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On Tuesday morning, I proudly held a cardboard image of a monarch butterfly and stood in front of City Hall alongside comrades, clergy and council members in the freezing cold as Council Members Rue Landau and Kendra Brooks introduced powerful legislation to protect all Philadelphians from ICE.
Then yesterday morning, Rabbi Lizzie and Rabbi Mó gathered with a triumphant swell in the chambers of city council to witness testimony in support of the legislation, which now has the veto-proof support of 15 of 17 members. Pastor Johnny Rashid of West Philadelphia Mennonite powerfully testified as the child of Egyptian immigrants, “This package of bills fulfills Philadelphia’s mission to love its neighbors and welcome the stranger. It seeks to hold law enforcement officers accountable and it ensures the protection of our community from the growing fascism and authoritarianism in our country. These bills guard against Trump’s bullying and power-grabbing, it protects our migrants from fear and assault, and it makes Philadelphia the welcoming city it purports to be.” In a week this brutal, both the weather and the news, this is a win! And it is no small thing to notice our wins. One of the limited things we can control these days is where we put our attention. And even that is really hard. So let’s practice together. This week’s Torah portion is triumphant! After 400 years of slavery and 10 plagues, and everything between, the Israelites are finally free. It is one of my favorite rituals of the year to read the Song of the Sea. What I am struck by this week is not the fact that we read this Torah portion every year, or that we sing the Song of the Sea every shabbat, but that we actually read from the Song of the Sea every day, twice a day in fact. This biblical poem is at the core of every morning and evening service. It is where the words “Mi Chamocha” come from. The rabbis anchor our entire prayer life to this moment in Torah. We should not take this for granted. They could have called our attention to many other stories, but they chose this one. We are invited to keep the song of the sea before us always. In an essay this week, Rebecca Solnit quotes the poet W.H. Auden who wrote in a review of the final book in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, "Evil, that is, has every advantage but one – it is inferior in imagination…” I think the Song of the Sea is a daily invitation to imagine freedom, to imagine winning. And, to quote Aurora Levins Morales, “Then imagine more.” “imagine winning. This is your sacred task. This is your power. Imagine every detail of winning, the exact smell of the summer streets in which no one has been shot, the muscles you have never unclenched from worry, gone soft as newborn skin, the sparkling taste of food when we know that no one on earth is hungry, that the beggars are fed, that the old man under the bridge and the woman wrapping herself in thin sheets in the back seat of a car, and the children who suck on stones, nest under a flock of roofs that keep multiplying their shelter. Lean with all your being towards that day when the poor of the world shake down a rain of good fortune out of the heavy clouds, and justice rolls down like waters.” This is the power of prayer. To undermine the fear of the world and to invite us to imagine every satisfying detail of winning. For the second Friday in a row the city of Minneapolis has canceled business as usual and called for a national strike. Last week, in subzero temperatures, nearly a quarter of the population of Minneapolis was in the streets demanding ICE leave their state. That is a win! In moments of despair, when the urge to doomscroll arises, remember the Song of the Sea. Remember that we danced our way across the sea, drumline and all. Remember that it seemed impossible until it happened. Keep even just the very last words in your pocket if it helps you remember to imagine winning on the daily. וּבְנֵ֧י יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל הָלְכ֥וּ בַיַּבָּשָׁ֖ה בְּת֥וֹךְ הַיָּֽם׃ “And the children of Israel walked on dry ground in the midst of the sea” (Ex. 15:19) Soon by us! I write to you from frigid South Minneapolis, where it is currently 20 below. (It is so cold outside that as soon as I exited the house, my glasses fogged up. I tried to wipe them clean only to realize it was frost.)
Rabbi Lizzie and I responded to an emergency call from our dear colleague Rabbi Arielle Lekach Rosenberg of Shir Tikvah and March Minnesota for clergy from around the country to gather to witness and learn about how thousands of people of faith and conscience are disrupting ICE’s efforts to terrorise immigrant communities in Minneapolis. It was one of many invitations that brought 1000+ clergy in advance of a statewide strike and day of action today. Our day began with an early morning pilgrimage to two memorials mere blocks from where I was staying. We drove to George Floyd Square, z”l. A small group of neighbors were gathered around a fire, offering each other warm quiche, fresh baked cookies, hot coffee and instant oatmeal. There is a gathering every morning at 8 am. The once gas station is now hollowed ground. We then drove a few blocks to the memorial site where Renee Good was murdered on January 7. There we found more neighbors gathered around another fire on the icy street, frozen flowers piled high. After saying a silent kaddish we got back in the car and tuned into the ICE watch call. There was a lot of activity and we quickly heard that an abduction was underway, just a block away. Two ICE agents stopped a car, pulled two people from it and abandoned the car. Neighbors called for help, parked the car, gathered wallets and names. The whole scene conjured Gestapo, slave-catcher dystopia. And also neighbors becoming the Jedi resistance. I have only ever witnessed military occupation like this in two places: the Sonoran desert and the West Bank. The terror, the uncertainty, disregard for constitutional laws, however imperfect. And throughout it all, I just kept returning to a verse from this week’s Torah portion, Bo. Exodus 12:49 reads, תּוֹרָה אַחַת יִהְיֶה לָאֶזְרָח וְלַגֵּר הַגָּר בְּתוֹכְכֶם׃ “One Instruction shall there be for the native and for the sojourner who sojourns in your midst!” The Torah doesn’t get everything right, and yet it stakes its moral credibility on this teaching. On the idea that everyone who lives in a place should be treated equally, under one law. Even thousands of years ago, it was understood that immigrants were vulnerable and the Torah emphasizes that our responsibility is to care for those most vulnerable, which was then defined as immigrants, orphans and widows. This teaching is so powerful it's repeated almost verbatim in Numbers 15:16. What I witnessed in Minneapolis was sobering. The actions of this administration are an affront to Torah and a threat to all of us. There is no way to know how many people have been snatched by ICE, where they have been taken, when they will return, if ever. Our government is occupying one of its own cities and disappearing people. The tactics are not new, but neither is the call to resist. When the gathering started on Thursday, one speaker looked out and asked, “How many people were with us at Ferguson? At Standing Rock? At Selma? Hands were up. It was humbling and inspiring. There is a long legacy of civil resistance and so much to learn. (One book I plan to read is Civil Resistance: What everyone needs to know by Erica Chenowith.) One local Jewish Lakota leader shared this wisdom, “The most effective thing that we’ve seen is neighbors. It’s nobody else’s responsibility but yours to confront ICE and stop them. You don’t have to do this alone. But you are not free to leave the situation. I’m just a very ordinary person who’s in a very ordinary circumstance. When they ask, “What did you do when they were going after your neighbors?” I’m going to say I did what I can.” What is most surprising is how hopeful I feel. We as a community know how to be good neighbors. How to love justice and embody chesed. We have block captains and block parties, and we can use that to build block watches. Everybody knows how to neighbor. This is what Torah is asking of us, and what this moment requires. We can decide today to protect our neighbors. Despite the unyielding flow of terrible news, I do hope that you are starting the year with connection, comfort, love, and hope. A community member started an email to me this week (inspired by a friend who started her emails that way) and it felt like the only reasonable way to begin my Friday email today.
We are at a turning point, both in Torah and in the world. Let’s begin with the world. The past few weeks we have lived through a U.S. backed coup in Venezuela, Israel’s continued devastation in Gaza, the obscene murder of Renee Good in ICE-occupied Minneapolis, the threat of anti-immigrant abductions in Philly, violent repression in Iran, ongoing bloodshed in Congo and Sudan, the supreme court prepare to bar trans athletes, I won’t go on. The news is relentlessly devastating. The world is aching. And I imagine we are each earnestly asking, what can we do? Is this moment the seed of defeat or redemption? So too in Torah. After 400 years of slavery, the Israelites have reached their breaking point. The hard labor has whittled their spirits. They call out, desperate. And finally the Holy One hears them. Exodus 6:5 reads, וְגַ֣ם ׀ אֲנִ֣י שָׁמַ֗עְתִּי אֶֽת־נַאֲקַת֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר מִצְרַ֖יִם מַעֲבִדִ֣ים אֹתָ֑ם וָאֶזְכֹּ֖ר אֶת־בְּרִיתִֽי׃ “I have heard the cries of the Israelites enslaved in Egypt and I will remember my covenant.” This is the moment when the story turns, the seeds of liberation are planted. The internal will of the people prepares to rise up. But not without trepidation. Moses in particular feels both called and afraid, in part due to the weariness of the Israelites, who are “mikotzer ruach u’meivodah kashah” (Ex: 6:9). "מִקֹּ֣צֶר ר֔וּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָ֖ה קָשָֽׁה׃” Nearly impossible to translate, this refrain captures this Israelites feeling of inadequacy, both physical and spiritual. They have shortness of breath from the hard labor. And they are short on spirit from the difficulties of slavery. Moses and the Israelites are unsure they can muster the strength and courage required. I imagine many of us can relate. After so much time on high alert, our spirits are also prone to be weary. At the end of a week like this, I too feel kotzer ruach - short of breath. And yet the legacy of the Exodus story is alive within us and it could not be more timely to read it this week. On Tuesday night 125 people filled the KT sanctuary to prepare to keep ICE out of our neighborhoods. This is precisely what we need to be doing. (So much gratitude to Rabbi Lizzie for organizing this! And stay tuned for another training). The most important media I have consumed this week is this episode of adrienne maree brown’s podcast How to Survive the End of the World (thank you Rabbi Mó). Her guest, Autumn Brown, a single mom and resident activist in Minneapolis described her experience as “Intense, Frightening, Surreal and Inspiring." I imagine we are more connected to fear and intensity. I find myself returning to the last time Minneapolis was rising up and the final words of George Floyd, z”l, who literally could not breath. As we enter Shabbat, let this be an invitation to take a deep breath, to literally lengthen our breathing. To turn our attention to community and relationships, to that which sustains and inspires each of us. I encourage you to support organizations in Minneapolis like https://defend612.com/ and https://unidos-mn.org/, as well as ICE OUT efforts here in Philly led by the New Sanctuary Movement, Juntos and others. To organize hyper locally, block by block, in our neighborhoods and schools. To call our elected officials. To wear a whistle. To avail ourselves of any action within our capacity! And also to exhale. To breathe and sing, lest we underestimate our own power. Let this week be the seed of redemption! Dear KT! In response to the survey feedback I received in the Spring, I am beginning a practice of inviting other members of the KT clergy team to write Friday emails. You can expect to hear from one of them roughly monthly. We begin 2026 with some words from Rabbi Mónica. I always want to hear from you, and you are welcome to direct your responses to her directly at [email protected]. - Rabbi Ari Lev
As a person with deep ties to Venezuela, it's been a particularly dizzying week. I imagine not everyone knows that both of my parents grew up in Caracas, a place I visited regularly throughout my childhood and adolescence, a city that this week the U.S. bombed and attacked. My cousin and my aunt are in Caracas, living in the house that my aunt and mom were raised in, and recently mourning the loss of my uncle. Other family friends are still in Caracas, and many have left the country over the last decade, living in exile from the place they call home. We are not a politically monolithic family or community– we hold different positions and perspectives concerning everything from capitalism and socialism to Trump to Israel-Palestine. And also, we love each other. In my efforts this week to disentangle the different narratives about what Trump’s actions in Venezuela mean, talking to family and trusted friends living in this period of great uncertainty about Venezuela’s future, I’ve noticed the desire, among Western media sources and social media, among social justice movements opposing Trump's actions, and opposition movements to Maduro, to oversimplify, to ask: Who is the bad guy here, and who is the good guy? What a human instinct, to want to know which side we are on. But this week, I fear that it’s not the right question. This week I am holding the hope that members of my family feel after so many years under a repressive regime, alongside the foreboding awareness that a president who is systematically unraveling and gutting a democracy at home will not bring democracy to another nation. A Venezuelan family friend posted: “You can contain multitudes. You can be against an authoritarian government in Venezuela, and also, you can be outraged about the idea that the United States would rule Venezuela.” Jewishly we might say, elu v’elu, these and these are both true, more than one thing can be true at once, and the world we long for, a place of freedom, safety, sovereignty and human rights for all people is not a zero sum game. I’m holding the contradictions: that Maduro is gone but Venezuelans continue to live under the authoritarian government; that Trump has deported Venezuelans from the US en masse over the past year and will not offer them asylum, but now claims to be their liberator; that Amnesty International has flagged both the human rights abuses of the Maduro government and human rights concerns now that the United States has ousted him; that Maduro will be tried in a court of law, not for the things he did to the Venezuelan people but rather for charges shaped by US interests. Though we want to understand a complex situation in simple terms, tzarich iyun, it requires deeper engagement. In the early verses of Parshat Shemot, this week’s Torah portion, we read: וַיָּקם מֶלֶךְ־חָדָשׁ עַל־מִצְרָיִם אֲשֶׁר לֹא־יָדַע אֶת־יוֹסֵף A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” (Exodus 1:8) This is the beginning of the unraveling. The Israelites, having migrated to Egypt at the end of the book of Genesis, have lived there now for generations. They arrived to this foreign land in good standing with its Pharaoh, thanks to Joseph’s political savvy. But time has passed, and a new Pharaoh takes the mantle, one who does not find himself accountable to Joseph or his people. We know this Pharaoh well. He is the one who forces the Israelites into enslavement, the one who ruthlessly oppresses them. When they prevail and multiply, he is the one who issues a decree of infanticide, demanding that the Hebrew male babies be thrown into the Nile. And more than just that. This Pharaoh, this human king, is an archetype in Jewish tradition. Someone we come back to again and again, our ultimate shorthand for tyranny. This week, as I read the news and listened to reporting day in and day out about Venezuela, I found myself reflecting on the history of my family, whose origins trace back to Romania and Czechoslovakia, countries that collaborated with Nazi Germany in the 1930s and 40s, surrendering them to labor camps and concentration camps, then sending the survivors into exile in other countries, including Israel and Venezuela, and eventually the United States, all countries that I believe are now under the authority of Pharaohs. If my own family’s history teaches me anything about kings and kingdoms, it is, as our sages say in Pirkei Avot, to be wary, not just of kings, but of governments: Pirkei Avot 2:3 הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, שֶׁאֵין מְקָרְבִין לוֹ לָאָדָם אֶלָּא לְצֹרֶךְ עַצְמָן. Be wary of the government, as they draw close to a person only when they need him for some purpose. נִרְאִין כְּאוֹהֲבִין בִּשְׁעַת הֲנָאָתָן, וְאֵין עוֹמְדִין לוֹ לָאָדָם בִּשְׁעַת דָּחְקוֹ. They seem like good friends in good times, but they do not stand for a person in his time of trouble. Such was the fate of the Israelites, migrants to the land of Mitzrayim, where with the change of the regime and the rise of a new king, state power turned on them. The archetype of a human king, a melech basar vadam, is developed in contrast to Melech Haolam, or melech malchei hamelachim, the King of all Kings, the Heavenly Sovereign. My favorite line of liturgy is אין לנו מלך אלא אתה, we have no king but You. We sing it on the high holidays– Avinu Malkeinu, eyn lanu melech ela ata– but also in softer, less dramatic moments, like Nishmat Kol Chai on Shabbat morning. It is basically the ancient analog of the slogan “No Kings”– the name of the sweeping protests that took place across the United States, and around the world, in June and October of 2025, decrying authoritarianism. More than five million people participated in these protests, chanting “No Kings!” Which to me means no human kings– not Trump, not Maduro, not Netanyahu, not Putin, not any of them. Instead, this liturgy declares that we place our faith in a source above and beyond power-hungry human despots who exploit our lives and loved ones, our planet and our future. As the powers of this world tighten their grip, let us be wary of governments and draw on ol malchut shamayim in our prayer, in our activism, in our showing up for one another. These may seem like radical ideas, but they are ancient and deeply Jewish, embedded in the lived experiences and wisdom of our ancestors. May they be resources for us in the days to come, for survival and resistance. |
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General Questions: (267) 702-6187 or [email protected]
Shabbat Services: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #1, Philadelphia, PA 19143