The building is alive.
We had that realization yesterday when our plumber returned to face another in a series of clogged pipe and aged-out waterways--this one in the back of the Temple House, which in the last several rainstorms had developed into a nasty swamp of rancid water, filth and roof renovation debris. The contractor who had replaced the roof came back last week in order to clear the alley of any last items and through the valorous bravery of some of our maintenance men, we were able to clear a pathway to the drains.
The result after today's visit was a seething mass of muck that had the plumber running from the alley to the street, waiting wisely for it recede and then watching, miraculously, as it melted away, washed back down the drain with a simple hose.
It was part comedy, part drama--perhaps Cecil B. DeMille meets John Landis. It was then that we realized: the building is alive. It's speaking to us. Literally moving its bowels.
I know this sounds graphic but I have come to realize that in a community, all aspects of its manifest reality have a life of their own. There's the way one is greeted by walking through the doors; the paper and the graphic presentation of who we are as an institution; the manner of discourse; the light that pours into the windows; that state of the glass that filters that light; the bricks and mortar that house our holy aspirations; and yes, the pipes which deliver our water and waste to and fro.
There is a morning blessing in the Siddur in which we thank God for removing waste from our bodies:
"Praised are you, Eternal our God, Ruler of the universe, who with wisdom fashioned the human body, creating openings, arteries, glands and organs, marvelous in structure, intricate in design. Should but one of them, by being blocked or opened, fail to function, it would be impossible to exist. Praised are you Eternal, healer of all flesh who sustains our bodies in wondrous ways." (Siddur Sim Shalom)
Indeed.
26 June 2009
25 June 2009
The Jewish Ceremonial I Prefer
Moritz Oppenheim's Sabbath Eve"This series of pictures should strike a deep emotional response in the heart of every Jew. No matter how far we have traveled from the observances that were practiced by our fathers, we have a feeling of reverence for the ceremonies themselves, and a respect for those who feel that these Jewish ceremonials constitute a necessary part of religion."
So begins a small volume published in 1930 by the National Federation of Temple Sisterhoods called "The Oppenheim Pictures..Depicting Jewish Ceremonial Life." This gem was found in our library by two wonderful graduate students from the Pratt Institute who are getting their degrees in Library Science and spending the summer helping us to re-organize the synagogue library. Like a lot of corners and even open areas of the Temple, the Library had fallen into a fairly severe state of neglect. Its original architecture and design had been built over with cheap plywood and ugly florescent lighting; its collection languished during an era in which new Jewish studies exploded; and, like libraries in general, reading became privatized and computer-based, leaving the room in the shul with books to be, well, a room in the shul with books. These two remarkable young women simply won't tolerate that--and so they're having a go at looking at each book on each shelf in an effort to determine their value and relevance. It's been pretty fun sitting next door to them these last several weeks and having them appear with various volumes like the aforementioned Oppenheim Pictures.
Moritz Oppeheim was a German Jew, born at the dawn of the 19th century and as a contemporary of Goethe and Heine, achieved elevated status as a painter depicting both Biblical and contemporary Jews. His most loyal patrons were the Rothschilds, whose support helped spread Oppenheim's Romantic depictions of Jews throughout Western Europe. In his classic work, "Jewish Icons," Richard I. Cohen writes about the painter, "As observed by Oppenheim, Jewish tradition blended well with occupational exigencies, while relations with the surrounding society lacked stress and discomfort."
Speaking of stress and discomfort, no sooner had this volume warmed my hand then I was confronted by a congregant asking to explain myself about why I was requesting the shul to pay a parking ticket that the city had given me for having parked in front of the synagogue I serve. Most DOT officers and congregants welcome the presence of my vehicle in front of the shul where God's name is charmingly misspelled; but lately, some new officer with an excess of zeal has been issuing tickets with the buzzing frequency of malarial mosquitos in the Hula Valley during the First Aliyah. I'm not aware of any written record of Alternate Side Parking for Horse and Buggy in Hamburg circa 1832, so I wasn't sure how Oppenheim would have depicted this grisly scene of attempting to explain why the rabbi should be able to park in front of the synagogue unmolested by taxing meter maids. "If this were the suburbs, I guess I'd have a spot with my name on it" was the best I could come up with and let's face it--reaching for the suburbs in this case was really an act of desperation. I was kind of shocked that I was even having the conversation. With reluctance, the stay of execution was granted and I returned to my study to retrieve the ringing phone.
There are two types of reverence for the Jewish ceremonials in our community: those who engage the rabbi in the Jewish Ceremonial of Torah (the source of this reverence is Torah, and not the rabbi) and those who engage in the Jewish Ceremonial of seeing the rabbi jump through hoops (the source of this reverence is ego and power, and not the rabbi, either.) Guess which type of reverence for Jewish Ceremonial I prefer?
On the other end of the ringing phone was another congregant, well into his eighties, whose family line reaches back straight across Brooklyn, over oceans and to Jerusalem, where he traces his roots to a time at the dawn of the 19th century when Moritz Oppenheim was but a glimmer in the eye of his Rothschild. A couple weeks ago I shared a sushi lunch with this congregant, a retired professor, and talked about history and the Hebrew language, the state of affairs in Israel, and the many faces of our congregation in his own affiliations with Jewish life in Brooklyn over the past sixty years. He knew I'd be heading off to Israel next week and wanted to share how nice it was to have lunch together and could we do it again in August when I returned.
"With pleasure," I offered. "I've got a couple interesting books I think you'd like to see." He said, "I'd very much like that, rabbi."
When I go see him in August, I'll take my bike, leaving my car in front of shul. Hopefully its sign in the window that says "Clergy" will instill in the meter maid and the parsimonious parishoner a "respect for those who feel that these Jewish ceremonials constitute a necessary part of religion."
A ride across the park on a warm August afternoon. A book from 1930 in my backpack that no one had ever checked out of our Library until two library science students--23 and 24 years old respectively--dusted it off and shared it with the rabbi, who has already found another reader to appreciate the pictures of Moritz Oppenheim. That sounds like a good day.
May God bless the National Federation of Temple Sisterhoods, 1930.
24 June 2009
The Real Power to Save
Well, so much for the Twitter Revolution.
It was just a matter of time before the Regime in Iran employed something that our handy little devices can't overcome: murder, brutality and raw force. They may be totally illegitimate and their time may come but the electronic helpmates to the overthrow of a corrupt regime are powerless when the power gets shut down. It's fitting that one of the last enduring images is that of they dying and then dead Neda, a youthful and hopeful 26 years old and left on the ground beside her screaming father while the world watched in horror. For me, her death was eerily reminiscent of the early beheadings that made their way onto the internet after 9-11.
Tom Friedman makes a good point today, namely that the real change will come when Iran is deprived of the source of its power--oil income. Our willingness to change our habits is what actually has an effect on power--not tweets and twits, which gets the word out only so long as the power chord is connected. But when the regime decided to pull the plug, silence. And we all return to our usual order of business, gravitating in google-land to the next entertainment frontier.
The Digital Dead. It's on our faces, in our hands, the disconnected nothingness of our lonely walks down the street, distant gazes on subway cars, distracted navigations turning corners in our cars. The entertainment and media companies must be thrilled at what suckers we are, diving deeper into our pockets to fulfill our habits for surfing the surface of the latest this or that. There is something about the current revolution in Iran that brings into broad daylight the absurdity of our reliance on technology. Twitter informs us of rallies and demonstrations; of those shot down and those defying power; but ultimately, power itself will define the course of events--either an unabated power from the regime or the absolute willingness of thousands and thousands to die before an internal struggle among the ayatollahs changes the course of events. Will the electronic tools have advanced that cause any more than other modes of communication advanced the cause of justice in prior wars and struggles for national liberation? Humility in the face of history and humanity's incredibly profound propensity for causing harm to one's fellow human being demand the emphatic answer.
No.
From the silent screams of the lonely walker, eyes locked in the glassy embrace of his hand-held tool, to the noisy nothings of blabbing cellphone talker-walkers, enthusiastically alienating their fellow "citizens" on the precious remaining space of neighborhood sidewalks, we all are touched by the Digital Dead, salving our existential uniqueness with the numbing heat of charged battery power.
But the real power to save is in our hands. Our free hands. And in our eyes, which despite their weakened state, may still be able to conjure a look into the eyes of a neighbor, asking, "What can I do to help you?"
23 June 2009
The Jewish Agency
To the best of my knowledge, there seems to be a big confrontation brewing among American and European Jewish leaders and leaders in Israel over the new leadership for the Jewish Agency, the pre-state "government" of the Zionist project that never adequately figured out what it's role should be once the State of Israel was established in 1948.
Michael Steinhardt's essay in the Jerusalem Post makes the case for electing former Russian dissident and Israeli politician Natan Sharansky as Jewish Agency head. Steinhardt employs a bizarre historic analogy--that of the Romans laying seige to Jerusalem 2000 years ago--to argue that only Sharansky can "unify" the Jewish people.
"When Rome laid siege to Jerusalem more than 2,000 years ago, the inhabitants of the city were starving. Every contemporary account of the suffering, tells a story grisly enough to both sicken and sadden us. The ravages of hunger reduced once proud men and women to cannibalism. Our people eventually capitulated, and the Romans sacked the city, burned the Temple and exiled the inhabitants."
This despite the fact that most historic accounts credit the Rabbis with saving Judaism, most significant Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai's diplomatic maneuvers with the Romans to create the space for a Jewish enterprise without a physical center. Steinhardt seems to be arguing that Sharansky, whose career as a dissident in Russia is heroic but whose accomplishments in Israeli politics are without distinction, is our Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai. The argument fails to persuade.
Sharansky was named in April as Netanyahu's nominee.
Beneath the surface is a broader fight over who will control money that the Agency is charged with doling out.
This article illuminates things as well.
Jacob Berkman's summary is helpful, too. This issue completely falls off the radar screen of most American Jews even though millions of dollars are at stake.
***UPDATE FROM HAARETZ***
***UPDATE FROM JPOST***
Michael Steinhardt's essay in the Jerusalem Post makes the case for electing former Russian dissident and Israeli politician Natan Sharansky as Jewish Agency head. Steinhardt employs a bizarre historic analogy--that of the Romans laying seige to Jerusalem 2000 years ago--to argue that only Sharansky can "unify" the Jewish people.
"When Rome laid siege to Jerusalem more than 2,000 years ago, the inhabitants of the city were starving. Every contemporary account of the suffering, tells a story grisly enough to both sicken and sadden us. The ravages of hunger reduced once proud men and women to cannibalism. Our people eventually capitulated, and the Romans sacked the city, burned the Temple and exiled the inhabitants."
This despite the fact that most historic accounts credit the Rabbis with saving Judaism, most significant Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai's diplomatic maneuvers with the Romans to create the space for a Jewish enterprise without a physical center. Steinhardt seems to be arguing that Sharansky, whose career as a dissident in Russia is heroic but whose accomplishments in Israeli politics are without distinction, is our Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai. The argument fails to persuade.
Sharansky was named in April as Netanyahu's nominee.
Beneath the surface is a broader fight over who will control money that the Agency is charged with doling out.
This article illuminates things as well.
Jacob Berkman's summary is helpful, too. This issue completely falls off the radar screen of most American Jews even though millions of dollars are at stake.
***UPDATE FROM HAARETZ***
***UPDATE FROM JPOST***
21 June 2009
Well, I Think, In the Game of Life
For the second time this year, I officiated at a wedding between a Chinese American and and a Jewish American. These relationships are quite common in the United States and while at the beginning of my rabbinic career my policy was not to officiate at such weddings--between Jews and non-Jews--over the course of time I changed my policy, so long as the couple agrees to an exclusively Jewish wedding and raising children exclusively as Jews.
Today, however, I was truly struck by the depth of similarities and abiding respect that the Jews and Chinese have for one another--the long-held traditions; the profound sense of connection to ancestors; the generational links to wisdom; and, more recently, the similar paths of acculturation and assimilation into American life. Tonight after the wedding (my second of the day, third of the weekend) I had some food and shared a drink with a Thai woman (an OB-GYN) married to a Chinese surgeon, each of whom came to the United States nearly 40 years ago. Their two children are grown--one is a PhD, the other, an MD-PhD, and I couldn't help but marvel at the stunning similarity to a similarly exceptional Jewish pursuit of immigration, education and advancement.
America, as we all know, has been the place of refuge and opportunity for countless millions. And as the rabbi who often presides over the life-cycle moments of great consequence to family narrative, especially when the product of Jewish immigration meets Chinese immigration, I am keenly aware of role as arbiter of the generational connection, the Validator, as it were, of the decision to remain Jewish.
The Ketubah--marriage contract--for tonight's wedding was in Hebrew and English and had one Chinese element: the sign of "double happiness" in Chinese characters which a Jewish uncle pointed out at the Ketubah signing was like "double chai!" (Chai meaning "life" in Hebrew and "double-life" being a sign of particular fortune.)
The Chinese surgeon and Thai OB-GYN were interested in talking to me after services to ask several questions and comments: Did the Jewish word "amen" predate Christianity? Did I realize how much the Chinese guests appreciated connecting "double happiness" to "double life?" And, if my Congregation takes a trip to Israel anytime soon, can they come along? (Absolutely!)
The surgeon then pulled me deep into a conversation about Confucius,and we had a good time talking about similarities between Confucius, some of the Hebrew prophets, Ezra and Nehemia as well as Hillel and the early rabbis. If, as David Byrne imagines correctly, the "bar is called Heaven," then it's a place we all would have been very comfortable having a drink.
Of course, there was an Elijah moment. A tap on my shoulder from a wedding guest revealed that there was a relative from the Jewish side who was a rabbi, and he was eager to speak with me. I didn't know what to expect, especially since the rabbi was clearly my senior. Had I offended? Was my service syncretic, an unacceptable melding of cultures to an older generation? But the rabbi, in his late eighties and in a wheelchair, reached for my hand and kissed it--telling me I had done well. I had addressed concerns, shown respect to Jewish and Chinese traditions, and had conducted a Jewish wedding with honor and integrity.
I say Elijah moment because, well, my most significant teachers have all died. It's very rare these days that an elder teacher appears and offers judgment of any kind on my activities as a "teacher in Israel."
I was humbled. And proud.
I walked downtown to the train, in a respite from the rain. People ate and drank in the cafes of Tribeca; families and individuals moved lightly as Sunday wound down. Clouds and rain and sunshine battled for domination on a summer horizon that has been more wet, but richer, than anticipated. I checked my blackberry to see how my teams had done--poorly in the game of baseball, but well, I think, in the game of life.
Today, however, I was truly struck by the depth of similarities and abiding respect that the Jews and Chinese have for one another--the long-held traditions; the profound sense of connection to ancestors; the generational links to wisdom; and, more recently, the similar paths of acculturation and assimilation into American life. Tonight after the wedding (my second of the day, third of the weekend) I had some food and shared a drink with a Thai woman (an OB-GYN) married to a Chinese surgeon, each of whom came to the United States nearly 40 years ago. Their two children are grown--one is a PhD, the other, an MD-PhD, and I couldn't help but marvel at the stunning similarity to a similarly exceptional Jewish pursuit of immigration, education and advancement.
America, as we all know, has been the place of refuge and opportunity for countless millions. And as the rabbi who often presides over the life-cycle moments of great consequence to family narrative, especially when the product of Jewish immigration meets Chinese immigration, I am keenly aware of role as arbiter of the generational connection, the Validator, as it were, of the decision to remain Jewish.
The Ketubah--marriage contract--for tonight's wedding was in Hebrew and English and had one Chinese element: the sign of "double happiness" in Chinese characters which a Jewish uncle pointed out at the Ketubah signing was like "double chai!" (Chai meaning "life" in Hebrew and "double-life" being a sign of particular fortune.)
The Chinese surgeon and Thai OB-GYN were interested in talking to me after services to ask several questions and comments: Did the Jewish word "amen" predate Christianity? Did I realize how much the Chinese guests appreciated connecting "double happiness" to "double life?" And, if my Congregation takes a trip to Israel anytime soon, can they come along? (Absolutely!)
The surgeon then pulled me deep into a conversation about Confucius,and we had a good time talking about similarities between Confucius, some of the Hebrew prophets, Ezra and Nehemia as well as Hillel and the early rabbis. If, as David Byrne imagines correctly, the "bar is called Heaven," then it's a place we all would have been very comfortable having a drink.
Of course, there was an Elijah moment. A tap on my shoulder from a wedding guest revealed that there was a relative from the Jewish side who was a rabbi, and he was eager to speak with me. I didn't know what to expect, especially since the rabbi was clearly my senior. Had I offended? Was my service syncretic, an unacceptable melding of cultures to an older generation? But the rabbi, in his late eighties and in a wheelchair, reached for my hand and kissed it--telling me I had done well. I had addressed concerns, shown respect to Jewish and Chinese traditions, and had conducted a Jewish wedding with honor and integrity.
I say Elijah moment because, well, my most significant teachers have all died. It's very rare these days that an elder teacher appears and offers judgment of any kind on my activities as a "teacher in Israel."
I was humbled. And proud.
I walked downtown to the train, in a respite from the rain. People ate and drank in the cafes of Tribeca; families and individuals moved lightly as Sunday wound down. Clouds and rain and sunshine battled for domination on a summer horizon that has been more wet, but richer, than anticipated. I checked my blackberry to see how my teams had done--poorly in the game of baseball, but well, I think, in the game of life.
20 June 2009
Go See For Yourself (and Get It Right)
If you're like me, or someone who cares about our buildings at CBE, you always quake in fear (the non-religious kind) whenever it rains.
And so with rain falling yet again, I wonder what new damage will be revealed to our Sanctuary at 271 Garfield. Standing since 1909, this magnificent space has absorbed generations of prayers, confessions, hopes and dreams; it has also celebrate births and weddings, memorialized the dead, and served as the space in which children receive their names, become bar and bat mitzvah, graduate to college; finally, it has been the main dedicated space for sanctifying time and the historical moments of memory for our people--the Festivals and Holy Days on the calendar in which we thank God for our existence and pledge ourselves to be beneficiaries of God's protection for another year of life and blessing.
But when it rains--well, the plaster can fall from the ceiling; new peeling paint can reveal secret messages spelled in the firmament; or a slow process of decay and neglect can, beyond our best determination, continue on paths of destruction we have yet to discover.
Having just finished our Temple House Roof Replacement, we have taken the first of many, many steps to renovate our facilities and put them in the proper condition for another century of service to Brooklyn. But we are not yet in the Promised Land. There is a long, long way to go.
And we need help.
Our House Committee, a terrific group of individuals, is working up a priorities list to present in full-form to the Board of Trustees and the entire Congregation, with the idea that we can all begin to share a sense of responsibility for the care of our buildings. And I've seen the drafts--so believe me when I tell you there will be something for everyone: that's how big the list is.
Some of the work is simply deferred maintenance. The problems have plagued the Congregation for decades and only now is it finally time to face them once and for all. Until, of course, another generation faces them. That's the nature of old buildings.
This week I was reading Annie Polland's wonderful history of the Eldridge Street Synagogue--Landmark of the Spirit.In this book, Polland melds architecture and Jewish history to explore the important community decisions that informed the Eldridge Street Synagogue's founders to make the choices they did about their building, more than a century ago. And today, during services, I was moved to begin spontaneously talking about what differentiated Reform and Orthodox communities a hundred years ago that mitigated toward certain factors of space that continue to haunt me--like tall bimas removed from the people in their ordered pews. I found myself wishing to be in the midst of the people, as the founders of Eldridge Street decided when they built their building. I thought of this as I watched the rain fall outside during the service and then moved my eyes heavenward ("I lift my eyes to mountains, what is the source of my help? My help comes from the Eternal, Maker of heaven and earth." Psalm 121) But God willing my help will come from architecture schools at Yale, Harvard, Cooper Union, and Pratt, too.
In this week's Torah portion, Shelach Lecha, we read that "the Eternal spoke to Moses, saying, 'Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people; send one man from each of their ancestral tribes, each one a chieftain among them." (Numbers 13.1) The rabbis insist on translating "shelach lecha" as "go see for yourself," meaning, God had already promised the land. It was theirs to take. But they had fears and doubts and in frustration God said, "So go see for yourself." With a hint of exasperation, God seemed to be saying to Israel, "Your fears are only delaying the inevitable work required to own the sacred space I'm giving you."
And so it is with us, folks.
We need men and women, boys and girls, to "go see for themselves." We need ideas and creativity; we need hearts beating with commitment, souls searching for peace and comfort in a sacred space; and we need money--lots and lots of money.
So over the course of the summer, as you walk past our buildings, stick your head inside. Sit in rooms, inhabit and own the experience of being a part of history. Go see and experience for yourself what YOU think about sacred and communal space and how that interfaces with what our founders thought a hundred years ago.
And prepare yourselves for an exciting Fall, when we gather again after a brief relaxing summer to rededicate ourselves, in our Sanctuary's 100th year, to fix it up and get it right.
And so with rain falling yet again, I wonder what new damage will be revealed to our Sanctuary at 271 Garfield. Standing since 1909, this magnificent space has absorbed generations of prayers, confessions, hopes and dreams; it has also celebrate births and weddings, memorialized the dead, and served as the space in which children receive their names, become bar and bat mitzvah, graduate to college; finally, it has been the main dedicated space for sanctifying time and the historical moments of memory for our people--the Festivals and Holy Days on the calendar in which we thank God for our existence and pledge ourselves to be beneficiaries of God's protection for another year of life and blessing.
But when it rains--well, the plaster can fall from the ceiling; new peeling paint can reveal secret messages spelled in the firmament; or a slow process of decay and neglect can, beyond our best determination, continue on paths of destruction we have yet to discover.
Having just finished our Temple House Roof Replacement, we have taken the first of many, many steps to renovate our facilities and put them in the proper condition for another century of service to Brooklyn. But we are not yet in the Promised Land. There is a long, long way to go.
And we need help.
Our House Committee, a terrific group of individuals, is working up a priorities list to present in full-form to the Board of Trustees and the entire Congregation, with the idea that we can all begin to share a sense of responsibility for the care of our buildings. And I've seen the drafts--so believe me when I tell you there will be something for everyone: that's how big the list is.
Some of the work is simply deferred maintenance. The problems have plagued the Congregation for decades and only now is it finally time to face them once and for all. Until, of course, another generation faces them. That's the nature of old buildings.
This week I was reading Annie Polland's wonderful history of the Eldridge Street Synagogue--Landmark of the Spirit.In this book, Polland melds architecture and Jewish history to explore the important community decisions that informed the Eldridge Street Synagogue's founders to make the choices they did about their building, more than a century ago. And today, during services, I was moved to begin spontaneously talking about what differentiated Reform and Orthodox communities a hundred years ago that mitigated toward certain factors of space that continue to haunt me--like tall bimas removed from the people in their ordered pews. I found myself wishing to be in the midst of the people, as the founders of Eldridge Street decided when they built their building. I thought of this as I watched the rain fall outside during the service and then moved my eyes heavenward ("I lift my eyes to mountains, what is the source of my help? My help comes from the Eternal, Maker of heaven and earth." Psalm 121) But God willing my help will come from architecture schools at Yale, Harvard, Cooper Union, and Pratt, too.
In this week's Torah portion, Shelach Lecha, we read that "the Eternal spoke to Moses, saying, 'Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people; send one man from each of their ancestral tribes, each one a chieftain among them." (Numbers 13.1) The rabbis insist on translating "shelach lecha" as "go see for yourself," meaning, God had already promised the land. It was theirs to take. But they had fears and doubts and in frustration God said, "So go see for yourself." With a hint of exasperation, God seemed to be saying to Israel, "Your fears are only delaying the inevitable work required to own the sacred space I'm giving you."
And so it is with us, folks.
We need men and women, boys and girls, to "go see for themselves." We need ideas and creativity; we need hearts beating with commitment, souls searching for peace and comfort in a sacred space; and we need money--lots and lots of money.
So over the course of the summer, as you walk past our buildings, stick your head inside. Sit in rooms, inhabit and own the experience of being a part of history. Go see and experience for yourself what YOU think about sacred and communal space and how that interfaces with what our founders thought a hundred years ago.
And prepare yourselves for an exciting Fall, when we gather again after a brief relaxing summer to rededicate ourselves, in our Sanctuary's 100th year, to fix it up and get it right.
13 June 2009
The Only Lighthouse We Got
A kindergarten trip to the Red Lighthouse beneath the George Washington Bridge was an opportunity to contemplate what happens when a community rallies to save a precious piece of architecture from the 1920s and insist that provide the "light" it was meant to provide.
The banks of the mighty Hudson River, the cliffs of New Jersey, the slow flowing current and the sense of history one feels, especially inside the lighthouse, protected from the elements and transported through space and time to contemplations of nature and history.
It had me thinking of our building on 8th Avenue and Garfield Place, which, while it's true that we just replaced the roof at some considerable cost, is still in need of major repair and just as significant, reconceptualization for how its space is used on a daily basis.
So last night I used the line from Numbers 8.10, where the children of Israel bestow upon the Levites the mantle of leadership for care of the sanctuary. While it may seem counter-intuitive in an ancient religious society for the people to bestow power on the religious leaders, the rabbis in the commentaries are quick to observe that the elders do have that power to convey "leadership" by virtue of their own. If the Levites were to ensure that the Eternal Light would always burn because the people made themselves responsible for making the Levites responsible, so it should be in our own buildings today--where the leadership of the the Children of Israel--those who come to our synagogue as members, be acutely aware and responsible for the condition of our sacred buildings so the Eternal Light of Torah, Community, and Prayer can always emanate from our 80+ year old buildings.
It's the only Lighthouse we got. We should treat it that way.
The banks of the mighty Hudson River, the cliffs of New Jersey, the slow flowing current and the sense of history one feels, especially inside the lighthouse, protected from the elements and transported through space and time to contemplations of nature and history.
It had me thinking of our building on 8th Avenue and Garfield Place, which, while it's true that we just replaced the roof at some considerable cost, is still in need of major repair and just as significant, reconceptualization for how its space is used on a daily basis.
So last night I used the line from Numbers 8.10, where the children of Israel bestow upon the Levites the mantle of leadership for care of the sanctuary. While it may seem counter-intuitive in an ancient religious society for the people to bestow power on the religious leaders, the rabbis in the commentaries are quick to observe that the elders do have that power to convey "leadership" by virtue of their own. If the Levites were to ensure that the Eternal Light would always burn because the people made themselves responsible for making the Levites responsible, so it should be in our own buildings today--where the leadership of the the Children of Israel--those who come to our synagogue as members, be acutely aware and responsible for the condition of our sacred buildings so the Eternal Light of Torah, Community, and Prayer can always emanate from our 80+ year old buildings.
It's the only Lighthouse we got. We should treat it that way.
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