Parshat Bo 5779: Taking Flight

I’m going to be honest with you. Something just doesn’t feel right to me to me about being 35,000 feet in the air, and hurled across the globe in a metal tube. Yes, I am terrified of flying. And yes, I’ve read all the articles and statistics, and I know I’m more likely to die from a meteor crashing into me than on a plane, or more likely to become President of the United States (although I’m doubtful of those calculations). And yet, I just can’t shake the feeling of skepticism about this flying thing being a good idea.

My typical plane ride goes something like this: I get aboard, I fasten my seat belt, I turn my phone off, and as the engine revs up, I’m actually still okay. My muscles are relaxed and I have a brief feeling of “It’s all good. Whatever happens, happens.” I say Tefilat haDerech, close my eyes, and then...when the inevitable bumps begin as we are reaching cruising altitude, my jaw starts to stiffen as if the tension between my teeth is the *only* thing keeping the plane afloat. As the bumps subside and we arrive at the Almighty cruising altitude, I even have one of those majestic feeling moments, a moment of “wow, look at our planet. It’s gorgeous.” And, even though I’ve heard it a million times, when the seat belt sign goes on or off, the little ding makes my muscles stiffen again. Maybe if there’s an emergency they would let us know by a tiny ding sound...I don’t know!? It’s essentially the same rhythm until we land, moments of awe and relaxation sandwiched between moments of panic, and when we reach the ground I can breathe again.

There was one plane ride several years ago, though, that was a little different. I was on my way to Florida, and we just happened to be flying in a thunderstorm. As we were landing I don’t think I was the only one who was scared. Even the not normally afraid were gasping as the plane was shaking and bouncing up and down in the stormy night, lightning flashing from outside the window. All of my muscles tensed up, and noticed that I was hardly breathing. I really thought this might be “it.” I peered through my panicked stated to look at the person next to me, a middle aged lady who was ready for Florida. Her big blonde hair freshly done, bedecked in jewelry, reading a magazine. She didn’t seem scared. “Excuse me,” I said, “I know this is weird. But I am really scared. Can I hold your hand?” My fear must have overtaken the part of my brain that is self-conscious, and in that moment I truly felt that if I were to die, I’d rather die connected to another human being. Or at least die trying.

In this week’s Parsha, Bo, the Israelites are in a similarly terrifying and liminal space. The last three of ten plagues are befalling Egypt, and, after the final plague, Pharaoh tells them to, bluntly, get the hell out. In their leaving, G!d gives them the first ever Mizvot--make a calendar, make an offering, put the blood on your doorposts, celebrate passover for generations to come, consecrate the firstborn, wear tefillin on your body to remind you of G!d.

Mizvah is often translated as a “good deed” or something we’re “obligated to do or perform.” But, the word mitzvah is closely related to the Aramaic word tzavta, which means to attach or join--to create a connection. Mizvot are intended to create attachments and connections to G!d, to ourselves, and to our community. As the Israelites leave 400 years of slavery, they are coming into a completely new identity, a new life, an unknown that we can hardly envision. Perhaps they felt that they were dying, and in fact, a part of their identity was.

In this state of deep fear of the unknown, a time of really feeling like this could be “it,” G!d gives them exactly what they need--connections. A way to ground themselves in time and space, actions to get them out of their heads and into their bodies.

Back on the plane, I awaited what my seatmate might think of my bizarre request. In the seconds after I asked my question, the self-conscious part of my brain started coming back to life. Oy, I thought, she’s gonna think I’m nuts. Much to my surprise, she closed her magazine, opened her hand palm up, shrugged and said “Sure!” I took her hand, with her beautiful long and colorful nails, in mine. And there we tumbled through the sky, bizarrely and yet perfectly connected one to the another. My heart settled, my jaw released, even as the landing continued to be terrifying.

May we be blessed with performing mizvot, actions and rituals that connect us in all times, and specifically in times where we fear the unknown. And, may we be blessed to see the connections that are available to us, perhaps just a seat away, and let go of whatever is in the way of us reaching out. Shabbat Shalom.

Parshat Toledot 5779: Interdependence and Healing

If anyone has ever been to the shuk (open marketplace) in Jerusalem, you know that yelling is a part of the ambiance. “Bannanot bannanot!” “Hallo Hallo!” and the like can be heard throughout the winding alleyways chock full of colors, smells, and people from all over the world. But, when I heard yelling in the shuk on Shabbat, when the shuk is closed for business, I was quite befuddled.

I had been invited to a free “games and beer” event on a shabbat afternoon not long after arriving to Jerusalem, and I was so excited to see Jerusalemites from all across the religious spectrum coming together and enjoying true oneg shabbat. As I was walking up the hill to the shuk, I heard the shouting. But, it wasn’t the “Bannanot bannanot!” that I was used to. In my naivete I thought, “Oh! When they said games they must have also meant some sort of competitive games. People are cheering!” As I approached the event, I saw that it was overflowing with Hasidim. “Wow! Even the hasidim came out to play! How cool!” I thought. It wasn’t until I was smushed in the center of the crowd that I understood what was happening. To my left were secular Jews, conservative Jews, reform Jews, unaffiliated Jews, and even orthodox (non-Hasidic) Jews, sipping their beer with amusement and confusion as some stared at the hasidim, laughing and mocking them, and others tried to ignore them. To my right were the Hasidim, in their beautiful golden shabbos robes and fur shtreimels, yelling with all their heart and might, “SHABBOS! SHABBOS!”

Never have I seen with my own eyes, or heard with my own ears, a more drastic divide among Jews.

The truth is, there have been many divides like this in our tradition, starting all the way back with Jacob and Esau as we see in this week’s parsha. Their struggle began even before they entered the world, as we read  “The children struggled in her [Rivka’s] womb.” Once in the world, the tension between Jacob (dweller in tents) and Esau (man of the field) is constantly apparent. Their relationship quickly devolves into trickery and lies, and the trust between them (if there was any to start) becomes nonexistent. Esau gets tricked away from his blessing from Isaac, and he cries a bitter cry. A cry that some say lasted way beyond the moment of deception, but resonated throughout history and perhaps even continues to this very day.

What is it about Esau that made Jacob, Rivka, and later the rabbis so uncomfortable? From the basic meaning of the text, he seems like a good guy, loyal and loving of his father. Perhaps it was his appearance, red and firey, or his taste for meat and hunting. Perhaps in an effort to resolve the cognitive dissonance of our forefather Jacob treating someone so poorly, the rabbis depict Esau as an evil person, deserving of punishment. My personal take: Esau was a good guy that was gravely misunderstood.

Whether we believe that Esau was a good but misunderstood guy, or actually evil, we see some real family dysfunction in this parsha. We might be familiar with this in our own families or communities. In many cases, people have wronged us and do deserve to be out of our lives. In other cases, we push people away because they are hard to deal with, or don’t fit into our lives, or we don’t want to put in the effort to understand them.

In our larger Jewish family, we fall into this familial dysfunction regularly. Perhaps you’ve had the thought, “everyone less religious than me isn’t doing it right, and everyone more religious than me is crazy!” We push each other out for being not religious enough/too religious/not sharing our political beliefs.

In the wake of antisemitism and white supremacy, we need each other more than ever.

Back in the Shuk, most of the Hasidim had left. It turned out that they thought the shuk had been open for business on Shabbat, and that we were desecrating Shabbat in their neighborhood. Once the misunderstanding was cleared, they went home. A group of us gathered to sing Yedid Nefesh, as the sun was already beginning to set and Shabbat was coming to an end. Mid-verse, I looked up and saw that there was one Hasid left. He was facing the wall, his hands over his ears, continuing to quietly yell “Shabbos” to himself. Though it was directed towards me and my community, it somehow touched me deeply, and pierced through my (rightful) anger. The message was simple: he loved shabbos. He wanted other people to love it too. In that way, we are connected.

Two weeks ago, our community suffered a devastating loss at the hands of white supremacy and anti-semitism. And, we need each other.

At the end of the vigil the Sunday after the attack in Pittsburgh, it was announced that the programming was over, and we could go home. A friend and I started walking back towards the T station with our heads sunk, having heard many inspiring words that opened our hearts that day, and ready to spend the rest of the day in solemn mourning. Behind us, I heard a song. Acheinu Kol Beit Yisrael (I’ll sing this), I turned around and saw about ten people--a minyan-- with their arms around each other in a circle singing the words that mean “our siblings, the whole house of Israel.” My friend and I walked over, as if pulled by a magnetic force. Standing to the side, I witnessed with pure awe as the circle grew in seconds from 10, to 20, to 50, to hundreds of people, arms connected one to the other, singing together as if one voice Acheinu Kol Beit Yisrael...

May we remember our connection to--and our dependence on--one another, as we fight for our collective liberation. Shabbat Shalom.

Parshat Vayera 5779: Make for/of Yourself a Teacher

During my first week in Jerusalem last year, feeling tight from the 15 hour plane ride, I decided to set out on a mission to find a yoga studio. Not knowing exactly where to start I turned on my phone, opened my google maps and simply typed in “yoga” in English into the search area. Completely to my delight and surprise, there lay a place on the map only one block from my house called “Flow Power Yoga Studio.” The next morning, I set out to see what the place was like. I approached the spot on the map, which didn’t look like a yoga studio at all, but a run-down white building with a big fence around it.

The gate was open, and I walked in. “Shalom?” I called, as I wandered around the outside of the building, looking through the open doors to empty rooms with various knickknacks and supplies of all kinds--but nothing that would indicate “Flow Power Yoga Studio.”

I called again, “hello?” This time, I heard a voice. “Ken? Yes?” Out from one of the rooms came a big Israeli guy with a friendly face. In my broken Hebrew I hadn’t used in ten years I asked, “Shalom...ze studio shel yoga?” The man’s face morphed to match my confusion, and he motioned for me to follow him. Our conversation switched to English as we walked towards what seemed like an office,“There is a yoga teacher here, yes...I don’t know if she is teaching now. You do yoga?” “Yes, well I actually used to teach yoga. But I just want to take some classes now.” As we approached the office I asked, “What...is this place?” “Community Center,” he said. “And...who runs it?” I asked. “I do!” He said emphatically. He then handed me a small piece of paper and a pen and said “I will email you, what is your email?” I wrote down my email for him, and we parted ways. I left just as confused as I had arrived.

Days later, I got an email:

“Hi. How are you. Do you want to come to the club and talk of your position as yoga teacher that maybe will be good for club. If it is ok with you. Please connect with me. Thanks, Yoav.”

I never ended up meeting with Yoav, nor did I figure out what Flow Power Yoga was, or if it existed, but I learned something. I finally understood the ambiguity of the famous line in Pirkei Avot “Aseh lecha Rav” “Make yourself, or for yourself, a teacher.” Is the text asking us to make ourselves a teacher, or make a teacher for ourselves? I think the ambiguity is intentional. There are times we need to make ourselves a Rav, to stand in our power and confidence as leaders and teachers. And, there are other times we need to make someone else a Rav, humbling ourselves before another’s brilliance and leadership.

In my new role here as intern at Nehar, the place that I’ve been lucky enough to call my home shul for the past 4 years, I am excited to live out this line from Pirkei Avot--being both a leader and teacher, and humbling myself before the wisdom of this community. I am excited to stand here and lead prayer some Friday nights and shabbos mornings, and to sing together. I’m excited to bring what I’m learning as a Svara Queer Talmud Teaching Fellow to Nehar Shalom through a “Traditionally Radical” Beit Midrash that is in the works, where we will be eachothers teacher through hevruta study, finding our place within the text. And I’m excited to lead mid-week Kabbalat Shabbat workshops to help people feel empowered to lead and facilitate (what I believe to be) the healing power of Shabbos. And, with that vision as strong as it is, the truth is that you all are my teachers, and I can’t wait to keep learning from you.

There is another way that I feel called to humble myself right now--and that’s regarding the horrific and inhumane statements that our current administration has unleashed this week against the Transgender community. Sarah Warbelow, the legal director of the Human Rights Campaign, was quoted in the NYTimes saying, “Transgender people are frightened, at every step where the administration has had the choice, they’ve opted to turn their back on transgender people.”

As a cis-gendered person I offer myself as an ally, lovingly bearing witness to the pain that many in our community are experiencing.  Holding this teaching “Aseh lecha Rav/make for yourself a teacher” tightly, I am making you my teachers, eagerly ready to follow your lead and walk by your side as we fight. I am ready to protect you fiercely, to vote, to work hard.  I do believe that together, making rabbaim (rabbis) out of eachother and truly listening and learning, we can protect each other and work towards a day that is “yom shekulo tov”--a time that is completely good, where the world reflects our goodness, and we can see the goodness in the world.

Shabbat Shalom.