​

In the Talmud's discussion of Ḥanukkah (Shabbat 22a-b) there's a disagreement about how one can possibly make practical use of the candles. The candles are meant only to be seen and enjoyed, as they are a concrete symbol of the miracle of Ḥanukkah, and not used, for example, to read by. But if the goal of lighting the candles is to share the miracle as widely as possible, one might be able to use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another. In the Talmud's discussion, Rav says that one may not use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another and Shmuel says that one may. 

The Talmud then tries to sharpen the argument, parsing out the underlying issues as well as Rav's and Shmuel's reasoning. Is it just lighting that accomplishes the mitzvah or is it placing the ḥanukiyyah by the entry? Does lighting from lamp to lamp weaken the mitzvah, as the oil consumed in kindling the next lamp would have otherwise just been used for illumination? It's an interesting debate and, in talmudic fashion, doesn't *quite* reach a clear conclusion. But at this moment, I'm connecting with this passage much more for the metaphors I see in its words than its halakhic conclusions. 

What does it mean to light from lamp to lamp? Especially as we approach Ḥanukkah, I think of all the ways we share our light with each other - acts of ḥesed, caring for each other, offering encouragement, enjoying time together (please join us for Chanukah Funukah this Saturday night!). And I also feel a real need for more light to spread in our world. 

We've all noticed and heard about the massive uptick in antisemitism since the horrors of October 7. While not tremendously surprising, the indifference of leaders both local and international to this upsetting trend has left many of us feeling alone and unsure of who our friends really are. Over the past few days, there have also been a number of concerning pieces of news in this area. Making international news was the congressional hearing that had several high-profile university presidents responding to a question that "asked directly if 'calling for the genocide of Jews' is against the codes of conduct [of their universities, the] presidents said the answer depended on the context." 

More locally, Baltimore City Council member Yitzy Schleifer introduced a resolution at a recent City Council meeting condemning the attacks of October 7 as well as antisemitism. The measure failed to pass, with only 9 yea votes out of the necessary 12. Four council members abstained. 

There's a lot of darkness out there. This is the time of year when we both need light the most AND have the tools to bring more light into our world. This year, more than in any other year, I'm with Shmuel over Rav. Let us light from lamp to lamp, sharing our light with each other, just as we bring light to our ḥanukiyyot. 

Ḥag urim sameaḥ - may we all have a very happy holiday of light!

​About a week and a half after the war started, I somehow injured my hip. I'd had the audacity to bend over at the waist to get something out of a drawer and I felt something pull and snap - not things you want to feel. The pain took my breath away. During the first days after my surprise injury, the pain lessened slightly, but accompanied me at all times. Walking became a chore. Sitting was excruciating. Getting in and out of the car felt impossible. I began carrying a heating pad with me everywhere. 

Over the course of the few days it took me to get an appointment with a chiropractor, the pain was on my mind a lot. Preoccupied as I was, it took me a little bit of time to realize that my body was simply manifesting my emotional state. Since the brutal attacks that ignited Israel's war against Hamas, I had been consumed with worry, barely sleeping, trying to connect with my people in Israel and with members of our community who were similarly concerned about loved ones. It was unsurprising that I would bear some physical signs of my mental anguish. 

Yesterday afternoon, as I was sitting in the aforementioned chiropractor's office, waiting for my turn, I was reading Parashat Vayishlaḥ, from which we will read this Shabbat. My awareness of my surroundings helped me see a different perspective on the part of our Parashah that details Ya'akov's name change to Yisrael, following a night of wrestling with a mysterious interloper. While he prevailed in the end, he did not emerge from the encounter unscathed. We read that this person wrenched Ya'akov's thigh, injuring his hip. I couldn't help feeling a twinge of recognition. 

While traditional midrashim and commentaries generally follow the hints in the Torah text and expand on the idea that Ya'akov's nameless opponent was an angel, I began to feel drawn to a different interpretation of the text. Ya'akov's struggle came on the heels of a great moment of pain and fear. Knowing that he would soon meet his brother, the brother he had terribly wronged, the brother he assumed wanted only to kill him, Ya'akov strategically set his family and entourage up in separate camps and began the night alone. It was only then, when he was left to contend with his thoughts and his fears, that he began to wrestle. Perhaps it was with an angel. Or perhaps it was with himself, with his all-encompassing anxiety about what would happen when he would have to face his brother. All night long, he tossed and turned, waking up in some ways renewed (or at least with a new name), but injured. Perhaps his body was manifesting his emotional state as well.


The story concludes with a coda explaining that this is why the People of Israel do not eat meat from the thigh muscle. Bekhor Shor, a 12th century French commentator, explains that this is a commemoration of Ya'akov's glory and greatness for having wrestled with an angel and prevailed. I think the distinction still holds even if Ya'akov was wrestling with his own difficult feelings, with his fear and anxiety. Our emotional responses to the difficulties we face are real and leave an impact - sometimes a tangible, physical one. 

As a Jewish community, we are all continuing to walk through a tremendously difficult time. It is taking its toll emotionally and also physically. Allowing ourselves to acknowledge that is a sign of our strength, of the depth of our humanity. May we continue to find our way through it together. 

​This is a time of year, in the American consciousness, that focuses on gratitude. As we prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving, the idea of giving thanks is prominently featured pretty much everywhere. Of course, it's important to acknowledge and share our gratitude for the blessings in our lives. Full stop. Allowing ourselves to see the bounty that we have helps us find satisfaction with our lives and affirms our best middot, character traits. 


At the same time, I've been thinking more lately about the complexity of expressing gratitude, of what seems like the expectation that being grateful cannot coexist with other, less "happy," emotions, that having wants or dissatisfactions somehow cancels out one's gratitude. America Ferrera's powerful monologue from The Barbie Movie captures this idea perfectly. For many of us, we experience a life full of competing pulls and obligations. The charge to maintain an attitude of gratitude sometimes seems like it's lined with an underlying prohibition on having any complicated feelings about any of the difficulties we may also be facing. 

I would also suggest that feeling gratitude above and to the exclusion of all else is not only unrealistic, but it is not the Jewish approach. We see this in multiple ways in our tradition. In the weekday Amidah, recited as the central part of our prayers 3 times a day, 6 days a week, there is a blessing expressing our gratitude. It is even one of the most prominent features - it's one of the places we bow, just as we do at the beginning of the Amidah; it includes a communal response when the Amidah is repeated; it is one of the longest blessings of the 19 in the Amidah. But it comes toward the end, after we have enumerated our list of requests. Our prayer of thanksgiving comes alongside expressing our communal and personal needs. It's important to note that we're not saying "thank you" for the 14 petitionary blessings having been answered. Nor are we saying "thank you" because our gratitude overshadows our needs. We express our gratitude for the things we already have, even as we maintain an awareness of what is lacking in our world and in our lives. 

We also see this in this week's Parashah. Parashat Vayetze opens with the dramatic scene of Ya'akov running away from his brother Esav, finding a place to camp for the night, and having a life-altering vision, within angels descending from heaven and God promising him protection and a future of abundance. When Ya'akov awakens, he expresses amazement at what he just experienced, and then makes a somewhat perplexing vow. "If God remains with me, protecting me on this journey that I am making, and giving me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and I return safe to my father’s house— the Lord shall be my God." (Genesis 28:20-21) Ya'akov's gratitude for God's promise isn't uncomplicated. He's at a vulnerable time in his life and he needs to know that his needs will be met. This doesn't mean that he's ungrateful - in fact he next creates a monument to God and his awe-filled experience - but it does mean that other feelings are just as prominent for him in this moment. 

As we prepare for Thanksgiving, I know that, for many of us, our focus is less on our personal sense of gratitude and more on things that feel lacking in our world. We are nearing day 50 of a debilitating war in Israel. We have promises of a significant hostage release, but too many still remain in captivity. We see antisemitism becoming more and more acceptable in our communities. And all this on top of anything else we may be experiencing in our own lives and families. 

My wish, my berakhah, for us at this time in our American calendar is this: that we allow ourselves to feel what it is necessary for us to feel, to focus on the things we need to focus on AND that we take at least a moment to acknowledge and truly appreciate the blessings we are fortunate to have. May we allow ourselves to feel real gratitude, complicated but also beautiful. 

Happy Thanksgiving and Shabbat Shalom!

I've been thinking a lot this week about Isaac and the role of his story in the narrative of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs. In many ways, Isaac is the least distinctive of the bunch. Rashi famously quotes a midrash explaining that Isaac looked exactly like his father - he didn't even have his own face. Reading through Parashat Toledot, we see that Isaac's life followed a similar arc as his father, Abraham. 

Praying for a child on behalf of a barren wife. Enduring famine and a need to leave home. Going to Avimelekh to seek refuge. Passing off his wife as his sister. The parallels are uncanny. Isaac even reclaims and re-digs the wells of his father. Rather than forging his own path in the world, he walks in Abraham's well-trodden footsteps.

This is often taken as a deficit of Isaac's, a lack of original contribution to the world, but especially in light of this week's March for Israel in Washington DC, I'm appreciating the power and meaning contained in traveling paths first walked by others. 

When explaining the march to my students and my children, I could not help talking about the march on behalf of Soviet Jews in 1987 and the demonstration in support of Israel during the Second Intifada in 2002. One or both of these strong shows of support for global Jewry were formative for many people, myself included. I knew going in that attending Tuesday's march would recall those past experiences. 

In some ways, revisiting those previous experiences highlights the painful reality that the Jewish people and the State of Israel are yet again in need of massive public demonstrations of support and advocacy. As the horrifying events that ignited this complicated war recede into the distance, international attention focuses more and more on what Israel is doing wrong. Antisemitism in many forms comes out of the woodwork, serving as a bleak reminder of one of the critical roles of the existence of Israel - to ensure the ongoing safety of Jewish people around the world. And of course, the desperate situation of those kidnapped by Hamas demands that we continue to raise our voices. As Rachel Goldberg, mother of Hersh Goldberg-Polin, said in her stirring speech, “Why is the world accepting that 240 human beings from almost 30 countries have been stolen and buried alive?” 

And in other ways, the awareness that we have been here before, at least for me, brought comfort and strength. So many of us were there together, offering our presence, our calls of #bringthemhome, our prayers for each other. There was so much that was familiar. I know I was not alone in running into old friends from all over the world, some of whom I hadn't seen in decades. Singing the words of Psalm 121 with Ishay Ribo connected me with all those present, and also with the innumerable generations of people who have used that Psalm for the exact same purpose. For most of the rally, the small group I was with was surrounded by strangers, but it felt like being with family. We shared snacks and played Jewish geography. It was almost like standing at Sinai.

Being back on this well-worn path also heightened my awareness of the seeds I was planting for the future. For the young people there, they didn't necessarily have a deep understanding of why gatherings like this matter (even if they had learned about previous ones). Answering questions from my students like, "Who's Debra Messing?" and "Why is there a Russian person talking? [Natan Sharansky] I thought this was about Israel..."  helped them begin to understand that the march spoke beyond this current moment. Bringing my own child as well instilled the message that Jewish people stand together and that every voice matters.

There was so much that came out of again traveling this familiar path. And my deepest prayer is that we'll never have to do it again.

It's been a long and busy week, with much to do in preparation for our exciting Shabbaton with Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz (this Shabbat!!) in addition to regular shul and life stuff. With everything going on here and in Israel, I haven't had the head space to think deeply about what I wanted to share with us this week. But as I was studying Parashat haShavua, I was pleasantly surprised to see something in it that I hadn't ever paid much notice before, something that is a wonderful message for us entering into this weekend. 

With my 8th grade Bible class, we create a "tool box" of critical reading and interpretive tools for finding deeper meaning in the text. One of my favorite tools is the echo word. An echo word is a distinctive word or phrase that appears in more than one narrative section. The appearance of the word in each of these sections enables you to read them alongside each other, ideally finding points of connection and illumination of meaning. 

Please permit me one example to help illustrate this idea: When Moshe is born (Exodus chapter 2), we read that his mother hid him for three months when she saw כי טוב הוא (ki tov hu), that he was good. The phrase כי טוב (ki tov) is not common in the Torah, but it is all over the beginning of Genesis, in the description of Creation. Each day is declared by God כי טוב (ki tov), that it is good. The use of this phrase that recalls creation to describe Moshe's birth tells us that he represents the beginning of a new world for b'nei Yisrael. Moshe will be a gamechanger, creating a new reality for his people.

