Lingering at the Banquet

This evening, we move not only into Shabbat, but also into chag (holiday) mode, for the final time this season, as we begin Shemini Atzeret.

Shemini Atzeret is a biblical holiday -- as we see in Leviticus 23:36:

בַּיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁמִינִ֡י מִקְרָא־קֹ֩דֶשׁ֩ יִהְיֶ֨ה לָכֶ֜ם וְהִקְרַבְתֶּ֨ם אִשֶּׁ֤ה לַֽיהֹוָה עֲצֶ֣רֶת הִ֔וא
"On the eighth day, you should observe a sacred occasion and bring an offering by fire to GOD; it is a solemn gathering..."

On the bolded phrase above, Rashi comments:

עצרת הוא — The word is derived from the root עצר (atzar) “to hold back” and suggests: I keep you back with Me one day more. This is analogous to the case of a king who invited his children to a banquet for a certain number of days. When the time arrived for them to take their departure he said, “Children, I beg of you, linger for one more day with me; it is so hard for me to part with you!”

This midrashic interpretation provides a lovely explanation of this holiday. According to Rashi, Shemini Atzeret is cast as an intimate after-party: a chance for God and the Jewish people to linger for a little longer in one another's presence. Although the king's invitation is the primary focus of the text, it's easy to imagine that the children aren't particularly eager to leave the banquet either. In this analogy, Shemini Atzeret thus serves as our capstone to the holiday of Sukkot and perhaps to the whole of our intensive fall holiday season -- an extra day (or two*) for us to dwell together with God, to sit with our feelings and integrate the intense experiences we've just come through, to take our time before gradually moving back into our daily lives.

Educators have long understood that giving students time to reflect at the end of a learning session can enhance learning outcomes. At Kavana's High Holidays, through experimentation over time, we've settled into a pattern whereby art, writing, and/or discussion sessions take place towards the end of our biggest Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur days; these sessions provide community members who want it the opportunity to linger in reflective space, where sitting with our emotions and sharing them with others in intimate space allows for integration and enhances the meaning of these holidays. Shemini Atzeret provides precisely this type of opportunity for the fall holiday season as a whole.

In addition to being able to reflect on the work of the High Holidays before leaving it behind, I am also feeling a particular need to slow down in this way -- to linger and reflect and try to find my bearings -- as we approach the three-year anniversary of October 7, 2023 (which also corresponds to Shemini Atzeret on the Jewish calendar). Without a doubt, the past three years have been dramatic ones for the worldwide Jewish community -- years that historians of the future will look back on as a watershed chapter for our people. We're still so much inside the swirl of this chapter that it's hard to fully make sense of it all yet, but we can and should try to slow down and sit with our (many, varied) feelings about what it is to be Jewish -- both in America and in the world -- right now. The horrors of that October day three years ago are still so palpable for me that I felt myself back there -- gripped in a similar way -- reading about what transpired earlier this week on FlyDubai flight #1073. This anniversary of October 7th will be the first one in which there are no Israeli hostages inside Gaza (as the final body was just returned in January of this year). In addition to our own pain, we are also sitting with the mass destruction of Gaza, tens of thousands of Palestinian deaths, and the continued unraveling of day-to-day life in the occupied West Bank. Over the past three years, Israel's reputation in the world has shifted rapidly, and we -- members of the American Jewish community -- sit with the consequences of that every day. This is a gut-wrenching time; it certainly doesn't feel easy or light to be a Jew at this moment in history. Although we're still too much "in it" to fully understand, integrate and meaning-make about this chapter, I do appreciate the invitation to "linger at the banquet" for a little extra time.. to slow down and sit with this swirl in an intentional way.

If you're looking for opportunities to be in community as we engage in this week's purposeful pause, here are several invitations:

1. Please join us in a cozy, local community setting as we close out Kavana's fall holiday season together! Our Simchat Torah* celebration will take place tomorrow/Saturday evening, from 7:30-9:30pm. We'll sing and dance with our two(!) Sifrei Torah to 7 hakafot, each with a theme introduced by Kavana partners; we'll also chant from the very end and the very beginning of the Torah, as we start our new Torah reading cycle anew! Both Kavana rabbis will be in attendance, plus Chava Mirel and her band will be playing live music. If you'd like to join us but haven't registered yet, please do so ASAP so we can get the details to you this afternoon -- we know it'll feel great to be together! (*Shemini Atzeret & Simchat Torah are celebrated as a single day in Israel and in the Reform movement, and as two separate days in more traditional diaspora Jewish communities. Here at Kavana, we're stretching it out to make a whole weekend of pause...)
   

2. Mark the October 7th anniversary by attending a commemorative event online, co-presented by the New Israel Fund and the Parents Circle - Families Forum. The event description reads: "Three Years after October 7 and the War in Gaza: Honoring Our Shared Pain and Humanity. This October 7, we mark three years since the day the earth moved beneath our feet. To honor this devastating day, we invite you to hear directly from two bereaved family members, one Israeli and one Palestinian, both members of the Parent's Circle Families Forum. Together, they will share their stories of loss and survival, as well as their hopes for the future. The event will also feature introductory remarks by Idit Klein, VP of Public Engagement at NIF, and will be moderated by Shiri Ourian, Executive Director of the American Friends of the Parents Circle." Tuesday, Oct 6 at 10am Pacific Time. Click here to register.
   

3. As I said above, for many in our community, art is a great modality for reflection and integration. Next week, the Jewish Studio Project and Sefaria are providing a free, online opportunity to do precisely this: "Have You Made Art About it Yet? Bereishit Edition with Rabbi Adina Allen. Explore the power of art-making as a tool for personal and collective renewal." Thursday, Oct. 8, 9:00-10:30am. Click here to register.

In whatever way(s) you choose to mark this time, I hope you will experience the coming days as a helpful capstone to this year's High Holidays, and take some time to slow down and reflect on the work you've done in this season and where we are at this complex moment in Jewish history. The invitation to "linger for one more day at God's banquet" -- that is, to take our time and exit this season slowly -- is a gift, and we should strive to take full advantage of this precious opportunity.

Wishing you a slow and gentle weekend, filled with reflection, community, and meaning.

Chag sameach,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Sukkah and the Senses

When God tells you to build a sukkah, you don’t ask why - you just ask how high. Or at least, that’s how the talmudic tractate Sukkah begins.

סוּכָּה שֶׁהִיא גְּבוֹהָה לְמַעְלָה מֵעֶשְׂרִים אַמָּה — פְּסוּלָה… וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ גְּבוֹהָה עֲשָׂרָה טְפָחִים… — פְּסוּלָה. 

“A sukkah that is more than twenty cubits high is unfit.. One that is not ten handbreadths high…is unfit.”

A cubit is about 18 inches, and a tefach (handbreadth) is about 3.5 inches. (As an aside, here is a fascinating academic look at the tefach.) So, roughly speaking, for those of us still thinking in terms of feet rather than meters, according to this teaching a sukkah shouldn’t be shorter than 3 feet and shouldn’t be taller than 15 feet. Let’s assume we all understand why a 3 ft high sukkah might cause problems (unless used as a toddler’s autumnal play fort). 

But why would we need a maximum height when building a sukkah? This isn’t an issue of structural integrity, but rather a question of ritual integrity, according to the sage Rabba: 

אָמַר רַבָּה, דְּאָמַר קְרָא: ״לְמַעַן יֵדְעוּ דוֹרוֹתֵיכֶם כִּי בַסּוּכּוֹת הוֹשַׁבְתִּי אֶת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל״, עַד עֶשְׂרִים אַמָּה, אָדָם יוֹדֵעַ שֶׁהוּא דָּר בַּסּוּכָּה, לְמַעְלָה מֵעֶשְׂרִים אַמָּה — אֵין אָדָם יוֹדֵעַ שֶׁדָּר בַּסּוּכָּה, מִשּׁוּם דְּלָא שָׁלְטָא בַּהּ עֵינָא. 

Rabba said that it is derived as the verse states: “So that your future generations will know that I caused the children of Israel to reside in sukkot when I took them out of the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 23:43). Up to twenty cubits high, a person knows that they are residing in a sukkah. More than twenty cubits high, a person does not know that they are residing in a sukkah because their eye does not catch sight (of the roof). (Talmud Bavli, Sukkot 2a)

Sukkot is a holiday about tangible awareness - both of the world around us and the sukkah itself which only partially encloses us within its shelter. In this time when questions swirl about artificial intelligence and what it uniquely means to be human, this talmudic passage suggests to me that we begin this year with the intention of being sensuous humans whose limitations return us to awareness. We are embodied creatures who see, hear, smell, taste, and touch our way around the world (to varying degrees). Some even describe a sixth sense, proprioception, which is “your body’s ability to sense its own position and movements in space” (example: touching your nose with your eyes closed. How did you know where your nose was??)

Yom Kippur, as a day of cleansing, restricts some of the senses, and days later Sukkot drenches us in sensory awareness, in a new type of knowing - through the sukkah itself, through waving the etrog and lulav, through the subversive and earthy insights of Kohelet / Ecclesiastes, who yearns for a Big Idea but keeps returning to simple pleasure as the way to walk life’s path.

Meditation teacher Tara Brach writes: “We experience our lives through our bodies whether we are aware of it or not. Yet we are usually so mesmerized by our ideas about the world that we miss out on much of our direct sensory experience. Even when we are aware of feeling a strong breeze, the sound of rain on the roof, a fragrance in the air, we rarely remain with the experience long enough to inhabit it fully.” (Radical Acceptance)

When you enter a sukkah - yours, or a friend’s, or the one you imagine as you read this - look up at the roof and remember that you inhabit not only the booth, but your body as well. In this way, when we leave the house and enter the hut, we end up coming home.

Shabbat shalom, and chag sameach!

Rabbi Jay Levine

Kol Nidre Sermon 5787: On Cooperation and Pluralism

Back in May, I listened to a podcast that I haven’t been able to get out of my head. New York Times journalist Ezra Klein was in conversation with Israeli author and historian Yuval Noah Harari. Klein and Harari were trying to make sense of this moment in which we find ourselves right now in politics and society. Their conversation starts by positing that there are two very different paradigms at play in the world today: one is a strongman ideology – all about competing for strength, dominance & power; the other is a paradigm of cooperation.

It’s undeniable that the paradigm of power is having a heyday right now. Looking around not only our country but really the whole world, we see leaders like Trump, Putin, Xi Jinping, and Netanyahu all operating from the same playbook – trying to censor free press, eliminate critique, consolidating power, bullying other leaders and other countries into submission. In the politics of power, the strongest one wins.  But, Yuval Noah Harari argues that cooperation, not power, has always been the engine of human progress – in fact he calls it “the driving force in human history.” One example he shares is the idea of nationalism, which he defines as loving and caring about a large number of strangers you don’t even know, and even being willing to make sacrifices for them (for example: by paying your taxes for the common good).

In this contest between power and cooperation, perhaps unsurprisingly (given that I did co-found this cooperative Jewish community), I come down pretty hard on the side of cooperation. Cooperation is itself powerful – not only so that a group of our early human ancestors could band together to beat a bear or a lion in a fight, as Ezra Klein puts it, but also so that we can create and maintain the kind of communities, society, and world in which we want to live. Judaism takes the side of cooperation as well.

Maybe you already know this to be true, but I want to expand on the idea by way of an invitation into the core work of this Yom Kippur day.

Although we often think and talk about Yom Kippur as a day for personal atonement – and it is – even more, our spiritual work on this day is about seeing ourselves as part of a collective – inside a “we” or “us.” The Kol Nidre prayer we just recited three times is written not in Hebrew but in beautiful Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, which was the common spoken language of the Jewish people when this prayer gained prominence. The ending “na” – nun-alef – indicates the 1st person plural – that we have done something, when it appears at the end of a verb, or that it belongs to us, when it comes at the end of a noun. How many times did we just say it, on page 385? Dindarna, u’d’ishtabana, u’d’acharimna, v’di’asarna, al nafshatana, icharatna, nidrana, ve’esarana, u’shevuatana. We are talking here, collectively, about the vows that we have vowed, sworn, pledged, and imposed on ourselves – and how we (collectively) regret them. We ask for release from our vows, our bonds, our oaths. We are totally in it together!

To put it another way, on Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi Jonah Steinberg shared with us some framing from his colleague Rabbi Ebn Leader in Boston, who teaches that the most important question to ask this time of year is not “Who am I?,” but “What am I part of?” These High Holidays ask each of us to consider our community, our country, and our world, and ask – “How am I doing as a part of that?,” “Am I working on myself in such a way that we become better?” Rabbi Leader says: “That’s why I call out to God; God is the biggest us there is,” and during these holidays, we say to God, “We want to be in this project with you.”

A 2023 documentary film called Join or Die takes this argument a step further. The film is about the work of Robert Putnam, a political scientist and (now-retired) professor of Public Policy at Harvard. Putnam is most famous for having authored a book called Bowling Alone back in 2000. Perhaps you’re familiar with its core concept – he had observed that while more Americans than ever before were bowling, people were playing individually rather than joining organized teams or leagues. The book reflects on the broader retreat, during the second half of the 20th century, from group memberships and civic life. Data backs up this precipitous decline in American civic engagement and social connectedness between the 1950s and the late 90s.

In the new-ish documentary Join or Die, Putnam build on this research and analysis. Not only is it true, he argues, that within a matter of decades, fewer people in our society were participating in bowling leagues, or joining churches and synagogues, or hosting dinner parties, or joining civics clubs like Rotary or Elks Lodge. But, he now claims, this decline in connectedness has led to a negative chain reaction, unraveling the very social fabric of our American society. Here’s how that works: When fewer people take part in community organizations, that means that fewer people know their neighbors and know one another’s names, the overall level of trust and reciprocity decline, and social networks weaken. The resulting fragmentation and isolation is demonstrably bad for individuals’ health – Putnam’s research shows that each of us will literally have a higher chance of dying in the coming year if we are not part of a group. Even moreso, he argues, loneliness, lack of belief in the common good, mistrust of neighbors, and having lower degrees of social capital in general is what has weakened and undermined American democracy. The film Join or Die takes its title from Benjamin Franklin's famous early-American political cartoon, applying it to a modern warning: if we want to save American democracy from fascism, from extremism, from political violence, and protect and strengthen our society as a whole – and I know we all do – then people must rejoin local groups and clubs, and get to know more of our neighbors.

This past year, the Seattle Jewish Federation did a community survey, and I had the privilege of serving on the committee (together with several other people in this room) that sifted through the data and tried to think about implications for the Seattle Jewish community. Most of the survey data didn’t surprise me and probably wouldn’t surprise you either. For example, the data shows that local Jews want to be more engaged in Jewish life than they currently are (good news), and there is widespread concern about antisemitism (not good, but also not surprising). 

There were, however, a few statistics from the survey that did surprise me, and that bother me. Nearly a third of survey respondents indicated that they don’t have a group of people they know they could count on in a time of need. Now I know a third is not a majority, but it’s entirely too high a number for my liking. It means that on the whole, we’re not doing a good enough job making social connectedness happen and weaving a dense social fabric. Because one thing we know to be true – and which we affirm over and over again on these holidays – is that we are all human, which means mortal, and inherently vulnerable. In the language of our liturgy, we will “wither like grass” and be “like a flower that fades,” and when that time comes that we inevitably find ourselves in a time of need, we need to be able to rely on one another for care.

And, switching gears – but this is related too – a second category of survey responses bothered me as well. It turns out that our broader Jewish community is not great at tolerating difference – what I might call, functioning in pluralistic community. Of course the survey turned up differences of opinion about Israel politics and attachment (I would expect nothing less). But, I was quite disappointed that a quarter of survey respondents – and, even higher, a third of younger adults ages 18-44 – indicated that “they did not want to be in community with other Jews who disagree with my views about Israel.”

Deep down, I think we all know that this isolation and living in echo chambers isn’t good for us, and it isn’t what we really need. During such dark and heavy days as these, we crave collaboration and cooperation – the kind of experiences that bring people together across difference. I’m thinking, for instance, of the excitement around the Artemis 2’s 10-day lunar flyby test mission back in April, with its crew of four astronauts who could problem solve and debate, and also have fun together. I’m thinking of the warm welcome of the World Cup in cities across the US, where cultural differences were embraced and celebrated. I’m thinking of Bad Bunny’s joyful halftime show at the Super Bowl, which culminated in a song listing countries across the entire American hemisphere, to promote cultural unity and redefine "America" as an inclusive identity. I even felt this with the wide embrace of Jimothy, an awkwardly short-spined raccoon who became a local and perhaps national celebrity this summer. Coming together as a “we” feels good, as does transcending difference to build community. But, those aren’t the deepest examples.

In the middle of the 20th century – Putnam’s heyday of clubs and civic orgs – the American Jewish landscape was embracing clubs too. Jews joined B’nai Brith and Hadassah, youth groups and defense groups, summer camps and JCC. Synagogue affiliation rates were sky high, and the synagogues themselves were organized into clubs called denominations: Orthodox, Conservative and Reform. In the 80s and 90s, that picture – of neatly delineated groups, each with their own membership criteria and bylaws, and patterns of Jewish observance – started to make way for new thinking. Some of my most formative and important Jewish experiences in the 90s – at Hillel, on a teen Israel trip, in a Graduate Fellowship program – described themselves as pluralistic. By pluralism, all of these orgs meant that they consciously brought together Jews from different denominational pockets, across clear religious observance divides, to be in community with one another and learn from one another. In my last year of rabbinical school, I worked at Harvard Hillel, where on Friday nights, there would be an Orthodox minyan in one room, a traditional egalitarian service in another, and a “liberal” Kabbalat Shabbat with instruments in yet another. After those services concluded, the whole community would head to the same dining hall for Shabbat dinner, breaking bread together and symbolically forging a single, diverse Jewish community. To be sure, tough questions arose sometimes around the subgroups’ differences in religious practice, but these questions were generally navigated deftly with sensitivity and care, and all in all, the model of pluralism proved so successful that when Suzi LeVine and I envisioned and launched Kavana 20 years ago, this was precisely the kind of model we tried to embrace and embody here in Seattle. For the most part, this type of pluralism has served us well. At Kavana, we wear our differences of background and religious observance as a badge of pride and a source of strength, rather than seeing them as a deficiency.

This kind of pluralism – of different religious practices, with different opinions sitting side by side – has deep roots in our Jewish tradition. Individuals in the process of converting often tell me that one of the features that most attracted them to Judaism is that we encourage questions, welcome differences of opinion, and allow disagreements to stand. Indeed, the Talmud records both majority and minority opinions, preserving both side-by-side so that we can understand multiple perspectives on a single issue. I’m sure you’re familiar with some of the most famous examples of debate – for example, that Beit Hillel an Beit Shammai have different proposals for how to light Chanukah candles – start with 1 and count up to 8, or start with 8 on the first night and light down to 1. The disagreements between these two famous schools of thought were termed examples of “machloket l’shem shamayim” – “disagreements for the sake of heaven.” Pirke Avot teaches that makhlokot l’shem shamayim will endure – in other words, these are valuable and positive disagreements. We are also taught in the Talmud that although Hillel and Shammai debated Jewish law for years and had different opinions over just about everything – and frankly, Hillel’s school of thought usually won out – they remained respectful friends and allowed their children to marry one another. This is a lot like needing different prayer spaces to have different groups’ needs met, but coming together for meals. In Judaism, we have a long history of tolerating and even welcoming disagreement, and yet seeing ourselves as part of a greater whole.

Stepping back, pluralism in our broader American society is also what has enabled Jews to thrive here in the U.S. Becky Voorwinde, now the CEO of my pluralistic teen Israel trip, the Bronfman Fellowship, talks about the American commitment to pluralism and difference that has allowed for a robust multi-ethnic, multicultural, and multi-religious civil society. She writes: “Pluralism is the reason Jews can survive and thrive… – without it, we are at risk. In today’s political climate, a waning commitment to pluralism puts not only our democracy at risk, but also the future of my and my children’s distinct identities as Jews in America.” If Putnam is correct that the sharp decline in rates of joining clubs and organizations and investing in social capital is weakening our society, we all stand to lose. And for our Jewish community, the events of the past few years have pushed our Jewish community further towards poles and extremes, and made our situation that much more precarious. We are devouring our own sense of “us” from the inside out, becoming a place where factions no longer want to break bread at the same table.

In order to move forward, we must rebuild and fortify our own commitment to pluralism and tolerance of difference – both internally, within our Jewish community, and externally, in society at large. Internally, we must continue investing in communities that embrace differences of background, interests and opinion. This is what’s behind the pluralism pillar of Kavana’s new strategic plan – we labeled that goal “Double Down on Pluralism” to indicate that this isn’t a departure from our long-time approach, but rather a recommitment to it. But as I said, religious pluralism was all the rage in 2006 when we launched; now in 2026, it’s countercultural to be talking about pluralism – especially political pluralism – at a time when the rest of the organized Jewish community is trying to figure out how to draw sharp red lines about who’s in and who’s out, which ideas are kosher and which are not. We here at Kavana are taking a different tack than many other congregations and Jewish organizations. We can see that cooperation is a skill that has atrophied in our society over recent years and decades. Where better to practice it but here, at Kavana, in this community where we are trying to build a little microcosmic model for the world we yearn to see. Exercising this muscle will make it stronger. 

Not only that, but we also commit to doing this work of fostering meaningful ties across lines of difference hand-in-hand with building up our community’s ability to care for one another. Our Caring Committee makes and delivers meals at times of illness or loss, our new partner-driven Care and Safety Team (special thanks to those with badges) is prepared to assist members of our community if there is a medical emergency or a natural disaster; they’re also trained in de-escalation and happy to give hugs. We want every one of you here at Kavana to feel safe and cared for; to know that you could count on your community at a time of need. From that place of care and safety, I also hope you’ll be more willing to tolerate the discomfort that can arise from being in a wide-tent, pluralistic environment.

When I dropped my oldest daughter at college last month, her college’s president delivered a passionate welcome speech to the freshman class, in defense of liberal education. In it, she urged them to tolerate uncertainty, embrace both knowing and not knowing, and demonstrate genuine curiosity. She said: “The questions you care about most are the ones on which you should invite the most disagreement.” This is exactly the opposite of our society’s current zeitgeist, which seems to believe that if you care deeply about something, you should draw hard lines and rally your camp and shut down contact with anyone who doesn’t already agree with you. At Kavana, we are committed to working against the grain, to make this a place where – from a place of love and care and safety and a sense of being in it together – we can test ideas and disagree so that we can actually learn and grow together.

This kind of pluralism – the kind that calls for us to stretch past our comfort zones – necessarily extends beyond the bounds of our Jewish community. I have increasingly come to believe that the only way for human beings to solve big problems will be together – in cooperation across the lines of difference of religion, ethnicity, and nationality. To that end, tomorrow afternoon, we have invited representatives from the organization Combatants for Peace to join us on this holiest day of the year. For 20 years – the same 20 years that Kavana has been doing our thing here in Seattle – Combatants for Peace has been operating in Israel and the West Bank, bringing Israelis and Palestinians together to co-resist the occupation and build a future of peace, equality and freedom for all. They believe in non-violence and in shared humanity, and support political imagination that furthers a solution based on justice and equality for Jews and Palestinians – for all people – between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea. We will hear each of the speakers’ personal stories – by definition these are combatants who once fought against one another from within the paradigm of power, and they will share about what’s brought them to believe in a paradigm of cooperation instead. That will be tomorrow afternoon from 5:15 - 6:45pm, just before Neilah, and I sincerely hope many of you will come back and join us for this opportunity to practice stretching ourselves and to draw inspiration from people doing such substantive and consequential work together.

Returning to our Yom Kippur liturgy – I already shared that in Aramaic, the key ending was “na”, nun-alef. In Hebrew, the ending to pay attention to throughout the rest of our service will be “nu” -- nun, vav. We will sing words you already know, like Avinu malkeinu, chatanu l’fanecha; Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu. Tonight, we will pray to the God of all of us, and confess our sins in plural. In doing so, we declare that our fates are bound up in one another. In our similarity and also across difference, we forge a community in which we can all be human, in which we can all be heard and respected, in which we can all find care. Our nu endings strengthen not only our own community, but also the social fabric of our country and our world. Through them, we affirm our belief in the paradigm of cooperation over the paradigm of power. 

Please know that there are glimmers of hope. I have dear friends in Budapest, and was watching carefully this year as Viktor Orban, a dictator who was as on the side of power as he could possibly be was defeated by the only thing that could have stood in his way: a large swath of Hungarian voters, cooperating with one another across difference. 

At this fraught moment in Jewish history, American history and human history, being part of a cooperative, pluralistic community, and praying in “we” language, and investing in relationships both inside this community and outside of it, with people who are different from ourselves in background and in belief – these are truly the most important and consequential actions we can possibly take.

Gmar chatima tova – and may all of us be sealed for a good year, together.

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

May We All Contribute a Verse

This Shabbat in our Torah cycle, Jewish communities around the world read Parashat Haazinu. Most of that Torah portion -- 43 verses -- are a poetic song of both praise and warning that Moses recites to the Israelites. But then, in its final verses, the parasha shifts gears. Haazinu's maftir aliyah (the very last section) reads (Deut 32: 48-52):

On that very day, GOD spoke to Moses: "Ascend these heights of Abarim to Mount Nebo, which is in the land of Moab facing Jericho, and view the land of Canaan, which I am giving the Israelites as their holding. You shall die on the mountain that you are about to ascend, and shall be gathered to your kin, as your brother Aaron died on Mount Hor and was gathered to his kin; for you both broke faith with Me among the Israelite people, at the Waters of Meribat-Kadesh in the wilderness of Zin, by failing to uphold My sanctity among the Israelite people. You may view the land from a distance, but you shall not enter it—the land that I am giving to the Israelite people."

This, of course, is exactly what will come to pass: that Moses will die before we reach the end of Deuteronomy, on Mount Nebo, with a kiss from God (according to our midrashic tradition). Moses -- the great leader and prophet who answered God's call with "Hineini" at the burning bush, who said "Let my people go" to Pharaoh and led the Israelites out of Egypt, who has shepherded the Israelites through their 40-year journey in the wilderness -- this Moses will not be permitted to enter the Promised Land. Moses's story will end in incompleteness.

Each year, we read this section of Torah -- about Moses learning of his pending death and considering the unfinished nature of his life -- between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, during the period of intense reflection and introspection, in which we too carefully examine the meaning of our own lives. These verses contain within them several powerful messages that apparently we need to be reminded of time and time again, particularly at this time of year.

First, through Moses's mortality, we are reminded that as human beings we are all mortal. Life is inherently unpredictable, and for most of us, the "day of our death" is out of our hands.

And yet, our Jewish tradition offers us Pirkei Avot 2:10, in which Rabbi Eliezer teaches: "v'shuv yom echad lifnei mitatcha," "Repent one day before your death." On this line, the Bartenura -- that is, Ovadia ben Avraham of Bertinoro, a 15th century Italian rabbi and scholar best known for writing a definitive commentary on the Mishnah -- famously comments: "'repent one day before your death': Since a person does not know when he will die, he should repent today, lest he will die tomorrow." This teaching lies behind the urgency of our teshuva process in this season. Through the liturgy of the High Holidays -- from the Unetaneh Tokef prayer ("who shall live and who shall die") to the symbolic rituals of self-denial on Yom Kippur -- we force ourselves to confront the frightening thought of our own mortality head-on, and also consider our uncertainty about the timing of our deaths, in order to encourage ourselves to tackle with seriousness and immediacy the question of what we want to do with the time we have.

Additionally, within these verses about Moses's pending death, there is some degree of comfort to be found, and that too can serve as a model for us. Here at the end of Haazinu, Moses is reassured by the knowledge that, although he will die on Mount Nebo, the rest of the Israelite people will continue on in their journey. The Torah's final message is that the personal death of one individual -- even one as great as Moses -- is never the end of the story.

So too, on these High Holidays, do we link ourselves up with the collective story of the Jewish people -- one that has survived for thousands of years already and will continue far beyond any of our lifetimes. Poet Walt Whitman expressed a similar sentiment quite eloquently at the end of his poem "O Me! O Life!":

"Answer.
That you are here -- that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."

The "powerful play" will go on, Whitman asserts, outlasting each one of us. All we can do in our lifetimes -- and it is a privilege to do so -- is to strive to contribute our own verse to the larger play. In a similar vein, American civil rights activist and statesman John Lewis reflected in his book: "Ours is not the struggle of one day, one week, or one year. Ours is not the struggle of one appointment, or presidential term. Ours is the struggle of a lifetime, or maybe even many lifetimes. And each of us in every generation must do our part." Within our families, within our communities, within our country, within our people, and within the context of the world, we each have a part to play during our time here on earth.

Herein lies the central work of the season: We reflect on our temporal nature -- acknowledging that as human beings, we are limited both by time and physicality. Moses's life will end before he reaches the Promised Land, and so will each of ours. Confronting this idea helps us consider more urgently and acutely the question of how we can best "do our part" and "contribute our verse" to the ongoing story.

May our lives be rich with meaning and purpose. Knowing that we are mortal, may we each make a difference in the time we do have here on earth. Given that the powerful play will go on, may we each contribute our verse in such a way as to ensure our spiritual survival for all eternity.

G'mar chatima tova -- and may we all be sealed for a good New Year,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Memory & Teshuva Erev Rosh Hashanah 5787 Sermon - Sept. 11, 2026

It was a clear crisp September morning. I had spent the summer of 2001 in Israel, studying Hebrew in ulpan during the second intifada. Now I was back in the states – to lead High Holiday services on a college campus, actually – but meanwhile, was headed from New York to Charleston, South Carolina to visit my family first.

From the runway at La Guardia airport, just before we took off, the captain came on the radio with an unusual announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, From the flight deck, it appears that there’s a fire at the World Trade Center. Our flight route will take us north and then west over the neck of Manhattan before we cut back down the Hudson to begin our trip down to Charleston. As we get closer, I’ll see if I can turn off the fasten seatbelt sign so that those of you on the right side of the plane can get up and take a closer look. I’m not quite sure what’s happening, but I’m certain it’ll be on the news tonight.” And we were off.

Looking back on it, I now know that I was in the airspace over lower Manhattan inside the 17 minutes between the first plane hitting the north tower and the second plane hitting the south tower. We didn’t know that at the time, though. About half an hour later, the pilot came back on the radio to tell us all that the fire we saw had been caused by a plane flying into the World Trade Center tower, and that all passengers were to remain seated for the duration of the flight. From there, things on board felt tense and chaotic. Our flight was going to be grounded by the FAA, and then it wasn’t, and then it was again, all of a sudden. Within minutes we were on the ground in Norfolk, Virginia. Needless to say, that day, which is 25 years ago today, will be with me forever.

Rosh Hashanah goes by several different names. As we sing in kiddush: Vatiten lanu adonai eloheinu b’ahava et yom ha-shabbat hazeh, v’et yom hazikaron hazeh. Yom HaZikaron is the most official liturgical name for this holiday. In the spring in Israel, the same words, Yom HaZikaron, have come to mean Memorial Day for fallen soldiers, but not in this context. Here, Yom HaZikaron means Memory Day. In the Zikhronot section of the Musaf service, we recount verses that highlight the incidents of God remembering our ancestors: Noah and his family inside the ark, the Israelites under the burden of slavery in Egypt, and so on. This kind of memory underscores one of the theological points of the day: that God remembers and judges all of creation on this day. We hope that just as God remembered our ancestors, God will also remember us with favor.

But there’s a second aspect of memory at play in this season, and that is how our remembering informs the process of teshuva. During this time of the year, we linger in the doorway between the year that’s drawing to a close and the one that’s about to open before us. From that doorway, we turn and gaze backwards, trying to understand where we’ve been and what’s happened to us, the choices we have made, and the changes we want to make as we move forward. By remembering and reflecting on the past, we aim to create a more intentional understanding of the present, and chart for ourselves a better future.

When we remember September 11th today, there’s so much we might choose to focus on. For those of you too young to remember it, I can’t overstate the sense of shock and horror at the terror attacks of that day, or the immense tragedy of the thousands of people whose days began as ordinary ones – going to work, or boarding a plane – and who never came home again. I encourage you to read some of the 9/11 stories published – they are tragic, and full of heroism – there’s so much worth remembering.

Switching gears, though, in an intensely personal direction, I can look back and see how that single day affected the trajectory of my entire life. Because of my feeling of having had such a near miss on board my flight, and because of the second intifada, I didn’t particularly want to return to Israel, where I had been there summer, nor did I want to return to New York City. Instead, I took off the 2001-2002 academic year from my rabbinical school program and moved to Palo Alto, California. At the end of our time there, Noam and I drove back to the east coast on an epic cross country trip, zig-zagging to hit lots of National Parks, including Olympic National Parks. As we headed back from the Olympic peninsula, we took a ferry across Puget Sound from Bainbridge. I remember looking around and remarking, “wouldn’t it be great to live in a place like this someday.” And two years later, as I finished rabbinical school, we chose to make Seattle our home, which possibly would never have happened were it not for 9/11. During these High Holidays, I invite you, too, to think back on some of the personal turning points in your life, the ones that got you to where you are today, even if you didn’t know it at the time.

Returning to 9/11 itself though, when I hold it in my memory now, one of the ideas I keep coming back to again and again is not only that day, but what happened in the aftermath of that day – how, on a collective response level, the attacks of 9/11 brought out some of the best and the worst aspects of our humanity.

It’s nice to recall the positives first. For example, that day, and in the day and weeks following 9/11, so many people came together in solidarity and selflessness, united by asense of purpose. When the Twin Towers fell on September 11th, Lower Manhattan was blanketed in dust and ash, and bridges, tunnels, and subways were shut down. In a spontaneous act of cooperation, civilian mariners – captaining ferries, tugboats, fishing vessels and yachts – rushed towards the smoke. This impromptu flotilla evacuated hundreds of thousands of people in less than nine hours – which remains the largest maritime evacuation in history. A second example that I’m sure many of you have seen portrayed in the musical theater production Come From Away happened when northeast Canada became the landing spot for many of the trans-Atlantic planes that had to be diverted when the U.S. airspace closed that day. The small town of Gander, Newfoundland, with a population of just 10,000, took in 38 planes and nearly 7,000 stranded passengers, with citizens stepping forward to build makeshift shelters, cook meals, and welcome total strangers into their homes. Back at Ground Zero, in New York, everyday citizens stepped up to support emergency responders. Bucket brigades of volunteers formed human chains to manually move heavy debris and search for survivors. Nearby restaurants, schools and churches were transformed into relief hubs. Many of my classmates from JTS headed downtown to join the volunteer chaplaincy efforts, as family members searched in vain for loved ones.

But, there are also many aspects of the September 11th aftermath that we’d rather not remember – the darker side of our society’s response. To be sure, we know what happened: that an Al Qaeda network operating out of Afghanistan and 19 Arabic-speaking terrorists (15 from Saudi Arabia, 2 from United Arab Emirates, 1 each from Egypt and Lebanon) were responsible for the horrendous acts of terror that day. Americans were filled with fear, and vulnerability, and a sense of living under continued threat, and those feelings almost never bring out the best in us. But, most Muslim-Americans had had nothing to do with this and did not support these attacks in any way. Even though they shared the same grief as other Americans, they found themselves immediately living under suspicion and experiencing a severe wave of backlash against their communities. Anti-Muslim hate crimes in the U.S. spiked dramatically – from roughly 31 incidents annually before 2001 to 546 in the immediate aftermath of the attacks. Sikh Americans were misidentified with extremists because of their turbans and beards, and I remember attacks on Sikh cab drivers and the murder of a Sikh-American gas station owner just two weeks later. The Islamophobia didn’t tamp down quickly either; instead, it hardened into systemic discrimination. As the U.S. declared a Global War on Terror, surveillance programs, special registration requirements for immigrants from Muslim-majority nations, and aggressive law enforcement profiling created a framework of structural Islamophobia. Nine years later, in 2010, plans for Park51 – an Islamic community center modeled after the Upper West Side JCC – stirred up national protests and political backlash for no good reason. The project was dubbed the “Ground Zero mosque,” and it was never completed due to the public outcry.

In tomorrow morning’s Torah reading, we will read about our matriarch Sarah. She and her husband Avraham are old; she is desperate to have a child. In the first two aliyot, it seems that things are going reasonably well for her – God makes things happen as promised, she becomes pregnant, the child is born and named (Isaac) and circumcised, Sarah marvels at having a child at this point in life, the child is weaned, and Abraham hosts a feast for Isaac. And yet, things turn on a dime: at the beginning of the third aliyah, Sarah sees the son of her rival, Hagar, and notes that he is laughing, metzachek – maybe mocking her son Yitzchak. We can only imagine that all of a sudden, she feels jealous, fearful, and threatened, and she immediately begins to act in awful ways. In the very next verse, she banishes Hagar and Ishmael from her household, dehumanizing them all the while: “Garesh et ha-amah hazot v’et b’nah” “Cast out this slave woman and her son.” At Sarah’s command, Abraham sends Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness, with only a small amount of food and water, and we watch in horror as Hagar moves away from Ishmael so as not to have to look on as he dies. Reading this story every year stirs in me a sense of shame – how can Sarah – our matriarch – be so cruel and callous as to dehumanize another human being and to inflict pain in this way?

And yet, Sarah’s actions are not so different from what happened in this society in the wake of September 11th, when so many Americans turned against our Muslim neighbors. Lest we think “that wasn’t us,” I will point out that early polls showed that the vast majority – over 60% – of Americans held unfavorable views of Muslims, associating the faith with terms like terrorism and extremism – I know I heard that expressed regularly within the Jewish community. And, when it came to the Islamic community center I mentioned a moment ago, Jewish organizations were sadly among some of the fiercest opponents to its construction.

This time of year, on Yom HaZikaron – Rosh Hashanah as Memory Day – our central spiritual work is to engage in the process of teshuvah. We are supposed to examine our own past actions – remember them, roll them around in our minds – not just for fun, but to see what it is that we can learn from them. As I reflect on 9/11 at the distance of 25 years, my mind keeps returning to this dark side of the aftermath of those attacks. What could we have done differently? Are there lessons in our past that might help us make better decisions today?

Because although 25 years have gone by, some of these questions – of minority groups turning against one another from a place of fear, of xenophobia and Islamophobia – these are all very much at play today, in this year, in our America. It happens that right now, we find ourselves in the fight of our lifetime for our country, for democracy, for our core values and ideals. Minority groups are being pitted against one another in real time, for the benefit of those in power who want to keep control and protect their status. It is imperative that we learn from the missteps of our past, so that we don’t repeat them.

According to Maimonides, who laid this out in his Hilchot Teshuvah (the Laws of Repentance): teshuvah is a 4-step process. These steps are: 1. To recognize and discontinue the improper action – stop the behavior. 2. To verbally confess the action – to articulate what you’ve done wrong. 3. To regret the action, and evaluate the negative impact this action may have had on yourself or on others. But then, last but not least: 4. To determine never to repeat the action. True teshuva, Rambam says, is proven when you face a similar situation later and choose a different path. When Maimonides laid out this path of teshuva in the Mishneh Torah, he had in mind individual actions and individual teshuva, but I believe we can just as effectively map it onto a collective, societal process. Looking back, we should be able to recognize that – as with Sarah – fear and vulnerability got the better of us, and we lashed out against the nearest convenient targets. Like Hagar and Ishmael in the Genesis story, American Muslims, and Sikhs, and immigrants in general bore the brunt of our collective fear, anger, and sense of vulnerability in the wake of 9/11. They suffered disproportionately, and in hindsight, we should be able to see and name and acknowledge that.

Sarah’s story in tomorrow’s Torah reading is only a starting point, though. Between two different Torah readings and two different haftarahs, we will cover a lot of territory across the two days of Rosh Hashanah. We’ll jump from Sarah and Hagar, Ishmael and Isaac, to Hannah and the birth-story of Samuel, then back to the Akeidah, and then ahead again to the prophecy of Jeremiah, in which the biblical matriarch Rachel is also referenced.

My friend and teacher Beth Huppin and Rabbi Tali Adler, in this year’s Hadar reader, both independently reminded me of a famous rabbinic story about Rachel, a midrash from the book of Eicha Rabbah. In that text, in Tali’s Adler’s words: “the Temple is burning and the Jewish people are being led into exile. Patriarch after patriarch comes before God, calling out for their children to be saved on the strength of their merits. [And, by the way, this is a theme of the High Holidays – that we tell the stories of the patriarchs and matriarchs so that we might benefit from their merits.] Each one... fails in turn... but finally Rachel succeeds in convincing God to have mercy on the Jewish people.”

How does she do it? What actions of Rachel’s does the rabbinic imagination hold up as being so worthy?

At that moment, Rachel imeinu (Rachel our mother) jumped before the Holy One and said, ‘Ruler of the World! You know that Yaakov your servant loved me very much and worked for my father for seven years. When those seven years were done and the time of my wedding approached, my father schemed to switch me with my sister (Leah), and it was very difficult for me when I found out. I told my husband-to-be and gave him signs by which he could distinguish between my sister and me so that my father could not switch us.

After, I regretted what I had done, and I overcame my desires and had mercy on my sister that she should not be shamed. That night, they switched me with my sister, and I gave my sister the signs that I had made with my husband, so that he would think that she was Rachel. And not only that, but I concealed myself under the bed in which my sister lay with my husband, and when he spoke to her he was silent and I would answer so that he would not recognize my sister’s voice. I did chesed for her, I was not jealous of her, and I did not allow her to be shamed.

It’s a wild midrash – kind of awful, actually, to see both Rachel and Leah caught up inside a patriarchal system where their father has manipulated them and where Rachel has to choose where her loyalties should lie. Ultimately, though, I see real beauty in the story the rabbis tell. Rachel – who has every reason to feel jealous and in competition with her sister – makes an active decision not to lash out but rather to act with chesed towards Leah. She considers her sister’s feelings, and acts to ensure that Leah won’t feel shamed or rejected. In doing so, she rejects the rivalry, and instead teams up with Leah so that the two of them can be on the same side. The rabbis hold Rachel up as the model – the only one of the patriarchs or matriarchs who can convince God to have mercy upon the Jewish people – because even after she herself has been victimized and harmed, she affirms through her actions that leading with chesed (kindness) and generosity is of utmost importance.

It occurred to me this year that perhaps the story of how Rachel collaborated with her sister Leah is a parallel to and a corrective for the Sarah and Hagar story, an example of teshuva. In both stories, two women vie for the love, attention and favor of a single husband. But whereas Sarah can’t really bring herself to share, Rachel puts her sister’s needs first. Maybe Rachel’s behavior towards Leah is an act of repair – a demonstration of Maimonides’ teshuva step #4, just two generations later. In addition, without that moment – the one in which Rachel is showing Leah the secret signs and lending her her voice, Leah’s children wouldn’t have been born – including the leadership tribes of Reuben (firstborn), Levi (the tribe of Moses and Aaron and Miriam), and Judah (the ultimate namesakes of the Jewish people). The 12 tribes as a whole wouldn’t have come into existence. In other words, looking back, we can see that as a people, we (B’nai Yisrael) really wouldn’t be here were it not for Rachel’s decision to act with chesed.

Returning to our present day, as we move into this Yom HaZikaron on the 25th anniversary since September 11, 2001, it feels clear to me that we haven’t yet fully reconciled with this event, nor internalized the many lessons that might be gleaned from engaging in a real process of teshuvah around what happened in the wake of that day. Of course, the “global war on terror,” started soon after September 11th, has led to one intractable war in the Middle East after another; it’s crazy that 25 years later, we are once again at war. (In that regard, we haven’t even reached Maimonides’ step #1 of teshuva!) Islamophobia and xenophobia are every bit as much an issue in 2026 as they were in 2001. I’m thinking here of the cruelty and immorality of ICE kidnapping people out of their lives and separating families; of the way the Federal government is weaponizing antisemitism to drive a wedge between minority groups; of the hateful social media posts that come out of the White House in the wee hours of morning; our growing list of “full travel ban” countries; and more.

On this 25th anniversary of 9/11, as we enter into this Day of Memory, I hope that we will take time to remember where we’ve been and to really examine our memories through the lens of teshuva. This anniversary asks something of us now: to acknowledge the cost of fear and to understand its impact. Like the matriarchs, it may take us decades or generations, but it’s not too late to revisit our memories and do teshuva, choose a new path, before cruelty hardens into our way of being.

True memory demands action of us. I don’t need to tell this community that quite a lot is at stake this year, and especially in the coming weeks, here in America. There is an urgency to this message: that we will need to work hard – with moral clarity and persistence – to hold leaders accountable for inflammatory rhetoric, to reject divisive policies, to refuse to be pitted against immigrants and other minority groups, and to actively invest in community care and building bridges. As we read the stories of our matriarchs and patriarchs this holiday, it is my hope that we will strive to channel the spirit of Rachel – and seek to channel chesed rather than allow ourselves to be driven to cruelty by our fear or insecurity, even from within a complicated and traumatic reality.

On my flight on that crisp September morning, as soon as it became clear that we were witnessing an emergency in real time, the passengers turned towards one another and started talking. I learned that a group of 6 older gentlemen sitting around me had traveled together from Charleston to New York and were now headed home. One knew my grandfather. They took me under their wing, and within just a couple hours of our plane touching down in Norfolk, Virginia, I found myself in the middle of the back row of a 7-passenger rental van, headed towards home. I have never forgotten the kindness of those strangers that day – and what it felt like to have their chesed trump our collective fear.

In this season of teshuva and memory, may we hold up the events of our past such that we might learn from our mistakes. May this 25th anniversary of 9/11 help us remember who we are and who we want to be. Together, may we chart a better course for ourselves, for our Jewish community, and for our American society.

Shana tova,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Gate Back Home

Tonight, we begin the Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe. On the eve of Rosh HaShanah, I often think of the other bookend of these High Holidays, the concluding Ne’ilah service of Yom Kippur. Ne’ilah means “locking [of the gate]”. Perhaps this referred to the Temple gate in ancient times, closing at the end of the day. 

More poignantly, though, the gate represents a unique access to heaven during these ten days. Spiritual awareness heightens, reconciliation beckons, transformation glimmers at the edge of possibility. Remembering now, when the gate is opening, that the moment will come to an end, that the gate will also close, helps me be present to this season of return and repair.

One prominent piyyut (liturgical poem) of the Ne’ilah service opens:

אֵל נוֹרָא עֲלִילָה, אֵל נוֹרָא עֲלִילָה,
הַמְצִיא לָנוּ מְחִילָה, בִּשְׁעַת הַנְּעִילָה.

El nora ‘alila, El nora ‘alila,
Ham'tzi lanu mechila, bish‘at hane‘ila.

God of awe and might, God of awe and might
Find for us pardon, in the hour of the locking.

In the past week or so, the Israeli musician Narkis released a new song I’ve been obsessively listening to that incorporates a version of those lines, but personalizes it into the singular. You can read my full translation here (and offer edits if you’re a native Hebrew speaker!), and listen to the song here or here. 

At the heart of the song are various forms of estrangement. 

There’s a gap between the advice of others and her experience:

Every time I…
Get advice from “geniuses”, they don’t know:
It’s me who is losing you
And only me who pays the price

The so-called geonim, geniuses, are in truth ignorant, because they do not live Narkis’s life. Only she can be the expert on her inner realm. 

Then there’s the double estrangement of being distant from God and then forgetting that distance until a crisis provokes memory of the absence:

When it is bad for me here and you are there
Only then do I remember you

But the heart of hearts in this song is the estrangement of Narkis from her own spiritual awareness. 

Open for me the gate so I can return to myself
Perhaps I went a bit too,
A bit too far away
Write me in your book of life
Every daughter of yours needs
To go and to return

Perhaps Narkis references Avinu Malkeinu, “our Father, our King”, when she calls herself a daughter. But what does it mean that we each need to go and to return? 

Lalechet, to go or walk, is the same word used for Jewish law, halachah. And to return here is lachzor, the same root as our High Holiday prayer book, the machzor, which references the recurring seasonal cycles of the holidays. I might be overinterpreting (almost certainly!), but knowing that Narkis is also an observant Jew, there’s a hint here of tradition as a bulwark against estrangement. Every ritual roots you back in a sense of home.

On the other hand, I think it is more likely that Narkis is simply naming what is true for most of us: it is easy to slip out of really being present to our lives; it is easy to slip out of alignment with our own intentions. We need to continually reawaken, reenter the gate, return to ourselves. 

The poet Marie Howe wrote a collection of poetry about one such reawakening, one born of loss as her brother was dying at too young an age. 

The Gate

I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world 
would be the space my brother’s body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man 
but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet, 
rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water. 
This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I’d say, What? 
And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I’d say, What? 
And he’d say, This, sort of looking around. 

There are many gates, gates of grief and tears, gates of unexpected grace, gates of ritual and gates of novelty, gates of solitude and gates of deep embrace. These gates open for a while, when we can see again what it truly means to live. Step through, and you just may return home to yourself. In the words of John O’Donohue,

May all that is unforgiven in you,
Be released.
May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.
May all that is unlived in you,
Blossom into a future,
Graced with love.

Shabbat Shalom, and Shana Tova!

Rabbi Jay Levine

P.S. On this day where we mark the 25th anniversary of 9/11, a profound act of destruction that spawned acts of destruction, while entering Rosh HaShanah, a day commemorating creation with the hope of becoming renewed creations ourselves, as well as entering Shabbat, a day oriented towards peace, here is a meditation written by Rabbi Zoë Klein Miles (lightly adapted):

On Shabbat we light two candles, one for 
remembering Shabbat and one for observing Shabbat.
Today, we light two candles.
This one for Building One, This one for Building Two, 
This one for the Pentagon and this one for Pittsburgh, 
This one for the hundreds of firefighters and this one for the hundreds of police…
And these candles for the husband and wife who leapt out of 
the tower holding hands,
This one for our luck running out, this one for the New York skyline,
This one for the walking wounded, this one for the critically wounded,
This one for the survivors, this one for the dead,
This candle for Building One, this candle for Building Two.

May the memories of all those who died become blessings.

Gloria Steinem's (& Our) Imperative to Choose Life

This week, the world lost a legend in Gloria Steinem. She was one of the driving forces behind Free to Be You and Me, the 1972 classic children's album which became the soundtrack of my childhood. But one of my favorite gems about Steinem comes from the dedication she wrote to her 2015 memoir entitled My Life on the Road. It reads:

"THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

Dr. John Sharpe of London, who in 1957, a decade before physicians in England could legally perform an abortion for any reason other than the health of the woman, took the considerable risk of referring for an abortion a twenty-two-year-old American on her way to India.

Knowing only that she had broken an engagement at home to seek an unknown fate, he said, "You must promise me two things. First, you will not tell anyone my name. Second, you will do what you want to do with your life."

Dear Dr. Sharpe, I believe you, who knew the law was unjust, would not mind if I say this so long after your death:

I've done the best I could with my life. This book is for you."

In writing these words, Steinem subverts the "pro-life" claims of anti-abortion activists, making the primary life in question her own (rather than the life of a fetus). Now that Steinem's lifetime on this earth has officially drawn to a close, I concur that she seems to have done a pretty great job with her life. We should all be so lucky, to be able to make the same statement about ourselves at the end of a long, impactful life!

This week's Torah portion, Nitzavim-Vayeilech, contains a line that keeps drawing me back, one that is directly on-point with this theme of how to "do the best we can" and live maximally meaningful lives. God says to the Israelites (through Moses) in Deuteronomy 30:19: "I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—in order that you and your offspring will live."

The words וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים (u'vacharta ba-chayim) -- "choose life" -- have garnered much attention from commentators over the centuries. Some have argued that these words cannot refer to mere biological survival, as if it did, this lesson would be so obvious that it wouldn't even need to be stated (wouldn't any reasonable and healthy person do so?!). For example, in The Torah: A Women's Commentary, a collection of essays and commentaries published by the Women of Reform Judaism, we find this interpretation: "In this passage, this language ("chayim") signifies the 'path of life,' the way that people choose to live their lives." This commentary is arguing that the phrase should be understood not as asking the Israelites to merely choose life itself, but rather to make an active choice about how they want to live their lives.

Over the upcoming High Holidays, we will spend lots of time reflecting on our lives, and lots of prayer energy asking God to "remember us for life" and "inscribe and seal us in the book of life, blessing, peace, and sustenance." Here, though, in the lead-up to the High Holidays, we read "u'vacharta" -- the Hebrew verb root bet-chet-resh conjugated in the 2nd person singular. Thus the text is speaking directly to you (s). I appreciate that the Torah places emphasis on each and every one of us needing to make an active choice about how we want to use the gift of our own life.

This concept reminds me of Mary Oliver's famous poem "The Summer Day," which ends with the following lines:

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

That, of course, is the million dollar question! It's also a particularly timely question, as we hurtle towards the Jewish New Year of 5787. If we had to distill the High Holiday season to a single point, it might well be this: to consider that everything (ourselves included) will ultimately die, and to know, meanwhile, that it is up to us to make the most of our lives.

And so, this Shabbat, I invite you to sit with these related questions:

• If Dr. Sharpe had instructed you, as he instructed Gloria Steinem back in 1957, "You will do what you want to do with your life," what would you have to report back to him at this point in your journey? What would you hope to be able to say by the end of your life, and how do you want to get from here to there?

• What would you tell Mary Oliver about what it is that "you plan to do with your one wild and precious life"?

• What does it mean to you, in this particular year, to obey the imperative command: וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים (u'vacharta ba-chayim), "choose life"?  

Wishing us all much sweetness in the New Year, and the possibility of lives imbued with meaning and purpose, now and always!

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

P.S. - One final, tangential thought from me today: The biblical word וּבָחַרְתָּ ("choose") shares a shoresh/root with the Hebrew word for "elections": בְּחִרוֹת (bechirot). Elections are an opportunity for us to make active choices about the world in which we live, and how we want it to be governed and administered. In our country right now, election security is a hot topic -- and now's the time for us to do all we can to defend democracy and ensure free and fair elections! Between now and Tuesday, November 3rd, lots of us will be engaging in election-related work to ensure that our voices are heard, as loudly and clearly as possible. Over the coming weeks, I'll also be keeping a close eye on Israeli society in the lead-up to their elections, scheduled for Tuesday, October 27th. Stay tuned for more on all of these important "choices" -- and may we choose life!

It’s About Time We Learn

This week, I finally learned what the Y2K bug a quarter of a century ago was all about. I was only thirteen at the time, and not particularly savvy with computers, and by the time I would have understood what the problem was, it had been long-resolved. 

As I now know, the issue was that computer programs represented years with only two digits, as in “98” or “99”. The approach of the year 2000 was going to scramble all of the data because entering a new century (and millennium!) required more digits than programs were equipped to process. 

Behind the technical problem, though, was a human conceptual problem, an error of chronocentrism. A quarter of a century before Y2K , the sociologist Jib Fowles described chronocentrism as “the belief that one’s own times are paramount, that other periods pale in comparison.” Early computer programmers seem simply to have thought the 1800s and the 2000s were too distant in time to be relevant. 

There are some who think even four digits aren’t sufficient for the time horizon we should be imagining. The Long Now Foundation proposes we display years with a zero in front, and think of the next 10,000 years of human life as we collectively make decisions. In the year 02013, they shared:  “Our zero is for optimism. The notion that the externalized thoughts we write today may survive myriad years to a time when that fifth digit becomes significant…” 

Of course, Jewish time extends backward before the Gregorian year 0 (00000?). I often think of Torah study with its myriad commentaries as a form of time travel, hopping from Spain in the 1200s CE (Maimonides) to France in the 1000s CE (Rashi) all the way back to Canaan c.1200 BCE (Moses in the wilderness) and then dizzyingly forward to 1800s Lithuania (the Netziv) before returning to the present moment with a new insight from Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum. Torah is an effective antidote to chronocentrism. 

One Jewish instinct is to collapse time into living memory, such that on Passover we can “view ourselves as having personally left Egypt” (Mishnah Pesachim 10:5, c. 200 CE). 

But I find just as often that the great events of Jewish history enter the collective bloodstream like a delayed-release medicinal capsule. The experience happens, but only much later do we gradually figure out how to understand its meaning and lessons. There’s an odd disconnect between direct experience and clear understanding. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, we find just such a situation (Devarim 29:1-3):

Moses called all Israel and said to them: You have seen all that God did before your very eyes in the land of Egypt, to Pharaoh and to all his courtiers and to his whole country: the wondrous feats that you saw with your own eyes, those prodigious signs and marvels. Yet until this day God has not given you a mind to understand or eyes to see or ears to hear.

Ironically, although we are supposed to imagine ourselves as experiencing leaving Egypt, even the generation or two that actually left Egypt didn’t quite understand the experience as they were having it. Only after forty years in the wilderness did they finally begin to understand. 

Rabbeinu Bachya (1255–1340 Spain) suggests from here we learn that “ a student does not truly appreciate the opinions and knowledge of their teacher until they reach the age of 40.” True learning unavoidably takes time to metabolize.

Sforno (1500s Italy) adds an additional key to how we allow understanding to emerge over time: “Now that you have seen rov chasadav, a multitude of God’s kindnesses for you… the time has come that you will finally possess a knowing heart.”

For the Israelites, even the singular peak experience of hearing God’s own voice at Mt. Sinai could not produce in them a knowing heart. Only the pitter-patter of repeated acts of kindness over decades allowed them finally to see their own story clearly. 

When you think about the significant events in your life, how do you understand them? Has your understanding shifted when you revisit the meaning of those events after years or decades? What old insights start to feel off-base? What new insights emerge? How will you tell your story this year? 

On this full moon of Elul, may you take in the vastness of the tides of time. And while I’m not certain how our Jewish community, or our fellow Americans, or our whole human species will ever gain a shared understanding of reality, I do know we can always add our own acts of chesed, kindness that opens eyes and ears and hearts.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay Levine

Our Fellow Humans are Sacred Treasures Too

I learned so much about how we care for our most sacred objects when Soferet Julie Seltzer visited our community last month to do some maintenance and repair work on Kavana's two Sifrei Torah. So, it's no wonder that my ears perked up this summer when a rabbinic colleague relayed a story about how her congregation was reeling in the wake of the Torah falling to the ground at her synagogue recently, not once but twice. (One incident involved someone tripping and dropping the Torah -- it turns out maybe high heels aren't the best footwear for the Torah processional! -- and the other happened when a Sefer Torah fell forward out of an ark as its doors were opened.) She described that watching the Torah scrolls hit the ground was "traumatic" for the witnesses, who then took on a combination of fasting and Torah study commitments for a total of 40 days -- a kind of penitence for having allowed these breaches of respect to occur. Another colleague weighed in: "Can you imagine if it bothered us that much every time we saw a person lying on the ground?"

Indeed, this whole conversation got me thinking about how problematic it is if we value objects, even our most important ones, over human beings, who -- our tradition teaches -- are created b'tzelem elohim, in the Divine image.

It turns out this isn't a new thought at all. Sometime around the 3rd-5th century, the following story was recorded in the midrashic collection of Bereishit Rabbah (33:1):

R. Joshua ben Levi went to Rome. He saw there pillars that were covered by tapestries during the cold so that they would not freeze and during the heat so that they would not break. And he saw, while walking around the market, a poor man wrapped in a mat, and there are some who say, half of a donkey’s saddle. Concerning those pillars, [R. Joshua] recited [the verse]: Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains (Psalm 36:7). When you give, you pour forth abundantly. Concerning that poor man, he recited [the continuation of the verse]: Your judgments are like the vast abyss (ibid.). When you smite, you do so powerfully.

This text offers a scathing critique of ancient Rome: that brick or stone columns of buildings would receive better treatment than the city's poor residents! And, thinking about current proposals for a Triumphal Arch and a new White House Ballroom, this midrash almost feels like it could be an op-ed in a DC newspaper today. What is the point of grandeur if our society doesn't have its priorities in order and can't take adequate care of its people?

Texts like this midrash show us that our Jewish tradition is well aware of just how easy it is to become desensitized to human suffering. We tell stories like this one because we need constant reminders to center the values of human dignity, respect and compassion.

In addition to using texts and stories, religious practices like customs and mitzvot can also help us get there. For example, at the Friday night dinner table, it's customary to place a challah cover atop our loaves of bread. According to a frequently-cited folk tradition, the reason we cover the challah during kiddush is so that the bread is "spared the embarrassment" of being passed over while the wine or grape juice is blessed first. I've heard it taught that the purpose of this practice is to sensitize us to the feelings of others. The logic here takes the classic rabbinic form of a "kal va'chomer" argument (meaning, "light and heavy" -- that where a rule is true in a simple or minor case, it applies even more strongly to a major case): if we need a challah cover to protect the feelings of a loaf of bread, how much the more so should we take care not to ignore, embarrass or shame a human being! Through this lens, every Shabbat dinner has the potential to remind us of the centrality of human dignity, and how we should be treating the people around us.

Finally, I want to bring us back to this week's Torah portion, Ki Teitzei. In Deuteronomy 22:6-7, we read:

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

Maimonides explains that, like human beings, animals feel pain at being separated from their loved ones. He writes: "This is also the reason for the commandment of shiluach hakein ("sending of the nest")... If then the mother is let go and escapes of her own accord, she will not be pained by seeing that her young are taken away."

Extending similar kal va'chomer logic from the challah cover to this mitzvah of shiluach hakein, we might conclude that if the Torah goes to such lengths to protect a bird from experiencing family separation, we are even more obligated to protect human beings from the cruel practice of family separation.

Unfortunately, though, we all know that family separation -- along with callousness, brutality, mistreatment, racial profiling, and other forms of legal overreach -- are all part of the U.S. federal government's "homeland security" policies and activities right now. Over the last few days, I've been reading about hunger strikes at the Northwest Detention Center (to protest inedible food and unsafe living conditions) and hearing more and more reports of ICE sightings here in the Seattle area, from Aurora Ave N down to SeaTac. Jewish tradition tells us that it is a mitzvah to prevent cruelty from happening to birds, so we certainly can't stand idly by and witness the cruelty being carried out against our human neighbors! Now is the time to organize, advocate, and act. There are many options: you can attend a "Know Your Rights" immigration training, get involved in a neighborhood watch group, or volunteer for accompaniment. You can also learn more about the many possible ways to help by attending the Jewish Coalition for Immigrant Justice's annual Summer Gathering on Sunday August 30th and/or support their mutual aid drive by purchasing backpacks, school supplies, and shelf-stable snacks for students in Tukwila, many of whom are associated with Riverton (meaning: these students are newly arrived immigrant kids).

At our Singing Circle this past Tuesday evening, visiting artist Eliana Light said that during the month of Elul, our aim is to soften our own hearts. Sometimes it's too hard to even look at the human suffering around us... but our tradition scaffolds ritual practices, texts, and mitzvot to help remind us of our imperative to do so.

By all means, please do show respect to the Sefer Torah, to a challah, and to the next mother bird you encounter. But all the more so, in this season, let's endeavor to extend even more respect, dignity, and kindness to every human being we encounter, including the ones lying on the street, the ones who others seek to ignore or humiliate, and the ones living in fear of the very real threat of family separation. They may be the most vulnerable in our society right now, but they too, are the face of God, and it is our obligation as Jews not to forget that and look away.

May this Shabbat of Ki Teitzei and this month of Elul draw us one step closer to the selves we want to be, so that we might build the world of our dreams,

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Case of the Anarchic Ant

During our recent Washington state primaries, I learned that five of the state’s nine Supreme Court justice positions are up for election this year. That’s a higher number than usual, and all seats are contested. We have some influence on the judges, and therefore on justice, both spiritually and secularly.

In this month of Elul, leading up to Rosh HaShanah, also known as Yom HaDin, “The Day of Judgment,” our personal introspection and attention to the people in our immediate lives creates hope for a better year ahead. 

And as residents of Washington, our collective discernment through the ballot will shape what justice looks like for anyone facing the courts at local and state levels.  

It feels timely, then, that the opening lines of this week’s parashah, Shoftim, focus on the appointment of judges: 

“Judges and officers you shall place for you within all your gates that Adonai your God is giving you for your tribes, and they shall judge the people with fair judgment” (Devarim 16:18).

One midrash (rabbinic commentary) associates this verse with some lines from the book of Proverbs. Let’s walk through the midrash, with my play-by-play attempt to unpack it:

This is what the verse said: “Idler, go to the ant; see its ways and become wise. Though it does not have a commander, officer, or governor, it prepares its bread in the summer and amasses its food at the harvest” (Proverbs 6:6–8). 

So far, intriguing but not obvious how ants and judges are connected. Ants don’t seem to have any leaders of any kind… (Did people of yore realize there was a “queen”, or call it something different?)

Why did Solomon see fit to teach the idler a lesson from the ant? 

The Rabbis said: An ant has three houses. It does not store [food] in the upper one, to avoid [water] dripping in, nor in the bottom one because of the [moistness of the] mud, but in the middle one. 

I’m not an ant expert, so I’m just taking the midrashic analysis on face value. The ants seem very smart, finding the right environment to store their food. Not too wet from above or below. Ants are industrious, and one lesson I learn here is that moderation, finding the middle room, balance, etc. are effortful and not always obvious. Finding that spot where you’ve gone beyond the superficial (the first house right below the surface), but not getting stuck in the mud of unnecessary depth (the third house) - that takes wisdom and experience!

And it lives only six months. Why? Because anything that does not possess sinews and bones can live only six months. Its diet is only one-and-a-half wheat kernels, but is goes and gathers in the summer everything that it finds – wheat, barley, and lentils.

The ant as an ideal all of a sudden seems tragic. So much hard work, and for what? Idling has become much more attractive, frankly. 

Rabbi Tanḥuma said: All [it requires in] its life is only one-and-a-half wheat kernels, yet it gathers [all] these. Why does it do so? Because it says: ‘Perhaps the Holy Blessed One will decree life upon me, so I will have something prepared to eat.’

Okay, like I said, I’m not an ant expert, but even I am fairly confident ants do not say this to themselves. But I suppose we are entering the realm of fable, where creatures become teachers. 

Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai said: There was once an incident where they found three hundred kor [of food] in its hole, from what it gathered from summer to winter. 

That is why Solomon said: ‘“Idler, go to the ant; see its ways and become wise.” You, too, prepare for yourself mitzvot in this world for the World to Come.’ 

According to our first opinion (there’s another one coming), amassing wealth beyond your ability to spend it is an act of humble faith. 

Hm.

Let me try again. 

According to the first opinion, doing the right thing by others and by God, what Judaism calls mitzvot, requires the tenacity of ants and the trust that those traditions and good deeds will accrue merit even beyond your lifetime. 

But we have another opinions as well:

What is meant by “see its ways and become wise”? The Rabbis said: See the proper behavior that it exhibits, as it eschews robbery. 

You know how ants have a mysterious ability to get somewhere useful to them even if they don’t travel in a straight line? So too the rabbis. 

Rabbi Shimon ben Ḥalafta said: There was once an incident involving a certain ant that dropped a wheat kernel. All the others came and smelled it, but not one of them would take it. The one to whom it belonged came back and took it. See the wisdom that it has, all this virtue that it has, which it did not learn from any other creature, and it has neither judge nor officer, as it is stated: “It does not have a commander, officer, or governor”.

These ants embody the best of anarchy! Even with the imperative to gather far more than they’ll ever need, they won’t touch something that belongs to another ant. They need no ant Moses telling them the rules, or ant judges or ant police, they simply live in an organic and honorable order. 

The rabbis bring it home at last:

You, for whom I appointed judges and officers, all the more so that you should heed them. That is, “Judges and officers you shall place for you within all your gates.”

Maybe someday we will aspire to the level of the anarchic ant of rabbinic imagination, but for now, what does God and our tradition demand of us? To care deeply about justice, to choose our judges wisely, and to abide by the rule of law. 

Chodesh Tov, may this month leading to the High Holidays be good and a re-orientation to the good, and Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Following Isaiah's Path of Consolation towards Renewal and Hope

This Shabbat, in addition to reading Parashat Re'eh, we announce the new month of Elul that begins next week. Its coming signals that we are already in the lead-up to the High Holidays! However, we cannot get there -- to our season of new beginnings -- until we take time to recover and rebuild from the hard place where we've just been.

As we move through the summer-to-fall swing of the annual Jewish calendar, I would note that it took much less time for us to descend to the low-point of Tisha B'Av (three weeks) than it will for us to climb out of that emotional pit (seven weeks). This reflects a truth about our world: that destruction and devastation can happen quickly, whereas healing necessarily takes time. This is true whether we're talking about literal fires burning structures to the ground (as our neighbors in Spokane and Chelan can sadly attest this week), or about an act of gun violence that can take some lives and irreparably alter others in a matter of seconds (as in the recent shooting at Seattle Center), or about the damage that's been done to our American democracy over the past year and a half (checks and balances have eroded at an alarmingly fast pace). In all of these cases, processing the damage and beginning to rebuild or recover will take much, much more time than it took for the damage itself to happen.

In our annual calendar flow, we build ourselves back up in the weeks between Tisha B'Av and Rosh Hashanah, aided by special scaffolding. The scaffolding takes the form of seven "haftarot of consolation" -- that is, seven specific readings from Nevi'im (Prophets) purposefully selected to help move us from a mindset of disaster, grief and loss towards a readiness for renewal and new beginnings.
This Shabbat, Jewish communities around the world will read the third of the seven special haftarot that follow Tisha B'Av: Isaiah 54:11-55:5. This section of text is interestingly and fittingly also part of the haftarah for Shabbat Noach. In other words: not only does it help us bounce back from the devastation of marking the Temple's destruction at this time of year, but we also chant this same section (with some extra verses at the beginning) right after reading about the flood in Noah's time that nearly wiped out all life on earth. Fortunately, this is a powerful enough text to work in both places: one that contains comfort in the form of a bold promise of physical and spiritual transformation.

Here are the opening verses of this week's haftarah (Isaiah 54:11-13):

עֲנִיָּ֥ה סֹעֲרָ֖ה לֹ֣א נֻחָ֑מָה הִנֵּ֨ה אָנֹכִ֜י מַרְבִּ֤יץ בַּפּוּךְ֙ אֲבָנַ֔יִךְ וִֽיסַדְתִּ֖יךְ בַּסַּפִּירִֽים׃
וְשַׂמְתִּ֤י כַּֽדְכֹד֙ שִׁמְשֹׁתַ֔יִךְ וּשְׁעָרַ֖יִךְ לְאַבְנֵ֣י אֶקְדָּ֑ח וְכׇל־גְּבוּלֵ֖ךְ לְאַבְנֵי־חֵֽפֶץ׃
וְכׇל־בָּנַ֖יִךְ לִמּוּדֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֑ה וְרַ֖ב שְׁל֥וֹם בָּנָֽיִךְ׃
"Unhappy, tempestuous one, uncomforted!
I will lay emeralds as your building stones
And make your foundations of sapphires.
I will make your battlements of rubies,
Your gates of precious stones,
The whole encircling wall of gems.
And all your children shall be disciples of the Lord,
And great shall be the happiness of your children."

There is so much to notice in just these first few lines, as Isaiah walks us through a multi-step process towards recovery and the re-establishment of hope.

First, Isaiah addresses us in our misery, calling us "oniyah" ("poor," "afflicted," "unhappy") and noting our inability to be comforted. On the word "so'arah" ("tempestuous"), Rashi comments that it means "one whose heart storms with many troubles." This stormy-hearted image is such a potent and accurate description of what it can feel like when we find ourselves in the wake of chaos and loss. Reading this, hopefully we feel seen in our distress.

Next, Isaiah helps us move away from our shaky, storm-tossed state by re-establishing a firm foundation. The image he paints with his words -- of gemstones of all colors constituting the building stones, foundations, battlements, gates and walls of our new structure -- sounds gorgeous. Perhaps it isn't actually practical to use precious gems as foundation stones, but his visual really works. The new foundations of Isaiah's imagination are not only solid, but also beautiful and vibrant -- at once practical, stable, and eye-catching (sort of like the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz!). Through Isaiah's words, he sends a message about the immeasurable value of restoring our lives from the bottom up, beginning the rebuilding process by focusing on firm foundations and bringing solid beauty to the entire structure of our reconstituted lives.

Finally, atop that solid foundation, Isaiah promises us a future that is better than the present. Of course, getting there will take time -- the future he envisions will be for our children's generation and not necessarily for ours -- but he offers reassurance that it is on the way, through his promise that "your children shall be disciples of the Lord, and great shall be the happiness of your children."

A famous Talmudic interpretation (found in Berakhot 64a) plays with Isaiah's language in verse 54:13. Some of you may recognize the following passage (sometimes referred to as "Amar Rabbi Elazar") from the traditional siddur, where it appears in the concluding prayers of the morning service. It reads:

"Rabbi Elazar said in the name of Rabbi Ḥanina: Torah scholars increase peace in the world, as it is said: “And all your children [banayich] shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of your children [banayich].” If all the children of Israel are taught of the Lord, there will be peace for all. The Sages interpreted this verse homiletically: Do not read 'your children' [banayich], but 'your builders' [bonayich]. Torah scholars are those who build peace for their generation. As it is stated: 'Those who love Your Torah have great peace; there is no stumbling block for them' (Psalms 119)."
In this ancient Talmudic pun (which, incidentally, seems to stem from a variant - an extra vav in the word - found in a Dead Sea Scrolls text!), the word "children" is interchanged with the word "builders." In playing with these similar Hebrew words, the Talmudic sages claim that our children will actually be the builders -- that is, our children will be the ones to carry out our visions and build the world of the future. Based on this teaching, investing in the world we want to see necessitates investing in the next generation. If we do so well, providing our children with the right Torah, then they will have the capacity to become peace-builders.

This outlook -- our orientation towards the future, and a belief that the work of repair has a long arc and therefore that tools must be transmitted from one generation to the next -- feels quintessentially Jewish. It's also a critical part of Isaiah's message of comfort, as it provides hope, not just in any future but in a better future.

This investment in the future shows up in Kavana's work of this season, not only in terms of the Jewish calendar's Tisha B'Av-to-Rosh Hashanah run, but also in a very practical sense in terms of our board and staff's summer work-flow. As many of our community's academic-year programs take a pause in the summer, this season is devoted in large part to planning for the future. In recent weeks, we've been mapping our next-steps for strategic plan implementation, planning our community's High Holiday gatherings, designing curriculum for each of our education programs, and hiring new staff members. In addition, one way we invest in the youth of our community and in the Jewish future is that Rabbi Jay, RLO and I each spent time at Jewish camps this summer, visiting our Kavana campers and counselors, learning the newest Jewish music (and often fun hand-motions to go with the songs), and serving as educators to the children of our community. In addition, it was a special pleasure at our most recent Shabbat in the Park event to welcome back so many young adults -- college students and 20-somethings -- who grew up in this community and came back to welcome Shabbat and be in community with us again; I really think the whole Kavana community can share in a collective sense of pride at having been part of the village that nurtured these incredible young people who are both our "children" and our future-builders!
So, as we head into this third Shabbat of consolation and towards the month of Elul, I hope that Isaiah's words can meet you wherever you are this week. May they serve as the scaffolding we each need to find our way along the right paths -- both in the short-term lead-up to the High Holidays, and the longer-term (multi-generational) journey -- towards consolation, renewal and hope.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

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