Maoz Tsur

Dear friends,

Before I share some thoughts on Hanukkah in advance of our celebration tomorrow, I’d like to acknowledge the anxiety and fear that the discussion in the Supreme Court on Wednesday may have provoked in many of you, especially women. I find myself seriously impacted by the prospect of this decision, and have spent much of the last weeks thinking about the deeper meanings of this debate, and these two words “choice” and “life.” I will share some thoughts about all of this in the weeks ahead, and we are planning to address it in some of our gatherings as well, but for now I will just re-iterate that in the Jewish tradition the needs of the woman clearly supersede those of the fetus growing in her womb. If any of you would like to talk with me about this, or to organize around this issue please reach out. 

We sing this song after candle lighting every night: 

Ma'oz tsur yeshu'ati 
lecha na'eh leshabeakh. 
Tikon beit tefilati 
vesham todah nezaveakh. 

Le'et tachin matbeakh 
mitsar hamnabeakh, 

'az 'egmor beshir mizmor 
khanukat hamizbeakh. 

Poetry is hard to translate, which is why the translations out there are so terrible. Here’s one: 

Rock of ages 
Crown this praise 
Light and songs to you we raise 
Our will you strengthen 
To fight for our redemption 

It’s amazing how what people call a translation can offer nothing at all of the intention of the poet. I don’t know that I can do much better in poetic form, but I’ll try and give a sense of it in prose.  

Maoz is a fortress, the place of condensed strength that cannot be broken.  

Tsur is a foundational rock, the rock within a mountain that will never in our lifetime move. It is the one stable, constant and true piece of reality. 

So Maoz tsur is the strongest inner core of the foundational rock. 

Yeshuati means my redemption or salvation. My chance for improvement, for rising above, for becoming one with truth and goodness despite everything else going wrong in my world. 

So Maoz tsur yeshuati is the strongest inner core of the foundational rock of my redemption. Fortress of the never changing rock of my best self. 

Then we say – lecha na'eh leshabeach: to you, oh fortress, is it proper to give praise. 

Tikon beit tefilati – literally the house of my prayer will be established. Here we clearly reference the Hanukkah story, and the return to the temple. But we can read this as any temple, the temple of our bodies, the place where we find peace, the home of our silence. This place will be established. And when it is, as we succeed occasionally in doing, then: 

vesham todah nezaveakh: We will make an offering of gratitude there. When we manage to find this place of peace, we are able to see what we have, and to feel and express our gratitude with a zevach, a sacrificial gift that we offer out of love. Tomorrow at the party we will be making care packages for seniors with mental and financial problems. That will be our zevach todah, our gratitude offering.

We end the verse with these words: 

'az 'egmor beshir mizmor 
khanukat hamizbeakh. 

Then I will conclude with a song. And what will that song accomplish? It will Hanukkah the alter; it will dedicate that alter of offering, the temple of our silence, and the work that is ahead of us to that fortress of truth, justice and goodness. 

This medieval poem continues with several more verses, each one detailing a different dark time in our history. It is a poetic map of Antisemitic moments and sentiments which we somehow overcame. In each of these times of fear and oppression we managed to return to Maoz Tzur, this unshakeable truth at our core, this home, this quiet self. We managed, we could say, to return to YHVH. 

Tomorrow we will acknowledge the ongoing problem of antisemitism, and look for our Maoz Tzur today. Our musical offering will be plentiful, with a special collection of incredible musicians including Frank London, Meg Okura, Trip Dudley and Yonatan Gutfeld. We will hear stories from elders, take part in an immersive play, fill our bellies with fancy latkes and ring the bells that still can ring. 

Chag sameach and see you tomorrow at 3:30 at Judson.  

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Thank you

Dear friends,

A prayer of gratitude from the daily prayers:

We thank you  
Our fountain 
And fountain of our mothers and fathers 

Slow painter of our lives,
Watchful keeper of our hope 
In every generation, that's You.  

We continue to thank you 
By telling your tales of love: 
   Our lives in your hands
   Our spirits in your care 
   Your miracles accompanying us day by day 
   Your evening wonders 
           Your morning silence
                   Your afternoon delights. 

Goodness; whose compassion will not end. 
Compassion; who won't stop acting like a lover.
Whatever’s left of us turns to face You 
Now 

For all of it 
Be blessed 
Be praised 
Be carried on our lips  
And hearts and minds 
Always  

מוֹדִים אֲנַֽחְנוּ לָךְ שָׁאַתָּה הוּא יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵֽינוּ לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד צוּר חַיֵּֽינוּ מָגֵן יִשְׁעֵֽנוּ אַתָּה הוּא לְדוֹר וָדוֹר נֽוֹדֶה לְּךָ וּנְסַפֵּר תְּהִלָּתֶֽךָ עַל־חַיֵּֽינוּ הַמְּ֒סוּרִים בְּיָדֶֽךָ וְעַל נִשְׁמוֹתֵֽינוּ הַפְּ֒קוּדוֹת לָךְ וְעַל נִסֶּֽיךָ שֶׁבְּכָל יוֹם עִמָּֽנוּ וְעַל נִפְלְ֒אוֹתֶֽיךָ וְטוֹבוֹתֶֽיךָ שֶׁבְּ֒כָל עֵת עֶֽרֶב וָבֹֽקֶר וְצָהֳרָֽיִם הַטּוֹב כִּי לֹא כָלוּ רַחֲמֶֽיךָ וְהַמְ֒רַחֵם כִּי לֹא תַֽמּוּ חֲסָדֶֽיךָ מֵעוֹלָם קִוִּֽינוּ לָךְ: 
וְעַל־כֻּלָּם יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִתְרוֹמַם שִׁמְךָ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ תָּמִיד לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד:

Wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving weekend!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Us and the Stars

Ben Shahn

Dear friends,

Imagine you knew the constellations as well as you knew your neighborhood. Like you knew how to get from the subway stop to your apartment, you knew the way from the Big Dipper to Orion. Like you could make your way from Lincoln Center to Grand Central you could follow the stars from Aquarius to Gemini. This used to be a much more common human ability but it was always rare. In the Talmud we find one true expert of the heavens. “Shmuel said: the paths of the skies are as clear to me as the paths of Nehardea (the town he lived in).” An intimacy with the night skies is something we city dwellers seem to have largely lost. 

A couple weeks ago the stars entered my living room. My cousin shipped me a painting that belonged to my grandmother, with text from the Book of Job under an abstract depiction of the night sky. Painted by Ben Shahn, a Jew who traversed the paths from the old world to the US, from Cheder (parochial school) to the world of political art, the painting has brought with it soft questions of our place in the universe, gentle queries about the ways we walk the earth, and new readings of the Book of Job. 

The stars serve a few different purposes according to our creation story.  

והיו לאתת ולמועדים ולימים ושנים 

They will serve as signs, and holidays and days and years.  

Signs that suggest where we might go. Holidays that we can stop and mark special times. Days that we might stay connected with the slow movement of the everyday. Years that we can feel the flow of our lives, its circularity as well as its changing nature. 

Life here on the ground beneath the stars is not always easy. We struggle to see those signs up there.  

The text in the painting is part of God’s speech to the ultimate sufferer, Job toward the end of the book. You’ll recall that Job was a rich, happy man, who had his entire life implode, losing his children, his wealth and health, and his trust in the goodness of God. After thirty some chapters of theological poetry about the question of bad things happening to good people, God finally speaks. God’s speech is most easily understood as a scolding. General sentiment: Who are you to complain at me, you little speck of dust?! But staring at these verses sitting under Shahn’s constellations has softened God’s words from angry rhetorical questions, to just plain questions: 

הַֽ֭תְקַשֵּׁר מַעֲדַנּ֣וֹת כִּימָ֑ה אֽוֹ־מֹשְׁכ֖וֹת כְּסִ֣יל תְּפַתֵּֽחַ׃  

הֲתֹצִ֣יא מַזָּר֣וֹת בְּעִתּ֑וֹ וְ֝עַ֗יִשׁ עַל־בָּנֶ֥יהָ תַנְחֵֽם׃  

הֲ֭יָדַעְתָּ חֻקּ֣וֹת שָׁמָ֑יִם אִם־תָּשִׂ֖ים מִשְׁטָר֣וֹ בָאָֽרֶץ׃ 

Can you tie sweet cords to Pleiades 
Or undo the reins of Orion?  

