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The Drash

07/12/2024 10:12:28 AM

Jul12

Rabbi Dan Dorsch

This past Sunday Amy bought us tickets to see Beauty and the Beast at the Marietta Performing Arts Center (at Marietta High School).  She saw an ad for the show hanging up in Marietta Square and thought it would be a good activity for the kids to stay cool during an otherwise hot week.
 
What neither of us noticed until about five minutes before the performance started was that the troupe was a Christian based performance group.  I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but I had a few guesses that were confirmed prior to the performance.  Prior to beginning the show, the producer of the show asked everyone to pray to Jesus, and to pray for the actors (because we were informed, they were praying for us), as she led the theater in prayer.
 
I know that for those of you who take your kids to church basketball leagues that this experience is not all that unusual.  But for the Dorsches, this was a first.  My family sat respectfully.  None answered “Amen.”
 
Now, reflecting on the experience, I have to admit that there are two things I’ve been mulling over since:
 
First, I wondered whether anyone around me noticed there were Jews in the room, and whether that made them uncomfortable.  Although we live in East Cobb, I forget how close we live to the part of the country that thinks that America is a country where only Christian people live (and who may never have encountered a Jewish person).  Given that this is a Christian troupe, I would not have expected them to change their philosophy or their prayer because Jews were present.  Yet, I was visibly wearing my kippah during the performance, and do wonder whether anyone there even knew that a kippah was a symbol of a Jewish person at all.
 
The second thing I was curious about was how my kids would react.  They’ve never really experienced public prayer in that way that wasn’t Jewish.  Haley was oblivious to the whole experience.  Yet Zev later asked me if I had ever been to church, and how I behaved when I went (funny enough, at the time, I didn’t make the connection to our seeing the show).  I told him that I had been to church once or twice, and that I sat respectfully and listened without participating (the entire thing had been in Latin anyway). I imagine this will set the standard for his thinking going forward. 
 
All and all, the show was excellent.  The performance was fun.  And this morning at minyan, I told the minyan crew that I would keep the acting troupe in my prayers as they requested.

Holy Moments...

06/20/2024 03:12:24 PM

Jun20

Rabbi Dan Dorsch

Walking down the main aisle in Target, I spotted a more senior congregant.  We had not seen one another in some time.  We saw one another, smiled widely, laughed for joy, and embraced.

I then turned to my right.  At the very same time not five feet away there was a younger woman with her shopping cart.  She locked eyes with an older woman who was either or a friend or relative she too had not expected to see.  They connected, smiled with joy, and embraced.

Realizing the oddness of what had just transpired, the four of us looked at one another.  “I think we just did the same thing, the woman said.  We laughed, and couldn’t help but nod and smile.

There’s a lot I could unpack here.

But suffice it to say, not all holy moments take place in a synagogue or church pew.

Purim: A Lesson in Learning to Let Go

03/27/2024 12:49:01 PM

Mar27

Rabbi Dan Dorsch

There are many lessons that we can take away from Purim.  But the one that I’ve always been partial to is the importance of learning to “let go.”
 
We all have that one thing.   A painful memory.  A person who treated us badly.  Days, or even years later, it continues to nag us.
 
Most of the time, resilient adults learn to “let go.”  We reframe these memories as stops on the journey of life.  We find gratitude for the good and allow that good to drown out the bad.  There may be lingering feelings.  But we persevere and move forward.
 
However, the Purim story presents an alternate narrative: what happens when we don’t let go?  What happens if we continue to obsess?
 
Most of us read Purim as a Jewish story about Esther and Mordechai.  Yet, it is also a classic “riches to rags” tale of a man who failed to see the good and who became so consumed with the bad that he could not learn to let go.
  
Think about it: Haman should have been on top of the known world!  He was a Grand Vizier and a leader among men.  He had his own estates, as well as a wife and ten sons.  Was there truly anything lacking in his life?
    
His obsession with Mordechai, the one man who will not show him the respect he feels that he is due fills him with rage.  His anger at one little man standing outside the palace so consumes him that his ego runs amok.  He cannot overcome one, small, spot of negativity.  His obsession carries him down a destructive path where he tries not only to destroy Mordechai, but an entire people.
 
As Jews, we dislike Haman for his cruelty: but at the same time, there is also a part of us that must feel pity for his inability to unburden.  We ask: How could someone with so much good fall from grace so quickly?  
It’s easy for us to play judge and jury for Haman.  But if we fail to see the capacity to become Haman within each of us, we’ve missed an essential dimension of the story.  I’ve met people well into adulthood who still obsess over childhood memories, leading to great unhappiness. I’ve come across people with great potential who cannot overcome a negative experience to lead a truly productive life.
 
Purim is a cautionary tale of what can happen when we fail to see the good in our lives, and when we fail to let things go.  Had Haman not been obsessed with Mordechai, he would have lived a wonderful life and likely his memory would have been lost to history.
 
Instead, we are left to ponder: how do we not fall into the same trap?

Taking Responsibility

02/22/2024 10:11:54 AM

Feb22

Rabbi Dan Dorsch

I was driving toward a traffic light on East Cobb Drive the other day when a woman in a black Maserati SUV backed into my car.  She had tried to make a right turn, pulled halfway into the intersection, and then decided that she didn’t have enough time.  As she backed up rather quickly, I placed my hand firmly on the horn. No avail.  I could see the person behind me had left me no room to back up.  She bumped into the front of my car.
 
Accidents happen.  Thank God, no one was hurt.  I suspected at the time that there was likely little to no damage.  I waited 30 seconds or so for her to get out of her car, to come over, to make sure everyone was okay.  Only something strange happened.  She didn’t get out of her car.  She didn’t put her flashers on.  Nothing that I would’ve assumed was a typical “I hit you” protocol.  It almost seemed like she was preparing to drive away. 
 
Perplexed, I got out of my car.  I surveyed the damage to both our cars.  Thankfully, our bumpers had a bit of a kiss, and the cars were fine.  Only once I had reentered my car did she get out to look at her car.  As she entered back into her car, I screamed out my window, “no damage, it’s all good.”  No response.  She didn’t seem that interested in talking.  She drove away as fast as she could.
 
Maybe it was embarrassment.  Perhaps, arrogance.  Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s symptomatic of a greater problem.  
 
So long as there have been human beings, we have been causing physical damage to each other.  Damage is a fact of life.  All things fall apart. 
 
In Daf Yomi right now, we are in the middle of Bava Kama, a section of the Talmud all about damages.  It chronicles damages falling into all different kinds of categories (one never knew how much damage an ox could do in so many ways) based on levels of intent and responsibility. 
 
Ultimately, however, the underlying message of these messy, dense, pages of Talmud is universal: we have the responsibility not only took look after ourselves but after our fellow human beings, by making some kind of restitution for the damage we cause.  There are different levels of culpability.  But ultimately, we must own our mistakes.  Even the small ones.
 
Apparently, this lesson is known to a rabbi driving a Honda but escaped this woman driving her 100K Maserati. 
 
I now understand why I paid that extra money for the dashboard camera.

Doing the Right Thing

02/12/2024 03:59:52 PM

Feb12

Rabbi Dan Dorsch

There are many reasons why I keep my own personal political beliefs close to the chest.  

First and foremost is because I do not want anyone to believe that a particular sermon I give or a stance that our synagogue takes is rooted in my own personal politics.  Instead of letting politics guide us, I let Torah and the Talmud do the talking.  To quote our illustrious executive director Marty Gilbert, our mantra at Etz Chaim is to “do the right thing.”  We believe that doing (and by extension, preaching) the right thing–dealing with people honestly, honoring our commitments, not treating people “extra special” or “less than,” and having compassion for people in need–are best business practices firmly rooted in our Torah.  They come irrespective of politics.

Yet, as we find ourselves amid the Election Primary Season, I find there is a different reason why I keep my beliefs closely guarded.  

Ed Koch, the famously deceased Jewish mayor of New York, said, “If you agree with me nine out of 12 times, vote for me.  If you agree with me 12 out of 12 times, go see a psychologist.” 

Like the overwhelming majority of Americans, I am not sure that my personal beliefs about politics fit together neatly into any one party.  I also believe that I hold the same right as any human being to grow, evolve, and learn.  

Decades ago, Ed Koch’s way of thinking was the norm.  However, the ideological purity that is demanded today by the extremes of both parties have lost people like me.  Nine out of 12 beliefs was once good enough.  Today, we see how the culture of our time demands that we quash disagreement, often in the most disrespectful kinds of ways. 

Over the past several months, I’ve been giving a great deal of thought as to why a family chooses to become part of our synagogue.  

I can easily rattle off twelve reasons:  An active Shabbat morning community.  Preschool friendships.  A growing cadre of young families.  A dedicated group of more seasoned families.  Our inclusive philosophy.  A deep commitment to Jewish learning and Torah study.  An engaging and academic religious school.  Our morning minyan chevra.  Chavurot.  Engaged affinity groups.   A strong culture of volunteerism.  Exciting new opportunities to come.  And yes…the rabbi.

I am not so naive as to not know that there are those of you who may not care for all of those things (every now and then, I especially hear about that last one).  

True adults, however, understand this: that looking for a perfect recipe for happiness in your life is a folly.  Assuming you will find 12 out of 12—whether it is a synagogue, a life partner, or even a home to purchase--is a recipe for dissatisfaction.  Instead, finding happiness is about appreciating the things you like, and trying to internally change the things that we can do better. 

We may all disagree on what we like or dislike about this place we all call home…but if you like nine out of 12…consider voting for Congregation Etz Chaim.

Sat, July 27 2024 21 Tammuz 5784