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I gathered this past week with the clergy from the other communities in Synagogues Rising to support one another, share ideas, study Torah and prepare for the year ahead. One of my colleagues taught us a very beautiful nigun that comes to us by way of the Ba’al Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidut. As we sat in a circle and sang this complicated tune, what emerged was a deep well of grief. And the longer we sang, the more sad I felt. Until the sadness started melting into the melody, like thawing ice into a river. It didn’t disappear but it did dissolve into something much greater.
Grief is also very present in this week’s parsha Vayeshev. This week we begin the story of Joseph which consumes the rest of Genesis. As a reminder Jacob favors Joseph which makes his brothers jealous. He dreams that he will one day rule over them. Incensed they throw him into a pit and leave him to die. He is saved by a caravan of Ishmaelites and brought to Egypt. When Reuben returns to the pit, he sees he is missing and he rends his clothing in mourning. Literally, “ וַיִּקְרַ֖ע אֶת־בְּגָדָֽיו - And he tore his clothing” (Genesis 27:29). Rueben did the practice of kriya, which we still do to this day. Then he gathers his brothers to tell Jacob that his beloved son has died, and Jacob enters into mourning. וַיִּקְרַ֤ע יַעֲקֹב֙ שִׂמְלֹתָ֔יו וַיָּ֥שֶׂם שַׂ֖ק בְּמׇתְנָ֑יו וַיִּתְאַבֵּ֥ל עַל־בְּנ֖וֹ יָמִ֥ים רַבִּֽים׃ “Jacob rent his clothes, put sackcloth on his loins, and observed mourning for his son many days” (Genesis 37:34) I learned a teaching about this moment in Torah transmitted by Rabbi Avi Strausberg. The Netivot Shalom, a 20th century Hasidic teacher, explains that the story of Joseph and his family’s grief always precedes the festival of Hanukkah because grief is fertile ground for redemption. He taught, “the energy of redemption becomes possible for a person — or a people — when two conditions are present. First they have to truly feel their broken-heartedness at the situation in which they find themselves. And second, they have to refuse to accept that the status quo in which they are is the only way reality can be organized. Then, and only then, can the energetic light of redemption enable seeds that were already there to grow into new redemptive possibilities. So it’s not that good follows the bad automatically, or that hitting some kind of low or bottom automatically creates the conditions in which something better emerges. Rather, it depends on our capacity to fully feel how brokenhearted we actually are and to steadfastly refuse to accept that things must be this way. Both of which can be enormously hard to do. And both of which are made easier when not doing so alone." This resonates deeply as a way to orient ourselves this Hanukkah season. We need to be willing to grieve fully and refuse to accept the way things are. The combination of our grief and our refusal creates the conditions in which change can happen. This wisdom was echoed in an email I received this morning. For the past 10 months I have been donating to a soup kitchen in North Gaza started by a desperate father, Hani Almadhoun. This morning, he wrote this: “Every day, we see destruction and cruelty, but alongside it, there are moments of hope—moments made possible by people like you who refuse to give up. The Gaza Soup Kitchen began as a response to heartbreak, born from an inability to stand idly by. Since its launch earlier this year, we’ve been humbled by the scale of impact we’ve achieved together.” This solstice Shabbat, and on the days of Hanukkah and Christmas ahead, may we light the candles with hearts full of grief and defiance. And may it seed or hadash, a new and needed light. This week has been a struggle.
I have been burning the candle at both ends, oscillating between teaching Torah and supporting organizing efforts to delay and defeat the building of a new basketball arena in Philadelphia’s historic Chinatown (Deep gratitude to all the Councilmebers who bravely voted no, including our own KT member Rue Landau and our district Council Member Jamie Gauthier!). Needless to say, the week has worn me out. Struggle is also the theme of this week’s parsha, Vayishlach. It includes the iconic story of Jacob wrestling with a being all through the night, only to emerge blessed and battered. It is from this encounter that Jacob is renamed Yisrael, meaning “one who has struggled with God and with men and has overcome.” And as a result of this encounter, the Jewish people acquired its name, B’nei Yisrael, the descendents of Israel. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, notes, “It is, by any standards, a strange, unconventional, thought-provoking name. Jacob is not, at first glance, the most obvious figure in Tanakh to represent and epitomize the Jewish people.” Why not Abraham, Isaac, Moses or even King David? Why not any of the women who labored to birth our ancestors or the midwives who defied Pharaohs decrees? Rabbi Sacks goes on to note, “Nor is the phrase “one who has struggled with God and with men and has overcome” the most natural characterization of Jewish identity.” Which is where I disagree with Rabbi Sacks, of blessed memory. The fact that the root of our collective identity is a late night tussle both describes and prescribes a very healthy approach to religion. It could be a fun exercise: What verse in Torah would you name us after? And yet an unnecessary exercise, because we are in fact named for the seminal verse in this week’s parsha. We are named for Jacob’s struggle, his fearful fit, his solo camping trip by the river Yabbok. We are named for a moment of anticipation, as Jacob prepares to reunite with Esau; A moment that leads to ancestral healing between these two brothers. While it's not a particularly glorious story, it is quite relatable. Yesterday morning Rabbi Mó pointed out in our Parsha and Poetry class that all of the names that we are collectively called are drawn from the stories of Jacob. We are Yehudim, B’nei Yisrael and Ivrim. We are born of gratitude, struggle and boundary crossings. In her poem, Crossing a Creek, Martha Courtot writes: “some people think crossing a creek is easy, but I say this-- all crossings are hard, … and we must practice believing we will come through.” Struggles are so powerful because they require relationships. They inspire us to reimagine the way we see ourselves. To connect to our own power and commitments. They are intimate and visceral, often touching us at our core. The blessings that grow from Jacob’s struggle are courage, healing and reconnection. Sitting in City Council, with the powerful “No Arena in the Heart of our City” coalition I reconnected to a sense of possibility that had been missing in my own heart. It was invigorating. For which I am so grateful. In a week that has been full of struggle – personal, political and otherwise – remember the courage of Jacob and take a moment to draw forth a blessing. I know I could use one. Last week I was corresponding with a member of our community, and she wrote, “I will be 80 on my next birthday, and honestly, I have no idea how I made it this far. What I am especially thankful for is that I have lived long enough to feel this level of gratitude. I have also come, in my elder years, to believe that everything that exists is a miracle.”
I have been savoring her wisdom all week. The idea of being grateful to feel so grateful is precious. One of my teachers, Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum, would often say from the bima that gratitude is the beginning of a spiritual life. When her congregation CBST was designing their new sanctuary they placed the words of psalm 92 above the Torah Ark: “Tov l’hodot l’Adonai / It is good to be grateful.” For many years I understood this to mean, It is good to thank God, to praise the Divine. Which never quite resonated. But in recent years I have realized that this verse is a reminder that it is a good thing to express gratitude. As in, it does wonders for us, for our souls, our blood pressure, our relationships. Gratitude is water. It softens everything it touches. This week Rabbi Mó pointed out to me that gratitude is in fact the root of our spiritual lineage. In this week’s parsha, Vayetzei, Leah births the first four of Jacob’s 12 sons. For each of them, she imparts a name with deep spiritual significance. Reuben, Simon, Levi and finally Judah. For her first three sons, she is longing to feel love and connection with Jacob. And names them each accordingly. But with Judah she shifts her tone, saying, וַתַּהַר עוֹד וַתֵּלֶד בֵּן וַתֹּאמֶר הַפַּעַם אוֹדֶה אֶת־יְהֹוָה עַל־כֵּן קָרְאָה שְׁמוֹ יְהוּדָה וַתַּעֲמֹד מִלֶּדֶת׃ “She conceived again and bore a son, and declared, “This time I will thank The Holy One.” Therefore she named him Yehudah. Then she stopped bearing.” The hebrew word Yehudah comes from the root ידי, meaning to acknowledge. It comes from the word yad, as in hand, as in literally to point to a thing, to take notice. It is the root of the Hebrew word hoda’ah, meaning gratitude, which connects us to the phrase we sing each shabbat in psalm 92, Tov L’hodot. Gratitude is about taking notice, saying Thank you for the good in our lives. And it is not just the name of one of Leah’s sons, it is our namesake too. We are Yehudim, the descendants of the tribe of Yehudah. We are born of gratitude and we are called to express it routinely, even religiously. We have so many Jewish practices of giving thanks. Not confined to a day a year. But rather woven throughout every day and every week. We rise and say Modeh Ani. We bow in the Amidah and say Modim Anachnu Lach. We sing on Shabbat Tov L’hodot. Science now confirms what Judaism has long prescribed: say thank you as often as possible, and at least 3 times a day. I can still hear the voice of my nana, of blessed memory. When I would ask her “How are you?” she would say, “Thank god.” She was not a religious person. It would land like a milk placed in a bag of groceries. Routine and necessary. Gratitude does not need to be deeply felt to be expressed. Which is why it made so much sense to me that this dear octogenarian felt so grateful to feel so grateful. This morning in our Parsha and Poetry class, Rabbi Mó invited us to read a series of poems about gratitude. Then we wrote our own on the whiteboard tables, beginning with the prompt “We are saying thank you,” modeled after a poem by W.S. Merwin. With her permission, I will share Rabbi Mó’s ephemeral creation: “We are saying thank you, thick with loss and hope and terror, spangled and bedecked in beautiful frustration, sudden grief and long unfolding grief. We are saying thank you is impossible and required, is our vessel and our wound and our medicine, our intravenous drip, is our dance party and apocalypse and disco ball and thank you thank you is the salted coffee, postcard to the dead, the blessing blundered beside the bedside morning news today, and thank you, waging its weaponless war again.” I invite you to consider pausing and writing your own and seeing where it takes you. We are saying thank you… In the words of Psalm 115, לֹ֣א הַ֭מֵּתִים יְהַֽלְלוּ־יָ֑הּ׃ “The dead cannot say thank you.” Thank you is a sign of our aliveness. So thank you. Thank you. |
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General Questions: (267) 702-6187 or [email protected]
Shabbat Services: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #1, Philadelphia, PA 19143