February 18, 2010 | 10:44 pm

God’s Olympics

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

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This week, I’ve been completely engrossed in the winter Olympics. My favorite sport is figure skating. I marvel at the grace, skill and artistry of the skaters as they perform their intricate spins and jumps. I love the choreography as the Olympians tell stories with their bodies in harmony with the music. I’m particularly impressed because I can barely skate around the rink a few times without falling on my tush (not to mention trying to jump or spin)!

However, I don’t enjoy listening to the commentators. Here I am marveling at the skaters and they’re kvetching about it. They’ll say things like: “That was only a double Lutz, and it should have been a triple.” If a skater had a bad landing early in the performance and five minutes later, he or she is flying through the air, the commentator would say, “She’s doing great now, but it’s too bad that she didn’t nail the landing on that first jump!”

I understand that skaters need to be evaluated in a competitive sport, and scrutiny motivates them to strive for excellence, but the commentators were interfering with my enjoyment of the program. Still, I couldn’t press the mute button because then I would miss the music.

While experiencing this conflict, I suddenly thought: “God must feel this way.” If God were watching both the video and audio tracks of our lives – complete with our thoughts and the reactions of people around us – God would surely have a similar reaction. Often we’re growing, learning, and accomplishing good things, and yet we’re dwelling on small mistakes.

As the Olympians strive for their gold medals, this week’s portion is also focused on gold metal. Rather than earning medals, the people donate and craft gold into intricate garments for priests to wear when officiating in the tabernacle. The portion then describes the ritual for preparing Aaron and his sons for their priestly service. This ceremony was understood by the midrash as helping Aaron atone for his role in the sin of the Golden Calf. The tabernacle ritual represented that even though the people made mistakes, God would still be with them always.

Like the Olympians, each of us has our own set of commentators, evaluating our performance in life against a certain standard. These expectations may be external or more often they may be ideas we’ve internalized from our parents or from society of how we should be. Likewise, these demands may be driven by our own goals and timeframes we’ve set for ourselves to accomplish our ambitions.

We can’t eliminate our internal commentators entirely because their feedback helps us improve our technique. And yet, we have to turn their volume down and make time to turn them off. Shabbat and holidays aren’t merely times for rest, but also occasions to release ourselves from the chain of internal critique.

As we strive for excellence, our tradition reminds of God’s forgiving nature. By muting criticism, we can listen more closely to the music and enjoy the dance of life. In this way, we can truly go for the gold.

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February 4, 2010 | 10:05 pm

Under the Sea

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

Recently, I took my kids to the Long Beach Aquarium of the Pacific. As we walked through the exhibit, we reached one observatory with many fish, coral, and a diver who was cleaning the glass of the window. We watched the fish for a few minutes, and then I asked the kids if they’d like to go see the rest of the exhibits. They refused to move. They just wanted to stay at that one area. Seeing the look of wonder in my children’s eyes, I too became mesmerized by the fish with their vibrant colors, and intricate patterns – each one unique from the rest but yet interconnected in a web of interdependent relationships.

I thought: there must be a God; there’s no way that all this is a fluke. One could argue about how nature developed and how long this process took, but no matter what, I felt that it couldn’t be an accident – but rather a thoughtful design. This moment was not an intellectual realization but simply a feeling in my kishkes (guts) – a quiet sense of awe and wonder.

This week’s Torah portion is perhaps the most dramatic one in the entire Torah. The parasha recounts how with earthquakes, thunder, lightening, and a loud blast of the shofar, God spoke the words of the Ten Commandments to the people at Mount Sinai. Amidst all this noise, there’s one small phrase which is easily overlooked. In the fourth commandment, the reason to keep Shabbat is explained: “because in six days God created the heavens and the earth and the sea and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day.”

The rabbis noted a curiosity in the language here that the sea is specifically mentioned. By contrast, Genesis 1:1 states that “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth,” without mentioning the sea (which is assumed to be included in the earth).

In the Mekhilta (a third century commentary on Exodus), the rabbis explained that the sea is specifically mentioned to highlight that “the sea is equal to all other works of creation.” This teaching is a powerful statement about the importance of the sea. As our oceans are now in grave danger from pollution, this verse reminds us of our duty to protect the sea.

In our day, spiritual awakening might not entail earthquakes, thunderbolts, and lightening. One can sense the sacred simply by taking an afternoon stroll by the sea.

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January 26, 2010 | 4:42 pm

Taking the Scenic Route

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

At my son’s preschool, there are two ways that you can bring your children to class in the morning. You can drop them off in the carpool line through the garage or you can park and walk them to their classroom. Certainly, the carpool line is a more direct route. You don’t have to find a parking space or even get out of the car. The teachers swiftly unbuckle your child from the back seat, and this quick, simple process only takes a few minutes. By contrast, taking your child to the classroom involves finding parking, walking them through the building, dropping their lunch in their cubby, finding their teacher and classmates out on the playground where you say good bye, and walking back through the building to the car. All told, walking your child to class takes about a half hour longer than carpool line.

For my son Jeremy’s first year of preschool, I dropped him off each morning in the carpool line, but one day I walked him in to deliver a form to the office. From that day on, Jeremy refused to go through the morning carpool line and insisted that I take him to the classroom. He noticed that this extended our time together and felt more comfortable with the transition this way.

As I began to walk Jeremy to the classroom regularly, I noticed a few things gradually happen. I started to get to know his teachers better, as I would see them each day. I also became better acquainted with the other parents. We made play dates and talked about camp plans or swim lessons. Jeremy pointed out to me his art projects that hung in the classroom, and I was far more aware of what was happening at school. In Jeremy’s second year of preschool, both he and I had a better experience by choosing the indirect route.

In this week’s Torah portion, when the people left Egypt, God took them on an indirect route. Exodus recounts:

And it came to pass, when Pharaoh had let the people go, that God led them not through the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near;
for God said, ‘Lest perhaps the people repent when they see war, and they return to Egypt;’ But God led the people around, through the way of the
wilderness of the Red Sea; and the people of Israel went up armed out of the land of Egypt.

God’s choice here is surprising. When fleeing slavery, one would want to leave as quickly as possible! (Indeed, Pharaoh and his army soon came chasing after the Israelites with his horsemen and chariots.) Why would God choose a longer escape route?

The rabbis offer many explanations. Some list practical concerns: that if the people had gone on the shorter route, the Philistines might have attacked them. Yet Rashi (an eleventh century commentator) explained that if they had gone a direct way, they would have found it too easy to turn back when they became discouraged, so God purposely lead them in a circuitous path. The Talmud states that sometimes in life, “There is a short way which is long, and a long way, which is short.”

Again and again as a parent I’ve discovered the truth of this maxim. I’ve found that the more difficult route is often the better choice. For example, making a birthday cake with one’s child is more work than buying a cake from the store, but the memory of baking together will be with the child for the rest of their lives. (I know because my mother and I made our birthday cake together each year when I was young, which is one of my fondest memories.)

This principle is true not only for our children but for us, as parents as well. One of the frustrations of parenthood is that it can slow us down and change our course. Important projects take longer than they did before kids. A graduate degree that might normally take a few years, may take a parent of young children a decade to complete. A book might take longer to write.

Or our destination may be different than we originally thought. A professional may discover that he or she prefers to be a stay at home parent, or someone who assumed s/he’d be a full time parent, may discover that s/he needs to or wants to work. Moms and dads may end up living or working in a different place than we originally envisioned. As parents, our dreams shift. On an indirect route, sometimes we can’t see the path ahead clearly. We may not know where our new road will lead. We may make mistakes or take detours along the way.

Indeed, my shift in how I dropped off my son to school mirrored a change within me to a less direct route in my own life. Before having children, I was a full-time congregational rabbi, but after having my second child, my career no longer followed a linear path as before. Although I was raised in a dual career family and assumed that I would always work, I was surprised how much I enjoyed being home with the kids, and I didn’t know what to make of those feelings. Where would my new path lead?

In reflection, the Exodus text has a few insights to share. It reminds us that our detours may not necessarily be mistakes. If unexpected turns offer new perspective, then they are important steps along the way. The Exodus text encourages us to have faith – even when we can’t see our way ahead clearly. Sometimes, God knows us better than we know ourselves.

The Exodus reminds us that we are bigger than the categories that we try to fit ourselves into. Working parent, stay at home parent, professional, – those boxes are too small to encompass the complexity and beauty of who we are. Life is far more complicated and wondrous than simple labels allow.

The Exodus reminds us that as long as we are open to learning along the path, then no matter how windy, our road will eventually lead us to liberation. Like taking Jeremy to school, what was important was not only the destination but the relationships that were built along the way. As parents, no matter how many frustrations we face, hopefully we meet some good people along the way and make memories that will last a lifetime.

I better stop writing and go pick up Jeremy from school.

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January 15, 2010 | 5:17 pm

When the Plague Subsides

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

This week was tough. Sunday night, I came down with the stomach flu and was up all night in pain. I was a wreck all day Monday and then when I started to feel a bit better, my two-year old daughter Hannah woke up Tuesday morning with pink-eye.

Illness is jarring. One moment you’re totally fine and then the next minute, you’re out of commission. The experience reminds us how vulnerable our bodies really are. We like to think that we can plan and get tasks accomplished but our sickness (or that of our kids) demonstrate how tentative our plans actually are. As the Yiddish phrase goes: Mann traoch, Gott lauch Man plans, God laughs.

However, I don’t even feel entitled to write that I had a lousy week – given the earthquake in Haiti. One minute everything in Haiti was fine, and then the next minute witnessed devastation of catastrophic proportions.

How fitting then that this week, we read about the plagues. Like illness or an earthquake, the plagues came on suddenly and threw everything out of whack with drastic, debilitating physical maladies. After a few days, the plagues passed, just as suddenly as they had come.

Moses and Aaron had appeared before Pharaoh and asked that he “let my people go,” which he refused. So God brought successive plagues of increasing severity. For the first few plagues, Pharaoh was not overly impressed. However during the frogs plague (and the plagues thereafter), Pharaoh relented but then once the plague was over, Pharaoh changed his mind and refused to free the slaves.

This week, I thought of Pharaoh and identified with him a little. My first day of feeling well after being sick felt like a miracle. Nothing exciting happened; I just took Hannah to the doctor for her pink eye and took care of her at home. But still, I was so grateful that I could function and wasn’t in pain that I couldn’t be upset about anything. But after a few days, I again became stressed (about all that I hadn’t accomplished in the days that I was sick) and forgot the wonder of just feeling physically okay.

The story of Pharaoh reveals something fundamental about human psychology. Often, we’re compassionate in a crisis but less so thereafter. For example, in the immediate aftermath of an earthquake or tsunami, people from all over the world give generously – which is absolutely essential. But once the coverage dies down, we forget about people in need, day in and day out.

Pharaoh’s example leaves me with the question: How can we hold on to the gratitude and compassion we feel during a crisis once it has passed?

I once saw a woman wearing a shirt that said: “Too blessed to be stressed.” I imagined wearing that phrase on a bracelet as a daily reminder to keep things in perspective. Likewise, the prayer that is traditionally said each morning after going to the bathroom acknowledges the vulnerability of our bodies, that if one of our intricate parts was “blocked or opened, then it would be impossible to exist.” This prayer thanks God, who “heals all flesh and works wonders.”

For me, most often, the daily reminders come from watching my children. When my daughter was home with pink-eye, my husband Tal called to check how she was doing. We were having a boring morning at home. She was playing with a puzzle while I put away the laundry. When Tal asked her how she was, she said, “I’m having a fun time at home.” My children remind me that even the most mundane moments of life are miracles.

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January 8, 2010 | 3:22 pm

Bare Feet

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

Bare Feet
My children constantly take off their shoes. When they get into the car, the first thing they do is remove their socks and shoes. When we come home, they immediately remove their shoes. Everywhere we go, they are constantly shedding their footwear.

Maybe they like the feel of the air against their feet. Or maybe they know something that I don’t.

In this week’s Torah portion, when Moses reached the burning bush, God called to him and said, “Take your shoes off your feet for the land that you are standing on is holy ground.”

Why did he need to remove his shoes? Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim ben Aaron of sixteenth-century Poland explained:

“The path is always full of sharp objects and stones. When one wears shoes, one can easily step on the small stones lying on the way, almost without feeling them. However, when walking barefoot, one feels every small thing lying on the ground, every thorn, every painful stone.”

Rabbi Shlomo explained that God told Moses to take off his shoes because a leader “must feel every obstacle and every impediment which lies on his path. He must feel the pain of his people and realize what is bothering them.” In order to encounter holiness, Moses had to experience the challenges along the way.

Like Moses hearing God at the burning bush, becoming a parent is sacred endeavor. Parenthood calls us to drop our guard and open ourselves up to feeling fully. Some of our feelings are wonderful – as we hold our child and marvel at them. But some of these feelings, like the stones on the ground, are painful such as exhaustion or listening to the baby crying and trying to soothe it. Nonetheless, like Moses, we must feel it all. For only then can we encounter God and live more deeply.

I once heard a Holocaust survivor named Gerda Seifer speak about her time in hiding during the war. During the days, she hid in a crawl space in the attic, not big enough to stand up or move. She longed to walk outside in the sunlight in the sunlight, barefoot, and feel the grass beneath her foot. Her wish was simple, but at the time, as a Jew in Poland, it was impossible. With war raging in various parts of the world today, for many people walking safely outside is still an impossible dream.

Even on my most challenging days, Gerda’s example has to power to snap my life back into focus. Each time I am outside with my children, I make sure to take off my shoes for a while and remember that even just being outside in freedom with my children is a precious privilege. This simple action has become an important spiritual exercise for me, a daily reminder of how blessed I truly am.

The daily bumps on the road of parenting can sometimes make us lose our balance. To regain perspective, I offer this advice: Go outside, take your shoes off, think of Gerda, and smile.

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December 31, 2009 | 1:08 pm

Discovering Mystery

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

This week, on our winter vacation, my husband, Tal, made a list of supplies before we went out to the market. My five-year-old son Jeremy wanted to get something from the store, but he didn’t know what he wanted. So he asked Tal to put “mystery” on the list, so he would remember to get Jeremy whatever struck his fancy in the store.

As we were shopping, we bought what we needed, and Tal recited the list to check whether we had gotten everything: “Milk, boots, detergent, mystery.” We’d found everything on the list – including a bag of pretzels which was Jeremy’s choice for “mystery.” I smiled: If only it were so easy to attain mystery in one’s life.

I had spent the day reading a gripping novel called Drawing in the Dust by Rabbi Zoe Klein. The book is a romantic, archaeological mystery set in Israel, and the story was absolutely riveting. From the moment I started the book, I couldn’t put it down. I kept wondering: What would they uncover next? Would the heroine and her love interest get together in the end?

By contrast, my life seemed rather benign and unexciting. If only I could pick up some mystery at the market!

This week’s Torah portion also tells the story of someone eager to uncover life’s secrets. In the parsha, called Vayehi (which means “and he lived”), Jacob was near death, so he gathered all his sons and grandsons and said, “Come together and I will tell you what will happen to you in days to come.” That opening must have gotten their attention!

Although Jacob promised to reveal the future, instead he told each son about their past actions and character. These “blessings” feel disappointing after such an enticing introduction. Why can’t Jacob reveal the future? Why can’t any of us see what lies ahead?

Lately, I’ve often wished that I could predict the future. I have to make a series of decisions, but the answers depend in part on events that haven’t happened yet. If I knew the outcome, I could make perfect choices. But now, my decisions are inevitably flawed because of my limited purview. And I know I’m not alone in wanting to know the future. A friend of mine recently began a new relationship and is eager to know whether it will work out. She feels that if she knew the future, then she could enjoy their courtship more – without needing to worry whether he’ll break her heart.

Why couldn’t Jacob tell the future? Why can’t we?

Perhaps, the answer lies in the shopping list. Though I’m sure the Jacob sons would be eager to hear their future, if Jacob had actually told them, their lives would have been far less exciting. It would be as though they had skipped ahead and read the last page of a novel – and then found the rest of the book far less interesting. If we knew the future, we could make better choices and fewer mistakes. But our lives wouldn’t feel like a gripping drama – where we’re glued to our seats, wondering how things will unfold. Knowing the future would surely make life easier, but then we’d be missing one crucial ingredient.

New Years is a time which is popular for making resolutions. We typically reflect on the year that has passed and write a mental list of what we want for the coming year. On the list for 2010, don’t forget to include romance, passion, and especially: mystery.

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December 23, 2009 | 6:52 pm

Changing Dreams

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

I spoke with my friend Lisa last week, who is due to have her third child in January. Before having children, Lisa was a first grade teacher. After she had her first child five years ago, she left teaching to be a full-time mom. I asked her, “Do you think you’ll go back to teaching when your kids are older?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Before having kids, I felt a strong drive to teach children, but now that I have my own kids, I don’t feel the same need. Maybe I would do something else.” Since she’s about to have a baby, she’s years away from confronting that question in a serious way.

This exchange made me think: How does having children affect our life’s goals? How do our lives as parents differ from our previous visions of how our life would be?

This week’s parsha tells the story of Joseph, and how his dreams changed over time. As a teenager, Joseph dreamed that his brothers and his parents would all bow down to him – and he told them so! Joseph’s youthful arrogance led his brothers to throw him into a pit and sell him into slavery. Years later, Joseph rose to power in Egypt by developing a plan to help the Egyptians through years of famine.

The parsha, called Vayigash (and he approached), recounts how Joseph reveals himself to his brothers who have come down to Egypt. In a moving speech, Joseph tells the brothers not to feel bad for what they did to him because “God sent me before you to preserve life.” Joseph explained how his efforts saved the Egyptians from starvation, and will enable him to save their lives as well. He repeats: “So now it was not you who sent me here, but God.”

What a different vision Joseph has now than as a teenager! Although he previously dreamed of dominating his family, Joseph now recognized that God had a different dream for him – that he would save others and his family. What changed Joseph’s perspective?

Joseph surely endured many trials and tribulations since his teenage boasts. He became successful in Potiphar’s house only to wind up spending two years in prison before meeting Pharaoh and rising to power in Egypt. However, it’s striking to note that the last event mentioned before the brother’s travel to Egypt is that Joseph became a parent. He and his wife Asenath had two sons.

Perhaps becoming a parent helped Joseph to see his life’s purpose differently. Indeed the names that he gives his children indicate a change happening within Joseph. Each name is a play on words. The Torah recounts that Joseph named his first son Menashe “because God, said he, has made me forget (nashani) all my toil, and all my father’s house.” He named his second son Ephraim “because God has made me fruitful (hifrani) in the land of my affliction.”

The names show that becoming a parent helped Joseph come to terms with his past and find new gratitude for his blessings. In caring for his children, perhaps Joseph became more acutely aware of the need to provide for all God’s children.

For each of us, becoming a parent has the same power. After having kids some of our previous dreams seem to go by the wayside – and new goals take their place. We may discover that God’s dreams for us are different than the ones we had. Sometimes God knows us better than we know ourselves.

What dreams have you lost since becoming a parent?

What new dreams have you gained?

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December 18, 2009 | 12:59 am

Unexpected Miracles

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

Last weekend, my two-year old daughter Hannah lost one of her shoes. These shoes were her favorite, and she refused to wear any other pair. My husband and I searched every nook and cranny of our house. We scoured our cars. We checked her stroller. We looked in the garage – in case they had fallen out of the stroller. We searched everywhere until finally, we stopped and played outside with the kids.

An hour later, I opened one of Hannah’s drawers to grab a sweater, and there was the shoe – right on top of the clothes.

This incident reminded me of a story by Rabbi Levi Isaac ben Meir of Berdichev of Eighteenth-century Spain. The story is retold in Noah Ben Shea’s The Word (Villard, 1995).

A man was running down the street looking only straight ahead.

The rabbi in the community saw the man and asked him: “Why are you in such a rush?”

“I’m trying to make a living,” said the man, hesitant to even slow down to answer the question.

“Do you think,” asked the rabbi, “that it is possible that the living you are trying to make is not ahead of you but behind you and all that is required
of you is to stand still?”

The Talmud echoes the sentiment of this story. The rabbis teach that “From one who runs after greatness, greatness flees. But one who runs away from greatness, greatness follows. One who forces time is forced back by time. One who yields to time finds time standing by his side.”

The holiday of Hannukah commemorates the miracle of oil in the ancient Temple that was only enough for one day but lasted for eight. The miracle was not that more oil appeared, but rather that the existing oil lasted longer than people thought it would. In essence, the holiday celebrates how things can turn out better than expected.

We often worry about worse-case scenarios but forget that things can also work out even better than we imagined. In economic crisis, our natural response is to rush with greater urgency to make a living – like the man in the story – never pausing for even a moment to reflect. In our frantic search, we can easily lose hope and perspective.

In these uncertain times, the holiday of Hannukah reminds us to take heart and yield to time. Because you never know: miracles can happen when you least expect. You may actually find what you’ve lost, just as soon as you stop looking for it.

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December 10, 2009 | 8:28 pm

The Hanukkah Wish

Posted by Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

“What do you want for Hanukkah?” Bubby asked my five-old-son Jeremy.

“The Horton Hears a Who Book,” he answered. “That’s my favorite.”

“But you already have that book.” she replied gently, “You don’t want two copies of the same book. What else do you want for Hannukah?”

“I want to draw. I love drawing.” Jeremy replied, and so Bubby decided to buy him an art set.

Overhearing this conversation, I was struck by the fact that both of Jeremy’s wishes referred to things he already had – his favorite book and the ability to draw. Rather than longing for what he didn’t own, Jeremy wished for what he already possessed.

This week’s Torah portion also speaks of a boy’s wish. In the beginning of the portion (Vayeshev), Joseph is blessed with a carefree childhood, as his father’s favorite son. However, Joseph wanted more. As a teenager, Joseph envisioned grandeur; he dreamt that his brothers and parents would bow down to him – and he told them so!

By the end of the Torah portion, the absolute opposite of Joseph’s wish occurs. He is alone and forgotten in prison. As he languishes in prison, Joseph then longs for what he previously had – freedom, companionship, and family.

Joseph’s story reminds me of a tale I heard Rabbi Jonathan Bernhard tell.

Once there was a king who had a court painter from whom he regularly commissioned royal portraits. After many years, the king grew tired of these paintings and asked the artist instead to paint a picture of love. The court painter had no idea what to do – so he left his home and his family and searched the entire kingdom to find a fitting image. After a year of searching, he returned, having failed to find a picture of love.

When he came home, the painter knocked on the door of his house, and his wife answered. Her face glowed with joy to see her husband again. The painter then realized that he need not have searched the kingdom for a portrait of love. It was before him the whole time.

So often, like the court painter, we search far and wide for what we want and overlook the blessings that we already have.

So this year, like Jeremy, what I want for Hanukkah is Hanukkah with the people I love.

And I wish the same for you.

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