Drawing distant and near: G-d as parent and the Divine-Human relationship- Rosh Hashanah 5783 day 2

Becoming a parent has been the most gratifying and the most terrifying experience of my life. In these short, fast and slow, five months since Elisheva was born, I have become capable of so much: I have been opened up to a new kind of deep, constant love and awe; exposed to a pulsing undercurrent of worry and fear; have felt sadness, overwhelming exhaustion, and anger, and frustration, but also incomprehensible joy, gratitude, courage, energy, and silliness, all in equal measure. As a child, there was so much that I didn’t understand about the choices my parents made; about who they were, about how they were raising my brother and me; and especially through my teenage years, I often thought, and sometimes quite unkindly said out loud, “well, I will never do that when I have kids.” In a radically different context, myself not yet a parent, I thought I had all of the answers, a kind of understanding, that I know now, was impossible, not yet earned–until now. I thought I would be a better parent: more compassionate, more lenient, less obsessed with punishment, more present, more cool, less angry. 

To be clear, I have incredible parents. Who I now know, really did live up to so many of the expectations I had for them– however unreasonable or irrational. I know now that they were in fact compassionate, kind, funny, and actually quite cool. That grounding me, as often as they did (and I got grounded a lot), was itself an important act of love and care. My parents both were excellent teachers–preparing me to live in the world as an adult. My mom taught me important lessons about boundaries, but also about closeness and intimacy with other people– to be openhearted and curious whenever I could be. But to also prioritize my own physical and mental health. My dad taught me how to study Jewish texts, how to be a close reader and practitioner of Jewish tradition, and how to build a life around chesed, service, and community. In short, my parents taught me everything I needed to know about growing into the person I was supposed to be, and taught me everything I needed to know about being a parent. 

I’ve shared this note of gratitude with my father. And it breaks my heart over and over and over again, that I can’t thank my mom for all that she taught me, in quite the same way. What I would give to be able to call her, and say, Imma, mom. I’m so sorry. You were right. Thank you. I am who I am because of you, and I am an Imma now to Elisheva because of you. I wish you were here, to continue helping me grow into the best mom, and the best person I can be. I have to believe that she knows all of this. That she always has.

Being a parent is hard. And being the child of parents is also hard. 

Since becoming a mother, since embarking on this wild, and most beautiful journey, I have learned so much about myself, my relationships with my own parents, and my relationship with G-d. I have been able to forgive in new ways, to accept permission and help in new ways, I have grown to appreciate so many things I didn’t pay close enough attention to before. 

In our Torah and Haftarah readings for Rosh Hashanah, we encounter several different parents– four, to be exact: Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, and Hannah. 

This morning, we read the story of Akeidat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac. Perhaps one of the most theologically challenging stories of Jewish tradition. The complex story of Abraham’s blinding faithfulness, of Isaac’s near-death, of G-d’s saving hand. This story has been interpreted and reinterpreted many times over, but the central questions remain: Was Abraham right to accept this test from G-d, to subject his child to the kinds of certain and lasting trauma a test like this would inflict? What kind of G-d would ask a parent to sacrifice their child? What were the emotional, the psychosocial consequences that lingered after the fact for both father and son?  

The story of the Akeidah is complex precisely because it touches on these fundamental questions of parenthood and relationship– the push-and-pull dynamic of closeness and distance. How do we understand Abraham, our progenitor, our patriarch, and one of our biblical heroes, in light of the Akeidah? How do we make sense of Abraham’s zealousness- his וישכם בבוקר moment– the Hebrew phrase used specifically to convey enthusiasm and eagerness? What does this whole episode teach us about G-d?

And trying to understand Yitzchak, Isaac, in all of this is nearly impossible. How much does he know? At what point, as he and his father ascend the mountain, does this child understand what is about to happen to him? Is Isaac a willing participant? A reticent son? A child who puts the commandment to honor father and mother above all else? 

There is an incredible moment in the middle of this story, in which Avraham and Yitzchak share what appears to be a passing, but genuine, moment of closeness and intimacy. After parting ways with Eliezer and Yishmael at the base of the mountain, Abraham and Isaac continue up the mountain together, וילכו שניהם יחדיו, and the two of them walked together. 

Rashi points to two possibilities of understanding: the first, perhaps Isaac knew what was happening all along, maybe he even joyously walked up the mountain with the knowledge and comfort that he was making the ultimate sacrifice in service of G-d, and doing right by his dad. And in this way, father and son are truly together in mindset and deed. 

The second understanding underscores the major disconnect between Abraham and Isaac in this moment: that the two of them walked together– two mindsets, two understandings. Walking alongside one another in silence, not quite hearing or seeing the other. 

For me, this has always been the most compelling part of the story, and the place where I wish the story would end. Because it is in this quiet moment of walking, that we are given some insight into the relationship these two share. There is closeness in the discord. Intimacy standing tall against a backdrop of trauma and potentially misguided awe. In the face of something so large, so overpowering, we still find this small moment of intimacy, of closeness, and that in itself is revelatory. 

And as much as I always wish the story would end here, it doesn’t. There is trauma and violence, and pain that follows this unexpected moment of familial peace. But I choose to dwell in this precious and passing moment. Maybe it’s apologetics. Maybe it's the impossibility of what G-d is asking Abraham to do. Maybe it's my own inability to relate to Abraham as a parent. 

But no matter how you choose to read or understand the story of the Akeidah, those morsels of trust and intimacy that appear, however infrequently, are important. For Abraham and Isaac, theirs is a relationship that is fraught with so much, crushed beneath the weight of dogmatic expectation and fervor. But they are also close, inextricably tied to one another. Bound for life. 

There is yet another important parenting paradigm that we see in the Rosh Hashanah reading. Yesterday, in our Haftorah portion, we read the story of Hannah– the wife of Elkanah who is devastated by her inability to get pregnant. Hannah, along with the majority of our Biblical matriarchs struggles with infertility, and calls out to G-d from the depths of her sorrow. In Hannah, we meet a woman who fundamentally changes the nature of prayer, and who is successful in beseeching G-d. Hannah is pious, and humble, but also demands something of G-d. 

Unlike Abraham who answers G-d’s call, G-d, answers Hannah. 

Hannah does finally conceive, and she gives birth to Shmuel. As she prays, incorrectly assumed to be drunk by Eli, the priest, Hannah makes the ultimate promise:

And she made this vow: “O LORD of Hosts, if You will look upon the suffering of Your maidservant and will remember me and not forget Your maidservant, and if You will grant Your maidservant a male child, I will dedicate him to the LORD for all the days of his life; and no razor shall ever touch his head.”

In exchange for fertility, in exchange for the gift of a child, Hannah promises to give that child back to G-d. And Shmuel we know, grows up in the Temple, under the tutelage of Eli, and eventually grows into his role as prophet. 

After Samuel’s birth we read:

She said to her husband, “When the child is weaned, I will bring him. For when he has appeared before the LORD, he must remain there for good.” Her husband Elkanah said to her, “Do as you think best. Stay home until you have weaned him. May the LORD fulfill So the woman stayed home and nursed her son until she weaned him. When she had weaned him, she took him up with her, along with one ephah of flour, and a jar of wine. And though the boy was still very young, she brought him to the House of the LORD at Shiloh. I, in turn, hereby lend him to the LORD. For as long as he lives he is lent to the LORD.” And they bowed low there before the LORD.

I have so many mixed up and complicated feelings about this story. As a mother, I struggle to relate to this promise that Hannah makes. As a woman, and partner, who struggled with infertility, I feel both a kinship with Hannah, and I think a sense of anger that she would give back what she prayed so hard for. This ultimate promise of religious faith, an expression of love for G-d, and also a rejection of the long-term commitment of motherhood, of parenting. And to be honest, I don’t know what to make of that. I feel heartbroken that Hannah ever had to make this calculation. And so moved by her desire to nurse Shmuel before letting him go. 

The parent-child relationship that Hannah and Shmuel share, is rooted in incredibly deep love and faith. And yet, theirs evolves into a relationship of distance. Hannah removes herself from Shmuel’s life. 

G-d as parent is one of the central metaphors of the High Holiday liturgy. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we cry out to a G-d who is supposed to represent the unconditional love, the support, the compassion, the anger, the frustration, the punishment, the joys– all of it, of parenthood. First and foremost, our liturgies remind us, G-d is complex and evolving.

In the Avinu Malkeinu, we pray to our father, our king, our mother, our queen. We call out in confession, and we ask to be forgiven, to be inscribed in the book of life.

But, the Avinu Malkeinu is a one-sided prayer. G-d listens, we hope, to our cries, to our requests, to our questions, and desires. We give our power over to the Divine, and hope that G-d will, as the ultimate authority in our lives, respond in kind. The Avinu Malkeinu is a text all about expressing our trust in this larger-than-life parent. All about affirming the protective qualities of that relationship. 

But, there is another prayer that reminds us that this relationship, of parent and child, is intended to be mutual, reciprocal. In the Anu Amecha piyyut, we read:

For we are Your people; and You are our God. We are Your children; and You are our Father. We are Your servants; and You are our Master. We are Your congregation; and You are our Portion. We are Your inheritance; and You are our Destiny. We are Your flock; and You are our Shepherd. We are Your vineyard; and You are our Keeper. We are Your work; and You are our Creator. We are Your dear ones and You are our Beloved. We are Your treasure; and You are our God. We are Your people; and You are our King. We are Your distinguished ones; and You are our Distinction.

The Anu Amecha prayer reminds us that the relationship with G-d, just as with parents, goes both ways. Parents support and teach and nurture their children. Children in turn revere, and teach, and nourish their parents. This piyyut underscores how each party in the relationship gives power to the other. Yes, we may be smaller than G-d, but without us, without G-d’s people, servants, children, G-d loses something essential. It is relationship, this text teaches us, that propels things forward, that gives meaning to our understanding of and connection with the divine. And this is fundamentally a relationship that will change with time. 

Throughout our High Holiday liturgy, and in the Torah and Haftarah readings, we are called to be in relationship with G-d, despite, or especially because of the challenging ways in which parent-child relationships and dynamics unfold. There is a reason that one of Jewish tradition’s central metaphors for G-d, is the parent. Our relationships with our parents are complex, sometimes fraught, sometimes traumatic, and sometimes distant. In G-d, we see Abraham’s and Hannah’s parenting styles reflected. We see both the desire to draw close, and the need to be distant. We see the highs the lows, the elation and the sorrow. All of that complexity is wrapped up in what it means to be a parent, and perhaps more difficult, what it means to love that parent. 

I think about the kind of parent I will be to Elisheva, the parent I already am. But I linger mostly on what she will think of me as her mom. How will she perceive the choices I make, how will she react when she disagrees? What is our relationship going to look like– today, tomorrow, in ten or 20 years? How will I weather periods of distance? How will I give her the space and the trust to let her grow into the person she is meant to become? 

And I like to believe that G-d has the same questions, the same worries. In her narrative poem, G-d is a Woman and She’s Growing Older, Rabbi Margie Wenig writes:

God is home, turning the pages of her book. “Come home,” she wants to say to us, “Come home.” But she won’t call. For she is afraid that we will say, “No.” She can anticipate the conversation: “We are so busy. We’d love to see you but we just can’t come. Too much to do.” God holds our face in her two hands and whispers, “Do not be afraid, I will be faithful to the promise I made to you when you were young. I will be with you. Even to your old age I will be with you. When you are gray headed still I will hold you. I gave birth to you, I carried you. I will hold you still. Grow old along with me….”

On this theme in the High Holiday liturgy, my teacher, Rabbi Miriam Simma Walfish, writes: G-d is our mother, and it is precisely that maternal role that demands that G-d not give up on us.”

Our parents fall short all the time. And often fail us in ways big and small. And that is true of G-d too, it has to be. And yet, we still reach out to our Divine parent, at least twice a year (hopefully more!)– and when we do, we affirm our trust in that relationship. We affirm that the relationship is strong enough to endure changes and pain and distance, anger, and joy. We affirm that G-d can teach us how to be in sacred relationship with the Divine, the same way we can teach G-d how to be in relationship with us. 

May this be a year of closeness– with family, friends, community, and the divine. Let the lessons from our Torah and Haftarah readings, and our liturgy, guide us into authentic, honest, and ever-changing relationship with G-d. 

The Still Small Voice: Longing, Waiting, and Living- Rosh Hashanah 5783 Day 1

I remember the first night we were home after Elisheva was born. I know Joseph and I both felt relieved and grateful that we were healthy; glad to be back in our own space; exhausted, overwhelmed, and totally terrified. All feelings that I knew were normal, and that I had expected to feel in those early days. But I remember that there were also twinges of sadness that caught me by surprise. Sitting in the rocking chair, holding this tiny creature in my arms at 1, 2, 3 o’clock in the morning. I remember looking at this brand-new person, and weeping. Just bursting wide open. Thinking to myself, and out-loud to Joseph and Elisheva, both, that one day, she was going to leave. That if we were lucky enough to see her grow up, she would do just that– grow up, and want to leave home. I felt so overcome with grief, and so shocked, so jolted by the sudden arrival of this great-big future sadness. 

Though, at some point, my sadness gave way to guilt. Why in these precious new moments of motherhood, was I already distracted by all the things that come next? Why couldn’t I be more present? Why wasn’t I able to just sit and let myself be totally consumed by the miracle of bringing our daughter home? It seemed to me, in those moments of mixed-up joy and grief, that I was longing for and simultaneously rejecting a future time, a series of milestones that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. And it felt in so many ways, that now that Elisheva was out in the world, that we had begun a terribly long process of saying goodbye to one another. And that, I was, and am still, not ready for. 

Waiting, looking ahead to the future, is an important part of our experience as Jews. We wait for so many things– the yearly, and steady cycle of the holidays; we wait for children to be born; for sickness to pass; for grief to transform into something more permanent and familiar. Each week we anticipate the arrival of Shabbat– of that temporary moment in time and space when we are shielded from the imperfection and violence of the wider world– sustained instead by the perfection of the wholeness of creation. The low points in our collective history as Jews have also helped us develop a sort of muscle memory that keeps us looking forward– a coping mechanism or some kind of armor, resiliency– as we ask ourselves: when will Jews be safe, when will we strike that balance between assimilation and difference? When will we emerge from the crucible of forging our paths and identities in new places and contexts, over and over and over again? At what future point will we not have to worry? 

In the Kedusha for the Shacharit Amidah on Shabbat and Holidays, we recite:

מִמְּקוֹמְךָ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ תוֹפִֽיעַ וְתִמְלוֹךְ עָלֵֽינוּ כִּי מְחַכִּים אֲנַחְנוּ לָךְ מָתַי תִּמְלוֹךְ בְּצִיּוֹן בְּקָרוֹב בְּיָמֵֽינוּ לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד תִּשְׁכּוֹן:

Our Sovereign, manifest Yourself from wherever You dwell, and rule over us, for we await you. When shall You rule in Zion? Let it be soon, in our day, and throughout all time.

For we await you. We ask, almost demand to know, when will the Divine dwell once more in Jerusalem, because we are eager, desperate even for that day to come. We beg to know when we will yet again experience closeness with the Divine– a time that perhaps at any given moment in our lives feels far away, impossibly distant, perhaps even implausible. 

I like to imagine the first time that these words were uttered, called out with frenetic and fervent urgency, when is this promise going to come true? How long must we wait? In the Kedusha, we express our longing for a more perfect future– and that waiting is active and lived; it’s busy and urgent. 

Maimonides expands on this idea in his Thirteen Principles of Faith, the twelfth of which reads:

אֲנִי מַאֲמִין בֶּאֱמוּנָה שְׁלֵמָה בְּבִיאַת הַמָּשִׁיחַ וְאַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיִּתְמַהְמֵהַּ עִם כָּל זֶה אֲחַכֶּה לּוֹ בְּכָל יוֹם שֶׁיָּבוֹא:

I believe with complete faith in the coming of the Messiah and even though he may tarry, nevertheless, I wait every day for his coming.

Here, Mainimodies captures the emotional experience of waiting for this future event– our longing. Our visceral, almost painful desire for our dreamed-about future to come as quickly as possible. The prophetic texts are replete with calls for the arrival of the messianic age, for the unfolding of perfection, of human progress– a longing for a time that brings wholeness, peace, and meaning to the whole world; a return from exile, clarity about the world and our true purpose in it. But inherent in all of this hope, all of this optimism for the future we long for, is an innate sense of grief. Grief that we are not yet there; mourning for the millions of lost opportunities to draw us closer to that time; a sadness that we have to wait at all.

There is so much desperate longing in the world right now. For over two years, we have grown weary with waiting, wishing for the pandemic to end, for a return to collective public health. We long for civility and quiet amidst endless discord. We yearn for peace, for an end to violence, manipulation, and corruption. We hope for a time, some indistinct and indeterminate time, when all people can feel safe, cared for, respected, and protected by their communities and governments. We are waiting for our climate to heal. There is so much that has to change. So much that we are waiting for. 

Our Torah and Haftarah readings for today are built on the notion of longing. Wishes and outcomes that would be impossible without hope, without anticipation. Sarah and Hannah both long for children– and as they do, they each radically transform the notion of prayer. These women yearn desperately for a future of fertility, of motherhood– for a time when they will be undeniably and permanently tethered to the covenant and lineage of the Jewish people. And throughout the months of Elul and Tishrei, through the ebb and flow of the High Holiday season, we too, long for a different future– a different future that only becomes possible when we engage in the limitless and lifelong process of doing Teshuvah– of reflecting, of interrogating our behaviors and values; of striving to grow into wholly new and changed postures of living in the world. We long to be forgiven, to achieve personal and communal wholeness. We long for a year better than the last. 

I feel drawn by the hopeful pull of progress, by the radical optimism, and near-irrationality, of trusting, with a Maimonidean faith, an emunah shelemah, a full and complete faith, that the world can change, that we can change. That things can in fact get better. That the future is worth waiting for. 

But this pull also makes me feel restless. Makes me feel compelled not only in a spiritual sense, but pulled physically and emotionally, too. I want that future right now. And almost, like a child who struggles to hear the word no, I feel a sense of injustice that we are meant, perhaps even expected, to wait even a moment more than is necessary for the vision of the prophets to be realized. I feel like I am constantly running toward something far away and unseen, and all the while, time stands still.

And this restlessness often leads me to distraction. To feeling drawn out of and away from the present moment. In all of the anticipation for this imagined future, I run the risk of turning so fully away from what is happening now, in this moment. I run the risk of forgetting to actually live my life.

Waiting can itself be a form of escapism. Escape from the bad news, the ongoing cycle of disappointment and frustration. When the world continues to batter us with tragedy, how can we possibly live fully in the moment? We are pulled in so many different directions; we have so much to worry about.  And so waiting then becomes a radical way for us to reject the untenable status quo, to assert with a full faith that the world can and must change. 

But in the face of so much waiting, so much hope for a distant and far-off future, our High Holiday liturgy reminds us that our time here on earth is temporary and so precious. That waiting may very well be an exercise in futility. Our desperate optimism for what’s next, tempered by the very real, humbling, and sometimes harsh reality that we may never actually see that future realized. The Unetaneh Tokef prayer, the centerpiece of the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur Musaf service, prompts us to consider our own mortality, to reckon with and accept the uncertainty, the unpredictability of our existence. In this text that appears just before the Kedusha, we read:

On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed - how many shall pass away and how many shall be born, who shall live and who shall die, who by fire and who by water, who by warfare and who by wild beasts, who by hunger and who by thirst, who by earthquake and who by plague, who by strangling and who by stoning. Who will rest and who will wander, who will be tranquil and who will be troubled. Who will be calm and who will be tormented, who will be exalted and who humbled, who will be rich and who will be poor?

This is the theological and liturgical climax of our service. And we wonder, with quite a lot of drama, who will live and who will die; who will suffer and who will live a life of relative ease and comfort. Who will we be; what will be taken from us, what will be given? In this text alone, we grapple with those essential questions of human life and nature. And in its intensity, the text of the Unetaneh Tokef may further paralyze us; may make it even more difficult for us to live in the present moment. How can I be expected to contemplate my own mortality and simultaneously be present to the unpredictabilities and the constants and the beauties of the here and now?

So how do we manage the overwhelming dualism of our lives? How do we live in the space between past and present? Between waiting and standing still? Between paralysis and hope? Between patience and restlessness?

The answer to this fundamental challenge of our lives is hinted at earlier in the Unetaneh Tokef:

וּבְשׁוֹפָר גָּדוֹל יִתָּקַע וְקוֹל דְּמָמָה דַקָּה יִשָׁמַע…

And with a great shofar it is sounded, and the still small voice is heard.

The great shofar that is sounded, this is the drama of our lives: our birth, our death, the jubilation and tragedy. The epic highs and cataclysmic lows. But then, the still small voice is heard– everything in our lives that comes between. The small moments, the tiny, almost imperceptible joys of living, are sounded in the open spaces, in the quiet, between the loudest blasts of the shofar. 

Our challenge, in this impossibly beautiful and broken world, is to pay attention. To be awake to the moments of high drama, and equally wide awake to those small, intimate, hidden moments that themselves are a source of great awe, and meaning, and blessing. To be spiritually awake is to live in a world in which goodness and change are possible. To be spiritually awake means to embody a posture of living that is rooted in chesed, acts of service and lovingkindness. To be spiritually awake is to embrace each and every part of living– and to pay extra close attention to the stillness of our extraordinary and miraculous lives. 

My teacher, and modern theologian, Rabbi Shai Held writes:

Everything that we have and are is a gift. None of us ever did anything– none of us could ever have done anything– to earn the gifts that are life and consciousness. This, I would suggest, is a key component of the spiritual awareness that Judaism seeks to instill…to be spiritually awake is to ask, why is there something rather than nothing? Because, Judaism teaches, of G-d’s grace. To take the world for granted, to see it as a mere brute fact, is to betray a kind of spiritual deadness…A theological claim– G-d created the world out of nothing– is inextricably woven with a spiritual perception and commitment– life is a wondrous gift for which we much be perpetually grateful. 

One of the best pieces of advice that we got after Elisheva was born, was to write down as much as we could. Not the kinds of documenting we were already doing– recording every feed and diaper change– but taking the time to pause, and reflect on all the magic we were witnessing, all the time. The kinds of things that might go unnoticed, or unremembered, but are so incredibly miraculous in their own way– The little noises, the discoveries of hands and feet; her reactions to music and our voices. The first smile, the first fit of laughter. Rolling over for the first time. I recently read a letter that my mom had written to me just after I was born. My dad had unearthed this humble document in my mom’s sock drawer when he was cleaning out the house after she passed away. He gave me the letter, and I put it away, in a drawer of my own. For years, I was afraid to read that letter. Afraid that it would be so intense, so emotional, and send me back into the spiral of my grief. I finally read that letter a few weeks ago. And I was relieved to find that this letter was a collection of small details, that started with bringing me home from the hospital– how it was to drive home; how it felt for my parents to hold me, to watch each other become parents– with those same relieved, grateful, and terrified feelings; who we met back at the house, how we celebrated that first week as a family together. The gifts, the new family rituals. It was a letter that was all about living. All about those small details that are so much larger, so much more important than we realize. 

The shofar serves a dual purpose on Rosh Hashanah– it serves as a reminder of the great spectacle of our lives, but also as our cosmic wake-up call, a spiritual alarm clock meant to draw us out of ourselves, out of our own worry and fatigue, out from beneath the heavy weight of living in this world. A reminder that the in-between, ordinary moments of our lives are not so ordinary after all. 

In his central work on Jewish Law, the Mishneh Torah, Maimonides writes on the significance of the Shofar, saying that its blasts are meant to conjure up in us a feeling of wakefulness. Each time the shofar is blown, it calls out:

“Wake up, sleepers, from your sleep! And slumberers, arise from your slumber!” 

Throughout the Rosh Hashanah service, we hear the shofar sounded a total of 100 times. 100 times we are called to wake up, reminded of all the living we have to do. Reminded of what it takes to bring about the future that we long for. While we wait for that far-off time, it is living that is done in the meantime. And in all of the waiting that is required of us, we may very well forget to live. The Shofar, is the radical reminder that we mustn’t forget. 

In these last few years, each of us has battled with the world. We have overdrawn our spiritual reserves. We are rightfully tired; rightfully exhausted and overwhelmed. And I am right there with you. I am only now just emerging from my own spiritual rut that has lasted for two and a half very long years. I am standing right beside you, in the breech. The brokenness of the world has the potential to break our spirits, to slowly blunt our edges, to numb us, desensitize us. And in learning how to cope with the difficulties of these last few years, we have grown weary, unsurprised by bad news. Our project, the essential journey and challenge of our lives, is to live in such a way that rejects this sleepy status quo. To assert, even in the face of ongoing disconnect and hopelessness, that I am wide awake to the wonders of the world, however unusual or surprising or small.

First Fruits and the radical expression of Gratitude: OZS Installation Shabbat

I didn’t always know that I wanted to be a rabbi. Frankly, for most of my life, I didn’t know I could be a rabbi. But so much has changed, and I am so glad it has. 

My parents, Sandy and Ellen Abramowitz, taught me almost everything I know about what it means to be a rabbi. And perhaps that wasn’t their intent, but here we are. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be like them, have wanted to follow in their footsteps, and live up to the kinds of leadership, both formal and informal, that they modeled for me. For as long as I can remember, I have hoped to be worthy of the examples they set. 

From a young age, I watched as my parents built the shul community in which my brother and I were raised. Hoping to create community that embraced young families and kids, passers-by, and those who struggled to find their place in any of the other synagogues in town, my parents, along with several equally dedicated friends and peers, created something that quickly came to feel like home. In the early years of this new community, we were without a building of our own. And so we rented space from a local elementary school. We lived directly across the street from this school, and so our home soon became an extension of our synagogue. The door always open, especially on Shabbat and holidays; the Torah scrolls lived on our dining room table during the week; anyone in need of a place to stay always welcome. The line between shul and home, blurred. The line between sacred and profane almost invisible to discern.

My mom, Ellen, was a geriatric nurse, and since this was an orthodox community, she rigged up a partition, a mechitza, from pilfered IV poles and bedding from work. I have to believe that G-d overlooked this minor act of thievery, this act of chutzpah, and could instead see it for what it was: an unbelievable act of love and dedication to a community that was quickly coming together, growing up out of the ground, burgeoning into a home for so many in the Skokie community. 

And I took all of this for granted. And I realize now, as an adult, just what a gift that was. The kind of leadership and commitment that my parents modeled for me was certainly remarkable, but it was remarkable precisely because it seemed so ordinary, so automatic, so easy. I watched my parents build their own lives around the growth of this sacred community, and I knew that I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to do what they did: build community, grow in learning and relationship with other people; be open to all the ways that community changes, shifts, and transforms over time.

And the fruits of those early labors endure. Young Israel of Skokie, is a thriving, warm, heimish, shul to this day. The community finally has a beautiful building of their own, and my parents’ generation has handed the reins of leadership over to the next generation. Young Israel of Skokie will always be my first home, and ironically, will always be the place where I first learned how to be a rabbi. 

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, opens with the commandment to bring the first fruits of the land as sacrifice, or dedication to the Temple:

וְהָיָה כִּי־תָבוֹא אֶל־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לְךָ נַחֲלָה וִירִשְׁתָּהּ וְיָשַׁבְתָּ בָּהּ׃ וְלָקַחְתָּ מֵרֵאשִׁית  כל־פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר תָּבִיא מֵאַרְצְךָ אֲשֶׁר יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לָךְ וְשַׂמְתָּ בַטֶּנֶא וְהָלַכְתָּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִבְחַר יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ לְשַׁכֵּן שְׁמוֹ שָׁם׃

When you enter the land that your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where your God will choose to establish the divine name.

One of the first things the Israelites are commanded to do when they finally rest in the land, is to bring the first fruits of their harvest as a sacrifice, a radical acknowledgement of gratitude, and commitment to G-d. The commentaries are fairly consistent in defining precisely which fruits we are talking about– and the consensus is that these refer to the seven special species that are native to the Land of Israel. And while the scope of this mitzvah is potentially quite limited, the act itself requires not just a grand gesture of generosity, but an immense faith that more will grow, that your land will continue to give its life to you. 

This idea reminds me a lot of Shemitah, the sabbatical year, during which we are commanded to let the earth lay fallow. Loans are forgiven, indentured servants go free. The land itself reverts to its original owner. And still, in the face of so much unpredictability, we are commanded to give something away. To let those essential things go, and trust that we will make it through that seventh year. 

As so much of the book of Deuteronomy does, Parshat Ki Tavo reminds us of the magnitude of this major transition that the Israelites are preparing for. We are preparing to take these important first steps: across the Jordan, into the Land of Israel, into a new chapter of our collective and individual lives. And when we arrive, we gather up our first fruits, and give them back to G-d.

This has been a tremendous year of firsts. My first job out of rabbinical school. My first pulpit. My first pregnancy, our first child. Next week, we will celebrate our first High Holiday season back in person in over two (very long) years. So many firsts to celebrate. So much learning, and so much growth. OZS was the first synagogue I interviewed with during the search process, and in that short 45 minute conversation over Zoom in February 2021, I knew almost immediately that OZS was my first choice– the synagogue that I hoped most would hire me, that Joseph and I both hoped we would raise our family in, the shul that we wanted to make home. 

In hiring me, in giving me the privilege to serve as your spiritual leader, you have given me a tremendous gift. And I feel that I have been the beneficiary of so many of your first fruits. In me, you have taken an incredible leap of faith, and you’ve all put your trust in me. From day one, you have accepted all of the firsts that I bring to this role– my first fruits, my expressions of gratitude and commitment. And for that, I am so grateful. 

In a million wonderful ways, OZS is a lot like the shul I grew up in in Skokie. It’s small, warm, heimish. Each of you has embraced Joseph, and Elisheva and me in ways big and small, and every day we reflect on how lucky we are to have found our way to you. Skokie and Lexington are different places on different points on the map, but coming to OZS has always felt like coming home. 

For so many years, becoming a rabbi, let alone the leader of a community, felt beyond reach, out of the question, totally impossible. I first learned how to be a rabbi in a small orthodox community in Skokie. And I feel so incredibly blessed to have the opportunity to continue that learning here, in our new home. Thank you for giving me the chance to jump in, feet-first, like Nachshon; to dive into this holy work together. May we continue to be blessed with firsts– as this wonderful new beginning continues to unfold. 

Thank you for it all. 

Shabbat Shalom! 

A Mitzvah For The Birds: Shiluach Haken And Divine Compassion

In the lead-up to the High Holidays, my mom would always get ahead of herself and the calendar, and begin thinking about Sukkot first. Of course, there was always the brisket to think about for Rosh Hashanah, the blintz souffle for Yom Kippur break-fast. Also the Teshuvah. But she always spent the most time thinking about and preparing for Sukkot. Making her famous sukkos soup, making sure my dad and brother were on track to put the sukkah up– but always most important, was the task of decorating the sukkah– of making our temporary home for the week just that– a cozy, warm dwelling-place, full of all the usual decorations and creature comforts. We had the requisite paper-chains and classroom art, but there was also a more unusual decoration, that my mom took immense pride in. 

While my brother and I usually did the bulk of the decorating, somehow, my mom would always manage to sneak into the sukkah (probably when we were taking a well-deserved tv break), and put up 12 birds. She would fasten these very real-looking birds to the poles and corners of the sukkah with the thin wire threads that came attached to their feet. She would place as many as she could in the schach roof that covered the sukkah. And she put them up in such a way that the 12 weren’t immediately noticeable. And we would spend the rest of the holiday, looking for them. An avian sukkot scavenger hunt. And over the course of the holiday, over many warm bowls of sukkos soup, inevitably one of us would call out, would interrupt, would sometimes knock over a drink or a wine bottle, and announce, “I found bird number 8!” Or “There! I hadn’t seen that bird before.” And so the holiday continued, and our meals and conversations were so often wonderfully interrupted by this game. A game that only my mom, in her loving and unusual way, could have devised.

Interestingly enough, birds make an important appearance in this week’s Parsha, Ki Teitzei. In Deuteronomy chapter 22, verses 6-7 we read:

If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs, and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life. 

This commandment is called Shiluach HaKen– the mitzvah to send away the mother bird before taking her eggs. This is an unusual mitzvah, and it has given rise to centuries of debate about the purpose of this law specifically, and law or halacha more broadly. Is this law compassionate or cruel? Why does this law exist in the first place? Is this mitzvah trying to teach us something about our relationship to and consumption of animals? 

The list of philosophical questions that surround this idea is long. But I’d like to focus on this mitzvah’s symbolic purpose, and its connection to the moment on the calendar in which we currently find ourselves. 

Chizkuni, the 13th century French commentator writes:

It would be an act of cruel insensitivity, comparable to cooking a kid in its mothers milk, something the Torah has repeatedly forbidden, as well as the prohibition to slaughter, even as a sacrifice, a mother cow together with its calf on the same day.

For Chizkuni, the mitzvah of Shiluach HaKen revolves around protecting the dignity of the mother bird. Acting compassionately toward her, preventing violence and cruelty at all costs. Here, Chizkuni points to our human capacity for compassion. Many other commentators take this idea one step further, and reflect on G-d’s capacity to act compassionately:

The Midrash explains:

There is an angel appointed over the birds . . . and when Israel performs this commandment, and the mother departs weeping and her children crying, he agonizes for his birds, and asks G-d: “Does it not say that ‘His compassion is on all of His works’ ? Why did You decree on that bird to be exiled from her nest?” And what does the Holy One do? He gathers all of His other angels and says to them: “This angel is concerned for the welfare of a bird and is complaining of its suffering; is there none amongst you who will seek merit on My children Israel, and for the Shechinah which is in exile, and whose nest in Jerusalem has been destroyed, and whose children are in exile under the hand of harsh masters? Is there no one who seeks compassion for them and will attribute merit to them?” Then the Holy One issues a command and says, “For My sake I shall act, and I shall act for My sake,” and compassion is thereby aroused upon the Shechinah and the children in exile.

This Midrash is a theological goldmine. In it, we see a G-d who interacts with the whole of the known world; we see a G-d who needs help; in this Midrash, we also meet a G-d who takes suffering seriously, who is unable to let the cries of humanity go unheard.

In our liturgy, we encounter the many facets of G-d’s personality and role. In one prayer, we might meet a gentle parent, and in the next, an angry master. In one instance, G-d is our patient shepherd; and the next, G-d is spiteful and struggles to let go of grudges. G-d, like each of us, is complex, striving, and fundamentally a work in progress. 

But we might come away from our liturgy, and our Biblical texts, especially in this lead-up to the High Holidays with an incomplete sense of who G-d actually is. There is this notion that we are supposed to arrive at the High Holidays feeling intimidated by G-d, Afraid, even. But there is a great difference between awe and fear. Between reverence and panic. And this Midrash reminds me that at the end of the day, G-d is a presence that we should be excited to encounter, grateful to encounter– because fundamentally, G-d is concerned with our dignity, with mitigating our suffering. 

We are exactly halfway through the month of Elul, through this month of special spiritual preparation for the High Holidays. We have two weeks left to ask for forgiveness, to grant forgiveness, to continue the work of searching high and low for the dignity in others. As we inch closer to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I hope you’ll allow this Midrashic image of G-d to stick: This G-d who is desperate to help us, to protect us. This G-d who doesn’t always get it right, but wants so badly to stand with us in the breach. A G-d that cannot bear to hear our cries of anguish, and who strives to put compassion and dignity at the center of the human-divine relationship.

Sins, like birds, can fly away. We are reminded in this week’s Parsha of G-d’s desire to act compassionately toward us and the whole of creation. This year, I want to challenge all of us to follow G-d’s lead– giving ourselves and those around us, the kinds of compassion we all desperately need right now. 

Shabbat shalom!

The Journey to Perfection

The actor, Michael J. Fox once said, “I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business.” I don’t think I could have asked for a better theological framing of this week’s Torah portion, Shoftim. 

As with every other parsha in the book of Deuteronomy, the Israelites have entered the final phase of their journey through the desert, on their way to the Promised Land. And this week’s portion continues the theme of instruction. In these weeks, Moses has not only guided the people in their physical journey through the wilderness, but has guided them practically, existentially, and communally. In the last few weeks, before the people enter the land and Moses takes his final breath, the people and their leader envision their future together. It is not a shared future per se, but a future that is at the very least imagined in partnership. Together, they dream big about how to build this next chapter– how to organize themselves socially, politically, legally, and spiritually. 

So this week’s parsha contains lots of practical rules and guidelines for establishing and growing into a functional, and successful community. In this week’s portion we read about the appointment of judges and magistrates, the establishment of courts, the various legal requirements pertaining to witnesses and testimony. We read about the prohibitions against idol worship, sorcery; as well as the special obligations of a king. We read again about the establishment of cities of refuge, our obligations to the land and the environment, and the rules of war.

Parshat Shoftim is replete with the practical, the scaffolding upon which community and society rest. 

But then, in the middle of the parsha, an interesting, and seemingly out of context verse appears:

תָּמִים תִּהְיֶה עִם יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ׃

You must be wholehearted with your G-d Adonai

This pasuk, this verse, appears to be a sort of coda to a long list of rules, an added reminder of their purpose. Being diligent in their observance will allow you to be wholehearted with your G-d, Adonai. The motivation and the reward are one in the same. 

In our verse, the Hebrew word for wholehearted, is תמים– which is commonly translated as pure or perfect. 

The Jewish Publication Society translation of the Tanach explains in its commentary on this verse, that תמים means to be “undivided in your loyalty to G-d.” And according to Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, in that sense, temimut, the act of being תמים, implies a high degree of devotion to G-d alone. There is no room for competing desires or distracting temptations. What G-d wants is the heart–all of it. Be laser-focused in your observance and devotion to these laws, and in so doing, you will be laser-focused in your dedication to the Divine. 

Rashi, on the other hand, understands the word תמים, as a degree of trust, rather than just loyalty. Rashi writes: “Look ahead to G-d and don’t seek after the future. Rather, whatever will come to you accept with wholeheartedness. Then you will be with G-d and will be of G-d’s portion. 

On this interpretation, Rabbi Artson continues:

For Rashi, wholeheartedness is a matter of accepting both the good and the bad with equanimity. Accepting that being tamim implies something exclusive for G-d, Rashi argues that it is human nature to seek to force the future to conform to our desires, but that effort is both futile and desperate. Instead, he urges us to embrace whatever the future brings. Rashi recognizes the future as the portal to an encounter with the Eternal if we will only open our arms to the embrace. 

Here, Rashi and Rabbi Artson do something subtle, but significant. Here, the two remind us that the world is an uncertain and imperfect place. That our lives are mostly unpredictable, ultimately beyond our control; and that perhaps our spiritual project in life, the way that we serve G-d and build community, has its roots not only in learning to cope with that uncertainty, but in putting that uncertainty at the center of our relationship with G-d. 

And this understanding brings us back to the more common, more familiar translations of the word תמים– that is, perfection, blamelessness, complete. 

The word תמים is used countless times throughout Tanach– to describe Biblical characters like Noach and Abraham, and Jacob; G-d, too. In Deuteronomy chapter 32, G-d is described as:

הַצּוּר תָּמִים פָּעֳלוֹ כִּי כָל־דְּרָכָיו מִשְׁפָּט אֵל אֱמוּנָה וְאֵין עָוֶל צַדִּיק וְיָשָׁר הוּא׃

The Rock!—whose deeds are perfect

Yes, all God’s ways are just

A faithful God, never false

True and upright indeed

The word is also used to characterize the Torah as a whole. In Psalm 19 we read:

תורת ד׳ תמימה

G-d’s Torah, G-d’s teaching is perfect.

And perhaps the most essential requirement for an animal being brought as a sacrifice in the Mishkan or Temple, is that it is perfect, without blemish:

וּבְיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת שְׁנֵי־כְבָשִׂים בְּנֵי־שָׁנָה תְּמִימִם

On the sabbath day: two yearling lambs without blemish. 

Or:

זֹאת חֻקַּת הַתּוֹרָה אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה יְהוָה לֵאמֹר דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ אֵלֶיךָ פָרָה אֲדֻמָּה תְּמִימָה אֲשֶׁר אֵין־בָּהּ מוּם אֲשֶׁר לֹא־עָלָה עָלֶיהָ עֹל׃

This is the ritual law that יהוה has commanded: Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid. 

This idea of perfection runs rampant throughout the Tanach. G-d is perfect, our sacrifices are perfect, the Torah is perfect. Where do we fit into this paradigm? When we know, with some amount of grief, but also healthy perspective, that we can never achieve the kinds of perfection laid out for us by G-d and by our tradition? So how do we find a balance? How do we stand confidently in that chasm between perfection and utter failure?

Enter another important verse from this week’s Torah portion:

צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה וְיָרַשְׁתָּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לָךְ

Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that your God יהוה is giving you.

This verse has taken on a life of its own, particularly in progressive Jewish communities. And there is good reason for that. But I want to point to two important things that this verse does, two things that may be an antidote to the impossibly high bar of perfection that our tradition seems to set for us:

The first, and perhaps most obvious feature of this verse, is that the word tzedek is repeated. Why? The commentaries differ in their reasoning, but all agree that the doubling here is intended to convey emphasis. In your life, you should be doubly motivated to pursue justice. You should work extra hard at it. I’d like to add my own gloss to this reading– I think each of these tzedeks represents a different truth our world: the first tzedek reminds us that the world is an unpredictable, uncertain place. The second tzedek reminds us that the world is imperfect and sometimes unjust. And so this doubling, this emphatic commandment, itself is a response to the realities of the human world. 

The second important feature worth noting, is this verse’s use of the word Pursue. The verse doesn’t read, Justice, Justice, you shall have perfected. Or even Justice, Justice, you shall understand or have codified. And that distinction is crucial. Pursuit is active, it’s fluid, it has movement that ebbs and flows, and responds to different things at different times. Pursuit is exactly that– a striving toward something greater. In this sense, we can understand the notion of perfection differently: perfection is not the end result, but rather the process of getting there. 

So when we think about,

תָּמִים תִּהְיֶה עִם יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ׃

You must be wholehearted with your G-d Adonai

What does that wholeheartedness actually look like? When I try to answer this question, I think about the idea that we are meant to walk with G-d, ללכת בדרכיו, to walk alongside G-d in G-d’s ways. We are perhaps only perfect twice in our lives: when we are born, and when we die. Our lives are bookended by two moments of perfection, and closeness to G-d. And walking with G-d in the interim years of our life, is the work. Moving forward always, never choosing idleness as a stopping point on the way.

With all of its rules and legalities, Parshat Shoftim offers us a crucial dose of reality as the Israelites prepare to enter the Land and begin this next chapter of their lives. Shoftim seems to be radically honest about the challenges of communal life, and gives us a path forward in the meantime: the world is imperfect and incomplete, but walking with G-d, taking those steps day in and day out, bring a new kind of perfection– one that is frank, authentic, and ultimately earned. 

Perfection is not the end result, but rather the radical, and unending process of getting there.

Shabbat Shalom!

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