Weekly Messages

The events of last Saturday, in Colleyville have caused us to take a collective sigh of relief and a deep gasp for air, at the same time. We are relieved that the situation ended with the physically safe release of the four hostages. But, it was a stark reminder of the dangers that lurk in our world and the heightened threats of being Jewish in America.

Three glaring ironies of the events of last week stood out to me:

1) I do not know Rabbi Cytron Walker. Though, it is rabbis like him who encouraged me to become a rabbi.

When I was in college, I would frequent different shuls and minyanim whenever I would get the chance. In each prayer space that I entered, I judged the welcoming nature of the leadership more than the food after the service or the décor of the room. Some clergy invited me for Shabbat lunch minutes after meeting and others could care less that I was a guest in their community.

Rabbi Cytron Walker is the former type of rabbi and community leader. Rabbi Cytron Walker treated his last months at the congregation like they were his first. He welcomed in the stranger, offered him tea on a cold day to warm up, and demonstrated the hospitality that Abraham and Sarah showed in the time of the Bible. It is this ethic, ironically that made Rabbi Cytron Walker and his congregation, vulnerable.

Were the rabbi to have leaned toward the side of worry, concern, and fear and peppered this would-be terrorist with questions and queries as to his background and presence on this Shabbat, perhaps his alarm would have staved off the traumatic events. But had he done so, the rabbi would have simultaneously failed as a Jewish professional.

Core to our future and fundamental to our collective success is the notion of being welcoming to all. When we build fortresses around our places of prayer, we offer security to those inside and ward off those who seek to do evil but, at the same time, we deny a sense of openness and welcome to individuals who seek refuge, people who have questions and souls who genuinely need a place to warm up on a cold day.

2) Allegedly, the terrorist chose a synagogue because he believed “Jews control the world.” He wanted us to wield that “imaginary” power to release a convicted felon from federal custody. The gunman even contacted a prominent rabbi in New York to exert her influence to help him achieve the goal he had set out.

The fantastic irony is that as soon as this assailant walked into the Temple with a gun he transformed the moment of the Jewish people from a perceived identity of power, control, and invincibility to one of victimhood, limitation, and of helpless prey.

These two competing narratives have conflicted with each other on topics related to Israel, politics, and leadership, but I do not recall a time they have been in such proximal juxtaposition.

3) Much of my day-to-day communal life is focused on petty and niggling infighting amongst other streams of Jews. Who can pray at the Western Wall, can I officiate at a wedding with a colleague of a different stripe, can we use this technology during Shabbat without offending visitors, this standard of kosher be acceptable for our congregation and other guests? The infighting and squabbling between the different streams of the Jewish world feel existential. They are not.

A terrorist chose to infiltrate a synagogue last week. He did not choose a library, hospital, or an Applebee’s restaurant. He targeted a Jewish place of worship.

What was inconsequential to this person was which movement he targeted. Whether Beth Israel was a Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Reconstructionist, Modern Orthodox, or non-egalitarian place of worship had no consequence in his decision. And once the attack was announced and word spread, it did not matter to any Jew, either.

All places of worship knew without uttering a syllable, there but for the Grace of God…

All places of worship knew in that moment that whether Women of the Wall could read from a Torah scroll on Rosh Hodesh or if we waited one hour or six hours after eating meat or walked or drove to synagogue on holidays or livestreamed a service on Shabbat, did not matter one iota. We were bound by a greater DNA, a bigger title, and a deeper bond. Ironically, those links are forgotten in times of sunshine and are bright, visible, and tangible in times of darkness.

The ordeal of Colleyville has ended and the trauma for the survivors, the community, and the Jewish world is just beginning. I pray for the safety of those in the inner circle and those in the outmost rings, who were affected by this act of hatred.

May we all work hard to land on the proper side of the ironies that life presents.

Rabbi David-Seth Kirshner

They say the best contracts are ones that you keep in a drawer and never look at. Personally, I have two contracts that I keep in my house, one that lives in a folder in a desk drawer, the other is framed and hangs on our living room wall. One is my employment contract, the other, my Ketubah.

Contracts serve many purposes, but they ultimately serve as agreements that two or more parties will adhere to a certain set of responsibilities to one another. A contract can be between parties of differing status or power- like a work contract or employment agreement, or they can delineate an exchange for goods or services provided, or they can be between parties of equal power- who have entered into a binding partnership.

The centerpiece of our Parsha, Yitro, is the Aseret HaDibrot, the 10 Proclamations, (often incorrectly translated as the 10 commandments). Aside from their method of revelation, Judaism doesn’t view the Aseret HaDibrot as particularly more important than other statements of God or mitzvot. Instead, our tradition views them as a contract or a brit, a covenant, which is the preferred Jewish term.

But this covenant is more than a contract because it is between loving companions instead of business partners. Like a ketubah- which begins with the relevant names and dates of all the parties involved- the Aseret HaDibrot starts by describing our relationship with God. And instead of explaining each and every minute detail of our ever-evolving relationship- it describes some major bullet points- fidelity, dedication, respect, commitment.

Yes, there are consequences for failing to uphold the terms of the agreement, and yes, some of the terms are more difficult to undertake than others.

But ultimately this covenant – these 10 stipulations, serve as a solid foundation for our developing relationship with God.

That’s why they adorn our ark- not because they’re the most important part of the Torah held inside- but rather because they symbolize the commitment we agreed to at the foot of Mount Sinai and the relationship we’ve dedicated our religious lives to.

And just like the Aseret HaDibrot, which serve as the contractual backbone and symbolization of our ever-evolving relationship with the Divine are glorified in our art and in our imagination- our parsha teaches us that we should do the same with our other relationships- whether they’re guided by contracts or covenants or love. Study them, examine them, learn them and revere them just as we learn, study, adore and revere the Aseret HaDibrot. Make sure they’re bound by mutual responsibility, and always guided by a dedication to the stipulations, and a respect and love for the partners in whichever covenant you are a part of.

Rabbi Jeremy Fineberg

Which is more important, the process or the product? This question is an important one for anyone involved in a project, whether big or small. There are many who argue product, saying that the final outcome matters most, while others argue process, that somehow the learning along the way will matter in the long term.

In Judaism, sometimes the answer is product, because as long as the obligation is fulfilled or the mitzvah completed properly, it doesn’t matter what it took to get there. But other times, the process is paramount, because how we arrived at the destination can teach us a lot about who we are and what we need.

In this week’s parsha, Beshallach, God comes out firmly on the side of process. As B’nai Yisrael are leaving Egypt, God decides not to take them on the most direct path to Canaan, the promised land. God explains “the people may have a change of heart when they see war and return to Egypt,” (Exodus 13:17). God realizes that though the whole purpose of leaving Egypt is to head to the promised land if they go directly there, there is a strong chance the newly freed slaves will find themselves in a war they are not prepared to fight. Fearing that they might then run away and turn back towards Egypt, God makes the calculated decision to lead the people in a roundabout way. That way, they will have time to mature and grow and forget their experience of slavery before they have to face the challenges of trying to enter the land of Israel.

The destination is the same no matter what, but God prioritizes the process because God understands that without the right process, we can never achieve the product. The journey is all about allowing the people the space and time to grow before achieving the destination.

Sometimes outcomes matter more than the inputs, but no matter the situation, our tradition teaches us to be wary of just assuming the product always wins. We need to develop a keen sense of discernment to know what matters most and to never forget that our people’s greatest story is of a journey that only just barely reaches its destination.

Rabbi Jeremy Fineberg

Saturday night, Dori and I saw the Lehman Trilogy. It was a fantastic show (that sadly has since closed) detailing the history of the Lehman Brothers and their Jewish roots, values and upbringings.

Without giving away the plot, one scene depicts a young Herbert Lehman, who would eventually rise to be a Governor of New York and see the state through the depression. As a child, he was bothered by the suffering of others. He challenged his rabbis when the story of the plagues came about – the last three plagues are the topic of this week’s Parsha of Bo – asking earnestly why instead of creating 10 plagues that wreaked havoc on ALL Egyptian life, why did God not just kill the Pharoah? Or soften his heart permanently? Simple and thoughtful questions that underscore the essence of a Jewish mind: asking questions.

There is a fantastic story told about the importance of question and logic in Jewish history.

A young man asks to study with a Talmudic scholar. The scholar gives him a taste of Talmudic reasoning.

“But I already know logic, what do I need Talmudic reasoning?” protests the student, “Aristotelian syllogisms, truth-functional logic, predicate logic, set theory everything.”

“That’s not Jewish logic,” replies the scholar, but the student persists, and so the scholar offers to show him the difference between “logic” and what we find in the Talmud.

“Here is the question,” says the scholar. “Two men go down a chimney. One has a dirty face, one has a clean face. Which one washes?”

“That’s easy,” says the student, “the one with the dirty face.”

“Wrong,” says the scholar. “The one with the clean face looks at the other one, sees a dirty face, and thinks his must also be dirty, and so the one with the clean face washes.”

“I see,” says the student. “It is a little more complicated than I thought, but I can do this. Please test me again.”

“All right,” sighs the scholar. “Here is the question. Two men go down a chimney. One has a dirty face, one has a clean face. Which one washes?”

In surprise, the student answers, “Just as you said, the one with the clean face washes.”

“Wrong,” says the scholar. “The one with the dirty face observes his companion looking at him and making ready to wash his face. ‘Ah ha,’ he thinks. ‘He must see a dirty face, and it’s mine.’ And so the one with the dirty face washes.”

“It is even more complicated than I yet realized,” says the student, “but now I do understand. Please test me once more.”

“Just once more,” says the scholar. “Here is the question. Two men go down a chimney. One has a dirty face, one has a clean face. Which one washes?”

“Now I know the answer,” says the student. “The one with the dirty face washes, just as I thought in the beginning, but for a different reason.”

“Wrong,” says the scholar. “If two men go down a chimney, how can only one have a dirty face? Go and study. When you know Jewish logic, come back.”

More important than our history is our collective ability to ask questions that affect our understanding of yesterday with our appreciation of tomorrow.

Rabbi David-Seth Kirshner