Shabbat Akharei Mot: When Memory Comes

After Pesakh, we return to the regular scheduled readings of the parashat hashavua. This week the parashah is Akharei Mot, in which we are confronted with a difficult narrative that recounts the violent accidental deaths of two young priests on their first day on the job. 

וַיִּקְח֣וּ בְנֵֽי־אַ֠הֲרֹ֠ן נָדָ֨ב וַאֲבִיה֜וּא אִ֣ישׁ מַחְתָּת֗וֹ וַיִּתְּנ֤וּ בָהֵן֙ אֵ֔שׁ וַיָּשִׂ֥ימוּ עָלֶ֖יהָ קְטֹ֑רֶת וַיַּקְרִ֜יבוּ לִפְנֵ֤י ה אֵ֣שׁ זָרָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֧ר לֹ֦א צִוָּ֖ה אֹתָֽם׃ וַתֵּ֥צֵא אֵ֛שׁ מִלִּפְנֵ֥י יְהֹוָ֖ה וַתֹּ֣אכַל אוֹתָ֑ם וַיָּמֻ֖תוּ לִפְנֵ֥י ה׃ 

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

There’s a poignant linkage between those two young men and all young adults, equipped as they are with all the trappings of adulthood but without yet fully functioning frontal lobes of the brain. They can be well intentioned yet ungainly in carrying out their aims as a baby calf, and the awkwardness, alas, can be deadly.

The violence on college campuses across the U.S. is caused by this conflict between the uncompromising morality of youth and the inability to see “what is being born” as a result of ill-considered actions. Without real organizing skills, hampered by a participation trophy society that has convinced them that their every feeling and action should be judged equal with all others, their good intentions go badly awry.

And Jews are the ones caught in the middle, as we often are during periods of social unrest. Unlike other marginalized communities, we are never the cool kids; there will never be a Movement for Jewish Lives joined by non-Jews everywhere in the cause of justice.

This month of Iyar on our Jewish calendar brings us the observance of two anniversaries to invite our comprehension of the morning news onto a higher level. On Sunday evening and Monday May 5 and 6 we observe Yom HaShoah v’HaGevurah, the day of remembering Holocaust and Heroism, timed to commemorate the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. Our people were starving and hopeless and yet rose up with all their remaining strength against the Nazis, and managed to hold them off for longer than the armies of Poland or France had been able to resist invasion. We remember their heroism, and, as well, we pause to remember all those who died in the years of that terrible evil.

Only a week later, we will commemorate the 76th anniversary of the founding of the modern State of Israel. It is often said that the modern State is like the phoenix that rose from the flames, but that is a Eurocentric narrative that discounts much. I will offer you more on that in next week’s email.

It is not madness for Jews, as traumatized as we have been as a community for so long, to fear the rising antisemitism in the U.S. It is, however, unwise and wrong to fault students for protesting moral evil such as that demonstrated by the current government of the State of Israel. Yes, their protests are hijacked by right wing elements. Yes, they give state power an excuse to lash out. But there is no stance more solidly Jewish than protesting injustice.

Follow the lead of Israelis who seek peace, not U.S. Jews flailing about in the world of secondary information. As Jews who care about justice, we must balance an awareness of the moral sins of the state of Israel as honestly as our ancient prophets did, yet also hold close the truth that because of antisemitism our ancestral homeland and our people will always attract far more than its share of attention and criticism.

May is Jewish Heritage Month. It couldn’t come at a better time, reminding us as it does of a greater perspective than the all-consuming daily news. Jews have a vibrant and welcoming culture: bagels! circle dances! and the Bible, source of the ethics of those passionate young people, whether they credit it or not:

צֶ֥דֶק צֶ֖דֶק תִּרְדֹּ֑ף לְמַ֤עַן תִּֽחְיֶה֙ וְיָרַשְׁתָּ֣ אֶת־הָאָ֔רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לָֽךְ׃

“Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may live and thrive.” (Deut. 16.18)

This week, we make room for remembering and for mourning. Next week we will carry on seeking to build the better world we envision. That is Jewish culture; that is Jewish life.

Shabbat Shalom

Shabbat Hol HaMo’ed Pesakh 5784: Only Love

On this Shabbat which is called Shabbat hol hamo’ed Pesakh, the Shabbat of the Intermediate Days of Pesakh, we are – just as the name implies – in the middle of the story. The middle is a dreadful place, neither here nor there, full of uncertainty and fear. In short, it is not usually the place where we are at our best. We find fault quickly with others and we succumb to anger all too often.

That wilderness of uncertainty is what our ancestors flung themselves into when they fled the certain misery of Egypt. To take them at their word, it was easily just as bad. For some it was worse, even as some of us would choose to accept a bad answer over a good but eternally open question.

If the message of the Exodus is that we must leave certain misery in order to become free, then the message of this hol hamo’ed Pesakh is that leaving is not a momentary act, but an ongoing lifelong practice.

The language of addiction gets at this idea, but is too confining; all of us are regularly in need of support to continue moving through the wilderness of neither here nor there which is truly the only constant of our lives – if we are awake to it. The stress of this uncertainty is what can bring out either the best that we can become, or, sometimes, the worst of what we have been.

HaShem is our role model here. In the special reading for this Shabbat (not your regular parashat hashavua) we read of the world-destroying anger that Moshe, with unfathomable courage, stands against. Even HaShem is affected by the reality of the wilderness wandering which has just commenced, in which nothing can be predicted with certainty and all are afraid.

We too can destroy worlds with our anger. Worlds of relationship, of belonging, of dependable  reliance. In this usefully anthropomorphic passage, just as HaShem tells Moshe of the erupting anger that threatens to end their story, so we should find someone we trust to tell them of the anger we feel, and get help managing it before it destroys something.

Our ancestors derive from this story the lesson that anger is the most destructive human emotion – when turned outward we destroy connection, and when turned inward we destroy ourselves. Like Moshe, we should listen to our companions’ anger for the words that will allow us to bring up another perspective:

וְעַתָּה֙ הַנִּ֣יחָה לִּ֔י וְיִֽחַר־אַפִּ֥י בָהֶ֖ם וַאֲכַלֵּ֑ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה אוֹתְךָ֖ לְג֥וֹי גָּדֽוֹל׃ 

“Now, let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and I will then make of you a great nation.”  (Ex. 32.10)

At that moment Moshe sees the opening. He does not “let HaShem be,” but jumps in to persuade and cajole – and HaShem is able to hear, and to relent. Just after this exchange, our sages offer stories of other ways in which we can see HaShem as a role model; just like us, HaShem, they assert, also has a need to take time for prayer.

What is HaShem’s prayer?

מַאי מְצַלֵּי? אָמַר רַב זוּטְרָא בַּר טוֹבִיָּה, אָמַר רַב: ״יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנַי שֶׁיִּכְבְּשׁוּ רַחֲמַי אֶת כַּעֲסִי.

Rav Zutra bar Tovia said that Rav said “HaShem says: May it be My will that My mercy will overcome My anger.” (BT Berakhot 7a)

May we be reminded of that other quality that we also carry with us, the lifesaving and community building attribute of mercy. This week, the first week of our omer counting period, focuses us on mercy, and its companion characteristics of grace and love. The other name for the Hesed sefirah in Jewish mysticism is Greatness – which is found only in love, never in anger.

Anger is justified in our times as a necessary corrective to abuse. With Brenee Brown I would suggest that this is an impoverished understanding of emotional complexity; what we call “good” anger is actually righteous indignation. To see the difference, simply consider the effects in the world. Does love triumph and community thrive? Then it was not anger.

The wisdom of our ancient tradition indicates that we must read the Song of Songs during Pesakh. May its words help us to learn to balance our anger with love, even during the most uncertain of times. Only with love will we reach any place worth being.

מַ֣יִם רַבִּ֗ים לֹ֤א יֽוּכְלוּ֙ לְכַבּ֣וֹת אֶת־הָֽאַהֲבָ֔ה וּנְהָר֖וֹת לֹ֣א יִשְׁטְפ֑וּהָ אִם־יִתֵּ֨ן אִ֜ישׁ אֶת־כׇּל־ה֤וֹן בֵּיתוֹ֙ בָּאַהֲבָ֔ה בּ֖וֹז יָב֥וּזוּ לֽוֹ׃        

Vast floods cannot quench love,

Nor rivers drown it.

If a person offered all their wealth for love,

They would be laughed to scorn.  (Song of Songs 8.6)

Shabbat Tzav: Forget Your Perfect Offering

Sacrificing the Idea of Perfection

והנה תראה כי הוא לבדו ית״ש השלימות האמיתי המשולל מכל החסרונות ואין שלימות אחר כמוהו כלל.

And behold, see that HaShem’s alone is true perfection, devoid of all deficiencies. And there is no other perfection like it at all. – Derekh HaShem, Moshe Hayim Luzzatto, Amsterdam, 1745

“The better is the mortal enemy of the good.” – Pensées, Charles Louis de Montesquieu, 1726

Consider Aaron, getting ready for his first day of work. He’s been appointed by no less than HaShem to the highest ritual position, that of High Priest. In his priestly clothing he symbolizes the intimate and complex link between the Twelve Tribes of Israel and HaShem, and in that way, between earth and heaven. 

He might be expected to strive for perfection in this position, since the Israelites will be looking to him as a perfect channel between the Source of Truth and Justice and their deepest needs, highest aspirations, and regular, reliable spiritual guidance.

Perhaps that’s why our parashat hashavua begins with this requirement of the High Priest on the first day of his new job:

זֶ֡ה קׇרְבַּן֩ אַהֲרֹ֨ן וּבָנָ֜יו אֲשֶׁר־יַקְרִ֣יבוּ לַֽה’ בְּיוֹם֙ הִמָּשַׁ֣ח אֹת֔וֹ עֲשִׂירִ֨ת הָאֵפָ֥ה סֹ֛לֶת מִנְחָ֖ה תָּמִ֑יד מַחֲצִיתָ֣הּ בַּבֹּ֔קֶר וּמַחֲצִיתָ֖הּ בָּעָֽרֶב…כָּלִ֥יל תׇּקְטָֽר׃

This is the offering that Aaron and his sons shall offer to ‘ה on the occasion of his anointment: a tenth of an ephah of choice flour as a regular meal offering, half of it in the morning and half of it in the evening…to be turned entirely into smoke.  )Lev. 6.13-15, excerpt)

On the day of his initiation Aaron is to bring a קׇרְבַּן֩ , korban, which is best understood as bring-near, a sacrifice; on his first day of work, he is to sacrifice, perhaps, the expectation of perfection in his work. Note that it is entirely burned; he derives no sustenance from it, no souvenir of the first day of work. And it’s not even a lordly bull or majestic ram; it’s just a mixture of flour and oil, a simple batter that turns into a flatbread and then burns to ashes.

Up in smoke goes the perfect offering, and with it, perhaps, the expectation of perfection. What advice could be more important to give Aaron on this first day, when expectations and hopes are highest? This gentle message not to expect anything other than humanity – by definition, imperfection – is reminiscent of the compassionate Seder leader who makes sure to spill the wine onto the perfect tablecloth early, in full view of guests.

This is how we draw near to our best selves; not as visions of perfection, but as people who know how to respond to our own and each other’s mistakes with compassion. Not “cancelling”, but mercy.

