Where Everyone is Really Welcome: a Vision for Temple Israel of Great Neck

Thousands of years ago, our ancestors told a story about a man who was afraid to reunite with his brother after a rift that had occurred several decades prior.  He took a variety of precautions, sent his family along ahead of himself, and was left all alone.  Another man appeared and struggled with him until dawn. 

 Jacob Wrestling with the Angel by Marc Chagall

These moments in the life of our patriarch Jacob, moments of isolation and struggle, are not hidden from us.  They were described and recorded and, not only that, they became essential to his identity and to his new name, Israel, ישראל Yisra’el.

Which became the name for the nation, ישראל yisra’el, who are known as בני ישראל b’nei yisra’el, the children of Israel.

I have some questions for all of us on this beautiful Shabbat morning of Thanksgiving weekend. 

Given that our ancestor was Yisrael – who struggled, prevailed, complained and prevailed again.  And that our people bear his name.  And that our synagogue bears his name.  

Why do we exert so much energy pretending that everything is just fine when it’s not?  

Why are our synagogues, this one included, places where by and large people feel uncomfortable sharing anything beyond, “I’m fine, thank you”?

Why is it that in 2015, people whose life circumstances are other than happily married with high-achieving children sometimes wonder if they are fully welcomed here and in other synagogues?

How did the children of Israel – tormented dreamer and struggler, Israel who has good days and lousy days, Israel who sometimes supports his children and sometimes messes up spectacularly with regard to his children, Israel whose roller-coaster of a life is captured in unflinching detail in our Torah, Israel who is asked at the end of his life how he’s doing and says, “badly, thank you for asking” – how did the children of Israel come to believe that they are being measured, explicitly or implicitly, against certain narrow expectations and that they have to come into God’s house appearing to have it all together even when they don’t?

It’s exhausting.  It’s debilitating.  And the craziest part of it is that it isn’t even authentic to our tradition.

Considering that our ancestors, Jacob and others, are flawed, that their lives are circuitous and tumultuous, that they represent personalities and trajectories that are as varied as they are complex, why is it that we feel we must present ourselves in such a uniform and sanitized fashion?

Over 200 hundred years ago, Thomas Jefferson wrote the following about freedom:

“I am for freedom of religion, and against all maneuvers to bring about a legal ascendancy of one sect over another:  for freedom of the press, and against all violations of the Constitution to silence by force and not by reason the complaints or criticisms, just or unjust, of our citizens against the conduct of their agents.”

From Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and John and Abigail Adams we have inherited the legacy of freedom of worship and freedom of expression.

From Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, we have inherited the legacy of living a full and imperfect life in the context of God and family.

And yet, so often we are afraid.  Afraid to speak freely, afraid to live boldly.

Part of that is the fault of rabbis.  My colleagues and I have not done a good enough job helping to create a space that is open to diverse circumstances and situations, a space to which people feel free to bring their true selves.

We talk about parenting, perhaps without sufficient sensitivity to the fact that many people are not parents, either due to choice or circumstance.

We wax all poetic about brides and grooms under the chupah, perhaps without sufficient sensitivity to variations in sexual orientation and gender that are part and parcel of the diversity of human life.  Every time we articulate an objective that doesn’t work for everyone as though it’s the only possible path, we may drive people away. 

Even as we continue to gain sensitivity in areas of sexual orientation and gender identity, we are often tone deaf to the many people who are struggling to find romantic partnerships altogether.

Or we are tone deaf to people who have endured, and continue to endure, partnerships that are toxic and debilitating.  How often do we stigmatize people who end relationships that should be ended, seeking to blame them rather than to support them?

Our celebration of life cycle events in this space is uplifting, it’s a good thing.  But we need to be careful that we haven’t constructed a space that says, if or when your heart is broken, you don’t belong. 

Bringing the bimah to reside in the midst of the congregation and bringing the Torah to be read surrounded by the congregation, as we have done, are ways of breaking down some of the barriers that keep us away literally or keep us emotionally distant from this place. 

We had a discussion a few years ago about making every part of this building, and every part of this sanctuary, as physically accessible as possible.

How many people does it impact?  someone wondered, and then began to do a mental count of the physically challenged people who come to services on a regular basis who would benefit from increased accessibility.  The implication being that not too many people are affected.

And then someone said, you know – it may well be that people are staying away from our services altogether because of the limited accessibility.  Perhaps if every part of the building, and every part of the sanctuary in particular were more accessible, more people would come – not just because it’s easier, but because the fact that the synagogue took the effort sends the message that people who are physically challenged are truly welcome.

Thankfully, we have a group that has been addressing accessibility issues and we will continue to make improvements in keeping with their recommendations.

Through careful consideration, we have taken steps to embrace the diversity of backgrounds in our congregation.  As just one example, we have been using the Torahs in tikim, cases, for years now, but this morning, as we’ve done on Simhat Torah, we modified one of our lecterns so that we could read from one the way it is traditionally read, standing up. 

Our goal is to acknowledge that the “we” of Temple Israel includes traditions from east and west.  The “we” of Temple Israel includes the full range of gender and sexuality.  The “we” of Temple Israel includes people who can leap onto the bimah and people who need assistance to ascend the bimah.

The “we” of Temple Israel includes those who are partnered and those who are single.  The “we” of Temple Israel includes those who are born Jewish, those who join the Jewish people, and those of other faiths who are connected to the Jewish people in a whole variety of ways including romance and a shared sense of values and just plain curiosity. 

The “we” of Temple Israel includes those who are celebrating and those who are suffering, those who feel elated and those who feel dejected.

As we continue to increase accessibility and relevance, physically and emotionally, we will find that the so-called “outlier” has the power to deepen everyone’s humanity because truly - who isn't an outlier at one point or another?

A colleague of mine once described a scene at a funeral where the sibling of the deceased was extremely emotional, crying loudly and yelling how distressed she was.  A young member of the family suggested that she be given a sedative since he felt she was acting a little off.  And one of the elders of the family said, “Don’t you dare.  She’s the only one here who’s in her right mind.”

What do we do when someone gets really emotional here, in this space?  How often does it happen?  Naturally we tend to modulate, to hold back in such a public setting.  But do we as a community want this to be a place where people can let their guard down?

If we do, then what can we do to convey that and to enable it to happen?  It’s worth a conversation.  And that conversation can include, how do we create more intimate forums for us to speak and share openly about our lives, including our frustrations and disappointments?

One of the key themes explored at the recent United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism convention that I attended, along with several of our lay-leaders, is outreach in a number of realms.

It is also a theme that we’ve identified in the strategic plan that we have undertaken as a congregation.

The goal of our outreach and inreach, I would articulate, is for this synagogue to be a place where everyone feels welcomed to experience the power of Judaism to enhance their lives and bring blessing to the world.

When Jacob is done wrestling, he names the place פניאל pnie'el, כי ראיתי אלהים פנים אל פנים ותנצל נפשי ki rai'ti elohim panim el panim vatinatzel nafshi, for I have seen God face to face and my life has been saved.

He’s also limping. 

And so I wonder – is it possible that to be one of b’nei yisrael, one of the children of Israel, is to catch a glimpse of the divine, to survive somehow, but also to be a little bit broken? 

To sense a larger purpose but also to feel uncertain how we’re going to get from point A to point B?

On this Shabbat following Thanksgiving, on this Shabbat when we recall the vision and the struggle of Jacob, of Israel, I want to express my gratitude.  I'm grateful to be part of a community that is willing to ask these questions and to take steps toward finding the answers.

With our minds and hearts truly open, we can continue to create a physical and emotional space where we can walk and dance and limp, where we can pray and laugh and cry, as true b’nei yisrael, true children of Israel, embracing the fullness of the legacy of our ancestors. 

Originally delivered at Temple Israel on November 28, 2015, the Shabbat of Thanksgiving weekend