This week is a Torah portion about too many gifts, if that’s possible.

It’s about turning people away in their generosity

It’s about saying, “You’re bringing beyond what is needed for this project.” (In this case, materials needed to build the mobile sanctuary for God to dwell among the people in their long trek through the desert.)

I want to write about the Jewish wedding of an interfaith couple I recently officiated.

It happened a couple of weeks ago, but it’s still very present in my mind.

I say Jewish wedding because, though the bride was Jewish and the groom of Muslim descent, they wanted a purely Jewish ceremony.

So that’s what I gave them.

The (now) husband is a non-practicing Muslim from one of the former Soviet Republics.

The (now) wife comes from a long line of (famous, according to her mother) rabbis from Ukraine.

Most of her family died in the Holocaust or in Soviet work camps.

So it was important to them that they have a rabbi.

Both sides of the family seem affectionate and caring toward each other.

The common language is Russian.

It was almost impossible for them to find a rabbi willing to officiate such a wedding, as you might imagine.

The Chabad rabbi they’d turned to had even questioned the validity of the bride’s Jewish identity.

They were relieved to have found me.

As I approached the venue, far out in Brooklyn, almost at Coney Island, a woman came up to me and grabbed my arm.

“Come, Rabbi, come!” she said in a thick Russian accent emphasizing the second syllable of “rabbi.”

I had no idea who she was, but quickly decided she was a friend and that I would indeed come with her.

She immediately started giving me the long history of her family.

I had to interrupt.

“Sorry,” I said as gently as possible, “but who are you?”

“I am the bride’s mother.”

Ah!

Time for an enthusiastic hug.

“How did you know I was the rabbi?” I ask.

“I smell! I smell!” she says, gesturing with her hand around her crinkled nose as if there were a scent wafting in the air.

Time for a laugh.

Then I saw what a stupid question I’d asked.

Of course she knew I was the rabbi!

As we entered the (smallish) banquet hall, it was like I was entering an alternate universe.

I immediately felt like a fish out of water.

People began arriving; women in long, sparkly, multi-thousand-dollar sequined gowns and spiked heels, small fur shawls across their shoulders, long fur coats.

Me?

I was dressed in chic wide-legged trousers from Old Navy, a cute little black jacket, and creamy Oxford Doc Martens.

I was glad I’d packed my heels.

(And I realized they hadn’t gotten the memo that wearing fur in the U.S. is now considered a cruelty to animals.)

As I was figuring out the logistics of the venue, there was hustle and bustle all around.

The chuppah (wedding canopy) was lying on the marble floor waiting to be picked up, its thick birch branches blending into the white marble floors.

I was worried someone would trip over it.

(No one did, I thanked God.)

Servers rushed by carrying elaborate trays of food to the tables; salads of beets, fresh white cheese, unidentifiable mushrooms, caviar, huge swans carved from watermelons, giant blueberries, vodka, whiskey, imported sodas and sparkling water...

Enough food to feed forty at each table that seated only ten.

I gathered the couple and their immediate family for a private little pre-ceremony ritual in a small room off to the side.

We surrounded the couple (a nervous wreck because everything was “fucked up”) as they faced each other.

First I led them in a little breathing exercise and a niggun (wordless melody) to help the couple transition from their frenetic energy.

I told a little story, then the groom covered his bride with her veil, and everyone showered blessings upon them.

They were finally calm and ready.

As we began the more public wedding ceremony, I pointed out how poignant this moment was:

Two people of supposedly such different cultures and religions, in a time of such strife and pain in the Jewish and Muslim world (not to conflate Palestinians with Muslims, as we know), coming together in love.

And fully supported by their family and community.

I pointed out the ripple effects such a thing can have on the world—even the fact that they don’t think that such a union is a big deal is itself a big deal.

Yet not so different from each other after all.

Afterwards I reflected: was I actually a fish out of water in their supposedly alternate universe?

An older cousin from the bride’s side of the family had taken me under her wing, introducing me to the foods on the table, making sure I saved room in my stomach for “more, there’s more coming,” and making me laugh and dance with her the whole time.

Every moment there was a chance to toast the couple with a “L’chaim!” and drink another shot.

The mother of the bride was grateful, I felt, for a female rabbi she could link arms with and tell her history to, along with her stories of woe.

Is that too many gifts?

Should some of the enthusiasm for giving, or abundance in this instance, be redirected?

Should we turn some of the gifts away?

Did the bride need two dresses (one for the ceremony, the other for dancing)?

Did they need an MC and three live singers, enough food for an army, and four photographers?

Perhaps a better balance is what’s called for.

Perhaps that’s the message of the Parsha.

Yes, it’s definitely a value system.

Where do we choose to put our money and limited resources—which in this case I know are limited.

I think of our human need to give, and how abundance makes us feel comfortable, like all is well in the world.

I think of our need for celebration, especially in these times.

I think of the now-somewhat-famous Palestinian student, Hisham Awartani who was shot in Vermont a few months ago (Notes From America, Feb. 19th episode).

I think of the go-fund-me movement to help him with medical costs (and the sadness that funding medical costs in the U.S. in this manner has become commonplace and unquestioned in a country with so much wealth and so much poverty).

I think of Hisham Awartani’s discomfort with all the attention and money he’s receiving, knowing meanwhile that if he were home in the West Bank, he’d be just one more anonymous Palestinian being carried around on a stretcher.

I think of the famous Central Park Zoo owl, Flaco, having survived a year in the wilds of Central Park, now dead, receiving lavish attention from individuals and the media.

I know we’re living in painful, soul-sucking times.

I understand it’s difficult to look at photos of starving and dead Palestinian children and much easier to look at a photo of Flaco.

This owl gave hope and comfort to many people in these difficult times.

It’s like the feeling of loss and pain is being poured into this one little owl.

It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that the U.S. government, while saying what Israel is doing in Gaza is “over the top” is not only not stopping it from happening, but actually responsible for funding it.

It’s hard to be reminded that the war in Ukraine is still happening.

But can we find a balance in where we put our money?

And can we measure more carefully where we give our attention?

I leave you with this question.

You can make the blessing.

(Please send it to me.)