Haazinu: Why A Rock?

Not too long ago, I took a class about God led by a very imaginative rabbi. When we arrived, there were several items placed on table in the center of the room, including a bunch of wildflowers, a clock, a Bible, and a container of Elmer's Glue. He asked us: Which of these items most closely match your concept of God?

It was a provocative and intriguing task. Who would chose the flowers, believing that God was expressed in nature? Who would choose the clock, thinking of God mainly in the passage of time and the experience of different life stages and lifecycle events? Did God mainly exist for some of us in the realm of prayer, religion, and sacred texts? Or was God the glue that held us together during our darkest moments?

The most interesting result of this exercise was not what we chose, but how strongly we felt about our choices. Each of us had a specific concept of God that was expressed in one of the items on the table.

I think of these lessons and teachings around this time of year, when I discuss Haazinu, one of the last portions in the Torah, with my students. Sometimes called "The Song of Moses," this portion is part of the set of instructions that Moses offers shortly before he is to die, and includes a section written in verse that seeks to express the relationship between the Israelites and God.

The song describes God as "The Rock--whose deeds are perfect," and later "an eagle who rouses its nestlings." My students' reaction, in a word, was "Why?'

Why a rock? Why an eagle? Why compare God to anything? Why not say what God is, instead of what God is like?

The thing is, 11- and 12-year-olds, they crave concreteness and certainty, and they hate ambivalence. They live in a world of tests and grades and rules, where the answers are clear, and right and wrong are obvious. They want to know what God is. They hate that I have no answer.

So they tell me their own images of God, perceptions they've had as long as they can remember. Some cling to the age-old image of an old man with a beard. Some continue to use the pronoun "he," even while asserting that God has no gender, because God is not a person.

Then I ask them if they can find any answers in Moses' words -- "The Rock!"

And they tell me:

A rock is strong.
A rock is forever
A rock is dependable
A rock is always there.
A rock doesn't really change.
And finally... a rock is as large and unmoveable as a mountain, but also as small and portable as a pebble in your pocket.

I think they know more about God than they realize.

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.

Nitzavim: "And I'll Be Watching You"

I remember the day my daughter decided she wanted to walk home from school. She was in eighth grade, so it seemed a reasonable request, but the path home took her across a five-cornered intersection that even an adult would find challenging. Of course, she had to cross streets by herself sometime; I couldn't guard her from oncoming traffic for the rest of her life. And so I agreed that she could do it -- if she consented to a few simple instructions.

"Make sure you press the button and wait for the 'walk' sign," I said.

"I will," she agreed.

"But it's not enough to just wait for the 'walk' sign," I added. "Don't start to cross until you see that all the cars have stopped."

"Okay," she said.

"A complete stop."

She nodded.

"But don't just assume that the drivers know you're crossing, even if the cars are stopped," I said. "Make eye contact with the drivers so you know they see you."

She nodded.

"And call me just before you cross, so I know when you've started."

"Okay."

"And call me again after you reach the other side, so I know you got there safely."

She sighed. "Forget it, Mom," she said. "Just pick me up in the car like usual."

I like to tell this story to my sixth graders when we study the portion Nitzavim, because I find it to be one of literature's most beautiful expressions of parental love. Moses, who will be allowed to view the Promised Land but will die before he can ever enter it, speaks to the Israelites like a parent about to bid goodbye to a cherished child, giving final instructions before he must leave them to fend for themselves.

You can feel the urgency in his voice, the pressure of time bearing down, as he urges his followers to keep God's commandments, to love God completely, and above all, to "Choose life" whenever the opportunity to make such a choice arises.

So I ask my sixth graders to think about the times when their parents felt like Moses did -- and then, I ask them to think about a time when they may have felt like Moses. When, I ask, did you ever have to go away and let someone else take care of something you loved?

Not surprisingly, the subject of pets often comes up during this discussion, as many of my sixth graders have had to say goodbye to a beloved dog or cat upon leaving for summer camp or vacation. Some of them describe the elaborate instructions they give parents or grandparents, detailing how their cherished animal should be fed, stroked, and put to sleep at night.

Ultimately, my students come to realize that my concern for my daughter, like their worries about their pets and Moses' exhortations to the Israelites, is not about power or control; it's all about love.

And yes, I did insist that my daughter take my warnings with a grain of salt, and walk home that day.

That was all about love as well.

Middle Schoolers and Yom HaShoah: Lessons Learned

A version of this post appears on the Reform Judaism website, along with a link to a video on bullying that my class created a few weeks ago 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.

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.

Vayeitze: There is a God!

It was a difficult September for our local community. 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."

Tol'dot: Did You Squirm?

When I was in tenth grade, I tried out for a lead part in a school play. I was a veteran member of the drama club and thought I had things pretty much sewn up. But my director ended up casting me in a small, walk-on role. To my dismay, she gave the lead to an enthusiastic but inexperienced soccer player who had decided on a whim to audition.

Looking back, I think the director believed the girl might bring freshness to the production -- but it was a gamble that didn't pay off. The soccer player was stiff and awkward on stage, couldn't project her voice,and had trouble memorizing her lines. All the other cast members thought she was ruining the production, and as opening night neared, even the director seemed frazzled.

So one day when the girl had to miss a rehearsal, the director asked me to fill in -- and that's when my friends hatched their plot. As I made all my cues and delivered the lines flawlessly, they urged the director to give the soccer player the boot and keep me in the lead for good.

It's a memory that haunts me at this time of year, when the portion Tol'dot rolls around. Tol'dot contains the famous story of Jacob, who disguises himself as his older brother, Esau, to trick their father and capture the blessing to which Esau was entitled.

Who in this portion is most to blame? Is it Jacob, who tricks his dad and steals his brother's blessing? Esau, who is careless with the privileges he automatically inherits thanks to his status as first-born son? Rebecca, who favors one son over another and devises the dastardly deception? Or Isaac, who, though he clearly suspects that something amiss,  doesn't bother to investigate?

I don't want my sixth-graders merely to talk about this portion; I want them feel uncomfortable with it. I want them to squirm. Because I think when you get right down to it, we all play the roles of Jacob, Esau, Rebecca, and Isaac at one point or another. And I think that recognizing the complexities we bring to our interactions with others is a key step in learning how to make mature decisions.

So I tell my students about my drama production, and I help them find corresponding characters in the Jacob story and my story. Typically we all agree that there was something at least slightly justified in what my friends (aka Rebecca) did by trying to win me the coveted lead role. The director (God) had made a casting mistake, and the soccer player (Esau) was unable to handle the role she was assigned. The rest of the cast (Isaac) would have been happy to turn a blind eye, so to speak, if I (Jacob) assumed the lead.

Then I ask my students to think about a time when they were in a Jacob-like predicament.  It's not hard for them to do this. Middle-school assignments often involve group work, and the group leader -- who is typically chosen by chance, when the teacher pulls his or her name out of a hat -- often seems unfit for leadership.

I ask my students: Is it best to rally behind a more suitable leader? Does a grade of "A" for the entire group justify deposing the original leader? Or should the members let the chosen leader plod on, even if that means that the whole group must settle for a "C" or worse?

In my situation, the director kept the soccer player in the role, and while the production was pretty terrible, we all got through and moved on. In retrospect, I think the director made the right decision.

But what if there had been an admissions officer from Juilliard in the audience, and what if one of the other leads had been up for a full scholarship, and what if the soccer player's performance had ruined the show to such an extent that the other lead lost out on the scholarship? Would the director's decision still have looked good if this had been the result?

So I lead my sixth-graders through this and other scenarios that involve difficult moral judgments and uncomfortable positions. 

I know I've gotten through to them when I see them squirm.