Last week Rabbi Mark Borovitz spent Shabbat with our congregation and spoke to us about his story. He was jailed for theft. He lied repeatedly to people, including family and friends. He is a recovering alcoholic.
For years he has been the senior rabbi of Beit T’shuva, a residential treatment center that has helped thousands of people with various addictions to manage those addictions and to lead responsible, productive, purpose-driven lives.
He and I were schmoozing Shabbat afternoon about our lives, our work and our communities.
And we identified one major theme which affects his community and our community - many communities, in fact - something which is at the root of so much of our unhappiness and which prevents us from moving forward in healthy ways.
And that is shame. Shame is powerful, corrosive, debilitating. And it comes from so many different places.
Shame. The feeling you might have when you are addicted to a substance or a behavior and can’t stop.
Shame. The feeling you might have when you are experiencing financial difficulties and can’t provide adequately for your loved ones.
Shame. The feeling you might have if you think or know that you’re gay or trans and people around you make jokes or comments that suggest that such people are immoral or crazy or less than.
Shame. The feeling that you might have if your friends are bragging at the kiddush about how their children are dating “nice Jewish boys and girls” and your child is dating someone of another faith and you’re wondering if you can talk about it.
Shame. The feeling you might have if you’re in middle school or high school and you’re the last one picked for the team. Or it’s hard for you to process the instructions that your teacher is giving to the class. Or you don’t like the way your body looks.
Shame. The feeling that you might have if you don’t want to take an honor in the synagogue because your Hebrew isn’t so good. Or you struggle to walk. Or you’re not sure if you are good enough to deserve the honor.
Shame. The feeling you might have if your memory isn’t what it used to be and you can’t keep track of things so well and the people around you are noticing.
Shame, often, is a combination of how we feel internally and how we imagine, or know, that others around us feel about us, about our choices, our situation, our essence.
The ancient rabbis said that when we tell the story of Passover, which is next week, מתחילין בגנאי ומסימין בשבח mathilin big’nai um’saymin be’shevah. We begin with shame and we end with celebration.
I believe - be’emuna shleima, with complete faith - that we need to do that as a community - not just on Passover - but every day. The question is, how do we do that?
How do we move from the shame that each one of us most likely feels about something to a sense of celebration of the inherent worth that each of us has as individuals, part of a greater whole?
I’m going to walk us through the steps that I believe we need to take to help one another make that essential journey.
Step one. We should recognize that we’re not talking about the kind of shame that we might feel for saying or doing things that are hurtful to others. If we demean other people, and then we feel ashamed, that kind of shame can be helpful. It can encourage us to make amends, to behave better in the future. We’re talking about the kind of shame that is not helpful, the kind that paralyzes us.
Step two. We need to understand the deep, communal, cultural forces that are at work that can make us feel this unhelpful kind of shame.
I spoke recently to a member of the Persian community, a longstanding member of Temple Israel, who shared her sense that along with the extraordinary values that the community lives and models, there are times when failure to meet certain expectations can lead people to feel uncomfortable.
That’s powerful. And the willingness to look honestly at this is impressive.
I grew up in a family that traces its background to Poland and Russia, in a synagogue that was almost entirely Ashkenazi, and I had a very similar experience.
There are many Yiddish phrases that I learned growing up that are variations on the same theme. "What will the neighbors say?" "How will I show my face at the kiddush?" No part of the Jewish community has a monopoly on the web of expectations - of what we should say, how we should behave, who we should be, how we should be - that can often leave those who fail to meet the expectations feeling uncomfortable and even ashamed.
Shame is Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Mizrachi. The phrases are different, the concept is the same. If you depart from expectation, whether through choice or through innate realities that are beyond your choice and control, you may feel ashamed.
And guess what. Hasan Minaj, brilliant comedian, child of Indian Muslim immigrants, did an extraordinary monologue about growing up in a largely white, upper middle class suburb in California. It is hilarious and troubling and illuminating in a variety of ways. At one point he tells a story about wanting to do something that was outside the realm of his father’s expectations and how his father said to him a phrase in Hindi which means, “What will people say?” He goes on to talk about the ways that this phrase, while said with good intentions, can inhibit people from finding their authentic place in the world.
"What will people say?" "The neighbors are watching." It may be intensified as generations learn to accommodate to life in new lands, but it’s universal. When “what will others think and say” eclipses “who are we” and “who should we be,” a little light goes off inside of us. When we are made to feel ashamed about things that are beyond our control, or about choices we make that may diverge from expectation but are not inherently bad choices, a little light goes off inside of us.
Step three. We here, in this community, do what we can to turn the light back on inside of one other. We let each other know - explicitly, proactively - that all of us are valued, welcomed, embraced - that all of us matter, as Rabbi Mark said last week, no matter what.
That’s a tall order, but it’s so important that we need to devote ourselves to the task.
Following months of strategic planning conversation at Temple Israel, we established a vision statement for our congregation:
Temple Israel strives to be a place where everyone is welcomed to discover the power of Judaism to bring blessing to our lives and to our world.
To help get us there, we have been confronting issues that might be a source of shame or alienation. Here are just a few examples:
One of the reasons why we reconfigured the sanctuary, placing the bimah in the center, with a ramp leading up to it, is to make it more physically accessible.
We were thinking of the people who might refuse an honor because they can’t easily manage all the steps. Why should they feel ashamed, and excluded?
The reason we have prayerbooks in the back with the Hebrew written out in English transliteration is because we want as many people as possible to be able to follow and sing along, regardless of how comfortable we are with reading Hebrew, and we also provide courses for adults in Hebrew reading so everyone has the chance to improve. We’re putting together an adult bar/bat mitzvah class for people who did not have that experience as children, or people who did have it but want to approach Hebrew and Jewish learning more deeply as adults.
Our youth house is partnering with Keshet, an organization which helps synagogue communities to become inclusive of LGBT individuals and families, because we want every child in our community, regardless of their gender identity or sexuality, to feel fully at home. And we will be applying the insights we gain to the entire community. Gender and sexuality should be regarded as divine gifts of energy and connection. Gender and sexuality should not be sources of shame. They should be sources of celebration.
I recently invited people in our community who have children that are dating or married to people of other faiths to come to my house and to talk about it. No judgment, no harangues, just to talk about it openly. Wouldn’t it be nice if people could do that at the kiddush too, without fearing that they will be criticized or judged? Moreover, wouldn’t we want to create an atmosphere that is so welcoming that everyone, regardless of their background, would want to learn more, and possibly do more, to be part of it?
I want to end with a quick story. Last week, after Rabbi Borovitz finished one of his presentations, a member of the congregation told me about a struggle that he personally has had with addiction. Now we’ve spoken pretty openly about a number of things in the past, but I had no idea about this. I believe that our synagogue’s willingness to discuss this issue directly, to bring someone who would tell his own story of addiction, sent the message to this individual that it was ok to share this with his rabbi.
This to me made the entire weekend worthwhile.
Very soon we will sit down to the Seder and speak, and sing, of the journey from slavery to freedom, from darkness to light, from shame to celebration.
But that journey should happen every day. It CAN happen every day. It can happen when we, as individuals and as a community, commit to telling one another, and showing one another, “You don’t need to feel ashamed. You are welcome here.”
Every time that happens, we move from darkness to light. Every time that happens, we move further away from Egypt and closer to the promised land.
Originally shared with the Temple Israel of Great Neck community on March 24, 2018
For years he has been the senior rabbi of Beit T’shuva, a residential treatment center that has helped thousands of people with various addictions to manage those addictions and to lead responsible, productive, purpose-driven lives.
He and I were schmoozing Shabbat afternoon about our lives, our work and our communities.
And we identified one major theme which affects his community and our community - many communities, in fact - something which is at the root of so much of our unhappiness and which prevents us from moving forward in healthy ways.
And that is shame. Shame is powerful, corrosive, debilitating. And it comes from so many different places.
Shame. The feeling you might have when you are addicted to a substance or a behavior and can’t stop.
Shame. The feeling you might have when you are experiencing financial difficulties and can’t provide adequately for your loved ones.
Shame. The feeling you might have if you think or know that you’re gay or trans and people around you make jokes or comments that suggest that such people are immoral or crazy or less than.
Shame. The feeling that you might have if your friends are bragging at the kiddush about how their children are dating “nice Jewish boys and girls” and your child is dating someone of another faith and you’re wondering if you can talk about it.
Shame. The feeling you might have if you’re in middle school or high school and you’re the last one picked for the team. Or it’s hard for you to process the instructions that your teacher is giving to the class. Or you don’t like the way your body looks.
Shame. The feeling that you might have if you don’t want to take an honor in the synagogue because your Hebrew isn’t so good. Or you struggle to walk. Or you’re not sure if you are good enough to deserve the honor.
Shame. The feeling you might have if your memory isn’t what it used to be and you can’t keep track of things so well and the people around you are noticing.
Shame, often, is a combination of how we feel internally and how we imagine, or know, that others around us feel about us, about our choices, our situation, our essence.
The ancient rabbis said that when we tell the story of Passover, which is next week, מתחילין בגנאי ומסימין בשבח mathilin big’nai um’saymin be’shevah. We begin with shame and we end with celebration.
I believe - be’emuna shleima, with complete faith - that we need to do that as a community - not just on Passover - but every day. The question is, how do we do that?
How do we move from the shame that each one of us most likely feels about something to a sense of celebration of the inherent worth that each of us has as individuals, part of a greater whole?
I’m going to walk us through the steps that I believe we need to take to help one another make that essential journey.
Step one. We should recognize that we’re not talking about the kind of shame that we might feel for saying or doing things that are hurtful to others. If we demean other people, and then we feel ashamed, that kind of shame can be helpful. It can encourage us to make amends, to behave better in the future. We’re talking about the kind of shame that is not helpful, the kind that paralyzes us.
Step two. We need to understand the deep, communal, cultural forces that are at work that can make us feel this unhelpful kind of shame.
I spoke recently to a member of the Persian community, a longstanding member of Temple Israel, who shared her sense that along with the extraordinary values that the community lives and models, there are times when failure to meet certain expectations can lead people to feel uncomfortable.
That’s powerful. And the willingness to look honestly at this is impressive.
I grew up in a family that traces its background to Poland and Russia, in a synagogue that was almost entirely Ashkenazi, and I had a very similar experience.
There are many Yiddish phrases that I learned growing up that are variations on the same theme. "What will the neighbors say?" "How will I show my face at the kiddush?" No part of the Jewish community has a monopoly on the web of expectations - of what we should say, how we should behave, who we should be, how we should be - that can often leave those who fail to meet the expectations feeling uncomfortable and even ashamed.
Shame is Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Mizrachi. The phrases are different, the concept is the same. If you depart from expectation, whether through choice or through innate realities that are beyond your choice and control, you may feel ashamed.
And guess what. Hasan Minaj, brilliant comedian, child of Indian Muslim immigrants, did an extraordinary monologue about growing up in a largely white, upper middle class suburb in California. It is hilarious and troubling and illuminating in a variety of ways. At one point he tells a story about wanting to do something that was outside the realm of his father’s expectations and how his father said to him a phrase in Hindi which means, “What will people say?” He goes on to talk about the ways that this phrase, while said with good intentions, can inhibit people from finding their authentic place in the world.
"What will people say?" "The neighbors are watching." It may be intensified as generations learn to accommodate to life in new lands, but it’s universal. When “what will others think and say” eclipses “who are we” and “who should we be,” a little light goes off inside of us. When we are made to feel ashamed about things that are beyond our control, or about choices we make that may diverge from expectation but are not inherently bad choices, a little light goes off inside of us.
Step three. We here, in this community, do what we can to turn the light back on inside of one other. We let each other know - explicitly, proactively - that all of us are valued, welcomed, embraced - that all of us matter, as Rabbi Mark said last week, no matter what.
That’s a tall order, but it’s so important that we need to devote ourselves to the task.
Following months of strategic planning conversation at Temple Israel, we established a vision statement for our congregation:
Temple Israel strives to be a place where everyone is welcomed to discover the power of Judaism to bring blessing to our lives and to our world.
To help get us there, we have been confronting issues that might be a source of shame or alienation. Here are just a few examples:
One of the reasons why we reconfigured the sanctuary, placing the bimah in the center, with a ramp leading up to it, is to make it more physically accessible.
We were thinking of the people who might refuse an honor because they can’t easily manage all the steps. Why should they feel ashamed, and excluded?
The reason we have prayerbooks in the back with the Hebrew written out in English transliteration is because we want as many people as possible to be able to follow and sing along, regardless of how comfortable we are with reading Hebrew, and we also provide courses for adults in Hebrew reading so everyone has the chance to improve. We’re putting together an adult bar/bat mitzvah class for people who did not have that experience as children, or people who did have it but want to approach Hebrew and Jewish learning more deeply as adults.
Our youth house is partnering with Keshet, an organization which helps synagogue communities to become inclusive of LGBT individuals and families, because we want every child in our community, regardless of their gender identity or sexuality, to feel fully at home. And we will be applying the insights we gain to the entire community. Gender and sexuality should be regarded as divine gifts of energy and connection. Gender and sexuality should not be sources of shame. They should be sources of celebration.
I recently invited people in our community who have children that are dating or married to people of other faiths to come to my house and to talk about it. No judgment, no harangues, just to talk about it openly. Wouldn’t it be nice if people could do that at the kiddush too, without fearing that they will be criticized or judged? Moreover, wouldn’t we want to create an atmosphere that is so welcoming that everyone, regardless of their background, would want to learn more, and possibly do more, to be part of it?
I want to end with a quick story. Last week, after Rabbi Borovitz finished one of his presentations, a member of the congregation told me about a struggle that he personally has had with addiction. Now we’ve spoken pretty openly about a number of things in the past, but I had no idea about this. I believe that our synagogue’s willingness to discuss this issue directly, to bring someone who would tell his own story of addiction, sent the message to this individual that it was ok to share this with his rabbi.
This to me made the entire weekend worthwhile.
Very soon we will sit down to the Seder and speak, and sing, of the journey from slavery to freedom, from darkness to light, from shame to celebration.
But that journey should happen every day. It CAN happen every day. It can happen when we, as individuals and as a community, commit to telling one another, and showing one another, “You don’t need to feel ashamed. You are welcome here.”
Every time that happens, we move from darkness to light. Every time that happens, we move further away from Egypt and closer to the promised land.
Originally shared with the Temple Israel of Great Neck community on March 24, 2018
Yasha Koach Rabbi
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