"Are You Religious?"

The following was preached at Erev Rosh HaShanah services at Kolot Chayeinu.

At the beginning of every school year, the students and faculty at Hebrew Union College spend three days on retreat. It’s an opportunity to reconnect with one another after a summer apart and to begin the year with fresh, creative thinking. The retreat is held at the IsabellaFreedman Jewish Retreat Center in Connecticut.

On the last day of this year’s retreat, after waiting in the buffet line to get some lunch, I was looking around the dining room for a place to sit. Many of my classmates were at tables that were already full, and I noticed a person sitting alone whom I didn’t recognize. Like many male students at HUC, he had a short-trimmed beard, was wearing an interesting hat, and looked tired. I figured that he was a first year student whom I hadn’t yet met. So I went and sat at his table and introduced myself.

I quickly discovered that he was not in fact a first year student. His name was Adam, and he was the mashgiach—or kosher supervisor—for the kitchen and dining room at the retreat center. Now, in case you’ve never been to Isabella Freedman, not only is it a beautiful retreat center, it’s also home to Hazon—a Jewish organization that works on food sustainability issues. On the grounds of Isabella Freedman, Hazon runs an educational farm that provides some of the food for the retreat center’s dining hall.

For a few minutes, Adam and I made polite small-talk, until finally I asked him, in a totally leading way, “So, tell me about the kosher status of this kitchen.” I expected him to enlighten me with a personalized treatise on Eco-Kashrut, the growing movement around developing a new kosher standard that is based upon equal parts traditional Jewish dietary laws on the one hand and sustainable, ethical food concerns on the other. After all, we were at Isabella Freedman.

Instead, Adam smiled and said: “Are you religious?”

“I don’t know how to answer the question,” I responded. “I feel strongly identified with the Jewish people. I love Torah study. Sometimes, I’m really into prayer—although right now I’ve kind of got a problem with God. So yes, I would say I’m religious. But, if you’re asking if I keep kosher, I don’t.”

I was surprised to learn that Adam’s role as kosher supervisor of the kitchen had nothing to do with Eco-Kashrut, and was almost entirely technical. He gave me a thorough explanation of the various types of kosher certificates and levels of stringency, all of which were based on classical Jewish dietary laws. When I asked him how much of the food in the kitchen came from the Farm or from other local sources, he had to flag down someone else on the staff to find out the answer. And even then, he reminded me the locally grown food had to be checked extra-carefully to make sure it met all proper kosher standards.

The conversation wasn’t going as I had expected it to. There were only so many technical details that I could retain at one time, and as a person who doesn’t keep kosher, I didn’t find it all that interesting. Although, come to think of it, as a person who doesn’t practice sustainable eating either, I can’t imagine that I would have found the Eco-Kashrut conversation all that much more interesting. Resigned to my lunch conversation fate, I asked Adam what the training is like to become a kosher supervisor.

He told me that it’s not overly difficult—that you have to study the laws of Kashrut, but that at this point, they’re all compiled in user-friendly guide books. And then he added: “But the most important thing is that you have to be religious.”

“How’s that?” I asked. “I consider myself religious, but I don’t think that it particularly qualifies me to be a kosher supervisor.”

“Let me give you an example,” he said. “Let’s say that dinner is supposed to be served at 6:15. And at 6:00, the chef goes to crack an egg, and he discovers that there’s a drop of blood in the egg—which makes it un-kosher. Now in this circumstance, anybody could tell the difference between kosher and non-kosher. I just told you: if there’s a drop of blood in an egg, it’s not kosher. But the difference is, a person who’s not religious might see that drop of blood in the egg and say to himself: ‘Dinner’s in 15 minutes, we gotta get this food out there. Let’s just cover this up—don’t ask, don’t tell.’ Now, someone who’s religious, she sees that drop of blood in the egg, and although she knows that everyone in that dining room expects dinner in 15 minutes, she also knows that everyone in that dining room expects that the food she calls kosher is actually kosher. So she doesn’t cover it up. She goes outside and she says: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize, dinner is going to be late. We had an unexpected hiccup in the kitchen; something doesn’t look kosher. We’re bringing out some snacks in the meanwhile, and we’ll serve you the kosher food as soon as we can.’”

===

So while one of us keeps kosher and the other one doesn’t, I think Adam and I agree on what it means to be religious. It’s actually not about feeling a strong identification with the Jewish people, or about study, or prayer—or even keeping Kosher. It’s about conviction. It’s about believing in what you do—and just as importantly, not claiming to believe in what you don’t do. Although I could become technically adept, I would make a terrible kosher supervisor. And that’s OK. Good thing Adam’s out there.

In a sense, Rosh Hashanah asks us the same question that Adam asked me. Rosh Hashanah asks us: “Are we religious?” Do we believe in what we do and do we do what we say we believe? “Ayekah? Where are we?”

God is Difficult

God is difficult. Our tradition declares that God’s face cannot be seen and God’s name cannot be pronounced. And yet, the very core of Jewish faith is that we are somehow in relationship—neigh, partners—with this un-seeable, un-addressable God.

I believe in a God of creation. I resonate with the Psalmist when he sings: “mah adir shimcha b’chol ha-aretz / How majestic is Your name throughout the earth…when I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and stars that You set in place.” This is the aspect of God that Rami Shapiro describes as “the Source and Substance of All Creation.” I and you and this table contain within us the history of the universe.

And yet, I resonate with the Psalmist when, in the very next verse, she asks: “What is a human life that You should be mindful of it?” It seems to me that the Source and Substance of All Creation is in fact not mindful of human life. “Love is stronger than death,” Shir HaShirim declares; and yet, I see that death is more certain than love. The Judge of all the earth, Who executes the death sentence daily, should be held accountable for workplace negligence.

My faith is sustained only by a healthy dose of doubt: “When I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers…what is a human life that You should be mindful of it?” You whose face cannot be seen, You whose name cannot be pronounced—I find you very difficult.

An Open Letter to Senator Schumer

After much reading and deliberation, I sent the following to Senator Charles Schumer, asking him to "support the Iran nuclear deal, however hesitantly." [PDF version]

July 24, 2015 | 8 Av, 5775

The Honorable Charles E. Schumer

United States Senate

322 Hart Senate Office Building

Washington, D.C. 20510-3203

Dear Senator Schumer,

My name is Daniel Reiser, and like you, I am a proud American Jew. In May of 2016, I will be ordained a rabbi by the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion -- the seminary of Reform Judaism. As part of my rabbinical studies, my wife and I spent a year living, studying, and working in Jerusalem. We care deeply about the state of Israel.

I have been following the Iran nuclear deal closely. I am aware that many commentators believe that your vote for or against the Iran deal will be a bellwether for other congressional Democrats. I am aware that many of your other pro-Israel (and particularly, Jewish) constituents have been lobbying hard for you to oppose the Iran deal. I am writing so that you will hear a Jewish, pro-Israel voice that is in support of the deal, however hesitantly.

Like many, I worry about the risks of this deal. In particular, I worry that the Iranian regime will use its newly restored cash flow not for the betterment of its westward-looking youth population, but rather to extend its destabilizing arm throughout the Middle East. Additionally, I worry that the inspections process and the snapback option may not be strong enough to stop Iran's nuclear ambitions with any certainty.

Unfortunately, life doesn't provide us with many certainties. The best we can do is take cues from those who think critically.

In the realm of foreign affairs, I take cues from Jeffrey Goldberg, who wrote last week in the Atlantic that critics of this deal seek “a perfect solution to the Iranian challenge. There is no perfect solution. … It is very difficult to stop a large nation that possesses both natural resources and human talent, and a deep desire for power, from getting the bomb.”

In the realm of Jewish thought, I take cues from Yehuda Kurtzer, president of the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America, who wrote last week in the Times of Israel that both the classical rabbinic tradition and the modern Zionist project “insist on the possibility of the Jewish people assuming a sense of agency to respond to historical realities and changing times. … It is difficult for me to fathom a reality of Jewish politics in which the normative position is so deeply risk-averse.”

I don’t know what will come of this nuclear deal. I believe in President Obama when he says that this deal is “by a wide margin the most definitive path by which Iran will not get a nuclear weapon.” I resonate with the president when he says, “Twenty years from now ... if Iran has a nuclear weapon, it’s my name on this.”

One hundred years from now, when my great-grandchildren (God willing) uncover this letter and see that “it’s my name on this,” will they say that I made the right decision?

I say to you what I would say to them: “Who can possibly know what is best for a person to do in life -- the few days of one’s fleeting life? For who can tell a person what the future holds for him or her under the sun?” (Ecclesiastes 6:12)

For these reasons -- with doubt and hope intermingled, as ever -- I lend to you my voice as a proud American Jew who cares deeply about Israel, and say: support the deal with Iran. It may not be certain, but nothing ever is.

Sincerely,

Daniel Reiser

The Four Questions of the Global Jewish People

The following sermon was delivered at Temple Shaaray Tefila of Manhattan on Shabbat HaGadol, during the week of the Gateways and Tents Teen Exchange visit.

You can find video of the sermon here, starting at the 59:00 mark.

***

Passover is coming. One week from tonight, Jews around the world with gather around their dining room tables, dorm rooms, and apartments to celebrate “a night that is different from all other nights.” It will be a night of teaching and learning. A night of singing and eating. A night of questions and stories.

This week of the Teen Exchange has also been a week of questions and stories.  We have heard our American and Israeli teens, as well as leaders and members of both of our communities asking big questions about what it means to be a global Jewish people. These questions are not simple. You might say that this week—as on Passover—we’ve asked the Four Questions of the global Jewish people. Among the many tough questions we’ve asked are the following:

Israelis have asked Americans: 

1. Why not make aliyah? 

2. Do you think that it’s important for Jews to marry other Jews? 

And Americans have asked Israelis: 

3. What role should religion play in the governing of a Jewish state? 

4. What’s the balance between making Israel a state for the Jewish people and a state for all its citizens?

These Four Questions of the global Jewish people have no easy solutions. There actually may not be a definitive answer to any of them. But as on the night of the seder, the Four Questions of the global Jewish people are asked not so that they may be answered, but rather, so that we may have the opportunity to tell a stories. Let’s listen to a few of our stories now.

One of the primary stories of American Jewish life is the story of being a community of immigrants. This is the story—for some—of Ellis Island, of the Statue of Liberty, of the Lower East Side, of Tin Pan Alley. It is the story of Ruth Fuchs-Hallett, who, after sharing her family’s story with our group this morning, accompanied us on our trip to Liberty and Ellis Islands. It is the story of my great-grandfather, Jessoula Cohen, taking the risk of leaving his home of Ioannina, Greece, so that his children, and his children’s children might have a better life. When I ride the F-Train into Manhattan from my home in Brooklyn, and, for a split second, when the train goes above ground, I see “the lamp, lifted beside the golden door,” I know that Jessoula’s story is a part of my story—that even four or more generations removed from that trans-Atlantic journey, we are still a community of immigrants.

And yet, our immigrant memories are fading. Were it not for my occasional glimpse of the Statue, it would be easy for me to forget that there were ever a time that my family lived not in Brooklyn, but in Greece. In his landmark book, The Jews in America, Arthur Hertzberg writes: “American Jews successfully solved the problem of being a community of immigrants, but with this success came a new problem—the problem of holding onto their traditions while erasing any appearance of being an other.” We need look no further than the collective hand-wringing that ensues in Jewish communal life whenever someone mentions—as if it were the boogie man—the 2013 Pew Study on Jewish life, indicated declining levels of involvement and identification among American Jews. As our immigrant story has begun to fade, we are still in search of a new story that might help tell us who we are. Put differently, we have yet to respond to the Four Questions of the global Jewish people.

Let’s consider now the story of Israeli Jewry. The founding story of Israel is the Zionism of David Ben-Gurion—of making the desert bloom, of kibbutzim, of pioneering, of being Ehad Ha-Am, one person who contributes to the collective of the People. This is the story of the “start-up nation,” where an entrepreneurial spirit is somehow wired into the soul of the people. This is the story of the revival of the Hebrew language, where the word for electricity—chashmal—is derived from the word in the Hebrew Bible used to describe an otherworldly fire in the prophet Ezekiel’s psychedelic vision. This is the story of a people returning to its ancient homeland, united by its common yearning to be restored unto the tides of history.

And yet, this story of common yearning is fading. The stress of nearly a century of sustained security threats, plus the ever-present need to assimilate new rounds of Jewish refugees from all parts of the globe, have weighed heavily on the Israelis’ shared yearning. Many commentators point out that in the modern Israeli society, as in ancient kingdom of Israel, there may be Twelve or more Tribes: the tribe of the settler movement, the tribe of the peaceniks, the tribe of ashkenazim, the tribe of mizrachim, the tribe of the ultra-Orthodox, the tribe of the ultra-secular, just to name a few. In his landmark book, My Promised Land, the Israeli journalist Ari Shavit writes: “these tribes all have one thing in common—that each one wants something different.” Some commentators wondered if this most recent election might not signal the beginnings of a new Israeli narrative—one based on the shared need of the large middle class to address Israel’s impossibly high cost of living. Election results seem to indicate that at least when it comes to the voting booth, the story of living under a constant security threat remains a dominant story in Israeli life. As the story of a common unity has begun to fade, Israeli Jewry is still is search of a new story—beyond the security threat—that might help define them. Put differently, they haven’t yet responded to the Four Questions of the global Jewish people.

===

With both the American-Jewish story and the Israeli-Jewish story facing some difficult questions, now might be a good time to look for a story that might give us hope. And this is where we return to the hagaddah. This is where we return to the story of Passover.

Our story as it’s told in the Haggadah begins with a peculiar phrase: arami oveid avi. And our tradition isn’t exactly clear as to what this phrase means. It might mean: “my father was a wandering Aramean”—in which case it is a story about Abraham, a story about transience, the story of being an immigrant. Alternatively, it might mean: “an Aramean tried to destroy my father”—in which case, it is a story about Jacob and his father-in-law, Laban—how Laban made Jacob serve him for 20-something years for his love. If it is a story about Jacob, then it is a story about the very real threats that exist in the world, the precariousness of life, the forces that would threaten many innocents, and in particular, the Jewish people.

One story. Two different meanings. Neither one is wholly the truth. And neither one is complete without the other.

When it seems that we have difficultly answering the Four Questions of the global Jewish people—when it seems that the story of American Jewish life and Israeli Jewish life are slipping out from under us—part of the problem may be that we're looking at our stories in the wrong way. Each community has only half of the story. A fuller picture of what it means to belong to the global Jewish people is only possible when we see both stories together.

The Four Questions in the haggadah aren’t actually four questions at all, but rather, one question followed by four statements. And that one question we all know very well: mah nishtanah ha-lailah ha-zeh mi-kol ha-leilot? So I now ask all of us who are here tonight—Americans and Israels, members of the global Jewish family, celebrating Shabbat together: Why is this night different from all other nights?

The Greatest Mystery of the Torah

On Shabbat Parah, we explored the ritual of the Red Heifer. What was this strange ritual? What did it mean? And why does our tradition suggest that we read it on the first of three special shabbatot that help us prepare for Passover?

Watch the video here; start at the 54:00 mark for the dvar torah.

Olam HaBa

In my first year of rabbinical school—during which my wife, Leah, and I lived in Jerusalem—we celebrated Purim with a group of young Israelis and Americans at an all-night event called Olam HaBa. Imagine, if you can, a hybrid of the Limmud Conference (the Jewish learning retreat), a Purim Carnival, and Burning Man (the “experiment in art and radical self-expression”)—that was Olam HaBa. From early in the evening until very light at night, we and 100 other young people dressed in costumes, studied Jewish texts, discussed current events, read the Megillah, prayed, sang, and danced together. It was one of the best nights of our year.

Purim is the holiday that reminds us that you’re never too old to be a kid. Most days of the year, dressing up as someone you’re not would be out of place. On Purim, we get to be anyone we want to be. Dancing all night at Olam HaBa, I could have been Daniel, or a Blues Brother, or Bill Clinton, or anyone else. It was a freeing experience—a reminder in this serious world that our most important job may be to not take ourselves too seriously.