A recent Facebook meme goes, “Religion is a person sitting in a church (substitute “synagogue”) thinking about kayaking; Spirituality is a person sitting in a kayak thinking about God.” During the course of my work as a rabbi starting back in the spring of 1974, I’ve heard so many times, “Rabbi, I just don’t enjoy coming to services! For one, they’re too long; I mean, three hours?!”

And yet, when I reflect on the essence of what makes a synagogue a synagogue, I would have to say, it’s the fact that it’s a place where people can create a community to share common spiritual goals.

Examining the words that inhabit the pages of our Siddur, the Jewish book of prayer, provides a unique opportunity for people:
To gather together to find expression of their deepest spiritual, emotional and intellectual selves and grow through the worship services.

To meditate on the spectrum of existence; examining any element of reality with a sense of wonder and awe at its beauty, complexity or manifestation; from the microcosm eg that a spider is able to perform amazing feats of engineering to the macrocosm: the vastness of our universe.

To discover a sense of perspective. How do I view myself, my life, my successes and failures in the light of infinite time and space?

To develop a sense of duty. How do I account for my presence in this world as I stand before the Force through which I came into existence?

To feel a sense of hope (despite all the challenges to our sense of well-being), that the Universe is in the ultimate control of a Power well beyond our brief sojourn or our ability to comprehend.

It affords the opportunity to shed feelings of loneliness by sharing moments spanning grief through celebration, surrounded by a loving community.
Attending services provides the space and time to give voice to ideas that transcend space and time.

In engaging these ideas and being open to the challenge of combining old and new meanings, the words in our Siddur speak to our own needs.
The ideas above represent one of the approaches we practice here at Beth Ami. It could be termed contemplative or meditative.

There is another approach within the walls of this sanctuary which complements the meditative, we could call it the ecstatic. It involves all kinds of expression. It leans heavily on how the sounds of music speak to our emotions; how it’s capable of lifting our spirits or calming us down.

In this sense, we can observe that even regular spoken language creates a unique set of sounds; over and above the actual denotation of the words. It is another way that people who enjoy our services find great satisfaction in hearing the Hebrew being chanted or sung. They may not understand what the individual words mean, but they are sensitive to the atmosphere; the emotional content of the sounds; the way in which it has been able to survive the millennia; the way it connects us to people recently and long departed. This approach has appeal precisely because of its visceral nature; it speaks in a unique way to our emotional side.

In the ecstatic process, a person tries to lose themselves in the feeling. In the contemplative approach, a person tries to lose themselves in the thought.
Ironically, in losing our ego-selves in these ways, we discover a totally different side to our human personality. In engaging with open hearts in this process, we can approach a profound sense of who we really are—our true inner being. This is where we have the chance of finding purpose and peace.

This past September, I pointed out, in my Shofar column, our fascination with conflict. Even a superficial look at society reveals so many ways in which human beings engage in this. From competitive sports to open warfare; from domestic interactions to international relations; from the process of elections to the execution of government; from history to fiction, we have to admit we find conflict “entertaining,” especially if we can stand on the sidelines and watch it’s progression.

There’s at least another side of conflict that goes beyond entertainment, and that’s the process of give-and-take that takes place within a good debate. If we are exposed to both sides of well-argued proposition, it can allow us to get below surface impressions and prejudices and closer to true knowledge. We know that this is the time-honored way in which justice must be administered. Truth be told, anyone who seeks a greater understanding of a given situation requires a mind sufficiently open and, at the same time, critical of relevant information, no matter what side of the debate it comes from.

No wonder then, that so much of the “Rabbinical” material is filled with expressed disagreement between different individuals or groups and the careful, painstaking analysis of the various points of view. No wonder that ancient Greek society cultivated the “Socratic Method.”

All this, nevertheless, requires a tremendous amount of patience on our part; especially when it comes to listening to (or reading) opinions that aren’t congruent with ones own. For example, it just gets so easy to become caught up emotionally – as we can observe on a daily basis – in discussing the subjects that make up the deep political divide we are enduring as citizens of the United States. So little seems “shaded” these days. We either “hate” or “love” our political leaders and, instead of looking at observable facts, calmly debating their positive or negative value, so often I see insulting remarks being lobbed from one side to the other.

The internet and social media have made communication possible between individuals who may be total strangers. In addition, the way this communication takes place on a screen may make us oblivious that there is another human being behind those words. To this point we haven’t developed any etiquette to govern those “screen exchanges.”

However, I’m aware that hurling insults at the person who disagrees with you is an ancient, if not lame, technique of “winning” a debate. It’s called ad hominem when used as a tactic. It’s really a tacit admission that you’ve run out of good arguments with which to counter your opponent. Since you have no chance of proving them wrong by using logic, you wind up denigrating them.

To the extent that I’ve participated in online political debates, I see this constantly. What concerns me more, is the degree to which I hear these ad hominem’s from some of our country’s leaders. Beyond even that; it appears we, ourselves, in the heat of the moment, miss recognizing just how destructive this kind of conflict is, in the quest for wisdom and wise government.

As I remember; my dad loved to say, “Can’t we disagree, without being ‘disagreeable?’”

I look forward to the day when the “Age of Information” can give way to the “Age of Understanding” and even the “Age of Wisdom.”

I pray for the return of vigorous, polite debate!

With warm regards,

Mordecai Miller
Rabbi, Beth Ami Congregation.

It’s no coincidence that our festival of Chanukah occurs so close to the winter solstice; the days are short and the nights are long. Darkness is all around. Nature has gone to sleep; in some areas, even a deep sleep. Frost has killed much of the summer’s growth and we have to wait patiently as the days slowly grow longer even as the average temperatures may grow colder.

As a metaphor, winter represents the gloom of death and despair. What better time to be able to celebrate a festival that brings light and hope into such a moment in our lives?

In the course of the eight days of Chanukah, we add another psalm to our morning and evening services: Psalm 30, “A psalm of the dedication of the House – of David.” The word “Chanukah” means “dedication,” and the “House” mentioned here is none other than the great Temple which stood in Jerusalem.

To review the story in brief: at the juncture in history in which the events of Chanukah took place, the land of Israel was under the rule of the Emperor, King Antiochus Epiphanes. He attempted to unite his empire by compelling those under his rule to take on the Greek religion. He transformed the Holy Temple into a shrine to worship the Greek god, Apollo, and slaughtered pigs on the altar. The Jews were forced to abandon the study of Torah and the practice of the Divine commandments. There were those who succumbed to the pressure, but the priest of Modin, Mattathias, along with his five sons refused to accept the decree and mounted a series of guerrilla campaigns against the Emperor and his armies.

Ultimately, the rebels were successful and were even able to enter Jerusalem, only to find the Temple in a state of desecration. It would be necessary to cleanse and rededicate it. The question on everyone’s mind: Would this act be acceptable in the sight of God?

As the Talmud relates: after going thorough all the necessary steps in the process of rededication, it was now necessary to light the great menorah in the shrine. This required the purest of pure olive oil. It was already a miracle that a jug was found containing a small amount of the requisite oil, bearing the seal of the High Priest and still intact. There was little expectation that the amount of oil would even burn for one day.

Miraculously, it burned for eight days. This amount of time allowed the Jews to produce more oil, which would ensure that the menorah could continue to burn. This miracle was evidence that their act of rededicating the Temple was, in fact, acceptable.

In the midst of a dark, bleak period, the light of hope was rekindled.

To cite a small portion from psalm 30 which combines the themes of Divine rescue and dedicating the Temple:

“I exalt you, O Ad-nai, for You have drawn me up;

And have not allowed my enemies to rejoice over me.

… You changed my mourning to become my dancing;

You loosened my sackcloth and have girded me with joy,

So that (I might) sing of Your glory and never be silenced;

Ad-nai my God, I will thank You without ceasing.

And may the lights of Chanukah shine forever all your days.

b’Shalom,

Mordecai Miller.