A beach is much more impressive when one realizes the time and energy that has gone into the deconstruction of big rocks in order to make billions of sand pebbles. When we stand on a beach, our toes sinking deeper into the warm bed beneath them, and we look out into the endless oceans of beauty, we are in essence standing at the mouth of the universe. Every grain of sand has spoken a sacred story of truth and wisdom, every one with a journey from deconstruction of old identity to reconstruction anew.

I felt like a grain of sand over the past few days, as I gathered at Hebrew College and Andover Newton Theological School with a group of about 25 seminarians, academics, professors, and practitioners all attempting to do something magical: turn boulders into beaches. Each of us is dedicated to incorporating interreligious engagement into the nature of our particular vocational goals. We believe that to be a religious leader in the 21st century, we must take seriously the religious diversity in the world and the subsequent difficulties and possibilities that emerge for building foundations for harmony and justice.

We gathered from cities throughout the country, from small seminaries to large universities, ready to have a constructive conversation of how we can bring this interreligious imperative into the lives of other people who are in religious leadership formation. Through workshop, brainstorming, and strategic planning, the women and men in that room showed a dedication and resolve necessary to transform boulders into beaches.

Standing upon boulders is neither comfortable nor safe, but when we construct a garden of warm sand out of our experiences of religious interdependence, something truly beautiful is possible. We can create a comfortable foundation upon which peace and progress can be built.

Since this is foundational and something that may be entirely new for many of us, the radical shift in worldview comes at the cost of losing something from the past. The boulders are no longer boulders, but unique pebbles crafted by the same rushing waters of the magnificent ocean of the universe. This is a loss, but one that ultimately comes with a great reward. The beaches of warm sand that I believe we are creating through our work at State of Formation and the Journal of Inter-Religious Dialogue are going to help countless individuals continue to approach the mouth of the universe, take it in with all of its wonder, and begin to shape one’s own spiritual life as a result.

The fruits of this conference will take a couple weeks to analyze and begin the implementation phase of making State of Formation more accessible to people throughout the country (and the world). But what is more comforting to me than anything is that even though it takes time to create a movement such as this one, the waters of the universe do not stop; even at this moment, we are being shaped and reshaped, and the beach upon which the 21st century may stand is slowly emerging from the tide with warmth and hope for the coming day.

By Jamison Wieser [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0), via Wikimedia Commons

Last week was a significant week in the history of marriage. North Carolina became the thirtieth state to pass a constitutional amendment defining marriage as between one man and one woman. And shortly after the passage of Amendment One, Barack Obama became the first sitting American president to unequivocally voice his support for same-sex marriage.

In the wake of these important developments, a host of civic and religious leaders weighed in. Lauding the president's decision, New York City mayor Mike Bloomberg quickly noted, “No American president has ever supported a major expansion of civil rights that has not ultimately been adopted by the American people.”

Evangelist Billy Graham, on the other hand, lamented that the meaning of marriage was even open to debate. “The Bible is clear,” Graham said in a statement. “God's definition of marriage is between a man and a woman.”

Archbishop Timothy Dolan also expressed his sadness at the president’s comments in support of the “redefinition of marriage.” The leader of the US Conference of Catholic Bishops added that the hierarchy “cannot be silent in the face of words or actions that would undermine the institution of marriage, the very cornerstone of our society.”

Remarks like those from Graham and Dolan are representative of the “traditional” Christian view of marriage. Proponents of this view see marriage as a monolithic institution. They believe that marriage was established by God in the Garden of Eden and has largely remained unchanged since.

But this view of marriage ignores the long and complex history of the institution’s evolution and development. Christian marriage has not always been between “one man and one woman.” For most of recorded biblical history, polygamy was seen as normative. For example, the patriarch Jacob had at least three wives (Genesis 30), King David had at least eight, and his son Solomon had 700 (1 Kings 11:1-3)—not to mention 300 concubines!

Even during the early centuries AD when the books of the New Testament were being written and compiled, polygamous marriages were common. In several of his epistles, Paul specified that those in positions of leadership in the early church should be the “husband of but one wife” (see Titus 1:6, 1 Tim. 3:2).

Marriage in the early church bore little resemblance to the institution we know today. It was primarily an institution of the state. Once a Christian couple had been legally married, they would attend liturgy, received the Eucharist together, and be blessed by the local bishop. The features we recognize as typical of a wedding ceremony—the use of a simple white veil and the symbolic joining of the couple’s hands—did not begin to appear until the time of Augustine (354-430).

It was another five hundred years in the West before weddings took place in churches, by which times the majority of marriages were monogamous. And it was not until the late Twelfth Century that marriage was considered a sacrament—a view that the Protestant Reformers argued against vehemently in the Sixteenth Century.

Given this complex history, it is no wonder that Christian scholars and laypeople alike have asked whether “a stable core that could be called the ‘essence of marriage’” can be discerned at all (Vorgrimler, "Sacramental Theology," 284).

Christians of various traditions and denominations struggle to come to a common understanding of marriage. And when other voices—Jews, Muslims, Christians, Atheists, Humanists, to name but a few—are brought into the conversation about how to shape our public policies concerning marriage, the task becomes increasingly complex.

President Obama was certainly aware of the diversity of perspectives surrounding gay marriage. In his landmark interview last Wednesday, he acknowledged the internal struggle he has experienced as he has tried to reconcile his faith with his political views. He expressed a desire to be “sensitive to the fact that for a lot of people… the word marriage was something that evokes very powerful traditions, religious beliefs, and so forth.”

Through his conversations with his own family, friends, and spiritual advisers, the President gradually underwent an evolution in his beliefs. He ultimately came to the conclusion that at the core of his Christian commitment was the conviction to treat others the way in which he wants to be treated.

Debate in the U.S. over the meaning of marriage and the question of whether to expand its definition to include members of the LGBT community is likely to continue for months and years to come. Recent polls indicate that Americans have been evolving in their views on gay marriage over the last few years. If we Christians are to be honest with ourselves and reckon with our own history, then we must remain open to the possibility that the meaning of marriage may evolve—just as it has always done.

All this time, the room remained rather hushed with four thousands hearts and minds fixated on the stage, awaiting the words from His Holiness the Dalai Lama. This woman was physically doing what so many of us longed to do. We longed to match the peace and compassion of this global religious figure in action. Instead most of us just sat in awe of his demeanor and superb eloquence.

Listening to the Dalai Lama was a spiritually transformative experience for me, but it was not because of what he embodied: compassion, peace, and humility. It was, at least for me, the mandate to practice compassion always.

ALWAYS?! That is quite a demanding task when we consider the political and religious tensions strangling the work of building cooperative relationships among diverse communities in the United States. As a public theologian and an aspiring religious leader, I pause to consider how can we or whether it is ultimately necessary to find compassion and love for all life.

When I am lost, I look to my religious tradition for guidance. The 2nd Unitarian Universalist Principle is to promote justice, equity, and compassion in our human relations. Our 1st Principle also affirms that all people have inherent worth and dignity. These basic principles are found within many religious traditions. Regardless of tradition, we are called to foster right relationships with our fellow brothers and sisters. So, how do we as Unitarian Universalists, or how do Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and the rest, find compassion and love when it is neither likely to be returned nor appreciated from the person it is given to. There is no perfect way of accomplishing this, but what is clearly evident is that it is a process.

Like all processes and journeys it is most easily traversed in company. So, if there is one suggestion I have regarding learning compassion for others is for all of us to do this work together. The Dalai Lama learns compassion through engaging with others. Yes, personal reflection and meditation is inherent in the process, but it is in these interactions that the theory meets practice. Finally, we must not give up. There are going to be times of frustration and anger, which will push us to close off from certain parts of the world. However, to me, I am learning that I cannot snip out parts of humanity because they are members of my family that I must not forsake. I seek a world where compassion reigns and rains down washing over all people. His Holiness the Dalai Lama has helped me continue this journey towards peace, starting in the innermost spaces of my heart.

(photo from Wikipedia Commons, by Luca Galuzzi)

The authors of these efforts point to how frequently church groups (and others) fail to examine the concrete results of their service work. Brian Fikkert speaks of the “labor paternalism” in the form of displacing local workers during a spring break trip in Mississippi. Robert Lupton tells of a seminary in Cuba receiving servant-volunteers whose tiling work had to be removed after their departure. He says of the seminary president, “Oh what she could have done with the nearly $30,000 this group was spending on the trip!”

"Outcomes" is a buzzword that has become a channel for expressing much of the anxiety about such service work. Project planners, leaders, and participants, we are told, simply don’t think critically about the negative measurable impact the work might have on the local community. While Fikkert notes, “the methods used often do considerable harm to both the materially poor and the materially non-poor,” Lupton adds, “negative outcomes seldom make it into the inspiring reports of service projects and mission trips.”

We are too blinded by our desire to be saviors to see who, exactly, is being crucified. (Here, of course, John M. Perkins is the forerunner for what we often think are “new” ideas. He has been telling us for some time now that we have turned the church into an institution that serves us instead of God.)

This talk of the importance of outcomes both encourages and concerns me. On one hand, the negative impacts of service work can be worrying at best and horrifying at worst. These are much-needed voices among communities of faith, and we would do well to listen to them. On the other hand, they call to mind the perpetual struggle of non-profit organizations to “prove” their worth with demonstration of outcomes.

Mark Hecker, the executive director of Reach Incorporated (a non-profit committed to developing reading skills and leadership in children in the Washington DC public school system), recently wrote a blog post about the struggle to align outcomes with incentives. His board bristled at the following statement: “Incentives are not aligned to support the work we’re doing, but it’s important that we do it.”

Hecker responded with the following: “If a student comes to Reach reading in the 5th percentile, he or she can make 2-3 years of reading growth and still be labeled a failure on standardized tests. This means, in an environment with limited resources, it actually doesn’t make sense for a school to invest in that child’s learning. The incentives push schools to focus on those students that can go from failing to passing.”

Hecker doesn’t lack evidence that his program yields positive outcomes: his student tutors demonstrate GPA increases up to 125% and no current or former tutors have dropped out of school. But that doesn’t mean that “outcomes” tell whole story of his work. In particular, at the point where outcomes and incentives don’t align, there must be a deeper commitment that drives the work.

We hear this same kind of idea from Simon Sinek (Start with Why, 2009). In his TEDx talk – now the fourth most viewed video on TED.com – Sinek repeats over and over, “People don’t buy what you do, they buy why you do it.”

By showing that “what” we do and “how” we do it should always be driven by the deeper “why,” Sinek tries to displace outcomes from the center of our thinking without banishing them entirely. And he’s very convincing. Of course, it feels dangerously utilitarian when he says, “The goal is to get people to believe what you believe.” (Given that religious communities are elsewhere lambasted for saying such things, are we meant to believe it’s now an acceptable mantra for business? No thanks.) Nonetheless, his underlying point remains. “What you do simply serves as proof of what you believe.” Outcomes must find their place in relationship to deeper commitments.

To return to the topic of religiously-motivated service, I’m encouraged by the fact that many authors reflecting on these issues, while emphasizing material outcomes, also focus on the need to transform the character of service-based relationships. Lupton calls for navigating “churches and organizations away from traditional ‘doing for’ the poor models toward a ‘doing with’ paradigm.”

Corbett and Fikkert place service relationships on a continuum: doing to/doing for/ doing with/ responding to. We might add to this the emphasis on mission as friendship in Christopher Heuertz and Christine Pohl’s Friendship at the Margins, as well as the four-fold relationship model from Sam Wells and Marcia Owen in their recent book, Living Without Enemies: working for, working with, being with, being for.

At times, these efforts push too far in the direction of defining charity work strictly in terms of measurable outcomes. To do so obscures the need for outcomes always to be rooted in and driven by deeper commitments. It also exchanges one form of blindness (ignoring outcomes) for another (ignoring everything but outcomes).

At their best, however, these authors remind readers that charity and service work should aim to transform the relationships of all involved – turning receivers into givers, empowering followers to become their own leaders, and muddying the waters between the “haves” and the have-nots.” These outcomes, for many communities, including communities of faith, are rooted in the deepest of commitments. At their best, they are also proof of what we believe.

...by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim May 2012 as Jewish American Heritage Month. I call upon all Americans to visit www.JewishHeritageMonth.gov to learn more about the heritage and contributions of Jewish Americans and to observe this month with appropriate programs, activities, and ceremonies.

While it seems fitting to have a month commemorating Jewish contributions to the United States (much as we should have one to honor all groups that have contributed significantly to the country and its advancement), one element immediately stands out from the proclamation: in honor of the People of the Book, all Americans are asked to "visit www.JewishHeritageMonth.gov."

To be fair, the website is also complemented with a set of brief videos and a list of lectures planned for the month. Yet it seems clear that the website itself is at the center of the effort to highlight the role that Jews have played in American life.

But what does it mean that a heritage month of any kind is commemorated online? What does it mean that the Jewish Heritage Month is commemorated online?

To answer the latter question, I can only speculate.

In answer to the former, I might infer (optimistically) that it means an enduring commitment -- one that will last into the future and be accessible in areas of the country that might not have large representation from that particular population for in-person gatherings. Documentation and study of the past can serve to enlighten the future and bring light to the impact that groups have had upon it. That process can now take place online.

Yet even if such is the case, there is a notable irony in studying Jewish American history as part of a formal month of commemoration. As a minority religious community, we have historically thrived where religion and state were kept separate, even in matters of symbolic recognition. Though I do at times marvel that Judaism is a dual religious and cultural community and am proud of the contributions that the Jewish community has made to American society, I am uncertain that the precedent of publicly (and by way of government) commemorating religious communities is one that I feel entirely comfortable with -- or one that will ultimately benefit the Jewish community itself.

In his proclamation, President Obama shares,

Their history of unbroken perseverance and their belief in tomorrow's promise offers a lesson not only to Jewish Americans, but to all Americans. Generations of Jewish Americans have brought to bear some of our country's greatest achievements and forever enriched our national life. As a product of heritage and faith, they have helped open our eyes to injustice, to people in need, and to the simple idea that we might recognize ourselves in the struggles of our fellow men and women. These principles led Jewish advocates to fight for women's equality and workers' rights, and to preach against racism from the bimah; they inspired many to lead congregants on marches to stop segregation, help forge unbreakable bonds with the State of Israel, and uphold the ideal of "tikkun olam" -- our obligation to repair the world. Jewish Americans have served heroically in battle and inspired us to pursue peace, and today, they stand as leaders in communities across our Nation.

While I agree in good measure with President Obama's statement and feel that our community is honored to have a heritage month of its own, I fear that such a month may reduce the religion-state separation that enabled the Jewish community to thrive in the first place and remain such an enduring contributor to America.

One of its core lessons is the centrality of religion-state separation in American Judaism's efflorescence. Such a lesson may well indicate the need to avoid heritage months dedicated to religious communities, including one held in honor of the Jewish American community itself.

This article was adapted from one published by Odyssey Networks and will likely be republished on the Huffington Post.

Beginning on the second night of Pesach and concluding on the eve before Shavuot, Jews count the Omer each evening. The Omer period lasts for seven complete weeks, from the time of our Exodus out of Egypt (Yetziat Mitzrayim) to our celebration of the giving of the Torah (Matan Torah) on Mt. Sinai which Shavuot commemorates.

The Omer was a Biblical measure of barley that was brought to the Temple in Jerusalem beginning on the second day of Pesach. The Omer period is one of semi-mourning, as it was during this time that 24,000 of Rabbi Akiva’s students died as a result of a plague which was caused by their failure to show proper honor and respect to each other. Instead, they begrudged each other, resulting in sinat chinam, baseless hatred. Owing to this, many Jews refrain from listening to music, getting hair cuts and attending celebratory functions, including weddings. According to tradition, the plague ceased on Lag b’Omer, one of the reasons for the festivities on this date. On Lag b’Omer, all mourning restrictions are lifted and weddings and other festive occasions are permitted.

A second reason for the celebrations on Lag b’Omer is that it marks the anniversary of the death of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who, according to Jewish tradition, was one of the famed Rabbi Akiva's five primary students. Tradition also attributes the writing of the Zohar to him, which is one of the most important and pivotal Kabbalistic works. Scholars and historians generally dispute his claim to authorship, placing the composition of the Zohar instead in 13th century Spain and ascribing its authorship to Moses de Leon.

While it does seem strange to celebrate Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s passing in this manner, the celebrations are meant to reflect upon the immense amount of Torah he taught to his students and beyond. The massive bonfires that are erected throughout Israel and elsewhere are symbolic of the incredible amount of light he brought into the world during his lifetime. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai is understood by Jewish tradition to have revealed the deepest, most esoteric secrets of Kabbalah on this date and thus Jews celebrate the giving of the Kabbalistic tradition, or hidden Torah, to us through him. Interestingly, the bonfires are also reminiscent of the fires lit during the Bar Kokbah revolt as a means of relaying messages or sending signals.

During the Medieval period, Lag b’Omer became a significant holiday for rabbinical students and was known as the scholar’s festival. It is customary to travel to Meron, the site of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and his son, Rabbi Elazar’s graves. There, a large bonfire is lit and a great deal of celebration occurs.

There is much that the death of Rabbi Akiva's 24,000 students has to teach us today. I find it deeply meaningful that the two periods of greatest mourning during the Jewish calendrical cycle ask us to reflect upon sinat chinam--the baseless hatred and lack of kavod or honor that Rabbi Akiva's students displayed to one another.

Just as they failed to show one another proper respect, so, do we far too frequently resort to sectarianism and division instead of unity and greater unnderstanding. Let all of us, regardless of faith background or lack thereof, take time to reflect upon the ways in which we are acting as Rabbi Akiva's students did, and, conversely, the many ways in which we are seeking to bridge the divides that exist between all of us.

An earlier version of this article appeared here: http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art63995.asp

Adam Yauch, Photo by DaigoOliva

Adam Yauch, aka MCA, died last week. He was a founding member of the Beastie Boys, also known for his Buddhism and social activism. He created the Milarepa Fund, which produced the Tibetan Freedom concert series and long promoted the cause of HH the Dalai Lama and the self-determination of the Tibetan people.

I never met MCA, but I was a fan. And I’ve been practicing Buddhism for many years now. As I’ve been reading articles and tributes to him in the past week, it’s made me think about my early introductions to Buddhism that have led me to where I am now, as well as a general ambivalence that often surrounds Buddhist identity.

While I wouldn’t say that I was a hip-hop devotee, the Beastie Boys are part of the soundtrack of my adolescence. I first heard “Licensed to Ill” on a rowdy and hormonally charged school bus in the sixth grade. The callow tone of “Fight for Your Right to Party” reflected the angst and concerns of my nascent teenaged world and the kind of flippant independence to which I aspired at the time. And as I matured, so did the Beastie Boys.

Their 1994 album “Ill Communication,” with the Buddhist-inspired songs “Shambala” and “Bodhisattva Vow,” came out in my first year of college and accompanied my early encounters with Buddhism, along with The Dharma Bums and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Reading through recent tributes to Yauch, I came across an interview he did in a 1994 issue of Tricycle magazine,  also one of the first issues of Tricycle I ever read. And rereading this interview after so many years (18, really!?), I hear a number of themes that once resonated so strongly with me and the spiritual journey of my young adulthood.

Yauch talked about his discovery of Buddhism in terms of a personal spirituality centered in compassion and an open mind and heart. He identified a divide or polarization between a dynamic spirituality of youth and a more conservative approach taken by an older generation. And when asked if he was Buddhist, he showed an ambivalence toward this self-identification, saying that no one had ever given him a solid definition of what a Buddhist is.

When I first encountered Buddhism, I was reacting against what I saw as myopic and repressive tendencies in the Christianity that dominated the Oklahoma of my youth. As I was negotiating the terms of adulthood, I wanted an alternative that was subversive and countercultural. And Buddhism seemed to offer that to me, with the key to an open mind and heart.

Yet, at the time, I didn’t know any Buddhists and didn’t really know where to find them. I only engaged Buddhism through books and, when available, popular culture. To hear someone like Adam Yauch talk about Buddhism or to listen to current music infused with Buddhist teachings made Buddhism seem contemporary and relevant to my life. At that point in my life, I thought of Buddhism as more of a spirituality and a philosophy than a religion. And, like Yauch, I didn’t call myself a Buddhist.

But fast-forward several years in my life-- through more formally studying and practicing Buddhism at Zen centers in Boston, New York, and now Austin, through years of working at an interfaith organization and engaging with many different religious communities, through years devoted to the academic study of religion , through marriage and children—and Buddhism is something different for me now.

It doesn’t feel subversive and countercultural to me anymore. Where I once focused on a contemplative spiritual practice for myself, I now think more about religious education for my kids. Buddhism shapes my identity and how I think about life, interact with others, and raise my kids. It encompasses my life and provides community and ritual. I now call myself a Buddhist. And, as a scholar of religion, I recognize Buddhism as a religion.

Eventually, Adam Yauch called himself a Buddhist, too. But notably, his Buddhism has largely been presented as a spirituality, especially in articles since his death. Religion and spirituality are not synonymous. Yauch hasn’t been portrayed as a religious musician or his music as religious music. When he and his music are described as spiritual, it’s in a way that situates them as still secular. This positioning suggests that Buddhist spirituality is transcendent and timeless, rather than part of a historically, socially, and culturally particular religion. It also suggests that Buddhism is somehow monolithic, that real Buddhists ought to appear a certain way and those who do not fit this mold are not real Buddhists, but just influenced by Buddhist spirituality.

So how do we define who is a Buddhist? Thomas Tweed argues that Buddhists should be defined by self-identification; one is Buddhist if one says one is. At the same, Tweed admits that the landscape of Buddhism in North America is far more complex than even self-identification can portray. It’s a landscape shaped not just by those who call themselves Buddhists, but by the “sympathesizers” as well.[1]

This is all part of the story of Buddhism in North America. It doesn’t always fit into conventional categories of adherent/non-adherent. And it often defies the secular-religious binary. It’s complex and characterized by encounter and hybridity. And so is Adam Yauch’s place in this narrative. So, in the end, I’ll just say thank you to MCA as one of our many guides along the ancient way. May you realize the Buddha Way.

Photo attribution: (http://www.flickr.com/photos/daigooliva/284134666/) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)

In conversation with Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer, Ph.D., Director of the Department of Multifaith Studies and Initiatives, Associate Professor of Religious Studies:

For more than twenty years, the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College (RRC) has recognized the need for Jewish leaders to understand other religious traditions and has required its students to engage in multifaith work, through a minimum of two semester-long courses. RRC’s unique stance among rabbinical seminaries garnered an award from the Interfaith Youth Core and successive, multi-year grants from the Henry Luce Foundation. These grants fueled the department into high gear, giving RRC the opportunity to expand and experiment in a number of dynamic directions.

An annual four-day retreat for 16 emerging Muslim and Jewish religious leaders from a range of religious training programs became a central component of the college’s multifaith work. This pioneering project aims to provide an incubator for far-reaching Jewish-Muslim partnerships and to develop cohorts of influential young leaders who take skills, relationships and understanding back to their respective communities. Before the Luce grants, RRC had taught a course on Islam for Rabbis. Afterwards, the college was able to tailor that course into a service learning experience that explored new ways to teach students about Islam beyond the classroom. RRC partnered with Muslim graduate students at the University of Pennsylvania’s Middle East Center to brainstorm innovative ways of teaching Islam in a Jewish venue. Rabbinical students have gained valuable leadership skills by developing one-on-one relationships with Muslim counterparts, studying religious texts, and visiting mosques. An intimate multifaith salon brought students into dialogue with leaders of other faiths; a continuing education program for RRC graduates this spring will help practicing rabbis understand Islam in America via video conferences with four renowned Muslim scholars.

The College has pursued yet another innovative interfaith partnership in its regular activities with Lutheran Theological Seminary and with Palmer Theological Seminary (formerly Eastern Baptist). Students from RRC are paired with Lutheran Theological Seminary students for an entire semester to undertake deep textual analysis. This Jewish-Christian encounter through text brings together ten students from each campus, and each week features a new text from the respective faith traditions. This year, RRC partnered again with LTSP for an innovative course based on the Harvard Pluralism Project case study initiative and hopes to continue work with Palmer as well.

New multifaith courses continue to emerge.  At the suggestion of State of Formation Contributing Scholar Michael Ramberg,, RRC class of 2012, RRC students recently worked with Shane Claiborne, founder and leader of The Simple Way movement on several service projects in Philadelphia’s inner-city Kensington neighborhood that demonstrate Christian intentional living. Claiborne took the volunteers on a “reality tour,” pointing out problems and the religious groups working to address them.
In addition to their intensive interfaith study, RRC students participate in social justice initiatives. Shepherded through the Social Justice Organizing Program by Rabbi Mordechai Liebling,  students combine rigorous coursework with supervised internships in which they cultivate relationships with a number of pioneering, dedicated organizations in Philadelphia. For example, an RRC student is currently interning with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS). HIAS was founded originally by Jews to help Jewish immigrants but has since expanded to assist all immigrants with legal aid work and refugee resettlement. Student interest in environmentalism and interfaith work has led to a partnership with New Jersey-based environmental justice group Green Faith, which educates worshippers at churches, synagogues, and mosques. Courses at RRC such as “Food Justice,” and “Money in Our Lives and Society” enlarge the students’ visions. Rabbi Liebling and Rabbi Kreimer join forces to supervise interns working in social justice and interfaith contexts.

By searching for meaning outside of its own walls, RRC has enriched the lives of its own students and others for decades. Its trailblazing efforts make it an especially rewarding setting for future scholars and activists who are dedicated to forging new partnerships and finding new paths for constructive collaboration.

Further Links:

• Leadership profile of Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer on Harvard’s Pluralism Project
• Multifaith Studies and Initiatives at RRC
• Rabbi Dr. Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer’s RRC blog, Multifaith World
• RRC employs the Harvard Case Study Method: Case Study
• Videos from the 2009 Garrison Retreat for Emerging Muslim and Jewish Leaders
• Videos from talk at RRC by Rabbi Daniel Brenner on multifaith education for middle schoolers

RRC, as narrated by Michael Ramberg, Class of 2012:

“In the extraordinarily rich learning environment of RRC, my interfaith opportunities have been among the most rewarding.  My interfaith classes and internships have exposed me to academic perspectives on Islam, in-depth text study with a diverse group of Christians, interfaith organizing for immigrants' rights and case studies on challenges around religious pluralism.  The result of this training is that as I prepare to graduate in June I am open to the tremendous beauty in other religions and I am committed to being a leader in creating genuine pluralism.”

In elementary school, my classmates called me a girl, a genie, and Aladdin.

In middle school, I was a raghead, a diaperhead, and Sadam Hussein.

And in high school, some kids were convinced that I was Osama bin Laden.

These sorts of challenges come with looking different.

On the other hand, looking different has its advantages.

People pay attention when I walk into a room. I'm noticeable and memorable. In fact, people don't forget meeting me. This is a huge benefit that comes with having a distinctive appearance.

And in my experiences, the benefits of looking different outweigh the challenges.

For example, "looking different" has led me to "look differently." My Sikh identity has been linked to major moments in my life, and these unique experiences have shaped the way in which I view the world.

Like too many others, I've been discriminated against because of my unique appearance. While I wouldn't wish it on anyone else, being the target of discrimination has helped open my eyes to various types of inequalities in our world.

These experiences have taught me to identify with the struggles faced by others from diverse backgrounds and worldviews, and the resulting empathy keeps me from drawing assumptions or judgments about others.

Discrimination has also helped me build character and discipline. It's always tough to stay cool while others shout obscenities and racial slurs. But at the same time, accounting for ignorance and reacting with compassion and love have come to feature prominently in my interactions with society.

At the same time, the benefits of "looking different" do not only emerge from alienation; in fact, I've received far more support and encouragement from strangers than hate and animosity, and these interactions constantly inspire me to view the world more positively.

While it's easy to focus on the negative, I can't help but be constantly amazed by the bombardment of love and support I receive from people who appreciate the values represented by my Sikh identity.

It's this sort of optimism that makes me believe that "looking different" has played a significant role in my way of "looking differently."