Category: D’var Torah

Counting the Omer: Perseverance

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In my sophomore year of high school, I struggled to get playing time on the basketball team. Although I was the first player off the bench by the end of the season, it took tremendous work, determination, and patience. My parents sat me down after the season ended and told me that they were proud of me. I can remember my dad, who has coached basketball for decades, saying “your perseverance will help you in whatever you want to do, beyond just basketball.”

This week’s sacred quality of focus during the counting of the Omer is netzach, or perseverance. In many regards, perseverance is the story of the Jewish people. The phrase “netzach Yisrael,” or “Israel’s perseverance,” from the Book of Samuel (I Samuel 15:29) has come to characterize the Jewish experience, enduring from generation to generation through time, place, and hardship. In our prayers, too, we recite the phrase “ul’netzach netzachim” to describe the infinite nature of our ongoing Jewish expression. Perseverance is an important quality for both Jewish individuals as well as the Jewish collective.

In addition to netzach capturing the determination and fortitude it takes to persist through challenging circumstances, it also represents the timelessness of Judaism and Jewish values. The pillars of Jewish practice, Torah, prayer, and acts of loving-kindness, can effectively ground and inspire us through competing values of the societies in which we live. These pillars already have persevered through countless kingdoms, civilizations, polities, and countries. As I once heard climate activist and author Daniel Sherrell say, “religion and spiritual practice are ‘boulders’ amidst the (challenges and pressures of the world).” Like a boulder, Jewish tradition perseveres.

Perseverance is essential in our own lives–during junior varsity basketball and beyond–and to Jewish tradition. The sacred quality of netzach can inspire us to go get what we want and to preserve our heritage which has endured for so long already. Perhaps Shabbat is the perfect day to do both: Do that which fills up our beings, despite competing factors on our time, and to take part in a Jewish tradition that has persevered for thousands of years.

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Counting the Omer: Beauty

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Recent JCP Bat Mitzvah Elizabeth Resnick taught about the priestly clothing described in the Book of Exodus a couple of months ago during her service. She encouraged all of us—family, friends, and officiants alike—to consider how our clothes represent our inner selves and the moment for which we’re dressing up. Elizabeth’s Torah portion, Exodus 28:2 instructs Moses to “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment.” In this case, Aaron’s clothes and appearance are supposed to embody the dignity and adornment (tiferet) that define his sacred responsibility as the High Priest of the Israelites.

The word “adornment” in that verse, or tiferet in Hebrew, is the third holy characteristic upon which we reflect in the time between Passover and Shavuot. Tiferet can mean beauty or splendor in addition to adornment. Wisdom from the Jewish mystical tradition suggests that tiferet is the sum of the past two weeks’ characteristics, kindness and strength. In this tradition, Elizabeth’s teaching, and the Book of Exodus, beauty is far more than skin deep. The beauty that we can identify with our sight—sacral vestments, the ornaments on the Torah, clothes, and more–are all a manifestation of the internal beauty that flows within each of us and throughout our tradition.

There’s an idea in the Talmud that a Torah scholar’s appearance should represent their inner life. A prominent rabbi from the Talmud named Rabban Gamliel even instituted a rule that to enter his house of study, one’s “inside must be like their outside” (BT Berakhot 28a). Elsewhere, another rabbi from the Talmud named Rava says that any Torah scholar whose inside is not like their outside is not a Torah scholar at all (BT Yoma 72b). Both of these rabbis’ insistence that students of Torah must represent themselves authentically emphasizes the idea that outward appearances are ideally reflections of that which is on the inside.

The sacral vestments represent the beauty of divine service and leadership. Torah ornaments show the splendor that is found within the scrolls themselves. Our clothes, too, can manifest the sacred dignity and beauty inherent to humanity. I’ll leave you with the Jewish blessing for experiencing moments of intense beauty: Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, shekacha lo ba’olamo. Blessed are You God, for these things in the world.

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Counting the Omer: Strength

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The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, a book about a tree who loved and provided for a person with its natural resources in each stage of the person’s life, was one of my favorite stories as a child. I loved reading about each chapter of the human’s life, and I especially loved the tree’s unfettered love and generosity. 

When I reread it as an adult, however, the book didn’t come across nearly as wholesome as I remembered. I had picked it up again in my early twenties, working as a Jewish educator at a job in which there was always more to give to students, families, colleagues, and curricula; I understood that the tree in The Giving Tree gave so much of itself that it had nothing left to give. While the tree completely embodied last week’s attribute of hesed, kindness, it did so without any boundaries or care for itself.

This week’s character trait during the Counting of the Omer is gevurah, which translates to strength or discipline. In the Jewish mystical tradition, gevurah is the counterbalance to hesed. Even when it’s someone’s natural inclination to perform acts of loving kindness, we can end up like the tree with nothing left of itself to give without any inner restraint or discernment. And when someone’s natural inclination is toward strength and boundaries, we run the risk of living disconnected and isolated lives without any kindness or generosity. 

Ben Zoma says, “Who is strong? One who overcomes their inclination” (Pirkei Avot 4:1). Gevurah and hesed come as a pair because they each serve as a counterbalance to one’s inclinations and are both required to live a healthy, balanced spiritual life. Pursuing that healthy, balanced, spiritual life requires the inner strength that gevurah represents– to be kind and generous while also protective of our own physical and emotional well-being. These first two weeks of Counting the Omer provide a blueprint to do just that.

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Counting the Omer: Kindness

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While the chorus of Dayenu or Chad Gadya might still be stuck in our heads from the past couple nights of seder, the Jewish calendar is already marching toward the next festival. Shavuot, the holiday that commemorates the wheat harvest as well as the receiving of Torah, arrives exactly seven weeks from Passover. There is a tradition to count each of the 49 days of this period, known as the Omer, with a blessing. There is also a tradition to mark each of these seven weeks by exploring a particular character trait, or middah, that we hope to build as a way of preparing ourselves for receiving Torah on Shavuot.

The first of these characteristics is hesed, which is often translated as “kindness.” Many of the learners at JCP’s Hebrew school, HSP, will recognize this word from a song we sing, Olam Hesed Yibaneh, meaning “the world will be built with hesed. (Psalm 89:3)” This word has further Biblical roots as well, describing kindness between people as well as between people and the Divine, and is one of God’s attributes in the Book of Exodus (34:6). Hesed is a keyword in post-Biblical texts as well, as many Rabbis of the Talmud consider acts of kindness a pillar of Jewish life. Into whichever chapter of Jewish tradition we take a glimpse, hesed is a core characteristic which we hope to deepen.

Hesed is a little more than just “kindness,” however. Similarly to how Judaism in general prioritizes actions over beliefs, hesed requires deeds and not only disposition. Mussar is the Jewish study and discipline of character traits such as hesed and one of its leading teachers, Alan Morinis writes “In the Jewish view, it isn’t enough to hold warm thoughts in our heart or to wish each other well. We are meant to offer real sustenance to one another, and the ways in which we can do that are innumerable: we can offer our money, time, love, empathy, service, an open ear, manual assistance, a letter written, a call made, and on and on.” While being nice is always good too, cultivating the character trait of hesed necessitates acts of kindness that sustain one another.

I don’t expect the importance of kindness to be earth-shattering news to anyone. I consider myself lucky to be a part of this community, where hesed is truly expressed through deeds. And yet, if our world really does rely on these acts as the Psalmist claims, there is always more to do. In her most recent Yom Kippur sermon, Rabbi Angela Buchdahl cited a study in which the University of Sussex found that the greatest impediment to performing these acts of kindness is fear of misinterpretation that the recipients might be offended or assume ulterior motives. Part of the transformation from being kind to performing acts of kindness is to face this fear. After all, our world, our tradition, and our spiritual lives are very much built on it.

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Highlights from the Haggadah: Next Year

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My friend’s uncle always concludes their family seder by saying, “Next year in Jerusalem… or Scarsdale!” By subverting the classic “l’shanah haba’ah b’yerushalayim” or “next year in Jerusalem,” he points out the curious ending to our festive seders through his lighthearted humor. After a delicious meal full of celebration, song, and discussion– perhaps even reflections on different highlights from the Haggadah– we end with a wish that we do it all over again next year… But in Jerusalem. As I’ll explain below, we can understand Jerusalem literally, metaphorically, or some combination of the two. But either way, we finish the seder in stereotypical Jewish fashion: without a neat resolution.

When we reach this last line of the seder, many might think of Jerusalem as the modern city in Israel. Throughout Jewish history, Jerusalem has always held major real estate in the Jewish consciousness. In the Hebrew Bible, Jerusalem is the capital for the Kingdom of Judah and the central location for Jewish life through festivals, worship, and sacrifices. After Jews were exiled in the year 70 CE, Jerusalem became a centerpiece of Jewish yearning as prayers for a return to Jerusalem were codified into daily prayer services. Fast forward to 1967: Israel controlled all of Jerusalem after the Six Day War from whence it has since continued to grow in culture, spirit, and conflict. There is also an undercurrent of Jewish messianism throughout all of these eras in which Jerusalem is the location of Jewish reunification and paradise when the Jewish messiah arrives. In any of these forms, “Next year in Jerusalem” refers to the city itself.

Jerusalem has also been an important metaphor throughout Jewish tradition. In Hebrew, Yerushalayim could mean “City of Peace,” which some understand as a general time and place in which peace is possible. The Talmud (BT Taanit 5a) refers to a Yerushalayim shel Malah, or Jerusalem Above, that exists in a heavenly realm. Author Dara Horn calls Jerusalem an “emotional space that maps onto personal dreams and desires” in her scholarship on modern Jewish literature where Jerusalem is often a metaphor for an ideal of personal meaning, purpose, and fulfillment. Over thousands of years of time and tradition, Jerusalem has developed as a metaphor alongside its growing layers of stones and civilization.

Poet Yehuda Amichai suggests that the literal and the metaphorical Jerusalem are inherent in its name, since Yerushalayim is in the Hebrew grammar form for doubles. Whether you think of the city or the metaphor that Jerusalem represents, or both, it holds a similar sense of incompletion. The literal city of Jerusalem is currently facing significant political turmoil as it serves as a battleground for the future of Israel. The metaphorical city of Jerusalem remains an unrealized ideal. Without certainty or closure on what “next year in Jerusalem” could possibly look like, all we can do is appreciate our family and friends around the seder table at this moment, in our respective locations, and the deep sources of wisdom that the Jewish tradition provides on Passover. Right here and right now is rich with meaning while we wait. Hopefully, next year too.

Shabbat shalom and Happy Passover,
Jacob

Highlights from the Haggadah: My Father Was a Wandering Armean . . . or Was He?

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In the magid section of the seder, the part in which we tell the Passover story, there is a three-word excerpt from the Torah (Deuteronomy 26:5). The Hebrew is ארמי אובד אבי (Arami oved avi), which translates to “My father was a wandering Aramean” in the context of the Book of Deuteronomy. One medieval commentator, Ibn Ezra, suggests that “my father” is Jacob and this phrase refers to when Jacob was far from home and vulnerable in the Book of Genesis. Another medieval commentator, the Rashbam, suggests that “my father” is Abraham and cites an earlier passage of Genesis that connects Abraham to the Biblical land of Aram (Genesis 24:4). In either case, the phrase “Arami oved avi” connotes imagery of our lost, wandering ancestors from the Book of Genesis.

By the time this phrase makes it into the Haggadah, however, it is understood very differently. You might notice in your Haggadah, “Arami oved avi” is not translated as “My father was a wandering Aramean.” Instead, it is translated as “An Aramean was destroying my father.” With an alternative understanding of the verb form and meaning of “oved,” the entire meaning of the phrase is changed. The “Aramean” in this case refers to Laban, Jacob’s uncle, the “destroying” is an interpretation of Laban’s employment of Jacob, and “my father” is Jacob. This part of the Haggadah even clarifies this further, by beginning “Come and learn what Laban the Aramean sought to do to our father, Jacob. For Pharaoh issued his edict against only the males, but Laban sought to uproot us all…”

In the Book of Deuteronomy, “Arami oved avi” means “My father was a wandering Aramean.” In the Haggadah, it means “An Aramean was destroying my father.” These two different translations highlight two significant aspects of our Passover experience. First, how we tell the story of Passover at our seders is an exercise in establishing which stories, details, and translations shape our tradition. And second, the reinterpretation of “Arami oved avi” is a perfect example of a timeless and timely text, just like the Haggadah itself. In the book of Deuteronomy, it’s a timeless phrase to recall the tales of our spiritual ancestors. In the Haggadah, it’s a timely phrase that captures the essence of oppression that seder participants recall in Egypt. This Passover, I invite you to consider what stories and details make your seder experience both timeless and timely.

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Highlights from the Haggadah: Are We Free or Not?!

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At JCP this past week, the 2nd graders of the Hebrew School Project led model seders for their families. As we began the seder on Tuesday—which was a tremendous display of learning, creativity, and joy—one student summarized the Passover story by saying, “It’s the story of when Israelites were slaves in Egypt and became free.” Teachers, parents, and siblings all nodded along because this is certainly correct! However, as is the case with much of Jewish tradition, the narrative that we were once slaves and are now free is not without complication.

Just before the Maggid section of the seder, which tells the story of Passover, someone typically holds up a piece of matzah and says the opposite:

“This is the bread of affliction. This is the bread our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Anyone who is hungry, come eat! Anyone who is in need: come and celebrate Passover. Now we are here. Next year, in the land of Israel. Now we are slaves (avadim). Next year, free people (b’nei horin).” In this statement, the message is clear that we are currently enslaved and hope to be free next year.

Elsewhere in the Haggadah, though, we read the phrase “We were slaves (avadim hayinu) and God brought us out of Egypt,” we sing “We were slaves and now we are free people (avadim hayinu v’ata b’nei horin),” and we recline to symbolize our freedom. From each of these messages and more, we receive the original message that the 2nd graders used to open their seder. While we were once slaves in Egypt, we are now free. 

The fact that we hear that we are both enslaved and free creates an interesting tension over which there has been much debate. The Talmud (BT Rosh Hashanah 11a) teaches that the Jewish people will be redeemed in the month in which Passover takes place, suggesting that while we’re free from Egypt, we aren’t fully free until “next year.” Rabbi Art Green writes that we both enjoy immense freedom in our current society and also struggle with from an eternal human condition to continuously strive for greater spiritual freedom. Yet another understanding, one that draws on wisdom from Emma Lazarus, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Maya Angelou, is that no one is free until everybody is free.

I want to add one more interpretation of the fact that we are called both slaves and free people in different places in the Haggadah. The Hebrew phrase for “free people” is “b’nei horin.” We see this same phrase in a book of ethical teachings in the Mishnah called Pirkei Avot (2:15), where Rabbi Tarfon says “It is not your duty to complete the work, but neither are you free (b’nei horin) to neglect it.” In this other context, b’nei horin isn’t just a state of freedom from slavery that we celebrate; it is also a freedom from responsibility that we admonish. With this understanding of b’nei horin, the Haggadah challenges us to think about what we do with our freedom, not just whether or not we are free.

Passover is a joyous festival of celebration in which we recall the Exodus from Egypt, telling the story year after year so we can imagine ourselves on the journey from slavery to freedom. At the same time, Passover is an opportunity to consider how we use our freedom to enhance our own lives and the lives of others around us. While we remember over the course of the seder that we are b’nei horin, free people, we aren’t free from the work to make the world a better place.

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Highlights from the Haggadah: Where’s Moses!?

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Have you ever been thanked during a speech? Or have you ever been left out of a thank you list that you should have been on? I’ve personally experienced both! Oftentimes, my contribution is the same whether or not I received acknowledgement. This same phenomenon happens to Moses, who is sometimes thanked and other times not for his leadership. While the Book of Exodus and the Passover narrative outlined in the Haggadah (our Passover guidebook) tell the same story, Moses is only the main character in one of these accounts!

Although Moses is the leader of the Exodus, the Haggadah only mentions Moses one measly time. From Exodus 14:31, “They had faith in God and God’s servant Moses.” While the Israelites certainly had faith in Moses (most of the time) the rabbis during the era in which the haggadah was created didn’t—at least not enough for a feature role at the Passover seder. In the Book of Exodus, Moses’s name is everywhere. In the Haggadah, it’s there only this one time.

Moses’s absence in the Haggadah is significant, but not entirely unique. We just read the Book of Esther for Purim this past week, which entirely omits any mention of God. And last week, the Torah portion was Parashat Tetzavah, the one Torah portion in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers that doesn’t mention Moses’s name. These three examples represent a bigger phenomenon. Despite their omissions, Moses and God still have significant impacts in these narratives. Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, even though he is left out of the Haggadah. Moses was also an important character in Parashat Tetzaveh while his name is never mentioned. And God is a passive force in the background of the Book of Esther even though God’s name is never mentioned.

Dr. Wendy Zierler teaches that there are even bigger absences than that of Moses in the haggadah. Beyond Shifrah and Puah, the Egyptian midwives who subverted Pharaoh’s decree to kill all Hebrew firstborns and saved Moses, there are no women’s voices in the Passover story or in the Haggadah! In the past 50+ years, women have created and led women’s seders (including our own at JCP!) that center and celebrate women’s voices, perspectives, and experiences of liberation. In her essay “Where Have All the Women Gone? Feminist Questions About the Haggadah,” Dr. Zierler imagines what it would look like to weave women into the Haggadah, creating one seder experience that more fully represents the genders of the characters and community around the Passover table. Whether we create separate seder experiences, or integrate overlooked narratives into the Haggadah, women have significantly directed the Exodus and larger Jewish stories and deserve to be acknowledged for that.

While Passover is an opportunity to center and uplift marginalized voices as a way to actualize the Passover theme of liberation, it is more than that. It is also an opportunity to search out and acknowledge who is left out of the thank you lists, Haggadahs, Torah stories, and beyond even while significantly impacting our lives, stories, and communities. The Haggadah is a continuously developing guidebook to celebrate Passover. This year, I’m thinking about how we will recognize all those who have contributed to it.

Stay tuned for more Highlights from the Haggadah as we march toward Passover!

Shabbat shalom,

Jacob

Purim and Divine Inspiration

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There’s only one book in the Hebrew Bible that doesn’t mention God’s name: The book of Esther, which we read on Purim. Instead of emphasizing the supernatural, the focus of this story is the human capacity to take brave and decisive action.

The absence of any explicit reference to God in the book of Esther makes the Rabbis, who are the earliest interpreters of the Bible, pretty uncomfortable. A sacred book without God’s name? It just doesn’t feel quite right.

But many of the Rabbis of the Talmud (Megillah, 7a) argue that although God doesn’t appear as a character in Esther, the book was divinely inspired nonetheless. Many pull examples from the text, including the following: 

Rabbi Eliezer says: “The book of Esther was said with the inspiration of the Divine Spirit, as it is stated: ‘And Haman thought in his heart.’ (Esther 6:6) If the book of Esther was not divinely inspired, how was it known what Haman thought in his heart?”

Rabbi Akiva says: “The book of Esther was said with the inspiration of the Divine Spirit, as it is stated: ‘And Esther obtained favor in the sight of all those who looked upon her.’ (Esther 2:15) This could have been known only through divine inspiration.”

Though the Rabbis use technical logic to prove that God must be present in the story, their arguments prove a larger point, which is one of the main lessons of Purim: Things aren’t always as they appear. Many of the human characters hide and reveal their identities throughout the story. After all, Esther’s name comes from the Hebrew word nistar, which means “hidden” or “concealed.” Though God does not appear in the story, the Rabbis see traces of God’s presence hidden just below the surface, visible if you look hard enough. 

In many ways, I connect to this portrayal of God as One for whom we have to search. In all the other books of the Hebrew Bible, the characters meet God face to face or witness miracles that are undeniably the work of God’s hand. But any contact we may have with the Divine is subtler. Just like the characters in the book of Esther, we navigate the world by relying on our own skills and judgment, and can only wonder about God’s place in it all. 

As Purim approaches, I hope this joyful holiday helps us discover new aspects of ourselves and our world. You never know—they might be hidden just below the surface. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Deena

My Government, It Has Three Branches

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The holiday of Purim, which is coming up in just a few weeks, is a festive and joyful one, filled with costumes, carnivals, and revelry. But the celebrations belie the seriousness of the Book of Esther, which tells the story of Purim. While we read about vain kings, wicked courtiers, and evil plots, the Book of Esther is ultimately about a woman who reveals her previously hidden identity, approaches those in power despite the risk to herself, and uses her platform to protect the Jewish people.  

When Queen Esther’s uncle urges her to inform her husband, King Achashverosh, about a plot to annihilate the Jews of the Persian Empire, he says the following: “If you keep silent in this crisis, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another quarter, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows, perhaps you have attained to royal position for just such a crisis” (Esther 4:14). 

With these powerful words in mind, Esther steps up, informs the king that she is Jewish, and tells him that someone in the palace has devised a plot against her people. The king is receptive to her plea, and he orders the evil edict reversed. 

Timing is always interesting. Just as we are about to recount an ancient protest, we are currently witnessing a modern protest to safeguard democracy in Israel. 

If you have been following the news in Israel, you will know that hundreds of thousands of people are gathering in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and all over the country to protest legislation that will overhaul the judicial system. Supporters of the new legislation say that it will provide a check on the Supreme Court. But critics–including the many protestors—fear that it will render the Supreme Court completely powerless, stripping it of the ability to operate independently of the ruling government. The political party in power would have carte blanche to pass any and all legislation, without an institution to check its legality. 

Outside the Knesset (Parliament), people are singing Hatikvah, the Israeli national anthem, and holding huge printouts of Israel’s Declaration of Independence. Videos of the demonstrations show seas of blue and white flags. One of the chants is a parody of a Purim song that we teach at HSP. The legend is that Haman, the evil courtier who devised the plot, wore a triangular hat. The song goes: “My hat, it has three corners.” The chant, modified for these protests, states: “My government, it has three branches.” 

These protests are political, but they are not really about any particular politician. Instead, they are about the principles outlined in Israel’s Declaration of Independence: that Israel is to be a place of “Jewish immigration…for the Ingathering of Exiles…[of] complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex…freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture.” In other words, from its inception, the State of Israel was to be both a Jewish nation and a democratic nation. It has always been a point of pride that Israel is the only democracy in the Middle East. It has to stay that way. 

Those of us who live in the United States know how scary it is when democracy is tested. Now, it’s happening in another country that we love. When something of such a magnitude unfolds thousands of miles away, it can make us feel powerless. But instead of removing ourselves or watching in despair, we should remember Mordechai’s message to Esther. If Haman’s plot to kill the Jews were to be successful, her status as Queen wouldn’t protect her. She would perish, too. Today, I fear that the international community would blame all Jews—including those who live in the Diaspora—if Israel were to become an undemocratic country. It could trigger renewed waves of global antisemitism. 

Unfortunately, there hasn’t been enough news coverage of this important moment which, in many ways, is an example of Zionism at its best: Jews living in the Jewish State exercising their sacred right—safeguarded by a Jewish democracy—to protest against the government.  

So many Israelis are stepping up to the challenge, just as Queen Esther did in the story of Purim. As Rabbi Galit Cohen-Kedem, our partner in Israel who serves Congregation Kodesh v’Chol, recently reminded me, this is a moment to keep faith in the kind of country we want the Jewish homeland to be: a place that safeguards the rights to free speech and religion (including non-orthodox Judaism, practiced in communities like ours, which is also under attack), and, to quote the Declaration of Independence, a place of “freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel.” 

Shabbat shalom, 

Deena