Author: JCP Downtown

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 8: Mourning

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This week, we begin reading the last book of the Torah, called Deuteronomy. It is fitting to explore Jewish mourning rituals as we begin Deuteronomy, as it is in this book that Moses shares his final words of advice with the Jewish people before his death, which is described in the very last words of the Torah: 

So Moses the servant of the Eternal died there, in the land of Moab, at the command of the Eternal. [God] buried him in the valley in the land of Moab, near Beth-peor; and no one knows his burial place to this day. Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died; his eyes were undimmed and his vigor unabated. And the Israelites bewailed Moses in the steppes of Moab for thirty days. The period of wailing and mourning for Moses came to an end. Now Joshua son of Nun was filled with the spirit of wisdom because Moses had laid his hands upon him; and the Israelites heeded him, doing as the Eternal had commanded Moses. Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Eternal singled out, face to face (Deuteronomy: 34:5-10). 

From the description of Moses’ death at the end of the Torah, we have the beginnings of the wise mourning rituals of Jewish tradition. When we face loss, these rituals can serve as helpful anchors. While discussing death is never easy, understanding these traditions can help demystify the topic of loss, a reality that all people face, but one that is often taboo and unapproachable. To further explore the topic, I highly recommend listening to a podcast called Exit Strategy hosted by Stephanie Garry, who is the Executive Vice President at Plaza Jewish Community Chapel. On this podcast, “Stephanie and her guests are elevating, normalizing and demystifying end-of-life issues from religious, cultural, societal and other perspectives.” 

In the Torah passage above, we first read about burial. In this instance, it is God who performs this sacred act of burying the dead. Burying the dead is called a chesed shel emet, a “true kindness,” because the deceased can never thank us. Upon burial, we acknowledge that this is one of the most important mitzvot (obligations) of Jewish tradition, yet we also recognize how difficult it is to perform. Tradition teaches that upon burial, the first few shovels of earth on top of the casket are scooped with the convex side of the shovel (the wrong side), which slows down the process and demonstrates how reluctant we are to carry out this task. 

Once the deceased is buried, we turn our attention to comforting the mourners. In the case of Moses, the entire Jewish community bewailed him for thirty days. Because of the enormity of the loss, their society needed to pause for a significant period of time in order to mourn. In Jewish tradition, there is a specific timeline of mourning, which recognizes the time it takes to adjust to the loss of a loved one. It begins with shiva, the seven day period in which loved ones come to the home of the mourner to provide comfort and company, and continues with shloshim, the thirty day period of acute mourning, and shana, the formal period of mourning that lasts for a year. Traditionally, the mourner recites the Mourner’s Kaddish throughout the period of shana, and refrains from attending celebrations. Inherent in this system is an acknowledgment from the community that a person will not be ready to fully join in on a joyful occasion within a year of the death of a loved one, nor should they be forced to. 

Finally, we learn about the power of memory. Just as the Torah recounts Moses’ great deeds after his death, a yahrzeit—the anniversary of the death of a loved one—is an opportunity to share their stories to honor their legacies. We are encouraged to keep their memories alive so that they can continue to shape and inspire us, as well as those who come after us. 

People often ask me how they can support friends and family members who have experienced a loss. It can be hard to know what to do, what to say, or how to be helpful. Inherent within each phase of Jewish mourning rituals is a reminder simply to be present for the mourner. To me, the power of community is most evident when we can embrace and hold each other during times of great sadness, just as we do at times of great joy. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Rabbi Deena

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 6: Bnai Mitzvah

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When people think about Bat, Bar, or B’nai (the plural and gender-neutral term) Mitzvah, they usually think of an event: A service—where the thirteen-year-old reads from the Torah, leads the community in prayer, and gives a speech—and perhaps the celebration afterwards. 

But this is a misconception. B’nai mitzvah is not something a person has; rather, it is something a person becomes. 

In the traditional understanding, when someone becomes a B’nai Mitzvah, it means that they have reached a level of maturity that requires them to observe all aspects of Jewish law. The Talmud identifies this age of maturity as twelve years and one day for girls, and thirteen years and one day for boys (Talmud, Yoma 82a). In more liberal communities, thirteen has become the standard age of B’nai Mitzvah for all children.  

Until modernity, the mindset was this: When a child is young, the parents are responsible for, and bear the consequences of, their behavior. For example, if a kid ate non-kosher food, the parents were blamed, and sometimes punished. It wasn’t considered the child’s fault; after all, someone so young couldn’t know any better. But after the child turned thirteen, they were B’nai Mitzvah, mature enough to be obligated in the observance of Jewish law, and were solely responsible for their own choices and actions. So if the newly-minted thirteen-year-old decided to eat a bacon cheeseburger, their parents were no longer to blame. 

When their child became B’nai Mitzvah, a huge weight was lifted off of the shoulders of parents. No longer were they to blame for the wayward behavior of their children. The relief was so great that a Midrash instructs parents to say a blessing when their child reaches this milestone: Baruch she’patrani me’onesh shel zeh: Blessed are You, who has freed me from the responsibility of this child (Genesis Rabbah, 63:10). 

Today, our mindset is different. First, our understanding of childhood is very different from that of the Middle Ages. Children, even very young children, are not just extensions of their parents. They are unique selves who, at each stage of development, learn to take care of themselves and others, participate in community, and make positive choices. And of course, we also know that a flip doesn’t switch when a child turns thirteen. At this stage in their lives, teens are not yet adults with full decision-making capacities—far from it. At the time of B’nai Mitzvah, true adulthood is a long way off. It would be irresponsible of a parent to turn to their B’nai Mitzvah child and say: “You’re on your own.” 

However, I still appreciate this prayer, and I share it with every JCP family on the day of their child’s B’nai Mitzvah. Because even though a thirteen-year-old is nowhere near adulthood, reaching teenagehood is a significant milestone in their life. The ceremony marks the beginning of a period of growth and change, when the young teen can start to make more significant choices on their own, take on more responsibilities and independence, and start to cultivate their mature identities. At this moment, both parents and teens mark the opening of this next chapter in their lives and in their relationship with each other.

All aspects of the ritual—the prayers, the speech, the Torah chanting, the gathering of loved ones to celebrate—allow a community to honor all that this child has accomplished in the first thirteen years of their life, and to anticipate all that lies ahead. 

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 5: Conversion to Judaism

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Almost every time I speak about conversion to Judaism, someone asks me if I’ve seen the famous scene in Sex and the City where Charlotte York begins her conversion process. Determined and excited, Charlotte knocks on the door to the rabbi’s study and declares her intent to join the Jewish faith. The rabbi responds by saying, “We’re not interested,” and subsequently slams the door in her face. Charlotte, confused, knocks again. A different rabbi answers the door, and Charlotte begins explaining what had just happened. But this rabbi, too, slams the door in her face without saying a word. Only after three unanswered phone calls and a trip to the rabbi’s home—where she comes with a gift of kosher wine and insists that she is serious about conversion—does he accept her as a conversion candidate and (begrudgingly) invite her to Shabbat dinner. 

I find this to be a deeply unfortunate portrayal of Judaism and its leaders as unkind and unwelcoming. No matter one’s religious convictions, slamming a door in someone’s face is just rude, and I admire Charlotte for ever returning to a synagogue after that incident. Subsequently, the show portrays a narrow view of Jewish life and a woman’s place within it. However, it is true that conversion to Judaism is not a simple process. It can take up to a year and involves a period of intense study, a discussion with three rabbis who form a rabbinical court (called a beit din) and immersion in a ritual bath (called a mikvah). The path toward choosing Judaism requires time and commitment. 

Throughout history, potential converts were rare and were often treated with some amount of skepticism or suspicion at the beginning of their conversion process. After all, during times of persecution (which, sadly, were quite often), joining the Jewish people was not a common or popular choice. Most people would, very reasonably, not want to endure the suffering and hardship that was inherent to Jewish life. 

The Shulkhan Aruch, a medieval Jewish legal code, states: “When a person comes to convert, say to them, ‘What did you see that motivated you to come to convert? Don’t you know that the Jewish people are oppressed…and suffering?’” In other words, these scholars wonder why anyone would voluntarily take on the challenges faced by Jews. The Shulkhan Aruch continues: “If they say, ‘I know this and I am unworthy of this suffering,’ the person is ready to convert.” A conversion candidate needed to be aware of, and to be ready and willing to undertake, the hardship that would come with joining the Jewish people. 

Of course, the conversion process of today is not the same as it was in the Middle Ages. Though we know the deeply troubling fact that antisemitism is on the rise, Jews are facing less persecution today than we have at any point in our history. Thankfully, conversion to Judaism no longer poses the danger to a person’s physical safety that it once did. And yet, all who convert learn about our painful history and still willingly choose to tie their fates to the Jewish people. It is an admirable and inspiring choice.

When the biblical character Ruth—considered the first convert—makes the choice to join the Jewish people, she says the following to her mother-in-law, who has tried multiple times to dissuade her: 

“Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. Thus and more may the Eternal do to me if anything but death parts me from you” (Ruth 1:16-17). 

Though they are hopefully not forced to prove themselves like Charlotte, those who convert to Judaism, from the time of Ruth until today, make a deep commitment. Our tradition teaches us that, as children of Abraham and Sarah and members of the ancient covenant between God and the Jewish people, their status as Jews is never to be questioned, and they are to be treated with the utmost dignity, honor, and respect. And all Jewish communities should open the doors wide to embrace them. 

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 4: Welcoming a Baby

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So much of our Jewish liturgy looks forward, toward the next generation. There are countless examples of prayers that mention our children: In the V’ahavta paragraph of the Shema, our central prayer of listening, learning, and loving, which is traditionally recited twice a day, we say: “You shall teach [these words of Torah] to your children.” In the Amidah, another core prayer, we say: L’dor va’dor nagid Godlecha — “From generation to generation we sing Your praise.” And during our Passover Seders, we learn about four archetypal children, and how we can best teach our sacred stories to all kids while honoring their different perspectives and personalities. 

Unlike some other religious traditions, Judaism does not cultivate new followers by actively seeking converts in the public square through proselytization or missionary work. Instead, Judaism’s new followers are gained more privately, often in homes, Jewish schools, and synagogues—JCP included!—where we recognize that the next generation of children, along with those committed adults who actively seek conversion (we’ll learn about conversion rituals next week!), are the ones who will inherit our sacred teachings and traditions. 

Jewish learning and the shaping of Jewish identity happen immediately when a child is welcomed into a Jewish home. The Torah teaches us about two primary rituals: receiving a Hebrew name and circumcision. Interestingly, we first learn about these rituals not upon the arrival of a new baby, but upon Abraham’s entry into a relationship with God when he is 99 years old:

The Eternal appeared to Abram and said…“this is My covenant with you: You shall be the father of a multitude of nations. And you shall no longer be called Abram, but your name shall be Abraham, for I make you the father of a multitude of nations…As for you…such shall be the covenant between Me and you and your offspring to follow which you shall keep: throughout the generations, every male among you shall be circumcised at the age of eight days….And God said to Abraham, “As for your wife, Sarai, you shall not call her Sarai, but her name shall be Sarah (Genesis 17:1-15). 

When Abraham and Sarah (and their offspring) enter into this new relationship with God, the experience is so powerful that their names change. They are so deeply transformed by this covenant with God that they can no longer be known by their previous names. For Abraham, he also experiences a change in his body in addition to a change in his name. Few Jewish rituals involve the human body to the same degree as circumcision, which is why all families need to make the choice that they feel is right for themselves and for their children. 

These traditions of naming and circumcision (called brit milah or a “bris” in the Ashkenazi pronunciation), which are used to welcome new babies into the covenant of the Jewish people, come directly from the Torah, and are probably among the most ancient rituals that we have. 

As we mark this very first milestone moment in someone’s life, their birth, we welcome them into our families, our communities, and our world. But these rituals also welcome the baby into this ancient yet everlasting covenant that God made with Abraham and Sarah all those millenia ago. We anchor ourselves in these stories and customs of the past as we anticipate how this new child will be the next link in our chain of sacred tradition, carrying Judaism forward into the future, and ensuring that this covenant will last for generations to come. 

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 2: Siyyum, Wrapping Up and Beginning Anew

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For Jews, often called the “People of the Book,” it’s no surprise that we have many opportunities to celebrate milestones in our learning. The most well-known of these occasions is probably Simchat Torah, a holiday dedicated to celebrating the completion of a year of Torah reading and the beginning of a new one. It’s an opportunity to reflect on what we have learned and discovered during the previous cycle of Torah reading, and to anticipate all the wisdom that we will receive as we start anew. 

But we also celebrate whenever we conclude major periods of study or landmark moments in our learning, and this type of joyful occasion even has a formal title: Siyyum, which means “completion” in Hebrew. 

I first learned about the concept of a siyyum at Jewish summer camp. There’s a stretch of nine days during the summer during which many Jews don’t eat meat (always considered a luxury) in anticipation of Tisha B’Av, a day of fasting and mourning in the Jewish calendar. But during this period, no one at camp—campers and staffers alike—wanted to skip barbeque night! There had to be some way to get around the prohibition against meat…and it turns out that there was. On barbeque night, we made a siyyum. We all gathered in the gym as one of the rabbis gave a shiur (a lesson) on a tractate of Talmud that he had just finished studying. We said the special Kaddish D’Rabbanan (Rabbis’ Kaddish), and the obligation to have a celebratory feast as part of the siyyum overrode the prohibition against eating meat. The burgers were consumed with extra gusto that evening. 

I will admit that I was skeptical at first. The siyyum felt like a loophole, almost like cheating…were we really engaging in Talmud study just so that everyone could eat a hot dog? But as I thought more about it, I realized the wisdom in this practice. The ritual of the siyyum demonstrates the elevated place of learning in Jewish tradition. The joy of learning can override times of sadness, and can help us overcome challenges and obstacles. Reaching a milestone moment in our learning is something to celebrate…so much so that it’s worth breaking a tradition or changing a custom, just a little bit, in order to honor the accomplishment. 

Over these past two weeks, we concluded another incredible school year in both the ECC and HSP. As we wrap up these periods of study, I think about a beautiful prayer that we recite upon completing a tractate of the Talmud. It’s so heartfelt that it might seem like the prayer is addressed to another person, but it is actually addressed to the material of the Talmud itself: Hadran alach, v’hadrach alan, We will return to you, and you will return to us; our mind is on you, and your mind is on us; we will not forget you, and you will not forget us – not now and not ever. 

As we make our own siyyum and say farewell to any period of study, Judaism reminds us that the wisdom we gained and the people with whom we shared our learning are always with us. The conclusion of all learning might leave us at the end of a chapter, but also places us at the cusp of new beginnings. And that is something to celebrate indeed. 

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 3: Healing

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One of the most challenging and rewarding aspects of my rabbinic training was participating in a course called Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). During CPE, I worked as a hospital chaplain, going from room to room to listen to, pray with, and be present for patients and hospital staff alike. In addition to providing support, chaplains in CPE are guided in self-reflection in order to better understand ourselves as givers and recipients of care. Needless to say, I learned a great deal that summer—about our healthcare system, about pain and healing, and about myself. 

I was lucky enough to be taught by an incredible chaplain, Rabbi Jo Hirschmann, who was there to guide me as I went through this intense experience. She, along with another of my rabbinic  school professors, Rabbi Nancy Wiener, wrote a book that we studied that summer, entitled Maps and Meaning: Levitical Models for Contemporary Care. In it, they explore how the Torah’s handling of tzara’at, a biblical skin disease, can help us think about how we navigate illness, caregiving, and healing. Its lessons have stayed with me to this day. 

According to the Torah (Leviticus 13), tzara’at was a skin condition that necessitated a period of quarantine. Any Israelite with symptoms of tzara’at had to call out: Tamei! Tamei! – “Unclean! Unclean!” and was required to isolate outside the Israelite camp until the symptoms subsided. When the time period of the quarantine was complete, the priest (the religious leader who also served as a medical professional) examined the patient, led them in a sacrificial ritual, and brought them back into the camp, where they had to quarantine outside of their homes for an additional week. 

Since learning from Rabbis Hirschmann and Wiener, I have been struck by the brilliance of the Torah’s steps for bringing a person out of a period of quarantine and back into the camp. Instead of throwing a person right back into a routine after an experience of physical isolation and emotional disruption, the person re-enters the camp in stages. First, they mark the end of their quarantine through a ritual, giving thanks that this ordeal is behind them. Then, they can rejoin society, but they do it slowly. They take an extra week to acclimate before returning to their homes and their regular lives. 

In a recording of their book launch, Rabbi Weiner says the following: 

One of the things that we found really fascinating was that there were very clear ideas of what could help both a person who suffered from tzara’at and the priest who visited as they journeyed out and as they came back. There was no assumption that either would be able to quickly move from one place…or mental space easily and come back…We were thinking about some of the contemporary corollaries. What is it for us to have people who are spending time in hospitals or in nursing homes [or military service]?…They’re leaving the places that they know best and… where they feel most rooted…What [do] we do and what we don’t we do today to enable people to make those transitions easily.

The authors of this book could not have predicted the relevance of their work during the pandemic. Lockdown was a time when the biblical narrative of the tzara’at seemed to come to life: We all had to navigate life outside of the camp, far from the familiar routines and rhythms of our lives, and then find our way back in. And so many people in our society functioned as “priests,” leaving isolation to work in our hospitals, grocery stores, and schools, making their way into and out of the camp during a time when those transitions were truly treacherous. 

At some point in life, almost all of us find ourselves experiencing a tough time, outside the camp. In those moments, may we be inspired by the rituals in our Torah, which teach us to be gentle with ourselves as we navigate our way back toward healing and wholeness, and to serve as priests—as sacred guides—for each other. 

Summer Series: Cycles of Life, Part 1: Cycles of Life

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Now that Memorial Day has passed, summer is here! This season offers the promise of new adventures and a chance to reset and recharge from the rigors of the school year.

It’s also a time of transition. In late spring, we celebrate as kids finish a year of school and transition to a new grade. (Growing up, my favorite day of the year was when, on the last day of say, first grade, I could declare: “I’m a second grader now!”) As I walk through the West Village in mid-May, I love seeing the purple gowns of graduating NYU students, who celebrate as they complete courses of study, earn degrees, and graduate from their programs. This is a popular season for B’nai Mitzvah ceremonies. And later in the summer, wedding season will begin. 

Any transition—from first-grader to second-grader, from student to alumnus, from child to teenager, from beloved friend to spouse—brings change and the need for realignment. No matter how joyful a given change might be, it always involves adjustment to new and unexplored realities. And of course, when we experience hardship, the changes that come with illness and loss of all kinds can be all the more challenging to face.

As the Hebrew expression goes: Kol hatchalot kashot. All beginnings are hard. Human beings innately understand that it takes time to incorporate and integrate a new aspect of our lives. That’s why all faith traditions have tools to help us navigate new realities. These tools are called rituals. Rituals, like tossing a cap in the air during graduation or standing under the wedding canopy and breaking a glass, transform us from one identity to another. But they also provide a framework to make sense of these new identities, as well as the new experiences that come with them. 

In honor of summer, this season of transition and growth, this D’var Torah series will explore moments along the Jewish life cycle and their accompanying rituals. We’ll discuss some of the more familiar ones, like a B’nai Mitzvah or a wedding, and some that might be less well known, like a siyyum, the conclusion of a period of study. But all will share key elements that help us navigate new beginnings. 

Let’s get started! 

Shavuot: What will you Receive?

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Tonight, the countdown is complete. Since the night of the 2nd Seder, we have counted the Omer, the period of seven weeks between Passover and Shavout. During this time period of reflection and introspection, we have explored seven (out of ten) Divine attributes, which, according to Jewish mystical tradition, can actually be physically mapped in relation to each other:

https://velveteenrabbi.blogs.com/blog/2018/07/seven.html

Now, we experience the culmination of these attributes as we celebrate receiving the Torah during the holiday of Shavuot. Tonight, many Jews will stay up all night studying Torah and will eat dairy foods, two special customs of this holiday.

The Torah describes the dramatic scene of its own revelation:

On the third day, as morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the horn; and all the people who were in the camp trembled…Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for יהוה had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder” (Exodus 19:16-19).  

It’s fun to imagine the drama of that scene, and some—like Cecil B. DeMille, director of the 1956 film The Ten Commandments—have even tried to capture it on screen. We learn that the experience of receiving the Torah directly from God was so overwhelming for the Israelites that they asked Moses, instead of God, to share the remainder of its contents. 

But the ancient Israelites who physically stood at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah weren’t the only ones who were present at the scene. Later in the Torah, Moses says: “I make this covenant…not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before our God יהוה and with those who are not with us here this day” (Deuteronomy 29:13-14). 

Upon first read, it’s not quite clear what this means. Who exactly are the people who are “not with us here this day”? The medieval commentators answer emphatically: These are the future generations, as “[This covenant is made] with you and with those who come after you, namely, your children and your children’s children” (Ibn Ezra). 

Some take this claim even further and state that all Jews, even those who were not yet born, stood at Sinai and received the Torah together. In Midrash Tanuchma, a narrative interpretation of the Hebrew Bible, the ancient Rabbis teach: “The generations that have yet to come were also there at that time…all the souls were there, [even] when [their] bodies had still not been created.” 

It’s a powerful statement: No matter where we come from, when we were born, or how we practice, Jewish tradition asserts that we are all witnesses to revelation at Mount Sinai. The Torah wasn’t given to a small group of people millennia ago; we were also there, receiving it alongside our ancestors. This teaches us that the Torah belongs to all of us, and we are all responsible for it. 

As Shavuot coincides with the end of the school year—months of stimulation, growth, and learning—this is a perfect time to ask: What is the Torah that I have received this year? What new knowledge, new wisdom, and new insight have I gained? And what will I be ready to receive in the months to come? 

May we all find the Torah we are searching for as we (re)visit Mount Sinai this Shavuot. 

Shabbat shalom, and Chag Sameach, 

Rabbi Deena 

Counting the Omer: Malchut, Majesty

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Even for those who don’t feel any connection to the British monarchy, or who recognize its many challenges, there was something powerful about witnessing the pageantry and ceremony of the coronation of King Charles III: the elaborate garments, the grand processions, the blasts of the trumpets, the majestic crown. The drama of special rituals reminds us of the human capacity for beauty, nobility, and greatness. Moments like these can be so powerful because they allow us to transcend our individual selves and feel part of something grand. 

In this final week before Shavuot, we reflect on the attribute of Malchut, or “Majesty.” Like the coronation of a monarch, Jewish rituals are also deeply powerful and moving. Just as the coronation transformed Charles from Prince to King, so too do Jewish rituals transform us from one state of being to another. 

Last week, I had the privilege to witness as Rabbi Jacob underwent two exciting Jewish rituals: his rabbinic ordination and his wedding! In the Torah, Moses transfers his leadership to his successor, Joshua. To transmit authority to Joshua, Moses lays his hands upon Joshua’s head (Numbers 27:18-20). The same ritual of laying of hands takes place during many rabbinic ordinations today. Before the open ark at Temple Emanu-El, Provost Rabbi Andrea Weiss places her hands on the heads on each ordinee, investing them with rabbinic authority and transforming them into Rabbis in the Community of Israel. And at every Jewish wedding, two friends stand underneath the chuppah, and through the exchange of rings, the recitation of blessings, and the breaking of a glass, they become family. These are just two examples of many beautiful and transformative rituals within Jewish tradition.

However, unlike coronation, Jewish tradition teaches that greatness is not a quality reserved solely for a monarch. Instead, a core principle of Judaism is the belief that there is inherent nobility and majesty within all humans. 

In the Midrash, Vayikra Rabbah (a narrative interpretation of the Hebrew Bible), the ancient Rabbis share the following story: 

Hillel the Elder, who, at the time that he was departing from his students, would walk with them. 

They said to him, “Rabbi, where are you walking to?” 

He said to them, “To fulfill a commandment!” 

They said to him, “And what commandment is this?” 

He said to them, “To bathe in the bathhouse.” 

They said to him: “But is this really a commandment?” 

He said to them, “Yes. Just as the statues of kings…are cleaned and polished…I, who was created in the image of God, how much more so!”

In other words, Hillel affirms that because we are created B’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, each of us is essentially royal, and we should therefore treat ourselves and others with the dignity befitting a monarch. In our world, which depends so much on hierarchy and rank, this is a radical, countercultural idea. But when we live the value of seeing the Divine spark within all people, we can transform the world into a place of kindness, decency, and even majesty. 

Shabbat shalom,

Deena 

Counting the Omer: Yesod, Foundation

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Though Maren Morris’ hit song, The Bones, was released in 2019, it touches upon an ancient truth: a A strong foundation is the key to any physical building, any relationship, and any life well-lived. 

This week, as we explore different Divine attributes while we count the Omer, we reach the attribute of Yesod, which means “Foundation” in Hebrew. 

According to the Kabbalists, Yesod is the sum of the attributes of the previous two weeks: Netzach (perseverance) and Hod (magnificence). It’s no secret that it takes grit to pursue the things that make life meaningful, even magnificent: fulfilling work, healthy relationships, self-reflection, and righteous action, just to name a few. But without a sense of their worth, without a sense of wonder and awe in their pursuit, our perseverance won’t last very long, and it can become hard to stay motivated in the quest for meaning and joy. Our mystical wisdom says that when we combine these two attributes of perseverance and magnificence, we lay a solid foundation in our own lives, and God lays a solid spiritual foundation in our universe.   

This past Monday, hundreds of members and friends of our community gathered for our JCP 2023 Annual Benefit. We heard incredible tributes during the evening, and one sentiment was strong throughout: This community serves as a Yesod, an anchor and foundation, on our journeys through life. Through joyful moments, challenges, and everything in between, JCP surrounds us with the love and support that we need, and helps us discover the beauty of Jewish tradition and the power of community. 

JCP is a beautiful example of the strong foundation that can be built when we combine the attributes of perseverance and magnificence. When this neighborhood was devastated after 9/11, JCP’s founders had the vision and determination to create a community that could support strong and vibrant Jewish life downtown. Since then, we have done the important work of sustaining this community, thanks to the commitment and dedication of staff, leadership, and members alike. I believe this commitment stems from the inherent beauty and magnificence of what we are building. JCP is a perfect example of how Netzach and Hod come together to create a beautiful Yesod in our lives. 

The Book of Proverbs teaches: “The righteous one is an everlasting foundation” (10:25). May JCP serve as this everlasting foundation in our own lives and for generations to come. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Deena