Enough Already! (Va’etchanan)

I’ve been feeling very irreverent in my writing lately, “bashing” Torah a bit and…Judaism, too? I’m not sure about the second part, but maybe Torah and Judaism are inextricably intertwined.

Actually, I’m not sure about either of these two things. Does being critical of Torah and questioning God constitute “bashing?”

But it is related to a question that repeatedly comes up for me, which is: how do I justify being Jewish, following Jewish law, (or at least some of it), when so much of my Holy Book and prayer books are full of so much that challenges my moral compass?

In other words, how do I claim that Judaism is beautiful when so much of it is ugly?

I wouldn’t be the first or the last to ask this question about my religious heritage—Jewish or otherwise.

Also, can we separate “Judaism” from “Jewish people” the way we might want to separate Israeli people from the Israeli government and its actions?

Perhaps “cultural” Jews would say there’s no connection between one and the other of any of the above-mentioned—at least not for them. I would say I was one of those Jews at one time, and though I identify as more than a “cultural Jew” now, I still think it’s important to continue to think about such ideas and bring them out in the open.

Like for me, the relationship between being Jewish and Israel, as I already mentioned. When I was growing up, there was absolutely no emotional attachment at all to such a concept because of the way I was raised.

When kids in school found out I was Jewish, after a moment of surprise, often (stereotypes about Jews not having blonde hair?), the ensuing questions were always, “Oh! Have you been to Israel?” and, “Do you speak Hebrew?”

To these I would answer indignantly, “Why would I go there? And why would I know Hebrew? My grandparents spoke Yiddish!”

In addition, though neither God nor synagogue ritual were a part of my vocabulary or experience, I still felt very Jewish and very proud.

That brings us to this week’s Torah portion, Va’etchanan.

The parsha begins with Moses publicly retelling how he pleaded, or more literally, asked for grace from God, (for which the portion is named) by letting him see the Promised Land, to which God answers, “Enough already! Stop asking! In fact, never ask me again!” In Hebrew, it’s Rav L’cha—which is like saying, you’re too much!

God has made his decision and is not going back on it.

Moses blames God’s decision on the waywardness of the Israelite people and their lack of faith and cooperation. (Who else can he blame?)

When you read it, your heart sort of breaks for Moses—at least, mine did. After all that Moses has done! After all his dedication! He just wants to see it. He just wants a little peak. In his pain, he throws the blame out onto someone else.

Here again, we are faced with a God that’s supposedly unending in compassion. Yet here his compassion has clearly come to an end. And he’s unbending about it.

It’s not the first time we’ve seen God in this light.

Yet God is supposed to be perfect.

Lucky for me, our tradition allows for criticism, and here’s the problem: it seems that so many people are afraid to do this; if we admit that there’s much to criticize, then others will be justified in rejecting our religion and us as a people?

On the other hand, if we jump the gun and are the first to reject and criticize, then we can’t be blamed; we’ve joined the Modern World; we’re not so stupid after all.

For me, criticizing Israel falls into the same category.

On Tisha B’Av this past Sunday, I attended a bunch of workshops through Hadar, and I heard some beautiful ancient commentary on this holy day.

One was a story of someone challenging God, accusing God of having been absent during the suffering, and abandoning his “Treasured People” during the destruction. God answers, “I was there, but I couldn’t do anything!” (What? The Great and Powerful couldn’t do anything?)

Another story makes God into a sibling as opposed to the traditional king or parent, and accuses “Him” of being not even as good as a sibling because: look at how Joseph forgave his brothers who had treated him so poorly, throwing him into a pit and abandoning him for dead; you, God, don’t possess the compassion even of Joseph, who was a mere human.

The amazing and beautiful thing about these commentaries, or midrashim, is that it was rabbis from, what, more than a thousand years ago, who wrote these things—rabbis that our tradition takes very seriously.

In my mind, this should give us at least a little bit of permission, if we’re waiting on someone else or on an ancient text (which I’m not) to give us permission to be critical of Judaism, of our Torah, of our god.

We could extend that to permission to be critical of the government of our beloved Holy Land.

And we could hope that by having such permission, we might not be called anti-Semites or self-hating Jews for such criticism.

This coming Saturday, the Shabbat after Tisha B’Av, is called Shabbat Nachamu—the Sabbath of Comfort.

May we take comfort in the beauty of the traditions we have, and may we gather the strength to put fears aside, and be unbending and unending in both our commitment to Judaism, our pride in being Jewish, and also in the ability to look critically at ourselves—like our tradition invites us to do—in order to create a Judaism and a Jewish world to match the world we want to live in.

Because—enough already! It’s too much!

“F” and “M”: D’varim & Tisha B’Av

When you think about this week’s Torah portion and Tisha B’Av, if you know anything about them (don’t worry, I’ll tell you), you probably don’t think of the words “fantastical,” “funny” or “magic.”

Here’s something fantastical, funny, and magical: Jane the Virgin, a series now on Netflix.

My husband and I just finished marathon-watching all six seasons over the course of only a couple of months, I’m more than a little embarrassed to admit. It was a special time we spent together every evening (and, truthfully, filled a void left by our younger daughter moving out (yay for her, though!).

If you haven’t seen Jane the Virgin—you HAVE to.

No, I’m serious.

It’s a dramedy, SO well-done as a real-life portrayal of three generations of strong, Latina women, and addressing all kinds of serious issues, including U.S. immigration policies. (As proof of what I’m saying, my real-life Latino husband completely agrees with all these statement).

It’s also a spoof on telenovelas, or Spanish soap operas, meaning it’s completely absurd and fantastical. You cry at the pain, grip your seat and scream out loud at what happens at every turn—and you laugh hysterically. (You can watch the trailer on YouTube here.)

Most importantly, you come away being reminded of the power of love and with a deep desire to believe in the fantastical, magical possibilities of life and living in community.

I need a lot of messages like this these days as a counter to the constant reminder that our world is in serious trouble.

I also don’t need Tisha B’Av, which commemorates the destruction of the Temple and the burning of an ancient city to remind me to be in mourning. Our tradition says we’re supposed to observe mourning rituals for three weeks before the holiday, with special restrictions in place, which feels especially burdensome to me at a moment when I feel like I partly live in a place of mourning all the time these days.

On the other hand, ritual is important, and Tisha B’Av offers an opportunity to practice ritual in community—because you’re never supposed to mourn alone, and community is crucial to survival. Even the rituals of Tisha B’Av are magical; you sit in the dark in community, with flashlights, and chant the Book of Lamentations together.

At the same time, our tradition says that if Tisha B’Av falls on Shabbat, you have to push it off for a day; we’re not allowed to mourn on the Sabbath; funerals and burials are not allowed on the Sabbath or holidays. Mourning takes a break or it comes to an abrupt end.

Maybe that’s a message for how to live our lives.

Here’s a message I heard from Torah this week: “It’s time to cross over.” God speaks to Moses saying, “It’s time to cross over into the Promised Land, so prepare the people for it; it’s happening soon!”

Of course, Torah stories are all very magical and fantastical, from the way God speaks to Moses to water pouring forth from rocks to giving birth at 90 to the description of the Promised Land as “flowing with milk and honey.”

And such stories helped millions of African Americans survive slavery and make freedom happen, and helped millions make new lives in this country as immigrants.

I heard an interview with DeRay Mckesson, a Black Lives Matter activist who believes in magic with all his heart—and in making magic happen through community—in simple ways. (You can hear his beautiful story on Episode 25 of Meditative Story.)

While listening to McKesson’s story, I thought, I want to believe in magic. And believing in magic is kind of like believing in God. It takes both faith and action.

You know what else is magical and fantastical? Laughter. And playfulness. They carry the power of survival.

Psychotherapist Esther Perel was interviewed by Krista Tippett and told a story of a group of Holocaust survivors who saw a play that dramatized their lives in the camps. In an effort to honor the pain of these survivors, the play was very serious.

When it was over, they were asked, “What did you think?”

“It was good,” they responded, “but where’s the laughter? We didn’t survive such an ordeal by being serious all the time. We laughed at ourselves and our situation. This was part of our resilience.”

Perel says we’ve become way too serious and earnest in our desire to respect each other. We’re afraid of offending, but to an extreme. We’re afraid to laugh at ourselves; even self-deprecation has become taboo.

But finding humor in the pain, the ability to laugh instead of cry, is just as crucial as community or the determination to survive. Humor offers distance, ownership, autonomy and perspective. It gives us a say over the matter. Laughter is play, and when you lose humor, you lose playfulness.

The effects of humor are magical.

So let’s remember to cross over, like our tradition reminds us—maybe even moment to moment.

Let’s mourn together in the magic of community, take action in community, and then cross over into fun and playfulness—all the time; let’s continue to celebrate life and remember to feel alive in the midst of the pain and suffering, using the magic humor and playfulness.

Attitudes of Platitudes & The Promise of Bliss: Mattot-Masei

Ignorance is bliss—or so they say.

I know I’ve asked this question before, but: How much do we want to know—really? And how much do we really know?

(Spoiler alert: we think we know so much, but we really know very, very little, about pretty much everything, and sometimes we don’t really want to know a whole lot more, because it’s so overwhelming, especially when we’re not sure what we can do about it—and we risk despair and giving up when we know stuff and feel helpless to change it.)

(Spoiler alert #2: Ironically, we really do want to know, and when secrets are kept from us, even or especially by people who love us and think they’re protecting us, and even when it changes our life forever, we actually wouldn’t choose not knowing—and always suspected the truth anyway.)

It was the Fourth of July on Sunday, and it felt like the whole world was out celebrating. Central park was teaming with people, large groups that couldn’t gather last year—due to the pandemic (dah).

I remember the weeks-long fireworks starting around Juneteenth last year after the murder of George Floyd, and up through July 4th. On July 4th, we traditionally celebrate the beautiful history of our country and freedom (which I say with more than a little bit of irony). But this felt more like rage.

This year couldn’t have been more different. The day was unusually cool (a short but glorious break from the extreme heatwaves that keep coming), and you couldn’t find a space in the grass between the celebratory gatherings, with grills giving off the delicious smells of summer cookouts, stretching past the park, throughout Harlem.

And it’s true that there’s so much to celebrate: the pandemic feels like it’s just about over in New York, and there’s been an awakening of so much of our nation to the truth about police brutality and racism. It feels like an awakening that’s taken things to a whole new level, thanks to the pandemic (if we can thank it for anything, I think we can thank it for that).

And there have been other positive political developments in the past year, including the passing of a bill for expanded LGBTQ rights and, most recently, additional protections for the trans community.

We could focus on all the horrors, and we should remember that the LGBTQ community is under increased attack over the last couple of years, in spite of the legislation, but there is also some positive to recognize.

Would recognizing the good mean that people are unaware of the state of the world? I don’t think so. Are they aware they’ve been lied to and that the lies continue, and that not enough is being done about the climate crisis?

I believe the majority is aware.

And do they want the truth, along with some true compassion that translates into things like truly affordable housing, and real investment in the earth, not this fake thing we’re getting?

Of course they do.

I was listening to a bonus episode of the podcast Family Secrets, and the conversation started with discussing the platitudes,“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” “There’s a reason for everything,” and “God only gives you what you can handle.”

So WRONG, right? Because these are the last things you can believe, or want to hear, when you’re in crisis. And the country and the world are in crisis, on so many levels.

And such platitudes are really only helpful to the one who gives over such a message. It makes them feel better—or they think it’s better than the backlash of telling the truth.

On Family Secrets, Kelly Corrigan talks about how she found out that she was conceived through a sperm donor—long after both her parents had died—and that they’d kept it a secret from her her whole life. Learning the truth blew up her entire identity.

But the truth, as painful and shocking as it was, was also liberating, because the disconnect, the questions, were always there under the surface.

So who feels better as a result of secrets or denying the truth? I don’t think anyone does.

You know what else doesn’t feel better? The retelling of the story of Pinchas, the violent zealot from the Bible I spoke about last week.

Yes, our tradition takes a really nasty story, that of Pinchas, and says that Pinchas is one and the same as Elijah, the wonderful prophet we invoke on Passover and at the end of Shabbat and as part of the ritual circumcision of a baby boy. We tell beautiful, magical stories about Elijah. We think of Elijah as a rescuer and protector of Jews.

When we hear the story that Pinchas was really Elijah, or became Elijah because he lived a really, really long time, it leaves us with a potential feeling of bliss. That’s what actually happened to me. When I heard this, it made me smile and sigh with relief inside for a few blissful moments. It gave me a soft, fuzzy, warm feeling inside.

But thinking about it later, I got angry.

Why do we do this? Do we think that the Torah and Judaism will somehow be saved and redeemed by this possibility?

In my eyes, it does neither. It just makes me angry, and makes me want to walk away. It makes me want to disconnect.

Add to the truth of Pinchas’ violence the thought that he has a place of honor again this week in the Torah, and that Moses, our great hero, has one last job to do before he dies, and that job is to wage war and wipe out an entire people so the Israelites can dwell in peace in the land that God is giving them.

And add that Bilam, the one who blessed the Jewish people over and over again a couple of weeks ago gets a special mention as needing to be murdered for being a Midianite. I know; the Midianites were guilty of pulling the Israelites away from their God and the idea of One-ness, and it was a hard message for people to get, but does that justify genocide??

Also, I get that God literally made Bilam bless the people, and Bilam acted like an ass with his ass, but Moses’ own wife is a Midianite, and I think it’s fair to say that there was a genuine love and respect between Moses and his father-in-law, Jethro.

So, what messages are sent here?

It feels like racism to me.

Telling the truth of the nasty parts of Torah doesn’t cancel out the good things that happen, and there are good things in this week’s parsha. Like the guidelines for trying a murderer, and the establishment of cities of refuge for such fugitives. The premise is fairness of judgment. A difference is drawn between those who intentionally kill, with hatred in their heart, and those who do so by accident. It sounds a lot like the American system of law! Also, Zelophahed’s daughters get their inheritance and the laws about females inheriting property are clarified.

But I don’t want to make up a pretty story about Pinchas just to feel better about the Torah and being Jewish. I don’t want to gloss over the pain.

What’s more, I don’t think glossing things over makes me—or others—want to stick around more. People have been walking away from Judaism and other religions partly due to lies told: not because of truths. How many Catholics walked away from the Catholic Church because of the widespread cover-up of sexual abuse by priests?

I believe that the more we tell the truth, the more permission we have to wrestle with the text, the more we will turn toward instead of away from Judaism (or whatever community—or family—we belong to). Ignorance is only temporarily blissful, until the truth comes out—and then we realize we not only wanted to know it, but we suspected it all along.

Kelly Corrigan reinforces this idea in Family Secrets. She talks about how people keep secrets from each other mostly out of fear and the belief that they are alone.

But the more chances we take in revealing ourselves (with caution), sharing truths that we think are so deep and dark that no one would ever want to talk to or look at us again, the more we realize how we are not alone—that there is at least one person out there, and more likely thousands, who understand our experiences—because they’ve had them, too; literally anything we’re ashamed of, she says, we can find others like us, and more connection will result, not the isolation we fear.

Because we’re really not alone. And the truth will come out, no matter how well we think we hide it, or try to. And then we’re left with, “What else did you lie to me about?” Carl Jung would call this “psychic poison.” It takes away any trust that was there. It makes us want to walk away, and isolates us further.

What’s true for us personally, and for our country, its history and present, are true for Torah as well. And if we talk about the truth, we can work through it.

It’s time to face the truth of all of it and stop glossing things over. In facing the ugly, we will connect more, not less, and we can’t change the ugly if we pretend everything is bliss—of the Torah or our country. Plus, we risk giving up in despair if all we see is the ugly.

So let’s stop saying that ignorance is bliss, that what we don’t know won’t hurt us, and that God only gives us what we can handle. And let’s stop retelling stories in ways that change the reality just to make it pretty. These platitudes and attitudes only harm and separate us.

And I’m really hoping we choose to walk toward each other—as Jews, as Catholics—as anyone. Together.

We have the option of turning away from the racism of Torah and pretending it’s not there, that it’s only about God wanting us to know that One-ness is the biggest truth, or we can take the ugly stories as lessons for how not to live.

Starting with truth, we will turn towards each other and figure out how we want to live—as One—on Earth.

Joie de Vivre: not so Pinchas

I have so much on my mind when I think of the parsha named Pinchas.

It starts as a continuation of a horrendous story that ended last week’s reading, and continues with one of the most empowering, beautiful, and random stories of the Torah. I say random, because we don’t hear about Zelophehad or his daughters before or after this.

Zelophehad is supposed to be a good guy, righteous in that he didn’t participate in Korach’s rebellion against Moses. That’s pretty much all we know about him. Pinchas is righteous, too, according to God, but I don’t like him at all.

Pinchas is what we would call a zealot—violent and ready to kill in the name of God. Last week’s parsha, after the talking donkey and Balak and Bilam took up most of the story, ended with a brutal murder by Pinchas, an Israelite who was all too happy to stick his sword through a couple (an Israelite man and a Moabite/Midianite—this detail is not consistent), entering a tent to have sex. He literally follows them into the tent and stabs them through as one. Yuck.

The story of Pinchas is all about the Israelites being lured away, apparently through the use of sex, to worship a different god (the struggle towards monotheism is a very long one), and “our” God orders the ringleaders to be impaled. A plague that God has started (again) is stopped because of this “righteous” behavior on Pinchas’ part. Pinchas is rewarded for his behavior at the beginning of this week’s reading; he and his descendants will all become priests for evermore.

Here’s something that struck me: God seems to live from a place of outrage. He is ready to spring at any moment. And he rewards violence.

Not good.

Another thing that struck me: random women are named in this parsha—the Midianite woman and the daughters of Zelophad—which is a very rare thing in the Torah. And these daughters are special.

Zelophad has five daughters, and when he dies, they’re not due any of his property, leaving them desolate. So they appeal to Moses, and Moses goes to God, and God says okay, the law should be changed so females can inherit property so long as there are no males around (obviously a big deal at that time).

This is a big win, and there’s no big argument, just pure and simple justice. Here God is kind and caring.

Today we might say that God has borderline personality disorder; his behavior is erratic, he’s manipulative, and he swings between being kind and generous and violent, punishing and rageful. This God is a god you’re walking around on eggshells.

All joking aside, what do you do in a world that has all of these things: injustice, violence and outrage; justice and love and caring and open-mindedness and flexibility.

In the middle of this week’s parsha, there’s a repetitive taking of the census, and it ends with a reminder of the holidays and how to observe them, most specifically the sacrifices to be made and how to make them. To me, it’s like saying, there’s a normal, even-keeled part of life, too. It goes on, no matter what you think. Everything continues, the drama passes. Life can be routine as well.

I heard Dr. Ruth on a podcast called The Experiment the other day. I was a young teen when she started talking about sex on the radio, so she has a very special place in my heart. (I wonder what she would say about the “whoring women” in the bible! Ha!)

Anyway, here we are coming to the end of the pandemic, at least in the U.S., with life “going back to normal,” “things opening up,” as everyone is wont to say, and the interviewer wanted to get Dr. Ruth’s perspective; what should we take from the pandemic? What about our trauma and grief? We need to make room for that, right? Keep talking about it?

“Absolutely not!” says Dr. Ruth emphatically. “Move on.”

When all the rest of us were whining, Dr. Ruth knew this would end. She stayed in her apartment, at 92, now 93, all alone, for over a year, never going out. Talk about lonely! She was a therapist to herself, she said, which got her through it.

This is the perspective of a woman who was sent off to travel on her own to safety as a young child during the WWII, lost her entire family to the Holocaust, and made a new life over and over again, in several different countries.

This is the kind of person who only looks forward: "Move on!” she says. “Take the lessons from the past—from the Holocaust, from the pandemic—never forget them!—but move on. Keep planning for the future. “The tulips were so beautiful this year. And they will be even more beautiful next year!” Dr. Ruth loves to repeat the phrase, joie de vivre.

What do we take from the lessons of the Torah and what do we leave behind?

How about we leave behind the violence and misogyny of an ancient society? Isn’t it time? How about the almost constant state of outrage? It’s not good for us individually, and it ripples out in destructive ways socially. It’s time to let that all go, don’t you think?

How about we carry forward the lessons of the power of the collective and the power of women, the ability to work together? How about the ability of these women to lead the way for other women, and to do so peacefully, without fighting, either among themselves (someone who comes to my morning minyan pointed out: how often do sisters get along—and five of them?”), or with Moses or God. They come level-headed, organized, coherent.

How about the possibility of those of us who can to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves?

And how about more joie de vivre?

Great Story (Maybe Not True?): Balak

I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts, and I learned of Alex Elle, whose friend told her a few years ago that she should start sharing her story on Instagram—that it was a story people needed to hear and it could have a great impact.

Elle believed there was no way anyone would want to hear her story. But her friend said, even if it made a difference to one person, it would matter.

Elle went ahead and did it. Now she has over a million followers! (Great story and true.)

For eight years, I believed that I was meant to end up as a rabbi at the synagogue where I interned a couple of years ago. I had this whole fantasy around it, that I would become a rabbi, and one day be up there at the pulpit in my favorite place—because I belonged there. It was a secret I kept from most people because I was embarrassed; who was I to think that I could end up in such a position at such a renowned synagogue?

I also believed that if I didn’t end up being a rabbi there, it meant that somehow I was flawed, not worthy, lacking.

Great stories. Both not true; the door kept slamming in my face to prove it.

The figurative door slamming in my face was something like being Bilam in the Torah this week, sitting on a she-ass, with his leg being slammed and crushed against the wall.

You see, Bilam can’t see the angel, sent by God, standing with a sword in outstretched arm blocking the way. The angel, or “satan" (pronounced “sah-tahn”—yes, the very word Christianity appropriated and whose meaning it changed) is an adversary, there to redirect Bilam from where he thinks he needs to be going.

This angel, or adversary, has been sent to stop Bilam from going to meet Balak, who wants him to curse the Israelites for him.

Balak believes that the Israelites are too many, too strong, so numerous they are like cows who will lick all the grass in the fields clean, leaving nothing for his own people (love the imagery, right?), so numerous you can not see the earth beneath their feet.

Great story. Not true. (It reminds me of male white supremacists that believe they’re being ignored and losing their power because women, people of color, and Jews, of course—Jews are always part of the story—are taking over—okay, maybe not such a great story).

Bilam can’t see the angel blocking the way, but the donkey can! That’s why the donkey careens, pushes against the wall to avoid this scary-looking angel, and collapses under Bilam like a child who goes limp to get its parent to stop.

Bilam, in his frustration, starts beating the animal, whom God finally gives speech to. The animal talks to Bilam and says, “Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to you? Haven’t I always obeyed your commands? Haven’t I been a good ass?” (Basically, “Maybe you’re being the ass here.”)

Great story. True? And is Bilam being an ass?

Well, God reveals the angel/messenger/adversary, and Bilam has to admit that he is indeed being an ass.

The way the story goes from here is that Bilam can only speak God’s truth now, and will not curse the Jewish people because God literally won’t let the words come out of his mouth. Balak becomes more and more incensed; though offering great compensation in exchange for the curses, and setting up sacrifices on three occasions, his plan is frustrated.

That means that both Balak and Bilam don’t see what they need to see. They both act in ways that show how asinine they are; they are both being blocked in what they believe to be true and right, and they act shamefully.

Even God acts shamefully. First, he tells Bilam he may go meet Balak to talk about Balak’s request, though God’s word would hold true, and then God flies into a rage when Bilam actually gets on a donkey to go. This is when God throws the angel, the “Satan,” in front of Bilam.

Remember what I said last week about humans being made in the image of God? Does our rage reflect the The Better Angels of our Nature, or another part of humanity we’re not so proud of?

Are there adversaries standing in our way, trying so hard to get our attention so we can see and change course?

How do we recognize them? How many times do we have to have a door slam in our face? How many times do we need to beat our poor, innocent donkey (or a dead horse)? How painful does our leg have to get, smooshed against a wall, before we decide it’s time to listen to our bodies? At what point do we stop to think, maybe this thing/animal/being is God trying to communicate something and I’m not listening or I’m unable to see?

A friend of mine told a great and true story this week at the morning chanting/prayer service I lead on Mondays (you can come if you want—it’s on Zoom): yesterday, she was swimming in a lake. She turned over and was floating on her back. She didn’t realize she had left her glasses on top of her head, and they fell off, of course. They looked for hours, unable to retrieve the glasses. So she’s wearing cheap pharmacy glasses for the moment.

My friend was thinking about what happened. She had decided there must be a message in it for her, and our discussion on Balak and Bilam helped her find it; perhaps she needs to see things differently.

It took me a long time to realize that the door slamming in my face was a good thing: an angel/adversary—my own personal “satan” with a drawn sword, showing two edges: a blessing on one side; a curse on the other. But I couldn’t see it. I’m grateful now for the doors slamming in my face.

May we see the adversaries placed before us as blessings rather than curses. May the Better Angels of Our Nature win out for the sake of blessings rather than curses—and may they multiply from one to millions.

Water and the Better Angels of Our Nature: Khukat

Last week I wrote about guilt and responsibility—not exactly subject matter that leaves you feeling happy or with a whole lot of faith in humanity. I mean, come on. I wrote about Nazis.

So this week I wanted to bring in the opposite: faith in humanity. It may be like drawing water from a rock, but hey, that’s what this Torah portion is about anyway, so let me draw!

Indeed, Moses strikes a rock with his staff to get water from it. The people have been complaining again, tired of the bland food, mostly fearful (still) of dying in the desert, and for good reason; there’s no water. God tells Moses to talk to a rock, and water will come from it.

Even though he doesn’t exactly follow God’s directions (instead of talking, Moses strikes the rock), water still comes gushing out—enough for the myriads of people and their animals.

But since Moses has disobeyed God’s command and he’s made it look like he and Aaron made this miracle happen and not God, Moses and Aaron are punished; they will not be allowed to enter the Promised Land with the people because of the lack of faith shown by their words. Also, Aaron will die later in the parsha, as punishment for his disobedience.

According to God, Moses shows a lack of faith that God will provide the water by taking credit for it himself.

Many of us struggle not only with faith in God, but also faith in humanity. The way the world is going, even with bits of positive things happening, they still feel like just drops in the grand ocean of the negative. And perhaps lack of faith in humanity is not so different from lack of faith in God.

Let’s take this a step farther; if humans are made in the image of God, as they say, then our emotions and actions reflect God-like emotions and actions, and as we see in the Torah, God isn’t always so nice, kind of like human beings. (Case in point: God flies into another one of his rages over the people’s complaints and sends serpents to bite the people, and Moses must intervene on their behalf—again.)

We could look for a male propensity for violence in Moses in this moment at striking the rock, or his hubris, or we could tell a different story and decide that his actions reflect his current emotional state. You see, I failed to mention that right before the rock incident, Miriam has died. There’s no mention of a mourning period (unlike for Aaron, who gets a full 30 days, not the normal seven days—maybe because she’s a woman?)

The story we could tell might go something like this: Moses must be in shock and grieving. Maybe he’s angry about Miriam’s sudden death. Maybe he feels abandoned by God. This might explain his striking the rock instead of being in a conversational mood. Also, as Miriam is famous for her connection to water, perhaps her spirit helps the water come gushing from the rock after Moses strikes it. This might be Miriam’s response to Moses, saying, “I’m still here. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright.” But in his grief, Moses can’t see or feel or hear this message.

I heard Nicholas Christakis, author and professor at Yale University, on the On Being podcast last Sunday with Krista Tippett: How We’re Wired for Goodness. Christakis’ work is about re-narrating what we believe about humanity. He says science has focused way too much and for far too long “on the dark side of humanity and our propensity for selfishness, tribalism, mendacity, cruelty, violence—as if this were a normal and primary state of affairs.”

Christakis says that the bright side has been denied the attention it deserves. He’s more interested in focusing on the qualities that make, not an individual, but a collective “good.” He wants to know how a group of humans comes together and cooperates.

Moreover, his work looks at the human qualities that have evolved over millions of years—qualities like love, friendship, cooperation, and teaching. He points out how unusual these are in the animal kingdom, like teaching others, but also to teach and love those not connected to us genetically. He argues that these qualities are more powerful than the negative ones and in some ways much more important because they outweigh the cultural aspects that separate us because we are hardwired for them.

Tippett and Christakis talk about Theodicy and a term he coined called Sociodicy.

Theodicy questions how we can believe in and justify a beneficent, omnipotent, omniscient, all-loving God given the amount of suffering in the world. How do we explain the origins of evil?

Sociodicy takes a different angle by asking, how can we vindicate a confidence in the goodness of society despite the manifest evil in society? It is not to deny that every century has been replete with horrors, venal actions of all kinds, but rather to draw attention to the equal propensity we have for goodness—despite these horrors.

Sociodicy recognizes that even our evil qualities are features of our humanity and the good qualities we’ve evolved are in response to those evil qualities. As humans, we have few natural predators, and we in fact are our own predators, so we’ve had to evolve to cope with the evil qualities for our own survival.

Christakis says that we don’t really have what’s called Free Will in the denigrated way we have been taught; we’re wired for certain feelings and behaviors, evolved over time, and part of that behavior is copying each other; just like with mob mentality, “social contagion” has its positive side. And when we act in ways that show cooperation, love, concern, and teaching, the effects are magnified dozens, maybe thousands of times. This raises Free Will to a different level, because we have the option of working with what he calls, “The better angels of our nature.”

Water shows up again and again in this week’s Torah reading, whether it comes gushing from a rock for drinking or it’s to wash infected clothes or it’s sprinkled on a person exposed to death, or it’s a reference to countless wells in the desert, including one the Israelites sing to in order to help water spring up from it.

God wants Moses to give credit where credit is due: he wants Moses to remember that he can not possibly lead the people to freedom without God’s assistance. God is saying, “Remember the Source of All Life; you are not it.”

As with the water springing from the rock, human agency seems to be involved here. But maybe Moses, or Miriam, having some agency in drawing water from the rock reflects the faith that we need to have in humans as much as God since, as it is said, we are made in the Image of God. Again, if we have faith in humanity, we are showing faith in God, and vice versa.

So how do we use our agency? Christakis recommends going through our day looking for opportunities to see the goodness in others: imagining reasons for their actions, like we did with Moses above, constantly re-narrating anything negative we encounter.

The word for messenger in the Torah is interchangeable with the word for angel. Often messengers are sent ahead to assist on any journey.

Sometimes re-narrating may feel like drawing water from a rock.

May the waters we encounter cleanse us of our negativity, allowing the better angels of our nature to guide us.

Guilty (Korakh)

My mother has been dead for three years, and I think I just forgave her for the ways she hurt me. I say, “I think,” because, you know how these things are; you had an opening, you feel like you’re over it, but then angry feelings come up again.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved my mother very much, and I appreciated a lot of things about her, as a person and a mother, and about our relationship. She was a really good mother in so many ways, and I give her credit for teaching me good mothering skills. But she also held me back in many ways, and caused extra friction in my marriage for some thirty years as I was trying to figure things out for myself.

Here’s how angry I was: After trying and trying, I ultimately didn’t see or speak to her during the last year of her life. I don’t advertise this. It was very hard for me; I’d always prided myself on being a really good daughter and I’ve felt very, very guilty about withdrawing from her.

I know that whatever she did, she did out of fear, but knowing something intellectually is not the same as forgiving someone in your heart, especially when they’ve caused you so much pain. Also, forgiveness is a process.

I’ve been reading a book called The Sunflower, by Simon Wiesenthal. Perhaps you know it. It’s a true story by a Holocaust survivor who tells how, while still a prisoner, he was put into a situation with a very young, dying SS soldier, maybe 20 years old, who has asked to speak with a Jew—any Jew—to unload the burden of a crime before he dies.

The young man tells of throwing grenades into a building and killing entire families that have been stuffed and locked inside with hundreds of others. He remembers one particular couple who jumps from a window with their young child. This memory haunts him, and he wants absolution for his crime. Wiesenthal is forced to sit and listen for hours as this bandaged man talks. After hours of sitting at the edge of this young man’s bed silently, Simon walks away without offering any words of consolation.

After the war, Wiesenthal goes to find the mother of this young man and, like in a movie, she’s living alone in the rubble that has become her house and surrounding neighborhood in Stuttgart. She confirms that she and her husband had not been Nazi supporters, and they were ashamed of their son becoming a Nazi Youth. She seems to need some absolution as well.

Though Wiesenthal challenges her thinking somewhat about individual guilt and responsibility, he still chooses not to tarnish her memory of her son as a “good boy,” the one last possession she has. He feels compassion for her and the challenges she’d had in the choices she’d made; she’d had to protect her family.

Wiesenthal is haunted by his decisions for years afterwards. Should he have absolved the dying young man, in spite of his rage and disgust? Was he too harsh with the boy’s mother about her responsibility? Was it wrong that he had even an ounce of compassion for the man after all the sadistic acts he had experienced and witnessed in the camps and on the street—a lifetime of open, violent, sanctioned antisemitism and hatred?

Also, does he, a random Jew, have the right to absolve someone of a crime that was not directly committed against him? And how are murderers made? How does one get to forgiveness, and should he be pressured to it as quickly as he was? Will we forget if we forgive?

Finally, he ponders the question of collective vs. individual guilt.

In this week’s Torah reading, Korakh, such a question came up for me. Korakh leads a rebellion against Moses and things do not end up well for him and his followers. Though Moses is our hero, I was able to find compassion for Korakh when I read his chief complaint: How come you get all the credit? What about the rest of us? Aren’t we holy, too?

Obviously, Korakh was feeling left out, unnoticed, neglected. And his followers were scared; they keep repeating their fear of dying in the desert, which is so great that their memory of Egypt is warped and they call it “The Land of Milk and Honey.”

But what resulted was a mob mentality. God punishes the mob. He holds everyone accountable, not just Hitler—I mean, Korakh; each is responsible for their own decisions and participation.

A similar mentality is true for violent Trump supporters: neglected and ignored for decades by our government, they are scared. And they were enveloped and influenced by a mob mentality: a feeling of safety in the mob.

Another example of mob mentality is what happened in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in 1921, as you can hear in fascinating detail on the podcast Blind Spot: Tulsa, Burning: government-sanctioned racism, hatred, destruction, massacre—and then kept a secret, by both victims and the offspring of the perpetrators, some of whom felt guilty, all of whom were too afraid to speak out or speak up, thinking only to protect their own families.

It’s one thing to hold hatred in your heart against those one deems inferior to oneself. It’s another to keep silent in the face of what you know is wrong—yet we know that everyone does it when it comes to staying alive and keeping our loved ones alive, even if we want to be on the “right” side of history.

My father used to say that guilt is a useless emotion. His therapist had told him that.

I disagree. I think guilt one of the best human emotions out there. It’s a feeling of guilt that keeps us in check; it’s what makes us at least try not to continue to hurt others.

Collective guilt; collective responsibility. None of us is innocent. We’ve all done things we need forgiveness for, and if we forgive too quickly, then we’re letting others and ourselves off the hook.

I have compassion for my mother’s fear. She inherited it. She learned it. And I can forgive her for it. And it was a huge release and relief to finally feel able to write her a letter telling her I forgive her, and how much I loved her and missed her for the good she gave me in my life. I miss the good parts more and more, which I think is a good sign. It means the pain is receding.

It’s supposed to be freeing to forgive someone, which is why we are encouraged to jump to it. Wiesenthal talks about how Holocaust survivors were pressured to put it all behind them quickly—to forgive and forget—for their own sake.

But I don’t want to forget the pain my mother caused me altogether, and the pain of all the massacres in history should not be forgotten, because every “good boy” is capable of joining in the “mob mentality” or becoming a murderer.

I have inherited my mother’s patterns, and they challenge me, but it’s the memory of the pain and the guilt I feel when I inflict it on those I love that helps me strive not to repeat it.

Oh, Say Can You See? (Shlach Lecha)

My older daughter graduated from law school yesterday. And in person!!

I, know, right? Amazing!

Especially for my husband, first generation Latino immigrant. It was his biggest dream fulfilled, and if he hadn’t made it through Covid, as was a real possibility…how different the day would have been for us. I was reminded of the sacredness of life and how quickly that can change. I was reminded not to take it for granted.

In any event, I couldn’t stop crying, and I was grateful for the mask. Just the hint of my tears was a little too much for my daughter: “Mommy, you’re killin’ me.”

Yet, it was all so perfect, beyond our wildest dreams, in every way: the weather, our joy at being together, the party afterwards.

The speeches were quite inspiring as well, especially after such a year. They made me proud, prouder than I ever thought I could or would be; I’d never particularly aspired to have a lawyer in the family. Too many bad lawyer jokes, you know what I mean?

But the speeches referred to and reminded me of people like Sonia Sotomayor and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and the power of the law in a good way and the power of a single lawyer or judge to effect change or to at least have an influence. We know that it matters which justices fill our Supreme Court—very much!

Of course, first in the order of things in a graduation is hearing the national anthem.

Now, I’ve always been the kind of person who wasn’t so sure about standing for the national anthem, and I definitely don’t put my hand on my chest.

It’s not that I don’t love my country. I just have a hard time with nationalism.

Every morning over the past week, the school behind my apartment building has been preparing the children for their graduation. I can see them and hear the music blasting. First, it’s America the Beautiful, followed by the Black National Anthem, Lift Every Voice and Sing, and then a song from The Greatest Showman, which I’d never heard before, but which my younger daughter “hates” (because some people she knows are “obsessed” with it).

All this seems very much aligned with the Torah reading this week, though. (I was actually wondering if I should name this blog post “Canaan the Beautiful,” but settled on “Oh, Say Can You See.”)

On to the Torah portion, Shlach Lecha, where twelve spies are sent into the land of Canaan, the Promised Land, to scout it out and bring back the news of what kind of place it is; is it indeed a land flowing with milk and honey? What are the people like? What are the cities and towns like? What about the trees? How’s the fruit? Bring some back so we can see!

Upon the scouts’ return, everything’s going great until a couple of them start to spread rumors—wait: are they rumors, or did they start to wonder if what they’d seen was truly as wonderful as they’d thought, or were they imagining things? Was it too good to be true? Did they get scared and start to question the ability of their own people to overcome the people of this other land? (Ah, that good old nationalism: the thing that inspires people to cross oceans, barge in, go to war and take over other lands. This is where it gets sticky for me.)

Whatever it was, their reports of giants in the land that are way too big to confront is taken as blasphemy. God is furious (again); How dare they doubt “Him?” They will be punished; their generation will not be allowed to see or enter the Promised Land!

These are, one could say, the dissenting voices. Should they be allowed to speak? This is what America the Beautiful is based on, right?—Oh, wait, I forgot—we’re not talking about America, we’re talking about the Bible!

Yet the question remains. When does it become dangerous to allow “Free Speech,” and when is it important for a healthy society? We all know what hate speech has done over the past years, causing people to question not only the idea of quarantining and mask-wearing, but even our elections.

This week, we are also remembering the Tulsa Race Massacre, a crime that was not only supported by local law enforcement at the time, but kept secret for many years. Which voices won out there?

It turns out that “saying anything you want” was actually not the original idea behind Free speech after all, which referred to not having to get a permit or pay a government fee in order to print your ideas.

In fact, speaking of the law and judges, the way we talk and think about Free Speech and the First Amendment today comes from Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Holmes, with roots in the Civil War, was very much in favor of shutting dissenting voices down in favor of a good cause—like ending slavery. He believed very much in pumping people up with nationalism for the sake of the “right” ideas winning out and shutting down the voices that could threaten that, kind of like what we think of when we talk about World War II and the need to overcome the Nazis.

But all that changed for him in the 1920’s, when he was willing to admit that, “We’ve been wrong before and we’ll likely be wrong again.”

Justice Holmes coined the phrase, “Marketplace of Ideas,” imagining, like a “Free Market,” that the Truth would win out. But both a Free Market and a Marketplace of Ideas assume that everyone has the same resources and that everyone’s microphone is the same size.

Holmes also said, “Every year, if not every day, we have to wager our salvation upon some prophecy based on imperfect knowledge.” Was Holmes talking about the American justice system, or was he talking about the prophecy in the Torah and this week’s reading?

Either way, I love the words of the song “A Million Dreams,” from The Greatest Showman, whatever my daughter says:

I close my eyes and I can see
The world that's waiting up for me
That I call my own
Through the dark, through the door
Through where no one's been before
But it feels like home

They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy
They can say, they can say I've lost my mind
I don't care, I don't care, so call me crazy
We can live in a world that we design

'Cause every night I lie in bed
The brightest colors fill my head
A million dreams are keeping me awake
I think of what the world could be
A vision of the one I see
A million dreams is all it's gonna take
Oh a million dreams for the world we're gonna make

We can keep dreaming of fulfilling the prophecy—but for all the world: a world where nationalism and national anthems are not necessary in order to reach the Promised Land. (Can you see it?)

Because we have the power to design the world we want, through our speech and our actions—as long as we keep what is sacred in sight.

And if there’s anything we’ve learned this year, I hope it’s that we know what’s sacred. I certainly felt it on graduation day.

Little Boxes; B’ha’alot’cha

Recently I was sitting in the park and there was a father and three children. One of them was severely disabled and he sat there feeding her and making sure her headphones were playing as she moved and “sang” along to the music in her head.

There was an older brother who went to throw ball with his younger sister. The boy told his sister to stand farther back, but the father immediately called out, “You gotta stand closer to her; she’s a girl!”

Neither child challenged his statement.

I was upset; “Still putting each other, and ourselves, in little boxes,” I thought. What can this man imagine for his children and what boxes is he keeping them in? Will they be able to break out of them?

True to boxes, this week the Torah clearly states that both Miriam and Aaron make racist comments about their brother Moses’ wife, but then God only punishes Miriam—with a really bad skin affliction—to the point where they fear for her life and Moses prays for her (the famous prayer: el na refana la; please, God, heal her).

God also clarifies that Moses has been singled out as the only prophet who gets to talk to God face to face and that Moses is the most humble of all men on earth (Great example: two men are accused of acting like prophets and Moses defends them: “Are you really that upset on my account? Don’t worry about me! I don’t need to be the only one. In fact, everyone should have the spirit of God upon them.” Nice, Moses! Breaking out of those boxes God has made!)

Yes, it’s great to have a leader who knows how to ask for help (as he does this week again) and doesn’t need to be special (in other words, not a narcissist like so many), but it seems obvious that Moses is chosen for his special role at least partly because he’s a man, like God in the Bible, and that Aaron goes unpunished because he’s also a man.

Historically, we earthlings have also put God in a little box, not being able to imagine that “He” might not be male at all, or what non-gendered would even mean—for God or anyone else.

Back to God, though, who lacks imagination in other ways; though often described as all-compassionate, unending in forgiveness, how often does he have to be talked down by Moses? It happens again here when the people begin to complain about the limited variety of food available to them in the dessert (only manna), as they reminisce about the meat and fish, yes fish! and melons and all kinds of goodies they supposedly enjoyed in Egypt as slaves (I guess their imaginations were not limited here!).

God becomes incensed a couple of times in this particular story and says, “You want meat!? I’ll give you meat! I’ll give you so much meat, it’ll be coming out of your ears and you’ll be sick from it. (And to think that God predicted that some people in the world would have access to so much food one day, it would make them sick! This, indeed, was not lacking in imagination.)

Now it’s Moses’ turn to be limited in imagination. Here he panics and says to God, “There are 600,000 people to feed! There’s no way we can have enough for everybody by tomorrow!” To which God responds, “Are you kidding me? Nothing is too big for me. Do you forget that I am the all-powerful, unlimited in capacity?” (And God delivers. No problem.)

Scene change: The Pentagon finally, sort of, acknowledged this week that UFO’s might be a real thing. This is part of the same problem: it’s so hard for our earthling brains to imagine that there might be other intelligent life on planets that don’t look like ours or have the same biologic make-up.

I heard Jill Tarter, a female space scientist who went to Cornell at a time when the female students were literally locked in their own little boxes (their dorms) every evening because it was believed the university should be their parent (in loco parentis). Tarter was interviewed by Krista Tippett for the On Being Project.

Her words and the title of the interview: “It Takes a Cosmos to Make a Human,” by which she means, every single cell in our bodies and everything on earth contains the same exact material—of the cosmos!

Translation: there’s no such thing as Me and You/Us and Them. In fact, Tarter wants us to call ourselves Earthlings as opposed to humans because that would help us realize that we have so much more that links us than separates us.

But I hated it when she said, “Oh, organized religion is not my thing.” (Tippett always asks about an interviewee’s spiritual or religious upbringing).

It’s become so popular to reject religion. But I say, Tarter, like others, was putting “religion” in the boxes she herself wants us to reject.

I mean, I get it. “Organized Religion” has done a lot of harm in the world. A lot of people have been slaughtered in the name of it. And so much of the story of earthlings as told in the Bible is what she/we reject, right? The Torah seems to be all about separation: between God and God’s creations, between Moses and his people, the Israelites and Other people, even between the different tribes. There’s us, the special ones, over here; those inferior people over there, us driving them out, them driving us out.

It seems to give license to separation, hierarchy and slaughter.

Yet, there’s that message of awe that Tarter is talking about, and that Einstein and other scientists have talked about, that we’ve lost touch with. And there is a constant reminder in the Torah that we must live with awe.

Towards the end of her interview, Tippett asks Tarter if she ever gets frustrated at not finding intelligent life out in the universe. To this Tarter responds, “Absolutely not. We’re just at the very beginning of our space exploration and our use of computers to aid us in that.”

She adds: “It would be like scooping water with a bucket to see if there are any fish in the ocean, and seeing it come up empty, we assume there are no fish.”

Maybe the problem is not religion vs. spirituality/you vs. me/us vs. them (and, yes, I'm thinking of present-day Israel as well). Maybe it’s our little earthling brains that divide us from each other because of lack of imagination and the little boxes we live in, even inside our brains.

The weather has been swinging back and forth over the past week in many places, including in New York: 90 degrees for several days (and it’s not even June!) and then dropping to 60 for a couple of days, then 90 again. It’s frustrating and scary. What’s our future? I’m having a hard time imagining the healing of the earth.

And yet I know I must expand my little earthling brain because, well, there’s the awe factor.

Should we be frustrated? Maybe not.

Maybe we should try our best to remember that we are just at the very beginning of our earthling civilization becoming civilized, stretch our imaginations out of the little boxes we’ve been living in for so, so long, and try our best to live with awe and in awe, every day, as much as possible.

That’s what Organized Religion does for me. Because I don’t get to look through a microscope or a telescope very often.

But when I address or bow to “God,” I am placing imagination in a place far up in the sky, remembering how very vast the universe is, and how very endless the possibilities, even if I can’t imagine them right now.

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True Story: Naso

True story: It was Shavuot and I was praying for a revelation, like I always do. Last week, when the world started to blow up across the world (from where I am), I wasn’t yet ready to say anything. Instead I talked about sexual harassment and cleaning out our internal closets, which also need a voice.

But now I’m ready, and it turns out these two things are kind of connected; it was scary to bring up the subject of sexual harassment, especially when you’re involved in a case, and it’s more than a little scary to take a clear and public stance as a Jew against the status quo in the Jewish world. 

On principal, I believe in joining those who are forced to take a difficult stance on various issues, and it’s certainly no scarier than to become the first openly transgender bishop in the Evangelical Lutheran Church---or any religious institution, for that matter---which happened recently for Rev. Megan Rohrer. 

I know you understand. There’s so much vitriol. With Israel, it’s so old, but it also feels like more of the same, hostile divide we’ve been experiencing in the U.S. over the past 4-plus years; the talk is toxic and so are the actions. 

For one, I don’t want anyone calling me a self-hating Jew if I defend the rights of Palestinians. The Palestinian government is corrupt, but so is the Israeli Prime Minister, but Jews don’t have any trouble defending the rights of other Jews. Also, the whole world is watching, and there’s already enough anti-semitism to go around; we certainly don’t need more. 

I recently started using Instagram as a way to connect with other Jewish people. There’s one person I started following, but soon found their stuff to be really toxic.

I should have known, and I admit I suspected by the name on their account: “IsraelTrueStory.”

In my view, anyone who claims to hold “The Truth” about anything is dangerous, especially when it comes to complicated politics. While I don’t defend the actions or politics of Hamas, I also believe in humility. In fact, the posts on this Instagram account were full of arrogance, ridicule and condescension. Toxic. So I quickly “unfollowed.”

The thing is, we have a problem in our Holy Book, which repeats again and again that God promised us this land and that we could drive anyone out, and God would back us up. 

Such a message may feel comforting to a people who have never had a home where they could feel completely safe, from the beginnings of Christianity, through the Middle Ages and the Holocaust.

But such a message of promise and inheritance is also a toxic message. 

Of course, we don’t need the Bible to remind us that people have been taking each other’s land and homes since time immemorial. As we all know, the U.S. government did it to Native Americans in very recent history. I heard Joy Harjo, the first Native American to hold the title Poet Laureate, talking about this on Sunday.

Harjo not only talked about stolen land but also about the self-hatred that she internalized growing up with the “True Story” about Native Americans as told in the U.S. school system. 

I would venture to say that all people who come from a minority or oppressed group have at least some self-hatred, and this needs to be examined; it’s toxic to hold on to such feelings and it skews our worldviews. In an effort to be “proud,” arrogance and condescension may take over.

The Torah is pretty toxic this week, too. Maybe it always is. There’s the story of the woman, any woman, accused of cheating on her husband, who must submit to an awful, demeaning test with a Temple priest who uses a kind of crazy magic to find out if she is guilty or not. There is a terrible punishment for her if she is guilty. 

On the other hand, if the husband wrongly accused her due to a fit of jealousy, he goes unpunished. It’s like the Torah is saying he’s entitled to his arrogance—at the woman’s expense—and it’s okay to demean her.

It would be hard to deny that the disdain shown towards women in the Bible, throughout history and into the present, has led to great insecurity and a self-doubt many women hold when it comes to trusting our instincts in social situations that involve or may lead to sexual abuse or harassment. And as a woman, I have to say that I often don’t trust my instincts and often feel unsafe. 

True story: Everyone deserves to feel safe. 

The first time I visited Israel, only two years ago (and I’m in my late 50’s), I understood for the first time in my life what it meant to feel completely safe somewhere as a Jewish person, where I didn’t have to weigh whether I should reveal my Jewish identity or not. I suddenly “got this whole Israel thing.” 

(As I write these thoughts, I am also aware that Black Americans have never had the privilege of  feeling completely safe and accepted anywhere, and they don’t have the choice, like I do, to hide their identity, though there have been plenty of times when people told me I “look Jewish,” even though that doesn’t really work overall, and that’s a subject for another time.) 

I think I can safely say that Muslims and Arabs feel unsafe in Israel and in the Occupied Territories most of the time, not counting current events. Whoever started it or is continuing it, the numbers of civilian deaths on each side make it clear who has the power here.

My point is, everyone should have a home and feel safe in that home (or “house” of worship), and anyone who takes that away is violating a basic human right of another person (which is a separate issue from sending rockets or bombing).

And anyone who has ever understood what it feels like to be singled out, shunned, looked-at askew, feared or disdained for just being, should not be arrogant or condescending towards others, and these attitudes should never enter the political realm. 

But it seems to be human nature to cover up our own hurt, fear and insecurity by displaying arrogance and self-righteousness. The truth is important, don’t get me wrong, but truth is multi-layered; there is layer upon layer of hurt, fear, trauma, and insecurity that informs our way of seeing and acting in the world.

And, True Story; we need to find our way from “This Land is My Land” to “This Land is Our Land.” I’m not sure how to get there, but I think what is revealed again and again is the need to be as humble as possible, to examine the parts of ourselves that come from insecurity and pain, and to strive to let go of the arrogance of “knowing The Truth.”

In the meantime, as it says in this week’s parsha, May God bless you and protect you; May God deal kindly and graciously with you; May God lift God’s face towards you and grant you peace.”

Whoever you are.

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Closets and the Desert: B’midbar

Last week, after recovering from that terrible post-vaccine week, I had a burst of energy and did a lot of cleaning out, both physical and emotional. 

I had treated myself to some new summer blouses (first time in over five years--on sale, mind you), and took the opportunity to weed out the clutter of old clothes I don’t feel good in anymore, and make room for the new. 

I started with my dresser and soon got caught up in the cleaning frenzy, finding myself not in one closet, but two, removing all that blocked my path, an accumulation of years, out of breath, sweating despite the cool weather, throwing things out onto the floor, making a huge mess that I then needed to sift through.

My husband came in at one point and said, “You know you’re crazy, right?” I said I knew how it must look—like a cartoon character throwing things up and behind a hunched body in rapid fire.

But it got the job done. By the end, I had filled five large bags that I took to the thrift shop the very next day—I just had to get them out of the house, and finish by vacuuming. The clearing I felt afterwards was incredible, like my refrigerator before Passover (which is still beautiful, if you wanna know). You could say I got swallowed up by the task—and it was exhausting. The work was so intense, it took a few days to recover afterwards.

This week we begin the Book of Numbers, B’midbar in Hebrew, meaning in the desert. 

It’s a very repetitive reading: a census of the twelve tribes, males above a certain age capable of fighting, and with instructions on where each tribe is to encamp in relation to the Sanctuary, as the Israelites make their way through the desert.

There is one group, the Levites, that is excluded from this. They are responsible for dismantling, transporting and reassembling the Sanctuary at the center of the next encampment.

Among the Levites is a special sub-group, the Kohathites, that is responsible for carrying the Sanctuary’s vessels, things like the Ark and the menorah. They are carefully instructed, more than once, not to be allowed to look at or touch the vessels, or they will die—and they must not die or be cut off from their people. There are special coverings for the vessels to protect the Kohathites from the power of the vessels, to be placed by the Levites.

The verb used to describe the covering of sacred objects and dismantling the Sanctuary is a word that means “swallow,” as in, the objects will be swallowed up by the coverings. There is an element of destructiveness to this word, since the sanctuary is dismantled in preparation for moving forward on the journey through the desert. So while there is destruction, there is also protection of both the objects and those carrying them, and the idea of forward movement; the people are moving towards something, though it’s not explicit what.

While one wonders at this, one must also wonder at the power of the sacred objects, the energy they carry, to the point that it can kill the Kohathites, but not the other Levites. Is there a certain level of purity of soul and devotion needed to be able to handle, literally and figuratively, these powerful vessels? What makes a person capable of handling such energy? And how does it connect with forward movement?

I’m just an ordinary person, and I’m constantly looking for ways to improve myself and deepen my spiritual practice and connection. I could look at my cleaning and clearing out last week as simply psychological. On the physical level, I literally cleaned out my closets, allowing for space in my home for energy to flow.

On the psycho-emotional level, it was also my mother’s birthday, three years since her death, and I dealt with lingering feelings of anger and regret. I found pictures in my closet in old boxes. I cried a lot.

I’m also involved in a case of sexual harassment and other abuse.

For me, personally, it’s bringing up other past traumas in my life and setting endless conversations in motion—all of it exhausting. But I agreed to do it because I’m hoping to be among those who help effect societal changes for future generations.

No community is immune. Inappropriate behavior and sexual harassment is coming out of closets all over the place, including in the Jewish world (great article this week in the Jewish/Yiddish paper, the Forward), which is a good thing, but it’s also painful.

Cleaning and clearing out, being swallowed up in the process, is painful, exhausting, but ultimately cleansing. Old things have to be dismantled in order for new things to be birthed.

We are now approaching Shavuot, the Festival of Weeks, seven weeks since Passover, when we harvest the first fruits and bring them as an offering to God. The harvest is a destruction and dismantling of the fields that hold the fruits, and the bounty of our work is presented in a different form, on an altar or in our kitchens.

Part of the practice of this time is in the daily “Counting of the Omer” (an “omer” refers to an ancient measure of dry grain). This practice involves working on personal qualities, getting ourselves ready for that moment to receive Torah as if we had each personally been present at Mt. Sinai with Moses and the rest of the Israelite population.

It’s scary to face cluttered closets, open old boxes that may contain memories and bring up painful feelings that it may be easier not to feel, but if we are to move forward and get to a place of pure heart and soul, we must go through the process, and make sure that we protect each other as we dismantle, so that maybe, one day, we might be both capable and worthy of touching the sacred vessels that hold something new for the future.

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Can we walk through the gates? B’har/Bkhukotai

I have three little stories to tell.

1. Last week was a really rough one. A week ago Friday was my first Covid vaccine (Pfizer--I know you wanna know), followed by aches and pains, sleepless nights, four days of headaches. The weird, hot and humid, then extremely windy and cold weather didn’t help. 

   As a result, I had to cancel my Saturday morning launch of leading services in the park.

   Just as bad as the pain and discomfort I was in was the mental torture I put myself through--the catastrophizing: “What if I make the commitment and then I can’t follow through due to my unpredictable health? Am I still a Covid-long-hauler? Do I tell people that? Will they judge me? What if I never, ever get to do this, after all my preparation...making my own prayer books, etc., etc.”  

2. Today I finally took a walk in the park after almost a week (and if you know me well, I’m in the park every chance I get), and I saw a man I often see. He’s a small, middle-aged, Latino guy who apparently had a stroke. I’ve been seeing for years in my neighborhood with his walker, slowly and deliberately moving along.

   He comes to the steps of the pergola in the Conservatory garden and, up and down he goes, slowly, slowly. He’s shy and rarely makes eye contact. I imagine everything he does takes at least twice as long as it takes me. 

   Today another man stopped: “Good for you!” he called out to the Latino man in a thick Asian accent; “I’ve been watching you for four years! Four years! You never stop! Good for you! You never stop!” The shy Latino man was beaming. 

   And it felt like one of those moments when people from all walks of life, of different ethnic groups, meet in their humanity, one of the things I love about New York City.

3. I’ve been watching a British series on Netflix that at first seemed very depressing, but I decided to give it a chance. It’s about a man who is having a really hard time regaining meaning in his life since losing his wife to breast cancer. He’s angry at the world, continually thinks of killing himself, barely functions, and lashes out at everyone. 

   A series of things happen that begin to slowly bring him back to appreciating life. He begins to realize that he is not only hurting himself, but also harming others. Though it’s a process and not a Hollywood miracle of overnight transformation, he decides that at least he’s going to try--which he does. He begins to do little things to make other people smile and feel appreciated. His new thing is: “I can’t control the world, but I can try to make a positive difference in my little corner of it.” 

   This week’s readings, the last of the Book of Leviticus, have more laws passed from God to the Israelites on Mt. Sinai, and new (horrible) punishments doled out for failing to follow them and for breaking our covenant with God--our part of the deal.  

   It includes letting the land lie fallow so it may renew itself every seven years (the “Shmita” year), and also the year of the Jubilee, every fifty years, when, in a nutshell, all property is returned to its original owners and indentured servants go free. 

There were three little things that stood out to me: 

1. One exception to the redemption of property is within a walled city, where houses can never be redeemed, but remain forever in the hands of the new(er) owners (except in the case of the Levites). In towns not walled in, they can be redeemed.

2. Among the punishments for not trusting their new God is that they will run though no one pursues them, die by each other’s hand though there are no swords, and the earth will be forced to rest even if the people did not let it because it will eventually stop being able to produce, leading them to eat the flesh of their own children.

3. No matter what, God will still remember “His People” and will walk among them.

Though the Bible was written during a time when slavery was a given, somebody had some wisdom back then. 

Along with not showing proper respect for the earth as the Torah commands us to do, this year, this pandemic, certainly feels man-made in so many ways, we are fleeing even when no one is pursuing us and maybe eating ourselves alive. We are walled in, both physically and spiritually. 

But “God” promised to walk among us. 

If I were fulfilling my part of the Covenant, of having true faith, would I be torturing myself with my catastrophizing thoughts? 

Maybe that man I see doing his exercises, never giving up, despite the challenges life poses him, has real faith. 

And the man in the British TV show? He’s like most of us; with his personal pain and tragedy, he has to work at his faith, even if it doesn’t mean believing in “God.” He has to find reasons for living and loving life, despite not having the answers, and he does.

We end each book of the Torah by reciting, “Khazak khazak v’nitkhazeyk,” meaning “Strong, strong, we will be strong.” 

As we get closer to Shavuot, the holiday when we traditionally see ourselves receiving the Torah on Mt. Sinai as if we ourselves were personally there, we have another opportunity to redeem ourselves. 

Individually, we can’t control the entire world (though we can influence it when we gather together as a whole), but we can make a difference in our own little corner of it. We can still choose to “walk with God,” to fulfill our part of the covenant by continuing to have faith in life, to find reasons to love life, to get in touch with our inner strength and continue to find more ways to support each other, and to discern when it’s time to go through the gates of our own walled cities into the freedom of redemption.

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It’s All About the Ceremony: Emor

We all want to live--well, most of us do. 

I went for my first Covid vaccine on Friday. The whole time I was there, I couldn’t help thinking about the fact that I survived Covid, the current crisis in India and around the world, and my simple privilege of having access to the vaccine. 

I was also at a facility that looked much older and more run-down than the facilities I usually have access to. I left remembering again that I have nothing to complain about. 

Then I spent Saturday in bed, feeling sick and achy, reminded of my personal trauma of getting sick and the fear of losing my husband last March. 

I did feel like complaining. 

As a whole over this past year, we’ve thought a lot about and been relentlessly exposed to the closeness of death, which has taken a terrible toll on our hearts and bodies.

We have struggled to stay alive, and if we don’t take it for granted, we are grateful to be alive as we have been reminded of how quickly being alive can change, whether by way of a dangerous virus---or murder by a cop (for example).

We’ve become more keenly aware and outraged, again as a whole, by abuse and murder by police of people of color in the U.S. and are grateful that the jury voted in favor of the lives of Black people and against abuse, specifically in the case of George Floyd last week--even if it’s truly only a start. 

We have again commemorated the Holocaust, and the Armenian Genocide was named by President Biden yesterday, though the latter remains unrecognized by many governments, and the former still has “deniers.” 

I was listening to Krista Tippett this morning talking to Layli Long Soldier, renowned poet, member and citizen of the Oglala Lakota Nation and the U.S. 

Layli Long Soldier published Whereas, in “response to the U.S. government’s official apology to Native peoples in 2009, which was done so quietly, with no ceremony, that it was practically a secret.” 

They didn’t invite any leaders from the Nations to the White House, and referred to it as “conflict” between settlers and Native Americans, not genocide---the ultimate insult.

Long Soldier pointed out that ceremonies, as far as she could see, are happening in the White House all the time, and she and Tippett laughed together: how vapid, this “apology.” 

Tippett and Long Soldier also talked about how prayer, in the Lakota Nation and during Standing Rock, set those protests apart from others and made it an especially meaningful, powerful experience for those in attendance. Ceremony is and was important. 

This week’s Torah portion begins by focusing on the obligation of priests to stay pure for their ceremonies for their service in the Temple, starting with avoiding contact with the dead (except when it comes to close family members). 

For the priest, being exposed to death apparently muddies the priest’s ability to serve the people and communicate with God effectively. 

Why all the focus on exposure to death and the repetition of the need for this type of ceremonial purity over and over in the Torah? 

In Judaism, there’s a lot about separation between the holy and the unholy and the recognition of life as sacred, and we are actually told to choose life. 

So maybe it’s pointing again to the importance of being intentional about life, so a separation between life and death must be made.

And though life and death are intertwined, being exposed too much can muddy and weigh down our hearts—and our bodies as well.

I think we can all speak to that. 

I just finished reading a novel called Eternal Life, by Dara Horn, historical fiction that makes you think about what it would be like to live forever, because we always seem to want more time.

It’s the story of a woman, Rachel, born in Temple times in Jerusalem, who makes a vow with the High Priest in the heat of the moment, accepting everlasting life for herself in exchange for the life of her dying child--having no idea what this really means---though the priest warns her to think carefully about it (which she doesn’t).

We follow Rachel through two millennia: her suffering, her sorrow, her loss and trauma---and her desire to die so that she can see and experience this no more. 

But the conclusion is that life is worth it in the end---for the moments of love and beauty and peace that we experience, despite the tragedy and pain. And the value of life is derived from the brevity of it as well.

I think most of us can also speak to the awareness of that.

The ultimate question that I struggle with daily is how to balance my concerns for the world, the pursuit of justice, the frustration I have that so many people still don’t see all life as sacred, only some life, and how to appreciate my life and live in joy and gratitude for being alive--humbled by the gift I am given of a new day, each day, and for all my privilege--because I have nothing to complain about, right? 

Towards the end of this parsha, there’s a review of the festivals, with their ceremonies, including Yom Kippur, a Day of Atonement, on which we are to practice self-denial. 

The word used to describe such self-denial means all of the following: to afflict, oppress, humble, bow down---translated into denying ourselves food and water. 

In so doing, we appreciate the preciousness of what gives us life. We are humbled by the importance of food and water as the Source of Life. And we bow down to that Source of Life, in a symbolic way, just as the protests at Standing Rock and the Dakota Access Pipeline are very much about the purity of water as the source of life.

It’s all about the ceremony. And choosing life for all.

We need to choose life for everyone, every day, including ourselves. 

It’s all about the ceremony--whether alone or in gathering together to sing and pray, or just to be together---whatever gives life meaning---and finding ways to live in a state of purity of heart and body, and finding the love and beauty and peace in the brief time we are given on earth.

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For the Love of Jesus: Akharey Mot-K’doshim

I don’t have any cute, funny stories to tell this week, just plain trauma. 

And there’s plenty of that, without even counting a pandemic and the latest police brutality and killings just this past week. 

Let’s throw in the condemnation and brutality experienced by the LGBTQ community, along with the misuse of scripture, and we’ve got more than enough to go around.

I wondered out loud this morning with the minyan I lead every Monday; what is the spiritual message to derive from this week’s reading? 

It starts with Aaron being told to continue on as if he hasn’t just lost two sons to a consuming fire, with instructions on how to go about cleansing the community of guilt, and goes on with all kinds of laws on how Israel will set itself apart from the surrounding pagan communities, like whose nakedness you’re not allowed to uncover (incest, bestiality), dietary laws, the privations of Yom Kippur, and leaving a new fruit tree for three years without picking its fruit. 

Aaron’s trauma of suddenly losing two sons is not addressed in the least. 

In the same way, it would be very convenient to ignore the two verses in Leviticus that show up this week---two little obscure verses that have been used over millennia to condemn homosexuality. It happens all the time in synagogues and churches, and probably in mosques as well (“Let’s not open that can of worms”).

And curiously, these two verses point to the one thing, it seems, that people like to be inflexible about in religion (“Well, it says it right there in the bible, clear as day, so I can’t help it”).

No, actually, it’s not so clear at all. And you can help it. 

So, I was searching around on the internet, and I found this really interesting blog post called “The Perversion of Two Verses” (if you’re interested in developing your own knowledge on this subject, I highly recommend this. It’s not long, it’s very well written and easy reading). 

So I’ll leave you with this, since I’ve given you homework (the reading??!!); don’t we always want to avoid talking about trauma? It’s so hard to deal with and so easy to pretend it’s not there, like God expecting Aaron to move on after his personal trauma of losing his sons in one big poof. 

Opportunities to deal with it abound, and we really need to--especially in our houses of worship. 

As the author of that blog post wrote, if you’re going to take a verse (or two) out of context, decide that this is what’s important to humanity in the book of Leviticus, and ignore the rest, like the dietary laws of the Jews, for example, then why couldn’t it be something similar to the universal love and acceptance that came from Jesus? Like when it says to leave some of the yield of your harvest for the poor and the stranger? OR, don’t insult people with disabilities, or bully them by placing stumbling blocks in front of them, and make sure you pay your workers the same day. This, too, appears in Leviticus’ reading this week.

To say that the love of Jesus encompasses all of Christianity would be as dishonest as taking these two obscure verses to condemn an entire sector of the population, and it neither condemns nor cleanses Judaism or Christianity as a whole, but expiation of guilt does need to happen. 

It’s called t'shuvah in Jewish. 

It’s called facing your guilt and taking responsibility for the pain you’ve caused. 

As Jews, we are supposed to do this every day, not just on Yom Kippur. 

Because it’s universal love and acceptance we need, as we are, with no conditions, not condemnation and more trauma in the world.

So let’s try that on for a while, leave that tree of love to develop, and see what beauty blooms and what fruits develop from our work toward the world we want. 

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How Deep is Your Wound? Tazri’a/Metzora

I was talking to a healer the other day who told me that the source of my migraines is heavy metals in my brain/body (something for which there is no technology to prove--not until after you’re dead, anyway!). 

I’ve heard this before; everyone has heavy metals in their bodies to varying degrees. It makes sense, because we live in a polluted world, and it especially makes sense for a person like me who grew up in New York City breathing very polluted air on a heavily-trafficked avenue over 50 years ago when it was worse than now. And it builds up over time.

Of course, all bodies are different, and we are able to process and remove toxins to varying degrees (and, yes, she told me how certain foods can help eliminate them and cleanse me of them over time, in case you’re ready to jump in and give me suggestions). 

The question is always, how much and how deep in the tissues are the toxins that we carry? 

This week’s Torah reading is mostly about purity vs. impurity with regard to skin afflictions. The priest in the Temple is designated doctor/diagnostician, and he decides whether a person is pure or impure, and if they need to be quarantined or not (we can relate to quarantine, can’t we?--but the priest and the Temple...not so much).  

The question again is, how deep is the wound? How deep is the problem? 

Is it simply and literally skin-deep, or is it a deeper problem that needs to be addressed with greater measures? The Torah repeats this consideration for the priests over and over again--to make sure the rest of the population stays safe, mostly, I assume.  

I find it interesting that this idea can be applied to a person’s body or an entire society, as in: is it systemic or is it a surface problem that can be easily taken care of?

We have lots of societal issues that go much deeper than the surface, problems that became apparent, bubbling up like a skin affliction, as this pandemic began to rage. We need to remain cognizant to the fact that the vaccine itself will not solve the societal problems; those who have access to it in the U.S. and around the world continue to be those of privilege, just as those who have suffered more from coronavirus are the underprivileged.

And we mustn't forget that while we celebrate the fact that many of us are getting access to the vaccine, many people and countries are being left out. And the virus rages on...

While most of this double parsha may be about skin afflictions, it interestingly starts out talking about women’s impurity as it relates to childbirth, and ends again with sexual emissions for the male, and a woman’s monthly period. 

The first parsha, Tazria, is actually named for sowing seed, as in getting pregnant.

It goes on to name the m’kor, or “flow,” of a woman’s blood after giving birth, and how long she is considered impure depending on if she gives birth to a female or male child. It explains the kind of offering she is to bring to the priest who will then make the sacrifice for her and render her pure again. 

Let’s name it for what it is, classic misogynistic talk: why is she considered impure twice as long  after giving birth to a female as to a male child. 

While we can understand the idea of cleaning out stuff/purification after birth, there is no explanation, as far as I’m concerned, for the male vs. female child thing other than misogyny—a systemic problem in society. It goes as deep and as old as the Torah. So--no surprises there. 

But I loved noticing that the word for a woman’s period, “m’kor,” which means “flow,” also means “source,” as in “M’kor hayyim,” or “Source of Life.” (It shows up in psalm 36: For with you is the source of life; in your light we see light.) Such a beautiful way of talking about a woman’s “period.”

So, what do we do with this? And how is it connected with the deeper-than-skin problems, the systemic problems, both in our bodies and society?

Every time I see the word for skin in Hebrew, I’m fascinated that it changes meaning simply with the change of one letter: “or” in Hebrew is both skin and light when spoken. 

I always think; there has to be some deeper meaning in this, speaking of “deep.” 

One of the things this healer I spoke to about the migraines told me (and I’ve been told before, duh) is that the way I approach them will have a big effect on how quickly I heal. If I resist and push them away, it will take longer and be more painful. The more I surrender, well, you know…way easier said than done. 

What she said is that, along with a certain diet, I need to allow darkness to be integrated into light---and healing will come.

We all have “stuff” to clean out. We all need to be purified of things we carry deep within, and the way we approach our “stuff” has an effect on how it gets cleaned out. 

What we carry within us, beneath the skin, and how we approach it, is reflected in the way we carry ourselves in the world and treat others; it is reflected on the surface, in and on our skin. 

One thing is for sure: what’s on the inside comes out eventually. It is the light (or darkness) we carry out into the world. 

We all come from the Source of Life and we all carry the source of life within us. 

In continuing our work of purification, sometimes we need to stay away from others, in quarantine, to keep others safe.

Then, as microcosms of the Source of Life, we increase the possibility of bringing the flow of light to the surface and out into the world.

For in you, as in all of us, is the Source of Life; in your light we see light.  

What’s with the fire? (Shemini)

Another Passover has passed, we burned and placed a lamb shank (or chicken bone) on our seder plates to represent the Pesach offering, and now we are faced with the burning of The Brothers Nadav and Avihu in this week’s Torah reading,...

Yes, Moses’ nephews are burned up, consumed by fire, in one big POOF, for having made an offering to God without God’s approval--a rather harsh punishment, wouldn’t you say?

The question is: what were they doing? Were they jumping the gun? Getting ahead of themselves? Being too ambitious before their time? 

If you’ve been watching the latest season of Shtisel on Netflix (spoiler alert, I’m sorry, but I can’t help it), you saw Kive’s nightmare of his father burning his beloved paintings of Kive’s dead wife. Kive is unable to move forward and let go of his wife--or the paintings that represent her, even though he has met a new woman who seems very promising. 

Then, in a final acceptance, Kive is able to paint his new love, but in the painting, he engulfs her in flames. 

It’s a really strange scene. You’re not sure exactly what it means, confusing in the same way that they never tell us--in the whole season!--how his wife died! (Infuriating, not to mention really weird!)

The new woman seems pleased with the painting and its imagery, not disturbed and confused like I was. 

Thus, we must conclude that it’s a good sign--a sign of burning up the old, and perhaps a new kind of burning passion for her. 

As we know, fire and burning things up can be good or bad, if you want to qualify it. 

Fire can be destructive when out of control, becoming over-ambitious itself. We talk about symbolically burning bridges. 

Or it offers warmth, pleasing odors, digestible food, and healing.

Fire transforms things from one state to another. 

There’s the middle ground, too: a tiny flame that never goes out, like the pilot light on an old stove, there to ignite things as needed, always available in small doses. 

A few chapters ago in Torah, the commandment was given to keep the fire on the altar burning; an eternal flame that we, today, symbolically place above our Torah ark in the synagogue. 

I’ve been thinking about what I have burned up and how I have possibly been transformed during this Passover season. 

I’m also asking, have I been overly ambitious, pushed too hard, in a race against time to “accomplish” things in an effort to be “successful” according to society’s standards? 

The fact is, I really crashed at the end of Passover, and I’m still recovering, four days in; it’s given me time to contemplate the above questions: what can I realistically do at this point in my life, with the amount of energy I have, in this time in history? 

I’m still learning the lesson of how to find my balance, in a world totally out of balance, and to find what people like to call a “new normal.” I struggled with it before, and now it’s even harder, to know how far I can push myself and when I need to stop and say no. 

Passover this year was a lot for me. I mean, A LOT. Like I said, I’m still feeling the effects of it, and it’s frustrating.

But then I went out for a walk today, a beautiful day in New York. A lot of the blossoms are early, and I wanted to see what had bloomed, and what might have been messed up by the extreme heat a week ago (80 degrees!) and the extreme cold that followed (below 30). 

I was sure that the crab apples, which I look forward to every year, were not going to come.

Yes, I was worried: another sign of the imbalance in the world that gets me down. 

To my shock, I found the flowers, especially the magnolias (click to see them!!) to be more perfect than I’ve ever seen them in previous years. Somehow, they came through it all. A gift in the midst of chaos.

So the question that remains is, how do I/we find the balance?

And speaking of fire: How do we find balance between the destructive aspects of it--the over-ambition, over-passionate kind, the personal kind--and also the passion driven by the anxiety to fix everything, NOW, in the world, because it’s all so urgent---and the soothing, constant, transformative kind that helps us move forward slowly by an eternal flame?

After a conversation with an old teacher and friend, the word emunah, or faith, comes to mind. Not hope, as she said, which points to a lack of faith, but a pure and complete faith. 

A faith that, despite the pain in the world, everything is for a higher purpose, and that, despite the urgency of the problems, the fire we have to put out might lead us to rush, which can become destructive in itself.  

As many have repeated, slowing down is one of the lessons we are supposed to be learning from this pandemic. 

So, to help the healing along, we each have to keep our personal fire burning, at just the right level, on our own altars. We need to each find our personal glow that offers a good balance of an energy waiting to catch and grow slowly: an eternal flame that has the potential to transform our lives and the world.

My Pesach Special

A number of years ago, as an experiment, I decided it was time to see what it would be like to have a kosher kitchen. I asked a rabbi friend for help, and she came over (Thank you, Jill Hammer! You are permanently tied to my kosher kitchen story).

Since then, ironically, I always enter into the preparations for Passover with more than a tiny bit of resentment, and these days, I have so much fun blaming my 20-year-old daughter (21 in a couple of days!!) who’s a real stickler for this “religious” stuff. 

I watch this daughter with a sharp knife getting the built-up grit out of the bolts on the outside of my pots and I sneer in my cynical way; “Am I licking those bolts?”

And when I’m cleaning my house, all the while I’m thinking, “Does it make any sense? I’m not eating chametz (leavened food) off the floor or from the corners of my couch! It’s all symbolic, so does it really matter?”

The above-mentioned daughter bought me some contact paper this year to put on the counter top (because you really can’t kasher a plastic counter top, let’s be real, Mommy), and I really hope I can use it again next year, because I hate the waste involved.

And each day, even if I spread it out, the hours of vacuuming and standing in the kitchen leave me completely drained and my feet aching as I fall asleep at night.

People say, “Well, you gotta tell her, this is your house, and she’s gotta deal with it.”

But the truth is, in the end, I really love it. I just don’t like to admit it. 

Because when else would I actually clean out my disgusting refrigerator---I mean, really clean it--not to mention the rest of my house, all at the same time?

Yes, it’s all very overwhelming: the cleaning and the shopping and the cooking, and having to time it just right, all in the right order (like, what about the days right after you’ve cleaned the kitchen of chametz and before you can have matzoh?? What can you eat?? I know I’m being dramatic, but that’s how the mind works; you’re in a certain space, and you need to transition to a new one--oh! Just like the Israelites as they left Egypt and entered the desert--all that space in the desert!!!) 

But I actually liked that stupid fake marble contact paper on my counter once I’d struggled with cutting it and succeeded in putting it down and getting it just right; it’s so white and clean and easy to wash.

And the satisfaction---no, the beauty---of looking into my clean refrigerator with lots of space around the pots and casseroles of cooked food is...well, it’s just beautiful. 

It gives me such a feeling of...spaciousness.

Which is what I talked about last week: making space---for other choices, which means for other things to happen.  

This year, more than any other year, because of the pandemic, getting invested in Passover meant really sinking into the physical aspects of it because there was no family drama to distract or consume me.  

I had the space to slow down, take a breath, and methodically go through the cleaning and the cooking for the sheer joy of clearing away stuff. 

I got to stand at the sink with only 5 dishes to wash, not 15 or 20, and feel thankful for the simplicity of it---and, of course, for my beautiful refrigerator each time I opened it (more than once, I opened it just to look inside and see all the space!!)

And when we sat down to eat, just five of us, there was so much real joy at having made it through a very narrow place (our own Mitzraim, or “narrow place” in Hebrew)---for having physically survived the year. 

There were memories of me and my husband barely having the strength to sit at the table last year, so weak as we began to recover from Covid. 

When we sang, “Dayenu,” our older daughter, who in the past rejected all this “religious stuff,” chanted out, “Had we just survived this pandemic, it would have been enough; not only did we survive, but we’re sitting here with delicious, abundant food in front of us!” 

Yes. Passover is one of those times when I really get to see and, more importantly, feel the meaning of a mitzvah (an obligated act or commandment according to Jewish Law). 

And symbolism really is the point, isn’t it? Because transformation starts with symbolism. 

I often wonder what it would be like if I truly felt “obligated” to do all the things Jews are “supposed to” do according to Jewish law. (Again, cynically, I always say, “Who exactly ‘commanded’ us, anyway? Was it really God?? No, it was a bunch of men, a small, elite group, a very long time ago, who made up these rules for all of us, so why should I care?)

But what if, just for funzies, as my daughter would say, with the kind of commitment that comes from feeling obligated, I tried out more of those mitzvahs?

What other little joys might I discover in the space I’d create if I decided to suspend disbelief and cynicism, and did things “just because” and not because they make any sense?

Who knows? I guess I’ll have to do them and see what happens.

Still? Tsav

You know how when you’ve been watching a certain Netflix series and you stop for a while, and they send you this message: “Are you still watching this?” 

Or you’ve been watching for so long in one sitting that they finally interrupt you and say, “Are you sure you want to keep watching?”

This always seemed like an ordinary marketing ploy to me, but clinical psychologist and mindfulness teacher, Christine Runyan, heard it as a judgment: Are you still watching…? (which I thought was quite funny).

Yes, most of us have struggled with numbing devices/activities/addictions of some sort during this year, unless we’re subhuman (no judgment if you are).

It’s also been documented that depression, suicide rates, suicidal thoughts, panic/anxiety, etc. have increased exponentially during this time. 

And I wonder: how many of us have been feeling like we should somehow be feeling better by now if we’re not--less tired, more productive, able to think more clearly, whether we got sick with Covid or not, and perhaps especially if we’re not among those on the “front lines.” 

Some have actually made the choice not to slow down, which can be a kind of addiction in itself: the insistence that we must go on at the same pace no matter what. 

Runyan thinks that the statistical analysis of depression and suicide is a dangerous thing; she says that if we think in terms of numbers, and 30% are suffering in this way, there are still 70% that are not, so if you’re among the 30%, you still end up wondering, “What’s wrong with me?” 

Runyan talks about fight or flight or freeze, and the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems, and how living with so much uncertainty and unpredictability for so long takes its toll on the body as well as the psyche. 

So--whatever you’re feeling, emotionally or physically…”Of course you are,” says Runyan.

It’s funny, but several weeks ago, I shared some physical struggles I’ve been having and I got several responses of sympathy. 

As much as I appreciated the gesture and knew it was coming from the heart, I have been more loath to talk about such personal things since then in my blogs. 

Because my purpose was not/is not to get sympathy. My purpose is to let everyone out there know that I, like everyone else in their own particular way, am struggling.

I was hoping to evoke a more universal feeling of solidarity. I wanted to let everyone know: we’re in this together, and I’m willing to show my vulnerability, and I hope you are as well. 

Because we are all in this together, as humans, and what links us as humans, as Runyan said in the podcast, is love; to love each other, allow ourselves to be loved, and take the risk of sharing our vulnerability as an act of love. 

Runyan presented some mindfulness practices for us as individuals, and it reminded me of the Torah reading of the week, Tsav.

In this parsha, after all the preparations of the Mishkan, the mobile dwelling place for God in the desert, where animal and grain offerings will be made according to ancient sacrificial laws, it is finally time to bring Aaron, Moses’ brother, and his two sons, and anoint them as priests to carry out the sacrificial rites. 

The ritual engages the senses; there is the washing of feet, the placing of hands on the head of an animal, the subsequent slaughter, the handling of animal parts, the dipping of thumbs and fingers into the blood, the smearing of blood on the edges of ears, the splashing of blood all around the altar; fire, ashes, the sizzle of fat and turning it into smoke to send up a pleasing odor, and then the eating of the permitted parts. 

Such an act, which engages the senses, requires real presence: a slowing down and a focus. It’s as if a pause button is pressed; a pause from the daily fight or flight or freeze that our ancestors lived with in their daily struggle to survive.  

People may have lived slower lives back then, but they lived with daily uncertainty and constant threats in ways we do not know. 

It’s hard to compare, but I imagine similarities to what we are living through now; we are so activated, it’s been hard to pause and take a breath.

But to make the choice to do so, to engage our senses in ways that release dopamine---to find ways to calm our system---is the power of humanity.

The thinking-brain is our power, says Runyan, but we have to make the space and make the choice, moment by moment, to engage it, even if we go right back down the rabbit hole. 

Victor Frankel, author of Man’s Search for Meaning, famously wrote, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space; and in that space lies our power to choose, and in our choice, lies our growth and our freedom.”

Whatever we’re feeling---of course we are. It’s all normal. This year has taken a toll on us, and we’re still in it, so we can’t even properly mourn, and we’re showing it as a society with the increase in violence we’ve been seeing lately.

Despite all of this, we have the option to use our human brain power and human love power, press the pause button when we remember, slow down, take a breath, engage the senses, and perhaps find our way to a measure of freedom during this Passover season. 

Until we can “not anymore” instead of “still.”

Not a Laughing Matter: VaYikra

I just finished reading comedian Trevor Noah’s book, Born a Crime. 

From the first page, you’re waiting to hear whether and how his mother survived a gunshot to the back of her head by his stepfather, and you don’t find out until the last page (spoiler alert: I’m going to tell you, but the book is still really good). 

Even though this is a story of Trevor’s life growing up in South Africa and the intricacies of Apartheid from his own experiences, his mother is central to his life and his book. 

Through the systemic racism, poverty, years of hunger and physical and emotional abuse by a husband she can’t get away from because the police are complicit, his mother insists that Jesus is all she needs. 

This is a woman who drags Trevor to church every Sunday---correction: churches--three, to be exact; “the White Church, the Black Church, and the Mixed Church,” for the different experiences and needs they fulfill in her. 

Her story of survival is one of those crazy ones of a woman pinned to the ground, a gun pointed at her head, a gun so powerful and reliable it never backfires, yet it spits the bullets out the back, one after another, giving her time to get up and run for her life with her son (not Trevor).

She runs to her car and, once in the driver’s seat, her husband shoots again, this time hitting her in the back of her head through the rear window.

The bullet goes clear through her head, she collapses, and blood is strewn everywhere.

Her son climbs into the driver’s seat and gets her to the hospital.

Trevor, now a grown man making a living as a comedian in South Africa, gets a phone call from his brother, races to the hospital, finds his mother alive but bleeding profusely, and learns that she had canceled her health insurance (“because it’s a scam!”).

He is faced with a decision about giving his credit card to the nurse and getting into debt for the rest of his life, or letting her die, which she probably will anyway. She is expected to be in the ICU for weeks if she survives (he gives the nurse the credit card).

But it turns out that the bullet through her head does one of those ricochet things where it just barely misses her skull, her spinal cord, and her brain, any major arteries, and her eye, making a hole through the side of her nose instead, and leaving all else intact.

The only thing the doctors have to do is stop the bleeding, and she’s miraculously awake in a few hours and out of the hospital in a few days. 

When she wakes up, she jokes that Trevor is now officially the most good-looking person in the family. 

And when Trevor chides her for having canceled her health insurance, she says, “But I have insurance, Trevor. I have Jesus. And God has blessed me with a son who could pay my bill.”

Talk about complete faith!

The Torah portion this week, as we begin the Book of Leviticus, Vayikra, starts with God calling out to Moses, letting him know there is more work to be done; after the Exodus, now “free,” the Israelites need to learn what it means to know God, to get close to God. 

The way they will do this is through animal and grain sacrifices, prepared in a special way and burnt on an altar, by way of the priests, the kohanim. 

The “sacrifice” is not actually called a sacrifice in Hebrew, but rather, a “Korban,” a coming near, or an approaching of God. 

In other words, God is calling out to Moses and the people, and instructing them on how to approach God: how to come close.

Over and over, the parsha’s description of how to properly make an animal offering includes taking the blood of the animal and dashing it all around the sides of the altar.

It also includes a repeated commandment to make the offering a “re’ach nichoach,” or a pleasing odor.

One type of offering is of shalom, peace, also translated as wholeness. 

Trevor Noah’s mother has learned this lesson already, of how to approach, or get close to God and how to believe with the wholeness of her being. And despite the blood, her own blood, that is dashed around her car, she carries peace: a peace that comes from deep faith. 

She believes wholly that despite human imperfection, misbehavior, abuse and tragedy, God is there for her. She knows that believing and praying doesn’t necessarily mean that God can prevent humans from being hurt or from hurting each other, but she uses her deep belief, and the Bible, as her guide to living a truthful and honest life. 

Her “pleasing odor” for God are her constant prayers. 

I don’t know about you, but I look to people like her, who have suffered greatly and seen and experienced terrible human tragedy, yet manage to maintain a sense of well-being and wholeness, not to mention humor, never giving up on themselves or humanity.

Such deep faith in God translates into a deep faith in humanity and the possibility of redemption, if only we keep working at it, despite, or perhaps because of, the blood we keep spilling.

PPE + PPK; Vayakhel/Pekudei

Personal Protective Equipment + Puzzles, Poetry & Kindness.

I’m suddenly into poetry, and now puzzles--two things I never liked or understood as a child.

Kindness is something I’ve always been into, though I don’t always manage it. 

If I were 20, I’d say about this pandemic: “I am soooo over it.” (Okay, I do say that, even though I’m way older). Which means I’m not. But I want to be. Or I want it to be. And though we can begin to glimpse the horizon of over-ness, it’s not.

A few days ago, in my determination to “feel better” (which, I know, according to Buddhism, I’m not supposed to be trying), and to avoid ordering from Amazon (yes, they should be avoided!) and to do something different than going for a walk in the park, I set out for a walk across town to a small bookstore I love--to buy poetry: a cool place called Book Culture. (I mean, how can you not want to buy a book there?)

There, at the cool bookstore, I saw puzzles for sale. I was suddenly seized with the urge to buy one. A cute one: 500 pieces, with little pictures of New York scenes (what can I say? I’m a devoted New Yorker).

As I was browsing, this person came along who wanted to browse in the same spot where I was. In her anxiety over Covid, and her impatience at my occupying the space she wanted, she was unkind and short-tempered. She shoo-ed me away and said in an authoritative voice, “I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

My blood pressure rose, I grumbled an incoherent protest, but moved away. It pissed me off. 

I wasn’t happy with myself for reacting the way I did. I met unkindness with unkindness. 

Then I got home and discovered for the first time how meditative and peaceful doing puzzles is.

You’re hyper-focused, you look at the detail of the tiny pieces, then the big picture, then the detail again, and so it goes, slowly, until you have the satisfaction of placing each individual piece in its place. 

And you sigh and smile with each little piece placed correctly. Aaaah. The beauty of it, seeing how all the pieces fit together into the one big Whole. 

Like the words and images of a poem. Focusing on the minutiae of life. The mundane. Because what else is there, really, as poet Naomi Shihab Nye says? We’re not living in Star Wars; we’re living in our own little lives, filled with tiny details, many of them beautiful, if only we take the time to look. 

That’s the kind of thing the double parsha this week presents to us: detail after detail, repeated again and again, of who and what and how the Dwelling Place for God, the Mishkan, will be constructed and decorated to make One Beautiful Whole to be carried through the desert. 

Once again, the Israelites are asked to bring their special gifts from the heart (so much repetition) and now also their special skills, until it’s too much and they are told to stop. 

Their offerings, of a generosity that comes from the heart, are a practice in kindness and the way we should be treating each other, our fellow earthlings. They carry beauty, like puzzles and poetry (not like that woman in the bookstore or my reaction to her).

The following excerpt from a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye was written years before this pandemic--more than a half century, in fact! But it holds an experience and also an intention for how to live. 

It’s called “Kindness:”

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things, 

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved.

All this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness…

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing

You must know sorrow as the deepest thing

You must wake up with sorrow

You must speak to it 

Till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows

And you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore...

Only kindness that raises its head

From the crowd of the world to say,

It is you I have been looking for,

And then goes with you everywhere

Like a shadow or a friend.  

Hmmm. Until we see the size of the cloth. 

While we’re figuring out the puzzle of life and how we fit into the Whole, let’s remember: look for beauty in the details, look for kindness; Bring beauty, bring kindness—as offerings of the heart.

Maybe that’s how we will get through the rest of this when it feels like we’ve lost everything. 

The Whole is still there. We just forget to look at it. 

PPE can protect us from Covid, but let’s not allow it to separate us from the cloth—and the beauty of PPK.