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.
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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. Yesterday, I pulled in at home to find several neighbors out on the street. "Sorry to break the bad news," one said. "We have no water." It turns out that work going on in the neighborhood nicked a water main and they had to shut off the water to the whole street.
After a quick trip to the Giant for gallons of water and an impromptu take-out order for dinner, the kids and I were pretty much set for the evening. It was less comfortable than usual - the kids were a little schmutzy from the day and I was *really* looking forward to a hot shower, but we survived just fine. Hopefully, by the time you read this, our water will be turned back on. But it didn't escape my attention that we're in the middle of Sukkot, the holiday that reminds us of our reliance on water for sustenance and survival. We move out into our Sukkot, which are notably not waterproof, as a reminder to ourselves and to God that we rely on water coming at the right time to help provide us with what we need. We want it to stay dry in the sukkah, but even more, we want it to be wet and rainy shortly after the holiday. We will switch over to our prayers for rain, with great fanfare, on Shemini Atzeret, which coincides with this coming Shabbat. Walking in the shoes of our ancient ancestors, as we do this week, we can perhaps relate to the vulnerability they must have felt, wondering if the coming rainy season would provide enough for the next season's crops to grow. Their concerns were intense and real - existential worries. At the same time, Sukkot is זמן שמחתנו, z'man simḥateinu, the time of our joy. The Mishnah describes Simḥat Beit HaShoeivah, the party accompanying the water libation during Sukkot as it was observed in Temple times, as the pinnacle of all celebrations (Sukkah 5:1). As Sukkot draws to a close, we keep the celebration going with Shemini Atzeret and Simḥat Torah (which is basically Shemini Atzeret 2.0). I'm not sure we quite rival Simḥat Beit HaShoeivah in our celebrations, but we certainly accompany the holiday with a good deal of singing and dancing. Simḥat Torah is fun! So - joy aplenty. And joy particularly at a time of fragility and existential angst. What's the connection? Why celebrate when we might otherwise be worried? I think there are a number of possible answers here - and I'm happy to hear more from you beyond the two that I'll share. First, this is a time of year when, if we look ahead, we see uncertainty, but if we look back, we see the bounty that we have. Part of our joy comes from the feeling of gratitude for having the means to make it through this season. Happy with what we already have, with what is sustaining us right now, we express that through joy. Second, we focus on our joy to set a kavanah, an intention, for what we hope is to come. If we behave and feel as though we already have enough, then perhaps God will see our joy and be moved to make sure that it is truly warranted. I'm looking forward to celebrating with us over Shemini Atzeret and Simḥat Torah - please bring your joy and join us! Shabbat Shalom and Ḥag Sameaḥ! Rabbi Marci Jacobs Each of the Shalosh Regalim, the three pilgrimage festivals, has a nickname describing a key feature of the holiday. Pesaḥ is Z'man Ḥeruteinu, the time of our freedom. Shavuot is Z'man Matan Torateinu , the time of the giving of our Torah. Sukkot is Z'man Simḥateinu, the time of our joy.
Now, I absolutely love Sukkot - if I had to pick a favorite holiday, it would be Sukkot hands down. I love the smells, from the bright fragrance of the etrog, to the distinctive aroma of freshly cut pine branches (my shul growing up used pine as skhakh and that scent always transports me), to the slightly sweet odor of a lulav past its prime. I love the feeling in the air as the season changes firmly to fall. I enjoy being outdoors, eating long, aimless meals in the sukkah with friends. Sukkot calls up for me so many special memories, memories I savor coming back to year after year, even as I make new ones to accompany them. But getting to Sukkot....that part's not so easy, not something I savor. Making it through the High Holidays is a huge amount of work (rewarding and meaningful, but emotionally and physically taxing nonetheless). And just when I'm ready to take a few days of rest to regain my energy, there it is. After a paltry four days, it's time for another holiday. And a holiday with a massive amount of preparation and physical labor involved. It's a little bit dizzying. Where's the joy? Certainly, given what I just said about how much I love the holiday itself, there's joy in celebrating the holiday once it has arrived, at least for me and I hope for you. This year, however, I've been challenging myself to find joy in the preparations as well, in these four jam-packed and slightly stressful days. I'm writing this message on Wednesday night, after having spent the evening building two different sukkot - our Chevrei Tzedek sukkah and my own sukkah at home (tremendous gratitude to Jeanne and Mali for jumping in and helping me get my sukkah up!). Working to get those sukkot built was absolutely where I found my joy today. The joy of being together with members of our community to help get our shul ready to celebrate. The joy of witnessing folks reminiscing about Sukkot celebrations past and previous sukkah-building experiences. The joy of listening to good music to make the work more pleasant. The joy of seeing a sukkah (2 sukkot!) go from being a pile of poles on the ground to being a dwelling place for us and for God's presence. And while I still don't know when I'm going to get the grocery shopping done or the food cooked, I do know that the joy I found this evening will help keep me afloat until I figure the rest of it out. Shabbat Shalom and Ḥag Sameaḥ! I overheard a snippet of a conversation today, a teenage child telling his mother about the use of the phrase "sorry, not sorry." I only overheard a tiny bit of their conversation, as I was just passing by, but just that little bit intrigued me. Certainly, at this time of year, we in the Jewish community are preoccupied with apologizing. So I was delighted to hear a teenager engaging with his parent about the lack of sincere apology implicit in this popular phrase and the problematic nature of that.
The truth is, this phrase is everywhere - and it seems that few people are concerned about its lack of sincere apology. Full disclosure: I've heard the phrase a lot and even used it a few times in the past. There's a great song by Demi Lovato, called "Sorry Not Sorry," which was really popular when it came out, that is about the singer's refusal to be apologetic in the face of harsh criticism. It's a power anthem of self-validation. Hard to criticize that drive to stay strong and true to oneself when confronted with mean-spirited words of critique. But the more common use of the phrase is just what it sounds like - someone couching their refusal to apologize for something in words that, at least at first, sound like an apology. And when I say common, I mean extremely common. A quick search on Facebook for #sorrynotsorry yielded 8.5 million posts. A search for the phrase without the hashtag led to listings for more groups than I could count with some version of "Sorry Not Sorry" in their group name. Much ink has been spilled, especially in feminist spaces, about the phenomenon of over-apologizing, of robbing ourselves of our strength and confidence when interacting with others. There's even an extension for the Google Chrome browser called Just Not Sorry, which "warns you when you write emails using words which undermine your message." But with the case of "sorry, not sorry" the issue is under-apologizing, or stridently refusing to apologize for something that may actually be worthy of our contrition. Yes, it's important not to diminish our own voices and to be aware of the potentially damaging power dynamics that over-apologizing reinforces. Full stop. And also, it is crucially important to cultivate the skills necessary to apologize with sincerity when it is called for - not only so that we can seek repair with those we've harmed, but also so that we can develop our awareness of our own faults and mistakes. When we never truly apologize, we continuously confirm our own rightness. This deadens our sensitivity to the impact of our actions on others and keeps us in what may be a hurtful holding pattern. The phenomenon of "sorry, not sorry" reminds me of a passage from the Mishnah about the work of Teshuvah that's required for Yom Kippur. Mishnah Yoma 8:9 teaches: With regard to one who says: I will sin and then I will repent, I will sin and I will repent, Heaven does not provide him the opportunity to repent, and he will remain a sinner all his days. With regard to one who says: I will sin and Yom Kippur will atone for my sins, Yom Kippur does not atone for his sins. This same mishnah reminds us that the rituals of Yom Kippur help us atone for sins between ourselves and God, areas of our religious or ritual life where we have not lived up to expectations. In order to effect atonement for offenses against other people, we must apologize. With our religious misdeeds, repenting with the intention of sinning again is not true repentance. The same holds with our relationships with other people. "Sorry, not sorry" just doesn't cut it. Difficult though it sometimes is to find the right words and offer those we've hurt a sincere apology, that is exactly what we must do - for Yom Kippur and year-round. I wish you all a k'tivah vahatimah tovah - may we all be written and sealed in the Book of Life for a good year! On Rosh Hashanah, we have a strong tradition to embrace and celebrate newness. In my own home, the rush to get new clothes and haircuts has been a focus of this past week, along with all of the other things you might imagine a rabbi doing to get ready for the High Holidays. Around our holiday tables, many of us will eat a new fruit - adding a new experience to mark the new year.
