Parashat Pinchas 5784

Years ago, in my last year of Rabbinical School, I interned at a small egalitarian shtibl in Boston that in some ways feels very similar to PSJC. The heimish/homey feeling was almost identical, except this shtibl was actually inside of a home, the home of my mentor Rabbi Victor Reinstein. I have many memories from my time there, but one sticks out to me today. I walked in the shtibl one Friday night in the fall as the monthly children’s service was ending. A mom and her little boy (around 4 years old) were getting their coats on in the foyer as I was taking mine off. I waved hello and as I made my way in, he looked up at his mom and said, “Is she a Rabbi?” Such a sweet and earnest question that made me pause and realize that such a question had seldom been asked of me. All of a sudden, countless memories ashed before my eyes--in Lyft or Uber rides, on the train, or on a bus in Jerusalem–when some form of the question, “Women can do that?” had been presented to me like a heavy gift that I never wanted. It got so bad that I had a standard comeback. “Don’t worry,” I’d say, “At our ordination ceremony, once they put the prayer shawl on our backs, we sprout an instant full-length beard. Kind of like a chia pet!” 

Obviously, I didn’t make up the image of a Rabbi with a beard. The Hebrew word for beard, zakan, is almost identical to the word zaken, elder or wise person. And yet, I am so grateful for the amount of female rabbis in this world, which is ever increasing, that are challenging the image of what a Rabbi looks like. I am grateful to not have been alone on my journey. 

This week, five women known as the daughters of Zelophehad stand up to tradition in favor of justice. Their father died in the wilderness and he had no sons, and according to the laws at that time, the daughters would not inherit their father’s land. “Why should the name of our father be lost from among his family, just because he had no son? Give us a possession amongst our father’s kinsmen!” They said. 

Moshe takes the case to G!d, who swiftly answers that the case that the daughters brought forth is indeed just, and the laws of inheritance were forever changed. 

In a time where patriarchal lineage was of utmost importance, the actions of the daughters of Zelophehad were incredibly radical and incredibly brave. 

A modern Midrash by Rivka Lovitz adds another layer, illuminating their bravery. She asks:

“Why, in the beginning, are they called the daughters of Zelophehad (צלפחד (and only later are they each mentioned by name? This is due to the shadow (צל (and the fear (פחד (that they had in the beginning. For at the start, they were in the shadow of their father, and they were afraid to go in front of the assembly. As they drew closer together, this one to the other, they became confident and were thus called by their names, as it is written, "The daughters of Zelophehad ... and these are the names of his daughters." 

Together, the sisters were able to fight for what they (and ultimately God) knew was right. But, only together. 

Back in the shtibl in Boston that autumn Shabbos with the little boy and his mom, I learned that during the service, when Rabbi Victor introduced himself, the same boy spoke up saying, “Boys can be Rabbis too!?” 

It gave me great comfort to know that this little boy had seen so many female Rabbis that the image of Rabbi imprinted in his mind most likely didn’t include a beard at all. 

Also in our Parsha is a transfer of power. Just a few verses after our story, Moshe asks God to appoint someone over the community to guide them into the land and complete the journey with them. A vulnerable ask from Moshe, who is coming to terms with not being able to enter the land and complete the journey with his people. Hashem tells Moshe to appoint Joshua, and in the first example of smicha, or laying on of hands, Joshua is appointed leader. 

This week, regardless of where you stand politically, we have witnessed a historic moment for women, for people of color, and for Jews. We have seen a transfer of power, albeit a reluctant one, and a reinvigoration of hope that we so desperately need at this time. Regardless of what happens, or where you stand, may we be able to pause and notice these much needed changes in our world. May we be comforted by the fact that the world is changing, in many ways for the good, and that the change is in our hands. 

Shabbat Shalom.

Bechukotai 5784

Almost exactly a year ago, when I was teaching 2nd and 3rd grade Judaics at Luria Academy here in Brooklyn, I went from teaching a lesson about Mt. Sinai to Mt. Sinai (hospital). I was going for my first biopsy, a strange shehechiyanu moment, and I felt perhaps similarly to the Israelites on their way to Mt. Sinai. Trembling, afraid, uncertain what was about to happen and what it would mean for the future. 

This week, way after both my and the Israelites experience at Mt. Sinai, I was at an event here at PSJC, a processing space for parents and children about what’s happening on college campuses right now, when a college student looked at the new scar on my neck and gasped. “Oh, it’s just from this surgery I had, it’s ok,” I said, trying to comfort her from what I assumed was fear or squeamishness or both. “No!” she said, pointing at her own neck, her own now faded scar. “I just never see anyone else with it!” 

In this week’s parsha, G!d says to the Israelites: 

ִאם־בֻחּקַֹ֖תי תֵ֑לכּו ואת־מצ‍ֹוַ֣תי תשמרּו ַוֲֽעשיתם אָֹתֽם׃

If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments
ְוָנֽתתי גִשמיכם בעָּ֑תם וָנֽתָ֤נה הָ֨אֶרץ יְבּוָ֔לּה וֵ֥עץ השֶ֖דה יִֵּתן פריֹֽו׃

I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. 

A question that has bothered the rabbis about this verse and others like it is: How does a law (chok) differ from a commandment (mitzvah)? Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, the founder of Chabad, explains that the word for law, chok, can also mean engraving. He writes, “There is an aspect of Torah that is ‘inked’ on our soul: we understand it, our emotions are roused by it; it becomes our lifestyle or even our personality; but it remains something additional to ourselves. But there is a dimension of Torah that is chok, engraved in our being.” 

It’s widely said when one receives a new scar, at Mt. Sinai or elsewhere, that they tell our story, they show our bravery. Perhaps our scars are the pieces of Torah that are engraved in our bodies, the stories and experiences that have changed us often through hardship. 

It is safe to say that this ongoing war, this 238 days of confusion, anger, and pain, has given us significant scars. And while I feel that any Torah that may be hidden in this time is way beyond our reach, maybe not accessible in our lifetimes, there is deep healing in noticing one another’s scars. Saying, like this student said to me the other night, I have that too! I was/am hurting too. 

In our times of pain, many of us tend to isolate, hide our scars or wounds. Or, in some cases, feel overwhelmed by shame for having been hurt at all. How would the world and our community be different if, instead, we acted as mirrors for one another. Not trying to fix each other’s pain or take away the scars, but offering a reminder that we are not alone. 

I’ll end with a joke that I heard at a comedy show the other night from a Scottish comedian named Fern Brady. She spoke about the pressures of being famous and how that pushed her to get botox. After receiving an injection, she went to meet with an older, wiser, and more famous comedian, someone she respected greatly. This woman told her a heartbreaking, beautiful story. Fern, internally moved, was externally unable to move her face, and blurted out, “I am so sorry, but I am really moved by your story, I just can’t move my face because I just had botox.” “Oh dear,” the older, wiser woman said, “don’t you know that your face tells a story, and the lines are the words.” 

May we be blessed to learn from the Torah that all of our scars and lines–internal and external–contain. And as we walk this unknown path of continued war together, may we have the gift to see and be seen by each other in our most vulnerable places.

Parashat Noach 5785

If you ever walk around Jerusalem, specifically Meah Shearim, during Hanukkah, you will hear the unmistakable sound of the Karliner Hasidim. The Karliners are known for their fervent prayers, fervor in the form of screaming. Each word of the blessing for lighting the Hanukkah Candles is given a full breath and full volume. 

There is a famous story about the origins of this practice. A misnagdid, which literally means “opponent” of the Hasidic movement, asked the Karliner Rebbe with a raised eyebrow, “Why do you yell your prayers?” The Rebbe, without skipping a beat, pinched the misnagdid, who yelped in pain. “See?” The Rebbe said. “When you are in pain, you yell.” There is something so human, so real about not only this story but about this type of prayer. Prayer as not only an obligation but an opportunity for catharsis, for expression, for channeling the pain of the world and asking Hashem to take it from us in its most raw form. 

In this week’s parsha, only ten generations from the creation of the first human, the Creator is ready to throw in the towel. God has seen how corrupt humans have become, and although we are not given many specifics on exactly how humanity was violent, lawless and corrupt–we perhaps don’t need to stretch our imaginations too much these days to guess why God was fed up and ready to start over. Once God has made the decision, God instructs Noach–a Tzadik compared to the rest of humanity–to create a teivah. An Ark. A few verses of our parsha read like an Ikea manual, and within the specific measurements and design instructions, we read this small detail: 

֣צַֹהר ׀ תֲֽעשה לתָ֗בה 

Make an opening for daylight in the ark 

The rabbis are immediately compelled by the word tzohar, which means something that illuminates, like the word tzoharaim or mid-day, which is illuminated. A midrash helps us fill in the gaps but in the most unexpected way: 

“You shall make a bright item [tzohar] for the ark..." Rabbi Abba bar Kahana said: It was a window. Rabbi Levi said: It was a [luminous] precious stone. Rabbi Pinḥas said in the name of Rabbi Levi: All twelve months that Noah was in the ark, he needed neither the light of the sun during the day nor the light of the moon at night; rather, he had a precious stone that he had suspended. When it was dim he knew that it was day, and when it shined brightly he knew that it was night. 

This Midrash sounds more like a meditation to me. A meditation on what we need when we are in times of great uncertainty, fear, overwhelm. What we need is a place to retreat within, and a point of light or hope that illuminates within us when it is the most dark, when light is most needed. 

The Baal Shem Tov makes it even more personal, into our very mouths. 

"Make an opening (tzohar) in the ark (teivah)" (Genesis 6:16) --My grandfather, the Baal Shem Tov, may he rest in Eden, illuminated this passage. He said that teivah actually means 'word', and the meaning of making an opening for the word is that you should be careful to bring light into the words that come from your lips.” 

What would it change if we knew that our words were truly vessels? What would we want to fill them with, what would we want to transmit to others, to ourselves, to the Divine? How can we install a tzohar–whether that is a skylight, a precious stone– into our words? Remembering that, like the meaning of abrah k’dabrah–we create both our inner and world with speech, and we have the power to fill it with light. 

The Piazetzer grounds this teaching of the Besht for us, saying that he is referring to prayer, “the words (tevah) he speaks being the body, and his passion—which is God’s illumination—giving it a soul. A person gives the soul to the word. “Make a window [tzohar] for the ark [tevah],”—that is, put brightness and light into it [the word], says the Besht. 

Perhaps that’s what the Karliners are doing with their screaming, giving each word a soul of it’s own. Perhaps that’s what we do here at PSJC–especially on the High Holidays, when you can feel that light buzzing in the air for hours after davvening ends. 

I am excited that this month I will begin a nine month Shaliach Tzibbur Fellowship at Hadar to attempt to learn how to do what the Baal Shem Tov is instructing us. To learn how to pour light and soul and passion into the words of prayer, and guide others in a meaningful and noncoercive way to pour their light and souls and passion into the words too. It will mean that I will be doing some more prayer leadership here, and I ask for your curiosity and participation as I experiment with things. I can’t say if we will be doing much screaming, probably not at first, but I can say that I am so excited for this learning, and to share with you all what gems I gather there. 

Just days away from an election that feels like a great stormy sea of unknown, may we be blessed to build an Ark within ourselves, within our prayers, and within this sanctuary. In our construction, may we remember to make a skylight or bring in precious stones to illuminate the dark. And may we know that, no matter what storm is raging outside, we can always retreat there and find safety. 

Shabbat Shalom.

Kol Nidre 5783

Here is an understatement: It is kind of hard to pray when someone is yelling in your face. When thousands of men have gathered with little pink whistles to drown out your prayer. When other men have aimed a speaker at you to make their prayers louder than yours. It’s a little bit hard to pray when women are coming up to you to mock your prayer garb – your tallit and tefillin – holy items that act as spiritual technology to connect you to the divine. 

I was at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, the Kotel, with a group called Nashot haKotel, Women of the Wall. Every Rosh Chodesh–New Moon–they gather at the Western Wall to pray as a protest against the lack of rights women have in that holy space. Because of their activism, they have managed to change many of the laws at the Western Wall. Because of Women of the Wall, women are now “allowed” to wear a tallit and tefillin on the Women’s side of the mechitza (gender divider), although it is still deeply unwelcome. Because of Women of the Wall, women may pray in a minyan, prayer quorum, together as they please, although, again, it is deeply unwelcome. Because of Women of the Wall, there is now an egalitarian side of the Western Wall where there is freedom to pray in a mixed gender group, although it is deeply unwelcome and you may be met with some protesters. Until it is legal for women to have a Torah on the women’s side of the mechitza, however, Women of the Wall will keep meeting monthly, gathering to pray despite thousands of counter protesters. 

I had heard about Women of the Wall for many years, and had seen pictures of men throwing chairs at women praying, or tear gas, or bomb threats, or other horrific acts of violence. Despite all of this, I decided to see it for myself. And, even with the photos, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of being there in the flesh. 

I arrived at 6:45am as instructed, and as I waited in line for security, the first thing I noticed was the noise. From afar it was pure cacophony. I couldn’t identify any one sound, just the feeling of chaos in the air. Normally the security at the Kotel is extremely quick; go through the metal detector, they glance at your bag and you’re good. This morning, however, preparing for the drama, they really took their time. They looked at every item in my small leather backpack. They asked about the tractate of Talmud I had in it. They asked where I was studying, what I was studying, and even why. 

Finally, when I got through, I noticed that the path to the women’s side, which is normally open, had metal police blockades to make a clear but narrow path, prepared for male protestors to block our way. I noticed the shrieks of the whistles and the thousands of men in black who were blowing them. I noticed the police intimidating the Haredi men, pushing them and screaming at them. 

I walked through the narrow path to the women’s side and saw our group. About 20 women stood in a tight circle, with tallit and tefillin, yelling the words of the morning prayers to rise above the cacophony around us. The leader, a beautiful woman in her 50s, stood on a chair with a huge smile, occasionally closing her eyes to connect to the words of the tefillah. 

I joined them, standing on the periphery of the circle, having donned my tallit and tefillin, straining to hear the leader over the sounds of the blaring speaker, the men with whistles, and the women who gathered near us to mock us. Of all the counter protesters, the women were the most interesting to me. I was familiar with straight up misogyny, but the way it manifested in the orthodox women who gathered around us felt fascinating. A few of them mocked my tallit and tefillin, asking where my kippa was. Another tried to take photographs of a woman’s bag to try to prove we were breaking the law by having a Sefer Torah with us (we did not). Another woman screamed loudly in a long single pitch, with her face buried in her siddur, occasionally moving around the circle to find a new spot. I learned quickly that she did not like being harmonized with. Another woman, during the amida, gave a speech in Hebrew about how we were the reason why the Messiah hasn’t come yet. 

Leaving was another ordeal. We were escorted out by the police and rushed around the corner where bulletproof vans were waiting for us, surrounded by more counter protestors. Right as I approach the van, I feel something hard on my face and just barely miss my eyes. I touched my face and felt dirt and gravel, and looked up to see a man with another fistful of gravel aimed at us, being blocked by the police. Once in the van, I read the signs of the counter protestors. One of them read “Reform denies the Torah and all Jewish traditions.” 

Every night before bed, Jews traditionally recite an order of prayers which includes the Shema–the six word declaration of God’s oneness. Before the Shema there sits in the siddur a short but beautiful prayer: 

Ribono Shel Olam, I hereby forgive anyone who has angered me, antagonized me, or sinned against me. Whether physically or financially, against my honor or anything that is mine, whether accidentally or intentionally, inadvertently or deliberately, by speech or by deed, by thought or by speculation, in this incarnation or in any other: I forgive every Jew, may no person be punished on my account.

As I laid down that night to go to sleep and started to say this prayer out of habit, I paused. I thought about the eyes of the man who threw a fistful of gravel at my face that day for having the audacity to pray at my ancestor’s holiest place. I thought of the woman with her face buried in her siddur screaming, trying to prevent the Divine from hearing our prayers. Could I summon forgiveness for them? And, even if I could, why should I? 

I laid there thinking about it for a while. Why did the Rabbis write this prayer and instruct that it be said every night? Perhaps it’s one way of embodying the old saying about relationships, “never go to bed angry,” knowing that our relationships with others, and maybe especially other Jews at times, can breed tension that can tempt us into holding grudges and even hating one another. As I laid in bed, I felt my own hatred and rage. My resistance to saying these words of forgiveness. I felt my rage at the man who threw gravel at me. The women who screamed in my face and mocked me. I wondered if they were saying this same prayer, and if so how they felt about it. If they were paying attention to the words. 

Suddenly, my feelings expanded to include my rage at misogyny and all of its manifestations, including internalized misogyny. Then it expanded again to include antisemitism and internalized antisemitism, which makes us turn against eachother instead of trying to understand eachother. It included all the forces of oppression that divide us, make us turn on one another and ourselves, making us less powerful to fight the sources of our dismay. Perhaps the Rabbis, on some level, understood that. Perhaps they prescribed a nightly ritual of forgiveness because they knew that without one another, we aren’t nearly as powerful. 

I believe, with the backing of our tradition, that the men with the whistles and the gravel, and the women screaming and mocking all need to be held accountable for their actions, as does everyone who causes harm to another. And, as I laid in bed about to say these words of forgiveness, I got a birds eye view. I saw that the man throwing gravel was just a part of a larger system of oppression. That I could forgive him and still allow my anger to fuel me to fight the larger systems of oppression in the world. 

This Yom Kippur, may we learn to not go to bed angry. May we internalize the power of forgiveness to transform our rage and fuel us to fight oppression. May we know that we are not alone in the fight, and that through forgiving ourselves and others we can truly begin the work of repairing our broken world. Gmar Chatima Tova, may we all be sealed in the book of life, blessings, forgiveness and justice.

Shavuot 5785

I’ll never forget my first garden, and the true emotional rollercoaster she took me on. First it was the thrill of the first sprouts—in the beginnings of lockdown during COVID, any signs that new life, movement, and change were possible filled my otherwise empty and scared heart with joy. Each morning I would go outside and stare at the sprouts, take photos of them, talk to them (I didn’t have many other humans to talk to). It became a true ritual. Then there were the painful mornings of going outside and finding that a squirrel or bird (or a party of all sorts of animals) had feasted on my sprouts overnight, or—even worse— dug them up just for fun. When the plants got bigger, I would often wake up to see deer chomping on full tomato plants, sometimes tasting and discarding the actual tomatoes, because the stalk itself was more interesting to them. It was a truly unstable relationship—me and this garden. 

When my plants were really starting to take off, squirrels, birds and deer be damned, I had a friend over who is a much more experienced gardener. She didn’t seem fazed by the fruit of my labor, and she began attacking the plants—ripping off perfectly good looking stems and flowers and casting them to the side. I stood there motionless, in shock. “You want to get rid of the excess, in order to bring the most energy into the central stem here,” she pointed. I took some deep breaths and tried to trust the process. 

What felt like a murderous act to a novice gardener is actually simply called pruning. In Hebrew, the word for this action is zamar, to nip, cut away, prune. It shares a root with the word zamir, song. 

Rebbe Nachman teaches on the connection between the two when it comes up in Genesis. Jacob and his sons go to Joseph with gifts—balsam, honey, gums, resins, pistachios and almonds—also called Zimrot, the “choice” products of the land, also known as the products of proper pruning. 

Nachman teaches, “Da! Know! when our forefather Yaakov sent his sons, the ten tribes, to Yosef, he sent with them a melody (Zemer) of the Land of Israel.” 

He then goes into a teaching more well known, 

“Each and every shepherd has his own special melody, according to the grasses and specific location where he is grazing…And this is the concept of [what is said in Shir haShirim,]“The first blossoms have appeared in the Land, the time of ZaMiR (singing or pruning) has arrived” (Song of Songs 2:12).” 

At the conclusion of this teaching, Nachman says, “This is the essence of melody—gathering and selecting the good ruach…” 

In a sense, Rebbe Nachman is saying, singing is the pruning of the soul–a way of clearing away what is not needed in order to strengthen the central channel, gathering the energy and concentrating it towards what is good, holy and beautiful. 

There have been many times in my life where the act of singing has felt not only strengthening, but life saving. After intense trauma or pain, when the world or my world feels shattered, the act of lifting my voice in song, and particularly with other people, has cleared away unnecessary and even painful thoughts, making room for something good. Something nameless. Something deeply holy and real. This pruning has allowed that central stem of my soul to be strengthened. 

On this holiday of Shavuot, as we consider what bikkurim, what first fruits we have to offer the Divine, let us first think about the pruning that was needed or needs to be done in order to strengthen the central stem. In what ways is our energy scattered, being pulled in too many directions? Here at PSJC, I feel this sacred action of song most strongly on High Holidays when every seat is full, people pouring out over the balcony, and mouths are open in song led by our cantor Judy Ribnick. These moments really capture Rebbe Nachman’s idea–that song cuts right to the soul. Standing up on the bima and looking out at all of you, I can feel my own and our community as a whole’s central stem getting stronger through your voices. Connecting us even deeper to each other, to the Divine and acting as an offering to a world in so much pain. 

A question I get asked a lot towards the end of Tishrei is: How can we bring that same energy into the sanctuary the rest of the year? My honest answer is, we can’t. There is something intangible and holy that is accessible only on these special days of the year–a certain portal that opens to the beyond that we can’t reach on other days. But, perhaps we can find ways of tending to our central stem in other ways, making our tefillah in this sanctuary a little bit closer to the peak experience of Yamim Noraim. 

I want to invite you all, in a moment, to do an experiment with me for the Musaf amidah, and stand in the center of the sanctuary. Moving our bodies as a way of physically demonstrating this act of pruning–of gathering our energy towards the center and strengthening one another with our voices. I know it is no small ask, especially post-COVID, to leave our makom kavua, our established space, but perhaps through moving physically we can strengthen the stem that connects us to one another and to the Divine, letting our community and our song be an offering. If, after trying this today, it speaks to you, I invite us to make this a regular practice—reducing the amount we are physically scattered around the sanctuary and filling this middle space with song. 

Over the summer, I’ll be teaching a series on prayer, song and prayer leadership, gently stretching us to consider what else we might be able to prune in order to strengthen the central stem, the beating heart that is the core of our prayers. 

On this day of Shavuot, may we be blessed with the courage to do the pruning necessary to strengthen what is really essential in order to harvest the most beautiful fruits and offer them up to the Divine and to each other. I invite you to join me in the center of the sanctuary now for Musaf. 

Chag Sameach.

Pesach Day One 5785

Hashem has a pretty amazing sense of humor. As many of you know, because I can’t stop talking about it, I visited Guatemala a couple weeks ago. Wanting to get some peace and quiet away from my apartment on Flatbush Ave, with the constant angry car horns blaring and sirens swirling, I took a 5 hour plane ride, an hour and a half long cab, and a two and a half hour shuttle to find some quiet. 

I was so excited. I saw my little cabin, with its view of the mountains and I knew my night would be full of much needed silence. Instead, my first night in my little cabin was full of the blood curdling screams of a rooster who’s song would inspire the next rooster, and then several other roosters. The roosters would set off the dogs, or the other way around, who sounded as if they were in my cabin, setting each other off in fits of barking–communicating dog to dog and rooster to rooster and maybe rooster to dog and dog to rooster, God knows what throughout the night. 

The next morning, when saying my morning brachot, I wondered if the author of the rst bracha meant it passive aggressively, 

אשר נָתן לשכוי בינָה להבחין בין יֹום ובין לֽילה Baruch…

Blessed are You, Adonoy our God, Ruler of the Universe, Who gives the rooster understanding to distinguish between day and night. 

Like, hey, roosters, did you hear that one? 

I heard two other, more Pesach themed animal stories, from my teacher in Jerusalem, Sarah Yehudit Schneider. The first happened to her, after spending days scrubbing, scouring, boiling, covering, and preparing for Pesach, she lit the candles and welcomed guests to her Seder table in her beautiful apartment in the Old City. A Seder guest came with her dog, who had been there a couple weeks earlier and apparently hid a giant stash of bread in the plant pot. When they all sat down for Seder, in walked the dog with a big chunk of bread in its mouth, looking so proud of himself. 

Another story, which happened to her friend (also in the Old City) who similarly scrubbed, scoured, boiled, covered and prepared perfectly for Pesach. Before yomtov, she put a fan on a timer since it was supposed to be hot during the day. When the fan went on, soup nuts started flying out of the fan scattering through the entire house. Apparently one of her kids had dropped a bag in the fan, and when it turned on the bag ripped and out came chametz gamor, full and unquestionable chametz through the whole house. 

"Der Mensch Tracht, Un Gott Lacht" 

Man plans, and God laughs. 

There’s nothing you can do in these moments but laugh, laugh at all the ways we prepared, all the seriousness that we poured into something – anything – because all is temporary. And in many ways, all is out of our control. 

In many native traditions, there is a ceremonial role of the Trickster or Sacred Clown. This person’s role is to show people where they have gotten too hardened in their ideas or identities, shaking things up to make room for holiness and flexibility. In some cultures, this person would carry around a mirror, walking next to someone and with love, mock their self absorption. We have glimpses of this kind of sacred irreverence on Purim, but what would it be like to have someone embodying this all year long, someone to keep us loose and light enough to let holiness in, and someone who was revered for holding that role.

Chametz is leavened grain produce, but it also specifically refers to fermented grain—something that sits around and accumulates. While I am happy to give a drash about the miraculous and alchemical nature of fermentation, during this holiday we are asked to reassess our relationship with the stuff that sits around, the stuff that is stuck and accumulates. What patterns are we deeply attached to, what grudges are we holding like a cozy blanket, what suffering do we find just so delicious, or what change are we resisting? What is sitting within us fermenting that it may be time to let go of? 

Perhaps through humor, through bringing some lightness to this Chametz, we can loosen it and allow it to shake itself out. And perhaps in this way we can let the days of Pesach, and the following days of the Omer which begin tonight, to be a journey of release and offering up to the Divine whatever is stuck within us. 

Chag Sameach.

Shabbat HaGadol 5785

Just about two weeks ago, I was in the front seat of a shuttle in Guatemala, weaving through the misty cloud-topped mountains. While I missed all of you here, I was grateful to be able to have a much needed adventure. We were driving from Antigua to Lago Atitlan, the lake that I was making a pilgrimage to after seeing one simple photo online. “There,” my heart said, “I need to go there.” As we twisted and turned through the narrow mountain roads, the lush green trees and abundant gardens and farms cascading down hillsides filled my senses. About two hours into our drive, as we turned the bend and started our descent, I caught a glimpse of the lake. 

Rebbe Nachman teaches, ויֵׁש ְׁשנֵי ִמינֵי ָׁשלֹום

There are two kinds of peace: peace in one’s bones and universal peace. Peace in one’s bones must come first, because sometimes a person cannot find peace in their bones/in themselves. 

ְו ַעל־יְֵדי ַהּיִ ְרָאה זֹו ֶכה ְל ָׁשלֹום ַּבֲע ָצ ָמיו 

And through yirah, a person can merit peace in their bones. 

It is through Yirah–through awe or amazement, or the fear that comes from realizing just how small you actually are–that one can experience peace in their bones–the type of embodied peace that some of us are lucky enough to receive on Shabbat, or when we sway in a hammock, or when we are held by a loved one. Peace in one’s bones, this deep knowing that we are okay, Rebbe Nachman teaches, is attainable through awe.

As I learned recently from our rebbe Carie Carter, the word Yirah is connected to the word lirot, to see or to be seen. Perhaps this indicates that Yirah is something we experience through our sight, something that we need to look out rather than in to find. 

As we turned the bend and I caught a glimpse of the lake, a wave of something coursed through my body, call it awe, call it fear, call it amazement, call it realizing my smallness, or even call it grief. Tears streamed down my face as I just said, “thank you.” It may be a testament to how much I needed this vacation, but every flower (some were neon blue), bird (some were also neon blue), made me weep with this Yirah. And through looking out at this big-ness (sometimes encapsulated in small things like a single petal), we can find shalom b’atzmenu. 

The next sentence in Rebbe Nachman’s teaching is that when we do attain peace in our bones through awe, then we are able to access prayer. The rabbis say that we are not supposed to pray when we are in a troubled headspace. In fact, the Shulchan Aruch (not Shulchan Orech, which we will do late tonight) says straight out that “one should not pray while worried or sad.” In our times, taking this ruling seriously may mean scarcely praying at all, especially if the person is at all in touch with the news. I wonder if, instead of being prohibited from prayer during times of sadness or despair, Rebbe Nachman’s teaching adds that we can truly be present to the practice of prayer when we approach it from a peaceful place, from a knowing that we are held and ok. Rebbe Nachman has many teachings about hitbodedut, about turning to God in whatever state we are in—crying to the divine, screaming, jumping, dancing, so what I think he is pointing to is not that the Divine cannot handle our messiness—but that we truly understand prayer when we access it from this place of deeply rooted embodied peace. 

Today is Shabbat haGadol, the big time Shabbat, where the Rabbi is supposed to give a drash about the intricate laws of Pesach. Instead, I want to encourage us to find the big-ness of Hashem in the intricacies of life. We may not always be blessed to stare at Lake Atitlan and the surrounding mountains and volcanoes, or bright red

passionflowers and their swirling tendrils. But, we do have access to daffodils, to children, to song, to music, to food, to our senses. When we stop for a moment and realize just how much divinity we can access through these modes, we may experience Yirah. And through this, may we be blessed to experience true shalom b’atzmenu, true peace in every bone and every cell.

Kol Nidrei 5785

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. 

These are the translated words of the Ho’oponopono, an ancient Hawaiian practice of healing and reconciliation. The word translates roughly to “correction,” or in our vocabulary, “tikkun”. Traditionally facilitated by the oldest member of the family, this ritual was practiced whenever there was tension, pain, or mishaps between family members. Sometimes it was practiced weekly or even daily to prevent bottling up of emotions, as it was a traditional Polynesian belief that the bottling up of emotions causes illness in the body. 

The practice begins with an open discussion of the problem and the transgression at hand. Silence is sprinkled throughout for reflection from all parties. Everyone’s feelings are heard and acknowledged. Then, when the time is right and everyone feels complete, they recite the prayer, releasing each other and themselves, completely forgiving one another before partaking in a special feast. 

The prayer, again, being: I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. 

Although not from our tradition, this short and devastatingly simple prayer, which is used as a mantra by some spiritual seekers today, sums up the entirety of Yom Kippur, the entirety of the words we are uttering for approximately 14 hours together. 

In just ten words, this prayer communicates the essence of all relationships– bein adam l’chaveiro between human beings as well as bein adam l’makom between humans and the Divine. The truth being that these relationships start with love. That inevitably we will mess up. That in real relationships we are asked to forgive one another again and again whenever possible, freeing each other from being forever tied to the mistakes we made. And that, above all, gratitude for one another’s presence keeps our heart open, open to love, looping us back to the beginning of the prayer. 

The Slonimer Rebbe, also known by the name of his book the Netivot Shalom, begins his chapter about the Yamim Noraim not with Rosh Hashanah, not with Rosh Chodesh Elul, and not even with Tisha b’Av, as many Rabbis do, but with Tu b’Av, the 15th day of the month of Av, also known as the Jewish Day of Love. 

He did not come up with this connection on his own. In the Mishna in Ta’anit, the Rabbis teach: 

א ָהיּו יָ ִמים טֹו ִבים ְליִ ְׂשָר ֵאל ַּכ ֲח ִמ ָּׁשה ָע ָׂשר ְּבָאב ּו ְכיֹום ַה ִּכּפּו ִרים 

There were no days of joy in Israel greater than the fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur. 

As on them the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in white clothes, which each woman borrowed from another…And the daughters of Jerusalem would go out and dance in the vineyards. And what would they say? Young man, please lift up your eyes and see what you choose for yourself for a wife. 

Although many of us are wearing white today, and there may be some dancing in the sanctuary tomorrow, there isn’t a lot of connection between the Yom Kippur scene in the Mishna and our Yom Kippur today. 

But, the Slonimer explains that the forgiveness and pardon we experience on Yom Kippur induce a similar joy to this scene, and that, Yom Kippur (like Tu b’Av) is a day of opening to sacred and real relationship–literally betrothal–with the Divine. 

He explains: 

And the aspect of betrothal comes by means of the strength of the Torah- “don’t read mesorah (tradition), rather me’orasa (betrothal).” The matter of Yom Kippur is the wholeness of cleaving by means of serving God. As the Mishna says “There were no holy days to Israel like these two days” Because, by means of these two days a Jew can attain this state of cleaving to God. 

The energy of these two days of Tu b’Av and Yom Kippur, teaches the Slonimer, has the ability to help us attain a state of devekut, the highest spiritual level according to Hasidut and Kabbalah–a state of cleaving to the Divine in perfect union. Just in the way that we strive to repair our relationships with our loved ones on this day, we also have the opportunity to repair our relationship with the Divine, becoming even closer. The thing that unites these two days, in essence, is love and closeness. 

Sometimes, however, love and closeness are not enough. This is evident when we look deeper into the English word–to cleave. This word, a contronym, has two opposing meanings. Cleaving can mean, as the Slonimer likely meant it– to stick to, adhere to, or become emotionally attached to another. It can also mean to split in two, divide, make a way through something forcefully as if splitting it apart, as in to cleave wood. 

Each of us has our own stories of when cleaving– as in the act of splitting– was the ultimate act of love. For me, it was ending a many-year relationship and engagement. Our lives were completely intertwined. We worked together, lived together, and like two trees, our roots had become deeply entangled, which instead of strengthening us, emotionally suffocated us both. 

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. 

In the many months surrounding our separation, I was unable to see through the deep shame and blame that covered me like a heavy fog. The stories that I had ruined her life, and/or my own felt consuming. Once the fog lifted, however, I was able to see with such strong clarity how cleaving the wood, so to speak, was the absolute best thing for both of us. That it allowed us to breathe and thrive.

The forgiveness I have had to seek from myself has been a journey. Forgiving myself for not listening to my intuition, forgiving myself for blaming and ultimately betraying myself. Forgiving myself for pushing and striving so hard when actually all I needed to do was to let go. And forgiving myself for hurting her. 

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. 

Each year, says the Slonimer, we have the opportunity to create a completely new and unique year. We create this year in partnership with the Holy One, whom we also get to start fresh with. 

We do this knowing that we will mess up, which is why on this night we nullify our vows not for this past year, but for the coming year. Tonight at Kol Nidrei, we are are looking at our new year of 5785 and saying, in essence– We love you, we will mess up, because that is what it means to be human, you will forgive us, because that's what it means to be God, and for that we are deeply grateful. Thank you. 

I have a magnet on my fridge that I look at every morning when I get the milk for my coffee, that says “Yay! Imperfection!” It reminds me that these imperfections are what make us human, and allow for opportunities for growth and closeness with one another and the Divine. It reminds me that I am perfectly imperfect, and that being human means being in this cycle of love, mistakes, forgiveness and gratitude.

I wanted each of you to have a card with this prayer on it, to recite as many times as you want throughout this day of Yom Kippur and beyond. You can direct it towards yourself, the divine, a person you are in conflict with, or someone who has passed. You can recite it when the words of the machzor become overwhelming, when you want to distill things to their essence. 

This year, we have a lot to ask forgiveness for as a species. War and climate change are just two among them. By claiming our part in it, this prayer helps us take accountability for our part, however small, freeing us from the heavy cloud of shame and allowing us to actually do the work that is needed. 

May we be blessed to enter into real and honest relationship with one another and the Divine. May we know that while we cannot attain perfection, when we inevitably mess up we can take accountability for our actions, clearing the way between ourselves and others. And on this holy day of Yom Kippur, may we be blessed to experience the pure joy and love of forgiveness, of releasing ourselves and one another from shame and blame and opening to the eternal and expansive love of the Divine. 

Gmar Chatima Tovah

Parashat Balak 5784

On November 2nd, 2016 at around 3am, I came home from one of the worst nights of many of our lives, the night of the presidential election. Crawling into bed with my cat Yossi at the foot, I hoped to dream it all away, that I would wake up and learn it was all one horrible nightmare. “Yossi,” I said in my delusion, while weeping, “Trump won the election,” as if he needed to know. I then proceeded to do something kind of questionable for a rabbi and I said, “Yossi, Can you fix this? Please.” I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting. That maybe my cat, with his lofty name of Yossi Zalman Goldstein, would transform into a Rebbe, putting a special word into the Universe for me and for us? Or, maybe he would speak back with some sort of sage wisdom. Instead, without skipping a beat, my empathic kitty proceeded to vomit all over my bed. 

“Ugh, same.” I said. We were so connected. 

This week, unlike my cat, we have an animal that actually does speak. Out of fear of the Israelites who have just conquered the Emorites, the Moabite King Balak orders his magician Balaam to curse the Israelite people. On the way to his cursing spot atop a mountain, Balaam’s donkey would not move forward, seeing the angel that God had placed before them to stop them on their path. Balaam strikes the donkey, not seeing the angel on the path. God opens the mouth of the donkey, who says, “What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?” Balaam said to the donkey: “Because you have mocked me; would there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill you.”The donkey said to Balaam, in a tender moment of connection, “Am not I your donkey, upon which you have ridden all your life to this day? Would I ever want to do so to you?” And he said, “No.” Then God opened the eyes of Balaam, and he saw the angel standing in the way, and his sword drawn in his hand; and he bowed down his head and fell on his face.

When Balaam saw the angel standing before him, he instructed that he should indeed go, but that he could only say that which God put in his mouth. On three different mountains, in three different attempts to curse and fulfill the will of Balak, what instead flows from Balaam’s mouth are blessings and praises of the Israelite people, including a blessing we say every day 

ַמה־ּ֥טֹבּו אָֹהֶ֖לי יֲַע֑קֹב ִמ ְׁש ְּכנֶֹ֖תי יִ ְׂשָרֵאֽל׃ 

How fair are your tents, O Jacob. Your dwellings, O Israel! 

All of the whimsy and magic in our parsha seems to be pointing to the same place: that blessings, guidance and inspiration can come from the most unexpected places. That, if we tune in, open our eyes, and put down our weapons (literal or metaphorical), we will be able to see things that we are unable to see in our day-to-day tunnel vision and limited perspectives. 

In the spirit of this parsha, I tried to ask my cat what to say about current events this week and he weirdly didn’t have any answers (that I could hear, at least). 

But, as the world and the news continue to reflect doom and gloom, how can we continue to keep our minds fresh and open to new understandings and perspectives? 

This coming week, we will enter the Three Weeks, a time traditionally set aside for mourning and grief on our calendar. When I tell people that I feel excited for the Three Weeks this year, they look at me with confusion. Why would you be excited to work with grief and sorrow? To work your way down into the depths from the 17th of Tammuz to the 9th of Av? Because, our tradition tells us that the most beautiful, hopeful, and expansive things come from the darkest places. We are told that Moshiach/the messianic age, will be birthed on Tisha b’Av, which is perhaps less of a literal prediction and more of a metaphorical encouragement to not be afraid of the dark. To dive in, to go deep, and to be curious and see what gems can be foraged there.

As we enter these three weeks, and this new political climate, may we be blessed with curiosity and presence. May we be blessed with the knowledge that we truly do not know, that there are endless possibilities and the ones that scare us the most are only a fraction of them. May we be blessed to receive blessings from the most unexpected places, and most importantly, may our human and animal friends remind us of the fact that we are not alone as we embark on this new path. 

Shabbat Shalom.

Miketz 5785

I once asked my friend Leeza, an artist, what she thought about a piece of art I was considering buying. It was very busy, full of bright colors, flowers, and people. “It’s…decorative,” she said, adding, “which is kind of an insult in the art world.” She didn’t need to further explain what she meant, which is that a true artist doesn’t try to create something “pretty” or appealing. A true artist’s goal is simply to express something, some truth, whatever is true in that particular moment, even if it rubs viewers the wrong way. 

Another longtime friend and also my hevruta, Rabbi Bronwen Mullein (who will be leading Shacharit here for my installation on January 11th!), introduced me to the Serbian artist Marina Abromovic, who is quoted saying, “I never create art to be decorative.” In 2010, she had a retrospective at Moma called “The Artist is Present.” One famous piece involved her, the artist, seated at a table at the center of the room, with a chair on the other side of the table. Visitors would wait in line and share one minute of silence with Marina. She would make eye contact with each guest, sitting at the same table for eight hours a day for three full months, sharing the simplicity and power of her presence with the world. Guests cried, laughed, and said they had spiritual experiences in her presence. 

One guest, however, was dierent from the rest. Marina’s former lover and fellow artist Ulay, who she had not seen in over 40 years, waited in line like all other visitors. And, in just one minute, you see every emotion on their faces. Tears, laughter, disbelief, and finally they hold hands across the table, gazing at each other. 

In our Parsha, it is Yosef who is the performance artist. And, like Marina, he uses the power of presence and performance to provoke self-reflection in others. Previously, we have known Yosef as the truth teller, the dreamer, the one with no filter. Up until now, his expression has gotten him in big trouble–such as when he thoughtlessly shared the dreams he had about his brothers with his brothers. 

Now, it seems, Yosef is trying a new approach to his art, his truth telling, one in which he first and foremost brings in God. When asked to interpret Pharaoh's dreams he responds, “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare,” showing the humility he’s grown into. Secondly, his new approach to truth telling involves holding back. We see this most clearly when the brothers arrive, asking for food, and Yosef gets into character. Yosef’s restraint, captured in the recurrent verb להתאפק) to restrain oneself, or make oneself strong), highlights his intentional withholding of truth, and the withholding of his literal tears, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal himself. In his new approach to expression, Yosef hides and withholds truth in order to express the truth, in this case the truth being his own alienation. 

Aviva Zornberg writes, 

“Joseph sets himself to act in a role of total alienation...he tests his actual alienation, his lostness, by taking it almost to a point of caricature...in order finally to be known by his brothers in a way that will heal the rifts of the past, Joseph makes himself strange to the point of uncanniness. His accusations that they are spies constitute bizarre probes of their responses, while his inquisitorial persona is so incomprehensible that his brothers are freed, in a sense, from any attempt to communicate with him...[Joseph sets] a plot afoot to reveal his brothers' response to Benjamin under duress. Repressed memories of their cruelty to him rise to the surface, as their responsibility to Rachel's other son, Benjamin, is tested. Will they abandon him, as they abandoned Joseph in the past?” 

My hevruta, also a performance artist, said that “Performance art is not necessarily theatrical, but something occurs that triggers a wondering,” and that’s exactly what this performance of Yosef’s did. It triggered a wonderment and self reection in the brothers’ minds and hearts, shown by them asking one another, “וּנֽלָ היםִ֖ אֱ שהָׂ֥ עָ אתֹזּ֛מה־ַ” What is this that God has done to us?” Like any good encounter with art, or any good ritual, it makes the brother’s encounter themselves, their shadows, and offers them the chance to make another choice. 

The morning after this year’s presidential election, I turned to one of my elder friends, an 86 year old former nun, who lived in Guatemala under dictatorship many years ago. Having lived under crushing circumstances, I knew she had real lived wisdom to share. “Ok,” she said, heavily, “this is the time for art, for poetry, for friends and community.” Artists and art have always become central during dark times in our country and in the world, and they will become deeply important and hopefully equally valued in this next chapter of our country’s history. 

May we be blessed, like Yosef, to master the art of expression for the sake of greater truth in the world. Whether you consider yourself an artist or not, I invite you to consider what you could create and express in this time of literal and metaphorical darkness. As we step into this darkness together, may our expressions of truth—through art, poetry, and connection—become the nerot that illuminate our path. 

Chag Sameach, Shabbat Shalom