Sermons & Taste of Torah

By Rabbi Matt Shapiro

At this point, it’s a relatively common trend for people to talk about how they’re ‘spiritual but not religious.’ I often respond, when hearing about this, to talk about how spirituality and religion can be laid out as a Venn diagram of overlapping circles, as it’s possible to be spiritual but not religious (and inversely so as well, in some cases), but that, for me, the ideal is the overlap of the two: spiritual and religious [if you’re curious about this, here’s some really interesting research on this topic!]. Oftentimes, the concept of being spiritual is a more personal pursuit, spirituality as found in a more individualized quest, but for me, one of the hallmarks of religious life is grounding that experience within a larger community to cultivate a connection to Something bigger than me. 

There are a number of noteworthy narrative elements in this week’s parsha- the second part of the story of the titular Pinchas, Moses passing along his leadership, the story of the daughters of Tzelophecad. There are also some verses that are potentially quite familiar to you, even if you might not be able to quite place them- descriptions of offerings that were brought on holidays, and therefore some of which we still read today on different moments of our calendar. Though these aren’t necessarily compelling stories in the same way as other sections of the parsha, I read a comment on one of the verses that caught my eye. At the beginning of the section. In chapter 28, verse 2, we read

צַ֚ו אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֲלֵהֶ֑ם אֶת־קׇרְבָּנִ֨י לַחְמִ֜י לְאִשַּׁ֗י רֵ֚יחַ נִֽיחֹחִ֔י תִּשְׁמְר֕וּ לְהַקְרִ֥יב לִ֖י בְּמוֹעֲדֽוֹ׃

JPS translates the verse as follows: “command the Israelite people and say to them: Be punctilious in presenting to Me at stated times, the offerings of food due Me, as offerings by fire of pleasing odor to Me.” The translation doesn’t quite capture the flavor of the verse- there’s a bit of uncertainty in what, exactly, is described as what we should offer. The comment that reframed this verse for me is from Reb Pinchas of Koretz, who re-reads the words ‘korbani’ and ‘lachmi,’ which, in context, refer to the sacrifices that should be brought before God. He instead suggests that  ‘Israel nourishes and feeds the Holy One- ‘my sacrifice,’ that is, those who draw close to me [‘my close ones’], are ‘My sustenance.’ Reb Pinchas is playing here with the shared root between ‘sacrifice’ and ‘closeness’ (KRV)- rather than seeing ‘offering’ and ‘food’ as part of a list of what’s offered before God, he’s saying instead that they reinforce each other. What do those who are close to God do? They nourish God. We would often think of this in the opposite direction, that God sustains us, but this comment suggests that the reverse is true as well. Whether considered metaphysically- the Holy aspect of the world needs our partnership- or morally/ethically- we sustain goodness in the world through our own actions- this is a fascinating interpolation of the verse to suggest direct, practical relevance in how we consider our own lives: we each have the opportunity and the obligation to nourish God. 

Another layer is added by the Or HaChaim, who wonders why this specific commandment occurs where it does in the parsha, directly after Joshua has been appointed as Moses’ successor, the next leader of the Israelites. He suggests that this is because Joshua may have been tempted to offer his own offerings given his new position, and these verses counteract that instinct by channeling it towards the offerings of the whole Israelite people. It’s not just about what one person can do- the verse is directed to all of the Israelites, not only their leader. Combining these sources amplifies these two commentaries into a shared message. If we have an obligation to nourish God and these sacrifices aren’t just for one person but for all of us, then we must join together to bring about the maximum possibility for growing the Holy in our world. It doesn’t happen automatically, and it’s not something that only one person, no matter how elevated they may be in their role or status, can do. 

To add one brief additional layer, there’s a short note in the Etz Chayyim chumash that our  “tradition teaches that God counts our reading of these passages as the equivalent of our bringing offerings to the Temple”- these very verses serve in this role of nourishing God in the world when they’re read from the Torah, something that can only happen in a group of at least 10 (and hopefully more!) people. Whatever our individual desires for service and connection may be, ultimately we are best off if and when we find a way to do that as part of a larger collective whole, not only in a spiritual context, but within a religious framework. Our Torah in its broadest sense, the aggregate sum of the wisdom of our people, offers insight, rituals, and ever-renewing textual frameworks for reflecting upon how we can be spiritual AND religious, nourishing ourselves and, yes, God in the process.

Shabbat shalom.

By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

Parashat Balak is one of the most confusing parshiyot of our Torah. First of all, why the two main characters both have names that start with the letter “b” is beyond me. That said, the parsha also includes complicated characters who are making decisions that our rabbis’ commentaries further the confusion and judgment of them. Most importantly to me, Bilam is made out to be evil or a villain and I do not see how that could be possible as someone who follows God’s orders and acts as God’s mouthpiece. 

For a recap: Balak asks Bilam to curse the people of Israel. Bilam goes with Balak after God says he can go but will only do what God says. God gets angry that Bilam goes on the journey (we will come back to this) and the donkey Bilam has saddled sees an angel in the way of their road and tries to save Bilam by swerving around. Bilam does not see the angel and hits his donkey many times. After enough beating, the donkey opens her mouth to as what the deal is with Bilam’s behavior. Bilam says to God that had he seen the angel he would have turned back or acted differently. Bilam finally goes with Balak’s men and when asked to curse, instead he blesses, because he is the voice for God’s words. 

The parsha begins by painting Balak as an antagonistic character to the Israelites. In a way, describing them as Pharaoh did in Exodus. Bilam however is known to us as a seer, which is not often appreciated in Judaism, but does not make him an evil guy. In fact, Bilam is connected to God through prophecy, conversation, in dreams and eventually through instructions. So shouldn’t we expect that Bilam is a good character and in relationship with God? 

In chapter 22 verse 20, we read: “that night God came to Balaam and said to him, ‘If the agents have come to invite you, you may go with them. But whatever I command you, that you shall do.’” Two verses later, after Bilam has started on his way, the Torah reads: “But God was incensed at his going; so a messenger of Adonai took position in his way as an adversary (l’satan). He was riding on his donkey, with his two servants alongside.” God was angry at Bilam even though he told Bilam to go? This is what in the 21st century we call gaslighting. God told Bilam one thing, Bilam did it, and then God was angry that Bilam listened and acted. 

Gaslighting can be such a lonely, frustrating, crazy-making feeling. Someone tells you something and you act or respond based on that “something” and then they make you believe that you dreamed up a reality that is now fundamental to part of your existence. The definition for gaslighting is: “a type of psychological abuse that involves manipulating someone into questioning their own reality.” “You told me to go and now you are angry at me for going?” Did God change God’s mind and decide not to process that or admit it to Bilam? Or was Bilam supposed to intuit from God’s “permission” to go that it was not honest or fully forthcoming? 

The Da’at Z’keinim comments on this confusion and psychological confusion by teaching us that “Although Bilam had been given permission to accept Balak’s invitation to come to him, he had not been given permission to curse the Israelites. It was obvious that unless he had intended to do just that, he should have stayed at home. Bilam had thought that seeing the first time God had told him not to go to Balak, and now God had agreed to let him go, God must have changed God’s mind due to something having occurred after the first emissaries had returned to Moav. He had only been allowed to go אתם, with these emissaries, i.e. physically, but that he was still forbidden to go עמהם “with them in spirit,” something that God had forbidden already.” So it was Bilam’s fault, this commentary has us believe, that he did not question God when the second time he was allowed to go but not the first. There is something beautiful that God the first time thought it would be just physically “making moves” with Balak’s men rather than spiritually buying into their agenda. However, our Torah does not say that that was the case! The rabbis make that assumption, turning Bilam into the antagonist, or the dumb sidekick. That does not seem fair to me. 

In verse 34, we seem to see a moment of defeat from Bilam. A moment where he realizes that this was not all honest or transparent and that much of the confusion with his travels and the donkey stemmed from that inconsistency. “Bilam said to the messenger of Adonai, ‘I erred because I did not know that you were standing in my way. If you still disapprove, I will turn back.’” Rashi comments, “This statement was a disgrace for him, for in spite of himself he had to admit it — because he used to boast that he knew the will of God and now his own mouth bore testimony: ‘I knew not’ (Midrash Tanchuma, Balak 10).” Bilam recognizes in this moment that he does not have that close relationship with God. There may be trust lost, support lost, love lost, we do not know. However, it is clear from Rashi that Bilam was willing to be in partnership with God but felt betrayed and confused and throws his hands up to say “just tell me what to do.” I feel sad for Bilam in this moment and pained that the rabbis turn him into a bad character when he was just confused as to how to do the right thing. 

Later on when Bilam shares the blessing “mah tovu ohalekha ya’akov mishkenotekha Israel,” the Torah introduces this particular blessing by stating that Bilam knew how to make God happy. However, instead of searching for omens, he used his own eyes to look at what was in front of him. Sure, Bilam wanted to do what was right, what was good for his partner, his support system, his leader, AND Bilam found his own voice and blessing in that moment. Amidst the confusion, and I believe sadness, Bilam was able to recognize his own power to bless and his own voice to share the good he was seeing in the community in front of him. May we all continue to find moments of clarity, of blessing, and of feeling supported and loved by those who are walking this world with us and teaching us lessons of life! 

   By TBA Rabbinic Intern Nico Losorelli             

            As a people, we are no stranger to tribalism; it has been baked into the fabric of our identity since the very beginning, with the twelve tribes of Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, Reuven, Simeon, Gad, Ephraim, Manasseh, Benjamin, Dan, Asher, and Naftali. In Parashat Bamidbar, we are reminded that each tribe has its place and banner under which it camps, and the explicitness of that lets the majority of people know that they have a place to stay and understand where they stand. In addition, each tribe has some added value, something unique to offer the people as a whole, as evidenced by their given land holdings, which might speak to what each tribe has to offer skill-wise, whether it’s mastery of the sea, land, or weaponry. With the loss of ten of those tribes during the Assyrian conquest of the Northern Kingdom, we were essentially left with the Tribe of Judah, which is part of why we call ourselves Jews today, and as a result, we lost a great deal of the unique skills and cultural contributions of our people.

Today, with our baked-in tribalism, we have our modern-day tribes—from the Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, Modern-Orthodox, Orthodox, Ultra-Orthodox tribes, to our American political tribes, to our Israeli political tribes—we are at once united and totally cut off from one another. However, we are held together by our peoplehood, by our Jewishness. Ostensibly, the tribal system as it stood in biblical times actually made a lot of space for diversity; however, people still fell through the cracks, as in the case of the half-Israelite/half-Egyptian in Parashat Emor in the book of Leviticus, who was pushed out for not fitting into a given tribal or ethnic identity. If past is prophecy, then this example of the half-Israelite/half-Egyptian correlates nicely to where we find ourselves today. In the heightened atmosphere of the war, we are finding ourselves reevaluating who has a place in the camp and why, not unlike our ancestors. From getting into arguments with friends and strangers on social media or at protests, to arguments around the Shabbat table, relationships are strained, and people are either written in or written off. Surely, we each have our lines in the sand, and boundaries are important and healthy, but I fear that our tribalism, which can at once be a strength and a weakness, is erring towards weakness at this point in time. What happened to the half-Israelite/half-Egyptian (who, by the way, by matrilineal measures of Jewishness would be considered Jewish without question) was a great injustice, and I wonder if we have an opportunity to not make the same mistakes as our ancestors on this front.

Just as a symphony’s capacity to hold so much dissonance as well as consonance is what lends it its beauty, so too does the Jewish People’s capacity to hold discord and accord in our best moments make us strong and resilient. It’s when we overuse the eject button that we really paint ourselves into a corner. What problems could be solved if we maintained those discordant voices? To do so is actually very much in line with Jewish tradition, given that the Talmud preserves dissenting and minority opinions, which the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards (the legal body of the Conservative Movement) also does today. Minority opinions and dissenting opinions have real value, and we shouldn’t be so quick to disregard them. It could be that we thought we knew where we were setting up in the camp, thinking that we were under the banner of justice, when we look up to see that we are actually under the banner of tyranny, and need to look for other places in the camp where the banners of justice, peace, or compromise may be flying. We all operate with the best of intentions; however, the best of intentions can still lead to negative impact, making it easy to mistake which banners we may be flying, and as such what we may be signaling to those we care about. In moments where we feel quick to write someone off on the basis of their opinion or worldview, within reason that is, I wonder what understandings we could come to and what problems we could solve, if we were to pause and ask ourselves “which banner am I camped under, and which banner are they camped under? Are we in the same camp, and if it doesn’t seem like we are, what am I missing here?”.

Right now, relational damage is happening, and the Jewish People are going through serious traumas and shifts, but if periods of upheaval have taught me anything in my life, it’s that people need people, and in order for us to call upon one another in our hour of need, we need to do the difficult and intentional work of doing our best to maintain seats at the table for as many reasonable people as possible, so as a camp and as a people we are as strong and as resilient as we can, and need to be.”

By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

We all go through the motions in life. It is nigh impossible to sustain immediacy, intentionality and focus through the myriad things we say and do, day after day. Even with and regarding things and people that are important to us.  

Take breathing.  I think we would all agree that breathing is very important.  Each of us has drawn and expelled a breath every few seconds from the moment we were born. We do this automatically.  Usually, without thinking about it.  What powers our breathing is deep in our brain stem, in our medulla oblongata, far away from our highly-evolved, human cerebral cortex. Thank God we can breathe without remembering to breathe!  When I do and lead meditation I invite myself and others to shift our breathing from autonomic to intentional.  To feel the full experience of the air passing our nostrils.  Sensing whether the air is warm or cold, whether it is odorless or comes with a bouquet.  Tracking the air into our lungs, imagining the intricate systems of our body that deliver oxygen through the bloodstream to every thirsty cell. Experiencing a sense of expunging both biological and spiritual detritus as we exhale.  To breathe that way, even for a few minutes, can be a remarkable experience. 

But it cannot be sustained. Eventually we just go back to…breathing.

The same can be said with temporary bursts of intentionality for all sorts of acts and deeds: focusing on our children (rather than offering distracted, passive presence); praying slowly while letting the words penetrate, rather than merely surfing over the liturgy; for those of us who do say blessings before and after we consume anything, allowing the blessing to be a mini spiritual moment of deep appreciation, rather than a mumbled set of syllables.  We may hold heightened awareness for a moment, but it dissipates.

That is the norm of life.  But it is not the highest aspiration of life.  

According to a commentary by Rabbi Avraham Bornsztain Sokochov (18th-19th C. Polish Hasidic rebbe) to one verse in Parshat Behukotai, maintaining intentional presence and practice is THE singular religious and spiritual obligation, or at least aspiration.  He is commenting on one verse within this week’s תוכחה/tokh’hah, or “reproof,” in which God lays out a series of curses that will befall the Israelites should they fail to remain obedient.  In Leviticus 26:21, God says will punish us seven-fold if “תלכו עמי קרי/telkhu imi keri.”  Meaning, “If you walk with me keri.”  The main question is what does keri mean?  The word could be from the root that means “cold.”  But Rabbi Bornsztain, based on Rashi’s commentary, connects it to the word מקרה/mikreh, meaning “happenstance” or “accident.” In other words, the opposite of intentional.  And he concludes that the essence of mitzvah is preparation and intent.  Note–he is speaking psycho-spiritually, not halakhically/legalistically. Within the halakhic/legal system, a Jew does get “credit” for performing nearly any mitzvah, whether or not there was specific intent. But Rabbi Bornsztain says that leads to an empty, vacuous religious life. One which has checked the formalistic boxes, but is deadened. The way any relationship would be if we only went through the motions, without alertness.  According to him, this is not a curse/punishment for throwing off the yoke of God and ignoring religious obligations. It is for fulfilling those obligatoins, but with no fire, no passion, no love, no striving for those religious obligations to connect you to the Holy One.

Most of us cannot sustain such heightened spiritual vitality any more than we can breathe as meditators do for more than a few minutes. But that truth is a poor excuse for not trying to elevate our prayer, our rituals, our Jewish deeds to the point where we are not just doing them, but we are harnessing them for spiritual elevation.

Sometimes you need to breathe as if it were a luxury.

Sometimes you need to kiss ecstatically.

Sometimes you need to focus on your child or partner as if s/he were literally the only person on the planet.

Sometimes the only way to perform a mitzvah is with the fullness of your being.  Do not live an accidental Judaism.

By Rabbi Hillary Chorny, Cantor

With one week remaining until the start of my three-month sabbatical, many emotions are swirling. Elation, for the exciting plans that await me. Panic, that I have not yet completed all the work that needs to be done before I turn the lights off in my office May 31. And gratitude, tremendous gratitude, for the generous allotment of discretionary time. 

So it’s just the case that when a member of the Beth Am community asks me a bit about my plans for sabbatical, I refer to it as a gift. “I’m thankful to the community for this gift.” “What a gift that I get to pause in this work and go elsewhere for a while to reflect and write.” More often than not, the response is, “But it’s not a gift! You’ve earned it.” This notion of earned sabbatical feels uncomfortable. It would seem to imply that work is a means to earning rest, and that in turn it’s an honorable thing to work hard in order to earn that rest. Is unadulterated, uninterrupted rest really something that we accrue in response to our hard labor? 

Sabbatical – the seventh year of rest – appears in the Torah as an unconditional command and an unqualified promise to the people. Parshat Behar deals with sabbatical in and of the land: Shabbat Shabaton. This sabbatical year is meant as a year of rest that applies to the land itself. The prohibitions of the sabbatical year are not restrictions on us; they are restrictions on the land. 

The 13th-century commentary on Vayikra 25:2 by the Chizkuni wants us to understand the framework of the sabbatical year as one that honors the provenance of the land:

שבת לה‘ סימן שהקרקע שלי שהיא שובתת לשמי.

The sabbatical is for Adonai – it is a sign that the land is Mine and that land undergoes a sabbatical in my name. 

Were we to work year in and year out without a break, toiling and praying fervently for the success of our agricultural investments with no break, then we might take credit and/or responsibility for the success of the land as if the land belongs to us. But that’s not the case. The earth, just like our bodies, are creations of the Holy One, leased to us in our lifetimes. The land must be returned to God every so often in order to remind us that God has the ultimate claim over the ground and what it produces. 

I’m not a farmer. But, like many of you, I spend a significant percentage of my life measuring my worth or sense of self based on what I achieve. This is especially true for me in my work as clergy: I am deeply invested in serving the community to as boundless a degree as I can muster. It would be easy to take all credit for the successes and all blame for the flops. Sabbatical comes to disabuse me of that notion. Maybe the sabbatical isn’t a “gift” per se, but my mind, my heart, my body, my soul – those are certainly gifts. 

It still bears saying and repeating: Thank you. For the Shabbat Shabbaton l’Adonai – the chance to renew my body and soul in the hands of God. 

He Spoke, Luckily We Listened

By Cantor Michelle Stone,
TBA Ritual Innovator

Last Friday, I was taking Jenn Sherman’s Jewish American Heritage Month spinning ride on the Peloton. Neil Diamond’s song, “America”, from the Jazz Singer, came on, and Jenn started talking about the amazing contributions of Jewish Americans to the fabric of this country, especially the immigrants. I started to cry. I had just gotten word a few hours earlier that my friend, Ivan Wolkind, had passed away. Ivan was born and raised in London and was an immigrant to this country. I couldn’t stop crying at the loss of this Jewish American that contributed so much to our local and national Jewish community. You may not have known him, but every member of our synagogue and greater Los Angeles Jewish community was immensely impacted by Ivan. This week’s parsha, Emor, continues to tell rules that the kohanim, the priests and ancient community leaders, needed to follow so that they could properly represent the Israelites in their holy work. Ivan was one of our holy leaders and, in the words of his colleague, Becky Sobelman-Stern, had a deep “love of the Jewish community and commitment to the wellbeing of the Jewish people.” I wanted to use this space to tell you more about him.

In addition to being a cantor, I also work as a finance and accounting recruiter. About 14 years ago, Jay Sanderson, then CEO of the Jewish Federation, called me and said he needed to hire a CFO, someone who can be a leader, clean up the books, and implement high quality policies and procedures. I didn’t know him, but I knew there was a guy who lived on my street, was a member of B’nai David, and was the CFO of a healthcare company. I called him and asked him if he would ever consider working in the Jewish not-for-profit world? He said he’d take a meeting, and the match was made. He brought his team over to the Federation and modernized its fiscal and administrative operations, taking over as both CFO and COO. He was a natural leader. He commanded respect but was also congenial and made everyone feel like a valuable contributor and part of a family.

Ivan’s greatest contribution to this community was developing and running the Community Security Initiative at the Jewish Federation. Not long after Ivan joined the Federation, they learned that the LA Jewish community was one of the least secure communities in the country. Ivan made it his mission for LA to become a leader in securing its Jewish community, and he made it so. Ivan and his team built the Community Security Initiative from scratch. CSI protects every Jewish school, synagogue, summer camp, and organization in LA. It is also the single point of contact for incident coordination, information and intelligence sharing, safety and security training, and resources across all Los Angeles Jewish institutions. CSI also provides unprecedented access to federal, state, and local emergency services. Under Ivan’s watch, LA went from being the least secure Jewish city to teaching other cities how to keep their communities safe. He loved the Jewish community, and he would stop at nothing to make sure every single one of us was safe. This passion led to incredible partnerships with local law

enforcement and the FBI, for both the Federation and for himself personally. He also built an incredible community with his security team at Federation. It was a true kiddush Hashem to watch Ivan create a brotherhood with the men who are tasked with putting their own lives on the line every day to keep us safe.

Emor means “Speak.” And that Ivan did. With his authoritative, captivating English accent, when Ivan spoke, you listened. He was smart and well read, and you knew you’d learn something new and valuable by listening to him. He was full of passion, and his words could light a fire under you. He was a serious professional but also knew how to have fun. You could hear his smile when he spoke.

Ivan loved serving. He loved serving the Jewish community. He loved serving as a reserve police officer. He loved serving on the board of InfraGard, a public/private partnership with the FBI. He loved serving as a Wexner mentor. And most importantly, he loved “serving” as a father and husband. In the opening verse of this week’s parsha, God tells Moses to “speak to the kohanim, the priests, and say to them.” Rashi asks why the verb “speak” needed to be repeated twice? He answers that so that the adults not only hear for themselves, but that they also teach their children. Ivan embodied this. He was an incredible leader and professional, but he always had time for his children. He never missed an opportunity to spend time with them, teach them, or tell them how much he loved them.

I know many of you never knew Ivan and may have never heard his name before, but our community is impacted every day because of his unwavering passion and commitment to us, and his story deserves to be told.

Navigating Yetzer Confusion
By Rabbi Matt Shapiro

One of the many idiosyncratic elements of our textual tradition is how, through the weekly parsha cycle, we read about a holiday far away from when we actually observe it. We read about the exodus from Egypt and revelation at Sinai a few months ago, yet we only recently celebrated Passover and Shavuot is still a few weeks away (if you’re counting the Omer, you have it down to the day!). There’s a similar occurrence in this week’s parsha, Acharei Mot, which details the Biblical observance of Yom Kippur. Though Tishrei is still a few months off and our contemporary observance of the day is slightly different (though I’ve heard of a community or two doing so, I have yet to see a goat in the sanctuary on Yom Kippur), there are still a number of lessons we can learn from these verses. 

One of the central rituals that took place was the casting of lots over two physically identical goats, one of which was then offered as a sacrifice, the other was sent off into the wilderness. Even though they meet such different ends, what’s always been fascinating to me about this is that, essentially, they’re the same goat separated out only by chance. One atones for the sins of the entire people and the other is exiled, purely because of, essentially, a role of the dice. Rabbi Shimshon Rafael Hirsch took this to a psychospiritual dimension, reflecting that “we can follow our sensual instincts into the wilderness, leading to self-destruction, or we can sacrifice our instincts to the service of God.” I don’t know that the dichotomy has to be that severe, but I do think it offers an interesting and important construct for considering how we choose to direct our energy and our impulses. Whatever our impulses are, they exist- what makes us human is the ability to choose how to direct them and act on them. The impulse itself doesn’t change; our choices make all the difference. 

One of my favorite constructs to explore in our tradition is the duality of the yetzer hatov and the yetzer hara. Literally, these are translated as the ‘good inclination’ and the ‘evil inclination,’ but in terms of how they’re usually discussed, it’s just as, if not more, fitting to refer to them as the ‘animalistic inclination’ and the ‘divine inclination.’ It’s important to stress that, according to rabbinic thought, both are necessary; there’s a story about how once, the evil inclination was captured, but then no one went to work and no chickens laid eggs! Yet it can also be the case that sometimes, we have what I refer to as ‘yetzer confusion,’ not being able to tell which impulse is really motivating our actions. Is that desire to work really, really hard bringing out something elevated or is it motivated by striving and ego? Is it the healthy part of ourselves that wants to scroll the news endlessly, or is that just fueling negativity and fear? Is it the holyy part of ourselves that wants to connect over the challenges the world faces or is the need to complain or kvetch, miring us in negativity?

Lest we think we know ourselves so well, these verses come to remind us that it’s easy to get mixed up, to get lost in that yetzer confusion. The challenge before us, whether today or on Yom Kippur or on any of the days in between, is to use our discernment, with humility, to figure out where and how we should bring ourselves closer to Something bigger than us rather than being lost in the wilderness of our more earthly inclinations. This speaks to something very human about all of us, that we are both earthly and divine, often wrestling between the many different parts of ourselves. Luckily, our tradition gives us ritual and intellectual frameworks for reflecting on this, physically embodied in the goats in the Yom Kippur rites described in these verses. No inherent part, our rabbis reflect, is inherently bad- it’s about our choices, what we do with the different impulses and pieces of who we are. Our task is to make this distinction more than just random and to actively claim which parts of ourselves we want and need to elevate, and which parts of ourselves we need or want to cast aside. Ultimately, these are personal decisions and those choices look a little bit different for everyone, which makes that element of self-reflection so essential. What we can do, what we should do,  is rise to the challenge held out by this parsha so that when we get to Yom Kippur, we’ll have a bit less to atone for and even more of our full selves that we can offer up. 

By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

Metzora, as well as Tazria, are important parshiyot. Teaching us what it means to make our physical bodies separate from our spiritual lives and selves. And yet, I found that the haftarah this year was speaking more to me than our Torah portion. So, this Taste of Torah will be a Taste of Haftarah:

In Malachi 3:7 we hear God say:

לְמִימֵ֨י אֲבֹֽתֵיכֶ֜ם סַרְתֶּ֤ם מֵֽחֻקַּי֙ וְלֹ֣א שְׁמַרְתֶּ֔ם שׁ֤וּבוּ אֵלַי֙ וְאָשׁ֣וּבָה אֲלֵיכֶ֔ם אָמַ֖ר ה’ צְבָא֑וֹת וַאֲמַרְתֶּ֖ם בַּמֶּ֥ה נָשֽׁוּב׃

From the days of your ancestors, you have turned away from My (God’s) laws and have not observed them. Turn back to Me, and I will turn back to you – said Adonai of Hosts. But you ask, “How shall we turn back?” 

Passover is a holiday that makes everyone a bit more frum than they are the rest of the year. I do not mean that as an insult or judgment, but we all act in fear of hametz and become crazy about the cleanliness of our homes, the price of our food, the substitute items we can have around in case we might want them. However, undoubtedly, we will all clean our homes, cover surfaces, change over our plates, and buy food items that during a regular week we would never eat or need. 

We have a fear that we are “not doing it right” if we do not make ourselves crazy with how to kasher or clean our homes. Like God says in this haftarah, we are afraid that we are those people who have turned away from God’s laws and not observed them, and therefore lost spiritual connection. Now of course, God is talking about people who have done terrible, evil things, not those who have not cleaned well enough for Pesah, but we are each of us scared that we might not do enough to make Passover feel relevant or connected. 

שׁ֤וּבוּ אֵלַי֙ וְאָשׁ֣וּבָה אֲלֵיכֶ֔ם

Turn back to me and I will turn back to you – a beautiful suggestion for all relationship building. Listening to a person to hear them, not just to answer them. Asking a person what they need and being ready to deliver a solution, rather than just hold their burden. We are each of us in holy partnerships where we should use this phrase more! However, this phrase is not suggesting that we turn back to God and cover our kitchen in aluminum foil. This phrase is suggesting that we find a connection to God that can be mirrored, reciprocated, and felt in relationship. Just as a partner might recite ani l’dodi, v’dodi li, under the huppah, this mirrored response should be how we feel in any holy relationship: seen, understood and acknowledged. We show up and so should our holy partners. We turn back to God and God turns to face us. Yisa Adonai Panav eilekha v’yasem lekha shalom – from the Priestly Blessing – “may God lift God’s face to you and place upon you peace.”

This Pesah, I am not suggesting you do not clean, or buy your favorite K for P items, but I am suggesting that you spend a bit more time settling into the question of “how have I moved away from my spiritual self and what will bring me closer?” Have you been dismayed by standardized prayer? Have you been distant because of your concern for Israel? Have you moved away because a scary world shouldn’t exist if God is with us? Passover is about asking questions, and this moment in our Haftarah suggests we have a big one to add to our seder: “how shall we turn back?” How do we find our spiritual footing again, using Passover as a time to explore, dive in deeply, feel the nostalgia of connection, and recognize parallels of this freedom holiday in our own world.

By TBA Rabbinic Intern Ben Sigal

Grief is a difficult emotion for us as humans to process. Even while we rationally know that life is finite, we are nevertheless overcome by grief at the end of someone’s time on Earth. There’s a famous midrash about Rabbi Meir. His sons died during Shabbat while he was studying, and when he comes home, his wife asks him a question. She says, “ I have a question for you. Before today, someone came and deposited something with me, and now he is coming to take it back. Should we return it or not?” Rabbi Meir replies, “One who has accepted a deposit from him must return it to its owner.” She then leads him to his sons, and he begins to cry. On the one hand, he knows that his kids were not immortal and that they don’t technically belong to him. His sons were on loan, so to speak, and their souls returned to God.

Intellectually, Rabbi Meir understands this. But emotionally, he cannot accept his new reality.

This story of Rabbi Meir reminds me of Aaron’s experience in the Torah. In last week’s parsha, we read about the death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. But we don’t hear of Aaron immediately mourning. Aaron is actually prohibited from performing kriah, one of the traditional Jewish mourning practices in which one tears their clothing as a physical sign of their grief. The rest of the parsha focuses on the laws of kashrut and doesn’t mention Nadav and Avihu’s death again.

That brings us to this week’s parsha, Tazria. While this year it is read separate from Metzora, in most years, the two parshiot are combined. They form an interlude between Shemini, in which Aaron’s sons die, and Achrei Mot, in which their death is once again acknowledged. And while it doesn’t seem like mourning is going on in the interim, I would argue that Aaron is mourning, just beneath the surface.

The process of interacting with tzara’at, often translated as leprosy and the primary topic of Tazria and Metzora, parallels Jewish mourning rituals in a couple of key ways. For one, the person afflicted physically removes themself from the community for seven days, which is very similar to sitting shiva. One re-enters the community through a separate ritual, which is mirrored in our mourning practices by getting up from shiva and taking a walk around the neighborhood. And, perhaps most importantly of all, one is welcomed back into the community by the kohen, the priest. This requirement for the community to actively welcome one back in is at the heart of the aforementioned ritual of getting up from shiva. All of these rituals, both for mourning and tzara’at, are intended to lead to acceptance.

It should be noted that all of the rituals surrounding tzara’at are conveyed by God to both Moses and Aaron. In a sense, this is God’s way of giving Aaron, who is in shock, some guidance for how to get through the shock and begin to accept the unthinkable. God is guiding Aaron toward accepting what has happened.

We all grieve differently. For some, sadness is the first intense emotion they will feel. For others, it will be shock. But whatever it may be, the intent behind an intentional grief experience is to find a way to process what has occurred and find a way to live in a world that is experienced radically differently than it was before the loss. And for many people, Aaron included, that process can take time. We need to be kind and patient with ourselves, and others, to allow grief to progress as it wants to, not as we may want it to happen.

When Aaron dies at the end of the Torah, the entire Israelite people mourn him for 30 days. This is no accident. Aaron experienced what it was like to hold back his emotions, and in doing so, taught the children of Israel not to do so. May we be blessed with the ability to accept our emotions as they are and process them in healthy ways, so that we may one day be able to guide others through their difficult emotions

By TBA Rabbinic Intern Ben Sigal

Working at Beit T’shuvah for the last 10 months, I’ve become very familiar with the Twelve Step model of addiction recovery. Part of what I’ve found so interesting in my work there is that the Twelve Step model would be helpful for anyone trying to be a better person, addict or not. While one can’t really do recovery with less than all twelve steps, I’ve found that the biggest character growth occurs during the eighth, ninth, and tenth steps.

The eight step involves making a list of all people the addict has harmed and becoming willing to make amends to them. In the ninth step, the amends are actually made where possible, assuming that to do so doesn’t harm them or others. As a part of step ten, a continual personal inventory is made, and the addict admits when they are wrong. Step ten can be incredibly hard, because owning our mistakes can be hard. And we need look no further for proof of that than the beginning of this week’s parsha, Shemini.

At the beginning of the parsha, Aaron is commanded to offer a calf and a ram as a sin offering. Rashi teaches us that the calf was specifically chosen to make atonement for the sin of the golden calf, which Aaron had helped organize. But what happens next, according to Rashi’s understanding of the text, is where things get interesting. Moses tells Aaron to come forward to sacrifice the offering after already having told Aaron what to do. Rashi says that Moses needs to repeat himself here because Aaron was afraid to come forward.

It can be very difficult to own our mistakes, especially when they have caused extensive unintended consequences. In those moments, it’s hard to own the mistake in part because we never meant those consequences. But especially in those moments, we have to step over our egos to let ourselves make the amends we need to and admit we were wrong.

Eventually, Aaron does come forward and offers up a sin offering. At the end of the ritual, we read that the כבוד of God appears to the entire nation. While in context, כבוד likely means the presence or glory of God, it most often means honor. What’s of note is that the last time in the Torah that we read of God’s כבוד was when Moses was begging to see it. And while in that moment Moses gets to see God’s goodness, he doesn’t get to behold God’s כבוד . It’s only in those moments when we mess up and make full t’shuvah for it that we can hope to behold God’s כבוד . It’s in those moments where we as humans fail but then rise to our highest potential that the honor of God is present.

May we be blessed to have the courage to own our mistakes, and in doing so, spread God’s honor throughout the world.

By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Ben Sigal

There’s a story in my wife’s family that always comes up around this time of year. My in-laws have always loved having guests and as a result, they regularly opened their Pesach seder up to others who didn’t otherwise have a seder to attend. One year, there was a couple that reached out to my in-laws’ shul for a place to go and got matched to my in-laws. They were very kind and had a general idea of what was going on, but as the night went on, something seemed off. Eventually, my in-laws figured out what was going on: they had inadvertently been asked to host a seder for a couple of Christian missionaries! While we all say, “All who are hungry, come and eat,” as a part of our seder, this is surely not what we or they had in mind. But that doesn’t mean it’s all that far off.

This week’s parsha, Vayikra, begins with God calling out to Moshe:

וַיִּקְרָ֖א אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֵלָ֔יו מֵאֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵ֖ד לֵאמֹֽר׃

“The Lord called out to Moshe and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying…”

Da’at Zkenim, a commentary on the Torah written by multiple individuals in 13th century France and Germany, points out an interesting question on this verse. Why would God have to call out to Moshe as if Moshe wasn’t where God was? Isn’t God supposed to be everywhere? The commentary answers its own question by referencing a midrash in which God is calling out to Moshe from the Holy of Holies while Moshe is outside the Tabernacle. According to this understanding, Moshe is standing outside because he’s too afraid to enter since God never invited him in.

How often is it the case in our lives that others are waiting outside the communities we’ve created, afraid to enter not because they aren’t welcome but because they haven’t been invited in. Too often, we can get bogged down in creating a wonderful seder or a beautiful Shabbat dinner that we never stop to think if there are people who are waiting to be invited to the table.

As I mentioned before, we start the maggid section of the seder by inviting all who are hungry to come and eat. All too often, we don’t mean it at all, and that’s not wholly unreasonable of us. In the world we as Jews inhabit today, inviting a stranger off the street into our home without any vetting could be dangerous. But at the same time, there’s a reason those words have been etched into our annual ritual, and it wasn’t for us to read them and never mean them. We ought to at least strive to create a world in which we mean those words.

There’s a fix to this. With Pesach fast approaching, we will all either be hosting a seder or hosted at one. Make an effort to open up two seats at your seder this year, and then reach out to those who may not have a seder to fill those seats. How much richer would our community be if everyone truly had a place for seder without having to overcome the fear of asking? How much more wonderful could our seder be with a new perspective to help us think through the night in a unique way? While we may never reach a point in which the words at the start of Maggid are fully taken to heart, may this be the year we start the journey toward that point.

By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Nico Losorelli

In last week’s Taste of Torah, I discussed the interplay between potential and imagination. I posited, in my humble interpretation, that perhaps once the dust settled, God looked at the event of the golden calf and identify the impulses that led to the building of the calf. God looked at those impulses and identified them as positive, but misguided, and thus endeavored to assign the Israelites and Moses with a task to draw on those impulses, but guide them towards a new vision, a vision previously unimaginable to them because they were hampered by an imagination still in mental bondage in Egypt, despite their physical liberation from Egypt. 

In this week’s parasha, Parashat Pekudei, we get summarizing and almost reiterative account of all of the elements that were built for the Mishkan, which is the moveable pre-Temple moveable sanctuary in which God would place God’s presence. I was struck by what we find in the chapter 40 verse 2:

בְּיוֹם־הַחֹ֥דֶשׁ הָרִאשׁ֖וֹן בְּאֶחָ֣ד לַחֹ֑דֶשׁ תָּקִ֕ים אֶת־מִשְׁכַּ֖ן אֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵֽד׃

On the first day of the first month you shall set up the Tabernacle of the Tent of Meeting.

You shall set it up. Ok, perhaps since this has been a collective effort, God really means you plural? The verb it uses ‘תקים’ is in the singular, but maybe there is something to be said about the new unity the people have found in this process, and thus they are being referred to in the singular? Well, as it turns out, the “curtains are just blue”, and it actually means Moses in the singular as we see in 40:18 and subsequent verses:

וַיָּ֨קֶם מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶת־הַמִּשְׁכָּ֗ן וַיִּתֵּן֙ אֶת־אֲדָנָ֔יו וַיָּ֙שֶׂם֙ אֶת־קְרָשָׁ֔יו וַיִּתֵּ֖ן אֶת־בְּרִיחָ֑יו וַיָּ֖קֶם אֶת־עַמּוּדָֽיו׃

Moses set up the Tabernacle, placing its sockets, setting up its planks, inserting its bars, and erecting its posts.

So then, it was Moses who set up the Mishkan, single-handedly!? To set up a structure like this single-handedly is an enormous feat. Moses, while he was the greatest prophet in our tradition, was still a single individual. The people had just built all of the trappings for the Mishkan, brought them to Moses, and yet it was up to Moses to set it all up on his own. Perhaps it was because Moses was the only one, besides God, who really knew what the final product looked like. As the Ramban points on in a long excursus on our verse above, 40:2:

“G-d did not explain to Moses in this command the order of putting it up, as it is clearly set forth in the actual construction: and he laid its sockets, and set up the boards thereof etc. The reason for His not explaining it here is because He had already shown it to him visually, as He said, And thou shalt put up the Tabernacle according to the fashion thereof which hath been shown thee in the mountain.”

The key point here that I want to draw out is that God had already shown it to Moses visually. Ok great, but couldn’t Moses simply explain and delegate? Why did he do it on his own? Well, why did the Israelites panic and rebel in the first place? It’s because Moses disappeared, leaving them behind to wait, as he received Torah from God on Mount Sinai. Now you may be asking yourself “Wait, wait, wait, there is one big problem with this: God had already commanded Moses on Sinai about the Mishkan before or perhaps while the people were building the golden calf, so is this really about God helping them with their imagination, and freeing them from mental bondage?” Was that the original intention? Perhaps not, but then again, one could say that the original intention was for God to deliver all of Torah to the entire people, but in Exodus 20:15-16:

וְכׇל־הָעָם֩ רֹאִ֨ים אֶת־הַקּוֹלֹ֜ת וְאֶת־הַלַּפִּידִ֗ם וְאֵת֙ ק֣וֹל הַשֹּׁפָ֔ר וְאֶת־הָהָ֖ר עָשֵׁ֑ן וַיַּ֤רְא הָעָם֙ וַיָּנֻ֔עוּ וַיַּֽעַמְד֖וּ מֵֽרָחֹֽק׃

וַיֹּֽאמְרוּ֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה דַּבֵּר־אַתָּ֥ה עִמָּ֖נוּ וְנִשְׁמָ֑עָה וְאַל־יְדַבֵּ֥ר עִמָּ֛נוּ אֱלֹקִ֖ים פֶּן־נָמֽוּת׃

All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance. “You speak to us,” they said to Moses, “and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.”

And thus, the vision of the whole Torah, including the Mishkan, was meant to be for the entire people, but they were too afraid. Sure, they had just said before the lightning, thunder, and blasts of the shofar from Mt. Sinai that they would listen to God’s commandments, but was that really true? It seems like there is room for “no” being a potential answer, because Moses disappears for some time, and they go and build a golden calf. So, then the real question becomes: what is motivating the people, is it fear, or is it trust? It seems that it is fear. Fear that this liberation was only temporary, fear that this prophet would let them down, fear that they would be abandoned. So, this is why Moses had to set up the Mishkan himself. The people had limited vision, and were able to make only all of those things that the Mishkan required, but ultimately had to bring those things to Moses so he could bring the broader vision that God had provided him with, into reality. Not only that, the people had to see him do it. They had to see that not only did Moses have a true encounter—a true vision—from God, but that he has a leader had vision himself. What happened with the golden calf between the people, Moses, and God was a breakdown in trust, and what had to happen was a reestablishment of that trust. This brings us to the oft quoted aphorism “actions speak louder than words”, and in this case it was the actions of witnessing Moses realizing this greater vision, and God’s subsequent filling of the Mishkan with God’s presence that led to the reestablishment of that trust, reestablished in such a way that the people were able to accept in their current state.

   By Nico Losorelli, TBA Rabbinic Intern     

 The Israelites just went through a serious upheaval. In last week’s parasha, we read of the famous building of the golden calf while Moses was in dialogue with God. Moses came down and saw what the Israelites had been up to, and threw down the tablets, destroying them, and went on a campaign to root out the guilty parties. It was a scary and pivotal moment for our people, and could have spelled the end, if Moses hadn’t intervened when God wanted to start anew. 

While it was a terrible situation all the way around, the people’s response was not too unreasonable. They had just gone through this major event of being liberated from Egypt by God with Moses as their guide, and saw the downfall of their oppressors. There was scarcely time to prepare for their departure, hence the unrisen matzah, let alone think. Then all of the sudden their leader Moses disappears for who knows how long, and they are supposed to just wait? They’re exposed, vulnerable, and without much else to do, so what do they do to pass the time and ease their anxiety? They do what they know, they build an idol. They had just left Egypt after all, where they were surrounded by idols, so they were no stranger to that form of worship. They collectivize their efforts, under Aaron’s leadership, and chip in what they can to melt down enough gold to build this golden calf. Was the collective action they took a good choice? No. Was it an understandable choice? Absolutely, however that understanding shouldn’t be used to gloss over the fact that they just saw God perform all of these miracles on their behalf, and then the moment things became uncertain they reverted to the familiarity of what they knew in Egypt. Couldn’t they have just waited? Hadn’t God proven that God had their backs? The answer is clearly, no they could not wait, so boom, golden calf, almost getting smited, and you know the rest. 

At this point, what do we know? We know that the people are anxious, and they respond to their anxiety with a religious impulse, which is a positive. We also know that they can cooperate with each other, and are willing to use their limited resources towards a collective goal, that is also a positive. This stiff-necked people clearly has a lot of potential, but given that they went back to their old ways of doing things so quickly tells us that they lack imagination at this point in time. So, these two elements potential, which they have, and imagination, which they lack represent a need for some kind of response. Before we move on to that, though, let’s talk about potential. 

Potential is a powerful thing, and must be wielded and shaped with care and purpose. Potential will always find its expression for both the good and the bad, and unbridled, unmoored, or even unrealized potential has the tendency to bend towards the bad. Now let’s talk about imagination, imagination often requires the freeing up of one’s faculties to focus on more than what is immediately in front of us. Imagination allows us to see one world, while dreaming up another. Imagination is required for the vision, and potential is required for the actualization. The Israelites have potential, but are living in a post-trauma state after all that they have been through in Egypt and the Exodus from Egypt, that they are still in fight or flight mode, focusing on the next step, the next day, maybe even the next breath. That isn’t a recipe for the kind of freedom imagination requires, and in fact represents that while they may be physically free, they are not mentally free. 

In this week’s Parasha, Parashat Vayekhel, God recognizes that in order to actualize the people’s potential, they need to be given purpose to help free up their imaginations. So, God gives everyone a purpose. God commands that everyone contribute in whatever way they can to the building of God’s earthly meeting place with the people, the Mishkan. God takes the people’s capacity to cooperate and bridles it. God takes the people’s bent towards generosity and focuses it on a similar task to the golden calf, but towards a new goal, the Mishkan. Finally, God sees the potential in each person to contribute and calls each person to step into a role, whether by simply contributing materials to make the Mishkan, or by contributing their skills as blacksmiths, builders, weavers, diggers, metallurgists and so on. Simply put, after God cools down, God makes a generous assessment of what led to the situation of the golden calf, and intervenes with an adjustment towards a new vision, that utilizes the skills that the people have and know. This mixture of utilizing what is familiar, towards the building of a new vision is God coming in and seeing the people’s potential, and finding a way to encourage and facilitate their individual and collective imaginations, in a way that they are ready to receive. 

Each and every person possesses great potential, but sometimes our imagination can be blocked or obscured by some old reality, hang-up, or fear, and what we need is some kind of loving push to get out of that rut and reawaken our imagination. So, if you’re feeling stuck, look at yourself the way God looks at you, full of potential, beautiful in every way, but needing a loving adjustment. Those adjustments can come from ourselves and our support networks, but we must be willing to ask for help, and we must be willing to receive help, and maybe even new purpose. 

By Rabbi Hillary Chorny, Cantor

At pickup last week, one of our kids was grinning. “How was your day?” I asked. “It was the best. I didn’t call my friend any names. And I REALLY wanted to! But I didn’t.” I could tell that they were about as proud as they could be. 

It’s an interesting flex and something I don’t think about often: pride in myself for restraint. I find the exercise of refraining from unwanted habits and behaviors to be just about the hardest part of being a good person.

This might be an outgrowth of my desperately dopamine-seeking brain. When I’m faced with a difficult task, I look for a reward: points, pay, praise. Even when that reward is just the evidence that I did something right. The act of tossing a clean jar into the recycling bin is deeply gratifying. Dropping off a meal at someone’s home, or going out of the way to call a friend on their birthday: I don’t need to be paid to do these things because each comes with a tangible feedback loop. But what about positive behavior that has mechanism to gratify? What about that cookie I didn’t eat? Or the third time this week I stopped screen time an hour before bed? Or, like my kid, I wanted to say something rather terrible but I chose not to. What’s the reward in that?

The Or Hachaim has a great take on a familiar piece of our parsha, Ki Tissa, one that speaks to finding the rewards in holding back. This week (Ex. 31:16-17) we chant the paragraph “V’Shamru,” a set of biblical lines that we sing both in the synagogue and at home as a part of the Shabbat liturgy. We read, לעשות את השבת – the Jewish people guard Shabbat by “doing” Shabbat. The Or Hachaim emphasizes the active nature of this verb, “to do” Shabbat. He notes that while it might seem that Shabbat is a time for introversion, stillness, restraint, and stepping back from the world, this restraint is rewarding as if we did something active. In Kiddushin 39, we learn that if someone sat on their hands all Shabbat, they are rewarded as if they fulfilled a positive commandment. The Talmud elaborates, saying that it must have been the case that this person was presented with an opportunity to violate Shabbat and they made an active choice not to break Shabbat. 

Shabbat is a stage for rehearsing restraint. In a community where Shabbat is treated as a precious island from the mundane, there is enormous reward in “doing” Shabbat. Not necessarily in sitting on your hands, but in the myriad little choices again and again not to make the day like any other day. For some, I imagine this results in a palpable sense of reward: the gift of a quieted brain, lessened anxiety, and attunement to the world at hand. And for others the reward is apparently invisible on our human plane, something that we have to trust we are contributing to the ineffable goodness of the world by holding back. Or perhaps Shabbat is in and of itself the rehearsal for restraint on all other days and in all other settings, building our muscles of abstinence and restraint for the times when we are not commanded to limit ourselves. 

May this Shabbat be a time for an awareness of quiet, powerful restraint. A time of righteous stillness. A time when doing nothing is exactly right.

By TBA Rabbinic Intern Ben Sigal

This past Sunday, Elana and I got a craving for one of our favorite food outlets, Modern Bread and Bagel. It’s an incredible kosher, gluten-free bakery, and up until a few weeks ago, their closest store was a shlep away in Woodland Hills. Recently, however, they opened a new storefront in Santa Monica, and we were itching to check it out. There was just one hiccup in our plan-we now had a newborn boy, and getting out wasn’t quite as easy as it was before.

Nonetheless, we gathered up our stroller and our car seat. We filled up our diaper bag with two changes of clothes, extra burp cloths and bibs, and all sorts of other things we might, but probably wouldn’t, need for this outing. As soon as Shai had finished a feeding, while he was deep into a calm slumber, we piled into the car and headed out to Santa Monica. It was a lot of work, but at the end of the outing, Shai was happier, and his parents were too. The additional work required for our self-care was beneficial to him as well.

Our trek for gluten free bagels reminded me of our parsha this week, Tetsaveh. In Tetsaveh, we read of the dedication ritual of the mishkan, the tabernacle. At the end of this ritual, we read,

וְשָׁ֣כַנְתִּ֔י בְּת֖וֹךְ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וְהָיִ֥יתִי לָהֶ֖ם לֵאלֹהִֽים׃ וְיָדְע֗וּ כִּ֣י אֲנִ֤י יְהֹוָה֙ אֱלֹ֣הֵיהֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁ֨ר הוֹצֵ֧אתִי אֹתָ֛ם מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם לְשׇׁכְנִ֣י בְתוֹכָ֑ם אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיהֶֽם׃

“I will abide among the Israelites, and I will be their God. And they shall know that I the Lord am their God, who brought them out from the land of Egypt that I might abide among them, I the Lord their God.”

Ramban, a 13th century Spanish commentator, notes something very interesting about these verses. We are prone to think that God took the Israelites out of Egypt for their sake, because it was what they needed. But as we read here, that’s not why it happened at all. God took the Israelites out of Egypt so that God could abide amongst them. In this instance, God performed miracles for God’s sake, not for the sake of the Israelites.

But it was more complex than just that. God took the Israelites out of Egypt because God cared about the relationship between God and the Israelites, and that relationship couldn’t exist in Egypt. The Egyptians, slavery, and perhaps even the land itself all prevented the relationship from blossoming as it could have. Had the Israelites remained in Egypt, the relationship could have existed, but it wouldn’t have flourished. So instead, God changed the dynamic and led the Israelites to freedom.

We all have moments in our life when the “easy” thing to do is maintain the status quo, to not take the additional work of self-care, even knowing that our lives would improve exponentially for the amount of work that such a change requires. In those moments, we should look to God for the permission we may desire to make those changes. And if all else fails, we should remember that though God took us out of Egypt for God’s sake, we also benefited; so too, others may benefit by us doing what is best for us. May we all be blessed with the clarity of

mind to know when changing the status quo is what is needed for us, and for our relationships with those in our closest circles.

By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

In Israel, a battle rages regarding exemptions to military service granted to ultra-Orthodox/Haredi Jews. What began as a nod by Ben Gurion to a community that was exceedingly small then in the nascent state, and which he assumed would continue to remain small, has turned into a societal rift.  Haredi leaders say the Jewish state should honor those who devote their lives to Torah study, for on their merits does Judaism stand.  Others wonder why the Haredi community gets to live under the blanket of freedom created and paid for by the military service and sacrifice of others.  

This culture war has been magnified since 10/7 and the resulting military war in Gaza.  Haredi communities are living their lives mostly spared from the fear of their young men going off to, and dying in, war.  While the rest of Israeli society convulses and fights and worries.

Is it only the study of Torah that merits such vaunted status within Jewish culture?  

A surprisingly relevant and poignant commentary on a seemingly dry verse within Parshat Terumah suggests that Torah scholars share honor and exalted purpose within the Jewish community with many others.  The commentary is by the Hafetz Hayim (Rabbi Israel Meir Kagan, late 19th C., early 20th C. Poland/Lithuania). He was a halakhist and ethicist, and was one of the most revered Jews alive during his lifetime.  He is commenting on Exodus 25:15, a rather nondescript verse that tells us that the poles inserted into the rings attached to the ark, which would be used for carrying it from place to place, are to remain there. In stable perpetuity.  לא יסרו ממנו/lo yasuru mimenu.  “They are not to be removed from it.”  

From that short phrase about the architectural and logistic particulars of the mishkan the Hafetz Hayim derives a deeper insight: “even” those who “just” carry the holy things of the community (ie, who make the holiness possible, by less-holy means) are likened to those who study and delve into Torah.  The “carriers” are perpetually affixed to the holiest appearance in the mishkan: the vessel carrying the stones of the covenant from Sinai.  In his words, “The poles were made sanctified through its [the Torah’s] sanctity and thus merited that they would continuously be with it [the Torah], even when they are not needed.  Similarly, those who hold up the Torah, because they made it possible for sages of the Torah to thrive during their lifetimes, they earn an eternal reward.”

I hear in the Hafetz Hayim’s words a prescient rebuke to those in the Torah-studying world who fail to show significant appreciation for and honor towards those in their midst who make their own ongoing Torah study possible. Through financial support, yes. But also through the nitty-gritty means by which a society, and a nation, are preserved such that there can be safe places where the Torah is studied and the tradition is nurtured. Both the ones toiling in the texts, and the ones toiling so that others can toil in the texts, are part of the sanctity of the Jewish people.

I do not know how the conflict regarding military service for Haredim should be resolved. I learned on our solidarity mission last week that more and more Haredim are signing up for voluntary (at least for that community) military service.  I hope that trend continues. Either way, I hope that mutual recriminations can yield to mutual respect. That the brave men and women who bear arms and risk (and at times sacrifice) their lives for the nation of Israel will know that at least part of what they are fighting for is so that the Jewish people can live and study and devote their lives to Judaism in their land, safe and secure.  And that the many communities of pious ultra-Orthodox men and women will understand that their fellow Israelis who build the economy, and govern the nation, and fight the wars and attempt to neutralize our enemies–they are a part of the sanctified of Israel, too. In this world and the next.

Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

By Cantor Michelle Stone

Martin Luther King, Jr. is famously quoted as saying, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” This hope for the future should be our lode star, but we also know that the history of humankind has ebbed and flowed over the centuries with violence and injustice. It has plagued civilizations of all types. The idea that enlightened, democratic civilizations become moral and just societies is not necessarily born out throughout history. The Greek Empire, the pinnacle of culture, philosophy, and art in the ancient world, fell due to the pressure from constant wars. As the Enlightenment took over Europe and America in the 17^th and 18^th centuries, the slave trade also flourished. Weimar culture was the center of Western innovation, art, science, and intellectual thought in the interwar period. It is also the society that gave rise to Nazism.

So, if societies are supposed to get more just over time, when they become more “enlightened,” more guided by reason and morality, why then do we still hate? Why do we still engage in violence and war? Jonathan Haidt, in his book, The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion (it’s really good, go read it!), says that morality both “binds and blinds.” Morality binds us together into creating a common good. “I” becomes an “us,” and we work together to create a more moral society for “us.” But, by definition, an “us” leads to a “them.” And that is what Haidt means when he says that morality “blinds.” The society puts on blinders for those who are not considered the “we” in the greater good story and the new vision for morality doesn’t extend to the “them”. This is a natural human instinct. We are tribal people, and we instinctively put people into categories of who is in and who is out. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “The great crimes of humanity have been committed against the stranger, the outsider, the one-not-like-us. Recognizing the humanity of the stranger has been the historic weak point in most cultures.”

The Torah is keenly aware of the dangers of the human instinct to “other.” In our parsha, we are told two times to not oppress the stranger. In Ex. 22:20, “You shall not wrong or oppress the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” And again, in Ex. 23:9, “You shall not oppress the stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” The word “ger”, or “stranger” appears almost 100 times in the Tanakh. The Torah mentions laws to protect, care for, or rejoice with the stranger 22 separate times. It repeatedly mentions that there should be one law and one form of judgment for both Israelite and the ger. Our tradition recognizes that treating the stranger as equals, taking care of their needs, and avoiding “othering” goes against our natural instincts, so it had to legislate it over and over again, continuously reminding us to not act this way.

