Becoming Earth

Dear friends,

A few days ago, I took the boys on a pilgrimage to Leonard Cohen’s gravesite in Montreal. We winded our way up and down Mount Royal, crossed some Canadian mud patches with only one ruined pair of pants, navigated through one Catholic cemetery, then another. Along the way we discussed the nature of these places, where we bury our dead.
“Don’t step on the gray stones!”
“Why not?”
“Because there are people buried under them?”
“So?”
“Each one of them was buried by people who love them, and we respect that love by not stepping on the graves.”
“Are they skeletons?”
“It depends how long they’ve been there.”
“Do we all become skeletons when we die?”
“First our skin becomes part of the earth, then our flesh, and then we are like skeletons for a while. But it’s not really us, just what’s left of our bodies.” 

As a parent, I find this moment liberating. I question myself, talking this way to a five-year-old, but the anxiety I used to pick up from him on this topic is absent now. Maybe the matter-of-fact way his older brother talks about the role of worms and their digestive system helps normalize the inevitable. 

“We’re going to the grave of one of the most famous Canadians ever,” I tell them. 
“What is he famous for?” 
“Guess.” 
“He invented something,” 
“No.” 
“He was a sports star.” 
“No.” 
“The president of Canada?” 
“They don’t have those here. And no. Keep thinking.” 

Finally, we arrive at the Gate of the Heavens Cemetery (Sha’ar Hashamayim). We examine one “Cohen” grave, then another, and another as we look for Leonard’s. Some of them have stones placed on them, a practice which I also try to explain to the boys. None of the graves, however, have the different type of Star of David we’ve been instructed to find. Different in what way, we’re not exactly sure.  

Finally, we detect a gravestone completely covered in little stones, along with flowers, laminated letters, pencils, pieces of art and other little gifts left for the dead man. Ezzy confirms that it’s got the right name written on it, and below the name indeed we find a different type of Star of David. Instead of triangles, hearts link themselves as they move in and out of one another. A gentle transformation of nationalism into love. 

“So what was he famous for?” 
“He wrote songs and poems.” 
“That’s it?” 
“You see all those things people left on his grave? That’s because music is one of the greatest gifts a person can give. That’s why he’s so loved.” 

While Ezzy and Manu begin gathering sticks as their gift a few more pilgrims come by. We stand in front of the humble gravesite, looking at the stone in English and art, and the smaller one at his feet in Hebrew, with his Hebrew name and the letters תנצב"ה, an acronym for the words: “His soul be tied into the chain of life.”  

One of the pilgrims describes poetry readings in downtown Montreal in the seventies, where Cohen would be accompanied by piano. “Appropriate to come here on Passover,” he says. 

I tell the boys they know one of his songs, and we all sing Hallelujah together. As we begin our walk back up the mountain, I ask them what they think he meant by “the holy or the broken Hallelujah.” 

Manu knows the answer:
“A holy Hallelujah is when you say it at a holiday and you’re so happy that you just say it. A broken Hallelujah is when you say it when you’re sad because something bad happened, or frustrated, or angry.” Five-year-old wisdom for the ages. 

We walk and talk about some ancestors that I knew but they didn’t, and others neither of us knew, pass back through the Canadian mud, this time unscathed, and back to the car, pilgrimage completed. 

In the Haggadah we sing: “All my bones will say: Who is like You?” Does that happen up here or down there? 

This Earth Day I ask: Aren't we lucky that we will one day become part of the earth? 

Shabbat Shalom, Chag sameach and happy Earth Day,
Rabbi Misha

Four Cups of Redemption

Dear friends,

Wishing you all a beautiful Pesach. May the shackles slip off easily, the Matza Balls float with perfect fluffiness and Elijah appear in drag.

P.S The first Kumah Festival event, with artist Ghiora Aharoni was changed to April 28th.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha

Patience, Dignity and Redemption

Seniors, people with disabilities, home care workers and activists singing and risking arrest this week in Albany.

Dear friends,

Something beautiful took place this week in Albany. Seniors and disabled people joined their home care workers to occupy the capital demanding a living wage for home care workers. Most of us have had a chance to see home care workers in action. It’s a hard job, demanding constant compassion to go along with the expertise and physical strength required. It’s a job that you choose out of some movement in your heart. In New York especially, it’s a job that you don’t often choose out of rational reasons, since many of the workers get paid just over $13 an hour, less than working at a fast-food restaurant.  

Yesterday, Sadie, whose Bat Mitzvah is coming up told me she sees her Torah portion as a story of renewal after a disaster. She likened it to coming out of the pandemic and shared with me what she thought we were supposed to have learned from these last two years, lessons about time and what to do with it. When I asked her whether she thought we actually learned lessons as a society she smiled sadly. “Not really.”  

Half an hour later I turned on the radio to hear that despite bi-partisan votes in big majorities in both houses of congress in favor, Governor Hochul refused to add the Fair Pay for Homecare Act to the annual budget. Instead of the 150% pay raise needed, she gave them $2 extra per hour. I immediately thought of the nursing homes ravaged with Covid, the seniors and disabled folks who spent months alone in their homes, the shame I felt at the surfacing of our society’s utter failure to follow the biblical dictate: והדרת פני זקן, Ve-Hadarta Peney Zaken, or “Bring honor to the face of the elderly.” Instead of “hadar”, this Hebrew word that implies a shining beauty, the glory that we are instructed to recognize in our beautiful, wise and loving elders, we too often tuck them away to suffer in the dark. 

Locally, we are in a crisis with regards to home care. Currently at least 17% of people in NY state who can’t function on their own simply can’t find someone to hire to help them. Lots of those that do, have help only part of the time they need it. The current situation forces people who don’t need to be in a nursing home to make that move, or others to live without basic hygiene practices. This is just one of hundreds of posts that express the absurd situation people are living in. 

With all of this, I still find great inspiration and hope in what happened this week. These people in tremendous need, as well as underpaid essential workers broke through the mold of despair and complacency and worked for their own and others’ liberation. With the support of activists from JFREJ (Jews for Racial and Economic Justice) and other organizations they made a major change in public understanding of this issue. Two years ago, this was not on any politician’s radar. Now there are the buds of real results, which – thanks to the work of God they did this week - I have no doubt will mature into a tenable situation soon.  

Redemption, this sweet state of mind of peace, lack of worry, and happiness, is a process. It appears in glimpses. The whale appears on the surface. We see it and know it’s there, and know it will come again. If we concentrate, wait, and go to the right place we will see it again. In that moment when she breaches and our hearts leap, we know all is right in the world, all is right with our soul, all is right with God. That is the moment we witnessed this week in Albany. Those who are in dire need came out to teach us how to ask for help. They sang, they spoke to people, they made beautiful noise; They let God’s words speak through them: “I have heard the cry of my people.” 

This is Passover. That our friends, families and neighbors are cared for. That those who work hard do not slave away but get compensated fairly and feel our gratitude. That every one of us retains their dignity from birth to death. What else could redemption possibly mean?  

At Hebrew School this week, six-year-old Anna asked an amazing question. “What happened to the Egyptian families whose sons were killed in the tenth plague? What was it like for them after the Hebrews left?” “Why didn’t God just transport the Jews to Israel instead of making the Egyptians suffer,” 9-year-old Elias chimed in. They were answered decisively by 10-year-old Pearl: “God can’t do everything for us. God needs us to learn how to liberate ourselves.”  

That answer, perhaps, is what redemption might mean.  

My sister-in-law, Audrey Sasson, the ED of JFREJ was up in Albany all week. She had this to say a couple days ago: 

“I couldn't be prouder to be a Jew for Racial & Economic Justice. Like Sylvia, Jenny, & Sara, (three of the senior and disabled protestors) I'm in this to build the world of our most liberated dreams. We won't stop organizing til everyone has the freedom to thrive.” 

We have redemptive work to do. We have redemptive patience to find as we go. And we have moments of redemption along the way. Hallelujah.  

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha

Many of the protesters are still in Albany, refusing to leave until fair pay is approved.

Don't Try, Praise!

By Itamar Dotan Katz

Dear friends,

In order to praise our existence with a full throat one has to be a prophet, a poet or suffer from some other form of insanity. Today, with the sophisticated ways of modernity, the ancient way of a complete succumbing to wonder, is too often replaced with a complex type of praise. “Try to praise the mutilated world,” wrote the Lviv born poet Adam Zagajewski. Not only does the poet relieve us of the need to see the perfection of the world by calling it mutilated, he also instructs to “try to praise,” rather than to praise. This seems somehow more doable than “Let every breath of life praise Yah – Hallelujah!” 

19th century German Rabbi, Samson Refael Hirsch explains this line from Psalm 150 as follows: 

“Let every breath hear, recognize, sense and perceive God in all things that life may bring, in the serious introspection of solemn moments as well as in pensive meditation; in the widespread rejoicing of public jubilation as well as in the quiet serenity of inner happiness; in the unexpectedness of great surprise as well as in the stirring force of profound emotions: Kol Haneshamah tehalel Yah, Hallelujah!” 

This is a mammoth task. Unattainable really. A prayer or intention rather than a conquerable assignment. How in the world might we reach such a state of profound acceptance of the often-invisible justice of the universe?  

Let’s try another modern poet/lunatic, one Mr. Cohen. He suggests the following approach: 

I did my best, it wasn't much 
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch 
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you 
And even though it all went wrong 
I'll stand before the Lord of Song 
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah 

Now there’s a perfection we can recognize, because it’s the story of the failure of all of our lives. Still, despite our own failures and despite the continued failure of God - or perhaps thanks to it - we praise. Well, there’s some praise we can get behind! 

No. We can do better. It’s in our DNA. Praise to Jews is like snow to Eskimos. We have an endless spring of words for it. Surely one of them can suit us. 

Hirsch explains שבח, perhaps the first word that comes to mind as Hebrew for “praise:” 

“שבח is to acknowledge the value, which the acts of another have with regard to ourselves.” When the Psalmist wrote שבחי ירושלים את יהוה, Jerusalem – praise YHVH! He meant that the residents of Jerusalem should acknowledge the acts that God has done for them. Each of us does achieve moments in which we can truly acknowledge what God, or the universe, or the totality of our lives have led to: and know it is good. We manage here and there to un-qualify our positive statements and simply know – our lives are beautiful. Almost every single Bar, Bat or B Mitzvah I’ve led has produced that very tangible feeling that you can witness in both the person at question and their parents. 

Another Hebrew word in the realm of praise is Baruch, blessed. Baruch atah Adonai, we say, Blessed are You, Adonai, and we mean something that transcends complexity and upholds unquestionable goodness. There is a rabbinic method of midrash, in which the vowels of a word are changed around, while the letters remain the same, and that allows us to uncover a different meaning buried within the same word. Don’t read Baruch, we might say, but Be-roch. Blessed is suddenly transformed into “with gentleness.” With gentleness You are, Adonai our God. Everything You do is gentle, loving, sweet. Some might say this is more of a desire than a reality. Or we could, for a brief moment, know it to be a truth. Despite the rough, violent appearance, the reality of God is gentle. 

There is, however a deeper concept of praise that is expressed by the Hebrew word “Hallel,” the type of praise that we conjure when we use the word “hallelujah.” Hirsch explains:

“Hallel denotes a proclamation of the greatness of another’s acts quite independently of the value that such acts might have for us.”

When we praise in the form of Hallel we divorce ourselves from any benefit we might have received from these acts, and simply offer praise because the actions are praiseworthy. The “I” that utters the praise dissolves into a selfless ability to witness beauty and goodness.  

Thomas Merton hits this note in a poem he called O Sweet Irrational Worship: 

By ceasing to question the sun 
I have become light, 
Bird and wind. 

Every Rosh Chodesh, the first day of the Hebrew month, we connect to this type of praise through what is called the Hallel service. At our Shabbat service this evening we will welcome the new moon of the Hebrew month of Nisan with a search for this ancient, full throated, selfless praise for the world we live in. 

I hope to see you this evening at 6:30 at the 14th Street Y, or on Zoom.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha

A note to the Pope from the south of Spain

The Mezquita in Cordoba

Dear friends,

I have never considered writing a letter to the Pope until yesterday. I was sitting in The Mezquita, an incredible church-mosque complex in the Andalusian city of Cordoba. Being in a space that Carries the intertwined prayers of Christians and Muslims from the last 1500 years inspired me to put some words together to send to Pope Francis. It is likely in need of some revisions before I send it, if I ever do. But I share it with you this Shabbat and send you blessings from this marvellous city of our ancestors.

Your Holiness Pope Francis,

I write to you with awe from the holy grounds of the Mezquita in Cordoba. I sit here surrounded by the great oneness of the God of all people who have prayed here for centuries, Muslims, Christians and visitors of all faiths. As I write, bombs fall on Ukraine, again the bloody hatred of selfishness emerges, consuming lives like fire. But here in the Mezquita one can hear the sweet singing together of two faiths that have been at war many times.

This city was home to my people as well. Our great sage and teacher Rabbi Moses Son of Maimon was born and educated here during what is known as the Jewish Golden Age of Spain. Most of his books he wrote in Arabic, and reflect a deep relationship with his Muslim brethren. This “golden age” was, sadly not always so glowing for the Jews. Maimonides was likely forced to flee Cordoba when the Muslim ruler threatened his family with death if they did not convert to Islam. The church was no different, and ended our golden age with the forced expulsion of the Jews in 1492, after killing and converting many. While the Mezquita and its Muslim splendour have been preserved, little remains in Spain of the hundreds of years the Jews spent here, beyond the memories carried in the walls of the Juderia, and the writings we have preserved.

This is a time of war. This is also a time of opportunity. The church under your leadership has shown the loving face of God to the world. I write with a petition that is so remote that I more accurately call it a prayer.

Sitting here in this beautiful house of God, the coming together of two traditions, I can’t help but feel the missing representation of the faith both of these traditions violently crushed in Spain. What a testament it would be to the human ability to love if a small Jewish space were to be included in the Mezquita. What a powerful message that would send against war, against hatred, against division. What a lesson that would offer the world about our ability - even our responsibility - to repent, to make Teshuvah, to come back to the truth and to the peace of God.

I imagine the tiny Jewish enclave in this magnificent temple, and am filled with love and gratitude. This is the feeling that such a gift would fill Jews worldwide with. A gift to the Jews of the world, that would inspire generosity from all peoples.

I know that the local Muslims have petitioned to be allowed to pray in the Mezquita and were denied some years ago by the Vatican. This denial may make it more difficult to give a gift to the Jewish people in this time. My community and I would absolutely support such a request on behalf of the Muslim community here, were it to be considered again. I am certain there would be wide Jewish support for it. I have spent much of my life seeking meaningful partnerships with Palestinians that might bring about peace and reconciliation between Israel and Palestine. Such a gesture by the church toward both Jews and Muslims here in Cordoba would certainly provide an important boost to the efforts of the peace movement in Israel/Palestine.

I imagine a space where all three faiths can pray in harmony, and I feel at home in the world again.

“כי ביתי בית תפילה יקרא לכל העמים.”
“My house will be called a house of prayer for all peoples,” said Isaiah.

This is a time for giving, a time for fraternity, a time for the oneness of God to shine. Where better a place to allow it to happen than in the land where civil war tore everything apart after many generations of different faiths learning from one another and influencing each other to love God.

Humbly yours,

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha

Zelensky Speaks

Dear friends,

Thank you to all of you who came to our uplifting Purim celebration this week. It's so important to celebrate and make merry, especially now. What a fun night! That day began with Zelensky's address to congress, including the devastating video he shared, and ended with a drunken Purim bash, Mariah Carry songs from Chanan and all of us singing I Will Survive. On the train on the way to the party I read a note my rabbi, Jim Ponet sent me. He captured something deep about the connection between the holiday and the horror, between the experience of taking in Zelensky's words in the morning, and celebrating Purim at night. I share his words with you:

Voldymyr Zelensky, in the spirit of the Bíblical prophet, Amos, seems to declare, “I am no prophet nor the son of a prophet. I am a comic actor who was visited by a dream which has overtaken my life. The lion has roared; who can but tremble? The Lord God has spoken; who can but prophesy?”

The U.S. Congress heard Zelensky allude to MLK, to 9/11, to Mount Rushmore as he begged American leaders and the American nation to help bend the arc of history toward justice, to inspire the world to mobilize for peace, dignity, health and freedom, to refuse to ignore the voice of the oppressed

We have again heard the voice of God, issuing this time from a prophet speaking Ukrainian and English, addressing us from Kiev via video. And like dreamers we and our political leaders listened spellbound to the call to help halt the military invasion launched against the civilians of Ukraine by Russian troops, tanks, missiles, planes and drones at the command of a single man. And in that voice we discerned an echo of the cry from Minneapolis that yet resounds from the throat of George Floyd as a cop’s knee bore down upon his neck, the fierce anguished call to feel, attend, respond, and act with whatever we got.

Out of sheer terror the ancient Israelites fled from that call, sought escape from the summons of the Voice. But Zalensky, like Moses, Esther and Abraham, somehow dares to stand alone and face down the Leviathan like a Job refusing to cower before autocratic whim, even if it be divine: “He may kill me, but I won’t stop; I will speak the truth to his face.”

Zelensky and the Ukrainians are fighting to breathe. When we are in our right minds, we are all together in that fight for life and freedom, knowing it is why we are here after all; namely, each to find their own response, their own mode, their own language. As we allow unbearable truths to confront us, we would do well to consider Nathaniel Hawthorne's observation that while weeping passively in the face of spiritual and physical ugliness is understandable it would be better for us, if we can, to burrow toward "the fiercer, deeper, and more tragic power of laughter." Voldymyr Zelensky points the way.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha

Odessa

Ahad Ha'am with other literary giants in Odessa in 1906.
Seated from left to right: a young rabbi, Lilenblum, Ravnitsky, Ahad Ha'am, Mendale Mo"s, Levinsky
Standing: Borochov, Klauzner, C.N Bialik

Dear friends,

133 years ago last night, a fire broke out in a schnapps distillery in Odessa. The distillery’s manager, also the son in law of the owner had other plans that night. But Asher Zvi Ginsburg rushed to the distillery that he hated running. He tried to assure his father in law that he will find another way to support the family as he witnessed his livelihood turn to dust. Then, some time after midnight he made his way through the empty streets to an apartment where seven friends were anxiously awaiting his arrival.

“Children of Moses,” he opened, “today he was born, and today he died. Moses, master of the prophets, man of truth, whose soul, words and deeds were governed by the rule of absolute justice.” The seventh night of the Hebrew month of Adar Bet was chosen as the appropriate night for the creation of a secret society by the name of The Children of Moses, which would work toward the establishment of a movement to prepare the hearts of the Jewish people for a new type of nationhood.

“We aim to expand the understanding of peoplehood, turning it into a lofty and noble concept, a moral ideal, in the heart of which lies the love of Israel, and which encompasses every good attribute and every honorable property; we will strive to liberate the word “national” from the heavy physical form it currently holds, and to raise it to the level of an ethical, respected and beloved concept in the eyes of the people.”

A tremendous excitement surrounded the eight participants. The atmosphere of “holiness and purity” led them to believe they were part of a historic event.

They took a vow, committing themselves to Zion: the ancient abode of peace and righteousness, of wide and open hearts, of boldness and courage.

“The hearts of our people must be revived. We must work toward the strengthening of faith and the awakening of desire through the power of love and the yearning toward meaning. This love - the individual’s love of the success of the collective  - is not foreign to our people.”

The first members of The Children of Moses were silent as their leader paused.

“The heart of the people is the foundation upon which the land will be built. Not by might, nor power but by spirit.”

This gathering was but one example of the incredible energy and idealism the city of Odessa hosted for the Jews of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. This was where the Hebrew language came to life after a liturgical 2000 year long nap. It was where Yiddish literature came into its own, followed by the beginning of modern Hebrew poetry. Ahad Ha'am, the writer and thinker described (quoting his own words) above was the father what is known as Spiritual Zionism. Grown out of the soil of a traditional life, these prophetic giants created a new reality of art, political engagement and deeply rooted innovations of the spirit. Ahad Ha'am’s friend, poet Chaim Nachman Bialik, who was a member of one of the other secret societies in Odessa said the following astonishing sentence:

ארץ-ישראל בלי שבת לא תיבנה, אלא תחרב, וכל עמלכם יהיה לתוהו... בלי שבת אין ישראל, אין ארץ ישראל ואין תרבות ישראל".

“The land of Israel without Shabbat will not be built, but will be destroyed, and all your work will be for naught….. without Shabbat there is no Israel, there is no land of Israel and there is no culture of Israel.”

He would posthumously become the national poet of the State of Israel.

The passion these patriots exhibited, the type of genius they expressed, might be of an eastern wind. Their nationalism is different than the hard Zionism of Herzl and the Jews of Western Europe. Their dreams were softer, though no less audacious. And they saw that whatever power Jews might hold, be it political or of a different order, is worthless without a real relationship with Torah. The eternal is something we carry with us no matter where in the world we go. Our history walks with us as we walk. The children of Moses can hear his whispers: Love the stranger. Love your neighbor, Love God with all your heart.

As Russian bombs inch closer to Odessa we can lean back into our history and our teachings and know that bombing this precious city would not only be a war crime, as Zelensky called it, but a terrible crime of the heart; and that there are some things that are beyond the reach of bombs, fire and hatred.

May it be your will, Adonai our God and God of our ancestors that Odessa be spared, that the fighting cease, the wounded heal and the refugees find a place of comfort. That the wicked disperse, as is written in the Psalm for Shabbat: “I see your enemies, Adonai, losing their way, scattering, disappearing.”

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha

What Home Really Looks Like

Photo by Itamar Dotan Katz

Dear friends,

One week ago, there were one million less refugees in the world. One week of war creates homelessness on that vast a scale.  

I grew up with the presence of war. Every few years since I was five, my country of refugees would try and stop the nation of refugees we created when we started our country from attacking it, by making many of them refugees a second or third time. The refugee heart of the Jewish state made and makes it cling to its home with everything it’s got and anything it can get. The stateless, status-less Palestinians, who still carry the keys to their ancestral homes as the living symbol of their homelessness, need to claw their way back home, no matter how. Two nations living and reliving their homelessness. This was my home. My experience tells me that the million new refugees and the millions yet to come will develop a new mentality and pass it down for generations. 

Hannah Arendt described what it’s like to be a refugee in We Refugees: 

"We lost our home, which means the familiarity of daily life. We lost our occupation, which means the confidence that we are of some use in this world. We lost our language, which means the naturalness of reactions, the simplicity of gestures, the unaffected expression of feelings. We left our relatives in the Polish ghettoes and our best friends have been killed in concentration camps, and that means the rupture of our private lives. "

There is a mentality to the experience of needing refuge that is unique. This week, students in our Hebrew school interviewed their parents and grandparents about their family’s immigration story. I overheard Ezzy interviewing his grandfather Roby. Kicked out of Egypt in 1957 for being Jews, Roby and his parents ended up in Paris for a few years before moving to Italy, Israel and finally Canada. When Ezzy asked him how these experiences impacted his view of life, Roby described the decades that followed them, of never feeling at home. He always felt like a guest, even in his own house. 

As Jews, we all have these experiences in our DNA. Most of us still carry the memory of being forced to flee. It’s hard to think of biblical characters who weren’t refugees. From Adam and Eve all the way to the end of the Torah almost every single one sought refuge. We carry a homesickness, an estrangement we can’t quite place or explain. My father-in-law's sense of being a guest doesn’t sound foreign to many of us.  

Arendt continues: 

"We were told to forget; and we forgot quicker than anybody ever could imagine. In a friendly way we were reminded that the new country would become a new home; and after four weeks in France or six weeks in America, we pretended to be Frenchman or Americans. The more optimistic among us would even add that their whole former life had been passed in a kind of unconscious exile and only their new country now taught them what a home really looks like."

The refugee in us lives in exile, whether consciously or not. “What a home really looks like” is one of the great questions of our lives.  

One of the reasons I think this last week has been so painful to many of us, is because Ukraine plays a role in our story of what a home looks like. Many of our families lived there for generations. Two of the greatest positive pieces of contemporary Jewish identity were formed on the land now called Ukraine. Two different historical movements there, one in the 18th century (Hassidism) and the other in the late 19th century (The revival of the Hebrew language) – both stamped with the reality of anti-Jewish acts and the refugee mindset that those acts bring –  created important foundations of true pride for Jewish people to this day. These pieces of our sense of home in the world are what I would like to explore with you this evening at our special Shabbat at the 14th Street Y. I am excited to connect, through music, story and conversation with these two historical movements that blossomed in Ukraine. I’m excited to feel the unity of Jews all over the US marking HIAS Refugee Shabbat. I’m looking forward to sending prayers and love toward Ukraine. I’m excited to introduce you all to a wonderful singer, Dana Herz. I’m excited to be IN PERSON with y’all again and come back home to Shabbat.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Our Job as Jews

Wall painting in San Juan

Dear friends,

Other than the very real concerns of people (including in our community) with loved ones in Ukraine, and the dread we are all experiencing for what is happening and what this may bring, this war has made me question whether our children are growing up with the proper disdain for and hatred of war. This question points to how blessed they have been, but it also makes me wonder how this generation would react if faced with the prospect of war. So today I write a note to all the children in our community on the topic of war.

Dear young friends,

I was a soldier in the Israeli army, so I can’t say I’m a pacifist (That’s someone who believes going to war is always wrong no matter what). I don’t think war is never, ever justified. But in my lifetime I have witnessed far too many unnecessary wars. In each of them, hundreds of people died, or more; Fathers, sons, mothers, daughters, siblings and friends. Homes were destroyed, whole cities and towns.

Often wars look like they may be important. There is often some villain involved, which leaders and politicians say it is vital to destroy. This might be a person or a group of people. And there are always a lot of stories going around about what will happen if we don’t go to war. If you’ve followed the news this week you will have heard a very good example of all of this. The Russian leader, Putin told his people that he had no choice but to go to war because of the terrorists in Ukraine. This is a lie, and a very typical one for leaders who want to go to war. Ask your parents why these leaders want to go to war. The reasons are usually bad and selfish. Often they do it to distract people from how bad the situation in their country is, which is probably part of what is happening with this current war.

Very rarely there may be a war with some justification. But most are not. There will always be brave people who speak out against the war, no matter how scary that may be. In Russia, where protesting against what the leader does is basically illegal, thousands of people filled the streets this week to try to stop the president from going to war. They can see through their leader’s lies, and know that there is almost nothing worse than war. They know that once a war begins it can last a long time, and that one often leads to another. So they are willing to risk getting arrested in order to speak out against the war. They remember their grandparents’ stories from World War II, which ruined life in much of the world for years.

So if you ever hear your leaders talking about going to war, listen to them critically. Don’t buy their arguments without thinking. Hannah Arendt, a famous Jewish philosopher who was in a Nazi camp in World War II taught that the opposite of evil is not good - it’s thinking. Listen also to those who oppose the war. Weigh the pros and cons rationally, and remember the loss of life and the suffering that will result from the war. Know that the people on the other side are human beings with feelings just like yours. Do everything possible to avoid the war. Most of the time wars are stupid. In retrospect almost all of them make no sense. In the US we are lucky to live in a country where protest is legal, and the government often responds to people expressing their opinions.

As a soldier, I was stationed inside enemy territory, in Southern Lebanon. This occupation was basically a continuation of a war that began fifteen years earlier. I spent three years there.  When I got out, a group of mothers whose sons had been killed in combat in the fighting started a movement to end the occupation, to put a final end to that war. They protested for some months until the Israeli Prime Minister decided to pull all the Israeli troops from that area. Some politicians said that this would make things worse, but since then things are actually calmer. People on both sides of the border are generally safer.

Our tradition values human life above all else. Our prophets imagined the day when all instruments of war will be turned into creative instruments of agriculture. Instead of blood, vegetables!

Our job as Jews is to work toward that.

Go and ask your parents or grandparents about the wars they lived through and whether they supported them or not. Ask them if they went out to protest any of them and why. And ask them whether they think that these wars were worth the pain and suffering they caused. These are the things that will prepare you to prevent the next stupid, unnecessary war.

And if you ever want to speak to me about any of this, please know I'd love to do that. Ask your parents for my email or phone number.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Moses Cup

The Moses Cup by Ghiora Aharoni

Dear friends,

More than anyone else I know, the person most brilliantly engaged with the story of the Golden Calf, which appears in this week's parashah is my friend and teacher, artist Ghiora Aharoni. Recently he's been working on The Moses Cup, a series of sculptures that imagine an object used to perform one of the obscure but important moments in the story. After Moses comes down the mountain, sees the calf and breaks the tablets, he does this:

"He took the calf that they had made and burned it; he ground it to powder and strewed it upon the water and so made the Israelites drink it." 

The Moses Cup is Ghiora's imagining of which vessel Moses might have used to feed the golden liquid to the Israelites.I asked Ghiora a series of questions about this story and the art he made out of it.

Rabbi Misha (RM): The Moses Cup is far from the only reference in your work to the Golden Calf. I've seen bulls and calves and gold in your work, broken shards that call to mind the tablets Moses broke. It seems to me that the story of the Golden Calf performs a unique function in your spiritual world view.  What is that function or role it plays?

Ghiora Aharoni (GA): I would call The Golden Calf one of the lightning rods of my spiritual worldview.  It's one of the fundamental stories of Judaism, and it's considered one of the Israelites greatest sins, as well as a pivotal moment in the biblical narrative. So when I first came across Rashi's writings about The Golden Calf, it was a revelation—one that completely shifted my thinking about The Golden Calf, and it also shifted my thinking about how one reads sacred text.  Rashi wrote that the Israelites, who had just been liberated from slavery, were left by Moses and were alone in the desert, and that אֱלוֹהוֹת הַרְבֵּה אִוּוּ לָהֶם : that the Israelites were "lusting for divinity." With that phrase, Rashi took what is historically one of the biggest taboos in Judaism—and an epic narrative—and completely turned it on its head. A simple shift in perspective can allow you to see things in an entirely different light.

RM: Let's talk about that Rashi for a minute.
Rashi says: 
"They lusted after lots of divinity." I agree that he sees a divine quest in what they did.  But do you see a judgement here too? Maybe they were wanting too much god? Is there such a thing as being too desirous of God?  

GA: I don't see it as them wanting too much God at all.  Let’s remind ourselves that they are former slaves that never had a sense of agency. And I find it incredibly moving that they wanted “lots of divinity”…for 400 years they had no guidance and suddenly they experience the awe of these extraordinary miracles and having someone fighting in their name, and liberating them. But then, in the middle of the desert, Moses, their conduit to God, leaves them alone for an unspecified amount of time. Who leaves their children alone in the desert?
 
I think we need to read this in the context of the intensity of that moment: just before it, they were receiving an enormous amount of attention from God, and then suddenly, there is an inexplicable pause. So I think Rashi is showing compassion for the Israelites, in a situation where they’ve been judged, and what they’ve done is perceived as a great sin.
 
And to answer your question about being too desirous of God, I think desire is essential, though too much desire is a sign of lack—and that needs to be investigated. As a believer that the divine manifests itself within each of us, the experience of being too desirous of God is a sign of lack of self...of a void one is trying to fill.

RM: The acute sense of lack, as you call it, that the Hebrews are expressing here is the grounds for the surprisingly forgiving attitude that the rabbis display toward them, especially in the Talmud.
There's a midrash from Brachot tractate that describes the sin of the golden calf as akin to a father who washes and perfumes his teenager son, stuffs a bunch of cash in his pocket and drops him off in front of a brothel. Rashi is in good company.

So let's turn to Moses now. Why do you think he is making the Hebrews drink the golden calf? What's that about?

GA: This is the most brilliant question—and to rephrase that: What are the Israelites drinking when they drink the ground gold of the calf mixed with water?

When we ask that question we need to pause...a long pause. Because perhaps the answer is the question.

The way I see it is this: we need to own our sins. And in this case, Moses is not receiving orders from God—it is an independent act of Moses. And in the same way that we're proud of our virtues and because of that we sometimes externalize them, what Moses is teaching us is that sins need to be internalized. And the physicality of consuming that sin in the physical form of gold—and letting it move through your system—is a shock to the system. It is the shocking act of consuming your sin. And may I add another level of complexity to that? How did former slaves have that much gold? Remember… they "borrowed” that gold from the Egyptians, with the intention of never returning it, so might this be another “sin” that needs to be cleansed? And I think this might be a good place to remind myself that I began by saying that this is a question that perhaps should go unanswered….

RM: Do we have to eat our sins in order to get over them? Transform them? Contain them? What's the desired outcome of this shock to our system?

GA: I see that experience of internalizing as a metaphor for acknowledging, reflecting and taking responsibility for what we’ve done—while what Moses had the Israelites do was a physical internalization, and it was a shock, in certain instances we need to create a pause—which is what a shock does—and really contemplate what we’ve done to let it sink in.

RM: Why make Moses' Cup as an art piece? What role can art play in helping us make meaning of our (sometimes awful) ancient stories?

GA: Art pulls things from the subconscious for the conscious mind to consider, and it can also create a different lens, or an alternative perspective for a story. In this case, think of monuments, houses of worship and icons—which embody the narratives of our cultural history—that have been destroyed or lost throughout time. They retain a resonance even though they’ve vanished. The Moses Cup responds to that metaphysical void, expressing the transcendent energy that can be evoked by an absent icon (either disappeared or imagined). Here, it is the vessel the Israelites drank from, which is never described, and it embodies the metaphorical narrative of the their journey from slavery to the Promised Land.

RM: Thank you much Ghiora. Always a great pleasure talking Torah with you.

This coming May at the Kumah Festival we will have a chance to see The Moses Cup in person, when we gather at Ghiora's incredible studio for an evening of storytelling, music, art and discussion. Below you can see a short video piece about The Moses Cup.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Moses Cup from Ghiora Aharoni Studio on Vimeo.

The Pointless Adventure

Seagulls at Brighton Beach this week

Dear friends,

All the third-grade students would line up and prepare for our favorite monthly ritual, the Pointless Adventure. The excited laughter would die down and I'd lead them silently toward some irrelevant part of the synagogue building that they had never been to. We might go to the back wall of one of the classrooms, or into the janitor's closet, a blank stairway, or maybe explore an empty shelf in the library. As we went, I would point out all kinds of non-details. "Check out the dust!” "Do you see the texture of the paint on this wall?” That cobweb in the corner of by the ceiling is dangling.” "Notice the fading color of the letter on the wall." "Take a close look at the distance between the table and that wall.” They would join in noticing all the non-details they could find.  

No matter what we did, these were always five minutes of ridiculous, giddy, silly, happiness. What I'm starting to realize decades later was that the exercise of the Pointless Adventure was not just fun, it was an important religious - or perhaps spiritual is the right word – lesson, which I'm beginning to think may be a greater teaching than many of the other basics of the Jewish faith. Not “God is one,” or "Justice you must pursue.” Not Abraham and Sarah, ancestry, Moses and freedom. Not four thousand years of history, nor the spiritual or cultural or musical gems of our robust tradition. No, this Friday morning, and in honor of . the great Buddhist teacher, Thich Nhat Hahn who passed away a couple weeks ago, I choose the Pointless Adventure. He called this teaching “aimlessness.” Stay with me for a few more aimless paragraphs and we might find this same teaching at the heart of Jewish practice too. 

Thich Nhat Hahn writes: “Sometimes people say, “Don't just sit there; do something!” But mindfulness practitioners often like to say: “don’t just do something; sit there!” He explains the concept of enlightened aimlessness like this: “You don’t have to put something in front of you and run after it, because everything is already there inside you.” Instead of trying to fill our time with so much stuff that we might just feel like we matter, we could try a softer approach. Even when we are sitting, Nhat Hahn urged doing that aimlessly: “Don’t sit in order to attain a goal.”   

 
A couple weeks ago we reached the main part of the Torah, which will constitute the remaining 3 1/2 books, our forty years of wandering the Sinai desert.  it’s no mistake that this time provides the bedrock of what we are about. This was the time when our laws were set, our holidays were determined, and our greatest ideas, beliefs and stories were defined and processed. This is when we began to understand what it means to be a Jew.  

The wandering is presented as a punishment. We made the golden calf. We didn’t trust God to help us defeat the people living in Canaan. Therefore, we must wander the desert for 40 years. I've heard rabbis muse that this so-called punishment was more accurately an excuse for the right thing to happen. Our ancestors were not in the right frame of mind to start a new, independent nation. A generation had to pass and a new generation that didn’t know slavery had to take charge. But viewing aimlessness as an ideal offers a different lens. A person often learns about themselves by accomplishing what they had no idea they were working on. We figure out who we are, what we are about, and where we are heading in the empty spaces in between clarity; In the wandering; In the desert, where few plants grow and one might notice the rocks, the mountain, the clouds, the stars and the sky.  

This might be the very purpose of prayer.  

Yishayahu Leibovitz, the great 20th century Israeli philosopher, an orthodox Jew, was one of the most pronounced voices against the utility a prayer. “God is not a bodega,” (אלוהים זה לא חנות מכולת) he famously said, expressing his disdain for those who treat prayer as a moment to ask God for things, as if God were there to help them complete their to-do list. No, cried the devout Litvak, prayer is about prayer! it is a distilled action to be completed for its own sake. It is a type of pointless adventure, a moment of sabbath within the everyday.  

And then there is Shabbat, our greatest example of aimlessness. Don’t work. Don’t cook. Don’t even touch money. As Heschel said, we live the week for the sake of Shabbat, not the other way around. the point of our time here is a type of pointlessness. The aim is aimlessness. After all, we Jews simply seek to eat, love and be with God. 

Maybe this is why our ancestors took upon themselves the heavy load of the Torah’s laws without even blinking: ״נעשה ונשמע״ “We will do and we will listen,” they famously said. Before they even hear what is demanded of them, they agree to do it. Maybe their positivity has to do with having already received the commandment of Shabbat. They must have said to themselves: If Shabbat, this aimless luxury is a commandment at the heart of the entire system, then we don’t need to give the rest of it another thought.  

The Talmud calls Shabbat a taste of the world to come. One day a week we can smell the sweet rest that awaits us. That sweetness is available anytime, from lifetimes ahead of us all the way back to this minute, taught Thich Nhat Hahn, when he offered this little gift: “Aimlessness and nirvana are one.” That may be just what the Psalmist meant when he sang: 

 יחל ישראל אל יהוה מעתה ועד עולם 

Israel! Strive toward YHVH from this moment through eternity!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Kindness and Reality

Dear friends,

I had the privilege of sitting on a conversion Beit Din, or rabbinical court yesterday. During the ceremony I asked the young woman what she is carrying with her from her previous spiritual traditions into this stage in her life. Her answer surprised me with its simplicity. “Kindness,” she said. We Jews like to think a lot, to chew on big spiritual ideas like dogs on a bone. In our intellectual rigor, our historical anxiety, our internal searching, we often forget that the purpose of this entire operation. The spiritual idea at its heart is what the Torah calls Chesed, often translated as “lovingkindness.”  

God is the ultimate carrier of this trait. On the High Holidays we recite the thirteen attributes of God, including “Rav Chesed:” Full, or lots of chesed. God oozes chesed. The Zohar depicts God dripping the milky waters of love down in streams that sustain everything. Chesed is an effortless generosity that goes beyond any conceivable reason or justification and is done simply for the sake of it. 

The best example of it is the creation of the world. Maimonides builds his explanation like this: 

“Loving-kindness is practiced in two ways: first, we show kindness to those who have no claim whatever upon us; secondly, we are kind to those to whom it is due, in a greater measure than is due to them.” 

The second way is easier than the first. I think of parenting. Even when one of my kids is being rude, ungrateful or mean, I still (on good days) look for a way to be kind and loving. This type of above and beyond kindness is expressed by the prophet Hosea: 

זִרְע֨וּ לָכֶ֤ם לִצְדָקָה֙ קִצְר֣וּ לְפִי־חֶ֔סֶד 

Sow for yourselves righteousness; reap steadfast love 

The commentator Malbim explains: “Like how from one planted seed you will reap many sheaves.” One tiny seed of goodness doesn’t create one sheaf of reward, but many. 

But it’s the first way that is the deeper form of chesed. Maimonides continues: 

“In the inspired writings (the bible) the term cḥesed occurs mostly in the sense of showing kindness to those who have no claim on us whatever. For this reason, the term cḥesed is employed to express the good bestowed upon us by God.” 

Does God owe us kindness? Love? Clothes? Food? Air? Well, we get them regardless. From here the path is clear for Maimonides to help us understand the very existence of the world not as a mistake, a random occurrence or an experiment, but simply as an instinctive outpouring of love: 

“This whole reality - meaning the act of the creating it - is an act of God's loving-kindness. "I have said, The Universe is built up in loving-kindness (Psalms 89:3)" 

Mortals like us should try and emulate God to the best of our abilities. Art comes to mind as a form of chesed not entirely dissimilar to creation. When a musician plays with total abandon of self, when an actor senses what an audience needs her to do and lets them have it, when a poet hones their words until they communicate the wordless depths of the heart, that is chesed. And every now and again we meet people who have the capacity to do for others in meaningful ways out of this same generous instinct. This is what the great Yiddish writer, Y.L Peretz expressed in his masterpiece short story If Not Higher. It’s what my neighbor, Meghan did when the reports first came out about families being separated at the border, and she flew out to the Southwest on some instinct, then shortly after created Immigrant Families Together, which continues to reunite families broken up at the southern border. It’s what we want our kids to learn when we tell them that becoming a Jewish adult includes a volunteer project to help people in need. 

This type of free love, effortless giving, manifested kindness has always been the goal of any Jewish life.  

This week’s parashah, Trumah, draws a clear line between this type of easy, heartful giving and the notion of community. The sacred, the social, the financial and the political come together seamlessly in an episode of human generosity without which no synagogue or Jewish place of gathering would exist today. 

I hope you join me on Zoom this evening at 6:30 to witness the drawing of that line, learn about our new Chesed Committee and enjoy a She’at Chesed, an hour of grace. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Choose Life

Dear friends,

There was a big "pro-life" rally in DC this week. With the court about to decide on Roe V Wade, this is the time for those of us who support a woman's right to choose to make our voices heard. With that in mind, and after a powerful class with several of you yesterday on Judaism and abortion, I share with you a personal reflection on the matter.

There was no blessing for this heart-wrenching act, so Erika and I created one: 

ברוכה את רחאמאמה שעוזרת לנו לבחור חיים. 

Blessed are you Mercy Mother who helps us choose life. 

The blessing is a reference to the Book of Deuteronomy’s transcendent line: “I have put before you today life and death, blessing and curse, now choose life.” 

But what is the meaning of this word, life, that Jews wear on their chests in necklaces, give gifts in the numerical equivalent of its letters, raise their glass to, pride themselves on sanctifying? What do we actually mean by “life?” 

I learned deep lessons about this from Erika during what was probably our most challenging episode to date, when we found out that one of the twins she was carrying had a genetic abnormality called Trisomy 18. 

She tells the story far better than me in the article she published about it in 2020. It describes the process that led us to undergo a selective abortion, a procedure in which one of two or more fetuses is terminated in utero. The decision was hard. It was personal. It touched upon the deepest notions of what is important in this life, what we live for, whether a reason or a purpose exists. It took me into the Jewish tradition and out its back door to the fields beyond it where a soul is a soul and a man stands alone in front of his god. It was one of those times when knowledge and ideas disappear, and answers are found in the eyes of those we love. You can read Erika's beautiful piece HERE.

The Jewish tradition did confirm some of my instincts during the process. The Talmud, reflecting on a verse from this week’s Parashah, makes clear that a person is only considered a person once they are born. You cannot, according to Jewish law, murder a fetus, no matter the stage of the pregnancy, because a fetus is not a human being: until the baby’s head emerges the fetus is not considered a soul, but part of its mother’s body. פשיטא, גופא הוא. “It’s simple,” says the Talmud, “it’s her body.” 

That doesn’t mean abortions are desirable under Jewish law. Pregnancy is sacred. It does, however mean that other considerations may enter the playing field. It means that a danger to the woman trumps any considerations for the fetus. In our case it meant that the safety of the healthy twin is a valid consideration under Jewish law. This may seem obvious to you, as it did to us, but the abortion laws like the one in Texas and other states would have prevented us from going through with the procedure. There was a strong possibility that that would have resulted in the loss of both twins, and the deeper trauma that would carry. 

It was comforting to feel supported by Jewish law, although our decision went far beyond such things, and we would have gone through with the procedure even had we found out otherwise. It felt like too personal a decision to follow any person or doctrine’s ultimate opinion. The point of it was its complexity, and we sifted through the different components of our situation until we were able to reach clarity.  

Emotionally it was more complex. It had little to do with ethics and everything to do with who we are, and what we believe the relationship is between the human and the divine. A human being is sent to the world, in certain regards, simply to find out who they are. The way to do that has to do with the choices one makes. This hard moment provided a ground like no other to live in the deepest sense of the word. 

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life— so that you will live, you and your offspring. 

הַעִדֹ֨תִי בָכֶ֣ם הַיּוֹם֮ אֶת־הַשָּׁמַ֣יִם וְאֶת־הָאָ֒רֶץ֒ הַחַיִּ֤ים וְהַמָּ֙וֶת֙ נָתַ֣תִּי לְפָנֶ֔יךָ הַבְּרָכָ֖ה וְהַקְּלָלָ֑ה וּבָֽחַרְתָּ֙ בַּחַיִּ֔ים לְמַ֥עַן תִּֽחְיֶ֖ה אַתָּ֥ה וְזַרְעֶֽךָ׃ 

Life, in a profound and real way is the act of choosing. In our tradition, even those who believe that, as Akiva said, הכל צפוי, everything is predetermined, understand the other side of the coin, which Akiva expresses in the second half of that sentence, והרשות נתונה, and we are given the choice. A life is made by the choices one makes. To be pro-life is to believe in choice, to see human beings as complex, wondrous, pained beings who are forced to decide between one heart wrenching option and another, and through the impossible decision to break forth a path into the heart of god and existence. 

Had I been robbed of that opportunity I would have been deadened. And I am only a man. 

If we have a god, this god needs us to choose. Otherwise we would not be commanded in our holy book to “choose” anything, let alone to “choose life.” 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Birth and Revelation

Five year old Manu in his Harry Potter costume

Dear friends,

In the new Almodovar film, Parallel Mothers, there’s a birth scene, in which he lets us watch two women scream, cry and push as their babies get closer to emerging. The scene threw me back to my son Manu’s birth, five years ago last week, when I watched Erika perform those same powerful, brave acts. I had seldom, maybe never seen so much power manifest, enveloped in that much intensity. Manu was the incredible gift that came out of that awe-inspiring moment of revelation, birth. 

This week’s Parashah describes the mother of all biblical revelations, the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. It is, much like birth, a display of incredible, fearsome power. When the Children of Israel are watching the mountain shake, smoke and thunder they are still able to control their fear and hold it together. They’d witnessed the plagues and the splitting of the Sea, so they were used to visuals of revelation. It’s when they hear God’s voice speaking to them directly that they lose it. 

“You speak to us,” they said to Moses, “and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.” 

The multi-sensory revelation was too much for them. Being addressed directly by God herself makes them feel like they are actually going to die.  

It’s a very human response that points to the pain that is often involved in revelation, be it human or divine. Revelation has a way of making one hyper-aware of their faults. When Isaiah sees God he responds with this: 

“Woe to me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty.” 

Seeing God makes the great prophet feel ashamed. 

In front of the quaking mountain, Moses answers the Hebrews request to mediate the revelation: 

“Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the awe of the divine may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.” 

Abarbanel, a Spanish medieval commentator explains:  

בא אליכם הקול הזה כדי שתבחנו עצמיכם ותראו אם יש בכם כח לסבול אותו ולשומעו 

“This voice came to you so that you look into yourselves and see whether or not you have the strength to contain it and to hear it.” 

Revelation can be a question: Are you are ready to look yourself in the eye, to see reality for what it is?  

Last Shabbat’s hostage situation was another painful revelation. It showed us again the very real anti-Semitism we live with in this country. But it also revealed the bravery and goodness of Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker and the other hostages, as well as the overwhelming care of communities of all types and creeds, as was exhibited in the aftermath of the affair. 

A revelation like this one asks us a more nuanced question: Can you see both the horror that lies beneath the veneer, and the great beauty? Can you contain the hidden miraculous as well as the buried wickedness?  

Any time we get a peek into the ever-present power at the heart of our existence is a test to the limits of what we think we can contain. But it can also be seen as a vote of confidence. We can contain more than we think. 

If the sheer intensity of the moment hadn’t wiped out any word or thought, I’d imagine some questions coming to the mind of that soon to be father that I was five years back: How am I worthy of raising a child, of partnering with this incredible being pushing out this baby? If this is how this life begins, how will I ever be able to contain the fear, pain and beauty of it all?! 

Well, five years into my third child I can say that Manu’s still alive, growing and amazing us, jumping off the walls and learning and teaching to live and love. I carry that revelation as one of the great teachings of my life. A moment that revealed mysteries of life, power, beauty and womanhood without which I’d be bumbling nothings as I try and explain what it might mean to hear God’s voice. 

This evening at our Kabbalat Shabbat we will explore moments of revelation further, and the tests, opportunities and gifts they offer. We will be joined by musical guests Maria Lemire and Martine Duffy.
I hope to see you on Zoom at 6:30.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Trees of My Childhood

Cindy Ruskin - Tufts of Tune (Digitally-manipulated oil painting).
See more of her work HERE.

Dear friends,

Of the many trees of my childhood neighborhood in Jerusalem, there were a few individuals that I developed a relationship with. The cypress tree in the neighbor’s yard across the street was climbable, and became "the headquarters" for a couple years. It had that dry smell, unavoidable because climbing up necessitated moving your head through its stringy leaves. Around the corner in another yard, the strawberry tree, as we called it, would fill with mulberries as the heat would come, and I’d spend hours making my way along its thick, sturdy branches to reach the lushest fruits. In Bilu park I’d hop onto the lone Olive tree in the middle of the grassy slope, touch its smooth, silver-green leaves, and watch its inedible olives grow fat, or pick them and hurl them at my brother. Not far from the olive stood an enormous cypress that shot up into the sky like an arrow. Climbing up was a dream, a challenge I would fulfill only once during high school, and only halfway up. This one had a different personality than "the headquarters," more stately and aloof, and certainly much wiser, and though harder to ascend, it didn’t make your hands all sticky like the pine tree in our yard. I can still tell you exactly where to pick (sometimes wormy) apricots, tangy cherries, fat lemons, honey-sweet figs and shesek (loquat) in a three minute radius from my parents house.

During this time of year, the drive up to Jerusalem is majestically white, not from the snow but from the blooming almond trees everywhere, the Shkediya. When on Tu Bishvat, the New Year for the Trees, we’d be piled into buses with the rest of the city’s school kids and driven out of town to plant trees, we’d see the shkediyot, and sing the most popular Tu Bishvat song, Hashkediya porachat, the Almond Tree is Blooming.

Trees were not only an organic piece of the landscape, a beloved expression of God’s gift, but they were central to the political ethos of the country. We were the country that made the desert bloom. Americans would donate to the Jewish National Fund, which would provide the trees planted all over the country. The majority of forests in Israel are planted, many by kids on Tu Bishvat. The country is filled with European trees, designed to make the immigrants from Europe feel at home.

In my military service I was stationed in Marj Ayoun, a village in Southern Lebanon a few kilometers north of the border (Israel was occupying Southern Lebanon at the time). It was amazing to look south toward Israel, which was full of trees, while everything north of the border was bare. To this day much of the land south of the Lebanese border is forested, while north of it it’s hard to find a tree. Neither side is natural, for the most part. Much of the trees on both sides of the border were cut down during Ottoman times to create the train tracks that connect Jerusalem to Beirut and Damascus.

America also looked quite radically different a few hundred years ago. Deforestation was part of the ethos back then, and many of the native trees were replaced. John Adams wrote that when they first arrived “the whole continent was one dismal wilderness, the haunt of wolves and bears and more savage men. Now the forests are removed, the land covered with fields of corn, orchards bending with fruit, and the magnificent habitations of rational and civilized people.”

Once I was out of the army I learned more about the complexity of trees in the holy land. As I began to make excursions with peace activists into Palestine, we’d drive by JNF planted forests in the middle of Palestinian owned farmland. In this desert landscape, it was odd seeing pine trees that reminded me of those in Jerusalem, which were planted to remind the previous generation of Europe. I had never contemplated the possibility that the JNF would plant trees in what is not considered Israel, but the Palestinian Authority, but of course there are many such forests.

I was reminded of that this week when a controversy exploded in the south of Israel, where a new forest is being planted on Bedouin land. The Bedouin’s, who have already been kicked from place to place by Israel since 1948, and who have entirely changed their lifestyle to suit the dictates of the state, came out to protest an uprooting of human beings under the innocent guise of tree planting.

A tree is not always just a tree. As a matter of fact, even the beloved trees of my childhood, especially the fruit trees were likely planted by the Palestinians who lived in that neighborhood until 48’. There is a complex story the trees tell, a truth that is hidden, or concealed, or buried in the reality of life.

With trees so much is hidden. Some aspects are rough, the politics that often lie beneath, the subjugation and power plays that come with the benefits of new forests. But in recent years we have been offered some incredible teachings about the unseen reality of the natural world, which shine a light on the beauty of the great hiddenness of existence in general. Join us this Sunday at 11:00am when we will welcome Tu Bishvat by looking at segments from Peter Wohlleben’s The Hidden Life of Trees, and Richard Powers’ The Overstory. 

The Torah – that complex thing of beauty and harsh truths – is a tree of life. May we explore the hidden treasures planted therein as we climb up its dreamy, challenging branches.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Great Crocodile

Dear friends,

Imagine yourself being invited into the unknown by some gentle voice. Imagine that what you hear in that voice is the voice of your beloved, or maybe your mother, someone you trust beyond everyone else. They take your hand and walk you into one room, then another, each room going deeper and deeper into some beautiful, majestic home. After many wonderous rooms you enter the largest one yet. A few stairways spiral upward, all leading to the same place, the seat of The Great Crocodile.

This is the Zohar’s depiction of the first verse of this week’s Parasha, Bo:

God said to Moses: Come to Pharaoh.

When Moses, with the Holy One’s gentle guidance, arrives at these stairways, he understands a few things: The creature at the top is an expression of Pharaoh. The crocodile is divine, a feature of God. Moses can see that Pharaoh and everything he represents is מִשְׁתָּרִשׁ בְּשָׁרָשִׁין עִלָּאִין, rooted in the high realms. He also knows that he is supposed to walk up those stairs and confront this crocodile. But he won’t. He is too scared, paralyzed by the ramifications of what he has seen.

The Zohar is neither scared nor paralyzed. It isn’t interested in a comfortable notion of divinity, or a neat and pleasant idea of good and evil. It isn’t looking for the Torah to be clear-cut and self-affirming. It is actively seeking out the challenge to its own ideas of right and wrong. It’s not only Pharaoh and the Egyptians who thinks he is a god, but Moses and the Jews can see the truth in that too. Moses enters into God and finds Pharaoh there.

God, like us, is not only good. I’ll repeat that. God is not only good. Godliness is inclusive of every aspect of existence, every possibility of our imagination, every dark wish. Every lie exists therein. Every selfish act, every expression of chaos, every tweet and every feeling of despair; everything is included in God. How could it not be, in a system in which God is understood to be the creator of everything, the life-source and death-source in whose image we live?

What you hate is part of you.
Who you blame is inside of you.
Your oppressor is not absent in your oppressed self, nor even in your liberated self.

Acceptance of reality is important. Without it we are shooting in the dark, or groundlessly dreaming. The Great Crocodile can be a beautiful teacher.

“The mystery of the wisdom of ‘The Great Crocodile hanging out in his river’ has been demonstrated to those seekers who know the mysteries of their God,” says Rabbi Shimon in the Zohar.

And yet, this does not mean that we are supposed to accept reality quietly. The lesson may well be about when to confront the earthly expressions of the crocodile, and how to beat and subdue it.

When Moses is standing there frozen in fear of the reality he has just learned, God steps in.

“When the blessed Holy One saw that Moses was afraid, He said to (the crocodile) ‘I am against you, Pharaoh king of Egypt, the Great Crocodile hanging out in his river…’ The blessed Holy one, and no one else, had to wage war against him…”

God must wage war against pieces of God’s-self, and so must we. This is true on a personal level, a societal level and a global level.

This evening we will have a special Shabbat, in which Rabbi Jim Ponet and New Shul co-founder Ellen Gould will help us think and sing through what we have to learn from, and how we can confront and subdue The Great Crocodile, on the week of the anniversary of the insurrection.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Moments

Dear friends,

As the year comes to close I find myself thinking back to the smaller moments that have constituted the vast majority of 2021. These were of course in certain ways colored by the bigger events. Biden came into office, the vaccine rollout, waves of the pandemic, the constant knowledge that people are sick and that many are dying. 100 shades of confusion as to how to act and when to act differently and what each different stage and new bit of information means or doesn’t mean. There were big changes in peoples personal lives as well. Changing work situations, adapting to new stages of life, health issues that have come and gone, happy occasions and trying occasions and sad occasions. 

Between each of those there was a lot of living. A lot of doing the things of the every day, surrounded by the people who we are used to seeing. There were meals, and movies, and walks, And doing nothings. There were moments of thinking, talking and reading. So much of the time we spent was good. Even when overall many of us experienced difficult times.

In this weeks Parasha Moses asks god a question:

למה הרעות לעם הזה?

Why did you make things so bad for the people?

The people are in a tough spot. They’ve been slaves for a long time. Pharaoh’s been tightening the grip, and when Moses shows up and convinces them it’s time to stand up and get free, pharaoh responds with even more hardship. It seemed as though redemption was at hand, but instead it’s taken them backwards. That’s when Moses asks his question. 

Why did you make things so bad for the people?

God gives a strange answer. 

⁦”I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name יהוה.”

Until now, says God, I’ve appeared as the god Shaddai. Now I am making my first appearance to you and the rest of the people for the first time as YHVH, or Adonai. Shaddai derives from the Hebrew word for a woman’s breast, Shad, and therefore carries with it a strong maternal connotation. It’s as if until now God was mothering the people, caring for them like one does for a baby, protecting them, feeding them. Now, as the nation grows up God manifests as the strange, past-present-future of the verb To be. The story of redemption, of moving to the next stage in life, is composed of infinite moments of being. Some large moments, some incredible moments, some terrifying moments, and mostly lots and lots of little moments in which to be.

The Hebrew word for moment, rega, is where the root for the word for calm, ragua comes from. To be calm is to embody the moment, to be “momented.” I wish us all a year filled with countless moments of calm that come together like a puzzle to form the next step on our path out of the narrows to ever expanding freedom. May we manage to enjoy the moments as they come, to think back to the sweet moments that we experienced this last year, and to create a time of healing and freedom for all. 

Happy 2022!
Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Practicing Lightness

Blue Cliff Monastery

Dear friends,

Lightness is not a state of being that the Jewish tradition tends to espouse. Ours leans towards the weighty, the digging into concepts complicated and deep, toward responsibilities placed on our shoulders for the sake of preserving our tradition, healing the world and doing what we were placed on this planet to do. The Hebrew word for light (the opposite of heavy), Kal, appears a whopping zero times in the Torah. The few times in which the verb using the three-letter root of Kal appears in Torah are anything but light. Sarah feels like she has “become light” in the eyes of Hagar, meaning she doesn’t respect her enough. Children who “mekalel” their parents, understood as curse but literarily lighten, are to be put to death. Moses offers us “the blessing or the curse,” the brachah or the klalah, the latter also deriving from the same root, ק-ל-ל.  

But days like we are experiencing lately demand a light state of being if we do not want to fall into despair, anger and depression.  

I was reminded this week of the deep sense of gratitude I had toward Quentin Tarantino after I watched Inglorious Bastards. This Holocaust revenge movie could have never been made by a Jew. We needed a friend to come and make it for us. Another friend showed up for me to help me lighten my attitude.  

“We need to cultivate a spiritual dimension of our life if we want to be light, free and truly at ease,” writes the Vietnamese Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh. “We need to practice in order to restore spaciousness.” 

I had the wonderful opportunity to spend a couple days at one his followers’ monasteries last week, Blue Cliff Monastery in the Catskills. It gave me an opportunity to practice this light spaciousness, as well as find some tools to retain a degree of lightness after I came back. Since returning several things have happened that would normally leave me feeling heavy and miserable: Omicron exploded, my son got sick, all my kids stayed home from school for a week and we had to cancel our family holiday plans. Throughout this time, my mind and heart have fared far better than usual thanks to Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching on the practice of lightness.  

What has this practice consisted of? 

A few minutes of meditation in the morning, a few minutes of washing the dishes (especially pots and pans, which I usually hate washing) in the afternoon, and a few minutes of playing with my kids in the evening. During each of these events, in place of my habitual attempt to finish these tasks so I can get to the real thing I want (AKA “need”) to do, I make an effort to simply breathe, relax, and enjoy what I’m doing. Breathing, I’m finding, can be an enjoyable activity. 

It’s not always simple, of course. But the experience of carrying the world on your shoulders, of weight and noise and mayhem, of the disaster inherent in not accomplishing this or that task, is often just an experience. We can work on disassociating ourselves from that weight.  

The truth is that our tradition does teach these lessons as well. The psalmist wrote: 

שויתי יהוה לנגדי תמיד 

 I see YHVH in front of me always. 

YHVH, of course simply means being. 

In whatever we do, we can try to keep the present moment in front of our eyes, rather than everything that isn’t there. We can ask ourselves: where in our lives are we being unnecessarily heavy? What are we experiencing as weight, which in our moment-by-moment reality has no actual existence? 

In our Saturday morning prayers we find the Hebrew word for light denoting a desirable state of mind, which opens up the door to gratitude. I will leave you with the words of Ilu Finu, and wish you a Shabbat of lightness, spaciousness and ease, and a sweet birthday of our friend Jesus Christ: 

Were our mouths as full of song as the sea,   

and our tongues as full of melodies   
as its multitude of waves,   

and our lips as full of praise   
as the breadth of the heavens,   

and our eyes as brilliant as the sun and the moon, and our hands as outspread as the eagles in the sky ---
and our feet as light as gazelles’  

Even then we would be able to thank you only for one millionth of a millionth of the blessings we live with every day. 

אִלּוּ פִינוּ מָלֵא שִׁירָה
כַּיָּם וּלְשׁוֹנֵנוּ רִנָּה כַּהֲמוֹן גַּלָּיו
וְשִׂפְתוֹתֵינוּ שֶׁבַח כְּמֶרְחֲבֵי רָקִיעַ
וְעֵינֵינוּ מְאִירוֹת כַּשֶּׁמֶשׁ וְכַיָּרֵחַ
וְיָדֵינוּ פְרוּשׂוֹת כְּנִשְׂרֵי שָׁמַיִם
וְרַגְלֵינוּ קַלּוֹת כָּאַיָּלוֹת:
אֵין אָנוּ מַסְפִּיקִים לְהוֹדוֹת לְךָ
יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ
וּלְבָרֵךְ אֶת־שְׁמֶךָ עַל־אַחַת
מֵאֶלֶף אַלְפֵי אֲלָפִים
וְרִבֵּי רְבָבוֹת פְּעָמִים
הַטּוֹבוֹת נִסִּים וְנִפְלָאוֹת
שֶׁעָשִׂיתָ עִמָּנוּ וְעִם־אֲבוֹתֵינוּ מִלְּפָנִים:

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

No Rewards Please

Dear friends,

During the 7+ years I was studying toward ordination people would often ask me “what are you going to do once you’re ordained?” I consistently had no answer. I didn’t know what I wanted to do as a rabbi. I barely understood why I was doing it in the first place, other than some internal pull met with some external encouragement. I knew I was in it, and doing it and that it was important to me to complete it and to do it right. It was one of the few things in my life thus far that I managed to do without giving too much thought to what I will get out of it or what purpose it will serve. That kept the process both fresh and edgy and allowed me to reach the ordination ceremony open to what might come. A few months later I was rewarded with the wonderful opportunity to jump on this sweet, curious looking boat called The New Shul.

One of the most helpful concepts Jews have come up with, and one of the hardest to accomplish is called “Lishma,” or “for its own sake.”

Maimonides wrote in Mishneh Torah:

Let no man say: "Behold, I perform the commandments of the Torah, and engage myself in its wisdom so that I will receive all the blessings described therein, or so that I will merit the life in the World to Come; and I will separate myself from the transgressions against which the Torah gave warning so that I will escape the curses described therein, or so that I will suffer excision from the life in the World to Come". It is improper to serve the Lord in such way, for whosoever serves the Lord in such way, is a worshiper because of fear, which is neither the degree of the prophets nor the degree of the sages. And the Lord should not be worshiped that way.

Torah, to Maimonides was far larger than just the commandments. To the rabbis in Talmudic times Everything we do is Torah, from the loftiest study to the way they used the restroom. Maimonides may be focusing on Torah, but his words apply to almost everything we do. If there is too strong a utilitarian aspect in most things we do, if we are too often trying to extract things out of our actions we may, from this vantage point, have a problem. Any action that is performed in an attempt to squeeze something out of it for your benefit is not an action done “lishma.” The capitalist system, and the American reality both lead us toward utilization rather than to a quieter type of “being with” what we are doing.

Personally, I find myself constantly trying to accomplish tasks. Be they work or house or family related, so much of what I do is an attempt to complete the things that I believe need to be done. Even in the category of gaining knowledge, or creativity, or experience, I can fall into the habit of “accomplishing things,”rather than doing them for the sake of doing them. I might read a book for the sake of completing all of a certain writer’s work. I might study Talmud for the purpose of finding a particular piece of information, or read the Parasha in order to have what to write to you on Friday. I might practice my musical instruments so that I can bring in a song to Shabbat. Even the articles I choose to read in the publications I choose to follow are often chosen simply for the sake of re-enforcing my opinions. Confirmation bias is a good example of not “lishma.”

In a way there’s nothing wrong with any of those examples. Certainly judging ourselves isn’t helpful. Sometimes, as was coined in the Talmud: מתוך שלא לשמה בא לשמה

“Out of not lishma comes lishma,” or: out of doing something not for its own sake one learns to do it for its own sake. True though that may be, our countless actions done not “Lishma” often feel deeply misguided.

We need to work on releasing the utilitarian aspect of as many of our actions as we can, and simply doing them for the sake of doing them. When we manage to do that, often rewards come of their own accord. When you manage to be there with another person without an agenda, often the depth of communication is deeply enhanced. In study I often find that the deeper realms reveal themselves as soon as I manage to let go of my pre-conceived ideas of what will happen in the study session.

In the Mishna we find the following description:

Rabbi Meir said: Whoever occupies himself with the Torah for its own sake, merits many things; not only that but he is worth the whole world. He is called beloved friend; one that loves God; one that loves humankind; one that gladdens God; one that gladdens humankind. And the Torah clothes him in humility and reverence, and equips him to be righteous, pious, upright and trustworthy; it keeps him far from sin, and brings him near to merit. To him are revealed the secrets of the Torah, and he is made as an ever-flowing spring, and like a stream that never ceases. And he becomes modest, long-suffering and forgiving of insult. And it magnifies him and exalts him over everything.

Seeking rewards, says Rabbi Meir, prevents you from reaping them. Not seeking them showers you with countless rewards.

Singing is one of the hardest things to do not “lishma.” It is often a moment of freedom from our capitalist way of life. Music can help us treat our actions with more presence, intention and softness; To open us up to the unexpected. That’s why we will be devoting our Kabbalat Shabbat this evening to music and song as we look to welcome Shabbat “lishma.”

I hope to sing with you this evening at 6:30pm at the 14th Street Y, or on Zoom with our musical guests cantor and singer Raechel Rosen, and percussionist Yuval Lion.

Shabbat's Zoom Link here.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Choreography of Nearness

Dear friends,

One of my closest childhood friends became very religious when we were 16. Over the course of a year or two he transitioned from being the kid that introduces cheeseburgers to his slightly more traditional Jewish friends, to a bearded aspiring rabbi. A year ago I asked Reb Leibush, now the head of a yeshiva in Jerusalem what sparked that transition. He answered like he answered me decades ago. He took three steps back before praying the Amidah, then three steps forward. During the time of that not very long prayer, before he concluded with three more steps back, bowing all around and two steps forward, something happened to him that he couldn’t ignore, nor define, but he knew that his life had changed.  

The Amidah, our central prayer of request, our longest moment of silence, our standing time when our feet are fixed in place, this is our most intimate moment with God (or ourselves) in our prayers. There are physical preparations for this prayer as well as mental ones prescribed. Mental prep includes prayers of praise and gratitude, assertions of our world view and the limits of our knowledge, songs, devotional poems. Then come the physical actions: we turn our bodies toward Jerusalem, we take three steps back and three steps forward, and begin. 

The strange magic of these dance moves, choreographed by rabbis for us thousands of years ago is illuminated in this week’s Parasha, Vayigash. 

We find ourselves in the climax of the Joseph saga. He’s already been sold to slavery by his brothers, taken to Egypt, imprisoned unjustly, and used his understanding of dreams to become Pharaoh’s right hand man. He has saved Egypt from a terrible famine, and has already given food to his brothers, who have come from Canaan looking to stave off starvation. He hasn’t revealed himself to them though he certainly recognizes them. The second time the brothers come back after the food Joseph gave them has run out he devises a trick that puts his one full blood brother, Benjamin in prison. The defacto leader of the brothers, Yehudah now must respond. 

וַיִּגַּ֨שׁ אֵלָ֜יו יְהוּדָ֗ה 

And Judah approached him 

This approach, the title of the parasha, is one of the three sources that inspired our pre-Amidah choreography: 

The reason (for taking three steps before the Amidah) is because there are three “approaches” in prayer (found in Tanach): “And Avraham approached,” “And Yehudah approached,” “and Eliyahu approached.” 

(Rabbi Avraham Eliezer bar Isaac) 

The three instances where the word “Vayigash”, “and he approached” appear in the bible are followed by deep, honest expressions of a major need. 

Rabbi Moshe Iserles writes: 

“When a person is about to pray [the Amidah], he should take three steps forward, like someone approaching and drawing near to something that must be done.” 

Yehudah had no choice. He had to get his brother out of prison or his father would have died of sorrow. And he will express this in clear language to this Egyptian ruler who he does not know is his brother. But before any words are said, he must first move his body nearer to him. 

It is the silent physical movement that first grabs Joseph’s attention, signaling to him that something is about to happen. When we speak to our loved ones often a similar takes place. A physical movement away from them can signal fear, lack of clarity or care or love or importance. A movement toward them can signal a desire to engage, your need of your loved one and clarity of intention. It cries out: “I want to be close to you,” which can often be more effective than words. 

In order to draw near, to come close, we must approach. This is the first lesson the rabbis learn from this moment of high drama and tension. Then come his words, ending with a selfless act of sacrifice: 

Please let your servant remain as a slave to my lord instead of the boy (Benjamin), and let the boy go back with his brothers. For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” 

When we approach God or anyone else in this way, drawing near with selfless love of others, even if we have harmed them or done wrong, the response suggested in this story is a breaking down of barriers, inhibitions and anger into total and complete forgiveness: 

Joseph could no longer control himself before all his attendants, and he cried out, “Have everyone withdraw from me!” So there was no one else about when Joseph made himself known to his brothers.  

His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace.  

Joseph said to his brothers “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt.  

Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you... it was not you who sent me here, but God; 

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could approach one another, and notice when we are being approached. Those quiet steps forward could be the beginning of knowing one and another more deeply, and the forgiveness that ensues from that knowledge. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha