Sermon by Rabbi Nancy Wechsler for Erev Rosh Hashana: 5771. "I'm Not White, I'm Jewish"
Shana Tova Tikateivu - May you be inscribed for a A Good Year. We know that shana is year and tova is good, tikatevu means "be inscribed or written in". But we also know that the word Shana - year, shares the same root as the word: shinui meaning change, or transformation. L'shana Tova tikavetivu - May you be inscribed for a Good Change!
This summer on our Sabbatical we were blessed with all kinds of experiences that have in effect, been a catalyst for shinui - that has brought some reorganizing of thought on what it means to be Jewish.
In Israel, you meet all kinds of unusual people. Like the Torah scribe, Dov, who taught us how to write Hebrew calligraphy. He wore long peyos, a fur streimel on Shabbat and visible tzitzi, the fringes of a tallit . He looked so orthodox, so Yiddish, you'd think he might not even speak Hebrew let alone English, but actually he used to be called Bill growing up in Winnipeg, Canada and despite his appearance was worldly and had surprisingly progressive ideas.
Or the Tel Aviv Jewish cab driver who looked like a tough wrestler but had a personality like a kitten. Picking us up on a busy street at dinner time, he insisted on driving us to his best friend's restaurant, an Arab who served the best hummus in Yaffo. Then he sat down to eat the meal with us.
But truly one of the most unusual people I met was a Caucasian rapper named Matt Barr who wears a backwards baseball hat for his kippah, jeans and t-shirts as his uniform, and who turns stories from the Torah and Talmud into amazing raps. As a high school student in Detroit, he performed alot, rapping with an all black group, opening for Grammy award winning groups like Outkast and Jurrasic 5. At these concerts, people would yell out, 'hey, what's with the white dude?' The group would yell back, "He's not white, he's Jewish'; which became one of Matt's signature pieces.
"Back when I rapped in High School, people said I was tight for a white dude. What's you tell 'em, "I'm not white, I'm Jewish. I'm not white, I'm Jewish."
The candor of Matt's song asserts that our core identity is "Jewish" and that "Jewish" identity is way more than skin deep. It transcends skin color and he did not mean only Caucasian skin color.
This became clear in Israel, in particular, when I saw people with black, brown, and yellow skin speaking fluent Hebrew, wearing necklaces with the Star of David, giving off the vibe that they were definitely Jewish. In the open air Carmel Market on Fridays, I elbowed my way into a crowded line to buy fresh challah. I heard people from places like Ethiopia and Vietnam calling out for their challahs with beautiful Hebrew.
As an experiment on my morning walks, I practiced speaking Hebrew with people of various ethnicities. "Boker Tov" - Good Morning or "Ma Nishma" - How are you? and received polite responses in flawless Hebrew and I thought of Matt's rap, adding my own words to his chorus, "I'm not black, I'm Jewish. I'm not brown, I'm Jewish. I'm not yellow, I'm Jewish.
Here in America, the provocative song has other resonances; even daring to transcend nationalism. In a seminar, Matt taught about the work he now does called Bible raps, and explained the history of this song. He reminded us that it wasn't until the 1950s that Jews, actually started to be seen as 'white' in the United States. Some of us with deep roots in Sacramento remember, perhaps with a wince, when it used to be like that: We were not welcome to be members of the Sutter Club, nor were we wanted at some of the finer golf courses. Jewish girls could not become debutantes, even if we wanted to.
The Junior League, now a inclusive organization, had little interest in Jewish participation. Thanks to outstanding members of the Sacramento Jewish community, the doors of those once gated organizations opened and we came in. Jews began to be recognized, not by our religion, but by the color of our skin. We became "white", not Jewish.
The good news about "passing," about skin tone before religion, meant that we could get into the once closed schools, neighborhoods, clubs, non-Jewish frats and sororities. Passing meant that we fit. However, along with the success of passing, some essential parts of our Judaism 'passed' as well, as in passed away. Our memory of who we were, a time when Judaism was our life recipe, got relegated to the back of an already overflowing drawer of identity definitions.
Sometimes to figure something out such as the foundation of your identity, you've got to return to the source. This summer I experimented with that idea of stripping away the safety net of classification. When I came to Jerusalem, I arrived without a badge that said, "rabbi" or "reform" Jew and even though my American accented Hebrew gave away my nationality, I avoided defining myself as American either. My identity became just Jewish.
What I found was liberation in releasing old labels. When used, they simply created unnecessary separations and suspicion. Instead of entertaining the predictable, "oh, you're a rabbi?" or "oh, you're Reform?" I just left it alone. And when I heard Matt perform his song, it struck up such resonance like some personal anthem just waiting to be sung. "I'm not Reform, I'm just Jewish." In fact, in my imagination, all Jews join the song and leave their previously defining and limiting labels at the door. They sing, "I'm not Chabad, I'm Jewish." I'm not Conservative, I'm Jewish." I'm not a convert, I'm Jewish." period.
What does it mean to shift the basis of our identity from the color of our skin, or the name of our movement, the length we've been part of the tribe or even the nationality of our country and put Jewish at the center?
1) All of us are brothers and sisters and our particularity, our Jewishness becomes the gateway to universality. We are stronger when we know the source of our commitment. When we hear the voice of the prophets speaking out to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, the raise up the low, then it is our Judaism,; an historical chain of tradition of community and continuity, not just being a kind person, that fuels the mitzvah
In Jerusalem, on Friday mornings people from all over the world - all ages - came to a soup kitchen near the open air market, to chop vegetables and cook so that the elderly on tight budgets could enjoy wonderful, homemade meals throughout Shabbat. There was no "reform" or "conservative" or "orthodox" times to help, everyone came and we did this mitzvah because we were Jews.
When we, at Beth Shalom help out with Family Promise, we do so, because our tradition commands that we should lift up the fallen. When we help with Foster Youth through fighting for policy change, we do so because the Torah commands us to support the orphan. When we bring food items on Yom Kippur for the Food Bank, we do this because Judaism insists we are obligated to feed the hungry. And when we give blood, we do so out of our Jewish tradition that commands us to heal the sick.
Knowing who we are and what we stand for as Jews is the catalyst for doing tikkun olam - healing the world.
2) I prefer not to define myself as "Reform", I'm just Jewish. The word "reform" is not a religion. The word "orthodox" is not a religion. The word "conservative" is not a religion. Jewish is the religion. There is nothing in the Jewish world that is completely alien to us. We may need to interpret a previously discarded practice, but interpretation; this is what Jews do.
Much of our tradition that we Reform once considered irrelevant is of potential use to us in gaining power and dignity in our lives through the Jewish method, of "restraint" or personal "discipline." In America, anything goes, supersized food, fast food, immediate gratification is almost a national pastime. To talk about impulse control seems archaic, and yet Judaism teaches that 'restraint' sets us free.
When we say a blessing before we eat, after we eat, before we go to sleep, when we wake up, we exhibit control over our animal selves. When we stop handling money on Shabbat, light candles at home, eat matza during Pesach, we flex our spiritual muscle. In Judaism, restraint is beautiful, adds meaning to life and gives us dignity.
Take the issue of Kashrut. Early Reform discarded it, finding no medical reason to keep it and frankly the ethnicity of it all, was a little embarrassing. Besides, at that time, it was difficult to go to a business lunch and be part of the wider world.
Today many in Reform Judaism see it differently as our movement has shifted Jewish practice into priority. More Reform synagogues have kashrut guidelines as well as Reform Jewish summer camps. Whether we choose Kashrut for ethnic identification, or because the Torah says so, or we call it eco-kashrut where we choose food that is either organic - or not tainted by unfair conditions for the migrant farm workers - we may well find it to be a powerful daily reminder of being a Jew. And being reminded that we are a Jew, reminds us to be a mensch.
In Jerusalem I saw with new eyes the spiritual practice of tzyniute, modesty through the clothing worn by both women and men. It was well over 100 degrees and very humid, but women and men still chose to dress modestly. Arms were covered, knees were covered, heads bore kipot, women wore jaunty hats or colorful scarves. It is not that the weather didn't bother them, surely it did, but the consciousness of dressing modestly, showing up in such a way that you could not help but relate to them as people and not as objects. Tzynute, modesty, reflected a commitment to the Jewish value of self-respect.
Toward the end of our Sabbatical, I was on line and surfed AOL. I followed a story about American fashion for shorter women, like myself. The film clip I found told me that if I am short, then the way to look taller was to show much more skin.
Having shifted my core identity to Jewish first, this tidbit of fashion advice didn't do much to impact my style, but it made shake my head comparing an American versus Jewish perspective on beauty. Matt's rap ran through my mind: Hey, I'm Jewish.
3) This last piece of reclaiming Judaism is liturgical. I believe in the words mechayei ha-may-teem, that G-d does give life to that which has died. I'm not talking about literal resurrection but rather the miraculous revival of our people as well as the uncanny experience of loved ones who have died, becoming real and vibrant in our hearts.
I know our early Reform leaders stressed weishenshaft des yudentums, the scientific study of Judaism and they replaced the theology of "m'chayei ha-metim" for the more generic m'chayei ha-kol, that G-d gives life to all. But when you look at how our people has survived and flourished, it is hard not to believe. Given up for dead time and again, we are here. The barren desert once void of sustenance now blooms.
Our Siddur says, pray as if everything depends on G-d. Act as though everything depends on you. Both parts of that teaching count. The clarity on the Jewish belief in revival and restoration was cemented for me, on one powerful day this past July.
Rabbi David and I rented a car and drove through the night to Masada to be in the audience for a sunrise concert. Masada was the Roman fortress where in the 1st century, our people in Jerusalem tried to escape after the Roman's destroyed our holy Temple. This desperate and broken group of Jews, men, women and children came to Masada and tried to withstand the Roman troops as long as possible. When defeat was imminent, they chose to die as free people rather than be killed or endure as tortured slaves to the Romans. They took their own lives, in Hebrew, Kiddushat ha-Shem, in the sanctification of G-d's Name.
Now picture this moment in your mind. It is 3:30 a.m. in July 2010. The sky is a blanket of stars on velvet. It is the very place where our people fought for their lives, where their blood flowed in resistance. Quietly the beloved Israeli musician, David Broza walks onto the stage. With only a guitar, he begins to play like we've never before seen a guitar played and he sings about Masada as the place where the world starts.
As the concert progresses, two more guitar players, then two sets of bongos, then violin and finally an exotic flamenco dancer dressed in red enter the magic. In that moment, with everyone playing and dancing, the sun rises fully over Masada. David Broza finishes the song and then calls out with an energy that blasts through time and space: Boker Tov Masada! Good Morning Masada!
That is when I became clear, that there was no longer a question in my mind. G-d does bring the life back when there has been death. The Romans and we can substitute their name for many another tyrannical nation, may have triumphed over the bodies of our sisters and brothers, but not their souls because we are here.
I am not alone in my belief in G-d bringing life back to that which was laid waste. Our Reform siddur Mishkan T'fillah , that we use every Shabbat, (but not the High Holiday machzor we are using this evening) hints at this possibility as it printed the words Mechayei hamayteem- meaning G-d gives life to the dead - in parenthesis, in the second section of the Amida prayer called G'vurot. Interestingly, every Reform synagogue we visited in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv include in their prayer book the matriarchs of course, but also Mechayei ha-mayteem with no parenthesis; and no other liturgical option. The Israeli Reform prayer books are unequivocal in affirming Jewish survival and the re-creation of our people through the words Mechayei ha-mayteem.
I also want to say that it is perfectly fine for any of us to chant M'chaeyi ha-kol because it is what you believe, or that you feel that M'chayei ha-kol includes the other, or it just feels right, or your are used to it and like it better. It would be lovely to have both statements chanted simultaneously.
Liturgical change is not new to us, when our leaders made our liturgy inclusive, adding the matriarchs Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, it took time to adjust. Now it is just how we pray. Tonight, I wanted to share with you my process, something that I've been contemplating for several years, and explain why I would be chanting M'chayei May-teem.
One Saturday night walking on Tel Aviv's promenade by the Mediterranean Sea, a large, boisterous group of Israelis gathered to sing and dance Israeli dances. Having visited Yad V'shem, the Holocaust museum the week before I was stunned by the juxtaposition of these two images. A people, once reduced to emaciated bones and ashes, now, strong, confident, glorious and dancing on a Saturday night. Having see this, and absorbed it, it is what I need to affirm.
Putting Judaism first, 'not' our skin color, our movement or even our nationality, invites us to think about what we do and how we do it. Reclaiming discarded parts of Judaism could even be called, "radical reform." Whatever we call, it, the fullness and beauty of Jewish life is available to us all.
Shana Tova - Blessings for a Good Year. ShinuiTova - Blessings that our transformation be good. May we be awakened to a revitalization of who we are and the courage to put it into play. Amen.
This summer on our Sabbatical we were blessed with all kinds of experiences that have in effect, been a catalyst for shinui - that has brought some reorganizing of thought on what it means to be Jewish.
In Israel, you meet all kinds of unusual people. Like the Torah scribe, Dov, who taught us how to write Hebrew calligraphy. He wore long peyos, a fur streimel on Shabbat and visible tzitzi, the fringes of a tallit . He looked so orthodox, so Yiddish, you'd think he might not even speak Hebrew let alone English, but actually he used to be called Bill growing up in Winnipeg, Canada and despite his appearance was worldly and had surprisingly progressive ideas.
Or the Tel Aviv Jewish cab driver who looked like a tough wrestler but had a personality like a kitten. Picking us up on a busy street at dinner time, he insisted on driving us to his best friend's restaurant, an Arab who served the best hummus in Yaffo. Then he sat down to eat the meal with us.
But truly one of the most unusual people I met was a Caucasian rapper named Matt Barr who wears a backwards baseball hat for his kippah, jeans and t-shirts as his uniform, and who turns stories from the Torah and Talmud into amazing raps. As a high school student in Detroit, he performed alot, rapping with an all black group, opening for Grammy award winning groups like Outkast and Jurrasic 5. At these concerts, people would yell out, 'hey, what's with the white dude?' The group would yell back, "He's not white, he's Jewish'; which became one of Matt's signature pieces.
"Back when I rapped in High School, people said I was tight for a white dude. What's you tell 'em, "I'm not white, I'm Jewish. I'm not white, I'm Jewish."
The candor of Matt's song asserts that our core identity is "Jewish" and that "Jewish" identity is way more than skin deep. It transcends skin color and he did not mean only Caucasian skin color.
This became clear in Israel, in particular, when I saw people with black, brown, and yellow skin speaking fluent Hebrew, wearing necklaces with the Star of David, giving off the vibe that they were definitely Jewish. In the open air Carmel Market on Fridays, I elbowed my way into a crowded line to buy fresh challah. I heard people from places like Ethiopia and Vietnam calling out for their challahs with beautiful Hebrew.
As an experiment on my morning walks, I practiced speaking Hebrew with people of various ethnicities. "Boker Tov" - Good Morning or "Ma Nishma" - How are you? and received polite responses in flawless Hebrew and I thought of Matt's rap, adding my own words to his chorus, "I'm not black, I'm Jewish. I'm not brown, I'm Jewish. I'm not yellow, I'm Jewish.
Here in America, the provocative song has other resonances; even daring to transcend nationalism. In a seminar, Matt taught about the work he now does called Bible raps, and explained the history of this song. He reminded us that it wasn't until the 1950s that Jews, actually started to be seen as 'white' in the United States. Some of us with deep roots in Sacramento remember, perhaps with a wince, when it used to be like that: We were not welcome to be members of the Sutter Club, nor were we wanted at some of the finer golf courses. Jewish girls could not become debutantes, even if we wanted to.
The Junior League, now a inclusive organization, had little interest in Jewish participation. Thanks to outstanding members of the Sacramento Jewish community, the doors of those once gated organizations opened and we came in. Jews began to be recognized, not by our religion, but by the color of our skin. We became "white", not Jewish.
The good news about "passing," about skin tone before religion, meant that we could get into the once closed schools, neighborhoods, clubs, non-Jewish frats and sororities. Passing meant that we fit. However, along with the success of passing, some essential parts of our Judaism 'passed' as well, as in passed away. Our memory of who we were, a time when Judaism was our life recipe, got relegated to the back of an already overflowing drawer of identity definitions.
Sometimes to figure something out such as the foundation of your identity, you've got to return to the source. This summer I experimented with that idea of stripping away the safety net of classification. When I came to Jerusalem, I arrived without a badge that said, "rabbi" or "reform" Jew and even though my American accented Hebrew gave away my nationality, I avoided defining myself as American either. My identity became just Jewish.
