Yitro: Now I Get It!

When my daughter was 12 years old, she began learning her Torah portion during weekly tutoring sessions with our temple's cantor. One afternoon while she was practicing, the cantor noticed that her voice was too soft. "That was great," the cantor said. "But I need you to do it louder."

"I'm sorry, Cantor," my daughter responded. "But I'm just not a loud person."

The cantor recounted this story to me, because she found my daughter's very interesting. My daughter didn't say that she didn't want to speak loudly, or she didn't feel like speaking loudly. If she had spoken one of those sentences, the cantor could have tried to change her mind or reverse her feelings. But my daughter's statement wasn't specific to this particular tutoring session or activity. She wasn't talking about a temporary, fleeting emotion or condition.

Instead, she was defining herself; she was expressing her understanding that she was a whole person with ongoing traits and characteristics that needed to be respected.

I think of this interaction when I come across this week's Torah portion, Yitro, which describes how Moses acquired the Ten Commandments. To be sure, the Commandments are rich with meaning and could be the subject of countless blogs. But for now, I prefer to focus on Moses' experience in receiving them.

Think about it: Up until that fateful moment on Mount Sinai, Moses surely had been feeling a host of disquieting emotions -- fear, confusion, insecurity, reluctance. Having fled from Egypt to live a humble shepherd's life, he was suddenly confronted with a burning bush and commanded to stand up to Pharoah. His dealings with Pharoah led to huge and catastrophic events for the Egyptian people, after which he found himself in the position of leading a massive group of followers on a journey toward an unknown future.

But then God summons him and gives the Ten Commandments, and in that instant, everything becomes clear. The word often used to describe the moment when God is revealed is "revelation." But I think of it as the moment when Moses said to himself, "Oh, now I get it!"

Middle schoolers are a lot like Moses --they are asked to do things they don't understand or take on challenges they don't feel equipped for, or they find themselves following directions when they can't the point or purpose. They study math problems that don't seem to have answers, poetry passages that don't seem to make sense, friends who are inexplicably nice one day and unpleasant the next. But then, finally -- and often unexpectedly -- some strange, new connection forms in their brains between previously unrelated ideas. And that's when they blurt out, "Now I get it!"

If you've ever had the opportunity to watch a kid who finally gets it -- whatever "it" is -- you'll no doubt agree that it's a memorable moment. Their eyes light up; their mouths open wide in delight; their shoulders drop, and they fall back in their chairs, as if all the tension they've been carrying is washing right off of them. They may even let out a huge sigh, as the magnitude of this new understanding leaves them literally breathless.

How does the middle schooler in your life look when he or she finally "gets it"? What do you feel when you watch that moment of revelation, and what does your middle schooler feel? What kinds of revelations are most satisfying to him or her? What are some of the most exciting revelations he or she has ever experienced?

The difference between "I don't want to be loud" and "I'm not a loud person" may be just a few words, but it's grand developmental leap. When my daughter made her statement to the cantor, she was showing her understanding that she wasn't just a compilation of isolated thoughts and feelings, but a united, discrete whole of a person. In short, my daughter "got" herself.

No wonder the cantor and I took notice.

Beshalach: Can You Sing?

It happened when my daughter was ten years old. Her grandmother had given her a pink shoulder bag for her birthday, and she was simply delighted. I watched her show it to another girl, saying, "Look at my new bag!" in that tuneful, spirited way people speak when they're really happy.

The other girl lifted one side of her mouth, shrugged her shoulders, and tilted her head from side to side. "It's okay," she said.

Now I don't know what was going on with that girl, whether she was jealous or angry or just in a plain old preteen funk. But afterwards, I heard my daughter sing out in that tuneful, spirited tone a whole lot less.

My daughter was about to become a middle schooler, and as you know, middle schoolers are self-conscious; middle schoolers worry about what others think; middle schoolers get embarrassed.

In short, middle schoolers don't sing. I don't mean literally singing -- matching voices to notes on a sheet of music; I mean figuratively singing -- singing out, shouting with glee, letting the sheer power of one's joy pulverize any inhibitions and produce uncensored verbal expressions of delight. That's something that young children do -- but middle schoolers don't.

In this week's Torah portion, Beshalach, the Israeli people are beside themselves with delight. They are safely across the sea and can finally put their nightmarish existence behind them, slaves no more. And what do they do at this moment? You guessed it. They sing. They throw back their heads, open their throats, and sing. It's one of the most inspiring portions in the whole Torah.

Babies sing when they're happy, squeaking and shrieking and playfully experimenting with their voices. Toddlers sing all the time. To me, one of the most marvelous revelations about becoming a parent was that I got to sing! I sang lullabyes and wake-up songs and nursery rhymes, and silly songs. I sang because I was happy; if I wasn't happy, singing made me happy.

In fact, there's nothing more fun then watching someone so delighted and excited, there's no choice but to sing out loud. Some time ago the deaf actress Marlee Matlin won an Academy Award for an acting performance. She delivered her acceptance speech using sign language and an interpreter, but was so thrilled to have won that her self-control gave way, and as she communicated with her hands, she also burst out with audible, jump-for-joy gasps. The audience went crazy, clapping and cheering and enjoying her sheer delight.

When does the middle schooler in your life sing? Who gets to hear it? Does she sing in front of her peers? Will he sing in front of you? Can you help him or her sing more?

Some time back, country singer Lee Ann Womack had a hit song, "I Hope You Dance" -- an anthem about living life to its fullest. In the refrain, she implores her listener, "And when you get the chance to sit it out or dance...I hope you dance."

I don't know about dancing; but when it comes to the middle schoolers in my life -- I hope they sing.

Sh'mot: Who Becomes a Hero?

How does an individual choose a hero to admire? How does a group choose one?

I asked my students to think about this question as we prepared to discuss Sh'mot, the first portion in the Book of Exodus. It's the first time we meet Moses -- and he acts in ways that might be considered...well, unhero-like.

The portion tells the iconic story of Moses' birth -- how his mother placed him in a basket and sent him down the river to spare him from death at the hands of the Egyptians, which would otherwise have been his fate. Pharoah's daughter finds him and raises him as her own.

In time, Moses learns what his real heritage is, and he leaves the palace one day presumably to try to understand the way of life that should have been his. He comes upon an Egyptian slave-master who is beating a Jewish slave. This apparently enrages him, and he proceeds to kill the slave-master and hide the body. The next day, he comes upon two Hebrew slaves who are fighting, and he tries to break up the fight. This leads one of the slaves to assert, "Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?"

The question reveals to Moses that his killing of the Egyptian slave-master is no secret -- so he hightails it out of town.

After reviewing these events, I asked my students: What do you make of this? What do you make of a man who impulsively kills another, hides the body, and then flees? What do you make of a man who won't take responsibility for what he has done? How does a person like this become one of our most revered historic leaders?

The ensuing conversation was fascinating, as most of the students sought to find a way to excuse Moses for his actions.

Some maintained that Moses is very young in this part of the story, and that he matures from this point to the point where he leads the Jewish people from slavery.

Some pointed out that Moses, like many Torah characters, is flawed. They add that he also behaves impulsively later in the Torah --when he smashes the tablets, for example, and when he strikes the rock in search of water. Moses ultimately gets punished for his angry nature, they said, when he dies without having entered the Promised Land.

But interestingly, some students chose to focus on his encounter with the two fighting slaves. When Moses approached them, my students pointed out, they could have stopped fighting and praised Moses for killing the slave-master. They could have thanked Moses for putting an end to the slave-master's cruel behavior.

Instead, however, they refused to embrace Moses as their kinsman; quite the contrary, they rebuffed him and challenged him.

Essentially, my students told me, Moses was caught between a rock and a hard place. He didn't identify with the Egyptian--and yet, the Hebrews didn't identify with him. He was at one with nobody; he was alone in his struggle to understand the world in which he lived. No wonder he had to flee, they said. Perhaps he  removed himself from that violent world in a search for understanding about himself and his role.

In this way, my students once again found their own essential struggles in the stories of the Torah. Middle-school students live in an emotionally dangerous world. They know how it feels to think you're doing something right, but then get called on it by the very people you thought you were helping. They know how it feels to face insults and harshness from those you expected to welcome and embrace you.

My students told me that this experience probably taught Moses a great deal about human nature, and helped him grow into the leader he eventually became.

Sad to say, sixth graders know how it feels to have people turn on you when you least expect it, and they know how that can make you question yourself and refrain from stepping up and speaking out.

I  hope that my students also will know the satisfaction that comes with standing up for a cause and leading people towards something better.

Lech L'cha: Time to Move On?

Like many synagogues, ours faced a time not too long ago when our rabbi made the difficult decision to leave. Sometimes rabbis retire, sometimes they relocate, and sometimes they decide to accept an offer from another institution. But whatever the reason, congregations sometimes have just a few short months to adapt to the loss of an individual who has been a teacher, a comforter, an adviser, and -- for congregations that are lucky -- a leader who makes us all better people. 

And while congregants may regret the loss, most nonetheless also understand that time marches on and change is inevitable, and the right thing to do is embrace the rabbi's decision with love and support.

While the loss of a rabbi typically happens infrequently in most synagogues, the resulting feeling of ambivalence is something that middle schoolers know very well.

When we read Lech L'cha during the year when our rabbi left, I asked my sixth graders to tell me how they they thought he might be feeling. Proud? Excited? Happy?

Actually, the first words that come out of their mouths were far different. Scared, they told me. Nervous. Anxious. Uncertain.

And maybe that's not so surprising. After all, eleven- and twelve-year-olds are on the brink of independence. They are eager to assert their individuality and make their own decisions -- and yet they know it's so much safer to stay back and fade into the crowd. It's tempting to "go forth" -- the common translation of Lech L'cha -- but it is also dangerous. 

Each year when I teach Lech L'cha, I find many sixth graders who are wrestling with the inevitability of change. Some are facing sad family situations -- a sick grandparent, or an upcoming unveiling or yartzeit for a relative who died too young. These children talk about wanting to go back to a happier time, before illness struck their families.

Other students are adjusting to more benign but nevertheless significant changes. Many have recently begun middle school, and are missing their old, familiar elementary schools. Some have moved or are moving to a new house, and they have mixed feelings about leaving their friends and familiar settings. They, too, aren't so sure that "going forth" is all it's cracked up to be.

And yet...who says that "going forth" automatically entails unmitigated pleasure? 

In this week's portion, God tells Abram (whose name will soon be changed to Abraham) to leave his native land and his father's house. Two short verses later, we learn that Abram does indeed do what God has commanded. To be sure, the outcome of Abram's obedience is spectacular: Abram learns that he will be the progenitor of an entire people, his name will be made great, and he will be blessed, as will his descendants. 

How does Abram feel about all this? Funny enough, the Torah doesn't tell us. It just says that he was commanded to go...and he went.

I ask my students to describe their favorite, personal "Lech L'cha" moment, and they often relay moments of challenge and achievement -- whether it's mastering a new kind of dive in the swimming pool, reaching a new skill level in skiing or another sport, or feeling comfortable at a new summer camp. Sixth graders want to confront change successfully, and they're proud when they do. And yet, the prospect of change feels scary, no matter who is in the driver's seat. 

So I think that this Torah portion is particularly revealing for what it leaves out. Abram's feelings are simply beside the point.

As one of my students said this year, "It really doesn't matter what Abraham felt about leaving his home; what matters is that he did it."

My students and I came to realize that the Torah’s key lesson in this portion is simply this: Time marches on. And it’s by accepting this fact -- rather than reacting to it – that we can begin to develop a larger and richer understanding of life, and of ourselves. Whether you're a character from the Torah, a beloved rabbi, or a sixth-grade student, sometimes, it's simply time to move on.

B'reishit: I Wish I Didn't Know That!

For many years, our temple's rabbi visited my sixth grade classroom to teach a mini-course about responsibility and ethics. He began by describing a scene he witnessed in New York City, which involved  a police officer and a young man crossing in the middle of a block.

The officer began to write up the man for jaywalking, but stopped when the man said, "What's jaywalking? I never even heard of that!" Ultimately the officer decided to forego the ticket because of the man's ignorance, but he warned the man never to jaywalk again, since now he knew what it was and understood that it was wrong.

Our rabbi then related this situation to Jewish learning, maintaining that learning entailed responsibility, because the more you knew, the more accountable you were to behave in accordance with that knowledge.

But my students often went on to challenge him: Sure, you were responsible for what you knew; but did ignorance always let you off the hook?

And that opened the door to a whole new and even more provocative discussion.

For many years, I led a parent-child book discussion of the wonderful middle-grades novel VIVE LA PARIS! by Esme Raji Codell. In one of the most provocative subplots, Paris McCray, an African-American fifth-grader, is given a yellow star by her elderly piano teacher, a Holocaust survivor. Not understanding its significance, Paris views it as a symbol of an exclusive club and proudly pins it to her clothes when she goes to school.

For her insensitivity, the principal gives her a two-day in-school suspension that she must use to research and write a report about the Holocaust. She complains to her mother that the punishment is unfair -- she that she did nothing wrong because she didn't know what the star really symbolized.

Her mother responds, "There comes a time when ignorance is no longer an excuse."

I think about both the rabbi's teaching and Codell's remarkable book when my class discusses B'reishit -- particularly the moment when Adam and Eve switch from ignorance to knowledge. The preteen years, too, are a time when new and complicated relationships with knowledge and information appear. Sure, kids of all ages are responsible for information they know -- but unlike younger kids, preteens  are also increasingly responsible for what they should know, what they could know, and what they need to find out.

When they are home from school with a cold, for example, they are expected to reach out to friends to find out what they missed. "I didn't know we had homework," is not an acceptable reason to come in empty-handed the next day. Similarly, when there is the possibility of bullying, preteens are expected to look closely, to pay attention, and to do something -- confront the bully, support the victim, and tell a grown-up -- when they recognize it is occurring. We expect preteens to begin to watch out for one another, to notice signs of unhealthy behavior or abusive relationships, and to speak up accordingly, since we feel that oftentimes these behaviors and relationships are more visible to peers than to adults. And although sometimes preteens may not want to know what's out there, they have to know.

Ignorance is appropriate when you're a toddler and it's an excuse preteens sometimes wish we had. But unlike that lucky jaywalker, they all don't always get a second chance.

Sukkot: How Welcoming is Preteen's "Sukkah"?

"Come and have a lookah

In my sukkah

And have yourself something to eat!"

The old Sukkah song -- my sixth graders have been singing it since they were three years old. Each year at this time, they jig and jump and goof around and mug to one another as they hear this familiar tune at our synagogue. But what do sixth graders really know about making others feel truly welcome?

Several few years ago, I had a student who showed up for class one rainy afternoon and burst into tears before she had even put down her backpack. I put my around around her and took her to the hallway, where she revealed that she had had a misunderstanding with her parents. I brought her down to the office and with the help of the office secretary, we agreed that she would be more comfortable if she called home. I encouraged her to come join the class as soon as she felt up to it.

But on my way out, I began to wonder: How exactly could I make sure that the class provided the kind of "welcome back" she would need?

When I arrived back at the classroom, the other students, who were naturally both concerned and curious, bombarded me with questions. Was everything okay? Did she fall? Or did someone hurt her feelings? A teacher? Another student? Did something happen at school? On the bus? At home?

I told them that while I wouldn't discuss the specifics, everything was going to be fine and I expected the student to return to the classroom shortly. But my bigger concern was with them: How were they going to react when the student walked back in?

They really didn't know what to do -- whether to say something or not, whether to acknowledge the tears or pretend the whole thing didn't happen. So I turned the tables on them and asked: How would you feel right now if you were that student, and you were about to return?

Being sixth graders, they agreed that their uppermost feeling would be embarrassment and a desire not to have the spotlight shine on them. They said they'd want to blend back in right away. Secondarily, they thought they'd like to know that they weren't alone -- that the rest of the class cared about them and didn't like to see them upset.

So if you were in her shoes, I asked, what would you like others to say?

Most agreed, that the best approach would be to "not make a big deal of it" -- to just act "normal." They also agreed that those who were her closest friends might offer to fill her in on any classwork she might miss, or simply say, "Glad you're back."

I was proud of them -- of how they showed insight into the situation, problem-solved the an approach, and ultimately made the student feel welcome when she returned.

A sukkah is a physical space, and often a beautiful one at that. But I think my students would agree that it's also a state of mind -- a way of watching the outer world from a safe position and of drawing others in for shelter or warmth or comfort when they need it.

"Come and have a lookah in my sukkah..." On that rainy afternoon, this is exactly the invitation my  my wonderful sixth graders extended.

Yom Kippur: Is It All About the Rules?

Not too long ago, my teenage son was invited to join a group of friends who were attending a nearby event. Now, I don't know exactly what was going to happen at this event, but whatever it was, my son said he was uncomfortable going. 'Nuf said.

Still, he didn't want to be the guy who wimped out, so he asked my husband and me, "Can I tell them you guys are making me do something else that night?"

"Of course," we said. "Blame it all on us. Make us the bad guys. We're happy to be the heavies."

Even when you're a teenager, authority can sometimes come in handy.

I think of that story at this time of year, which can be an anxious time for sixth graders. Yom Kippur is just days away, and as twelve year olds, they think it's the last time they can decline to fast and not feel guilty about it.

"Next year, we have to fast," one says.

"I'm going to try this year," another comments.

"But you don't have to," a third responds. "Next year, you have to."

Inevitably this leads to a conversation about different family members and their Yom Kippur habits and routines. One student mentions that her mother refrains from eating but still drinks a morning cup of coffee, or else she'll get a migraine. Another says that his grandfather passed out in synagogue one year when he hadn't eaten, and since then he has never fasted. All fully understand that when one's health is at stake or one may truly suffer physical distress, then it's okay to eat on Yom Kippur.

But for these young, strong, and able-bodied students, no waivers are acceptable -- at least according to them. As far as they're concerned, there are no exceptions when you're thirteen.

I understand their anxiety. Not eating from sunset to sunset is hard! Plus, it's an experience they've never had. All they know is that when lunchtime comes at school, they're hungry, and if they go to a restaurant where there's a hour wait, it's almost too much to bear. They don't know how their body will respond as the hours go by. They don't yet know what coping mechanisms they will use to get them through.

But at the same time, their view of this solemn holiday troubles me. It's not a marathon, it's not endurance test, and it's definitely not a competition. There's no finish line and no medal given once the 24th hour as passed. Fasting is less about the absence of food and more about the decision behind that absence. Its's less about what you're doing and more about why.

In the past, I've tried to offer this alternative way of thinking to my sixth graders, but typically they refuse to enter this more nuanced realm of thought. "No you have fast at thirteen," they tell me. "You have to."

Common wisdom tells us that preteens and teens abhor rules. Tell them what to do, experts say, and they'll rebel; it's best to give them the tools to make a good decision on their own. And yet, sometimes kids this age appreciate rules (even though they'll never admit it). Rules trump doubt and ambivalence, so they can sometimes be a great help in relieving anxiety.

So I've decided that this year, my sixth graders can talk about rules.

So maybe in a year or two, they can talk about reasons.

Ki Tavo: How do you measure?

If you want to talk Torah with a tween who professes to have no interest in the subject, Ki Tavo is a great place to begin. In this portion, to put it simply, Moses relays to the Israelites a clear ultimatum: If you follow God's commandments, life will be great; if you go against God, beware!

In my experience, middle schoolers, recognize immediately -- and perhaps more acutely than any other group of people -- that this ultimatum doesn't hold water. They know that kids who follow the rules often  suffer dearly, whether they're teased for being "chicken" or ostracized for being a"dork" or  "nerd." And kids who feel entitled to break the rules -- by being disrespectful, mean, disruptive, or worse -- are often glorified, romanticized, or considered intimidating and invincible.

So I  ask my students: How does this portion make sense? How can you explain the fact that good people don't always get rewarded and disobedient people don't always get punished? As Reform Jews, we consider the Torah a guide for living a moral and spiritual life. What are we to make of this portion, which runs so counter to our own experiences?

After considering this issue from a number of different vantage points, they eventually came up with a response that I've come to regard as interesting, provocative and quite insightful. My students decided that you can't find meaning in this portion if you look at it in a short-term way. Doing something good, they said, won't automatically bring you a reward the next day, or the next week, or even the next year. The rewards, they told me, only become apparent in the long term.

I then paraphrased for them a line in the song "Seasons of Love" from the Broadway musical Rent, changing it from "How do you measure a year in the life?" to simply, "How do you measure a life?"

And their answer was: It takes a lifetime to measure a life.

Beautiful. And this was only our first class meeting.

It's going to be a great year.

Middle Schoolers and the Holocaust

Here's an encore post from a few years ago. An updated version of this post appears on the Reform Judaism website, along with a link to a video on bullying that my class created as a response to their Holocaust learning. Please visit at  http://goo.gl/Xyrpdn

A few weeks ago, in honor of Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), our religious school invited a Survivor to speak.

The man, who was well into his 80s, was charming and delightful. Dressed in a dapper blue blazer, with a layer of snow-white hair on his head and a hearing aid tucked discreetly behind one ear, he told jokes, displayed photos of his grandchildren, spoke lovingly about his wife and his long marriage, and said that in spite of all he had been through, he never wanted to be a "sad sack." In fact, he said, he had refrained from talking about his childhood for years, until a producer connected with the Spielberg project found him and admonished him for staying silent.

Even now, she told him, there are people who deny the Holocaust; for the sake of future generations, the truth had to be told.

And so he began speaking out, visiting countless communities including ours. He described being kicked out of school and facing increasing hatred; he described a hellish trip on a cattle car and a brutal separation from his family at Auschwitz; he described coming home to learn that his entire family was dead; and he said that he wanted our children to know the facts because, in his words, it could happen again.

At the end of his talk, he noticed a parent in the audience crying quietly, and he went up to her and took her hand. He told her that he wasn't sad, and she shouldn't be either. He asked her to point out her children to him, and when she did, he told her they were beautiful. Then he kissed her hand. It was an amazing moment in an remarkable afternoon.

When I saw my students again a few days later, I asked them to talk about their reactions, and they told me plainly that he had terrified them. His warning that the Holocaust could happen again echoed in their ears. They talked of nightmares after his talk. Several went around checking the locks on the doors before they could go to sleep that night, and making sure they knew where their parents were. They were confused because they didn't feel threatened in their day-to-day lives, and the possible presence of some unknown, unforeseen enemy only compounded their fear.

I knew that this lovely gentlemen would not want fear to be the overriding effect of his talk. So I asked them to consider what positive feelings his talk inspired, and what other aspects of his presentation he might have wanted them to remember.

They told me that it was inspiring that he had made a good life for himself in the United States after all he had been through.

They told me it was inspiring that he refused to be sad and didn't want others to be sad either.

They told me it was inspiring that despite the brutality he had experienced, he was still be capable of giving and receiving love, as evidenced by his happy marriage and his pride in his family.

They told me it was inspiring that he could come and share his story and his life with them.

It was one of the most thoughtful class discussions we have ever had. And I know my students will never forget the Holocaust.

I'm also sure they will never forget this unforgettable gentleman.

Tazria: The "Yuck" Portion!

What are sixth graders to make of a Torah portion that turns their stomachs?

Tazria -- it's the portion that sends b'nei mitzvah students into hysterics, cursing their parents for bringing them into the world during the spring, rather than in the fall, when the Torah portions come from Genesis. Countless rabbis have started sermons with memories of the horrible day they learned that Tazria was their bar or bat mitzvah portion -- so many, in fact, that it would seem that chanting Tazria at age 13 is a prerequisite for joining the rabbinate!

What's so terrible? Well, this portion (which is combined this week with the following portion, M'tzora) enumerates in great detail what the high priest needed to do when  someone in the community developed a skin eruption. The descriptions of such eruptions are graphic, with references to white inflammations, red streaks,  and scaly patches with white hair. Few sixth-graders can get through even a few sentences in the English translation without cringing, squeezing their eyes shut, or exclaiming, "Yuck!' and "Gross!"

So how can sixth graders have a productive conversation about Tazria?

I decided to open the conversation by telling them about my dog.

Last week, my dog picked up some kind of stomach bug. I called the vet and said that he had vomited three times during the night. The first thing the vet asked was, "What did it look like?"

Well, it wasn't exactly my pleasure to spend time on the phone describing my poor dog's vomit; but since that was the only way my vet determine if my dog's condition was serious, I gritted my teeth and did it.

I asked the students to tell me if they had ever had to do something that made them uncomfortable, but they did it anyway, because the consequences of turning away would be worse.

They responded with some interesting comments. One student mentioned that she had once chosen to taste a Japanese food that she thought looked disgusting, because she didn't want to insult the Japanese friend who had offered it. Another mentioned that a recent school lesson on puberty as an example of an experience that was distasteful -- but necessary.

I finished the discussion by talking about how the Torah is full of contradictions and separations, a theme we have covered before. There's darkness and light, masters and slaves, earth and sky, joy and grief, and so on. I reminded them that there are many beautiful portions in the Torah, but many less-pleasing ones as well, and as Tazria reminds us, attention must be paid to both.

Yes, there are times in life when you can mull over the glorious majesty of the land of Israel, as viewed by Moses after years of wandering through the desert. Sometimes you can relish the sublime mystery of love at first sight, as experienced by Isaac when he meets Rebecca.

And sometimes, you have no choice but to buckle down and describe what the dog's vomit looks like.

Shemini: Rules, Rules, Rules!

"I broke Passover last week!" one of my sixth-grade students proclaims as she enters the classroom. She looks around at the other students, and one by one, they all similarly confess that they "broke Passover" too.

Listening to them retell the circumstances surrounding their transgressions, I found myself struck by the language they used. To them, Passover was some kind of spiritual line in the sand, and in breaking it, they severed their tie to the holiday for this year.

 But is that really what Passover is -- a challenge? a endurance test? a race toward a finish line? 

Rules about food abound in Jewish life, specifying how we are to celebrate holidays from Passover to Yom Kippur. But perhaps no food rules are as problematic as those we read about in this week's Torah portion, Shemini -- the rules about keeping kosher. In this portion, the Israelis are told that they can eat only animals that (1) have clefts in their hooves; and (2) chew their cud. Other types of animals -- such as swine, camels, and hares -- are labeled "unclean" and thus unfit to eat.

As for seafood, the Israelis can eat only those creatures that have fins and scales; other creatures (such as shellfish) are "an abomination." There are also restrictions on eating birds and insects.

In my experience, middle schoolers love talking about keeping kosher. I think this is because they find the subject of rules in general totally absorbing. After all, their lives are full of rules -- you can't be late to class without a pass; you can't get an A for the quarter if you haven't turned in all your homework; you can't go on the field trip if you don't return your permission slip. Middle schoolers are rule experts.

If I gave them the chance, my sixth graders would talk about the kosher laws for hours. They would question the reasons behind the laws, and try to parse the meaning of the term "unclean." They would try to come up with animals who might not fit precisely in one category or another. And they would play out imaginary scenarios in their heads: What if a kosher person were to eat something non-kosher without knowing it was non-kosher? What if he only were to eat a teeny bite of the non-kosher stuff -- would that be as bad as eating a whole meal?

As a teacher, my goal is to get them to look at kosher rules from a broader perspective. I ask them: What effect do religious food rules have on a person's life? Can a person ever really be perfect when it comes to being kosher, and is perfection even a worthy goal? How is the kosher/non-kosher dichotomy similar to other important Jewish separations -- such as evening versus morning; earth versus sky; and Shabbat versus the rest of the week?

Most important: Should the Torah's rules about food be viewed as fences that break? Or as paths from which we may occasionally choose or need to step away?

One rabbi I know likes to tell a story about a time when he was working in the Midwest, among people who were unfamiliar with Jewish ways. He was staying with a family who desperately wanted him to feel comfortable. So when they found out that he kept kosher (and they learned what that meant), the mother traveled to a city far away, where she was able to purchase a kosher chicken. She came home and proudly served it to him -- along with a scoop of mashed potatoes made with milk and butter.

Despite the fact that the chicken was kosher, if he ate the meal, he would be violating the kosher law regarding milk and meat.

So what do you think he did? Refuse the potatoes? Or eat the whole meal, potatoes and all, in the belief that mixing meat and milk was the more "kosher" way to behave in this situation?

I'll leave it for you and your middle schooler to decide.

Tzav: Taking a Lesson from Idina Menzel

One night, I found my sixth-grade daughter sleepwalking.

It was almost midnight, when I heard an unexpected noise coming from the family room. I peeked in, and there she was, turning over sofa cushions and moving the DVD cases and Wii controls on the coffee table.

"What's going on?" I said, assuming that she was awake. "Why are you down here?"

"I'm looking for the book. I can't find the book!" she muttered angrily.

"What book?"

"The book...the one that...uuuugh!" she growled in frustration. Her loss for words helped me realize that she was still asleep, so I put my arm around her and led her back to her bed.

The next day she didn't remember a thing.

Sad to say, this wasn't the first time that my daughter had had a troubled sleep. Twice before, I heard her talk in her sleep -- once she said she needed to hurry to a restaurant, and the other time she mumbled something about a misplaced board game. She had started middle school that year, and I had no doubt that the pressure of switching classes and managing many projects and tests had taken its toll. I think that during the night, she was wrestling with the same stress she felt earlier in the day.

Why did she hold onto all that worry? Why couldn't she--to quote Idina Menzel in her award-winning Disney anthem--simply "let it go"?

In this week's Torah portion, Tzav, we learn about rituals that the ancient priests needed to carry out when making sacrifices. Among them is the rule that after making a burnt offering, the priest was not to let the ashes lie; instead he was required to gather the ashes and take them away from the altar. In this way, there would be no remnants from a previous sacrifice when it was time to perform one anew.

I can't help but think about my daughter's sixth-grade year when I consider this aspect of Tzav. After all, there are many days when the last words she said before she went to sleep were the same ones she said when she awoke -- that she was worried about how she did on a test, or she didn't know how she was going to have the time to complete an upcoming project.

Wouldn't it be great if she could have gathered up all her worries each evening -- like the priests with the ashes -- and put them away, so she could start the next day fresh?

Worrying is tough -- it can be unhealthy, too -- so it's unfortunate that middle schoolers often take on this disturbing habit while they are still so young.  One likely cause of their worrying is the big workload that comes with moving from elementary to middle school, and I've been involved in PTA committees that try to partner with teachers to keep middle-school homework assignments reasonable and reduce stress on kids. But I know it's a parent's job, too, to make sure their kids know that they have choices each night.

They can hold onto those ashes from the day, or they can remove them.

To be sure, it may take some experimentation on a child's part to figure out just how to get rid of those ashes for good. It may take some deep breaths before bedtime, and some internal effort and determination. They may try listening to music before bed, or losing themselves in a funny book or TV show.

I hope that in time, and with parents' loving help, the middle schoolers I know can learn to remove the ashes at the end of each day. That way, they'll have a much better start in the morning.

And they'll certainly sleep better at night.

Vayikra: Do Tweens Know How to Sacrifice?

It was great news when my sixth-grade daughter was promoted to a new ballet level -- but our excitement was dampened when we realized that the timing of new dance class made it impossible for her to continue with ice-skating lessons. We found ourselves at the kitchen table having one of those "You can't do everything," discussions, until finally she decided to forego the skates.

But it bothered me, that she had to make that choice. I wondered if she'd end up regretting it. In my mind, I saw all the bows she would never take, all the trophies she would never accept, her mittened fingers outstretched, her cheeks pink from the cold and excitement. I saw her hot pink skate bag and her white figure skates resting unused in her closet.

She was only eleven. Why should she have to give up one favorite activity just to progress in another?

Sacrifice -- it's at the heart of Vayikra, this week's Torah portion. In Vayikra, God gives instructions to the Israeli people about how to make sacrifices. Our ancient forefathers had plenty of experience in this activity. Among the most famous sacrifices, Abraham killed a ram and made a burnt offering after God stopped him from killing his son Isaac; and Moses commanded the Israeli people to sacrifice lambs so they would have blood to apply to the doorposts of the Egyptians.

In Vayikra, we learn that sacrifices were sometimes intended as a way to atone for a sin. But they were also a way to express thanks, awe, or reverence toward God.

These days, we generally think of sacrifices as trade-offs. We sacrifice -- or let go of -- something we currently find desirable to attain something more valuable in the long run. Sacrifices involve a weighing of options; they can be easy or painful, but ultimately we hope to be left with the feeling that we've done something correct, moral, or noble.

Parenthood is all about sacrifices. We sacrifice career growth to take care of our children; we sacrifice vacations and other indulgences to save for a house or a child's college education; we sacrifice sleep to comfort a child who has had a nightmare; and we even may sacrifice our blood pressure -- hopefully only on a temporary basis -- when our teenagers start to drive. 

But I'm not a fan of asking middle schoolers to give things up. Oh sure, I'm all for making sure that my kids cut back on candy to maintain a healthy body, or trade the fancy sandals for winter boots when it's 32 degrees outside. But when it comes to pursuing passions or seeing how far they can take a new activity -- I say, go for it. I think middle schoolers should ice skate and dance, play soccer and write for the school newspaper, learn Hebrew and act in the school musical, play piano and make pottery, swing a tennis racquet and ride a horse.

I think middle schoolers should play outside on the first warm day of spring, even if it means spending not quite enough time on homework; I think middle schoolers should grab any chance they may get to see a World Series game, even it comes on a school day.

In short, I don't think middle school is a time for shrinking options; I think it's a time to expand options, and to see much that life has to offer.

So while my daughter needed to miss a few ice-skating classes that year, I was determined to get her back on the ice you can bet she'll be back on the ice as soon as I could. And the only sacrifice I hope she'll make as a tween is the kind that involves reverence.

 I hope that every once in a while she'll stop and think about how big and awesome the world is, and how thankful she is to be a part of it.

Tetzaveh: Clothes Make the Tween!

Not too long ago, my sixth-grade daughter was promoted at her ballet school, and after her first day in her new class, she came home asking for "ballet shorts."

Now when I took ballet, the standard uniform was leotard, tights, and slippers; but I've been around present-day dance-school dressing rooms often enough to know that ballet shorts are kind of these skimpy bicycle shorts that girls wear over their dance clothes. As far as I can see, they serve no purpose other than to add a cool, layered look to a dancer's appearance.

According to my daughter, ballet shorts were essential now that she was in Ballet 4. All the Ballet 4 girls wore them, she told me; not only that, you needed to be in Ballet 4 before you were even allowed to wear them, so they were an honor as well as a desirable accessory.

I took my daughter to the local ballet shop and skeptically held the shorts up on their hanger. They were tiny, about the size of two washcloths stitched together, and at $20, they were pricey, considering that they didn't replace any garments but were just an add-on.

What would I do? Support this craving for what the other Ballet 4 girls had? Or use this as an opportunity to teach a lesson about the perils of peer pressure and the benefits of saving money whenever possible?

I think this dilemma provides an interesting counterpoint to this week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh. In previous verses, God gave instructions for how to build the Tabernacle. Now, God describes the garments required for Aaron and his sons, who will serve as "priests."

God says the purpose of these garments, which include a breastpiece, robe, tunic, headdress, and sash, is "dignity and adornment." Consequently, the people are to make them from colorful yarns, fine linen, and precious stones and metals. No detail is left out; there are even directions for how the items should be fastened.

At times, I've seen these demands as excessive and unnecessary. Why would priests need the finest fabrics, the most valuable jewels? After all, the Jewish people had just been released from slavery and could finally stop fleeing for their lives. They were dusty, tired, and emotionally drained. Why did they need to work so hard on an outfit?

But lately, I've started to think that maybe these reasons are precisely why Aaron and his sons needed fancy duds. This was a community that needed to believe in its future, a group of people who wanted to know they were part of something bigger than themselves. As psychologists will tell you, sometimes attitude follows behavior. For the Jewish people back in the desert, creating priestly garments that demanded respect was likely one of the best ways to begin creating a strong and solid future.

Clothes are big source of stress for middle schoolers and parents. But discussions about clothing are well worth having. Why does a particular garment become a "must have"? Is it functional or decorative? Does it serve vanity, or a more important purpose? Does it provide status? Confidence? Encouragement? Help in accomplishing a goal? Something else?

Ultimately, I bought my daughter her ballet shorts. I understood that she had some trepidation about moving into a class of girls who had all been in Ballet 4 for several months. I saw that the shorts were a way for her to fit in with the group in a good way -- to feel that she belonged at this level and could blend in as a skilled dancer. I thought they would give her confidence and help her believe in herself.

I can only hope that Aaron felt as good in his new vestments as my daughter felt in hers.

Mishpatim: The Stranger is YOU!

One summer when my son was in middle school, my husband and I agreed to send him to a two-week sports camp held on the grounds of a New England prep school. He was thrilled to go, but he had never before been away from us other than for an occasional sleepover, so we wondered how he would adjust.

We didn't have long to wonder. David didn't have cell phone back then, but he did have a calling card, and at around eleven o'clock each night he would leave his room and find a phone to call us, imploring us to come get him. He couldn't sleep; the bed was uncomfortable; the room was too hot; his roommate's breathing was too loud; he wanted to come home.

He sounded panicked, as though he didn't even know who he was anymore. He couldn't understand why he hated a camp that should have been exciting and fun.

I can still hear his voice when I think about this week's Torah portion, Mishpatim. For the most part, Mishpatim is little more than a list, a dispassionate rundown of laws that God for the Jewish people. But ironically, this dry portion includes one of the most haunting and evocative pronouncements in the Torah.

That pronouncement: "You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt."

With these words, God is urging the Israelites to treat outsiders with empathy. They are to remember how it felt to be stranger, and to let the memory of that unhappy feeling guide their behavior. But I'm struck by the implication that being an outsider is a universally familiar experience. We try so hard throughout our lives to connect with people -- building communities, joining groups, developing friendships, searching for "soulmates" -- but in the end, as God says, each one of us knows "the feelings of the stranger."

Middle schoolers in particular spend a lot of time feeling like strangers. They leave the familiarity of elementary school while they are still young, they enter new classes with new teachers as often as every quarter, they join new teams and clubs, and encounter new faces continually. They often take on unfamiliar and grown-up responsibilities -- earning their own money by baby-sitting or shoveling snow, taking charge of a house key, deciding whether to meet with a teacher for extra help before a test day.

And don't forget -- they are also strangers in their own bodies. Doctors say that physically, middle schoolers are changing more quickly than they will at any other stage of life other than infancy.

These days, middle schoolers are trained to do just what God demands of the Jewish people -- put themselves in other kids' shoes and behave accordingly. Many schools have a formal empathy curriculum, with guest speakers, reading assignments, and structured discussions.

But are kids equally equipped for the times when they feel like strangers to themselves? Do they know how to talk about it and work through it? Do they have ways to cope?

David eventually got through those long nights at the sports camp, and one of the most important outcomes was that he learned a little about who he was. He knows now that he's the kind of person who takes time to adjust to new situations. He's since gone away further from home and for longer periods of time, but he knows what to expect. And he always remembers to pack his ipod and earphones, an issue of his favorite sports magazine, and a booklight, which will help him cope with those first few nights.

When he leaves home, my husband and I always remind him that he has faced long, lonely nights before, and he's made it through.

Just like God reminded the Jews.

Va-y-chi: Mary Poppins, Eliza Doolittle, and the Value of Perspective

Many years ago, there was a beautiful young actress with an exquisite singing voice who landed the lead role in a magnificent new Broadway musical.

When it came time to turn the musical into a landmark movie, however, Hollywood producers doubted that the young actress had adequate screen presence, so they gave the choice lead role to a proven film star--even though her singing voice was so weak, her songs would be dubbed by a behind-the-scenes vocalist.

As a consolation prize, the young actress was offered the lead role in a pleasant, lightweight family film.

The young actress was Julie Andrews. The veteran film star was Audrey Hepburn. The magnificent-musical-turned-landmark-movie was My Fair Lady. The family film was Mary Poppins.

As it turned out, both films were made in 1964, and both actresses were nominated for an Oscar and somewhat surprisingl, it was Julie Andrews who won the statuette. Reporters asked her: Do you think you got the award because people felt sorry for you about being passed for the Eliza Doolittle role? to which  she replied with consternation, of course not.

Skip ahead in time some four decades, after Julie Andrews has crowned her long career with numerous films and a return to Broadway, has cemented her reputation with a whole new generation in the role of Queen of Genovia in the movie series The Princess Diaries, and has become a celebrated children's author to boot. Once again, she is asked if she thinks she got the 1964 Oscar as a consolation prize.

This time she smiles mischievously and nods. Yes, she says, there probably is some truth to that.

A long story to be sure, but it held my sixth graders spellbound when I told it as we discussed Va-y'chi, the last portion in the book of Genesis. There is so much to talk about in this moving and bittersweet story of reconciliation and closure--but the part that I focused on is the moment when Jacob, now reunited with his beloved son Joseph, goes to bless his grandsons. He puts his right hand on the younger grandson, and his left on the older--even though the older should get the benefit of the right hand. But before he speaks, Joseph, the boys' father, jumps in and urges that his father switch hands.

There is so much irony in this scene -- after all, Jacob himself "stole" his older brother's blessing through trickery, and Joseph was also a favored, albeit younger, son. As a boy, Joseph gloated and bragged about his undeserved, elevated status. But in this portion, an older and wiser Joseph tries to set things right for the next generation.

So I ask my students: Why do you think Julie Andrews reversed her answer the second time she was asked? Why do you think Joseph had a change of heart with regard to favoritism?

Personally, I think the Torah is teaching a lesson about the passage of time and the acquisition of perspective -- but my students surprised me with their own spin on the story. They pointed out to me that the young Julie Andrews was still creating herself and building her career. She couldn't afford to let her guard down by admitting that her Mary Poppins performance may not have deserved the Oscar.

Forty years later, my students said, of course Andrews was able to admit the truth. She was star, and her career was assured. She no longer had anything to risk.

Joseph, they added, also had come out on top by the time he was a father. At that point, they said, he could afford to hold a more balanced view about whether a younger son should have the privileges that normally go to the older one.

Then I asked: What about you? Have you ever seen things  one way in the heat of the moment  -- but understood things differently after time had passed?

They had many examples, but one student's response stands out in my mind. "Sometimes you get into a fight with a sibling or friend," she said, "and they say, 'You did this!' and you say, 'No, I didn't!' But then when you look back on it, you sort of say, 'Yeah, I guess I did."

As usual, my heart goes out to  my group of preteens, who naturally see everything through a prism of risk and uncertainty, and react automatically by going on the defense. Letting go of an advantage or admitting vulnerability is risky, in their world. It can put you in an emotional place that you really don't want to be. Getting older means becoming more certain of who you are. At that point, you can afford to let down your hair..

We talked about such sayings as, "Time heals all wounds," "With age comes wisdom," and "When you're mad, count to ten before you saying anything." My students agreed that perspective is a valuable commodity.

And while they were talking, they were giving me some new perspective as well.

Veyeitze: There is a God!

It was a difficult September for our local community last year. The school year started off with a brawl that sent two kids to the hospital, and when the principal tried to investigate the matter to determine whether consequences should be levied, he was met with silence. No one was willing to take responsibility for participating in the fight, or even to admit having knowledge about the participants. Even adults in the community were silent, causing the local media to denounce the parent body as lacking in integrity.

The principal was frustrated; the teachers and coaches felt powerless; parents felt attacked and defensive; and the students were demoralized, viewing the prospect of another summer ten months away as the only bright spot in an otherwise cheerless year.

 And then, an amazing thing happened.

The soccer team began to win.

And win.

AND WIN!!

Game after game, through divisionals, sectionals, and regionals, the teammates played their hearts out. Gradually the stands started to fill with spectators cheering the team on. By the time the state championship rounds started, the school was transporting busloads of enthusiastic kids, who were happy to travel more than an hour to each game, because they were proud of their team, proud of their school, and glad to be part of the moment.

I asked my sixth-grade students: So what did I say to myself as all this excitement was building?

And because they had been prepped, they sang out the answer: God was in this place and I did not know it!

It's a famous line in the portion Vayeitze, and arguably one of the most joyous of moments in the whole Torah. Jacob, having tricked his father and stolen his brother's blessing,  has fled from home to escape his brother's wrath, and is wandering in the desert at night with nothing but a stone to use as a pillow. But once he falls asleep, he dreams of a unique and marvelous ladder that stretches from earth up to heaven, with angels traveling upwards and downwards. He awakes with the revelation that God was right there with him, even though he hadn't known it.

I asked my students whether they had ever experienced a similar realization, and as expected, many kids recounted stories of sports teams that unexpectedly had winning seasons. But then one particularly insightful student spoke up.

"What are you saying -- that you really think God made your team win?" she asked. "Are you really saying that a miracle happened when your team won?"

It's a great question, given that we invoke God's presence all the time when something that could have gone wrong, goes right. "Thank God!" we sigh when a toddler who appears to be missing shows up around a corner. "There is a God!" we exclaim when a perennial cheater or scammer finally gets caught.

One girl in my class said she felt like saying "God is in this place and I didn't know it," one morning at school when she couldn't find her English homework and then discovered it hidden beneath a seam in her book bag. Another girl, a competitive figure skater, talked about going through a practice where she couldn't land any of her jumps, and then skating perfectly a short while later during the actual competition. She described feeling confused and unsettled during the practice because her difficulties didn't make sense -- and then feeling relieved when she ultimately performed the way she knew she could.

Ultimately we came to the conclusion that when we say, "God was in this place..." it's because we're feeling that the universe somehow makes sense, and that our actions are bringing on expected results and consequences. We feel safe and at home in our skin and in the world. Things feel right.

When I dismissed the kids later that morning, I felt good. I had prepared a good lesson, and all my students had been engaged and involved. There hadn't been any unexpected surprises. The morning went the way it was supposed to.

I smiled as I turned off the lights and left the classroom, thinking, "God is in this place, and I didn't know it."

Vayak'heil-P'kudei: What Can Tweens Give?

It happened nearly everyday when I picked up my sixth-grader from school.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Fine."

"What happened at school?"

"Nothing."

"Come on!" I teased. "You gotta give me something!"

She looked at me from the back seat, her backpack nearly bursting, her eyes tired from a long day at school.  And yet she might as well have been barefoot and empty-handed, with the pockets of her cut-off jeans turned out: "Nothin', Mom. I got nothin'."

This week, we have a combined Torah portion, Vayak'heil-P'kudei, in which Moses relays God's instructions for building the Tabernacle and other structures.  He tells the Israeli people that if their hearts are so moved -- that is, if they feel like it -- they should give their finest goods to God: their gold, silver and copper; their linens and yarns; their animal skins and wood; their oil and spices; and their precious stones. These will be used as raw materials for the building effort.

And what do the people do? They give their possessions willingly, with outstretched hands.

How did they get all this stuff? The Torah tells us that the Egyptians let the fleeing Israeli people have all their silver, gold and clothing. God intervened, we're told, and made the Egyptians look favorably on the former slaves.

But I think that subsequent verses hint at a more profound answer as to how the Israeli people were able to offer valuable gifts.

You see, the Torah goes on to explain that among the Israelis were designers and artisans and crafstmen -- people with specific and useful skills and abilities. It was the job of these skilled people to take the people's gifts and use them to fabricate the Tabernacle.

In this way, I think this portion helps us to understand that we all have gifts to share -- even when, as my daughter so eloquently put it, we think that we "got nothin'." The people, though only recently liberated from slavery, were willing to share anything they had -- and in so doing, they helped build the means to see God.

I knew that my daughter had many "gifts" she could give me when she got in the car every afternoon. She could tell me about an enjoyable conversation she had with a good friend, or a step she took to help someone, or a story about how someone helped her. She could tell me about a teacher who said something that made her feel good about herself, or a moment when random sparks connected in her brain and miraculously, an idea was formed.

But it was up to her to decide when her heart was so moved as to share these gifts with me.

Which means that it was my job to be there when her arms were outstretched and the gifts were there for the taking. It continues to be my job to do just that.

I'm reminded of a scene in the movie "Pretty Woman" -- not necessarily an appropriate movie for middle schoolers, or even a very good movie at all, but there's a moment in it that I like. It's near the end of the movie, when Julia Roberts is about to leave, and Richard Gere is sorry to see her go. "Impossible relationships," he mutters. "My special gift is impossible relationships."

As she walks toward the door, she gently tells him, "I think you have a lot of special gifts."

Middle schoolers have a lot of special gifts. And that's one of the most precious bits of knowledge that a parent can ever own.

Ki Tisa: The Roar of the Crowd

There's a scene in the Jimmy Stewart movie "It's a Wonderful Life" that's always bothered me. Yes, I know this is a Torah blog and that's a Christmas movie, but work with me.

Jimmy Stewart plays George Bailey, a man in crisis who gets the chance to see how the lives of his relatives and friends would change had he never been born. Even if you've never seen the movie, you can probably guess that their lives are greatly diminished in his absence. But I've always been more interested in the rest of the community. You see, with George Bailey as a community leader, the streets of Bedford Falls are neat, the shops are quaint, and the people are warm and friendly. But without George Bailey, the town -- now named Pottersville -- is seedy, the streets are lined with bars and X-rated clubs, and the people are mean and grouchy.

It's always troubled me, this view of group dynamics, which holds that people sink to their basest level without a strong and charismatic leader. According to this theory, it's the role of the leader to quell people's natural tendencies toward degeneracy, and to spur them to more cooperative and productive activities.

I think of this indictment of groups when I read this week's Torah portion, Ki Tisa. In Ki Tisa, we learn what the Jewish people have been doing while Moses has been up on Mount Sinai receiving laws from God. It's not a pretty picture! The people have created an idol -- the famed Golden Calf -- to worship, and they are dancing, drinking, and otherwise being, as Moses later puts,  "out of control."

As teachers and parents, we encourage our kids to behave like leaders. We portray individuals like Moses and Martin Luther King Jr., like Abraham of the Torah and Abraham of the Lincolns, as role models worthy of emulation. But in doing this, I think that we miss part of the picture. Psychologists tells us that middle schoolers hate to stand out. They want to look like everyone else, dress like everyone else, and act like everyone else. In short, they want nothing more than to blend in with the crowd.

Shouldn't we respect their inclinations, and try to figure out what makes a group successful -- even in the absence of a stand-out figure?

Why does one class of students continue to work if the teacher needs to leave the room for a moment, while down the hall, the kids will climb on their desks and hurl pencils at one another? Why does one group of middle-schoolers spend a Saturday night on their own, peacefully eating pizza and watching a movie in someone's basement, while another group of kids gets into trouble unless they are under the constant supervision of a parent? It can't be due entirely to the character of the individuals involved, since we all know children who act one way with one set of friends and the complete opposite way with a different set. What is the tipping point that turns Bedford Falls into Pottersville?

Can you find months an example in the Torah of a leaderless group that nevertheless behave cooperatively and productively? How does that group differ from the one in Ki Tisa? 

Above all, I think we need to recognize that groups -- whether families, school classes, or communities -- can do great things on their own. After all, there won't always be a Moses, or even a George Bailey, around.

T'rumah: Oh Those Group Projects!

It's 2:30 in the afternoon, and I know what's coming as soon as I pull up to the curb at school and see the scowl on my sixth-grader's face. She climbs into the car, kicks her backpack, and skulks down in her seat.

"Guess what," she tells me angrily. "We have another group project!"

Group projects are the bane of a middle schooler's existence. They require patience, diplomacy, restraint, and a big-picture perspective -- characteristics and skills that don't always apply to your average twelve- or thirteen-year-old. Add to that all the drama that informs a middle-school environment -- crushes, shifting friendships, misunderstandings, hurt feelings -- and it's it's hard to imagine that any group project would have even remote chance of being completed.

My daughter is one of those kids who likes to stay on task, work diligently, and finish her assignments early whenever possible. So inevitably she gets grouped with at least one easy-going type who refuses to knuckle down until the eleventh hour. My daughter starts to make demands, the free-spirit calls her "bossy," the other kids take sides, someone winds up in tears, the teacher tells them to work it out, someone forgets to do his or her piece, another someone gets sick and stalls the whole process...

If there's one saving grace, it's that teachers tend to grade group projects fairly leniently. I think they know about the battle scars that inevitably result, and they try not to add to the pain. And some, no doubt, believe that the lessons kids learn about cooperation and collaboration may be more important in the long run than the quality of the finished product.

Funny enough, I've also discovered that middle-school groups tend to turn out some pretty special projects. Okay, maybe they're quirky and unusual, but that's what make them so interesting. As a parent and as a teacher, I've seen the most wonderful group projects appear -- posters, imovies, dramatic skits, painted crafts, and even decorated cakes -- that reflect a host of different personalities, and could never have been created by one student alone.

I think of middle schoolers and group projects when I read T'rumah, this week's Torah portion. In T'rumah, God issues directions to the Jewish people for building the Tabernacle, a kind of portable house of worship that will accompany the Jews through the desert. God tells Moses to have the people donate precious metals, skins, and specific types of wood. And God lays out dimensions and specific design requirements for the structure.

I can't help but see this task as a kind of group project, and I wonder how the Jews brought the thing to fruition. Did the strict rule-follower have the gold overlays ready before the acacia-table was built, and did this cause an argument? Did the free spirit want to play loose with the dimensions to see if the table might function better as a result? What if some of the group members were tired because they stayed up to watch American Idol the night before, so they lost count of the number of gold rings they were making? What if one of the members hadn't kept another's secret, and now the two of them were in a fight about just how long a cubit actually was?

How does the middle schooler in your life take to group projects? What role does he or she play? Does completing one group project help the next one go more smoothly? Is there any way to lessen the group-project stress?

Knowing what I do about human nature, I suspect that the Tabernacle didn't come out exactly as God specified.

And I suspect that ultimately, it was good the way it was.