A Sermon about hope

Hi all, I just wanted to share my sermon from last Shabbat and a musical offering on the theme of hope. On this day… soon after New Year’s Day, immediately after a weekend honoring MLK, and the beginning of an impeachment trial, it seems like we could all use a little hope. 🙂

MLK/New Year’s Sermon

When we were in New York over the Winter Break, we stayed in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  If we hadn’t read the news while we were there, all we would have seen and experienced were trendy new restaurants, young couples, families pushing strollers and walking dogs, and the occasional Chasidic Jew asking me if I needed Shabbat candles for that night (I guess I look Jewish).  But since we DID read the news, we knew, day after day, that there was yet another anti-semitic attack of someone on the street, or a horror taking place in the Orthodox community at one of the Rabbi’s homes, literally in our neighborhood or a couple of miles away. Two stories happening at the same time… amazing pasta and cabernet and croissants without a care in the world, AND suffering… all in the same place.

Last week, when the situation with Iran started to unravel, a popular MSNBC news show host talked about two realities, two stories happening at the same time… a “split screen” that we are all going to have to get used to, because the news is so eventful in this time in history, we can’t possibly focus on only one story at a time.  The split screen was, yes, literal, but my gal, Rachel, was also suggesting that our brains are going to have to be split screens, because that’s how the world works these days.

With the secular New Year now come and gone, a time when nearly the entire human population thinks about starting over and new goals, we can accept this split screen, but rather than allow it to cause us insanity, invite it to carry us through these interesting times.  On one side, yes… awareness, reality, caution, understanding, even fear. But on the other side… balance and hope… dogs and babies and croissants.

Maybe it’s no coincidence that while we were staying in New York, we went to see the most recent, and theoretically, final Star Wars movie.  And what is the thread through all 9 movies? Hope. As Gyn says in Rogue One, “Rebellions are built on hope.”  

For several decades, we, as Jews (or those of us who love and live with Jews), didn’t have to “hope” too much as a peoplehood.  We were pretty settled, except for certain activities here and there. We weren’t in the news all the time. We didn’t find ourselves oddly unsurprised when we heard of an anti-semetic action.  In fact, we were shocked at such a thought. We didn’t have to hope.  But now, it’s time to take hope out, dust it off, and experience just a little taste of what some of us or our parents or grandparents had to feel when outward anti-semitism was more normal and expected around the world.  When one of them, maybe on the streets of Brooklyn, on their way to school, got knocked down and called “Dirty Jew,” they got back up, dusted off their backpacks, and marched on… with hope. And so we will have to do again.  We need hope that this bizarre chapter in our history will evolve into a new one decorated with more acceptance and civility. Hope that there will be a time of healing for our country, when we can see and hear each other again.  Hope that our leaders will eventually have the “beytzim,” (which means eggs and is, I just learned, the polite way of saying testicles in Hebrew, to stand up and call out madness when they see it. It’s here, around the corner. It’s the message of Chanukah, of Pesach, of, on this weekend, Martin Luther King, even of Star Wars… rebellions are built on hope.  In Egypt. In Jerusalem. In Selma. On Yavin 4. And yes, in Brooklyn and Los Angeles.

I hope you have many ways that in the New Year you might choose to start over and improve yourselves or the world.  And I invite you to welcome the split screen rather than be afraid of it. Yes, be informed. Yes, march and donate and volunteer and cry when you need to.  And then when you need a break, focus on the other side… the side that says there is hope and beauty in the future. It’s exactly what our ancestors and Martin Luther King and Gyn from Star Wars would want us to do. 

To quote Martin Luther King Jr. on this eve of his celebration weekend, 

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.  I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.”


Don’t Let Them Win — Yom Kippur Sermon

My husband, besides being a stunning musician, makes the perfect cup of coffee.  I don’t know if it’s the variety of coffee, our particular machine, or if he lovingly talks to the beans before grinding them, but there is little in this world that makes me smile more than when he appears in the bedroom with a cup of it, on a lazy weekend morning.

The day I started to write this sermon, I walked into my yard with a hot cup of this decadent coffee in hand, sat on the steps with our Maltipoo, enjoyed the gentle breeze coming in off the Pacific Ocean, and exhaled.  It was August, and the marine layer overhead was a welcome respite from the heat that had been and would follow. Etsy, our little rescue dog, tucked her face under my arm for a bit of love and protection, and I gave her a scratch, sipped another sip of my coffee, and got lost in the fact that there were so many varieties of the color green in my eyeshot.  It was one of those perfect summer mornings when I didn’t have to be anywhere quite yet and could just be and enjoy the moment.

And then, the guilt set in.  I literally ripped myself out of the stillness in a rage of internal anguish.  It was the week of both the El Paso and Dayton shootings, on the heels of the murders in Gilroy, Ca, and the morning of stabbings in Orange County.  That week I had attended a protest at City Hall about the treatment of asylum seekers, was considering a caravan to Adelanto detention center, and planning on attending another event at a different Detention Center downtown that weekend.  With all of the pain and dangers in the world, with all that so many are facing , how dare I enjoy my little yard, my maltipoo, my perfect cup of coffee, or the color green? How dare I feel joy or be nourished when there are too many without joy or nourishment?  How do I not spend every waking moment writing, marching, screaming at the top of my lungs about the state of our world? And if I’m not doing that, at least be writing my sermons (which I guess in a way I was), working on the curriculum for our classes, brainstorming about growing our community so I can maybe provide others with a tiny slice of sanity and calm from the storm through our Kehillah Sababah, our Cool Shul?  Ocean breezes and maltipoos? I’m a spoiled brat, and I have no right to either one.

But I decided, that summer morning, to try to quiet my mind for a little while, and enjoy the coffee, the dog’s snuggle, the gentle breeze, and the color green.  And here is why… 

If there is any gift for us in this time in history, it’s the gift of paying attention to the little joys of life…  To remember to breathe, to eat something delicious, to admire nature, and to hug our loved ones (be they furry or not).  Because not enjoying them isn’t helping anyone and will leave us drained and exhausted. We can’t fight 24/7.  We can’t stress 24/7. If we do, we will not have the strength to face everything we may have to face in the future months and years.  And that’s what those who would separate nursing babies from their mothers’ arms at the border, want us to do.  They want us to ignore our kids, our work, our fun, and obsess over them, and run out of steam, and give up.  But we won’t.

Plus, with the trauma of the news cycle, as I spoke about during Rosh Hashanah, we are often reacting a bit too strongly to the little things because our nerves are frayed.  Taking a few peaceful breaths and sips and cuddles is what we need to center ourselves. We need to remember that many of our problems pale in comparison to what others are going through, so we might as well not make ourselves suffer through them and enjoy what we have instead.  So, our kids aren’t perfect. So, camp cost more than we expected. So, our car needs repair again. So, the printer jammed. So, the cell phone got dropped in the toilet. All of this is mild in comparison to overcrowded detention centers, or another shooting. So we might as well just tackle our issues one at a time, in gratitude for the instances when our problems are not crises, and try not to lose it over the small stuff so we have the strength to battle the big stuff.  

I have mentioned that I recently took a class in modern Jewish thought, and one of the authors we studied, Emil Fackenheim, wrote a book entitled, The Commanding Voice of Auschwitz.  Fackenheim believed that the existence of the Holocaust created a message as loud and as clear as any heard at Mt. Sinai in the Torah.  This message, which he calls a new, additional commandment for all Jews (and in my mind, for all people), is the 614th commandment. That commandment is to not do the work of the Nazis for them by extinguishing ourselves.  To uphold this commandment, Fackenheim says we should never, ever stop telling the story of the Holocaust. He says we must not abandon the promise of Jewish existence, either through our own Jewish practices, or through the support of the Jewish people.  But most importantly, Fackenheim says we must do this, by living in joy.  Yes, we should mourn the tragedy of World War II, but he warns us against allowing Judaism to exist only for the sake of existence or to have the main thrust of Jewish culture and practice be one of mournful remembrance.  He says we must find song, and love, and beauty and meaning and passion and joy in how we demonstrate our Jewishness. If we do so, if we find glory and peace in Jewish spirituality, culture, food, and community, then we will have performed the ultimate resistance against Nazism.  Fackenheim believed that Hitler would want nothing more than for the Jews remaining on this planet to allow themselves to survive only in states of despair. If Judaism is only about beating ourselves on our chests, only about sad melodies, only about the pain of the past, then we have destroyed ourselves.  We have let them win. Yet everytime we find happiness in Jewish expression, it is a fist in the face of Hitler.

I think the same is true now in this world, and specifically in the United States.  Every time we don’t allow ourselves to go insane with the next news update or spend dinner arguing around the table about the latest tweet… every time we, instead, choose joy, we win.  If we share a meal, share affection, share a job – yes, with those we know and love, but especially with a stranger, or with someone who might be considered “undesirable” in this new American dynamic, or a person of a different faith than our own, a person of a different color than our own, a person from another country than our own… then we are spreading love, not fear.  Doing so is shaking our fists in the face of those who are anti-immigrant, anti-diversity, and are thriving on a message of fear and hate not so different from the one Fackenheim is begging us to remember.  

It is our mandate, and I never use that word, but I feel it so strongly right now, to step boldly and fearlessly into the light, as dangerous as it might be, and spread joy and live in joy, and scream out to the world, “I am here!  I won’t hide! I will live joyfully! You can’t take that away from me!” We owe this kind of thinking to our children, who are hearing us discuss the news, or are themselves reading or hearing the news, or worse learning about it from their friends.  Many of them are confused and afraid, and we must be examples for them of dreams still being alive, hope still being alive, and discovering solutions together in a world with endless possibilities of reconciliation and beauty. If we live in fear, anguish, hatred and anger, especially in front of our kids… If we spend our time fighting and screaming, the more “fun” the other side is having watching us fall apart.  Then we have done their work for them. We have allowed them to rob us of our very souls.  

If we could band together, not just in protest, but arm in arm in pride, we win.  We already have Gay Pride Parades, and now a Women’s March, but let’s also organize Diversity Pride Parades, Immigrant Pride Parades, Minority Pride Parades, Interfaith-Pride Parades, Education Parades, I Believe in Science Parades (I think there actually was one of those!) and take to the streets not only in despair but with hope.  Let’s celebrate the world we know we can mold. That will annoy them the most.

And so, yes, now it is time to beat our chests and admit the times we were wrong, the times we were selfish, the times we were petty, the times we were mean, the times we were jealous,  the times we didn’t see or didn’t listen. We will try to shake it all out, and let go of the guilt of the past and start with a new day, so we can be like Jacob of the Torah after his wrestling match… who faces his past, earns a new name, loses the title of his past errors, and finds a second chance.  He leaves that wrestling match with a limp, and perhaps we, too, after the past year will have some remaining scars, but then it is time to move on. Let’s not wallow in this regret. Let’s say our sorries (especially to the next generation who will have to clean up our world), march boldly into the light, and live this life with joy.

If we don’t, we will have let them win.

Humbly Correct Yourself

Hi all! Just sharing my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon because a few people have asked for it. Enjoy and feel free to share it. 🙂 – Diane

I have noticed that in our current social/political climate, people seem a little on edge.  

When I was crossing the street on a green light recently, but had not pushed the button to turn on the walk symbol, a man in his truck chose to lean out the window and scream at me that I didn’t have the right of way.  He’s correct I should have pushed the button, but his reaction was mildly extreme.  

When my daughter and I were leaving a protest a month or so ago, no longer at the protest, just walking to our car, someone must have seen our cluster of people with our signs, and chose to lean out of, again a truck, and holler “America First!”  Again, there is a right to disagree, and then there is the choice to lean out one’s window and yell at strangers.  

One more person leaning out of a window… In my neighborhood an injured lady was crossing the street with her injured dog… very… slowly.  They both had bandages around their legs. A driver leaned out the window to yell at her that she was taking too long.  

And finally, when my daughter and I were at a recent book signing with Supreme Court Justice Sonya Sotamayor, there was a near brawl about how long it was taking to get through the line to meet her and who was pushing in front of whom.  Once again, lots of screaming, finger pointing, and hot tempers.  

I’ll return to these experiences in a moment.  

This morning, we will hear the first portion of the Torah, Breisheet, the creation of the world. We celebrate this New Year (some say the birthday of the world) with this mysterious, poetic story about how our ancient people imagined it all began.  It’s about building, creating, newness, imagination, and taking the time to reflect on the work done to assess its beauty. The God of the Torah puts forth effort for 6 days, and then rests and beholds the results.

And yet, just one portion later, this same God is ready to destroy every living thing on the planet.  God creates humankind along with all of the animals of the land, sea, and air, but once the world is full of people and birds and fish and cattle, God sends down rain to destroy everything except for one family.

There are flood stories in nearly every culture’s history from every part of the world.  Many of us know of the Epic of Gilgamesh and how closely it parallels the story of Noah and his ark, but there are similar stories in the Islamic, Hindu, and Buddhist traditions along with Greek, Roman, Egyptian and many, many other mythologies.  What is it about the flood that appeals to so many? Is it water’s potential for renewal and starting over? Is it, as some dream analysts say, that the rain represents tears, obstacles, or depression? Or is it simply that there have been horrific floods in history around the world, documented by each culture as a supernatural event because at the time, it was believed that surely only such a deluge could be at the hand of a destructive god.  

I often ask my students when we learn about Noah and the flood, “What do you think could happen in the world to make all creatures, not just humans, but pigeons, camels, and even bunny-rabbits, be so evil that a god would want to wash it all away and start over?”  The answer at which we often arrive, is some kind of ecological catastrophe… a drought, a famine… all animals with their ecosystems so out of whack, that everyone from the lion to the gnat are searching for a way to adapt and survive, willing to kill anything that might result in a meal for itself or its family or tribe.  And even if there is no God, the way the story can be true, and not true, is that a real drought led to real famine which led to deviant animal behavior, and that was followed by heavy rains that the earth could not contain because the land was so dried out. And so, a great flood, or perhaps even a mudslide, having nothing to do with a god, destroyed the local suffering animals and plant life. 

In synagogues around the world today, communities will either read the story of the binding of Isaac or the creation story of Breisheet which we will hear, but I think it would actually make a ton of sense if we read the story of Noah.  For these holy days are all about returning to a place of knowing within oneself, restarting, redoing, washing away mistakes. And in just a moment, we will sing B’Rosh Hashanah – when we ask the Universe, Who, this year, will live and who will die?  And of those who die, who by fire and who by water?… Like a flood. We will also add more modern tragedies to our list that were unthinkable when our machzor was composed, but some of those modern tragedies are wrapped up in this more traditional text and in the story of Noah.  After all, with the state of our planet, with rising tides and rising temperatures, it is not unthinkable of a great drought and a great flood coming upon us again, not because of a god, but because we didn’t do what we had to do to turn our climate crisis around. The ancient questions of who by hunger, who by thirst, who by storm, are not as far reaching as they used to be.

Yet, this flood, be it a symbolic or literal flood, may come upon us not just because of the global warming climate, but because of our current political climate (and once again, I promise you this isn’t really a political sermon).  Many of us are speaking out against the policies that go against our understanding of human rights and ecological sanity.  We are marching, signing petitions, writing to officials, and soon, voting!… We are making a lot of noise to scream out to the world that we are not okay with how things are, and all of that is necessary and glorious.  But are we also listening? Are we learning about others? Are we remembering to search, no matter how hard, for the spark of holiness in the “other?” When we recite the Shema, are we only asking to be heard but not willing to be the ones who listen?

If we can’t find some small shred of common ground, some place to start… like, can’t we all agree that it stinks when people don’t pick up their dogs’ poop?… Then we can’t talk about agreeing on the bigger things, like how nice it would be if our children and grandchildren had clean air to breathe and livable temperatures.  When we point the finger at the “other” for being intolerant, impatient, selfish, angry, ignorant, it may be true, but we are doing the entire world and the next generation a disservice if we don’t at least ask ourselves, “Am I, also, even just a little bit, any of that?”  Intolerant of another person’s opinion.  Impatient when someone doesn’t understand what we think we understand.  Selfish when we expect more or better for ourselves or our families than another’s.  Angry at another side of an argument. Ignorant to the ways even our treasured figures may be weak or have been in error.  We have to at least point that finger, for a moment, at ourselves. Or we may participate in our destruction. 

At my kid’s elementary school, the head once asked a parent in an all-school meeting, “What does it mean to humbly correct yourself?”  This parent said, in front of a hall full of young children, “Well, I don’t know what you mean by humbly correct myself, but I know what it means to humbly correct someone else.”

Well, there’s a foreshadow of our flood right there.  

Our country, and our world is in a state where we can’t hear each other anymore.  The ability to have any kind of civil discourse is disappearing and it’s disappearing quickly. Now, I don’t blame us.  We are all suffering from some variety of political PTSD. We don’t know whom to trust. We are having flashbacks to events in our own lives when we have struggled with dominating figures, bullying, or even abuse.  No wonder our minds are fried and our nerves are frayed. No wonder people are screaming from their trucks or pointing angry fingers at one another when standing in line at a book-signing. Many of us feel like ticking time bombs, ready to pounce at the first sign of any more injustice, even if it’s just the guy or gal who cut us off on the 10 freeway.

Yes, we are heading for a flood, because we only know how to humbly correct others and not ourselves.  Because if we don’t find a way to start with some kind of common ground, we will not change this course of history.  No, our behavior won’t lead, in my mind, to a god flooding us out, but if we can’t gather ourselves together and face uncomfortable and unsettling confrontation, we may not deserve this planet anymore.  Our self-righteousness may lead to disaster.  And we can’t only blame the other side. If we don’t find a way to communicate, even with those we despise most, as we attempted to do during our meditation a few moments ago, this planet may just shake us off.  Call it global warming, call it God, but our lack of decent behavior with each other will be the reason for the next biblical flood.

Johnny Holmes, who happens to be African American, was the head of security in the 90’s at a high school in Blue Island Illinois.  He knew a student named Christian Picciolini at the school who had ties to white nationalists. Christian once said to Holmes, while being hugged by him to calm him down during an altercation, “Get your filthy hands off me.  I live to see the day when a n—— will be hanging from every light pole in Blue Island.” Years later, after Christian changed his views, and he and Johnny Holmes reunited, Christian said, “It was that compassion when I didn’t deserve it that eventually stuck.”  Holmes found it in his heart to try to help turn that young man around, and to see the humanity in him. If he can, so can we.  

And Matthew Stevenson, an Orthodox Jew at New College in Florida was the only Orthodox Jew at school, so he used to invite over a mixed group of Jewish and non-Jewish friends for Shabbat dinner every Friday night at his apartment.  When his friend circle realized that there was a well-known white nationalist attending the same college, they discussed what to do. Rather than ostracize him, they invited him to Shabbat dinner. Not only did he come, but he became a regular member of the dinner group, and slowly changed.  If Matthew can stare into the eyes of a perceived enemy, so can we.

So what do we do?   We build an ark. Not with cubits of gopher wood, but with ahavah rabah, abundant love, rachamim, compassion, chesed, kindness, and shalom, peace.  We build it, not to sound corny, by going high when others go low. We build it by never, ever, succumbing to taunts or teases or claims of false victories meant to provoke us and demonstrate our most basic, unrefined selves.  We build it by finding the ruach, the spirit of God that Johnny Holmes and Matthew Stevenson found within themselves and in others. We build it by remembering the words of Rabbi Chaim Nachim of Breslav who said the words we will sing during Yom Kippur:

Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tsar m’od, v’haikar lo l’fached klal: The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the essence, is not to be afraid.  Do not be afraid of this challenge. Do not be afraid of a lack of clear results. Do not be afraid of seeing goodness in someone who appears only evil at first, second, and even third glance.  We owe it to the next generation to leave a world of civility and progress so they can get to work fixing the mess we have made. And this means humbly correcting others, but mostly humbly correcting ourselves.

As we read last night, “Now is the time for the world to know that every thought and action is sacred.  This is the time for you to deeply compute the impossibility that there is anything but grace.”


Protest Song

I haven’t written a blog in ages… so much to say, I can’t find the words to say anything. We are all suffering so with what someone on my Facebook feed called PTND (Perpetual Traumatic News Disorder). How to talk about it? What to say? I’m frozen. So, I am returning to my roots… music.

This was quickly recorded at home just on my phone. You might even hear the jingle of my dog’s collar in the background. But I didn’t want to perfect it, just share it in case it helps any of you feel less lonely in this insane world.

Lyrics below 🙂

Why are you so afraid of giving up a gun?   
So afraid you’d rather chance a shooter hits your son?
And why is it my daughter should be fired for her love?
Is that the message your God sends from above?

My God say no children should be caged or in tears.
What happened to you to make you so full of fear?
If you were running from a war to save your life,
Wouldn’t you want freedom? Or is that only for whites?

Tell me what we can do to help you.
Tell me what we can do to be heard.
Tell me why you want us to go backwards,
Afraid of an educated world.

Tell me you feel the pain that I feel.
Tell me you just want to live your life.
Tell me how this makes your days better.
I’m telling you we will fight.

Cause we aren’t going anywhere.
We will not lie down.
We won’t let you take our rights away.
We are here.We are here.We are here.

Why are you so afraid to admit the earth is cooked?
Has anyone fought cancer by refusing to look?
And if you’re poor and hungry in a long forgotten town,
Keeping out the immigrant won’t bring coal jobs around.


As I walked toward the Federal building on Wilshire today to join the Pro-Choice rally, I started to have what I have rarely ever experienced… a panic attack.  And I didn’t know why.

As I approached the protest alone, no sign in my hand, just hoping to be counted as someone who showed up, my heart started to pound. I wandered the length of the people, and walked to the curb to join the protesters chanting and hooting and waving signs, not knowing what exactly to do with myself. I paused next to a small group of people banging on percussion instruments, and someone put one in my hand.  I started striking the drum stick against the bell along with the communal beat and… cried. With each “beep” of approval from a passing car or “woo” from the protesting crowd, my eyes welled up again, and I still did not really understanding what was triggering this reaction.  I fought back the tears (trying not to look like an idiot crying on a street corner while banging on a bell in the middle of a protest), but the release was immense none-the-less. And then it hit me why this was happening.

We all are carrying around so much pent-up emotion these days.  We all have so much doubt and fear about the future of this country and other countries embracing extremist views.  We are worried about the environment, our freedoms, our rights, bigotry, war, and hatred. It’s noisy, and if we just carry on… go to work and feed the dog and hang out with the kids, we can kind of ignore the cacophony for awhile (and that’s important too, because life also has to continue and 24/7 of feeling like this may drive us all insane).  But the reason I cried is because I had to stare right at my fears by standing with those protesters… fear that our rights will be taken away, fear that our government is inhumane, fear that we are heading toward ecological disaster, fear of war, fear that the current level of hatred and anger of this world is insurmountable.  I just couldn’t keep it all inside anymore.

After the tears, and several rounds of letting out my emotions on a bell, I gave the instrument to someone else to bang on for awhile and started to walk away.  I must say I felt a little better. And as I headed to my car, I started thinking about what I was supposed to write a blog about today (this wasn’t it), which led me to chanting the Shema to myself over and over, like a mantra.

I was going to write about our last Shabbat when we talked about defining God as Memories.  I won’t get into all of why… that will be another blog someday. But if it is so that God=Memories, then it turns the meanings of the prayers we say at Shabbat inside out and upside down, including the Shema.  Here is the traditional translation of each word of the Shema.

Shema (Listen or Hear)

Yisrael (The people Israel – let’s expand it to ALL people)

Adonai (our substitute name for God which means “my Lord” but Adon also means Master or Leader so… “my Leader” is a possibility)

Eloheinu (our God)

Adonai (see above)

Echad (One)

If God=Memories, then we could theoretically translate the Shema alternatively as this: Listen, everyone, I am led by our Memories, I am led toward Oneness.

I cried today because for so many of us, our memories of this time in history are and will continue to be painful.  I cried because of memories of a time when we weren’t all so afraid. I cried because I fear for the future I won’t see, and the memories our children will have to endure.  I cried for the memories being formed by women who can’t make choices, by immigrants who are being separated from their families, by the children who have been in lockdown at schools.  But as I chanted the Shema on my way to my car, I remembered that these memories are the fuel for how we handle tomorrow. We are led by these memories, even if they are unpleasant, and we CAN lead ourselves toward a time when more of us see the connectivity in all things, that we are all part of One, and that we better start acting like it.  

Shema Yisrael.. Listen everyone.

Adonai Eloheinu… I am led by our memories

Adonai Echad.. I am led toward Oneness.

May the memories of today, the joyous ones and the painful ones, lead to a future with more understanding, compassion and connection.  And if you feel panicky one day, like I did today, maybe this new translation of the Shema can provide you with a mantra in times of struggle.  

But don’t walk away from the fear. 🙂

For inspiration, hear our Shema here.

Reflecting on Holocaust Remembrance Day

Me: “So, tell me what you have already learned about the Holocaust?”

My class: yawn.

With yesterday being Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), I had the challenge of figuring out how to talk about the Holocaust with my 5th-7th grade students at Cool Shul.  One wouldn’t think it would be a challenge, but it is. Now that in many schools a study of the Holocaust is part of the curriculum, some of my students seem almost “over it.”

It’s odd to think of anyone (even a pre-teen) being “over” learning about the Holocaust, but it’s true.  We are so grateful that such an education is no longer kept to the synagogue or the dinner table. We want generation after generation to be well-educated on the subject and to make sure that not just Jews, but all people, understand what took place so they can lead us into a future without such atrocities.   And yet, once it is part of the curriculum, it isn’t “special” anymore within a Jewish education context, and sometimes kids have a Been-There-Done-That feeling… probably because at some point they had to take a test on the subject rather than just experience it.

This is where art comes in.

What captures the joy and agony of the human spirit better than art?  As I became frustrated that my students weren’t glued to every word during my lesson about the quality of life for children in the Ghettos, I realized that what did move them was the poetry and art works left behind by those children.  It was the stories, the sounds, the music, the paintings, the written words that finally moved them and took them out of their hormonal slumber and into engagement (if you want to check out the website we used, go to http://ghetto.galim.org.il/eng/ and be patient, it takes awhile to load).

Another artful moment was the evening before when I attended a Yom HaShoah event at the synagogue where I used to be the Cantor.  Once again, it was music and poetry and stories that lifted us out of ourselves and transported us through time. The Rabbi (and one of my mentors), Neil Comess-Daniels, asked a minister to read the following poem that Rabbi wrote back in 1996:

Twelve is a small number.

We purchase items in increments of twelve.

Twelve million of anything is unfathomable.

How much the more so twelve million murderers?

Six million Jews and six million others…

Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally and physically “imperfect”,

The politically and/or morally abhorrent.

Twelve million is as unknowable as one dozen is certain.

Yet, we must know this number, this twelve million, for this number knows us.

This number has shaped us.

Everything we are and can be will be measured in increments of


It left me and everyone else in the room speechless.

I was honored to sing during that event, and one of my offerings was a stripped down version of one of my most favorite choral pieces, written by Michael Horvit in honor of the 50th anniversary of Kristallnacht.  It is the setting of a poem found written on the walls of a basement in Cologne, Germany, left there by someone hiding from the Gestapo (you can hear me sing it by clicking the poem or the picture at the bottom of this post [and yes, that’s my dog jingling in the background]):

I believe in the sun even when it is not shining.

I believe in love even when feeling it not.

I believe in God even when God is silent.

I can’t sing this piece without feeling the tears start to swell.  How can three sentences pack so much emotional depth and complexity?

Perhaps the most interesting art piece for Yom HaShoah this year is an unbelievably creative project by @eva.stories.  This Instagram account is following the true story of a young girl with the premise of: what if a Jewish girl living during the Holocaust had Instagram?  No, it isn’t a piece of music or a poem or a novel, but it is an attempt to reach today’s teens with a thoughtful, artful, contemporary look.  Although it has drawn some criticism, I totally appreciate this attempt at a modern take on Holocaust education and art.  As an educator, I love the audacity to try a new “art” form.

So, what does this all mean?  It means…

Create art.  

Whether you are a choreographer, songwriter, composer, painter, storyteller, photographer or film maker (and ya don’t have to be a pro, a dabble will do!), keep documenting our times so we can express what is happening today to future generations. We may not be facing anything like a Holocaust in the U.S., but we are facing historic and troubling times. Many of us don’t know what more to do than what we are already doing to bring more compassion to our nation and the world.  Many of us fear that most of our efforts are demonstration rather than action. But when we feel that way, let’s turn to our imaginations. Let’s create, and create, and create to capture our thoughts and experiences and the stories we are told.  As we know, sometimes it is just one image, one lyric, one frame that can change the hearts and minds of America.

It may be a splatter on a canvas, a turn of a phrase, or even a bit of comedy that will alter the course of history.  Why not from your hand?

Shabbat Shalom

“Rantor” Diane