Let all who are hungry come and eat

Rabbi Vicki L. Axe

Spiritual Leader of Congregation Shir Ami in Greenwich

www.congregationshirami.org

Appeared in the Greenwich Time 3.20.10

“Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are needy, come and celebrate.” These are the words Jews all over the world will recite when we gather in our homes to eat the festive meal and recall the Exodus from Egypt at our Passover Seders. The text is not in Hebrew like most of the prayers of the Passover Seder. It is in Aramaic, the street language of ancient times, designed to be heard and understood by all who needed a place of refuge during the Festival of Passover.

When I was young my family took this idea to mean that we should invite friends to our Seder who might not otherwise have a Seder, especially our non-Jewish friends with whom we loved to share our favorite holiday celebration. Even though the celebration took place at home, we dressed in our finest clothes, and set the festive meal in our formal dining room with our best china. Our Seder was full of all the delicious traditional foods, lovingly prepared for days by my mother, with all of the prayers and stories recited in three-part harmony created by my two older sisters and me. We delighted in the moments especially designed to hold the attention of the younger members of the family.

In recent years I have come to understand the more global ramifications of this injunction to “Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are in need come and celebrate.” As Jews, we have a collective memory that brings us together to recall and reflect on defining moments in our history and to pass this collective memory on to our children. On Passover we remember the Exodus from Egypt when we were redeemed from slavery and stood on freedom’s shores at the Red Sea. At our Passover Seder we eat bitter herbs and drink sweet wine to recall and teach our children that in this defining moment we came to know and understand the bitter taste of slavery and the sweet taste of freedom.

This memory compels us to reach out with compassion and take action again and again on behalf of all people who are oppressed as we were oppressed at the hands of Pharaoh, to “let all who are hungry come and eat, let all who are in need come and celebrate.” With the annual reminder of our years in Egyptian bondage, we have always been at the front lines helping those confronting any form of human suffering, whether it was the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s or the victims of the recent hurricane in Haiti.

With Passover coming just two weeks after the devastating winter storm of 2010, the notion of inviting people in need into our homes has taken on new meaning. We lost power in our home at about 3:00pm Saturday, the day of the storm. Like so many others in the area, we had no electricity, no heat, no water, no internet, none of our usual comforts. We were trapped in our home with trees and power lines lying across the road in all directions. By Sunday, the road was cleared in one direction and we were able leave home by taking a long circuitous route to avoid fallen trees and wires throughout our neighborhood.

After three days bundled in layers of clothing and blankets, we decided to move to a hotel. Like so many in our situation we learned that all hotels in Fairfield and Westchester Counties were booked to capacity. That is when I learned from my own personal experience and from the stories of friends and neighbors how kind and generous all people are in “letting all who are hungry come and eat, letting all who are in need come and celebrate.”

Strangers were helping strangers. Neighbors who barely knew each other were suddenly having “sleep-overs” in the one home on their street that had power, sharing food and fun. Working parents were taking turns caring for each other’s children during the week of school closings. Office buildings and houses of worship were opening their doors overnight to house the many families that that had no heat or water at home.

I pray that this year, when we get up from our Seder tables full from holiday food, full from the joy of gathering with family and friends to remember the Exodus from Egypt, we will carry the theme of caring for those who are hungry and poor into our everyday lives. I pray that the spirit of the winter storm of 2010, coming just two weeks before that Festival of Passover, will continue to inspire all people to care for the needy, to reach out to our neighbors, to offer sustenance and celebration to all.

The Joys and Responsibilities of Ritual

Rabbi Vicki L. Axe

Published in the January 2010 Rabbi's Column

Greenwich Jewish News

My father was the son of Russian immigrants and grew up in the Bronx.  He used to tell the story of meeting a man in business who had been born and raised in London.  When they realized that they were both Jewish, they began sharing childhood memories and were amazed and delighted to learn that many of their recollections were the same.  Their favorite parallel story was when their mothers took them to buy their Bar Mitzvah suits.  Both had had felt invisible, embarrassed, and man-handled while their respective assertive, immigrant mothers and overly solicitous shop keepers marveled over the perfect fit of the oversized suit, and haggled over the cost.  With tears of laughter, they named this apparently universal, uproariously funny memory, The Ritual of the Bar Mitzvah Suit.

