We learn in Pirkei Avot (1:18) that the world is sustained by three things: on law (justice), on truth and on peace. Earlier this week, I was teaching this text to a group of Kol Tzedek teens and they noticed the difference between what the world is founded on (Torah, Avodah and Hesed), and what allows it to endure. The teaching ends with a quote from the prophet Zecharia (8:16), "When there is truth and justice, there will be peace in your gates.”
"אֱמֶת וּמִשְׁפַּט שָׁלוֹם שִׁפְטוּ בְּשַׁעֲרֵיכֶם…" They noticed that the order of these three things is significant. Suggesting that a just legal system and truth are necessary for shalom, for peace. Or in the words of the protest chant, “No justice, no peace!” This teaching calls to me as the International Court of Justice begins adjudicating whether Israel is committing genocide against Palestinians. This teaching leads me to even greater resolve that no military solution will provide peace and safety for Israelis and Palestinans. That we must do everything in our power to hasten a ceasefire, to save the lives of Palestinian civilians, Israeli hostages and soldiers and prevent the possibility of world war. Which is why I traveled to the United Nations with Rabbis for Ceasefire. On Monday, I was part of a delegation of five rabbis from the U.S. and Israel who met with the Deputy Representative of the United States Mission to the United Nations to implore the U.S. Ambassador to support a permanent and lasting ceasefire. Then on Tuesday, I joined a group of 36 rabbis on a tour of the United Nations. I was so surprised by the beauty of the building and the incredible art exhibits, including a very moving exhibit about the Palestinian Nakba which lined the walls of the lobby. Our tour group was escorted inside the U.N. Security council, the very room where questions of war and peace are discussed, the very room where the U.S. has consistently used its veto to block a ceasefire resolution. Once inside, we unfurled banners, blew a shofar and began reading from The Universal Declaration of Human Rights which was adopted by the United Nations in 1948. Not surprisingly, this passionate group of rabbis had planned a yizkor ritual that would easily span more than an hour. Less than 10 minutes in, we were forced to stop because “Demonstrating is forbidden in the United Nations.” We were undoubtedly a prayerful disruption. I do not share this to communicate conformity or alignment about political strategy or policy. There are many important and needed theories of change and strategies for bringing about change. Please know, I welcome your dissent and disagreement. I value your insights and honor your truths. That said, since October 7, I have participated in a swell of direct action in D.C., Philly and NYC, all designed to disrupt business as usual. And it has got me thinking about the role of disruption in liberation struggles. Which is also the theme of this week’s Torah portion. Parashat Vaera includes the narrative of the first seven of ten plagues that Moses and the Holy One inflicted on Pharaoh and the Egyptians to free the Israelite slaves. Moses and Aaron repeatedly come before Pharaoh to demand in the name of G‑d, “Let My people go, so that they may serve Me in the wilderness.” Pharaoh repeatedly refuses. G‑d then sends a series of plagues upon the Egyptians. The waters of the Nile turn to blood; swarms of frogs overrun the land; lice infest all people and beasts. Hordes of wild animals invade the cities; a pestilence kills the domestic animals; painful boils afflict the Egyptians. For the seventh plague, fire and ice combine to descend from the skies as a devastating hail. Still, “the heart of Pharaoh was hardened and he would not let the children of Israel go, as G‑d had said to Moses.” Each of these plagues was a divine disruption, causing profound human suffering. I have personally heard from some angry people who have found themselves in the path of these disruptions. Late to work, late to pick up their children, cab drivers, a person in labor and trying to get to the hospital. The war is not their fault. Just as the Israelite enslavement was not the fault of the ancient Egyptians. On April 16, 1963, in his Letter from a Birmingham Jail, the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr, wrote, "First, I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I can't agree with your methods of direct action..." With the death toll in Gaza exceeding 20,000 people including more than 8,000 children, I need to know that I did absolutely everything I could to bring about a lasting peace and stop this war. And that includes talking openly with any and all of you who disagree with me, who are curious, confused and questioning. Please know, I want to sit with you and talk about this. I feel great pride in seeing how many Kol Tzedek members are organizing. Your devotion is itself a spiritual practice. The truth is that it has never been popular to be anti-war. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel is most famous for having marched in with Dr. King in Selma. It was King who brought Heschel into the Civil Rights movement. But what’s less talked about is that it was Heschel who brought King into the movement to stop the Vietnam War. On April 4, 1967 Martin Luther King, Jr., delivered his seminal speech at Riverside Church condemning the Vietnam War. Declaring “my conscience leaves me no other choice,” King described the war’s deleterious effects on both America’s poor and Vietnamese peasants and insisted that it was morally imperative for the United States to take radical steps to halt the war through nonviolent means (King, “Beyond Vietnam,” 139). And so too must we. Disruption is a holy tactic of bringing about justice. Disruption is at the core of our liberation story. I pray our disruptions bring us closer to “a positive peace which includes the presence of justice.” May we have the courage to hear the words of the prophets and the rabbis” “There can be no peace in our gates without justice.” I began my week at the Met, where I had the incredible opportunity to witness the inauguration of Philadelphia’s new mayor and city council, including our own badass member Rue Landau, who boldly raised her right hand and swore on the sacred text of her choosing, “The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America.” Of the many pastors and preachers who spoke (and there were many!), it was the words of Mayor Parker’s pastor, Reverend Dr. Alyn E. Waller, Senior Pastor of Enon Tabernacle Baptist Church, that resonated most.
With his eyes closed and his heart focused, his prayerful invocation echoed the beginning of the Amidah. He began, “Eternal God our Father, God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,” and then he continued, “God of Harriet, God of Simone, the God of Cherelle, God of Martin, Malcolm and Medgar…” (You can see his prayerful presence here at 1 hour and 57 minutes.) He located the political moment both in time and place. Philadelphia was a landmark city for freed slaves in the time of abolition. And Cherelle Parker as the 100th Mayor, the first woman, a black woman. The entire ceremony felt like church (and also like Yom Kippur because it ran more than 4 hours) and I was quick to offer an Amen to this pastor’s words. It felt especially poignant to invoke Harriet, Martin, Malcolm and Medgar this week, as we begin reading the book of Exodus. It returned me to one of my most beloved Harriet Tubman quotes, “I freed a thousand slaves. I could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves.” Many rabbis have called attention to the moment in our Torah portion when they imagine that the Israelites become aware of their own enslavement, and therefore the possibility of getting free. Exodus 1 begins with the ominous recounting that a new King rises over Egypt and treats the Israelites ruthlessly. Yet they survived, they endured and they even multiplied. It is not until the very end of Exodus 2 that we learn that the Israelites had been enslaved for generations. Again a King dies and this time it leads to a collective awakening. The Israelites moaned and groaned, they cried out and finally the Holy One heard them. Exodus 2:24 reads, “God heard their moaning, and God remembered the covenant with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” Which is to say, the God of Harriet, Simone and Martin. Here I understand the language of the Divine as an externalized articulation of human spiritual awareness itself. This is the moment of Israelite awakening, of remembering their human potential and dignity. It is a moment of insight into their own experience of suffering, which is the beginning of liberation. One of the enduring gifts of my sabbatical was the opportunity to sit a longer meditation retreat. Last January, as I entered my second week of retreat, I noticed the presence of both calm and concentration. This felt new in my practice. At which point one of my teachers shared with me the seven factors of awakening. They are: Mindfulness (sati), Investigation (dhamma-vicaya), Effort (vīriya), Joy (pīti), Relaxation (passaddhi), Concentration (samādhi) and Equanimity (upekkhā). She noted I was experiencing some of these qualities, which felt shocking, since I always imagined awakening to be over the mountain and beyond my reach. But she insisted, no, awakening is within your grasp, in fact it is already within you. Apparently it is understood in the Dharma that when any factor of awakening is present, all of the factors are in fact present. Which is to say, if I felt calm, it was also possible to feel equanimity (which most often eludes me). Returning to our parsha, I see this pivotal moment at the end of Chapter 2, as the beginning of our collective awakening through Moses. In the coming verses Moses will experience mindfulness as he encounters the Holy One at the Burning Bush. He will investigate, asking God over and over why him? He will effort to free his people. There will be joy as they sing and dance across the sea. And there will be moments of equanimity at Mt. Sinai, as the thunder and lightening makes way for profound silence and the people respond “Naaseh v’nishmah,” we can do this. One teacher once reminded me, equanimity doesn’t happen on the cushion. It happens when you get a flat tire on the highway. Or in the case of our community, I am hoping it happens as we prepare to move into a new building, while responding to an evolving pandemic and organizing to hasten a ceasefire. This is a stressful time, for so many of us personally and for us collectively. My prayer for us as people and as a community is that we take this parsha and this moment as an invitation to recommit to our own capacity to cultivate awareness and to awaken. To see this as our spiritual path and obligation. To know that the path to liberation begins with curiosity which energizes our commitments, which allows us to settle and focus, which is unexpectedly delightful and sustainable. Cultivating any of these qualities makes all of them possible. Liberation is not in the heavens. It begins right here, in our hearts, and radiates out until every city is a city of shalom. May it be so. Today is one of my family’s favorite days of the year. In addition to being my partner’s half birthday, December 22 is the day after the winter solstice. Which means, the days are officially getting longer. My kids woke up this morning, got dressed, and ran downstairs singing, “Light is returning, even though it is the darkest hour…no one can hold back, back the dawn.” Then they started playing dreidel and remarked it still feels like Hanukkah. This might be related to the fact that we have not yet put away our menorahs. Partly because it's been a busy week and partly because until the days were getting longer, we needed the reminder.
This, as it turns out, is a core human need. So core, even the first human being, Adam HaRishon, had this experience. In Masechet Avodah Zara (8a), Our sages taught: When Adam saw that the days were getting shorter, they said: "Oy, I did the wrong thing and therefore the World is getting darker and is returning to chaos. Death has been decreed upon me!" This midrash recounts the very first human’s encounter with the very first winter. The days just keep getting shorter and they think it’s their fault. Even more so, they fear it's irreversible. Existentially asking, what if light never returns? The midrash continues, “Adam HaRishon therefore spent 8 days fasting and praying. As they finished their fast, Adam saw that the days were getting longer. They realized that maybe the days waxed and waned throughout the year. And they were relieved. So the following year, Adam celebrated the end of the shortening days with 8 days of celebration…” This is yet another tale intended to answer the question the Talmud asks in Masechet Shabbat, “Why Hanukkah!?” It is also an affirmation of my own kid’s spiritual instincts. Even when Hanukkah and the Solstice don’t quite align, there is a human instinct to celebrate the light lasting a little bit longer on December 22. To honor that we have made it through the rigor of waning days. I offer you this long slender poem as a belated Hanukkah gift, with gratitude to Rabbi Mó who shared it with me. How the light comes by Jan Richardson I cannot tell you how the light comes. What I know is that it is more ancient than imagining. That it travels across an astounding expanse to reach us. That it loves searching out what is hidden what is lost what is forgotten or in peril or in pain… I cannot tell you how the light comes, but that it does. That it will. That it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you, though it may seem long ages in coming or arrive in a shape you did not foresee. And so may we this day turn ourselves toward it. May we lift our faces to let it find us. May we bend our bodies to follow the arc it makes. May we open and open more and open still to the blessed light that comes. Maybe you spin the dreidel tonight, maybe you don’t. But either way, I invite you to savor the extra minutes of day, the diminishing darkness, and to remind yourself that light is returning. May we trust that the light is seeking out what the pain and peril that is so present. And may we have the courage to turn ourselves toward it. Please indulge me, in the final moments of Hanukkah, to squeeze in just a bit more Hanukkah torah.
There is a very practical disagreement about Hanukkah to which I am very endeared. What makes more sense: Lighting one candle on the first night of Hanukkah and then adding a candle each night until there are 8? Or lighting 8 candles on the first night and then taking away one candle each night until there is only 1 left? Well on the one hand, it is spiritually satisfying for the candles to increase corresponding to the magnitude of the miracle that the oil lasted. But on the other hand, the amount of oil functionally decreased with each passing night until there was none left. This very debate is recorded in Masechet Shabbat of the Babylonian Talmud. There it is understood that Beit HIllel corresponds the number of candles to the outgoing days (the ones we have already observed) while Beit Shammai corresponds the number of candles to the incoming days (the ones we have left). The disagreement of Hillel and Shammai is understood as “for the sake of heaven,” which is to say it is generative conflict, which has lasting positive value. For those who are less familiar with the significance of these two houses of thought, check out this very helpful Wikipedia entry. Most often in their arguments, both are right and reasonable. And yet almost always, almost everyone, almost everywhere follows the practice of Beit Hillel. Which has led my rebellious spirit to naturally align myself with Beit Shammai. It feels a bit like rooting for the underdog. But recently my teacher called me on it. We were having an argument and she said, stop being shammai for a moment and try being Hillel. Her words pierced and challenged me in an important way. For years I have not appreciated the difference between them had less to do with the legal reasoning and more to do with how they communicate their beliefs. In Masechet Eruvin, the Talmud makes clear that both houses were teaching divinely ordained truths. But there were some important differences. Namely that Beit Hillel was kind and gracious, and taught Beit Shammai alongside their own ideas, often teaching them first. So in that spirit, my teacher challenged me to articulate and advocate for her idea before my own as a way to show that I really heard and respected her. To be totally honest, I couldn’t do it. And that hurt us both. It is hard for me to be kind and gracious when I feel activated and defensive, and especially so when I feel I am right. So this Hanukkah I have returned to the words of Yehudah Amichai, “From the place where we are right Flowers will never grow In the spring. The place where we are right Is hard and trampled Like a yard…” As a person who loves flowers, this is motivating. But wait, there is more… Menachem Fisch explains, “The Hillelite position is endorsed, the Talmud explains, because, unlike the Shammaites, they were נוחין which means flexible, as opposed to dogmatic – i. e. wary of being wrong and willing to change their mind. But that is not enough. The Hillelites knowingly coupled their flexibility, with עלובין, a willingness to be proven wrong by others; not only flexible, but open to criticism.” As this terrible war persists, we are being challenged to have divisive conversations. I am not saying that there are two right sides to this war or any war. But I do think we are called to be in deep relationships with people we may not agree with. I am personally struggling to do so with the grace and compassion our tradition calls us to. I am finding it helpful to enter these conversations with these two guiding values: being willing to change my mind and being open to criticism. This Hanukkah, I lit all our menorahs in the spirit of Beit Hillel, wIth the hopes that I may learn how to have more generative conflict with the people I love, if not for my own sake, then for the sake of heaven. I encourage you to listen to this Jewish Currents episode “Talking to your family” as it ”explores questions of when it is our obligation to keep arguing, and when it’s better to take a break—or give up completely. And what this moment says about the future of Jewish American institutional life.” On Monday morning I received an email from Makom Community, where my kids go for Jewish enrichment two afternoons a week. It began, “I have sad news to share. Over the weekend, our store front windows on Sansom Street were graffitied with the words “Free Palestine” and another graffiti tag.”
