The Story So Far

In Deuteronomy, Moses has several tasks, but chief among them is to set in motion the alchemical Jewish magic of storytelling. Moses gives the Israelites on the banks of the Jordan many instructions, cautions, promises, and blessings. But all of these important parts are nestled in a powerful whole - a story of ancestors descending to Egypt, becoming a people, enduring hardship, and leaving liberated in order to form a new social-spiritual enterprise. 

Most of the people Moses addresses didn’t actually leave Egypt themselves. It was their parents, the previous generation. If most of the books of Torah tell us a story of previous generations, Deuteronomy tells us a story of telling a story about previous generations, and because Moses passionately and eloquently weaves the people he addresses into their shared past and collective future, he addresses us too. We are hardly different from the people on the banks of the river between wilderness and home - we too are inheritors of experiences and traditions and sorrows and hopes. We too, stand on the precipice of what comes next.

But before we peer ahead, let’s look back once again.

בְּשִׁבְעִ֣ים נֶ֔פֶשׁ יָרְד֥וּ אֲבֹתֶ֖יךָ מִצְרָ֑יְמָה 
וְעַתָּ֗ה שָֽׂמְךָ֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ כְּכוֹכְבֵ֥י הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם לָרֹֽב׃
Your ancestors went down to Egypt seventy persons;
and now Adonai your God has made you as numerous as the stars of heaven. 
(Deuteronomy 10:22)

Although this is just a beginning, the number seventy heralds wholeness, completion, totality.
There are seventy nations. (Genesis 10)
Seventy elders support Moses. (Exodus 24, Numbers 11)
Seventy judges in the Sanhedrin (with one, like Moses, presiding). (Mishnah Sanhedrin 1:6)
Seventy faces of Torah, representing the diverse fullness of interpretation. (Bamidbar Rabbah 13:15)
Seventy is the age of “fullness”. (Pirkei Avot 5:21)

Which makes the commentary’s observation particularly surprising:

Here Moses mentions the number of Israelites descending to Egypt as being 70 whereas if you will check the number given in Genesis 46:27 you will find that actually only 69 are listed as leaving. (Rabbeinu Bachya)

Oops. When it comes to people, you can’t just round up to completion - if you are missing someone, something is wrong! Rabbeinu Bachya’s language is striking. Instead of literally saying sixty-nine, he says: לא מצאנו אלא שבעים חסר אחד, “We only found seventy-lacking-one.” That hammers home the wrongness of saying you’ve included everyone, but leaving one out. 

There are a number of suggestions for who was present but unlisted, each of which captures who we need to pay new attention to in order to return to communal wholeness. 

First, is Jacob himself! Apparently he wasn’t listed, and he was the patriarch of the family, the founder and leader. What might his erasure teach us? After all, most of the time our leaders are the most visible. In our attention economy, some measure success simply by how much others pay attention, through likes and subscribes, press coverage (no such thing as bad press), and site traffic or numbers in attendance. 

There are two divergent lessons here, one urging leaders to assert themselves more lest their “followers” find themselves in Egypt. According to this take, Jacob became too passive and all of the ills that befell his family trace themselves back to the leadership gap he created.

But alternatively we could learn that some of the greatest contributions leaders make happen behind the scenes, in quieter and subtler moments of connection, advice, presence, organization, thinking, and dreaming. The lesson then is a reminder to see those types of leaders and honor their essential work. 

A second option for who was present but unlisted is none other than God’s presence, the Shechinah herself. God says in Genesis 46:4, “I myself will go down with you…” What happens when we forget the need for spiritual presence in our human communities? (I’d love to hear your answers to this question, regardless of how you understand God and spirituality.)

Finally, a third option suggests either Yocheved, Moses’s mother, or Serach daughter of Asher. These two women, according to ancient traditions, lived very long lives and were crucial conduits of institutional knowledge. 

If it was Yocheved, she was present but not counted because she was still in her mother’s belly, awaiting birth at the gates of Egypt. What as-yet-unborn possibility will bring us closer to wholeness? How do we nourish and support those who conceive and carry hope?

If it was Serach, we have a strange problem. She was actually named in the list! And yet the midrash insists even so she was in fact the unnamed seventieth person. Every good story should be seasoned with a little mystery and myth…

However we fill in the gap, the gap remains. We say “seventy” but only see “sixty-nine”. 

We are a seventy-lacking-one society, overlooking those in the margins, the streets, the hospitals, the lonely homes, the borders of our country and our empathy. We subtract each other, on accident and by purpose. Through neglect and gunfire. When we forget that we are “lacking-one”, we descend to Mitzrayim, the “narrow place”. When we remember we are “lacking-one”, we can continue telling the story of liberation, even if we haven’t reached its conclusion yet. 

Sixty-nine isn’t the right word. Seventy-lacking-one is closer. But best, I think, is one-plus-one-plus-one-plus-one-plus-one… 

It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again and they said no,
it starts when you say Weand know who you mean,
and each day you mean one more. (Marge Piercy, The Low Road)

Then all of a sudden, when one plus one plus one becomes seventy, when you and I and them too become we, the echo of Moses’s voice will drift out of the past, and the gloomy sky will be pierced by starlight, and we’ll realize what we’ve always known, we are standing here together on the precipice of what’s next. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Shema: Restoring Connection and Powering our Resilience

Yesterday, Tisha B'Av, was a day for mourning and for sitting in despair. As we commemorate the destruction of the Temple, we always recall a brutal siege with starvation, countless tears, exile and alienation. Other tragic events from throughout Jewish history have been folded into the day too, from the negative report of the spies in the Torah, to more recent expulsions of Jews from England (1290) and Spain (1492). It's easy to extend the day's themes forward to the present as well. Yesterday, I found myself thinking about the brokenness of our American society (in so many dimensions: from the dismantling of the checks and balances of our democracy to financial corruption, to racism, xenophobia and antisemitism breaking through to violence); about the brokenness of modern-day Israel (the continued shadows cast by the Oct 7th attacks and the Gaza War among both Jewish Israelis and Palestinians, horrifying settler violence in the West Bank, etc.); and about global brokenness (including climate change's dire impacts on the planet). I am grateful, as always, that we are permitted a day -- but only a single day -- to wallow in such bleakness.

According to the Geonim, who established the mathematical rules of the Hebrew liturgical calendar, Parashat Va'etchanan must always be read on the Shabbat that immediately follows Tisha B'Av. This is strategic -- as this Torah portion functions as a tool to help us move forward in the wake of grief and loss.

Like Tisha B'Av, Va'etchanan, too, launches in sadness. As the Torah portion opens, Moses recounts his own personal tragedy of not being permitted to enter the Promised Land. He recalls:

"I pleaded with Adonai at that time, saying, 'O Lord God, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness and Your mighty hand, You whose powerful deeds no god in heaven or on earth can equal! Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan, that good hill country, and Lebanon.'" (Deuteronomy 4:23-25)

Despite Moses's heart-felt prayer and his 40-year track record as the Israelites' leader in the wilderness, God's answer to his plea is a hard NO. Moses is left to stew in disappointment and contend with his own intense swirl of anger, sadness, and grief.

Moses never fully reconciles himself to God's decree that he will die before reaching his destination, but he does keep going. Throughout the rest of this Torah portion, Moses articulates and reiterates that the Israelites must stay in relationship with God, avoid idolatry, and obey the commandments. Despite whatever personal despair he may be operating from, Moses models that it's possible to move forward; he embraces the idea that even when we are disappointed, we have the ability to seek alignment with God.

The most famous line in Va'etchanan (and perhaps in the whole Torah) comes later in this parasha, in Deuteronomy 6:4: "Shema yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad," "Hear, O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai is one."

This Shema line feels like an unlikely candidate to become the quintessential Jewish prayer, as it addresses the Israelites, rather than God. And yet, this is exactly what it has become: a core piece of our liturgy, called by many the "watchword of our faith." K'riyat shema, the formal "recitation of Shema" (which includes this line plus the V'ahavta paragraph which follows and two more biblical passages) happens daily in the context of our morning and evening prayers. Shema can be recited again at the end of every day as part of Shema al ha-mita, Bedtime shema. It's also used as a prayer during special ritual moments - like when we take out the Sefer Torah, on an individual's death-bed, and communally at the very end of Yom Kippur.

Through its very regularity of recitation, Shema conveys constancy. Even and especially in the wake of frustration and grief, it calls on us to listen rather than speak (or scream). When the line of Shema appears inside a Torah scroll, it is written with two larger-print letters -- the ayin (ע) of "shema" and the dalet (ד) of "echad"-- which together spell "עד‎" or "witness." The main idea conveyed here is that by reciting or proclaiming the Shema, one becomes a living witness, testifying to that which is true: the unity of God and of all being.

Reciting Shema is the ultimate spiritual practice. Set, as it is, following the collective disaster(s) signified by Tisha B'Av signifies, and also Moses's personal disappointment in Va'etchanan, it functions as a self-soothing mechanism: a mantra of faith, of calm, and of reassurance.

Given that the world is a lot right now, and that we are all holding so much heartbreak on so many levels, I want to recommend returning to this most core of Jewish spiritual practices. Find a quiet moment -- in the morning, in the evening, at bedtime, or all of the above -- and recite, chant, or sing the line of shema to yourself. Make this a regular practice from now through the High Holidays (at least), if you can. Know that this text, which first appeared right here in Parashat Va'etchanan, has powered Jewish resilience for centuries and millennia. Reciting Shema reminds us that relationship and connection can be restored, even in the wake of grief and disappointment. There is always hope to be found.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Peak into Naming Peaks

As Moses recaps in the book of Deuteronomy the journeys and (mis)adventures of the Israelites in the wilderness, my eye was caught by one of those seemingly uninteresting verses that hold hidden treasure. This verse is just about a prominent mountain range in the north of Israel, which the Israelites call Chermon:

“The Tzidonim call Chermon Siryon, and the Emori call it Snir.” (Devarim 3:9)

Some contemporary commentaries clarify that this large and visible landmark mountain has a name given to it by each group of people living around it. Not at all shocking, but you could go one step further and derive lessons about how different perspectives reveal different names - of mountains, and of people like you. We may have titles, roles, nicknames, and so on, each of which makes sense from one perspective and has less relevance from other perspectives. 

But the classical commentaries wanted more meaning from Torah. 

Rashi, drawing on earlier rabbinic teachings, thinks the Torah mentions these different names as a way of praising the land of Israel.

And in another passage it states, (Deuteronomy 4:48) “Even unto Mount Sion which is Chermon”. So you see it had four names. And why had they all to be written in Scripture? To tell the praise of the land of Israel: that there were four kingdoms priding themselves in this — one saying, "After me shall it be named", and another saying, "After me shall it be named".

For Rashi, the desire of all these different kingdoms (or more likely the kings themselves) to name a part of Israel after themselves reflected well on the attractiveness of the land. 

At the same time, the awareness of all these different names diminishes the power of each name. It reminds us that naming is often arbitrary, and that the essence of a mountain, or pond, or school ultimately eludes any particular name. Perspectives change, names change, the things being named change. Yet the desire to achieve immortality through name, somehow that remains!

“and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.” (Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods)

Finally, a chassidic teacher noticed that Chermon’s alternative names have the exact same Hebrew letters, and suggested that the two names point to a choice in elevating good or elevating bad in the world. In order to make sense of his reading, we have to make the kabbalistic assumption that the right-hand side is associated with goodness, compassion, etc. and the left-hand side is associated with harshness and lowliness. As a left-handed person, I really don’t like these associations, but I’ll leave that for another week’s discussion. 

The Tzidonim refers to those chaotic ones who go from the tzad, only one side, and do not walk the middle path… 

They call Chermon Siryon שרין because it is an acronym for שמאל רם ימין נופל, Smol Ram Yamin Nofel, (the left rises and the right falls), because their desire is to humiliate what is holy and be servants who crown themselves sovereign. 

But the Emori (related to emor - “say”) are the righteous who always praise the Holy One…and they call it Snyr שניר which means Yamin Ram Smol Nofel, (the right rises and the left falls). (Avraham Yehoshua Heshel, the Apter Rebbe, Ohev Yisrael, Devarim 2:1)

In this clever wordplay of a teaching, the Apter Rebbe suggests that the mountain becomes a symbol for what is elevated in society. When you look to the horizon, do you see the prominence of kindness and compassion, reverence, and justice? Or do you see greed, corruption, selfishness, and cruelty sticking out like a sore thumb? 

I’m writing from Camp Kalsman, near the Cascade Mountains, and perhaps you are reading this near a viewpoint of Mt. Rainier, or the Olympics, or if you are outside of the Seattle area, your own majestic mountains abide with their towering calm. Do you know all the names these mountains hold? What new perspectives do we need to see? And how can a glimpse of natural peaks help us elevate our ethical behavior? 

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Torah for the Three Weeks

This Shabbat, in addition to reading Parashat Matot-Masei and concluding the book of Numbers/Bamidbar, Jewish communities around the world will announce and bless the new month of Av, which begins next Wednesday. Those who follow the Jewish calendar closely know that this places us squarely in the midst of "the three weeks" -- that is, the period leading up to Tisha B'Av, when we commemorate the tragedy of the Temple's destruction.

Given that the Temple hasn't stood for nearly 2000 years, it can be hard for us to imagine today the degree to which it once functioned as a central hub of ancient Jewish life. This was true on multiple levels: the Temple was the exclusive site for animal sacrifices and other religious rites, it was understood as God's dwelling place, and it acted as a national unifier, drawing pilgrims to Jerusalem during major festivals. Thus, each destruction of the Temple was beyond devastating for our ancestors. The First Temple, built by King Solomon in about the 10th Century BCE, was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and the Jewish people sent into exile in Babylon. The Second Temple, constructed later in the 6th Century BCE, stood until it was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. 

Strikingly, Jewish tradition does not blame our Babylonian and Roman conquerors for bringing about this devastation. Rather, our Jewish tendency is to look inward and reflect on what we, as a people, might have done to bring such destruction upon ourselves. 

On Erev Tisha B'Av -- Wednesday evening, July 22nd -- I hope you will join us as we gather to chant Eicha (Lamentations), a book of poetic laments about the destruction of the First Temple. That evening, we will also study together a very famous story that our rabbinic tradition tells to explain how the destruction of the Second Temple came about (sometimes called "the story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza"). This text can be found in its entirety and in the original Aramaic in Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b-56a; meanwhile here's a translation / summary, in three parts:

Part I: Rabbi Yoḥanan asked: What is the meaning of the verse: “Happy is the man who fears always, but he who hardens his heart shall fall into mischief” (Proverbs 28:14)? Jerusalem was destroyed on account of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza.

There was a certain man whose friend was named Kamtza and whose enemy was named Bar Kamtza. He once made a large feast and said to his servant: Go bring me my friend Kamtza. The servant went and mistakenly brought him his enemy Bar Kamtza.

The host came and found Bar Kamtza sitting at his feast. The host said to him: "You are my enemy. Whatdo you want here? Arise and leave!" Bar Kamtza said to him: "Since I have already come, let me stay and I will give you money for whatever I eat and drink. Just do not embarrass me by sending me out." But the host was insistent that Bar Kamtza needed to leave. To avoid public embarrassment, Bar Kamtza offered to pay -- first for half the feast and then for the entire feast. Still, the host took Bar Kamtza by the hand, stood him up, and escorted him out of the banquet.

Part II: After having been cast out from the feast, Bar Kamtza thought to himself: Since the Sages were sitting there and did not protest, they must have been content with how the host humiliated me. I will therefore go and inform against them to the king. He went and said to the Emperor: "The Jews have rebelled against you." The emperor asked: "Who says that this is so?" Bar Kamtza said to him: "Go and test them; send them an offering to be brought in honor of the government, and see whether they will sacrifice it."

The emperor sent with him a choice three-year-old calf. While Bar Kamtza was bringing the calf to the Temple, he made a blemish on the calf’s upper lip. (Some say he made the blemish on its eyelids, a place where according to Jewish law, it is a blemish that makes the animal ineligible for sacrifice, but according to Roman rules, it is not a blemish.)

Part III: The blemish notwithstanding, most of the Sages thought they should sacrifice the animal as an offering due to the imperative to maintain peace with the government. But Rabbi Zekharya ben Avkolas said to them: "If the priests do that, people will say that blemished animals may be sacrificed as offerings on the altar." Knowing that Bar Kamtza had purposefully blemished the animal, the Sages proposed to kill him so that he could not go and speak against them to the emperor. Rabbi Zekharya said to them: "If you kill him, people will say that one who makes a blemish on sacrificial animals is to be killed." As a result, they did nothing, bar Kamtza’s slander was accepted by the authorities, and consequently the war between the Jews and the Romans began. Rabbi Yoḥanan says: The excessive piety of Rabbi Zekharya ben Avkolas destroyed our Temple, burned our Sanctuary, and exiled us from our land.

If you managed to take in the whole story, I'm sure you can see that it doesn't provide a single, simple answer to the question of why the Second Temple was destroyed. In Part I, it seems that the Roman conquest would never have happened had the host not hated Bar Kamtza so much (we don't even know the reason!), or if he had at least been willing to put aside his hatred to allow this mistakenly-invited guest to stay at his party. In Part II, it seems that the blame lies with the Sages' unwillingness to condemn bad behavior when they witness it, and with Bar Kamtza turning a personal slight into a justification to sabotage the Jewish people as a whole -- clearly very problematic. Finally, in Part III, Rabbi Zekharya ben Avkolas's insistence on strict adherence to Jewish law while failing to take in the broader context and implications of his actions makes it look as though he's "lost the plot" of what commitment to Jewishness should mean.

The purpose of the rabbis recounting a story like this to explain why the Temple was destroyed -- a story that is multi-faceted and contains so many possible take-away messages -- is to give us ample opportunity to reflect upon the lessons of the destruction for our own day and age. In this way, their story-telling helps us make meaning from our annual remembrance of the Temple, and pivot towards introspection and teshuva, which in turn will lead us towards a more loving and caring community and world.

This is precisely what I hope we will do together as we read the story together on Tisha B'Av: unpack each part and discuss what can learn from it -- from lessons about interpersonal relationships and leadership, to reflecting on our commitments to our people and the Jewish future. Only by reflecting on these lessons and trying to learn from the mistakes of the past can we prevent destruction in our future.

Wishing you all a Shabbat Shalom, even as we continue to feel the weight of this moment,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Civic Jealousy

And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.Last lines of the American Declaration of Independence, 1776

Parshat Pinchas begins with the aftermath of the previous week’s story. 

“Pinchas, son of Elazar son of Aaron the priest, has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his jealousy for Me, so that I did not wipe out the Israelite people in My jealousy.” (Bamidbar 25:11)

Aaron, the first priest of a newly created hereditary line, has already died. Elazar, his eldest son, has stepped into leadership. But as with all hereditary roles, there is a question of fitness for the role even for those born into it. Pinchas, Aaron’s grandson, proves himself (in last week’s parashah) by seeing a threat to the community and stopping it. Our parashah begins with an affirmation of Pinchas as a proper future leader and successor to Aaron and Elazar. 

Many of us squirm with discomfort at the violence and potential xenophobia you can read into the story of how the Midianites seduce the Israelites sexually and theologically, prompting retaliatory violence spearheaded (literally) by Pinchas. We sometimes read Pinchas’s jealousy / passion / zealotry as a dangerous and destabilizing and - crucially - unnecessary force. 

On this 4th of July weekend, though, I was struck by the use of the word “jealous” in George Washington’s farewell speech as he prepared to step aside from the presidency (a radical act of its own). 

Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence (I conjure you to believe me, fellow-citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake, since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of republican government.

Washington helped create a newly independent country, one which was founded in part on the desire to be free of (newly) foreign influence. Jealousy, when used to protect what is most dear, has its merits. A country of people mutually pledged to each other has no room, in Washington’s view, for the distortions of foreign interests. In this, he and Pinchas had much in common. 

He continued with a warning:

But that jealousy to be useful must be impartial; else it becomes the instrument of the very influence to be avoided, instead of a defense against it. Excessive partiality for one foreign nation and excessive dislike of another cause those whom they actuate to see danger only on one side, and serve to veil and even second the arts of influence on the other. Real patriots who may resist the intrigues of the favorite are liable to become suspected and odious, while its tools and dupes usurp the applause and confidence of the people, to surrender their interests.

Impartial jealousy! What an odd phrase. But I think what he means is that you have to remember that the most important civic relationships are among a place’s citizens and residents. There are other important ties we hold - perhaps as dual citizens, through shared ethnicities or religious practice, as fellow ideologues no matter the nationality. But the foundation of the American promise is that we mutually pledge to each other our lives. Without a jealous attention to maintaining our relationships with each other as Americans (and even across significant difference), our sense of a shared country falls apart… 

Furthermore, we must be careful of our own suspicions and hatred. Anytime we feel passionatelypartial, which is another way of saying jealous or zealous or Pinchas-like, there’s a clue that we might be missing something in the larger picture, that we might be out of balance or out of proportion with reality and the well-being of our community of belonging.

How should we practice jealousy as a civic virtue? How can we utilize its unique capacity for vigilance in service of something that really matters to us, without spiraling out into vengeful fantasies and actual violence? And how can we channel the surges of political emotion into genuine care for each other? 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Death, Ritual and Meaning in Parashat Chukkat

This week, two different events have me thinking about our Jewish rituals around death and burial. First, our community lost a beloved individual earlier this week: Jessie Towbin, the wife of long-time Kavana partner Barry Lasky, died on Sunday. Jessie touched so many lives as a teacher, and will continue to teach and inspire even after her death; you're invited to click here to read her beautiful obituary (which of course she wrote herself). Second, as you may have seen in the local news this week, fire seriously damaged a Jewish burial preparation facility here in Seattle a few days ago (it seems to have been a regular fire, not arson). The building, located on the property of BCMH synagogue in Seward Park, housed the Seattle Jewish Chapel, "a full service funeral home, which caters to all members of the greater Seattle Jewish community who want their loved ones prepared in the traditional Orthodox fashion. The Seattle Chevra Kadisha provides services such as Shmira (guarding) of the deceased and the Tahara (ritual washing)." 

This Shabbat, Jews throughout the Diaspora will read the double portion of Chukkat-Balak. While it's ever-tempting to write about the latter parasha and its famous talking donkey, I want to focus instead on the first of the two Torah portions, Parashat Chukkat, which swirls around the themes of death, loss, and ritual.

Chukkat opens with laws about ritual impurity, including that "Whoever touches a corpse—the body of a person who has died—and does not undergo cleansing, defiles God's Tabernacle..." (Numbers 19:13). This section of Torah then goes on to prescribe a ritual of purificationfeaturing the ashes of a red heifer. From this opening, we can feel the power and mystery -- and also the fear -- surrounding our ancient ancestors' encounters with death. Jewish tradition, like every other human civilization, has created rituals around death to try to contain it and help us make sense of it.

Chukkat then moves from the general to the specific, as it features two significant deaths of biblical characters who are well-known to us and were beloved by the Israelites. First, Miriam dies in Numbers 20:1:

וַיָּבֹ֣אוּ בְנֵֽי־יִ֠שְׂרָאֵ֠ל כׇּל־הָ֨עֵדָ֤ה מִדְבַּר־צִן֙ בַּחֹ֣דֶשׁ הָֽרִאשׁ֔וֹן וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב הָעָ֖ם בְּקָדֵ֑שׁ וַתָּ֤מׇת שָׁם֙ מִרְיָ֔ם וַתִּקָּבֵ֖ר שָֽׁם׃

The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there.

And then, in the very same chapter, in Numbers 20:28-29, we read of the death of her brother Aaron:

וַיַּפְשֵׁט֩ מֹשֶׁ֨ה אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹ֜ן אֶת־בְּגָדָ֗יו וַיַּלְבֵּ֤שׁ אֹתָם֙ אֶת־אֶלְעָזָ֣ר בְּנ֔וֹ וַיָּ֧מׇת אַהֲרֹ֛ן שָׁ֖ם בְּרֹ֣אשׁ הָהָ֑ר וַיֵּ֧רֶד מֹשֶׁ֛ה וְאֶלְעָזָ֖ר מִן־הָהָֽר׃ וַיִּרְאוּ֙ כׇּל־הָ֣עֵדָ֔ה כִּ֥י גָוַ֖ע אַהֲרֹ֑ן וַיִּבְכּ֤וּ אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹן֙ שְׁלֹשִׁ֣ים י֔וֹם כֹּ֖ל בֵּ֥ית יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ {ס} 

Moses stripped Aaron of his vestments and put them on his son Eleazar, and Aaron died there on the summit of the mountain. When Moses and Eleazar came down from the mountain, the whole community knew that Aaron had breathed his last. All the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days.
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These back-to-back deaths capture the rabbinic imagination, on multiple levels. Midrash teaches that both of these sibling leaders (and later, their younger brother Moses too) "died by a Divine kiss." In other words, the deathsthemselves are envisioned asmaking manifest Miriam and Aaron's intimacy with God and their holiness.

What happens in the wake of their deaths also underscores the important roles they each played in their lifetimes. The Babylonian Talmud (Taanit 9a) connects Miriam's death to the verse that follows it, which states that "the community was without water." From this juxtaposition, the Talmud intuits that the Israelites' water in the wilderness came from a magical well which followed them around due to Miriam's merit. Only in the wake of Miriam's passing did the Israelite community come to fully understand how she hadsustained them with water throughout their journey. Similarly, the Talmud posits that upon Aaron's death, the "ananei kavod" -- the "Clouds of Glory" that had offered protection, shade, and Divine guidance throughout the wilderness trek -- disappeared from the Israelites. By virtue of the presence and then absence of water and clouds, respectively -- both so life-sustaining and essential -- Miriam and Aaron are appreciated and missed in their absence.

Finally, multiple Jewish ritual practices around death, burial and mourning are hinted at or derived from these verses. The Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (a modern compendium of Jewish law) derives from the quick proximity of the verbs "died" and "was buried" in the verse describing Miriam's death that a burial should happen as quickly as possible following a death. From the verses about Aaron's death, we get the idea of sheloshim -- a thirty-day period of intense mourning. The medieval Spanish commentator Rabbenu Bahya also derives from the phrase "kol beit yisrael" in Aaron's death that both women and men mourned for him, leading to the halakhic understanding that people of all genders have an equal obligation to mourn the loss of loved ones.

As a rabbi, I often hear people reflect on the fact that "Judaism does death well." In that statement, I hear an appreciation for our tradition's playbook of prescribed rituals to fall back on when we find ourselves in the wake of a significant loss... an appreciate that I share.

And yet, there is always room for continued deepening of the work. In recent years, a new non-profit, the Shomer Collective, has tried to push the American Jewish community to talk about death more openly and, in doing so, to empower more people to benefit from the wisdom of Jewish traditions about life and death. They have virtual programs coming up about anticipatory grief, palliative care, and more... and if these topics feel timely for you, you're cordially invited to check out their offerings.

On a local level, we have had a lovely relationship with the Seattle Jewish Chapel, which I mentioned above. A fund has just been opened to help with the quick rebuilding of their facility, and we encourage you to contribute if you're able (click here). And, at the same time, there are conversations percolating in the Seattle Jewish community about also creating a liberal Chevra Kadisha (burial society) that could serve a broader swath of our community (including those whose Jewish status isn't recognized by Orthodox halakhah, non-binary and trans individuals, etc.). If you might be interested in participating in specific trainings about Jewish burial preparation rituals and perhaps serving on a new liberal Chevra Kadisha in the future, please feel free to reach out to me privately.

This Shabbat, as we read in Parashat Chukkat about the power of creating rituals around death and of the specific deaths of Miriam and Aaron, my prayers are that we all find meaning in the rituals of our tradition and comfort in the wake of the losses we experience as we move through our lives. May the souls of Miriam and Aaron -- and also Jessie Towbin -- be bound up in the bonds of life forever, and may their memories and legacies endure as a blessing to us all. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Teaching Tale

In Judaism there is no higher distinction than that of being a teacher. This has been so throughout our history. We do not celebrate kings and heroes, we celebrate teachers — Moses and Rabbi Akiba. The teacher is the central pillar of Jewish living, past, present, and future. According to Jewish tradition, God [themself] teaches.
~Abraham Joshua Heschel, Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity

Torah means “teaching,” from the root for aiming at a target (y.r.h) which also gives us Moreh or Morah for “teacher.” 

In our Torah portion, the students rebel. 

Korach, Datan, and Aviram and their supporters question why Moses and Aaron get to set curricular objectives. “Aren’t we all our own teachers, after all?” they say (to paraphrase, of course). 

After the rebels are suspended (some of them literally, in a pit above the abyss), the Principal (God themself) wants to solidify the bruised authority of the appointed teachers. The leader of each tribe school clique brings a staff, and “the staff of the person whom I choose shall sprout, and I will rid Myself of the incessant mutterings of the Israelites against [Moses and Aaron]” (Bamidbar 17:20). 

As it happens, Aaron’s staff sprouts and blossoms and even bears almonds! Overwhelming and incontrovertible proof that he and Moses are the right teachers to convey the key behavioral objectives of Judaism, the mitzvot. 

Let me pause the Torah story for a moment for a relevant (I promise!) tangent. 

When I was earning my Master’s in Jewish Education, we were exposed to two distinctly different ways of envisioning education. 

The first method was called Backwards Design, and the idea was simply to know what you were aiming for before designing lessons and finding the right activities to move your learners closer to the target. Too often (this method claims) we just turn to familiar programs without really asking ourselves what greater purpose they serve. I find Backwards Design compelling because it cuts right to the core of purpose, and demands a level of intention and careful alignment of each element of learning to achieve that purpose. For any student asking “why?”, Backwards Design provides an answer. Kavana (itself from a root also related to archery, aim, and intentionality) incorporates elements of Backwards Design throughout our programming. 

But… not everything is reducible to an objective. And when you hold too tightly to students reaching a particular objective, you run the risk of seeking control over creativity.

Enter educational method number two!

This second approach to education was called “emergent curriculum,” where rather than starting with the objectives you want learners to reach, you start with the interests of the learners. Or rather, you do your best to create rich environments that could spark the magic moment where a new curiosity is discovered, a passion finds an outlet, a skill can be developed - but all of it in response to learner initiative. The teacher’s role in this approach primarily entails stewarding the right environment, responding to students as they engage in whatever ways they do, and documenting what happens so that students can reflect and grow in meaningful ways. So much of what we do as the Kavana Cooperative draws on this sort of vision. Intentionality is present, but embedded in deeply relational, organic, and unexpected encounters among people and traditions. 

Together, purpose (directed learning with a shared goal) and meaning (emergent and individual learning sometimes overlapping with that of others) are what make our community hum with aliveness. 

In the ancient wilderness academy, community was not humming so well. After clarifying the authority of the teachers, God has Moses put the blossoming staff in the Ark, and Moses does; “just as God had commanded him, so he did” (Bamidbar 17:26). The teaching team is aligned, but unfortunately not very effective:

“But the Israelites said to Moses, “Lo, we perish! We are lost, all of us lost! Everyone who comes near, who comes near God’s Mishkan must die. Alas, we are doomed to perish!” (Bamidbar 17:27-28)

The Israelites have a shared purpose: “to be holy.” In a high-stakes case of Backwards Design, one rabbinic text tells us “that the Holy Blessed One established a condition with the act of Creation, and said to them: If Israel accepts the Torah you will exist; and if not, I will return you to chaos and disorder” (Talmud Bavli, Shabbat 88a). The whole point of creation, according to this story, is for Israel to accept Torah, do mitzvot, and become holy. Their learning will be assessed as pass / fail not only for them, but for all of existence itself. 

It seems that the Israelites do want to fulfill their purpose, but are now afraid of their teachers and convinced they cannot accomplish it. As Adin Steinsaltz says, “the swallowing of Korach and his congregation by the ground, the burning of those who brought the incense, the plague that afflicted the people, and the earlier deaths of Nadav and Avihu, all combined with the repeated warnings against the approach of non-priests to the Sanctuary (1:51, 3:10, 38, 8:19) to produce a feeling of terror.” These are not ideal learning conditions!

The next chapter helps clarify how to safely navigate their life of purpose. But the deeper problem is that God, Moses, and Aaron have leaned too heavily on Torah as training rather than teaching, and seek compliance over true learning.

Luckily for us, the rabbinic tradition reimagines Torah not just as a training manual for sacred service, but as a rich environment where you can learn and grow all the days of your life, following as your soul is drawn to law or story, poetry or politics, heavenly speculation or earthly stewardship. Torah as an emergent curriculum is as vast and deep and weird as the ocean, with profound puzzles and meaningful marvels awaiting a student to notice and be awakened into the act of learning. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Hoshea to Joshua: Torah for this Season of Transitions

This week's Torah portion, Shelach, features a story about the twelve spies who Moses sends across the Jordan River on a reconnaissance mission to scout out the Promised Land on behalf of the Israelite community. The reports they bring back, both positive and negative, create ripple effects. The story is worth reading in its entirety -- as it's a dramatic and interesting case-study of rebellion, dissent, leadership challenges, and the cycle of sin and repair. For now, though, I want to focus on just one small detail: how Joshua is introduced.

The parasha opens with God's command to Moses to "Send agents (Shelach lecha anashim) to scout the land of Canaan," which is followed by a list of these twelve such agents, one chieftain per ancestral tribe. At the tail end of that list, Numbers 13:16 reads:

אֵ֚לֶּה שְׁמ֣וֹת הָֽאֲנָשִׁ֔ים אֲשֶׁר־שָׁלַ֥ח מֹשֶׁ֖ה לָת֣וּר אֶת־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַיִּקְרָ֥א מֹשֶׁ֛ה לְהוֹשֵׁ֥עַ בִּן־נ֖וּן יְהוֹשֻֽׁעַ׃

These are the names of the men whom Moses sent to scout the land; but Moses changed the name of Hoshea son of Nun to Joshua.

The phrase I've bolded above is interesting and a bit strange. While the name "Hoshea bin Nun" just appeared in the list referenced above -- as the representative of the tribe of Ephraim -- this character has already been known to us since the book of Exodus, always referred to by the name "Yehoshua" ("Joshua"). Why talk about a name-change here, then, if this isn't really a new name at all?! There must be some deeper meaning behind Moses's re-naming, and behind the transition from Hoshea to Joshua.

Rashi's interpretation on this verse seeks to provide an explanation. He cites the Talmud (Sotah 34b) when he comments: "By giving him this name יהושע (Yehoshua), which is a compound of יה (Yah) and הושע (Hoshea) “God may save”, he [Moses] in effect prayed for him: “May God save you from the evil counsel of the spies.”

As Rabbi Zev Farber unpacks further in this article: "According to the Talmud, Moses suspected that the scouts would rebel, and this is why he changed Joshua's name: Moses was trying to grant his beloved pupil divine protection. ...Moses has an inkling that something terrible is about to happen with the behavior of the scouts themselves. This may even be why he chooses Joshua for this mission in the first place -- he needs at least one person whom he trusts on this mission."

When the twelve spies return, Joshua will end up being one of only two of them who return with a positive scouting report. He will also ultimately become Moses's successor, leading the Israelites tribes in the conquest of the land of Canaan. The transition from Moses's leadership to Joshua's will take place in a number of stages -- for example, it's later in Numbers (chapter 27) when Moses is instructed to lay hands on Joshua and invest him with authority, but it is not until after Moses's death at the end of the Torah that Joshua fully assumes the mantle of leadership. 

In this portion, however, what we see is the Torah signaling clearly that this big leadership transition is already underway. While elsewhere in the Torah (in Deuteronomy, for example), Moses seems disappointed and depressed about not being able to lead the Israelites into the Promised Land himself, here, this anticipated leadership transition is cast in a wholly positive light! Even before the spies depart on their mission, Moses acknowledges Joshua's role -- as a member of the group and as a stand-out. Just as God has, in the past, changed the names of important biblical figures such as Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah respectively, through the addition of a heh, a godly letter, so too here does Moses change Hosea's name to Joshua through the addition of a yod, a godly letter. And, according to the rabbinic understanding of this verse brought by Rashi, Moses effects this name-change out of genuine concern for the future and in an attempt to set his successor up for success!

This feels like a great bit of Torah to be focusing on at this time of year, as June is the season of transitions of all kinds: graduations, promotions, new jobs, moves. [A quick aside -- Reminder to Kavana partners: we'd love to know if someone in your household is graduating this season or embarking on a new chapter so that we can recognize them in an upcoming newsletter -- please email us!] One such transition took place last evening, at the final Kavana board meeting of this fiscal and program year. In addition to saying goodbye to one outgoing board member (Dana Bettinger) and welcoming two new members onto the board (David Cook and Robin Schachter), we also marked a leadership transition, as Steve Lewis concluded his two-year term as Kavana board president and Katie Gustainis stepped into the role. (Our website already reflects these changes, and you're cordially invited to click here and scroll down to read about each of our board members.) Board turnover and smooth leadership transitions are a sign of good health in a non-profit organization like ours: they introduce fresh perspectives, prevent stagnation, and ensure long-term well-being.

On the flip side, we can also see clearly right now just how dangerous it is when those in power want to prevent smooth leadership transitions from taking place. From Trump's attempts to pardon and even pay the January 6th protestors and rioters to his building of a bunker under the east wing of the White House, it's easy to get the impression that he does not believe in the peaceful transfer of power and has no intention of leaving office when his term ends. If we care about the long-term health and well-being of our country, it is incumbent on us -- as voters committed to American democracy -- to work to protect smooth leadership transitions, including free and fair elections. Many organizations are doing great work around these issues; two that I particularly like are Fair Fight (fighting voter suppression and protecting voter rights) and A More Perfect Union (a Jewish organization working to mobilize the American Jewish community to protect and strengthen American democracy). Although the next big round of national elections is still months away, now is really the perfect time to get involved in this work -- whether by donating, volunteering, or promoting the values and ideals that lie behind smooth leadership transitions.

This Shabbat, as we read one short line about Moses changing Joshua's name, we are called to consider how each of us can contribute to building the world we want to see -- not only through our own leadership, but also by empowering and lifting up leaders of the future. This work -- of thinking forward, setting each other up for success, and investing in our collective future -- may feel quite intuitive to those of us who have already opted into a cooperative Jewish community like this one. However, in our society at large, smooth leadership transitions feel far from guaranteed, and so this is precisely the kind of moral Torah that we need to be thinking about and teaching in this moment. 

As we read Parashat Sh'lach and begin to transition from Moses's leadership towards that of his successor Joshua, may we go from strength to strength! Wishing each of us a Shabbat Shalom, in this season of transitions,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

LaShir v’LiShmor: To Sing and Stand Guard

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.-Marge Piercy, To Be of Use

In the dusty wilderness, the work - avodah - most thoroughly detailed is that of sacrificial offering. Aaron and his sons became the priests who presided over that work, but the rest of the tribe of Levi also had “things worth doing”. There were three clans within the tribe of Levi, each of which got a different primary task in moving the parts of the Ohel Mo’ed (“Tent of Meeting” where the sacrifices took place) as the Israelites wandered from camp to camp. 

However, this assignment was age-restricted (Bamidbar 8:24-26):

This is the rule for the Levites. From twenty-five years of age up they shall participate in the work force in the service of the Tent of Meeting; but at the age of fifty they shall retire from the work force and shall work no more. They may assist their brother Levites at the Tent of Meeting by standing guard, but they shall do no work. Thus you shall deal with the Levites in regard to their duties.

What did the Levites do before they turned twenty-five? How did they handle forced retirement? Were they happy to take a break, or did they cry for work that is real? 

On one level, these questions deal with a very specific set of circumstances for a profession that hasn’t been practiced in thousands of years, and require delving into the distinction between how the Levites operated in the wilderness, and how they operated differently once a Temple was built, and so on. (We aren’t going down this rabbit hole today, but if you’d like to - email me or Kavana partner Danyel Fisher, who recently helped me sort through this topic with great knowledge and enthusiasm!)

On another level, these questions guide us towards our own desires for work that is real; our own dilemmas in negotiating the tensions around money and meaning, people and purpose, creativity and control; our own discernment in exploring life outside of work (at any age).  

The traditional commentators on our Torah verses clarify that the only work that has an age limit is the physically taxing disassembly, moving, and reconstruction of the Ohel Mo’ed. But there are other contributions the Levite clans continue to make. 

The Kehatites retired from carrying the Ark on their shoulders, and the family of the Gershonites and Merarites retired from loading the wagons with the parts of the Tabernacle and from dismantling and re-erecting the structure. But they continued to sing and to stand guard (laShir v’liShmor).... (Chizkuni)

Something about these two verbs encapsulates for me the deepest tasks of being human. For much of our working life, we are building things, we are taking things apart, we are changing things. But we can always sing (if you’re about to protest, just take it metaphorically!) Singing brings forth something from within, a form of self-expression that also lends itself so beautifully to togetherness. You need nothing except yourself to begin. It is one of the simplest ways of making yourself into a gift and a blessing. LaShir, to sing, is to plumb your own depths for self-understanding (getting in tune with yourself), then seeking harmony and shared rhythm with others.

And we can always “stand guard”. For the Levites, their task involved paying careful attention to the Holiest place, and making sure no one got injured. They were sacred lifeguards, knowing that the pool of holiness holds dangers for those who aren’t prepared for the immersion. For us, though, just the word shmor will do. To guard, watch over, keep safe, preserve, protect, observe… An exquisite sense of care - both in the sense of being careful, and caring for and about. 

All of which is to say, I think what the Levites did when they weren’t carrying tapestries and wooden beams around was practice forms of love, what Rilke called “the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.” 

Wishing you a Shabbat of song and care, lashir v’lishmor!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Pulling Apart at the Seams

Since Shavuot ended last weekend, we've entered into an odd window of time. Part of the magic of our Jewish calendar is that Jewish communities around the world are typically aligned when it comes to holidays and the weekly Torah portion. There are a few exceptions to this rule, though. The most frequent and well-known calendar discrepancy is that certain Jewish holidays (definitely not all, but many) are celebrated for a single day in the land of Israel* but two days in the Diaspora, or for seven days in Israel and eight in Diaspora. (*In general, the Reform movement follows the Israeli calendar, and doesn't add the extra Diaspora day.) Shavuot is among these: it's a one-day holiday in Israel, and a two-day holiday for traditionally observant Diaspora Jews. 

Usually, the difference would end there. This year, however, the way that Shavuot fell out on the calendar -- beginning, as it did, on a Thursday night/Friday -- meant that some Jewish communities continued observing Shavuot through last Shabbat, while others did not. The implication is that for the coming six Shabbatot, Jewish communities around the world will actually be out of sync with one another, reading different Torah portions. Eventually, Chukkat-Balak -- a pair of parshiyot that can be read either separately or together -- will bring us all back into alignment before July. May 16th was the Shabbat of Parashat Bamidbar everywhere and July 4th will be the Shabbat of Parashat Pinchas.

The window of misalignment that we're experiencing this year feels significant and symbolic. Recently, a Kavana partner asked me to reflect on trends that I'm seeing in my work as it relates to the broader Jewish world. My first answer was that -- for many years already, but in an accelerating way since Oct 7, 2023 -- Israeli Jews and American Jews have been on divergent paths, with very different day-to-day realities, concerns, and political beliefs, and it's a leadership challenge to try to figure out how best to steer through this time of divergence.

We already know, of course, that the views of our own community about Israel -- and this is true whether we're looking at the Kavana community, the Seattle Jewish community, or the American Jewish community as a whole -- are complex, diverse, and shifting quickly. Data from Seattle Jewish Federation's recent Community Study demonstrates some of this complexity: large numbers of respondents agreed or strongly agreed with statements like "It is important to me that Israel is both a Jewish and democratic state" (81%) and "I feel emotionally attached to Israel" (68%), but fewer than half agreed that "In general, Israel makes me proud to be Jewish" (49%). Solid pockets of the community "feel like the American Jewish community is too hard-line in support of Israel" (43%) or "feel like the American Jewish community is not strong and outspoken enough in its support of Israel" (34%). A solid majority of respondents (73%) agree that “I sometimes find it hard to support actions taken by Israel or its government.”

A Jewish Voter Resource Center poll released this past week makes this last point even more sharply. A headline in The Forward summarizes: "Nearly half of young U.S. Jews want to replace Israel with binational state, poll finds. The new data reflects generational shift and growinggulf between American and Israeli Jews." You can click here to read the whole article, but this data doesn't feel particularly surprising to me in the wake of all that's transpired in Gaza, the West Bank and Israel over the last few years.

At such an intense moment of divergence, it's tempting for us here in the American Jewish community to either to look away and disconnect from Israel completely (avoidance), or to retreat to talking points but without real engagement. If you know me, you won't be surprised that I am advocating for continued engagement. At this moment when we perceive the fabric of the worldwide Jewish community to be pulling apart at the seams, I believe it's our obligation not to give up on this relationship. Even and especially when the Israeli government is moving in ways that rightfully horrify our community, now is not the time for us to look the other way, but rather to actively engage to counter the harm, and to seek out our counterparts in Israel/Palestine who are values-aligned and potential allies for us in a longer-term way. 

Although it might have been easier to steer clear of these "hot" topics, over recent weeks, two of Kavana's youth education programs, Moadon Yeladim and Middle School Program, have leaned into curricular modules about Israel's history and contemporary realities. And, over the coming week, there will be two more opportunities for anyone in the Kavana community to connect in a more direct way with Israelis who are tied into what's happening on the ground there. 

First, Shira ben Ami -- Director of the New Israel Fund in Israel -- will be speaking this coming Tuesday evening in Capitol Hill. (Kavana is a co-sponsor for this event and many of our folks are already registered - others are welcome to click here to register.) Amidst the multiple crises of the past few years, NIF and its grassroots partners have continued to fight for the Israel that we believe in -- "a more just, equal, and democratic society that guarantees dignity and safety for all Israelis and Palestinians." Shira will share how NIF is thinking strategically about the upcoming election, building a stronger ecosystem of activists and organizations, and creating the conditions that make peace and democracy possible.

And then, next Thursday night at 7pm, Kavana is hosting the Zamru Ensemble for a special Song Circle (click here to register) This talented group of musicians who will be joining us from Jerusalem connect music, creativity, identity and Jewish prayer, drawing on liturgical poetry (piyutim), traditional melodies (nigunim), and more. Participating in this event is a reminder that at the same time that the Jewish people are experiencing divergence around identity and politics, a vibrant Jewish cultural revival is happening that transcends geographic boundaries and has the power to weave us together into a single community of meaning.

Given the timing of Shavuot, the American and Israeli Jewish communities will indeed be reading different Torah portions this Shabbat. However, we already know that this lectionary calendar misalignment won't be permanent; in just six more weeks, our Torah readings will come back into sync with one another. In thinking about the Jewish people at this inflection point in history, my hope is that, similarly, the pulling apart we are currently experiencing will also not turn out to be a permanent rupture. Ultimately, I hope we will be able to bridge the chasm of experience and outlook that is driving a wedge between American and Israeli Jews. The only way to achieve that re-alignment in the longer-term is to actively cultivate and tend to this relationship now. 

Parashat Nasso (the Torah portion I'll be reading this Shabbat), includes the Priestly Blessing. After its three famous lines ("May God bless you and keep you. May God deal kindly and graciously with you. May God bestow favor upon you and grant you peace."), the section around the blessing concludes with one final verse, set off visually from the rest of the text:

וְשָׂמ֥וּ אֶת־שְׁמִ֖י עַל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וַאֲנִ֖י אֲבָרְכֵֽם׃ {ס}        
Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them.

Ibn Ezra, a 12th century Spanish commentator, unpacks the final phrase of this verse, writing: 

"'AND I WILL BLESS THEM.' It is possible that the mem of avarekhem (I will bless them) refers to the kohanim who utter the blessing. It means they will bless Israel, and I will bless those who bless. It is also possible that the mem of avarekhem refers to all of Israel. Its meaning is, if the kohanim bless Israel, then I will bless Israel; that is, I will fulfill the blessing of the kohanim. In my opinion, the mem of avarekhem refers to all of them."

Ibn Ezra considers two possible readings of the text, but then communicates his own favored reading, which is that "I will bless them" means "I will bless all of them." As I read this verse this week, I echo that sentiment -- that with these words of blessing conveyed in Parashat Nasso, we are asking for blessing for "all of them" -- that is, for the portion of the Jewish people both here and there.

With prayers for a Shabbat of peace and harmony, even during this period of tension and divergence -- and may we work to re-stitch the tapestry of Jewish community in a way that makes a future of peace and democracy possible, here, there and everywhere, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Shavuot: Visions of Learning and Community

Shavuot’s name has an oddly retrospective meaning that doesn’t really center the day itself. Shavuot means “weeks”, and comes from the practice of counting days and weeks from Passover until you’ve reached seven weeks, and then the next day - the 50th - we celebrate Shavuot. 

This holiday came to mark the moment that Torah was given at Mt. Sinai, and many traditions on Shavuot focus on learning and teaching as key Jewish practices for encountering each other and the divine. Pedagogy, theology, and social justice interweave as partners in conceptualizing what it means to be Jewish. God says that the Israelites will be a mamlechet cohanim v’goy kadosh מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ (Exodus 19:6), “a kingdom of priests [i.e. torah teachers] and a holy nation [i.e. a society obsessed with ethical and spiritual aspiration].” How so? Through fruitful meditation on Torah and practicing its mitzvot. 

In the story of preparing to receive Torah at Mt. Sinai, Moses instructs the people to wait three days. But in our cyclical re-encounter with the giving of Torah, we count day by day for fifty days! Although learning can be serendipitous, it also often requires patience, intention, and incremental gain. Day by day, “one who gathers a little shall increase” (Proverbs 13:11, cited in Talmud Eruvin 54b). 

Charmingly, the Talmud then tells us that most of the sages ignored that advice… They were ravenous to learn, and whether or not they serve as models for our own learning process, they did become great teachers of Torah. 

Last night at Kavana’s Shavuot celebration, we learned of two such sages, Rabbi Chanina (Rabbi “Grace”) and Rabbi Chiya (Rabbi “Life”). Once, they got into an argument about how to recover from a theoretical disaster in which the whole Jewish people forgot the Torah (Talmud Ketubot 103b). 

Rabbi Chanina said to Rabbi Chiya: You are arguing with me? If, Heaven forfend, the Torah would be forgotten from the Jewish people, I would restore it through my analyses!

Rabbi Chanina’s argument is simple - his intellectual acumen is so sharp that he could single-handedly recreate the Torah if necessary. That is surely impressive! His offering is, like his name, a form of grace, chen, a gift beyond merit. In a world of forgetfulness, he (and he alone) could restore learning with ease. 

But Rabbi Chiya has a different approach, one that also evokes his name which means “life,”  with its messy-yet-not-wasteful, redundant, effortful, and interconnected qualities. 

Rabbi Chiya said to him: I am working to ensure that the Torah will not be forgotten from the Jewish people. For I bring flax and I plant it, and I then weave nets [from its fibers.] I trap deer, and I feed the meat to orphans, and I form scrolls from the skins of the deer. And I go to a town that has no teachers of children in it and I write the five books [of the Torah] for five children. And I teach the six orders [of the Mishna] to six children. To each and every one I say: Teach your order to your friends.

It is all well and good to theorize about how to restore a forgotten Torah, but perhaps a better plan is to ensure it is never forgotten. Rabbi Chiya subtly rebukes the centralized and towering authority of Rabbi Chanina by describing his own humble and distributed method of teaching Torah. 

Every action Rabbi Chiya takes is in service of Torah and in service of the people. He provides material sustenance to those without parents, and spiritual and intellectual sustenance to those without teachers. And then he says: Don’t just learn. Teach each other. 

This is what it looks like to be a mamlechet kohanim v’goy kadosh, a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. Rabbi Chanina could be a new Abraham or Moses, but Rabbi Chiya could be someone even more important - he could be you. 

What are you learning, little by little? Who gave you Torah and tradition? Who have you taught it to in turn? And whose lives have you nourished along the way?

Chag Sameach, and Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

The Beauty & Meaning of Organization -- and Introducing Kavana's new Strategic Plan!

As we roll into the Book of Numbers this week, Parashat Bamidbar opens with a census of the Israelites. One leader per tribe is designated to help in enumerating the number of military-aged men in each tribe. The bulk of the Torah portion then goes on to explain, systematically, the layout of the Israelites' camp around the Mishkan (Tabernacle), as well as the divisions and leadership responsibilities of the Levite tribe. 

There's not a lot of narrative in this parasha, which is why Bamidbar has the reputation of being a little dry; after all, from within the weeds, it really reads like a set of lists: of names, of statistics, of locations, and of duties. But, if we step back and try to take a bird's-eye view on the Israelites' camp that's being described, the real beauty of its organizational structure emerges.

Picture the Israelite tribes encamped in the wilderness -- in a precise, rectangular formation, with the Mishkan at the center. On the east side would have been the tribe of Judah under its standard, together with Issachar and Zebulun; on the south side: the tribe of Reuben, with Simeon and Gad; on the west, the tribe of Ephraim under its standard, together with Manasseh and Benjamin; on the north side, the tribe of Dan, along with Asher and Naphtali (see Numbers chapter 2). The Levite tribe -- subdivided into clans of Kohathites, Gershonites, and Merarites -- would have been camped immediately around the Tabernacle in order to perform their sacred duties (see Numbers chapters 3 & 4).

This geometric tribe-by-tribe arrangement was purposeful, and conveyed great meaning. The twelve tribes, clustered into teams of three, were camped around the perimeter, all equidistant from the center, signifying an egalitarian ethos. The Levites' closer location allowed them to perform their specific duties. And the Mishkan, stationed at the center of the camp, indicated that God's presence and the human aspiration to connect with the Divine stood at the very heart of the Israelite community.

Rabbinic commentaries expound on this idea, that the structure of the Israelite camp was an expression of the community's core values. Thus we find, in Legends of the Jews (a hefty compilation of aggadic midrashim from across many centuries, published in 1909 in German by Louis Ginzberg and then translated into English in 1913 by Henrietta Szold):

"'The Lord by wisdom hath founded the earth; by understanding hath God established the heavens.' The division of the tribes of Israel according to four standards, as well as their subdivision at each standard, is not arbitrary and accidental, it corresponds to the same plan and direction as that of which God made use in heaven. The celestial Throne is surrounded by four angels: to the right Michael, in front Gabriel, to the left Uriel, and to the rear Raphael. To these four angels corresponded the four tribes of Reuben, Judah, Dan and Ephraim, the standard bearers...' (p. 685).

As we see here, the arrangement of the tribes around the Mishkan is not just a satisfyingly symmetrical design, but a reflection of the heavenly order itself! Other midrashim cited in the work connect the colors of the four standards (banners) to the colors of the stones on the High Priest's breastplate, and the symbols on each standard to the images and letters associated with each tribe. In other words, the midrashic understanding is that nothing about this arrangement is random; every detail matters and symbolizes connection to parallel realms both larger and smaller, like a fractal.

Continuing further through this section of Legends of the Jews, we also find:

"For, over the Holy Ark, God let a pillar of cloud rest, and in this were visible the letters Yod and He, spelling the name Yah, by means of which God had created the world. This pillar of cloud shed sunlight by day and moonlight by night, so that Israel, who were surrounded by clouds, might distinguish between night and day. These two sacred letters, Yod, He, would on weekdays fly about in the air over the four standards, hovering now upon this, now upon that. But as soon as Friday was over and the Sabbath began, these letters stood immovable on the spot where they chanced to be at that moment, and remained in this rigid position from the first moment of the Sabbath to the last..." (p. 686).

Not only is the organizational structure of the camp intense and symbolic, but everything about it is designed around specific Hebrew letters, which hovered like drones over the center of the camp such that they were visible at all times. These letters -- reminders of God as "being" itself -- represent the highest values and aspirations of the Israelite community, always in view.

Switching gears to reflect on our own community, I would offer that we here in Seattle, too, seek to build a holy community. We are obviously not the Israelite tribes encamped in the wilderness, and we don't have a physical Mishkan to stand at our center, nor magical divine letters to hover over each of our communal gatherings. And yet, the organizational model of the Israelite camp in Parashat Bamidbar still feels like a valuable paradigm for us to consider today. Coming together effectively still requires organization and structure, leadership and role clarity, and the ability to articulate and agree upon our core purpose and values. 

Over the past year, as you hopefully know, Kavana has undertaken a comprehensive Strategic Planning process. This is something we do approximately every five years -- and the process allows us to understand where we are at a specific moment in time, what we're doing well and where there are opportunities for growth, and where we want to focus our energies next. A Kavana community survey last summer provided lots of data and helped us hone in on some key questions and themes we wanted to understand better; focus groups conducted this winter brought more than 70 partner voices into conversation with one another and provided deeper input. Meanwhile, throughout the whole year, the Kavana Board, staff, and a Strategic Planning Committee have been meeting and trying to translate these ideas into clear words and plans. 

What has emerged from this process are several documents that we are happy to be able to share now with our broader community. First, this Who/What/Why/How document explains exactly that -- who we are, what we do, why we do it, and how it happens. (This is our Kavana version of what, at another organization, might be labeled a "Mission/Vision/Values statement," and will replace our previous Purpose statement.) In drafting this new language, the aim was in no way to reinvent Kavana, but to illuminate who we already are and what we already do - clearly, authentically, and with intention. You'll soon see this language on our website, and we hope that these words will resonate with each of you in a personal way. This document will sit at the heart of our sacred community -- in much the same way that the Mishkan was set at the center of the Israelite camp, keeping our entire community oriented around a shared identity and purpose.

A second document I'm pleased to share contains the Core Priorities and Strategies of our new Strategic Plan. In this diagram, four priorities appear as pillars, mirroring the four standards of the Israelite tribes that stood around the Mishkan. These pillars represent the most important buckets of work that we want to focus on over the coming handful of years. 

Finally, I am delighted to be able to share Kavana's full Strategic Plan as well -- in both abbreviated (5-page) and full (16-page) versions. For some people, it might feel easy to get lost in the weeds of lots of words, in much the same way that it's possible to feel lost in the many lists of Parashat Bamidbar. But, for those of you who have an interest in wading into the whole document and then stepping back from it to reflect on its broader meaning, I hope you will be able to see that -- like the Israelites' camp -- this Strategic Plan is intentional in design and speaks volumes about who we want to be as a community and how we want to function together. 

I am very proud of all of these new Strategic Plan documents -- and even more proud of the processes behind them, and of the work that we do, day in and day out, to build a community that knows how to function together, has clear direction and a healthy organizational structure, and shares a vision for what sacred community looks like. I look forward to seeing those of you who are Kavana partners this Sunday afternoon at our Annual Partner Meeting, where we can dig into these plans further and digest them together. 

As we read this Shabbat about the architecture of our Israelite ancestors' community, I will be celebrating the value of organization, administration, and well-designed communal structures. I am grateful that each and every one of you plays a role in making Kavana such a magical and holy place in which to experience Jewish community; this work truly matters.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Dress With Respect

Back in November 2025, the United States Department of Transportation memorably started a campaign to “jumpstart a nationwide conversation around how we can all restore courtesy and class to air travel,” in part by encouraging people to “dress with respect.” 

Reactions ranged from outrage at the idea of dictating a dress code to charmed bemusement with such a ridiculous and old-fashioned focus, given real problems in the world. A news article stated: “Travel experts are skeptical that the Transportation Department's call to dress up for the airport will result in meaningful changes.”

But if dressing up for the airport seems a bit much, real questions arise (although perhaps less so in Seattle) about dressing up for other occasions. We expect at least some guidance on how formally we should show up to weddings, funerals, graduations, and other significant gatherings. And while fan gear is hardly formal, there’s certainly serious encouragement to show your team spirit through clothing, even if you aren’t at the game itself. 

When our attention shifts to religious spaces, in particular regular prayer services, there seems to be a genuine debate about the role of dressing up (although again, probably less so in Seattle). Should we be signaling that we are in sacred space and time through more formal clothing? Or should we keep it casual, creating a more comfortable and relatable setting for connecting to each other and our spiritual lives? 

There’s a curious verse near the end of the book of Vayikra that brought this tension between the formal and the casual to mind. 

I will walk about (heet’halachti) in your midst: I will be your God, and you will be My people. (Vayikra 26:12)

Rashi (11th century France) helps us understand the odd image of God walking about in the Israelite camp: 

I will, as it were, walk with you…as though I were one of you and you will not be frightened of Me. One might think that this implies: you will not be in awe of Me! Scripture however states, “but I will be your God.”

God’s walking about is meant to make God more relatable and more accessible. Surely God is not always walking about in a three-piece suit or a chic black dress. I bet God even wears sweatpants on airplanes these days…

But Rashi clarifies that our awe of God should not be diminished by such casual presence. Familiarity should not breed contempt, God forbid, and informality should not be mistaken for lack of grandeur.

Lurking in the shadows of this verse is the story of the Garden of Eden (Bereshit 3:6-8). This is the only other place in Torah where God is described as meet’haleich, walking about. 

When the woman saw that the tree was good for eating and a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was desirable as a source of wisdom, she took of its fruit and ate. She also gave some to her husband, and he ate. 

Then the eyes of both of them were opened and they perceived that they were naked; and they sewed together fig leaves and made themselves loincloths. 

They heard the voice of God walking about (meet’haleich) in the garden at the breezy time of day; and the Human and his wife hid from God among the trees of the garden.

In addition to this text being an origin story for wearing clothes at all, let alone wearing the right clothes, it also reveals a tragic breakdown of relationship. When Adam and Eve become aware of God walking about in the Garden, they become frightened and hide. First they hide part of themselves through the figleaves. And then they attempt to hide fully from God. 

Their primary failure wasn’t eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge, but in being unable to integrate their new perception and to honestly be themselves and simultaneously responsive to the divine. 

Rashi’s reading of God’s promise in Vayikra offers a tikkun, a redemptive and poetic reversal of what goes wrong in the Garden. God’s promise is that in the future when we perceive God’s presence, we will no longer be frightened, but we will be comforted and capable of growing into a relationship with our spiritual awareness, rather than running away from it. 

There’s no accident that throughout the Torah, walking with God becomes a metaphor for our spiritual aspirations, and it is no accident that Jewish law is known as halachah, literally “walking”. 

Too often the debate about dress is just about power and control, but there’s a deeper question worth pondering. Which behaviors and settings help us cultivate awe and reverence for the Something-Larger-than-us that inspires our growth, while also providing enough comfort and ease that we don’t become overwhelmed and hide from our own path of growth? 

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Our Power to Create Holy Time

Lately, my answer to the stock question of "How are you?" has been something like "Personally, I'm doing well, despite it all." I've been thinking a lot about the discrepancy there... and how it is that we work to create of order and meaning in our personal lives, even (or especially) in light of the chaos the Trump administration is kicking up all around us.

One of the keys -- perhaps Judaism's single most powerful and potent tool -- for shaping our lives can be found in this week's Torah portion. A large chunk of Parashat Emor (all of Leviticus 23) is given over to the theme of holy time. That text opens with these words: "GOD spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: These are My fixed times, the fixed times of GOD, that you shall proclaim as sacred occasions." The chapter then goes on to enumerate these "mikraei kodesh" ("sacred occasions") beginning with Shabbat each week, and continuing with the annual festivals of Pesach, Shavuot and the Omer, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. 

Many classical commentaries note the interesting wording of the verses I've cited above (Lev. 23:1-2). To whom do these special days belong, they wonder? God refers to the Jewish holidays as "My fixed times," and yet, it is clear that the "you shall proclaim" means that it is we humans who have control over our calendar. In Akeidat Yitchak (67:2:4) -- a collection of philosophical sermons on the Torah -- the 15th century Spanish rabbi Isaac ben Moses Arama explains that the holidays are really a collaborative partnership between God and the Jewish people. He writes: 

"God agrees with the decisions made by Israel, in contrast to earthly rulers. When an earthly ruler promulgates a law, his parliament cannot revoke it, but the king himself is at liberty to cancel his decree. Not so with God. God accommodates to the laws enacted by the Sanhedrin (the ancient Jewish judicial court). For instance, if the Sanhedrin decides to proclaim New Year's day on a certain day, God assembles the Divine Court to arrange to sit in judgment of mankind on that day, as it is written: "God arose when there is blowing of the teruah (shofar)" (Psalms 47:6). The Torah says "it will be a day of teruah for Me" (Numbers 29:1). It also says, "These are the appointed times for God, which you will proclaim" (Leviticus 23:2). This means that the Jewish people are the final arbiter concerning the dates of these holy-days."

Rabbi Arama's idea is a striking one. It's not that our holidays are days with intrinsic holiness, which we can then choose whether and how to observe, but rather that -- by virtue of declaring specific days holy and observing them ritually -- we human beings have the power to imbue time with sanctity.

This idea is also central to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel's seminal book The Sabbath (1951), in which he famously describes Shabbat as a "palace in time." He writes:

"Judaism is a religion of time aiming at the sanctification of time. Unlike the space-minded man to whom time is unvaried, iterative, homogeneous, to whom all hours are alike, quality-less, empty shells, the Bible senses the diversified character of time. There are no two hours alike. Every hour is unique and the only one given at the moment, exclusive and endlessly precious.

Judaism teaches us to be attached to holiness in time, to be attached to sacred events, to learn how to consecrate sanctuaries that emerge from the magnificent stream of a year. The Sabbaths are our great cathedrals; and our Holy of Holies is... the Day of Atonement" (p. 8).

In Heschel's conception, we are the architects who build and scaffold the palaces in time that make up our lives. And part of what makes those moments so special and precious is their uniqueness and their finitude (their limited quality).

Returning to where we began, part of the way that we can work to stay healthy and grounded and to feel okay, even during these distressing and turbulent times, is by understanding that all of us are inheritors of the great cathedrals in time that Parashat Emor enumerates.

As I write, it is currently day 29 of the counting of the Omer -- a practice instructed right here in this week's parasha (see Lev. 23:15-16). The act of counting up from Pesach to Shavuot is itself a spiritual exercise. As the Homer Calendar eloquently explains: "Counting each of the days of the omer reminds us that all of our days are numbered, and it is our responsibility to make each day count."

In addition, as the Omer reminds us -- with its mandate to count "seven complete weeks" of seven days each -- we always live inside the basic building block of Jewish time: the 7-day week. As Jews, we measure our lives in Shabbatot -- the distance from one Friday night and Saturday to the next. This increment of time has been on my mind a lot lately, as my oldest child prepares to graduate from high school and move away to continue her education. In my house, we are now counting down the weeks we have left together with her at home before that big transition... and I'm feeling very acutely what it means that we have only 6 more Shabbatot(!) before this chapter of our family's life comes to a close. The limited amount of time makes each Shabbat we have together feel all the more precious.

In the face of all the awful noise that exists in our world, this week, Parashat Emor comes to remind us that we have been bequeathed a beautiful gift and tool: the ability to create sacred time. Let us fill our palaces of holy time with all that is good -- with rest and well-being, with peace and community, with love and hope -- and from there, may we refill our own cups and radiate out the positive energy that has the capacity to heal our broken society.

Shabbat Shalom, and let's keep counting our days together and building beautiful cathedrals in time, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Eldering

A few days ago, I was walking to preschool with my children. My five-year-old, who has been exploring friendship and playground etiquette (mostly in the breach), noted that one of his classmates had been encouraging others to do mean things. After participating for a while, my kiddo finally wised up and chose not to play with this classmate anymore. 

“But,” he asked, “isn’t it mean not to play with someone?” I agreed that while generally social exclusion is not a nice thing to practice, sometimes there are good reasons for setting boundaries - especially if a “friend” is encouraging mean behavior! 

After dropping the kids off, my mind continued to buzz with curiosity about human interaction, and the philosophical implications of how the same action can be mean in one context, and morally justified in another. 

Later that day, while on the phone with my parents, I found myself in a discussion about the book of Job. My father mused about how the Torah seems to lay out an orderly view of the world, in which good is rewarded and evil is punished, but Job undermines that message - here is a book which adamantly demonstrates a good person suffering through no fault of his own. Life is complex and irreducibly mysterious. 

But what a feeling to philosophize with my children in the morning and my parents in the afternoon! To try to guide my little ones into more clarity on the rules and systems of society, and to ponder the limits of what we can know with my elders. 

These intergenerational conversations directed me to a verse from this week’s parashah (Kedoshim, Vayikra 19:32)).

מִפְּנֵ֤י שֵׂיבָה֙ תָּק֔וּם וְהָדַרְתָּ֖ פְּנֵ֣י זָקֵ֑ן…       

Mipnei seivah takum, v’hadarta p’nei zakein…
You shall rise before the aged and show deference to the old…

On its surface, this is a straightforward reminder to “respect your elders.” Yet, there are important questions we must answer:

• What does it mean to be an elder?

• Why should elders be respected? 

• And what does that respect consist of? 

Ramban (13th-century Spain) begins his commentary by quoting Rashi:

“I might think that one is to rise before an uncultured old man; Scripture therefore states, and thou shalt honor the face of ‘zakein’ (the old man). Zakein [from the root kanah, acquire] means only one who has ‘acquired’ wisdom.” This is Rashi’s language. 

Who is an elder, according to Rashi? Someone whose years have brought learning as well as age. Don’t waste your respect on bumpkins, apparently! Luckily, Ramban has more to add:

The concluding opinion of the Talmud (Kiddushin 32b) is not so, for the Rabbis have said: “Isi ben Yehudah says: Any hoary head is included [under the terms of this commandment], and Rabbi Yochanan said: The final decision of the law is as Isi ben Yehudah interpreted it.” Thus Scripture is commanding [in the first half of the verse] to honor any old person, even the unlearned.

Age itself is worth respecting. And for all this talk of being “learned” or not, we know there are many ways of being wise. If you can’t learn something from a person, the issue lies as much with the student as with the teacher…

Ramban (quoting the Talmud) envisions a society where baseline respect grows for people over time, regardless of intellect, productivity, or any other way that we evaluate ourselves. Imagine a retirement account that was filled over the years not with money but with social regard, kindness, and connection. 

However, Ramban has more to say!

And then [in the second half of the verse] it gives another commandment concerning the zakein, that is one who has acquired wisdom, even if they be young and learned. 

As another Talmudic teaching suggests (Taanit 7a): “And this is what Rabbi Chanina said: I have learned much from my teachers and even more from my friends, but from my students I have learned more than from all of them.”

Norman Fischer, in his beautiful book Taking Our Places, spends time focusing on maturity, which I would connect to becoming an elder (of any age):

There are answers to life’s most important questions, but they are never final; they change as we change. Maybe true maturity is finding a way of keeping such questions alive throughout our lifetime. For when there are no more questions, we stop maturing and begin merely to age.

The potency of speaking across generations is not about giving each other answers (although sometimes those help!), but more about sparking the important questions. Who am I? Who are you? How should I grow? How do we live together? What gives you strength when life is hard? What brings you joy? Where do we go next?

Wherever you find yourself on life’s journey, we have so much to share with each other. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

The Humility of the Little Kaf -- How to Turn the Tide

As we head into the Shabbat of Parashat Tazria-Metzora -- which is also the Shabbat before Yom HaAtzmaut -- I want to share and build on the words of a colleague. In a compelling and powerful Dvar Torah published this week, Rabbi Aaron Leven wrote for the T'ruah list (a rabbinic social justice and human rights organization):

"Just days before Pesach, the Israeli Knesset passed a law that would enforce the death penalty by hanging for Palestinians convicted of deadly attacks. Legal experts believe that the law is written in such a way that it would make it nearly impossible to ever apply to Jewish extremists accused of similar crimes.

Despite knowing for weeks that this government would likely succeed in passing this racist, discriminatory, and morally reprehensible legislation, when I received the news, I still found myself in a state of gut-wrenching shock. For anyone to claim that such a law is representative of Judaism is not only disgraceful, it is a chillul Hashem — a desecration of the Divine.

This week in our double parshah of Tazria-Metzora, we read about tzara’at, a plague of leprosy that can affect one’s body, clothing, or home. We read that when an Israelite encounters tzara’at in their home, they are to approach the Kohen (Hebrew priest) and say, “Something like a plague has appeared on my house,” "k'nega nirah li ba-bayit" (Leviticus 14:35). The Or HaChaim asks, 

Why did the Torah not write that the owner says ‘plague,’ but rather as saying ‘something like a plague’? The answer is that the letter kaf (meaning ‘like’) teaches that even if the owner is very learned, and he has no doubt that the symptoms he has found are those of the tzara’at plague, he must not take it upon himself to pronounce judgment. 

This little kaf is there to remind us of the sanctity of humility — to recognize that as human beings we do not have the right to pass judgment; that is only reserved for the Divine.

As I read the Or HaChaim’s commentary, I was reminded of our sages’ discussion of the death penalty in Masekhet Makkot. Despite capital punishment’s presence in the Torah, our rabbis felt deeply uncomfortable with carrying out any sentencing that did not, above all, preserve the sanctity of human life. In the opening chapter of Mishnah Makkot we read, 

The Sanhedrin (the supreme court of ancient Israel) that puts to death one person in seven years is termed tyrannical. Rabbi Eleazar Ben Azariah says, ‘One person in 70 years.’ Rabbi Tarffon and Rabbi Akiba say, ‘If we had been in the Sanhedrin, no one would have ever been put to death.’ (Mishnah Makkot 1:10) 

Despite a halakhic system that in theory had space for capital punishment, our rabbis were unequivocally clear — the death penalty has no place in our Jewish tradition..." (Rabbi Leven's piece continues... click here to read the whole thing.)

Like Rabbi Leven, I am dismayed by Israel's new death penalty law. I've also been horrified in recent weeks watching the escalating settler violence against Palestinians in the West Bank, and I recently joined together with many other Diaspora Jewish leaders in a letter to Israel's President, Isaac Herzog, trying to prevail upon him to curb their awful, unlawful attacks (click here to read that letter). As the State of Israel prepares to celebrate its 78th birthday this coming Tuesday night and Wednesday, both the legal and social changes feel like indicators that the country is moving further and further away from its founding vision, as articulated in Israel's Declaration of Independence, which reads in part:

"THE STATE OF ISRAEL... will foster the development of the country for the benefit of all its inhabitants; it will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture; it will safeguard the Holy Places of all religions; and it will be faithful to the principles of the Charter of the United Nations."

Of course, as the saying goes, "those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." It would feel a little unfair to write about the extreme internal challenges facing the State of Israel without also noting the extreme challenges we face here at home in the United States, as we hurtle towards our nation's 250th birthday. Our country, too, desperately needs to learn the lesson from this week's parasha of the little kaf -- about the sanctity of humility and the need to curb our impulses to pass judgment or act with undue certainty. This week, the U.S. is the laughing stock of the world, with the American President having compared himself to Jesus and sparred with the Pope. Our country is waging war wantonly: our "Department of War" has been quick to carry out destruction on a scale that will take generations to rebuild, and effectively jumping to sentence-to-death so many civilians (in Tehran and beyond) who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In many ways, the antidote to all of this -- the unethical laws, the malfeasance and the lies, the destructive warfare -- would be the broad restoration of the little kaf explained above. In Tazria-Metzora, a single person who is willing to soften their assertions a little bit -- saying "Something like a plague has appeared on my house" -- creates just enough of a gap to allow in other people's opinions and room for Divine authority. If ALL of us were to speak softly in that way, our entire society would be transformed... with humility opening up the space for difference and disagreement, and pathways towards democracy and to peace.

We can feel the promise of the little kaf in Viktor Orban's defeat at the polls this week, where a record-setting number of Hungarian voters came together to deal a major blow to pomposity and false certainty. The little kaf is also a key element on the pathway towards peace between Israelis and Palestinians -- because it represents just enough softening to make way for holding one's own pain and the pain of another simultaneously. If you haven't seen it yet, I invite you to spend 20 minutes with Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon (they did an interview together with Jon Stewart on the Daily Show this week, about their new book The Future is Peace). As in past years, I also invite you to spend an hour on Yom HaZikaron (Israel's Memorial Day, which is marked on the day before Yom HaAtzmaut), watching the 21st Israeli-Palestinian Joint Memorial Ceremony, hosted by Combatants for Peace and the Parents Circle, and co-sponsored by Kavana (click here to register for this virtual event happening on Monday at 10:30am PT) -- it never fails to move me to tears.

This week, let's each try to restore the kaf in our world: to speak softly, to hold back on decisive judgments, to allow in just a smidge of humility. If we can help turn the tide and welcome humility back in, perhaps there is hope yet that the State of Israel might embrace its founding vision, and that here in America, we might yet build a society in which all of us can dwell with pride.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Discerning Eye

Sometimes, you want a short, pithy phrase to remind you who you are, what matters to you, and what you are trying to do in life. A tagline, mission statement, or mantra, anything that feels grounding and returns you to purposeful and meaningful activities. 

One of my favorite taglines comes to mind every time I sit down to prepare a d’var torah: “Close reading is an act of love.” Like a birder, I stealthily sit down in the presence of Torah and peer through the lens of text, context, interpretation, and imagination. I patiently but passionately ready myself for the subtle call, the flash of something unexpected, the wonder of noticing something new or the warmth of revisiting an old friend. 

This week it took until the very last verses of the parashah, summarizing a lengthy list of kosher and non-kosher animals, to find what I hadn’t yet known I was looking for:

These are the instructions concerning animals, birds, all living creatures that move in water, and all creatures that swarm on earth, for distinguishing between the impure and the pure, between the living things that may be eaten and the living things that may not be eaten. (Vayikra / Leviticus 11:46-47)

לְהַבְדִּ֕יל בֵּ֥ין הַטָּמֵ֖א וּבֵ֣ין הַטָּהֹ֑רL’havdil bein ha’tamei v’ha’tahor.To distinguish between the impure and the pure. 

This must be one of Vayikra’s taglines! Havdalah, if it is a familiar word, likely brings you to Saturday evening and the ritual we use to end Shabbat. It literally means “distinguishing” or “separating.” Here it is used simply to name the purpose of Vayikra’s instructions on kosher animals. 

But it isn’t simply about knowing that a cow is (generally) kosher and a horse isn’t. Once you learn that rule, you are unlikely to run into an edge case where you can’t tell if an animal is a cow or a horse! (For the parents reading, there’s a charming Bluey episode about precisely this dilemma.)

Rashi (11th century, France) clarifies that the goal of being able to l’havdil is “not that one should only learn the laws, but it is a command that you should know and recognize the differences and be expert in them… You shall distinguish between such an animal as is clean (permitted) to you and such as is unclean (forbidden) to you even though it is a clean animal per se, i.e., make a distinction between an animal which has been killed by cutting at least the greater part of each organ (the gullet and the windpipe) or whether it has been killed by cutting exactly the half of each organ. And how much difference is there between the greater part and the exact half? A hair’s breadth only.”

In other words, l’havdil means you have to see with a discerning eye and have discriminating judgment. The priestly book of Vayikra is certainly interested in the rules of kashrut and all the other practices it lays out, but it is also interested in teaching us to be close readers, to be people with heightened sensitivity to subtle nuances, whether we are gathered about a slaughtered animal, a sacred text, or a moral dilemma. 

So often, we contrast nuance with oversimplification. Those who know we need nuance in reading the political and moral situations of our time are often stuck with the lackluster tagline, “But wait…” or even worse, “But what about…” Meanwhile, those quick to conviction rush ahead, trying to get stuff done for good or for ill. 

But Vayikra’s approach to nuance is different.  It is a marriage of making slow and careful observations and taking a clear and courageous stand. A hairsbreadth may separate opinions, but we still need to distinguish between what we find true or useful, and what leads us astray. There are no shortcuts, nor should we just walk in circles. 

One of the great moral aspirations we are called to is to hone our judgment, to see more clearly what is “kosher” and what isn’t. 

Discernment is by definition not about obvious choices. When have you needed to discern something important (perhaps about a job or a relationship)? Who or what helped you refine your judgment? And of course I have to ask - what might your tagline be?

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Leaving Narrowness, Pursuing Hope

Passover, which begins tonight, revolves around the single most important narrative that we Jews tell about ourselves: the story of "yetziyat mitzrayim," "the going out from Egypt." Through songs and questions, four cups of wine, and a wide range of props and symbolic foods, we recall this story, probe it, and ingest it into the very fibers of our being!

Our story begins in Mitzrayim, which translates to Egypt but literally comes from the Hebrew word tzar, meaning narrow. Thus, the journey we make out from Mitzrayim is not only a past-tense escape from the land in which our ancestors experienced enslavement, degradation and oppression, but also -- in each and every generation (as the Haggadah reminds us) -- the path we take out from whatever narrowness and confinement may bind us. 

This year, given the state of the world, it feels easier than ever to tap into a sense of mitzrayim and constraints. We almost don't need the tears of the salt water or the bitterness of maror to jog our memories... there are countless examples of cruelty, subjugation, and wanton violence all around us, and all we have to do is open our eyes.

And yet, to do so -- to consider and taste the oppression -- wouldn't be enough! Passover calls on us not only to get in touch with the experience of mitzrayim, but also with the experience of journeying forth from that narrow place. The flip side of constraint is the expanse, where we come to taste freedom, release, and relief. 

This year, as we sit at our respective seder tables, I hope that we will also be able to tap into the breathing room that the wilderness offers us, and its accompanying gratitude, joy, and hope. Let's recline comfortably on pillows, pour wine for one another to remind ourselves that we are all free people, and expound creatively on the story. For as much as the seder is about tasting bitterness, it is also about sweetness, springtime, and new beginnings. Ideally, there's a playfulness and a live-giving energy in this holiday celebration as we consider what it is to be Jewish, even in -- or maybe especially in -- these harrowing times.

As I hope you already know, Kavana is here for all of it! We believe that meaningful community matters, now and always. This means that we are committed to showing up for one another in tough times, whether that means times of personal struggle, societal/global challenge, or both. We also commit to celebrating together, and to expressing Jewish life with curiosity, creativity and play. For most of all, the story of yetziyat mitzrayim is a collective narrative: one that counts on all of us being in it together, and making this epic journey through life by re-tracing our ancestor's well-worn path, out of constraints and limitations, and towards possibility, liberation and redemption.

Wishing us all a true taste of freedom and hope this Pesach. Chag sameach,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Anxiety on the Altar

What I love about the book of Vayikra, with its tedious and off-putting instructions for sacrificial offerings and its odd rituals for moving in and out of impurity, is that at the core of the book’s vision is an orderly system for living in relationship to the holy. Life is messy, scary, uncertain… and there’s something we can do to bring ourselves back into alignment, to know that we are okay, that we are enough, that we can make up for mistakes, and that we are meaningfully embedded in a web of life pulsing with sacred purpose. 

On the surface, this week’s parashah, Tzav, builds on that premise. While the first parashah of the book outlined the sacrificial offerings, this second one details the preparation of the priests, Aaron and his sons, the kohanim. 

But underneath the surface, something stirs. Right away, we have subtly unusual language:

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃ צַ֤ו אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹן֙ וְאֶת־בָּנָ֣יו לֵאמֹ֔ר זֹ֥את תּוֹרַ֖ת הָעֹלָ֑ה הִ֣וא הָעֹלָ֡ה עַל֩ מוֹקְדָ֨הֿ עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֤חַ כׇּל־הַלַּ֙יְלָה֙ עַד־הַבֹּ֔קֶר וְאֵ֥שׁ הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ תּ֥וּקַד בּֽוֹ׃

GOD spoke to Moses, saying: Command (tzav) Aaron and his sons thus: This is the ritual of the burnt offering: The burnt offering itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept going on it.

Usually God instructs Moses to speak with Aaron and his sons, or to relay that this is the instruction for how to do something. Here we have the language of command!

The ancient sages (in Talmud Bavli, Kiddushin 29a) pick up on this anomaly and say: אֵין צַו אֶלָּא זֵרוּז מִיָּד וּלְדוֹרוֹת, “Tzav implies enthusiasm/urgency immediately and for generations.” 

Why here, though? The medieval commentator Kli Yakar suggests that it is human nature to be sleepily lazy at night, and the strong word tzav, with its urgency, arouses enthusiasm amongst the night shift. 

But the urgency of tzav spreads beyond this context - by the end of the parashah we have yet another subtle anomaly (Vayikra 8:36). 

And Aaron and his sons did all the things that God had commanded through Moses.

Ramban’s commentary: Everywhere in this section it says ‘as’ God commanded Moses, but here, since Aaron’s sons added to the command [by bringing strange fire which God had not commanded them], it does not say it in this way, since they did not do as God commanded Moses. Rather, the verse states that they did all the things ‘which’ God commanded, and they further added to them “the strange fire” of which it said that God had not commanded them.

The urgency and enthusiasm that Aaron’s sons soak up at the beginning of their ordination warps the judgment of two of those sons. Nadav and Avihu offer strange fire “which had not been enjoined (tzivah) upon them” (Vayikra 10:1) and are themselves burnt up by divine fire. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks puts it, they die “because of an act of misplaced enthusiasm.” 

Now none of these commentaries use the word “anxiety”, but I think it is a plausible reading of the undercurrent of the story. As these newly minted priests prepare for their very first official act, they have been commanded to do so with enthusiasm, but one person’s enthusiasm becomes another person’s urgency. And urgency swiftly becomes anxiety. 

“There is a positive feedback loop between the two variables. A sense of urgency increases anxiety. At the same time, anxiety will tell you that everything is urgent. It treats your worries as imminent and inevitable even if they have a low probability of occurrence” (Psychology Today).

Perhaps Nadav and Avihu anxiously question their worth: Are they enough? Do they really belong in this priestly family? Ibn Ezra comments simply on their great error: “They thought they were doing something God wanted.” Sadly, they tried too much. 

As Rabbi Dr. Caryn Aviv says in her new book, Unlearning Jewish Anxiety, “If we overwork, overdo, and overcompensate, then we’ll feel included. No matter that it might come with a serious cost.”

What if we read Vayikra as a meditation on anxiety, and the story of Nadav and Avihu as a cautionary tale about one way in which it manifests - striving not from a place of sacred purpose but out of an anxiety that we are not enough? A later tradition suggests that only their insides were burned but not their external body (see Rabbeinu Bachya for example), and I cannot imagine a more shocking yet resonant way to describe burnout. 

We are lucky enough to get to explore anxiety through a Jewish lens with Rabbi Caryn Aviv on zoom tomorrow afternoon (you’re invited!), culminating with a sweet Kavana havdalah ritual. 

In the meantime, may Shabbat bring you deep breaths and a kind heart, and the undeniable awareness that you are worthy and enough. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

The Power of Personal Invitation

We are living through an incredibly tough and volatile moment. This is a hard time to be an American, a hard time to be Jewish, and a hard time to be human! I hope you're all hanging in there.

As we navigate this swirl and seek groundedness, of course my instinct is to look to our Jewish tradition for guidance. And this week, as it happens, we are marking two important transitions (in addition to the first day of spring today, which is a lovely turning point in and of itself). First, the month of Nissan started just yesterday. Nissan is technically the first month of the Hebrew calendar year, and is the month in which we celebrate the festival of Pesach. Second, this Shabbat, we and Jewish communities everywhere will begin reading the book of Vayikra (Leviticus). Both Nissan and Vayikra usher us towards the pursuit of order in the face of chaos. Through both our Passover observances and the Levitical/priestly book of sacrifices, ritual helps us to hold large and unwieldy human emotions and experiences.

I'm struck this week, though, not only by the ritual aspects of Passover and Leviticus -- although of course it is true that both are known for their detailed rules -- but also by the fact that in each case, ritual acts are encased in an intimate encounter that features a personal invitation.

So many aspects of our Passover observance underscore this idea. The seder ritual is intended to be celebrated around the table, in intimate home settings. We pre-invite seder guests, and then also declare in invitation, "Let all who are hungry come and eat." The megillah associated with the Pesach festival itself is Shir HaShirim, the Song of Songs -- the poetic biblical book that features a dialogue between lovers, a hide-and-seek kind of dance between the Jewish people and God.

When it comes to Vayikra, the rabbis find evidence of this theme of intimacy and invitation in the opening words of both the parasha and the book: "Vayikra el moshe," "And [God] called to Moses." One of many midrashim offered by Vayikra Rabbah opens with the statement that "Moses was called by ten different names..." This midrash then offers proof-texts for Moses's many nicknames, pseudonyms, and monikers, before continuing: "The Holy Blessed One said to Moses: As you live, from all the names that you were called, I will call you only by the name that Bitya daughter of Pharaoh called you when she said, 'She called his name Moses' (Exodus 2:10). Therefore, our text says '[God] called to Moses.'"

It's a beautiful midrash... one in which God sees Moses, not in the many ways that other people see and name him, but for who he actually is. God calls Moshe by the name given to him, intimately, by Pharaoh's daughter, way back in his infancy at the bank of the Nile River, when his leadership and redemption story was first set into motion. The entire book of Leviticus and all of its priestly rules are contextualized, then, inside of this personal invitation from God to Moses.

This theme of intimacy and invitation -- being seen and recognized, and specifically named and invited in -- rings true for me at so many different levels right now. On an organizational level, over recent weeks, one of the big projects I've been working on with the Kavana staff, board, and partners is the mining of the data from our community survey (back in the fall) and our focus groups (over this winter). In analyzing all of this Kavana data, conversations keep returning to the idea of the relational nature of our work, the importance of face-to-face encounters between human beings, and the power of personal invitations.

In a different way, being seen is something that I've (thankfully) felt in the wake of the awful attack last week on Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, Michigan. In the hours and days immediately following, I received emails and text messages of solidarity and support from several elected officials (King County Executive Girmay Zahilay, King County Council Member Jorge Baron) and from fellow clergy members at some of our partner churches. SPD sent a patrol officer from the West Precinct to check in with our Kavana staff team and ask what kind of support might be helpful to us. Each of these reach-outs felt like an invitation to connection and relationship, and I was personally grateful for them (and am happy to be able to share about them with all of you).

In the face of the swirl of news and noise, I hope that you, too, will find your way towards rituals that ground you in tradition and supportive structure. The pathway towards all of these elements -- whether we're looking to Passover or to Leviticus for inspiration -- begins in a personal invitation that leads to enduring relationship and connection. 

Practically speaking, I invite you to join us at Kavana... whether for Shabbat services tomorrow morning or for a learning event next week. I hope that you are all making plans to celebrate the Passover holiday with others; I am so grateful to all of those hosts in our community who are walking the walk by opening up seats at their upcoming Passover seders to other guests from our community!

Lastly, as we move into Nissan and Vayikra, I invite YOU to be the one to reach out and extend an invitation from a place of seeing and care. Invite someone to take a walk and appreciate the spring blossoms together next week, or invite someone to share a meal with you and break bread together (whether leavened or unleavened!). One way or another, turn yourself into the host -- emulate God's call to Moses at the beginning of Vayikra -- and make or deepen a personal connection. 

In the face of a world that feels like it's careening out of control in so many ways, these threads of connection are something... or maybe, they are everything.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum