We’re now in the period of the Jewish calendar sometimes called “The Yoms.” After the conclusion of Pesaḥ, we have a number of modern commemorations and celebrations that happen in quick succession: Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom HaAtzmaut, and Yom Yerushalayim. All four of these days mark events in the more recent history of the Jewish people. And all of them feel different this year.
Gil Preuss, the CEO of the Jewish Federation of Greater Washington, picked up on the complicated nature of these days in a recent piece he published. He wrote: “This year, we will gather a little over seven months after the horrific attacks of October 7th. The war in Gaza continues amid significant loss and suffering. There is a deep sense of instability and insecurity in Israel and Jewish communities around the world. Moreover, the politics dividing Israel, the American Jewish community, and the broader American public are becoming more complicated by the day.” We are weathering a time of heightened sensitivities and intense emotions. It’s only natural that this impacts our observance of these special days. And it has. On Yom HaShoah, our national day of remembrance and mourning for the horrors of the Holocaust, we couldn’t help but notice the parallels between the pogroms of early 20th-century Europe and the pogrom of October 7, 2023, between the rising antisemitism we see in the world today and what we saw as the Nazis were coming to power. Yom HaShoah’s call of Never Again felt more urgent this year. And our ability to heed that call felt somehow less in our control. Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s memorial day for those who fell in battle and in terrorist attacks, memorialized losses far more fresh and painful than in recent memory. With the weight of the current situation being felt so deeply, we needed both to grieve together and to try to find glimmers of hope and solidarity. At the Krieger Schechter memorial ceremony, our students sang Latzeit MeDika’on, by Yagel Oshri, a popular Israeli song that both acknowledges the painful feelings of this time and also expresses hope that good days will yet come. Yom HaAtzmaut, Israel’s independence day, also felt different this year, more subdued, more complicated. Here in our community, we gathered for an erev shirah, an evening of singing together, which allowed us to celebrate our connection to Israel through classic songs, while at the same time giving soulful voice to our current fears and feelings. It was uplifting to be together, in a space where it felt safe to hold the complexity of this moment. It’s not only the Yoms that have been impacted by our current crisis. Our more established holidays, those that originate in the biblical tradition, also felt different this year. We slowed our dancing on Simḥat Torah, paid attention to the existential fear underlying Purim, focused on the elusiveness of freedom during Pesaḥ. Reading of the holidays in Parashat Emor this week, we are reminded, however, that our Torah holidays have set rituals and customs associated with them. On Pesaḥ we eat matzah; on Shavuot we offer our first harvest; on Rosh Hashanah we have the shofar; on Yom Kippur we fast; on Sukkot we dwell in the sukkah and take the lulav and etrog. The text prescribes clear to-dos for each holiday. While the holidays feel different to us each year, particularly when something significant is happening in our world, the specific rituals provide a sense of stability for each holiday, serving as a constant that links our celebrations this year to those of all the years before and all the years to follow. Being newer observances, the Yoms have no biblically ordained ritual or liturgy like the holidays we read about in the Torah this week. I have to acknowledge that, with so much feeling like it’s up in the air right now, it would be comforting to have firmly rooted practices to structure our journey through this time in the Jewish calendar. These days are so filled with uncertainty and pain that it can feel overwhelming to figure out exactly what to do to participate in them meaningfully. At the same time, their status as modern holidays gives us the flexibility to respond authentically to our current situation, to create new rituals and transform older ones, tailoring our observances to match the emotions of this moment. So this year, the Yoms this year are different - as they should be. May next year find us able to mark these days in peace and in unity. Shabbat shalom.
0 Comments
For those who struggle with the litany of rituals, rules, and regulations in the book of Vayikra, Parashat Kedoshim often serves as a welcome reprieve. While there’s no compelling narrative to speak of, this week’s Torah reading is packed with the kinds of ethical mitzvot that serve, for many of us, as the backbone of our Jewish worldview.
The parashah opens with God’s command that we be holy, just as God is. It sounds beautiful, to be sure, but this instruction, taken on its own, is wonderfully vague. What exactly does it mean to be holy? What follows in the ensuing chapters of Parashat Kedoshim is not a definition of holiness, but a listing of mitzvot, which (from the Torah’s perspective) would help one fulfill the command to be holy. Even that, though, is not straightforward. Reading through the parashah, we see at least two conceptions of holiness emerge. For Parashat Kedoshim, holiness is separation. And for Parashat Kedoshim, holiness is caring for others. We see separation in the mitzvot that describe boundaries in our relationships with God (don’t make idols, for example) and with each other. We see caring for others in the requirement to leave the corners of our field for the poor, providing them with food and preserving their dignity, and to render impartial judicial decisions. Sometimes, these two approaches to holiness butt up against each other. We are enjoined (Leviticus 20:23-24) not to follow the practices of the nations among whom we dwell, because God has set us apart from other peoples. And we are also told: “The strangers who reside with you shall be to you as your citizens; you shall love each one as yourself” (Leviticus 19:34) Both commandments I cited acknowledge the reality of living in a blended society, in close proximity to people of different backgrounds and orientations, but they have very different opinions about that reality. The first commandment is suspicious of others, fearful of the corrupting influence of different religious practices and national identities. The second commandment preaches inclusivity and presumes deep and abiding connections between people of diverse national origins. Both of these approaches resonate with our experiences today. As Jews and as compassionate citizens of the world, we strive to be welcoming to visitors to our homes and communities, regardless of their Jewish status or lack thereof. We see massive numbers of people in many parts of the world - including in our own country - displaced from their homes, trying to make their way in a land that is not their own. We respond with love, offering help and support, donating our money, our food, our extra clothing and household goods to be of assistance to those who know what it is to be a stranger. Especially in this time of increased vulnerability as a Jewish community, we also know well the desire to close ranks, to turn toward the safety of the people and institutions we know best, those we call our own. In seeking to protect ourselves and lean into our Jewishness, not just now, we have also at times cast those outside our community as potential threats, minimized their perspectives, distanced ourselves from them. How can we possibly love and demonize the stranger simultaneously? Obviously, we cannot. And while fear and suspicion are often natural outgrowths of our most traumatic experiences, our tradition is one that teaches love and compassion as core values. “Love your neighbor as yourself,” (Leviticus 19:18) our parashah teaches. Rabbi Akiva famously said that this verse is the central tenet of the Torah (Sifra Kedoshim 4:12). With this in mind, I am so grateful that our shul is participating in Refugee Shabbat this week. A program of HIAS, Refugee Shabbat, brings congregations together in solidarity with the global Jewish movement for refugee protection and welcome. Our world is currently one where asylum seekers are turned away around the world. At least 110 million people worldwide have been forcibly displaced from their homes. Refugee Shabbat provides us with the opportunity to build on our tradition’s commitment to caring for those in these kinds of dire situations and reflect on what we can contribute to their cause. Motivated by the message of Parashat Kedoshim, that we can strive to emulate God by being holy, let us do so motivated by the holiness that stems from the compassionate, welcoming care we offer to those among us who need it most. Shabbat shalom. My love/hate relationship with my kitchen always rears its ugly head around Pesaḥ. First, the hate: both taking my kitchen apart and putting it back together right before and after the holiday. The seemingly incessant schlepping of dishes off of shelves and out of cabinets, plus having to figure out where to put it all to leave enough room for my Pesaḥ supplies only serves to highlight for me any dissatisfaction I have with my kitchen setup and my anxiety about preparing for Yom Tov. Dragging it all out again just over a week later, usually at some ungodly hour of the night after the conclusion of the holiday, is its own stressor, as I can never quite remember where everything goes, or where I stowed every item. Nothing ever fits exactly as it did before, and even when I remember to take pictures before unloading my cabinets the first time around, I still can’t get it to go back quite right.
