Bifocals, Not Binaries

As American Jews, we see time through bifocals. One lens, moving through the Jewish calendar, and another lens tracking the secular common calendar. It is obvious that holidays belong to their respective domain - Rosh Hashanah forever on the 1st of Tishrei, while Memorial Day is always the last Monday in May. 

Personally significant days get more complex. For instance, my wife and son share a secular birthday, but not a Jewish birthday. I also have my grandmother’s yahrzeit in my calendar twice each year, once for each lens. Each of us balances our immersion in American time with our anchor in Jewish time.

Societally significant events also metabolize differently when we revisit them each year because of the tectonic shifts between calendars. Two years ago, Hamas massacred Israeli soldiers and civilians on October 7, which coincided with the holiday of Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah (a single day in Israel). As a celebration of the joy of Torah now marred by horrific violence, questions arose: Would we champion a Torah of peace? Apply the Torah’s wisdom on just and necessary war? Find the Torah mute and in mourning?

In 2026, October 7 will fall after the holidays finish, approaching the month of MarCheshvan (the “bitter” month where there are no holidays at all). 

In 2027, October 7 will fall (as it did in 2024) between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, during the Ten Days of Repentance. I wonder what teshuvah looked like last year, and how it might be different two years from now…

This year, however, October 7 fell on the holiday of Sukkot. Which raises another question: What do we see when we look at October 7 from the sukkah? Do we shiver in the cold wind of history, all too aware of how abundance may be harvested one year and wither away the next? Should we insist on zman simchateinu, on times of joy, as necessary nourishment so we can rise to the challenges that face us? Might we see the permeable walls and roofs of the sukkah, and the tradition of inviting in ushpizin, guests, as reminders of our obligations to others and the importance of connection beyond the hard boundaries we instinctively reinforce? 

We also read Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) on Sukkot, and this year a few unusual lines drew my attention (7:16-17). 

אַל־תְּהִ֤י צַדִּיק֙ הַרְבֵּ֔ה וְאַל־תִּתְחַכַּ֖ם יוֹתֵ֑ר לָ֖מָּה תִּשּׁוֹמֵֽם׃ 
Don’t be greatly righteous and don’t become too wise; why should you be desolate?

אַל־תִּרְשַׁ֥ע הַרְבֵּ֖ה וְאַל־תְּהִ֣י סָכָ֑ל לָ֥מָּה תָמ֖וּת בְּלֹ֥א עִתֶּֽךָ׃ 
Don’t be greatly wicked and don’t be a fool; why should you die before your time?

Let’s start with the second statement, which is slightly less controversial. It seems obvious you shouldn’t be wicked. For Kohelet, being wicked and foolish (distinct characteristics with significant overlap) leads to an early death. Or at least, overdoing it can be fatal. Being a little bit wicked is apparently totally fine. 

However, an early midrash clarifies that this teaching reminds us not to slip into fatalism about our ability to change for the better. If we do something wrong, we can’t let ourselves off the hook by considering ourselves bad people now and continuing to do bad people things because that’s just who we are now and there’s no possibility anymore of being good. Being “greatly wicked” is a form of the cognitive distortion of all-or-nothing thinking. What “dies before its time” is the possibility of a new choice once the “all” no longer seems attainable. The riddle of not being too wicked resolves when we know that everyone lives in the gray areas and we are not as stuck in choices, patterns, and circumstances as we think we are. 

Some take the teaching on not being too righteous in a similar vein - strive for balance and moderation in all things. The medieval scholar Abraham ibn Ezra commented: “If you pray from morning until evening and fast and do similar things, you will become desolate, meaning you will depart from the way of civilization/settlement, as do those who become hermits.” 

There is a form of righteousness which leads you away from people. And while a retreat from the mess of being around actual people has its place, our purpose isn’t to be good and alone. The first human’s existence prompted God to say “It is not good for a person to be alone!” (Bereishit / Genesis 2:18). In a surprising way, God sometimes prefers politics (the art of figuring out how to live together without murdering each other) over pure righteousness. 

Looking up from the pages of Kohelet to view October 7, the past two years of war and tragedy for Palestinians and Israelis, and this fragile moment where a cessation of violence and return of hostages seems possible, what do we see? (You may be reading this and seeing something new already that wasn’t there while I was writing. So many feelings are swirling right now around this new deal - a mixture of hope and anticipation, steeling against possible disappointment, a clear awareness that hostages returning home and fewer people dying is a good thing, and uncertainty about what will come of this moment in terms of justice and safety for all people in the region.)

Rabbi Jill Jacobs of T’ruah wrote in a recent letter:

In a world of hot takes and of insistence on ideological purity, it takes humility to say that we don’t know what is going to happen… It’s easy to despair, and to give up. The challenge is to believe that a different world is possible, to draw the blueprints, and to build it little by little.

To build a sukkah, to sit in its vulnerable shelter, and to gaze out at the same old world, is to be offered a new vision, another sort of bifocals that balance humility with chutzpah.

This year, let each day, Jewish and secular, become another anniversary of when we kept our hearts open and our hands busy building a better world together. 

Chag sameach, and Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Freedom is Wild

A few weeks ago, I stood above the Ballard Locks. My two kids and I watched the salmon leap in their enchantingly awkward dance towards home. We cheered them on. But then, the salmon scattered, and a plump seal swam through their midst, looking for what we would learn was probably a fifth or sixth breakfast that day. My son was horrified. “I’m so afraid for the salmon. The seal will eat it,” he said. I looked helplessly towards a nearby nature guide, who calmly and gently said, “The seals and the salmon are in an ancient dance, doing what they’ve always done. The salmon swim home, and the seals eat some of them. The problem now is that because we humans have changed the way back upstream, the salmon have only a small opening to get through, so the seals just hang out there. We’ve made it extra easy for them to snack. But still, it doesn’t seem to be a big problem.” I’m not sure Ami was convinced, but we turned back to watching the age-old performance play on. 

The poet W.H. Auden once wrote some lines meditating on nature, and our strange human place in it.

So from the years their gifts were showered: each
Grabbed at the one it needed to survive;
Bee took the politics that suit a hive,
Trout finned as trout, peach moulded into peach,

And were successful at their first endeavour.
The hour of birth their only time in college,
They were content with their precocious knowledge,
To know their station and be right for ever.

Till, finally, there came a childish creature
On whom the years could model any feature,

Fake, as chance fell, a leopard or a dove,
Who by the gentlest wind was rudely shaken,
Who looked for truth but always was mistaken,
And envied his few friends, and chose his love.

He then rewrites a version of the exile from the Garden of Eden, capturing so much of our human condition in just a few short phrases:

They left. Immediately the memory faded
Of all they'd known: they could not understand
The dogs now who before had always aided;
The stream was dumb with whom they'd always planned.
They wept and quarrelled: freedom was so wild.

Nature is in an intricate dance. All things instinctively know their role, except humans, who have forgotten the steps. Freedom is so wild. Auden suggests that what is so hard for us is precisely the open possibilities of being human. What we celebrate also haunts us, what we struggle with also contains seeds of healing and growth, if we know how to plant and tend to them. 

There is a story I’ve heard which has been transcribed in various versions from different Indigenous American sources. Here is one version:

Inside a cave an old woman is weaving the most beautiful garment ever imagined. But now and then, she has to pause to stir a pot over the fire that’s at the back of the cave. And that pot holds all the seeds of the earth and if she doesn’t go to the back of the cave and stir the pot, the seeds will burn and life itself will vanish from the world.

While she is away, a black dog (or some say a trickster crow) slips in and unravels her weaving, thread by thread until only chaos remains. When she returns, she pauses. Not in anger but in stillness and presence. Then she picks up the thread. And in that thread she imagines an even more beautiful garment, one that didn’t exist before the unraveling. And again she begins to weave. 

Freedom is so wild. We weave the world into order, and then we watch it unravel. We weave the world into beauty, and then an ugly tug undoes the threads. We weave ourselves into better people, then something wicked this way comes and hands us a mirror. We humans, what are we doing? 

-

The prophet Isaiah told a very short story long, long ago, his version of the woman weaving in a cave. Isaiah, whose name means “God will save”, said it this way: 

Ko amar adonai, Thus says God: (Isaiah 45:1)
…
I am God and there is none else (ain od zulati);
Beside Me, there is no god.
I engird you, though you have not known Me,
So that all may know, from east to west,
That there is none but Me.
I am God and there is none else,
I form light and create darkness,
I make peace and create chaotic evil—
I God do all these things. (Isaiah 45:5-7)

It would be comforting to think there is a dog or crow or demon or devil out there, pulling at the threads of God’s creation, but no, Isaiah says, God is One, there is nothing but God, God is in a dance of delight and disaster with Godself, light here, dark there, peacefully complete and unraveling at the same time. 

As Friedrich Nietzche said, “I would believe only in a god who could dance.” 

The Buddhist master Thich Nhat Han taught that we too should see ourselves in a dance with our own natures:

I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond,
and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence,
feeds itself on the frog.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being attacked by a sea pirate,
and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.

We are all of us weaver and unraveler, victim and perpetrator, full of light and carrying darkness, and crucially, inheritors of a key to a door of the heart, the door of compassion. 

---

What I am trying to dance with here, what I’m trying to weave together, is uncomfortable. How do we move through a world of hate and fear while remembering we - and others - are complex, multifaceted humans and groups of humans? How do we stand up for what we think is right without demonizing those who disagree with us? How do we rend our garments in sorrow and then smile at each other? How do we hold dread and delight in the same heart? How do we create necessary boundaries, and how do we soften the severity of our judgment on each other? Political violence, Jewish isolation and internal Jewish fault lines, personal grief, climate disasters. How do we survive the wild freedom of this beautiful and terrifying world together?

One text that has been nestling in my heart for a while orients us towards what we are doing in gathering for Yom Kippur together. The opening line of the prayer Anim Zemirot, which some of you may chant tomorrow early in the morning, says:

אַנְעִים זְמִירוֹת וְשִׁירִים אֶאֱרֹג כִּי אֵלֶיךָ נַפְשִׁי תַּעֲרֹג
Anim zemirot v’shirim e'erog, ki eilecha nafshi ta'arog.
I will sweeten melodies and songs I will weave (e’erog), for to you my soul longs (ta’arog).

While we pray in our woven tallitot, we will weave songs of our soul’s longing. I think it is incredible that in Hebrew weaving and yearning rhyme, e’erog, ta’arog. My restless mind spins and spins on what I can do, when it feels like the world is unraveling. But perhaps the first threads of repair require me to be in touch with my deep yearning, with a vision of a better future. 

The prophet Isaiah gave us a vision of that better future as absurd as it is inspiring. 

The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,
The leopard lie down with the goat;
…
The cow and the bear shall graze,
Their young shall lie down together;
And the lion, like the ox, shall eat straw.

The seal and the salmon, dancing together as playmates not as predator and prey! Or to use Auden’s words, we humans no longer faking being leopard or dove, but just harmoniously ourselves. Can you imagine a world where people didn’t grasp for power, or punish opponents, or attempt to purge enemies, or where hatred didn’t fester for the other side, or where greed and self-interest didn’t warp the common good? I find it hard to envision, and Isaiah’s absurdity is oddly reassuring - it isn’t that we are failing, exactly, but that we are deep in the midst of the human condition. Every one of us is complicit in being human. 

But here’s what is incredible about being human. Unlike a wolf or lamb, humans have such an incredible range of moral possibility, including the most callous and cruel but also spanning to the most aspirational and soaring and love-oriented dreams any creature could dream. It isn’t Isaiah’s vision of God or the messianic era that draws forth my hopeful yearning, but the fact that this human, so long ago, had the creativity to envision something so beyond what the world has yet experienced. In the face of a compelling picture of despair, Isaiah made a choice to tell us a different story.

And we, in our prayers, in naming our yearnings, shape the story of the year to come.

On Kol Nidre, we wear the tallit because tonight we recite the 13 Middot Harachamim, God’s 13 attributes of compassion. Long ago, high up on the mountaintop, Moses, yearning to encounter God directly, is told no. The fullness of God’s being - the intricate dance of nature, outer and inner - isn’t our ultimate focus. Instead, as the Talmud teaches, God wraps that shining shawl of a tallit around godself and demonstrates to Moses how to pray the words that will open the door of the divine heart, the door of compassion.

Adonai Adonai, el rachum v’chanun, O God, all-that-is-was-and-will-be, Creator-of-everything, Weaver and Unraveler, El Rachum v’chanun - be a power of compassion and grace. It is as if God is saying, “I am God of everything, but I want you to invoke me as god of mercy. Tilt me in that direction.” 

Choose, God says. Choose to tilt your nature and Mine towards compassion. Wear your woven garment, your tallit, weave your songs and yearnings together, pray your prayers and let the angel, as a midrash suggests, collect all of the prayers and weave them into a crown for God, a crown of compassion for the creator of all possibilities, both light and dark, a crown for the one who created our ability to choose, and therefore the one who calls us into choice. 

At the heart of the human condition, in the midst of the wild freedom, there is a dance of thread, a dream of what a new and beautiful world can be, and a door always there waiting for us.

Rabbi Jay LeVine
Yom Kippur 5786 - Oct. 1, 2025

From Learned Helplessness to Spiritual Resistance, and From Imutz HaLev to Ometz Lev

Many of you heard Rabbi Jonah’s story on Rosh Hashanah about the chassidic rabbi – Rebbe Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk – whose students thought that things felt so perfect inside their room that perhaps the moshiach had come and the world had entered a messianic age. The rebbe got up and walked to the window to look out and see, and then came back to the table to confirm that sadly no, the moshiach had not arrived. It still stinks out there. 

Ten days later, I don’t have to peek out the window to tell you that it still stinks out there. I’m thinking, right now, about what’s happened in our country this year, in recent months and weeks and even days. ICE agents with face masks and no name badges are picking people up off streets in arrests that feel more like kidnappings. Political violence and gun violence on the rise - we’ve seen shootings of Minnesota State Representative Melissa Hortman and right-wing activist Charlie Kirk, the seder night attack on Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro; the shooting at the Capitol Jewish Museum and just this week a fire and shooting combo at a Mormon church in Michigan. Legislators are being threatened. Trans folks and especially trans kids are also being targeted and scapegoated, each and every day, with access to gender-affirming medical care challenged or removed. Reproductive rights have been rolled back in many states. And don’t get me started about the lies: that taking Tylenol during pregnancy causes autism, that #47 has ended seven wars, that Portland is aflame with protest. This week we saw a meeting of generals, where military aggression is being promoted and the presence of anyone other than white men is being undermined and challenged at the newly named “Department of War.” We’re witnessing the defunding of science and institutions of higher learning, and much of that is being uncomfortably pinned on Jews. Comedians are losing their jobs and restrictions on free press are growing. These are just some of the big flashy stories. And to be honest, it’s hard to know how much these stories are the actual story, and how much they are all distracting smokescreens so that maybe we the people won’t notice all of the money changing hands, and the billionaires who are benefitting while seeds of division are sown for the rest of society to fight over the scraps. The rise of autocratic rule, dictatorship, and fascism is terrifying. 

I am speaking about this on High Holidays, because this is the backdrop we’re all operating in this year and I think it’s important to name it. This is not normal, and it is not aligned with our Judaism. Our job on Yom Kippur is to think about what kinds of human beings we want to be this year, but we can’t consider this in a vacuum, or when everything is perfect, because we live in the real world, and all around us, that real world is a mess.

