The Activating Heart

by Itamar Dotan Katz

Dear friends,

One of my teachers toward ordination was a Hasidic drummer who went by Reb Dovid. Studying Talmud with him, which I was lucky enough to do weekly for seven good years, was a careful text study of ideas in the form of a whirlwind of thought. R’ Dovid also knows about money. Most people don’t know him as a drummer but as the director of an energy consultancy company. And he knows about spirit. At least as many people know him as an avid student, who spends hours every day at the House of Study. One of the simplest and greatest lessons he taught me was this: money does not belong to us. We feel generous when we give tsedakah. In truth we are just passing along what we were holding onto as custodians.  

Rabbi Dovid’s notion can free us to transform our most physical, mundane and dangerous property, with which many of us have weird, screwed up relationships, into goodness, love and purpose. Money can ruin us, or it can elevate us. 

This week’s Parashah is called Trumah, Hebrew for donation. When we come to build the tabernacle, the abode of God in our midst, we first take a Trumah from “every person whose heart so moves them.” Out of the thing that is entirely utilitarian we build the most ephemeral, the most useless, the most ridiculous – to imagine that God needs an abode is absurd, especially for theists! - place we have; and thus the most important.  

Trumah is the Bar Mitzvah parashah of my nephew Nahar. I’ve probably mentioned him before, because he’s this incredible person who teaches those around him how to be present and find joy. He’s also in a wheelchair and severely disabled since a car crash when he was an infant. Nahar’s was a Bar Mitzvah for the ages. I remember him up by the Torah, hitting the button that would play the recording of the Torah blessing: “Barchu et Adonai Hamvorach!” I remember all of us replying, “Baruch Adonai Hamvorach le’olam va’ed,” and then waiting as he found a way to bring his hand to the button again to complete the blessing. And I remember the deep connection that emerged that day between Nahar and the words: איש אשר ידבנו לבו, “every person whose heart so moves them.”  

Trumah means donation or gift, but it comes from the root “to raise.” A donation has the power to raise the dirt to the heavens, to raise selfishness to giving, to raise depression to quiet joy. Every person whose heart so moves them can take part in the raising up of spirit. You can look at Nahar today and see a nineteen-year-old who can’t speak or move freely, or you can experience his great soul, if you allow your heart to move you into a space of generosity.  

It is through this generosity that the things we value most are created. This Shul was created by such an energy by Holly and Ellen and many others, and maintained through the love, work and donations of countless others over the years. The same is true for our arts institutions, our justice workers, and most other organizations of value in our society.  

This Shabbat I invite you to make a donation. Elevate your money. Or rather, pass on the money that landed in your hands. I’ll name a few organizations and initiatives that seem especially important right now. Choose one or more or all of them, or give to one of your own causes. 

1. This little Shul that could, The New Shul is, as per, on the brink. No joke. Help us HERE! 

1. VOCAL NY is on the front lines of the valiant and perpetual fight against homelessness and poverty in this city. 

1. The Freedom Agenda is working to close the stain on this city known as Rikers Island. 

1. Torat Tzedek : The Torah of Justice is leading the precarious charge for a Judaism in Israel/Palestine that is based on the inherent value of every human life. 

1. HIAS has been the leading American organization working for refugees for over a century and is needed now more than ever. 

1. The Multifaith Alliance for Syrian Refugees is hard at work supporting those who have lost their homes in the recent devastating earthquake. 

1. Jews for Racial and Economic Justice is a local org that partners with other communities on issues such as fair pay for home-care workers, police accountability and combating hate.  
   One example of their work is taking place tomorrow night, where in response to the white supremacists Day of Hate, JFREJ is leading a Havdalah Against Hate, which we can all easily join from wherever we are.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Beyond the Flags

by Gili Getz

Dear friends,

Before I left my house last Sunday to participate in the weekly demonstration against the legal overhaul that would demolish the separation of powers in Israel, I debated what symbol or slogan to bring. Israel’s outwardly racist Minister of National Security had recently begun to enforce an old ban on Palestinian flags, so perhaps that’s the thing to wear. After all, the Palestinians are the ones who would suffer most if this overhaul took place. On the other hand, there are those who claim that this is an internal Israeli issue, removed from the larger conflict, and the way to beat this law is with Israeli flags. Indeed the protests in Israel have been a sea of blue and white flags. Maybe a joint flag is the right move, I pondered? Or maybe all this flag business is nonsense. I printed out a slogan in Hebrew from demonstrations past: “Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies,” taped it to my jacket and headed out. 

When I arrived at Washington Square Park, I learned that one of the other speakers, an Israeli American named Udi Aloni, didn’t feel comfortable speaking since there were only Israeli flags. A few minutes later, however someone showed up with two flags, one Palestinian and the other half Israeli half Palestinian. She gave Udi the Palestinian one and he came into the fold. As soon as he came near the other few hundred folks assembled an argument ensued. Several loud voices demanded that Udi remove the flag. “This isn’t what this protest is about,” they said. “It’s about democracy,” he roared, “From the river to the sea all the people must be free!” “This isn’t the time for that,” they answered. 

Palestinian flags have been an issue at the demonstrations in Israel too. The first few weeks, in classic fashion, the left couldn’t agree, so there were two separate demos in Tel Aviv. Since, they have found a way to bring everyone together, so long as those with Palestinian flags stay in a corner off to the side. Here in New York, the demonstration kept coming back to this bitter argument.  

When it came my turn to speak, I described my worry that if this overhaul passes, my nieces and nephews will have no future there, that my father would be arrested for his peace activism and the courts would be powerless to help him.  

I then spoke about the opportunity this moment offers for the country to change course. The first ever event of “the faithful left,” Jews whose God speaks to them not of land but of the value of every human life, drew 700 people in Jerusalem last week. Maybe even the association between right wing policy and being a religious Jew could be challenged. 

There is hope in this moment: Imagine half of the US going on strike and instead of going to work showing up in Washington to demonstrate. This coming Monday will be the second in a row in which something like that takes place there. It is a hopeful “Kumah” moment, in which the people are rising up. My friends there describe a marvelous scene in which Israelis of all types are protesting, including some settlers, ultra-orthodox Jews, Mizrahi, Ashkenazi, gay, straight, old and young.  

But one population is notably absent. It’s hard to ignore the tribal tone of these calls for democracy. A Palestinian citizen of Israel was beaten up last week during the demonstration in Tel Aviv because he was calling for an end to the occupation. Even in New York the mere sight of the Palestinian flag threw people into a rage. Events like these turn my positive feelings to what my father called “dark hope.” 

From my vantage point, this moment offers an opportunity to join Jews and Arabs together for democracy. Otherwise, the country will not only continue to rule over half of the population there without giving them basic rights – as the Israeli courts have allowed mind you - but it will also remain on track to become a restrictive theocracy for all. The coalition agreement between Netanyahu and the ultra-orthodox Shas includes a clause to give the religious courts - where women are not allowed to be judges, and often prevented from speaking - equal power to the civic courts. Preventing this government's legal overhaul from happening is crucial to creating a sustainable future. 

Before I closed my remarks, I pulled out my grandmother, Dina z”l’s book and showed it to the crowd. The year before she passed, she was reading the prophets. I quoted the prophet Amos’s words, suggesting two paths available to the Israelites of old. One leads to exile – “Israel will surely be exiled from its land” - and the other to a peaceful joy:  

“They shall rebuild ruined cities and inhabit them; 
They shall plant vineyards and drink their wine; 
They shall till gardens and eat their fruits.” 

But perhaps it’s the final verse that my Savta ever quoted me that is most relevant: 

לֹא־נָבִ֣יא אָנֹ֔כִי וְלֹ֥א בֶן־נָבִ֖יא אָנֹ֑כִי כִּי־בוֹקֵ֥ר אָנֹ֖כִי וּבוֹלֵ֥ס שִׁקְמִֽים׃ 

“I’m no prophet, nor the child of a prophet. I’m just a shepherd who grows figs.” 

Don’t label me with titles, says Amos, or weigh me down with your flags. Any visions I may share, grow out of nothing but my simple human life. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Transcending the Physical

by Cindy Ruskin

Dear friends,

“Rabbi David of Lelov was frustrated. He had devoted his life to matters of spirit. He ignored the talk of the town, the news and gossip, and instead focused on eternal matters. He followed the laws of his ancestors, prayed, did acts of loving kindness and charity, studied and taught. And yet, he was still stuck in the physical realm, thinking about his needs, his pains, his desires, his worldly aspirations. He couldn’t transcend this body of his no matter how hard he tried. 

He looked to the Prophets of old and found that many of them lived with little food or drink, not to mention sex. Following the advice of a mystic several hundred years before his time, Rabbi David decided he would deprive his body until it left him to unite with his spirit. For six years he fasted all week long, eating only on Shabbat.   

When the six years had been completed, and the seventh was upon him, he awaited the spirit’s appearance. “Now,” he thought, “God will be with me.” But no such experience took place. Dispirited, he committed himself to another six years of fasting between Sabbaths. After twelve years of fasting, however, no transcendence emerged. The rabbi still thought about food and sex, he still felt jealousy and resentment, still sought the approval of others, was still consumed with desires. God had not appeared to him as he had thought. “Surely,” he thought, “I must be very close. But some invisible door is blocking me from entering to see the Queen.” 

The rabbi knew who would be able to show him that door and unlock it. So, he travelled all week to the village where his old friend, Rabbi Elimelech lived and taught. He arrived on the eve of Shabbat, and entered the small synagogue, which was already filled with beautiful singing. When the prayers had been completed, the song turned to warm smiles and a sweet sense emerged of a community that had entered together into a new mental space. Rabbi Elimelech, with his son by his side, approached each person and greeted them warmly, with embraces and warm words. Everyone, that is, except for Rabbi David, whom he passed by without a word. 

R’ David was distraught. He was offended, humiliated, deeply hurt. Sitting in his room at the inn late that night he calmed himself down. “Many years have passed. I look different, so much thinner than I was, and grayer and older. He must not have recognized me. I will return tomorrow for the morning prayers.” 

The next morning again the prayers rose high, and the people lifted one another toward the heavens with their singing. But when the post-prayers Kiddush was completed, and all had drunk some wine to warm their souls, again Rabbi Elimelech greeted each person – except for Rabbi David.  

This time R’ David was angry. His mind raced with fury. “How could he do this to ME?!” He packed his small bag so that he could leave as soon as Shabbat ended and planned not to return to the little shul ever again. But as the evening approached R’ David found his legs pulling him toward the Shul. He knew that R’ Elimelech always speaks words of wisdom during the final meal of the Sabbath before the holy day ends, and he couldn’t get over his draw to hear what he would say. So he placed himself outside of the shul by the open window. The assembled community drank their vodka and savored their pickled herring and other delights as they shared stories and sang nigguns. At last R’ David heard the voice of his old friend. 

“You know,” opened Rabbi Elimelech, “People come to me with a gaunt and sad body, after having fasted and tormented themselves for twelve years. They believe they have done penance, removed the barriers between themselves and God. After that they believe themselves worthy of the spirit of holiness, and they come to me to help them through the threshold. They are ready to walk through the door and come in front of the queen, and just need me to show them where this door is.” 

The rabbi paused, took one more sip of his vodka, and continued. 

“But the truth is that all their discipline and all their suffering is less than a drop in the sea: all that work they’ve done does not rise to God, but to the idol of their pride. Such people must turn away from everything they have been doing, and begin to serve God from the bottom up with a truthful heart, a full belly and a song on their lips.” 

These words cut R’ David to the heart. His breathing stopped, his legs failed, and he reached his hands to the wall so he wouldn’t fall over. When his breath returned, he felt his body tremble and tears burst out of his eyes like a river.  

When the Havdalah prayers were concluded, R’ David opened the synagogue door in great fear and waited on the threshold without entering. Rabbi Elimelech rose from his chair, ran over to R’ David and embraced him. “Blessed is the one that comes,” he cried out. He helped the broken rabbi to the table and sat down by his side. At this the rabbi’s son couldn’t contain his amazement: “Father,” he said, “This is the man you turned away twice because you could not endure the mere sight of him!” 

“Not at all,” replied the rabbi. “That was an entirely different person! Don’t you see that this is our dear Rabbi David?”  

This Hasidic story was adapted from The Penitent in Martin Buber's Tales of the Hasidim. 

This Sunday I invite you to join me at noon at Washington Square Park for the demonstration against the Israeli government's terrifying plan to gut the court system, where I've been asked to share some words.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Kafka on Faith

Dear friends,

“A man cannot live without a steady faith in something indestructible within him, though both the faith and the indestructible thing may remain permanently concealed from him. One of the forms of this concealment is the belief in a personal god.” 

Kafka’s great aphorism deserves our attention. Let’s examine part I: 

“A man cannot live without a steady faith in something indestructible within him” 

Yesterday I asked three twelve-year-olds what their take on God was. Within seconds the conversation turned to the afterlife. “I can’t imagine everything just ending, turning black,” Arthur said.  

It seems to me that Kafka is making a psychological observation. Human beings live with the constancy of their ever-present selves. We are incapable of imagining our self - whatever that may be or not be - not being. So long as we are alive, we believe we will always live. 

אם אני כאן הכל כאן, said Hillel in the Talmud: “If I am here than everything is here.” ואם איני כאן אז מה כאן, he continues: “and if I’m not here, than what is here?” 

Even in our most broken moments, when we see nothing in ourselves that is strong and enduring, we cannot shake the notion that we are a part of what is. We imagine being dead and look for some other stage or state of being. Which isn’t to say we all believe in the afterlife in our logical brains.  

Part II: “though both the faith and the indestructible thing may remain permanently concealed from him.” 

Let’s first look at "the faith," and then at "the indestructible thing" itself. 

Would we all say that we believe there is something indestructible in us? That we will, in some fashion, continue to exist forever? Certainly not. Even those who do believe in a neshamah, or soul that transcends our physical existence, have their moments of doubt. We are all in some sense agnostics on this question, even if we claim to be believers or non-believers. This is the concealment that Kafka is revealing. We have all witnessed death, if not of human beings than of animals, bugs, plants. We know that life ends. So we go around thinking that we know we will end. But the Kafkaesque fact is that we believe we won’t. We have, according to Kafka, a type of Emunah Shlema, complete faith, in the existence of the eternal in us. 

Now let’s look at this “indestructible thing.” There are certain things that cannot be taken from any human being. The Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish wrote: 

"It is possible for prison walls 
To disappear, 
For the cell to become a distant land 
Without frontiers."

Darwish is describing the imagination. Freedom of the mind, a person’s way of thinking, cannot be taken away. Something about us is indestructible, is it not? Maimonides calls it the Tzelem Elohim, the image of God, our non-physical aspects, primarily our mind. Do we view it as indestructible? Not always. We walk around unaware of or underplaying our uniqueness and brilliance most of the time.  

“Both the faith and the indestructible thing may remain permanently concealed” from us. 

Part III: “One of the forms of this concealment is the belief in a personal god.” 

Maimonides laid what all 613 commandments in the Torah are. The Talmud taught that’s the number of commandments, but no one had ever defined which exactly they were because there are so many different ways to understand every line in the Torah. As soon as he begins, with what Maimonides calls the first commandment, there’s massive controversy: 

The commandment to believe in divinity. And that is that we believe that there is an Origin and Cause, that He is the power of all that exists. And [the source of the command] is His saying (Exodus 20:2), "I am the Lord your God." 

Not only does his biblical source: “I am the Lord your God,” not sound like a commandment, but to command anyone to believe in anything seems silly. Many wiser and more learned than me have written about it, so all I’ll say in our context is that perhaps what we are being commanded, if indeed we are commanded to do this, is to bring to mind that inescapable faith in the indestructible within, which we so easily live without in our conscious minds. In other words, this commandment seems the most impossible – to believe in some permanent truth – but it’s actually impossible not to follow, because it’s built into our humanness. Our job is to keep pulling it out of hiding. 

What’s tricky for me in Kafka’s phrase is the word “personal.” I’m not clear what exactly a personal God is, or what Kafka meant by it. One could certainly read Maimonides’ words as having nothing to do with a personal God. He speaks of “origin and cause” and of a “power of all that exists.” It’s the biblical quote that complicates this, when it uses the phrase “your God.” Now it sounds personal, even if it was used in the plural, God speaking to all the Hebrews.  
For Kafka, the notion of a personal God is one of the ways in which we conceal the faith we have in the indestructible in us. We think we are working on faith, when in fact we are concealing it further. We relinquish our indestructible and put it in the hands of God. We await salvation. We disempower ourselves by removing the indestructible from inside us to outside. Maimonides did believe strongly in separating the self from God. He thought we are commanded to believe that this origin, cause and power exist “שם,” over there. My instinct is different. In my translation of Psalm 30 I rendered the phrase “Adonai Elohay,” normally translated “Lord my God” like this: 

“You 
Who are my self and all at once” 

Tomorrow night I hope you can meet me for cocktails and some Zohar at Cowgirl, a bar on Hudson Street from 6-8pm. We’ll mark Tu Bishvat, the New Year for the Trees. Perhaps the trees can teach us about this question of faith: the indestructible and ever-lasting in the trees, which dies and is born, is both a part of the earth and a unique entity that keeps the world in balance.  
Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Our Whispering Past

Protesting to close Rikers Island Jail yesterday

Dear friends,

* The promised note with words from Dr Lizzie Berne Degear had to be pushed back, and will be coming soon. Instead I offer some reflections on the past week:

Seventy-eight years ago today Auschwitz was liberated. What does it do, Auschwitz? Mostly it sits there in our consciousness, an elemental energy pulsating outward. “This is what human beings can do,” it whispers. “Be scared.” “Be brave.” “Be grateful.” “Be Jewish.” “Take words seriously.” “Care.” “Act.” “Remember.” Different whispers at different moments, different commands to different people. 

Here are a couple whispers that I’ve been hearing this week. 

This evening we will get the video of Tyre Nichols getting beaten to death by police officers in Memphis. We will put it in the category of African American lives taken lightly by police.  

In Palestine we reached 29 people killed this year. Every day this month at least one life taken by Israeli soldiers or police. Five kids. A 60-year-old woman. Men in their prime. Some involved in violent resistance, others not. Lives cut short.  

In New York City the mayor gave his State of the City address yesterday as a large group of protesters demanded he hold to his campaign promise and shut down Rikers Island. Maia and I stood holding a banner with the names of two of the 19 people who died in custody there last year. We heard family members of the deceased describe their loved ones. Most of them described people with mental illness, and indeed around fifty percent of the jail population there suffer from mental conditions.  

It is a known fact that the Nazis first exterminated people with mental conditions and other “undesirables.” The first people to be murdered in in the earliest gas chamber facility, Brandenburg An Der Havel, were mentally ill prisoners. We are, thank God in a completely different situation than 1940 Germany. But since visiting Brandenburg An Der Havel I carry the understanding that what led to Auschwitz was the false distinguishing between people with value and people with no value. These people matter. These don’t.  

So, when we were chanting “Treatment not Jail” yesterday, I could hear whispers from our past. And when we heard a bereaved mother describe the violence in their neighborhood when her son was growing up, the racialized segregation in our city came into focus, and with it more whispers from our past. 

They all matter. Those killed by police like Tyre Nichols, those killed by the IDF like Magda Obaid, those who died by neglect in Rikers as they await trial like Mary Yehudah. Each of the approximately 1.1 million people murdered at Auschwitz. 

There is something incredible that happens at protests sometimes, when you find yourself speaking words out loud. When we chanted “Treatment not jails,” over and over yesterday, the truth of it all, the pain and suffering it implies, the justice behind that simple demand all flooded my consciousness. Those whispers I was hearing were allowed out in the hopeful act of speaking truth with my fellow city-dwellers. 

I remember a protest in Red Hook about ten years ago, before “All Lives Matter” became the anti-BLM slogan. My family and I were some of the only white people marching. At one point in the protest, the chant led by the mostly Black residents of the local NYCHA housing units turned from “Black Lives Matter” to “All Lives Matter.” I was amazed at the generosity of spirit displayed by this underserved, historically oppressed community. And I was further amazed at the feeling that accompanied speaking these words out loud with others. All lives, every single one, matters. There’s no doubt that what we need to be chanting in the US is Black Lives Matter. But it’s too bad that ALM was co-opted by those standing in the way of equality. What a hopeful, prayerful statement it is – every single one of our lives – yours, mine and that of every person - matters.  

May that be the lesson of our whispering past. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

She Torah

Hayley Antonelli

Dear friends,

(*There's a little invitation to a protest I don't want you to miss at the bottom.)

"I’d like to speak the blessings in the feminine,” Ella told me. “What would that be in Hebrew?” 

It would start “Barchu et Adonai Hamvorechet.” 

“And then?” 

“Bruchah Adonai Hamvorechet le’olam va’ed!” 

At her ceremony, for the blessings that officially made her a Bat Mitzvah, Ella flipped the gender of God. It took a young woman from a family of four women to soften the male-dominated idea of God for all of us in the room and suggest a Jewish Goddess instead.  

This is not a new idea of course. In the Amidah we find the phrase “מודים אנחנו לך”, We thank You, in the feminine. There are many such examples in the prayers. Yah, as in Helleluyah is considered the feminine presence of God. In one of the central Kabbalistic depictions of divinity we find a trifecta of Gods, among them the Nukba, or female Goddess who plays a central role in the divine structure of things.  

But overwhelmingly God is referred to grammatically as male, and that is the beginning of patriarchal thinking. How we speak is how we think is how we behave. There’s an obvious link from the male God to the death of Mahsa Amini and the oppression of women worldwide.  

Since Ella’s Bat Mitzvah I began addressing God in the feminine in some of my prayers. The result has been a widening and welcoming of the idea of God. I continue to keep many of the prayers in the traditional male form, since beneath these notions of gender is a wider understanding of the genderlessness of God. God is the place of no separation, beyond definition, transcending ideas, identities, anything human thinking can produce.  

That’s why many of us try in English at least to avoid gendering God altogether. Sometimes the pronoun “they” fits. More often no pronoun is better. But we have to use language unfortunately. 

These last few months, a group of us has been gathering on Zoom to learn from our scholar-in-residence, Dr. Lizzie Berne Degear. Lizzie has been connecting us in powerful ways to the feminine in our tradition, and to the female roots of our tradition that have been buried under the male-dominated face of the last two millennia. She is opening our minds not only to female divinity, but also to pieces of the Jewish bible that could have been written by women. She has invited us to experience an ancient reality of women teachers, with a sweet and beautiful and inviting Torah on their lips. 

Imagine a Torah written by women. Imagine Jewish law written by women. Imagine how that affects your connection to Judaism. 

In next week’s letter you will hear from Dr. Lizzie in her own words about her work. 

This week’s Parasha opens with a multi-gendered mesh of divinity: 

“And Elohim spoke unto Moses, and said to him, I am YHVH; And I appeared unto Avraham, unto Yitzchak, and unto Ya’akov, as El Shaddai, but by my name YHVH I did not make Myself known to them.” 

Of the three versions of divinity in these verses none are overtly gendered. Elohim is plural, grammatically meaning “gods.” YHVH is an unpronounceable mis conjugation of the verb “to be.” “El Shaddai” includes both male and female connotations, the word “El” denoting a male god, and “Shaddai” literally meaning “my breasts,” and harkening back to pre-Jewish Middle Eastern goddesses. 

We have a lot of undoing to get through on route to this liberated divine fluidity that will allow all of us to be ourselves. 

Before I sign off, I’d like to invite you all this coming Thursday to join our BLM chevrutah and protest the city’s inability to protect the human rights of the incarcerated, and to demand action to close the stain on this city that is Rikers Island Jail, where 19 people were killed last year in custody. Details HERE. Email Maia if you can make it, she's coordinating our group.

If you like, try this blessing in the feminine when you light the candles this evening: 

Bruchah At Adonai Eloheynu Malkat Ha’olam Asher Kidshanu Bemitzvoteha Vetzivtanu Lehadlik Ner Shel Shabbat. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

One Small Step

Aztec Sun God

Dear friends,

Ezra Klein’s wonderful interview with Judith Shulevitz about her book The Sabbath World, which I suspect many of you have listened to (and if you haven’t you should) reminded me of a task I had promised myself to complete a few years ago and never did. We have a seven-year cycle of annual themes at the School for Creative Judaism. This year we’re in the third of the seven called the Year of the Storytellers. Last year was the Year of the Peacemakers, before that the Year of the Philosophers, and before that was the seventh of the cycle, which is naturally the Year of Shabbat. During that year I had planned to invite families to try keeping Shabbat, even if just once. Our great grandparents probably all kept Shabbat every week their entire lives. Maybe, I figured, we should try it once. I never got beyond suggesting that families light candles. As my son, Manu (who turns 6 today!!) would say: “I got shy.” The one reliably good thing about the Jews is that we don’t proselytize. Why mess with that? 

Well, because the other reliably good thing about the Jews is our greatest addition to the world, Shabbat. So today I’ll beg your forgiveness for my brazenness and attempt to complete my unfinished task from a few years ago in a slightly different manner. I’ll leave the theory and reasoning for why we may want to practice Shabbat, or to enhance our current Shabbat practice to Ezra and Judith. You could also re-read Heschel’s prologue to The Sabbath, which lurks in the background of the interview. 

By the end of this note I’ll have invited you to choose one small way to practice or to enhance your current practice of Shabbat. The reason I won’t suggest anything big has to do with the snail-paced development of my personal practice over the course of about fifteen years and counting. Today I’d say I keep Shabbat, (though Orthodox Jews would look at my practice and heartily disagree) and it’s often the best day of my week, the bedrock of my sanity. Had I gone any faster, I would have rebelled and given up. I’d like to share with you the process that brought me to this point. Maybe it’ll strike a chord or ring a bell or give you some ideas on how to go about this.  

The primordial beginning of my adult Shabbat practice was going to the theater every Friday evening. Living in the Village helped with that. But that was still sporadic, so I don’t include it as the first step. At the time I would on occasion light candles or do Kiddush and Motzi. The first thing I added as a weekly Shabbat occurrence to which I held for many years was that on Saturday mornings I would pick up a book that had nothing to do with my work and sit in bed for an hour with it. I remember a couple weeks of Jack London science fiction stories. Things like that. Anything that pulled my brain away from the practical. For a good couple of years that was my Shabbat. 

Those were the years in which smart phones came into their own, so I rapidly changed from checking my email once a day to many, many times a day. That’s when I added the Shabbat morning no email clause. This would be key. Something to build on. Over the course of a few years I lengthened the time from just the first couple hours after I wake up, to noon, to after lunch. Then I added Friday evening. I kept stretching the time until I comfortably stopped checking my email during the entire Shabbat. 

With email out of the way I began to add the internet in general. I stopped surfing the web, reading online newspapers or whatnot. If Shabbat can free me of my obsession with work, it might also be able to pull me out of this world, this century, the particular noise we live with during this round. 

Simultaneously there were family practices developing during those years. I now had a family, kids, other people to mark Shabbat with. The main difference between Heschel’s version of Shabbat and that of Shulevitz is that Heschel puts the onus on the individual, while Shulevitz doesn’t think it’s doable without community. My beginnings on this path of making Shabbat holy, different, separate were solo adventures. Had I not, however, had a family to have Friday night dinner with every week it would have all fallen apart.  

There were several other big steps that came later. I stopped working. Well, rabbis work on Shabbat often so.... you got me. But I’d argue that any person of faith whose practice is not ripe with contradictions is a person of little faith. A big step for me was giving up falling asleep in front of the tv on Friday night, as I’d been doing since childhood. This came when I decided to give up screens, a big and blessed leap that took some years to complete. Those of you who have been over for Shabbat dinner may be able to attest to the fact that I still do take to the couch at some point and doze off, but at least I dumped the TV.

Other rituals were added. Our family developed a kind of game we would do every Friday evening that created an opportunity for each of us to share a story about our week. The kids got their wish of Saturday morning screen time, which they keep religiously. I learned the Talmudic maxim “Whoever doesn’t sleep on Saturday afternoon will be tired all week,” and began taking that nap too seriously. The practice developed and grew.

Today, I avoid travel on Shabbat with three exceptions: to go pray (interpreted rather widely to include arts, protests and a few other categories), to go be with loved ones and to go to nature. I speak and text with friends and family. I continue to add to my list of do’s and don’ts. Most weeks I’ll say a quick kiddush on Shabbat lunch. Most weeks I’ll say the Blessing after the meal on Friday night. Most weeks the family will come together on Saturday night to do Havdalah. 

I still get accused of lack of consistency and free-flowing interpretation, and I certainly profane even my own Shabbat rules here and there, thank God. But overall, I feel strong in my growing practice, and am no doubt strengthened by it. And it may even be rubbing off on my wife and kids, who knows? 

All of this to say that I invite you to think of one small step toward Shabbat. It could be a minor prohibition like half an hour of not touching your phone, or a decision to avoid something that brings you stress. It could be a moment you consciously engage in something you love. It could be lighting the candles, or doing Shabbat blessings, or blessing your kids. It could be calling your parents or siblings or friends. It could be preparing a great meal. It could be meditating, or reading the weekly Torah portion. It could be going to Shul. Anything that creates a different time, even if it's just a minute or ten, or whatever you can hold to. Choose one thing and do your damndest to stick to it. It’s the ongoing nature of it that will make it work. 

We are a community, and knowing that we are all out there working toward a practice is what will make this take root. I highly doubt you'll regret it.

I would love to talk or email with you about your Shabbat, so please reach out and let me know what you’re up to, or what’s in your way. The tradition teaches that when all the Jews keep Shabbat the Messiah will come. We need to take care of ourselves, this tells us, and we need each other. When we work toward those goals the world takes one small step toward its redemption. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Living With The Hidden

Aztec Sun God

Dear friends,

In season six of The Sopranos the king mobster Tony Soprano tells his psychologist what he learned from his recent experience taking peyote. “There’s something else out there.” His life is crashing in on him. His son just tried to commit suicide. Danger, death and difficulties surround him. “Like what,” she asks. “I don’t know.” “Alternate universes,” she asks skeptically. “Maybe,” he answers seriously. 

Every now and again we are given a glimpse of realities we don’t usually inhabit. We come across a person living a completely different life to ours and see it for a second. We look back at our lives and wonder at the strange and perfect logic of it all. We see a magnificent little bird in some tree. We know for a moment the goodness that sustains us.  

As we carry our loved ones to their graves we recite:  

יושב בסתר עליון בצל שדי יתלונן
The highest sits in hiding,
resting in the shade of the Goddess. 

Our lives are a dance with the shadows, with what we can and can’t see there in the dark. 

The great peacemaker, Stephen Cohen, who worked in secret to broker the peace between Israel and Egypt, as well as other later agreements, was also a great believer in the existence of angels. Steve z"l, who was a close family friend, spent decades shuttling secretly between Arab and Israeli leaders, creating relationships of trust with vilified enemies of Israel such as Assad, Arafat, Hussein and others, that he would then transform into diplomatic breakthroughs. He knew how to harness unseen powers toward peace, so he knew that unseen powers existed. I wasn't surprised to hear at his funeral that he held a strong belief in the protective power of angels.

The rabbis experienced our existence as the continued miraculous victory of unseen forces of life over what they called “Mal’achey chabalah,” angels of destruction. We are surrounded at all times by tens of thousands of these negative angels, they taught. But we live, thanks to the unseen powers of divinity.  

In this week’s Parasha a human being gets a glimpse of these worlds, the hidden reality going all the way through to the end of time. 

Before his death, Jacob calls his children to him:
“Gather around so I can tell you what will happen to you in Acharit Hayamim.” 

Acharit Hayamim, explained by the rabbis as “the end” or “the end-times," is commonly understood to be when the Messiah comes, the dead rise and war and suffering cease. The literal Hebrew meaning, however, gives it a twist. Acharit comes from the word Acher, meaning different. What we understand as the end of days could instead be thought of “different times,” days that are essentially different.  These are the times when those hidden realities become apparent, where our circumstances stop blocking us from experiencing the realities of truth and love, אמת וחסד which are ever-present. 

These times, the rabbis teach us, are in our grasp today. We can work on living with the hidden, walking with the unseen, breathing the unknowable. Will we succeed? 

Rashi famously explains Jacob’s invitation to his sons as follows: 

“He wished to reveal the end but the Shechinah departed from him and he began to speak of other things.”  

God intervened to make Jacob unable to communicate what he saw. Had he not, we would be living with the sad reality of knowing the hidden realities. Thank God they are there for us to discover. 

Join me this evening on Zoom for music and more talk of the hidden realities of our lives. Meditation with Michael Posnick at 6:10, and a condensed Kabbalat Shabbat at 6:30.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Happy 2023!

By Itamar Dotan Katz

Dear friends,

Wishing you all a happy, healthy, peaceful and fulfilling 2023.

May hate turn to love
Fear to security
Sickness to health
Sadness to joy
Pain to sweetness
Confusion to confidence
Despair to faith
Anger to peace
Poverty to riches
Horror to beauty
Oppression to freedom
Nastiness to generosity.

Slava Ukraini!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Menorah

Theodor Herzl, “The Menorah,” in Harry Zohn, trans., Zionist Writings: Essays and Addresses (New York: Herzl Press, 1973), vol. 1, pp. 203-206. 

Dear friends,

The way we tell the Hanukkah story has the power to shape how the next generation will think about Judaism. It’s been told in many different ways, with the emphasis changing from one generation to the next to fit the political needs, philosophical spirit and general zeitgeist of the times.

This Sunday afternoon (2:30pm at First Pres, ALL ARE WELCOME! sign up HERE) we will gather to look at some of the history of the way the story has been told. We will hear some Hanukkah songs from different historical periods, and through them get a sense of what each time period emphasized, and why. While adults explore these histories, kids will prepare a short play I wrote called: The Real, True and 100% Accurate Story of Hanukkah, which they will perform for us before we ascend into latke eating and candle lighting.  

For now, I bring you one short retelling of the Hanukkah story and its relationship to our experience of Judaism, as well as to the way Jews are viewed by the world at large. It was first published 125 years ago, on December 31st, 1897, by a secular Austrian Jew who would become the most influential Jewish person of the 20th century, Theodore Hertzl.  And it's eerily resonant today.

The Menorah 
by Theodore Hertzl

Once there was a man who deep in his soul felt the need to be a Jew. His material circumstances were satisfactory enough. He was making an adequate living and was fortunate to have a vocation in which he could create according to the impulses of his heart. You see, he was an artist. He had long ceased to trouble his head about his Jewish origin or the faith of his fathers, when the age-old hatred re-asserted itself under a fashionable slogan. Like many others, our man, too, believed that this movement would soon subside. But instead of getting better, it got worse. Although he was not personally affected by them, the attacks pained him anew each time. Gradually his soul became one bleeding wound. 

This secret psychic torment had the effect of steering him to its source, namely, his Jewishness, with the result that he experienced a change that he might never have in better days, because he had become so alienated: He began to love Judaism with great fervor. At first he did not fully acknowledge this mysterious affection, but finally it grew so powerful that his vague feelings crystallized into a clear idea to which he gave voice: The thought that there was only one way out of this Jewish suffering — namely, to return to Judaism. 

When his best friends, whose situation was similar to his, found out about this, they shook their heads and thought he had gone out of his mind. How could something that only meant an intensification and deepening of the malady be a remedy? He, on the other hand, thought that the moral distress of modern Jews was so acute because they had lost the spiritual counterpoise which our strong forefathers had possessed. People ridiculed him behind his back. Some even laughed right in his face. But he did not let the silly remarks of people whose judgment he had never before had occasion to value throw him off his course, and he bore their malicious or good-natured jests with equanimity. And since his behavior was not otherwise irrational, people eventually left him to his whim, although some used a stronger term, idee fixe, to describe it. 

In his patient way, our man displayed the courage of his conviction over and over again. There were a number of changes which he himself found hard to accept, although he was stubborn enough not to let on. As a man and an artist of modern sensibilities, he was deeply rooted in many non-Jewish customs, and he had absorbed ineradicable elements from the cultures of the nations among which his intellectual pursuits had taken him. How was this to be reconciled with his return to Judaism? This gave rise to many doubts in his own mind about the soundness of his guiding idea, his idee maitresse, as a French thinker has called it. Perhaps the generation that had grown up under the influence of other cultures was no longer capable of that return which he had discovered as the solution. But the next generation, provided it were given the right guidance early enough, would be able to do so. He therefore tried to make sure that his own children, at least, would be shown the right way. He was going to give them a Jewish education from the very beginning. 

In previous years he had let the festival which for centuries had illuminated the marvel of the Maccabees with the glow of candles pass by unobserved. Now, however, he used it as an occasion to provide his children with a beautiful memory for the future. An attachment to the ancient nation was to be instilled early in these young souls. A menorah was acquired, and when he held this nine-branched candelabrum in his hands for the first time, a strange mood came over him. In his remote youth, in his father’s house, such little lights had burned and there was something intimate and homelike about the holiday. This tradition did not seem chill or dead. The custom of kindling one light with another had been passed on through the ages. 

The ancient form of the menorah also gave him food for thought. When had the primitive structure of this candelabrum first been devised? Obviously, its form had originally been derived from that of a tree: The sturdy stem in the center; four branches to the right and four to the left, each below the other, each pair on the same level, yet all reaching the same height. A later symbolism added a ninth, shorter branch which jutted out in front and was called the shamash or servant. With what mystery had this simple artistic form, taken from nature, been endowed by successive generations? And our friend, who was, after all, an artist, wondered whether it would not be possible to infuse new life into the rigid form of the menorah, to water its roots like those of a tree. The very sound of the name, which he now pronounced in front of his children every evening, gave him pleasure. Its sound was especially lovely when it came from the mouth of a child. 

The first candle was lit and the origin of the holiday was retold: the miracle of the little lamp which had burned so much longer than expected, as well as the story of the return from the Babylonian exile, of the Second Temple, of the Maccabees. Our friend told his children all he knew. It was not much but for them it was enough. When the second candle was lit, they repeated what he had told them. And although they had learned it all from him, it seemed to him quite new and beautiful. In the days that followed he could hardly wait for the evenings, which became ever brighter. Candle after candle was lit in the menorah, and together with his children, the father mused upon the little lights. At length his reveries became more than he could or would tell them, for his dreams would have been beyond their understanding. 

When he had resolved to return to the ancient fold and openly acknowledge his return, he had only intended to do what he considered honorable and sensible. But he had never dreamed that on his way back home he would also find gratification for his longing for beauty. Yet what befell him was nothing less. The menorah with its growing brilliance was indeed a thing of beauty, and inspired lofty thoughts. So he set to work and with an expert hand sketched a design for a menorah to present to his children the following year. He made a free adaption of the motif of the eight arms of equal height which projected from the central stem to the right and to the left, each pair on the same level. He did not consider himself bound by the rigid traditional form, but created again directly from nature, unconcerned with other interpretations which, of course, continued to be no less valid on that account. What he was aiming for was vibrant beauty. But even as he brought new motion into the rigid forms, he still observed their tradition, the refined old style of their arrangement. It was a tree with slender branches, whose ends opened up like calyxes, and it was these calyxes that were to hold the candles. 

With such thoughtful occupation the week passed. There came the eighth day, on which the entire row of lights is kindled, including the faithful ninth candle, the shamash, which otherwise serves only to light the others. A great radiance shone forth from the menorah. The eyes of the children sparkled. For our friend, the occasion became a parable for the awakening of a whole nation. First one candle — it is still dark and the solitary light looks gloomy. Then it finds a companion, then another, and yet another. The darkness must retreat. The young and the poor are the first to see the light. Then the others join in, all those who love justice, truth, liberty, progress, humanity and beauty. When all the candles are ablaze everyone must stop in amazement and rejoice at what has been wrought. And no office is more blessed than that of a servant of this light. 

Shabbat shalom and Happy Hanukkah!

Rabbi Misha

Healthy Insanity

Dear friends,

“We have to learn to speak Jewish,” said the activist rabbi.  

We were gathered in an Upper West Side living room to hear from Rabbi Arik Ascherman about the state of human rights work in Israel/Palestine after the elections. Rav Arik, an American born Reform rabbi has been living in Jerusalem and doing the work for several decades. He ran Rabbis for Human Rights for 21 years, and for the last six has been running Torat Tzedek; The Torah of Justice. I’d been to other such events with him before. This time, however, he didn’t spend much time describing his daily work accompanying Palestinian shepherds to their pastures, where they’re routinely attacked by settlers, or other such activities. Instead, his focus was on preparing for this next stage, in which the extreme far right will be in charge of both policy and police. He was talking about the need for lawyers to give a chance for the work on the ground to have an impact, and protect activists.  

What was amazing about his talk was that I could not detect a hint of despair. Imagine spending your whole life in the streets fighting police brutality and racism, getting beaten, arrested, almost killed, and then the head of the Proud Boys gets instated as the Minister of Police. You might think he’d be contemplating a return to the States. Instead he’s diving in deeper. 

What amazed me more was his hopeful suggestion that we might be able to change the tide of a religious right wing that has washed over the country by changing our language. “The language of human rights and democracy doesn’t speak to them. We have to learn to speak Jewish.” He explained how their language revolves around the Jewish texts and traditions, and the times when he’s managed to get through to them have been when he’s quoted Torah, Talmud or Midrash. 

There is of course a lesson for us here in the US, and people all over the world. If we really want to have a chance to reach the religious right, we have to speak in their idiom.  

We got a beautiful taste of how that could look this Tuesday night, when a Black reverend from the south told us that voting is “a prayer for the world we desire,” and that “democracy is the enactment of the idea that we each have within us a spark of the divine.”  

We have been stepping away from our faith-worlds for too long, ceding the space to those who define religion as a conservative, selfish way of being. Warnock and Ascherman point us to a path of illogical faith – the belief that we might be able to have a conversation with people who see the world as the opposite of how we see it. What seems impossible, they tell us, should be attempted.  

Speaking Jewish, in the sense that Ascherman suggests, is an attempt to do the impossible with words. To reach another who seems beyond reach.  

On Monday night in another living room in the financial district we gathered to hear from another faith-hooked realist. Rabbi Or Zohar told us about life in the Galilee, where there are equal numbers of Jews and Arabs living in an escalating landscape of polarization. His organization, Spirit of the Galilee, works to create meaningful local ties between the two communities. They learn each other’s faith languages, through an ongoing inter-faith gathering of religious leaders from the region.  

When the terrible Jewish-Arab riots erupted in other parts of the country last year, the ties forged between these different communities were key in preventing the same type of riots in their area. The trust built through learning each other’s languages allowed for clear communication during a time of crisis. Rabbi Zohar was able to speak to and calm a group of Jews talking about taking the law into their own (armed) hands, while his Christian, Muslim and Druze partners in nearby towns managed to bring an end to the burning tires that kept appearing on the road leading up to his village. 

Rabbi Zohar’s efforts are a type of “speaking Jewish.” It’s hard work. Close to impossible. But with persistence it can create a crack in what often seems like a sealed shut reality.  
These faith leaders continue to work toward the good because that is the work, not necessarily because it will work. It’s a type of insanity that, like John Lewis’ “good trouble” we might call “healthy insanity.” Sometimes, though, God sees these prayers-in-action, the universe responds, and a shift occurs thanks to the dogged work of these perfectly healthy insane people. 

May we all find the faith, courage and drive to speak Jewish. And may we enjoy a shabbat brimming with healthy insanity. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Core of Jazz and Prayer

The Miles Davis Quintet playing All Blues, which we're going to hear this evening to the words of the Friday evening Psalm, "Shiru L'Adonai Shir Chadash."

Dear friends,

On March 2nd, 1959 six musicians converged at a recording studio on 30th Street in Manhattan. The band leader had given the others some sketches of scales and melody lines, no sheet music, little instruction other than to improvise. After briefly going over the music, they began recording what would become what many consider the greatest Jazz album of all time, Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. 

Miles was bringing a new sound based less on chords, the bedrock of Jazz until that time, and more on modality. He was looking for greater freedom, for a living sound, for what he called “spontaneity.”  

Paradoxical though it may seem in a tradition that gives us the same words to say every day at the same time (and lots of them), this is what we are taught to strive toward in prayer. In Mishnah Avot we find: 

אַל תַּעַשׂ תְּפִלָּתְךָ קֶבַע, 

Don’t make your prayer fixed. 

Keva can also be translated as stuck in place or in time, automatic, something lifeless that you do without thinking.  

In music like in prayer, we are after the moment in its bright uniqueness. The rabbis talk about the word Kavanah as integral to prayer. Kavanah is normally translated as intention, but if we think about it in Jazz terms it transforms. A musician takes a solo. We can normally tell if they’re feeling it, if they’re going somewhere internal, if they’re listening and attuned to the other musicians. That’s Kavanah. It’s what you’re trying to hit, and in prayer what we’re trying to hit is this amorphous glob of meaning and time we call in English God, or in Hebrew Adonai, YHVH, being itself. If we are lacking Kavanah, we miss the mark.  

Another way to say it is that kavanah means play. When we are playing, we are present, we are beyond ourselves, we are in company. The psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott said it this way: 

“It is in playing and only in playing that the individual is able to be creative and to use the whole personality, and it is only in being creative that the individual discovers the self.” 

This, to my understanding is what Miles was working on, and what the rabbis in the Talmud were about when they jammed on the purpose of prayer. It’s what the Kabbalists were doing when they riffed their insanity into a book we now call the Zohar. It’s what we do when we come together as Jews to eat, pray or study. 

The Hebrew word for play is Lesachek. It’s practically the same as the word in Hebrew for laughing, letsachek. The bible actually uses both words interchangeably. Like there’s no laughter without spontaneity, there’s also no play without it, or prayer, nor is there great music. We plan to have all of the above this evening at Voodo Fe’s art gallery in Clinton Hill, The Spot, where, immersed in Voodo’s collection of Miles Davis art and fashion we will bring in Shabbat to the spontaneous sounds of Jazz. 

Hope to see you there!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Living in the Entrance

Dear friends,

Two years ago, a guest at our Shabbat service from Women for Afghan Women, Nilab Nusrat shared with us memories of how back in Afghanistan, her father used to invite poor people into their home for dinner. Susan Berger, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, echoed Nilab with stories about how her grandfather in Poland used to do the same on Friday evenings, seating the guest at the head of the table. No matter if the guest were smelly, in rags, or anything else, if any of the kids would do anything but show them respect, they would be sent away. 

This was the state of affairs in many Jewish and Muslim communities until not that long ago. There existed a competitive spirit among Jews in the old country who wanted to make sure they fulfill the mitzvah of “hachnasat orchim,” or bringing in guests. 

How far we’ve strayed! When was the last time you invited someone in from the street? Why, I ask myself, does that seem like an impossibility in today’s world?  It’s not like there’s a shortage of homeless people in this city. In fact, the estimates are rising, close to 80,000 people. I walked around midtown yesterday. It’s impossible to ignore. 

The Jewish drive to be hospitable comes in large part from this week’s parashah: 

The Lord appeared to Abraham near the great trees of Mamre while he was sitting at the entrance to his tent in the heat of the day. Abraham looked up and saw three men standing nearby. When he saw them, he hurried from the entrance of his tent to meet them and bowed low to the ground. 

He said, “If I have found favor in your eyes, my lord, do not pass your servant by. Let a little water be brought, and then you may all wash your feet and rest under this tree.  Let me get you something to eat, so you may feast your hearts and then go on your way—now that you have come to your servant.” 

“Very well,” they answered, “do as you say.” 

Abraham and Sarah spring into action, rushing and running to fix a full meal for the guests.

The opening image already points to a difference between how we live and how our ancestors did. A man sits at the entrance to his tent. Instead of sitting closed up in an air-conditioned apartment with the curtains closed, as we often do, he is facing the world, waiting to interact with it.

The rabbis understand him to be communing with God as he sits, some imagining him in prayer or meditation. Nonetheless, his outward facing position leads him to “raise his eyes” and see the three figures nearby. Although he is in the midst of a divine revelation, he wastes no time, ditches God and runs toward the passerby to invite them in. 

“Receiving guests is greater than receiving the face of God.”
This is the lesson the rabbis learn from this chapter. Even though in their eyes experiencing the face of the Shechinah, the presence of God is the greatest thing that could happen to a person, “the goodness that nothing can beat,” the very purpose of the spiritual life, still greater than that is to be in the world, bringing those in need into your home. 

Nechamah Leibovitz writes: “This receiving of guests is the best example of Ahavat Habriyot, loving other people, of helping others, it is the entire space of the world, the good deeds and acts of kindness between one person and another.” 

That’s why Abraham and Sarah keep running and hurrying throughout this story. There is nothing more important to them. 

If we can’t live like our ancestors there are other things we can do. 

Yesterday I was proud to participate in the inaugural meeting of Tirdof, New York Clergy for Justice. After some opening words and blessings, we joined the meeting of Vocal NY, to hear about their efforts to ease the plight of the homeless and end it altogether in this state. There are a few campaigns they’re working on, including Free to Pee, in which they are demanding the city reopen hundreds of public restrooms. As if the humiliation of being homeless isn’t enough, we live in the city ranked 80th in access to restrooms in the US. They spoke of the tens of thousands of rent stabilized apartments in the city that sit empty, and of the renewed criminalization of homelessness by the current administration. Read more about their campaigns HERE. 

We can live in the entrance to our tents instead of behind the blinds. We can face outward. We can look up and see the state of our city. We can live up to the call of our tradition by supporting the efforts of those on the front lines of homelessness. 

“How great was the influence of these verses on our ancestors during their years in exile,” writes Leibovitz about this week’s Parashah, “that even a poor person among Israel would not want to sit down to their Shabbat dinner table if there were no guest in their house. So much so that even the poorest and most decrepit and isolated Jewish communities of Eastern Europe could pride themselves – unlike fancy capitals on both sides of the Atlantic to this day – on the great words of Job: “No stranger shall sleep outside.” 

Insha’Allah we live to see that one day in our time. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Meet Ben Gvir

Dear friends,

I try to avoid electoral politics in my writing. I’m not a political authority of any type. But this week’s election in Israel carries both cultural and spiritual messages that are relevant to American Jews, and offer lessons for Americans in general.

You’ve likely heard by now that the winner was Benjamin Netanyahu. Though he will likely manage to escape punishment for his crimes and run the government, he is not the big winner. The person who has become perhaps the most powerful person in the country, upon whom governments will rise and fall, is the head of the party called Jewish Power, Itamar Ben Gvir. This won’t be fun, but I’d like to introduce him to you, since in essence, 70% of Israeli Jews (including those who voted directly for him and others who voted for parties willing to make a coalition with him) voted for a government that he holds tremendous power over.

Some of you will remember the name Baruch Goldstein. He was a doctor from Brooklyn who moved to Hebron, and on Purim day, 1994 entered the mosque inside the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron and murdered 29 Muslim worshippers. I remember the discussion the following day in my Jerusalem high school, in which most of the class expressed outrage, but in which one kid, Motti, expressed complete support for the killing. That’s the position Ben Gvir took as well. The following year on Purim he dressed up as Goldstein. Until this recent campaign, with his attempts to portray himself as slightly more moderate than he is, Ben Gvir had a poster of Goldstein hanging in his home. There’s a video of him in 2020 standing by that hanging poster in his living room, holding his baby girl and saying to her: “He’s a tzadik, a righteous man, a hero.”

Ben Gvir had a teacher that some of you will have heard of as well. His name was Meir Kahane. Another Brooklynite who became a member of the Israeli Knesset until the court outlawed his party because of its outright racism and hate. That party, Kach, is currently on both the US and Israel’s list of terrorist organizations. Kahane espoused Jewish supremacy. He advocated the forced transfer of all Arabs from Israel. It was in those years that the chant “Mavet La’aravim,” “Death to the Arabs,” became commonplace. Last night some were chanting it when Ben Gvir took the stage to celebrate his victory. Ben Gvir is the first to admit that there are close to no differences between his party and Kahane's.

It’s not just Arabs Ben Gvir dislikes. He was a big supporter of the infamous “Smolanim bogdim” campaign, in which people hung signs that read “Leftists are traitors.” Ben Gvir, an attorney, represented one such person in a lawsuit against them for unfurling such violence-inducing language in public. Recently, Ben Gvir clarified the same thing about Arabs and leftists: not ALL leftists are traitors, nor are ALL Arabs terrorists, he said.

In a similar move, he recently called LGBTQ people his “brothers and sisters.” In 2016, though he said that “they have no place, neither in Jerusalem nor in the State of Israel.” His reasoning is germane: “(the state) must have a Jewish character.”

In this “Jewish character” lies what I perceive to be the deeper lesson we can learn on this side of the world.  According to its website, Jewish Power supports “enacting meaningful reforms to the systems of power in order to strengthen the Jewish character of the State of Israel.” He means to gut the Supreme Court and the entire democratic structure of the state. And has the support of the other parties in the Israeli right. It is this same “Jewish character” that drives his reasoning for banning MK’s who “undermine the state” from serving. There are a few such MK’s on the left who Ben Gvir has already said should be expelled from both the Knesset and the country. Some of them he has called “terrorists.” This is a word he uses for a wide range of people. One of his main election pledges is to instate a “death penalty for terrorists.”

In a way, all of this is noise. He’s the type of character, the likes of which we certainly have here, who invites a lot of bla bla bla in the news. The difference is that Israel is a place in which things are immediate and close. Ben Gvir isn’t David Duke who sits tucked away in his lair making statements. My friends have bumped into him in Hebron, in Sheikh Jerrah, in the South Hebron Hills - all places where real people are being actually kicked out of their homes in large numbers, actually physically attacked, actually killed. This is a place where things get real quickly, where a statement about the Jewish nature of the state is translated into subjugation and suffering. If Ben Gvir becomes the Minister of Internal Security as is expected (despite the fact that he never served in the army because they said he’s too racist!) he will have a very real impact over millions of people’s lives.

What is this “Jewish character” he’s talking about? I hear “Jewish character” and think of Mel Brooks. To Ben Gvir it evokes supremacy over other nations. To me, if a Jewish state has a purpose it’s to be a home for the wanderers, a refuge for “the stranger, the orphan and the widow.” Ben Gvir’s teacher stated it like this: “The purpose of the State of Israel is revenge against the nations. There is no greater or more just attribute than revenge, for it gives life to God.”

This election suggests that “Jewish” means something radically different to the majority of Israeli Jews than it does to us. This last Knesset had a self-defining Reform Jew for the first time, Gilad Kariv. When Kariv walked out on one of his speeches, Ben Gvir said: “I was so happy that the one who represents those who want to destroy all of what’s holy to Jews doesn’t want me in the Knesset.” He’s talking about us!

Yes, there are millions of Jews in Israel who we align with. Yes, the incoming Prime Minister does not believe, like many in his future cabinet that the law is secondary to the Torah. Nonetheless, as Israel embraces Ben Gvir, we are associated with his version of Judaism.

That is why in moments like these I often find myself struggling to pray, study Torah, or do anything Jewish, simply because of the association with the abhorrent face the Jews have put forward. I wonder whether the decline in religiosity in America in general has more to do with changing philosophies, or with the public face of religion. If religion means no right to choose, so I don’t want to be religious. If religion means subjugation of women and LGBTQ people, how could I be religious? If religious means not believing in science, why would I be religious? Though it’s not just a Jewish problem, when I see those who claim to represent me behave distastefully, my instinct is often to disassociate from the Jews altogether.

There’s one Jewish person I know who’s seen it all. His name is Norman Lear and he’s a hundred years old. 10 years ago he said to me: “It’s time to take religion back in this country.” I thought of those words when the election results rolled out Wednesday morning. I knew then that my faith is my own, and that it is connected to the source of being and truth as strongly as anyone else’s. I also knew that my faith world commands me to pray on such a day, and to study Torah, and to not hide who I am.

So eventually I did manage to do some studying that morning. I put on my kipa with a mix of sadness and pride, fatigue and strength, and opened a book of Torah interpretations by one great Israeli, Nechamah Leibovitz z”l. She was expounding upon the episode in this week’s Parashah known as the Brit Ben Habetarim, or the Covenant of Parts. Abraham splits several sacrificial animals into two parts and is told to pass between them. A vulture comes down and tries to get at them, but Abraham shoos it away. The commentators see the vulture as those who try and stop us from performing the sacrifices, from doing what we do as Jews. Leibovitz writes:

“If they succeed in cutting the connection between this nation and her god, and if the Torah will - God forbid - be forgotten from Israel, there will be no existence any longer for this nation.”

We liberal American Jews are such a nation, and must never let the connection with our God, or vision, or truth be cut, lest this beautiful thing that we’ve created be lost. We are not one iota less Jewish than Ben Gvir or any other Jew, even the most supremely extra ultra orthodox.

The Jews who believe in this other version of “Jewish” that has many elements we find distasteful are also a nation. They stand on the other side of the aisle. Between us is poor Abraham, shooing away the vultures like some kind of optimistic Sisyphus.

My rabbi tells me we are one nation, not two. He says that Ben Gvir and Mel Brooks are both inside of us, just like they exist outside of us, and our job, like Abraham’s is to contain both. We are commanded to do what we can to rid ourselves of our inner demons, and our society of the external ones. One of the best ways to do that is to be who we are, no matter who is embarrassing and defaming our public face. Another is to look reality in the face. This was our challenge this past week. And this will be our challenge this coming week. And the week after that.

Yair Asulin wrote in Haaretz yesterday that “the failure of the ‘change block’ (the side that lost the election) was the failure to be able to look reality in the face, to listen to it without judgement, without thinking that we know everything, without imagining that the truth necessarily exists on our side.” He goes on to suggest, like several other left wing thinkers that this moment offers a rare opportunity to create a new, compelling vision for the country. But he offers a warning to go with it:

“Abandoning “god” to the hands of those who abuse it for bad purposes, without understanding how elemental this feeling is in many people’s consciousness, how critical a player it is in any new social story or any new movement that seeks relevance; that abandonment is one of the greatest sins of ‘the change block.’”

In the face of the rise of Ben Gvir and the vengeful faith he espouses, let us not abandon our God of compassion, and stand tall for the Judaism of equality, care and justice that we know and love.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Words, Reeds and Slipping Tongues

Dear friends,

There are those moments in which the words slip out. You didn't mean to say what you said but had every intention of saying it differently.  

There are those moments in which the words don’t come out. You meant to say what needed to be said but it wouldn’t come out. 

What is it that governs the balance of what stays in and what comes out? What makes us falter with too many words, the wrong words, not enough words? What should we do and not do after we make such a mistake? 

One clue our tradition gives us is this: The quill with which a Torah scroll is written must be made from a reed. I’ll get back to that in a bit.  

Last week I was quiet. People would ask me things and I’d look at them silently. This was, as you might imagine, frustrating to them. I wasn’t engaging much with the world at large either. When I checked the news from Israel, I found that a racist Jewish supremacist of the most abominable type was poised to become one of the strongest people in the country in the upcoming elections. I took that information in and kept my silence. I don’t think either of those examples is what the rabbis meant when they said: “Silence is a fence around wisdom.” 

This week I spoke. By Monday evening I had referred to a friend several times in the wrong gender pronoun. I didn’t even notice it until they gently pointed it out. Later in the week, when a complete stranger emailed me with a critique of my educational methods based on a photo they saw online, I sent back two emails with a critique of theirs, based on their email. That might be closer to what the rabbis meant about silence and that fence. 

What was it that made me act so differently these last two weeks? 

I studied such questions in the lead-up to the High Holidays, and on Yom Kippur I presented some of my thoughts on the matter to you all. I was hoping to improve my own relationship with words, and to get us all thinking how we might do that. As I was speaking words about words on Yom Kippur, my tongue slipped. Something I hadn’t intended to say came out.  I felt it happen, with the beginning of what one might call awareness, but didn’t quite catch it in the moment. I’ve since spoken to a few people about it, some caught it and others didn’t, so it certainly was miss-able. But it also certainly hurt a few people and caught the ears of others.  

“Words,” I said, “are what created us.” In explaining this, I described the verbal communication between two people, which leads to new life. “Most of us, maybe all of us wouldn’t be here in this room if it weren’t for those words spoken between our parents. Between our father and our mother.” 

I had intended to make a point about the power of words to create, but the ad-lib in the moment showed how words hold the power to exclude. In front of me were several people who come from a variety of parental situations that don’t include a father and a mother.  

My notes that night didn’t include the words father or mother. They emphasized the fact that this may not be true for everyone in the room. So what was it that made them come out the way they did?  

I remember the moment. I had liberated myself from my notes. I looked around the room. For a split second I considered whether any of the people I was looking at may fall into a different parental category to mine. No one person I happened to look at did, but of course there were many in the room I wasn’t looking at (if you are one of those people and I haven't called you, I apologize). I felt, as one sometimes does, connected to the words I spoke. I had my own parents in mind. And I spoke the words “father and mother” out of my experience. For a second or two, I suppose I lost sight of the people to whom I was speaking and slipped into myself. 

The same thing happened this week when I mis-gendered my friend, as most of us have done many times. We lose sight of the other’s experience and speak from our own. This, I remind myself in moments of guilt, is natural to us humans.  

Emmanuel Levinas describes natural human behavior as a selfishness that is miraculously overcome when we see another’s face. Our natural state of mind is to think about ourselves. Even truth itself is in large part a subjective experience. Speaking from our own experience is often all we can do. This is important to remember, especially when that leads us to hurt people we love. But when we see – really see – another person’s face we are drawn out of our natural selfishness. That is when we can perform the human miracle of stepping out of ourselves and doing for another.  

I should say at this point that there’s a major difference between spewing hatred that is claimed to be a slip of the tongue, and unintentionally losing track of what you’re saying. The recent Anti-Semitic tweets that have caught the public eye are good examples of patterns of hatred, rather than mistakes by well-meaning people. 

So, what are we meant to do when we slip? How can we see the other’s face, even after we’ve failed to do so? Admitting and apologizing is a good start of course. In some cases, there are things we could do to try and avoid slipping again. With gender pronouns, for example I’ve been advised to try the PPP: Pre-Pronoun-Pause.  

The Jewish tradition takes words very seriously, so much so that wrong use of words is in some cases considered worse than murder. And still, once the words have been spoken, we are taught not to dwell on them: act and forgive; forgive yourself if you’re the offender or forgive the offender if you’ve been hurt.  

A Talmudic story goes to the heart of the matter: 

Once Rabbi Elazar was riding along the riverside on his donkey, and was feeling happy and tired because he had studied much Torah. 

There chanced to meet him an exceedingly ugly man, who greeted him, "Peace be upon you, my master!" R. Elazar did not return his salutation but instead said to him, "How ugly this person is! Are all the people of your city as ugly as you?" 

"I do not know," said the man. "But go to the craftsman who made me and say to him: How ugly is the vessel which you have made!" 

Realizing that he had done wrong, R. Elazar dismounted from his donkey, prostrated himself before the man, and said to him, "You are right. Forgive me!" But the man replied, "I will not forgive you until you go to the craftsman who made me and say to him, 'How ugly is the vessel which you have made.'" 

R. Elazar kept on walking after him until he reached his city. The residents of the city came out to greet him, saying, "Peace be upon you, O Teacher! O Master!" Said the man to them, "Whom are you calling 'Master'?" Said they, "The person walking behind you." 

Said he to them: "If this is a 'Master,' may there not be any more like him in Israel." 

"Why?" asked the people. 

Said the man: Such-and-such he has done to me. 

"Nevertheless, forgive him," said they, "for he is a man greatly learned in the Torah." 

"For your sakes I will forgive him," said the man, "but only if he does not act this way anymore." 

Soon after this R. Elazar entered the study hall and taught: "A person should always be flexible as the reed and let them never be hard as the cedar. And for this reason, the reed merited that of it should be made the quill for the writing of the Torah.” 

The holiest words, the ones that should never be broken – those are written with the intention of flexibility. Let us remember that the next time that harsh, hard judgement bubbles up in us over a word uttered in error. Perhaps that might open the door to apologies, forgiveness and improving our relationship with spoken and unspoken words.
Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Good? Good!

Dear friends,

If you were a biblical translator but your Hebrew was hit or miss you might translate the sixth and seventh verses of the Torah as follows: 

God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. God saw that the light was %$*!, and God separated the light from the darkness.  

Somehow you never caught the meaning of one of those words, and you couldn’t quite make out from the context what “the light was,” so you left it rather vague. 

A few verses later you might do something similar when that word reappears: 

God called the dry land Earth and called the gathering of waters Seas. And God saw that this was %$*!. 

Still the meaning of this word could go in various directions. Any of these words and many others could logically replace %$*!: excellent, terrible, funny, right, wrong, ugly, beautiful, lacking, perfect. 

The next two appearances don’t give you much indication as to the meaning of the word, so when it appears for a fifth time in verse 21 you again translate: 

God created the great sea monsters, and all the living creatures of every kind that creep, which the waters brought forth in swarms, and all the winged birds of every kind. And God saw that this was $%*!. 

%$*! could again indicate that God is pleased or displeased with these creatures, surprised by them or not, and so on. 

The seventh and final appearance in the first chapter you translate:  

And God saw all that had been made and found it very %$*!. 

When we step back from the translations that have been handed down to us, or from our knowledge of Hebrew, we might get a different understanding of the text. This same Hebrew word, Tov, which appears seven times in the opening chapter can be ripe with mystery. 

Unfortunately for our imaginations and playfulness, all translators agree that the word Tov means “good” in English. Every day of creation other than the second, God pauses to inspect the work at least once, and finds it good. In the end God finds it all “very good.” 

Fortunately, though, this gives us an opportunity to explore what we might mean when we use the word “good.” 

Light, we are told, is good. The earth and the seas, that’s good. Vegetation is good, the planets and the stars are good, sea creatures, birds, land animals, they’re all good (note that the creation of humans is not called good, the jury is still out on that one..) And the totality of it all, we call that very good.  

When expounding on this chapter's "good," the rabbis don’t tend to contrast it with evil. We seem to be in a different category of goodness. We see this later in the parashah, when we are told that Eve saw that the fruit on the tree of knowledge was “good for eating.” We understand from the story that it was, morally speaking, very bad for eating. So, by “good” Eve must mean something closer to edible, physically appropriate for human consumption.  

This is closer to the rabbinic understanding of these verses. When God uses the word Tov, according to Nachmanides, she means “That which God desires its eternal existence.” Or: “that god chose its existence,” in Sforno’s words. What “God wants” and what exists are virtually inseparable in rabbinic thought. In other words, we call something good if it exists in harmony with the rest of existence.  “Good” denotes ontology, existence, “is-ness.” Its opposite in this sense is not bad or evil, though it may seem like it to us, since our instinct is toward life, toward existence, rather than toward ceasing to be. In Maimonides’ words: “darkness and evil are lackings,” meaning they have no positive property but simply denote the lack of light and good.  

Good, the rabbis suggest is the positive content of the world, a piece of the totality. When we feel good, we are at peace with the world as it is, and our small but significant place within it. 

Sitting in the Sukkah last week I felt good. Although many things are out of whack in my life and in the world, the breeze, the rain and the sun made everything cohere. I sensed it all to be as it should. Though my mind was abuzz, my heart was quiet. The words on my lips seemed softer, their edges less sharp, their meaning more mysterious. For a moment I looked around and saw that it was all very good. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Impermanence and Gratitude

Rock from whose we’ve eaten,

Bless my faith!

We’ve eaten our fill

We’ve given from what we have

As our Rock instructed.

Feeding her world, our shepherd

Our mother

We ate your bread

We drank your wine

Now we thank You

Our mouths sing praise

We answer your kindness:

There’s no holiness like Yours.

With voices filled with gratitude we sing blessings to our source

For the sweetness and the goodness

For the land our ancestors sat on

And the one we sit on today

For the nourishment you fill our souls with:

Your love has overcome us,

Your never-ending truth.

Happy Sukkot!

A Sweet Opening

Dear friends,

It was wonderful to spend these last ten days with you all. Thank you for the beautiful energy, the uplifting singing, the quiet listening and the intentional speaking, both in person and on Zoom. Thank you to all who participated in so many different ways. Susan and I come out of these High Holidays with a sense of renewed energy in the Shul. I would love to hear from you reflections and ideas about the way these holidays went down, and what we might think of toward both the coming year in the Shul, and next year's High Holidays. Personally, I hope we can see each other this year in all kinds of contexts: hang outs, study sessions, plays and museums, protests, meals, meditations and prayer. Sukkot, which starts Sunday evening will provide our first such gathering to eat, drink, chat and shake a lulav in an East Village garden.

I leave you with the full translation of Psalm 27, that some of you requested, and which we sang at Kol Nidrei. This is a translation I worked on with my rabbi, Jim Ponet.

Psalm 27

And so he sings...

You are my light
my ground.
Why do I fear?
You are my homestead
Why do I flee?

When my torturer drew near
to batter and bloody me
I knew he’d stumble.
When an army bombarded me
with canons and rockets
I rested assured.

Only one thing matters
it alone do I seek:
to live with you always
at your place
To gaze upon your gentle face
To awaken at dawn and find you with me.

To know you’ll hide me in your sukkah on a bad day
wrap me in the folds of your tent
lift me like a stone in your palm hold me
high above my enemies where I’ll sing you songs of love.

So listen, my beloved, hear my voice and answer.
Look me in the eye; your gaze is all I lack.
Don’t veil your face in anger, turn your willing slave away
Be my friend; don’t leave me here alone, orphaned.

Show me a way to live open-hearted
In the sight of my enemies
Who scorn and mock me

Let me not be undone!

If I didn’t believe
Beyond all hope
I’d see you again
among the living…
Oh, but I do hope, yes, yes,
I hope.

Much gratitude, happy Sukkot and Shabbat shalom,

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Here I Am! (Who's I again?)

Dear friends,

What a beautiful opening to the new year! It was wonderful gathering with you all with music, food and sky, and searching for new ways to listen. I was especially moved to sing and pray with some of you who couldn’t come in person throughout the pandemic, including our Shul’s founders, Ellen and Holly.  

On Tuesday evening and Wednesday, we will continue our exploration of communication, the search to find the spaces where we can truly connect with one another, hear and be heard. As we move from Rosh Hashanah, the day of hearing the shofar, to Yom Kippur, the day of speaking our deepest truths, we might want to adopt the attitude of the chazzan, the cantor, who opens her mouth on Yom Kippur with the following words: 

Hineni, he’ani mima’as 
Nir’ash v’nifchad, mi mi ani 

הִנְנִי הֶעָנִי מִמַּעַשׂ  
נִרְעָשׁ וְנִפְחַד מִי מִי אֲנִי 

HERE I AM, 
POOR OF DEEDS, 
TREMBLING AND FRIGHTENED – 
WHO, WHO AM I? 

Hineni – Here I am, is always, at any hour of the day, a good use of words.

He'ani mima’as - poor of deeds, is the humble attitude one wears when they know they are standing in front of someone they can learn from. Is there anyone we can’t learn from?

Nir’ash venifchad mi mi ani, Trembling and frightened – who, who am I? The process of the Days of Awe contradicts itself. We both relinquish the self and become more ourselves. It is a scary process, a total letting go and becoming part of the wind. And there, as we fly around with the particles of dust and light, we find ourselves. Any word we utter that asks “who am I,” is a certainly a word well used.  

And speaking of words, I hope you manage to take moment this weekend to work on our community assignment for the Days of Awe. Here’s a recap again: 

Find a line or verse that moves you deeply. This can be poetry, prose, journalism, something someone once told you, ancient, contemporary, anything really. Some line that touches your kishkes. Spend some time with it over a few days, seeing how it plays into your days and nights, staying open to how it might speak to what happens in the internal and external world. Then, share this line with another person. See if you can express to them what is that makes these words so important to you. Finally, bring that line to Shul on Yom Kippur. During the morning service we will have space for sharing the lines, and will build out of these words our new and improved Tower of Babbling Words. 

Let’s take Lizzie’s suggestion to dive openly into these Days of Teshuvah, listening like we don’t know how to listen. 

Looking forward to coming together with you all in a few days.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Music, Art, Goodness!

Rehearsing for Rosh Hashanah with our musical team: Rachid Halihal, Frank London, Dana Herz, Meg Okura and Yonatan Gutfeld.

Dear friends,

The last shabbat of the year gives us an opportunity to imagine the goodness we invite in the new year. This last week has brought to the forefront the sweet, happy-making peace-invoking capabilities of music and art. In our rehearsal with the musicians this week I was transported into a realm of beauty, playfulness and fun. When you're in the presence of such incredible musicians you easily get lost in a sea of real communication. When you're singing and responding to harmony and rhythm you are suddenly among friends.

Earlier this week I was sent a piece of video art by Ghiora Aharoni. Ghiora took the phrase "Days of Awe" ימים נוראים, and blended the Hebrew letters with Hindi letters of the word Navaratri, the name of the ten day Hindu holiday that this year coincides with our ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Ghiora writes:

"The work unfolds against a backdrop of vintage ledger paper to evoke “The Book of Life” that is opened during the Jewish Holidays and creates a metaphorical conjoining of spiritual energy of these two belief systems with the third eye replacing the tagin, the graphic flourish at the top of the Hebrew letters. These two holidays, both of which last 10 days, explore parallel aspects of humanity’s equilibrium. Navaratri, which means “Nine Nights,” commemorates the epic victory of the Goddess Durga over the demon Mahishasura—a metaphor for the power of good to overcome evil. The Jewish High Holidays—known as the “Days of Awe,” a divine, energetic opening that begins with Rosh Hashanah and culminates in Yom Kippur—is a period of intense introspection of the prior year’s transgressions, as well as atonement, and a symbolic return to a pure state of goodness."

Ghiora's offering is one of an enlarged world that goes far beyond our Jewish lens and finds a holiday-friend, whose energy blends with ours.

Earlier still this week, I received a picture of a painting by New Shul member Susan Weinstein. Susan's paintings often involve natural elements in the city landscape. They remind me that just like the trees, the sky, the flowers inhabit this place of concrete and fast dashes we call New York City, so does the feeling of peace and tranquility exist in islands within our urbanite souls. We can go there, like we go to the nearby community garden. Taking a moment to look at the beauty of human creativity as embodied in the act of observing and painting a garden is another way to experience the sweetness of Rosh Hashanah's honey.

May this year bring us music!
May this year bring us art!
May this year bring us together, like we will do Sunday evening, Monday morning and Tuesday afternoon to celebrate all the goodness this new year has in store for us. I hope you can join us!

Shanah tovah and Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Fall creep in garden by Susan Weinstein