Torah Street

In Proverbs, a biblical book of conventional advice delivered with drama, Wisdom is personified as a woman. In the first chapter, she runs out into the streets shouting at “simpletons who love oversimplification, scorners who delight in mockery, and fools who hate knowledge” (Proverbs 1:22). I’m sure she has shown up at some of the same protests you have, marching in the streets full of indignation at the cruel and arrogant and existentially foolish behavior of so many in power right now.

When the rabbis read Proverbs, they identify Wisdom with Torah. While searching commentaries on this week’s Torah portion, I stumbled across an intriguing rabbinic tale about Wisdom / Torah in the streets, which I’d like to explore with you here (from the midrashic collection Tanchuma, Bechukotai 3:1).

“Wisdom shouts for joy in the street; in the squares she raises her voice.” (Mishlei / Proverbs 1:20)

Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman questioned Rabbi Yonatan ben Elazar, when he was standing in the market. 

Rabbi Shmuel said to Rabbi Yonatan, “Recite one chapter (of Mishnah) for me.” 

Rabbi Yonatan said to him, “Go to the house of study, and I will recite it for you there.” 

He said to him, “Rabbi, did you not teach me (Proverbs 1:20), ‘Wisdom shouts for joy in the street?’” 

He said to him, “You know how to read (Scripture), but you do not know how to recite (Mishnah). What is the meaning of ‘Wisdom shouts for joy in the street?’ In the street of Torah. In the case of a pearl, where is it sold? In [its] street. In the case of jewels and pearls, where are they sold? In the known place. They are not brought to the owners of vegetables, onions and garlic, but rather to the place of merchants. Simply in [its] street. Similarly Torah is said in the street [of Torah], as stated, ‘Wisdom shouts for joy in the street; in the squares she raises her voice.’” 

And what is the meaning of “in the squares (rechovot)?” In the place where one amplifies (rachav) it. And where do they amplify it? In the synagogues and in the study halls. Therefore it is stated “in the squares she raises her voice.”

I like to picture Rabbi Shmuel eagerly asking his teacher to share some knowledge while they wait at the 3rd-century equivalent of a taco truck at the local farmer’s market. Only for Rabbi Yonatan to shut him down with what I can only imagine is a “sick rabbinic burn”: “You know how to read, but do you know how to recite?” In other words, you only think you know what that verse you cited means, but actually it means something else entirely! 

And then, this insightful advice: “Don’t try to sell pearls at the garlic stand…” 

The thrust of this story suggests that the proper place of Torah learning is at the beit midrash, where the physical structure of the building mirrors an intentionality about what takes place within it. Just like a shop is set up in a way conducive to its specific business, the “street of Torah” is a place designed for study, and by inhabiting purposeful space Torah study is amplified, or more literally widens. Strikingly, instead of being confined in place, having a proper place expands Torah! 

If you’ve ever had a reading nook, meditation corner, exercise area, special park bench, etc. where you could preserve intentionality in physical space, you know how potent a particular place can be. In contrast, spaces where a lot of different activities are happening invite disruption, distraction, and dissipation.  

But there’s a paradox in the story. By telling Rabbi Shmuel why he doesn’t want to teach Torah “in the streets”, Rabbi Yonatan ends up…teaching Torah! The lesson we learn comes from a marketplace conversation. What are we to make of that? 

And there’s another layer of paradox - this story was probably told as part of a sermon or lecture in a synagogue or beit midrash! 

And you, where are you as you read it? At home, a coffee shop…? 

What this little rabbinic tale generates is an awareness of the tidal push-pull of where Torah happens. Sometimes in the wide and deep spaces meant for Torah, sometimes in the spontaneous and unexpected moments of life, at the intersection of the street of Torah and the highway of life.

At Kavana, Torah is likely to be found joyously singing at our Song Circle or joining passionately at our Tzedek (Justice) Circle or sipping coffee deep in conversation at a farmer’s market, as well as unfolding expansively at our monthly Shabbat minyan. 

I’ll leave you with two questions for reflection:

Where do you most like to learn / engage with Jewish tradition?

Where have you been surprised to find yourself learning Torah or doing something Jewish? 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Each of Us Has a Role to Play... What is Yours?

I am writing to you this week from Tel Aviv. Unfortunately, the Kavana-Mishkan group trip to Israel and the West Bank that we had envisioned for February didn't come together (we simply didn't have enough travelers to make it a go -- we'll have to try again). However, I decided to take advantage of this school break week to come with my own family, and we have spent time with relatives and friends, visited museums, archaeological and new cultural sites, and explored the complex political and social realities for both Israelis and Palestinians. It's been a packed and intense trip, and I look forward to debriefing it and sharing more of what I've experienced and learned with the Kavana community in future weeks. For now, I'll stick to the weekly Torah portion...

Parashat Terumah famously opens with God commanding Moses to collect all sorts of gifts from the Israelites: precious metals and stones, dyed yarns, oil, wood and skins. With these materials, God says, "V'asu li mikdash v'shochanti b'tocham," "Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them." In other words, this is a collective building project with a lofty goal: the Israelites are trying to achieve no less than making room for the Divine presence on earth.  

As we start reading into the text, though, we immediately encounter an oddity. Just as the Israelites' time at Mount Sinai is known for its blurred sensory experiences (e.g. "seeing the thunder"), a close reading of Exodus 25:9-11 turns up confusion about whether the commands to build the Tabernacle are to be understood in the singular or plural -- in other words, whether this is a project for Moses alone or for all of the Israelites, and who is to do what. We read:

כְּכֹ֗ל אֲשֶׁ֤ר אֲנִי֙ מַרְאֶ֣ה אוֹתְךָ֔ אֵ֚ת תַּבְנִ֣ית הַמִּשְׁכָּ֔ן וְאֵ֖ת תַּבְנִ֣ית כׇּל־כֵּלָ֑יו וְכֵ֖ן תַּעֲשֽׂוּ׃ {ס} 

Exactly as I show you (s.)—the pattern of the Tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings—so shall you (pl.) make it.

וְעָשׂ֥וּ אֲר֖וֹן עֲצֵ֣י שִׁטִּ֑ים אַמָּתַ֨יִם וָחֵ֜צִי אׇרְכּ֗וֹ וְאַמָּ֤ה וָחֵ֙צִי֙ רׇחְבּ֔וֹ וְאַמָּ֥ה וָחֵ֖צִי קֹמָתֽוֹ׃

They (pl.) shall make an ark of acacia wood, two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high.

וְצִפִּיתָ֤ אֹתוֹ֙ זָהָ֣ב טָה֔וֹר מִבַּ֥יִת וּמִח֖וּץ תְּצַפֶּ֑נּוּ וְעָשִׂ֧יתָ עָלָ֛יו זֵ֥ר זָהָ֖ב סָבִֽיב׃

You (s.) shall overlay it with pure gold—overlay it inside and out—and make upon it a gold molding round about.

Hopefully with my bolded indicators of singular and plural, it is clear how the text is toggling back and forth: that the pattern will be shown to Moses and then all the Israelites should make it, and that all the Israelites will construct the ark which then Moses alone (or perhaps the artisan Betzalel, later?) is commanded to overlay with gold.

Ramban, also known as Nachmanides -- a leading Jewish commentator and philosopher in 13th century Spain -- notes this phenomenon too, and offers the following commentary on these verses:

AND THEY SHALL MAKE AN ARK. The plural [and ‘they’ shall make] refers back to the children of Israel mentioned above. But afterwards Scripture states: And thou shalt overlay it, And thou shalt cast for it — all in the singular, as Moses is the leader of all Israel. It is possible that [in using the plural — and they shall make] God is indicating God's wish that all Israel should share in the making of the ark because it is the holiest dwelling-place of the Most High, and that they should all merit thereby [a knowledge of] the Torah. Thus the Rabbis have said in Midrash Rabbah: “Why is it that with reference to all the vessels it says, and thou shalt make, and in the case of the ark it says, and they shall make? Said Rabbi Yehudah the son of Rabbi Shalom: The Holy Blessed One said: Let all the people come and engage themselves in the making of the ark, so that they should all merit [a knowledge of] the Torah.” The “engaging themselves” of which the Rabbi speaks means that they should each offer one golden vessel [for the making of the ark, in addition to their general offering for the building of the Tabernacle], or that they should help Betzalel in some small way, or that they should have intent [of heart in the making thereof].

Ramban understands the text's back-and-forth between singular and plural as drawing attention to the complex interplay between a leader and a people -- ultimately, there should be alignment between them. Despite the fact that so many vessels of the mishkan are commanded to be built using singular language, Ramban takes the plural language of the command about the ark to underscore the point that everyone has a stake in this particularly holy project. 

In explaining how the Israelites were supposed to "engage themselves" in this collective construction activity, Ramban then shares a piece of ancient midrash that offers multiple possible pathways for how each of the Israelites might have chosen to engage. It turns out, according to him, that there were many more options than simply bringing different types of materials. The Israelites could "offer one golden vessel" (in other words, make a financial or material contribution), "help Betzalel in some small way" (that is, offer time, energy and labor), or "have intent of heart" (contribute emotional support). 

Reading Ramban's multiple pathways for engagement in this collective project reminded me of the powerful-yet-loose organizing model we've seen unfold in Minneapolis over the past couple of months. Writer and activist Rebecca Solnit re-posted the following words from a fellow activist a couple weeks ago, and these examples have stuck with me:

"One of the nuts things about organizing in the Twin Cities right now is that even the most long term organizers who've been here for decades can't keep track of all the resistance that is going on. There are so many self-organized crews just doing work that in any conversation with someone from another neighborhood, you might stumble over a whole collective of people resisting in ways you didn't think of. There's a crew of carpenters just going around fixing kicked-in doors. There are two truck drivers taking cars of detained people away for free. People delivering food to families in hiding. So many local rapid response groups that the number is uncertain... People standing watch outside daycares and schools..."

In this Minnesota example, too, we see a collective building project -- here, it's a particular vision of American society in which we hope to live. Here, too, we see that powerful engagement comes in ensuring that different individuals can all find ways to contribute their unique gifts and abilities in service of a greater goal.

This week's Torah portion provides us with a lens for understanding the big picture of what we're trying to do. Whether we are building the Mishkan or trying to improve and safeguard the society around us, our goal is always to take part in making this world a place where the Divine presence can reside. Despite the singular/plural confusion, and the fact that this could be construed as a job for only leaders, our long interpretive Torah tradition -- channeled to us here in the words of Ramban, as he cites an ancient midrash -- teaches that this is the work of all of us.

This week, I encourage you to think about which sacred, shared project(s) you believe in most fervently, and what contribution(s) you are willing to make in order to bring them to fruition. Each of us has a role to play in crafting our world into a place where God can dwell among us.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Muad Behavior: Harm, Habit, and Hope

Nestled in the list of rules (mishpatim) that give this week’s Torah portion its name, there are a handful of verses outlining restitution for harm done by an ox. 

If you are getting ready to zone out, consider this important fact, gleaned from a 2009 study published by Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Ireland entitled Cow-related trauma: A 10-year review of injuries admitted to a single institution: “Cow-related trauma is a common among farming communities and is a potentially serious mechanism of injury that appears to be under-reported in a hospital context. Bovine-related head-butt and trampling injuries should be considered akin to high-velocity trauma.”

Luckily, no underreporting cow-related trauma in the Torah! Yet another example of how ancient biblical wisdom anticipates modern findings…

“When an ox gores a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be stoned and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner of the ox is not to be punished.” (Exodus 21:28)

You may object - surely the owner of the ox should have some responsibility here, right?!

“If, however, that ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and it kills a man or a woman—the ox shall be stoned and its owner, too, shall be put to death.” (Exodus 21:29)

When an ox has no history or habit of harm, the owner has no responsibility, but in the case where a routinely reckless ox belongs to a heedless owner, and the worst comes to pass, that owner’s life is on the line too. 

The key here is habit and expectation. A cow with no history of harm is called tam (innocent). A cow who repeatedly has demonstrated aggression is called muad (forewarned). Our little dog Bilbo, unfortunately, would probably be a muad dog because we have seen him growl and nip enough times to expect it. Therefore, we are responsible for keeping him out of situations where he might - even accidentally - cause harm. 

Functionally, we excuse accidents caused by a tam animal, while holding the owners of muad animals liable for damages.

In the Talmudic discussion of this law (Bava Kama 26a), we learn something interesting: “Adam muad l’olam - a human is always considered muad.” In almost all cases, there is no presumption that humans wouldn’t cause harm, and therefore when a person damages or harms something, they are responsible for compensating the injured party. 

I’m interested in this phrase on a deeper level, though. What does it mean for humans to be considered categorically “forewarned as potentially harmful?” 

We could take it as a sober analysis of human nature’s dark side, akin to the sentiment that if someone says they want to harm you, you believe them, even without any past evidence of actual harm caused. In this view, cruelty can bubble up in a moment, and humans should always be interacted with cautiously, as if they have a habitual pattern of causing harm.

On the other hand, Jewish tradition also teaches that we should judge people on the side of merit (dan l’chaf zechut, Pirkei Avot 1:6), or in other words give people the benefit of the doubt. So, when accidents happen people are always liable to make amends, but when it comes to how we view each other’s essential character, the deeper truth is we trust until proven otherwise. 

So much for how we relate to each other. But how do we relate to ourselves as muad? Let’s return to the key for how we designate animals as muad: what habits do we observe? We humans are also creatures of habit, and in the Jewish ethical tradition of Mussar, if we want to build good character, deepen our spiritual alignment, and generally be the best self we can be, the key is observing our own habits, and then slowly and thoughtfully experimenting with them so that we grow in wise ways.

Poet Mary Oliver put it this way: “Our battles with our habits speak of dreams yet to become real” (from Long Life: Essays and Other Writings). Even the struggle with our own patterns embodies a form of hope. 

A person is forever muad. It is always worthwhile to look closer at our habits and what we expect of ourselves. To hold ourselves responsible. And to judge ourselves graciously, because the deepest truth is that to be who you are is a remarkable gift. 

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

God is Everywhere. / Where is God?

This week's Torah portion, Yitro, is a big one! After Moses receives leadership advice from his Midianite father-in-law, the Israelites encamp at the base of Mount Sinai and Moses ascends the mountain where he receives the Ten Commandments from God. Between thunder and lightning, the blare of the shofar, and a smoking mountain, the revelatory moment of Exodus is certainly dramatic.

I've always thought that this -- the dramatic revelation -- was what connected the haftarah of Isaiah 6 to this parasha. As that text opens, Isaiah himself seems to be "tripping" and experiencing a revelation of his own in the heavens: 

"In the year that King Uzziah died, I beheld my Lord seated on a high and lofty throne; and the skirts of God's robe filled the Temple. Seraphs (fiery angels) stood in attendance on God. Each of them had six wings: with two he covered his face, with two he covered his legs, and with two he would fly." (Isaiah 6:1-2)

However, reading the two texts -- Exodus 20 and Isaiah 6 -- side by side this week, I noticed another interesting point of connection between them, in addition to their supranatural revelatory nature. In Exodus 20:21, we read: "b'chol-hamakom asher azkir et-sh'mi, avo eilecha uveirachticha," "in every place where I cause My name to be mentioned, I will come to you and bless you." This is a surprising statement for the Torah to make in the immediate wake of its emphasis on Mount Sinai as a special place: this verse explicitly claims that God will be present not only at the holy mountain, but everywhere -- literally "in every place."

Meanwhile, as the haftarah continues, the famous line of Isaiah 6:3 features angels turning and calling towards one another: "Kadosh kadosh kadosh adonai tzevaot, m'lo chol-ha'aretz k'vodo," "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts! The entire earth is filled with God's presence." Once again, we might expect Isaiah to be telling us, based on his own mystical vision, that one must journey through the heavens in order to encounter Divine beings. Instead, this quote hammers precisely the opposite point: that God's presence can be found everywhere.

Last Shabbat, I was fortunate enough to attend the Hadar National Shabbaton on the east coast. In addition to reconnecting with lots of folks with Kavana connections from many years ago (shout-outs to Ilana Mantell, Joel Goldstein, Rachel Jacobson, and a number of Jewish Emergent Network colleagues!), it was a pleasure to bask in a weekend of great davening, rich Torah learning, and vibrant new Jewish music.

On Friday evening, Rabbi Shai Held gave a Dvar Torah that has stuck with me all week, and which picks up on the Isaiah verse I've cited above. He considered the Kedusha of the Musaf Amidah, the call-and-response section of the "extra" standing prayer we recite on Shabbat day. The first line that the whole congregation is prompted to say is "Kadosh kadosh kadosh adonai tzevaot, m'lo chol-ha'aretz k'vodo," "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts! The entire earth is filled with God's presence." This, Rabbi Held claimed, is a firm assertion that the composers of the prayer wanted to make (echoing the one we've seen above in Parashat Yitro) that God is everywhere.

Next, he pointed out that it's possible to read liturgy so often that the words become rote and we can easily lose sight of what's surprising about them. Continuing, the very next line of the Kedusha features the angels asking one another "ayei m'kom k'vodo," "where is the place of God's presence?" -- in other words, where is God? Rabbi Held points out that this order doesn't feel at all logical; anyone who is paying attention would typically expect a question to be followed by an answer, rather than an answer followed by a question. The non-intuitive order of these two lines should guide us -- the reciters of this prayer -- to note the tension that exists between these two ideas: that God is everywhere, and also, that it can feel like God is absent (or at least we need to go searching in order to locate God's presence).

Last week, in his Kavana newsletter Dvar Torah about Parashat Beshallach, our very own Rabbi Jay LeVine argued that wherever there are binaries in our Jewish tradition, our goal is to engage in a "vibrant oscillation" between the two poles. Rabbi Held makes a similar argument to that here: that although it flies in the face of Aristotelian logic to assert both that God is everywhere and that we cannot locate God, our liturgy is set up to support us in entertaining both of these ideas and holding them both to be true simultaneously. 

Held's particular way of dealing with the disconnect between these two poles is to argue that the gap between them is the space where we human beings must operate. When what's happening in the world around us leads us to doubt or question God's manifest presence, then we must be the ones to reconcile and close the gap. In other words, it is incumbent upon us to manifest God's presence in the world. We do this by showing love and compassion to one another, through moral behavior, and through our fulfillment of mitzvot... essentially, by taking the Revelation from Mount Sinai and spreading it everywhere we go in the world. Only through our own human actions can we ensure that every place is a place of holiness, and a place where God's presence can dwell. 

The truth is that at this particular moment in time, God often feels quite far away from our world. It's easy to spot examples all around us of immorality and injustice, gross abuses of power, violence and violations of human dignity; it can be much harder to feel God's presence! In the face of this seeming absence, this reading of our Torah portion, haftarah, and the liturgy prompts us to ask ourselves the key questions: What can we do to ensure that Revelation -- that is, morality, Torah, and God's very presence -- is not relegated to the top of the mountain with Moses, nor to God's heavenly throne-room as in Isaiah's vision? How can we help ensure that godliness and divinity reach every corner of the world, such that God's presence is manifest "in every place"? 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Vibrant Oscillation of Shaky Joy

“Serve God in fearful awe, and gilu bi’re’adah וְגִילוּ בִּרְעָדָה - rejoice while shaking.”Psalms 2:11

“Our moods do not believe in each other.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’ve been fascinated by Emerson’s quote for a long time, because when you are feeling something big, you enter an emotional world unto itself and it really can be difficult to remember that other states of being exist at all, let alone to imagine experiencing them once again. That is certainly true for difficult moments, personal or political, when gloom clouds over possibilities. But it is equally true of joyous and even calm moments, at least in my experience. 

I am constantly guilty of assuming that the inner and outer weather of today will be true tomorrow as well. If it is raining today, or I’m just a bit blue, or another awful thing happened in the world, my brain stealthily projects the trend forward. I’m startled when I wake up and don’t need a raincoat…

And when it is sunny in Seattle, I quickly get a little hazy on what it was like to wipe mud off my boots. (Of course, sometimes our habitual mindset never lets us really trust the sunshine, and we’re just waiting for the other raindrop to fall…)

It’s a strange thing being human! 

If there’s one thing the Jewish tradition teaches us, it’s that we have to pay attention to two things at once. Some prominent dualities include:

• Halakhah (law) and Aggadah (story)

• Written Torah (Tanakh) and Oral Torah (Talmud)

• Hillel and Shammai (the two great schools of rabbinic teaching)

• Yetzer haTov (altruistic inclination) and Yetzer haRa (selfish inclination)

• Olam haZeh (this world) and Olam haBa (the world to come)

• Kodesh (holy) and Chol (mundane)

• “Religious” and “cultural”

• Jews as a religion; Jews as an ethnic group

These are not binaries exactly, but dynamic fields generated by the partnership of two forces, a psychospiritual or metaphysical chavruta (the classic Jewish study pair). As Jay Michaelson writes: “the goal is not to attain some sense of balance but rather to transcend the binaries and engage in a vibrant oscillation between the poles...”

So even if our moods don’t believe in each other, we invite them to sit down and learn from and with each other!

In parshat Beshallach, several intense moods appear in the Song at the Sea (Exodus 15). The Israelites have fled Egypt, with the Egyptians in hot pursuit. Free on the other side of the sea, as its waves wash death and destruction down on the Egyptians, the Israelites sing. Intense fear, intense joy, intense everything. Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg raises an important question: 

How is it possible to sing, to praise God for acting both cruelly and kindly? Indeed, this problem (of the relation between din and rachamim, hard-justice vs. mercy) is a central theme of the Song of the Sea.

The complex reality that is celebrated in the Song - death and life, suffering and joy, justice and mercy - transcends a simple split between 'us vs. them': the suffering and fear as the enemies’ portion, the joy and elation of the Israelites.

The [19th century Chassidic master] Mei HaShiloach says: "If there is no wisdom, there is no fear, but if there is no fear, there is no wisdom" (Pirkei Avot). The Sea symbolises fear and prayer, the dry land indicates strength and confidence, as in the mastery of Torah, which is Israel's strength. 

One knows one's prayer is answered if one can move out of prayer and into the study of Torah. Likewise, one knows that one's study of Torah is true if, together with the Torah study, there is a cry of prayer in the heart. For one must connect the two, prayer and Torah - fear and confidence.

This sort of prayer mood is worried, anguished, yearning, aware that something is wrong. 

And a Torah study mood is delight at being deep in the details of the divine word. It is the feeling of being on firm ground, and of feeling adventurous because you know where home is. 

Someone once said that prayer is when we speak to God, while Torah study is when God speaks to us. 

Now, while I appreciate the Mei HaShiloach’s confidence that Torah study is a core competence of the Jewish people, for many of us, Torah study is not a place where we may feel particularly confident. However, Rabbi Laura Rumpf helped me reframe what Torah study means here through a quote from writer Suleika Jaouad:

When you’re in a fearful place, the idea of charging forward without a trace of apprehension is intimidating. Such an expectation can immobilize you. And so, rather than moving forward and through, you remain stagnant, ruminating about something that may or may not come to pass… You just have to be one percent more curious than afraid.

The firm ground of moving forward may or may not be a realm of confidence, but it can certainly be a realm of curiosity for all of us. 

May the drama of the crossing of the Sea and the turbulence of life around us bring us into vibrant oscillation between praying with holy fear and learning with curiosity. Or in the words of the psalmist, finding a shaky joy at being alive, being ourselves, and doing what we are meant to do.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Resisting Tyrants Since Pharaoh

My front hall closet is filled with an array of reusable grocery bags, but in recent weeks, I've purposefully been reaching for the one from T'ruah, a rabbinic human rights and social justice organization. On the side of the canvas bag, in bold burgundy letters, are the words: "Resisting tyrants since Pharaoh." Given everything unfolding around us right now, I'm drawn to the idea that within the long arc of human history, we've met Pharaohs before, and we know how to recognize Pharaoh-mindedness when we see it: the need for a leader to feed his own ego in order to feel powerful, and the cruelty and oppression that flows from there. I am comforted by the thought that our Jewish muscles instinctively know how to do the work of resistance, and that when we fight back against Pharaoh-ish tyranny, we are following in the footsteps of the many generations that have come before us.

This week's Torah portion, Parashat Bo, picks up in the middle of the Ten Plagues. The first seven plagues have already unfolded in a patterned repeat loop that goes something like this: Moses warns Pharaoh and God sends a plague; Pharaoh initially promises to release the Israelites until his heart hardens and he reneges; the situation worsens for the Israelites. Now, between plague #7 (hail) and #8 (locusts), something shifts, as a new element is introduced into this loop. Here's the opening verse of Bo, Exodus 10:1:

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר יְהֹוָה֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה בֹּ֖א אֶל־פַּרְעֹ֑ה כִּֽי־אֲנִ֞י הִכְבַּ֤דְתִּי אֶת־לִבּוֹ֙ וְאֶת־לֵ֣ב עֲבָדָ֔יו לְמַ֗עַן שִׁתִ֛י אֹתֹתַ֥י אֵ֖לֶּה בְּקִרְבּֽוֹ׃

Then GOD said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them."

Above, I've bolded the words that represent the key change in the pattern, so that it's easy to observe. In addition to hearing about Pharaoh's hardened heart once again, now, for the first time, we see the same phenomenon unfolding in the hearts of Pharaoh's "servants" ("avadav"). This group of people -- which functions as a single unit in the text, but must have represented many individuals who were advisors and members of his court -- seems to be very aligned with Pharaoh; their hearts and Pharaoh's heart all simultaneously serve as the direct objects of a single verb, hichbad'ti ("I have hardened"). Chizkuni (a commentary by R' Chizkiya ben Manoach, of 13th-century France) notes this alignment between Pharaoh and the members of his cabinet:

"We have not found this formulation in connection with any of the previous plagues. The reason that God reacted so harshly was that after Pharaoh himself had confessed that he had sinned, instead of releasing the Israelites, both he and his servants continued to oppress the Israelites." 

In the final phrase of this comment, Chizkuni directs the reader to revisit Exodus 9:34 - a verse at the tail end of last week's parasha - and notes that indeed, Pharaoh and his advisors were both described as returning to their sinning and stubbornness in tandem. The key point Chizkuni is making is that the presence of Pharaoh's advisors at this point in the plague cycle is new, and indicative of a new level of oppression in Egypt: now it's not just Pharaoh alone, but Pharaoh plus all of his servants, who are aligned in their stubbornness and their oppression of the Israelites.

Continuing a little further into Parashat Bo, we soon encounter Pharaoh's advisors again, but this time, as we'll see, they take a different stance vis-a-vis Pharaoh. In the intervening text (and you're certainly welcome to read Exodus 10:2-6 for yourself), Moses and Aaron go to Pharaoh and demand on God's behalf, "Let My people go that they may worship me," and they threaten that if Pharaoh refuses, God will cause locusts to descend upon the land of Egypt and cover the land, devouring everything and causing destruction to an extent never before seen. In Exodus 10:7, Pharaoh's servants re-appear, disagreeing with him somewhat and pushing back against Pharaoh's rigidity:

וַיֹּאמְרוּ֩ עַבְדֵ֨י פַרְעֹ֜ה אֵלָ֗יו עַד־מָתַי֙ יִהְיֶ֨ה זֶ֥ה לָ֙נוּ֙ לְמוֹקֵ֔שׁ שַׁלַּח֙ אֶת־הָ֣אֲנָשִׁ֔ים וְיַֽעַבְד֖וּ אֶת־יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֵיהֶ֑ם הֲטֶ֣רֶם תֵּדַ֔ע כִּ֥י אָבְדָ֖ה מִצְרָֽיִם׃

Pharaoh’s courtiers said to him, “How long shall this one [Moses] be a snare to us? Let those involved go to worship the ETERNAL their God! Are you not yet aware that Egypt is lost**?”

(**According to the 12th century Spanish commentator R' Abraham Ibn Ezra, the meaning of the final phrase of 10:7, "ha-terem teda," is "Do you first want it to become clear to you that Egypt has been destroyed?!")

In a nutshell, Pharaoh's advisors are telling him in this verse that he needs to make a concession and soften a little. Apparently, Pharaoh would have been willing to bring destruction upon all of Egypt to stick with his rigid no answer, but his advisors are not. These civil servants seem to have some sense of obligation to Egypt itself, and they are unwilling to see it completely destroyed on their watch; for this reason, they encourage Pharaoh to acquiesce to Moses and Aaron's demand to let the people go to worship.

And indeed, in the face of his own advisors' push back, Pharaoh backs down, at least in part. In Exodus 10:8-11, he permits Moses and the Israelite men (only) go to worship. Admittedly, this is not quite what Moses and Aaron had asked for -- as they had clearly wanted all of the people: young and old, sons and daughters, with flocks and herds, to be able to go; however, it is a significant concession... a crack that opens up for the first time for the Israelites, a small win on their road towards ultimate victory over the Egyptians and towards freedom from the constraints of Pharaoh's oppression.

Reading the opening section of Parashat Bo this week, I find myself reflecting on the relationship between Pharaoh and his advisors, which seems to be shifting in real time, right before our very eyes in these first 11 verses of Exodus chapter 10. Again, Pharaoh himself is undoubtedly cruel and oppressive -- and we already know this to be true from the first 9 chapters of Exodus. He treats the Israelites as objects or property, with no regard for them as human beings, and he acts in his own self-interest, from a place of fear, ever seeking to expand his wealth, power, and reputation.

The two verses I've highlighted above -- Exodus 10:1 and 10:7 -- showcase the subtle shift in Pharaoh's advisors' mindset. They act in two different ways: first, in total alignment with Pharaoh, hardening their own hearts and having God further reinforce their guilt and oppressiveness, but then, with increasing daylight between them, trying to counter or at least temper Pharaoh's worst impulses lest he bring down all of Egypt in his stubbornness. The intricacies of this relationship have me wondering about how Moses, Aaron, and God are fighting back against Pharaoh's tyranny... and what the role is of their noting and exploiting the lack of alignment between Pharaoh and his own servants/advisors. When Pharaoh is rigid to the point of engaging in self-destructive behavior, the fact that the advisors still respond to self-interest becomes a tool and a lever for change. I wonder what lessons we might be able to glean from this and apply today, as we seek footholds and cracks for change-making in the face of modern-day tyranny?

Today, I want to lift up that many of my colleagues -- rabbis, cantors, and faith leaders from a wide array of religious traditions, from around the country -- have converged on Minneapolis for protests and a march against the oppressive ICE presence there. Despite the frigid temperatures, they have showed up to exercise resistance in the face of a particular strand of tyranny. (Unfortunately my schedule here did not permit me to make a trip to Minnesota this week, but I assume there will be future opportunities; meanwhile, I'm happy to draw attention to their work and encourage you to be on the lookout today for media coverage of the faith leaders' march, among many other actions and protests.)

I know that many of us are struggling to make sense of this challenging moment, and especially to figure out what leverage we have -- it's certainly easy to feel powerless. But, I am heartened by the Exodus story that we've been reading over the past few weeks in our Torah cycle, and finding new details each time I look at it closely that feel relevant and helpful.

My blessing for us, heading into this Shabbat of Parashat Bo, is that we continue to discover inspiration in the foundational story of our tradition: the Exodus arc that takes us from oppression to freedom. May we find -- through the repeat loop of the Ten Plagues -- the courage to stick with our pursuits and values and try again and again, even in the face of setbacks. May we mine our tradition to find clues about how to do this work of resistance creatively -- for example, by exploiting the subtle differences between Pharaoh and Pharaoh's advisors -- in order to pursue productive paths towards justice and freedom. 

Indeed, we Jews are inheritors of a most awesome legacy! Our core purpose is to name the Pharaoh-mindedness we see everywhere it pops up in the world, and to resist and counter it with all of our being. "Resisting tyrants since Pharaoh" -- amen!

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Know Me By My True Names

The 20th century Israeli poet Zelda’s most famous poem follows a simple format: 

“Each of us has a name, given by…” The list includes God, parents, the mountains, our walls, and more. It is a rightfully beloved poem, and provokes curiosity about how and why we are known by one name or another. 

In the opening verses of parshat Va’eira, God gives us a surprising glimpse into the names by which God is - or isn’t - known. 

“God (elohim) spoke to Moses, and said to him: I am YHVH.” (Exodus 6:1)

Already the two most common names for God in the Torah are present. “Elohim” is the more impersonal way of referring to God, with el being the generic Hebrew word for a god in the Ancient Near East. 

“YHVH,” the unpronounced four letters of God’s personal name, are usually read as “Adonai - Lord,” and by some as “HaShem - the Name.” Despite the level of abstraction that those cover words imply, the four letters are much more intimate, the sound of breath and becoming and being. 

So within this concise and seemingly simple verse, the Torah moves us from the impersonal, generic aspect of God into the personal, intimate aspect of God. But why? What does Moses learn when God says, know me by this name?

The Italian medieval thinker Sforno suggests that God is establishing God’s grandeur before the miraculous retrieval of the Israelites from Egypt.

“I am the One Who maintains the entire universe alone. I have not only called it into existence, but I also maintain it, and there is no other prime cause which exercises any independent influence on any part of My universe… Unless I had given My consent no creature could continue to exist.”

There’s a lot in a name!

Within this understanding of YHVH we see the possibility of the laws of nature being undone through the plagues and parting of the sea, and we also see the impossibility of Pharaoh having any power at all, independent of God. When God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, we all witness how pathetic even the most “powerful” man’s pretense to power really is. It isn’t an even playing field, and that is one of the key points of the whole story. 

Of course, we need to pause and ask ourselves if we really think it is true that there are limits to the power of our leaders today. Consider two deeply troubling statements shared in the past few weeks:

After the capture of Venezuelan’s leader, Stephen Miller said, “We live in a world in which you can talk all you want about international niceties and everything else…But we live in a world, in the real world… that is governed by strength, that is governed by force, that is governed by power.” 

And President Trump (may that title be made great again), when asked if there were any limits to his power, said, “Yeah, there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that could stop me. I don’t need international law.” 

Well. Pharaoh would be proud. What is idolatry if not the narcissistic worshiping of power?

What is tricky about today is that it seems plausible that might does make right. There are plenty of people whose lived experience tells them nothing otherwise. 

Which brings me back to another reading of what God means when God shares YHVH as a name to be known by. The Torah continues: 

“I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I was not known to them by My name YHVH.” (Exodus 6:3)

And the French medieval scholar Rashi comments: “It is not written here לא הודעתי “I did not make known to them”, but לא נודעתי “I was not known to them — I was not recognized by them in My attribute of “keeping faith,” by reason of which My name is called YHVH, which denotes that I am certain to substantiate My promise, for, indeed, I made promises to them but did not fulfill them [during their lifetime].”

I remember the first time hearing this story how strange it was to suddenly be told that the very first Jewish ancestors didn’t know God by the name that we use all the time, the specific and proper name of God (even if we don’t pronounce it). I felt a jarring moment of discontinuity with the past. But reading Rashi’s comment now, I suddenly feel a deep connection to those unruly ancestors of the book of Genesis. They too lived in a “not yet” time, where a promise opened up a vision of a different and better world, but it had not yet been fulfilled. 

For the story of the Exodus, God appears to out-Pharaoh Pharaoh, to overwhelm human strength with divine strength. Maybe that was necessary to humble Pharaoh (or more likely, those watching it all play out) and caution other humans who would claim absolute power for themselves. But shockingly it was not sufficient to inspire the Israelites for long. The same generation that witnessed God’s wonders quickly begin complaining, and even tried to replace God with a golden calf in a moment of weakness. They demonstrate that if you give an Israelite a promise fulfilled, they will demand another one (with a glass of milk and honey). 

Those first Jewish ancestors, however, knew God by the name El Shaddai, often translated into English as “God Almighty.” There are two plays on that word that speak to this moment. 

The first is another teaching from Rashi (on Genesis 43:14): He says that Shaddai actually should be read “sheh-dai” (as in dayeinu), “a God who is enough.” Rashi goes so far as to say this is the real meaning of the word! Within the scarcity and uncertainty of this season, to know God by this name is to cultivate a spirituality of sufficiency. We don’t need more power, we have enough already - if we are thoughtful and brave in using it together. 

Another reading of Shaddai takes it as an acrostic:

ש shin 
ד dalet
י yud
Shomeir delatot Yisrael.
Guardian of the doors of Israel.

This is the purpose of putting the word Shaddai on the mezuzah manuscript that we place in our doorways. And while it is helpful to have protection from the outside world, the purpose of a door is that it allows us out into the world… And to know God by this name is to keep opening to possibilities, not promises. 

God’s names, then, help us live with a “not yet” yearning, a confidence in enough-ness, and an openness to possibility in the face of authoritarian power. 

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Be Like Moses: An Empathetic and Impartial Intervener for Justice

This week, we (and the Jewish people everywhere) read Parashat Shemot - and launch into the book of Exodus. The opening chapter-and-a-half covers lots of territory: first, the Israelites become enslaved and oppressed in Egypt, and then a courageous group of women -- both Egyptian and Israelite -- resist Pharaoh's orders. Baby Moses is born, hidden in a basket, and ultimately brought by Pharaoh's daughter to be raised to safety inside her father's palace.

Next, the text fast-forwards a couple of decades, picking up with Moses as a young adult in Exodus 2:11:

וַיְהִ֣י ׀ בַּיָּמִ֣ים הָהֵ֗ם וַיִּגְדַּ֤ל מֹשֶׁה֙ וַיֵּצֵ֣א אֶל־אֶחָ֔יו וַיַּ֖רְא בְּסִבְלֹתָ֑ם

Some time after that, when Moses was grown, he went out to his brothers and looked on their burden.

Rashi, the classical 11th century French commentator, understands that Moses's act of "looking" must have been more than just externally glancing with his eyes. Drawing on the midrash of Exodus Rabbah, Rashi interprets: "He [Moses] directed his eyes and heart to share in their distress." Today, we'd probably use the word empathy to describe the way that Moses paused to notice the distress of others and to allow his own heart to stir him to action. This is a key trait, and one that sets him up well for leadership.

If we were to summarize the story of what happens next, we might recall that Moses observes an Egyptian taskmaster beating a Hebrew slave, kills the Egyptian, and then runs away. This is all true... and yet, it's only part of the story. Interestingly, the section of text that follows contains not one but three distinct examples of how Moses "looks on the burden of others" and then, from a place of empathy, takes action. Here is that text of Exodus 2:11-22, broken into three chunks for clarity about the three separate instances:

Example 1: "He saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his kinsmen. He turned this way and that and, seeing no one about, he struck down the Egyptian and hid him in the sand."

Example 2: "When he went out the next day, he found two Hebrews fighting; so he said to the offender, “Why do you strike your fellow?” He retorted, “Who made you chief and ruler over us? Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?” Moses was frightened, and thought: Then the matter is known!"

Example 3: "When Pharaoh learned of the matter, he sought to kill Moses; but Moses fled from Pharaoh. He arrived in the land of Midian, and sat down beside a well. Now the priest of Midian had seven daughters. They came to draw water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock; but shepherds came and drove them off. Moses rose to their defense, and he watered their flock. When they returned to their father Reuel, he said, “How is it that you have come back so soon today?” They answered, “An Egyptian rescued us from the shepherds; he even drew water for us and watered the flock.” He said to his daughters, “Where is he then? Why did you leave the man? Ask him in to break bread.” Moses consented to stay with the man, and he gave Moses his daughter Zipporah as wife. She bore a son whom he named Gershom, for he said, “I have been a stranger in a foreign land.”"

One of my favorite modern Torah commentators, Nehama Leibowitz, helps to make meaning of this tripartite narrative. (In case you're not familiar with her work, she was a prominent scholar who is famous for having ignited interest in Torah study in Israel throughout the 20th century. She taught at multiple Israeli universities, shared Torah commentary regularly on the radio, and created study sheets about the weekly Torah portion that were subsequently published in a multi-volume work of Torah commentary. She's worth looking up!)

About Moses's three applications of empathy, Leibowitz writes the following (in her volume Studies in Shemot, pages 40-41):

"Moses intervened on three occasions to save the victim from the aggressor. Each of these represents an archetype. First he intervenes in a clash between a Jew and non-Jew, second, between two Jews, and third, between two non-Jews. In all three cases, Moses championed the just cause...

Had we been told only of the first clash, we might have doubted the unselfishness of his motives. Perhaps he had been activated by the sense of solidarity with his own people, hatred for the stronger oppressing his brethren rather than pure justice. 

Had we been faced with the second example, we might still have had our doubts. Perhaps he was revolted by the disgrace of witnessing internal strife amongst his own folks, activated by national pride rather than the objective facts.

Came the third clash where both parties were outsiders, neither brothers, friends nor neighbors. His sense of justice and fair play was exclusively involved. He instinctively championed the just cause... Only when repeated championing of justice brings no reward can we be convinced of the unselfishness of the deed."

Nehama Leibowitz's commentary on this section of text helps to answer the question of why Moses is the one selected for the Torah's greatest leadership role. He is, of course, empathetic, and able to see the suffering of others, as we saw in verse 11. But even more, the verses that follow demonstrate that he is fair and consistent in how he analyzes the world around him. When there is injustice happening -- by anyone and towards anyone -- Moses has 1) the unique ability to see it clearly, and 2) the courage to intervene.

In our world, at this moment -- when we don't have to look very far in any direction to find aggression, oppression, or injustice -- it's easy to feel like we may need to make choices, and decide which fights for justice matter most to us. (For example, do we muster our energy to defend the Jewish community, or to address Jewish in-fighting, or to stand against injustice when we see it playing out in the broader world?) This reading of Moses's rise to leadership reminds us that all of these struggles are interconnected, and our ability to perceive injustice and stand against it anywhere helps us strengthen the muscle to do so everywhere.

This week, may the Torah's three examples of Moses seeing and intervening inspire each of us to cultivate a lens of empathy, to apply it impartially to the world around us, and to speak out and act to the best of our ability, using whatever tools we have at our disposal. May every small intervention we make pave the path towards a world of greater liberty and justice for all. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

A Mixed Blessing

As we say goodbye to 2025, we also prepare to close the book on Bereishit / Genesis. This first book of the Torah contains within it the seeds for all things bright and beautiful, and all things evil crouching menacingly at the door. In other words, it is about the human condition. Ultimately, the story focuses on the family of Abraham and Sarah over four generations, recording faith and courage but also sorrow and strife. 

Again and again the key family characteristic seems to be the necessity of separation. Until finally, at the very end of the book, the family comes back together and forms the nucleus of what Jewish peoplehood means for millennia afterwards. We are composed of tribes with different temperaments and priorities, and still each “tribe” of Jews is connected - by fate as well as by choice. 

There is an aphorism in classic Jewish sources that contains the tiniest of variations: 

Kol yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh - All of [the people] Israel are arevim for each other. Kol yisrael arevim zeh ba-zeh - All of [the people] Israel are arevim with each other. 

What is this arevim? And who cares what preposition we use?

In context, to be arev means to be responsible for each other (morally), or a guarantor for each other (as when co-signing a loan). But the root arev can also mean mixture (by the way, this is the origin of the Hebrew word for evening, erev, when light and dark mix). 

Contemporary teacher Rabbi Reuben M. Rudman explored the significance of that slight variation in meaning, suggesting that “when la-zeh is used, it implies that the members of Klal Yisrael are responsible for each other. Each person is a separate entity who is expected to be a guarantor for the other members of the klal. When ba-zeh is used, it implies that all Jews are “mixed” together to form a single entity known as Klal Yisrael; what each person does affects the destiny of the entire nation.”

The book of Genesis is in part a meditation on the concept of arevut, responsibility for each other, and the peculiar suffering of unhappy entanglement. There are times when going your own way feels like a blessing, rather than enduring the friction of forced connection. But Genesis ends with a trajectory that honors the choice to remain entangled. 

First, Judah explicitly names himself as an arev, a guarantor, for his brother Benjamin (Genesis 44:32), after Joseph as the Egyptian official frames Benjamin and prepares to imprison him. Judah demonstrates the concern and responsibility that so few characters have been willing to take upon themselves, prompting Joseph to reveal himself and reunite with his family. 

And then, near the end of the story and near the end of Jacob’s life, he asks his son Joseph to bring Jacob’s grandsons Menasheh and Ephraim so he can bless them. Jacob deliberately crosses his arms, entangling them, so that the younger child gets the right hand (a sign of privilege usually reserved for the oldest). Despite Joseph’s protest, Jacob affirms his choice. Then “he blessed them that day, saying, ‘By you shall Israel invoke blessings, saying: God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh.’ Thus he put Ephraim before Menasheh” (Genesis 48:20). 

To this day, Jewish parents may bless their children with that language: May God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh. I’ve always felt confused by this choice, because we know next to nothing about them! Except this: The blessing they received included a complicated entanglement. And the blessing they offer us, through the lack of any stories about them fighting, is the possibility of a close and loving relationship nonetheless. 

The Chassidic master Noam Elimelech taught yet a third interpretation of the word arev, which has the additional meaning of “sweetness”. And so, “each person of Israel sweetens and makes pleasant one for the other.” 

Although it is not a traditional secular New Year’s Greeting, I’ll say it anyway: May you have a sweet new year.  

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Joseph and his Coat of Many (Pride) Colors

This Shabbat, Jews everywhere will read the climax of the Joseph story: the literal "big reveal." For the past couple of weeks, the Torah has followed his journey, from braggadocious teenager thrown into a pit by his brothers, through dreams and prison, to Pharaoh's second in command in Egypt. Now, his brothers have come down to Egypt seeking food at a time of famine, and they have passed his goblet test (to see whether they will protect Benjamin, their youngest half-brother/his full-brother). Joseph's identity reveal is an emotional scene -- for both him and his brothers -- as we see here in Genesis 45:1-4 and 14-15:

Joseph could no longer control himself before all his attendants, and he cried out, “Have everyone withdraw from me!” So there was no one else about when Joseph made himself known to his brothers. His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace. Joseph said to his brothers, “I am Joseph. Is my father still well?” But his brothers could not answer him, so dumbfounded were they on account of him. Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come forward to me.” And when they came forward, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt... He embraced his brother Benjamin around the neck and wept, and Benjamin wept on his neck. He kissed all his brothers and wept upon them; only then were his brothers able to talk to him.

Modern Torah scholars have compared this scene to a "coming-out": Joseph carefully tests the waters first before choosing the moment to reveal his true self to his family; the reader waits with bated breath to see how everyone will react to this surprising news; both the characters and the reader experience relief once Joseph's identity secret is out in the open.

But this coming-out aspect of his story is only one of many reasons why the Joseph narrative can be read in terms of queerness. Rabbi Irwin Keller writes: 

"Whether or not he was “gay” as we understand that in our generation, [Joseph's] narrative is a queer one. His role in his family; his role as substitute for his mother and ongoing embodier of her energy; his outsiderness in his family and in Egypt; the bullying he endures; his making good in the Big City; his taking control of his own narrative; and, unlike in a classic hero’s journey, his refusal to return home, instead bringing his problematic family to him, keeping them close but not too close... [In addition,] he wears unusual clothing. He is described as childlike at an age where he should not have been. His beauty is discussed in the text; and in several significant instances there are Hebrew phrases used to describe his appearance, emotion, garb or actions that specifically link him to noteworthy women elsewhere in Tanakh..." (Click here to read Keller's full article on the subject, entitled "Joseph's Womb: Gender Complexity in the Story of Joseph".)

Rabbinic readers of the biblical text also perceived something special in Joseph, in terms of gender and sexuality. In her article "(Gender)Queering Joseph: Midrashic Possibilities for the Torah's Most Extra Child," Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg focuses on Talmudic and Midrashic interpretations of Joseph, including one set of texts that talks about Joseph and his sister Dina having gender transitioned in utero(!), and another cluster that center around Joseph's make-up habits and fabulous clothing ("coat of many colors" can also be read as "princess dress" -- suggesting that perhaps his brothers' bullying had to do with not only their jealousy but also their disdain for his love of drag).

The Joseph story is an ancient one, of course, and it's hard to know how Joseph might have self-identified had he had today's colorful LGBTQIAP2S+ alphabet at his disposal. What I do know is that -- at the same time that we've been reading the Joseph story in our Torah portions over the last couple of weeks -- the queer community here in the US has been very much under attack. Last week, the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) announced two proposed regulatory actions that would effectively cut off funding to hospitals that provide gender-affirming care to young people, including a broad swath of "pharmaceutical or surgical interventions." In a separate action, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) reportedly sent letters to multiple companies that sell chest binders, warning that they have "misbranded" medical devices. These moves are not yet binding law; still, they feel hateful and cause tremendous harm, regardless of their legality or ultimate enforceability. (A robust fight against these measures has already begun, of course. This week, 19 states have joined together to sue the Trump administration to block the proposed HHS rules, claiming that they are unlawful, and that they threaten access to healthcare for transgender youth, seek to intimidate hospitals and health providers into abandoning their patients or risking their livelihood, and are designed to strip states of their authority to regulate medicine.)

As a Jewish community grounded in core Jewish values, we at Kavana affirm that trans, nonbinary and intersex people are created b'tzelem Elohim -- in the image of the Divine. They -- along with every human being -- are deserving of dignity, respect, and safety. We will strive to build our own community as a place of full inclusion and belonging for people of all gender identities and expressions and all sexual orientations. We will stand in solidarity with the transgender and nonbinary youth who are most directly impacted by these recent actions, and with all who are being targeted by the administration's hateful rhetoric and political actions. (Keshet, an organization that "works for the full equality of LGBTQ+ Jews and our families in Jewish life," has written a Jewish pledge for trans dignity -- click here to take the pledge yourself and/or to learn more about their work. If you're so inclined, you're also invited to submit a public comment about the proposed HHS measures through the Human Rights Campaign, telling the government why this care matters to you and why these rules would hurt young people.)

Returning to the Joseph story: When he reveals his true identity, Joseph comforts his brothers, assuring them: "Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you." Joseph is accepting of what's happened to him, forgiving of his brothers, and seems to deeply believe that his lifetime has unfolded in accordance with a divinely-ordained plan.

Today, it's hard to know with such certainty that everything will work out for the best in the end, although I do hope that we, too, can find strength in Joseph's reassurance. Meanwhile, though, it is very much upon us to work on behalf of every Joseph -- every young person who doesn't conform to gender expectations and norms, everyone who has ever felt the need to conceal their true identity. May we create a community and a world in which every identity reveal feels as emotionally positive and loving as the story of Joseph coming out to his brothers, and in which every individual can let their true colors shine! 

Ken yehi ratzon (may it be so), and wishing you a Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Tending the Light Within

This Hanukkah, wishing each other happiness comes with an asterisk (thank you to my wife, R. Laura, for this language). As I write, Australian Jews are mourning at funerals for those murdered while welcoming the first night of Hanukkah on Bondi Beach. In our hearts, as well as in our history, Hanukkah wavers between a commemoration of violent struggle (the Maccabees won, back in the day, at least for a while), and a holiday of joyous re-dedication to deeper spiritual truths (as we ma’alin bee-kedushah, elevate in holiness through each new candle on the menorah). 

Even in Talmudic times, this holiday had an asterisk. 

The Sages taught: It is a mitzvah to place the Hanukkah lamp at the entrance to one’s house on the outside (Shabbat 21b).

The guidance is clear. We place the menorah where it can be seen, on the outside of your house. But…what if you live in an apartment or don’t have permission or access to put a menorah outside your building? 

If one lives upstairs, one places it at the window adjacent to the public domain.

Okay, if the goal is for the light to be seen from the outside, just put it in a window. Some of us do exactly that today. We “publicize the miracle.” 

But…what if that feels risky? What if you don’t want to draw attention to your Jewishness? Here comes the asterisk:

And in a time of danger, one places it on the table and that is sufficient to fulfill one’s obligation.

Note, this is not about discomfort with one’s Jewish identity. This is about actual danger. Rashi (11th century) suggests that the sages were referring to Persian law that restricted when lamps could be lit, but they were unlikely to search inside the home and find the menorah on the table. And surely there have been other moments in time when Jews brought the light inside to keep themselves physically safe.

The 18th century Chassidic teacher Rabbi Avraham Dov Baer of Ovruch, known as the Bat Ayin, offers a fascinating alternative understanding of what the Talmud is teaching us. 

The Bay Ayin starts by connecting Hanukkah to an archetypal story of generous hospitality:

And this is what the verse says: "And God appeared to Abraham at Elonei Mamre, and he was sitting at the opening of the tent as the day was hot" (Genesis 18:1). Meaning that he was doing the tikkun (the spiritual healing) of the opening (פתח petach) of the tent, and this is a hint to the aspect of the Hanukkah lamp, since its mitzvah is at the opening (פתח petach) of the house (Shabbat 21b), and also his house was wide open (פתוח patuach) to receive guests (see Zohar III:104a). And he was also converting people (see Bereshit Rabbah 39:14). 

There are a number of connections the Bat Ayin is weaving here, referencing various teachings in the Talmud, midrash, and Zohar. Here are the key points:

First, Abraham is at an opening, and keeping it open. 

Second, Abraham is actively receiving people into his community (understood here as bringing in converts). 

Third, this is a tikkun - a spiritual act with great significance for repairing the brokenness in all worlds, including the personal realm, society at large, and even the metaphysical layer of divine light shattered and scattered. 

And fourth, all of this is related to the mitzvah of Hanukkah light, because it too is meant to take place at the petach, where one’s home opens to the world. 

In essence, the Bat Ayin is teaching that when we light the menorah, we are not radiating it outwards but drawing in all that is in need of repair. We are gathering holy sparks, “receiving guests” (hachnasat orchim) and mending the broken experience of the world one person at a time. 

This is the normal mode of Hanukkah, when we open out into the world and do our work of building community in the messy public sphere with kindness and courage. 

The Bat Ayin continues, however: 

A person who is capable of dealing with all the material aspects in the market (read: the messy embodied world) with good intention (kavana tova) so as to raise them to holiness, as we explained above, this is obviously good, and this is the essence of the mitzvah of the Hanukkah lamp being outside. 

But in times of danger, meaning, when one fears to make oneself enter into the external aspects, into the physical things, in order to raise them, because one is not able to conquer one's evil impulse, then obviously one sets it on one's table. This means, be very careful in matters of one’s table: eat and drink in such a way that is for serving God, and not to satisfy one’s cravings, and so one habituates themself in all of the middot (soul traits), cooling the physical appetites, the desire for honor, and arrogance, and perhaps after that one will merit setting the Hanukkah lamp outside, as explained.  

In the world of gashmiyut, the material embodied universe we experience, there are dangers. This Hanukkah, we are forced to reckon with the danger involved in showing up to light a candle on a beach. One version of our story tells us to bring the light inside - or fight fire with fire. Both of these strategies have their place. Sometimes we quietly become Jews at home and citizens in the street. Sometimes we organize politically and even militarily to ensure safety. 

The Bat Ayin adds another dimension, though, reminding us that danger resides not only in the world but in our reaction to the world. 

In his ideal version of Hanukkah activism, we practice a form of hospitality he calls conversion - helping turn what is broken, harmful, and lacking into something restored, beneficial, and whole. He sees Hanukkah as a re-dedication to the spiritual act of transmuting evil into good, chaos into coexistence, misunderstandings into clarity that illuminates. 

But if we find ourselves being swept away by anger, anxiety, hatred, fear, selfish desire, or despair, we will struggle to be of true service to our higher intentions, our kavana. In those moments (and we all have them), there is a danger that we might bring about harm rather than healing in our interactions. So we turn inward, not to hide but to return to ourselves. Alongside tikkun olam, repair of the world, there is tikkun atzmi, personal restorative repair. 

Like Hanukkah, which every year returns us to one lone candle before we increase the light and holiness, we too have cycles of turning inward, strengthening, practicing, “doing the work,” and then opening up once more to the outer world where we have our part to do in the great work of mending. 

Shabbat shalom! And Chag Hanukkah sameach!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Coincidence, Angel or Miracle

This week's Dvar Torah seems to have found me coincidentally... or at least, these specific verses appeared right in front of me at just the right time. I was assigned a Torah reading to learn for tomorrow's Shabbat Morning Minyan, which means that all week I've literally been staring at the same short section of lines, noticing their language and growing curious about them.

Parashat Vayeshev opens at the very beginning of the Joseph story. At the outset of this Torah portion, we learn that Joseph was the most beloved of his father's children and given a special coat as a gift, and see how he recounts his dreams to his brothers in a way that induces anger and jealousy in them. Then, Joseph's father, Israel/Jacob, sends him to go find his brothers who are out pasturing flocks. Here's what the text actually says about the events that unfold in this brief episode (Gen. 37:14-17):

"When he [Joseph] reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, 'What are you looking for?' He answered, 'I am looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?' The man said, 'They have gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dothan.' So Joseph followed his brothers and found them in Dotan."

As you may have noticed in this passage, the "man" (Hebrew: "ish") who came upon Joseph in the fields is unnamed and anonymous. He is simply someone who appears in the right place at exactly the right time, and his presence becomes a critical domino in this saga of cascading events. If Joseph hadn't found his brothers in Dotan, they never would have sold him into slavery in Egypt. If Joseph hadn't been sold into slavery in Egypt, he would not have saved his entire family and set into motion the chain of events leading to the Exodus and all of Jewish history. In other words, we owe everything about our identity to this stranger-in-the-field.

Furthermore, you also may have noticed that the interaction between the man and Joseph is a strange one. Joseph never asks for help, never introduces himself, never even describes to this stranger how many brothers he has or what they look like. Traditional Torah commentators have also picked up on these details in the text. Regarding verse 15 above, Rashi (writing in 11th century France) cites two ancient midrashim as proof that the phrase "the man" must refer to the angel Gabriel (click here to see Rashi's comment and those midrashic references). Siftei Chachamim (a 17th century Dutch super-commentary on Rashi) builds upon this idea, noting that "the man" clearly knows too much to be anything other than an angelic being:

"This refers to Gavriel..." Yosef did not say to the man, “Do you know my brothers, and where they are pasturing?” Rather, he said [straight away], “Tell me please, where are they pasturing?” This shows it was an angel, [who assumedly knows]..." (click here to view the whole comment).

I am struck this week by how powerful a tendency it is -- and also, how normal a human experience it is -- to ascribe deeper spiritual meaning to seemingly ordinary or random events. Throughout the centuries, a long line of Jewish tradition supports us in reading this man who appeared in the field just when Joseph needed support as an angel: a being sent by God specifically to guide him to the place where he will find his brothers. Reading the text this way instantly transforms the Joseph narrative from a soap opera-ish human drama to a sacred story about God's hidden presence in the world.

Perhaps it's not a coincidence either, then that Parashat Vayeshev is always read on either the first Shabbat of Chanukah or on the Shabbat immediately preceding Chanukah (as is the case this year). When it comes to Chanukah, this same tendency is front and center! The book of Maccabees records the story of Mattathias and his son Judah who led a rebellion against the Seleucid Empire. Because this rag-tag band of Jewish rebels were so much the underdog, our tradition has long ascribed their military victory as a miracle, and as evidence of God's hand in history. The rabbis of the Talmud extend the miracle theme, spinning a second tale -- the famous one about the cruse of oil that was only expected to last a single day, but instead lasted eight, thus enabling the rededication of the temple (chanukat ha-bayit). Whether we're focusing on the military victory or the story of the oil, Chanukah thus becomes a holiday all about miracles!

I've always had some trouble wrapping my head around utterly supernatural miracles (the kinds that truly seem to fly in the face of the laws of nature), but, I quite love the idea that as Jews, we are primed to see the events that unfold in our lives as evidence of the Divine presence. Perhaps you can think of specific moments from your own life that fit this bill? Maybe, as with Joseph, an unnamed stranger once appeared in just the right place at just the right moment to point you in the direction you needed to go, or maybe in some small moment, a disaster was averted, you saw a "sign," or someone said exactly the words you needed to hear. Who is to say that what happened to you wasn't a miracle, or God's hand, or the angel Gabriel fulfilling a mission in the world?!

On this Shabbat of Parashat Vayeshev, may we find ourselves able to notice the unnamed characters who linger at the edge of our stories, and able to view our lives through miracle-colored glasses. With spiritual openness to the possibility of God's presence in our lives, may we find ourselves pointed in precisely the directions we need to head, in order to bring light into the world and fulfill our destinies.

Shabbat Shalom for today, and wishing you all a happy and miracle-filled Chanukah (beginning Sunday evening),

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Jacob the Fox

Once, when the leopard was making a scornful comparison between himself and the fox, claiming that he had a coat of varying and many-colored spots, the fox replied that while the leopard’s ornamentation was on his skin, his own was in the mind. And truly it was much better to be endowed with cunning brains than with a party-colored skin. 

Plutarch, Moralia (referring to one of Aesop’s fables)

Ya’akov Avinu, our ancestor Jacob, is a real heel. That’s what his name means anyway. He was born “holding on to the heel (ekev) of Esau; so they named him Jacob (ya’akov)” (Bereishit 25:26).  As his story unfolds, his character seems morally tepid at best, and he is downright deceitful and manipulative to many of his closest family members. 

And yet, he is also described as tam (Bereishit 25:27), a word which can range in meaning from “mild-mannered” to “morally perfect”. Ibn Ezra contrasts him to his brother this way: “Esau the hunter was constantly practicing deception, for most animals are trapped through trickery. Jacob was his antithesis, because he was a man of integrity.” 

Given what he know of how Jacob steals birthrights and blessings, manipulates livestock, bargains with God for protection, shows favoritism among his children, etc., it is a little hard to square the text’s assertion of his integrity with the text’s description of his apparently loose association with ethical concerns. 

One of my favorite midrashic attempts to reconcile the term comes from Avot deRabbi Natan, in which they assert that the “integrity” implied by tam means Jacob was born circumcised. He is born with a very specific type of wholeness, in which his body does not require the adjustment of circumcision in order to enter the covenant. When you find interpretations like this in the tradition, you know you aren’t wildly off base thinking the text is hard to understand…

In this week’s parashah, Vayishlach, Jacob yet again turns to a clever and cunning strategy. As his large family journeys to his home of origin, they hear that Esau is coming to greet them with 400 men, and Jacob understandably fears retribution. He devises a scheme of sending waves of gifts, and then splits his camp so that if the bribes don’t work at least there will be some survivors. By the end of this episode, however, “Esau ran to greet him. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept” (Bereishit 33:4). Although there are some who are ready to read Esau as hiding ulterior motives, the plain sense of the text is that Esau is just happy to see his brother again. He has forgotten old grudges, and only Jacob still carries around the burden of his past behavior. 

What are we to make of Jacob? The 20th century philosopher Isaiah Berlin once wrote an essay in which he explored an ancient Greek aphorism, “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” The fox is clever and comes up with many tactics to find its food, while the hedgehog simply rolls into a prickly ball anytime it is threatened. Berlin uses these two animal archetypes to discuss great writers and thinkers, dividing them into hedgehogs who have a single coherent, all-encompassing vision or theory, and foxes, who are more eclectic and willing to engage with and incorporate diverse sources, even when they are contradictory.

Jacob is a bit of a fox, a trickster who evades expectations, a resourceful and clever ancestor. He is only tam on the outside, but within the tents of his mind he holds complexity, possibility, and fluidity. 

He may not always act in ways moral hedgehogs would prefer, but he is also uniquely among the forefathers capable of uniting all of his children (eventually, and tentatively, and still with tension, but truly) such that when we refer to the entire Jewish people, we say b’nei yisrael, the children of Israel/Jacob.

He is the first to bequeath a complex multiplicity rather than an ideological vision’s purity test (which had severed him from his brother Esau, and his father Isaac from his uncle Ishmael, and his grandfather Abraham from his great-grandparents and everyone who came before). 

Each ancestor asks us questions. 
Abraham asks us, What is true? What do you believe? 
Sarah asks us, What is possible that you may have given up on? 
Isaac asks us, What are you willing to sacrifice? 
Rebecca asks us, What are you willing to endure, and why? 
And Jacob asks us, What do you need to do to survive? And, what do we need to do to stay in this family and community together? 

Does Jacob have all the answers? Definitely not. After his night-long wrestling session with the man or angel, he walks away limping, with a new name “Israel (god-wrestler)” that simply reminds him and us that we will always keep wrestling with ultimate questions. But that is the way of the fox, always curious, always clever, carrying the burden of overthinking, and creating eclectic and invigorating communities where the possible is imperfectly practiced. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Rabbi Jay LeVine

What's in a Name: Thanksgiving Torah on Jewishness

As we head into the Shabbat of Thanksgiving weekend, I am feeling grateful for both my Americanness and my Jewishness, despite the fact that neither identity is particularly simple at this juncture in history.

In a box of family photos and artifacts, I recently came across a document that sits at the intersection of the two identities: my great-grandmother Esther's Certificate of Naturalization, from when she became a US citizen. The year was 1931 and she was 30 years old and married by that point, with children who were themselves US citizens. The certificate lists her former nationality as Polish, and her race as "Hebrew."

The term "Hebrew" or "ivri" is one vocabulary word for talking about Jewish collectivity. It goes back to Abraham, who -- when a messenger reports to him about his nephew Lot being taken captive -- is identified in Genesis 14:13 as "Avram ha-Ivri," "Abram the Hebrew." The "ivri" identifier has multiple possible meanings: it certainly could connect to the fact that Abraham is a descendent of Ever (on the genealogical list in Genesis 11). However, it's more commonly understood as meaning "one who crosses over," which refers to Abraham having originally come from the other side of the Euphrates river or -- according to midrashim -- having stood on one side (in belief) while the rest of the world was on the other.  

"Hebrew" was certainly the preferred term for talking about our ancestor's collective identity in the first couple of chapters of Exodus -- as there we find phrases like "Hebrew midwives" (Exodus 1:15), "Hebrew women" (Ex. 1:16), "Hebrew child" (Ex. 2:6) and "Hebrew nurse" (Ex. 2:7) in quick succession. In early 20th century America, "Hebrew" was a racial category used to talk about Jews. However, among the Jewish community, the preferred term would probably have been "Israelite." 

"Israelite" -- or "b'nai yisrael" in Hebrew -- literally refers to the descendants of Israel, and Israel, as we know, is the new name given to our ancestor Jacob in Genesis 32:25-33. There (in next week's Torah portion), Jacob wrestles all night with a mysterious being and in the end is told by this figure: “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel (Yisrael), for you have striven (sarita) with beings divine and human, and have prevailed.” To be an Israelite, then, is to be identified as part of a group that wrestles... certainly with God, and perhaps also with humans.

Today, our community isn't likely to refer to ourselves as either "Hebrews" or as "Israelites." Since World War II, the dominant terms for describing our collectivity here in America would be "Jews" ("yehudim") or "Jewish" ("yehudi"), and we call our religious tradition "Judaism" ("yahadut"). All of these words stem from the name of Judah (Yehudah), one of Jacob's sons and the father of one of the twelve tribes of ancient Israelites. Eventually, Judah also became the name of the southern Israelite kingdom, which survived even after the Assyrian conquest of the northern kingdom of Israel, and so the surviving people became collectively known as "yehudim." The term yehudim appears many times in the Tanakh, including in II Kings 16:6 and frequently in the book of Esther, where Mordecai is first introduced as "ish yehudi," "a Jewish man."

If you have never stopped to think about what the word Jewish actually means, this week is the perfect opportunity to do so, as this week's Torah portion, Parashat Vayetze, is where we find the birth and naming story of Judah, our namesake.

You may recall the back story: that Jacob has fallen in love with Rachel, but ends up married to her sister Leah as well. In a family drama that features dysfunction and extreme sibling rivalry, the two sisters embark upon child-bearing as though it's a competitive sport. Leah gives birth first, to four sons in quick succession (literally, in four back-to-back Torah verses!). The first three fall into a pattern, where the name given to each new baby is a Hebrew language word-play that underscores her feeling of being unloved and the non-preferred wife (see Gen. 29:32-34):

Leah conceived and bore a son, and named him Reuben; for she declared, “It means: ‘Adonai has seen my affliction’; it also means: ‘Now my husband will love me.’”She conceived again and bore a son, and declared, “This is because Adonai heard that I was unloved and has given me this one also”; so she named him Simeon. Again she conceived and bore a son and declared, “This time my husband will become attached to me, for I have borne him three sons.” Therefore he was named Levi.

The arrival in Gen. 29:35 of Leah's fourth son, however, breaks the tragic pattern:

וַתַּ֨הַר ע֜וֹד וַתֵּ֣לֶד בֵּ֗ן וַתֹּ֙אמֶר֙ הַפַּ֙עַם֙ אוֹדֶ֣ה אֶת־יְהֹוָ֔ה עַל־כֵּ֛ן קָרְאָ֥ה שְׁמ֖וֹ יְהוּדָ֑ה וַֽתַּעֲמֹ֖ד מִלֶּֽדֶת׃

She conceived again and bore a son, and declared, “This time I will praise/thank Adonai.” Therefore she named him Judah. Then she stopped bearing.

The name Judah (Yehudah), in other words, is the only name in the set that isn't an expression of Leah's bitterness, but rather of her gratitude. 

Rabbi Shai Held shared a beautiful Dvar Torah on this topic several years ago, which he titled "Can We Be Grateful and Disappointed at the Same Time?" I highly recommend reading his whole essay here, but I'm happy to share this relevant excerpt here:

"Leah is disappointed, and as we have seen, she has every right to be. But she is also grateful -- despite the intensity of her pain, she, too, has her blessings... With the birth of Judah, Leah has discovered the awesome capacity to feel grateful even amidst her sorrows.

A Talmudic Sage makes a surprising, even jarring statement about Leah. Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai says that Leah was the first person in the history of the world who ever expressed gratitude to God (Babylonian Talmud Berakhot 7b). What could this possibly mean? Of course other people before Leah had offered thanksgiving to God... What makes Leah's gratitude unique? What is it that establishes her as the first truly grateful person? It is one thing to be grateful when everything is wonderful, when all of our dreams have been fulfilled and all of our hungers sated. But it is quite another to be grateful when life is complicated, when some of our most cherished dreams have remained painfully unrealized, when some of our yearnings are so intense that they threaten to burn right through us. Leah is the first person to feel and express gratitude even and especially amidst profound sorrow and enduring disappointment. 

Strikingly, the name Leah gives her fourth son, Judah, meaning "I will praise" or "I will express gratitude," becomes the name of the Jewish people as a whole. Who is a Jew? One who discovers the possibility of gratitude even amidst heartbreak. That is why we are given the name that expresses Leah's courage, and her achievement: a Jew is, ideally, a human being who, like Leah, can find her way to gratitude without having everything she wants or even needs."

I love Rabbi Held's assertion that our identity as Jews is fundamentally grounded in Leah's ability to feel and express gratitude, even and perhaps especially when we are also disappointed. Gratitude is not conditioned on perfection.

This feels like a great message to uplift on this particular Shabbat, of Thanksgiving weekend 2025 / 5786.  Here in America over the last few centuries, we have been identified at different times as "Hebrews," "Israelites," and "Jews." The meanings of all three words ring true: we have "crossed over" from one land to another, "wrestled" to get to where we are today, and we continue to follow the example of our foremother Leah, expressing gratitude, even as we strive to help both our people and our country live up to the blessings of their full promise.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Rebekah and Isaac

Rabbi Ellen Bernstein, of blessed memory, writes in her commentary on Shir HaShirim, or Song of Songs, (Toward a Holy Ecology) that “the holiness of the Song lies in its vision of wholeness; the interconnected, inviolable relationships that underly the health of the whole earth. The Song’s gardens - both the woman’s garden and the many floral, forested, fruiting, and perfume gardens are integrated whole systems. They can especially be appreciated when compared to the parched landscapes and the barren women whose stories drive many of the Torah’s narratives…The sumptuous floral landscape of the Song, promising a world that will flourish, diversify, and blossom forever, is a testament to wholeness.”

What a vision! If you read no further, dayenu (it would be enough) - and zil gmor (go learn!), find a copy of the book and study sacred eco-erotic poetry from the ancient Jewish tradition… 

But if you are still reading, let’s turn to the parched landscape of this week’s Torah portion, Toldot, and join our second barren matriarch, Rebekah. 

“And Isaac pleaded with God (l’nochach לְנֹכַח on behalf of) his wife, because she was barren; and God responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25:21)

At first it seems as if Rebekah is just there, not even mentioned by name until the end of the verse. Isaac prays, God responds, and Rebekah conceives (obviously something else must have happened in that sequence as well). Does Rebekah even want children? In the very next verse she questions the point of her existence during a painful pregnancy!

In the midrash, the rabbis are curious about the word l’nochach, translated as “on behalf,” which usually means “opposite to” or “in front of.” It gets the secondary meaning of advocacy in the sense of someone stepping out in front arguing the case for those behind. In the plain reading of the Torah, Isaac asks for something on behalf of Rebekah, but not necessarily with her consent or for her well being. This is a very narrow and self-interested form of advocacy. 

But instead the ancient rabbis read this word l’nochach as an act of collaboration!

“Opposite his wife” – it teaches that Isaac was prostrated here and she was prostrated there, and he was saying: Master of the universe, all the children that You are giving me will be from this righteous woman.’ She, too, said so: ‘All the children that You are destined to give me will be from this righteous man.’ (Bereishit Rabbah 63:5)

This image is a powerful yet rare example of egalitarian love in the Torah. Isaac and Rebekah, mirroring each other, generate a prayer energy infused with respect, care, and mutuality, thereby opening up new space for life to emerge. Within the midrashic reading of the verse, seeds from the Song of Songs are sprouting. Rebekah and Isaac recognize a lack of wholeness in their lives, but seek to mend it through practices that still emphasize wholeness rather than focus on what feels shattered. If You, God, will be giving us children, we will be each other’s co-parent. We are united, and our interconnection is inviolable. 

And yet, I worry that painting this almost idyllic picture of two saintly people facing adversity with remarkable grace and coordination doesn’t really help us in our own relationships. Whether we want children or not (wholeness can emerge in all sorts of ways), and whether we are thinking about romantic or friend or family relationships, it just isn’t easy to merge action and aspiration in the way that Isaac and Rebekah do. We need a little more insight to learn from our ancestors.

In a contemporary work of midrash by Israeli women, Dirshuni, Dr. Hagit Rafel teaches the verse this way:

This one stood at this angle and prayed, and that one stood at that angle and prayed, but they were not answered because their prayers were separated and weren’t flowing from one wellspring. 

The Holy One saw their sorrow and opened their eyes. 

Isaac and Rebekah stood together, this one facing that one, and this one opposite/advocating for his wife and that one opposite/advocating for her husband. They turned aside their veils and the barriers (mechitza) of their hearts and saw eye to eye. 

Rebekah saw the splendor of Isaac, and also his blemishes…

And Isaac saw his beloved, her beauty and the integrity of her heart, and also her blemishes… They established and accepted upon themselves to live with love, in fellowship, in peace, and in friendship with their blemishes. And their compassion rolled like a wave from this one to that one and from that one to this one. And there are some who say: From that wave of compassion did Jacob (their son) draw strength to roll the stone off the opening of the well (helping Rachel draw water when he first saw her and fell in love). 

How does God answer prayers? Through helping us see each other, our splendor and beauty and also our blemishes. How do we answer God’s prayers? Through befriending our blemishes, and living with compassion. I particularly love how in this midrash what Rebekah conceives isn’t just a child, but a virtuous cycle whereby one of her children acts with compassion and initiates his own flawed-yet-loving relationship many decades later. 

Where do you draw strength from? What ancestral wells (stories, experiences, values, etc.) nourish you? How do you open your eyes and heart to see loved ones in their wholeness? 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay Levine

Camels & Kindness

The government shutdown formally ended this week, but it's been the longest one in U.S. history and its effects will be felt for quite some time. Over recent weeks, the administration has tried to use this shutdown to enact permanent reductions in the government workforce and has petitioned the Supreme Court not to fund SNAP benefits so that low-income people can eat; all of this feels callous and cruel. The extreme lack of generosity that is informing public policy -- this impulse not to take care of people, not to pay them, not to feed them -- flies in the face of every religious value we hold dear as Jews and as decent human beings.

At a time like this, with indifference and cruelty having a heyday, we must return to some of our most fundamental, foundational values and articulate them anew. In a previous moment, teaching about the importance of kindness and compassion might have felt trite. Yet, given what's transpired here in America over these last few weeks, lifting up such basic values as these feels like precisely the Torah we need to revisit at this moment.

This week's Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, helps us in this attempt. Abraham, concerned with the continuity of his line, sends his servant back to his hometown to find a wife for his son Isaac. After a long journey across the desert with his camel caravan, the servant arrives in Aram-naharaim and heads to the well outside the city at evening, "the time when women come out to draw water" (Gen 24:11). He then utters a prayer that sets up a test -- one designed to help him identify the right woman. He says to God:

"...Let the maiden to whom I say, 'Please, lower your jar that I may drink,' and who replies, 'Drink, and I will also water your camels' -- let her be the one whom You have decreed for Your servant Isaac. Thereby shall I know that you have dealt graciously (ki asita chesed) with my master." (Gen. 24:12-14)

The camel test is noteworthy in several ways. Many modern commentators highlight the physical feat that it sets up. For example, the Etz Chayim Chumash notes, "A single camel (and here there were 10!) requires at least 25 gallons of water to regain the weight it loses in the course of a long journey. It takes a camel about 10 minutes to drink this amount of water." We can imagine that Rebecca -- the woman who shows up at the well just as soon as the servant finishes uttering these words and indeed not only offers water to the weary traveler but also to his camels -- must have been both physically strong and generous with her time in order to undertake such a Herculean task as hauling some 250+ gallons of water.

In addition, Rebecca's offer to water the servants' camels is also a testament to a set of desirable personal characteristics such as kindness, generosity, and caring for others. These qualities connect her very directly to her soon-to-be father-in-law Abraham, who just chapters before (see Gen. 18, the beginning of last week's parasha) had stationed himself at the opening of his tent in the heat of the day to be able to welcome visitors, and when they arrived, raced around preparing food for them. The hospitality (hachnasat orchim) and kindness (chesed) of both Abraham and Rebecca make her the right choice for ensuring continuity in this first family of avot v'imahot (patriarchs and matriarchs).

As Rabbi David Kasher pointed out in an essay on this parasha a couple years ago, camels appear more times in Genesis 24 than in the whole rest of the Torah put together! Kasher claims a philological (linguistic) connection between the Hebrew word for camel (gamal: spelled gimel, mem, lamed) and the verb ligmol (also gimel, mem, lamed), meaning "giving" or "bestowing" -- as in Birkat HaGomel, the blessing of gratitude recited at the Torah after having survived a dangerous situation. The word chesed -- which also appeared in the servant's prayer as noted above -- and the repeated appearance of camels, together, evokes the famous phrase "gemilut chasadim," "the giving of kindness" --  one of the three pillars upon which the world stands, according to Shimon HaTzaddik in Pirkei Avot. We also pair these words in a slightly different form every time we recite the Amidah, as we call God "Gomeil Chasadim tovim," "the Bestower of Good Kindnesses." 

So, what's the takeaway from this story and all of this word-play? Rebecca is the right wife for Isaac not only because she is physically strong, but also because she is exceedingly kind and generous-of-spirit. As we read the section of Parashat Chayei Sarah in which she draws vast quantities of water from the well in order to care for a dusty traveler and a whole caravan of camels, and when the servant interprets her presence as a fulfillment of God's chesed (kindness, faithfulness, graciousness) towards Abraham, we the readers are left to connect the dots. Rebecca's actions are an echo of Abraham's, and also of the Divine quality of "bestowing kindness."

As descendants of Rebecca, we hold up her kindness towards the servant and his camels as a model for how each of us can aspire to act in the world. Channeling Rebecca's spirit gives us a way to resist the callousness and cruelty that swirl around us right now. When we see people in need of food and water, supplies and clothing, it is our responsibility to feed them and ensure that they have what they need. If the government is not going to do its part, then it is up to us to fill in the gap to the greatest possible extent until we can make change on a governmental level.

There are so many opportunities to embody Rebecca's spirit of "gemilut chasadim" and to "give kindness" to others. For example, this week, you're invited to click here to donate to JFS's SNAP Response Fund to provide grocery gift cards to those in the Seattle community who need them most, or here for more info about the JFS Winter Warmth Drive (complete with an Amazon wish-list which makes it very easy to choose a useful item). This weekend at our High School Program, Kavana teens will be learning about how our Jewish values inform our obligation to help cultivate belonging and community for our neighbors experiencing poverty and homelessness, and next month at our Kavana Chanukah party, we will be collecting non-perishable food and hygiene items for the Queen Anne Helpline (click here and scroll down to view their wish-lists -- please start collecting items now!).

Lastly, Rebecca's spirit of generosity goes beyond what she physically gives, and can be seen through her nobility of character, her hospitality to strangers, and her kindness towards animals. Let us -- each of us -- try to embody her spirit during this week of Chayei Sarah, acting as our kindest, most hospitable, most noble selves in our personal interactions with one another. The small kindnesses we might bestow upon one another matter more than we can possibly know; together, they create a powerful wave of resistance to cruelty, callousness and hatred.

Wishing you a Shabbat of generosity, kindness, and all that is good,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

In a Bind

This week we read “The Binding of Isaac” (Akedat Yitzchak), one of the most enigmatic ethical puzzles in the Torah. That rabbinic name for the story brings us right to the point of moral tension. Abraham, on God’s orders, has brought his son Isaac up a mountain, and has bound him in preparation for ritual sacrifice. A heavenly voice ultimately stops him from going through with it. But even though the two walk away from the scene alive, the binding haunts them and later readers through the ages.

Each character evades easy understanding: 

Why did Abraham not argue for justice like he did earlier regarding Sodom and Gomorrah? 

What’s the deal with Isaac???? Was he tricked? A willing participant? A child or a grown son?

And most perplexingly, why did God tell Abraham to do it, and then why did God stop him from doing it? What was the point of it all? 

We are left in a bind, unable to resolve the contradictions neatly. 

Surely Abraham can’t be the one that God “singled out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of God by doing what is just and right” (Genesis 18:19), and also be a father who “picked up the knife to slay his son” (Genesis 22:10). And yet he is. 

And even if we lean towards hearing God’s command as requiring faith above ethics, or alternatively as demanding ethical condemnation, we struggle to resolve God’s initial directions with the later change of mind. Does God want this, or not? 

For me, the story resists resolution because it is illustrating through a graphic and memorable parable an enduring tension in human ethics, one that cannot (or should not) be fully resolved: the tension between purpose and survival, and more abstractly between universalism and particularism. 

The moral tension in the story does not resolve around the problem of one human killing another (there are other stories exploring that subject), but around the problem of sacrificing one’s own family in pursuit of ideology. God puts Abraham in a no-win situation. He has to choose to follow the voice of his purpose or ensure the survival of his family and future, but he cannot choose both. 

Ultimately, God seems pleased that Abraham chose purpose, but also aware that although ideas never die, only living people can carry them forward. God tells Abraham, “All the nations of the earth shall bless themselves by your descendants, because you have obeyed My command” (Genesis 22:18).

In this one sentence, the strange bind of Jewish community emerges. We have a universal purpose (if vague), and a distinct and particular need to survive as ourselves, as people who carry forward the covenant between God and Abraham. Our job as Jews is to bring survival and purpose into balance. 

Although this moment in time for Jews in America feels exhausting and complicated and fraught and fraying in so many ways, we have a fascinating opportunity to hear “out loud” the essential tension of Judaism and take ownership over our part in the ongoing conversation. We are in an akedah moment. 

How many of us feel like we must choose between what we think is right and who we are related to (maybe in a literal and immediate sense, or in a looser tribal sense both ethnically and politically)? 

Some hear God’s initial call of moral purpose, and are willing to sacrifice their familial ties for the sake of what they think is right.

Some hear the voice telling Abraham to stop, and furiously denounce anyone who would threaten Isaac, the survival of the Jewish people. (This voice was particularly loud regarding New York in recent weeks…)

The disagreements seem sharper than a knife. But we have two ears, and capacity to hear both voices. Most of us, I think, continue to feel bound up in our complex Jewish family, and are doing our best to navigate how to live up to our Jewish ideals and protect actual Jewish lives, even as we may have wildly different readings of reality. 

I believe complete polarization fails the test of an akedah moment. Abraham and Isaac walk down the mountain separately, and they appear not to exchange words again. It is possible that centuries from now, history books will document the emergence of a schism, and dedicated practitioners of various religious communities will ponder with difficulty how we could have all understood ourselves as klal yisrael, one Jewish whole, when it was obviously the foment of now fully independent communities and traditions. This has happened before in Jewish history. There was a time when Christians were still a Jewish sect. 

But that’s not what happens in the Torah’s story of the akedah. When we invoke Abraham and Isaac today, they are both our ancestors. We must somehow internalize rather than externalize the poles of purpose and survival if we are to carry on together in any meaningful sense.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Long Story Short: Abram and Sarai's Time in Egypt

Over the last few weeks, I've been enjoying the show Long Story Short on Netflix -- it's probably the Jew-iest cartoon I've ever seen! The show features the many colorful characters in the dysfunctional Schwooper family, delving deep into their relationships with one another, their personal decisions and professional lives. To me, the most compelling and interesting aspect of it is that each episode takes place across two different years, such that the story-arc of every installment follows the characters across the decades from childhood to adulthood, the content tied together thematically. (The New York Times review of the show, published this August, referred to this as "time travel, family style.") This structural frame enables creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg to probe how the themes, tendencies or conflicts that manifest in an early chapter of the characters' lives tie into what's to come later, thus linking the personality quirks and odd (and usually comical) situations that manifest later in adulthood to key developmental moments. My brain has enjoyed the puzzle of trying to figure out how the disparate narrative pieces fit together, and understand what makes this family tick.

This week's Torah portion, Lecha L'cha, does something similar with the story of Abram and Sarai's time in Egypt. Here is the short story in its entirety, from Gen. 12:10-13:1:

There was a famine in the land, and Abram went down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was severe in the land. As he was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife Sarai, “I know what a beautiful woman you are. If the Egyptians see you, and think, ‘She is his wife,’ they will kill me and let you live. Please say that you are my sister, that it may go well with me because of you, and that I may remain alive thanks to you.”

When Abram entered Egypt, the Egyptians saw how very beautiful the woman was. Pharaoh’s courtiers saw her and praised her to Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s palace. And because of her, it went well with Abram; he acquired sheep, oxen, asses, male and female slaves, she-asses, and camels.

But Adonai afflicted Pharaoh and his household with mighty plagues on account of Sarai, the wife of Abram. Pharaoh sent for Abram and said, “What is this you have done to me! Why did you not tell me that she was your wife? Why did you say, ‘She is my sister,’ so that I took her as my wife? Now, here is your wife; take her and begone!”

And Pharaoh put agents in charge of him, and they sent him off with his wife and all that he possessed. From Egypt, Abram went up into the Negeb, with his wife and all that he possessed, together with Lot.

This narrative has generated lots of commentary, not least because similar "wife-sister narratives" appear an additional two times in Genesis (see chapters 20 and 26). Classical commentators -- always seeking to smooth out the Torah's text and reconcile inconsistencies -- struggle to understand why Abram, held up as a moral exemplar, would have lied about this relationship; some of them argue that Sarai was, in fact, his half-sister. Using a very different historical-critical lens, scholars have read this text against the backdrop of Ancient Near Eastern mythology; as the Jewish Encyclopedia explains, the purpose of this patterned story "is to extol the heroines as most beautiful and show that the Patriarchs were under the special protection of the Deity." And over more recent decades, feminists like Phyllis Trible (who died this month at the age of 92 - click here to listen to an NPR remembrance) have called these stories "texts of terror," noting that the patriarch makes his wife a mere pawn in negotiations; contemporary feminist midrashim seek to restore Sarai's voice.