I can tell you – from the conversations I’ve had with so many of you over the past year, and the past eight months especially – that one place where this community is pretty like-minded is in bristling at the cruelty, the hatred, and the corruption we are witnessing in real time. While some in our community inspire me by their ability to regularly roll up their sleeves, I also know that many of you – like me – are experiencing overwhelm, at least some of the time. When we don’t know what we can possibly do to be helpful, when the world around us feels so out of control, it is human tendency to feel paralyzed, to shut down, to start to tune it all out, to grow discouraged and decide that perhaps our actions don’t even matter at all. 

In the 1960s, scientists first discovered and studied the psychological concept that is today known as “learned helplessness.” They conducted experiments on animals (experiments, I should say, that would never be allowed today because of their cruelty to the research subjects). American psychologist Martin Seligman did his experiments on dogs, who were exposed to unpleasant electric shocks at random intervals. Some of the dogs could stop the shocks by pushing a lever, and they soon learned to do so, but others experienced the shocks at random and had no way to stop them, no matter what they tried. After many attempts, the animals who couldn’t control the shocks stopped trying altogether and simply endured the torture. In part two of the experiment, sometime later, all of the dogs were moved to a new situation where the solution was pretty simple. They were placed in a two-part cage where the dog could escape an electric shock by simply jumping over a low barrier to the other side. The animals that had had the ability to use the lever previously learned quickly to move from one side of the cage to the other to avoid the shocks. But the animals for whom nothing had worked before seemed to have learned that nothing they did could possibly matter, and they gave up even when a way out was right in front of them – literally, they lay down passively and whined or whimpered. This is what psychologists came to term “learned helplessness”: that repeated experiences of being unable to change a bad situation can lead to a deep sense of passivity that carries over into new situations.

This year, given everything that’s happening out there, I believe we are all at risk of succumbing to learned helplessness. With constant exposure to news and social media, with rampant cruelty and hatred on the rise, with attempts to shut down dissent, we are confronted daily with images of crises, injustice and suffering that we often cannot influence. This stream can create the same sense as it did for the dogs that were exposed to electric shocks in Seligman’s lab: that nothing we do matters, which reinforces the sense of disempowerment. And, it’s even worse that to some extent, this is a political strategy – it’s called “flooding the zone,” and it involves overwhelming the media and the public with a rapid, massive barrage of information, controversy and actions. The deliberate deluge is a form of propaganda intended to make it difficult for the public to focus on any single issue or critically analyze events. In other words, to the extent that we’re feeling overwhelm, fatigue, and paralysis, this is because it’s part of somebody’s plan. 

Recently, I read an article by an Israeli doctoral student in cognitive neuroscience named Iddo Gefen. He explains this concept of learned helplessness but then writes (in a very High Holiday connected message): “But even though our brains are wired to fall into feelings of helplessness, they are also wired with the ability to change. This means that even in moments when everything feels out of our control, there are things we can do to push back against that feeling.”

Gefen cites a 2023 study titled “From Helplessness to Controllability: Toward a Neuroscience of Resilience.” It explores how the brain can be trained to resist this state of learned helplessness, and offers practical insights. “...The key to protecting ourselves from learned helplessness is not simply avoiding situations where we lack control, but actively building experiences of control. Even very small steps matter. Choosing a concrete and achievable goal, doing something that has a visible effect, or helping someone close to us can all reactivate these brain circuits. Such actions may not change the world, but they slowly remind the brain that what we do can make a difference.” The way out of helplessness and paralysis is doing.

I want to argue tonight that our Jewish tradition actually beat the psychological researchers to the punch here. Long before 2023 when this particular contemporary study about the neuroscience of resilience was published, and even before the 1960s and Seligman’s naming of learned helplessness, our liturgy encoded into it precisely the kind of building blocks we need to rewire our brains when they are under stress and to build resilience that protects us against the pull of helplessness. Yom Kippur gives us the space and the tools to do the spiritual work to combat the learned helplessness and sense of overwhelm that are so easy to feel in this moment.

In our service tonight, we have completed the Kol Nidre prayer and the Maariv prayers around Shema and the Amidah. As we continue, we will move into the Selichot set - the prayers that are specific to Yom Kippur and which we will repeat multiple times over the coming 24 hours. 

At the heart of these Selichot prayers lie two confessionals. The first, vidui, is a short alphabetic acrostic, listing out actions that we have taken that are examples of sins, or missing the mark – that don’t represent our best behavior. The second list, Al Chet, is a longer alphabetical acrostic, listing what we’re atoning for. Let’s turn to that one - please join me on page 450.

My central argument here is that our observance of Yom Kippur itself can be an antidote to learned helplessness, and that this is helpful Torah for this particular moment. If you’ve ever done any meditation, typically there’s a “return to the breath” that brings you back to center when the mind wanders. Yom Kippur does something parallel, only it returns us to our own bodies and to our own small sphere of control on an annual basis. In doing so, it helps us fight against feelings of powerlessness and overwhelm, and promises us that we do have the power to effect change, first and foremost within ourselves and in our own realms of control.

Skimming through pages 450-453 together, what I want to show you is this: Al Chet is filled with descriptions connecting to body parts! We see that with imutz ha-lev (the sin of hardening the heart), vitui s’fatayim (the idleness of the lips), dibur peh (the speech of the mouth), harhur ha-lev (the scheming of the heart), vidui peh (the confessions of the mouth - aka hypocrisy), chozek yad (the outstretched hand - good when God does it, but an abuse of power when we humans try it), tum’at sefatayim (impure speech), tifshut peh (foolishness of the mouth), lashon ha-ra (evil tongue), netiyat garon (translated haughtiness, but literally the extending or stretching out of the throat), siach siftoteinu (idle conversation of our lips), shikur ayin (translated here glancing lustfully, or literally the lies of the eye), einayim ramot (haughty eyes, or eyes elevated), azut metzach (translated insolence, but literally the strengthened forehead), tzarut ayin (translated pettiness, but more literally the narrowness of the eye), kalut rosh (it says levity, but means lightness of the head), kashiyut oref (stubbornness, or literally stiffness of the neck), ritzat raglayim l’hara (the running of the legs to do evil), t’sumet yad (by being meddlesome, or more literally, the placement of the hand), timhon leivav (confusion of the heart). That was fully 20 examples, and that’s before going to the figurative ones that refer to the human body as a whole… together, my point is that there are a large number of embodied actions (they almost make up the majority of this list). 

What do we do on a day where we want to atone, we want a fresh beginning, and yet we find that so many things in the world around us are beyond our control? The liturgy focuses us squarely on our own bodies – as though to say that if we can’t change the whole world, at least we can change ourselves. This is a lot of human body talk for a day when we make a big deal about ignoring the physical body and its needs – refraining from eating and drinking, from physical comfort or adornment. If this is helpful to you, one way you can think of Yom Kippur is about doing a reboot – a system reset – on the self. We shut down the emphasis on our physical bodies, and instead engage the spiritual dimension.

You heard that list of 20+ items. If I had to generalize, I would say that many of them – the physical body actions and gestures that are categorized as sins, actions for which we human beings need to atone, the things we want to do a lot less of – are about physical strength, lengthening and hardening. Try doing these actions, physically, and you’ll see what I mean: N’tiyat garon - the extending of the throat. Chozek yad - the strong arm. Azut metzach - the tough forehead. Einayim ramot - lifted up eyes. Kashiyut oref - the hard nape of the neck (tense those muscles!).

I leave all of this for you to consider and play with in your minds as you like throughout the day, but I want to take rabbi prerogative now and focus our attention for a moment on a single transition that I think could be read as THE KEY to Yom Kippur. It also happens to be a brilliant pun and word play.

Returning to near the beginning of our Al Chet list, I want to direct your attention to the phrase “v’al chet shechatanu l’fanecha b’imutz halev” (it’s the second line of the prayer). “For the sin we have committed before you through the hardening of the heart.”

Imutz ha-Lev means the strengthening or hardening of the heart – like a calcification. We should be familiar with the concept – although the vocabulary is a little different – from the story of Exodus, when our ancestors were getting ready to leave Egypt and God hardened the heart of Pharaoh (there it’s vayechazek or vayikabed lev paroh). This kind of hardening of the heart implies callousness, an inability to feel empathy, remaining hardened in the face of the suffering of others. In systems of power, like in ones that we can see on display so clearly right now, a hardened heart is mistakenly viewed as a sign of strength, but our Jewish tradition is very clear that this is a big no-no. When, in this year, immigrants were rounded up by ICE and deported to prison in El Salvador to cheers and laughter of some, that was imutz halev. Ditto when the Navy carried out an airstrike on a Venezuelan boat in the southern Caribbean last month, killing 11 people on board. It’s relatively easy to say that those who are carrying out these acts and those who are cheering them on are guilty of imutz halev - that’s easy to condemn. But actually, our tradition also says that we – and here I include myself and probably most of us in this room – may also be guilty of imutz halev for hardening our hearts too much to meaningfully counter them. If we are too beaten down by the system already to feel empathy, to be moved to act by the plight of others (and, again, this is part of the machinery that has been very precisely designed to beat us down and overwhelm us) then we too are guilty of imutz halev, of hardening our hearts.

Returning to neuropsychology and to Iddo Gefen for a moment, first, as I already shared, he says that the key to combatting learned helplessness is not simply avoiding situations where we lack control, but actively building experiences of control. He says: “It turns out that the brain reacts very differently when we have even a small sense of influence over what happens. For example, volunteering with elderly people or adopting a rescued animal are small actions that remind us that what we do can make the world a little better. Experiences of control act like a “vaccine” for the brain. When a person faces a situation where their actions make a difference, circuits in the medial prefrontal cortex become engaged. This part of the brain, which is involved in planning and self‑regulation, quiets the stress signals coming from deeper regions… and over time these circuits become stronger.”

Second, although he doesn’t use this language, he also talks about the importance of acting with kavana, with intention. In his words: “Habits can be useful, but when we are under stress, relying only on automatic responses tends to reinforce passivity. In contrast, pausing to think, analyzing a situation, trying a new strategy, and noticing the link between actions and outcomes strengthens the brain’s resilience. For example, instead of automatically walking past someone who looks lost or is struggling with heavy bags, you choose to stop for a moment, offer directions or lend a hand. This small choice turns an automatic habit into a conscious action and reminds you of your ability to choose and to make a difference. Turning habits into conscious, deliberate actions also engages brain areas involved in planning and self‑control, and over time this practice helps build resilience against the pull of helplessness.”

Back to the liturgy now, we have explored the concept of imutz halev, the problematic hardening of the heart that makes us callous towards others. This is precisely what our rabbis don’t want us to do and to be (and it may be precisely the sin that the prophet Jonah is guilty of, but that’s a conversation for tomorrow).

Instead of imutz halev, the hardening of the heart, our Jewish tradition points us towards a positive kind of strengthening of the heart, and Yom Kippur gives us a chance to get there, and to set ourselves a different heart intention. With the same trilateral root of alef-mem-tzadee, we get the phrase “Chazak ve’ematz” – “be strong and take courage” that Moses said to Joshua three times in this past Shabbat’s Torah portion, Parashat Vayeilech. The concept of “Ometz lev” – literally meaning “strong of heart” – means something akin to courage, and it’s a core soul trait in Mussar. Ometz lev is the quality that Moses’ mother Yocheved and the midwives Shifra and Puah all possess when they decide to go against Pharaoh’s decree and not kill baby boys born to the Israelites – it’s civil disobedience for the good. Ometz lev is the courage that Esther and Mordecai possess when they stand up in defense of their people. In the animated BimBam “Shaboom” videos created by my brilliant friend Sarah Lefton, Ometz Lev is translated “hero’s heart” and I like that translation even better. On Yom Kippur, we remind ourselves that we cannot fall into the trap of imutz halev – hardened hearts – and instead need to strive towards cultivating Ometz Lev – hero’s hearts. This is what we’re asking on these High Holidays when we pray “Hayom T’amtzeinu”: “On this day, give us strength and courage, give us hero’s hearts.

So as we move through the next 24 hours together, one central image that I hope you’ll reflect on is that we’re moving away from that physical strength that looks like hardening – that looks like military might and machismo, callousness and indifference to the suffering of others. We are actively rejecting the kind of hardening of the heart that would allow us to tolerate this cruelty, and instead, moving towards an emotional strength that is supple and flexible: the strength of bravery, courage, sensitivity, and empathy, and spiritual resistance.

It’s easy to feel that these small actions are not enough, that they are far from changing the world. But, in fact, small actions, starting from the self, can make a huge difference. On Yom Kippur, we remind ourselves that we have the ability to change ourselves, to strengthen ourselves in the ways that we need to be strengthened. And if those actions that grow out of our self work aren’t just decent ones, but very precisely, are the ones that transform imutz halev into ometz lev – that help us move from a hardened heart to a hero’s heart – we have great power indeed. If we can do this as a community and in community, we can begin to transform our society. We know from history that this moment will not last forever. There will be a backswing; there will come again a time where it feels like our society is again getting better and not worse. And Yom Kippur promises us that even if we can’t control everything about what’s happening, we do have the power to hasten that time, starting from our own bodies, our own selves, and our own heart intentions.

And so, as we embark on these Selichot prayers for the first of many times this Yom Kippur, I invite you to use this day to reflect on what is in your sphere of influence, to visualize softening your heart from callousness and then strengthening it again towards empathy, bravery, courage, resolve, and a hero’s heart. On this Yom Kippur, as we look out the window, we know that it is really bad out there. But our tradition reminds us that we cannot despair, lie down and whimper. We have agency, which begins from each of our own spheres of influence, from our own actions, from our own bodies, from what is in our own hearts. This year, let’s really do the work of trying to prevent our hearts from hardening and atrophying, and instead engage our hearts bravely and courageously in acts of spiritual resistance. With intention, with resolve, and in community, we have the power to change ourselves and slowly, collectively, eventually, together we will also change our society for the better.

Gmar chatima tova - and may we all be sealed for a good year - a year of courage and empathy.

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Yom Kippur 5786 - Oct. 1, 2025

Generations: Continuity & Discontinuity

As we embark on the High Holidays tonight, I want to focus us on the theme of generations. 

The Torah portions for this holiday of Rosh Hashanah convey intense anxiety about generational continuity. Tomorrow’s reading begins with this issue: “Vadonai pakad et sarah ka’asher amar, va’ya’as adonai l’sarah ka’asher diber. Vatahar va’teiled sarah l’avraham ben liz’kunav.” “The Eternal took note of Sarah as was promised; the Eternal did for Sarah as had been spoken. And Sarah conceived and bore Abraham a son in his old age.” In these opening lines, the text has already set up a central challenge:  Abraham and Sarah are old – will there even be a next generation?! Of course, Abraham goes on to have two sons – Ishmael and Isaac – but the worry about continuity doesn’t stop here. 

The rest of the reading on day 1 centers on how Sarah’s jealousy fuels Abraham’s expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael, who end up alone, isolated, and about to die of thirst in the wilderness. And then on day 2, we read the next chapter: Genesis 22, where God commands Abraham to take his second son, Isaac, up to the top of Har Hamoriah and offer him up as a sacrifice there. This is extreme family dysfunction; that the same Abraham who once worried that he would not have a child at all has two of them but almost kills each one, in separate instances! According to a famous midrash, when Sarah hears how Abraham has almost slaughtered Isaac, her soul departs and she dies. And in the chapters that follow, neither Ishmael nor Isaac ever speak to their father again. (Only after he dies do they come back together to bury him.) As we gather on Rosh Hashanah, we are left to reflect on this theme of generational continuity and discontinuity – what it is that we have inherited and what it is that we transmit, and how valuable - and how vulnerable - the chain of transmission is.

