Jewish Accountability - Individual and Communal
September 16, 2022 – כ׳ באלול תשפ׳׳ב
Parashat Ki Tavo – פרשת כי תבוא
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Yael Aranoff

Every High Holiday season, Jewish communities around the world gather together and publicly recite confessions of a variety of sins. I have often wondered at this part of the prayers. While I can certainly acknowledge that there are sins on the list that I am guilty of in any given year, there are typically a number of sins that I confess to while praying in community during the High Holidays that I have not committed. I imagine that many people can relate to some, but not all, of the sins we confess to on the High Holidays. So why do we do this? Why not only confess to our individual sins of the year, perhaps at the end of the silent Amidah, when we can reflect on our own actions and where we want to do better personally in the coming year? Is it not enough to go through the process of teshuvah, of repentance and return, going around to each of the people we have personally harmed during the course of the year, apologizing, pledging to do better next year, and perhaps thinking of casting away these personal sins with a variety of customs for the season, such as tashlikh? Perhaps we can gain some insight as to what is going on with the communal public proclamation of sins, that each individual may or may not be personally guilty of, by looking to this week’s parashah, Ki Tavo.

In Ki Tavo, in Deuteronomy 27:12-14, Moshe instructs the people of Israel that after crossing the Jordan, six tribes “shall stand on Mount Gerizim when the blessing for the people is spoken. And for the curse…” six tribes “…shall stand on Mount Eival. The Levites shall then proclaim in a loud voice to all the people of Israel” the curses and the blessings.

While the Levites are addressing “all the people of Israel” who are standing by tribe on these two mountains, emphasizing a collective experience, the grammar found initially in the curses and blessings listed in Deuteronomy 27 and much of Deuteronomy 28 is in the singular, emphasizing individual consequence: with ׳ארור׳-“arur”-“cursed” and ׳ברוך׳-“barukh”-“blessed” repeated throughout in the singular form. There is a shift in the grammar towards the end of Deuteronomy chapter 28 to a plural form, for example: ׳עליכם׳-“alikhem”-“upon you” found twice in the plural form and ׳אתכם׳-“etkhem”­-“you” found four times in the plural form in Deuteronomy 28:63. The simultaneous focus on the individual and the communal in this parashah encapsulates the balancing act that is asked of us as individual members of the Jewish people.

There is a part of a verse in Ki Tavo that the rabbis share a teaching on in the Talmud that beautifully captures this balance:

׳וְהָיִ֜יתָ מְמַשֵּׁ֣שׁ בַּֽצׇּהֳרַ֗יִם כַּאֲשֶׁ֨ר יְמַשֵּׁ֤שׁ הַֽעִוֵּר֙ בָּאֲפֵלָ֔ה...׳ (דברים כ׳׳ח:כ׳׳ט)

“You shall grope at noon as the person who is blind gropes in the darkness…” (Deuteronomy 28:29)

“It is taught in a baraita [rabbinic source] that Rabbi Yosei said: ‘All of my life I was troubled by this verse, which I did not understand: “And you shall grope at noon as the person who is blind gropes in the darkness” (Deuteronomy 28:29). I was perplexed: What does it matter to a person who is blind whether it is dark or light? I continued to ponder the matter until the following incident occurred to me. I was once walking in the absolute darkness of the night, and I saw a man who was blind who was walking on his way with a torch in his hands. I said to him: My son, why do you need this torch if you are blind? He said to me: As long as I have a torch in my hand, people see me and save me from the pits and the thorns and the thistles.’”

(Talmud Bavli, Megillah 24b)

In this Talmudic tale, the man who is blind holds himself personally accountable for his physical safety by carrying a torch while walking at night, while the community is responsible for seeing him by the light of the torch that he carries and helping to ensure his physical safety. The interplay between individual and communal accountability expressed here is a core value of Judaism—in every generation, we, the Jewish people, are simultaneously held accountable for our own actions and for the actions of our community.

So, let’s return to where this leaves us for the upcoming High Holiday season. It seems to me that while there are certainly a number of places in our tradition to do teshuvah for our individual sins specific to 5782, reciting the communal confession during the liturgy is not separate from that teshuvah process. Rather, as we are held accountable both as individuals and as a community, we recite all the sins in the prayers, whether we relate to them or not. If there is a chance that even one member of our community might relate to a sin that we cannot relate to, we are responsible for one another’s spiritual safety just as much as we are responsible for one another’s physical safety, and so we confess the sins aloud and together, pledging to do better in 5783, simultaneously as individuals and as a community.

Returning What I've Found
Taste of Torah 9/9/22
Parshat Ki Teitzei

By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Chayva Lehrman

I found an ox wandering through Los Angeles the other day. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and I asked my boyfriend, “Is this truly an ox?” “Shor,” he replied. ¹

It was a imaginary ox, of course, wandering through my mind’s eye as I studied this week’s parasha:

לֹֽא־תִרְאֶה֩ אֶת־שׁ֨וֹר אָחִ֜יךָ א֤וֹ אֶת־שֵׂיוֹ֙ נִדָּחִ֔ים וְהִתְעַלַּמְתָּ֖ מֵהֶ֑ם הָשֵׁ֥ב תְּשִׁיבֵ֖ם לְאָחִֽיךָ׃

If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow. (Deuteronomy 22:1)

The instruction continues: if you do not know who owns the stray livestock, or you do but they live far away, you must take it home and take care of it until its owner claims it. Furthermore, this law is not only for ox and sheep; it also applies to donkeys, clothing, and truly anything that someone loses. Indifference or negligence is expressly forbidden.

I don’t know about you, but I’m lucky if I can keep track of a pair of sunglasses through a summer season - people lose things all the time! How can we possibly live up to this massive obligation? Such an ethical system would make us so indebted to each other we could possibly never achieve its aims.

Fortunately, Talmud provides some helpful guidelines (Bava Metzia 27b-30b). Among them: the rule about returning clothing only applies if the clothing has distinguishing marks on it; the donkey must have overturned its saddlebags; the value of the lost item or animal must be less than the value of the labor to care for and return it, etc. And so on, and so forth.

It seems like we might not be so obligated to burdensome mitzvot as we thought. But is this a good thing?

In the TV series “The Good Place,” philosophy professor Chidi Anagonye (William Jackson Harper) teaches, “Principles aren’t principles when you pick and choose when you’re gonna follow them.”

Where is the line between clarifying a principle and diminishing its power? How do we know the level of our obligation to others?

Moral philosopher (and real person) Peter Singer famously designed a threshold test for our personal obligation.² Imagine a person in a $1000 outfit sees a child drowning in a pond. They have a choice: save the child and ruin the expensive outfit, or save the outfit and let the child drown. The obvious ethical choice is to save the child. But here it gets interesting. For now that we, the audience, have set a value on a child's life, every time we purchase a luxury good when we know we can save a life with that money we are making the same choice as the man in the story. It’s a strong argument that has plagued philosophy students for decades. But do we really have an almost unlimited duty to others we do not know?

Like our commandment to return all lost property, Singer’s philosophy can feel excessively demanding. But it is not very Jewish. Maimonides, based upon Talmudic commentary, teaches that one must sustain the poor of one’s own community - the ones you see suffering in front of you - before you extend your tzedakah to people far away, even if they might have greater need.

Rabbis in every age have recognized that human relationships matter, and that in those relationships we must strive to be as good as we possibly can be, but we have limits. Judaism does not ask an unlimited duty from us; it asks that we do the best that we realistically can do. Amidst recounting all the exemptions and limitations to our mutual responsibility, Maimonides says that one who wants to walk b’derech hatov v’hayashar, the good and upright path, will go beyond the letter of the law and seek to return all that they find. As Chidi Anagonye put it, “We choose to be good because of our bonds with other people and our innate desire to treat them with dignity. Simply put, we are not in this alone.”

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¹ The Hebrew word for ox is שור, pronounced “shor.”
² Peter Singer, "Famine, Affluence, and Morality,” Philosophy and Public Affairs, 1972.

A Wholehearted Relationship with God
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Ben Sigal

                With the Yamim Noraim around the corner, it’s easy to feel discouraged by our imperfections. As we review our flaws, our broken promises, our inconsistencies, we can find ourselves growing overwhelmed and depressed. Thankfully, we have the words of the Baal Shem Tov and his commentary on this week’s parsha, Shoftim, to help put us at ease.

In chapter 18 of Deuteronomy, the Torah lists various forms of prohibited worship: no child sacrifice, no divination, no necromancy, among others. Interestingly, directly after this list, the Torah commands, “Be wholehearted with the Lord your God.”

This statement seems to come out of the blue! Weren’t we just talking about the evils of witchcraft and wizardry? What is this random verse doing in there?

The Baal Shem Tov looks at this verse and theorizes what it means to be ‘wholehearted.’ To do this, he goes back to the opening lines of the parasha, where it states, “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes.” Here, the Baal Shem Tov understands the passage as a directive from God. Just as we need magistrates and officials for our society to operate, God wants us to understand that we live under the rule of a higher power as well. 

The Baal Shem Tov then looks to the sixth chapter of Proverbs to continue his point, seeing it as the opposite of what we are commanded in our parasha. “Lazybones, go to the ant; Study its ways and learn. Without leaders, officials, or rulers, it lays up its stores during the summer, gathers in its food at the harvest.” In life, we can choose to be like the ant, hastily going about our business with no knowledge of the world at large, the universe, or of God’s divine presence. We can still accomplish many of our goals, but these goals will not be motivated by a sacred purpose. Therefore, our accomplishments will feel hollow and devoid of the greater meaning we seek.

Alternatively, we can live our lives with a knowledge of God’s existence. We can set out to accomplish our same goals, this time with higher aspirations to connect to something deeper. 

According to the Baal Shem Tov, ‘wholeheartedness’ is the very knowledge of the presence of God. We may act poorly, but a small part of us knows the truth: there is an entity greater than ourselves in the world. God has expectations for us, and perhaps next time, we can do better. In other words, so long as we strive to maintain any form of understanding of God, we inch toward a better version of ourselves.

As the Yamim Noraim approach, I have been finding small pockets of time to sit and reflect. I’ve done many things this year I’m not proud of. And while I haven’t committed any child sacrifice or necromancy, I’ve certainly missed the mark on many occasions. But the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov bring me comfort. Sure, I’ve made mistakes, but I am not an ant busily going about my work, blind to anything save the task at hand. Instead, I am a full human, blessed to feel a part of God’s world. And as I ponder my small role in God’s great universe, I find my heart opening. And there, in that feeling of wholeheartedness, do I find the inspiration to improve myself in the year to come.  

What do Weight Watchers and Hasidism Have in Common?
By TBA Ritual Innovator, Cantor Michelle Stone

I’ve been doing Weight Watchers on and off for about 20 years now (OK, mostly off!). Each morning when I open the app, it displays an inspiring message. My favorite message goes something like this: “Today is a new day to start again.” Even if you didn’t stick to the program yesterday, or last week, or the last six months, this morning is a new opportunity to make smart choices. I find this powerful because it forgives me for the past and shifts my focus to what’s ahead and the goals I want to achieve.

This week’s parsha, Re’eh, opens with the following verses, “See, this day I set before you blessing and curse; blessing, that you listen to the commandments that the Lord, your God, I command you THIS day; and curse, if you do not listen to the of the Lord, your God, but turn away from the path that I command you THIS day and follow other gods that you do not know.” This idea, that there will be blessing if you follow the mitzvot and curses if you do not, is a common theme of the book of Deuteronomy. I find this theology hard to relate to, as we know that is not how the world works. So, I turned to some Hasidic masters to learn how they address this dichotomy. The Sefat Emet, Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger, focuses on a grammatical anomaly in the text. He notes that the blessing part says that “you will listen to the commandments,” but when it mentions the curses, the text writes, “IF you do not listen.” The assumption is that the Israelites will obey the mitzvot, but if they don’t, there are consequences. He explains that the inclination to do good is inherent; we are, by our very nature, predisposed to do the right thing. But, we aren’t perfect, and sometimes we make mistakes and don’t make good choices. The Sefat Emet says that is why the text emphasizes the word hayom, “this day,” which he teaches refers to every day. He writes, “Israel as a whole certainly heard and accepted the Torah. Even if they have fallen away since then, each day they are given the choice anew.” Yesterdays mistakes do not determine the choices we make today. Each day we have the opportunity in front of us to choose the path we want to be on. And if we buy into the Sefat Emet’s optimism, it is natural for us to choose the “right” one.

The Maggid of Mezritch, the 18th century Hasidic Master, adds another layer to these verses, focusing on intention and awareness. As stated above, we have the opportunity each day to choose the path of blessing or the path of curse. The Maggid teaches the importance of awareness in our daily choices. He writes, “It is our awareness that places us before this day, the loves and pleasures, and they contain blessing and curse, together. The blessing is within them if you listen.” Every day, we have an abundance of choices to make, and we are lucky to have the freedom to make those decisions. But to make the “right” choices, we need to listen deeply. It takes intention and awareness. This is part of the Weight Watchers program also – awareness is fundamental to successful self care. Eating mindlessly is a common challenge.

Being mindful and aware of why you make food (and other) choices is one of the keys to success on the program.

The month of Elul begins this weekend. We start the month-long process of teshuva that will culminate in the High Holidays in just 4 weeks (gasp!). It is supposed to be a month of introspection and self evaluation. Yes, of course, part of teshuva is accountability for what we’ve done in the past, but it is also an opportunity to ask ourselves who we want to be in the future. It is a month of asking, “What kind of person, parent, partner, friend, child, etc. do I aspire to be?” These Hasidic masters (and WW!) provide us with a reminder of some of the tools that can help us through this process. Even if we have made mistakes in the past, each morning, we have the opportunity, with awareness, to start fresh and listen deeply to the voice that leads us to the right path.

Listen. Then Love - Our Mezuzot of Relationship Building

In 2 weeks, I will be celebrating Shabbat in Jerusalem as the rabbinic leader for a Honeymoon Israel trip. Honeymoon Israel is a brilliant organization that focuses on expanding cultural, religious and historical connection to Judaism for new couples. Groups are organized by city so that when they return home they have new community and friends to explore their Judaism together. Often, these groups also have many interfaith couples, coming to Israel to experience their religions together, in one meaningful place. After staffing my first HMI trip for a cohort in San Francisco, I shared with them, with tears in my eyes, that as a conservative rabbi who does not perform intermarriages, this trip taught me more about building Jewish family than I had ever thought possible. 

Last week we read the verses of Shema and v’Ahavta. One of my favorite teachings, from Rabbi Ed Feinstein, comes from these passages as a framework of building a home or supportive relationships. We first see the mezuzah before entering the home and know that the Shema and v’Ahavta are inside. We see the sign and know the first two words inside mean “listen” and “you shall love.” Which comes first, Rabbi Feinstein asks? Listen, shema. We should see the mezuzah before entering our home and recognize that we are entering into a space where listening is most important. Following shema we read the word, v’ahavta - and you should love. Rabbi Feinstein says, it is important that only after listening, and opening your heart and mind to the others in your home, that we are capable of then saying, “and now I will love.” 

We see the mezuzah and we walk into a home, into our relationships, and first we listen and then we love. Often the listening leads to loving, but at times, just like with God, we need to listen and allow what we hear to help us love more intentionally. 

 

In Eikev, we read the second paragraph of the shema that has a more harsh reality from God. If you listen and love God, good will come to you, and if you do not God will be angry and make life difficult for you. However, the connection to God’s love and support softens with a solution in Chapter 11 of Deuteronomy, verses 18-20. Here are the famous lines where we get the tradition of t’fillin and mezuzot: “You shall put these words on your hearts and on your souls and bind them as a sign on your arms and as a symbol between your eyes. You will teach them to your children. Speaking these words when you are seated in your homes, walking on your way, lying down or standing up. And you shall write them on mezuzot on your homes and your gates.” 

We should hear God, so we can love God. AND, we need reminders all around us as to what our connection is, our commitment should be, and when we must open up to listen.. 

 

Our Honeymoon Israel participants are coming together to Israel, often excited but uncomfortable. “Will my husband think he needs to convert for me?” “Will hearing the history be one that excludes my non-Jewish spouse?” “Will experiencing the harsh religious realities be overwhelming and offensive to my non-binary partner?” 

This is a trip to listen and this is a trip to fall in love. 

 

A trip to fall in love with a tradition, a culture, a homeland shared with everyone represented on our bus. 

This is a trip to figure out what those metaphorical and traditional mezuzot are that we put up on our home to remember to listen, to learn, to support and then to love. 

This is a trip to explore what those signs are to attach to our physical selves as a spiritual reminder of connection, of communication and of belonging. 

In two weeks, on our first day in Jerusalem, I hope to be creating a Shabbat experience where I invite us all to learn how to listen and find new love in what we hear.

To Give and To Forgive
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld, August 12, 2022

Can we live more generously than God? It seems like a preposterous question, at least from certain theological angles. If God is creator, and thus bequeathed to us life and consciousness, how could we ever aspire to giving as much or more to anyone than what God gave to us? On the other hand, there are poignant moments in Torah where God seems parsimonious, and unwilling to stretch in order to give even what is deserved, let alone what is not yet earned.  Which means there is room, in that image of God, for us to aspire towards and beyond God’s beneficence.

We have one of those occasions in the opening lines of Vaethanan.  As is well-known, most of the book of Devarim/Deuteronomy, of which Vaethanan is the second parsha, is old material, law and narrative, recast.  Moshe is reminiscing, retelling the tale of Exodus and the meanderings in the desert.  When our parsha opens, Moshe is remembering the moment he asked God to permit him to enter the land, thus overturning God’s punishment.  The verb he chooses, which gives our parsha its name, is a curious one.  ואתחנן.  Va’ethanan.  This is normally translated as “I pleaded,” from the root ח-נ-ן (h-n-n).  Rashi takes a different approach, reading the verb as if it is built from the root ח-נ-ם (h-n-m), which means “free” or “without reason or merit.”  Playing with the possibility that the final נ/nun in the root was changed from a מ/mem (letters that are adjacent to one another both in the alphabet and in pronunciation), Rashi says Moshe pleaded, knowing he had no case.  He had earned the punishment that had been given to him, but still he begged for mercy. 

This is a very different read than the one offered by Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, known as the Baal HaTurim (13th-14th C France/Spain). He believes the root suggests that Moshe was pleading his case, on merits. He references the previous verse (with which Parshat Devarim ends) in which Moshe exhorted and reassured the Israelites about their relationship with God.  He efforted to bring God and Israel together, so that Israel would feel bonded to the divine, and would follow God’s laws and paths. Moshe reasoned that for that leadership effort, he had earned enough chips to cash in for a ticket to enter the land of Israel. So he pleaded with God, as if to say “Be reasonable! I know you have been angry with me. But have I not redeemed myself? Do I not deserve this reprieve?”

It is important to remember that whichever way you read the verb, God’s answer was and is the same: no. Whether Moshe felt he deserved this, or was asking for an unearned charity, God keeps the door closed.  Moshe is not to enter.

When I read this verse in shul, I am at times overcome with sadness.  Who else deserved divine grace (both earned and simply bestowed) more than Moshe?  And still, Moshe was denied. What are we to learn from this?  Perhaps two lessons that are in internal conflict. One–sometimes a hard, unexplained, unwavering “no” is what is called for. Societies and families and communities and individuals need rules, limits, boundaries and even disappointments to function coherently.  And…Two–the pang we feel when we are reminded of God’s harshly maintaining that very “no” may be the seed that grows inside us for us to become a flower of generosity, stretching beyond what God was able to do, bestowing our love, forgiveness, softness and grace both to those who have earned it as well to those who have not yet. 

To be human is to err. But perhaps to be human is also to give, and forgive, even beyond what God is capable of doing.

Shabbat Shalom

Listening with Humility
By Rabbi Matt Shapiro

The more people I meet and the more I learn of the world, the less I feel I know. I grew up relatively sheltered and fairly oblivious, a nice, well-off Jewish kid in the suburbs of Chicago. Because of how our society is structured, as I grew up, I was able to feel safe, seen, and welcomed in society because my gender, race (the way in which many Ashkenazi Jews came to be seen as white in America over the course of the 20th century is a fascinating conversation for another time!), sexuality, and gender all lined up in the normative ways of the time to maximize those possibilities for me. As I’ve come to understand, that makes me an outlier- the majority of people aren’t in the same position and therefore have to fight harder and navigate far more obstacles to feel heard in the ways that I assumed as given. 

Over time, I’ve come to see not only how blinkered my perspective was, but how damaging it can be to have those blinkers on. I miss out on how other people experience the world, and because I miss that, not only am I not able to help them, I implicitly continue to elevate my own position and perspective over theirs because of the innate privileges society has arbitrarily awarded me. 

So: what does that have to do with the parsha? This week, we read of Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, the daughters of a man named Tzelophechad. He died without any male heirs, and they bring a claim to Moses that they should still be able to inherit their father’s land, objecting to him that “why should the name of our father be lost from his family because he had no son? Give us a holding among our father’s brothers!” (Numbers 27:4) Moses, in turn, brings that claim to God, who agrees with the five daughters- God responds that their perspective is just, and they should inherit their father’s land. A clear message is articulated here, that even God, somehow, hadn’t noticed this before, that there’s a gap in the divine laws that have been transmitted which must not only be addressed but corrected. 

Avraham Eisen writes that “the story of Zelophehad’s daughters teaches that in order to change reality we must establish three basic conditions: sounding the voice of the casualties, leadership that is unafraid to make unpopular decisions, and the search for a long-term solution.” Moses and God accomplish these tasks as the story unfolds, and each of us can as well. 

I work at hearing a broader spectrum of  voices who speak to the way our world currently functions and being open to how that can change the way in which I walk in the world myself. It can be painful, and that’s why it’s important. 

In reviewing this episode, there’s something I noticed for the first time: we don’t hear from the daughters after the decision is made. Are they relieved? Glad? Wishing they had asked for even greater equality in the system? The text doesn’t tell us. Even though this is, rightly, held up as a relatively feminist story within the larger narrative of the Torah, they ultimately still seem to be the antagonists in the story, the ones who create the change within the system. The protagonists, the ones who undergo the change, are still the male characters (there’s Moses, and God who, however we might consider and rethink theology today, is still pretty clearly considered to be male within the context of the Torah). The shift is real, but incomplete. Lasting change, per Eisen’s comment, would entail not only having the voices heard, but a system in which women aren’t just the agitators for change, but the central focus of the narrative

And still- there’s a striking power in the humility expressed through the story. If even God can miss something so central to the perspective of a person, surely we can as well. If there are people that haven’t had their voice fully heard within our society, this episode highlights to us that to truly be in line with what our tradition teaches, we must listen to them with open ears and open hearts. When I worked at Beit T’shuvah, one of the go-to truisms was that the hardest words to say in the English language are “oops, I made a mistake.” It might vary in difficulty for different people, but, at least for me, being able to admit my errors isn’t something that comes easily. I’ve had to cultivate that ability over time, and it’s something I still need to work at. This narrative tells us that it’s a truly holy act to be able to say those tough five words: “oops, I made a mistake.” 

When we do, we listen to the call coming out of the text and into our lives. We move towards perfecting our tradition and the world, not by avoiding our fallibility or our blind sports, but by acknowledging them and learning through them. I grew up in a certain way, which in turn led me to act in a certain way, but that doesn’t have to continue. Following the example of our parsha, I can pause, say ‘oops,’ listen more fully and carefully, and work to find whatever long-term solutions are needed to bring us all into a more equitable world moving forward.

Shabbat shalom. 

The White Space of the Scroll, And of the Soul
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld
Parshat Balak 7/15/2022

All of midrash contains projection and stretching. Unless we hold by the rather absolutist notion that the rabbis of the Talmudic/Midrashic era were individually and specifically inspired by God in their writings, such that what emerged was not just organic, but rather the very intent of the Holy One, we can honestly lean in to the notion that in interpreting our inherited sacred texts, we are creating new material. Part of that material is the stuff of the texts themselves. Part of that material is the stuff of our minds and imagination. I embrace that fully.

And since I embrace that fully, I can find wonderful wisdom in, and applications for, even the stretchiest of midrashic interpretations. Including one from Parshat Balak, a version of which I also shared at a shiva minyan this week. The wisdom has to do with slowing down and considering the beauty of what one is inheriting. But how the wisdom is arrived at? It’s a snake path.

If you have ever looked at a Torah scroll, you know that there are partial and full line-breaks, as if the celestial author pressed “tab” or “return” on the divine keyboard.  One of the oddities of Parshat Balak is that the narrative is laid out in one endless column (over 4 plus actual columns of text) with no interruptions. It makes it, therefore, very hard to find one’s place in the reading if the yad has been moved since the previous aliyah.  Why does the torah scroll look like that? We have no certain answer. Within Jewish tradition, the layout of the scroll is as old as the scroll itself. It’s just how we received it.

But I am touched by a creative read by the Hafetz Hayyim (Rabbi Israel Mayer Kagan, 19th-10th C. Poland. It is said that during his lifetime he was one of the most famous Jews alive, his renown compared to that of Shalom Aleichem, the author).  He relies on a midrash that explains the reason for the paragraph breaks themselves.  The midrash imagines Moshe, the initial scribe, writing down paragraph after paragraph, and then needing to pause. To ruminate. To think about what he was receiving and transmitting. To slow down the lightning-quick process of revelation. In that white space amidst the dark ink we are to conjure Moshe’s daydreams. His questions on God’s word. His wondering about what it all meant.  Those breaks are the proof of a man who thought, considered, questioned and meditated on the heady material–all traits that our tradition venerates, both in study and prayer.

In contrast, much of Parshat Balak contains the spoken words of the mercenary prophet Bilaam, who was hired to curse the Jews but praised them instead.  Whereas Bilaam was ultimately not a man of wickedness like King Balak, nor was he a Moshe.  According to the Hafetz Hayim, Bilaam was in it for the money. He was hired to do a task, and so the quicker he rushed through it, the sooner he would be available for another gig. There was no reflection. No cautiousness. Yes, he praised us. But mostly because God forced his hand. He is not to be reviled. But he is also not to be emulated.

Ever since I have returned from my recent yoga and meditation retreat, I have felt overly hurried by the constraints of daily minyan, and even Shabbat services, which do indeed need to end at a reasonable time. I know the words. And still, racing through them feels like I am racing past them. Not permitting them to penetrate.  I have found myself lingering on one word at a time, savoring a phrase for a few luxurious seconds, creating the white space in my mind, akin to the white space on the Torah scroll, that represents not just revelation offered, but revelation received.

בס"ד

To Make You Feel My Love

Rabbi Schatz - Parashat Hukkat 2022

In memory of my uncle, Dr. Lee Goodglick z”l

 

8 years ago, my uncle, Dr. Lee Goodglick died of Pancreatic Cancer. Many of you have heard me talk about him over the years as part of my Torah learning, my Yizkor giving and my life live-ing. With every year that passes I miss him differently, I miss him more distantly and I try to continue finding ways to make me feel his love. In this week’s parasha, Hukkat, we learn of the death of Miriam and Aaron and their sibling Moshe goes through steps of grief - some clear and others hidden. So this Taste of Torah is a compilation of pieces I shared or will be sharing this Shabbat: Table for Five from the Jewish Journal and my text study source sheet for Beiteinu. May we each continue to live finding ways to hold onto those we love and not only make sure they feel our love but that we find ways to feel theirs in moments that are most difficult. 

 

 

May the memory of Hillel ben Zev v’Sarah continue to live for a blessing in our lives and hearts

 

 

 

 

במדבר כ׳:א׳-ב׳

וַיָּבֹ֣אוּ בְנֵֽי־יִ֠שְׂרָאֵ֠ל כׇּל־הָ֨עֵדָ֤ה מִדְבַּר־צִן֙ בַּחֹ֣דֶשׁ הָֽרִאשׁ֔וֹן וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב הָעָ֖ם בְּקָדֵ֑שׁ וַתָּ֤מׇת שָׁם֙ מִרְיָ֔ם וַתִּקָּבֵ֖ר שָֽׁם׃ וְלֹא־הָ֥יָה מַ֖יִם לָעֵדָ֑ה וַיִּקָּ֣הֲל֔וּ עַל־מֹשֶׁ֖ה וְעַֽל־אַהֲרֹֽן׃

Numbers 20:1-2

The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there. The community was without water, and they joined against Moses and Aaron.

 

Or HaChaim on Numbers 20:1:1

ויבאו בני ישראל, The children of Israel arrived, etc. Why did the Torah have to emphasize that כל העדה, "the whole congregation" arrived in the desert of Tzin? Who would have doubted that the whole people traveled together? We have learned (Bamidbar Rabbah end of Parshat Balak) on a previous occasion that whenever the Jewish people were on a moral/ethical high they are referred to as בני ישראל. On occasions when they were guilty of rebellious behavior (such as Numbers 14,11 and many others) they are described as עם;[...] This interpretation agrees with a statement by our sages that the words כל העדה, mean עדה שלמה, "a perfect congregation."

 

Or HaChaim on Numbers 20:1:4

ותמת שם מרים, Miriam died there, etc. Why did the Torah have to write the word שם, "there?" Our sages in Moed Katan 28 say that the people buried Miriam near the place where she died. [...] Seeing the Torah mention the death of this righteous woman it also was concerned with the honor due to the body of such a righteous woman stating she was interred on the spot. We learned in Berachot 18 that the righteous are called "alive" even after they have died a physical death. When the Torah said שם, it wanted to remind us that Miriam was "dead" only "there," i.e. on earth [...]

 

תענית ט׳ א:ט׳

מֵיתִיבִי, רַבִּי יוֹסֵי בְּרַבִּי יְהוּדָה אוֹמֵר: שְׁלֹשָׁה פַּרְנָסִים טוֹבִים עָמְדוּ לְיִשְׂרָאֵל, אֵלּוּ הֵן: מֹשֶׁה וְאַהֲרֹן וּמִרְיָם. וְשָׁלֹשׁ מַתָּנוֹת טוֹבוֹת נִיתְּנוּ עַל יָדָם, וְאֵלּוּ הֵן: בְּאֵר, וְעָנָן, וּמָן. בְּאֵר — בִּזְכוּת מִרְיָם, עַמּוּד עָנָן — בִּזְכוּת אַהֲרֹן, מָן — בִּזְכוּת מֹשֶׁה. מֵתָה מִרְיָם — נִסְתַּלֵּק הַבְּאֵר, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״וַתָּמׇת שָׁם מִרְיָם״, וּכְתִיב בָּתְרֵיהּ: ״וְלֹא הָיָה מַיִם לָעֵדָה״, וְחָזְרָה בִּזְכוּת שְׁנֵיהֶן.

Taanit 9a:9

The Gemara raises an objection from a baraita: Rabbi Yosei, son of Rabbi Yehuda, says: Three good sustainers rose up for the Jewish people during the exodus from Egypt, and they are: Moses, Aaron and Miriam. And three good gifts were given from Heaven through their agency, and these are they: The well of water, the pillar of cloud, and the manna. He elaborates: The well was given to the Jewish people in the merit of Miriam; the pillar of cloud was in the merit of Aaron; and the manna in the merit of Moses. When Miriam died the well disappeared, as it is stated: “And Miriam died there”

 

במדבר כ׳:ו׳

וַיָּבֹא֩ מֹשֶׁ֨ה וְאַהֲרֹ֜ן מִפְּנֵ֣י הַקָּהָ֗ל אֶל־פֶּ֙תַח֙ אֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵ֔ד וַֽיִּפְּל֖וּ עַל־פְּנֵיהֶ֑ם וַיֵּרָ֥א כְבוֹד־ה' אֲלֵיהֶֽם׃

Numbers 20:6

Moses and Aaron came away from the congregation to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, and fell on their faces. The Presence of ה' appeared to them

 

Ibn Ezra on Numbers 20:6:2

ויפלו על פניהם. להתפלל וי"א לדרוש את השם בנבואה:

AND FELL UPON THEIR FACES. To pray. Other interpret, to prophetically inquire of God.

 

Otzar Midrashim, Aharon, Midrash on the Death of Aharon 3

"I lost the three shepherds in one month" (Zecharia 11:8); and thus, in one month, Aaron, Miriam, and Moses died. [...] Each had a gift that they gave to the Israelites. By the merit of Miriam, God gave the well, by the merit of Aaron, the clouds of glory, By the merit of Moses, the Mana. When Miriam died, the well closed so the Israelites could see that it was by her merit that God granted them the well. Moses and Aaron bewailed her internally, and the Israelites did so publicly. Moses didn't know about the Israelites mourning until after six hours, when the Israelites came to them and said: "how long will you sit and mourn?" He said to them "should I not continue to mourn my sister who has died." "They said to him: "just as you mourn for one soul, all the more so mourn for all of us." He said to them: "why" They said to him "because we do not have water to drink." He stood and went and saw that there was no water in the well, and he began to argue with them, he said: "did I not say to you that I can't carry this people on my own, did I not appoint for you officers for the thousands, and officers for the hundreds, and the fifties, and the twenties, I gave you officials, and chiefs, and great elders, and they are to busy themselves with your problems." They said to him: "Everything is on you, for you are the one who brought us out of Egypt and brought us to this terrible place, if you give us water, everything will be fine, but if you don't, then we will stone you." When Moses heard this, he fled from them and went into the tent of meeting.

 

 

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Numbers 20:7, 8, 11

and ה' spoke to Moses, saying:                                               וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר ה' אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃

 

קַ֣ח אֶת־הַמַּטֶּ֗ה וְהַקְהֵ֤ל אֶת־הָעֵדָה֙ אַתָּה֙ וְאַהֲרֹ֣ן אָחִ֔יךָ וְדִבַּרְתֶּ֧ם אֶל־הַסֶּ֛לַע לְעֵינֵיהֶ֖ם וְנָתַ֣ן מֵימָ֑יו וְהוֹצֵאתָ֨ לָהֶ֥ם מַ֙יִם֙ מִן־הַסֶּ֔לַע וְהִשְׁקִיתָ֥ אֶת־הָעֵדָ֖ה וְאֶת־בְּעִירָֽם׃

 

“You and your brother Aaron take the rod and assemble the community, and before their very eyes speak to the rock to yield its water. Thus you shall produce water for them from the rock and provide drink for the congregation and their beasts.”

 

וַיָּ֨רֶם מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶת־יָד֗וֹ וַיַּ֧ךְ אֶת־הַסֶּ֛לַע בְּמַטֵּ֖הוּ פַּעֲמָ֑יִם וַיֵּצְאוּ֙ מַ֣יִם רַבִּ֔ים וַתֵּ֥שְׁתְּ הָעֵדָ֖ה וּבְעִירָֽם:       

 

And Moses raised his hand and struck the rock twice with his rod. Out came copious water, and the community and their beasts drank.

 

Berakhot 6b:14

Rav Pappa said: The primary reward for attending a house of mourning [bei tammaya] is for the silence, which is the optimal manner for those consoling the mourners to express their empathy.

 

Numbers 20:25-29

קַ֚ח אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹ֔ן וְאֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֖ר בְּנ֑וֹ וְהַ֥עַל אֹתָ֖ם הֹ֥ר הָהָֽר׃ וְהַפְשֵׁ֤ט אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹן֙ אֶת־בְּגָדָ֔יו וְהִלְבַּשְׁתָּ֖ם אֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֣ר בְּנ֑וֹ וְאַהֲרֹ֥ן יֵאָסֵ֖ף וּמֵ֥ת שָֽׁם׃ וַיַּ֣עַשׂ מֹשֶׁ֔ה כַּאֲשֶׁ֖ר צִוָּ֣ה ה' וַֽיַּעֲלוּ֙ אֶל־הֹ֣ר הָהָ֔ר לְעֵינֵ֖י כׇּל־הָעֵדָֽה׃ וַיַּפְשֵׁט֩ מֹשֶׁ֨ה אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹ֜ן אֶת־בְּגָדָ֗יו וַיַּלְבֵּ֤שׁ אֹתָם֙ אֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֣ר בְּנ֔וֹ וַיָּ֧מׇת אַהֲרֹ֛ן שָׁ֖ם בְּרֹ֣אשׁ הָהָ֑ר וַיֵּ֧רֶד מֹשֶׁ֛ה וְאֶלְעָזָ֖ר מִן־הָהָֽר׃ וַיִּרְאוּ֙ כׇּל־הָ֣עֵדָ֔ה כִּ֥י גָוַ֖ע אַהֲרֹ֑ן וַיִּבְכּ֤וּ אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹן֙ שְׁלֹשִׁ֣ים י֔וֹם כֹּ֖ל בֵּ֥ית יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃

 

Take Aaron and his son Eleazar and bring them up on Mount Hor. Strip Aaron of his vestments and put them on his son Eleazar. There Aaron shall be gathered unto the dead.” Moses did as ה' had commanded. They ascended Mount Hor in the sight of the whole community. Moses stripped Aaron of his vestments and put them on his son Eleazar, and Aaron died there on the summit of the mountain. When Moses and Eleazar came down from the mountain, the whole community knew that Aaron had breathed his last. All the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days.

 

Akeidat Yitzchak 81:1:6

[...] It is not sufficient to grasp the opportunity for peace when it presents itself, but it must be actively sought out at all times. For that reason Hillel urged that one be a disciple of Aaron, the High Priest, who excelled in the pursuit of peace. Avot de Rabbi Natan 12, describes Aaron as going so far as to involve himself in family or other personal quarrels, unbidden, in order not to miss an opportunity to restore peace and harmony where it had been shattered. When he died, all sections of the nation cried, having been aware of his outstanding contribution to the unity of the people, and how his departure from amongst the living, might endanger the nation's well being.

 

stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance

 

Adele “Make You Feel My Love”

When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love

 

When the evening shadows and the stars appear

And there is no one there to dry your tears

I could hold you for a million years

To make you feel my love

DVAR KORACH
In the Name of Heaven, in the Name of Love
By Rabbinical Student Julia Knobloch

Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end endure; But one that is not for the sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his congregation.

This famous passage from Pirkei Avot 5:17 seems easily accessible: Shammai and Hillel, in their disagreements, strive to best interpret and bring to life the divine message, regardless of their personal benefits. Korach, the rebellious priest who disagreed with Moses and Aarons’ leadership and took with him 20.000 people into the desert’s abyss, was only concerned about his ego.

But you might say: What is so holy about minute halachic matters, which Shammai and Hillel focused on? Isn’t dry legalese the opposite of any spiritual exploration of Divinity? Isn’t Korach reaching for the sky, making bold, inspiring claims? Doesn’t he have a point, when he hurls at Moses and Aaron:

וַיִּֽקָּהֲל֞וּ עַל־מֹשֶׁ֣ה וְעַֽל־אַהֲרֹ֗ן וַיֹּאמְר֣וּ אֲלֵהֶם֮ רַב־לָכֶם֒ כִּ֤י כׇל־הָֽעֵדָה֙ כֻּלָּ֣ם קְדֹשִׁ֔ים וּבְתוֹכָ֖ם יְהֹוָ֑ה וּמַדּ֥וּעַ תִּֽתְנַשְּׂא֖וּ עַל־קְהַ֥ל יְהֹוָֽה

“You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and יהוה is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above יהוה’s congregation?”

Korach seems to appeal to basic democratic ideals – we are all holy, we are all equal, there should be no hierarchical structures. But what he also says is that we should pursue our opportunity and seize the moment when we think it’s right.

Besides the short-sightedness of such a reasoning that is likely to lead to chaotic, unbridled competition, the other poignant problem about Korach’s argument is that he pretends to be speaking for all people, when in fact he only speaks for himself. He uses a good cause – We are all holy! – to make a self-serving argument: His desire is not for the community to thrive or have the best possible leadership. His desire is to obtain what he thinks he deserves.

You might say: There is nothing inherently wrong about wanting to attain what one desires. After all, the moral of our country is built on the self-evident truth that we should all strive for our personal benefit, seize the moment. We should all dream and demand to be leaders.

Yet we witness every day what living primarily according to such a premise can do to the health and stability of our societies, communities, and interpersonal relationships: Self-centeredness and empty phrases have long been a figurative plague for human interaction, and the literal

pandemic has intensified – made acceptable – a “me-first-attitude,” often disguised as “self-care.”

Where is the line between giving oneself the space one needs on the one hand, and indifferent egoism on the other? To what degree can we expect from our fellow humans that they give just a bit more than they feel like in order to improve the emotional or economic well-being of another person or a communal body? Can we demand a sense of responsibility, an awareness that giving of ourselves can lead to receiving back?

One of Temple Beth Am’s tote bags quotes Winston Churchill: “We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.”

Giving can also mean to step back, to withdraw and thus create new opportunities: for us, for others.

These questions are related to the Korach episode precisely because Korach makes a beautiful sounding argument that turns out to be only lip-service.

He doesn’t care about the holiness of the person next to him. He is not creating new possibilities, not for himself, and clearly not for others. He is neither making an argument for the sake of heaven, nor in the name of heaven, which is a more literal translation of לְשֵׁם שָׁמַיִם.

Unlike a Catholic priest, a Jewish clergy person is not seen as the middle man of God on earth. Rabbis, just like folks who didn’t go to Rabbinical School, simply interpret Torah. They may be better set up to put certain texts into perspective, but they are not, by virtue of their title, more holy than other people. They paid to get a degree. And yet, rabbis – rabbinical students – are expected to be speaking for the sake of heaven, in the name of heaven, more often. This expectation cries out for honest and frequent self-examination:

Am I interested in the broader issue that I am representing, or primarily in my own performance and my favorable reception by the audience? Do I – will I be able to - live up to what I am preaching? Am I holding myself to the same high standards to which I am holding others?

