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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving and Shabbat Shalom!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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