Shabbat and the Tabernacle

The Young family is notoriously bad at waiting. I could blame this on the fact that my children’s formative years, the years where they would have learned the skills of waiting in lines or for food at restaurants, were the Covid years, and therefore they were not in those spaces to learn those life skills. Or I could blame it on Amazon and Netflix and our on-demand, instant gratification culture.

Or, I could just call it what it is: we’re a naturally impatient bunch. But we’re not without solutions. This is why we always travel with a pack of cards, especially to restaurants. If you’ve seen us out, you’ll see that Mark and I have given our children some very solid gambling skills. The kids are particularly adept at blackjack and 5 card poker. Maybe you’ll even be generous and say we have simply swapped out one life skill for another.

The proverb “all things come to those who wait” originated from a poem by Lady Mary Montgomerie Currie, who used to write under her pseudonym, Violet Fane. The poem reads:

All hoped-for things will come to you
Who have the strength to watch and wait,
Our longings spur the steeds of Fate,
This has been said by one who knew.

‘Ah, all things come to those who wait,’
(I say these words to make me glad),
But something answers soft and sad,
‘They come, but often come too late.’

All things come to those who wait…while Currie feels empowered by the sentiment, the final couplet expresses her true feelings: but something answers soft and sad…they come, but often come too late.

Indeed, there can be tremendous payoff at the end of a wait, but a delay can be its own difficult experience that colors the outcome. We certainly learned this lesson in last week’s Torah portion; how Moses was delayed on the mountain and because the people did not know where he went, or when he’d return, the anxiety of waiting got the hold of them. They built and worshiped the golden calf - idolatry at its most egregious.

Something answers soft and sad…Moses returns, but only after the orgiastic frenzy has taken over. The sad reality of the Israelites’ destructive impatience becomes a burden not just for the desert generation, but a warning to modern humans as well.

The Hebrew word for patience is “savlanut.” It shares its linguistic root with sevel which means “suffering” and sabal which means “a porter” - as in someone who carries a load. This all indicates that savlanut, patience, is not just about waiting, but being able to endure the heaviness of that wait.

The next time Moses goes up the mountain, he comes back to a repentant people and two new tablets to place beside the broken ones in the holy ark. The lesson is clear: we can learn the skill of waiting.

This week’s Torah portion then opens with what feels like aside: God repeats the law regarding keeping Shabbat. “On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to יהוה; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death.

You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the sabbath day.” After this rather vehement reiteration of the commandment, the text launches into the details of constructing the Tabernacle.

We have to wonder why the sabbath is singled out for repetition when, certainly, if you were picking one of the 10 commandments to reiterate it would have made sense to zero in on idolatry, right?

The rabbis wonder the same and, oddly enough, the midrashic answer leans uber-practical. They say that Torah reiterates Shabbat because the Israelites are about to begin a large building project. It is important that they know that the work on the Tabernacle, as holy as it is, pauses on Shabbat. While the construction of the Tabernacle is important, Shabbat supercedes and points to God’s spiritual blueprint that exists outside of and above these earthly matters. The Tabernacle honors holy space, but Shabbat honors holy time. As Abraham Joshua Heschel shares in his famous work, The Sabbath:

“To gain control of the world of space is certainly one of our tasks [as humans]. The danger begins when in gaining power in the realm of space we forfeit all aspirations in the realm of time. There is a realm of time where the goal is not to have but to be, not to own but to give, not to control but to share, not to subdue but to be in accord. Life goes wrong when the control of space, the acquisition of things of space, becomes our sole concern.”

Hence, the Sabbath reminder of this week’s parsha. Don’t get so sidetracked by holy space that you lose sense of holy time.

As a concept, it’s powerful, but as a modern, assimilated Jew, I struggle with how to incorporate Shabbat into my own life. I will even admit that sometimes Shabbat feels like a test of my savlanut, having to endure the pause of normal activity just because tradition says so. But the sages encourage us to consider that it's really the opposite way around: we are in fact bearing the burden of the whole week, exercising the patience to make it to Shabbat, which is the time of exhale and delight.

And yet it would be foolish of us to simply consider the workweek to be a transitory, burdensome bore. Shabbat is but one day among seven. The other six need to count in some way.

Perhaps the Tabernacle then represents the holy capacity of the workweek; that we can still be building something special with the emotional and physical burdens of regular life. The tabernacle, afterall, is built of precious stones and metals, tapestries exquisitely woven by rainbow threads. The description of this labor intensive project is really quite moving:

“Men and women, all whose hearts moved them, all who would make an elevation offering of gold to יהוה, came bringing brooches, earrings, rings, and pendants —gold objects of all kinds. And everyone who possessed blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins…And all the skilled women spun with their own hands, and brought what they had spun, in blue, purple, and crimson yarns, and in fine linen…And the chieftains brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece; and spices and oil for lighting, for the anointing oil, and for the aromatic incense.” (Ex 35:20-28)

All things come to those who wait, but in the waiting, there can be gifts. In the waiting space, your heart can be moved, whether by delight or by challenge. Could it even be that there is something precious about waiting? That “ patience is a virtue” not because the poets painted it that way but that we might actually reap benefits from its discomforts, discovering new strengths within ourselves?

Kay Ryan, former US poet laureate wrote this of kind of waiting:

Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.

Or that in
time’s fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn’t be
Distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

Now, this isn’t to say that every test of patience is a gift from God. If you are experiencing illness, or going through treatment of some sort, or waiting on social change, we should not be so cruel to say “well, it’s just making you stronger.” I believe that is why Ryan offers two types of diamonds - the genuine ones that come with the desired, long-waited-for outcome and the lab-grown ones, the ones that are fabricated from the harsh waiting environment. Both are brilliant and hard, but they are brilliant and hard in different ways.

The reality of the human condition is that things take time. Sometimes we are impatient, and justified in that impatience. Our tradition therefore comes to equip us with the skills to endure in that difficult space. Savlanut is not so much a character trait as it is a skill.

Patience is not about being docile, passive or uncomplaining. Patience is survival. Patience is continuing to exist without devolving into self-destruction.

Patience therefore requires feeling validated and seen by oneself and by others. It means we must know when to move closer and help shoulder the burden and when to separate and allow space and time.

It means looking for the Sabbaths - not just the calendar based ones - but the sacred pausing that can refresh the spirit and body of the laborer, the person waiting or suffering. Whether it's checking in by phone, or insisting on lunch together, or a small gift that elicits a smile. We tend to lose patience with other people’s waiting, so let us take a note from our tradition this week: seek the balance. Honor the work and honor the rest. Muster the strength and know when to put down the load. Seek the gifts of your loved ones and community, know when you need to be alone.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

I went looking for the origins of the phrase - “the good, the bad and the ugly.” The internet seems pretty definitive that it comes from the 1966 epic spaghetti western film of the same name, which starred Clint Eastwood.

As a “spaghetti western,” it was an Italian film dubbed into English. The title speaks to the underlying mores of each of the main characters. In Italian, it was “the good, the ugly, the bad,” but Hollywood felt the cadence of “the good, the bad and the ugly” worked better in English.

I’m not actually going to talk about that film - I’ve never seen it - but I do think its title applies nicely to another epic adventure - that of the Israelites in this week’s Torah portion.

We’re in Parshat Yitro. The Israelites are nearly 50 days past the Exodus from Egypt. They’re just starting to get their sea-legs, or desert-legs if you will. A lot happens in this portion, and it follows this schema - the good, the bad, and the ugly.

First, the good.

The portion is named for Yitro - or Jethro - Moses’s father-in-law. Yitro is a tremendous character. Firstly, he’s not an Israelite - he’s a midianite priest whom the Torah holds in very high regard. In this portion, Moses reunites with his beloved father-in-law and tells him everything that happened to this point - from the plagues to the Red Sea to now living as a free people.

The text says that Yitro yichad - from chadah - he rejoiced over everything God had done. “Blessed be יהוה,” Jethro said, “who delivered you from the Egyptians and from Pharaoh, and who delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians!”

This is Yitro’s first lesson: start with the good; start with gratitude. It sets the tone for every interaction; it even sets the tone for the challenges ahead.

So with that, we move to the bad. Torah relays that the very next day, the day after their reunion, Yitro observes Moses at work. He sees Moses standing before the people weighing in on their interpersonal disputes and questions from sunrise to sunset.

לֹא־טוֹב֙ הַדָּבָ֔ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר אַתָּ֖ה עֹשֶֽׂה He says to Moses. “This thing you’re doing is lo tov, it’s not good! You will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. The task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone!” He then suggests a system of judges, wise people appointed as Moses’ deputies to attend to the people’s problems.

This is Yitro’s second lesson: pace yourself. You are doing holy work. If you burn out, if we lose you. When we lose you, we lose an important changemaker, and whatever you were trying to fix will continue to be broken.

And then the ugly. Well, maybe not ugly, but certainly there is a terrifying and awe-inspiring sight in this week’s Torah portion. The parshah ends with the Israelites standing at the base of Mount Sinai. We’re told that Mount Sinai was all in smoke, “for יהוה had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently.” The Israelites are told to not approach the mountain, to not dare to touch it. If they do, they will be consumed, killed, by God’s power.

Yet from within this violent picture, God speaks to the people and dictates the Ten Commandments - the ten building blocks to an ethical society.

We go from terror to opportunity; from uncertainty to empowerment. Yitro ends with a way forward.

I find I’m using this “good, bad, ugly” framework and the parsha’s insights to carry me through these most dramatic weeks in Israel and the US. I find I need a methodology to survive the relentless heartbreak and worry that has taken hold and that Torah this week offers me one.

Start with the good, start with gratitude. It sets the tone for every interaction, it even sets the tone for the challenges ahead.

The good: there has been an immense amount of interfaith activity in the Rivertowns in the last few weeks. Two weeks ago Woodlands hosted interfaith clergy from around the Rivertowns to figure out how we may deepen our relationships to one another: minister to rabbi, priest to pandit. Then more emails flew back and forth, from the social action committees in local churches and synagogues offering help in combating antisemitism, interacting with ICE, providing food, health care and funding where the government is stripping away rights or providing roadblocks to care.

My good: I am grateful for a network of caring neighbors who look past lines of difference to protect the most vulnerable among us and assert love in the face of hate.

The bad: it would seem that we are going to go into every Friday night with stomachs in our chests as we await the release of more hostages from Gaza. This week, the ceasefire and hostage exchange seemed more tenuous than ever and the emaciated appearance of the last three hostages has us even more worried for the state and fate of those who remain. The psychological and physical terror knows no bounds. Hamas’ depravity, and the dangerous escalation by politicians, has us begging: please, please value life.

I think we could all argue that at this point I’ve already ventured from “the bad” to the “ugly,” unfortunately. When it comes to Israel/Palestine, when it comes to civil liberties, when it comes to attacks on American democracy through abuses of power, we want to do everything we can, immediately, to offer protection, but let’s be honest, many of us feel paralyzed by the enormity of the situation.

So here we must grab onto Yitro’s teachings yet again: pace yourself. You are doing holy work. If you burn out, if we lose you. When we lose you, we lose an important changemaker, and whatever you were trying to fix will continue to be broken.

This is yet another Sinai moment, friends. Yet, instead of a mountain on fire, it is our world that is on fire. Each person must stand at attention, listen and do as our hearts command us, but we must also be mindful of how to draw closer without feeling consumed and depleted.

Here are the base of the mountain on fire, we ask what change can we make right here in our small corner of the world? How can we transform this moment from terror to opportunity; from uncertainty to empowerment?

Again, the wisdom lies in the parsha. The first words God proclaims from Sinai are, “I יהוה am your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage: You shall have no other gods besides Me…I will incur guilt on those who reject me, but I will show kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments.”

Showing kindness to those who love me. Not revere, not obey, but LOVE. Our God deals not in fear but in love, the most binding, eternal emotion we have. This permeates the Torah, teaching us that love is the guiding force and the way to God. Hasidic wisdom teaches us that “only after we come to love people, can we come to love God.” Love is here at the base of the mountain.

The work ahead is not easy, but if we ground ourselves in gratitude and love, we will find the strength to move forward. Just as the Israelites stood at Sinai in the face of both terror and hope, we too can transform our fears into actions of healing and compassion. May we always choose to love, to protect, and to empower one another in this sacred work. Amen.

Diamonds and Democracy - MLK Shabbat and Inauguration Weekend

The Maggid of Dubnov told a story* about a king who owned the most beautiful diamond

in the world. Every night the king carefully took the gem from its storage case to gaze

at it lovingly. But one night, disaster struck: the diamond slipped from his hands and

fell to the floor. The king picked it up quickly. But when he examined the stone, he saw

right away that there was now a thin crack running down its length. His diamond was

ruined.

In a panic, the king called every jeweler in his realm. But each expert responded that

once there's a crack in a diamond, there's no way to fix it. The desperate king sent out

word that anyone who could repair his broken diamond would be richly rewarded. A few

days later, a jeweler from a distant province arrived at the palace. After examining the

diamond, he promised the king he would fix everything, not to worry. He took the

diamond and promised to return with it in a few months.

The despondent king couldn't wait to see his diamond as good as new. When the day

arrived, the jeweler presented a beautiful box. The king shook with excitement and

opened it quickly. But when the king looked inside, his face turned red and he shook

with fury. The same thin crack still ran down the center of his precious diamond. "What

have you done?" he screamed. "You promised you would fix it!”

"Please, your majesty, wait!" said the old man. "Just turn the stone over." And when

the king did so, he saw the jeweler had carved the petals of a flower at the top of the

diamond. So now the crack running through the stone appeared to be the stem of a

flower, and the diamond was more beautiful than ever.

The irony of telling a story about a king on a night about democracy is not lost on me. And yet, it is important to know that in hasidic story telling, parables about kings are usually lessons about God. In this case, many things can be compared to God’s precious gem, but tonight, it feels democracy is the most fitting.

Consensus has it that American democracy is fractured. Bifurcated, more precisely, between left and right. Legislative chamber aisles are cavernous and while many pay lip service to “my friends across the aisle,” we know that words get lost in the cracks’ crevices, lost to the shadows of mistrust.

We know that fear, anxiety, and hate thrive in those shadows.

And yet the presence of a crack does not mean that the gem is irrevocably ruined. In 1967, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. clarified: "Democracy is not a fragile thing, it is not a weak thing…It is a precious thing." 

Our US democracy is strong. Even with the attacks and perversions, it prevails. But while not weak, it is precious. Precious things need to be guarded, tended, maintained through special attention. Otherwise they fall into disrepair, or are stolen. Our democracy, a precious thing, must be monitored and protected.

And…we must be careful. Sometimes precious things are made accessible only to a privileged few under the guise of protection. Whether through cronyism or restricting voting rights, or in the spread of misinformation or limiting of the press; whether through elitism and buying access, or in scapegoating and vilification, we see our precious democracy cracking before us. Every American, under every administration, is obligated to catch the crack, and instead of rending it further apart, find a way to shape it back to beauty.

At his speech at the March on Washington in 1963, Dr. King reminded us that "the great problem facing our nation is not just the past, but the future.” “How will we meet the challenges ahead,” he asked. “It’s not enough to just love democracy in theory,” he replied, “we must live it every day." This means lifting up the voices of the oppressed and asking which voices are still missing. Democracy thrives on multivocality and a determined assertion that every living soul matters equally.

To live by King’s words, protecting our democracy, does not mean watering down our convictions or softening our values. No, in fact we heed his words when we hone and refine them. We apply them creatively as tools of democratic artistry. In his Letter from a Birmingham Jail (1963), King wrote: "The question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice?"

What would it look like to be extremist for love? I imagine it is about love through action, committing ourselves to our fellow humans; creating a ripple effect of positivity that begins in our own hearts and extends out to others, even when challenged.

The Maggid of Dubrov, like MLK, embodied this courage to dream and persevere. The Maggid famously shared, "When a person is in trouble and turns to God, they should not ask to be saved from their problems, but rather to be given the strength to endure and to learn from the experience." May we have the strength to endure and grow in the adversity we see and the adversity inevitably to come. May we be artisans of justice and believers in democratic beauty.

------

*Note, the telling of the Maggid of Dubrov story is as told by Rabbi Marc Margolius - https://westendsynagogue.org/sites/default/files/site_images/cracks%20in%20the%20diamond%20-%20KN%205777_1.pdf

The End of 2024, the Beginning of 2025

It is our family tradition to spend New Year's Eve with a gang of rabbis and their families. We’ve essentially all raised our children together. Once upon a time, we would put the babies to bed, spend some quality time together and then hit the sack well before midnight. But now, we’re in a terrible in-between where we, an exhausted gaggle of parents at the end of a nearly 2 week school break, just want to go to bed but the demanding horde of 5-12 year olds are determined to stay awake until midnight to watch the ball drop in real time. We oblige and quickly turn in after the confetti flies.

It’s not my favorite thing, this staying up to midnight business. But even I have to admit, it might just be worth it in order to watch the ecstatic cheer of my kids and give them their first kisses of 2025. In that stroke of midnight, something primal takes over. It's a magical moment, no matter how culturally contrived or sleep-deprived.

My teacher Larry Hoffman recently wrote one of his “Open Letters to My Students,” where he waxed poetic on the cross-cultural fascination, and celebration, of the New Year:

“Most cultures have some sort of new year’s bash,” he observed, “The rationale behind it all is unclear. History of Religion expert Mircea Eliade considered it an outgrowth of ancient peoples’ desire to take refuge in a primeval moment when the connection between ourselves and the gods was patent…”.

His point, I believe, is that cultural and religious moments of marking time are not just about logically organizing our days. Sometimes, for reasons that aren’t exactly logical, the moment and our souls meet. And even if it is just a moment, sometimes it is much more than a wistful, passing kiss of earthly and Divine. One minute of connection can be enough for a soul rejuvenation. It’s like a dry watercolor palette. When you apply even a small drop of water, the color reactivates. You can paint again. Might that be what happens at midnight on January 1st.

But then we have to wonder what happens between those potent moments? Our beginnings are not always magically sparked by tons of confetti and loving embraces. As Rabbi Hoffman points out, “Judaism famously warns that ‘All beginnings are difficult’ (Mekhilta to Exodus 19:5).” “Google ‘Beginnings are hard,’” he says, “and you find a ton of people in agreement. All sorts of examples come to mind: moving to a new school; starting a new job; embarking on a new relationship; undertaking a new project; writing that first line of a school essay.”

He has a point. It’s one thing to say “New Year, New You!” and it’s another to actually jumpstart the process of self-improvement. That’s why Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, is really just the start of a 10 day turning project that culminates in the drama of Yom Kippur.

But then Rabbi Hoffman adds a wrinkle. He muses that while beginnings are hard “...endings are usually harder. Making new friends, though difficult, is easier than saying goodbye to old ones. Starting your first job is easier than retiring. Declaring a war is nothing compared to ending it. Moving in with (you hope) the love of your life may have its uncertainties, but the pain is in moving out. I know nothing about what it feels like to be born into the world, but I suspect that dying is harder.”

We know this truth too. “Old habits die hard,” they say. With enough motivation, you can begin a new project or pick up a paintbrush and paint with gusto. Endings take motivation too, but often motivation might not be enough. You can be motivated to stop smoking, for example, but actually doing it is a bear of a battle. Starting 2025 with a new set of resolutions is likely easier than quitting the bad habits of 2024. We learned a lot about ourselves and our neighbors in 2024 and those insights are going to follow us into 2025 where they will no longer be theoretical, but consequential.

Will 2025 bring further descent into our baser proclivities or will it be the beginning of personal and national redemption? It’s a question that hovers menacingly, like the drones over New Jersey. Are we on the precipice of good or further evil? Many would say the latter.

Enter our forefather Judah. On the surface, last weeks’ Torah portion and this week’s parsha seem to be all about the Joseph narrative. But if you look closely, you’ll see his brother Judah’s story running parallel, with lessons for this looming New Year.

Judah is the fourth of the six sons of Jacob and Leah. When Judah and his brothers throw Joseph into a pit to die, it is Judah who sees a caravan of Ishmaelites and suggests that they sell Joseph into slavery instead: “What profit is it if we slay our brother and conceal his blood? ... Let not our hand be upon him, for he is our brother, our flesh” (Gen 37:26-28).

At this point, the Torah becomes ambivalent toward Judah. He saved Joseph’s life, but didn’t go so far to rescue him. He’s not a villain, but not quite a hero either. So the text takes a detour, and in a narrative aside, we learn that Judah went to live away from his brothers, got married and had children. Long story short, Judah neglects to properly take care of his daughter-in-law, Tamar. When she calls him to task, he publicly owns up to his descent into sin. It is the first step in his story’s redemptive arc.

So then in this week’s Torah portion, Judah’s character is ultimately determined. When his brother Benjamin is taken into custody in Egypt, Judah offers his life in exchange, pleading for Benjamin’s release. With this heroic act, Judah’s redemption is complete. Once he was a wishy-washy do-gooder, then a full blown sinner, and then he became a repentant. Now he seeks not just accountability, but justice, and he is willing to put his life on the line for it.

This redemptive arc in the text is important, because Judah will one day be the progenitor of the Kingdom of Judah, the ancient country of Jewish hegemony. He has to rise to goodness in order to establish legitimacy to the throne and merit being the ancestor of the coming Messiah.

And even so, it is still significant that Judah goes through this hero’s journey. Far from perfect, he role models our own journey to being better. Sure, beginnings are hard, but Judah represents how hard it is to shake your baser inclinations, how hard it is to end the bad habits and earn a good reputation; how much effort it takes to live up to your potential.

One final insight along these lines from our tradition to take into 2025:

There are two times in the Torah that God shares a list of curses that will befall the people if they do not live according to the laws God set for leading moral lives. Basically, it’s what happens if they don’t live up to their potential.

Over time, our sages instituted rules for the public recitation of these curses: the reader utters them in a quieter voice than the blessings. Furthermore, the aliyah, the section being read, cannot end with the curses. The reader must go at least one verse past the curses before stopping.

Understanding both this practice and Judah’s story, the message from our tradition is clear: even when we have neglected to live up to our potential, we must struggle past the sin. Redemption is on the horizon if we would just strive towards it.

Perhaps this is the value of even an exhausted parent staying up to midnight on New Years Eve. We hold a haggard 2024 in our hearts and push forward into 2025. We welcome it with fanfare and joy, even when we know it too will be a struggle. We feel the earthly and Divine kiss at midnight, if even for a second, in order to renew our spirits and tell us we can be redeemed - if not today, maybe one day soon - as long as we hold fast to the God-given potential within us.

Happy 2025 everyone. Whether full of beginnings or endings, may it be a year of growth and possibility. Amen.

The Winter Solstice

The Winter Solstice will officially occur tomorrow morning at 4:21 am. It will be the shortest day of the year with daylight shining for about 9 hours and 13 minutes. The darkness will preside far longer.

The dark settles so early this time of year. Maybe this is why I love outdoor holiday lights so much. They sparkle in the black cover. I love driving around the neighborhood with my family, rating the interplay of color, installation precision and quantity. It’s not my tradition to hang them, but I certainly delight in them.

The anthropologist in me is fascinated by the way humans have determinedly inserted light into the darkest time of the year. Clearly, Christmas lights do that. Yet it is a cross-cultural phenomenon: Hindus, Jains and Sikhs have the oil-lamp-filled light festival of Diwali (celebrating the triumph of good over evil). Lunar New Year greets a new year with glowing red lanterns and Kwanzaa ignites the lights of cultural pride. 

And of course, Jews have Hanukkah. Our sages tell us to place our chanukiyot in the window of our homes to publicize the miracle. The miracle in this case is not just the oil lasting eight nights, but the miracle that even in the darkest times, a hopeful heart can spark enough courage to defeat even the most formidable foes. 

When enumerated like this, it feels like all of humanity refuses to accept the darkness and understands its purpose in helping the light to break through even the thickest shadow.

Now, if you’re a follower of the Jewish calendar, you might notice how our holidays line up with new moons and full moons. Hanukkah, interestingly enough, falls on neither. Instead, it is on the 25th of Kislev, far away from the light of the full moon and closer to the empty sky of the new moon. The date cleverly ensures a short day and a dark night, making the light of the chanukiyah even brighter in contrast. The proximity to the Winter Solstice deepens the whole experience.

On Kol Nidre, I shared a midrash about the Winter Solstice and the first human: the Sages teach that when Adam the first man saw that the days were getting shorter between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, he did not yet know that this is a normal phenomenon, and therefore he said: “Woe is me; perhaps because I sinned, the world is becoming dark around me and will ultimately return to the primordial state of chaos and disorder”…He therefore spent eight days in fasting and in prayer.

Once the winter solstice arrived and he observed that the days started to become progressively longer, he said: ‘Clearly, the days become shorter and then longer, and this is the natural order of the world.’ He went and observed a festival of thanksgiving for eight days. Upon the next year he commemorated both of these observances with eight days of festivities.” (Avodah Zara 8a)

Hm…8 days of festivities. What a convenient number. 8 days in which we celebrate the triumph of hope over despair. It says that while the world may have begun in chaos, disorder, and darkness, the celestial orbits and nature’s rhythms carry a message of hope and defiance. 

Similarly, Physics teaches us that nature spirals toward chaos. Among humans, those who cast a shadow - the bigger the muscle or ego - the more powerful they appear. Sometimes it is easier to spread darkness - fear and mistrust - than it is to inspire hope. But God embedded fail-safes into Creation, like the rebirth of light on the Winter Solstice. It’s all about balance.

The rabbis reflect this balance in a midrash about the Leviathan. The Leviathan, according to Jewish lore, is a giant sea monster that lives in the darkest depths of the ocean. Once a year, on the Winter Solstice, the monster Leviathan raises its head from the deep and roars, stirring up the water, creating the choppy, stormy waves we associate with the season. This roar also scares the bigger fish, who normally prey on the smaller ones. The Leviathan's roar disarms the big fish, giving the smaller fish a chance to get away. In this way, the rabbis say, the Leviathan is a tikkun, a Divine act of repair, that resets nature’s balance and allows the little fish to escape the predatory power of the big fish.

This too sounds like Hanukkah, how a small band of committed warriors drove away the powerful brutes to restore order and rededicate God’s sanctuary. With the lighting of the temple’s lamps, hope started to glow again. 

And then I start to consider, maybe this time of year is not so much about surviving the dark, but rather celebrating the rebirth of the light. We don’t have to inject light as much as we have to have trust that it is there. Much like our Hanukkah menorahs start with one little candle and grow into an eight-wicked fire, the Winter Solstice draws us into the darkest day just to turn around and start marching toward brighter ones. That’s the natural rhythm of things.

Truth be told, we travel this road every week. Every Friday night, Shabbat begins in darkness. Its first moments are ushered in with the gathering of loved ones, the swipe of a match and the lighting of two little candles. If you follow the Sabbath laws, turning off all electronics and lights, the next 24 hours are quieter and darker, yet strangely warmer. We spend it doing the things that matter with the people who matter. When the havdallah’s three-wicked candle is lit the next evening, we feel the presence, and honor the preciousness, of our inner light. 

And so as the darkest days give way to the return of the light, may we, too, find the courage to kindle our own inner flames, knowing that even in the deepest shadows, the light is never far. May strengthen our resolve to stand up for the little fish, no matter how formidable the foe and may it warm our hearts towards hope, trusting in the natural turning toward goodness.

Abraham and the Desert Sun

Abraham is, famously, the first Jew. Surrounded by pagan idol worship, miraculously, he was able to cut through the noise and perceive the Truth with a capital T…that there is only one God, the creator and sustainer of all living things.

The rabbis wonder, though, what was it about Abraham that made God choose him? Torah is oddly silent on what it is about Abraham that made him most equipped to see with clarity the way of the Eternal. How did God know Abraham would have the ingenuity and courage to do something never done before: forge a direct covenant with God? Remember, not only was this a spiritual bond, but a physical one too - Abraham goes so far to mark this lasting relationship on his body, circumcising himself and his household, a tradition that continues to today.

The sages of the midrash imagine what it might have been like:

“When Abraham was born, the ruler of the world was Nimrod, mentioned earlier in Genesis as a mighty hunter. Nimrod’s astrologers tell him of a baby born who will overthrow his kingdom, and so Nimrod orders all the babies killed. To protect his son, Abraham’s father, Terach, hides him in a desert cave. In the shelter of the cave, Abraham was shielded not only from harm, but from the natural ways of the world as well.

At the age of three, Abraham wandered out of the cave and, being a most precocious child, asked what could hardly be considered a typical question for a three-year-old: “Who created the heavens and the earth – and me?”  He looked up at the sun and, imagining that it was the creative force, he worshiped it all day. That night when the moon came out, he thought it must be stronger than the sun, having supplanted it in the sky. So he worshiped the moon all night. When in the morning the sun came out again, 3 year old Abraham reasoned that there was some sort of natural cycle afoot and that there must be a God more powerful than both the sun and the moon who is responsible for all of creation. So, according to this story, Abraham – at a very young age – chose God, which helps explain why God chose him.”

This week’s Torah portion, Vayera, is an even deeper dive into Abraham’s character. We see how he forges alliances, manages family conflict and advocates on behalf of his fellow humans. And yet if we keep the camera focused on Abraham alone, we’ll miss other important characters in these chapters. I’m not talking about his nephew Lot or Sarah or Hagar even, but the sun and the desert themselves.

As the midrash alluded, Abraham’s environment is very much a part of his story. Plus, the hot desert setting is not just where the idea of Judaism is born, but it will be where the Jewish people come into their own while wandering for 40 years. The desert, by Torah’s standards, is not a barren wasteland, but a fertile womb where great danger mixes with great possibility.

At the beginning of our Torah portion, Abraham is sitting at the entrance of his tent near the “elonei Mamre.” This is often translated as the oaks of Mamre (Mamre being a place name), but scholars go with “terebinths of Mamre.”  A terebinth tree is related to the cashew and pistachio trees. It’s short and shrubby but provides good enough shade in the desert heat. He’s recovering from the circumcision he just performed on himself. Who can blame him for needing a day or two out of the sun?

And yet Torah reports that Abraham sat there k’chom hayom, in the heat of the day. We know the desert is hot, but highlighting the heat of the day is oddly specific and therefore an important detail. Even with the shade of the trees, this particular day was hotter than most. We ask: why was it so hot and why was Abraham, in his weakened state, sitting out in this heat?

Before we answer, we need to understand how the rabbis viewed the sun. According to the rabbis, the sun is considered in the 2nd firmament - one level removed from our world. Today, we know this buffer zone as the sun being behind Earth’s atmosphere and the light years of distance through space. Even without the scientific language though, it is clear that the rabbis understood there is some sort of spiritual and physical distance from the sun. This distance, this pocket of protection, exists, they say, so that we are not burned up by the sun’s heat. In the future, they say, God will draw forth the sun from its sheath and the wicked will be consumed by its intense heat.

On Abraham’s recovery day, God allowed the sun to come closer and blaze hotter so that Abraham might not be troubled by travelers. But God should have known Abraham better. Even in his weakened state, Abraham, ever the hospitable host, was stationed anyway at the opening to his tent and was sad that no travelers were coming by. Sensing Abraham’s adorable disappointment, God decided to send some visitors.

3 figures come along in the desert heat. Abraham runs to greet them and provide food and drink. This is no ordinary visit though. They tell Abraham that by this time next year, Sarah will have a son, heir to Abraham’s faith. Abraham’s circumcision and the enunciation of Isaac’s birth are evidence of the covenant forged between the Jewish people and God. It is God making good on the promise that if Abraham shows loyalty to God, God will make of him a great people. 

The desert setting and its intense heat are an important backdrop, though. To me, they symbolize how we do not easily obtain the future’s potential promises. Prosperity and well-being only come to us through the effort of hard work, or even in the crucible of adversity. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” seems applicable here.

Abraham demonstrates strong convictions and God respects those convictions. Abraham, no matter how precociously righteous, has to show effort, even some struggle, to live by those convictions. Even when the sun was blazing his hottest, Abraham showed generosity and compassion. Weakened, he still rose to the challenge of living his deepest values.

One last teaching on the sun that feels relevant to our Torah portion: 

The rabbis engage in a Talmudic debate (in Bava Batra 84a): what is the natural color of the sun? One holds that the sun is red, appearing in its most natural state at sunrise and sunset. It is white during the day, they say, because its powerful rays affect human sight and we can’t view it fully. If you’ve ever looked directly at the sun, you know what they mean.

Yet another side argues that the sun is actually white. It appears red in the morning because it passes through and reflects the red roses of the Garden of Eden. It appears red in the evening, they say, when it passes through and reflects the fires of Gehinnom - the valley where children are sacrificed to false gods…hell on earth, if you will.

What a trajectory - the rabbis imagine the sun travels in a day from Eden - heaven - to Gehinnom - hell. When is it most hot? When it is directly between the two.

As our Torah portion opens, Abraham is sitting in the heat of the day, somewhere between heaven and hell. That is when the 3 angels approach. Will they be harbingers of destruction or will they herald a prosperous future? Abraham has no way of knowing. But why God sent them doesn’t matter as much as how Abraham receives them. The choice is his. As it turns out, he meets them with generosity and optimism, and his future grows bright. After their visit with him, though, the 3 angels turn to go to Sodom and Gemorrah, where the citizens meet them with violence and mistrust. Accordingly, the cities are destroyed.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t connect this lesson to our nation’s southern border. Having just returned from the Arizona/Mexico border with our teens, I’m wrestling with what it means to receive visitors in the desert - the ways we welcome them with opportunity and the ways we receive them with violence. We saw first hand how beautiful the desert is and how terrifying the sun’s rays are on the migrant’s desert passage - the only way to freedom available to some of them. But you’ll hear much more about that next week during services when our teens tell you firsthand of their experiences.

No matter our story, though, each of us here has a time in our lives where we feel like we are sitting in the desert heat of the day, somewhere between Eden and Gehinnom. Like the cycles of nature, there is much we cannot control. And yet, like Abraham, we have a choice of how we will meet those moments. In the midst of struggle may we respond like Abraham: with generosity, with faith, and with trust that even in the hardest of days, we can bring light into the world.

Praying for the Welfare of Our Country - Yom Kippur Morning 5785

Imagine a crown beset with 12,000 diamonds and a banquet for 2,000 people. You could have both on July 19, 1821 when George IV was crowned king of England. His coronation was considered one of the most expensive in British history, as George reportedly wanted his service to rival that of Napoleon. It was hot out, though. Westminster Abbey reports that the “king sweltered in his suit [and] thick velvet coronation robes, a long curled wig and plumed hat, and he used no fewer than nineteen handkerchiefs to mop his heavily perspiring brow! Meanwhile, outside the Abbey, his estranged wife, Caroline of Brunswick, was desperately trying to get into the church to be crowned [queen] consort. George IV, adamant she would not be crowned, ordered those guarding the entrances to the Abbey to refuse her entry. Despite trying every door into the church, Caroline finally accepted defeat and left.”

One can hardly read this historical account without chuckling. For an event that was supposed to be so heavenly, it was, in fact, very human.

Judaism has always been wary of human kings. Somewhere around the 11th century BCE, the prophet Samuel anointed Israel’s first king, Saul, at the request of the people. According to I Samuel, the people expressed displeasure with the judges Samuel had previously anointed and demanded: “appoint a king for us, to govern us like all other nations!” (8:5). Samuel had misgivings, but took the request to God anyway. God responded, “Heed the demand of the people in everything they say to you. For it is not you that they have rejected; it is Me they have rejected as their king, doing as they usually do, forsaking me and choosing idols,” (I Samuel 8:7), “Heed their demand,” God reiterated, “but warn them solemnly of the dangers of the kingship, and be sure to report on the practices of any king who will rule over them.” (I Samuel 8:8).

Over time, as kings rose and fell, we learned our lesson. We would realize that the only true authority in this world is God. One human cannot possess power even close to the Divine. To assert that, our liturgy is full of references to God as king. Every time we say “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu MELECH ha-olam,” blessed are you God, KING of the universe, we assert God’s supremacy. As antiquated and gendered as the word “king” reads, it serves to remind us, in nearly every prayer, of our human limitations. The headline is clear: there is no Divine authority but God. Our human governments are just that…human.

Ironically, the story of Israel’s first king also highlights the democratic spirit of the Jewish people. Afterall, Samuel appointed that first king at the request of the people. Even God concedes to their desire. Rabbi Yitzchak of the 3rd century reiterated, “One may only appoint a leader over a community if they consult with the community.” (Berakhot 55a)

The Jewish support for democracy and respect for the power of the people hardly comes as a surprise to us. We are not a particularly hierarchical religion. We believe in literacy and accessibility when it comes to Jewish life and learning, and yes, the government.

It is not just the democratic spirit that drives us, though, but the understanding of government’s importance as well. Talmud explains, “just as in the case of the fish of the sea, any fish that is bigger than another will swallow the smaller. So too in the case of people, were it not for the fear of the ruling government, anyone who is bigger than another would swallow the smaller” (Avodah Zarah 4a). For our own protection and that of others, we must establish and recognize the authority of a local government

The early sage Rabbi Ḥanina even takes it one step further. Not only should a government be established by the will of the people but he urges: “One should pray for the continued welfare of the government” (Avodah Zarah 4a).

What exactly is Rabbi Hanina suggesting when he tells us to “pray for the government”? Are we beseeching God to make our government the most powerful around? Or is it to steady our leaders’ decision making? Are we asking God to sway them in our favor?

Given our tradition, I’m skeptical, even fearful, of mixing “God’s blessing” with governmental affairs. To connect religion and state takes us back to when Pharaohs and Kings considered themselves divine or conduits of God’s will. It’s a slippery slope where you can begin to name a particular policy or a candidate the manifestation of God’s will and deify them as something more than mortal.

So I imagine Rabbi Hanina is talking about something similar to the “Prayer for our Country,” which we read earlier in our service. In that prayer, we articulated the values we would like to see our government govern by and we pray for our leaders to promote those values: a love of democracy, a desire to have our actions reflect our compassionate spirits, and steady, thoughtful leadership of our officials that benefits as many people as possible. We should “pray for the welfare of the government” so the big fish can’t swallow the little ones.

Esau McCaulley, a Wheaton College professor, along with photojournalist Thalassa Raasch, ran a photo essay in the New York Times Magazine in July. They explored this question of how one “prays for the government.” Observing a great amount of prayer at a major US political party’s convention, McCaulley, who is also an Anglican minister, urged:

“…if we are speaking to God, we must be honest about the things we need from politicians to enable human flourishing. Prayers that evoke only blessings or protection are inadequate accounts of our faith. They run the danger of turning the church into a chaplain of the empires on the left or the right. The church functions best as the conscience of a nation, reminding parties of higher goods. In the Christian tradition, prayers are also supposed to remind politicians of their limits. There is someone above and beyond them who will render judgment upon their actions. Prayers ought to highlight the tremendous responsibility that comes with governing. Politicians should at times be unnerved and humbled, not simply congratulated….The most important prayers for politicians might just be the ones that nobody hears but God.”

While McCaulley speaks from a Christian perspective, I can confirm that his sentiments hold true for Judaism. Both traditions draw from the ancient prophets. Prophets like Elijah and Huldah not only advised the kings of yesterday, but rebuked them as well. When David desires Batsheva and covertly sends her husband Uriah to the frontline of battle to be killed (so David can then marry her), the prophet Nathan humbles him in a scathing rebuke: “you have flouted the command of the Eternal and displeased God! You acted in secret, [but God will punish you in the] sight of all Israel and in broad daylight!” (II Samuel 12:9-12).

King David hangs his head in shame, “I stand guilty before the Eternal!” God spares his life but David is held accountable and suffers on account of his mortal and moral sins.

To pray for our country, to pray for its leaders, means holding them to the ethical standards of our tradition. In the words of the prophet Micah: “You have been told, O Mortals, what God seeks of you: to judge justly, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (6:8).

I have always been fascinated with that last phrase: “walk humbly with your God.” It’s an intimate picture. Rashi explains that when one person embarrasses their friend and comes to apologize, the friend will typically demand that the apology be offered in front of the people who heard the original embarrassment. But the Holy One, blessed be God, desires only that the person’s apology to God be between the two of them.” 

Walking side by side, talking with compassion and humility, God trusts the true intentions of our hearts, and we trust God to know and respect our apology. That is how God had the courage to order King David’s punishment and David was able to accept it. Even in a difficult moment, there was trust between them. As flawed as David was, our tradition reveres him as a man who walked humbly with God.

We are having a harder time finding government officials, or political candidates, walking humbly with God today. By and large, “trust” is not a word one would apply to the political state of affairs in the US today.

This is hardly a surprise though. Think about the ways our government has broken trust! When Roe was repealed, women could no longer trust that their country would put their health above politics. When voting rights protections were repealed, people of color could not trust they would have a voice in their government. As more children die in elementary school classrooms and no new gun sense laws are passed, parents can not trust that their babies will return home at the end of the day.

And then there are the conspiracy theories. Doubting election results is common practice. Media reports are biased and social media is rife with lies. Candidates pander and debates are just spectacles. Voters are not empowered, they are manipulated.

This lack of trust can have a very real impact in this year’s election. There is tremendous concern that voter disillusionment will lead to low turnout. Most disturbingly, we worry about what the results of November 5 will bring in terms of our very own physical safety. Once upon a time it would have been extreme to think that here in the US there could be civil unrest or violence in response to democratic elections, but this year the idea is not so far-fetched, as we saw it happen once already on January 6, 2021.

Writer Yuval Noah Harari explains: “People feel bound by democratic elections only when they share a basic bond with most other voters. If the experience of other voters is alien to me, and if I believe they don't understand my feelings and don't care about my vital interests, then even if I am outvoted by a hundred to one I have absolutely no reason to accept the verdict. Democratic elections usually work only within populations that have some prior common bond…They are a method to settle disagreements among people who already agree on the basics" (Harari, Yuval Noah. Homo Deus).

We are a long way from agreeing on the basics. We all know how fractured our country is. Embedded in our trenches, no-man’s land lies between us and the other side. At best, our democracy is at a standstill. More accurately, it feels more like we are one step away from setting off a bomb.

As Jews, this election is particularly consequential. Yes, the democratic spirit of our tradition runs deep and that would be enough to drive us to the polls, but this year especially, our lives are on the line. With Israel dominating the news cycle, Jews are a wedge issue. Yet again the anti-semitic trope of “dirty Jewish money” swaying the election has entered the scene. This is exacerbated by dangerous accusations from various candidates in all political parties about the nefarious influence of the Jewish people.

Amy Spitalnick, CEO of the Jewish Council for Public Affairs said it succinctly: “Treating Jews and Israel as political footballs makes Jews, Israel, and all of us less safe. Dividing Jews into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ camps, engaging in dual loyalty tropes, and scapegoating Jews for…a potential loss only further normalizes antisemitism. It needs to stop, and anyone who cares about Jewish safety should call it out. This is not partisan politics — it’s about the fundamental safety of the Jewish community.”

I will reiterate, it is not just about one candidate, but many - both Democrat and Republican - who are exploiting the Jewish community for their gain. We have watched as nearly every politician and media outlet has used a very real and dire situation in the Middle East to create chaos, gain clout and further their political or economic ambitions.

Spitalnick urges: “instead of leaning into [the] increasingly siloed ways we are treating hate, we need to break out of it. We need to understand that the only way we are going to effectively fight anti-semitism is to take on the broader anti-democratic extremism and the other hate it is deeply interconnected with…”

When we go to the polls this November, we must have “upholding our democracy” at the forefront of our minds. Jews have long understood that as a minority community, we are safer and freer when all people are safer and freer. Even in the 6th century BCE, the prophet Jeremiah preached: “seek the peace of the city where you have been carried away captive, and pray to the Eternal for it; for in the peace thereof shall you have peace” (29:7).

Jeremiah knew: only in a peaceful society, can Jews live peacefully. In every age and country in crisis, anti-semitism rises with the political heat. We therefore must insist on the path of peace; pursuing justice and demanding safety for ourselves and our fellow citizens! Our fates are intertwined. Our allies are those who open doors and conversations, not those who slam them shut.

Yom Kippur is the day that asserts the power of covenant and conversation. The Talmud states: “for transgressions against God, the Yom Kippur atones. But for the sins of one human being to another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another” (Yoma 85b).

Now, I’m not so pollyannaish to say, “Let’s all get along! Have an open mind when you see your neighbor’s lawn sign for the candidate you detest. Engage them in a conversation!” This is a nearly impossible request, especially considering the amount of hurt all partisans have caused one another. And yet the health of our democracy demands that we find paths to partnership.

Jedediah Britton-Purdy, a Duke law professor, says that leaning into mistrust is like “quiet quitting for civic life.” He continues: “We need to shake off the idea that democracy should come naturally. This is a superstition of the enlightened, and it serves us very badly in a time of democratic crisis. As perceptive observers have always understood, democracy is extremely demanding. It requires the qualities of mind and character that sustain a healthy and balanced political trust, such as the willingness to listen to others and to doubt one’s own side. It also requires the commitment to build a world of citizens, not just consumers or spectators or even protesters, but people who expect to exercise power and responsibility together.”

Just like there is no Divine sovereignty but God’s, we cannot believe the place where we stand is Divinely right.

So does that mean we aren’t supposed to advocate for our candidate or policy of choice? No. It means we should choose and advocate for our side in ways that safeguards our rights and the rights of others. It means serving as poll workers and writing postcards to get out the vote. It means working at the grassroots to bring communities together across lines of difference when it is NOT a major election year. And yes, it means exerting effort to listen to others with an open heart.

“Seek the peace of the city where you have been carried away captive, and pray to the Eternal for it; for in the peace thereof shall you have peace.” We Jews are not held captive here in the US, but we certainly find ourselves in a tenuous situation. Let us not give into the narrative that one candidate or another is the “true friend of Israel” or the “true friend of the Jews.” Rather, praying for the peace of our nation means accepting that all candidates are flawed. Knowing that, it is our God-given responsibility to promote a government that will establish trust locally and globally.

It means that when our government officials behave badly, we will hold them accountable. It means having a healthy skepticism and a free press so that we can live by God’s words: “warn them solemnly of the dangers of kingship, and be sure to report on the practices of any king who will rule over them.”

I know it feels hard this year. Trust feels all but gone. But I believe each of us can find the strength within to protect our democracy before, during, and after this election; to judge justly, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God…and each other.

Ken y’hi ratzon…may it be God’s will.

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CLOSING THOUGHT:

There are two things you can do today to strengthen our democracy:

1) At the door to the tent, on your way out, Roberta et al will be handing out postcarding kits. The postcards urge support of NYS Equal Rights Amendment which would establish a NYS constitutional protection of reproductive rights as well as constitutional protections against discrimination based on gender, age, disability, nationality and ethnicity. Folks have until Oct 20 to write cards and mail to friends, family and other NY voters. Don't forget to flip the ballot and vote YES to solidifying personal rights when you go to vote.

2) There are bags, shopping lists, and QR codes to the shopping list to fill our food van. Promoting democracy does not only mean polls and votes, but simply opening your heart to the needs of others. Let’s fill our van to the brim.