On Purim we read about threatened violence against Jews propelled by one man’s political ambition. There are many examples in history of antisemitism in the guise of politics. Institutionalized objectification sets the stage for violence. The question for Jews in the modern world is whether or not we can come together to forestall the violence that takes root through the abuse of political processes.

A most potent antisemitic canard used for political gain has been the blood libel. Most effectively employed in Europe, the accusation that Jews used Christian blood for ritual purposes gave support to political power plays resulting in Jewish displacement, deprivation, persecution and even murder. As we know from the Torah reading for this week, we do not consume blood. See Leviticus 7:27:

כָּל־נֶ֖פֶשׁ אֲשֶׁר־תֹּאכַ֣ל כָּל־דָּ֑ם וְנִכְרְתָ֛ה הַנֶּ֥פֶשׁ הַהִ֖וא מֵֽעַמֶּֽיהָ׃ (פ)

“Anyone who eats blood shall be cut off from his kin.”

The blood libel, which is the complete opposite of our values and striving for holiness, has served the political purposes of malevolent leaders for longer than a millennium.

False accusations about Jews continue to pump through our polity, even as the United States was supposed to be a haven for Jews. Here we believe that politicians are not to have their long knives drawn. Here we ask that governments combat hatred so that no house of worship becomes a slaughterhouse.

Yet, the blood has been flowing in our nation, literally and figuratively. And the daggers are again pointed toward the Jewish throat. And if pointed at the Jewish throat, others are endangered too. The same hatred that resulted in the Pittsburgh synagogue massacre was reinvigorated in Christchurch, New Zealand last week against Muslims. When visiting Charleston, South Carolina, last week I noted that Mother Emmanuel Church is a pilgrimage site to remember the victims of a murderous white supremacist.

I began to read Deborah Lipstadt’s new book, Anti-Semitism Here and Now, to gain a broader sense of our predicament. The newest iterations of anti-Semitism are neither unique to the right nor the left.

Representative Ilhan Omar’s attacks referencing Jewish wealth and “dual loyalty” put a spotlight on the issue. Omar’s anti-Israel sentiment was expressed through dangerous anti-Semitic platitudes.

Take a look across the Atlantic to see what is happening in England. The venerable left-leaning Labour party is being split over the anti-Semitic/anti-Zionist predispositions of its leader Jeremy Corbyn. Will the same happen in America as the Democratic Party struggles to address its own anti-Zionist members?

Anti-Semitic language has infused debate on the right as well, reported former Republican Max Boot this week. Support for United States intervention in foreign disagreements is deemed the work of neo-Conservatives, a code for Jewish influencers. Anti-semitism on the right is tangled up in the bourgeoning white supremacy movement. President Trump, who questioned President Obama’s citizenship, primes the pump of hatred when he stated that very fine people are on both sides of the melee instigated by angry white supremacists in Charlottesville chanting “Jews will not replace us.” And Republicans were slow to condemn their own Rep. Steve King for his outlandish statements supporting white supremacy.

Such blood sport is predictable. Hannah Arendt wrote 60 years ago in The Origins of Totalitarianism that political anti-Semitism is more than Jew-hatred; rather, it is a pseudo-scientific ideology seeking to prove that Jews are responsible for all evils of the world. The elimination of evil is fair game in political realms.

Even condemnations of anti-Semitic statements have met with resistance. There was push back when leaders decried Rep. Omar’s statements. Those condemning Omar were accused of “weaponizing” anti-Semitism; alleging that leadership was looking to score political points rather than truly caring about the protection of Jews. Her defenders tried to refocus the debate toward Jewish political influence.

The Jewish defenders of Omar offered that vociferous critiques of powerful “Jewish” institutions like the State of Israel and AIPAC are not only fair game but obligatory for those who share progressive values. They ignored Omar’s record of repeatedly using anti-Semitic tropes followed by meetings with Jewish leaders that lead to vague apologies. Slurs, rinse, repeat.

I believe that we are inviting dangerous blood libel type accusations if we are divided as a community when we cannot uniformly call out anti-Semitic statements as unacceptable but rather make excuses for those leaders who offer such canards.

The new blood libel is the anti-Zionism that condemns Jewish support for Israel, intersecting oppression with Jewish political movements. The real intersectionality is at the font of anti-Semitism, where racism, fascism, and Xenophobia spew along with hatred of Jews. This new blood libel is dangerous and dehumanizing to all minority groups. As we have seen, attacks on any religious group or minority give license to hatred against all others. The blood is flowing in synagogues, mosques and churches. It is even spilling through the halls of Congress by those who will partake of the blood to gain political ground. Whether by white supremacists or novice liberal Congressional representatives, the Levitical admonition is being ignored. 

The vigilance and unity of the Jewish community is needed to shield all minority groups from the daggers of hatred. We begin by being beacons of civility and caring, exemplars of the world in which we hope to live. We must find ways of engagement and discourse that will put the daggers back into their sheaths. We can’t wait. The time to counter anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism is now, before blood flows again.  

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

“A house is just a box where you keep your stuff.” A contractor tossed this comment over his shoulder as he left my new home, clearly thinking that he was dropping a pearl of wisdom.

I looked around. He had come to hang a painting over my bed that is too heavy for me to lift. It’s by an artist who was friends with my family. I’ve long admired her work, and until just a few years ago, the painting hung in my parents’ family room. My mother gifted it to me when she sold the house, after my father’s death.

I slowly turned, looking in all directions as I considered the “stuff” in my home. Art work, furnishings, books. Nearly everything tells me a story; about myself, about people I love, about places I’ve been and years gone by.

And I thought, “He’s wrong.” My house is so much more than a box filled with stuff. It was indeed simply an empty shell when the construction crew left, but now it is a home that is filled with meaning, not only because of the things in it, but because of my relationship with those things, because of the memories and happiness they ignite within me.

So too our houses of prayer. They are more than simply buildings. They are not important because they exist, but because of how they are used. They are places of worship, places that ignite memories, that link us to our tradition and our ancestors, that provide us with a communal space in which we can be in relationship, with each other and with the Divine.

And so too the mishkan, the tabernacle that the Children of Israel built in the desert, following God’s detailed instructions. It provided a sacred space where the people could reach out to their God.

In this week’s Torah portion, the last in the book of Exodus, the people complete the task of building and outfitting the mishkan. The passage in Exodus 39:42-43 echoes the passage in Genesis 2:1-3 when God finished creating the heavens and earth; both use the same verbs, both end with a blessing. God blessed the Sabbath, Moses blessed the people.

What I find most fascinating about both creation stories is that neither ends with the basic construction project. God doesn’t stop after creating the world; God “furnishes” the world with plants, animals, and finally humans. Moses and the people furnish the mishkan with the altar and everything the priests need to perform their sacred duties.

No building is complete when the construction crew leaves. An empty synagogue is no different than an empty office building or an empty store. The task is not done until the requisite materials are brought in – desks for the offices, cash registers for the stores, ritual items for the synagogues.

And still, the buildings are incomplete. Fully outfitted with every “thing” necessary, they are nothing without us. No work is accomplished in an empty office, no goods sold in an empty store, no spiritual connections made in an empty prayer space.

But it’s not hard to turn an every-day room into a sacred space. Bring out chairs and place them in a welcoming semi-circle. Set up the portable ark, take the Torah out of its protective case, take out the candle sticks and Shabbat candles, place the challah on its tray under the embroidered cover, and put out the prayer books.

Then open the doors and welcome in the people who have come to pray in community. And in that moment, an everyday room is transformed into a sacred space, a meaningful spiritual home that is no different from any other synagogue, anywhere in the world. Because an impermanent spiritual home can become a holy space by virtue of the memories, intentions, and actions of the people who inhabit it, even if only for a few hours.

Like the things in my home, the ritual items in our synagogue have deeper meanings beyond their mere functions. The pointer we use when reading from the Torah scroll, called a yad, was donated by a long-time member who died last year just before his 100th birthday. Every time I take it in my hands, I think of him. The scroll itself was donated by a Pittsburgh synagogue that was closing its doors and seeking new homes for its ritual items. The stand on which the Torah rests inside the ark was handcrafted by one of our founding members.

A building is just a box until it becomes something else. The transformation from structure to sacred space takes a two-step process – furnishing it with meaningful “stuff,” and populating it with people who care about each other and who seek meaningful interactions with each other, with the ritual items they use together, and with their God.

Remember the blessings that God and Moses gave after they finished their creations? The next time you walk into the sacred place where you pray, take a moment to bless the people around you. Because like God and Moses, together you have created something remarkable.

Rabbi Jennifer Singer.

Determining who is wealthy can sometimes be a spiritual matter.

This week in Torah reading Ki Tisa, each person over 20 is directed to pay a half shekel as “ransom.” This method of taxation serves multiple purposes: as a census, protection from plague and atonement for sin. Torah goes on to specify that “the rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel when giving the LORD’s offering as expiation for your persons.” And to whom is the payment made? The payment is made to the Lord. (Either the Lord has a paypal account or the Priests were the holy toll collectors). When it comes to this particular “tax” payable to God, all are equal in responsibility. 

Recall that this direction is given just months after the children of Israel have left slavery in Egypt. It is hard to imagine that any are wealthy.  This indicates that Torah is now forward thinking to what will be the economic conditions of the future. There will be both wealthy and poor within the Israelite community. But Torah doesn’t define who is wealthy.

I was reminded that our post-biblical tradition offers further exploration of what it means to be wealthy. Pirke Avot 4:1 says “Who is a rich man? One who is happy with his portion.” 

Talmud Shabbat 25b offers four more definitions of wealth:

“Who is a wealthy person?

“Anybody who has pleasure (or comfort) in his wealth,” the words of Rabbi Meir.

Rabbi Tarfon says, “Anybody who has 100 vineyards, 100 fields, and 100 servants who are working in them.”

Rabbi Akiva says, “Anybody who has a wife pleasant in actions.”

Rabbi Yose says, “Anybody who has a bathroom (or a privy) close to his [eating] table.”

Wealth may be delineated by the spiritual art of gratitude as suggested by the ethics of the fathers. The additional definitions offered by some of the greatest scholars of the Talmudic era are a little more pedestrian.

Rabbi Meir, who measured wealth as a function of comfort, was among the greatest of scholars. He was married to Beruriah, the only woman mentioned as a sage in the Talmud. Presumably, his comfort came through study and knowledge.

Rabbi Tarfon who measured wealth by agricultural lands, was actually a wealthy landowner. No wonder that he would judge wealth by who had vineyards, orchards, fields and servants.

Rabbi Akiva was an uneducated shepherd who married, Rachel, the daughter of a wealthy man. We do not know if Rachel was pleasant in actions but we are told Rachel’s father disowned her for marrying Akiva. Later, Akiva left her to study Torah for 24 years. Akiva was wealthy later in his life, suggesting that his fortune came by his wife’s industry, as it is unlikely he became wealthy as a teacher.

Finally there is Rabbi Yose. As there are several Rabbi Yose, this is likely Rabbi Yose ben Halafta, a student of Akiva.  Yose was also a tanner.  Work as a tanner was generally reviled as the process of tanning hides required using foul smelling substances such as urine. Interestingly, Rabbi Yose’s definition of wealth involves the proximity of his toilet to his table.

Personal experience will help us define if we believe ourselves to be wealthy. You can take your pick from among the definitions offered by the greatest Talmud scholars or add your own. Ultimately, everyone should be the same in relation to God, just as rich and poor alike must offer the same half-shekel for atonement.

Rabbi Evan Krame

The obituary of the synagogue keeps being written and rewritten.  Thousands of churches and synagogues close each year. Yet there is a different report that deserves equal attention. The repurposing of holy space.

Torah portion Trumah begins with God’s directive to build a mishkan “so that I might dwell among” the people. From the time the Jews entered the land of Canaan until now, it seemed that Jews would continue to build places for us to approach God’s presence. Today we call them synagogues. But in the 21st century the construction has seemingly ended. With demographic shifts, societal changes and disillusion with organized religion, on the whole synagogues are closing. 

Here’s an alternative. The Wilshire Boulevard Temple of Los Angeles built a magnificent structure in 1929. The synagogue is located in what is now known as Koreatown. The Jewish population has moved away.

The synagogue did not close. In 2016, under the leadership of Liz Ross, the building was repurposed as the Karsh Center. Please read this inspirational description from their website.

“The Karsh Center is designed to provide the fundamental necessities of local residents by offering an array of direct social services through a multi-organizational collaborative approach and a state-of-the-art volunteer engagement program. Our objective is to accomplish this with no restrictions, no judgments, and no barriers regarding who can receive support and care.”

“The Karsh Center is the physical expression and vision of how a faith-based institution like Wilshire Boulevard Temple (WBT) invests in the community in which it resides.”

While the building no longer hosts religious services, Hebrew school or life cycle events, it remains fully a place where God can dwell among us. The WBT congregants remain essential to the center’s vitality. Volunteers from WBT travel to Koreatown to cook or teach or counsel or volunteer at the dental clinic.

The Jewish Studio is built upon another model. Almost any space can be transformed into a place for God. Sometimes it on a hike by the Canal. Other times it is at a women’s club. And there are times we even rent space from synagogues!

It is inevitable that there will be synagogues that close as centers of prayer and study. Yet, there are other opportunities for us, collectively, to sustain God’s presence among us if we have the vision. It might take the hard work and dedication to redeploy synagogues from houses of worship to houses of service. Or it might require imagining existing spaces as places of worship. We just need to understand “building” in new and dynamic ways.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame