Author: JCP Downtown

This Shabbat, the secular and Jewish calendars give us an opportunity to reflect on the lives and legacies of two great leaders who changed the course of history. 

The first is an ancient leader: Moses. In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va’era, God calls upon him to take up the mantle of leadership. He will be the one to cultivate a prophetic relationship with God, demand freedom for the Israelites from the oppressive Pharaoh, guide the people as they journey from Egypt to the Promised Land, and instruct this newly free nation on how to build a sacred society. He is famously reluctant to take on this role and is vocal about his lack of confidence. When God appoints him to this position, he responds by saying: “How…should Pharaoh heed me, me—who gets tongue-tied!” (Exodus 6:12). But God insists that he is the right person for the job, and he ends up leading the Israelites with humility and grace for 40 years, accompanying them through their trials in the desert, and readying them for their entry into Israel. 

The second is a modern leader: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., whose legacy we honor this coming Monday. Dr. King dedicated his far too short life to the fight for justice, civil rights, and racial equality in the United States. His life and his work were rooted in his faith, particularly in the voices of the Prophets of the Hebrew Bible. These Prophets, including Isaiah and Amos, argue that God wants human beings to treat each other with dignity and respect over all else, including strict adherence to ritual and worship. So notable and remarkable about Dr. King’s organizing was his emphasis on nonviolence, using peaceful protest to make real and lasting change. One of his most recent biographers, Jonathan Eig, calls him “our only modern-day founding father.” 

Though both of these leaders brought their communities very far, they didn’t complete their work during their lifetimes. Moses led the Israelites to the edge of the Jordan River, but died before they could cross over and enter the land of Israel. He was not able to bring them to their destination; a new leader, Joshua, had to pick up where Moses left off. Dr. King referred to this biblical event in his eerily prescient final speech (he was tragically assassinated the next day): He, like Moses, declared: “I’ve looked over and I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the Promised Land!” We in the United States are closer—but have not yet arrived—at the Promised Land of dignity, equality, and respect which Dr. King envisioned. His call for an end to discrimination, racism, and hatred in America is still urgent today. 

The extraordinary and inspiring leadership of Moses and of Dr. King feel like they are concepts of the past. We need—and sadly, often lack—strong leadership, especially in the context of the war in Israel and Gaza. While people who come to this conflict from different perspectives argue about many things, they often share a deep sense of frustration with the political leadership on both sides. As difficult as it is to imagine right now, one day, this war will be over. And when it is, we will need answers to the many questions about what will happen next: How will Gaza be rebuilt? Who will be in charge? Will political leadership in Israel and the Palestinian Authority change? How will we work toward peace? But one thing is certain: We will need strong, compassionate, and ethical leadership from both sides if we are ever to realize the dream of peace. 

As we remember the honesty and humility of Moses, and the passion and principles of Dr. King, may we all aspire—and inspire others—to moral leadership today. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Deena  

There’s usually excitement in the air before Hanukkah begins. I love prepping latkes, buying presents, dusting off the menorah, and planning parties. There is so much joy in anticipating this holiday where we bring light into the short, dark days and celebrate the miracles, large and small, in the history of the Jewish people and in our lives today. 

But this year, before Hanukkah began, I felt deflated. How would we find the light and hope of this holiday during such a time of pain? When we feel so helpless and lost, would it feel pointless—or even disingenuous—to light the Hanukkah candles? 

As Hanukkah began, I thought back to the origins of the holiday. Hanukkah is one of the only ancient Jewish holidays that is not recorded in the Hebrew Bible. Instead, it is an historical holiday, a celebration of an unlikely military victory. The small Maccabeean army defeated the powerful Seleucid Greeks, who prohibited the practice of Judaism. When the war was over, the victors instituted an annual holiday to commemorate their triumph. However, the Rabbis of the Talmud—loath to celebrate human might—emphasized the story of the miraculous oil in order to shift the focus away from human military prowess and toward the Divine power to work wonders. 

Our circumstances today feel strangely similar to the ones in which Hanukkah was first celebrated. Just as the Jews fought a devastating war all those years ago, the current war in the very same region continues to rage. Just as the Maccabees fought for the ability to practice Judaism, we find ourselves navigating new questions about what it means to practice Judaism in the United States today.

Though the Rabbis likely highlighted the story of the miracle of the oil in order to de-emphasize human power and focus on God’s might, our new post-October 7th reality has made me wonder whether there was another reason why they downplay the military victory. Perhaps it was too difficult for them, year after year, to commemorate the devastating war that the Maccabees had to fight. War, they knew, was nothing to celebrate. In an article in The Forward written on October 17, Yehudah Kurtzer, President of the Shalom Hartman Institute, writes: “‘just wars’ are not just because they are easy or victimless.” As we are painfully learning for ourselves, it is deeply disturbing and heartbreaking to witness the brutality of war and the deaths of so many innocent civilians. I imagine that the Rabbis felt the same way.

Though the war against the Greeks was a necessary one, the Rabbis didn’t want a holiday solely dedicated to remembering its devastation year in and year out. Instead, they focused on the miracle of the oil because they preferred to remember the reason why the war had to be fought: so that Jews could be safe to practice Judaism and allow our tradition to flourish. To me, the true miracle of Hanukkah wasn’t a little extra oil, but the fact that Jews survived to light candles in the first place. 

Kurtzer continues: “To be in Israel right now is to feel that you are walking in the valley of the shadow of death. All this death—the victims of Hamas’ wickedness, the impending deaths of the Hamas perpetrators and the inevitable killing of innocent civilians caught in their grip—will continue to haunt us.” But just as the war of the Maccabees ended, this war, too, will end. And when it does, just like the ancient Rabbis, we will not celebrate it. Instead, we will pray for, work toward, and hopefully witness, a miracle: A better future, filled with peace and dignity, for Israelis and Palestinians, Jews and Muslims around the world, and all people who love the Holy Land. 

Next year, when we celebrate Hanukkah, may the world be brighter than it is today.

Shabbat shalom,

Deena

Never in my life have I been more grateful for Hanukkah. Every year, I love the joys of this holiday: eight nights of celebrations, lots of opportunities to try different latkes, and, of course, lighting candles. 

I always love the commandment to pirsum hanes: to publicize the miracle of Hanukkah and place our menorah in a window. I love sharing Hanukkah with my friends and family — both those who are Jewish and those who aren’t. But this year, Hanukkah feels different. 

This year, Hanukkah is more poignant. The story of hope, and miracles, and the simple act of lighting candles to make a dark time just a little brighter, is so resonant. 

After all, the world is definitively darker these days, and it’s not just the sun setting earlier. Last week, we again saw swastikas in the “Flood the Tree Lighting for Gaza” rally, which took place during the Christmas tree lighting at Rockefeller Center. We’ve seen the UN be slow to condemn the acts of sexual violence against Israelis on October 7th, only this week offering a comment that fell short. We have seen university presidents fail to unequivocally condemn calls for genocide. We are devastated by the continued fighting and losses in Gaza as Israel fights for security. We see even more clearly that this war will not be won quickly. 

What better time is there to turn to our Hanukkah story? 

On Hanukkah, we are reminded (to paraphrase Eleanor Roosevelt) that a small group of committed people can change the world: the Maccabees, who were few in number, decided to fight for Jewish independence, and won. Today, the Jews are less than 1% of the world population and less than 2% of the US population. But our commitment and connection to Israel, and to the Jewish people, is not limited or defined by our small numbers. 

On Hanukkah, we are reminded that we are people of action. When the ancient Greeks desecrated the Temple, the Jews didn’t wait around for a miracle. They got to work cleaning and repairing their place of holiness. Perhaps when God saw their dedication to repair, God figured out how to make the oil last all eight days. 

On Hanukkah, we are reminded that there is always the possibility of miracles. The Maccabees knew that there wasn’t enough oil to last for eight nights, but they lit the lamp anyway. And now, thousands of years later, we light lamps at home and tell their story. Is the miracle that the oil lasted eight days? Or is the miracle that we are still here? When we light our menorahs this year, what miracles will we invite? 

On Hanukkah, we are reminded that even small actions can make a big difference. Striking a match, lighting a candle, and saying a blessing is not complicated. It is an action that people of (almost) every age can take. And who among us has not felt the delight of lighting a menorah? 

There’s an Israeli Hanukkah song: “Kol echad hu or katan, v’chulanu or eitan:” Each of us is a small light, and all of us together are a strong light. We can’t wait to be together and create our strong light this Hanukkah at JCP. We have gatherings for each night—join us!

Shabbat shalom,

Sam

In this week’s Torah portion, we read about Jacob’s famous wrestling match with an angel. On the eve of the reunion with his estranged brother, Esau, Jacob can’t sleep. All night, he wrestles with a mysterious being, sustaining a hip injury. Finally, as the sun begins to rise, the mysterious stranger says: “Let me go.” “Not until you bless me,” Jacob replies. 

So many questions arise from this story: Who is the mysterious stranger who appears in the dark of night? What does it mean to ask for a blessing? And, as always, what can this story teach us about our lives today? 

Let’s start with the request for a blessing. We typically think of blessings as gifts in our lives, their timing and essence decided by God. A blessing often refers to something out of our control, not something we can ask for or even demand. Yet here Jacob is, in one of the most terrifying moments of his life, unable to sleep, yet able to demand a blessing. 

Furthermore, in response to Jacob’s demand, the angel gives him a new name: “You shall be called Yisrael, for you have struggled [yisra-] with God [El] and prevailed.”  And we, the Jewish people, get our name – Israel – from this very moment. 

In other words, to be a Jew does not mean that we must accept our circumstances, no matter how challenging. No, we are people who get to make our lives our own, even when it means struggling with the Divine – with the seemingly predestined. 

In a commentary on this story, Rabbi David Kimchi (France, 1160-1235), explains that this encounter with the mysterious stranger happened at night because “night is the time of fear.” Who among us hasn’t in their lives been afraid of the dark? Or who among us hasn’t lamented how early the winter sun sets bringing its swift fall of darkness? And who among us hasn’t been worried during a time of challenge and sadness? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you understand the fear that night can provoke. 

Our story reminds us that we don’t need to be afraid of the dark, or even if we are, that the mystical beings that appear to us in the dark don’t always need explaining. We don’t have to fully understand their essence to be changed by the experience. And the wrestling we do (emotional or spiritual) during times of darkness can lead to blessing. 

Friends, the past few weeks have been dark: literally with daylight savings, and metaphorically: in Israel and in Gaza. As we continue to pray for redemption for all the hostages, and as we refuse to lose hope for an abiding peace, we can take comfort in our Torah’s stories. The time of darkness is never the ending, always only a prelude. And as we turn toward the season of Hanukkah , of kindling lights in our homes, of reminding ourselves and others that miracles are possible- let us not be afraid to dwell in the dark. Perhaps we might even find, or seek, a blessing. 

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Sam

Baruch Atah Adonai Elohienu Melech Ha’Olam, Matir Asurim

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Source of Life, who Frees the Bound 

This is one of the several morning blessings, often called Nisim B’chol Yom or “Daily Miracles,” recited by many Jews upon waking each day. These blessings have a special place in my heart. I always appreciate that Jewish tradition offers us the chance to reflect upon the things for which we are grateful, first thing in the morning. The list of blessings calls our attention to the very foundations of our lives: For the ability to distinguish between day and night, for freedom, for being made in God’s image, and for having strength when we are weary, just to name a few. 

Each year around Thanksgiving—a day when the American calendar and our Jewish tradition align so beautifully—I like to teach about these morning blessings as a way to reflect on all of the gifts of our lives. 

I always understood this blessing, Matir Asurim, a prayer about “freeing the bound” to be a metaphor. Perhaps, in this prayer, we give thanks for being freed from sleep and regaining consciousness each morning. Perhaps it is about gratitude for being freed, or working toward freedom, from emotional patterns and behaviors that keep us stuck. 

But sadly, since October 7, this prayer is literal: We fervently hope and pray for the release of all those who were taken captive during Hamas’ brutal attack. 

As I write this, there is talk of a deal to pause the fighting and release many of the hostages. Last week, I was at the home of a JCP community member who hosted family members of five Israeli hostages. Their bravery was nothing short of awe-inspiring as they told their stories of trauma, loss, and fear for the safety of their loved ones who are in captivity, whose ages range from 3 to 80 years old. The hope that their family members will be released from captivity to return home is what is keeping them going and motivating them to speak to anyone who will listen to their plea, including politicians, faith leaders, and journalists. As one said: “There will be no victory in this war without the safe return of hostages.” 

This year, while we reflect on the blessings in our lives, the gratitude and joy of our Thanksgiving tables is diminished as so many of our Israeli siblings are being held in captivity. 

May our prayers and demands for their return very soon be answered. 

Shabbat shalom, and Happy Thanksgiving, 

Deena 

It’s clearer than ever that our souls are hurting: Hurting with worry and sadness for the Jewish community here at home; fears about antisemitism and our own safety; hurting for our Israeli community and all the innocents caught in the war with Israel and Hamas. 

So Shabbat has arrived again, and with it, the opportunity to care for our souls. 

How is caring for our soul different from caring for our emotions? Emotions are often contrasted with reason: Reason helps us understand what is happening in the world, or, so often these days, it’s a lack of reason governing what’s going on. Emotions are how we respond to events: we become sad, or angry, or worried, or all of the above.  

So, the soul. The soul is the deeper part of us, that animates our heart, that gives meaning to the rest of the muck. Our sense that we are connected to something beyond ourselves, the Jewish community or God or both. For some of us, our souls have been crying out over the past month. For some of us, our souls have blocked out the challenge and pain, numbing ourselves to make it through. 

How can our sacred story, the Torah, help us make sense of this time, and help us or teach us how to care for our souls?

In this week’s parasha, Chayei Sarah, the matriarch Sarah dies. We read: “Sarah died in Kiryat Arbah, now Hevron – in the land of Canaan, and Abraham proceeded to mourn for her and bewail her.” 

The first thing Abraham does is tend to his soul – and hers. Abraham mourns, and even cries. Then, he cares for her soul by ensuring for her a proper burial spot. As we all process so much shock and loss in Israel; and the corresponding delegitimization of Jewish sadness and mourning that has proliferated so deeply online and in the streets, perhaps we still need space to tend to our souls: to express our sadness, or like Abrham, even to cry.  

What does Abraham do after tending his soul and ensuring a proper burial for his wife? He looks to the next steps of ensuring his legacy. He asks his servant, Eliezer, to go find a fitting partner for his son, Isaac. The only criteria: she must be a woman of generosity. In the story, this means a woman who sees the whole picture. The right woman will offer water to Eliezer’s camels, not only to Eliezer.  

Perhaps tending to our souls and building a legacy is about generosity, loving-kindness, and seeing the big picture. How can we offer generosity to ourselves and others in this challenging time? Perhaps it’s about spending less time on social media and more time with family and friends. Perhaps it’s about making space to do the things that have always brought us comfort: returning to ourselves. Perhaps it’s about taking action, connecting with others and Israel. 

This Shabbat, may we all create some time and space to care for our souls. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Rabbi Sam 

There are times when the stories in our sacred texts feel as though they are from a bygone era, and we struggle to make them feel relevant to our lives. And then there are times where these stories come to life, the narratives and dramas contained within them playing out before our eyes. 

That’s how I felt this week, upon reading our Torah portion, Parashat Vayera. In it, we read about impossible choices, interpersonal strife, and painful conflict. We learn that Abraham must banish one of his sons, Ishmael (an important figure in Islam), from his home, for the sake of his other son, Isaac (one of the Jewish Patriarchs). Later, when Abraham is instructed to sacrifice his son as a statement of his faith in God, the Rabbis teach that Isaac and Ishmael compete for the chance to meet this dreadful end. Each one wants to demonstrate the veracity of his own faith over and above that of his brother: 

“Ishmael said: ‘I am more beloved to God than you are, as I was circumcised at the age of thirteen years.’ Isaac responded: ‘I am more beloved to God than you are, as I was circumcised at eight days.’ Ishmael said to him: ‘I am more beloved because I had the ability to protest, but I did not protest.’ At that moment, Isaac said: ‘If only the Holy One would appear to me and say to me that I should sever one of my limbs [or offer myself on the altar] I would not refuse’” (Bereshit Rabbah 55:4). 

Today, as we navigate our way through the darkness of this war, it is heartbreaking to witness the perpetuation of the strife between the descendants of Isaac and Ishmael. 

As we read the agonizing stories of this Torah portion, and as we experience the pain of this challenging time, my mind goes back to the Torah portion we read a few weeks ago, Parashat Noach. After God destroys the earth through a flood, God makes a promise never to do so again. God makes this promise not to Jews, but to all humans and all living creatures. This, God decides, is what God owes to humanity—the guarantee that they won’t live in fear of annihilation at the hand of the Divine. In this light, the Rabbis of the Talmud derive seven rules—basic principles of decency—that all human beings must follow in order to live in peace with each other. These include the commandment to set up a court system, and the prohibitions against murder, robbery, and cruelty toward animals (Sanhedrin 56a). The Rabbis recognize that without some sense of shared commitments and obligations to each other, humanity would not survive. 

I think now about those basic rules, about what human beings of all faiths and ideologies owe to each other in order to inhabit this earth together. These questions are not abstract—they are urgent. 

What do Israelis and Palestinians, and their leaders, owe to their own people and to each other? Israeli hostages are still in captivity. The brutality of Hamas’ October 7 attack continues to haunt us and cause incomprehensible grief. Israel must ensure its own safety and security. But we also face the tragic reality that countless innocent Gazan civilians suffer from lack of food, water, and medicine. Thousands, including so many children, have already died in the war. 

For many, this question of what Israelis and Palestinians owe each other feels like an unfair one after Hamas’ gruesome attack against Israel. Yet these groups are inexorably tied together: by geographic proximity, by belief in the same God, and by painful history. Are these groups only destined for conflict, strife, and pain? Or is there any way forward that acknowledges their shared humanity? 

Here at home, Americans need to ask each other the same question: What do we—Jews, Muslims, Zionists, progressives, conservatives, students, teachers—owe to each other as this war rages on? 

We owe each other physical safety. Our streets and campuses are tense, threatening, and frightening, and we are on guard. Antisemitic rhetoric and incidents have increased at alarming rates. Islamophobia is on the rise, too. When I was an undergraduate, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks (z’’l), then the Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth, came to visit campus. He said that whenever Jewish students want to address antisemitism on campus, the first step should be to speak with Muslim students to see how we can work in partnership to address both Islamophobia and antisemitism simultaneously. Fighting one type of hatred is powerful, he said, but fighting more than one is transformative. Today, this might seem like too difficult a task. But it is also impossible to live in a world, and in a country, filled with so much hatred. No Jew, no Muslim, and no person of any faith should walk through the streets afraid for their safety. 

We owe each other space for grief. There are many whose statements and actions we find deeply frightening and morally reprehensible. But the one thing that we all share is heartbreak. Can we find a way to hear it? And how will we tend to our own broken hearts? 

None of this is easy. But the Torah teaches us that there are certain basic decencies that we owe to one another, no matter our faiths or beliefs. And they only become more important in times of conflict. 

How will we all live together in this broken world? We owe it to each other—and to ourselves—to keep asking, and trying to answer, that question. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Deena