The Death of Trust - Jewish Week

The Death Of Trust

Tue, 11/04/2014

Joshua Hammerman

Special To The Jewish Week

In light of the Barry Freundel “Watergate,” scandal, I commend Erica Brown’s suggestion that rabbis should be held to the same standards that apply to those in other professions (“Mikveh Scandal Underscores Need To Regulate Rabbinate,” Oct. 31). Regular performance reviews can be healthy when done right, as they almost always have been for me. Other safeguards can be built in, like the independent audit my synagogue undergoes annually, enabling congregants to feel confidence in the integrity of their contributions to clergy discretionary funds.

What Rabbi Freundel has allegedly done sickens me. When I heard about it, I first thought it was a joke — and no doubt there will be a plethora of “Porky’s on the Potomac” Purim parodies based on it this year. We’ve seen the litany of recent rabbinic abuses, including the D.C. rabbi who starred in “To Catch a Predator,” the Boston area rabbi who allegedly sexually exploited a teenager and stole hundreds of thousands of congregation dollars to cover it up.  And the mother of them all, Fred Neulander, the Cherry Hill rabbi who was convicted of hiring a hit man to murder his wife.

But I take exception to Brown’s suggestion that a rabbi needs to be professionally uncomfortable in order to be responsible, or that someone with a life contract has lost the capacity to accept feedback and to grow. I say this as someone who has never had a life contract, but who has served the same congregation for a generation.

Am I truly going to give a better Yom Kippur sermon because it’s a contract year? Am I going to decide not to seduce a congregant because I have a performance review coming up? There is no straight line to be drawn between a rabbi’s length of service and his proclivity for perversity. Brown writes, “Be wary the board that claims its rabbi has been in place for ages and is, therefore, trustworthy.” The insinuation that a long-term rabbi, life contract or not, is somehow less trustworthy is supremely insulting, not only to that rabbi, but to the congregation that, in fact, is continually evaluating that rabbi every day and has been over the course of many years.

Anyone you have known intimately for ages is likely someone who has earned that trust again and again, with or without performance reviews, be it your mailman, your hairdresser or the school crossing guard. Relationships built up over long periods of time tend to be more stable for a reason: they have stood the test of time, which means they have withstood untold other tests, both large and small. True, even long term spouses can wake up one morning and discover that their lover has a secret dark side, but why use the exception to disprove the rule?

E.M. Forster wrote, “One must be fond of people and trust them if one is not to make a mess of life.” Think for a moment how low our society has fallen where, according to Brown, the very fact that I am expressing this concern puts me in the “dost protest too much” category, therefore supremely suspect.  

The Jewish Watergate, like its namesake, has opened a floodgate of mistrust, and the trust deficit we face is potentially more dangerous than any other deficit currently coming out of Washington. People like Rabbi Freundel are part of the problem, to be sure, but so is a culture featuring 24-hour cable news arsonists and films, TV shows and literature romanticizing the art of betrayal, whether sexual, political or financial. Anyone seen “Gone Girl” or “The Affair” lately?  Echoing the X-Files’ paranormal paranoia, our national motto has become, “Trust No One.”

I know the immense trust that has been placed in me. Every lifecycle event that I perform is my Super Bowl. I know that for each family, that wedding, funeral or bat mitzvah is possibly the most important event in their lives. Every High Holiday sermon has the potential to change hundreds of lives, and maybe even save a few. Every hospital visit, every phone call, every nod and wink can be significant. There are no real objective standards that can fairly regulate or monitor such work.  

With rabbinic performance reviews, core partnership issues are often pushed aside, allowing petty gripes to become central. Given the horror stories I hear from colleagues, this appears to happen much more with rabbis than with your typical employee in the corporate world. Since it is virtually impossible to apply objective metrics to rabbinic performance, subconscious biases invariably creep into the process. Abusive power relationships can go both ways, and rabbis and their families often find themselves in the crosshairs of vindictive board members when contract time rolls around.

While I still advocate those reviews, the solution is not more regulation but less deification. It’s time to pull your rabbi down from the pedestal. The rabbinate will become a healthier profession when we smash the pedestals like Terach’s idols and rabbis are able to become full-fledged human beings once again.

People are endlessly curious about rabbis, and as society has become increasingly secular, this one particular profession has maintained its sense of mystery. Compounding the problem is that some of us begin to believe our press clippings and forget the reasons we got into the rabbinate in the first place. While it drives very few of us to a life of crime, it drives many more to lives of isolation and misery. And when we fail, we begin to believe that an admission of fallibility will compromise our ability to lead. We get caught up in a whirlwind of inflated expectation and denial. We need to become human beings once again.

For Erica Brown and all who have become so despondent over the failings of their spiritual mentors, all I can do is echo Shakespeare: “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.” Don’t be reticent to place your trust in human beings of faith and integrity, however fallible — especially if you’ve known them for a long, long time.

Joshua Hammerman is spiritual leader of Temple Beth-El in Stamford, Conn.

Being a Mensch / The State of the Rabbininate

Being a Mensch, Becoming Human, Staying Alive

Last night about 25 men gathered for our inaugural men's discussion session.  The conversation was free-flowing and liberating.  It was truly intergenerational, allowing a real dialogue to take place about crucial topics, all revolving around what it means to be a mensch in this day and age.  I can't tell you much more, because what happens at the Hammermans' stays at the Hammermans'.  But we'll be doing this again, so stay tuned.

This week's double portion of Behar-Behukotai speaks of the choices we make in life, and the consequences of those choices.  Every decision we make can lead us toward a blessing or a curse.  It's a responsibility that we all have, but men seem to feel the weight of that burden, of choices made and chances missed, more than women.  At least, that is the message that comes from today's news story about the sharply rising suicide rates, especially among baby boom males.  That's a disturbing trend, and groups such as the one we started last night are a means of providing the emotional support that so many of us need -that we all need.

I commented last night that I often use the expression "He was a mensch" when eulogizing someone, but never, ever, have I said, "He was a billionaire."  There is something about "mensch" that transcends professional success and professional roles entirely.  Our jobs do not define us; neither do our homes, cars and stock portfolios.  What defines us, ultimately, are our relationships, our integrity, the love we give, the love we receive.  Last night we spoke about the need to be "centered" and focused in on how to do that; and how important it is to step back from the whirlwind of our day to day lives.  Prayer and Shabbat have roles to play.  We need to step back, constantly, from our professional roles, lest we become them.  

A colleague recently posted a searing statement about the state of my own profession.  I want to share some of it with you here (you can read the rest here).  Partly it is a reminder of the dangers of rabbis becoming intoxicated by our own power, but really  it is a stern warning to all of us, clergy and laity alike, that the key to living a fulfilling,menschlicht life is to avoid the pitfall of becoming wrapped up in superficial standards of success.   The key to being a mensch is, in a word, humility.  And humility comes from the word human.  Being a mensch means, literally, to be, above all, a human being.

The State of the Rabbinate

"So, when are the skeletons in your closet going to emerge? When is your scandal going to break, Rabbi?"

These were the questions I was asked by a friend after a week in which three major Rabbinic scandals came to light. Over just a few days, it was discovered that the Chief Rabbi of a European country had fabricated his PhD in addition to having plagiarized extensively in his writings. Then the rabbinic head of a kashrus organization was accused of participating in lewd and lascivious behavior and frequenting establishments of ill-repute.

Lastly, and most shockingly, a well-known scholar, author, rabbinic judge, professor, and former pulpit rabbi acknowledged having created at least one pseudonym under which he had been publishing, writing critical letters to journals, and promoting himself for close to 20 years. Most egregiously, he confirmed that he had used the alter ego to gain access to, and participate in, a rabbinic organization's private message board.

My friend simply articulated what undoubtedly many are thinking - are there any rabbis left whom we can respect? Do all rabbis have skeletons in their closet and scandals just waiting to break? What has become of the Rabbinate?

The combination of scandals, coupled with my friend's question, has weighed on me heavily. Much more than respect, for a rabbi to be effective and successful he needs the trust of those whom he serves. If people feel the rabbi is not trustworthy, faithful, confidential, or honorable, they will not turn to him for support, guidance or influence, all critical components of his job and calling. The question, then, is what can be done to earn trust, confidence, and support, besides simply staying out of trouble?

...It is very easy for rabbis to begin to take themselves too seriously and to believe somehow that they are more important, their opinions matter more, and they deserve more respect and honor than anyone else. There is an expression I hear regularly and I shudder each and every time it is said to me. "Rabbi, thank you for taking the time to call me back," or "thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I know how valuable your time is." I always respond the same way: "My time is no more valuable than yours and calling you back or meeting with you is exactly how I want to be spending it."

Many rabbis hear about how valuable their time is and they start to believe it. They therefore leave people waiting, stand them up.... People come to rabbis with their problems and the expectation that the rabbi can solve them. This phenomenon can leave the rabbi feeling like he has the answers and access to all of the solutions and he is all powerful. 

...People stand for him when he enters and wait for him until he is done for certain parts of davening. He has access to dignitaries and elected officials, he stands in front of the room each week sharing his sermon to an audience eager for his thoughts, and newspapers may call him for his opinion.

The bottom line is that it is extremely easy for all of this to go to a rabbi's head and for him to start believing the hype. One of the most disappointing parts of the rabbinate is meeting the other members of the rabbinate, many of whom are arrogant, egotistical, self-absorbed and self-important.

After a recent tragedy that occurred in our community, a number of people commented, "Being a rabbi is really difficult, I don't know how you do it." What is amazing is that I feel the exact opposite. Watching people go through pain or suffer a loss and not be in a position to help, support or make a difference must be really difficult. The rabbinate is the greatest gift for me, for it provides an outlet to try to make a difference in people's lives and absolutely nothing could be more fulfilling.

Despite the many rabbinic scandals that have broken lately, I implore you to continue to have faith in the rabbinate.  Though I am far from perfect, (some of you take the liberty to remind me from time to time) I hope you will continue to trust me. I am thankful each and every day that you allow me to have the greatest job in the world.

The Year Of Thinking Biblically (Jewish Week)

SPECIAL JEWISH WEEK SECTION: ISRAEL NOW

The Year Of Thinking Biblically

A plea for adaptability and openness in a world increasingly colored, as in the Bible, in stark black and white.

Joshua Hammerman
Special To The Jewish Week
Wednesday, June 1, 2011

How can we not rejoice at what we saw in Tahrir Square, the author writes. getty imagesWhen Christian fundamentalists predicted that May 21 would mark the end of the world, Jews laughed. We know that the end of the world won’t happen until September, when the Palestinians bring their declaration of the statehood to the UN General Assembly. Or when the Iranians get the Bomb. Or whenever President Obama utters the word “1967” and is not referring to Haight-Ashbury or Carl Yastrzemski.

If the Jews are a stiff-necked people, it’s because we never stop tossing and turning, especially since Tunisian street vendor Mohamed Bouazizi set himself aflame on Jan. 4 and all heck broke loose in the Middle East. Try as we might to be thrilled at a region basking in democratic possibilities, the chain reaction of events spinning out of control has left us gasping, to the point where (for once) Jews on the left and right actually agree on something. That’s the good news. The bad news is that what we agree on is that Israel faces mortal peril.

Google “existential threat” and then add “Israel” and you get 149,000 results (by contrast, add “climate change” and you get only 144,000). The word “existential” has been bandied about so often lately that I half expected Prime Minister Netanyahu to meander into the House chamber wearing a beret and lugging a tattered copy of “No Exit.”

Unfortunately, for the peace process, there seems to be No Entrance.

With the Arab Spring now turning to summer, all the craziness needn’t herald an Israeli fall. For ages, people have characterized Israel’s neighborhood as dangerous. Now that neighborhood looks like it could be going upscale, like Brooklyn. For decades, Israel was the only democracy in the Middle East. Now, everywhere, the voices of long-suppressed people are being heard. Prime Minister Netanyahu said last week at the annual policy conference of the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC), “Israel is not what’s wrong with the Middle East. Israel is what’s right with the Middle East,” and indeed, anti-Zionism has not been the driving force of the uprisings.

To quote a recent article in the Kuwaiti Times, “The Arab spring has broken some famous myths about the Arab people — being indifferent, immune to change, cherishing authoritarian rule, little appreciation for democracy and human rights. ... The Arab spring has proven that Arab concerns are real human concerns.” When the dust settles, there is reason to hope that Israel could potentially be seen as a model for democracy rather than as an alien interloper in the region.

How can we not rejoice at what we saw in Tahrir Square? How can we not be in awe of the courage of the people of Homs, Dara’a and Banias? We who stood up to the Syrian tyrant Antiochus and who more recently have seen Bashar Assad harbor Hamas and funnel weapons to Hezbollah, how could we not be encouraged at the prospect of a liberated Syria? And we who outlasted the Pharaohs need to remember that Mubarak’s Egypt, recalled so nostalgically by some, was a hotbed of anti-Semitic incitement, where TV programs regularly spread myths of blood libels and the “Elders of Zion.”

But we are the people who can’t take “Yes” for an answer. So we worry.

The left fears that once a Palestinian state is endorsed at the UN, the two-state solution will be history and Israel will lose legitimacy, forced to confront a worldwide boycott. Its sovereignty will be challenged by hundreds of thousands of unarmed civilians marching back across its borders to their “homes” in Israel. This non-violent mass movement, modeled on the Arab Spring, would garner international backing — a mortal threat to Israel.

Right-wingers, including Prime Minister Netanyahu, feel that Israel needs to hold firm on refusing to negotiate with the Palestinians as long as Hamas is part of a governing coalition. They hope to deny the Palestinians unilateral recognition without being cornered into giving up strategic territorial assets that leave Israel with indefensible borders — another mortal threat.

And there is the prospect of a nuclear Iran, which all agree is an additional mortal threat.

In the face of these dangers, rabbis are being called upon by all sides to rally the troops, an awkward calling, because we’re uncomfortable in foxholes, trained less to fight for power than to speak truth to it. Great rabbis have defended the Jewish people in times of trouble before, but our effectiveness depends on our speaking from a place of moral authority. We are natural educators more than advocates, pursuers of peace rather than partisanship. We are trained to be self-critical. While we all fear for Israel’s survival, we also reserve the right to challenge Israel’s policies, especially if we see them as self-destructive. And things are happening so darned quickly.

With massive floods, earthquakes and tornadoes becoming a regular occurrence, not to mention nuclear meltdowns and a daily dose of regime change, we are living in times that could only be described as “biblical.” But rabbis are trained to think rabbinically. There is a huge difference between the worldviews of the Bible and the Talmud. Rabbinic Jews inhabit a world of nuance and dialogue. Rabbis are skilled at the art of the adaptable, a survival technique designed for an era of powerlessness. The magic we do comes from our words and our wits. We live in the shades of gray.

The biblical world, by contrast, is sharply drawn in black and white. The Bible is a complicated book, no doubt, but its culture is characterized by bold action; it lacks subtlety. The God of the Bible speaks in direct commands, whereas the God of the Talmud is filtered through echoes of human imagination and sacred text. It is no coincidence that rabbis assumed Jewish leadership only after the Second Temple was destroyed and the biblical age complete.

Because we specialize in adaptability, rabbis have skills that could be valuable in navigating through these turbulent times. The problem is that because history is moving so fast, people aren’t listening to nuance. In fact, they aren’t listening at all. Each day brings about new fears and uncertainties. Rabbis need to teach people how to listen, to imagine the worldview of the Other, to hear the different narratives. Israel’s story is powerful and true; it can withstand the comparison to contrasting chronicles. But there are truths in the Palestinian narrative too, and theirs is a history that needs to be heard.

What rabbis do best is pique the conscience and expand the mind. Other Jews need to appreciate that role rather than question rabbis’ loyalty, as has happened too often lately, most notably when newly nominated Reform leader Rabbi Rick Jacobs’ pro-Israel credentials were challenged by biblically minded mercenaries. His only “sin” has been to act rabbinically in a year of living biblically, and it is not a sin at all. It’s why we’re here.

The Arab Spring is many things, but it has evolved into the ultimate showdown between America and the Iranian mullahs. This clash of civilizations is biblical, an ideological fight to the finish, a war that must be won. The stakes have not been higher since D-Day.

But once you take Iran and its proxies out of it, Israel vs. Palestine is not a biblical clash, at least not for those who are reasonable and sane, which I believe to be the majority of both populations. In this contest, the only route to victory is for both sides to win, or at least call it a draw, as so often happens in the Talmud.

When my car veers off the planned route, the GPS frantically flashes “recalculating,” and then offers an alternate route. Pols and pundits tend to respond to biblical upheavals by regurgitating rather than recalculating, trying to shoehorn new events into their tired old theories, which is like trying to fight World War II from behind the Maginot Line.

Memo to the experts: There are no experts. None of us has any idea where this will all end up.

Rabbis have been skilled at recalculating since long before the invention of the GPS. We’ve been trained to understand that each new event requires that we instantly challenge all prior assumptions, something that happens on just about every page of the Talmud.

Recalculating requires an ability to listen and an openness to changing our positions. But it need not lead to paralysis.

The unfolding big picture presents enormous opportunities for Israel, despite the known risks. At the very least, the current modes of acceptable protest in the Middle East no longer involve guns and suicide belts. I’ll take 10,000 peaceful marchers in Majdal Shams any day, over tanks, missiles and bombs. The Arab Spring teaches us that if Israelis can appeal directly to the people of Cairo, Ramallah and Damascus the way Anwar Sadat once appealed directly to them, the neighborhood could suddenly become much less dangerous. If Damascus falls and Hamas is forced to reform, Iran will suddenly become the shakiest of dominoes.

But if not...

Recalculating…

Rabbi Joshua Hammerman is spiritual leader of Temple Beth-El in Stamford, Conn. He writes a regular column for the paper, and his “Hammerman on Ethics” column appears on The Jewish Week’s website.

See also:

Questioning My New Degree (Jewish Week)

Questioning My New Degree

Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Joshua Hammerman
Special To The Jewish Week

I received an honorary doctorate from the Jewish Theological Seminary this spring. I appreciate the recognition, but it has prompted some disquieting questions.

Reform and Conservative rabbis often get these diplomas, usually after about 25 years of service. So the honor has more to do with survival than accomplishment. I suppose it could be said that enduring 25 years in the rabbinate, particularly in the pulpit, is deserving of special recognition. There have been times when I wondered whether a Purple Heart might be more appropriate, or maybe a Nobel Peace Prize.

But why a doctorate? Why measure success in a spiritual profession on purely intellectual terms? Once upon a time, rabbinical seminaries were bastions of cold-fish, Litvak elitism, often then wedded to its secular, German sister, the venerable “Wissenschaft des Judentums (the science of Judaism).” But these same schools are now committed to taking Judaism out of the ivory tower, promoting, as JTS put it in its new strategic plan, “Scholarship in Service to the Jewish Community.” So shouldn’t the rabbi of the 21st century be recognized as a person of the people, not some highfalutin D.D.?

And what, really, is a Doctor of Divinity? I hear that in the United Kingdom, a D.D. is the highest honor a university can give, higher than Doctorates in law, medicine, science, letters or music. But American universities have no such hierarchy, and here it almost sounds like a degree they might confer at Hogwarts for having mastered potions and the dark arts.


How should people address me? Debretts, a website that calls itself “the modern authority on all matters etiquette, taste and achievement” favors “Dr. Cohen” over “Rabbi Cohen” for invitations and salutations. With the Jewish establishment subtly agreeing that “My kid the doctor” trumps “rabbi” on the parental aspiration scale, that trampling sound you hear is another generation of our best and brightest running away from the rabbinate.

And why should I need an honorary title at all? Shouldn’t my life-work of facilitating Jewish journeys be sufficient? Plus, my wife, who is a psychologist, worked long and hard to earn her doctorate. It makes me feel a bit uneasy about accepting one simply because I’ve survived.

The title “rabbi” signifies a mastery of knowledge, but it means much more. In fact, maybe my original diploma, which described the calling as “rabbi, teacher and preacher,” should be updated to include more contemporary aspects of the job description, including rabble rouser, healer, marketing expert, surrogate mommy, divine exemplar, standup comic, youthful elder, dispassionate zealot and guy-who-can-unjam-the-Xerox-machine.

That’s not to say I didn’t accept this honor. For one thing, it came with lunch. And it was a deep privilege to share this moment with my family and leadership of my congregation, as well as a few dozen colleagues who were similarly honored. Many of them have become major figures on the Jewish scene and all have dedicated their life’s work to the service of the Jewish people and God. I am proud of them and want to see their achievements recognized.

We’ve been rabbis at a time when the profession has changed dramatically, and we’ve been the agents of that change. The paradigm of rabbi as aloof scholar, shepherd and diplomat has been replaced, to a large degree, by other models. The rabbi has become more of a guide, a teacher who leads by example and can point people toward resources that will enable them to find their own solutions to life’s dilemmas.

In what Rabbi Elie Kaunfer has aptly called an era of empowerment, Jews are not looking for simple answers, but engagement, direction, inspiration and the kind of encouragement that can propel a lifelong quest. They are looking less for a rabbi and more for a rebbe, in the original chasidic sense, a mentor who can take Judaism out of stuffy academies and let holiness breathe, sing and dance through the lives of real people.

Maybe the new title should reflect other honorifics given rabbis over the centuries, like “Mar” (Master)” or “Rav” (“The Great One” — I like that, but I am not worthy). There’s always “Shlita,” an acronym for “May he live a long and good life, Amen” and “Nasi” (Prince or President).

Throughout the Middle Ages, you had really made it as a rabbi when you became known by your initials. Rambam (the acronym for the Hebrew letters reysh, mem, bet, mem) and Rashi (reysh, shin, yud) were the FDR and LBJ of their day. Maybe each of us should be given an official nickname, whether it be our initials (mine would be “the RaYaMM — Rabbi Yehoshua ben Micha’el V’Miryam), or maybe something more folksy. The Talmud uses nicknames like “Honi the Circle Drawer.” Some of my classmates were also superb circle drawers as well, especially during Talmud class. How about “Reb Danny the Doodler?”

Finally, here’s an opportunity to introduce new fields of rabbinic specialization. As The Jewish Week’s new online Ethicist [1], maybe I should ask that my honorary doctorate be in the field of Menschology. Many of us could also claim expertise in Jewish Geography, Kiddush Gastronomy, Guilt Management and Mass Miscommunication.

So I gratefully accept my new title and will work hard to truly earn it. But the only degree I am really seeking is a degree of difficulty. With the month of Shavuot now in our rear-view mirror, mountainous challenges still await us, and even loftier opportunities. To scale those, American Jews don’t need doctors.

We need rabbis.

Civility Wars

At this week's Rabbinical Assembly convention in New York, a resolution was passed calling upon people of all political bents to be more civil toward one another. It echoes a resolution recently put forth by the ADL (see Jewish Groups Call for Civility), which was signed by the directors of both the National Jewish Democratic Council, and the Republican Jewish Coalition (although not without some quibbling over the text of the document, especially the term "mean spirited," which was eventually taken out). With the political season clearly underway - did the last one ever end? - the ideals of this statement will surely be put to the test:

STATEMENT ON CIVILITY IN NATIONAL PUBLIC DISCOURSE

We stand together today to call for civility in our national public discourse.

Let our debate on the issues of the moment be thoughtful and reasoned.

Let us look to our elected leaders for leadership, whether or not we support their policies.

Let all of us, across the political spectrum, encourage advocacy that is vigorous and pointed, but not personal or hostile.

We reject appeals to bigotry, racism and prejudice.

We reject calls to violence.

In our national public discourse in 2010, let us cast American democracy in the best possible light.

"All in a Rabbi's Day" Jewish Week (Sept 4, 2009)

All In A Rabbi’s Day

by Joshua Hammerman

Special To The Jewish Week

Late Friday night, the phone rang. When the caller ID blinked “Stamford Hospital,” I braced myself. It was the emergency room; a Jewish patient was asking to see a rabbi.

Rabbinic nightmare No. 1: An emergency on Shabbat.

With strict privacy guidelines in place, it’s usually easier to find out which ballplayers took steroids in 2003 than for clergy to learn about hospitalized congregants; but when I asked for the name, the nurse told me. When I heard it, I paused, then asked, guardedly, “Are you sure the family wanted you to contact any rabbi?”

It’s a fairly common name, and for the sake of confidentiality, I’ll use the Talmud’s version of “John Doe” and call him “Plony.”

Could this be the Plony, the former congregant who spent the better part of a decade trying to orchestrate my departure? When his efforts were thwarted he left the congregation, but last I heard, the man still carries a bowling ball-sized grudge.

Nightmare No. 2: Turning the Rabbinic Cheek.

After two decades, I’d like to think I’ve got a rock-solid connection with my congregation. But it’s axiomatic that there are always going to be 5 percent who will simply never be satisfied.

Plony was in the top percentile of that 5 percent.

So I was faced with a dilemma. If I failed to respond, I’d be neglecting a human being crying out for care. But the shock of my unannounced appearance in the ER could well kill him.

I knew that Obama’s Middle East peace plan would have a better chance of succeeding than my pastoral efforts, but I leaned toward going. This was an opportunity to rise above old grudges, swoop in and trigger a healing reconciliation. Maybe this time the spirit of forgiveness would prevail.

Rabbis tend to be very good at rising above things, and I’ve no doubt that my career choice has made me a more compassionate person and better disciplined Jew. I’ve learned that life is too short to allow old grudges to fester. I’ve come to understand how not to sweat the small stuff, even if “small stuff” includes a trifling matter like someone wanting to send me packing. That’s just part of the very complicated nature of the relationship between rabbis and congregants.

A recent issue of the journal Sh’ma features an exchange of letters between a pulpit rabbi and a nervous college graduate contemplating a rabbinic career, fearful that it would be spiritually and socially suffocating.

I remember that angst. When I entered college, the last thing I ever expected to be was a rabbi. It was my worst nightmare. I had seen how challenging such an existence had been for my father, a cantor, and for my family: life in a fishbowl, scrutinized from birth, talked about in the aisles of Marshalls; a succession of Sunday outings sacrificed for someone’s funeral.

I had heard it all. The rabbinate sends people to far-off places from which they never return. The rabbinate absolutely runs roughshod over marriages. As people come to see you through the lens of their expectations, the rabbi and his family begin to conform, quite subconsciously, to those same expectations. Before long, they are trapped inside a funhouse mirror, becoming grotesque parodies of what they had hoped to be.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

I echo the sentiments expressed in Rabbi David Glanzberg-Krainin’s response to the graduate:

“Rest assured, there are rabbis who inspire their congregants to grow as human beings and as Jews; rabbis who are authentic in their own struggles with the tradition and with God; rabbis whose families are healthy and intact and loving. There are good rabbis who love what they do; and there are rabbis who are simply counting the days until retirement.”

Not only is it possible to survive in my profession, it is possible to grow — to be more authentic and loving precisely because of all the spiritual tests that we face. Not a day passes when I don’t feel grateful for the trust that my congregants have placed in me, and the responsibility that I bear. I know that, to a degree, the future of the entire Jewish enterprise rides on every choice I make. To some, that burden is a nightmare.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

That’s what I was thinking as I held the phone in my hand. A human being was calling out for help, and somehow, the call had come to me.

Yes, Plony’s a jerk. But I answer to a higher authority.

I said to the nurse, “Um ... is there a family member there?’

“Yes. A son. Noah.”

“Noah!”

I can’t tell you the son’s real name; but suffice to say that my Plony has no son with that name. Wherever Plony was, I now knew where he wasn’t.

I spoke with Noah for some time, assisting him through the array of dilemmas that he was facing. Fortunately, his father’s condition was stable and there was no need for me to rush to bedside. So everyone got a reprieve last Shabbat: both Noah and my own kids got to spend more precious time with their respective dads.

My first-born is headed for college, a jarring moment of irrevocable change, where parental dreams and nightmares intersect. Ironically, he’s going to Brown, the very place where, decades ago, my own life’s dreams took shape.

He’s considering several career paths. The rabbinate is not one of them.

Funny.

That’s just what I thought.

Remembering Dana and Reflecting on a Rabbi's Greatest Challenge

This past week, I had to do two funerals, one for a man who died at age 91, a good man, with a wonderful family who grieved over his grave in the frigid air this morning. As the tears let loose, however, I could not help but compare this situation to the service I had to conduct last Sunday for Dana Kraus. Dana was 23 when she died a week ago, inexplicably and suddenly. There were upwards of 900 people at her funeral, people from throughout this community and well beyond, and I can say that in death Dana has touched more people more deeply than most people do while alive.

Some got to know her really for the first time last week. Many have asked for copies of the eulogy I wrote, which, together with the passionate statements of friends and relatives, painted a picture of this loving soul cut down so young. With the encouragement and permission of Dana's family, I've uploaded my eulogy to the Web; you can find it by clicking here.

Thankfully, I don't officiate at many funerals like this one. The experience can be extremely draining, to the point where I felt I needed to take last Friday night off before a weekend of extreme highs and lows. But as much as I dread such situations, I also am supremely grateful to have the chance to help people in a manner that few can. This week, everyone has been wanting to do something for the Kraus family. The shiva has been wall-to-wall people. There have been lots of heroes, so many people who have contributed. The rabbi's part is perhaps the most public, but my no means the most difficult. Some friends stayed all night at the funeral home with Dana to keep her company and prepare her body in the traditional manner. That's much more difficult than anything I do.

I wish I could describe what it's like to be standing in front of 900 people who are riding on every word. Add to that the deep desire to "do justice" to a life of infinite value and equally great nuance. And yet, while there is a degree of pressure, what you feel most of all is a sense of privilege. Rabbis often experience life at the limits, but never more than at these moments.

But how is it possible to control one's own emotions at a time of such utter chaos and dread? When I first started out as a rabbi, in my late 20s. I wrote that "I prepare for each funeral as if it were my first, for it was at my first that I was best able to share in the sense of raw, unadulterated grief that consumed the family." I wouldn't say exactly that today. I understand that people need the calm professional who can hold them up while still feeling their pain. It's almost impossible to balance the two, but it's necessary. At times it means shielding oneself a little. Numbness is is not generally a good thing, but as I wrote more recently, sometimes the only way to survive such terror is to avert its direct gaze.

And then there are the young adults and teens. I felt more for them this week than for almost anyone else, as most of them have never had to deal with something like this. A tiny silver lining is that I've reconnected with a number of young adults who grew up here, many of them choosing now to come to me with questions totally unrelated to the week's events. Small though it may be, this silver lining is part of what the shiva process is about: reconnecting with community. This week, that has happened for people of all ages.

Dana liked Robert Frost. Here's a brief poem that speaks directly to the sadness we all feel at her loss:

“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”

- Robert Frost

Product Placement: a Rosh Hashanah Message

At this time of year, rabbis are inundated with e-mails, web links and superbly constructed PDF files, as organizations aim to get “air time” during our High Holiday sermons. See A Different Kind Of Kosher Sermon from the Jewish Week to get an idea of what I mean. As organizations have become more marketing savvy, they’ve come to recognize that the High Holidays are much like the Superbowl, the one time of the year when people of all generations come together, and therefore all demographics can be reached. Now if only we got what the networks get for a minute of air time during the Superbowl, we’d have it made.

Not only do we hear from national organizations, but many local institutions also get into the act. Some bring over pamphlets and flyers, others ask for an announcement to be made. Of course, these are often the same organizations that balk at promoting our events, but never mind. We’re community-conscious, so we do what we can.

And we get lots of freebies. calendars, circulars, canned sermons (some of them quite good) and books. Lots of books. I might get more than some of my colleagues because I also get review copies sent to journalists. If the book arrives on time (read: just a few hours before I hit the beaches on Cape Cod), a reference just might slip into one of my sermons. It’s not exactly Oprah’s Book Club, but everyone is trying to recreate the gold standard set by “The Red Tent,” Anita Diamant’s bestselling novel that was floundering on the shelves until someone had the bright idea to send it out to rabbis before the holidays. The rest is history. I can tell you that next week I’ll be featuring recent works by Natan Sharansky and Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. Stay tuned.

I was thinking that synagogues might want to utilize the same kind of product placement techniques that work so well in movies. Imagine, during a raucous, tear-jerking sermon, having your rabbi pause, reach for and gulp down an ice cold Coke. On Yom Kippur, we would have to be a little more creative. Maybe I could say something like, “This hour of fasting is brought to you by Tums, the perfect companion for those going out for Chinese food tonight.”

This year, the “hot” topics include, appropriately, global warming (and see a nice JTA article on the topic of the Shofar and Environmentalism). There is also the major new initiative of the Conservative movement calling for an ethical “Good Housekeeping Seal” alongside Kashrut supervision. See Hekhsher Tzedek Launches High Holidays Drive for more background, and Rabbi Eric Yoffe’s op-ed in the Forward, indicating just how much support the new initiative has received from other movements. Even the Orthodox are now following suit with something similar of their own.

Darfur remains a huge concern. This week a letter was released: 275 Rabbis Urge Secretary Rice to Expand Sudan Arms Embargo. See the letter here and note that I am a proud signatory.

One thing I have not signed on to is “Rabbis for Obama.” (see Rabbis Launch Pro-Obama Group). This unprecedented move has been a source of much discussion among rabbis. There are significant institutional risks for a pulpit rabbi who endorses candidates. I never do, although I have no problem calling it as I see it when the need arises (as happened this year in our local Democratic Congressional primary when one of the candidates was an out-and-out anti-Semite). I won’t hesitate to say publicly, for instance, that the anti-Obama smear e-mail campaign directed at Jews, particulary older Jews in Florida, is despicable, because it uses deception to push all the fear buttons. But that still is not sufficient reason to endorse a candidate. I also know that the Obama campaign hasn’t been completely innocent in its depiction of McCain’s record. I also know that Sarah Palin, unfiltered, pushes my fear buttons all by herself. No need for all the e-mails you’ve been sending me!

A prime concern, and for me THE prime concern, is the threat of a nuclear Iran. Israel is central to our identity and destiny as Jews and Israel and the world are in grave danger. I was at the anti-Iran rally last Monday and was disappointed in the canned nature of the presentations and the lack of real concern felt in the (not too large) crowd. Even leading lights like Sharansky and Wiesel seemed like they were giving the same speech for the umpteenth time, and all the speakers lacked passion, given the urgency of this moment. See more on this in the Jewish Week editorial, “Rethinking The Rally.”

All that having been said, don’t expect me to get overtly political next week. Certainly not partisan. Also, don’t expect me to dwell on this one cause or the other. Many of them are most worthy - and I’ve neglected to mention the victims of recent hurricanes and of course, the current economic crisis. I have prepared a Social Action packet dealing with some of these worthy causes, which will be available at services this weekend and next week. I’ll make passing reference to a few of these matters during the sermons.

But I’ve always felt that the High Holidays are about the Big Themes. They aren’t about single issues; rather they help us recognize the unifying threads of a much larger narrative. They are about Life and Meaning and Purpose and Hope. They are about Teshuvah – our annual return to what we thought we were and a chance to re-imagine the dreams of what we hope to become. They are about community coming together to define itself and refine its vision. They are about human beings reaching out to one another, masks off, vulnerable and shaky, with compassion and love. They are about seeking God and finding one another.

So there will be nothing canned coming from this pulpit, though I’m indebted to a multitude of teachers and sources for the ideas I will share. When I lift my voice from the pulpit next week (and speak into our amazing new sound system), there will be no commercials, no product placement, nothing fake. The only product that I will place before you is my life, the wisdom I’ve gained (much of it from you) and the visions that need to be shared.

My best wishes to you and your loved ones for a year of sweetness and fulfillment.

A Message to the Graduates (and that means all of us)

This week's portion, Shelach Lecha, contains within it the worst commencement address ever given. This being that commencement-time-of-year, you probably know the basic formula for the typical graduation speech: "Go get 'em. You can overcome all odds, no matter how great. Believe in yourself and the future is yours."

Twelve spies were sent out by Moses to scout out the Land. Ten of the twelve returned with a message that would have sent any school superintendent's head spinning. "Don't even bother to try to succeed out there," they reported. "These people are men of great size. We saw...we saw...Nefilim there! Anakim! And we looked like grasshoppers to them."

Who were these Nefilim and Anakim that terrorized the spies. Were they some mythical race of giants? Were they real people? Did Michael Strahan exist at that time? Or was it merely a matter of hyperbole: the spies saw no chance of victory, so they concocted an exaggerated tale to back strengthen their case. Whether or not these obstacles were real or perceived, the sin of the spies led to the Israelites' having to wander in the Wilderness for 40 years, and the sin had less to do with overestimating the size of the opponent as in underestimating their own abilities.

Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk commented, "It is all right in the presence of giants to say that you feel like a grasshopper. But it is terribly mistaken, even a sin, to presume that you look like a grasshopper to them."

We all discount ourselves at times, but the real problem occurs when that subjective observation is allowed to become objective truth. Growth became impossible for the Children of Israel after the report of the spies, and the 40 years of wandering wasn't so much a punishment as the natural outgrowth of their national paralysis.

Paralyzed is how we all feel when the child in each of us is thrown into very adult situations. We feel unprepared, unfit, small. And there is no scarier time than when your name is called and you rise to grab hold of the diploma, that paper sword with which you're expected to slay all the Nefilim wandering about in your path.

My ordination from rabbinical school is case in point. That afternoon 25 years ago, I sat in a pew at the Park Avenue Synagogue next to a score of classmates, listening to the obligatory charges, some of which were Talmudic in both in content and length. There was plenty of time to think. Too much. I looked down the row at my classmates. Were they feeling, as I was, the awesome weight of the moment? Were they questioning, as I was, the five-year investment that had been made and the life-long investment that was about to be made? Were they also beginning to sense the awakening of that demon of the deep that rises from the pit of the stomach at times like these, then proceeds to make mincemeat of the esophagus -- that feeling of utter incompetence?

This feeling was exacerbated by the prevailing notion fostered at the Seminary that the last generation of teachers was always more revered than the current one. The classical Jewish view teaches “the decline of the generations” — since Sinai we have grown further from revelation and stand, as a result, on a lower level of holiness. My teachers were the giants their’s all the greater - and we were grasshoppers, in their eyes and our own.

As I rose to heed my calling, I took comfort in the knowledge that I was not alone. All over the city that day, people were rising to the call of their names: doctors pledging the oath of Hippocrates, psychologists joining the ranks of Freud and Jung. And we all were grasshoppers on this day, afraid of giant obstacles, unsure where fate would take us. But not afraid to hop.

Sure enough, when Israel finally did invade the Land, the inhabitants there were terrified of them. Joshua's army was able to defeat many of them without a fight. Think of how easily the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.

So now I speak to you, the class of 2008 -- and all of us are graduating from something this month; if not, create a milestone for yourself and leap beyond it. Never fear freedom. Never stop growing. Never turn back. Slay those dark Nefilim of childhood. Dare them to make your day. Because, when all is said and done, you might be the true giant after all.

The Problem With Pedestal Rabbis (Jewish Week)

The Jewish Week, 9/00

We ve been hearing a lot about rabbis lately, and most of it not good. Allegations of abuse of rabbinic power and betrayal of trust are hardly new, here or in Israel. In fact, many Israelis, weaned on the galling defiance of Aryeh Deri and the unmitigated chutzpah of Ovadia Yosef, are having a hard time comprehending how an overtly religious person like Joseph Lieberman can be both observant and uncorrupted.

But it s not just over there. Now Publishers Weekly reports that HarperCollins has paid author and former PBS religion reporter Arthur Magida "a significant six figures" for a book based on a trial that won t even be happening until next spring. Why? Because the defendant, Fred Neulander, is believed to be the first rabbi ever to be charged with murder, according to the Publishers Weekly report. Neulander is accused of murdering his wife in suburban Philadelphia. Magida states that the book will pose the question, "What happens when we deify men and women in the pulpit and are betrayed?"

What happens, evidently, is a boffo book advance, with film rights to follow.

Adding insult to injury, a new study of American Jewry authored by Bethamie Horowitz shows that only 5 percent of American Jews see their rabbis as a positive influence in their lives, while 10 percent say rabbis have negatively influenced them.

The remainder of those surveyed didn t mention rabbis as an influence at all, positive or negative. For rabbis, that it is a striking indictment. It means we are 85 percent irrelevant. That statistic screams out for some major rethinking of the rabbi s place in modern Jewish life.

Personally, if my work is to be irrelevant to 85 percent of American Jewry, there is no reason for me to be missing my kids school plays and Little League games. If I am to be an invisible rabbi, I might as well be a good father.

The very week the Horowitz survey was released, I received three calls from people new to my area wishing to find out about my congregation. Each caller complained about how bad experiences with a rabbi turned him or her off to synagogue life umpteen years ago. I m used to hearing that. But what stunned me most was the depth of their gratitude for my merely returning their call.

Have people come to expect so little of their rabbis that they are actually shocked when one displays simple human decency and warmth? Or is it that we still expect too much? Have we set up our leaders for a fall by placing them on pedestals, allowing them to tower so high above being simply human that when the fall occurs, as is inevitable, it is often devastating? Speaking as a rabbi, there is a clear danger in our being so eager to place rabbis on pedestels: we rabbis begin to believe all our press clippings and forget the reasons we got into the rabbinate in the first place. And when we fail, our followers often blindly defend us because they still need to revere us, and we begin to believe that an admission of fallibility will compromise our ability to lead.

It's time to smash the pedestal rabbinate like so many of Terach s idols. Whereas human rabbis make mistakes, take responsibility for them, and move on, pedestal rabbis make mistakes, deny them, hope that others will not notice, and inevitably succumb to them. Pedestal rabbis are the ones most likely to become 85 percent irrelevant in the end because relevance requires relationship, and human beings relate best to other human beings. Only to the degree that I can be human can I lead others on the human quest.

We rabbis are seeking ways to humanize the role without compromising the respect due the position. A few weeks ago I ran an informal survey of colleagues on my on-line rabbinic chat group and found that most prefer to be called "rabbi" by congregants rather than by their first names. I tend to agree. If our important work is to be taken seriously, then let s not infantilize it. Even Mister Rogers gets to be called by his last name. Imagine if the Baal Shem Tov had been called "Rabbi Izzy." Would his disciples of have taken him seriously?

Actually, yes, because it was the power of his message that made the Baal Shem Tov great, not his name (which means, ironically, "Master of the good name."). And for all those rabbis of the Talmud, like Akiba, who were revered by their first names, and all those medieval rabbis with the cool nicknames, like the Rambam and the Ran, these pet names were indicators of the great respect and affection earned through close relationships rather than pedestal-sitting.

It's clear that if we are to navigate our way through this crisis in confidence and re-establish the rightful place of the rabbi in Jewish life, we have to both safeguard the integrity of the role and reaffirm the frailty of the human being who fills it. And that begins when the rabbi steps down from pulpit of the soul and laughs, cries, errs and does teshuvah together with the rest of us. In the end, it doesn t really matter how the rabbi is addressed. What matters is only that the rabbi is addressed, one soul to another, two flawed human beings in dialogue.

S.O.S.: Saving Our Synagogues

Review essay for JBooks.com, 2003

The concept of synagogue renewal has been around for as long as there have been synagogues. Liturgical reform might well have been invented by Abraham, who decided that his father's idols didn't fit in with his generation's cutting-edge modes of spirituality, so he applied his own "cutting edge" to the idols themselves. The Torah is replete with examples of places of worship being knocked over and altars destroyed. Relatively speaking, today's efforts at synagogue renewal are rather mild.

The contemporary synagogue-renewal effort can easily be traced back to the beginnings of the Havurah movement of the late 1960's. Within a few years, that old/new model of communal intimacy in worship and study infiltrated the large amorphous edifices of post-war suburbia, thanks to visionary rabbis like Harold Schulweis and the enormous popularity of the Jewish Catalog series. It was in the third volume of the Catalog (JPS, 1980) that Lawrence Kushner, Arnold Jacob Wolf and Everett Gendler addressed the issue most directly: "The synagogue is the only institution claiming as its reason for existence the perpetuation of religious Judaism in America. For all but a very few Jews, the synagogue is the sole vehicle for religious life and response...And despite this, few would disagree that most synagogues are irrelevant, boring and probably secular."

In fact, back then, few might have disagreed with that statement, but far fewer would have admitted it openly. That was because a generation of American Jews was not completely lost yet. Twenty years ago, those afflicted with boredom and irrelevance had not yet defected in droves into the arms of then many alternative gods awaiting them and their new-found freedom. Synagogues were boring, but we had no choice but to eat our peas and sit in muffled acquiescence. Few enjoyed the non-participatory music and dusty irrelevant sermons given from distant, stratospheric pulpits, not to mention the rectangular gridiron seating configuration, but there was no compulsion to change things.

No longer. Now we in synagogue life fully understand that our children have choices and that we must compete for their attention. We must provide a nurturing and energizing oasis for their journeys. When I was in rabbinical school twenty years ago, we were told that services didn't need to compete with the cultural offerings at Lincoln Center and Broadway, because they couldn't possibly measure up to those levels of entertainment and pathos. Now, belatedly, we are realizing that what Jewish prayer has to offer can be just as moving, revitalizing and spiritually gratifying as anything else out there. Bold new models have emerged that have proven that we can compete with anyone, and actually attract younger people to venture through the doors.

Coming to shul can be "cool" again.

The Jewish world has come to understand that synagogues are still the best possible place for renewal to occur, so even staunch secularists have come to the rescue. Federations are looking to nurture synagogue life--a once-unthinkable notion. And private foundation dollars are pouring into this effort, creating new think-tank organizations like STAR (Synagogue Transformation and Renewal) and Synagogue 2000.

One of the co-founders of Synagogue 2000 (who might now wish to rename) is Lawrence Hoffman, a professor at Hebrew Union College. Hoffman's recent writings on liturgy and renewal are becoming required reading for clergy, and they have inspired other books on the subject. Three books of note are Hoffman's own The Art of Public Prayer: Not for Clergy Only, Sidney Schwarz's Finding a Spiritual Home: How a New Generation of American Jews Can Transform the Synagogue, (for which Hoffman contributed a glowing endorsement), and Isa Aron's Becoming a Congregation of Learners, which is part of the Synagogue 2000 "Revitalizing Synagogue Life" series and contains a forward by Hoffman. Collectively, these three fine books can help us to understand what are the primary aims of contemporary synagogue reform and how they might differ from those that came before.

One thing is clear. Boredom will no longer be tolerated. Mediocrity is unacceptable, and those synagogues that refuse to ride the new wave will ultimately sink under the weight of their excessive ballast. And in order to overcome the boredom, change tends to be more revolutionary than evolutionary. Whereas the Havurah movement toyed with neo-hasidism but basically hung close to tradition and emphasized community and fellowship most of all, the moderns are far more eclectic and open to spiritual experimentation. B'nai Jeshrun in New York, for example, is one of the four model congregations profiled in Schwarz' book. This is the model "Conservative" congregation, although neither it, nor the models selected from the other movements, remotely resembles what the mainstream of their movements have been doing. B.J.'s selection of music has gone far beyond the basic Eastern European niggunim tunes of its Havurah forbears, to feature an eclectic blend of American, Sephardic and Israeli contemporary melodies.

We find in these books conflicting prescriptions for effective leadership. While the trend is clearly toward democratization (i.e. the empowerment of the congregant and the less-central role of the rabbi--with the role of the cantor in even greater danger), the model institutions presented by Schwarz all have rabbis who have achieved nearly iconic status. Somehow, it seems, we have to find the perfect blend of charisma and passivity among religious leaders, allowing congregations the chance to grow organically without coercion from above. The "shepherd" model of a pastor tending his passion-less mindless flock appears, thankfully and most certainly, to be dead. Dynamic congregations have learned not to depend on the rabbi's healing powers alone, but to take on the responsibility, and the joy, of caring for one another and creating community. The rabbi as visionary is very much alive, with the caveat that the congregation has to be ready to share and develop the vision as a partner.

Hoffman's Not for Clergy book is in fact must reading for clergy, for he exposes clearly some of the subtleties that make the worship experience dysfunctional, and how we can change them. When people say they are unable to pray, or that they don't need to pray, Hoffman tells us, "they are unknowingly scapegoating themselves, mistakenly blaming themselves for a system failure." He goes on to discuss matters ranging from choice of music to the selection and arrangement of sacred space, which have been central to the mission of Synagogue 2000.

Aron looks away from the sanctuary service as a key to revitalizing the synagogue, but applies many of the same goals of massive transformation and shared vision. Most recognize that the post-War Hebrew School model, as practiced for two generations, has essentially failed. Jewish education, like worship, like Judaism itself, no longer can be compartmentalized. When education isn't just confined to the Hebrew School, but makes its way into the boardroom, sanctuary and home, it can imbue the congregation's visioning process with Jewish authenticity as well as spirituality. Aron gives us a number of success stories. Utilizing personal testimonies and citing congregations of excellence, she, like Schwarz, provides needed motivation for other clergy and lay leadership.

After reading the Schwarz book, I bought copies for my entire board and arranged for a field trip to one of the congregations described, knowing that it wasn't enough for me to want change, they needed to want it too. I now wonder if the Aron book might have been of greater use. While less dramatic in presentation, she offers a cogent, step-by-step approach, using her skills as an educator to lead congregations on the path toward transformation. Schwarz is less able to get the average congregation from "here" to "there"--he just gives us a glowing sense of where "there" is. That in itself is valuable, but unless your congregation has a hyper-dynamic rabbi (preferably a venerated founding rabbi) whose vision is automatically accepted by a rousing consensus of lay leaders eager for experimentation, you will have to travel far even to begin the process of transformation described here.

Schwarz admits that the utopias he describes are diametrically opposed to the norm: "Unfortunately," he writes, "the corporate organizational structure of most synagogues is inhospitable, if not antagonistic, to the kind of singular rabbinical leadership that characterizes our four featured synagogues...The rabbi may have some success in changing the tone of religious services and will have relative freedom to speak and teach as they wish, but changing the organizational culture is next to impossible."

I'm not sure I agree that it is next to impossible. I've managed to achieve it in my own congregation, to some degree, but only over the course of many years. Changing the culture is in fact the easy part. The hard part is to get the congregation to want to change. That means chopping off the head of Terach's idol--and Terach, after all, is our father. Terach is the 90-year old macher who sits in the second row every week, or the past-president and department-store owner who wants nothing to change so that he won't be tempted to leave golf course each Saturday, or the Holocaust survivor who has had enough turmoil in his life who does want anymore change.

However, when people can read of success stories such as these via Schwarz, and then through Hoffman (with liturgy) and Aron (with education), they find a road map toward achieving similar success. When the synagogue comes alive, I've found that even Terach wants to come along for the ride to the Promised Land.

Books Discussed in Night Reading

The Art of Public Prayer: Not for Clergy Only by Lawrence Hoffman. Skylight Paths. $17.95
Finding a Spiritual Home: How a New Generation of American Jews Can Transform the Synagogue by Sidney Schwarz. Jossey-Bass. $24.00
Becoming a Congregation of Learners by Isa Aron. Jewish Lights. $19.95

Civil War (What has become of civility?)

The Jewish Week, May 1996

What has become of civility?

We see its demise in Washington, where angry ideologues have driven the moderates underground, and on talk shows, where hard-earned reputations are routinely demolished; from Giants Stadium, where catcalls led to ice-balls, to our own offices, schools and homes.

So I decided to launch a counter-attack -- by being extraordinarily nice for a single day.

My inspiration came from Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, who originated the idea of a day when all Americans would refrain from hurtful speech, and Senators Lieberman and Mack, who last August introduced a resolution designating this May 14 as the first "National Speak No Evil Day." The resolution is still well shy of the 50 co-sponsors needed to propel it out of the Judiciary Committee. Evidently, a number of senators feel this idea is too hokey to fly. I wanted to prove them wrong.

I elected to go cold-turkey on destructive language for 24 hours. These were my ground rules: 1) No cursing or screaming; 2) No negative statements about any third party not present; 3) Utter courtesy in all interactions; and 4) I would not tell anyone about this little experiment.

I began at five o'clock on a Monday afternoon.

5:30: My mother calls, with oodles of advice about relatives, the kids, work, health. By 5:45, she's broken me and I revert to my usual role as the annoyed son and willing gossip partner. On both counts, I've blown it. I decide to call off my quest until midnight.

1:10 a.m.: Mara, my wife, plops two-year old Daniel next to me in bed, jarring me from dreams of making the world better for nice people. "I'm sorry I didn't hear his screaming," I mutter, "I'll listen better next time." Perfect. I manage to suppress my knee-jerk response ("Listen, if the kid's bawling, why should we both have to suffer?"), and diffuse a potential chain reaction of verbal violence. I'm getting the hang of this.

5:05 a.m.: Four-year old Ethan plows into the bed, screaming, "Daniel is in my spot!" Again, I subdue the anger impulse, suggesting calmly that all Hammerman children return to their own beds. "Then carry me," my 49 pound eldest demands, always able to sense weakness in his parental prey. I do, with a forced smile, like a senator making nice to a wealthy lobbyist.

7:30 a.m.: I tip-toe out the door, leaving the domestic part of Speak No Evil Day successfully
behind me.

As a rabbi, I represent a tradition that recognizes evil speech as an addiction and equates it with physical assault. But I'm human too, and since I spend most of my day communicating, the potential for verbal lapse is ever-present. On this day, I need to avoid all temptation. Driving to my rounds at the hospital, I switch from Imus and Stern to classical music. I miss the dirt. I need coffee.

9:25: An elderly patient whispers to me that the hospital is filled with anti-Semites conspiring to steal her flowers. I hold her hand, calmly, saying, "The people here are very nice." The word "nice" is beginning to get to me. As I leave the hospital, I smile at everyone, including an orderly sweeping the floor. He seems agitated. I'm stepping on his mop.

11:30: Back at the office, a phone call from a man moving to the 'burbs from Manhattan. I try to talk up Stamford without saying anything derogatory about the noisy, filthy, crime-infested city he inhabits (just kidding, Big Apple-ites; I love New York). It's not easy. I'm famished.

12:14 p.m.: As I return from a quick bite of anything-sweet-I-can-find, my secretary tells me that she didn't know I would be back so soon, so my 12:15 appointment, a potential new congregant, has left.

"You sent her home?!"

It's not quite a shout but I know instantly that I've gone beyond my strict boundaries. I apologize profusely. It turns out the appointment is waiting for me in the library. She badmouths another local congregation. I go out of my way to defend it. The conversation fizzles after that.
With each encounter that follows, I walk on verbal eggshells. I meet with a divorced couple, planning their child's Bar Mitzvah. Thankfully both are there, so neither can talk about the other.

A close friend calls, a primary source for community gossip. I'm afraid to ask a simple "How is everything," for fear of what could follow. I have a deep thirst for some juicy stuff and sense an unnatural distance between us. What can I say to convey warmth without it being at the expense of innocent others? The call ends, abruptly. A congregant stops by to discuss a program she is working on, and states flatly of a co-worker, "Doesn't she drive you crazy?" Either a no or a yes makes me an accomplice to defamation. I pretend not to hear. Another rabbi calls, asking me for an evaluation of a teacher applying for a job in his synagogue. I've only good things to say, but every word feels like a dagger, every sentence a thrust. Through the day, I manage to deflect deprecatory comments about everyone from the Lubavitcher Rebbe to Yasser Arafat.

3:30: I am courteous to a phone solicitor offering "Rabie" Hammerman a Visa Gold card.

3:40: I stand before 75 restless Hebrew School students, wishing to dock them from life eternal if they don't shut up. I've a splitting headache. I'm ready to give myself over to a higher power.
Exhausted, I go home, flick on the tube and hear Dole attacking Forbes. I turn it off; in local news, Ethan reports that Daniel was pinching and kicking at gymnastics class. From day one, we are programmed to blame and defame.

The morning after: I am humbled by my noble failure and far less inclined to blame talk show hosts and Washingtonians for this national addiction. With or without a Senate resolution, I will have to shake it alone, step by step, word by word. On May 14, I'll try again.

Jewish Perfectionism Can Wreak Havoc on Our Self Esteem

Moment Magazine, August 1996

Ever notice how dumb we've all become -- and how proud we are of it? Maybe it began with that famous internal memo of President Clinton's '92 campaign staff, "It's the economy, stupid," or maybe it's just that we've hit the point of overload in absorption of new technologies. Just as we figured out the microwave, along came the VCR; then the computer invaded the household; then we discovered that the rest of the world was having a great time in a strange place known as "on line." With each innovation, we know that we must conquer our techno-phobias or risk becoming social dinosaurs.

But at least we have company. Bookstore shelves are now filled with titles like "DOS for Dummies," "Finances for Dummies," even "Sex for Dummies," (and I thought some things still came instinctively). In the same spirit, I'm holding a seminar in my synagogue entitled, "Davening for Dummies." We the utterly incompetent have come gliding out of the closet, now liberated to admit our inadequacies, and it is comforting to know that everyone feels the same way.

The rest of the world is just now catching up to the Jewish people, because we have declared our ineptitude for centuries. Moses felt entirely unworthy of his weighty responsibilities, as, it seems, has every Jewish leader since him, at least until Bibi Netanyahu. Anyone who has ever set foot in a synagogue on Shabbat morning has, at some point in his life, sat next to Joe the Super-Davener and felt like a complete idiot. We're very good at encouraging self-inflicted degradation, only we are taught to call it humility.

This attitude prevails in my profession. Even the greatest of my seminary professors used to shrink at the mere mention of a sage of the previous generation; my classmates and I were expected to abase ourselves in a similar manner, at least in public. But one does not have to proclaim unworthiness in order to honor one's teachers; the Torah instructs us to rise before our elders, not to lie prostrate in their presence.

Rabbis dutifully pass down this insecurity to our own students. The little secret that our congregants don't know is that, while they are standing in front of us terrified that we heard them mispronounce "Yitgadal," we're shaking in our boots at the prospect of blowing the Bar Mitzvah boy's middle name or misquoting a talmudic aphorism and having our professors yell at us in our dreams.

It's not just about people: even our greatest city has an inferiority complex. With all the fuss about Jerusalem this year, we still pray for the restoration of its former glory, as if all of Teddy Kollek's efforts were mere window dressing. Even the grand Jerusalem of Temple times, which our sages claimed possessed nine tenths of the world's beauty, wasn't good enough. In rabbinic literature the earthly Jerusalem has a celestial counterpart, and it is the heavenly Jerusalem that God will inhabit first.

For us, this problem stems in part from the pervasive feeling that our parents were "more Jewish" than us, simply for their having lived one generation closer to the cultural milieu of the idealized "old country." But it is also traceable to that messianic itch that has denied Jews the chance ever to be totally satisfied with things as they are. Some would call this in-bred perfectionism healthy, better for the world if not for our own mental well-being. That itch has propelled us to great accomplishments (often to spite our demanding parents and teachers, rather than to please them), but it is also at the root of our alienation and an impetus for assimilation.

"Avinu Malkenu, remember that we are but dust," is the mantra we'll repeat so often during the upcoming High Holidays, that most ego-deflating of seasons. But we forget that the Torah instructs us not merely to love our neighbor, but to love ourselves as well. We neglect the other side of the equation: we're lowly, but for our sake the world was created.

Ironically, although we come out of the High Holidays thinking that Judaism is all gloom and doom, most of us actually feel very good about ourselves at the services, because those prayers are so familiar to us. It's the one time each year when everyone can be Joe the Super-Davener, with added relish, since the original Shabbat-variety Joe, now vastly outnumbered and self-conscious, shuckles timidly in his corner. If only we could feel so at home at services the other days of the year.

Which brings me back to "Davening for Dummies." Inadequacy loves company, and the Microsoft age has presented us with a "window" of opportunity. Yes, we're dummies, but so is everyone else, so we don't have to feel so bad about it. The key to stemming the tide of assimilation is not to dilute Judaism or reduce the level of Hebrew at our services, but rather to pump up self-esteem by diminishing the stigma associated with Jewish illiteracy. People grapple with foreign subject matter all the time, at museums or at the opera, and they come out inspired, humbled perhaps, but hungry for more. We've got to make sure that they come out of shul feeling equally uplifted, in spite of the gaps in their knowledge, else they spend the next Shabbat searching for God back at Lincoln Center.

A practical suggestion: I recommend that every rabbi intentionally blow it at some very visible time -- how about Rosh Hashanah -- and then admit the mistake, proudly. Not only will the experience emancipate the leader from his own fear of failure, it will make the congregation feel a hundred times better about itself -- and probably lead to an increase in service attendance and a contract extension. People struggle with machines all day; it's refreshing when they see a real human being on the pulpit.

As for the rest of us, when we look at Joe the Super-Davener sitting next to us, measure him not by the intensity of his shuckling, but rather by a more sophisticated tool, the mensch-o-meter. Does he help us find the page and not make us feel dumb in the process? Does he even say hello? When we forget to stand for Kedusha and he gives us that stare, remember that there's a good reason why he's shaking so much.

Let's just feel good about being Jewish. Let's wake up each morning, look in the mirror and say, "I can pray the way I want. I love my neighbor and I love myself. Gosh darn it, I'm a good Jew."

The Call

1996

It all started innocently enough, but then again, so did the Creation. On a humid summer night on Cape Cod in 1995, I brought my four-year old to his first baseball game. For Ethan, it was to be an initiation into the boyhood passions of his Dad. For me, it was the chance to rediscover a love that had begun to slip through my fingers nearly a decade earlier, when Mookie Wilson's fateful squibber slid under Bill Buckner's glove and the Red Sox blew the '86 Series.

The Orleans Cardinals took the field against the Yarmouth-Dennis Red Sox and as I started to describe the action in explicit detail, pitch by pitch, I heard echoes of contests I had announced before.

No, I was never a real broadcaster, but as a youngster, I spent many evenings in front of the TV, tuning out Curt Gowdy and tuning in to my own call of the action, whatever the sport. More thrilling yet were the games that took place in the arena of my mind, for those were the ones over which I had complete control. A two-mile walk from school would be just enough time to fit in the final few innings of a World Series duel between the Sox and Cardinals, or a championship tilt between the Celts and Lakers. I could do Gowdy or Johnny Most with the best of them, or Marv Albert, or Ken Coleman. Invariably, some two-out Yastrzemski homer or last-second Havlicek swish would clinch it for the home team. As I grew to early teenhood, my athletic skills developed to the point where I could make guest appearances on the court or at the plate -- precisely at the right moment to be the hero.

By the time I hit my 30's and even retired athletes were younger than me, I had long since abandoned dreams of personal glory; but the call of the game remained vivid, the possibility of redemption through incantation. The call, like all other forms of prayer, was most soothing in its promise that our words can, ultimately, affect destiny -- until that most terrible of October nights at Shea dissolved my dreams abruptly.

But on Cape Cod, for a single evening at least, paradise was regained. Ethan and I both wore our mitts as we settled in on the grassy hill behind first base. His glove was spanking new; and on my tattered old horse, its webbing held together by fading string, my father had inscribed my name and boyhood address a quarter of a century before. We caught no foul balls, but my glove served to punctuate each crack of the bat with a note of history. "Swinnng and a miss!" I exclaimed at an Orleans batter's futile try, and then I proceeded to tell Ethan about another of my mitt's epic outfield grabs at camp; "Grounder to second -- over to first -- he's out!" I bellowed, and then added a word about the autographed ball his late grandpa had handed down, covered with the names of his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers; "That's deep to left..." I cried, and then told him some stories about Opening Day at Fenway and the hometown team I had come to love -- nothing, of course, about Buckner.

As the innings rolled by and the fog from Nauset Beach crept over the left field fence, my rapt son spewed forth the most natural questions, keeping to the rhythm of my call. By the third frame, he had become the color commentator, interviewing me between pitches: "Why, when the pitcher is always throwing a ball, is it not always called a ball?" "Why are there no girls playing?" "Why are the Red Sox losing?" While I knew that each answer would peel away another layer of innocence, his growing curiosity only fueled my passion; for with each question I regained an additional vestige of my youth -- only better this time, without the pimples, the rejection, the pain. My play by play had finally orchestrated a real-life happy ending.

Six months later, and things have gone awry. Ethan now refuses to watch Sesame Street -- only Sportscenter will do, or whatever else happens to be on ESPN. When the morning paper arrives, he grabs the sports section and sizes up all the scores, and at bedtime he prefers his sports calendar to Babar. When we allow him, he will watch anything that has uniforms and moves, even the Jets and Saints recently, for three quarters. When he isn't watching, we're playing: bedroom sock football, laundry basket basketball, hall hockey. Our house has become a Superdome, each room an arena.

And just recently, he has taken to broadcasting imaginary games. In the bathtub, Disney shampoo containers are squared off in titanic battles. Goofy becomes Michael Jordan, slam dunking into the soap dish. Winnie the Pooh belts a tape-measure job into the sink across the way.

Ethan recently came into the room and declared, "I like Coor's Light best but I also like Bud." Indeed, I explain gingerly to my wife, the commercials for Coor's and Bud Light are the most entertaining but, I assure her, he knows nothing of beer. We tune in ESPN. A Spandexed young California lass stands before the smooth Pacific informing us about the fastest way to flatter stomachs.

Mara is not amused.

But she's as culpable as I am. She was the one who pitched to him daily in our driveway last summer; who encouraged him to select both the Dan Marino and Emmett Smith T-shirts at the mall; who told about her father's love for the Red Sox and how Yaz's daughter was her campmate; who worked with him on passing, pitching, kicking, shooting and putting while I was adrift at the office. She wanted him to love it too, for social purposes. My aims were more transcendent and ultimately, more foolhardy.

Last week, Ethan pulled the big one. "Dad, I don't like the Red Sox," he said. "I like the Yankees."

Since the Garden of Eden, parents have known that children cannot truly be molded in our own image, nor can we create happy endings for them. But as I drive home listening to my boy calling an illusory match between the Bears and Eagles from his back seat press box, I clutch the wheel in tearful wonderment. I realize that I'll never again be able to traverse the turf through which he now scampers so effortlessly, and that he too will someday confront the limitations of imagination. But for now I marvel at his ecstatic discovery of his own capacity to create order in this chaotic world.

Then I overhear him interrupting his call, saying, "We now pause for this message from Mastercard. It's more than a card. It's smart money."

The kid is watching entirely too much TV.