From Bitterness and Darkness to Thanks, Dreams, and Light

Recently, I facilitated a group conversation at the senior center at the 92nd Street Y.

The focus was Thanksgiving, our approaches to life, and how we find gratitude among the difficulties—especially the challenges of aging.

One woman, in her bouncy way, said she was in perfect health at 87 years old (except she could lose ten pounds, she laughed), and had nothing but gratitude.

She told of how her family had lost everything in the Holocaust when she was a small girl. Their big beautiful home was bombed a week after they were displaced by the nazis. She grew up with nuns, a happy child, and eventually made it to the U.S.

What a life, she said, to be saved like that!

A miracle to celebrate! Indeed!

Then the discussion turned to death, and I witnessed a sort-of argument.

“I never think about death!” said one woman. “I’m just grateful to be alive!

A man who had been slumped in his chair the whole time suddenly perked up. “I think about death every day! I’m 92! How can I not? And it makes me grateful to be alive!”

They went back and forth for a minute until I stopped them; two very different approaches to life, tragedy, and loss. Both valid. Both work.

But the wider American culture likes to make more space for one approach than the other—the positive attitude, the positive vibes.

As Jews, we’re made fun of—we make fun of ourselves, too—for being kvetchers, for focusing on the negative.

But both approaches to life are all over our Torah as well—and most dramatically in Breishit, Genesis, with its very fraught characters and family relationships.

We have the Hollywood version (or the Netflix version, for an update). We love our stories of love at first sight (Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob and Rachel); the recognition of the person of your dreams from afar; alighting, or falling off a camel; a strong, handsome man rolling a stone off a well; a kiss at first meeting (was it consensual?); bursting into tears…

The feeling that everything is going to be alright now that true love has been found.

But then it’s not. 

Real life hits, and we’re reminded that we can’t escape our past or make our future perfect: betrayal, manipulation, domination, competition, revenge, resentment, loss of hope, bitterness, deep disappointment and hurt; narrowmindedness, lack of imagination–in blessing mind you! (Doesn’t Isaac have another blessing left in him even though he’s “given away” the first one?? Or what else is going on here beneath the surface?)

Doesn’t all this reflect where we are now with the world situation? (Our fraught elections, global wars, global warming, lack of hope, lack of imagination…)

We wish, and somehow think we should be able to, control the outcome. And we put all our hopes and dreams into one leader who we think will save us—from ourselves, from each other…

In Chayei Sarah, Eliezer, Abraham’s servant who’s sent to find a wife for Isaac, challenges God by making all kinds of conditions about the woman who will become Isaac’s wife–if she offers water immediately to the servant, then to his camels, etc. 

Moses Maimonides, the medieval Torah scholar, calls this a sin–to tell God, “This is how it has to be, God, according to my imagination.”

The same goes for Jacob, I would argue, in the dream scene at the beginning of Vayetze, this week’s Torah portion. In the dream, Jacob sees a stairway leading to heaven with angels going up and down, and God is standing next to him, making promises of protection, of staying with him, and of inheritance.  

Jacob wakes up, declares the surprise and awesomeness that God is there, and sets up a pillar to anoint this holy place—because “God is in this place, and I did not know it.”

But then Jacob does something curious, in my mind. 

He makes another declaration, but this time with a stipulation for God: “If God remains with me, if He protects me on this journey, if He gives me food and clothing, if I return home safely, then the Lord shall be my God.” 

I think that’s pretty gutsy (though it’s not the first or last time biblical characters are gutsy with God). 

We, also, might be tempted to challenge God in this way, by making stipulations for our faith.

Why the evil in the world? Why senseless killing and wars? Why a government where profit trumps taking care of the climate, healthcare, education…?

So, yes, there’s all the darkness in Torah as we see it reflected in our lives and times.

We are tempted to become complacent and give up. Because, where is God? Where is the light?

But then Torah tells us of leaving home, of taking chances, of adventure—despite the unknown, despite the fear.

And the angels appear.

And God appears.

There’s trust and faith.

There are dreams.

This past Sunday we came out of Cheshvan, the bitter month (and it was so bitter for so many), to a new month, Kislev, the darkest month, but also the month of light and miracles.

Jewish mysticism teaches that with the creation of the world, as described in Torah, which came out of chaos, the tohu vavohu, is like a garb that covers, or hides, the great light that is God.

That God’s glory fills the whole world, but that the light is trapped, and it is our job to release the Holiness, through our actions.

So, what light can we bring in a time of so much darkness, deception, and uncertainty?

Whether your way is to kvetch or focus more on the positive, may all of it lead to action that can makes miracles happen.

May we be grateful for all we have and all we’ve had in our lives, and see miracles in places where it may not seem logical to see them.

May we expand our imaginations to dreams of a future that's hard to imagine in this moment, and bring blessing into the world beyond where we thought our imaginations could go.

Finally, may we wake up from the dream we are in and realize that the Holy is in this place and we did not know it—and that the power lies within each and all of us, individually and collectively, to save ourselves and each other.

And say Amen.

Shabbat Shalom.

Flooded by Feelings and the Soft Light of the Moon

I woke up this morning, remembered what day it was, and immediately grabbed for my phone to check the results.

Shocked, is all I can say.

Not so much that Trump won, but that the results were so strong, the win so wide across the country, that there was no question.

I’d been prepared for a week of fighting—at least! Maybe a week of violence. I’d prepared to see the electoral college in his favor. But to see the map of the popular vote!

My immediate response was to jump out of bed and into the shower faster than I have allowed myself in the past couple of weeks. “Gotta keep moving,” I said inside my head.

I was flooded by feelings I wouldn’t let myself feel.

Maybe you’ve been wondering why you haven’t heard from me in a couple of weeks. (Or maybe you haven’t even noticed.)

I’m starting a new part-time gig, as I’d alluded to a while back (teaching and pastoral care…very exciting!), so it was a perfect time to take a break—at the beginning of a new Torah-reading cycle (and not knowing what my time will allow for…).

Less than two weeks ago on Sunday, just as we had gone back to the beginning, with the book of Genesis, and we were entering the second parsha of the year, Noah, I officiated a funeral for a gay guy. That day, as I made my way to meet a bus in front of Madison Square Garden, I found myself wading through a flood of MAGA hats and "Make America Great Again” paraphernalia.

My breath quickened and my heart started to flutter uncomfortably as I realized what was happening—and what would be happening later that day in that very place (Trump rally at Madison Square Garden!). Of course, the expected location of the bus was changed, and I had to find a new route, completely out of the way.

Looking back, it seems fitting. First, the Creation of the World (Genesis). Then, its destruction with the Great Flood (Noah). And God’s witnessing the destruction that he himself (Patriarchal God of the Bible) had wrought (plus God’s promise never to do such a thing again).

And now we find ourselves in the third parsha of the year, Lekh Lekha, when Abram is told to go forth from his father’s house, and is subsequently renamed Abraham. With this, we are to imagine Abraham as a new man, fundamentally changed, leaving behind the old.

So here I was, feeling myself swept up in a flood of hatred, having to find a new path forward, trying to get to the family, close friends, and supporters of this gay man who had been the partner of the deceased—in a sea of people that believe that rights for the LGBT community are dangerous. And me, a Jew, walking through a sea of people that probably also believe that Jews are a danger to the “American Way of Life.”

All at once, Daylight Savings Time has plunged us into the deep dark of winter, just as it feels like we’re plunging deeper and deeper into darkness in our country. I imagine this is how it felt in Germany over years, as hard-won rights are being chipped away at little by little. Increasing police presence, incarcerating the “dangers to society…”

When Noah built the ark as God had instructed him, he made a window at the top—a window much too small to let any real light into the ark.

Imagine the darkness during all those months!

But the Hebrew word used for “window” here is not the usual word. It carries another meaning that the ancient rabbis commented on: a jewel, one that carries light that has been passed down through the generations—through generations of struggle and darkness.

So now what?

My father always said that things would have to get worse—way worse—before they would get better.

And we continue to be surprised that it gets worser and darker than we could have imagined.

Maybe, just maybe, we are in the throws of the end of the Patriarchy—throwing that male god out the window, and bringing in a softer light of shared energy.

One thing is for sure; there is clarity in Trump’s policies where there was little in Harris’—one that most likely would have led to a complacency. A complacency that would have been a sigh of relief that “At least we didn’t get Trump.”

No, this is not what I wished for our country at all. But it is what we have.

So, my blessing?

May the window that lets light in, and the jewel carrying strength passed from generation to generation, shed light on our path forward. Just as Abraham was commanded, “Go forth from your father’s house,” so, too, must we go forth from the house we presently preside in, and build a new one. Even if it seems that we’re going completely out of the way.

Let us be strengthened by the little bit of light that is left in the midst of the present darkness.

Or as some neighbors said to me, “Fuck ‘em.”

Wherein Lies the Blessing? (V’zot Hab’racha)

I went into Yom Kippur the other day with some trepidation.

They were reasons very complex—and some too personal to explain here.

Still, I decided I would be open, to see wherein might lie the blessing of the day.

I thought I had had my heart cracked open already on Rosh Hashanah—so what more was there? But that moment I described last week turned out to be just a preview.

During Kol Nidre, the eve of Yom Kippur, the theme of the rabbi’s sermon was Jewish shame: centuries of oppression that resulted in the need to hide: for fight or flight, and fawning.

Yes, fawning—like a dog wagging its tail and rolling over on its back, exposing its belly to show that it is not a threat.

He talked about Jews being ashamed of simply being—but also appearing to be too “tribal.” And of Jews historically giving up their Jewish roots in favor of universalism.

All true.

But it felt problematic to me. Because the reasons Jews have rejected their Judaism over the centuries are so incredibly complex and multilayered, going much deeper than oppression.

The same can be said for Jews rejecting Zionism, or Israel as a Jewish State: also very multilayered. It’s a politic that Jews brought up in a Zionist world, where their identity is so closely tied to Israel as a State that they don’t know how to be Jewish without it, find hard to understand. It is this attitude that has spawned and grown the idea that Jews who oppose Zionism or the Israeli State are full of shame and self-loathing.

But I know from personal experience that Jews who chose—and continue to choose—universalism over tribalism do so because they know deep in their heart that it is “only together that we can get it together” (quoted from Reb Zalman, the founder of the Jewish Renewal movement)--and they know this because of Jewish values!

That’s universalism.

The message of the sermon also felt problematic to me because it seemed to stress victimization vs. triumphalism as a central theme. We should be proud of being Jewish, proud of supporting Israel (at all cost?), which will make us triumphant in the face of increasing antisemitism. 

Reb Zalman also saw Jewish triumphalism as very harmful and dangerous, because it carries within it a sense of victimhood.

At the same time, he advocated strongly for Jews to hold on to our customs and rituals; we, like all peoples, he said, have a special role to play on Earth.

These were the many and complex thoughts rolling around in my head as I entered Yom Kippur day.

When it came time for Yizkor, when we remember our dead, the rabbi led us in a communal mourning for those who had died on October 7th last year.

Since I’d been knocking gently on my chest to crack open my heart, I was ready. I cried for them and their loved ones who suffered—and continue to suffer within Israel.

And the tears kept coming. Much more than they had on Rosh Hashanah.

Silently, I opened the space big enough to include everyone else who has lost sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers—both children and adults, innocent and maybe even not so innocent—who have died because of this war--because they are human, too, caught up in a system of hatred and revenge.

My tears were tears full of pain, but also of anger, fear, and helplessness—frustration at a political situation made worse, manipulated by powerful figures for personal gain, both in the U.S. and abroad.

Yes, I hope and wish that Palestinians who join Jewish spaces that support their plight can also cry for the Jewish dead. But I can only do my own work, as a special friend said to me recently.

When we transitioned to personal losses, I wondered what my parents would say if they were alive. I heard, or imagined, “We wanted to leave you a better world.”

The floodgates were open, and they wouldn’t stop. The tears kept coming. 

And therein lay the blessing of the day. 

I went home and slept for hours that afternoon.

And I felt cleansed and ready to get up the next morning and travel for a wedding I was officiating—yes, the day after Yom Kippur!!

Ironically, sandwiched between warm, sunny days, was a very rainy cold day in Upstate New York—and the wedding was taking place outdoors, at the edge of the woods, with only a tent covering overhead. (We were freezing!)

This was an interfaith couple. It had been very important to them to find an officiant who was aligned with their political views—and bilingual in Spanish and English.

This couple shares a deep respect for all peoples, and the Earth. They understand that we are all interdependent, and that joining together is crucial for our communal survival.

Thus, they embrace the universal.

But they also share a deep respect for their own—and each other’s—-roots. They strive to preserve their traditions.

Thus, they embrace the tribal—the particular—as well. So much so that they wanted a rabbi as their sole officiant.

So they found me!

When it was time for the processional from the farmhouse to the tent by the barn (did I tell you there was a barn?), they did their best to time it during a lull in the rain.

But as they were processing, the skies opened up.

And as they stood under the chuppah, the wedding canopy draped with the bride's Salvadorean grandmother’s lace and embroidered table cloths (see photos here!), I started by talking about the rain.

“There are two explanations for the rain,” I said.

"One is that God is crying with us for the state of the world." (They nodded solemnly.)

"The other is that God is sending down so much blessing for you on you wedding day." (They smiled broadly.)

The bride, in her beautiful, creamy, satin gown and her Jewish great-grandmother-in-law’s crocheted hundred-year-old veil trailing behind, shivered as big teardrops fell from the sky—and blessing poured down.

I talked about coming out of the holiest day of the Jewish year, Yom Kippur, a day when we vow to be better—to do better—so the world can be a little better place to live.

And I talked about the next big holiday coming this week, Sukkos, when we commemorate the temporary structures the Israelites sheltered in during their forty years in the desert—much like the temporary structure of the canopy above our heads in that moment. 

I talked about how it feels like we’re in the desert now, wandering, unsure of our destination as a country and as a world.

But that the home we build is not a material structure, but rather a feeling we create—something they will create together.

I talked about Jewish marriage in general, and theirs in particular, and its potential to both be and offer a kind of Tikkun, a repair, through the binding of their souls in this moment—and the social justice work that is so central to their lives.

That, juxtaposed with the shattered world we live in—held in the iconic broken glass that typically ends a Jewish marriage ceremony.

I could feel their deep love for each other, and their hope and wish to leave something better for future generations.

And therein—within the love and the tears and the hope—lay the blessing for the day. 

This coming Shabbat, we read the last weekly Torah portion of the year. Moses finally dies, but before he dies, God allows him to view the Promised Land from afar. And he gives blessings to all the tribes individually in the form of a poem: V’Zot Ha’bracha, “And This is the Blessing.”

This is how the story ends. But it ends only to begin again next week.

So here is my blessing as we enter into the holiday of temporary structures in an insecure world:

As we begin again, and as our work continues, may we be deliberate about preserving the particulars of our tribes while also embracing universalism.

Because we can only get it together, together, to build a home that includes life and prosperity for all, in our country and in our world. 


We can only work on ourselves, and the work starts with each of us.

And please say Amen.

A Little Torah, a Lot of Tears, & Yom Kippur

Last Thursday, the first day of Rosh Hashanah, along with a heavy heart, I had some beautiful experiences.

The most beautiful of them was during the “Great Aleynu.”

One of the final prayers of all Jewish services, recited just before the mourners kaddish, the “Aleynu” on the High Holy Days is recited and carried out in a grandiose way (thus, “great.”) It is a prayer I normally don’t recite in its entirety because I don’t like the triumphalist tone of it and our “chosenness.”

But there’s one part I love, and that’s the bowing.

On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, rather than just bowing at the knee, we prostrate completely on the floor. And rather than submission, for me, this is a moment of complete and utter surrender.

It’s surrender to what is, as opposed to what could be, or what I think should be.

This year, as I got down on the floor covered with my large tallis, my prayer shawl, ready to go deep inside, I felt a hand inside my arm. I didn’t know who it was, nor did I get up to look, but I tried to imagine, and I imagined it to be someone I barely knew who I’d seen standing across the aisle from me.

Suddenly, there were sobs coming from her. And all at once, it didn’t matter who it was. I started sobbing as well, and we cried together. In that moment, we were so deeply connected, and it wouldn’t have mattered if it was a complete and utter stranger.

The details of our tears were most likely different, but we were speaking the same language: the language of brokenheartedness.

Yom Kippur is a time when we reckon with what is.

We face the reality of death, our own death, in our prayers and in the simplicity of the day (not a drop of water or food), and of the way we dress (all in white, as if in a shroud, no leather shoes, no make-up, unshaven, no jewelry).

It’s a reckoning with how we’ve behaved, how we have hurt others, with the intention of doing better next year—if only—if only, we can be “written in the book of life.”

It’s a time of personal reckoning, but also collective reckoning.

Assuming it is decreed already for the coming year, we recite in the prayers all the ways we might die: by fire, by water, by war, by famine…

As I heard another rabbi say in a beautiful Yom Kippur sermon this year on Chutzpod (pronounced liked your clearing your throat, as in “chutzpah”), it’s a time when we face all the “no’s,”

And the answer has been a resounding “no!” to all our wishes: “Can our governments please take full responsibility for Climate Disaster and prevent it from getting worse? Can all the hatred and hostility stop? Can these wars end? Can the corruption please stop? Can the hostages come home safely? Can all the killing and starvation in Gaza, and now Lebanon, stop? Can justice please win out? Can we at least stop killing innocent children?”

And, as Rabbi Shira said on Chutzpod, our American culture would have us bury our pain, and go out and buy a new car.

But as the Chassidic rabbis taught, the pounding on our chests that we do on Yom Kippur, admitting our faults, taking responsibility for our missteps, vowing to do better, is maybe more of a knocking on our chests to break open our hearts.

This Yom Kippur, my wish is for all of us to break open our hearts—to all the pain that exists in the world, no matter who we are, no matter what our beliefs, whether we intend to vote for Trump or Harris.

It is brokenheartedness that can make us angry and vengeful, but that can also break down the walls that separate us if we let it.

Because it is broken hearts that connects us all as humans.

And it is with a heart cracked open that we can begin to see clearly the next step forward as opposed to the “I don’t know’s” and all the “there’s no other way’s.”

When we allow ourselves to feel the pain of loss rather than girding ourselves with strength with a stiff upper lip to get through it, that is the beginning of healing.

On the anniversary of the deaths of over 1,000 Israelis on October 7th, I honored the dead and the hostages by listening to This American Life. I had been realizing that the news I listen to sensitizes me more to the death and starvation of Palestinians than those who continue to suffer inside Israel. I realized I needed to feel the same for all those suffering.

Because suffering should not be a competition.

And so, I heard stories of the experiences of hostages that were freed early on last year, and also the extreme hostility these families receive from right wing religious Jews in Israel, accusing them of “bringing it upon themselves.”

I heard stories of their captors seeing them as human—and also not.

All of it broke my heart.

This Yom Kippur, and in the year ahead, may you, too, have your heart broken open to the point where you feel connected with the pain of others, especially if it’s not the same pain as your own.

Trust the Love & Nitzavim-Vayelekh

I have a problem.

I tend to talk to a lot of different people in my life, probably too many people, when I have a problem I’m working out, but also when new and exciting prospects are coming my way (and, no, I won’t tell you until I’m on payroll…).

The problem is, then I get lots of opinions.

And I take them all to heart.

What happens is, I stop trusting my own heart, and begin doubting myself.

Then I go and share the various opinions with my husband, who then tries to weed through all of them and help me figure out who to trust and what to think and what to do.

And if he takes someone else’s opinion more seriously (especially those that are more cynical and wary, because he tends to be that way, too), I get really confused. And I lose sleep over it.

That’s what happened this week.


I finally got angry, because I realized what I needed was for him to take my side—-to trust me and my instincts, my intuition.

So I went back to him and yelled at him, and said those things to him.

And he stopped suddenly, and thought for a second, and said, “You’re absolutely right. You do have good intuition! When you wanted to marry me, everybody was telling you not to, that it was a bad idea, but you fought to marry me. You followed your own intuition. And look! You didn’t do so bad! So I trust you! You need to trust your own intuition!”

This week’s parsha, as we come towards the end of the Torah and Moses is about to die, is about faith.

Faith in our God, but also faith in ourselves.

It questions whether (and when) we should follow our own hearts.

It’s a warning about becoming too sure of our own thoughts and beliefs, our own “willful hearts.”

It reminds us of the blessings we can have, and also the curses, if we turn our hearts towards or away from our One True God, to go and "worship the gods of other nations."

It goes on, “perchance there is among you a stock sprouting poison weed and wormwood…[one who] may fancy himself immune, thinking, “I shall be safe, though I follow my own willful heart.”

How do we know when “other gods” are leading us away from the “One True God”?

What are these “other gods” in this day and age?

What is the poison infecting our souls, our beings?

As more poison sprouts up and spreads, what is that?

There is a poison of hatred, of cynicism, of rejection of the Oneness of all living creatures, which leads us to the poison of violence and war, which in turn poisons our Earth.

It seems that we need to remove the layers of cynicism, of lack of trust in each other.

Then, perhaps, we can trust our own intuition better.

In this new year, may we take the time to really examine our hearts and see what’s there underneath the layers of hatred and cynicism.

Are the layers so thick that the love underneath is so far that it lies beyond the sea, or so high in the heavens that we cannot reach it, as it says in the Torah?

No, the Torah answers, it is right here, very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to hear it.

Hear the love.


What traumas and pain prevent us from trusting the love, so that we may end this insanity once and for all? 

That’s all I’ve got for this week as we head into the new year.

Shabbat Shalom, and dare I ask for a sweet year?

The Tension of Living & Ki Tavo

It’s funny how good things and terrible things can all be happening at the same time, and we can feel so far removed from one or the other. 

I guess it's the tension of living, and the paradox of being human. 

The question is, can we feel it all, the good and the terrible?

I was in a little world of a big wedding I did over the weekend. Last week I was in the comfort and meaning I brought to two mourning families with the funerals I did.

I found myself turning off my feelings about the world and just focusing on my immediate tasks. I barely listened to the news. I just couldn’t.

Meanwhile, the grief and my role in the funerals felt manageable.

With the wedding, I focused on enjoying a weekend in Upstate New York in between the work, which itself was joyful.

If you remember, the wedding was Hindu and Jewish. I was overtaken by the warmth, openness, and curiosity I received from the Indian family (not to mention intricacy and beauty of the Indian dress—and the bride!!! I’ve never seen anything—or any bride—more beautiful).

I loved learning about and witnessing the faith this Indian family and community carry with them, and the similarities across cultures, as they kept noticing and repeating to me. To experience the possibility of people from vastly different experiences, histories, and lived lives so easily coming together.

After leading the Jewish Friday night prayers, so many people came up to me, excited to see and learn more about Jewish rituals at the wedding ceremony the next day.

Person after person that approached me kept saying, “We’re all one. God is one.”

And the Jewish family was just as open and welcoming. Everyone was so happy that this couple had found each other. They knew they were meant to be together.

All it takes is the ability to be open.

A willingness to open one’s heart.

There was also the sad reminder of our climate emergency as we sweated profusely in the hot sun on a mountaintop in mid-September in the northeast (even there, I managed to find joy, laughing and joking with a few people—yes, about global warming).

And as I returned to everyday life, I heard news of cell phones and pagers blowing up in the midst of civilians in Lebanon. And saw continued images of starving children and families physically trapped in Gaza.

I got angry when I again heard the phrase, “the suffering of children”—as if the parents aren’t suffering, too, as they see their children whither away? In a situation that seems to have no end, and doesn’t have to be.

And I heard more of the horrors in other parts of the world, not to mention in my own country, perpetuated by my very own government and politicians.

I wonder how we can look away.

And I just want to cry.

And yet, I, too, look away, because there are times I can’t keep looking.

This week’s Torah reading is horrendous.

It portends so many of the horrors we are seeing now. It’s terrifying: scorching heat and drought, rain made of dust, skies of copper and earth of iron, starving people eating their children (no, we’re not there yet).

All this will come to be if we do not “walk in God’s ways.”

If we do not treat other humans as human, as it implies with its lessons of how to treat others.

I wonder how we can get to the point where we don’t feel like we have to choose sides: my people over your people, or your people over my people.

Why can’t we mourn the death of any people, yours and mine. Because each and every life is precious. No matter whose.

This week is our sixth prophetic reading in a row “of consolation.”

Sometimes that’s all we can do: offer consolation, as with a funeral.

And sometimes the feelings are too much.

In poet and writer Mark Nepo’s words:

“The tension of living often comes down to this paradox we all carry between our fear of feeling anything and our need to feel everything (The One Life We’re Given).”

Sometimes we need to challenge ourselves to feel all the feelings if we dare to allow ourselves.

Because healing starts with feeling.

And what I experienced with this particular Indian family and this particular Jewish family—I want to keep it front and center in my memory as a possibility for the whole world.

May we find peace.

May we open our hearts to all, and make peace.

Shabbat Shalom.

Ki Tetzei?

Here it is Thursday, and I’ve been so busy, I’ve barely given the week’s Torah reading a thought.

I officiated at two funerals this week, and tomorrow morning I go upstate for a big wedding. So I’m just going to share a poem that I tend to read at funerals.

Yes, We Can Talk, by Mark Nepo:

Having loved enough and lost enough,

I’m no longer searching

Just opening.

No longer trying to make sense of pain

But trying to be a soft and sturdy home

In which real things can land.

These are the irritations

That rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while

But then we must listen,

The way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong

But then we must lay all distractions

Down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight

I, too, feel alone. But seldom do I

Face it squarely enough

To see that it’s a door

Into the endless breath

that has no breather,

Into the surf that human

Shells call God.

Hidden in Plain Sight & Shoftim

In the midst of what can feel like relentless darkness and bad news, it’s important to lighten things up once in a while.

Here’s something that makes me smile—and even elicits a little chuckle—each time I think of it: A Discovery of Witches.

It kept coming up in my Netflix feed, and I finally gave in to it.

Now, it’s a little scary, so be careful. You know; witches, vampires, demons…

The vampires tend to be violent and bloody, as we know, and live hundreds of years (but can be killed!). They have a hard time controlling their sexual urges, which seem to play out as an attack at the neck. They come on quickly, so you have to be on your guard—both as a lover and a TV viewer.

The witches are mostly kind, but can be violent and fiery. They’re not only hunted by humans, but will also kill their own kind!

The demons, interestingly, are the least scary of all. In fact, I’m in season 2, and I haven’t yet seen one attack or do anything truly evil.

But the series (based on the books) is about the mystery of power.

It’s also about racism. The “creatures,” as they call themselves, made a covenant hundreds of years ago, not to “cross-mate.”

If they fall in love (did I say this was a love story, too?), a rare event due to prejudice, they must keep it hidden or face severe punishment.

But they are learning that it is possible to be born of demons, say, and give birth to a witch!

They also learn from each other, slowly, as they cross barriers, that they hold beliefs about each other that just aren’t true.

But most of all, they live hidden in plain sight among humans.

The humans don’t believe in their existence, so they…well, they literally get away with murder.

Just as importantly, they are losing their powers over the centuries.

One of our main characters believes she has no powers at all. She must learn how to use them and control them. This takes her a long time, but in the process, she learns that she actually has greater powers than anyone has seen in centuries.

Which everyone wants a part of, because they’re all just trying to survive as a species.

As you can tell, this series really has me thinking.

They’re not new thoughts, more like reminders.

Reminders from energy healers and Qi Gong instructors I’ve worked with.

Reminders that we each have power, and way more than we think.

In this week’s Torah portion, we receive the injunction not to “find among us” soothsayers, augurs, diviners, sorcerers, ones who cast spells or consult with ghosts or inquire of the dead.

Prophets, however, are allowed, as long as they were “true” prophets and not false ones. How will we know the difference? Because they will make an oracle in the name of God, and it will come true—or not. (The delayed awakening to reality is problematic, don’t you think?)

Clearly, people believed in these things during biblical times. Really only until recently, was it completely acceptable—at least to believe.

We have handed all our ancient beliefs over to history, and put all our trust in—oh, I don’t know, modern medicine and doctors?

But what about the mystery of our own hidden powers?

Like the fact that we only use a tiny portion of our brain’s capacity? Or like the influence of our thoughts on reality. Or the capacity of our hands in healing?

It’s like we’re just discovering that humans have magical powers that we’d had all along, only now it’s being proven scientifically.

Let’s not give up, or give away, our power.

Whether to a political cause we imagine is lost, to prevent climate disaster from taking over—or maybe even ourselves.

Let’s not give up our capacity to have a literal hand in healing.

Let’s recover, or re-discover, as our ancient rabbis believed was possible, our power to heal ourselves and others.

Let’s take our power and make peace in the world, heal our planet, and survive as a species.

Our power is only hidden in plain sight.

May it be so, and say Amen.

Swim Towards the Shark & R’eih

What is it that we are most afraid of looking at?

In what way do the things we are most afraid of looking at feel like curses?

And how can looking at them—straight on—transform what feels like a curse into a blessing?

I heard the most amazing story this week on This American Life. It was so good, and it impacted me so much, I made my husband listen to it.

The episode was about facing that which is the most scary, like swimming towards a shark that has just attacked someone to save the person.

Ira Glass asks, “Who does that?”

Truly, who does that? (And it’s a true story.)

But the story on the episode that impacted me most was of a woman who had suffered a concussion. She lost years of her children’s lives as she suffered through her recovery, unable to care for them in a normal way, allowing her husband to step in.

At every turn, doctors and friends advised her to avoid anything that might overwhelm her concussed brain and bring on a migraine: loud noises, loud conversation, loud lighting, supermarket shopping (with children, especially).

She couldn’t follow complex conversation, and retreated from normal life.

Until one day, she found a particular doctor. Despite the fact that he sounded like a witch doctor, and was American, and she was Canadian and thought it a crime to have to pay for health care (as it is), she came to the U.S. to see him. Out of pure desperation.

And he was SO American, talking loudly, yelling at her even (not his usual practice, it turns out).

But he was a big expert on concussions. For her type of concussion (and I stress that there are several types), he told her to do the exact opposite of everything she’d been told to do; any opportunity that presented itself to swim towards the shark, so to say, she was to do.

So, go to the supermarket, especially with your small child who will be screaming for something she sees, and all the choices before you, and the horrible, fluorescent lighting…

Say YES to everything. Say YES to life.

It was hard. And painful. And brought on all the worst migraines.

But, just like he said, a typical case like hers, within several weeks, her symptoms all disappeared.

She was cured. Completely healed. A miracle.

Now she is grateful for her concussion—yes, the same one that robbed her of three years in her children’s lives, of being a full parent to them.

She sees the concussion as a blessing.

Why? Because now she lives her life more fully than she ever had before.

Now, as terrified as she is of public speaking, she regularly speaks before crowds—always bringing in how terrified she is of speaking before crowds.

She says yes to life at every turn.

This week’s Torah portion begins, “See (r’eih), I set before you blessing and curse. Blessing, if you follow God’s commandments, and curse if you do not…”

But what if our very curses can become like blessings to us?

What if, from them, we learn to face our greatest fears, and look them straight in the eye?

What if we learned to “run towards the danger” (the title of the book she wrote about her experience—which she laughingly regrets, because people always throw it in her face when she is hesitant)?

What if we took more chances, and threw ourselves into situations that might seem like they will bring us curse, and then it turned into a blessing?

What if we could look at more of life that way?

May it be so.

And say Amen.

Whistling & Eikev

I have no personal stories this week, and no inspiration of my own, so I’m drawing from Mary Oliver, and from things other rabbis’ have said about this week’s Torah reading.

So what’s it about?

It’s about walking in God’s ways.

What does that mean?

Well, for one, it means opening our hearts—and our country—to “the stranger.”

It means that if we are prosperous, we should respond with humility.

Moses reminds the Israelites that their accomplishments are not solely because of their own efforts, but also Divinely given; God gave them manna, so we should always be grateful for the food we have.

It also means that our success comes on the heels (“Eikev” means “heel”) of others who have come before us.

Maybe it means being reminded that “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” is just not a thing. Because there was always something, someone, who influenced or helped in some way. So we need government policies…

Or it means Kamala Harris recognizing that Hillary Clinton paved the way for her—as did many other women—if she should be elected.

Or like me recognizing these ideas I’m sharing have been influenced by other rabbis and teachers in my life.

Or that our actions have consequences, and that we have to take care of our Earth, as the Torah specifically says again this week. (So we need government policies…)

And that maybe war and killing do not lead to peace.

I leave you with a poem by Mary Oliver called Whistling Swans:

Do you bow your head when you pray or do you look

up into that blue space?

Take your choice, prayers fly from all directions.

And don’t worry about what language you use,

God no doubt understands them all.

Even when the swans are flying north and making

such a ruckus of noice, God is surely listening

and understanding.

Rumi said, there is no proof of the soul.

But isn’t the return of spring and how it

springs up in our hearts a pretty good hint?

Yes, I know, God’s silence never breaks, but is

that really a problem?

There are thousands of voices, after all.

And furthermore, don’t you imagine (I just suggest it)

that the swans know about as much as we do about

the whole business?

So listen to them and watch them, singing as they fly,

Take from it what you can.

Shabbat Shalom.

Two Weeks in a Row & Va’etkhanan

My mind is all over the place this week.

First, it was Tisha B’Av starting Monday night into Tuesday. “The saddest day in the Jewish calendar” as it commemorates the destructions (twice) of the Temple in Jerusalem.

More of a “holy day” or an "observance” rather than a “holiday.” Sitting on the floor, with candles to light the way, listening as the Book of Lamentations is chanted using a particularly beautiful and mournful melody.

Since I don’t pray for the rebuilding of the Temple, I usually have a hard time with this holiday. In fact, this very theme kept re-emerging; do we in fact want to return to the days of old? (Not really. Not when it comes to animal sacrifice as a Jewish practice, nor in any other way. Plus, Judaism went through a paradigm shift with the destruction, becoming more egalitarian—at least for men.)

But this year felt especially poignant, what with wildfires, heavy rains, thunderstorms, ongoing wars.

So much destruction. So much pain. So much healing needed.

Many religious Jews believe that the reason the Temple was destroyed was God’s punishment; the Israelites were not following the commandments, Personally, I don’t subscribe to such beliefs…(but were we? are we? what does that even mean?).

The holiday is bookmarked by two Torah portions that involve Moses reviewing the past forty years of the Israelites’ trek through the desert.

Yet again, two weeks—two times—in a row, Moses blames the people for God not allowing him to cross over into the Promised Land. This week begins with Moses repeating the same accusation; it’s the people’s complaining and lack of faith that caused it; “God is punishing me because of you!”

But the truth is, it’s Moses’ own fault.

Twice, he refuses to take responsibility for his actions, and re-members the past; the truth is, Moses is being punished for the time God told him to speak to a rock in order to draw water from it, and instead he struck the rock.

When is violence called for—if ever—and when should people sit down and talk things out?

We can talk about responsibility on a personal level…or on a worldwide level, as in governments continuing to make decisions that destroy the environment by neglect, or deliberate ongoing bombing, starvation, or expulsion (too many examples, sadly).

Of course, nations are made up of individuals: individuals who make choices.

Personally, I spent the better half of a week with my head spinning with personal responsibility.

It all started after publishing my blog last week.

One innocuous comment from someone who was taking care of the feelings of another person—out of love, I know—trying somehow to protect them from past hurt or help repair it.

This led me into a destructive place of second-guessing myself. (Or was it more like torturing myself?)

The question was, did I reveal too much? About whom? Might someone get hurt? Or be offended? Who did I need to protect? Had I done a good enough job?

From my place of self-flagellation, I called a rabbi/teacher-now-friend for help.

I learned that my style of writing has a name. Or at least belongs to a genre of telling personal stories that end with a take-away lesson.

This friend reminded me that I was inspired to write the way I do, like what I wrote last week, because of Rachel Naomi Remen, author of Kitchen Table Wisdom and My Grandfather’s Blessing.

They are not pretty stories, but they are real and sometimes heartbreaking.

Each one touched me deeply, and left me inspired.

This is because I could see myself in them.

As challenging as it might be, this is an opportunity to look deep inside and ask some difficult questions.

While protecting the identity of those I include in my stories, my goal is always to offer an opportunity for healing to my readers, but in this case, at least in one instance, I did the opposite.

(Though as far as Mr. Sleazy from last week is concerned, if he happened to see my blog (negative-zero-percent chance), maybe it would be a good thing for him to learn how he has hurt and violated others, including me!)

When it comes to personal responsibility, we can only do our best, and sometimes we get it wrong.

In the Torah reading this week, we are reminded to follow the commandments.

In a nutshell, we just have to try and be good people.

May we all (including politicians) approach the world and the choices we make with great care and a strong sense of personal responsibility.

And when we get it wrong, may we be able to forgive ourselves and others.

And if you’re like me, may we learn to be gentler with ourselves and with others when we misstep.

Hard Facts, Cat Ladies, & Devarim

Not to sound too excited about death, but I’ve discovered that I absolutely love doing funerals. 

I mean, let’s be real: people die all the time.


(Have I said this before?)

And I’m not causing death, so it’s not hard for me to state it.

It’s just a hard fact; people die.

But there are still things I can—and must—control.

It’s my job to help the surviving family find some sort of healing in the process—to help facilitate a Tikkun.

And people—in both life and death—are very complex.

When I first started with funerals, I was terrified.

So much is riding on how it goes.

With so little time involved.

Especially when you do it in the traditional way.

Jewish funerals are so multilayered.

Just like people.

As I get to know the family of the deceased, I have to ask a lot of questions, sometimes pressing them for more information.

More understanding.

And listen really hard.

Last week, I had to make a hard decision in my eulogy.

Since I was dealing with a brother and sister, I had two different stories.

I needed to discern between the two what was true and what, maybe, was not.

There was a man who had been very dear to the deceased.

But I gradually came to understand that he had probably taken advantage of this woman.

He was a well-known Broadway actor and singer.

She had met him when she was recently widowed.

And she was some thirty years his senior.

With lots of money.

Depressed and in search of company and joy, she’d started attending the theater soon after her husband died.

She soon became a “groupie,” showing up night after night to the same show.

Having been a difficult person (yet very generous and full of love to give), she’d had a hard time with friendship during her life.

Retired and lonely, she suddenly had lots of friends.

And she fell in love with this one actor, following him for years.

She believed the feelings were mutual, though probably not acted upon.

The relationship lasted thirty years until she died in her 80’s.

They had been “business partners,” according to her brother. 
 

According to her sister, this meant that she gave him lots of money, supported him, and rescued him from situations of his own making.

She’d transferred her attention and affection—and money—from her own family, especially her nephews, to this man’s children.

They became like family to her.

As you can imagine, her nephews, now grown with their own children, were very hurt.

The sister told me to expect to be charmed by him.

I told her, don’t worry, I’m not easily impressed.

He showed up at this tiny funeral in a grandiose way with his children and ex-wife.

He shook my hand vigorously, and thanked me for “doing this.”

As if he were the one who had orchestrated the funeral!

And he brought a playlist of his own voice—the deceased’s favorite songs—and had it electronically streamed into the family room on the speakers.

I made sure he did not remain with the family just prior to the funeral.

And I made the difficult decision not to mention him and his family by name.

I could tell by how his expression changed during the funeral, and especially during my eulogy, from beaming smiles to a fallen face, that he was not happy.

Afterwards, while waiting for the limo, we spoke.

I told him I knew how important he had been to the deceased.

I hoped he wasn’t upset that I hadn’t mentioned his name.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t about me, it was about her,” he reassured me.

Then, in a power play, he took hold of the back of my arm and pulled me in close.

From his tall height, he looked down at me, speaking in an intimate way, as if we were old friends.

“You did a beautiful job, rabbi, in every way. Your singing, your eulogy…you described her perfectly,” he went on, thanking me again.

I couldn’t wait for him to finish.

I felt helpless to get away from him.

How could I withdraw from his clutches without making a scene—as the rabbi?

I felt trapped and disgusted.

As a result of my omission of him and his family, he bowed out of going to the cemetery.

He made up some story of “finding his own way of honoring her with his children by going around the city to visit the stage doors where she’d waited for him to come out all those times.

Which meant I had a place in the limo with the family!

And her resentful, hurt, nephews didn’t have to ride with him!

We had wonderful conversation the whole time out to the cemetery and back.

Because I’d taken a risk myself, the family didn’t have to.

And I believe I brought healing to them.

I played this story over and over in my mind, and told it to different people again and again.

I felt traumatized by it.

(I’ve also since come up with how to get away from a situation like it if and when it happens again with another sleazy man.)
 

Maybe trauma is the same reason Moses repeats the entire story—in a nutshell—of forty years in the desert.

This is how the book of Deuteronomy begins.

But he chooses the details that are the hardest for him, it seems.

Of how argumentative the Israelites had been.

How angry God had been with them, and as a result, with Moses.

How the spies had come back from scouting the Promised Land with exaggerated fears that turned into incomplete truths and falsehoods.

Tall tales, like the story J.D. Vance told the American people of “Childless Cat Ladies” running our country—hardly a hard fact!

(For a really interesting and fun history of “Cat Ladies,” I recommend listening to this episode of “Revenge of…” on On The Media.”)

Moses tells, yet again, how he himself will not be crossing over into the Promised Land with the people he has led for forty years.

How he’d passed on the mantle of leadership for the future to another chosen by God.

Though the Israelites are entering a new phase in their history, a brighter future, Moses is reviewing a challenging past.

He weeds through what’s true and what’s not: what’s difficult to face.

He faces hard facts, continuing to process his life, what it’s meant.

Now that Kamala Harris has entered the presidential race, and Gov. Tim Walz has joined her as her running mate, it feels like there’s hope of saving our country from a second term with Donald Trump.

As we enter this hopeful moment in U.S. history after a long time of hopelessness, may we weed out the lies from the facts.

May we face bullies—misogynists among them—who try to corner us and make us feel helpless.

May we take control of that which we can towards a brighter future.

May we all act as facilitators of a Tikkun—a healing.

Mattot-Masei & Say It To My Face

We can take the Bible literally…

Or we can look at its lessons.

We can look for ways it tells us to “stick to our own kind,” and easily find them—

—again and again.

When I hear snippets of angry videos—

—on Instagram, on TikTok…

…maybe even on what some call “the news”…

—of ranting, self-righteous politicians—

—or individuals—

—it just makes my heart break.

As the thought of tribalism, and our “own kind” came to me, I googled the West Side Story song so I could share it with you.

And it reduced me to a puddle of tears.

Just thinking of how angry talk—”He is one of them!”—is still so much a part of our collective vocabulary…

Meanwhile, my head is swirling with the high energy and excitement around Kamala Harris’ new campaign.

So many people suddenly filled with hope.

Hope for saving women’s health and reproductive rights.

Hope for a better chance at healing our planet, saving it from doom and destruction…

The attacks from the other side—against “wokeness.”

Against her as a woman.

And as one of color…

These are a backlash against the changing landscape of our country.

It is a digging in of heels to racism and misogyny.

But Harris is not intimidated.

She is ready to fight (with a big smile on her face)!

She is ready to challenge Trump to a debate he might be afraid to have.

But as I have heard news commentators say, we will have to keep her to her promises.

Between promises and being ready to fight, the Torah is again relevant this week.

The reading starts with vows.

It focuses on the obligation to carry them out.

Unfortunately, misogyny is written all over it.

Women are forced to submit to the wishes of the men in their lives.

The men choose to allow them—or not—to carry out vows they have taken on.

And then there is war.

War against the Midianites (Moses’ wife’s tribe!) in order to take over their land.

As God says.

One gender is superior to—and will have dominion over—the other.

One people is superior to—and will have dominion over—the other.

This is the way Jewish Fundamentalists, the Christian Right, and their spokespeople, see things.

Unfortunately, this is the way a lot of people still see things.

People are digging in their heels—out of fear—to tribalism.

And they’re loud.

But not everyone.

And the other voices are equally capable of being loud.

The Torah reading ends, after vows and angry reactions from Moses making assumptions about the intentions of others…

It ends with the reminder of daughters having a say in their destiny.

It ends with the right of women to inheritance of land (albeit with some sexist and tribalist stipulations),

It ends with instructions on how to treat the land.

It says that we are not to pollute the land.

It says that blood pollutes the land.

It says that those who kill intentionally must be punished.

And those who are innocent are to have cities of refuge.

As Maria in West Side Story counters Anita with: “But my heart, Anita, but my heart!”

But our hearts…

Let us stop for a moment.

And listen.

What do they say…?

There is anger.

There is rage.

There is revenge.

But if we can get under the anger and revenge, there is a softening.

Yes, we must fight.

But let us listen to the softening part of our hearts as we do.

Trump Anointed (& Pinhas)

I often remember something I heard another rabbi say:

I wish the Torah wasn’t always so relevant.

Let’s take a look at the past couple of weeks.

The attempted assassination of Trump (yes, old news now, but not fake news).

The Republican National Congress.

Trump with a bandaged ear.

And his martyrdom.

He suffered—and suffers—for the sake of his country, not a care in the world for himself.

Only a passion for “America” drives him.

Thus, he was anointed.

Chosen by God.

Destined to be president.

Because aren’t all the signs there???

Missing a deadly bullet with just a slight turn of the head at exactly the right moment…

Guess what!

Pinhas (our biblical character of the week) also gets anointed!

Yes, the same Pinhas who drove a sword through the bellies of an Israelite and his non-Israelite lover last week.

Because he is “passionate” for God.

Pinhas is destined to be priest—and all the generations that will come after.

But it makes me nervous that someone as violent as Pinhas is chosen by God.

It makes me wonder about my God—or at least the God of the Bible.

It also makes me nervous that someone who incites violence in our country is anointed by others—

Meanwhile, Biden steps down as the Democratic incumbent for president.

Yes, I would agree it was courageous.

It’s hard to admit when you’re not up for the job (Trump certainly won’t).

Of course, there was also an awful lot of pressure.

But it still does come in sharp contrast to Trump, the one who anoints himself.

Making the Torah even more relevant is what happens at the end of the Parsha;

Moses asks God, “Who shall come and go before the people” when Moses’ time comes to an end?

Moses knows that he is tired.

And Moses himself is given the task of appointing Joshua, physically passing his spiritual powers to the High Priest.

I see the parallels, but I’m not sure of the spiritual lesson.

Maybe it’s that we need to be really careful about claiming to have a direct connection to God.

We need to question ourselves—especially when we see a fervor for killing.

A fervor for murder.

A justification for it.

Because no matter who does it, it can not be God—at least not my God—that wants that.

I think we can extend this message—this questioning—to other situations that exist in the world today.

If killing and destruction are a part of what you think God wants of you, maybe that’s not God actually talking.

I would argue with that God.

I would protest—just like Moses does on several occasions.

So I guess my blessing for today is:

May we all continue to question ourselves and our beliefs, especially when the urge is violent.

And please say Amen.

Sexually Speaking, Idols, Dreams, & Balak

The temptation for humans always seems to be to name all the horrible things that are happening.

We somehow think that’s what it means to be “real”: to name all that’s terrible. (Check out my new Homepage!).

(Speaking of keeping things real, how many of us secretly wished that gunman hadn’t missed?)

(Good thing I’m not a politician and I can just be real about it, even if I know it would have only have made things worse, as it already has).

But there are other real things happening that aren’t awful.

I mean, Dr. Ruth Westheimer died last week—the good part is that she lived to 96!

And made a real impact on how we talk about (and hopefully do) sex.

She kept things very real—and was kind of an idol to me.

My teenage years are full of memories of listening to her on the radio.

(Was it every day after school that I heard people calling in with questions for Dr. Ruth on her show Sexually Speaking?)

Dr. Ruth was full of positivity and hope.

Her determination to revolutionize how we talked about (and had) sex was how her role in Tikkun Olam (repairing the world) played out.

There had never been a show like it before, and there hasn’t been one since.

And all that hope and positivity came from someone who survived the Holocaust.

She could have given in to the horrors of what she’d experienced and all she’d lost, and just given up.

But she saw it as her duty to be part of the repair—because she had survived!

Right now we’re in a different place.

All we think about is that our Democratic presidential candidate is unable to keep his thoughts and sentences straight.

(Among other things.)

And that our Republican candidate is going to win—and bring ruin to even more lives than we thought was possible.

This week in Torah, we have a king, Balak, who wants a diviner, Balaam, to bring curses upon the people Israel.

Balaam has connections with God that Balak does not have.

Balaam repeatedly checks in with God.

He even dreams that God gives him the go-ahead to meet with Balak and talk things out.

God gets angry—because that was just a dream.

But God still says, okay, go, “but only do as I say, and only speak My words.”

Thus, Balaam repeatedly blesses the people, which really pisses Balak off.

But Balaam is none too perceptive either.

He doesn’t perceive the “adversary” (Satan, in Hebrew), with drawn sword and all, that God has put in front of Balaam to block his way.

(How connected to God is he after all?)

Balaam looks rather foolish, too, because his donkey sees the adversary while he, a “smart human,” does not.

This, my friends, is Torah humor.

Still, all is revealed in the end.

Ultimately, Balaam manages to bless the Israelites as opposed to cursing them.

(Does he apologize to his donkey for beating it? He really should.)

The Parsha ends with “whoring Israelites” (men) who have sex (speaking of sex) with Moabite women.

These Moabites are influencing are luring the Israelites away from their One True God to worship false idols.

There is a plague (always a punishment) that takes the lives of 24,000 Israelites.

Until Pinhas, son and grandson of a priest, follows a Moabite woman and her Israelite lover into a tent—

—and pierces them through the belly, killing them both.

Thus, the plague is checked.

Happy endings, the Torah is not known for.

What about our happy endings?

Even though the predictions for our presidential elections seem dire, do we have to believe them before they even happen?

If we give in to bad dreams that predict a living nightmare, do we make them come true just by giving up?

Who—what—is our True God?

And the false gods that we are believing?

Even though polls have been proven to be dead wrong time and again?

(Remember France last week—again!)

What does giving up do for all those out there on the ground working so hard to make the outcome different?

The lesson I take from this Torah reading is that being connected to God means bringing blessing, not curses.

Is it helpful to be lured by negative voices that bring dire predictions?

Or might it actually be harmful, and help those predictions come true?

Let’s not stab ourselves in the belly, ending it before it’s even over.

Instead, let’s work on being more connected to blessing, and support those working actively to change our future.

Dr. Ruth was a voice of hope coming out of a very dire situation.

Can we each be a voice of hope that does the same?

If you’d like to be a voice of hope and blessing, please say Amen.

The Surprise of Faith & Hukkat

Oy: the presidential elections.

An aging Democratic incumbent who refuses (so far) to step out of the race.

But t’s undeniable.

He looks and sounds incredibly feeble.

Does it matter that Trump, too, is unfit for the presidency—though for different reasons?

Nobody seems to care.

The fact is, there comes a time when one must accept that it’s time to pass things on to the younger generations.

As hard as it is for one’s ego.

To be able to face aging and death straight on.

Of course, I have empathy.

(Will I have the courage to face it straight on when it’s my turn to turn things over?)

Then there’s fear—of a different sort.

For today’s world, and our future—near and far.

This week in Torah, Miriam, Moses’ sister, dies.

Immediately after, the wells all dry up.

In the ancient rabbinic mind, Miriam is connected with the wells and the flow of water.

Now that she is gone, there is no water.

The Israelites panic.

Again, they rail against Moses.

He speaks—or complains—to God.

God tells him, “Take you staff in your hand, and speak to the rock. From there, water will flow abundantly.”

Moses, in his frustration perhaps, in anger and resentment, hits the rock.

Water flows.

God is not happy.

In the ancient rabbinic mind, Moses claimed the miracle as his own rather than crediting God.

His words are even a little sarcastic: “Listen, you rebels! Shall we get water for you out of this rock?”

For this, God punishes him; he shall not enter the Promised Land with the people he has led for 40 years.

Later in the Torah reading, the people sing a song.

It is a different type of song from the Song at the Sea when fleeing to freedom.

Instead of their song being led (and controlled, as Rabbi Tracy Nathan points out) by Moses, they sing their own song.

Not only do they not use violence, they sing to the ground, asking it to bring forth water.

“Spring up, O, well—Sing to it…”

Instead of receiving manna from heaven, whose lesson was about learning to have faith, they learn a different lesson (again, Tracy Nathan).

The Israelites have learned to bring forth water by themselves, in a community effort—something they can take pride in.

Miriam had taught them about community building, according to our sages.

Water spread out throughout the camps in rivers, reaching everywhere, not just springing from one source.

In essence, the people have learned to create their own grass roots movement.

And now.

It is time to pass the mantle to the next generation.

We deserve better presidential choices—not just between two old white men who either want to destroy our country and/or are out of touch with what younger generations cry out for.

Climate Change/Climate Disaster, for one.

Peace, for another.

After eight months of bombing and deprivation, it is proven that Netanyahu’s war will not bring about the live release of hostages.

Nor was it ever meant to.

Yet the war machine continues to be fed.

What about feeding a peace machine?

But we mustn’t despair.

Remember the last-minute shock of the Far Right losing in France just this week!

We face our own dismal predictions, but we don’t have to believe them.

But maybe we can take courage from the lesson of manna and faith from the Torah given by God.

Or like water springing from a rock.

And maybe we can take courage from the ability of young people to build grass roots movements of peace.

From the ground up.

We don’t know what miracles abound.

Let’s get ready to be surprised.

And say Amen.

The Potential for Celebration & Korakh

As we enter the 4th of July, we are supposed to be celebrating.

I came to my friends at the beach for the week—and to see the fireworks.

It will be fun to see after so many years of not.

But I find it hard to celebrate our country’s history at this point in history.

Maybe I’ve always had a hard time celebrating our country’s founding.

I wasn’t brought up to revere our Founding Fathers.

Am I unpatriotic?

Absolutely not.

Just as I won’t let the far Religious Right co-opt the word “religious,” so I won’t allow anti-gun control, anti-abortion people co-opt the word “patriotic.”

I love my country, and I demand that it be better—that it do better.

It has to do better.

As much as I hope to enjoy watching fireworks on a beach, I also have a real problem with them.

They’re terrible for the environment.

They’re terrible for the air, terrifying to animals (birds might abandon their babies, dogs either hide and can potentially be killed running from them…)

They also have the potential to terrify humans.

Not to mention the increase in mass shootings on and around July 4th.

Many people—maybe all Americans at this point—have PTSD due to gun violence.

I know that whenever I hear fireworks in New York, I never quite know if it’s fireworks or a gun I’m hearing.

I’m sure my blood pressure rises.

Then there’s the Supreme Court ruling that gave Trump immunity for all past acts.

That bit of news doesn’t add much to the potential for celebration.

The potential for a future king in a country that is supposed to despise kings…well…

Interestingly, there’s something about power-grabbing in this week’s Torah portion.

It’s in the story of Korakh and the people who join him in rising up against Moses.

Do they deserve the harsh punishment they get, being swallowed up by the earth at God’s command?

On the other hand, do they deserve immunity for their actions?

Do they want shared power with Moses, or do they want total control?

That, we can never know.

But what we do know is that we would all like there to be potential for celebration.

To me, this is not one of those moments, but I want there to be.

May there be a reason to celebrate our country in the coming months.

And until then, I’m going to hang out with my friends, and be in community.

I hope you do, too, however you feel about what’s going on in our country.

And please say Amen.

Throwing Phones & Shlakh Lekha

This morning as I was sitting in the park, a shocking thing happened.

I was talking to a friend on the phone, and from the corner of my eye, I see a child running toward the lake.

As he runs across the beach, his mother pursuing him, she yells, “Stop! Stop!”

Slowly, I understand what is happening.

He is carrying her cell phone, and as he gets to the edge of the water, he raises his arm over his head.

Before she can reach him, he launches the phone with all his might into the water.

Just a second too late, before retrieving the phone, she hits him on the head, yelling.

With a smile of deep satisfaction on his face, he retreats to where his sibling is sleeping in a baby stroller.

The mother goes to the water, searching, and picks the phone out of the dirty water.

Then she returns to her son where she chastises him again, but only barely.

This in itself shocks me. (If it had been me and my child…)

The boy stands there with the smile on his face never waning.

It is evident that he feels great power in this moment.

The family continues walking and stops at a bench further down the path.

I tell my friend blow by blow as I’m watching this all happen, and we begin immediately evaluating what has just occurred.

Is this some evil, sociopath with no care for how his mother feels?

My friend asks the child’s age.

I look at him: around five.

How can he have absolutely no sense of remorse, we wonder?

Or fear?

Then, another possibility: he is angry.

Why, then, is he so angry?

He must have a sense that this phone is his mother’s connection to the world!

Does he not know the gravity of what he’s done?

Now, in retrospect, it seems obvious.

The cell phone, for him, is the thing that keeps his mother occupied with everyone and everything—except for him.

On the other hand, for her, the cell phone, as it is for every parent, for every single person, is that which distracts her from what is right in front of her.

From what is present in the moment.

My friend and I started reminiscing about the old days when we were parents.

Before cell phones, before the omnipresent smart phone.

Would we have been the same kind of parent as we see others are today?

Constantly on the phone, talking, talking, listening, listening, reading, reading, not looking at their child?

We remembered the isolation.

The loneliness.

The difficulty in finding community as we cared for our infants and toddlers.

The intense need for adult interaction that did not exist in our way of life as American parents choosing (and with the luxury) to stay home caring for our own children.

We reminisced about the old corded phones, and cords so long that we could stretch them across the kitchen, or from one room to another.

Cords so long, we could wash dishes with the phone in the crook of our neck, pressed against our ear.

Ah, the old crook of the neck, hurting.

But how good it felt to have company while doing chores, but also to be multi-tasking.

How powerful and competent we felt.

How many times were we as parents talking on the phone while our children clambered for our attention?

Then the cell phone came along.

And they became smaller and smaller.

No more would they fit in the crook of your neck.

Now they are omnipresent in ear buds, but still represent one-sided, anonymous conversations.

And they sleep by our beds, if not in our beds, ever-ready with new information, ever-ready for “doom” scrolling.

There when we wake up, and when we go to sleep.

My friend then asked another question with some hesitation and discomfort.

What ethnic group did this mother belong to?

I understood her trepidation, because I had considered mentioning it, but then had changed my mind.

Why was this important, after all?

We talked about that, too.

That our children are right to push back and to question our need to know.

The need to resist the temptation to put people in a box, and type-cast them.

Yet, there was significance to the answer as well.

I told her she was an African immigrant wearing traditional dress.

And so we attempted to tell her story for her.

It led us to wonder about how this cell phone connected her, not only to others in the city, to employment perhaps, but also to family and friends across continents.

This cell phone was, in a sense, this woman’s whole world.

Her lifeline.

As they have become for all of us.

They have become our lifeline in a strange and disharmonious way that keeps us tethered to something ourside of ourselves, and outside the present moment.

They have become an object we cannot live without that brings us all the information we seem to need in the world.

And also information we don’t need but think we do.

A source of disinformation, misinformation, and panic.

Whether it’s the weather, or the air quality we can check on several times a day…

Or the pop-ups of “Breaking News” items that come in several times an hour.

All meant to grab our attention.

All meant to put us into a place of panic so we keep coming back for more.

This was the story we told about this particular mother and her little boy.

And about ourselves.

And now I come to the story of this week’s Parsha.

The story of the spies.

These are spies, or scouts, sent by Moses to scout out the Promised Land.

What kinds of vegetation and fruit is there to find? (And make sure you bring some back!)

What kind of people live there?

What kinds of cities do they have?

Are they strong or weak? (i.e. How hard will it be to conquer them?)

The reports are generally good.

Until the naysayers speak up.

“These people are so big, they are giants, and we are but grasshoppers to them.”

And panic sets in.

The people wail through the night.

“Why, God, did you take us out of bondage only to die here? Things weren’t so bad there! What is this false promise you made?”

But the panic uncalled for because the story is false.

What about our stories?

What about our panic?

There are very real, horrifying things happening in the world today.

And we need to take action.

But we must also be careful not to be sucked in by the media meant to simply get our attention by making us panic.

Do I need to know how bad the air quality is moment to moment?

Don’t I already know that, most of the time, it’s not very good?

Yet, it is so much better than it was in the 1960’s and ‘70’s when I was growing up in New York City.

So good things can happen.

We can effect change for the better.

We are capable of this.

Do I need to know that fascism is a real possibility in the (possibly near) future of this country?

Yes.

But I also need to find ways of disconnecting from the constant barrage that comes from my phone.

Yes, my phone is my connection to the world.

To my own little world, and to the wider world.

But maybe it shouldn’t take throwing the phone into the water to get back to the present moment.

And maybe we can rewrite the story of our country and our world.

Because our stories are very powerful.

And they can effect change for the better.

Shabbat Shalom, and please say Amen.

Missed Opportunities, Hearts and Roses, & B’Ha’alot’kha

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about last week.

About how I missed an important opportunity.

Over a year ago, I made a big deal in my ordination speech of addressing the sexism, the homophobia, the Jewish triumphalist attitudes of the Torah.

I didn’t want to miss that opportunity of facing the flaws of the Torah straight on.

Because so often we want to deny the bad and only focus on how great we are.

How spiritual, how deep, how loving.

I don’t like pretending that religion—mine included—is all hearts and roses.

And last week, as I searched for inspiration upon entering the holiday of Shavuot, I found little, if any, inspiration in the Torah reading.

Especially, as I pointed out, in the story of the sotah, the woman accused of cheating on her husband.

But I missed something.

I missed that sometimes things aren’t as they seem.

That within this sexist attitude of blaming the woman and putting her to a test of loyalty to her husband, that perhaps this “test” was in fact an effort at protection.

Because, whether she was innocent or guilty, her thigh wouldn’t sag, nor would her belly distend, just from drinking some cursed water!

Correct?

(I mean, unless you believe in spells, which I’m not saying I do or I don’t.)

In other words, this story put a hypothetically jealous husband in a position where he would have to hold back a potentially violent rage.

And the woman would be protected from his violence by having to present herself before the priest.

Then, she would walk away physically unharmed (though most likely humiliated, which isn’t nothing).

But it was progressive for its time.

This week, we end the Torah portion with Miriam, Moses’ sister, taking the sole blame for gossiping about Moses’ wife—because she is a Cushite woman, not an Israelite.

She alone breaks out in a rash, and is put in isolation outside the camp until she heals—even though her brother Aaron is equally guilty!

So this seems like true and pure sexism, unlike perhaps the example from last week.

It’s a good thing, at least, that God does not look favorably upon the gossip—perhaps gossip in general—nor upon their prejudice against the non-Israelite woman married to Moses.

And the Torah makes a point of saying that the Israelites could not break camp until Miriam was back in the fold.

There’s something else that’s been on my mind.

Which is, the “perfect” rescue of the four Israeli hostages a couple of weeks ago.

How “perfect” could it have been when almost 300 Palestinians were killed in the process, not to mention the Israeli commander who headed the mission?!

So much joy—alongside so much pain.

At times, it’s true; the Torah teaches us not to care about the lives of our “enemies.”

But there are other times, like in this week’s parsha, when we are taught that, even speaking against someone not officially a part of our tribe is despicable.

Not only is intermarriage between the tribes permissible; it should not become a subject of judgmental talk, according to this version of the God of our Bible.

This week on This American Life, I heard the update on the developing story of Yousef and his family.

For some reason, it hit me hard this time.

Who knows why, when I’ve been hearing the same information for eight months.

It’s not new that Gazans literally have no escape from the bombing and the starvation.

That there is literally no exit—

—except if you can come up with tens of thousands of dollars—in cash—for your family to maybe be allowed into Egypt!

(All top secret, not to piss anybody off.)

So how is it…

How is it the case that so many people are walking around unable to see—unable to feel anything for all the lives being lost (whether they’re hostages or Palestinians!) and all these people being starved—where a bag of flour costs 200 American dollars?

Where is our collective conscience?

Yes: religion is misused and abused.

For exclusivity, for hatred, for triumphalism.

But we can choose to use religion in different ways, just as we choose to listen to, or open ourselves, to certain pieces of information and not others.

Because religion also teaches us to open our hearts.

To love.

Isn’t it enough already?

Enough suffering for the hostages and their families?

Enough suffering for Gazans and their families?

Do we need any sort of test (of loyalty, perhaps, to an idea or a group?) in order to stop the violence?

Let us—all of us—not miss an important opportunity to stop looking at Israeli families, or Jewish families, or Palestinian families as separate from each other.

Let us—all of us—not miss the opportunity to see everyone as part of the human family.

Let us not choose to include some, and put others outside our camp to suffer alone.

And say Amen.

Hoping for Inspiration for Shavuos & Naso

It’s hard to find inspiration for writing so early in the week.

It would be easier if I could wait until Shavuos is over.

Especially since it’s the holiday of revelation and inspiration.

Yet, I know that after the holiday, on Friday, it will be too late for my blog.

So what do I have so far?

The stories of the Torah this week are not particularly appetizing—or inspiring.

The woman accused by her husband of sleeping with another man because he’s flown into a jealous fit?

Who is then given an almost literal witch trial (not quite like the one Donald Trump claims to have just gone through).

She is made to drink “waters of bitterness” by the Temple priest—who has cursed them.

If she has not “gone astray,” she will be unharmed by the spell he puts on her.

If she has, her belly will distend and her thigh will sag.

Not much for inspiration.

I could also go with the stories by a neighbor I ran into in the park just now.

He’s a young Jewish ER pediatrician at Harlem Hospital, within which the entirety of societal problems are encompassed.

In just one ER.

No, none of that will be inspiring as we go into Shavuos to receive enlightenment.

He told me of the mind-boggling situations he deals with.

Of his incredible frustration with individual parents in his ER.

Yet, he seems to understand systemic racism, and that slavery didn’t end two hundred years ago.

He said, no, Black people are still living it today.

Then there was the Israel/Gaza war that came up in our conversation.

He and his new wife lean “more strongly towards release of the hostages,” but also recognize that Israel is not innocent.

Now, that actually was inspiring.

We actually agreed that this is way more complex than most people want to admit—because it’s easier to “take sides” and be black and white.

We agreed that history matters.

And that, if the New York Times publishes an article about abuse of Palestinians happening in Israeli prisons, then it’s probably true.

And we should own it.

Mostly, we agreed that empathy should not be lost on “both sides,” for both peoples.

And it wasn’t hard to get there with him.

That warmed my heart, coming from someone, I’m guessing, who comes from a conservative, Zionist background.

So.

There is one little section in this week’s Torah reading that coincides perfectly with all this.

And with Shavuos.

God gives instructions to the Temple priest to bless the people.

They are the words that have become famously known as the Priestly Blessing by Jews, and the Priestly Benediction by Christians.

May the Lord Bless you and keep you!

May the Lord deal kindly and graciously with you, shining the light of his face upon you.

May the Lord bestow his favor upon you and grant you peace.

Thus they shall link My name with the people, I will bless them.

May it be so for us all.

And may good things be revealed for us in the near future.

Happy Shavuos, and Good Shabbos.