My 11-year-old daughter is currently enjoying her last week of a one month stay at a summer camp in Northern Minnesota.  She is at the same camp where I spent 20 full summers (no kidding) as a camper and staff member. 

Although I enjoyed the many activities and adventures of camp life, it was the spiritual lessons that left the biggest impression.  Outdoor living led me to cultivate a radical appreciation of the natural world and its transformative power.  The communalism taught me the necessity of high ethics such as patience, teamwork, giving the benefit of the doubt, open-heartedness, appreciating differences, and more.  The spirited group singing helped me value inspiration, sensitivity, joy and the comfort of ritual.  The freedom and independence allowed me lots of room to self-reflect, experiment with my identity, and stretch my potential.  Relationships run deep when they are in close quarters and '24-7’; I am still moved to tears when I recall the intense love, appreciation, and nurturing that all of us across the generational spectrum who formed the camp community felt for one another.
 
This is a place that I still consider my spiritual center; the place where I first realized that I could become a rabbi.  Is it a surprise then, to learn, that it is not a 'Jewish' camp?  True, many of the campers and staff are Jews.  But, there are plenty who are not.  In addition, there is no identifiable religious content or programming (although Native American cultures and wisdoms are woven into camp life). Bacon is a breakfast staple, and the weekly 'non-denominational' services are held on Sunday.
 
The service area is a pine strewn lakeshore spot containing towering red pine trees.  Counselors would sit against the strong trunks, campers on their laps and at their sides, as young and old would deliver sharings, readings, and acoustic guitar songs that centered around a given theme such as 'social responsibility,' 'friendship,' 'ecology,' etc.  Then, at the end, as the exception to the aforementioned rule, the only overtly Jewish ritual in all of camp would take place.  Someone would stand and recite the Shema, following the example of one of the camp's founders, who was a president of her temple's sisterhood and used to make leading that prayer her role at services.
 
When I was an 18-year-old junior counselor, I insisted that this way of ending of the service be re-considered.  My arguments were persuasive, and to this day, the Shema is joined by a number of other prayers reflecting whatever traditions may be represented during any given summer.  Yes, this Rabbi is responsible for the fact that the Christian Lord's Prayer is always a part of camp services!
 
I remember well the camp's director telling me about the time his synagogue's Rabbi wrote a bulletin article blasting 'non-religious Indian camps' that were steering kids away from Jewish camping.  Needless to say, the two men needed a 'pow-wow' (in some quarters called a ‘come to Jesus’) to clear the air.
 
I know many, many wonderful people who owe their sense of religious belonging to their attendance at Jewish camps.  However, theirs is not the only path.  For me, the pluralism and openness of my 'non-Jewish' camp dug for me a well of generalized spirituality that in time allowed Judaism deep and interesting places to flow through and other rich waters to blend with it.  My camp experience was like the best of American society in a nature-filled microcosm.  I lived among people from all walks of life in a place that forged commonalities, putting our differences in perspective.  Because I learned how similar I was to others first, I had confidence to express what about me was different, including my Judaism.
 
Next Shabbat, when my daughter is back home and we are sharing our summer stories after we light candles and sing Sabbath blessings, she will not tell us about zemirot, the birkat ha-mazon, rabbinic faculty or Israeli scouts.  But, sure as anything, a greatly transformed spirit will flow from her letting us know that she truly 'gets it.'

A few years ago, First Lady Michelle Obama, commenting on her husband’s surprising victory in the Iowa caucuses, said:

“For the first time in my adult lifetime, I am really proud of my country.”

Though she got into some trouble for that remark, I can relate.  My patriotism quotient has spiked due to the election of President Obama; my faith in the ability of our country to overcome the worst of its past and reach its great promise has been renewed.  In addition, my young son has developed a passionate interest in American history and politics.  Because of him, in late June while visiting family in New England, we included a tour of Lexington and Concord, the battlefield location of the “shot heard ‘round the world” that began the American Revolution.

