Choosing Teshuvah

The King is in the Field. That is how Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the 18th century Chassidic master and first Lubavitcher Rebbe, described the month of Elul. Ordinarily, he teaches, the king resides and works from his palace. Holed up in a fortress, making decisions, setting policy, for his subjects. Doing so, all from a great distance. But once a year, the king makes a surprise visit to the field. To spend time with his people, to spend time among his people. Typically, it would be difficult for someone to meet the king. And nearly impossible to spend time with the king, talk, connect. But when the king comes to the field, the distance falls away, and the king who is usually extraordinary, becomes ordinary, approachable, familiar.

This Shabbat is also Rosh Chodesh Elul. The king has come to the field. Elul, we know, is the month that initiates our spiritual preparations for the High Holidays. Elul begins our individual and communal journeys of introspection, teshuvah, and repair, and gives us that special gift of time, so we can arrive at Tishrei– at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur– with a sense of focus, direction, and excitement about the year ahead.

 This week’s Torah Portion, Re’eh, begins as follows:

See, this day I set before you blessing and curse: blessing, if you obey the commandments of your God יהוה that I enjoin upon you this day; and curse, if you do not obey the commandments of your God יהוה, but turn away from the path that I enjoin upon you this day and follow other gods, whom you have not experienced.

The parsha continues in the way so many of the parshiot of Devarim do: by laying out the guidelines, conditions, and stipulations for successful life in the land of Israel. In fact, in this week’s portion, we read about the future construction of the Temple, sacrifices, how to identify a false prophet, as well as information about which birds are permitted and which are forbidden. We learn about Maaser, tithing, and the three pilgrimage festivals: Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot. We also learn about the importance of Tzedaka, and the Shemitah, the Sabbatical year.

And the result for following, for living by these commandments? Fruitful life in the Land, and closeness with the Divine. But the parshiot of Deuteronomy offer far more than just a long list of rules. And while at first glance it may seem as though the Israelites have little agency over the direction of their lives, what the opening verses of Re’eh teach us is that choice is fundamentally at the center of ours and their journey forward.

Choose to obey these laws, and you will be blessed. Choose to disobey, and you will be cursed. We are perhaps more in control of our destiny than we’d like to believe. We have the power to choose our path, to choose who we want to be, both individually and collectively. And that can be a terrifying reality to grapple with, especially for the Israelites on the eve of such a tremendous transition. I have always been curious about how the Israelites perceive or feel about this moment. Do they feel liberated and enlightened by the possibility of choice? Or do they feel weighed down, burdened by their own freedom?

Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky, the Netivot Shalom, teaches that Shabbat is a crucial starting point for teshuva, for the process of introspection and repentance. He goes on to say that each time we sin, each time we fail to live up to our potential, there is a distance that is created between us and the Divine. Sin distances us from G-d. Sin creates a barrier between us and our maker. But Shabbat, teaches the Netivot Shalom, is the bridge that reconnects us.

 This teaching is perfect for this Shabbat of Rosh Chodesh, precisely because it captures simultaneously, the power of Shabbat and its relationship to the work of Elul– the work of repair, of repentance, and of return. The essential journeys of Teshuvah.

 But the Netivot Shalom takes this idea a step further, and says that we are incapable of repairing that separation from G-d on our own, we cannot cross that barrier, that chasm by ourselves. And so G-d created Shabbat, and in doing so, created a choice for us. We can either embrace the gift we have been given, take those first shaky steps onto the bridge, and decide to draw close once more. Or, we can make a different choice. Or perhaps even reject the choice entirely. With Shabbat, teaches the Netivot Shalom, G-d extends to us an opportunity to grab hold of something larger than ourselves. In fact, the Netivot Shalom uses the word יאחז, to grab hold of or grasp, to explain what it is we are meant to do with and on Shabbat. We are meant to grab hold of this sacred opportunity, as if holding on to a rope, or a life-preserver. In Elul, and on Shabbat, G-d extends those gifts to us once more– the gifts of choice, of closeness, and of return.

 Parshat Re’eh reminds us of the choices we are given, and the opportunities G-d gives to forge our own path forward. As we welcome in this new month of Elul, remember the acronym within its name: Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li– I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. We have officially begun our countdown to the High Holidays, to a period of intimacy, closeness, and exploration with the Divine.

So what choice will you make? Will you choose to take hold of this Shabbat, like the buoy that it is? Will you join me in going out to the field to meet our beloved, to meet the Divine, so we may go forward together?

 May this month of Elul bring us the clarity that we need to make the right choices– to choose blessing over curse; relationship over division; intentionality and introspection over complacency and self-satisfaction.

 Let’s take those first steps over the bridge, and out into the field together.

 Shabbat Shalom!

Reliving Revelation

This Shabbat is precious. This Shabbat is Shabbat Nachamu, the special Shabbat of comfort and consolation that follows the collective mourning of Tisha B’Av, which we observed just one week ago.

In my mind, Tisha B’Av has always belonged to camp. As a camper, I remember the build-up to Tisha B’Av, and how we spent the day: the intense programs about Jewish history, the reading of Eicha, the Book of Lamentations, and the fasting. I remember feeling that Tisha B’Av seemed to be one of the most important days on the summer calendar– bigger than Shabbat, more emotional than a typical day at camp, and perhaps most memorably, the day that began the perennial, and all too rapid countdown to the end of camp. Tisha B’Av, was, in so many ways, at the center of my experience as a camper. An usual landmark in an eight week stretch of camp time.

But what I remember most from observing Tisha B’Av at camp for all of those years, was always what came after, what came next.

When Tisha B’Av ended, there was always a palpable sense of joy around camp. And not just because we could finally eat. When the requisite 25 hours was up, we would quickly daven the evening service, and then would conclude with a beautiful and slow havdalah– the kind that somehow manages to stop all time. And then, we would sing, and run as fast as we could to the dining hall. And in an instant, all of the mourning and discomfort of the day fell away, making room for the kind of joy that comes with being back in your happy place, surrounded by your best friends, in a place unlike any other, that can only exist when so many particular things converge.

But I always felt sort of strange about this transition. Why, after lamenting the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem, after learning year after year about the countless tragedies that befell the Jewish people on Tisha B’Av; why weren’t we more cautious in our reentry? Why were we so quick to jump back into joy? Why was it so important that we move so quickly beyond the grief?

This Shabbat, we are sitting in the same kind of “what’s next” moment. Parshat Va’Etchanan is almost always read on Shabbat Nachamu, the first Shabbat after Tisha B’Av. And while this special Shabbat draws its name from the opening verse of our Haftorah portion, it also bears an important connection to the Torah portion, one that goes beyond the coincidences of the calendar.

Two critical things happen in this week’s Torah portion, and each lends itself to a sense of renewal, of realignment, and unity for the Israelites. The first, is the repetition of the Ten Commandments. And the second, is the introduction of the Shema prayer.

As Moshe continues to wind down his tenure, he gives a series of speeches to the Israelites, each one summarizing their journey, lifting up both the highs and lows of their time together in the desert. And in our portion, that speech revolves heavily around the revelation at Sinai.

In Deuteronomy chapter 5 we read:

Moses summoned all the Israelites and said to them: Hear, O Israel, the laws and rules that I proclaim to you this day! Study them and observe them faithfully! Our God יהוה made a covenant with us at Horeb. It was not with our ancestors that יהוה made this covenant, but with us, the living, every one of us who is here today. Face to face יהוה spoke to you on the mountain out of the fire— I stood between יהוה and you at that time to convey יהוה’s words to you, for you were afraid of the fire and did not go up the mountain—saying:

Moshe sets the stage, in an attempt, perhaps, to recreate the drama of revelation. The fire, the sounds, the awe, the trembling, the almost hallucinatory experience of standing at Sinai for the first time, and encountering the Divine for the first time. And then a repetition of the Aseret Hadibrot, the Ten Commandments, ensues. We receive the laws a second time; we are given the gift of experiencing revelation for a second time. The commandments as they are given in this week’s Torah portion, are more fully developed, and seem to address the realities of the Israelites evolution into an organized, religious community. The basis for these essential laws remains the same, but they are expanded to reflect the needs of the people at this particular moment in their collective lives.

And then in chapter 6 we are introduced to the text of the Shema:

שְׁמַ֖ע יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵ֖ינוּ יְהֹוָ֥ה ׀ אֶחָֽד׃

Hear, O Israel! יהוה is our God, יהוה alone.

The Shema is the cornerstone of our religious and liturgical experience. Our collective call to unity, our collective affirmation of monotheism. It reminds us of our sacred obligations to one another, and is itself a call to action: to unify, to build, to grow into communities and relationships that value, perhaps above all else, the power of connection, both human and divine.

Now, receiving revelation for a second time, reading the text of the Shema, those two moments would be significant at any time of year. But, they are especially poignant when read on Shabbat Nachamu. On this Shabbat, our invitation to stand again at Sinai, our invitation to declare our commitment to community, those are the things that remind us of the work that comes after a day like Tisha B’Av. It’s almost as if the calendar, our tradition, refuses to let a week go by without a reminder for how it is that we rebuild after the kinds of destruction we mourn on Tisha B’Av. That rebuilding community, standing together around the base of the mountain, having an experience that is simultaneously private and shared, of praying together with the kind of trust that things will get better– those are the building blocks of our reentry, of our renewal. Those are the things that make it possible to go on, even when it seems most overwhelming, most exhausting, impossible. Those are the things that bring us the most pure and essential kinds of comfort.

In the introduction to Creating Sacred Communities, Rabbi Angela Buchdahl, Senior Rabbi at Central Synagogue in New York says the following:

There are so many people who haven’t yet been turned on to what Judaism can do for their lives. I feel this deep sense of mission to share with them that your life would be more grounded and meaningful, you would have less anxiety, you would be more connected, if you found not only Judaism, but a Jewish community…we are seeing waning levels of engagement in religion all over North America. I know that joining a sacred community is actually the antidote to all the things that people are talking about: the levels of anxiety and depression and isolation and loneliness and even illness. I’m not saying that this is the only thing, but communal life is, to me, maybe the most powerful thing we can do for the things that are ailing our society most of all.

This year, I am thinking about Tisha B’Av at camp differently. I’m thinking about how the immediate reentry into the fullness of our sacred community was likely not a pedagogical oversight, but something that was created intentionally, by design. That my counselors, and teachers at camp were guided by our tradition, in proclaiming that community is the remedy to the mourning, and the disconnect that Tisha B’Av reminds us of.

The Israelites are looking ahead to their future in the Land of Israel. We are reflecting, looking back on our history. Parshat Va’Etchanan stands between these two perspectives and affirms the one thing that has always been true: Community is perhaps that one thing that stands the test of time.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Abramowitz

The Daughters of Tzelopchad and the Power of Personal Narrative

One of my favorite pieces of writerly wisdom comes from writer and essayist, Joan Didion. We tell ourselves stories in order to live. I love this quote, because it so beautifully captures what we all know to be true– that the stories we tell about ourselves; the stories we aspire to write about ourselves, lie at the heart of each and every thing that we do on this earth. We build community around these stories, we build our families and dearest relationships around these stories. Stories breathe life into everything that we do and everything that we seek to be. And perhaps without stories, without the narratives that emerge from lived experience, the world becomes a lifeless, uninhabitable, and unjust place.

On Thursday evening, in our second session of our course on Judaism and Reproductive rights, we explored the relationship between narrative and law. Our discussion revolved around  two central questions: 1. What influence does personal narrative and experience have on the development, interpretation, and application of the law? And 2. What is our responsibility, and perhaps the courts’ responsibility, when faced with human experience and stories that are incompatible and inconsistent with the current understanding of the law?

Two very big, very thorny questions. And two questions that are at the heart of almost all of our contemporary political debates. With each passing day, and each passing news cycle, it feels as if the laws and legislation of this country are moving farther and farther away from the people they must have been initially created to protect. So many of our country’s policies– when it comes to the climate, mass incarceration, gun control, reproductive rights–seem to be wholly out of step with the very real, often very painful stories we hear from the people most impacted by these legal decisions.

There is a story in this week’s Torah portion that lifts up these questions of the relationship between law and narrative.

In Numbers chapter 27 we read:

The daughters of Zelophehad, of Manassite family—son of Hepher son of Gilead son of Machir son of Manasseh son of Joseph—came forward. The names of the daughters were Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah.

They stood before Moses, Eleazar the priest, the chieftains, and the whole assembly, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, and they said,

“Our father died in the wilderness. He was not one of the faction, Korah’s faction, which banded together against יהוה, but died for his own sin; and he has left no sons.

Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!”

Moses brought their case before יהוה.

And יהוה said to Moses,

“The plea of Zelophehad’s daughters is just: you should give them a hereditary holding among their father’s kinsmen; transfer their father’s share to them.

“Further, speak to the Israelite people as follows: ‘If a householder dies without leaving a son, you shall transfer his property to his daughter.

Tzelopchad’s daughters, fearing that their father’s name will be lost, and angered over the fact that as women, they are not eligible to inherit their father’s land, come before Moses, and the entire community to plead their case.

In Dirshuni, a collection of modern feminist midrashim, Rivka Lubitch writes:

Why were they referred to, first, as “the daughters of Tzelafchad” and only afterward by their own names?  Because of the the Tzel and Pachad, shadow and fear, that was in them at first. For at first, they dwelled in their father’s shadow, and feared to raise their heads. Once they drew near to one another, they were empowered, and known by their own names, as is written, And the daughters of Tzelafchad drew near…and these are his daughters’ names.

Here, Lubitch points to an important shift in the story of these five sisters. Asking what it was that enabled them to draw near to one another, to share their plight, and ultimately come before the community to demand a change in the law. In answering this question, Lubitch uses an important exegetical tool, and parses the name Tzelopchad into two words- Tzel and pachad, shadow and fear. And it seems that according to this Midrash, it was only after their father died, that these sisters felt free, felt empowered to speak up.

In another midrash on this story Lubitch writes:

Rightly (ken) did Tzelopchad’s daughter speak (Num. 27:7). Tanot asked G-d: If Tzelopchad’s daughters spoke the truth, why didn’t you write that in Your Torah in the first place, for after all, You are truth and Your Torah is truth, and Your word endures forever? G-d answered, Truth will grow from the ground (Psalms 85:12). Tanot asked, but is it not written G-d’s Torah is Whole? (Psalms 19:8). G-d answered her, I already wrote in My Torah, Be wholehearted with G-d your Lord (Deut 18:14). And what’s more, I wrote, walk before Me, and be wholehearted (Gen. 17:1). There is truth that descends from on high, and there is truth that grows from below. Blessed is the generation in which truth from above meets truth from below. And this is what Scripture means when it says Truth will grow from the ground, and justice look down from Heaven (Psalms 85:12).

In bringing their case before Moses, in publicly decrying the injustice of the law as it stood at the time, the daughters of Tzelopchad surely bind the aspirations of heaven with the needs of those on earth. Blessed is the generation in which truth from above meets truth from below.

Responsible legal authorities put the human experience at the center of these most difficult legal questions. When Moshe doesn’t know what to do, when he doesn’t immediately recognize the answer to this question, and when he is confronted with the possibility of overturning divine legal precedent, he consults with G-d, who sees the answer to this halachic question as obvious- if there are no other male relatives, daughters can inherit their father’s holdings. And this decision represents a radical shift in biblical legal precedent, that at the very least, makes it possible for rabbis and legal authorities down the line, to make room for the most marginalized within the normative boundaries of the law.

I want to share one last midrash that we looked at in our class on Thursday evening. Expounding on the verses in Parshat Mishpatim, Exodus chapter 21, that describe a case in which a pregnant woman is inadvertently the victim of violence, causing harm either to herself or the fetus, Rabbis Emily Langowitz and Joshua Fixler write the following:

The text of Exodus 21 begins with an act of violence perpetrated against a pregnant woman, and yet this woman is all but absent from subsequent conversation about this passage. Across the centuries, almost all of the voices of Jewish interpretation, and even many modern commentators, fail to acknowledge her story. The interpreters miss the opportunity to see her as a subject, rather than an object. To see the woman in this text as merely a hypothetical legal case study is to deny that cases such as these were very real to the people who experienced them. To reach a full sense of justice in our understanding of abortion, we must pair mishpatim (laws) with sippurim (stories).

I love this teaching. But I’d like to make one editorial change. Rabbis Langowitz and Fixler write that to reach a sense of justice in our understanding of the law, we must pair mishpatim, laws, with sippurim, stories. But instead of reading pair, what if we read repair: to reach a sense of justice in our understanding of the law, we must repair mishpatim with sippurim. Our stories can be a source of tikkun, of radical repair to the laws that are most exclusionary and have the potential to do the most harm.

When the law fails to see the human being at the center of those most essential questions, the law fails to live up to its own sense of moral obligation. We must repair our laws with stories so that those who are most marginalized, most underserved, most silent can step out of the tzel and the pachad, and be liberated by their own sense of what is right, by their very personal stories that guide them there.

Our sense of moral intuition is powerful beyond measure. Our own personal experience, those stories that inform every decision we make, those stories that give us life, have the power to transcend and transform the law. So let’s make sure to listen.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Abramowitz

Parshat Balak and the Power of Unexpected Blessing

On Tuesday morning, I made a special effort to watch the live coverage of NASA’s release of the first set of images from the James Webb telescope. The event was delightful for two reasons. The first, had to do with the palpable excitement from all of the scientists and technicians who worked on the project. Their tireless work paid off, and now they were sharing that work with the world. Hearing them describe their work with such awe, listening to them explain the significance of each of these spectacular images– I felt like I could share in their success, that their triumph was also mine.

And the second thing that made this coverage so wonderful and so unbelievable had to do with the images themselves. Galaxies, planets, newly discovered stars, colors, textures, and shapes floating across my screen, painting a picture and telling a story about the universe as it has been for thousands of years. One image in particular, an image of the Cosmic Cliffs of the Carina Nebula, a gaseous, craggy mountain range just a mere 8,500 light years away, has buried itself in my mind. Set against a brilliant blue moonlit sky– turquoise, cobalt, cerulean. Bright, glimmering stars that seem to jump out in 3D, an almost unreal, orange mountain range emerges. With peaks and valleys, and shadows of dark reds and browns, wild orange space dust somehow alive and moving across this still image on my screen. An image that is humbling, overpowering, and gorgeous all at once. All of the images that the James Webb telescope has captured, in their diversity and depth, remind me of just how ancient our universe is, and just how vast.

But lately, I have been feeling quite overwhelmed by this feeling that the world is so big. Overwhelmed by what feels like the constant inundation of bad news coming at us from all corners. The overturning of Roe, unchecked gun violence, threats to democracy, the climate crisis, the continuation of the pandemic, to name just a few. But perhaps I feel even more overwhelmed by the sense that there is so much work to be done.

At this particular point in our Torah reading cycle, we encounter the Israelites at what is perhaps their lowest collective moment. They have been wandering for nearly 40 years, with the unfulfilled promise of the Land of Israel propelling them forward. But despite the promise of permanence, the Israelites’ condition deteriorates even as each step forward brings them closer and closer to their sacred destination. They are rightfully exhausted, rightfully fearful, rightfully overwhelmed. And so far, we have seen mass rebellion; the deaths of prominent and beloved leaders, Aaron and Miriam; continued complaint and ingratitude, and widespread idolatry.

But then something miraculous happens, something that would change the Isrealites and perhaps their outlook, forever. At the beginning of this week’s portion, Balak, King Balak of Moav, hires Bilaam to curse the Israelites. Bilaam, who is initially reluctant to accept this assignment, for fear of upsetting G-d, ultimately decides to go forth. So the next morning, Bilaam wakes, saddles his donkey– who the rabbis teach was created at twilight on the sixth day of creation– and ventures forward to curse the Jews. After much back and forth with Balak, and a few encounters with an angel sent to block Bilaam’s progress forward, the prophet is ultimately unsuccessful in his attempt to curse the Israelites, and instead issues forth a beautiful blessing– which begins with Mah Tovu, a text that shares its important first line with the Mah Tovu prayer that we find in our morning service.

מַה־טֹּ֥בוּ אֹהָלֶ֖יךָ יַעֲקֹ֑ב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶ֖יךָ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃

How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!

Bilaam’s blessing, his bracha for the Israelites, begins with the very notion of home, of rootedness. How fair are your tents– the Rabbis teach this is a reference to the houses of Torah study that we will go on to build. How fair are your dwellings– a reference to synagogues– our miniature mishkan, our tiny replica of the Divine dwelling place.

This ode, this bracha, goes on to describe G-d’s might and majesty, and how the Israelites themselves will be transformed into a nation of great glory and strength.

But the most important thing about Bilaam’s blessing, is that it is unexpected. It is a blessing that is at once surprising and so necessary. Think about the Israelites hearing that they have been blessed, at this low point in their journey– I can almost hear them asking, Really? Is this bracha really meant for us? We deserve this, now?

I like to imagine that this unexpected blessing turned things around for the Israelites, and helped them understand where they were headed, and what was possible and necessary to do in the meantime. Maybe this blessing gave the Israelites the renewed energy that they needed for this final, and most important stretch of their journey. A renewed energy that can come only with the ability to make every place your home, to make every place a tent, a dwelling.

There are so many unexpected blessings in our lives. It can be hard to see them, sometimes even impossible to know that they are there, but when we pay close enough attention, those brachot can transform our attitudes, and help us do the work necessary to change the world, and the little slice of it that we are so lucky to have.

This evening, we will begin observance of fast of the 17th of Tammuz, the fast day that begins the three-week period of collective mourning that culminates in Tisha B’Av. And during these three weeks, we reflect on our losses both communal and individual. Both historic and imagined. Beginning tonight, we will reckon with the dance our people do between permanence and impermanence. Between rootedness and transience. We think about all the ways in which curse prevailed, blessing hiding beneath the earth, unwilling, and unable to emerge. But our duty, our sacred task at this time, is to remember that blessings are indeed abundant in our world, even if they are not immediately apparent. That the world that we deserve to live in, that we deserve to give to our children, is waiting for us, just as long as we are willing to mine it for all of the blessings it has to give. 

Yes, the images of the farthest reaches of the solar system remind us of the impossible expansiveness of the universe. And the wilderness must have reminded the Israelites of the same. But our work is here, on earth. And in these challenging times, we must hold on to those unexpected, most unseen, blessings. We must hold on and never let go, because it is those blessings that make the vastness bearable. It is those blessings that make the whole universe feel like home.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Abramowitz