The Moses Cup

The Moses Cup by Ghiora Aharoni

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Moses Cup from Ghiora Aharoni Studio on Vimeo.

The Pointless Adventure

Seagulls at Brighton Beach this week

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

This might be the very purpose of prayer.  

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

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

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

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

 יחל ישראל אל יהוה מעתה ועד עולם 

Israel! Strive toward YHVH from this moment through eternity!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Kindness and Reality

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

זִרְע֨וּ לָכֶ֤ם לִצְדָקָה֙ קִצְר֣וּ לְפִי־חֶ֔סֶד 

Sow for yourselves righteousness; reap steadfast love 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Choose Life

Dear friends,

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

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

ברוכה את רחאמאמה שעוזרת לנו לבחור חיים. 

Blessed are you Mercy Mother who helps us choose life. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Birth and Revelation

Five year old Manu in his Harry Potter costume

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeing God makes the great prophet feel ashamed. 

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

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

Abarbanel, a Spanish medieval commentator explains:  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Trees of My Childhood

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

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

The Great Crocodile

Dear friends,

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

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

God said to Moses: Come to Pharaoh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Moments

Dear friends,

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

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

In this weeks Parasha Moses asks god a question:

למה הרעות לעם הזה?

Why did you make things so bad for the people?

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

Why did you make things so bad for the people?

God gives a strange answer. 

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

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

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

Happy 2022!
Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Practicing Lightness

Blue Cliff Monastery

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

What has this practice consisted of? 

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

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

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

שויתי יהוה לנגדי תמיד 

 I see YHVH in front of me always. 

YHVH, of course simply means being. 

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

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

Were our mouths as full of song as the sea,   

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

No Rewards Please

Dear friends,

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

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

Maimonides wrote in Mishneh Torah:

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Mishna we find the following description:

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

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

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

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

Shabbat's Zoom Link here.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Choreography of Nearness

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

וַיִּגַּ֨שׁ אֵלָ֜יו יְהוּדָ֗ה 

And Judah approached him 

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

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

(Rabbi Avraham Eliezer bar Isaac) 

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

Rabbi Moshe Iserles writes: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Maoz Tsur

Dear friends,

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

We sing this song after candle lighting every night: 

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

Le'et tachin matbeakh 
mitsar hamnabeakh, 

'az 'egmor beshir mizmor 
khanukat hamizbeakh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We end the verse with these words: 

'az 'egmor beshir mizmor 
khanukat hamizbeakh. 

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Thank you

Dear friends,

A prayer of gratitude from the daily prayers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving weekend!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Us and the Stars

Ben Shahn

Dear friends,

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

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

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

והיו לאתת ולמועדים ולימים ושנים 

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

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

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

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

הַֽ֭תְקַשֵּׁר מַעֲדַנּ֣וֹת כִּימָ֑ה אֽוֹ־מֹשְׁכ֖וֹת כְּסִ֣יל תְּפַתֵּֽחַ׃  

הֲתֹצִ֣יא מַזָּר֣וֹת בְּעִתּ֑וֹ וְ֝עַ֗יִשׁ עַל־בָּנֶ֥יהָ תַנְחֵֽם׃  

הֲ֭יָדַעְתָּ חֻקּ֣וֹת שָׁמָ֑יִם אִם־תָּשִׂ֖ים מִשְׁטָר֣וֹ בָאָֽרֶץ׃ 

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

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

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

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

Wishing you a shabbat filled with stars. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Strong Women

Judy Chicago, The Creation from the Birth Project, 1982

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Wine, Cheese and Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Conversing in the Field

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Standing the Face of God

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

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

Action as Beginning

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

Quickly, though the journey sours. 

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

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

וְאָנֹכִ֖י הוֹלֵ֣ךְ עֲרִירִ֑י 

I walk alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha

This is Torah Study

Dear friends,

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

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

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

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

Then We chanted the blessing after the Torah together.

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Misha