#NoKings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Late Summer Paths

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Most Important Jewish Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Love & Loss... and Consolation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MOURNER: I am in anguish-- 

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

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

[The mourner takes a breath and continues.]

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

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

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

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

MOURNER: I can't do this alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

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

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

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

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

from “The Century's Decline” by Wislawa Szymborska

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Letter from Rabbis Worldwide

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

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

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

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

We cannot keep silent.

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

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

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

We call upon the Prime Minister and the Government of Israel

To respect all innocent life;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Prophecy and Poetry

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

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

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

Balaam goes on to describe these structures as: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Reflections on the Fourth of July

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

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

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

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

He has 

           sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people

He has plundered our—

                                           ravaged our—

                                                                         destroyed the lives of our—

taking away our­—

                                  abolishing our most valuable—

and altering fundamentally the Forms of our—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Tithing and the Soul of Money

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Measuring Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Make for Yourself Two Silver Trumpets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Blessing for Safety

The parashah this week is complex, like our world. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

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