This morning I went down into the North Woods of Central Park.

I am privileged. I have the time for such things.

The air didn’t seem as bad as it’s been from the wildfires blowing our way again this week.

But the AQI (Air Quality Index) still indicated, “Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups.”

We are in a temporary but glorious reprieve from the heat at the moment, despite the poor air quality.

But also, I’m privileged. I have air conditioning.

And how long and to what degree am I to worry about the smoke?

Some Californians I know have told me they’ve simply learned to live with the smoke.

They don’t even pay attention anymore.

And didn’t I grow up breathing the worst pollution back in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s?

Didn’t I leave New York to live in an even more polluted place, Mexico City, in the early ‘80’s?

There was no AQI back then.

I’d forgotten all this.

Also, I’m privileged; I have air conditioning.

Sitting in the North Woods this morning by the stream and waterfall I love, it was a little escape.

For a few minutes, I could forget about a world literally on fire.

I could forget about the extreme sustained heat taking over large swaths of the world.

I could forget for a moment—or try at least—and also try to find some peace.

Because like I said; I’m privileged.

I sat staring at the water.

I noticed that if I looked one way, the water was calm and beautiful.

I watched the tiny ripples made by landing insects.

The trees and the blue sky reflected on the water.

But if I looked the other way, I saw the disgusting scum on the top and the polluted water beneath.

I chose to look the other way.

In thinking about this week’s Parsha as we begin the book of Devarim (Deuteronomy), I wondered about stories.

—about the stories we tell ourselves.

And those we tell others.

Moses gives a long speech.

He reminds the people of all they’ve been through, the places they’ve been.

He tells them not only of their own bad behavior, but his own;

Of his lack of sufficient faith in God, even after all the miracles he’d witnessed.

He tells them again that he will not be crossing over into the Promised Land as a result.

He reminds them of their new leader, Joshua, to whom he has passed the mantle.

These are the stories of the Torah.

What are the stories we tell ourselves?

That it will “all somehow work itself out”?

That it’s too hard not to take airplanes even though we know the carbon footprint we’re leaving causes more heat?

That the airplanes will fly even if we’re not on them?

That this is not a global issue that we must address together?

That it’s someone else’s—some other politician’s/country’s—fault and responsibility?

That we do our part by “recycling,” even though most of that plastic is not recycled?

That there’s a safe place where we can run to on this Earth?

And what kind of faith do we need?

In a God who will save us?

In humanity?

In our ability to work things out?

In the Earth to heal herself once we’ve destroyed most of humanity?

Ah, yes, but we can tell ourselves we ourselves will survive—because we’re the privileged ones?

Here we are on the other side of the worst of the pandemic, and it feels like we still didn’t get the memo.

—that there is no “back to normal.”

—that using less was a real thing.

—that slowing down and not getting on an airplane was something we needed to continue.

—that we are a global community.

Those who had the means, “escaped” to the country where the air was clean, and the weather not so hot.

But dirty air and heat follow people wherever they may flee.

I’m not sure I have an uplifting, hopeful message this week.

Do I have to?

Just because I’m the rabbi—and I can actually say I am now?

As I write, we are experiencing and witnessing apocalypse.

There are tens of thousands of climate and violence refugees pouring into New York City.

And our mayor wants to reverse the legal imperative to provide shelter to all who come to our city.

This is all happening right here, right now—not in some nefarious future time.

Who will be our leader now?

I think we have to be that together.

Which way should we look?

Maybe not the other way.

And maybe to each other.

Shabbat Shalom—for real.

And say Amen.