The Torah also realizes that it isn’t enough to say “don’t do this.” We need to internalize what it means to be a stranger and keenly feel the pain of being an outsider in order to protect and care for the stranger among us. These laws appear right after the Israelites came out of slavery, after we came out of being the ultimate “others” ourselves. The text is pleading with us to not forget that being a stranger in Egypt was so terrible, that it turned into 400 years of slavery. We had to experience it ourselves in order to not do it to others. It’s like when your parents used to tell you not to do something to someone else, saying, “you don’t like it when they do it you, right?” We needed the first-hand experience, otherwise we wouldn’t understand the pain of what it means to be mistreated as a stranger.

I did an unscientific experiment and asked on my Facebook page, “If a group of people ever made you feel you don’t belong, what were you missing? What was the reason you felt like an “other”? The answers were heart-breaking. People have been made to feel like they don’t fit in because they didn’t have the right clothes, didn’t send their kids to the right schools, didn’t speak the language, had an accent, weren’t the right gender, weren’t the right ethnicity, weren’t aware of cultural norms, weren’t thin enough, were too thin, were stay-at-home moms, were working moms, didn’t have the “right” values, didn’t make enough money, were disabled, were too nerdy, were too smart, weren’t religious enough, were too religious, were too old, didn’t want to party, were divorced, wasn’t a “local,” weren’t athletic enough, didn’t know the insider “vocabulary,” the list goes on. And of course, today maybe we don’t fit in because of the right politics or, increasingly, the right religion. I’m sure we can all relate in some way to at least one of these examples listed above – at least one time that a group made us feel we didn’t belong because we were different and therefore unwanted. The Torah teaches us that we must dig into these memories to make sure we actively make those who may not obviously fit into the “us” not feel like a “them.”

And as for societal othering, I’m not sure how we move forward. It has been the story of our people for generations, which sadly, continues to this day. But it isn’t limited to antisemitism. While I maintain great faith in the arc bending toward justice, and in so many ways, it already has, it does feel like the world today is about “us” vs. “them” in so many areas. The Torah has great wisdom here for tackling one of our poorer human instincts. As above, we need to tap into our personal and collective memories and remember what it was like to be a slave in Egypt. We must step into the shoes of the stranger, see things from their perspective, and do all we can to make sure that they are properly cared for and never made to feel less than because they are different. One member of our community, Marnie Stiglitz, suggested that we should put all world leaders in a room with ECC teachers. Or maybe we should ask them to read this week’s parsha and recall a time when someone made them feel less than because they didn’t fit in. As the Torah teaches, it’s all got to start with memory. Shabbat Shalom.

By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

This week is the annual Refugee Shabbat that HIAS puts on through communities throughout the world. Beth Am is always a proud location, sponsor, listening ear and productive hand in the world of all refugee crises. This year is no different and I hope you will join us as we heard from voices of displacement and refuge after services at around 12:45pm. 

Parashat Yitro is a magical parsha. A parsha named for the non-Jewish father-in-law of our leader, Moshe, one of the great minds and heroes of the Jewish people. Interesting that he is not Jewish and interesting that he is not blood related to a key character of our history. Especially magical that within this parsha we receive the 10 commandments. Some would claim that the 10 commandments are not just for the Jewish people, but rather lifelong lessons that all life should live by. While others would claim that our 613 mitzvot – specific to the Jewish people – come from these 10 main utterances and categories. So how are we to understand that a main credo of our people is given to us under the heading of a non-Jewish, peripheral, leader? We are to understand that we are proud, blessed and honored to be Jewish and that the 10 commandments teach us how to live as good human beings in the world, with care and dedication to all life around us. 

Yitro is a chieftain of his own people, who guides Moshe and his family, who acknowledges strength and power in God, and who mentions in the first sentence of our parasha an awe and gratefulness for God taking Israel out of Egypt. Our rabbis drash that his name, Yitro, meaning to add, explains that a part of our Torah was added by Moshe’s father-in-law. There is no other time in our canon that a book or portion of Torah is added by anyone other than God or Moshe when received at Sinai.

Yitro sees all that Moshe is trying to do alone and comes to him to say 

מָֽה־הַדָּבָ֤ר הַזֶּה֙ אֲשֶׁ֨ר אַתָּ֤ה עֹשֶׂה֙ לָעָ֔ם מַדּ֗וּעַ אַתָּ֤ה יוֹשֵׁב֙ לְבַדֶּ֔ךָ וְכָל־הָעָ֛ם נִצָּ֥ב עָלֶ֖יךָ מִן־בֹּ֥קֶר עַד־עָֽרֶב

“What is this that you are doing to the nation? Why are you sitting by yourself and the whole nation is standing on you from morning to night.” Nitzav, the word Yitro uses for standing, can also be used to mean perpendicular. As if to say, the people were not in front of Moshe but were above, in front and a top their leader just to receive his attention and advice. Moshe replies to his father in law that the people come to him to inquire of God, but Yitro rebukes him to say this is not right. He informs Moshe that he will burn out, and the people will lose faith, as the task is too heavy for him as a single leader.

So what does Yitro add to our Torah? For the first time in Torah, we receive advice from a member of another tribe that we must lead together with others. Moshe is told that he should select from among the people, those able to lead, who revere God, who are people of Truth, trust and honesty. They should lead beside Moshe. Immediately after Moshe receives this advice and puts the leadership into motion, God intervenes and tells the people to prepare for receiving the 10 commandments. 

 Yitro brings something to our Torah that we need before we receive the 10 commandments. We need perspective, humility, the strength and power that comes from being open to the wisdom of others, including from outside our own tents.  Rolling up the sides of our tent to invite others inside, like Abraham welcoming guests, or like two partners welcoming God and the community to share in their lives.  Our 10 commandments do not begin with a commandment! They begin with an introduction: “I am the Lord your God.”  With the receiving of Torah our relationship with God becomes a “contracted” one.  Bound by commitments between us, we trust one another to learn and teach, sometimes reciprocally.

We live in a world where we are too often divided into segments of similarities. It is human nature to connect and want to form relationships with those who are like us.  But it is a world in which we ignore culture-related hatred, gender-related denigration, and poverty, to our great peril.  I hope that, given the blessing and advice of Yitro, we can each of us read the 10 commandments and live the 10 commandments with clearer understanding and humility.  

Introduce yourself to someone for whom you do not expect a relationship, challenge each other on thought and process and invite them to speak to you as you listen to where they have come from and where they hope to go. I promise each of you, if we spent a bit more time like Yitro, observing, listening and then speaking that we would each of us be more successful unlike the Moshe before Yitro who was straddled under the burdens of only giving his thoughts and opinions because it was familiar and common.

I bless us that this Shabbat we begin the week trying something new, meeting someone for whom we are hesitant to be in a relationship and challenge ourselves to create a world where differences are beautiful, celebrated and learned from.

Shabbat Shalom

By Rabbi Matt Shapiro, Director of YLE

Two interactions from this week are lingering in my mind and in my heart as we approach Shabbat. 

The first: while leaving a shiva minyan on Tuesday evening, I spoke briefly with someone who had come to support the family. She introduced herself as a non-observant Muslim and shared that she appreciated how I had framed prayer heading into ma’ariv as it’s an opportunity to connect with ourselves, our community, and God. She went on to say that she found it meaningful to consider prayer as something that’s accessible for everyone, whatever their background is; as we continued to speak, we jointly lamented how rare it is today to be able to simultaneously passionately disagree with and care deeply for someone, and shared our hopes for full, sustainable peace soon. 

The second: for the first time, I participated in the Greater Los Angeles Homeless Count on Wednesday evening . It was something I had been wanting to do for a while, and I’m glad that I sought it out. Since I went by myself, I was paired with someone else to count with. As we went on our designated rounds in the neighborhood around Hamilton High School, gathering data that will help inform our local response to the ongoing homelessness crisis, I found myself in a deep conversation with my new friend. He shared about his current challenges, what’s been bringing him down, and what he’s hoping to achieve soon; I lent an ear, offered some reflections and, of course, made sure to make him laugh. 

From my perspective, these two experiences had a common thread- I endeavored (and, I think, succeeded in) to serve a higher purpose in each scenario, for communal or civic good. Yet, within each experience, there was a moment of personal connection that reverberated as well, a point in which I found meaning through shifting my attention to connect not (only) with the larger mission of the moment, but with the person right in front of me. 

Reb Shlomo Carlebach offers an interesting perspective on the crossing of the sea, the central event in this week’s parsha, Beshalach. He turns his focus to an element that generally doesn’t get much attention: the sea itself. He shares the midrashic understanding that it had been encoded since the beginning of creation that the sea would split, that there was an understanding from the beginning of the world that to serve its purpose, it would have to become something completely other than it always is. He goes on to teach that “God tells each person- ‘there will be a moment in your life when you can do the greatest thing I created you for, but you have to be ready to be something else’…I always have to be what I am, but there are moments when I have to be not what I am also.” In order for us to fulfill our essential purpose in the world, we have to paradoxically balance the importance of being fully who we are each day with an ongoing flexibility to completely shift into what a specific moment demands of us. I think this is what was so powerful to me in these interactions this week, that I brought myself to a context in which I was present as I expected to be, the way I usually am, and found myself pivoting to a different type of being, relational rather than only oriented to the designated task at hand. 

I also find it noteworthy that  I was in proximity with both of these people for some period of time before each of these interactions. I was at the shiva home for an hour or so before having a chat just outside; I was waiting for the count to start for a while and could have been paired with any number of other volunteers for the evening. The seemingly happenstance nature of the interactions brings me a sense of both wonder and destabilization, that two such resonant encounters could just as easily have not happened at all. 

This, in turn, reminds me of the thinking of Martin Buber, who generated the oft-taught and nearly as oft-misunderstood concepts of I-It and I-Thou. These ideas are usually explained as being in a transactional relationship with another person (I-It) as opposed to a deeper relationship with another person, in which the essential divinity of the other is fully grasped (I-Thou). That’s part of what Buber lays out, but it’s not the whole story. Buber contrasts two states of being in the world- I’m in an I-It relationship with the world when I’m focused on the basic functionality of my life, and I’m in an I-Thou relationship with the world when I see its essential divinity. This shift can be brought about by any number of occurrences- a sunset, appreciating art, noticing the aroma of delicious food, and, yes, connecting fully with another person. It’s helpful to recognize this more expansive understanding of I-Thou, because then the invitation to connect with the world in this way is always available to us. There’s an appreciation not only of these relational moments, but of the seemingly, but not at all, random occurrence, the way in which the full context of the moment brought me to a place where I could shift from how I initially was to the way in which I shifted. I came to the shiva to support a grieving family, and also found connection with someone trying to make sense of where we are in the world. I showed up at the homeless count to do something small but substantive in support of our city, and found myself in relationship with someone looking for guidance at this moment in his life. There is, of course, a reason why Buber’s idea is so located within the context of interpersonal relationships, because, when we’re lucky, there can, truly, be wonder in the moments of connection we can find with another person. 

Moving through our lives, through both the mundane and the heightened moments, it can be easy to focus on the standard elements of what’s around us, focusing on things as they are. The parting of the sea teaches us the essential truth not only that we can shift from one state of being to another, but that sometimes, we must. Ultimately, as befits the parsha, we exercise our freedom by showing ourselves that we can transition between these states of being, by responding within the bigger picture context in which we find ourselves to the more intimate, personal demands of the moment. It’s not always as grand as the splitting of the sea, but it’s also a miracle that a simple conversation, an interaction with another person, can be all it takes for this shift to happen.

Shabbat shalom.

TBA Rabbinic Intern Ben Sigal

By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

On Sunday, we will count 100 days from the nightmare of October 7. 100 days since innocent lives were dragged into Gaza and held hostage. We know from those who have been released that the hostages are held in the most horrific and inhumane conditions – without enough sustenance, sunlight, and no medical attention for those who need it. 

