The novel that I am writing, The Origin of Color centers on the murder of albinos in East Africa, and more recently in Swaziland. I am currently traveling in Swaziland to do research.

The first day in this country I explored the city of Mbabane. I happened upon the office for the Swazi Observer and went in. Their main room was filled with old desks and computers with lots of people working on stories. I asked a reporter if I could talk with whomever had covered the albino killings in Swaziland, and they gave me that reporter’s phone number. I called him and arranged to see him the next day.

My driver, Sandeline, picked me up at 7:30 am to head out into the countryside to meet the reporter who has been covering the murder and dismemberment of two albino girls, both eleven years old. The reporter had told us that he would be able to bring us to meet with the two families. We stopped at a grocery store so I could get food to bring as gifts. I bought for each family (with Sandeline’s advice) two loaves of bread, candles, matches, rice and peanut butter.

We drove for an hour and a half. A beautiful drive and I learned a lot about the country along the way. The landscape is very lush and green, tangled with giant euphobia cacti, marula trees whose fruit makes liquor and beer, kiat, waterberry, red ivory, tamboti, watle, blue gum and pine trees.

The roads are incredibly alive. It is not just the trees which are loaded with birds, it is everyone and everything walking alongside the roads. We passed stray dogs trotting along (Sandeline said they were looking for scraps of KFC). There were women carrying bags of rice, large bunches of branches, water and other staples on their heads, always wearing bright colors, purples and crimsons, golds and greens that punctuate the landscape. There were long, lean men walking in pairs usually in darker clothes. There were many children, mostly in groups, but sometimes surprisingly walking alone. Every single person we passed when they heard the car coming turned to look who it was. The look in their eyes is something I’m trying to find the words to describe. It was an expression from all the walkers that was the same, it seemed purposeful. It was as if their eyes were saying, “I’ve been walking a long time and I have a long way to go. I am in the midst of a physical mantra and curious to know if the vehicle coming up behind me is something of which I should take note.” We saw skinny cows being herded (why are they skinny? there’s plenty of grass. I don’t get it.) because it was “dipping tank day” so they were being taken to dipping tanks to remove ticks and parasites. We saw people working in banana and papaya fields. Everywhere were rondavels, round houses with roofs made of grass, sides of sticks and mud or brick. Some roofs had corrugated metal. Every now and then there would be a tall flag near one and Sandeline said a single red flag means someone has slaughtered a cow and there is meat for sale. A single white flag means that there is traditional beer for sale. The pinkish Lantuna flower is not indigenous to the country and though it is beautiful and everywhere, the government is encouraging people to destroy it as it damages crops. Oh, and I forgot to mention the goats and chickens wandering about. 

We passed over the Great Usutu River and many small brown rivers winding through the misty Kapunga mountains.

We passed some interesting billboards promoting condom-use, including one that read “Bekhi says, ‘Man is a hunter, the fun is in the chase!’ and Bekhi got AIDS!” Swaziland has the highest AIDS rate in the world.

We picked up the reporter at his office. His name is Starsky. And yes he’s heard of Starsky and Hutch. He got into the car and we started heading into the really rural land toward the homesteads of the families of the murdered girls. Starsky told me that each year around elections time, there are murdered people sometimes found with missing parts. It is believed that some of the people running for Parliament are having potions created that they believe will give them power.

We came to the first homestead. Very small mud and stick homes, chickens wandering in and out, a tethered goat and a little black pig. No electricity, no running water. This was the home of Banele Kwenzi Nxumalo, who was eleven years old when she was shot and beheaded in August. There was a group of girls and two shy boys who gathered to meet us. Banele’s grandmother welcomes me in. She was grateful for the food as if it was Christmas, and was very honored to be visited in her grief. She didn’t speak English so I spoke with her through Starsky and Sandeline. She talked about how hard-working her granddaughter was. Her granddaughter had been a motherless child, her mother had left the family. The grandmother showed me the little bedroom they had shared together. She talked about not being able to return to church. She said that her other granddaughter is also albino and was currently in hiding. She then showed me Banele’s grave which was very pretty. She was buried alone, away from the family graveyard because it is a Swazi tradition that if one dies of something bad, they should be buried separately, otherwise it brings bad luck. Still, her grave was very close to the family homestead by a garden so she didn’t seem alone to me.

The girls who were hanging around had been Banele’s friends and neighbors. Most of them were there when the killing happened. They took me to the place that it happened and told me the story. They were returning from the river with water for their families when a car drove up. The men in the car were taking advantage of the fact that the men don’t fetch water, and it would only be women and children. This day, it was in fact only one woman and several girls. A man wearing a mask jumped out of the car and shot Banele. Kicking the other girls away he threw Banele over his shoulder and ran down the slope and up the mountain where he disappeared with her. Her headless body was found there.

The next homestead had been the home of Siphesihle Mtshali. Her grandfather was there. She had lived with her grandfather as both of her parents had died of either TB or AIDS. There was a little boy there as well whose parents had dropped him off and never returned, so the grandfather was raising him as well. Siphesihle had been in the company of a male friend when she was attacked. Her leg was chopped off, and the thug swung a knife at the friend to keep him from helping. The friend is still in the hospital. Siphesihle was the first albino person killed in Swaziland for ritual use of her body parts, Banele had been the second. The grandfather is not married and was raising the children alone. His granddaughter had been in charge of all the cooking.

It was interesting to me in both families that along with the grief, there was also the insurmountable financial loss when a child died. In the West, our children’s responsibility is just to learn and grow. But here, the children are vital contributors to the family’s survival. With Banele’s death, someone else now had to fetch the water which costs the family many hours of time and is a great difficulty. With Siphesihle’s death, the grandfather and the orphan he is raising have to now do the cooking.

I haven’t posted here in a long while. I have been a bit overwhelmed balancing synagogue service with family and squeezing in time to work on the new novel. I just started a three month sabbatical during which time I will be able to hopefully finish the new novel, “The Origin of Color”. In a few days I will be heading to Swaziland and Tanzania to do more research for the book. I will post updates here from my journey and also on the blog I started for Temple Isaiah which you can find here: http://templeisaiah.com/rabbizoeklein/. It is called The Candlelit Tent and you are welcome to come in for virtual sweet tea minted with ancient teachings from the Zohar. Abundant blessings! Zoe

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining,
And colorful ribbons even when there are shrouds.
I believe in the candle even after it’s guttered.
I believe in the heavens even when there are clouds.

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining,
I believe in the moon after it’s sunk in the sea.
I believe in the child even when she’s not playing
But hidden in attics where no one can see,

I believe in a man though he’s deep in a cellar,
I believe in a heart though it’s beating its last
I believe in dreams even when there’s no sleeping
I believe in memory even though it’s the past.

I believe in redemption even after the sentence.
I believe in the rain even when nothing falls.
I believe in the oak tree even when it’s an acorn,
I believe in friendship even when no one calls.

I believe in freedom even when I’m imprisoned.
I believe in questions even when they’re unspoken.
I believe in my family when I’m the only one left.
I believe in your future even when you are broken.

I believe in music even when I can’t hear.
I believe in beauty even when I am blind.
I believe in peace even with war around me.
I believe in a smile when all are unkind.

I believe in yes when I hear only no.
I believe in wonder even when there’s little doubt.
I believe in purpose even when life is short.
I believe in with even when I’m without.

I believe in embracing even when man is violent.
I believe in closeness when everywhere’s far,
I believe in poetry even when there’s no paper,
I believe in wishing even when there’s no star.

I believe in God even when He is silent,
My faith does not easily in suffering break.
Only God, pray tell me, if but softly, but swiftly,
Before my last breath, that it’s all for Your sake…

I believe in heat when I’m freezing to death.
I believe in you when I’m surrounded by foes.
I believe in myself when my neighbors condemn me,
I believe in a truth that no one else knows.

I believe in spring even when winter comes.
I believe in outside even when there’s no door.
I believe in bread even when I am empty.
When adrift on the ocean, I believe in the shore.

I believe in my people even when there are ashes.
I believe in the Torah even when it is burned.
I believe in the Temple even when it is ruined.
I believe in wisdom even when nothing’s learned.

I believe in beginnings even when it seems over,
In taking a stand even when my leg’s crushed
I believe in myself even when I am hated.
I believe in gentle even when I am pushed.

I believe in wellness even when I am sick.
When I’m thrown to the wolves, I believe in the lamb.
I believe in my voice even when I am muted.
When I’m told that I’m not, I believe that I am.

I believe in comfort even when I am crying.
I believe in my pulse even when I’ve been bled.
I believe in believing even when I am dying.
I believe in my deeds even after I’m dead.

I believe in renewal even after the fire,
I believe in galaxies even while I’m on earth.
I believe in remembering even when it is painful,
Though I am but dust, I believe in rebirth.

I believe that you will weep for me.
I believe that you will mourn.
I believe when you breathe deep and free
I believe that you’ll be born.

I believe that you’ll rise up again,
I believe that you’ll begin.
I believe words etched on cellar walls
Are written on our skin.

Rabbi Pamela Wax’s Review of Drawing in the Dust for the Reform Jewish Quarterly:

   In Jeremiah 16, God tells the prophet, “You are not to marry and not to have sons and daughters in this place.” Uncharacteristically for a man of his time, Jeremiah indeed remained unmarried. Yet, like Hosea before him, he used the imagery of married love to express the relationship between God and Israel. Abraham Joshua Heschel makes a case for Jeremiah’s self-perception as God’s celibate bride. However an aggadah in Bava Kama 16b paints Jeremiah as a sexual being, whom the people maliciously accused of illicit relations. Because another midrash traces Jeremiah’s lineage through Rahab, his proclivity for harlots– and therefore the possibility of not being celibate — was apparently established in the Rabbinic mind.
    Jeremiah’s divinely imposed bachelorhood (no other prophet was forbidden to marry) and the discomfort it raises provided Zoe Klein the seed for her wonderfully inventive novel in which she explores the possibility of Anatiya, the handmaiden cum prophetess, who loves Jeremiah from afar and late in life becomes his lover.
    Unlike Anita Diamant’s The Red Tent, which brought us directly into a contemporaneous biblical world, Drawing in the Dust remains fully ensconced in the twenty-first century. We never actually meet Anatiya or Jeremiah in real time. We are introduced to them only through their writings and the imaginings of the novel’s characters. The protagonist, Page Brookstone, is an American-born Catholic archaeologist living in Israel whose historic find of artifacts related to the prophet Jeremiah includes cistern painting of his life and the exile, Anatiya’s scroll, and the coffin in which Jeremiah and Anatiya’s skeletons are found embracing for eternity.
    The modern story is a page-turner, filled with intrigue about Arab-Israeli relation, secular academic politicking, actual ultra-Orthodox backlash against the desecration of Jeremiah’s grave, and a Christian fundamentalist plot to bring Armageddon. It is also a love story in and of itself; the publicized love story of Jeremiah and Anatiya creates an epidemic of love throughout the world and forever changes the trajectory of Page’s life.
    Bu the real gift of Zoe Klein’s novel is Anatiya’s scroll itself. One is sure to be tantalized by the snippets in Drawing in the Dust and will therefore be delighted to know that the fictional scroll is available in its entirety as a separate book entitled The Scroll of Anatiya. Its fifty-two chapters, written in beautiful lyrical language in a biblical style that plays off of the fifty-two chapters of the book of Jeremiah, rivals the Song of Songs as a text of longing, desire, and ultimate consummation. But it is also a testament to Jeremiah’s suffering from an outsider’s perspective. Anatiya’s is a parallel experience to that of Jeremiah. When he says at his commissioning (Jer.1), “I don’t know how to speak,” Anatiya herself becomes mute for life, writing, “When God put out a hand and touched your mouth, God put out another hand and touched the tip of a finger to my lips, whispering, ‘shhh’…” (p. 194). When God famously sends Jeremiah to study the work of the potter (Jer. 18), Anatiya’s chapter 18 brings us the words of the potter himself: “If you have no respect for the void and its immense power…then you cannot understand” (p.95).
    The novel implies that Jeremiah’s metaphors are not all his own, that they come to him through his interactions with Anatiya. His reference in Jeremiah 1:13 to a steaming pot as a metaphor for the lands to the north is a reference in Antiya’s parallel verse, “to an actual steaming pot with which she cooks” for him (p. 196). Page therefore asserts, “Wherever he is metaphorical, she is literal,” speculating that Jeremiah could “have been watching her and drawing his metaphors from her.”
    The novel and the scroll thereby provide wonderful lessons in intertextuality. As Page is about to notate for academic posterity that Anatiya’s verse “I like awake on my couch” is a reference to Song of Songs, she hesitates, reflecting, “Who is to say whether the phrase originated with an outside source or with Anatiya herself? Who is to say that Jeremiah, Proverbs, the Song of Songs, and Job aren’t all quoting her?” Recognizable verses from these and other biblical texts find their way into Anatiya’s prose and thrill the knowledgeable Bible reader.
    We are in the fortunate position of having more authentic information about Jeremiah than about any other Jebrew prophet. Not only is his book one of the longest in Tanach, containing a considerable amount of biographical information (preserved by his scribe Baruch), but also a number of passages often referred to as Jeremiah’s “confessions” vividly reveal his inner life, including outcries and prayers and a few of God’s responses, as well. Nonetheless, through Anatiya’s fictional writings, which both headline each chapter of Drawing in the Dust and are later interspersed in the fictional narrative, we are presented with the possibility of an even fuller emotional and experiential range for our beleaguered prophet. Yes, Anatiya’s scroll paints the picture we already have in our minds of the divine burden Jeremiah carries, his public rejection, the inner tension between his natural inclination toward introspection and his deep sense of vocation and loyality. But we also entertain the possibility that he was loved by a woman who suffered with him and for him, whose own life mirrored his own, and whose metaphors become part of his prophecies.
    Elie Weisel writes of Jeremiah that, “there was no joy in his life, ever. No pleasant surprises, no warmth, no smiles; nothing but sorrow, anguish and tears. Words of woe and anger — words he was made to speak against his will. He wanted to speak of other things; he wanted to be a normal person dealing with customary human problems and not with eternity and death, but he had no choice.”
    Zoe Klein gave Jeremiah that choice in Drawing in the Dust, in which joy, pleasant surprises, and a person named Jeremiah dealing with customary human problems like love can exist. While the speed with which the archaeological dig and the translation of the scroll unfolds defies credibility, straining the reader’s suspension of disbelief, the delight provided by Anatiya’s scroll itself are well-worth these shortcoming of the contemporary narrative.
    The novel spoon-feeds the reader some of the connections between the book of Jeremiah and Anatiya’s scroll, but the real thrill of the hunt is in trying to find one’s own connections, moving back and forth from Anatiya’s text to the Book of Jeremiah. Close readers of Jeremiah will search for the clues that Rabbi Klein herself may have found therein to inspire Anatiya’s writings. Where Anatiya writes in chapter 22, “If you were a signet ring upon my right hand, I would press you into the wax and seal each of my scrolls with your sign,” Jeremiah 22:24 quotes God angrily telling the king, “If you were a signet on my right hand, I would tear you off even from there.” When God commands Jeremiah to make and wear a yoke on his neck (Jer 27:2), Anatiya writes (in her own chapter 27), “If I could spirit that yoke away…but God guards you so tightly” (p. 150).
    The possibilities for creative adult education abound, both to inspire a deeper appreciation of our great prophet Jeremiah as well as to teach about themes such as intertextuality, ur-texts, or contemporary midrash. Themes and images from Jeremiah’s prophecy take on new significance through Rabbi Klein’s rereading. She does a remarkable job of bringing Jeremiah to life in new ways, of expanding the boundaries of our religious imaginations. This includes the astounding assertion that the Jerusalem that Jeremiah wrote about in Lamentations was not a place at all, but was Anatiya herself. Reading the book for that episode alone would be dayeinu, but there is so much more to be grateful
for.

Crunchy Wasabi Peas – For startling your senses into focus when the hours start to drag after midnight. When your courage or stamina starts to wane, hold one to the tip of your tongue as long as you can.

Frozen Green Grapes – Taste like bonbons, without the lethargy of dairy or the inevitable sugar-crash. Make you feel like you are being good to yourself even though you have been sitting in one place, in the same clothes for days, hair a mess, legs cramped, wrists aching. Fun to roll around in your mouth while you are thinking.

Carrots – Good for eyes so bleary and beat that when they close you see blue computer shaped rectangles. The crunch keeps you alert, the noise and the effort cranks the mental engine.

Dried Cherries – More interesting than raisins. You must have something chewy on hand, as well as something crunchy. An occasional blast of sweetness pleases the muses. Sink your teeth into a wad of them and a sprint of sentences is sure to follow. Dried white mulberries are also awesome.

Banana Chunks Dipped in Dark Chocolate and Frozen – Frozen things are far better than warm things when writing a novel. If you don’t have the time to melt chips in a double-broiler, stir in banana chunks and freeze them, then a bowl of frozen blueberries or frozen peas will do. Warm, cooked things comfort away your edge, soften your neck so your head lolls back, moisten your face. Soups, meats, mashed potatoes, these are all a devilishly disguised drowse. Always opt for cold, even if you have to put a heater under your desk. And if you must have warm, because you are writing on deadline from a torn tent in a blisteringly cold tundra, choose tea, because tea is always beckoning of histories, cultures and spirits.

Water – To shows gratitude to your body for not atrophying in the time it takes to complete a chapter.  Drinking water ritually necessitates frequent breaks, during which you can blink, stretch, and jostle yourself out of a dangerous rut. After such breaks, you are more likely to be able to see the phrase you thought was so clever and essential before you walked away as the jutting abhorrence it really is. Drink tap water from a glass, because as environmental as you are, if your novel is published you’ll be killing a lot of trees, so don’t worsen your karma by cluttering landfills with plastic in the meantime. If you are a klutz, however, a straw may prevent splashing.

Almond Butter on Apple Slices – If your mind is shutting down and you need protein. Beware of dangerous distractions however. Don’t make sticky fingers an excuse to leave your post. Wipe them on your jeans and suck it up.

We have a wrought iron hand rail that winds along the wall of our staircase. It would seem the perfect thing to hold onto when sailing down the stairs.

For some reason, however, it always feels more natural to run our fingers along the opposite wall, the one without the handrail as we go down, grazing it with our fingertips like a windsurfer skimming the surface of the water, or a cyclist taking a tight curve, skirring the gravel.

Countless times a day we go up and down the stairs running our fingers along the same lines, just below each respective family-member’s left shoulder. The lines were invisible, until recently. After so much time, the fingerprints have accumulated and, though barely visible, there are streaks, five streaks along the wall. It is time to spray them with some eco-friendly scrub and swab them away. Easy enough. Yet I haven’t done it. I admit it’s strange, but I like them. They remind me of the marks in the door-frame growing up which measured my hieght throughout childhood. They remind me of rushing down the stairs for the umpteenth time that night to get a bottle of warm milk for a baby. They remind me of running downstairs to make sure the doors are locked, to turn off the lights, to check on a sound, to get a glass of water. They look so hurried, like the quick strokes that indicate a comic book superhero is moving really fast.

I like them because I imagine that, given enough time, all those softly padded fingers of my children and my husband will eventually create permanent grooves in the wall, grooves that the next owners of this house will use to display thimbles, acorns and Matchbox cars, grooves that cannot be erased with a quick swipe of Quilted Northern. I like them because they pay secret homage to the wall that holds me up when I’m scrambling in slippery socks, half-asleep, to find children’s Tylenol for one or two or three fevers, and I want only to collapse. 

Then they aren’t fingerprints and handprints and streaks, but the glistening brow of a hard-working shear wall, tethering the dream-stuffed mattresses of dozing children, as well as their distracted mother, to the bedrock below.

I am looking forward to my father James Grashow’s openning at the Taubman Museum of Art. Here is a picture of it waiting to be shipped from the studio in my family’s home to the gallery in Roanoke, VA. It is a corrugated fountain, and the opening reception is June 10, from 6.30 – 8.00 pm. If you are in Virginia, come by! The show runs from June 11, 2010 – February 20, 2011

In the show’s promotion it was written: Grashow creates works in a variety of media that address the themes of man, nature and mortality. The scale of his work ranges from large environmental installations, through which the viewer traverses, to the delicate and contained world of his houseplants, where tiny fabricated homes and buildings replace flowers and buds in intricately constructed bouquets. For the past three years, Grashow has been working on his most ambitious work to date; a Corrugated Fountain – an epic work reminiscent of the Trevi Fountain in Rome, complete with Poseidon, nymphs, rocks, waves, and an assortment of sea creatures. The idea of a cardboard fountain is an impossibility, an oxymoron that speaks to the human dilemma. Grashow has made something heroic in its concept and execution with full awareness of its poetic absurdity. His work can be found at www.jamesgrashow.com.

One of the strangest things abotu moving to California was the fact that no one I met had ever been in my father’s studio. I couldn’t imagine that anyone could ever understand who I was if they’d never been in that enchanted space. I suppose it’s true for anyone, really. Our origin becomes our own private story, no matter how often we share.

A poem in celebration of the Festival of Shavuot…

There are Torahs in the corner that need to be swept.

Sit still. Your hair is tangled with scrolls.

The sink is filled with sudsy Scriptures. 

You’ll need extra parchment to keep out the cold.

Hold still. An alef fell into your lashes.

The setting Exodus sinks slowly into the sea.

A Genesis is begun whenever we say hello.

It is the end of Deuteronomy whenever you leave.

I take coffee with one heaping teaspoon of prose,

And wish on shooting Numbers in deep turquoise skies.

Whenever I’m asked a difficult question,

New Torahs compose themselves behind my eyes.

Look over the mountains, those pulp sodden pages,

Billowing gray Torahs predict a spring storm.

Verses among the vegetables need to be kept.

Be still. A Leviticus landed on your arm.

Three boxes of the new paperback version of Drawing in the Dust arrived on my doorstep today. The paperback is being released this month, with a new cover, reviews in the front and a reader’s guide in the back. The same month that my two daughters have their birthdays. Holding the paperback in my hands, she seems foreign to me. The book I sent out into the world looked and felt different. She was preciously packaged, and commanded space. I had picked out the earrings and approved every bit of her design. Now she has returned, like a grown child looking for a little money, laundry and food before hitting the road again. She seems to know things I do not. The praises inside the front cover intimate the many places she’s been without me. If I cyber-stalk her, I find her written about on posts and blogs, and I have to wonder just how many bedrooms has she been in? How many times has she flown coach or firstclass in the laps of strangers-to-me? I hold the new paperback, and the story I crafted over so many years seems alien. She has thrown off her protective shell, and is loose and liquidy in my hands. She is cheaper, and proud of it. She knows I had no real say concerning her new look. The cover portrays a mysterious woman wrapped in a red shawl spiriting through a Middle Eastern walkway. I do not know this woman. I am unsure which of my characters, if any, she is supposed to depict. If the woman were to turn around, I imagine her smirking at me, her eyes flashing: “You may have created me, but I do not belong to you. Your keyboard can’t touch me. You don’t even know me…” She is hurrying toward some green door I have never seen before in my life. Behind that door, I can only imagine whose egg-salad smeared fingers will bend and fold her, press lint into her creases, tear her up and pass her around. She knows her power over me. Propped up on my desk she seems to say, “You gave me your heart, and I will turn it into a coffee-coaster if I please.” I want to say something in return. I want to advise her relevantly. Something that will comfort her when she swells up with saltwater or kindles a campfire. “You are more than the sum of your words to me. Tears and sparks. And breath.”  

