Two news stories have really troubled me recently, both having to do with the Jewish community at large, but with direct implications for the Conservative Movement. The first was an interview with Michael Steinhardt, a well-known philanthropist who has made it possible for so many in the Jewish community to become involved in Jewish life. Perhaps Steinhardt will be most remembered for his contributions (of both time and money) to Taglit-Birthright Israel, arguably one of the most successful ventures in Jewish history. For this, he deserves much praise.

In speaking to the cable network Shalom TV, Steinhardt characterized non-Orthodox Jewish education as a failure, saying that it was a shandah (an embarrassing shame) and declaring that many of the participants he has met on Birthright are "Jewish barbarians" because of their lack of Jewish knowledge.

Even though he is certainly entitled to his opinion, logic suggests that I take Steinhardt's misguided comments personally. I've been involved with Jewish education my entire life – as a student, teacher and administrator in formal, informal, experiential, curricular and co-curricular settings - and I know many other people who can make the same claim.

I don't, however, take it personally, because it's one man's opinion (as Sholom Aleichem's Tevye said, "when you're rich they think you really know."). I not only vehemently disagree with Steinhardt, I can provide evidence that proves him wrong. I am one of thousands who is a learning Jew – educated from within Conservative Jewish institutions and secular university systems. I would hardly consider myself a "Jewish barbarian." The real shandah is in the statement itself.

Speaking of shandahs, the next news item definitely belongs in that category. For over twenty years, a group of women have prayed at the Kotel, the Western Wall in Jerusalem, almost every Rosh Hodesh (the beginning of the Jewish month). Women of the Wall has an eclectic membership, running the gamut of Jewish affiliation and identification. What brings these women together is an opportunity to experience a women's-only prayer experience at what some describe as Judaism's holiest site.

Women of the Wall has caused a political maelstrom in Israel over the years (isn't everything political in Israel?), but for the most part, they have managed to find a way to legally circumvent the overwhelmingly male domination of the Kotel and pray together away from the enforced gender separation.

The group often begins their worship in the plaza outside the Kotel, and when it's time to read Torah, it moves to an area known as Robinson's Arch, which is at the southern wall of the ancient Temple. As those of you who have been there know, it is out of sight of the western wall area and, therefore, out of sight of the other worshippers. Some people refer to Robinson's Arch as the "Masorti Wall" (the Masorti Movement is the Israeli equivalent of the Conservative Movement in North America), because it is where egalitarian services also take place on a regular basis.

This past November 18, Nofrat Frenkel, a member of both Women of the Wall and the Masorti Movement, was wearing her tallit and carrying a Torah from the plaza to Robinson's Arch. As she carried the scroll, people started shouting slurs and began to push and shove. Frenkel was eventually whisked away by police, but not for her own protection from the mob. She was arrested for disturbing the status quo. For carrying a Sefer Torah! For wearing a tallit!

This incident took place across an ocean, thousands and thousands of miles away from my home in Chicago. But this one I do take personally.

How is it that a direct denigration of my life's work is something I can dismiss as the rant of someone I simply don't agree with, while the harassment of a group I can't belong to (unless I do something quite radical) angers me so deeply?

Steinhardt's opinion is his. He owns it, he's entitled to say what he wants in this country. So are lots of people I don't agree with. But the Kotel belongs to the Jewish people. I know some make the argument that it belongs to the State of Israel, not the entire Jewish people, but even the defenders of the "status quo" at the Wall would agree that it belongs to Klal Yisrael.

So in essence, Steinhardt's words are his. The Kotel, however, is also mine. And while I respect the wishes of those who choose to live differently than I do, I expect them to respect my Jewish lifestyle, as well.

To their credit, many groups, including some Orthodox ones, have spoken up against the police actions at the Kotel. The people who started the ruckus in the first place, of course, received the education that Steinhardt extols. Might we call it successful? Or, might we say it is a shandah?

Tomorrow morning when it's 7:30 in Israel, Joni and I will officially become the parents of a soldier in the Israel Defense Forces. I will worry from thousands of miles away, wonder what he’s doing, how he’s holding up during basic training, wondering where he will go next, hoping that his body and psyche will suffer no harm. I’ll be hoping that he wears a warm hat if needed and gets a good night’s sleep (that part of parenting never goes away).

I will also continue to be so extraordinarily proud.

I told Noah today that our ancestors couldn’t possibly have imagined that one of their descendents would be a citizen of a sovereign Jewish state, let alone serve in their defense forces. When my great-great grandparents made their decision to leave Eastern Europe and come to America, how could they even begin to think that Jews would be in a position to defend themselves from a position of strength; to provide protection and security to both Jews and non-Jews? How could they possibly understand that the wasteland called Palestine would become a modern state, excelling in agriculture, technology and education?

It is likely that Noah’s tour of duty will be shorter than most (he’s an old man of 25), but his contribution to the Jewish people is no less important than any that I have ever made. His two grandfathers and his grandmother of blessed memory, along with thousands of other ancestors, will never know about his courage. But his savta who, thank God, is still alive, along with current family members and those yet to come, will know that Noah Moline is helping us fulfill our dream – l’hiyot am hofshi b’artzeinu – to be a free people in a free land. God bless.

When I was younger, I would frequently hear adults say that the older they got, the less they knew. I couldn't quite understand what they meant – of course you should know more as you get older. At a certain age we think we know just about everything and that our parents understand nothing, so maybe those adults were just being honest. Or maybe they meant that they couldn't keep up with modern technology (which at the time was probably a rather primitive video game called "pong").

This year, I think I am finally starting to understand. On a global level, the world has changed dramatically from what it was a year ago. The collapse of our financial system, a change in political landscapes, the contraction of communal resources and major changes in organizations and institutions - it's simply not the same world as the one we lived in a year ago. It's a scary new world.

On a personal level, our son made aliyah. I've had the privilege of attending weddings and bar and bat mitzvah ceremonies. People I know have had babies. Lots of people I know graduated from various institutions (some have even gotten jobs!). Others I know have gone to graduate school in many different disciplines. I've deepened friendships and gotten to know quite a few people I didn't know before. It's a joyous world.

I've also had three friends die from cancer in a year's time. It's a sad world, too. Is the world so schizophrenic that it's scary, joyous and sad all at once? How do I explain that?

The easy answer, I suppose, is that the world is complex. People are born and people die every single day. Things that are tragic and scary happen – and things that are full of intense joy and happiness happen as well. That's the way it is. Period. That understanding may have satisfied me when I was young, but now I realize that I simply don't know why. Much of the world is a mystery. Much of it is inexplicable. Much of it is inexcusable. And so much of it is wonderful.

We enter this new year with lots of questions and very few answers. We gather with our communities for reflection and contemplation. We will recite liturgy that arguably is troubling and comforting all at the same time. We will come together as a people because the power of community is strong and comforting. And what I do know is that that's the way it should be.

Life is full of contradictions. We Jews are called Israel because Israel means to struggle with God. It means we confront those contradictions. It means we can celebrate and be sad simultaneously – not because we have an emotional disorder, but because we know that it's precisely those peaks and valleys that make us human. And because we know that, we are empathic. We recognize suffering and know we have to do our best to comfort. We see injustice and know that we need to try and make it right. Why? Because we know – we simply know.

My wish this year is that we have more peaks than valleys and more joy than sorrow. It is also my hope that we create those peaks and that joy for us and for others. Call an elderly relative. Reach out to a friend with whom you've lost contact. Find some time to volunteer somewhere. Sing. Do something nice for yourself. Do something silly. And have a good, sweet, fulfilling and healthy year.

Making Change

In his weekly D’var Torah, Rabbi Arnold Goodman, my cousin who now lives in Jerusalem after a long and distinguished career as a pulpit rabbi in the United States, compares the difference between the delivery of God’s instruction at the beginning of the book of Deuteronomy to the account of the giving of the Ten Commandments in the Book of Exodus.

Elah ha’d’varim (these are the words) that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan. (Deuteronomy 1:1)
God spoke ha’d’varim ha’elah (these words) saying… (Exodus 20:1)

Rabbi Goodman writes as follows:

"In a perceptive and challenging Midrash, R. Ishmael reflected upon the similarity of the words, elah ha’dvarim, (these are the words) in both the opening verse of the Ten Commandments and the beginning of the Book of Deuteronomy. He reasoned that although the order of the words is reversed (in the Decalogue it is ha’d’varim elah, and in Deuteronomy it is elah ha’d’varim), the words spoken by Moses at the banks of the Jordan River were equivalent to those uttered by God at Sinai, but with a significant difference in each set’s impact.

"The Children of Israel responded to God’s words at Sinai by proclaiming, “na’aseh v’nishma, we will obey and we will hearken.” Yet but forty days later the community violated this oath of allegiance in its worship of the Golden Calf while chanting, “This is your God, O Israel, who brought you out of Egypt.” (Exodus 32:4).
This is in stark contrast to Moses’ exultant proclamation following his words, “And ye, who cleave to the Lord, your God, are alive at this day” (Deut 4:4). God’s response was thus to open the Book of Deuteronomy with "These are the words that Moses spoke," rather than the usual formula of “God spoke to Moses, saying…..”

"The implication of R. Ishmael’s teaching is that God’s words spoken directly to the people did not have as lasting effect as those of Moses. The medium of the human element was essential if the community was to be brought closer to God. A sense of oneness with the Almighty can never come about through fiat be it from God or any human source."

In different terms, success didn’t really come until there was human buy-in. God’s attempt to instill obedience lasted only briefly with the Israelites. With only God’s commands and with little human validation, God’s authority was easily rejected. When Moses delivers God’s word however, things are different. Moses is speaking in human terms, face to face. The value of this kind of interaction is shown in the results.

The economy is now dictating major change in the way Jewish organizations are structured. Massive downsizing is becoming the norm. Resources are being collapsed. People are losing their jobs. Constituents are learning to expect a different kind of service.

Under the best of circumstances, change is hard – we all know that. When we control the change it’s a lot easier to accept. When we’re on the receiving end, the way it’s presented can often mark the difference between success and failure.

The midrash gives us a strong clue on how to present change. Change from the top and the top alone may, at first, be greeted enthusiastically. But unless the stakeholders are somehow involved in the process, that enthusiasm is not likely to survive.

We know we must change. If nothing else, many of our governance and delivery systems are arcane and sloppy. How we communicate that change can make all the difference in the world.