In 1992, then 25-year-old Sinéad O'Connor appeared on Saturday Night Live. She was a budding international musical superstar with two chart-topping records to her name. And, unbeknownst to producers, she had decided to use her platform to protest rampant child abuse in the Catholic Church. At the end of her performance, she stared straight into the camera, tore up a picture of Pope John Paul II and threw it at the camera as she shouted, “fight the real enemy.”

Now remember, 1992 was almost a decade before the sexual abuse scandals in the Catholic Church would come to light in this country. Not only were most Americans unaware of the evils that had unfolded behind closed doors, but they were also outraged that a pop star would dare to dishonor and defame a venerated religious leader. Sinéad was immediately and very publicly scorned, mocked, and ridiculed.

Two weeks later, she was scheduled to perform at a special Madison Square Garden concert. Country music star Kris Kristofferson introduced her by saying, “I’m real proud to introduce this next artist, whose name’s become synonymous with courage and integrity, Sinéad O'Connor.” As soon as he says her name, the crowd begins to boo and jeer at her. Sinéad walks on stage and stands in the face of that hate for what seems like forever. She adjusts her mic, tries saying “thank you” the way she would begin any other performance, but the crowd just keeps screaming at her. The band tries to save her by starting her song, but she cuts them off. 20,000 people in the audience are still booing. Jeering. The hate doesn’t end. She stares out, waiting. Kris returns. He leans in and whispers something in her ear, then walks away. Again, the band tries to temper the vitriol of the crowd with instrumentals to no avail. Finally, Sinéad says, “turn this up,” and then begins to sing/scream the same song she sang on Saturday Night Live. She gets out every word. The crowd is still booing. She finishes, turns and begins to walk off the stage. Kris meets her, hugs her, and the two exit together.

As a performer, I cannot imagine the grit it took to stand strong in front of 20,000 angry, booing audience members; not only to stand strong but to have the presence of mind to be able to pause and reflect about what she wanted to do, how she wanted to proceed, to decide to sing the very same song that earned her all of this vitriol. Later she would share that she herself was the victim of abuse growing up. That the picture she shredded belonged to her abusive mother. That she wasn’t just taking a stand for victims in general, but for herself and for every child that had ever been abused. That she believed that she was more than a pretty voice and had an obligation to stand for justice. Fundamentally she was right. A decade later, the country would be roiled by revelations of abuse, cover ups, and the church would begin paying out settlements. But she was a ahead of her time. That courageous stand ended her career.

This story made the rounds in September of 2024, when Kris Kristofferson passed away, because this moment of support kindled a beautiful friendship that would last for the next thirty-one years. But it resurfaced in my memory this week for a very different reason.

Often music reflects the mood of the time we are in. That is the case with Megillat Esther – but in a surprising way. While we are chanting in a joyous musical mode, reflected in the trope of Purim, we suddenly hear two mournful tunes at several points during the Megillah reading. There are six verses that we sing to this mournful trope, the trope for Eicha, the book of Lamentations, which we read on Tisha B’Av. What does Purim, our happiest holiday, have to do with Tisha B’Av, our saddest?

Join us on Shabbat morning as we examine different times during the Jewish year where there is a juxtaposition between joy and sorrow. How do we hold both at the same time?

Has this ever happened to you? One frigid morning, I grab my warmest jacket. I reach down to zip the zipper and it won’t budge. I pull. I push. I take it apart. I put it back. I pull again. I’m late. I’m from California – I need this coat to zip.

Now there are probably more rational things to have done, but I do not do them. I pull with all my strength – words that I make it a practice not to say bubbling up in my mind – until I have whipped myself into a quiet frenzy. The coat is broken. The world is broken. It’s all too much.

From broken zipper to broken world in 60 seconds flat.

As the feeling moved from my kishkes to my head and calm descended, I thought of the many members who have shared how close to the surface that feeling of overwhelm is for so many right now in this moment of shifting ground. Our assumptions of what is usual or expected, in everything from the political to the tech to the economic to the global – whether you think those changes are good or not good – have been so rapidly changing that one could be forgiven for experiencing some whiplash.

How do we meet this moment?

I was out having a coffee last week with a friend. In our musings about the vagaries of life, the phrase, “If only” come up in conversation. How would our lives be different “if only?” Would they be better? Worse? If only we had done this and not that, or NOT done this or that? Our micro and macro decisions effect not only the trajectory of our lives, but the lives our family, friends, community and perhaps beyond. How different would our world be if for example Drew Bledsoe had not been injured? If the Challenger had not exploded? If Noah had argued with God? If Pharoh had decided to kill the girls? When and how does “If only” become, “If not now, when?”

As always, Torah has a way of framing and addressing these philosophical questions. Looking forward to exploring with you on Shabbat morning “if, only” through the lens of society, Biblical text, and personal reflection.

February 8, 2025

What is the greatest miracle in Jewish history? Many would answer it is the one we read about this Shabbat – the splitting of the sea. Rarely, though, do we stop to notice another, perhaps equally astounding, miracle that happened when our ancestors reached the shore – they all broke out into song together. How did this happen? What did it look like? Why should we care?

The vision of simultaneous song endures as an example of striking unity among our people. It is also fleeting. Today, division runs deep and unity remains fleeting. Does this song, or the other song from which Shabbat Shira gets its name, the song of Devorah, give us any insight helpful to our modern experience which is characterized by anything but simultaneous song? Join us tomorrow morning as we unpack what the Torah is trying to tell us about the possibility or impossibility of lasting unity (source sheethere).

February 1, 2025

There is a fascinating paradox at the core of human experience: we know what is required to live healthy, happy lives and yet, we often make choices that directly contradict our own well-being. This is well-documented. For example, the consequences of smoking cigarettes have been studied intensively, and the results of those studies have been widely publicized. And yet, experts estimate that there are still1.1 billion smokers world-wide, a number which has remained constant despite intensive efforts to protect public health. In other words, knowing what is healthy and what is not is not necessarily predictive of whether or not we will be able to actualize our own best interests.

That's where our Torah is so important. As we open Exodus, we see a pattern that we know all too well. Pharaoh in the midst of a plague is open to change. With locusts devouring the land or under cover of darkness, Pharaoh repents and offers to change his behavior for the better. But as soon as the plague recedes, Pharaoh reverts to his cruel ways and to his refusals of our people. How many times have we done the same?

Interestingly, God is also aware of this pattern and the dangers of the human condition. God asserts that the signs and wonders are in order to show Pharaoh and the Israelites that God is powerful and present, with the hope that the Israelites will forever remember God's intervention in their lives and remain thereafter faithful.

But like Pharaoh, the Israelites recognize God's glory in the midst of the signs and wonders and do not always remember God's glory when memory of those miracles recedes. God's answer to this collective amnesia is ritualized memory. But what is ours? How do we subvert our own attention and memory such that we can make the best choices in every moment, even when we are not suffering from a particular plague?

Here are the sources.

Shimon The Righteous would say that the world stands upon three things: upon Torah, upon Avodah - the Temple Service, and upon G’milut Hasadim - acts of loving kindness. Since I am finishing my fifth month working with the teen community here at Temple Emanuel I thought that I would humbly reflect upon three stories that illustrate these three pillars of Jewish life, which point our compass as we continue to establish our teen community.

If you have not already done so, please take a couple of moments to watch this clip of the most famous part of Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s sermon at a prayer service this past Tuesday, the day after the inauguration, at the Washington National Cathedral.

In class we will watch this clip together before our study and conversation. Here are some questions we will consider together: