Growing Into Torah
Ice breakers and Torah are two of my favorite things. At my Shabbat dinner table each week, I come up with a question related to the parashah that encourages guests to consider the relevance of Torah to their daily lives and to share something personal and brief. For example, for this week鈥檚 parashiyot, Behar-Behukkotai, I might ask: What is something that you took or borrowed from someone that you know it is time to return, perhaps because it is the right thing to do or because it will make you feel lighter? This can be a physical thing like a book or shirt, or something intangible like the hope or support you received from someone. If you are hosting shabbat dinner this week I encourage you to try it out, with a brief explanation of the ideas of to its original owners that appears in this week鈥檚 parashah.
Now I should not have needed to review the parashah to come up with this question because in May 1997, Behar was my bat mitzvah portion. And yet every year when these parashiyot come around, together or separately, I feel a bit of shame. I do not remember chanting the words or studying them. I do not remember if they spoke to me or what I said about them from the bimah.
What I do remember is Cantor Brindell, of blessed memory, who went into the hospital in the hours after my service and died on Shabbat morning the following week, teaching me the trope for the haftarah. I remember its opening words, 鈥溩曋纷欀怪贾栕愖炛蹲� 讬执专职诪职讬指謶讛讜旨 讛指讬指芝讛 讚职讘址专志讬职讛止讜指謻讛 讗值诇址芝讬 诇值讗诪止纸专, And Jeremiah said that the word of God came to him saying . . . 鈥� (Jer. 32:6). I remember being so proud to lead a service in front of my family, friends, and all the other middle schoolers I invited to the service. I remember relatives coming in from near and far, and I remember my mom on the bimah speaking to me in her official role as synagogue president.
And so I find myself 26 years later, 9 years into my rabbinate, going back to the words that I must have studied with the rabbi, trying to figure out what messages I forgot, or missed, all those years ago.
Reading through it, I can see why the portion didn鈥檛 quite speak to me. Slavery and the creation of a slightly more moral system than the norm in the ancient world are major themes. I suspect my pre-teen self said, 鈥淚 guess Torah is sort of outdated鈥� and moved on. Rereading it today, I can easily notice relevant concepts such as shemittah, giving the land a Shabbat-like rest, and the jubilee year when we return land to folks who have become disenfranchised and prevent systemic inequality. These concepts are relevant to me today because observing Shabbat has given shape to my week, the year I spent observing [1] shaped my relationship with the origins of my food, and learning about systemic injustice has shown how radical the return of land could be. I do not blame the educators, because while I did not receive the message that my Torah portion was filled with relevant wisdom, I received a more important message loud and clear: Judaism, its people, culture, and rituals, are deeply meaningful and relevant. The friendships, the cycle of holidays, the marking of time, I never once questioned that my life had more joy and meaning because I was part of the 绿帽社 people.
Today I meet many young people who have not been taught Judaism鈥檚 relevance to their lives. They have not had the chance to live the 绿帽社 calendar, to build strong 绿帽社 friendships, to feel pride in belonging to something that sets them apart from others and knowing what beliefs or behaviors set them apart.
In my work as a community rabbi, first at Hillel and now leading a 绿帽社 community organization for 20s and 30s in the Philadelphia area, I have taken on the mandate to convey this message: that Judaism is relevant, exciting, and meaningful鈥攏ot just as an identity that they can name but as a way of life that shapes the choices they make and how they spend their time. Teaching the words of the Torah in one-off and ongoing classes is one way we do this. We also model the values of shemittah and jubilee, such as giving time for self-care, running programs on environmentalism, and pushing for economic justice. We try to make the 绿帽社 calendar accessible and fun through holiday celebrations. And we hope that if one of the young people we serve is in trouble, they will turn to each other, as our parashah models: 鈥淚f one of your kin is in straits and has to sell part of a holding, the nearest redeemer shall come and redeem what that relative has sold鈥� (Lev. 25:25).
In my 20s I led a lot of Birthright trips and each trip would have 5鈥�10 folks who decided to have an adult b鈥檔ei mitzvah ceremony on the trip. I would often say, too many people see the b鈥檔ei mitzvah as the end of 绿帽社 education, and as the pinnacle of 绿帽社 living. 12 or 13 is too young for that, and so are 18 or 22 or 25. There is no age which should serve as the culmination of our 绿帽社 education. If we are lucky we will have the chance to go back to each parashah and holiday for decades, noticing new things about the texts and rituals, and about ourselves and our communities each year.
This is one of the biggest blessings of our calendar, the chance to go back year after year to the same texts and rituals and continuously analyze, critique, and celebrate these gifts of the 绿帽社 inheritance. In this week鈥檚 second parashah, Behukkotai, the Torah shares some of the blessings and challenges of our covenant with God and states 鈥淚 will be ever present in your midst: I will be your God, and you shall be My people鈥� (Lev. 26:12). What a gift to have our entire lives to connect with God鈥檚 presence in new ways, through text, community, and practice, in our ever-renewing commitment to God鈥檚 everlasting covenant.
The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (锄鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (锄鈥漧).
[1] To learn more, see this blog post written by Rabbi Ariella Rosen (RS鈥�15) for a JTS class assignment.