Though the plague of darkness comes in next week’s parsha, an apt reminder of life buried alive in Gaza right now, we do see the beginning of our plagues this week. After the showdown of magic between Moshe, Aaron and Pharaoh’s sorcerers, Pharaoh’s heart hardens and he is unable to hear Moshe and Aaron. We rarely connect Pharaoh’s heart hardening, strengthening or his becoming stubborn, to the life of the Egyptian people or the Israelites fight for freedom.

God advises Moshe and Aaron to go to Pharaoh in the morning, and after he comes out of the Nile from bathing, to ask him to let our people go, or a plague will be brought as water turns to blood. As we know, they turned the water to blood and it smelled and there was no water to drink. Here is where things become interesting:

וַיַּֽעֲשׂוּ־כֵ֛ן חַרְטֻמֵּ֥י מִצְרַ֖יִם בְּלָטֵיהֶ֑ם וַיֶּחֱזַ֤ק לֵב־פַּרְעֹה֙ וְלֹא־שָׁמַ֣ע אֲלֵהֶ֔ם כַּאֲשֶׁ֖ר דִּבֶּ֥ר יְהֹוָֽה׃

“But when the Egyptian magician-priests did the same with their spells, Pharaoh’s heart stiffened and he did not heed them—as Adonai had said.”

So the Egyptian magicians tried to show Moshe and Aaron that they could do the same – turn water into blood – thereby making more water undrinkable, so that Pharaoh saw their strength. Pharaoh’s heart became stronger and he did not listen to Moshe and Aaron to let the people go. Where did that water come from, you ask, as all the water was supposedly already turned by the plague? Ibn Ezra teaches that Aaron only turned the water above ground into blood, the water he could see, whereas the magicians dug to find other water that they could turn into blood. Why didn’t they use that water to feed their people? Why did they choose to use that water to prove a magic trick and strength against Moshe and Aaron? 

וַיִּ֣פֶן פַּרְעֹ֔ה וַיָּבֹ֖א אֶל־בֵּית֑וֹ וְלֹא־שָׁ֥ת לִבּ֖וֹ גַּם־לָזֹֽאת׃

Pharaoh turned and went into his home, paying no regard even to this.

Pharaoh sees his own magician’s strength and abilities and does not even care about this, so he goes back home. Our rabbis, including Sforno, seem to see this as disbelief that our God, or Moshe and Aaron, have any strength or powers that his own magicians do not have. However, I agree with Haamek Davar, in that it seems more passive and dismissive of his own people. Whereas, he did not make an attempt to attain water for his country, because he was sure it was only witchcraft and the magic would soon vanish. 

If you have already caught on to the connections here, great and if not I will make them more clear: We are dealing with a situation in Israel and Gaza where thousands of innocent people are in need of humanitarian aid, support, housing, and help. AND there are IDF soldiers protecting their own lives, trying to eliminate the enemy of Hamas, and ultimately protect the people and state of Israel by fighting a powerful fight. Many people have said “we can hold both truths – the desire for safety of Israel and Israel’s people – and a desire to see innocent lives preserved.” It is so much easier said than practiced!

100 days since Hamas took innocent lives through some of the most gruesome acts of violence and hatred our world has ever seen. 

100 days since random people, of all ages, were taken, by force, into a living (hopefully) hell. 100 days since those living in Gaza, who are not Hamas, have been displaced, scared and had their lives uprooted. 

100 days since those living in Gaza, who are not Hamas, have wondered if they would receive humanitarian aid, shelter, guidance, sustenance. 

Pharaoh’s magicians dug for water knowing it was there and used it for their own power instead of helping their people. Moshe and Aaron turned water to blood to try and pressure Pharaoh, with ONE moment of discomfort, to let their people go and then everyone would go their own ways. Our people were slaves needing freedom, and they did whatever they needed to do to push Pharaoh to let them live their lives away from Egypt, in freedom, safety and peace. However, the suffering could have ended had the people been freed, or had Pharaoh’s magicians used their hidden resources to sustain life and livelihood for their people. Power and proving a point was more important than life to Pharaoh. And these are the same plagues we are living today! 

Bring Them Home Now

Comforting Love
by TBA Rabbinic Intern Ben Siegel

When I was a young boy, I’d play outside fairly regularly. My childhood home had a beautiful yard, a basketball hoop, and a sidewalk for biking. Inevitably, I’d fall down off my bike, and every so often, I’d bruise myself in the fall. I was a sensitive child, which meant that a bruise was frequently accompanied with tears. I’d fall and run crying to my parents, who would kiss the boo-boo and make it all better. In doing so, they didn’t do anything special. They didn’t apply a medication that removed the pain or even cast a spell to remove the pain, magical as it felt. They just managed to effectively convey their love. Their love was what ultimately removed my pain.

In this week’s parsha, Chayei Sarah, Isaac is similarly going through a painful time in his life. His mother dies and he enters into a deep mourning. According to one midrash, Isaac mourns his mother for three long years. I can only imagine Isaac feeling as though the intense feelings of loss will never cease. But then, he meets Rebekah. Of her, this week’s parsha says, “Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother’s death.” Ramban, a 13th century Spanish rabbi, explains that it is through Isaac’s love of Rebekah, and through her love of him, that Isaac is able to be comforted. Love is what removes his pain.

We live in a very painful period for world Jewry. With all the vitriol in the world, it’s very easy to get swept up in hateful rhetoric, hoping that it will be the answer to our hurt. But Ramban is reminding us that no matter how much we hate, our pain will not be sated. It is only through love, through connection with others, that we can hope to feel some semblance of consolation.

The path ahead is still murky. We do not know when something resembling peace can return to Israel. But what I do know is that the only way we can hope to get there is through leaning into our loving tendencies. Hold the door for a stranger. Put someone else’s shopping cart away for them. Make the world a kinder place. It won’t fix everything, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Seeing or Watching?
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

Testimony: Listening. Watching. Witnessing. Seeing. Right now, we are each of us doing this obsessively. We are listening to stories, watching videos, and witnessing a world in turmoil. However, what are we really seeing? Are we just allowing the algorithms of our social media and news profiles to show us the world? Are we only doom-scrolling through mediums and personalities that we agree with? Do we really see or know multiple perspectives? If we are not aware of the echo chamber of narratives are we really seeing or are we just watching? 

וַתֵּ֨רֶא שָׂרָ֜ה אֶֽת־בֶּן־הָגָ֧ר הַמִּצְרִ֛ית אֲשֶׁר־יָלְדָ֥ה לְאַבְרָהָ֖ם מְצַחֵֽק׃

“Sarah saw the son whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham playing.”

Sarah sees Ishmael, but she does not just notice him, she judges his behavior and makes assumptions of her own:

וַתֹּ֙אמֶר֙ לְאַבְרָהָ֔ם גָּרֵ֛שׁ הָאָמָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את וְאֶת־בְּנָ֑הּ כִּ֣י לֹ֤א יִירַשׁ֙ בֶּן־הָאָמָ֣ה הַזֹּ֔את עִם־בְּנִ֖י עִם־יִצְחָֽק׃

“She said to Abraham, ‘Cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.’”

Based on what Sarah encounters with Ishmael, she decides that he is a threat to her son, Isaac, and their family. Was that fair? No. Was it based on asking questions, experiencing multiple encounters, hearing different perspectives? No. It was a quick decision based on one moment of seeing Ishmael. Seeing Ishmael, in this moment, forges a future for him, and Hagar, that is complicated and dismissive. It is of course possible that Sarah truly saw something in this young boy that made her nervous for her child or family’s safety, but we do not know just based on her “seeing.” 

I am sure many of us are listening to stories and watching videos that make us feel that we have a full idea of anything going on. However, it is hard to know, without being inside a situation as to what we are not seeing, what we are not hearing, what we are not feeling. Sarah sees Ishmael, but the result is that Abraham is hurt by her judgment of him and his position in their family. Abraham ends up putting his attention on Hagar and Ishmael to protect them and create a prosperous and blessed life for them. And what comes next in Abraham’s parenting journey? The akeidah! Potentially the most epic story of being focused on the wrong goal, or not seeing the whole kaleidoscopic picture. 

The beginning of the parsha begins with seeing people approach Abraham and Sarah’s home and even in the toughest of moments welcoming them in. That moment brings Abraham closer to God, closer to the sanctity of being a leader. That is the type of seeing that we all strive to do. We hope to see people, whether they are strangers or angels, and invite them into our lives. We hope to treat them the same, and based on seeing them, hope to also listen to them, witness their stories and share our own with them. That is relationship. That is creating connection. 

This week, while you are listening to stories, watching videos, and witnessing a world in turmoil, think about what you are really seeing. Are you seeing the whole picture? Are you seeing multiple perspectives of a news story? Are you seeing the person who is speaking and in need? Are you seeing the world around you or are you just watching? 

Returning to Balance
By Rabbi Matt Shapiro

I know this parsha very, very well, except for one chapter. During rabbinical school, Dr. Ziony Zevit brought us through chapters 12-22 of the Abraham narrative as a way of learning and parsing Biblical Hebrew. He was meticulous, to put it likely, in ensuring we understood the nouns, the verbs, the conjugation…it was one of the more rigorous academic experiences of my life. But we skipped one chapter, chapter 14, because the language and the words were particularly complicated and obscure. 

And yet, in looking at Lech Lecha this week, it seems that this part of the narrative is what calls out most clearly, to me and to the fraught, painful moment in which we collectively find ourselves. The chapter is unusual for the stories we know of Abra(ha)m- rather than focusing on his personal journey or his family life, this focuses on his military exploits. In short, his nephew, Lot, is taken captive as part of an attack by a group of Canaanite kings, and Abram takes it upon himself to go into battle and rescue him, which he does successfully. 

On first glance, this seems at odds with how we think of our patriarch. Many of the commentators go out of their way to explain the apparent gap between a figure who becomes the rabbinic avatar for chesed, lovingkindness, and someone who is a military leader. For example, though the Torah specifies that Abram brings 318 people into battle, multiple rabbis note that by using gematria, the process through which Hebrew letters are assigned numbers and meaning is then drawn through various numerical connections, 318 is the gematria for Eliezer, Abram’s primary servant; per this understanding, Abram didn’t have a real military force, just one person supporting him. 

But that’s not the pshat, the simple and straightforward reading of the text. Abram decides that this is a moment in which armed conflict is necessary, and he takes it upon himself to follow through on that decision. It’s more compelling to take the narrative at face value and see what we might learn from it. Rabbeinu Bachya notices something about the choice that Abram makes in reestablishing the geographic boundaries. When it says in verse 14 that “he pursued as far as Dan,” Bachya engages in a bit of wordplay. He says that this is a reference to the attribute of justice, din, playing with the similarity between the tribal name and the Hebrew of the attribute. Why? Because, he teaches, they were pursued  “until the attribute of Justice caught up with these kings,” that at that point, there was no need for Avram to pursue any further. Abram does what he needs to do, no more and no less, a meaningful construct to reflect on when considering what our tradition teaches regarding armed conflict. 

More broadly, there’s the concept of pidyon shvuyim, redeeming of captives, running through this narrative, something that’s all too relevant and resonant in our minds and our hearts this Shabbat. As with so many topics in our tradition,there are a variety of sources and opinions about this concept, ranging from placing essential importance on ensuring that every single captive is returned to a sense of reluctance towards this obligation. The reluctance stems from the concern that this may encourage additional hostages being taken or too high of a price being extracted from the community, leading to an exploration of what, if any, parameters should be placed on this mitzvah. And, at the same time, there’s also an ultimate importance placed on this mitzvah; there’s no doubt some of the most powerful collective endeavors of Jewish peoplehood in modern times have been driven by this commandment. There are multiple values in play, and it’s exceedingly difficult to balance all of them just academically, let alone in a moment when lives are at stake, and the stories are painful, and the conflict rages. 

There’s a noteworthy moment at the end of the narrative when Abram receives an offer from one of his allies in the battle. In verse 21, the king of Sodom says to Abram “give me the persons and take the possessions for yourself,” that Abram can keep the property he has amassed in his victory, as long as the people are returned. Abram refuses, saying ‘I will not take so much as a thread or a sandal strap of what is yours’ (v. 23). Abram didn’t enter this battle for personal gain, so what does he want? Balance. All he’s seeking is to reestablish what came before- he won’t settle for less, and he also doesn’t need more. He won’t forfeit his nephew’s life, and he doesn’t need to come out ahead in the process. 

It’s essential to do everything we can to reestablish balance where it’s needed, in the world at large and within ourselves. We can also work to appreciate balance when it is present, internally and relationally, in our lives, as that can anchor us and guide us in restoring that which is off kilter and teetering. So, yes, this is a difficult chapter in the Torah, but not only because of its language. It also speaks to something that’s a real spiritual struggle for all of us, which actually makes it all the more fitting for us to read this overlooked narrative closely, certainly this week.

May it be a peaceful, rejuvenating, and freeing Shabbat for all of us. 

Empty Chairs and Open Doors
By Rabbi Hillary Chorny, Cantor

There is a feeling that cannot be described by the word “hope” alone. It is hope with the added ingredients of patience, and some impatience, and yearning and the grief that accompanies the yearning and feeling of not-yet that goes along with all of the above. This restless waiting for something we simply know in our hearts must be coming – perhaps it is best captured by the words Maimonides used in the preamble to his principles of faith: Ani ma’amin be’emunah sh’leimah – I believe with complete trust in the Divine.

This is the kind of hope represented by a door left ajar, not simply an invitation but an indication of confidence and trust. A door that cannot be closed because someone is coming, or perhaps coming back. We witness a moment like this in Parshat Noah, when the ark is nearly full and the rains threaten the fullness of the flood. 

וַיָּבֹ֥אוּ אֶל־נֹ֖חַ אֶל־הַתֵּבָ֑ה שְׁנַ֤יִם שְׁנַ֙יִם֙ מִכׇּל־הַבָּשָׂ֔ר אֲשֶׁר־בּ֖וֹ ר֥וּחַ חַיִּֽים׃ 

They came to Noah into the ark, two each of all flesh in which there was breath of life. 

וְהַבָּאִ֗ים זָכָ֨ר וּנְקֵבָ֤ה מִכׇּל־בָּשָׂר֙ בָּ֔אוּ כַּֽאֲשֶׁ֛ר צִוָּ֥ה אֹת֖וֹ אֱלֹהִ֑ים וַיִּסְגֹּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה בַּֽעֲדֽוֹ׃ 

Thus they that entered comprised male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him. And יהוה shut him in. (Gen. 7:15-16)

How could Noah have known that he had properly collected every pair of creatures on the earth? On and on the animals paraded into the ark; the rescue must have seemed endless, infinite. I imagine Noah waiting just inside the door of the ark as more and more creatures slid into the vessel. We learned back in verse 10 and thereafter that the flood waters had already burst open and the sea wilded. It must have been a wickedly scary sight out the door of the ark and yet. And yet. Noah could not bring himself to close the door. וַיִּסְגֹּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה בַּֽעֲדֽוֹ – God shut the door on Noah’s behalf. The Chizkuni, a 13th c. biblical commentary, wrote that Noah was terrified that he might miss even one species should he close the door prematurely. So he waited, and waited, and a holy wind blew the door shut as if to say, You’ve done all you could.

This year we read Parshat Noah as a brutal war rages in Israel, one that began with attacks of terror that led to hundreds captured and more than a thousand deaths. The captives include some active duty military but also many civilians, from young children to the elderly. 203 individuals remain in captivity as we move into Shabbat and we are praying with doors wide open. Expectantly. Praying with the kind of fervent emunah shleimah that mixes hope with certitude. At the Tel Aviv Museum of Art, a Shabbat table stretches wide across their plaza, 203 empty chairs set and waiting for the whole and safe return of each person being held.

In our own Cafe TBA space, I have been working on an adaptation of The Empty Table – השולחן העזוב: a ritual that is used in the military to acknowledge those who are missing in action and otherwise captive and not yet released. Here is our chance, your chance, to turn art into a ritual salve. We will flip the wine glasses upside down in the true absence of a l’Chayim. We’ll add a pinch of salt to the plate, knowing that wherever they are, their food is salted by the same tears that fall on your plate. And we’ll sing Eliyahu Hanavi, blending the images of an empty chair and an open door, both associated with the prophet Elijah and the holy promise of return and redemption.

You are invited to join us as we emplace the table with great honor and solemnity next Tuesday, Oct. 24 at Temple Beth Am following evening minyan (5:45 pm minyan; program at approx. 6:15 M). Join us as we set the table and pray with full hearts and brimming eyes for the return of each life, unharmed. 

Read more about the ritual here.

The Power of Choice
TBA Rabbinic Intern Ben Sigal

Like many of you, my heart has been aching this week. Every story I hear from Israel of the horrors that were unleashed there breaks my heart into even more pieces in a way I didn’t know possible. The idea of a pogrom happening in the homeland of our people is unthinkable, and yet today it is reality. One of the many things that’s so incomprehensible is that humans can treat other humans in such vicious ways. Coincidentally enough, our parsha this week, Bereshit, has some insight into how this came to be.

This week we read the story of Cain and Abel, a story about the potential humanity has for destruction. But even before that, we read of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Rabbeinu Bahya, a 14th Spanish rabbi, explains that when Eve eventually eats from this tree, it is not knowledge that she gains but willpower and freedom of choice. Prior to eating from the tree, humankind was set up to do only as they were programmed. It’s not that we as a species were unable to sin, Rabbeinu Bahya explains, but that we were unable to act illogically. We could only act in such ways as were logical for us, and so we were unable to sin. But once humans ate from the tree, we gained the ability to act in ways that may be illogical. We gained the will to do good and bad instead of just automatically doing the right thing without thinking about it.

What this means, unfortunately, is that humans are capable of unleashing destruction upon one another. It means, sadly, that the horrible scenes coming out of Israel can happen because humanity is capable of destroying one another. But it also means that when humanity acts for good, it does so despite the ability to be able to engage in such horrors.

Coming out of chag I saw so many terrible scenes, but there was one Instagram reel that helped to piece my shattered heart together. It showed lines snaking through malls of Israelis waiting to give blood. By now, whole arenas are filled with Israelis giving blood to help support the medical infrastructure. The video clip also showed Israeli children, for whom school is currently closed, taking their free time to write letters and make pictures to send to soldiers on the front. This video portrayed the beauty of Israeli society as Israelis from all backgrounds banded together to collect food, clothing, toys, and more for those who lived in towns evacuated by the IDF.

Since watching that Instagram reel, I’ve heard more and more related stories. Stories of people being turned away from giving blood because the blood drives were at max capacity. Stories of El Al flights full of soldiers returning from abroad to report for reserve duty. Soldiers leaving their lives in peaceful countries to defend those in need. Stories of regular citizens collecting resources and handing out food to soldiers going to war.

This is the flip side of the free will that we were given. Free will means that when we choose to do good, it’s that much more powerful than if we did that good without a choice. Yes, we are capable of pure destruction, but when we use our free will for good, that good feels so much better.

Later in the parsha, we do eventually read the story of Cain and Abel. After killing Abel, Cain cries out to God, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” We know the answer. But we’re also seeing the answer today in real time. Israelis are absolutely each other’s keeper. And what makes it possible to truly be each other’s keeper is the free will we were granted.

My blessing for us all (and it’s important to remember in the middle of this destruction that there are still blessings to be found in this world) is that we use the power of our free will for good. May we all find the power to rise to goodness in opposition to evil and to remain steadfast in being each other’s keeper.

Vulnerable Structure, Sturdy System
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld
Sukkot 2023 5784

In the practice of law, and religion (ie, religious law), it makes sense to generally have an accepted way of doing something. While some variation in observance is both natural/inevitable, and even positive in reinforcing our lack of certainty regarding THE one way God and the tradition expects us to behave, I think we can all agree that if everyone set up and lit their hanukiot exactly as they wanted to, without nodding to inherited tradition, we’d lose some of the wonderful sameness that binds Jews together across time and space.

Recently, a TBA member asked about a very precise aspect of waving the lulav/etrog, about which there are, indeed, different opinions and customs. We waive the four species on their own, and then also during parts of reciting Hallel.  Most seem to agree that they should be waived in 6 directions (forward, right, back, left, up and down–though the order seems to be fluid among different Jewish communities and customs).  And most seem to agree that we should refrain from waiving while we are uttering God’s name in prayer, lest we are seen to be waiving them at God, or suggesting an apotropaic power to the ritual.  But there are at least two dominant customs about when, specifically, to waive them when reciting this phrase in Hallel: אנה ה׳ הושיעה נא/ana adonai hoshia na (Please, God, save us!).  Since one of those words is God’s name, some observe the custom of waiving in two directions on each of three other words in the phrase. And some observe the custom of waiving in one direction on each of the the six non-God syllables in the phrase.  Picayune, I know. I share it as an example of an embedded but minor variance in Jewish practice. Jews following the two different customs can stand, and waive, next to another in services and still feel they are both observing the same mitzvah, and participating in the same ritual. But if one person observed the custom by waiving them in 6 directions on that line, and another person’s custom was, say,  to throw them up in the air and then catch them with one hand (admittedly, a silly example), the two adjacent Jews would feel very ritually disconnected to one another.

Therefore, it makes sense that how the law about basic elements of building a sukkah evolved and concretized resulted in near unanimity about “major” components of that structure. In particular, all religious authorities that I am aware of agree that for it to be a kosher sukkah, it must satisfy the category of דירת עראי/dirat arai, or “temporary dwelling.”  A sukkah is intentionally flimsy. It should not withstand hurricane-strength winds. It is supposed to denote vulnerability, a nod to our ancestors’ sojourn through the desert. 

However, a quick look at the Talmudic discussion on the topic reveals that, 2000 years ago, as Jewish law was in its birthing mode, there was robust disagreement on this point of practice.  In masekhet/tractate Sukkah (page 7b) we have a list of at least 7 rabbis, including Rabban Gamliel (with the “Rabban”title denoting his status as that generation’s lead rabbinic authority), who believe the exact opposite regarding the structure of the Sukkah! To them, it must be דירת קבע/dirat keva–a permanent structure. Or, at least, a temporary structure that is as sturdy and strong as a permanent building.  

Clearly, that opinion “lost” the battle of commonly accepted practice.  But it is preserved, lovingly and carefully, in our sacred texts–one of literally thousands of examples of how rabbinic culture found a way both to create basic homogeneity of ritual observance and deep respect for and embrace of differing opinions.  

May we all, generally, observe Sukkot similarly this year. Sitting in relatively flimsy booths, and reciting the same words for the appropriate blessing. Waiving our lulav rather than throwing it. Using an etrog, and not a lemon. Etc… And may we also be curious about, and seek out, the opinions of those with whom we disagree, eager to understand their rationales, and, perhaps, even eager to ensure that their ideas about all sorts of things – whether or not they are canonized in practice – are respected. And preserved. There to be learned about, for generations to come.