This week's Torah portion begins,

וַיִּהְיוּ֙ חַיֵּ֣י שָׂרָ֔ה מֵאָ֥ה שָׁנָ֛ה וְעֶשְׂרִ֥ים שָׁנָ֖ה וְשֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֑ים שְׁנֵ֖י חַיֵּ֥י שָׂרָֽה׃

"Sarah’s lifetime—the span of Sarah's life—came to one hundred years and twenty years and seven years" (Genesis 23:1).

I have spent the past two week as a juror on a criminal trial where a person was charged with five charges, including murder. (If I haven't responded to your email, this is why!) We were tasked with coming to a unanimous decision about each charge. And as a result, we spent many hours reading through each charge and reviewing the evidence. Throughout the many hours that I spent in deliberations, I kept hearing the echo of this week's parsha.

This is the life of the defendant – each charge charting the years he might spend in prison.

It was devastating to be up so close to so much pain and injustice. It was exhausting to try to come to a unanimous decision with a room full of strangers. And it was incredibly powerful and empowering to know that my vote was essential to the process. It was a profoundly impactful experience that I imagine I will process and preach about more than once.

Torah commentators for thousands of years have been puzzled about the opening line of this week's parsha, Chayei Sarah. Why doesn't it just say, Sarah was 127 years old? Why divide up the years of her life into seemingly random segments? Even my kids, who have been known to be overly exacting when sharing their ages, will say something like, I am 6-and-11/12ths. But never, I am three years and three years old.

There is no one answer. Perhaps these are the notable years in Sarah's life. Starting with the fact that she becomes pregnant at the age of 100. (Undeniably noteworthy!)

As I thought about the defendant on trial, a Black man from North Philly being prosecuted by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I wondered about the notable years of his life. I wondered how old he was when he first laughed? I wondered how old he was when he was first stopped and frisked? How old was he when he first fell in love? How old was he when he was first arrested? I wondered how many years he has already served? I wondered if he is a parent? I wondered at what age the police stopped assuming that he was no longer innocent until proven guilty?

As many of you know, I am an abolitionist. What this means to me is that I do not believe that police are the answer to community safety. And I do not believe that prisons are means of establishing justice. I welcome your disagreements, debate, and objections to these ideas.

I was distressed but not surprised by my experience of jury duty. (Well, maybe I was surprised by the fact that you don't get a lunch break during deliberations.) But more so I have been surprised by how many members of the KT community have shared with me that they never serve on a jury because they don't pass the initial juror survey.

In my case, the survey asked two questions that essentially wanted to know if I would be inherently biased for or against the testimony of a police officer. Don't get me wrong - I paused. But then I understood that I do believe I am able to listen carefully and assess fully the testimony of any person, including a police officer. Which is not to say I don't hold critiques of our criminal justice system. But I can be critical and still be impartial. As impartial as those who are loyal to the system are able to be. I truly believe this question is designed to intimidate and eliminate potential jurors who might be critical of the police. And sadly, I think it is effective.

Here are some important resources to read and review in advance of any summons for jury duty.

What I feel most strongly from this experience is that I hope you will each do what you can to find yourself on a jury. Our cities need people like each of you, people with integrity and compassion, to be determining the years of someone's life.

May the prayers of our hearts and the words of every Amidah be heard in the highest court:

...מְכַלְכֵּל חַיִּים בְּחֶֽסֶד מְחַיֵּה מֵתִים בְּרַחֲמִים רַבִּים סוֹמֵךְ נוֹפְ֒לִים וְרוֹפֵא חוֹלִים וּמַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים

May the One who sustains the living with compassion, animating all life, supporting those who are falling and healing those who are sick, free all who are imprisoned...speedily and in our days!

Shabbat Shalom,
​Rabbi Ari Lev

This past week I joined the first-graders at the Kol Tzedek Torah School and then stayed for tefilah (prayer) time. I listened as the students took turns translating the words of the Shema. When they got to the word "Adonai," one student eagerly piped up, "God doesn't have a name!" And then another kid clarified, "God has many names!" There was a lot of resonance in the room and affirming ASL "me too" hand gestures that these kids clearly learn to use in school. I joined in myself.

God is not a Jewish name for the Divine. It is an anglicized Germanic placeholder for that which is ineffable and ultimately beyond us, but somehow also inseparable from us. I have so many favorite names for God. It changes like the weather to help me meet the moment.

This week, I have been meditating on one particular name, Yodea Ta'alumot - the Knower of Secrets. I can imagine that for some people, this phrase might evoke an uncomfortable sense of spiritual surveillance, especially in a world that is increasingly digitized and documented.

But for me, this emanation of the Divine calls me to account in a way that feels supportive, inviting me to bring care and attention to my actions and my thoughts. And that there is a witness to my inner experience. I am not alone with my mind.

It is not uncommon that above the Ark in the sanctuary of a synagogue, one might find the phrase, "Da lifnei mi atah omed," which translates to "Know before whom you stand." I think the rabbis imagine this as a way to set intention for the Amidah - the "standing" prayer. Though it always lands larger for me personally. Know before whom you stand, not just in prayer, but in life (and maybe even in death too).

While I think the short phrase can be intimidating, I have always experienced it as an invitation to live a life of integrity; to be reminded that the One before whom I stand Knows all secrets. It echoes another name for the DIvine, the Blessed Judge of Truth. For me, these emanations of the Divine invite me into a relationship of spiritual accountability.

What works about this relationship of spiritual accountability is that it is mutual.

There is a striking moment in this week's Torah portion, Vayera. The Holy Blessed One is disappointed in the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. So much so, that They plan to destroy the entirety of the two cities. This comes on the heels of having said to Abraham, "Lech lecha" - go, leave everything you know and love, and I will bless you.

The Holy One remembers this promise and wonders aloud (Genesis 18:17),

​​(יז) וַֽיהֹוָ֖ה אָמָ֑ר הַֽמְכַסֶּ֤ה אֲנִי֙ מֵֽאַבְרָהָ֔ם אֲשֶׁ֖ר אֲנִ֥י עֹשֶֽׂה׃
"Can I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?"

What does the Holy One mean by this question?

Can I hide? - as in, Is it possible? Or is it ethical? Is the Holy One really worried about what Abraham might think? Might Abraham judge the Holy One for causing destruction, for acting without compassion and integrity?

And after wondering aloud, the Holy One seems to arrive at the immediate conclusion that They can't hide from Abraham and immediately proceeds to explain to Abraham the intention to destroy the two cities.

One commentary writes, "This is a verse of supreme importance in the Book of Genesis. God promises to have a special relationship with Abraham and his children, so that they will be inspired to do what is right and just..."

The worth of this promise is in the real mutuality of this relationship. God's relationship with Abraham also inspires God to do what is right and just, as Abraham pleads, prays, and protests that God not wipe out the innocent with the guilty. This verse seems to suggest that God knows before whom They stand (the children of Abraham), just as we strive to know before whom we stand.

The Talmud teaches, "The descendants of Abraham are characterized by three traits: a capacity for kindness, a sense of honor, and a commitment to do what is right."

According to this week's parsha, we are more able to do what is right when we remember before whom we stand and to whom we are accountable, and have the courage to speak truth to (our highest) power. May it be so.

Shabbat Shalom!
​Rabbi Ari Lev

This week's Torah portion begins with the Holy One's bold command to Abraham, "Lech Lecha..." Go, get going! Journey from the place you were born, leave everything and everyone you know, and brave the unknown. There is not much explanation as to why Abraham should or would do this. No real justification. Only a promise that it will be worthwhile.

Rabbi Alan Lew, z"l, in his book about the High Holidays, This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, writes, "But here is the $64,000 question: Why do biblical figures all have to leave home in order to find home in order to leave again? More to the point, why do we?" (20).

The Torah offers Abraham's journey as a paradigm for each of us. Spiritually and physically, Abraham embodies the courage we each need to live the life that is uniquely ours. And the promise that if we take leave, blessings await us.

Rabbi Alan Lew, z"l, continues, "The dream of the lost home must be one of the deepest of all human dreams. Certainly it is the most ancient dream of the Jewish people..." (23).

As you may have gathered over the years, I am a big fan of Rabbi Alan Lew, z"l. His book has made a big impression on me. I re-read it every year and have a tab on every other page. But what you may not know is that Rabbi Lew, z"l, was not only an insightful teacher of meditation and Torah, but he was also a big fan of baseball.

Just as he is musing about human nature and home, he unexpectedly writes, "And this dream is the basis of that most profound expression of the American psyche, the game of baseball, a game whose object is to leave home in order to return to it again, transformed by the time spent circling the bases." (23).

Given how many innings of baseball I have watched in the last few weeks, it is validating to connect to the spiritual dimension of my new-found fandom; to imagine that each time a player comes to the plate, it is their own mini lech lecha moment. I certainly have been feeling the intensity and pressure of each pitch and play. I am not entirely convinced that literally circling the bases is transformative for the players. But it certainly is thrilling and clearly requires an incredible amount of fortitude and resilience.

It redeems the many late nights I have spent watching the World Series to imagine that the real goal of baseball is a kind of embodied teshuva; a conscious return to the place we started, transformed.

Rabbi Lew continues, "And the truth is, every time we come home, home is different." This is perhaps one of the unspoken obstacles to leaving. Abraham was not just journeying into the unknown, he was leaving home as he knew it. Such that even if he wanted to return to the place, it wouldn't be the same and neither would he. I know it certainly is an emotional hurdle to overcome in every move and coming out moment in my own life.

I have never before imagined Abraham's leaving as a kind of teshuva. He is at the very beginning of his journey, and yet every step leads him closer to home. Rabbi Joseph Solevetchik explains that if you are moving along the circumference of a circle, it might seem at first as if the starting point is getting farther and farther away, but actually it is also getting closer and closer.

There is so much longing in leave-taking. In fact longing is both the thing that gets us to actually go and that propels us to try to return. Soloveitchik writes, "Longing develops only when one has lost something precious..." (25).

Losing is such a big part of playing a game, especially baseball. Even the best teams lose a third of the time. Even the best baseball players only hit the ball 3 out of every 10 plate appearances. Our longing to circle the bases may be the thing that gets us back up at the plate, willing to hear the call of Lech Lecha inning after inning, year after year.

This Shabbat may we feel inspired by the Phillies quest to win the World Series, and their love of the queer anthem "Dancing on My Own" (which we will for sure be singing on Saturday morning!).

May we have the courage to hear our own still small voice, encouraging us to let go and get going. And may our losses and our longings lead us home.

Shabbat Shalom and go Phillies!
Rabbi Ari Lev

Every year I get to visit the Kol Tzedek kindergarten class at Torah School to study the story of creation. I have developed a love of one method of telling the story using the tools of Godly Play, in which each day is depicted on a 4x6 wood card. And as I tell them about what was created on that day, I set the card out. Once all of the cards are lined up, we are invited to wonder about the days of creation. I always begin, "I wonder which day is most important?"

It is amazing to hear their answers. Their little bodies jumping off their shevet spots, eager to share which day they think is most important. Since this lesson is part of a unit about Shabbat, it might be easy to imagine that the hidden punchline is always that Shabbat is the most important. But that would be too prescriptive an approach. And speaking from personal experience, it wouldn't be honest. I find that my own answer changes year to year.

This year, I am personally captivated by the third day of creation, when the waters below the sky are gathered together revealing the yabasha - dry ground (Gen 1:9). This moment always invites me to reset my imagination, reminding me that all of existence was once water. That dry ground was not a given.

My love of the third day is not contained to the third day. It is because the creation of dry ground on the third day makes so many other biblical triumphs possible. Throughout the Torah, the presence of yabasha, dry ground, is a sign of real hope.

Most recently, we read the story of Jonah on Yom Kippur, in which the wayward prophet finds himself praying to God in the belly of a whale who then spits him out onto dry ground (2:11).

Perhaps most famously dry land appears in the midst of the sea as the Israelites fled from Pharaoh's army. The phrase b'toch hayam b'yabasha - in the midst of the sea on dry land actually appears three times in the Exodus story (14:22, 14:29, 15:19).

Dry ground also makes an appearance in this week's Torah portion. In the story of Noah the Holy One brings on flooding rains so that water once again covers the surface of the earth. But when the floodgates of the deep and the fountains of the sky were stopped up (8:2), the waters began to recede from the earth. Noah sends out a dove three times, until the dove doesn't return, confirming that the earth was dry again - יבשה הארץ - yavsha ha'aretz (8:14). And only then, does the Holy One instruct Noah to leave the ark.

The dry ground of the third day is a spiritual seed for so many other moments in Torah when dry ground will be needed. And it is also an invitation for all of us to remember, in the midst of our own overwhelm, that dry ground is possible. Sometimes it requires measured patience, as in the story of Noah. Other times we are forcibly hurled onto it, as in the story of Jonah. And yet other times, it miraculously appears in the moment we need it most, as it did for our ancestors in the Exodus story.

Each of these Torah stories invites us to trust that we will find our way to dry ground so that we can live a life of purpose and possibility. This is a key part of our spiritual journey. I would be remiss if I didn't also mention this is a key part of winning the World Series. To quote one sports columnist, "A key part of becoming a championship team is believing it and feeling it," Schmidt said. This week, the Torah boldly invites us to believe.

Shabbat Shalom and Go Phillies!
​Rabbi Ari Lev

For the past few months my family has had a new awesome housemate who happens to not be Jewish. This was her first time experiencing the epic journey that is the the Days of Awe. There was truly no way to prepare her for the marathon of holidays.

This past Tuesday morning, as we were making breakfast in the kitchen, I told her the holidays were officially over (despite the Sukkah still being up). She looked at me with concern and asked, "Does that mean we don't get to celebrate Shabbat?"

"Oh no!" I assured her. "We get to celebrate Shabbat every week. In fact, in the upcoming month of Cheshvan, Shabbat will be the only holiday."

Living with her has helped me appreciate that for a person who is not Jewish the idea of having a holiday every week is rather absurd. And also quickly becomes essential.

To quote one of my teachers, Rabbi Nehemia Polen, "Shabbos is the generative kernel at the center of the Jewish spiritual universe."

And at the center of this week's Torah portion.

This is the week when everything is possible. The week we begin the Torah again, from the beginning, with parashat Bereishit. The week that includes both the six days of creation and the instruction to cease from creation on the seventh day.

Rabbi Polen's new book is entitled Stop Look Listen: Celebrating Shabbos Through a Spiritual Lens. In it he explains that Shabbat is an uninterrupted, immersive, full-day spiritual practice that leads us to full presence.

Shabbos enables us to feel hibbat hakodesh – the sweet, precious embrace of the sacred. A textured landscape of indescribable beauty, Shabbos is the greatest, most noble gift we can give to the world, to our communities, to ourselves, and to God" (xxxvii).

As we begin this new year acharei hahagim, on the other side of the holidays, we find ourselves rediscovering the holiday that has been there all along. We enter Shabbat Bereishit where we receive Shabbat as our spiritual inheritance. This Shabbat plants the seed for the year ahead. To quote, Rabbi Adina Allen, it is the kernel of the yet-to-come.

May our exploration and practice of Shabbat in 5783 lead us each into a textured landscape of indescribable beauty and may we feel (even in moments) the precious embrace of the sacred.

Shabbat Shalom u'Mevorach,
Rabbi Ari Lev

Many people have asked me, "What does a rabbi do after Yom Kippur?"

Believe it or not, my favorite thing to do is build my sukkah. I am so eager to do it that I have a standing date with a friend who comes over at 10pm after break-fast to help me carry the wooden panels from our garage to our deck. And that is usually enough to drain the remaining adrenaline from my system so I can sleep, eat, and hydrate, then repeat.

Our sukkah construction relies heavily on the magic of plastic zip ties. They are not the prettiest but are somehow able to withstand city winds (which has not always been the case when I have used screws and nails).

While the technical requirements for sukkah construction include at least two-and-a-half walls and enough schach so there is more shade than sun, I personally think a sukkah is not complete without a few decorative paper chains. I have such a strong cellular memory of stapling and stringing up these colorful crafts year after year. We have in recent years learned to make them from more durable materials like glittery pipe cleaners and fluorescent duct tape so they too can endure the rain and wind.

Decorating your sukkah may seem a bit extra, given the tight turn around between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. A mere few days beneath a waxing moon. But in fact, making your sukkah festive and beautiful is actually perhaps just as important as building it to begin with (don't be misled by my use of zip ties).

I was inspired this year when Rabbi Mó and Rabbi Michelle took it upon themselves to form a little ad hoc KT committee to make sure the KT sukkah was better decorated. Their intuition is supported by Talmudic wisdom. We learn in masechet Shabbat (133b),

עֲשֵׂה לְפָנָיו סוּכָּה נָאָה, וְלוּלָב נָאֶה...
Make a beautiful sukkah and a beautiful lulav. A sukkah na'eh and a lulav na'eh.

It is not enough to just build the sukkah. But also, we are instructed to make it pretty so that we really want to dwell inside of it.

Sometimes I overlook the power of aesthetics and the importance of beautiful things. But not during Sukkot. Not when one of the core ritual objects is known by its biblical name Pri Eitz Hadar, the fruit of a beautiful tree. It may in fact not even have a scientific counterpart.

One of the explicit functions of mitzvot in general and ritual objects specifically is to remind us how important it is to take care to make things beautiful in this world. In the hurry to build a sukkah or buy a lulav we might lose track of why we are doing these mitzvot, or any mitzvot, to begin with. So the Talmud reminds us:

הִתְנָאֵה לְפָנָיו בְּמִצְוֹת:
Mitzvot are an opportunity to make ourselves (and our world) more beautiful.

עֲשֵׂה לְפָנָיו סוּכָּה נָאָה, וְלוּלָב נָאֶה, וְשׁוֹפָר נָאֶה, 

צִיצִית נָאָה, סֵפֶר תּוֹרָה נָאֶה, וְכָתוּב בּוֹ לִשְׁמוֹ בִּדְיוֹ נָאֶה, 

בְּקוּלְמוֹס נָאֶה, בְּלַבְלָר אוּמָּן, וְכוֹרְכוֹ בְּשִׁירָאִין נָאִין.

Make your sukkah beautiful, and your lulav beautiful and a beautiful shofar;

Make the fringes of your Tallit beautiful.

The parchment for the Torah should be beautiful and so should the ink you use to write it, even the quill and the silk you use to wrap the sefer Torah.

This is the practice of hiddur mitzvah. Of taking care to make do mitzvot in ways that elevate our sensory experience of the world. Rather than a burden, these practices are meant to bring beauty into our lives. Both for the sake of honoring the Holy One, and also for the sake of honoring ourselves with dignity and beauty.

הִתְנָאֵה לְפָנָיו בְּמִצְוֹת:

May you delight in the details of the natural world that are inherently beautiful. And invite your own practice of mitzvot to make yourself and your life more beautiful.

Moadim L'Simcha and Shabbat Shalom,
​Rabbi Ari Lev

After months of preparation, weeks of writing, and days of singing, what I am left with in my own heart is a fullness for which I am very grateful. And the echo of the closing words of the Unetane Tokef, which read:

We are fragile as pottery, so easily shattered,
like the grass that withers, like the flower that fades,
like the fleeting shadow, like the vanishing cloud,
like the wind that rushes by, like the scattered dust,
like the dream that flies away.

The liturgy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is designed to draw us close to our own vulnerability. To remind us how precious, precarious, and impermanent it all is.

Some of us take comfort in imagining that we are the clay and the Holy One is our potter. To imagine there is a Source who shapes our destiny. But all of us know that our agency is primarily limited to the here and now. To how we live our days. Not how many days we live.

It is easier to be flush with this truth through poetry. Where there is more breath and something left unspoken. Humor and levity also help a lot.

In her poem, "Zucchini Shofar", Sarah Lindsay writes:

No animals were harmed in the making of this joyful noise:
A thick, twisted stem from the garden
is the wedding couple's ceremonial ram's horn.
Its substance will not survive one thousand years,
nor will the garden, which is today their temple,
nor will their names, nor their union now announced
with ritual blasts upon the zucchini shofar.
Shall we measure blessings by their duration?
Through the narrow organic channel fuzzily come
the prescribed sustained notes, short notes, rests.
All that rhythm requires. Among their talents,
the newlyweds excel at making
and serving mustard-green soup and molasses cookies,
and taking nieces and nephews for walks in the woods.
The gardener dyes eggs with onion skins,
wraps presents, tells stories, finds the best seashells;
his friends adore his paper-cuttings--
"Nothing I do will last," he says.
What is this future approval we think we need;
who made passing time our judge?
Do we want butter that endures for ages,
or butter that melts into homemade cornbread now?

Even as we imagine ourselves passing before the judge, we are invited to ask ourselves who made passing time our judge. Nothing we do will last.

For a moment, maybe even just a breath, we come flush with this truth.

We are fragile as pottery, so easily shattered.
Like a zucchini shofar, we too will become compost.

May our practice of tefilah, teshuvah, and tzedakah
allow us to melt like butter
as we journey through the Days Between.

תָחֵל שָנָה ובִרכותֶיהָ
Let the year and her blessings begin!

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ari Lev

Earlier this week, a new album of Jewish music was released entitled, Tishrei: the end is the beginning. I have been obsessed with it all week. But not because the music is gorgeous (which it is!). But because of the title. The end is the beginning has somehow been the spiritual teaching I have needed to propel me through a busy and stressful week.

To lean into the infinite, spiral-nature of time. To lean into the practice of teshuva, returning anew to the place we once were, eager to begin again.

The image brought me back to my happy place. A salt marsh at the very edge of Cape Cod, along the protected National Seashore.

Every summer my family makes the trip to this remote point. We love to go there about one hour before high tide. To roll down the sand dunes and plop into the warm, salty water, letting the current carry us away. Until it doesn't. Until it reaches that magic time just on the other side of high tide, when the tide begins to turn. And you can for a brief moment float, still, in the water, and literally see and feel the currents changing. It only lasts about 20-30 minutes. Until you are suddenly carried the other way, inward.

So too with yesterday's equinox. For a brief moment the Earth was tilting neither toward or away from the sun, and there was equilibrium between day and night. But before we can even bless the balance, we can feel the waning light. The end is the beginning.

As we approach the final days of 5782 and the final parshiyot of the Book of Deuteronomy, we are called to be present, to bear witness. To honor that which is everlasting (Holiness and the Holy One). And the reality that everything else is changing - the tides, the seasons, our own soul.

For the past month, Rabbi Mó and I have been teaching Hilchot Teshuva every morning. Yesterday we concluded the second chapter of the Rambam's teachings. And today we gathered to celebrate and glean all we had studied. But I couldn't help myself. I decided to close with the very first line of the third chapter. Because the end of one chapter is also an opportunity to begin the next.

כָּל אֶחָד וְאֶחָד מִבְּנֵי הָאָדָם יֵשׁ לוֹ זְכֻיּוֹת וַעֲוֹנוֹת. מִי שֶׁזְּכֻיּוֹתָיו יְתֵרוֹת עַל עֲוֹנוֹתָיו צַדִּיק. וּמִי שֶׁעֲוֹנוֹתָיו יְתֵרוֹת עַל זְכֻיּוֹתָיו רָשָׁע. מֶחֱצָה לְמֶחֱצָה בֵּינוֹנִי.

Every person is full of merit and every person misses the mark.
If a person has more merit, they are considered a tzadik (righteous).
And if a person has missed the mark more than they have merited, they are considered rasha (wicked).
If it's 50/50, they are benoni (in between) (Hilchot Teshuva 3:1).

The Talmud goes on to assert that basically every single one of us arrives at the gates of the New Year benoni, in between, 50/50. The scales are balanced. The tide is high. But it doesn't stop moving. What we do and say over the course of the next 10 days really matters. How we end will impact how we begin.

I offer you these words. That they may guide us through the gates of the New Year with as much humility, grace, forgiveness, kindness, and compassion as possible.

Shabbat Shalom and Shanah Tovah!
Rabbi Ari Lev

In the last few weeks I have been asked the same question by several KT members. It goes something like this: "I know what I need to do if I have caused someone harm, but what does Judaism have to say about someone who has caused me harm?" In other words, as my teacher Rabbi Benay Lappe explains it, "How do I get my friend (read: neighbor, parent, child, teacher, student, co-worker, etc.) on the teshuva train?"

If there was a rabbinic FAQ for the month of Elul, I would list this question first. How do we forgive someone who has not even acknowledged that they hurt us, never mind apologized and committed to not repeat the action?

As it turns out, Judaism does have a lot to say about this topic. The first mention of Tochecha comes directly from Torah itself. We will actually read it aloud on Yom Kippur afternoon in The Holiness Code.

Leviticus 19:17 reads:

לֹֽא־תִשְׂנָ֥א אֶת־אָחִ֖יךָ בִּלְבָבֶ֑ךָ הוֹכֵ֤חַ תּוֹכִ֙יחַ֙ אֶת־עֲמִיתֶ֔ךָ וְלֹא־תִשָּׂ֥א עָלָ֖יו חֵֽטְא׃
You are not to hate your fellow in your heart, you should absolutely rebuke your friend, but not in a way that causes you to miss the mark.

In other words, when someone causes harm, you should (must?!) give them Tochecha. You are obligated to give them feedback, lest you harbor resentment. But you also must not do so in a way that causes more harm.

This is easier said than done. I have been on the giving and receiving end of a meaningful amount of Tochecha this week. And I have wept in almost every conversation. Feedback is as difficult to give as it is to receive. It is a profoundly vulnerable experience to have someone, especially someone I love, reflect back to me my own mistakes. It burned my eyes to look in the mirror and see myself. It was equally tender to try to coax the words to share with someone I love the ways in which they had missed the mark. I felt a desperate longing to not want to cause them further shame.

Tochecha is such an important, delicate, spiritual practice. Even when we get it right, it's hard.  There is some wisdom in this week's Torah reading that can support those of us who need to receive feedback and those of us who need to offer it.

This week we read Parashat Ki Tavo, which comes near the very end of the book of Deuteronomy. It begins with a series of blessings and rewards for your spiritual diligence. "Blessed be your basket and your kneading bowl. Blessed are your comings and your goings..."

But then come the curses, consequences for our spiritual negligence. The "curses" will be read tomorrow morning in the extra long fifth aliyah. The 55 verses (Deut. 28:15-69) are known as the Tochecha, verses of rebuke and warning.

Setting aside the theology for a moment, I am interested in the choreography of this moment. The calendar I follow says, "Chant this section in a somewhat subdued voice to symbolically minimize the trepidation that the congregation experiences upon hearing the message of these verses." We are meant to receive these words almost in a whisper, lest the tone scare us.

The calendar continues, "However, for verses 7-14, voicing the promise of God's protection and reward, chant as usual." Despite the anachronistic order of these instructions, verses 7-14 are actually read first.

This one aliyah offers us two important teachings to support us in the practice of Tochecha. First, it is important to value and protect the relationship despite the need for Tochecha. Just as God begins by sharing words of blessing and protection, so too should we. And second, pay attention to the tone of your voice and the quality of care that it expresses. Allow the warmth and love you feel for this person to be received as much as the words themselves. From my own experience, the spiritual challenge of Tochecha is that it needs to come from a place of love. (For more Torah about Tochecha, here is a sermon I gave several years ago on Yom Kippur.)

In this season, may we be quick to forgive and caring in our sharing of rebuke. May blessings rain down upon each of us, in the city and in the field, upon the fruits of our labor and the work of our hands. And may we all feel these blessings of protection as we wade into this vulnerable time.

​Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ari Lev

Sitting around the dinner table with my kids last night I had an embarrassing rabbi moment, but kept it to myself (until now!). We are coming to the end of their second week of school. Every day I ask for details. What was something fun about your day? Something you learned? Something new? I try to find different ways to solicit a morsel of information to give me a window into their experience. I am hoping for something of content that we can discuss and geek out about.

Thus far, the main things I have heard about are their systems for behavior management. One kid is quite excited to be earning five points a day on ClassDojo. With the promise of a $30 shopping spree on Amazon. (Is that true?!) I have heard a lot about the Wiffle ball and bat she might pick out. The other kid is motivated by the prospect of earning a pom-pom everyday and filling up an entire jar. It's not entirely clear from his description if it's a personal win or for a small group.

Don't get me wrong, I have a deep respect and appreciation for the importance of establishing classroom norms and creating a positive learning environment. And I am very appreciative that both teachers seem to be drawn towards praise rather than punishment. But there is an extent to which my kids' desire to behave and be "good" becomes the focus of their learning, rather than critical thinking and creative problem solving. Which is where my embarrassing rabbi moment comes into play.

As my younger kid was going on at length about pom-poms, I was thinking about how to redirect him to share something else he might have learned that day. But then I realized that perhaps this was quite a fitting area of focus for a rabbi's kid in the month of Elul. What if ClassDojo and pom-poms were part of this season's Heshbon HaNefesh, the accounting of our soul? These are opportunities for my kids to increase awareness about of how their actions impact those around them - albeit their classmates and teachers.

I knew if I responded with this very Jewish idea, my kids would roll their eyes (they are so good at it!) and say, "Babbo!" So I kept it to myself.

Those of us who are grown don't have the benefit of external mentors setting up sticker charts and promising rewards. So we have to do it for ourselves. To hold ourselves accountable; to train ourselves to be the most generous, compassionate, forgiving people we can be. Perhaps we can all learn something from the dedicated teachers in our lives.

Jewish tradition offers us both the language and the structure to reward ourselves. And it goes big. Way bigger than a Wiffle ball bat, if you ask me. It promises the Book of Life!

In the words of Rabbi Suzanne Offit as she reflects on the ancient words of the Unetane Tokef,

"We are beckoned to become our own judge.
There is time.
And now is the time.

We are not here to try to accrue bonus points in some kind of cosmic ledger.
We are not here to try to escape death by gaining favor with an unforgiving God.

We are here to listen to the question that calls out softly,
Insistently,
From within and beyond us:
What do you want to do with the time you have left?"

As we journey into the second Shabbat of Elul, consider what tangible tools might support you in the work of Heshbon HaNefesh in your own life. Do you need a pom-pom jar (so satisfying to the senses!) or a sticker chart? Do you need to make a laminated checklist of all the people you want to call before Rosh Hashanah to say, "If there are any ways I have missed the mark, I ask your forgiveness?" And then check them off one at a time with a dry erase marker.

Don't worry about the cosmic ledger. Wonder about who you want to be with the time you have left. May we have the wisdom to approach our inner accounting with the gentle levity of pom-pom!

Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Ari Lev