It’s fair to say that we were all ready for Independence Day this July!  So, on this past 4th of July, we added something a little different to our usual traditions of barbecue and fireworks.  At a get-together with extended family and friends, we read the Declaration of Independence and sang Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land Is Your Land.’ It went over very well, and left us all wanting more.

I have always thought that American holidays received a short shrift when it came to meaningful observance.  There are certainly ways to observe Thanksgiving, Veteran’s Day, Dr. Martin Luther King Day, Memorial Day, and Independence Day that allows them to live up to their important themes, but it seems that few make the effort.  These holy days are most often marked by sales in the stores and a lack of postal service.

What better way to bring intentionality to holiday observance that to borrow from the ritual of the Jewish seder (which itself was borrowed from the ancient Greek symposium).  The seder was developed as a way to enliven the biblical commandment to teach through the generations the story of Israelite slavery in Egypt, liberation, and miraculous redemption.  The pedagogy of the seder is remarkable.  You take an occurrence that happens every night—sitting down for dinner. But as we know, Passover night is different from all other nights.  Attached to the meal are stories, teachings, symbolic foods, rituals, songs, and prayers.  And the story has survived to inspire all of humankind.

Imagine your Fourth of July picnic this year—typical, except everyone has an Independence Day Haggadah.  Everyone takes turns reading excerpts from our founding documents and their philosophical underpinnings from the likes of Thomas Paine and Benjamin Franklin.  The history of those moments when we perfected our union are recounted—highlights from progressive movements such as abolitionist, labor, women’s equality, civil rights, and LGBT liberation. 

You spill your favorite American beverage (Coca-Cola?) from the cup of joy to symbolize the needless pain our nation inflicted on Native Americans and African slaves (perhaps while someone reads Fredrick Douglas' seminal essay, ‘What To the American Slaves is Your Fourth of July’) along the way.  You sing patriotic songs.  You pose questions about what we have accomplished and what still needs to be done in the name of ‘liberty and justice for all.’  Try this version of a Passover classic: If our country had only ensured that our leaders not be considered godlike kings and queens, ‘dayenu,’ that would have been enough! 

I imagine the eating of corn would have to be somehow ritualized. Perhaps at the end of the seder, all participants sign their name to the Haggadah, with the designated leader signing first, à la John Hancock.

As I was tossing around this idea after our mini Independence Day service, a letter appeared in USA Today from a woman in Denver named Karen Kataline (whom I have never met) proposing the notion of a Passover-like seder especially for the 4th of July. So there you have it folks, it’s a movement! A ‘new but old’ way every year to renew our national pride has been born (on the 4th of July).

When I was 8 years old, I would sit in the ‘back-back’ of my parent’s station wagon waving to anyone and everyone as we drove through the streets of Chicago.  This was the late 1960’s and the city was divided into the ‘suits’ and the ‘longhairs.’  The only ones who ever took the time to recognize my overtures were those ‘longhairs,’ the hippies who would smile gently and flash me a peace sign.  I noticed.

To this day, I wear my hair longer than what is fashionable, and I feel a flash of kinship when I encounter another long-haired male.  Right or wrong, I always have a hunch that I have found another ally in the quest for spirituality, harmony, kindness, and equality.

As prejudiced as this feeling may be, it is given credibility in some religious traditions.  In Native American tribes and the cultures of many other aboriginal peoples, wearing hair long is considered sacred, demonstrating a shamanic preference for the deep and natural over the shallow and crass.  In Eastern spiritual traditions, gurus and yogis let their hair grow naturally free and wild, signaling an absence of egotism and an embrace of universal love. 

In the Torah, we have the example of the Nazirites, individuals who decide to walk a holy path and who take a vow to eschew haircuts.  Again, long hair became a public sign of holiness, a way for the nazir to testify continually his special position by appearance.  Remember that long hair was the secret to the strength of the most famous nazir, Samson.

The youth culture of the 60’s that I was introduced to as a young boy brought all of this into the age of technicolor.  Their ‘tribe’ transcended ethnic and racial boundaries, but it retained long hair as a symbol of freedom, nature, and defiance against societal conventions.