And now back to our parashah, Ḥayyei Sarah, and its echo word. When Avraham instructs his servant to go find a wife for his son, he instructs him: כִּ֧י אֶל־אַרְצִ֛י וְאֶל־מוֹלַדְתִּ֖י תֵּלֵ֑ךְ. "You will go to my land and to the land of my birth..." (Genesis 24:4). This phrase, "my land and the land of my birth" hearkens back to when we first met Avraham - still called Avram - and God commanded him to leave מֵאַרְצְךָ֥ וּמִמּֽוֹלַדְתְּךָ֖, "from your land and from the land of your birth" (Genesis 12:1). We hear the echo, but what is the connection? What is it telling us? 

The echo highlights that this is an unusual request for Avraham to make. After all, we often laud Avraham for his willingness to leave his homeland and follow God's command. He settles in the land promised to him by God, the land that is described as the home of his nation of descendents. Why, then, would he want to go back to a place he willingly left to find Isaac's future wife? 

Looking at some of the classical commentaries on this verse, I saw this gem from Radak (Rabbi David Kimḥi, 13th c. France): The words reflect a well known proverb according to which people prefer to plant seed originating in their own backyard even though the strain is known to be inferior to those available elsewhere.

Avraham, at least in Radak's eyes, struggled with getting out of his comfort zone. His previous homeland was a place he knew well and it was less daunting to go back there. The task ahead was a significant one and rather than forging new boundaries in taking it on, he stuck with what was familiar. I wouldn't want to fault Avraham in this moment - and it defintely worked out well in finding Rivkah. But he certainly stuck with what he knew. I think this is something many of us can relate to. 

Looking ahead to this weekend and our Song and Spirit Shabbaton, I want to give us a loving challenge to notice our own comfort zones and try to step outside of them. This Shabbat, we will have the blessing of learning from and singing with Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz, who is right out front in the current world of Jewish and liturgical music. We will learn new melodies, and sing old ones in new ways. We will welcome guests to our community and blend our voices the best we can. For many of us, we look to our Shabbat services to provide the comfort of the familiar. While there will still be much that is familiar, there will also be much that is new for our community. I encourage you to join us this weekend, to open yourselves beyond what is comfortable and familiar, and see what magic we can make together.

It's been a long and busy week, with much to do in preparation for our exciting Shabbaton with Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz (this Shabbat!!) in addition to regular shul and life stuff. With everything going on here and in Israel, I haven't had the head space to think deeply about what I wanted to share with us this week. But as I was studying Parashat haShavua, I was pleasantly surprised to see something in it that I hadn't ever paid much notice before, something that is a wonderful message for us entering into this weekend. 

With my 8th grade Bible class, we create a "tool box" of critical reading and interpretive tools for finding deeper meaning in the text. One of my favorite tools is the echo word. An echo word is a distinctive word or phrase that appears in more than one narrative section. The appearance of the word in each of these sections enables you to read them alongside each other, ideally finding points of connection and illumination of meaning. 

Please permit me one example to help illustrate this idea: When Moshe is born (Exodus chapter 2), we read that his mother hid him for three months when she saw כי טוב הוא (ki tov hu), that he was good. The phrase כי טוב (ki tov) is not common in the Torah, but it is all over the beginning of Genesis, in the description of Creation. Each day is declared by God כי טוב (ki tov), that it is good. The use of this phrase that recalls creation to describe Moshe's birth tells us that he represents the beginning of a new world for b'nei Yisrael. Moshe will be a gamechanger, creating a new reality for his people.

And now back to our parashah, Ḥayyei Sarah, and its echo word. When Avraham instructs his servant to go find a wife for his son, he instructs him: כִּ֧י אֶל־אַרְצִ֛י וְאֶל־מוֹלַדְתִּ֖י תֵּלֵ֑ךְ. "You will go to my land and to the land of my birth..." (Genesis 24:4). This phrase, "my land and the land of my birth" hearkens back to when we first met Avraham - still called Avram - and God commanded him to leave מֵאַרְצְךָ֥ וּמִמּֽוֹלַדְתְּךָ֖, "from your land and from the land of your birth" (Genesis 12:1). We hear the echo, but what is the connection? What is it telling us? 

The echo highlights that this is an unusual request for Avraham to make. After all, we often laud Avraham for his willingness to leave his homeland and follow God's command. He settles in the land promised to him by God, the land that is described as the home of his nation of descendents. Why, then, would he want to go back to a place he willingly left to find Isaac's future wife? 

Looking at some of the classical commentaries on this verse, I saw this gem from Radak (Rabbi David Kimḥi, 13th c. France): The words reflect a well known proverb according to which people prefer to plant seed originating in their own backyard even though the strain is known to be inferior to those available elsewhere.

Avraham, at least in Radak's eyes, struggled with getting out of his comfort zone. His previous homeland was a place he knew well and it was less daunting to go back there. The task ahead was a significant one and rather than forging new boundaries in taking it on, he stuck with what was familiar. I wouldn't want to fault Avraham in this moment - and it defintely worked out well in finding Rivkah. But he certainly stuck with what he knew. I think this is something many of us can relate to. 

Looking ahead to this weekend and our Song and Spirit Shabbaton, I want to give us a loving challenge to notice our own comfort zones and try to step outside of them. This Shabbat, we will have the blessing of learning from and singing with Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz, who is right out front in the current world of Jewish and liturgical music. We will learn new melodies, and sing old ones in new ways. We will welcome guests to our community and blend our voices the best we can. For many of us, we look to our Shabbat services to provide the comfort of the familiar. While there will still be much that is familiar, there will also be much that is new for our community. I encourage you to join us this weekend, to open yourselves beyond what is comfortable and familiar, and see what magic we can make together.

​The other day, I reached out to an old friend. Out of the blue, I had a thought of her and sent a text message letting her know that she was on my mind. She will happily admit to being a bit of a flake, not that good at maintaining regular communication, so I was pleasantly surprised to hear my phone ring mere seconds after sending my message out into the ether. Talking to her was a balm for my soul. We caught up on each other's lives and talked about Israel, of course, but were really just there for each other. 

Later that evening, a good friend and neighbor (also a rabbi) stopped by to borrow something. She wound up staying for half an hour as we sat on the couch and offered each other support as Jewish professionals finding our way through a painful and stressful time. At the end of the night, even after the chaos of finishing dinner, homework, bath and bedtime, I felt just a little bit more whole than I had earlier in the day. 

I typically use this space to make a connection to Parashat HaShavua, to comment on something current or (hopefully) meaningful and link my thoughts to the piece of Torah that we focus on each week. Parashat Vayera is one of my favorites, and if you're at shul at Chevrei Tzedek this week (and I hope you will be!), you'll hear me lean into the pieces of this week's reading that speak most to me. But when I was thinking about what I wanted to say in my weekly message, so much of the narrative in Parashat Vayera felt too hard to square with the needs of this moment. Too much divine detachment, too much destruction, too much discord between family members, too much separation. 

Everything we're weathering as a Jewish community right now reminds us that what we need is connection, what we need is each other. 

Togetherness isn't always easy. And right now it *really* isn't easy. Feelings and political leanings about Israel run hot and deep. We worry about whether or not our colleagues, friends, and communities will understand or support our personal perspectives, or if we can support theirs. Sometimes we can't even find the words to express the complex and contradictory ideas we may have swirling around in our heads. It can be isolating, even as we search for a safe space to find community and connection. 

One thing you may not yet know about me is that I'm a musical theater geek. I sometimes think in song lyrics, and I've been mulling over No One Is Alone, from Into the Woods. 

Mother isn't here now
Wrong things, right things
Who knows what she'd say?
Who can say what's true?
Nothing's quite so clear now
Do things, fight things
Feel you've lost your way?
But--
You are not alone
Believe me,
No one is alone


People make mistakes
Holding to their own
Thinking they're alone
Honor their mistakes
Fight for their mistakes
Everybody makes
One another's terrible mistakes
Witches can be right
Giants can be good


Someone is on your side - Our side
Someone else is not
While we're seeing our side
Maybe we forgot
They are not alone
No one is alone
Hard to see the light now
Just don't let it go
Things will come out right now
We can make it so
Someone is on your side
No one is alone


The realities of our world right now are confusing and unnerving. I know of no better way to find a path through it all than together. 

​My social media feeds are filled with missing people. Gone are the posts about people's weekend plans, friends sharing their kids' accomplishments or showing off new haircuts. Instead, I see a constant stream of missing posters, empty tables, rows and rows of snapshots of babies and children. I'm trying to take it in small doses in order to protect myself from the overwhelm, but at the same time, when I am spending time on social media, I scroll right on by the mundane stuff and find myself riveted to the stories of the hostages and pleas for their safe return to their families. 

Focusing my attention on freeing the hostages is also less fraught than thinking about the possibility of a ground incursion into Gaza, than confronting the fear that no action on Israel's part can be both internationally supported and effectively deal with Hamas. It's concrete - I can see their faces, read their names, offer up my prayers and my hashtags (#bring_hersh_home) for their safety. 

It's also a Jewish value - פדיון שבויים - pidyon sh'vuyim, freeing captives. 

With a few notable exceptions, this value has not occupied my thoughts regularly, but it's all I think about right now. So when I was considering what to share with us this week related to Parashat Lekh L'kha, I was immediately drawn to the story of Lot being taken as a prisoner of war and being rescued by his uncle, Avraham. (For a fuller version, read Genesis Chapter 14.) Lot and Avraham had separated in order to give each of them enough land to live on peacefully and comfortably, but this inadvertently put Lot in harm's way. He got caught up in a war between local kings and was taken captive. Avraham mustered all of his wealth and the people in his sphere of influence, launched a surprise nighttime attack, and rescued Lot, along with the other people who were held with him. 

There are a few things we can learn about pidyon sh'vuyim from this story. First, freeing captives is not cheap, but it's worth it. Avraham took 318 people with him on his rescue mission and (according to a number of midrashic texts) paid them handsomely for their service. Rescuing those held in captivity will take actual and political capital. Hundreds of people protested outside the UN this week to call for diplomatic action to free the hostages. Family members and politicians are meeting with government officials from across the world, sharing the stories of the captives and doing whatever they can to raise awareness and motivation to secure their release. 

Next, everyone's story is our story. Avraham went to find and rescue his nephew, his family, but he came back with all of the other people who had been taken prisoner. He didn't ignore the plight of the others with whom Lot was in captivity. If you've been following this part of the news from Israel, then you've probably seen stories or read articles about Rachel Goldberg and Jon Polin, whose son, Hersh Goldberg-Polin, is gravely injured and among the more than 200 hostages held in Gaza. They are speaking out and meeting with people in power to bring their son home. And they are talking about all of the hostages, and trying to bring them home as well. In addition to the public acts - collages of posters emblazoned with the word "KIDNAPPED," the rows of empty chairs, or the protests - which are focusing attention on all of the hostages, it's remarkable to note that the families of those who are being held are not just focusing on their own children, parents, partners, siblings. They are speaking up for all of those captured by Hamas.

And finally, we don't hesitate to take action. When Avraham learns of Lot's abduction, he springs into action, gathering his troops and pursuing Lot's captors. Immediately after it became clear that so many had been taken, Jewish communities around the world started clamoring to do what we could to help get them home. We've been praying - saying Psalms and reciting the prayer אחינו (Aḥeinu), which was written for this purpose. We have been giving money, time, and our voices to help spread their stories as widely as possible and encourage diplomatic leaders to take action. 

If only there was more we could do. But we've shown no signs of stopping, and we won't until they all come home. 

​Sitting on top of my dresser is a stack of papers - drawings that my son brought home to me during his years in preschool. Each of them was a gift from him to me, and each has a rainbow on it. Like with many young children, drawing rainbows was kind of his "thing" during his younger years. He doesn't draw them much anymore.

Last week, the lower school students at Krieger Schechter drew prayers for Israel, which are now hanging under a large banner with the words "Oseh shalom bimromav...." painted on it. When my son was telling me about how they made their prayers for Israel, he wanted me to know how to find his. "It's the one with the rainbows on it,"  he proudly told me. 

One of the most evocative symbols from this week's parashah, Parashat Noaḥ, is the rainbow.  After the flood, after Noah and his family descend from the ark and receive a blessing from God, God explains that the rainbow will serve as a sign of God's covenant with all life and the promise never to destroy the world again. Numerous commentaries explain that the rainbow is God's personal reminder - not for humanity, but for God - not to destroy the world. It's a sign that God is angry with the world, but is staying the Divine hand. 

For this reason, many see rainbows as a sign of God's fury, a hint that we've done something gravely wrong which, but for God's ancient promise, would put us in danger of being wiped out. 

This has never been how I've seen rainbows, but right now, with the current situation in Israel and Gaza, it feels closer to the experience of so many of us over the past 2 weeks. It can feel like the world is falling apart, like destruction is imminent, all around us. So much that is deeply troubling. 

But like I said, this is not how I've ever seen rainbows. It's possible to look at the traditional commentaries with different eyes and see not darkness, but hope. Yes, the rainbow may be a sign that God has taken note of our failings. But instead of punishment and destruction, we have beauty and color and light. We have a promise. 

And while I remain devastated and intensely concerned about the ongoing losses and pain of the war, its impact on the psyche of the Jewish people, the implications for the future of peace, I also see glimmers of light. I see people coming together, putting their imagination and tenacity to work to bring support to people in Israel and boost morale both there and here in the diaspora. I see countries around the world showing their support for Israel. I see people holding each other and communities working to put aside differences and take united action. 

So this week, as we read about the rainbow and consider its true meaning for the Torah and for us, I'm choosing to see it as a symbol of hope - hope that things can get better and that we can be the ones to make that happen.

​There's a midrash about the creation of the world (Kohelet Rabbah 3:11) that argues that the world, the world of the book of Genesis, our world, was not God's first draft, but rather, that the Holy Blessed One kept trying to get it right, creating world after world and destroying them, until God made enough tweaks and changes to be satisfied, leaving this world in place. 

This week, it feels like we're caught in that cycle, only backwards. It seems as though the world is coming down around us, we see destruction at every turn, but we haven't yet figured out how to build our world again - and it's not clear when we will.

Truly, these past five days have been earth-shattering for Israel and for us as a Jewish community. Like so many of us, I have spent sleepless hours worried about my friends and loved ones living in Israel, watching in horror as people, some of them our very same friends and loved ones, mourn the unthinkable murder of a family member or neighbor, or search desperately for someone kidnapped by Hamas. We have held each other as we cried, as there is so much to cry about. 

We have had our intergenerational trauma as a Jewish people reignited as many in the world spout moral equivalencies or are simply silent. We can't help but worry for our own safety as well, even as our eyes and hearts are across the world. We fear for the future of Israel, and for the future of peace, for the ability of all those who live in the land to be able to live lives of safety and calm. 

Worlds destroyed. How do we rebuild?

I don't have a clear vision of how to answer that question, but I do know this: I was tremendously heartened to participate in the Baltimore community gathering Tuesday night held at Beth Tfiloh. More specifically - 

There were just so many people there, people representing a broad swath of ages and affiliations. We sat together, sang together, prayed together, and listened together. That kind of united solidarity is rare in any Jewish community and it gives me hope that if we can stand together, then we can withstand this together.

Rabbi Rachel Sabath Beit Halachmi of Har Sinai Oheb Shalom spoke powerfully of her own experience as an Israeli citizen, of her anger, her grief, her personal losses, and her passionate wish for the children of Sarah AND the children of Hagar to find peace and security. She held multiple truths in tension and her words resonated deeply. She spoke with moral clarity about the evil of the Hamas attack and also with an emerging hope that there can be a way forward.

All of the community leaders who shared their own sentiments emphasized the need for us to be together with our communities and encouraged everyone present to come to shul this Shabbat, to connect in person with their community. Being with our community is a salve for our wounds. Seeing a number of folks from Chevrei during and after the event both lifted me up and strengthened my sense of belonging, as I hope it did for many of you. 

So please, come to shul this Shabbat. Let's be together and hold each other up. Even though the world is still laying in pieces at our feet, and may continue to for some time, we can already begin to rebuild.