These new things we do in honor of Rosh Hashanah are a special part of our celebrations. And even though they are incredibly embodied and evocative experiences, they are in some ways also external to our deepest selves. A new outfit or new food can give expression to or even spark a real change in who we are, but they are more likely to be things we simply do for this occasion and this occasion only. The novelty wears off. The new outfit winds up in the hamper, the haircut grows out, the new fruit becomes a part of the regular menu rotation. In preparation for Rosh Hashanah, we strive to find a different kind of newness - not newness in what we wear or eat, but newness in who we are. We aim to try out new and different ways to be with each other, and with ourselves. We work to improve, to grow, to deepen our relationships. This process is one best done together. While each of us must do our own individual work to find the newness within ourselves, the power of doing so in community with each other keeps us accountable and brings us inspiration. With that in mind, I have a crowdsourcing request: Please share with me the ways you're working to find new dimensions of yourselves this coming year. Are there new experiences you're looking forward to? New skills you're planning to develop? New challenges to contend with? New relationships to nurture? New areas of growth you're tending to? On erev Yom Kippur, I hope to share some thoughts about where we - as a collective and as individuals - are heading this coming year, and I would love to be able to build upon your wisdom and insight as we envision the beautiful possibilities of the new year together. Please send me a message between now and next Friday (9/22), letting me know what new things and opportunities you're pursuing this coming year. Please also let me know if it's okay to share your words with our community (no names will be shared). I look forward to hearing from you and to celebrating all of the newness in this coming year. Shabbat Shalom and Shanah Tovah! Our double reading this week of Parashiyot Nitzavim and Vayelekh is full of phrases and verses that we tend to recognize more from their uses in other contexts than from their original places in the Torah. Gems from this week's reading appear in often-quoted midrashim, stories from the Talmud, and are all over the siddur and mahzor.
As the parashah reminds us several times of the importance of following God's Torah - practically begging the people to follow the right path - it offers what seems like an appeal to logic. After all, לא בשמים היא, the Torah does not reside in Heaven. (Deut. 30:12) It's within reach. No one needs to ascend to Heaven to retrieve it so that we can learn it and follow it. It's right here for us, in our mouths and in our hearts. Famously, this verse is read quite against its original context in a powerful story from the Talmud (Bava Metzia 59b). The short version: Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus and Rabbi Yehoshua are arguing about a particular issue of Jewish law. Rabbi Yehoshua represents the majority and yet, Rabbi Eliezer refuses to concede his point. He even calls upon Heaven to justify his side of things, which it does. Eventually, Rabbi Yehoshua declares victory, citing this verse, which is used as a prooftext for majority rule. Now that the Torah is not in Heaven, i.e. has been given to us, the only opinion that matters on how to follow it is a human opinion. Rabbi Yehoshua tells Heaven to stay in its lane. As an aside in the story, Elijah the Prophet appears, recalling that in that moment, when Rabbi Yehoshua told God to butt out, God laughed in delight. This point is often where people stop in their retelling of this Talmudic story. But no good Talmudic story has such a happy ending. The story continues that Rabbi Eliezer's colleagues destroy his reputation and excommunicate him for his refusal to concede the rule of the majority. In his despair and anger, he prays for the death of the head of the community, Rabban Gamliel. And Rabban Gamliel, in fact, dies. The lesson the Talmud draws from this tragic end is about the power of our words to do harm and the compassion with which God sees people who have been wronged in this way. Over the High Holidays, which will begin next Friday night, you'll hear me talk a lot about חשבון הנפש, Heshbon Hanefesh, the personal account we're each meant to take of ourselves in preparation for beginning a new year. I can't read our Parashah without thinking about Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus and Rabbi Yehoshua. Reading it this week, it has me considering the importance of the words we use with each other. When have my words caused someone else harm? When have they been used to lift others up? How will God look at me for the way I've used my words? I invite you to ask yourselves the same kinds of questions as we take an account of ourselves and prepare to enter a new year. Choosing our words intentionally, doing the work it takes to use words that convey care and kindness, as our Parashah says, is not in Heaven. It's in our mouths and our hearts to make a reality. Shabbat Shalom and Shanah Tovah! Rabbi Marci Jacobs |
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