All human projects would be best off with a spilled glass of something at the beginning, to remind us that we are not going to succeed in our dreams of perfection. Everything is at least a little bit broken, and only half-glimpsed at best; Aaron will continue trying the best he can to fulfill the role he has been given, and sometimes he’ll make mistakes.

The Torah teaches us in this way that sacrificing the idea – or ideal – of perfection is the only way we humans can persevere in our struggle to be good, and do good, in the world. Sometimes we will make mistakes, yes, even you and me, as near perfect as we try to be. 

When that happens, remember the teaching of our ancestors: since the Temple altar was destroyed, the altar that matters most is the one we build in our hearts. We keep the small and steady flame of that fire burning not with impossible visions of perfection, but by daily sacrificing them so that we can look past that ego-driven obstacle to where our compassion is needed in the world, in the service of good that can be attained.

אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶּֽה    

A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out.  (Lev. 6.6)

Shabbat Ki Tisa: The Taste of Idolatry

וַיִּקַּ֞ח אֶת־הָעֵ֨גֶל אֲשֶׁ֤ר עָשׂוּ֙ וַיִּשְׂרֹ֣ף בָּאֵ֔שׁ וַיִּטְחַ֖ן עַ֣ד אֲשֶׁר־דָּ֑ק וַיִּ֙זֶר֙ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י הַמַּ֔יִם וַיַּ֖שְׁקְ אֶת־בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ 

He took the calf that they had made and burned it with fire and ground it up until it was thin-powder, and strewed it on the surface of the water and made the Children of Israel drink it. Exodus 32.20 (Translation Everett Fox)

What is going on in the U. S. Jewish community?

Why do the secular Jews of the U.S. continue to support the occupation, excusing it and engaging in victim-blaming to an absurd degree that they would never tolerate in language anywhere else? 

Why do so many secular  U.S. Jews seem willing to ignore the ongoing suffering of Palestinians, when they are first in line to help any other suffering people? 

Why are so many so willing to do what Jewish youth call “leave your Jewish ethics at the door when it comes to Israel”? Why are so many Jewish youth calling themselves anti-Zionist?

The war began with Hamas’ attack on Jewish communities in the area near Gaza, on a Shabbat morning. There is a huge symbolic difference between the U.S. Jews who chose to ignore Shabbat in order to begin rallying the community, and those who respected Shabbat. It has to do with what each group is actually worshipping.

Ever since, I’ve been thinking about the profound difference between Jews who seek out a shul when they are in pain, and Jews who do not. And I’ve been musing on the severity of the feelings aroused in many secular Jews whose Jewish identity is deeply linked to the State of Israel. They are using words like “pogrom” and “Babiy Yar” to express their sense of what happened.

But there is one big difference. The State of Israel was founded at least partially because pogroms happen to Jews who are defenseless in Diaspora. As my Israeli cousins and their friends already know, this was a failure of the state. As such for them it is a time very like the 9/11 experience in the U.S. Failures of intelligence and political negligence are a part of both events, and too many innocent people continue to die horrible deaths as a result of both.

In 1934 my great aunt Rina traveled with her family from Germany to Palestine, and Rina became part of the faithful Zionist fabric of the new state of Israel. She and her growing family went to war, participated joyfully in rationing and cooperated in a kind of social compact that truly seemed miraculous the first time I experienced it as a U.S. Jewish teenager. Shortly before her death we recalled an avocado tree she had planted, which now towers over several houses in her moshav. I asked her how she felt about the state she’d help to build for so many years. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she replied. The second Lebanon war was then in progress, and Israeli military law enforced on the lives of of Palestinians was entering its second generation.

For any U.S. secular Jew for whom the State of Israel has been a very satisfying religion for 75 years, it’s getting harder to bat away the dismay. As of today, that which secular Jews have placed on top of the Holy Ark instead of HaShem has shown something worse than the “growing pains” or invoking “a harsh neighborhood” we offer as excuse when explaining the political corruption or stalled peace process, or the continuing misery of an occupation of other human beings which Israeli generals already warned in 1967 was going to be a powder keg.

Unthinkable as it may be, the State of Israel failed its citizens. And it is failing all of us who wanted to look toward it as a beacon of all that makes being Jewish meaningful and special to us. It is not acting as a Jewish state, not upholding Jewish values, not a haven for Jews – and not fulfilling the promise of its own Declaration of Independence. Every Israeli young adult who does their army service in the Occupied Territories is victimized; every Diaspora Jew who wants to support Israel with all their heart is devastated. 

While we do not know what will come next, and I for one pray for peace with all my broken heart, the secular god of so many Jews will never again be what it was for so many of us: a safe Jewish place, where we could trust that the welfare of all Jews came first and foremost for its elected leaders, no matter what else was there to cause dismay.

When a god dies, as we know from ancient Middle Eastern theology, a people disappears. The grounding of the identity of secular Jews has been attacked in a way no enemy could manage. Their response leaves no room for nuance, no room for kindness, and no room for Torah. For those of us who do look to Torah for glimpses of deeper truth, this parasha of Ki Tisa, the story of the Golden Calf, is haunting.

וַיַּ֤רְא מֹשֶׁה֙ אֶת־הָעָ֔ם כִּ֥י פָרֻ֖עַ ה֑וּא כִּֽי־פְרָעֹ֣ה אַהֲרֹ֔ן לְשִׁמְצָ֖ה בְּקָמֵיהֶֽם׃ 

Moses saw that the people were out of control—since Aaron [i.e. their leadership] had let them get out of control—so that they were a menace to any who might oppose them. (Exodus 32.25)

We who are made terrified too often become dangerous, and incapable of discerning just action. So it is with traumatized Israelis, and so it is with traumatized Palestinians.

