The Man with the Coal-Covered Lips – A Poem for Haftarah Yitro by Rick Lupert

Isaiah, the self proclaimed one with the unclean lips
takes coal in his mouth (it’s not so easy to give up

coal when it goes so far back) given by angels
with six wings each (behold the angel hierarchy

we thought they only had two) and takes on
the work of passing on the Words. (Capitalized

on purpose…these words come from the
Holiest Mouth.)

Remember when the Israelites saw the Light?
There were commandments and a mountain involved.

It was too bright and they complained couldn’t
someone else put their eyes on that light?

Years later Isaiah volunteers for the job.
He will speak of the woes and inevitable failings.

He with his coal-covered lips and no-wings
whatsoever. He’s got a whole book out and

thanks to its inclusion in a larger volume,
he’s literally one of the best selling authors

in human history. We’re constantly quoting him
holy holy holy – Get up on your toes when

you say that. The person in front of you is
probably too tall anyway. You’ll want to see

the view of the desolate cities, the empty houses,
the old cousin of the cashew tree which no-one

has seen for a millennia. And that’s where we stop
unless your Ashkenazic. Then there’s extra reading

for you. A whole other section in which
everything turns out okay.

God Wrestler: a poem for every Torah Portion by Rick LupertLos Angeles poet Rick Lupert created the Poetry Super Highway (an online publication and resource for poets), and hosted the Cobalt Cafe weekly poetry reading for almost 21 years. He’s authored 21 collections of poetry, including “God Wrestler: A Poem for Every Torah Portion“, “I’m a Jew, Are You” (Jewish themed poems) and “Feeding Holy Cats” (Poetry written while a staff member on the first Birthright Israel trip), and most recently “Donut Famine” (Rothco Press, December 2016) and edited the anthologies “A Poet’s Siddur: Shabbat Evening“,  “Ekphrastia Gone Wild”, “A Poet’s Haggadah”, and “The Night Goes on All Night.” He writes the daily web comic “Cat and Banana” with fellow Los Angeles poet Brendan Constantine. He’s widely published and reads his poetry wherever they let him.

Photo from Max Pixel

TABLE FOR FIVE: Five takes on the weekly parsha


“As Pharaoh drew near, the Israelites caught sight of the Egyptians advancing upon them. Greatly frightened, the Israelites cried out to the Lord. And they said to Moses, ‘Was it for want of graves in Egypt that you brought us to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, taking us out of Egypt? Is this not the very thing we told you in Egypt, saying, “Let us be, and we will serve the Egyptians, for it is better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness”?’ ”

Rabbi Eve Posen
Congregation Neveh Shalom, Portland, Ore.

As a parent of young children, I live in a world of contradictions. I always have two simultaneous thoughts running through my head: wanting my children to remain forever in the stage they are currently in, and at the same time, wanting them to move out of this terrible phase and mature already. And it never fails: The minute they’ve reached a new milestone, I go through the same emotions again.

A popular way to examine the relationship between God and the Israelites is as that of parent and child, and the notion of stages of growth fits that comparison perfectly. When they found themselves in Egypt, naturally the Israelites were unhappy as slaves. The minute they were free, the harsh realities of that freedom made them yearn for the comfort of what was familiar.

This tendency is human at a basic level. No situation, no moment in time is going to be without its own harsh realities. In reading about this phase of the Israelites’ journey into freedom, we are reminded to take a step back and reflect as objectively as possible before proceeding. We can attempt to wish away the phase, or we can stand up and set about doing the work necessary to change the reality into something better.

Does that mean I won’t long for the days of easier airplane trips and reliable nap schedules? Of course not. But I will do so knowing I made the most of each phase to prepare myself for the next one.

David Sacks
TV writer who podcasts at

Because I make my living as a comedy writer, people sometimes ask me if God has a sense of humor. My answer is that God created humor. When you look at the Torah, the clearest example of an actual written joke is when the Jews ask Moshe if he brought them to die in the desert because … “there weren’t enough graves in Egypt.”

It’s total sarcasm and, in my opinion, hilarious. Which brings us to a deeper question: Why create humor? According to the Baal Shem Tov, humor brings a person’s mind from a place of constricted consciousness to a place of expanded consciousness.

When you’re in a place of expanded consciousness, you see the totality of creation before you. You see God’s presence and goodness acting upon everything. And you realize that anything and everything that happens is an expression of HaShem’s love for us — whether we can understand that in the moment or not.

Constricted consciousness is, of course, the opposite: the understandable impulse to take things too literally, believing that events are not a part of something greater. Humor and laughter, while great in themselves, are actually subsets of a larger topic: joy. One of the surprising things I learned when I started studying Torah was the importance Judaism puts on happiness. As Rebbe Nachman put it, people are sad because nothing is going right for them. But what they don’t realize is that nothing is going right for them because they’re sad.

Rabbi Ari Lucas
Temple Beth Am

In hindsight, the choice to move from slavery to freedom seems inevitable. But it rarely is. Patrick Henry famously proclaimed, “Give me liberty or give me death.” But the Israelites in this passage seem to be saying, “If liberty means death, then we’re OK with slavery.” Not exactly the romantic freedom cry one might hope for from our Israelite ancestors.

Yet their expressions of reluctance carry an important lesson — that freedom requires making an active choice to leave the comforts of the status quo. In Henry’s time, there were Tories who preferred loyalty to the British crown to revolution. Gallup polls from the early 1960s show that large portions of Americans disapproved of the actions of the Freedom Riders and others engaging in civil disobedience for racial justice.

History and Torah remind us that the path toward freedom is rarely, if ever, inevitable. We must leave behind the comforts of the status quo — the world as we knew it — for the unknown dangers of the wilderness. In fact, every one of the Israelites who left Egypt will “die in the wilderness.” But Moses had the faith and courage to recognize that even if they did not reach the Land of Israel, their children would. Progress is not inevitable. It requires leadership, faith and courage — for us, just as it did for our ancestors.

Rabbi Mordecai Finley
Ohr HaTorah Synagogue, Academy for Jewish Religion, California

First take-away: Be careful of sarcasm with God. The Israelites could have said it straight: “We are afraid we are going to die here.” Instead, they belittle God (sarcasm is always belittling) and say “ … you brought us to die in the desert.”  Perhaps it had not yet occurred to God that this generation should die in the desert. Through this bit of contemptuous irony, the Israelites put the idea in God’s mind. Perhaps God’s unspoken response was, “Now that you mention it … ” Nearly everyone of this generation actually does die in the desert. The Israelites put the thought in God’s mind — and divine thoughts have the tendency to become reality.

Second: What does sarcasm say about its speaker? As a form of irony, sarcasm is a version of saying something, but in a different way. Sarcasm is a punitive form of irony. The intention is to ridicule. It is a form of lashon harah, destructive use of speech, and ona’ah be’devarim, inflicting hurt through words. We know from the Talmud (Bava Metziah 59b) that God can tolerate nearly all sin — you do your time in gehinnom (purgatory) and then come up to eternal bliss. Only one category of person stays in hell — those who call people by derisive names in public. God can tolerate weakness, but not meanness through words. God does not want such folks in heaven, and apparently not in the Promised Land, either.

People think: I am angry and afraid, so I get to talk how I want. Not true.

Rabbi Sari Laufer
Stephen Wise Temple

After a friend recommended that I follow @bymariandrew on Instagram, it started to seem as if Mari’s life somehow paralleled mine. Knowing nothing about her other than her illustrations, it seems that, like me, she is going through some big transitions — among them, moving. Last summer she posted an illustration showing a bunch of squiggly lines tangled together, captioned: “City Map When You First Arrive.” Next to that was a map with places labeled: Your best friend’s house. The best night of your life. Your favorite coffee shop. The caption: “How A City Map Looks When You’ve Lived There a While.”

Looking behind them in this moment, the Israelites see the city map they’ve always known. Even with its pain and fear, even with its degradation and narrowness, it is comfortable because it is known. Looking forward, the Israelites can see only the squiggly lines — the wilderness, the uncertainty … the unknown.

Kol hatchalot kashot, our rabbis teach. All beginnings are difficult. It is a teaching I have repeated often this year as my family and I started anew (back) here in Los Angeles.

It is hard to start over. It is hard to leave behind what we know, even when what we know is Egypt. It is hard to see only the squiggly, to not be able to imagine the map of a place you will come to love, a community you will come to build.

To step forward into the unknown is difficult and it is necessary. Then. Now.

Photo from Flickr/

Does God Want Higher Taxes?

Last week, Republicans did what they always do when they have power: They passed an across-the-board tax cut.

Not a single Democrat voted for the tax reform bill in the Senate or House. That’s a major shift since the 2001 tax cuts under George W. Bush, when 12 Democrats voted for that bill in the Senate, and 28 voted for it in the House.

Last week, Democrats rightly complained about the process, which was perfunctory and messy, complete with handwritten notes in the final Senate version. They wrongly complained about the structure of the tax reform bill, which they said raised taxes on the poor (false) to decrease taxes on the rich. And they hypocritically complained about increases to the deficit — when’s the last time Democrats complained about too much spending?

But it was peculiarly perplexing to watch religious Democrats complain about the tax bill by citing biblical text. Conservatives were high-handedly informed that God mandates higher taxes — that to care for the poor and the orphan, governments were instituted among men.

Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg led the charge, stating on Twitter, “If the Bible is so against systemic solutions to poverty, why is a jubilee year declared that releases people from debt to alleviate intergenerational poverty? What is leket, shikhah, pe’ah, and maaser if not taxes meant to create a safety net for those in need?”

Let’s begin with the bizarre contention that the Bible requires higher taxes. That’s simply untrue. The Bible talks about “taxes” (Hebrew: mas) in the traditional sense in only a few places: Solomon raised taxes, as did his son Rehoboam, with the result that the kingdom of Israel was split in half; Ahasuerus raised taxes at the end of the Book of Esther, a move that isn’t exactly seen as an unmitigated positive in the Talmud. The Torah’s emphasis on tzedakah is about private giving, not about government-enforced giving.

The Torah isn’t a guidebook for government welfare programs. It’s a guidebook for personal goodness.

Now, let’s talk other forms of biblical “taxes.” First, there’s maaser, tithing; Ruttenberg here probably is referring to maaser sheni, which in Deuteronomy 14 is directed toward the Levite, the stranger, the orphan and the widow (maaser is directed toward the priests alone). It applies only in the third and sixth years of the sabbatical cycle, and it’s 10 percent of the produce.

Then there’s shikhah, which occurs when you forget a sheaf in the field; you’re supposed to leave it for the widow and the orphan (Deuteronomy 24:19). That’s a rather de minimis contribution. Leket and pe’ah are referenced in Leviticus 19; leket refers to ears of corn forgotten on the ground, which are to be left there for the poor (again, this is de minimis); pe’ah refers to the corner of your field. The minimum amount for pe’ah is 1/60th of your field.

At best, then, we’re talking about a biblically mandated 11.7 percent of your produce every third and sixth year. Democrats want to maintain the highest tax rates at over 50 percent, if we include state and local taxes.

Finally, there’s shemitta and yovel. Shemitta mandates the waiver of all debts in the seventh year (Deuteronomy 15); yovel restores all land ownership to its original owner in the 50th year (Leviticus 25). Ruttenberg says that these mechanisms were designed to prevent accumulation of wealth. That’s untrue. Actually, they were designed to maintain tribal land ownership, since the Talmud says that yovel applies only when the tribes were living in their prescribed territories. And the rabbis designed an entire system, pruzbul, in order to avoid the impact of yovel and shmitta loans. It turns out that a system that routinely devaluates loans prevents their issuance, thereby harming the poor.

None of this is designed to undercut the notion that the Torah cares about the poor. It most certainly does. But our obligations are personal, not government-created; God wants us to act out of personal desire to help the poor. And not coincidentally, studies show that those who are most religious tend to give the most to charity, not those who point to the Bible in order to justify government cash-grabs.

The Torah isn’t a guidebook for government welfare programs. It’s a guidebook for personal goodness. To turn it into the former is to prevent the cultivation of the latter.

Ben Shapiro is a best-selling author, editor-in-chief at The Daily Wire and host of the conservative podcast “The Ben Shapiro Show.”

Fantasy concept of a human eye crying in the clouds

Crying With God

My sweet Marji, my daughter, my kin.
You bring me so much joy when you invite me in.
But your invitations stopped coming. Are you mad? Do you hate me?
Just let me explain,
My sweet Marji, my daughter, my kin.

It started on Day One, when I gave man the freedom of choice.
To love. To hate. To create. To destroy.
If I allow people to love, I also have to allow them to hate,
because freedom means no restraints.

My children have taken advantage of this freedom.
They chose to hate.
They chose to destroy.
Even though I disagree with their decisions, I cannot stop them.
I am helpless, restricted by the chains I put upon myself.
I push against these chains, but they do not budge.
I am left crying on the floors of heaven, unable to save my children,
Like my sweet Marji, my daughter, my kin.

So understand, sweet human, that I love you.
That I want to help you, but I can’t.
But let me comfort you. Let me be your father. Let me into your world.
So we can cry together.

Eva Suissa is the daughter of Journal Editor-in-Chief David Suissa and a student at Shalhevet High School. This poem was for a class project on the book “Persepolis.”


There’s a pounding within my chest

from the depths of my mortal flesh.

The Lord, He knocks upon the door.

His hand is hard — I want no more!

A painful pulse: “Let! Me! In!

It’s cold out here in all your sin!”

My God, I’ve all but lost the key

in the mess of my selfish greed.

These concrete walls I’ve put in place

blinded by desire. I need Your Grace!

So knock, Hashem, as hard as you must

to turn these walls back to dust.

I’ll take all the aches and all the pain

if I might be held in Your arms again.

Hannah Arin is a junior at Pitzer College pursuing a double major in religious studies and philosophy.

There’s No Such Thing As A Sinner

Some of us turn to the Sun and strum over our bodies in the shape of a rood. We play hymns over our hearts, passed down and over our DNA for generations.

Some of us turn to the moon and pluck lavender from our gardens — naked and howling. We write love songs to the low-hung clouds, as we sniff in a tidal wave that never was, along with the skin of an unfound planet home to yet nameless life, along with a hummingbird’s hiccup, all in a gust of wind. All in one inhale, we fill our hearts with the humid air, only hardly conscious of why exactly it makes us feel so full.

Some of us, move about only as much as we must to be able to spend the rest of our lives sitting, cross-legged, cross-eyed, our consciousness streaming across nebulae. Embodying everything — inclusive of nothing.

And most of us, we’re never really sure who or what we’re holding up so high. But despite this, we concede. With certainty, not always in God, but in our worship, however it is we worship, we worship.

We’re never really sure who or what we’re holding up so high.

And then, some of us won’t cross anything except that crossroad that leads to that one spot where you can get dope for ten a gram. We kick our leather feet through concrete dust and ash and scream “BURN IT ALL TO HELL!” as we tip our cups and the crown of our heads backward in a contrary bow.

And we scream to whom exactly?

Well, we’re not really sure who or what we’re holding up so high that we’re trusting that they could burn it all to hell. … We’re not really sure how high we’ve got to get to figure that one out. But despite this, despite our best efforts to flip the mountaintop upside-down and into a syringe, our subconscious concedes, and we, too, worship.

We may run to God or with wolves, by the light of violet flames, or into concrete caves, we may run however we like, but we may not outrun our mortal allegiance to worship, bringing us to our knees someway. Somehow. However it is, we worship.

Hannah Arin is a junior at Pitzer College pursuing a double major in religious studies and philosophy.

Keeping the Faith

I am a regular temple goer throughout the year, but there is something about the high holidays that brings me peace I don’t know how to properly articulate. I love my faith and could listen to my Rabbi give a sermon all day, every day, but there is nothing better than Kol Nidre with Rabbi Naomi Levy.  It is a moving service and I feel like I am in the presence of God on this particular day. Perhaps it is because I am surrounded by such a large group and we are all in prayer together, or maybe it is just because my heart is completely open on this day. Open to joy and sorrow, happiness and heartache. It is a day that matters to me.

I am going into Kol Nidre this year with both relief and fear. Relief to unload the weight of so many things on my soul, and fear about what my life will look like without so many burdens pent up inside me. After a year with so many unanswered questions and trials and tribulations, I have no expectations, but real hope when I go to Kol Nidre services. I simply want to be free. Free of my demons, of which there are many, and free of the busyness in my mind that prevents me from sleeping. I want my choices to be unaffected by cancer, and I want my future to become clear. No guarantees, just clarity after foggy days.

I am not the type of person who looks for guarantees in life. Things happen, both good and bad, and I am a roll with the punches kind of girl. I will think about the last year, thank God for holding my hand through all of it, and pray for the strength to be always be brave, even when I don’t think I can. I shall search for forgiveness, knowing it will come. I shall search for clarity, knowing it will come. I shall ask for sleep, knowing it will find me. I shall envision all of our names being inscribed in the book of life, and I will focus on keeping the faith.



A conversation with God before Yom Kippur

writer sits at her desk, hands limp at the keyboard. After several minutes of silence, she leans back, closes her laptop and speaks aloud.

ME: God, I confess I’m reaching out to you because I’m having severe writer’s block over what I should write for Yom Kippur.

GOD: [silence]

ME: It feels strange to talk to you like this. Outside of shul, I mean. We haven’t really done this in a long time. I’m not even sure you’re listening.

GOD: [silence]

ME: Right. You’re probably busy with more important crises than writer’s block. I’ve been reading about the ethnic cleansing of the Rohingya Muslims in Myanmar … the African famine … the hurricane damage … far-right parties in Europe … North Korea. You’ve got a lot on your plate. I don’t envy you. I think I’ll just update my journal.

GOD: [clearing throat] I’m sorry I’m late, Danielle.

ME: Holy shhh…!

GOD: This time of year is … [makes exasperated sound]. But I’m here now. In fact, I’m everywhere.

ME: Wow, I didn’t expect you to answer.

GOD: It has been a while, Danielle. You were much more expressive to me during your year of Kaddish.

ME: I’m sorry. I’ve been a little checked out. I guess I had more to say back then. It’s easier to pray when you have a purpose.

GOD: There is always a purpose to prayer.

ME: I get that in theory. But, you know, that was such a unique time, losing my Mom. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur come every year. It’s hard to just switch it on. I’m having a hard time making the whole holiday drama feel new.

GOD: What is old you will make new, and what is new you will make holy…

ME: Are you giving me a commandment? An 11th? Wait. Didn’t Rav Kook say that?

GOD: Yes, but I whispered the idea to him. We work in partnership, Danielle. He was a smart one, that Kook. One of my best. Very good listener. So were Moses, Buddha, Muhammad, Einstein, Beethoven….  The list goes on.

ME: Well, if you want to implant genius ideas in me, I can be a good listener.

GOD: I’ve been trying.

ME: Oh. Do you think you could try a little louder?

GOD: I don’t grant wishes, Danielle.

ME: Not even if it’s good for the world? Like, maybe you could “disappear” Kim Jong Un the way Mexican drug traffickers do with journalists?

GOD: Those journalists did my work well. I was proud.

ME: Why would you reward people doing “your work” with death?

GOD: Why do you think so negatively about death? It’s all part of my plan. I haven’t told you what happens after this.

ME: After life?

GOD: My ways are a mystery.

ME: That’s right. God works in mysterious ways. I’ll bet you whispered that one, too.

GOD: Indeed. It got shortened and sloganeered over the years, but it was best expressed through the German author Novalis: “We dream of traveling through the universe — but is not the universe within ourselves? The depths of our spirit are unknown to us — the mysterious way leads inwards.”

ME: Again, if you want to whisper things like that to me, I’m game.

GOD: Danielle, everything you need is already inside you.

ME: Then why doesn’t it feel that way? Why do I always focus on what’s missing, what’s unrealized and undone in my life? I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. You’ve given me so many gifts and blessings. But, still. Life is a lot harder than I imagined it would be.

GOD: If it were easy, you wouldn’t strive. My world needs strivers.

ME: I want to do your will, God. But the problems of the world are so overwhelming. To be honest, a lot of the time I get bogged down with the problems of my own life. How do I know what to focus on? Do you want me to heal the world or heal myself?

GOD: You have a beautiful soul, Danielle.

ME: Thank you for the compliment. And, for my soul.

GOD: You’re welcome.

ME: God?

GOD: Yes?

ME: I don’t want you to go away. This is kinda nice. I think I might need you.

GOD: Do you remember learning to ride a bike, Danielle? You didn’t ride on your own until your father let go. Sometimes I hide my face in order for you to grow.

ME: Wait! Before you go, I still need you to tell me what you want of me.

GOD: It’s in the Talmud, Danielle. Rahmana liba bayeh — I want your heart.

ME: But you already have it. I promise.

GOD: One thing I’ve never been able to figure out is why my children make so many promises they can’t keep. I even give you an out: Kol Nidre. Every year, all oaths are annulled.

ME: That doesn’t make any sense, though. Why wouldn’t you want me to keep this promise? How will we ever heal the world if every year you allow us to cancel our obligations?

GOD: Because there’s wisdom in annulling a promise.

ME: That doesn’t bode well for matrimony.

GOD: A promise, by definition, depends on certainty, and few things in this life are certain. I made it that way. I guarantee you life — but not an amount. Who shall live and who shall die is known only to me.

ME: And yet, you expect us to just go on — with courage, with purpose, in goodness — without knowing what’s in store for us?

GOD: Danielle, the human condition is one of uncertainty. If you can weather, with more peace of mind, the unknowns of your life — and your writing — you will live better. Life will unfold regardless of your needs or wishes. The spiritual task is how to bear the mystery, and how to help others bear it too.

ME: Bear the mystery. What does that mean? What does that look like? Should I give up writing and go help the Rohingya?

GOD: [silence]

ME: God? Are you still there?

Danielle Berrin is a senior writer and columnist at the Jewish Journal.

Photo courtesy of Pexels.

Neilah: The gates are closing, but where? When? How?

Like the grand finale culminating a fireworks show, something amazing occurs in the synagogue’s sanctuary at the end of Yom Kippur.

After 24 hours — a full day of fasting, praying, reciting po etry and absorbing scriptural readings — our souls have immersed in the flow of a day of spirit. Like angels, we dress in white and refrain from eating or attending to bodily needs. And like angels, we seek to soar upward, aided by our renewed sense of authenticity, purified from the distractions and dirt of daily life. The culmination of this packed day — filled with more mitzvot than any other 24-hour stretch during the year, crammed with ample time for reflection, contemplation and honest self-scrutiny — asks for something noble to drive home its message.

The uncertainty

Neilah delivers that grandeur, in music that is a hit parade of the High Holy Days Top 10, asking us to stand throughout the entire final service, ark open, all eyes forward, and with a culmination of responsive back-and-forth liturgy between cantor and congregation, culminating in the final blasts of the shofar.

Small wonder that as the noise crescendoes and then finally tapers away, we have the sense of being at a rally, at a crop harvest or in the final paces of a marathon. We’re sweaty, tired and hungry but champions of the spirit.

Again and again, our liturgy suggests the image of gates closing. We rush to squeeze through, but the gates are closing.

Which gates?

The gates to our hearts, cracked open by the time of intense prayer and introspection?

The gates of God’s compassion, eager to welcome us home?

The gates of heaven, inviting weary pilgrims to return?

Perhaps the gates of evening, as the setting sun meets a darkening firmament?

Or maybe the gates refer to a time limit. Isn’t part of what is special about Yom Kippur is that it is a time of particular promise for repentance, for changing our ways, for remapping our journey toward a more worthy destination? If so, then the closing of the gates refers to the time yet available for us to repent.

The gates: when and where

It turns out that the liturgy doesn’t help us resolve this ambiguity. Where are those gates? Inside our hearts? In God’s ample love? At heaven’s door? We never step outside the spatial metaphors to specify their location.

The choreography of keeping the ark open throughout the Neilah service offers a visual that the closing gates are literally just before our eyes: the gates of Torah.

But that “where” is never nailed down, never specified. And we don’t identify the “when” of our gates, either: The end of services? The end of Yom Kippur?

For us, the bigger paradox is that the very tradition that is rushing us to repent while there’s still time is unambiguous in holding that God always welcomes the sinner, is always eager for us to turn in repentance. There is never a time when God’s love is not greater than our shortcomings; never a time when God is too fatigued by our presence that we are not welcome to return. But if God always is eager to receive the sinner in repentance, then what’s the rush? Why do we feel pushed to hasten our process to coincide with the conclusion of Yom Kippur?

Unspecified gates in multiple time frames hardly sounds like a recipe for spiritual growth. Yet, it turns out that it is precisely in this uncertain swirl of multiple possibilities and shifting occasions where human transformation becomes possible.

Through paradox to growth

Were we to operate only with the assumption that repentance always is available, then we would never be motivated to actually change at a particular instance. Just as knowledge of our certain mortality infuses our life with a need to seize the day, so does the push of Yom Kippur as a time particularly favorable to teshuvah inspire us to more focused contemplation than a more open-ended process would.

But if all we had was a sense that we must repent today, before the end of the day, then repentance is paralyzed by the ticking of the clock, by the desperation inspired by time running out. It is precisely the paradoxical balance of an open-ended process joining hands with a particularly favorable moment that makes forward movement happen.

Similarly, were our tradition to limit the gates to one, then so many other portals would be closed to us. The gate of Torah is precious and vital, but it is not the only door we pass through. We turn, in different moments of our lives, to different openings: family, marriage, children, professional training and practice, spiritual discipline, pursuit of justice — to name a few. Each of these gates manifests the ways that the cosmos creates new possibilities for us, shows different ways that the sacred lures us toward our own optimal greatness. The gates must be specified, but not limited. There, too, it is precisely the paradox that allows us to squeeze ourselves through, self-surpassing, as is our God. 

RABBI BRADLEY SHAVIT ARTSON holds the Abner and Roslyn Goldstine Dean’s Chair at Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies and is vice president at American Jewish University.

Why Kol Nidre keeps calling

Although you are not sure why, you don’t want to be late for Kol Nidre. As the sun is going down, there you are in the car, even running a yellow light or two, hurrying toward the shul, temple, rented room or wherever it is you go to begin Yom Kippur.

It’s not as if you’re that religious, but somewhere in your head, where yontif memories are filtered into expectations, and doubt rubs up against belief, the majestic music and solemn words — of which you know only a few — are calling: Kol Nidre, ve-esarei, va-haramei, v’konamei.

As you look for parking, you wonder where these feelings are coming from. Is it that Kol Nidre is a powerful prayer or blessing? It’s neither. Kol Nidre, which means “all vows,” is a legal formula for the annulment of “vows, renunciations, bans, oaths, formulas of obligation, pledges and promises,” made not to another, but to yourself and God.

The murky origins of Kol Nidre do not provide much of an explanation for why it has had such a lasting grip on us. Although in Spain it might have relieved some Marrano Jews of guilt from the vows they took upon being forced to convert, many researchers believe the legal formula already was in existence long before that, sometime in the eighth or ninth centuries. The tradition of saying Kol Nidre also is supported by a Talmudic statement that calls for a similar practice to nullify every vow.

Whatever its origins, according to “A Guide to Jewish Religious Practice” by Isaac Klein, the purpose of Kol Nidre has been “to provide release from vows in matters relating to ritual, custom and personal conduct, from inadvertent vows; and from vows one might have made to himself and then forgotten. It does not refer to vows and promises to other people.”

Yet, throughout the formula’s history, that has not been the universal understanding. During the Middle Ages in Europe, for instance, some Christian courts and monarchs held that it meant a Jew could annul any promise. Some mid-19th century Reform rabbis, recognizing the confusion it could cause, even tried to do away with the legal formula.

Written in Aramaic, the language in which most Jews were conversant at that time, the idea was that everybody should understand it. Connecting us over the centuries to that age is the Jewish perspective that words are important, and that at times a promise made to ourselves or God was not made thoughtfully, realistically, with enough knowledge or the right intent, and we need a way to start anew. Kol Nidre presents that rare opportunity to reset, and perhaps it is this opportunity that draws us to hear it year after year.

Adding to its place in our lives, during the Ten Days of Repentance, the period of time from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, there is an opportunity to resolve issues between you and other people, but during Kol Nidre, there is an opening to resolve issues of the self and your relationship with God.

Helping to add drama to the recitation of this legal formula is the setting. Standing before the heavenly court of life and death brought to mind by the Yom Kippur liturgy, the recitation of Kol Nidre is the time to deliberate on our vows. The tradition is to repeat the formula three times, and thank heaven for that because even if we are late arriving, we still can hear the words: May they all be undone, repealed, canceled, voided, annulled.

Traditionally, the first time, one says the words softly, as one who hesitates to enter the ruler’s palace to make a request; the second, a little louder; and the third even louder, as one who is used to being in the ruler’s court.

Embellishing the courtly setting is the Torah pageantry. Before Kol Nidre is said, all of the congregation’s Torah scrolls are taken from the ark, and as an honor, presented to individuals to hold. In an unambiguous display, the staging lets us know under whose authority the court has been convened, and for good reason.

The Torah contains several verses concerning vows, and teaches that “you must fulfill what has crossed your lips and perform what you have voluntarily vowed to the Lord your God”(Deuteronomy 23:24). In so doing, it helps to explain the need and urgency for a legal formula that covers instances when we have messed up.

But for what year? Originally, the text read that the period the formula covered was from the “past Yom Kippur until this Yom Kippur.” However, according to “The Encyclopedia of Jewish Prayer,” Rabbeinu Tam (1100-1171), the grandson of the famous French Torah commentator Rashi, argued “’of what value is the cancellation of all vows to him who takes them and immediately declares them null and void?’”

He revised Kol Nidre to read “from this Yom Kippur to the next,” the text that most machzorim use today, although some Ashkenazi and Sephardic congregations use both, covering past and future. Others feel the revised text sufficient since it is ambiguous enough to cover the past and coming years.

For many Jews, the rush to hear Kol Nidre is not so much about the words as it is the music. Setting the table for a spiritual experience, and answering our emotional needs, if ever there were a song to begin a fast by, this would be it. Several variations are in use today, but most are derived from what is called a “Mi-Sinai” (from Sinai) melody — that is, according to Cantor Jonathan L. Friedmann, a tune “treated as if they came from Moses himself” — that emerged in Rhineland communities of Germany and France sometime between the 11th and 15th centuries.

Even if your singing voice is not one with the angels, or you can’t carry a tune in a bucket, you still can remember how some of Kol Nidre goes. Especially where it drops down low, then rises majestically, the music seems to imbue us with a sense of identity and a way to acknowledge our frailties.

The rush to shul has been worth it. Standing in the presence of Torah scrolls, family and friends, dressed in your best, maybe even in white, with the words and music washing over, we have arrived at that rare point in time when we can feel regret, and nullify some of our poor judgment.

Whether the formula gives us cover for the coming year or a chance to disavow past vows, we stand at a rare and powerful moment. Kol Nidre can lift us over missteps of the past year and help us to think, not twice but three times, before stepping into the new.

Photo courtesy of Pexels.

Having the eyes of God on us is a blessing

To be watched is to feel the expectation of the watcher. The driver is more careful with a police car behind, the high school athlete more adept with the cheerleader on the sideline, every performance heightened once there is an audience.

To be seen is to behave differently. It is to excite admiration, avoid censure — to be aware of being judged.

Walking inside our homes, we sigh with relief. The prying eyes of the world no longer are on us. We can loosen a tie, take off shoes, “unwind.” We are wound for the world that is always watching.

Watching need not involve a physical observer. The musical “Hamilton” celebrates the genius of the Founding Fathers with a song that reminds us what they knew: “History has its eyes on you.” The judgment of posterity can feel as real as the judgment of one’s neighbor or friend.

As much as we prize individualism, human beings are social creatures. Even as we act alone, we wonder what this person or that would think of our actions. We can feel embarrassed by something we do even when no one is around, for the eyes of others are always present as possibilities.

For the Jewish tradition, watching does not end at death. There is a practice called shemira, literally “guarding,” in which one watches over a deceased body after death until burial. We are watched literally until the grave.

Rosh Hashanah is a time when we are reminded that our actions are observed. It is a season of intensified watching. Jewish communal closeness means that we watch one another. Jews often come to High Holy Days services dressed in nice clothes; the paradox of dressing up your body when you are expected to bare your soul is not lost on them. Even those who are draped in finery make fun of the practice. But it persists because we will be watched: our clothes, our comportment, our words. The community will be there, and every community is a collection of witnesses.

Moreover, the point of the holiday is that God watches. Everyone gives account, every deed is known.

There are many reasons why this makes moderns uncomfortable. It anthropomorphizes God, as though the Creator were peeping through a celestial telescope to check us out. More disturbingly, it makes of God an ever vigilant and presumably harsh dictator watching at every moment.

The high holiday liturgy, however, refers to God as a shepherd and Israel as God’s sheep. Watching is not malevolent or dictatorial; it is a watching of gentleness, from the One who understands, and the One who is said in our prayers to have Ahavat Olam — eternal love. If we understand being watched as an act of love, as parents watch a child, the significance shifts.

To be watched by One who understands and knows you (Psalm 139: “Dear Lord, you have searched me and know me”) is a blessing. We are no longer alone. Most of our lives, we live inside ourselves, expressing but a small fraction of the drama, the dreams and the pain that make us human.

All day long, we think and experience, imagine and wonder about life, and then when we return home we are asked, “How was your day?” and we answer, “Fine.” Our internal drama is mostly lost. But there is a God who understands. On the High Holy Days, we renew our appreciation for the promise of not walking through life misunderstood and alone.

To feel that you are before God is to be aware of the consequences of your actions, to be sure. A simple photocopy of eyes taped to a wall makes us act more honestly. But the watching of God is not only an encouragement to ethics; it is a comfort. We will act better for the recognition that we do not act in secret. But we also will live more happily for the recognition that we do not live in isolation.

As the new year dawns, and we reflect more on ourselves than our screens, Jewish tradition reassures us: We are seen, and being seen is a gift and a blessing.

Shanah tovah.

Rabbi David Wolpe is the Max Webb Senior Rabbi of Sinai Temple. His most recent book is “David: The Divided Heart” (Yale University Press).

7 haiku for Parsha Nitzavim (in which the Jewish people have a dance party with God) by Rick Lupert

A deal is brokered
between God and those standing
here – and those long gone

Choose wisely – this deal
applies not only to you
but to your children

God is a party
dancing above – a joy our
parents remember

If we sin and have
to leave, don’t pack everything
God says, we’ll be back

The Torah refers
to itself, in itself – is
still being written

Moses – last day on
Earth – takes to writing a song
puts it in our mouths

On the day of his death
Moses predicts we’ll rebel
Reminds us – choose life!

God Wrestler: a poem for every Torah Portion by Rick LupertLos Angeles poet Rick Lupert created the Poetry Super Highway (an online publication and resource for poets), and hosted the Cobalt Cafe weekly poetry reading for almost 21 years. He’s authored 21 collections of poetry, including “God Wrestler: A Poem for Every Torah Portion“, “I’m a Jew, Are You” (Jewish themed poems) and “Feeding Holy Cats” (Poetry written while a staff member on the first Birthright Israel trip), and most recently “Donut Famine” (Rothco Press, December 2016) and edited the anthologies “Ekphrastia Gone Wild”, “A Poet’s Haggadah”, and “The Night Goes on All Night.” He writes the daily web comic “Cat and Banana” with fellow Los Angeles poet Brendan Constantine. He’s widely published and reads his poetry wherever they let him.

President Donald Trump delivers a speech in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, on May 21. Photo by Jonathan Ernst/Reuters

The trouble with Trump’s tolerance tour

Post-truth POTUS turns out to be perfect casting for tackling the One True Religion problem.

Even if it were someone else, not Donald Trump, pulling the planet’s attention to the world’s three Abrahamic religions; if it were Barack Obama or George W. Bush, say, or even Eleanor Roosevelt, making an ecumenical pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia, Israel and Vatican City, the trouble with tolerance would still be a burr under the interfaith saddle.

Pluralism is the euphemism for how we manage the mess made when the worshippers of different gods maintain that theirs is the One and only God, and when sectarian worshippers of the same God claim that their way of worship is the one and only Way.

We contend with this dilemma, as we do with other discomfiting realities, like earthquakes, mortality and incipient male-pattern baldness, by denying it. Pluralism whistles past the graveyard of religious persecutions, inquisitions, pogroms, coerced conversions, civil wars, crusades and genocide. Instead of dealing forthrightly with doctrinal warfare, we acclaim mutual respect a common value, and we declare religious diversity a feature of civilization, not a bug that’s infested human history.

As for the varieties of irreligious experience, contemporary pluralism treats nonbelievers as all in the family. Diversity extends the same welcome to atheists and agnostics that it does to everyone else. Ditto for anyone who identifies as spiritual but not religious. God is great, God is dead, God is nature, God’s a metaphor, God is you, God is me, God’s a mystery, God is now: Pluralism wraps its arms around interpretations like those with no less graciousness than it affords to God is Yahweh, God is Christ, God is Allah.

That message is beautiful, incoherent and very American. It’s the least bad answer to the tension between religions and democracy. It’s what we want our culture to depict and our politics to project – a supremely inclusive message to a world of warring faiths.

Saudi Arabia, whose Wahhabi Salafists finance Sunni warfare on Shia Muslims, is an ironic choice for President Trump to declare that his visit to “many of the holiest places in the three Abrahamic faiths” was a journey in the spirit of “tolerance and respect for followers of all faiths.” Trump himself is an improbable carrier of that message. He is the candidate who said, “I think Islam hates us”; who ran on a Muslim ban; whose simulation of Christian piety was a transparent hustle for the evangelical vote. The only One he worships is himself. Hypocrisy scarcely begins to describe his speechwriters’ paean to our kinship as children of Abraham; gall, cynicism and arrogance come to mind as well.

But one thing inadvertently equips Trump to reconcile the professions of unique truthfulness by incompatible religions: his utter indifference to the truth. Trump wouldn’t recognize a contradiction if it bit him on the butt. A fact isn’t a fact to him; it’s just a gambit, an alternative to consider. “Believe me” means “true”; “false” means “true”; “fake” means mean. Welcome to the epistemological fun house. Have a tremendous day.

If nothing is truly true, then there’s nothing to crown as the one true religion. Tolerance treats every belief as equally valid; Trump treats every belief as equally meaningless. Pluralism ties itself into pretzels trying to accommodate conflicting prophets and reconcile competing prophecies. But if prophecies are just fake news, interfaith dialogue is interfake dialogue, and the ultimate consequence of ultimate tolerance – hey, anything goes – isn’t a catastrophe, it’s Access Hollywood.

There’s a kernel of self-deception at the core of pluralism: For the sake of peaceful co-existence, we con ourselves into thinking that the truths that matter most to us don’t much matter at all. Trump, con to his core, flips that: Thinking that anything matters is the mark of a mark. Doctrine is for dummies; nihilism is bliss. Kumbaya, folks.

To solve the pluralism puzzle, there’s an alternative to Trump’s know-nothingism that appeals to me. Ken Wilber, whose work synthesizes wisdom traditions, calls it the search for the greatest common denominators, for the highest common factors, across all theologies and thought systems. For instance, the golden rule, do unto others, Kant’s categorical imperative, John Rawls’ veil of ignorance: whatever you call it, acting from that principle is what so many religions and moral philosophies exhort us to do, irrespective of their Gods or stories or paradigms. Instead of merely tolerating one another’s differences, we can actively discover ourselves in each other’s mirrors.

The Abraham narrative, which comes to me from the Hebrew Bible, has always troubled me. I know there’s commentary that makes it less fearsome than I find it, but I’m stuck in its literal meaning. When God tells Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, it strikes me as a cruel test of Abraham’s absolute obedience – and a warning that any failure of mine to obey the letter of God’s laws could be fatal.

I’m not comforted that I share this origin story with the other Abrahamic religions. It makes me wonder if fundamentalism – fanaticism – is what we really have in common. I’d rather connect with my spiritual cousins through Adam. His story puts the knowledge of good and evil in human hands. That got him exiled from the garden. But no one turned life after Eden into life after truth.

MARTY KAPLAN is the Norman Lear professor at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. Reach him at

Photo from Pexels

Shabbat mitzvah, party of two

“Whadadya say we celebrate God tonight … if you know what I mean?”

This, from my husband on a recent Shabbat. He’s not a Borscht Belt comedian, but he always sounds like one when he uses the “if you know what I mean” line.

After 17 years together, he doesn’t always get what he’s after with this, but unless I’ve already fallen asleep while he’s talking, it still makes me laugh a little. This time, the setup intrigued me.

“We’re going to celebrate God by having sex?” I asked in a surely-you-jest tone.

“Yes. You’re supposed to have sex on Shabbat. It’s a mitzvah.  Maybe even a double mitzvah!” he said, wiggling his eyebrows like an Irish Groucho Marx.

“OK, relax,” I said, laughing a bit more than usual at the thought of rabbis deliberating this and how they might have had a vested interest in making sex worthy of extra credit.

I don’t remember if we went for it that night, but it definitely made me curious if the whole sex-on-Friday-night-as-mitzvah angle was real.

Point of order: Before I met my husband, like more than a few Jews transplanted from New York City whom I’ve met, the only part of Judaism I was intimately familiar with was the food.

Yom Kippur featured cloyingly sweet and cheesy noodle pudding, softball-size bagels slathered with cream cheese like buttercream on a cupcake, topped with slippery, salty lox. Passover had matzo balls, tongue-stinging horseradish and pyramids of macaroons, not the très chic “macarons,” but thick, chewy, sweet almond-flavored macaroons. Rosh Hashanah meant sodium-enriched brisket with mushy carrots and gribenes, one of the few Hebrew words I knew, the other being rugelach, which I now know is Yiddish.

I couldn’t tell you what people ate or did on Shabbat, however, because I didn’t even know what it was until I was cast in “Fiddler on the Roof” in high school and then watched the movie. At dinner, Golda lights two candles and mysteriously waves her hands around and sings. Tevye joins and they earnestly serenade a table of dark-haired children about God protecting them. The camera pulls back and the whole village sings, too. In my defense, nothing like this ever happened in Westport, Conn., in 1982.

Although I wouldn’t have been identified as “self-hating,” I definitely wasn’t thrilled with being Jewish back then. It was a fact about me I had no control over that consistently made me “other.” When I moved to Los Angeles 20 years ago, I was so struck by how many Jews I met and how unapologetic they were. It was pretty fabulous.

Then I met my husband, a big fan of Judaism, and we had two children who we sent to a very happy Jewish preschool. Contrary to my childhood, our boys don’t have any negative associations with being Jewish. Through familial osmosis, if you will, I’ve learned about the religion. But apparently, according to my husband, not everything.

Always looking for a fun-loving way to prove him wrong, I did some sexual sleuthing. Turns out, since the Second Temple and apparently under the influence of the pleasure-seeking Greeks, the Talmud encourages men to “engage in physical intimacy with their wives.” As far as the “double mitzvah,” although there is a XXX-rated novel with the title, this is largely anecdotal, discussed at length by Jewish day school boys the world over.

The Talmud reference to my husband’s claim made it legit enough for me to accept that he wasn’t just “producing me,” as he calls it whenever I try to talk him into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

Not that I don’t want to have sex, by the way. I know I’m a woman and I’m not supposed to like it, but I do. It’s just, Friday night? Really, dudes? Because after a week — including, but not limited to, a two-hour daily commute, packing 10 lunches, making five dinners (OK, three), loads of laundry and visiting my mother in her Alzheimer’s home, where, despite dementia, she always remembers to ask, “Why does your hair look like that?” there’s nothing I want to do more than strip and dance around our perpetually unmade bed to Avinu Malkeinu.

I kid. True, Friday night is not my first choice to couple up with my husband. I’m spent and often pass out reading to my youngest. Nevertheless, and as much as it pains me to give credit to an all-male body of decision-makers, these guys were on to something with their getting it on “on the regular” encouragement.

I researched happy marriages for several years for a book I was writing, and guess what lands in the top three key elements of any marriage lasting more than 10, 20, 40 years, right up there with showing up for each other and listening?

If you guessed any activity you do together that ends with a solid “… if you know what I mean,” you get a gold Star of David. We should all be fruitful and multiply! Even when we’re done multiplying. Baruch HaShem!

Dani Klein Modisett is a comic and writer, most recently of the book “Take My Spouse, Please.”

Shock is followed by awe over Foer’s new novel

A colleague of mine admonished me to include a warning in my review of Jonathan Safran Foer’s brilliant new novel, “Here I Am” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). And so I will.

Be forewarned, dear reader, that there is plenty of explicit sexual language in “Here I Am.” Or, to be more precise, plenty of sexual imaginings, if not actual sex. For example, when Julia Bloch discovers that her husband, Jacob, has been engaged in sexting, Jacob thinks his wife is hinting that he should actually sleep with the other woman. “If you’re going to write pornographic texts to someone else,” Julia says, “then yes, I want you to have an affair. Because then I could respect you.”

Foer may address such lofty issues as the existence (or nonexistence) of God, the survival of the Jewish state, and destiny of the Jewish people, but he also understands and depicts the workings of human sexual imagination. For example, when it comes to the sex talk among the bar mitzvah students of the Adas Israel religious school, he observes: “If God existed and judged, He would have forgiven these boys everything, knowing that they were compelled by forces outside of themselves, inside themselves, and that they, too, were made in His image.” 

Like his earlier novels, “Here I Am” is both deeply literate and intentionally shocking. Foer’s stock of allusions range from Tolstoy to Yu-Gi-Oh!, from NPR to “Driving Miss Daisy,” from Descartes to Beavis and Butt-Head. Camus is somehow linked with Honey Nut Cheerios. The lyrics of a Kurt Cobain song are deconstructed. Brand names of personal care products are braided together into a kind poetry, and an actual poem, six pages in length, pops up in the narrative. A bathroom encounter with someone who may or may not be Steven Spielberg turns into a short discourse on the mysteries of circumcision. Thus does Foer seek to shock us and make us laugh, and he succeeds at both.

The storyline focuses on a family in crisis. The marriage of Jacob and Julia Bloch is slumping toward failure. “I walked seven circles around you when we got married,” Julia says. “I can’t even find you now.” Their son, Sam, is exploring gender identity through the avatar named Samanta, whom he created in an online game, and he is definitely uncomfortable in his own skin: “I am not good at life,” Sam tells his mother. Yet his bar mitzvah promises to be an extravaganza, if only because Jewish Americans “will go to any length, short of practicing Judaism, to instill a sense of Jewish identity in their children,” as Foer puts it.

At the same time, “Here I Am” presents us with a crisis with global repercussions, a mega-quake whose epicenter is under the Dead Sea. The cataclysm promises to draw Arab refugees into Israel in search of food, shelter and medical attention — and to frighten away Jews. The pope promises to pay for the restoration of the Holy Sepulchre, but the Greek Orthodox and the Armenians protest against papal interference with their holy sites. “Under cover of repairmen,” Foer writes, “a squad of Israeli extremists penetrates the Dome of the Rock and sets it on fire.” A regional war yet again threatens Israel’s survival, and the prime minister considers the nuclear option.

The two narratives collide. “The news that reached America was scattershot, unreliable and alarmist,” Foer explains. “The Blochs did what they did best: they balanced overreaction with repression.” Sam discovers the difference between fantasy and reality when he encounters his adolescent Israeli cousin, Noam, as yet another avatar in the online game that is Sam’s second life, or maybe his real life. On CNN, what may be the death throes of the Jewish state are on view. “It will pass,” Jacob Bloch insists to Noam’s father, Tamir, who is visiting America and is desperate to go back home and fight. “It won’t,” Tamir insists. “This is how it will all end.”

For all of his musings on sex, and his fascination with the downward spiral of marriage and family, Foer insists on confronting us with the most consequential of events and decisions. At last, Jacob vows to go to Israel and fight along with his cousins. Julia taunts him: “I’m guessing you’re not going to be called upon for specialized operations, like bomb defusing or surgical assassinations, but something more like ‘Stand in front of this bullet so your meat will at least slow it before it enters the person we actually value.’ ” But Jacob and other Jews like him are compelled to choose between their private lives and their place in history, a choice that was denied to so many Jews in previous generations. That’s what “Here I Am” is really all about.

The story reaches a moment of stirring moral grandeur when Foer imagines how the prime minister of Israel uses a shofar to summon a million American Jews to the fighting front. “The prime minister inhaled and gathered into the ram’s horn the molecules of every Jew who had ever lived: the breath of warrior kings and fishmongers; tailors, matchmakers and executive producers; kosher butchers and radical publishers, kibbutzniks, management consultants …; the false moan of a prostitute who hides children under the bed on which she kisses Nazis on the mouth …; the final air bubble to rise from the Seine and burst as Paul Celan sank, his pockets full of stones; the word clear from the lips of the first Jewish astronaut, strapped into a chair facing infinity.”

You will need to read Foer’s book to know the outcome of Israel’s imagined war of survival as well as the slow-motion collapse of the Bloch family. The book ends on a sorrowful and deeply poignant scene, but even the moments of pain and loss do not diminish the vital spirit, so authentically Jewish, that is the real glory of “Here I Am.” “Life is precious,” goes Jacob’s mantra, “and I live in the world.”

JONATHAN KIRSCH, author and publishing attorney, is the book editor of the Jewish Journal.

Do all believers believe in the same God?

Most Americans, including most Jews — despite the fact that so many Jews are secular — say they believe in God. And around the world, religious Jews, Christians and Muslims all say they believe in God.

But the truth is that this is largely meaningless. If all those who say they believe in God believe in the same God, then “God” and the statement “I believe in God” mean nothing. 

This should be obvious to anyone. To cite but one example, the God in whose name Muslims cut innocent people’s throats and gang rape young girls cannot possibly be the same God as the God of those who believe that God hates such actions.

Likewise, it is also wrong to claim that believing Jews, Christians and Muslims believe in the same God or even that all Christians believe in the same God, or all Jews believe in the same God, or all Muslims believe in the same God.

Given how obvious all this ought to be, who would argue that all those who say they believe in God believe in the same God? Generally speaking, the people who make this argument are people who have an anti-religious agenda. They say that all believers believe in the same God in order to discredit God and religion.

So, then, how are we to know whether any two people who say they believe in God believe in the same God?

The best we can do is to ask the following questions:

1. Do you believe in the God of Israel?

Those who cannot answer this in the affirmative do not believe in the same God that all believing Jews and the majority of believing Christians believe in. Believing Muslims should also answer in the affirmative. But, at least today, many wouldn’t.

The God of Israel is, among other things, the God introduced to the world by the Jews — the God who created the world, revealed Himself to the Jews, and made His moral will known through the Ten Commandments (see Question 3) and the Hebrew Prophets.

2. Does the God you believe in judge the moral behavior of every human being? And if so, does this God use the same criteria in judging all people?

The many modern individuals who say that they believe in God but do not believe that this God judges the moral conduct of human beings do not believe in the same God as those who believe in a God who morally judges. This is not some minor theological difference. Those who believe in a God that is indifferent to the moral behavior of human beings believe in a “God” that is so different from the God introduced by the Jews that, from a perspective of those who continue to believe in the moral God of Israel, they might as well use a word other than “God.” 

I hasten to note that this does not mean that such people cannot be fine upstanding people (any more than anyone who believes in the morally judging God of Israel is necessarily a fine upstanding person). Such people can most certainly be moral. But in general, such people are less likely to be moral for the obvious reason that human beings act better when they believe their actions will be judged (by God and/or by man).

I should also add that one need not be a believing Jew, Christian or Muslim to believe in the God who judges people’s moral behavior. There are many people who affirm no specific religious creed but who believe in a God who judges moral behavior. American Founding Father Benjamin Franklin was one such individual. He did not affirm the Christian creed, but he did believe in the morally judging God introduced by the Bible.

Now, one may argue that violent Islamists also believe in a judging God, and that Torquemada, the most infamous head of the Spanish Inquisition, also believed in a judging God. But the argument is not valid because they do/did not believe in a God who judges all people by their moral conduct. Islamists believe and Inquisitors believed in a God who judges people by their faith. Therefore to Torquemada and Islamists, the moral norms that apply to members of one’s faith do not apply to others.

For the record, Jews never believed — and the Jews’ Bible never suggested — that one must believe in Judaism in order to be favorably judged by God.

3. Do you believe in the God who gave the Ten Commandments?

The third question is related to the previous two — it was the God of Israel who revealed the Ten Commandments; and the Ten Commandments are the basis of Western morality. But this question, too, needs to be asked in order to ascertain what God a person believes in. After all, if we have no moral instructions from God, how do we know what moral behaviors God demands from us and therefore judges?

One final issue needs to be clarified. What about all those people who answer the three questions affirmatively but who have additional theological beliefs that separate them from others who believe in those three things? Do they believe in the same God?

For example, what about Christians who believe in the God of Israel, in a God who morally judges human actions, and the God who revealed the Ten Commandments but who also believe — by definition — in the Christian Trinity? Do they believe in the same God as Jews and other non-Christians who believe in those three things? I think essentially they do. And the same would hold true for a Mormon who believes in those three things but also has specific Latter-day Saint beliefs, or a Muslim who believes in those things but also believes that the Quran is the only fully valid revelation. 

Why? Precisely because a moral God judges people’s actions, not theologies — unless those theologies lead to evil actions. 

Dennis Prager’s nationally syndicated radio talk show is heard in Los Angeles from 9 a.m. to noon on KRLA (AM 870). His latest project is the Internet-based Prager University (

The meaning of coincidences

One of the most powerful ways we experience God’s closeness is through coincidences.

I know this is certainly the case with me. Stuff happens to me all the time that I can’t explain.

Here are two examples.

One Friday night, I was in shul and my mind wandered a bit. I realized that this was my anniversary of keeping Shabbos for the first time. In fact, it was exactly 20 years ago to the day. I wondered how many Shabboses that was. I did the math and multiplied 20 (years) times 52 (weeks) and arrived at 1,040 Shabboses. Then I realized something that made my head spin: That same week I began a new job. The street address number was 1040.

Another story.

One of my favorite Torah commentators is Rabbi Yitzchak Isaac Chaver, a tremendous 19th- century Torah scholar and kabbalist from the school of Vilna Gaon. The book of his I’ve been studying is called “Ohr Torah” (The Light of Torah). When I learned that he’d also written a commentary on the aggadot, the more esoteric sections of the Talmud, I ordered that, too. When the books arrived, I was overcome by emotion. I sat in my favorite chair, brought the books to my heart, and hugged them. At that moment, the phone rang. My daughter ran in to tell me that someone was calling for me. “Who?” I asked. “Ohr Torah,” she said.


There is a shul in the community called Torah Ohr, but the caller ID on our phone reverses first and last names, so the screen read “Ohr Torah” — the name of the book I was hugging at that moment.

How do you explain occurrences like these, and what are we supposed to do when they happen?

Usually, we throw our hands up in the air and say things like, “What are the odds!” or “Can you believe that?” But the sheer miraculousness of the events always left me feeling as if I wasn’t fully appreciating their significance.

So for years I struggled with what the appropriate response to coincidences is — or put another way — given that that just took place, what am I supposed to do now?

I once heard that coincidences were God’s way of waving, “Hello!”

Although that’s a lovely thought, there’s something problematic about it. Namely, God is waving, “Hello!” every moment! So given that, what makes coincidences any different from every other moment?

The question perplexed me.

Clearly there is a difference. But how do we express it exactly?

The question stayed with me until I reflected on the following teaching.

In Pirke Avot, a volume of the Talmud also known as Ethics of Our Fathers, Rabbi Akiva says, “Beloved are people for they were created in God’s image; it is indicative of a greater love that it was made known to them that they were created in God’s image, as it is said: ‘For in the image of God, He made human beings’ ” (3:18).

Rabbi Akiva is telling us something amazing here.

You see, something can be true, but it’s indicative of an even greater love when God shows us that it’s true.

Imagine this exchange between a parent and child. Child: “Do you love me?” Parent: “Of course, I love you.” Child: “Then how come you never tell me?”

The parent loves the child. But it’s indicative of a greater love when the parent makes it known to the child that he loves them.

Yes, God is everywhere.

Yes, God is saying, “Hello!” to us every nanosecond of our lives.

But when we experience a coincidence, God is, so to speak, “going out of his way” to make it known to us how present he is in our lives.

Contemplate how awesome that is! God is literally customizing a series of events unique to you just to make known to you how close he is.


In Torah, this is what we call an “ays ratzon,” a favorable moment. But if we translate the Hebrew literally, it’s even more powerful. It means “a time of desire,” meaning a time when God is expressing his longing for us.

During these moments, the rabbis teach us that the gates of heaven are open to our prayers.

Now we know what to do the next time a coincidence happens.


Pour your heart out and ask God for everything. 

David Sacks is an Emmy-winning TV writer and produces

How the Bible plays out in hospital intensive care units

In this week's parsha, V'zot ha-Brakhah, we read about the farewell blessing of Moses to the Israelites.  At 120 years of age, Moses views the land that God promised to Abraham and his descendents.  The Israelites will proceed to inhabit this land of milk and honey, but Moses will not.  Moses must die in the land of Moab just short of leading his people into the promised land.  Moses died “al pi adonai,” meaning that Moses died “at the command of the Lord.”

The Rabbis examined why Moses required the Lord's command to die.  In the words of Elie Wesel, retelling the Rabbis' analysis, “When Moses learned that his hour had come, he refused to accept it.  He wanted to go in living — though he was old and tired of wandering and fighting and being constantly tormented by this unhappy and flighty people he was leading across the desert.”  According to the Rabbis, Moses then haggled with God to continue to live, composing prayers, putting on sackcloth, calling on others for support and arguing “Don't you trust me?….Have I not proven my worth?”  God would not back down.  Wesel notes that after being advised by an angel to accept God's decree, Moses should have graciously heeded the sage advice.  But Moses would not and began to bargain according to Wesel:

We went on refusing to die, pleading, crying for another day, another hour, as would any common mortal….So great was his despair that he  declared himself ready to renounce his human condition in exchange for a few more days of life:  'Master of the Universe, he implored, let me live like an animal who feeds on grass, who drinks spring water and is content to watch the days come and go.  God refused.  Man is not an animal; he must live as a human or not at all. 

The Rabbis understood humans' unwillingness to give up life.  But they also understood that all humans must die.  The struggle to survive is innate in each of us, yet we need to learn that this strong impulse must be accede to a greater force.  The Rabbis recognized that humans would be willing to trade one's most precious attribute, humanity, to prolong life, if even for a brief time.  They projected that even Moses, the powerful and great leader of the Israelites, would be willing to give up cognizance of the nature of the world, recognizing others and being part of the human race just to eek out another day.

The Rabbis never could have imagined, but this battle plays itself out daily in intensive care units around the globe.  Man, imbued with the divine spirit, has developed medical advancements that rescue those with failing hearts, lungs, bowels and livers.  People who have experienced “sudden death” are hurriedly hooked up to blood-pumping, oxygenating, continuously detoxifying remarkable machines by amazing clinicians.  Some of these people miraculously walk out of the hospital to continue a renewed life.  But for many, these ventilators, artificial hearts and kidney machines cannot restore humanity. Instead, these machines and feeding tubes and medications yield broken bodies that cannot interact, cannot carry swallow or taste, cannot recognize loved ones.  Many suffer while maintained alive.

A study of critical care physicians at one Southern California hospital system found that more than one in ten patients receiving treatment in their hospitals' intensive care units were receiving treatments that would not benefit the patient in a meaningful way.  These treatments usually would keep a patient alive, albeit briefly for most, but not in a fashion befitting a human.  Many of these patients were comatose with no chance of improving, others could never survive outside of an intensive care unit, but medical technology with tubes and drips and endless effort could keep them precariously balanced between life and death in a room full of machines.  The physicians surveyed in this study, many deeply wounded by the experience, indicated that they should not be providing these critical care treatments.  But they were compelled to do so by families who could not let go, families who were willing to preserve life for an extra day or perhaps several despite the state of their loved one, the suffering and the cost.

The Rabbis, nearly two millennia ago, when herbs and leaches constituted the best medical care had to offer, recognized that man was not served by succumbing to the basic instinct to preserve life at any cost.  We can learn today that it is humanity that we must strive to preserve at all times.  And that there is sometimes a need to say “no, it is time to die.”

Dr. Neil S. Wenger is professor of medicine in the Division of General Internal Medicine at UCLA and a consulting researcher at RAND. He is director of the UCLA Healthcare Ethics Center and is chair of the Ethics Committee at the UCLA Medical Center.

On faith, belief and God

I love this quip from a favorite comedian of mine: “I have a lot of beliefs.  And I don’t live by any of them!” 

It’s different to have beliefs than to live by them.  And that difference speaks to a little problem we have.  Here it is: I am not sure we all believe in the God we say we believe in. Or that we pray to.  Or that we call upon and complain to when things get rough. Or the God we thank when things go well.  I’m not sure we all believe that. 

You’re all here.  The room is swelled.  You come to shul to be touched.  To grow.  To be in a spiritual place.  And what do we throw at you?  The Mahzor.  It is a beautiful and evocative text. But it is also filled with some of the loftiest images of God we have.  God as King.  God as Father.  God as Judge.  God as Shepherd who literally writes us in for life, or death. 

Is that the best Judaism has for you? Is that the extent of the God that can operate in your lives?

If you wonder a bit when you read those images, you’re in good company.

I’ll tell you a story from the Chasidic tradition.  A group of Chasidim know that their rabbi likes to daven in private.  Something intimate, something exquisite. They know they should let him be. But they can’t contain their curiosity.  They need to hear this prayer!  So they sneak in to a room just outside his chamber.  He’s just finishing up his morning prayers. He has gotten to a section called the Ikkarim, the 13 principles of faith that Maimonides wrote.  They each start with the words, Ani Ma’amin. I believe.  They are customarily said at the end of morning services.  The Chasidim are listening through the wall.  They overhear him crying, singing, daveningAni Ma’amin.  Ani ma’amin.  I believe!  I believe!  But they couldn’t hear the rest of the words.  So they lean in further.  Because it is so important to hear every word of their rebbe. “Ani ma’amin be’emunah shleymah…I believe with perfect faith.  Hal’vai Hal’vai Hal’vai.”  Do you know what Hal’vai means?  It is one of those great untranslatable Hebrew words.  Something like, “Oh would it be true.”  “I lashed out in a moment of anger.  Halvai I can hold back the next time my child pushes my buttons.  Hal’vai.”  Hal’vai is a prayer in and of itself.  Put that back into the story.  You have this Chasidic rebbe.  He is considered a paragon of perfect faith by his Chasidim.  They want to hear every word, every syllable of what he believes.  And yet everything he believes, he believes Hal’vai!  Would that he believed with a perfect faith that god gave the Torah at Sinai.  Hal’vaiAni ma’amin be’eumah shleymah…I believe with a perfect faith in the coming of the Mashiah… Hal’vai

I was unpacking this story with a dear friend of mine, Rabbi David Ingber.  We draw out two lessons from it, amongst many.

The first lesson: Even great men, and women, people you’d consider as religious role models…if we’re honest and true, there is always a recognition that belief and faith are aspirations.  I believe is a “yearning” statement. It’s a “yearning for.” It’s not the pronunciation of a perfect credo.  This rebbe—whatever he believed, he wanted to believe a little more.  In this model, you need to think of faith not as a thing that you have.  “Do I have faith?  Yes I have faith.”  No!  Faith is something you do, that you work on. Jews don’t have faith. Jews should be “faithing,” at all times.  We may ascribe to others that they have it all figured out. We may think they pray because they have faith. When in reality, they may not. They pray in order to try to achieve faith and most of the time they, and we, fail. The liturgy invites us, but believing the words is not a prerequisite to saying them. Often we add a Hal’vai.

The second thing that comes out of the story is that it is both hopeful and sad.  Why is it sad?  Why did the rebbe have to pray this prayer in private?  Why did he have to hide his doubts, instead of modeling them, actively, openly, bravely to his Chasidim?  And the hopeful part?  That is that his struggle for faith is faith.  His hoping to believe is a form of belief.  And it is exceedingly Jewish. Having doubts is a good thing in our tradition.  We shouldn’t have to keep them in the closet.  Our theology could be and should be out in the open.  And it should be all grown up.

That’s what I want to talk about today.  I want to open up for you a grownup theology.  What does that mean?  I’ll give you a slogan from someone I studied with this summer at the Hartman Institute, Rabbi Dani Segal.  He is the rabbi in the town of Alon in Israel.  Whenever he meets with new couples on the way to preparing them for the chuppah, he says that in their new home above their beds, there shouldn’t be a ketubah. It shouldn’t be a picture of them from their engagement. There should be a sign that works a little bit better when stated in Hebrew, a sign that says “Zehirut, Kan Bonim.”  “Careful. Work in progress.”

Grownup theology is a theology under construction. Whether you believe with a full heart in the God of the Mahzor, or you question it.  A grownup theology is a permission to be in process.  I am going to share with you some of the theologies that speak to me, that have redeemed me from pure doubt and a sense of meaninglessness.  Perhaps one or more of them will resonate with you.  But as your rabbi and as your friend, the takeaway is not the particulars of what you believe.  There are any number of images and theories of God that can work, for you, for me.  What I care about is that you are in process, and that what you believe leads you to a Godly life.  That’s the most important thing.

I want to share with you another story about a boy who comes to a rabbi.  He is forlorn and embarrassed.  He goes to the rabbi’s office and confesses,  “I don’t believe in God.”  He expects he will be corrected or reprimanded. Or even shunned and publicly embarrassed. But he can’t lie to his rabbi.  “I don’t believe in God.”  The Rabbi says, “…tell me about this God.”  And the boy says, “…which God?  I told you…I don’t believe in God.”  The Rabbi says, “—Tell me about this God you don’t believe in.”   The boy goes on to describe the God on the throne, the God who punishes and rewards every act.  The God of third-grade religious school.  The Rabbi says, “—you know what?  I don’t believe in that God either.  Now we can talk.”

In the story, the Rabbi echoes this little kid’s apostasy.  Or supposed apostasy. And then learning can begin.  So I share with you some versions of my grownup theology, which remains a work in progress. I share it with you not with certainty, because I don’t have it.  But with earnestness, and with options, and a sense that God can be reclaimed and can matter.  Not just in a foxhole, when you’re in crisis. Not just in a throw-away English phrase when you “thank God” after the last out of a baseball game. But as you construct and try to live through a Jewish life that matters.

These theologies, that are from some of the brightest Jewish minds of our times, are amalgamations of centuries of thought and development of the idea of the Jewish God. 

We’ll start by speaking of a man named Rabbi Art Green, who is a Kabbalist, philosopher, and a theologian.  He directs the non-denominational rabbinical school at Boston Hebrew College.  He is a wonderful, ideological thinker for all of us to get to know.  Here is his theology, Rabbi Green’s sense of God, which he hears not as a rejection of traditional Jewish thinking, but rather he hears this idea screaming out from our sacred texts.  Believing in God means believing in a world where the other obligates me.  The fact that you live, and that you are also from God, and of God— that fact puts a claim on me. I cannot ignore you.  Or if I do, I am also ignoring God.  Part of it based on Chasidic notions that emerge from the Talmud and Kabbala. Here is Arthur Green in his own words.  As you hear them, ask yourself, “Can I believe this? And if I did, what would it mean in how I lived my life? My Jewish life?” 

“Listen to one of the great Jewish sages, the Chasidic master Sefat Emet of Gerer, who let this secret truth out of the bag in a letter he wrote to his children and grandchildren:  It is entirely clear to me that the meaning of the Shema, that God is One, is not that He is the only God, negating other gods (though this too is true!).  But rather there is a deeper truth.  There is no other being than God.  Everything that exists in the world, spiritual and physical, is God himself.”

Does that sound too modern, too 21st century, too foofy, too liberal?  Too universal?  Not specific enough?  This is the Chasidic Rebbe of Ger, giving these words as an inheritance to his children and grandchildren!

Back to Rabbi Green.  He re-reads the Shema, that prayer we are so sure we know.  Hear O Israel Lord is God Lord is one?  No.  That’s not what it means, or at least it’s not the only thing that it means.  Rather, it means this: Listen, Yisrael (from the Hebrew meaning to struggle), all you who struggle, who wrestle with life’s meaning.  Being is our God.  Being is all unified, it’s all one. 

To Rabbi Green, and the Gerer Rebbe, God means that all is one.  God means your understanding that the person sitting next to you, in that nice suit, or the ones across town with different colored faces, and the ones who are hungry and the ones that are lonely, and who are fleeing Syria, are extensions of us, because we are all God.  To Green, that knowledge, that truth, that awareness is God and Godliness.  And acting from that awareness is living with God.  God is obliterating the inconvenient differences between us and them.  And worshipping the Jewish God is doing all of that, in a tallis, holding a siddur, blessing your children and eating flatbread in April.  Can you believe that?  Can you live that?

Here is another grownup theology. It comes from Los Angeles, from Rabbi Harold Schulweis z”l of Valley Beth Shalom, a titan of Judaism who died this past year.  Before I share his ideas, a bit of context. As a congregational rabbi, you deal with suffering all the time because you deal with the congregation’s suffering.  You have to stop and consider what you actually believe in, before you rush in.  Because evil and pain and suffering will ruin most theologies, and they ruin many of the prayers we say today.  Imagine a mother or a father who, God-forbid, lost a child.  They come to the rabbi and say, “I can’t come to shul.  I can’t be there for yontef.”  Why?  “Because I can’t sit through one more unetaneh tokef.  Who will live?  Who will die?  Was my child not inscribed last year?  Why not?”  What do I say?  Come to shul anyway?  It will feel good, despite the words?  Reinterpret the words?  There has to be more to offer.  Rabbi Schulweis felt this deeply and intimately. He was born in 1925 and came of age during the Shoah.  He could not live in a world in which God allows children to die. He rejected the idea of a personal God, because it left him, and his congregation, too vulnerable to the question of why all this evil exists, and happens to good people. So he came up with something different. Something possibly radical to our ears, but perhaps not so radical within the kaleidoscope of Jewish God-concepts.

I’ll illustrate with a story.  When Rabbi Schulweis died, Rabbi Ed Feinstein, the current senior rabbi at VBS, went into the Day School to talk to kids about his death.  And about his life.  And he did it in a Schulweisian way.  So he asks the kids, “What is a noun?”  They responded aptly: It is a person, a place or a thing.  “Most of us think of God as a noun,” he continued.  “A somebody.  In a someplace. There to look out for us, and take care of us.”  And they all nodded their heads.  Then he asked, “What is a verb?”  Something you do!  And then he pulled a Schulweis turn.  “Suppose the word God is not a noun. But a verb.  What if God is stuff that we do?  What if God is the stuff that we do that is really important?  If that were true, what stuff would you have to be doing to be doing God?”  Hands shot up as if they were theology students.  “Feeding the hungry!  Respecting one’s parents!  Praying!”  Why? “Because it makes people feel better.  And it makes life meaningful.  And it connects you with your people and community.”  Exactly.  To Rabbi Schulweis, that was God.  The beauty is that this approach is universal enough to encompass the wide variety of Jews, people, and believers, but also specific enough to require mitzvah, and doing God as Jews. Not because God, the being, commands it per se. But because mitzvot is how Jews God, as a verb.

Rabbi Schulweis also showed that this conception of a God also has the greatest stickiness and the greatest chance of gaining adherents.  Rabbi Feinstein told me that once Rabbi Schulweis was interviewed by Krista Tippett for the “On Being” program.  He described a class where he wrote two columns on the blackboard.  On column A, a list like this: God is merciful. God is just. God feeds the hungry. God cares for the sick.  And he asked for a show of hands, “Who believes this list?”  Very few hands went up. 

Then he pointed to Column B, which had phrases like this: “Extending mercy is Godly.” Yes! “Doing justice is Godly.” Yes! “Feeding the hungry is Godly.”  “Curing the sick is Godly.” Hands shot up!  Rabbi Schulweis did not invent this.  Maimonides, the Rambam from the 12th Century, popularized it.  Whatever we try to say about God is not true, because it limits that which should be limitless.  But what we do in order to be, to live, Godly?  That list is endless.  And people really believe it!

Can you believe in this God?  The God of the gentle touch of friends who came to comfort a mourner?  Can you worship a God of a loving husband who touches his wife when she is in pain?  Whether or not you believe it…can you do it?

Here is the third theology. And, remember, this is three of hundreds, thousands of workable adult theologies. This one is for me the most wondrous.  It comes from Micha Goodman, who is one of the leading writers, thinkers, and builders of Jewish life today in Israel.  I have had the great blessing of learning with at the Hartman Institute.  This theology has two parts.  The first is a paradox.  The second is a paradigm.

First, the paradox.  And I promise to go into this more deeply in a class I will be teaching this fall on faith, belief and God.  Here it is.  If you really believe in God, religion makes no sense.  And if you really believe in religion, then God makes no sense.  Or, at least, God is a very small thing.  Confused?  Think about it.   If God were real and great, and transcendent, other, beyond, Creator of the Universe, and a commander of humanity—would that God care whether I shake my lulav forward first rather than back?  The greater your conception of God is, the sillier the trappings of religion look.  And the reverse is true.  If you really believed in religion, in the specifics of religious practice as themselves having celestial import…if God cares about all that, how great could God be?  In that construct, haven’t we really replaced God with ritual? Are we not worshipping ultimately small things, rather than a great God?

The more I think about this paradox, the more true it is for me. But it is a confounding truth. Because what do you do with it once you enter into it?

Here is the paradigm.  Micha teaches it through the prophet Jeremiah, who taught that the question of religion is not God’s presence, but rather the people’s presence.  God is not shokhen, dwelling in the mishkan, because we did something.  God is mashkin, making us dwell, because of what we aspire to be.  Religion is not that you will appease God because you prayed.  Religion is that you might change yourself if you pray.  Religion is not that God will be beckoned.  You can’t beckon God.  With a sacrifice?  Or a prayer?  But you can summon yourself. 

Here is Micha’s theology.  When religion, and belief or worship in God does not cultivate spirituality, but rather shuts it down, you’re worshipping the wrong God.  When religion closes your heart rather than opens it, it is the wrong God.  For Micha, salvation does not come from above.  It comes from below.  Don’t listen to the demagogues saying that God is here, therefore you are protected.  What guarantees our protection is not the quality of our rituals, but of our sense of what is just.  Justice replaces rituals as having ultimate import.  Through rituals, Jewish rituals, you may connect with God and Judaism.  I do it too.  But it is not your bond with God that will guard you.  God is not going to come and be present because you prayed. But you might be present!  And you might be a bit more just.  And more alert to the world around you. 

Our childhood theology (which I learned also) is that God is powerful.  And so our relationship with a powerful God will save us.  Serve God and be saved.  Micha says “no.”  It is your relationship with the powerless, not the powerful, that guards you. The orphan. The widow. The stranger.  The lonely. 

You want a theology? Live your life in such a way that everyone who comes into contact with you is a bit less lonely because you were present.  That’s God. Don’t think up.  Think down. Think across.  Think differently. And act on it.

Hopefully some of these ideas normalized the doubts you may be harboring about what to do with God in religion.  Maybe it opened up some pathways, both for belief and action.  I want very much for these ideas to continue throughout the year.  And I want to share with you where I stand, now, as I synthesize these and other theologies. 

To accomplish both goals, consider this.  I am going to share with you now my theology. In about a hundred words. It is what I believe, or reckon with, today.  But it is fluid, and if I wrote this in a few months, it would be different.  In fact, this is an evolved version of something I wrote this past year in response to a prompt from a colleague. It is a current snapshot of my God-struggling, of my attempt to bridge Jewishness and grand religion that matters with a God who is not made small in the process.  After the holidays, I am going to open up a digital portal for all of you to share your theologies. I’m going to ask you what you believe, in one hundred words.  It will be a living portal, on which we can read one another’s beliefs, and perhaps even comment on them, and learn from the discourse.  You may share that you resonate with one or more of the theologies I shared today.  Or you may be fulfilled and enriched by some of the theologies I challenged today, and that is fine too.  If you come to shul to appease God, and to summon, God bless you.  That is Jewish, too.  And to quote Rabbi Donniel Hartman, sometimes we have to believe in the thing that gets us through the day. 

I will teach a three-part series on believing, starting in November.  And I hope that for those of you here today, and who participate in some way moving forward, we can put our heads and minds together to revisit God, to recapture God, to do God even if we struggle with what we believe in about God.  To be comfortable identifying the God we don’t believe in, to admit it, and to orient ourselves, with purpose and dignity, towards a life of God we do believe we are called to live.

Here is my theology in one hundred words.  I believe in a God.  In God.  More than I believe that God commands, I believe that God has a commanding voice.  It is heard through our texts, our nation's narrative, and through all of humanity's shared consciousness.  The voice commands us universally, to care for earth and her inhabitants.  All of them.  And the voice commands us particularly, to care for Torah and build a Jewish life worthy of existence.  There are rewards for living aspiring to Godliness.  And there are deficits to eschewing such a life. They come not from the heavens, or from earthly courts, but rather from an internal calibration.  From the gap between what one experienced and accomplished in life, and what one could have.  Living with mitzvot, attuned to Godliness, is not slavishness.  It is loving devotion.  We fail at it almost as much as we succeed.  We stay committed because the bond is that dear.  I believe in God.  And I believe that God was at Sinai. But more importantly, I know that we were at Sinai.  And we listened. 

As those one hundred words sit with you, and you think about your own vision, remember, I am still in process, as are you.  If you entered my mind as I prayed, you’d see a swirling storm constantly shifting with pristine images that seem to work and make sense, but only for a minute.  They are fleeting.  If you came to me in the middle of my prayers, whatever you think you saw, the little secret is that inside I am whispering, or even shouting, Hal’vai. If it could only be so.  Aspiring.  We could be Hal’vai Jews together.  Hal’vai that we were Hal’vai Jews together.    Because above us all hovers a slogan.  Zehirut, Kan Bonim.  It is a reminder to myself and to all of you.  Careful.  Belief is a work in progress.

God will be our visitor

The Jewish family is in a constant state of mourning. Most of the time, we push our mourning to the back of our collective consciousness and carry on our daily lives as if we’ve suffered no loss. Once a year, though, we allow the misery and pain of our tortuous 2,000-year Diaspora to creep into view and dominate our emotions.

That would be Tisha b’Av, our day of mourning. We cry for all that we have lost, for all that could have been, and for a compromised national identity that was detached from our homeland for so long and without its glorious monument to our God. Once a year, we sit on the floor in agony and feel the dormant pain in our souls.

Mourning is a metaphor that helps us cope with Tisha b’Av, which this year begins on the evening of July 25. Metaphors can help us relate to challenging concepts and they can also shine new light to our traditions and rituals.

Jewish mourning is unique, and the concept of sitting shivah has even been popularized in media and popular culture. If we are mourning on Tisha b’Av, we are sitting shivah on Tisha b’Av.

I see the entire Jewish family sitting on the floor together, sitting shivah together, crying together and mourning together. On Tisha b’Av, our synagogues and prayer gatherings become our shivah homes.

But something is incomplete. One player is missing from the metaphor.

Who will do the mitzvah of nichum aveilim — comforting the bereaved? If we are all mourners, we cannot comfort each other. A shivah with no visitors to comfort the mourners compounds the pain of loss. Have we been so abandoned that no one will come to pay a shivah call to us? Who will comfort us this Tisha b’Av?

It has to be God. Our comfort will come from God.

God is our Menachem (“comforter”). God “visits” us on Tisha b’Av. That’s why we go to synagogue to mourn. Generally, it’s easier to feel God’s presence in synagogue, so we mourn in God’s House. But the Jewish laws of comforting mourners require that the visitor wait for the mourner to speak first. When the mourner is ready to talk, the visitor listens and responds as appropriate. Listening is the most powerful tool in our comfort toolbox.

The character Sadness from the new Pixar movie “Inside Out” taught the world this important lesson when she just listened to Bing Bong and gave him a shoulder to lean on. Somehow, that helped him feel a lot better. A mourner just needs someone to listen.

God is our Visitor. God is sitting in the shivah house. God is just waiting to comfort us. But we need to speak first. We have to give God the opportunity to listen. God is ready to listen; we just need to speak.

Eikhah (Lamentations) and kinnot (expressive religious poems) are our chance to speak. We cry, we lament, we wail, we contemplate, and through the experience, we acknowledge our pain. God listens while we speak. But first we talk. We talk to God about our pain; the new pain and the old. Eikhah and kinnot give us a chance to speak first and it is our way of granting God permission to comfort us.

This Tisha b’Av, let us be conscious of our mourning. Let us imagine ourselves experiencing shivah together in God’s House. Let us remember that we have not been abandoned. God is coming to comfort us. Let us allow God to comfort us by speaking to him first and acknowledging our suffering with our words. Let us experience God’s “shivah call” and may we merit to feel God’s comfort. Let us hope and pray that this year we will get up from shivah after Tisha b’Av and never feel the spiritual agony of Tisha b’Av ever again.

Rabbi Eliyahu Fink is a rabbi in Beverly Hills. He blogs at

Why does a Jew write for Atheists?

“Are you an atheist?”

No, I explained. I’m a Jew.

“Then why are you writing a book about atheists?”

I’ve run into this line of questioning a lot.

For the past several years, I’ve worked on What If I’m an Atheist?, a guidebook for teenagers who doubt or deny the existence of God. The book answers questions that teenagers have about unbelief (Are atheists immoral? How do I tell my parents I’m an atheist?) and tosses in atheist stuff both trivial (atheist jokes, lists of celebrity atheists) and serious (how to answer popular lies about atheists, where to turn if your parents kick you out).

Finally, the book has been published. But the question remains: Why does a Jew write a book about atheists?

Even worse, why does a Jew write a book for atheists? Worse yet, for young atheists? Am I trying to turn impressionable minds toward unbelief?

No, I’m not – but being Jewish has made me feel a kinship with atheists.

Jews were the original people who said, “No, we won’t believe in your god.” Kill us if you want, but the answer’s still no.

Like atheists, Jews know how it feels to have your viewpoint about religion ignored and slighted, even in Jew-friendly America. Every winter, it seems as if every store window, TV show, and public event is saying: Celebrate Christmas! Sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “O Holy Night”! Get a tree and a ham!

And like many young unbelievers, I spent much of my teens and twenties trying to determine if God exists and why he lets the world be as – there’s no more appropriate word for it – godawful as it sometimes gets. When young people described the path that they took toward atheism, I recognized some of the landmarks.

But that’s not why I wrote this book.

I wrote it because there weren’t any books like it. There were lots of books for young people of religious and spiritual leanings (mostly Christian) but no advice for teenage atheists and other unbelievers.

And a lot of them needed advice. In researching the book, I discovered first-person accounts of atheist and agnostic teenagers who were scared to tell their family and friends what they believed. Some parents yelled or wept. Some teachers and principals criticized and threatened atheist students. Some classmates shunned or insulted them.

I had written a lot of books that had entertained and informed people, but this one could genuinely help them.

So I knew the reasons why I wanted to write the book – but were there reasons why I shouldn’t write it? Was it wrong for a Jew, even (or especially) a secular Jew like me, to make a guidebook for young atheists?

I wasn’t worried about my soul or God’s judgment on it. I figured that if God exists and wants to blame me for being a bad Jew, he’d unspool a long rap sheet of my other sins before he’d get to “…and you wrote a book.”

But I did worry about hurting Jews. Would the book, in its tiny way, hurt Jews or Judaism? Specifically, would it encourage young Jews to reject their heritage?

I had been through something like this before. I had written a coffee-table book about the wild ways in which people light up their houses for the winter holidays. Since most of those people were decorating for Christmas, I wondered if I was doing wrong by, in essence, glorifying a Christian practice.

So I queried ask-a-rabbi websites. Most of the rabbis answered that I’d be doing wrong only if I were encouraging Jews to abandon Judaism. Since there’s nothing un-Jewish about lighting up in December – it’s the time of the Festival of Lights, after all – I reckoned that I was in the clear.

But hanging up lights is just decoration. Going atheist means abandoning religion, exactly the practice that the rabbis warned me about. And I was aiming this book at kids, a very touchy matter.

So I thought and wrote and deleted and rewrote and then rewrote again. The final, published book doesn’t encourage anyone to abandon his or her faith.

It does imply, though, that there’s nothing wrong with being atheist or agnostic. If that offends the Almighty or my fellow Jews, then so be it. Virtually every book offends someone. Some of the book’s toughest critics have griped that I didn’t go far enough – that the book should push young people to become atheists.

Why write about atheism? Because kids needed it. Because I’ve had doubts about God. Because I wanted to make something that would help its readers. Because of a lot of reasons.

The reasons don’t matter, really. Once a writer finishes writing a book, it’s on its own. It will offend or delight the readers no matter what the writer’s motives were. The writer can explain himself at endless length, but the readers will make up their own minds.

Which is what atheists and agnostics have always done. It’s just one more trait that they have in common with Jews.

Hebrew word of the week: Kippah

Kippah is from the root  k-f-f, which means “to bend,” as in zoqef kfufim, “(God) raises those who are bent” (Psalms 145:14,  and prayer), closely related to k-f-y “to compel, force, invert, subdue.” So, kippah is “a bent shape, dome,” as in kippat shamayim “celestial sphere.”

Other related words: kaf  “palm / hollow of the hand/foot,”  the letter kaf (sofit), “(table)spoon”; kappit “teaspoon”;  kappah “palm branch”; kfafot “gloves”; kaffiyyah “(Arab) headdress.”

The Yiddish word yarmulke seems to be from the Turkish (via Polish, Ukrainian) yagmurluk, meaning “rain cover.”

Yona Sabar is a professor of Hebrew and Aramaic in the department of Near Eastern Languages & Cultures at UCLA.

If God took the Jews out of Egypt…

If God took the Jews out of Egypt, why didn’t he take the Jews out of Europe during the Holocaust? Or out of Ukraine during the Khmelnitsky pogroms? Or out of Germany when Crusaders annihilated entire Jewish communities there?

What Jew hasn’t asked such questions?

There may be an answer in one of the best known and frequently cited statements in the Torah, one repeated throughout the year and, of course, at the Passover seder:

“Moses said to the people, ‘Remember this day, when you went out of Egypt, out of the house of bondage, for with a mighty hand, the Lord took you out of here, and [therefore] no leaven shall be eaten.’ ” (Exodus 13:3)

“And you shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and that the Lord your God took you out from there with a strong hand and with an outstretched arm.” (Deuteronomy 5:15)

“And the Lord brought us out from Egypt with a strong hand and with an outstretched arm, with great awe, and with signs and wonders.” (Deuteronomy 26:8)

And the Ten Commandments begin with:

“I am the Lord, your God, Who took you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.” (Exodus 20:2)

Why all these reminders that God took us out of Egypt — even a commandment to remember that he did?

I have come to believe that the reason it is so crucial that we remember is that God is not necessarily (or perhaps even likely) going to do it again.

Some Jews might find this idea heretical. Emotionally and religiously, they do not wish to confront the possibility, let alone the likelihood, that God won’t intervene to save us from oppressors the way he did for the Jews in Egypt.

But if God will rescue us over and over, why are we constantly reminded that he did it in Egypt and commanded to remember that he did so? After all, if God repeatedly saved the Jews from oppressors, it would be completely unnecessary to remember what God did for us over 3,000 years ago. Isn’t the only reason to remember what was done on our behalf a long time ago that it has not been done since?

That, then, may be the reason it is so important to constantly remind ourselves that God took the Jews out of Egypt.

Just as our parents intervened to save us from danger when we were children, but will not do so once we reach adulthood, so, too, in our infancy God intervened directly. But once we reach adulthood, we are, so to speak, on our own. This doesn’t mean that God doesn’t know us and our suffering. Nor does it mean that he won’t save us again. It means that he cannot be depended upon to save us. 

Of course, we — and all the non-Jews who suffer — wish that God would intervene when confronted with evil. But a moment’s reflection should make it pretty clear that this would end human free will. It would also render life as we know it morally pointless. If God stopped all injustice, we would be moral automatons. And if God stopped some injustices but not all, the question would not only remain, it would be even more acute. Why, God, did you help, let’s say, the Jews, but not the Chinese under Mao, the Ukrainians under Stalin or the Cambodians under Pol Pot? For that matter, why didn’t you save every individual from being murdered and every woman from being raped?

Finally, some Jews might respond that God has in fact saved the Jews from every tyrant just as he saved the Jews from Pharaoh. God, after all, didn’t save all the Jews in Egypt — he allowed hundreds of thousands (adding up perhaps to millions) of Jews to be enslaved over a 400-year period, and only he knows how many Jewish boys he allowed to be drowned at birth, before he intervened. So, then, one can argue today that God has always saved the Jews from oppressors. Not all of them, as we would have wished. But the Jews are still around, and in that sense they were saved from their oppressors.

I, too, believe that God has preserved the Jews since Egypt. It is difficult to offer any other explanation for the unique survival of a people repeatedly exiled, slaughtered and forced to live without a homeland for 2,000 years.

Nevertheless, this survival, as divinely enabled as it may have been, has never been accompanied by anything approaching the overt signs of divine intervention — Moses’ and Aaron’s miracles in Pharaoh’s court, the plagues, the splitting of the sea, the manna in the wilderness, the cloud by day and the fire by night to lead the Jews to Israel – that accompanied the Exodus.

And that is what we mortals have yearned for since Egypt — a miraculous destruction of the gas chambers, for example. 

So, never having had anything approaching that, it is imperative to recall what God did that one time, when he took us out of Egypt. 

Happy Passover.

Dennis Prager is a nationally syndicated radio talk-show host (AM 870 in Los Angeles) and founder of

My Passover lesson: Don’t wait for God

The Jewish people didn’t bring down the Ten Plagues on Pharaoh, nor did they split the Red Sea, which enabled them to escape Pharaoh’s soldiers some 3,300 years ago. These were God’s miracles, which we all celebrate during Passover.

This year, I found those miracles a little unsettling.

I wondered: How did European Jews relate during the Holocaust to these divine miracles? How do persecuted Jews of any era relate to God’s biblical miracles? Do they expect God will come to rescue them as He rescued our ancestors at Sinai? How do they explain it when He doesn’t?

It’s easy to celebrate and idealize miracles when we don’t need them, when we don’t feel persecuted. But what about when our lives are threatened?

With the growing threat to Israel posed today by terrorist regimes, this reflection on divine miracles seems especially pertinent. When a country like Iran, for example, talks about destroying Israel, who should Jews look to for protection — God or ourselves? How does our faith in God come into play when we have to deal with violent, anti-Semitic enemies?

Jews have been having this “God versus man” argument for millennia — even over the rebirth of Israel. Many religious Jews felt we should wait for God to take us home to Zion. The creation of the State of Israel, they argued, was a messianic act that was above the pay grade of mere humans.

But mere humans like Theodor Herzl decided they couldn’t wait for God to protect their fellow Jews. They had to create a Jewish homeland. By the time that homeland finally came into being and was immediately attacked by surrounding armies, the die was already cast — Jews would no longer wait for divine miracles to save them.

It’s easy to celebrate and idealize miracles when we don’t need them, when we don’t feel persecuted. But what about when our lives are threatened?

At our first seder this year, we read a beautiful meditation from my friend Rabbi Andy Bachman, a progressive spiritual leader and activist who lives in Brooklyn. Bachman took the seder theme of  “four” — four questions, four sons and four cups — and extended it to the “four legs” of being Jewish. 

Jews, he writes, are a family, a faith, a people/nation and an idea.

In the section on faith, Bachman writes: “We believe in the God of Argument. We believe in the God of Questions. We believe in the God of Doubt.” Our biblical heroes, he says, challenged God. At Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham demands of God: “Shall the Judge of all the earth not rule with justice?”

And when Moses is asked to go free his brothers and sisters from slavery, he says, defiantly: “And who exactly shall I tell them sent me?”

The sobering implication of Moses’ question is that “the very condition of the suffering and slavery may be an expression of God’s perceived powerlessness in the face of radical evil.”

It is this perceived powerlessness that we so easily ignore at our seder tables — and who can blame us? God’s miracles in the Passover story are so colorful and dramatic that they inevitably come to dominate our master story. Part of me loves that. It’s comforting to feel that when our backs are against the wall, an almighty Creator will save the day.

But it is the perceived “powerlessness” of God in the face of radical evil that leaves me perplexed, as when God sat silently while 6 million Jews were being murdered in the Holocaust.

Is it possible that that silence shocked the Jews into taking their destiny into their own hands? I wonder what these “new Jews” of Israel were thinking at their seder tables in 1947 and 1948, when they had to fight off invading armies to protect their new home. How did they interpret the Passover miracles?

And when they successfully fought off their enemies, whose miracle was it? Was it God’s or was it theirs?

One of the lessons of Israel in the unfolding Jewish story could well be to teach us to create our own miracles — to have as much faith in our own power as we do in God’s. The ending of the haggadah —“next year in Jerusalem”— is misleading. It implies that we’re still waiting for our Creator to take us home. That’s no longer the case. Jews have made it back to Jerusalem, and they did it very much by themselves.

It’s not an insult to God to use our God-given talents to create our own miracles right here on Earth. It's a way of honoring Him. In fact, should it not give God a little nachas to see His children become so independent? Does He not also have faith in us?

Perhaps the greatest Jewish miracle, even greater than the splitting of the Red Sea or the rebirth of Israel, is the fact that 3,300 years after our liberation from slavery, we’re still sitting around seder tables in Los Angeles, Paris and Montreal, telling the same stories, reading from the same ancient texts and arguing with God.

David Suissa is president of TRIBE Media Corp./Jewish Journal and can be reached at

How do you talk to kids about God?

Talking openly with children about sensitive subjects is hard. It always has been. In my parents’ generation, the three-letter taboo was S-E-X. My older sister was 13 when my dad gave a kid “The Talk” for the first time. It was the ’80s, and my dad dodged it like any educated man of his time. He tossed her a sex-education book and said, “Read this, but don’t do it.” 

Discussing sex isn’t quite so scary today. Many modern fathers don’t flinch when their daughters ask about anatomy or start inquiring about how babies are made. But progressive thinking has a way of replacing certain taboos with others. And today, for a great many parents, there is a new three-letter word: G-O-D.

With two of Western religion’s most important holidays—Easter and Passover—in the air, I find myself thinking back to the first time I had the “God Talk” with my own daughter. Maxine was barely five years old when she piped up from the backseat on the way home from her Los Alamitos preschool one day. 

“Mommy,” she said, “you know what? God made us!”

I felt like a cartoon character being hit in the back of the head with a frying pan. My heart raced. I’m quite sure I began to sputter. Visions of Darwin and the evolving ape-man raced through my mind, followed closely by my childhood image of the big guy upstairs in his flowing white robes. I couldn’t speak. 

And, in the awkward silence that followed, I was forced to confront the truth: The idea of talking to my kid about God—and, more specifically, about religion—scared the bejesus out of me.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to speak. “Well,” I said, “Who is God?”

Now, I don’t remember if Maxine actually said “duh,” or whether she simply bounced a “duh” look off the rearview mirror. But I can tell you that the “duh” message came across loud and clear. 

“He’s the one who made us,” she said, her eyebrows knitted. “Okay… well, what is God doing now?” I tried for casual.

Again with the nonverbal “duh.”

“God is busy making people and babies,” she answered. 

This information could not have been delivered with more certainty. My little girl, who had never heard an utterance of the word “God” in our house, aside from decidedly ungodly uses of the word, now had it all figured out thanks to a Jewish classmate who also happened to be her very first boyfriend. I was beaten to the punch by a cute preschool boy. 

I let the subject drop, but my chest constricted all the way home. It stayed that way for hours. Why hadn’t I been prepared for this? What was I supposed to say now that she was getting her information from this boy at school? 

As a science-minded non-believer with a generally non-confrontational personality, I was stumped by how to handle the situation. I wanted to be truthful about what I believed to be truth, but I didn’t want to indoctrinate her into my worldview either. And I certainly didn’t want others indoctrinating her into theirs, either. So where did that leave me? Was I to sit Maxine down and tell her that evolution, not God, was responsible for her existence? Was I to impose my own beliefs on her, the way other parents seemed to be doing? Or should I leave her alone to explore on her own timetable? What was the difference between guidance and pressure anyway? What was I willing to “let” her believe, and what wasn’t I?

Luckily for me, I have a husband who is cool under pressure. Later that day, after I’d rather breathlessly presented him with all the facts of the disastrous car ride, I asked him, “What if she believes in God?” His answer, my wakeup call, has become a mantra I repeat often. He said, “It’s not what Maxine believes, but what she does in life that matters.”

What I took from this was: Relax . . . it’s just God.

So I set aside my own irrational concerns and began to talk with my kid about God—lots of gods, actually. We talked about Brahman and Buddha, Jesus and Muhammad. My husband bought her a Children’s Bible, and I brought home lots of picture books highlighting aspects of various religious cultures.

To my delight, Maxine became genuinely interested in religion—as long as it came in bite-size pieces, rather than overly long oratories. She became engaged in the stories we told, and good at deciphering the various “moral” aspects of various tales for herself. In her hands, the Bible wasn’t a tool of indoctrination, but a tool of religious literacy—even critical thinking. Once when she was reading the 10 Commandments, for example, she got to the 10th and read (aloud): “Never want what belongs to others.” Then she stopped and corrected Moses. “Well, you can WANT what belongs to others,” she said. “You just can’t HAVE it. You can buy one for yourself.”

In the four years that have passed since Maxine first told me about God, we have discussed the subject countless times. I have learned that compassion and an open mind are more important than being right. I’ve also learned that the best way to combat intolerance is with knowledge, and that the best way to combat indoctrination is with critical thinking. No longer is there awkwardness around the subject. We talk about lots of different beliefs, encourage her to learn about what motivates the faith of others, and make clear that there is no shame in choosing an unpopular path. After all, her own parents are happy, well-adjusted, and (I like to think) good-hearted people. 

Today, Maxine is 9 and believes in God “two days a week — on Sundays and Wednesday.” Is that logical or rational? No. But who cares? It works for her, and that’s what’s important. 

I haven’t always done everything right. I have stumbled sloppily through more than a few conversations along my own journey and regretted my word choices now and again. (Our unique biases have a way of filtering through from time to time, despite our best efforts.) But, because the conversations keep coming, I’ve almost always had a chance to right my wrongs, to clarify my position, to bring a new perspective to each situation. The point here is not to be perfect—as my daughter says, “That would be boring”—but to give us something to aim for. 

Exposing kids to various brands of spirituality and religion (not to mention non-religious philosophies) is not only fascinating and surprisingly fun; it also has the potential to improve our children’s— and our own—awareness about and compassion for the multiplicity of kinds of people in the world. Like the “sex talk,” discussions about God may come up sooner (and differently) than you had pictured. But it’s our obligation to embrace it. After all, if we’re not prepared to explore ideas of God, religion, and faith with our curious children, someone else will do it for us.  

Someone cute.

Wendy Thomas Russell is an award-winning journalist and author of Relax, It’s Just God: How and Why to Talk to Your Kids About Religion When You’re Not Religious. Russell hosts a blog called Natural Wonderers at and writes an online column for the PBS NewsHour. She wrote this for Thinking L.A., a partnership of UCLA and Zócalo Public Square.

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Pharoah said ‘no.’ You won’t believe what God did next.

Once, at our seder, our friend Ira gave a running commentary on the haggadah, offering a scientific explanation for every miracle and wonder in the Exodus story.    

I honor the impulse to rationalize the Passover story, to find a lens through which it looks like history. But I think it may actually be better if the whole thing really were made up.

I can see why Wolpe got a big pushback. Ingenious alternatives were offered for the truth of the text. Richard Elliott Friedman, for example, a distinguished scholar, built an elegant case that the Exodus did indeed occur, but just for one fierce tribe, the Levites. When they joined the other tribes, the Levites became the Israelites’ priesthood. The task of teaching Torah fell to them, and their own experience became the official version.

“And that is how a historical event that happened to the Levite minority became everybody’s celebration — how we all came to say that we were slaves in Egypt, although that was not the experience even of most Israelites of the period. It’s not so different from practicing, say, the American cultural tradition of Thanksgiving, which most Americans do, even though most U.S. citizens are not descended from Pilgrims or Native Americans.” 

I honor the impulse to rationalize the Passover story, to find a lens through which it looks like history. But I think it actually may be better if the whole thing really were made up.

Wolpe is a bit elegiac when he tells us that the Exodus may not have happened, the way parents in another religious tradition admit there is no Santa Claus. He lets us down easy and guides us to the holiday’s enduring lesson. But I think there’s a huge upside to appreciating it as a fiction, a masterwork of the human imagination, a brilliant narrative, an origin myth whose aesthetic truth leaves me awestruck by its moral truth.

Yes, Passover is about the bitterness of bondage and the righteousness of freedom. But it’s also about — to me, even more about — our telling the story of bondage and freedom.  When we do that, we not only obey a biblical injunction to teach our children where we came from, we communally experience how literally spellbinding a story can be.  

We Jews didn’t just give monotheism to the world. We also gave the story of monotheism to the world. If monotheism had been merely a creed or ideology, the world might have paid attention for a bit and then moved on. But because it’s a story, a breathtaking drama, it has held the world in its grip ever since.

On Pesach, to resort or not to resort?

God miraculously rescued the Jews from Egypt — so the old joke goes — only to see Jewish mothers slave around the house cleaning and cooking in preparation for eight days of Passover.

Or not. 

At least not anymore, not for the many Jewish families who can afford to have someone else prepare the chametz-free environment and delicious leaven-free meals American Jews require over the holiday, doing their best to serve meals that help guests forget the dietary restrictions Passover demands.

And so Jewish families pay — a lot, often upward of $10,000 per couple — to attend all-inclusive, mega-deluxe Passover resorts as far away as Greece and Italy and as near as Las Vegas and Southern California. These Passover getaway programs can be so large that the arriving Jews (many from colder climates, mostly Orthodox) take over entire hotels for more than a week, enjoying a nearly 24/7 buffet of freshly carved meats, sushi bars, expensive (kosher for Passover) wine, hot tubs, pools, lakes, oceans, boating expeditions, scholars-in-residence, prayer services — you name it.

Ellen Katz, a Los Angeles mother of four and grandmother of two, will drive with her husband to Henderson, Nev., a suburb just outside Las Vegas, for the Katz family’s seventh annual Passover reunion at The Westin Lake Las Vegas Resort and Spa for a deluxe holiday program put on by World Wide Kosher Tours, a Los Angeles-based company; rooms this year start at $6,500. 

“We only go away once a year, so this is our only vacation,” Katz said. “It’s nice to go away with your family and not worry about the food-buying. Everything’s in one place, you have entertainment, you have shiurim [Jewish classes], they give babysitting.”

And for someone who never had the Jewish summer camp experience while growing up, Katz said her annual Passover getaway has allowed her to develop some of those seasonal friendships that resume every Passover, just where they left off the previous year.

“I never went to camp,” Katz said, “but like those campers, I have Pesach friends.”

And, of course, there’s the family reunion — an important element as two of the Katz children live in New York and most of Katz’s cousins and relatives live between there and Boston. The annual tradition of cooking for and hosting children, siblings and cousins became exhausting and stressful, so they joined the 1,000-plus Jews, many from Southern California, who do the Lake Las Vegas experience for Passover.

“There’s nothing better in life if you’re healthy,” Katz said about her annual Passover vacation. “I miss nothing at home.”

Just down the street from The Westin, another Passover program — this one run by the New York-based KMR Werner Brothers and primarily attracting New Yorkers — takes over the Hilton. “Every meal is a course in fine food,” states the website, which also describes the program’s outdoor barbecue, on-site bakery and kosher for Passover grocery store, where families can shop for food to take on off-site day trips.

The Westin Lake Las Vegas

Mel Weiss, 94, a Calabasas resident, said he went to Passover resorts with his late wife, Lillian, and their children and grandchildren almost every year for more than three decades, paying anywhere from $5,000 to $10,000 as a couple many years. Weiss, a Passover resort world traveler, has been to retreats in Israel multiple times, as well as Italy, Arizona and, this year, he will be enjoying the holiday with his kids in Nevada.

“Everything is taken care of — the whole shebang,” Weiss said. “If I stay home, I have to kosher the whole house, and I live alone. I have to go away.”

But as with so many aspects of the Jewish world, things as seemingly innocuous and pleasure-filled as a luxury Passover getaway are, if not a source of tension, at least a topic that some rabbis think must be regarded with a degree of concern or skepticism. The problem, though, is that few, if any, Jewish community leaders are willing to be openly critical of the phenomenon of turning what used to be days, or weeks, of intense Passover cleansing into simply writing a check and packing a suitcase.

One local Orthodox rabbi, who emailed with the Journal on condition of anonymity, wrote that he believes creating the intergenerational memories and transmitting the lessons and stories of Passover is made more difficult when it’s in a communal setting, even in hotels entirely filled with Passover-observing Jews. 

“There are no preparations for the children to see and share in,” the rabbi wrote. “And even in those [resorts] that are exclusively for frum use, you have some elements of hedonistic and materialistic excess.” He explained that one reason many rabbis may hesitate to speak on the record on this topic is because some of their members attend these programs or even earn their livelihoods running them.

Elchanan Shoff, 32, the rabbi of Beis Knesses at Faircrest Heights, said he and his wife grappled with whether to accept an offer from a Passover program at Rancho Bernardo Inn in San Diego for Shoff to be a scholar-in-residence, but eventually decided to go, in large part because she’s in her ninth month of pregnancy with what will be the couple’s fourth child.

“It worked out really nicely to not have to make Pesach this year,” Shoff said, noting, though, that he, his wife and their three daughters will feel an “empty space” from not enjoying the time with as much family as they would have had they stayed home. “In the end, we realized that being in the ninth month of pregnancy, the cleaning and the cooking might be really challenging.”

Shoff believes each family needs to decide what will create the most meaningful Passover experience — at home or away. 

“If the mother is going to be cleaning for a month, is short-tempered and has less energy to give her children hugs, it’s really a poor choice for them to make Pesach if they can comfortably afford to go to the hotel,” Shoff said, contrasting that with family experiences where “the cooking and cleaning creates wonderful memories.”

“When it’s waiters and it’s not your mother’s chicken soup or your grandmother’s matzah balls, all the little details that make up so much of our life experience is different,” Shoff said. “It’s not worse or better — it’s just different.”

Marty Kaplan: What matters to me & why

I began making a list of what matters to me. Intellectual curiosity. Climate change. The First Amendment. My family. Giving back. One friend said to me, I know what I’d say: Money. Another friend told me: Those talks can be surprisingly honest.

That got me thinking. What’s the most honest answer I could give?

Right then, I knew. I had to come out. I had to say a three-letter word, beginning with G.


For an academic, saying something good about God can be one of the last great taboos. So let’s break it. I’m talking about my relationship with God and no-God. You know that campaign, “We keep kosher at home,” my mother explained, whispering, so the other Jewish people at Ming’s eating trefe wouldn’t hear.

“But Rabbi Engel says—”

“Don’t tell Rabbi Engel.”

“But why—”

“That’s how we do it in our family.”

Yes, she admitted, later that night, sitting on my bed, after I had done with crying, yes, the Torah does contain 613 commandments, but only certain kinds of Jews obey them all. Fanatics. Our kind, the people of Schuyler Avenue, have made a little accommodation to modern life. We don’t live in the old country any more.

Thus was I introduced to the notion that the Torah was more like a buffet of options than an all-or-nothing proposition. My mother saw no slippery slope between her selective enforcement and moral anarchy. As long as people like us kept certain key commandments inviolable — Thou shalt not marry a shiksa, a Gentile girl, for example — our Jewish identity was intact.

I felt betrayed. It seemed to me that if one rule could be broken, all of them could. And so, perhaps inevitably, I rebelled. As my vision widened, as teachers and books and television and other kids ventilated my thinking, as puberty arrived, I began to question everything.

I confronted Rabbi Engel. If man descended from algae, how could Genesis be true? He patiently explained that some things — the idea of a “day,” for example — need not be understood literally. But Rabbi, I pressed, if one part of the Torah can be explained away as a metaphor, why can’t any other portion be waived as well?

It was like fighting with my parents about keeping kosher, only now it was the rabbi himself playing loosey-goosey with absolutes, and this time I felt not betrayal, but vindication.

I became the Voltaire of Schuyler Avenue, skewering everything on my skepticism. If God is good, I asked anyone who would listen, why did he let the six million die? If I can pick and choose among the commandments — if I’m free to eat shellfish — why isn’t another man free to murder? The answers confirmed my suspicion that religion was a con job, an iconoclasm also spurred by my devotion to Mad Magazine, the South Park of its time.

In high school, in AP physics and chemistry I learned the real rules that governed the universe: not scripture, but science. In AP biology I learned that life randomly emerged from an organic soup stewing for a billion years — no Creator required, thank you very much. In AP history I learned how much blood has been stupidly spilled in the name of an imaginary Deity.

By the time I arrived at Harvard, though I continued to eat matzoh on Passover and fast on Yom Kippur, these were acts of solidarity with my cultural and genetic heritage, not worship of my people’s God.

Harvard, from which I would graduate summa cum laude in molecular biology, completed my secularization. This is not a criticism. If Harvard had made me a more spiritual person, it would have failed in its promise to socialize me to the values of the educated elite.

Those values were, and are, secular. They enshrine reason, analysis, objectivity. The advance of civilization lies in the questioning of received wisdom, the surfacing of hidden assumptions, the exposure of implicit biases.

This view is not the product of a left-wing conspiracy to undermine traditional values; it is the inevitable consequence of an Enlightenment that began with Galileo, Descartes, and Newton… and a modernity launched by Darwin, Marx, and Freud… and a post-modernity postproduced by Lévi-Strauss, Foucault, and Derrida.

The prized act of mind in the Academy is the laying bare of hidden agendas. Nothing in culture is neutral. Nothing is what it seems. The educated person knows that love is really about libido, that power is really about class, that religion is really about fantasy, that altruism is really about self-interest.

At bottom, all values are relative to their communities. At bottom, everything is political. At bottom, everything is contingent, driven by the mores of time and place, reducible to its origins in evolution and history.

In every field, this view was being pursued to its postmodern conclusion; all the leading theorists were busy committing epistemological suicide. Look at the ideas that bit the dust: in aesthetics, the notion that there are objective standards of good and bad; in literary criticism, that there are right and wrong ways to interpret a text; in law, that justice is beyond politics; in psychiatry, that there are fixed distinctions between normalcy and madness; in anthropology, between savage and civilized; in art, between high and low.

The project of thinking, I came to understand, was to dismantle its own foundations.

Even science itself was under siege. The great achievement of the philosophy of science, I learned, was to reveal that science is saturated with politics. When scientists find evidence that conflicts with a paradigm, and they have to choose between discarding the evidence or discarding the paradigm, they make that choice not by applying objective rules, but by deciding who among their peers they trust.

By my last year in college, I was no longer a scientist. I was searching for answers elsewhere. In Dostoevsky, in Nietzsche, in artists who had looked deeply into the human condition, what they found, what I found, was the Abyss. We are alone. Life is absurd. We shiver in the pointless void, haplessly contesting the meaninglessness of our fate. Our yearning for purpose is doomed. It is our burden to live in a time when our minds have deprived us of our capacity for soothing self-delusion. In other words, everything sucks. In other words, nihilism.

A nihilist who doesn’t kill himself is lacking in followthrough, but not in analysis. Though I had thought myself out onto an intellectual ledge, I didn’t jump. I kept going — as many people keep going — by making an armistice with the ways of the world. Call it nihilism lite. It sounds like this:

If everything does come down to politics, it’s still better to know that, so that we can fight for our side’s values, than to pretend otherwise, and be the victim of their side’s values posing as transcendent norms. Even if love can be reduced to evolutionary biology and neurotransmitters, it can still feel like it makes the world go round. Even if values aren’t God-given, moral conduct is still possible. We abide by Kant’s categorical imperative: The rules we should follow are the ones we’d want to be universal laws.

This works. It’s practical. It helps countless people get out of bed in the morning.

But it is an armistice, not a peace. Existential desperation is never far away. It is difficult to face mortality without God. It is hard to tell children that the universe is indifferent to them. Even for the most fortunate, it is painful to confront the night thought, Is this all there is?

No wonder religious fundamentalism is booming. Fundamentalists know who they are and where they fit. They have no difficulty recognizing evil. They are confident that theirs is the one true way. We have Kant; they have God. They live by the literal word of the Bible; we live by its poetry. They are commanded; we are merely moved.

But fundamentalism is not a rational choice. It is not willed by the intellect; it is a mysterious visitor. I have often daydreamed about that visitor. If the God of the Lubavichers or the Satmars were to appear to me and demand obedience, I suspect I would gladly give it. But I am no more capable of partaking in Hasidic ecstasy than I am of heeding the biblical injunction against mixing linen and wool. It is not an option for me. Once the mind thinks some thoughts, it cannot unthink them.

This is the sadness at the heart of secular lives. No one wants to live in a pointless, chaotic cosmos, but that is the one that science has given us. We may yearn for the divine, but hipster neo-Dadaism is the best we can do. Everything’s ironic. Everything’s a joke. But inside, it can feel awful. The things you want a God for — an afterlife, a comfort, a commander — seem unavailable.

That’s where I thought I would spend my life: a cultural Jew, a closet nihilist, searching despite myself for something transcendent to fill the hole where God was.

I found that something in my dentist’s chair.

When he told me I ground my teeth, I denied it. I didn’t think of myself as unduly stressed; I had long ago decided that life is a roller coaster. Stress comes with the territory, and you deal with it, even thrive on it. That I was grinding my teeth suggested I was kidding myself. A part of me, beyond my conscious control, was having a hard time, and taking it out on my molars. Wearing a night guard would be like admitting defeat — letting my unconscious torpedo my equanimity.

“You’d be surprised how many of my patients use them,” my dentist said. “A lot of people hold tension in their jaw. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I imagined myself reaching to my night table for my night guard. It made me think of the false teeth my Russian grandmother kept in a jelly glass by her bedside.

“Are there any alternatives?” I asked him. He pessimistically suggested meditation.

What appealed to me about meditation was its apparent religious neutrality. You don’ t have to believe in anything; all you have to do is do it. I had worried that reaping its benefits would require some faith I could only fake, but I was happy to learn that 90 percent of meditation was about showing up.

The spirituality of it ambushed me. I saw no visions, heard no voices, felt no caressing hand. But unwittingly I was engaging in a practice that has been at the heart of mysticism for millenniums. I’d read that people of all faiths had learned to meditate without violating their personal beliefs. At the time, I took this to mean that there was nothing inherently religious about meditation, which suited me just fine.

I was wrong. The reason that meditation doesn’t conflict with religious beliefs, whatever they are, is that it shares a highest common denominator with all of them.

To separate 20 minutes from the day with silence and intention is to pray, even if there’s no one to pray to. To step from the river of thought, to escape from monkey mind even for a moment, is to surrender to a transcendent realm. To be awakened to consciousness empty of content; to be thunderstruck by the mystery that there is something, rather than nothing; to be mindful, to be present; to be here, now: this is the road less traveled, the path of the pilgrim, the quest.

When I am asked whether I believe in God, I say that belief is the wrong word to use. I experience God. God may be the wrong word to use, too.

What I experience — no, not always, and sometimes not at all — is known to every mystic tradition. It has been called Spirit, Being, the All. It is what the Kabbalah calls Ayin, Nothingness, No-Thingness. It’s ineffable. It’s why Jewish mystics call God ha-zeh — the This. You can point to it, but you can’t describe it. You can sing it, but you can’t say it. It is better conveyed by silence than by language, by dance than by liturgy. And it is the experience at the heart of all contemplative practices, whether you’re looking for it or not.

The All is a long way from Newark, and silence is a long way from Harvard. As am I.

I used to think scientific materialism was the apex of human evolution. I used to think nihilism was the tragic price of progress. I used to think the soul was just a metaphor, a primitive name for dopamine. Now I think thinking isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

What matters to me and why?

What’s mattered most to me in my life is… wrestling with that very question: What matters?

And why? Why does wrestling with that question matter to me so much?

I can’t help it. I have to. That’s the thing about experiencing the ineffable. That’s the thing about the This.

Marty Kaplan holds the Norman Lear chair at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism.  Reach him at

Moving ‘God, Faith & Identity’ passes mantle of remembrance

Seventy years ago, the Red Army liberated the death camp at Auschwitz, an event that now marks the observance of International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Ever since that day, we have been struggling to explain and understand what happened in the killing fields and concentration camps where 6 million Jews were tortured and murdered.

The latest such effort is found in “

Christians and Jews, united in conversation and shared values

There exists a deep relationship between Judaism and Christianity rooted both in a shared history and religious values. History shows us that Jews and Christians once knew one another very well, recognizing that in some way we were brothers, like Jacob and Esau. In fact, in the Middle Ages, Jews used to call Catholics and Christians “Esaus” — brothers that had to overcome jealousy and heat, but at the end, both of them recognized their fraternity. 

Pope Francis and I became friends in the mid-1990s, after spending time together at official state ceremonies in Argentina. A humble man, with deep understanding and reverence for prayer and the power of God, the future pope and I were able to connect on a spiritual journey together, discussing interfaith issues and doing so without apology or hiding ourselves. Of course, there also was time to debate whose soccer team was the better club. Over the years, we delved deeper into our interfaith discussions, recognizing the important lessons that both religions hold dear — including the so-called Golden Rule. 

Leviticus 19:34 teaches, “The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself.” We should honor this message by welcoming all to discuss their faiths, to engage in open dialogue so that we are no longer strangers but rather neighbors. While the pope and I have had our differences of opinion on certain issues, it was clear that these discussions were not only enlightening but a way to publicly present, at first to Argentine society and now to the world, a way of holding open , honest interfaith dialogue.

Today, both Pope Francis and I believe that we must work to revitalize the type of conversations between our faiths that existed from the beginning of the first century and into the second century. By speaking openly about our faiths, and yes, even delving into and focusing on theological issues, we can better understand not only our differences but our similarities in how we interpret Christian Scripture and Jewish texts. Only by coming to the table with open minds can we truly understand the relationship between Judaism and Catholicism that goes back 2,000 years, to understand who the other is and the significance each faith holds for the other. 

This same goal brings me the United States this month as I travel to Atlanta; Washington, D.C.; and Southern California to join my colleagues from the Church in open dialogue about religion and politics. Our religious views have great influence over our political beliefs and religious leaders can have a particularly strong impact on their communities’ views. In better understanding each other’s religions, we can better understand each other’s political beliefs. 

In politics, as in religion, it is important to understand the views of those with whom you disagree to better understand how we all fit together. I do not understand the resistance to interfaith dialogue by some, or dialogue across the political aisle by too many. Individuals who are steadfast in their beliefs should have nothing to fear in exploring why they believe what they believe. 

As I travel around the U.S., I do so not as a representative of the Jewish people as a whole, but as a rabbi hoping to engage in meaningful dialogue with all communities, which is why Masorti Olami, the World Council of Conservative/Masorti Synagogues, is holding open community events throughout the country. I hope that these conversations will inspire others to do the same. 

While in California, I will have the opportunity to speak with Archbishop José Horacio Gomez, the fifth Archbishop of Los Angeles, and with Bishop Kevin Vann at events at Loyola Marymount University and the Christ Cathedral, respectively. We plan to discuss the Latino world’s impact on both religion and politics, with discourse about the intersection of these two worlds and how religious leadership can influence policy. I hope these conversations can provide some fresh perspective to those who join us and encourage them to also discuss, analyze and study the issues from all viewpoints. Everyone is welcome.

At a time of increasing strife and violent extremism, it is even more important for us to engage in open interfaith dialogue and move to better understand one another and our intertwined history and morality. In this new year, let us resolve to work together to bridge the aisle, to begin to speak as brothers and truly learn about one another. Let us remember Jacob and Esau, their meaningful embracement and the rich history that connects us all.

Rabbi Abraham Skorka is currently the rector of the Seminario Rabínico Latinoamericano Marshall T. Meyer, which trains Masorti/Conservative rabbis, cantors and educators in the Latin American Jewish community. The rabbi and Pope Francis co-authored “On Heaven and Earth,” a book on interfaith dialogue. He will be in Southern California for various Masorti Olami-sponsored events Jan. 22-25. For more information, visit and follow the rabbi on Twitter at @RabbiSkorka.