Category Archives: God

Lech Lecha – the covenants of peoplehood and land

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After giving a talk at a Muslim interfaith forum, entitled “One God, one humanity, many religions” I was asked after it by a group of interested young Muslim men – What makes the Jews Jewish?  Christianity they understood, Islam they understood, but Judaism – what makes Jews Jewish?

What gives us our special identity and our difference is the way we see our relationship with God, the understanding we have of being in a relationship of Covenant. The contract/covenant we have with God is unbreakable, however many times we don’t keep to the rules, however many times we transgress. The covenant we have with God is always there, it is inescapable, it defines us and creates the parameters of our religious identity. We know of it, we live with it day in and day out, but I don’t think that any of us can say that we really understand it.

The bible contains within its narrative many different sorts of covenant. Already there has been a covenant with Noach, and one with all of humanity – defined through the sign of the rainbow. This sidra, Lech lecha, sets the scene for some of the specifically Jewish ones. Brit milah, the covenant of circumcision and more puzzlingly the “Brit bein habetarim” the covenant of the pieces.

God appeared to Abraham seven times in his career, and put him to the test, made demands, held our promises and endowed him with the blessings of land and of descendants. The fourth appearance, the middle one of the revelations, was different from those that came before and those that followed it – it came in the form of a vision.

This vision begins with God telling Avram not to fear, that God will be his shield, that he will ultimately have a great reward – but immediately we are into a problem – what is it that God thinks that Avram fears?

Only AFTER the divine reassurance does Avram speak, asking what of worth could God possibly give him, seeing that he has no child of his own to be his heir. His question is answered – his descendants will be as numerous as the stars of heaven. God is the redeeming God who has brought him out, who will give him a new land to inherit. But Avram has another question – “how will I KNOW that I will inherit it?”

Maybe this second question is too much for God – although that statement may itself be a heresy. Whatever the reason for it, we are suddenly plunged into a difficult and obscure text. We don’t even know if the vision is the framework, or if Avram is operating in the physical world when, under divine instruction, he takes a three year old heifer, a three year old she-goat and a three year old ram, and two birds – a turtle dove and a young pigeon, and apparently slaughters all the animals, dividing each of the three animals in half, laying each half over against the other, and when the birds of prey come as they naturally would, Avram drives them away. What is the symbolism of three? Three animals, each three years old?  And of the six parts as each of the three is halved? And what of the two, the birds who are untouched?

The vision deepens into a tardema– the kind of magical sleep that happened to Adam in the Garden of Eden during which Eve was created. And for a second time Avram hears the promise that he will be a father of a great nation, and also that the nation will know suffering, although not in his own lifetime. And then the covenant is ratified as a smoking furnace and a flaming torch, symbols we can only assume of the presence of God, passed between the pieces.

We don’t see Avram wake up as we saw Adam awake and meet his companion. We don’t know how Avram interpreted his vision, who he told, how it altered him. We are left only with a description, a sense of deep symbolism, an awareness that while the human side of the covenant is still unclear, God is obligated by the event. Just as with the covenant with Noah God is obligated but nothing is demanded of humankind. The later covenants don’t work like this – the Brit is generally dependent on Israel’s faithfulness to God, but here in the early covenants with humankind the remarkable fact is that they are unconditional, they demonstrate entirely selfless love given by a God who is prepared to be faithful and unchanging when responding to humankind.

The true symbolism of the covenant of the pieces is lost in the mists of the past, although we can intuit a reasonable amount of understanding. The three sets of three – a magical number long before the existence of Christianity, denoting a special kind of wholeness. The birds of prey driven off symbolising the nations who would try to pre-empt or even destroy the covenant, being defeated by Avram. The other birds, symbols of liberation, of perfections, of the divine presence, who become invisible in the text. And the cutting into two and then passing through the pieces denotes the parties to the contract guaranteeing the wholeness of it. Dividing as a way of symbolising completion has been around for a long time – even today we cut a deal. Or cut a ribbon or smash a bottle or a glass, and circumcision too requires the action of cutting.

We have a contract with God. Unlike any other formulation of any other religion, ours is based unequivocally on this idea of covenant of mutual obligation. God is our God because we are God’s people – that is the bottom line. But just how do we understand that contract and how do we honour it?

Traditional Judaism is clear about this –the system of mitzvot which provides a framework for all we do and all we are, this is the content of the contract. By observing the mitzvot the commandments, we are honouring the metzaveh, the commander. Whether we understand or not, whether we get a spiritual feeling or not, whether we feel good about it or not, this is the way of the relationship forged with our ancestor Abraham, this is the obligation to which we are signed up

Progressive Judaism has a slightly harder time of it, for the idea of covenant remains, and the framework of acting within a system of mitzvot remains, but quite what the content is and how one squares the unconditional acceptance of the obligation with more rational and libertarian thinking is, to say the least, problematic. And as soon as one begins the questioning there is the fear that the questioning will take over, that the precious essence of the covenant will in some way be lost to us.

What one might call the covenant par excellence, Brit Mila – has been the object of much questioning recently. It seems to be as obscure in its way as the covenant of the pieces, for there is the quality of unreality about it, of vision. There is the cutting of the flesh and the exposure of vulnerability, the division symbolizing the wholeness, Brit Milah perfecting the child on whom it is done.

Why do we circumcise our baby boys, and what symbolism does it hold for us? We do so at one level because it is a mitzvah, it is commanded of us by God, it symbolises brining that child into the covenant. Of course any Jewish boy remains Jewish even if Milah doesn’t take place, but somehow the ceremony is seen as essential in denoting the identity of the male Jew. Throughout history Jews have risked death to circumcise their sons, throughout history it has remained an act of pride, sometimes of defiance, always of inner if not outer freedom. We circumcise our sons to mark their bodies indelibly with this sign of our ancient covenant. Whatever we think it to be, deep down is that sense of unconditional obligation, of God being our God if we are God’s people.

The covenant is the framework for religious identity, forming the inner core and the outer parameter of Judaism. In an increasingly rational and libertarian world we need to understand the nature of covenant, to orient ourselves within it as best we can, and to teach its meaning to our children.

When God created two different covenants with Abraham, one to do with descendants the other with land, the model was set for all time – people and land, Jewish people and Jewish land. What each was to become was left unclear, but that both are necessary and each needs the other is certain to us.

So what is the meaning of the Jewish people and of a Jewish land? We are in a time of enormous uncertainty, of wildly differing opinions.  I offer my own thoughts now – the Jewish people are neither more special nor more talented than any other, what we have is an attachment to being God’s people, by which we mean we try to bring God more closely into the world through what we do. Listening to the different voices from different traditions earlier this week, that idea is not unique to us, but what is unique is our covenantal relationship that both binds us and frees us to relate in our own way to God, safe in our chutzpadik challenges towards God that God will not ever abandon us for good.

And our land is where we are supposed to bring God’s presence most potently, a place where God’s eyes are always watching, a place close to God’s heart.  I grieve for how little we are fulfilling our role there at the moment, I despair when I see the values and teachings of our religion traduced or ignored.

Abraham is told lech lecha, to go – but where? The Hebrew is obscure. Is it to go to a different physical place or to go into himself and draw from himself his essential humanity?  He is told to be a blessing. And this is our ultimate purpose, to understand that all humanity is under the special care of God, all humanity is equal in God’s eyes; to use this understanding to bring about blessing in the world.

Right now I fear that we are not doing our job well. The two contracts of peoplehood and land are both under threat from our own actions. But the imperative to go out and be a blessing, that still feels true and possible. And that must be our task – to speak out, to go that extra distance, and create blessing in our world.

Sermon Kol Nidrei Lev Chadash 2025

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In the daily Amidah and also many times during the Yamim Noraim, we recite a prayer:

Shema koleinu Adonai eloheinu, chus verachem aleinu, vekabel berachamim uvratzon et tefilateinu שמע קולינו יהוה אלוהינו, חוס ורחם עלינו, וקבל ברחמים וברצון את תפילתינו. 

Hear our voice, O Eternal our God; spare us and have mercy upon us, and accept our prayers in mercy and favour.  

It is based on a passage in the book of Psalms (65) where we call God the “shomei’ah tefillah” – the one who hears prayers.

Yet this psalm begins with a phrase that is hard to understand and so is often mistranslated:

 לְךָ֤ דֻֽמִיָּ֬ה תְהִלָּ֓ה אֱלֹ֘הִ֥ים בְּצִיּ֑וֹן וּ֝לְךָ֗ יְשֻׁלַּם־נֶֽדֶר׃

“To You, silence is praise, God in Zion, and to you vows are paid”

Followed by the verse which informs our prayer                שֹׁמֵ֥עַ תְּפִלָּ֑ה עָ֝דֶ֗יךָ כׇּל־בָּשָׂ֥ר יָבֹֽאוּ׃

“Hearer of prayer, all human beings come to you”

The psalmist begins with silent praise, and with the completion of vows made to God, and only then says that God is the one who hears prayer – the prayers of all human beings.

The Talmud tells us that “Devarim she’balev einam Devarim” – words not formed out loud are not halachically valid – in the case of promises, just having an intention is not enough. (Kiddushin 49b) – and yet the psalmist understands – the feelings in our hearts, the ideas in our minds – these too form part of our connection to God.  We do not HAVE to verbalise them for God to hear them.

We Jews are – par excellence – a people who exist within words. We have always relied on them to make sense of what is happening to us, to communicate with others, to create and to transmit meaning. We read our texts and examine every letter, every word, to draw meaning in every generation. We protect the language of those texts, turning the object that holds the narrative into a holy item, a sefer torah.  From the moment Moses tells the Children of Israel to write his words into a sefer that will travel with them for all time, we are bound to the integrity and extraordinary elasticity of the Hebrew language.

Two of the most frequent verbs in torah are  “Amar” and “Diber” – to say and to speak.   Between them they appear almost seven thousand times in Tanakh – far outstripping any other verbal root. We are the people of the book. Words are our currency. Just as God brought the universe into being through the power of speech, so do we create meaning and develop understanding through words.

Yet since 7th October 2023, we find ourselves heartbroken and lost. The phrase that is most often heard in Israel and in Jewish communities is  “Ein milim – there are no words”.

 It feels like there is no vocabulary for what we have experienced and what we continue to live through.  The medium that has sustained us and provided for us – language – has suddenly shattered and we are left feeling adrift and powerless in a hostile environment.

Unable to use words to describe or to make sense of our reality, we are like Noah – famously silent in the face of the destruction of the world by flood. Or like Aaron who was silenced by his grief when two of his sons died after having offered strange fire before God. We are overwhelmed, voiceless, unable to know what we can possibly say or do to make sense of what is happening, or to be able to act in order to change it.

In the book of Psalms there are many pleas for God to hear our prayer, to listen to us and to act.  And there are even more petitions that God not be silent but that God responds to us. It is a regular theme, the lack of words between us and God and the ensuing fear of abandonment.

But silence does not have to be a negative thing. Silence can express our feelings even beyond the ability of words to do so.

In Pirkei d’Rav Eliezer, a medieval midrashic text, we read that “The voices of five objects of creation go from one end of the world to the other, and their voices are inaudible. When people cut down the wood of a fruit tree, its cry goes from one end of the world to the other, and the voice is inaudible. When the serpent sloughs its skin, its cry goes from one end of the world to the other, and its voice is not heard. When a woman is divorced from her husband, her cry goes from one end of the world of the world to the other, but the voice is inaudible, when the infant comes out from the mother’s womb and when the soul departs from the body, the cry goes forth from one end of the world to the other, and the voice is not heard.” Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer 34:4

The midrash is describing moments of existential trauma – and the accompanying sound of the inaudible voice.  

The sound of silence reverberates through Jewish tradition. Possibly the most well known is the story of Elijah and his encounter with God.

“There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by the power of the Eternal; but the Eternal was not in the wind. After the wind—an earthquake; but the Eternal was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake—fire; but the Eternal was not in the fire. And after the fire—the voice of slender silence [kol d’mamah dakah].” (I Kings 19:11-12)

Kol d’mamah dakah.  When Elijah heard this, he wrapped his mantle about his face and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And behold a voice was with him and said to him: “Why are you here, Elijah?”

God here is a sound, or paradoxically we might say that God here is the silence within the sound. And somehow the communication is complete. With this one question, Elijah is comforted and challenged and given back his life’s meaning. Having fled Jezebel in fear for his life, having begged God to take his life, having reached the depths of despair and stayed in his cave alone and paralysed with sadness – it is the sound of the silent question that returns him to life.

After the seventh of October, we have no words. Like Elijah we are fearful and we are angry and we feel ourselves to be so very alone. It is almost as if we cannot begin to imagine a future, because imagining something usually requires language and we have no words. But while language may structure imagination and help us to communicate it to others, there is another, visceral, sensory, intuitive human faculty that allows us to imagine without words.   We can dream, perceive, feel, pray – all without words.

Elijah is reminded by God that ultimately the connection between us and God does not require words.  The overarching sound of Elul and of the Yamim Noraim is not all the words spoken in prayer, but the cry of the Shofar. It is a sound that takes us back to Mt Sinai, to our first meeting with God as a people, to the creation of a covenant that cannot be broken.

The word shofar itself comes from the root shin-peh-reish which has the basic meaning of “to be hollow”, though it has a secondary meaning of “beauty”.  Again, there is the curious and paradoxical connection here – instead of silence and communication, we have emptiness and beauty.  It seems that always in our tradition the idea of there being “nothing” is challenged and juxtaposed with the idea of there being “ something” that is very special. What seems to be silent is in fact full of communication, what seems to be empty turns out to be full – nowhere more clear than the wilderness in which the Jewish people were formed – Midbar – a word which connotes empty wilderness, and yet which is formed from the root “davar” which as a noun means “a thing” or “a word” and as a verb means “to speak”.

While we may feel ourselves to be empty and hollow, with no words with which to imagine a different future or to create a new idea, our tradition comes to remind us that we are not alone, not abandoned. As the psalmist writes, even silence is praise of God, and God hears even what we do not speak or even form into words.

While we are a people of words, living in a world which our tradition tells us was created by the speaking of God – “God said…. And there was….”  We are also a people of commandment, of covenant and of action.  While the verbs for speech are the most frequent in bible, the verbs “to be” and “to do, to make” are the next numerous in our texts.   In a world where words feel inadequate or wrong, we are still able to act in order to fulfil our purpose and meaning. Our actions at this time may indeed speak much louder than words ever could.

I’d like to conclude with a story by Loren Eiseley, (The star thrower, an essay published in 1969 in The Unexpected Universe)

One day a man was walking along the beach when he noticed a child picking something up and gently throwing it into the ocean. Approaching the child, he asked, “What are you doing?” The child replied, “Throwing starfish back into the ocean. The surf is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.” “Child,” the man said, “don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach and hundreds of starfish? You can’t make a difference!”

After listening politely, the child bent down, picked up another starfish, and threw it back into the surf. Then, smiling at the man, said…” I made a difference for that one.”

At the moment we may have few or no words. We may be hurting and filled with fear and pain and anger. We may feel less safe, and less certain of what the future will bring than ever before. But even so, we are Jews. We must bring our whole selves to living our lives. We will petition God to hear our prayers, blow the shofar to call both our attention and God’s attention. And each of us, in our own way, will find our way forward. We will find beauty in the emptiness, praise in the silence, and through our actions our voices will be heard.

Renew our Days as of Old

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The book of Lamentations, traditionally said to have been written by the prophet Jeremiah after the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BCE and the exile of the people from Israel, ends with the recognition of God’s anger about Israel’s sins, but the custom is always that when a book ends on negative note, we repeat the penultimate verse – in this case the petition “הֲשִׁיבֵנוּ ה’ אֵלֶיךָ וְנָשׁוּבָ חַדֵּשׁ יָמֵינוּ כְּקֶדֶם  Return us God to you and we shall return, renew our day as before.

It is a verse you will know – we sing it when we return the scroll to the ark after reading from it every week. And it is a verse filled with complex layers of meaning.

It is a book filled with torment and despair, which famously begins with a description of Jerusalem as a widow, abandoned by God (her husband), empty of life and full of tears, beginning with a question “Eicha” – “How?” The suffering portrayed is overwhelming, and graphically described. God does not speak, the writer acknowledges their role in bringing this terrible situation about.

And then the penultimate verse ask God to bring us back to God, and we will return. And finally this strange request – hadesh yameinu k’kedem.  Make our days new – as they were before.  Or maybe “Make our days new – as we look towards the future. K’Kedem, which means “like in the past”(coming from the idea that the sun rises in the East and moves across the sky, so Kedem means both east and older or earlier), can also be construed as “with progression and advancement” (mitkadem references the future). So together these phrases ask for newness and renewal and for a return to an earlier state of being.

They remind us that we want to reclaim the good parts of our past while progressing into a new  position, becoming something more than we already are.

As we move through the month of Elul we are in the process of examining our past and reclaiming the parts that we feel make us a good person, while looking to a future and aiming to become the best person we can.  We recognise our role in, and responsibility for,  being the person we are now, and contemplate what we can change in ourselves going forward. And we petition God – “help us to come back to you” for we know ourselves to need such assistance if we are to make that journey.

The Haggadah is a Book of Hope

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The bible commands: “Explain to your child on that day, “It is because of what God did for me when I went free from Egypt…” (Exodus 13:8).

On this verse stands the edifice that is the Pesach seder. The Haggadah fulfils the Mishnaic obligation (Pesachim 10:5) by including the phrase “B’chol dor vador chayav adam lir’ot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mimitzrayim. “In every generation everyone must consider themselves as if they came forth from Egypt.”

The phrase “in every generation” also appears in “vehi she’amda” – “in every generation there are those who rise up against us to destroy us” which is placed immediately after “Blessed is the One who keeps their promise to Israel”, and concludes that God redeems us.

The Haggadah expects complete and unquestioning faith in God’s redemption, even while reminding us of the continuing threats to our existence.

It’s easy to see the seder as an historical artefact, connecting us to our foundational story of the exodus and the beginnings of peoplehood, but a story nonetheless. Easy to gloss over the terror of the Hebrew slaves, the pain of the plagued Egyptians. We try to connect by adding modern glosses – oranges or olives on the seder plate, empty chairs for those prevented from joining a seder, reminders that the world has not radically changed. But how does one process the events of 7th October or indeed last weekend?  The continuing agony that shows no sign of redemption, the sense that we are all in metaphorical Mitzrayim?

How to express the multiplicity of feelings we are experiencing? Our own existential dread and the pain of so many innocent deaths on both sides? Our texts teach that God stopped the angels singing at the death of the pursuing Egyptians asking “My creatures are dying and you want to rejoice?” We take out drops of wine while reciting the plagues, to remember the suffering of others. But none of this feels to be enough in today’s world – the story has broken through into our reality and the current rituals need renewing.

We can repurpose some – an empty chair for a hostage; spilling drops of wine for the destroyed kibbutzim and for the destroyed cities in Gaza; we might write four more questions, describe four more questioners; for the invitation “all who are hungry come and eat” we could donate to services feeding the displaced. And we could create others – give blood, break matza (or two) into many pieces to recreate a different whole, rewrite shfoch hamatcha, instead asking God to pour love into our world.

Despite the texts of terror within it, the Haggadah is a book of hope. We have to find that hope.

(written for Leap of Faith, Jewish News, April 2024)

Pesach to Shavuot – milestones and memories

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The fifty days between Pesach and Shavuot contain a number of commemorations that range from the most ancient to the most modern of our people’s history.   Beginning with the birth of our nation and our peoplehood with the exodus from Egypt, the period ends with the birth of our covenant relationship with God as a people at Mount Sinai.

In between, the fifty days of the Omer are days of semi mourning for a reason we are never quite clear about. Some say it is in memory of the oppression of Jews under the Romans, and the failure of the revolts against them; Others that 24 thousand students of Rabbi Akiva died in that period of a plague.  One the thirty third day we have Lag B’Omer  – (Lamed Gimel = 33) which provided a brief change in fortunes for the beleaguered Jews of the time. 

Less than a week after the end of Pesach, when we commemorate the miraculous deliverance of the Israelites at the Red Sea on the seventh day of the festival, we remember a period when deliverance did not come.   The abortive uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto, and all the murdered victims of the Holocaust are recalled on Yom ha Shoah ve’ha’Gevurah – the day for remembering the holocaust and the heroism.

 A week later, and more of our dead are remembered on Yom ha Zikaron – the day of memorial for those who gave their lives for the emerging State of Israel.  The day after that we mark Yom Ha’atzma’ut – Israel’s independence day, and this looks forward to the last week of the Omer period and its 44th day when Yom Yerushalayim commemorates the reunification of the city in the Six Day War.

So in fifty days we range over three thousand five hundred years of history.  We see victories and defeats, celebrations and mourning.  We observe Festivals that are at the core of our being as Jews, we see half festivals, not-really-festivals, and festivals in the making.  We see the dynamism and the forward thrust of Judaism which continues to create liturgy and ritual through which to express the most contemporary of events, and we look forward to messianic age promised in all our celebrations at this time But as we look forward, we also remember, are reminded, have memory of, recall, memorialise, commemorate, reminisce.   All these events have one thing in common, both past and future, the intertwined and symbiotic fate of the nation of Israel and people of Israel.

  We are all Israel, connected to each other, to our history, to our future and to our historic land. That connection and what happens to the land remains even today integral to what happens to the people.  We are a people, a tribe, links in a chain that never breaks.

The purpose of the exodus from Egypt was not simply freedom from slavery, it is freedom with a purpose – the purpose fulfilled at Shavuot, the unbreakable covenant we made with God, a covenant made for all generations, for those who were there at the time and those who were not there, for those born into the people and those who chose to join it.

The time between Pesach and Shavuot is a time that we count, a time we make count. We build up to the Sinaitic moment where God and people connect in a way never seen before nor since. We live and are nourished from that moment.

Shavuot is often overlooked, a festival without much ritual in the home, and all night study in the synagogue doesn’t appeal to everyone. But it marks a pivotal moment in our narrative and our formation.

Shavuot is celebrated this year (2022) on Saturday 4th in the evening till Sunday 5th in the evening (or Monday if you follow the diaspora tradition of a second day).

Find yourself a community of learners, a community of pray-ers and celebrate Shavuot, take yourself to Sinai and recommit to the eternal covenant. And then move forward into the rest of the Jewish year, away from Sinai and onto the journey that builds the people of Israel and binds us together as we go through the desert to the promised land.

15th Elul: Which God do you not believe in?

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Elul 15 23rd August

A discussion among my colleagues – “What does one say when someone says to you “Rabbi, I don’t believe in God””

One answer – “I always ask them which God they don’t believe in”.

My teacher Rabbi Dr Jonathan Magonet used to bemoan the fact that so many Jews give up serious Jewish education at bar/bat mitzvah. They had, he used to say, a thirteen year old god. And as they grew and matured, their idea of God was frozen in time, adolescent and unbelievable.

Jews are the people of Israel – literally the ones who struggle with God. We are not required (despite the Maimonidean doctrine) to believe in God. Indeed earliest rabbinic Judaism was not so much interested in what people believed about divinity, but talked instead about shared narratives. Slightly later we have the extraordinary rabbinic midrash on the verse in Jeremiah (16:11) “They have forsaken Me and not kept my Torah”   – “If only they had forsaken Me but kept my Torah!” (Pesikta d’Rav Kahana 5-7th Century)

Rabbinic Judaism is far more interested in how people behave, in the keeping of mitzvot, in action rather than in belief.

Since the giving of the Ten Commandments at Sinai on the way from slavery in Egypt to freedom in their ancestral land, Jews are a people who are commanded – who are under a chiyyuv, and obligation – and whose live are traditionally framed by the observance of mitzvot.

Of course the idea of commandments does somewhere require there to be a commander, but while we may have an historic metzaveh in our texts, the doing of mitzvot is in and of itself integral to our religious life. So for example Rabbi David Polish wrote that “When a Jew performs one of the many life acts known as mitzvot to remind themselves of the moments of encounter, what was only episodic becomes epochal, what was only a moment in Jewish history becomes eternal in Jewish life”[i]  His examples of the lighting of shabbat candles or of sitting at a Pesach seder are some of the examples he gives of our connecting with Jews across the world and across time.  The meaning and purpose of mitzvah for him is in part a way of sharing history and experiences across Jewish people hood, something that strengthens us in the world, and that momentarily allows us to transcend the mundane into the spiritual. 

There are many rabbinic names and descriptors for God. There are ways of understanding God not as a noun but as a verb – we are not tied to a thirteen year old god, some kind of supernatural being to whom we have to speak in stilted and formalised language. My very favourite name for God is “haMakom” – literally “the place”. Not a geographical location but a space where things can happen.

Israel – Jews – are named for struggling with God. Struggling with the ideas, the ethical demands, the behaviours that are required of us to be in covenant with God. The struggle is ongoing. If you find it hard to believe in the God of your childhood, then it is up to you to search the texts and find God with whom you can have a dialogue.

[i] ” Gates of Mitzvah: A Guide to the Jewish Life Cycle, ed. Simeon J. Maslin [New York: CCAR Press, 1979]