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר לָהֶ֗ם כֹּֽה־אָמַ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֱלֹהֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל שִׂ֥ימוּ אִישׁ־חַרְבּ֖וֹ עַל־יְרֵכ֑וֹ עִבְר֨וּ וָשׁ֜וּבוּ מִשַּׁ֤עַר לָשַׁ֙עַר֙ בַּֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה וְהִרְג֧וּ אִֽישׁ־אֶת־אָחִ֛יו וְאִ֥ישׁ אֶת־רֵעֵ֖הוּ וְאִ֥ישׁ אֶת־קְרֹבֽוֹ׃ 

He said to them, “Thus says יהוה, the God of Israel: Each of you put sword on thigh, go back and forth from gate to gate throughout the camp, and slay sibling, neighbor, and kin.” 

וַיַּֽעֲשׂ֥וּ בְנֵֽי־לֵוִ֖י כִּדְבַ֣ר מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיִּפֹּ֤ל מִן־הָעָם֙ בַּיּ֣וֹם הַה֔וּא כִּשְׁלֹ֥שֶׁת אַלְפֵ֖י אִֽישׁ׃ 

The men of Levi did as Moses had bidden; and some three thousand of the people fell that day. (Exodus 32.27-28)

And so from that place of fear and recoil, of the absence of human feeling, crowded out as it is by the hardening of our hearts, we become people who can justify the killing of people; who can take sides when the only side a Jew should take is l’hayim, the side of life. Note that this is not HaShem’s command, not that we see in the Torah; it is the command of Moshe, an angry, terrified, traumatized human being who in that state can no longer hear the voice of HaShem – or believes that the command to murder, which in fact originates in his own brain, was something that he actually heard from HaShem.

The golden calf idol was ground to dust that day and the people who survived were forced to drink it, consuming the own poison they themselves had allowed to grow in the name of security. As the peace activists – the scouts – of Israel and Palestine are bravely saying as they raise their voices together even now, when the fever of war has poisoned so many against them, is that there is no security without safety, and that there is no safety without peace.

In Jewish theology, idolatry is anything that keeps our hearts from seeing HaShem. We cannot see HaShem through the fog of fear, much less the place without mitzvot where fear leads us. By focusing our need for certainty and safety upon something less than HaShem, we seal our own doom as well as that of anyone who depends upon our acts.

If Israel is an idol, we are told from antiquity that HaShem will tear it down. For some of us, Israel has always meant safety in our homeland in a world that reliably hates Jews, but if we worship that state of Israel and, has v’halilah, insist that it inform our spirituality, we have fallen into deepest idolatry. It will not hold us up.

Shabbat Tetzaveh 5784

A year of Adar I and Purim Katan

וְהַיָּמִ֣ים הָ֠אֵ֠לֶּה נִזְכָּרִ֨ים וְנַעֲשִׂ֜ים בְּכׇל־דּ֣וֹר וָד֗וֹר מִשְׁפָּחָה֙ וּמִשְׁפָּחָ֔ה מְדִינָ֥ה וּמְדִינָ֖ה וְעִ֣יר וָעִ֑יר וִימֵ֞י הַפּוּרִ֣ים הָאֵ֗לֶּה לֹ֤א יַֽעַבְרוּ֙ מִתּ֣וֹךְ הַיְּהוּדִ֔ים וְזִכְרָ֖ם לֹא־יָס֥וּף מִזַּרְעָֽם        

Consequently, these days are recalled and observed in every generation: by every family, every province, and every city. And these days of Purim shall never cease among the Jews, and the memory of them shall never perish among their descendants – Megillat Ester 9.28

Once upon a time in the pre-modern world, a custom was widely practiced that had to do with the precarious existence of Jewish communities that lived as small minorities within non-Jewish societies. It was called Purim sheni, “second Purim.” In places where Jews had survived a near disaster brought about by antisemitism, they commemorated the date yearly just as Esther and Mordecai created the first such commemoration in ancient Persia.

There’s a special Purim that was celebrated by the community for generations in Ancona, in Cairo, in Florence and in Fuoco; there’s one known to the Jews of Narbonne, Rhodes, Saragossa and Shiraz. There’s even one that was observed by the Jews of Tiberias.

In each case – and more than this – our people recognized their contemporary experience as resonant with our ancestors’ and found shared meaning in what was otherwise simply brute suffering and trauma. A close call became an opportunity for yearly rehearsal and celebration, rather than simply stocking up jangled nerves and the development of maladaptations to future dangers.

How? by insisting on hope as an essential Jewish ethic. Lurianic mystical teachings from 15th century Sefat offer the image of little sparks hidden in larger “shells” that obscure them, shells of evil and suffering within which there always can be found a spark of hope, of holiness, of meaning. One such spark appears in our Jewish calendar today.

Today, 14 Adar I 5784, is Purim Katan, “little Purim,” a small intimation of what we celebrate one month from now. Every time the Jewish calendar adds the leap month of Adar II, seven times in a 19 year cycle, Purim is put off until the second month of Adar, and Adar I becomes a time of anticipation, and the deferred gratification of all that spring promises. We have to wait another month to celebrate the beginning of spring hopes, but on the date that would have been Purim in a non-leap year, we hint at it: add a bit of festivity to the day, the meal, the otherwise perhaps cloudy, dark and wet final days of winter.

Purim Katan, with its anticipation of the possibility of joy, is not the same as Purim Sheni, with its overwhelming relief at escape from certain catastrophe. Yet for all of us, it is what life these days is about; the bittersweet knowledge that with every joy comes certain fears (we’ll have security outside for our Purim celebration) and, at the same time, the longing in the midst of our anxieties for the release of a moment of happiness. Both of these states of being exist and they both cry out for expression.

And in the end, one of them is not meant to define us; it’s the dance that embraces them both. A close escape is not just something to seek sympathy for. It’s cause for celebration. Let Purim Katan be the beginning of a practice of seeing daily moments of joy, not sorrow, so that when Purim itself comes along in another month, we’ll be able to fulfill the sunlit words of the end of the Megillah we’ll hear together, G*d willing:

לַיְּהוּדִ֕ים הָֽיְתָ֥ה אוֹרָ֖ה וְשִׂמְחָ֑ה וְשָׂשֹׂ֖ן וִיקָֽר׃ 

The Jews enjoyed light and gladness, happiness and honor. (Megillat Ester 8.16)

Shabbat Mishpatim: From Egypt to…Purim?

מִמִּצְרָ֑יִם וְלֹא־יֵרָא֥וּ פָנַ֖י רֵיקָֽם

From Egypt none shall appear before Me empty-handed (Ex 23.15) 

The initial letters of Mimitzrayim Velo Yera’u Panai Rekam, “from Egypt none shall appear before Me empty-handed” spell פורים – Purim. 

Today is Rosh Hodesh Adar I, the first day of Adar I, so called because this is a leap year, in which the calendar which our ancestors devised adds an extra month (yes!) to our lunar- counted year. In this way we have always kept our harvest holy days, which of course are responsive to sun, in sync with actual Levantine harvest times.

Of all the months of the year that we could add, the Jews added a second month of Adar, the month of late winter in which we are taught that משנכנס אדר מרבים שמחה, mishenikhnas Adar marbim simkha, “from the beginning of Adar, joy increases.” In a regular year, Purim occurs at mid month; in a year with two Adars, we celebrate Purim in Adar II – which gives you a bit more time to work on your Purim costume.

The Rabbis of the Talmud speculated that when all the other holy days will fall into abeyance at the end of days, Purim will still be celebrated. Clearly there’s more to the day than what it seems on the surface: it is, after all, related to all those ancient rituals that seek the evoking of spring through human effort to connect to its energy, the energy of rebirth, which seems dead and buried all winter.

Who has the energy to be joyful? How in the name of all that’s holy are we to conjure up joy, on the 126th day of the holding of Israeli hostages by Hamas, and nearly three months of the bombardment of Gaza? Not to mention all that stresses us closer to home…

And yet! “True salvation,” teaches Rabbi Nahman of Bratislav, “actually begins with Purim.” Before we can come together as a community and harvest our resources together, something else has to happen first – something, perhaps, that can lead us toward the simkha that is meant to appear at this time in our Jewish year. 

Rebbe Nahman sees the answer in this verse from our parashah for this week, parashat Shoftim. This parashah is full of halakhot of a particular kind, adding up to the regulation of society. What kind of rules epitomize ancient Israelite – and modern Jewish – society? Beyond the expected take care of each other sort of law, such as don’t steal, don’t murder, don’t lie, we have laws that push our sense of who is included in this society:

וְגֵ֥ר לֹא־תוֹנֶ֖ה וְלֹ֣א תִלְחָצֶ֑נּוּ כִּֽי־גֵרִ֥ים הֱיִיתֶ֖ם בְּאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם׃ 

Now a sojourner you are not to maltreat, you are not to oppress him, for sojourners were you in the land of Egypt.  (Ex. 22.20)

כִּ֣י תִפְגַּ֞ע שׁ֧וֹר אֹֽיִבְךָ֛ א֥וֹ חֲמֹר֖וֹ תֹּעֶ֑ה הָשֵׁ֥ב תְּשִׁיבֶ֖נּוּ לֽוֹ׃          

When you encounter your enemy’s ox or his donkey straying, return it, return it to him. (Ex. 23.4)

Our society includes not only those who are our friends and family, but also those who are visitors, and even those who we would name enemy. The word in Hebrew is אויב, oyev. The term is classically used to indicate a foe, but can also refer in mystical terms to the yetzer hara’, that which is our personal inner enemy as we struggle to become more whole, more our best selves.

Purim is about the overcoming of Amalek, not only an external Enemy of the Jews (which certainly does exist) but also the internal obstacles to our ability to fulfill mitzvot, such as the obligation to experience joy. Joy is as real as pain, and it too exists if we look for it and give it space.

When we appear before HaShem we are not to show up empty-handed. Where leaving Egypt may seem to be leaving everything behind in order to become, we do not have to arrive at a harvest in order to be able to fill our hands with the offering most needed at this time. Joy is not some disconnected state apart from our day to day; perhaps: perhaps, it is more like the step by step, mitzvah by mitzvah awareness that something worthwhile is happening in every moment of our lives, and that we can rise to meet it.

On this Shabbat, consider your Amalek, whether it be another person, or a situation, or a feeling that is entirely your inner reality. Can you discover another approach to that obstacle? And can that movement help you start to feel the way your hands, and heart, can begin to fill with joy, yes, even you, yes – even now?

Shabbat Yitro: Who’s There?

וַיּוֹצֵ֨א מֹשֶׁ֧ה אֶת־הָעָ֛ם לִקְרַ֥את הָֽאֱלֹהִ֖ים מִן־הַֽמַּחֲנֶ֑ה וַיִּֽתְיַצְּב֖וּ בְּתַחְתִּ֥ית הָהָֽר׃ 

Moshe brought the people out toward God, from the camp, and they stationed themselves beneath the mountain. (Exodus 19.17)

Shabbat Yitro records our ancestors’ story of the ultimate moment of revelation between the Jewish people and HaShem. This moment is so overwhelmingly interesting to theologians that most of the commentaries focus on the experience of the “numinous”as Rudolf Otto defines it. 

[Otto] calls this experience “numinous,” and says it has three components. These are often designated with a Latin phrase: mysterium tremendum et fascinans. As mysterium, the numinous is “wholly other”– entirely different from anything we experience in ordinary life. It evokes a reaction of silence. But the numinous is also a mysterium tremendum. It provokes terror because it presents itself as overwhelming power. Finally, the numinous presents itself as fascinans, as merciful and gracious.

But, as Emanuel Levinas, another philosopher of religion, reminds us, Jewish spiritual experience is based upon the moment of communication – of meeting, and that Jewish ethics can be defined as our response to that moment. This means that the moment at Sinai is not only about HaShem being revealed in some mysterious and fascinating way; Sinai is also about who is doing the meeting, and how? 

Who is that, at the foot of the mountain? In the Torah, this group is referred to as they come out of Egypt as an erev rav, a motley and diverse group: some descendants of Jacob, some not. Ancient Egyptians slaves were Nubians, Canaanites, Libyans, and of course surviving losers on  any Egyptian battlefield – all those were possibly along with us for the ride – even Egyptians.

Yet after this moment, whatever its content, we are one people. The word in Hebrew used to define the group that stood at the mountain is עם am, which has a wide range of uses in Hebrew:

Nation, people, folk, community, tribe.

Populace, inhabitants, natives.

Crowd, multitude, mob.

Common, ignorant, boorish people.

Common uses of this term in Jewish culture include HaShem calling us by the frustrated label am kashe oref, a “stiff-necked people,” and the intimate term amkha, which literally means “your people”.

Who are these people, this am sharing in this holy moment of meeting? And since we are bidden to consider this moment of revelation as constantly a present moment of our own experience, who, it must be asked, are we?

The Jewish people is learning over the past few months that we are a community that needs each other, and where we seek safety to ask our questions and feel big feelings. An unscientific poll reveals many different shades of meaning for that belonging. On this Shabbat, I invite you to consider these different definitions and to imagine yourself, a Jew, among this diverse, yet one, am. One people whose experience of life’s meaning stems from one moment, standing together in the face of something beyond us, something that offers us belonging, in all our diversity, in an endless mystery of becoming.

The difference between unity and harmony

Being there; showing up

Friendship

Something beyond choice

“Who you’re stuck with” 

Bonding through blood and reciprocity

Family; chosen family

Trust that allows you to come as you are

Closeness and camaraderie

Similar values and rituals

People you want to be with

Lifeline: who I do life with

Helping me get out of my own way

Belonging

Where I don’t have to code switch

Reciprocity

Something more than just a group

An improbable existence

Trust; safety; reliability

Born into; placed into; chosen

Takes work

You are standing here, with us, all together. Where do you stand?

Shabbat BeShalakh: the Shabbat of Song

וַיְהִ֗י בְּשַׁלַּ֣ח פַּרְעֹה֮ אֶת־הָעָם֒ וְלֹא־נָחָ֣ם אֱלֹהִ֗ים דֶּ֚רֶךְ אֶ֣רֶץ פְּלִשְׁתִּ֔ים כִּ֥י קָר֖וֹב ה֑וּא כִּ֣י ׀ אָמַ֣ר אֱלֹהִ֗ים פֶּֽן־יִנָּחֵ֥ם  הָעָ֛ם בִּרְאֹתָ֥ם מִלְחָמָ֖ה וְשָׁ֥בוּ מִצְרָֽיְמָה׃ וַיַּסֵּ֨ב אֱלֹהִ֧ים ׀ אֶת־הָעָ֛ם דֶּ֥רֶךְ הַמִּדְבָּ֖ר יַם־ס֑וּף

Now it was, when Pharaoh had sent the people free, that HaShem did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, though it is nearer, for HaShem said, Lest the people regret it, when they see war, and return to Egypt! So HaShem had the people go round about by way of the wilderness at the Sea of Reeds. (Ex 13.17-18)

On this Shabbat we encounter the learning – that waits for us to uncover it – in the event of our ancestors walking out of Egypt and into the unknown future. We will review some of this again when we commemorate the story in our Pesakh Seder on the evening of 14 Nisan (April 22 2024), but in our yearly study of Torah, the story is before our eyes now.

Considering an actual moment of truth at a time of so much uncertainty is to conjure up a full blown spring while the trees are still, to our eyes, fast asleep. Yet yesterday our tradition bid us observe Tu B’Shevat, a conjuring of spring in the midst of so much winter, so that we might remind ourselves that even in the midst of what seems to be complete despair, there is always a spark of hope. 

This Shabbat is dedicated to small hopes, in the form of birds. During terrible winter weather it seems that they must all succumb – they’re so small and so delicate. Yet in the worst of the ice and snow, their little feathered bodies flit about from feeder to suet. They manage to hold on, hold on, and in the morning our hearts lift to see them, still here.

Shabbat BeShalakh is dedicated to the birds because it is the Shabbat of Song, Shabbat Shirah, so called for two great songs of our people: Shirat HaYam and Shirat Devorah. Each of these songs was voiced at a moment of relief after great fear and stress (what we in our human ignorance too often define as “victory”), and each of them encourages us to do something much more like birds than like humans: live in the moment, and sing it.

We are in the middle of a difficult time. We’re not at the beginning wondering what’s ahead, and we’re not at the end giving thanks for surviving. What is behind us. We’re in the difficult middle. Shabbat comes again as it does every week, and it reminds us that there are no ends, only stopping points, until the last day of our lives arrives. The holiness of Shabbat is in our hands to fulfill, by pausing, by noticing the messages that come to us in the form of those who love us, that which bothers us and from which we need to learn, and that which flies past at random moments of song.

Just like our ancestors as they left Egypt, our path right now is not easy, nor is it clear, or straightforward. 

On this Shabbat dedicated to the birds, may we learn from their strength and their song.,May we take a moment to stop and give thanks for the gift of the resilience they teach us, and for their simple presence in our lives. After Shabbat we will once again engage with the confusions and frustrations that make our way so roundabout; on Shabbat may we take this opportunity to come together in song. 

Shabbat VaYigash: Against Chaos

וַחֲכָמִים אוֹמְרִים: כׇּל וְאֵינוֹ מִתְאַבֵּל עַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם — אֵינוֹ רוֹאֶה בְּשִׂמְחָתָהּ

the Sages say: Whoever does not mourn for Jerusalem will not see her future joy – BT Ta’anit 30b

Shalom beloved learning companions,

Today is Asarah b’Tevet, the 10th day of the month of Tevet. This day is observed as a “minor” fast day (meaning only sunrise to sunset, not 24 hours like Yom Kippur or Tisha B’Av) because it marks the day in our ancient history when the destruction of Jerusalem began – that is, the day when the Babylonian Empire’s army first attacked. Thus HaShem instructs the prophet:

בֶּן־אָדָ֗ם (כתוב) [כְּתׇב־]לְךָ֙ אֶת־שֵׁ֣ם הַיּ֔וֹם אֶת־עֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה סָמַ֤ךְ מֶֽלֶךְ־בָּבֶל֙ אֶל־יְר֣וּשָׁלַ֔͏ִם בְּעֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֥וֹם הַזֶּֽה 

O mortal, record this date, this exact day; for this very day the king of Babylon has laid siege to Jerusalem.  (Ezekiel 24.2)

Because of the association of this date with mass destruction, and the chaos of so much death that individual souls were lost to memory, this date, Asarah – the tenth [day] – b’Tevet -of the month of Tevet – was in modern times declared to be the official day of remembering all those who died without the dignity and attention we seek for every human being. It is the day of Kaddish Klali, the “general Kaddish”, a time to recite the mourners’ Kaddish for all for whom there is no one left to recite, and for those whose names are lost as well. 

This minor fast day has a major significance for us in our own day, sadly; the reality of the human tragedy happening among our people and our cousins, Israelis and Palestinians, includes the fact that the deaths are too great to count and to number as individual human beings. This is a dismembering – the opposite of remembering – that tears at the heart of communities such as ours, Jewish and Arab (whether Muslim or Christian). 

Last night our houseless community (those suffering and service providers alike) came together for the annual Longest Night vigil to mark the losses suffered this year: we read aloud the names of one hundred and forty of the more than three hundred souls who died in suffering and abandonment on our cold and inhospitable streets in the past year. 

While there is not much, if anything, that we can do to act against this flood tide of destruction and pain, there is – there always is – a spiritual response available to us, because our Jewish ethical tradition teaches us that it always comes down to not what happens, but how we respond. We can choose to act to mark and hold even the souls we cannot count in our hearts on this Asarah b’Tevet – if you would find it meaningful to join in the Kaddish Klali as the Jewish community is observing it this year, follow the instructions in the details below this letter.*

In this week’s parashat hashavua we can learn a lot about the challenge of facing hurt and fear, and acting to hold on to what will otherwise unravel in our community. In parashat VaYigash we read that Jacob has just been told that his favorite son Joseph, for whom he has mourned for many years, is not dead. What does it even mean to have one’s sense of truth unmoored in this way? So many years of carrying the weight of grief!

For all the problematic ethics of Jacob’s life, in this moment he teaches well (perhaps the text is signaling this by referring to him by his more exalted name of Israel):

וַיֹּ֙אמֶר֙ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל רַ֛ב עוֹד־יוֹסֵ֥ף בְּנִ֖י חָ֑י אֵֽלְכָ֥ה וְאֶרְאֶ֖נּוּ בְּטֶ֥רֶם אָמֽוּת׃ 

“Enough!” said Israel. “My son Joseph is still alive! I must go and see him before I die.” (Gen. 45.28)

In other words, move toward life as best you can, despite being surrounded and beaten down by so much death. Focus on life and human connection. Keep that tiny flame of meaning alive in your heart, and join it with others similarly determined. 

There is ample evidence that our ancestors observed this fast with great intent – yet not, as we might assume, as a gesture of sadness for all that was lost. Rather, in Jewish tradition, fasting is an act of demonstrating one’s sincerity in repentance in the light of all that is lost, despite the grief. 

Let the true meaning of this fast day be for us a day of reflection upon how we may have let death and despair overcome us, and repent of it, and recommit to making room for life and joy where the small flame still burns. Keep lighting those candles in your heart – and everywhere else.

 שנשמע בסורות טובות

نرجو أن تأتي إلينا أخبار سارة

May we hear good tidings, 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Ariel

אַחֵינוּכָּלבֵּיתיִשְׂרָאֵלהַנְּתוּנִיםבַּצָּרָהוּבַשִּׁבְיָההָעוֹמְדִיםבֵּיןבַּיָּםוּבֵיןבַּיַּבָּשָׁההַמָּקוֹםיְרַחֵםעֲלֵיהֶםוְיוֹצִיאֵםמִצָּרָהלִרְוָחָהוּמֵאֲפֵלָהלְאוֹרָהוּמִשִּׁעְבּוּדלִגְאֻלָּה  הָשָׁתָאבַּעֲגָלָאוּבִזְמַןקָרִיב

וְאִמְרוּאָמֵן

Our siblings of the house of Israel who are given over to suffering and captivity

Whether at sea or on land HaMakom be compassion upon them and bring them out from darkness to light from bondage to redemption now, quickly and soon in our day and let us say

Amen

_____________________________________

*This little-known post-Holocaust observance was initiated by the first Israeli Chief Rabbinate in 1949 on behalf all those whose remains could not be recovered, and/or who had no survivors to mourn them personally. 

This year, the Day of General Kaddish offers an opportunity to honor and mourn the thousands of innocent civilians whose bodies remain unidentified / unrecovered through the attacks of October 7th and the subsequent weeks of war. Whether the dead are Jewish or not, accompanying them — the named and the unnamed, Israelis and Palestinians and Asian migrant workers and African agricultural students and asylum seekers and beyond — is an ethical imperative that reflects millennia of Jewish teachings.*

To sign up for a single hour of vigil / sh’mirah on the Day of General Kaddish (between 5pm this Thursday and 4pm this Friday), please write to ShareTheVigil@gmail.com (copied above) ASAP for the list of still-available hours. ** 

Shabbat Miketz: the courage to continue to dream

Dreams, and their interpretation, are a major subject of ancient Jewish inquiry, as anyone who has ever studied Talmud and other rabbinic texts has seen. The mysterious state in which we spend so much of our lives seems that it must somehow be connected to our reality. Thus, theories abound: 

One who sees a fig tree in a dream, it is a sign that his Torah is preserved within him, as it is stated: “One who keeps the fig tree shall eat the fruit thereof” (Proverbs 27:18). One who sees pomegranates in a dream, if they were small, his business will flourish like the seeds of the pomegranate, which are numerous; and if they were large, his business will increase like a pomegranate.  (BT Berakhot 57a)

The Joseph cycle of stories which we study on this Shabbat is set in motion by a dream, and our displaced migrant ancestor’s big break, and subsequent rise to power, comes from his ability to interpret Pharaoh’s dream – that is, to know how to turn it into a reality.

The poetry of the Psalms offers the picture of Israelites returning from Babylonian captivity as “like dreamers,” so overjoyed that they could hardly believe their homecoming was reality. We still sing the song every Shabbat after dinner in the birkat hamazon, the Blessing after Meals:

שִׁ֗יר הַֽמַּ֫עֲל֥וֹת בְּשׁ֣וּב יְ֭הֹוָה אֶת־שִׁיבַ֣ת צִיּ֑וֹן הָ֝יִ֗ינוּ כְּחֹלְמִֽים׃ 

אָ֤ז יִמָּלֵ֪א שְׂח֡וֹק פִּינוּ֮ וּלְשׁוֹנֵ֢נוּ רִ֫נָּ֥ה אָ֭ז יֹאמְר֣וּ בַגּוֹיִ֑ם הִגְדִּ֥יל יְ֝הֹוָ֗ה לַעֲשׂ֥וֹת עִם־אֵֽלֶּה׃ 

הַזֹּרְעִ֥ים בְּדִמְעָ֗ה בְּרִנָּ֥ה יִקְצֹֽרוּ׃ 

A song of going up:

When HaShem restores the fortunes of Zion

—we see it as in a dream-

our mouths shall be filled with laughter,

our tongues, with songs of joy.

Then shall they say among the nations,

“HaShem has done great things for them!” 

…

They who sow in tears

shall reap with songs of joy. 

(Psalms 126.1-2, 5)

For many of us, the hope either of personal prosperity or peace for our people in our ancestral homeland seem as dreams with no foundation in reality, and the sadness and struggle of our lives in these days the only possible waking state.

During these terribly dark days, how are some managing to feed the holy flame of kavanah, of intentionality, and keep it alive and bright on the altars of their hearts? Who are these people who insist on holding on to dreams of peace, of co-existence and of hope? And how can you and I share the power of their hope and belief to support our own attempts to stay focused, to stay hopeful, to dream?

In times of fear and trauma, it may seem that we are alone, and that no one can help us, or perhaps even understand us. But although it is true that we each dream alone, inside our own psyche, yet it is also true that our dreams can only come true when they are shared.

The darkness of these days obscures much that we may have thought was true, or familiar, or even safe. May the darkness bless you with a greater ability to discern the light of others with whom you can still dream, and believe that those dreams will some day bring you to shared joy with others who see you and share that light.

On this erev Shabbat in honor of the last day of the Holiday of Light, I offer you a few Hanukkah gifts, meant to help you stoke the fire of your heart and feed your hope that our brightest dreams for might yet be realized.

1. A recorded webinar by Combatants for Peace

Watch here: Courage in the Unknown Hear from Magen Inon, who lost his parents in the Hamas attack on October 7th. In the midst of tremendous pain, Magen continues to call for an end to the bloodshed and for peace rather than revenge. Combatants for Peace activist Ahmed Helou has currently lost over 50 loved ones as a result of the Israeli bombardment on Gaza. With great courage, Ahmed spoke of the value of every human life and called for nonviolence and an end to the occupation. 

2. A live zoom gathering on Sunday, December 17th (10am Pacific time / 8pm Jerusalem), where you’ll meet Palestinian and Israeli members of Standing Together to hear about the work they are doing on the ground to build an alternative of peace, equality, and justice from within Israeli society. Register here: Standing Together 

3. Some personal coaching on how to build Brave Space, where we stick with each other with love and compassion even when we’d rather take refuge in our own hurt feelings, by following the rules for Maḥloket L’shem Shamayim (Respectful Disagreeing) –aspiring to honor points of disagreement, maximize humility, and engage in open-minded listening:

Seek to understand rather than convince. You need not agree in order to empathically grasp the humanity of the one you are talking to. Courageously find compassion and even affection for Jews with differing views. Listen first and allow yourself to be moved. Remember that at bottom we all want safety for our people and are too often stuck in ethical and strategic “choiceless choices.” Ask “what’s your worst fear?” Identify, invite, and tolerate the anger of the other, their resentment, fear, and blame. Attend to bonding and ethical concepts, such as trust, care, isolation, shame, and safety. With kindness, explore your own unconscious self-blame. Bravely cultivate a genuine sense of pride in yourself, in your political sub-group, and in your people as a whole.These are challenging but learnable skills; cultivating them takes practice. (Dr Richard Stern, “Blaming Ourselves Is Tearing Us Apart” Tikkun magazine Dec 13 2023)