Do The Right Thing:

Same-Sex Ceremonies and Reform Judaism

Rabbi Michael L. Feshbach

Temple Beth Am

Buffalo, New York

Sometime I think you can tell if you have been doing a good job or not... by the quality of hate mail you get. I mean, let's face it. A signed, typed, one- to two-page, well reasoned argument from someone who knows how to use a spel chekker is probably worth thinking about a couple of times. A handwritten, multipage, unmarked, unsigned diatribe with penmanship that deteriorates as the writer reaches the crescendo of excitement, especially one that uses arcane mathematical formulas adding up the numbers of chapters and verses in Biblical books to come to some inescapably certifiable conclusions, or which mentions the Trilateral Commission, the United Nations, the Kennedy assassination, or which refers in any way whatsoever to my eternal soul, hey, get a letter like that and there's a pretty good chance you're doing something right in your life.

The latest letter of the latter sort I received came a few weeks ago. I had just been quoted in the Buffalo News saying something favorable about same-sex commitment ceremonies. When the return address was replaced by a quote I knew I was in trouble. When the writer informed me about Biblical verses I might have overlooked, I began to grin. When told that Moses would be very angry with me, I was amused. And when told that "the great I AM used me to deliver this message to you," well, I admit it. By that time I had a full blown smile on my face.

You know, this is not too dissimilar from some e-mail I received the last time I made any kind of reference to homosexuality in a column I wrote here. It began in a kindly and informative tone. The writer gently wanted me to know that I was supporting sin. It took about three paragraphs to deteriorate to total rage.

To all of you who are reading these words, who don't agree with my liberal views on this issue: Hello! I already know the verses involved, thank you very much. And while I am tempted to mollify dissenters with a calmly stated, soothingly thoughtful "well, yes, this is a very complicated issue, you know," instead I have a growing sense in the pit of my stomach and the depth of my heart, that acceptance of gays and lesbians and the sanctification of their committed relationships is just and simply an issue whose time has come.

The arguments are played out in so many places I don't need to repeat them here. (I have written on the subject before as well. See my "In God's Image: Judaism and Homosexuality," available through the AOL Jewish Community OnLine.) There are just a few thoughts and impressions I would like to share, from the recent convention of Reform rabbis in Greensboro, North Carolina, at which we voted quite overwhelmingly that "the relationship of a Jewish, same gender couple is worthy of affirmation through appropriate Jewish ritual."

The first one relates to what I wrote about the quality of hate mail. It has to do with the company we keep. It is not a rational response. It is not a compelling argument. It does not clinch the case. But when the people who are arguing against you are the likes of those hate-filled protesters who stood outside the hotel with placards with a picture of the murdered gay man Matthew Shepard reading "He got what he deserved," when that is the face of the opposition, well, maybe we really are doing the right thing. Extremists on any side should not replace reasoned discourse altogether. But sometimes when you see who your enemies really are, your feelings for your allies grow deeper. For me, what started out as an issue on the cutting edge of religious ritual quickly grew to a basic demand of social justice and human decency.

The second impression to share is one of history. The Central Conference of American Rabbis -- the rabbinic association of Reform rabbis on this continent -- has an astonishing track record of vision and prescience. Time and again we have been the voice of the weak, the tormented and oppressed.  We were one of the first religious organizations on record in favor of Child Labor Laws. We spoke of reproductive rights long ago -- which at the time meant the legalization of contraception for married couples!! We defended the rights of workers to organize early on, and we have spoken out for civil rights, for women's rights and, now, for the civil and religious rights of gays and lesbians. I am at once both humbled and proud to be part of an organization that has been so right so early so often as to deserve the appellation "prophetic."

In Greensboro, in the city where the civil rights movement reached a new plateau of involvement at the lunch counter of a department store, we were all a part of history in the making again.  The final impression I want to share is about the resolution itself. It supports rabbis who choose to officiate at rituals of union for same-gender couples -- and, in a last minute compromise, also supports those rabbis who cannot in good conscience do so. There are those who say that the entire resolution was an unnecessary charade. That there was, before it was passed, nothing to stop rabbis from blessing same-sex ceremonies, nor anything to force a rabbi to do so either.

With this resolution, it is true, that nothing has changed. But everything has changed as well. There are times when a statement of values, of commitment, of principle is just the right thing to do. There was a service at the conference at which a special blessing was recited by our colleagues who are gay or lesbian. They rose to recite the words of the Kaddish deRabanan, the Rabbi's Kaddish. It was one of the most moving moments I have ever seen. What power there was in seeing colleagues -- friends -- able to literally stand up for who they were, as who they are, with the support of a caring community, sometimes for the first time.

I have never before felt the literal power of the words "taking a stand." If ever I had felt, as a heterosexual rabbi, that this was not my issue, that feeling is long gone. It is time to say: the monogamous and committed relationships of two people of the same gender is simply not a threat to my marriage. Or to my children. It is time to say: this is about right as much as rites. It is time to take a stand.

I am glad we did. And I am glad I was there.

The Sin Also Rises:

Purging the Hametz of the Heart

Rabbi Michael L. Feshbach

Temple Beth Am

Williamsville, New York

 Pesach is my favorite holiday in the Jewish year. Despite all the work, and all the preparation. Because every year, I try to move from sweat to sublime, from physical to spiritual preparation, from the cleansing of the kitchen to the transformation of our lives.

Pesach is really about... the hardness of our hearts, and our openness to others. I begin with the mundane. This has been a frustrating week for my family. Our cleaning service quit on us. With two tiny ones at home, we count on that help though it costs us dearly. It was the worst time in our lives to lose this help. It was the worst time as people newly moved to an area, without a deep network of conenctions and contacts. And, above all, without any doubt, it was the worst time of year that this could have happened. Cleaning has been much on our minds of late. Cleaning and cooking. Scrubbing ovens and counters, changing dishes and utensils, vacuuming the car, clearing the pantry, giving good food away to those in need, and looking for all the places Benjamin has decided to stock up on crackers.

For Jews around the world, a week of hard work lies ahead of us. And, since this cleaning is a religious duty, it falls equally on all members of a household. Whatever our normal division of labor might be. I received revised words to a children's song over the Internet this week, set to the tune of "My Favorite Things," and adjusted to the coming holiday: "Cleaning and cooking and so many dishes; out with the hametz, no pasta, no knishes. Fish that's gefillted, horseradish that stings -- these are a few of our Passover things."

As we prepare for Pesach, we are reminded that there are three primary commandments associated with this holiday. Two are positive commandments, things that we are to do. The third is a negative commandment, something we are not to do. The two positive commandments are to tell the story, and to eat matzah. The negative commandment is... to eat no hametz. And it is, of course, the negative commandment that causes so much tzimmes... I mean tzures. That causes so much trouble. We read in the Torah: "From the fourteenth day of the month, at evening, you shall eat unleavened bread, until the twenty-first day, at evening. No hametz (leaven) shall be found in your houses for seven days." (Exodus 12:18-19) Purge the hametz! Sweep it away, or stow it, store it, and sell it! It is not to be in our possession. We are to derive no benefit from it. So much fuss over getting rid of the hametz. But the question can be asked, this year and every year: just what is this hametz we are supposed to get rid of? Hametz is any product of five types of grain -- wheat, rye, barley, oats and spelt -- that has been in contact with water for eighteen minutes (thus "rising") without being handled before baking. A product made from any of these grains is permitted on Passover only if it has been subjected to constant supervision from harvest through baking. That is why you can have a box of matzah that is labeled "Not for Passover Use;" this means that the contents of that box were not subject to such strict supervision.

There are additional restrictions. Many of you know that Sephardic Jews eat corn, beans and rice on Pesach, while Ashkenazic Jews do not. But there are other regional variances as well: in Germany, for instance, fowl was not eaten, because the stomach might still contain grain. The removal of hametz is accomplished through a general cleaning, of all rooms of the house, not just the kitchen. It may take time to accomplish. But with the house final almost prepared, the final step is symbolic: the night before Passover, parents sometimes hide ten pieces of bread in the house, and conduct a candle-lit hunt for the hametz with children (or as adults themselves). The final bread, when found, is scooped up with a feather into a wooden spoon, and then ritually burned. A formula declaring all hametz that the family did not find to be null and void is then recited. Again, why the effort? Why the energy? Some people resist ritual, or scoff at ancient rules.

But the ritual is there for a reason. There is a message behind this mad rush of cleaning. or something found in us. And as I scrub away at my stove, trying to reach cracks and corners I don't bother with the whole rest of the year, I remember the words of a poem by Rabbi Lynne Gottleib which I read every time at this year, words which start with the crumbs on the counter, but which end... with the hametz of the heart.