Charles Reich, the author of The Greening of America, noted that, “Those men who dared to grow their hair below the collar achieved a way of being with other people that is more like the way women relate to one another—that is, closer, warmer, more open, sensitive, and accepting.” 

Yippie activist Jerry Rubin made long hair his manifesto: “America asks us, ‘Why the beards and long hair,’ but we say to America, ‘Hair grows naturally.   Why do you do the unnatural act of cutting your hair and shaving your face?’  When we, the children of the white middle class, wear our hair long, we feel like Indians, Blacks—all of the outsiders in American history.  Having long hair tells people exactly where we stand; it is like being a walking picket sign.”

My wife and I didn’t have our son’s hair cut until he was three years old, in compliance with a Hasidic and Sephardic custom.  The Torah compares a human being to a tree.  It is mandated by Jewish law to let the tree grow naturally, without trimming or picking from it during the first three years; a similar custom applies to a child.  Our son’s hair was really long, and he was continually mistaken for a little girl.

On his third birthday, we had a joyous upsherin (the ritual of the first haircut) at the synagogue.  We danced, sang Shehecheyanu and the theme from Hair (‘Gimme down to there-HAIR-shoulder length or longer!”), and people donated to tzedakah for the honor of cutting a few of his stands.  I hoped in those moments that he would internalize the brief time in his life when his looks more closely mirrored nature’s intention.  Upsherin is supposed to mark the transition from ‘babyhood’ to childhood and I wanted my son to carry the ‘Esau’ spirit of freedom, even as he needed to begin to conform to the domesticated Jacob.

My son is now eight, and somehow he does enjoy wearing his hair a little longer than the other boys.  May he inherit a world where everyone, regardless of hair length, is interested in walking the holy path of justice, freedom, compassion, love, and peace.

Framed and hanging on the wall is the diploma from the Hebrew Union College I received upon becoming an ordained rabbi.  Occasionally, I point it out to a wedding couple when we are talking about the Ketubah, the Jewish marriage agreement, because the two documents are similar in size.  Other than that, I rarely pay attention to it. 

However, because this month marks 10 years since my ordination ceremony, I have been stealing more frequent glances.  Above the golden seal of the seminary are the words: 

“Whereas Randall Craig Fleisher has fulfilled all requirements for graduation he is herewith ordained as Rabbi and is authorized and licensed to perform all Rabbinical functions in the name of God and Israel.”   

Not long after I arrived in St. Louis, I received a letter from a Jewish inmate serving time at a correctional institution.  I went over to the prison to let the authorities know that I was a member of the clergy and I wanted to visit the man who had written me.  The guard I spoke to asked if I had proof that I was a rabbi.  I explained that the only document I had that identified me as such was 2’x2’ and framed!  He gave me a look that said, “Well, bring it over then!”  A while later I was on Market Street, lugging the framed document which allowed me to enter the jail cell during the extended clergy hours.

Normally, the ordination certificate is a much more subtle license.  Because of the ‘Rabbi’ designation on my diploma, I am granted the privilege of entering into relationships with countless individuals and families and sharing some of the most sacred moments in their lives.  It allows me to experience the joy of introducing children to some of the ancient rituals, holy times, and stories that will help make their lives rich and meaningful.  It enables me to stand with spiritual leaders of diverse traditions and speak out at times of crisis and celebration.  It gives people the courage to demonstrate (in my presence) their most noble selves.  It is the impetus that leads me to join organizations that bring equity, compassion, and love to the downtrodden.  It is an invitation to regular communal gatherings where expressions of joy, song, spirit, awe, inspiration, longing, memory, and healing are constantly channeled.

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On Friday, May 7, I learned another lesson in the power of certificates and licenses.  I rode on the ‘Marriage Equality Bus’ to Iowa City, IA with three Protestant ministers and eleven St. Louis based same-sex couples.  Many of these couples had been together for years; some of them have had weddings or commitment ceremonies, but none of them knew what it was like to have their marriage recognized by a government.  We arrived at the License Bureau in the afternoon and I watched the excitement, amazement, and gratitude on their faces as the paperwork was handed out and signed.

We would later perform sacred ceremonies at a church, but at the license bureau, the signing of papers was a holy moment. 

While these marriages are legal in Iowa (Iowa legalized same sex marriage in 2009), they are not yet recognized in Missouri or most states.  Still, there are local companies and other entities that accept gay couples who get married in states where it is legal, and so some benefits are being felt.  Most of all, there was a real validation, complete with a state seal, of the love and commitment of the couples, an official acknowledgement that their relationships and families would be part of the patchwork of the land.  One bride, who married her partner of 15 years, said through tears, “I never thought this would happen in my lifetime.”

A license carries the power to open new doors, to give others a new perspective on who we are, and to change the way we think about ourselves.  I hope the Iowa marriage certificates (like my ordination certificate) are framed ‘big as life’—an everyday reminder of the power of words.

You don’t need to be a ‘political junkie’ like me to sense that our country is extremely polarized.  Ever since the disputed election in 2000, the shorthand way to express this liberal-conservative divide is to talk about Blue and Red. 

At the Democratic Convention in 2004, Barack Obama demonstrated a desire to bring people together across this divide so that we can begin to better understand one another.  He said, “There is not a liberal America and a conservative America — there is the United States of America.  We worship an awesome God in the Blue States, and we don’t like federal agents poking around in our libraries in the Red States.   We coach Little League in the Blue States and yes, we’ve got some gay friends in the Red States.”  I truly bawled (and also began to hope that this unknown politician would someday run for President…), only at that moment realizing how much impact the enmity had on me.

Barack Obama is now our President, but his articulate and impassioned ‘purple’ vision has yet to come to pass.  In fact, the bitterness between left and right is worse than ever.  Spend any time, as I do, on political websites, and you will find that the comments posted by partisans on both sides are shockingly nasty.  It scares me to think about all of that pent up disgust people are carrying for their fellow human beings.

I have long played with the notion that Jacob and Esau, the warring twins form the Torah, can be seen as Red and Blue prototypes.  “Esau (whose other name ‘Edom’ actually means ‘reddish’) became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors; but Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.”  Later commentators took the differences between the two, and portrayed them as extreme stereotypes of polar opposite types.  The two men were brothers, but hated and feared each other greatly. 

But my favorite part of their story is the ending.  When the brothers finally meet after years of bitter separation, they do not insult one another or come to blows.  Not even close.  In fact, they reconcile through tears and an embrace.  Jacob says to Esau, “When I see your face, it is like seeing the face of God!”

Emmanuel Levinas is a French-Jewish philosopher who passed away in 1995.  Like many modern theologians, he saw his main task as reframing what it means to believe in God after historical and scientific progress created major doubt as to the origin of scriptures and life itself.  For Levinas, God is the force that gives us the ability to identify the optimum ways of treating others.  Furthermore, he taught that our best chance at acting on that knowledge was by truly recognizing the faces of others.

Recognition, to Levinas, happens when we understand the other not to be part of ourselves, but an independent entity that deserves our care and attention.  In this way, seeing the face of others really is seeing the face of God.

People are bound to disagree about politics.  Our personalities, life experiences, family backgrounds, world views, and associations are different.  This results in people viewing the important events of our day through different prisms.  However, the crucial task of coming to some kind of consensus through negotiation cannot happen if we cannot even stand to be in the same room as those on the other side.

Like Jacob and Esau, Blue and Red must figure out ways to look each other in the face and recognize that there is a sincere, well-intentioned person looking back.  Without discarding our principles and beliefs, we should try and find merit in, or at least the positive motivations behind positions with which we disagree.  The truth is, we have more in common than we realize, and we need one another; like Jacob and Esau, we are incomplete without the gifts and unique perspectives that the other provides.