Author: JCP Downtown

This week, our D’var Torah has been written by Daphne Logan, Director of the Hebrew School Project. It is a modified version of the letter she sent to HSP families after she returned from a two-week trip to Israel in February.

The Jewish people go by many names: Am Yisrael (the nation of Israel), the Israelites, and the People of the Book, to name a few. This last epithet provides a special insight into the story of the Jewish people. Our story is one of survival and resilience throughout the ages, and our unbroken ability to adapt and thrive is rooted in our storytelling.

In their research on children and families after the attacks of September 11, Drs. Marshall Duke and Robyn Fivush found that having a strong family narrative is the key to cultivating resilience. They identified a particular type of narrative—the oscillating family narrative—as the backbone of resilience. In the oscillating narrative, we recount our family’s story as a succession of ups and downs. We acknowledge that our story does not have a “happily ever after” ending; rather, we recount each of the times that we have been able to overcome obstacles and rebuild. By framing our family narrative as such, children learn to expect that crises are a part of life. When faced with catastrophe, they are prepared—they know that just as in the past, they will get through it, and they will be okay, because that is the story of their family.

When I came upon the writing of Drs. Duke and Fivush, I was reminded of the lyrics to Vehi Sheamda, a song that is found in the Passover Haggadah, which we will be reading again very soon.

וְהִיא שֶׁעָמְדָה לַאֲבוֹתֵיֽנוּ וְלָנֽוּ. שֶׁלֹא אֶחָד בִּלְבָד, עָמַד עָלֵיֽנוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנֽוּ. אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר, עוֹמְדִים עָלֵיֽנוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנֽוּ. וְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא מַצִּילֵנוּ מִיָּדָם.

And this is that which sustained our ancestors and us, that it is not one alone that stood up against us to destroy us, but that in each generation there are those standing up against us to destroy us, and the Holy One saves us from their hand.

This is the story of our family, the Jewish people—a story of overcoming hardship, a story of perseverance, and a story of triumph. We know that we have faced adversity before, and we know that we will come out the other side when we face it again, and that we will thrive.

It has been nearly a month since I returned from Israel, where I was blessed to spend several days with family and friends, and to participate in an 8-day intensive program for leaders in North American Jewish educational institutions. Our group sought to examine Israel post-October 7, which has become a flashbulb memory in the collective Jewish consciousness, and to begin to explore how education should adapt to reflect not only a changed Israel, but a changed Jewish world.

Here are some of the experiences I participated in as a member of this cohort:

• Visiting the Nova Music Festival grounds, the site of the initial massacre by Hamas on October 7
• Learning from Adv. Ayelet Razin Bet Or about the gender-based violence that took place on October 7, and that has continued since
• Visiting the town of Ofakim, which was attacked on October 7, and meeting with school principals, teachers, and high school students – the high schoolers led a tour of the neighborhoods that were attacked, and told the stories of their community heroes
• Meeting with members of kibbutzim who have been evacuated from the Gaza Envelope, including Kibbutz Nir Am, with whom we shared a hotel in Tel Aviv
• Visiting a temporary school that has been set up for evacuated children, some of whom were formerly held hostage in Gaza
• Visiting and volunteering with an Israeli Bedouin community
• Learning from Mohammed Darawshe about the relationship between Jewish and Muslim Israelis, and the reality of Muslim Israelis today
• Spending time at Hostage Square and meeting with family members of hostages
• Visiting the recently dug graves of soldiers at Har Herzl (Israel’s military cemetery), and meeting with Sarit Zussman, the mother of Ben Zussman z”l, a recently fallen soldier (you can read Ben’s final letter to his family here).

Though Israelis are intimately familiar with collective loss and trauma, every individual in Israel is now grappling with a uniquely excruciating sense of loss, shock, and betrayal. There are enduring communal wounds left from the brutal attacks and destruction that took place on October 7, and there is also the searing pain of the ongoing fighting, of the soldiers and civilians who have died in Gaza and throughout Israel, and of the hostages who are still in captivity. At the same time, the Israel that I saw on this trip is as beautiful, creative, unified, resilient, and tireless as before, and this nation prevails.

Even while we hold onto and respond to the array of legitimate reactions that are coming up at this moment—pain, anger, sadness, betrayal, perhaps even utter confusion or disgust—there is one permeating message that I have carried with me. A Jewish identity defined by opposition to others is not only unsustainable, but untransferable. This kind of Judaism will not enrich our lives, nor can it survive the passage from one generation to the next. We need to hold onto and elevate all of the ways that our Jewishness provides a sense of belonging, informs our ethics, nourishes our souls, and cultivates love and unity.

And even in this challenging moment—especially in this challenging moment—we must lead with love and hope. We must continue to tell our family narrative as one in which we rise to the occasion, support each other, and continue to celebrate Jewish life. As I return to life in Tribeca, I feel affirmed in our community’s continued commitment to instilling our learners with a Judaism founded in positive values, and to helping our learners draw strength and resilience from their Jewish identities.

I pray that all of the remaining hostages are returned home immediately, and that peace is speedily restored to the land of Israel and to all of its inhabitants.

Shabbat shalom.

Daphne Logan, HSP Director

This week’s Torah portion is all about gifts. When we meet our Israelites, they’ve escaped Egypt and are in the wilderness. They’re figuring out the groove of their new life, and God gives them a task. God says to Moses: 

דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְיִקְחוּ־לִ֖י תְּרוּמָ֑ה מֵאֵ֤ת כָּל־אִישׁ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִדְּבֶ֣נּוּ לִבּ֔וֹ תִּקְח֖וּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִֽי׃

“Speak to the Israelites, telling them to bring me gifts. From each person whose heart is so moved, bring gifts to me.” 

And then God describes the gifts that God wants: gold, silver, fine linens, and oils… God has expensive taste!  These are the types of gifts that we save up for, and give on big occasions, or that we account for as we write our wills. 

God wants these gifts in order to create a mikdash, a sanctuary. The mikdash is a place of supreme holiness, Rashi tells us. This holy place will be God’s house.  

It’s both hard and easy to imagine giving this type of gift.  Giving can be easy when a friend or family member is raising money for cancer research, or engaging in social action, or some cause that is meaningful to us. Or giving can be easy because we simply like the person who asked us. In other words, when we feel connected to one another, and a larger sacred mission, our hearts are moved, and we open our hands to give.  

Yet this feeling of connection is not a given, and even when we do feel connected, it doesn’t always mean that giving is easy. Sometimes, we know that it’s the right thing to give, and yet it can be painful to part ways with our hard-earned money, or with precious items.  

Our sage Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) writes about what we do with our money. Kohelet teaches that hoarding money is “l’ra’ato” – for our own misfortune. Not only that, he says the money that we own here and now – is just in the here and now.  “A person must depart just as they came, – as one comes out of their mother’s womb, so must we depart, naked as they came…”  While Kohelet doesn’t specify that we should give all our money or wealth away, he does indicate that we don’t have to deny ourselves the pleasure of enjoying it.  

Perhaps, the greatest pleasures are those which are shared. God doesn’t want to dwell in the mishkan because it’s a beautiful space, but because it was constructed from the offerings of our hearts. And while the mishkan is “God’s house,” it’s also where the Israelites would gather. This is what the Bridge to the Future campaign at JCP is all about: when we give from our hearts, we cultivate our generosity as a community. We create beauty – not only in the physical spaces where we gather, but also in our souls.  

Let’s practice this generosity together, giving the gifts that come from our hearts.

Shabbat shalom,

Sam

In last week’s Torah portion, Parashat Yitro, the Israelites received the Ten Commandments. In a booming voice, surrounded by thunder, lightning, and fire, God speaks directly to the people, giving them the first laws of the Torah upon which they will build their holy society. 

But this direct encounter with God is too overwhelming for the Israelites, and they ask Moses to serve as the intermediary between themselves and God. They want to receive the laws, but they fear that they will die if they hear God’s voice again. So in this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Mishpatim (mishpatim means “rules”), Moses shares many of the laws that God commands the Israelites to follow. 

This parasha is simultaneously one of the most beautiful and challenging in the entire Torah. 

On the one hand, it contains some of the most noble laws of our sacred texts; ideals to which any society should aspire. We are instructed to be fair in our economic dealings, to return lost property, to be impartial in a court of law. We are commanded not to take bribes, not to spread false rumors, and—the commandment repeated most often in the Torah—not to oppress the widow, the stranger and the orphan (the most vulnerable members of society), because we were strangers in the Land of Egypt. These laws are timeless and should guide our own actions and communities with as much force as they did for our ancestors. 

On the other hand, it also contains some of the most abhorrent and immoral laws of the Torah; it can be hard to believe that these are included in our most sacred text. We learn about the institution of slavery in Israelite society…this is after the Israelites escaped from over 400 years of oppression in Egypt. We also learn about the act of selling women as brides and the violent conquest of other peoples. 

And there are laws in this Torah portion whose morality is still being debated in our modern society. The verse of the Torah from which many Jewish thinkers, both ancient and modern, derive permission for people to terminate pregnancies comes from this parasha. And though we learn about the importance of respecting our parents, a noble law indeed, the Torah teaches that disrespecting one’s parents leads to the death penalty. Abortion and capital punishment: two topics from this parasha that are hotly debated in our public sphere. 

Modern readers of the Torah are in a unique position. How do we read and honor our sacred text while also adhering to our contemporary values? We have to read carefully to decide which pieces are timeless wisdom and which are products of a particular time and place, and need to be changed or updated. 

But this challenge did not originate in the modern age. The ancient Rabbis underwent this same process of discernment. For example, this Torah portion teaches us the concept of “an eye for an eye.” But the Rabbis of the Talmud (in 500 CE) believe this is unjust, and interpret this expression to mean a requirement of monetary restitution, as opposed to bodily retribution, for an injury. 

At the end of this Torah portion, the Israelites accept all of these laws, saying “Na’aseh V’Nishma — We will obey and we will understand.” It’s not enough for the Israelites to follow these commandments. They also need to study them, to critically engage with them, and to interpret them in a way that will lead to justice. This principle has shaped Judaism throughout the millennia, encouraging us to debate and ask questions “for the sake of heaven” in order to create positive outcomes and improve our world. 

May we continue this sacred legacy. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Deena  

Parashat Yitro contains one of my favorite lessons in the Torah, and it’s definitely not a glamorous one. In Parashat Yitro, we meet Moses’ father-in-law, Jethro (or, in Hebrew, Yitro). He is the father of Tzipporah, and a Midianite (a non-Israelite religion) priest. Yet after hearing about how the Israelites were treated by Pharoah, he chooses to bring his family to meet Moses and join them on their journey. 

Initially I am struck by his loving acceptance of his extended family, despite their different religious practices. Though his traditions are different, and though he is a leader in his own tradition, his love for and connection to family is the value that drives his decisions. Furthermore, as we will soon see, he manages to toe the line between overstepping and offering unwelcome advice and providing essential support to his family. 

We meet the Israelites in a moment of challenge. (Don’t we always? — but then again, if there wasn’t something to be learned from the challenge, our ancestors probably wouldn’t have written the story in the Torah.) The Israelites are finally out of Egypt, but they are struggling to organize themselves: freedom, in other words, is complicated. Whenever two people, or two groups, have a dispute or a question for God, they bring it to Moses who hears both sides and renders a decision. And since there are thousands of people who have left Egypt, this job of listening and rendering judgment is significant. 

Moses is struggling to manage it all when Jethro steps in. After a day of observing Moses’ behavior, Jethro asks Moses, “What are you doing? Why are you managing this burden on your own?” When Moses explains his role as judge, Jethro replies simply: “Lo tov hadavar asher atah oseh” – The thing that you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself, and these people out. You cannot do this work alone.” The commentator Rashi expands: “If you do this, you will wither like a leaf.” 

What happens next is stunning: Moses does not respond with incredulity, or turn away. When his father-in-law offers to help, and suggests that Moses train a group of leaders to support him, Moses follows his advice. Moses is known as the most humble of our leaders for a reason—perhaps for this very moment. Moses is able to receive this unsolicited advice because there is a true benefit in following it—both for him, and for his community. Not only will he be able to more effectively help more people, he also sets up a community in which wisdom is not monopolized by only one person, but is shared. 

This past week, at the HSP Parent-Teacher Cocktail Party, I took a moment to look around the room and take it all in: the teachers and administrators and parents all together. I thought about what it took to create that evening: from the planning by the fabulous Parent Organization volunteers, to everyone who chose to be there in person, to the teachers and administrators and JCP community leaders who make HSP run. None of us can help create the vibrant, joyful, resilient future of Judaism on our own. Our community certainly looks different from Moses’ group of (all male) leaders, helping adjudicate and decide what’s next, but in many ways when we reach out to each other, we are continuing this legacy. 

Shabbat shalom, 



Rabbi Sam 

This week’s Torah portion, B’shalach, is one of the most famous: the Israelites finally escape Egypt through the sea to freedom! It’s one of our best stories, and for good reason: what greater evidence is there of a God who cares about us so much that God will bring about miracles to save us? 

I’ve been thinking a lot about our Israelites lately, what it took for them to leave their homes and follow Moses out of Egypt. Even with the promise of the miracle of freedom, leaving the only place you’ve known as home is a big ask. And while Egypt may have been a place of enslavement and oppression, it was also the place where their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were born and buried. Freedom, no matter how good it sounded, also came with great risks. 

With that lens, it’s no surprise to learn that after the Israelites leave Egypt, they begin to despair. With the Egyptians pursuing them, they begin to cry out to Moses, “Were there not enough graves in Egypt that you brought us here to die in the desert?” Moses reassures them and tells them not to fear, that God will be with them. Then God splits the sea, and they make it to freedom: the first miracle, come to life. 

Yet this miracle isn’t enough. Soon after they make it to safety and dry ground, they realize that they are thirsty, and that the water is undrinkably bitter. They speak to Moses, who speaks to God, and then brings them to the springs of Elim. 

And yet that next miracle isn’t enough either. Soon after, they realize that the matzah that they brought with them isn’t going to cut it. Once again, they speak to Moses, who again speaks to God, who then sends manna for them to eat. 

This is well and good, but we don’t live in a world where manna rains from the sky and seas are split to ensure human safety. We do live in a world filled with the pains of antisemitism and the need for Jewish safety and freedom. So what lesson do we take from the Torah this week? 

Often, Moses describes the Israelites as “stiff-necked,” stubborn, and complaining. Yet in this part of our story, the Israelites don’t get what they need until they give it voice. Speaking out is an important step toward safety, food, and water. Perhaps we can learn from our Israelites the importance of advocating for ourselves and our own needs. 

And maybe, just maybe, the power of naming what we need can still lead to miracles. Telling a friend we’re struggling to juggle things could lead to an offer of help, or a check in later. Sharing our perspective with people who have different views than we do, speaking out proudly as Jews, for justice and wholeness, can lead to finding common ground with others. While these interventions might not look like biblical miracles, being on the receiving end can indeed feel miraculous. By opening ourselves up in this way, perhaps we also open ourselves to the miracle we are truly seeking.

Shabbat Shalom,

Sam

This week’s Torah portion, parashat Bo, is a story of extremes. First, we read of extreme triumph: God finally rescues the Israelites from Pharaoh’s tyranny and Egyptian slavery; and then, extreme darkness: God sends the final plagues, bringing wanton death and destruction.  

When the Israelites finally leave Egypt, they are not leaving the same place of abundance that once saved prior generations from famine, but a country torn apart by plagues: the river turned to blood, cattle disease, climate destruction from hail, and finally, the death of every firstborn son. Interestingly, as we will read in next week’s Torah portion, some of the Egyptians choose to leave alongside the Israelites. What could motivate someone to leave their homeland to go with the very people whose God has brought such destruction? But that’s a question for another week. 

Back to our Israelites. Moses and Aaron have been speaking to the Pharaoh, asking him for their people’s freedom. They simply want to worship their own God and to observe their own festivals. They want freedom of religion—the freedom to be who they are. But the Pharaoh refuses, his heart hardening with every ask. And with every “no” from Pharaoh, God sends a new plague. 

I have always been struck by the final two plagues. The tenth plague—the death of the firstborn son—is particularly powerful. When the Pharaoh’s own home is affected, he finally lets the Israelites go. But the ninth plague, the plague of darkness, is also terrifying. The Torah describes it as a choshech afelah—a darkness with a physical quality, through which a person cannot see their sibling. The Ramban (Spain, 1194-1270) teaches that the darkness is so thick that light cannot shine through. 

This raises hard questions for us today, reading this ancient story and thinking of the current war in Israel. Of course, the God of the Torah is right to defend the Israelites from the tyranny of the Pharaoh, and to send Pharaoh a strong message. Of course, modern-day Israel must defend itself from the terror of Hamas and ensure the safety of its borders and all of its inhabitants. 

And, many of us have been concerned about the innocent people suffering in Gaza from famine and disease that come as a result of this war. Many contemporary readers are similarly concerned about the innocent Egyptians who are killed in the tenth and final plague. Certainly, some of those first born sons must have been young children. The pain of these losses is almost too much to bear. 

There are no easy answers to this question. Shouldn’t God do all God can do to save innocent lives, particularly those of children? Yet the God in our story, the God who will triumph, must go to extreme measures to send a message to the brutal and ruthless Pharaoh—the same Pharaoh who, almost as soon as he permits the Israelites to be freed, changes his mind and sends his army after them. When we must respond to ruthless cruelty and brutality perpetrated against us, how do we also hold on to our humanity and gentleness?

Sometimes we read Torah because it inspires us and helps us dream of a world of wholeness and hope. Sometimes we read Torah because it reflects the challenging situations that we experience today. Perhaps reading our ancient story, and being reminded that we’ve made it through the darkness before, can give us the strength to light the path anew.

Shabbat shalom, 

Rabbi Sam