George Stern's State of the Minyan Rosh Hashanah Davar Torah

Thanks, George!

Yom Harat Olam and the State of the Minyan

Rosh Hashanah Morning I, September 25, 2014

George Stern

            Imagine for a moment that you are the prophet Jeremiah, called by God to speak truth to power and to the people—only to find yourself mocked and, eventually, thrown into jail.

You enticed me, Adonai, and I was enticed;

You overpowered me and You prevailed.

I have become a constant laughingstock,

Everyone jeers at me. (20:7)

Not a good place to be in. Indeed, Jeremiah is in such pain that he adds:

Accursed be the day

That I was born!
Let not the day be blessed

When my mother bore me! (20:14)

No singing of Yom huledet sameach to him!

Then, speaking of the man who brought news of his birth to his father, Jeremiah concludes his jeremiad:

Because he did not kill me before birth

So that my mother might be my grave,

Pregnant [with me] for all time.

Why did I ever issue from the womb,

To see misery and woe,

To spend all my days in shame! (20:17-18)

Not a pretty picture. And yet, one of the phrases Jeremiah uses—harat olam—has found its way into our Rosh Hashanah liturgy. Let’s unpack that a bit.

            First, let me point out that the connection between the Jeremiah phrase and our liturgy is unmistakable. The phrase harat olam occurs only once in the Tanach, here in Jeremiah. The verse preceding it references t’ruah, “battle shouts.” The connection is clear.

            But how do we get from there to here, as it were? In fact, harat has more of the sense of pregnancy or conception than birth, and olam means “forever.” So harat olam means something like “eternal conception,” or, as just translated, “perpetually pregnant.” Jeremiah wishes that instead of coming forth from the womb, he could have remained within it, sheltered and happy. (Never mind what his mother would have thought of that!)

            Yet in our liturgy, harat olam has come to mean “the birth of the world,” something quite positive. Harat has been interpreted to refer to the last day of the pregnancy, i.e., the day of the birth, and olam to mean “world”: “today is the day for giving birth to the world.”

            As Ilana Grinblat, who teaches at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies in L.A., noted in a recent article, “God’s creation of the world is similar to a mother giving birth to a child”—a process fraught with fear and pain, and also the most sublime joy. She goes on to say: “We hold the same mix of feelings approaching Rosh Hashanah as we have when we are about to have a child: anticipation and excitement along with worry and even dread. On the High Holidays, we hope to give birth to new, improved versions of ourselves, but any potential change is accompanied by wide-ranging emotions. Our are about to be transformed, but we don’t know how.” About-to-be parents and Jews everywhere: beware and be happy!

            I would like to go a step further than Grinblat or, for that matter, the way in which even our Machzor translates harat olam. In this I follow, among others, Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg, who suggests that it would be better to translate the phrase as “today the world was conceived.” In other words, today, as on every Rosh Hashanah—and, one might say, every day—the world is conceived anew, something fresh becomes available to us. This opens up all sorts of possibilities for us and is, in fact, the basis for teshuvah, the idea that we can turn, return, and change—link ourselves anew with one another and with God. The spiritual work of Elul and the Yamim Noraim, Days of Awe, can indeed make a positive difference, for us, for those around us, and for the ever-rebirthing world.

            Given all of this birth imagery and the notion that we and the world are being recreated continually, it is no wonder that in both the Reconstructionist and Reform Machzorim, the Creation Story—Genesis 1—is suggested as an alternative to the traditional Torah reading about Hagar and Ishmael. (Parenthetically, let me add that such a change makes especial sense when one realizes that, according to some scholars at least, the choice of the Ishmael and Isaac story had much to do with assertions of Jewish primacy—Jacob, not Ishmael, is “the man.” Hardly an assertion Reconstructionists are comfortable with.)

            So it was a matter of some disappointment for me that, when we discussed High Holy Day Torah readings at a recent Dorshei Derekh Quarterly Meeting, the suggestion that we consider using the alternate Creation reading, for this year at least, was rejected. For some, making changes to High Holy Day liturgy is difficult to accept—even though our Machzor already differs in some important respects from the traditional one. (In my congregational rabbinic days, I used to refer to “Reform orthodoxy”: we made a change, now leave me alone.) Another reason for rejecting the change in Torah reading was concern that recordings of Genesis 1 using High Holy Day trop are not available. I personally understand both arguments, but would have liked us to try something new, especially since the alternative is right there in our Machzor and would be a great example of at least low-level creativity on our part. Surely we could have found someone to record Genesis 1 in High Holy Day trop, just as we did in my congregation decades ago. The same could hold true for the inspiring Atem Nitzavim, which replaced what I consider the rather uninspiring “scapegoat” reading on Yom Kippur—an alternative that’s also in our Machzor.

            While change can be scary, it is also inevitable. Even those who “sleep in the dust” change—from flesh and bone to dust to perhaps a beautiful daisy. In fact, the Hebrew word shanah, translated as “year,” comes from a root meaning “change.” Today is the day that our calendar year changes. It’s also the day we proclaim the possibility that we, too, can change, although we know from the results of “promises” we made during High Holy Days past that change is very difficult—for individuals and, sometimes more so, for institutions.

            But the fact is, failure to change can be even more devastating than coping with the challenges we face when controlling change under our own steam. I’m sure we have all experienced not only the sad results of failing to make changes in our personal lives, but also the disastrous results when an institution remains stuck in a rut.

            As an example of controlled and ultimately happy institutional change, I cite the following: Within the next few months we will mark the 40^th anniversary of the Germantown Minyan, out of which both Masorti and Dorshei Derekh grew (after some pretty tough birth pangs, I have been told). Imagine where this Centre would be had it not—sometimes kicking and screaming, to be sure—welcomed the Minyan members and figured out how to incorporate them, slowly but surely, into the whole. Without today’s “community of communities,” it’s probably a safe bet that GJC would be no more.

            All of which leads to the following: Our indefatigable High Holy Day coordinators, Beulah Trey and Chana Dickter—to whom we all owe a huge debt—suggested that it would be a good idea if I, as the coordinator-in-chief, gave a talk on what they called “the state of the minyan.” In truth, I was hesitant to do so, but I agreed to take it on.

            I start by providing some perspective. I am by no means one of the founders of Dorshei Derekh, and certainly not of its predecessor, which Mike and Rachel could tell you all about. I did not live through the 1970s struggles with the shul, the split that occurred within the Germantown Minyan, or the controversies over our affiliation with the Reconstructionist Movement and the adoption of Kol Haneshamah as our siddur. My Jewish background is neither Conservative nor Reconstructionist, though I did co-author a theology paper on Reconstructionism with my good friend Eric Yoffie, the immediate past president of the Union for Reform Judaism. All of which is to say that I lack history and a full understanding of how we got to be who we are. That may be a deficiency—or maybe it allows me some perspective. I also served as a Reform congregational rabbi for almost three decades, a fact that may or may not help me understand our minyan.

            When Debbie and I moved here in 2002, we discovered in the Maslow a welcoming community. We loved the singing and appreciated the willingness of members to pitch in, giving of their time, expertise, and intellect to keep things humming. We also appreciated the stated intention of allowing for creativity in liturgy, as well as openness to occasional non-liturgical, events—academic and social. We still cannot imagine a better place to spend Shabbat mornings, and holidays as well. We are fortunate to be part of a loving community. Members of Dorshei never have to look far to find support.

            But it didn’t take long before I began to sense that, simply because of who we are, we can be very intimidating to potential newcomers. Our comfort with Hebrew and the often-scholarly nature of our discussions speak to only certain Jews. In addition, I noted that, without realizing it, liturgical creativity fell to just a few people and was often absent altogether. (I, of course, played a role in that, insofar as I did not push the boundaries when I took leadership roles.) After experiencing services at several other Reconstructionist communities, I also came to see that Dorshei Derekh is quite unlike the others. And given the nature of the other two minyanim here, Dorshei is not the unique alternative that another Reconstructionist group might be.  Which is all well and good, I guess, insofar as our raison d’etre is to create a meaningful spiritual experience for ourselves and people like us.