Removing the Hametz
by Rabbi Lynn Gottleib

Removing the Hametz

in the month of Nisan

with the death of winter

and the coming of spring

our ancient mothers

cleaned out their houses.

They gathered brooms, mops, brushes, rags, stones and lime;

they washed down walls,

swept floors/ beat rugs

scoured pots

changed over all the dishes in the house.

They opened windows to the sun

hung lines for the airing out of blankets and covers

using fire

air

and water

in the cleaning.

In the month of nisan

before the parting seas

called them out of the old life

our ancient mothers

went down to the river

they went down to the river

to prepare their garments for the spring.

Hands pounded rock

voices drummed out song

there is new life inside us

Shekhinah

prepares for Her birth.

So we labor all women

cleaning and washing

now with our brothers

now with our sons

cleaning the inner house

through the moon of nisan.

On the ever of the full moon

we search our houses

by the light of a candle

for the last trace of winter

for the last crumbs grown stale inside us

for the last darkness

still in our hearts.

Washing our hands

we say a blessing

over water...

We light a candle

and search in the listening silence

search the high places

and the low places

inside you

search the attic

and the basement

the crevices and crannies

the corners of unused rooms.

Look in your pockets

and the pockets of

those around you

for traces of Mitzrayim.

Some use a feather

some use a knife

to enter the hard places.

Some destroy Hametz with fire

others throw it to the wind

others toss it to the sea.

Look deep for the Hametz

which still gives you pleasure

and cast it to the burning.

When the looking is done

we say:

All that rises up bitter

All that rises us prideful

All that rises up in old ways

no longer fruitful

All Hametz still

in my possession

but unknown to me

which I have not seen

nor disposed of

may it find common grave

with the dust of the earth.

amen amen selah...

The crumbs we sweep away are but an outer symbol, for the crummy stuff inside. Our old, crusty habits. That which rises up inside us which we would rather put aside. The crumbs of the spirit, the staleness of the soul. It is the inner house we cleanse as much as the outer one. Thus does the holiday during which we focus on food more than any other blend in with the holiday during which we eat no food at all. Passover and Yom Kippur, the one focusing on the physical, the other withdrawing from it, nevertheless work together to elevate the soul and improve our lives. But the spiritual message of Pesach is not just about what goes on inside us. It is also... about how we look at the world around us.

We learn lessons not just from the negative commandment of not eating chametz, but also from the positive one, that we tell the tale, again and again, of our going forth from Egypt. And just as hametz proved to be more than bread, Egypt, in the way we retell the story, is more than merely a place. It becomes no longer an ancient country, but a current reality, an ongoing danger, a state of mind. Towards the very end of the book of Genesis, the very last weekly portion in that book displays an unusual, actually, a unique feature. Alone of all the weekly portions in the Torah, there is no space between the end of the previous portion and the beginning of that one. The scribal tradition of copying the text of the Torah, which mandates either half a line of empty space or a full paragraph break before the beginning of all other portions, tells us that on that particular week, the portion starts in the middle of a line. As if... as if something happened in that portion that was so terrible that the writer just wanted to rush on through it. To get it over with.

In Hebrew, the last portion of the book of Genesis is called a "closed" portion, because there is no open space at its beginning. And from the way the words are arranged on the page, a great spiritual lesson can be derived. Why is this is a "closed" portion? Maybe someone is trying to tell us here, that something else begins to "close" during the events relayed in that week's reading. What happened in the last portion of Genesis. Why, Jacob died. That's bad. That's sad. That's true. But plenty of other people lived... rather long lives, I might add... and died in the book of Genesis. What was so bad about Jacob's death? One tradition derives an answer from the "closed" portion. A midrash tells us that the portion is "closed" to teach us that after the death of Jacob, "the eyes and the hearts of the Israelites were closed up because of the difficulty of enslavement."

But there is a problem with this. A historical problem. A contradiction. Because slavery did not begin with the death of Jacob. Only much later.

In fact, there is a verse towards the beginning of the book of Exodus which tells us that Joseph and all his brothers had died. What is the purpose of this verse? To teach us that so long as any of those who had gone down to Egypt from Canaan were still alive, the Egyptians did not enslave the Israelites. So the slavery did not begin until many, many years after the death of Jacob.

