Dave's Shabbat sermon at Mount Zion June 2010

This week's Torah portion tells the story of Balak, a prince of Moab, and Balaam, a priest of a neighboring people, and their struggle to react of the coming of the Israelites into their lands. I also believe it offers an allegory of one person's courage to speak God's words of truth in the face of an unjust regime that offers him rich rewards for complacency and collusion.

Prince Balak sends the elders of Moab and the elders of Midian to ask the priest Balaam to curse the Israelites, who are so numerous and threatening that they "hide the earth from view". Twice they entreat Blaam to curse the Israelites, and twice he refuses, though they promise him silver and gold. Finally, God comes to Balaam and instructs him to go with the dignitaries to Prince Balak-- as long as he speaks whatever word God instructs him to speak. Ultimately, as we might expect, this is a pretty big disappointment to Balak, who was counting on a spectacular curse to give him an edge in driving off the Israelites.

We might also not be surprised that when our God said, speak "one word", God really meant "a whole bunch of words". Out of those words that Balaam ends of speaking, one passage caught my attention:

"... how can I damn whom God has not damned,
How doom when the Lord has not doomed?
May I die the death of the upright,
May my fate be like theirs?"

So how does this help us to think about ending homelessness?

I'll start with two propositions. First, in a society in which basic housing is a privilege with a fairly high price, instead of a basic human right, we will never end homelessness. Second, this society is not a Jewish society-- this is not a society we would willfully construct from scratch, from Jewish ethical principles, if we had the chance. Nor, I might add, is it a Christian or a Muslim society. All other difficulties aside, I don't believe that we would damn those whom God has not damned.

But just like Balaam, we are called to bless our society again and again with our passive consent and participation, with our silence and submission, and we are offered all sorts of rewards for assimilating into it and accepting its gold and silver.

We are called to bless a society that damns so many with mental illness to homelessness without treatment; a society that damns our children to grow up hungry and in poverty; a society that damns men and women with full-time jobs to poverty wages that strand them in shelters. And we are called to bless it every day, just by showing up wherever it calls us to be, in silent obedience.

It's interesting to me that God ultimately instructs Balaam to let the dignitaries of Moab and Midian bring him to the Prince, instead of simply sending them away. It's almost as though God wanted Balaam to go to the belly of the beast, where hatred and misunderstanding were thick, to pronounce God's word.

Who among us would have the courage to speak God's word in the belly of our beast? What would it sound like? Was Balaam fearful of retribution, for speaking in defense of these newcomers to his land? What retribution do we fear most?

What if we speak against the homelessness that racism creates? Minnesota has a race problem and we don't want to talk about it. Recent reports rate us among the worst states and worst metro areas in the country for disparities between white and black homeownership, educational attainment, rates of unemployment, and rates of high-cost loans originated to those with similar income levels. Who are we waiting for to speak God's words here?

My friend Velva is still waiting. She is one of the resident leaders of our foreclosure prevention and fair lending coalition in north Minneapolis. A few years ago, citations from the city forced Velva to seek a home equity loan for some repairs to her house. Despite her solid income and high credit, several banks turned her down, and she ended up with a predatory loan that ultimately led to foreclosure. I should mention that when she approached various banks for a loan, Velva had already paid off the mortgage on her home. Her young nephew ran up the stairs of her house to surprise his Aunt Velva, only to find strangers answering the door.

There is a kind of homelessness inflicted upon a person, a family, and a community, when injustices like these are multiplied so many times over; a homelessness of the soul when one is told, you will never be one of us, you will never thrive among us, you will never be at home here, and no matter what shelter you erect over your head, we may tear it down in the morning. This homelessness haunts any people of the exodus, and it haunts us Jews. Perhaps one reason this fatal stone of racism drops so deeply into the well of our collective conscience is that it finds in our depths an answering set of experiences, of migrations, of expulsions, of homelessness. Perhaps it is that stone we must clutch tightly in our fists as we walk with the dignitaries of our system, with their silver and gold, so that we don't lose our courage to speak God's word, that we will all lose if we damn those whom God has not damned.

Prince Balak asks Balaam three times to curse the Israelites. The first two times, Balaam builds seven alters and seeks an omen from God before pronouncing God's words. But the third time, we read that Balaam does not go in search of omens, but instead turns his face toward the wilderness, where Israel is encamped tribe by tribe. The spirit of God then comes upon him, as he turns towards those whom he is expected to curse.

When we turn our faces towards those on the margins of our society, those who are homeless, those who are forced into desperation by predatory lenders, poverty wages and poor health insurance, we have the chance to really see them, instead of relying on reports that they "blot out the earth". We have the chance to share stories, build relationships as peers, as human beings all created b'tselem elohim, in the image of God. This can begin to happen when a congregation hosts a homeless shelter and conversations emerge between volunteers and homeless families; it can begin to happen when a white Jew and an African American Christian knock on doors together to connect homeowners with foreclosure counseling.

When they are humble, and authentic, and enduring, these relationships can be transformative. They can help us realize that in order to end homelessness, we need to first accept the deep homelessness inflicted upon us, both historically as a people of the exodus, and today whenever another person, or another community is made homeless and an outcast among us; we can then struggle with how we are all embedded in this system where shelter is not a right. And we can gather all our courage and presence of mind as we find ourselves walking deeper into this system which is and is not ours. Only then can we pronounce God's words to end the homelessness that emanates from, and is reinforced by a thousand thousand decisions, policies and prejudices, generation by generation. Only then, I believe, and only through us can God's words achieve their true redemptive power, starting from and returning to and transforming each of us to our very core.

Shabbat Shalom!

my Wellstone story.

It was 1997, two years before labor and environmental activists would shut down the World Trade Organization meeting in Seattle. I organized a trip for fellow Goucher students to lobby Senators from our home states against a particularly awful free trade, pro-multinational corporation agreement, the MAI.

We spent a grueling day with condescending, ignorant and arrogant staffers and senators, reducing some students to tears. The last stop of the day was Senator Wellstone's office. We were ushered into his office, the walls lined with bookshelves of familiar books-- Chomsky, Marx, Zinn, and others. Our spirits lifted as he thanked *us* for lobbying for fair trade and investment policies. We filed out, renewed.

This morning I related this little story to a group of about 15 tremendous youth group members at Shir Tikvah synagogue. We decided to organize a health care for all delegation to Senator Klobuchar's office.

Thanks for everything, Paul. We promise not to park the bus.

Nirvana.

AAAAGGGGHHHH!!!! (BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM)
WAAAUUUUUGGGHHHH!!!! (BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM)

This is the sound of toddler nirvana. Henry took Spence on a tour of his newly remodeled basement, and they came upon the professional drum set that belongs to Henry's mom. In addition to being pristine, tasteful and homey, it can be safely said that Team Mrotz's new basement boasts excellent acoustics.

Otherwise, highlights of the day include Nora devouring an entire jar of organic banana peach oatmeal (or some such combination) in one sitting, walking (holding onto my fingers) the equivalent of several city blocks, and perfecting shy cuteness as she grinned and snuggled into my chest upon being introduced to several strangers today (including community notable Tom Sengupta of Schneider's Drugs on University Ave).

I was betrayed by Dora the Explorer today. Spence tuned in as I prepared his penne and parmesan, and was immediately bombarded by Dora and her colleagues shouting "we all scream for ice cream", rowing a chocolate boat across a chocolate lake to win the ultimate prize-- ice cream. Dora and the narrator wagged their candied tongues incessantly about chocolate. Spence looked up and asked for ice cream; it took some skillful diversion to land him safely at lunch (involving, of course, tickling). It already seems too late for Spence to avoid inheriting my sweet tooth, which is ultimately not so funny or harmless, like most mainstays of the dominant culture.

It's late. I'm torn between the lull of sleep and the lure of solitude and a chance to write. Ah, I knew there was another highlight coming. Spence climbed into bed with Kristy, Nora and I this morning and carefully twined all our hands together, insisting we all had to go downstairs together.

That was the sound of parental nirvana.

Extreme Choo Choo Bob Makeover...

Our own train was a bit slow to get moving this morning (Nora gamely slept through the night while Spencer was overcome by hunger pangs, again, at 5am, and was raring to go afterwards), but by 9:30am we ventured out in the chilly spitting rain to Choo Choo Bob's.

Choo Choo Bob's is tantalizingly positioned a few doors down from Izzy's ice cream on one side, and Trotter's Bakery and Cafe on the other, yummy snack venues both. Bob's is a dream destination for parents and toddlers, boasting 6 kid-sized tables of toy trains in the back, and a massive 'grown-up' model train set up in front. I'd say about 10% of the parents end up buying the fairly expensive trains in shiny boxes along the walls; the other 90% of us enjoy ourselves and then slink guiltily out, not daring to look the kindly old proprietor-- I'll call him "Bob"-- in the eye.

This post is for him. And for us no good, free-loading parents. Redemption is possible.

Bob, there are a few things you need to know about us parents. We run on coffee; it's not a luxury. And those of us who are either middle-class or too dumb to notice we're not anymore, won't think twice about shelling out three or four bucks for a vat of Joe. Some prefer fair trade, organic, shade-grown... some want the coffee taste obliterated by cocoa and sugar and cream. Give us our coffee and we will make you rich, Bob.

And while we're at it, we love food on the go. Otherwise we mostly eat cheerios from the floor, pilfered yogurt and granola bars, spurned skins of fruit, and stealthily hidden sweets. Most non-mall kid places don't provide food we like (or food at all-- parks, playgrounds, pools, museums, aquariums, etc). So why not set up a little snack bar next to those tantalizing train tables? The goal should be reasonably healthy food that can be ready and neatly packaged in less than 30 seconds, eaten with one hand (or no hands) while juggling one or several screaming toddlers, etc, etc.

Bob, there's more. My toddler was enthralled by the trains, but my crawler faced hostile terrain-- unsavory carpet and bonks waiting to happen, not to mention yummy magnets on every chewable train. So, which of us wouldn't pay a buck to rent a bouncy chair for our babe while we're there? More revenue to be captured.

And while my kids are enraptured by trains, and bouncing happily away... I could really use a nap. Bob, I noticed a vacant, unlit 'party room' off to the side of the store. You could sound-proof the room and fill it with cots-- I'm talking army cots-- and who of us would not take you up on the offer of a parent nap? What, you say? Afraid for the kids? Hire an hourly sitter on the spot to watch your precious ones while you catch some shut-eye!

Bob? Bob, come back. These are good ideas. We could make a million bucks... Bob?

MVP of the day: Handy Manny

It was a bloodbath today. Actually, there WAS blood, after Spence took a mean tumble from the swings at Brackett Park, but that was after I had pleaded with Kristy to come home at 3. The toughest parts came earlier, and were not as dramatic: antsy kids climbing the walls as I scramble to assemble Spencer snacks, change diapers, find weather-appropriate clothes, warm up bottles of milk and little jars of prune-oatmeal mush, and banish the sinister, negative voice in my head (remember the solitary confinement scene with Denzel Washington in "Hurricane"?)...

Things came to a head at 11am. We had not yet left the house because I let Nora take her morning nap in the comfort of home, rather than between carseats and baby bjorns and various unsavory carpeted floors. So Spence had the short straw. Yes, neighbors, that was the Team Snyder car careening back and forth today (let's go to the museum! "NOOO!" let's go to the cafe! "NOOOOO!" The car is thirsty, let's go get gas and make faces in the windows! "NOOOOOO"...) Finally... "do you want to go run around Target and we can get you Handy Manny tools? (pause) "Yes!"

My friend Larry (a veteran stay at home papa and butt-kicking tenants' rights attorney) told me our kids are unlikely to be ruined by something we do on a Tuesday. But he said nothing about several months, or more, of successive Mondays and Fridays.

Highlight: discovered new nose-to-nose rubbing move with baby Nora, to her delight. And she is absolutely, no holds barred, in the last few days, a crawler.

God help us...

I looked at the kid and thought, I want to give you a cow ride.

No, not Spencer. This was the older boy who had just run over to where we sat, grimacing with the unease of being late to Tot Shabbat services, and gave Spencer a big, colorful stuffed Torah.

Suddenly, Tot Shabbat became viable fun. Rabbi Latz read stories with kids hanging on his back (well, at least Spencer was), we paraded around the sanctuary with our stuffed Torahs, and grinned like idiots as our cute kids ran, squirmed, inched and hooted together. Spencer felt called to pipe up several times during the stories with his own, semi-intelligible commentary, and Rabbi Latz agreed and gave him a high-five.

And for a moment, or actually many moments, the fact that our domestic, personal, professional and financial lives are held together by spit, duct tape and dumb luck didn't matter.

And for the record, I gave that kid (and a few others) one hell of a cow ride after the service.

You can also read my wife Kristy's account of the morning... http://www.caffeinatedlove.blogspot.com/

The Great What's Next.

Last Friday- I look up from talking with Madeline and Cheryl, and Spencer has taken off-- clear across the field that borders the playground. He's not looking back. He's not playfully daring me to come get him. He's just trucking into the great What's Next. I pass Nora to Cheryl and sprint (ok, I can't sprint anymore, I amble, I hurry) to get my son. I'm supposed to feel good that he feels loved enough to be comfortable to run off without a backward glance, right? Okay...

Today began with our first music class at MacPhail (lots of fun banging, singing and dancing... I need to be reminded it's too early to just hand him a violin); a visit to the fire station (Firefighter Isabelle let him turn on the lights on the firetruck, and had him officially welcomed on a radio station that, according to the Captain, was heard all over the city!)... and ended with (God bless) Melissa watching Nora while Spence and I wowed the Temple Israel Sisterhood. I wowed them talking about foreclosure prevention; Spence had an accident on the way over and wowed them by waltzing in pantless-- just a diaper, t-shirt, socks and his new size-9 silver sneakers... waving and grinning and grabbing grapes.

Nora, meanwhile, managed to be cute enough to stop traffic, despite teething and a fever. I have to say my favorite moment of the day was lunch at Riverview Cafe (Spence gnaws on a blueberry scone after I scold the incredulous barista for not selling peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches)... and the two of them start grinning and giggling at each other. I was background, food provider, face wiper, it was all about the brother and sister, living it up, without a backward glance, into the great What's Next.