I’ve been vacillating about how much I want to pay attention to the news these days. With the inauguration following on the heels of the emotionally charged release of three hostages, my capacity for taking in the overwhelming coverage of every single moment surrounding the installation of the new president has been limited. And yet, I know that I cannot and must not look away. Over these past few days, I’ve been taking it in snippets - 10 minutes on the New York Times website here, a glance at a television report there. So it came to be that I caught a clip of Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s sermon during the national prayer service on Tuesday. 

I’ve heard Bishop Mariann speak before - she delivered the sermon at my friend Father Aaron Dunn’s ordination service this past summer - and I’ve written and spoken with us about what I learned from her words. I have found her to be erudite and accessible, with an approach that is both rooted in tradition and speaks from a place of love and compassion. I was not, therefore, surprised by the depth of the words I heard in that small excerpt. 


What did blow me away, though, was the way she earnestly and deliberately spoke truth to power. Later on, I went and found the video of her whole sermon (you can watch it here if you haven’t seen it yet - and I recommend that you do). Hearing her words in their entirety only reinforced my sense of awe and gratitude. 


We look to our religious leaders to be a voice of moral clarity, to help guide us through challenging times. Bishop Mariann did exactly this, speaking passionately about the importance of fostering unity. She explained that unity is not uniformity or conformity, that the truest form of unity exists across diversity. For such unity to take root, it must be based on three principles: recognizing human dignity; commitment to honesty; and humility. 


While the words of her sermon are broadly applicable and relevant to any moment of leadership transition, they also had a clear subtext, a message to the incoming leaders about the task that lies ahead for them as they work to govern a deeply divided country. Bishop Mariann also spoke directly to the president, beseeching him to show mercy to the people in our country, specifically the LGBTQ+ community and immigrants and asylum seekers, who are feeling frightened about the promised policy changes of the new administration. 

Her words were heartfelt and straightforward, and they have had an impact. Her bravery in speaking so boldly to the newly elected leaders, in speaking truth to power, revealed her own power. Hers is the power to influence hearts and minds, to teach people to lead and live with compassion. 

Having listened to her sermon, I can’t help but wonder how she prepared herself, emotionally and spiritually, for that moment. While I’m not sure that our parashah this week, Parashat VaEra, can answer that question, it does give us a window into Moshe’s emergence as a leader who also found the fortitude to speak boldly to one in power.

From the moment we “meet” Moshe as an adult in the book of Exodus, he is uncomfortable with his role as a leader of the people. He worries that he won’t be heeded, that he’s not the right one for the job, that his speech difficulties will prevent him from succeeding. God’s plan for Moshe, however, is unwavering, and God continues to encourage him to lead, offering him both divine and human support, as well as new skills in working wonders. 

But Moshe still struggles with his confidence. Throughout most of the parashah, he continues to express doubt about his effectiveness. Moreover, we don’t hear his voice at all in the initial contacts with Pharaoh and the onsets of the first two plagues. We read of God’s script for him, the instructions for what he should say to Pharaoh, and then the text simply reports that Moshe and Aharon did as God commanded. This happens several times - until the horror of the second plague drives Pharaoh to come to Moshe and beg for it to stop. 

In this moment, we see a different Moshe. He responds to Pharaoh’s plea: “You may have this triumph over me: for what time shall I plead on behalf of you and your courtiers and your people, that the frogs be cut off from you and your houses, to remain only in the Nile?” (Exodus 8:5) These are the first words to Pharaoh that we hear in Moshe’s voice. He starts calmly, in an almost conciliatory tone.

After he and Pharaoh agree that the plague would come to an end the next day, Moshe concludes their interaction, his words leaving no question as to his (or God’s) power: “As you say—that you may know that there is none like Adonai our God.” (Exodus 8:6) This is not the Moshe of previous chapters. He is confident and bold in approaching Pharaoh, clearly and courageously making his point. 

After Moshe prays for the plague to end, it does end, and the text gives us something remarkable. Earlier, when God had given Moshe instructions for what to say and do, the Torah simply tells us, as I mentioned before, that Moshe and Aharon did as God commanded. Here, after Moshe steps fully into his role representing God’s opposition to Pharaoh, we read: “And Adonai did as Moses asked.” (Exodus 8:9) The power of his words not only cowed Pharaoh, but also spurred God into action. 

May Bishop Mariann’s words be accepted and enacted in the same way.

Shabbat shalom. 

​

Yesterday, I had the honor of attending a Baltimore Board of Rabbis meeting where our special guests were Senator Ben and Myrna Cardin. We hosted them, as Senator Cardin begins his retirement, to take the opportunity to offer our gratitude for his decades of public service and to both appreciate and learn from the ways his calling to serve is motivated by his deeply held Jewish values.

In his remarks to us, Senator Cardin reflected on the experiences that had been most powerful, most meaningful in his long career. Over and over again, he spoke about the importance of engaging deeply in conversation with people who have different perspectives than we do. He attributed much of his success as a lawmaker to his willingness to reach across the aisle - something he did with great frequency and skill. And he offered us a charge, reminding us that our divided and highly-charged political climate permeates all corners of American life, and that the only way to combat the mistrust that has taken hold is to be willing to talk and listen to one another.

In essence, he told us that we need to have the hard conversations.

Senator Cardin spoke about how he sees his role that he’s now out of the Senate - he’s on a crusade, he said, to get young people to learn history. Studying history gives people a window into the lives of others. It provides students with a sense that their own experience of the world is not the only experience. It enables us to see outside ourselves and to approach others with curiosity and openness. 

When you know that your way is not the only way, you can hear what others have to say without being defensive. You can build relationships and coalitions. These relationships between people and communities of diverse backgrounds, said Senator Cardin, are the path toward creating an alternate narrative of what it means to be American right now. 

His message could not have been more timely or more needed, given where we are as a nation and what we see just ahead on the horizon. 

It also resonates deeply with our work as a community to practice engaging in conversations across our differences. We spoke extensively about this over the High Holidays this past fall, made it a key feature of our community meeting in November, and have begun to engage in addressing the issues that have historically driven a wedge between us. Even though we’re really just getting started with this work, I was heartened to hear from Senator Cardin that he sees having difficult conversations as essential to the ongoing health, not only of our individual communities, but also of our nation. 

Having these kinds of conversations is hard work and will likely make us all at least a little bit uncomfortable in the process of drawing us more closely together. Hearing Senator Cardin’s reflections at this mile-marker in his tremendous career served as a reminder to me that having difficult conversations has long been an important part of strengthening communities. Being able to engage with each other deeply and honestly through our differences is not at all a new idea. It 
is, however, one to which we should devote renewed effort and attention. Over the coming months, I’m looking forward to continuing our learning together and finding more and more opportunities to open our minds and our hearts to each other.

Shabbat shalom.

​

This week, I don’t have to look very far or very deeply into Parashat Vayeshev to see a connection that I feel called to share. Suffice it to say that the feud between Joseph and his brothers had catastrophic consequences. In the Torah, the tragedy of Jacob’s sons eventually saves the family decades down the road, but that is because the Torah is full of miracles - we don’t often experience such felicitous results in our own lives. 
In our lives, to repair such a broken situation, we would need to do the work ourselves. And there is some serious work to do. 

This past Thursday evening, Baltimore Hebrew Congregation hosted Alon-Lee Green and Rula Daood, co-directors of Standing Together. Standing Together is an Israeli non-profit organization seeking to bring together Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel to mobilize for peace, equality, and social justice. Members of Standing together take action in many ways, from leading public protests calling for a ceasefire and hostage deal to creating opportunities for young people from neighboring Jewish and Palestinian towns to get to know each other through the things they have in common. They do this, as they say on their website, because they believe in a future of “peace and independence for Israelis and Palestinians, full equality for everyone in this land, and true social, economic, and environmental justice.” 

Their work since the attacks of October 7 and the ensuing war has changed in some significant ways. Their staff and volunteers are all committed to working toward finding a different way of approaching the problem of achieving safety and peace for both the Israeli and the Palestinian people. And as you might imagine, some aspects of their work in this area are seen as controversial in some parts of the Jewish community. 

Shortly before last week’s event, the Jewish co-director of Standing Together, Alon-Lee Green, in a video posted on X, referred to the ongoing killing of people in Gaza as ethnic cleansing. 

Not surprisingly, this got a lot of attention. 

Green is not alone in referring to Israel’s actions in Gaza as war crimes. The widely publicized ruling by the International Criminal Court in November issued arrest warrants for Benjamin Netanyahu and Yoav Gallant for crimes against humanity. More recently, Moshe Ya’alon, who served as Netanyahu’s defense minister during the 2014 Gaza war, also labeled the IDF’s current conduct in Gaza as ethnic cleansing.

In response to Green’s posted remarks, some local organizations withdrew their co-sponsorship of the event. Other local organizations privately contacted Baltimore Hebrew, asking them to cancel the event altogether. I take no issue with these actions, regardless of my personal opinion. 
It is worth noting that this event was one of the few local events focused on Israel since October 7 that has presented a progressive standpoint on the current war, that explicitly made room both for expressions of pain for the ongoing plight of the hostages and horror at the massive loss of life in Gaza, that has acknowledged the need for a safe and secure Israel and the unthinkable road ahead to create a way forward for the Palestinians. 

However, once it became clear that Baltimore Hebrew planned to continue with the event, the situation changed. And this I take serious issue with.

As Baltimore Hebrew shared publicly, here’s what happened: 

“Some in the Baltimore Jewish community who disagree with Standing Together’s tactics lobbied an effort to shut down the program by bombarding us with vitriol. To date, 20 BHC staff members, most of whom had no direct involvement with the program, have received more than 5,000 emails, voicemails, and social media comments filled with insults and attacks. The venom on display in no way matched the hopeful messages of the speakers.
This hostility was not an effort to protect Jews or Israel. It was a campaign to shut down discussion and discourse.”


Having read some of the social media posts insulting and attacking Baltimore Hebrew, I must comment that I was honestly shocked by how quickly fellow Jews jumped to launch ad hominem attacks against Baltimore Hebrew’s clergy, staff, and congregants. Their hatred was immediate and public, taking a moment of deep disagreement and turning it into a power play.


As a community, we’ve been working on how to have difficult conversations, and we will continue to do so. Last Thursday’s event - which many of our members attended - was an opportunity to engage in just that. As the Baltimore Hebrew posting continued:


“Hosting Omdim B’Yachad/Standing Together is just another example of how we at Baltimore Hebrew Congregation wrestle with ideas while supporting Israel, along with her neighbors. People of good faith who sincerely want peace are NOT the enemy. Being able to listen, learn, and discuss is how we stand in the strength of our identity and values.”

The lesson from Parashat Vayeshev is clear: the existence of enmity and mistrust between members of the same family, when left to fester, is devastating. While I was deeply saddened to see how some people responded to their disagreement with Standing Together, I want to echo Baltimore Hebrew’s response and lend my support in this direction. Making space for ideas that may challenge us; hearing stories that are different from our own, that may be new to us; replacing binary thinking with listening and openhearted dialogue - these are the way forward. I stand with Baltimore Hebrew on this journey and I’d love for you to stand with me.

​

A couple of times over the past week, I’ve been talking with friends about how we taught our kids to say “thank you.” I shared that when my children were babies and toddlers, I would model it for them. Whenever I handed them something, I would say “Here you go!” When they took it (before they could talk), I would say “Thank you!” Pretty soon, especially once they became talkers, it was an automatic response. Before I go on too much longer letting you think I’m patting myself on the back for my excellent parenting, please know that the habit of saying thank you really only stuck with one of the two kids. And neither of them is polite in all areas of life, or on some days in any of them. 

This mildly amusing story, however, illustrates something we know to be true: gratitude can be complicated. In a week when as Americans we celebrate Thanksgiving, when all of our reasons for being thankful are front and center, it can feel somewhat sacrilegious to acknowledge this, but here we are. I know this is certainly true for me this year, with things both personal and communal weighing heavily on me - the gratitude is there, but it doesn’t come as easily as I might like.

Each year as we read the Torah over again, we take it in as our current selves. The lens through which we see the text is the lens of whatever we’re experiencing in our individual worlds. And so, I see shades of this kind of complicated gratitude in Parashat Toldot as well. 
​
In the opening scene of the parashah, we are reminded of the circumstances of Isaac’s marriage to Rebekah. As we read in last week’s parashah, it was his marriage that brought him comfort after the death of his mother. The joy and gratitude of a new relationship existed side by side with grief and a sense of loss. 

As the text continues here, Rebekah and Isaac struggled to conceive; they knew the pain of infertility. Isaac prayed on behalf of his wife and she conceived. This surely was a moment overflowing with gratitude. Their prayers had been answered and they would become parents. Yet Rebekah’s pregnancy was not an easy one; she was in pain and cried out to God, “If so, why do I exist?” (Genesis 25:22)

A midrash from Bereishit Rabbah creates a fuller picture of Rebekah’s pain in this moment. “Rabbi Yitzḥak said: It teaches that our matriarch Rebecca was circulating around the entrances of women’s houses and saying to them: ‘In your days, did you experience this suffering? If this is the suffering that comes with children; had I only not conceived.’” (Bereishit Rabbah 63:6) Here we see the gratitude mixed with, perhaps even replaced by, fear, pain, and regret.

What do we do, then, when our gratitude is difficult to access, laced with less comfortable emotions, or overshadowed by difficulty? It’s not easy, and I’m not always that good at it, but I believe what we do is we let ourselves feel all of our feelings. When we look at this up close, we see that there can be hints of joy in times of sadness or the opposite. Contradictory emotions can coexist - our hearts can hold more than one thing at a time. When we zoom out a little, we find that over the course of a period of time, even over the course of one particular experience, we feel a wide range of emotions. Nothing is all one way or another. And when we look back on those experiences, all of those emotions can be part of how we tell the story of those parts of our lives. 

Our ability to experience life in this deeply feeling way is something for which I am truly grateful.

I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving and Shabbat Shalom.

​In my 8th grade Bible class, we study the Avraham narratives in depth. From the first moment of Avraham’s connection with the Divine, we notice God’s promises of land, offspring, and a great name. As we continue studying the story of our first patriarch, we evaluate how each of those promises is coming to fruition. For example, first there’s a famine in the land and he’s forced to go to Egypt; then he’s able to go back and settle more permanently, with God promising an expansive portion of territory. 

There are ups and downs, dramatic moments when it seems like one or another of the promises is in grave danger of never being fulfilled, and moments when they finally seem to be firmly established. By the time we reach the end of Parashat Vayera, last week’s Torah reading, which contains the bulk of the Avraham narratives, we take it for granted that all of the promises have been fulfilled and are staying that way. He is living in Be’er Sheva, in the land of Canaan. He has raised two sons, one of whom is chosen by God to be his heir. And he is well-known throughout the land. 
But at the beginning of Parashat Ḥayyei Sarah, which we read this week, it seems that it’s not necessarily so cut and dried. Sarah just having died, Avraham purchases the field of Makhpelah, burying his wife in the cave there. So of the vast swath of land that God promised him, he now firmly possesses: one field. His chosen son, Yitzḥak, who is to be the next in his line, the father of the multitudes that he is supposed to give rise to, is nowhere to be found. A close look at the text reveals that after the incident of the Akedah, Avraham and his son never speak again. Yitzḥak is absent from Avraham’s life, but Avraham is mostly concerned that he remains unmarried with no children. We don’t hear much to challenge Avraham’s great name, but he must have been concerned about its staying power, given all of the challenges he faced.

God’s promises don’t seem all that secure anymore. It therefore stands out when, at the beginning of Chapter 24, we read: “Abraham was now old, advanced in years, and the LORD had blessed Avraham in all things.” (Genesis 24:1)  Avraham has just buried Sarah - while we often encourage ourselves and others to find points of gratitude in hard times, it seems incongruous to note this in the wake of Sarah’s death. This moment, when Avraham is grieving his wife and feeling uncertainty about his legacy, seems an odd one to speak of all that he has; his awareness is focused much more on what he is lacking. 
 
The text says that God blessed him “in all things.” The phrase “in all things,” בכל in Hebrew, is unhelpfully vague, and sparks many midrashic interpretations. One that I came across felt particularly meaningful to me this week. Bereishit Rabbah 59:7 teaches: “Rabbi Levi said several interpretations: “In all things” means that he granted him control over his evil inclination…“In all things” means that his food storehouse lacked nothing. Rabbi Levi said in the name of Rabbi Ḥama: “In all things” means that God did not test him again.”
​
Rather than understanding Avraham’s blessings as beyond measure, as a number of other midrashim do, this understanding of “in all things” takes a more realistic approach. At a time of his life when he was feeling loss, he was still able to recognize that he was in possession of himself, he had his physical needs met, and he had security in knowing that God would no longer subject him to the tests that had been a constant in his earlier years. It may not have literally been all things, but it was everything. 

Shabbat shalom.

In our triennial cycle of reading the Torah, we encounter the Akedah, the story of the binding of Isaac, only once every three years. Closing out the Abraham narratives in Genesis, it is one of our most challenging texts, the story of a father attempting to sacrifice his child and being seemingly rewarded for it. Especially with everything going on in our world today, the themes of broken relationships, offering up our children, and a capricious God are ones we might prefer not to face. Once in three yearIn our triennial cycle of reading the Torah, we encounter the Akedah, the story of the binding of Isaac, only once every three years. Closing out the Abraham narratives in Genesis, it is one of our most challenging texts, the story of a father attempting to sacrifice his child and being seemingly rewarded for it. s seems more than enough. But this is our year for the Akedah, so face it we must.

This week, I saw a post on social media from Sarah Tuttle-Singer, an American/Israeli author and blogger whom I follow. She attributed the post to a mutual friend; the original words seem to have been written by Marion McNaughton, a Quaker who lives in England and is involved in, among other things, interfaith work. I reposted her words, feeling that they gave voice to many of the feelings that arise for me when I read the Akedah: the frustration, the resignation. I want to share some of them with us here now:

And with a heavy heart Abraham went to his wife Sarah and said, "God has told me to take our son Isaac, whom we love, and sacrifice him as a burnt offering." 

[...]

And Sarah threw up her hands in despair and said, "Abraham, you are a bone-headed fool. What kind of a God do you think you are dealing with? What kind of a god would want you to kill your own son to prove how religious you are?...She's trying to teach you something; that you must challenge even the highest authority on questions of right and wrong. Argue with Her, wrestle with Her!" But Sarah's words smacked to Abraham of blasphemy, and he went into the mountains with his son Isaac. 

And Sarah said to God, "You are playing with fire. He is too stupid to understand what you are up to. He won't…challenge you; if you don't stop him, he will kill our precious son…" 

And God said, "Sarah, they have a long journey to the mountains; I'm hoping one of them will see sense." 

And Sarah said, "Like father, like son. You'll have to send an angel." 

And it came to pass as Sarah foretold, and the angel of the Lord spoke to Abraham…and told him not to kill his son. And Abraham sacrificed a ram as a burnt offering. And the angel of the Lord spoke to Abraham a second time and told him his offspring would be as numerous as stars in the heaven... And the angel of the Lord spoke to Abraham a third time and said, "Because you were ready to kill your own son in the name of your God you will be known as a great patriarch and millions will follow your example. And they will believe that He is indeed a jealous and a demanding God, and they will willingly sacrifice their sons in His name and to His glory. And there will be bloodshed and slaughter in all the corners of the earth." 

And Abraham returned to his wife Sarah and said, "God is well pleased with me for I am to be a mighty patriarch." 

And Sarah said nothing. But she took the garments of Abraham and Isaac that were stained with the blood of the ram, and she carried them to the river to be washed. And the river ran red with the blood of generations to come, and Sarah wept bitterly. 

And God came to Sarah at the water's edge and said, "Sarah, do not weep. You were right. It will take time. Meanwhile hold firm to what you know of me and speak it boldly. I am as you know me to be. Many generations will pass and a new understanding will come to the children of Abraham, but before then I shall be misheard and misrepresented except by a few. You must keep my truth alive." 

And Sarah dried her eyes and said, "As if I didn't have enough to do." 

It’s the last line that does it for me. I feel Sarah’s indignation, her sense of overwhelm at being tasked with one. more. thing. when she already bears the weight of so much responsibility on her shoulders, when she already did everything she could to try and stop the train from running off the rails. She saw it coming; she tried to stop it; now she has to deal with the aftermath. 

But Sarah in this piece is also strong, resolute. She dries her eyes and does not reject what she’s being asked to do. She has a massive, but sacred, responsibility. Knowing that God’s presence in the world is best felt not through might, but through justice, she must carry that truth and ignite it in others. May we find the fortitude to follow her lead. 

Shabbat shalom.

​

​Last week, I wrote about how we sometimes need to leave our safe spaces, to step out into the world, in order to be productive and take on the tasks that face us. This week feels like a very different sort of week, a week when we need our safe spaces, the comfort that comes from connection with each other, the sense of security and hope that many of us feel ebbing away in the wake of the election results. For many of us, the prospect of going out into the world seems impossible right now. We need to recenter ourselves, find our way back to solid ground. 
 
Tefillah, prayer, has always been a meaningful part of my spiritual life. In particular, the recitation of Psalms, both in the context of the siddur and as a standalone practice, has helped me find comfort and balance. Sometimes, a certain verse surprises me, hitting me in a new and penetrating way and then becoming a focus for me in my davening for a time. Sometimes it is the act of reciting, repeating the familiar words, that calms me. Sometimes it’s a powerful melody that gives the words new resonance, and listening or singing helps restore my equilibrium.
 
A good number of years ago, I was going through an extremely difficult time in my personal life. The situation was causing me a great deal of anxiety, and I regularly felt hopeless and powerless. Therapy helped, as did time with friends, but those supports weren’t available to me at all of the times when I felt myself being pulled out to sea. 
 
A friend of mine who lives in the Hasidic community knew about my struggles and shared with me a practice she had learned about using psalms, specifically Psalm 119, to seek God’s help. Full disclosure: the theology of this practice didn’t work for me then and doesn’t work for me now. And the practice seems motivated by not a little magical thinking. 
 
Here’s how it worked: Psalm 119 is an alphabetical acrostic, with 8 verses for each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. I was to use the verses of the psalm to spell out the person’s name for whom I wanted God’s help, followed by the verses that began with the letters קרע שטן, meaning “tear up Satan.” By reciting these verses, I was calling on God to destroy the evil forces that were negatively affecting the person whose name I spelled out with the verses. God would be moved by my use of the biblical text in this way and would intervene in my situation. 
 
At the time, the magical thinking aspect of it resonated with me. Although I didn’t believe that such divine intervention was within the realm of possibility, I was feeling desperate. I figured that it couldn’t hurt. And it actually helped. 
 
As I would read through the appropriate verses of the psalm, the words would become like a meditation. My breathing would slow, my heartbeat becoming more regulated. It also took a long time to complete the ritual, leaving me feeling at the end like I had accomplished something. My difficult situation had remained the same, but I was changed by doing this. 
 
I’ve heard from so many people over these last couple of days that we’re feeling despair, fear for our children, uncertainty about our collective future. With that in mind, I want to offer as a prayer some of the words of Psalm 119, sending out an intention that the anxiety we’re feeling will soon abate, that we’ll be ready to step back into our lives, prepared for all that faces us. 
 
I call with all my heart;
answer me, O LORD…
I rise before dawn and cry for help;
I hope for Your word.
Hear my voice as befits Your steadfast love;
O LORD, preserve me, as is Your rule.
You, O LORD, are near,
and all Your commandments are true.
See my affliction and rescue me,
for I have not neglected Your teaching.
Your mercies are great, O LORD;
as is Your rule, preserve me.
Truth is the essence of Your word;
Your just rules are eternal.
I have done what is just and right;
do not abandon me to those who would wrong me.
My eyes pine away for Your deliverance,
for Your promise of victory.
I am Your servant;
give me understanding,
that I might know Your decrees.
I hate and abhor falsehood;
I love Your teaching.
Those who love Your teaching enjoy well-being;
they encounter no adversity.
I hope for Your deliverance, O LORD.
Teach me good sense and knowledge,
for I have put my trust in Your commandments.
It was good for me that I was humbled,
so that I might learn Your laws.
I prefer the teaching You proclaimed
to thousands of gold and silver pieces.
Your word is a lamp to my feet,
a light for my path.
 
Shabbat shalom.