Ritual is very important in our lives.  Some, like the Bar Mitzvah Suit Story, involve clothes.  Others are all about food.  Here is a personal story.  I have always felt that my chicken soup is the only holiday delicacy which surpasses my mother’s culinary artistry.  But my mother’s matzah balls were perfection – the kind that are light and airy, floating right up out of the bowl.  After enough matzah ball failures, I learned that my only chance of duplication was with the help of Manischevitz.  So my rich flavored chicken soup with matzah balls as close to my mother’s as possible was always a holiday treat enjoyed by all the Axe boys.

A few years ago, the boys added their own special touch to this traditional food.  We all stood around the pot of briskly bubbling chicken soup ready to share in the honored task of rolling the matzah balls when one said, “Look, I made a G for Gabe.”  Another followed with, “Look, I made a Jewish star.”  Another formed a heart.  Our holiday chicken soup ritual now links three generations of our family.

As free thinking intellectuals, we may deny the importance of ritual in our lives, but rituals define who we are, and permeate every aspect of society.  Everyone has a getting up and dressed in the morning ritual, a nighttime ritual, starting the car and buckling up ritual.  Sports events open with the singing of the National Anthem.  The Stock Exchange begins each day with the opening bell.   For me, talking on the phone includes getting my calendar, a pen, and a diet coke.

Rituals bring people with common interests, concerns, and history together.   Every religion has rituals which define it and compel its followers.   Judaism and the Jewish people have survived centuries of dispersion and migration with the accompanying acculturation and assimilation.  We have survived in spite of those who rose up against us again and again throughout our history hoping to destroy us.  I believe that we survived for over five thousand years while other religions and cultures have disappeared because of the rituals that we share with all Jews and Jewish communities across time and space.

We share rituals of weekly Shabbat worship, High Holy Day observance, Festival celebrations, the annual cycle of Torah readings.  Whether Jewish prayer is part of the rhythm of our daily, weekly or annual ritual, we all respond to the call of the shofar, the flickering lights of the Chanukah menorah, the singing of Dayeinu. 

But rituals come with grave responsibilities.  First, in order to enjoy the privileges of a community, it is our responsibility to embrace the rituals of those who came before us, to practice them with devotion and sincerity, and then to pass them on to our children and future generations.

There is a story of the Baal Shem Tov.  Whenever he sought to avert a misfortune, he would go to a certain place in the woods, light a fire, and offer special meditations and prayers, and the misfortune would be averted.  A generation later, when the Maggid of Mezeritsch was faced with the same problem, he would go to the same place in the woods and say, “I can light the fire, but I can no longer recite the prayers,” and the misfortune would be averted.  Another generation passed and Moishe Leib of Sassov would go to the place in the woods and say, “I can no longer light the fire, nor do I know the secret meditations that go with the prayers, but I do know the place in the woods to which all of this belongs,” and that too would suffice.  The next generation, Israel of Rizhin, would sit in his palace and say to God, “Master of the Universe, I no longer remember the prayers, or the fire, or even the place, but I can still tell the story, and that will have to be enough.”  And it was.

But what about the next generation?  Is merely telling the story enough?  When my son Judah had just completed first grade at Bi-Cultural Day School, he made a practice of reciting the morning prayers every day during the summer.  I complemented him saying, “Judah, I love seeing you practice what you learned in school.”  With six-year-old wisdom, he said, “Mommy, we didn’t learn the prayers; we did them!”

If our survival depends as I suggest on “doing the rituals,” what are we doing to keep Judaism alive?  Do we embrace the rituals of Judaism to define and compel us so that we can pass them on to our children and those who come after them?  It is the responsible thing to do. 

It is also the grave responsibility of the members of a group to question those rituals and practices which are in conflict with their sensibilities.  Abraham lived in a time when child sacrifice was a common practice in seeking favor from the gods.  The Biblical account of the Binding of Isaac brings to light the extraordinary wisdom of our ancestors to understand that child sacrifice is morally wrong.  The angels of God called out not once, but twice – Abraham, Abraham – to stop him just in the nick of time as he stood poised with knife in hand ready to kill and sacrifice his beloved son Isaac.

Imagine a world where the same kind of moral sensibilities had compelled people throughout history to stand up against rituals of ethnic cleansing, mass human destruction and genocide.  Imagine a world where we no longer sacrifice our beloved sons and daughters by sending them to battle in foreign lands.  We Jews are supposed to be a “Light to the Nations.”  We are supposed to stand up like the angels of God and say Abraham, Abraham, NEVER AGAIN. 

I pray that in this new year of the Common Era 2010, we will embrace the rituals of Judaism in a beautiful and meaningful way as a gift to future generations.  And I pray that we will speak out and take action against those rituals of our society that are in conflict with our moral and ethical heritage.

Sermon-in-Song

Rabbi Vicki L. Axe
Shabbat Shira January 29, 2010
Delivered as part of a Choir Exchange with Congregation Shir Ami and First Presbyterian Church of Greenwich

When I hear the song “For all we know” sung by the Carpenters, I am immediately transported back to February 17, 1971. I am driving in a limousine with my two older sisters and father and this song came on the radio as we were returning home from my mother’s funeral. It brought a wave of sweet sadness as I thought about my parents’ 35-year loving marriage.

When I hear Carmina Burana by Carl Orff, I am transported back to July 5, 1971 when Harold and I sang in a performance of this lustful ancient text set to the choreography of the Pennsylvania Ballet. What made this moment significant is that Harold proposed to me backstage following the performance.
When I hear disco music, I am transported back to pre-children days in the mid-70s when Harold and I would dance the night away at clubs in the city.
When I hear the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, I am transported back to 8th grade when I had to recite it from memory. I am suddenly in the classroom at Weeks Jr. High School and can easily visualize classmates and friends I haven’t seen in almost 50 years.
The sights and sounds we experience at defining moments in our lives stay with us long after the event. OK so my memories are clearly those of a choir geek! But I am sure that you have your songs that transport you back to defining moments. Your first kiss, your first prom, your first live concert, a family trip.
As Jews, we have collective memory that brings us together year after year to remember and recall defining moments is our history. Tonight is such a night. This Shabbat is called Shabbat Shira, which means the Sabbath of Song based on the reading from Scriptures designated for this week. We read about the moment in our epic story when we escaped slavery in Egypt and safely crossed the Red Sea. Notice, by the way, that I didn’t say “when our ancestors escaped slavery in Egypt,” but rather “when we escaped slavery in Egypt.”
What makes us unique as a people and one of the reasons why I believe we are still here after thousands of years of dispersion throughout the world is our sense of “us.” We say “we were slaves in Egypt,” “We crossed the Red Sea.”
We all know the story of the Exodus from Egypt. On God’s behalf, Charlton Heston – I mean Moses – has convinced Pharaoh to “Let My People Go.” And then Pharaoh had a change of heart and sent his soldiers after us. Picture it. With all of our worldly possessions in hand, we were running as fast as our group of well over five hundred thousand men, women, and children could move. We were forced to stop in our tracks when there in front of us was the rushing waters of the Red Sea as far as the eye could see.
With the Red Sea in front of us and the soldiers approaching in hot pursuit from behind, we had two choices. We could be over taken by Pharaoh’s soldiers and brought back to slavery in Egypt or worse. Or we could forge ahead and drown in the sea. We all know how the story ended. The sea miraculously parted allowing us to cross safely on dry land.
And when we found ourselves standing on freedom’s shore, Moses’ sister Miriam and all the women took timbrel in hand – tambourines – and burst into a song of praise and thanks. This is the song we sing tonight. This is the Song of the Sea. This is the Sabbath of Song. This is our defining moment when God redeemed us from slavery and we became a people bringing the glories of God to all the peoples of the earth.  Miriam’s Song by Debbie Friedman
And each year on this Shabbat we remember our redemption from slavery. While every other verse of Torah is chanted to a special ancient melody, the Song of the Sea has its very own sound, the sound that transforms us back to this defining moment.  The Song of the Sea by Corey A. Weiss
The central text of this song is so significant that it is part of the liturgy found in every worship service in Jewish practice. Michamocha ba-eilim Adonai, mikamocha needar bakodesh nora t’hilot oseh feleh. Who is like You among the God’s that are worshipped? Who is like You, majestic in holiness, awesome in splendor, doing wonders? The Lord will reign forever and ever.
This text not only defines us as a people, redeemed by God; it also defines the seasons of the year. Listen to how we sing this sacred text when we assemble in synagogues throughout the world for the Jewish New Year.  Michamocha S. Sulzer
Here is the special melody for Chanukah  Michamocha German Synagogue Melody
This melody is found in Protestant Hymnals that sit in the pews of churches throughout the world. As we have lived in the Diaspora for thousands of years, our music has been influenced by the culture of our hosting country. So listen to this version and think about when and where you think it might have been written.  Michamocha Solomoni Rossi
That was written by Solomoni Rossi who was a court musician in 16th century Italy. In addition to his composition for the court, he wrote music for the synagogue in the style of the music of his generation. Interestingly, this was a very anti-Semitic time and he would sign all of his compositions Solomoni Rossi, Hebrew.
The final version of Michamocha is embedded in a beautiful song from The Prince of Egypt, the recent movie version of the Exodus. We hear expressions of thanks and praise at the miracle we witnessed when the seas parted, when we were redeemed from slavery and stood at the shores of the Red Sea, the defining moment when we became a people.  When you Believe by Stephen Schwartz
So this Exodus from Egypt, which we recite this week in the annual cycle of Torah readings and repeat each year when we sit down to our Passover Seders, was a defining moment for the Jewish people in our epic story which continues to today. We were redeemed from slavery as a promise from God for ultimate redemption at the end of days. We have to ask ourselves what is taking so long for this promise to be fulfilled? And what is ultimate redemption?
For some people of faith, redemption is the second coming. For some redemption is a return to Zion. There are those who believe that redemption will come when every Jew walking this earth attends Shabbat services two weeks in a row!
When God created the world, God did not complete the act of creation. God created us to act in partnership with the Divine to finish this sacred task – to act in a way that would transform this imperfect world into a world filled with truth and love and peace, a world where in the words of the Prophet Isaiah, “the lion will lie down with the lamb and none shall be afraid.”

We read in our prayerbook –
When will redemption come?
When we master the violence that fills our world.
When we look upon others as we would have them look upon us.
When we grant to every person the rights we claim for ourselves.
Once we were in bondage, then we were free.
In this first liberation, our people saw revealed the power of the Most High.

Michamocha baelim Adonai, Mikamocha needar bakodesh
Nora t’hilot oseh feleh.

They perceived that God’s presence redeems time and event from the hands of tyrants.
We too acclaim the power that makes for freedom.
We sing the song that celebrates our deliverance from Egypt and all bondage.
May the story of our suffering push us to act on behalf of others who suffer, to hear the cry of those who are afflicted, and to know that they, like us, yearn to be free.

Kein y’hi ratson – be this God’s will.

The 21st Century Shtetl

Rabbi Vicki L. Axe

I’ve always thought of Shir Ami as a 21^st century shtetl. We communicate with one another in an instant across cyberspace through the web in the same way that our grandparents and great grandparents in Eastern Europe used to share their neighborhood talk across the garden or through an open window. And now I am preparing a member of our congregation for his Bar Mitzvah in June on Skype.

The Filatovs have been members of Shir Ami since we formed in 2003. At the same time that we became a sacred family, they lost a precious member of their family. Vadim Filatov lost his battle with cancer leaving his beloved wife Isabelle and their three young sons. Pierre, who was eight when his father died, celebrated his Bar Mitzvah last June. Armand, just six at the time of his father’s passing, will turn thirteen in May with his Bar Mitzvah planned for June 26. And Alexander was just a year old when his father was lost to all who knew and loved him.

Now, after six years as a single mom running the business aspects of Vadim’s multi-location eye institute, Isabelle felt drawn to return with her children and Vadim’s mother to her family in France. Surrounded by loved ones, Isabelle, Lillian, and the three boys are settling into their new life. So what to do about Armand’s Bar Mitzvah? We meet on Skype every Wednesday for his weekly Bar Mitzvah lessons.

I sent him off last summer with all of his printed materials along with a CD of his Torah and Haftarah portion. Armand is an excellent student with a love of learning. I often feel moved by his eagerness to learn and find myself explaining grammar and content on a pretty deep level. But after two weeks of lessons on Skype, I know that Armand will be like every student I have taught over the last thirty years as a congregational cantor/rabbi.

The first lesson was great. We had begun our studies two years ago, but hadn’t had a lesson since last June, and after a seven month hiatus, I was amazed at how much Armand remembered. But the newer material I assigned for our second lesson was not so prepared! It was a little strange admonishing him across the Atlantic Ocean, offering gentle and not so gentle reminders of the responsibility he has taken on in deciding to become a Bar Mitzvah, as well as suggestions about how to approach his studies. I am sure that we will have a much better lesson this week

On a very personal note, Vadim performed lasik surgery on my eyes just two months before he died. I had worn glasses for near-sightedness and astigmatism since I was six, and about a year before I turned fifty reading became a challenge with letters starting to dance right off the page . What a miracle of modern science to be able to open my eyes upon waking each day and see the world with clarity of vision. What a miracle to able to open a book or newspaper, a prayerbook or the torah and read the text with clarity of vision. Vadim is with me every day of my life.

Chanukah is not the Jewish Christmas

Rabbi Vicki L. Axe

Published in The Greenwich Time

December 12, 2009

My parents grew up in the Bronx. They were children of Russian immigrants and everyone in their world was Jewish. They moved to Newton MA in 1947, a year before I was born as the youngest of three daughters. Instead of looking for a Jewish neighborhood, my parents wanted to expose us to a diverse community which in 1950s Boston suburbia meant a mix of Jewish and Christian families. In keeping with Jewish tradition, my parents proudly displayed their Chanukah menorah in our window, the first on our street to do so and the neighboring Jewish families came knocking on our door to thank us for courageously identifying ourselves.

Chanukah presents were never a big deal in our house and we loved inviting our Christian friends over to light the menorah with us and going to their homes to help them wrap presents and decorate their trees. We might add colored paper cut-outs of Jewish stars taped to our windows surrounding our menorah while admiring the beautiful Christmas lights decorating our neighbors’ homes. We even joined in singing Christmas carols with joy and reverence, knowing that they were not the songs of our tradition. The refrain in our home was “Chanukah is not the Jewish Christmas.”

We understood that Chanukah is a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar year and Christmas is a profoundly sacred day in the Christian calendar devoted to remembering and rejoicing in the birth of their Lord and Savior. We understood that our holy days of equal magnitude are Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in the Fall and Passover in the Spring.

So what happened? When did Jewish communities feel compelled to elevate the non-Biblical holiday of Chanukah to a major event in the sacred calendar, with oversized Chanukah menorahs displayed next to Christmas trees in public squares, when many Jewish families turn a beautiful Festival of Light and Religious Freedom and Rededication into a celebration of commercialism and gift-giving while explaining to their children why they don’t celebrate the “American holiday of Christmas.”

The mere suggestion of Christmas elicits immediate feelings of goodness, kindness, family, love, joy, giving – values we all share. A few years ago, one of the major network morning shows had a summer series called “Christmas in July.” They identified families who were going through terrible trauma and showered them with life-changing gifts. This act of benevolence could have been called “random acts of kindness,” or “changing America, one loving act at a time,” or the Jewish concept of “Tikkun Olam,” which means “Healing the World.” But the writers and marketing experts know that the simple use of the word “Christmas” elicits images of goodness, kindness, love, family, joy, giving, the very best of human potential.

I thought about contacting the program and explaining that I am moved to tears with each story, but the use of the word “Christmas” leaves out a segment of the population, leaves me out. I have never followed through for fear that I would be accused of being un-American, a non-believer, unconcerned about the families whose lives were changed by celebrating “Christmas in July.”

Think about the film industry. Even with its predominance of Jewish producers, directors, and actors, we often see symbols of Christmas in the concluding scene to indicate a happy ending. No words are needed to suggest resolution of conflict as long as there is a Christmas tree in the corner of the room or a string of Christmas lights in the distant background or simply the colors green and red somewhere in the closing frame. But Christmas is not my symbol for a happy ending. Christmas and Christmas trees are not part of my culture or heritage.

I understand that the Greenwich Public Schools policy on holidays states that religious symbols such as crosses, crèches and menorahs may be used as teaching aids in the classroom provided the symbols are displayed as an example of the cultural and religious heritage of the holiday, and are temporary in nature. They may not be used as decorations. Symbols of religious holidays which have acquired secular meaning, such as Christmas trees, may be permissible decorations.

When did the Christmas tree become a secular symbol? It is seasonal, appearing only at Christmas time. It is topped with an angel or a star representing the Host of Angels or the Star of Bethlehem at the Nativity. The gifts underneath, albeit a troubling symbol of today’s commercialism and consumerism, are still a reminder of the multitudes ascending to Bethlehem bearing gifts for the Baby Jesus in the Manger. The Christmas tree is not an appropriate decoration for public schools.

The Christmas tree, like my parent’s Chanukah menorah belongs proudly displayed in people’s homes and houses of worship as part of the December Season of Light. For that is what we all have in common, the human need to light the way during the darkest time of the year. It is my hope and prayer that the lights of Christmas and Chanukah will shine throughout world with renewal and harmony, with joy and peace for all people, for all God’s children.