The summer I turned 16 I fell in love with Clarissa Dalloway. Well, not her precisely, but the book Mrs. Dalloway. Continue reading
We sit comfortably at the table tonight,
years since Emma Lazarus penned,
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”
Years since we, our parents, grandparents and the greats before them
reached “the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame”
and arrived at the golden door
We who sit at the seder table —
we know that the homeless, tempest-tost are not wretched refuse.
We have been there —
we ourselves or those who arrived before us.
We know our story, our journey to freedom.
We hear Torah’s reminder: you were slaves in Egypt
Yet we see so many immigrants and refugees
treated as trash dumped on our shores,
not welcomed by Mother of Exiles with her beacon-hand welcoming,
but with a raised hand turning them away,
Tonight we celebrate redemption.
We celebrate the freedom to journey,
We celebrate the freedom to enter,
We celebrate the freedom to act in the world.
We lift the cup tonight, not one time, but four,
each a promise of redemption,
a commitment to freedom and safety for those who came before us.
Tonight we see ourselves as if we left Egypt.
Tonight as we hear women’s voices,
Lady Liberty’s silent lips cry out:
Where is your beacon-hand that welcomes?
How will you redeem?
Quoted sections, title & other direct references cite Emma Lazarus’ poem The New Colossus.
Two students. Two conversations. One Starbucks. One hour apart. Continue reading
Every few years, my mom would troll our neighborhood for a good refrigerator box. Continue reading
I wore my jean jacket this morning. Neither fashionable nor flattering, it is faded and worn, broken in over decades. Continue reading
We walked the two blocks to the polling place slowly, Grandpa taking deliberate steps, Continue reading
Sometimes I hear my father’s voice Continue reading
Monday was picture day. Remember picture day? Continue reading
“Hey, Rabbi Greene, look up!” a camper called out as we walked up a small waterfall next to Wisconsin’s Black River. I admit, at that moment I was focused on my feet. Sure, I had taken in the beauty of my surroundings, but not entirely. Concerned with not slipping as I hiked up the slippery rocks, I had neglected to look up. Until this 13-year old boy called me to do so. Continue reading
I had to interrupt our prayer last night. I just had to. Continue reading