There is a wonderful Hasidic commentary which resolves the contradiction in the following way. It is true, this rabbi said, "that the physical slavery did not begin until long after the death of Jacob. But. With Jacob's passing, a different kind of slavery began. The first step. The spiritual servitude. Because Egyptian culture began creeping in and influencing the Israelites, without their seeing or feeling a thing. The internal truth was hidden. Thus, 'the eyes and the hearts of the Israelites were closed up,' for the eyes did not see and the heart did not feel anything except the superficial -- and this is the essence of enslavement."

What an amazing insight. To me.. this is profound Torah wisdom. That the first experience of enslavement is a psychological one. When we can't see what is really going on around us. When we are slaves to the superficial. When we judge a book by its cover. A person by appearance. The color of the skin. Or weight. Or gender. By affiliations of birth. Or orientations of nature. That the story of Pesach is not just about removing ourselves from Egypt. But removing Egypt from us. In the way we look at others. In the way we view the world. "Bechol dor vador, chayav adam lirot et atzmo k'ilu hu yatza mimitzrayim; in every generation, each one of us must view ourselves as though we ourselves has gone forth from Egypt."

The tale is told not just by us. The story is about us. The story is us. About the pride we are to purge, and the vision we are to focus, to see the world in the depth it deserves. And on Passover, bread is about more than bread, and Egypt is more than a place in our past. They are spiritual symbols, for the puffiness inside, and the pettiness outside. This Pesach, may each one of us rise to the occasion, to sweep away our sins, to cleanse our spirit, to move beyond the labels and petty problems that keep us estranged from one another. This year may we grow in spirit. And then we will know the sweetest taste of Pesach. The one that is neither food nor drink, but a promise we hold out, on the wings of a prayer. "L'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalayim. This year we are slaves. Next year may all be free. This year we are caught up in the problems of our lives. Next year.. in Jerusalem."

In and Out: Immigration and Identity

Rabbi Michael L. Feshbach

Temple Beth Am

Williamsville, New York

A young boy leaves his home on a daring journey. He loses his family along the way, and, dripping and shaken, emerges triumphant on the shore of freedom's sea. It is the quintessential American story: a dangerous passage, and rebirth in a new land. It is the American dream.

Only, the epochal, soon-to-be-a-major-motion-picture story of the six-year old Cuban boy Elian Gonzales is complicated by a few uncomfortable facts. Such as: he didn't lose his whole family on the way. A father and two grandmothers remain behind, and want him back. And: he is too young to have a total say, in what will become of him.

The United States Congress routinely condemns kidnappings and international terrorism. But in holding a boy in this country, with a father and two grandmothers in Cuba, with the Immigration and Naturalization Service having ruled that the father speaks for the child, how is what certain Republicans in Congress are doing different from what they condemn in other countries? And when is anyone going to have a passion for Elian himself, a passion stronger to their attraction to the votes of the exiles in Miami?

My gut reaction is that, as bad as it may be, Cuba is not Nazi Germany, and Elian's life there will be uncomfortable (although his family is among the limited number of elite in that country) but not ended. How would I have felt about a six-year old Soviet Jew who escaped to freedom two decades ago, but with one remaining living parent still behind the Iron Curtain? I don't know. Six years old? Perhaps I would feel the same way, that the parental tie is more important than the range of future career opportunities. But I am not fully certain.

And I do not know the full details of what Elian would face on a return to Cuba. So I should be a bit more humble, perhaps. It's just that it seems so clear to me that people's reactions are not about the boy at all. Rather, they are a reflection of something else. Not just a political agenda. At its core, our reactions to this case say something about ourselves.

Immigration issues are, and always have been, more about who "we" see as "us," as it is about "them."  We welcome Cubans with open arms. In most cases, and certainly with adults, this is entirely appropriate. But look at how we welcome Haitians.

Is it just that our enmity for Castro outweighs our sympathy for anyone who would make it to this country to escape poverty, and in search of a better life? Or is something else going on here? Is it, perhaps, that the Cubans look more like what most of us think an American should look like than does a

Haitian? Is this as much a subjective sense of "us" and "them" and who "we" are, than an objective assessment of need?  I am not talking about race alone here. The sense of "us" and "them" underlies so many questions of immigration and assimilation as to serve as a mirror on own identity. Asian American scientists report a sharply increased experience of suspicion and discrimination since one of "them" was accused of spying for a country of origin. This, without a shred of evidence that these dedicated men and women are anything other than fully loyal American citizens.

There have long been those who fan the flames of division and discord.  Father Coughlan, in the 1930's, had a radio program that was anti-semitic and anti-immigrant, which played directly on the fears that "they" will infiltrate "our" country. The Sacho and Vanzetti trial of a decade earlier lay the groundwork for an anti-immigration sentiment that swung shut the doors of welcome on which our country was built.

For whom should we not suspect? Who is the real American? The natives of this land are the original "outsiders" in the warped way we look at our country, but who should escape suspicion? British Americans? But we fought two wars against England; they burned our capital to the ground! Our original definition of ourselves, in fact, was that we were not "them."

Americans whose country of origin is Germany? They make up a substantial portion of the population of this country. But need I say anything more?

Americans from France? At least France was our ally in our first war. But that country just won't seem to toe-the-line we want ever since.

Even within our own Jewish community, the definition of "us" and "them" has defined much of our experience. The first American Jews were refugees from Recife, Brazil; Sephardic Jews still seeking a home after the exile from Spain. They established themselves here, and these "grandees" looked down with disdain on the pushy peddlers who arrived next --those pesky German Jews. But the "Our Crowd" soon rose from pushcarts to prominence. One would think they would have remembered the disdain they suffered in the sight of the Sephardic establishment. But, no, they were, if anything, worse in their contempt for the next wave of Jews to come here, the Eastern European Jewish immigrants who came in massive numbers from the 1880's to 1930's, "The Rest of Us." (The three terms used here, "The Grandees," "Our Crowd" and "The Rest of Us" are references to books written about the Sephardic Jews of America, the early German Jewish immigrants, and the Eastern European immigrants, respectively, by Stephen Birmangham.) The German Jews were so determined to rapidly Americanize, but at the same time remain apart from these Ostjuden (Eastern Jews), that they set up entire movements and institutions (the Conservative movement and the Jewish Theological Seminary -- established by German Reform Jews for Eastern European semi-Orthodox Jews, as were the Education Alliance, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society and a host of other organizations) just to simultaneously assist the newcomers and keep them at arms' length. It was a remarkable display of unity and disdain, of a sense of commonality and separateness rolled into one.

Too often we depend for our own identity not on a sense of who we are, but who we are not. Immigration is not just a question of values, but of identity. Which of them we let in triggers for all of us the touchstone question of not just what we stand for, but: who are "we?" What do "we" look like? It is not an accident that those who rifle through our bags on our return from abroad are called "Customs" agents. For the shores of our sea, the ports of our skies, the terminal points of transport and association are, indeed, the borders of surface lives. They are the meeting point of self and other.

But it is only when the borders bend, when the barriers between us and other fade enough for us to see ourselves in every other, that we can reach beyond the surface. That we can encounter the identity of the soul.

Jacob, too, left parents behind. His journey was not across an ocean. It was over a mountain. He slept on a rock. Tossed not by waves, he tossed in his sleep. And his dream saw beneath the surface of things. For when he woke up to himself, when he opened up his eyes he said: Achain! Yeish Adonai BaMakom HaZeh, v' Anochi Lo Yadati! Behold! God is in this place -- and I, I did not know it!"

Why the repetition? As others have noted, and as I have written before: some would say the word "I" is repeated so that we may pay special attention to what this verse really means. That what is says, in essence, is this: "Behold, God is in this place, when my 'I', my 'self,' my 'ego' I did not know."

For it is only when we can look at an"other" and see not the differences between us but the common heritage of humanity, that we truly reach beyond the limits of the self. It is only when "they" become "us" that "we" can be.

It is only when we are able to transcend differential and division and distinction... that we can meet God.

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad! Hear O Israel! The very prayer that sets us apart as Jews is a key to reaching beyond being apart.

It is a key to the unity of the world. The Eternal God is found in the Oneness of the world. In a place beyond borders and barriers. In a place of wholeness, and oneness and peace.

Who are you? And who is we? And what are we going to do about a young boy in Miami, whose story is not yet told.

His journey is not yet complete.

Neither is ours.

A Covenant Cocktail:

The Messianic Idea in Judaism

Rabbi Michael L. Feshbach

Temple Beth Am

Williamsville, New York

Well, for our neighbors, Christmas is coming. And "the Millennium" (which I continue to assert is being celebrated a full year early; see the previously written "Nothing Matters"). An important date in the history of Christianity and the world. So I suppose that what I have to say here may seem politically incorrect. Or, at least, strike some as vying to be a bit of a party pooper. A whole lot of folks around the world are caught up in this idea of the Messiah. But -- with apologies -- I believe that one of the most important ideas in the history of the world may have been the result of an accident.

Let us go back to the beginning, or, at least, to the tale we tell of where it all got started. From the outset of the Bible, we encounter the concept of "covenant," called, in Hebrew, brit. (Yes, the word "brit", or "br is", means "covenant," not "circumcision," since "bris" is only the shortened -- you should pardon the pun -- form of the full phrase "brit milah, covenant of circumcision.") There are clearly two kinds of covenants in the Bible: conditional ones, in which something is promised from God only on condition that certain terms are fulfilled or obligations are met, and unconditional ones, in which a promise from God is given which, although perhaps sealed by a sign of some sort, is not dependent on particular behavior or reciprocity.

The very first covenant in the Bible was a conditional one. God told Adam and Eve that they could live in the Garden of Eden if they did not eat the fruit of a certain tree. The rest is history. (Or mythology, depending on your perspective.)

If Brit Adam was a conditional covenant, than Brit Noach, the second major covenant in the Bible, was unconditional. God told Noah that God would not destroy the world with water again. Period. End of story. Human behavior had hardly changed: the very first thing Noah goes out and does is invent viticulture, get smashed off his... rocker... and have some sort of ugly incident with his son the details of which do not belong in a family column (much less a public school classroom -- take THAT all you folks who think the Bible should be read in public schools!) The rainbow is a sign of the covenant, but the promise is unconditional.

The covenant of Adam and the covenant of Noah -- neither one concerns me at the moment. For it is the subsequent chapters of Biblical history, the covenants to come -- three of them in particular -- which I believe give accidental birth to a concept that shook the world.

We move from universal (pre)history, to the history of our people.

We turn to the first monotheist, the first Jew, the first successful long-term relationship God manages to have with a human being in the book of Genesis.

We turn to Abraham.

Step One. Brit Avraham. The covenant of Abraham. The sign is circumcision, that much we know. But what is the promise? What are the terms?

God promises Abraham that God will give him the land of Canaan, to him and his descendants. Forever. Period. Unconditionally. Brit Avraham thus contains within it an eternal claim to the land.

Step Two. The rest of the Torah. Brit Moshe, the covenant of Moses.

The ideology here is articulated with the most eloquence and rhetorical flourish in the book of Deuteronomy, but it is found throughout the final four books of the Torah. God places before us a choice, and lays it on the line: it is up to us, life or death, the blessing or the curse. If we follow the ways of the Eternal our God, we will live in the land in security. And if we do not, than plagues and pestilence and pesky dental problems will follow, we will suffer low sperm counts and long lines at the grocery store, we will be exiled from the land, and wander the face of the earth. The choice is ours, but the words are clear: the covenant of Moses, whether we live on the land and feel the bounty of God's blessing, is conditional.

It depends on our behavior.

Step Three. We jump ahead, to the story of David. A shephard-musician is elevated to the kingship of Israel. And God makes another promise. Your descendants will be the rulers of the Jewish people for all time. No qualms. And no quality control. Period. Brit David. The covenant of David. An unconditional promise.

Three covenants. Three different situations. But mix them together, and out of the froth of time comes the most potent message of hope in all of human history. Let's look at the implications.

The Jewish people have an eternal claim to the land of Canaan/Israel (Brit Avraham.) But whether we actualize that claim, whether we enjoy it, whether we actually get to live on the land -- that depends on us (Brit Moshe). And: there is a family who is destined to be the leaders of our people forever (Brit David).

It doesn't take much stirring to see what happens. There will come a time when we no longer merit living on the land. But we still have a claim to it. So someday, somewhere, somehow, when we are ready once again, the proper ruler of our people will reemerge. To lead us back to life on the land.

That's it, folks. That is the idea of the Messiah. Fully formed...from working out the details of three previous promises.  And that is the Messiah's original job description in Judaism. To go home again. That's the only entry on the resume. None of this making the snow melt in a Buffalo blizzard, or eliminating the need for protective fences in zoos. None of this end of history stuff, or bones rising from the earth -- all of that came later, accretions and additions, some in Judaism and considerably more in Christianity, to an idea that emerged from the promises of yesterday.

The most important idea in history, an accident of implication.

Unless, of course, there are no accidents.

Whatever theological bets you have riding on the next few weeks -- Millennium fever, Messianic expectation, or simply another Shabbat service in a synagogue -- whatever you believe and wherever you will be: a happy new year. To one and all.

Encounter in Dallas: Tale of a Tiny Torah

Encounter in Dallas:
Tale of a Tiny Torah

Have you ever encountered a person you knew in the most unlikely and unexpected place? Bumped into a classmate while hiking in the Himalayas? Stayed at the same hotel as a relative on another coast, without knowing about it until the hotel operator connected a call to the wrong Feshbach (which happened to my father)? Accidentally built a new house right next door to the home of a woman you left at the altar years before (as happened to someone Iknew where I used to live)?

For all the coincidental encounters of our lives , I often wonder about the near misses. lf we come face to face with friends in the funniest places , how many more times there must be when we are in the same place as those we know, but turn the wrong way , choose a different aisle, ask for a different section of a restaurant, and simply never know how close we came to making a connection we would have spoken about, perhaps, for the rest of our lives .

And then there are the times when we make lemonade out of lemons   When we find connections even when there is no reason to assume we could do so.

I was paying for coffee at a check out line at the Reform Movement's Union of American Hebrew Congregation's (UAHC) Biennial in Dallas last month. The woman in front of me looked familiar. This being a convention, and such things being socially acceptable in this context , I said so. (In the Jewish context , of course she looked familiar. After all, wasn't she at Sinai? And weren't you?) Nine times out of ten such conversations take place between people who had, actually , met before, often at a previous convention. Nine times in the previous day people had said the same thing to me  And then there is the tenth time. After some discussion, I was fairly sure I had not, in fact , ever met this woman.

But then she looked at my badge. "Oh!" she said.  "You're from Buffalo.  I grew up three blocks from that synagogue."  Given that I have just moved here, that didn't mean that much to me, but this unexpected development held out the hope that at least I could reduce my embarrassment about telling a total stranger that she looked familiar .

And then the connections started to work , one right after the other   Two  members of our congregation were standing with me at the time  It turns out that this woman's father is a patient of one of them, and lives on the same street as the other. The woman's parents are divorced. Her mother lives in Boca Raton - and I have been in her mother's home for dinner when I was an assistant rabbi there.

The four of us spent a few more minutes talking We walked towards the evening concert. On the way , we bumped into a former assistant rabbi at another congregation in Buffalo, who had been at this woman's grandfathers' funeral, and her former rabbi in the city in which she now lives . We sat at the concert together, and as Peter Yarrow announces he is about to sing a song about memory , this woman leans forward, and asks one of our congregation's delegates for a favor.

"When you get back to Buffalo," she said, "can you do something for me? Can you help me find something?  It belonged to my grandfather, who was a rabbi, and he gave it to me, but I lost track of it. It is somewhere in Buffalo, but I don't know

where Could you help me track it down? It is a tiny children's Torah, with a gold cover, with an imitation ruby in the center of the cover."

The three of us from my congregation paused, and looked at each other. We knew exactly where this Torah was. It was in our ark at Temple Beth Am. It had been in our religious school wing, and this past summer , when I said I wanted to put children's Torahs in the ark as I had done in other congregations, our rabbi-educator, who is also new to the congregation, said he thought we had a couple he had seen when he was unpacking

We told the woman we had just met that we were now using "her" Torah every week , that children's faces glowed in pride and delight as they part1c1pated in carrying the Torah around the congregation.  That we had asked the congregation to help us obtain more such Torahs , and that the response has been very fawrable.  That her Torah had come "out of the closet" and into a living ark.

I assume that we are talking about the same Torah  It will be easy enough, I think, to trace its origins. If it is the same Torah , if this woman we met by chance does own it , it is hers for the asking.

But with tears in her eyes on hearing what had happened to her Torah, she did not ask for it back immediately    For the image of something she cherished as a child being used, being shared, spreading joy to other children was a powerfully spiritual moment for her. And not only for her.

How rare it is for a metaphor to be made so real For all the accidental encounters in our lives, all the chance meetings , all the coincidences , all of them... can lead to Torah. If only we are patient enough to  nd, open enough to see... the connections that bind us together. All of us. Every one.

It is said that the bush burned from the beginning. That God did not light the burning bush for Moses alone. That is was , simply ,always there. It was waiting.  It was ready to be seen.. by any who are ready to see.

So it is for us. There are miracles all around us. If only we open our eyes .