Free to be You and Me? Not yet. Delivered Shabbat Behar/Bechotai, May 9, 2915

            There’s a land that I see where the children are free, and I say it ain’t far from the land where we are.  Come with me, take my hand and we’ll live…in a land where you and me are free to be, you and me.

            If you recognize this musical lyric, then you were most likely raised in America in the early 70’s, and there’s a good chance you were a girl. This verse is from the opening song to a compilation of stories and songs published in 1972 that worked to promote gender equality, celebrate individual differences and encourage tolerance.  The idea came from the actress and social activist, Marlo Thomas (That Girl, at the time) who apparently was looking for stories for her young niece yet couldn’t find anything that lived up to the values she wanted to instill.  With the help of Gloria Steinem’s then nascent Ms. Foundation for Women, Thomas recruited a crew of stars to collaborate, lend their name to and back the project.  Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner, Harry Belafonte, Carole Channing, Shel Silverstein, Alan Alda, Sheldon Harnick were among the luminaries involved.  

It’s stunning to me that with this star power behind it, the album has not been more enduring.   A few of us have passed it on, but in terms of broad impact, it seems to have lasted about one generation at best. Musicals and movies from this period involving lesser known names and more mundane themes have had a more lasting following among a broader audience than Free to be You and Me.   

            Perhaps, as one friend remarked to me, the message was soon no longer needed.  Today, boys playing with dolls isn’t a big deal.  More realistically, I expect, the practical implications of the message were too easy to sweep under the rug and ignore.  And, while we loved our daughters being raised with Free to be You and Me’s message, fewer were comfortable exposing their sons.

            I can’t say that my mother was much of a feminist – if she was, she kept it to herself, my father –certainly not; but, somehow I came into possession of the book and record.  I was 7 years old when it came out, and I consider it to be one of the first examples of pop culture that I was aware would shape my identity.  The themes, the stories, they struck a chord with me.  I listened to it endlessly.

This was a world I was going to experience: one in which gender did not determine how I acted or what I would grow up to be; one where having to wear white gloves need not confine me to the expectations of being a quiet and obedient “lady;” one in which differences instead of conformity were valued.  One in which boys can cry and girls can be firemen.  One in which young girls could train to be a brave knight and then go off traveling the world instead of leaving adventure behind to put on a dress and get married.  I remember imagining how my life would be so different from the one generations of women before me experienced.

            On the one hand, my world is very different then that which generations before me encountered.  The very fact that I stand here on this bema doing this job is testament to that fact.  There were no women in the Rabbinate or the Cantorate when I first listened to Marlo Thomas and her crew.   I may have grown up watching independent single women such as That Girl, Mary Tyler Moore, and that other Rhoda, but there were few women in my world living out that vision.  It was still, in large part, a TV land fantasy.  And even then, That Girl had to have Donald, the perpetual fiancé in the background; and, so much of Mary and Rhoda’s adventures were consumed with dating and finding a mate.

Our world has certainly changed.  Today, women are welcome in an array of professions that my mother couldn’t have imagined.  I recall an interview with the comedienne Jane Curtin where she commented that while she worked steadily, in the public eye even, throughout the 70’s, she couldn’t, as a women, get a credit card in her own name.  Yes, the world has changed.  But, in so many ways, our world is not nearly different enough from the year Free to be You and Me was published. 

Phrases like “man up” still pepper our dialogue.  Lack of parity exists in salaries for men and women working in the same professions.  And, despite Carol Channing’s insistence that everyone hates housework, even the “lady we see smiling on TV,” women still find themselves burdened with the lion’s share of household duties even as they have entered the paid workforce in greater numbers.  Studies indicate that in cases where women do less housework, it isn’t so much due to a sharing of tasks, but rather the tasks now don’t get done.

Why over four decades after the publication and release of Free to be You and Me are we still grappling with the very issues it strove to tackle?  I believe a large reason is that most of its listeners were girls.   In an attempt to obtain some anecdotal evidence on this matter, I turned to Facebook.  Out of 48 women who responded to my query (by 11 PM last night), 43 knew of the project.  Most of them replied with enthusiastic comments such as “loved it,” “raised my kids on it,” or “still singing it.”  Only 24 men responded, a possible sign in and of itself that it was less known or less memorable among men; though, clearly that is just conjecture.  Of those 24, 13 recalled it and 11 did not.  A couple claimed to grow up with it.  While this is far from a scientific study  -- the PhD part of my brain is screaming: “how dare I put this in my sermon,” --  it does appear to indicate that girls were far more likely to be have been raised on these songs then boys.   Interestingly, too, one 19-year old woman, born of course long after its release, replied that she heard about it in a Women’s Studies class.   No wonder it’s impact was less than we might have hoped.  How can we expect to create meaningful change with only half an audience?

            Our Torah portion, Behar, demands u’karatem dror ba’aretz l’chol yoshveha, you shall proclaim liberty (as we now translate it) in the land to all of its inhabitants.   This verse became emblematic of liberty in this country beginning in the early decades of the 19^th century.  It was taken up as a slogan of the abolitionist movement, which can be credited with popularizing the name The Liberty Bell for that iconic American symbol of liberty that is adorned with this biblical verse from our Torah and sits today on Independence Mall in Philadelphia.

            The intention of that verse clear: L’chol yoshve-ha, this release, this liberty, was not intended for only one segment of the population.  It was meant for all of us.     We can’t achieve parity across society if we only address parts of that society.  Whether we are advocating for justice in the way we treat individuals of different genders, races, or sexual orientations, we must address the entire community in order to create meaningful change; otherwise, too many miss the message. 

            Gender equality is not a woman’s issue.  Racial equality is not an African-American issue.  LGBT rights and marriage equality are not homosexual issues.  These are human rights issues.   We, l’chol yoshveha, all of us who dwell here, are responsible for addressing them; and frankly, when we stand back, ignore, and/or refrain from being part of the solution, we contribute to the problem. We may not be eager to face that reality, but our lack of action matters as much as the actions we take.  The only way in which we can create meaningful change and long lasting justice, is by making a commitment to pursue justice l’chol yoshveha, to all the inhabitants of our society.   We must be willing to provide equal opportunities, and we must work to nurture a culture of equal expectation and entitlement.  We must be willing to engage in what we too often perceive as someone else’s problems and not our own.  We must own them so that we can begin to remedy them.

            Over 40 years ago, Marlo Thomas imagined a land … where all would be free.  She could see it, it ain’t far from the land where we are, lyricist Bruce Hart wrote for her.  Sadly, I fear we are farther from it than we should be.  I expect we are much farther from it than the cast of writers and performers who participated in the Free to Be You and Me project imagined for the year 2015.   I hope we are learning.  I hope we on are way to getting there.  I hope we leave a world where our children and their children can indeed not only see it, but experience justice.  Only then will they truly be free to be, you and me.

Kedoshim in the Wake of Riots: Remarks delivered at TE's Annual Meeting, May 3, 2015

Remarks for Temple Emanuel Annual Meeting ~ May 3, 2015/5775

This past week’s events have left us with heavy hearts.  Even though we suburbanites – even those like myself who live on the edge of the city line -- were physically safe from the fray, it pained us to watch what started as very peaceful demonstrations of discontent unravel into destructive and violent discord. 

Yesterday during Shabbat worship, I asked those of us present to consider how we may have been complicit in the violence that besieged parts of our Charmed City this past Monday.  Have we turned a blind eye to the deep-seated racism that still pervades this city south of the Mason-Dixon line; have we turned a deaf ear to the economic disparity between those who like most, if not all, of us have access to a plethora of opportunities and those who don’t simply because of where or to whom they were born or the color of their skin? 

We may not have thrown a brick, lit fire to property, or raided and destroyed stores, but we have failed to pay attention to the level of desperation building in so many poor and impoverished communities within the borders of Baltimore city.   As the Jewish community has grown more comfortable in this country, the more complacent, I fear, we have grown.  Rather than looking towards helping those who have not been the recipients of such good fortune, we are too eager to point fingers and blame them for not being more like us.  “We did it.  Why can’t they?,” we short-sightedly demand as we stand in judgment.

It’s ironic to me that this past Shabbat, the Jewish community read the Torah portion Kedoshim, part of the biblical priestly manual on how to behave, how to be holy and how to mirror the image of Godliness.   In this Holiness Code, we are commanded to leave parts of our planted fields un-reaped so that those in need within our communities can harvest food for their families.  We are not to insult or place stumbling blocks in front of those who are most vulnerable in our society.   We are to judge our fellow human beings fairly and with dignity.  We are to love our neighbor as ourselves, and are commanded to treat even the stranger – those who seem so unlike ourselves, as if they were one of us.  How many of us can honestly admit to abiding by Kedoshim’s command? 

It also struck me as I was preparing these remarks, how (if you’ll excuse me) damned fortunate we are!  We have come together throughout the past year in order to express concern, support, and sometimes discontent because our congregation is struggling.  As you will hear from our leadership, we still have significant challenges ahead of us.  At the same time, we all have roofs over our heads, access to decent, arguably good, if not excellent, schools (certainly schools with enough textbooks for the students).  There are grocery and specialty stores that offer a wide variety of fresh food in or near our neighborhoods.  We have the ability to get to these stores as well as the freedom to be able to walk out of our homes, get in our cars, and travel without fear to places like this, our house of worship.  Our children can come home from school on the bus without facing immediate (and dare I say, reactive) judgment from law enforcement.  

The primary functions of a synagogue are, in a very real sense, luxuries.   Study for study’s own sake, coming together as a minyan, as a community, in prayer, and pursuing social justice – the Rabbis of old viewed these tasks as fundamental pillars of our world; but, I’d argue that the very fact that we can focus on them is because our basic needs are met -- we are fed, clothed, and sheltered and have the opportunity and good fortune to live in safe surroundings.   

No matter what happens to our beloved Temple Emanuel community, I see it as critical that we keep in the forefront of our minds how fortunate we are. 

If we fail, it will be terribly sad.   Even the transition we are currently facing: the selling of our building and the move to being tenants, guests, in someone else’s home, is a cause for sadness.   Opportunities like this past Friday night and June 13 (our last worship service in this sanctuary) are appropriate places for us to express that sadness.  But, let’s also be mindful that we are not facing destruction.  We are facing a lack of engagement and an increase in apathy.  Success and acculturation threaten our Temple Emanuel community – not fear, certainly not violence or lawlessness.  We are so very lucky. Even if we fail, only a few people will lose their jobs.  I don’t say that lightly as I am one of them, but a few will be out of work, not dozens.  Our failure will not impact the larger economy of our community.  Even if we fail, we will not encounter physical destruction of our bodies or our property.  Even if we fail, no blood will be shed.  

Let us keep this big picture in mind as we focus our energy forward, as we listen to our executive lay leadership this morning with a continued open mind.  Let us keep this big picture in mind as we focus our attention on what is important about the future of our synagogue, namely:

1) that Temple Emanuel be a place where our students receive a pluralistic Jewish education while being encouraged to be proudly and firmly Reform; and,     2) that Temple Emanuel continues to be a place where the values of social justice and intellectual integrity are pursued, and the expression of thoughtful and aesthetically compelling expression of worship remain a priority.

            Ken y’hi ratzon.  Indeed, may it be.

A Tribute to my Baltimore Dad: Malcolm Katzen, delivered 4/24/2015

Chesped for Malcolm P. Katzen

Moshe Hershel ben David 

7/20/1923 – 4/23/2015, burial: 4/24/2015

            The author of the Biblical book of Proverbs imagined “what a precious find a woman of valor, an eishet chayil” to be.  Had he run into Malcolm Katzen – had he the opportunity to know him, perchance to have had a suit crafted for him, he may have imagined a different vision of valor:  perhaps one of a man far more precious than prized gems, within whom his wife placed her confidence, and who in turn lacked no good thing; a man who was endlessly good and kind to his beloved, all the days of her life.  Who was clothed, not only in fine cloth, but with strength, dignity, and splendor; who looked to the world with optimistic cheer, his tongue guided by sincerity and kindness.  Always eager to engage with the world, never standing idle for long.  His family comes forward with deserved praise extoling the efforts and fruit of his hand.  Indeed, whenever people gather, his deeds speak his praise. 

            Born in 1923, the oldest of three sons of William and Bertha Katzen, our ish chayil, our Malcolm, grew up with his brothers Stanley and Leslie – better known as Lester - in Forest Park, a Jewish hub of Baltimore in the first half of the 20^th century.  The name Forest Park still evokes a sense of community amongst those who lived there in those years.  Malcolm spent his formative years there, and so many of the friendships that began there have long endured.  His memories of that time, too, have endured, positive and crystal clear until the end.  Just a couple of years ago, at my eager request to see this famed Forest Park, Malcolm gave me a quick tour of his old neighborhood.  His face lit up, with a sparkle of pride and joy, as he pointed out the former site of Beth Tefiloh, his beloved congregation that was so central to his childhood, the house where the cantor lived, the home where his cousin and friend, Phil Sweren lived, the places they hung out, and of course, the house where the girl he was sweet on, Alma Weissman, lived.  You could take Malcolm out of Forest Park, but nothing could remove the old neighborhood from Malcolm’s heart and soul.

            Malcolm was close – very close - with his brothers, and they were all raised to follow in their father’s footsteps in the family business, Oakloom, a men’s suits manufacturing company that as recently as last year (in an article about the buyout of the Jos A. Banks) was described as among the finest of Baltimore’s men’s clothing manufacturers.  Lester sadly died too young to get as involved in the business, but Malcolm and Stanley both took leadership roles that would not only define the business but would come to define their work ethic and love of the industry.   Malcolm would serve as the President of Oakloom from 1972 through the sale of the business in 1995.  He held onto the title and continued to work for the new owners in Frederick until his retirement quite a number of years later.

            Malcolm loved his work.  He genuinely liked his employees, cared for them, and took great pride in providing a living for their families.  He loved the travel involved to meet with customers and to buy fabrics.  He loved sales: both the buying and selling.  I expect he thrived on the interaction with people as much as the business deals themselves.  Simply put, he took great satisfaction in what he did.  He eagerly gave customers tours of his factory and took pride in the quality of his product.  He could always recognize one of his suits.  And not just those green ones commissioned by the USF&G pro golf tournament.   He claimed that Robert Kennedy was wearing one of his suits when he got shot.  One of his bubbemeisses?  Maybe. Maybe not.  These were hand sewn suits, only the best – certainly worthy of the Kennedys.  And, Malcolm knew his suits: he knew the fabrics, he knew the designs, knew a good seam, a good stitch from a bad one.  He had every right to be proud of his work.   And, most of all, more than the pride, he loved that he shared the work, that he had the opportunity to work side by side with his brother Stanley in his craft.

            Malcolm and Stanley were as close as brothers could be.  They not only worked together, they sat in shul together, socialized together, played golf together, even bought their cars together.  Those matching Cadillacs.  I’d see one in the parking lot of the gym, and I wasn’t sure who I’d run into inside.  Would it be Stanley or Malcolm that day?   If I was lucky, perhaps both.  Those cars of theirs were easy to spot in small town Pikesville.

            As important as work was in his life, Malcolm always cherished family.  He and his first wife, Judy, had no children of their own, but Malcolm eagerly doted on his nephews and niece: Margie (z”l), Ronnie, and Jeffrey.  As they grew, their families became Malcolm’s family.  Ronnie and Ellen’s children, Sara and William, and Jeffrey and Debbie’s twins, Marilyn and Norman, were like an extra set of grandchildren to Malcolm.   He especially cherished his regular Shabbat afternoon visits with Jeffrey, Debbie, and the twins.  He loved watching them, and he loved showing them off to the rest of us through his pictures.

            Though Malcolm and Alma would date while still in their teens, it would be decades before they would marry.  During the war, they went their separate ways marrying others from their circle of friends in the neighborhood.  Alma married Rev, and Malcolm married Judy.   They all remained friends and continued to socialize even as they moved away from Forest Park to the Liberty Heights corridor and Pikesville.   Malcolm and Judy settled in the new Colonial Village only to find their lives sadly soon complicated by unexpected and protracted illness.  It wasn’t easy for them, but Malcolm remained thoroughly devoted to Judy and to her care until her death in 1979.   As we’ve all seen first in in the last few months, Malcolm is a fighter.  He doesn’t give up quickly, and he certainly didn’t on Judy.

            Malcolm and Alma’s story is one that makes me believe in the possibility of fate.  Having remained friends throughout their adult lives and having both endured the loss of a beloved spouse, it seemed only natural that they would rediscover love and passion in each other.  Not to diminish in any way the value of each of their first marriages (Malcolm would be the first not to), it is as if Alma and Malcolm were meant to be together all along.  As Chuck has said, it was best for both of them. Malcolm adored Alma, and as Rabbi Buchdahl once remarked to me, Alma smiled more with Malcolm in her life.  It’s as if he brought her joy to the surface.

            Married for over 30 years, Malcolm and Alma had the joy of watching and nurturing their growing family.  Though he came into their lives late in the game, Malcolm cherished his new sons: Lou, Chuck, and Wayne. He respected their independence while also being eager to be involved in their lives.  He managed to achieve the perfect balance between being their friend and growing into, becoming their Dad.  He and Alma welcomed Yvonne, Cindy, Barbara, and myself, graciously into the family.  He loved us as if we were his own.  His graciousness is evident in how he has treated me even in the midst of my and Chuck’s divorce.  Having none of my extended family here in Baltimore, Malcolm always made it clear to me – even up to his last days, even as he had trouble excepting our decision, that he was still my Baltimore Dad, no matter what.  And, he always sealed this promise with a gentleman’s gentle kiss to the back of my hand.  That was classic Malcolm.  Generous, gracious, and loving.  I hope I was able to treat him with the love and respect he so duly deserved from a daughter.

            While Malcolm came to fatherhood late, he became a grandpa in due time right alongside Alma.  Together they celebrated the births of their six grandchildren: Orrin, Sam, Chelsea, Hannah, Ande, and Rachel.  You meant the world to Grandpa!  Each of you.  He was happiest when you were happy.  He loved being able to provide for you – to give you something – whether advice, a new sweater, something from Alma’s closet, an old car – his love and concern for you was selfless.  Even if it didn’t match what you wanted to hear -- he was from a very different generation than you, he was old school, it was always offered out of a generous and loving spirit.   He loved the family gatherings where he simply got to be with you.  And, in the last number of months, he cherished your visits.

            Kohelet claims that there is a time for everything under heaven. I don’t know if I agree with him generally, but I’d argue, in Malcolm’s case, it was time.  After over 91 years, he was no longer able to live in the manner that mattered to him.  He was no longer able to get up, put on a sport coat and slacks, and meet Tom for lunch.  He was no longer able to be productive and, for example, volunteer at the attorney general’s office as he had done for years after retirement.  He was no longer able to gather around the table with family and share a beloved story.  He was no longer able to get in the car and just drive.  He was no longer able to go to Temple Emanuel for Shabbat worship where he felt so welcomed and cared for by the “clump” of regulars.  He was no longer able to enjoy the companionship of his most recent new friend Elaine or take her out to dinner as he so enjoyed doing.  Malcolm was lucky in so many respects – for one, his personality was intact to the end; he was even in his final moments an absolute gentleman. But, the stark reality was that he was no longer able physically to be the best of who he was and who he wanted to be.    

            There were moments after Alma’s death, that Malcolm expressed a fear that he might lose his family, that the lack of biological connection would somehow weaken the bonds nurtured so well over time.  That with Alma gone, the boys –as they were always called - would forget about him or feel less compelled to include him.  An irrational fear, of course, but one that unsettled him nonetheless.  The three of you, Alma’s boys, proved him wrong, simply by being who you are: his sons.  You have made your mother proud, and you’ve given Malcolm a most extraordinary gift. 

            On behalf of Malcom’s sons and nephews, allow me to express appreciation to all of his care givers: to his companion Lucy for her care and company when family and friends couldn’t be by his side and to the care givers at Sinai hospital, Keswick, and most recently at Levindale who nursed, encouraged, and dealt with his at times impatient eagerness to get well sooner rather than later over the last four months.  

The end of life is full of challenge, and the challenge of it is compounded by our wanting to hold on to our loved ones for as long as possible. Let us take comfort in the words of the modern poet Alvin Fine:

            To the living –

            Death is a wound.  Its name is grief.

            Its companion is loneliness.

            Whenever it comes – whatever its guise,

            Even when there are no tears,

            Death is a wound.

            But, death belongs to life –

                        As night belongs to day

                        As darkness belongs to light

                        As shadows belong to substance

            As the fallen leaf to the tree,

                        Death belongs to life.

            It is not our purpose to live forever.

                        It is not only our purpose to live.

            It is no added merit that a man lives long.

                        It is of merit only that his life was good.

There should be no doubt among us: Malcolm’s life was long, but its merit came from the incredible goodness, the valor, he put forth in the world.  May we model our ish chayil, our Malcolm – may we live by the example of his generosity, his vibrant spirit, and his eagerness to get up, be involved, and engage with humanity.  Thus, through us will his name and legacy endure to eternity.

[A live stream video of the funeral is available through July 2015, http://www.sollevinson.com/notice.php?lr=loc&id=26505]

Vayishlach: Jacob's History, My History, Your History, Delivered 12/6/2014

This past week, I read an article by Dr. Heather Miller-Rubens, the Catholic scholar at the Institute of Christian & Jewish Studies (ICJS), on the subjective nature of history.  The article has come across my desk – or more accurately, my laptop -- as part of the reading assignments for this fall’s Clergy Forum, an on-going study opportunity for clergy that ICJS offers.  The Clergy Forum always tackles interesting and challenging topics in order to foster intentful while respective dialogue between Jews and Christians.  This year, they have expanded their mission to include Islam in the conversation with the welcoming of their first Muslim scholar into the conversation.

This fall Forum’s focus is the Middle East, specifically on what we Jews call the matzav, the “situation” or “condition,” a singular word that in Hebrew conveys the weight of the conflict between Israelis, Palestinians, and the neighboring countries that share borders with Israel. 

I have always found this word, matzav, to be an interesting idiom for this complicated, emotionally laden, and often violent, “situation.”  The use of such a common, ordinary word to describe it is telling of how Israelis have come to accept This Situation as the normal state of affairs.

But, I digress.  Dr. Miller - Ruben’s article is required reading for our forum because it reminds us to question the truth of the histories to which we hold on so tightly.   We, Jews, need this reminder when it comes to Israel.  A central challenge to the situation, the matav, in Israel is the differing narratives that exist and a lack of cross-cultural respect and validation for those narratives.  As I discussed on Erev Yom Kippur this year, our – the Jewish - understanding of Israel and how it came to be is not the only truth, it may not even be the best truth.  It is one truth, but our story alone isn’t the full history.  There are other peoples who have equally powerful and compelling narratives regarding this sliver of geography that sits between the Mediterranean Sea and Jordan, and it is thoughtless and irresponsible of us to dismiss those narratives and the people who hold tightly to them.    Of course, Ferguson, Missouri is a stark reminder that we Americans, too, fail miserably in validating the narrative of the other.

Which leaves us with a challenge: how do we honor our own story, one that carries immense power and truth for us without invalidating the story of another human being who shares in the broader history of humanity?

Perhaps, Jacob’s wrestling match can inform us.  The assumed, the popular, understanding of this match that takes place in our Shabbat portion is that Jacob wrestles with a representative of God and prevails.  And for this gallant effort, he receives, in addition to a bum hip, a new name, Israel, that serves to forge his identity as a patriarch of the Jewish people.   But, is that how it happened on the shores of the Jabok?  One of my favorite things about studying Jewish commentary on Torah is that here we are comfortable with many truths.  The Rabbinic method, at least the aggadic, the story telling, tradition, opens the text to many different understandings, to differing truths.

Louis Ginzburg, for instance, culling a number of earlier midrashim offers a different perspective than the most commonly expressed.  His midrashic narrative views Jacob as being subject to bullying, if you will, from God’s angels, who, lead by Michael, ganged up upon him.  In this telling, Jacob doesn’t prevail against God; rather, God saves Jacob by assisting him in prevailing against these angels that were going rogue.  Scolding one of those angels for harming Jacob, God is clear, “You are my priest in heaven, but Jacob is my priest on earth.”  This rendering brings a very different nuance to our history.  Instead of Jacob earning his name for his physicality and his ability to vanquish even a Divine messenger from on high, his new name reflects his valued status and his meriting protection in his role as patriarch.

The Torah text itself provides little in the way of detail.   Jacob is left alone after sending his family ahead.  He wrestled an “ish” until dawn, and when this “ish” didn’t win, he did something to Jacob’s hip.   It is the word “ish” that leaves this history open to various understandings.   The peshat, the plainest meaning of the word ish is man.  But, biblically ish can also denote a distinguished person, someone of rank or a position of public office.  It is not, on its own, a word typically used to refer to God, and it is rarely left without further clarification.   

As I expect I’ve shared previously from this bema, I like to think that Jacob was wrestling with his own demons.   I imagine him faced with a bout of insomnia on this eve before he reunites with his estranged brother.   What must have been going through his mind?  After agreeing to go along with his mom’s plan in tricking his father, did he feel as though he deserved the wealth and power he had accumulated?  Perhaps he was struggling with the reality of his life choices: were his really any better than his brother’s?  Did he ever treat his brother with respect, or was the lentil incident just an episode of normal sibling rivalry?  He and his brother came from the same place, yet their histories diverged in two dramatically different directions.  Was that Jacob’s doing? Is he in part responsible for their estrangement, or Esau’s being shut out of the Israelite line?  

I imagine that Jacob tossed and turned on these questions so fiercely throughout the night that he bruised his own hip on the stone filled ground upon which he tried to sleep and later dedicates.  “Oh my God,” Jacob uttered, “I have survived this tumultuous night.”  But, he did so with renewed clarity, strengthened and ready to cross the Jabok in order to reconcile with his brother before shouldering the responsibility of Israel.   

Jacob’s internal wrestling should inspire us to wrestle with our own assumptions about what we consider true about our history.  Those experiences that are most significant, most formative to us, may have led to very different, and quite possibly detrimental, consequences for others.   We can’t undo the past, but like Jacob, we can work to come to terms with the multiplicity of narratives present in any history so that we can move forward.   It is incumbent upon us to consider historical narratives besides our own if we are ever to achieve honest and mutual respect and understanding.   Whether it’s Israel, Ferguson, or even Plymouth Rock, we must remember that our story isn’t the only significant story.  It certainly isn’t the only truth.