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One of my favorite things about West Philly are the many “free” things. Little free libraries. “Free table,” etc. I have this sense that anything I need can be acquired just by walking around the neighborhood. And more importantly, that anything I no longer need can be rehomed by simply placing it on my neighbor’s stone wall on my corner. This week alone I dropped off an old architect's drafting table (where the california raisin man once was conceived), cleats my kids had outgrown, 2 glass vases, and a bird bath I never managed to install. It was all gone by evening. There is a current in our neighborhood that allows things to travel without currency or tariff from home to home. West Philly’s great river of stuff!
There is a wonderful hebrew word that captures this sense of freedom – hefker. I first encountered the word hefker in rabbinical school when I came upon a table of snack remnants. A half eaten package of oreos. A platter of vegetable crudite with an unopened hummus. Some pretzels and a bit of soda. With a sign that read: ‘hefker’. Which is to say, up for grabs! In a more secular context you might have seen a “free” sign. But it meant something to me that there was a rabbinic term for this kind of exchange. This week we begin reading the book of Bemidbar - best translated as “in the wilderness.” The chapters resume the narrative of our ancestors wandering through the wilderness, uncertain, unhappy, unsatisfied. In just a week’s time we will celebrate the festival of Shavuot. In the Torah it is purely an agricultural holiday. But the rabbis later attached deeper meaning, describing it as zman matan torateinu - the time that commemorates the giving of the Torah in the wilderness of Sinai. Our parsha begins, וַיְדַבֵּ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֛ה בְּמִדְבַּ֥ר סִינַ֖י “And God spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai…” So the rabbis obviously ask and graciously answer the next obvious question: Why was Torah given in the wilderness? Why not in a more accessible place? Why would it be that in the place of greatest uncertainty (and greatest irritability), would we also receive wisdom and insight? We learn in midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 1), “Why does it say ‘And God spoke to Moses in the Sinai Wilderness’? Because anyone who does not make themselves ownerless, hefker, like the wilderness cannot acquire the wisdom and the Torah…" Which is to say, if we do make ourselves hefker, we can acquire the wisdom of Torah. Insight and understanding arise when our minds and hearts are more available, open, even unsure. I must admit, I need this instruction right now. In the last week or so, I noticed that I am finally beginning to thaw from the deep freeze of winter. In this case, I don’t really mean the winter weather (or not just the weather), so much as the harsh events that transpired. It was a hard winter. As my shoulders unclench and I allow myself some barefoot moments, I am noticing that my heart is more judgemental than I would like. There has been a narrowing within me. I think the best way to describe the feeling is defensive. And while I know it comes from a place of care for myself, even a form of protection, it doesn’t feel very good to be so quick to judge. The impact is subtle, but I can feel that my heart is less open, less available, less up for grabs. This year I am hearing the rabbis whisper, “Come on’ make yourself like a little free library - where ideas and stories can come and go. Make yourself available to the current of wisdom and unexpected connections. Free yourself to not know, to wonder, to be curious, to be willing to hear things differently. Take down all your lawn signs (after the election is over) and allow yourself to be undecided.” So this Shabbat, in preparation for shavuot, I am inviting myself to soften, to let down my defenses, to feel my own vulnerability and trust that will make more room in me for curiosity, for wild seeds to land, for insight, for Torah. We just wrapped up another year of Kol Tzedek Torah School, and I want to share a few insights from our students. I consistently learn so much from them, and I want to invite our community into that learning with me.
A few months ago, I visited our 6th grade Torah School class to discuss some big questions that had come up in class. They had recently encountered a Torah text that was similar to the message of this week’s parsha, B’echukotai: If you do good things, you’ll be rewarded. If you do bad things, you’ll be cursed. And, of course, this didn’t match their experience of the world. I told them that they were in good company with this challenge, from ancient rabbis to modern philosophers. I shared ideas of collective punishment and natural consequences. When I left the room, they were clearly not satisfied by my lack of clear solutions. And I understand why. But I think the questioning, the conversation, even the rejection of this theology is core to the learning that they do here. We’ve worked for years to build a strong curriculum to give kids knowledge and skills that will serve them as Jewish adults. They learn about holidays, life cycle rituals, Torah and Midrash, rabbinic stories, prayers, and so many other things. I’m so proud of the many pages of resources we’ve created for students and teachers. But the curriculum only matters because students also have space to bring their whole selves. We give our students opportunities to share their own beliefs as soon as they start Torah School. Each age group spends some of their time on Sunday afternoons doing tefillah (prayer) with me. This is a time for them to learn prayers and to learn about prayers, and to pray and sing together. For our younger kids, this is about understanding prayer more than it is about learning specific words. This time is playful. We use imaginary instruments for praise. We chant blessings for things they are feeling grateful for, whether that is family, a card game, or a recent favorite of mine “Judaism and popcorn.” We had years of deep theological discussions, where I reminded kids over and over that we can use any pronouns for God, that there are many names for the Divine, and that they don’t have to believe any specific thing, or anything at all. Last year, with our younger students, we stopped talking about it as much and instead worked these questions and reminders directly into our prayers and songs. I introduced a chant for our younger students that starts with the words from the end of the Sh’ma, “Adonai eloheichem emet- Adonai is your true God.” The chant then continues by replacing the name Adonai with different names for God or different divine attributes. Students suggest divine names and we all “try on” the suggested name, singing it together. We don’t all have to believe it, we just want to see what it feels like to use a different name. We’ve used names in Hebrew and English, gendered and not, new and old. Two weeks ago, on our last day of tefillah for the year, many of our 2nd and 3rd graders were eager to share their suggestions. First, we tried on The Supreme Ruler of the World. This student was referencing a discussion from the previous week, about gendered words for positions of power like King, Queen, and Emperor, and sharing a solution. Next, we sang “Maybe Isn’t Real eloheichem emet.” This second grader said he shared this name because “I think God is really just us being nice to people.” Our doubts have a place in our prayers. Third we took a breath instead of using a word for God’s name. These children may not yet know about the idea of an ineffable name, but they understand that some things go beyond words. Last, we tried on The Dude. I was so happy to try calling God The Dude , knowing that our students’ theologies won’t be limited to one gender, one relationship, or one definition. I hope our kids, and all of us, will always be open to many names, to doubt, and to creating space for those who don’t believe at all. For me, this is part of the answer to this week’s parsha and the reward and punishment in Torah. God as Judge is one system for trying to understand what we will never be able to fully grasp. Try it on. If you don’t like it, try another option. Try out “Maybe Isn’t Real.” Take a breath instead. Or imagine The Divine Dude. The book of Leviticus is what one might call a mixed bag. We seem to read the best and the worst of Torah all at once. For example, last week’s parshiyot alone contain some of our most beloved teachings (Love your neighbor as thyself!) and some of our most homophobic and violent verses (I’ll spare you the quotes).
There’s a rigor to staying in relationship with the best and worst all at once (a practice I find helpful for the rest of my life). I am convinced that we read Leviticus in the glory of spring to make it bearable. Ironically it's the time of year when everyone wants to become B’nei Mitzvah, so I have become very practiced in finding the relatable tidbits, close readings that connect to a curious teen’s mind, the ways to redeem an ancient and problematic text. But not this week. Over the years I have made much meaning about the priestly tradition. I tend to focus on the korban, the ritual sacrifice. What qualifies and disqualifies an animal? Why and when do we offer a korban? My first Yom Kippur at KT I gave an entire sermon about the subject. But this week I approached parashat Emor through the lens of Rabbi Julia Watts Belser’s book, Loving Our Own Bones (with gratitude to the omer book group). She devotes an entire chapter to the subject of priestly blemishes, focusing not on the offering, but on qualifications of the priest to who makes the offerings. Leviticus 21 lays out the biblical criteria for determining those priests who are forbidden to come before the altar: The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say, “No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a mum (a “defect” or “blemish”) shall be qualified to offer the food of his God…” Rabbi Julia puts in stark relief how hurtful and ableist this text is – how it assumes that our blemishes disqualify us from sacred service. And she rightly asserts the exact opposite must be true. Which based on my own life experience, I too feel in my bones. That ability and disability are deeply human experiences that give us unique insights and draw us closer to the Divine. And even more so, she has helped me understand that ability and disability is a false binary, as most every human experiences disability in their lifetime, even the most able person is only temporarily so. The text is particularly painful because it ascribes our worst human prejudice to God, which surely inscribes the sentiment in every aspect of our culture. And it is then up to us to reclaim our own bodies and redeem this scripture (as we have done with so many other verses). So to close I offer you the liberatory theology of Rabbi Julia: “What shall we make of this portrait of God? … When I read Leviticus 21, I read a text that has been shaped by human prejudice, a text marked by human assumptions about the beautiful and the good… The God I know does not require the semblance of symmetry. The God I know does not share this human fascination with standard-sized bodies all lined up in tidy little rows. The God I know has made a world brimming over with difference, has fashioned mind and limbs that unfold in their own particular ways… When I read Leviticus 21, I take it as a reminder of those false judgements, the way they have been scripted even onto God. I hear this Torah as a different sort of call: a call to witness the long shadow of stigma and exclusion that has shaped the lives of so many disabled people, a call to confront and to challenge entrenched patterns of social and religious violence that have contoured our lives (63-65).” This shabbat I pray we each can hear this different sort of call, can more fully embrace blemish, disability and difference, can feel the ways we are each uniquely qualified to be of service. I write to you in the hours of the Hebrew month of Nisan with a time-sensitive invitation to say a blessing. The practice of saying a blessing is intended to cultivate awareness, wonder and gratitude. While almost all Jewish blessings that are not mitzvah related (ie: lighting candles) are tied to an experience (like seeing a rainbow or eating bread), there is one blessing that can only be said at precisely this time of year. (I hope I am catching you just in time!)
Birkat ha’ilanot - the Blessing of the Trees, is recited in response to seeing the buds of fruit trees in the spring month of Nisan. The practice as we know it comes directly from the Babylonian Talmud (Brachot 43b). “Rav Yehuda said: One who goes out during Nisan and sees trees that are blossoming recites: Blessed…who has withheld nothing from this world, and has created in it beautiful creatures and trees for human beings to enjoy.” Before living in the midatlantic region, I never understood the hype and majesty of the cherry blossom tree, nor the timely nature of this blessing. But over the last 10 years, I have come to anticipate these weeks with a flutter of joy. Brushing up against the luscious flowers, heavy on their branches. The way the sky rains flowers. And the sidewalks are glazed with pink petal frosting. It is pure delight to bless these blossoms. In these precious few weeks of the year one single poem consumes my subconscious. In her poem Instructions on Not Giving Up, Ada Limón actually manages to capture the resilient magic of these “almost obscene” trees. This week I had the added blessing of hearing her read the poem in an interview in the NY Times where she shared with so much humility and candor that it was in fact given to her by a tree. But of course, how else could it know itself so well!? I love this poem so much that Rabbi Mó and I made it part of the epigraph to our new siddur. I always try to read it on Shabbat morning at this time of year. And yet hearing her read it, I heard it anew. I heard, “the leaves come” with a defiant, persistent, hopeful certainty. Being that today is the 30th of Nisan, it is your last day to bless the fruit trees - the last hours before shabbat when the new moon of Iyyar begins. If you have not blessed a cherry blossom tree - this is your moment. Listen to this poem. Listen to the trees. “Despite the mess of us,” these are our instructions for not giving up. This Passover, given the festival coinciding with escalating war, I felt particularly connected to the midrash in which the Holy One offers a compassionate rebuke to the Israelites for celebrating while the Egyptians drowned in the sea, proclaiming, “Those are my children too.”
We now must live in what comes after crossing the sea – the messy unknown of the desert, uncertainty, bickering, feeling hopeless and searching for hope in the wilderness – which is where we find ourselves both politically and spiritually. I have heard from many of you and felt in myself looming despair, which is what I want to speak to this Friday afternoon. This week, Rebecca Solnit sent out a long, poetic and spiritually timely missive which I will briefly summarize as saying no matter how bleak the present, the future is not a foregone conclusion. To make her point she shared a story from the memoir of Congressman Jamie Raskin where he writes about one of his early races for office, a race in which one "expert" pronounced his victory impossible. Raskin notes, "So we went from impossible to inevitable in nine months because the pundits are never wrong, but as I told Tommy, we showed that nothing in politics is impossible, and nothing in politics is inevitable. It is all just possible, through the democratic arts of education, organizing, and mobilizing for change." This may yet be the most hopeful truth. Nothing is impossible and nothing is inevitable. And this includes the parting of the sea (not impossible) and our own liberation (not inevitable). This period of time between Passover and Shavuot, known as the Omer, is a very good antidote to despair. The traditional practice associated with the Omer is to bless and count each day, to cultivate heightened awareness of the passing of time. Each day corresponds to a particular spiritual quality that we can choose to focus on. So for example, today being the 8th day of the Omer corresponds to chesed sh’be’gevurah, care as an expression of boundaries. It may seem like a small thing, but many days can come and go without this level of awareness. Paying close attention to our inner lives in this way inspires agency and aliveness. In the words of Rebecca Solnit, “If we know what's going to happen, we cannot participate in deciding what happens, and vice-versa…If you insist that a given outcome is inevitable, you are lobbying against resistance. At best, you've surrendered; at worst you're complicit in the outcome.” If you are feeling this moment is written in history, let this email be a reminder that perhaps you were made for just this moment. Nothing about this moment is impossible and nothing is inevitable. We must wake each day determined to pay attention, to bless the good and believe in our own power. We must internalize the words of Aurora Levins Morales’ Vahavata, “Do not let despair sink into the voice with which you sing”. Sometimes I think of Jewish textual tradition as a series of love letters our ancestors wrote to us, their future descendants and spiritual offspring. As I sit with a text of some kind – Torah, Talmud, midrash, etc – I’ll ask myself: In what way might this be a love letter to future generations? And thinking, puzzling, exploring toward an answer is how I build my own relationship to our tradition.
This time of year, I don’t have to puzzle quite so hard. We’ve entered the month of Nisan, with Passover right around the corner. This week is Shabbat HaGadol, the great Shabbat that precedes Pesach, marking the final preparations before the holiday. The main text we spend ample time with come Passover is, of course, the Haggadah. But there are other texts special to this time of year as well, including Shir Hashirim, the Song of Songs. Shir Hashirim, one of the books of Tanakh, is an epic love poem in two voices, and it’s traditional across the diaspora to recite it on the shabbat of Passover. This text really is a love letter, not in a figurative sense. There is a maiden, a ra’aya, and a beloved, a dod. They long for one another, intensely and sensuously: Oh, give me of the kisses of your mouth, For your love is more delightful than wine. (1:1) Sustain me with raisin cakes, Refresh me with apples, For I am faint with love. (2:5) It’s steamy! And beautiful. This book is a love poem and a series of love songs, both. I adore the lush imagery and lyricism of Shir Hashirim, and I love how the lovers in the text yearn for one another while also yearning for a better world. All this eros and desire… it's basically the biblical version of Heated Rivalry ;) So why do we read this epic love letter during Passover? What does this text have to do with z’man ḥeiruteinu, the season of our freedom? Commentators over the centuries have posited: there’s allusions to the Exodus story in Shir Hashirim; it’s a springtime text just like the holiday; the whole arc of the love song is like the 4 stages of redemption for the Israelites in their journey to freedom. And I wonder if there’s something more. In her book All About Love, feminist scholar bell hooks describes love as a verb rather than a feeling, a series of actions compelled by care, commitment, trust, and responsibility. “There can be no love without justice,” hooks wrote. “Love has the power to transform us, giving us the strength to oppose domination.” In these aching times, abundant with war, violence, inequity and injustice, so many of our problems seem to stem from a breakdown of the belief that all human beings are beloved, sacred, made in the image of Gd, and that each and every life is as worthy of safety, dignity, and wholeness as one’s own. All too often we end up like Pharaoh— heart-hardened, closed off to one another’s humanity, guarded from the pain of the world. Passover comes to shake us out of it. Perhaps we read Shir Hashirim in this season of our freedom in order to, as hooks says, cultivate the strength to oppose domination. To remember what it feels like to love another, as wildly and unreservedly as in the Song of Songs, and to expand from there, opening and widening the heart toward an ethic of love whose inevitable outcome mustbe justice: If we are beloved to the Divine, then all people are beloved to the Divine. If we are worthy of freedom, then all people are worthy of freedom. If, as Cornell West taught, “justice is what love looks like in public,” then this season is both our season of freedom, and our season of love. Two sides of the same coin. What would it mean to read the haggadah as a love letter this year? Or to bring the text of Shir Hashirim into your Passover observance? To cultivate love as action, love as a verb? As we gather around our seder tables to reflect on freedom and recommit to liberation, may the crocus of the heart bloom and open to let in all life, to know our interconnection and our responsibility to each other as an ahavah rabbah, an abundance of love that expands our capacity to do care and seek justice. אִכְלוּ רֵעִים שְׁתוּ וְשִׁכְרוּ דּוֹדִים Eat, lovers, and drink: Drink deep of love! (Shir Hashirim 5:1) I so look forward to singing songs of love and liberation with you all in the days to come. As of a few months ago, we are officially a house with a landline (albeit one that runs through the internet). It feels retro, almost old fashioned, in the most delightful of ways. I opted for a pink 80s style phone and delighted in teaching my kids how to use speed-dial. What a relief to be able to make an analog phone call, without the risk of getting lost in 10 different apps I didn’t mean to open. The motivation was largely safety related. We wanted our kids to be able to call 911 when they are home alone.
What I did not realize was how novel it would be to learn how to answer a call. The etiquette is shockingly different from a cell phone, in large part because you don’t know who is calling. It feels awkward and a bit formal, but I often say, “Ruskin Fornari residence, Ari Lev speaking, who may I ask is calling?” Truly, I can’t remember what hip and concise things my teenage self must have said, without being rude. Meanwhile my kids just say, “Hi,” Uncertain how to initiate the conversation or ask who is calling, nevermind share their own name. This week we begin the book of Vayikra, which itself begins with a mysterious call from an unknown caller. In her newest book, The Hidden Order of Intimacy, Dr. Avivah Zornberg asks, “The opening word of Leviticus: “Vayikra – And He called to Moses” (Lev 1:1). Who is the one who calls? Presumably, it is God who calls Moses’ name. But He is unnamed. … “ (3). In just the moment when God attempts to make a grand entrance, to settle into the newly constructed mishkan, why the anonymous call? Ramban suggests the answer lies in the very end of Exodus. Exodus 40:35 reads, “Moses was unable to enter the Tent of Assembly…” About this verse Zornberg notes, “Exodus ends with Moses excluded from the sacred space he has so faithfully constructed… “The Cloud and the fire that represent God’s presence in the Tabernacle make it impossible for him to enter that space. Until, that is, God calls his name, inviting him, as it were, to enter into the Cloud. Only with this is call is a human path opened up for him into the mysterium trememdum.” As I was studying these words, I couldn’t help but imagine Moses as a vampire in Sinners (Best Picture imho), needing a formal invitation to enter the juke. But presumably Mose – liberation leader, teacher and prophet – was not in fact a vampire. So why couldn’t he enter the Mishkan until he got the call? All of this leads Rashi to wonder, what really is the purpose of calling? His gloss on the opening word Vayikra reads, “Every time God spoke or said or commanded, He prefaced the terms by calling, in a tone of affection – chibah – and encouragement – in the tone that the ministering angels us, as it is said, “They call to one another, saying Holy, Holy, Holy is the God of Hosts” (Isa. 6:3). Here the Hebrew in Isaiah, which we sing in the kedusha, reads: kara zeh el zeh / they call to one another. The image of angels on high calling out with affection, encouraging their song, their spirits, their faith. Vayikra is about divine etiquette but also more: it's about intimacy. What allows us to draw close, to ourselves, to one another and to the Divine? What allows us to answer the call at all? (Who even picks up a call from an unknown caller these days!?) This Shabbat, under the new moon of Nisan, may you find a moment to call out like the heavenly choir – in any place you find sanctuary – to feel the affectionate embrace of the universe encouraging your song, your spirit and your faith. And perhaps even more so (as I have been explaining to my kids), to listen for the call and have the courage to pick up the phone when you hear it, unsure as you may be. Yesterday being the 23rd day of Adar was a significant day for my family, as it marked the first yahrzeit of Shosh’s grandmother Harriet Colman, of blessed memory. To honor the occasion everyone went out for dinner to a neighborhood spot that she frequented even at 101.
But yesterday was also a terrifying day for the Jews of Metro Detroit, where Harriet lived almost all of her first 98 years of life (before her final four years in West Philly). Hearing the horrific news I was immediately transported back to last March, when on a cold and sunny spring day we buried her in West Bloomfield, Michigan. A young rabbi from Temple Israel gracefully helped us bury our beloved matriarch. The same synagogue that was attacked yesterday. I myself also have two adorable nephews who go to preschool in a large reform synagogue very much like Temple Israel. As different as Temple Israel and Kol Tzedek may appear, we are but one degree of separation, and I feel tremendous grief for the entire community terrorized by such a violent act. And also infinite gratitude for the fact that everyone, especially all of the children, are safe. Thank G!D. I also feel deeply for the family and community of Ayman Mohamad Ghazali, the 41 year old Lebanese American who lost his family in this cruel and unjust war in Lebanon. A man my age, I can only imagine, devastated by grief and powerlessness, who went out seeking revenge and retribution, and did something monstrous. What a horror we are all living through. To adapt the words of Dr. King, a threat to safety anywhere is a threat to our safety everywhere. Of all the news I have read in the past 24 hours, the words that have rung most true were that of a rabbi in Omaha, Nebraska, who said, “We are synagogues — we are houses of worship,” one rabbi said. “We are not Fort Knox.” For this reason all of our liturgy is designed to fortify us against the fears of our time. Whether it is God or song itself, the community that singing creates or the human will to connect, Jewish prayer and sacred practices make us feel safer. They are themselves a kind of spiritual armor. Our longing for safety is so reasonable, so relatable, and so ancient. We sing in the closing words of Adon Olam, בְּעֵת אִישַׁן וְאָעִֽירָה: וְעִם רוּחִי גְּוִיָּתִי, יְהֹוָה לִי וְלֹא אִירָא: When we wake and when we sleep In my spirit and in my body The Source is with me, I shall not fear. As I shared on Rosh Hashanah, Rebbe Nachman is famous for having said that the whole entire world is a very narrow bridge. And the important thing is not to be afraid, lo l’fached clal. The saying is iconic. But it is not entirely accurate. It is true that he conceived of the world in tenuous terms. But what Rebbe Nachman actually said was, “Kol HaOlam Kulo, The whole entire world, gesher tzar me’od, is a very narrow bridge…And the most important thing is not to make ourselves afraid - lo l’hitpached clal - to not cultivate fear in our hearts. – Each and every time we gather we pray for a world that is just and peaceful, safe for all who dwell on earth. This week in particular, I pray there is a swift end to this horrible war in Iran, Lebanon, Israel/Palestine and the U.S. provocation of violence everywhere. I pray that everyone who gathers in prayer this week, at masjids, synagogues, churches and temples, be sheltered under the protecting wings of the shechina. And I pray that we may have the courage to respond with compassion, to honor our vulnerability and not make ourselves even more afraid. Sometimes I imagine my heart as an absorbent sponge, soaking in the joy and sorrow of the week. And my tears like the overflow, a release valve to soothe and purify.
Sometimes I imagine my heart like a muscle in training, learning to expand and contract more fully, to feel both the joy and the grief more deeply. At my installation almost exactly 10 years ago, I offered you my heart of many rooms, with enough space, I pray, to contain our disagreements, differences and contradictions. What if this week, we imagine the human heart as the Ark that traveled with the Israelites in the wilderness? We read in parashat Ki Tisa, one of the most infamous stories in all of Torah, a moment that reminds us that Torah is not linear. Despite having already received Torah in Yitro, some 12 chapters ago, we are transported back to the top of Mt. Sinai. Moses is receiving the tablets from the Holy One while the anxious, arguably impatient, Israelites are waiting down below, scheming to melt all of their precious gold into a molten idol,the golden calf. . Exodus 32:19reads, “As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain.” About this moment, one midrash imagines that Moses descended the mountain with the tablets in hand. But when they (both Moses and the tablets) “beheld the calf and the dances, the writing fled from off the tablets, and the stone became heavy in his hands, and Moses was not able to carry himself and the tablets, and he cast them from his hand, and they were broken beneath the mount … “ As if the writing on the tablets, the letters themselves were sent back to their Source before Moses broke the tablets. Lest Moses actually smash the holy words. Eventually Moses returns to the top of the mountain, pleads for forgiveness, and the Holy One inscribes a second set of tablets with the words that were on the first set of tablets. Rather than forget the incident ever happened, the rabbis record the teaching of Rav Yosef who says, “the tablets of the Covenant and the pieces of the broken tablets are placed in the Ark” (B.T. Menachot 99a). One mystical text takes it a step further: “The Zohar teaches that the human heart is the Ark. And it is known that in the Ark were stored both the Tablets and the Broken Tablets. Similarly ... a person's heart must be a broken heart, a beaten heart, so that it can serve as a home for the Shechinah [divine presence]. For the Shechinah only dwells within broken vessels” (Reshit Hochma, R. Eliyahu deVidash, Gate of Holiness 7; 16th C.) Remember this always and especially this week, your broken heart, your beaten heart, it is a home for holiness in this world. It is the source of your compassion and a vessel for the Divine. In the words of Psalm 147, קָרוֹב ה' לְנִשְׁבְּרֵי לֵב “The Holy One draws close to the broken-hearted.” Ufros aleinu sukkat shlomecha – May there be a canopy of protection for everyone in Iran and Lebanon, Israel/Palestine and all who dwell on earth. Oseh shalom bimromav – May the Source of peace on High, come here on earth, urgently and in our days. In the Spring of 2008, as I prepared to go to rabbinical school, I enrolled in The Anne Braden Program – a then newly emerging antiracist training program for white activists. The program was transformational, allowing me to see the connections between the occupation in Israel/Palestine and racism in the U.S. And even more so, empowering me to shift my relationship to white power.
Of the many books we read, one stands out – Mab Segrest’s, Memoir of a Race Traitor. I was newly identifying as antizionist, grieving, afraid, and seeking courage. This book gave me a way forward because in many ways, I felt like becoming an antizionist Jew made me a race traitor. Which was confusing because I also felt a moral clarity that was deeply Jewish. Some 20 years later, I am still wrestling with the word antizionist, both in my own heart and now in public. At a dinner following the Conference on the Jewish Left in Boston, I sat at a table and talked about the power and limits of the words zionism and antizionism. And this week, Arielle Angel, invited Fadi Quran, Dove Kent and I to continue that conversation on the Jewish Currents podcast, On the Nose. As vulnerable as it feels, I invite you to listen, perhaps while you prepare for shabbat. On the podcast we discuss at length that no one knows what zionism and antizionism really mean, but don’t ourselves define the terms. I want to highlight an important point that Fadi makes in our conversation. To paraphrase, the ongoing debate and confusion about what zionism and antizionism mean should be secondary to the “facts on the ground,” meaning what is actually happening behaviorally in Israel/Palestine. Our need to process our feelings about those words can distract us from the work of disrupting violent oppression and genocide. That said, I rarely have the opportunity to speak with nuance about what the word means to me (and what it doesn’t mean), so before you listen, and with some trepidation, I shall try. For me being an antizionist is both a spiritual orientation and a political identity. What feels truest is that I am opposed to political zionism. This is because I am opposed to the idea of a state that privileges any particular religious or ethnic group, and that includes a specifically Jewish state. I do not think it is possible to have a democracy that privileges any one group of people. I believe equality under the law is the way everyone is safest. For me antizionist does not mean that I think all Israelis should perish or leave the land of Israel. I am deeply invested in the safety, survival and thriving of everyone who lives between the river and the sea. So when the Jewish federation requires that I and KT affirm the right of Israel to exist as a Jewish and democratic state I feel it is a trick question because I don’t believe that is possible. I believe that citizens have the right to exist and states have a right to serve its citizens. But I don't think nation states have rights. But what's most important, (which I am so glad they didn’t cut from the end of the podcast), is that you do not need to agree with me about any of this. Prior to my tenure at Kol Tzedek, I have only ever been a member of a synagogue where I disagreed with the rabbi about Israel/Palestine. So please know, that is your sacred right. I welcome your questions, your dissent, your fears and your vulnerability. As we prepare for Purim, may delirium return us to a world where we can’t tell the difference between blessings and curses, good and evil, winter and spring, lion and sheep, zionist and antizionist. May joy soften our senses, heal our wounds, transform our fear and vengeance into dignity and liberation for all. |
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General Questions: (267) 702-6187 or [email protected]
Shabbat Services: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #1, Philadelphia, PA 19143