            There are, however, some questions that sometimes haunt me: Have we lost the energy to embrace change, the kind of energy that led to the creation of the Germantown Minyan, its split, then the affiliation of Dorshei with the lamented Jewish Reconstructionist Federation? Have we settled into a sort of “Reconstructionist orthodoxy”? When I served a Reform pulpit, I used to insist that Reform Judaism is just that: Reform, not reformed. It’s not by accident that the late Leonard (Leibel) Fein called a study he was commissioned to produce Reform Is a Verb. Similarly, Dorshei is part of the Reconstructionist, not the Reconstructed, movement, again implying the necessity of openness to change. If we have fallen into comfortable patterns, whom are we serving? Do we have obligations to the broader GJC and Jewish community? Indeed, are we paying sufficient attention to the changes that have occurred within the minyan itself so that we can respond to changes that have occurred whether we like it or not? What are we doing to ensure our sustainability?

            Here are a few challenges that give me pause:

·         Our numbers have dropped by almost 20% over the past year.

·         For two years running, some of our High Holy Day services are led by people who are not Dorshei members—including both of the separate Kol Nidre services that some of our members fervently wanted but which none stepped forward to lead.

·         Leyning has become qualitatively problematic, which is why we are now experimenting with shorter aliyot.

·         The number of potluck Kiddushes is on the rise.

·         We are experiencing a recycling of minyan leaders—think moi, and think also of the game of musical chairs that some of our sub-coordinators (or whatever the others are called) play.

·         A dozen people make most minyan decisions—the same “dirty dozen” as years ago.

I imagine some of you could add to that list, but for now that’s not necessary. My intent is not to criticize but merely to hold a mirror up to ourselves. As I said, ours is a special community, and I would hate to lose the positive aspects of what those who formed this minyan created and from which they and all the rest of us benefit to this day.

            Are the challenges I have presented compelling, or blips in an otherwise serene situation? Maybe if each one of us simply asked, “What can I do in the next year to respond more often and more decisively to minyan needs?”—and then volunteered to sponsor that Kiddush or go to a minyan meeting or take advantage of volunteers who say they’ll teach davvening or leyning—we’d be in fine shape.

            Personally, I could imagine being content remaining as we are. I could take the position that, as long as we’re able to maintain Dorshei Derekh long enough for Debbie and me to have a comfortable Shabbat communal experience until, well, we don’t need one any more, that would be just fine. But isn’t that selfish? Given the challenges faced by the entire Jewish community, do we have an obligation to offer what GJC members and others cannot find elsewhere? How can we best remain faithful to our Reconstructionist roots?

            Assuming it would be worthwhile for us to examine our long-term health, we should of course start by recognizing what factors lie behind the challenges I’ve outlined.

·         Smaller classes at RRC have significantly decreased involvement by rabbinical students, who in the past added a great deal of life to our group, led davvening, and frequently leyned.

·         Second, the minyan that seems to be growing is the one that, until a couple years ago, was pretty moribund: the Charry, led now by dynamic rabbis with consistently good voices and more open to involvement by worshippers than ever before. Is there anything we can learn from that? Are there ways in which all three minyanim can help each other?

·         Third, the number of davvening and learning choices available on Shabbat morning has been growing. That does not affect our membership, but it does affect members’ availability for leyning, leading davvening, and giving Divrei Torah.

·         Fourth, the truth is, society all around us has changed. New gender roles and the prevalence on the one hand of single parent families and on the other of two-earner families are two of the most obvious social changes of the past 40 years. 

To be sure, adapting to changes brought about by factors beyond our control is often not simple. As an example: Forty years ago in my Nyack, NY, congregation, our Women’s Club took too long to figure out what kinds of programs younger women, almost all of them working, would respond to. Ultimately the group went dark for a few years until someone new came along to recreate it. Also, in my opinion, it took way too long for the board and committees to realize that younger moms and dads, away from the house all day, were no longer willing to hire babysitters in order to come to the temple, so that synagogue programming had to appeal to multiple generations, with childcare available.

            Of even more significance, perhaps, is what has happened to the Conservative Movement. Like Reform, it too commissioned a study of the state of the movement in the early 1970s. Sadly, not liking what they saw, they suppressed it. Now the future of the entire movement is threatened. (Reform is struggling, too, but not as badly.)

            Again: We all know that dealing with change is challenging, sometimes just about impossible. We also know that not all change is desirable. Nor is it universally true that institutions must change or die. Yet I think that individuals, organizations, and even nations are wise to engage in ongoing, careful self-examination, so as to determine when new ways of thinking and acting are in order. Complaining may be a necessary step in confronting reality. But as with Jeremiah, it’s crucial to move on to problem solving.

            We welcome today a new year—5775 in the Hebrew calendar. In an Israeli newspaper the year would be represented by the letters ת-ש-ע-ה, 775 in Gematria (the first 5 is assumed, and will be for some time to come). As it turns out, those letters spell a word,

העשת, “you shall pay heed,” “you shall look about.” I hope that each one of us will take advantage of the fantastic opportunities these Yamim Noraim provide us to do just that—to carefully observe ourselves, our families, our relationships, and, yes, our minyan. To what wonderful and beneficial ideas can we give birth? Hayom harat olam: this is the day that the world can be born anew.

Reflections at a time of war

I led davvening last Shabbat Re'eh 8/23/14 and for the alternative musaf  I responded to the ongoing conflict in Israel/Gaza (now fortunately having a ceasefire.) 

I shared two poems. One "Sukkot 2001" by Julie Pelc  was written shortly after the 9/11 attacks.  (This poem is in the URJ Women's Torah Commentary on page.1140)

The second poem is one that I wrote during the Yom Kippur war,  "GiveYourself Up Not."

I re-discovered it in a box a week or two ago.   After services, a number of people responded positively and said they would like to see a copy.

I concluded the alternative musaf with Mosh Ben-Ari's song, "Od yavo shalom aleinu...salam...."

Bob
____________

Give Yourself Up Not

          (for my friends in Israel: Malka, David, Marlene, Peggy, Michael, Judy—October, 1973)

When the hours of insanity

intrude upon

and shatter the day of introspection

and unholy convoys

again roll

through the rocky hillsides,

carefully cultivated valleys

and wilderness sands,

give yourself up not

to the maelstroms of destructions.

When the land

teems with the tense pressure

of absent faces,

of uncertain radio announcements

of yet another death

give yourself up not

to the passions of certainty.

When the work in tomato fields

or hospital corridors

gathers you up

in its daily currents

leaving exhaustion

and solidarity,

give yourself up not

to unanswered self doubts

clouded pictures of hindsight

or blacked out windows of fear.

And when the gunfire

once again slackens

and dirty teenagers

whose nostrils have smelled

things one would wish on no one

again frequent King George and Dizengoff,

when the last new graves

on Har Herzl are closed

and some semblance of normality

(hastily assembled)

returns again to Jerusalem and Rosh Pina

to Damascus and Port Sa’id

give yourself not up

to once secure illusions,

but give up not

your quest for peace,

your longing for justice

for you and your cousins,

your vision of a tomorrow

and your duty

--perhaps a bit like Yirmiyahu—

to speak words

(that lead to deeds)

that others may not wish to hear.

--Bob Tabak

Written during the 1973 Yom Kippur War by Bob Tabak, then a young rabbinical student,  thinking of his friends in Israel.  This poem was published twice: one in the Reconstructionist journal late in 1973 and about a year later in the Philadelphia Jewish Exponent (Oct. 25, 1974).

 

High Holidays 5775/2014 at Minyan Dorshei Derekh of the Germantown Jewish Centre

Mazel tov to The Brochin Spicehandlers on Ari and Sarah's wedding!

Ari Brochin has made it from the Maslow window sill to the chuppah, and the NYTimes!

Mazel tov to Ari and Sarah!

WEDDINGS/CELEBRATIONS
Sarah Meyer, Ari Brochin

JUNE 15, 2014

Sarah Rachel Meyer, the daughter of Ruth Meyer and Jeff Meyer, both of Melbourne, Australia, is to be married Sunday to Ari Spicehandler Brochin, the son of Rabbi Reena Spicehandler and Jeremy Brochin of Philadelphia. Rabbi Micah Kelber will officiate at the Abode of the Message, a retreat center in New Lebanon, N.Y.

Dr. Meyer, 33, is a postdoctoral researcher in public health at Columbia. She graduated from Monash University in Melbourne. She received a master’s degree in development studies from Oxford University, where she was a Rhodes scholar, and received a Ph.D. in public health from Johns Hopkins University.

The bride’s father is a real estate agent in Melbourne. Her mother, who is retired, taught English as a second language at the Melbourne Language Center.

Mr. Brochin, 34, works in Thailand as a manager for the Karen Human Rights Group, an organization that reports on human rights issues in eastern Myanmar. He writes and edits reports on human rights issues and leads training and education on those topics. He graduated from Wesleyan University in Middletown, Conn., and received a law degree from Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law at Yeshiva University.






The groom’s mother retired as a rabbi at Temple Sholom in Broomall, Pa. His father retired as the director of Hillel, the Jewish student organization, at the University of Pennsylvania.

Yasher Kochacheykh, Alex, one of Philly's A+ Teachers!

We are so proud of Alex Volin Avelin for this award!
Some of us remember that Alex started attending Dorshei Derekh when she was a student herself!

Julia R. Masterman High School

Alexandra Volin Avelin

A National Board Certified teacher and Masterman’s English department chairperson, Alexandra Volin Avelin has impressed both students and staff with her ability to make learning relevant and meaningful. She is passionate about her subject and shares that passion with her students.

Richard Stern's Davar - Parashat Vayikra: An Atheist Jew Comes Out of the Mishkan

The very first words of today’s parasha, Vayikra, and of the Book of Leviticus are:

וַיִּקְרָא אֶל-מֹשֶׁה וַיְדַבֵּר יְהוָה אֵלָיו מֵאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד לֵאמֹר

“And [He] called to Moshe and God spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting.” And there follows for much of the Book of Leviticus, rules for the precise ways in which various sacrifices, rites, and laws, for various members of society, should be executed. A number of commentators, including Rashi and Ramban, have noted that the subject of the verb “to call” is implied; the one who is doing the calling is not explicitly stated. No speaker is specified until the second verb (“and God spoke”). In English, the literal translation is something like: “And there called to Moshe and there spoke god to him.”

The 19^th century German Jewish commentator Samson Rafael Hirsch argues that the uncommon syntax of this sentence is there to specify a transcendant god – to make clear that “when God spoke with Moses, it was indeed the word of God addressed to Moses by God Himself… [not something] emanating from within Moses himself.” The Hassidic commentator Rabbi Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl, in his text Me'or Eynayim, also notes that “He called” is written “anonymously,” without explicitly declaring who is speaking. But here the text also notes that Vayikra is written with the minature aleph, because the spark of god, the cosmic aleph, is present within each of us, in a reduced and anonymous form. “When you go to commit a sin and god prevents you from doing so by some means, that is god speaking to you,” the text reads. So Reb Nachum of Chernobyl is arguing for an immanent god.

I want to encourage us today to consider the risks of believing in any god, whether transcendent or immanent.

First, a little background. I am a ritual-loving Jew. I have been a (mostly dues paying) member of this minyan and of GJC for over 20 years. I met my wife here, my son is an ECP veteran and now in the religious school here, and bsha tova he will celebrate his bar mitzvah here. Through much of my adult life we I’ve constructed with you all, in shul and in our homes, rituals drawn from the stunningly beautiful fabric of our continually evolving Jewish tradition. I love being part of that ongoing conversation, that meaning-making process with you. And as part of my Jewish practice, I have been studying in chevurta with Reb Shai Gluskin for the past 2 years about ritual and holiness in Torah, Talmud, and liturgy.

The only problem is: I don’t believe in god.

I’m coming out today, stating my beliefs and feelings in the most public way, because I am aware of the power of coming out, as a way to build genuine community, empower us, and break down shame, exclusion, and hiding. We Jews intimately know the pain of hiding, the crush of assimilation; in many ways even we identified lot operate at times as crypto-Jews. I’m coming out because I want to declare that my love (of the world and the Jewish people) is good and authentic. So I am a proud and out ritual loving Jewish atheist!

Nu, how is it that I enjoy and engage in some ritual, minhag, and mitzvot? Because it’s clear to me that we humans are deeply hardwired to operate in part on the level of emotion, archetype, and tribe. We operate on many levels at once, so I revel in that.

You might ask, “why don’t you go to the folkshul, with the other heretics?” The answer is that I belong (literally and figuratively) here at Dorshei and GJC. Having a sense of place here, walking here, in my own neighborhood, is very precious for me. I am here to be with my tribe, to engage with my people, to sing with my clan, to resonate with my friends. I love singing with you; resonating together connects us to our ancestors and to each other.

I want to be clear. I am not an agnostic, but a machmir atheist. I don’t believe in any god, whether transcendent of immanent. Though it’s technically impossible to prove a negative, the way I think about it is: I am as sure that there is no god as one can be of any negative statement, as confident as that Zeus, and Santa Claus, and ghosts do not exist -- (except in our imaginations, as archetypes, where they are very powerful). Saying Ruach Ha-Olam is better than Melech Ha-Olam, but it still wrankles.

Fortunately (?) my Hebrew is poor enough that I understand very little of the prayers and psalms I am chanting. I try not to look too hard at the translations, because they give me the willies for the most part. I am most comfortable with a niggun, or the yay day day part of any prayer.

I’m searching for a way to be honest and in integrity while reciting these god-oriented prayers with you all. And I find myself being curious about how others are praying.  I know for most of us, attending shul is a work in progress; I’m hoping our conversation today will allow any others who choose to come out a little about how we are doing shul and life.

I find myself getting a little scared raising this taboo subject. So, I remind myself that this sort of discussion about the interplay among the god of the bible, the god of prayer and the rabbis, and the god of modern times – that god-wrestling discussion -- is profoundly Jewish, and very much within our tradition. So I am calling on the spirit of Yitzchach Aveenu, Rambam, Spinoza, and Kaplan, as well as Freud and Sherwin Wine.

And I profoundly appreciate that in most congregations around the world, I’d have no standing to even discuss this blasphemy.  I am deeply moved and grateful for and proud of your listening. This is great credit to Dorshei.

So back to the risks of god. Vayikra: “He called,” -- believers and activists of various stripes say “I was called to do such and such.” Called by whom? What’s the difference between saying on the one hand: “I was called (implying by a transcendent or immanent God)”; versus on the other hand saying “I followed my gut instinct or what I thought was ethical, and I chose?” For starters, the passive voice smacks of Nixon cronies saying “mistakes were made” – instead of accepting personal responsibility for their actions. My view is: use an I (or a we) statement!

The way I see it, we converse with ourselves, or we converse with other humans – and not with any actual gods or spirits, whether external or internal. I am suggesting that believing that we are speaking to a god that exists independent of us can diminish the quality of our listening and talking to ourselves and to our peers, and ultimately make us less ethically responsible to ourselves and to one another.

In my view, we can influence some things in life, and other things we can’t; the power we small beings have is certainly limited. My worry is that saying that a transcendent “god (or a devil or angel) told me to do it,” -- offloads the limited power and responsibility we do have. Even the immanentist, god-within version of this – such as “I felt the spark of god within” or the new age versions of this, such as “I felt the spirit saying” – are betraying the thinly veiled supernaturalism that seems to be lurking, for me at least, in any god language.

I find myself worrying that admitting any god makes the world safe for Pat Robertson, and so many other fundamentalists who fail to take responsibility for their views and actions by claiming that god is on their side or within them. I think it’s more powerful and ethical of us to say, “when I do something, or interpret scripture this or that way, it is I who do it, influenced deeply by my interconnectedness with the web of life – not by “god (or a spark of god), or Yetzer Tov or Yetzer Hara.” The risk is that by empowering a non-existent entity, we disempower ourselves: we give up some of our responsibility to act justly and morally in the world.

We know that we don’t need god to be ethical. There is abundant evidence that a moral instinct is a hardwired inborn organ of the human mind. Like language, the organ must be nurtured to mature and blossoms based on the surrounding culture; but the fundamental structure – like the language instinct – is there at birth.

As contemporary scholars Baruch Levine and Everett Fox suggest, a lot of Leviticus, even much of torah as a whole, is about forming the people Israel -- partly by designating us as distinct from our ancient Near Eastern neighbors. We contrast ourselves with other groups by the god we worship; and via how that god commands us to do holiness, sacrifice, kashrut, purity, and justice. Throughout Leviticus, the Israelites are forbidden to follow the impure ways of other nations or to worship any other deity (e.g., Molech, Baal, or “ghosts and familiar spirits”).

In my view, a lot of this is about our proclaiming that “our god is better than their god!” We practice this way, and not that way like our neighbors. John Haidt, a moral psychologist in the tradition of Piaget and Kohlberg, demonstrates how our ethical, religious, and even our political beliefs, rituals, and practices bind us -- but also blind us. They bind us together in groups; they are the engine of group identity and community; but our moral stances and our group identities also blind us to the humanity of other groups.

Ultimately, the risk, I think, is that we can make an idol of even our god. In some ways, we Jews take proper credit for monotheism, for paring down the number of gods from many to one. Our ancient ancestors brilliantly saw the risks of idol worship. And Maimonedes wrote of paring down the concept of god, from the god of biblical sacrifice to the god of prayer. Likewise, many of us moderns, including reconstructionsists, have again pared down the concept of god, excluding elements here and there of the god of the bible, the white bearded man in the sky, the petitionary god, the vengeful or merciful god. Perhaps the natural evolution of the radical Jewish view of montheism is to continue paring down god until we get to zero. If we are genuinely seeking god, trying to connect with the ground of all being, the source, we have to embrace that there may not be one. Perhaps all gods, including ours, are idols.

So, with the kavanah that I’m searching for a way to be honest and in integrity while reciting these prayers with you all, let me kick off the conversation with 3 questions. And beezrat hashem (god willing), we’ll be able to listen deeply to one another:

1)      Is there a way in which we are complicit with supernaturalism simply by reciting these prayers?

2)      Are we at risk of making an idol of god?

3)      Do we need god to bind us together as a group and keep us moral?

You can click here for a longer and more in depth version of this dvar.

To respond personally to Richard: sternpsychology at gmail.com

Purim Cocktail Hour at Dorshei Derekh 5774/2014

Thanks Beto and Nina for the Queenitinis and Mordchaeritas!

Thanks to PurimMeister David Mosenkis, featured below.  Thanks Aviva for the videography.
Jester Randall kicked it off Shabbat morning:

Super Grogger!

The Mosenki do it up, and the Queen shares her stuff

Pres. Marcus checking his cellphone,
or possibly downloading a gragger app

Mr. and Mrs. Fisher

And a word from our sponor, Torah Tech:

Hat Store Models

and another word from our generous sponsor, Torah Tech, circa 1999:

Here's the Pew Shmew Report:

We want to share some interesting, potentially impact findings from the recent Pew Shmew Report.  The 377 page document is too long to read tonight, but here are 2 of our highlighted finding:

1. We have discovered vast underreporting of mixed religion households. It turns out that NJPS failed to inquire about the religions of household cats and dogs, and virtually none of them have Jewish mothers or have gone to the mikvah for conversion. Many are clearly philo-semitic, however, as evidenced by their willingness to eat hallah after the motzi on Shabbat and holidays. Many households that were reported as completely Jewish clearly are not, and this has created a particularly large scandal in the modern Orthodox community. We are now waiting for the Satmer rebbe to explain how you get a cat to immerse in a mikvah.

2.  Disagregated Microdata by zipcode reveals that in 19119, 18% of gluten-free intermarried Jews belong to Weavers Way. 

Is this causation or correlation?  Do gluten-free intermarried Jews belong to WW because the coop sells gluten-free products, or does shopping at the coop cause people to become gluten-intolerant? 

The impact of shopping at the coop on Jewish/Jewish couples is less, when we control for that variable, but that could be because marrying a fellow Jew raises gluten tolerance. Or is there possibly some other effect we haven't isolated at work here?  Since Jews have a higher level of lactose intolerance, perhaps intermarried Jews don't want to feel left out?

What does gluten intolerance mean for the Jewish future?  27% of gluten-free intermarried same-sex couples also belong to the coop.  What accounts for this difference?  Do gluten-free Jews tend to intermarry more because they can’t eat motzah balls?  Or is something that makes them gay also make them gluten-intolerant, some sort of genetic marker?  Does gluten tolerance increase tolerance for the opposite sex, perhaps?

A word about our methodology.  We called everyone we could think of from the minyan list and added a few people from Masorti and the Charry for a weighted randomized sample.  No one answered their landlines.  We left a lot of messages.  Some informants texted us.  We interviewed people at Weavers Way while in line on Friday afternoon, and presumed than any intermarried Jews not buying challah were gluten-intolerant. We then generalized from our findings, and there you have it.   That it for this Pew Shmew report.