​This week, we read perhaps the most quoted passage from the Torah: ואהבת לרעך כמוך - You shall love your neighbor as yourself. (Leviticus 19:18) It’s not only referenced in connection with its place in Vayikra, it also shows up in other places, as a rule to live by. It’s the basis for the Golden Rule. It’s clearly underlying what Hillel famously says to the person who asks him to teach the entire Torah while standing on one foot: “What is hateful to you, do not do to another. That is the whole Torah; the rest is interpretation. Go and learn it.” (Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 31a) It is what Rabbi Akiva called a great principle of Torah. (Bereishit Rabbah 24:7)
 
Taken on its own, it’s a powerful statement about the essential nature of interconnectedness, of our obligation to see reflections of ourselves in the others we encounter and with whom we live. 
 
When we put it back in its context in the parashah, we see that this verse has a bit of a dark side. We read, “Do not go as a talebearer among the members of your people. Do not stand by the blood of your fellow: I am the LORD. You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart. Reprove your kin but incur no guilt on their account. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against members of your people. Love your fellow as yourself: I am the LORD.” (Leviticus 19:16-18)
 
The text is telling us that in order to fulfill the positive side of the command, i.e. loving our neighbors, we must also refrain from certain behaviors that are antithetical to love. If we gossip excessively, if we act as bystanders when someone is in need, if we carry grudges or hate in our hearts - even if we are outwardly friendly - we cannot honestly say that we love our neighbor. 
 
Loving our neighbor is hard work. Whether the “neighbor” in question is part of our family, our community, our neighborhood or that “neighbor” is less closely connected to us, we often look at others and their life choices with judgment or even disdain. It is easiest to love our neighbors as ourselves when they are most like us. Meeting differences with an open heart is something that takes practice. 
 
But this is what the Torah calls us to do. If the opening lines of Parashat Kedoshim are any indication, it is at the heart of what makes a community holy. 
 
As a synagogue community, we are proud of the diversity that exists among those who call Chevrei Tzedek their spiritual home. We strive to celebrate our differences and to learn from each other. One area of difference, however, that we don’t talk about very often is religion. Many, if not most, and perhaps all of our families include members who are not Jewish. We have parents, partners, children and children in-law, and siblings who come from different religious traditions. These members of our families and of our community are precisely the neighbors that the Torah commands us to love. 
 
If loving our neighbors is the core of building a holy community, we owe it to ourselves to look at our community and ask how we’re doing on that front. The Conservative Movement, for a number of years now, has been working on opening more paths of inclusion to our neighbors - our family members - who are not Jewish. At our upcoming Community Meeting on Sunday, May 18, we’ll spend some time exploring this issue, hearing personal stories, and thinking about how the command to love our neighbors as ourselves can inspire us to live up to our highest ideals. 
 
In advance of the meeting, I’m coming to us with a request: Please share with me your personal stories of how Jewish communities (not just Chevrei, but certainly us too) have been welcoming to you and to members of your family who are not Jewish. I want to hear about moments of connection and embrace and also about moments of hurt and alienation - and everything in between. Your stories will remain anonymous and only I will be able to read them in their entirety, but I would like your permission to share pieces of them at the Community Meeting. To share your story, please fill out this Google form. I’m looking forward to hearing from you and to beginning this important conversation.
 
Shabbat shalom.

Yesterday morning, as we were getting ready for school, Shmuel and I were talking about how it was Yom HaZikaron. He said, “That’s Memorial Day, right?” After I confirmed that it was, he said, “But Memorial Day is when we barbecue!” What ensued was a conversation about the differences between American and Israeli societies, about how holidays and their meanings evolve and shift over time, and about how special days often hold multiple layers of meaning.

But at the core of his surprise is the undeniable truth that Yom HaZikaron is not a day for festive gatherings and barbecues (that’s today, Yom HaAtzmaut), but a solemn day of remembrance, one that is deeply personal for Israelis and for so many others. 

Right after Pesach, we enter into a period of the calendar fondly nicknamed “the Yoms.” First there is Yom HaShoah, on which we commemorate the Holocaust. Six days later, Yom HaZikaron and then Yom HaAtzmaut the next day. We’ve barely put our kitchens back together and we jump onto the emotional roller coaster of this time of year.

And a roller coaster it is. There’s the generational trauma and grief that many of us carry in connection with the Holocaust. Moreover, now that 80 years have passed since its end, there’s the sense of responsibility to keep it from being forgotten as the number of survivors continues to dwindle. 

Especially in the 19 months since October 7, 2023, Israel has captured so much of our attention and focus, amplifying the sense of loss that permeates Yom HaZikaron. Many of us also personally know, or just a degree or two separated from someone who was killed, who was held hostage, who is serving in the army. This gives us a window into what Yom HaZikaron has always been like for the Israeli people. Everyone knows someone - a family member, comrade, or friend - who is being remembered. 

And then, we turn on a dime and celebrate the founding of the State of Israel, the culmination of years and years of dreaming and unending hard work, an undertaking that would not have come to be without the world’s recognition of the horrors of the Holocaust and that could never have happened without the sacrifice made by so many who served in Israel’s military.

The intense emotions evoked by these days are complicated by the state of the world we’re currently living in. Yom HaShoah takes on new urgency with antisemitism rearing its ugly head more and more. Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaAtzmaut challenge us to look unflinchingly at the horrors of war and the ways in which the State of Israel struggles to live out its most cherished values. 

The Yoms come one right on top of the other, barely giving us a chance to fully contend with the power of each. But letting them zoom on by without taking some time to engage deeply with them would be a missed opportunity. While we can’t change the calendar so easily, I invite each of us to spend some time learning and thinking about what we’re commemorating and celebrating on each of these days. The internet gives us some good places to start. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum website has ample resources for learning, for hearing survivor testimony, and for understanding contemporary connections. The Times of Israel captures what’s happening in Israel now and also publishes individual blogs to help provide us with a window into more personal experiences. The options are rich and many. You can learn about the stories of fallen soldiers and find opportunities to honor their memories through taking positive action in the world. These are just a few of the places you can start. My wish for us as we make our way out of the Yoms is that we take some time when things slow down to look back at these days, explore them more deeply, and find our personal place in each of them. 

Shabbat shalom.

​

​One of my favorite professors from rabbinical school, Rabbi Israel Francus z”l, was beloved at the Seminary for his quick, sharp wit and self-deprecating modesty. He once told my Talmud class a story about his own days as a student at JTS. Relatively new to critical text study and to America, he was sitting in a Bible class taught by the great Bible scholar H.L. Ginsberg. Ginsberg - who would later be one of the primary editors of the JPS translation that we use today - was well-known for emending the text to get at its truest meaning. By switching letters in certain words or even words themselves, previously opaque sections of the biblical text would become clear. Reading through the JPS translation of the Tanakh, one can often find footnotes that say, “Emendation yields xxx.” These all came from H.L. Ginsberg. 
 
In this Bible class, Rabbi (then student) Francus watched his teacher work his magic with the text. It seemed to make sense to him, so he thought to try it out himself, raising his hand and offering his own suggestion for an emendation of the text that would clarify its meaning. Enraged, Ginsberg (in Rabbi Francus’s telling) pushed his desk over as he stood and yelled, “Moron!” Rabbi Francus ran out of the room, banished from class. 
 
(Because Rabbi Francus was hilarious - he also told us the coda to the story: “I didn’t run out of the room because he yelled at me,” he said. “I ran to the library to find a dictionary so I could look up what was a ‘moron.’”)
 
While Rabbi Francus’s story is amusing, at its core is an example of a student not quite ready to stand in the shoes of his teacher, not quite aware of the depth of expertise it took to draw such meaning from the text. He overstepped a boundary and immediately felt the consequences of his hubris.
 
Parashat Shemini gives us the story of Nadav and Avihu, who similarly overstepped a boundary. The consequences imposed upon them, however, were far more dire. The parashah begins immediately after the seven days of inauguration for the Mishkan, during which Moshe showed Aaron how each of the sacrifices was to be properly done. On the eighth day, it was finally Aaron’s turn to assume his role as the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. 
 
Aaron dutifully followed the instructions he had been given and carefully offered each of the sacrifices, solidifying his place at the top of the priestly hierarchy. He then blessed the people, entered the Tent of Meeting with Moshe, bringing more blessings to the nation and triggering the appearance of God’s presence. 
 
In the wake of this powerful scene, Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu step forward to make their own offerings, placing incense in their fire pans and lighting it. Immediately, God’s fire came forth, not to consume their offerings, but to consume them, and they were killed. 
 
There are many ways to understand this story. Undeniably, it is a troubling one to read for so many reasons - it speaks to the danger that lurks in holy spaces, to God’s seeming fickleness. It challenges our sense of justice in the world since it never quite explains exactly what Nadav and Avihu did to deserve such immediate and severe punishment.   
But it also contains a powerful message about the importance of boundaries and of knowing our own places in the world. In this context, it reads like an exaggerated cautionary tale. Nadav and Avihu, foolishly thinking that they could step into their father’s place as Kohen Gadol, incurred swift and permanent consequences. 
 
We can understand why they might have believed themselves qualified to bring their offerings. Having witnessed up close first Moshe and then their father performing the sacrificial rituals, and knowing that they were slated to eventually take Aaron’s place, they probably did understand the technical procedures for offering each of the sacrifices. The priestly system was still quite new; they likely didn’t quite realize just how firm the hierarchical boundaries were. We’re meant to learn from their tragic example to tread carefully in the holy spaces of our communities, to be aware of which roles are accessible to us and which ones are not, to recognize that just because something looks straightforward doesn’t mean it actually is. 
 
Our communities today have much lower and more flexible boundaries than in the time of the Torah. Chevrei Tzedek, in particular, is especially democratic - we welcome and seek out everyone’s meaningful participation in the life of our shul. We are a community of learners and doers, who love sharing our viewpoints and skills, and who value the new ideas, melodies, and perspectives we encounter. How blessed we are to be able to hear and learn from so many different voices. 
 
Each of us has something we can offer to the community with skill and expertise. And each of us has areas where we can continue to grow and learn as we try out new things. We are fortunate to have a community full of people with ability in many different areas; ideally we reach out to them to benefit from their experience as we try out new ways of contributing. 
 
Especially as we walk that path of exploration and experimentation, we will inevitably butt up against some boundaries, breaching them perhaps without even realizing it. We may unwittingly say something hurtful to another person, for example, not realizing the impact of our words. We might take liberties with the tradition without fully understanding the implications of our actions. Fortunately for us, God’s fire will not burst out and consume us when we do. And we can be kind, patient, and give each other the benefit of the doubt when we feel our boundaries crossed. The story of Nadav and Avihu reminds us to be mindful and self-aware in how we act in community. When we strive to do so, our communities can be the holy spaces they’re meant to be. 
 
Shabbat shalom.

​As I write this, the brisket is cooling on the counter, my fridge is overflowing, and I’m beginning to wonder how I’m going to get it all done. For those of us who host Seder for our family and friends, a significant part of the preparation for Pesaḥ lies not in ruminating on the deeper spiritual essence of the holiday, but in the hard work of reorganizing our kitchens and dining rooms and cooking a seemingly endless array of symbolic and nostalgic foods. 

This past week at school, we held our annual Learning Festival, a three day event during which teachers develop out-of-the-box classes on a specific theme. This year’s theme was “Hidden Worlds.” My class was on exploring the infinite worlds hidden in the words of our sacred books and creating Midrash through the lens of the Haggadah. My students chose from among several texts from the Haggadah and then followed a specific process before turning their ideas into paintings, poems, playlists, collages, or stories. The first step in the process, after reading the text carefully, is to ask probing questions. Their answers would then become the kernels for their midrashic work.

One of the texts I offered them was the well known instruction at the end of the Maggid section: “In each and every generation, one is obligated to see themselves as if they left Egypt.” Over and over again, the students who chose this text asked a question that I didn’t expect. Why should we envision ourselves back in Egypt, when it was so terrible? Focusing not on the imperative to see ourselves in the Exodus, they all wondered why we had to imagine the experience of being enslaved in order to celebrate being free. 

The students who chose this question as the basis for their Midrash went in different directions with their answers, but most of those answers focused on how the experience of being enslaved in Egypt is essential to Jewish identity. And they’re not wrong. One of the - perhaps the most significant - core tenet of being Jewish is knowing that we were enslaved in Egypt and were then freed by God’s strong hand and outstretched arm. We don’t simply spend hours on the topic at our yearly Sedarim, we include this principle in our daily prayers, speaking of it multiple times daily, and it appears throughout the Torah, not only in the first 15 chapters of the book of Shemot. It’s a powerful story that resonates with us so deeply because we know it’s about us. 

Imagining ourselves in Egypt can be a powerful experience. I, for one, can’t get through the “There Will be Miracles” scene in The Prince of Egypt without bawling. However, I think there’s more to the requirement to see ourselves as having left Egypt than retrojecting ourselves into the story from so long ago. After all, the Haggadah instructs: “In each and every generation…” We are meant both to put ourselves into the story of the Exodus and see our lives today through the lens of leaving Egypt. 

This isn’t always easy to do. While slavery, tragically, still exists in our world, most of our lives are so far away from that reality that we cannot even fathom what it would be like to be freed from enslavement. To fit the lens of the Exodus over our lives today, we need to understand it metaphorically. To find meaning in this instruction, we need to figure out for ourselves a  contemporary corollary for leaving Egypt. 

At base, the Exodus is a journey from extreme constraint to freedom - not boundless freedom, but the freedom to exist in divine relationship. The questions, then, that we need to ask ourselves, center around these ideas. What are the challenges we are facing? How do the limits of our world as it currently is hem us in or make us feel constrained? Where do we see fewer possibilities than we would ideally want? What in our lives opens us up? Who are the people in our lives who help us feel most like our best selves? What new opportunities lie ahead for us?

Amid all the work of getting Pesaḥ ready, it’s important to take a little time to get ready for Pesaḥ. Especially with the intervening day of Shabbat this year providing a bit of a buffer, my wish for us as we enter the holiday is that we find our own answers to these questions, so that we can truly see ourselves as having left Egypt.

Shabbat Shalom and a zissen Pesaḥ to us all.

As I’ve said more than once, I often find it difficult to wrap my brain around this part of the Torah. The last third or so of Shemot, of which Parashat Pekudei is the capstone, covers in exacting detail the materials, building instructions, and actual fabrication of the Mishkan, the Israelites’ desert sanctuary. I tend to glaze over at the seemingly endless litany of measurements and I just can’t visualize how all of the pieces are meant to come together, even though I know how the Mishkan was thought to have looked. (I’m also not amazing at following Ikea instructions, so at least I’m consistent.)

Fortunately, there are flashes of emotional depth, of a narrative arc, of moments of theological significance that keep me afloat as I study these sections year after year. Every so often, however, I see something new in the part of the text that doesn’t usually capture my attention, something that feels meaningful and resonant, something that can be brought to bear on how our Jewish community functions today.

A few weeks ago, when we read Parashat Ki Tisa, we reviewed the census and related flat half-shekel tax that the people paid as part of the process for constructing the Mishkan. This tax was not a voluntary donation, but a required commitment, and one that it was reasonable to ask of the people. Even when correcting for inflation, as it were, half a shekel wasn’t a ton of money. It was an amount that most people would be able to afford. The fact that it was a flat tax is also significant. Regardless of each individual’s financial means, everyone expressed their sense of obligation to the community by contributing in equal measure. 

Despite the fact that we make a pretty big deal about this tax - it’s also the foundation of our special special Maftir reading for Shabbat Shekalim, which we read only four weeks ago - what happened after this tax was collected gets lost in the reams of details that describe the construction of the Mishkan. We often give much more attention to the voluntary nature of the primary donations that helped bring about the Mishkan. The majority of the precious materials that were needed for the project were willingly donated by the people. It’s easy to see how the cache of silver resulting from the half-shekel tax might recede into the background when there’s even more silver, along with plenty of gold, copper, and precious stones in the mix.

We only come back to the fate of these half shekels in Parashat Pekudei. We read (Exodus 38:27) that this silver was used to create the sockets for the outer boards of the Mishkan. 

As a portable structure, the Mishkan had no permanent foundation. The wooden boards that comprised its outer walls needed to be fitted into free-standing sockets to keep them stable each time the Mishkan was erected. We already learned that these sockets were to be made of silver. This is the first time we hear that the silver for the sockets came from the obligatory donations made by the people. 

When we consider the construction of the Mishkan, we often search for ways that this ancient structure, reflective of a very different vision of religion than our own, can teach us about how to construct and nurture our communities today. This year, in my reading of the parashah, I see that lesson in the silver sockets made from the proceeds of the half-shekels. 
The Mishkan could not stand firm without its silver sockets. Those sockets were forged out of the shared commitment of the people to support the community. Our community cannot stand firm without a similar commitment from our people. 

We are a shul that prides itself on the various ways our members demonstrate their commitment to support our community. That support comes in many forms, and when we talk about ourselves, both within and outside the community, we describe Chevrei Tzedek as a community of people who show our commitment to the community through the various ways we volunteer. We sponsor Kiddushim, take on leadership roles in Shabbat services and in our committees, plan and run meaningful community events. 

Our shul is blessed to be planning and hosting a Green Mitzvahthon, a tremendous whole weekend event whose reach extends well beyond our particular community. The committee planning the Green Mitzvahthon has been hard at work organizing the davening, meals, learning opportunities, and environmental fair that will take place on May 2-4. We are grateful for all their efforts and excited to benefit from all of their work.

The committee’s work continues, and what we now most need is for our community of volunteers to become the silver sockets for this unique Shabbaton, to help out both in the last rush of planning before the weekend and on the weekend itself. Over the next few weeks, you’ll continue to hear about the various volunteer opportunities, the roles that we need filled in order to make the Green Mitzvahthon a smashing success. Please respond to the call for help by giving your “half-shekel” and offering your time and presence to support the work of our community.

Shabbat shalom.




​

A couple of weeks ago, I went with my children to Jewish Community Night at the Towson University Basketball game. The kids were excited to go - we’d never been to a college (or professional) basketball game before and they were looking forward to the evening. The day came sooner than we all expected, and when it was time to leave for the arena, the kids were upset that I hadn’t bought them “drip” to wear to the game. They wanted clothes: t-shirts, sweatshirts, at least a hat, to show that they were rooting for Towson. They insisted that they couldn’t properly cheer on the Tigers without it and that they would be “the only ones” there without it. Thus it happened that our first stop at the arena was to the spiritwear cart and they got their “drip.” 

Our second stop was at the bathroom so that they could change into their new clothes. The change in their demeanor was immediate and palpable. Looking around the arena, they saw hundreds of people also sporting their “drip” and no longer felt like they stuck out, like inexperienced newbies. They felt like they were part of something bigger, like they belonged. 

I’ve always loved the “drip” aspect of Parashat Tetzaveh, the unique garments described in exacting detail in Chapter 28 of Shemot. Calling it “drip” doesn’t really do it justice, of course (even though I’m a fan of using slang to discuss serious topics). The special clothing described in the parashah is the clothing of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. Exodus 28:2 in introducing this section, instructs: וְעָשִׂיתָ בִגְדֵי־קֹדֶשׁ לְאַהֲרֹן אָחִיךָ לְכָבוֹד וּלְתִפְאָרֶת׃ / Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment.

In opening up this verse for interpretation, a number of commentators explain that dignity and adornment of the Kohen Gadol’s clothes reflect both outward and inward. The elaborate clothing demonstrates the elevated status of Aharon, the Kohen Gadol and the holiness of the rituals he will perform while wearing it. Putting on his garb, he feels different, as he steps into a role that transcends his individuality. And seeing him dressed this way, the people (and perhaps also God) recognize his elevated status and the gravitas of what he is called to do. 

Parashat Tetzaveh is often read on the Shabbat before Purim, and therein lies another aspect of the transformative power of clothing. The Midrash, in Esther Rabbah (2:1), makes a connection between the “adornments” that Achashverosh would display during his 6 month long celebration and the “adornment” of the vestments of the Kohen Gadol, surmising that the king would bring out the holy garments to show off what he had stolen from the Jews after the plunder of the Temple. 

Obviously, this use of the Kohen Gadol’s clothing came from a place of malice and disregard for the High Priest’s dignity. As the midrash concludes: “Rabbi Berekhya said in the name of Rabbi Ḥelbo: The raven flaunts both what is its own and what is not its own.” Thinking that the clothing brought glory to him, Achashverosh would trot it out for his guests. In actuality, it demonstrated his cruelty and indifference. 

Fortunately, we have another, more widely known, connection between the garments of the Kohen Gadol and Purim - our custom of wearing costumes. We do this, in part, to give voice to the various ways in which identities are hidden and played with throughout the course of the book of Esther. (Side note: when visiting Orthodox neighborhoods in Israel during Purim, one can see dozens of young Kohen Gadols walking around in costume.) It’s hard to deny that wearing costumes makes us feel different from our usual selves. Perhaps we’re letting out an aspect of our personality that we usually keep to ourselves. Or taking on pieces of a character who couldn’t be more different from us. Wearing costumes on Purim gives us permission to feel different and to be different, if only for one day. 

This year, Purim is coming amid a trying time for our people and a chaotic time for our country. I know that I’m not alone in finding it challenging to whip up the expected ruaḥ for the holiday. The custom of wearing costumes can be instructive here. This year, when we put on our costumes, let us fully give in to the spirit of the day, taking a break from the seriousness of everything we’re facing, and emerging with renewed strength to continue finding our way through this time.

Shabbat shalom.



​

In my 7th grade Bible class, we’re currently studying the book of Devarim (Deuteronomy), reading it primarily as a text concerned with creating a society based on principles of justice. These past few weeks, we’ve been looking at the 10 Commandments, comparing the Devarim version to the “original,” those that appear in Shemot (which we read last week in shul). 
 
One of the ways to parse the 10 Commandments is to divide them according to the categories of mitzvah that they reflect. Some of the commandments are representative of Mitzvot Bein Adam LaMakom, mitzvot that pertain to our relationship with God, i.e. ritual and religious mitzvot. And some of the commandments are Mitzvot Bein Adam L’Ḥaveiro, mitzvot that speak to our obligations to our fellow people. As we look at the commandments through this lens, I ask my students to consider which category of mitzvah they think is more important. 
 
This year, my students were split on the issue. What’s more, those who said ritual mitzvot were more important argued that our relationship with God sets us up to be spiritually centered, which will ultimately impact our interactions with others in addition to our religious outlook. Those who said that interpersonal mitzvot were more essential believed that placing priority on our obligations to others honors the godly spark in each person and reinforces our relationship with God. Their difficulty making a straightforward choice demonstrated how deeply entwined my students believe our connections to God and to each other to be. 
 
Their viewpoint is a meaningful frame to put around this week’s parashah as well. Parashat Mishpatim, coming on the heels of the 10 Commandments, constitutes much of the section of Torah known as Sefer HaBrit, the Book of the Covenant. In our reading this week we are inundated with scenarios and rulings that govern our interactions with other people, whether they are our neighbors, family members, or servants, and whether we relate to them as equals or exercise power over them. 
 
I find it noteworthy that the bulk of Sefer HaBrit deals with our human obligations rather than our religious ones. The core content of our covenant with God focuses on how we treat each other. We enter into holy relationship with God by cultivating an awareness of the holiness of other people. 
 
It hardly needs to be said that we are living through a tremendously tense moment in our country’s history. So many of us are worried for the future - for our own lives as well as for the destiny of our nation. It also goes without saying that we do not all respond to our concerns in the same way. We do not all identify the same problems and do not all seek out the same solutions. And our American political culture has sadly become comfortable with the notion that those who disagree with us are less worthy of our sympathy, of our respect. 
 
Looking to Torah can help us take the first step back on a better path. Parashat Mishpatim reminds us that our ultimate role in the world is to care for each other, to respect each other, to lift each other up when we are downtrodden, to be honest and upright in our relationships, to cherish the Godly humanity in each of us. 
 
Shabbat Shalom.

Today is Tu Bishvat (ט״ו בשבט), the 15th of Shevat, which we celebrate as the New Year of the trees. As I write this, there is snow on the ground and the temperature is below freezing. Tu Bishvat in the northeast US is kind of an incongruous experience. But the Mishnah, which first teaches us about Tu Bishvat, was composed in the land of Israel, where signs of the renewal of springtime are beginning to appear at this time every year.
One common Tu Bishvat activity, especially in Israel, is planting trees. I’ve participated in this a number of times and each time, I’m aware of the fragility of the tiny seedling in my hands, almost disbelieving that it will one day become a large and sturdy tree. It takes years, sometimes decades or longer, for a tree's roots to completely take hold of the soil, for it to grow to full size, to produce edible fruit. 

One of my favorite stories from the Talmud (Ta’anit 23a) - which is often shared in connection with Tu Bishvat - relates to this very idea. Ḥoni HaM’agel was walking along the road and saw someone planting a carob tree. Curious about what he was seeing, Ḥoni asked the man how long it would take for the tree to bear fruit. The man explained that it would take 70 years. Shocked, Ḥoni exclaimed, “Do you expect to be alive to eat from this tree?” The man answered, “I found a world full of carob trees. Just as my ancestors planted for me, I too am planting for my descendants.”

(Side note: the rest of the story is a lot of fun and takes a typically Talmudic dark turn at the end, which is why it’s one of my favorites. Give it a look if you have a chance.)

The message of this story is straightforward - we need to plant seeds, both literally and figuratively, for those who come after us. We must not only take from the bounty of the world, we also need to lay the groundwork for that bounty to continue beyond us. 

There are myriad ways this idea is operative in our lives, in the decisions we make about where to live, how to raise and educate our children, our usage of natural and manmade resources. These types of decisions, of course, impact our lives now, but they also plant seeds for those who will come after us. For example, my decision to join our community’s Neighborhood Sun group means that my home’s energy is provided in part by the sun. I experience that in real time. But it also means that I’m reducing my dependence on fossil fuels, which will contribute to a cleaner, cooler, and safer world in the future. In letting my children know that our house is part of a solar power network, they absorb the values behind my choice, which they will ideally continue to embrace as adults and share with their own families and friends. These are the seeds that will hopefully bear future fruit.

…Which brings me to Parashat Hashavua. This week we read Parashat Yitro, in which we witness God’s self-revelation to the Israelites, in the form of the Ten Commandments. The second commandment is a difficult one. The beginning of the commandment, the prohibition on worshiping other gods, and on making or serving idols is not so challenging. But then God says, “For I the LORD your God am an impassioned God, visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children, upon the third and upon the fourth generations of those who reject Me, but showing kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments.” (Exodus 20:5-6). 

Vicarious punishment, the idea that people will be punished for the sins of earlier generations, feels cruel and unfair - not the actions of a God of compassion and forgiveness. In a number of other places in the Tanakh, this idea is roundly rejected. In later texts, it becomes a tenet of Jewish theology that children are not punished for the sins of their parents.  If vicarious punishment is unjust, what alternative meaning can we find in this passage?

Umberto Cassuto (1883-1951), an Italian - and later Israeli - rabbi and Bible scholar, offers a powerful suggestion. As a commentator, he tends to read the text literarily, and is careful not to interpret the words of the Bible out of their context and meaning. Seeing that the most straightforward meaning of the text is that punishment for one’s sins will devolve upon the heads of their descendants, he offers this interpretation: Since a person will naturally feel of anguish at seeing their children or grandchildren suffer, and perhaps even more than they would feel about their own tribulations, the text is offering a warning in order to distance us from sin. If it is possible that during your life you would see children and grandchildren bearing the negative consequences of your poor choices, you will think twice about making those poor choices. 

Cassuto’s take on the second commandment also rests on the idea that the seeds we plant inevitably bear fruit in the future. If we’re careful about the seeds we plant now, we will see and create a solid future, in which those who come after us flourish and in which the world we leave for them is a fruitful one.

Shabbat shalom.

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​In a number of ways, these few weeks when we tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt are the time when we feel most connected to the story of the Israelites. The story of Pesaḥ is, more than many other parts of the Torah, our story. It is perhaps the most salient piece of Jewish collective memory and identity - we recall it daily in our tefillot, multiple times. We devote an entire holiday to reenacting it and putting ourselves in the shoes of the Israelites in this moment. The continuing relevance of this part of who we are doesn’t exist only in how we place ourselves into the story and see ourselves as having left Egypt. It also lies in how we see the story in our own lives today, how we look at the world now through its lens.
 
Parashat Bo begins right on the heels of last week’s reading, the end of which tells us that Pharaoh had hardened his own heart. While this week’s reading returns to the phrasing of God hardening Pharaoh’s heart, it seems clear that there has been a shift, that Pharaoh is a partner in the process.
 
And Pharaoh’s self-imposed stubbornness has devastating consequences, in the form of the final three plagues, the most severe of them all: locusts, darkness, and the killing of the firstborn. The Torah tells us of the horror of each of these plagues. The locusts darken the land and decimate it, eating all of the remaining crops, leaving it bereft of food. Darkness descends upon the Egyptians, terrifying the people and keeping them from being able to see one another. The killing of the first born touches every household in Egypt and has the survivors fearing for their lives. 
 
The plagues, described literally in the parashah, also hold symbolic meaning. Locusts: the devastation of the natural world, compromising one’s ability to provide for self and family. Darkness: the metaphor here is obvious - the loss of community, of the ability to see and find common ground with one another. The killing of the firstborn: the loss of one’s future, the destruction of legacy. 
 
Each of these plagues, read metaphorically, feels ominously present in our world today. Our natural environment is in grave danger. We have stopped really seeing each other, and approach those who differ from us with suspicion and defensiveness. The risk to both the material and social fabric of our communities threatens our very future. 
 
The message here is clear:  we cannot harden our hearts in this chaotic and contentious time. Instead of letting these plagues take hold, we need to see them as motivation to do things differently. This starts with paying attention - to what’s happening in our world and to each other. We can take our heads out of the sand and take steps to alleviate the risks to our environment. We can push away the darkness expanding between us and approach each other with curiosity and empathy, remembering that we are part of one community, one nation, one world. We can reclaim our future. 
 
The opposite of a hardened heart is an open one. Let us open our hearts and really hear how and where the world is crying out to us. Let us listen to and love each other. Let us work toward a future of greater justice, greater unity, greater understanding. 
Shabbat shalom.