What I found was liberation in releasing old labels. When used, they simply created unnecessary separations and suspicion. Instead of entertaining the predictable, "oh, you're a rabbi?" or "oh, you're Reform?" I just left it alone. And when I heard Matt perform his song, it struck up such resonance like some personal anthem just waiting to be sung. "I'm not Reform, I'm just Jewish." In fact, in my imagination, all Jews join the song and leave their previously defining and limiting labels at the door. They sing, "I'm not Chabad, I'm Jewish." I'm not Conservative, I'm Jewish." I'm not a convert, I'm Jewish." period.
What does it mean to shift the basis of our identity from the color of our skin, or the name of our movement, the length we've been part of the tribe or even the nationality of our country and put Jewish at the center?
1) All of us are brothers and sisters and our particularity, our Jewishness becomes the gateway to universality. We are stronger when we know the source of our commitment. When we hear the voice of the prophets speaking out to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, the raise up the low, then it is our Judaism,; an historical chain of tradition of community and continuity, not just being a kind person, that fuels the mitzvah
In Jerusalem, on Friday mornings people from all over the world - all ages - came to a soup kitchen near the open air market, to chop vegetables and cook so that the elderly on tight budgets could enjoy wonderful, homemade meals throughout Shabbat. There was no "reform" or "conservative" or "orthodox" times to help, everyone came and we did this mitzvah because we were Jews.
When we, at Beth Shalom help out with Family Promise, we do so, because our tradition commands that we should lift up the fallen. When we help with Foster Youth through fighting for policy change, we do so because the Torah commands us to support the orphan. When we bring food items on Yom Kippur for the Food Bank, we do this because Judaism insists we are obligated to feed the hungry. And when we give blood, we do so out of our Jewish tradition that commands us to heal the sick.
Knowing who we are and what we stand for as Jews is the catalyst for doing tikkun olam - healing the world.
2) I prefer not to define myself as "Reform", I'm just Jewish. The word "reform" is not a religion. The word "orthodox" is not a religion. The word "conservative" is not a religion. Jewish is the religion. There is nothing in the Jewish world that is completely alien to us. We may need to interpret a previously discarded practice, but interpretation; this is what Jews do.
Much of our tradition that we Reform once considered irrelevant is of potential use to us in gaining power and dignity in our lives through the Jewish method, of "restraint" or personal "discipline." In America, anything goes, supersized food, fast food, immediate gratification is almost a national pastime. To talk about impulse control seems archaic, and yet Judaism teaches that 'restraint' sets us free.
When we say a blessing before we eat, after we eat, before we go to sleep, when we wake up, we exhibit control over our animal selves. When we stop handling money on Shabbat, light candles at home, eat matza during Pesach, we flex our spiritual muscle. In Judaism, restraint is beautiful, adds meaning to life and gives us dignity.
Take the issue of Kashrut. Early Reform discarded it, finding no medical reason to keep it and frankly the ethnicity of it all, was a little embarrassing. Besides, at that time, it was difficult to go to a business lunch and be part of the wider world.
Today many in Reform Judaism see it differently as our movement has shifted Jewish practice into priority. More Reform synagogues have kashrut guidelines as well as Reform Jewish summer camps. Whether we choose Kashrut for ethnic identification, or because the Torah says so, or we call it eco-kashrut where we choose food that is either organic - or not tainted by unfair conditions for the migrant farm workers - we may well find it to be a powerful daily reminder of being a Jew. And being reminded that we are a Jew, reminds us to be a mensch.
In Jerusalem I saw with new eyes the spiritual practice of tzyniute, modesty through the clothing worn by both women and men. It was well over 100 degrees and very humid, but women and men still chose to dress modestly. Arms were covered, knees were covered, heads bore kipot, women wore jaunty hats or colorful scarves. It is not that the weather didn't bother them, surely it did, but the consciousness of dressing modestly, showing up in such a way that you could not help but relate to them as people and not as objects. Tzynute, modesty, reflected a commitment to the Jewish value of self-respect.
Toward the end of our Sabbatical, I was on line and surfed AOL. I followed a story about American fashion for shorter women, like myself. The film clip I found told me that if I am short, then the way to look taller was to show much more skin.
Having shifted my core identity to Jewish first, this tidbit of fashion advice didn't do much to impact my style, but it made shake my head comparing an American versus Jewish perspective on beauty. Matt's rap ran through my mind: Hey, I'm Jewish.
3) This last piece of reclaiming Judaism is liturgical. I believe in the words mechayei ha-may-teem, that G-d does give life to that which has died. I'm not talking about literal resurrection but rather the miraculous revival of our people as well as the uncanny experience of loved ones who have died, becoming real and vibrant in our hearts.
I know our early Reform leaders stressed weishenshaft des yudentums, the scientific study of Judaism and they replaced the theology of "m'chayei ha-metim" for the more generic m'chayei ha-kol, that G-d gives life to all. But when you look at how our people has survived and flourished, it is hard not to believe. Given up for dead time and again, we are here. The barren desert once void of sustenance now blooms.
Our Siddur says, pray as if everything depends on G-d. Act as though everything depends on you. Both parts of that teaching count. The clarity on the Jewish belief in revival and restoration was cemented for me, on one powerful day this past July.
Rabbi David and I rented a car and drove through the night to Masada to be in the audience for a sunrise concert. Masada was the Roman fortress where in the 1st century, our people in Jerusalem tried to escape after the Roman's destroyed our holy Temple. This desperate and broken group of Jews, men, women and children came to Masada and tried to withstand the Roman troops as long as possible. When defeat was imminent, they chose to die as free people rather than be killed or endure as tortured slaves to the Romans. They took their own lives, in Hebrew, Kiddushat ha-Shem, in the sanctification of G-d's Name.
Now picture this moment in your mind. It is 3:30 a.m. in July 2010. The sky is a blanket of stars on velvet. It is the very place where our people fought for their lives, where their blood flowed in resistance. Quietly the beloved Israeli musician, David Broza walks onto the stage. With only a guitar, he begins to play like we've never before seen a guitar played and he sings about Masada as the place where the world starts.
As the concert progresses, two more guitar players, then two sets of bongos, then violin and finally an exotic flamenco dancer dressed in red enter the magic. In that moment, with everyone playing and dancing, the sun rises fully over Masada. David Broza finishes the song and then calls out with an energy that blasts through time and space: Boker Tov Masada! Good Morning Masada!
That is when I became clear, that there was no longer a question in my mind. G-d does bring the life back when there has been death. The Romans and we can substitute their name for many another tyrannical nation, may have triumphed over the bodies of our sisters and brothers, but not their souls because we are here.
I am not alone in my belief in G-d bringing life back to that which was laid waste. Our Reform siddur Mishkan T'fillah , that we use every Shabbat, (but not the High Holiday machzor we are using this evening) hints at this possibility as it printed the words Mechayei hamayteem- meaning G-d gives life to the dead - in parenthesis, in the second section of the Amida prayer called G'vurot. Interestingly, every Reform synagogue we visited in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv include in their prayer book the matriarchs of course, but also Mechayei ha-mayteem with no parenthesis; and no other liturgical option. The Israeli Reform prayer books are unequivocal in affirming Jewish survival and the re-creation of our people through the words Mechayei ha-mayteem.
I also want to say that it is perfectly fine for any of us to chant M'chaeyi ha-kol because it is what you believe, or that you feel that M'chayei ha-kol includes the other, or it just feels right, or your are used to it and like it better. It would be lovely to have both statements chanted simultaneously.
Liturgical change is not new to us, when our leaders made our liturgy inclusive, adding the matriarchs Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, it took time to adjust. Now it is just how we pray. Tonight, I wanted to share with you my process, something that I've been contemplating for several years, and explain why I would be chanting M'chayei May-teem.
One Saturday night walking on Tel Aviv's promenade by the Mediterranean Sea, a large, boisterous group of Israelis gathered to sing and dance Israeli dances. Having visited Yad V'shem, the Holocaust museum the week before I was stunned by the juxtaposition of these two images. A people, once reduced to emaciated bones and ashes, now, strong, confident, glorious and dancing on a Saturday night. Having see this, and absorbed it, it is what I need to affirm.
Putting Judaism first, 'not' our skin color, our movement or even our nationality, invites us to think about what we do and how we do it. Reclaiming discarded parts of Judaism could even be called, "radical reform." Whatever we call, it, the fullness and beauty of Jewish life is available to us all.
Shana Tova - Blessings for a Good Year. ShinuiTova - Blessings that our transformation be good. May we be awakened to a revitalization of who we are and the courage to put it into play. Amen.
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