Thursday, April 17, 2014

In the Image of a God Who Can't Be Seen


The Torah portion for the intermediate days of Passover is Exodus 33:12-34:26.

In the narrative, these verses occur shortly after our exodus from Egypt, and after Moses ascends Mount Sinai to receive the two tablets with the Ten Commandments.  While he is gone, the people become frightened at his absence.  They plead with Aaron to make a god for them, since they didn’t know what had happened to Moses.  In response, Aaron tells them to collect their gold, which is then melted and used to form the Golden Calf.  Moses returns from Mount Sinai, sees what the people have done and becomes furious with them, smashing the tablets as he proclaims his anger. 

And then he turns to bargain with the Eternal to allow the Israelites to continue to live.  “The people have sinned,” he argues, “but forgive them or erase me from the record.” God sends a plague to destroy the sinners and tells Moses to lead the people to the land promised to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

Moses continues bargaining with God. “Let me see Your face,” Moses begs, “You’ve singled me out to do Your work.  If You really want me to lead Your people, let me know Your ways. 

God is adamant:  “No one can see Me and live – you can tell I am with you by observing My goodness and My compassion.”

Moses persists.  God finally relents and tells Moses to stand in a cleft in a rock and God’s hand will protect him as God passes by – and then God will take away the protection of God’s hand and Moses will be able to see God’s back.  God repeats, “My face must not be seen.”

As we build a new relationship with someone, it’s typical for us to try to look beneath the surface to the real essence of the person we are encountering.  We look for all types of indicators of personality, values, and character.  As our relationship deepens, we often gaze intently into the other’s eyes, in order to glimpse the essence of who they are.  What is it they really want from us?  How do they really want us to be?  How far will this relationship go?

We are limited in our understanding of God because of our own humanity and because our language is incapable of describing the indescribable.  And, like Moses, if we try to fit God into our understanding – we encounter the same response: “My face must not be seen.”

And yet, it is a tenet of Judaism that we are all created b’tzelem eloheim (in the image of God).  How is it possible that we are created in the image of Someone Who cannot be seen? 

The Etz Hayim commentary reminds us that “in the words of the Hatam Sofer, we cannot see God directly.  We can only see the difference that God has made after the fact.  We can recognize God’s reality by seeing the difference God has made in people’s lives.”

Most of us can remember people who have “made a difference” in our lives – a parent or older relative, a teacher, a colleague, a student we have taught.  We look to our heroes – people who have made a qualitative difference in the lives of many by the leadership they demonstrated, the injustices they’ve tried to right, or the beauty they’ve brought into the lives of countless individuals. 

The difference they make, however, is not always readily apparent in the moment.  Many times, it’s only “after the fact” and upon reflection that we see the impact they’ve had upon us and others. 

Sometimes, we too are privileged to make a difference in the lives of those we touch.  Sometimes those differences are huge – saving a life; mentoring a student; donating generously of our time, money and energy to bring tikkun (repair) to the world. 

Other times, we’re unaware that our actions have made a difference – a phone call to a lonely friend, greeting a store clerk with courtesy, reaching over to hold the hand of a person in distress, letting someone else go first in line.  None of these actions (or others like them) are necessarily significant, at least to the initiator.  But to the recipient, they can truly “make a difference.”

By engaging in Godly behavior, we will help others (and ourselves) recognize God’s reality.

Questions for Discussion:

  1.  Identify someone who made a difference in your life.  Who was that person?  What were the circumstances? How did knowing that person make a difference in your life, in your circumstances, or in the person you’ve become?  Share your story with someone else.
  2. Identify a public person who you admire for the difference that he or she made in the lives of others?  What values did that person exemplify? What impact is still being felt as a result of her or his actions?
  3. Think about some of the values that you consider important.  What everyday actions can you do to make a difference in someone else’s life?

Published by the Washington Jewish Week on April 17, 2014


Wednesday, January 29, 2014

The Torah of Pete Seeger

With the death of Pete Seeger earlier this week, I’ve been reading a lot about his music, his practices, and his commitment to justice/tzedek and repair of the world/tikkun olam.  I’d like to share the Torah/teachings of Pete Seeger, as I understand them.

I.   Say what you believe, regardless of the consequences.  During the “Red Scare” of the 1950’s, Pete was called to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, and  refused to name personal and political associations on the grounds that this would violate his First Amendment rights: "I am not going to answer any questions as to my association, my philosophical or religious beliefs or my political beliefs, or how I voted in any election, or any of these private affairs. I think these are very improper questions for any American to be asked, especially under such compulsion as this.” (Wikipedia).  He was indicted and later convicted of contempt of Congress for refusing to “name names.” The conviction was ultimately overturned, so he didn’t have to serve any of the 10 years he was sentenced to.  In the meantime, his mobility was restricted, and he was blacklisted from appearing on television until the mid-60’s.  He was willing to pay the price for adhering to his First Amendment rights.

II.  It’s not enough to “talk the talk,” we must be willing to “walk the walk.”  There was a solid consistency between the words that Pete sang, and the activism he engaged in.  Starting with his involvement in the labor movement of the 30’s and 40’s, through his protests against nuclear proliferation (1950’s), and his work on behalf of the civil rights movement of the 1960’s, Pete’s presence and his music spoke loudly on the behalf of the disenfranchised.  In the mid-1960’s, he began his work on environmental education and action, which continued up until the time of his death.  He was also heavily involved in the Jewish camping movement – specifically with the Surprise Lake Camp in New York.  The Camp’s mission statement says they "provide a high quality Jewish camping experience where children and young adults will be safe, have fun, and grow as they engage in programs and activities that enable them to learn values and skills that will help them lead fulfilling lives and be assets to their communities." [emphasis added]

III.  When one problem is “solved,” move on to the next.  We have not yet reached the point where we’ve brought repair to the entire world (tikkun olam).  By his words and actions, Pete exemplified the following quote from Pirke Avot (The Wisdom of the Fathers): "We are not obligated to complete the task, neither are we free to desist from it." (Pirke Avot, 2:16).  Or, put another way – in the language of the 1970’s – “We have to keep on keeping on.”

IV. We must use our gifts to try to bring repair to the world.  Pete dreamed of being a journalist and took courses in journalism and art, taught music, worked as a puppeteer, and an archivist for the Library of Congress’ Archive of American Folksong.  But it was his gift as a singer/performer and a song writer that changed the landscape of social justice.  “We Shall Overcome” has been the anthem of every group of people protesting for equality for over 50 years.  From “The Talking Union Blues” (early 1940’s) through his performance at Farm Aid in September 2013, Pete used his music and influence to bring attention to the issues of our times.

V.  To bring repair/tikkun, you must collaborate with others.   And Pete showed by example how critical this collaboration is.  Some of the finest songs he sang were in conjunction with other noted  musicians – the Weavers, Peter Paul and Mary, Woody Guthrie and – later  – Arlo Guthrie.  From the Musar Movement, we learn that one should occupy “no more than my place, no less than my space.” Pete wasn’t afraid to lead… but he also was willing to share the responsibility for leadership. Which leads to the next bit of teaching…

VI. Involve those who look to you for leadership. A Pete Seeger concert wasn’t a Pete Seeger concert, unless the audience sang along at full voice.  We weren’t passive observers, but active participants in this experience.

VII.  If they don’t know the words, coach them!  Pete never assumed people knew the lyrics to his songs.  As he encouraged us to sing along, he reminded us of the lyrics for the next time.  Let’s not be afraid to “coach” each other in this job of working for tzedek/justice.

VIII.  We’re never “too old” to be involved in the work of bringing justice to our world.  As late as 2013, at the age of 93, Pete was performing on behalf of Farm Aid.

IX.  Values are timeless.  The values Pete espoused through his music and the words of his songs are truly timeless – and resonate through the ages. As our words and actions should be.  

X.  In the tradition of prophetic Judaism, we are obligated to speak up when we see wrongs around us.  If we don’t, by our silence, we allow them to perpetuate.  His legacy will live in the words we sing and the actions we complete. As one Facebook poster wrote, “And thank you for showing us that we ALL have a hammer, a bell, and a song to sing... 

In Pirke Avot 4:13, we read that Rabbi Shimon said: “There are three crowns--the crown of the Torah [learning], the crown of the priesthood [service to God], and the crown of royalty [leadership].  But,” said Rabbi Shimon, “the crown of a shem tov/good name surpasses them all.”


Pete Seeger, of blessed memory, wore the crown of a shem tov.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

A Religion of TIme

Parshat Bo is a familiar one to many of us – it contains a recounting of the last three plagues before Pharaoh finally tells the Israelites to leave Egypt immediately.  But there’s an interesting insertion between the ninth and tenth plagues. 

We read: “The LORD said to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt: This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.” (12:1-2). And then, even before the Israelites leave Egypt, the mitzvot associated with the observance of Passover are given. The narrative of the Exodus resumes at 12:21, with Moses instructing them how to prepare for the final plague: the death of the first-born of all Egyptian families.

Upon rereading these verses (12:1-20), several questions came to mind:  Why is the first mitzvah/commandment given the one that deals with the calendar and marking time? Why is this considered the “first month of the year for you” – what about Rosh Hashanah? Why are the mitzvot/commandments about how to observe Passover given before the event occurs?

On the surface, the response to the first question is very pragmatic:  in order to celebrate the exodus on the fifteenth of the month, one needs to know when the month begins.  But perhaps the establishment of a unique calendar including human responsibility for keeping time (declaring the new month after witnesses testify their viewing the moon at the Sanhedrin) is less a technical command and more a spiritual gift.

Rabbi Ari Kahn from Aish added another dimension to the discussion by saying, “Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik, z’l, explained why this commandment was given here, and now. The Jews in Egypt were slaves, and therefore lacked a sense of time. They needed to acquire a sense of time in order to be truly liberated, transformed from objects to independent people.”

It is our ability to delineate time which gives us both the freedom AND the responsibility to carve out meaningful lives for ourselves.  

All joking about “Jewish time” aside, Jewish time is an interesting phenomenon: it’s both fixed and flexible.  It’s fixed in that it’s based on the cycles of the moon – the waxing and waning that occurs every month on a predictable pattern.  We know when Sukkot, Purim and Pesach are approaching, by the moon’s increasing fullnessWe know when Rosh Hashanah, a new year, is here – just as we see the new moon.  Chanukah’s end is announced by the sighting of the new moon, as well (plus one!).

It’s flexible in that the days begin and end at different times, depending on the season and the latitude at which one lives. And we must acknowledge that it’s just plain confusing to have our days begin at sundown the night before- confusing only because we spend much of our lives removed from the natural world in which we live.  Our lunar calendar also needs to be flexible so that our cherished marking of the harvest festivals, dependent on the solar cycle, will fall on the appropriate seasons. And so we get that quaint phenomenon of needing to ask if Passover is "early or late" each year.

Why is this considered the “first month of the year for you”? Our tradition lists four different “new years” – that of the civil year, the religious year, the beginning of the tax (tithing) year, and that of the trees.  A number of commentators make the distinction between Rosh Hashanah as the celebration of creation, which applies to all; while Passover is the celebration of OUR liberation (think of the difference between January 1st and July 4th for Americans).

Finally, why are such detailed instructions given for observing an event which hasn’t even occurred yet? A number of commentators make the point that the Israelites don’t automatically become a free people when they leave the land of Egypt.

Rabbi Lucy F.H. Dinner, in the Women’s Torah Commentary, reminds us that “To be truly free, individuals need faith in their identity as a free people and in their own unquestioned autonomy.  As much as liberation is about release from forced servitude, it is also about the psychological and spiritual strength required to act according to one’s own will.” Liberation then requires individuals to “act as if” they are liberated – even if they don’t quite feel it.

The great modern philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel reminded us that Judaism is a religion of time, aiming at the sanctification of time.  It may be a fair contrast to note that the Egyptian civilization enslaved people to build storehouses, royal cities, and perhaps some pyramids.  It was a kingdom of sacred places.  The new Israelite nation had to escape the boundaries of space created by human technology and architecture, and learn to use what Heschel called "the architecture of time" in which to build lasting "palaces in time" like Shabbat and the festivals.


We send our children off to conquer the world with a list of instructions and reminders about those events and activities which are important to us and, hopefully in time, to them as well. We adults who manage home and office schedules, the balance between work and rest, know how critical time management is to our success.  And we can see how time challenged people find it difficult to prepare for, and celebrate with calm and joy, holiday and life cycle events. So we can surely appreciate the tradition that notes that the Israelites leave Egypt with a prescription for how to cope with time for physical and spiritual success in whatever circumstances they find themselves.  It is a gift worthy of study and transmission to our children and grandchildren.

Published by the Washington Jewish Week, January 2, 2014


Wednesday, June 19, 2013

May His Memory Be For a Blessing

Gregory Tyrone Walton 

His funeral was held today.

Gregory grew up in the District, attended DC Public Schools and studied Business Management at Federal City College.  As many of our generation did, he joined the Peace Corps, where he learned masonry.

I met him three years ago, when we opened Gan Shalom, the Jewish Cooperative Preschool, supported by the Hill Havurah, on Capitol Hill in the District.  We rent space in a rowhouse (aka "town house") owned by the Capitol Hill Seventh Day Adventist Church.  Gregory was a member of the Church, took care of their grounds and did custodial work for them.  He became our custodian, too... and in the three years we worked together, my respect for him increased on a regular basis. 

Gregory was unique. 

To quote a friend of his: 
  • Gregory was humble, thoughtful and kind.
  • Gregory had a beautiful singing voice.
  • Gregory could speak French with an awesome French accent.
  • Gregory asked questions when he didn't know something,  and introduced himself if he didn't know someone (or their dog).
  • He never had a bad word to say about anyone and had a smile for EVERYONE.

When I first met him, I didn't quite know what to make of Gregory - this incredible bundle of energy, who smiled non-stop, greeted people by name, asked about each of my family members by name, and ended his conversations with a "God bless you, Mary."  I learned to ask about his family in return, and he always responded, "They're doing well, Praise the Lord.  And thank you for asking."  

This last year was more difficult for him.  He was having some health problems, which he chose not to discuss.  A number of us were worried, but we respected his right to privacy. This spring, he unexpectedly went into the hospital.  Upon discharge, he called me to let me know that he wouldn't be able to work for us any longer because of his health problems.  He apologized for inconveniencing us. 

Gregory died last Wednesday. 

I've been thinking a lot about the impact he had on my life, on our students' lives, on their families' lives, on the neighborhoods and the communities he interacted with.  In the shadow of the Capitol, where power and influence often make themselves known, Gregory was truly unique. Today, I stopped my busy-ness to reflect on that uniqueness.  

Here's what I realized: 

Gregory was one of the few truly happy people I've known.  His "Praise the Lord"s echoed the joy he found in every-day life: in cleaning, and mowing, and walking his dogs, riding his bike, and greeting the people who passed by. 

Many of us hold a bit of ourselves in reserve. We learn to hide behind the mask we wear in public.  Gregory wore no mask.  He was genuine - the same person no matter what the setting was. 

He taught me to slow down - his sincere questions about how my family members were doing, which needed to be addressed before we could "talk business" made me realize that, yes, it really is all about relationships.  And so I learned to listen when he talked, so that I could reciprocate the lovingkindness he demonstrated. 

His attention to detail was shown in the way he salted and sanded the icy metal steps of the rowhouse - without ever being asked - so we all could climb the steps safely in our erratic Washington winters.  He noticed when the entry-way throw rug was dirty and - without being asked - saw that it was washed and returned. 

In this day of politically-correct language, Gregory was an unabashed, absolutely joy-filled Christian, who proclaimed his faith on a regular basis.  And yet, his acceptance of our Jewish beliefs and practices was unequivocal.  

I learned a lot about Gregory today from a number of people in the filled-Church service - but we all seemed to agree on how our lives had been changed dramatically - for the good - by this humble man who encountered everyone as if he could see the spark of the Divine in them.  

And I was reminded by something a friend wrote in my yearbook from Edgewood High School in Madison, Wisconsin, when I was a sophomore: 
Our lives are shaped by those who love us... by those who refuse to love us.
May his memory be for a blessing.





Thursday, June 13, 2013

And so a Journey Ends

Today I retired from my job as the founding Director/Teacher at Gan Shalom Cooperative Preschool in Washington, DC – the latest in my career as a Jewish educator and/or administrator at several Jewish institutions in the greater Washington DC area.

I fell into Jewish education almost as an accident. 

Over twenty years ago, after thoughtful consideration and a great deal of angst, we made the decision to remove our children from the religious school they were enrolled in.  I would homeschool them in Judaism while we searched for a school that would be a better fit for all of us.  It was springtime, right after Purim, and I scrambled to pull materials together for the rest of the academic year. I discovered the Teacher Resource Center at what was then called the Board of Jewish Education and began my week each Monday morning by looking through their files and planning my lessons. 

We discovered, my children and I, that some kids learn best by doing, some by seeing, and some by hearing.  But the most important thing we learned is that learning has to be relevant.

The Director of the Library/Resource Center was helpful and encouraging and I was grateful for both.  As a convert to Judaism, I was all too aware of my limitations. 

A couple of months after our homeschool venture began, she offered me a job as a teacher in the religious school she was directing.  Ultimately I decided to accept the challenge.

Thus, my journey as a formal Jewish educator began.

Many of the published materials then available were extremely dated in focus and content.  I began to generate my own materials for my classes – keeping in mind always those critical lessons my children  taught me:  not all kids learn the same and learning has to be relevant.

Fast-forward twenty-three years:  I've taught all ages from preschoolers to adults, directed two religious schools, founded a preschool, written curriculum, and presented staff development workshops locally, regionally, and nationally.  I established my own Jewish educational consulting business. I've planned, coordinated, and facilitated several regional programs for students and for teachers.

My journey as a Jewish educator may have been an accident – or it may have been b’shert (meant to be).  I still haven’t decided!

As I turned sixty in January, I began to take stock.  My commute had become more onerous in the last couple of years.  I could get down on the floor to play with my students, but found it increasingly difficult to get back up again! The prospect of expanding the school filled me with fatigue instead of excitement and creativity.  I began wonder if “it was time:” time to step aside; to focus on personal goals instead of professional ones.

When I thought about it, I realized I've been working since I was sixteen:  fast food, food service, clerical worker, administrative assistant, social worker, preschool teacher, religious school teacher, administrator, and consultant.  As many of us do, I've juggled those responsibilities along with my roles as full-time mom, and community volunteer. 

I began to wonder what it would be like to slow down.  It was frightening:  so much of who we are is often defined by what we do.

I talked with people whose opinions I value; I read books on transitions and self-definition; and I began to look at alternative ways of self-definition. 

And so, today I retired.  I will no longer have the day-in, day-out responsibility for running a Jewish educational institution, with all that is entailed.


Monday, a new journey begins. 

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Passages in the Wilderness

This week's Torah portion is Parashat Chukkat  Numbers  19:1-22.1

Passages in the Wilderness

This week’s parashah – Chukkat -  includes a wealth of materials.  We read of the story of the red heifer; the disappearance of the well which accompanied the Israelites on their journey; Moses’ striking the rock for water to pour forth; and the story of successful military battles.  There is also an introduction to the transition of leadership from the generations of Israelites who left Egypt to those who arrived in the Promised Land.

In Chapter 20:1 we read, “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh.  Miriam died there and was buried there.”

Shortly thereafter (Chapter 20:22-29), Aaron dies.  We read that the Eternal tells Moses and Aaron that Aaron will be “gathered to his kin” for disobeying His command by striking the rock for water.  The sequence is described:  Moses and Aaron will ascend Mount Hor; Aaron will be stripped of his vestments which will then be worn by Aaron’s son Eleazar; Aaron will die.  When Moses and Eleazar descended from Mount Hor, “the whole community knew that Aaron had breathed his last.  All the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days.”


And so the transition to a new generation of leadership begins.

When we study Torah, we are encouraged to notice what is NOT said, as well as what IS said.  In this single chapter, there appears to me to be a significant silence.  


Miriam died. There is no explanation of why she died or under what circumstances her death occurred, contrary to the later explanation given for Aaron's death.  There is no mention of mourning her, unlike the grief expressed upon Aaron’s death.   When Miriam dies, Miriam's Well disappears and the Israelites complain that they are dying of thirst.


And so I wonder:  were there no tears recorded for Miriam because her death was the first of the leaders' deaths? Or was it because it was easier to focus on the loss of that which she brought (Miriam's Well) than it was to focus on the loss of Miriam herself? Much of our own grief focuses on loss as it impacts on us -- "who will listen to me?", "who will rejoice in my good news?", "how will I keep on going?"


The Women's Torah Commentary suggests the following:  Perhaps they were so stunned by the loss of Miriam that they [the Israelites] were unable to express their grief directly.  Instead, they cried out against Moses and Aaron, projecting and transferring their grief onto Miriam's brothers.  Or perhaps they did not react to Miriam's death in such a way that would give comfort to her brothers.  They seem to care only that there was no water, and acted as if Miriam's death were unimportant.  We can imagine that Moses and Aaron were deeply shaken by the loss of their sister, and this may have been the reason that Moses reacted with such anger toward the people when he struck the rock, instead of speaking to it, as God has commanded.  In grief mixed with rage -- such a normal reaction -- Moses lashed out at the rock to produce what Miriam could have produced with only her presence.  (p 300)


As Moses' big sister, Miriam helped raise him: she protected him and watched over him.  Moses may have felt that he lost not "just" a sister, but a surrogate mother.  Did the Israelites (as a community) also see her as a surrogate mother?


For Moses and Aaron, Miriam's death makes all too real their own mortality -- in a way that the death of a parent or friend can't.  Someone who grew up in their home, someone of their generation, someone who shares their collective memories and growing-up experiences in a way that even a "best friend" can't -- if she has died, so too will they. For all that they have managed to accomplish, they are vulnerable.


And ultimately, after the mourning period, what do we have left?  We have our memories and the legacy that gets transmitted from generation to generation.  That legacy sometimes comes from the generation that knew the loved one… and sometimes from generations which follow. 


When I think of Miriam, I think of courage and joy.  That’s due in large measure to the song “Miriam’s Well” by songwriter and singer, Debbie Friedman, of blessed memory.  Debbie took a few lines from Exodus, heard what wasn’t said, and provided many of us with a new vision of the character of one of the pivotal women in our history. Without Miriam, Moses would probably not have survived. Or, if he had survived, would not have been linked to his heritage.


And that’s Miriam’s legacy:  nurturer, supporter, and joyfilled celebrator.  


Questions to consider:1.  What legacies have been transmitted to you by your family? How are they transmitted?2.  What is the legacy of various communities to which you belong?3.  What would you like your legacy to be?  What actions are you taking to ensure that legacy will be transmitted?


Mary F. Meyerson is the founder of Morah Mary Consulting, LLC.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

You are How You Act

Parashat Va-y’hi  Genesis 47:28-50:26

This week’s parshah – Va-y’hi – contains the culmination of the stories of Jacob/Israel and his sons. 



As Jacob is on his death bed, Joseph visits his father.  Accompanying Joseph are his two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim.  Israel adopts them and, in doing so, elevates them to full status as heads of the tribes of Israel, thus ensuring that the land of Israel will be divided among twelve tribes. As he prepares to bless Manasseh and Ephraim, something interesting happens.
Noticing Joseph’s sons, Israel asked, “Who are these?” And Joseph said to his father, “They are my sons, whom God has given me here.” (48:9-10)

Didn’t Israel just adopt them?  How is it possible that he didn’t recognize them?  Some commentators suggest that he didn’t recognize his grandsons, because they were indistinguishable from other Egyptian youth. 
Joseph had married a wife named Asenath, daughter of Poti-phera, who was the priest of On – an Egyptian god. As a man of significance to the Pharaoh, it’s not surprising that both he and his sons “looked” Egyptian. 

Tradition has it that Manasseh and Ephraim reassured their Grandfather about their connection to the Israelites by reciting the Sh’ma and thus affirming their belief in the same God as their ancestors. 
So Israel bestows his blessing on each of them. I’ve often wondered whether he blessed his young, assimilated grandsons out of conviction that they would continue to practice Jewish life…. or out of a deep hope that they would.

The issue of assimilation, then, is one that appears throughout our people’s story.  Grandparents often wonder whether their grandchildren will continue to be Jewish.  But what exactly does “be Jewish” mean? 
When I converted to Judaism, over thirty years ago, I often felt that there was an invisible-to-me-but-apparent-to-everyone-else neon sign flashing over my head that proclaimed, “Not born Jewish.”  I was sure that others could tell – by my appearance, by my lack of Hebrew, by my uncertainty about whether to stand or sit during services – that I wasn’t “really” Jewish.  It took a long time for that “neon sign” to disappear from my consciousness.

What I’ve come to understand in the last 30 years is that what’s more important than appearance is my behavior.  Are my actions Jewish? Do they exemplify Jewish values? Do those values have a significant role in my decision-making?  And – no less critical – have I explicitly articulated those values to my children and to my students? 
·         We make a donation to tzedakah on days of celebration, because that’s what Jews do:  remember those who are less fortunate. 

·         As we step outside in the morning, we take a moment to say “Thank you” to the Eternal, because that’s what Jews do: notice and appreciate the blessings in the world around us.

·         We acknowledge the individual on the street, because that’s what Jews do: recognize that each of us is created in the image of our Creator.

·         We stop smoking, lose weight and/or [begin to] exercise regularly, because that’s what Jews do: take care of our bodies.

·         As we travel through life, when we spot injustice, we speak out, because that is what Jews do: continue in the footsteps of the prophets, telling truth to power and giving voice to the vulnerable.
Several years ago, I came across the following unsigned comment on the URJ’s Torah Talk web page for this week’s parshah: 

“Our legacy, impact, and ability to improve the world are only as strong as the values we transmit to our children.  We cannot ensure that our children will honor our memory, but it is up to us, like Joseph, to honor them by linking them with their past, and by giving them the responsibility and the trust to recreate and to reform Judaism in their own image.”  
Like Joseph, we stand between our parents and our children.  The stories we tell, the customs we integrate into our lives, the behaviors that are an integral part of the fabric of our lives – all are significant aspects of the transmission of Jewish identity l’dor v’dor  (from generation to generation).

Like Jacob, our influence may have to be exerted over multiple generations.  Today we may have to grandparent our third generation if family systems, economic pressure, and the distractions of popular culture inhibit the role of parents to enculturate their children on their own.

With this parshah, we end the book of Beresheit (Genesis).  As is our custom upon completion of a book of the Torah, we say “Hazak! Hazak! V’Nithazek! (Be strong! Be strong! And may you be strengthened!)”
And by the mindful choices we all make, am Israel (the Jewish people) will be strengthened.

Questions for discussion:
1)  Do you frequently find yourself making judgments about people based on their appearance?
2)  If people look at your behavior, will they see actions guided by Jewish practice and belief?

3)  What will your legacy be – for your children, your students, and your community?

Mary F. Meyerson is the founder of Morah Mary Consulting, LLC and the director of Gan Shalom Cooperative Preschool in Washington, DC.
 
Published by the Washington Jewish Week, December 27, 2012