Yet in our competitive, anxious, and easily manipulated society, it is difficult to be self-critical, or to give constructive feedback in a way that doesn’t come across antagonizing. In order to accept (self)-criticism, we need to accept the fact that we are not perfect. We need to embrace the possibility that even if we get a B in any given context, we’re still lovable and lovely human beings: Moses even failed as a leader a few times, and still he is to this day a beloved prophet like no other. Hillel and Shammai constantly disagreed, and while there emerged a clear winner between the two, Yevamot 14b asserts that they were able to create a sustainable and inclusive society:

Although Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel are in disagreement on the questions of (marital and personal status), Beit Shammai did not, nevertheless, abstain from marrying women of the families of Beit Hillel, nor did Beit Hillel refrain from marrying those of Beit Shammai. This is to teach you that they showed love and friendship towards one another, thus putting into practice the Scriptural text: Love ye truth and peace. (Zechariah 8:16)

We can’t always be there for everyone, and we will need to make choices. Sometimes, life happens. And because that is inevitably the case, we need to be more careful with the claims, promises, and demands we make. We need to be more humble in the way we look at ourselves, our expectations, our capacities, our words. Not in a self-deprecating or aloof way, but in a confident and caring way. If we learn to better manage our feelings of insecurity and jealousy (something Korach arguably wasn’t good at), it can make us feel less pressured to succeed always in only the most stellar way possible, and it can help us accept the shortcomings of our fellows with more understanding, in the name of Heaven, i.e. God, and in the name of Love, which arguably might be the same, as Rabbi Nachman writes, in Likutei Moharan 56:8.

The point is that peace is dependent upon daat, as has been explained, while dispute is the absence of daat. Nevertheless, there is dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, which in truth is very great daat, even greater than the daat of peace. For in fact, such dispute is great love and peace, as our Sages, of blessed memory, said (Kiddushin 30b): et vaHeV be’Sufah (אֶת־וָהֵ֣ב בְּסוּפָ֔ה Numbers 21:14) – they do not move from there (from one of their stations on the way) until they become oHaVim (lovers). This is the meaning of what our Sages, of blessed memory, said: Dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end prove constructive. (Avot 5:17) This is the aspect of love, as it is written, et vaHeV be’Sufah, as explained above.

Shabbat Shalom!

I am grateful for a source sheet prepared by my fellow T’ruah peer, Adam Gillman, for the inspiration it provided with the Rabbi Nachman and Yevamot passages I quote here.

Buy Them Herring!

B'midbar 6/3/22

By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

 

One of my favorite jokes “from the shtetl” is the one about the pauper who begs a kopek from a wealthy matron. Taking pity on his miserable situation, she gives him a single coin. She is aghast, an hour later, when she sees him delighting in the delicacy of herring, a relative luxury back then. “I give you a kopek and you waste it all on expensive herring?!”  His response is classic: “Dear lady…when I didn’t have a kopek, I couldn’t afford herring. Now that I have a kopek, you still don’t think I can have herring. So tell me…when can I possibly have herring?!”

 

The joke satirizes any valor that someone might associate with poverty, or lack of means. In the joke, the woman represents the one who is generous, but cynical. Who is sympathetic, but not empathetic. Who thinks the man deserves something, but certainly not the same comforts and delicacies she enjoys.  She looks askance at him, and assumes there is something less about him because he has less.

 

Via a complicated, but ultimately powerful, interpretation of the opening lines of Parshat Bemidbar, a rabbi known as the Kli Yakar (Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Lunchitz, 16th-17th C Prague) makes the argument that we act differently towards those we assume have less, and thus begrudge them basic things, including our own good will.  Similarly, we overestimate the strength and vitality of those who present with more things, with more robust holdings.  His comment is actually a comment on Rashi, who tells us that the census in Bemidbar (the 3rd census we have encountered in Torah) was not done by a head-to-head count.  Rather the word גלגולת/gulgolet, which is often translated a skull, is used in the verse commanding the census to refer to the half-shekel tax that each adult gave, and which was given “head-by-head.”  In this census what was counted was coins, not heads of people. Why? According to centuries-old superstition, counting individual people makes them vulnerable to the עין הרע/ayin hara, or the “evil eye” (ptooey ptooey ptooey!).  This is why, to this day, even in non-overly-superstitious communities, a minyan is counted not by assigning the people a #, but by counting off a 10-word verse to see if you get to the end. This way, we (again, superstitiously), “protect” the individuals from any attack or vulnerability associated with the evil eye.  

 

According to the Kli Yakar, Rashi says this because at this time the people are already vulnerable in the census. Why? Because we generally are suspicious when #s that we expect to be low end up higher. Just as we are suspicious when paupers get delicacies.  And why do we expect this # to be low? Because since the previous census, there was the incident of the golden calf.  As punishment, many Israelites were killed. So we expect this census’s # to be lower than the previous. Since this census actually will show a # similar to the previous one, the Kli Yakar suggests that the universe’s reaction to this new # will be cynical, suspicious and almost disapproving. That is the perfect time for the evil eye to strike.  So to confound that ayin hara, we count with shekels. Not with people.

Convoluted, I know.  Sometimes rabbinic interpretation is that labyrinthine. But within the inner sanctum of this interpretation is a caution to us all: not to begrudge the gifts and blessings of those we assume lack them. Whatever we believe about the evil eye, we do indeed contribute to their vulnerability when we look askance upon what they do have. As Tevye put it, it is no shame to be poor. But it is no great honor, either.  Rather than contribute to any shame those who lack do feel, we might as well give them the kopek. Even better–buy them some herring.

By Rabbi Matt Shapiro

This is an adapted excerpt from the sermon Rabbi Shapiro will deliver on Shabbat, since May is Mental Health Awareness Month. We invite you to join us tomorrow if you’d like to hear more!

Building Healthy Communities
A few months ago, the Jewish Federation in New York shared a report from an in-depth survey of a wide-ranging cross-section of Jews in the greater New York area. They looked into a wide-ranging number of topics from poverty to religious observance to substance abuse. 

Though I’d recommend looking at the full study, there are two specific data points I’d like to call your attention to- first, they found that one in five adults in Jewish homes experienced anxiety and/or depression during the pandemic, of whom only half were seeking or planned to seek professional support. Second, here’s an equally interesting set of data points- the survey reports that “feeling like part of the local Jewish community is associated with a 25% reduction in an individual’s odds of anxiety/depression…attending Jewish programs is related to the chance of having anxiety/depression being reduced by about half…similarly, attending religious services is associated with the likelihood of anxiety/depression being reduced by 75%.” This is, of course, not to say that synagogue will cure your depression nor that everyone here has impeccable mental health; we also don’t know what’s correlation or causation- does coming to shul help with anxiety and depression, or are people who are experiencing these challenges just less likely to show up? Whatever the link, there’s clearly a relationship between community connection and mental health. 

Now, this might seem fairly intuitive- we’ve known this from the very beginning. Upon seeing the first person in the world, God quickly notes lo tov hot adam l’vado, that it’s not good for man to be alone; our religious civilization is built upon the role of community- we celebrate together, we mourn together, we pray together. And, of course, it’s not only Jews who need community and relationship in our lives- all people do. In his recent book, Lost Connections, which explores both sources of and responses to anxiety and depression, Johann Hari specifically brings out this idea, though with a more anthropological lens. He points out that, in the earliest days of humanity, we were only able to survive because of how we worked together, and therefore it actually makes biological sense that we experience higher rates of anxiety and depression when we’re lonely. He writes that “Every human instinct,” he writes, “is honed not for life on your own, but for life in a tribe.” 

With that in mind, it’s no surprise that those who consistently are a part of a community show signs of greater well-being- briefly returning to the survey, it was reported that “respondents with no social network to depend on for help report mental health problems at a rate five times higher than those with a social network of 10 or more persons.” The facts also cast a particularly sharp focus on how challenging the past two-plus years have been. No matter how nimble we’ve pivoted for the umpteenth time, no matter how compelling our various Zoom offerings have been, there’s still no substitute for being together, in person, sharing time as a community. We’ve been scattered, and we’ve only recently, finally, been able to consistently join together. 

But the challenge of finding our tribe, of knowing our place, isn’t a new one. There’s a construct within our tradition that’s mentioned in this week’s parsha (and explored in greater depth in last week’s parsha) that offers a solution invites us to go one step deeper than coming to schmooze during musaf- the year of yovel, the jubilee year. After seven cycles of seven years, with the shmita, sabbatical, year being a year of rest for the land, the yovel is a doubling of this year, in which a number of other societal shifts unfold, including the striking commandment that, in this 50th year, all land holdings return to their original owners. In Vayikra 25:10, we’re told

וְשַׁבְתֶּ֗ם אִ֚ישׁ אֶל־אֲחֻזָּת֔וֹ וְאִ֥ישׁ אֶל־מִשְׁפַּחְתּ֖וֹ תָּשֻֽׁבוּ׃

each of you shall return to your holding and each of you shall return to your family.

Now, the logistics of this would, obviously, be complicated- I’m neither a farmer nor a land use attorney, so I’m limited in my understanding of exactly how that would work. I’d invite you to look at this from the lens of relationship and community: everyone, every person, no matter who they are or what has happened over the years, has a place, and everyone has a right to return to that place. What does it mean to return to your family’s home, its holding? What would this world look like if each of us, truly, knew that we always had a home?

For some of us, that might feel complicated; in fact, for some of us, considering a return to family may be uncomfortable or even scary. So, if your family of origin, the place that you came from, was not a place of safety or a place that felt like ‘home’ to you, I’d invite you to envision this as a return to a place that truly feels like a home to you, whatever or wherever that may be. The jubilee year is the great equalizer, an ultimate reminder that we each have inherent value and infinite worth; to cite a text I often turn to, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz wrote about how we each have a place in the garden that is our world that’s uniquely ours, to care for it in the way that only we can.

Release and Redemption

Dvar Parashat Dvar

By Rabbinic Resident Julia Knobloch

Had I been born Jewish, Parashat Behar would have been my Bat Mitzvah portion. There’s another reason why Behar feels like a special parsha for me, especially this year: Last Friday, I turned 49. Thus has begun my 50th year – my personal Yovel year. As it says in Vayikra 25:8; 10:

וְסָפַרְתָּ֣ לְךָ֗ שֶׁ֚בַע שַׁבְּתֹ֣ת שָׁנִ֔ים שֶׁ֥בַע שָׁנִ֖ים שֶׁ֣בַע פְּעָמִ֑ים וְהָי֣וּ לְךָ֗ יְמֵי֙ שֶׁ֚בַע שַׁבְּתֹ֣ת הַשָּׁנִ֔ים תֵּ֥שַׁע וְאַרְבָּעִ֖ים שָׁנָֽה׃

וְקִדַּשְׁתֶּ֗ם אֵ֣ת שְׁנַ֤ת הַחֲמִשִּׁים֙ שָׁנָ֔ה וּקְרָאתֶ֥ם דְּר֛וֹר בָּאָ֖רֶץ לְכׇל־יֹשְׁבֶ֑יהָ יוֹבֵ֥ל הִוא֙ תִּהְיֶ֣ה לָכֶ֔ם(…)

And you shall count you seven Sabbaths of years, seven years seven times, and the days of the seven Sabbaths of years shall come to forty-nine years. (…) And you shall hallow the fiftieth year and call a release in the land to all its inhabitants. A jubilee it shall be for you (…)

While scholars debate whether the Yovel year was ever enacted, there is consensus that the Shmitta year, which marks a rest for all agri-and viticultural work every seven years, was indeed observed, as it is still today -- in fact, our current year 5782 is a Shmitta year in Israel. The Yovel, or Jubilee, year takes the idea of rest and reboot 7 times 7 further, at least theoretically: Purchased property will revert to its original owner. Slaves will be freed. Debts will be forgiven. It is a year of complete release, of letting go and starting from scratch. A year of redemption.

Now, the word redemption is a big word and difficult to define, especially for modern, secular-minded sensitivities, which even those of us who engage in the religious tradition of our ancestors may have. It seems laden with eschatological, maybe even apocalyptical imagery, a word some shy away from because they hear a zealous tone in it. This year I spent the days leading up to and during Pesach discussing just a few of its possible meanings – and barely scratched the surface of the subject. For this dvar, I want to turn to Jeremiah and the haftarah for Behar and look at another angle of the correlation between the Yovel year and redemption in one’s 50th year.

Jeremiah, the prophet who can’t refrain from delivering messages of destruction to his fellow Judahites, who despise him for his constant rebuking, has remained wife-and childless, as a living symbol of hopelessness: The future is too bleak to settle down and sire children. He finds himself in jail on account of his doomsday agitations, when the word of God comes to him:

הִנֵּ֣ה חֲנַמְאֵ֗ל בֶּן־שַׁלֻּם֙ דֹּֽדְךָ֔ בָּ֥א אֵלֶ֖יךָ לֵאמֹ֑ר קְנֵ֣ה לְךָ֗ אֶת־שָׂדִי֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר בַּעֲנָת֔וֹת כִּ֥י לְךָ֛ מִשְׁפַּ֥ט הַגְּאֻלָּ֖ה לִקְנֽוֹת׃

Look, Hanamel the son of Shallum your uncle is coming to you, saying: Buy for yourself my field which is in Anathoth, for yours is the right of redemption to buy.

Why buy a field – a common metaphor for sowing hope - when everything is hopeless? The significance is that precisely after all, there is hope, there is a future, God will not abandon God’s

people entirely, after the punishment there will be forgiveness and rebirth. There will be new crops growing on the field that Jeremiah redeems.

The fascinating thing about the root גאל is the same thing that’s fascinating about the Hebrew language and Torah and Tanakh in general: It can take on different, sometimes opposing meanings. It hovers between the prosaic and the lyrical, between the practical and the lofty, between the secular and the sacred. A redeemer is not only, not even first and foremost, a messianic figure that will bring the times when mountains melt and all nations shall celebrate the biggest Sukkot.

In Biblical language and cultural context, a redeemer is a next-of-kin with the necessary means to buy property from a relative who has fallen on hard times, needs cash, and can’t or doesn’t want to take on responsibility for a piece of land that should stay in the clan’s possession.

We know a similar case from the Book of Ruth, where Boaz is actually not the first in line to redeem the property of Naomi’s dead husband, but he scares the respective relative away with the warning that if he buys Elimelech’s field, he’ll also have to redeem, i.e. take care of, that Moabite woman who lives with Naomi -- and so Boaz gets to do all the honors. Redemption, both in Ruth and in this chapter of Jeremiah, is a worldly, matter-of-fact purchase, witnessed by witnesses and sealed with a deed. And, like the religious redemption, it is liberating in that it releases one person from a certain debt and especially in its expression of hope for better days:

כִּ֣י כֹ֥ה אָמַ֛ר יְהֹוָ֥ה צְבָא֖וֹת אֱלֹהֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל ע֣וֹד יִקָּנ֥וּ בָתִּ֛ים וְשָׂד֥וֹת וּכְרָמִ֖ים בָּאָ֥רֶץ הַזֹּֽאת׃ For thus said the LORD of Armies, God of Israel: Yet shall houses and fields and vineyards be bought in this land.

Jeremiah is not the only prophet who uses the imagery of trampled fields, unpruned vineyards, and barren wilderness to drive home his point of divine punishment. And he is not the only prophet to use the same imagery as metaphors for potential beginnings, for reconciliation and new sprouts, so ingrained in the narrative of the Israelites as well as the State of Israel: Take us back to the desert, to the place where our love was young. Make the wilderness bloom. Turn the Negev green.

Parashat Behar and its haftarah connect Mount Sinai with Judah. They both focus on agricultural processes that took on religious meaning and significance. The redemptive Yovel year at the end of a 49-year cycle – it can’t get more complete – more revelatory? - than that. And what does that mean for one’s own 50th year?

Had I been born Jewish, I would have been born on the 11th of Iyar, the 26th of the 49 days of the Omer, on the day of the sefirot Hod shebe Netzach – humility in resilience, humble endurance. I resonate with this. The decade of my 40s began with a divorce – certainly a liberation and the promise of redemption – and has seen a lot of wandering. Mostly internal, and largely intentional, but not necessarily leading to the longed-for outcome, the flourishing crops, the deed sealed in an earthenware jug. And yet, I have continued, grateful for the good and the love I have been given, ever balancing as best as I could both the frustration and serenity that come

with increasing life-experience. It is painful to approach one’s 50th year without having biological children, especially when one always wanted to sow and build property to pass on to a next generation. And yet, after difficult years of accepting that without releasing certain hopes I can’t focus on new ones, I am finally excited for the beginning of a new cycle, this personal Yovel year, which I will largely spend in Jerusalem for the academic year. I can’t wait to see what new opportunities await, whom I will follow through unsown lands, what fields I will cultivate.

You Shall Not Pass - Emor 5782/2022
By Rabbinic Resident Jacki Honig

This week we find lots of rules for the Kohanim in the Temple, both in our Torah reading from Emor and our haftarah reading from Ezekiel. 

The rules here are striking, there are clear boundaries being drawn, arguably for the sake of the Temple. The first thing explained in the haftarah is that the priests must be descendants from Zadok, an earlier priest, who remained loyal. Only they may administer to G!d, these boundaries are clearly being drawn for G!d’s sake. We then have rules about keeping their hair in shape, not to be drunk while serving in the Temple, and then rules about who they may or may not marry. Many of these rules are repetitions of what is read in the parsha. Lots of rules, even more in the parsha, and seemingly all to create a boundary.

Ezekiel then turns to the job of the Kohanim:

וְאֶת־עַמִּ֣י יוֹר֔וּ בֵּ֥ין קֹ֖דֶשׁ לְחֹ֑ל וּבֵין־טָמֵ֥א לְטָה֖וֹר יֽוֹדִעֻֽם׃

They shall declare to My people what is sacred and what is profane, and inform them what is clean and what is unclean.

Here they are to draw lines, they are to decide what is pure or impure, they are to set the boundaries of the kodesh and the chol, the sacred and the mundane.  

They are also living by example: they are setting boundaries in their lives before setting rules for the people as a reminder that boundaries are important. Their boundaries are created for the sake of the Temple and the sake of G!d.

After the role of the priests in the Temple is explained, there is another boundary:

וְאֶל־מֵ֣ת אָדָ֔ם לֹ֥א יָב֖וֹא לְטׇמְאָ֑ה

 A priest should not come to defile himself [through contact with] a deceased person.

This makes sense, and again is for the sake of the Temple. If the priests just went and became impure willy nilly the Temple would be facing all sorts of staffing shortages. The priests need to separate themselves in some ways from the community to ultimately serve the community. 

But then, we see one final boundary, and this one seems different:

כִּ֣י אִם־לְאָ֡ב וּ֠לְאֵ֠ם וּלְבֵ֨ן וּלְבַ֜ת לְאָ֗ח וּלְאָח֛וֹת אֲשֶֽׁר־לֹא־הָיְתָ֥ה לְאִ֖ישׁ יִטַּמָּֽאוּ

He shall defile himself only for father or mother, son or daughter, brother or unmarried sister.

There is an exception to the rule, and it’s a strong one. For what the Torah considers to be direct family members, not only “may” the Kohen or “perhaps” become impure, it uses a future tense form, the Kohen -will- defile himself. This, I would say, is a boundary set for the sake of the Kohanim themselves. The Kohanim need ability to care for their loved one who has passed, care for their community, and ultimately care for themselves. While they are impure they cannot serve in the Temple and they need to, and they get to, focus on what is in front of them. And on themselves.

So much of their lives is dedicated to the needs of the Temple, and so much of our lives are dedicated in the service of others.  This moment gives us a different lesson: you have to take care of yourself, too, sometimes.

It is easy for us to dedicate our lives to something and someone else. It is easy to draw boundaries around ourselves for the sake of things we care about, a little or a lot. It’s easy to say “I can’t go out on a weeknight because I have work in the morning.” And a little harder, but not the hardest, to say “I can’t go for brunch because I’m taking my friend on an errand.”

At least for me, though, but I think for many of us, the hardest of all is to set the boundary for my own sake. I cannot do this thing because I need the time to myself, I have something else I want to do, I’m just not interested. But this, too, is a boundary that our text and our tradition is telling us to set.

It is a challenge, and it is also permission. Next time you are faced with setting a boundary that’s hard for you, especially one for yourself, I hope you take our tradition’s permission, rise to the challenge, and take care of yourself. You’re worth it. Shabbat shalom.

Taste of Haftarah: Choosing Holiness

By David Kaplinsky

 

The Haftarah for this week comes from the Prophet Amos, a literary prophet from the Southern kingdom of Judah, but who came North to prophesy against the kingdom of Israel in the mid 700s BCE. Amos, then, was an outsider in two ways, as he seems also to have been one of the few prophets not to have acted as one full-time. The book of Amos in fact begins by describing him as a sheepherder from Tekoa—he simply is compelled to prophesy against the injustices and aberrations perpetrated around him in the Northern Kingdom under that worst of all Northern Kings, Jeroboam II.

            Our Torah portion this week, Kedoshim, is focused on the many ways God exhorted the Israelites to be a holy nation, both in terms of ritual purity as well as acting justly in interpersonal behavior. Amos, incidentally, is concerned with admonishing the people for violating that holiness in these same two areas of God’s law. However, Amos in this haftarah perhaps takes this message of “kedoshim tihyu”, “you shall be holy” to its natural, but radical conclusion: that when Israel does not act holy, they are not holy at all. Our haftarah begins with such a challenge to the people:

 

הֲל֣וֹא כִבְנֵי֩ כֻשִׁיִּ֨ים אַתֶּ֥ם לִ֛י בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל נְאֻם־יְהֹוָ֑ה הֲל֣וֹא אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל הֶעֱלֵ֙יתִי֙ מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם

וּפְלִשְׁתִּיִּ֥ים מִכַּפְתּ֖וֹר וַאֲרָ֥ם מִקִּֽיר׃

To Me, O Israelites, you are Just like the Cushites —declares the LORD. True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, But also the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir.

 

Amos tells the Israelites that they are not inherently holy—in fact, at the end of the day, they are no better than the Cushites, the Philistines, or the Arameans. This shocking rebuke tells the Israelites that to be holy to God, they have to act holy, but that is wholly up to them (pun-intended). Chosen-ness, for Amos, is earned—not automatically granted with no strings attached. In fact, Amos goes on to suggest that many Israelites have indeed ceded their holy status to God through their behavior and so are fair targets for the coming destruction of the Northern kingdom. Amos pronounces their doom, saying: “All the sinners of My people Shall perish by the sword, who boast, ‘Never shall the evil Overtake us or come near us.’” Thus, the worst of the sinners in Israel are those who are perhaps aware of their sins but refuse to believe there could ever be consequences for them. These types of sinners indeed have ceded the opportunity to make themselves holy and are the antithesis of the holy behavior that God demands of them, and that Amos preached. They know what they’ve done is wrong and yet remain arrogant in their insistence that there is no such thing as divine Justice for their behavior—thereby, in a sense, denying God’s power.

            But just as Amos reaches his most furious and threatening point in his prophecies, he then tempers this gloom in doom with a promise that a holy remnant of this people will indeed be saved and will re-establish “Sukkat David HaNofelet/ David’s fallen sukkah”—poetic code for a united, flouring Davidic kingdom. So, while Amos is not usually easy on sinners, in this haftarah he still affirms the opportunity that acting in holy ways affords us. He tells us that when we do so, whether as reward of God or as the natural result of living in a just society, the future can be bright, prosperous, and secure.

Amos in prophesying in his time and place is also delivering a message for us: being a chosen people is dependent on us choosing holiness. Amos tells us that we cannot rely on our inherited status to make us special. Specialness, holiness, is a result of our individual and communal behavior, and means nothing in its absence. While this may seem a real challenge to our status as “chosen people”, it has the unintended, though beautiful, consequence of reminding us that we do not have monopoly on holiness as a people. Many individuals and peoples can achieve this status outside of the Jewish community and even set examples for our own behavior. For all of us who follow justice and righteousness, while we may not always enjoy personal reward for our actions, Amos affirms that for such behavior there is ultimately a reward—as person by person it shapes a society and transforms its desolation into prosperity. May we each play our own part, Jews and Gentiles, in bringing such a world to fruition. 

Lucky Number Seven

Passover 5782/2022

by TBA Rabbinic Resident Jacki Honig

 

I might be biased, but the last days of Pesach are my favorite, and if they were their own holiday it would absolutely be my favorite. It feels like a trudge, trust me, I get it. We’ve been eating matzah for a week, missing chametz, not sleeping, all the tough things. But for me, there’s nothing else like these days. The end of Pesach is filled with what we all need a little more of, especially right now: hope.
 

The last days of Pesach are connected with Yetziyat Mitzrayim, the exodus from Egypt, specifically Shvii Shel Pesach, the 7th day. On that day, the tradition teaches, the Jews found themselves staring down the Red Sea, wondering what to do next. It is our obligation to see ourselves as if we left Egypt, and here’s another place that we can do so, possibly differently than ever before.  Before AND after the sea splits, we find two incredible stories of faith and hope. 

The first story, a story of faith, comes from the midrash. The rabbis tell the story of Nachson ben Aminadav. While all of Israel watches as the sea is not parting, he decides to take a leap of faith – quite literally. He begins to walk into the sea, slowly but assuredly, one step at a time. He goes deeper and deeper, having faith that something good will come of it. Finally, the midrash tells us, as he is about to open his mouth and swallow the sea water, it splits. Right at what seems like the last minute, his faith pays off and because of him the Israelites are able to cross through on dry land. We know what comes next. The Israelites cross, the Egyptians are drowned, and then, as we will read over the holiday, they sing a song, Shirat HaYam. 

And immediately after that we see a story of what hope really looks like. As made famous by Debbie Friedman, the first verse immediately after Shirat HaYam reads:

וַתִּקַּח֩ מִרְיָ֨ם הַנְּבִיאָ֜ה אֲח֧וֹת אַהֲרֹ֛ן אֶת־הַתֹּ֖ף בְּיָדָ֑הּ וַתֵּצֶ֤אןָ כׇֽל־הַנָּשִׁים֙ אַחֲרֶ֔יהָ בְּתֻפִּ֖ים וּבִמְחֹלֹֽת׃

And Miriam, the sister of Aaron, took the timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out with her with drums and dancing.

Okay. They danced. They were excited. So what? Here’s what. Remember how we eat matzah because there was no time for them to even bake bread before they left? Even in that sort of haste they looked at their timbrels and they said “We should probably take that with us.” Despite the rush, despite the fear, despite the unknown they were facing, in an incredible act of radical hope, Miriam and the women prepared themselves to dance and celebrate on the other side. 

We know we are in the midst of something big and scary and life changing like Yetziat Mitzrayim and crossing the sea. Something that if we are not careful will swallow us up. But we can be like Nachshon, we must be like Nachshon, and take one step at a time, as small and as cautious as it is – the only way out is through.

And more than that, here’s the even harder part. We can try to be like Miriam and the women. Through everything in our world, the news headlines, the doomscrolling, we can try to have radical hope. To pack in our hearts something we’re holding onto, something big or small, something that we can hold and can hold us. Because, while it may be hard to imagine right now, there will be something worth busting it out and dancing for on the other side. Chag sameach and shabbat shalom.

TBA Taste of Torah

Parshat Metzora 5782

April 8-9, 2022

Chayva Lehrman
 

When emerging from a period of illness, most of us don’t resort to anointing our bodies with the blood of a sacrificial bird. Such a scene might look more like a horror movie than a sanctified religious ritual. Yet, so opens Parshat Metzora, in which the מצרע (metzora), one afflicted with צרעת (tzara’at), is brought back into the camp of Israel.
 

The modern reader will never know exactly which diseases fall under the category of tzara’at, though Rambam tells us it includes several types of topical infection. We do know, however, that it renders the afflicted person tamei, ritually impure, and requires extensive monitoring by the priest. The priest, too, is the one to reintegrate the metzora into the community after their period of quarantine.
 

From the moment the reintegration process begins, the afflicted person stops being referred to as a metzora, and is instead called המטהר, the one who is purified. The change of title is implicitly the first step of their transition. The process continues: outside the camp, the priest takes two birds, sacrifices one, sprinkles the blood of the sacrificed bird upon the מטהר, and releases the living bird. The מטהר then shaves and bathes, and then the priest makes a חטאת (chatat) offering.
 

The step of the chatat offering caught my attention. Usually חטאת is translated as a sin offering, which seems discordant; it is no sin to be sick. Biblical scholar Everett Fox translates chatat as a decontamination offering, which seems more fitting in the context of tzara’at. But this is not the first time we encounter a chatat offering, and the other usages raise further questions.
 

Chatat offerings are formally introduced in Leviticus 4:2-12: when an Israelite misses the mark and sins, they sacrifice a bull for chatat, sprinkle the blood on the horns of the altar, and burn the sacrifice upon the altar so that none of it is consumed. Chatat offerings are described in the abstract, without examples of how it might be applied.
 

Several chapters later, however, a chatat offering appears in a very different context: the sanctification of Aaron and his sons for the priesthood. Among the many steps of this process, one stands out when we read it through the lens of Parshat Metzora.

וַיִּשְׁחָ֓ט ׀ וַיִּקַּ֤ח מֹשֶׁה֙ מִדָּמ֔וֹ וַיִּתֵּ֛ן עַל־תְּנ֥וּךְ אֹֽזֶן־אַהֲרֹ֖ן הַיְמָנִ֑ית וְעַל־בֹּ֤הֶן יָדוֹ֙ הַיְמָנִ֔ית וְעַל־בֹּ֥הֶן רַגְל֖וֹ הַיְמָנִֽית׃ וַיַּקְרֵ֞ב אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י אַהֲרֹ֗ן וַיִּתֵּ֨ן מֹשֶׁ֤ה מִן־הַדָּם֙ עַל־תְּנ֤וּךְ אׇזְנָם֙ הַיְמָנִ֔ית וְעַל־בֹּ֤הֶן יָדָם֙ הַיְמָנִ֔ית וְעַל־בֹּ֥הֶן רַגְלָ֖ם הַיְמָנִ֑ית וַיִּזְרֹ֨ק מֹשֶׁ֧ה אֶת־הַדָּ֛ם עַל־הַֽמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ סָבִֽיב׃  

It was slaughtered. Moses took some of its blood and put it on the ridge of Aaron’s right ear, and on the thumb of his right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot. Moses then brought forward the sons of Aaron, and put some of the blood on the ridges of their right ears, and on the thumbs of their right hands, and on the big toes of their right feet; and the rest of the blood Moses dashed against every side of the altar. (Leviticus 8:23-24)

Compare this with the ritual for reintegration of the person afflicted with tzara’at:

וְשָׁחַ֣ט אֶת־הַכֶּ֗בֶשׂ בִּ֠מְק֠וֹם אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִשְׁחַ֧ט אֶת־הַֽחַטָּ֛את וְאֶת־הָעֹלָ֖ה בִּמְק֣וֹם הַקֹּ֑דֶשׁ כִּ֡י כַּ֠חַטָּ֠את הָאָשָׁ֥ם הוּא֙ לַכֹּהֵ֔ן קֹ֥דֶשׁ קׇֽדָשִׁ֖ים הֽוּא׃ וְלָקַ֣ח הַכֹּהֵן֮ מִדַּ֣ם הָאָשָׁם֒ וְנָתַן֙ הַכֹּהֵ֔ן עַל־תְּנ֛וּךְ אֹ֥זֶן הַמִּטַּהֵ֖ר הַיְמָנִ֑ית וְעַל־בֹּ֤הֶן יָדוֹ֙ הַיְמָנִ֔ית וְעַל־בֹּ֥הֶן רַגְל֖וֹ הַיְמָנִֽית׃  

The lamb shall be slaughtered at the spot in the sacred area where the sin offering and the burnt offering are slaughtered. For the guilt offering, like the sin offering, goes to the priest; it is most holy. The priest shall take some of the blood of the guilt offering, and the priest shall put it on the ridge of the right ear of the one who is being purified, and on the thumb of the right hand, and on the big toe of the right foot. (Leviticus 14:13-14)

Why would the reintegration of the metzora and the sanctification of the priests share a ritual?
 

First, these are both processes of purification. I mentioned that Fox translates chatat as decontamination; the metzora is decontaminated of their tzara’at, and Aaron and his sons are being decontaminated of the mundaneness of their prior life. As priests, they bear an obligation to holy comportment. 

Second, we know already that those afflicted with tzara’at are considered to be resembling death because when Miriam is afflicted with tzara’at, Aaron says “Do not impose upon us a chatat for our sin; let her not be like one who is dead!” (Numbers 12:11-12). The metzora is brought from a death-like state to being alive and part of the community, or from a mundane life to the sanctified life of priests.
 

Both metzora’im and cohanim exist on the fringes of society; the former is debased and the latter is elevated, but both are separated from normative life. This status on society’s extremes is reflected in the ritual: sacrificial blood is placed on the ear, finger, and toe, which are all extremities of the body. The ritual, however, does not indicate permanent ostracization, because despite their separateness, the priests play a central role in the community, and the metzora is reintegrated. Rather, this ritual holds the transitional moment when someone’s status in the community is changing.

Moments of transition can be tenuous. In Leviticus, these moments of transition are navigated by sacrificial ritual. Though we no longer observe sacrifices, may we too find rituals that sanctify and hold our transitional moments. As a ממלכת כוהנים (mamlechet kohanim, a nation of priests), may we create those rituals for ourselves and our communities, bringing in ever-present holiness around and within us to elevate these moments of our lives.

Tazria/Haftarah: 2 Kings 4:42-5:19

Speaking Truth to Power

By Rabbinic Resident Julia Knobloch

 

  

Parashat Tazria deals largely with a disease commonly translated as “leprosy,” although most commentaries point out that it is not actually leprosy. Just like the word “tazria” – she will give birth/she gave birth – has nothing to do with “tzara’at,” the Hebrew term for the infectious skin disease in question.

 

To be sure, both these states of a person’s body – the body who has just given birth and the body who is suffering from a scaly affection – are considered “impure,” albeit for different reasons: The former is related to Israelite concepts of blood and its symbolism of both life and death, as well as the temporary implications these concepts have for persons experiencing any type of bodily discharge. In the case of tza’arat, the afflicted person must also isolate, but if the disease does not recede, the affected might have to remain in isolation indefinitely. It is the High Priest who decides, after close examination of the symptoms, whether to pronounce the person as suffering from “leprosy” or not. As the one representative of Israel who, once a year, gets to enter the Holy of Holies and communicate with God, this is all the Kohen Gadol can do - administer the divinely ordained bureaucracy. 

 

How different is the scenario that this week’s haftarah is offering!

 

2 Kings 4:42-5:19 belongs into the cycle of the prophet Elisha’s miracles. The haftarah begins with a short passage about a wondrous supply of bread for hungry disciples, but its majority is dedicated to the story of Na’aman, the leprous Syrian general, who comes to Israel hoping to be healed by the local prophet, Elisha, of whom he first heard from an Israelite slave girl in service to his wife.

 

The episode is interesting for several reasons: A Biblical leper, even when he is a general, must be considered an outsider to some degree, living at the fringes of “normal” society -- and he seeks advice from another outsider, a prophet, of an enemy nation to boot. 

 

He has his king send a missive to the Israelite king, Jehoram, son of the evil king Ahab. Given the political-religious backdrop of the Elisha stories in 2 Kings - constant war with Aram/Syria and idol worship as the cause for God’s wrath against Israel - he is depicted as arguably the weakest personality in the cast of characters. Upon learning of Na’aman’s intentions, Jehoram suspects treason and imminent war, tears his clothes and cries out:

 

הַאֱלֹהִ֥ים אָ֙נִי֙ לְהָמִ֣ית וּֽלְהַחֲי֔וֹכִּי־זֶה֙ שֹׁלֵ֣חַ אֵלַ֔י לֶאֱסֹ֥ף אִ֖ישׁ מִצָּרַעְתּ֑וֹ

 Am I God, to deal death or give life, that this fellow writes to me to cure a man of leprosy? 

 

Which prompts Elisha’s snarky comment: 

 

יָבֹא־נָ֣א אֵלַ֔י וְיֵדַ֕ע כִּ֛י יֵ֥שׁ נָבִ֖יא בְּיִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃

Let him come to me, and he will learn that there is a prophet in Israel.

Meaning: Yes, you may be a useless king, and you certainly are not God, you worship the wrong gods to begin with -- but I, the prophet who keeps admonishing you and your Northern Kingdom for your transgressions; I, the man of the true God, I will take care of this. 

 

Yet at first, Na’aman refuses to follow the sought-after prophet’s suggested treatment: Immerse himself in the Jordan? That’s not what he came for! Syria has better and more powerful rivers, and they didn’t cure him, so why would this Israelite backwater? Having hoped for a more impressive performance of the prophet, he stalks off in a rage, but his – Syrian – servants eventually convince him to listen to Elisha’s advice, with a clever argument that both soothes the general’s ego and reveals an awe for the powers of this intense Israelite – an awe, which that prophet’s own king does not display.

 

אָבִי֙ דָּבָ֣ר גָּד֗וֹל הַנָּבִ֛יא דִּבֶּ֥ר אֵלֶ֖יךָ הֲל֣וֹא תַעֲשֶׂ֑ה וְאַ֛ף כִּי־אָמַ֥ר אֵלֶ֖יךָ רְחַ֥ץ וּטְהָֽר׃

“Sir,” they said, “if the prophet told you to do something difficult, would you not do it? How much more when he has only said to you, “Bathe and be clean.”

 

And lo and behold, Elisha’s treatment – seven immersions in the Jordan – renders Na’aman’s skin as fresh as that of a young boy, resulting in the Syrian’s acknowledgment:

 

הִנֵּה־נָ֤א יָדַ֙עְתִּי֙ כִּ֣י אֵ֤ין אֱלֹהִים֙ בְּכׇל־הָאָ֔רֶץ כִּ֖י אִם־בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל

Now I know that there is no God in the whole world except in Israel! 

 

Which is ultimately the message of this episode: There may be no worthy king in Israel who has God by his side - but there is a prophet in Israel and God is with him: A man of God who can bring about the healing of lepers, instead of merely administering it, as the priest would do in the parsha. In the haftarah, the prophet holds the key to better days and appears as the executor of God’s will.

 

I first wrote a version of this dvar for a Tanakh class in school and was encouraged to “take it further homiletically.” Why would modern readers care about the roles of the priest and especially the role of the prophet? I think we 21st century folks need to remember respect for institutions and their merits on the one hand, like a priest would – and we need a good dosage of encouragement to speak truth to power. Not as a commodity, not in well-established language building blocks, but with the audacity of a prophet, someone who states things beyond the mainstream analysis. In the parsha, the Kohen Gadol, invested with solemn authority and arguably in more official contact with God than Elisha, doesn’t see much beyond of what he must see, nor does he have strong intuition nor healing powers. Mind you, he fulfills an important task and is needed. But people who are not in senior leadership positions have wisdom to share as well. They can do more extravagant things, like showing even an enemy general who is the one true God of Israel. 

More than echoing the parsha, this week’s haftarah complements it by offering an alternative perspective. So we, too, can become more holistic harbingers of God’s will when we respect the priest and at the same time bring out the prophet in ourselves.

Best Laid Plans of Priests and Prophets

by rabbinical resident David Kaplinsky

 

There are some days when your best laid plans just do not turn out the way you had hoped. You envision a perfect celebration, meeting, family gathering, or completion of a project when something out of your control happens to derail the whole thing. Such a moment can be found in this week’s parsha Shemini, featuring the eighth day culmination ceremony to dedicate the servants of the tabernacle. In fact, our parsha begins with everything going according to plan, and perhaps better than expected:

Moses and Aaron then went inside the Tent of Meeting. When they came out, they blessed the people; and the Presence of יהוה  appeared to all the people. Fire came forth from beforeיהוה and consumed the burnt offering and the fat parts on the altar. And all the people saw, and shouted, and fell on their faces.

This was a moment of consecration, of blessing, of communal exultation as the dwelling place for God was finally readied for operation. God’s approval is shown as God brings down a flame to consume the offering, a kind of final, holy fireworks display to say, “the Mishkan is open for business!” You really could not imagine a more perfect conclusion. This is, of course, when things start to go off the rails:

Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before יהוה alien fire, which had not been enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from יהוה and consumed them; thus they died before יהוה.

           

Now obviously, this is more than just an instance of things not going how you expected. This is a tragedy—a crisis of major proportions that threatens to derail the entire enterprise of the Mishkan’s dedication and existence. The fire that had previously been brought down from God as a sign of approval now serves to destroy God’s servants.  Imagine if you were opening a power plant and just as you cut the ribbon, there was a nuclear meltdown. This is perhaps the kind of crisis Moses faced along with the impossible personal loss suffered by Aaron.

And when things go wrong, Moses jumps straight into action like a CEO trying to keep his fledgling company afloat. He first rushes to get Aaron’s cousins to come in and clear out the dead bodies lying in the tabernacle. He sends reminder memos to the priests not show signs of mourning while they still bear the anointing oil and to carry out and consume the offerings that God commanded. He puts all his focus into righting the ship. And then, in the course of his constant action the Torah says that Moses discovers that the priests had messed up yet again by burning the sin offering and not eating in the sacred area. Moses became angry, saying:

 

“Why did you not eat the sin offering in the sacred area? For it is most holy, and it is what was given to you to remove the guilt of the community and to make expiation for them before יהוה!”

 

            Aaron’s response is instructive:

 

“See, this day they brought their sin offering and their burnt offering before יהוה, and such things have befallen me! Had I eaten sin offering today, would יהוה have approved?” And when Moses heard this, he approved.

 

What I see in this scene is a lesson in what happens when a leader does not keep their cool in trying circumstances. They look to get the project back on its feet, but forget the real people also affected by the unfolding events. They forget to trust their partners, micromanaging every element without understanding that their solutions may not be the only or best way to move forward.

As we have sought to learn during Covid times, trying to simply return to normal without acknowledging all the trauma and failures that we experienced is a self-defeating effort. So too Aaron stops Moses in his tireless efforts to return to the perfection before disaster, forcing him to confront what Aaron and the whole people has suffered. Aaron cannot just eat the people’s sin offering according the original plan. The plan has changed. Not just he, but God, would not be pleased if he carried on like nothing life-changing had happened.

And Moses, to his credit takes a breath and takes in his older brother’s message, realizing that he was wrong. We too must take the message of those who suffer most through tragedy and trial to heart—realizing when we were blind to their needs. When things fall apart, perhaps our goal is not to prop them up like nothing ever happened, but to acknowledge what was lost and use that to move forward in a better more constructive way. This serves us for big societal moments of change and invention, but also in our personal lives as we face those little moments that just do not go as expected. We dare not ignore them and pretend like we can return to the perfect plan initially envisioned. That plan won’t work under the new circumstances. Only if we have the courage to pause, to listen and feel for others, and only then start to rebuild can we find a path forward and find a new way to right the ship.

Fire and Light

La’yehudim hayta orah, v’simkha, v’sasson, v’yikar - for the Jews there was light and gladness, happiness and honor. We read this line each week as part of our havdalah ceremony and we read this line each year in Megillat Esther. This moment in Havdallah brings us to the symbolism of light in our lives and how we bridge the joy of Shabbat into the workaday  week ahead. In Megillat Esther, this statement shows triumph and jubilation of a people who’d survived the wicked schemes of an evil leader. The common theme? People as vessels of light, bringing joy and honor to themselves and the world.

In this week’s parasha, Tzav, we read in Leviticus chapter 6 verse 6: 

אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶּֽה׃

A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out. Not the “Ner Tamid”, regularly lit and relit inside the Tent of meeting, but the “Eish Tamid”, the fire that is not allowed to go out; the fire of the altar for sacrifices, outside and in front of the Tent of Meeting. Fire and Light–the light that is relit each nightfall to continue as day fades; and the fire that is constant and ready at a moment’s notice to translate our passion to deeds of sacrifice. 

In our Gemara, in Megillah on 16b, Rav Yehuda explains the verse of la’yehudim to say that “Light '' refers to Torah-study.   Like it says in Proverbs chapter 6 verse 23: “For the mitzva is a lamp and the Torah is light.”. “Gladness'' refers to the festivals that we observe. Like it says in Deuteronomy 16 verse 14: “And you shall be glad [vesamakhta] on your Festival.” And “joy” is referring to life cycles, specifically circumcision, as they once again could ritualize their Judaism. Torah - holidays - life cycles. That which we do to further our own Judaism, that which we do to further the Judaism in community and that which we do to further the Judaism of our family and future generations. Not moments of darkness, but moments where the light of our tradition, culture, custom and familial connection could be hidden, or lost. 

As I sit in New Orleans, overlooking Lake Pontchartrain, I am struck by our Temple Beth Am mission to be in the south in 2022. We planned a trip to the Jewish South for March of 2020, and for obvious reasons, did not arrive until today. The itinerary changed based on recent events in our world and recent relationships built across communities. For example, we changed the trip to begin in New Orleans because during the pandemic we forged bonds and learned in classes with the Modern Orthodox and Conservative shuls in Metairie. We will spend Shabbos with these rabbis and our fellow students who provided so much light of Torah and friendship during COVID. We will daven in the conservative shul, Shir Chadash, which we housed in our Dorff-Nelson chapel, via zoom, for Rosh HaShana services following the hurricane earlier this year. If we have learned nothing else during these trying times of pandemic, political unrest and surging hatred, bigotry, and xenophobia, we have learned where to seek light and when to be like fire. 

There is a very famous hasidik story that has this core narrative:

“Rebbe, what is a chassid?”

Replied the rebbe: “A hassid is a lamplighter. The lamplighter walks the streets carrying a flame at the end of a pole. She knows that the flame is not hers. And she goes from lamp to lamp to set them alight.”

Asked Reb Yosef Yuzik: “What if the lamp is in a desert?”

“Then one must go and light it,” said the rebbe. “And when one lights a lamp in a desert, the desolation of the desert becomes visible.”

Continued the hassid: “What if the lamp is at sea?”

“Then one must dive into the sea, and go light the lamp.”

This story suggests that a righteous person can bring light even if they do not need it themselves. However, more poignantly, a righteous person knows where there is darkness and is ready to come with light to shine on the beautiful aspects of life. 

The Zohar comments on the verse from tzav with a parable: “one person stood up from behind a wall, and said: Rebbe my teacher, The Holy Light, come and light candles, for that is a Mitzva, like it mentions in Tzav: An everlasting fire shall be kept burning on the altar, it should not be extinguished. This is surely the light of the Divine, the light that shines within the soul of every person.” Layehudim hayta orah - the Jewish people had and will have light, v’simkha - and joy, v’sasson - and happiness, v’yikar - and honor. The first must continue to burn so that we can return to these feelings, these reminders of what we should put into the world and the way in which we light the lights that can show others the way. 

Our excursion to the South will bring light to us, allowing us to more deeply appreciate the passions of those who chose these places to create Jewish homes and communities. We will better understand the challenges of finding Godliness in places surrounded sometimes by inhumane treatment of other human beings, while breeching accommodation for the widest possible variety of reasons, and often to our own shame.  We carry with us Torah learning, Jewish thinking, and hopefully a great deal of humility and sense of wonder.  So when we experience Havdalah this week, we should think about the light we are bringing and the fires we are igniting.  Discovery and passionate resolve. It is for us this week to act upon next week in ways that continue our learning and sharing. Shabbat Shalom…Y’all! 

More Precious Than Gold: Pekudai 3/5

By Rabbi Cantor Hillary Chorny

 

A few weeks have passed since Kol Tefilla participants gathered on our campus. This fourth Shabbaton focused again on prayer innovation and spiritual growth, drawing dozens of clergy and lay leaders from across the country to our campus. Each time the registrants came together as a group, name tags swinging and voices ringing with joyful greetings and reunions, I was reminded of the vision our clergy team imagined long before we attempted the first iteration. We spoke of the joyful curiosity that activates when one gets to spend Shabbat witnessing and exploring another community’s sacred space, seeing where and how they perform parallel rituals to our own. Each Kol Tefilla has brought that sensibility to life: I am tossed back into my memories from days as a teen at Far West USY kinnusim where we sat in unfamiliar pews singing along to familiar prayers and songs, forming new friendships catalyzed on the playing field of Shabbaton magic.
 

Kol Tefilla also comes with a familiar letdown. There is a kind of wistful consideration of the uniqueness one is witnessing, שלא היה ולא יהיה, it never was before nor will it be again just like this. Already we think to the next Shabbat, the Shabbat post-Kol Tefilla, when we will not be 200-strong for Lecha Dodi no matter the momentum of Shabbaton-fueled excitement. I kicked myself a bit for allowing that wistfulness to enter, preemptively, on Friday night of the Shabbaton this year, already yearning for the loveliness to linger. If only Shabbat might always be gilded with the musicality and the heights of Torah we reached when we built a palace in time with hundreds of new friends and old, and Rabbi Yosef Goldman and Rabbi Josh Warshawsky and Deborah Sacks-Mintz and Rabbi Micah Shapiro and… If only.

I returned to these thoughts of longing this week with Parshat Pekudei. We read detailed accounts of the precious metals used in the construction of the mishkan, the portable tabernacle wherein God was said to dwell as the Israelites journeyed in the wilderness. (Ex. 38:24)
 

כָּל־הַזָּהָ֗ב הֶֽעָשׂוּי֙ לַמְּלָאכָ֔ה בְּכֹ֖ל מְלֶ֣אכֶת הַקֹּ֑דֶשׁ וַיְהִ֣י ׀ זְהַ֣ב הַתְּנוּפָ֗ה תֵּ֤שַׁע וְעֶשְׂרִים֙ כִּכָּ֔ר וּשְׁבַ֨ע מֵא֧וֹת וּשְׁלֹשִׁ֛ים שֶׁ֖קֶל בְּשֶׁ֥קֶל הַקֹּֽדֶשׁ׃

All the gold that was used for the work, in all the work of the sanctuary—the elevation offering of gold—came to 29 talents and 730 shekels by the sanctuary weight.

Sforno, a 15th-16th century biblical commentator, points out that from these verses and a comparison with later chapters in the Hebrew Bible, we see that even this extraordinary lot of gold is nothing next to the opulence of the First or Second Temples built later as permanent homes for God. And yet:
 

ועם כל זה יותר התמיד מראה כבוד ה' במשכן של משה ממה שהתמיד במקדש ראשון, ולא נראה כלל במקדש שני. ובזה הורה שלא קצבת העושר וגודל הבנין יהיו סבה להשרות השכינה בישראל, אבל רוצה ה' את יריאיו ומעשיהם לשכנו בתוכם:

Even with all this, writes Sforno, God was hardly found in the First Temple, and God never resided in the Second Temple at all. The greatness of the building is not the most important factor in the success of a holy dwelling place but rather God desires the appreciation and deeds that welcome God’s come to dwell among the people.

This week, I derive comfort from this teaching in two ways. First, in our long-awaited return to our sweet sanctuary, our award-winning home built with tremendous thoughtfulness, “gilded” by the hands of great craftsmen and with the boundless generosity of our community. I think to the  temporary holding spaces for us that have held our community these past two years: our mikdashim for prayers, and for God.

Surely our spirit and our deeds are what kept the flame of dedicated community alive.

And I am also reminded that the gilded surface – bright lights and brimming crowds of guests – are not the heart and soul of community; our appreciation of God’s greatness and the goodness of our deeds are the foundation, always. Sometimes it is the steady dedication of more than a decade of Rashi study or the quiet, extraordinary work of rehousing an entire refugee family that give us our communal “shine”. As we are instructed earlier in the Torah (Ex. 25:11),
 

וְצִפִּיתָ֤ אֹתוֹ֙ זָהָ֣ב טָה֔וֹר מִבַּ֥יִת וּמִח֖וּץ תְּצַפֶּ֑נּוּ וְעָשִׂ֧יתָ עָלָ֛יו זֵ֥ר זָהָ֖ב סָבִֽיב׃

Overlay it with pure gold—overlay it inside and out—and make upon it a gold molding

Whether we are reveling in Kol Tefilla or comforting in the quiet hush of a shiva minyan; whether we are praying indoors or outdoors: מִבַּ֥יִת וּמִח֖וּץ תְּצַפֶּ֑נּוּ – may we be overlaid inside and out with the gifts of community.

We need to talk - Vayakhel 2/26/22

By TBA Rabbinic Resident Jacki Honig

 

We need to talk. You. Me. All of us. Our society is facing a mental health crisis. The pandemic has exacerbated pre-existing mental health conditions and people who have never faced mental health challenges are grappling with them for the first time. It can be tough to know how to talk about it or what to do. Thankfully our torah offers us ancient wisdom for our modern times.
 

In this week’s parsha, Moshe lays out again the requirements for building the mishkan. The materials, the dimensions, the overlay of the ends of the curtain rods - you name it, it’s there. We see two ways that the nation goes about building the mishkan, two ways that we can face mental health issues. First, people gather in community and bring gifts of the heart. They bring gold, linen, threads of all colors, and more. We, too, can find a way through in community. There are so many opportunities to help people who are going through challenges. Take a friend on a walk, offer to bring a meal, offer a cup of tea and a non-judgemental ear, ask someone how they’re doing and really listen. Deep down, I think we all know this, but often are scared to do it. We may feel uncomfortable or awkward, but that can be combated. Think about how it’s felt when someone has done any of these things for you - I’m guessing it feels good. It will feel good to other people, too. Through community there are also ways to reach out when you need help. The easiest is just to say yes when someone asks you to go on a walk or have a cup of coffee. It can be harder, but you can also ask for help. Tell someone you’re struggling, ask someone if they have time to talk, or just ask for what you need. 

After the Israelites bring all their gifts to the Mishkan, Moses steps back in. He then calls in all the experts. Exodus 36:2 tells us “Moses then called Bezalel and Oholiab, and every skilled person whom the LORD had endowed with skill, everyone who excelled in ability, to undertake the task and carry it out.” When the average Israelite had reached their limits, they asked for help from people who had training and knowledge in this field. This is the second lesson for us: call in the professionals. There is no shame in knowing when to ask for professional help. There are long-term solutions available, and also experts available in a crisis. One of my favorites is the National Crisis Text Line, which can be reached by texting 741741. You can also call the National Crisis Line at 800-273-8255. There are experts in this field and they are there to help us build ourselves and build our community. 

Mental health is a big and scary topic, and talking about it isn’t easy, especially when it comes to sharing of ourselves. It can be done, though, and I’ll even share first. I live my life with general and social anxiety. Some days are fine and some days, especially during the pandemic, I find myself wanting to stay closed up at home and avoid the world around me. I sometimes avoid new places that I’ve never been, parking in places I don’t know feels like an impossible task for me (though hopefully it’s easy for you!). I’ve grown a lot, gone to therapy, told trusted people in my life, and developed some great coping skills; it’s all gotten easier. There are still days, though, when I just don’t go somewhere that I’d otherwise like to go because I can’t figure out how to park. I will live with my anxiety for the rest of my life, but talking about it, to friends and experts, makes it more livable. 

Mental health issues are all around us. According to a CDC report from the early days of the pandemic, 31% of respondents reported symptoms of anxiety or depression, 13% reported having started or increased substance use, 26% reported stress-related symptoms, and 11% reported having serious thoughts of suicide in the past 30 days. These numbers are nearly double the rates that would have been expected before the pandemic. These aren’t just numbers, these are people we know, this is our community, this is us. 

Just like how in the parsha the Israelites rely on the community and experts to build the holy space of the Mishkan, we can and must rely on community and experts to help build our personal holy spaces - ourselves. It is clear that the work of building the Mishkan was holy work, and so, too, the work of building up our mental health is holy work. Mishnah Sanhedrin teaches us that anyone who saves one life is as if they have saved an entire world. We are here together in community to sustain each other, AND it would be enough for the life you save to be your own. Shabbat shalom. 

A Glowing Face
By Rabbinic Resident Julia Knobloch

A friend recently posted on Facebook a photo of the first date with his now-wife and soon-mother of their child. The photo shows them on the Coney Island boardwalk, leaning against a bistro table of a seafood restaurant, in the waning hours of summer sunlight: “Some random guy came along and asked if he could take our photo. Didn’t know why but I guess we were glowing?”

The casual, rhetorical question betrays the powerful after-the-fact realization that there emanates a radiance and assuredness from their faces that the “random guy” must have picked up on six years ago. Maybe the stranger imagined that one day, the photo might become a Facebook memory, any kind of memory, of a day at the beginning of a shared life, a photo that parents show their children when asked about their life before they were born.

In this week’s parsha, we come across a more formal rendering of “guess we were glowing”:

וַיְהִ֗י בְּרֶ֤דֶת מֹשֶׁה֙ מֵהַ֣ר סִינַ֔י וּשְׁנֵ֨י לֻחֹ֤ת הָֽעֵדֻת֙ בְּיַד־מֹשֶׁ֔ה בְּרִדְתּ֖וֹ מִן־הָהָ֑ר וּמֹשֶׁ֣ה לֹֽא־יָדַ֗ע כִּ֥י קָרַ֛ן ע֥וֹר פָּנָ֖יו בְּדַבְּר֥וֹ אִתּֽוֹ׃ So Moses came down from Mount Sinai. And as Moses came down from the mountain bearing the two tablets of the Pact, Moses was not aware that the skin of his face was radiant, since he had spoken with God.

The verse describes Moses after his special date with God, when he had asked to behold God’s presence (or face, or glory), and I imagine him in a similar state like my friends in Coney Island. When traditional commentators explore the “why” of the glow, i.e. what might have transpired when Moses was crouched in the cleft of a rock (or crag, as Robert Alter translates), they explore what it means to contemplate Divinity, to gain knowledge of something beyond the earthly realm, to be enveloped by all of God’s attributes and feel reassured that the universe is not indifferent to our longings. Since “no human can see (God’s) face and live,” Rashi thinks that what Moses witnessed was a semblance of God’s glory, which Ibn Ezra defines simply as “the Name”: Moses must have experienced something that corresponds to God’s name, because, Ibn Ezra says, God’s name equals glory. Ramban, maybe with a Talmudic interpretation in mind, explains that Moses beheld as much as humanly possible of God’s goodness, if not directly. Rather, in a reflection as in a window-pane, or through a shining mirror.

All three agree that it must have been so overwhelming and complete a moment, that it could only happen through a filter of sorts, and that speaking with God and seeing God’s back is like seeing God’s face (or presence, or glory) —a complete moment of trust and intimacy. In our lives down here at the seashore, at the foot of the mountain, we know that seeing the face of a beloved human can be just as overwhelming and complete. And after two years of a global pandemic, we have gained a deeper appreciation of the preciousness of seeing faces, especially the faces of people we care about.

With all this said, it may be not surprising that poets—writing in Arabic, Hebrew or any other language—have often compared catching a glimpse of the Divine with arguably the most powerful experience of intimacy humans can think of: being physically close with another human—making love; the erotic union of Malchut (kingdom) and Keter (crown), in Kabbalistic language referring to the lowest and highest sefirot on the diagram of the ten emanations of God. For example, in “To Glorify the Song”, an essay about “Images of Love and Redemption in Yemenite Jewish Poetry,” scholar Mishael Maswari Caspi quotes from the Zohar when he analyses a poem in which the speaker is receiving “kisses of love” in a chamber inside “the king’s palace”:

“In the midst of a mighty rock, a most recondite firmament, there is set a Palace which is called the Palace of Love. This is the region wherein the treasures of the King are stored, and all His love-kisses are there. All souls beloved of the Holy One enter into that Palace. And when the King Himself appears, “Jacob kisses Rachel” (Gen. XXIX, 11), that is, the Lord discovers each holy soul, and takes each in turn up unto Himself, fondling and caressing her (…) (Zohar II, 97a, Soncino Edition)

This echoes language from Shir HaShirim, the ultimate love poem in the Tanakh, which in turn brings us back to Ki Tisa. Check out Shir HaShirim 2:14:

יוֹנָתִ֞י בְּחַגְוֵ֣י הַסֶּ֗לַע בְּסֵ֙תֶר֙ הַמַּדְרֵגָ֔ה הַרְאִ֙ינִי֙ אֶת־מַרְאַ֔יִךְ הַשְׁמִיעִ֖נִי אֶת־קוֹלֵ֑ךְ כִּי־קוֹלֵ֥ךְ עָרֵ֖ב וּמַרְאֵ֥יךְ נָאוֶֽה׃

My dove in the rock’s crevices, in the hollow of the cliff, show me how you look, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet and your look desirable.

And now compare it with these lines from Ki Tisa, Exodus 33:18-22:

וַיֹּאמַ֑ר הַרְאֵ֥נִי נָ֖א אֶת־כְּבֹדֶֽךָ׃

וַיֹּ֗אמֶר אֲנִ֨י אַעֲבִ֤יר כׇּל־טוּבִי֙ עַל־פָּנֶ֔יךָ וְקָרָ֧אתִֽי בְשֵׁ֛ם יְהֹוָ֖ה לְפָנֶ֑יךָ וְחַנֹּתִי֙ אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֣ר אָחֹ֔ן וְרִחַמְתִּ֖י אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֲרַחֵֽם׃

וַיֹּ֕אמֶר לֹ֥א תוּכַ֖ל לִרְאֹ֣ת אֶת־פָּנָ֑י כִּ֛י לֹֽא־יִרְאַ֥נִי הָאָדָ֖ם וָחָֽי׃

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר יְהֹוָ֔ה הִנֵּ֥ה מָק֖וֹם אִתִּ֑י וְנִצַּבְתָּ֖ עַל־הַצּֽוּר׃

וְהָיָה֙ בַּעֲבֹ֣ר כְּבֹדִ֔י וְשַׂמְתִּ֖יךָ בְּנִקְרַ֣ת הַצּ֑וּר וְשַׂכֹּתִ֥י כַפִּ֛י עָלֶ֖יךָ עַד־עׇבְרִֽי׃

וַהֲסִרֹתִי֙ אֶת־כַּפִּ֔י וְרָאִ֖יתָ אֶת־אֲחֹרָ֑י וּפָנַ֖י לֹ֥א יֵרָאֽוּ׃

And he said, “Show me, pray, Your glory!” And He said, “I shall make all my goodness pass in front of you, and I shall invoke the name of the Lord before you. And I shall grant grace to whom I grant grace and have compassion for whom I have compassion.” And He said: “You shall not be able to see My face, for no human can see My face and live.” And the Lord said:

“Look, there is a place with Me, and you shall take your stance in the crag. And so, when my glory passes over, I shall put you in the cleft of the crag and shield you with My palm until I have passed over. And I shall take away My palm and you will see My back, but My face will not be seen.”

The essence of Divinity is intangible, and we can’t behold it directly. However, in our day-to-day lives, we are able to see its sparks and reflections in the love we have for and express with other humans, be it romantically or as friends, by going on a hike in the mountains, or by sharing song and prayer: Last Saturday evening, after the Kol Tefilla concert, I saw several people who walked out of Temple Beth Am’s own Tent of Meeting with a special glow on their faces, a shining smile, and I thought of the last lines of Ki Tisa:

וּבְבֹ֨א מֹשֶׁ֜ה לִפְנֵ֤י יְהֹוָה֙ לְדַבֵּ֣ר אִתּ֔וֹ יָסִ֥יר אֶת־הַמַּסְוֶ֖ה עַד־צֵאת֑וֹ וְיָצָ֗א וְדִבֶּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֵ֖ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר יְצֻוֶּֽה׃

וְרָא֤וּ בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ אֶת־פְּנֵ֣י מֹשֶׁ֔ה כִּ֣י קָרַ֔ן ע֖וֹר פְּנֵ֣י מֹשֶׁ֑ה וְהֵשִׁ֨יב מֹשֶׁ֤ה אֶת־הַמַּסְוֶה֙ עַל־פָּנָ֔יו עַד־בֹּא֖וֹ לְדַבֵּ֥ר אִתּֽוֹ׃ {ס}

Whenever Moses went in before יהוה to converse, he would leave the veil off until he came out; and when he came out and told the Israelites what he had been commanded, the Israelites would see how radiant the skin of Moses’ face was. Moses would then put the veil back over his face until he went in to speak with God.

Gathering our Hearts in Song and Service

by Rabbinic Resident David Kaplinsky

 

What does it take to create an experience that connects with each of our hearts? How do we weave together the fabric of our local and global community to become like one standard which we bear with joy on our breast? This week’s parsha, Tetzaveh, digs in to the details of the physical and metaphorical clothing deals we furnish for ourselves as servants of Adonai.

                Central to the garments listed in this parsha is the Hoshen Mishpat, the breastplate of decision, that is fixed to the Cohen Gadol’s heart with gold rings and a blue cord. It is decorated with four rows of three precious stones, each representing a tribe of Israel. Through this arrangement, the Torah tells us: “Aaron shall carry the names of the sons of Israel on the breastpiece of decision over his heart, when he enters the sanctuary, for remembrance before Adonai at all times (Ex. 28:29).”

                This design forms the centerpiece of all the other colorful, ornate clothing that is prescribed for the Cohen Gadol to wear, and indeed, its importance is emphasized by being described first among the priest’s garments . Where the headband later explicated emphasizes God at the center of our thoughts through the phrase “Holy to Adonai,” the breastplate serves the essential purpose of causing the priest to remember the people whom he represents in God’s service. All of them are present through the layout of the Hoshen—in his every task, every preparation, every sacrifice, every service.

                This gathering together of all the precious stones of Israel, represents in some way, the gathering of wonderful artists, seekers, and most of all, holy Jews that Beth Am is hosting this weekend at Kol Tefilla. To do true service we need representatives of Jews across our communities to join together, sharing the brilliance of their voices, hearts, and joy. Doing this allows us to together become a Hoshen—each jewel unique and distinct, but together creating something even more beautiful—something that will touch our individual and communal heart.

                I look forward to joining in song with many of you this Shabbat to find ways to bring our hearts closer to the divine and stir us to God’s service. Shabbat “Kol Tefilla” Shalom!

Holy Interdependence

By Rabbi Matt Shapiro
 

When the pandemic began, the rules were clear: there were some things we still could do and some (many!) things we just couldn’t. As the months have ticked by and Omicron slogs on, the lines have gotten blurrier. I don’t need to enumerate here the countless calculations, the Covid calculus, we each take on each day, but it’s certainly murkier than it used to be. If the decisions were initially made for us, we’re now more frequently free to make our own choices. Though this expands the spectrum of what I can do on any given day or week, there are still lots of judgment calls that I need to make, especially since my 3 year old isn’t yet able to be vaccinated. Paradoxically, despite this broader set of options, at least for me, it’s getting to be exhausting.
 

I can understand, then, the great 20th century psychoanalyst and thinker Erich Fromm’s perspective when he wrote about the lure of the escape from freedom. Fromm suggests that there’s an innate human desire to have freedom from authority and control; however, once that freedom is present, that then leaves a vacuum, a gap into which authoritarianism, conformity and destructiveness can sink and take hold. Sadly, this was a pattern he knew all too well, as a Jew who fled Germany in the 1930s, seeing firsthand the ways in which people can be drawn to the darkest forms of surrendering their own free will imaginable.
 

The Torah pushes us to see this grasping for an external structure to just tell us what to do not as something only other people are vulnerable to, but that each of us might be as well. The Israelites have finally left Egypt and have just had the transformative experience at Sinai, where revelation burst forth and their trajectory as a people was changed forever. And what do we discuss first? Slavery. The very institution that was, presumably, left behind. Freedom has been achieved and there’s even a new structure in place…and yet, maybe that’s not enough. It’s possible that the patterns of the past few generations still hold enough sway within the people for a return to old behavior to seem compelling.
 

The good news, at least, is that we’re exploring mechanisms to escape it. The very first verse about this topic specifies that after six years, Israelite slaves should go free in the seventh. But even that structure has its own escape: 

If the slave declares, “I love my master, and my wife and children: I do not wish to go free,” his master shall take him before God. He shall be brought to the door or the doorpost, and his master shall pierce his ear with an awl; and he shall then remain his slave for life.

Exodus 21:5-6
 

Through this ritual, the slave who is scheduled to go free can recommit himself to his enslavement, binding himself to his master for life. Rabbeinu Bachya makes a number of fascinating points and connections within the framework, of which I’ll highlight just one. He connects this moment with the climatic moment through which the Israelites just left slavery, the painting of blood on the doorposts of Israelite homes to prevent the Angel of Death from entering. Bachya remarks “This blood signifies the reverse of what the blood on the doorposts and lintel of the Jews in Egypt on that fateful night had signified. Then, it expressed the desire to be free, this time it expresses the desire of the owner of that ear to remain unfree.”

But why? Wouldn’t any slave want to be free? Maybe, these verses suggest, sometimes  it’s just too much. Being confronted with freedom might be overwhelming. Before you judge someone who might make that choice, think for yourself- has there been a moment or two or maybe even three in your life when, instead of breaking from a pattern of behavior that would move you forward, that presented you with the opportunity to let go of something that held you captive, you chose instead of stay in that restrictive structure? Has there been a time when you’ve finally managed to do so, to leave something oppressive behind, and then you’ve felt lost, unmoored, adrift?
 

We’ve known this pattern over the centuries, from the holy writ of Torah to the thought of Erich Fromm. What, then, might the answer be? Rather than independence (a perceived freedom from obligation to anyone and everyone) or dependence (being reliant on just one person), we can pursue and look to enhance our interdependence. We’ve seen, for better and for worse, how deeply connected we are all to each other over the past two years, in how the very air we breathe and share can spread disease and in how the loving, kind, generous, selfless actions we take can support each other to get through times of deep need and pain. We’re always connected to each other. Rather than asking whether we are ‘free’ or ‘enslaved,’ maybe the real question can be found within the through-line in the tenth plague and revelation and the ritual of servitude articulated above: the presence of God. In our tradition, we sometimes ask whether we will be servants of God or servants of Pharoah. I’ll add to that two more questions. Knowing that we are always in the presence of the Holy, how can we respond to that Presence in a way that brings us deeper into relationship when we feel adrift? How can we connect to that Presence when we’re feeling oppressed and stuck in a way that then brings us to greater expansiveness?
 

I don’t think there’s only one answer to these questions, for us collectively or as individuals. Rather, it’s a process, a gradual exploration and reflection into our current state and an evaluation of our unfolding responses. Most of all, I do think that we determine better responses when we choose not to engage in these questions alone, but interdependently, together.
 

Shabbat shalom. 

 

Stone and Iron—Judaism’s Least Well-Known Prohibited Combination.

By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

 

Judaism has several illicit or inappropriate pairings amongst its many traditions.  In kashrut, we do not mix milk and meat. (Though an Impossible burger with a slice of cashew cheese on top is permissible, and delectable! Sorry…couldn’t resist). In clothing, wool and linen may not be in the same garment. In agriculture, two different seeds cannot be planted in the same furrow, and two different species may not be tethered to the same yoke. Some of these prohibited unions seem to have ethical underpinnings, such as the concern that a smaller species may be unduly burdened by being yoked to a larger one, or the seemingly ethical incongruity of using as a medium to cook flesh the very type of substance (milk) that once nourished that animal. Some of the unions seem to have no obvious reasons they should be prohibited, aside from our worshipping a God who is introduced to us, in Creation/B’reeshit, as a God of categories, divisions and firm boundaries.  Whatever the reasons, these things we Jews should be keeping apart from one another are numerous.

 

A lesser-heralded example appears at the end of Parshat Yitro. In the verses immediately after the end of the 10^th commandment, the Torah commands that an altar must be made of stone, but un-hewn.  No iron instrument may be brought to the raw stones in order to shape them. They must essentially be used, as is, or somehow be hewn by an instrument perhaps made of stone, when they are being turned into an altar.  Why? What is noxious about the combination of stone and iron? According to a midrash in the Mekhilta (an early connection of midrashim on the book of Shemot/Exodus) that is brought by Rashi in his commentary, the concern is that there is a deep incongruity between the stone altar, whose purpose is to heal the soul and the world and unite heaven and hearth, and the tool made of iron, a substance of harshness, weaponry, violence and bloodshed.  As we build a structure intended for spiritual practice, we may not sully the virgin stone, emerging from the earth as God crafted it, by hewing it with a material associated with such base activities, and warfare. To be sure, back then as well as today iron is used both for weaponry as well as plenty of other useful implements. But its association with battle was foundational.  Its usage, therefore, for building the altar to the Holy One would be a profanity.

 

I am struck by the moment in which we are living today, a moment that is essentially forcing the Jewish people to violate this warning, to jettison the forbidden-ness of this particular union, as we try to secure our altars, our sanctuaries, our Jewish life against those who would do us harm.  It was with a heavy heart, some years ago, that the Temple Beth Am board voted to have armed security on our campus, at all times.  Especially with last week’s terrorizing hostage-situation in a synagogue outside Dallas fresh in our minds, it seems nearly inconceivable now to operate our campus without our guards brandishing iron. But it is not lost on me, thinking of the midrash’s wisdom, that in order to protect our altar, we must profane it. It may be worth it, but it takes a spiritual toll. One cannot enter into a sacred space, over and over again, passing by flak jackets, pistols and wands without the totality of what it is required to protect that holy Jewish space also diminish the very holiness of the space.  This is our Faustian bargain, foisted upon us by those who hate us, by which we surrender some of our sanctity for at least some measure of safety.  I embrace it, as one trying to keep a community safe. And I resent it. I rue it. I hate it. 

 

I long for a world in which Exodus’s exhortation can fully animate our spiritual world: a world in which no Jew requires iron to protect the altar of stone. And, for that matter, a world in which no penitent of any faith brings nervousness along with spiritual yearning when entering a temple to worship.  May we battle this hatred of us with mettle.  And may we dream about a day we can live our Jewish lives without the metal.

The Immortal Woman
By TBA Rabbinic Resident Jacki Honig

Noah lived to be 950, according to the Torah; Abraham lived to 175. But what about a woman who was timeless? Noah, Abraham, and so many other biblical figures live for what seems like an infinite amount of time, but still confined to a generation. They live approximately the same amount of time as their partners and siblings, they die long before their children. While time may have been counted differently (or they were better hydrated and used way more sunscreen than we do!), people always lived within their generation. 

But in a midrash on this week’s parsha, we find reference to a character who seems to be beyond time itself: Serach bat Asher. We met her just a few weeks back, in Parshat Vayigash, in the list of all the people who go with Jacob to Egypt. She is the sole granddaughter of Jacob listed, among all her brothers and male cousins. AND, the amazing part is that we will see her again in a few months, in Parshat Pinchas. We will find her counted in the census taken right before the land is divided. So here we have a character, a woman no less, who seems to be beyond time, beyond her generation. So what? Why mention her here? 
 

While many people are familiar with the splitting of the sea, the drowning of the Egyptians, and especially the Song of the Sea, there is a small and beautiful moment that happens before that, and according to the midrash happens only because of Serach. The Israelites are about to leave Egpyt, and we know that it has to happen quickly - they do have to invent matzah after all! But before he goes, Moshe makes one final stop, the Torah tells us:

וַיִּקַּ֥ח מֹשֶׁ֛ה אֶת־עַצְמ֥וֹת יוֹסֵ֖ף עִמּ֑וֹ כִּי֩ הַשְׁבֵּ֨עַ הִשְׁבִּ֜יעַ אֶת־בְּנֵ֤י יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר פָּקֹ֨ד יִפְקֹ֤ד אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶתְכֶ֔ם וְהַעֲלִיתֶ֧ם אֶת־עַצְמֹתַ֛י מִזֶּ֖ה אִתְּכֶֽם׃

And Moses took with him the bones of Joseph, who had exacted an oath from the children of Israel, saying, “God will be sure to take notice of you: then you shall carry up my bones from here with you.” (Exodus 13:19)
 

Before he leaves Egypt, Moshe makes sure to fulfill the promise made to Joseph. One problem, though, that whole generation is gone. Where can Joseph’s bones be found? Cue the midrash. In the gemara, in Masechet Sotah, the rabbis pose this question: how did Moses know where to find Joseph’s bones? They explain that Serach bat Asher still remained from that generation, so he went to find her. She knew where it was to be found, in the Nile, so Moses went to find it. Somehow, the story gets even more magical from there: 

Moses went and stood on the bank of the Nile. He said to Joseph: Joseph, Joseph, the time has arrived about which the Holy One, Blessed be He, took an oath saying that I (i.e., God) will redeem you. And the time for fulfillment of the oath that you administered to the Jewish people that they will bury you in Eretz Yisrael has arrived. If you show yourself, it is good, but if not, we are clear from your oath. Immediately, the casket of Joseph floated to the top of the water.
 

Somehow, even with this incantation and floating casket, the magic of Serach bat Asher’s story doesn’t end there. She appears again hundreds of years later, according to Pesikta D’Rav Kahana, in the Beit Midrash with Rabbi Yochanan: 

Rabbi Yochanan was sitting and expounding “the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left” (Ex. 14:22). R. Yochanan expounded that [the wall of water] was a sort of netting. Serach bat Asher appeared and said: “I was there, and the water was not like netting, but like transparent windows.”
 

According to the rabbinic tradition, she not only went to Egypt and was part of the Exodus from Egypt, but she then managed to live hundreds more years to be able to sit and learn (and maybe even teach) in the times of the Mishnah and the Talmud! In Masechet Kallah Rabbati, it explains that Serach entered Gan Eden, paradise, in her lifetime, meaning the rabbis think that she never actually died. There are beautiful modern midrashim telling stories of her living among Jews up until today. 
 

We read the same parsha each year, and so often we focus on the same thing, especially when it seems to be the main idea, like this week’s splitting of the sea. Every so often, though, it's nice to take a break, take a small deep dive, and find something that we never knew was there. And I don’t know about you, but I definitely never knew about the immortal woman hiding in the midrash on this week’s parsha. Shabbat shalom.

Breathing into Redemption

by Rabbinic Resident David Kaplinsky

 

I have to confess that I have been feeling pretty down over the past few weeks. After nearly two years of Covid, and just recently beginning to feel a sense of normalcy, starting this secular new year back in a state of fear and frustration makes it difficult to say the words “Happy New Year” with a full heart.

            And yet, such trials are not foreign to the world nor to the Jewish people, whether in contemporary history or ancient legend. Our parasha, Va-era, begins in a moment where the Israelites momentary hope for redemption has been crushed under the ordered intensification of their brutal oppression. At the end of the previous portion, Moshe and Aharon’s attempt to free the people has been greeted by Pharaoh’s order that they now be forced to find their own straw to make the bricks for their building projects, where previously the material was provided them. Our parsha then begins with God’s affirmation that he will free them with signs and wonders and bring them into the promised land.

            However, when Moshe delivers these good tidings to the people, it is not well received. Exodus Ch. 6, verse 9 recounts:

 

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר מֹשֶׁ֛ה כֵּ֖ן אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וְלֹ֤א שָֽׁמְעוּ֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה מִקֹּ֣צֶר ר֔וּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָ֖ה קָשָֽׁה׃

But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.

 

While the New JPS translation above translates the reason for their inability to listen into one compound phrase— “their spirits crushed by cruel bondage”—the Hebrew actually gives two distinct reasons they could not listen: “קֹּ֣צֶר ר֔וּחַ” and “עֲבֹדָ֖ה קָשָֽׁה”. So what exactly is kotzer ruach? Literally, the words translate into narrowness of spirit. The Koren Jerusalem Bible adds some nuance by translating it as “anguish of spirit.” Rashi elaborates on this idea, explaining this difficult turn of phrase in a more physical sense:

 

מקצר רוח. כָּל מִי שֶׁהוּא מֵצֵר, רוּחוֹ וּנְשִׁימָתוֹ קְצָרָה, וְאֵינוֹ יָכוֹל לְהַאֲרִיךְ בִּנְשִׁימָתוֹ

Anyone who is in anguish, his breath is short, and he is not able to elongate his breath.

 

For Rashi then, “ruach” refers not to spirit but breath—claiming that their inability to listen or maintain hopefulness was due to their lack of ability to breathe deeply. Thus, Rashi identifies the way in which physical circumstances can influence one’s emotional state (and vice versa). And this inability to breathe is connected with the fact that the hope the Israelites felt in the last parsha has since been crushed—returning them to an even more difficult reality after they began to see light at the end of the tunnel.

Many of us, I’m sure, have felt this narrowing of our ability to breathe freely recently. Whether it stems from renewed anxiety over basic trips to the grocery store or a restaurant, or because we feel yet again constricted within our homes and apartments, our ability to breathe in life with joy and hopefulness has yet again been constrained. And we’re tired of it. As we stand now, we have difficulty seeing an end to this cycle of fear, followed by hope, followed by fear again.

But God, and God’s messengers, represent the firmness of the promise of redemption. Moshe tried to deliver that promise to the Israelites and they simply couldn’t breathe it in. This is altogether understandable and justified—like their feelings, we have a right to feel hopeless at times. But we also have a chance to take a moment in the stress of everything and breathe deeply. Our breath puts us back in touch with our immediate reality, the miracle of our being alive, and helps us to understand that “this too shall pass.” We don’t have all the answers and can’t look into the future, but we can trust in the truth that this moment of anguish will surely end. That for us is the trust that God represents.

So in the midst of this trying time, where we are at our wits end and ready to be done with crisis, I encourage us all to ground ourselves, breathe deeply, and remind ourselves that redemption is real. As we all do what we need to protect ourselves and others, we can take solace in our breath, allowing us to look forward to the moment where this will all be a memory—a reminder that “this too shall pass” through our persistence and patience.

Shabbat Shalom and a happy and safe 2022.

 

In The Heart of the Flame - And We Are Not Consumed

Rabbi Schatz - Parashat Shmot 2021

 

This is one of those weeks where I could choose so many different pieces of Torah that piqued my attention. Shifra and Puah as holy women literally birthing us into a nation. Moshe killing an Egyptian for dealing harshly with a Hebrew, even though Moshe did not know he himself was a Hebrew - feeling pulled by a part of his identity that he had yet to discover (for more on this, listen to the Parsha class with me and Rabbi Shapiro). Daughters standing up to their fathers for the sake of humanity and life giving - both in Midrash and in Torah. Moshe taking Tzipporah as his wife, which could be considered an interfaith and intercultural marriage. Etc. And yet, on this last Shabbat of 2021 the verse that caught my eye was the ever-famous burning bush. 

וַ֠יֵּרָ֠א מַלְאַ֨ךְ יְהֹוָ֥ה אֵלָ֛יו בְּלַבַּת־אֵ֖שׁ מִתּ֣וֹךְ הַסְּנֶ֑ה 

וַיַּ֗רְא

וְהִנֵּ֤ה

הַסְּנֶה֙ בֹּעֵ֣ר בָּאֵ֔שׁ וְהַסְּנֶ֖ה אֵינֶ֥נּוּ אֻכָּֽל

And he saw an angel of Adonai in front of him in the flame of a fire, from within the bush. 

And he saw. 

And behold! 

The bush was inflamed in fire and yet the bush was not consumed. 

Imagine that this was your life in metaphor. We come across burning bushes that are not actually becoming ashes all the time. Parts of life that seem to be aflame, but really just need different perspective. The part of the bush that is on fire is the heart, the lev, the center that holds the passion and feeling of the experience. It might feel as though something in your life is on fire, but are you really all consumed? 

 

My grandfather says to us all the time, “don’t sweat the small stuff.” And sometimes, we do not have a good perception on what “the small stuff” is because often we are living in this world of drama, jumbo size, Hollywood scene extremism that is unhelpful in our own emotional balance. 

 

Chizkuni comments through a quote from Shmot Rabbah “this was a symbol for both Israel and the Egyptians. The Israelites’ enemy, Egypt, is portrayed as an all consuming fire, while the prey, Israel, are supposed to be represented by the bush that refuses to be consumed by the fire.” I do not love the idea of Israel and Egypt depicted as prey and hunters, but I do value the idea of calm, strong, realistic goals not allowing us to be consumed by an overpowering fire. We each have our version of this metaphor. Whether work versus time off, or healthy versus toxic relationships, or bottled up emotions versus healthy sharing with loved ones or mental health professionals who help us offload. 

 

For some, 2020-2021 have been years of major forest fires; burning much of life, mental health, spiritual community and human relationship to ashes. And for others, 2020-2021 were years where those fires existed, and the challenge of COVID loomed, but we used our community, our friends, our professionals, our new-found hobbies, our guilty pleasures to recognize the fire and not let it consume us. 

 

Next week, as our Shabbos candles are melting away, 2022 begins. The fire goes out but the flames of life might still exist around us. How do we check in with the heart of our flames? How do we make sure that the fires surrounding us do not consume us? How do we assure ourselves that this year we will not see the fire as a bush that is not burning, but a sign that God is standing in front of us even in the scariest of moments? 

 

I cannot predict that this will be an easier year, or a better year, or a healthier or happier year. However, I know that because of the fires I have seen burning before me that this year I will be focused more on the heart of the flame that does not go out. Moses saw the angel of God in the heart of the fire and behold, you know what, it was not consumed. Moses was focused on the connection to the Divine being in front of him. Relationship. Passion. Connection. And yes, there will be fires, but if we can see into the heart of the matter, just maybe we will keep the fires from burning us down. 

 

Shabbat Shalom! 

The Invention of forgiveness

By TBA Rabbinic Resident Jacki Honig

 

If you could have invented any concept in human relationships what would it be? Love? Trust? Deceit? Revenge?

In this week’s parsha, according to Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks z”l,  we see Joseph invent a new concept seemingly never seen before in human relationships: forgiveness. 
 

In his book Before Forgiveness: The Origins of a Moral Idea, David Konstan explains that the Ancient Greeks and Romans had no concept of forgiveness. One attempted to appease one they had angered, or maybe divert or distract them, but there was no concept of interpersonal forgiveness. 
 

Up until now in our Torah, we have yet to see a concept of forgiveness. In the story of Noah the entire world is punished, there’s no opportunity there. When Abraham argues with God to save Sodom and Gomorrah he does not ask God to forgive the people for what they’ve done, rather he pleads on behalf of people in the city who may be innocent, lest they be destroyed along with the guilty. 

In Vayigash, however, we see something new. Joseph tackles the brothers’ misdoings head on and clearly forgives them: 

וְעַתָּ֣ה ׀ אַל־תֵּעָ֣צְב֗וּ וְאַל־יִ֙חַר֙ בְּעֵ֣ינֵיכֶ֔ם כִּֽי־מְכַרְתֶּ֥ם אֹתִ֖י הֵ֑נָּה כִּ֣י לְמִֽחְיָ֔ה שְׁלָחַ֥נִי אֱלֹהִ֖ים לִפְנֵיכֶֽם׃ 

Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you. (Gen. 45:5).
 

It would have been easy for Joseph to take revenge instead. The brothers had done something terrible to him, he now had basically endless power, and they wouldn’t have even known who he was. Revenge would have been easy, and probably sweet, at that moment. This moment was the literal fulfillment of Joseph’s dream we saw a few weeks ago - his brothers all bowing down to him in his position of power. It would have taken so little for him to ruin their lives. But Joseph decided differently. He took the route famously suggested by First Lady Michelle Obama thousands of years later, “When they go low, we go high.” He put the past in the past, and moved himself and everyone forward. He decided to forgive the brothers and in it he changed their lives and the way of the world. 

There are so many times in life where it is easy to hold a grudge, for things big and small. It is easy to be upset about the unreturned phone call, the person who cut you off while driving, and all the more so the big things in life, like being sold to a band of Ishmaelites. It is easy to let these things stew and to promise ourselves that one day we’ll get back at the person who harmed us. Instead, though, there is always the option of forgiveness. It is a gift to the other person, and ultimately often a gift to ourselves. Forgiveness doesn’t have to be given willy nilly, but when it feels right, and sometimes we have to push to feel that way, forgiveness is a way that we can truly change our path and our future. 

This Little Light of Ours

In memory of Esther Blum z”l

Rabbi Schatz - Taste of Torah Miketz
 

Passover and Hanukkah start in the same way. I’m sure you’ve never heard that connection before, but just go with me. We search for hametz in our home at night, in the dark, with a tiny candle to see each and every crumb. So too, on the first night of Hanukkah, at the darkest part of the night, we light our Hanukkiah to see how a small candle can brighten a large dark space.

 

My favorite mitzvah of Hanukkah is that we are not supposed to use the light. On Shabbat, the lights are lit and the candles are used to make sure we can see one another and enjoy each other. On Hanukkah we can light the candles and just let them be, even sitting in another room if we wish. The lights of Hanukkah are not for us, they are for everyone else. And why? So that we can answer questions about them. So that we can share something about our tradition and our people and our fears and hopes and dreams with those who notice and ask. So that we can share our willingness to see in the darkness when others might not be able to.

 

In Masechet Shabbat 22a, we learn of the dimensions of the tallest Hanukkiah. One cannot be above 20 cubits or else it is invalid, just like the beam of an eruv or the schach of a sukkah. Why? The rabbis say because people do not usually raise their heads to see something that high up and Pirsumei Nisa, the publicizing of the miracle is the entire reason for lighting these candles. We must make sure they are at a height where people actually notice them and see.

 

In last week’s parsha we hear of the famous line v’habor reik v’ein bo mayim and the pit was empty and there was not in it water. Joseph was thrown in a pit and our Torah describes, in her economy of language, that the pit was dry and there was no water in it. Well dry means without water so why say that also? As you know, our rabbis come to drash that it was because though the brothers could see that there was no water, they could not see that there were snakes and scorpions that Joseph then was thrown into.

 

So we start off Passover looking for that which we cannot see. Those aspects of our lives, the shmutz, the chametz, the missing cheerio that was hidden and we didn’t even think to look for. On Hanukkah, we light a world, a time of deep darkness, to remind the world to intentionally see. To force ourselves to recognize how important it is to look for those in the darkness, to seek out those who are overlooked, to pay attention to something or someone that you might not have ever noticed before. We publicize the miracle to let others know that we are taking on this mitzvah and to encourage others to light their own lights into those darknesses.

 

This Sunday is Esther Blum’s shloshim and I cannot help but think that as Hanukkah ends and shloshim ends, but yet really begins the next stage of mourning, how Esther’s life and tragic death jolted us all to see a bit differently. To recognize those little lights and see how they light up a whole room of darkness. And more importantly, to acknowledge the darkness and figure out which small candle we can light to make sure a person, a community, an important matter of society is seen.

Dvar Vayetze: A Place for the Secrets of our Souls
By Rabbinic Resident Julia Knobloch

When I was a child, one place that stirred my imagination was Lisbon, or Lissabon, as I was used to calling it then. I didn’t know anything about the place when I first heard the city’s name and located it on a map or rather on a spinning globe, one of those that also serve as a lamp and turn any room into a magical realm.

For some reason, the sound of the name, Lissabon, touched something inside me that was part of me without my knowing it – or before my consciously knowing it. I believe that we know more about ourselves at a young age than we are aware of, and we are drawn to places, moods, songs, feelings because our souls are following a thread, a calling, a knowing that unfolds in hiding long before it becomes apparent to us and to people around us. Choices that seem random might sometimes be just that, random, but in other instances, they are very much in synch with an inner truth.

A few years after I first happened upon the name of this place, my parents visited Lisbon. I specifically always remember one photo: My mother, younger than I am today, is standing on the main square, the Rossio, next to a strawberry vendor and holds a few strawberries into my father’s camera. There it was again, the pull of that name, Lissabon. It was in the eyes of the farmer, in my mother’s smile, in the yellow facades and adobe colored shingles, the gray and beige pattern in the pavement. Maybe there were pigeons in the background, maybe even the hint of a cable car. Yet all those details are not the point – the photo of a happy tourist on vacation with a south-European city as background is nothing unique. And yet, for me, it was unique because I knew how it felt, would feel, to be in that place.

When I finally visited Lisbon for the first time, on a scholarship from the Portuguese cultural institution Instituto Camões, my intuition was confirmed. Despite my being tall and not particularly dark-haired, I seemed to blend in, locals often assumed that I was from there, the daughter of some Nordic immigrants, with odd idiomatic choices sometimes, but a local nonetheless.

It’s been like this with a few other places for me as well. And each of you may have similar experiences with different places that have touched you deeply because they reflect something inside you. When they reveal themselves to you everything makes perfect sense. It is like falling in love. It is like finding home. Some might say the way we experience a place is shaped primarily by moments of human connection. And that may be true on one level. Yet there also is the experience of knowing a physical place as if it were a living being, as if it were THE place, in a way that turns the earth-bound experience of being in a physical place into an inexplicable encounter with the divine.

Place, haMakom of course is one of the names of God and Judaism is a religion that is in love with, well, God -- but also place, the notion of place. It’s fair to say that at the core of the religion is a land, a place – the place, the land. And inside that land, there are many significant places – the Torah has a tendency to list and specify place names, to describe an exact location, to detail what’s in the east (the hills), what’s in the west (the great sea), and what name a place is called now or once was called. It is a tribal, visceral, intimate way of rendering the geography tangible, familiar, of situating the reader and saying: You know the place, too.

In Bereishit 28:10-11, we read:

וַיֵּצֵ֥א יַעֲקֹ֖ב מִבְּאֵ֣ר שָׁ֑בַע וַיֵּ֖לֶךְ חָרָֽנָה׃

Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran.

וַיִּפְגַּ֨ע בַּמָּק֜וֹם וַיָּ֤לֶן שָׁם֙ כִּי־בָ֣א הַשֶּׁ֔מֶשׁ וַיִּקַּח֙ מֵאַבְנֵ֣י הַמָּק֔וֹם וַיָּ֖שֶׂם מְרַֽאֲשֹׁתָ֑יו וַיִּשְׁכַּ֖ב בַּמָּק֥וֹם הַהֽוּא׃

He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place.

Abraham Ibn Ezra comments quite laconically that “one of the stones of that place” means – just that: one of the stones of that place. Nothing more. There is nothing special about that place, haphazardly chosen while the sun is setting and because Jacob, who hastily left home and didn’t plan his journey, didn’t book a proper lodging. Explaining that Jacob stopped there to pray because it was a holy place -- that the place WAS God – is letting one’s imagination flow too freely, says Ibn Ezra: “According to the plain meaning of the text, וַיִּפְגַּ֨ (‘and he happened upon’) is not to be translated as ‘and he prayed,’ because we never find in the entire Bible the word makom meaning God. Do not pay any attention to the Midrashic interpretation that explains makom, in makom acher (Esther 4:14), as referring to God, because it most certainly does not.

HaMakom is indeed one of the names the Rabbis, not the Torah, coined for God. Ibn Ezra seems eager to highlight that in a random place God appears to Jacob like he did to Abraham: in a dream. God reassures Jacob that he will protect him and that the ground on which he is lying will belong to his descendants.

וַיִּיקַ֣ץ יַעֲקֹב֮ מִשְּׁנָתוֹ֒ וַיֹּ֕אמֶר אָכֵן֙ יֵ֣שׁ יְהֹוָ֔ה בַּמָּק֖וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה וְאָנֹכִ֖י לֹ֥א יָדָֽעְתִּי׃

Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, “Surely God is present in this place, and I did not know it!”

This famous verse in Bereishit 28:16 is quite enigmatic and at the same time conveys a feeling many of us might be familiar with: We sensed a divine presence and only realize it later. We visit a place and are suddenly overcome by a feeling of déjà-vu. We didn’t know that we knew. Even the stern grammarian Ibn Ezra succumbs to the power of such a sensation: “Surely God is present in this place,” he says means “that there are places where miracles are seen. I cannot explain why this is so because it is a deep mystery.”

So, what is it? A random place or a divine place? Did Jacob stop there for the night haphazardly, or did he know without knowing that this place was going to be called Bethel -- the House of God – and no longer Luz. (As an aside, “luz” means “light” in Portuguese.) Is it a place of stones, pretty uncomfortable, or a place of divine appearance? Ibn Ezra’s two different comments seem to point to a probably unresolvable ambivalence: A random place can be the place. God can appear everywhere – yet that doesn’t mean that there is not a secret in our soul, mysterious like the light of a globe lamp in the dark -- a certainty that leads us to one and not to the other place. Where God appears to us, in whatever way that might be, will be forever a unique place that shows us what we knew all along.

Shabbat Shalom!

“Bless Me Also”: Redeeming Esav to Redeem our World
By TBA Rabbinic Resident, David Kaplinsky

As a regular Torah reader and former professional performer, I have always enjoyed the challenge and the beauty of chanting from the Torah. Singing the lovely melodies, bringing the words to life for others, and achieving personal ownership of sections of our Holy story all made the task thoroughly enjoyable and valuable to me. But it wasn’t until a few years ago when reading the Torah for this week’s parsha, Toldot, that I had an experience of deeply feeling what I was reading. My performance of leyning had previously focused on being accurate and melodic but not on finding emotional connection. This new connection all fell into place the first time I read Esav’s words to his father Yitzchak right after he is told that his brother Yaakov has duped him out of the blessing. When Esav heard his father’s confirmation of this…

וַיִּצְעַק צְעָקָה גְּדֹלָה וּמָרָה עַד־מְאֹד וַיֹּאמֶר לְאָבִיו בָּרְכֵנִי גַם־אָנִי אָבִי׃…

…He cried out with an extremely loud and bitter cry and said to his father,

“Bless me, also me, my father!”

Chanting the words of Esav as a Torah reader caused me to embody Esav’s cry. The narration of his cry alone is enough to break your heart, but once the text quotes his own words the effect is immediate and visceral. His insistent repetitions further emphasize Esav’s feelings of being left behind, second best: “Bless me, also me!” It is a heartbreaking moment.  

            While our Rabbis often made a great effort in the midrashim to make Esav look like a villain who deserved to be duped, the Torah’s language itself seems to want us to empathize with Esav—to feel the injustice dealt him by Yaakov and Rivkah. Beyond his quoted words, the Torah goes out of its way to describe Esav’s cry not only as “loud” and “bitter” but also adds that it was “extremely” so. Why should a character who deserves no sympathy be described with such heartfelt empathy in the Torah?

            It is instructive that many of our great commentators (Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Rambam, Ramban, etc.)—who usually have so much negativity to cast upon Esav—are silent on this verse. To me, it is a subtle acknowledgement that this moment doesn’t fit quite so neatly in their picture of a bloodthirsty, amoral person. However, our rabbis in a midrash on this parsha in Genesis Rabbah recognize clearly the damage inflicted on Esav:

אָמַר רַבִּי חֲנִינָא כָּל מִי שֶׁהוּא אוֹמֵר שֶׁהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא וַתְּרָן הוּא יִתְוַתְּרוּן בְּנֵי מְעוֹהִי, אֶלָּא מַאֲרִיךְ אַפֵּיהּ וְגָבֵי דִּילֵיהּ, זְעָקָה אַחַת הִזְעִיק יַעֲקֹב לְעֵשָׂו, דִּכְתִיב: כִּשְׁמֹעַ עֵשָׂו אֶת דִּבְרֵי אָבִיו וַיִּזְעַק זְעָקָה, וְהֵיכָן נִפְרַע לוֹ בְּשׁוּשַׁן הַבִּירָה, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וַיִּזְעַק זְעָקָה גְדוֹלָה וּמָרָה עַד מְאֹד

Anyone who claims that The Holy One, blessed be He, is overly lenient will forfeit his life; rather, God is slow to anger and as a demonstration: Yaakov caused Esav to cry a single cry, as it is written: “As Esav heard the words of his father, he cried out…”  And where was he called to account for this? In Shushan, the capital [of Persia] as it is written: [Mordechai went through the city] crying out with an extremely loud and bitter cry (Est. 4:1) ]against Haman's decree to destroy the Jews[.

In a sharp intertextual reading, this midrash plays on the nearly exact shared wording of Mordechai’s cry in Esther and that of Esav in our parsha to demonstrate that what Yaakov did to Esav was indeed wrong and deserving of punishment. The pain that was caused Esav inevitably became our own pain, even if it took several generations for the backlash to materialize. Where so often our Rabbis only recognize our own people’s merit and pain—while characterizing people outside our family as enemies—this midrash recognizes that the cry of Esav cannot be drashed out of existence. It is our own pain. It is a recognition that a wrong was perpetrated and that Esav’s pain was real and legitimate.

Why did this cycle of hurt and punishment have to come in to being? One hint is that Yaakov and Esav’s relationship appears to have founded on the idea that their individual success had to be to the detriment of the other—only one could have the birthright, only one the blessing. Yet, one of the few notable commentators who does comment on this pasuk, the 19^th century commentator Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel or the Malbim, opens the possibility of a different way of thinking that is embedded in Esav’s request to also be blessed. He asks rhetorically, seemingly in the character of Isaac:

?הלא האב יכול לברך כל בניו בעושר ובממשלה וכל טוב

Is not a father able to bless all his children with success, stability, and all good things?

            This is a question worth asking. And indeed, Isaac does subsequently recognize that blessing is not a zero-sum game when he goes on to bless Esav also. His further blessing can be given equally, even if it happened to not be the first in reception.

Our success as individuals, as a community, and as a people does not have to be at the expense of those outside our orbit. We can cheer on their success and happiness even as we seek our own with equal vigor. And a major part of recognizing that blessing is ultimately shared among us all is recognizing that other people hurt too and that we may be the source of some of their pain. Even with the best intentions we are capable of doing damage to others on the way to achieving our goals. Our work then is to minimize that damage and acknowledging the pain we cause when we get too caught up in our own efforts. We must ultimately realize that true success only occurs when we lift up not only ourselves, but all those around us. Then we can all merit to be truly blessed with all good things. 

Moving Forward Together
Prepared by TBA Rabbinic Resident Jacki Honig

In some ways, our world has marched on towards normal. In other ways, it is so hard to be a human right now. People are still dying, the fear of COVID is real, and we are still just figuring out how to emerge from our protective cocoons of the last year and a half. As we return to navigating our complex “normal” lives, we have to figure out how to do this. During this last year and a half, we have faced challenges unlike any other. And also, we’ve been doing this for a year and a half. Why talk about it now? We know it’s hard, nothing has changed, and if anything things are easing towards better and more “normal” and life as “usual.” Torah is timeless and can offer us wisdom for each moment in our lives, and this time is no different.

This week’s parsha offers us an incredible example of how to work through these incredible challenges: together. At the end of our parsha, Avraham faces what is arguably the hardest thing that he has ever done in his life. G!d calls out to Abraham and tells him to sacrifice his son, and Abraham seemingly agrees to it. Preparations are made and Abraham, Isaac, and some servants set off on their way to the place that G!d will show them. Just two verses before the climax of our events, right before Abraham binds Isaac to the altar, Isaac speaks to his father, for the first time in the story. He says “Here is the flint and here is the wood, but where is the sheep for the offering?” Abraham responds that G!d will send the sheep. And then, and here it is, don’t blink or you’ll miss it וַיֵּלְכ֥וּ שְׁנֵיהֶ֖ם יַחְדָּֽו . They went. The two of them. Together. The Torah doesn’t include extra words for no reason, each and every word is meant to tell us something. So what does this together mean here? Why doesn’t the Torah just say “They went” or “the two of them went” or any other way of saying it, why does the Torah tell us that they went together? 

Rashi says that this means that they went with בְּלֵב שָׁוֶה, with an equivalent or fitting heart. From this, we might think that it means that they were both ready together for what was about to happen. 

Targum Yonatan, however, offers a slightly different explanation. It translates this section to say בְּלֵב שְׁלִים כַּחֲדָא, with a heart completely as one. These two men went together with one heart. 

This is such a challenging moment in the Torah, for us, and presumably for the players in the story. Abraham is about to sacrifice his son, his only son, the son that he loves and that he waited 100 years for, that can’t be easy. Isaac has just realized that something strange is going on, something seems off, his spidey senses are tingling, if you will. There could be an adversarial moment happening, there could be a lack of trust, there could be a feeling that the other person is just in it for themselves. And yet. They went. The two of them. Together. With one heart. Whatever they felt, they knew that they could not do it alone, the hardest thing they’d ever been asked (even if Isaac didn’t know it quite yet), and so they did it together. And this is our charge for today. What we have faced and what we continue to face, contain big challenges. It is up to us to come together, with one heart, and lean on each other to keep moving forward.  

DVAR TORAH Lekh Lekha 5782
Where Do I Go from Here?
By TBA Rabbinic Resident Julia Knobloch

The day olive trees breathed deeply
and the hills learned again to dance like lambs
I saw my son’s face when I was alone.
I was so alone that I saw.
Sleep in me, said the landscape, sleep, sleep.

I saw birds flying up and birds flying down
as when people leave you
and others come in their stead.

I saw men sitting in their homes
crying: “I want to go home!”
with the calm faces of men sitting
in their homes.

Sleep in me, said the landscape, sleep, sleep.

I resonate with this untitled poem by Yehuda Amichai, from his collection Time. It is like a mysterious prophecy, a somnambulant déjà-vu that evokes a truth I know I know, something I believe in. It has a reassuring, peaceful effect. The speaker doesn’t seem troubled. He feels safe in the landscape, surrounded—protected—by breathing olive trees and dancing hills. The hills are not jumping with fear, like the mighty mountains of the Lebanon at the sound of God’s voice in Psalm 29. Here, nature is rejoicing like the lovers in Shir HaShirim, conjuring up their reunion.

This bucolic atmosphere notwithstanding, the main sensation which emanates from the poem is loneliness. It is even stated twice: I saw my son’s face when I was alone. I was so alone, that I saw.

These two lines describe a vision: either of someone from the past—an absent son—or of a future son. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that an experience of loneliness lies at the core of prophecy. This loneliness arises from being different, from knowing differently than most “others” and can be literal or figurative: the prophets were not alone in their environment, and they must have felt very lonely.

This reminds me of the popular wisdom to deconstruct the word “alone” and remove its perceived negative connotation by focusing on the more empowering reading of “all one.” Amichai’s poem in fact is a good example of the overlap of both meanings: The speaker is alone, he is the only one in the landscape. He is all one with the landscape, he is all one with his vision.

Abraham may be one of the loneliest people in Tanakh, and there are many lonely people in Tanakh. While he had wives, a concubine, servants, and followers—and two sons, plus other offspring—he is a person set apart by his “vision and mission.”

When I think of the midrash about the Burning Castle, which explores why Abraham left his land, birthplace, and father’s house, I imagine a surreal landscape, like in a painting that Dalí and Hopper created in a team effort. Not at all like the landscape in Amichai’s poem. In the middle of a bleak nowhere, Abraham comes upon a burning castle and wonders why it is burning. Doesn’t it have an owner? The owner reveals himself to Abraham and thus makes him a partner in extinguishing the flames. Now they have a pact.

This powerful imagery seeks to explain how and why God chose Abraham to become the patriarch of (not only) the Israelite nation. Naturally, it focuses on a dialogue between God and Abraham. And maybe this is precisely the nature of a vision: there is no distinction between dialogue and monologue, between inside and outside.

Did Abraham intend or hope to change his luck by changing his place? It’s unclear. All that which seems clear is that he knew he had to leave. And that he knew that making a pact means to honor the promises one gave to oneself and to the covenantal partner, even if some visions may not come true right away, or exactly as imagined. Renouncing one’s initial certainty, faith, and trust would mean letting the flames consume the castle, instead of putting them out.

Arguably this is why Abraham, at the end of his life, insists that his servant must not return his son Isaac to where he came from, should no woman want to cross over and become Isaac’s wife: “On no account must you take my son back there!” (Bereisheet 24:6) Taking Isaac back to Haran would render the last 100 years of Abraham’s life as well as the pact he made with himself and with God in front of the burning castle meaningless.

Lekh Lekha is a parsha full of promises and covenants between God and Abraham. There is the initial command to leave Haran and the oft-repeated promise of reward. There is the Covenant between the Pieces. There is the Brit Milah.

Theologically, these covenants are the foundation of the bond between God and the Israelites until today. On a lyrical, mystical level, they are the visions of a man who was so lonely and all one that he saw. A man who believed in himself and in God and who honored the pact he had made. A man who felt so at home in his new land(scape), that he trusted her to protect him while asleep. And that land made him see his future.

This dvar technically ends here. As a coda, I am adding a poem I wrote a few years ago. It can’t aspire to Amichai’s mastery, but it, too, in its own right, is inspired by this week’s parsha and Abraham’s visions.

DO NOT RETURN

Why don’t you go home, they ask the immigrant
after all that went wrong?

Back to health care, passport, security
Family, the Yemenite rabbi said
is a husband, children

Does a niece count as offspring?

Make a chart, my neighbor said:

Why stay?
I want to
I left
G-d promised

Land, blessings, a name

I am the earth -- One grain of dust
I am the sea -- One drop of water
I am the sky -- One star

(From the collection Do Not Return, Broadstone Books, 2019)

“Hineni”
Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

I walk into a patient’s room. He’s a Jewish man in his mid-sixties, in a lot of pain due to pancreatitis. I introduce myself as a Jewish chaplain intern, enrolled in the hospital’s summer training program, which impressively managed to stay active during the pandemic. He looks at me, puzzled, and says, “Well, rabbi, what would you like to do? I suppose we could say the Shema if you like.” This makes me laugh because I can’t tell if he legitimately wants to say the Shema or if he hopes that reciting it will make me go away. I tell him I’m here to support him and that we don’t have to pray, we can just talk. He says he’s in too much pain to talk, but that he’d really like to recite the Shema. So we do. He closes his eyes and I close mine. “She-ma yis-ra-el…,” and we sing together until “e-chad.” I open my eyes, but his are still closed. I realize what’s about to happen, just as he continues, “V’ahavtah…” All of a sudden, this man who is in too much pain to talk voluntarily opts for the long version.

I think moments like that are what’s meant by spiritual care. Unlike doctors, our goal isn’t to “fix” problems. Our job is “Hineni.” Hineni means “I am here.” It’s the title of the Hazzan’s prayer that begins the Musaf service on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It’s how Abraham responds to God’s call and to his son before the Akeida, the binding of Isaac.

Hineni is a declaration of preparedness. It means showing up. It signals a desire to actively listen, without judgment or preconceived notions, to the one who calls. In a hospital setting, Hineni is perhaps the greatest spiritual gift chaplains offer patients, who often feel - especially now – like they are alone and lack control over what happens to their lives and to their bodies. But it’s also the greatest spiritual gift we offer ourselves. In empathizing with others – in seeing them, hearing them, and recognizing their human dignity without claiming to “know what they’re going through” - we become the fullest, most present version of ourselves. We experience the Divine through relationship and through Hineni.

As we enter Erev Rosh Hashanah and the new year of 5781, our world – our country – is physically and spiritually unwell. On top of climate change, we are confronted with the dual pandemics of COVID and systemic racism. One is novel, the other is not. Both have contributed to a profound sense of lack of control over what happens to lives and to bodies. We are each entitled to our different opinions as to how to “fix” these issues. But what I’m interested in now is how we chaplain one another through this time. How do we see each other the way we deserve to be seen? Hear each other the way we deserve to be heard? How do we quiet the voice that prevents us from listening to each other’s unique suffering and experience?

In 1967, the American novelist, playwright, and essayist, James Baldwin, speaking from his own perspective as an African-American man living in Harlem, writes about the dynamic he observes between white-passing Jews and black people in his neighborhood. He does not account for the experience of Jews of color, and like anyone else, can only represent his own opinions. But he makes the stirring claim that when Jews invoke their own history of unfathomable suffering in the attempt to communicate an understanding of black suffering in America, that - and I paraphrase - it does not increase a black person’s understanding; it increases a black person’s rage. When I read this, it immediately reminded me of what they taught me this summer. A chaplain seeks to understand another person’s suffering, but knows that this can never actually be achieved. Similarly, I think that Baldwin is saying that shared experience of suffering can certainly compel groups of people to join hands and march together, but it cannot convince us that we know what the other is going through.

This year, I wanted to avoid the temptation to talk about Hineini as an abstract call for presence, though we can all certainly benefit from that reminder. Instead, I want to invite us to be spiritually present for each other, to chaplain a country towards recovery, and to respond to the suffering of others not with the presumption to know but with the holy desire to show up, to be present, and to listen. After all, that’s what “Shema” means. Our

central creed is a commitment to active listening – “Hear, O Israel.” Our path to oneness - “Adoshem Elokeinu, Adoshem Echad” – is through the recognition of our common humanity and separate experience simultaneously. We can close our eyes and think our work is done. Or we can realize that “Ve’ahavtah,” the triumph of love over hate, is the long and painful version. But we’re not going anywhere. We’re here. Hineini.

Is the Torah Written in Stone?
Rachel Cohn, TBA Rabbinic Intern

We all have our own rituals that make a new house feel like a home. When I move into a new place (after putting up mezuzot), I love to set up a spot in the kitchen where I can make smoothies. My husband likes to stake his claim for a gardening spot. For others, it might be putting up a familiar painting, hanging up photographs of loved ones, or taking out your favorite coffee mug for the first cup brewed in your new abode. Whatever our particular rituals might be, we all look for the signs that this new space reflects who we are and who we hope to become while living there.

In Ki Tavo, the Israelites get some intriguing decorating advice for when they enter their new home of the promised land. They are told that when they come into the land, they are to set up large stones. God explains, “coat them with plaster and inscribe upon them the words of this Torah” (Deuteronomy 27:2-3) Nothing says “welcome home” like a giant list of your community’s laws, norms, and values!

What exactly was written on these giant communal structures? Rabbis throughout history have pictured it differently. Rashi (writing in the 11th Century) suggests it is the entire Torah written in 70 languages. Ramban (12th Century) indicates it is the text of Genesis through Deuteronomy as we know it today, including even the decorative letters with crowns. Ibn Ezra (11th Century), quoting Rav Saadyah Gaon (10th Century), explains it is a list of the 613 commandments, as recorded in the book “Halachot Gedolot” of their time. It seems that in the collective rabbinic imagination, these stones became somewhat of a “blank slate” for understanding Torah in each age.

Perhaps these seemingly magical stones have room enough for each of these images of Torah and more. Almost like the “room of requirement” in Harry Potter, it seems these stones have the ability to take on the form of what people need from Torah at a given time. As the Medieval halakhic authority Rabbi Jacob ben Asher posits: “Either the stones were exceedingly large, or there was a miracle that enabled the scribes to accomplish this.” It is indeed part of the miraculous nature of Torah that it can speak to each of us. What makes the Torah’s words indelible is not the fact that they were literally transcribed in stone, but rather that they have the ability to reach out to us across time and space.

In this Elul season of introspection, we have the opportunity to carve out a new spiritual home for ourselves in the year ahead. We can take stock of our values and find the teachings that guide us. What are the pieces of Torah you are prepared to stand by? What are the words or values you believe firmly enough to write them in stone and protect them for generations to come? Let us add to the chain of wondrous revelation by living our lives in such a way that we ourselves stand as enduring reminders of Torah in our time.

The Trail of Goodness
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

Last week a dear colleague got an email from a congregant at a shul my friend left over twenty years ago. The two had barely been in touch in the interim. The congregant was retiring, and assessing his life and his life’s work. He decided one thing he could, and thus should, do is reach out to those who had had a positive impact on his life in order to express gratitude, and let people know what a powerful influence they had been. This congregant had converted to Judaism under my friend’s supervision. He had kashered a home, and launched a life in which he was committed to raising Jewish children. Mostly, according to this colleague, the congregant learned mentshlikhkeit and a new level of supreme kindness from my friend. Now, decades later, he was calling to say thanks.

My friend said this was one of the most touching and important communications of his rabbinate. To think that seeds he planted years ago had grown inside this other person in such a way was almost too rich, too overwhelming to bear, in a positive sense. As we spoke about it, it got us both thinking about legacy, and the trail of goodness we hope our lives will have left. And, concomitantly, it made us think about the other side of the coin: the damage it is so easy for people to do (ourselves included, we are sure) when we set the poor example and lead people astray, whether intentionally or not.

A fascinating, and clearly against-the-grain, commentary on the laws of “the rebellious child” by the Kotzker Rebbe (R. Menahem Mendel of Kotzk, 18^th-19^th c., Poland) amplifies the power of setting examples, and (im-)proper instruction. The challenging verses that seem to require executing a deviant child (a requirement, I should add, which is so heavily qualified in rabbinic law that it essentially ceases to exist) begin with describing such a child as בן סורר ומורה. Ben sorer umoreh. Roughly translated as “wayward and rebellious.” Rashi cryptically comments that this child is judged “על שם סופו” (al shem sofo), or “based on his end.” This seems to mean a rabbinic version of “Minority Report”, where the law hands down the sentence based on what we presume this criminal will become and will do, by the end of his life. The Kotzker rebbe cannot accept that Rashi would embrace such a draconian execution of judgment, noting other places where Rashi clearly says that a person is judged in the present tense only, for current sins, not future ones. Rather, the Kotzker reads Rashi’s use of סופו/sofo to mean not “the end” of his life, but “the end” of the full phrase of “ben sorer umoreh.” For this awful circumstance to be contemplated even in theory, the Kotzker reasons, the child must not only be wayward/rebellious (sorer) but also a moreh. Meaning what? Moreh comes from the verb להורות/l’horot. To instruct, or to teach. (As such, it is also the root of the word Torah itself, which at its core means “instruction.” Rebelliousness and waywardness goes from sinful to tragic, from problematic to unforgivable, when it infects others. When a transgressor brings along others along the path of evil, seducing followers to violate essential norms, then we are not just seeing the breakdown of a life, but rather of a society.

Still, I would argue that the Kotzker embraces the rabbis’ qualification, limitation and essential elimination of this category and punishment. I don’t think he was suggesting that even a charismatic youth who enticed his peers to join his rebelliousness would warrant execution. Rather, he was asking us to check ourselves so that our own vices have limits, and do not spill out onto others. We must be humbly aware of where we stray, and also ferociously guarded so that what we are sharing with others, how we are influencing others, is nearly exclusively for the good. As a result of our care, modeling and focus, perhaps, years down the line, someone might reach out and say thanks.

Shabbat Shalom

R. Adam Kligfeld

Moving Towards Wholeness
By Rebecca Minkus-Lieberman, via Orot: Center for New Jewish Learning

There are those times when the crash of the tide of the Jewish calendar and the steady rhythm of the weekly parshiot coalesce in a breathtaking crescendo. So it is this week.

We only just inhaled deeply and welcomed the month of Elul. That Hebrew month that can stir both anticipation and utter dread, knowing that the intensity of the High Holidays are really much closer than we had imagined, that the spiritual ferocity and elevation of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are only a few weeks on. And as we open our eyes and feel the presence of Elul sitting alongside us, Parshat Shoftim tiptoes in the backdoor with a quiet reminder, soulful guidance - garbed as battle instructions – to steady our sight on this winding and, at times, foreboding path:

Deut. 20:5 – 8 - “And the officers shall speak unto the people, saying: 'What man is there that has built a new house, and has not dedicated it? Let him go and return to his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man dedicate it. And what man is there that has planted a vineyard, and has not eaten its fruit? Let him go and return to his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man eat his fruit. And what man is there that has betrothed a wife, and has not been with her? Let him go and return to his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man be with her.' And the officers shall speak further unto the people, and they shall say: 'What man is there that is fearful and faint-hearted? Let him go and return to his house, lest his brothers’ hearts melt as his heart.'”

When the People of Israel are readying their ranks for battle, the officers are instructed to pause and to offer these exemptions to the soldiers. In these four circumstances, individuals are allowed to bow out of their military service.But why are these individuals exempted? What is it about these particular situations that are exceptional, that require attention before serving the communal call of military service? In all of these cases, the individual is caught in a transitional place:

• One who has bought a home, but has not yet had the chance to live in it

• One who toiled and planted a field, but has not had the chance to taste its fruits

• One who has begun a committed relationship but has not fully realized its potential

• One who is a member of the People of Israel but has not yet summoned the inner strength and courage to stand fully and confidently with the community

Here, the Torah is tenderly and insightfully recognizing the need for individual actualization. There is an understanding, in each of these cases, that human beings need wholeness - shlemut. Wholeness in our sense of place. Wholeness in our work. Wholeness in our relationships. Wholeness in our inner lives. Before we embark on giving back to our communities – in fact, in order to give back to our communities – our individual selves, our individual paths must be on the road to actualization. The Torah knows that to rip a person midstream from a necessary journey towards realization will do harm –to the individual and the community.

Arthur Green, in his book “Seek My Face” speaks about the yearning for wholeness and the ways in which the shofar guides us there:

“This dream of restored wholeness is sounded out dramatically by the shofar blasts, the central symbolic expression of the teshuvah season. The shofar represents prayer beyond words, an intensity of longing that can be articulated only in a wordless shout. But the order of the sounds, according to one old interpretation, contains the message in quite explicit terms. Each series of shofar blasts begins with tekiyah, a whole sound. It is followed by shevarim, a tripartite broken sound who very name means ‘breakings.’ ‘I started off whole,’ the shofar speech says, ‘And I became broken.’ Then follows teruah, a staccato series of blast fragments, saying: ‘I was entirely smashed to pieces.’ But each series has to end with a new tekiyah, promising wholeness once more.”

Standing here, in the first week of the month of Elul, we begin our process of cheshbon ha’nefesh – inquiry of our souls. And as I read these psukim from Shoftim, I kept hearing the words of Mary Oliver’s poem “The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac” in my head. The poem, written after her recent bout with cancer, celebrates – as do so many of her poems – the breath-stopping beauty of the world, and our obligation to stop and notice and listen and fully actualize our selves in the midst of all of that wonder. She writes in the third stanza:

I know, you never intended to be in this world.

But you're in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.

There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Mary Oliver and Parshat Shoftim urge us to stop and notice what needs our attention in this month of Elul.

Do our homes hold the holiness that we strive for?

Does our work allow us the opportunity to be challenged and fulfilled, to feel actualized?

Are our relationships being realized in their deepest capacity?

Are we giving enough time and energy and attention to our inner lives, in the midst of the whirlwinds forever swirling outside of ourselves?

May we use these gentle reminders in Parshat Shoftim to look with honesty at the many facets of our lives and to spend the coming weeks searching for ways to move towards wholeness and holy actualization.

Shabbat Shalom

This act of offering a blessing itself can reorient us towards the goodness of now, as well as the richness that lies ahead.

Sometimes our cravings are indeed hunger of the body. Food pantries and food banks are seeing unprecedented demand right now, with many locations also being forced to close. Any extra resources we can offer to such causes are surely their own kind of blessing.

At other times, when our bodies are nourished, our cravings can give us a window into our soul’s desires. Perhaps we feel we have been wandering in our own wilderness for too long. Perhaps we, too, are eager to find rest in a place where all our needs are provided for. At these times, finding something to bless with gratitude - a bite of food, a gorgeous rainbow, a hint of sweet spices, or otherwise - can help keep us looking forward to the promised land.

The Long Short Road: Devarim and Tisha B'Av 5780

By Rabbi Sam Feinsmith, via Orot: The Center for New Jewish Learning

“Said Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananiah: Once a child got the better of me. I was traveling, and I met with a child at a crossroads. I asked him, ‘Which way to the city?,’ and he answered, ‘This way is short and long, and this way is long and short.’ I took the short and long way. I soon reached the city but found my approach obstructed by gardens and orchards. So I retraced my steps and said to the child, ‘My son, did you not tell me that this is the short way?’ Answered the child, ‘Did I not tell you that it is also long?’” (Babylonian Talmud Eruvin 53b)

I often notice myself looking for shortcuts on the spiritual path, especially when my life circumstances are difficult. Fortunately, I have trained in being able to bear witness to the ways in which my wily mind tries to find circuitous ways around the unpleasant rather than relax into it with honesty, loving curiosity, courage, and compassion. Some of my mind’s favorite tactics: Denial. Repression. Blame. Willful ignorance. Protest. Distraction. Entertainment seeking. Sound familiar? The problem is that though my mind convinces itself that these shortcuts will get me to more favorable circumstances in no time, such tactics end up lengthening the path toward healing, and greatly enhance my suffering along the way. When I run from my fears, the road to wholeness becomes obstructed by a thicket of confusion, misperception, blame, ill will, grasping, and ignorance. As it were, I am opting for the short long way.

According to RaSHI, this is exactly the choice the Israelites made in the desert. Sefer Devarim opens with a description of the whereabouts of Moshe’s farewell address to the Israelites: “It was eleven days’ distance from Horev (Sinai) to Kadesh Barne’a by way of Mount Seir” (Devarim 1:3). Why does the text share this seemingly extraneous information? RaSHI’s response: “Moshe said to the [Israelites]: ‘See what you have wrought. For there is no path as short from Horev to Kadesh Barne’a [which is adjacent to Canaan] as the way of Mount Seir, which is an eleven day journey. Yet you traversed it in three days...because the Divine Presence was so restless to hurry your arrival into the Land of Israel. But since you ruined things [in your reaction to the sin of the Spies], God turned you back to traverse around Mount Seir for forty years’” (RaSHI ad loc.). Faced with the fear induced by the unfavorable report of the Spies, the Israelites sought to depose Moshe and go back to Egypt, and upon failing, to force their way into the Land of Israel. For RaSHI, the people thought they were taking the short road, when in fact they were condemning themselves to forty years of walking in circles. Having the faith to acknowledge and work with their fear in the context of their covenantal bond with God would have constituted a choice to walk the long short road.

The long short road may be unpleasant at times. Specifically because it takes more faith, creativity, and imagination than our imagined shortcuts; it demands full presence, courage, honesty, and loving persistence. But in the end it gets us to our destination more quickly, allowing us to relax into the unpleasant, and arrive on the other side with greater wholeness, wisdom, and compassion.

Choosing the long short road offers us a lens for approaching the season of mourning leading up to Tish’a B’av, the date commemorating the destruction of both Temples and the massacre and dispersion of our people. In trying to understand why Tish’a B’av is ignored by a large portion of the American Jewish community, in her book In The Narrow Places: Daily Inspiration for the Three Weeks, Erica Brown writes:

“Why has this day and its surrounding rituals not been appreciated by the wider Jewish community? Perhaps the answer lies in a particular type of amnesia, a willed disregard for tragic history or the past. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik observed that American Jews do not always have sufficient sensitivity to Torah values to achieve spiritual depth. Human happiness does not depend on comfort. The American Jew follows a philosophy which equates religion with making Jewish life more comfortable and convenient. It enables the Jew to have more pleasure in life…Comfort is the main obstruction blocking the Jewish community from contact with Tisha B’Av. Suffering humanizes us. Ignoring suffering dehumanizes us. I don’t want to ruin my good mood by looking at that homeless person, so I turn away – and with that turning, I let go of my social responsibility to him. Attunement to suffering makes us more compassionate (Brown, pp. 2-7).

In short, when it comes to facing the suffering of our people and our responsibility to them, during this season many of us choose to traverse the short long road, which is no surprise considering that we choose the same approach when relating to our own suffering.

May we train in awakening from the illusion of a shortcut around the unpleasant. As we choose the long short road, may we develop the courage to stop running from our suffering and the suffering of our people. And as we develop greater skill and compassion at working with the difficult truths of our lives, may we open to greater healing, compassion, ease, and responsibility. May it be so speedily in our days. And let us say amen.

Shabbat Shalom

The Zigzag Line to Our Promised Land

Taste of Torah for Mattot-Massei by Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

This week, we get a retrospective. As we look back on our collective journey in the desert - the parasha literally mapping out in detail each stop along the way out of Egypt – you can’t help but look back at your own life, at each stop along the way that has helped shape you and contribute to where and who you are today.

Reading it, I started thinking about Mrs. Creasy, ז׳׳ל, my high school American lit teacher, who will always be a profound influence on my life. She taught me about metaphor. Our final paper for her class was to concoct and defend our own personal metaphor for life because she believed that in order to fully grasp something, you have to be able to understand it metaphorically, symbolically, poetically. And she wanted us to understand life.

She was notoriously difficult – pushing and challenging us to excel because she believed in our potential to grow. I think my favorite thing about her was that, whenever we failed to live up to that potential, Mrs. Creasy would throw her hands up, look us right in the face and say, “Well, you are useless.” She didn’t mean that metaphorically.

Something she taught us flooded back to me from the deep recesses of my memory when I read this week’s parasha. It’s Emerson, the 19th century iconic transcendentalist, who wrote: “The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.”

I want to understand this week’s parasha as best I can. Here’s why I think this metaphor helps.

Right before recounting each stop on our travels, the Torah says, “Moses recorded the departures for their journeys as directed by the Lord. And these were the journeys for their departures…”/ “ויכתב משה את מוצאיהם למסעיהם על פי ה׳ ואלה מסעיהם למוצאיהם” (Numbers 33:2). The 17th century commentator from Prague, the Kli Yakar, notices that in the first part of the verse, it says “departures for their journeys - מוצאיהם למסעיהם,” but that phrase is reversed in the second half of the verse to “journeys for their departures - מסעיהם למוצאיהם.” The Kli Yakar understands this to mean that there was a back-and-forth nature to the Israelites’ wanderings. Forth – when they heeded God’s laws and acted morally. Back – when they regressed, rejected God’s laws, and acted immorally.

This week’s parasha seems to suggest that progress is not a straight line. It’s a zigzag. A ship moves forward by shifting its sails to catch the wind, which blows in different directions. Similarly, it seems that whenever we take three steps forward we are doomed to take two steps backwards, whether we are journeying to our literal or metaphorical promised lands. Today, trust in law enforcement is eroding as more black lives are extinguished by murderous acts of racial

violence. COVID has brought everything to a screeching halt, as one week shows a flattening curve and the next, a spike. If recounting where we’ve been helps us understand who we are, then: Who are we? Which actions define us, our triumphs or our setbacks?

Emerson’s quote continues. He writes, “See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions.” In other words, we’re defined by all of it. If we only look to our triumphs, then we make a graven image of ourselves and bow down to it, worshiping our own perfection. If we only look to our shortcomings, then we do what Mrs. Creasy never did – we lose faith in our ability to grow.

Isn’t it interesting that parshiyot always seem to come at the exact right time, when we need them? Believe it or not, the High Holidays are approaching. Which means, it’s time for a retrospective. On a personal and on a national level, we need to do teshuva. We need to examine where we’ve been, where we are, and where we want to be – our promised land. A country free of the dual pandemics of COVID and hate.

Now that we’ve had plenty of practice standing six feet away from each other, we are tasked with standing six feet away from ourselves in order to better see, with distance, the zigzag line of our actions that make us who we are. Before reciting the Amidah, a prayer in which we envision approaching God’s Divine Presence, we take three steps back and three steps forward. The human journey is not a straight line. But that doesn’t mean we can’t attain holiness and greet the Divine. Mattot-Massei reminds us that, in the words of MLK, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

Shabbat Shalom.

Who Tells Our Story?
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

Are you a good storyteller or do you leave that task to someone else? Are you someone who needs to start a story again to make sure you have told all the details? Do you tell stories to share history or to impact the future?

Watching Hamilton this past week, I was struck by the artfulness of the storytelling. I have seen the show on stage, but the medium of TV offered different opportunities of perspective: I could turn on subtitles; I was limited to looking at what the camera focused on; I was brought closer into the faces of the characters at the expense of taking in the larger scene of settings and choreography around them. Also, I was made aware of actors who played multiple roles. When you are seated in row J of the balcony, that is not easy to notice. But the artistic pairings seemed inspired choices and evidence of the deeply layered mastery of this work by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

The Schuyler sisters are presented as surprisingly strong willed, determined, learned and thoughtful and Eliza plays a significant role in the formation of her husband’s character as well as protecting the legacy of him and their family. And though the musical, Hamilton, is not told as if through Eliza’s eyes, we of the 21st Century know that much of the surviving history comes from her work, interviews, notes, and letters.

In this week’s parasha, Pinhas, we are introduced to the five daughters of Tzelofehad - I like to imagine them as the Schuyler Sisters of the Torah. Brave and closely bound as family, they take charge of their destiny. They approach Moses before the whole community after their father dies and say, “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” Moses turns to God and God consents, changing the law to include daughters’ rights of inheritance. The daughters were not only witnesses to great history. They were influencers who passed on the legacy--the story--of appropriately arguing for change. Rashi later commented that according to the Midrash Tanchuma, the daughters saw what Moses could not see. They had a finer perception of what was just, in the law of inheritance, than Moses had.

We are living an ordeal that will reshape our future. These days will be mentioned in the same breath as the Spanish Flu and the Bubonic Plague; and perhaps alongside histories of the fights for Civil rights of the 1960s, as matters of poverty, bigotry, and health care become poisonously tangled. We are the beneficiaries of the heroes and storytellers of earlier times. Now is our turn. Will we bravely pursue justice for ourselves and others as did Tzelopfehad’s daughters? Will we sing the refrain from Hamilton “who lives, who dies, who tells our story?” First we need to figure out what story we want to tell and then, who tells it. What character, with what values and strengths? “History has its eyes on you!”

By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

“First, ask if it any of it rings true. No matter how it was expressed.” That is the first counsel I give to staff, mentees, friends, etc…whenever we are discussing the topic of constructive critique, and feedback (whether bidden or unbidden). It is my way of paying forward essential counsel I received from one of my teachers and mentors, Rabbi Terry Bookman. It is a normative human instinct to defend when attacked. To deflect when accused. We like to look in mirrors for vanity, but not to see the warts so much. So when someone shines a clear light on some unsavory part of who we are, or what we do, it is usually an uncomfortable experience, no matter how open we believe we are to growth and learning.

Some feedback comes gently, only after being requested, couched in humane language, without overloading the emotional system, and avoiding ad hominem attacks. And some feedback…well let’s just say it comes differently than that! I believe that when we are confronted the latter category, one of the most important human and leadership tasks is to resist the urge to recoil, but rather to counter-intuitively take it all in, independent of how it was shared, and ask the hard question. “Is any of it accurate?” For if so, and if the person has pointed about something accurate (and thus deserving of attention) even in a painful way, then we, the recipient, walk away from the encounter a winner. For we have learned something. And we can grow. And the unsavory critique can still have an ennobling impact on our character.

Many commentators read this very stance into Moshe’s initial response to the Torah’s paradigmatic example of critique both potentially accurate and undoubtedly scathing and unforgiving. I refer to Korach’s rebellion against Moshe and his leadership, which is how this week’s eponymous parsha begins. Korach accuses Moshe (just recently identified as ענו מאוד/anav m’od, or “very humble”) of lording over others, raising himself to a higher level than those he leads. “Aren’t we all holy, Moshe?”

Rabbi Schneiur Zalman of Lyady, the first rabbi of the Lubavitch Hasidic dynasty, argues that Moshe could have defensibly uttered an immediate, and righteous, retort to Korach. After all, Moshe was blind-sided by this critique. And the Torah text belies the critique. No one would have faulted Moshe had his instant response been to deflect the attack, and put Korach in his place. We would all identify with that instinct, no? Instead “the Alter Rebbe,” as he was known, points out Moshe’s surprising and, well, humble (and thus illustrative) response. The Torah says: וישמע משה ויפל על פניו. Vayishma Moshe vayipol al panav. Moshe heard (listened). And fell on his face. Both parts of that short verse are important, argues the Alter Rebbe. First, Moshe took in the words, rather than put up an impregnable shield. No matter what he thought of Korach, and his approach to logging concerns, Moshe did not plug his ears. He listened. And then he prostrated himself. He fell to the ground. Why? For a moment of personal pause. To check in with himself, and the Holy One, to see if there was merit to Korach’s words. Perhaps Korach is an unsavory representative of the Almighty? A test of Moshe’s own character, sent to assay Moshe’s willingness to reflect on his leadership? Could the critique be true, on any level?

It was only after Moshe searched himself, with piercing honesty and the sense that he may, indeed, have earned the opprobrium, that he authored his response.

What is slightly ironic about the Alter Rebbe’s read is that, after the introspection, Moshe comes out (at least to his own assessment) sparkling clean. He has nothing to apologize for. His conscience is clear. The claims are spurious and the insurrection is against both Moshe and God. The most humble man in the Torah can find no flaw in himself! And so, the Alter Rebbe says, Moshe is justified, after rising from his prostration, in calling down God to help handle this unjust revolution. (Interestingly, this read of Moshe might unconsciously be a projection on the part of the Alter Rebbe Hasidic rebbes are both thought to properly introspective and simultaneously nearly beyond flaw.).

But still, the main point should be a clarion call to us: the first response to critique, whether gentle nor withering, whether wholly unfair or painfully on-target, should be to pause. Take it in. Let the words reverberate inside. For from such moments, we always learn. And thus our response need not be pique. But rather gratitude.

Shabbat Shalom

This week is about God and me
By Rav Natan Freller

Imagine you have been secluded to one place for longer than you expected to. All you want is to move on. Easy, right?

Now imagine that the place where you were wandering is outside the house and all you want is to go inside and feel at home.

Still in the first year of the Israelite journey in the wilderness, Moshe led them to the borders of the promise land. It doesn’t take forty years to get there, that was a divine decision that comes at the end of this parasha, and most of these years, the Jews camped at the same place.

This week’s parasha is called Shelach lecha – send for yourself. What a unique way for God to charge Moshe with a new task. It could be that God does not care about scouting the land, so if Moshe wants to do it, he has been given the permission. Or God actually cares, but disagrees with the idea, and let Moshe take full responsibility for it. It could be God showing love for the people: go, go for yourself, check it out, and enjoy it! Looking forward to hearing back from you!

Later on, when looking back to this moment almost 40 years later, Moshe tells this same story a little bit differently (Devarim 1:19-23):

We set out from Horeb and traveled the great and terrible wilderness that you saw, along the road to the hill country of the Amorites, as Adonai our God had commanded us. When we reached Kadesh-barnea, I said to you, “You have come to the hill country of the Amorites which Adonai our God is giving to us.

See, Adonai your God has placed the land at your disposal. Go up, take possession, as Adonai, the God of your fathers, promised you. Fear not and be not dismayed.”

Then all of you came to me and said, “Let us send men ahead to reconnoiter the land for us and bring back word on the route we shall follow and the cities we shall come to.”

It looked good in my eyes, and so I selected twelve of your men, one from each tribe.

The rabbis of the Talmud asked the same question, but their answers focused on a different reality, trying to protect God from any wrongdoing in letting the spies go even though God knew what they would say.

The truth is that the spies never said anything bad about the land. All twelve spies agreed about how good the land is and even brought fruits with them to prove. They also agreed in their description of the challenges ahead, describing a local population of giants. The disagreement was between Yehoshua and Calev and the other ten spies, who did not trust their capacity to conquer the land – even though they had God on their side.

So what was their sin that caused the people to wander for forty years before entering the land again?

The Talmud (Sotah 34b) expresses what I think is the key here in a very interesting way, analyzing the names of the spies:

“The spies were named after their actions, even though we don’t know the reason why for all of them. Sethur the son of Michael is called Sethur, as he hid [satar] the actions of the Holy One.

In other words, he ignored the miracles that God performed for the Jewish people in Egypt and in the wilderness and did not see God’s role in this next challenge ahead of them.

In opposition to this idea, Hoshea becomes Yehoshua because of this episode (Bamidbar 13:16):

אֵ֚לֶּה שְׁמ֣וֹת הָֽאֲנָשִׁ֔ים אֲשֶׁר־שָׁלַ֥ח מֹשֶׁ֖ה לָת֣וּר אֶת־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַיִּקְרָ֥א מֹשֶׁ֛ה לְהוֹשֵׁ֥עַ בִּן־נ֖וּן יְהוֹשֻֽׁעַ׃

Those were the names of the men whom Moshe sent to scout the land; but Moshe changed the name of Hoshea son of Nun to Yehoshua.

The Talmud explain that his new name mean that God will save him from the counsel of the other spies.

This entire story is not about the land, but about how each one of us deals with the challenges we have ahead and the role we allow God to play in our lives, particularly in moments like this.

I do not think of God as a personal God with magical powers, while at the same time, in a time where science and knowledge are being threaten by a harmful belief system that endangers our lives and our society, I want to believe in a God that is by my side right now.

Today, God cannot be an expression of hate, lies, or any kind of violence, prejudice, and discrimination. We were all created in God’s image and this is the most important principle in our Torah.

A life of mere facts and logic is challenging right now as well. I have been searching for God in my life with a different approach over the past few months. Acknowledging that knowing God completely can me overwhelming and surreal, I have been focusing on the godliness, the divine that exists in our actions. The way I conduct myself and how I behave towards others is my attempt to emanate the divine into the world.

This is no easy task. Maybe one of the greatest challenges of our lives, but I would still choose to face it having God by my side.

This is also my last opportunity to share a message with this wonderful community who became my home for the past years in Los Angeles. As I move on to my next challenge, I want to thank each one of you who welcomed me in your home and

helped me understand that I belong here as well. I will be forever grateful to this community for being such an important chapter of my life. Looking forward to seeing everyone at the Corner of Olympic and La Cienega soon, whether on livestream or on my next trip to California.

May we all find the capacity to be inspired and the ability to bring godliness to our lives.

Shabbat Shalom

Recognizing the Many Colors of the Jewish Community: An Adaptation

This week, I offer an adaption of “Recognizing the Many Colors of the Jewish Community,” by Rabbi Angela Buchdahl of Central Synagogue in New York, written last year. As our city, state, country, and world begin to engage in a heightened way with institutional racism in its many forms, stemming from the necessary, overdue outcry against police brutality, one of many steps towards building an anti-racist community requires diversifying the chorus of voices we amplify.

Rabbi Schatz and I are in the process of cultivating a series of programs that will bring teachings, perspectives, and programs from Jews of Color to TBA; if you have any ideas or suggestions of speakers, teachers, or interesting opportunities, please let us know. In that spirit, I share this article with you. I pray that we will, as individuals and as a community, remain motivated to expand our understanding and actions towards greater inclusion, empathy, care, and justice.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Matt Shapiro

Our portion begins with a dramatic story of sibling tension as Aaron and Miriam speak out against their brother Moses’s wife. “He married a Cushite woman!” they exclaimed. Then Miriam is struck with leprosy as a punishment.

There are some startling and troubling things about this passage. To begin—both Aaron AND Miriam speak out against Moses, but only Miriam, his sister, is harshly punished for it. Aaron gets off leprosy-free. Also, it says that Moses married a Cushite woman, but actually, if you have been following our Torah, you would remember that Moses married Zipporah, the daughter of Jethro, a Midianite priest. Does Moses have 2 wives? Or does he divorce Zipporah and marry this Cushite woman? Or is “Cushite” just a curious way to describe Zipporah? But those topics are for another sermon.

I want to talk about the simple fact that Moses is married to a Cushite woman. Cush is a region south of Ethiopia, also known as Nubia or present day Sudan. I want you to take a moment and picture the prophet Moses and his long white beard, with staff in arm...and the other arm holding his dark skinned African wife. Does that image surprise you?

I was recently at the UJA Federation for the initial report of a groundbreaking census on how many Jews of Color there are in the US and how many there will be in coming years. Despite the Jewish community’s obsession with population studies, we have never before intentionally counted Jews of Color. This has been due, in large part, to the working assumption that American Jews are white.

But the newest analysis tells us otherwise. The study was commissioned by the Jews of Color Field Building initiative and carried out by respected demographers Dr.’s Ari Kelman of Stanford

and Aaron Tapper of University of San Francisco, Their detailed analysis shows by conservative estimates that Jews of Color represent at least 12-15% of American Jews, and growing.

That is a stunning statistic.

It’s 1 in 7 Jews. It means that of the approx 7.4 million Jews of America, about a million are Jews of Color. That is larger than the Orthodox population in America. I’m guessing that many of you right now might feel pretty skeptical about those numbers. Ilana Kaufman, who presented the results of this study, shared that she is often confronted by disbelief: “A man came up to me and said, ‘I don’t believe the numbers. I went to Jewish day schools, to Jewish camps, to volunteer in Federation, and I never saw Jews of color anywhere.’”

Perhaps there is a reason for that.

I thought back to our Torah portion and the fact that Aaron and Miriam are speaking out against this Cushite woman. Without explanation. Why? “Perhaps they were just upset that Moses didn’t marry an Israelite?” you say. But they did not speak out against his marriage to Zipporah, the Midianite. The Torah doesn’t tell us the words that Miriam and Aaron said against this woman of color in their midst, but I can tell you some of the words that I myself and other Jews of Color

have heard spoken of us in the Jewish community:

“She’s nice, but she’s not really one of us.”

“Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”

At pick-up for Hebrew school in our lobby: “Excuse me, are you the nanny?”

Sometimes the words are not that explicitly offensive. They are the seemingly innocuous questions we’re asked in synagogue like:

“So, what brings you here?”

“Now where are you from?”

“Where did you learn all that Hebrew?”

Questions like these remind us we’re seen as outsiders. It is exhausting to always have to explain ourselves.

These are questions that most white Jews are never asked if you walk into shul. Because the assumption is that you are Jewish. Now that you know that 1 in 7 in our community are Jews of Color, when you walk into any minyan, or 10 Jews, you should be making the assumption

that there is at least one Jew of color in that group. And if you don’t see any, you should be asking yourself the question— why are they not here?

If we don’t answer this question, there will be serious ramifications for our community. The study shows that the next generation of the Jewish community is rapidly changing. 65% of the people living in multiracial Jewish households are under the age of 45. Jewish demographics are trending along the same lines as the US. The implications for this is that in a few decades, the Jewish community, just like the American population, will be a majority people of color. This is already the case in Israel today, where 47% of Israeli Jews are Ashkenazi, and the majority are Jews of color from Arab, African or Asian lands.

I imagine that this might make some Jews feel a little uncomfortable. Are we losing or diluting our traditional culture? But I want to remind our community that this IS our traditional culture, from Diaspora times to all the way back when Moses married a Cushite woman. We were never some single race or ethnicity. “Looking Jewish” is not what makes us a Jewish people. Instead of seeing this as a threat, we should see our mixed multitude, this mosaic of the tribes of Israel, as an opportunity and a blessing.

Miriam and Aaron had trouble with this. They were alarmed by this Cushite woman

and spoke out against her, but God came down strong and admonished them for it.

Moses was the forgiving one. He prayed for his sister to be healed from her leprosy.

He understood that our community needed more forgiveness and openness, more empathy and acceptance in order to get us to the promised land. This is why Moses is considered our greatest prophet, and still has so much to teach us today.

Building A Country Where God Can Dwell
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Joshua Jacobs

This week we get the dedication of the Mishkan (God’s portable Tabernacle in the desert), which triumphantly celebrates the completion of a project - a holy creation. As Americans on June 6, 2020, however, we mourn destruction - writhing in the pain of lost life and property. Creation in this week’s parasha strikes a discordant note with that of destruction all around us today. But I think what remains after reading Naso is the realization that there is no better time to read about attracting God’s Presence in an arid wasteland than right now. Wandering in the wilderness, striving for the Promised Land of America as it should be, we are given hope that like the Israelites before us, we can build something holy that attracts God’s Presence to dwell among us.

So how did our ancestors do it? Well, let’s jump to the end. Upon the dedication of the Mishkan’s altar, one prince (נשיא) from each of the twelve tribes offers up the exact same thing: “…one silver bowl weighing 130 shekels and one silver basin of 70 shekels by the sanctuary weight, both filled with choice flour with oil mixed in (…)” and the specifics continue for a total of five verses (Num. 13-17).

Any editor in the world would have detailed this long offering once, and simply stated that each tribal leader presented the same thing. But the Torah repeats these verses twelve times, specifying each prince’s offering even though they were all identical. Why? What is to be learned from this seemingly unnecessary repetition in a Text where every word matters? I think that, maybe, it’s to underscore the crucial role of equality in the building of God’s home. That’s not to say that the Israelites achieved perfect social harmony. The law of Sota (when a man suspects his wife of adultery), which also appears in this parasha, seems to attest to a stark inequality between the sexes in ancient Israelite society. But for one defining moment in the history of our people – the dedication of the Mishkan – our tribal princes overcome the need to dominate one another for the sake of equality.

This might be the perfectly nice message of a parasha entitled “נשיא” – Nasi. But the parasha is called “נשא” – Naso. The sameness of our contributions and of our identities is not the story being told this week. “Naso” can be translated to mean census, as in “The Lord spoke to Moses: Take a census/naso of the Gershonites also, by their ancestral house and by their clans” (Num. 4:21-22). Our parasha begins with the counting of a subsection of the Levites, the Gershonites, who are given a unique role and service in the administration of the Mishkan. Here, differences are not overlooked but rather embraced as separate tribes are celebrated for the unique roles they serve and for the unique contributions only they can bring to the Mishkan. It’s the appreciation of our differences combined with the commitment to equality that allows us to build a home for God to dwell.

But something deeper is happening here, too. Elsewhere in the Torah, נשא means “acceptance” or “elevation.” Read this way into our verse, God is instructing Moses not just to count, but to elevate the Levites. Why? Perhaps it’s because the Levites were not given a hereditary portion in Israel. They are not assigned an ancestral portion in the land. Acknowledging this inequality, God commands Moses to elevate the Gershonites.

The story of the princes – נשיא – is one of equality. Of an elite class of leaders who miraculously set aside their differences to acknowledge their innate equality before God. It’s our story as Jews and as Americans, whose founders declared that all men are created equal. The story of Naso/נשא, however, is one of equity. It acknowledges that there are those among us who did not receive an equal ancestral portion. So God tells Moses to elevate those who have been left out.

As Jews in Los Angeles, we are currently feeling profound pain over the brutal snubbing out of innocent black lives. We are also feeling profound pain over damage to our livelihoods as some of our own stores have been attacked and looted. Many of us may feel conflicted, wanting to wholeheartedly support a minority group fighting for equal treatment before the law (or at least the right not to be murdered by those sworn to protect and serve them) but also struggling to understand why some of these protests have resorted to looting and riots. Without condoning violence, I think it’s important not to conflate the value we ascribe to human life with the value we ascribe to property (no matter how tied up that property may be with our very livelihoods), especially concerning a people whose bodies have historically been considered property. Naso may contain the national remedy we seek, as differences are embraced and each group is empowered to offer the unique contribution only it can make. Maybe ours is, like Moses, to elevate – נשא - the voices of those who have been left out. Because when the cries of the oppressed are ignored for far too long, to quote Martin Luther King Jr., “A riot is the language of the unheard.”

I wish strength to all of us hurting this week as we strive to build a country where God can dwell.

Dedicated to the memory of Missy Stein
By Rabbi Matt Shapiro

Starting the Book of Numbers this week seems fitting. Our news feeds, our minds, our lives are inundated with rates, totals, percentages. They begin to blur together, each new figure interpreted in different ways resulting in a variety of conclusions and prognoses that then are revised, if not reversed, weekly, daily, hourly. Truly dizzying. We aren’t just reading the book of numbers- we’re living it.

It’s a census, a counting of the Israelites that lends this book its Anglicized name- also quite fitting, as we move through our own national, decennial (“once-a-decade”...word of the day!) census of standing up to be counted, for political representation and county/city/nation-wide recognition of who and where we are as people. Each of us, in our tribe, saying hineni, here I am, I’m worthy of recognition and I should be acknowledged.

Let’s not forget we’re also currently in our own annual season of counting as a people, moving through the Omer, towards Sinai, a peak experience for us as Jews, a spiritual pinnacle that has never been matched in our history that we still make every effort to replicate annually. We affirm the value of every day, ensuring that each is distinct, a charge that feels particularly apropo and challenging right now.

In an effort to prevent my own days from blending into the next, I set aside some time on Tuesday morning to learn (digitally, of course) from Rabbi Jonathan Slater, who shared a beautiful teaching of the Beit Aharon, Reb Aaron of Karlin. He writes: “in truth, all is One, yet when this One enters the world, it expands into/through all the letters of the Torah, each of which creates any number of other combinations.” In an idea that appears often in Chassidic teachings, everything is made up of the Hebrew letters, which combine and re-combine to form creation as the building blocks of the world. We are also taught that each one of us, as it were, is a letter of the Torah, that we ourselves are the building blocks of humanity, each of us, of course, containing the building blocks of life within. This idea of counting, then, holds additional weight, in seeing what every single letter can in turn create.

I’m reminded of a parable I learned some years ago: as she was walking, a woman saw a man between two piles of sand, one much larger than the other. Upon closer examination, she saw he was using chopsticks, incrementally moving one pile to the next. Confused, she asked, “how on earth are you going to move that whole pile?” He looked up and responded with conviction: “one grain of sand at a time.” I read this parable as speaking to both the value of recognizing individuality and the meta-process of how to do so. Each grain of sand is a distinct unit, treated with care. It can be a time-consuming and exhausting process to engage in that granular work, yet it will, in time, create clear and substantive change.

I learned this parable while working at Beit T’shuvah- it is an apt metaphor for recovery from addiction, which is indeed possible through ongoing effort and careful attention to each moment and choice, yet also an extended process that can seem to be endless, a message that feels fitting mid-pandemic. The parable also links to God’s promise to Abraham, that his descendants shall be as numerous as the sand on the shore. We have multiplied hundreds and hundreds of times over, and we also come from a shared ancestor, connecting each of us even in our multiplicity.

Yesterday, Missy Stein, one of my mother’s closest friends, passed away- she had been sick with cancer for many years, and was only 54 years old. Yet, as my mom emphasized, she ”packed a life’s worth of experience into a life that was too short.” However much time we have, we still have a choice in how we’re living, right now. Each day is finite...and also infinite- how many moments are in each day? Each one of us is so finite, a momentary wave on the ocean of life...and also infinite- we contain so many thoughts, experiences, relationships, all fully and uniquely our own, within that one grain of sand, that one letter of the Torah.

As we begin this book of Ba-Midbar (translating to “in the desert”), as we wander through uncharted wilderness as our ancestors did, a census connecting us through the centuries, I hope we don’t just ask “what are we counting?”- I hope we also ask: “why are we counting?” The Beit Aharon offers an answer in his teaching: “you and no other person like you has ever been in the world. Therefore we must each fully bring about each of our own unique qualities.” The Torah isn’t complete without each of its letters, the world isn’t complete without you, and even the desert isn’t complete without each and every single grain of sand. We take on these acts of counting because each of us counts.

Sometimes, those individual grains all blur together- after all, the desert is vast. That’s why we read about the census this week; when it feels overwhelming, we are reminded of how important it is to keep counting. Though it may hold deep uncertainty, it is only in the desert that we receive the Torah, filled to bursting with each of its letters, and then we walk through that desert, one step at a time. Though we’re just beginning that journey, no matter what the numbers say, we keep walking and, in honor of Missy, I’m committed to making each day count.

Shabbat shalom.

Mitzvah: Impact Or Import?
by Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

Parables abound regarding the impact of one person’s singular good deed, and the ruin that comes when we assume others will step forward, thus acquitting ourselves of responsibility. There is the starfish story, in which one beachgoer wonders to another beachgoer why she is going through the trouble of returning a beached starfish to the waters. “After all, there must be a million such forlorn starfishes on the beaches of the world. How can your act matter?” Of course, the pithy response is “It matters to this one.”

This story is a cousin of the tale of the king who called for a kingdom-wide celebration, in which each citizen would contribute a portion of their own finest wine into one central vat of ambrosia (as an aside…yuck! That does not seem to be a delectable mixture!). Each citizen thought to himself, “with so many contributing, no one will know if I pour water, rather than wine. I’ll get off cheap!” And, of course, on the day the vat is opened it is filled not with sangria, but rather plain old water.

One reason we do individual acts of goodness and piety is because each one matters. And the absence of each one sullies the world around us.

I think Judaism supports that notion as a necessary, but not sufficient, explanation for why we approach each individual spiritual and human act with attention and care. We are going for impact, but not only impact. We are, at our core, driven by values…even when the impact may seem negligible.

A comment by Rabbi Moshe Alshikh (known simply as “The Alshikh,” who was a disciple of Rabbi Yosef Karo, the author of the Shulhan Arukh, the code of Jewish law) on Parshat Behar zooms in on the individual’s obligation to take very personally God’s commands, particularly when speaking about the obligation to help others. He notes that for much of the beginning of the parsha, God’s commands, mediated through Moshe, are directed towards the Israelite people, using plural grammar/nouns/verbs. But that shifts with the words, in Vayikra/Leviticus 25:25, when the Torah says כי ימוך אחיך. Ki yamukh ahikha. If your fellow is in distress…Those words begin a series of exhortations to help one’s friend, neighbor, peer when s/he is brought low for a variety of reasons. But here, the verbs and nouns are singular. As if, according to the Alshikh, the Torah is screaming “Hey you! Yes, you! This law is meant for you, personally and individually to follow.” He notes that it is culturally and anthropologically common for people to assume that the hard word of doing the right and the good will be done by someone else. After all, how much impact can one person have? “Let someone more wealthy give tzedakah. Let someone geographically closer do the errand.” Rather, this text is meant to move the mitzvah from impact to import. Yes, a wealthier person may be able to give more, and thus impact more, with his/her tzedakah than you can. But, the Alshikh asks, don’t you want to live as a generous, empathic person? And even if you don’t, the Torah is commanding that you do.

I think of this as I consider my food choices, and as I exhort you to think of yours. Kashrut was meant to have us eat Jewishly, such that we would be eating both distinctly as well as ethically. Nowadays, there is, sadly and tragically, a gaping chasm between those dual goals of keeping Kosher. We hunt after labels and rabbinic symbols, neglecting the innumerable ways that harm to animals, not to mention to workers, are done in the name of supposedly lofty ideals of Kashrut. We check off the box, our piety intact. If there is massive work required to reform the food industry, well that is a societal problem, not an individual one. How much can I really impact?

Once again, the Torah’s voice pushes us to consider each individual act as a chance to bring God close, or push God away, irrespective of the visible, practical, dynamic impact that act will have on the world around us. It is true that the world of kashrut will only be positively rehabilitated when there is a groundswell of attention to it by Kosher-observant Jews. Your individual choice to aim not only for kosher meat, but ethically-raised and ethically-slaughtered meat, impacts very little. Perhaps even less than the impact of returning one starfish to the ocean. Likely not a single chicken or cow will be spared some rather brutal conditions because of your individual conscientiousness. But it is both the case that the chances for grand change rely on innumerable individuals eating with conscience, and that every time you consume food it is, or at least it can be, a spiritual moment. A Torah moment. An ethical moment.

We really begin to be children of the Holy One when we hear the Torah, whether when using plural commands or singular commands, speaking individually to our souls.

Exiles

By Joshua Jacobs, TBA Intern

Following parashat Emor, which focuses primarily on laws concerning the priestly class (kohanim) in the Tabernacle, we read a haftarah from the prophet Ezekiel, who, centuries later, would actually begin his career as a priest in the Jerusalem Temple. Both readings center around a common theme - instruction for the kohanim regarding how to live and work in a manner that will safeguard the ritual purity and holiness of b’nei yisrael. And yet, if we look beyond the obvious thread connecting the two readings, and turn to the life of Ezekiel himself, it seems to me that this haftarah is coming at the exact right moment, offering us the words of the exact right prophet for these times.

Ezekiel, like all of us celebrating Shabbat at home today, was exiled from the Temple. As the first prophet whose entire prophetic career took place in exile, Ezekiel spoke to a people sent away, a people unable to worship together in their holy sanctuary. Today, no less saliently than he did 2,500 years ago, Ezekiel speaks to us. His message? Even in our dispersion, we can strive for and attain holiness. As we read in Emor, “קדש יהיה לך כי קדוש אני ה׳ מקדשכם” - “...you shall be holy for I the Lord, Who sanctifies you, am holy” (Lev. 21:8) – The word קדוש is perhaps more accurately translated to mean “set apart.” It seems then, that how we cling to our tradition and to each other despite the challenge of being physically set apart from our temple and from one another may in fact be what makes us holy.

It’s worth taking a step back to briefly recall the priest-turned-prophet’s “greatest hits.” The book of Ezekiel opens with a vision of God’s glory (כבוד) departing from the Temple in Jerusalem. This may be Ezekiel’s way of making sense of the Temple’s destruction. How could

the Babylonian army destroy God’s house? According to the prophet, human ritual and ethical immorality drove God’s holy presence away from the Beit HaMikdash, making it like any other building, vulnerable to attack. Like all of our favorite theaters, restaurants, stores, and camps that have become empty and desolate without the human conversation, warmth, and laughter that once filled their halls, the Temple without God’s glory is nothing more than the shell - a skeleton of dry bones.

Another way to look at God’s glory departing from the Temple is not as Divine abandonment but as Divine accompaniment. We are not banished from the only place where God may be found. Rather, “ואהי להם למקדש מעט בארצות אשר באו שם” - “I have become for them a diminished sanctity in the lands where they are going” (Ezek. 11.16). In other words, while Ezekiel does maintain that God’s presence is felt most strongly in the centralized Temple, the exiles are still imbued with the ability to access a small portion of God’s holiness wherever they go. While it may be harder for us to feel close to God without the benefit of our shared prayer space, that doesn’t mean that God can’t be found right here at home.

It is in the midst of our collective despair that Ezekiel offers hope for the resurrection of the dry bones our institutions have become. He prophesies, “כה אמר א׳ ה׳ לעצמות האלה הנה אני מביא בכם רוח וחייתם” - “Thus said the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you and you will live” (Ezek. 37.5). While this constituted God’s promise to restore the scattered exiles to Zion, it is hard not to read into these words the hope that we, too, will return to our synagogue and other cherished communities with renewed vigor and spirit when the time is right.

Which brings us back to this week’s haftarah. Ezekiel’s final vision is that of the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem and God’s glorious return to it. This entails the restoration of the kohanim to their priestly duties, among them, “ואת עמי יורו בין קדש לחל ובין טמא לטהור יודעם”

- “And they [the priests] will teach my people the difference between holy and profane, and cause them to know [the difference between] impure and pure” (Ezek. 44:23). Surely if human ritual and ethical immorality drove God’s holy presence away from the Beit HaMikdash, it can only be holy behavior that will attract God’s presence to return. What’s interesting is, the language used here - “between holy and profane” is exactly the language we’ll recite tonight during Havdalah, which concludes Shabbat and literally means “separation.” Separation, Ezekiel seems to suggest, can be a fundamental aspect of what it means to be holy. It is our experience in separation that will remind us to hold on a little tighter to one another when we return, accompanied by God’s glory, as conversation, warmth, and laughter fill the halls once more.

Love and holiness – Being present and extraordinary

By Natan Freller, TBA Rabbinic Intern

This week we read two portions of the Torah combined – Acharei Mot and Kedoshim.

The book of Vayikra (Leviticus) is entirely dedicated to the laws that governed the sacrificial and offering rites that existed at the time of the Mishkan and, later, in the Temples in Jerusalem. It is not surprising that all the details of Yom Kippur's service appear in this book, but specifically in this week's Parshah, Acharei Mot.

What is striking is the fact that parasha Kedoshim appears in this book. It draws attention because it is nothing like the style of Vayikra. It is not a text composed solely of sacrificial instructions, nor is it aimed only at the priests and Levites, but at all the people - unlike the rest of the entire book.

One of the possible interpretations for the sequence Acharei Mot-Kedoshím is that after the Yom Kippr atonement rite, the Torah invites us to continue in this state of holiness. The idea is that, after the collective atonement, a divine challenge is offered to us: “Be holy, for I am Holy” (Vayikra 19: 2).

But what is Holiness? The Hebrew word Kadosh has deeper meanings than the English translation holy. To be holy means to be separated from something else.

Judaism is not a way of life to be lived alone. Judaism is a way to bring divine holiness into the world, keeping each other accountable for our moral challenges and responsibilities.

All our decisions and behaviors reflect holiness. The way we relate to each other at home, at work, at school, online and offline, reflect holiness. We are constantly challenge by making the right decision that will bring us into the realm of holiness, distinctiveness, and uniqueness. In our tradition, the opposite of holiness is the mundane, the ordinary. Therefore, we are being called, especially this week, to be extraordinary.

The charge given to us is to be holy for God is holy. I like using the expression “Be Godly”. An aspiration to express the highest potential we have for being created in God’s image. Is it too much to aspire to be a reflection of God’s divine attributes? I would love to answer this question with a simple and direct ‘no’, but unfortunately, this is not true. This is among the greatest challenges of our lives.

So, what can the Torah offer to us, when achieving such level of holiness sounds like a challenge that is beyond our abilities and is just not possible to bear?

Remember that in parashat Kedoshim, the Torah enumerates many mitzvot that are bein adam lechavero - between a person and his fellow - which command man not to harm others: "Do not steal; do not deal deceitfully or falsely with one another," "Do not swear falsely," “Do not defraud your fellow. Do not commit robbery. The wages of a laborer shall not remain with you until morning.” "Do not hate your brother in your heart" and at the end of all this we shall say “Love your fellow as yourself” (Vayikra 19:18). This phrase comes at the end of the sequence of ‘negative’ commandments, things we shouldn’t do, in a positive way, giving us the summary and guidance for how to achieve them all. Love and compassion are the keys to find holiness in community.

One of my favorite stories teaches that a person was lost in the forest. After walking alone for a long time, another person was seen far away. The two met and one said: I have been lost in here for a long time. Please help me to find a way out. The other responded: Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer for your question. But I do know of some paths where I walked through and could not find the light. We can walk together now and find new ways to exit the forest.

May we find what is holy in our lives, so you can share it with others, and keep inspiring and caring for our community.

May we keep spreading love, kindness, and compassion to each other as we walk together this unknown path.

The Holy Wonderment of Being Tamei
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

For the past 6 weeks, we have lived in a world of plague. Keeping healthy now means wearing gloves so we don’t touch our face, and wearing masks to protect others around us. We stroll around the block and quickly move into the street if someone is approaching on the same sidewalk. In a grocery store, we keep our distance and sometimes wait minutes for a person to move their cart so we can get to the eggs. For the past 6 weeks, we see ourselves as טמא, the opposite of טהור. In English we translate tamei as impure but maybe that’s an inaccurate description and connotation for our current state of being.

In this week’s parasha, we see many examples of people moving in and out of states of טהור and טמא. Torah assigns the priests a wide variety diagnostic criteria and corresponding treatments, including quarantines of varying lengths of time, as well as how to qualify a person for reentry into the community. This double parasha oozes with ooze, blemishes, hair loss, stains on walls, and infected clothing! It makes many people queasy and yet, I think this year can be a source of hope and a newfound outlook on our COVID-19 situation.

In Torah, a person coming into contact with someone experiencing the particular symptoms of tzara’at was suddenly tamei. But Rabbi Eddie Feinstein, of VBS, teaches that tamei and tahor can be two different states of purity. People who are tamei do not need to sacrifice at the Temple while people who are tahor can and do sacrifice. People who are tamei, Rabbi Feinstein says, are already in a state of holy wonderment. Whether interacting with a dead body, or giving birth, or taking care of others who are sick – the tamei already have a heightened sense of God’s closeness and astonishment of God’s creation and involvement, and do not need sacrificial rituals to feel God’s presence. Whereas, those who are in a state of tahor, are in need of the positive reinforcement of the concretizing rituals that remind them of the fragility and complication of life.

In a way, tamei is a state of seeking connection, and tahor is a harder category of trying to understand intricacies of life’s holiness. We are each of us is tamei during this pandemic and that is beautiful – in fact, lifesaving! Against a backdrop of dying and mourning, we must manifest endurance, nobility and beauty. We are seeking and discovering new ways of connection; praying with our communities in surprising and previously unthinkable new ways. We’re finding kavanna and pockets of holiness that were invisible to us in more mundane times. I feel blessed to be in situation where I am stretching to connect, stretching to be spiritually inspired, stretching to find holiness. Categorizing ourselves as tamei keep us focused on our own thoughts, our own goals and our own space. Sometimes, it is distance that makes us treasure and long for that which in our regular lives seems obvious.

I miss seeing you all in person. I miss hugging those I love. I miss being able to get on a plane and visit places I have yet to know. I miss teaching and being interrupted by students. I miss walking down the street and not being a little afraid of everyone’s nearness. However, I appreciate being tamei, in a state of holy wonderment, to create and to pray and to think and to connect more deeply than when the world is open to me without boundaries. I hope this week you are able to recognize how your life is tamei and hold on to the ways that we are

blessed to learn more about ourselves and our connection to God through this holy wonderment.

Back to the Breathing, Back to the Counting
By Ziegler Student, Emily Holtzman

Parashat Shemini directly follows the moment when Moses anoints Aaron and his sons, allowing them to finally enter the Tabernacle. On the 8th day, from where the parsha gets its name, Moses instructs them to prepare a sacrifice in order for the כבוד kavod (glory) of God to appear to them. This ritual involves a 7-day waiting period where Aaron and his sons will camp outside the entrance. These 7-days of antipatication are an essential part of the inauguration of the Tabernacle. This is the moment for Aaron to redeem himself after the unfortunate incident with the Egel HaZahav (Golden Calf). He and his sons make their final preparations as they begin their personal (and professional) relationship with God. I recently returned from studying in Israel and am about to enter a different phase of my studies. Until this point, I’ve spent my time in the beit midrash (my nose deep in Hebrew and Aramaic dictionaries), now begins the time to glance up from the books. Transitions are always tough; both spiritual and physical preparations are needed in order to move through them. After spending the last 7 months in Israel, I need to now remember what it is like to be an American. This transition certainly will not come overnight and it will allow me the time to reflect on the person I was before I left for Israel, during the time I was there, and now. I am trying to navigate my life here in LA, while my program will continue until May despite the 10 hour time difference. Physically I’m here now, but spiritually I’m still trying to find my footing. Last week we also began counting the omer, the tradition to count the 49-days between the second night of Pesah and Shavuot. We move from Mitzrayim to Har Sinai, from our lowest lows to our highest highs. When we left Mitzrayim, we were slaves. Unfortunately our slave mentality CANNOT automatically shift at the drop of a hat. There is an internal process that must accompany us on our path towards freedom. Each day spent in the desert, on the way to Sinai and the Promised Land, is a moment of growth and development. Each day we count, we are brought closer to the revelation at Sinai and to our own relationship with God. The journey invites us to discover what kind of image we want to project into the world as Jews and as human beings. If we do not take the time and the preparation for the next 49 days, we will miss this opportunity. And this year especially is calling us to do just that. Davening, and now counting the omer, have become bookmarks in my days. They provide me with a few quiet and still moments amidst the seemingly endless hours on Zoom, grazing through the contents of my kitchen, and looking for something interesting to watch on television. This period could not have come at a more appropriate time in human history. It is a gift that our calendar always designates at this time of year. In this moment we are called to receive this gift in whatever way possible. Whether you just began counting the omer or have been counting the days of quarantine, the growth process has already begun. We are all just taking this one day and one hour at a time. We can try to make plans for the end of the school year, the summer, and beyond, but it is only possible to a certain extent. We need to focus on the counting each night, being in each day’s quiet and stillness. In meditation practice, they emphasize coming back to the breath, even when you lose your flow. Our minds can easily wander far from this present reality, distracting us for as long as we desire. In this moment, we need to stay on this day and in this hour. No matter where our mind takes us, no matter how many uncontrollable situations we try to control, we need to keep bringing ourselves back to the breathing, back to the counting. Preparation does not only take time, but patience, diligence, and resilience. That is what we are called to do both during this time in the Jewish calendar and for the safety and health of all lives around the world. Shabbat Shalom.

“Fire from Before God”

In Lieu of a Neshama Drash by TBA Rabbinic Intern Josh Jacobs

Except for the rare occasion where I like to lord it over everybody, being “chosen” is a difficult aspect of our Jewish narrative. To be chosen implies an elect quality inherent in us and absent from others, which would certainly lead to a stilted worldview. That said…there’s no getting around it. Our story is absolutely one of a chosen, special, covenanted relationship with God. And while it’s fun, in my darker moments, to see this as a mark of superiority over everyone else, that’s never been what it means to be chosen.

In Shemini, we read how Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, offer “strange fire” (אש זרה) to God, Who responds by consuming the two in a “fire from before God” (‘אש מלפני ה). Rashi understands this to be Divine punishment against Nadab and Abihu for entering the holy tabernacle while drunk and offering an unprescribed offering. His rationale is that God’s immediate next instruction to Aaron is, “Drink no wine or strong intoxicant, you or your sons when you enter the Tent of Meeting” (Lev. 10:9).

When Moses consoles his brother, he says, “This is what the Lord meant when God said, ‘Through those close to Me I will be sanctified, and before all the people I will be honored’” (Lev. 10:3). We then read, “And Aaron was silent.” There are many ways to interpret Moses’ words of comfort, and perhaps even more ways to interpret Aaron’s silent reply. It might be a natural response to the shock of a grieving father, but it might also be a lack of protest over what is simultaneously tragic and just. According to the thirteenth century French commentator, Chizkuni, “The point that Moses is making to his brother (...) is that the higher one’s rank, the more strictly God applies the rules laid down for their conduct.” Nadab and Abihu were singled out to be Kohanim, holy priests to administer God’s ritual commandments. While their death may seem to be a punishment disproportionate to their crime, it might also be an indispensable lesson on leadership and chosenness. As I understand it, it’s this:

To be chosen has nothing to do with any elect quality. To believe so is to enter into the Tabernacle drunk on a false sense of self. Channeling the voice of God, the prophet Amos therefore offers this sobering reminder: “True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, but also the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir” (Amos 9:7). As Jews, we pray to “...the Lord, the God of spirits of all flesh” (Num. 27:16), who has a special relationship with us, but also a special relationship with all peoples.

And yet, our story is unique and different from that of all other nations. We’ve just concluded Pesach, where we remember that God took us out of Egypt, choosing us to

observe God’s Torah and to be held to the higher standard of behavior enumerated within it. Our chosenness, therefore, has everything to do with the desire to draw close to God through Torah. To be judged and to judge ourselves harsher whenever we fall short because we aspire to be a kingdom of priests (ממלכת כהנים). To offer not strange fire, but a pillar of fire that may serve to guide the world through this wilderness we’ve created, and in which we are wandering. This is the chosenness we get to aspire to. And ironically, that isn’t actually a choice, at all.

Presence in Absence
By Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

My dad bought me my first siddur. I was just a kid, but I remember spending a long time with him at the Judaica store, browsing through the different options and finally settling on one that spoke most to me. It felt like a coming of age in a way, like I was old enough now to embark on my own relationship with liturgy and tradition. “Take good care of it,” he said, which only contributed to the sense of awe and responsibility I felt in that moment. “I will, Dad,” I told him as the siddur immediately slipped out of my hands and face-planted onto the floor. I rushed to pick it up and kiss it, understanding that this made me unfit for any further spiritual exploration, ever. My dad only laughed and said, “Actually, that was a good thing.” “How was that a good thing?” I asked. “Because now you’ll pick it back up and hold on even stronger.”

So I did. I also held on to my dad’s lesson that sometimes it takes distance from something to realize its true value. The other night, my good friend Jonah Winer facilitated a Zoom session on this week’s parsha, Tzav. He pointed to the Hasidic commentary of Rabbi Mordechai Yosef, the early 19th century Ishbitzer Rebbe, who illuminates profound meaning in what might otherwise strike us as no longer relevant details concerning animal sacrifice rituals. Specifically, there’s the burnt offering (עולה) and the sin offering (חטאת). The burnt offering, the Rebbe writes, is offered up by the “truly righteous person.” It is the only offering that is burnt up completely - symbolic, he argues, of the righteous person’s complete devotion to God. The sin offering, by contrast, is offered by someone who has erred and wants to repent. Someone who let the commandments slip from their hands, but wants to come back stronger. Perhaps for this reason, the Ishbitzer Rebbe claims that the repentant sinner actually draws closer to God than does the “truly righteous person.” He writes:

“The burnt offering has its blood sprinkled on the lower half of the altar (…) [but t]he sin offering's (…) blood is sprinkled on the upper half of the altar; This is because the cry of a repentant person calling out to G-d to save them rises to the highest heights, a place a completely righteous person cannot reach. As it says in the holy Zohar 'Repenting people are closer to The King - more than any others, they are drawn upwards by the will of their hearts and their great strength to be close to The King.’”

Just like that, even when the Torah seems to be talking about bulls and rams, it’s actually talking about what it means to be human. Imbuing us with the radical notion that it is actually our sins, brokenness, and imperfections which provide us with the opportunity to achieve closeness to God. That is, as Jonah notes, the basis of the word for sacrifice, “הקריב” - meaning, “to draw close.”

It’s painful to read a parsha about drawing close in a time of drawing back from one another. With Pesach coming up in just a few days, themes of plague, darkness, and “ליל שמרים” - “…a night of watching…” (Exodus 12:42) and waiting as we guard against leaving our homes - ring true now more than ever. While God took us out with a strong hand and an outstretched arm, we are tasked with reaching out to one another only in spirit, as we refrain from the warm embraces that once sustained us. And yet, paradoxically, there’s an empowering holiness in distance. The existential philosopher Simone de Beauvoir explains that only in being an absence can one be a presence. In Kabbalistic terms, it was God’s withdrawing God’s Self (צימצום, or “constriction”) that actually made the creation of the world possible. While we may all feel overwhelmed right now with a sense of powerlessness and isolation, Pesach reminds us that plagues are temporary, and liberation lies just around the corner. And while we’ve been forced to drop the aspects of communal life we hold most dear, sometimes it takes distance from something to realize its true value.

I miss you all. Shabbat Shalom, and Chag Kasher and Sameach.

God is calling
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Natan Freller

וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה וַיְדַבֵּר יְהוָה אֵלָיו מֵאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד לֵאמֹר

(God) called to Moshe and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying:

Thus, we start the third book of the Torah, Vayikra. Now that the Tent of Meeting is up, God calls Moshe to start telling all the rules about sacrifices and offerings that the people can and should bring.

So many questions. Why now stop telling our people’s narrative to focus on ritual offerings? Why so many rules about that? Why God needs to call Moshe, aren’t Moshe and God always talking to each other? Is this approach different than other ways God speaks to people? I could go on with more questions, but let’s take these first.

The Rambam writes that we as Jews, ideally, would not need to bring animal sacrifices and grain offerings in order to connect to God. But the generation of the desert was used to it, since they were coming from Egypt where this was a common practice. Since God knows the human heart and understands how hard it is for us humans to change behavior, a process of transition was needed. God decided to keep the ‘form’ of the ritual in requiring animal sacrifices while changing the ‘destination’, or ‘content’ if you will. We have just experienced the challenging episode of the Golden Calf. The most important think in this first step is to change their understanding of God and develop some kind of relationship to the ‘new’ God who saved them from Egypt. In a smart and thoughtful way, God allowed animal sacrifices to continue as we focus our learning in knowing God.

It's hard to change. We offered sacrifices knowing what to do and learned the new spiritual destination - God. For centuries this was a common practice among our ancestors, up to the destruction of the Second Temple. Only by the times of the Rabbis that prayer became the standard mode of spiritual practice among Jews. Still, in the Talmud we see the Rabbis trying to tie the requirement for praying three times a day to the sacrifices in the Temple, showing that this is still part of the process of transition from one mode of spiritual expression to another. For many, even though it took a long time to move from one mode to the other, was hard to get used to the new system and find meaning in it just as we are used to.

We are used to see changes at a much faster pace than our ancestors, and still we were caught by the challenge to adapt our work and social schedule to this new reality. The same happened to our spiritual practices. For many, and I definitely include myself in this group, being in physically in community and singing together is a significant part of the spiritual life.

Just like the Clouds of Glory and the Pillar of Fire were physical elements of the Divine Presence for the generation of the desert, seeing each other’s faces every week and davening together is one way I see the Divine Presence in our midst.

The central question I asked myself this week is how to keep social distancing but not spiritual distancing?

The first word of our parasha is וַיִּקְרָא (vayikra). Before speaking to Moshe, God calls him, and then begins to share. I want to believe that we are reading parasha Vayikra this week not by chance, but with purpose. We are being called. For the divine presence to manifest physically, we need to reach in and reach out. Reach in to find our own spiritual self that can exist without the physicality we are used to. Reach out finding ways to see each other’s faces with the technology at hand and connecting at a deeper level.

Rashi explains that whenever God approaches Moshe there is always a call to shows affection, love. Just like we recall the words of the Prophet Isaiah in the Kedusha:

וְקָרָא זֶה אֶל־זֶה וְאָמַר קָדוֹשׁ ׀ קָדוֹשׁ קָדוֹשׁ

And one would call to the other, “Holy, holy, holy!

When the divine love is not present, the call is different. When God approaches the sorcerer Bilam (Bamidbar 23:4), the word used is ויקר (vayikar), from the root קרה which denotes “by chance”.

God is calling each one of us to be close, to feel love. This is a personal call, not an accident. Even though we are distant, God is not. Once we know our God, even if we are distant from our communal spiritual practice, we are being called to adapt, now knowing the receiver of our prayers, but maybe changing the ways we connect with the Divine Presence.

May we all find old and new pathways to stretch our spirituality as we are being called to be present this week. God is calling with love.

Shabbat Shalom.

Creation in the face of uncertainty
By Rachel Cohn, Ziegler student

One of my most humbling experiences to date was taking an introductory improv class in San Francisco. My friend Rebecca, a professional actress, led a group of us amateurs in weekly exercises. We laughed and stumbled through games like clapping whenever someone dropped a ball, or inventing ways to get someone to stand up from a chair. While I had my fair share of memorably awkward moments and great belly laughs, what I took away most from the class was the idea that everyone was asked to be a creator. There were no spectators in the room. With few tools - and often much apprehension - we each had to put something on the table. In the face of uncertainty, we had to create.

Parshat Ki Tisa features two episodes of bold creation, with wildly different outcomes. First, Betzalel is appointed as the head artisan of the Mishkan, the Israelites’ portable sanctuary for God. In choosing Betzalel, God declares, “I have endowed him with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge in every kind of craft” (Exodus 31:3). He and Oholiab and other artists are set in charge of fulfilling God’s elaborate instructions for the Tent of Meeting, Ark, and other components of the Mishkan.

Later, in an entirely different scene, the Israelites construct an idol of a golden calf. When Moses takes longer than expected to come down from Mt. Sinai, the crowd gets worried. They beg Aaron, “Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses...we do not know what has become of him” (Exodus 32:1). Much like preparing to construct the Mishkan, they assemble rich resources to contribute to the project, but this time, far from creating a sanctuary for God, they create an image that deeply damages their relationship with the divine.

Both the creation of the Mishkan and the golden calf involve elaborate construction, communal contributions, and an artistic vision. Both were created in times of new beginnings and uncharted territory. For the Israelites, they faced the unknown of life outside of slavery. Betzalel, too, must have faced trepidation as he was tasked with constructing a dwelling for God in their midst. So what sets Betzalel on such a different path?

The rabbis of the Talmud, in Berakhot 55a suggest, “Betzalel knew how to join the letters with which heaven and earth were created.” I imagine Betzalel adding color and artistic flair to our world through the very building blocks of God’s creation - plants, metals, fabrics, and pigments. He mimics God in his creative process and is able to bring more goodness and beauty into being. His name, Betzalel, means “in the shadow of God.” His very existence recognizes his connection to the divine. While the Israelites waiting for Moses tried to grasp for godliness when they could not find it, Betzalel’s example provides a model for embodying holiness through our artistic endeavors.

I admit that I have found myself stuck between the mentalities of Betzalel and the nervous Israelites in recent weeks. As the news about the coronavirus unfolds rapidly, with much remaining uncertainty, I can relate to the Israelites at the foot of the mountain. I, too, have asked, “what is taking so long?” and wanted a quick, tangible fix to a complex problem. Instead, this parshah asks us to continue using our creative powers to bring more godliness into the world. I have seen teens post music videos that they made while in quarantine. I have seen parents post a week’s worth of unexpected homeschool lesson plans. We must keep creating from a place of faith and wisdom. May we continue finding the strength to follow in Betzalel’s footsteps, as we find our own ways to craft connections between human and holy in the face of the unknown.

Evidence of Things Not Seen
By Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

In my favorite episode of The West Wing, C.J. Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, obsesses over a myth that at the exact moment of the spring equinox, you can stand an egg on its end, and it will remain upright. The rest of the White House staff, fierce intellects who concern themselves with statistical analysis and empirical facts, can only sit back in amusement at C.J.’s quirky conviction. The episode is called “Evidence of Things Not Seen” because in the end, only C.J. is possessed of a unique faith in that which defies convention and reason. As the audience, we actually find ourselves suspending disbelief and rooting for something that we, too, know to be absurd. The episode ends with C.J.’s attempt to stand the egg up at the exact moment of the equinox. We don’t see the result; we only see her eyes go wide as she calls out to her colleagues, “Guys!”

A few weeks ago, we read God’s charge, “…you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). A nation that would not serve kings of flesh and blood, but rather the Divine. Too glorious to be comprehended or appreciated, this unprecedented model of statecraft is deemed absurd (like standing an egg upright) by the rational minds of the Israelite elders. Taking a look around at the wealth and security of other nations, the elders gather and, informed by that which is conventional, compel the prophet Samuel to “שימה לנו מלך לשפטנו ככל הגוים” “…set up for us a king to judge us like all the nations” (I Samuel 8:5). The people place their faith exclusively in what they can see, and Samuel knows that this is a terrible mistake. Interestingly, this request seems to resemble the people’s sin in the desert when, unable to see God or Moses (who has disappeared up the mountain for far too long), the people compel Aaron to make them a golden calf – a visual representation for a people unable to muster faith in evidence of things not seen. And so, “They exchanged their Glory for the likeness of a grass-eating ox” (Psalms 106:20). And became just like everybody else.

In this week’s Haftarah, Samuel’s resistance to appoint a monarch (though he begrudgingly does so) proves correct. Saul, Israel’s first king, stumbles by failing to carry out God’s order to utterly destroy Amalek. He spares the best of its sheep and its king, Agag, either out of sympathy or perhaps out of fear. To kill a fellow king, after all, sends a dangerous message that kings can be murdered. Saul may therefore have resorted to a “professional courtesy,” allowing fear of what human beings might do to overpower his commitment to faithfully observe God’s command. Saul even admits, “I feared the people, and I hearkened to their voice” (I Samuel 15:24). According to Midrash, that one night Saul permitted Agag to live allowed him to become the progenitor of Haman, who on one hand tried to kill us, and on the other, gave us cookies.

The common thread seems to be that humans are bestowed with the unique ability to imagine beyond what is, to what can be. To transcend the common and achieve the extraordinary. Why, then, do we so readily trade it away for comfort in what we can see, touch, and understand? Why do we cling to old conventions that may or may not work but certainly make us just like everybody else? Samuel warns that human kings will only impose bitter taxes and forced labor on their subjects. King Solomon, for all his strengths, does both. This proves to be such an excessive burden that the united kingdom of Israel and Judea ultimately splits during the rule of Solomon’s son. Flesh and blood kings go on to turn the people away from God, as King Jeroboam of Israel erects two golden calves at Bethel and Dan. God offers us the opportunity to be unlike any other nation in the world, and we literally exchange our Glory for the likeness of a grass-eating ox.

While the window to be exclusively governed by God has long since passed, certainly we can still aspire to be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. On a national level, this has much to do with whom we freely elect to lead us, with upcoming elections in both Israel and the United States. Regardless of political leaning, our tradition teaches us that our loyalty is not to individual human rulers who, like Saul, can be cast aside and replaced in an instant. Our loyalty can and must be to God and to the values that make us who we are, which transcend any physical representation, and which make us unique. On a personal level, this has everything to do with how we treat one another, and how we cultivate faith in evidence of things not seen. How we maintain the belief that, despite all odds, we can stand upright.

Being in Relationship
By Natan Freller, TBA Rabbinic Intern

A dear friend of mine had her Bat Mitzvah on parasha Terumah. Her mom told her at that time: “You should study some Pirkei Avot to give a drash on your Bat Mitzvah because there is nothing interesting in your parasha!”

Well, she has a point. This is for sure not necessarily an easy text for a teenager, filled with stories and meaningful teachings, but mostly a very accurate description of the construction of the Tabernacle. Something like an IKEA manual - if they had words! Actually, this parasha is just like building a new piece of furniture: it might look very complicated and exhausting in the beginning but once you start putting things together, you can find a lot of pleasure in the activity!

In the midst of this detailed explanation of each part, it says: “Put in the ark the pact which I give you” (Shemot 25:16). And a few verses later: “Place the cover on top of the ark, after putting inside the ark the pact that I give you”. (25:21). Here are my questions: what pact (עדות) is the Torah talking about and what can we learn from that?

The most traditional answer given by many commentators, based on what comes later in the text, is that it refers to the tablets with the ten commandments. A symbolic item that represents the pact, the covenant between God and the Jewish People. Our relationship with the divine is crafted around our commitment to abide by ritual and social laws as a People.

Earlier in this parasha, the famous verse brings a different perspective on God's presence in our midst: “Make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them” (25:8). This perspective requires something from us in order to merit the divine presence, while in the former one God is the one to take initiative and gives us the Torah, establishing our covenant.

I find it challenging to develop a relationship to God based on an exchange of favors so then God can be present. I understand the core of the sanctuary not to be the divine presence exclusively but our covenant as People with God, the Ark of the Covenant. While God doesn’t need us in order to exist, our tradition sees our relationship with God at the center and not God alone.

I understand religion in general and Judaism more specifically as a methodology for creating a relationship between human and divine. The way the Torah does it is by describing a relational God. God of Israel, or Adonai, your God. By living a life of Torah, I can engage with God for being aware of God’s presence in the world.

God, when described as Elohim in the creation stories, is not necessarily a metaphysical entity that created the world, but the human way of describing the creation process in God language. When the Jewish People develops a relational covenant with God, God then becomes relational and not only an isolated force in nature. This relationship is the representation of the awareness developed by communal and individual practices that constitute the Jewish People. Therefore, I establish a universalist relationship to God as creator and a particular connection as the God of Israel.

What appears to be a contradiction between verses is consolidated in the Haftarah we read this week as one. The connection between these texts is obvious, as we read in the Torah the details of the construction of the Mishkan, we read a Haftarah about Solomon building the First Temple. The last lines of the Haftarah are: “With regard to this House you are building—if you follow My laws and observe My rules and faithfully keep My commandments, I will fulfill for you the promise that I gave to your father David: I will abide among the children of Israel, and I will never forsake My people Israel.”

In keeping this relationship between us and God strong by learning and practicing the ethical and ritual commandment, not only the divine presence will be among us, but the Jewish People will not be forsaken. This is not an exchange of favors or promises, but an ongoing relationship where our challenge is to develop the awareness of the divine that exists in our lives and thus, reveal it to the work.

The key to make this a practical teaching that enriches our lives is, of course, in the Pirkei Avot: “Yose ben Yochanan from Jerusalem used to say: Let your house be wide open”. Our sanctuaries would have no purpose if the doors are closed to those who want to come in. It is our responsibility to make our houses accessible and welcoming to those who need it, to be in constant relationship.

As we read parasha Terumah for the first time since rededicating our own Sanctuary, I recall the beautiful words shared on that day. The framework and the structure in which we build our relationship with the divine are important. Having a sanctuary that meets our communal needs is a blessing to all of us. And still, nothing is more important than the holy relationships developed in this holy space. Certainly, the divine presence will be found in these holy encounters.

May the doors of holiness stay open to our journeys as we come into this space of relationship and connection with each other.

Shabbat Shalom

Loving One's Master (Teacher)
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz, TBA Assistant Rabbi

At my installation, more than anything, I was glad to bring to this community my teachers, those I look up to and hold in high esteem. For knowing a teacher’s teacher or a student’s student is sometimes even more powerful than the person who is your direct source or recipient of knowledge. Rabbi Aaron Alexander referred to me as his teacher, and it was almost hard to hear because he is MY mentor, MY teacher, MY Rav! How can I even approach peerage with him? When studying choral conducting, I was excited to call my mentoring teacher, Kelly Shepard, and tell him all about school. I wanted him to know what I was doing and how I connected it back to the ways he taught us, how I now better understood the musical decisions he made because of my own learning. However, when it was time to conduct in front of him, I was the most nervous I’d ever been. How could I presume to perform satisfactory in front of my Master?

Parashat Mishpatim starts with an interesting scenario that can be overlooked as we get to goring oxes, taking care of the stranger, not oppressing the other in our midst, and na’aseh v’nishma. But here is the first of many rules that we are to follow as God’s students: If you have a Hebrew slave, in the 7th year he may go free. If he came single he leaves single, and if he is married his wife is released with him. If the master gave the slave a wife who bore him children, the wife and children belong to the master and the slave goes free without them. But, if the slave announces:

אָהַבְתִּי אֶת־אֲדֹנִי אֶת־אִשְׁתִּי וְאֶת־בָּנָי לֹא אֵצֵא חָפְשִׁי, “, I love my master, my wife and my child I will not go free,” the master shall take him… “before God, to a doorpost, and pierce his ear, marking him as one who chooses to remain in his role as servant.

Our commentators do not read this as sentimental or beautiful; but I see it as tender and truly powerful. Like many other mishpatim in this parasha, as much as we focus on the less powerful, we focus more on the master who is thought to be fair and maybe even loved enough to earn a slave/servant’s devotion. We strive to be that kind of mentor, partner, teacher, friend, etc. Rabbeinu Bahya (13th c. Spain) comments that the love must be mutual between slave and master for the piercing and the commitment it signaled to be initiated. Bahya continues with: כי טוב לו עמך “ when it is good for him with you” from Devarim 15, that this mutuality of relationship, respect and need is the only way to continue service. Kiddushin 22 goes as far as to say if the master is sick and the slave is in good health, the law is not applicable and if the slave is sick and the master is well, the law is also not applicable because this covenant requires a great degree of mutuality and without exploitation.

Is it possible that the slave is sharing love because if he does not stay he leaves without his wife and child? Sure! However, I want to read this as commentators like Rashi have, that the love had to be shared over the six years, not just at this turning point in status. It is the master who we need to learn from. How can we be teachers, employers, parents, CEO’s, lawyers, doctors, clerks, in such a way that those who come to learn from us or work for us feel love and reciprocal need.

Often those we look up to most as mentors or role models are those we are most intimidated in front of. I hate singing and conducting in front of Kelly Shepard because he taught me how! I am often more shy and self-conscious teaching or rabbi-ing in front of Rabbi Aaron Alexander or any of my other rabbinic mentors because they show me mastery that I only wish to one day do as well. May we be the kind of master we wish to serve. May we practice and teach relationship building. May we draw close to one another, as both servant and served, a kehillah kedusha.

Thank you each for allowing me to grow in this community as Rav and Talmida, rabbi and teacher. You have now seen glimpses of where, who and what I come from and I hope to bring those sparks of Divine love, partnership and learning into this holy space.

Torah in a World on Fire
By Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

It turns out that even if you’re Moses, when the in-laws come to visit, it doesn’t matter - everything you’re doing is wrong. Jethro watches Moses arbitrate between God and the people all day long, interceding in their problems by expounding the law for them. The reality is, however, that Moses is pushing himself to the limit and still cannot possibly meet everyone’s individual needs. Jethro raises his concern that “You will certainly wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone” (Exodus 18:18). As an alternative, Jethro ostensibly suggests a system that resembles a kind of precursor to democracy: “You shall seek out from among all the nation capable people who fear God, trustworthy people who spurn ill-gotten gain. Set these over them as chiefs of thousands, hundreds, fifties, and tens…” (Exodus 18:21). And so we find Moses demonstrating his love for God and people by giving himself over wholeheartedly to their service, and we also see Jethro shrewdly recognizing that if Moses does not delegate some of the work, the people can’t possibly have the infrastructure to thrive without him once he’s gone.

My friend and fellow Ziegler student, Ben Sigal, compares Moses’ being overworked and depleted, and Jethro’s concern to leave things better off than he found them, to the environmental themes evoked by the recent holiday of Tu B’shevat, the birthday of the trees. Like Moses, our planet is overworked and depleted of resources. We are in need of Jethro’s ingenuity - of challenging the way things are in favor of new systems of sustainability and efficiency. This task is “too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone,” but thousands, hundreds, fifties, and tens committed to Moses’ stewardship and Jethro’s creativity offers a compelling response to grim predictions of climate crisis.

Grim predictions, according to the Midrash (Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael) are actually what brings Jethro over to the Israelite camp in the first place. We read, “And Jethro the priest of Midian, Moses’ father-in-law, heard all that God did for Moses and for Israel, God’s people, how God took Israel out of Egypt” (Exodus 18:1). The Midrash asks: What is it, exactly, that Jethro heard? What caused him to make the journey? One possibility the rabbis offer is the giving of the Torah. Although the giving of the Torah does not happen until after Jethro’s visit, the rabbis hold that chronology can be played with (בתורה מאחרוו מוקדם אין) allowing them to place Jethro among the other priests of the nations who fearfully tremble in their palaces upon hearing the voice of God, which “cleaves with flames of fire,” (Psalm 29) speaking to the Israelites from Sinai. According to the Midrash, Jethro and these other princes go find Balaam, the prophet who fails to curse the Israelites in parashat Balak, to inquire about the event. Hearing God’s voice from a distance and seeing how “…the entire Mount Sinai smoked because the Lord had descended upon it in fire” (Exodus 19:18), the princes ask Balaam if God is now destroying the world by fire, as God had previously done through the waters of the flood. Balaam replies that God “…will bring neither a flood of fire nor a flood of water, but the Holy Blessed One is giving Torah to God’s people and loved ones.” The princes’ minds are set at ease and they take solace in the fact that God has promised never again to destroy the earth.

What stands out for me this week, between Tu B’shevat and parashat Yitro, is that while God has promised never to destroy the earth, human beings have made no such reciprocal promise. Our world is currently on fire, and unlike Sinai or the bush, it’s being consumed. But if Torah was originally given in the midst of fire – the kind of fire that made Yitro and his fellow princes fear the end of the world – maybe Torah was given precisely for that purpose: to respond to the needs of a world on fire. To turn trembling into relief – fear of destruction into the comfort in knowing that God has given the Jewish people a tree of life, and with it, a charge to be stewards of this world and caretakers of all of God’s creatures in it. In this way, we are summoned to attempt the moral leadership of Moses and the ingenuity of Yitro, who sees depletion and devises a new system that allows for sustainability and new growth.

Torah, then, which is often compared to water, can and should be the vehicle through which we attempt to quench the fires of this world.

First, Always Look Inside Yourself
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

I am grateful to my friend and teacher Peter Pitzele, the astoundingly talented and sensitive man who created Bibliodrama, extending the basic principle of Psychodrama to the biblical text. Some of you have participated in Bibliodramas with me. Essentially, a group creates midrash/interpretation in real time. By entering a Biblical character, and speaking in his/her name after a simple prompt by “the director,” participants awaken Avraham’s voice moments before binding Isaac, or Miriam’s voice as she hovers in the reeds overseeing baby Moshe’s floating crib, etc.

There are few rules to “directing” a Bibliodrama, but each of them is critical. one of them has become an integral part of my consciousness and communication, way beyond the Bibliodrama setting. It is called “echoing.” It is a very scripted version of what some informally refer to as empathic listening, where the listener in any exchange is focusing as deeply as possible on what the other is saying, rather than already scripting the retort/response in one’s head. In “echoing,” the director essentially says back to the room the words that the previous speaker/participant said, maintaining the first-person voice. While “echoing,” the director both addresses the room, but also focuses on the person being echoed. To check in, by reading body language and cues, to make sure that the director properly heard what the speaker was saying. The director takes full responsibility for echoing accurately. And if anything was missed, the director tries again until the person being echoed affirms the echo. This is best experienced in person, but you get the picture.

What I appreciate most about this method, both within a Bibliodrama and in other, less scripted exchanges, is the responsibility it places on the communicator. The method is counter-cultural, as in our society we so blithely and frequently hold “the other” accountable in our exchanges. If something was missed in the conversation, it was her fault, not mine. If I was misunderstood, it was because he wasn’t listening well, not because I spoke unclearly. Echoing transfers the burden to you. Listen well. Communicate clearly. If something is missed, take it upon yourself to lean in and do it better.

The method is modern and current, but the wisdom is age-old. Consider a commentary by the S’fat Emet (Rabbi Yehuda Leib Altar, 1847-1905), one of the rebbes of the Gerer Hasidic dynasty. He is interpreting the phrase in Shemot/Exodus 6:12, which is part of Moshe’s exchange with God about how the interaction with Pharaoh and the Israelites will go once Moshe returns to Egypt. Moshe, humble and self-effacing, wonders if he will be effective. The Israelites will not listen to me! Nor will Pharaoh. Why?

If we paused the story here, we can imagine a leader or speaker throwing in blame and calumny to explain or even anticipate a failure of communication. “The Israelites will not listen to me because, God, as you know, they are stiff-necked.” And/or “Pharaoh has a heart of stone, so why should I expect such a hard-hearted man will soften it for me?” Instead of such accusations, Moshe turns internal. ואני ערל שפתים. Va’ani arel s’fatayim. Roughly translated as, “I am slow of speech.” (Literally, it means my lips are uncircumcised, clumsy, suffering from an excess of skin). The S’fat Emet praises Moshe here for passively and gently praising the Israelites. By turning the focus on himself, and restraining himself from criticizing them, Moshe resists the urge to name them as stubborn (as God is so wont to do.). “It is I, Moshe, who is lacking. Not them. If their hearts are not moved by what I say, then perhaps I didn’t say it well. If there is to be a failure of communication, it will be because I failed to communicate well.”

How wonderful our world, our community and our relationships would be if our first instinct echoed Moshe’s, as interpreted by the S’fat Emet. Of course, it would be safer and easier to take that stance in an exchange of words and ideas if we had faith that “the other” were doing so as well. But it must begin somewhere. The listening and the echoing has to be born, over and over again. Taking responsibility for what is said, and what is heard, is a relentless burden, and a holy one. Giving credit to the other, and reclaiming the obligation for oneself, makes relationship possible. Listen. Echo. Check in. If something was missed, try again. Resist the urge to blame “them.” Put the sacred burden on yourself.

Shabbat Shalom

Hutzpah is holy
By Natan Freller, TBA Rabbinic Intern

If there is one unique behavioral trait to describe Jews across time and space, I would say, without a doubt, it is hutzpah.

For those not yet familiarized with the concept, originally a Hebrew word that made into Yiddish and English languages, Leo Rosten in his book “The Joys of Yiddish” defines hutzpah as "gall, brazen nerve, effrontery, incredible 'guts', presumption plus arrogance such as no other word and no other language can do justice to".

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time a Jewish mother had another baby, but this time it was different. After having two beautiful and smart kids, she heard that the law had changed. If she gives birth to a baby boy, he must be killed, for the supreme ruler was afraid of a Jewish revolt. If hutzpah was not a thing in Jewish behavior from its inception, it could be the end of the story. But this strong woman could not give up to such a harsh decree. Her baby boy was born, and she had the hutzpah to keep him for as long as she could, for three months. She made a basket for the baby and asked her daughter to put him on the river. Maybe someone will find the basket and take care of him. None other than the Pharaoh’s daughter was the one who found him. If hutzpah was not a thing in Jewish behavior from its inception, it could be the end of the story. But since his sister followed the basket along the river, she came up to the Pharaoh’s daughter and had the hutzpah to say: “Hey, I know a Hebrew women who can nurse him for you, do you want me to bring him there?” Not only the mother was able to nurse her own baby, she was compensated by the Pharaoh’s daughter for doing so!

Yes, this is how the book of Shemot begins. Moshe’s birth is not about him, but about his mother’s and sister’s hutzpah. Maybe for being nursed and raised by his own mother, Moshe inherited such trait from her. Upon seeing an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave, he turner both ways to see if no one was around and had the hutzpah strike down the Egyptian and bury him in the sand.

After that event, Moshe had to run away from Egypt and goes to Midian, where he gets married and has kids. While working as a shepherd, he meets God for the first time. What a great role model of hutzpah! God appears to Moshe with such a hutzpah that even Moshe questions the craziness of the divine request. God asks Moshe to be the one who will deliver the divine message that freedom is divine, and no human ruler can enslave and oppress like the Pharaoh did to the Hebrews.

Moshe is humble and afraid to take on the responsibility for this new divine calling. He questions himself. God’s hutzpah gives him strength, confidence. Hutzpah isn’t always easy; it takes some time and practice to get there. Thanks God, literally, Moshe could feel embraced and encourage move forward and fight for his people.

Hutzpah can sometimes be interpreted as a negative characteristic as well. Either as being too rude, disrespectful or for lack of faith and hope in God. At the end of the day, many of our praised ancestors did things against the law, putting themselves and the entire people at risk for their hutzpah. Rebbe Nachman teaches that hutzpah is exactly the opposite of that. According to the hasidic master, azut d’kedudshah, holy audacity, is the key to find hope and comfort while questioning God’s role as well as our responsibility. Many would say that a true tzaddik, a righteous person, cannot have any doubts. Rebbe Nachman rejected that widespread idea, teaching doubt as a spiritual virtue, as the impetus towards a blind faith. If one could rationalize God to its fulness, there would be no difference between that person’s mind and God’s will. Having doubt is essential for God’s existence.

The core message of this week’s Torah portion is exactly that: Hutzpah is holy. Each one of us is walking a different path, creating our own journeys. The amount of challenges that will present themselves on our way is countless. The blessing of walking together as a community, while walking individual tracks, following the weekly Torah portion cycle of is to see the Torah as a mirror. To find ourselves in their footsteps, learning from our people’s ancient wisdom and creating our own pathway to live a meaningful life. None of us will be Yocheved, Miriam, or Moshe. Still, we can walk beside them as we encounter our ancestors showing us a different way to see things through our own reflection.

Our world is on fire. When we see injustice, oppression, and hate we dare to have the hutzpah and stand up against it. We show love, we fight for the stranger, the widow and the orphan. We recall the divine calling towards justice and peace.

We live at a time when many feel lonely. We must dare to show up and have the hutzpah to tell someone that they are not alone, that we stand together and that we are there for them.

May we find the strength, courage and comfort in our tradition, looking at our ancestors’ challenges to find our own ways of transforming their legacy into action. Just as Yocheved, Miriam, and Moshe had hutzpah, so too we should have hutzpah. Just as God had hutzpah, so too we should have hutzpah.

May we all have the divine hutzpah we need this week.

Shabbat Shalom

Living and Dying with Enduring Hope
By Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

This week, we can’t even get past the first word of the parsha without needing to talk about it. Vayechi means “And he lived.” After reuniting with the favorite son whom he thought he’d lost tragically, and after having mourned Joseph’s supposed death for decades, Jacob lives an additional seventeen years in Egypt alongside him. What’s interesting is, Joseph was seventeen when he was sold into Egypt. It doesn’t seem a coincidence that Jacob happens to live (vayechi) seventeen years, only after which, “the time approached for Israel to die” (Bereshit 47:29). It’s almost as if God blesses Jacob with the exact amount of time necessary to achieve what might be called, in precise technical terms, a “do over.” This time, at the end of seventeen years, it would not be Joseph who is ripped away, but Jacob, who dies at a ripe old age in the company of his son. As God promises him in last week’s reading, “…and Joseph’s hand shall close your eyes” (Bereshit 46:4). Having dedicated much attention to Joseph’s dreams, the Torah concludes this saga with the realization of Jacob’s.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you that there’s a moment in The Odyssey that always makes me cry. Upon his triumphant return home after a similarly long period of separation, Odysseus receives a very emotional greeting. We expect it to come from Penelope, who has spent the years weaving and unweaving her web, faithfully warding off suitors until her husband’s return. But since Odysseus has disguised himself as a beggar in order to mount a bloody surprise attack - his way of warding off suitors - his family doesn’t recognize him. No one except for his dog, Argos, who recognizes him immediately. Argos lies on the floor, once a pup but now a tired old dog. Unable to get up, he musters his remaining strength to wag his tail. Odysseus sheds a tear, knowing that he cannot greet his dog without blowing his cover. He passes by Argos, who, having stayed alive just to see his master home safe again, can finally die in peace.

And so, Jacob summoned up his strength (ויתחזק) and “sat up in bed” (Bereshit 48:4), putting physical expression to his words from before, “Now I can die, having seen for myself that you are still alive” (Bereshit 46:30). Joseph, who initially goes unrecognized by his brothers due to his “disguise” not as a beggar but as second in command to Pharaoh, is immediately recognized by his father as they fall on each others necks and weep. Now Israel, sensing the end, calls his sons around his bed to bless them. What might go unnoticed is how, buried within his blessing to Joseph is an assessment of his own good fortune: “The blessings of your father surpass the blessings of my ancestors, to the utmost bounds of the eternal hills” (Bereshit 49:26). Tonally, this seems in sharp contrast to what he had previously described to Pharaoh: “The years of my sojourn are one hundred and thirty. Few and hard have been the years of my life, nor do they come up to the life spans of my fathers during their sojourns” (Bereshit 47:9). It appears that since then, Jacob’s pain has been lifted significantly, his heaviness abated, to the point where Radak, commenting on the word “ויגוע” - “and he expired” - writes, “[it is] an expression used with the righteous, describing a painless death.” Having his son home safe again, Jacob can finally die in peace.

We know what Israel lived for in his old age. Our angel-wrestling forefather also wrestles with the angel of death and prevails long enough to see the mending of his broken home. Whether family means blood relatives, friends, our shul community, or otherwise, Vayechi teaches us that family is what we live for. And the hope that what is broken can be repaired is what sustains us. Without that hope, we are left with a slave mentality, which mistakenly perceives that our present reality is our permanent one. After Jacob’s death, Joseph’s brothers immediately revert back to their old deceptive ways, forging a message from their father that implores Joseph to forgive them. This seems to demonstrate that very slave mentality, stuck in what was and unable to concieve of what has become. So Joseph’s brothers “flung themselves before him, and said, ‘We are for you as slaves’” (Bereshit 50:18). This is a sobering foreshadow, as we read next week in Shemot, “And a new king arose over Egypt who knew not Joseph” (Shemot 1:8), signaling the beginning of our bondage in Egypt.

And yet, Jospeh knows that God will bring them back to the Promised Land. The Book of Bereshit ends with Joseph’s adjuring the children of Israel carry his bones with them out of Egypt to be buried in Eretz Yisrael with his ancestors. The parsha begins, therefore, with Jacob’s portrayal of what it means to live with enduring hope. It concludes with Joseph’s demonstration of what it means to die with it.

Moving from I-It to I-You, in the Torah and Today
By Rabbi Matt Shapiro, Director of Youth Learning & Engagement

“All real life is meeting.” This statement is the crux of Martin Buber’s I and Thou, his most well-known work. Buber explains that “real life” involves an encounter with an “I-You” way of being. In distinction from an I-It way of being, I-You calls upon us to see the Godliness and unity in each and every aspect of the world around us, particularly other people. When I have a “I-You” moment, I’m seeing beyond the data points of who you are on the surface, and getting to something more resonant with the ultimate truth of who you are. Buber is often oversimplified as follows: there are two ways of interacting with the world, a transactional way and a truly relational way, and we should value and work towards the latter, rather than being stuck in the former. His claim, however, is more complex than that- it’s not merely a category of interaction, but a way of living life, of engaging with the world. I can’t have an I-You encounter unless I’m living my life is that way; unless I’ve had an internal shift, I won’t fully be in that “I-You” place, no matter how close I feel to the people around me or the world at large.

This might seem a bit abstract, even obtuse. Fortunately, the parsha this week offers us two examples through which we can see this concept illustrated, illuminating how the experience can emerge in two directions: one by finding a way to be “I-You” in the world and the ensuing transformation within a relationship, the other by having a “meeting” in a relationship that shifts a way of being as an individual. The first is present right at the beginning of the parsha, picking up in the middle of the scene where Benjamin stands accused of having stolen from Egypt’s second-in-command (the brothers not yet knowing that it’s Joseph). The parsha begins with “Judah approached him…” (44:18) The verse can be read as having a superfluous pronoun, (“Judah approached” would have been sufficient), and that “him” is in turn read as Judah approaching not his brother, but himself. R. Simcha Bunim articulates that “Judah came close to his own essence,” which in turn heightens the efficacy of his words; by finding the wherewithal to go deep within, his words move Joseph enough that he finally reveals himself to his brothers, and reunion and reconciliation ensue. Judah’s self-reflection is the starting point for all of these changes. From the Buberian perspective, because Judah is able to shift his way of being in that moment to a more reflective state and conducting himself accordingly, a transformative shift in a relationship follows.

The inverse seems to happen a chapter and a half later. Jacob gets word that his beloved son is alive in Egypt and comes down to see him. When, at last, they meet after years apart, Jacob’s first words to him are, “now that I’ve seen you alive, I can die.” (46:30) At first glimpse, these seem to be odd words to offer to a long-lost relative, let alone the apple of Jacob’s eye whom he has long thought deceased. Radak puts a finer point on these words, framing them as “now that I see you living, I could die with no regrets.” Even though Jacob’s words are explicitly talking about death, they can also be seen as an affirmation of this particular moment of real life. This one point in time is so full, so resonant, that anything beyond this is, essentially, a bonus. Jacob, it can be argued, needs nothing more than this, and he’s now at peace, at least for a split second. In contrast with Judah, who found the “I-You” way of being within himself and brought it out, Jacob is able to shift his way of being from one of goals- getting to this point- to one of being, in acceptance of and present with what currently is, an I-You state

The duality of these two moments is both contradictory and illuminating, There’s not necessarily a rhyme or reason to if and when “I-You” emerges; no matter how hard we might try to cultivate it or bring it out, it’s ephemeral and impermanent. Yet ultimately, in these examples and in Buber’s thought, this state is driven by relationship rather than solitude, a desire to connect rather than the pull of isolation.

When the world feel fraught and scary, a common impulse for many, including myself, is to retreat and step back, trying to stay out of harm’s way by withdrawing. This external response to the world in turn impacts how we relate to other people- if my default attitude towards the world is one of fear and suspicion, there’s little doubt that this will impact how I interact with people around me, whether with those I’m close to or in encounters with new faces. Buber, however, affirms that “people appear by entering into relation to other people.” When we’re present, fully connected with another, we become the clearest articulation of ourselves. The interactions between the dyads of Judah/Joseph and Jacob/Joseph layer additional, moving perspective- in becoming our fullest selves, we create change in the people around us. The response, then, to fear or anxiety is to enter into deep relationships and bring the fullness of who we are out into the world. The parsha, through the lens of Buber, calls us to seek out, within ourselves and through others, the holiness and Oneness that is always available to us, in each and every moment, if we’re paying attention and open to what’s both within us and right in front of our faces.

Shabbat shalom.

Dedicating Sacred Spaces to Create Godly Behavior
By Natan Freller, TBA Rabbinic Intern

Shout for joy, Fair Zion! For lo, I come; and I will dwell in your midst—declares God. (Zechariah 2:14) This is the opening line for the Haftarah of Hanukkah.

After about 50 years in Babylonian exile, the Persians conquered the Babylonians; Cyrus the Great, the new Persian ruler, allowed all peoples held captive by the Babylonians to return to their ancestral home.

We know of that part of the story from the book of Ezra, who is writing about events that happened a generation or two before him. Before Ezra, who led the rebuild of Jerusalem with Nehemiah, the prophet Zechariah had set the foundation for this enterprise. Even though they had the freedom to rebuild the Temple since Cyrus’ edict, only during the rulership of Darius, most prominent Persian ruler after Cyrus, the construction actually begun. Prophet Zechariah is speaking at that time, when the Second Temple constructions are starting.

Among other reasons, we read this Haftarah during Chanukah for we are celebrating the dedication of a sacred space. “Shout for joy, Fair Zion!” When the prophet Jeremiah preached for people to settled in Babylon, he also urged the people to support that land and keep moving on with their lives outside the land of Israel, for God’s presence was still among them. God’s presence is greater than one confined physical building. No physicality can contain God. Still, as humans, we create those places out of need. We feel the urge to dedicate time and space in our lives to focus, to meditate, and to experience the divine presence. Even knowing that the physicality of our sacred spaces is just a representation of God’s presence and holiness, we attach ourselves to it. We need the right kind of light, music, comfort and discomfort to engage in a meaningful experience with the divine through prayer and study. The power and the goal of ritual is to change our behavior, to align ourselves to God’s attributes.

The rededication of the Temple by the Maccabees was a symbolic reconnection to the divine presence, even though God had never left. As humans we need to find ways to express our deepest religious commitments in the public space, surrounded by our community, marking time and space as holy.

Another relationship between this Haftarah with Hanukkah is the imagery of the Menorah that appeared to the prophet in his dream (Zechariah 4:1-6). This vision of the Menorah is accompanied by two olive trees, one on each side of it. The interpretation of these olive branches given to Zechariah by the angel is that they represent “two anointed dignitaries who attend the Lord of all the earth.” (Zechariah 4:14), referring to Yehoshua, the High Priest of that time, and Zerubavel, the appointed governor for the land of Judah by the Persian king. Just like in the story of Hanukkah, one might think that the military fight to establish our presence in the Temple is the core message of these stories, and therefore, we should behave similarly. But after this prophecy, our Haftarah ends with the famous sentence to Zerubavel, the secular leader of that generation:

“Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit—said the Lord of Hosts.” (Zechariah 4:7)

The spirit of God doesn’t mean necessarily that God will magically act on our behalf for we behaved well, but in looking up to God’s spirit for guidance, we can personify God’s attributes, behaving godly, according to the divine values we hold precious in our hearts.

The rabbinic retelling of the story of Hanukkah in the Talmud, changes the focus from the military achievement to the oil miracle. In focusing on the miracle of the lights it shifts the perspective from the battle to the miracle, from human conquest to divine devotion.

“When the Greeks entered the Sanctuary, they defiled all the oils that were in the Sanctuary. And when the Hasmonean monarchy overcame them and emerged victorious over them, they searched and found only one cruse of oil that was placed with the seal of the High Priest. And there was sufficient oil there to light the Menorah for only one day. A miracle occurred and they lit the Menorah from it eight days.” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21b)

It is up to us to find God in our midst, to take a step back from our human arrogance and make space for God’s attributes to come forth. When we as humans enact God’s attributes of love, kindness, justice and peace among ourselves, we are making space for God by acting godly, fulfilling the real meaning of being made in God’s image and likeliness.

In our Torah reading this week, when Yosef interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams, he said: “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.” (Bereshit 41:16). Instead of claiming the answers for himself, Yosef humbly recalls God’s power as the source of all his knowledge.

A core Jewish belief is that God is eternal. God’s presence is not absent from the world, but we have not achieved our potential to reach it in its fullness. Just like Yosef, Zechariah and the Talmudic Sages, it takes a perspective shift to bring God into the conversation, to amplify our capacity of amazement, to identify our godly behavior.

Shout for joy, Fair Zion! For lo, I come; and I will dwell in your midst—declares God. (Zechariah 2:14)

May we celebrate this Shabbat the beauty of God’s sacred home, represented in the physicality of our sanctuaries, as we meditate on the beauty of our sacred home, our bodies, our mundane behavior and our godly actions.

Thorns, Thistles, and Pits
By Joshua Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

The Talmud tells the story of a blind man walking around in the middle of the night by the light of a torch. Rabbi Yosi is intrigued by this. “My son,” Rabbi Yosi asks. “Of what benefit is this torch to you?” The blind man answers, “As long as the torch is in my hands, people will see me and save me from pits and from thorns and from thistles.” What strikes me every time I read this text (Megillah 24b) is the role reversal – the blind man is the one who helps Rabbi Yosi to see. Not just by clearing up his curiosity. This exchange actually goes on to provide Rabbi Yosi with the tools he needs to resolve a larger halakhic debate. In this way, it is the blind man who has saved Rabbi Yosi from an intellectual pitfall, helping him steer clear of thorns and thistles to instead arrive at the proper halakha, unscathed.

While the Talmud demonstrates how sometimes the visually impaired can actually be the ones who see most clearly, this week’s parsha, Vayeishev, demonstrates how even the most perceptive among us can’t escape our own blind spots. God blesses Joseph with prophetic dreams and the ability to accurately interpret them. And yet, when we first meet him, he is a young boy who lacks the foresight to predict how sharing such dreams with his brothers will provoke their jealousy and even hatred. A jealously first ignited by their father’s gift of a colorful coat, and later exacerbated by six Tony nominations.

Was Jacob unable to see the dangerous implications of his favoritism toward Joseph? Sure enough, while the blind man successfully avoids pits, Joseph, the prophet, is cast into one. His brothers conspire to kill him, ultimately deciding to sell him into slavery, instead. They then slaughter a goat, dip Joseph’s coat in the blood, and present it to their father. Jacob “…recognized it, and said, ‘My son’s tunic! A savage beast devoured him! Joseph was torn by a beast!’”(Bereshit 37:33).

This exchange seems eerily familiar. Just a few chapters earlier, when Jacob was a boy, he also deceives his father by way of a slaughtered goat. Seeking Isaac’s blessing, which was intended for Esau, Jacob covers himself with goatskins to take on the physicality of his brother the hunter. He succeeds, as we read, “When Isaac was old and his eyes were too dim to see (…) Jacob said to his father, ‘I am Esau your firstborn’”(Bereshit 27:1, 21:19). What if, like in the Talmudic story above, the emphasis is not on one person’s literal blindness, but on another’s metaphorical one. Though Jacob receives a blessing, he fails to see how the use of deception may one day come back to curse him. Indeed, his sons proceed to borrow a move from his own playbook.

One of my rabbis once connected this moment in Vayeishev to the Unetaneh Tokef prayer, which we recite during the High Holidays. Acknowledging inescapable death, we ask, “who by fire, and who by water?” “Who by sword (חרב), and who by wild beast (חיה)?”

When Jacob is shown the bloodstained coat, he concludes that Joseph was torn by a wild beast (חיה). Though a horrific tragedy, fatal confrontation with wild animals was actually common at this time, especially for a nomadic people. They came to be viewed as an inevitable aspect of life. Joseph’s sale into slavery, however, was no inevitability. It was a deliberate act of human violence (חרב). In this moment, Jacob confuses one for the other. Like Jacob and Esau, חרב cloaks itself in the garments of חיה. How often do we make the same mistake, failing to differentiate the two?

I wholeheartedly believe that the synagogue is where we go to have our eyes opened. What are our blind spots? In times when human violence is so ubiquitous that it appears to be an inevitable aspect of life, we look to the wisdom of our tradition and to each other for insight and clarity to lift the darkness and help us better understand the world and our place in it. How do we learn from our stories, carrying Torah in our hands like a torch in the night to guide us on our way, clear of thorns and thistles and pits?

Staying Above the Weeds
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

How often have I found that the tone of my voice or content of my speech is in some way mirroring the very tone or content I am trying to convince another to avoid? How frequently does it happen that I wage a battle with my children’s relationship to the ubiquitous, invaluable and somewhat insidious screens, only immediately to return to one myself, for a quick endorphin rush or illusory escape, right after I finish speaking with them? How common it is to be touched by, infected by, the very thing we are fighting against?

Judaism has a powerful (but oft-forgotten, outside of the very traditional Jewish community) relationship with touch, proximity, infection and toxicity. The whole infrastructure of טומאה and טהרה (tum’ah and tahara), often inelegantly (and perhaps inaccurately) translated as “impurity” and “purity” (“life-ebbing” and “life-flowing” is probably a better rendering of what the original Biblical Hebrew had in mind) is related to being in contact with or near something that can transmit a spiritual infection. Tum’ah may be inevitable in life (when in contact with an unclean animal, or even a human corpse, in the scope of doing the mitzvah of providing a dignified burial), and yet we aim to pendulum-swing towards tahara as much as possible. Getting too close gets “it” on our clothes, within our homes, even on our bodies. Think of it is as Biblical cooties. The laws of kashrut, too, hinge on contact, proximity, cross-over and intrusion/infection of unwanted substances and tastes. Pesah/Passover just amplifies that more, as hametz/leaven takes on truly nefarious character during those 8 days. Stay away!

If we pull back from all of these wars against unwanted substances, vapors, humors, fluids, objects…perhaps we see the tradition reckoning with something inevitable. As much as you try to pull away from something, it frustratingly and sometimes inevitably follows you. There is no such thing as comprehensive disinfection. Engaging in the battle with “the stuff” puts you, inevitably, in contact with “the stuff.” The cycle is Sisyphean. And the applications go beyond material toxicity, to spiritual and relational.

In this regard, I am moved by a reading on a rather obscure verse in Vayishlah that emerges from the Musar tradition. In short, Musar was (and is) a proud attempt to pull moral valence and meaning out of every aspect of Jewish life and ritual, every verse of the Torah. If we are not living with moral and interpersonal alertness, then we are not living Jewishly, at least according to Musar. We are dealing with the verse (Breishit 35:2) immediately after the sordid ritual with Jacob’s daughter Dina, and Shekhem, son of Hamor. In brief, Jacob’s sons wield ferocious vengeance on Shekhem’s people and town, punishment for his/their mistreatment of Dinah, and/or just the audacity to think that they, idolaters, could truly intermingle and intermarry with this monotheistic tribe. In the narrative (which, yes, is a troubling one, and I am not entering into all of the troubling aspects in this mini-drash), it is clear that Jacob and sons are trying to prevent infection/intrusion/invasion of whatever ideas, practices and behaviors are normative among the Shekhemites. There needs to be a clean (and, yes, vicious) break between “us” and “them.” The battle is quick and merciless, and it seems that the spiritual invasion has been repelled. And then, in our verse, Jacob tells his household, “Remove the foreign gods that are in your mist, and purify yourselves, and change your clothing.” To what is he referring?

Consider this short and pithy takeaway from the world of Musar: “It is possible to wage war with Shekhem, and nevertheless to cling to it/him/them a little bit, as a result of the very war itself.” I hear this text explaining that however Jacob and sons fought to distance themselves from Shekhem the person, and Shekhem the culture, there was some unavoidable static cling. The contact bred a connection. Getting “in there” to try to eliminate the bonds at the same time made new bonds. And so, even after the war is ostensibly over, Jacob still needs to tell his tribe: step away from Shekhem!

A wise friend once told me, regarding all sorts of political and inter-personal engagements, that when you go down to fight the weeds, guess what? You are in the weeds. It is much better to stay above them. For engaging with them will also infect you with them.

How do we teach children about healthy relationship with screens without, ourselves, falling victim to their mesmerizing pull? How do we properly call out others for problematic behavior while simultaneously watching that we don’t ourselves slip into that ugly stew of character? We must notice the weeds in our midst, and yet stay above them, noticing even more the good material, the good tissue, and mostly fighting off infection by building up immunity. With what is good, and with what is right. All the time.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

February 2015, my grandparents came to visit me in Israel. We went around the country with a guide who was most famous for his archeological finds in what is now known as the City of David. He was the first to find a bell that is considered to be from the tunic that the High Priest wore. Based on his accolades, my grandparents had him take us around with a specific focus of archeology and ancient ruins. One day he took us down an unknown path, in fact there were signs to not go where we were headed. I was nervous for breaking the rules and that the ground could be unstable for my grandparents. We reached a cave, where again I was hesitant, but this time because there could be snakes or scorpions or spiders! As we walked in I saw a standing rock, another circular rock with a hole in it and a cot shaped indentation in the ground. Our guide asked me to read a few verses of Torah while standing in this spot and I read the following: “Early in the morning, Jacob took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up as a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. ויקרא את שם המקום ההוא בית אל – Jacob called the name of this place Beit El – the house of God.” I looked around me and was in awe. Was this really the place where Jacob had his famous dream of angels ascending and descending a sulam, a hapax legomenon which we have come to translate as ladder? It was hard in that moment for me to answer “no.” Everything was as it seemed from the Torah and in fact I exclaimed מה נורא המקום הזה – how awesome is this Place.

We know that מקום, place, is one of the names for the Divine, and yet we believe God is everywhere. How can God be Place and everywhere?

Makom is essential to experience. Where you are when you fall in love. Where you are when you experience wonder. Where you are when you smell something that takes you back to childhood memory. Creating a מקום is imperative to connecting to our spiritual selves. Jacob names the space of wonder Beit El, the house of God. If you had seen the cave I was in, you would know that was definitely not my definition of a house of God. And yet, shouldn’t every place of discovery be a Divine Place a moment with God.

This weekend, the clergy of Temple Beth Am are in Boston at the combined USCJ (United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism) and Rabbinical Assembly conference. We were asked to come and present Shabbat Sovev, a service that Temple Beth Am has embraced, grown and fashioned for many years. Shabbat Sovev was created as an answer to makom, to place and space, and similarly our beautiful new sanctuary followed. Sitting in the basement of a Reform Shul in Jerusalem, in concentric circles, singing new tunes with an innovative minyan called Nava Tehila, I knew I wanted to bring this kavannah, this intentional spirituality into Temple Beth Am. And first we needed to create the space. The literal look of the room, of the chairs, of the different people who would help make prayer rise in our own Beit El. Writing this, I do not know what our makom will look like in Boston. I do not know who will be singing with us to create a spiritual uplift for Shabbat. And I know with the partnership of Rabbis Kligfeld and Cantor Chorny that we were asked to bring this opportunity to the movement because there is Divine space created in the service.

Jacob had a dream and found himself naming a place holy and awesome. Temple Beth Am took a chance in innovating Kabbalat Shabbat and found a makom, a spiritual space. I hope we are able to enhance Shabbat in creating our space of Sovev in Boston, and that we will have many people exclaiming “how awesome is this space and I did not even know we could do it!”

Between the Boxes
Prepared by Rabbi Hillary Chorny, Cantor

With the release of Disney+, my preschooler and I did a deep dive into ‘90s television. It was a nostalgia trip. I had forgotten a lot, including the two-dimensionality of the characters, pun unintended (but consequently terrific), which upon rewatching made me uneasy. I had forgotten how often writers relied on minimal character development, especially of the girls and women in these shows, to move their stories. There are whole studies in the character archetypes of women in television and movies, and I’ll speak for myself and say, my brain seeks to sort these female characters into these categories [credit to writing blogger Jennifer Ellis]: The Amazon/Crusader (think, Wonder Woman); `The Librarian/Spinster (think, Hermione Granger); The Nurturer/Martyr; The Queen Bee (Jean Grey from “X-Men”); The Girl Next Door (every Meg Ryan character in a Rom Com); The Seductress; The Quirky Misfit (Phoebe from “Friends”); and The Survivor (think, Scarlett O’Hara).

Plots are driven forward and made interesting by these girls and women wrestling with their identities and stepping briefly outside their boxes, but when they are lost and floating and cannot be pinned down, we strain to tell their stories. We are out of practice at writing the stories of women who live beyond and between these boxes. And most people live between the boxes.

The character of Rivka here in our parsha text is a righteous woman. The Nurturer. How do we know? The text itself and then rivers of commentary tell us that she was chosen, perhaps divinely ordained, to partner with Yitzhak as a kind of oedipally-questionable replacement for his deceased mother, Sarah. When Rivka is in the throes of a difficult twin pregnancy, she cries out in existential angst (Gen. 25:22),

לָ֥מָּה זֶּ֖ה אָנֹ֑כִי

Roughly translated, “Why me?” The Kedushat Levi (18th c. Poland) offers a commentary by R’ Isaac Luria, the 16th century founder of Kabbalah: Rivka has been taught that righteous women are not supposed to suffer during pregnancy. So you might read this moment as Rivka asking why she is suffering. After all, she is Righteous with a capital “R”; what is the purpose of a good woman like her enduring such terrible pain?

A tougher read, though, one that pulls at my gut, is the one that has Rivka wondering if this pain must mean that she is not a Righteous Woman. And therefore she is not who she thinks she is, is not who she has always been told she is. Her identity is gone, her box is gone, her story no longer makes sense, and she is lost and seeking and searching. Perhaps that is why her outcry is followed by the following phrase:

וַתֵּ֖לֶךְ לִדְרֹ֥שׁ אֶת־יְהוָֽה

And so she went directly to seek an oracle from Adonai in a moment when she finds herself standing outside the box.

Look at us, still sorting characters into boxes thousands of years later, and all we need to do is glance back at this textual moment as an example of a way to tell our stories by breaking through tropes and rules. Righteous people suffer. Nurturers fail to nurture. Amazonians go weak. Misfits find their matches. It’s hard work to write a story with character who live between the boxes, but it’s far more interesting.

I Will Go
By Josh Jacobs, TBA Rabbinic Intern

When I applied to Ziegler, I didn’t apply anywhere else. Because when I visited, I met the rabbis I’d be learning from and the students I’d be learning with, and I knew I had found where I needed to be. When I applied to Beth Am to be a rabbinic intern, I didn’t apply anywhere else. Because I had met the congregants and rabbis, and I knew that if I ever had the privilege of serving this community, I’d be in the best possible hands.

This week in Chayei Sarah, Abraham’s servant, Eliezer, meets Rebecca. And when he does, he doesn’t apply anywhere else. He knows he’s completed his mission, having found a wife for his master’s son, Isaac. He immediately recognizes that, should she agree to go with him, Abraham’s legacy would be secure and in the best possible hands. Why? What is it about Rebecca? And don’t tell me it’s because she offered to water his camels. That’s true, but we both know I have to fill an entire page here.

We live in a world desperate for moral leadership. This week’s parsha, which gives us the death of one matriarch and the rise of another, offers insight into what makes someone fit to lead. Someone like Abraham, who, after Sarah’s death, becomes particularly concerned with legacy – with the order of his household after he, too, is gone. So the first thing he does is purchase the Cave of Machpelah in order to bury his wife. What’s interesting is that the word used to describe the cave’s new ownership is ויקם – “he established it.” ויקם is from קום – “to rise.” Rashi comments that Abraham caused the place to rise. He elevated it through his contact with it. A legacy can reflect one’s attempt only to establish one’s self in the world, or, as in Abraham’s case, one’s sincere desire to elevate people and leave the world a little better off than it was before.

Abraham’s next concern is a wife for Isaac. The 12th century French commentator, Radak, writes that Abraham was advanced in years, having reached “the years when a man thinks about his departure from this earth and [so he] is concerned to make sure that Isaac is married while he is still alive.” He adjures Eliezer to find a wife for Isaac from among his own people, which brings Eliezer to Rebecca.

It’s at this point that we’re presented with very different approaches to leadership and legacy. Rebecca’s brother, Laban, sees the golden rings and bracelets, which Eliezer has brought for Rebecca, and senses an opportunity to get in with a wealthy family. He supports the marriage and tells Eliezer to take his sister and “לך.” “Go.” This resembles the famous words of just a couple chapters prior, when God tells Abraham, “לך לך.” Not merely “Go,” but “Go for yourself.” There, God is guiding Abraham to where he needs to be in order to become a great nation. Not only for Abraham’s good but because “האדמה משפחת כל בך נברכוו” - “…all the families of the land will bless themselves by you” (Bereshit 12:3). God empowers Abraham with a clear and salient summation of purpose: “ברכה היה” - “…be a blessing” (Bereshit 12:2). Elevate people. Leave the world better off than it was before.

Laban’s “לך,” however, is missing the second part: “לך.” He is not telling Rebecca to go for herself, or for the good of others, but is likely motivated by securing his own good. He seizes upon the opportunity for self-advancement. This is the major challenge of our world today. Those who take ויקם to mean “establish,” without concern for the “elevation” aspect.

And then there’s Rebecca. Her father and brother, Bethuel and Laban, turn to her and ask, “Will you go with this man?” Rebecca responds, “אלך” – “I will go” (Bereshit 24:58). Rebecca’s “לך” is unique from both God’s words to Abraham and Laban’s words to Eliezer. Because she isn’t receiving a direct promise from God that all will go well for her. And having just watered a stranger’s camels (NOW you can say it), I think it’s safe to say she isn’t looking to exploit him. אלך means doing what is right for its own sake. It’s why Rebecca is the exact right person to protect Abraham’s legacy and help pioneer this new religion.

Because unlike with Laban, for Rebecca, it’s not about gold bracelets. Targum Yonatan, the Aramaic translation of Prophets, dissects the verse: “Now it came about, when the camels had finished drinking, [that] the man took a golden nose ring, weighing half [a shekel], and two bracelets for her hands, weighing ten gold [shekels]” (Bereshit 24:22). It explains that the half shekel nose ring alludes to the half shekel tax, which served as a census for the children of Israel in the desert – a way to count every head. The two bracelets weighing ten gold shekels are symbolic of the two tablets containing the Ten Commandments. Read this way, Rebecca literally takes the future of the Jewish people into her hands.

“Chayei Sarah” means the lives of Sarah. Why is it plural? Maybe that’s because we all get this one life, and then after we’re gone, we also get to leave behind a legacy. Today we read the lives of Sarah. Tomorrow we write our own.

Seeing the Divine Presence

By Natan Freller, TBA Rabbinic Intern

In last week’s parasha, Lech Lecha, we were able to experience Avraham’s divine call. Avraham heard a unique voice that gave him the guidance needed to pursue his on path with his family and his community. It is hard for me to imagine that God had not revealed Godself to anyone else other than Avraham until then, for God is always present in the world. Rather than God being the first one to reach out at this moment, I think this was the first time that someone reached out to hear the divine call. Avraham was a pioneer. Avraham was countercultural.

This week’s parasha begins with God appearing to Avraham right after his circumcision, the physical symbol of their covenant. What is the difference of last week’s revelation, when Avraham heard the divine call to this week’s revelation, when God appears to Avraham?

In the first verse, we only read that God appeared to Avraham, but there is no description of what it looks like. In the next verse, Avraham raises his eyes and sees three men standing near him. Avraham sees them and runs to greet them, welcoming them into his tent, offering water, rest and food.

Our sages read here a common feature of biblical poetry, after a generic statement, a more detailed description is followed. According to this perspective, the appearance of these three men is somehow the divine presence. Many will explain it saying that these three were angels of God. I want to offer another, maybe more literal, reading of this passage.

Three men were walking on their journey. They saw Avraham sitting outside his tent. They stopped by to check in. This is how God looks like. The divine presence is there when people show up for each other.

Avraham was in pain, recovering from his circumcision, and when he saw people showing up, he saw the divine presence acting there. He didn’t think twice we did the same. Avraham offered water, rest and food to these three men immediately, enhancing the divine in that moment.

When reading the book of Bereshit we are challenged to find the essence of these complex characters in the story and relate to them, aiming to learn moral lessons, being inspired by godly decisions they made.

After hearing the divine call, becoming part of the covenant with God, Avraham was ready to behave differently. Avraham was open to change and to be changed.

“Just as God visits the sick, so too, we should visit the sick.” This is how the Talmud interprets this event, reminding us that Avraham just had his circumcision. We need to learn from where we see God’s presence, when our ancestors made godly decisions and internalize these divine attributes. This is a key aspect of developing our Jewish identity, following the footsteps of those who came before us in order to create our own trail. Know who you are, know what you stand for, because God speaks to everyone and it is our responsibility to develop our capacity of listening.

Just like Avraham did after his call, we need to stand up and run to action, transforming identity, values, attributes, into action and behavior. Judaism is not centered around what Jews think, but it is all about what Jews do. Jewish religious practice is known as halacha – the Jewish way – for we are always walking our journeys, we are active, we change and we grow.

We learn from the three men that we have to go out of our comfort zone in order to be available for others, specially those who don’t feel seen or heard, who might be in need of our support.

We learn from Avraham to give without asking for reciprocity, doing what is right for it is the right thing to do. We learn from Avraham to welcome the people we don’t know and make them feel safe and have their needs taken care of.

We live in community. Some of us might have been here for longer they can count. Some of us might be here today for the first time. It is time for us to be more like Avraham and not wait, but run towards those approaching and see the divine in them.

I want to share with you today the blessing of Avraham in his open tent. May we all merit to be blessed with the potential of seeing the divine presence in each and every one. We are all made in God’s image.

Eulogies for my friends Dr. Baruch Link & Nate Milmeister

By Danielle Berrin

In memory and honor of our friends Dr. Baruch Link and Nathan Milmeister, Danielle Berrin has written some words to share with us all about their journeys through life, how they impacted an entire community and yet every individual felt unique and special.

Dr. Baruch Link:

Baruch was sweet and gentle and kind, a brilliant mind, the consummate conversationalist, a loving and devoted friend and family man. But he was more than adjectives. More than a description. Baruch was more like a novel.

We all know the cliche “you are what you eat,” but with Baruch it’d be more apt to say, “he was what he read.” His personality, character, relationships, illness and struggles, his gifts and passions; his entire experience was as worthy a narrative as any of the many books of literature he so loved. And just as in the great works of literature that have described and defined and lent meaning to human life since the Bible, his was the kind of character so rich and refined it took but a moment of being in his presence to feel on some visceral level who he was.

I met him through Teri, a soft-spoken but mighty angel of a woman, who wasted not a day before approaching me with her warmth and sensitivity and kindness in the Beth Am daily minyan back in 2013. I met Baruch only a little later, probably at a Shabbat dinner, and as soon as I did, he took me in as one of his own. Both Teri and Baruch made me feel like family - a surrogate daughter of sorts, especially when Tal and Shmuel were not in LA.

And then there was Baruch on the phone. I remember the first time he called, it was to wish me happy birthday, and I had missed the call and saw it was from Teri’s cell phone. So, you can imagine my surprise and delight when I received a voicemail from Baruch - ‘sha-lom’ calling to bless me and make me feel loved.

Over time Baruch and I bonded over many subjects -- as writers, as people who love words, and literature. We’d always discuss politics - the politics of LA Jewry, American Jewry and of course, his beloved Israel. I remember early on, he loaned me a book he was so excited to share with me. I remember I took it home, set it on my night table, building myself up for this magical world Baruch wanted me to enter. Only to discover that the book was written entirely in Hebrew. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t fluent. So, I kept the book long enough to pretend I’d actually read it, and later, when I returned it and he asked me how I liked it, I of course said, “It was wonderful, powerful, exquisitely crafted!” And his response about the characters and the images and the lessons and the prose was so detailed and descriptive, I felt as if I actually HAD read the book.

That was Baruch’s gift. The ability to inspire and impart meaning through language and literature, prose and poetry.

I don’t need to tell you that according to our tradition, the world was created with words. But I wonder how often we pause to consider the impact of what that means. He spent his life living in concert with God in the ultimate act of creation and was able to express his own divine essence by creating worlds with words.

We are, after all, the people of the book. When we weren’t strong, when we were stateless and powerless, our people wrote texts. It has sustained us long after the authors have passed and the events of history have sought to smite us. Baruch entered history to restore us to the language of the soul and the spirit.

Nate Milmeister:

I met Nate at the TBA daily minyan, but my friendship with him deepened because I couldn’t resist popping in next door to visit him, or run outside when I saw him walking around the neighborhood with his caretaker and his cane. He called me regularly, we went out to Italian dinners where I’d order wine and he’d always order dessert. He knew everything about everyone — he loved kibbitzing, gossip, telling stories.

Twice, I took him to the emergency room — which horrified me, but he was always so blasé about it, “I’m in my 90s, I’ll survive anything.”

When I think about what his essence was, I think about his innocence and his youthfulness. Maybe because he didn’t experience all the things we expect of adults at that point in their lives - he never married, he never had kids. Maybe that joie de vivre was one of his gifts. A blessing. His Torah to teach. You know the quote, “It takes a long time to become young?” He had this purity of heart. A simplicity about him. He wasn’t much for conflicts, or politics, he was the rare human being who no ‘bad blood.’

Now that he’s gone, I’ll miss his totally distinctive vernacular - his Nate language - in which he’d say things like: “I’ll be there in two shakes of a lambs tail.” Or “I’m not schmearin ya.”

For someone who never married, Nate had the innocence of a bride, in a way. Or I should say, a bridegroom.

I think of him when I recall the words of Mary Oliver, who wrote:

“When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.”

Nate was no tourist. He lived simply but he lived well. He gave generously. He loved deeply. He had no wife but he was married to amazement, to gratitude, to friends and family, to his beloved community. He was married to life.

In death he will be greatly missed and lovingly remembered. But frankly, God is lucky to have him. God is in for some real entertainment.

Zichronam livracha, may their memory forever be a blessing and may they live on in the hearts and minds

of those who knew and loved them both.

Walking with God, and walking with peers
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

There is a principle in the field of Adaptive Leadership called “immunity to change.” I have participated in precise, highly-curated protocols in which people are walked through a series of questions that expose our normal, human stubbornness with respect to internal change. We think it may be easy. New Year’s Resolutions are common (and commonly violated, rather quickly). High Holiday davveners dutifully recite the confessional and beat their chests, and yet somehow are not surprised when the same transgressions are at play, and problematic, one year later. We humans are rather immune to change (and concomitantly aware of how much change we would like others to go through!).

Change is hard. Trying to be different, and better, is elusive. We hope and pray it is not illusory. And we have been struggling with this concept for millennia. Furthermore, we have been projecting this dynamic onto our biblical ancestors, those sacred characters in whom we see so much of ourselves, for generations.

This week I am particularly moved, and prodded, by a commentary on Noah by the Kedushat Levi, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev (18th-19th Hasidic sage, Ukraine). The Berditchever piles on to some of the withering critique that previous rabbis aimed at Noah, seeing him as not being in the same league of righteousness as, say, Avraham. Why? Rashi says that God commanded Noah to build the ark, rather than just have it appear by miracle, so that Noah could use that time, and the reactions of his doomed neighbors to the oddity of building such a vessel, to try to bring others from his generation from evil to goodness. Yet, he didn’t convince one person. The Kabbalisitic sage the Arizal (16th C, Tzfat, Israel) went so far as to say that Noah was so tragically flawed (even as the most righteous one of his generation) and so resistant to change and growth, that his soul left the earth with unfinished business, and was reincarnated as Moshe, a man who had no qualms about pushing God to act more righteously, and a man who constantly rebuked the Israelites for their own shortcomings. According to the Berditchiever, being good to one’s peers is as important as, and is an integral part of, being good to God. And part of being good to one’s peers “involves more than being helpful and charitable. It includes admonishing one’s neighbor when one observes him violating God’s commandments.” Moshe succeeded in this. Avraham is understood to have brought proselytes closer to God. Noah is read uncharitably in this regard. Even the description, which seems praiseworthy, of Noah’s walking with God (את האלים התהלך נח / et ha’elohim hithalekh Noah) is understood in this commentary as being limiting. He walked with God, perhaps. But not with his peers. He could not change them. He didn’t even try. He let their evil persist. In his words, “He was in step with God. But out of step with his peers.”

This Hasidic interpretation rings loudly true these days, and also folds in on itself. On the one hand, there are too many in our midst who are self-satisfied with their devotion to the Holy One, but fail repeatedly in treating peers with dignity and respect. And there are others amongst us who make themselves vulnerable and take risks in order to bring others closer to goodness, to do the just and the right. Their active engagement with their fellow humans, citizens, Jews, neighbors, shul-goers is in the spirit of what commentators admire in Moshe and Avraham for doing, and castigate Noah for failing to do. I learn from their example as I reckon with my own obligation to be “prophet” (moving people from their stubborn, moored ways) while remaining committed and devoted to the task of “pastor” (meeting and comforting people where and as they truly are). So this teaching pushes and goads me. At the same time, I observe far too many examples where what is criticized in Noah’s temperament for his failure to do is, itself, overdone. And the pushing of others towards the just is done with insufficient care. It can, even when motivated by the good, slide into unbridled castigation of the other, such that folks might indeed be trying to be in step with their peers, and bring their peers more into step…and yet at times doing so in a way that may be seen as no longer walking with God.

Change is hard. People have evolutionary, societal and biologically-driven urges to remain as they are. We notice the changes that others “must” do quicker and more sharply than we see our own lacunae. We must, as the Berditchiver urges, engage with our fellow to bring God’s world closer to goodness. And we must aim to do it in a manner, that itself, exemplifies the divine attributes to which we all aspire.

Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

By Natan Freller, TBA Rabbinic Intern

We are all made in God’s image.

If there is something I truly believe with no doubt, is that we are all made in God’s image. All of us. No exception.

Reading year after year the same texts might be alienating for some, and maybe, an eye-opening experience for others. I have been in both places, moving back and forth. This year I’m making a deliberate effort to make this ritual an eye-opening experience week after week. It’s hard, I know. But living a meaningful Jewish life requires intentional spiritual work, a new cycle is here to refresh our souls and give us a new boost of energy to get there!

וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹקים נַֽעֲשֶׂה אָדָם בְּצַלְמֵנוּ כִּדְמוּתֵנוּ

And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” (Beresheet 1:26)

This verse has been among the most commented verse in the entire Torah. Since the time when the second Temple was still around, our people have been concerned with this statement. The Talmud (Megillah 9a) mentions that in the translation of the Septuagint (Greek translation, 3rd century BCE), the wise translators wrote: " אעשה אדם בצלם ובדמות " “I shall make humankind in image and

in likeness”.

Why did they change the text? Isn’t it supposed to be an accurate translation? What is the problem with the original form?

Jews have been concerned with what other peoples would think about our truths and would avoid giving them material for creating arguments against their monotheistic tradition. In this text, the use of a possible plural form (Let us make) and the plural suffix attached to צלם (image) and דמות (likeness),

could indicate a plurality of Gods creating humankind together.

Among the most traditional views on that verse, and probably the one you learned in Hebrew School, is supported by Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam, and many other commentators. God was talking to the angels. Humankind was created in the image and likeness of God and the angels. What a creative way of solving the textual problem that, in order to avoid giving other peoples an argument against a Jewish theology, our Sages created out of it a new Jewish theology, once this is clearly not the contextual meaning of the verse, where the angels aren’t mentioned at all. Note that God only took counsel from the angels, according to this view. Rashi teaches that by taking counsel from them, it teaches us a lesson about God’s humility. But the creation itself, happens in the next verse without any help from any other creature.

On a personal note, I have a hard time with this truth. Even understanding the ethical and moral teachings that we can learn from it, it always sounded too supernatural for me (even more than the rest of the story!).

This year, as we begin to read the same Torah once more, I challenged myself to go beyond and learn this passage with different eyes and tools, trying to find my truth within my people’s true revelation. The Torah might be the same, but we are definitely not the same anymore.

The good thing about learning Torah and looking for different interpretations, is that you are probably not alone. Many others in our history probably already struggled with the same issue and wrote their thoughts down to be carried out until our generation.

The first companion I found in this week’s journey was the Ramban, Spanish Rabbi from the 13th century. Ramban, although very mystical, reads our verse very differently. He goes back to state that the world was created from nothing (ex nihilo) on the first day. Since then, everything was created out of the foundational elements of the world. Following this idea, Ramban understands that God was talking to the Earth! Our souls come from God and our bodies come from the foundational elements of the Earth, or atoms, if you will. Later I discovered that the Radak (Rabbi David Kimhi) and his father, Rabbi Yosef Kimhi, have also supported similar readings.

Many Sages attempted to explain the meaning of צלם (image) and דמות (likeness). Maybe one has

to do with a physical form, and connects with the idea that the first human being was named Adam, drawing from the physical earth, called adama, in hebrew; and the other is linked to God’s attributes, with no physicality at all, but with a potential for creation and dominion over other beings. Even though each word might have had a specific meaning to the author, Radak offers many verses from different parts of the Tanach, that later on they are used kind of interchangeably.

We are all made in God’s image. Maybe not a physical resemblance, since God has no physicality, but we are definitely God-like. The eternal and supreme divine power gives us constantly the power of creativity and the freedom of choice to make godly decisions through a continuous creation that began in Beresheet and is an intrinsic part of our lives now.

Shabbat Beresheet is the time to roll back the Torah and restart our annual reading cycle. This is also a time to allow ourselves to open our hearts and our minds to the infinite wisdom that Torah contains. Torah is a mirror. As we look into the Torah, the Torah looks back at us to share abundant wisdom. This interaction is only possible if we roll it, open it, dive in it, and make ourselves vulnerable enough to see our reflection in the words of our tradition.

We are all made in God’s image. In looking into the Torah, we see God as we see ourselves. We find what is divine in our lives and we can let God in to be with us in this new cycle.

If there is something I truly believe with no doubt, is that we are all made in God’s image. All of us. No exception.

The Transfer of Power
By Rabbi Mordechai Silverstein, Conservative Yeshiva Faculty

The whole of Sefer Devarim is the final communication of a departing leader to his people. And although Moshe is the "humblest of men" we see him struggling to make peace with it all - his successes and failures, his anxiety about the future, his inability to see things through to the end, and perhaps even his own mortality. We don't get to see everything he went through, but elsewhere in Devarim we get glimpses of various early stages of grief such as anger (Devarim 1:34-38) and bargaining (3:23-25). Although each time God tells Moshe, "You shall not go across the Jordan," he also says "Yehoshua is the one who shall cross before you" (31:5), through most of Devarim Moshe seems to focus solely on the first part. He assumes an even more prominent position, delivering long lectures to teach, scold, and encourage his flock.

But in our parashah this week, Parshat Vayelekh, Moshe seems to have arrived at the fifth stage of grief - acceptance - as he finally turns his attention to Yehoshua. With God's prompting Moshe passes the torch and offers some mild words of encouragement: "Then Moshe called Yehoshua and said to him in the sight of all of Israel: 'Be strong and resolute, for it is you who shall go with the people into the land that the Lord swore to their fathers to give them, and it is you who will apportion it to them...'" (31:7)

But is this really enough for Yehoshua to be successful? Although Yeshohua had been close to Moshe for many years, it was as his attendant and assistant, not his disciple or understudy! They both must have felt the enormous gap there was - not only in their experience and wisdom but in their standing with the people. Imagine a personal assistant being appointed the new CEO! Sensing this, Sifre Devarim, a midrash from the period of the Mishnah, adds new details to the story:

The Holy One, blessed be He, replied to Moshe, saying, "Give Yehoshua a spokesman, and let him question, respond, and give instructions while you are still living, so that when you depart from this world, Israel might not say to him, ''During your master's lifetime you did not speak out, and now you do!?'" Some say that Moshe lifted Yehoshua up from the ground, and placed him between his knees (stood him on a stool), so that Moshe and Israel had to raise their heads in order to hear Yehoshua's words. What did Yehoshua say? "Blessed be the Lord who has given the Torah to Israel at the hands of our master Moshe"- those were Yehoshua's words. (Siman 305, Finkelstein ed. p. 324)

Knowing their capacity for disobedience, it is not enough for Moshe just to say that Yehoshua will succeed him. So God has Moshe set Yehoshua up for success in two ways: first, by showing that Yehoshua is his own person with his own thoughts and capabilities, and second, by showing that he ascends to leadership with Moshe's blessing and not as some kind of usurper. How often do we see leaders, unable or unwilling to cede power, do the opposite - belittling any potential successor or casting suspicion upon them?

Why is it so hard for leaders to transfer power gracefully? Surely Moshe knew he would not live forever and that for his life's work to outlive him, someone else would need to assume the mantle of responsibility. Perhaps the same "ego" that makes it hard for leaders to step aside is what made them step up in the first place. Leaders often are, and may need to be motivated by the idea that nobody else can or will do what must be done.

But even if a leader is essential at the beginning, the best leaders make themselves less and less necessary. In Egypt, Moshe was indeed alone. When he struck and killed the Egyptian taskmaster (Shemot 2:12), he "looked this way and that" before realizing he was the only one who could or would act. What keeps Moshe's death from being a tragedy is knowing that he is, finally, not alone. He has prepared Yehoshua and his people to honor his teaching and carry it forward.

Reckoning With God
By: Salvador Litvak

A year ago, my son Avi and I began a weekly Torah study of his bar mitzvah parsha. It has been a wonderful journey, one I recommend to all parents. Is 52 hours a lot of time to spend on verses that can be read aloud in ten minutes? No, because the Torah is fractal. Go deep in any one spot, and find whole new worlds of meaning.

The first lines we encountered give the parsha its name: “When you light the lamps, the seven lamps shall cast their light toward the face of the menorah.” According to the Talmud (Men. 98b), this means the wicks of the oil lamps were arranged so that the outer six were oriented toward the center lamp, which sat not on a “branch” but rather on the menorah itself.

The center light represents the Holy One, the outer lights represent the people. One might think that the wicks should be arranged outward, thus spreading the light as much as possible and creating more honor for the Lord. The Talmud answers that we actually create the most light for others, when we orient ourselves toward God.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe took another approach, and based his entire, world-changing movement on it. Beha’alotecha literally means “when you cause to ascend.” The Talmud specifies, “kindle the lamp until the flame rises by itself” (Shab. 21a). The Rebbe created an army of emissaries around the idea that every Jewish soul is a candle waiting to be lit. When we share Torah, we kindle those flames until they burn with their own precious light.

Avi and I enjoyed these approaches, but we were struck by the fact that it says, “the seven lamps shall cast their light toward the face of the menorah.” If the “face” means the center, then what is the center light doing? How does it face the center?

Avi suggested the center light faces itself. If the center light represents God, this means God faces Godself. When we speak of facing ourselves, we usually mean a personal reckoning of our deeds. God doesn’t have to account to anyone, yet God created an opportunity to do exactly that by creating humans with conscience and free will.

Like characters in a dream, our thoughts are God’s thoughts, and our deeds are God’s deeds. Each of us is entrusted to represent our Maker in a series of life choices that will illuminate a unique aspect of God’s character. When God makes that personal reckoning of Godself, and reaches our little corner of the universe, it is our actions that determine whether God’s own mission has been successful.

May we merit to make the Holy One smile at that moment!

Prepared by TBA Rabbinic Intern, Rachel Marder

Reflections on Yom Hashoah
The Claims Conference published a startling survey this week that many Americans lack basic knowledge about the Holocaust. Thirty-one percent of respondents and 41% of millenials believe that 2 million or fewer Jews were killed and 52% do not know that Hitler was democratically elected. I worry about the long-term implications of ignorance, and that the rallying cry of “Never Forget” will be lost in this generation. I fear not only that we are forgetting the lessons of the Holocaust, as nationalism and anti-semitism are on the rise around the world, but also that we will forget the survivors and victims themselves.

Each year we hold a Yom HaShoah ceremony at American Jewish University, which includes a display of black and white photographs of Holocaust victims. I have to remind myself that the people in the photos were real, flesh and blood individuals who lived in color. They spoke many languages and participated in Jewish and cultural life. They had hopes and dreams, professions, talents, and personalities. They are not only victims. They did not live in black and white, and they were not always frozen in time.

As we recommit this year to never forgetting the 6 million, let us also commit to never forgetting the real people behind this figure. Who were the men, women, and children behind the millions? What made them smile? Whom did they love? What gave them hope? Let us listen to the survivors’ testimony in person and in museums, read their books, and teach our young people to relate to them.

The animated film Coco , whose backdrop is the Mexican holiday Day of the Dead, offers us a message about memory that speaks to us deeply as Jews. In the film, when people die they simply move to the Land of the Dead, a parallel world to the Land of the Living. Each year on the Day of the Dead when families display photos of their deceased loved ones, celebrate their lives, and tell stories about them, the spirits visit from the Land of the Dead. As long as their photo is displayed they can visit. And when one of the deceased in the Land of the Dead starts to physically disappear, one of the characters explains that “he’s been forgotten. When there’s no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. We call it the Final Death.” The dead are not truly dead as long as they are remembered.

We are in the midst of counting the Omer, the first 32 days of which are considered a period of mourning. According to the Talmud, 24,000 of Rabbi Akiva’s students died tragically of a plague during the period between Pesach and Shavuot (they stopped dying on day 33). The text says: “The world was desolate of Torah until Rabbi Akiva came to our Rabbis in the South and taught his Torah to them… Although Rabbi Akiva’s earlier students did not survive, his later disciples were able to transmit the Torah to future generations” (Yevamot 62b). Rabbi Akiva’s lost students lived on through later disciples who continued teaching their Torah. They were remembered and their Torah was preserved until today.

When it comes to victims of the Holocaust, there are many who no longer, or never had someone to remember them, or say Kaddish for them. Let us commit to learning the stories, honoring the memories, and learning the Torah of every person we are able to. When we say, “May their memory be for a blessing,” let us allow the victims’ memories to enrich our lives and really be a blessing, a source for goodness in the world. Let us remember and teach about them not only as figures in distant black and white photographs, but as real people like each of us. And while we teach, let the cry of “Never Forget” guide us as we navigate life’s storms.

Our Daily Offerings By: Rabbinic Intern, Rachel Marder

In her stunning memoir If All the Seas Were Ink, Ilana Kurshan writes about her seven-year journey studying one page of Talmud a day. Kurshan weaves together all that is going on in her life with the daily Talmudic discussion and insight. During those seven years, she gets divorced, remarries, and gives birth to her four children. Through heartache, joy, and tremendous change, her study of Talmud remains consistent. Kurshan demonstrates what it means to “make your Torah fixed,” as Shammai advises us to do in Pirke Avot 1:15. Through ups and downs, struggles, and triumphs, the text serves as an anchor that helps her find meaning in every moment.

Now caring for young children, Kurshan, once an avid shul-goer, laments that she can’t find time or space to pray. While emptying the dishwasher of yesterday’s dishes one early morning, she is listening to her daf yomi (daily Talmud page) podcast, which happens to be discussing t’rumat hadeshen, the first ritual activity performed in the Temple in Jerusalem every morning, which involved the priests clearing away the ashes of the previous day’s sacrifices from the altar. The mitzvah of t’rumat hadeshen is derived from parashat Tzav, in which the priests receive instruction on how to perform daily sacrifices in the mishkan, the Israelites’ portable worship space in the desert. The verse reads:

“And [the priest] shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar. He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a clean place” (Leviticus 6:3-4).

Kurshan is struck by the similarity between this ancient ritual and the one she is performing for her family. She writes: “I thought about how t’rumat hadeshen is not unlike emptying the dishwasher, a ritual that links the day that has passed to the day that is dawning. While trying not to let the glasses clink against one another, I peered out our kitchen window to watch the sun begin to paint the sky above our view of the Old City where the Temple once stood. I froze the breast milk I had pumped the previous day and cleaned out the bottles, and then I set up Matan’s place setting with his map-of-the-world placemat and his monkey sippy cup. These are activities I perform every morning; they are love’s austere and lonely offices, and they are, in a sense, my version of the Korban Tamid, the daily sacrifice offered every morning in the Temple.”

In a post-Temple society, the Rabbis ordained regular prayer, Shabbat, Torah study, and giving of tzedakah as our touchstone spiritual practices in place of Temple ritual. These regular mitzvot represent ways to keep “a perpetual fire… burning on the altar” (6:6). But Kurshan teaches us another spiritual practice: showing love to the people around us by performing acts of service every day. When the priests clear away the ashes to make way for new sacrifices, they are telling the Israelites that their offerings are welcomed, God is receiving and appreciating their gifts, and their presence and participation here matter. The priests are also communicating their love for God in this seemingly mundane task. God does not need the ashes cleared away. Cleaning God’s plate for a new day, clearing away the day’s residue to begin again and receive new offerings, shows God honor and respect.

Chores like doing laundry or washing dishes, and listening, expressing gratitude, and sharing what we love about someone each day, are our daily offerings. The hard work of caretaking and sustaining relationships invites holy connection into our lives. The regularity and our loving intention behind acts of service elevate them. What do you do each day that might feel ordinary but contains a spark of holiness? How do you nourish and support those around you? How do you give, listen, and care regularly? How do others care for you? I invite you to see the ways you give and receive love as moments of profound spiritual connection.

Prepared by Pressman Academy student, Ezra Rosenthal

In Vayikra, the Torah goes into explicit detail about sacrifice, but what I found most interesting was learning about who was obligated to bring offerings and why. I was especially interested in the rules that guide community leaders. “If it is the appointed priest who has incurred guilt so that blame falls upon the people, he shall offer for the sin of which he is guilty a bull of a herd without blemish as a purification offering to the Lord” (Vayikra, Chapter 4 verse 3). This passage seems to say that our leader must bring bigger sacrifices than regular citizens and that if a leader sins, he or she will bring sin upon the whole community through his or her actions.

This made me think about the responsibility of leadership. Everyone, even our leaders make mistakes and I am glad that Judaism sees mistakes as part of life and allows people to be forgiven and do better next time. When a community selects a leader or when a person steps up into a position of leadership, he or she has agreed to be honorable and responsible. If that promise is broken, the leader has let the people down. The part of the pasuk that says that blame for the leader’s actions will fall upon the people stuck out to me. I realized that it might mean that people follow what their leaders do, so if the leader is sinning, the people will begin to follow his or her example. I think the leader is obligated to bring a big, public sacrifice as a sign to the people that the leader’s actions were wrong and should not be replicated.

I am glad that Judaism offers a path to forgiveness, but I am also glad to live in modern times when I don’t need to offer a sacrifice in order to show that I am taking responsibility for my actions. Killing an animal to atone for a sin doesn’t make sense to me—it is like you are committing a new sin to make up for what you have already done wrong. Learning what some Rabbis teach about sacrifice, I don’t think I am alone in feeling this way. Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz writes in an article in The Jewish Week that he is glad sacrifices are no longer required. He says that we “must be a light unto the nations, not a source of darkness by returning to a practice once deemed honorable but now perceived by the global masses as barbaric.” Abraham Joshua Heschel said prayer is a higher form of sacrifice because prayer is meant to help us give up our selfish feelings and replace them with love for others. Even right after the Temple was destroyed, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai taught that we can earn God’s forgiveness and approval by doing acts of hesed for our fellow human beings, rather than by giving gifts and sacrifices to God.

The Torah goes into explicit detail about all of the rules governing sacrifice, but I wonder what this world would be like if we had rules as specific as those about sacrifice to guide the way we treat one another?

By: Myra Meskin, Rabbinical Student at Ziegler

In 1983, the Conservative movement began ordaining women rabbis. Throughout the next 25 years, the issue of homosexuality was hotly debated within the movement, but it wasn’t until late 2006 that the CJLS voted to begin accepting gay and lesbian rabbinical and cantorial students. In 2012 the movement formally approved same-sex marriage ceremonies, and now in 2018 a range of contested issues, including politics, Israel and intermarriage, all demand attention from the religious body politic. I don’t claim to know the way forward on these issues, but I know that our proven path of rigorous commitment to tradition, with an attitude of spiritual seeking and innovation is one venerated by this week’s parsha.

After renewing the covenant with God, symbolized by the second set of stone tablets, the Israelites finally begin the task of building the Tabernacle – a process described at length in this week’s double parsha Vayakel-Pikudei. Moses instructs the Israelites to contribute gifts for the building of the Tabernacle, and the people respond with extreme generosity. Very quickly however, this giving spirit turns from generosity to excess: “their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done,” (Exodus 36:7).

An interesting take on what this overabundance is really about comes from the Kedushat Levi, the principal work of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, the primary disciple of the Maggid of Mezrich and one of the original Hasidic masters of the 18th century. He points out that Bezalel, the chief architect of the Tabernacle, was endowed with a special “ רוח אלוקים ” – a Divine spirit (Exodus 35:31), and the overabundance that

Bezalel has is not actually in physical gifts, but in Divine spirit:

This is what is meant by the word והותר , “there was an overabundance,” i.e. there

was enough holy spirit that had been provided to enable Bezalel and his assistants to build the Tabernacle, but instead of exhausting it at the time, Bezalel, in his modesty, was content to leave a surfeit of it to be used by Torah scholars, who in a way are also Torah “architects,” to delight their audiences with their insights in their respective generations.1

The Kedushat Levi makes two remarkable claims here: first, that the Divine spirit which inspired the famous artistry of Bezalel, is the same Divine spirit which we are granted for the creative interpretation of Torah; and second, that this gift of creative interpretation stems from the modesty of Bezalel.

Rabbi Steven Greenberg, though not a Conservative Jew, describes beautifully the attitude of progressive revelation that inspires our movement to take Bezalel’s legacy seriously. Rabbi Greenberg explains that the ambiguity of the Torah text, which allows for the generations of reinterpretations which Bezalel envisions, proves its holiness: “An eternal work needs to be a beacon for all moments of human history. It needs to press toward deeper values while not prematurely attempting to force paradise on us. It says what it can, and then it points, sometimes overtly and sometimes obliquely, toward Eden.”2

Bezalel knew that to reveal all of the beauty of God’s Torah in one generation would result in waste and loss – a Torah too thunderous for one generation to grasp. Rather, we need to ask what greater justice and inclusion can be accomplished in our time, and then we must embody that same modesty, to leave more of the beauty of Torah to be revealed in its time. Though we may not yet know the right course for this generation, we know that ours is a path traveled by many righteous generations before us, and we use their legacy to propel us to take the next cautious step forward.

Shabbat shalom.

1Translation from www.sefaria.org

2 Rabbi Steven Greenberg, “Wrestling with God and Men, Homosexuality in the Jewish Tradition,” p. 210.

Ki Tisa – 2018/5778

Natan Freller

Reading this week’s parasha, Ki Tisa, reminded me about one of my favorite psukim (verses) from the entire Torah: “Observe them (the mitzvot) faithfully, for that will be proof of your wisdom (חָכְמַתְכֶם – chochmatchem) and discernment (וּבִ֣ינַתְכֶם – uvinatchem) to other peoples, who upon hearing of all these laws will say: Surely, that great nation is a wise (חָכָם – chacham) and discerning (וְנָבוֹן – venavon) people.” (Devarim 4:6). I understand this pasuk as the Mission of the Jewish people since wisdom and discernment are characteristics that others can only identify when paying attention to one’s behavior. Those are not characteristics that cannot be identified just by our physicality, one needs to pay attention to how they are expressed in one’s behavior.

This week’s parasha tells us about the moment when Betzalel, the architect of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) was appointed for the task: “See, I have singled out by name Betzalel son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Yehuda. I have filled him with the Spirit of God — with wisdom (חכמה - chochma), understanding (תבונה - tevuna) and knowledge (דעת - daat) concerning every kind of craft.” (Shemot 31:2-3). Betzalel is described as someone who owns those characteristics mentioned previously, that I consider our Mission as the Jewish People. A People capable of combining theory and practicality, values and rituals.

Rashi (1040-1105), the most famous Torah commentator, shares his understanding of these characteristics in a very powerful way that became meaningful to me. He explains Wisdom (חכמה – chochma) as: “Is what a person hears from others and learns (makes his own)”. A wise person is the one capable to learn and internalize into one’s own behavior what one can learn from others. As Ben Zoma said in Pirkei Avot 4:1 (known as Ethics of the Fathers): "Who is the wise (חכם) one? The one who learns from everyone." This idea is very humbling to me. We live in an era where dialog and the capacity to listen to each other are so important, and our tradition reminds us of our Mission. Learning from each other is what can make us wise when making it part of our own being, turning knowledge into actions.

Another characteristic that describes Betzalel is understanding (תבונה - tevuna). Rashi’s explanation for the second one resonates with me even more: תבונה – understanding - is to understand a matter by one’s own heart, deducing it from the things one has already learned. Modern thought would describe Rashi’s explanations as ‘learning how to learn’. Our world is changing faster than ever, and one of the most important skills to develop is the ability to understand something new based on one’s previous knowledge. I would add that more important than that is our Mission, transforming what we have learned into action. Changing behavior is a very complicated issue that takes a lot of work; still, our tradition challenges us to face it as a daily routine. When there is a new moral development in our society, a new understanding of right and wrong, it is our duty to pursue the actions that will change our reality.

May this Shabbat inspire us to be like Betzalel. May we find our ways of growing in wisdom and understanding. May we learn from others and from our own experiences and may we succeed in our Mission of transforming our values into our own behavior.

Shabbat Shalom.

By: Rachel Marder, Temple Beth Am Rabbinic Intern

Dwelling with God

After finishing the work of creating the world, like any artist, the Holy One stood back and admired this perfect project. “God saw all that God had made, and it was very good” (Genesis 1:31). And then life happened. Something spilled on the art project. Humanity displays unimaginable cruelty and disregard for human dignity, and God notices that unlike God’s good and perfect plans “every plan devised in a person’s mind was nothing but evil all the time” (Genesis 6:5). God’s hopes and dreams are dashed, and God decides to destroy the world. Scholars have drawn many literary and thematic parallels between the creation of the world and the creation of the mishkan, the transportable dwelling place for God in the desert. God instructs the Israelites: “Make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8). The verb השע , do/make, is repeated in the creation narrative, and stated about 200 times in the building of the mishkan. First God made humanity a world in which to dwell, and now the Israelites are tasked with building a place for God to dwell. Just as God blessed the seventh day after ceasing from the work of creation, at the end of the building of the mishkan, Moses blessed the people (Exodus 40:43), according to midrash saying, “May it be the will of God that the Shechina rest upon the work of your hands.”

But just as the perfection of the world does not last for long, the perfection of the mishkan, which was built according to all of God’s ideal specifications, also bumps up against reality. The mishkan is likened to a miniature, perfect world, and is meant to be a place for God to dwell with the Israelites, but can God really “dwell” in one place? Can we live intimately and physically with God? Is it not as Isaiah notes, “The heaven is My throne And the earth is My footstool: Where could you build a house for Me, what place could serve as My abode?” (Isaiah 66:1)

This time rather than God’s expectations being unmet, we are the ones who are left disappointed by the mishkan’s limitations. Rabbi Shai Held writes in his Torah commentary, The Heart of Torah, that the mishkan is “an oasis of Eden in non-Edenic world.” The contrast between the mishkan, God’s carefully laid plans for dwelling among the Israelites, and what we often experience in the world, is striking. “Instead of a world in which God’s presence is made manifest and almost tangible, we live in a world in which God all too often seems utterly absent,” writes Rabbi Held.

Rather than rejecting the mishkan or giving up on repairing the world out of frustration and disillusionment searching for God, Rabbi Held calls on us to let the mishkan “remind us that the world is intended to be a very large tabernacle - that is, a place in which God’s word is obeyed, God’s presence felt, and God’s dreams for the world fulfilled.” That is our task.

We Are God’s Echo. And God Is Ours. - By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

Hallmark has made a fortune on the classic, emotional and pathos-heavy “Footsteps” poem. It appears on numerous cards in stores around the country. When a person, after death, sees his life represented as pairs of footprints in the sand, he notices that when times were rough the two pairs became one. If the second pair had been God’s accompanying footprints, well then “where were you, God, when I needed you most?” God’s answer is that during those moments there was only one pair of footprints. “For in those moments, I was carrying you.”

Sappy and sweet. And also, possibly, borrowed from (or at least deeply reminiscent of) a Hasidic commentary on Parshat Mishpatim! Many of us are familiar with the iconic phrase נעשה ונשמע, or na’aseh v’nishmah. These words, which can be translated as “we will do, and we will understand,” are often used to praise our ancestors’ willingness to leap. Into Torah. Into a relationship with God. Into observance. Into rules and structures…all before understanding their meaning. First they said “yes” to God’s Torah. And they hoped, and had faith, that later on they would come to appreciate and embrace the full meaning of the lives to which they committed.

On a simple pshat level, those words thus have great force as motivators in own relationship with leaps of faith and commitments. And yet it is this Hasidic commentary, authored by Rabbi Avraham Mordechai of Ger (who was 4th rebbe of the Ger Dynasty, and who after emigrating from Poland to Palestine in 1940 died in Jerusalem during Jordan’s siege of the Old City on Shavuot in 1948) that speaks to me most poignantly this week. He invites us to read the second verb, nishma, not as “understand,” but as the simpler “hear.” And weaving together several midrashic sources he presents the two-word mantra as an elaborate description of the tethers that connect heaven and heart, that bind Jew to God. Na’aseh. We will do. We will study. We will pray. We will live Torah. V’nishma. And we will hear. What will we hear? We will hear the voice of God, echoing our own activities. When we study Torah, God studies concomitantly in God’s realm. When we visit the sick, God does as well. When we sing, there is a heavenly voice that is emitted at the same time.

We can understand his teaching both metaphysically, with a burst of magical thinking. And also representing a certain theology that can speak to the meaning of our deeds. From the former perspective, we lean in to the notion that there is a God, who is present and real in ways we cannot fully comprehend. And who mirrors our deeds, and is a direct echo of our spiritual life. That notion can be a comfort, in a Footsteps-poem kind of way. When we cry, there are divine tears shed along with us. And when we laugh in exultation, we are not alone.

Beyond the metaphysics, there is an assertion here that the realest way that God exists in the world, and is invoked, is through our deeds. Meaning, it is not necessarily positing a true divine echo, apart from us. But rather that the only way that God’s voice and realness is manifest is in our actions.

Na’aseh. Let us do. Acts of hesed. And acts of living out Torah. And deeds of meaning. V’nishma. For that may be the purest way for us, and others, to hear the voice of God.

Shabbat Shalom

Prepared by Rabbinic Intern Rachel Marder

Acquainted with the Light

“I have been one acquainted with the night,” writes Robert Frost. “I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat/And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet/When far away an interrupted cry/Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky/Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.”

Frost captures here the loneliness that can envelop a person in the throes of depression. The darkness is all-consuming, isolating, exhausting, and terrifying. We are particularly vulnerable to seasonal depression during these winter months, when night falls fast. The darkness outside can trigger a darkness inside of us, and intensify the cruel and lying voice in our head that puts us down and tells us we are not enough.

Adam harishon, the first person, knew this feeling well. The Talmud teaches that when he for the first time observed the days getting shorter he cried out. “Oy! Perhaps because I sinned, the world around me is becoming dark and returning to its state of chaos and disorder? This is the death that was sentenced upon me from Heaven!” Adam fell into despair, blaming himself for the darkness the fell around him, wondering what he had done to cause the chaos. Adam punished himself by fasting for eight days. He questioned whether he could survive this life. Would light ever return?

But as time passed, he noticed the days getting longer. Little by little, the light was returning. He declared, “This is the way of the world,” minhago shel olam, and he observed a festival for eight days to celebrate (Avodah Zarah 8a). This origin story of Hanukkah is unlike the others; there is no national glory or supernatural miracle of oil lasting longer than expected. But it is a story of the miracles within us. Adam learns that he can overcome darkness. He learns to live in a dark and scary place, knowing he is not to blame for it and that the darkness will pass. Neither winter nor his own sadness will last forever. “This is the way of the world,” the Sages teach. Every life includes periods of both darkness and light. Adam is the first person to be acquainted with the night, and he survives. Perhaps you, like me, know someone who suffered from mental illness and sadly succumbed to the overwhelming darkness in their life. Perhaps you’ve wondered, as I have, if there was more you could have done.

It’s true that we cannot always save the lives of the ones we love, no matter how hard we try. But the message of Hanukkah is one of hope and empowerment: sooner or later, the light always comes back. By lighting one additional candle each night of Hanukkah, we demonstrate that a little bit of light can dispel the darkness around us. One smile, one phone call, one visit go a long way to alleviating one another’s isolation. Know the power of your presence to bring light into someone else’s life. We sing on this holiday: “Banu choshech l’garesh -- We have come to expel darkness; in our hands is light and fire. Everyone's a small light, and all of us together are a strong light.”

As we light our candles this Hanukkah, let us strengthen our own resilience – our power to survive the dark times -- and remember our miraculous ability to diminish the darkness around us. For there is a spark of God in each of us, and together we make a strong and beautifully radiant light.

For information on accessing mental health resources including counseling services, contact Jewish Family Services of Los Angeles at (877) 275–4537.

In Memory of Rabbi Neil Gillman זצ״ל

Rabbi Neil Gillman died this week in NY. He was a pillar of the Conservative Movement and a teacher to generations of rabbis, like me, who had the privilege of learning with him at the Jewish Theological Seminary. With his permission, I’m sharing excerpts from a eulogy written by Rabbi Daniel Nevins that capture a small portion of the legacy Rabbi Gillman leaves behind:

Dr. Gillman was a giant presence at JTS for well over a half century, beginning with his arrival from Montreal in the mid-1950s. His ordination was from JTS and his doctorate from Columbia. Rabbi Gillman served as dean of the JTS Rabbinical School during a period of transition when women’s ordination was being debated. He was an early advocate for egalitarianism, and continued to teach and model a more inclusive vision of Jewish thought and practice throughout his life. He was also a historian of JTS and Conservative Judaism, publishing a popular volume, and working with a committee to articulate the beliefs of our centrist movement in the volume Emet V’Emunah.

...Sitting in his office surrounded by towers of books, chomping on his pipe, he initiated [rabbinical students] into the ancient conversation of Jewish belief. In his book Sacred Fragments he introduced many of us to the thought of the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur, specifically the concept of “second naivete,” which described the possibility and even need for a post-enlightenment return to mythic structures in religious faith. In other words, one might absorb the truths of historical development—of the earth, of human life, of culture and even of Torah—and yet also live fully within the mythic structures of revelation, redemption and even resurrection. That last theme became increasingly important to him and was the basis of another outstanding book, The Death of Death. In it, he showed how rabbinic Judaism basically invented the concept of resurrection as a form of theodicy to justify God following the intolerable catastrophes of the destruction of the second temple, and then the Hadrianic persecutions.

Dr. Gillman was as non-fundamentalist as they come, and yet he still felt bound by Jewish traditions. I remember a story he told in class one year about cleaning his refrigerator for Pesah. Apparently there was a crouton that had fallen into a crack and was inaccessible. He knew that he could simply “annul” that hametz in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep. So in the middle of the night he took a screwdriver and attacked the fridge until he had purged the hametz!

One more thing that is important to share. Dr. Gillman maintained deep friendships with many people—colleagues and students—across lines of ideology… Many of us at JTS especially enjoyed observing the continuing friendship between Rabbi Gillman and Rabbi Joel Roth. They were as different from each other in intellectual interests and ideological convictions as you can imagine. Gillman favored Heschel’s “aggadah” over halakhah, whereas as Roth was a student of the great halakhists such as Saul Lieberman z”l. Gillman preferred the indeterminacy of mythic structures, whereas Roth taught about the systemic structures of halakhah. On gay rights, the two parted company, with Gillman as a fervent advocate, and Roth as a reluctant but nevertheless firm opponent of changes that he felt could not be justified within the law. And yet—their friendship remained, deep and true. They could be seen sitting together for lunch, sharing a half century and more of friendship and shared values.

This is how I wish to remember my teacher, Rabbi Dr. Neil Gillman—a person of sharp intellect, broad interests, and deep friendships. A model of critical and constructive faith, a sage and teacher and friend. May his memory be a blessing.

Prepared by Rabbinic Intern Rachel Marder

My sister is coming to the end of a very difficult year. When she and my brother-in-law found out they were pregnant with their second child, we were thrilled. Roughly 20 weeks into her pregnancy though, their older child, my two-year-old niece, began experiencing random, terrible stomach pains. Soon after, she was admitted to the hospital and stayed in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit for two weeks. I rushed to be with family. My fiance Hilly and I spent the next few weeks doing whatever needed to be done; laundry, grocery shopping and cooking, minor errands. I learned the value of simply leaping into action, rather than offering, waiting to be told what to do, or asking how I could help. It was the scariest time in our lives. Seeing one of the people you love most in the world suffer is excruciating. I had many moments during those weeks when I felt helpless and terrified. At the end of those two weeks, my niece was diagnosed with a rare form of Lymphoma, for which she would need a year of treatment. I am grateful to God and doctors from the depths of my soul that the treatment has so far been effective.

After watching my own family suffer through illness, I have become acutely aware of the ways in which members of our Beth Am community care for each other, in particular when someone is mourning. Beth Am members show up for those in need; praying with mourners, and also by cleaning, cooking, and shopping for people who are suffering in our midst. I am always in awe of our ability to be present and give of ourselves in these times. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for the human instinct to be and do for each other. I believe this behavior is a reflection of the Divine spark in each of us. When God comforts Jacob when he is fleeing for his life this week, the Holy One says, וְהִנֵּה אָנֹכִי עִמָּךְ (Genesis 28:15)’’ and here I am with you. God promises to protect Jacob and make him a great nation, and most of all, to be by his side. Our desire to “show up” for others is a reflection of God’s enduring ability to be present for us.

Boris Fishman wrote in The New York Times recently about friends of his who received devastating news about one of their children. He happened to be visiting them at the time, and while at first he felt uncomfortable being in their home during their hour of need, something inside him told him to make lunch. It felt like a sacred duty to make his friend Susan a salad just then. “Where just minutes before I’d felt only awkwardness, now I felt something approaching elation. If I were a believer, I would have said God was there. When the salad was ready, Susan embraced me. And what was an opportunity for an unforeseen boundary turned into a moment of greater intimacy than before” (“God Is in the Salad Dressing,” 11/17/2017).

As my niece nears the end of her intensive treatment, I can only think: Modah ani. Grateful am I for her smile and strength. Being an aunt has been the greatest joy of my life. Grateful am I for God’s presence, our presence for each other, and our instinct to do when we don’t know what to do. Thank God for the cooking and other matters of daily life that their family and friends have lifted from my sister and brother-in-law’s shoulders, as they have been carrying so much. Grateful am I to God for giving us these sacred opportunities for intimacy. Grateful am I that God is in the salad dressing.

Prepared by Rabbi Ari Lucas, Associate Rabbi, Temple Beth Am

וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֵלָיו, אַיֵּה שָׂרָה אִשְׁתֶּךָ
And they said to him - Where is Sarah, your wife?
-Genesis 18:9

Take a close look at the beginning of this week’s portion in a Torah scroll and you’ll notice something peculiar. There are 3 nequdot - dots over the letters aleph, yod, and vav. The word “eilav” means “to him.” The letter lamed is the only letter in the word that doesn’t get a dot. What are these markings doing? How did they get there? And what are we to make of them conspicuously placed in our Torah scrolls today?

In his doctoral dissertation, “The Meaning and Purpose of the Extraordinary Points of the Pentateuch,” published in 1906, Romain Butin offers several possible theories to explain the dots in this verse. The most plausible, in his opinion is that the text should have read vayomer lo - and he said to him (i.e. the angel to Abraham), instead of vayom’ru eilav (and they said to him). He points to the fact that in the following verse (v 10), only one of the ministering angels addresses Abraham. It is likely the same angel speaking in verse 9. Why would all three angels ask in unison “Where is Sarah, your wife?” His theory posits that the instructions to scribes was to mark the letters vav, yod, and aleph as questionable - only the scribes got the wrong vav. The “vav” should have referred to the last letter in “vayom’ru,” (see Fig 1) and was mistakenly placed on the last letter in “eilav.” (See Fig 2)

The rabbinic tradition derives a lesson from these dots (even if it is not likely the original reason for their existence). Rashi and Radak notice that the three dotted letters spell the word “ayo” meaning “where is he,” subtly indicating that just as the angels asked Abraham “Ayeh - where is Sarah, your wife” they similarly asked Sarah, “Ayo - where is Abraham, your husband.” From this, they conclude, it is customary to ask one’s host about his or her husband or wife. This clever teaching gives us a greater insight into the manner in which we can be good hosts and guests. After all, Abraham and Sarah’s welcoming attitude towards the angels is ground zero for Jewish teachings about hospitality.

But perhaps there is a deeper meaning to these dots and the question they’re “pointing” us to. The word “ayeh” recurs throughout the Genesis stories. First, God asks Adam in the garden, “ayekah - where are you?” Then, God asks Cain, “ayeh hevel ahikha - where is Abel, your brother?” And here, we see angels asking the first Jewish family, “Where is your husband? Where is your wife?” In each of these cases, we see God asking the characters of the Bible to take responsibility - for themselves and for the other people in their lives. “Ayeh” becomes a question that goes deeper than merely information about location. It’s an existential question - where are you in relationship to yourself, God, and others.

Genesis is a guidebook about taking responsibility for others. God is teaching humanity and the Jewish family how to care for one another and it begins by asking the question ayeh - where are you - where are your brothers and sisters, husbands, and wives. If we can answer that question honestly, then we’re on the right path to loving each other and loving God more fully.

Prepared by Rabbinic Intern Rachel Marder

You Never Told Us

“You never told us.” I read the accusatory words on my computer screen and my heart started to race. They felt like a punch in the gut. The authors of these words were alumni of NFTY, the Reform movement’s high school youth group, and they felt betrayed by me and others who educated them.

Soon after college I took a job as the regional advisor with NFTY, the North American Federation of Temple Youth, in San Francisco. I had grown up in NFTY and have many positive memories of spirited song sessions, tikkun olam work, and empowering learning experiences. After high school I spent a semester on a gap program in Israel and felt deeply attached to our homeland as a result. When I became a NFTY advisor I looked forward to giving back to an organization that had profoundly shaped me, and to inspiring young Jews. I wanted our programs to help teens love Israel and feel a strong connection to Jewish peoplehood. I told them that “Lech L’cha,” God’s charge to Avraham to go forth to the land God will show him, is directed to each of us as well. To be a Jew is to answer God’s call and feel a pull toward our homeland.

But I soon became frustrated with our educational programming about Israel. Programs were engaging, but they never felt like they accomplished enough. We set up a mock Knesset or planned “Israel Day,” complete with falafel and army training. We analyzed Hadag Nachash’s “Sticker Song,” a rap cataloguing Israeli bumper stickers. I had no idea then how to talk about the elephant in the room: Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. At 22 I lacked the knowledge and tools to engage them in a nuanced conversation.

Alumni of NFTY, USY, BBYO, Solomon Schechter day schools, and other groups are writing articles for the provocative anti-Occupation organization, If Not Now, as part of their #younevertoldus campaign. Davida Ginsberg, an alumna of USY on Wheels and USY Israel Pilgrimage, writes about her experience in gadna, basic training in the IDF, while on USY pilgrimage. She writes that while she was told there was a “conflict,” she heard nothing about an occupation. “You never told me what the soldiers were actually being trained to do with their guns, whose homes they were being trained to raid. You never told me why we - young, American Jews - should become militarized as a part of our summer camp experience… You never told me that the occupation doesn't actually keep any of us safe.”

One of my former NFTYites writes about how growing up she received skills and knowledge from her Jewish community about standing up and fighting for justice, “but when it came to justice in Israel/Palestine, our Reform community gave us only silence. The adults around us... steered us toward a ‘cultural’ connection to the state of Israel that we now realize was anything but apolitical. We were asked to imagine Israel as our homeland and to share affinity with a people and place we knew little about.” Many of them discovered the Palestinian narrative when they arrived at college, and became activists on their campuses.

According to midrash, Avraham spent his younger years exploring and pondering the existence of a Creator. Avraham is likened to a man who was traveling from place to place and came across a castle on fire. The man wondered whether the castle had a master to care for it. Then, the master of the castle popped his head out, looked at him, and said, “I am master of the castle.” In the same way, Avraham was constantly wondering, “Can you say that this world is without a Master?” God looked out at him and through the charge of “Lech L’cha, conveyed, “I am Master of the World” (Berishit Rabbah). Lech L’cha is God reaching out to humanity to say, “Hineni,” here I am, the master and caretaker of this world. You might have thought that the flames suggest that there is no one. But that is not so. You might not be able to see the master of the castle, but Someone is there.

God’s mission to Avraham is to trust in a God and a place he does not yet know. This is what I as a youth advisor hoped my teens would do: trust and believe in a country and people they do not know. I hoped naively that educational programming would foster enough connection to last them until they would actually go forth and spend time in Israel, where of course they would fall in love with their homeland and feel a part of this people. This worked for some kids, including me, but for many it did not.

This generation of Jews sees an Israel that is on fire. This Israel does not respect their brand of Judaism and does not welcome them as an equal member of the tribe. And more urgently, they see an Israel that does not love the stranger or treat non-Jews with the same dignity as Jewish residents. They wonder what happened to their Jewish values in the Jewish state. They are asking whether this castle is without caretakers. Where are their rabbis, teachers, and advisors? They are declaring that extinguishing this fire must be our priority. They inconveniently disrupt AIPAC policy conferences and Jewish community events to tell leaders this cannot wait. Use whatever economic and political pressure you have to push for an end to occupation and extinguish the flames of injustice.

I want us to teach our kids about Israel. I want them to know that a people that was homeless for nearly 2,000 years came home and built a miracle. I want us to be brave enough though to have honest conversations. We can talk about the refugees and the Occupation, and the deep challenges that Israel and Palestinians face in creating a shared society. I want alumni of our youth programs to know that we who struggle with the morality of the Occupation are also afraid of the alternative. I want them to know that Israel is not monolithic and there are many Jewish Israelis working for peace hand in hand with Palestinians. I need to ask their forgiveness for encouraging them to love and trust a place without more information. There are caretakers to Israel; it’s all of us. We need to work together to advocate for a more just society. I hope and pray that our alumni always find a home among Am Yisrael, and most of all that their message does not fall on deaf ears.