December 2024

I was recently at a full-service gas station in St. James. I pulled up next to the pump, and out of the small building emerged a young man, maybe 20 years old- and he began pumping gas into my car. He was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, it was early in the morning, rainy and slushy, and just bitter. He could have been miserable out there early in the wet and cold. I would not have blamed him. But, he did it for me this year. He gave me one of my feel-good moments of the season in such an unexpected way. More on that soon. Let’s start with where I began…many years ago as a school-aged child: “Do you speak Jewish?” “Are you Chanukah?” “Where is your funny hat?” These are just some of the questions that I had to field growing up as a Jew in a very non-Jewish community. I have actually heard that some of these questions have survived through at least another generation, with many of our own students fielding similar comments. To be fair, most children do not mean to be ignorant or insulting, and I would generally answer the questions with an educational bent. “It’s Hebrew, not Jewish. “I am Jewish. Not Chanukah, which is a minor festival.” The hat you are referring to is a yarmulke or a kippah. I don’t wear one all the time. Some Jews do. Etc. etc. etc. 

This time of the year, the Holiday season in the United States, brings up so many questions in terms of our place as Jews in broader society. What to do in a cultural milieu wherein we are not only in the minority, but also where antisemitism and Jewish hatred are at all-time highs? Chanukah contains within it the story of some very extreme Jews, who could be considered zealous. They opposed any form of assimilation into the popular Hellenistic culture, and even killed other Jews who did not fall in line. That aspect of the Chanukah history is generally left out of the version that we tell our children. But we can learn quite a lot from the story of Chanukah, and also this week’s Torah portion, Mikeitz, which brings up another assimilation narrarative. 

Joseph, a Hebrew, is brought out of Egyptian prison, interprets the dreams of Pharaoh, and given his skills of dream interpretation and economic prowess, is thrust into the role of Egypt’s second-in-command. Joseph is put into the clothes of Egyptians, he marries an Egyptian wife, and his sons are born in Egypt. Interestingly, Joseph gives his sons Hebrew names, Manasheh and Ephraim. These names have meaning. Manasseh means “G‑d made me forget all my hardships and my father’s home.” Ephraim means “G‑d made me fruitful in the land of my suffering.” Joseph, bathed in the garb and customs of Egypt, clearly has not forgotten where he has come from. He never forgets his father or his homeland, and he refers to Egypt as the land of his suffering. Perhaps he might also know that this land will become one of suffering for the entire people of Israel. 

Joseph, however, for any of his clinging onto Hebrew customs, must become comfortable in Egyptian culture. He must lead Egyptians, walk through Egyptian spaces, and hear the language of Egypt daily. He must raise Jewish sons there as well. How does one balance this? Are many of us similar to Joseph in this way? We can scarcely watch television or listen to the radio without the dominant Christmas holiday being very visible and audible. How hard do we push to get Chanukah songs into the school’s holiday concert? Do we really want to exert effort campaigning for more than the token Dreidel song? What is worth it? What is not? 

From my perspective here today; It is up to all of us collectively and individually to make sure that we can live in our communities comfortably, and also that we can keep Judaism…well…Jewish. I never hear of more Jewish identity crises than around this time of the year. We are told to protect our traditions with all of our hearts, souls and might. We know that the Maccabees fought to eradicate any semblance of Greek culture from their holy spaces. On the other hand, we are also taught that Joseph’s sons are born of a marriage of him, a Hebrew, and Asenath, an Egyptian. Our greatest prophet Moses married Zipporah, the daughter of a Midianite Priest. As we discussed last week, the line of King David came from a connection between an Israelite and a Canaanite-Judah and Tamar. Maybe Judaism is simply not a monolith…and trust me, there are many who disagree with that notion. 

Do I think Judaism is simply performing kind acts and being a good person- a mensch? No, not really. That would be fairly reductive. Judaism is something much more than that. Education about our people, our traditions, our sometimes neglected but oh-so-beautiful pathways to spirituality…that can lead us to find our own complex meaning in Judaism. I think we do have to know something before we can say yes or “no” to something.

Maybe we can see Judaism as the Chanukiyah. Maybe you have a tree in your home for Christmas- have a family of multiple traditions. Beautiful. But perhaps we need to put that nine-branched menorah in the window this year. We light the night with the flames of our Jewish spirits and symbols, as we are told to light the world with our mitzvot, to care for others, while also caring for our own customs and traditions. When we put the Chanukiyah in the window this year, we know that the light of the candles is glowing on a society wherein Judaism is not the most prominent religion or tradition. Some people outright do not like us. We shine our beautiful lights on the world anyway. We tell the world that this small group of people, this 0.2 percent of the world-This  approximately 15 million in a world of many billions, is not here not to hide, cower, or insulate–but to be an ohr l’goyim, a light unto the nations. Our seemingly small jar of spiritual oil is more than enough to give light to the entire world. No matter your faith, no matter your beliefs, no matter who you are…we have something to offer you. Yes, Egypt turned on Joseph and the Jews, the Syrian-Greeks turned on the Temple and the Jews, the Germans turned on European Jewry. The world sometimes turns its back on Medinat Yisrael, modern-day Israel. When the world turns its back on us, we still do not turn our backs on the world. We work to make our world holy–to bring heaven down to us.

Back to the hooded-sweatshirt guy at the gas station. I said it was a feel-good moment. He, standing in the elements, serving my needs, looked me in the eye through the car window, and he said to me: “Merry Christmas, man.” I was taken aback. Not because he wished me a “Merry Christmas.” He could have said anything, to be honest. It was his neshamah. He meant his words. He just wanted to be genuine. It was so clear. If I could replicate it, I would. I almost had a tear in my eye as I drove to Lindenhurst. His genuity expressed in a moment the possibility of oneness that exists in specificity. His light was his, but he warmed me with it.

We know the stories of our struggles and resilience. They resonate again this week with both Joseph’s and Chanukah’s story.. We continue to find our unique balance, and we never turn our back on our fellow humans, no matter the struggle. Why? Is it because we are chosen? Maybe. Maybe we are chosen to let the light in when darkness is on the brink of victory. 

So, Celebrate this year, and do it proudly. Gently educate ignorance. Put the Chanukiyah in the window. Eat sufganiyot and latkes. And then continue to celebrate. We are always here. We always will be. Also, know that the young man in the hooded sweatshirt exists. He might not celebrate your holiday. He might not say the perfect words, but he loves you as a human. We can keep who we are, and also love all whose company we keep. so to him, I also say, “Merry Christmas, Man.”

Chag Urim Sameach and Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

It was 11:03 PM, and I was still staring at chapter 38 of Genesis. I had spent hours poring over the text, looking through commentaries, even annoyingly nudging Meghan when Rashi or Rambam weren’t cutting it to get her opinion; all while she was trying to lesson-plan for the upcoming kindergarten week. I have to admit; I almost did it. I nearly gave in. I came “this close” to avoiding chapter 38, and choosing to bring up something with a simpler and more neatly-packaged message. I was determined however, to talk about it. Chapter 38 would make its way to Temple Isaiah this Friday night. Here we are. Heinenu!

This difficult-to-wrestle-with chapter occurs directly in the middle of the beautifully-packaged narrative of Joseph. Most of us know the story of Joseph’s dreams, his father’s favoritism, his brothers’ jealousy, and his eventual sale and enslavement in Egypt. We might be a bit less familiar with what happens in Torah directly after the sale of Joseph by his brothers. 

Chapter 38 of Genesis arrives to us. This tells us that as Joseph “went down” to Egypt, his brother, Judah, who had proposed selling Joseph, “descended” in his own way. Judah leaves the path of his family, of the eventual people of Israel. He has three children with Shua, a Canaanite, which is considered less than righteous. Eventually Judah’s oldest son Er is married to a woman named Tamar. Er is considered wicked by God, or does something displeasing, and dies. Er’s younger brother Onan is obligated through custom to marry Tamar. His children would carry on the name of his older brother. Onan, unhappy with the prospect of fathering children that would not be his own, spills his seed. This is unacceptable to God, and he is also killed. There is one very young son of Judah left; Shelah. Judah decides that marrying his only living son to Tamar is not a great idea based upon past experience, and he does her an unkindness. Instead of allowing her to become a true “widow,” he casts her into a state of flux, forcing her to live with her own father, childless, without a partner. Can we blame Judah for being cautious with his only living son? Isn’t he just being a protective parent? Meghan and I discussed:  “Clearly Tamar killed these husbands,” Meghan said confidently. “No. God did. It says so in the text.” Meghan replied “OK,” not at all convinced, and continued lesson-planning.

Chapter 38 gets even more complicated from there. Let’s just say that Tamar, sure of the fact that Judah will leave her in limbo forever, with face covered, meets Judah along the road, and procreates with him. Judah is none the wiser regarding who this woman was. Our text also makes it clear that Judah “takes her for a “zonah,” which is sometimes translated to mean prostitute, but it’s really more complicated than that. So, Judah assumes without question or concern, and acts. Tamar keeps his personal cord, seal and staff as “payment,” and Judah goes on his way. About 3 months later, when Judah finds out that Tamar is pregnant, he is completely furious, and demands that she be burnt. Having seemingly anticipated this reaction, Tamar presents Judah with his own cord, seal, and staff, proving that he is indeed, the father. Judah recognizes the error of his ways, and claims that Tamar is more righteous than he is.

Chapter 38 concludes with Tamar giving birth to twins. The younger son pushes forward, and Tamar says, “With what strength you asserted yourself!” This child is named Perez. Perez, we come to learn, is the first in the line of King David. The same king David from whom it is said the moshiach; the savior of the world will arrive. Without the confusion and chaos of chapter 38, we would have no King David, No King Solomon, no Holy Temple-builder. The list goes on and on.

So, what is the message here in chapter 38. What do we learn? Rabbi Aaron Leven brings up an interesting point. When discussing Tamar’s seeming trickery of Judah by veiling her face, Leven claims, “Tamar in fact wants to be seen! Not only does she speak to Judah directly, but she does so while standing at Petah Einaim “the entrance of Enaim,” a phrase that literally translates to “opening of the eyes.”  Is Judah so concerned with what Tamar must be doing wrong that he fails to open his own eyes, to see the glaring error of his own ways. Does he not even attempt to look at the world from Tamar’s perspective?

Judah does something remarkable in terms of Torah. He takes a deep breath that we can all learn from. He realizes that Tamar could have shamed him. She had the proof and the power, but she did not. She spared his spirit, and Judah lets her know that she is more righteous than he. 

Really, this seems to be a turning point for Judah, and we learn much more about his growth of character as Genesis plays out, and the story of Joseph unfolds. To go from proposing his own brother’s sale, to leaving the family and advocating for the burning death of his daughter-in-law, all the way to offering his own freedom for that of his brother’s; He is used often as an example of the ultimate penitent…the baal teshuva, the master of return…someone who has completely turned their life around, and returned to the path of holiness and God.  We do know that Judah has experienced all of Chapter 38, and he has become better for the struggle. I ask all of us tonight. We all have a chapter 38, and we can allow it to change us in a holy way. Sometimes, we might be Tamar, desperate to remain relevant, mistreated. Sometimes we are Judah; we act too quickly, we let rage control a moment. In a world so full of polar extremes, does Chapter 38 try to center us? Does it tell us to look at one another as human, and understand that the world is not a pristine package. There is gray!

Perhaps all of us have to meet as Judah and Tamar, at “Petah Einaim,” the entrance that can open our eyes. We have to deepen our compassionate curiosity when we are far too sure of our own perspectives. We must peek underneath the veil of our own assumptions. Chapter 38 is still a demanding section in that there are no clear answers. Can we see the righteousness in behaviors we do not immediately understand? Great American playwright Tennessee Williams said: “There are no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people. Some are a little better or a little worse but all are activated more by misunderstanding than malice. A blindness to what is going on in each other’s hearts… Nobody sees anybody truly but all through the flaws of their own egos.” No one seems completely right or completely wrong. It’s messy, chaotic, and so rife for interpretation. While the Joseph story that surrounds it is a beautiful 4-week narrative that sets the stage for the Exodus saga, chapter 38 of Genesis is life. It is a struggle. It is confusing and multifaceted. It is writing and deleting entire paragraphs. It is keeping us up at night reconsidering and reformulating. It is missteps that seem devastating.  But through the furrowed brow, the contending, a new spark of God is brought into the world. Chapter 38 is birth in the face of death…a spark that eventually will lead to tikkun olam- the repairing of the world. Chapter 38 is beautiful bedlam…A taste of who we are as a people.

On this holy Shabbat, I urge you not to evade the chapter 38s of your own lives. Your difficult and even painful moments are just as welcome in this holy space as your lighthearted and exuberant times. Bring the tough stuff, too. The answers are not always clear, but when we share our efforts with one another, we can find so much meaning in the mysterious and the murky. From those deep waters of indecisiveness and uncertainty arise the most holy designs. we, Yehudim, Jews, are named For Judah. How appropriate. We are never too far gone to make our way back to the path of clarity and righteousness. We’re not perfect. We must simply open ourselves to eye-opening moments, and be receptive to becoming perfected by God. That can surely be enough. When it all feels too much, sometimes we must simply move forward. Time for Chapter 39.  

Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

We are all in the middle of a match.

Parsha Vayishlach is probably most famous for its description of Jacob’s wrestling match. While Jacob is alone, fearing for his family as his angry brother approaches, one of the most famous encounters in all of Torah takes place. Jacob wrestles with an “ish,” or a man until the break of dawn. Our prophet Hoshea later describes this “ish” as being an angel. Depending upon who you ask, this “ish” could have been Esau’s own guardian angel. Some say that this wrestling match took place between Jacob and God. We do know that this wrestling occurred over the course of an entire night, and did not cease until “Ha-Shachar-the break of dawn.” Just to give you an idea of how physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining this must have been: the average wrestling match today, in a sport with world-class and highly conditioned athletes, typically only lasts 6-9 minutes, and is spread into multiple periods. Psalm 121 tells us that God, the guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. This is a tough night-time opponent. 

I believe we all exist somewhere in the 6-9 minute range during our lifetimes. We are in the middle of the 6-9 minutes of a wrestling match. Some of us might feel as if we have the upper hand, and things are going well. We tend to love God more easily when life feels smooth. We have control of our perceived opponent. Some of us might feel moments away from both of our shoulder blades crashing flat to the mat and being pinned. Perhaps we have experienced a fresh loss, an illness, or some other hardship that inevitably ruffles our human feathers. We might be locked head to head, arms tangled, in a liminal space between victory and possible defeat. It seems that one of our most vulnerable moments during our lifelong tussle is when we must face the end of a match…the end of a loved one’s life.

As some or many of you know, I found myself in this vulnerable position in my wrestling match last week. I lost my incredible grandmother, Barbara, at the age of 93. I traveled upstate to the capital region for her funeral service and burial. This past Sunday morning, I entered a Temple that I had not been in since I was a young boy attending High Holy Day Services with my family, and with my grandmother. I remember always being unable to see the bimah, and feeling confused when I was young. It mostly felt crowded and overwhelming. It was a bit larger than life. All of those memories rushed back to me. This time, however, I was not the 11-year-old waiting for it all to be over, but the officiant at my own grandma’s funeral. Watching my brothers and cousins as pallbearers, standing in the shadow of her Aron, her casket, and also seeing my grandfather sitting anywhere besides directly next to my grandmother, the love of his life since teenagehood…it was a surreal feeling, and likely one that I still have not fully processed quite yet. I cleared my throat, stepped onto that bimah, and we went through the liturgy, the psalms, and some songs. Words and tears were shared. When the Temple service concluded, we proceeded to the burial where each shovel-full of earth was deafening in its finality. We honored this beautiful and pure soul as well as we possibly could, and then we gathered back at my grandmother and grandfather’s house; the same one my mother and aunts and uncles grew up in, and my cousins and I spent countless weekends and holidays creating connections and memories. Cousins and aunts and uncles I hadn’t seen in quite some time all hugged one another tighter than we had, maybe ever. Our family knew we had all lost a matriarch…a person who created the foundation of what I understand a family to be. One who lovingly supported all of us in a genuine and unique way. I mentioned in my remarks how difficult it was to put all of this into words because the love she nurtured through our lives was not always based on words. It was airborne.

Somewhere during all of this, I did as I do, and turned to Torah. This week, among the wrestling with God, we also lost Rachel, the love of Jacob’s life, as she was giving birth to Benjamin. She passed away and was buried along the road to Bethlehem. Her grave is still able to be visited to this very day. Rachel is buried where we can walk. She is the one Jewish matriarch who is not buried in Machpelah, a cave-out of sight. This is intentional. Why? In Yiddish, Rachel is often lovingly referred to as “Momma Rochel.”  Our tradition tells us that Rachel is watching over her children who are spread out all over the world. Maybe Rachel is lovingly supervising all of her children’s wrestling matches. She is rooting for us, and her memory lives to this day. My grandmother and Rachel were intertwined this past week, and I will always remember how they connected to one another during their times of departure from this earth. I like to think that my grandmother is also a guide along the road. She is cheering for us, as Rachel is. I was vulnerable this week, but never pinned-held sturdy by the loving arms of remembrance and of Torah.

Most in this room have likely been faced with the death of a loved one. Sometimes Olam-haba, the world to come, in our tradition can feel a bit nebulous. We focus so much on life that when death does come, we can sometimes feel as if we haven’t given it much attention. What I do know is that Judaism and I agree on this notion: the soul is not the body. The body will eventually disintegrate and become no more. The soul moves on to what comes next. If this is the case, what are we left with here on this earthly plane of formation? We, who are so tethered to the tangible-we crave what we can see, hear, feel, touch. As I looked at my family gathered together at my grandparent’s house, I flashed back to memories of growing up, to feelings, smells, and tastes; all of love and camaraderie. I truly felt that my grandmother was there. She was there, and not even in a “she’s looking down from Gan EDEN or Olam Haba,” type of way. I mean that she will always be here, because we are here. The 38 souls who descend from her are just the beginning of who she is and will become. 

I learned a lot last weekend, and it was a difficult part of my life’s wrestling match. Eventually, in Torah, Jacob overtakes the ish, demands a blessing, and limps away with a hip injury, explaining the kashrut prohibition against eating the sinew and sciatic nerve of the animal. Only after Jacob’s demand for this blessing is his name changed from “Jacob” to “Israel,” with the latter meaning to wrestle or contend with God. We might limp away from some of the painful experiences in our lives, but I know we are truly blessed to be alive to share in them. 

Jacob is us. Israel is who we are, but perhaps more whom we continue to strive to be. The match is not over. We are in the 6-9 minutes. We will eventually walk away from the match, maybe with a limp. But as Jacob turned-Israel learned when he finally met his estranged brother Esau with affection…once you have struggled so honestly, so openly, so completely with God, the earthly moments can become a bit more full and fruitful.

Let us all be blessed on this Holy Shabbat to remember to keep one foot in the ring, feel the love of a “Momma Rochel” in our own lives, and maybe to see Torah as our respite between rounds, and even during the madness of the match. As we navigate the space between Jacob and Israel, we balance our relationship and struggles with God. Our doubts, our pain, our grief, even our moments of pure joy and bliss, these all allow us to share life with one another more thoroughly and absolutely. Let us all embrace our wrestling matches, breathe deeply, and consistently demand our blessings. We can receive them once we are open to the fact that if we wrestle with God, we can also reach out for our perceived opponent, and be lifted up. As I experienced this weekend, If we give over a bit of ourselves to fully feel and be present, even the struggles can allow us moments with our departed loved ones, and in those times of wind, breath and ruach, we can allow ourselves to feel the warmest embrace…beyond the physical, beyond the tangible…into the arms of our Momma Rochel, my Grandma Barbara, Your loved ones, and ultimately, God, who brings us all together as one. Wrestling or embracing? With God, it can be beautifully hard to tell the difference.

Shabbat Shalom.

– Rabbi Josh Gray