Next, the love: when my cabinets are empty and wiped out, my countertops rid of any appliances or chazerai that seems to accumulate there of its own accord, I look at my empty kitchen and feel the promise of a new beginning. The same happens at the end of the holiday, after I’ve packed away all of my Pesaḥ supplies and am ready to reclaim my kitchen until next Passover. I appreciate the space I have, how I’m able to celebrate the holiday in line with my religious orientation, and how my kitchen can accommodate my family’s needs. And once I’ve successfully put everything back together, I even find appreciation for the slight differences in where everything lives in the cabinets. I always manage to come out of Pesaḥ with a little more space and slightly better organization than I went into it with (although I still can’t find that one dairy pasta pot…). Looking over Parashat HaShavua in these few short days between Pesaḥ and Shabbat, I didn’t expect to find a connection between my lingering engagement with all things Passover and the themes that run through our return to our weekly Torah reading cycle, particularly since Parashat Aḥarei Mot begins with the elaborate atonement ritual of the Kohen Gadol for a different holiday, Yom Kippur. And yet, it was my continued focus on the emotional impact of reassembling my kitchen that helped me find something to highlight for us this week. The details of the atonement ritual from the beginning of our parashah, Leviticus chapter 16, focus entirely on sacrifices. Aharon, the Kohen Gadol, offers several sacrifices throughout the ritual to atone for his sins, the sins of his household, and the sins of the entire community. There is fire, incense, and blood. And while these visceral rituals may no longer resonate with our approach to atonement, they are right in line with the rest of the book of Vayikra. But the entire ceremony is not merely about the sacrifices themselves. Aharon must also purify the sanctuary - the altar, the covering for the Ark, and the Tent of Meeting. In order to effect full atonement for himself, his household, and the entire community, Aharon must clean his kitchen, as it were. Like the intense clearing out that accompanies Pesaḥ, the goal of atonement is a clean slate, a fresh start. Especially given how we live and relate to our tradition today, largely in the realm of the cerebral and symbolic, it’s easy to keep our focus on these ideas in our minds, and pay less attention to the role of the physical spaces we inhabit. Both Pesaḥ and our parashah remind us that what’s around us matters. It both reflects our emotional state and impacts our spiritual well-being. May our post-Pesaḥ spaces bring us joy and peace this Shabbat. Shabbat shalom! The opening verses of our Torah reading this week, Parashat Metzora, detail the ritual for helping a metzora (one who has been afflicted with the skin disease tzara’at) return to the community after their period of confinement.
This disease is a perplexing one - it can affect people, buildings, and fabric. It has no clear cause or explanation and seems to be easily spread. It is typically translated as “leprosy,” which is medically inaccurate, but socially on point. The experience of the metzora parallels that of lepers until more recent history, an experience of isolation and exclusion, which is understandable given the mysterious and contagious nature of the illness, but which is also difficult to encounter as modern readers. As a community, we often teach the Torah of inclusion; the rules for dealing with the metzora seem to be oriented in the opposite direction. While the Torah gives us verses upon verses of descriptions of tzara’at and of its treatment, it tells us nothing about how to prevent it and leaves us wondering as to the genesis of the disease, as I noted above. Enter the midrash (Tanḥuma Metzora 1:1), which declares: Anyone who speaks lashon hara (gossip, slander, etc.) will be struck with tzara’at. How do we know this? From the verse: This shall be the rite for a metzora, תּוֹרַת הַמְּצֹרָע. Do not read it as ‘the metzora,’ הַמְּצֹרָע, but rather as ‘the one who slanders,’ הַמּוֹצִיא שֵׁם רָע. The midrash goes on to detail places throughout the Bible where people have been afflicted with tzara’at and similar ailments after having said things that could be construed as gossip or slander. According to the midrash, if we want to avoid tzara’at, then we must be careful about our speech. In giving us a tidy explanation of the cause and prevention of this devastating illness, the midrash also gives us bad theology. It is simply not true that people were afflicted with tzara’at (or are struck today with other devastating diseases) as a result of their propensity for gossip. And we also know that many people who are not careful with how they speak about others live long and healthy lives. Let me be clear - I believe that our words matter deeply. As a teacher of middle schoolers, I spend a great deal of time, both through my teaching and through the relationships I build with my students, working on this skill set. I’m a fan of curbing our urge to gossip and talk about others. But I must also acknowledge that the midrashic take on the cause of tzara’at has problematic consequences. As someone who lived through the AIDS epidemic and spent my college years volunteering for organizations that worked with homebound people living with HIV, I saw the way people who contracted the virus were ostracized by society. In the early days, it was mostly an offshoot of homophobia. As the epidemic wore on, it became more about fear of contagion. The message, however, remained consistent: If you had HIV, then it was the result of something very, very wrong that you had done. Your behavior caused your illness. More recently, in the early days of the Covid pandemic, we saw pieces of this same phenomenon. People who contracted Covid in those first terrifying months, or who refused to wear masks, were often seen as careless, as pursuing their own comfort at the expense of the health and safety of those around them. The emotion behind the midrashic interpretation of the metzora, the desire to understand something so that we can prevent it, is natural. For us today, living in the wake of a global pandemic, we should aim to take a different approach, one of compassion and recognition. Rather than looking at those whose illnesses place them on the margins of our community and wondering what failure led to their suffering, we can look at them and see their humanity, finding ways to help pave a path away from the margins and back to the warm embrace of others. This is truly תּוֹרַת הַמְּצֹרָע, the rite for a metzora. Shabbat shalom. This past Monday, together with countless people around the area and the country, I looked up at the sky. While I remember the last solar eclipse, from 2017, pretty well, this was the first significant natural phenomenon I witnessed surrounded by young people.
Being with my students for the eclipse was quite the experience. Even before we left our classroom and left the building, the exhilaration in the air was palpable. The hallways were positively vibrating with the students’ excitement and curiosity. As the afternoon wore on, students began to notice it getting darker outside, the shadows on the ground outside our windows becoming more pronounced. By the time we went outside, my students couldn’t wait to put on their viewing glasses and look at the sky. They had discussed how eclipses work in their science classes earlier in the day and were prepared for what they would see, but then they looked at the sky and were blown away. After a moment of awe-filled silence, middle school excitement took over, with students calling out updates on the moon’s transit across the sun. We soon began playing with our phones, figuring out how to hold the viewing glasses over our camera lenses and adjust exposure levels to get the best shot, and sharing our best pictures with each other. When I teach about tefillah - to students of all ages - I speak about the different emotions our traditional prayers express. There are the prayers that say, “Please…” And those that say, “Thanks.” There’s also, “I’m sorry.” And, “Wow!” This one was definitely a “Wow!” moment. When we have “Wow!” moments, especially when those moments center on things we experience in the natural world, we often give voice to them through the modality of reciting berakhot, blessings. Over the past few weeks, there has been much debate and discussion in a number of rabbinically-minded groups I participate in about the proper berakhah to say upon witnessing the eclipse. It’s not such a simple question. Our earliest sources, similar to many other ancient cultures, saw eclipses as a potentially bad omen. They were meant to be endured, hoping that they would not be harbingers of difficult times ahead. Later sources discuss the possibility of reciting blessings for a wide variety of natural phenomena, with a number of suggestions for which blessing to say for which event, and not a tremendous amount of consensus. I knew that I wanted to mark the moment of seeing the eclipse by saying a berakhah. For me, reciting berakhot is a regular part of my practice, a moment of mindfulness I take many times a day. So when I was outside looking up at the sky on Monday afternoon, I spent a few moments watching the eclipse as it moved toward totality, allowing my “Wow!” to build, and then I said: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה׳ אֱ׳לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, עוֹשֹה מַעֲשֹה בְּרֵאשִׁית. Praised are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, Author of Creation. In that moment, as I saw the moon and the sun in close interaction (at least from my vantage point), I couldn’t help but be reminded of the Torah’s account of the fourth day of Creation: “God made the two great lights, the greater light to dominate the day and the lesser light to dominate the night…And God set them in the expanse of the sky to shine upon the earth…and to separate light from darkness. And God saw that this was good.” (Genesis 1:16-18) Reciting the blessing I chose helped me give voice to my sense that I was witnessing something ancient and mysterious, something that reminded me of the earliest days of the world. I’d love to hear from you about your eclipse experiences. What was your “Wow!” moment? What were you feeling and thinking as the moon passed in front of the sun? How did you give voice to it? Please drop me a line and let me know! May we keep the memories of our “Wow!” close at hand as we close out our week. Shabbat shalom. At a recent Shabbat morning Torah Talk, we were discussing how the whole book of Vayikra takes place over a mere eight days - the days of the inauguration of the Mishkan and the service of the Kohanim. Leviticus is almost entirely laws and instructions - not much narrative to carry the story of the Israelites forward. This fact makes the tragic story of Nadav and Avihu, which we read this week in Parashat Shemini, stand out all the more.
After Aaron successfully offers the sacrifices he had been instructed to make, after fire comes forth from God, consuming the sacrifices, after the people fall on their faces in awe at witnessing this pivotal moment, Aaron’s eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu bring their own offering. Rather than God’s fire consuming their offering, God’s fire blazes forth and consumes them. The Torah does not give us much detail explaining what went wrong, telling us simply that Aaron’s response to this great loss was to be silent. It’s a perplexing passage, but one that gives voice to an experience many of us have been through - the process of mourning. Classical commentators and midrashim read Aaron’s silence in this way, as an expression of his grief and his process of mourning his loss. Rabbeinu Baḥya, a 14th century Spanish commentator, explains that silence is one of the ways people express their mourning. So wracked with grief at the sudden loss of his sons was Aaron that he could not speak. Sometimes a loss is so profound that it robs us of words. The earliest collection of Midrash on the book of Vayikra, the Sifra, sees it differently. Aaron was distraught at the death of his sons, desperately trying to understand the reason for their death. The midrash imagines Moshe, his brother, coming to him during this difficult time and offering him words of comfort. Moshe’s presence and words gave Aaron solace, and he was finally able to be silent. In this rendering, Aaron’s silence is a sign that he is beginning to emerge from the most acute stage of his grief. Niḥum aveilim, comforting mourners, is a powerful mitzvah, one that our community does with great generosity and kindness. But it is also complicated. As those who have walked the path of mourning can attest, grief hits each of us differently. No one person’s experience of mourning is exactly like any other person’s. Similarly, what we might say or do to bring comfort to one person may not work for another person. As comforters, we must strive to be like Moshe, finding an approach that will bring solace to each person suffering a loss. For some, the fear of saying or doing the wrong thing in this situation makes us uncomfortable, or even reluctant to visit a house of mourning and be with others during the early stages of their grief, in the period of Shiva. This is a very normal thing to feel and I am grateful to the Chesed Committee and Rachel Weitzner of Gilchrist for giving us the opportunity to speak about what it is to offer comfort to those in mourning. This coming Sunday, April 7, at 10:30 AM, please join us at the Myerberg for The Do’s and Don'ts of Making a Shiva Call. Together we’ll share a bit about the traditions of Shiva, discuss common experiences of visiting with a mourner, and learn from and with each other about how best to be a source of comfort to others during such a tender time. I hope you’ll join us. Shabbat shalom. It’s been a devastating week. I feel like I’m still trying to shake myself out of the shock of what happened and I know others feel similarly. The more that’s reported from the deepening investigations into the tragic collapse of the Key Bridge, the more we feel the ripples of devastation and uncertainty.
A ripple: The fear, in those first few hours on Tuesday morning, that the ship’s impact was not simply a horrible accident, but an act of terror. A ripple: Quick action by the harbor pilots and ship’s crew helped prevent a much greater tragedy and substantially more loss of life. A small point of light and gratitude in an otherwise dark story. A ripple: We’re beginning to learn more about the lives of those who are still missing and those whose bodies have been recovered, about their families and their personal stories. A ripple: The closure of the port will disrupt our supply chain, impacting both the economy and individual lives. A ripple: The bridge will take years to rebuild, making traffic into and around Baltimore far more congested for the foreseeable future. These ripples form concentric circles radiating from the initial impact, the bridge’s collapse and the disappearance of the workers who were still on the road. We try to contend with each ripple as we meet it, aware that more ripples will continue to form. As you know, I try to use this space as a lens through which to refract some Torah. This Shabbat, we read the third of four special passages that guide us toward Pesaḥ - Parashat Parah (Numbers 19:1-22). On a straightforward level, this section of text is focused on technical ritual - the ritual of the red heifer whose ashes purify one from contact with the dead. More deeply, however, this passage speaks to the ripples that radiate out from being close to someone who dies. Put simply, one who comes in contact with a dead body, either by touch or by proximity, becomes ritually impure. The way to resolve this impurity is to be sprinkled with a mixture made from fresh water and the ashes of the red heifer, which are prepared with great attention to detail. An often-noted irony of this procedure is that every person involved in it becomes ritually impure by virtue of their actions. The one who slaughters the heifer, the one who sprinkles the mixture on a person seeking re-purification - and everyone in between - they all acquire a form of ritual impurity as the result of their involvement. The ripples of ritual impurity touch them, changing their status, and making it so that they too need to be purified. This idea feels especially powerful this week, as the ongoing aftermath of the bridge collapse and the deaths of the road workers continues to impact us. The ripples of this tragedy touch us, and impart to us a measure of fear, frustration, uncertainty, and sorrow. It would be so easy to have a magic potion to help alleviate the heaviness that comes from these ripples. But the ritual of the red heifer is no longer part of our practice. In the millennia that have passed since these kinds of rituals were part of our tradition, we have learned to find different and perhaps deeper ways to walk through difficult times and find a path of healing. So instead of the red heifer’s water of purification, we sit in this moment and offer our prayers, our acts of ḥesed, and our presence. May the bereaved find comfort, may our city find renewed strength, and may we all have a Shabbat shalom. מִשֶּׁנִּכְנַס אֲדָר מַרְבִּין בְּשִׂמְחָה - “When Adar comes in, we increase our rejoicing”3/20/2024 This phrase, which originates in the Talmud (BT Ta’anit 29a), is usually the tone setter for our Purim celebrations and the general fun and frivolity that permeate the entire month. We sing it and adopt its melody as a reminder of this season. We use it as a tagline when planning community events and as an excuse to have some extra fun at this time of year. This year, like all leap years, we get to connect with this idea for an extra month, with two months of Adar to celebrate.
I’ve been thinking a lot about our extra dose of Adar rejoicing this year, when neither month of Adar - just like the 5 months that came before - feels especially joyous. 167 days of hostages still held in captivity, with little hope on the horizon. Thousands upon thousands of lives lost and unimaginable suffering. Too much political posturing and not enough listening. Even the words of our sacred texts feel too close for comfort, with the Megillah’s description of the war with the Persians and Parashat Zakhor’s account of Amalek targeting the innocent and vulnerable. This year, the Talmud’s prescription for Adar is more complicated, harder to take in and harder to make happen. It might seem ironic that we experience this loop of joyless rejoicing for two months instead of one, but I think there’s something more in it, something that can help buoy us and prepare us to engage more fully with the joy of Purim this week: the idea of practice. I wrote last week about working with my 7th graders on their Purim shpiels. As we’re starting to rehearse on stage, with all the bells and whistles, I find myself reminding my students that what they practice is what they will perform. If they want their performance later this week to be great, then they need to put that energy and focus into their rehearsals. Stated slightly differently, the more you do something, the more you do something. Our double dose of Adar this year has given us just this opportunity. We’ve had lots of time to stretch our rejoicing muscles, to remember what it feels like to celebrate and even be a little bit silly. Now, as Purim is just a few short days away, we’re closer to being ready to bring our joy more sincerely, with more energy behind it. With that in mind, I want to encourage and invite you to find all the joy you can over this week of Purim. Join us for services on Saturday night - we’ll end Shabbat together and have our own shpiel before reading the Megillah. Join us again on Sunday evening and 5:00 for a potluck Purim Seudah. Bring a joke, a funny story, and prepare to have a great time with our Chevrei Tzedek community. Sign up here! Whether you’re rounding out your second month of increased joy or are just getting started, the more we find causes to celebrate together, the more we’ll be able to celebrate together. I wish all of us a Purim Sameaḥ and hope to see you at shul this weekend. Shabbat shalom! It’s a busy time for rabbis right now, with Purim on the horizon and Pesaḥ coming up right behind. And in my other role at Krieger Schechter, it’s absolutely my most packed time of the year. Among the flurry of special programs and projects that mark this time of year is guiding our 7th graders to write funny (and moderately appropriate) Purim shpiels.
I’ve spent more than a few extra periods this week reading 7th grade shpiel scripts, offering feedback and guidance to the students as they create scenes to tell the story of the Megillah. While this is something I do each year, it never gets old and I always notice something new about the story or the process. This year, I’ve been noticing how eager the students are to be finished with creating their scenes and have been thinking about why this might be. The assignment is not a simple one. Students are put into small groups, with each group randomly selecting a section of the story to tell and a genre through which they have to tell it. Their job is to transform the book of Esther into, along with other genres, a sci-fi film, a children’s show, a documentary, a TikTok thread. And they’re supposed to make it funny, too. One can understand their desire just to be finished already. In an age of immediate gratification, Purim shpiels have not been that. By the end of the first day, about half the groups came to me saying that they were done and asked me to check their work. Some captured all the major parts of their sections of Esther, some had nailed their genres, some were funny - but none of them was remotely done. All of them needed to keep working and revising. Over the last week and a half, this has happened several more times: at every step along the way, each group had finished something, but there was always more to do. And the process continues - now that the scripts are in, it’s time to turn their attention to staging, memorizing lines, and gathering costumes and props. They’re still not finished. I couldn’t help but see a parallel this week as I was reading Parashat Pekudei. Over the past 4 weeks, we’ve laid out the steps for planning and constructing the Mishkan. Along the way, there have been several seeming endpoints. We’ve read the conclusion of the materials list and building instructions, the full ritual of consecrating Aharon and his sons as Kohanim, the completion of the labor, the creation of all of the Mishkan’s parts and pieces by Betzalel and his team of artisans. Pekudei gives us several more non-endings. After all of the pieces are assembled, we read: “וַתֵּכֶל כׇּל־עֲבֹדַת מִשְׁכַּן,” “Thus was completed all of the work of the Tabernacle” (Exodus 39:32), but then it has to be brought before Moshe and set up properly. We then read, “In the first month of the second year, on the first of the month, the Tabernacle was set up.” (Exodus 40:17) So now it’s finished, right? Except it’s not. After Moshe has set up the Mishkan according to God’s specifications, “The cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the LORD filled the Tabernacle.” (40:34) This is the last moment in the entire book of Shemot, so clearly it must all be finished. Even here, the sense of completion is misleading. The Mishkan has yet to be prepared for use and inaugurated into service. We’ll have to wait until several chapters into Vayikra to get there. There is no “done.” There’s only “done for now.” As with my students and their Purim shpiels, there’s always something more to do. It’s the same approach we take to studying Torah, always going back for another look, reading and rereading and rereading again. This also holds in other contexts of our lives, from concrete projects to personal relationships to our connection with the Divine. We may feel that we reach stopping points, but those are often valuable moments to take stock and consider what we have accomplished and experienced. Then we keep going. There’s always something more just ahead. Shabbat Shalom. As a Torah reader, these last two weeks of the book of Shemot feel pretty repetitive. In many places, they are word for word and note for note the same as what we read in Terumah and Tetzaveh, just a few weeks ago. It’s easy to roll through them without paying close attention - and while the familiarity of the phrases might be helpful for learning a Torah reading, it’s not great for finding personal meaning. I’ve always been struck, though, with the differences between the instructions for building the Mishkan (Terumah and Tetzaveh) and the actual construction, which we begin reading about this week, in Parashat Vayakhel.
Instructions are theoretical, aspirational. What can begin as a grand vision can turn out, in reality, to be much more prosaic. But with the Mishkan, the execution surpasses the design plan. The people overwhelm the leaders with the generosity of their gifts, providing all of the materials necessary and then some. The artisans, led by Betzalel, craft with precision and skill. I imagine these artisans as both innately talented and extremely well trained. The text tells us several times that Betzalel is blessed with a heart of wisdom for this kind of work - those who worked under him must also have been singularly gifted. At first, the text seems to say just that: “And let all among you who are skilled come and make all that the Eternal has commanded.” (Exodus 35:10) And yet, the focus later on is not on the impressive skill of the makers, but rather on the willingness of their hearts and the generosity of their spirits. Noting this discrepancy, the Netziv (Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin, 1816-1893, Lithuania) writes in his commentary Ha’amek Davar, that God would guide those whose spirits moved them to participate in the building of the Mishkan, even if they had never before acquired the skills necessary to craft and create. Their generosity and willingness would invoke God’s presence and enable them to create the components of the Mishkan with artistry and grace. This piece of commentary reminds me of Chevrei Tzedek. We are a community of people whose spirits move us to build and create, to offer our individual gifts generously and with love. While many of our members bring tremendous skill and experience to their contributions to the life of our shul, having that kind of expertise is not a prerequisite for making a mark on our community. We welcome and, in fact, rely on the many different ways each of us contributes to our synagogue life. This past weekend’s installation festivities, which were a beautiful celebration of our community and hopefully the beginning of more wonderful things to come, were an example of the kind of magic that happens when so many people come forward to build and create together. This phenomenon extends beyond special events, though. It is what makes our services meaningful and engaging, what enables us to be there for each other in difficult times, even what keeps the lights on. To borrow from the Netziv’s teaching, something absolutely Divine happens when our volunteers come forward, moved by their generosity and love for the community to contribute. We become inspired artisans, working to build the sacred community that is Chevrei Tzedek. With gratitude for all that last weekend was - Shabbat Shalom. |
Shabbat MessageA message from Rabbi Jacobs to the Congregation each Shabbat. Archives
November 2024
Categories |