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

Organizing Principles for these Wilderness Times

In our Torah cycle, this Shabbat we begin reading a new book: Numbers or Bamidbar. Chapter 1 features a census of the Israelites by tribe, and Chapter 2 begins: "The Lord spoke to Moses and Aaron, saying: The Israelites shall camp each with his standard, under the banners of their ancestral house; they shall camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance."

From the verses that follow, it's easy to picture exactly how the twelve tribes were organized around the Mishkan, the portable Tabernacle structure.

• the tribes of Judah, Issachar, and Zebulun camped on the front, or east side of the Mishkan, 

• the tribes of Reuben, Shimon, and Gad camped to the the south,

• the tribes of Ephraim, Manasseh, and Benjamin camped on the west side,

• and the tribes of Dan, Asher, Naphtali camped to the north.

The Torah's text goes on to enumerate exactly how many troops resided in each of these camps, to list the name of each tribal chieftain, and to detail the order in which these groups were to march when it was time to move the Israelite camp from one spot to the next. Rashi further comments that each of these tribes had their own colorful banner -- a flag or sign, color-coded to correspond to their gem on the High Priest's breastplate -- so it was easy to identify who was who. Through its words, this Torah portion depicts a clear map for arranging the collective body of an enormous mass of people, broken neatly into a dozen sub-communities. Everything about this arrangement signals organization and order, which was perhaps precisely the point, particularly in the midst of the Israelites' unpredictable 40-year wilderness journey.

This week, in addition to reading Parashat Bamidbar, we also find ourselves in the final days of lead-up to the holiday of Shavuot. This means that I've been reading the text described above while simultaneously thinking about another time when all the Israelites gathered around en masse: at Mount Sinai. On Shavuot, we celebrate the giving of Torah to the collective Jewish people -- often depicted as a wedding between God and the people of Israel -- but the truth is that things didn't go so well the first time around. As you may recall (and if not, you're invited to review Exodus 32), when Moses ascended the mountain to receive the commandments from God initially, the people down below panicked and turned to idolatry, fashioning a molten golden calf which they then made sacrifices to and danced around saying "This is your God, O Israel."

The story of the Golden Calf becomes a shameful chapter in our foundational history and the paradigm for thinking about both sin and forgiveness (to this day, the vocabulary of this story features centrally in our Yom Kippur liturgy). This tale of failure -- of a crowd acting out of control, with a mob mentality -- is typically not the focal point of our Shavuot holiday celebrations. However, this year, as we read Parashat Bamidbar just a day before Erev Shavuot, the juxtaposition feels clear to me, and I think we would do well to read these two texts in light of one another and pay attention to the cautionary tale. Perhaps the Golden Calf story offers us a warning about how easy it is for large groups of people to veer off course, and the strict system of organization described in Numbers chapter 2 serves as an antidote and an invitation into a more productive type of well-coordinated collectivity.

In our own contemporary society, without a doubt, we can see examples of both models. The pattern of the Golden Calf rings all too true: that it's easy for large groups of people to move in the wrong direction, often from a place of fear, begin to elevate false leaders or gods, and turn to violence. (Please fill in your own blanks when it comes to examples... there are many and I don't want to give over airtime to negative examples this week!)

But also, organizing people into groups is an important key to unlocking the potential for human productivity and goodness. The Israeli judicial protests that began rather organically in January 2023 grew in their organization over the months that followed. Not only did they draw hundreds of thousands of protestors into the streets of Tel Aviv week after week, but after October 7th, it was that same organizational system that pivoted quickly to aid Israelis affected by the attacks when the Netanyahu government fell down on the job (in other words, solid organization led to quick mobilization). This year, we've witnessed another example of effective organizing in South Korea, where after the country's president declared martial law in December, protestors took to the streets en masse and with great coordination, leading to his impeachment, indictment, and removal from office in the months that followed. (Relatedly, research out of the Harvard Kennedy School claims that "nonviolent protests are twice as likely to succeed as armed conflicts -- and those engaging a threshold of 3.5% of the population have never failed to bring about change.")

Right now, I am paying careful attention to how our communities -- both the Jewish community and our broader American society -- are realigning and re-organizing themselves (ourselves?) in real time to meet the challenges of this dramatic moment. In early April, for example, I highlighted that many national and local Jewish organizations were banding together to reject the false choice between confronting antisemitism and upholding democracy (i.e. essentially, the using of antisemitism as a pretext for anti-democratic federal actions). Since then, I am proud to report that Seattle's JCRC signed onto that JCPA statement, with over 80% support from its member orgs! This week, I also observed American faith leaders from across traditions come together to speak out against the administration's cruelty and injustice towards immigrants (click here to see a short video from Faith in Public Life). Shifting topics a bit, the American Jewish community has obviously been divided when it comes to Israel/Palestine politics and attitudes towards the Gaza War, but I'm grateful to see growing consensus emerge now across an increasingly wide swath of Jewish communal orgs when it comes to supporting humanitarian food aid for Gaza (speaking of which, here's an opportunity to donate through NIF), drawing on our own Torah's language around the belief in the dignity of every human life and our obligation to love and care for the stranger.

Through all of these examples, I can feel our organizing muscles growing stronger as we traverse our own wilderness. I am inspired by the way our Israelite ancestors arranged themselves in a carefully constructed constellation around the Mishkan, with clear and coordinated leadership in and among the tribes. Today, I see us improving in our community and society's ability to arrange ourselves into multiple "camps" -- each with our own strong leaders, values, and colorful flags -- and then to coordinate with intention across all of these camps for efficiency and impact. Parashat Bamidbar shows us one model for effective organizing, and the holiday of Shavuot reminds us that as long as we are careful to array our camps around "Torat Emet" ("teachings of truth") and not around a misleading golden calf, our coming together has the potential to be revelatory and to move us collectively in the right directions.

Shabbat Shalom, and wishing you a sweet and meaningful Shavuot holiday this Sunday evening, Monday, and Tuesday,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Carrying the Grief

Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
“It is not the weight you carry 

but how you carry it—
books, bricks, grief—
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it 

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
Mary Oliver, from “Heavy”

This week another weight was added to the grief we already carry, as we learned of the tragic murder of two young people, Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim, outside the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington, D.C. We know you may be feeling some combination of sadness, anger, fear, anxiety, and Rabbi Rachel and I are here to support you - we are just an email away if you’d like to reach out.

When hearing news of death, Jews respond with a blessing: Baruch dayan ha-emet, blessed be the true Judge (or the Judge of truth). When we feel shattered, unable to access our normal sense of reality, we send out a prayer that there is an Awareness of what is real and good and true beyond what currently feels true of our experience. 

At the heart of the Torah portion this week, Behar-Bechukotai, we find a series of threats and promises. There are eleven verses that promise blessing, and thirty-six verses that threaten curses, all depending on how well the Israelites live up to their covenant with God. Despite the lopsided attention to curses over blessings, the binary strategy of stick and carrot comes through quite clearly. 

I can understand these verses as an ancient attempt to incentivize right action. The blessings offer a vision worth yearning for - “I will give peace throughout the land, so that you will lie down with none to make you tremble…” (Vayikra 26:6). The curses paint a picture of the consequences of not collectively getting it right - “All the days of desolation [the land] will rest, since it did not rest during its Sabbaths when you were settled on it” (Vayikra 26:35). 

But these days the language of blessing and curse doesn’t so much feel like it redirects us towards the middle path of collective conscientiousness, but towards the blame and catastrophizing of hyperpolarization, where no matter what the curse is, it's because of what the “others” are doing. The blessings will (or should) come only to those who adhere to “our” point of view. By naming extremes, these blessings and curses are easily co-opted for partisan purposes. 

Extremism paves the path to violence. Rabbi Jill Jacobs, who spearheads the Jewish justice organization T’ruah, writes: 

T’ruah has warned repeatedly that violent language can lead to violent action — and we’ve seen that ugly pattern recur both in the region and at home, from all sides. As the Book of Proverbs teaches, “Death and life are in the hands of the tongue.” (18:21) It is not surprising that the violent language that has proliferated since October 7 — including justification of the murder of Jews and Israelis, the dehumanization of Israelis, and calls to “Globalize the Intifada” — have led to someone apparently taking up arms to murder two young people leaving a Jewish event at a Jewish museum. We encourage leaders on all sides of the political spectrum to condemn this brutality, to call out incitement, and to make clear that violence is never the way.

As we mourn, we also fear this tragedy will be manipulated by the far right to criminalize all criticism of Israel in the name of fighting antisemitism. We have to continue to be clear about the difference between antisemitic attacks like this and valid criticism of Israel and Israeli policy — something Israel is subject to just like any other country. Violence such as the horrific murders last night is antisemitic and must not be excused through any political justifications. For a deeper dive into this topic, consult T’ruah’s resource: “Criticism of Israel and Antisemitism: How to Tell Where One Ends and the Other begins.” 

Yet there is another way to be extreme. In the prayerbook there is a section called Birchot HaShachar, the Morning Blessings (notice how living Jewishly means offering blessings all the time, not just waiting to receive them…) Within this series of prayers the rabbis placed a text from the Talmud (Mishnah Peah 1:1 followed by Talmud Shabbat 127b), which breaks every rule of moderation that characterizes so much of Jewish wisdom. 

Eilu devarim she-ein lahem shi’ur… These are the things for which there is no fixed measure, which you can never do in a way that is too extreme… 

Honoring one’s father and mother.
Engaging in chesed, kind deeds.
Arriving early to study (both in the morning and the evening).
Welcoming travelers.
Visiting the sick.
Showing up for happy occasions (literally: celebrating with the wedding couple).
Accompanying the dead for burial.
Delving into prayer.
Mending relationships (literally, bringing peace between a person and their friend).
And studying Torah. 

When you do any of these things, you can stretch your soul and tend to your heart, exercise your mind and build community with others. You can carry the weight of books, bricks, and grief. In a world of the big stories of blessings and curses, of catastrophes and redemption, these humble actions inoculate us from despair and orient us towards the sacred practice of living generously with each other.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Lag Ba'Omer Life Lessons from Rabbi Rachel

Happy Lag Ba'Omer!  This little-known Jewish holiday, celebrated today, marks the 33rd day of the counting of the Omer, or (phrased differently) the 5th day of the 5th week between Passover and Shavuot. Although its associations with bonfires, picnics, bows & arrows, and haircuts are strong, this holiday's history is murky. There's a very good chance that the core stories associated with Lag Ba'Omer were overlaid much later to explain extant community practices, rather than the other way around!

Lag Ba'Omer's earliest mention appears to be in the Machzor Vitry, an 11th century prayer-book, so of course we would not expect to see it on the list of moadim ("fixed times") and mikraei kodesh ("sacred occasions") that the Torah focuses on in this week's reading, Parashat Emor. With regard to the holidays of Shabbat, Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret, Emor explains the meaning and core practices of each. Marking special days was a key feature of Israelite life, and of course continues to be an important part of our Jewish lives today.

So, what should we know about -- and what meaning might we draw from -- this new-ish and lesser-known Jewish holiday of Lag Ba'Omer? 

Here are a few "Lag Ba'Omer Life Lessons" that feel very relevant to me this year, based on two key texts associated with this holiday:

1) According to Talmudic legend (Yevamot 62b), 24,000 of Rabbi Akiva's students died during this period between Passover and Shavuot, "mipnei she-lo nahagu kavod zeh la-zeh," "because they did not treat one another with respect." Based on this teaching, the Omer is generally considered a sad time -- a period of semi-mourning -- during which observant Jews don't get haircuts, attend concerts, or schedule weddings. Lag Ba'Omer falls in the middle of this otherwise somber window of time, punctuating it with a day of joy and emotional release because, according to some of the medieval commentators on the Talmud, it was the day on which the plague ceased.   

One obvious take-away today is that we have permission to find moments for joy and celebration, even during times of sadness and/or oppression. This principle is like the flip side of the same coin that would have us smashing a glass during a wedding to bring us back down to earth during an otherwise celebratory time. In both directions, Judaism offers us the wisdom of emotional mixing and an aspiration for a life lived in balance. Right now, this message feels particularly important, as these last few months have felt hard and heavy for so many in our community. Given Lag Ba'Omer's timing today, this weekend would be a great time for a little bit of joy and release -- whether that means showing up to Kavana's Annual Partner Meeting this Sunday (always one of my favorite events of the year -- partners, please email Liz if you haven't RSVPed yet but are able to join us!!), plugging into the awesome events of Seattle's Yiddish Fest, or finding some other way to add a little fun and happiness into your repertoire!

Plus, of course, the association of the Omer with Rabbi Akiva's students reminds us of the importance of treating every human being with respect, a principle that sounds straightforward enough, but is incredibly difficult to actually live up to. 

2) The second key text associated with this holiday is the story of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai (Shabbat 33b-34a), who famously spoke out against the Romans and was forced into hiding in a cave. Lag Ba'Omer is said to be his yahrtzeit (the anniversary of his death), and on this holiday, many people visit Shimon bar Yochai's supposed tomb at Har Meron, sing songs to honor the memory of his strong stand against the oppression of the Roman Empire, and light bonfires as a reminder of the mystical light he brought into the world. 

This year, I am drawn to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai as a model of courage and resistance. However, the Talmudic story certainly complicates this picture... as both he and his son initially emerge from their cave so adamant about their beliefs that their eyes burn up everything they see. To me, the way this story is presented in the Talmud offers us a nuanced lesson: We must indeed stand against tyranny and turn to our Torah/values, but we must also take care to do so with enough softness, flexibility and empathy that we can navigate real-world relationships and live in an always-imperfect world. At this moment, when our Jewish community is working to build and strengthen alliances, trying to deftly navigate between both standing firm in what we believe and making appropriate compromises is no small feat.

With all of these lessons in mind, I wish you a Lag Ba'Omer sameach -- a happy holiday today -- and a weekend of joy and emotional release, relationship-building, courage and resistance, and flexible compromise, all in just the right measure.

Shabbat Shalom, and I look forward to davening and reading Parashat Emor with many of you at the Shabbat Minyan tomorrow morning,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Growing Holiness

The month of May in Seattle brings out the philosopher in all my neighbors - by which I mean, an embodiment of the view with which Voltaire (1694-1778) concluded his philosophical novel Candide: “We must cultivate our garden.” 

Rakes, hoes, and spades. Mounds of rich earth, new little sprouts of life, and the sturdy joy of tending to what’s within a few square feet around you. In a worrisome and complex world, gardening opens the gate to peacefulness and work whose good results you can witness with your own eyes. In a letter written a decade after his novel, Voltaire returned to his theme: “Life is bristling with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to cultivate one’s garden.” 

Many centuries before Voltaire, a rabbi told another story about rakes, hoes, and spades, although used in quite different ways than you might expect. 

There was an incident involving Abba Yosei of Tzaitur, a villager, who was sitting and studying at the entrance to a spring. 

A certain spirit that dwelled there appeared to him. It said to him: ‘You know how many years I have been dwelling here, and you and your wife come and go at night and in the morning, and you are not harmed. Now, you should know that an evil spirit seeks to dwell here, and it harms people.’ 

He said to it: ‘What shall we do?’ 

It said to him: ‘Go and warn the residents of the city: Anyone who has a hoe, anyone who has a spade, anyone who has a rake, let them come out here tomorrow at daybreak, and let them look at the water’s surface. When they see a whirlpool in the water, let them strike with their iron and say: Ours is victorious, and they shall not go from here until they see congealed blood on the water’s surface.’ 

He went and he warned the residents of the city, and said to them: ‘Anyone who has a hoe, anyone who has a spade, anyone who has a rake, let them come out there tomorrow at daybreak, and let them look at the water. When you see a whirlpool in the water, strike with the iron and say: Ours is victorious, ours is victorious, and do not go from here until you see congealed blood on the water’s surface.’ 

Keep your gardening tools handy, I guess! 

Some misread Voltaire as advocating for a retreat from public life and the civic sphere, abdicating responsibility for matters too large to confront and doing your best to live life in your little corner of the world. Our folk tale departs from the studious circles of the rabbis and brings us to just such a corner of the ancient Jewish world, a village of gardeners and the like, each with a rake or a hoe or a spade. 

Of course, as a folk tale told by rabbis, we still encounter the villager Abba Yosei sitting and studying! A book, like a garden, can become a place of refuge where wondrous growth offers beauty and nutrition. And a book, like a garden, can be a place we go to hide from the outside world. 

Not so in this story, however! Abba Yosei is interrupted by a water spirit warning that although this spirit has been totally pleasant and no harm whatsoever, another evil spirit is about to take up residence. There are no little corners of the world that will forever be a refuge if we don’t address the forces of harm. 

Following the good spirit’s advice, the villagers gather their iron tools to defeat the spirit. In the world of magic, it seems iron works well against malevolent spirits. I’m taken, however, with two other facts in this story. 

First, the iron is in the shape of gardening tools. It is almost as if the act of gardening has prepared them for a type of fight that can’t or shouldn’t be won with iron shaped into weapons. 

Second, in this ancient village, each person is asked to contribute whichever they have of the rake, spade, and hoe. Apparently, few if any of the villagers have all three. But those tools accomplish different tasks which everyone would need to do. Hidden between the words is a vision of interdependence, where people lend each other tools. 

In fact, the teaching in which this story is embedded continues with its moral: 

Can the matters not be inferred a fortiori? If the spirits, which were not created to require assistance, require assistance, we who were created to require assistance (אָנוּ שֶׁנִּבְרֵאנוּ לְסִיּוּעַ / anoo sheh-neevreinu l’see’oo’ah), all the more so. That is the meaning of: “may God send you help from the Sanctuary (kodesh)” (Psalms 20:3). [And this is the meaning of: “You shall be holy, for I Adonai your God am holy” (Leviticus 19:2).

To be holy, in this reading, is to be bound up in a grand mutual aid society, sending and receiving help. To garden, perhaps, is to “sit and study” the remarkable interdependence of human and other-than-human life. Along with tomatoes comes an intuition of justice.

After cultivating his own garden and writing Candide, Voltaire became one of the first human-rights campaigners in European history, with one scholarsuggesting that far from being a false retreat, “his garden broadened Voltaire’s circle of compassion. When people were dragged from their gardens to be tortured and killed in the name of faith, he began to take it, as they say, personally.”

Together, we have all the tools we need this season. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Back to the Basics this Week

This week, I have been struck by the cruelty, callousness, and discord that's swirling all around us. To share two quick illustrations that have loomed large for me in recent days: 

1. In Oklahoma last Thursday, ICE raided a family's home, confiscating belongings and putting the family outside in the rain in their underwear. They continued tearing the home apart even when it became clear that the family members were all U.S. citizens, and not the people they were looking for. This heavy-handed action feels unnecessarily cruel and intimidating, which perhaps is precisely the point.
   

2. In Ra'anana, Israel, when a congregation much like ours gathered to watch a live screening of the Israeli-Palestinian Joint Memorial Ceremony for Yom HaZikaron, they were attacked by a mob of Jewish Kahanist demonstrators who threw objects and firecrackers at the building, defaced cars, forced their way inside, and assaulted participants. A Reform rabbi and left-wing lawmaker called the incident "an attempted pogrom;" a right-wing activist called it an "opening shot."

These episodes take place against the backdrop of other, slower-drip cruelty and derangement: the new U.S. administration's disregard for the health and safety of Americans (here I'm thinking of the gutting of cancer research funding, disabilities protections, vaccines, education, and more), and the fact that it's now been a full  two months since the Israeli government permitted an aid truck into Gaza(!). Despite the beautiful spring sunshine here in Seattle, it feels to me as though we have been plunged into a new "Dark Ages," void of science, truth, and basic moral decency.

At first blush, this week's Torah portion, Tazria-Metzora, doesn't seem to have anything at all to say about this aspect of the world we are living in. This double parasha is the epitome of the the Book of Leviticus's ritual concern, as it catalogues the skin afflictions, scaly rashes, and discoloration that affected our ancient ancestors, and details an elaborate purification ritual by which the priests (Aaron and his sons) would welcome the afflicted "leper" back into the camp after they had healed. 

Early rabbis who read this parasha, however, noted that leprosy and skin afflictions -- when they appear elsewhere in the Tanakh -- are usually presented not as naturally-occurring illnesses, but as divine punishments for unethical action. So, perhaps it's unsurprising that when the rabbinic collection entitled Vayikra Rabba opens an entire chapter of its work with the verse “This shall be the law of the leper on the day of his purification: he shall be brought to the priest” (Leviticus 14:2), the interpretations that follow are not about the topics of law, leprosy, purification, or the priesthood in the least! Rather, the midrash understands "leprosy" as a spiritual malady, and probes to gain understanding into the unethical behaviors that are to be avoided and/or healed. 

The result is that Vayikra Rabba's section on the "law of the leper" (chapter 16) becomes, instead, an expanded ethical homily. It opens with one of the rabbis' favorite exegetical tools: the bringing of another verse "from afar" to bear on the verse in question. In this case, the go-to biblical text comes from Proverbs 6:17-19, which reads:

“Six things the Lord hates, and seven are an abomination to God: Haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart devising iniquitous thoughts, feet hastening to run to evil, he who utters lies as a false witness, and he who incites discord among brothers."

Each of the seven items on the Proverbs list is then connected back to tzara'at, "leprosy," through stories and additional proof-texts.

Later this month, I will celebrate my 21st anniversary since my rabbinic ordination. In my early years of working as a rabbi, I never permitted myself to write a Dvar Torah where the punchline was simply to be kind, or honest, or ethical. Preaching or teaching that kind of message felt far too obvious, and far too cliche. Now, however, I am feeling more and more like we are swimming in a sea of depravity, meanness, lies, and violence. And, the harsher and crueler the world around us feels, the more I feel like that "be a good person" sermon may actually be the only one worth giving!

(As a side bar, I'll note that Vayikra Rabba is dated to the fifth or early sixth century CE in the land of Israel, with some of its texts and teachings having been collected over the previous centuries. During these centuries, Jews in Syria-Palestina were still living under Roman rule, and the codification of the book happens to approximately coincide with the fall of Rome. I wonder now whether the rabbinic authors of Vayikra Rabba were feeling the same sense that I am -- that as the Roman Empire began to unravel, the world around them was swirling with cruelty, scheming, and discord, and that it was up to them to preach "basics"?) 

Returning to the Proverbs text the rabbis chose to teach in conjunction with this week's parasha, this teaching identifies seven behaviors that are anathema to how our tradition wants us to be in the world. These categories feel shockingly relevant even today... and of course, we could set our course by aiming for their opposites:

1. In a world filled with "haughty eyes," we should aim towards humility. 

2. Rather than a "lying tongue," we aspire to be truth-tellers.

3. Instead of having "hands that shed innocent blood," we should try to appreciate the value and sanctity of each human being, and do everything we can to preserve life. 

4. When surrounded by "hearts devising iniquitous thoughts" (i.e. those who are plotting, with nefarious aims), we should check that our intentions are upright.

5. Rather than having our "feet hastening to run to evil," Judaism calls on us to hasten to do whatever good we can. 

6. Surrounded by those who "utter lies as false witnesses," we can ensure that justice and fairness prevail. 

7. When others "incite discord among brothers," our tradition insists that we should be the peace-makers.

In our parasha, the priest goes out to the leper to inspect his skin and to perform an elaborate ritual welcoming him back into the camp once he has healed. That priest is Aaron, about whom the rabbis also had a teaching... one so famous that it's made its way into the traditional daily prayer service, such that it's become a short-hand tool for centering ourselves on some of the most core of our values -- "the basics" -- for who we want to be and how we want to act. Here's the quote, from Pirke Avot 1:12:

הִלֵּל אוֹמֵר, הֱוֵי מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַהֲרֹן, אוֹהֵב שָׁלוֹם וְרוֹדֵף שָׁלוֹם, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת וּמְקָרְבָן לַתּוֹרָה

Hillel used to say: be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving all human beings and drawing them close to Torah.

As society around us continues to go haywire, it is my firm hope that through Torah and through community, we can manage to keep our moral compasses pointing towards true-north. May we all aspire to become true disciples of Aaron the Priest: pursuers of peace, lovers of all humanity, and teachers of ethical and enduring truth.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

After the Swan Song

swan song noun
1: a song of great sweetness said to be sung by a dying swan2: a farewell appearance or final act or pronouncementMerriam-Webster Dictionary

Vayidom Aharon… And Aaron remained silent. (Vayikra 10:3)

This week we marked Yom HaShoah (remembering the Holocaust) on Thursday, and this week we also read the Torah portion Shmini in which two of Aaron’s sons do something wrong in their sacrificial offering and are themselves burnt to death. A week haunted by the memory of tragedy. Aaron, grieving father, is silent. As Theodor Adorno once put it, “To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.” What can one say? 

Several years ago I began a quest to connect to classical music by listening to every great string quartet from the works of Joseph Haydn (18th century) through to the present day. At one point I finally reached the Czech masters, tracing from Smetana to Dvořák to Janáček, leading to the early 20th century quartets of Pavel Haas. (Don’t worry about all the names if classical music isn’t your thing. But if you’re new to string quartets and curious, try Dvořák’sAmerican Quartet - it's gorgeous!)

In addition to his Czech lineage, however, Pavel Haas was also Jewish, and things were increasingly terrifying for Czech Jews in the 1930s as Nazi’s reshaped the world. Aware of the dangers, Haas divorced his wife, who was not Jewish, in order to protect her and their daughter from anti-Jewish actions. He attempted to arrange passage out of the country, but was arrested and sent to the Theresienstadt concentration camp in 1941. 

In 1944, the Nazi’s prepared for a propaganda film and a visit from the Red Cross by requiring the prisoners to create musical and artistic performances that would make their situation seem congenial rather than deadly. Pavel Haas composed several pieces that he must have known would be his swan songs - because as soon as the Red Cross left, and as soon as the propaganda film was made, the composers and musicians and artists were sent to Auschwitz. Nearly immediately upon arrival, at age 45, Pavel Haas was murdered. 

I remember learning this right after dropping my son off at preschool on a pretty spring day. I stared at my phone through tear-filled eyes. The music fell silent. How could I keep listening after Auschwitz? The string quartet, born in the age of faith in human reason and creativity, cut off by the warping of creativity into cruelty and of reason into hate. It felt barbaric to simply enjoy music in the shadow of such memory.

And then I remembered Different Trains. Another string quartet, another Jewish composer. During the years Pavel Haas lived and died in concentration camps, Steve Reich was a young boy in America. He writes:

The idea for the piece came from my childhood. When I was one year old my parents separated. My mother moved to Los Angeles and my father stayed in New York. Since they arranged divided custody, I travelled back and forth by train frequently between New York and Los Angeles from 1939 to 1942 accompanied by my governess. While the trips were exciting and romantic at the time I now look back and think that, if I had been in Europe during this period, as a Jew I would have had to ride very different trains. 

The piece itself is highly unusual, incorporating voice recordings of his governess, a train porter, and Holocaust survivors. (If you’d like a deep dive into the music, try this recent podcast.) 

But what struck me most about it was that here was someone who brought the full force of his creative genius into a project that confronts the shadow of the Holocaust. He reckons with the loss - the millions of swan songs heard and unheard - and acknowledges the fraught role of luck in survival. In its structure, Different Trains moves us listeners through and beyond the war years. Steve Reich’s piece is as much about the day after Pavel Haas’s swan song, opening a path towards renewed if still complicated life, even a demonstration of Jewish and musical flourishing. 

The day after Yom HaShoah is perhaps just as important as Yom HaShoah itself. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Following in Nachshon's Footsteps

As we head into this weekend, we are moving into the final days of Pesach -- a continuation of the festival that has a character all its own. The 7th day of Pesach, in particular, is when we commemorate our ancestors' arrival at the Sea of Reeds and read the dramatic story of its miraculous splitting, the drowning of Pharaoh's army, and the Israelites' song of redemption. (If you're around this weekend and interested, I cordially invite you to join us tomorrow morning for our Shabbat Morning Minyan, which will feature all the usual singing and community plus the recitation of Shirat HaYam/the Song of the Sea, David's song of deliverance, and Hallel!)

A very famous set of midrashim hang on the Torah portion we will read tomorrow; they center on Nachshon ben Amminadav, who was the first to plunge into the sea. While his name does appear in the Torah -- he is identified in several lists as the representative/prince/chief of the tribe of Judah -- this particular story does not. Rather, it is found in rabbinic literature, with slightly different versions recounted in the Mekhilta d'Rabbi Yishmael and Pirke D'Rabbi Eliezer (two midrashic collections) and in the Talmud. Here is the Babylonian Talmud's version, from Sotah 37a:1-6.

R' Yehuda said to [R' Meir]: That is not what happened; each tribe was unwilling to be the first to enter the sea. Then sprang forward Nachshon the son of Amminadav (he was the prince of the tribe of Yehuda) and descended first into the sea; as it is said, Ephraim compasseth me about with falsehood, and the house of Israel with deceit; but Yehuda yet ruleth with G-d (Hosea 12:1; the last words are rad 'im el, which are interpreted: he descended (into the sea because his trust was) with G-d). Concerning him it is stated in Scripture, Save me O G-d, for the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing etc. Let not the water-flood overwhelm me, neither let the deep swallow me up (Psalms 69:2-3, 16). At that time, Moshe was engaged for a long while in prayer; so the Holy One said to him, 'My beloved ones are drowning in the sea and you prolong prayer before Me!' He spoke before God, 'Lord of the Universe, what is there in my power to do?' God replied to him, Speak to the children of Israel that they go forward. And lift up your rod, and stretch out your hand (Exodus 14:15-16). For that reason Yehuda was worthy to be made the ruling power in Israel, as it is said, Yehuda became God's sanctuary, Israel His dominion (the Temple was in the kingdom of Yehuda. 'His dominion' is understood as Yehuda's rule over Israel). Why did Yehuda become His sanctuary and Israel His dominion? Because the sea saw [him] and fled (Psalm 114:2-3).

To understand the midrash about Nachshon, we must first imagine the scene as the Torah presents it... and truly, we would be hard-pressed to dream up a higher drama, more tense moment even in a Hollywood thriller! After hundreds of years of enslavement and oppression, followed by the build-up of the ten plagues, the Israelites have finally eaten their meal of lamb, spread blood on their doorposts, and departed Egypt in a hurry. Now, at the climax of the story, they are made to "encamp before Pi-hahiroth, between Migdol and the sea, before Baal-zephon; you shall encamp facing it, by the sea" (Exodus 14:2). When Pharaoh changes his mind and sends his army after them, the Israelites realize that they are stuck between a rock and a hard place (or, more literally, between an army and a wet place?), and they panic. Where will they go and what will they do?! "Greatly frightened, the Israelites cried out to Adonai. And they said to Moses, 'Was it for want of graves in Egypt that you brought us to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, taking us out of Egypt?'" (Exodus 14:10-11).

This is where rabbinic imagination steps in. The Talmud's version of what comes next shows the tribes arguing over what to do. None of the tribes want to place themselves in a vulnerable position... so all wait to see whether someone else will make a first move. The Israelites are frozen in place.

It is Nachshon who manages to break all of Israel out of this place of stuck-ness. We can't know for sure what he's thinking, but he is portrayed here as a leader willing to act while others remain passive and paralyzed by fear. Other tellings of this story emphasize the huge personal risk that he takes on himself, describing in even more detail how he enters the water, first up to his waist, then up to his neck, and finally with water even covering his nose and mouth such that he can't breathe. Nachshon's brave decision to plunge forward into the sea is what spurs everyone around him into action as well... first Moses and God(!), and then all of the rest of the Israelites who follow him in.

The midrashim about Nachshon certainly help to answer a later question about why the tribe of Judah (descendants of Jacob's fourth son, as opposed to firstborn) comes to dominate and lead the collective people of Israel. (A genealogy in Ruth 4:18-22 explicitly shows Nachshon to be the great-great-great grandfather of King David, who will ultimately unite the northern and southern kingdoms.) In addition, though, the Nachshon story reads like a hero's tale! In the rabbis' telling, redemption could not have happened were it not for the courage and bravery of this individual who was willing, even at great personal risk to himself, to stick his neck out and lead the way.

What a powerful story to read this week, when the feeling of being trapped and stuck in a no-win situation resonates deeply for so many of us, both as Americans and as Jews!

In our country, we are beginning to see people take action and speak out in Nachshon-like ways against a chaotic and corrupt regime. For example, I know that many of us have been horrified by the lawless kidnapping of immigrants off the street without legality or due process... but, speaking for myself, it's been easy to feel stuck and not know exactly what to do or say that has the potential to actually move us forward. In recent weeks, I have found scholar Timothy Snyder's clear-eyed analysis to be helpful, as he has talked about the disappearing of people into foreign gulags as "the beginning of an American policy of state terror." I was grateful to read an official declaration earlier this month from Tufts University President Sunil Kumar, written on behalf of Turkish graduate student Rümeysa Öztürk. I have also been inspired by Senator Chris Van Hollen, who traveled to El Salvador to find and meet with his constituent Kilman Abrego Garcia. Each of these individuals feels to me like a "Nachshon" in this moment -- someone willing to step forward and speak out, even and especially at a moment when doing so comes with great personal risk. Their words and actions are worth amplifying, and I will strive to follow their examples.

As American Jews, this moment is also a confusing one, and one that has the potential to paralyze and/or divide our communities. Over the last couple of months, the new administration has tried to claim that many of these same anti-immigrant actions I've described above, as well as the broad-scale de-funding of universities and research, are all attempts to curb and address antisemitism. This too has created a situation of stuck-ness, making it hard for some Jews to speak out without having it sound as though we are condoning antisemitism. I am grateful for the clarity with which some Jewish university presidents have recently spoken out together against this "exploitation of campus antisemitism" (click here for a Forward article on this topic). In addition, just this week, a broad coalition of mainstream Jewish organizations have released a powerful statement "rejecting the false choice between confronting antisemitism and upholding democracy" (click here to view - it is absolutely worth a read). Again, each of these institutional heads and organizations feels like a Nachshon-style leader in this fraught moment. Their words have the potential to help move all of us forward, and I believe we would do well to fall in line behind them and push on our elected officials, the media, and even other local Jewish organizations to make similar statements (as, without a doubt, there is increased safety in numbers).

Passover seders happened last weekend, at the beginning of the holiday, and that's when so many of us sat around tables re-telling the story of the Exodus. This weekend, as we move into "shvi'i shel Pesach," the final days of this festival, I would encourage us to continue the sacred enterprise of telling stories and mapping them onto our lives and world... only this weekend, I'd love to see us focus more specifically on the story of Nachshon and his bravery. As individuals, I hope we will each consider what moral leadership looks like in this moment. Where, when and how are you (personally) willing to act and speak with courage and bravery? Can you rally? march? donate? reach out to your reps? How much personal risk are you willing to take on in an effort to do/say what feels right? Can you amplify the work of others who are already acting with such courage, or band together with others so that speaking out feels less risky? Rest assured that on a communal level, too, Kavana will strive to be a leader among non-profit organizations, acting as courageously as we possibly can and using our collective voice to move us all forward.

As we head into these final days of Pesach, may we all merit to follow in Nachshon's footsteps, propelling one another forward through the sea and beyond, to the vast wilderness of both redemption and unknown that lies ahead. 

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Preparing the Home (of Your Heart)

Why is this night different from all other nights? 

Rabbi Yisrael Hopstein, the Maggid of Kozhnitz (1737-1814, Poland): Pesach (Passover) is linguistically related to pisuach (skipping) and dilug (leaping). On all other holidays, holiness doesn’t come to us all at once. Rather, we must draw it into ourselves [gradually], through the evening, morning, and afternoon prayers. But on Pesach, holiness comes to us all at once, as implied by the very word Pesach, as we just mentioned, which is why we need preparation. 

Wait, why do we need preparation? You just said the holiness comes all at once on Passover! Maybe we don’t actually need to stress the seder details and the food preparation and the house cleaning…? Or is that just wishful thinking?

The Maggid of Kozhnitz: Let me explain. For even though the radiant, clear light (or habahir) comes to us, nevertheless, each of us must purify ourselves in order to be able to receive this light. 

Um…

The Maggid: …

I don’t think that explains as much as you think it explains. 

The Maggid: So ask a question! That’s what we do on Pesach, correct?

Okay. What is this light, the “or habahir”? 

The Maggid: That’s one way we think about God’s presence. Imagine becoming aware of God’s presence in the same way that you notice light. 

Oh, I get it! So if God’s holiness arrives all at once on Pesach, if we aren’t prepared we are just going to squint and look away. Too much light all at once.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1866, Massachusetts): “Tell all the truth but tell it slant — / …Too bright for our infirm Delight / The Truth's superb surprise…”

What she said, but about encountering God!

The Maggid: Perhaps. But that isn’t the point I’m making here. Rather, compare it to the sun: even though it shines intensely, if the windows are closed, the light cannot enter the house. Do you understand?

So the point isn’t that we won’t be able to see because the light is so bright, but because we will have sealed ourselves off from seeing. So the house in the metaphor is…how we live our lives? And the real preparation of Pesach is a process of opening up so divine light can stream in?

John O’Donohue (1956-2008, Ireland): Each one of us is alone in the world. It takes great courage to meet the full force of your aloneness. Most of the activity in society is subconsciously designed to quell the voice crying in the wilderness within you.

I love that you poets are joining the chat. But what does being alone have to do with Pesach? 

John O’Donohue: Until you learn to inhabit your aloneness, the lonely distraction and noise of society will seduce you into false belonging, with which you will only become empty and weary. When you face your aloneness, something begins to happen. Gradually, the sense of bleakness changes into a sense of true belonging. This is a slow and open-ended transition but it is utterly vital in order to come into rhythm with your own individuality. In a sense this is the endless task of finding your true home within your life.

Ah. If our life is a house, we have to be truly living there in the first place to do any inner remodeling. I have to be at home with myself in order to welcome guests. 

John O’Donohue: As soon as you rest in the house of your own heart, doors and windows begin to open outwards to the world. 

And the divine light streams inon Pesach. But why Pesach? Why not any other holiday?

The Maggid of Kohznitz: On Pesach, since Israel had to leave Egypt [immediately]—for had they remained there even a moment longer, they would have been unable to leave—the redemption had to come in haste… Instead, the radiant, clear light came [in a manner of] skipping and leaping. 

Hm. So the very first Pesach everything happened quickly, and the people were saved at the last minute. And every year, we relive that story - as if we were there ourselves. This year too, it feels almost unbearable to remain in the shadows of cruelty and corruption one minute longer. In fact, a bunker with no windows feels uncomfortably appealing. 

The Maggid: Even so, each of us must prepare ourselves—just as in the parable of the sunlight and the windows, as I mentioned.

Keep resting in the house of my own heart. I guess that’s one way to talk about integrity and living my values. 

Anonymous contributor to the Haggadah (~9th century): Let all who are hungry come and eat.

Let’s keep our doors open to each other, our windows lit with hope, connection, and resolve, our life-home warm and cozy with presence. 

Chag sameach!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

P.S. Questions for Discussion:

1. The Maggid of Kozhnitz assumes we need to or yearn to encounter the light of God’s presence. What might this mean to you? What spiritual aspirations do you hold? 

2. Even when we don’t know what to do exactly, and even when now isn’t the right time to act, we can always prepare. What vision of the world are you preparing to lay the groundwork for? What does preparation look like for you?

3. What habits of mind and heart help you be present to your life, to rest in the home of your heart?

Acts of Resistance: Paving the Path Towards Redemption

This week, we find ourselves inside the month of Nissan, leading up to the Passover holiday. In just over a week, Jews everywhere will sit around seder tables to celebrate Pesach and recount our story of collective liberation. 

The story we tell at the Passover seder is grand in scope... almost larger than life! We'll recall plagues and miracles, signs and wonders, God's hand and outstretched arm. Recently, one of my B'nai Mitzvah students was reading the census that appears later in Bamidbar, and marveled at the sheer scale of the Exodus in human terms. The text indicates that some 603,550 Israelites left Egypt... and that's only counting the men ages 20+; if we extrapolate to account for women, children and Levites too, we can assume that in the Torah's telling, at least 1.5 - 2 million Israelites went out from slavery. That sounds like quite a march!! (Perhaps the scope and scale of the Exodus can inspire us to mass mobilization as well!)

In the lead-up to the holiday, though, I also find myself thinking about the many smaller and quieter acts of resistance that happened over a long stretch of time, paving the way for our ancestors' grand redemptive moment.

One such example, which is sure to be familiar to many of you, appears in the first chapter of Exodus, in the back-story to Moses's birth. The new Pharaoh who has arisen in Egypt is ruthless, greedy, and also paranoid. In an attempt to ensure that his authority won't be challenged, he commands that any new baby boys born to the Israelites must be killed. Here's the text of Exodus 1:15-16: "The king of Egypt spoke to the Hebrew midwives, one of whom was named Shifrah and the other Puah, saying, 'When you deliver the Hebrew women, look at the birthstool: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live.'"

Shifrah and Puah spring into action. As Exodus 1:17 says: "The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live."

In this single short verse, we learn a great deal about the midwives' heroism. First, they are described as "God-fearers;" they understand themselves as answering to a higher authority than Pharaoh. Second, Shifrah and Puah are courageous in their willingness to defy a direct executive order, presumably at great risk to themselves. And third, they engage in their rebellion by simply continuing to do the jobs that they've been trained to do as midwives, of bringing live babies into the world as safely as possible. Their continued embrace of life, especially in the face of a regime that has embraced violence and death, becomes a remarkably subversive act. 

This short story of the midwives is a beautiful tale of resistance, in and of itself. But, of course, like any biblical text, it can always be built upon through the interpretive tradition of midrash! In Dirshuni, a collection of contemporary midrashim written by Israeli women, Rivkah Lubitch offers a brilliant reading of Exodus 1:17 (the verse bolded above). Drawing on the classical rabbinic premise that the Torah does not contain extraneous words, and therefore each phrase must add new meaning to our understanding, she offers the following interpretation in a question/answer format:

מהו: וַתְּחַיֶּינָה את הילדים
שהחיו אותם בתורה, שאין חיים אלא תורה. ומי הן שלימדו את ילדי ישראל תורה כל אותן השנים שעבדו ישראל בפרך? הרי אלו שפרה ופועה שהיו עוברות מבית לבית, מאשה לאשה, והיו מתכנסין שם ילדי ישראל לרגלי מיטתה של יולדת. תחילה היו מיילדות את האשה, ואחר מחיות את הילדים בתורה

What is the meaning of the phrase "they let the boys/children live?"

They sustained their lives with Torah, for there is no life except through Torah. And who was it that taught the Israelite children Torah during all of those years when Israel served with crushing labor? Behold, it was Shifrah and Puah, who would move from house to house and from woman to woman; they would bring the Israelite children in, to the foot of the birthing bed. First, they would deliver the birthing woman, and afterwards, they would sustain the lives of the children by teaching them Torah.

This midrash is pretty awesome, and I want to thank Beth Huppin for introducing me to it and studying it with me recently. Functionally, what this interpretation does is extend the midwives' actions through a creative re-reading of the verse: now not only do Shifrah and Puah defy Pharaoh by delivering babies and letting them live, but they also gather all of the older children (siblings, neighbors, etc.) into each birthing room in order to teach them Torah. Here, Torah is cast as life-support: its values, stories and laws are, indeed, life-affirming and life-sustaining. At times when Torah couldn't be transmitted out in the open, the midwives become itinerant teachers, turning the intimate spaces of a birthing room -- where men would not have dared to go, in those days -- into classrooms. How brilliant, and how subversive!

The story of the midwives -- both as it is told in Exodus 1, and as Rivkah Lubitch re-imagines it in her contemporary midrashic interpretation -- shows just how many ways there are to resist oppression. Some of us will march in the streets... hopefully in great numbers (as soon as tomorrow)! In addition, between now and some future point that represents a fuller liberation from oppression, there will also need to be many acts of micro-resistance. These will necessarily look different from one another, but in any case, the story of Shifrah and Puah can certainly spark our thinking about the many ways that each of us has the potential to make a difference. Cory Booker staged a great feat on the Senate floor this week, lifting his voice in a way that garnered public attention (hundreds of millions of likes on TikTok); there will also be many other ways that we can raise our voices, in conversation and in writing, articulating our values strategically. Some acts of subversion and civil disobedience will take place in broad daylight, and others behind closed doors, where no one else can witness them but their effects can still be felt. I hope many of us will take cues from the midwives -- some by defying orders directly, and others by "teaching Torah" to the next generation in subtler ways. 

This Shabbat and over the coming week, as we continue to prepare for Passover, let us remember that ours is a history of resistance to tyranny and oppression! All of us have a role to play in paving the path towards redemption.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Morsel on Matzah

…You are dry as a twig
split from an oak
in midwinter.
You are bumpy as a mud basin
in a drought.
…You are pale as the full moon
pocked with craters
…Matzah, by Marge Piercy

Thank God for poets who can even elicit flavor from matzah! 

In just a few weeks we will be celebrating Passover, using our own choice words to describe that iconic food of freedom. To orient us in time, the ancient sages directed us to read on this Shabbat, right before the month of Nissan begins, a portion of the Torah called “The Month” Ha-Chodesh (Exodus 12:1-20).  

“God said to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt: This month (ha-chodesh) shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you…Sacrifice the paschal lamb on the fourteenth day…You shall observe the [Feast of] Unleavened Bread [on the fifteenth day], for on this very day I brought your ranks out of the land of Egypt; you shall observe this day throughout the ages as an institution for all time…” (Exodus 12:17).

This passage marks the first time in the Torah where the Jewish people are given mitzvot, sacred obligations, and they include the pesach offering and eating matzah. It seems as if the Israelites celebrated Passover one year later at Mt. Sinai (Numbers 9:5), but then for the next thirty-nine years they did not sacrifice the pesach lamb, nor did they eat matzah - because they were living solely on the miraculous mannah. 

In the book of Joshua, which picks up the story of the Torah with the people entering into the land of Canaan, we read: 

“The Israelites offered the passover sacrifice on the fourteenth day of the month, toward evening. On the day after the passover offering, on that very day, they ate of the produce of the country, unleavened bread (matzah) and parched grain. On the day after when they ate of the produce of the land, the manna ceased. The Israelites got no more manna; that year they ate of the yield of the land of Canaan” (Joshua 5:10-12).

Notice that the Exodus isn’t mentioned at all as a reason for eating matzah. Rather, the association here seems to be with eating from the produce of the land. Many scholars think that matzah-eating originated as a spring agricultural festival, and only over time merged with the historical holiday we know today as Passover. In any case, though, the impression we get of the first Passover in the Land of Israel is that matzah coincides with reaping the bounty of that particular land, and that mannah stops because it is no longer needed. The Israelites are out of the wilderness. They are home. 

But regardless of how the people in Joshua’s time celebrated Passover, ourPassover is modeled after the guidance in the Torah proper - a Torah which rolls back to the beginning right before the people reach their destination. The Torah’s Passover isn’t primarily about arriving home, but about leaving oppression and entering a wilderness of possibility. 

“You shall observe the [Feast of] Matzah, for on this very day I brought your ranks out of the land of Egypt.” 

Marge Piercy concludes her poem on matzah with these lines:

What we see is what we get
honest, plain, dry
shining with nostalgia
as if baked with light
instead of heat.
The bread of flight and haste
In the mouth you
promise, home.

When we eat matzah, we taste the promise of home, of deep connection to our earthy roots, but our focus is on witnessing and experiencing the fullness of alienation that characterized the Israelites in Egypt and the subsequent progression to liberation. 

In this month of Nissan, whether we taste matzah in Seattle or Jerusalem, or anywhere in between, may the shine of nostalgia blend with a vision of a better world, and may matzah’s honest, plain, dry character remind us to be real about suffering, about the work of freedom, and the hard yet worthy path of persistence.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

The Potency of Spring: Calyx and Petal

It's official: spring is here! Yesterday was the vernal equinox -- technically the first day of "astronomical spring" -- which means that as of today, the balance is tipping towards light. But, even without measuring the number of hours and minutes of daylight vs. darkness, all you need to do is step outside to know that it's spring! The weather is incredibly variable (this is, after all, Seattle!), but all of a sudden, blossoms and blooms are everywhere. 

This spring is feeling to me like an echo of the spring I so vividly recall from five years ago, when the world had just suddenly shut down because of Covid. Home from both school and work, my family was challenged to find ways to keep ourselves entertained and not go stir crazy. Right around this time of year in 2020, I remember taking my kids for long neighborhood walks and pausing to notice flowers. We challenged ourselves to find "every color of the rainbow" in nature, and were nearly always successful at that task. Much more importantly, being connected to the cycles of nature -- and observing the process of growth and blooming continue even as we humans were consumed with a virus and the havoc it was wreaking in our society -- lowered my blood pressure every time I got outside. Perhaps it's no wonder, then, that at this new moment of considerable stress and strain, as we witness in horror our own country's slide from democracy towards autocracy, I am once again feeling drawn towards the cycles of nature as a source of solace and meaning.

With buds and blossoms already on the brain, I couldn't help but notice the following passage as I read this week's Torah portion, Parashat Vayakhel, which details how Bezalel, master craftsman of the Tabernacle, made the Menorah:

He made the Menorah (lampstand) of pure gold. He made the lampstand—its base and its shaft—of hammered work; its cups, calyxes, and petals were of one piece with it. Six branches issued from its sides: three branches from one side of the lampstand, and three branches from the other side of the lampstand. There were three cups shaped like almond-blossoms, each with calyx and petals, on one branch; and there were three cups shaped like almond-blossoms, each with calyx and petals, on the next branch; so for all six branches issuing from the lampstand. On the lampstand itself there were four cups shaped like almond-blossoms, each with calyx and petals: a calyx, of one piece with it, under a pair of branches; and a calyx, of one piece with it, under the second pair of branches; and a calyx, of one piece with it, under the last pair of branches; so for all six branches issuing from it. Their calyxes and their stems were of one piece with it, the whole of it a single hammered piece of pure gold. He made its seven lamps, its tongs, and its fire pans of pure gold. He made it and all its furnishings out of a talent of pure gold. (Exodus 37:17-24)

The menorah in the mishkan -- and the later versions created for use in the First and Second Temples -- had seven branches in total (not nine, like the Chanukah versions we use today). Supposedly this menorah was so large that a priest would have to stand on a bench in order to light it. In addition to its size, another striking feature was its nature imagery. As you can see in the passage above, each of the six branches around the center branch contained multiple "blossoms," and the lamp cups were themselves shaped like blossoms. The Hebrew words for each of these blossoms are "kaftor v'ferech" - literally "calyx and petal" or "knob and flower." (In case you're wondering too, I did have to look up the word "calyx" and learned that it's "the usually green or leafy outside part of a flower consisting of sepals.) The Hebrew word translated as "shaped like almond-blossoms," "meshukadim," is a little unclear; it also could mean "almond-shaped" or "embossed." All of this makes it slightly tricky to picture exactly what this original menorah looked like, and artist renditions vary a great deal. Regardless, what is crystal clear is that there is intended symbolism in this strikingly large, solid gold, ritual object!

Dating back to ancient times, our Jewish interpretive tradition has always understood the work of the construction of the mishkan or Tabernacle as an echo of the creation story, which implies that its symbols and rituals have cosmic significance, and contemporary scholars of religion agree. It's not a stretch, then, to try to make meaning from the structure of the menorah. The seven lamps seem to correspond to the creation story's seven days, symbolizing wholeness or completion; this theme is also underscored by the Torah's insistence on a single hammered piece of gold. In addition, it's notable that both the beginning of the creation story ("Yehi or," "Let there be light") and the menorah's own function are fundamentally about bringing light -- perhaps standing in for divine wisdom -- into the world. 

In an article entitled "The Nature of the Cosmos," scholar Rachel Adler writes:

Clearly the Menorah embodies some kind of metaphor. But metaphor has rules, just like tennis or Scrabble. One rule is that there has to be some link between the tenor (the topic under discussion) and the vehicle (the concrete object to which it is being compared). What, then, is tall, has a kaneh (stem), with kanim (branches) extending from it, and p’rachim (flowers) intermixed with bud-like swellings (kaftorim)? The Menorah is a representation of a flowering almond tree!

The almond tree is distinctive not only in that it blossoms early, but also in that it then rapidly buds leaves, develops new branches, and forms its sustaining fruit-all before the flowers’ calyx drops off (Nogah Hareuveni, Nature in Our Biblical Heritage, 1980, p. 130). Its Hebrew name, shaked, means “the early waker,” and it may symbolize God’s watchfulness or the speed with which God responds (see Jeremiah 1:2).

It is also the legitimating emblem of the Aaronite priesthood. At the end of Korah‘s rebellion in Numbers 17, Moses deposits the staffs of all the Israelite chieftains in the Tent of Meeting, “and there the staff of Aaron…had sprouted: it had brought forth sprouts, produced blossoms and borne almonds” (Numbers 17:23).

If Adler's claim is correct, then the ancient Israelites who entered into the mishkan and stood before an impressively large, solid gold menorah were being prompted to think of an almond tree and also to recall that God was ever-present. Today, absent a Tabernacle or Temple, but with the glory of spring trees all around us, we can try to enter into this analogy in reverse order.

This Shabbat, I want to recommend that each of us try to take a nature walk -- and think of it as a spiritual practice! This is the perfect weekend to pause and pay attention to actual flowering trees at the height of spring blossom season here in Seattle. Go slow, and notice the color of the buds, and the way they are arranged along branches of bushes and trees. Try to observe the calyx and the petals of individual blooms. Primed by this week's Torah portion, you might also think about the menorah and the mishkan of ancient times, and recall that throughout human history, people have found ways to remind ourselves of God's presence, watchfulness, and responsiveness. 

Just as being outside did for us in the early days of the Covid pandemic, getting outside to notice buds and blooms this week has the potential to bring some measure of comfort during yet another moment of acute challenge. The trees whisper to us the potent messages of creation and cosmic time: "This moment is but a blip." "Your ancestors have endured worse and you are still here." "The rhythms of nature are still in motion." "Ultimately, everything will be okay." 

On this Shabbat of Parashat Vayakhel, may you find comfort in the potency of spring! 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Divine Embodied Interconnection

The sun rises, and the sun sets—

And glides back to where it rises…

There is no end to writing…

Kohelet 1:5, 12:12

In learning the Torah portion this week in preparation for writing to you, I looked back at the drash I wrote last year and the year before last. Each week Rabbi Rachel and I strive so hard to find the kernel of Torah that meets this precise moment, that has something to offer of nourishment, challenge, or guidance. And yet when I looked at my ideas for the last three years on parshat Ki Tisa, I was startled to discover that I keep being drawn back to the same theme! Apparently, this has become a core teaching for me, something perennially relevant to Kavana, and this year something that also touches on a cultural nerve in a new way.

The roots of this teaching all ground themselves in Exodus 33:18-20:

וַיֹּאמַ֑ר הַרְאֵ֥נִי נָ֖א אֶת־כְּבֹדֶֽךָ׃ 

וַיֹּ֗אמֶר אֲנִ֨י אַעֲבִ֤יר כׇּל־טוּבִי֙ עַל־פָּנֶ֔יךָ וְקָרָ֧אתִֽי בְשֵׁ֛ם יְהֹוָ֖ה לְפָנֶ֑יךָ וְחַנֹּתִי֙ אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֣ר אָחֹ֔ן וְרִחַמְתִּ֖י אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֲרַחֵֽם׃ 

וַיֹּ֕אמֶר לֹ֥א תוּכַ֖ל לִרְאֹ֣ת אֶת־פָּנָ֑י כִּ֛י לֹֽא־יִרְאַ֥נִי הָאָדָ֖ם וָחָֽי׃ 

[Moses] said, “Oh, let me behold Your Presence!” 

And [God] said, “I will make all My goodness pass before you (literally: before your face), and I will proclaim before you the name Y-H-V-H, and the grace that I grant and the compassion that I show,” 

And [God] said, “But you cannot see My face, for a human being may not see Me and live.”

Moses yearns to see God in a more tangible way (intriguingly - perhaps a parallel urge to the one that motivated the Israelites to make a Golden Calf). God’s face remains hidden, but God proclaims the Thirteen Middot (Attributes) which we still use today to invoke God’s goodness and compassion on the High Holidays. 

Two years ago, I was drawn to a teaching that connects these Thirteen Middot with another thirteen middot (methods in this case), a rabbinic list of ways to interpret Torah. Through a complex grammatical analogy, Levi Yitzchak claims that just as meaning can be drawn from seeing common terms between two otherwise diverse texts, compassion arises when otherwise diverse people connect to what they have in common. 

“You awaken compassion by drawing close to someone who in many ways is quite distant from you, by seeing in them something that resonates with your own identity, experience, or circumstances. The common element brings us close together - and then the creative possibilities of relationship come into being because we are so different in other ways! For Levi Yitzchak, one of the expressions of God’s presence, what Moses so yearned to see, is the practice of compassion and the creative experiment of community. That’s what we do in our Kavana Cooperative. We care about each other, and as we are drawn together by some shared common terms, we offer our unique gifts which interact to create new possibilities for living a life of meaning and purpose.”

In other words, our work as people sharing a life together is to notice what we share in common (leading to compassion), and let our differences stir our creativity. 

Last year, like a moth to flame, I apparently came back to that same Torah text. Yearning to see God’s hidden face represents a crucial part of our spiritual growth: 

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

When, as adults, we ask who God is, the Torah offers insight into mature spiritual knowing of God. It is dynamic (ever changing like the divine name), reflective (when we glimpse backward like Moses does), and humbling (when we remember our inability to fully picture God and indeed each being).”

At the heart of what felt important to me each year was the idea that we humans are the same and we are different. We have so much in common, and yet we are also irreducibly mysterious to each other. This basic fact of life can lead to compassion, creativity, or humble spiritual growth - or mistrust, a desire to wall off others, and a reversion to our most selfish and destructive impulses. 
This year, I fear that so many in power (and who enable those in power) choose fear and anger over compassion, choose chaos over creativity, choose the law of the jungle over the rule of law. 

The medieval sage Ovadiah Sforno noticed the discrepancy between what Moses asked for and what God offered. God says, “You can see my goodness…but not My face.” But Moses asked to see God’s kavod - usually translated as Presence, or Glory, and also meaning honor, respect, and dignity. 

Sforno says that God’s kavod refers to “how every creature, every phenomenon in this universe derives from You, even though these phenomena do not appear to be even faintly related to one another. This is what Isaiah 6:3 meant with the words“all the earth is filled with God’s kavod.”

We are similar, because we all derive from our Creator. And we are different, because the Creator created diversity! And a universe full of wildly different beings is the definition of what is glorious, honorable, and inherently dignified about God… Should we not aspire to see this deep truth, as Moses asks? 

In a time where the roar of reaction to DEI has grown claws that slash, let us rededicate ourselves to Divine Embodied Interconnection: the practice of recognizing our shared humanity, valuing our diverse ways of being, and doing everything in our power to build communities and societies of dignity, justice, creative partnership, and spiritual wisdom. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Power to the People!

Last week's Torah portion focused on the blueprints for the construction of the Mishkan, the Israelites' sacred space. This week, Parashat Tetzaveh takes us inside, focusing our attention particularly on the garments of the high priest. On top of the special linen undergarments, robe and ephod, breastplate and shoulder pieces, pomegranates and bells, the entire outfit was capped with a turban that would sit on Aaron's head, and on that turban -- front and center -- was a head-piece called the tzitz. Here's the Torah's description (from Exodus 28:36-38):

וְעָשִׂיתָ צִּיץ זָהָב טָהוֹר וּפִתַּחְתָּ עָלָיו פִּתּוּחֵי חֹתָם קֹדֶשׁ לַה'. וְשַׂמְתָּ אֹתוֹ עַל פְּתִיל תְּכֵלֶת וְהָיָה עַל הַמִּצְנָפֶת אֶל מוּל פְּנֵי הַמִּצְנֶפֶת יִהְיֶה. וְהָיָה עַל מֵצַח אַהֲרֹן וְנָשָׂא אַהֲרֹן אֶת עֲוֺן הַקֳּדָשִׁים אֲשֶׁר יַקְדִּישׁוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לְכׇל מַתְּנֹת קׇדְשֵׁיהֶם וְהָיָה עַל מִצְחוֹ תָּמִיד לְרָצוֹן לָהֶם לִפְנֵי ה׳

You shall make a tzitz of pure gold and engrave on it a seal (hotam) with the inscription: “Holy to the Eternal (kodesh ladonai).”  Hang it on a cord of blue (petil techeilet), so that it may remain on the turban; it shall remain on the front of the turban. It shall be on Aaron’s forehead, and Aaron will carry the sin of the holy things that the Israelites make holy, from any of their holy donations. It shall be on his forehead at all times, to find favor for them before the Eternal. 

The tzitz itself must have been quite something! I invite you to imagine for a moment what it would mean to be the high priest and literally walk around with the words "Holy to the Eternal" emblazoned on a gold plate on your forehead. This head-band carries a huge weight, both literally and figuratively. And, what must it have felt like to have been an Israelite in the presence of the high priest, looking at him and being constantly reminded of his special role, his power, and his status as a holy person with a holy purpose?!

If you like geeking out on Jewish texts and rituals like I do and you read the verses above carefully, particularly noting the words I bolded, you may have already realized that, embedded in this short passage, there are many ways in which the tzitz echoes the ritual objects of both tallit and tefillin. In terms of the connection to tallit -- a four-cornered cloth with specially-knotted fringes on each corner (tzitzit) -- I can spot multiple echoes: 1) the tzitz is held in place by a "petil techeilet," a "cord of blue," and the same distinctive phrase appears in the commandment about the tzitzit (see Numbers 15:38), 2) tzitz and tzitzit may not be linguistically connected (say the scholars of ancient Hebrew), but they certainly share an aural similarity, and 3) in both cases, holiness/kedusha is explicitly named as part of their core purpose (see Numbers 15:40 with regard to tzitzit: "Thus you shall be reminded to observe all My commandments and be holy unto your God."). With regard to tefillin, the link to the tzitz feels obvious both in form and in content: both are articles of adornment to be worn on the forehead, both are attached by straps, and both incorporate writing or text of significance.

There is one very key difference, though, between the tzitz and both tallit and tefillin: who can wear it. The tzitzis explicitly part of the priestly garb, and even among the kohanim, an article of dress that is only for the singular high priest to don. There's even a famous Talmudic story about Hillel and Shammai where both are approached by a would-be convert to Judaism who says: "Convert me so that they will install me as High Priest" (see Shabbat 31a). The whole story rides on the idea that it's obvious to the reader that this is a ridiculous notion, since the priesthood is obviously only open to the descendants of Aaron, and not everyone who might want to do it. (For whatever it's worth, Shammai rejects the candidate and Hillel accepts him, anticipating correctly that as he learns more about Judaism, he will come to see for himself that he is not eligible for the position!) 

One could imagine that the ritual mitzvot of tallit and tefillin might similarly be reserved only for a particular class of individuals, but that is explicitly not the case. The Torah's command about tzitzit begins with the phrase "daber el b'nai yisrael" as God tells Moses to "speak to the Israelites" (as a whole). With regard to tefillin, the Talmud explicitly states (in Arakhin 3b), "Everyone (ha-kol) is required to wear tefillin: Priests, Levites, and Israelites." [I am well aware that for many centuries, the "everyone" of tallit and tefillin was understood to apply only to men. Lots was written in the late decades of the 20th century about these mitzvot by second-wave Jewish feminists, and one of the major shifts that we can see in egalitarian prayer spaces today is the application of these mitzvot across the gender continuum. I am a proud wearer of both tallit and tefillin.]

It's key to note that this was not a chronological historic development -- such that once-upon-a-time, all power or holiness resided with the high priest and then slowly over time that circle widened. On the contrary, both notions-- of specific leadership roles carrying unique holy authority, and also of the more democratic idea that holiness belongs to all of us collectively and can be accessed by every single human being -- have always co-existed within our tradition and are baked into the most ancient of our texts. For example, I am thinking of God's famous speech to the Israelites in Exodus 19:4-6 which contains the line: "you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation." This is a radical theology, and a radical notion of the role that every single one of us has the potential to play in the world.

This week, we are approaching the holiday of Purim, which considers what happens when society is turned upside down as a result of leaders who don’t understand what it means to pursue holiness. As I have shared before, I am always moved by the core mitzvot of this holiday, which rest not only with leaders, but with each and every member of the Jewish community. All of us are obligated to read/hear the story of Megillat Esther and to blot out evil, to feast and rejoice, to give gifts of food to one another, and to provide monetary support to the most vulnerable members of our society. This year, the Purim holiday underscores this aspect of our Jewish tradition, that we have always had symbols and texts pointing us to the idea that holiness has the capacity to reside both with our leaders and with all people. This feels like an important safeguard... because in this case, if any individual leader fails to lead society in proper and holy directions - oriented towards "kodesh ladonai" - the rest of us still know what to do and how to carry on the mantle of our holy mission in the world. This coming week, as I put on my own tallit and tefillin, this will be my intention: that especially when the world is topsy-turvy (as in the Purim story and now), I am grateful for our tradition which democratizes the priesthood and grants power to the people.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Fierce and Tender Blessing

The sudden return of golden sunshine to Seattle focused my attention this week on the golden statues placed within the Mishkan (and later the Temple). In the Holy of Holies, centered around the empty space where another temple might have placed a god, two gold cherubim face each other, wings outstretched (Exodus 25:18-20).

Here are my questions: 

1. What is a cherub?

2. Why are there two in the holiest space?

3. What do these cherubim have to teach us right now?

All we know about the cherub from our Torah portion is that it has wings. Much later, when the Temple was built by King Solomon, their wings are described as “extended, a wing of the one touched one wall and a wing of the other touched the other wall, while their wings in the center of the chamber touched each other” (1 Kings 6:27). 

Elsewhere, though we have a striking image: When Adam and Eve were exiled from the Garden of Eden, “east of the garden of Eden were stationed the cherubim and the fiery ever-turning sword, to guard the way to the tree of life” (Genesis 3:24). These winged things are guardians. An early midrashclaims that cherubim are angels of destruction. And the medieval commentator Chizkuni says that their form itself was frightening to behold, let alone the fiery ever-turning sword they wielded. Fierce!

This image of fierce guardian angels ready to destroy trespassers isn’t the only conception we have of cherubim, however. Through a variety of linguistic stretches, the Talmud (Sukkah 5b) clearly states that a cherub “had the face of a small child”. Many centuries later, Renaissance painters gifted us the now-inescapable image of a cherub as a tiny little baby angel. 

However they looked, two statues of them were placed in the Temple. Why two? Perhaps they were understood to flank God’s Presence, acting as honor guards. Having only one would run the risk of looking like the cherub was the object of worship, and having more than two would be redundant. 

The Talmud (Bava Batra 99a) suggests that the angel statues actually moved! When the Jewish people were in alignment with God, the angels stood face to face, and when the people were out of alignment, the angels looked away from each other. Two is the basic unit of relationship, and the cherubim functioned as barometers of the relational health between God and the people. 

The Israeli poet Sivan Har-Shefi has a poem, In the Innermost Rooms, which explores the imagery of the cherubim in the inner sanctum as a metaphor for relationship.

When we build the house (bayit: same word refers to the Temple)Main doors to the four windsWindows to a crimson sunsetTo the rustle of the sunrise

We will leave one room emptyAnd in it we will stand all of our days…Close one to another and goldenMy wings upon you and your wings upon me.

And life will stir in the other roomsIn the kitchen and in the living roomIn the children’s roomsAnd rejoice and make noise and in them we will grow

But our quiet rootsAre from that roomAnd the heat and the light and the Sabbath

Close one to another and goldenFace to faceA blessing.

So what are we to take away from this encounter with the cherubim? 

I imagine these golden angels within me, sometimes fierce and protective, sometimes a charming and tender expression of my inner child. We need both! Without the inner child, the fierce guardian becomes frightening and destructive. Without the fierce guardian, the inner child runs away from responsibility. 

I imagine these golden angels protecting the quiet space where we can hear God’s voice. 

I imagine these golden angels are us - when we remember that empty room where the quiet roots grow. Face to face, doing our best to make our shared lives a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine