Embracing Both/And this Pesach (and, hear us on KUOW!)

The Shabbat we'll enter into this evening is nicknamed "Shabbat HaGadol," "the Great Shabbat" -- so called because Jews everywhere turn our attention towards Pesach! Indeed, here in the Kavana community, so many conversations in recent weeks have already been focused around the central question of how to approach the Passover holiday in this very fraught year.

The Haftarah for Shabbat HaGadol features the famous words of the prophet Malachi: "Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you... and he shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents" (Malachi 3:23-24). Here, Malachi is leaning into one of the central themes of the Passover holiday: generational transmission. Fundamentally, this holiday, and particularly the seder ritual, pushes us to articulate and share -- from one generation to the next -- the central story of who we are as a people. 

But of course, there's not a single "right" central idea that needs to be conveyed (oy, how Jewish!). This week in Living Room Learning, we had a chance to dig into two key statements from the Haggadah's Maggid section, both of which contain the phrase "b'chol dor vador," "in each and every generation." They are:

1) Haggadah - middle of Maggid (after “our ancestors were idol worshippers")

וְהִיא שֶׁעָמְדָה לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ וְלָנוּ. שֶׁלֹּא אֶחָד בִּלְבַד עָמַד עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ, אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר עוֹמְדִים עָלֵינוּ לְכַלוֹתֵנוּ, וְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא מַצִּילֵנוּ מִיָּדָם

And it is this that has stood for our ancestors and for us; since it is not [only] one [person or nation] that has stood [against] us to destroy us, but rather in each and every generation, they stand [against] us to destroy us, but the Holy Blessed One rescues us from their hand.

2) Haggadah - towards end of Maggid (after Rabban Gamliel’s 3 symbols; before Hallel)

בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְהִגַּדְתָּ לְבִנְךָ בַּיּוֹם הַהוּא לֵאמֹר, בַּעֲבוּר זֶה עָשָׂה ה' לִי בְּצֵאתִי מִמִּצְרַיִם. לֹא אֶת־אֲבוֹתֵינוּ בִּלְבַד גָּאַל הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא, אֶלָּא אַף אוֹתָנוּ גָּאַל עִמָּהֶם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְאוֹתָנוּ הוֹצִיא מִשָּׁם, לְמַעַן הָבִיא אוֹתָנוּ, לָתֶת לָנוּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּע לַאֲבֹתֵינו

In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see himself as if he left Egypt, as it is stated (Exodus 13:8); "And you shall explain to your son on that day: For the sake of this, did the Lord do [this] for me in my going out of Egypt." Not only our ancestors did the Holy Blessed One redeem, but rather also us [together] with them did God redeem, as it is stated (Deuteronomy 6:23); "And [Adonai] took us out from there, in order to bring us in, to give us the land which [God] swore unto our fathers."

The first statement focuses us on the long arc of Jewish history, and the fact that in each generation, some "they" has inevitably risen up against our people. From here, we might conclude that Passover is fundamentally a story about our collective survival in the face of a hostile world. 

The second statement, in contrast, reminds us that each of us, personally, has an obligation to try to relate to the feeling of having been oppressed and redeemed. This concept is the animating force behind the Torah's repeated commands about not wronging or oppressing a stranger (in the negative formulation) and about loving the stranger (in the positive formulation), "for you were strangers in the land of Egypt" (see Exodus 23:9, Leviticus 19:33-34, and many other biblical examples!). In this telling, the central story of Passover is that -- based on our own history of oppression -- we must root out oppression wherever we see it manifest in the world.

In the wake of October 7th and the events that have unfolded in Gaza, Israel, and around the world every day since, these two statements may tug against each other. Some Jews (depending on affiliation, generation, political leanings, etc.) may be tempted to embrace and champion one of these statements and to dismiss the other. But the placement of both of these ideas in the haggadah urges us to adopt a both/and approach: embracing tensions and paradox, and dealing with the messiness and complexity of a world in which both have some merit. (Yes, it's okay to care about both the rise of antisemitism and the plight of Palestinians, the safety of Jews in America and Israel and a wide range of other social justice issues. Passover can be about all of that and more!) This both/and approach also manifests in our food symbols, as we dip the green vegetable of spring into the salt water of tears, and eat the bitter herbs together with sweet charoset.

As to how to hold space for the hard but important conversations that may happen around the table at Passover, we also talked about that on Wednesday evening at LRL. There, I shared a set of guidelines for this year's seder compiled by Rabbi Amy Eilberg (who has a long rabbinical career in peace work):

• Speak in the first person about your experiences and opinions. 

• Share from a place of authenticity about what causes you pain and brings you joy. 

• Speak for understanding, not persuasion or agreement. 

• Agree to be awkward and know that your contributions will be received with care. 

• Give everyone at the table the benefit of the doubt. 

• Approach each other with curiosity. 

• Listen actively and generously. 

• Love each other.

I hope that some of you will find these guidelines to be helpful, as you approach your own seders.

Finally, if you are feeling some degree of angst or trepidation as we head into Passover, please know that you are far from alone! In fact, KUOW reporter Sarah Leibovitz produced a 15-minute radio piece that aired yesterday, entitled "Intergenerational Tension: How Seattle Jews are Considering Passover this Year." Click here to give it a listen (through the Soundside's Apple Podcast) or click here to listen and read (through the KUOW website)... and when you do, you may notice that mine is not the only voice from within the Kavana community (shout out to Tamara Erickson and Tracy Brazg!). To me, this only reinforces how special it is that we here at Kavana are working hard to hold open a wide tent of views around Israel, and to engage in real conversations grounded in our Jewish values and texts, even (and especially) across difference.

This year especially, may multiple generations sit around seder tables everywhere, expounding on our exodus from Egypt, and discussing what it means to be a Jew today! Wishing you a meaningful and joyous Pesach next week, and meanwhile, a Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Agency and Liberation, from Tazria to Arizona

Parashat Tazria begins by considering the case of "isha ki tazria," "a woman who is pregnant." After giving birth, the Torah says, a woman becomes ritually impure for a period of time and then must bring specific sacrifices in order to return to a state of ritual purity and be readmitted into the religious life of the Israelite community.

This section -- Leviticus 12:1-8 -- is a pretty technical text (on par with much of the Book of Leviticus in that way), and the details of the purity laws and word choices spark many worthy questions. Torah commentators wonder, for example, why the woman who gives birth is considered impure in the first place, why the duration of her impurity differs based on the sex of the baby, and why must she bring a chattat/sin-offering at all (does this imply wrong-doing?!). These are all important questions, and while our tradition is rich with answers and interpretation about these, none of them are what I want to focus on at the moment.

Instead, as I read this text of Tazria this week, my eye is drawn to the activity of the woman herself, the one who was pregnant and now has given birth. "On the completion of her period of purification, for either son or daughter, she shall bring to the priest, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, a lamb in its first year for a burnt offering and a pigeon or turtledove for a purification offering" (Lev. 12:6). I am struck that, just weeks after having given birth, a new mother is instructed to leave her home, to gather multiple animals, and to physically bring them to the Tent of Meeting. The text even allows for the possibility that she might not be able to afford all the requisite animals (Lev. 12:8): "If, however, her means do not suffice for a sheep, she shall take two turtledoves or two pigeons..." It seems that she can determine for herself what she can afford, and make the swap in sacrificial animals at her own discretion if necessary. Her husband or the birth father is nowhere in sight in this text; no one else makes decisions for her or acts as her representative or her emissary. In short, the isha (woman) in our Torah portion acts with remarkable agency in undertaking a public mission on her own behalf. Through her decisions and actions, she alone exercises control over her own ritual status and earns her re-entry into the sanctuary and the Israelite community.

In the midrashic collection Vayikra Rabbah, the primary midrashic work on the Book of Leviticus, the ancient rabbis find a major hook in the phrase "isha ki tazria," "the woman who is pregnant." Onto it, they hang many many midrashim (the entire chapter of Vayikra Rabbah 14), which emphasize and expound upon the incredible miracles that lie behind human reproduction. The rabbis were not reproductive endocrinologists or obstetricians (and their understanding of biology and anatomy certainly leaves something to be desired!), but they did have some sense of just how many things had to go right in order for a pregnancy to occur in the first place, and just how many more things had to go right in order for any pregnancy to result in a live birth. They marvel at conception, the protection that the womb affords, fetal development, and the process of labor and birth itself. The midrashim reinforce the underlying understanding (which is ubiquitous across Jewish legal and textual tradition) that until birth, an embryo or fetus has the potential to develop into a full human life but meanwhile exists as an extension of a woman's body. They deduce that behind every human being who comes into existence (including, of course, each and every one of us!), there were not only two humans who played a role in this creation but also a third partner: God. 

In Arizona this week, the State Supreme Court ruled that an old 1864 law -- a near-total abortion ban (outlawing abortion in every case except to save the life of the mother) -- will once again stand as the law of the land. Historian and political analyst Heather Cox Richardson wrote this week about the context of this bit of Arizona's 1864 criminal code, which appears side-by-side with other laws seeking to curb many forms of male misbehavior: dueling, poisoning, maiming and more. Pointing out that this law was drafted by a single man and first became law at a time when only men could vote, she writes, "Written to police the behavior of men, the code tells a larger story about power and control."

Like many of you, I'm sure, I was educated to believe in the progressive sweep of history: that is, the core idea that over time, societies progress politically, culturally, or otherwise. In both the development of Judaism from ancient times to today and also within our American society, I grew up seeing evidence that human conditions, rights, and freedom generally improved over time. This was particularly true of women's rights, including reproductive rights. It has been jarring over the last handful of years to feel -- both in our American political realm, and also in some of the enacted expressions of Judaism we see -- that things are actually moving in the wrong direction: away from progress, freedom and expanded rights and instead towards increased tolerance of sexism, homophobia, patriarchy, racism, and xenophobia. Laws, as in Arizona, that restrict and constrain the bodily autonomy of women around fertility and childbirth are far from the only indicator of this, but they stand as clear and tangible examples that right now, some forces in our American society are pulling in the wrong direction.

It feels a little wild to sit here in the year 2024 and read texts as ancient as this part of Leviticus and its rabbinic midrashim -- all of which have previously felt archaic, quaint, and/or problematic to me -- and instead feel tempted to hold them up as examples or targets. And yet, that's exactly where my mind goes this week. Our parasha, which bears the name of the "isha ki tazria," "the woman who is pregnant," fundamentally instructs women to act with empowerment and agency. Its laws -- about how a postpartum woman is to gain re-admittance into the sanctuary and into the religious life of the Israelite community -- necessarily assume that she belongs there in the first place! Admittedly this is not the highest bar of equality I can imagine; however, shouldn't we expect at least this much of all 50 American states in the year 2024?!

May this Shabbat bring us one step closer to freedom and expansiveness, equality and agency for all... after all, this is our season of (collective) liberation! 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Approaching Nissan / My Story of the Past 180 Days

This Shabbat has a special name and function: Shabbat HaChodesh ("the Shabbat of the month") is the Shabbat that announces the new Hebrew month of Nissan. This means, too, that Pesach is just around the corner... the festival of sacred story-telling, collective identity, affliction and joy.

In honor of this special Shabbat and the arrival of the month of Nissan this coming Monday night/Tuesday, I wanted to take this opportunity to tell my own version of the story of this year (or at least one piece of it), from my vantage point as one of Kavana's two rabbis.

A year ago, as some of you may recall, I was preparing for my first ever sabbatical. This much-needed break happened for me in May, June, and July 2023; my fellow Kavana staff members all pitched in to cover my responsibilities in my absence. I had a glorious few months of down-time, filled with family, friends, and travel, and I returned to the office in late summer feeling quite refreshed... and with many ideas about how we might integrate all that we learned from my sabbatical time into Kavana's organization and being. First, however, August and September promised to be busy months, with the High Holidays and the launch of our busy program calendar. And so, there was lots that I looked forward to doing "after the chagim"... meaning, beginning the week of October 9th.

Of course, the "Black Sabbath" of October 7th stopped us all in our tracks. I'm not going to recount all the details of the deadly Hamas attacks on Israel here. I will, however, share that by that evening as the Kavana community gathered for Simchat Torah, it was already clear to me that my workload for the year was going to look totally different than I had initially envisioned. 

The Kavana community has weathered crises before (a financial downturn, the Trump election, Covid!), and we have developed strong muscles for caring for one another and for jumping into action. Quickly, though, it felt apparent to me that there wasn't a single communal crisis unfolding for us after October 7th, but rather many different crises. Kavana's community is diverse, particularly when it comes to relationships with Israel (there are folks with very strong ties to Israel and with weaker ties, a political spectrum that ranges from progressive left to centrist, etc.). During October and November, I had more one-on-one pastoral meetings than I can count, and tried to serve as a sounding board for members of our community who were reeling (as was I) in the wake of both the initial attacks and also the retaliatory war that Israel was beginning to wage in Gaza. Like so many of you, I was consuming news reports at all hours of day and night, not sleeping much, and totally caught up in the drama of violence that Palestinians and Israelis were experiencing half a world away (and yet so close to my heart!). On a programming level, Kavana hosted a few specific gatherings around current events (e.g. a "Sanctuary Space" for sharing, song, and art; a podcast discussion group), but mostly, our programmatic "response" happened in already-established settings (e.g. the addition of special poetry and new liturgy in our Friday night and Saturday morning services, the adjusting of Living Room Learning topics/texts to help us reflect on relevant topics like the roots of human violence).

In November and December, pastoral conversations of course continued, but a new chapter began on top of that. Kavana partners started reaching out -- first in a trickle, and then a steady stream -- to run "language" by me. This language came from corporate memos, nonprofits' statements, and emails from schools and departments about what was happening in the Middle East. Some of these communications tried harder than others to be balanced or nuanced; many made me cringe because they were woefully one-sided or had antisemitic undertones. Over Thanksgiving week -- as we all watched a ritual of daily hostage exchanges unfold during a temporary ceasefire "over there" -- closer to home, the Seattle Jewish community was arguing over multiple drafts of a City Council resolution about Israel/Palestine. Wordsmithing was the activity-du-jour... and also felt to me like an incredible time-suck; however, the critical role that Kavana played in serving as a bridge between the "organized Jewish community" and the progressive Jewish left felt incredibly important.