For me, as I re-encountered this story about Abram and Sarai this week, the one piece that jumped out at me most is the degree to which the language, details and arc of this narrative prefigures the Exodus story. Some of the specific connections I noticed include: 

• a famine in the land, which sends Abram down to Egypt (the same will happen in three generations with Joseph and his brothers),

• the text's emphasis of a character's great physical attractiveness, and a near-miss sexual encounter (here, between Sarai and Pharaoh; later, with Joseph and Potiphar's wife),

• affliction and plagues upon Pharaoh and his house,

• the "take her and begone" ending (reminiscent of Pharaoh's ultimate release-under-duress of the enslaved Israelites).

Overall, this text tells a very similar story to the grand Exodus narrative, but in miniature: a quick version of our ancestors going down to Egypt, getting ensnared there, relying on Divine intervention to get out, and ultimately being restored to freedom. 

Lest you think it's too much of a stretch to argue that the family narrative of Genesis is aware of the larger national story to come in Exodus and consciously foreshadowing and setting it up, I also present to you two verses from later in this same Torah portion of Lech Lecha -- Gen 15:13-14 -- that come as God reasserts the covenant with Abraham, promising to be his shield (magen) and to make his offspring as numerous as the stars in the sky: 

And [God] said to Abram, “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years; but I will execute judgment on the nation they shall serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.

That more explicit reference supports my claim: that the text of our parasha purposefully points the reader towards the Exodus story, drawing a clear parallel between these two chapters of our people's history.

As I shared this idea with Rabbi Jay and asked him why he thought the text was connecting dots in this way, he proposed that "maybe the whole point is to train us to see parallels so we can make different choices."

I think Rabbi Jay is right, and his words prompted me to think about the echoes of history that may be ringing loudly in our ears at this particular moment in time. There are, of course, multiple possible antecedents to any moment, and to some extent, this kind of mapping always exists "in the eyes of the beholder." But, to give a couple of recent examples: at the No Kings Rally a couple weeks ago, I saw a number of signs with sentiments like "We want America, not 1930s Germany"; this week, historian Heather Cox Richardson wrote a piece about how the American economic policies of the 1920s -- tax cuts for the ultra-wealthy, rebates and tax abatements worth billions -- led to short-term economic growth followed by an enormous stock market crash in late October 1929. "History does not repeat itself, but it does often rhyme," Mark Twain is reputed to have said. In both of these cases, the mapping of the past onto our present may or may not ultimately ring true, as we are still living inside an unfolding story. There is a possibility that these chapters of history will indeed end up "rhyming," and a possibility that they will not... but that depends on what happens next, which is -- at least in part -- up to us.

I hope that Parashat Lech Lecha's story of Abram and Sarai going down to Egypt can serve as a helpful reminder to us, this week, that we have the ability to see patterns in stories and in history and to act with agency. To that end, I hope that EVERY member of the Kavana community who is eligible to do so will cast a ballot before the 8pm deadline in this coming Tuesday's election. Let's listen for echoes, patterns, and rhymes, and then use the tools at our disposal to shape the stories of our lives in the directions of our choosing.

Shabbat Shalom (and if you do happen to watch an episode of Long Story Short, drop me a line and let me know what you think of it),

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Remembering a Luminary of Our Time

The sun rises, and the sun sets… (Kohelet 1:5)

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana said: Do we not know that the sun rises and the sun sets? The meaning is, however, that before the Holy Blessed One causes the sun of a righteous person to set, the sun of their righteous counterpart rises. (Bereishit Rabbah 58:2)

As we leave zman simchateinu, Sukkot’s “season of our joy,” a sun has set. I met him only once. 

The last public event I went to before the pandemic shut down society in 2020 was a Tu Bishvat program at a Jewish urban farm in Berkeley. The late winter “new year of the trees” is a minor Jewish holiday, but a major deal for any Jews interested in nature, climate justice, and other earthy attractions. 

At this particular gathering, I felt a tickle of delight in my toes as I met in person, for the first time a grandfather of the Jewish environmental movement, Rabbi Arthur Waskow. I remember how energy and joy and passion radiated from his elderly body. Most of us were in our twenties and thirties, and you could feel the respect and admiration flowing back and forth between him and the younger folks. 

Reb Arthur died on Monday, October 20th. You can read more about him here. And I recommend this interview with Shaul Magid. 

One of Arthur Waskow’s early impacts on the Jewish world was his Freedom Seder, which he wrote after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1968.

I was not just a spectator to his passionate life and death. I had spent nine years in Washington working day and night against racial injustice and the Vietnam War—behind a typewriter on Capitol Hill; at the microphone on countless college campuses; sitting in unbearably hot back rooms of Convention Hall in Atlantic City in 1964, working alongside Dr. King when he came hobbling on a badly twisted ankle to rally support for the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party; marching and sitting-down against the Vietnam War in 1967, at the Pentagon…

On the evening of April 3, Dr. King spoke to a crowd in Memphis: “I’ve been to the mountaintop… And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!” Echoes of Moses. By the next night, he was dead.

By noon the next day, Washington, my city, was ablaze…By April 6, there was a curfew…And then came the afternoon of April 12. That night, Passover would begin…So I walked home to help prepare to celebrate the seder. On every block, detachments of the Army. On 18th Street, a Jeep with a machine gun pointing up my block. Somewhere within me, deeper than my brain or breathing, my blood began to chant: “This is Pharaoh’s army, and I am walking home to do the seder.” (Read the full account here.)

In 1969, he published the Freedom Seder, an activist haggadah, and inspired generations of Jews to make the seder a creative, justice-oriented, faithful-to-the-past, and true-to-the-present ritual. 

Over the decades, Waskow was arrested over two dozen times, including in his 80s protesting ICE. He was known to joke about comparing his arrest count to his number of published books, also over two dozen. 

It feels strange to remember him in the month of Cheshvan, known as the month with no Jewish holidays, when the book I’ve most loved of his is Seasons of Our Joy: A Modern Guide to the Jewish Holidays. Here he collects traditions, poems, and recipes, in addition to explaining the historical and ecological underpinnings of each sacred occasion.  

In honor of this week’s parashah on Noah, check out (and perhaps sing!) Reb Arthur’s rewrite of the Noah’s ark Rise & Shine song. 

A sun has set. But that’s never the end of the story. Look to those who still shine a light for us on the climate crisis, on liberation, on democracy, and on the beauty of Torah. And may each of us do our part to rise and shine until a new day dawns. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Back to the Beginning & Back to the Basics

Having moved through the finish line of our fall holiday marathon with Simchat Torah earlier this week, we now arrive at Shabbat Bereishit, where we begin our cycle of Torah anew. The work we have done throughout the holiday season -- to connect ourselves with our community and our people, our tradition and values, and our highest aspirations for our lives in this New Year -- culminates in a great reset.

As we move back to the beginning of the Torah this week, I also want to draw our attention to an important "basic:" one of the most fundamental principles in all of Jewish tradition.

In the earliest chapters of Genesis, God creates the natural world, finishing with the pièce de résistance: the creation of human beings in Genesis 1:26-27:

(כו) וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֔ים נַֽעֲשֶׂ֥ה אָדָ֛ם בְּצַלְמֵ֖נוּ כִּדְמוּתֵ֑נוּ וְיִרְדּוּ֩ בִדְגַ֨ת הַיָּ֜ם וּבְע֣וֹף הַשָּׁמַ֗יִם וּבַבְּהֵמָה֙ וּבְכָל־הָאָ֔רֶץ וּבְכָל־הָרֶ֖מֶשׂ הָֽרֹמֵ֥שׂ עַל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ (כז) וַיִּבְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ אֶת־הָֽאָדָם֙ בְּצַלְמ֔וֹ בְּצֶ֥לֶם אֱלֹהִ֖ים בָּרָ֣א אֹת֑וֹ זָכָ֥ר וּנְקֵבָ֖ה בָּרָ֥א אֹתָֽם׃

(26) And God said, “Let us make a human in our image, after our likeness. They shall rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, the cattle, the whole earth, and all the creeping things that creep on earth.” (27) And God created the human in [God's] image, in the Divine image, God created [the human]; male and female, [God] created them.

Commentators have spilled lots of ink trying to derive deep truths about God, the universe, and humanity from these two verses, which contain a number of puzzling elements. For today, I simply want to focus on the words I've bolded above -- "et ha-adam" / "the human" (or you could translate it "the earth-being," since the word adam is a play on adamah/earth): the singular individual who is created in God's own image at the beginning, before there are multiple humans ("them") and even before gender differentiation.

The early rabbis wonder aloud why "adam ha-rishon" -- this first human being -- was created singularly. One of the (many) rabbinic texts that answers this question is Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5:

לפיכך נברא אדם יחידי ללמדך שכל המאבד נפש אחת מישראל מעלה עליו הכתוב כאילו איבד עולם מלא וכל המקיים נפש אחת מישראל מעלה עליו הכתוב כאילו קיים עולם מלא ומפני שלום הבריות שלא יאמר אדם לחבירו אבא גדול מאביך ... ולהגיד גדולתו של הקב"ה שאדם טובע כמה מטבעות בחותם אחד כולן דומין זה לזה ומלך מלכי המלכים הקב"ה טבע כל אדם בחותמו של אדם הראשון ואין אחד מהן דומה לחבירו לפיכך כל אחד ואחד חייב לומר בשבילי נברא העולם...

…Therefore the first human being, Adam, was created alone, to teach us that whoever destroys a single life, the Torah considers it as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a single life, the Torah considers it as if he saved an entire world.

Furthermore, only one person, Adam, was created for the sake of peace among people, so that no one should say to his fellow, 'My father was greater than yours....

Also, the human (Adam) [was created singly] to show the greatness of the Holy Blessed One, for if a person strikes many coins from one mold, they all resemble one another, but the King of Kings, the Holy Blessed One, made each subsequent human in the image of the original Adam, and yet not one of them resembles his fellow.

This is one of my favorite rabbinic teachings: such a classic that even if you know it well, it's worth returning to and reconsidering each year as we read this parasha. (Of course, if this teaching is new to you, I commend it to you for learning well and making part of your core-Jewish-values repertoire!)

In our first session of the Kavana High School Program last month, RLO and I had the opportunity to study this text with our teens. (We were talking about what makes a person's life valuable, in preparation for a year of wrestling with some contemporary hot-button/"on the ballot" issues.) The teens studied this Mishnah in chevruta (study pairs), and drew a number of conclusions about what Judaism has to say on the topic of human beings being created "b'tzelem elohim," in God's image. In their own words:

• Every human life has inherent value.

• Destroying a life is destroying a world.

• Each human being should be understood as having been created in God's image.

• God is diminished when a human life is taken.

• Life's value is not measurable - it simply is.

• Uniqueness and human diversity have intrinsic worth.

• Diversity is a tribute to God's awesomeness.

This basic building block of a concept has the potential to be helpful at every level. Rooted in Parashat Bereishit and in the Mishnah's teaching, first, I hope that each of us can cultivate the personal esteem we need to treat ourselves with kindness and compassion, understanding that despite our imperfections, we ourselves are created with a Divine spark in each of us! Second, on a Kavana level, we also aspire to build relationships within our community on this foundation. Hopefully, this manifests in how our partners and community members treat one another, how our educators relate to each child in our youth education programs, how we cultivate effective working relationships among staff and board members, and more. Finally, the fundamental principles derived from the creation of a single human being in God's image should inform how we live in the world and relate to society at large. Right now, some of these "basics" -- like human equality, dignity for all, and the value of diversity -- are under attack here in our American society. Grounded in this piece of Torah, we should feel secure in our understanding of what Judaism calls on us to believe and to do.

I look forward to seeing some of you at the first Shabbat Morning Minyan of this new year tomorrow -- it's exciting to have the opportunity to hear the Torah read from the very beginning! I also look forward to seeing others of you at the No Kings rally afterwards (I'll be walking down to the Seattle Center a bit late, although we also have a group meeting at 11:30), as we march for democracy and human dignity, the same fundamental principles outlined above. And finally, this coming week, we will embark on our year of learning, with the kick-off of youth education programs like Moadon Yeladim and the Middle School Program, and also Adult Ed classes (Rabbi Jay's Mussar group begins next Tuesday night, and I'll be sneaking in Living Room Learning sessions whenever I can this year, including next Wednesday night -- stay tuned for more details in Monday's newsletter). 

Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom, as we move back to the beginning of the Torah and back to the basics together,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum