Alternate Universes

Given this ritual [ed. we had just lit a candle in commemoration of the yartzeit of Roe v. Wade] we just participated in, you might find yourself asking, “what year is it?” or, as I have heard some of you say, “this feels like an alternate reality.”

Regardless of topic, we have all, at some time, felt that surreal disbelief of reality, whether it’s that weird feeling you get after a car accident, or when you’re experiencing extreme grief. Call it surreal or deja vu, we ask ourselves: Is this real life?

These feelings are not new. Even Plato and Plutarch hypothesized realities on top of our own, recognizing that humans, in our limitations, can only perceive so much of reality. Nowadays, the word en vogue is “multiverse.” The Marvel Cinematic Universe has one, so does the Oscar Nominated “Everything, Everywhere, All at Once.” The dictionary defines it as an infinite realm of being or potential being of which the universe we know is regarded as just one part or one instance.

Writer and artist S.I. Rosenbaum pondered the multiverse in a recent NYTimes opinion piece. They wrote: “It’s easy to see the appeal of the multiverse, even as metaphor: the notion that we’re surrounded by a multitude of parallel selves, one of which might be living in a better timeline than the one we’re stuck in. It’s probably no coincidence that the idea has become so popular during an era of pandemic, climate change and political turmoil, when so many of us have felt helpless and trapped. Who doesn’t want to imagine a different world?”

Lest you think this is relegated to our subjective psyches and sci-fi, many well known scientists and astrophysicists are proponents of the theory of the multiverse existing. There are opponents, though, who argue that one cannot test the multiverse theories with empirical evidence, and therefore the multiverse is more theory, or faith, than science.

Do we Jews have a multiverse concept? It would seem, yes, to a degree. Rabbi Yehuda Shurpin points out that:

“According to Kabbalah, all of existence can be divided into four worlds, known as Atzilut (World of Emanation), Beriah (World of Creation), Yetzirah (World of Formation) and Asiyah (World of Action—our world). Although they are referred to as worlds, in reality these aren’t separate planets or galaxies. Rather, they exist right here together with us, but in another plane of reality. Each of these worlds is really about the degree of Godliness that is revealed on each plane.”

When it comes down to it, we Jews do have a more precise term for the multiverse - we call it “God.” We call God “HaMakom,” The Place, the totality of all existences ever. God’s proper name is spelled yud-hey-vav-hey in Hebrew. We render this in English as “the Eternal,” because the root word of God’s name is the verb “to be.” Yud-hey-vav-hey can be past, present, or future, hence “Eternal.” All possibilities, all existence that was is and will be, parallel or intersecting - that is God.

Indeed, one of the critics of multiverse theory, Paul Davies, writes: “To be sure, all cosmologists accept that there are some regions of the universe that lie beyond the reach of our telescopes, but somewhere on the slippery slope between that and the idea that there is an infinite number of universes, credibility reaches a limit. As one slips down that slope, more and more must be accepted on faith, and less and less is open to scientific verification. Extreme multiverse explanations are therefore reminiscent of theological discussions. Indeed, invoking an infinity of unseen universes to explain the unusual features of the one we do see is just as ad hoc as invoking an unseen Creator. The multiverse theory may be dressed up in scientific language, but in essence, it requires the same leap of faith.”

Indeed. And because we Jews understand God to be the ultimate mystery, the scientifically unprovable, our tradition stresses that we live in the World of Asiyah, of action, and must take action in a way that values our here and now and our behavior here and now above all else.

Rosenbaum makes a similar point. They are concerned about what a multiverse ideology means for human beings. They say that “we can joke or wonder whether we’re in the wrong timeline…But it can also be a dangerous way of imagining the cosmos…we risk becoming detached from the world we can see and touch. Regardless of whether we can prove that the multiverse exists, the idea of it can distract us from doing the work we need to do to make this world better. This timeline is the only one we have access to, and it’s got to be enough.”

And isn’t this the Jewish approach anyway? Isn’t this the root of our social action, our acts of teshuvah (repentance) and the compassion we show?

We do believe we can access the Divine, touching the multiversed cosmos. These are the moments when we feel like we have felt a holy space outside of ourselves, whether through prayer or in community. That feeling of transcendence and awe. It’s not scientific, but I know you’ve felt it, as have I. So while it remains unclear how much life may or may not be like the comics, we can keep reaching outward while keeping our feet securely on the ground, doing the work we need to do to make THIS WORLD one of justice and peace.

Ongoing Liberation: Rahab and Juneteenth

In July of 1985, The World Conference to Review and Appraise the Achievements of the “UN Decade for Women” took place in Nairobi. The reason the “achievements” of the prior conference needed to be “reviewed” were because there hadn’t really been any. Violence against women was still raging worldwide and real measures had to be taken by the international community. To open the conference the U.N. invited an Australian Aboriginal woman and activist named Lilla Watson.

Speaking to a room of delegates she stood at the podium and famously said, "If you are here to help women, people of color or people of different ethnicities, go home. You are wasting your time. However, if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together."

Her words have reverberated through the decades. If you ask her about it today, Watson does not like having these words attributed to her alone. She says they were an important sentiment expressed in her activist circles; the sentiments of many.

It is still the sentiment of modern liberation movements and it is important we express it again this Juneteenth weekend. When Juneteeth became a federal holiday, only 2 years ago, it entered the consciousness of every American. This makes it impossible to turn away from the history of slavery in our nation and impossible to turn away from the contributions and achievements of Black Americans. I’m gratified knowing that when my kids learn about Juneteenth in school, they learn about their role in the ongoing liberation of all oppressed people and the beauty of cultural diversity.

Furthermore, Juneteenth falls during the federal “Honor America Days” - the 21 days between Flag Day and the 4th of July. This is an important detail that emphasizes the holiday’s message. It is not enough to be a nation born out of the ideals of equality, we have to struggle to make those values real. Only then can we truly be a free nation, with the dignity of all citizens and residents asserted loudly.

These 21 days in the American calendar are sort of like our Jewish omer. You’ll remember the omer is the time between the Exodus from Egypt and receiving the Torah at Mt Sinai. As we counted the omer, every day for 7 weeks, we stressed that freedom is yoked to responsibility to care for one another. Individuals can only truly be free when they live in a safe and just society. While people of color were liberated all those years ago, they still do not live in a safe and just society where they are truly free.

Therefore, as Jews, as people who understand the struggle for freedom, we must work for the betterment of our country. We also know that anti-semitism and racism are closely linked and tend to emerge together. We know that our destinies are indeed bound up with each other.

Victoria Raggs is the Co-Founder & Executive Director of Atlanta Jews of Color Council. In reflecting on the significance of Juneteenth as a Black woman and a Jew, she wrote:

“To me, Juneteenth is a time for rejoicing and a time for our country to reckon with a very painful historical legacy that continues to impact our society today. Gaining a deeper historical analysis around this national holiday is useful for everyone experiencing true equity, justice, and liberation. The Jewish dimension of Juneteenth is that no people exist in isolation. Because our liberation is bound together by our shared humanity, no group is free until we all are free.”

This was the essence of Lilla Watson’s words as well. Don’t enter this conversation as one who pities the oppressed. And don’t come in expecting to play savior. Come to the business of liberation recognizing that by lifting one another up, we raise all of humanity closer to the Divine - the origin point for each of us.

So many Jewish texts illustrate this point. But this week we get a particularly provocative one. It comes out of the haftarah portion: Joshua chapter 2. The story goes like this:

Before the Israelites cross the Jordan, Joshua sends Israelite men to scout out the land. Arriving in Jericho, they decide to spend the night at an inn owned by a Canaanite woman named Rahab. It might have also been a brothel. How do we know this? Well, when we meet Rahab, she is explicitly described as a “eishah zonah,” a prostitute.

When the king of Jericho hears that these Israelite men have entered the city and he demands that Rahab give up the spies. Yet in an act of defiance, Rahab hides them in the thatch of her roof. She lies to the king, saying the men had come to her home but then left.

Her ruse works and she goes up to have a chat with the Israelite spies. She says, “I know that GOD has promised this land to you. We heard about how God parted the Sea of Reeds for you, and how your enemies have been defeated in your journey.” And then she pledges: “I will show loyalty to you and your God.” With that heartfelt pledge, she asks that when the spies return with the Israelite army to take over Jericho, they will spare her life and the lives of her father and mother, as well as her brothers and sisters. The spies swear to spare them.

Rahab then helps them escape through the window and indeed, the spies make good on their promise. Rahab and her family join forces with the Israelites after they return to Jericho.

Now to be clear, I’m not looking to draw strict parallels here, as they would quickly break down and could be pretty problematic.

What I want to do is draw attention to Rahab specifically because we can learn a lot from who she was and what she heroically chose to do.

As biblical scholar Tikva Frymer-Kensky points out, Rahab is a triply marginalized person—Canaanite, woman, and prostitute. Yet she moves from the margins to the center of the narrative “as bearer of a divine message and herald of Israel in its new land.”

We have to ask, why does Rahab choose to help the spies, and by extension, the Israelite nation? It’s not just simple self-preservation. She tells us in her own words: she’s seen the miracles. She sees the struggle of the recently freed Israelites fighting to make new, liberated lives for themselves.

As a marginalized person, she understands that her own liberation is bound up in saving the lives of the spies, and thus allowing the Israelites to fulfill their destiny while also solidifying hers. Frymer-Kensky encourages us to move past our squeamishness of Rahab’s profession and understand the deep compassion and activism within her that leads her to righteous action.

So how may we be like Rahab? How may we see that we must work together, oppressed and marginalized people, to protect one another, to shelter each other, and help one another to escape danger?

No one person or group exists in isolation. Lifting one another up only raises the moral bar higher. This Juneteenth, by the example of the African-American community, may we celebrate, educate, and agitate for the deliverance of all humankind. Amen.

This Little Light of Mine - MLK Shabbat 2023

 “This Little Light of Mine” can be heard from nurseries to protests; classrooms to rallies. It was the anthem of the Civil Rights era and serves today in a similar capacity. 

But it feels like more than a rallying cry, though. At this point in history, it’s essentially a psalm; a prayer with the power to motivate as well as heal.

I’ll give you an example. Just a few years back, NPR reported that:

 “In 2017, Reverend Osagyefo Sekou used "This Little Light of Mine" to curb passions during a counter-protest, [he stood] before a crowd of white supremacists and alt-right supporters gathered for the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Va. "We had originally said we were going to stand silently," says Rev. Sekou, a recording artist, author, theologian and activist who helped train volunteers at the counter-protest. "But the Nazis were marching past us in these various battalions, cursing and yelling — mostly homophobic slurs — at us. And you could feel the energy of the people who weren't with us, who we had not trained. [They] were getting amped up."

Sekou says he knew, in that moment, he had to change the atmosphere. "I know song can do that. So I just broke into 'This Little Light of Mine.'”

…the clergy and volunteers who sang…[were] standing in a line, their voices rising over the chants of "You will not replace us" from the rally crowd. "The tensions went down ... and it shook the Nazis," Sekou says. "They didn't know what to do with all that joy. We weren't going to let the darkness have the last word."

Jewish tradition is familiar with song as a shield, disarming words of hate with poems of joy. This is why we pass songs from generation to generation - Hebrew trope, prayer nusach, any melody - traditional and modern. We teach these songs to our children not just for archiving, but because they are vehicles for connection and healing. When there is a birth - we sing. When there is a death - we sing. Even in the death camps - we sang.

Throughout the generations, if we weren’t singing “This Little Light of Mine,” we were singing something like it. Or Zarua la’tzadik - light is sown for the righteous…Light One Candle for the Maccabee children…simply blessing the lights of Shabbat every week is an act of love and an act of defiance. Think about it…all these millenia later, our people are still pausing time every Friday evening to kindle two tiny lights. In the thickest darkness, the flames of the Sabbath candles pierce through with the light hope. It is a testament to the eternal light of God entrusted to our people centuries ago, meant to be shared far and wide for as long as we can muster the courage to do it.

I think you’ll agree with me that the voices of our young people tonight act in a similar vein. What a testament to Dr. King’s legacy to see the next generation engaging thoughtfully with the political process - standing up for the poor, shining a light on the forgotten, holding a light up to hate?

We can’t talk about the next generation tonight without invoking one of the most famous lines from King’s I Have A Dream speech. You know it:

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”

And, similarly, there’s: “I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.”

The poetry and the imagery here is powerful. Yet it is also easily mis-understood as a call to erasing difference. I do not think that Dr. King’s call is for colorblindness. 

More precisely, he’s preaching for the leveling of roadblocks and the removal of social and economic impediments. He’s preaching to actively raise up the downtrodden and to expressly invite in the marginalized. 

He’s asking for the self-reflection and humility of those who hold positions of wealth and power, so that all the children in each new generation are afforded the same opportunities to grow and reach their potential.

For sure, he is dreaming of a future where racism and poverty are eradicated. Where the children of the next generation will not experience the hardships of our own. And while we work for that, it is our responsibility to empower these same young people and encourage them to take up the torch of justice and carry it forward. 

Our job - us adults - is to pave the road and then get out of the way. It is our job to teach them the songs, to train them in the skills, to inspire them, and then…this is really important…to listen when they begin to speak (even if what they have to say scares us at first).

In addition to King, God acts as our role model this week. The haftarah reading comes from the first chapter of Jeremiah. We hear God’s initial call to the prophet: 

“Before I created you in the womb, I selected you;

Before you were born, I consecrated you;

I appointed you a prophet concerning the nations!”

And Jeremiah replies, “Who, me?! הִנֵּ֥ה לֹֽא־יָדַ֖עְתִּי דַּבֵּ֑ר כִּי־נַ֖עַר אָנֹֽכִי God, I don’t know how to speak, I am just a kid!”

And God replies, “Do not say, ‘I am just a kid.’ Get up, go where I tell you to go, say what I tell you to say. Don’t be scared because I am with you!”

And then God reaches out and touched Jeremiah’s mouth, saying: 

“Here…I put My words into your mouth.

See, I appoint you this day

Over nations and kingdoms:

To uproot and to pull down,

To destroy and to overthrow [that which is wicked],

To build and to plant [a better future].”

And that is the beginning of Jeremiah’s prophetic journey.

We have given the children of our community the stories, the words, and the songs. The leaders of the Civil Rights Movement have given them the values, and in the case of Dr. King, their lives.

We can honor Dr King’s legacy most by dedicating ourselves to empowering the next generation through seminars, stories and songs. We can continue to build up a world of truth and justice while also slowly letting go and entrusting it to them.

As we walked up the Capitol steps with our temple teens, I had an out of body experience. Just 2 years ago, a mob of rioters descreated those very same steps, forcing their way into the halls of Congress - shouting words of violence, leaving trash and dishonor in their wake. 

I looked over at our teens. They were dressed professionally, with carefully researched presentations in hand,  respectfully climbing the marble and entering the building. This was democracy. This was the next generation staking their claim and declaring their dreams. This was the America we believe in.

God of our ancestors - l’dor vador, nagid godlecha - from generation to generation, we will tell of Your greatness. We will sing of your hopes and dreams for humanity - those songs you taught to our forebears and were sung by the prophets. We will continue to break the chains of oppression while linking together the bonds of freedom and fellowship. This is the chain of love that we envision tonight. That is the dream we, and our children, commit ourselves to this evening.

Shabbat Hanukkah

We associate Hanukkah so much with miracles. Yet the word Hanukkah really means dedication. 

Of course, the name conjures the re-dedication of the temple in Jerusalem. The miracle of the Hanukkah story is not so much the oil lasting 8 days but the miracle of how we overcame great adversity to live to see Judaism enrich the lives of another generation. The fact that we could dedication our temple and then our children to a brighter future, that’s the miracle.

Recently went with our 10th-12th graders to Washington DC on our L’taken Seminar. The teens spend the weekend learning about major issues in our country and then they learn about the democratic advocacy process - specifically lobbying their representatives.

The trip also includes time out and about in Georgetown and Pentagon Row, for fun. We also made the decision to go to the African American History and Culture Museum, as well as the Holocaust Museum.

I’ve now been to the Holocaust Museum at least 5 times. I always underestimate the ways it will hit me. I figure I’ve got the place memorized, but I always seem to forget that seeing it through the teens’ eyes helps me to see it freshly.

This year, I stationed myself near a particular glass hallway. Etched on the walls are the names of communities that were decimated in the Holocaust.

As our teens walked by, I brought them over one to one name in particular. Rakovnik. “Do you recognize that name?” I asked them? “Yes….isn’t that where our Torah is from?” they all responded.

Indeed it is. At Woodlands, we house the Torah scroll that used to serve the people of Rakovnik.

When we debriefed the experience, one of our teens mentioned this moment of connection, remarking that it just made the whole thing very real, very tangible. This wasn’t some hypothetical town, listed among hundreds of others. This was a town with a Torah, a Torah that would have no home if we at Woodlands had not taken it in and with it, the memory of the lives that are no more.

Hanukkah seeks to do the same sort of thing - to reach back into Jewish history, in this case, ancient history - and make it very real. When we light our menorahs, we bring the memory of our ancestors into our homes. We identify with these people we never met, but who’s souls and story we seem to know intimately. 

Every night we light our menorahs, we are rededicating the temple anew. Every night, as we pick up the shamash candle and use it to light the others, we dedicate ourselves to fighting back against the forces that would have us and our traditions erased. 

Holding the shamash makes each of us a torch bearer, carrying the miraculous light of the Maccabees into today. Every night, as we light our menorahs, we dedicate ourselves to the Jewish future, to surviving even in the face of considerable danger.

You’ve probably seen this photo before. It’s from 1931, amid the Nazi's rise to power. It was taken in the northern port city of Kiel, Germany, opposite the regional Nazi headquarters.

Rachel Posner, married to Rabbi Akvia Posner, photographed their menorah in the window. In the now-historic photograph, the family's menorah is seen on the windowsill in the foreground, and outside the window is a large swastika flag hanging on the building's facade.

On the back of the photograph, Rachel wrote: “The flag says ‘death to Judaism,’ the light says ‘Judaism will live forever.'”

This Hanukkah Rachel and Akiva’s grandchildren returned to Germany from their home in Israel. 91 years after the photograph was taken, the Posner grandchildren lit the very same menorah in Berlin’s Bellevue Palace with the assistance of Germany’s president, President Steinmeier. Miraculously, Jewish life is thriving in Germany. Just like it is in the US. 

And yet, also like America, Germany saw a double digit increase in anti-semitic acts this year, mostly due to a growing far-right movement, similar to what we are seeing in the US.

Indeed, it is time to be the shammashim - the caretakers, the torchbearers.

It is time to be brave like a Maccabee…to make their story ours. Be assured, it is not some mythical fable, relegated to children’s books and holiday tchotchkes. We must call upon their resolve to not let supremacists and bigots gain the upper hand.

Because YOU, the person lighting the menorah, are the Hanukkah miracle. The sheer fact that we Jews still exist and that every year in the month of Kislev, we eat doughnuts and play dreidel and light our chanukiyot, is a miracle. In Judaism, we never let a miracle go unnoticed or unappreciated.  And above all, we always pay the miracle forward.

Al hanissim v’al hapurkan…Thank you God for these miracles I’m looking at on screen…for all the redemptions, for the mighty deeds and saving acts throughout the generations, just as our ancestors clung to your light in days of old, we cherish it now.

Lucky's "walkabout"

You may have seen and heard that two weeks ago, our dog Lucky got away from where he was supposed to be. I’m not going to get into the whole story, because the details aren’t important, but the short of it is that he was on what we now call his “walkabout” in Ardsley and northern Yonkers for six harrowing hours. He was found, he’s home, all is good.

I don’t use the term “walkabout” loosely. The walkabout, specifically, is an Australian aboringinal rite of passage in which an adolescent lives alone in the wilderness for a period of time. It is meant to spiritually aid the transition into adulthood. You could argue that “walkabouts” exist in some form throughout many cultures. Rites of passage often include a youth taking the time to wander and explore on their own, realizing their own resilience and strength during that time. When they return, their status in society changes, with the internal change being recognized by the external community.

To be clear, I don’t think Lucky experienced a spiritual change as a result of his time wandering woods, backyards and the pool at Sprain Ridge Park (that is eventually where he was found, believe it or not). But certainly the whole Young family felt the drama of his absence and the exhale and elation of his return. We also feel sobering gratitude every time we look over at his relaxed, sleeping body taking up the whole couch.

The return, in this case, was a literal one. Yet with the High Holy Days looming, the metaphor is not lost on me. 

This is the time of year when we might recognize how lost we are. It’s the season when we realize that we’re halfway to Stew Leonards when we really should be back up at Ardsley Middle School. We’re way off the path and we’ve lost the scent. Yet with some redirection (can you hear a voice calling your name?) we can get back on track.

Or rather than being “lost,” perhaps you are experiencing a “walkabout year,” in which you’re discovering your passions and path. Year two of the pandemic is most certainly categorized by shifting careers and reevaluating relationships. As we come back from isolation, we’re finding we are changed internally and we’re figuring out how to manifest those changes in how we work, love and relate to one another.

The High Holy Days are the perfect time to reflect on this. There is a true genius to the fact that the High Holy Days are an autumnal celebration. Could the rabbis have known it would so perfectly match the way our modern world works?

After a summer apart, and in a lull of Covid numbers, the High Holy Days are a homecoming from our individual walkabouts. But it is more than a re-entry. This is also the time of year when we look around and realize we are not alone in the work we are each doing internally. Sure, this season is about tefillah, teshuva and tzedakah (repentance, prayer and charity will temper the severe decree!) but it is also about kehillah - being part of a holy community.

This week’s Torah portion speaks to this. If you’ve been around services a lot, you’ll know that I’m strangely fond of the many laws the Torah contains in regard to oxen. It’s weird, I know.

Well, we get more this week. Namely…”If you see your neighbor’s ox has wandered off, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your neighbor. If the person who owns the ox does not live near you or you do not know who [the owner] is, you can bring it home and it shall remain with you until the owner claims it; at which point, you shall give it back. You shall do the same with that person’s donkey; you shall do the same with that person’s garment; and with anything that someone loses and you find: you must not remain indifferent. If you see your neighbor’s ox fallen on the road, do not ignore it; you must raise it up out of the road together.”

First of all, boy does my family relate heavily to this section. I was astounded at how many people - our friends, Woodlands members and complete strangers - went out to look for Lucky in the rain. And certainly, every time I said thank you I got a “of course! What else could I do?! That’s what neighbors are for” in response.

But there’s a different sort of connective issue here than just “be a good neighbor.” Rather than writing laws about finding lost oxen, the Torah is really writing laws about the responsibility we have to one another. It is telling us that it is not ok to feign ignorance, or to claim we don’t have the time or means to help one another out. Our moral code believes that another person’s loss should never be our gain. Think about the implications for that in how to run our businesses, how we allocate tax dollars, the laws we legislate and the policies we promote. By protecting each other’s assets and rights, not hoarding them or taking them for ourselves, we create a community rich in resources as well as goodwill. Returning things - whether it’s physical objects, money, favors or smiles - is a spiritually transformative experience.

When we reclaim or restore something that’s been lost - whether that’s a pet or a sense of purpose or the goodwill of our fellow - we cherish it even more. We act in ways that not only safeguard its falling by the roadside, but also amplify its importance in our lives. When we make a return in the form of a genuine apology, we not only repair the relationship, we transform it in a way where all parties feel seen for who they truly are.

As we barrel closer to the High Holy Days, I pray we can build the holy community the Torah dreams of. May we cherish one another’s journeys as much as our own and find the openness within our hearts to be able to feel the gratitude and transformation upon our return to God and eachother.

 

Tu b'Av and Yom Kippur, kindred spirits

 It is Tu b’Av! The ancient, obscure Jewish celebration of love!

Tu b’Av wasn’t such a big deal until modern times and the Tu b’Av of today is not at all like the one of ancient times. In Israel, you’ll find shiny red hearts and garland, special date night menus, flowers and gift giving. The American Valentine’s Day is much to blame, but nonetheless, why turn down an opportunity to explore and adore love when it comes to you? Hence, our modern observance of Tu b’Av.

But, what sort of “love” are we really supposed to be celebrating? And how? The first mention of this special date is in the Mishnah where Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says:

“There are no happier days for the people of Israel than Tu b’Av and Yom Kippur, since on these days the daughters of Israel go out dressed in white and dance in the vineyards.”

The dancing, in this case, was to find and lock down a mate.

But that’s not what grabs me the most in the passage. It’s this very odd pairing of Tu b’Av and Yom Kippur. Sure, there’s the natural connection of white clothing and the “purity” messaging that white clothes convey. That “purity” hits differently on Tu b’Av and Yom Kippur, for sure. White is also an equalizing color. Back in the day, when dyes and trims were expensive, the more you had, the richer you were. Dressing in all white hides class and distinction, equalizing the dating scene as well as the community coming to repent.

But the Talmud seems to think the link between Tu b’Av and Yom Kippur runs deeper than that.

Tu b’Av, for obvious reasons, is a day of joy. Yet how can we describe Yom Kippur in such a way?

The Gemara asks the same questions and answers the following: “Yom Kippur is a day of joy because it has the elements of pardon and forgiveness, and moreover, it is the day on which the last pair of tablets were given.”

There’s more about love in this answer than it first appears. The rabbis’ say that God forgave the Israelites for the sin of the golden calf on Yom Kippur. This is significant, as the golden calf, an act of idolatry, is considered adultery in God’s eyes. Yet the covenantal love between God and the people was so secure that the rift was repaired.

The text solidifies this by stating “it is the day on which the last pair of tablets were given.” The tablets of course are the 10 Commandments. The 10 Commandments and the Torah in general are considered the ketubah, the marriage contract between God and the Jewish people. Just like Tu b’Av is a day for match making, Yom Kippur is the day in which the sacred relationship between God and the Jewish people is repaired and reaffirmed.

So when the rabbis say that Yom Kippur is a day of joy because it is a day of pardon and forgiveness, their lesson is that granting forgiveness is one of the ultimate gestures of love. Every Yom Kippur, it is like we are the young people dancing in the vineyards. We come with our defenses down. We come humbled and ready to recount the ways we let God and each other down in the last year. Yes, as much as we dole out guilt there in the vineyards, what we really distribute is forgiveness. As we do that, we regenerate the love in our relationships - yes, with God, but moreseo with each other. 

So if Tu b’Av can cast this light on Yom Kippur, let’s explore the reverse. What can Yom Kippur bring to Tu b’Av that moves it past Hallmark and romantic frills?

Well, evidently, the theme of forgiveness continues in the rabbis’ exposition of Tu b’Av’s significance. 

They posit that “the fifteenth of Av was the day on which the sin of the spies was forgiven and the deaths of the first generation of Israelites in the wilderness ceased.” The background here: when scouts are sent into the Promised Land, they come back full of doubt, essentially spurning God and rejecting God’s loving gift. As punishment, that first generation of Israelites will never get to enter the Promised Land. Only their children are granted that honor.

So Tu b’Av, according to the rabbis, was the day it started over. It was the day that optimism re-emerged, and yes, forgiveness.

In these waning hours of the holiday, it is worth asking how this Tu B’av can still be a day of pardon and forgiveness for us. Right now we’re sort of in Tu b’Av Neilah.

As the sun sets, can you muster some compassion for a loved one who disappointed you this week? Perhaps a colleague that could have supported you better? 

At the very least, please, please, use this as an opportunity to find some forgiveness for yourself. In some ways it is the hardest, because it begins with accepting a covenant with yourself - that even with your vulnerabilities, your doubts and your deficits - you are deserving of love. 

On this “happiest day” for the Jewish people, let us find love at every level - a partnership with God, partnership with each other, and, at the heart of it all, appreciation for one’s self. Welcome to the vineyard of forgiveness. Perhaps stay a while, because Elul, the time when we draw even closer to God, is just two weeks away.

Ken Yhi Ratzon.

Pack Your Timbrels, People.

If you had to flee your house and could only take one object, what would it be? It has to be an object - let’s assume family, and pets are already taken care of. You may be the practical type - your wallet or your phone. You may be the sentimental type - a photo album, a piece of jewelry. Or, you could be like me and resign yourself to running out with nothing because your brain just doesn’t work that fast.

I imagine what you choose could probably say something about your personality. Our tradition does seem to support the idea.

For example, in the Book of Exodus, we learn that after witnessing the miraculous split of the Red Sea, after observing the decimation of the Egyptian army and when feeling the first indications of freedom, “Miriam the prophet…picked up a hand-drum, and all the women went out after her in dance with hand-drums.”

The sages pause here. Sounds like a fun celebration. But they ask: um, weren’t we told that the Israelites left in the dead of night? Didn’t we learn that they didn’t even have time for their bread to rise? If they left in such haste, with nothing but the unbaked dough on their backs, then where did these drums come from?

The Israelite women were faced with the dilemma: “We’re leaving right now. I can take one thing.” And the one thing they all chose was a timbrel.

Rashi explains the rationale, commenting on the womens’ character: “the righteous women in that generation [brought their timbrels because they] were confident that God would perform miracles for them.”

Basically, the women knew deep in their hearts that something good was coming. They knew they would need to sing songs of praise and thanksgiving, and they came ready to do so.

There is a fine line of distinction here, though. It’s one thing to believe that God will perform a miracle and to sit back and let the miracle happen. It’s another thing to run towards the miracle and be ready to celebrate it, to come ready for it with gratitude. In the first scenario, one passively waits, and is likely disappointed. Miriam and her cadre exemplify the second scenario, wherein they participated in the miracle - they, and others, willed it into being.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks places this distinction between passive belief and active hope in the context of Jewish history: 

“One of the most important distinctions I have learned in the course of reflection on Jewish history is the difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to have hope. Knowing what we do of our past, no Jew can be an optimist. But Jews have never – despite a history of sometimes awesome suffering – given up hope.”

Miriam the prophet epitomizes this through her whole life, and even in her death. In this week’s Torah portion, Chukat, we get word that Miriam dies and is buried in the wilderness. Numbers chapter 20 verse 1 delivers the news. Verse 2 then reads: “and the community was without water, and they rallied against Moses and Aaron.”

It could just be the start of a new story, but the sages say It is no mistake that the well dried up immediately after Miriam’s death. The Israelites had the well on account of her merit. (Side note: this is why we put water in our Miriam’s cups on Passover). 

But what was her merit, specifically? It was that Miriam willed miracles into being. Even before packing her timbrel, earlier on when baby Moses was placed in the basket in the Nile, she followed him and watched over him. She chose to step out from the reeds to speak to Pharaoh's daughter and offer her mother as a nurse to the baby. Miriam knew that Moses was destined to work with God to save the people, but she didn’t sit back and let it happen. She was a woman of hope and action: she followed that basket, she packed her drum. She acted as guarantor of the miracle.

We too must maintain hope in the face of a world that seeks to snuff it out. But this is not passive optimism. Optimism is easily broken by reality. We have too much empirical evidence to prove that things aren’t getting better any time soon.

Hope, though. Hope comes with a mission. Hope means “I’m packing my timbrel. I’m grabbing my protest sign, I’m writing my representatives, I’m going to vote.”

As God’s co-creators, there is no other way. Because the reverse of all of this is true. God is not an optimist when it comes to humanity. If the Book of Numbers shows us anything it is that God is constantly disappointed and frustrated by us. We give God plenty of evidence of our cowardice and hubris. And yet God never gives up hope on the Israelites or the Jewish people today. As soon as we step back in with some courage and gratitude, God is happy to lift us up and have us soar on eagle’s wings.

I’ll close with the story of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi who was meditating near the tomb of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai. Lo, the Prophet Elijah came to visit him! "When will the Messiah come?" asked Rabbi Joshua. "Ask him yourself," replied Elijah. "the Messiah is sitting among the poor and sick at the gates of Rome. Like them, he changes the bandanges of his wounds, but does so only one wound at the time, rather than all at once, so that he can get up at a moment's notice and herald the World to Come."

So Rabbi Joshua went to Rome and met the Messiah, who greeted him back. Rabbi Joshua then asked "When will you be coming?" and the Messiah said "Today!" 

But the day went on and the Messiah did not come. Joshua went back to Elijah and said that the Messiah had not told him the truth. Elijah explained "This is what the Psalmist meant when they wrote, “Today…if you will hear my voice.” The Messiah’s arrival is conditional on our hopeful actions and our honest effort in helping to usher in that time of peace.

So pack your timbrels, people. The only way it’s going to get better out there is if we watch over the vulnerable, speak truth to power, and find moments of gratitude. Perhaps the Messiah will come today, if we just heed the voice of our conscience.