The winter and early spring months brought additional challenges and opportunities as well. As Harvard, Penn and MIT's presidents testified before Congress about antisemitism on their campuses, hateful graffiti and politics-in-classrooms surfaced as local issues too. Many high schools and colleges have been struggling with how to balance between free speech and the safety of Jewish (and also Palestinian, Muslim and Middle Eastern) students on their campuses. Questions about where Jews and antisemitism fit into DEI frameworks have arisen everywhere. At Kavana, a couple of small support groups formed, rather organically, as community members sought peer support around questions such as these. In March, the local Jewish community launched a new initiative (Call it Antisemitism) to invite allies to join with the Jewish community in standing up to prevent anti-Jewish harm.

Throughout the past 180+ days, the situation in Israel and Gaza has continued to devolve. I know -- because I'm still taking lots of walks and having coffee dates with many of you -- that I am in good company here in the Kavana community in continuing to feel a deep sense of anguish at the totality of this awful situation. My heart is with Israelis, an entire nation still reeling and feeling the repercussions of October 7th (nothing there is back to normal, even six months out). My heart is also broken over the plight of Palestinians in Gaza, who are experiencing levels of violence, hunger, disease and trauma that are hard to fathom. I (like so many Israelis) am angry with the Netanyahu government, whose actions seem to me to be endangering Israel and the Jewish people far more than contributing to their/our safety; I am embarrassed at the disregard the Israeli military has shown for protecting Palestinian civilians, journalists, and even foreign aid workers. (I recently contributed to a drive called "Rabbis for World Central Kitchen"... but no amount of support I might send feels like it could be more than a symbolic drop in the bucket in the face of such a black hole of human suffering.) Stepping back and looking at the broader geopolitical context is enough to make my mind spin.

As we enter into Nissan this coming week, we will turn the corner again towards yet another new chapter of our Jewish year. The stretch that takes us from Nissan and Passover to Shavuot contains within it all of the "yoms": Yom HaZikaron (Israel's Memorial Day), Yom HaAtzmaut (Israel's Independence Day) and Yom Yerushalayim (marking the reunification of Jerusalem in Jewish hands in 1967). In other words, this is a time of the year when the modern Jewish calendar forces our focus to be on our relationship with Israel. This year, of course, the events of the past six months will inform Kavana's programmatic approach. This year, more than ever, it won't be possible for me to mourn for fallen Israeli soldiers without also mourning for the tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians who have been killed in recent months; to celebrate Israel's birthday without also reflecting on how 1948 is "the Nakba" ("catastrophe") in the eyes of Palestinians; to mark 1967 as the triumphant Jewish return to Jerusalem's Old City without also lamenting the start of an Occupation that continues to this day. 

Through the compound crises of the last six months, I am proud that we have managed to stay true to Kavana's core values. As a spiritual community, I'm grateful that we have been able to focus resources (particularly staff time and energy) on providing pastoral support to our people at a time of difficulty. As a pluralistic community, it's been critically important that we have continued modeling a wide-tent approach rather than drawing red lines. 

Now, building on the foundation of the work we have already undertaken, I feel ready to move forward programmatically this spring. I am so grateful to Kavana’s incredibly talented and hard-working staff, to our thoughtful board, and to key partners and lay leaders (so many of you!) who have helped to generate ideas about what kind of approach will feel most authentic for our community. We've decided to take a multi-pronged approach, developing a program series which will unfold over the coming few months (April/May/June). Hopefully this will allow everyone to find some pathway that feels interesting, helpful, and connective (without assuming that a one-size-fits-all approach will work for our diverse community). By creating new inputs and opportunities, we hope to help members of the Kavana community deepen their knowledge and understanding, and practice being in a community where substantive issues are discussed with nuance and where relationships are forged even across political difference.

Practically, here's what we're currently envisioning: a series of events this spring, through which, members of the Kavana community will have the opportunity to:

• engage from an intellectual/academic perspective. We will be hosting an Adult Ed session that takes a side-by-side approach to examining the very different Israeli and Palestinian narratives that were constructed around key historical events, as a backdrop to understanding current events and narratives.

• engage with personal narratives and accounts from individuals on the ground. We are setting up a Zoom session with the Palestinian and Israeli tour-guides who guided our 2022 Kavana-Mishkan trip (Emili and Karmit), where we can hear about what the last six months have felt like from their vantage points in the West Bank and Israel respectively and engage in an interactive Q&A session.

• engage in emotionally-intelligent group processing spaces. Kavana will curate a space where we can practice unraveling the complex swirl of feelings and articulating our personal reactions and thoughts with nuance, and also practice deep/reflective listening techniques.

• engage through the lens of Jewish ritual, wisdom, and liturgy. I will be teaching a Living Room Learning session in advance of Pesach where we'll delve into key questions for this year's seder; when he returns from parental leave, Rabbi Jay will be leading additional sessions on the Mussar of peace-building.

With regard to this whole program series, I ask that you stay tuned for details (coming soon!). Again, I want to thank the many Kavana partners who have served as sounding boards for me and the Kavana staff, who have stepped forward to generate and shape these ideas, and who are helping to plan and execute all of the programs described above. 

Lastly, I want to mention that there are also many events that have been pulled together by other local Jewish organizations. (Truly, we are fortunate to live in the Seattle area, where there is such a wealth of opportunities to learn and engage right here in our community!) Again, I do not assume that all of these will be of interest to or a fit for every member of the Kavana community, but I do believe that there's probably something on this list that will interest the majority of you: 

• Shir Nosatzki of the New Israel Fund (a leading Israeli activist for Jewish Arab partnership) will be speaking at Congregation Beth Shalom on Wednesday, April 10th at 7pm. The session is called Jewish-Arab Political Partnership Towards a Shared Future in Israel. (In addition, a Kavana partner who is involved in NIF will be hosting a smaller session with Shir the following evening, Thursday, April 11th. If you're interested in being part of this more intimate gathering and supporting NIF, please let me know and I'll put you in touch with the host directly.)
  

• Nadav Tamir of JStreet (the former Israel Consul General and JStreet Israel Director) will share his analysis on the unfolding war between Israel and Hamas and the potential long-term outcomes of this crisis at Temple De Hirsch Sinai before 6pm services on Friday evening, April 12th. Contact casey@jstreet.org for more details. (In addition, a Kavana partner who is involved in JStreet will be hosting a smaller salon-style session with Nadav on Sunday, April 14th. If you're interested in being part of this more intimate gathering for JStreet supporters, please let me know and I'll put you in touch with the host directly.)
  

• Uri Weltmann of Standing Together will be speaking at Temple De Hirsch Sinai on Saturday, April 13th at 11am about how the movement is uniting diverse communities around the fight for a ceasefire and hostage deal. His talk is entitled Where There is Struggle, There is Hope, and advance registration is requested.
  

• Dr. Rachel Korazim, a renowned teacher of Hebrew literature, will be offering a session called Poems for Our Days, featuring poems written over these past months from different parts of Israeli society, on Monday, April 15th from 8-9pm. Rabbi Jay and I heard her teach a few days again and we cannot recommend this session highly enough! Click here to register through host Congregation Beth Shalom.

It is my hope, of course, that all of these opportunities -- both the ones that Kavana will be setting in motion over the coming weeks, and the ones that other organizations are pulling together -- will feel supportive to the broader Kavana community, as we all continue to weather this heavy and fraught time. 

Meanwhile, as we look towards the month of Nissan, its core celebration of Passover reminds us that periods of oppression, darkness, and constraint always have the potential to resolve into expanse, light, and new possibility. This redemptive arc is part of our history and gives us hope now as we continue to fumble our way through this excruciatingly difficult moment. As we say in the Blessing for the New Month: "Yehi ratzon milfanecha... she’t’chadesh aleinu hachodesh haba l’tova v’livracha" - "May it be Your will that this new month will bring renewal for us, for good and for blessing." So may it be this Nissan!

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov (a good month),

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

How to Change Your Clothes

The biblical book of Mishlei (Proverbs) gives us an excellent piece of advice for navigating political and social issues right now:

“Don’t respond to stupid people in their foolishness or you’ll become just like them.” (Proverbs 26:4)

If Merriam-Webster needs a definition for “internet comments section,”  they need look no further. There are certain moments when trying to reason with someone is truly a foolish waste of time. Better not to amplify those voices at all! 

However, the very next bit of sage wisdom in Proverbs gives us precisely the opposite advice.

“Respond to stupid people in their foolishness, lest they think they are wise!” (Proverbs 26:5)

According to this second view, we cannot afford to ignore fools because their inflated and distorted sense of being right may snowball into something dangerous and unstoppable. Where silence might be interpreted as agreement or approval, we must register our opposition.

How do we know when to ignore and when to respond? The Talmud (Shabbat 30b) suggests we wade into the discourse when it is related to Torah, but not when it is about everyday normal stuff. In other words, let’s save our energy for the issues that really matter. 

Of course, right now it seems like everything matters. The wars in Gaza and Ukraine, the threat to democracy in the United States, the increasingly lived experience of climate crisis around the world (and you could effortlessly name at least a dozen more vitally important issues). 

Faced with an overwhelming justice checklist, the question of “what to do” may feel urgent, anxiety-inducing, and even impossible to answer. (Of course, you could just choose something and do it.)

Right now, I am drawn not to the question of “what to do” but to the very different framework of “who to be”. Given this perplexing and gorgeous world we live in, what character do I aspire to cultivate? Who might I become that would act from a place of more wisdom and love, even if I don’t know exactly what to do? And in what ways would the world look different if we each took that question seriously? I suspect there would be less angry fools claiming wisdom, and more humble fools seeking wisdom. 

In our Torah portion, Tzav, the text elaborates Moses’ instructions to the ancient priests. After a particular sacrifice, the olah where everything is burned to ash, the priest “shall take off his clothes and put other clothes on, and carry the ashes outside the camp…” (Leviticus 6:4).

On surface level, this seems like practical advice. Rashi says it is a “matter of decency so that he should not, through removing the ashes, soil the clothes he uses regularly (at the altar in his official capacity).” 

But a later Chassidic teacher, the Be’er Mayim Chayim, plumbs the spiritual depths of the text and reveals that changing clothes is about more than simply changing clothes.

“Clothes are the garments. One should strip off the unbeneficial thoughts and mental chatter that one has garbed oneself with until now…and from now on one should garb oneself with different clothes, clothes of holiness - you will wear garments of love and awe-of-God, as is fitting, as it is said to Joshua the High Priest: ‘Garb yourself in priestly robes’ (Zechariah 3:4).”

According to this teaching, changing clothes isn’t about making sure you don’t get your nice priest robes dirty, but that being a priest - a person aspiring to holy purpose - means cultivating inner traits like love and awe. 

The Beer Mayim Chayim imagines our mental and emotional habituation as clothes. My thoughts and my emotions are not me, just as my clothes are not me. And yet, clothes and character impact how I move through the world, how others see me, and how I understand my role and responsibilities. What would it look like to realize that, with some persistence, we are not straight-jacketed in painful and unproductive patterns but can change our soul-clothes? What would it look like to dress intentionally in love and awe (and perhaps all the soul-traits of our Mussar tradition)? 

What I like about this teaching, in contrast to the advice from Proverbs, is that it focuses on self-transformation rather than fool-confrontation. Every morning when you wake up, you have another day to try on love, to wear awe into the world, to don a humility cap or tie the laces on your patience boots. Whatever qualities of character you aspire to bring into your life may not always fit snugly, but remember to turn again and again to these garments, rather than the shroud of reactivity. 

When you do encounter a fool, the primary question isn’t whether or not you should get into an argument with them, but who it is you are trying to be in the first place. And maybe if enough of us wear clothes of character, it will become fashionable once again to encounter each other with love, respect, curiosity, and hope.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Recommit this Purim

This time of year, the Kavana organization is abuzz and spring is in the air. Our programs are up and running at full-speed: Shabbat prayer services are beautiful and meaningful, partners are organizing social justice and adult learning events, kids are learning and having fun together, and of course we are looking forward to two incredible Purim celebrations this weekend! On the back end, March means that our staff and board have been busy with annual reviews and program evaluations, intentional growth work and multi-year budgeting. In a nutshell, we spend time each spring planning and recommitting in order to continue and deepen our work into another year.

If we were to play a word association game where I say the word "Purim" and ask you what it makes you think of first, I expect that I would hear a range of answers from members of our community. Words like joy, costumes, hamentaschen, megillah, Esther and Mordecai would probably top the list. If we went another round, perhaps we'd get to some broader themes like hiddenness and courage. And if we continued playing the game for a while, I imagine we'd eventually encounter some of the bigger, more difficult themes that have been rolling around in my head this year, such as Jewish vulnerability, sexual violence, and the limits of vengeance.

Even if we played for a while, though, I'm not sure we would ever naturally happen upon the word recommitment. And yet, this is exactly one of the ways our rabbinic tradition thinks of Purim: as a Shavuot-like holiday, a time for affirmation and for covenant renewal! The Talmud (in Shabbat 88a) says: 

The Torah was (initially) forced upon the Jewish people, as God held the mountain [Mount Sinai] above their heads… Rava said: “However, they accepted it later out of choice, in the days of Achashverosh, as it says (Esther 9:27): ‘The Jews kept and accepted all the words’."

The phrase of the Megillah that Rava is quoting here -- in Hebrew, "kiyemu v'kiblu" -- comes towards the end of the Purim story. By then, the Jews of Persia have already been threatened by Haman and have successfully defeated his plot against them, surviving to tell the tale. In context, it sounds like perhaps the Jews of "the days of Achashverosh" are taking upon themselves only the obligations to observe this brand new Purim holiday. Here is the verse from the Book of Esther again, with a slightly different translation of that key phrase and a little more context:

The Jews undertook and irrevocably obligated themselves and their descendants, and all who might join them, to observe these two days in the manner prescribed and at the proper time each year. Consequently, these days are recalled and observed in every generation: by every family, every province, and every city. And these days of Purim shall never cease among the Jews, and the memory of them shall never perish among their descendants. (Esther 9:27-28)

In the bolded phrase "kiyemu v'kiblu," Rava and his colleagues must have heard an echo of the famous statement made at Mount Sinai: "na'aseh v'nishma," "we will do and we will hear." (Both are double verb phrases featuring alliteration, and in both, the order of the two verbs feels counterintuitive, as action precedes obligation.) In the rabbinic imagination, Moses's covenant at Mount Sinai may indeed have been entered into under duress... after all, what choice did the Israelites have in the wilderness but to accept God's offer of Torah or perish? Here in the Book of Esther, though, because these words appear after disaster has been averted, the rabbis perceive a model of a more active opting in... not only to the laws of Purim, but actually to all of Torah. As a result, the Talmud is clear that what's at stake in the Esther text is a re-affirmation of the Sinaitic covenant in its entirety. (Indeed, this idea is so important that it appears in multiple locations in rabbinic literature -- see also Shevuot 39a.)

There's another thing I find interesting about "kiyemu v'kiblu" as well. This phrase contains an example of what's called a "kri u'ktiv" -- a word that's written one way by a scribe but, according to long-standing tradition, pronounced in another way when chanted aloud. The second word of the phrase is written וקבל ("v'kibel") -- as though it's a verb with a singular subject -- but is vocalized וקבלו ("v'kiblu"), as though there's a plural subject. This leaves it ambiguous whether the act of recommitment that happens in Esther chapter 9 was an individual or a communal act. And perhaps that ambiguity is purposeful, because in truth, the best answer may be both! 

This Purim comes at a difficult time, as our Jewish community experiences the turmoil of the world, and as so many of us also experience some degree of inner turmoil around what it means to be a Jew in this fraught moment. It's hard not to notice our own fear and vulnerability in the wake of Hamas's October 7th attack and the rise in antisemitism we've observed in recent months; it's also impossible not to feel awful about and ask serious questions about the direction of the Israeli government and military as we see the living conditions of Palestinian civilians in Gaza continue to deteriorate towards famine and ever more acute crisis. The story of the Megillah, similarly, holds complexity and tensions around Jewish identity and morality, vulnerability and vengeance, and yet, its bottom line is to call on the Jews of its era -- both individually and collectively -- to recommit, to reaffirm their connection to the Jewish people and to tradition, and to do so in a permanent, forward-looking way. 

So too must we, today. This Saturday night, the Kavana community will gather to hear Megillat Esther in the very same space where we gathered to celebrate Simchat Torah on October 7th (just thinking about this gives me chills). As we encounter the text of the Purim story anew, in light of that day and every day since, we will doubtless hear new echoes of relevance and new questions in this text. Especially in light of the trauma and turmoil of these last 5+ months, there is something incredibly profound about being asked to recommit at Purim, to the covenant and to our people. We need to do so individually, each finding ways to embrace our own Jewish identities and live out our values, and we need to do so communally, as we come together to observe, celebrate, and lament in community.

As the Kavana organization continues doing its spring cleaning and planning over the coming weeks, ever deepening our work and preparing us for another year together, it's comforting to me to know that in parallel, members of the Kavana community will be recommitting too... to Jewish identity, to our values and practices, to our shared traditions and mitzvot, and to being part of the Jewish people (generally) and this community (specifically). I look forward to learning where this recommitment will take us all, as we move through this spring and beyond together. 

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Purim Sameach, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Running and Returning

“And the living creatures ran and returned (ratzo va’shov) like the appearance of a flash of lightning.” (Ezekiel 1:14)

One of the most potent and least-known phrases in Jewish tradition is this line from the prophet Ezekiel, ratzo va’shov, “running and returning”. He was describing a vision of mysterious fiery angels in a scene that would become one of the core texts of later Jewish mysticism. Mysterious fiery angels - or, you know, most toddlers. Running and returning, flitting and flickering with divine spark energy. 

But what is the meaning of this running and returning? Ezekiel’s imagery leaves the action inscrutable. I want to offer three models of how you might understand and use the phrase ratzo va’shov, drawing on different layers of the Jewish tradition.

Model 1: Meditative Practice

“And if your heart is running, return to the place (haMakom).” (Sefer Yetzirah 1:8)

Playing on Ezekiel’s language, the mystical Sefer Yetzirah (Book of Creation) offers a meditative practice. Rabbi Jill Hammer, whose translation and commentary on Sefer Yetzirah is called Return to the Place, describes it this way: “Anyone who meditates can relate to the way that the mind runs away from the meditative focus (whether the breath, an image, a chant, etc.) and pursues its own mundane line of thinking. The work of meditation is to interrupt this obsessive inner monologue, pull the mind back and attend to the meditative focus… The phrase ‘return to the place’ is particularly poignant, since the word ‘Place’ in rabbinic Hebrew can also refer to God. To return to the place is to return to the Divine, who is the ultimate focus of attention. And, to return to the place is to return to where we left off—to come back to what we had intended to do. Finally, to return to the place is to become at home in the universe: to be situated in space, time, and body.”

Where is your Place? What does it feel like? How do you return there when your heart has started running with anxiety or distraction or simple busy-ness?

Model 2: Spiritual Yearning and Spiritual Purpose

Our next model comes from a much later text, the Tanya (or Likutei Amarim), written in the late 1700s by the founder of Chabad Chassidism, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady. The passage uses the phrase as found in Sefer Yetzirah to explore a spiritual dynamic of running and returning in a totally new way. 

“‘If your heart is running’ refers to the craving of the soul… when it  predominates and bursts into flame and glows in such rapture that the soul is consumed with a desire to pour itself out into the embrace of its Source, Who gives one life, and to leave its confinement in the corporeal and physical body to attach itself to Source. Then one must take to heart (literally: return to the heart) the teaching of our Sages, of blessed memory: “Despite yourself, you must live.” (Tanya Chapter 50)

In this passage, Shneur Zalman interprets the phrase from Sefer Yetzira seemingly the opposite of its simple meaning. Instead of bringing a distracted heart back to a higher place of focus, the Tanya teaches that if your heart is running with great yearning towards a purely spiritual existence, return to the world-as-it-is and do the messy work of making life sacred. 

The running is towards God, the returning is to our purpose on earth. We might see this as running towards retreat and escapism, running towards purity and ideals and theoretical abstraction. Then we have to bring ourselves back to ground, accept the imperfections of body and world, and get back to work on whatever it is we are here to do. 

When do you yearn for a sanctuary from the hard edges of life? What makes you wake up with (or to) a sense of purpose?

Model 3: Running and Returning as Life’s Journey

The previous models make an assumption that the running necessitatesreturning. In other words, if your mind gets distracted, you’ll need to return to focus; if your soul yearns for ideals, you’ll need to gently return to a level of pragmatism to keep working towards making them more possible. The returning is the key (not a surprise given the importance of teshuva, another form of the word, in Judaism). 

But what if the running is not just inevitable, but also worthy? A few nights ago I was chewing over the final verse of the book of Exodus and discovered a fascinating interpretation by the 19th century commentary Haamek Davar.

“For over the Mishkan a divine cloud rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel on all of their journeys.” (Exodus 40:38)

“On all of their journeys whether by God’s will or whether in tempestuous anger like after the incident of the scouts. In any event it didn’t alter the essential work of the cloud that was continually (there).” (Haamek Davar)

I felt like there was something essential to this remarkable insight that when the text says the pillar of cloud accompanied the Israelites on every last one of their journeys, that includes some ill-advised ones that caused God and the Israelites a lot of grief! What could it mean that a sign of divine presence and protection goes with the Israelites when they are moving in alignment with their higher purpose, and also when they are running away from it?

I shared this text with my wife, Rabbi Laura Rumpf, and she immediately responded: “Running and returning are in service of each other. Sometimes we are in alignment, following our true north, but being out of alignment is also in service because it is part of our learning, part of our journey. Life is rarely about ‘I was right, then I was right again, oh and then there was that other time I was right…’”

The first two models prioritize returning once we’ve started running. But Laura and the Haamek Davar helped me see running and returning as the life journey itself. In Ezekiel’s vision, the angelic creatures are actually calledchayyot, simply “living things.” A real life lived is just as much running as it is returning. Like the Israelites wandering in the desert, through successes and failures, through inspired choices and tragic decisions, we too might see the pillar of cloud is there, establishing a strange symbol of continuity. Wherever you are, this too is part of your journey. 

What torah, what wisdom, is written in this chapter of your life?

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Who is God?

“When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron and said to him: Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that fellow Moses—the man who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him.” (Exodus 32:1)

So begins the story of the golden calf. Reading this English translation, it seems as if the people suffer from a shortfall of patience. Moses took too long… 

But the Hebrew is a little more interesting. The word translated as “was so long” is boshesh, which in almost every other circumstance means “embarrass, shame, confound.” The people see that Moses is embarrassing them! Or perhaps they project their deep insecurity onto his absence. Theabsence of clear and present leadership thrusts them into an unbearable existential worry, and so they turn to Aaron and ask him to replace their leader (Moses and/or God, it is unclear) with something tangible and static. The golden calf isn’t just a foolish misunderstanding of God, it is perhaps an intentional grasping for something that won’t disappear, won’t change, won’t abandon the people like they fear Moses has. The people see Moses’ absence and in their need to see something at all they make the golden calf. 

Moses himself suffers a crisis of wanting to see in another story later in theparashah. “Moses cries out, ‘Oh let me see your Presence!’ And [God] answered, ‘I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim before you the name YHVH, and I will grant the grace that I will grant and show the compassion that I will show…But you cannot see My face, for a human being may not see Me and live… you will see My back; but My face must not be seen.” (Exodus 33:19-20, 23) 

God tells Moses: Seeing Me isn’t possible. But you will hear My name, Yud Hey Vav Hey. 

When Moses first encountered God at the bush that was aflame, God told him that YHVH would now be the name the people of Israel should use. In explaining its significance, God says “Ehyeh asher ehyeh - I will be what I will be, I am that which is ever-becoming.” (Exodus 3:14) 

Moses’ task is to be an agent of the living Source of all Being, to bring the Israelites into relationship not with dead, static idols but with the unimage-able, irreducibly complex, ever-changing, animating force of everything, and the ethical call to live in right relationship as a unique part of the web of life. Naturally, both Moses and the Israelites are sometimes exhausted by the ongoing effort to expand their minds beyond the ego’s hungry eye and surrender to the impermanent flux of being. They want answers. They want ease - a full picture, even if a small and pale imitation of Reality. “For your own sake, therefore, be most careful—since you saw no image when YHVH spoke to you at Horeb out of the fire…” (Deuteronomy 4:15).

At the heart of these texts is the (often frustrated) human yearning to know the divine. Who is God? In the first episode of what promises to be a wonderful new podcast series from Rabbi Shai Held of Hadar, Answers WithHeld, he discusses exactly this question with Rabbi Avi Killip. She has a beautiful sense of what is behind the question when a child asks: Who is God? “You know, what I think is so amazing, and beautiful, and even inspiring by hearing these questions from kids, for the first time in particular, is seeing that first spark, that first inkling of what we hope will grow into a real, full, mature spiritual life… Why is it so scary for us when a child asks us who is God? And one of the answers is because it feels like maybe what they are asking is “How does the world work” or “Why do bad things happen” or [Shai Held interjects: “Am I safe?”]”

A child, like the Israelites at Sinai, builds a spiritual life around a kernel of existential not-knowing. Each one of us moves forward with a different mixture of curiosity, fear, embarrassment, and hopeful yearning. We build idols and life smashes them, and sometimes the broken image of what we thought we knew is painful. 

When, as adults, we ask who God is, the Torah offers insight into mature spiritual knowing of God. It is dynamic (ever changing like the divine name),reflective (when we glimpse backward like Moses does), and humbling(when we remember our inability to fully picture God and indeed each being). All of these practices - dynamic, reflective, and humbling - move us frommochin d’katnut (the normal, egocentric way of being) to mochin d’gadlut, a state of mind where we don’t grasp for permanence, we don’t try to perfectly predict the future but rather glean wisdom and comfort from reflective presence, and maintain the respect for other people’s perspectives that comes when we know we don’t have the full picture.

Shabbat shalom!

Meeting Nightfall

M’erev ad boker, “from evening until morning” (Exodus 27:21). Dusk arrived softly that November night as I walked into my senior rabbi’s home. I was only a few months ordained, still figuring out the job, still figuring out the world, (ongoing projects, I’ve learned). I saw my colleague and some friends laughing and chatting in front of a television, and I walked towards them, spying along the way a Hillary Clinton cake waiting in the kitchen. The last few rays of light dipped below the window line, and then the results began coming in. Pretty soon, I told my boss I had to go home. It was way too soon in our relationship for her to see me hollow and shattered and definitely too soon in my career to see a soon-to-be beloved mentor the same way. As I drove home in the dark, I couldn’t stop thinking about that cake. A momentous, once-in-a-lifetime celebration of the first woman to become president turned into a really tasty plate of trash. The political nightfall darkened, and I could only hope that dawn would come again. 

M’erev ad boker, “from evening until morning,” is the time designated for thener tamid, the regularly kindled lamp in the Mishkan. Far from an “eternal light,” as it often gets translated, it is simply a light that we keep rekindling every time night falls. Rashi tells us that “[doing something] every night is called tamid.” You might say that in addition to meaning “always, continual, regularly,” tamid evokes a stubborn, persistent practice of meeting the darkness each timeit comes. Stubborn, persistent consciousness — amidconsciousness — throws out yesterday’s cakes (the ones we so wanted to eat) and calls us to a different course. 

M’erev, from the moment of encountering nightfall, lift up the lamp of tamidconsciousness. In moments of fear, worry, anger, depression, we are in danger of contracting and isolating. There is a misunderstanding of the ner tamid that champions the fantasy of perfect inwardness. This fantasy imagines that the flame burns brightest inside ourselves, that we can shut out the world and thrive on our own without any of the messy encounters with others. In the political realm, this fantasy moves people to support and enact cruel and xenophobic immigration policies. 

In midrash Sifra (Tzav 1:16), the sages wonder about the lamp’s source of ignition. They point out that in the Mishkan, there is an outer altar and an inner altar. The lamp is near the inner altar. Perhaps the light source nearest the lamp should be used? But no! This would be a misunderstanding of what the moment needs, choosing convenience over deeper symbolism. Themidrash insistently derives (through clever midrashic means) that the lamp should only be lit from the fires of the outer altar. 

Tamid consciousnessinvolves moving inward (for rest, renewal, holiness) but then moving back out (for new perspectives, new energy, new connection, new awareness of the darkness) and then back inward (to integrate, to plan), and so on. The ritual movement from inner circle to outer circle suggests to me Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem: 

“I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.  
I may not complete this last one
but I will give myself to it.”

Night falls because of a natural disaster or an accident, political persecution or economic disruption, war or sickness. Night is an experience of our vulnerability. As another midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 15:7) notes, only God can create light from darkness. We flesh and blood humans need other light sources to create more light. We need each other’s lights. Taking the Mishkanmetaphorically, a friend, colleague, or ally becomes the outer altar. Perhaps even those we consider adversaries have the sacred potential to ignite in us the lamp of tamid consciousness and the willingness to widen our circles and give ourselves to the tasks of care, compassion, advocacy, and love. 

Shabbat Shalom,

The Mishkan of Kavana

Before you read any further, I'd like for you to pause for a moment and think back to a Shabbat service (or other communal prayer experience) that you found especially meaningful and stirring. Perhaps what stands out was the musical experience, or the quiet solitude in the presence of others, the poetry of the liturgy itself, a moment of heartfelt yearning or connection with the Divine, or being in the company of family and/or friends.

In particular, though, I'm wondering about a detail that we don't always think about so overtly. I want to know: how was the space configured? Were participants sitting in rows of chairs or pews, all facing the same direction, or were they sitting in the round, facing one another? At Kavana, we use both of these modalities (plus other variations on the themes... semi-circles, ovals, etc.) as we gather in different worship spaces on different Shabbatot of the month. This plurality of ways that we configure ourselves when we come together can express a lot about our goals and intentions.

In this week's Torah portion, Parashat Terumah, the Israelites are instructed to build a Mishkan, a Tabernacle, where the people can assemble and God can dwell among them. As the Torah delineates how this portable sanctuary is to be constructed, every detail of the structure and its furnishings is understood to encode deep meaning.

I want to focus our attention on two nearly identical phrases -- easily overlooked, but deeply significant -- that appear in this parasha and speak to the question of orientation.

First, a pair of cherubim (winged angelic beings) are commissioned to sit atop the Ark. The text of Exodus 25:20 reads as follows (with scholar Robert Alter's translation into English):

וְהָי֣וּ הַכְּרֻבִים֩ פֹּרְשֵׂ֨י כְנָפַ֜יִם לְמַ֗עְלָה סֹכְכִ֤ים בְּכַנְפֵיהֶם֙ עַל־הַכַּפֹּ֔רֶת וּפְנֵיהֶ֖ם אִ֣ישׁ אֶל־אָחִ֑יו אֶ֨ל־הַכַּפֹּ֔רֶת יִהְי֖וּ פְּנֵ֥י הַכְּרֻבִֽים׃

And the cherubim shall spread wings above, shielding the cover with their wings, and their faces toward each other, toward the cover the faces of the cherubim shall be. 

The phrase I've bolded above is the one of special interest to me. Colloquially, it indicates that these cherubim were facing each other, but literally the language of the text is “ish el achiv,” “a man to his brother.” 

In the following chapter, we learn about how the mishkan structure itself is to be assembled. With the cloth tapestries that bound this giant tent structure (see Exodus 26:3, 26:5, and 26:6) and then with planks of wood whose tenons and sockets fit together to form the Tabernacle's walls, a parallel phrase is used: “isha el achotah,” “a woman to her sister.” For example, Exodus 26:17 reads:

שְׁתֵּ֣י יָד֗וֹת לַקֶּ֙רֶשׁ֙ הָאֶחָ֔ד מְשֻׁ֨לָּבֹ֔ת אִשָּׁ֖ה אֶל־אֲחֹתָ֑הּ כֵּ֣ן תַּעֲשֶׂ֔ה לְכֹ֖ל קַרְשֵׁ֥י הַמִּשְׁכָּֽן׃

Each plank shall have two tenons, parallel to each other; do the same with all the planks of the Tabernacle.

These two phrases -- "ish el achiv" and "isha el achotah" -- are identical, save for the one (notable) difference of gender. (On a grammatical level, the reason for the difference is pretty straightforward: k’ruvim/cherubim is a masculine noun in Hebrew and yadot/tenons a feminine noun.) 

A couple of things strike me as I consider these phrases. First, "ish el achiv" and "isha el achotah" both take the building project at hand and recast it as a sibling togetherness project. The cherubim, the cloth panels, and the wood boards are all described in familial terms, as brothers/sisters/siblings. In this way, the language of the text draws attention to the connective function of the Mishkan, and how it draws the Israelites into close relationship with one another and with God. (Closely connected to this is the way we often use "Hinei mah tov u'mah na'im shevet achim gam yachad" as a gathering song. It, too, draws on sibling language, translating to: "Behold, how good and pleasant it is that siblings - achim - can dwell together harmoniously.")

Second, though, the visual pictures that the two phrases paint are quite different. The cherubim's orientation dictates that these two carved angels face in towards one another, as they stand on top of the Ark which contains the tablets of the commandments. Their face-to-face orientation symbolizes deep relational connection, and perhaps also hints at the potential for confrontation (they stand opposite one another, or in opposition). In contrast, the planks, and, similarly, the cloth panels, must be laid side-by-side, in parallel. Oriented next to one another as they are assembled, they are unified in function and in vision. By all facing in the same direction, they create a wall that delineates the sacred space of the Mishkan.

Both of these configurations ring true to me today when I think about Kavana's orientation. We have conceived of this community as a place where people can gather face-to-face for intimate conversations and experiences. When two students sit across from each other and discuss a text in chevruta, the vision of cherubim facing one another comes to life! When we create opportunities for hard conversations to happen -- whether this is deep sharing and listening around disparate views on Israel/Palestine, or board meeting wrestlings around organizational growth tensions -- I see this kind of face-to-face and internally-focused sacred relationship in play.

But also, when I think of planks standing side-by-side, I picture volunteers working shoulder-to-shoulder in a kitchen preparing meals for our Caring Committee to distribute, or of a multigenerational group banding together to tackle a social justice issue, wall-like in their resoluteness as they represent our communal values in the world. This shoulder-to-shoulder framework -- with directional alignment toward a common goal -- allows us to build the Tabernacles of today: vessels that hold people.

Returning to the question I opened with, I am so glad that Kavana also opts for both of these modes/configurations at different times in our Shabbat prayer spaces... both because that gives our partners and participants the option to figure out which religious services feel best to them and lean into personal preference (in the context of communal experience), and also because both of these orientations matter and serve our mission on a symbolic level. 

• At Rabbi Jay's Kabbalat Shabbat service (happening tonight), attendees mostly face one direction, but in more of a "smoosh" shape and with leaders facing out. "This service blends joyous song and prayer, warm connection, and thought-provoking learning."

• At tomorrow morning's Shabbat Morning Minyan in Queen Anne , everyone -- including myself and the other prayer leaders -- face east, pointing to the group's alignment. With traditional liturgy and lots of singing, prayers are all oriented in the same direction. 

• At last week's lay-led Shabbat Levavi gathering (meaning open-armed, warm, heartfelt - and it'll happen again next month!) and also at the monthly Kabbalat Shabbat service with Traci, an in-the-round configuration puts the congregation into face-to-face connection with one another, more like the angels atop the Ark. 

Both the side-by-side alignment and the face-to-face configuration are part of our sacred story from Parashat Terumah. Both arrangements are important and holy. Together, these brotherly/sisterly sibling bonds demonstrate that the Kavana community seeks both to build and strengthen internal connections, and also to enable people to work together to make change. Our work is at times aligned and at times leaving room for healthy disagreement, at once inward-facing and outward-facing... but always intentional.

Whichever configuration appeals most to you in the moment -- whichever Shabbat service or other communal activity is calling your name -- I sincerely hope you'll jump in and join together with this sacred community, in prayer and more. In doing so, we will be both the cherubim and the planks that help delineate holy space and facilitate connections in all dimensions.

Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Goring Ox: Then and Now

Yesterday morning, I dropped my kids at school and continued driving straight to my first meeting of the day. Alone in my car, I turned on the radio to NPR, and found myself listening to live coverage of the Supreme Court's deliberations about whether Trump's name can appear on ballots in Colorado and other states. At issue, as you may know, is the question of whether a provision of the 14th amendment -- a law barring certain public officials from serving in the government again if they took part in an insurrection -- applies in light of the events of January 6, 2021. In the clip that I happened to catch, the justices were following different lines of questioning (how much power should be granted to a single state, do the words "office" and "officer" refer to the same thing, etc.). As I arrived at my destination, I lingered in the car to hear a little more, intrigued by the legal arguments at hand. And then, a specific pair of verses from this week's Torah portion, Mishpatim, leapt to mind for me.

The verses I was thinking about are Exodus 21:28-29:

When an ox gores a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be stoned and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner of the ox is not to be punished. If, however, that ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and it kills a man or a woman—the ox shall be stoned and its owner, too, shall be put to death.

At first blush, these verses don't seem particularly related to the oral arguments I had heard on the radio. The pair of Torah verses above deal with two different scenarios in which an ox kills a person. In the first, the ox gores a person with no warning; the owner of the ox seemingly had no reason to see this tragedy coming, and is not punished... after all, accidents happen, animals are animals, etc. The second scenario is different, in that the reader of Torah is told explicitly that this is an ox with a habit of goring -- that is, a pattern of violent behavior has already been observed. In this case, if the ox -- which is already known to be violent -- subsequently gores a person, the owner is indeed held liable, as he failed to note the pattern and take action to prevent future harm.

As Jewish law takes up the case, interestingly, most of the commentaries I know about these verses keep the meaning pretty literal... that is, they try to further understand the contours of goring oxen. The Mishnah names the ordinary ox (the one with no criminal history) as the "shor tam" and the habitually goring ox the "shor muad," and then the Gemara spills lots of ink parsing the qualifications for each category (e.g. how many previous goring incidents must the ox have engaged in, and within what framework of time, in order to qualify as a "shor muad"?). I spent an entire semester of Talmud class during rabbinical school learning sugyot from Bava Kamma pertaining to the related case of "shor she-nagach et parah," " an ox that gores a cow." There, the Talmud considers, for example, what happens if an ox has gored a cow and a newborn calf is also found dead at her side, but it's unknown whether she gave birth to the calf before the goring or as its result. My point is that, here, Jewish law seems to get sucked pretty far down a wormhole of legalese pertaining to oxen and their violent behavior.

Yesterday, however, I found myself wondering about what we might learn from these verses were we to read them more metaphorically. This is certainly a direction that rabbinic law takes in the wake of plenty of other Torah laws! (For example, "don't place a stumbling block before the blind" is applied to ethical business dealings about disclosure.) When I read the two biblical verses above through this lens, a clear take-away emerges. The key difference between the two situations of goring oxen in Exodus 21:28 and 21:29 is that in the second case, the owner clearly should have understood the real and present danger that the ox poses, based on the pattern of the animal's past behavior. In choosing not to take action to mitigate that threat, that owner is negligent and therefore becomes legally liable for the tragedy that ensues. With this broader framework of negligence -- the category of liability based on a failure to intercede to prevent harm -- I started wondering where else the "goring ox" phenomenon shows up in our world or might inform our thinking today.

One example -- yet another American legal case from this week -- is that a few days ago, a Michigan woman was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter because she failed to secure a gun and ammunition at home and neglected to provide her teenage son the mental health support he needed. Her son went on to carry out a school shooting. She is the first parent in the U.S. to be held responsible for a child carrying out a mass school attack. In this schema, she is like the "owner" of the ox: liable and convictable because she could have prevented the harm that happened on her watch but failed to do so.

Returning to the Supreme Court case I had been listening to on the radio, all of this got me thinking about the intense and wacky election year we are headed into. If it turns out that our country elected a leader who is capable of causing immense harm -- whose actions have already resulted in violence both against individuals and against the institutions of our democracy -- we might be able to say that the first time around, the responsibility lay not with the owner (the voters, the public, etc) but with the ox himself. But, now that the pattern of behavior is well established, who would be liable the next time around, for not failing to put the ox back into a position where he is capable of greater harm? Who is the "owner"? (Is it the Supreme Court? Us, the voting public? Congress? The media? All of the above?!?)

To be clear, as a non-profit organization, Kavana is restricted from engaging in political activity on behalf of a campaign or specific party. We can, however, speak from a place of religious values about issues of mutual concern, "encourage people to participate in the electoral process," and so on. With that frame in mind, I am most concerned with our collective desire "to safeguard the ideals and free institutions which are the pride and glory of our country" (this is a quote from Siddur Sim Shalom's "Prayer for Our Country," not a partisan political stance). If human dignity, democracy, fairness, and other ethical principles are our north star as Jewish Americans, this week I ask you to consider: how might the Torah of Parashat Mishpatim motivate us to think and act in this moment? What is our obligation to prevent a habitually-goring ox from inflicting future harm? What actions must we take in order not to be negligent or complicit? 

Let us each do our part. And may the Torah of Mishpatim help draw us ever closer to our aspirational vision of a just society.

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Could Yitro's wisdom help Kimonti, and help us all build a more just society?

Last week, in our Torah reading cycle, we followed the Israelites as they left Egypt, crossed the sea, and celebrated in song on the other side. This week, the Torah's narrative pivots quickly to take up a brand new question: how might a group of people exist -- independent, free, in the wilderness -- in peace? We see, in Parashat Yitro, the first building blocks of a just society.

Yitro (Jethro in English) is, of course, the title character, and also Moses's father-in-law. He shows up at the beginning of Exodus 18, escorting Moses's wife and two children back to him (another interesting story for another time), and immediately spots a problem. Yitro's questions and suggestions contain so many strands of wisdom, that I'd like to pick them apart:

1) First, Yitro observes Moses and immediately asks: "madua atah yoshev l'vadecha" - "why are you sitting alone?" A few verses later, he pronounces: "lo tov ha-davar asher atah oseh," "this thing that you are doing is not good" (see verses 14 and 18 of the chapter linked above). Before he even understands exactly what Moses is doing and why, Yitro can see that the very act of going it alone -- of shouldering a burden or tackling a challenging task solo -- is problematic. (Yitro's critique of Moses here echoes God's observation to Adam in the creation story: "lo tov heyot ha-adam l'vado," "it is not good for a human to be alone" - Gen. 2:18.) We learn from Yitro that it is best to tackle challenges in the company of others, in community.

2) Second, Moses explains to Yitro that what he's observing is that the Israelites are bringing him disputes and questions, and he is sharing God's teachings and laws in order to resolve these disputes. From this conversation, it becomes clear that the realm they are discussing is judicial. From here, we learn that one primary building block of a just society is an effective system of justice. (Later in this week's parasha, we'll arrive at the Ten Commandments, and next week in Mishpatim, dozens of other laws follow. It is significant that even before any of these laws have been stated, the Torah insists that there must be an organized judiciary and ways to adjudicate cases.)

3) Yitro is clear that Moses not only needs support, but needs the right kind of support. He makes the point that it is critical to identify ethical individuals to join Moses in this work: "strong people, God-fearers, people of truth who hate corruption" (see verse 21). If a society is to pursue justice, people must engage in the system for the right reasons and act in good faith. 

Putting all of these points together, the bottom line is that Yitro instructs Moses that the way to make things easier on himself and also to create a better society is by establishing a judicial system that is fundamentally collaborative and ethical. If Moses can do so, Yitro promises, the outcome will be that "all the people will go to their places in peace" ("v'gam kol ha-am ha-zeh al-m'komo yavo v'shalom," verse 23). 

The ancient themes that Yitro addresses are ever-relevant. So many of the top national and international news stories of this very week -- from courtrooms and government chambers across the U.S., to the E.U., to the UN court in the Hague -- have centered precisely around questions about collaboration, justice, and impartiality. The outcome of this year's presidential election may have everything to do with what has happened in -- and is happening / will happen in -- court-rooms.

Sometimes justice feels like a very lofty goal, and far out of our personal control. But, during this time of the year, while the legislative session is underway in Olympia, each and every one of us has the opportunity to participate in trying to build a more just society right here in the State of Washington.

For a number of years now, Kavana has been part of conversations around restorative justice; our participation in these efforts initially grew out of my participation in a clergy group of local Black Christian and Jewish faith leaders. Next Wednesday, Feb 7th, has been designated the third annual Multifaith Coalition for Restorative Justice Advocacy Day. In virtual/Zoom meetings with our legislators, we will focus on issues ranging from solitary confinement to juvenile points to sentence enhancements... all with the ultimate goal of helping to guide our legislators pass legislation so that judges can then adjudicate cases in a way that is maximally fair. 

Many of you probably recall our screening of Gilda Sheppard's beautiful film Since I Been Down and the story of Kimonti Carter that I shared in a Yom Kippur sermon a couple years ago. Kimonti was freed from life in prison in 2022, but now prosecutors want to send him back (click here to read the Seattle Times article about this). One of the bills our coalition is supporting has the potential to help Kimonti and dozens of others; at question is whether it is fair for juveniles to receive mandatory life sentences without the possibility of parole. Your voice can make a difference. 

I love that this multi-faith advocacy event is grounded significantly in the wisdom Yitro shares with Moses. 1) He teaches that it is best to tackle challenging tasks in the company of others, and indeed, this activity is born out of years of relationship-building and coalition work. 2) Yitro points out the centrality of the justice system to our efforts to build a just society; this advocacy day hones in on legislation pertaining to a narrow slice of restorative justice issues because it understands the role the justice system plays is a key lever of power in trying to achieve the much broader goal of racial justice in our society. 3) Yitro insists that Moses choose partners who are ethical individuals and effective leaders; this coalition indeed brings together an awesome array of incredible people, each grounded significantly in their own ethical values and/or religious beliefs. If you're able to get involved, please click here for the full schedule and relevant Zoom links, here to learn more about this year's bills and talking points, and here to register if you'd like to be part of a lobbying team in your district.

May this -- and truly, all the work we undertake together -- ultimately lead our community and our society towards (in the language of Parashat Yitro) "places of peace." 

Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

On Barbie, Miriam, and Seeds of Hope

As you may have seen, Oscar nominations were released earlier this week. On Tuesday night, Jimmy Kimmel, host of this year's awards, quipped that Ryan Gosling being nominated as Ken while Margot Robbie and Greta Gerwig were snubbed for their respective awards "was kind of the plot of the Barbie movie."

Interestingly, this story is not new. This week's Torah portion, Beshalach, famously features the Song of the Sea, Shirat HaYam: a long and ancient poem attributed to Moses, that is so important that it gives this Shabbat the moniker "Shabbat Shirah" ("the Shabbat of Song") and has come to be recited daily as part of the traditional shacharit (morning service) liturgy. Moses's poem is long, too: it takes up almost a whole column of Torah (Exodus 15:1-18), and is easy to recognize in the Torah scroll because of its distinctive brick-like layout. The Song of the Sea is followed by a much shorter song sung by Miriam and the other Israelite women who celebrate together upon safely arriving at the other side of the sea after crossing out of Egypt (Exodus 15:20-21):

Then Miriam the prophet, Aaron’s sister, picked up a hand-drum, and all the women went out after her in dance with hand-drums.And Miriam chanted for them:
Sing to Adonai, for [God] has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver has [God] hurled into the sea.

Many Biblical scholars today believe that Miriam's song was likely the original; somehow she (like Robbie and Gerwig) were snubbed when it came to who gets the credit. Professor Carol Meyers (with whom I had the privilege of studying as an undergrad at Duke) writes: 

"Exodus attributes the poem to Moses, with Miriam's rendition considered an antiphonal response. But a number of considerations support the possibility that, from a tradition historical perspective, the poem was Miriam's before it was Moses'." (Click here to read Meyers's whole article.)

Despite the fact that Miriam's song is shorter and doesn't get picked up in our liturgy for daily recitation, many traditional commentators have noted that Miriam’s leadership style is distinctive. For instance, HaRav Moshe Lichtenstein, co-rosh yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion, cites a Gemara text (Sotah 30b) to show that according to the ancient rabbis, Moses’s song was recited in a call-and-response fashion, evoking “a mode of leadership in which the people were passive.” In contrast, he has the following to say about Miriam’s song: 

“What was special about Miriam? She took initiative and aroused sweeping enthusiasm among the women in response to Moshe’s song. The women go out after Miriam spontaneously; their response is not limited to passive repetition.” (Click here to read his whole piece.) 

Lichtenstein seems to be arguing that there is something about women's leadership that is collaborative, empowering, and can elicit collective action. 

To be clear, I am not a gender essentialist. I grew up on the core “torah” of Free to Be You and Me: that it is good to think expansively beyond the bounds of society’s gender constructs, and we need not limit our paths and life choices based on gender. I love that this week's parashah is paired with a haftarah (prophetic text) that also features a powerful woman - Deborah - and her song (see Judges 5); she is a judge, warrior and poet all at the same time. But I am also incredibly grateful that today, we have come to appreciate gender as a spectrum, not a binary (one of my own kids is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns… I am so glad to live in an age where a wide range of options for gender identity are available to all of us!)

And still, as I look at the patterns here - from Miriam and her song in this week's parasha, to this week's Oscars nominations - I can't help but wonder what our world would be like if the playing field were just a bit more level, and women's voices more easily heard? Patriarchy and sexism go hand-in-hand with so many other forms of oppression and hatred: xenophobia, racism, dehumanization, and more. How might our American political landscape look different -- and healthier -- if so much airtime wasn’t given over to “alpha male” bullying? How would the reality on the ground be different in Israel and Gaza right now if women were part of Netanyahu’s war cabinet, or if a wider range of leadership voices and styles played more prominent roles in both Israeli and Palestinian politics?

At a moment when it’s easy to despair, we have an obligation to search for kernels of hope. And this is precisely the week to do so; yesterday was Tu BiShevat, the "Birthday of the Trees" that comes in the dead of winter. This week, we plant trees and celebrate seeds; we consider the potential for new growth and renewal that lies - always - just around the corner in spring, both literally and metaphorically.

During the Torah service at our Shabbat Morning Minyan this past Saturday, I shared a poem by Rachel Goldberg-Polin (and incidentally, the Hebrew word for "poem" and "song" are one in the same). Her 23-year-old son Hersh is one of the 130+ hostages still being held by Hamas in Gaza; she has emerged over the last couple of months as "the international face of the hostage families" according to this article in The Forward. In December, she composed the following poem and shared it in a speech to the United Nations in Geneva, explaining that she had written it "for a woman in Gaza" who "knows who she is." I invite you to read it now, again or for the first time, slowly, and to take in her words:

"One Tiny Seed" 

by Rachel Goldberg-Polin

There is a lullaby that says your mother will cry a thousand tears before you grow to be a man.I have cried a million tears in the last 67 days.
We all have.
And I know that way over there
there’s another woman
who looks just like me
because we are all so very similar
and she has also been crying.
All those tears, a sea of tears
they all taste the same.
Can we take them
gather them up,
remove the salt
and pour them over our desert of despair
and plant one tiny seed.
A seed wrapped in fear,
trauma, pain,
war and hope
and see what grows?
Could it be
that this woman
so very like me
that she and I could be sitting together in 50 years
laughing without teeth
because we have drunk so much sweet tea together
and now we are so very old
and our faces are creased
like worn-out brown paper bags.
And our sons
have their own grandchildren
and our sons have long lives
One of them without an arm
But who needs two arms anyway?
Is it all a dream?
A fantasy? A prophecy?
One tiny seed.

Like Miriam, whose collaborative leadership emerges in Parashat Beshalach at a moment of trauma, rupture and loss for the Israelites, Rachel Goldberg-Polin's words emerge from this very bleak moment. And yet, even in this dead of winter, she has the courage to give voice to a future in which Israeli and Palestinian mothers might someday drink sweet tea together in their old age, and raise children and grandchildren together in peace. This is kind of prophetic vision we need right now: a picture of what is possible, the promise of hope and of tiny seeds that lie buried, but can be watered even by our collective tears in order that they may grow.

May this Shabbat Shirah -- this Shabbat of both poetry and song -- and Tu BiShevat give us the power to dream and to hope. Ken* yehi ratzon -- so may it be God's will. [*Barbie pun intended! ;-)]

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

From Generation to Generation... and Exciting Baby News from Kavana!

[Yes, you'll find exciting baby news at the bottom of this message!]

This week's Torah portion, Parashat Bo, tells the story of the Israelites preparing to leave Egypt. It chronicles the final three plagues, commands the paschal sacrifice (a lamb per household), and details how blood is to be smeared on the Israelites' doorposts. 

In between these familiar narrative points, the Torah returns over and over again to the theme of generational continuity, to a concern about how future generations -- the descendants of the generation of the Exodus -- will understand that moment. It is a given to the author of the text that future generations will desire to know their history, inquiring about it, and that it will always be obligatory upon parents to offer them answers about the meaning of the tradition. Here are several examples:

• “You shall observe this as an institution for all time, for you and for your descendants. And when you enter the land that Adonai will give you, as promised, you shall observe this rite. And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this rite?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to Adonai, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when smiting the Egyptians, but saved our houses.’" (Exodus 12:24-27)

• "And you shall explain to your child on that day, ‘It is because of what Adonai did for me when I went free from Egypt.’" (Exodus 13:8)

• "And when, in time to come, a child of yours asks you, saying, ‘What does this mean?’ you shall reply, ‘It was with a mighty hand that Adonai brought us out from Egypt, the house of bondage." (Exodus 13:14)

I have written about these lines before. They are famous in that they give rise to the tradition of the Four Children at the seder, each of whom the parent is obligated to instruct differently, according to the child's own inclinations and ability to take in information.

This year, as I return to the text of Parashat Bo, the theme of generational continuity -- how we pass on what it means to be part of the Jewish people from parents to children, and how each subsequent generation has to seek and find its own answers to these essential identity questions -- is one that feels big and relevant in some new ways. 

So many conversations with members of this community in the 100+ days since Oct 7th have revolved around what it means to be Jewish in this moment. How do we understand and contextualize the horrific events that have transpired and are still unfolding in Israel/Palestine? What are their implications for our perceptions and self-understanding about who we are as Jews? When a child comes to us, asking (in the words of the parasha) "What does all this mean?," how will we answer and help the next generation to make sense of this moment?

Ezra Klein began one episode of his podcast with a summary of something I've been thinking lots about over these months, and that I'm sure many of us feel and understand intuitively: that generational patterns necessarily inform how we see the world, which in turn leads us to make sense of our present moment in Jewish history in very different ways. Here's a transcript of this part of his conversation, which feels like helpful context to me (and if you prefer to hear it in his own voice, I invite you to click here and listen to the first 7 minutes or so of this episode).

"Something we're seeing in the politics in America around Israel right now, I think it reflects three generations with very different lived experiences of what Israel is. 

You've got older Americans - say, Joe Biden - who saw Israel as the haven for the Jews, and who also saw Israel when it was weak and small, when it really could've been wiped off the map by its neighbors. They have a lived sense of Israel's impossibility and its vulnerability, and the dangers of the neighborhood which it's in. Their views of Israel formed around the Israel of the Six Day War in 1967, when its neighbors massed to try to strangle Israel when it was young, or the Yom Kippur War in 1973, where they surprise-attacked Israel fifty years ago. 

Then there's the next generation -- my generation, I think -- and I think of us as this straddle generation. We only ever knew a strong Israel, an Israel that was undoubtedly the strongest country in the region, a nuclear Israel, an Israel backed by America's unwavering military and political support. That wasn't always true, at least not to the extent now. In his great book, The Much Too Promised Land, Aaron David Miller points out that before the Yom Kippur War in 1973, Israel ranked 24th in Foreign Aid from the US. Within a few years of that war, it ranked 1st, as it typically has since. We also knew an Israel that was an occupying force, a country that could and did impose its will on Palestinians. And I don't want to be euphemistic about this: an Israel in which Palestinians were an oppressed class, where their lives and security and freedom were worth less. But we also knew an Israel that had a strong peace movement, where the moral horror of that occupation was widely recognized, we knew an Israel where the leaders were trying, imperfectly, but seriously and continuously, to become something better, to become something different, to become, in the eyes of the world, what Israel was in its own eyes: a Jewish state, but a humane and moral one. And then, as Yossi Klein Halevi described on the show recently, that peace movement collapsed. The why of this is no mystery: the second intifada, the endless suicide bombings were a trauma Israel still has not recovered from. And they posed a horrible question, to which the left, both in Israel and in America, had no real answer then or now. 

If your story of all this is simplistic, if it is just that Israel wanted this, it is wrong. But, what happened then is Israel moved right, and further right, and further right. Extremists, once on the margin of Israeli politics and society, became cabinet ministers and coalition members; the settlers in the West Bank ran wild, functionally annexing more and more territory, sometimes violently, territory that was meant to be returned to Palestinians, and doing so with the backing of the Israeli state, doing so in a way that made a two state solution look less and less possible. Israel withdrew from Gaza, and when Hamas took control, they blockaded Gaza, leaving Gazans to misery, to poverty. Israel stopped trying to become something other than an occupier nation, it became deeply illiberal, it settled into a strategy of security through subjugation, and many in its government openly desired expansion through expulsion.

And so now you have this generation, the one coming of age now, the one that has only known this Israel, Netanyahu's Israel, Ben Gvir's Israel. I've been thinking a lot about the panic in the Jewish community, what gets short-handed as antisemitism on campus -- and there is antisemitism on campus, and on the left, and on the right -- always has been. But to read only the most antisemitic signs in a rally, to hear only the antisemitic chants, can also obscure what else is happening there. If it's just antisemitism, then at least it is simple: they just hate the Jews, they hate us, they always have, they always will. But a lot of what is happening at these rallies is not just antisemitism. A lot of it is a generation that has only known Israel as a strong nation oppressing a weak people. They never knew a weak Israel. They never knew an Israel whose leaders sought peace, showed up to negotiate deals, who wanted something better. And I am not unsympathetic to the Israeli narrative here; I believe large parts of it...

There was this Pew study in 2022 that I find really telling. It found that 69% of Americans over age 65 had a favorable view of Israel. But among Americans between ages 18 and 29, young Americans, 56% had an unfavorable view. As it happens, American politics is dominated right now by people over 65. But it won't be forever..."

Parashat Bo reminds us that collectively, we have a role as a link in a generational chain of transmission of our sacred story of who we are and where we've been. And I find Klein's generational lens to be a very helpful one for understanding what our multi-generational Jewish community is seeing and feeling right now, in this moment. Today, we are equally wrestling to make sense of the messages we have received from previous generations, and our own life experiences, and the answers that we hope to convey to the next generation. This is true when we think about how we share our most foundational stories (like the story of the Exodus, and our ancient past), and also when we consider the context of current event from our recent past, the history of the Jewish people over the last century. It behooves us to reflect on all of this.

And, of course, this week's parasha is not the only place we learn of how seriously Judaism takes this notion of conveyance of values, story, and identity from one generation to the next. Every time we gather for prayer, we recite this in the words of Shema and V'ahavta (Deut. 6:6-7): "And these words which I command you on this day shall be upon your heart. You shall teach them to your children..." We also sing "L'dor va'Dor" - of our obligation to tell our sacred story and our relationship with God "from generation to generation."

The Talmud contains a baraita, a teaching (Kiddushin 29a:10), that deals with the question of parental obligations. It reads: 

"A father is obligated with regard to his son to circumcise him, and to redeem him (if he is a firstborn), and to teach him Torah, and to marry him to a woman, and to teach him a trade. And some say: also to teach him to swim." 

Admittedly, we might word a statement like this a little differently today (or at very least, our assumptions about gender and sexuality might change the framing here), but the basic ideas conveyed through this text still feels incredibly relevant to me. That is, that it's the obligation of Jewish parents to connect their children with Jewish identity through ritual and learning, to help them find love and learn practical life skills, and to them to swim... both physically (safety, first and foremost) and also metaphorically (how to survive and keep your head above water in this difficult world).

Perhaps this theme of generational transmission -- of parents and children, of the lessons that each of us imbibes and also conveys as we move through life -- has especially jumped out at me this week because, over the last few weeks, a number of Kavana partners have lost their parents. My heart especially goes out to Sharon, Craig, Sprout, and Sarah, for whom these losses are particularly fresh. I hope that as you think about the chain of transmission, naming the lessons you each inherited from your parents, will be a way of cementing their memories as a source of blessing in your lives!

And, with the same theme swirling as backdrop, I'm especially excited to be able to share the wonderful news that this week, our community welcomed a new baby into the world.  Mazel tov to our beloved Rabbi Jay LeVine and Rabbi Laura Rumpf on the arrival of their new little one this week!! They write:

"We're delighted to welcome baby girl Nava Rae LeVine, born Tuesday, January 16th. Parents, baby and big brother are healthy and excited. We'll have a welcome ritual for her virtually on the evening of February 3rd, details and zoom link to come!"

Rabbi Jay and Laura are already wonderful parents to Ami, and now -- with the arrival of another child -- their capacity to give, to teach, to love, to instruct and to answer questions only grows. 

I learned recently that babies born now -- as well as children born since 2010 -- are part of a new generation: Gen Alpha. Of course, that newest generation's identity is still being molded, and we will have to wait a few years to learn how they will make sense of the world, of their history and of contemporary realities, how they will come to view Israel and Judaism, what questions they will ask of their parents, and how the answers that we give them will land. Something to look forward to, for sure!

This Shabbat, as Jews everywhere read Parashat Bo, I invite you to spend some time reflecting on the ways in which you are a link in the chain of generational transmission. What Jewish identity did you inherit -- core beliefs and values, stories, answers to questions? How is your identity different from that of your parents' generation? What, if anything, is shifting for you in this particular moment? What do you want to be sure that the next generation will hear you convey and teach about "what all of this means"?

Wishing a mazel tov to Rabbis Jay and Laura; a life of Torah (learning), chuppah (love), and ma'asim tovim (good deeds) to their new little one; and a Shabbat shalom to each of you,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Revisiting Ritual

Today is Friday, January 12th. It is also the 98th day of the Israel-Hamas War, which means nearly 100 days of captivity for some 130 hostages, 100 days of living in an altered war-time reality for Israelis, and the same number of days of mass displacement, violence and destruction for Palestinians in Gaza. Here in America, we're moving into a long weekend of reflecting on the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and also kicking off our 2024 presidential election season with the Iowa Caucuses this Monday. On the Hebrew calendar, we have just entered Sh'vat, the month that reminds us that while it may feel like winter outside, spring -- and the promise it brings of rebirth and renewal -- lies just around the corner. If all of this feels like a lot to hold -- that this moment is sending us in a whole lot of emotional directions -- that's because it is. Thankfully, we have Torah and ritual to ground us. 

This week, we - together with Jewish communities everywhere - read the second Torah portion of the book of Exodus: Parashat Vaera, Exodus 6:2-9:35. Its text launches us into the famous showdown between Pharaoh and Moses/God, and recounts the first seven of the Ten Plagues brought upon the Egyptians: 

• dam - blood

• tz'fardea - frogs

• kinim - lice

• arov - swarms (of either wild animals or insects)

• dever - cattle disease

• sh'chin - boils

• barad - hail

If you're like me, you may find it hard to read this list of plagues without instinctively taking a finger and beginning to pantomime the action we do at the Passover Seder, of removing wine from our cup, drop by drop, while reciting each of these words. Growing up, this was a memorable feature of every seder I attended. I remember paying close attention to the fact that some seder guests used their pinky fingers, while others used their index finger or even a spoon to remove the drops of wine. While techniques varied, the explanation I always heard for this ritual -- some version of which was written in each haggadah or explained by every seder leader -- was consistent: that by spilling drops of wine from our cup, we express that our own joy is diminished by the suffering of the Egyptians. (Perhaps you were taught similarly?) This has always struck me as such a beautiful sentiment: that even as we recall our own suffering and oppression, we are obligated to make space to empathize with others as well.

As I re-read Parashat Vaera this week, I kept thinking about this seder tradition and decided to do a little digging into its origins. I'll admit that I was surprised by what I found! Apparently, this familiar explanation is a modern one. While the core idea it expresses appears in multiple ancient midrashim as well, this interpretation of the wine-spilling/plague-recitation ritual is attributed alternately to two German Jewish scholars: Rabbi Dr. Eduard Baneth (d. 1930) and Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (d. 1888). It seems to have really taken off in the 1940's and later, become particularly ubiquitous in American/ English-language haggadot. Truly, I had no idea! (In case you're interested in geeking out a bit on the historical background of this ritual, here are two great sources I found online: a well-footnoted article by Dr. Rabbi Zvi Ron and a scholarly responsum by Rabbi Prof. David Golinkin of the Schechter Institutes.)

So, it turns out that the idea of spilling wine as an expression of empathy is relatively new; however, the tradition of removing drops of wine while recounting the plagues has been around for quite a while. Both of the scholars cited above point to a Passover sermon of Rabbi Eleazar of Worms (~1176-1238) as the earliest known reference to this custom. His explanation for the spilling of wine drops, though, is quite different; Rabbi Eleazar of Worms says that we do this "as if to say: it will not harm us." (Note that he says nothing about the Egyptians' suffering; rather, this feels like a possibly superstitious(?) expression of hope that the plagues not cause us any harm.) Similarly, other medieval rabbis in Ashkenaz seem to have sprinkled wine outside of their cups as well, explaining the custom as a way of indicating "that we should be saved from these plagues" and "may they come upon our enemies" [but not upon us]. The experience of Jews in medieval Europe was inconsistent, with periods of flourishing punctuated by periods of terrifying antisemitic violence. I can only imagine that it would have been powerful to sit at a seder table in the 12th or 13th century and spill drops of wine as a kind of prayer for Jewish safety and for vengeance upon those who might seek to do Jews harm. 

I'm intrigued that the ritual we know so well today -- of recounting the plagues that appear in this week's parasha as we spill drops of wine from our cups -- has been around for nearly a thousand years, even while the explanation for this custom has been a moving target. I especially love the idea that, with the help of scholars who have dug through manuscripts, we now know that our ritual is multi-valent. Individuals can sit around a Passover seder table together, sticking their fingers into their cups while reading the Ten Plagues, not because doing so means only one thing, but precisely because it has meant so many different things at different points in Jewish history. 

As we read the story of the plagues this Shabbat and think about our enslaved Israelite ancestors and also of the Egyptians, against the backdrop of all that's swirling in our own moment, perhaps we might give ourselves permission to spill some drops of wine and mean more than one thing by it. 

Shabbat Shalom, and wishing you meaning(s) in all the rituals of the day,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Strange Names

With the beginning of the second book of Torah, Shemot (Exodus), Moses enters the story. While he will be centrally important to the event of exodus, leading the Israelite slaves away from oppression in Egypt, the shemot or “names” in his life are also intriguing. 

In chapter two, Moses is born into mysterious circumstances. None of his family members are named (except that they are from the tribe of Levi), he is hidden for three months to evade Pharaoh’s decree of death to male Israelite children, then he is set adrift on the river in a little ark of a basket. Pharoah’s daughter, also not named, finds him and compassionately adopts him. 

Finally, she names him: Moshe, “because I drew him (mishitihi) out of the water” (Exodus 2:10). But grammatically, Moshe doesn’t mean “drawn out”, it means “one who draws out”. In being given this Egyptian name, its Hebrew resonance foreshadows his role in drawing the Israelites out of Egypt. The medieval commentator Sforno generalizes his role as “someone who saves and draws out others from their troubles (mitzarah, similar in sound to mitzrayim, “Egypt”). 

Before Moses returns to save the Israelites however, he flees from Pharaoh and finds a refuge and a family among the people of Midian. He names his firstborn son Gershom, saying “I was a stranger (ger) in a foreign land” (Exodus 2:22). Apparently, he means to say he was a ger sham - a stranger there. But where exactly is “there”? 

• Is it his current residence Midian - where he was not born (Sforno)? 

• Or does it reflect a sense of involuntary alienation, that he is a refugee fleeing for his life (HaKtav v’HaKabbalah)? 

• Or perhaps even more poignantly, that he was fleeing because a fellow Israelite had slandered him and incited Pharaoh against him (Malbim)? 

• Malbim insists that he never lost his love for his people, which seems true given how the rest of the story unfolds, but nevertheless perhaps Moses felt an existential strangeness, not feeling fully at home among the Israelites, among the Egyptians, nor among the Midianites. Contemporary scholar Erica Brown writes: “Moses had no people, no tribe, no nation to call his own. Helper to all, he became friend to none.”

In naming his own first child, Moses exposes his tenuous connectedness to anyone at all.  The one who draws others out of trouble (helper to all) felt no clear and simple pull to belonging. 

The 18th century Moroccan sage Or HaChaim suggests there might be a deeper purpose to Moses’ feeling of isolation. “The words may be understood along the lines of Psalms 119:19, ‘I am a stranger on earth.’ Righteous people in this world are merely strangers, they have no permanent abode.” 

The righteous are strangers on earth… Rabbi Rachel suggested to me that we might recognize in this teaching the way that those pursuing justice and righteousness often find themselves marginalized, sticking out uncomfortably from the multitudes who tend to the status quo.

But I also wonder if “being a stranger” might be a spiritual practice in its own right. Glancing at the world with strange eyes defamiliarizes our surroundings, helps us see marvels and possibilities where habit insisted we no longer needed to bother looking. In our normal mode of being, we only notice extraordinary events. 

The French writer George Perec once described our inclination: “The daily newspapers talk of everything except the daily. The papers annoy me, they teach me nothing. What they recount doesn’t concern me, doesn’t ask me questions and doesn’t answer the questions I ask or would like to ask. What’s really going on, what we’re experiencing, the rest, all the rest, where is it? How should we take account of, question, describe what happens every day and recurs everyday: the banal, the quotidian, the obvious, the common, the ordinary, the infra-ordinary, the background noise, the habitual?”

For Perec, the infra-ordinary realm is one that we only see when we are out of our habit / habitat. When we are strangers in a foreign land, or manage to see our own neighborhoods with new eyes. And somehow, that ability to see the tiny, almost trivial, aspects of a place leads one to righteousness. Perhaps it is convenient to habituate ourselves so that injustice remains invisible…

Moses, though, has persistent stranger consciousness. The root of his righteousness lies in being unable to look away from things that others have trained themselves not to see. I think the significance of the burning bush points to the infra-ordinary, not the extraordinary. How long must you look to realize that the bush is not actually burning up, simply aflame? At that moment, when God sees that Moses pays attention to what others might pass by, God calls Moses into his mission of drawing the people out of Egypt.

Rabbi Jan LeVine

The Twelve Tribes of Kavana

In this week of endings, we say goodbye to both the first book of the Torah and to calendar year 2023.  

As Bereishit/Genesis draws to a close in this week's Torah portion, Vayechi, Jacob knows that he is nearing the end of his life. He clarifies his wishes for his own burial (“If I have found favor in your eyes, then swear to me that you will not bury me in Egypt, but with my fathers in Canaan”), and draws his grandchildren -- Joseph's two sons, Ephraim and Manassah -- near to offer them blessings. But then, Jacob does something unexpected.

Up to this point, we've seen a regular pattern emerge in Genesis: sibling rivalry and parental favoritism feature repeatedly, after which the narrative only follows a single branch of the family tree from one generation to the next. This pattern held true for Abraham's sons (following Isaac over Ishmael) and for Isaac's sons (following Jacob over Esau). But now, in the wake of a complicated family drama about Jacob's twelve sons, he gathers all twelve of them around him to share his final blessings/prophecies with them all:

"And Jacob called his sons and said, “Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come. Assemble and hearken, O sons of Jacob; Hearken to Israel your father." (Genesis 49:1-2).

The two verbs I've bolded in the quote above are the key to what's happening here: he'asfu (come together, root: alef-samech-pey, meaning to gather), and hi'kavtzu (assemble, root: kuf-bet-tzadee, meaning to assemble as in k'vutzah/group or kibbutz). We know that these twelve sons are different as can be and they haven't exactly gotten along... in fact, jealousy and resentment have led to near-death and abandonment. Jacob's "blessings" to each of them focus on both the brother's past behavior and the future of the tribe-to-be, leaning into negative prophecies as much as positive ones. 

The core point, though, is that Jacob draws his motley crew together as he speaks, telling them that they must hearken/listen ("shema") as a unit. By the end of his speech (Genesis 49:28), he is able to declare, "kol eileh shivtei yisrael shneim asar" "All these were the tribes of Israel, twelve in number." From here on out, they will be viewed as a collective unit, and the Torah's narrative will follow all twelve of these brothers/tribes together. Together, they will experience the bitterness of slavery, emerge to freedom, stand at Sinai, and strive to build a holy community.

Jacob's strategy -- of trying to actively forge a new collective unit by assembling the brothers -- feels helpful and relevant to me as we try to make sense of the world around us now and understand what the year 2023 has meant for our community, for the Jewish people, and for the world.  

Although we're still very much inside an unfolding story, we can already see that we are living through a watershed moment in Jewish history, and that 2023 will be a year cited by historians as a turning point. That said, October 7th and every day since have been so complex and multi-faceted -- there are so many aspects to what's happening -- that it can be hard to grasp the whole. Trying to make sense of the big picture while living through the day-to-day, each with our own perspective and our own sources of information, reminds me of poem by Rumi, a 13th century Sufi (Islamic mystic) philosopher and poet:

Elephant in the Dark

Some Hindus have an elephant to show.

No one here has ever seen an elephant. 

They bring it at night to a dark room.

One by one, we go in the dark and come out

saying how we experience the animal.

One of us happens to touch the trunk.

"A water-pipe kind of creature."

Another, the ear. "A very strong, always moving

back and forth, fan-animal."

Another, the leg. "I find it still,

like a column on a temple."

Another touches the curved back.

"A leathery throne."

Another, the cleverest, feels the tusk.

"A rounded sword made of porcelain."

He's proud of his description.

Each of us touches one place

and understands the whole in that way.

The palm and the fingers feeling in the dark are

how the senses explore the reality of the elephant.

If each of us held a candle there, 

and if we went in together,

we could see it."

As with Jacob’s sons, Rumi describes that a big picture -- a complete picture -- can only emerge when we "go in together" and "hold a candle there." This is exactly what our Kavana community will strive to do as we move forward together into the new year of 2024. 

Kavana was created, way back in 2006, by a small group of individuals who believed that we could live more meaningful lives and better make sense of the world around us by choosing, intentionally, to be in community with one another. Kavana has always welcomed individuals and households with a wide range of Jewish beliefs and practices, with spiritual yearning and with intellectual curiosity. Over the years, our community has grown: we have become increasingly multi-generational, we now live across broader geography, and we certainly encompass a wider spectrum of beliefs and perspectives on politics, particularly where Israel is concerned. As with the b'nai yisrael, sameness isn't an option and tensions and differences must be acknowledged as our community grows, and yet, we are still in it together. 

As we move into the secular new year of 2024, the Kavana community will actively seek out more opportunities for real conversations about what it means to be Jewish and to be human at this challenging moment in history. We will welcome a multiplicity of voices, and try to make Kavana the kind of model place where people can consciously come to be enriched and stretched by one another, a place where together, we can assemble our perspectives in order to see a whole picture emerge. 

Doing so may be no simpler for us today than it was when Jacob assembled his twelve sons; however, it is possible. The endings we encounter this week each represent a new beginning as well, as we embark on a new book of the Torah and a new calendar year. It is holy work, to "come together" and "assemble" in this way, to create a holistic tapestry out of our multiplicity of voices, experiences, perspectives, personalities, interests and skills. 

With gratitude to be part of this collective project with each and every one of you, and wishing you a smooth entry into 2024,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Being a Mensch

The sage Hillel once taught, “In a place where there are no anashim, strive to be an ish” (Pirkei Avot 2:5). Although the simple meaning of ish (plural anashim) appears to be “man”, in many contexts it reads more like what we mean when we use the Yiddish equivalent, a mensch. In one sense, this teaching insists that we should be good people with character and integrity, even if we are surrounded by hypocritical, self-serving, disingenuous, and downright awful detriments to the category “human”. In other words, “when they go low, we go high” (Michelle Obama). That on its own is a deep and often difficult spiritual practice.

There’s another application of Hillel’s teaching, though, that I also find valuable. Elsewhere in the Talmud, two other sages expand on the same concept. Echoing Hillel, Bar Kappara teaches, “where there is no gvar (Aramaic equivalent of ish), there be a gvar. Abaye said: Infer from this that where there [already] is a gvar, there don’t be a gvar!” (Talmud Bavli, Berakhot 63a).

Now obviously, there is no maximum quota of menschen in a room - we need all the good, decent people we can find! So instead, Bar Kappara and Abaye seem to be identifying the role of the gvar as filling a singular necessity. In other words, you don’t need too many cooks in the kitchen. If someone is already doing the job, find a different niche in which to make your contribution. 

As we read the stories of the Jewish matriarchs and patriarchs, the early generations are characterized by divergence and exclusion. Abraham leaves his family of origin, then ultimately banishes his son Ishmael in favor of Isaac. Sarah finds she cannot tolerate Hagar’s presence as a competitive matriarch either. There is one favored role, and no other options within the family structure that the narrative centers. Isaac and Rebekah too reject Esau in favor of Jacob. 

But Jacob starts a family that for all its tensions, holds a glimmer of hope that divergence won’t lead to exclusion, but that diversity can be held together within the family structure. Rachel, Leah, Bilhah, and Zilpah (the four women who bring to life the twelve tribal ancestors) hold uneasy and difficult relationships to each other, but nevertheless claim their own contributions to the larger whole. The final saga of Genesis follows the enmity between the twelve brothers, as Joseph dreams of an elevated and favored role. But this week, the drama resolves into reconciliation, as Joseph understands his role as only being possible through how the brothers acted. In effect, God had them working as a team, even if they thought they hated each other. The brothers cautiously lean into their own strengths and passions, and ultimately this full ecosystem of different roles and responsibilities creates the foundation for what will become am yisrael, the nation of Israel. 

Judah in particular finally realizes that an ish / gvar is lacking in advocating for his brother Benjamin to Joseph, who is still disguised as a powerful Egyptian. The parashah opens: “Then Judah approached [Joseph], and said…” (Genesis 44:18). A midrash comments on the inner dynamics of “approach” with an extraordinary parable:

“Then Judah approached [Joseph]” (Genesis 44:18). It is written, “Counsel is like deep waters in the heart of a person, and a person of understanding will draw them forth” (Proverbs 20:5). [A parable] to a deep well filled with cold [water] - its water was cool and good, but no creature was able to drink from it. Then someone came and tied a rope to a rope and a string to a string and a cord to a cord, and drew from [the well] and drank. Everyone started drawing from it and drinking. Similarly, Judah did not cease responding to Joseph point by point until he learned what was in his heart. (Bereishit Rabbah 93:4)

Judah’s approach doesn’t just open up an authentic and deep connection to Joseph, according to the image of the well that no one could access. In establishing the connection, Judah makes it possible for future connection to keep happening with everyone. He is, in a sense, the only one who could have opened Joseph’s heart to forgiveness and reconciliation. But once he does, he enables that possibility for everyone else as well. Judah is the ish who in acting where there was no other ish broadens the imagination, enables widespread access and inclusion, and shifts the paradigm altogether. Once he does that, an ish isn’t required anymore for this particular situation.

But there are always places of problem where an ish is needed, to see something differently, to solve something unexpectedly, to imagine radical alternatives. 

To be a poet, artist, engineer, attentive listener, dreamer, tinkerer, yourself.

A related midrash (Song of Songs Rabbah 1:1:8) expands on the theme:

1. A castle where people kept getting lost, until one person tied a string along the right path. Then everyone could find their way.

2. A thicket of reeds that no one could enter, until someone cut them down with a scythe. (The environmental ethics of this are another matter.)

3. A large basket filled with good stuff, but no handle. Someone needed to invent the handle!

4. A large jug with boiling water, but no handle. (Seems like the previous inventor could have stuck around a bit longer…)

All of these examples are understood by the midrash to be analogies for how King Solomon taught Torah. He discovered some new way to use or access Jewish wisdom, which opened the Torah for everyone who followed. 

Each analogy addresses either access to a place (to a pit, castle, thicket of reeds) or a source of nourishment (water, food). Where do you need to go in the coming year? What nourishment will you seek? And how might you fill your cup in a way that creates overflowing possibility for others as well? In a world where there are not enough anashim - people solving problems and making the world better for everyone - I am grateful to be in community with so many anashim - each one of you a mensch in a totally unique way. 

Shabbat shalom!

Igniting Compassion

Rabbinic tradition has it that we read a bit of our sacred story, the Torah, every week. But it would be too easy to have one text to mull over - the rabbis add in the Haftarah, a companion excerpt from the Nevi’im, the historical and prophetic books that follow the Torah in the Hebrew Bible. These excerpts dance around the Torah portion, sometimes developing themes or highlighting resonance, other times offering intriguing counterpoint, and generally establishing a dynamic interpretive energy when we look closely at both Torah and Haftarah together. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Miketz, Pharaoh dreams troubling dreams and Joseph interprets them. Through his wisdom and discernment he is elevated to second-most-powerful person in Egypt. 

The Haftarah associated with Miketz tells the famous story of King Solomon and the baby claimed by two women (1 Kings 3:15-4:1). Solomon too has just awakened from a prophetic dream, and he too then acts with wisdom and discernment. 

Yet the parallel between these two stories that startled me this year comes from a shared phrase. Upon seeing his brother Benjamin, Joseph’s “compassion ignited” - nichmeru rachamav (Genesis 43:30). And the true mother of the baby (unlike the other woman) also had her compassion ignited - nichmeru rachameha (1 Kings 3:26). In both stories, this suddenly warming and tender compassion is the narrative pivot where truth and justice begin to emerge. 

In both stories, we have characters – Joseph and Solomon, respectively – who, through their wisdom, conduct a compassion test that results in justice. For Joseph, he seeks to know if the brothers who cruelly planned to kill or sell him off had grown in their capacity to honor and care for the youngest brother, Benjamin. They pass the test, and finally we have the first generation of siblings who see themselves as more united than divergent. Strangely though, Joseph is the one who experiences compassion - he is able to forgive his brothers and invite them into wholeness once he recognizes how they have grown from the emotional burden they have carried since treating him so harshly. 

For Solomon, he acts with apparent callousness in order to elicit compassion from the true mother of the baby. When her compassion ignites, the authenticity of her claim stands revealed. The key element here is that whatever it means for compassion to ignite, it isn’t something that can be planned or prepared for or play-acted. It seems to indicate a spontaneous emotional reaction to a deeply felt connection to another being. 

Strikingly, this verb appears in yet one more place in the Hebrew Bible in a similar phrase, this time referring to God. “How can I give you up, O Ephraim? How surrender you, O Israel? How can I make you like Admah, render you like Zeboiim? I have had a change of heart, all My comfort is ignited (nichmeru nichumai)” (Hoshea 11:8). In this poetic prophecy, God contemplates anger at the people’s idolatry, but ultimately rejects utter destruction (Admah and Zeboiim are deep-cut references to cities destroyed alongside Sodom and Gomorrah). Instead, God passes God’s own compassion test, in a sudden fit of desire-to-give-comfort. 

In this season of war, many of us are experiencing a time of inner tension and tensions within our American Jewish communities. (Psychologist Richard S. Stern mentions in a recent article that he just ran a workshop titled: How to Connect with Other Jews, Even When They Are Wrong and Their Views Will Lead to Catastrophe.) I believe we all want truth and justice to win out, even if we assess the situation differently, and I believe we yearn for a sense of solidarity, both with the Jewish people and with those who largely share progressive values. These biblical stories encode comforting compassion as the key to discovering scenarios where our deepest yearnings are realized. Compassion is at the core of wisdom.

But, how do we ignite our compassion? How do we get better at being spontaneously compassionate? One Buddhist teacher once said, “Enlightenment is a happy accident. We can’t force ourselves to be enlightened, but mindfulness can make us more accident-prone.” Here’s one great resource for ways to be more accident-prone. 

As we move out of Chanukkah, you might imagine little candles inside of those you care about, and when you open your heart to them their flame ignites your feeling of care. Imagine that even as we put the chanukiyah away for the year, we keep adding a candle every single night, another person and another person and another personin an ever-expanding glow of warmth. Through the repeated practice of igniting compassion, we have the capacity to rebuild and rededicate this world to peace. 

Shabbat shalom!

In the Window or on the Table?: Concealing and Revealing

In the lobby of a local community center last weekend, a group of Kavana parents -- participants in our Hanukkah session of Prep & Practice -- sat in a circle and dug into a meaty and timely conversation about Jewish identity. The topic at hand was how each of our families is choosing to celebrate Hanukkah this year... and specifically, how public we should be about our Judaism in this moment.

The specific decisions the group discussed -- for example, whether to light our menorahs in the window or on a table, to what extent we each choose to decorate the outside of our homes for the holiday, and whether/how we'll each share our holiday with non-Jewish friends and neighbors --  are all manifestations of a larger question. As members of a religious minority group in America, most of us have a choice about how "out" to be as Jews, and we are accustomed to shifting our own behavior and language subtly, sometimes even subconsciously, as we move from one context to the next ("code-switching"). This season, the context feels different to many of us; in our post-October 7th world, these questions about how we manage our public-facing Jewish identity -- that is, when we conceal and when we reveal who we really are -- are weighing more heavily on us. [As an aside, I'll note that it is jarring and scary that we're feeling the pinch of antisemitism enough to even spark such thoughts and conversations, and at the same time, we are fortunate that, for most of us, these questions feel new or more acute than ever before in our lifetimes. But all of that is probably a topic for another week...]

Concealing and revealing of identity is a theme that features prominently in this week's Torah portion as well. In Parashat Vayeshev, we embark on the Torah's telling of the Joseph story. This story begins with high drama: Joseph's brothers are jealous of and annoyed by him; they throw him into a pit, sell him into slavery, and he ends up in Egypt. There, after a stint in prison, he ultimately ascends to become the second in command, Pharaoh's right-hand man. This is an astounding position of authority for a non-Egyptian to attain, and the plot of the Joseph story (which will continue to unfold over the coming few weeks) revolves around the fact that Joseph conceals his true identity to those around him such that, later, even his own brothers believe him to be an Egyptian rather than an Israelite and fail to recognize who he really is.

As if one example weren't enough and the Torah needs to make this theme super obvious, Parashat Vayeshev also detours from Joseph's story for a chapter to tell the tale of the heroine Tamar. When her husband dies, she should be entitled to remarry within the family in order to conceive offspring within this tribal line. But when her father-in-law Judah doesn't fulfill this obligation in this regard, Tamar decides to take matters into her own hands, concealing her own identity and dressing as a prostitute, in order to become pregnant through Judah himself (see Gen. 38). 

In our society today, most of us think of healthy communities as being those in which individuals can express their true identities. We celebrate "Coming Out Day," send our kids to schools that espouse the value of diversity, and help draft corporate policies around equitable hiring (just to name a few examples of what this looks like in the year 2023). Indeed, our ancient Jewish texts support this notion. The Hanukkah story, at face value, seems that it would encourage us to be brave and forceful -- like the Maccabees -- in asserting who we are and what we believe in. Similarly, both the Joseph narrative and Tamar's tale ultimately end in big identity reveals. Being able to be open and unabashed in revealing one's true identity represents wholeness and completion; this is how things should be.

However, at the same time, Jewish tradition encodes a kind of pragmatism that gives us permission to make decisions that feel like safe ones. Last weekend with the Prep & Practice parents' group, I shared a short text from the Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21b, which reads: 

The Sages taught: It is a mitzvah to place the Hanukkah lamp at the entrance to one’s house on the outside, so that all can see it. Those who live upstairs place it at the window adjacent to the public domain. And in a time of danger, they can place it on the table and that is sufficient to fulfill the obligation.

It's clear in this text that the ideal is to be open and public about one's identity. Indeed, pirsum ha-nes, "publicizing the miracle," is a core mitzvah of the holiday of Hanukkah, and if you have the opportunity to light your menorah facing out towards the street or the public square, that is the best way to do so. 

But as we discussed this text on Sunday, many in our learning circle found it comforting to know that Jewish tradition also acknowledges that there are times when it's okay to let go of that ideal. This reminder -- that there have been times of danger in our Jewish past, that what we're experiencing right now is not without precedent, and that our tradition already contains the mechanisms for dealing with these realities -- felt like a source of solace to our group. We talked about the fact that many of us are here only because we had ancestors who knew when to keep their heads down or to go into hiding, when to conceal their Jewish identities in ways both small or large. Parashat Vayeshev underscores this notion, because the Torah's plot only moves forward by virtue of our heroes' concealment. Had Tamar not gone undercover, she never would have given birth to Judah's descendants Perez and Zerach. And, had Joseph not hidden his identity and become the vizier of Egypt under the Egyptian name Zaphnath-Paaneah, his brothers might never have survived the famine in the land of Canaan and gone on to become the Israelite nation. 

The bottom line, then, is that our tradition contains a sacred interplay between concealing and revealing. This comes through in the stories of Joseph and Tamar, and also in our traditions about lighting the menorah. We aspire to live in a world in which we can make our full selves and our full identities manifest in all times and all settings, and yet we acknowledge that we live in a real world which is imperfect... so sometimes we need to do whatever we need to do in order to feel safe. We are granted the permission to use our own discretion in deciding when to conceal or and when to reveal our identity.

In this year in particular, I hope you will hear this message as a validating one. I imagine that many of us will choose to light our menorahs in the window -- in the place where our small Hanukkah lights can shine most brightly, lighting up the darkness of night. Doing so may feel like a micro-act of strength and defiance... a little taste of Maccabbean heroism that is empowering and perfect for our moment! For others, the Talmud's permission to light the menorah on the table -- especially taken together with the knowledge that Joseph and Tamar both conceal their true selves for the purpose of advancing our people's plot line -- may be reassuring in this year. Even if concealing doesn't feel great, sometimes it's what we need to do, and the mitzvah absolutely still "counts" when done in this way.

In addition, I hope that these themes will continue to resonate in a variety of ways, throughout Hanukkah and beyond. For example, many Kavana partners have spoken to me in recent weeks about the challenges of managing personal relationships with friends, family members, and colleagues who hold very different political views. This theme of concealing and revealing might be a helpful lens for thinking about when we choose to keep our political beliefs close to our chests for the sake of preserving relationships, and when we need to assert our beliefs more forcefully in order to feel whole in who we are.

Finally -- and particularly if we are finding it hard to be fully ourselves in public spaces -- it's all the more important right now that we find places where we don't have to conceal any part of who we are. This is certainly one of the value propositions of Kavana: a richly diverse Jewish community where we welcome folks to "come as you are" and show up fully in the context of an embracing Jewish community.

Whether you choose to place your menorah in your window or on a table (and again, either is fine -- the choice is yours to make), I hope that you find a way to light it meaningfully this evening and for each night of this Hanukkah holiday. Together, may our small lights shine bright, illuminating a pathway in our world from concealment towards the revealing of light, love, and truth.

Chag Hanukkah sameach, and Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Walking Wounded: Limping into Light

This week's parasha, Vayishlach, features the famous story of Jacob wrestling with a mysterious being in the dark of night. Bible scholar and translator Robert Alter highlights that Jacob's adversary resists identification: 

Appearing to Jacob in the dark of the night, before the morning when Esau will be reconciled with Jacob, he is the embodiment of portentous antagonism in Jacob’s dark night of the soul. He is obviously, in some sense, a doubling of Esau as adversary, but he is also a doubling of all with whom Jacob has had to contend, and he may equally well be an externalization of all that Jacob has to wrestle with within himself.

In other words, the Torah's text allows us to imagine that Jacob's struggle is simultaneously with an external enemy -- the "other," Esau, the twin with whom Jacob has wrestled since their days in the womb -- and also represents a conflict within, a manifestation of his own internal wrestling.

This notion -- of a dramatic wrestling happening on multiple levels at once, in the midst of great darkness -- resonates so deeply for me at this moment. Like so many of you, I have continued to be gripped by news events of the past week: a tense ceasefire, a perverse daily ritual of the exchanging of lists and demands and real live humans, tension down to the wire, and now the horrible violence of rocket barrages and airstrikes and artillery shelling all over again. (All of this has cast me back in the place where I found myself in the earliest weeks of the war... with sleepless nights and waking up to check my phone for middle-of-the-night updates). As new reports and survivor testimonies from October 7th continue to come to light, and as we witness ongoing terror -- both physical and psychological -- I continue to feel angry and outraged by Hamas's cruelty and sheer evil. Reading Israeli media, I am also horrified over and over again by -- and want to fight back against -- the rhetoric and policies of extremists within the Israeli government as well. Closer to home in America, I continue to feel internal struggles and in-fighting playing out within the Jewish community as disparate voices jockey for power. And I'm sure that all of us are navigating scary antisemitism, reeling in the wake of the shooting of three Palestinian college students in Vermont, and worrying over how to best uphold and preserve our own American democracy. What does this mean for our well-being and our sense of self? Wrestling abounds!

Here is how Jacob's wrestling story unfolds in the parasha (or click here to read the text of Genesis 32:25-33 in Hebrew as well):

Jacob was left alone. And a figure wrestled with him until the break of dawn. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for dawn is breaking.” But he answered, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” Said the other, “What is your name?” He replied, “Jacob.” Said he, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed.” Jacob asked, “Pray tell me your name.” But he said, “You must not ask my name!” And he took leave of him there. So Jacob named the place Peniel, meaning, “I have seen a divine being face to face, yet my life has been preserved.”

Perhaps a reader of Torah might think that this entire wrestling episode has merely been a dream. However, the next line makes it clear that this is not the case; when Jacob wakes up, he finds that, in fact, his injury remains: "The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping on his hip." 

The pshat (plain meaning) of the text is that although Jacob's sparring partner (whether external and/or internal) disappears at daybreak, Jacob's injury does not. His limp is clear as could be, in the light of the day. Jacob's wound is real.

Word-plays abound in the text. Jacob (Yaakov, in Hebrew), whose own name is derived from the word for "heel," now stands at the banks of the Jabbok River (Yabok, meaning "crooked") and walks away both injured and walking crookedly himself. I'm drawn to Jacob's injury this week, because I think many of us are walking around in the world with a "crooked gait," feeling profoundly scarred and wounded, perhaps permanently(?), in light of the events of the past 56 days. Like Jacob, we find ourselves among the walking wounded (even as we continue to witness others whose wounds are even more direct and profound than our own).

In thinking about Jacob and his limp this week, I re-discovered a beautiful Dvar Torah written by my beloved teacher, Rabbi Steve Sager (of blessed memory). For anyone who is interested in delving more deeply into this Torah story and the images it evokes, I do recommend reading his essay -- entitled "Heroes who Limp" -- in its entirety. (Some particular gems include the connection he draws to angels who -- according to our midrashic tradition -- have no leg joints, and his discussion of how some rabbinic commentators seek out evidence that Jacob heals quickly from his wrestling injury. In contrast, Rabbi Sager writes: "I prefer a hero who limps, and I seek out the company of those teachers who allow me my hero.") 

To me, the most precious contribution my teacher makes here is in pairing Jacob's wrestling story with a poem from contemporary Israeli poet Rivka Miriam. (She published this poem in 2007; Steve wrote about it in the context of this parasha in 2018; for me, reading the poem now -- in the context of this current Israeli war -- is a different experience altogether.) Here is Rivka Miriam's beautiful poem, with Steve's translation into English... and for those who are interested, you're also invited to click here to access the poem in Hebrew:

And in the inner room we keep Moses' heaviness of mouth,

Isaac's weak eyes, and Jacob's dragging leg.

And when war stirs us, it is to the inner room we go

to examine them closely.

For each one who goes out to battle wraps himself in just these.

In Steve Sager's words, Rivka Miriam thus "preserves Jacob's limp as an asset, not an infirmity." Through the poem, the battle wounds, frailties, and past traumas of our ancestors are transformed into our protective gear. 

After all, Jacob walks away from his wrestlings transformed in two ways. Yes, he now has a permanent limp, but also, through the very same struggle, he also earns a blessing for himself, one which results in a new name (Yisrael) and a new sense of who he is in the world. Thus, Jacob's limp becomes a treasure. Quoting Rabbi Steve Sager once again: "It is nothing less than a struggle-with-an-angel to wrestle forth the blessing that emerges from the weak place. If we remember that we grow -- skin and bone -- most vigorously around the wounded spot, then the limp itself can be its own blessed reminder and encouragement, sunrise after sunrise."

Like Jacob, we -- members of the Jewish tribe -- have been injured profoundly, and in many different ways, through our recent wrestlings. Like our ancestor, may we come to find that these injuries have the potential to become a source of strength and blessing as well. Even limping, may we propel ourselves and the world forward, from darkness into ever-increasing light.

Shabbat shalom, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

P.S. - There are many important divrei torah to be written this week. One that I didn't choose to address above -- but I also can't completely refrain from mentioning -- is that this week's parasha also features the story of the rape of Dina (see Genesis 34). The sexual violence and rapes that transpired on October 7th -- and how these have been downplayed and ignored -- is another important story. Many organizations in NYC (including my alma mater, JTS) are hosting a protest this coming Monday in front of the UN entitled "#MeToo unless you are a Jew." Last Shabbat, my colleague Rabbi Sharon Brous -- from Kavana's Jewish Emergent Network sister community IKAR in Los Angeles -- delivered an incredibly powerful sermon on this topic and also the danger of ignoring, diminishing and marginalizing women's voices in a number of other contexts. It's called "Women Wage Peace" and it's a must-hear -- please do me a favor and find 20 minutes to watch, and then let's talk about it. (Also, in case you haven't seen it, I highly recommend the conversation between her and Ezra Klein on his podcast episode entitled "The Sermons I Needed to Hear Right Now" -- and expect that her Torah will resonate deeply with our Kavana community.)

P.P.S. - Don't forget that Hanukkah begins next Thursday evening at sunset. Looking forward to bringing some light into the world together!