You are incredible people at an extraordinary time in your lives, and you don’t always get enough credit. Every single day you are trying to maneuver introspectively through challenging social, spiritual and moral situations. You are balancing self-respect with peer pressure, individuality with group dynamics. Every day you are learning new relationship rules. Your friendships are often tested, and you are wrestling with giant things like meaning, purpose, existentialism, love…things that philosophers, poets, artists and scholars spend their lives trying to tackle. You are also trying to understand very difficult things that don’t get much easier, like gender-stereotyping, loneliness and stress. A major change from what I may have experienced as a teenager is that I faced it all without having to deal with MySpace, IMs, texting and micro-blogging. A note passed in the classroom was seen by one or two people, unlike what you deal with when someone posts something on their Facebook wall. I admire you for learning to navigate rapidly expanding technologies while also working through schoolwork and constantly interpreting and reinterpreting your relationships with family and friends. You really don’t get enough credit.

More and more we see in the news stories of teenagers bullying or being bullied, and the pain and tragedy that results. On top of that, such shows like “The Secret Life of the American Teenager” and “Gossip Girl” are filled with harmful messages. It is clearer now more than ever that the culture at large has not been a great friend to helping teenagers to be healthy and happy. Did you know teenagers who live in countries without television have virtually no eating disorders? You are faced with a barrage of impossible so-called ideals. How can you be expected to make wise decisions when we are so deeply immersed in a culture of materialism, hypocrisy of power, and idolatry of status?

But here’s the thing. You are the kings and queens of counterculture. Teenagers invented counterculture. Amidst all the changes in and around you, you are generating the most fantastical and passion-filled ideas. You are powerful thinkers and creators. I would argue that if it wasn’t for the zealous passion of visionary teenagers, Israel would never have been founded. We talk of Hebrew as an ancient language, and yes, it is the language of our Biblical ancestors, but it was teenage pioneers from all over Europe who revived it while they drained the swamps in the north and made the desert bloom in the south. Think about that, what you are experiencing right now, if channeled correctly, can be a movement that changes history.
Your ideas, while often outrageous, are exactly what the world needs to hear. And just like the people loathed to listen to the prophets, often people don’t listen to you. Teenagers really don’t get enough credit!

But here’s the other thing…Judaism is the ultimate counterculture. Judaism emphasizes that we are not animals with impulses that can’t be controlled. Judaism acknowledges the complexity of humanity, while teaching that there is a purpose for everything. Judaism teaches that you are made in the image of God no matter who you are or what you believe, that your body is a gift and your soul is good and purposeful, and that your heart and your mind matter. Your ideas count. In fact, at thirteen, you are already a full member of the community.

I want to remind you that the temple is a second home to you. It does not stop being your home because you had a bar or bat mitzvah, or finished confirmation. You are not judged here. You are honored for exactly who you are.

Last year I asked a small group of you what it is that you wish the temple could provide for you, and I was surprised with your answer. You didn’t say that you were looking for a social scene or a place to hang out. You said you wanted to meditate and to worship. We open our sanctuary doors to you. Here is the ultimate countercultural experience.

Teenagers, you are the philosophers of the world. Good luck on your final exams this month, and when times are tough, please don’t keep it all inside. Talk to the people you trust, and remember the synagogue as a second home.