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I was first introduced to generational thinking as a lens as a newly minted rabbi. I remember picking up a book called When Generations Collide - a workplace book, soon after I had been ordained in 2004, when it was still relatively new. Two authors, Lynne Lancaster, a baby boomer, and David Stillman, a Gen X-er, made the point that with people living longer than ever and working longer than ever, we found ourselves at a moment with four distinct generations side-by-side in the workplace – more than ever before. To be able to get along well in the contemporary workplace and in the world, they argued, was to understand each of these generations, what they value, and how they function and communicate. 

Today, more than two decades later, I feel the tension between generations even more acutely. Of course, Kavana is a community and not a workplace. When Kavana first launched in 2006, I was 29 years old and didn’t have any kids; my co-founder Suzi LeVine was in her 30s and had two young children. Fast forward 19 years and many of the founders, like the two of us, are now solidly in mid-life in our 40s and 50s. But, over time, as many of you know, this community has continued to attract young adults in their 20s and 30s, and also drawn like-minded adults in their 60s, 70s and 80s, meaning that now the Kavana community spans every possible life stage. Today, we are trying to forge an intentionally multigenerational community made up of 6 distinct generations.

In the book When Generations Collide, the authors are clear that generalizations do not always hold true for every individual, so that’s my caveat too. And yet, the broad brush-stroke thinking they propose can be a helpful framework for looking at big-picture trends and understanding cultural shifts that stem from having different groups of people who have grown up with radically different life experiences. 

Their book terms the generation of anyone born before the year 1945 and the end of WWII “the Traditionalists.” This generation was influenced by figures like Joe DiMaggio, Dr Spock, Alfred Hitchcock, FDR, Ella Fitzgerald, Edward Murrow, Elizabeth Taylor, Betty Crocker and more. Overall, this traditionalist generation is shaped by duty and discipline – they value hard work, patriotism, and loyalty. This generation learned, at an early age, that “by putting aside the needs and wants of the individual and working together towards common goals, they could accomplish amazing things.” And that they have: from winning two world wars to putting a man on the moon. 

Those of you who were born between 1946 and 1964 know, no doubt, that you are “Baby Boomers.” Eighty million strong, this enormous generation was influenced by leaders and cultural icons like Martin Luther King Jr, John F Kennedy, Beaver Cleaver, Gloria Steinem, the Beatles, and places ranging from Woodstock to Watergate. The most important invention of the Baby Boomers’ childhood was television, which influenced this generation’s personality. If the key word for Traditionalists was “loyal,” for the Boomers it might be “optimistic.” The booming postwar economy of their youth contributed to a sense that anything was possible. Between jobs and the GI bill and educational opportunities, Baby Boomers were encouraged to pursue their dreams. At the same time, the sheer numbers of this generation led to competitiveness. So while Traditionalists were willing to accept a military-style chain of command and a community mindset, the Baby Boomers learned to value personal achievement, the challenging of hierarchies, and the power of social change. 

Gen Xers are next, born 1965-1980, which places me squarely inside this generation. Influenced by the likes of Madonna and Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky, OJ Simpson and more, Lancaster and Stillman write: “With the explosion of twenty-four-hour media and tabloid journalism, Xers saw almost every role model of their time indicted or exposed as someone far too human to be a hero.” The same was true of institutions during our formative years, from the presidency and the military to the Catholic church and corporate America. It’s no wonder my generation is known for its skepticism and distrust of institutions. Gen X came of age along with the rise of cable TV, VCRs, video games, Palm Pilots, cell phones and the PC. And we’re also the generation of latch-key kids and children of divorce, of AIDS, of kidnapped kids’ faces on milk cartons. The bottom line: my generation is known as being resourceful and independent. [I’ll throw in an aside here, that it’s no wonder that Kavana – this skeptical-of-the-traditional-synagogue-model community, with a scrappy, can-do start-up ethos – was born out of a meeting-of-the-minds of mostly Gen X founders!]

Who’s next? Gen Y, more commonly known as the Millennials. As the book says: With technology and the media blurring the lines between fantasy and reality, the people influencing Millennials often seemed larger than life, including Prince William, Chelsea Clinton, Claire Daines and Leonardo DiCaprio, Kurt Cobain, Barney, the Backstreet Boys, Venus and Serena Williams. Technology moved into people’s pockets, and millennials can brag about being able to go for a joyride on the information superhighway. But, Millennials were also raised with the fear of the gun violence of Columbine. The benefit of the optimistic, idealistic Boomer parenting style for Millennials is that they feel empowered to take positive action when things go wrong – they are savvy, collaborative, and have a strong social conscience.

Since this book came out over two decades ago, two new generations have come onto the scene. I myself have children who fall into both of these categories.

First, there’s Gen Z - born roughly between 1997 and 2012. This is the first digitally-native generation that grew up with the internet and smartphones, making them adept at using social media platforms like TikTok, Instagram and YouTube for information, entertainment and shopping. These young adults are growing up in a time of radical uncertainty - between school shootings and the Covid pandemic and an awareness of the challenges facing our planet. As a result, this diverse generation is  already known for their pragmatic problem solving, anxiety, skepticism of traditional institutions and authority, radical inclusivity, and calls for societal change. 

Last but not least, although they are still quite young, Gen Alpha includes those individuals born since 2010 - the children of our community up to about age 15. Even more than Gen Z, they are highly technologically-savvy “digital natives,” exposed to screens from the earliest age. They are racially diverse, and also are growing up with an increased awareness of social justice issues, including attacks on DEI, and with climate change as a given - leading to their concern for environmental sustainability. For Gen Alpha, the Covid-19 pandemic hit during their formative years - disrupting school and creating social isolation. They are still growing but seem to be quick learners and entrepreneurial, so we’ll see what the coming years bring.

So here we are, at Kavana, trying to put together a Jewish community made up of all six of these generations, consciously, intentionally. 

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This summer, Kavana conducted a community survey, to help us inform upcoming strategic planning work. There was high interest in building multigenerational community – with about ¾ of respondents rating it as a high priority. And when we asked “What ideas do you have for increasing multigenerational connection?” the answers flowed in fast and furious: offering multigenerational challah baking and meals and classes, involving older adults in B’nai Mitzvah, or (one of my personal favorites) starting a Kavana adopt-a-grandparent program. But, the workplace tensions that Lancaster and Stillman flagged decades ago pose real challenges in community building as well, and in the Jewish community, we have some unique tensions.

In his podcasts over the past couple of years, I’ve heard Ezra Klein lay out eloquently how these different generations of Jews view Israel. He argues that a long-standing consensus is breaking down in the American Jewish community. As he sees it, he chunks the six generations that I just named into three cohorts of American Jews with fundamentally different experiences of Israel:

1. First, there’s an older generation – which he defines as Baby Boomers and older – who were shaped in their formative years by events like the Holocaust and Israel’s early wars, including the Six-Day War in 1967 – which felt like an almost messianically euphoric victory! This group tends to view Israel fundamentally as a vulnerable haven for vulnerable Jews, focusing on its history as a place of refuge.

2. Second, he names a “straddle generation” of Xers and Millennials – into which Ezra Klein places himself, as do I – which grew up knowing a militarily and politically strong, nuclear-armed Israel that benefited from unwavering support from the U.S. This generation in the middle was taught to see Israel as a place of refuge, but also witnessed the occupation of Palestinian territories and the complexity of two violent intifadas.

3. Third, he talks about a younger generation (Gen Z, for sure), which has primarily known an Israel with Benjamin Netanyahu and his far-right Jewish-supremacist government at the helm, an Israel that is an occupying power. Having come of age in the era of ubiquitous social media, the conflict has loomed large for this younger generation; they are far less connected to the memory of a vulnerable, early Israel or to its founding ideals. 

As Klein has pointed out, there was a consensus among much of the American Jewish community, but this consensus is currently collapsing, its pillars having now cracked. A two-state solution no longer feels like it’s on the horizon, or even possible. The idea that “what’s good for Israel is good for the Jews” is no longer widely accepted, especially by younger Jews who see Israel’s actions as compromising, rather than ensuring, their safety. And the relationship between Anti-Zionism and antisemitism has become a source of contention in the American Jewish community, with large communal institutions such as Federation doubling down on the equation of the two, even while younger Jews are vocally protesting against the Israeli government and are increasingly critical of Israel in general. Klein describes all of this as having created a fraught environment, particularly within families, where shared assumptions about Israel have vanished, but so far, there’s nothing yet to replace them with. All of this makes for a tense political landscape within American Jewish life… and then we see this playing out in concrete terms, for example in the New York City mayoral election around the figure of Mamdani. The “establishment” Jewish community is afraid of him – in an Aug 2025 poll, 58% of Jewish New Yorkers said they believe the city will be less safe for Jews under if he becomes mayor. And yet, he has the support of over ⅔ of voters ages 18-44. 

It goes without saying that these past couple of years have been incredibly hard ones for the American Jewish community – between October 7th’s attacks on Israelis, and the devastation and horrors still unfolding in Gaza, violence in the West Bank, the plight of the hostages, and with the rise of politicians here who are claiming to combat antisemitism while simultaneously, cleverly, using it as a tool to attack higher education, free speech, democracy, and to manufacture division and fear. With all of this swirling around us, it’s no wonder that the American Jewish community is filled with tension and infighting. Israeli historian Yuval Harari has spoken about how he understands this moment in which we find ourselves as a watershed moment in Jewish history – perhaps the biggest one since the destruction of the second Temple by the Romans – presenting us with what he terms “a spiritual catastrophe” for Judaism itself. I see establishment institutions drawing red-lines that effectively cut off the younger generations from Jewish life – almost like Abraham exiling and threatening to kill his children. I see some younger Jews refusing to be in conversation with anyone who doesn’t agree with them and doesn’t use the same vocabulary – cutting off contact the way that Ishmael and Isaac never spoke to their father again. I hope that Kavana can be the exception to the dysfunction all around us; that here, we might be able to build a multigenerational Jewish community in a more thoughtful, intentional way – a model community – where we put these generations into conversation with one another, even around the tough stuff.

I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be part of this community, in particular. Kavana has attracted deep thinkers, including so many people who don’t fit so neatly into any of the boxes I’ve just laid out. We know that individuals’ personal backgrounds matter a great deal in shaping perspectives, and as a whole, that this is a community filled with people who are willing to seek out nuance and acknowledge complexity; we believe in making both-and statements, and are capable of holding multiple truths side by side. 

That doesn’t mean that the task of being in community together feels easy, though, even here. In the same Kavana survey I referenced before, among the many questions we posed, one asked specifically: “Since October 7th, has anything shifted for you? (Please check all that apply.)” This was followed by a number of tick-boxes with a wide range of options – for example, I feel greater attachment to Israelis, I feel greater attachment to Palestinians, I actively seek out news, I actively avoid news, and more. And there were a few high level takeaways that jumped off the page right away from our survey data: 

1. First, and most statistically notable, was that only 10% of survey respondents ticked the box that said “No change - my political beliefs have stayed the same since October 7th.” This means that fully 90% of our community members view themselves as having shifted politically or moving or being in flux over these last two years. That’s huge! Our views are changing and evolving in real time.

2. Second, 70% of our respondents checked the box that said: “I am more concerned about antisemitism, in the US and around the world.” This is also huge. As a community, we are operating right now from a place a fear, and really feeling our own vulnerability.

3. The third highest vote-getter, with just over half of respondents agreeing to it, was the statement: “I feel more confused, uncertain and torn.” 

The bottom line is that since October 7th, what this survey is telling us is that members of our Jewish community are in flux, fearful, and confused. So here at Kavana, this is telling me that the work that we have to do is not only about holding people in conversation across political difference, across more right or more left-leaning perspectives. This is a huge indicator that this is a hard time for all of us, and we all need to show up for ourselves and for one another with compassion and tenderness.

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In an episode of Krista Tippet’s On Being podcast a few months ago, guest Jason Reynolds talked about how we might connect across generational difference. He offered that the three keys to forging this kind of connection across difference are humility, intimacy, and gratitude. 

All three of these suggestions feel deeply Jewish to me, and aligned with the work that we are here to do over these High Holidays. Through our prayers, we try to cultivate a sense of humility, a belief that we don’t already have all the answers, which can translate into an openness to asking questions and genuinely caring to hear the answers. During the coming days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we seek out hard conversations, offering apologies and making bids to strengthen our relationships through intimate connection, without judging or chastising. And finally, we extend some gratitude at this time of year – through our memories to the generations that have come before us and whose shoulders we stand on, and to the generations that we hope come after us and without whom a future does not exist for any of us. Older and younger, we need one another. 

In the coming days, my ask of you is simple but hard. Seek out a connection with someone who is of a different generation than you are. Ask genuine questions and listen for real answers. The goal is not to achieve agreement or alignment, but rather understanding, mutual respect, and relationship. For only through multigenerational connections here – modeled small – can we begin to envision a world in which connection across difference is possible. 

We all know that this is a time of polarization, alienation and isolation. The new beginning that Rosh Hashanah represents promises that we have the power to choose a different path. This is the holiday when, at the heart of our services, we will read about ancestors who came oh so close to literally killing the next generation, and younger adults who were so hurt that they cut off ties with older adults. Let’s allow these stories to sink in as cautionary tales, and let’s instead choose connection, compassion, love, and life. 

May we all be inscribed for a new year of blessing and goodness, and may we – whatever our age and generation – learn from one another, appreciate our different perspectives, and together help to usher in a better year, of peace and of hope, in our community and in the world. Shana tova.

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Moses's Pep Talk for the Ages!

Some of the most reassuring verses in all of Torah are found in this Shabbat's Torah portion, Parashat Nitzavim, and they help to set us up beautifully to welcome the New Year of 5786 next week.

I want to focus us on Deuteronomy 30:11-14, which reads:

כִּ֚י הַמִּצְוָ֣ה הַזֹּ֔את אֲשֶׁ֛ר אָנֹכִ֥י מְצַוְּךָ֖ הַיּ֑וֹם לֹא־נִפְלֵ֥את הִוא֙ מִמְּךָ֔ וְלֹ֥א רְחֹקָ֖ה הִֽוא׃ לֹ֥א בַשָּׁמַ֖יִם הִ֑וא לֵאמֹ֗ר מִ֣י יַעֲלֶה־לָּ֤נוּ הַשָּׁמַ֙יְמָה֙ וְיִקָּחֶ֣הָ לָּ֔נוּ וְיַשְׁמִעֵ֥נוּ אֹתָ֖הּ וְנַעֲשֶֽׂנָּה׃ וְלֹא־מֵעֵ֥בֶר לַיָּ֖ם הִ֑וא לֵאמֹ֗ר מִ֣י יַעֲבָר־לָ֜נוּ אֶל־עֵ֤בֶר הַיָּם֙ וְיִקָּחֶ֣הָ לָּ֔נוּ וְיַשְׁמִעֵ֥נוּ אֹתָ֖הּ וְנַעֲשֶֽׂנָּה׃ כִּֽי־קָר֥וֹב אֵלֶ֛יךָ הַדָּבָ֖ר מְאֹ֑ד בְּפִ֥יךָ וּבִֽלְבָבְךָ֖ לַעֲשֹׂתֽוֹ׃

Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, “Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?” Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, “Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?” No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.

As these words are spoken, the Israelites stand together on the far side of the Jordan River, ready to cross it and move into the promised land where they are to build a society. Without a doubt, they must feel daunted and overwhelmed by the enormity of the task ahead of them: the crossing over into something new, the uncertainty, the knowledge that they must proceed without their leader Moses (who will die on that side of the Jordan), the complex system of rules he has bestowed upon them (here, collectively labeled "ha-mitzvah ha-zot" -- "this command" or "this instruction"). In the midst of this swirl, what they need most is reassurance that what will come next is not beyond their abilities. And sure enough, Moses delivers, with this pep talk for the ages. 

The need for such a pep talk apparently wasn't a one-time issue, because his message resonates throughout the generations. Many centuries after Moses led the Israelites, the ancient rabbis of our tradition played with these verses, hanging on them a midrash that only seeks to deepen Moses's lesson. Devarim Rabbah (a homiletic commentary on the book of Deuteronomy, typically dated to somewhere around the 5th-8th centuries) 8:3 brings a verse "from afar" to bear on our text: Proverbs 24:7 -- "Wisdom is lofty to a fool; at the gate, he will not open his mouth." The midrash itself wends between that Proverbs verse and Moses's original pep-talk as follows:

"This fool enters the synagogue and sees them engaged in Torah study, and he says to them: ‘How does a person study Torah from the outset?’ They say to him: ‘One reads a scroll; then [one reads] in the Torah scroll, then in the Prophets, and then in the Writings. When one completes the Bible, one studies the Talmud, then halakhot, and then aggadot.’ When he hears this, he says in his heart: When can I possibly learn all this? He returns from the gate; that is, “at the gate, he will not open his mouth.” Rabbi Yannai said: To what is the matter comparable? It is to a loaf that was suspended in the air. The fool said: ‘Who will be able to retrieve it?’ The clever one says: ‘Did someone not suspend it?’ He brings a ladder or a rod and takes it down. Likewise, everyone who is a fool, says: ‘When will I read the entire Torah?’ But one who is clever, what does he do? He studies one chapter each and every day until he completes the entire Torah. The Holy One blessed be He said: “It is not hidden,” and if it is hidden, it is from you, because you did not engage in it. That is, “for this mitzvah.”

In case the midrash feels a little hard to follow, I'll recap it here. It imagines two scenarios, and in both, it contrasts the behavior of a "fool" with that of a "clever person." In the primary one, a fool hears just how much Torah there is to learn -- that there are a whole library's worth of volumes -- and is so overwhelmed by the impossibility of knowing where to begin that he stands silently "at the gate" and fails to learn anything at all. In contrast, the clever person jumps in somewhere (without worrying whether it's the perfect starting point) and studies a small amount of Torah every day; in time, this individual comes to amass a great deal of learning! Embedded inside this metaphor, we see a second image, in which a loaf of bread is somehow magically suspended in the air. The fool is the one who marvels at the spectacle of it but fails to take any action, whereas the clever person "solves" the situation with a ladder or a rod, retrieves the loaf, and is rewarded with nourishment! 

The midrash builds upon Moses's "you've got this!" message with a strong practical recommendation for how to tackle a daunting task. It cautions us about just how easy it is to feel paralyzed when we are in a state of overwhelm. Empowerment comes in breaking down a large task into bite-sized chunks, or in taking the first step towards a potentially helpful tool.

All of this feels like concretely helpful Torah as we move into this final Shabbat of 5785. On a collective level, this past year has been a particularly challenging one for us -- as Americans, as Jews, and as caring human beings in this world. We've watched society backslide in so many ways, and as we stand here at the threshold of a New Year, it feels that we have more work cut out for us than ever! How can we possibly do the teshuva we need to do -- the reflecting, the atoning, the praying -- this year? How can we possibly change ourselves, when we are set in our ways? How can we possibly move our society forward, when our values are under assault and there are just so many obstacles to overcome?! Simply entering into this New Year may feel overwhelming.

Moses's words from Nitzavim offer the encouragement we need to hear right now: that this task is not beyond our abilities, nor is our vision of where we're trying to go -- as individuals and communally -- hidden in the heavens nor beyond the sea. Rather, "the thing is very close to us, in our mouths and in our hearts." As the midrash of Devarim Rabbah helpfully adds, the way to go about stepping across this threshold is just to do it: one prayer at a time, one apology at a time, one connection at a time, one insight at a time, one good deed at a time. 

I hope that this message feels reassuring to you as we move towards these Days of Awe together: that the spiritual work that we do on these High Holidays will be enough, and that we are enough. May we all experience Torah as "very close to us, in our mouths and in our hearts" in this season. And may our small and concrete actions and prayers add up, together, to enough to make a difference in our world!

Wishing you and your loved ones a Shabbat Shalom on this final Shabbat of 5785, and a Shana Tova u'Metuka -- a good and sweet New Year as we cross over together into 5786,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

One Thing I Ask (Psalm 27)

As the winds shift and the seasons change, a little gust lifts up the page of the Great Jewish Book and moves us from text to text, matching each moment in time with its literary-theological partner. 

In the month of Elul, leading up to the Days of Awe, we linger on the words of Psalm 27. Some of us may be most familiar with the verse Achat Sha’alti, often sung to this traditional tune (check out this arrangement for piano and flute, Chava Mirel’s setting, and Aly Halpert’s setting as well).

“One thing I ask of God, only this do I seek
to live in the house of God all the days of my life
to gaze upon the beauty of God, to return again and again to the Holy palace.”

Only one thing, the psalmist asks - and proceeds to ask for many things! The whole psalm is strangely complex. Rabbi and scholar Benjamin Segal describes it this way:

The first half of the psalm bespeaks assurance. The psalmist, while describing the enemy from a distance (from whom will I be afraid), approaching (as evil men come near), preparing (should an army besiege me), and attacking (should war come against me), nevertheless is calm, above all danger, sacrificing and thanking the Lord… Facing all these threats, the psalmist feels the peace of unity, and throughout this first half the reader senses no doubt, no real threat.

How strange it is that the second half of the psalm depicts a world so totally opposite. (Many scholars even conclude that these are separate psalms!) Here we find a desperate search, a constant request, a pleading before the Holy One (“do not hide Your face … do not thrust [me] aside … do not forsake me, do not abandon me”). The author is abandoned by parents and surrounded by enemies. At the apex of this section, the psalmist cries out in agony, with a sentence he cannot finish, for it depicts the worst of all: Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living …. His faith is his sole remaining thread connecting him to the land of the living. If he did not have this faith, then…

But the two psalms are indeed one…Throughout the second half, the reader hears the echo of the central term: One. The psalmist cries out, demands, asks and pleads that his two worlds are one. I, the sufferer, depressed to the ultimate limits, am that same I who trusts, who is safe, who sits in the presence of the Lord.

This Elul perhaps you, like me, move back and forth from bursts of gratitude to bouts of dread, from a calm groundedness to a restless worry, whether about parenting, politics, or just being a person. Psalm 27 offers no answers exactly, but rather a prayer for holding paradox, for internal coexistence of quite different experiences, yearnings, fears, and dreams. 

Last year around this time, Kavana partner Amy Holden was teaching our Middle School Program students and paired students up to create their own interpretation of a verse. When all of the students had shared their verse, she put it all together, into our very own “Psalm 27 as Interpreted by the Kavana Middle School Program Students.” May these words open up the depth and possibilities of the season’s text, and nourish our souls for the year ahead.

When the lord is on my side I have no one to fear.
When people do hurtful actions, it not only hurts the target, but everyone.
Even through great threats and dangers, I won’t be afraid, I won’t shed a tear, just as long as
you stand, stand by me.
One thing I have asked from the lord is to be under protection and to see beauty in life.
When I’m in trouble, he will hide me in his safe space or in a sacred tent. He will hide me and
put me on a rock.
G-d will save us from the enemies, then I will be loyal and thankful forever. I will sing for g-d.
When I ask for you, answer me.
My heart will always seek hope and salvation.
Don’t hide your face far.
If my parents abandon me, you will still be there. God is close to me.
Tell me how to learn from others’ mistakes.
Let me be the better person and less violent than my enemies.
I will see goodness in all of nature!
Have patience, for hope will always come.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Remembering and Forgetting

When you reap the harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, do not turn back to get it; it shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow—in order that Adonai your God may bless you in all your undertakings.Deuteronomy 24:19

The world is filled with remembering and forgettingAs it is with sea and dry land. Yehudah Amichai

Gather round, and listen to a little tale…

Once upon a time, a certain chassid (pious man) was gleaning in his field. As he moved, inch by inch and row by row, it so happened that he forgot one of the sheaves in the field. Some time later, he glanced back. He realized what he had done. And he took off at a run, warbling with joy to find his son! 

He said to his son, “I forgot a sheaf! Go, sacrifice on my behalf a bull for a burnt-offering and a bull for a peace-offering!” (These were the customary ways of expressing gratitude and rejoicing in those days.)

Taken off guard by his father’s enthusiasm, his son replied, “Abba, what makes you want to celebrate the joy of this particular mitzvah more than all the other mitzvot in the Torah?”

The chassid answered, “God has given all the other mitzvot in the Torah to be observed consciously, but this one is observed unconsciously. Were we to observe this one of our own deliberate free will, we never would have the opportunity to do it! But we are told, “When you reap the harvest of your field and you forget a sheaf…” The Torah gave it for a blessing. I’ve been hoping to fulfill this mitzvah for years and years, but only now have I been fortuitous enough to finally forget a sheaf. Only now have I finally let this verse live through me.” 

And so the father, his son, their whole family, and all the community celebrated with enthusiasm and joy a righteous act of forgetfulness. 

(This story is based on Tosefta Pe’ah 3:13.)

I particularly love this story, tucked away within an obscure Jewish text. So much of Jewish practice is about remembering - in fact one of the names for Rosh HaShanah is Yom HaZikaron, the Day of Remembrance, in which we yearn to be remembered by God for good in the year ahead. Memory is key to ritual observance, to divine blessing, and to learning lessons from a difficult and rich history. But in this story, the key to success is to forget!

The poet Yehuda Amichai mulled on this theme in his poem “Remembering and Forgetting.”

The world is filled with remembering and forgetting
As it is with sea and dry land. Sometimes memory
Is the dry land that is firm and founded
And sometimes memory is the sea that covers everything
Like in the flood. And it is forgetting that is the dry land like Ararat…

Why is memory dry land? It gives us the foundations to build our own sense of ourselves on. Personal memories, handed down familial stories, and the mythic memories of a people each inform identity, help us make sense of the world, and move us to certain kinds of actions. To forget sweeps us away from ourselves…

And why is memory the sea that floods? Because memory is malleable. Memory is made, not reported, an alloy of experience and imagination. Memory can wash over reality through post-traumatic reactions flowing from the past, or through our fear of letting go of who we think we are in the face of a changing future. Memory smooths over the varied terrain of truth with a fluid and powerful calm. 

And then forgetfulness can actually return us to a firm foundation of what is, the dry land of Mt. Ararat (where Noah and his family emerged from the ark.) 

In both the story from the Tosefta and Yehuda Amichai’s poem, forgetfulness plays a surprisingly positive role. As we approach the High Holidays, perhaps you will find a new appreciation for the roles remembering and forgetting play in your life. And may both what is remembered and what is forgotten be, as the Torah says, a blessing.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVIne

#NoKings

Around the dinner table the other night with extended family, our conversation turned to the frightening changes we are all witnessing in our country. A quick laundry list of abuses of power were tossed out in rapid-fire: the National Guard takeover of DC, ICE raids, firings at the Fed and the CDC, financial corruption and kick-backs related to the president's real estate holdings. "And the sexual misconduct," one relative piped in. "Don't forget about the Epstein files." 

Toggling to a different (but related) subject for a moment: When Elisheva Goldberg, NIF's Senior Director of Media & Policy, gave a briefing about Israel earlier this month, she too focused on the abuses of power of the Netanyahu government. "Let's remember that Benjamin Netanyahu is still on trial," she said. "He is on trial for corruption, fraud, and breach of trust. His main goal is maintaining his position as Prime Minister -- maintaining 'ha-kisei shelo,' 'his chair or throne' -- to inoculate him from being put in jail. The consensus among the abroad swath of Israeli society and the media is that he is only maintaining the war in Gaza to keep his kisei." (If you're interested in watching her entire talk, the recording is here.) 

Given these current events that serve as a backdrop, it's no wonder that a particular section of our Torah portion, Shoftim, almost jumped off the page at me this week. Here is the text of Deuteronomy 17:14-20, which I invite you to read carefully in full:

"If, after you have entered the land that Adonai your God has assigned to you, and taken possession of it and settled in it, you decide, 'I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,' you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by Adonai your God. 

Be sure to set as king over yourself one of your own people; you must not set a foreigner over you, one who is not your kin. Moreover, he shall not keep many horses or send people back to Egypt to add to his horses, since Adonai has warned you, 'You must not go back that way again.' And he shall not have many wives, lest his heart go astray; nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess.

When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll by the levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere Adonai his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching as well as these laws. Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from the Instruction to the right or to the left, to the end that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel."

I remember learning this passage in depth for the first time while in rabbinical school at JTS. There, we learned about the "documentary hypothesis:" the idea that the Torah's five books were not written by a single author, but rather by a compilation of multiple independent literary sources, their narratives stitched together to create the text we have today. Deutoronomy, in particular, is attributed to a "Deuteronomist" (D) author, who is thought to have lived in the late 7th Century BCE, and is associated with the reign of King Josiah (see 2 Kings 22:3-11 for an account of King Josiah "finding" a scroll -- understood by scholars to be the text of Deuteronomy -- in a wall).

This background may seem a little wonky, but it's an important context for the above passage from Parashat Shoftim. Given that scholars are reasonably certain that the Book of Deuteronomy was written during the reign of one of the Kingdom of Judah's most important kings, we might expect the text to be more clearly pro-monarchy. However, the text seems ambivalent at best about the idea of having a king. "If you decide" to set a king over yourself, communicates that perhaps it would be better not to make such a decision. Asking for a king in order to be like all the other nations reads like a terrible idea, coming as it does in a book of the Torah that typically prizes Israel's unique mission and distinctiveness from other nations!

What follows the text's initial ambivalence about the idea of a king is a series of strong warnings. The Torah here is communicating: If -- even though it's not a good idea -- you still want to set a king over yourselves, then you must understand that abuses of power are common, and these are some of the specific traits and behaviors that you must be most careful to guard against.

1) "He shall not keep many horses." In ancient times, horses -- especially the ones referenced here as coming from Egypt -- were a military technology. (We see this, for example, in the phrase "sus v'rochvo" - "horse and rider" - in the Song of the Sea, which refers to Pharaoh's Egyptian army that chased the Israelites as they fled from Egypt.) Here, our Torah portion is warning that a king should not be permitted to amass more military power than is necessary. This warning reminds me of the late 19th century quote attributed to British historian Lord Action: "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely."

2) "He shall not have many wives." Even in this ancient era -- before monogamy was widespread (and certainly before today's more expansive conceptions of gender and sexuality had taken hold) -- there was already an understanding that a king's appetite for women needed to be kept in check. Patriarchy, greed, and the objectification of women here go hand in hand with other power overreaches, and are an important red flag.

3) "Nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess." The desire for money in excess is understood as a weakness for a king. While all ancient rulers were expected to collect taxes and amass some wealth, here the Torah is warning explicitly to be wary of kings seeking personal financial gain. (For example, Siftei Chachamim, a 17th-century super-commentary on Rashi, allows that the king should be able to collect the funds needed to supply his soldiers and servants with food, drink, clothing, and all that they need; however "he may not accumulate in abundance for himself when he [merely] wants to put it into his treasury.")

4) "He shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him" and he must read from it regularly. On this point, the Torah is crystal clear: No one is above the law, not even the king! Being beholden to laws, guidelines and restrictions is part of what keeps a king appropriately in check. Reading from his Torah regularly will ensure that a king will revere God and "not act haughtily towards his fellows" -- foundational principles about how all humans (including kings) should strive to be in the world.

