This is the d'var torah I gave yesterday morning. I recommend first reading Exodus 34:10-17.

This week's portion gives us the instruction to separate ourselves from the other nations, smashing their idols and being mindful of intermarriage. The torah tells us that if we aren't careful, we risk following after their gods, which is clearly unacceptable.

This passage comes after the sin of the golden calf, so it makes sense in context. Some of the rabbis blame the golden calf on the erev rav, the mixed multitude that came out of Egypt with the Jews. Read this way, the people are being told not to do what they have just done. We know it's a risk because it happened.

It might be tempting to conclude that this was an instruction for another time, and today we do not need to trouble ourselves with what sounds like xenophobia. I have heard some make this argument, referring to that generation as "children" who don't know any better (in contrast to us). But to think that we aren't susceptible to such influences seems misguided to me.

As most of you know, I was raised as a Christian. Even though it has been decades since I went to a Christian mass for anything other than a wedding or a funeral, I have to pay attention when I find myself in such a place. Certain things are embedded deep in my memory. I know that you're supposed to dip into the holy water on the way in; I know you're supposed to genuflect; I know all the congregational responses in the liturgy. I don't do these things, but I am mindful of the fact that I am at risk of going on auto-pilot. Years of exposure can lead us to do things we wouldn't otherwise do. (This must be especially difficult for children raised in two religions "so they can choose one at adulthood"; they will have to surpress at least half of what they were taught.)

Even when we don't have that kind of personal history, in our melting-pot, big-tent, multi-cultural society, we are all exposed to other religions' influences and we absorb more than we might care to admit. Look at the liturgical history of our own movement, clearly modelled on Protestant worship of the 19th century. But also look closer to home, when some of us celebrate others' holidays in a spirit of kinship. You might call it a Chanukah bush, but we all know what it really is, for instance.

I'm in a choir that sings renaissance music. Most of the repertoire is secular or religiously neutral, but every year the group does a Christmas performance and every year I sit that out. I have been criticized by other choir members who say "it's just music, not worship". Some of them are Jews. Is it worship, or at least endorsement? We draw the line in different places, obviously. To me, it is the first step down a slippery slope that ends with Christmas being part of our routine, when singing "glory to the newborn king" along with the radio seems perfectly reasonable.

Most of us are not likely to engage in the avodah zara (alien worship) that concerned the sages. We don't have much call to sacrifice to Ba'al, for instance. But there are things out there that draw us in other directions, and we should at least pay attention. We are part of a larger society that has different priorities than we might; do we follow? This is not just about overt religion, either: one of my teachers once commented, on the subject of attendance at Shabbat morning services, "the god of soccer is a vengeful god". Even secular activities can be problematic if they draw us away from our own religion. The verses in this week's portion speak of very real risk for us today.

Some communities respond to this risk by secluding themselves and shutting out the outside world. I'm not advocating that; I think the world has a lot to offer us and we have a role to play in it. Seclusion helps no one; it might even make us weaker. We are part of a greater society, so we must deal with these issues.

Our ancestors were called to smash others' idols in a very specific context: as part of taking over their land after the idolaters have been driven out. This is not our situation today; we live among other peoples. I am not about to smash my neighbor's creche or buddha statue or sacred tree; it's not my place. But within our own domain, and within shared spaces, we can and should draw lines between what is acceptable and what is not. I can respect my Christian neighbor but still refuse to let him hang a cross in my house -- or in my child's classroom. I can respect my pagan friend while refusing to allow a goddess statue in my living room -- or in the public square. The torah does not command us to go into others' communities and destroy their religious symbols, but it does tell us not to allow them in our own community.

When we live among other peoples we absorb some of their values, and sometimes these values contradict (or at least interfere with) our own. The torah text presents a real concern for us. We should respond in moderation, neither cowering in isolation nor trying to repress our neighbors, but we should respond and be mindful. This text does not speak only to the generation that built the golden calf; it speaks to us too.