisrael Chai; a feeling that every Shabbat, here, is solidarity Shabbat, and that is a very welcoming feeling to me, the not so outsider of this congregation. And I want to go into that for a minute.

Back in March of this year, I led a caravan of baseball loving, Israel supporting fans to a South Florida pilgrimage- Ben’s Deli, and a World Baseball Classic game of Team Israel vs. Team Puerto Rico. As I stepped onto the shuttle bus to the stadium, wearing my kippah and a personalized Israel soccer jersey, a large blue star draped in the front, the Puerto Rico fans on the bus jokingly booed- not because of my kippah, or my Jewish heritage, but because I was the rival team in a baseball game. I thought “wow, we’ve made it- maybe things are turning around in this country.” On October 8, following the events of the previous day, I wore the jersey walking to synagogue, with pride, and without fear. By October 10th, those feelings of safety dissipated. I wear my Israel gear to the JCA, to synagogue, but nowhere else. When I went to a Pro-Israel rally downtown, I wore a baseball cap. I pray that my fear will subside, but for today, this synagogue is that haven, that refuge where I can express my Judaism fully, and safely; a place where we pray for our ancestral homeland and recognize it’s right to exist and defend itself. This is what welcoming means to me, today. 

And for those who wear your blue ribbon outside of this space, who hang their Israeli flags, thank you for being brave to extend the openings of this tent to more dialogue and understanding. Last year, when buildings downtown were desecrated by projections of hate, we countered with projections of love. And I hope I’ll join you soon, maybe I’ll be ready in a month, when it’s time to inflate my dozen or so Hanukkah inflatables on my front lawn overlooking Scott Mill Road.    

When we have this laser, singular focus on Israel, I don’t want to forget that our synagogue is so much more than a haven from the darkness that surrounds us. We may never construct a perfect setup that makes every person feel safe, or welcome, but as we aim for that as our goal, as we pray not only for wholeness and peace in the world but wholeness of an inclusive community, the onus is on the jew in the pew– often sermons we say we are preaching to the choir-  but here, you are the choir, the conductor, the instrumentalist, and the soloist to make this happen. 

I think about a story about the residents of ancient Jerusalem portrayed in the midrashic work Avot de-Rabbi Natan.

When the Temple still stood in Jerusalem, that city was the destination of pilgrims from throughout the Land of Israel at the three harvest festivals. The rabbinic storytellers of late antiquity relate that Jerusalem’s residents opened their homes for free to those visitors. “No person ever remarked to another, ‘I couldn’t find a bed to sleep on in Jerusalem.’ No person ever remarked to another, ‘Jerusalem is too small [i.e., crowded] for me to be able to stay over there’”. 

We see the remarkable spirit of the people of Israel today, in our ancestral homeland, as thousands of displaced Israelis are absorbed by other communities- creating makeshift schools, community centers, homes. I read an inspiring story about a group of adults and youth from the Masorti Kibbutz Hannaton and its surrounding Palestinian and Jewish villages, who gathered yesterday morning to paint signs that read, “Good Neighbors Also in Difficult Times” in both Hebrew and Arabic. They hung them on the main roads in the area and at the entrances to their villages. If they can have an open tent, having the courage and compassion, the knowledge and self-awareness, to honor diversity, to embrace the simple notion that we all belong here, then why can’t we do a few small steps towards the same goal?

We can be welcoming, and we can reach the next level of being inclusive. We can be welcoming, and we can make people feel a sense of belonging. How? At our synagogue, can everyone walk in and not be seen as an outsider, not be seen as exotic, not worry that they will be treated unkindly because of the color of their skin, that they and their families are seen as members of the Jewish community? 

Yes these are questions that we must always be asking ourselves:

Do we greet people with questions or statements like:

• “So, how are you Jewish?” 
• “Where are you from? No, where are you really from?”
• “You don’t look Jewish.”

Do we hear ourselves or others using these amongst a host of other microaggressions? 

How do we welcome the convert? Those interested in conversion? The non- Ashkenazi? 

I know I’m guilty at times of a number of microaggressions.

What about the questions that come our way- whether asked out loud or internally?

For Disability accessibility:

• How have you welcomed families with disabilities in the past?
• Are your facilities accessible for folks with disabilities? Is there access to the bima for those with mobility issues (i.e.: folks with a walker, cane or wheelchair)? Do you have large-print prayer books?

For Interfaith inclusion:

• Will my partner, who is not Jewish, be allowed on the bima during our child’s bar mitzvah?
• Will my partner, who is not Jewish, be a welcome addition to the synagogue during events or services that I cannot attend?

For LGBTQ Inclusion:

• Do your membership forms utilize inclusive language?
• Do you celebrate LGBTQ Jewish heroes in your religious school? Has your rabbi spoken about LGBTQ inclusion and acceptance during sermons?

For those with sensory issues:  have we considered many aspects of a service that can be overstimulating for different people? Do we offer a space that’s scent free, has comfortable seating options, limits the # of attendees or encourages people to take breaks? 

After Shabbat, I’ll be sharing links to a number of these sites- 18doors, URJ, Sensoryfriendly.net as a starting point to doing a little Heshbon Hanefesh, looking inward to how each of us can be more inclusive, more aware of what we say and how we act. I have no expectation that each of us will suddenly be the extroverted greeter who brings everyone into the tent, but it can mean an extra hello, a smile…I can do better, we can do better. Yes there are more questions than answers, but I hope that each of us heeds the call of Abraham from our parsha- Hineni- here I am- I don’t have the answers, but I am here, present, prepared to do the work; I am here to welcome the stranger and the estranged the newcomer and the frequent flyer; to get out of my comfort zone without feeling unsafe, to welcome an inclusive environment despite the challenges of our time. We don’t feel safe, but we can still feel the sacred obligation to welcome all into our tent. Kol Yisrael Areivim zeh Bazeh. All Jews are responsible for one another- to help build, bond, and belong to one sacred community. Shabbat Shalom Umevorach- may we all enjoy a shabbat of peace and blessing.

https://www.sensoryfriendly.net/how-to-make-your-synagogue-sensory-friendly/

https://urj.org/blog/welcoming-vs-belonging-key-step-making-our-communities-diverse-and-whole

The Netflix documentary The Social Dilemma explains how social media operates using a special algorithm. Mixed in with posts, photos, videos of your friends biggest to-dos, you’ll have a litany of “other” posts. Where do those come from? Why do I see certain posts over others? Well…if you pause on a post as you scroll through, the algorithm picks up on that as a sign that you are interested in seeing similar posts.

For me, this often means a heavy dose of clips from The Office, clips of dogs dressed up as people, or clips of amazing sports feats. While the algorithm can connect to content that is dangerous and misleading, it can also (based on the parameters I’ve mentioned) lead to some truly inspiring content. 

The algorithm introduced me to the work of a “serial entrepreneur”, someone who is a self described “spiritual billionaire.” His name is Jesse Itzler.  

Itzler, co-owner of the Atlanta Hawks, is so much more. He rapped in the 1990s, wrote a number of team anthems including the New York Knickerbockers “Go Knicks Go,” co-founded Marquis Jet, partnered with ZICO Coconut Water and sold it to Coca-Cola, married his incredibly successful wife Sara Blakely (founder of Spanx), and wrote two New York Times best-selling books, Living with a SEAL and Living with the Monks.

Yes, In 2015, Itzler had a Navy SEAL live in his apartment and train him in the most intense conditions for 30 days – just to “shake things up” in his life. As a 55 yr old athlete, he uses fitness to better his relationships and the world. He once ran 100 miles – nonstop – to raise $1.5M for charity. 

But most of his crazy journeys are communal in nature. Itzler started a race called 29029, an ode to Mt. Everest’s 29,029 ft of elevation. It’s an endurance event- a physical and mental challenge, that anyone could participate in. You don’t have to be a runner, swimmer, cyclist or “obstacle-course-type of person.” Everyone pushes everyone to the finish line. As the event website states, “overcoming obstacles reveals the best in each of us.” In May, Itzler recruited a dozen strangers to take a 2 week biking trip, some 3000 miles, from San Diego to St Augustine, raising funds for families who cannot afford cycling equipment. In both experiences, Itzler talks about the community bonds that form from being in those moments together. It’s the ultimate “bubble” experience that brings everyone who participates closer together, even for a short period, in the bonds of life.

Yes Itzler is a billionaire (in large part thanks to his wife’s empire), and he could just write a check to those charities that speak to him, but he describes himself as a “spiritual billionaire.” In an interview, Itzler explained 

“that his father was never a billionaire in financial terms, but his father was the ultimate spiritual billionaire, the only currency that really matters in life. This was profoundly represented to Jesse when he was researching retirement homes for his mother after the passing of his father. The evaluation process didn’t include analysis of bank accounts, connections or social status, but was based on a retirement grading system of wellness, known as “SIPPS”–social, intellectual, physical, purposeful, and as Jesse emphasized, spiritual. Jesse explained the value of being a spiritual billionaire is the ultimate multiplier in life. One can have billions of dollars in the bank, but if they don’t have anything else of value in their life, they ultimately have nothing. In other words, being a financial billionaire multiplied by zero spiritual wealth equals zero. He encouraged everyone to spend more time on the spiritual side of the equation, as that is the true multiplier of life.”

When speaking about the legacy he’ll leave his four children, Itzler says “One of the hardest things as a parent for me is recognizing that our kids are on a different journey than us. For example, I liked to play basketball in my driveway until midnight…my sons like to play Minecraft. And that’s amazing.

That said, I’ve learned to focus on certain things that matter most regardless of what our kids decide to do: self esteem, grit, empathy and compassion. We’ve found the best way to build those qualities in our kids is to show them. They are watching.”

This is probably not the first time you’ve heard some guru advice about appreciating the journey. It actually takes place in the second half of our double parasha, Masei.  

“These were the marches of the Israelites who started from the land of Egypt, troop by troop, in the charge of Moses and Aaron. Moses recorded the starting points of their various marches as directed by the Lord….” (Numbers 33:1-2).

Parashat Masei, the second of the two portions that we read this week, begins with the recounting of the Israelites’ itinerary, outlining their travels from Egypt through the desert, acting as a checklist before the “promised land moment.” I mean this is it- the end of Numbers is that threshold moment outside Israel. Deuteronomy is mostly a reprisal to get us to those final moments before we enter the land.

So the rabbis go back and forth as to why we have this listing of directions that reads more like an old printed Mapquest guide. 

Approach 1: Remember the miracles; show God’s power. Each stop represents God’s miraculous moments.  

Approach 2: Remind the Israelites of where they went wrong, both in the places they rebelled and in the fact that they are traveling so long in the first place.

Approach 3: The faith of the Israelites. Yes they had to walk around in circles, and they weren’t always compliant, but in the end, they maintained faith in God.

I’d like to add a fourth approach. By repeating the Israelites’ itinerary, we place value on life experience. Yes our faith wavered and remained intact, somehow, but I would argue that more importantly, we experienced all the ups and downs, the journey, together; and the bonds of that journey are everlasting friendship and community.

The journey is more than just for you– it’s for those who you take with you on the journey- family, friends, even strangers. It’s about finding that lucrative deal where one can maximize the quality AND quantity of interactions with loved ones. Which brings me to the first Jesse Itzler video to pop up on my social media feed. It’s the video that launched an algorithm of more Itzler videos. In a standard back and forth question sequence he has done in a number of interviews, Itzler asks the interviewer, Rich Roll, the following:

J: My parents are both alive. Are your parents alive?

R: Yeah

J: How older are your parents?

R: 76, 74

J: And where do they live?

R: Washington DC

J: How often do you see them?

R: like twice a year

J: Ok, so most people’d be like, “okay, you know I have…lets say your parents live until 80, so they have five more years, lets just say roughly, you would say “I have five more years of my parents” but I would say, “no, you have 10 more times with your parents if you see them twice a year.” You see them twice a year times 5, you have 10 more times to see them. WHen you start thinking of things like that, your first reaction is, “I wanna go see my parents.” At least that’s mine. So you change the way you approach it, and I’m like “I’m gonna go see my parents every other month, I’m gonna make it a priority”

Many of us prepare for retirement, or prepare for our ultimate retirement, our death. We do so in the hope that we have a financial portfolio that puts our loved ones at ease, thinking about the literal capital we leave for them. Rarely are we thinking in spiritual terms- we should aspire to be spiritual billionaires, leaving a legacy of a journey well taken. And while we can sometimes have a clearer picture of life as a Journey towards something- towards retirement,  towards death, towards the world to come, life is really a journey IN something. 

Take a moment to think about Itzler’s scenario: if you have 10 years, 20 years left on this earth, how does that equate to different journeys you might take? Is that 10-20 more times in shul? Is that a few dozen times seeing your friends for lunch? The question isn’t intended to freak you out, although I do recall kids at summer camp crying because that Tuesday was the last Tuesday french toast that they’d ever have as a camper. Rather, it’s a question to motivate us to live IN the journey, to make time for meaningful moments and meaningful conversations, to engage rather than dismiss. 

Rabbi Harold Kushner, of blessed memory, who guided so many on this path of life and loss as a rabbi and an author, wrote the following: 

“The purpose in life is not to win. The purpose in life is to grow and to share. “When you come to look back on all that you have done in life, you will get more satisfaction from the pleasure you have brought into other people’s lives than you will from the times that you outdid and defeated them.”

At our regular healing service, I often highlight a line from one of our healing prayers that reads “we celebrate the journey, this precious gift of life.” May we celebrate our journeys, enhanced because we walk them, with purpose, together. 

Our successes in life will be defined by engaging IN life, IN partnership with others, not towards something else- a journey well traveled, a life well lived.  

There’s a favorite quote of mine from Ralph Waldo Emerson that summarizes this idea:

“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden, a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”

We are all on the ultimate endurance course of life. May we help others breath easier, lift others up because we are on this journey, together. 

It was my first week on the job. As the list of yartzeits were called off, I did a double take. Hyman Schulman? THE Hyman Schulman? Well in fact it wasn’t THE Hyman Shulman, spelled S H U L M A N.

I glanced through the Center yearbook and did a double take again. Charles Moskovitz? THE Charles Moskowitz is a member here? No, not THE charles moskowitz, who spelled his name with a W” and who was born in the 1880s.

You see, I was looking for a connection- to family; to my brothers. Long before I worked alongside my sister-in law, I worked alongside two of my brothers, Brother Jesse Olitzky and Brother Howard Tilman. Brother Charles Moskowitz, along with Hyman Shulman and the rest of the “Immortal 11” founded Alpha Epsilon Pi Fraternity 115 years ago on the campus of New York University.   

AEPI started as a fraternity based in Jewish values, as many of its early members were barred from joining other fraternal orders. Today, alumni total over 100,000. As a sophomore and junior, I held the position of Master, or President of the Alpha chapter at NYU. Some of my closest friends from college stem from this experience, and while we all attended different universities, the four clergy who share this brotherhood share both pride and fond memories of being a lifelong brother of AEPI. But the fraternity, as you may imagine, was not always all about the comroderary, fellowship, and call to improve our community. I entered as the second pledge class following a “reformation” of the chapter following a probationary period. National would God forbid cut ties all-together with its Alpha chapter.  Our pledge period had what I’d call “hazing light” under tight scrutiny. Within a few years of graduating, the chapter had disbanded once again due to a number of issues and restarted once again. For while the vision of the Immortal 11 may have focused on togetherness and brotherhood, the modern chapters have been dealing with a pressing issue since the age of Animal house- “boys will be boys.” Even in our own pledge class, I remember the sense of acceptance because we thought to ourselves “well, compared to what we could have done…”

I’ve seen the acceptance of this world of the  “old boys club” in other places. It’s taken over a decade to slowly change the culture of my own Cantors Assembly, where conventions used to be marred by inappropriate language or behavior. The back room, where colleagues share in a cigar, a drink, and conduct unfit for a person of the cloth, exists for many organizations. There are typically two reactions to this- You can be shocked, or not surprised all.

I say this in recognition of the sentencing this week of Dr. Larry Nassar. As Washington Post columnist Sally Jenkins writes:

“It’s only the worst sex abuse scandal in the history of sports, and maybe in the history of this country. USA Gymnastics not only allowed serial pedophile Larry Nassar unsupervised access to the scores of girls in its charge over 30 years, it required them to submit to him and his utterly unjustifiable (vaginal) examinations. There was no saying, ‘I don’t like this doctor, I want my own.’ The organizations systematically deprived them of any right to say no, to ask for alternate treatment. It makes Hollywood rapes look principled.”

Charles Pierce of Sports Illustrated contends:

Burn it all down. That is the calm and reasoned conclusion to which I have come as one horror story after another unspooled in the courtroom. Nobody employed in the upper echelons at USA Gymnastics, or at the United States Olympic Committee, or at Michigan State University should still have a job. If accessorial or conspiracy charges plausibly can be lodged against those people, they should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Those people should come out of civil courts wearing barrels. Their descendants should be answering motions in the 22nd Century.”

These fraternal orders have abused a power that should’ve been used for good. The relationships that could have improved this world are used to exploit not just those on the margins, but those taking center stage. In the Jewish world we’ve seen this abuse not just from the abusers themselves, but the communal space that allowed the inappropriate acts to continue. I’m not talking about Hollywood. I’m talking about the world of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, the world that knew of his misconduct with underage girls and yet allowed it to continue under the guise of “its part of the times.” The same excuse would be made for those in leadership positions in our national youth movements in the 80s and 90s. “It was part of the times.” The dangerous excuses that have dangerous consequences.

So where is the model for leadership amidst the blindness and complacency?  

Over the past few years, we have looked at Shirat Hayam through the scope of musi and of theatre, but the Song of the Sea, and song in general, has a power to strengthen us as a call to action. Through song, we have the strength to push on, to make our case known.

The Shorashim (roots) of song illustrate this power. Nigun- Nun, Gimel Nun translates to melody, but it is also the word for shield, or defense (Magein).

Rena means joyous song, but it is also a shout for joy, a wake up call. Zemer means “to prune.” Moses’ famous line “Ozi V’zimrat Ya” can be translated as either “God is my strength and song,” OR “God is my strength and my cutting force.’” Song is a cutting, loud and defiant call as our defense against the silence and dismissive language.

We can’t understand the magnitude of the moment without being witness to what happened in Egypt. So where were we before this jubilant song?

The 18th century Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto (1707 -1746) writes

“This is the advice of the wicked Pharaoh, who said: “Let heavier work be laud upon the men and let them keep it and not pay attention to false words” (Exodus 5:9). He intended not only to leave them no spirit whatsoever, so that they might not think or plan against him, but he attempted to deny them any opportunity for reflection through the constant and incessant burden of labor.”

In Egypt, we were denied the option of living without fear, of having the space to reflect. Freedom, at the other end of the sea, is the ability to sing our song, to shout our words, to reflect and praise. THIS is the message. To remember the exodus from egypt, the journey. The miracle that we could finally shout from the mountaintops in praise of being in that moment following the parting of the sea, when Pharaoh and all that he represented was behind us. This is the reminder for this shabbat and every shabbat in fact, zecher litziyat mitzraim, to appreciate what we have.  

But our Shabbat is not just for the appreciation of our ability to relax and contemplate the world. In remembering the journey out of egypt, we have a constant reminder that we too must shout as witness to what is right in the world, and what is wrong; to find the enslavements of those around us and treat them as our own. No more dismissals.

This song, this wake up call, the putting of Pharaoh and his Egyptian fraternity on notice, was orchestrated by a team of leaders.

The Prophet Micah 6:4 states,

“ In fact, I brought you up from the land of Egypt, I redeemed you from the house of bondage, And I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.”

The three siblings are intertwined, but Moses and Aaron share a unique brotherhood given the political power both would acquire. Moses’ and Aaron’s uncomplicated reunion signals a vastly different relationship than the brothers of the book of Genesis. There is no sadness for what could have been; no long embrace. Rather, they are constant communicators, their relationship harmonious.  

As for Miriam,

Exodus 15:20-21 states,

(20) And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. (21) And Miriam sang unto them: Sing ye to the LORD, for He is highly exalted: The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea.

Her line שִׁ֤ירוּ לַֽה’ כִּֽי־גָאֹ֣ה גָּאָ֔ה ס֥וּס וְרֹכְב֖וֹ רָמָ֥ה בַיָּֽם׃ parallels the earlier verse אָשִׁ֤ירָה לַֽה’ כִּֽי־גָאֹ֣ה גָּאָ֔ה ס֥וּס וְרֹכְב֖וֹ רָמָ֥ה בַיָּֽם׃, where I sing to God about the handiwork God has done to place horse and rider in the sea. Now, through Miriam’s words, we all sing to God for the horse and his rider are in the sea. This isn’t the celebration of the Egpytian deaths. Think about that image- horse and rider; elevated, in power. Hone in on that image- in which the Egyptians thought that we were lower, treated us as lower beings.

With a timbrel in her hand, Miriam elevated all of us, as she stood and bore witness that moment. With a timbrel in her hand, the message was loud, portable and palpable. We are not lower, we will call you out for what you did. Even from a young age, Miriam beared witness to the world around her. Exodus 2:4: And his sister stood from a distance to know what would happen to him.

In the Talmud, Sota 11, we learn that Miriam and another character from our story, Puah, are one and the same. “Puah” refers to “cooing” and rocking a baby, perhaps a reference to her nuturing of young Israelites. But Shemot Rabah, the midrash of our Exodus story, cites another meaning of Puah as she was insolent (hofi’ah panim) toward Pharaoh and looked down her nose at him.  This was Miriam standing up to Pharaoh by saying “no.” She looked down her nose at him long before she did the same at the horse and rider at the Sea of Reeds. She was a whistleblower protecting the most vulnerable Israelites, its children.

Through this narrative, we end up with a positive model for leadership fueled by brotherhood of all things. In Moses and Aaron we learn that in a society of questionable brotherhoods, groups of men can build healthy relationships, turning the old boys clubs on their head.

Most importantly, we end up with a prime example of being elevated by the women around us. Miriam stands up, calls out what is wrong, and the community and the rest of the leadership acknowledge the sacred words she proclaims as Miriam Hanivia, Miriam the prophet.    

So let us be like our male leaders, Moses and Aaron, like the organization we honor this morning, our Men’s club, that uses their relationships to build bridges while also building sukkot, who brings men of all ages together to enhance their own lives as well as that of their own families; who on the national level teaches and engages our men in a series of workshops entitled “Hearing men’s voices”; a group that prepares its members to help facilitiate shiva minyanim during a family’s most trying hours; a group that is open to being real and raw, spiritual and religious, and above all else, the farthest from the old boys club.

Let us be like our timbral bearing leader, Miriam the prophet, who called a spade a spade and shouted that change was upon us. And when it isn’t our turn to be like her, allow those prophets amongst us to share their stories so that we ourselves will be elevated. May their stories enable us all to find holiness in the communities we are a part of, to repair and reclaim that which is broken, to not only act like but BE the brothers and sisters that we can and should be. 

We have a lot of sports metaphors in this week’s parsha. First and foremost we have the description of the Red Heifer, which happens to have been my high school mascot (going 20 years strong). We talk about animal sacrifice- one key animal is the GOAT, or for sports enthusiasts, the “Greatest of of All Time”; Moses “hitting the rock” sounds like either a curling play or something that happened in the WWE. Maybe the greatest sports pun of our torah portion is the story of those who have touched a dead body, aka those who have been “near death.” The torah states that these individuals are anointed with fresh water from a vessel” – Mayim chaim el kelly. This could be in reference to the “near death” experience the Buffalo Bills had 24 years ago, when second-string signal caller Frank Reich, subbing for an injured Jim Kelly, led The “Greatest Comeback in NFL History”, as the Buffalo Bills overcame a 32-point deficit, near death, to defeat the Houston Oilers in their 1993 playoff matchup.

So sports, therefore, become a natural connector to the stories of the bible. For some, sports have a more accessible set of liturgy- the rules of the games are fairly straightforward (and we know why they exist), We are mesmerized by the individual feats. We kvell in success and are filled with tzuris in times of great angst. Above all, we are moved by the storylines that trascend the Xs and Os of a game.

I grew up hearing  “Havlicek stealing the ball“, watching old footage of Flutie’s Hail Mary and Carlton Fisk willing the ball fair; seeing Bobby Ohr fly through the air. THat’s Boston for you. These were photographs on a wall that told a story of our people. But I didn’t live through them. I more vividly remember Kordell Stewart to Michael Westbrook’s Hail Mary connection propelling Colorado over Michigan, Joe Carter’s series clinching home run for the Toronto Blue Jays, Bryce Drew’s miracle shot versus Ole Miss, and Brett Hull’s controversial series clincher for the Dallas Stars. Removed from earlier great moments, The winning guarantee was not Joe Namath’s Super Bowl III decree but Mark Messier’s Stanley Cup finals pledge.

Each of these moments de-emphasize the journey, focusing on those final few seconds. How we perform in the clutch final two minutes is somehow more heroic than how we perform for the first 46. A horrific display of athletic talent can be redeemed through one magical moment that we lift up higher than the sum of the work. And vice versa, a glorious career may be clouded by not having won the big game.

This past Super Bowl, a tale of two halves, is a perfect example. A few weeks ago, my family visited Disneyworld’s Hollywood Studios. While participating in the Frozen Sing-A-Long, one of the actors made an Atlanta Falcon’s joke, referencing “28-3”, the lead the Falcons had over the New England Patriots. For Patriots fans, the 28-3 stat line references the largest comeback in Super Bowl history, not how poorly they played for most of the game. For Falcons fans, it reflects a failure to close out the game rather than how they outperformed the Patriots in every way for the earlier parts of the game. How we do in the big moment seems to matter so much more.

Moses’ big moment comes in this torah portion. He’s almost at the finish line. After hearing the complaints of the Israelite people for yet another time, Moses proclaims

“Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” And Moses raised his hand and struck the rock twice with his rod. Out came copious water, and the community and their beasts drank. (NUmbers 20:10-11)

The story focuses on disobeying God’s command to speak to the rock. But we’ve been here before. In Exodus 17, the people complain, and God instructs Moses to hit the rock; out came the water. Moses ignored God’s new decree because he knew what worked the first time. He took the shortcut. But something else changed between the two narratives. Moses rebukes the people- “Listen you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” reminds me of Russell Crowe’s line from the movie Gladiator:” Are you not entertained?”

Rashi and Ramban debate the sin of Moses. One says it was the act of striking the rock, the other saying it was this line, “Listen you rebels” Yet they are intertwined. The Kedushat Levi contends that it is a total lack of patience with the people that led Moses to sell them sort, rather than uplifting the people. He insists that ordinary people can and indeed must be raised to the highest rung.

For my own sensibilities, more than the clutch playoff performance, I am often moved by the mundane sports moment that suddenly becomes extraordinary. A preliminary race, a regular season game, takes on new meaning.

As the Baseball Hall of Fame puts it:

It was July 1, 1945 (72 years ago today) – less than eight weeks after Germany’s surrender ended the European war and a little more than two months until the end of the battle in the Pacific. Hank Greenberg, who entered the Army Air Corps four years earlier in May of 1941, stepped to the plate in the bottom of the eighth inning of Game 1 of a Tigers vs. A’s doubleheader. It was his first game in the majors since his discharge two weeks prior, and Greenberg was already 0-for-3.

No one – not even the two-time American League MVP himself – knew for sure if a player could return from war and regain his previous form.

But with one swing – a blow that sailed into the left-field stands at Briggs Stadium and electrified the crowd of 47,729 fans – Greenberg answered the all the questions.

The heroes of baseball were on their way home.

An ordinary game, an ordinary moment, became extraordinary. Greenberg, not only as a baseball star, but a Jewish baseball star, returning from the atrocities of WWII to lift up an ordinary July 1 day.

Another favorite sports moment comes from Barcelona, 1992. Sprinter Derek Redmond blows out his hamstring in the semifinal heat of the 400meters. Grimacing from the pain, Redmond hobbles on one leg as he makes the turn around the track, determined to finish the race.  His father jumps his way through security to the track, helping his son finish the race with arms draped around one another. It becomes a symbol of determination, of the love a father has for a son, of perseverance through adversity.

A few years ago, a number of high school and collegiate videos went viral for showcasing an opponent helping out the other side. These are the examples of greatness when you least expect it. A simple act of sportsmanship, like carrying your opponent around the base path after they’ve torn their ACL, carrying your teammate across the finish line, we remember those moments long after you remember the rest of the stat sheet. These sports moments are a manifestation of the credo to have faith in people.

The ordinary becoming the extraordinary combats our highlighting of the failures when we expect greatness. But for every Lance Armstrong or Ben Johnson, there is a Derek Redmond to lift us up. For every person who shaves points and cuts corners, we have teammates who carry their fallen friend on their backs.

We are people of the book- Am Hasefer. The book, the torah, is a collection of laws, of does and don’ts. But it is also a parable, a collection of stories. Even this week’s torah portion, Chukat, taken from the root “Khok” (meaning law), we are driven to the narrative rather than the list of instructions. And so if we are truly a people of the book, we are also bound by the stories we read, the insights gleaned. We learn from Moses not only from his great leadership, but from the times when he comes up short. We learn that Moses is punished not only for his lack of faith in God’s instruction, but more importantly, his lack of faith in his people. We glorify the greatest feats, but we must remind ourselves that the ordinary can become extraordinary through faith in another. In believing in one another, our moments on this earth become more memorable; our marks more indelible than we could have ever imagined.

BONUS:

Hazzan Holzer’s Top 10 Biblical Sports Comparisons

1. Mr. October  = Kohein Gadol, The high priest (High Holidays, Sukkot, Shmini Atzeret and Simchat Torah)
2. Kerri Strug (she scored a perfect 10) = Minyan of a routine
3. Miracle on Ice = defeating the Egyptians at the Sea of Reeds
4. Kirk Gibson’s World Series home run = teaches that you can really learn all of Jewish thought and practice “on one foot”
5. Tebow’s “The Promise”  = Ruth’s “The Promise” to Naomi
6. Buster Douglass vs. Mike Tyson = David vs. Goliath
7. Broadway Joe’s Super Bowl III guarantee = God’s decree that Abraham’s decendants will be as numerous as the stars
8. UCONN women’s basketball 111 game winning streak  = “It rained for 40 days and 40 nights”
9. Bill Buckner = the scapegoat (or the sacrificial lamb)
10. Former Jaguars GM Gene Smith = one of the 10 scouts who described the land as being filled with giants while we were grasshoppers

Excerpts from sermon delivered June 17, 2017

Each of us is tasked to scout into the “Promised land” for all who make up our tribe. How we perceive of what we are seeing and the impactful words we use to describe these moments, shape our reality moving forward.

The scouts of Shelach Lecha were seeking out, exploring something new. They were in search of a way to access this new frontier. But they got scared. The 10 Spies weren’t lying- they reported an accurate depiction of the land, but they saw themselves as grasshoppers, the text states

“and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves and so we must have looked to them” (Numbers 13;33)

Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk taught

‘You are certainly permitted to say that you feel like a grasshopper in your own eyes. But what right do you have to imagine how you appear to someone else? To them, you might have appeared as angels.”

Imagine you invite a friend to synagogue for the very first time. Or maybe someone visiting for a world religion class.  If you had to pick one ritual experience that you might consider a “weird moment in judaism” to be their first exposure to Jewish communal practice, what would that be?

I distinctly remember a morning in high school when our interfaith encounter partners from a local catholic high school attended our chol hamoed succot service at school. Phylacteries, prayer shawls, chanting back and forth as we processed around in a circle with our lulavim and etrogim. The entire time I felt like the grasshopper, but afterwards I discovered that our visitors were fascinated by our rituals, and deeply respected our commitment to our faith. “But what right do we have to imagine how we appear to someone else? To them, we might have appeared as angels.”    

In accepting his Tony for Best Actor in Musical, proud Camp Ramah alumnus Ben Platt stated the following as the music played him off stage:

 “Don’t waste any time trying to be anyone but yourself, because the things that make you strange are the things that make you powerful.”

Don’t waste any time trying to be anyone but yourself, because the things that make you strange are the things that make you powerful.

We hear something might be “different” or “strange” and we interpret as dangerous or in the wrong. But what if what is different, what is challenging, what is strange, empowers us as individuals and community.

When we journey through the unknown, when we see something different, we should remind ourselves that we all connect to the world in different ways. We all have different points of access. It’s important to acknowledge that fact. We are stronger when don’t label ourselves or others. We are stronger when all have access.  We are strong because, admit it, we are all a little strange. As we remind ourselves throughout our sacred texts, for we were “strangers” in the land of Egypt. Doubling down, our text this week states:

For the generations to come, whenever a stranger or anyone else living among you presents a food offering as an aroma pleasing to the Lord, they must do exactly as you do. The community is to have the same rules for you and for the stranger residing among you; this is a lasting ordinance for the generations to come. You and the stranger shall be the same before the Lord: The same laws and regulations will apply both to you and to the foreigner residing among you.’” (Numbers 15:14-16)

It is who we are. Let it strengthen each of us for generations to come.