BESHALLACH - SHIRAH - REMEMBRANCES OF DEBBIE FRIEDMAN

This aria of mine will wind its music around you, like the fond arms of love.

This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing.

When you are alone, it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear.

When you are in the crowd, it will give you security.

My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams.

It will be like the faithful star overhead when the dark night is over your road.

My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things.

And when my voice is silent in death, my song will speak in your living heart.

- R. Tagore

The old masters asked, “What is life like?” “Life,” said they, “is like a musical instrument. God plays upon the instrument. The time may come when the instrument that had felt the touch of the hand of God and had responded to its caressing, may crumble and fall into dust. But they who have heard the melody will have its notes ring in their ears to the last day.”

Debbie Friedman (1951 - 2011) was a musical instrument in the hands of God. With creativity and singularity of purpose, she answered with the melody of her life to the touch of God’s hands. We all feel terribly bereft to say farewell to the voice of a Jewish generation but greater than our grief is our gratitude because we have heard the melody.

In my opinion, Debbie was the most influential composer of Jewish music of the last fifty years.

Her contribution to the Jewish liturgical arts, as you will surely read elsewhere this week, came not without controversy. Critics of her music, chief among them the stalwart defenders of the heritage of European Cantorial tradition, or of the particular genius that the giants of 19th- and 20th-century composition brought from their classical training to Jewish choral settings and liturgical art-songs, or of the under-explored tonalities and melodies that ethno-musicologically inclined composers were beginning to rediscover in music from the Sephardic world and elsewhere, all worried that Debbie's populist folk ditties would debase what they considered more "elevated" forms of Jewish musical expression.

Her critics were not totally off-base in their concerns. In my experience, the music heard in Reform temples today can fall into two broad categories: "pre-Debbie" and "post-Debbie." Pre-Debbie music variously conveys majesty, sublimity, Old-World "tradition," reaching hearts and minds in ways that Debbie Friedman's music does not and cannot.

But Debbie's music has the advantage of accessibility. It is eminently singable. It is uniquely American-sounding. Much post-Debbie music bears her stylistic imprimatur (and though there are many imitators, few reach the heights of her gift).

I wonder here if "pre-Debbie" music may be a dying breed, as I observe that Friedman's output has already eclipsed, in terms of its popular appeal and impact, the work of other supremely talented composers of Jewish liturgical music like Bonia Shur, Ben Steinberg, Stephen Richards, Michael Isaacson, all of whom, though living, are as much as a full generation older than Debbie was when she died this Sunday, too young, at age 59.

The "pre-Debbie"/"post-Debbie" dichotomy acknowledges that her contributions to Jewish music came with so many contrasts to every kind of cantorial music that preceded her, quite thoroughly upending how one prays in a Reform synagogue:

- Her musical template was American folk-pop music of the 1960's, sharing DNA with Joan Baez, early (pre-"Blue") Joni Mitchell, Peter, Paul, & Mary, Simon & Garfunkel.... Most of it is set in bright major keys, alien territory for much "traditional" Jewish music. Outside the Sephardic world, the cantorial tradition relies heavily on modal and minor tonalities.

- She wanted her music to be singable, and so democratized the experience of synagogue music.

- She brought the guitar into the Reform synagogue where once the organ held sway. I will never forget the stunned look on some of our congregants' faces when Debbie emerged on the bimah of our synagogue, Westchester Reform Temple, offering only her voice and her fingerpicked acoustic guitar (with electric amplification),

on the eve of Rosh Ha-Shanah no less. Some saw it as sacrilege. Others, a breath of fresh air.

- She brought a strong feminist voice to Judaism, and a distinctively female outlook permeates her music and her lyrics: Lechi Lach, for instance, is the feminized Hebrew inversion of the Bible's Lech Lecha ("go forth").

- She brought Healing to the forefront of Jewish spirituality. Where once a "Mi Shebeirach" for people in need of healing was a kind of "discretionary prayer," an offering that the service leader might incorporate if so moved, Debbie's Mi Shebeirach has, in many Reform (and Conservative, Reconstructionist and even some Modern Orthodox) settings, taken on the status of statutory liturgy, something essential, not dispensable, as it responds to an essential human need.

- She was equally gifted in the idiom of children's music and thus contributed immeasurably to the field of Jewish education. Hers is the definitive setting of the alef bet, the Hebrew alphabet, assisting countless Hebrew School students in memorizing the building blocks of language and Jewish identity.

Not all of her music was equally inspired. She was prolific, and like many musicians who are prolific, the truly great often ended up on wax alongside the average. But I have been listening to Debbie a lot this week, giving me a chance to appraise again what made her gift so special. At her best, Debbie was a supremely gifted melodist with an ear for interesting chord changes. She understood (perhaps intuitively, or perhaps with much thoughtfulness) that for people to sing along in synagogue, the dense cadences of Rabbinic Hebrew would have to be condensed into catchy choruses, and so English was her lingua franca, dressed up by a Hebrew refrain, a memorable catchphrase: "Bless those in need of healing with refuah shleimah." "You shall be a blessing, Lechi Lach."

Now I want to speak more personally, because amid the printed and spoken encomia and superlatives that I have encountered this week, too many have presented an idealized image rather than a special human being. Debbie Friedman was a colorful character with a fiendish sense of humor--totally uncensored and often uproarious. She was silly: I once asked if she would sing an anthem after a sermon and she asked, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame?" True, she wrote Tefillat Ha-Derech, that blessing for the journey; but she also wrote "I Am A Latke," a narrative in the first-person voice of a fried potato pancake.

She was a cherished friend, and a spiritual mentor to me. I feel blessed to have worked closely with her for a year (2007-2008) and to have sustained a friendship until her death.

I love my memories of my time with Debbie Friedman. We inaugurated our partnership in preparation for a tribute service to Rabbi Jacobs who was being honored at WRT for 25 years in the rabbinate. We enlisted Debbie to compose an entire service of original music for Rick, and she helped to direct a volunteer choir of congregants who surprised our rabbi with this musical tribute. Let me tell you: she knocked it out of the park -- and the "Lecha Dodi" she wrote just for him--just for WRT--is now part of our regular Friday night repertoire.

When our cantor of blessed memory, Stephen H. Merkel, died after long illness in February 2007, Rabbi Rick Jacobs of our temple approached Debbie to consider joining our clergy staff the next fall as a yearlong artist-in-residence to ease the pain of Cantor Merkel's death and to see our congregation safely through the Valley of the Shadow.

Debbie leapt with her heart before leading with her head, and her emotional radar was often acutely empathic. When Cantor Merkel finally died, she sent me an e-mail that said, in part:

Dear J,

I opened my e-mail about 1/2 hr. ago and found the e-mail.... I wish it weren't so late. It would be nice to talk to someone.

Then I just listened to my voice messages on my cell phone. I don't always get the messages on time....

How are you? are you okay? You must be so raw. I know how exquisitely sensitive you are.

I am sorry for this huge loss. I am sorry for all of us. He was so colorful. He was so many things, but it is very sad. I know that must be especially painful for you.

My thoughts are with you, my heart is with you and my love is with you. That's all there is to offer in these times.

Debbie had just moved to New York to join the faculty of the Hebrew Union College - Jewish Institute of Religion, the training ground for Reform Rabbis, Cantors, Educators, and Jewish Professionals, and was close with Rabbi Jacobs, so the shiddach, the partnership, was natural, although she had never before undertaken a sustained residency like the one she did at WRT (and never would again).

Debbie, who could draw crowds of thousands at gatherings of the Reform Movement, or at regular weekend "gigs" in synagogues across the world, would be on our bimah every other Friday night, from the High Holidays through Shavuot! Thus did I befriend a person I had admired since childhood.

After all, Debbie was not only the voice of a generation; she was the voice of my generation. My first memory of music class in Mrs. Ziontz's first-grade religious school class at Congregation Keneseth Israel in Allentown, PA is of learning Im Tirtzu, Debbie's setting of Herzl's immortal words, the rallying cry of Zionism: "If you will it, it is no dream." I played nonchalant when I learned that I'd be sharing a bimah with Debbie twice a month. But inside I felt excited. And a bit nervous. I am a singer and I didn't know if Debbie would like singing with me.

Most of the time, she did. She even once told me. In writing -- and I will always hold on to that message.

But one time, she thought I was harmonizing a bit too... aggressively. Too loudly. After services, she confronted me and did not mince words. I was taken aback.

But, you know what? That's how Debbie was. She would blurt out exactly what was on her mind, usually with no filter. I came to embrace this quality in my friend as an endearing one--once we had the chance to clear the air and share a hug of reconciliation.

When I told Debbie I wanted to poke fun at her artistry for Purim, she bested me and wrote her own lyrics for my proposed parody of "Lechi Lach." I gave her the title and she ran with it. Like so:

LET'S EAT LOX
To the tune of “Lechi Lach”

Let's eat lox,
With a slice of ripe tomato
Let's eat lox,
On a bagel sliced in two
Let's eat lox,
All the whitefish will be jealous.
You shall be a-fressing,
You'll spend the whole day grepsing
Because of indigestion
Let's eat lox.

Let's eat lox.
To the queen it is smoked salmon
Let's eat lox.
It's not herring, it's not sable
Let's eat lox,
Such a texture such a color
The fragrance, how it lingers,
On your face and all your fingers
In the streets and in the markets we say:
Let's eat lox.

She could be totally spontaneous, totally in touch with the energy in the room. While leading services, she would change on a dime if she felt a certain selection in the cue list didn't fit the feeling she wanted to capture. About these spur-of-the-moment decisions she was almost always right. Unfortunately for those singing with her, leading the service with her, accompanying her at the piano, her sudden hairpin turns in the course of service leading could prove maddening. Too infrequently did she inform our accompanist in what key she'd like to play, and some interesting experiments in tonal clusters surely emerged from such misfires in communication. She just wanted to do it all by feel. And so she did.

I have a piece of paper from Debbie in which she edited a cue sheet we had prepared for a service. It is part of our keva, our fixed custom of praying, to introduce the Friday night candle lighting with Debbie's song, "Light These Lights." As often happens, our way of singing it has taken on its own idiosyncrasies over the years. In a marginal note next to "Light These Lights" she wrote:

"

I know I do it wrong, but it is the only way I know it so we do it my way"

I don't know what else to tell you here that you can't read in one of the other, more thoroughly researched, more comprehensively fact-checked obituaries and biographies that are already flooding the newspapers and the blogosphere. She loved off-color jokes and we shared more than a few. She loved her dog Farfel and even took out a personal e-mail address paying tribute to her faithful companion. She was clever and smart and liked puns. In an e-mail that still makes me laugh, she called herself a "wondering menstrual." I will miss her.

I know that somewhere Einstein is echoing one of his favorite phrases: "Coincidence is when God chooses to remain anonymous." What else could account for Debbie's death coming in poetic symmetry with the weekly Torah portion, Beshallach, the Song at the Sea, sung the Jewish world over this Shabbat, which is named Shabbat Shirah, the Sabbath of Song?

PARASHAT BO 5771

Dear Readers,

Thanks for your forbearance while I took a week off from blogging. We're back this week, ready to look at Parashat Bo which completes the story of Moses and Aaron’s confrontation with Pharaoh.

The parasha encompasses the final four plagues: hail, locusts, darkness, and the slaying of the firstborn. The final plague also gives rise to an explanation of the Pesach, a ritual to protect the Israelites from death through the marking of doorposts with the blood of a slaughtered firstling lamb, whose roasted meat is consumed as part of a nighttime vigil. Among the most perplexing figures in the parasha is the Mashchit, the death-bringing “Destroyer” who participates in the final plague.

Our selection for consideration this week is this verse:

“For the Eternal, when going through to smite the Egyptians, will see the blood on the lintel and the two doorposts, and the Eternal will pass over the door and not let the Destroyer enter and smite your home” (12:23).

At a Passover Seder, if you were to ask the question, “Who killed the firstborn Egyptians during the tenth plague?” someone would undoubtedly answer, “The Angel of Death” or “Malach Ha-Mavet.”

The concluding song in the Haggadah, “Chad Gadya” (“One Little Kid”) mentions him in its last verse: “Then came the Holy One, Blessed be God, who slew the Angel of Death, who slew the slaughterer who killed the ox….” In the Bible, the closest we find to an “Angel of Death” is a “Destroying Angel.” In the midst of a deadly plague, God stops the punishment by commanding the Angel, “Stay your hand!” (II Sam. 24: 16).

In Parashat Bo we find a similar character: Ha-Mashchit, The Destroyer. We know little of this shadowy figure's methods or motives, save that God must protect (“pass over”) the Israelite homes so that The Destroyer cannot enter to kill the residents. Rashi (France, 1040-1105) pointed out that the Destroyer is like a wild animal in a forest at night: “He does not distinguish between righteous and evil” (Rashi to 12: 23). This would explain why the Israelites are told to stay at home: outside, the Destroyer would rampage, killing everyone in its path.

The Destroyer has no free will. The Destroyer destroys because that is its nature and sole purpose. The Rabbis were uncomfortable with the idea that God would entrust divine judgment to a monster, although the Bible at first blush seems to suggest just that. For this reason, Ramban (Nachmanides, Spain, 1194-1270) asserts that God alone executed divine justice by slaying the first-born of Egypt—not The Destroyer. “The Destroyer was not even in Egypt” that night, Nachmanides writes. “The Holy One of Blessing was the slayer.” His interpretation is consonant with the Haggadah, which sharply denies that messengers or angels had any role in the deliverance of the Israelites from Egypt. God alone receives the credit. Above all, Nachmanides takes pains not to portray God as an indiscriminate killer.

Not all acts of violence are equal, even in the chaos of war. Seeing the difference between The Destroyer, the utterly amoral and indiscriminate killer, and God, who, after nine progressively severe plagues, must out of necessity unleash the ultimate punishment, allows us to clarify the difference between indiscriminate violence and violence sparingly applied in the cause of justice in our world.

Precisely because of their similarity to The Destroyer, we deplore terrorists, who do not distinguish between righteous and wicked, soldier and pedestrian, parent or child, in their wanton bloodshed. Precisely because of their similarity to The Destroyer, we censure soldiers who overstep their military directives in the course of combat, killing civilian alongside combatant. We recoil in disgust when terrorist organizations claim moral equivalency between suicide bombings against civilians and targeted military strikes against known militants.

Let us acknowledge that war is by its nature dehumanizing. Combat, from training to actual engagement, desensitizes soldiers to the act of killing. Yet Judaism, which recognizes in certain limited circumstances the need to fight justified wars, nevertheless insists that we cannot allow ourselves to become soulless Destroyers, even when we wage war—especially when we wage war. Human beings do not abdicate their free will, even in bombers or fighter jets, even in the trenches. Whether Israeli or American, Jewish or Gentile, the honor of our soldiers, of our country, and of our faith, can be preserved only insofar as we strive mightily to distinguish between the enemy and the innocent. What will victory mean if achieved monstrously?

So long as war persists, we will hold fast to Judaism’s insistence that ethical guidelines can and should be applied even to this most terrible of human endeavors. But we will never abandon our faith in the Prophet Micah’s dream of every person beneath vine and fig tree, with none to make us afraid (4: 4), a dream we must labor to realize.

These remarks adapted by the author from a previously published piece written for the Union for Reform Judaism's "Ten Minutes of Torah" online column.

A New Book of Torah: Shemot 5771

Dear Friends:

I'm visiting relatives this week, but wanted to remind you that Torah study will be conducted as per usual at 9:00 AM tomorrow (Saturday) with a brief minyan followed by our encounter with Parashat Shemot. Rabbi Dan Sklar will be present for leadership and assistance.

In this week's portion, a king arises over Egypt "who knew not Joseph." Under his watchful eye, the Israelites multiply so as to arouse the fear of the Pharaoh who tries to subjugate the people: first by calling for the death of the male children, then by imposing upon them corvée (forced labor) "in mortar and bricks."

Too many times throughout Jewish history, our people has endured its share of Pharaohs, of kings who had no appreciation for the positive contributions of our people to history, religion, culture, science; who would rather suppress than encourage the indomitable Jewish spirit.

Now is not one such time.

And yet dangers lurk.

I believe that we Jews living in America today are faced with unprecedented opportunity and public encouragement; at the same time we are a minority population awash in a multicultural sea of which Christianity is the dominant wave. On this Shabbat Shemot that intersects with Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, please use the Comments section of our blog to offer your reflections on what it means to be Jewish in America today. Are we in any way like the Israelites in Egypt in this week's portion? Or are we free of the enslavements of the past once and for all?

I wish you Shabbat Shalom from my chilly outpost away from home.

Yours,

Rabbi Jonathan Blake

Vayechi 5771

Dear Friends,

The Torah portion Vayechi that concludes the Book of Genesis gives us a cause for hope and a cause for despair.

Hope, in that for the first time since Cain slew Abel, the broken families of the Book of Genesis find themselves reunited in the touching scene of Jacob bestowing blessings on his children as he lies on his deathbed (even if some of those blessings are more like sharp-tongued condemnations).

Despair, in that, ominously, we realize we have come to the end of the good old days for the people of Israel for a very long time to come. The family is in Egypt. After the beatific funeral scene for Joseph, we realize with a dawning dread that in the forthcoming opening lines of Exodus we will meet the "king who knew not Joseph" and our enslavement and torment will commence.

We Jews have spent more time in history living in states of relative Powerlessness than we have in positions of national, sovereign Power. Our Powerlessness led the Talmud wisely to conclude that "the law of the land is the law," a principle that enabled Jewish communities to survive even under sometimes hostile regimes that marginalized its Jewish residents, depriving them of full citizenship or economic parity.

I am now going to share with you a powerful, disturbing reflection on the interplay between Jewish power and Jewish powerlessness, in this scathing posting by Donniel Hartman, President of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. Dr. Hartman is one of the world's preeminent advocates for Jewish pluralism. Please read it, reflect, and comment below.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jonathan Blake

What No Rabbi in the World Outside Israel Would Ever Say (09/12/2010)

(Or What Israel Can Learn from World Jewry) By DONNIEL HARTMAN We awoke this week to yet another assault on Judaism and democracy by rabbis fulfilling official positions within the Israeli rabbinate. As distinct from the past, however, the vast majority of Israelis from a wide spectrum of religious and political beliefs, including our prime minister, condemned their ruling, which declared it Jewishly illegal in essence to allow non-Jews to live in proximity to their fellow Israeli Jewish citizens. Israelis have not been silent; a continuous flow of headlines, editorials, and petitions have given expression to the revulsion that most Israelis feel. Given this broad-based response, the question that needs to be asked is: Why is this happening again? Why are rabbis in Israel continually susceptible to these types of moral, ideological lapses, which never seem to plague their colleagues, Orthodox and liberal alike, who live around the world? One explanation, which was mirrored in the ultra-Orthodox rabbinic critique in Israel against these rabbis, is that rabbis in Israel are free from the fear of worrying about "what the goyim will say," and whether their remarks will incite anti-Semitic responses. Under this explanation the "gift" of sovereignty is that Jews today can be uninhibited and free to finally descend to the moral insensitivity and bigotry to which we always aspired but were prevented from doing. While this explanation may have been true of Diaspora life for centuries, it no longer reflects the nature of Jewish experience or motivation. Most Jews around the world have left the exile not through making aliyah, but by embracing their communities as their new homes. For Jews around the world, the non-Jew is no longer only or even at all an adversary who threatens our existence. They are friends who have welcomed us as members in full standing into their societies. Jews have reciprocated by embracing the larger world and engaging with it in a new partnership. They don’t see the world as a dichotomous us-them, but as a place they want to learn from and contribute to. No rabbi in the world would ever forbid living in neighborly relations with the non-Jew, not simply because such a ruling is politically self destructive, but rather because it does not reflect the values and experiences that have come to define the nature of Jewish life outside of Israel. Around the world, Judaism is growing and flourishing, especially in North America, in the midst of a shared, multi-religious public sphere where new levels of respect, cooperation, and learning take place on a daily basis. This is not the experience of Israelis. While instinctively rejecting the racist immorality of these few rabbis, our attitude toward non-Jews very often reflects that of the shtetl in the Middle Ages. Despite our power we often feel threatened and endangered by the Arab population, both in Israel and around us. That is not to say that many of these feelings are not without cause. Peace and coexistence have yet to become the central values defining Middle Eastern life. However, one of the greatest challenges facing modern Israel is not to allow the Middle East conflict to transform Israel into the largest ghetto in Jewish history, where a ghetto mentality will prevail. We cannot allow the fostering of a Judaism which aspires to further alienate us from our neighbors and which permits racist and separatist ideologies. We cannot excuse and ignore such expressions, even if they are in the minority, for minority positions which are ignored today become the inheritance of the majority tomorrow. We can no longer allow our government to turn a blind eye and fund for political considerations Jewish ideologies, rabbis, teachers, or schools which undermine the moral fiber of Judaism and the democratic character of the State of Israel. We have embarked on a momentous project - to build a homeland for the Jewish people, a place where the best of Jewish values define the public sphere, a place where all Jews around the world, those who live in Israel and those who see their homes elsewhere, have a stake and a share, and a role in shaping the future of this society. We Israelis must learn that we have much to learn from the Judaism of Jews around the world. The experience of building Judaism in a minority context has enhanced our moral sensitivity and opened us to some of the best ideas and values that the world has to offer. As for the Jews of the world, the opportunity created by the State of Israel to take full responsibility for a society and which positions Judaism on a world stage as never before, creates unparalleled opportunities for Jewish innovation, pride, and experience. Their lives as Jews can be enhanced and enriched by this experience. This opportunity, however, brings with it great challenges. Greatness is not inherited; it needs to be earned. Jews of moral principles in Israel and around the world must reach out to each other to ensure that each is benefiting from the experience of the other. We must make sure that our response to those who are creating a Judaism in Israel which is unworthy of our tradition will neither prevail nor be allowed the position of representing our people, our country and our faith. We the majority, both in Israel and around the world, need to see each other, reach out to each other and build ever-new avenues of cooperation so that we will be worthy of the opportunities given to us in the modern world and strong enough to respond to its challenges.

More Theological Musings / Parashat Vayyigash

Shalom Readers,

Continuing a theme that we introduced last week, I have been drawn to the comfort seen in Joseph's "God talk," the way in which the character of Joseph evolves from a self-centered teenager into a man who understands that his abilities and his leadership derive from the Kadosh Baruch Hu, Holy One of Blessing.

Consider Joseph again in this week’s portion Vayyigash. By the time we reach the climactic scene of the Joseph story in our reading, Joseph has finally learned that he is more than his accomplishments. Recall that much earlier, Joseph, the obnoxious brat, dreamed of rising to power over his brothers and all too eagerly would crow about his destiny to anyone who would listen. Now Joseph has grown into a man of means, a ruler second only to the Pharaoh of Egypt, able to throw his weight around and play power games, which he did with his brothers in last week’s portion.

But this week the games come to an end. Joseph reveals his identity in the emotional scene you described. Simply and without pretense he announces, “I am Joseph.”

When the brothers respond in slack-jawed disbelief, he insists, “I am Joseph your brother whom you sold into Egypt.” And further: “This was all God’s doing… “God sent me before you came so that I could save you.”

Joseph has come to see his own success as God’s providence, situating him in order to save his family. Surely Joseph knows that he is an intelligent, talented, charismatic man whose leadership saved Egypt from national ruin. But in the end, he offers no triumphal boast. He can only thank God with humility.

I believe that Judaism has no quarrel with a person climbing the ladder of success and even wielding his influence for good causes, but my teacher, Rabbi Les Gutterman, has pointed out that Judaism would also ask us to remain “open to the possibility that we may well be where we are at some critical moment in time because of some divine mandate that only we can carry out.”

As we consider Joseph as an inspirational role model of a mature, sensible faith, I'd also like to draw your attention to a question I was recently asked on my anonymous Ask the Rabbi forum provided by social media outlet Formspring. The questioner asks, "What do you think of atheists and agnostics?" I enjoyed tackling this challenging subject. I hope you enjoy, and keep your questions coming. Again, click here for the link.

God Talk and Parashat Miketz 5771

In our ongoing cycle of readings, the Torah's chief concern these days is a Hebrew named Joseph who rose nearly to the top of the political hierarchy in a non-Jewish land, as reported in this week’s Torah portion, Miketz. Most remarkable about Joseph’s ascension to the center stage of Egyptian political life is his candor about his faith, his open acknowledgment of God. From the Palace to the peasantry, Joseph brings God to Egypt’s dinner tables.

While in Egypt, Joseph, having endured two years of imprisonment in the royal dungeon, heeds the Pharaoh’s summons. His eyes still adjusting to the palace light, Joseph receives Pharaoh’s challenge: “I have had a dream, but no one can interpret it. Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.” Joseph, standing in a court of idolaters and sorcerors, at the seat of a nation that enshrines its Pharaohs as gods, replies without flinching: “Not I!” says he. “God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare” (Gen. 41:15-16). As Joseph proceeds to offer an interpretation for Pharaoh’s dream, he interjects along the way: “God has told Pharaoh what he is about to do” (41:25); “God has revealed [it] to Pharaoh” (41:28); “the matter has been determined by God, and God will soon carry it out” (41:32).

The beloved 20th-Century scholar Nehama Leibowitz, of blessed memory, points out that through this deliberate, repeated invocation of God, “even Pharaoh took the hint,” saying: “…Since God has made all this known to you, there is none so discerning and wise as you” (41:38-39). As Leibowitz puts it, “Pharaoh, king of Egypt defers for the first time to the supreme King of kings” (Studies in Bereshit, 442). Joseph’s courageous, outspoken references to God impress this most idolatrous of ancient societies, from the throne to the throngs.

A number of years ago, another Joseph emerged in a similar political position. Senator Joseph Lieberman’s openly acknowledged Jewish piety made a similar impression in American life. Many Jews took Lieberman's public religiosity as a point of pride. But before long, his God-talk started to freak some people out, Jews in particular. For some, it was too much: it’s one thing to request Saturdays off; it’s quite another to recite “Shehechiyanu” (even in English) on national TV.

Why do so many Jews feel uncomfortable with God-talk? Most of us rightly wish to see the separation of Church and State enforced at every level, and justifiably fear the damage done to this essential principle at the hands of fundamentalists. Jews work especially hard to protect civil liberties, ensuring that public schools and courtrooms do not become bastions of Church indoctrination. God-talk has appeared threatening or obnoxious to the Jews, when it has really meant, “our God – not yours.” Most of us rightly wish to avoid, as well, a rigidly doctrinal approach to religion, where the fervor of belief determines who is a good Jew. For these reasons and more, many Reform Jews speak of God haltingly, if at all.

But why should any Joseph’s personal devotion to God—abundantly evident, but never with the intention to missionize—elicit not joy, not pride, but discomfort?

Now more than ever we could benefit from welcoming God-talk into our lives: in routine affairs, in religious school, and at home. Even as we try to express that God is everywhere, we teach by word and deed that God does not belong in daily discourse, in our education, or at home. We say that God is everywhere, but we confine God to the synagogue. No wonder our conceptions of God often remain stifled, nebulous, and child-like well into our adulthood.

When I advise bringing God-talk into daily life, please do not hear me clamoring to bring the Bible to the courtroom or benedictions to the classroom…. Far from it. I’m talking about recognizing a Power higher than ourselves, finding a sense of Purpose in our actions and in the world, seeing the Potential for holiness and divinity in a world too often obsessed with the mundane, or worse, the vulgar.

America, despite its banner “one nation, under God,” celebrates the self so as to blur the line between self-respect and self-aggrandizement. America promotes hard work and self-reliance, but too often it rewards egotism, ruthless self-promotion, and the worship of celebrity. What was so refreshing about Joseph Lieberman—and his biblical namesake—was the insistence that their glory and honor derived not from their merit alone, but, ultimately, from God.

Maybe our reluctance to welcome God-talk into our daily lives comes from a sense that God is to be found only in the spectacular. It’s a notion enforced by Bible-literalists, faith healers, and even, on occasion, by our own prayer book. Sometimes, looking in vain for a supernatural sign, we miss the Presence of God in the godly deeds of a caring person, in the daily miracle of new life and life renewed, in the triumphs of intellect and compassion over ignorance and bigotry, in the artist’s brushstrokes and the poet’s arrangement of words, in the architecture of Creation, in the human capacity to dream.

A famous passage relates that the prophet Elijah finds God not in wind, or earthquake, or fire, but in a "still, small voice" (I Kings 19:11-13). By getting away from spectacular depictions of God—the impossibly majestic celestial Deity, all knowing and all powerful, who works miracles and wonders, who rewards the good and punishes the wicked—we open ourselves to more subtle forms of divinity. We begin to see the potential for God in the least expected places. It is, after all, in a dungeon that Joseph first perceives God in his life. Even in Egypt, Joseph learned, there was room for God.

We do agree that God-talk can be problematic in our public schools. That’s why we send them to religious school, goes the answer. But few Reform Jewish religious schools make the exploration of God—we call that theology—even a peripheral part of the curriculum. As part of an ongoing revitalization of our religious school curriculum, it will be essential—and exciting—to have God acknowledged, discussed, debated, and taught in our religious school, as a centerpiece of our religious education. Jews have always honored study as a religious experience. It is said that in prayer, we speak to God; in studying Torah and the sacred traditions of Judaism, God speaks to us.

Children want to talk about God—they want to wrestle with Big Questions: Why are we here? Why does suffering exist? Why choose good over evil? In sprawling late-night conversations with my college roommates, I discovered that these questions all lead to an exploration of God. In our religious school especially, God is too big to ignore.

The same holds true in our homes. We cannot leave the religious education of our children entirely up to the Temple (excellent as WRT's program is). So if we want to help our children learn morality, goodness, holiness, mitzvot, responsibility, and the other attributes of godliness, we’re going to have to talk about God! For many, the birds-and-the-bees talk is easier. It’s certainly more straightforward. How do we begin?

We begin with those big questions. Explore the questions deeply before trying to formulate grand answers. Children already know the questions—our first job is to listen and ask along with them. Sometimes simply asking the questions will elicit a deeper understanding of God.

Rabbis David Wolpe and Harold Kushner have each written excellent books on talking to our children about God, in ways that perhaps our own religious-school education never covered. Kushner, for instance, resists the familiar teaching that “God is everywhere,” noting that it “has given rise to more ludicrous misunderstandings in the minds of children than perhaps any other theological proposition ever uttered. Children have been quoted as saying, in fear or in glee, that God was in the bathtub, in the dark closet, in their sandwich….” Kushner invites us to rephrase the question, asking not “Where is God?” but “when is God?” “To ask ‘when is God?’ suggests that God is not an object, but a quality of relationship, a way of feeling and acting, that can be found anywhere, but only if certain things (study, gratitude, self-control, helpfulness, prayer, etc.) are in evidence at that particular moment” (53-54). How we could all benefit from such theological reflection, and from sharing such ideas in our homes!

God belongs in our lives, in our religious schools, in our homes. From Joseph we learn that God can thrive even in polytheistic, idolatrous Egypt, if only given an ardent dreamer and an outspoken advocate.

May God thrive here as well: in dream, in word, and in deed.