Can you lay out the constellations each month, 
Or keep the North Star in her mothering spot?  

Do you know the laws of the sky 
Or the way they govern the earth? 

There are answers to these questions beyond the simple “No” that most people have seen in them. Instead of a slap on the wrist or a trodding upon I have begun to see them as an invitation to participate in the heavenly play. Sitting under the loving painted sky I can’t help but notice how Shahn has tied sweet cords to Plaides, connected me to them and them to the other constellations. Or how Shmuel, like many star gazers learned the laws of the sky, and how some part of me understands the way they are connected to my life. Even though we rarely see the vast majority of the stars, many of us still know the way they were aligned on the day, the hour and the minute we came out from the dark to the place where they can be seen. There is hidden love and protection in this universe that we can look for, imagine, discover, take part in and know, even in - especially in - our darkest moments. 

Wishing you a shabbat filled with stars. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Strong Women

Judy Chicago, The Creation from the Birth Project, 1982

Dear friends,

Divine though it may be, the Torah was written by and about men. We can see direct lines between the Tanach and the abortion law in Texas, the backwards attitude toward parental leave in this country and the war on women around the world. All of this provides one of the most exciting opportunities religion has to offer: the chance to participate in reshaping it through new practices and re-interpretation of the ancient texts. I feel empowered when I can see the direct line not between the Torah and the current expressions of the patriarchy but between the Torah and the work of feminist artists like Judy Chicago, or even singers like Cardi B. 

I get especially excited when a young person clues me in to the subversive feminine voice in the Torah. These past weeks I’ve been learning from a 13 year old young woman named Willow, a member of the Shul who will be rising to the Torah at her Bat Mitzvah tomorrow. She looks at this week’s parashah and doesn’t see the story of Jacob leaving Canaan to Mesopotamia to find a wife, but of Rachel, who sets her eyes on a young man that turns up at the well, and decides to create a family with him. 

When Rachel’s father, Laban tricks Jacob into having sex with her older sister, Leah (and in that act solidifying their marriage), the Torah points our attention to Jacob. But in Willow’s narrative we are looking at how this impacts Rachel, as well as Leah.  When a decision to leave and head back to Canaan after 20 years happens, Willow sees the two women as the initiators of that move.  

The amazing thing is that once you make that switch in your mind it’s hard to see the text of Genesis as anything but that way.  

In God, Sex and The Women of the Bible, Rabbi Shoni Labowitz z”l wrote: “When you change the story, you can change the whole culture. This is what the patriarchal era did in history, and women have the power now to correct it.” Labowitz, who knew well how the (male) rabbis over the centuries diverted the story toward an even more male-centered approach, seems to be suggesting that the Torah may be more gender-neutral than we are used to thinking about it, and can therefore be reclaimed by women through interpretation. 

The contemporary practice of Midrashey Nashim, stories and commentaries on the Torah written by women is an important piece of this work. Women like Tamar Biala and Chana Thompson, who take the traditional form of Midrash, stories that flesh out the stories in the bible, but do it with a woman’s viewpoint are hard at work. Yael Kanarek, whose Re-gendered Bible flips all the genders in the Torah to create a new impression on the reader, is a downtown artist deeply engaged in Torah and its reboot. 

And just like in any of the struggles for women’s liberation, we shouldn’t forget that men can play an important role as well as allies. The struggle for a just Torah is the struggle for a just society for all of us.  Perhaps we could all start with hearing the women in the stories of this week’s parashah, as Willow has helped me do.  

If you’d like to give that a try, a wonderful place to start is in the Shul’s Women of the Bible Chevrutah, led by Elana Ponet. For more info click HERE. 

I hope you can join us this evening for Kabbalat shabbat at the 14th Street Y (or on Zoom), where we will have a conversation about one of Rachel’s strongest and strangest moments in Torah, and the echoes we might see of her actions today. We will be joined by Yacine Boulares, a wonderful French-Tunisian saxophone player and composer. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Wine, Cheese and Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream

Dear friends,

This week I posted a note on the Shul’s Instagram about State Comptroller Tom DiNapoli’s decision to divest New York state’s pension fund from Unilever, the parent company of Ben and Jerry’s. DiNapoli based his decision on Cuomo’s 2016 executive order forbidding the state to do business with supporters of the Boycott Divestment and Sanctions movement (BDS). I wanted to take the time to lay out some of my thinking on this issue that is close to my heart, which led me to post about it, and, I’m sorry to say, upset some of you. 

Before that, however I’d like to explain that I see my role as rabbi as one entangled with ethics and morality rather than “the news”. When I read the newspaper as Misha I have all kinds of thoughts and opinions about whatever I read. When I take action on an issue as Rabbi Misha it is because I see ethical implications which transcend the current moment and speak to the moral bedrock of our tradition and our people’s history. That was the case this week. 

Let me also clarify that what I posted this week had little to do with BDS. That was actually one of the points I was trying to make: that DiNapoli was using an anti-BDS law to penalize a company for an action that has nothing to do with BDS. You see, BDS is a movement to boycott, divest and sanction the State of Israel as a whole. They make no distinction between Israel proper, the land inside the internationally recognized 1967 borders, and the Occupied Palestinian Territories. To the BDS movement as a whole, the Israeli settlers of Chavat Maon - who have beaten my father and terrorized and assaulted countless Palestinians - and the residents of the Jewish-Arab village Neve Shalom, are the same.   

Ben and Jerry’s takes a different stance. Their action did not comment on the legitimacy or lack thereof of the State of Israel. They self-define as “Jewish supporters of the State of Israel.” The boycott they announced is limited solely to the Jewish settlements in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. They wrote in the NY Times that what they did is not a rejection of Israel but  “of Israeli policy, which perpetuates an illegal occupation that is a barrier to peace and violates the basic human rights of the Palestinian people who live under the occupation.” 

Throwing this kind of boycott into the same basket as BDS amounts to silencing criticism of the state. It’s the same as telling critics of Egypt or China or India--or any of the other countries around the world doing horrific things--to keep quiet. There is a reason why so many American Jews I meet are afraid to speak their minds, or even to hold an opinion on Israel/Palestine, and it has to do with messaging like this.  

Ben and Jerry’s is not questioning the legitimacy of Israel. They are questioning the legitimacy of a brutal 54 year-long occupation, and the actions of the State of Israel to fill the territory with Jews and create a system of segregation and oppression.  

Ben and Jerry’s is not saying that Israel is the worst country in the world. They know like we do that China is holding a million people in concentration camps and forcing them to pick the cotton that ends up on your clothes and mine. They know like we do that half of the population of Afghanistan and many other countries is under attack daily by the men who run it. They know that LGBTQ people are killed by the state in many countries in the world. They know that this country is still chasing black people at the border on horseback and keeps close to two million mostly black and brown people in prison.  

The reason they singled out one government is because of what I began with. It has to do with who we are. They clearly identify with Israel. They care about what goes on there. They feel a stake in it. And they were moved to take a stand on the one country that claims to speak for them as Jews.  

They’ve come to the same conclusion that many of the Israelis I know have arrived at: there’s something wrong with buying wine made in Jewish owned vineyards near Nablus, or cheese made in Jewish-owned farms outside of Hebron, both of which sit on lands confiscated from Palestinian farmers. It’s somehow different than wine or cheese from Binyamina, south of Haifa.  

We could agree with them or we could disagree. But to try to silence them in this uninformed way, which doesn’t even rise to the standards of the executive order that DiNapoli claims as his reason (and the rest of the politicians in the state have been mum on), is wrong.  

מבשרך לא תתעלם, implored Isaiah, Do not ignore your own flesh.  

Ben and Jerry’s refused to ignore the pain they feel over their ancestral homeland. They are choosing to engage, rather than to step back and say: “Oh it’s just so crazy over there.” They’re choosing to step in, despite the serious financial damages they stand to lose, rather than to hide.  

In this week’s Parashah we are introduced to our ancestor, Jacob, whose name will be changed next week. “You will no longer be called Jacob” the angel says to him. Jacob, the little brother of, the one who comes in the heel of (the literal meaning of his name), the follower who did what Mommy told him and ruined his relationship with his brother. No more of that. From now on, the angel tells him, you will have your own name, the name of one who doesn’t shy away, but struggles, leads and takes risks. “Your name will be Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and were not beaten.”  

Israel means to wrestle. Whether or not we agree or disagree with what they’ve done, Ben and Jerry’s is wrestling with Zion. Let’s not divest from wrestling. I hope you write me back some wrestling notes with whatever you may be thinking or feeling about this flawed communication.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Conversing in the Field

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Standing the Face of God

Lot's wife standing in perpetual prayer in the Judean Desert.

Dear friends,

The Merriam Webster dictionary gives thirteen different meanings for the word “stand” as an intransitive verb, 7 as a transitive verb, and 3 of what they term the essential meaning of the verb. Each of them is true to how we use the word in English. None touch upon how the rabbis understand the word. 

אין עמידה אלא תפילה the Talmud declares, “there is no standing that is not praying.” Standing is praying say the sages. Prayer is an embodied practice that happens in relation to the world around us. It is an action rather than an introspection. The rabbis trace this Jewish practice back to this week’s parashah, where after Sodom and Gemorrah are destroyed and Lot’s wife turned to a pillar of salt we find the following verse: 

וַיַּשְׁכֵּ֥ם אַבְרָהָ֖ם בַּבֹּ֑קֶר אֶ֨ל־הַמָּק֔וֹם אֲשֶׁר־עָ֥מַד שָׁ֖ם אֶת־פְּנֵ֥י יְהֹוָֽה׃ 

Early the next morning Abraham got up and returned to the place where he had stood before the Lord. 

Truth be told, the Hebrew is more complex and interesting than this (and any other translation I found) expresses. Yes, Abraham woke up early the next morning, those are the first three words וַיַּשְׁכֵּ֥ם אַבְרָהָ֖ם בַּבֹּ֑קֶר. The next two, אֶ֨ל־הַמָּק֔וֹם mean “to the place.” So he woke up early to the place, which most interpreters agree means he went there quickly or went straight there.  The next couplet אֲשֶׁר־עָ֥מַד means “in which he stood.” All of this the translation captures decently. But the final piece of the verse אֶת־פְּנֵ֥י יְהֹוָֽה׃ is untranslateable. The Hebrew word “et” from our phrase “Amad et peney Adonai” denotes a direct object. Literally this would be translated: “Where he stood the face of Adonai.” Standing is not a verb that takes a direct object. We stand on, before, up, to. Then what is the meaning of “standing the face of God?” 

The commentators are silent on this phrase. They seem to see it as a type of phrasing that may have been prevalent during the time when Genesis was written, and that is comprehensible enough to us. It goes along with phrases like את האלוהים התהלך נח, Noah walked God, normally translated Noah walked with God.  

In my view, however this line is too central to the way we pray today to ignore, and might hold some key to understanding what we mean when we use the word “prayer.” In the Talmud this verse is the proof text for the fact that Abraham created the practice of the morning prayer. When the Talmud uses the word Tefilah, prayer it is referring to the Amidah prayer – literally the Standing prayer, which is our central prayer in the morning, afternoon and evening service. 

In a sense, whenever we pray the Amidah we are leaning on this instant in our collective imagination when Abraham “stood the face of Adonai.” What was the nature of his prayer? The clearest thing about it was that it was a dialogue. God says he’s going to destroy Sodom, and Abraham answers. They go back and forth, conversing with one another. The other clear thing about it is that Abraham does not stand God’s decision to destroy an entire city. “Abraham came forward and said, “Will You sweep away the righteous along with the wicked?” Abraham demands of God to act according to God’s job description; the righteous judge. “Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” What follows is the well-known haggling over how many righteous people Abraham must find in order to spare the city. 

Whenever we pray the Amidah we hearken back to challenging the ultimate authority, we stand up for what’s right, we demand goodness. In so doing we embody the face of God that we invoke when we speak the words of the priestly blessing: יאר יהוה פניו אליך, “May Adonai shine Her face toward you.” 

It’s hard to stand up for something. When we do we often buckle under the pressure, or revert back to other things. But to stand in Hebrew also means to stop, as in the verse: “And the sea stood from its fury” (Jonah 1:15). Three times a day we are taught to cease what we are doing, to quit participating in the flaws of the world, the pressures of the particular ideology and culture of our time and place, and the fantastical rushing of our minds, to stand firm like a tree planted firmly in the middle of a gushing river.  "Even if a snake is wrapped around your heel you should not interrupt your Amidah," says the Talmud. Remain standing, firm like a tree.

Prayer is stopping. Prayer is refusing to accept wrong. Prayer is reminding God and people and ourselves what we are all supposed to be.   

Wishing you a peaceful Shabbat filled with sitting and lying down, and some standing as well. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Action as Beginning

Dear friends,

Beginnings are important. How you set out will likely color the rest of your journey. In this week’s parashah the Jews begin, or rather the Hebrews, out of which the Jews will emerge. If we judge this beginning from the first few words, it’s a marvelous one: 

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר יְהֹוָה֙ אֶל־אַבְרָ֔ם לֶךְ־לְךָ֛ מֵאַרְצְךָ֥ וּמִמּֽוֹלַדְתְּךָ֖ וּמִבֵּ֣ית אָבִ֑יךָ אֶל־הָאָ֖רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֥ר אַרְאֶֽךָּ׃  

Adonai said to Abram, “Go forth from your land, from your birthplace and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” 

The actor is able to hear the primordial voice calling on him to begin a life that is his own. “The land,” the kabbalists tell us, is not physical. It’s a form of wisdom that will be cracked open and revealed to Abraham as his life unfolds. Our first ancestors had the ability to hear, to listen, and to set out in search of their unique path. This bodes well. 

Quickly, though the journey sours. 

Abraham, worried that his wife’s good looks will get him killed, convinces Sarah to be presented to the Pharaoh of Egypt as his sister, not his wife. The Pharaoh takes her in and sleeps with her (or is about to according to some of the commentators), and as a result gets a disease. Incredulous at Abraham’s lie he sends them away. 

Shortly after Abraham complains to God that he has no child, and as such all of God’s promises of a nation that will sprout from him seem bogus. The rabbis point out that his prayer, while logical, is selfish. He could be praying for Sarah, or for the two of them. He could at least acknowledge her existence. Instead he lets his self-pity drive him and complains at God:  

וְאָנֹכִ֖י הוֹלֵ֣ךְ עֲרִירִ֑י 

I walk alone. 

This is the line that leads right into the ugliest chapter in this beginning, the story of the birth of Abraham’s first child, Ishmael.  

And Sarai said to Abram, “Look, YHVH has kept me from bearing. Consort with my maid; perhaps I shall have a son through her.” And Abram heeded Sarai’s request.  So Sarai, Abram’s wife, took her maid, Hagar the Egyptian—after Abram had dwelt in the land of Canaan ten years—and gave her to her husband Abram as concubine. He cohabited with Hagar and she conceived; and when she saw that she had conceived, her mistress was lowered in her esteem. And Sarai said to Abram, “The wrong done me is your fault! I myself put my maid in your bosom; now that she sees that she is pregnant, I am lowered in her esteem. YHVH decide between you and me!”  

Abram said to Sarai, “Your maid is in your hands. Deal with her as you think right.” Then Sarai tormented her, and she ran away from her. 

God then steps in and protects Hagar, and makes big promises regarding her son to be. But I am more interested in the human behavior displayed, and so are several of the rabbis. Nachmanides writes:

“Our mother (Sarah) did indeed sin by this affliction, and Abraham also by his permitting her to do so.”

This is a courageous move from a major rabbinic voice. In most cases the commentators see it as their role to explain, defend and exult the actions of the ancestors. It takes the type of originality and guts that Abraham displayed in the beginning of the parashah for Nachmanides to speak out plainly in this fashion.  

The medieval rabbi cannot ignore the reality around him. He sees Jews oppressed by their Muslim rulers all over the world. He sees strife between the seed of Isaac and the seed of Ishmael. So he continues: 

“And so, G-d heard Hagar’s affliction and gave her a son who would be a wild-ass of a man (as God tells Hagar), to afflict the seed of Abraham and Sarah with all kinds of affliction.” 

It’s a complex statement. On the one hand it paints Muslims as wild asses. And on the other it places the blame for the strife between Jews and Muslims squarely on the Jews. In any case we see a powerful attitude toward beginnings, rife with warning and possibility; How something begins is how it will continue.

Each of our actions is a beginning, and carries with it the weight of that which will come out of it. After all, we each have our own unique journey, hear our unique voices, make our unique mistakes and have the capacity to begin a unique tribe. We will all be shown the land that we must come to. On our way there let’s try to make our all of our beginnings openings to the unfolding of goodness. 

I am feeling under the weather so unfortunately we will not be holding our Kabbalat Shabbat in person this evening. I hope you will meet me on Zoom instead.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

This is Torah Study

Dear friends,

Hebrew school kicked off this week and it reminded me how fun it is to have conversations with young people about questions of spirituality and tradition. We sat in a circle and spoke the words of the Ashrei: we will praise you forever. I asked the kids about the notion of praising God and whether it makes sense to them. Answers differed as you might expect, but there was a general sense in the room that there is certainly something strange about praising God. I shared with them that when I was their age I didn’t understand why God would need my praise, or the praise of any human being, but that eventually I started seeing it differently, realizing that the praise we say is not for God but for us.

After learning a niggun we turned to the Torah. Naomi unwrapped it and Aliyah held The Yad in her hand, the pointer. When you introduce kids to a Torah scroll you sometimes realize what a crazy thing is. The scroll we were reading from was over 100 years old, and had survived the Holocaust in Romania, traveled to Israel in the 60s and then flew to Brooklyn at some point after that. It is identical or almost identical to almost every other Torah scroll in the world, including those that are written today. I watched as the kids touched the parchment and told me it felt like leather or paper or animal skin. Their eyes grew big when they were taught the labor went into this scroll, and goes into every one of these scrolls.

Finally we all chanted the blessing before the reading together and then Yoni chanted the first day of creation. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. and the earth was formless an empty and darkness hovered over the surface of the deep.”

This is one of my favorite lines to teach. You can pause on pretty much any phrase and ask all kinds of questions. In the beginning. Of what I ask. What is this beginning? Is it a prolonged period or a moment? And what are our beginnings, as we start this new year? The question that came up with the kids this week was about that second verse. What does it mean that the earth was formless and empty? Did it exist or did it not exist ? is emptiness really empty and is formlessness not there? Aliyah said it’s a blob. June said it’s potential. Jacob said in any case it exists.When one goes slow she can scratch at what’s underneath these words. This is Torah study.

Then We chanted the blessing after the Torah together.

Later that week I met with Rami who has his bar mitzvah coming up in a month. As we were discussing his Torah portion suddenly he felt the need to share with me something: I don’t believe in God. Great, I said, but you know you’re going to have to speak to God at your bar mitzvah. When you say Baruch Atah Adonai, Blessed are you Adonai, what is it that you are going to be saying do you think? How can you construe those words to make sense for you? This is a question I often ask students who struggle with their belief in God, but really it’s a great question for theists to ask themselves as well. How can you re-construe ancient words to mean something for you? And specifically the recurring phrase Blessed are You Adonai. What might that mean to you today, and why actually are you saying it? For Ramy it had more to do with tradition, with his parents, but he also suggested something incredible: I’ll be saying goodbye to God. We ploughed that statement, imagined his future speakings of the same phrase, and wallowed in time for a moment. This is Torah study.

In our conversation about praise Daniel suggested that praise is easier once you’ve come out as a difficult situation. I shared with him that earlier that day I conducted a funeral, in which the family and I paused to consider the words we say when we hear of a loved one who has passed: Baruch Dayan Emet, Blessed is the Judge of truth. An amazing woman had lived an amazing life that she filled with beautiful creativity, questions, answers, movement and richness. Surrounding her casket where her seven grandchildren, walking her on her last way, And then singing her praises. That is also Torah study.

I very much look forward to seeing you at our first in person Kabbalat Shabbat next Friday at 630 on the roof of the 14th Street Y, or on Zoom if you can’t make it in person.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

A Beauty We Can Take Part In

Dear friends,

By the time we reached Neilah something had been transformed. One could sense the minds in the space were somehow softer, less busy, the bodies somehow lighter and the hearts sitting a touch closer to their original spot. I had experienced something like this toward the end of the day of Kippur before, but there was something special about this year. The density of fear, anxiety and instability all around us had something to do with it. The time we allowed ourselves to find where we are in the present moment also. The music, the ancient words, the coming together in person despite all the fears, and online despite screen-fatigue, the positivity and desire of each of us to create something together that comes out of our souls or kishkes or yearning or memories or hopes; these were the ingredients of our very special High Holidays services this year. On a personal note, these holidays were a far deeper experience for me in large part because I now know so many of you, whereas last year I was really just beginning to get to know you all. Thank you for being there with me, and for making these holidays so unique.

There were too many wonderful moments to recount, but to me the heart what happened this year were expressed by the two Torah readings, on the morning services of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. On Rosh Hashanah evening, in a Syrian piyyut we invoked God by the name Chai, meaning Life or Living, or Alive. This was the attempt in these experiential Torah readings, to make the experience of a Torah reading a living, breathing organism. My teacher, Rabbi Dovid Neiburg once likened the Torah to Adam’s lifeless body before God, in Genesis 2 blows the air of life into him:

וַיִּפַּ֥ח בְּאַפָּ֖יו נִשְׁמַ֣ת חַיִּ֑ים וַֽיְהִ֥י הָֽאָדָ֖ם לְנֶ֥פֶשׁ חַיָּֽה

G-d breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and Adam became a living being.

The Torah is dead without us. It is a piece of dead animal skin with incomprehensible letters. Our job is to breathe the breath of life into it. We play God every time we read it.

Many of you expressed your appreciation of the way we read Torah this year. How Amy chanted the Hebrew, Chanan sang the translation and Frank blew his horn to express the sensuality of the words and the emotions expressed. Some told me they heard it as if for the first time, much like the ancient Israelites in front of the Gate of Water in Jerusalem in 445 BC. I think we all felt that this was different, new, of the moment.

It strikes me as very much what The New Shul tries to do in general. An ancient tradition that can be so stale and remote can become fresh and exciting when we blow some of our breath into it.

It’s a similar process, I think with forgiveness. When we come to examine our actions, our patterns of behavior, our failures with the judgement of our idea of what should be, with rigid notions of right and wrong, we get lost in what is no longer alive. When, and this happened to me this Yom Kippur over the course of the day, we manage to extricate ourselves from the clutches of dead ideas and bring ourselves into what simply is, we know the complexity of each of our mistakes, the forces beyond us that lead us to make them, with some of them we even know they weren’t mistakes after all, but the unfolding of our lives. This softer type of judgement is the lounge of forgiveness.

Reaching this space is what allows for Sukkot to emerge. The holiday of joy, of nature, of gratitude for what has been harvested, of the beauty of the transitory. My grandmother, Deana z”l, who died on the eve of Sukkot almost a decade ago, taught me that this is the holiday on which we read the Book of Ecclesiastes.

אִם־יִמָּלְא֨וּ הֶעָבִ֥ים גֶּ֙שֶׁם֙ עַל־הָאָ֣רֶץ יָרִ֔יקוּ וְאִם־יִפּ֥וֹל עֵ֛ץ בַּדָּר֖וֹם וְאִ֣ם בַּצָּפ֑וֹן מְק֛וֹם שֶׁיִּפּ֥וֹל הָעֵ֖ץ שָׁ֥ם יְהֽוּא׃

When clouds fill with water 
 they empty themselves onto the earth. 
And when a tree collapses down south or up north, 
 in the place where it falls, there it will lie.

We are a part of these cycles of life, filling and emptying like the clouds, arriving and departing in the spots that are ours. That is a beauty we can accept. That is a beauty we can take part in. That is a beauty we can love.

I look forward to celebrating Sukkot with you in an easy meditation walk in Prospect Park on Tuesday evening. If you’ve never done one before, it’s a chill, pleasant experience.

Chag sameach!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Assignment Recap

Dear friends,

It was beautiful kicking off the year with you. Many of you asked for a reminder of the assignment I gave to complete between now and Yom Kippur. This note will focus primarily on that. 

A week or so ago, when I was consulting with Holly about this very assignment she reminded me of that week of good will, that Et Ratzon that followed the September 11th terrorist attack. We recalled together how the entire city was washed over with positivity and warmth in the face of the disaster. We remembered the impossibly long lines to donate blood, the people helping one another on the streets, strangers sitting together on stoops; an active community of millions. During that horrific moment we found a way to act, for one another, for goodness. That is the action that Hannah Arendt defines as freedom, and what I am suggesting we search for this week. 

The question at the heart of the assignment is what can we do with what we’ve learned? What can we do in this world that is so cracked, despite our limited capacity? 

This past year we’ve all learned things about how to better live our lives. Think back and reconstruct those lessons. They could be lessons you’ve learned about your own life, your family unit’s, your city or society at large.  They could be lessons you learned because you had a different angle or more space to think, or they could be lessons thrust upon you by the trying circumstances you were in. However you reached these understandings, see if you can find a small way to realize one of these lessons, to pass it forward.  

On Monday night I conjured Hannah Arendt and her idea of action, which must involve other people, and cannot be solitudinous. So you want to look for a way to actualize what you’ve learned that isn’t only for yourself.  

One way to think about it that might be helpful would be to ask yourself what helped you this past year, and then to pass that outward. If, for example, a friend’s phone calls helped keep you happy you might think of a person that would perhaps be lifted by a phone call, and call them. Maybe a physical activity like sports or yoga helped you, and there’s someone you know who might get a boost from some yoga classes or a session with a personal trainer or whatever activity it is. Maybe you learned that music is important to you, and you can send some people a song or two, or invite them to listen to some music together, or send them to a concert. Maybe a random kind act that someone did for you stayed with you and you want to make a meal for a homeless person, or volunteer somewhere. Many of us sensed a major change in our internal landscape after the elections. Maybe there’s an election you can make calls toward, or text out the vote or volunteer on some particular issue. Maybe you discovered Shabbat this year and want to invite someone over for dinner on a Friday night soon.  

It doesn’t have to be a big action. My hope is that it will help us define one of the lessons we’ve learned, and that it will allow us to step beyond our doubts and to do a small deed of goodness, as a way to express our gratitude for what we have learned. Maybe it will move us one step toward knowing that God is good, that the world is good, that we are good, that despite all the difficulties, goodness abounds. 

I look forward to hearing about your thoughts and actions on Yom Kippur during the morning service. 

I also want to remind you to bring cloths of any kind to weave into our collective standing loom, which Suzanne Tick so beautifully described on Monday. This will be an opportunity to literally weave our community’s intentions and prayers for the new year together in the way this Shul knows best: through art. You can cut them up into strips, or just bring them in as they are for whichever service you can attend on Yom Kippur, and we will have scissors and markers there in case you’d like to write a word or a prayer onto the cloth. 

May this shabbat bring us the peace that will move us to action.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

New Year New City New Shul

The morning after Ida on the subway.

Dear friends,

I arrive at this new year wet, slightly ragged, but infused with new ideas and horizons I’ve picked up at our chevrutahs this last month. I come with a real feeling that I need to see you people, that we all need these holidays, that being together in whatever way each of us is able will give us the boost we need to dive into this year.  

Yesterday morning on the subway platform I saw a woman singing I Will Survive to the tiny number of people who braved the post Ida MTA. She reminded me that I love this city. Strange and beautiful acts of resilience and resistance happen here. Unusual and interesting entities like The New Shul mushroom out of the fertile asphalt. Moments of beauty are less rare here and pop up when you’re not expecting them.  

Rosh Hashanah last year, in a farm in Queens produced that feeling too. I was just finishing the Amidah when Liat showed me a headline on her phone. “Ruth Bader Ginsburg is dead.” When we got to the mourners Kaddish people yelled out her name. We gasped. Some cried. The musicians played their music. And then community members shared their cooked pieces of glory that represented what we needed in that moment. Ghiora explained the details of his saffron honey cake, a complex kabbalistic creation with specific numbers of nuts to reflect the zeitgeist. Others shared their fun brilliance in the form of cooked goods. And the moment was transformed. We were still sad, but we were in community, and it was nice. The bitter shock had softened a touch. 

Theater for the New City, where we will meet on Monday evening is a historic place. Early Sam Shepard plays, Living Theatre performances that changed the definition of what a play is, the wildest Halloween costume party in the city for years on end, Street plays to protest Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Bread and Puppet Theater performances protesting the ills of capitalism and hailing the indestructible power of Mother Earth, Grammy and Emmy and Pulitzer prize winners work performed before anyone knew who they were. Fifty years of New York strange, New York protest, New York art - and now we step into the fold, and try to cook up some New York Shul action.  

The chevrutah learning pods over the last month proved to me yet again what a unique group of people this Shul is made of. The type of discussions that went down in the Erich Gutkind chevrutah, a strange and marvelous combination of philosophy, rebellion and mysticism, were something I hadn’t experienced in a long time. In the Death and Dying chevrutah, deeply personal reflections on loved ones was shared in a way I had never quite witnessed, combining intellectual digging into text with the quiet awe of knowing there is an end. In the Karma chevrutah there were discussions of past lives. In Nehemiah history and economics morphed into the present political moment and Kabbalah. In the Meditation and Niggunim chevrutahs gates were opened, hearts relaxed, people shared moments of peace.  

Despite what we may or not be feeling, we are ready to bring in a new year together. 

See you Monday evening at Theater for the New City, and Tuesday morning at Brooklyn Bridge Park. (If you haven't already please register!)

Let’s use these last few days to prepare. Our season of return begins. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Our High Holidays Plans

Dear friends,

We have been in touch with many of you about the specifics of our High Holiday plans with regard to Covid. Some of you have reached out with questions or concerns, others we have contacted to consult with or ask how you and yours are feeling about in person gatherings, especially indoors. Susan, the Va'ad and I have been deep in these questions for at least several weeks. And I wanted to share with you all where we have landed and why. I can’t think of a more important communication at this moment.

Last Yom Kippur we read the following words from Deuteronomy: “I have given you today life and goodness, death and evil. Choose life.” That’s what we are working on. What does choosing life mean for us this year? Our highest priority is our health, first physical and then mental. People need in person services more than ever. But not all of us feel comfortable attending them at this stage of the Delta’s spread. The vast majority of adults in our community are vaccinated. But all our kids under 12 are not. They and their parents are pretty tired of getting tested every two minutes. And we all understand what’s at stake, and are accustomed to the sacrifices we each have to make for each other these days.

We think we have come up with a plan that maximizes everyone’s ability to participate with joy and ease this year. It’s not perfect, or full proof, but health experts we’ve spoken to have backed us up and we believe we will be all be able, in one way or another to feel the unique New Shul jig moving through us.

Besides all services being streamed live on Zoom with a top notch team of video and sound crew, we have moved some of our services outdoors. On Rosh Hashanah two of our three services will be by the water, morning service on Tuesday at Brooklyn Bridge Park and afternoon Tashlich on Wednesday. We hope this will make it possible for some  who aren’t comfortable coming indoors to join and to make it more family friendly (both outdoor services will be shorter, more experiential and near a playground for jumpy ones). We are considering moving one of the Yom Kippur services outdoors as well.

The indoor services will take place in a huge theater (Theater for the New City on 1st Avenue and 10th Street), with very high ceilings, two windows, and an air filtration system recently revamped to Equity’s high standard. We will be capping capacity at 50%, but expect closer to 20% for all services except Kol Nidrei. Entrance will require proof of vaccination for those 12 and up, and a negative PCR test for those under 12. We will be wearing masks and maintaining social distance. For many months no one has been allowed into the theater without proof of vaccine or a negative test due to their strict policies.

A week ago our incredible team of designers and tech crew met at the theater. The meeting got us all excited. Not only did the artistic vibe of TNS display itself in exciting ideas, but the team was so impressed with the theaters safety protocol that some who weren’t planning on coming in person decided to come after all.

None of this is a guarantee of any sort. We go into these high holidays with awe and unknowing. But the Va'ad and the leadership team feel confident that we will be safe - as medical consultants have told us - that our plan answers as many of our community’s needs as we possibly can at the moment - that this is our way this year to choose life.

If you have questions about any of the particulars of our Covid plans, please reach out to Susan at Susan@newshul.org. If you would like to come but are unsure, and feel like talking it over would be helpful, please call me at 9172020882. I will happily listen and certainly won’t pressure anyone one way or another. We all need to speak through our feelings every now and then. I am here to talk over this or other joys and sorrows. Elul is a heavy month always. Lots of us are struggling these days, and these holidays can help us work on ourselves. We want to use these opportunities in the way that makes most sense for each of us.

If you haven’t already, please let us know your plans for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Wherever you join us from, it’s going to be an awesome ride.

This Shabbat, stop and remind yourself that the holidays are coming. A new type of Beginning is returning to our city and our hearts.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Return Return Return

Dear friends,

Every day we pray for return. We remind ourselves that God wants us to improve, that we want to be better, that the self we have grown alienated from is calling us back. In the prayers of this season, which culminate in Yom Kippur, we keep repeating the mantra:

Adonai Adonai, el rahum vechanun, erekh apayim verav chesed ve’emet, noseh chesed la’alafim noseh avon vafesha vechata’ah venakeh.

“Adonai! Adonai! God, Compassionate and Gracious, Slow to anger and Abundant in Kindness and Truth, Preserver of kindness for thousands of generations, Forgiver of iniquity, willful sin, and error, Cleanser of all.”

The mantra works as a reminder that we, like God, are capable of compassion, of forgiveness, of return. It reminds us that return is always available to us. It is, as philosopher Erich Gutkind suggested, “a perpetual possibility.” After all, Gutkind wrote, the state we wish to return to, that of “a clairvoyant perception of truth,” is a human faculty that each of us possess, “like eyes and heart.”

But how does one begin the process of teshuvah, return? We are clouded by our circumstances, our suffering, our patterns of behavior, our ideas of what we want and need. Reaching that clear perception of truth is hard. Where might we start?

In our meditation chevrutah this week two answers were offered. The first avenue was the senses. We sat and noticed what we hear, smell and see. Without judgement or even thought if we can, we simply observed. Over and over we returned from our wandering panting minds to the simple reality we are in. In the next exercise we worked on the breath. Return to the breath. “Return, return, return,” Michael guided us. If we are able to create small islands of presence, with them may come the islands of peace that will help us step out of our spirals and anxieties, and come back to ourselves. When I listened to the sounds, I heard the cicada’s for the first time this summer. At that moment I knew for a minute that I am in and a part of the cycle of nature, that everything is in its right place, including me. I became aware of the greater reality I live in. I returned home to the world.

That kind of awareness can be painful. When Nehemiah receives a report from his brother about the ruinous state of affairs in Jerusalem, his and our spiritual home, “the city where my ancestors are buried,” as he names it, he breaks down. For days he fasts, prays and self-examines. He works hard to admit his wrongs, to pull himself back to a place where he might be able to do something about the situation that is breaking his heart.

“Lord, the God of heaven, the great and awesome God, who keeps his covenant of love with those who love him and keep his commandments, let your ear be attentive and your eyes open to hear the prayer your servant is praying before you day and night for your servants, the people of Israel. I confess the sins we Israelites, including myself and my father’s family, have committed against you. We have acted very wickedly toward you. We have not obeyed the commands, decrees and laws you gave your servant Moses.”

A few weeks ago we learned that mindfulness in the Buddhist tradition is infused with memory. And indeed a crucial piece of his return has to do with memory.

“Remember the instruction you gave your servant Moses, saying, ‘if you return to me then even if your exiled people are at the farthest horizon, I will gather them from there and bring them to the place I have chosen as a dwelling for my Name.’”

He is speaking to God, or to himself. He is gathering courage to believe in the possibility of a better world, a stronger self, a rebuilt Zion, a home that isn’t broken.

He manages to act with tremendous courage and insight. He convinces the king of Persia to send him to Jerusalem to rebuild its walls. But this process of listening, coming in touch with the greater reality, especially the brokenness, and out of it springing into action against the odds, will repeat itself over and over again on his journey. Return, return, return, he hears.

We hear it too. Return to the reality of the Taliban’s war against women. Return to the reality of global warming. Return to the reality of poverty and homelessness in our city. Return to the reality of two thirds of the world’s population that has not been vaccinated, primarily in the least wealthy countries. Return to the reality of a stalled return:

And all the while, again and again hear the call of our infinite compassion, of our ability to contain the difficulty and the beauty, to work on ourselves and the world, to return home:

Adonai Adonai, el rahum vechanun, erekh apayim verav chesed ve’emet, noseh chesed la’alafim noseh avon vafesha vechata’ah venakeh.

Now begin.

(P.S — to join one of our chevrutah learning pods, three of which inspired this piece, Meditation, Erich Gutkind the Forgotten Jewish Philosopher and Nehemiah’s Return, Click HERE)

(Link to share this letter here.)

Wishing you a shabbat of peace and gentleness.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Despite Everything

Dear friends,

Believe it or not, Rosh Hashanah is just three weeks away. At The Shul we are putting in place the strict Covid protocols that will allow us to come together safely these High Holidays. And we are preparing what promises to be a unique, musical and artistic experience of communal return. 

The Hebrew month of Elul is in full swing. Early every morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night Jews come together to prepare for the High Holidays by singing Slichot, prayers of apology and repentance.

One early morning this week, as I was wandering the streets of Brooklyn with Manu we were urged into the local Uzbeki synagogue to complete their minyan. When we came out I discussed the concept with little Manu. He’s knows about saying Todah, thank you, to God. Most mornings I’ll ask him what he wants to thank Elohim for today, and he’ll answer with one of his recent superhero acquisitions. He also knows about praise to God. After gratitude I ask him what he wants to say "wow" about, and he will look around and pick a tree or a cloud or a building to marvel over. He also knows about requesting things from God. After thanks and wow, I’ll ask him what he wants to ask of God today, and he will ask for some superhero toy, and for a toy for one of his friends or family members. Gratitude, praise, request, those are the pillars of Jewish prayer and the kid knows them well. But apologizing to God, we hadn’t touched upon that yet. 

I explained to Manu that these prayers we did were slichot, from the Hebrew word slicha, meaning apology. “We were saying sorry to God,” I said. “Why do you think we say sorry to God?” Combining four-year-old simplicity with deep instincts about the imagination of the divine Manu answered: “Sometimes we hurt God’s feelings.”  

In the Jewish imagination, God is a vulnerable, emotional partner who is continuously hurt by our lack of attention, our meanness, our betrayals. We sadden God all the time by forgetting Him, by breaking our vows, by not being the love-partner She thought we would be to Her.  

The final ceremony of vows between us and God in the bible takes place in the eighth chapter of the Book of Nehemiah. At this point, the Jews that returned to Zion had been there for some decades. It was a choppy return, with painful setbacks and difficulties, far from the easy, happy return they imagined once the Babylonian empire that had destroyed their lives was vanquished by the Persians. Like our bumpy return, theirs was clunky.  

The covenant begins with the words: ובכל זאת, “and despite everything.” Despite the fact that things feel out of whack, that it’s been far longer than we imagined in this pandemic, that the numbers are rising again, that half of our country sees the other as lunatics or worse, that we are stuck with each other and with our deep, deep problems, that we know we brought these problems on ourselves, despite it all we come together to sign a covenant with God, to recommit ourselves to the values that we know to be true, to love, to goodness, to community: to Torah. 

On Yom Kippur we will read the description of this moment in Nehemiah. We will hear how the poets, the thinkers and the musicians together told the story of how of our people up until that moment. We will feel the gnawing sense that both us and those who came before us screwed up big time, lived without gratitude, respect, appreciation, abandoned God in the form of love and justice. And yet we will see that the covenant that was signed by leaders of every family in Jerusalem was not an apology. There were many types of sacrifices offered in the Temple but none were called Korban Slicha, an apology sacrifice. Instead we rededicate ourselves to maintaining our relationship with God through upholding the community, seeking truth and justice and doing our very best to avoid the mistakes that our parents and us have done to bring us to where we are.  

Despite everything, we return. And in our return we wipe away whatever hurt we caused our emotional love-partner, God. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Studying Torah

Dear friends,

The Talmud tells us of a few actions for which a person gets blessed not only in this world but also beyond: “Honoring one’s father and mother; The performance of righteous deeds; And the making of peace between a person and his friend;”

There is one action, though that is equivalent to all of them put together: “studying Torah.” For us at TNS Torah is a broad category. It includes literature, philosophy, music, theology, art and working for justice. Our Chevrutah offerings this year give a taste of both the breadth and depth of what we mean by Torah study at TNS. These are opportunities for introspection and exploration led by some of the great minds of our community, each one shedding a different light on the idea of mindful return. Some of them are in person and others via Zoom. I hope you can join us for some of these exciting study groups.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

What is Mindfulness?

Dear friends,

We have called our theme this year the Year of Mindful Return, in hopes that we will be able to together form the right frame of mind to rejoin the world after this strange pandemic time. While many of us have a sense of what mindfulness is, we are influenced in our thinking about by new-agey notions of this originally Buddhist term. I thought it is important to take a moment to look at what mindfulness is in the Buddhist tradition, so that we can then look for the similarities and differences with similar Jewish notions, and contemporary ideas. Luckily, my brother, Tari (Eviatar) is the incoming Chair of the Department of Religions at Hebrew University, and a scholar of Buddhist philosophy who has written and thought about mindfulness for a couple decades. We sat down in the kitchen of my temporary abode in Tel Aviv to study Nehemiah and talk mindfulness, and taped some of our conversation for you all.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Don't Fast, Eat Sweets

The Mukhtar of the Beduin village Dir A-Tin and Rabbi Arik Ascherman on Tisha B'Av

Dear friends,

The great disaster has finally passed. The people can gather once again. New leaders have emerged, new thinkers, new poets, new attitudes. They come together in the streets to see what the ancient wisdom has to offer. The language of the ancestors is chanted. Those who understand the words explain them to those who don’t. The dancers move their bodies to express the secrets hidden in the depths of the words. The musicians blow their horns and strum their lyres, grasping at the truths conveyed. The priests speak the people’s language, uncovering the layers of the ever-present past.

A feeling of gratitude overwhelms the crowd. We survived. Tears begin to well. They hear the words of the Torah and all they can do is cry. Despite everything, there is love. After all, we are loved.

The emotions are strong, for this love feels unwarranted, free, a love-gift in lieu of punishment. The poet speaks:

We deserve
what has befallen us
and worse.

Our ancestors lived lives of privilege.
Gifts came their way and they
Wolfed them up
Like pigs.
When they brought suffering on themselves they
Cried, repented, and
Repeated their offenses.
As soon as they were comfortable
They returned
To entitled ways.

And we are sad reflections of them.

She points to one eye:
עיני, My eye,
She points the other:
עיני, My eye,
She touches her tears:
ירדה מים, Drips water.

We pause our description of the 5th century BC scene in Jerusalem described by the biblical leader, Nehemiah to imagine a different brokenness. It was Tisha B’Av this past Sunday, the day we mourn the destruction of Jerusalem, and the temple. I spent the day with Rabbi Arik Ascherman and his flock moving from one spot of destruction to another. Taybe, Dir A Tin, Humsa, places where simple people are being forced out of already desolate places in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason other than some bizarrely cruel instinct of domination. It was at Dir A-Tin, a tiny Beduin outpost in the Jordan valley where Rav Arik invited me to chant the second chapter of the Book of Lamentations, where we read these verses:

עיני עיני ירדה מים אין לי מנחם

My eye
My eye
Drips water
There is no one
to comfort me.

שִׁפְכִ֤י כַמַּ֙יִם֙ לִבֵּ֔ךְ נֹ֖כַח פְּנֵ֣י אֲדֹנָ֑י

Pour your heart out
Like water
In front of the
Vacant face of 
Your broken
God.

Over and over during the course of the day I heard the same message: we are inflicting brokenness upon ourselves. We returned to Zion after a disaster, just like Nehemiah, and are allowing our comfort to consume our sense of gratitude.

In the evening the fast ended, and I was with my family by the Mediterranean as the sun set on beautiful Tel Aviv, new Zion that it is, the first Hebrew city to be built in millennia. There I could hear Nehemiah’s answer to the tears, the self-criticism, the brokenness of his flock.

He stops the poet and speaks to the weepers:

Don’t mourn.
No more tears today.
Instead go
Eat some sweets
Drink something delicious
Send a meal to those have none -
For today is a day that belongs to our God of hope.
So release your sadness.
Let the care of your friend,
Your God
Be your fortress of peace,
and love.
(Nehemiah 8)

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

On the Richness of Complexity

Dear friends,

“I was lying there in the coffin with Ben Zakai,” Danny opens, “and they drove those swords through the coffin to make sure we were dead.” Danny, whose family built the first streets of Tel Aviv, tells me how after he was smuggled out of Jerusalem in the first century with Rabban Yochanan Ben Zakkai in a coffin, they came in front of the Roman ruler. “The governor offered him a wish. Ben Zakkai asked for Yavneh, a small town where the Jews could restart their lives after the Romans destroy Jerusalem. I just kept my mouth shut. That’s how the Jews survived.” 

We’re in what’s left of the Palestinian village of Susya, which looks like what Abraham and Sarah’s dwelling must have looked like: a rocky enclave in the desert with sheep pens and hot, vast beauty all around. Five Israeli activists, my father, my son and me are having tea with Azam, who miraculously still lives in his hut with his family and his animals despite two decades of violence, home demolitions and harassment. Matan’s Bar Mitzvah is coming up, so his grandfather is showing him a piece of his life; the landscapes of the South Hebron Hills, the villagers he’s been helping for years, the incredible people who show up in these circles, the work that he says allows him to continue living in this country. 

Between cups of sweet spiced black tea, in the shade of his sukkah, Azam agrees to recite one of his poems. In an Arabic thicker than earth he sings of a white goat with patches of black around her eyes. “I raised her like she was my daughter, fed her milk as if I were her mother.” He pauses to tell us that he improvised this poem while visiting his sick mother, and it’s long because she kept asking for more rhyming couplets. He recites how the goat walked behind him one day and butted her head into his back bringing him to his knees, a betrayal he couldn’t take. “You don’t forgive the betrayer,” his mother had insisted. But Azam is a gentle man, and you can tell that he can’t help but forgive this rebellious she-goat.  

We thank Azam, and he us for the support, and move on to the next village, Rakiz, a few hills to the east. This is a harder story, which Matan heard during the car ride from Jerusalem. The army showed up at the request of the settlers early in the morning of January 1st. They entered the house of one of the impoverished families of Rakiz. After a series of humiliations, they set their eyes on the family’s generator, a prize possession in this part of the West Bank, where only Jewish settlements are connected to the electric grid. The family couldn’t take it, so they tried to stop them, and called the neighbors over to help. Twenty-year-old Haroun and his father came right away. In the ensuing struggle over the generator, he will get shot in the neck by a soldier. The family will have to bust through two military checkpoints to get him to the hospital in time to save his life. Now Haroun, paralyzed and with a tube in his throat, accompanied by his mother, Farsi are in a hospital in Tel Aviv. 

We are in Rakiz for a solidarity visit with Haroun’s father and siblings. When explaining the purpose of the trip to Matan, my dad told him that often he goes out to help the people of South Hebron in more active ways, to protect them, harvest with them. Today we are just going to be with them, and that is incredibly important. “In just coming to be with them, to witness, you are giving them a lot.” 

We are invited into a spacious and cool cave, with mattresses and rugs laid out. The family had moved into the cave after the army demolished their hut that stood above it. Haroun’s blue-eyed siblings serve us tea. His father, Abu Haroun tells Matan in Arabic that they have a horse outside. He offers him a ride. Matan is confused. “Tchaf,” he is asked. “Are you scared?” I translate and Matan accepts the offer.

The three of us exit the cave and go into the animal pens. Abu Haroun picks up my large child with his big arms and places him bare back on the horse. “Tchaf,” he asks again. Matan shakes his head and Abu Haroun lets out a laugh. After the ride the three of us gather in front of the farm-animals' cave. Goats, ducks and donkeys roam. Muhammad, the younger son is in there too, directing little tiny goats to their mother’s teets. “When were they born,” I manage to ask in some form of broken Arabic. “ Usbu’en,” Abu Haroun replies, “two weeks.” “Mabruk,” I wish him. “Hamdulilah,” he smiles. We stand there quietly. “Mut’asef,” I say. “I’m sorry, about your son.” “It’s hard,” he tells me, wiping away a tear. And he speaks of God and what is and what must be. “Ilhamdulilah,” he summarizes, “praise belongs to God.”

In the cave, a Facetime conversation with the hospital. Erela, the activist from a kibbutz in the Negev who organized the visit is speaking with Farsi. They speak daily, often several times a day. When she isn’t in Palestine Erela helps people through crisis situations. As more tea and pita is passed around Erela and I talk religion. She is not what people around here call religious. But she is far more religious than most of them in her attitude toward life.  

“When a person approaches me for help,” she says, “I tell them that they’ve lost the key to the Aron Kodesh, the ark. Now I’m the Shammes, the caretaker of the synagogue. I don’t know where their key is, and I tell them that. But I know where to look, down in the basement, or under the chairs.”  

This land is rich, like Azam’s Arabic. The soil and the air have a similar abundant consistency, as do the experiences you have. 

The other night Matan and me went out to watch the final of the Euro Cup soccer tournament. Several hundred people were gathered outdoors in what during Ottoman times was the central Jerusalem train station to cheer England and Italy on the big screen. We found ourselves standing in a little enclave smushed between England fans with red markings on their faces and Italy fans with loud horns. They looked just like one another these two crowds. But quickly we understood that the Italy fans were Palestinian, and the England fans were Jews. Just a month ago there were violent clashes in the streets. Now here we all were laughing and cheering, nobody hiding their language, their accent, their identity. When Italy finally won in a dramatic penalty shootout, the young Palestinians pulled out their dumbek, stood up on the tables and danced with their horns, as the Jewish café owner blasted the Italian classic “Volare,” and we all sang along. 

Co-existence is happening. In the doctor’s office I went to a few days ago the entire medical staff were Arabs. There is a real culture of living together in this country, even amidst the fanaticism and the fighting. It’s a simple thing, really, an anti-political mode that has emerged out of a place that drives political consciousness deep into every child’s experience before they reach kindergarten. It’s not politics, it’s reality.  

Or one piece of it. When I met some Palestinian friends in East Jerusalem this week, a generation older than the dancing Italy fans, they were not in the co-existence mode. “It’s more complicated now,” they explained, “we are fighting normalization.” They have been abandoned yet again by the Arab world with the Abraham Accords. They’ve been left to their fate during Covid, with their occupier having vaccinated more of its people than any other country but given them almost no vaccines (only Palestinian citizens of Israel have been vaccinated). They are angry with good cause. So to many Palestinians co-existence means accepting an unacceptable reality. 

Abu Haroun walks us up the hill to our cars. He shows us the hut on the opposite side of the mountain where the incident took place. We pass by a small pen where his rabbit lives. Her eyes are shining. I come closer and see that they are blue. “Everyone here has blue eyes,” I say. Abu Haroun smiles. 

As we walk, Danny shares one more story. “The Kotzker Rebbe once told his disciples he’s going to search for the truth. He closed himself in his study and didn’t come out. The disciples would put a plate of food under the door and he’d return it empty. This went on for twenty years. When he finally came out the few disciples that were still waiting for him eagerly asked him what he found. ‘Nothing,’ said the Rebbe, ‘only lies.’ Danny looks at me. “Now that’s a rabbi who could maybe lure me back into a synagogue. Maybe.” 

In the car driving back to Jerusalem through the gorgeous desert landscape my father says to his grandson: “Matani, these mountains, what color are they?” “Brown, yellow,” answers the young man. “You know, in the late afternoon something unusual happens to them. They turn purple. Real purple.” We pick up some purple plums from a farmer on the side of the road, and eat them as we drive home to Jerusalem. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha 

Dreaming Jerusalem

Dear friends,

It’s after midnight here in Jerusalem. Manu, my four-year-old just fell asleep. Ezzy, 8, just walked out of his room, “Can’t sleep.” Matan, 13 has a few more sudoku puzzles to finish before he can close his eyes. Today he napped five or six times, since last night he didn’t sleep more than an hour. A couple times he stood up from his bed, spoke to me from within his dream, walked to the other room and back to his, lay back down. Last night I walked out into the street with Manu around 2am. I wanted to show him the stars so his body might understand it’s nighttime. The yellow streetlights were too bright. I gave up and made us a snack. Around 4am he closed his eyes. By then Ezzy was up again. Erika walked out of the bedroom. I crashed.  

You might diagnose us all with jet lag. I ascribe it to something else. The psalms put it this way: 

בְּשׁוּב יְהוָה אֶת-שִׁיבַת צִיּוֹן הָיִינו כְּחֹלְמִים 

When YHVH returns us to Zion we become dreamers. 

Sometimes the pshat, the simple meaning of the verse, is deeper than the drash, the expounding.  

That’s how I spent the last 30 hours since we landed. Walking the streets of my childhood and the rooms of my parents’ house unsure if I’m asleep or awake. The dry air of the Jerusalem summer, the smell of dusty pine and cypress trees, the baking sun, the feeling that this city hasn’t changed at all since I was last here, before the pandemic began.  

One extra-sweet dream was a waking one (I think). I stared for long minutes at the yellow-orange light of the early evening sun ricocheting off the leaves of the giant Eucalyptus tree down the street. I hadn’t seen that color in a long time. I was reminded of a stage lighting class I took in undergrad, in which the teacher asked us about a quality of light that we know from a specific place. That color of light, a hazy shade of dark yellow is reserved for the holy city and its trees in the hour when the day wanes.  

"עֲשָׂרָה קַבִּין יֹפִי יָרְדוּ לָעוֹלָם, תִּשְׁעָה נָטְלָה יְרוּשָׁלַיִם וְאֶחָד כָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ" 

“Ten measures of beauty were bestowed upon the world,” the Babylonian Talmud teaches. “Nine were taken by Jerusalem and one by the rest of the world.” 

That dream-like color has got to be one of those nine measures. 

The beauty is enhanced by the effort to come. Like every return to Zion throughout the ages, this one felt improbable, unlikely to come through, difficult, trying. Nor does the difficulty end once you get off the plane. Not in places that are in touch with reality like this one. Things here are made of stone. Even love can feel like rock here in the underbelly of the world. 

I hope this letter is not a dream. In case it is, please send it back my way in the morning. In the meantime, I’m going to try and get Ezzy back to sleep. 

Wishing you a shabbat full of dreams and light. 

יְבָרֶכְךָ יְהוָה מִצִּיּוֹן עֹשֵׂה שָׁמַיִם וָאָרֶץ 

God sends blessings from Zion. He’s still making the sky and the land. 

Rabbi Misha