|
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. This week was a big one for the cosmos.
On Tuesday we celebrated the new moon of Adar which ushered in the Lunar New Year (year of the fire horse !), the beginning of Ramadan, and Ash Wednesday. It was an interfaith cosmic mash up that I hope activated some kind of intergalactic portal that makes world peace imminent and irresistible. Or at the very least, transforms the rubble of Gaza into a glorious garden, freezes ICE agents in their tracks and melts all weapons into musical instruments. The Talmud teaches that when the Adar begins, joy increases. But what’s the right way to “increase [our] joy” in the context of so much loss and suffering? As a community, we have grown very familiar with the ways that Yom Kippur is like Purim. This year, I am realizing we may need to draw upon the discipline of Yom Kippur to give us the spiritual permission that Purim demands. In his teachings on Purim, Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira’s Esh Kodesh, written in the Warsaw Ghetto, pulls us even further in this direction: שכמו יוה״כ התענית והתשובה ביום זה, לא אם רוצה אותם האדם לעשותם עושה, רק בין אם רוצה בין לא, מקיימם מפני גזרת הקב״ה, כן גם שמחת פורים, לא רק אם האדם מעצמו בשמחה או עכ״פ במצב שיכול לשמח… To paraphrase, he explains that most of us don’t actually want to fast and afflict our souls and do the work of Teshuvah on Yom Kippur, but we do it anyway because it is “decreed”, which is to say, it's a collective practice. So too with Purim, which is not only for people who personally feel raucous or joyous, or find themselves in a situation worth celebrating… רק גם אם הוא בשפלות ובשבירת הלב, המוח וכל רוחו נרמס, חוק הוא שצריך עכ״פ איזה ניצוץ של שמחה להכניס אל לבו. Rather, even if you are yourself feeling low and broken hearted, like your mind and spirit have been trampled, it is a statute that you must, at the very least, bring a spark of joy to your heart. And the good news is that you don’t have to do that alone. We are gonna ignite that spark together. As I write I am listening to the Purimshpil come to life and it's cracking me up! But even still, if the joy feels unattainable there is a path for you. While the popular Purim brand is irreverent revelry, the core mitzvot of Purim are actually all about chesed. We are instructed to give gifts to everyone in our community who needs it (matanot l’evyonim) and share food with our friends (mishloach manot). Purim is about being excessively generous, whether we feel like it or not. And in my experience, there is so much delight in bringing others joy. So as you prepare for Purim, in addition to thinking about your costume, I encourage you to consider where you do want to donate money this Purim. At KT, we will be collecting money for Juntos. And can you make a list of all the people you might want to send care packages to? And if none of that is accessible to you, perhaps you can practice metta, and wish yourself and the world well. Perhaps the thing we need most this year is to express care for our community, and in doing so, we might feel more whole and an unexpected spark of joy. I am just returning from the Conference for the Jewish Left, which was held at Boston University. It was an inspiring gathering of nearly 1200 people, in person and on Zoom. What started as a local academic convening three years ago has quickly become an international movement-building opportunity. I wanted to take the time to share a few highlights.
There were academics and activists, artists, organizers, philanthropists, so many rabbis and rabbinical students, writers and retirees looking for a spiritual and political home. There were college students from more than 50 universities. It was a very hopeful window into the Jewish future. I had the privilege of teaching a session to more than 100 participants all hungry for liberatory Torah, which was awesome. But my personal highlight was getting to meet up with Zara Auritt, now a KT college student who came with a crew of eight friends from their newly forming campus student group at Smith called Tzedek Tirdof (Justice shall you pursue). The nachas of talking political strategy and community building with a young adult whose B’nei Mitzvah I officiated was more than a conference highlight; it was a life highlight. Each of the keynote speakers responded to questions in ways that touched me deeply. And I want to convey an insight from each of them. When asked what new he would add to his book, Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza, Peter Beinart shared that he finished writing before Donald Trump was back in the Oval office. He sees now that “the refusal of American Jewish institutions to hold Israel accountable to equity under the law for all its citizens reveals their inability to hold our government accountable for the same.” If he were writing the book today, he would stress that point. Arielle Angel of Jewish Currents spoke to the need for new Jewish institutions and the true financial constraints that limit our institution-building efforts. Given unlimited money she thinks we need a new federation (I couldn’t agree more!). But when asked the opposite question, “Given our limited resources, what is the most important investment we can make? She said without skipping a beat, “Synagogues.” There is a deep longing for there to be communities in every city where people can observe shabbat, study Torah, celebrate baby namings, educate their children, protest injustice and mourn their losses, without having to compromise their support for Palestinian freedom. Synagogues coalition spaces that strengthen our resilience and connect us to a moral and spiritual lineage. And coalitions are how we become more powerful. I do not take for granted that we have created that together at Kol Tzedek. That we exist and what we have created together really matters and creates a model for what is possible for the next generation. One of the most profound moments was receiving the words of Fadi Quran, a Palestinian leader who flew in from Ramallah for the conference. He talked about the need for Jews to emancipate ourselves from fear and create a politics rooted in dignity. As someone who has lived under Israeli occupation his entire life, he is intimate with both his own fears and also the manifestation of Jewish fear. He described with great intimacy and empathy the way Jewish fear has led Israel to violently occupy, dispossess and erase his own people and culture. And he articulated with clarity the need for a politics rooted in dignity for all people, as the only path to shared safety. But what really struck me was this moment when he quotes a leader from the African National Congress who said, “We don’t fight to win, we have to win so that we can fight.” Which is to say, we have to know what winning feels like, and then we can fight for it. As he said this, all I could think about was Shabbat. This is why we observe shabbat. To taste freedom, to feel it in our bones, to experience it in real time. So that we can embody it in the struggles that await us in the week to come. This is what it means that Shabbat is a taste of the world to come. It's the moment when we construct a world in which we are free. I arrive at the end of this week, my heart is feeling heavy. One headline captured it well, “The Olympics are a show of global harmony. The world is anything but.” The weight of so much cruelty, our inability to sufficiently disrupt it.
Which is why when I sat down to study this week’s parsha, an expected line attached itself to my heart. In parashat Yitro the Israelites are camped at the base of Mt. Sinai, eager and terrified to receive Torah. Moses climbs the mountain and there God speaks to him. Based on how things went in Egypt, we might expect more Divine instruction but what comes out instead is poetic inspiration. The Holy One begins, “You have seen…how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me” (Ex. 19:4). About this moment Avivah Zornberg comments, “The fact that a metaphor is used at this most significant and serious moment, theologically considered, in world history, is in itself surprising. Indeed, except for the poetic text of the Song of Sea, this is the only metaphor in the Exodus narrative” (Particulars of Rapture, 257). So why, here, does the Holy One speak in hyperbole? I can imagine that after all of it, the Holy One might wish she had just picked up her people and delivered them to safety and freedom. But I would not, after all, describe the great fear and suffering of the plagues, the uncertain crossing of the sea with the Egyptian army chasing after them, as breezy. I think the use of metaphor here is in a way addressing the trauma of it all. God knows it was hard, maybe too hard. The sentiment of the Israelites is heavy. The people are weary. And so precisely in this moment, the image of God’s metaphoric flight catches our attention. Zornberg comments, “The effect of the image is, of course, to convey intimacy, protection, love, speed; but also I suggest, the enormous power of the adult eagle, effortless carrying its young through the air…it evokes the physical sensations of carrying and being carried, the imagined empathy with eagle and young, to convey a spiritual modality…to induce in the people a momentary and partial sense of a transcendent perspective…” It is this image that prepares, maybe even allows, the Israelites to reopen their hearts to God and to Torah. The mention of the eagle reminded me of the words of Franz Rosenzweig, from a letter written to his sister-in-law, which was shared with me by my teacher Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld: “Each of us can only seize by the scruff whoever happens to be closest to us in the mire. This is the “neighbor” the Bible speaks of. And the miraculous thing is that, although each of us stands in the mire of our self, we can each pull out our neighbor or at least keep him from drowning. None of us has solid ground under our feet; each of us is only held up by the neighborly hands grasping us by the scruff, with the result that we are each held up by the next one, and often, indeed most of the time…hold each other up mutually. “All this mutual upholding (a physical impossibility) becomes possible only because the great hand from above supports all these holding human hands by their wrists. It is this, and not some nonexistent “solid ground under one’s feet” that enables all the human hands to hold and to help. There is no such thing as standing, there is only being held up. As an eagle…hovereth over her young (Deut 32:11).” On eagles wings, on ICE watch, on Shabbat, may we feel held up, carried and cared for. On Tuesday morning, I proudly held a cardboard image of a monarch butterfly and stood in front of City Hall alongside comrades, clergy and council members in the freezing cold as Council Members Rue Landau and Kendra Brooks introduced powerful legislation to protect all Philadelphians from ICE.
Then yesterday morning, Rabbi Lizzie and Rabbi Mó gathered with a triumphant swell in the chambers of city council to witness testimony in support of the legislation, which now has the veto-proof support of 15 of 17 members. Pastor Johnny Rashid of West Philadelphia Mennonite powerfully testified as the child of Egyptian immigrants, “This package of bills fulfills Philadelphia’s mission to love its neighbors and welcome the stranger. It seeks to hold law enforcement officers accountable and it ensures the protection of our community from the growing fascism and authoritarianism in our country. These bills guard against Trump’s bullying and power-grabbing, it protects our migrants from fear and assault, and it makes Philadelphia the welcoming city it purports to be.” In a week this brutal, both the weather and the news, this is a win! And it is no small thing to notice our wins. One of the limited things we can control these days is where we put our attention. And even that is really hard. So let’s practice together. This week’s Torah portion is triumphant! After 400 years of slavery and 10 plagues, and everything between, the Israelites are finally free. It is one of my favorite rituals of the year to read the Song of the Sea. What I am struck by this week is not the fact that we read this Torah portion every year, or that we sing the Song of the Sea every shabbat, but that we actually read from the Song of the Sea every day, twice a day in fact. This biblical poem is at the core of every morning and evening service. It is where the words “Mi Chamocha” come from. The rabbis anchor our entire prayer life to this moment in Torah. We should not take this for granted. They could have called our attention to many other stories, but they chose this one. We are invited to keep the song of the sea before us always. In an essay this week, Rebecca Solnit quotes the poet W.H. Auden who wrote in a review of the final book in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, "Evil, that is, has every advantage but one – it is inferior in imagination…” I think the Song of the Sea is a daily invitation to imagine freedom, to imagine winning. And, to quote Aurora Levins Morales, “Then imagine more.” “imagine winning. This is your sacred task. This is your power. Imagine every detail of winning, the exact smell of the summer streets in which no one has been shot, the muscles you have never unclenched from worry, gone soft as newborn skin, the sparkling taste of food when we know that no one on earth is hungry, that the beggars are fed, that the old man under the bridge and the woman wrapping herself in thin sheets in the back seat of a car, and the children who suck on stones, nest under a flock of roofs that keep multiplying their shelter. Lean with all your being towards that day when the poor of the world shake down a rain of good fortune out of the heavy clouds, and justice rolls down like waters.” This is the power of prayer. To undermine the fear of the world and to invite us to imagine every satisfying detail of winning. For the second Friday in a row the city of Minneapolis has canceled business as usual and called for a national strike. Last week, in subzero temperatures, nearly a quarter of the population of Minneapolis was in the streets demanding ICE leave their state. That is a win! In moments of despair, when the urge to doomscroll arises, remember the Song of the Sea. Remember that we danced our way across the sea, drumline and all. Remember that it seemed impossible until it happened. Keep even just the very last words in your pocket if it helps you remember to imagine winning on the daily. וּבְנֵ֧י יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל הָלְכ֥וּ בַיַּבָּשָׁ֖ה בְּת֥וֹךְ הַיָּֽם׃ “And the children of Israel walked on dry ground in the midst of the sea” (Ex. 15:19) Soon by us! I write to you from frigid South Minneapolis, where it is currently 20 below. (It is so cold outside that as soon as I exited the house, my glasses fogged up. I tried to wipe them clean only to realize it was frost.)
Rabbi Lizzie and I responded to an emergency call from our dear colleague Rabbi Arielle Lekach Rosenberg of Shir Tikvah and March Minnesota for clergy from around the country to gather to witness and learn about how thousands of people of faith and conscience are disrupting ICE’s efforts to terrorise immigrant communities in Minneapolis. It was one of many invitations that brought 1000+ clergy in advance of a statewide strike and day of action today. Our day began with an early morning pilgrimage to two memorials mere blocks from where I was staying. We drove to George Floyd Square, z”l. A small group of neighbors were gathered around a fire, offering each other warm quiche, fresh baked cookies, hot coffee and instant oatmeal. There is a gathering every morning at 8 am. The once gas station is now hollowed ground. We then drove a few blocks to the memorial site where Renee Good was murdered on January 7. There we found more neighbors gathered around another fire on the icy street, frozen flowers piled high. After saying a silent kaddish we got back in the car and tuned into the ICE watch call. There was a lot of activity and we quickly heard that an abduction was underway, just a block away. Two ICE agents stopped a car, pulled two people from it and abandoned the car. Neighbors called for help, parked the car, gathered wallets and names. The whole scene conjured Gestapo, slave-catcher dystopia. And also neighbors becoming the Jedi resistance. I have only ever witnessed military occupation like this in two places: the Sonoran desert and the West Bank. The terror, the uncertainty, disregard for constitutional laws, however imperfect. And throughout it all, I just kept returning to a verse from this week’s Torah portion, Bo. Exodus 12:49 reads, תּוֹרָה אַחַת יִהְיֶה לָאֶזְרָח וְלַגֵּר הַגָּר בְּתוֹכְכֶם׃ “One Instruction shall there be for the native and for the sojourner who sojourns in your midst!” The Torah doesn’t get everything right, and yet it stakes its moral credibility on this teaching. On the idea that everyone who lives in a place should be treated equally, under one law. Even thousands of years ago, it was understood that immigrants were vulnerable and the Torah emphasizes that our responsibility is to care for those most vulnerable, which was then defined as immigrants, orphans and widows. This teaching is so powerful it's repeated almost verbatim in Numbers 15:16. What I witnessed in Minneapolis was sobering. The actions of this administration are an affront to Torah and a threat to all of us. There is no way to know how many people have been snatched by ICE, where they have been taken, when they will return, if ever. Our government is occupying one of its own cities and disappearing people. The tactics are not new, but neither is the call to resist. When the gathering started on Thursday, one speaker looked out and asked, “How many people were with us at Ferguson? At Standing Rock? At Selma? Hands were up. It was humbling and inspiring. There is a long legacy of civil resistance and so much to learn. (One book I plan to read is Civil Resistance: What everyone needs to know by Erica Chenowith.) One local Jewish Lakota leader shared this wisdom, “The most effective thing that we’ve seen is neighbors. It’s nobody else’s responsibility but yours to confront ICE and stop them. You don’t have to do this alone. But you are not free to leave the situation. I’m just a very ordinary person who’s in a very ordinary circumstance. When they ask, “What did you do when they were going after your neighbors?” I’m going to say I did what I can.” What is most surprising is how hopeful I feel. We as a community know how to be good neighbors. How to love justice and embody chesed. We have block captains and block parties, and we can use that to build block watches. Everybody knows how to neighbor. This is what Torah is asking of us, and what this moment requires. We can decide today to protect our neighbors. |
Rabbi's Blog
|
RSS Feed
Office & Mailing Address: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #2, Philadelphia, PA 19143
General Questions: (267) 702-6187 or [email protected]
Shabbat Services: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #1, Philadelphia, PA 19143
General Questions: (267) 702-6187 or [email protected]
Shabbat Services: 5300 Whitby Ave, Commercial #1, Philadelphia, PA 19143