First Fruits of Shavuot

This is the first time in four years that I have missed a Shavuot celebration. Maybe even five years. I'm losing count. All I know is that, from the time that I decided to "become" Jewish (which is to say that I recognized that I already was Jewish and that I needed to "make it official") and inadvertently stumbled across the counting of the Omer, I've had a special relationship with Shavuot.

Is it because my birthday is in the Spring time? Is it because Spring inherently brings with it a sense of new beginnings and possibilities? It is because I pulled a bunch of all-nighters in college? Or do I really just love fruit and cheesecake? (The last one is definitely true, although I wouldn't say it is the most salient reason of the above....though it is a bonus.)

Those are all true, but I don't think they are the real reasons. What I love so much about Shavuot is the way in which is brings all Jews together. And I mean ALL Jews. All Jewish people. Ever. There is a story that we tell, each year, that all Jewish people who have ever lived, or will ever live, were at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah when it was handed down from God to Moses, and witnessed by the people. We were all there. And the first time I heard that, it felt so good, because even though I was a new, not-quite-almost Jewish person, I felt Jewish in my soul. And so to have the sense that I, too, was included in that event gave validation to my experience of who I was (and am).

Shavuot, to me, is about inclusiveness. Every year in Berkeley, an all-night study event (Tikkun Leyl Shavuot) is held by a number of local Jewish organizations, featuring great teachers from near and far. It brings together the entire Jewish community, with teachers and those in attendance representing all streams and "flavors" of Judaism. It is free, and no one is excluded, because it is recognized, in this moment of Mattan Torah (receiving the gift of Torah) that we are all Jews, all receiving the same Torah, and all equally worthy of it.

I love the feeling of inclusiveness because I want to BELONG. We all do. But I tend to spend most of my life feeling like an outsider. As a young child, I always felt like I didn't quite know what the "cool kids" were doing. My family was different, in that we didn't have a lot of money, like most of my playmates did. When I was eight years old, we moved to Maine, and I became an outsider again, making my way in an entirely new social milieu. After six years there, when I still wasn't "cool," but at least had found a tight-knit group of equally "uncool" friends, we moved back to our original home-town, and I became an outsider once again, but with a new twist, because I had been there before. So at some point, I just accepted it. I accepted that I would never be one of the "cool kids." I would never be "popular." I would never be wearing what everyone else was wearing, and my family wasn't going to take vacations in Fiji every winter. I owned it. And that was the point at which other people started to tell me that I was "cool." But I've never quite believed it. No matter what, even if people do see me in that way, I always feel like I am out on the fringe, not really inside the social structure I am observing. And that's okay.

And yet, there in the bright fluorescent light of the study room when I attended my first Shavuot, and I heard the story of how we were all - every Jewish soul, whether born Jewish or not - there at Mount Sinai for the revelation of the Torah, I suddenly felt included. Maybe for the first time in my life. And maybe only for a minute. But it was there. I was part of something larger, and it felt good.

This year, I did not attend the celebration. I had a quasi-plan, and a good intention to be there. I know that I love the study and the learning, and the sense of camaraderie that takes place when so many Jewish people get together, and many of them choose to stay up all night. But this year, I had a different goal and a different intention that overrode my desire to be there, and it's what I consider to be one of the biggest learning journeys of my life right now, and that is the goal of taking care of myself. Of recognizing my limits for what my body and my mind can handle, and pushing them only when I feel strong enough to do so. Which also means knowing when to stop, and when not to push myself too far. I'm learning. And sometimes that means not doing things that I actually want to do. Like this year's Shavuot.

So, even though I missed the joy of being with community, I had a different joy, of knowing that I made a choice that made sense for me. And also, while I was riding the train home, lulled by the hum and sway of the cars, I had my own private Mattan Torah. I pictured myself, with all Jews, standing at Mount Sinai, receiving the Torah. It felt real. And it felt unconditional. Even though I wasn't "there" studying, I was there There - with all Jews - receiving Torah. Yes, there is the teaching that we study all night so that we can stay up and not miss it when the Torah is handed down at daybreak. And yes, I went home and slept that night (though I did stay up a bit and read). But I realize that these are conventions. They do not remove from us the gift of Torah. I received it in my own way. And many Jews do not live in a community where there is such an opportunity to celebrate Shavuot in this way. Many Jews grow up not even knowing about Shavuot, because it can be obscured by other major celebrations, like Passover and Rosh Hashanah.

But to me, it is a sacred, special holiday, very close to my heart, because it is about some of the highest values that I hold, both as a Jewish person, and as a human: Inclusiveness and Community.

And sometimes - maybe often - being an effective member of community means taking time out to care for yourself when it is needed.

Chag Shavuot Sameach

[Photo credit: Chabadjapan.org]

Erev Rosh Hashanah

Rosh Hashanah is one of my favorite Holidays.

Just recently, I celebrated my second Jewish birthday. I had my beit din around this time, two years ago, specifically so that I could celebrate the High Holidays as a Jew. But that is not what makes Rosh Hashanah special for me.

RH is actually the first time that I experienced Jewish life outside of college and Passover Seders. It was the first time I attended a Friday night service, spoken mostly in Hebrew. And I attended it with my then-Fiancé.

The memory is tinged with sadness, too, because it was in fact that weekend that our relationship officially ended. It was so sad to me, in part, because I never even got to celebrate with his family!

The Jury is still out on what, exactly, my motivations were for ending the relationship. Was it that I really just did not like him? Entirely possible. Was he good for me, but I was too afraid of love? That is possible, too. Maybe, in some funny G-d joke kind of way, both are true. And maybe, even though it was an ending and a loss that I experienced at the time, in effect, it was really a beginning.

And truly, it was.

It has now been five years since then, and, looking back, I have come so far, and in some ways, I have not changed at all.

Now, I am Jewish. I have my own Jewish life. I have Jewish friends. I can bake challah, and I have even made my own Shabbat candles. Now I know more prayers and tunes than I ever thought possible.

But one thing hasn't changed. On the positive side, after a period of not believing that I could ever date or love anyone else, I have opened myself to exploring relationships with many different people. Some long and some short. And from each person, I have gleaned something, whether it was pleasant or not. But what hasn't changed is that, for all of my openness and exploration, I still feel closed to love. I don't let love in. When it gets too close I push it away, or I run and hide. Sometimes I do both. Sometimes I hide, even when I stay.

This is a painful process, and a painful way to be. And my awareness of it simply makes me sad. I don't know what the solution is. It is undoubtedly something way too easy, like, "Just relax." But you know how hard that is when you have years of unconscious beliefs and behaviors guiding your every move, with or without your permission.

So, my Rosh Hashanah prayer is this:

May my heart become open this year to the Love that is around me, that wants to be with me, that yearns to give to me. May my eyes become open to seeing it, and my hands become open to receiving. And my mind refrain from rejecting it.

May my soul and spirit relax in the presence of this love, knowing that it will nurture me and nourish me and sustain me through all and any hardships I may bear.

May a wealth of abundance flow in and through me from every angle.

And may the blast of the shofar shock my spirit into resetting itself to my original "default setting" in which my channels to giving and receiving love were not blocked, but open, flowing and fluid, giving and receiving perfectly all the time.

May it be so.

Punishment of Death

I just had a very bizarre thought. I actually thought that there was a way in which the death penalty could be a good thing. But wait, hear me out. I don't actually support capital punishment. I don't support the death penalty. But I was thinking about biblical stonings and punishments of death, and it occurred to me to think about them in a new way.

Here was my thought process: I was thinking about my date over the weekend, and how the guy I went out with seemed convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was unlikable, unlovable, and I think, also, a complete waste of time. (Either that, or he just wasted my time by taking me out so that he could spend the whole evening talking about this.) And I thought about my response to him by email, which consisted of me saying that his efforts had failed, and I had found him likable nonetheless. And then it occurred to me that I like just about everybody. Or if not everybody (because it's not true that I actually like everybody), then I believe that there is at least one likable thing about every person.

Usually, these likable elements come out in moments of human/physical banality. Such as, the person has to use the bathroom, or they get sick, or they have to eat, or even the fact that they have a favorite food. I took the thought to the extreme and wondered if that could apply even to the most egregious criminal. We see these people as "evil" or "animals" and often they behave without a shred of normal human emotion. But they are still Humans. They still have to eat. They still probably have tastes and preferences. And yet, at a certain point, maybe even They don't consider themselves human.

So I thought: what is the one most humanly humbling experience of all: death.

And then it became clear to me.

I have trouble with all the stonings and killings in the Bible of people who create even minor transgressions. I don't like extreme punishment. The stories are meant to inspire fear and a sense that the commandment is so important that it should be carried out, or else death will ensue. I don't like guilt-tripping and I don't like being threatened, even if the carrying-out of the threat is not forthcoming in our everyday lives, such as stoning a person to death for gathering firewood on Shabbat, which occurred in last week's Parsha). What became clear was the purpose of death in certain situations. And it occurred to me that it was maybe not always a punishment.

Let's say, for example, that all sins or crimes are equal. It doesn't matter what you do, but if you go out of line, then that action makes you "inhuman." The teachings of the Mitzvoth and the Torah are meant to keep us Human. They are not intended to keep us in a limited area of being, but to keep us closer to our Humanity, our vulnerability, our frailty, and our beauty. When we move away from those mitzvoth, from those teachings and ideas, we become separated from ourselves, others, and humanity.

If a person is on Death Row, s/he has done something so terrible that we don't even see that person as "deserving" of the same treatment that we would give another human being. But if you think about the moment of death, the moment of execution, for a moment. In that moment, on the table, or wherever they are - they may be in a room, separated from everyone - but at that time, and immediately after, they become Human again. Death is the great leveler. It brings us all down. We do not survive because we are "good." We all die, in the end. There is an Italian saying, I believe: "Kings and pawns go in the same box." In that way, we are all equal. While we are living, we are not equal. Some people behave better than others. Some people are nicer than others. Some are more respected or respectable than others. But at the moment of death, we are all equal.

Therefore, giving death to a person who has committed a sin that harms all of humanity, we are giving that person back their humanity. Evil cannot die, but humans can. Therefore it makes them Human again. Albeit in a terribly inhumane way. There is no way that I can envision purposely killing a living individual in a way that is truly helpful or gives glory to G-d, but, conceptually, I can see how it works, and it makes at least biblical capital punishment a bit softer for me, that it comes not as a punishment, but as a gift. A strange gift, which, in the case of some individuals, may even be a welcome one.

Night Out

I went on this odd kind of date last night. I think I should date more Jewish men, but for some reason, ever since I converted, I either haven't had the interest or the opportunity to do so. Or I've had both, but it somehow hasn't worked out that way. Although, as I told one friend recently, I do believe that in all the people that I date, I see something "Jewish" in them, even if they have no idea that it's there. This was the case with the guy I went out with last night. Although, in the end, it was pretty awkward, and I don't know that anything will come out of it.

When it started, he and I were having a really nice dinner conversation, or so it seemed. I mean, no major sparks were flying or anything, but there was definitely stuff to talk about. Then, on the way to the theater, we talked a little bit about religion, but not too much. I had told him over dinner about my conversion, and I knew already that his family was Catholic, but that he didn't have any observance of his own. He didn't say he was "spiritual" or anything, he just joked about going to Hell.

When we got to the theater, we were early, so we had a drink. Then I probably did either the best or worst thing I could have done: I asked his age. That was only because, after talking to him, I realized he was probably older than I thought he was. But once I thought about it, I guessed his age right: about 15 years older than me. But he seemed pretty miffed about the fact that I guessed right. And then I was slightly miffed about the fact that he guessed me wrong - putting me at least 5 years younger than I actually am. I suppose I could have taken it as a compliment, but then that would have been inauthentic of me.

Overall, I suppose if people generally perceive him to be much younger, and me to be only a little younger, that would make our perceived ages actually pretty close. (It was kind of funny how the guy at the bar later in the evening referred to us as "kids." but then, he was pretty much older than both of us.) On the other hand, if you think about our actual ages, if he was that much older than I am and he thought I was much younger, that means he thought he was going out with someone about 20 years his junior. And he may have seemed kind of disappointed that I wasn't. It's hard to tell. But maybe that's why, when he wrote to me afterward, he wanted to thank me, but said he didn't think we should "date" anymore.

There I was, thinking I was "too young" for him. Whereas, it's possible I was in fact not young enough! Now that's a bit scary. If everything else had been equal, I think the age would not have been an issue. At least it wasn't an issue for me. Or rather, I was thinking that I had to work through that "problem." Like I'd have to accept the fact that he's so much older and doesn't want house/wife/kids, etc., and whatnot. But in fact, it was him. HE very well might have the problem.

And the other red flag: I joked, in the bar, after the show, about being 12 years old, and the way he said "perfect" was a little too convincing. He seemed to actually have a momentary fantasy that reminded me just a little too much of the way pedophile perps typically look in an episode of Law & Order: SVU. So maybe I was on a date with a closet pedophile. Not to perpetuate a stereotype, but he was raised Catholic, and has since left the church. So who knows? Maybe he was molested as an altar boy, and he either has or has not told anybody about it.

And even if that's not it, obviously something is nagging at him, and is preventing him from even allowing for the possibility that maybe we could even have a short relationship. It's like he opened and shut the door with little or no input from my side of the garden. And maybe that's the worst part of it for me. So perhaps I should just run for the hills. Maybe I should take his polite offer of being "platonic" and just leave it at that.

I will say I did get my hopes up, just a little bit. It's natural. It's been a couple of months since I've been dating anyone, and to me, I look forward to possibilities. I like cuddling and canoodling and all of that. I wanted to touch him, but I felt like he was nervous. Or maybe he just didn't want to touch me. Which didn't feel good. It also doesn't feel good to be chucked aside because you are "too old" when in fact you are 15 years younger than the guy you are on a date with. Of course he didn't say it was the age, but I have a strong feeling that that's at least part of it. Which is why, I guess, my only regret might be that I DIDN'T leave the theater half-way through, as he kept alluding to my having that particular option. He seemed to expect it the entire time. He even checked to see if my bag was still there when I did get up at one point to use the ladies' room. Of course, I wanted to stay. I was having a good time, and I was looking forward to continuing our conversation. But in hindsight, maybe I should have left, because I can see two things:

1) He was really wasting my time, and

2) He might have respected me more for leaving.

Either way, I guess it's no big loss on my part. I got a nice night out at the theatre and a few drinks. And I hate to make a judgment about anybody, because it is more in my nature to give people the benefit of the doubt, but that is usually also my downfall. I think someone is so great, because I see that part of them that is hidden, even from themselves, and I say, "this person is valuable and worthy." I can love them. And I do. Regardless. But while I'm doing that, I miss all kinds of surface details. I miss the fact that they are way too interested themselves, or in younger girls, which shows signs of all kinds of bad activity, even if he isn't, like he said, "an axe-murderer." (Like he would tell me if he was).

And I overlook (even if I see them) things like the fact that he kept talking himself down, and wouldn't even look at me during dinner. A bit suspicious. So I get the feeling that he has defined himself as "a loser," and he's not open to any other type of interpretation. Maybe a younger girl than me would be more malleable, or corrigible, or would laugh at more of his jokes. Maybe she would look up to him and not be so complicated and burdensome. Maybe she wouldn't have FEELINGS, or be real in anyway. The age would distance her enough that he wouldn't even feel like they were in the same planet, or universe, and he'd never really have to have an actual relationship with her. Maybe that's his ideal woman: a doll he can dress up and pose. Unfortunately, that's not me. But I also think he's conflicted, because, even as he wants that, kind of, he also, like many men, wants to be dominated by a powerful woman. But either way, I think it comes down to self esteem.

If I were to, for example, challenge his notion that he is a complete and utter failure at life and undeserving of any kind of attention or affection, it would throw him off too far. Maybe he is too old, or maybe just thinks he is too old to change any of that type of thinking. I mean, I tend to go for older guys, because they have a more nuanced, balanced, and calm approach to life. But on the other hand, if it means that they can't change anything about the way they think, and if they will reject me on account of the fact that I MIGHT challenge the way they think, then they prove themselves right, and whether they actually are or are not a loser, is immaterial. What is ultimately proven is that they do "lose" what they had thought they wanted in the first place. But by that point, they've given themselves enough reason to believe they didn't want it anyway. The old "sour grapes" philosophy. I hate being pegged as a "sour grape." But on the other hand, I suppose that doesn't make me any less sweet.

Shavuah tov

You shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.
- Exodus 25:2

Overlay it with pure gold - overlay it inside and out...
- Exodus 25:11


I have been reading lately about the concepts of giving and receiving love. Which is to say that, in a healthy, communicative relationship, one does not only give love, but needs to be able to receive it as well. And often, when we think that the barrier between another person and ourselves is that the other person "doesn't love us," in fact it often is the case that it is we ourselves - because of our own hurts, fears and rejection due to former wounding - that are actively, unconsciously, blocking that love from being received by us. And so we don't "feel" loved, even though we are loved.

The only way to solve this problem is to actively, consciously, focus on receiving gifts. And I think that is an important lesson that is given in our Torah portion this week. Moses is instructed to accept gifts for God "from every person whose heart so moves him." So, for example, not from the people who Moses thinks are better or more able to give gifts than other people. Not from the people who Moses thinks are serious, or authentically giving a gift. But from all of the people who are "so moved" to give a gift. And it is not the gift itself, although instructions are given as to what kind of gifts the people are meant to give in order to build the tabernacle and the ark, but the important thing is that the person has a desire to give the gift. And the second important thing is that the gift is received.

In this parsha, Moses receives the gifts from all the givers, and he receives them on behalf of God, but also on behalf of all of us. In this parsha, I think we can understand, on an intrinsic level, that we are like Moses, and like Moses, we have permission to receive the gifts that all people - and God - wants to give us. Whether or not we think that person is sincere, and whether or not we actually believe ourselves to be worthy.

We already know that Moses does not think he is worthy. He refused to even speak God's words to Pharoah, because he was self-conscious of a speech impediment. So we know that Moses is not perfect. And even though for the most part, he does what God asks him to do, even he has limitations, and they are physical and emotional limitations that are part of his body. They are part of who he is, and part of his relationship with God. But even so, he has permission from God to "accept all the gifts" of the people for the tabernacle.

And so we, too, have permission to "accept all the gifts" that those in our lives wish to give us, for the sake of God. We can accept them "for God," if we don't believe we can accept them for ourselves, and it is with those gifts, that we build the tabernacle and the ark to carry the tablets of the covenant.

The second thing we are told is that, when building the ark, we are to "overlay it with pure gold" both inside and out.

Certainly this was meant literally, but when I read this, I read it as a metaphor for the body. Because the body is a wondrous, marvelous tabernacle. As I study the parts of human anatomy in preparation to work with people and their bodies as a bodywork practitioner, I am constantly amazed and astounded at the beauty and complexity of the architecture of the human form. And it is this architecture that we carry around with us and move with and in every moment of our lives, to the point where we almost always take it for granted. We often mistreat our bodies, we feel embarrassed by them. Sometimes we ignore them completely. But they are part of us, they are us, and they are not "us" at the same time.

But when I say that I see this image as a metaphor for the body, I mean that, like the ark, we are constructed of precious materials "both inside and out." And I mean that, in a body, the muscles are what allow a person or an animal to move. Gold is beautiful to look at, and because of that, it is like the muscle of an economy. It allows people to move, eat, and enjoy life.

When you think of a body, you think of the muscles you can see, on the outside. Perhaps you flex your arm and witness a bulging bicep. Or perhaps you are aware that the muscles of your neck and back are sore from holding your head up, or from stress. Maybe you've gone running and your calf muscles feel sore. These muscles are precious material, and they are overlaid on the acacia wood of our bone structure.

But there are muscles inside you that you cannot see, and they are just as important. Inside your neck, under the round bone of your skull you have suboccipital muscles that hold your head up and allow it to move and rotate. Inside your leg, you have the iliopsoas muscles, which begin in the inner thigh, at the hip joint, and connect all the way up inside the torso, on the inner spine, just under the diaphram, which is the source of our breath. The movement of the diaphram creates the tzimtzum into which air rushes to fill the space that is created in our lungs, and the muscle returns to push air out again.

And then there are my two favorite hidden muscles: The subscapular muscles, between your shoulder blade and your rib cage. And the iliacus, which connects to the iliopsoas, and is a swath of muscle tissue lining the inside of the pelvic girdle, those two great wings that support and carry in them the weight of all that is precious - all of those inner organs that are both delicate and strong, and which function continually to keep us alive for as long as we are here.

Those wings, to me, are reminiscent of the Cherubim (Keruvim) that are to be placed at either end of the lid of the ark.

The keruvim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall confront each other, the faces of the keruvim being turned toward the cover... There I will meet with you. And I will impart to you - from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the ark of the pact - all that I will command you...
- Exodus 25:19-22

And so it is from the space between, where we confront each other, where we face each other, that God speaks. And it is also from within.

Because the body is a vessel not only for our internal organs, but for our spirit, and for what we know as "living Torah." We all carry within ourselves the "living pact" that we don't just do with God - it is something that we are.

And sometimes it is from that space, from between the wings, that God speaks. Because your body is a vessel of your pact with God. It is your pact with God. It is a gift and a vessel for God. And it is often through our bodies, from that place, between even the two halves of ourselves that face each other, that God speaks to us.

Shabbat shalom

The Scent of a Rose

I love the fact that Judaism has a prayer for everything. A prayer for waking up, a prayer for going to sleep. A prayer for meals and a prayer for drink. A prayer, even for a snack. There are prayers for things, and prayers for feelings, for intangible things like events. And it's wonderful, because those are the times when your soul seems to want to say something, and you just wish you could put the words to it. Judaism has those words. But the odd or paradoxical thing about it is that the moment you go to say them - or at least for me - when I say the prayers, or do some ritual thing like eating an item off a seder plate, I am whelmed, perhaps under-whelmed at not the sacredness of the moment or a mystical feeling (which I might get, say, walking silently in a grove of trees) but rather at an almost banal, profane aspect of the moment. Suddenly, instead of focusing on what's inside, I am focused outside, on word, speech action. Maybe I'm not "doing it right." But I don't know that there is a "right" in Judaism. There is certainly "the way things are done." But ultimately, the way you do it, if you do something consciously, is right. This is the way it is for me. This is my experience. And I don't think it means the moment isn't sacred. Maybe it means that it is.

I just got back from my first Rosh Chodesh women's seder. I was invited by a friend that I met in San Francisco, but it was held in the East Bay, not too far from where I live. So I went, and there were about ten of us. I was thinking about prayer, because I was thinking about sacred space, and the space was sacred. At a few points during the seder, I wondered, what would an outside person, maybe a neighbor standing just outside the window, think, if they heard our mumbling in unison, with candles in front of us. It all seemed like, maybe from the outside, it was some mystical, cultish thing. But from the inside, it was just normal. We were just people, sitting around, with candles, saying things and sharing thoughts, stories, experiences.

The theme of the meeting was Tu B'Shevat, the New Year of the Trees, since that holiday is coming up next weekend. On the table were mandarin oranges, dates, strawberries, cinnamon sticks and a bowl of red rose petals. There were four sections, and at each section we would take in the scent of one of the items. The dates we ate afterward.

The rose petals were beautiful, bright, and velvety, but they had very little scent. Not at all like the rose that seemed to bloom just for me on the day that I left my little house in France. I clipped that rose and took it with me, but then I wished that I had left it. It looked so beautiful on the tree where it was. And of course it didn't bloom "for me." But it seemed to. It seemed to salute me. And when I saw it there, I buried my nose in it's petals and smelled the sweetest scent of rose I've ever smelt.

In the last section of our seder, we read a guided mediation, where we were supposed to be walking somewhere (wherever we went in our imagination), and were distracted by a scent. Then we would turn to see what the thing was giving off the scent, and were told that this was the scent of our soul. We were supposed to interact with it in various ways, and then finally leave the place and continue on our way. We were to first just take it in. Then find out what kind of "nourishment" it needed, and then ask it for a gift.

I was doing the reading, so it was hard to concentrate until I put the paper down and closed my eyes. In a hurry, I jumped right in and found myself on a dirt path in a forest of low trees, maybe pines. they were fairly dark. I was on a larger, gravel path, but a smaller dirt path opened up to my right. And even though I was supposed to be drawn by the scent, I saw first before I smelled that there was a bright red rose on the periphery of my vision. Before I turned, I thought, maybe this is a mistake, it's supposed to be something else. Maybe I'm just thinking of this because we just smelled rose petals. But even so, I decided that if that was the case, this was still what was coming to mind, so I was going to go with it. And the rose was very bright and deep, the color, and its petals still fairly tight, just starting to bloom.

It wasn't very far off the path, and it was growing in a clearing. What did it need? It needed what all plants need. It needed water. So I gave it some water. And it seemed to thank me. Then I realized that behind it was a stone well. The rose was growing right at the edge of it, with two long stems. One had the larger, opening rose, and the other, a little bit below, was a bud, red, but not open yet.

The well was the one that we used to play on in the church yard. I will never forget it. It was low, with a wide lip of stone, and cherubs carved on the outside. It was no longer functioning, and there was only a metal grate covering a gravel bottom on the inside, where we would go in and sit. But once it must have been a working well, because there was a rusted iron pulley above it on a wrought iron arch. My friend T. painted it once in one of his paintings.

In my vision, it was a working well, though. Even though I didn't look in, I knew that it was filled with water. I gave the rose, which was there to represent my "soul" some water, and it gave me the well in return. I didn't even have to ask. It just gave. It knew that was what I needed.

And so, I spent a few moments with the rose, and decided that I didn't want to leave. But after I thought that, I turned and left and walked back out to the main path.

A burning bush in the Wilderness

This past Shabbat's parsha was Sh'mot, the first book of Exodus. In services this week, we had a guest preacher give the drash. And he really was a preacher, from the Church across the street. He had something very powerful to say about how African Americans can relate readily to the story of the Exodus, because the memory of slavery is still a fresh one in many of their minds.

He had a lot of other interesting things to say, too. One comment had to do with the burning bush. He drew attention to that, and to the wilderness as a place in which to meet God - where God meets us, in fact, and speaks to us. And He uses signs to grab our attention. In this case, it was a bush, consumed by fire, but not being burned.

Here is the text from my copy of the JPS Tanakh:

An Angel of the LORD appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed. Moses said, "I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn't the bush burn up?" When HaShem saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: "Moses! Moses!" He answered, "Here I am."

And once I read the text more closely, I got a lot more out of it. For one thing, at the beginning of the section, it doesn't say that God is there - it says "An Angel of the LORD appeared." But we know that "Angel" means messenger. So in this case, the "messenger" is the blazing fire. This is like God's handwriting on the world. Or God sending a text message by way of his wireless, languageless device - the Universe. Or maybe, this wasn't the text just yet, but rather the beep, buzz or ring tone that lets you know you have one.

The thing is, with cell phones, pagers, emails or anything, you have the option to answer or not. You can ignore it. Save it for later. Maybe you're just too busy right now. You don't want to be bothered. But Moses says, Hey, what's this?

I love Torah - you have this ancient text, supposedly about people who have little in common with us, in terms of their daily lives, and yet, they're just people. This is basically how any of us would respond. Like rubberneckers on a highway. Whoa, what happened here? Only here is Moses, out in the wilderness, with no one to corroborate what he is seeing. He is the only one who can describe this vision, and who knows what he was really looking at? Was it a bush? Was it really on fire? Was it something else? Or does it even matter? Because, whatever it was, it got the message across.

So first, you have the bush. And presumably, this bush was not right in front of Moses, because he said, "I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight." So Moses shifted his gaze. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, and he went out of his way to look. He didn't know that God was calling to him. In that moment, he was simply aware of his surroundings, and willing to give something a second look that didn't seem to jive with his usual understanding of the world, i.e. that when bushes are filled with fire, they normally burn up.

And then it says, "When God saw that Moses had turned aside, he called to him out of the bush." And that may seem like a throwaway line. It's what you expect. Moses sees the burning bush, and the next thing you know, God is calling to him out of it. Simple right? But that line is loaded. It says God saw. So what that line is really giving us is a glimpse into the Mind of God. And it also gives us a little kernel of doubt. God sees everything, right? So if Moses had NOT turned to look at the bush, He would have seen that, too. So God was sitting on pins and needles for a while there.

Here is this guy, Moses, out in the wilderness with a flock of sheep, and God wants to call to him and make him the liberator of the Jewish people enslaved in Egypt. So God has to figure out a way of getting Moses' attention, and when he does this, by way of the burning bush (you could make an argument for a better way, but maybe that's all God had at the time) He can't even be sure if Moses is going to look at it, never mind respond. God sends the text, and the beep goes off, but what if Moses doesn't hear it? So there is God, watching to see what Moses does. When he sees that Moses has turned to look at the burning bush, then He speaks to him out of it. Not before he gets Moses' attention. He doesn't speak to get his attention. He only does it after the attention is given.

He says, "Moses! Moses!" And he answers, "Here I am!"

Not, What do you want? Not, Who are you? Just, Here I am.

And I'm thinking, what does this say to me? What does this mean in my life, right now? The pastor, who gave the drash, made a good point that when we get a call from God, or from our neighbors, we should pay attention, and think about what it means to answer, and what it means to Act. I really appreciated him saying that, because action is important to me. It's one of the things I love about Judaism - that it's not a religion of passively sitting by and imbibing philosophy, knowledge or belief, but one, ultimately, of action, and preferably action that benefits an entire community, and/or one's own life and of those close to us.

But I also wondered, and thought about later, what are the burning bushes in my life? What are those things, items, phenomena, dancing in the periphery of my vision that I should be turning my gaze toward and saying, Hey, what's this? I'm going to check this out. What are those things that aren't happening the way they are supposed to that are demanding a closer look? And if I don't look, maybe I am going to miss an important message. If Moses hadn't looked at that burning bush, the entire story of Exodus wouldn't have happened. Or at least Moses wouldn't have been a part of it. Maybe Moses wasn't the first one. Maybe God had tried to reach dozens of other men, or even women, and all of them had been too caught up in their own lives to pay attention to the message God was sending.

So if we don't pay attention to the messages in our own lives - to those burning bushes, those outliers of experience that make us say, Hey, hang on a minute, that's not quite right - we're missing a big piece of the action. We're missing the opportunity to not only have a conversation with God, but to liberate ourselves and possibly many others from the negative forces that are enslaving them.

Shavuah tov.

Drash on Joseph

There was a Bat Mitzvah at services this week, and this girl had one challenging parsha to write a drash on.

Va-Yehi - And He Lived.

Jacob lived. For better or for worse, 147 years. (I still want to know why they lived so long in those days, when we think so much of our medical advances now - but that's a discussion for another day.) Jacob, who, with the help of his mother, conned his way into getting his father's blessing while Esau was out doing just exactly what was expected of him. And for this, he was forced to flee his homeland and live in exile, even if he did become extremely wealthy because of it.

Now Jacob and his family live in Egypt, and he is dying. So he summons Joseph, his favorite son, to him, to instruct him not to bury him in Egypt, but in the tomb of his own ancestors. Then Joseph comes back to Jacob again, when he is very ill, bringing his two sons with him. Then he does a strange thing. Jacob blesses Joseph's sons. But not only does he place his right hand on the head of the younger, and his left on the head of the elder, he has to cross his arms to do it. So, despite his old age and weak sight, this is clearly a deliberate act. And it seems to recall his own life. Never mind Joseph's. Whereas it is expected that the elder sibling will always be favored, he instead favors the younger. It is like a tribute to his own experience, and the birthright he garnered, despite his less-favored position in his family.

And this, in some ways, is the tradition we inherit. I know it from another source. Because I grew up with the teachings of Jesus, one of perhaps, the most famous Jews of all time, who said, "and the last shall be first, and the first shall be last." In a similar vein, he also said, "And the stone that was rejected shall become the chief cornerstone." This is another way of saying, Don't trust what you've been given. Don't trust what looks obvious. What seems to be the stronger, more obvious choice, will not necessarily be so. What you at first reject may become the most important element of your life. And sometimes, being rejected, that is often the first step in the process of becoming something or someone truly instrumental.

But that isn't what I had planned to write about today. I wanted to write about forgiveness. Radical forgiveness. Which, to my mind, at least in this case, is not forgiveness at all, but rather, an extremely whole and sensible point of view.

Because, while the story starts with Jacob, it becomes a story about Joseph. Joseph was certainly the favored of Jacob's twelve sons. So favored, in fact, that they hated him, tore up his clothes and threw him in a pit to die. Joseph was saved, was taken to Egypt, where he became wealthy and saved the land from famine by way of his dreams. And after this, he saves his own family from the famine as well - the same family that tried to kill him.

Now, I may think I have it bad sometimes, but at least my siblings didn't try to kill me, in a literal sense. Or even figuratively. My parents didn't try to kill me. They did other things that upset me, but not that. It gives you a little perspective when you realize someone else's life is worse than yours.

After Jacob dies and Joseph buries him in the cave in the field of Machpelah, where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah and Leah are buried, the brother's get together and say, "What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for the wrong we did him?" Fair enough. They should be concerned. After all, it seems they have a guilty collective conscience. They admit themselves that they wronged their own brother, and now, of course, they have been brought to shame because in end he saved all their hides.

I was told, during the service, that the bat mitzvah girl is the daughter of a child psychologist. And this was somewhat evident in the fact that she spoke about the way we inherit our parents' bad behavior sometimes, and this is all over the Torah - especially in Genesis. But I read a lot of psychology, too, and part of me is saying that, while I don't know why Jacob favored Joseph, and probably none of us will know why, there's a good chance that his doing so actually became a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you tell one child they are a good child, and one child they are a bad one, eventually they will both figure out a way to live out the designations you have made on them. (I knew a woman once who had two sons, and every time she would talk to one of them, she would tell him, "you're the good son." She did this with both sons.) In a way, we can even do this kind of self-fulfilling prophecy on ourselves. Or, as Henry Ford (and doubtless others have) said, "Whether you think you can, or you think you can't, you are right."

So Jacob planted in Joseph the seeds of greatness, and in his other sons, the seeds of resentment. The next plan of the other 11 sons was motivated by guilt and fear. Rather than confront Joseph and say, Hey, you know, look, we were crap back there when we threw you in the pit. It really sucked and we're sorry. So we hope you can forgive us. Instead they make up some phony message from their dead father, which obviously can't be corroborated, saying that he (Jacob) had instructed Joseph to forgive his brothers.

Joseph is in tears, so we can only assume that he believes them. Or perhaps he takes this as their own confession of guilt, and sees through their hastily-constructed lie, even though he doesn't say it. Then they fling themselves down and offer to be his slaves. But Joseph refuses. And I love what he says:

Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God?
Besides, though you intended me harm,
God intended it for good,
So as to bring about the present result -
the survival of many people.

From there it is a short paragraph to his death at the age of 110 years. But in this statement alone is an enormously valuable legacy.

I mentioned that I read a lot of psychology. I read a lot about cycles of abuse and bad behavior and bad thinking, and about how these things become perpetuated, both within ourselves, and with other people, by constantly responding to the abuse, the fear, and the pain. The message is always the same: the only way to break the cycle is not to respond to the abuse. Don't acknowledge the fear. Don't let the pain drive your actions. As soon as you've done that, you've lost the battle. But it's one of the hardest things to do when you think those are your only options. When everyone you have ever known has abused you or treated you badly, it is really easy to want to do the same thing. And yet Joseph refuses. He refuses to be caught up in that cycle.

But it is not through his own power, or his own perspective that he is able to achieve this enormous sense of - probably unjustified - forgiveness. Because he not only forgives his brothers. He, in essence, thanks them. He says, If you hadn't done that to me then, I wouldn't be where I am now. Talk about heaping coals. But heaping coals was when he saved their lives. Now he is on a whole new level.

Now he is on the level of God - seeing the Big Picture. He doesn't respond to his own feelings of pain, of hurt, of betrayal and abandonment. He has accepted his past, and he is grateful for it. Because even though he knows he can never really "know" the Mind of God, he can see how circumstances have led him to where he is, and get past what would be simply a knee-jerk reaction and instead see how a negative experience became a positive one for him. He doesn't say to his brother's a lame, "It's okay, guys, let's move on," either. He acknowledges a higher power, a greater plan. He humbles them again, indirectly pointing out that even their most vicious intents were no match for the Mind of God. And maybe he believed in himself, maybe he didn't. Maybe he just lived his life with his eyes open, and wasn't willing to "take an eye for an eye." Because he, like Ghandhi, realized that that would make the whole world blind. But in the end, by being able to step back, to step out of his own experience and look at it with the cool eye of reason, he was able to stop the cycle, giving his brothers nothing to feel guilty for, nothing to be angry about, and putting responsibility exactly where it belonged - in God's hands.

Hanukkah Miracles

I am not supposed to write today, because it is the Sabbath, nor should I be using the computer. But it's the last day of Hanukkah, and before I get too busy doing other things, I want to share my experience of my own, personal Hanukkah miracle, or miracles, really.

This season was full of them. In fact, I could feel the miraculous energy swirling around me sometimes.

Miracle 1: My mother sent me a Hanukkah card. This is my mother, who had nothing to say when I told her and my father I was Jewish, except, "But...what about Christmas?" I told her she could have all the Christmas she wanted. I had every Sabbath, and I had Pesach and Shavuot, and Rosh Hashanah, and all the rest. So we said nothing else about my religion, and I thought she would avoid the topic altogether. Then, a few days before Hanukkah, a card arrived in the mail, which I was almost certain would be a "Holiday" card, or even a Christmas-themed card of some kind, with a cheesy saying she'd made up. It wasn't overly Hanukkah-y. It sported a watercolor of a dove on the front, with "Shalom" in Hebrew letters (a word I recognized, thanks to my Beginning Hebrew class). Inside was a message about hoping my season was filled with Miracles, and she wrote that she wished me a Happy Hanukkah underneath. So that was miracle one, that she sent it.

Miracle 2 was that the card was on time. My mom has never sent a card to me on time, I don't think, in her life. And she was never on time to pick me up from school or to drop me off at band/choir/theater practice my entire childhood. The message to me was: my life wasn't important to her. But she responded to something different this time. This time I chose what was important to me, and I didn't need her approval. I didn't even need her support. But for the first time, she was able to show for me, on time, for something that was important to me, even though it, literally, goes against her religion. Halleluia to that.

Then there was the miracle of the Latke party. Weeks ago, I volunteered to host a Monday - fourth night - Hanukkah party at my house, in which I would make my first-ever latkes for all the guests. This was through a new Minyan in the area, and many would be invited, though I knew it wouldn't be a huge crowd, it being Monday night, and my house being far from most people, in the remote town where I live.

My friend Jen had volunteered to make sufganiyot that night, and I was afraid (though I didn't say it) that if she decided to do that at a different place, then most people would go there, since she is more well-known in the community than I am. But that worked out when she decided to just cook them at my house, so that we could do a joint party.

Then, as the date approached, I had more worries. For one thing, it rained the week before Hanukkah, and where I live, rain means the ants all move indoors. That's exactly what happened, and my house was becoming steadily overrun by tiny ants marching through the bathroom, living room, and kitchen. I put out ant traps that did nothing to make them go away, and the more I tried to clean them up and destroy their ant trails, the more they seemed to invade. I nearly called the party off just because of that, because even the day before, they were everywhere, including in my kitchen drawers, where I kept tin foil and bags and tupperware containers. But I held off. I didn't pick up the phone. Instead, I went to the hardware store, and I got a liquid ant killer that I'd been eying before, and decided to try. The ants started to eat it, and I hoped that would do the trick. Then another friend came by with a different kind of ant trap, and so I put those down, too, for extra protection. Thankfully, when I woke up Monday morning, all but a few ants were gone. It was a miracle! I was ready to rejoice.

But I had another problem. Lack of work meant that cash was tight. I had bought a few supplies for the party ahead of time, but that morning I found myself without enough cash to buy potatoes. It was a sad state of affairs. But I still had to believe that the party needed to go on. I had committed to it. People were counting on me. But not only that, I was counting on me. I had a need to make this happen - to make potato latkes, and open my home to people of the Jewish community, as had been done for me the previous year. Thankfully, my friend stepped in to help again. He saw my need, and even though he'd been having some trouble of his own, he helped me out. We went to the grocery store and bought a few supplies on a very tight budget. But it all worked out well. I was even able to make a small deposit to my bank account, which prevented (just barely) an overdraft on my account that I was worried about.

So that was Miracle number 3, and 4.

But wait, there's more. When I went to make the latkes, I discovered that, of all the things I had remembered to buy, frying oil wasn't one of them. Plain oil isn't something I normally keep in my kitchen. I generally only use olive oil. So I looked, and all I had was about a half a cup of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. My friend Jen offered for me to use the leftover oil from the sufganiyot, which had only a small amount of sediment in it, but still smelled a bit like doughnuts. I decided I would try olive oil. Two nights before, I had enjoyed latkes that someone had cooked in olive oil, and I thought it could work, or perhaps a mixture of the two. It looked like I had enough, and when I checked the label, I saw that it was certified kosher.

So I cooked the latkes in olive oil, and they came out delicious. They were crispy on the edges, and not too brown, with just a hint of garlic, and few other spices for flavoring. Everyone loved them, including Roger, who had invited me to be on the planning committee for the Minyan in the first place. He waxed poetic about them, holding his hand up in the air with his fingers touching his thumb, and shook it in just that way that means what he ate was just so perfect, he couldn't even put his finger on it. He said, "See? You even made me talk like this!" And he did it again. It was all worth it.

And I found out later from a rabbi that, despite the doubt some people had expressed about the viability of cooking latkes in olive oil, it was probably the most authentic way to cook them, since olive oil is precisely the kind of oil the Maccabees had needed and had found and used in the Temple after they defeated the Assyrian Greeks.

And in a way, the way I found it was very similar. I found that I did not have what I thought I needed. The oil that my friend had brought was already "defiled" by having been used for the doughnuts, and so what I had left was a small amount of pure, unadulterated, kosher olive oil, which didn't look like enough to cook the huge batch of potato pancakes I had prepared. And yet, once I started cooking, I realized that I in fact did have enough, that it lasted as long as I needed it to, with even a little left over. And my pancakes were delicious, as perfect as I could have wanted them, and kosher.

It was all an amazing success, and even more so because I had not thought it possible that it could happen.

But Hashem does make the impossible possible. Where we see blockages and hurdles, G-d lifts us over and carries us through, if only we keep walking. Because that's what I did. I could have turned aside. I could have called the party off. But I had a vision for it that it was going to happen, and I didn't want to let that vision go. In the end, it became exactly as I had imagined it. But only because Hashem blessed me, over and over again, and made possibilities appear where I had only seen challenges.

And so I realized later that, just as it had said on the card my mother sent me, my Hanukkah was indeed filled with miracles.

Parshat Vayishlach

We had a difficult reading this week. I was somewhat gratified that the woman who gave the drash chose to speak about the Rape of Dinah - sometimes called the "Ravishing" of Dinah - but I have to confess that I differ with her on some points.

She started by linking what happened in the story with the tragic incident of a recent gang rape in Richmond, which took place in front of onlookers who did nothing at all to stop it.

But I believe it is too easy to look at the story of Dinah and say, "Look, she was raped. That is bad." And conclude that the Bible, the writers of the Bible, and Judaism itself condones rape. It's too easy to say that this is a story the glorifies the desecration of women, and just "goes to show" that we live in a patriarchal society that sees women as objects to be traded, or meat to be sold. To me, that is all too simplistic, because that is not at all what I heard when the Torah was read this week.

The text says that Dinah, "Went out to visit the daughters of the land" (Gen. 34:1) So maybe she had some friends. She wanted to go shopping. We don't know. But the text makes it clear that she wasn't leaving the house to consort with men. However, we are told that Shechem, who was the son of the country's chief ruler, Hamor, saw Dinah, and suddenly he "had to have her." He had to so much that he "took her and lay with her by force" (Gen. 34:2). We don't know how she responded. We don't know if she screamed, bit, kicked, or acquiesced. If he held her by the throat, does that mean she submitted willingly? But in the end it doesn't matter. The text is clear, she was taken by force. Therefore, she was not taken of her own will, it was not consensual, and moreover, Shechem is not a Jew. If she had wanted to go with him, her brothers still might have been upset, since they were not permitted to marry outside the clan.

I searched through my "Concise Book of Mitzvoth" for the particular mitzvah that prohibits the taking of a woman by force. I didn't find it. But I remember reading that there are specific guidelines regarding what does and does not constitute rape in the Jewish tradition. For example, if a woman is taken by force in a city street, and she screams, but no one hears her, she is raped, and the man is punished. If she is taken in a field, where no one can hear her, if she says she was raped, she was raped, since there is no one else who could have heard her, even if she screamed. If, however, she is raped in a city street, and she says nothing or makes no noise, and she could have screamed, then she is held at least partly accountable, because she could have called for help but didn't. So there are very clear prohibitions against taking a woman by force.

But there are other prohibitions that suggest that rape is something that is looked down upon. Among the prohibitions I am thinking of, there is "Not to take anything in robbery from one's fellow-man by main force," "Not to wrongfully retain anything belonging to one's fellow-man," and "Not to covet (desire) anything belonging to one's fellow-man." In this case, "to covet" means not only "to desire" but also to take some action toward obtaining the desired thing.

I do not mean to imply that women are or should be legally regarded as "objects" to be "obtained" by men, although you could say that might have been the going mentality of the time. But I think I mean more that, through making these prohibitions on objects or things that one might desire, which are not rightfully yours, the same would apply to a woman, if a man happened to desire her. And actually, if he did desire her and "take" her - by force or through action - it is wrong precisely because by doing this he DOES make an object of her.

Some other mitzvoth that I believe apply here are the the prohibition "To do nothing whatever from which there can result hillul Hashem, a desecration of the Divine name," and "To destroy no holy thing and to erase no name whatever among the holy names [of God]," mitzvot 155 and 157, respectively. These have to do specifically with the names of God. But a mystical reading of this idea could say that in a way, we are all letters of Torah, and all letters are part of Torah, which contains the Name of God. Each person contains a spark of the Divine Light, and so the Name of God in some ways, is written by our very being. The description of this second mitzvah, 157, quotes the scripture from which it comes, "You shall not do so to Hashem your God," (D'varim 12:4). Therefore if you are not going to do it to Hashem, by extension you are not - or should not - do "it", that is, destroy, your fellow human being. "It is forbidden to break and to destroy any object of holiness."

And that is exactly what rape does. It destroys a person. It breaks holiness. It erases part of a person's name, their sanctity, their identity. It dims their light. It robs them of joy, of life, of themselves. The Jewish people of old knew this as well as we know it today.

And that's where the woman who gave the drash was right when she said that nothing has changed. But not only has it not changed that rape still can and does occur, which is tragic and lamentable. It has also not changed that people hate it now as much as we did then. This is evidenced by the reaction of Dinah's brothers, Simeon and Levi.

Simeon and Levi were "out in the field" when all this took place. Because Shechem didn't merely "take" Dinah and let her go. He brought her back to his house, and went with Hamor to Jacob to negotiate over how he could get Dinah to be his wife, because he claimed to "love" her.

This is clearly a case where we have a mixed message. Shechem "loves Dinah" and so he "spoke to the maiden tenderly" (Gen. 34:3). But he also took her by force, which means, it is not possible that he loved her in the true sense. This would be an example of love in the distorted, arrogant sense that means you believe you have the right to anything you desire. It means you think if you love a person, that person "belongs" to you. It means you don't bother to seek the other person's permission. You railroad them with your feelings, leaving them numb and invalidated. It is abusive love, at it's worst. And the Torah makes no excuse for it.

No one supports Shechem's action, except his own father, so we can assume the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And they are punished in a way a lot of us would probably like to see someone punished who degrades so severely a member of our family. Dinah's brothers take action to save her honor that most of us would not only be afraid to do, for fear of legal consequences, but we just plain wouldn't have the guts to carry out.

So Jacob waits for Simeon and Levi to come back from the field, while Hamor is there, trying to negotiate a way to get his son access to Dinah as a wife, even though he has already pretty much "had" her. The brothers come in, and we're sure they are pretty angry, but they exercise a huge amount of restraint. Rather than tackling the men right there, risking their own lives, they pretend to collude with them. And by doing that, they get more than just petty revenge. They "speak with guile" "because he (Shechem) had defiled their sister Dinah" (Gen. 34:13). They put up a challenge. If Hamor gets Shechem and all the men of the city to circumcise themselves, then Jacob will let the men marry his daughters. Meanwhile, if they don't do it, the Israelites will pack up their beautiful maidens and leave. So Shechem and Hamor, thinking they are about to get a really good deal, go off and self-mutilate their genitals.

When they have done this, Simeon and Levi wait three days, and "on the third day, when they (the men of the town) were in pain" (Gen. 34:25) (because they had just circumcised themselves), Simeon and Levi stroll in, armed to the teeth, but under no suspicion because it was believed that they were on Hamor and Shechem's side. They then surprised the men of the town and slaughtered as many of them as they could, plundered everything, and took back Dinah.

Of course, they couldn't stay there anymore, after that.

But they did defend their sister's honor.

Compare their action to supposed "honor killings" in some Muslim communities. Not all Muslims do this, of course, but for those who do, the belief is that when a woman is raped it is somehow "her fault." You know, like she looked too beautiful, or she walked just so - she was "asking for it." And this doesn't happen only in Muslim communities. Many men is Western, developed nations try to blame women for their own sexual assault. But in some extreme Muslim communities, it is acceptable, indeed, sometimes expected, that to save a woman's "honor," a husband, brother or father will hunt down the rape victim and kill her.

That happens now. Today. And it's abhorrent. To my mind, this practice is orders of magnitude worse than what occurs in Parshat Vayishlach with Dinah, and we should be much more worried about that than about whether or not this story is "difficult" to read. Of course it's difficult. Because life is difficult. And the Torah doesn't sugar-coat it for us.

Dinah was raped. There is no question about that. But nobody blames Dinah. Nobody persecutes her, and nobody punishes her. Quite the opposite. Her brothers are inflamed with anger because her body was desecrated, but not at her. At the men who took her. And not only do they seek out to harm the men who hurt her, they first use their bargaining power to cause the men of Shechem to essentially violate themselves to be in pain for three days before the brothers arrive to liberate their sister.

Every woman should be so lucky to have brothers ready to defend her honor with such passion.