Given the world we inhabit today and the swing towards autocracy we are witnessing all around us (including not only the examples above, but also Putin, Orban, and more), this Dvar Torah practically writes itself. It is kind of crazy that the White House itself released an image in February of Trump wearing a gold crown, on a fake Time Magazine background with the caption "Long Live the King!" In Israel, Benjamin Netanyahu has long been dubbed "King Bibi" by supporters and critics alike. It is not a coincidence that these two democratically-elected leaders who are engaging in radical overreaches of power are now embracing monarchical images and monikers. 

Our Torah portion clearly warns that kings are not always good; there is something about the throne and title itself that lends towards inherent corruption and abuses of power. Each of the categories of abuse that our passage lays out -- military overreach, the abuse of women, greed and acting for personal financial gain, the feeling of being above the law -- feel relevant and necessary for us to hear and internalize right now. And the message that "we the people" need to internalize is clear: we must not tolerate these abuses! Seemingly small acts that abuse power are connected to one another, and must be challenged, as they add up to produce the kind of strongmen who will stop at nothing and will ultimately leave their nations in ruin.

Historian Timothy Snyder recently moved to Canada, but in 2017 while he was still living and working in the U.S., he originally published his book On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century. I have found his guidelines to be very sensible and helpful, and I believe they are worth reading and re-visiting on a regular basis these days. Click here for an on-line summary of Snyder's lessons for fighting tyranny -- for example: "Do not obey in advance," "Believe in truth," "Make eye contact and small talk," "Establish a private life," "Contribute to good causes," "Listen for dangerous words," "Be as courageous as you can." -- and although it's not easy, let us take these words to heart as much as we possibly can.

Fortunately, our secular and Jewish calendars both support us in finding our way in the face of tyranny. On the secular calendar, we are headed into Labor Day weekend. That holiday was started in the 19th century, by trade unionists, as a day to celebrate labor. In other words, Labor Day is a reminder of the power of the people. Today, functionally, it marks a day off from work for recreation -- "a general holiday for the laboring classes." In granting time to all of us, Labor Day can serve as a reminder that every human being deserves dignity... not only a king!

On the Jewish calendar, we have now formally turned the corner into the month of Elul and the lead-up to the High Holidays. In Elul, the popular metaphor "the king is in the field" signifies that God is closer and more accessible to us than ever. King/sovereign language ("melech") will continue to loom large through our holiday liturgy, most of all during Rosh Hashanah, where the Malchuyot prayers celebrate God's kingship. In reciting verses that center God's sovereignty, we remind ourselves that it is God -- and never a human being -- who is the ultimate sovereign, worthy of praise and worship. 

As we move into this weekend of Parashat Shoftim, my blessing for us all is that through our lens of Torah, we may all be fortified in our resolve to fight abuses of power. Together, may we lift up a vision of society in which our leaders are servants rather than abusive and tyrannical kings, and in which all people can live in prosperity and freedom, with good governance. We certainly have our work cut out for us, but I take some comfort in knowing that these issues and abuses have long been a part of the human condition, and that our Torah has concrete wisdom to offer us.

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Late Summer Paths

This has been such a beautiful summer, and I've managed to squeeze in some great hikes and road trips. (Hopefully many of you have too!)

Last weekend, at the Kavana Camping Trip, a group of us gathered on Shabbat morning for prayer, song, and discussion. The Torah and haftarah readings brought us to the theme of paths -- which felt like a particularly appropriate topic to be talking about in the woods! The stark choices offered by Parashat Eikev and the imagery from Isaiah 40 of smoothing out a road had us considering the metaphor of life as a journey. 

This week's Torah portion, Parashat Re'eh, picks up on the journey theme. The Israelites, who have been traveling on foot together since they left Egypt nearly 40 years prior, are now about to enter into the promised land. The parasha opens with these lines (Deuteronomy 11:26-28):

רְאֵ֗ה אָנֹכִ֛י נֹתֵ֥ן לִפְנֵיכֶ֖ם הַיּ֑וֹם בְּרָכָ֖ה וּקְלָלָֽה׃ אֶֽת־הַבְּרָכָ֑ה אֲשֶׁ֣ר תִּשְׁמְע֗וּ אֶל־מִצְוֺת֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹֽהֵיכֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁ֧ר אָנֹכִ֛י מְצַוֶּ֥ה אֶתְכֶ֖ם הַיּֽוֹם׃ וְהַקְּלָלָ֗ה אִם־לֹ֤א תִשְׁמְעוּ֙ אֶל־מִצְוֺת֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹֽהֵיכֶ֔ם וְסַרְתֶּ֣ם מִן־הַדֶּ֔רֶךְ אֲשֶׁ֧ר אָנֹכִ֛י מְצַוֶּ֥ה אֶתְכֶ֖ם הַיּ֑וֹם לָלֶ֗כֶת אַחֲרֵ֛י אֱלֹהִ֥ים אֲחֵרִ֖ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יְדַעְתֶּֽם׃ {ס}        

See, this day I set before you blessing and curse: blessing, if you obey the commandments of Adonai your God that I enjoin upon you this day; and curse, if you do not obey the commandments of Adonai your God, but turn away from the path that I enjoin upon you this day and follow other gods, whom you have not experienced.

The Israelites are then told that as they enter into the land, they will pass between two mountain peaks -- Har Gerizim and Har Ebal -- from which blessings and curses will be announced. It is easy to imagine our ancestors as a group of hikers passing through a saddle point, with mountain peaks on each side that represent the choices they have and the two very different directions they might take. In the parasha, choosing blessing means staying on the path, following God's commandments, and being part of the community. On the other hand, veering from the path is defined a few verses later, in Deut. 12:8 which reads: "You shall not act at all as we now act here, each of us as we please" -- in other words, the curse enters when people act with only their own selfish interests in mind, rather than thinking of others.

On a personal level, I will say that I don't always resonate with the binary nature of the stark choices offered in the parasha. In my experience, there's often a lot more gray zone, and more pathways in life that involve some blend of "blessing" and "curse" elements. Still, I very much appreciate the metaphor of the life journey offering us the opportunity to travel down profoundly different pathways. (The language of our Torah portion does remind me of the many signs I saw this summer reminding hikers to "stay on the trail" -- an act which does good by minimizing our human impact on natural places, protecting fragile ecosystems, preserving areas for wildlife, and preventing erosion.)

Hebrew texts offer us lots of different language for paths, which may enhance our understanding of this metaphor. Here are a few examples:

• Derech literally means "way," "path," or "road." It appears in our liturgy -- for example, when we sing the words in Etz Chayim, of Torah: "d'racheha darchei noam" - that "it's paths are paths of pleasantness." The phrase "derech eretz" (literally "the way of the land") refers to ethical behavior and basic human decency. Echoing Re'eh's warning about "turning away from the path," one colloquial phrase used in more observant communities today is the term "off the derech" ("OTD") to describe an individual who has abandoned their path of religious observance. 
  

• Nativ or Netivah - means "path" or "lane." It too appears in our liturgy (the very same line of Etz Chayim cited above continues with the words "v'chol netivoteha shalom" - "and all of its paths are of peace,") and is also a Hebrew name. At the Jewish summer camp in Colorado where I spent time in July, this word also appeared in the chosen theme verse for this summer: "נֵר־לְרַגְלִ֥י דְבָרֶ֑ךָ וְ֝א֗וֹר לִנְתִיבָתִֽי" - "Your word is a lamp to my feet, a light for my path" (Psalms 119:105).
  

• Halacha refers to the whole system of Jewish law, but the word is derived from the verb "holech" meaning "to walk" -- so it really means something closer to "the way of walking." As someone who appreciates thinking about how my individual path intersects with the journey of the Jewish people, I have always found this notion of Jewish law as a collective pathway to be a helpful concept.

In addition to reading Re'eh this Shabbat, Jewish communities everywhere will also announce the new month of Elul, which begins with a two-day Rosh Chodesh this Sunday and Monday. Elul is the month of spiritual preparation for the High Holidays and the new Jewish year. During the month to come, each of us is prompted to reflect on the life paths we have taken, the decision points we've encountered, and the choices we have made over the past year, all of which will also inform the decisions we will make and the paths we'll plan to take as we chart our course for the coming year.

Here at Kavana, several years ago, Traci Marx introduced us to the music of MaMuse (an acoustic folk duo), and specifically their song "Oh River," which now regularly runs through my head this time of year. Its lyrics, too, pick up on the journey theme, although in this articulation it's a more cyclical journey of becoming:

Part 1: Finding my way (x5), finding my way back home. Finding my way (x5), finding my way back home.

Part 2: Oh river, I hear you, feel you calling me. Oh river, who will I be when I reach the sea.

I hope you are planning to join us tonight for our final Shabbat in the Park of this summer season, where we will sing those words together. And, as we move through these final weeks of summer, I wish you lots of beautiful hikes and meandering, so that the month of Elul might afford you time to reflect on your life paths: past, present and future; individual and collective. 

Wishing you a Chodesh Elul Tov (in just a few days), and a Shabbat Shalom. May all of our paths be paths of peace, prosperity, and blessing! 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Most Important Jewish Book

In a speech on prayer, the 20th century Jewish scholar Henry Slonimsky described the siddur as “the most important single Jewish book, a closer record of Jewish sufferings, Jewish needs, Jewish hopes and aspirations than the Bible itself, which… [has had] whatever is quintessentially needed for daily use . . . squeezed out of it into the Prayer Book.”

One such “squeezing” comes from this week’s parashah, Ekev, in particular Devarim 10:17: “For Adonai your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, ha’el ha’gadol ha’gibor v’ha’norah - God the great, the mighty, and the awesome…”

You might recognize those words from the opening prayer of the Amidah, known as Avot v’Imahot (“the ancestors”). Curiously, several controversies swirl around the use of this phrase in prayer.

First, we find this story in the Talmud (Megillah 25a):

A certain person descended in the presence of Rabbi Chanina [to lead prayer]. 

He said: God, the great, the mighty, the awesome, the powerful, and the strong, and the fearless. 

Rabbi Chanina said to him: Have you concluded all of the [possible] praises of your Master? Even the three that we recite (the great, the mighty, and the awesome), had Moses our teacher not written them in the Torah and had the members of the Great Assembly not come and incorporated them, we would not be able to recite them. And you went on and recited all of these! 

It is comparable to a man who possessed many thousands of golden dinars, yet they were praising him for a thousand silver ones. Isn’t that deprecatory toward him?

The lesson here is that to praise God should be a subtle endeavor, because in attempting to praise, one might use words that say too little. Our perception and our language reach their limits in comprehending and articulating the divine. Limiting the language we use to praise God therefore reminds us of all that we cannot say, rather than being seduced into thinking we have said enough. The only reason we use the phrase with three descriptors of God is because it is in the Torah.

In this story, prayer is about attempting to say something about ultimate reality, and remembering to stay humble about our ability to do so.

There is another story, however, also in the Talmud (Yoma 69b), where the words say too much rather than too little. 

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: Why were they called the members of the Great Assembly? It is because they returned the crown (of God) to its former (glory). 

Moses came and said: “God, the great, the mighty, and the awesome” (Deuteronomy 10:17). Jeremiah came and said: Gentiles, (i.e., the minions of Nebuchadnezzar), are carousing in His sanctuary; where is His awesomeness? Therefore, he did not say awesome: “The great God, the mighty Lord of Hosts, is God’s name” (Jeremiah 32:18). Daniel came and said: Gentiles are enslaving God’s children; where is God’s might? Therefore he did not say mighty: “The great and awesome God” (Daniel 9:4). 

Think about this teaching for a moment. Its implications are radical. Moses describes the God he can perceive (and believe in?), but when later great Jewish leaders describe God, they omit language that they see contradicted by their real-world experience. Their prayers are not the chutzpadik attempt to put into terms a limitless God, but rather the chutzpadik idea that we should only pray using language that reinforces what we see in the world - language that recognizes divine limitation! Jeremiah and Daniel, in playing with prayer-language, attempt to open eyes and hearts to suffering in the world, turning Torah and prayer into vessels of change.

The Talmudic text continues (you can read it here), but for now, let’s return to Henry Slonimsky’s reflection on the siddur.

It is the most important single Jewish book, a closer record of Jewish sufferings, Jewish needs, Jewish hopes and aspirations than the Bible itself, which… [has had] whatever is quintessentially needed for daily use . . . squeezed out of it into the Prayer Book.

Within the prayerbook, we have a teacher in tethering ourselves to tradition, an ally in engaging in heart-honest activism, and a rich resource for remaining resilient in a world where there are many sufferings, many needs, many hopes, and many aspirations. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Love & Loss... and Consolation

Recently, I took a walk through the Olympic Sculpture Park and was reacquainted with a mixed-media installation by artist and architect Roy McMakin. "Love & Loss" literally spells out the two title words of the piece using pavers, benches, a tree, and a table-top to form the actual letters. Sharing the middle "o," the piece plays with the intersection between the two concepts.

This week, our Jewish calendar does something very similar. Tisha B'Av, the 9th day of this Hebrew month of Av (which fell last Saturday evening / Sunday) is a day of loss, and Tu B'Av, the 15th day of the same month (which falls this Shabbat), is a day of love. 

On the Jewish calendar, the hinge between the two concepts of loss and love can be found in this week's haftarah of consolation, which begins with the famous words: "Nachamu nachamu ami, yomar eloheichem," "Comfort, oh comfort my people, says your God" (Isaiah 40:1). In fact, nachamu -- this expression of demonstrating love in the wake of loss -- becomes such an important theme that this Shabbat takes on the special name of "Shabbat Nachamu," ("the Sabbath of Comfort") and this entire Hebrew month is formally called "Menachem Av" (meaning "the Comfort or Consolation of Av").

As a rabbi with my ear to the ground in the Kavana community, I am noting a groundswell of need for consolation right now. I'm feeling this from many individuals -- as we've had a string of losses among our community members and their loved ones in recent months -- and also for all of us collectively, as we move through a period of particularly acute heartbreak and loss, both here in America and in Israel/Palestine.

Our Jewish textual tradition offers multiple explanations for why the word "nachamu" is doubled in Isaiah 40:1. Some commentators argue that the verse promises consolation for each of two Temples/exiles. Other interpretations offer that our ancient ancestors needed to be comforted twice because they had sinned doubly.

In a lovely Dvar Torah published online a couple years ago, Rabbi Jennifer Schlosberg offered a different interpretation of her own: that the remainder of the Haftarah that follows the nachamu line show two key themes at play: comfort through speech and comfort through actions. For example, Isaiah 40:2 refers to speech ("Speak tenderly to Jerusalem...") and the following verse, 40:3, references action ("Clear in the desert a road for the Lord! Level in the wilderness a highway for God"). Rabbi Schlosberg asserts, "Isaiah reminds us with the doubling of nachamu that there are two ways to comfort others around us: through our words and through our deeds."

Taking up her paradigm, I want to turn first to the theme of comfort-through-words. In her 2024 book The Amen Effect, my colleague Rabbi Sharon Brous (of Ikar, in LA) writes extensively about how community members must show up for one another to offer consolation in the wake of loss. In the book, she effectively rewrites Mourners' Kaddish as a conversation between a mourner and their community. (This is not a direct translation of the prayer, but how she has come to think of its essence.)

MOURNER: I am in anguish-- 

[In one, unified voice, the COMMUNITY responds.]

COMMUNITY: Amen! We're right here. We see you.

[The mourner takes a breath and continues.]

MOURNER: I don't know how to hold this pain.

COMMUNITY & MOURNER: Amen. We wish it could be different.

MOURNER: I'm afraid I'll forget the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair.

COMMUNITY: Amen. We will never let her disappear from this world. We will say her name and honor her memory. Amen!

MOURNER: I can't do this alone.

COMMUNITY: Amen. We're not going anywhere. We can't take your pain away, but we can cry with you and laugh with you. We can hear the same story as many times as you need to tell it. We can help you remember. Amen!

From this interplay between the individual mourner and a minyan (quorum of 10 people), and from many other Jewish grief rituals as well, Rabbi Brous extracts a key principle: that our Jewish tradition mandates that individuals cannot grieve alone. She writes: "No one should walk alone through the Valley of the Shadow of Death... The obligation of the community is to be present, to listen, to offer words of consolation."

A beautiful example of the second theme, comfort-through-action, landed in Kavana's physical PO Box several months ago. It was an envelope which contained a donation from someone we didn't know, accompanied by a long letter of explanation. Here's an excerpt from the letter: 

"In 2023 I lost my family, including my best friend and my husband. Going from having a community to being alone has been daunting. When I needed lifesaving medical care, without the presence of my partner and best friend, I had nobody to care for me during the treatment until XXX volunteered. She offered a safe, private room, transportation, and the constant reassurance of an old friend during a very frightening process. ... When I thought about how I could thank her, my mother suggested donating to her religious community (Kavana) so she could be known as a woman of faith in her lifelong community. ... She inspires me now to look at ways I too can build community, care for others, and offer help."

In the wake of a friend's profound losses and at a time of great need, this Kavana partner clearly showed up with tangible support. What a beautiful and inspiring illustration of what it means to offer comfort and consolation through deeds! 

This weekend, we move through the intersection of love and loss on the Jewish calendar, passing through the Shabbat of Comfort/ Shabbat Nachamu. It is easy to feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of loss in the world right now, and uncertain as to how we might respond. This week's special haftarah, purposefully placed in the wake of tremendous loss, reminds us that we have the power to use both our words and our actions -- in ways both large and small -- to make a difference. 

Wherever there is loss, let us commit to meeting it with love. May we each be open to both giving and receiving comfort freely -- whether to our friends and family members, to one another in community, or to strangers. May we actively seek out opportunities to do so, by sharing our resources, offering words of kindness, and giving the gift of our presence. As we strive to meet loss with love, may this be a Shabbat of tanchumim -- of comfort, consolation, and solace -- for us all. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

How do you look at a broken world with generous eyes?

A couple of problems weren’t going
to come up anymore:
hunger, for example,
and war, and so forth.

There was going to be respect
for helpless people’s helplessness,
trust, that kind of stuff.

Anyone who planned to enjoy the world
is now faced
with a hopeless task.

from “The Century's Decline” by Wislawa Szymborska

For these things do I weep,
My eye, my eye sends down water…
(Eicha / Lamentations 1:16)

It feels somewhat strange to enter into Shabbat, knowing that as Shabbat leaves, Tisha b’Av will begin. The 9th day of the month of Av brings deep mourning. On it we chant from the book of Eicha, a series of laments over the destruction of the first Temple. On this day, too, the second Temple fell. And over the centuries, all sorts of tragedy became memorialized on Tisha b’Av. 

Each Jewish holiday has its distinct wisdom for us. On Tisha b’Av, we are meant to see the world as broken. And we are meant to learn from our mistakes so that mending is possible. 

The Torah portion this Shabbat, beginning the book of Devarim (Deuteronomy), positions us in a similar spot. The Israelites are across the river from the Promised Land. In Moshe’s final months, he delivers speech after speech, recapping their journey from slavery to divine service. But as an inspirational speaker, he tends toward tough love:

“These are the words (devarim) that Moshe spoke to all of Israel…” (Devarim 1:1)

Rashi (11th century): “These are words of reproof and he is enumerating here all the places where they provoked God to anger.”

Again and again this weekend, from centuries past and our contemporaries, we hear messages of suffering (ours and others), mistakes, and critical rebuke. Anyone who planned to enjoy the weekend… oy!

Driving to Queen Anne a few days ago, I was pleased to see that a new season of Rabbi Shai Held’s podcast, Answers With Held, had begun. Soon I was immersed in a profound conversation between Held and Rabbi Steve Greenberg on the query, “Can We Judge Everyone Favorably?” Their conversation explores a teaching in Pirkei Avot, a classic collection of rabbinic wisdom: “Yehoshua ben Perachyah used to say: make for yourself  a teacher, and acquire for yourself a friend, and judge all people with the scale weighted in their favor (dan l’chaf zechut)” (Pirkei Avot 1:6). 

What connects the desire to have teachers and friends to the ethical practice of seeing people with generous eyes? For Held and Greenberg, it is not so much ethical aspiration as simple practical advice. 

“We all choose partners, parties, communities, not because they’re perfect, but because they have excellences we love and weaknesses that we can live with. And if you are a person who can’t live with weaknesses, with foibles and faults, with mismatch of relationship and communication sometimes, if you can’t live with that, then you’re not going to be able to belong anywhere.” 

The rabbis teach in the Talmud (Yoma 9b) that the second Temple was destroyed because the people acted with sin’at chinam, usually translated as “baseless hatred.” The fault lay not primarily in strategic errors, or military weakness, or diplomatic blunders, or even in ritual impiety, but rather in social hostility across lines of difference. The Talmudic diagnosis of suffering and brokenness is that it stems from an inability to relate to each other generously, or as Greenberg says “to love beyond disappointment.”  

On Tisha b’Av, we are meant to see the world as broken. Not to turn away, not to minimize, not to put on rose-colored glasses, nor even to rationalize it. Turning away from the brokenness is one way the world breaks. 

But then, on Tisha b’Av, we are meant to learn from our mistakes and mend what we can in the world. To judge favorably when possible does not mean to tolerate or excuse those who cause serious harm. The deep sadness of what we and others have done wrong fuels our fiery passion for justice. Channel Moshe and rebuke, critique, advocate, and organize so we can do better than before. 

But then, on Tisha b’Av, remember as well that without generosity towards each other any structures we build will remain vulnerable to collapse. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Approaching Rock Bottom (in our Torah portion, entering Av, and in Gaza)

This Shabbat's Torah portion -- the double parasha of Matot-Masei -- raises questions and topics that feel both contemporary and extraordinarily troubling.

One famous issue emerges in Numbers 32, when the heads of the tribes of Reuben and Gad propose settling permanently on the east side of the Jordan River rather than crossing over into the land on the west side of the Jordan with the other ten Israelite tribes. Moses asks: “Are your brothers to go to war while you stay here? Why will you turn the minds of the Israelites from crossing into the land that Adonai has given them?" (Num. 32:6-7). Ultimately, a deal is reached and the Gadites and Reubenites agree to settle their "children, wives, flocks and livestock" east of the river and then send their military-aged men across to fight alongside the rest of the Israelites in their conquest of the land. Thus, unity is preserved in the end... but along the way, the text still manages to raise a serious set of questions about what happens when different factions of the people have divergent interests, different geographies, and disparate perspectives. 

These are clearly questions that we continue to grapple with in the 21st century: how do we balance between creating unity and a sense of shared identity while still valuing and honoring our diversity? I am ever-interested in probing these questions -- for us as an American Jewish community, as they manifest in Israeli society, and in thinking about what it means to be part of the Jewish people world-wide -- and I hope that many of us will have the opportunity to delve deeper in exploring them together when we travel to Israel/Palestine together in 2026 (stay tuned for details - I'm very much hoping we can make another Kavana-Mishkan "Multiple Narratives" tour happen early next year!).

Next, an even more profound and disturbing question comes up in the previous chapter, when God speaks to Moses and commands him, saying, “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin” (Num. 31:2). In other words, before Moses dies, he is assigned one final task: to completely obliterate the Midianite people. (*It's not lost on me that Moses's wife Tziporah is a Midianite... and I'm still mulling over the complex psychodynamics at play here.) The battle that ensues sounds brutal. The Israelites take to the field and, according to the text, slay every Midianite male, including the kings of Midian and even the prophet Bilaam. They destroy Midianite towns by fire, seize herds and flocks as booty, and take women and non-combatants captive. Even after this, Moses becomes angry with his commanders that they have spared the females, and demands that they kill all of the remaining adult women. Finally, the booty and spoils of war are divided up -- including animals, gold, and even human beings. It's a truly horrific text!

In a piece entitled "Should the Genocide of the Midianites be Kept in Torah?," Rabbi Arthur Waskow does not mince words. He calls Numbers 31 "the most horrifying and disgusting chapter of Torah," and writes, "If you can read it without puking, wash out your mouth and your brain." Then, however, he goes on to argue that this awful chapter plays a critical role in the Torah, making it clear that no people is immune from having the capacity to commit genocide. Connecting the dots to the present, Waskow writes: "So this means, if someone accuses you of genocide, instead of dismissing the charge out of hand, investigate. Listen to the evidence. If you are even on the edge, not in the hellish stew, step back. Take steps to make sure you are not even close."

Waskow - a rabbi, activist, and Jewish Renewal leader - is a voice on the left end of the American Jewish community who has a decades-long history of speaking critically about the actions of the Israeli government. But/and, this year, he is far from alone in his interpretation of this parasha; I am starting to feel the ground shift across the entire American Jewish spectrum. This past Sunday, the Halachic Left Forum held a conference in New York; this group says it is working "to change the conversation on Israel/Palestine in traditionally observant Jewish communities" (which tend to skew right). A pair of opinion pieces in today's Forward illustrate this as well: Rabbi Jill Jacobs (who attended JTS with me and is the CEO of T'ruah, a rabbinic human rights organization) asks "Gaza is Starving. Where are the American Jewish Leaders?", while Orthodox rabbinical student Shuly Fruchter asserts "Starvation is a Moral Test for Zionists. We're Failing." I'm well aware that the term "genocide" is loaded, and that's not a fight I particularly wish to engage; regardless of what we call it, I think most of us can agree that the reality on the ground in Gaza is horrendous, and should be morally unacceptable for those of us who prioritize Jewish values such as compassion and human dignity for all. Hard as it is to see, we cannot look away.

Yesterday, in the wake of widespread reports from humanitarian aid organizations about mass starvation in Gaza, three rabbis circulated "A Letter from Rabbis Worldwide," aiming to collect signatories from across all denominations and from around the world. I was pleased to sign the letter last night, as an individual/ representing only myself. Although I don't often do this, I am pasting its full text below, as I know that many of you are wrestling with the same set of moral issues I am and I think that some of this language may feel helpful to many of you. (Personally, if anything, I think this letter errs on the side of being too generous to Israel. No group letter is ever a 100% fit for every individual who signs; the power lies in coming together, and this is one I feel overall very good about adding my signature to.) 

[As I wade into this topic -- hands down the single thorniest issue for our community at the moment -- I want to remind everyone that Kavana is committed to pluralism as a value; I believe it is a great strength of our community that we can hold a wide range of religious beliefs and political viewpoints, engage in real and respectful dialogue across difference, and still be in community together. So, whether you feel totally aligned with my thinking and the text of this letter, or you have substantively different views -- whether to my left or my right -- please know that you are welcome here, and I am always happy to be in further conversation on these topics.]

Finally, this Shabbat also marks Rosh Chodesh Av, the beginning of the month in which we mark the destruction of the Temple in ancient times. As my colleague Rabbi Josh Feigelson of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality wrote last week, "There's a case to be made that the High Holiday season started--at least, perhaps, in exhibition games--last week, with the 17th of Tammuz... At this point in the journey we are, perhaps, going down in order to ascend ("yeridah l'tzorech aliyah," as the Hasidim put it)--en route to the depths of the 9th of Av, and then slowly ascending through Elul to Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot."

I think he states it nicely: as our calendar approaches Tisha B'Av, we find ourselves descending spiritually. This image certainly resonates for me this week as I confront the moral morass and bleak landscape of Gaza. As we continue to move through the weeks and months to come, it is my sincere hope that this moment will represent rock bottom in our arc, and that from here, our outcry, our will, and our desire to change the awful reality using every tool at our disposal will indeed put us on a trajectory of ascent, renewal and uplift. I continue to believe that someday, we human beings have the capacity to ensure that no one is living in ruins and starvation, to shape a world in which there is peace, justice, dignity, and safety for every human being. Inspired by the negative example of the war Moses is commanded to wage upon the Midianites in this week's parasha, let us commit to working to bring that world into fruition.

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Letter from Rabbis Worldwide

The Jewish People face a grave moral crisis, threatening the very basis of Judaism as the ethical voice that it has been since the age of Israel’s prophets. We cannot remain silent in confronting it.

As rabbis and Jewish leaders from across the world, including the State of Israel, we are deeply committed to the wellbeing of Israel and the Jewish People.

We admire Israel’s many and remarkable achievements. We recognise, and many of us endure, the huge challenges the State of Israel relentlessly confronts, surrounded for so long by enemies and facing existential threats from many quarters. We abhor the violence of such nihilistic terrorist organizations as Hezbollah and Hamas. We call on them immediately to release all the hostages, held for so long captive in tunnels in horrendous conditions with no access to medical aid. We unequivocally support the legitimacy of Israel’s battle against these evil forces of destruction. We understand the Israeli army’s prioritization of protecting the lives of its soldiers in this ongoing battle, and we mourn the loss of every soldier’s life.

But we cannot condone the mass killings of civilians, including a great many women, children and elderly, or the use of starvation as a weapon of war. Repeated statements of intention and actions by ministers in the Israeli government, by some officers in the Israeli army, and the behaviour of criminally violent settler groups in the West Bank, often with police and military support, have been major factors in bringing us to this crisis. The killing of huge numbers of Palestinians in Gaza, including those desperately seeking food, has been widely reported across respectable media and cannot reasonably be denied. The severe limitation placed on humanitarian relief in Gaza, and the policy of withholding of food, water, and medical supplies from a needy civilian population contradict essential values of Judaism as we understand it. Ongoing unprovoked attacks, including murder and theft, against Arab populations in the West Bank, have been documented over and over again.

We cannot keep silent.

In the name of the sanctity of life, of the core Torah values that every person is created in God’s image, that we are commanded to treat every human being justly, and that, wherever possible, we are required to exercise mercy and compassion;

In the name of what the Jewish People has learnt bitterly from history as the victim, time and again, of marginalisation, persecution and attempted annihilation;

In the name of the moral reputation not just of Israel, but of Judaism itself, the Judaism to which our lives are devoted,

We call upon the Prime Minister and the Government of Israel

To respect all innocent life;

To stop at once the use and threat of starvation as a weapon of war;

To allow extensive humanitarian aid, under international supervision, while guarding against control or theft by Hamas;

To work urgently by all routes possible to bring home all the hostages and end the fighting; To use the forces of law and order to end settler violence on the West Bank and vigorously investigate and prosecute settlers who harass and assault Palestinians;

To open channels of dialogue together with international partners to lead toward a just settlement, ensuring security for Israel, dignity and hope for Palestinians, and a viable peaceful future for all the region.

‘I am a Jew because our ancestors were the first to see that the world is driven by a moral purpose, that reality is not a ceaseless war of the elements, to be worshipped as gods, nor history in a battle in which might is right and power is to be appeased. The Judaic tradition shaped the moral civilisation of the West, teaching for the first time that human life is sacred, that the individual may not be sacrificed for the mass, and that rich and poor, great and small, are all equal before God.’ Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Radical Then, Radical Now (London 2000).

Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg (London), Rabbi Arthur Green (Boston), and Rabbi Ariel Pollak (Tel Aviv)

[signed by 700+ additional rabbis and counting...]

The (Surprising) Moral Courage of the B'nai Korach

I've just returned this week from some vacation time, as I spent the first half of July at summer camp in the Colorado Rockies. In addition to experiencing the great joys of being in an immersive Jewish environment with enthusiastic young people and spending significant time in nature, it was also lovely to have a breather from American political news! Emerging back into the world this week, I am struck by how easy it is to become accustomed to the cruelty, violence, and authoritarianism that are taking hold in our society right now... and just how difficult-but-important it is to be able to maintain some critical distance in order to see the full picture clearly, exercise moral courage, and push back.

Perhaps this is why one particular line jumped out at me as I skimmed this week's Torah portion. 

A large percentage of the ink of Parashat Pinchas is spilled over a census of the Israelites: the genealogies of leaders and the numbers of men ages 20+ in each tribe who are able to bear arms. In the midst of this long list of many names and numbers, the text detours into a brief recap of the Korach revolt. 

This recap largely echoes the story of Korach found in Parashat Korach, which Jewish communities around the world read just three weeks ago (see Numbers 16 for the whole story). As you may recall, in the wilderness, a Levite by the name of Korach -- together with his sidekicks Datan and Aviram -- rose up to challenge the leadership of Moses and Aaron. In punishment, God caused the earth to open its mouth and swallow them up, and then a fire consumed 250 of Korach's followers. 

Only, in the earlier telling of the story, it certainly sounded as though Korach's entire household was aligned with him in rebelling and would therefore have been punished. There, the text says: "and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach's people and all their possessions" (Num. 16:32). In this week's parasha, however, in contrast, our text explicitly states a surprising conclusion: "The sons of Korach did not die" - "וּבְנֵי־קֹ֖רַח לֹא־מֵֽתוּ" (Numbers 26:11).

These four small Hebrew words - "u'venei korach lo meitu" - throw the rabbis for a loop! How could it be that Korach's children were not punished along with their father?! In an attempt to reconcile this seeming contradiction, the midrashic tradition explains that the sons of Korach must have been on their father's side at the outset, but at some point changed their minds and pulled away from his evil influence. We read in Targum Jonathan, for example: "But the sons of Korach were not in the counsel of their father, but rather they followed the doctrine of Moshe the prophet, and therefore they did not die by the plague, nor were they smitten by fire, nor engulfed in the yawning of the earth."

Imagine the incredible fortitude it must have taken for the children of Korach to have bucked their wicked father's influence! Korach was slick, deceitful, and persuasive, claiming that his true aims were egalitarian ones while all the while working towards self-promotion and to claim power for himself. And yet, it seems that in the end, his own children could see through him enough not to remain under his spell.

Our tradition notices and celebrates the moral courage of Korach's sons in breaking free from their father's ranks. One place we see this is in a rabbinic interpretation about the first line of the book of Psalms, which reads: "Happy is the person who does not walk in the council of the wicked" (Psalms 1:1). The midrash on this verse explains about the phrase "happy is the person:" "This is the sons of Korach, who did not walk in the council of their father." Korach's children are lauded here for stepping out from under their father's shadow and developing their own moral sense.

In addition, in the Book of Psalms, we find eleven psalms (numbers 42, 44-49, 84, 85, 87, and 88) that are introduced with phrases such as "Lam'natzeach livnei korach mizmor," an attribution to the Sons of Korach, the sub-group of Levites descended from him. In time, the "B'nai Korach" gain the reputation of being great musicians and Psalm-writers, and they go on to play an important role in Jewish liturgy to this day. These eleven psalms contain many famous jewels of lines, and also deal heavily with themes such as a redemption and teshuvah.

Perhaps the b'nai Korach seem like unlikely heroes... after all, their sole action in our Torah portion is not dying, and even that feels a bit like an after-thought. All the same, I find it inspiring to think about the example they set. I have to imagine that Korach's sons had grown up with a narcissistic father who regularly disparaged Moses and Aaron with his warped version of the truth. Somehow, though, when the moment demanded it, they were able to find sufficient grounding and strength to determine what was right for themselves, and to assert that they were not like the others of their generation. Surrounded by evil-doers, they bravely chose a different path for themselves.

Whether we realize it or not, today we are also steeped in an increasingly toxic brew. Dominant voices in our society regularly denigrate the stranger, cast aspersions on immigrants, and place blame for societal problems at the feet of the vulnerable. Even if these are not really our values, it is hard not to become somewhat inured to these messages over time, and complacent. It is time for us to wake up and loudly affirm and reclaim a different set of values, to actively defy the voices of selfishness and cruelty that dominate. If Korach's own children could manage to do this, so must we!

Yesterday I read an article in Vanity Fair -- "Even God Cannot Hear Us Here": What I Witnessed Inside an ICE Women's Prison -- a first-person account by Rümeysa Öztürk about the 45 days she spent in a South Louisiana processing facility. I found it both incredibly disturbing and also not surprising at all, given the many similar news accounts I've read about people being snatched off of streets and the terrible conditions in detention centers. But, accounts like this should shock us into action.

I am grateful to the many in our Kavana community who are stirring to action, coming together to align and affirm our values and organizing to do good in a variety of ways. This week, I especially want to thank Brooke Brod for her tireless efforts to pull together a Multi-Faith Vigil called "Together in Welcome" -- co-sponsored by Kavana together with a number of other local orgs -- to give us an opportunity to publicly assert our solidarity with immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. I hope you will plan to join us downtown next Thursday, July 24th from 3:30-5pm -- please click here for more details and to RSVP.

Even with only a single small mention in our Torah portion, the "sons of Korach" can serve as models for us about how to step out from under the shadow of wrongdoing before it is too late. Not only do they "not die," but they also go on to live and flourish in the most interesting and creative of ways. As holy poets and music-makers, they quite literally live to "tell the tales" of their generation and to sing words of praise. So too may we find the moral courage and strength to break free from the swirl of ugliness, fear-mongering and callousness that surrounds us in these heavy days, and to work towards a future that is worthy of song and praise. 

Shabbat Shalom, and I look forward to seeing many of you at Shabbat in the Park tonight and at the "Together in Welcome" Vigil next Thursday!

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Prophecy and Poetry

If you have been reading these essay letters for a while, you know that I often include lines from poetry to awaken insights into Torah and life. Occasionally these poets are Jewish, many times they are not, but rarely are they from the Torah itself. This week however, the non-Israelite prophet Balaam blesses Israel (to the chagrin of King Balak of Moav, who hired Balaam to curse the Israelites). And Balaam’s blessing to us is that his words take the form of poetry. 

His most famous lines (Bamidbar 24:5) find their way into a prayer that Jews say in the morning shacharit service and, according to tradition, whenever one enters into a synagogue or sacred space. 

Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov[ ] mishkenotecha, Yisra’el! 
How good are your tents, Jacob[ ] your dwelling-places, Israel!

Balaam goes on to describe these structures as: 

Like palm-groves that stretch out,
Like gardens beside a river,
Like aloes planted by God,
Like cedars beside the water;

Their boughs drip with moisture,
Their roots have abundant water…

What a wonderful image of a sheltering home that nourishes lively growth. But what exactly makes these structures so good (ma tovu)? 

Rashi (11th-century France), picking up a Talmudic theme, suggests that their tent entrances didn’t face each other, and that Balaam is highlighting the people’s modesty and humility. Basic respect for each other’s dignity does make for a strong communal foundation.

Some, like Sforno (16th-century Italy), assume that “tent” is a reference to a place of Torah learning, and that Balaam centered the people’s study of moral and spiritual guidance, or perhaps simply a shared story, as the key to their collective blessing. 

Others, like Or HaChayyim (18th-century Morocco), suggest that “tents” and “dwelling-places” aren’t just synonyms for the same thing, but point to a distinction: perhaps to those who study occasionally and those who study all the time, or to different historical stages - first in the wilderness wandering with the portable tent and then later in the holy land with the full Temple structure. You can imagine that at every stage of history, Jews constructed and reconstructed sacred structures to give meaning and shape to their communities.

Poetry itself is a form of structure. It is no coincidence that each section of a poem is called a stanza, coming from the Italian word for “room”, or in Hebrew a bayit, a “house”. What if we read Balaam, a prophet and poet, as praising the power of the ultimate Jewish home - our poetic sacred scripture? 

Two of the 20th century’s most prophetic teachers, themselves students of the biblical prophets, link prophecy with poetry, and poetry with generative imagination. 

The great Jewish thinker and social activist Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote inThe Prophets:

Like a poet, [the prophet] is endowed with sensibility, enthusiasm, and tenderness, and above all, with a way of thinking imaginatively. Prophecy is the product of poetic imagination.Prophecy is poetry, and in poetry everything is possible, [such as] for the trees to celebrate a birthday, and for God to speak to [humans]. 

And the great Christian scholar Walter Brueggemann taught us in The Prophetic Imagination:

The people we later recognize as prophets, are also poets. They reframe what is at stake in chaotic times… It is the vocation of the prophet to keep alive the ministry of imagination, to keep on conjuring and proposing futures alternative to the single one the king [i.e. an authoritarian leader] wants to urge as the only thinkable one.

(I can think of few Christian thinkers who have been as appreciated in rabbinical seminaries as Walter Brueggemann. He died just a month ago, on June 5, 2025. If you’re curious to learn from him, I cannot recommend enoughthis interview he gave with Krista Tippett, in which he goes deeper on the role of poetry, prophecy, and issues of justice.)

So what Balaam names as “good” about the Jewish structures of poetry is the capacity to imagine, to stay open and insistent that better futures are possible. 

One particular feature of the Jewish bayit, the stanza-house, is parallelism. Almost every poetic line is doubled in some way, creating an emphasis of meaning. The fundamental unit of biblical poetry, much like the archetypal unit of Jewish learning, is chavruta, the study pair. Two Jews, three opinions, two lines, abundant imagination… 

But most of the time, the parallel isn’t perfect, and the slight differences reward careful reading and open up possibilities of interpretation that a single line would have lacked. Our verse is called an incomplete parallel:

Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov[ ] mishkenotecha, Yisra’el! 
How good are your tents, Jacob[ ] your dwelling-places, Israel!

“How good” is only said once, while every other term has a partner. Tents correspond to dwelling-places, and both of ancestor Jacob’s names are used to designate his descendants. We are supposed to infer that both the tents and the dwelling places are in fact good. 

But perhaps here the wording allows for an incomplete blessing. A blank space where our minds and hearts and hands are needed to fill in and make explicit the possibility that our homes, our country, our world, are in fact worthy of being declared “good!” 

The prophecy needs us first to unfurl our imaginations through close attention, and then to make real the blessing it envisions. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Reflections on the Fourth of July

On this day 249 years ago, the Founding Fathers of the United States of America signed the Declaration of Independence, which includes these stirring words:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

But of course, the full application of equality was not self-evident to those who supported slavery or opposed women’s right to vote. The poet Tracy K. Smith evoked the hidden voice of the enslaved within the text by creating an erasure poem of the Declaration of Independence. (I encourage you to read the whole poem!)

The opening lines could as well describe the current terror our government is unleashing on immigrants and even citizens who happen to be Latino or brown-skinned:

He has 

           sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people

He has plundered our—

                                           ravaged our—

                                                                         destroyed the lives of our—

taking away our­—

                                  abolishing our most valuable—

and altering fundamentally the Forms of our—

Tracy K. Smith’s poem says what so many of us are feeling right now: The promises our America is built on have been hollowed out, and our hope and pride and passion for the inalienable Rights we yearn to actualize for all - no matter country of origin, color of skin, gender, sexuality, or religion - are at risk of being erased. 

It seems significant to me that this year, the 4th of July coincides with parashat Chukat, in which Moses is told he will never enter the Promised Land (Bamidbar 20:12). 

His mistake? Another great founding father, the 19th century German “father of modern Orthodoxy”, Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, wrote:“Moses’s agitation arose from the bitter feeling of the futility of all his previous work on the people…” For a split second, Moses - feeling like the people were giving up on him - gave up on the people. 

In a sense he has a crisis of faith, but it is not a lack of faith in God or God’s vision (the Torah). It is not even really a lack of faith in the people, although that was how it manifested. At core, Moses loses faith in the efficacy of his own actions. He practices and practices his communal stewardship but no perfection is in sight. In fact it almost seems like the more he tries the worse the results become! 

Rabbi Shefa Gold wisely reminds us: “Our path doesn’t follow a straight line. Though the destination seems to be The Promised Land flowing with milk and honey, it is the journey itself that will transform us, opening us to that flow of nurturance and sweetness. That transformation is a complex process of working through layers of heartbreak, rebellion, loss and rebirth.”

We, like Moses, may never inhabit the Promised Land with its promises completely fulfilled. But we can learn from his mistake, and re-engage in the actions we can take, the practices we can follow, to keep building democracy and a responsible and loving community. If you would like to spend this weekend learning more about how to practice democracy from Jewish perspectives, check out this set of reflections from Reconstructionist rabbis on the twenty lessons-turned-practices that historian of authoritarianism Timothy Snyder wrote about in his 2017 book On Tyranny. 

To return once more to the words of Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch (on Shemot 1:14), may our country and all nations soon live up to this vision of justice:

The degree of justice in a land is measured, not so much by the rights accorded to the native-born inhabitants, to the rich, or people who have, at any rate, representatives or connections that look after their interests, but by what justice is meted out to the completely unprotected “stranger.”

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Tithing and the Soul of Money

Parashat Korach opens with a dramatic story of rebellion and dissent, as Korach and his sidekicks Datan and Aviram arise to challenge Moses's leadership in the wilderness. After the Korach rebellion is squelched, order, norms, and ideals must be restored in Israelite society.

One way that this happens, at the end of our parasha, is that a complex system of tithes are invoked. The Hebrew word for tithe, ma'aser, is connected to the word eser meaning ten; in essence, tithing means giving a tenth of one's agricultural produce -- whether the yield of trees, fields, vineyards, cattle or flocks -- to support the priests, the Levites, and/or the poor. Parashat Korach is not the only spot in the Torah where tithes are mentioned, but Numbers 18:21-32, the 7th and final aliyah of this Torah portion, is devoted to the topic in its entirety. Here's an excerpt:

And to the Levites I hereby give all the tithes in Israel as their share in return for the services that they perform, the services of the Tent of Meeting... 

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Levites and say to them: When you receive from the Israelites their tithes, which I have assigned to you as your share, you shall set aside from them one-tenth of the tithe as a gift to the Lord... Say to them further: You and your households may eat it anywhere, for it is your recompense for your services in the Tent of Meeting. You will incur no guilt through it, once you have removed the best part from it; but you must not profane the sacred donations of the Israelites, lest you die.

According to this text, all of the Israelites are to give tithes to the Levites, the Levites are also to set aside tithes from their share, only food from which tithes have been removed are acceptable to eat, and the donations of the Israelites are to be valued and used only for their intended purpose. This already-complex system of tithes is expanded upon in the Talmud and subsequent rabbinic literature, as different types of tithes are broken out for different years in the seven-year giving cycle: ma'aser rishon (first tithe), ma'aser sheni (second tithe), ma'aser oni (the poor man's tithe), and terumat ma'aser (the tithe offering). Together, these mandatory tithes function as a system of taxation for the people of Israel. We can get a taste of what these rules sound like in Maimonides's law code Mishneh Torah, Gifts to the Poor 6:2, where our Torah portion is one of the prooftexts cited:

This is the order of [the separation of] the terumot (donations or offerings) and the maasrot (tithes). After one harvests produce from the earth or fruit from the tree and completes all the necessary work, he separates one fiftieth of the produce. This is called the great terumah and should be given to the priest. Concerning this the Torah states [Deuteronomy 18:4]: "The first of your grain, your wine, and your oil." Afterwards, he separates one tenth from the remainder. This is called the first tithe and must be given to the Levite. Concerning this, the Torah states [Numbers 18:24]: "For the tithes of the children of Israel..." and [ibid.:24] states: "To the descendants of Levi have I given all the tithes within Israel."

According to rabbinic literature, the laws of tithing ever only applied to agricultural produce in the land of Israel, and practices around this system of giving necessarily shifted following the destruction of the Temple. What we are left with today, then, is a vestigial system: loads of verses of Torah, pages of Talmud, and volumes of halakhic/legal texts devoted to an institution of tithing that is mostly not practiced.

Although tithing can no longer be carried out in the way that our parasha describes it, the topic feels relevant to me this week on multiple levels. First, every society must grapple with questions around resource allocation and come up with its own system of taxation and fiscal management that reflects that society's priorities and ideals. Here and now in the United States, the administration's gutting of the IRS staff and the Republicans' current attempt to pass a budget reconciliation bill that cuts critical services, expands funding for ICE, and redistributes wealth upward (among other things) represents a dramatic shift. We -- as citizens and members of the American public -- would do well to pay attention and to protest against fiscal policies and a proposed system of taxation that do not express our core values.

Second, the concept of tithing does remain alive for many Jews today in how it informs the giving of tzedakah. (The laws of tzedakah are, in fact, often "hung" on biblical prooftexts about tithing.) So, for example, today some Jews donate a tenth of their annual income to charity in a nod to the "third tithe" for the poor. In another example, we can see in the text above from our Torah portion that even the Levites had to remove tithes from the tithed produce they received from other Israelites; so too, the laws of tzedakah continue to mandate that even people who are dependent on tzedakah must themselves give tzedakah.

At the intersection of these two topics -- American society's fiscal policy and our Jewish practice of giving tzedakah -- lies the culture of philanthropy in which we find ourselves. In our society and community, voluntary charitable giving benefits a wide range of important social needs, including religion, education, and human services. 

This time of year, this topic of money -- and how we pool and allocate resources collectively in accordance with our values -- feels particularly relevant at Kavana, where our fiscal year runs from July 1st - June 30th. Each spring, we report on our finances to Kavana partners at our Annual Partner Meeting, and the staff and board work collaboratively to develop a Kavana budget for the coming fiscal year in a way that reflects our community's values and priorities.

Some years ago, I encountered a book that had a big impact on how I think about money, tzedakah, and philanthropic giving: The Soul of Money, by Lynne Twist. In a chapter entitled "Money is Like Water," Twist writes: "Money flows through all our lives, sometimes like a rushing river, and sometimes like a trickle. When it is flowing, it can purify, cleanse, create growth, and nourish. But when it is blocked or held too long, it can grow stagnant and toxic to those withholding or hoarding it." She continues, "It doesn't take a family fortune to direct dollars into the world with the power of your commitments and integrity... We can consciously put money in the hands of projects, programs, companies, and vendors we respect and trust... It takes courage to direct the flow, but with each choice, we invest in the world as we envision it."

For the ancient Israelites, tithing was a process designed to support the establishment of an ideal society. Practically speaking, it ensured that while eleven tribes would have land and grow their own produce, the final tribe -- the Levites -- could afford to live a life of service and would still be provided for. Tithing also ensured that the stranger, the widow and the orphan would have enough food to eat (Deut. 26:12-13). 

Today, the allocation of financial resources continues to be a powerful tool we have at our disposal. Particularly at a time like this, when many of us may question our ability to effect change in the face of such sweeping political forces, it is empowering to think that we can make a concrete difference through our giving. Each of us, in our own way and amount, has the ability to have a real impact on the world around us by directing our money "flow" to where it matters most. 

As we read Parashat Korach and as Kavana wraps up our Fiscal Year 2025, this is a perfect week in which to consider what you value and to seek out those organizations that are building towards the vision for the society that you want to see. As we dream -- of community, of peace, of justice, of kindness and compassion, of a world in which everyone has access to education, housing, food -- I hope that all of you realize the important role that Kavana plays, too, in helping to provide connection, meaningful engagement in Jewish life, and a solid grounding in values, Torah and hope.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Measuring Up

This week the Torah takes a tragic turn, as the Israelites, on the verge of entering the Promised Land, suffer a crisis of self-confidence and end up exiling themselves to wander in the desert until an entire generation dies. 

The scouts had brought back disheartening reports: ““The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are of great size (anshei middot); we saw the Nephilim there—the Anakites are part of the Nephilim—and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them” (Bamidbar 13:32-33).

The humiliating exaggerations - that these people of “great size” are a mythical race of giants, and that the people were like grasshoppers to them - create a gap between God’s goal and the people’s belief that they can reach it. In that gap, the people falter, and fail to act. 

We, too, live in what educator and activist Parker Palmer calls the “tragic gap” between the world as it is and the possibility of a more just and peaceful world. When that gap feels insurmountable, we are at risk of falling into inaction like the Israelites did at first. But Palmer insists that the gap will never be fully bridged. A foolish idealism is as likely to break our spirit as cynicism is to corrode everything we’ve ever cared for. Nor can we rely on a purely pragmatic approach to buoy our sacred work of building the world we believe in. 

If we are to stand and act with hope in the tragic gap and do it for the long haul, we cannot settle for mere “effectiveness” as the ultimate measure of our failure or success. Yes, we want to be effective in pursuit of important goals. But when measurable, short-term outcomes become the only or primary standard for assessing our efforts, the upshot is as pathetic as it is predictable: we take on smaller and smaller tasks—the only kind that yield instantly visible results—and abandon the large, impossible but vital jobs we are here to do.

We must judge ourselves by a higher standard than effectiveness, the standard called faithfulness. Are we faithful to the community on which we depend, to doing what we can in response to its pressing needs? Are we faithful to the better angels of our nature and to what they call forth from us? Are we faithful to the eternal conversation of the human race, to speaking and listening in a way that takes us closer to truth? Are we faithful to the call of courage that summons us to witness to the common good, even against great odds? When faithfulness is our standard, we are more likely to sustain our engagement with tasks that will never end: doing justice, loving mercy, and calling the beloved community into being. (excerpt from Healing the Heart of Democracy)

When the scouts describe the inhabitants of the land as “people of great size,”the Hebrew is literally anshei middot, people of measurements. Of course, everyone has a measurement! But just like when we say “they are quality people,” we mean they are of exceptionally good quality, the phrase is understood to imply an exceptionally large measurement. 

Rashi (11th century) notes that anshei middot means “tall and high men, in speaking of whom one feels compelled to give their size, as is stated, for instance, with reference to Goliath (I Samuel 17:4): “his height was six cubits and a span.” 

But I’d like to appropriate this phrase as an aspiration for all of us to grow into: becoming spiritual and ethical giants. You could also read the phraseanshei middot as “people of [excellent] character traits.” A middah is the word used in Mussar, a practice of Jewish ethical character development, to describe the inner traits that we are always working to improve, such as patience, generosity, diligence, and so on. Taking our cue from Parker Palmer, perhaps we could name faithfulness (emunah or ne’emanut) as a middah to develop.

There is precedent for adapting the phrase anshei middot in a new context. Ramban (13th century) used the term to describe geographers, “people who measure [the land]” (Sha’ar HaGemul). 

Combining all of these connotations, to be one of the Anshei Middot today would mean aspiring to be a spiritual giant, who charts the inner territory and works on cultivating a character of faithfulness to justice and mercy. Of course, that is a bit chutzpadik, but to paraphrase another spiritual giant (Hillel), if now is not the time for moral courage, then when would be?

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Make for Yourself Two Silver Trumpets

Parashat Beha'alotecha is a rich Torah portion, chock-full of famous and prominent elements: for example, it opens with a commandment regarding the seven-branched lampstand of the menorah, and ends with a distinctive pair of backwards nuns that set off the "vayehi binsoa" verse which was recited when the ark was on the move. 

This week, however, it's a small instruction from the middle of the Torah portion -- a few lines about silver trumpets -- that have caught my attention. These are the very last instructions the Israelites receive as they prepare to leave Sinai, one year after having departed from Egypt together. Numbers chapter 10 opens:

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃ עֲשֵׂ֣ה לְךָ֗ שְׁתֵּי֙ חֲצֽוֹצְרֹ֣ת כֶּ֔סֶף מִקְשָׁ֖ה תַּעֲשֶׂ֣ה אֹתָ֑ם וְהָי֤וּ לְךָ֙ לְמִקְרָ֣א הָֽעֵדָ֔ה וּלְמַסַּ֖ע אֶת־הַֽמַּחֲנֽוֹת׃

 "Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: Make for yourself two silver trumpets; make them of hammered work. They shall serve you to summon the community and to set the camps in motion."

The verses that follow go on to detail precisely how these two silver trumpets worked in conveying messages. When blown in long blasts (tekiah), they signal assembly; a long blast on both trumpets brings together "kol ha-edah," "all the people," and a long blast on a single trumpet functions to assemble just the tribal leaders. When short blasts are blown (teruah), this signals movement, and the various tribes encamped on the different sides of the Tabernacle await the short trumpet blasts that indicate that it's their turn to fall into line and move. 

The different blasts of the silver trumpets point to two distinct and important functions of community: 1) knowing how to assemble and 2) knowing how to move forward together. Assembly is fundamentally about being in community -- knowing how to come together, how to build internal bridges and how to communicate, how to build a shared identity and culture. Movement, on the other hand, is about having a shared sense of purpose -- an outward orientation, knowledge of how to travel together and a sense of where we are trying to go. As our ancestors begin their historic journey through the wilderness -- one that we know will last another 39 years --  it is critical that they have both of these skills: the ability to gather together and the ability to move. 

A second element of the trumpet commandments that I'd like to lift up is embedded in the opening line where the text reads: "Aseh l'cha shtei chatzotzrot kesef,"  "Make for yourself..." The Midrash and several later commentators pick up on the word "l'cha," "for yourself." As in other places in the Torah where "l'cha" appears together with an imperative verb (such as God's "lech l'cha" command to Abraham), the midrash is sure that this small word cannot be extraneous. On this verse, Sifrei Bamidbar 72:1 interprets "make for yourself" as teaching "from what is yours." In his book Unlocking the Torah Text - Bamidbar, Rabbi Shmuel Goldin extrapolates on this point:

Based upon the specific language “Make for yourself,” the rabbis discern a striking distinction between the trumpets and all other utensils fashioned by Moshe in the wilderness. While other utensils were appropriate for use in future generations, Moshe’s trumpets were his alone, to be used only during his lifetime. Each future generation would have to fashion its trumpets anew.

I really appreciate this idea -- that every generation has its own wilderness to traverse, and therefore it is incumbent upon each generation to fashion its own trumpets. This notion rings true to me this week, in particular, when on so many levels, I feel like we are poised at the start of a new journey through a vast and uncharted wilderness. The wilderness that stands before us now is particularly fearsome: it features challenges to our most core values, attacks on American democracy, and also the existential threat of climate change. For Jews in particular, we currently find ourselves "walking multiple tightropes at once" (as Forward columnist Jay Michaelson wrote last week) when it comes to thinking about support for Israel and the brutality and endgame of the Gaza war, how we understand and respond to recent attacks such as the one in Boulder, and more. Now, on top of all the rest of what lies ahead of us, Israel's unprecedented strike on Iran's nuclear capabilities over the last day is kicking up new uncertainty and an increased sense of dread.

How will we traverse this wilderness that lies in front of us? Parashat Beha'alotecha provides us with one ancient formula. We must make for ourselves "silver trumpets" -- that is, build the tools we need to call ourselves into community... something we already do each and every day here at Kavana. And then, with the right combination of long and short blasts on the instruments we have fashioned, we will assemble ourselves and move forward to the best of our abilities. The journey that lies ahead surely won't be straightforward, but with silver trumpets to guide us, we can ensure that we will venture forward, through this unknown, together.

With prayers that this Shabbat will be one of increasing shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Blessing for Safety

The parashah this week is complex, like our world. 

In Nasso, there are moments of calm order (as the Levite clans get their precise instructions for carrying the parts of the Mishkan and are counted in a census).

Followed by the ruptures and isolating routines of illness (dealing with the spiritual skin disease of tzara’at, where those afflicted are sent out of the camp until they get better).

Then there are the ruptures and repairs of human failing. (Do something wrong, sacrifice an animal and repay those you hurt…)

And the flaring of jealousy and the consequences of emotional and physical entanglement in a patriarchal society (the sotah ritual where a woman accused of infidelity has to endure a humiliating ritual, even if she did nothing wrong).

Then there is the nazir, a holier-than-thou hippy with long hair, avoiding not just wine but even grapes as well. I assume we’ve all had a phase like that…

You understand now why this is the single longest parashah in the Torah! There’s even a final chapter where the tribal leaders pay tribute to God, one after another in astonishingly repetitive detail. 

And then, in Torah as in life, just when you least expect it a blessing reveals itself. 

God spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to Aaron and to his sons, saying: Thus are you to bless the Children of Israel; say to them:

May God bless you and watch over you.
May God’s face shine toward you and favor you.
May God’s face lift towards you and grant you peace.

So are they to put My name upon the Children of Israel, that I Myself may bless them. (Bamidbar 6:22-27)

Known as Birkat HaKohanim, the Priestly Blessing, these words find their way into homes as parents bless their children on Erev Shabbat, Friday night (here’s one resource if you’d like to incorporate this practice in your family). 

Imagine the grandeur of the high priest offering these words to the entire Jewish people, and the cozy warmth of blessing each other with these words in a private home. In the intermediate communal gatherings, these words often appear in weddings and b’nai mitzvah. In some synagogues the kohanim, descendents of the ancient priests, continue to fulfill this aspect of their ancestral role (read this for a particularly vivid description of the ritual).

What makes the words so powerful stems in part from their apparent simplicity. 

We yearn for a sense of safety (may God bless you and keep you). 

We hope that life will at times feel filled with light and ease (may God’s face shine light on you and bring you grace). 

We yearn to be seen (may God’s face lift towards you) and for peace,shalom, to be experienced in the world and within ourselves. 

In processing the violence targeting Jews in America these last few weeks and the anxiety many of us have felt in response, I was particularly drawn to the first line of this blessing:

Yevarech’cha Adonai v’yishmerecha. 
May God bless you and guard / protect / watch over / keep you. 

I was certain there would be profound depths to the blessing, and was somewhat surprised with the message the early teachers focused on. 

Here’s Rashi (11th century): May God bless you with an increase in material wealth, and protect you from robbers taking it. 

Apparently, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs applies to biblical interpretation of blessings as well. Don’t pray for profundity before you have the basic supplies and security you need in order to survive. 

A few generations after Rashi, a commentary called Da’at Zekenim adds a twist to this materialist blessing. “May God bless you with material wealth, so that you can guard (shamor) doing mitzvot.”

In other words, our material possessions and basic sense of safety and security are not ends in themselves, but meant to enable spiritual growth and ethical action. This first line of the birkat kohanim isn’t a two-fold blessing, but a microcosmic lesson of how to live our lives. Yevarech’cha - when we receive blessing, v’yishmerecha - then we channel the gifts we’ve received into meaningful action. 

When we think about our rightful and necessary desire for safety, let us also remember to guard and keep safe our larger purpose in life, our values and visions of a world filled with God’s presence, which is to say, dignity and justice and joy.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine