Remembrance of Names

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name

A poem by the Israeli poet, Zelda

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name

שנתן לוֹ אלהים ונתנוּ לוֹ אביו ואמוֹ

Given by God, and given by our parents

This poem is translated to English by the poet and artist Marsha Falk,
who uses it as the mourners’ kaddish in her siddur, Book of Blessings.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear

This is one of those poems that has lived close to my heart from the moment I heard it recited by Rabbi Dorothy Richman in the old Beth Sholom sanctuary one Shabbat morning. And this year it touches closer than before, as I rise each day to say the traditional kaddish for my dad, I also keep this one in mind.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls.

In this week’s Torah parashah, Pinchas, there are a lot of names---verses and verses and verses of names, as part of a census that is taken of the children of Israel. These names take up a huge part of the parashah. And with all the juiciness of this parashah – the finish of the Pinchas story, the daughters of Tzelophchad, the ritual anointing Joshua receives from Moshe as he is chosen to succeed him as leader -  we rarely talk about this counting, this accounting of the Israelites

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors

There are three times in the Torah we hear about taking a census of the Israelites. The first is  in Exodus (30:11-16), in the midst of the details of building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. Everyone twenty years and older —well, all the males—must pay half a shekel. Not only is this a method of keeping track of the count, but it’s also a way for everyone to give an offering of atonement, with the proceeds going to help build the mishkan. Whether rich or poor, each one pays the same. Hezekiah bar Manoah, known as the Khizkune, a 13^th century French rabbi says, “a wealthy person must not contribute in excess of this, for if the Torah were to allow the wealthy to contribute more, and the poor to contribute less than a half a  shekel each, how could each of them attain the same level of atonement” When it comes to the spiritual life of our people, we are all equal, no need to list one person or tribe before another – we are coming together for a common goal.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing

The next census is taken at the start of the book of Bamidbar, Numbers, in the very first verses. It’s the second month of the second year after the children of Israel came out of Egypt. Moses and Aaron counted each male, twenty years old and upward, who is able to go to war. Here, the instructions are that the counting is to be organized by clan, listed by names. We are given the names of the head of each tribe who will help with the counting. And we then get the count, tribe by tribe, with the assurance that all the clans were registered; all the names were listed, even if those names were not voiced. And then, with the tabernacle in the center, surrounded by the Levites who will carry all the furnishings and accoutrements of the mishkan, each tribe is strategically placed around them, standing by their flag, led by their chief, ready to move through the wilderness, protecting their precious center from any harm, as they march to the promised land of their final destination, traveling as one.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love

Which brings us to this week’s census. A journey that was expected to be two, three years or so has turned into 40. The generation that came out of Egypt was deemed not able to be brought into the land—they could not shake the effects of their life under slavery. They were too fearful and too closed to move into freedom. They were not ready to take on what was needed to form this new nation. So a whole new generation is now poised at the edge of the Jordan, about to go into the Land. Like the former counts, this one is also all males over twenty, able to bear arms. This count will also be by clans, but this time, those clan names are voiced. What makes this count different from the two that preceded it? Unlike the first count, which was centered around building the mishkan; or the second count, which was centered around protecting the mishkan, this count is about the land. “Among these shall the land be apportioned as shares, according to the listed names “ (Num 26:53)

The Israelites are about to enter the land, stake their claim, revitalize the roots that were left behind when Jacob and his family left Canaan for Egypt so many years before. But they never forgot those roots; they never forgot their given names. According to the Midrash, the Israelites did not change their language or their names in Egypt. “They did not call Reuben “Rufus” nor Judah “Leon” nor Joseph “Lestes” nor Benjamin “Alexander” (Vayikra Rabbah 32).  They kept, and remembered,  their names, with all the names of the line going back to the sons of Jacob. I think these names are voiced is as a way to honor the past souls who bore the burdens of slavery, who may not have made it to the land in body, but who had enough faith and fortitude to leave Egypt and start on the road to freedom, even as they may have been too broken to complete the journey.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work

It is said that ritual makes the invisible, visible. I think names bring connection to distance. Giving a name, acknowledging a name, creating a name for the nameless brings things and people close, making it personal. It is an important part of remembrance. Our Hebrew names include the names of those who came before us, and when we say their names, we hear the names of those who came before them. We are reminded that we are entering the stream of our tradition, where we teach in the name of our teachers, allowing the support from the past to carry us into the future.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness

Names became part of my omer ritual this year, as I counted each day with a name of one of the victims of those gunned down in the Christchurch mosques this past March. Rabbi Benjamin Blech, at Professor of Talmud at Yeshiva University, points out that the central letters of the Hebrew word Neshama, soul, are shin and mem, - שם – the Hebrew word for name. Your name, he says, is the key to your soul. Sharing those moments of blessing the day with the names of those innocents lost in the act of prayer, connected my soul to theirs, strengthening my resolve to speak for those souls who can no longer speak, to act in their names and the names of the others who were killed in Pittsburg and Charleston and Orlando and Sandy Hook and too many other places, so that no more souls are lost in such a way.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name
give given by the sea
and given by our death

This poem and this naming take on new meaning now that my dad is gone. Now, he and his name live in me, in my name, in my soul. And his name is honored in my communities. Here, it will be read each week for eleven months, and then each year, along with the loved ones of others. We are the people of the book, a book we keep writing with names, keeping the thread of our tradition alive – both as individual families and as a people. We write these names in our books, on our walls, and in our hearts.

לְכֹל  אִש  יֵש שֵם

Each of us has a name – a name that gives us our present identity, which holds the foundation of our past, and forms a path to the future. Each of our names, shaim shelanu, lives as remembrance \in our neshama, in our individual, and, as a people, our collective souls.

Zichronam l’vracha – may the memories of those names, of those souls, serve as blessings for us

Shabbat Shalom

Mourning the Loss of a Minyan

When people would ask my teacher, Rabbi Alan Lew, “how do you become a part of a spiritual community?” He would say, “you just show up, keep showing up -- be present.”

I have no personal connection to those who died last Shabbat in Pittsburgh and yet, I know those people – each and every one of them….I am one of them. Like them, for the past 18 years I have been at services both weekly and daily with my cadre of “regulars” just like those at Etz Chayim/Or L’Simcha/Dor Chadash -- each one of us, from Pittsburgh to San Francisco, showing up, and being present with our roles………

Like David and Cecil Rosenthal, greeting people with contagious joy or Irving Younger, who, when he handed out the prayerbooks, made sure to point out the current page so no one would feel uncomfortable.

Leading the davening, the prayers for their community, like Daniel Stein, Jerry Rabinowitz or Mel Wax, who was always ready to step in if someone didn’t show up - “He knew how to do everything at the synagogue.” a friend said.

Making sure the food and coffee are ready and available—like Rose Mallinger and Bernice Simon, two old timers who were well aware that one cannot live on prayer alone, while Bernice’s husband, Sylvan, would take part in the L’Chayim club each Shabbat with a shot of Jim Beam.

Those people are my people—who showed up and let their consistent presence in their Jewish practice create a spiritual and sacred space so that someone like Richard Gottfried, a dentist who volunteered at a free dental clinic, could have a place to deepen his connection to his faith.

Last Shabbat, we lost a minyan – a minyan like my minyan, like so many minyanim across the world – people who are the lifeblood of their community. Minyan - literally a number, a count, a quorum – is at the core of traditional Jewish synagogue life. It’s that group of 10 or more Jews who gather daily and weekly to pray and to make sure all who come to pray are supported, especially those in mourning, those who come—some every day for 11 months— to say Kaddish, the prayer we say to honor the dead. Jewish ritual law for saying Kaddish demands that we must be in community so we can support and comfort the living.

Joyce Fienberg, a retired University of Pittsburgh researcher, became a regular “minyanaire” after the death of her husband. Perhaps, like some in my minyan, she wanted to support others as she was supported in her time of grief. Or maybe she just found that space and place a good way to start her day. Rabbi Jeffrey Myers, the rabbi at Etz Chayim, said Ms. Fienberg not only participated, she gave its oldest member, at 99, a ride each day. "She frequently opened the building, prepared food and just volunteered to help," Rabbi Myers said. "No one asked her to do it. She just did it. She was a pure soul."

No, I do not personally know any in that minyan of 11 souls I’ve mentioned, but I am one of them – linked to them not just as Jews, but as people who understand the value and connection to spirit and community that comes with showing up and being present with that spirit and with that community. And now, as we say Kaddish, grieving for those souls who died for no other reason than they were Jewish, in that tradition they held so dear, let’s hold the stories and the light of those souls within us, and let that light reflect out, reminding us to keep showing up and be present for ourselves and for each other in this tradition that has held us for thousands of years.

זכר צדיקים לברכה
Zacher Tzadikim L’vracha

May the memory these righteous ones be a blessing for us all

Memorial Day - in honor of my uncle Eddie

This morning at minyan I commemorated the yarhzeit of my uncle Eddie. Eddie was a bombardier during World War Two--one of those who did not make it home. As I speak of his life and death and recite the El Malei prayer,  deep emotions are stirred within me; tears pour out and my voice catches. I feel so connected to this man who I never knew. I mourn for the love and laughter he would have added to our family. I mourn for my father's loss of his brother and mentor; for my grandparent's loss of their oldest son. On this day I channel their grief.

This particular yarhzeit has taken on a significance that goes beyond the personal. Unsure of the exact date of his death, I decided it was appropriate to observe Eddie's yarhzeit on Memorial Day. And although I now know the exact date and circumstances of his death due to records that are available on the internet, I continue this commemoration at the insistence and support of my minyan community, sharing these words so we all can channel a bit of that grief and remember the reason we mark this day.


"Pa - so you thought I forgot your anniversary. Well, at least Ma stood by me. I'm glad you liked the card. . . I received a letter from Seymour {my dad} on Tuesday and he tells me that he made PFC {Private First Class}. You can't imagine what a kick I got out of hearing this. I went around and passed cigarettes to the boys just like a father passes out cigars when he gets a baby"

"You ask what's new with me. There is still nothing definite to tell you. We may as well not kid each other - when I finish my training here I will be due to go over. . . Please don't start worrying about me - there is still plenty of time for that. . . I'm not worried about anything except that you are worrying about me. This is a great experience for me and I'm sure I will benefit by it. Why, there must be a million fellows who would do anything to trade places with me and get on a B-29 crew"

Those words were written by my uncle, Lieutenant Edward Heiss, US Army Air Force, in letters to his parents, my immigrant grandparents, Sam and Pepi Heiss, in January and February, 1944. He signed off, as he did all his letters, with "I am feeling fine. So long. Lots of love, Eddie." One year later, on January 11, 1945, his B-29 fell to the ground in pieces somewhere over Malaysia. Of the eleven crew members, only three made it out alive---he was not one of those three.




When I was growing up, a colored version of this photo of my uncle was on my grandmother's dresser. I was curious who it was, but somehow, never asked, and no one ever talked about him. I don't remember when or how I found out who he was. Once I did, I wondered how my family's life would have been different if he had come home.

What was he like - this man so often photographed with a smile; the one who, as my father tells it, convinced my dad to go to Yankee Stadium one Rosh Hashanah afternoon.








The commanding officer of his squadron wrote my grandparents, "No matter how fatigued he may have been, or how he felt personally, Edward always had a laugh and a word of encouragement, to cheer the other members of his crew and squadron. . . He undoubtedly was one of the best liked officers in this organization."





For years after my uncle's plane went down my grandfather held out hope that some miracle would find him alive. After all, no body was ever found. A musician--string bass and tuba--who worked many high society events attended by high military brass, my grandfather would go up to those generals and ask, "please, find out what happened to my son."

My Uncle Eddie received a Purple Heart, posthumously.

I would have rather had him in my life.

On Memorial Day we need to remember that war, justified or not, will always take its toll.

Zichrono L'vracha
His remembrance is a blessing to my dad, to me, and to all with whom I share his story.

Memorial Day Remembrance - My Uncle Eddie

היום שמונה וארבעים יום, שהם ששה שבועות וששה ימום, בעמר

Today is forty-eight days, which is six weeks and six days, of the omer
יסוד שבמלכות
A day of foundation in a week of leadership

This morning at minyan I commemorated the yarhzeit of my uncle Eddie. Eddie was a bombardier during World War two--one of those who did not make it home. Although I never met him, I feel a close tie to him and need to honor his memory--not just for me, not just for my dad, not just for my family. Because of records that have now been made public and available on the internet, we now know the date and circumstances of his death. But at the insistence and support of my minyan community,  I share this commemoration and these words so we remember the reason we mark this Memorial Day.


"Pa - so you thought I forgot your anniversary. Well, at least Ma stood by me. I'm glad you liked the card. . . I received a letter from Seymour on Tuesday and he tells me that he made P.F.C - You can't imagine what a kick I got out of hearing this. I went around and passed cigarettes to the boys just like a father passes out cigars when he gets a baby"

"You ask what's new with me. There is still nothing definite to tell you. We may as well not kid each other - when I finish my training here I will be due to go over. . . Please don't start worrying about me - there is still plenty of time for that. . . I'm not worried about anything except that you are worrying about me. This is a great experience for me and I'm sure I will benefit by it. Why, there must be a million fellows who would do anything to trade places with me and get on a B-29 crew"




Those words were written by my uncle, Lieutenant Edward Heiss, US Army Air Force, in letters to his parents, my grandparents, in January and February, 1944. He signed off, as he did all his letters, with "I am feeling fine. So long. Lots of love, Eddie." One year later, on January 11, 1945, his B-29 fell to the ground in pieces somewhere over Malaysia. Of the eleven crew members, only three made it out alive---he was not one of those three.





When I was growing up, a colored version of this photo was on my grandmother's dresser. I was curious who it was, but somehow, never asked. I don't remember when or how I found out who he was. Once I did, I wondered how my family's life would have been different if he had come home.

I wonder about this man--the one so often photographed with a smile. The one who, as my father tells it, convinced my dad to go with him to Yankee Stadium one Rosh Hashanah.








The commanding officer of his squadron wrote my grandparents, "No matter how fatigued he may have been, or how he felt personally, Edward always had a laugh and a word of encouragement, to cheer the other members of his crew and squadron. . . He undoubtedly was one of the best liked officers in this organization."

My Uncle Eddie received a Purple Heart, posthumously.

I would have rather had him in my life.

On Memorial Day we need to remember that war, justified or not, will always take its toll.

Zichrono L'vracha
His remembrance is a blessing to my dad, to me, and to all with whom I share his story.

Silence is not an option . . .

היום  שנים עשר יום שהם שבוע אחד וחמשה ימים בעמר
Today is twelve days--that is one week and five days--of the omer
הוד שבגבורה
A day of humility in a week of strength


Today is Yom Hashoah - a day we make a point to remember that the Holocaust happened.
A reminder that the perfect storm of an evil demagogue meeting devastating economic conditions within a demoralized population. 
There are many of us for whom this is personal,
and there is the global lesson that must be learned.
We are responsible for others--we must stand up to the bully.
If more people stood up, those 6 million plus would not be lost.
The stakes now may be different....maybe not.
But we all must stand up and not remain silent.

If not now, when . . .

Looking at Kaddish

היום שבעה ועשרים יום שהם שלשה שבועות וששה ימים בעמר
Today is twenty-seven days, which is three weeks and six days of the omer
יסוד שבנצח
A day of foundation in a week of perseverance

On this day of foundation I take a liturgy class--one of many that I have taken with Rabbi Stuart Kelman. This one was on the various Kaddishes that are said in our prayer services, with much time spent on the Mourners' Kaddish, the prayer said on behalf of a loved one who has died. As often is the case with prayers, the customs go back so far that often their origins are obscured, But because they have been in existence for so many centuries, they are looked at as "law."

The codification of our observances is what unites us as Jews, gives us a tribal connection in this global society. But we need to remember that they are not set in stone. We need to learn what part they play in our lives, how they work, and even look at why they work...or don't. While the connection of tradition is important, keeps us in that stream that has run through the ages, we also need to revisit the customs, and renew their meanings so they can continue to to speak to us today.

Taking memories forward

היום אחד חמשה עשר יום שהם שני שבועות ויום אחד בעמר

Today is fifteen days, which is two weeks and one day of the omer
חסד שבתפארת
A day of loving kindness in a week of compassion

Truly a day of loving kindness and compassion, as I officiate at an unveiling--the Jewish ritual marking the placement of a headstone at the grave of a loved one. It is not something I've done before, and I am honored to have been asked to lead this ritual so close to the hearts of the family who lost their husband and father. We will remember him, with tears and as well as some laughter. It is hard to see this reminder of his death, literally set in stone. But there is also a sense of moving on, letting go--not having the memories fade, but being able to keep them close without the immediacy of the pain. In this way, this ritual serves not as an ending commemoration, but as one that marks the beginning of the new journey.

Zichrono L'vracha -- may his memory be a blessing

Women of Valor

היום אחד שלשה עשר יום שהם שבוע אחד וששה ימים בעמר
Today is thirteen days, which is one week and six days of the omer
יסוד שבגבורה
A day of foundation in a week of strength

I began my Yom HaShoah commemoration yesterday dealing with the global aspect of needing to continue this important remembrance. We need to take the reflections of this day and turn them into actions. And the news this past week of the words and actions of Donald Sterling and Cliven Bundy shows how much work there is to combat racist hatred.

Today I honor two women who survived the Shoah with their souls intact. Neither had easy lives and suffered wounds often hidden but never completely healed. They both lived long lives with a deep faith not so much in God but in the spirit, teachings, rituals, and traditions of Judaism.

My dear friend Mitzi Wilner survived by living as a Catholic nanny using her best friend's papers with her friend's maiden name. But her parents, her sisters, and much of her family were captured and killed in the German "actions" in her Polish town. Somehow she was able to keep her faith in a way seems unfathomable in the context of her experiences. As Rabbi Lew wrote upon hearing of her death: "Mitzi’s spirituality was irreducibly Jewish; a great light that she carried out of some of the darkest places the Jewish soul has ever seen, and into a world of hope and continuity."

And then there was Goldie Rassen, who rarely talked of her life in that dark time. She was in a labor camp, and she made it through. She felt so strongly that adherence to Jewish practice is what would keep Judaism alive for the generations to come. She wanted Jews to know Hebrew, to read the literature, the poetry, the teachings that Judaism has to give, both secular and sacred. Her life was dedicated to teaching others, and she was cherished by her students. While I don't have a photo of her, I have this poem I wrote in her memory to keep her in my heart

לגולדי  –  מורה שלי – חברה שלי

To Goldie - My Teacher - My Friend

אני זוכרת את הפנים שלך

I remember your face

אני זוכרת את הקול שלך

I remember your voice

אני זוכרת את הידיים שלך

I remember your hands

אני זוכרת שלמדתי איתך

I remember studying with you

אני זוכרת שדיברתי איתך

I remember speaking with you

אני זוכרת ששרתי איתך

I remember singing with you

אני זוכרת שהתפללתי איתך

I remember praying with you

את יושבת בלב שלי כל אזמן

You live in my heart forever

זכרונך לברכא לי

Your memory is a blessing to me

Zichronot L'vracha
The memories of these two strong, courageous women
are certainly a blessing to me. 

6 million...then and now

היום אחד שנים עשר יום שהם שבוע אחד וחמשה ימים בעמר
Today is twelve days, which is one week and five days of the omer
הוד שבגבורה
A day of humility in a week of strength

Yom HaShoah -- the day we remember those lost in the Holocaust.

At the start of my course on the Shoah, I share this with my students:

There are a little over six million Jews in the US.
Six million.What if all the Jews in the US were to disappear?

It's one way I can impress upon them the enormity of what happened in the Shoah. It's inconceivable and incomprehensible. For no reason other than they were of a certain religion and ethnicity, 6 million people were murdered. And too many people stood by and watched it happen.

We need to teach the why and how of what happened to truly honor the memories of those who lost their lives. Our remembrance needs to encompass a mindfulness that the conditions that brought on that horrible onslaught of the 20th century can happen, and I'm sure some would say has happened, again.

As a young girl growing up in the shadow of the Holocaust, the phrase "Never Again" was drummed into my brain. I feel the pain of that time and place. But I need to take that pain and have it fuel my passion to teach my students an awareness of need to work for justice in this world. The story of our people--the story of freedom and liberation that we told on Pesach; the stories of perseverance and survival that we tell this week--is the foundation of those teachings.

I stood yesterday to say kaddish for all of those lost souls--so many have no one to stand for them. But more than just remembrance--we need to take action in one way or another to ensure we do not witness another Holocaust for any peoples on this earth. In that way, we can truly make their memories a blessing.

When lesson plans get personal

היום שמונה ימים  שהם שבוע אחד ויום אחד בעמר
Today is eight days, which is one week and one day of the omer
חסד שבגבורה
A day of loving kindness in a week of strength

I'm in the midst of an 8 session course I'm teaching to 7th & 8th graders on the Jewish experience in America. Most of the students are interested in the subject--a nice plus that's not always the case when teaching in a supplementary synagogue environment. And those that are there just to mark time have been, for the most part, engaged--another check mark in the plus column. I can think of two aspects that may have piqued their interest.

One is that they are learning something new--a part of American and Jewish history they have not been exposed to before. It was great to hear a collective "that's cool" when I showed them a prayer written in Hebrew to honor the ratification of the Constitution that included an acrostic of "Washington" in Hebrew. They had also never considered that there would be Jews who were slave owners, as we considered what seders would have been like for southern Jews, speaking of their ancestors' liberation from slavery while being served by their own African-American slaves.


I think, and I certainly hope, that this subject is also making them think about their own relationship to being a Jew in America. I set the stage in the first class as we talked about the whether they thought of themselves as Jewish-Americans or American-Jews, and what the difference between the two would be.

The lesson I will teach this evening was actually one catalyst to me developing this course. We will be looking at the time period of the great wave of immigration to America from 1880 - 1920, when approximately 23 million immigrants entered the country, mostly from European countries. Around 2 million of those immigrants were Jews, mostly from Eastern Europe. Many of those Jews crowded into New York City's Lower East Side, creating a new world for Jews in American where, for the first time, they are a majority, albeit in a small corner of the country. Since most of my students are California natives, the immigrant experience as it applies to Jews is new territory for them, and something I think it's important for them to know. It's not just about teaching them about their heritage, which is important, but my hope is that it will give them a closer lens from which to look at all the immigration issues facing us in America today.

In planning this lesson, I realized I could also make it personal for me. I will be sharing photos of my family--photos taken in both the old and new worlds. I will show them my grandmother's family. I will show them a photo of my great-grandfather in his klezmer band in Poland, and my grandfather when he played with Paul Whiteman's band in New York.  I'll show them the ship manifests from the Ellis Island website, with the records entry for my grandmother, my aunt, and my great-grandmother Malkah--for whom I'm named.

I'm hoping bringing in my family's story will help make this time period come alive for them. Maybe I can get another "that's cool" reaction. It is pretty cool for me to be able use these mementos from my family's past to teach those who are the future of our people. It not only brings to life the phrase, "L'dor v'dor" - from generation to generation, but it lets me honor the memories of those who were dear to me, truly making them a blessing.

Rabbi Lew and Jackie Robinson

היום עשרים  יום שהם שני שבועות וששה ימים בעמר

Today is twenty days, which is two weeks and six days of the omer
יסוד שבתפארת
A day of foundation in a week of compassion

A tough day for our country--for the world. Why anyone wants to make such a huge statement that means lives will be lost is totally beyond my comprehension. Maybe I'll write more about this tomorrow, maybe not. But today, to keep some normality, the topic is baseball.

It was 66 years ago today that Jackie Robinson made his debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers. All the major league players are wearing number 42 today in his honor. One of the best ways I know to pay homage to his memory is to share some words from a big fan--my teacher, Rabbi Alan Lew, z''l. Here is an excerpt from my favorite Rabbi Lew sermon, Yasher Koach,  given on Rosh Hashanah 5760/2000.

I have been a baseball fan all my life. The most vivid memory I have is my first visit to Ebbets Field in 1948. My Uncle Benny, my favorite uncle who died a few years later, took me. It was the day the Dodgers clinched the pennant that year, and after the game the crowds poured out onto the street outside the Dodger dressing room and waited for their heroes to come out. In those days, athletes used to wear sport coats with white shirts -- no ties, collars spread wide open -- and as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of Gil Hodges immense Adam's apple protruding out of the open neck of his white shirt. He was a god. 

Another sight I'll never forget; a short while later my father took me to my first night game, also at Ebbets Field. Coming into the park, I caught my first glimpse of that glistening green grass diamond bathed in the arclight. My heart still stops a little whenever I walk into a stadium and see that 

And, of course, in 1948, Jackie Robinson began the civil rights revolution by penetrating baseball, because both he and Branch Rickey seemed to understand that baseball was at the heart of the American psyche, and if America was going to change, it had to change here first. You know, Louis Finkelstein, the great chancellor, perhaps the greatest chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, had the same insight. He used to say, you can't be an American Rabbi unless you know baseball. 

And in fact, I learned about social justice and civil rights and racial prejudice, not in school, not in synagogue, but through baseball. 

Pee Wee Reese, the little colonel, died the other day. When Pee Wee Reese became the only player on the Dodgers to befriend Jackie Robinson, he also became my favorite player and he remained so until he retired. 

Most of the ballplayers then were from the south. Pee Wee Reese was from the south too. Louisville, Kentucky, to be precise. But when the other players got up a petition saying they wouldn't play with Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese refused to sign. And then one afternoon in Cincinnati, when the fans were taunting Robinson mercilessly, and even some of the players were joining in, Pee Wee Reese walked over and put his arm around Jackie Robinson and stood beside him. Later, Jackie Robinson said, I never felt alone on a baseball field after that. 

So When Jackie Robinson couldn't find a house to buy, I sent him a letter inviting him to come live in my neighborhood. He wrote me back. He said he was sorry that he couldn't live in my neighborhood, because he and his family had just purchased a house in Stamford, Connecticut. 

Baseball mirrors life in a subtle and deeply spiritual way. It has a deep aesthetic and we pour our souls into this mythic diamond and allow our deepest aspirations and conflicts to play out there. 

Zichron'hem l'vracha - the memories of both Rabbi Lew and Jackie Robinson are blessings to us today.

To Goldie . . .

היום אחד שלשה עשר יום שהם שבוע אחד וששה ימים בעמר
Today is thirteen days, which is one week and six days of the omer
יסוד שבגבורה
A day of foundation in a week of strength

On Yom HaShoah 5665/2005, while I was not yet in the practice of blogging the omer, I did mark the day with a blogpost. I wrote about my friend Goldie Rassen, a Holocaust survivor who made it through different work camps. She didn't share much about those times, and it was only reading her obituary that I found out she had a husband and a daughter died in the Holocaust.

Goldie was, above all else, a teacher. She loved learning of all kinds, but especially Jewish subjects and most specially Hebrew. She loved teaching Hebrew, and continued to teach almost up to the time of her death. I think of her so much these days as I study Hebrew, learning the trope, the music, of the language, and concentrating on decoding the dikduk- the grammar.

I spent many Shabbatot davening, praying with Goldie at Beth Sholom. At first I sat behind her, but she then moved to sit behind me. She loved and appreciated my kavannah, my intention, in prayer, but the volume was a bit much for her. "Moshe Rabbeinu (Moses, our Teacher/Our Rabbi) can hear you, Marilyn" she told me, with a smile. I not only drove her to services, I also picked her up to go to all sorts of lectures and classes and Jewish events. And I am only one of many students who revered her.

And so, on this Yom HaShoah day, I honor my friend with a poem I wrote upon her death. I honor her as my friend and as my teacher. I will miss her always.

לגולדי  –  מורה שלי – חברה שלי

To Goldie - My Teacher - My Friend

אני זוכרת את הפנים שלך

I remember your face

אני זוכרת את הקול שלך

I remember your voice

אני זוכרת את הידיים שלך

I remember your hands

אני זוכרת שלמדתי איתך

I remember studying with you

אני זוכרת שדיברתי איתך

I remember speaking with you

אני זוכרת ששרתי איתך

I remember singing with you

אני זוכרת שהתפללתי איתך

I remember praying with you

את יושבת בלב שלי כל אזמן

You live in my heart forever

זכרונך לברכא לי

Your memory is a blessing to me

We are One

היום אחד שנים עשר יום שהם שבוע אחד וחמשה ימים בעמר
Today is twelve days, which is one week and five days of the omer
הוד שבגבורה
A day of humility in a week of strength

Today and tomorrow there will be many tributes posted to the memory of those lost in the Shoah, the Catastrophe, the Holocaust. Yom HaShoah is a day to stand in remembrance of all those lives lost, and all the souls who will never be.

It is also the place in time when, once again, we are reminded that--like it or not--we are, as Jews, one people. I know there are many who would argue, and I'd probably agree with a lot of their points. But it's hard to ignore the historical cycles of our past that are mirrors of each other.

Last Sunday I alluded to the Jewish penchant for dividing into party lines based on theological and political lines. Assimilation into other cultures has been going on for centuries. Traditions flow in separate lines with the difference of geographic location. Each subsequent generation brings its own interpretation to ancient rituals.

But from the Exodus from Egypt through the Babylonian exile to the destruction of the Second Temple through the Crusades, the Inquisition, the programs and on to the Shoah, there has always been this tragic correction where we have been reminded that no matter where we go in time or place, we are all part of one entity - the Jewish people. We were a global community long before the internet age.

What we do with that identity--what does it mean to us in this generation, and to the next? That's a matter for discussion. Feel free to share your thoughts here. But however you feel, whichever way you look, the Shoah has to be part of the dialogue, for it is, forever forward, part of all of our stories, part of the Torah we all share. Something we will not, we can not ever forget.

For the Last Time . . . for David . . .

היום שמונה ימים  שהם שבוע אחד ויום אחד בעמר
Today is eight days, which is one week and one day of the omer
חסד שבגבורה
A day of loving kindness in a week of strength

One week in, and writers block has already set in. When that happens, I look at the books around me for inspiration. Since various chumashim -- books that contain the 5 books of Moses, the Torah -- are always within arms length of my desk, I usually start there, looking at the reading for the week. This week's parashah is Shmini, which contains the story of the death of Nadav and Avihu, two of Aaron, the high priest's sons.

The circumstances surrounding their demise are sudden, confusing and to many, very upsetting. I do not want to go into that at this time. But what ever the reasons, their deaths are a painful loss to their family. I can feel that loss right now, since it's been less than a month that my dear friend, David Weiss, passed away very suddenly. I plan to share more about David when we mark sheloshim, the 30 days since his passing.

In the chumash that I chose to mine for inspiration, The Torah, A Women's Commentary, published by URJ Press and the Women of Reform Judaism, there is a section of poetry and personal writings connected to each parashah. In Shemini, I found this poem by Robin Fox, which expresses so well the aftermath of such a loss.

For the Last Time 

How do you know
when it's the last time?
The last time to ask
"How are you?
How was your day?"
The last time to say
"I love you
Good night . . . sweet dreams." 

You don't.
And so you must reach out
with love and compassion
at every opportunity
to show those who love you
that you care
you love
and need to be needed . . .
in a world where you suddenly find yourself
alone once again
in an achingly painful way
because someone you love
has left you behind
to seek your own paths
and truths
in an uncertain place. 

The only thing certain
is that you're not truly alone
because of those who do love you
and for that be thankful
and grateful
and feel blessed
that you were able to say
"Good night . . . I love you"
one last time.

Not just another Shabbat

Judaism is not so much a creed as a series of concrete activities. Shabbat is a vivid spiritual experience if we make Kiddush and Havdalah and fill the space in between with traditional Shabbat activities: study, prayer, singing, dancing and festive meals. If we don’t do these things, Shabbat is just another Saturday.

                 "The Year is like a River" - September, 1996

This Shabbat is certainly not just another Saturday. This Shabbat marks four years since the passing of Rabbi Lew. I share those and other words of his, and I write these words of remembrance to honor this man whose life and teachings taught me and so many of us how the concrete activities of Jewish life can bring us the spiritual experience we seek.

One of my favorite teachings of his, one that comes up for me again and again, is his teaching from the 15th century commentator Don Isaac Abravanel in his description of the Torah, the five books of Moses, as a blueprint for a spiritual life. This teaching echoes the path of Rabbi Lew's life, as well as holding the gifts that he brought us.

Bereshit - Genesis, the stories of our tribal origins, represents the personal spiritual seeking, ending in a leave-taking. Rabbi Lew’s personal spiritual journey is well known, and we were lucky that his path led him here. For he was able to reach out and speak to the spiritual seeker in all of us.  And he was able to show us how the rich traditions of Jewish ritual can act as signposts along the way.

Shemot - Exodus, our formation as a spiritual nation, represents revelation—hearing the words and concepts that will guide our lives and form our community. Through his teachings, Rabbi Lew brought us different meanings and interpretations of those words and concepts, showing us that revelation is not a one-time event of ecstasy, but something that can enrich our daily lives.

Which brings me to Vayikra - Leviticus, the nuts and bolts of the practice. Rabbi Lew was never one to water down practice simply to make it easier to follow. Instead, he inspired us to look to the deeper meanings, opening up the rituals in ways that made us want to participate as fully as we could.

Daily minyan is the modern version of the single lamb our ancestors offered up every morning and every evening. Praying every day we come to know the full range of human spiritual potential; from transcendent exaltation to stultifying boredom; from the frustration of not quite knowing what we're saying to the joy of being swept up in a spiritual energy larger than our own. Praying every day with others we get a very real sense of how difficult it is to join in real communion with others, and how wonderful it feels when we finally manage to do so; praying every day with others we come to explore that tenuous boundary between self and other which is always the real locus of the spiritual experience.

           “The Minyan is for Your Sake” – November 1996

Bamidbar - Numbers, the forging of community as we wander for 40 years, is about bringing the practice into our lives. And that is where, I think, our debt of gratitude to Rabbi Lew is at its greatest. For he made it his mission to share with all of us his love of Judaism and the deep spiritual sense it has brought to his life. That's what made his sermons so special—he didn’t just talk about the practice, he lived it. He didn’t just teach about the benefits of meditating, he was there at 6 a.m. He didn’t just preach the importance of keeping our minyan vibrant, he participated fully. He kept looking for ways to reach us all.

As a case in point, I looked to one of my favorite sermons of his, one given Rosh Hashanah 5760, in 1999. It's a sermon that demonstrates why we will always be filled with respect and love and honor for Rabbi Lew.

He first sets a scene of a news crew filming meditation—"Apparently, this is a thing of great amazement – a bunch of Jews sitting in the room without talking; quick,  get the cameras! Let's run this on the 6 o'clock news." They also film minyan. His description of minyan focuses on the time-honored Beth Sholom tradition of saying "Yasher Koach" – loosely translated, may the force be with you -- to everyone who participates in the slightest manner. Why do we do this? Rabbi Lew said: "We are congratulating you because of all the places you could have put your energy in this world, of all the forces you could have aligned your force with, you freely chose to be here, to put your energy here, to align yourself with the three thousand year old stream of spiritual energy we call Judaism"

Later in the sermon, Rabbi Lew goes on to relate that "Yasher Koach" moment to a moment in this country that demonstrated that same spiritual achievement — that moment in 1995 when Cal Ripken, shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles, played in 2,131 straight games, breaking Lou Gherig's record. Rabbi Lew understood that this achievement of being present and showing up each day made the difference in a world that doesn't always show up as we would wish. Rabbi Lew said "simple human presence – simply being present, simply persisting in being here – has tremendous spiritual power, It has the power to heal. It has the power to nurture."

Which brings us to Devarim - Deuteronomy, Moshe's last words to the people he has guided through the desert. I never heard Rabbi Lew mention Devarim in his Abravanel teaching, so one day I asked him what part of living a spiritual life did that book represent? He answered, “Devarim is about preparing for one’s death.”

Rabbi Lew left us too soon, but in the life he led, he understood that recognizing our mortality is an integral part of living a full life. And we have many of his teachings on this, as he spoke and wrote about Yom Kippur, the day in Jewish practice when we look to the meaning of death in our life. As he wrote in This is Real and You are Completely Unprepared:

This is the only life we have, and we all will lose it. No one gets out alive, but to lose nobly is a beautiful thing. To know the core of our being is to move beyond winning and losing.

It is to enter that moment where life is deep and rich and God is present for us. We all lose, some of us nobly, and all of us with a certain amount of tragedy. But as Rabbi Zimmerman (a.k.a. Bob Dylan) reminds us, “there’s no success like failure,” and any loss that carries us closer to the core of life is no loss at all.

Zichrono L’Vracha

His memory, living on in his teachings, is a blessing

"The river of life is inexorable. It will carry us to the end no matter what we do. Our activities, Jewish or otherwise, are unlikely to effect the outcome very much at all. But they can effect the quality of  the experience very deeply – in fact, they can transform it”