The email itself was full of care. I am so grateful to Beverly Socher-Lerner and the entire staff at Makom for their graceful leadership during this time. Makom’s response was beautiful. Their team of educators met and they created signage to hang over the graffiti which says, “We all deserve peace and safety. Happy Chanukah. Let your light shine.” I felt both proud and comforted to know my kids would walk into that learning space and be greeted by those words. I was startled by the incident. I thought of Kol Tzedek’s windows and the vulnerability of moving into our own building in this climate of increased antisemitism. I was deeply comforted when CAIR-Philadelphia, one of our organizing partners, posted this in response to the vandalism at Makom: “CAIR-Philadelphia decries and stands firmly against recent defacing of Makom Community in Center City, Philadelphia. We extend solidarity and support to the Jewish community of Makom Community and the families of the childcare center they house. “Targeting Jewish institutions or defacing their property for the actions of the IDF and the right-wing Israeli government is antisemitic and contrary to the values of those who seek freedom and dignity for Palestinians. It also does not do justice to the many Jewish community members who are actively working on the frontlines of the #CeasfireNow movement.” This statement made me feel safer and seen. It does not however transform the truth that there is antisemitism on the left and on the right, in our city and in the U.S. Congress. This continues to scare me and makes it hard to trust. I care so deeply about Jewish safety. I care so deeply about Jews and Judaism. It is what I breathe and maybe even why I breathe. In many ways I understand that the profound divisions amongst Jews, and the differences in our political responses to this moment, all source from the same core human need to feel safe in this world. The vandalism at Makom immediately returned me to a very ancient argument about Hanukkah. There is a debate in the Talmud about the core mitzvah of Hanukkah. Some argue it is the lighting of the menorah, after all the blessing concludes “L’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah” which would suggest the essential spiritual practice is to light the hanukkah candles. Others argue it is not just the lighting of the menorah, but also and most importantly, doing so publicly in a way that pirsumei nisa - publicizes the miracle. For this reason the Talmud teaches that the commandment of lighting Hanukkah candles should be performed “between sunset and the time when feet disappear from the marketplace” (b. Shabbat 21b). Which is to say in public at a time when people are around to see it. This is a bold spiritual instruction that reorients our potential responses to antisemitism and unsafety. Even in a moment where antisemitism and Islamophobia are present threats in our communities, where our Jewish institutions are being vandalized and our Muslim neighbors fear for their lives, we are instructed to publicly light our menorahs and spread hope. The rabbis do take some precaution and advise that in times of extreme danger we can move the menorah from the public square to our window, and if needed to an even more discreet location. It is hard to be Jewish in public at this time for so many different reasons. If this feels appropriate to you this year, I hope you will trust yourself and feel supported by the wisdom of Jewish tradition. There is something very visible about being Jewish at Hanukkah. It is an offering of hope we make not just to ourselves, but to each other and to our neighbors too. Even more so, it provides an ancient Jewish vision of safety that points us towards interdependence, towards courage and towards one another. This week has been defined by new life, having just officiated at the Bris of our newest member Isaiah Raphael Joffee (Mazal Tov Aviva!). This week has been defined by the death of several member’s grandparents and more than one difficult cancer diagnosis, constant reminders that we are mortal, that life is fragile.
This week has also been defined by the slow drip of hope, with the release of 110 Israeli hostages and 240 Palestinian political prisoners. If you are like me, you have tracked the release of every single person. I have studied the faces of 4 year old Abigail Edan and 22 year old Ahed Tamimi. I keep returning to the images of them embracing their families. I am focused on their eyes. The hurt they harbor. The long road to healing ahead of them. The sounds of war all around them. I am struggling to digest so much violence and injustice. I keep returning to prayer. What does it mean to pray for peace in a time of war? What might make our prayers effective? A teacher shared with me a teaching of the great 18th century Hasidic rebbe, Noam Elimelech. It begins, “It is known that a tzaddik’s prayer is answered when praying for a sick person or for others in need. But why? … Why is a tzaddik’s prayer more effective than the prayer of any other person?” To which he explains, “This is because a tzaddik loves both God and every person in the world….Most people are not like this…Only a tsaddik who loves everyone has that power.” I am struck by this ancient aspiration to love God so fully that we actually love absolutely everyone. When we open our hearts fully to the Holy One or Holiness, we are reminded of our fundamental interconnectedness to all life. And when we pray from that place, transformation is possible. In the words of the poet Cathy Cohen, When Sorrows Come, …I once dreamed of starlings flying in patterns, pulled to each other, yet with space to maneuver when threatened by hawks, by danger. But lately I’m dreaming of others who suffer – those close and strangers, whose souls we must touch so prayers might flow more quickly from our lips when sorrows come, when joys – when sorrows come. May we have the courage to try to love every person so fully that our prayers for peace and healing flow more quickly and are answered immediately. Here are two spiritual resources that brought me comfort this week. A new Let My People Sing! Playlist and this beautiful dvar Torah by Ms. Ezra Furman. The last time I was in Israel and Palestine was in the summer of 2006. It was a very formative time in my life. I have been thinking about it a lot lately. The experience that has been coming back to me this week was the morning I sat with a Palestinian civil rights lawyer. We were asking him questions and one friend asked, “How do you maintain your hope in the face of so many decades of occupation?” To which he seemed to easily respond, “We have no choice. We must be hopeful so that we are ready for freedom when it comes.”
The truth is that this has the potential to feel like a hopeless moment. We are on day 41 of a very violent war that is tearing at the fabrics of family and community. So many people have expressed to me despair about what comes next and how this war ends. In these moments I go back to that conversation in Palestine and remind myself we are each obligated to figure out where our hope comes from. I spent this past Monday praying for a deescalation of violence and ceasefire at the Capitol building in Washington, D.C. We were a weekday pop up shul, complete with a real ark and three Torahs. It was a bright sunny morning and it felt good to pour my whole heart into prayer. I sang so loud for so long that I actually lost my voice. Some of you were there with me and Rabbi Mó. Some of you watched the livestream. As we were led through the morning psalms by Rabbi Yosef Berman of the New Synagogue Project, I found myself lingering on Psalm 121. I lift my eyes…to the Capitol. From where does my help come? … But rather than help, my mind keeps substituting hope. As this devastating war enters its second month, I am asking myself, From where does my hope come? Just last week I was teaching the monthly Teen class at KT Torah School. We were studying the famous Mishnah in Pirkei Avot that asks, “ I am not for myself, who is for me? But if I am for my own self [only], what am I? And if not now, when?” We were talking about this teaching in the context of the war in Israel and Gaza. And one student remarked, “I think people don’t have enough empathy for people who are different from them.” That gave me hope. This past Wednesday I joined KTTS+ for tefillah. The students have a rotation and they take turns leading the prayers. As we sang Ufros Aleinu we paused and the kids called out places and people they wanted to send protection. Gaza, Israel, Palestine, the West Bank, the whole world. Their hearts are so wide. I am so grateful to be part of a synagogue where our children are praying for both Israeli and Palestinian safety. They give me hope. And just yesterday I led a text study with Molly Sand and her fellow organizers of the Penn Freedom school on the Torah of Lo Yisa Goy. Molly dedicated her learning to her grandfather’s memory. It was a brave and gentle multi faith space. After I taught, the Muslim chaplain recounted the story of Moses and Pharoah. I was honored to be there. They give me hope. My favorite image from this week’s Torah portion, Toldot, is about the wells that Isaac digs. Genesis 26:19 reads, “Isaac dug anew the wells which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham and which the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham’s death; and he gave them the same names that his father had given them.” Hope is an act of resistance. It is a spiritual practice. Jewish author and poet Grace Paley is famous for having said, “The only recognizable feature of hope is action.” If the only recognizable feature of hope is action, I see a reason to believe Isaac was hopeful. Despite a life of trauma and familial trouble, despite the despair one might feel when traveling in the desert with no reliable source of water, he redug the wells. And the Torah goes on to say that he found in each one a well spring of water. Tomorrow is our final Bar Mitzvah of the fall season and our last regularly scheduled B’nei Mitzvah at Calvary. The young people in our community are kind, empathetic, curious, critical thinkers. They are equally passionate about playing games and pursuing justice. I have the privilege of working with each and every B’nei Mitzvah student one on one. I imagine that when we first sit down to write their divrei Torah, they look at the Torah and think, I have to find water here?! But without fail or complaint they find a way to redig the well and draw forth their own unique wisdom. They give me hope. Since Wednesday I have been signing my emails “Shabbat Shalom”, anticipating the rest on the horizon. But these weeks it feels like it takes on new urgency and meaning. As if to say, May there be peace by Shabbat. May there be peace on Shabbat.
Each week, no matter the violence and suffering that has ensued, we find a way to greet Shabbat. In the words of Lecha Dodi, לִקְרַאת שבָּת לְכוּ וְנֵלְכָה. כִּי הִיא מְקור הַבְּרָכָה. “Let us go to welcome Shabbat, for she is the source of blessing.” And then in the next verse we sing, רַב לָךְ שבֶת בְּעֵמֶק הַבָּכָא. וְהוּא יַחֲמול עָלַיִךְ חֶמְלָה. “For too long you have been dwelling in the valley of tears. May the One who is compassionate, bestow compassion.” The past four weeks have been a valley of tears. As I prepare for this shabbat, I find myself longing for respite. The rabbis describe shabbat as a taste (literally: the unripe fruit) of the world to come (Genesis Rabbah 17:5). This teaching has drawn me back to the Days of Awe and our dreams of the world to come. One of the many beautiful teachings about the world to come describes 10 things that will be renewed or made true in Olam Haba (Exodus Rabbah 15:2). The list reads:
In this moment of profound destruction, these visions of healing and rebuilding are soothing to my system. It is not lost on me that this list was likely written by someone who knows what it feels like to see a world full of weeping and wailing and to long for that to end. I feel called by this teaching to devote my shabbat to imagining a world without weeping and anguish; to create a day together that is full of joy and connection; to eat from the tree of life that will one day bear this fully ripe fruit; to feel in my bones a shabbat shalom so that I can be truly refreshed for the week to come. I invite you to lay down the news, turn off your phones, and find a way to join me for at least some part of the next 25 hours. May we have the wisdom and courage to be joyful. For 6 days a week we work to build toward an everlasting day when these 10 things are true. But tonight “Let us go to welcome Shabbat, for she is the source of blessing.” Among the pieces of art in my office, there is a small colorful print in a metallic turquoise frame
that intentionally hangs in my direct line of sight. It is a drawing done by my beloved friend Micah Bazant that says, “Honor our dead & fight like hell for the living.” They made this image to support CeCe McDonald and all trans women of color who are fighting for their lives. Micah made it on Transgender Day of Remembrance 2013, to reframe the event towards supporting the survival and leadership of trans feminine people of color. As Janet Mock, a transfemme activist puts it: “It’s a state of emergency for trans women and trans feminine folk of color”… "The disproportionate levels of violence trans women of color face pains me, and so does the pervasive framing of trans womanhood being directly linked to images of victimhood and tragedy. It hurts that our names are often amplified only when we are dead, gone, inactive.”… " We can’t only celebrate trans women of color in memoriam. We must begin uplifting trans women of color, speaking their names and praises, in their lives.” As we enter the month of November and approach another Trans Day of Remembrance, I have been holding these words close like an amulet and an oracle. They have also been an anthem at the many protests I have attended calling for a ceasefire. Janet Mock’s words invoke my own feelings about Palestinian lives as well. As progressive Jewish communities, we are growing accustomed to reading their names at Kaddish and less practiced at building trusting relationships with Palestinians. There is grounding for this imperative in this week’s Torah portion, Vayera. Not once, but twice, Abraham argues with God and insists that the Holy One reach deeper and find more compassion to save innocent lives. The first occurrence is on behalf of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. God wanted to wipe out the two cities in their entirety and Abraham implores God! וַיִּגַּשׁ אַבְרָהָם וַיֹּאמַר הַאַף תִּסְפֶּה צַדִּיק עִם־רָשָׁע׃ Abraham approached God and said, “Will You sweep away the innocent along with the guilty? Abraham then begins to bargain with the Holy Blessed One: “What if I can find 50 righteous people? Will you save the city? How about 40 righteous people? 20? 10? 5?” At which point Abraham calls God in: חָלִלָה לְּךָ מֵעֲשֹׂת כַּדָּבָר הַזֶּה לְהָמִית צַדִּיק עִם־רָשָׁע וְהָיָה כַצַּדִּיק כָּרָשָׁע חָלִלָה לָּךְ הֲשֹׁפֵט כׇּל־הָאָרֶץ לֹא יַעֲשֶׂה מִשְׁפָּט׃ “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” (Genesis 18:25) The echoes of this political moment are eerie and clear. I too feel the desperate call to try to save every innocent life. Later in the parsha, The Holy One comes to Avimelech in a dream and describes Abraham as someone willing to intercede. The use of the word intercede here is significant (Genesis 20:7). The hebrew word is וְיִתְפַּלֵּל / v’yitpallel, meaning to pray, is the same root as tefillah, as in Jewish prayer. For the rabbis, the core meaning of prayer itself is born of Abraham’s spiritual efforts in this week’s parsha to bring about a more just God, and therefore a more just world. So when we sing, “In hope, in prayer, we find ourselves here,” we should know that our ancestors are really with us. The call I am hearing and amplifying is the call coming directly from Israeli families whose loved ones are being held hostage, “Everyone for everyone, Ceasefire Now!” Which I understand as: The fates of Israelis and Palestinians are intertwined. Jewish and Palestinian safety are not at odds. We are beseeching our governments and our God for a world in which we all keep each other safe. We are in mourning for so many righteous lives lost in Israel and too many more righteous lives lost in Palestine. And we are called to fight like hell for the living. הֲשֹׁפֵט כׇּל־הָאָרֶץ לֹא יַעֲשֶׂה מִשְׁפָּט׃ May the Source of Justice for all lands, not withhold a just peace now. This shabbat marks the fifth anniversary of the shooting at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh where 11 beloved community members were murdered while praying. I have been in touch this week with their rabbi, as she has wrestled with how to call for a ceasefire while her community is also so deep in grief and trauma. And I have spoken to members of our community who have shared with me how unsafe they feel as Jews at this moment. We are navigating layers of trauma recessed in our bones and encoded in our DNA. Activated by very real and current anti-Jewish violence and the horrible massacre of 1,400 Israelis on October 7.
At the same time, more than 6,000 Palestinians have been killed, including an unspeakable number of children. One friend, who is also a KT member, received a text last week from a dear Palestinian friend sharing that his entire family had been killed in their sleep in an airstrike. 14 people perished in an instant. And I know that some of us are adding a new layer of fear. That the violence in Gaza will produce more antisemitic violence here in the U.S., in our synagogues and schools. The song in my heart this week has been the refrain of one of our healing songs at Kol Tzedek, “When the world is sick, can’t no one be well.” One person I spoke with shared honestly that when they feel this unsafe, they cannot even begin to think about the safety of others. It is perhaps the most core human need and right to feel safe in our own bodies and homes. A need and a right that is unjustly reserved for the privileged in our world. A need and a right that is systematically and routinely threatened by racism, transphobia and state violence. Of the many articles and videos about this war that I have watched this week, one stands out. It is the moment when Yocheved Lifshitz, an 85 year old Israeli peace activist who was taken hostage on October 7, is being freed near the Egypt border. “At the precise moment of her deliverance from a hellish ordeal Yocheved Lifshitz paused and turned to grip the hand of one of the masked Hamas militants who had kept her captive. “Shalom,” she said. You can watch the moment here. The care and tenderness in her grip is palpable. I feel proud to be part of a Jewish people that includes her. She is an elder who has just survived 16 days of captivity and still she reaches for a shared humanity with her captor. Yocheved is one of many Israelis who do not want revenge. You can read their pleas here. I have spent many hours this week in honest, painful conversations with teachers, KT members and my own family. I feel in my own heart how hard it is to stay open, caring, connected to people with whom I disagree about the core nature of our safety in the world; what makes us feel safe, and how we can get there. And yet I believe in the possibility of a world that is whole and just and so far from our reality that it can only be captured in my prayers. Our healing song continues, “When the world is sick, can’t no one be whole. Yet I dreamt we were all beautiful and whole.” In this week’s Torah portion Lech Lecha, our ancestor Abram, is called upon to find his spiritual purpose in this world. One midrash (Genesis Rabbah 38:13) describes Abraham’s search for his own faith. In it he is wondering what might he worship, since he is abandoning the idol worship of his ancestors. “His father and his brother suggest, let us worship fire. To which Abraham counters: Instead let us worship water, for it extinguishes fire.” We too are called to find our spiritual purpose in this world. For myself at this moment, that includes the unequivocal call for a ceasefire in Israel and Gaza. I know we do not all agree with this call. I do not expect or need our political alignment. I hope we can align on our commitment to reaching for our shared humanity. For the humanity in others. In his poem Think of Others, Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish reminds us, “As you conduct your wars, think of others (do not forget those who seek peace).” May the Holy Blessed One who makes people possible in the heavens, bring it here on earth, speedily and in our days. |
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