Embracing Blessing

Calamity. Panic. Frustration. Scorching heat. These are but a few of the words drawn from the curses in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, that feel sharply present in our time as well. 

Ki Tavo sets up parallel lists of blessings and curses as consequences for how well the Israelites fulfill God’s covenant. The blessings are lovely, but the curses seem to harness the full creative imagination of the Author with their terrifying and explicit depictions of all the things that can go wrong for the Israelites. In a similar passage earlier in the Torah (Vayikra 26) there is another list of blessings and curses, where it is even more obvious simply by counting them that there are way more curses (30 verses) than blessings (13 verses). Curses - whether in the Torah or in the news - draw our attention. 

We live in a time where it often seems easier to identify the curses in our world than to be open to the blessings. We might ask if it is even appropriate to appreciate or seek blessing right now, when so many are suffering, when so many live in the shadow of violence, poverty, disease, and climate catastrophe. Everytime I feel lucky or successful, I quickly asterisk that thought with awareness of my privilege and what it implies for those who lack it. Everytime I feel sad, I get the urge to shush myself because others have it worse. Everytime I notice something I’m good at, a part of me tries to redirect my attention to my weak areas, my flaws and failings. 

In some ways, these are appropriate strategies for moving through the High Holiday season of repentance and judgment. These are yamim nora’im, Days of Awe - or days where being afraid and focusing on the negative has become a time-worn tradition. 

Rabbi Yerucham Levovitz (1875-1936), the Mashgiach (spiritual guide) of the Mir Yeshiva, once wrote: “Woe to a person who is unaware of their shortcomings, because they will not know what to work on.” Woe to anyone who walks through the world blissfully ignorant! 

He isn’t finished though: “But even greater woe to a person who is unaware of their virtues, because they don’t even know what they have to work with.”

In other words, the ultimate curse is to overlook the blessings within us and all around us. In fact, our greatest tool for personal and collective improvement comes from noticing blessings, not doomscrolling through curses.

Abraham Ibn Ezra (1092-1167) comments on that lopsided list of curses and blessings: “The empty-headed have asserted that there are more curses than blessings, but that’s not true…” (Vayikra 26:14).

Of course, it isn’t easy to get into a state of mind where Ibn Ezra’s statement feels true. That’s where having a blessing practice comes in. In Judaism there are many blessings we can say, when we eat, use the bathroom, see a rainbow, wake up and go to sleep. (Here are some interesting ones.) The Talmud (Menachot 43b) insists that we are obligated to recite 100 blessings each day. Instead of focusing on what feels cursed, even instead of meditating on the blessings we hope to receive, we simply offer blessing wherever we can. Marcia Falk said in an interview about her wonderful The Book of Blessings, “The sacred is within us and within all of creation, and it is our task to bring it forward through our actions. Blessings don’t just acknowledge a sacred moment; they bring it about.”

For Falk, when we offer a blessing, we do more than notice what is good and beautiful and sacred, we help make it so.

Another remarkable source of contemporary blessings comes from John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us. In it, he writes:

“There is a quiet light that shines in every heart. It draws no attention to itself, though it is always secretly there. It is what illuminates our minds to see beauty, our desire to seek possibility, and our hearts to love life. Without this subtle quickening our days would be empty and wearisome, and no horizon would ever awaken our longing. Our passion for life is quietly sustained from somewhere in us that is wedded to the energy and excitement of life. This shy inner light is what enables us to recognize and receive our very presence here as blessing.”

Wherever you are, may you feel present and blessed, and in the words of one of the blessings in our Torah portion (Devarim 28:6):

בָּר֥וּךְ אַתָּ֖ה בְּבֹאֶ֑ךָ וּבָר֥וּךְ אַתָּ֖ה בְּצֵאתֶֽךָ׃

Baruch atah b’vo’echa u’varuch atah b’tzeitecha. May you be blessed and a blessing in your comings and may you be blessed and a blessing in your goings.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Expanding the Tent (With Intention)

The Kavana staff is busy preparing for the High Holidays, and this week, we took a field-trip together to the venue where this year's Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services will be. As many of you know, over the last several years, we've had to switch venues more than once to accommodate the large number of individuals who want to join us for our meaningful holiday services and programs (last year that total number was 880 people -- amazing!). Still, over the past few days, I've fielded multiple questions about venues we've used in the past: "Are you still doing services in that sweet church on Queen Anne?" (Answer: "Gosh, I love that space, but no, it's been a long time since our whole community could fit in a single sanctuary!") "Are you going to be back at that beautiful indoor/outdoor venue again this year?" (Answer: "It really was beautiful there, but no, we officially outgrew it when our attendance numbers surpassed 500 a couple years back.") In the greater scheme of things, the question of how to make space for everyone who wants to be in a community is a wonderful problem to have, but can pose a real-world challenge nonetheless.

The question of how to make space for everyone goes back to ancient times. It turns out that holiday gatherings could pose a challenge in Temple times too. When Jews ascended to Jerusalem for pilgrimage festivals, the Talmud records that they would stand crowded, their bodies packed tightly together in the Temple courtyard. And yet, according to Tractate Yoma 21a, when the time came for prostrating -- that is, for bowing all the way down to the ground at certain points in the ritual -- somehow there was ample room for everyone! The Talmud records: עוֹמְדִים צְפוּפִים, וּמִשְׁתַּחֲוִים רְווֹחִים, "they stood crowded but prostrated spaced," on a list of the ten miracles(!) that supposedly took place in the Beit Hamikdash (Temple). 

In this week's haftarah (a selection from Nevi'im/Prophets that is chanted after the Torah reading on Shabbat), we find a couple of lines that tie directly to this theme of ensuring there is sufficient space for everyone. This haftarah is a special one: the fifth in a series of seven known as the "haftarot of consolation," which are selections (all, incidentally, drawn from the second half of Isaiah) read on the seven Shabbatot between Tisha B'Av and Rosh Hashanah. In any case, Isaiah 54:2-3 reads:

הַרְחִ֣יבִי  מְק֣וֹם אׇהֳלֵ֗ךְ וִֽירִיע֧וֹת מִשְׁכְּנוֹתַ֛יִךְ יַטּ֖וּ אַל־תַּחְשֹׂ֑כִי הַאֲרִ֙יכִי֙ מֵיתָרַ֔יִךְ וִיתֵדֹתַ֖יִךְ חַזֵּֽקִי׃ כִּֽי־יָמִ֥ין וּשְׂמֹ֖אול תִּפְרֹ֑צִי

Expand the place of your tent, extend the size of your dwelling, do not withhold!
Lengthen the ropes, and drive the pegs firm.
For you shall spread out to the right and the left...

Here, Isaiah makes promises and assurances to the people: that someday the nation of Israel will return from exilic loss and be even more numerous than before. The central image -- in very concrete terms -- is that a tent must be physically enlarged (through ropes, pegs, etc.) in order to accommodate this expanded community. [As a side note, those of you who are interested in intertextual Hebrew references might recognize the phrase "yamin u'smol tifrotzi," "spreading out to the right and left," that is lifted from here into the Friday night hymn of L'cha Dodi, and also the language of "al tachsochi," "do not withhold," which echoes the wording of God's final assessment at the end of the Akeidah that Abraham will be blessed because he has "not withheld" his son.]

In our parlance today, though, when we talk about a "big-tent" approach, we are typically using the words metaphorically. This phrase refers to a group -- which could be an organization, a spiritual community, a political party, etc -- that is expansive enough to accommodate a diverse spectrum of views or practices. 

At Kavana, we've always thought of ourselves as a big-tent community in a couple of ways. First, from day one, Kavana has always used the language of "non-denominational" and "pluralistic" to express that we are a Jewish community composed (purposefully) of individuals coming from a variety of backgrounds and bringing a wide array of beliefs and practices. Religious pluralism has always been a positive feature, not a bug, of Kavana; we have revelled in the breadth of ideas, differing levels of observance, and divergent interests of our community members.

To share a second example, when Kavana launched in 2006, the demographic composition of this community was mostly younger adults, both with and without young children. Eighteen years later, those original 20- and 30-somethings are now 40- and 50-somethings. In addition, our community has attracted both a new generation of younger adults and also a robust cohort of adults in their 60s and 70s, making Kavana an increasingly multigenerational community. Here, too, "widening the tent" in an intentional way has not only grown our community in numbers, but also enriched the tapestry of community for everyone.

This year, to be sure, Kavana's big-tent approach has posed some challenges that are as real as the problem of finding floor-space. It turns out that at this moment in time, it is not at all simple for a Jewish community to welcome and embrace individuals with a wide range of beliefs, ideologies, and political views -- particularly with regard to topics as complex and emotionally charged as Israel and antisemitism. And yet, this is precisely the work that we've been doing here at Kavana, very intentionally, over the past year. "Expand the place of your tent, extend the size of your dwelling" could almost be read as a command that speaks directly to us today, instructing us to set the bounds of our community as wide and open as we possibly can, despite the fact that tension will inevitably result from the diversity of viewpoints inside the tent. 

A midrash from Bereishit Rabbah 5:7 ties together the two texts I've cited above:

This was so in Jerusalem, too, as we learned: They stood crowded, but prostrated themselves spaciously. Rabbi Shmuel ben Rabbi Ḥana said in the name of Rabbi Aḥa: There were four cubits for each person to occupy, and a [further] cubit on each side so that none of them would hear the prayer of the other.

This will be so in the future, too, as it is stated: “At that time, they will call Jerusalem the Throne of the Lord, and all the nations will be gathered into it” (Jeremiah 3:17). Rabbi Yoḥanan ascended to inquire after the wellbeing of Rabbi Ḥanina and found him sitting and expounding this verse: “At that time, they will call Jerusalem the Throne of the Lord, [and all the nations will be gathered into it].” He said to him: ‘Can Jerusalem contain the Throne of the Lord?’ He said to him: ‘The Holy One blessed is He will say to it: Expand and extend and receive your populations.’ That is what is written: “Expand the place of your tent” (Isaiah 54:3). Why? “For you will spread out right and left…” (Isaiah 54:3).

In between the two texts I've already discussed -- the idea of the miraculous expansion of the Temple floor, and Isaiah's urging of the widest possible tent (which here functions as both prooftext and punchline) -- this midrash does something remarkable. It says that this, the idea of miraculous expansiveness, "will be so in the future, too." Projecting far forward, to a messianic vision of what a redeemed world could look like, the midrash claims that Jerusalem will someday be a place where all nations can gather, a city so expansive that even God's own throne can rest there. What a beautiful vision to hold at this painful moment characterized by divisiveness and scarcity!

On this Shabbat -- the fifth one after Tisha B'Av -- we, the Jewish people, are still seeking comfort in the wake of the Temple's destruction, which resulted (in the rabbinic understanding) from sinat chinam, our senseless ability to hate one another and not make space for each other. The antidote to that -- the pathway we must travel as we head towards the beginning of a new year, in which we aspire to live in better alignment with God's sovereignty -- is the command to "Expand the place of your tent, extend the size of your dwelling, do not withhold!"

As we head towards the New Year, I invite you to join with me in engaging in this holy work of expanding our tent. Let us each strive to show up in community -- at Kavana and beyond -- with the intention of keeping our tent walls as open as we possibly imagine. Let us work carefully and intentionally to build relationships across difference. (Without a doubt, humility, curiosity, and grace will continue to be necessary tools in this work!) Let us encourage and support others who also seek to build "big-tent" coalitions that are forces for good in the world. Let's make space for everyone who wants to be part of this very special enterprise, particularly at this peak time of year when holidays bring out the crowds. Together, let us build the widest, most extraordinarily beautiful tent(s) imaginable, with room for every one of us inside, and for the Divine as well.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The King and the Third Thing

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —(Emily Dickinson)

Any time I’m struggling to grasp a concept or learn a new skill, I turn to this poem for some comfort that I’m actually doing it right after all by not getting it quickly. Some more “explanation kind,” please! 

In the blessing after public Torah reading, we thank God for giving us a torat emet, a “Torah / teaching of truth.” For this Torah of truth, “Success in Circuit” is literal on two levels - we read through the whole Torah every year, and each week the Torah is processed in a circuit (hakafah) around the room, allowing our souls to be dazzled gradually into the joy of encountering ancient words of divine wisdom. 

This week’s part of the yearly Torah circuit, parshat Shoftim, offers a striking image: A king seated on the royal throne, leaning over a Torah scroll. 

“When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Torah written for him on a scroll by the levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Torah as well as these laws.” (Deuteronomy 17:18-19)

In context, this wonderful requirement that a king or queen must have a Torah scroll copied and at hand, to be studied for the rest of their reign, is akin to the role a constitution plays - to hold people in power accountable to a broader set of rights and responsibilities than a person in power is usually inclined to honor.  But thinking of Emily Dickinson’s poem, I am drawn to how the king is required to write or have written for him a copy of the Torah, and then to have it next to him, and then to read it all his life. Surely it would have been easier to have a constitutional lawyer (or a priest in this case) on retainer to advise on the fine points of how the law will inform policy on a case by case basis! It seems to me that a deeper goal of this requirement is about cultivating a slow and steady relationship with Torah itself. “All the truth” doesn’t emerge in one reading, but over the course of a lifetime. 

I wonder if the king read the Torah by himself, or with scholars, or perhaps even with regular people who have come to the palace on business. The Torah itself doesn’t require the king to study with others, but common Jewish practice has encouraged chavruta, studying in pairs, and larger groups of learners seeking “superb surprise” from the text together. 

The writer Parker Palmer often leads group discussions using a poem, story, or other evocative text. He refers to that text as a “third thing” (in his book A Hidden Wholeness): 

We often seek truth through confrontation. But our headstrong ways of charging at truth scare the shy soul away. If soul truth is to be spoken and heard, it must be approached 'on the slant.' I do not mean we should be coy, speaking evasively about subjects that make us uncomfortable, which weakens us and our relationships. But soul truth is so powerful that we must allow ourselves to approach it, and it to approach us, indirectly. We must invite, not command, the soul to speak. We must allow, not force, ourselves to listen.

We achieve intentionality in a circle of trust by focusing on an important topic. We achieve indirection by exploring that topic metaphorically, via a poem, a story, a piece of music, or a work of art that embodies it. I call these embodiments 'third things' because they represent neither the voice of the facilitator nor the voice of a participant. They have voices of their own, voices that tell the truth about a topic but, in the manner of metaphors, tell it on the slant. Mediated by a third thing, truth can emerge from, and return to, our awareness at whatever pace and depth we are able to handle — sometimes inwardly in silence, sometimes aloud in community — giving the shy soul the protective cover it needs.

Rightly used, a third thing functions a bit like the old Rorschach inkblot test, evoking from us whatever the soul wants us to attend to. Mediated by a good metaphor, the soul is more likely than usual to have something to say.

The Torah is Judaism’s ultimate “third thing.” God partners with Torah to create the world, and we in turn study Torah in part to encounter our Creator. Communities form around particular interpretations of the Torah. Generations speak to one another through the pages of commentary. 

Most importantly, the “Torah of truth” is meant to awaken not the ego, and not only the intellect, but the soul. When we place a text between us, the deepest insights and yearnings of your own soul are welcome. 

I imagine this is what the king was meant to learn from Torah, too - that to be a wise leader is only rarely to understand something quickly and act right away, but rather to create the slow, patient conditions for every person’s soul to contribute their shy and necessary truths. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Back-to-School & Elul Message from Rabbi Rachel

Here in Seattle, we're in the throes of back-to-school season! My calendar is dotted with first days, orientation meetings, and curriculum nights. At home, my three kids have been sharpening pencils, ordering books, and collecting notebooks and highlighters, as they prepare in very tangible ways for the new school year. Two of them are entering new schools this year as they begin middle and high school, which feels a bit like entering into a whole new life-stage/landscape with each of them.

This week's parasha, Re'eh, knows a thing or two about standing at the precipice of a big step forward. This Torah portion is part of Moses's farewell speech to the Israelites, as they prepare to cross the Jordan River and build a new society on the other side. Moses is full of advice as to how the Israelites should live once they arrive in the land: he cautions the people to choose blessing over curse, to "take care to do / not to do" a huge number of positive and negative commandments, to observe festivals and holy times, and more.

Along the way, Moses says to the Israelites: "Banim atem ladonai eloheichem," "You are children of Adonai your God" (14:1). This makes explicit a central motif of Deuteronomy: that the relationship between God and "b'nai yisrael" is similar to a parent-child relationship. 

Of course, the central paradox of parenting is that parents must both hold tight and let go at once, as the ultimate aim is to raise children to become their own independent beings. One creative dvar torah — written by Chanan Rosin, of the Jerusalem band Majuda, and produced by BimBam — recasts some of the words of Re'eh as a song of guidance sung by a father to his infant twins. The paradox of parenting is evident in the lyrics: on the one hand, the father tells the children “soon you're on your own two feet,” and on the other hand, sings to them: “and you'll have from me, from me a helping hand.” 

This is the push-pull of parenting I am thinking about as a new school year begins for my own children as well. I will aspire to optimize for both support -- which will require me to lean in -- and for independence -- which might require me to step back. Parenting is a delicate dance... seeking a balance that has to be struck differently for each child, and also needs to be recalibrated constantly as they grow and change.

All of this applies even more so for parents who are launching kids to college this fall. With the challenges of this particular year in mind, Rabbi Naomi Levy (a colleague of mine from California) published a new piece of liturgy this week, entitled: “A Jewish Parent's Blessing for Sending a Child Off to College in These Challenging Times.” I found it beautiful and am pasting it below (*but consciously replacing the word “college” in the first line with "school," because I think these words of blessing can apply even more broadly than she intended):

May you go off to school* in peace,May it be a time of growth, learning and wisdom,A time of new friendships, adventure and fun.And through it all, may God bless you and protect you.Amid this time of hatred and division on campusMay you always be proud to be a Jew, connected to your People and your faith.Know that you are strong, thoughtful and courageous,Trust in yourself,And remember you are never alone.Turn to friends who will support you,Mentors who will teach and guide youAnd remember I am always here for you.May God bless the path you take,May all your efforts lead to success,May your studies never cease.May any challenges you face strengthen your character and your determination.May God bless your body with health and your soul with joy,May God watch over you night and day and shield you from all harm.May all your prayers be answered,Amen.

I offer this prayer for my own children, for all the children and students of this community, and really for all of us. 

This week, we stand together at a particular moment in time, gazing across the river into the territory not only of a new academic year but also a new Jewish year. (This Shabbat, Jewish communities everywhere will bless the new month of Elul, which begins in the middle of next week and will escort us to Rosh Hashanah). All of us wonder what the coming year will bring. As we make this turn towards the New Year, we embrace our role as children of the Divine Parent. From that vantage point, I pray that we will find that we have all the encouragement and support we need to grow and to explore; the freedom and independence we need to change and make change in ways that are good and healthy. 

Wishing each of us a Shabbat Shalom, Chodesh Tov, and a wonderful back-to-school season,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Stranger Things

There are two atlases: the one
The public space where acts are done,
In theory common to us all, 
Where we are needed and feel small…

The other is the inner space
Of private ownership, the place
That each of us is forced to own,
Like his own life from which it’s grown,
The landscape of his will and need
Where he is sovereign indeed…

Each lives in one, all in the other
Here all are kings, there each a brother…
(from “New Year Letter” by W.H. Auden)

One of the rewards of Torah study is gleaning insight for distinct yet related realms. Torah is both an explicit attempt to mandate a just and holy society, concerned with “the public space…in theory common to us all”, and a resource for inner reflection and growth, helping us wisely traverse “the landscape of [our] will and need.” Judaism is both civilizational and spiritual, political and personal. 

This week’s parashah, Ekev, gives us many opportunities to weave together those two realms. I was particularly drawn this year to these three verses (Devarim 10:17-19):

“For Adonai your God is God supreme (elohei ha-elohim) and Lord supreme (adonei ha’adonim), the great, the mighty, and the awesome God, who shows no favor and takes no bribe, but upholds the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the stranger, providing food and clothing.

“You must love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

God is characterized as supremely powerful to underline that true strength means caring for the vulnerable. Human authorities might mistake power for an excuse to abuse and exclude, but there is a higher authority we can model ourselves after. 

“The great, the mighty, and the awesome God (he-el ha-gadol ha-gibor v’ha-nora) is a phrase that makes its way directly into our prayers, in the opening section of the Amidah called “Avot (Ancestors”). In that prayer, we are invoking the ancestral connection to the Source of Everything and stepping into that loving Presence. It is a profoundly spiritual moment tying us to heritage and hope.

But remembering the context of this phrase wrenches us out of our inner yearnings and into action - to pray to this God means to recommit ourselves to acting in the public sphere the way God would, with concern for the most vulnerable. Prayer and justice intwine. 

To use Auden’s language, in prayer we yearn to encounter the King of kings, which inspires us to pattern our inner world after God’s attributes and be kings (ethical agents) of our own lives, and see each fellow human as a sibling to act with loving responsibility towards. 

But there’s something strange about the argument these verses make. The first two verses describe God but in a way that provides a template to describeour ideal actions. This is the argument for imitatio dei, a Latin phrase meaning “imitation of God.” 

The opening of the third verse seems to make this explicit: “You [too] should love the stranger.” The first problem is that the stranger is singled out, without mention of refusing bribes or taking care of orphans and widows. The second problem is the verse continues, “…for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” We have a whole new argument, not based on God’s model but on our own experience of suffering and subsequent capacity for empathy.

I think these verses are yet again weaving together the public realm of action (following God’s model) and the inner realm of emotion and desire (where memory and empathy also reside). 

The 19th century commentator Haamek Davar adds: “For you were strangers in the land of Egypt. And in any case you are today abundantly in order. So too, this stranger in dire straits - who knows what strength is hidden within them..?”

For the Haamek Davar (literally: deepening of the matter), we weren’t just supposed to empathize through remembering our own difficult experiences. We are supposed to remember not just falling down, but getting back up. To see in those who are vulnerable not just what they lack but the tremendous possibilities ready to shine forth. 

Our own inner meditation is meant to spur us not just into action, but into really seeing each other as the fully dignified beings we are, sovereign whether on home soil or a stranger, siblings in the great human family. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

The Secret Garden of Torah

As a child, I had many favorite books, but one held a particular awe and wonder that no other book has ever held for me, except Torah. That book was The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I remember very little of the backstory, and don’t even remember if I read the actual book or one of those abridged young readers versions. But I do have a crystal clear memory of the feeling I got from reading about the secret garden where Mary, the protagonist, finds herself transformed from sad grouch to a nurtured nurturer. That feeling is an awe-filled anticipation of unlocking (in her case, literally and metaphorically) new possibilities previously walled off, and the immense gratitude of tending to the landscape within that peaceful walled garden. 

When I study Torah (broadly meaning any Jewish text), a little child within me feels exactly what he felt when he read of Mary and her secret garden. There are secret worlds within the words, endless interpretations to tend to or prune. And through cultivating the torah garden, it in turn begins to transform me. 

There’s a phrase in Shir HaShirim, the biblical book of love poetry, where one of the lovers is called a gan na’ool - a locked garden. This phrase popped into my mind as I read a resonant line in Rabbi Adina Allen’s new book The Place of All Possibility (side note: I’m in conversation with her about the book this Sunday, please join if you’d like!). 

“In Jewish tradition, each Hebrew word is like a text in and of itself, containing multiple meanings.” 

Each word is a gan na’ool, a secret locked garden awaiting discovery. 

I think for many of us these ancient texts feel walled off, and there are barriers to encountering them. Hebrew script looks like pig scratch before we are able to identify the letters. Even those of us who can decode and sound out words don’t often know the meaning of what we are reading. Even when we know the basic meaning, there may be literary, historical, and religious context that we don’t (yet) have.

From one perspective, all of these locked gates of meaning can be off-putting. Shouldn’t our tradition be easily accessible to all who seek its wisdom? 

But on the other hand, there’s the incredible feeling of finding a key and entering the walled garden through one of its interpretative gates. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Vaetchanan, we first read the six words of the shema. In the case of the shema, I’ve found the English translation to be as much of a wall as the Hebrew! Rabbi Adina Allen writes of her own experience: “Every time I’d hear these words translated into English, I’d grimace: ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.’ …Though I tried to rally myself behind the cause, none of these meanings felt particularly alive to me… It wasn’t until decades later, as my own facility with Hebrew developed, and as I encountered other interpretations that opened up new meanings of this prayer, that I began to sense the profound power and ever-unfolding possibilities encoded in these ancient words.”

“What had been translated for generations as ‘our Lord’ melted away into the mystery and beauty of a power that cannot be named or pinned down. And ‘one’ became a force that flowed through all, alerting us to the interconnection and interpenetration of all life.”

We are just a few days past Tisha B’av, the calendrical collector of Jewish tragedy and brokenness. If we map the Jewish seasons onto Mary’s journey in The Secret Garden, we could say that Mary arrives at the home where she will discover the garden in a Tisha B’av state of mind, sad, angry, feeling a bit broken. The next seven weeks that lead us to Rosh Hashanah are traditionally a time of comfort and then transformation. They are a “Secret Garden” season, if we choose to enter. 

In that spirit, I want to share one more interpretation of the shema, from the Chida (Chayyim Yosef David Azulay, 18th century). He notes that in the scribal tradition the ayin (the last letter in the word, shema) is written extra large; and the dalet (the last letter of echad) is extra large. The widespread interpretation is that they spell eid, witness, reaffirming the key idea that reciting the shema is an act of bearing witness to God’s oneness. However, the Chida adds on another possibility. Perhaps the ayin stands for anavah - humility, and the dalet stands for dibbur - speech. 

“And this is the hint: ‘Return, O Israel, to (ad, which is also spelled, ayin, dalet) the Lord, your God” (Hosea 14:2). So he should be careful about these two fundamentals - humility and speech; and then it will be complete repentance.”

Each word a text, each text a locked garden! And through a particularly strange set of interpretive keys, we can find in the simple word “to, ad” a hint that being humble (taking up the right amount of space) and paying attention to how we use our voice in the world are the spiritual practices of the season. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Catastrophes of our Past

In the Kavana office, our staff has recently been in peak summer planning mode: visioning and goal-setting, assembling the calendar of events for our new programming year, pulling together High Holidays plans, and more. Along the way, we’ve been discussing what this past year has meant and considering the current mood of our Jewish community. While it seems that the last couple of weeks have felt somewhat brighter and more hopeful for many in our community when it comes to the American political landscape (phew!), when considering our identity as part of a global Jewish people and thinking about the future of the State of Israel, a sense of pessimism and foreboding remain at the forefront of our community’s collective consciousness. It’s no wonder. Over the past year, we have witnessed the terror and horrors of October 7th and the shockwaves it sent through Israeli society, Israel’s retaliatory war against Hamas with its staggering death toll for Gazan Palestinians, the ripple effects of settler violence and land annexation in the West Bank, the displacement and casualties of Israelis who have been under attack by Hezbollah near the northern border, and now a potential escalation into a broader regional conflict with Iran. It is frightening to feel like the half of the world’s Jewish population that lives in Israel is perched at the precipice of a deep abyss, facing down both internal and external existential threats simultaneously.

The dark cloud that hangs over this collective Jewish moment matches the mood of the season where we find ourselves on the Jewish calendar. At sunset time on Wednesday evening, I happened to look up at the sky at just the right moment to witness a sliver of a silver crescent moon hanging in the brightly-colored, vaguely smoky skies on the western horizon. This scene – at once beautiful and ominous – was a poignant reminder that we are now solidly in the Hebrew month of Av, with its accompanying themes of destruction, grief and lament all waxing along with the moon as we near Tisha B’av (the 9th of Av).

I have written before about how the mourning rituals over the destruction(s) of the Temple, which our tradition moves us through each year, catapult us into the season of introspection that follows. In a few weeks, Av will resolve into Elul, shifting us towards the High Holiday season of turning and returning, repentance and repair. For now, though, from our vantage point at the beginning of Av, it is our duty to consider what lessons we might draw from the calamities of our collective past that might help us deal with our complicated present and sidestep future calamities.

The centrality of the destruction of the Temple in our collective Jewish consciousness simply cannot be overstated. The Biblical period culminates in the establishment of a monarchy that unites the northern and southern kingdoms of Judah and Israel, with King Solomon building a Temple. Then this (first) Temple is destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, and the ancient Jewish community is sent into exile “by the rivers of Babylon.” The community returns from exile under Cyrus of Persia and rebuilds, constructing a second Temple that is even bigger and better than the first. After several hundred more years, this too is destroyed, this time by the Romans in the context of a brutally destructive and deadly siege of Jerusalem. (If you’re curious to explore further, check out “The Temple and its Destruction: A Look into the Psyche of Ancient Judaism” by Rabbi Irving Greenberg.) To this day – some two millennia later – Jews around the world continue to break a glass at every wedding, leave a corner of our homes unfinished, and observe customs of mourning each summer in the lead-up to Tisha B’av as a testament to the enormity of the manifold losses that these destructions represent: of the Temple itself, of so many Jewish lives, of our direct connection with God, and of our collective autonomy.

Eicha (the Book of Lamentations) that we will chant on Monday night was written in the wake of the destruction of the First Temple. On the one hand, the whole book asks the question of “how” (as in: how could this possibly have happened?), as though nothing could possibly explain the enormity of this catastrophe; on the other hand, the text also seems clear that we must have done something to bring this suffering and destruction upon ourselves. A similar lens applies to the destruction of the Second Temple in Roman times. So many of our core Jewish texts emerge from then, and again, the rabbis of that period struggle with the idea that the level of suffering and destruction they observe cannot possibly have been deserved, while also holding that we ourselves are somehow to blame. (It’s rather shocking how little responsibility is placed by our tradition upon the Babylonians or the Romans.)

Over the last few weeks, I’ve watched a new-ish Israeli film by director Gidi Dar gain traction. Legend of Destruction tells the story of the end of the Second Temple period, tracing the outbreak of the First Jewish-Roman War and probing how zealotry and sectarianism led to the eventual downfall of Jerusalem, along with the deaths of a million Jews and the destruction of the Temple. (Click here to view a Forward article about this film and here to view a trailer; if there’s interest, perhaps we can pull together a Kavana film screening and discussion sometime this year.)

Meanwhile, I want to invite you to join me in unpacking one key rabbinic text that is associated with the lead-up to Tisha B’Av. Of the many stories our tradition tells about the reasons the Temple was destroyed, the single most famous one is the Talmudic story of Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa. You’re welcome to read the story directly from the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Gittin 55b-56a but – because it’s a bit terse and requires some unpacking – I am also going to share a solid summary here (courtesy of Wikipedia’s entry on “Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa”):

The story, as it appears in Tractate Gittin, tells of a wealthy man who lived in the 1st century CE. For an upcoming party, he sent his servant to deliver an invitation to his friend, a man named Kamsa. However, the servant mistakes the recipient as Bar Kamsa, an enemy of the wealthy man. Upon seeing the hated Bar Kamsa at his party, the host orders him to leave. Bar Kamsa, attempting to save face, thrice offers to make peace with the host, first offering to pay for the food he eats, then for half of the expenses of the party, and then for the entire party, each time rebuffed by the angry host. Finally, the host forcibly removes Bar Kamsa, in the presence of the communal leaders present who lacked the courage to protest his shameful actions (from the context, it seems like the host was an affluent and politically powerful individual).

Humiliated, Bar Kamsa vows revenge against the rabbis present who did not defend him allowing him to be publicly humiliated. He visits the Roman Caesar who controls the region and tells him that the Jews are inciting to revolt against the Roman Empire. The Caesar, unsure of whether to believe Bar Kamsa, sends an animal to be sacrificed as a peace offering in the Temple in Jerusalem along with Bar Kamsa. On the way, Bar Kamsa purposefully slightly wounds the animal in a way that would disqualify it as a Jewish sacrifice but not as a Roman offering.

Upon seeing the disfigured animal, the rabbis of the Sanhedrin present at the Temple have to make a decision as to how to respond to the delicate situation presented. Some advocate dispensing with the law and offering the animal anyway to avoid war. This plan is vetoed by Rabbi Zecharia ben Avkolos who fears that people will begin to bring blemished animals to the Temple to be sacrificed. They then suggest putting Bar Kamsa to death to prove that he is at fault, but Rabbi Zecharia ben Avkolos again refuses, because this is not the mandated penalty for intentionally bringing a disqualified offering to the Temple.

Rabbi Yochanan says because of the actions of Rabbi Zecharia ben Avkolos, the Temple was destroyed and the Jews were exiled from the land.

The Caesar, incensed, sent an army to lay siege to Jerusalem, eventually leading to its downfall in the year 70 CE. Josephus (Wars II, 17:2) also ascribes the beginning of the war to the refusal to accept the offering of the Emperor. The Talmudic record is meant to illustrate how internal tensions among the Jewish people exacerbated the external threat from the Roman conquerors.

There are several lessons from this story that strike me as incredibly relevant to our present moment.

First, with the mix-up between Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa that begins the story, we see that an inadvertent slight leads to humiliation, and that humiliation fuels retaliation which then spirals out of control. In fact, this exact phrase – “humiliation fuels retaliation” – came up in this Tuesday evening’s conversation with Elisheva Goldberg of the New Israel Fund, as she was speaking about the fact that this week, Israelis are braced and waiting for an anticipated attack from Iran. The Israeli assassination of Hamas political leader Ismail Haniyeh last week -- not at his home in Qatar but rather while he was in Tehran to attend a funeral -- was an embarrassing blow to Iran. The risk of “poking the bear” is the escalation of violence, which is exactly what we see play out in the Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa story. Of course, the Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa tale could have ended very differently had the host at the very outset permitted the accidental invitee to save face by remaining at the party, or had the rabbis who were privy to the interaction stood up for him. This story contains an important lesson about human behavior – one we know to be true to this day: that unchecked humiliation can easily take a dangerous turn. 

A second big takeaway is that this story offers a surprisingly strong condemnation of extremism and zealotry. In the second part of the story, Rabbi Zecharia ben Avkolos is punctilious about upholding the law. His opinion is – by any account – technically right: according to Jewish law, an animal with even the smallest blemish was not permitted to be offered as a sacrifice in the Temple. Given Jewish law’s focus on details and correct observance, it’s not hard to imagine that the Talmud could have argued that when it comes to observing mitzvot, we should never compromise our standards. And so, it’s a bit shocking that this very radical text seems to argue againststringency, suggesting instead that Rabbi Zecharia should have just let this one slide for the sake of peace, and claiming that in insisting on perfection, he gave up on the possibility of a conciliatory act and brought the calamity of the siege and destruction upon his own people! Today, we are witnessing the most extreme right-wing Jewish nationalist government of Israel’s history. There is an unholy alliance between the self-serving Netanyahu, who it seems will do anything to maintain his own power, and extremists like Itamar Ben Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich, who support policies of broad-scale violence and annexation, publicly oppose the creation of a Palestinian state under any circumstances, and refuse to compromise on their Jewish supremacist vision of “greater Israel.” This week, we have also witnessed Hamas – already an extremist group – move even further towards radicalization, as the killing of Haniyeh fueled the appointing of Yahya Sinwar as the formal head of the Hamas, consolidating both military and political might in the hands of a man who not only is the mastermind behind the October 7th attacks, but also had previously earned himself the nickname “Butcher of Khan Younis” for his brutal killing of Palestinians suspected of collaborating with Israel. By lifting up the Kamtsa/ Bar Kamtsa story as an explanation for why the Temple was destroyed, our Jewish tradition decries radical extremism, and implicitly calls for real-world pragmatism and a softening of edges, in order to avoid danger and disaster. 

The final point I want to make about this story is that, in its arc, the personal becomes political – that is, a story about the relationships between individuals sets off a chain reaction that results directly in the collective downfall of the central Jewish institution of its day. If we can unwind the story, we can see the power of a single small, individual act. When we consider the bleakness that so many of us seem to be feeling as we think about the future of Israel in this moment – we might wonder whether there is anything at all that we can do to help a situation so huge? This story’s chain reaction demonstrates that it’s possible that everything could hinge on something as tiny as an invitation to a dinner party. Of course, the challenge is that we cannot possibly know which action we might take that could set off a chain reaction, for good or for bad. All we can do is the next right thing. The Kamtsa/Bar Kamtsa story encourages us to push ourselves towards greater tolerance of discomfort than we might ordinarily embrace in the service of building community across difference.

This weekend, as we move towards our Jewish calendar’s peak moment of destruction and devastation, we are induced to think about how, in our present, we might avoid a repeat of the giant catastrophes of our past. Are we brave enough to learn from the cautionary tales we have told ourselves for the past two-thousand years? If we are willing to act on the lessons of the Kamtsa/Bar Kamtsa story, we would be pushed to consider one another’s feelings and to take pains to avoid humiliation; we would take seriously the need to temper extremist impulses, both within and without; and we would feel empowered to start small, with actions of generosity and human connection. With each tiny act we do, we have the power to build interpersonal bridges and effect repair. We can't possibly know what the ripple effects might be… all we can do is make the best choices we can. It is possible that the entire Jewish future rests upon the decisions we make today.

As we move through this season of pain, uncertainty and grief, I wish each member of our Kavana community a Shabbat Shalom. May we help move our community and our world towards a better tomorrow, one small step at a time. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Vengeance, Death, and the Good Life

A good anger acted upon

is beautiful as lightning

and swift with power…

(Marge Piercy, “A Just Anger”)

God spoke to Moses, saying: “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin.” (Bamidbar 31:1-2)

Why? 

Why pursue vengeance against the Midianites? 

Why tell Moses in the same [divine] breath, that after he avenges the Israelites, then he will die? 

This verse presents a riddle, an unlikely juxtaposition. Out of that syntactic choice to combine a task of vengeance and a foreshadowing of death, the Jewish sages draw a remarkable amount of meaning.

Not long before in the story, the Moabites had hired a prophet, Bilaam, to curse the Israelites. After he fails, another tribe, the Midianites, apparently try a more subtle subversion. They entice the Israelites into immorality and idolatry. In the face of brazen acts, “Moses and the whole Israelite community were weeping at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting” (Bamidbar 25:6). The priest Pinchas is the one who steps up to the moment and strikes the offending couple down with a spear. Pinchas is “swift with power”, while Moses freezes. Perhaps God wants Moses to follow through on a task that he had failed to act on before.

Question for contemplation: What life tasks have you “frozen” on and not yet completed? Hopefully not vengeance! But I love the lesson here that although nothing is guaranteed, sometimes God (or Life Itself) gives us opportunities to complete matters of importance before we die.

Now any clever thinker will realize that if you accept the logic of the verse, Moses could have lived quite a long time, if only he didn’t fulfill the task. 

A midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 22:2) picks up this idea: 

Had Moses sought to live several years, he could have lived, as the Holy Blessed One said to him: “Take vengeance…then you will be gathered.” The verse made his death contingent upon Midian. This is, rather, to inform you of Moses’ praiseworthiness. He said: Will the vengeance of Israel be delayed so that I will live? Immediately, “Moses spoke to the people, saying: Select from among you men for the army” (Bamidbar 31:3).

Moses understood that delaying the completion of a war for his own benefit would be a complete failure of leadership. The truest test of leadership is the ability to put the good of the community (or nation) above your own interests. 

Question for contemplation: When have your personal interests been in tension with what is good for your unit - a significant relationship, family, friend group, organization, community, etc.? How do you navigate the tension, resolve it if possible or manage it so it is at least tolerable? 

In watching President Biden wrestle with this dilemma, it seems to me that ultimately his ambition included the desire to be perceived as a statesman, as someone good for party and country. That attempt to align personal ambition with public needs created an avenue for making a difficult and honorable choice, if not with the enthusiasm and immediacy that Moses apparently summons. Internalizing the good of the larger group as part of one’s identity could be one strategy for alignment of interest and greater good. 

Now if you’ve read this far, you might be feeling unsettled by how much this discussion rests on a divine commandment to take vengeance on enemies. Even Marge Piercy’s depiction of “a good anger” cannot soften the harsh edges of violence right now. One option for holding this Torah portion with love rather than distaste or embodying its violence comes from the Chassidic tradition.

In the Chassidic tradition of text interpretation, the entire Torah becomes a landscape of metaphor representing the inner terrain. Every character is a facet of our inner life. The lessons we learn incline us towards self-understanding and spiritual development. The 19th century Mei HaShiloach in particular follows this model of Torah as a guide book to spiritual dynamics. Here is his lesson for us:

“Midian teaches of illusion (midian transposes to dimion, illusion or imagination). Moses was called the wisdom of all of Israel, as explained elsewhere. Here the Holy Blessed One is saying to Moses that when the power of illusion (Midian) is removed from the heart of Israel, then the children of Israel will not need to use their wisdom in order to know God’s will. Then, even without thinking, their intentions will be according to God’s will.”

The Mei HaShiloach suggests that illusion (distortion, disinformation, bullshit, biases and blindspots?) prevents us from directly acting on God’s will. What does he mean by God’s will? If I can translate it into a progressive sensibility, God’s will is the thriving, just, holy collective of human beings, treating each other with dignity and tending to the world with care and responsibility.Anytime we fall short of that, it is because midian is enticing us away. Moses, though, the inner wisdom of conscience, the moral intuition, helps us (probably again and again) to grow past our follies and glimpse good action that leads towards love and justice. When midian is finally destroyed, we won’t need Moses any more. Truth, justice, peace, love will be obvious and attainable.

That day is far away, I fear. 

But the surprisingly comforting realization I’m having right now while writing is that according to the Mei HaShiloach, Moses still lives. The spiritual reality of Moses, alive in us anytime we act in ways that align with God’s will, continues to tend to and guide our inner collective of impulses, desires, emotions, and values. Moshe Rabbeinu, Moses our Teacher, keep on teaching us!

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Acting for the Sake of the Future

What a week it's been! It's almost dizzying to think about all that's transpired on the American political front since many of us gathered in a park to welcome Shabbat last Friday night. For me, it's been powerful and inspiring to think about how quickly things can shift sometimes -- a reminder that each of us has the potential to create change, and life plays out in unpredictable and unscripted ways.

This week's Torah portion, Pinchas, feels like a treasure trove, as it's ripe with topics that could be relevant to explore in a week like this. It begins, of course, with the story of Pinchas himself, Aaron's grandson who acts with zeal, killing an Israelite man and a Midianite woman, and is rewarded. Pinchas's story is a perfect jumping off point for an exploration of extremism or political violence. Later in the parasha, the story of the five daughters of Zelophehad is an inspiring tale about justice and how to amend laws that don't adequately serve a rapidly-changing society; it features teamwork and the power of sisterhood. A Dvar Torah about any of these themes would almost write itself... and if you are intrigued, I wholeheartedly encourage you to read the parasha in its entirety for yourself and let me know what catches your eye.

That said, what caught my eye the most this week were several lines of this Torah portion that I've never lingered on before. Between the interesting narrative sections about Pinchas and the daughters of Zelophehad, Numbers 26 contains a long genealogical list. This isn't particularly unusual in and of itself; in fact, the Torah is filled with these... censuses taken for different purposes at different points in the Israelites' narrative. Here, the purpose of this particular census is crystal clear:

"When the plague was over, Adonai said to Moses and to Eleazar son of Aaron the priest, “Take a census of the whole Israelite company [of fighters] from the age of twenty years up, by their ancestral houses, all Israelite males able to bear arms.” (Numbers 26:1-2).

What we would expect next would be a list of the Israelite males ages 20 and older, those deemed eligible to be part of the fighting force of their day. And for the most part, that is, in fact, what follows: how many Reubenites and what are the sub-clans of that tribe, how many Shimonites, and so on. But, in that otherwise straightforward list of men's names, three lines feature women: 

1. "Now Zelophehad son of Hepher had no sons, only daughters. The names of Zelophehad’s daughters were Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah" (Num. 26:33).

2. "The name of Asher’s daughter was Serah" (Num. 26:46).

3. "The name of Amram's wife was Yocheved daughter of Levi, who was born to Levi in Egypt; she bore to Amram Aaron and Moses and their sister Miriam" (Num. 26:59)

I can't say for sure what all of these women are doing here on this list. I imagine, though, that Zelophehad's daughters are mentioned in this genealogical list to contextualize who they are, just before their proto-feminist story appears in Chapter 27, and it seems likely to me that Serah and Yocheved are riding on their coattails in some manner (hurray for powerful and noteworthy women!).

I will save a full exploration of Serah bat Asher for another time. (She's been a midrashic hero of mine for many years! As Tamar Kadari explains in the JWA Encyclopedia entry on Serah: "Her history is intertwined with the story of the migration to Egypt and enslavement, and with redemption and the return to Erez Israel. She lived to an extremely old age and accordingly was blessed with much earthly wisdom and knowledge, which she used to help the people of Israel as needed...")

For this week, I want to focus in on Yocheved, the mother of Miriam, Aaron and Moses, mentioned in Numbers 26:59. Here in our parasha, she is listed as the "daughter of Levi." Levi, as you may recall, was one of the twelve sons of Jacob, who came down to Egypt for food at a time of family, when his brother Joseph had risen to be the second in command to Pharaoh, way back in the book of Bereishit/Genesis. If Yocheved really is daughter of Levi born soon after his arrival in Egypt, this would mean she lived for hundreds of years(!) -- throughout the Israelites' entire period of enslavement in Egypt and into the wilderness to earn her mention here in the book of Bamidbar. (Indeed, I discovered this week just how many midrashim exist about Yocheved... particularly about her conception and birth and the conception and birth of Moses -- you can click here to read more if you're interested.) The midrashic imagination -- hinging on this verse from our Torah portion -- turns Yocheved into quite the superhero!

Of course, Yocheved doesn't need midrashim; she's already pretty awesome, even in a pshat-level (straightforward) reading of the verses where she first appears in the Torah: Exodus 2:1-3, in the birth story of Moses. That text reads as follows:

"A certain member of the house of Levi went and took [into his household as his wife] a woman of Levi. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw how beautiful he was, she hid him for three months. When she could hide him no longer, she got a wicker basket for him and caulked it with bitumen and pitch. She put the child into it and placed it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile." 

Although Yocheved isn't even named in the Exodus text, we can see that this woman is remarkable! She is God-like in her action: just as, in the creation story, God repeatedly "saw that it was good," here, she sees the beauty in her son and it motivates her to hide him for as long as she can. When that plan no longer works, she is forced to give the baby up, but she takes great care to do so in a way that will keep him safe and enable him to have a future. She finds just the right kind of basket and caulks it to make it watertight. She carefully places it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile, where she knows that someone else could find it. The text doesn't say this explicitly, but perhaps she knew that this was exactly the spot where Pharaoh's daughter came to bathe each day. In any case, it is clear that her deep love for her child motivates her to make a personal sacrifice, but she does so in such a way that he might be saved and even have the potential to thrive in ways that he couldn't in her own care. 

Here in our Numbers/Pinchas text, this hero does have a name: Yocheved, which means "God's glory" (the yod-vav are part of God's proper four-letter name, and the kaf-bet-dalet root of kavod means glory, honor or respect). While Yocheved's decisiveness early in Exodus was bold and full of foresight, she cannot possibly have known the degree to which her actions would matter so far into the future. We, the reader of Numbers, however, know that not only did she manage to save her baby in Egypt, but he (Moses) would grow to be the leader who would take the Israelites out of Egypt and would ultimately shepherd them through a 40-year journey in the wilderness, forging them into a people. Yocheved's act ensured the future, not just for her own family but for her entire people.

When I saw Yocheved's name in this week's Torah portion and began to think about her legacy, I couldn't help but hear echoes of her story in the news headlines about President Biden's decision to step aside and "pass the torch" in hopes of preserving American democracy. Here, we see yet another leader willing to make a personal sacrifice for the sake of the future. 

Right now we are still standing, admittedly, quite close to the beginning of this particular political story, and we will have to see how it continues to unfold. But for this week, at least, I have found it beautiful, inspiring, and validating to consider Yocheved's action of sacrifice in Moses's birth story. Motivated by a combination of desperation and selflessness, her willingness to give up her child ultimately paves the way for a positive chain reaction that leads in the direction of national redemption. 

Where will our American story go next? Of course, we can't answer that question just yet... but perhaps, Yocheved's mention in this week's Torah portion will inspire each of us to consider the ways that we have agency. Like Yocheved, each of us has the power to embrace life and possibility, enabling goodness to triumph over fear, anger and paranoia.

Indeed, life is filled with twists and turns that we cannot possibly predict. When it comes to those decisions that do lie in our hands, though, let us act boldly, for the sake of the future!

Wishing each of you a Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

The Power of Blessings

It strikes me that this week's Torah portion, Balak, almost couldn't feel more relevant to the moment! Its central story is a rich and interesting one. (If you aren't yet familiar with it, you're welcome to click here to read the parashain its entirety on Sefaria, or here to view a cute two-minute BimBam video.) Here's my summary version, in a nutshell:

Balak, the king of Moab, hears that the Israelites are headed his way. He knows that they have recently defeated a number of nearby kingdoms in battle, and he's terrified for himself and his people. 

To deal with this threat, Balak hires a secret weapon: a local prophet named Bilaam, who he tasks with cursing the Israelites. 

The prophet and God engage in some verbal wrestling about whether or not he should undertake the mission, until finally Bilaam goes. On his way to the Israelites' encampment in the wilderness, though, Bilaam's donkey halts suddenly and refuses to continue moving, as an angel is standing in his path blocking the way. Bilaam, however, cannot see the angel and beats the donkey, who then opens its mouth and scolds Bilaam. This part of the story is resolved by the angel of the Lord telling Billaam: "Go with the men. But you must say nothing except what I tell you."

Finally, the prophet finally reaches his destination, a hill above the Israelite camp. Looking out over the camp, he opens his mouth to do the job he was hired to do of cursing the Israelites, but each time he does so, God puts words in Bilaam's mouth and out comes a blessing instead! In line after line of poetic verse, Bilaam praises the Israelites, infuriating the Moabite king Balak. Ultimately both prophet and king return home, unsuccessful in their bid to damage the Israelites.

When we read the same Torah stories in a cyclical way each year, what we see in the text certainly relates to the lens we bring to it, based on what's happening in our own minds and in the world around us in real time. Given the week it's been in terms of the American political landscape, then, it's probably not surprising that I am finding multiple lessons embedded in this morality tale of a parasha that feel like they speak very directly to this moment. Here are three that have jumped out at me this week:

1) At the very beginning of the parasha, the text reads: "Balak son of Zippor saw all that Israel had done to the Amorites. Moab was alarmed... and dreaded the Israelites, saying... 'now this horde will lick clean all that is about us as an ox licks up the grass of the field'" (Num. 22:2-4). Picking up on the Moabites' extreme fear and on the fact that Balak is first introduced without the title of king, 20th century commentator Haym Soloveichik explains that Balak begins as "a courtier who seized the throne by manipulating people's fear of Israel." Reading Balak in this way -- as a political strongman who asserts control over his followers by stoking fear -- we can hear a warning in the text: Be wary of leaders who traffic in fear-mongering and scape-goating; they are not to be trusted! 

2) From that place of fear, Balak is willing to use violence against his rivals. His "assassination attempt" on the Israelites doesn't require an AR rifle, of course; rather, his weapon of choice is a prophet with a reputation of success and a big arsenal of curses to draw on. The text is crystal clear, though, that God loathes Balak's attempt to try to silence one's enemies through such violent means.

3) Ultimately, the punchline of the story is that when Bilaam does open his mouth to say something about Israel, only blessings come out. He conveys this to Balak in line after line of oracle-like text, for example: "How can I damn whom God has not damned, How doom when the Lord has not doomed?" (Num. 23:8) and "No harm is in sight for Jacob, No woe in view for Israel" (Num. 23:21). The bottom line is that sometimes would-be curses can, in fact, be transformed into blessings. The world can be surprising; we cannot always know what's going to happen next. We may brace for a curse, but we should also stay open to the possibility that curses can give way to blessings at any time.

This week, we here in America have witnessed a violent assassination attempt and a political convention filled with scary rhetoric. At the time of my writing this message, it’s not clear which names will even be on the ballot in November’s presidential election. Indeed, these are wild times, filled with a sense of foreboding and anxiety for many of us. But, if we can take the messages of Parashat Balak to heart, we might take some comfort in knowing that fear-mongering and political violence will not win out in the end; our Torah has given us the ability to see through these tactics for thousands of years! While we may yet have to weather some hard and unpredictable times, as our modern-day story continues to unfold, ultimately, the power of blessing is much stronger than the power of the curse.

So may it be this year -- and may we work to make it so! 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

P.S. - The most famous line of the blessing that accidentally emerges from the mouth of the prophet Bilaam is "Mah tovu ohalecha yaakov mishkenotecha yisrael," "How good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel." This line has been set to music countless times, and it's a song I associate with Jewish summer camp. Over the past couple of weeks, I had the pleasure of visiting a Jewish camp in Colorado (Ramah in the Rockies) where my youngest, Elisha, was a camper, and it's hard to imagine any setting in which the tents of the Jewish people could be deemed more beautiful and full of joy! This week, it's RLO's turn to visit Kavana kids at Camp Kalsman (see below!), and next week Rabbi Jay is off to summer camp! In total, we have Kavana kids attending a total of at least nine different Jewish camps this summer (perhaps the most ever) -- hurray! In honor of this week's parasha and to add a little camp flavor, we'll be singing Mah Tovu at tonight's Shabbat in the Park event -- please register quickly (by noon today) if you'd like to join us this evening. 

Mishpat & Chukkah

“This is chukkat ha-torah that God has commanded: Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid…it shall be slaughtered…the priest will take some of its blood with his finger and sprinkle it seven times toward the front of the Tent of Meeting…Gather up the ashes of the cow and deposit them outside the camp in a pure place, to be kept for water of lustration for the Israelite community. It is for purgation.” (Bamidbar 19:2-9)

By all accounts, the ritual of the Red Heifer is a strange one. It involves a complicated procedure including sacrificing a cow, burning it to ash, adding in some herbs, and creating a ritual elixir from the mixture. This elixir is useful - it restores purity when someone encounters a dead body. But…what a strange ritual! 

Rashi comments: “Because Satan and the nations of the world taunt Israel, saying, ‘What is this command and what reason is there for it?!’, on this account [Torah] writes the term chukkah about it, implying: It is an enactment (gezeira) from before Me; you have no right to criticize it.”

In essence, Rashi says that when we see the word chukkah, we know (1) the law is definitely weird and hard to explain to others and even oneself; and (2) we still follow it simply because God said so.

In rabbinic literature, chukkah (or the related word chok) is contrasted withmishpat, literally “judgment.” These are two categories of laws. Mishpat refers to laws that any reasonable person could come up with rationally through thinking hard enough, while chukkah cannot be arrived at through intellectual means. We have to take God’s word for it. In other words, when the Torah tells us we must do something, sometimes we can understand why and other times the rationale is inscrutable. 

What’s at stake in understanding the reason behind a religious practice? As a strength, when we understand why we are doing a practice, we are more inclined to appreciate it and observe it. If I believe that giving tzedakah(charity) restores the dignity of humans in different economic circumstances and increases fairness in the world, even just a little bit, I am motivated to give tzedakah because I value those reasons. 

As a weakness, though, having a reason for a rule means you can challenge the rule for not being the best expression of that reason. If the reason for keeping kosher stems from a desire to minimize animal suffering (one of the various explanations I’ve seen), you could rationally argue that in our era, there are way better ways to minimize animal suffering, and in fact continuing kosher slaughtering practices actually causes unnecessary harm at this point. For anyone invested in the long-term endurance of a ritual, having a reason for it may actually backfire! Calling it a “because God said so” chukkahinsulates the practice from logical criticism. 

The 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, which launched a coherent early Reform Jewish movement, had this to say about kashrut: “We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.” In other words, the original reasons for kashrut no longer hold! Saying we do something for a reason means that if the reason changes, or if there is a better way to accomplish that reason, our practice will change. In this way, you might imagine the early Reform movement as amishpat-elevating Judaism. 

On the extreme opposite of a Reform approach to Jewish practice, Yeshayahu Leibowitz (1903-1994) argued that “Halakhic observance as a way of life, a fixed and permanent form of human existence, precludes conversion of of religion into a means to some ulterior end. Most of the Mitzvoth are meaningless except as expressions of worship.” (Religious Praxis, p. 16) In other words, virtually the entirety of Jewish practice should be consideredchukkah! All that matters is that God said so, and no other reason is needed (or even possible). 

Most Jews and Jewish communities find a middle path between “here’s why we do this” and “we do it just because.” I’d be curious to hear from you where you place yourself in the spectrum! 

What do you do out of an innate sense of commandedness (whether by God, authorities, loved ones, conscience, even habit) without overthinking, and what do you do because a long, thoughtful process of rationalizing has led you there? What elements of Jewish practice are you curious to understand better? What might you be willing to jump into without knowing everything about it first?

May this Shabbat bring the right mixture of mishpat and chukkah, thoughtful exploration and the most wonderful stubborn persistence of ritual that you do just because that’s the way you do it. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Almond Branch Leadership

“Trust is the glue of life. It’s the most essential ingredient in effective communication. It’s the foundational principle that holds all relationships.” (Stephen R. Covey, renowned expert on leadership.)

Parshat Korach holds great wonders: for instance, after Korach assembles a number of disgruntled Israelites and challenges the leadership of his cousins, Moses and Aaron, God then opens a hole in the ground and hurls some of the rebels down to the underworld, before smiting the rest with divine fire. 

But right after this comes an even more astonishing moment. “The next day the whole Israelite community railed against Moses and Aaron, saying, “You two have killed God’s people!” (Bamidbar 17:6)

Not the type of response you hope for when earning the public endorsement of no less an impressive figure than God Godself. 

So great is the crisis of trust. 

Moses and Aaron have dedicated themselves to the people of Israel, and at great personal cost. Aaron lost two of his sons to an improperly performed ritual. Moses (according to the midrashic subtext) has essentially abandoned his family in order to be the leader the people need. I do not want to valorize sacrifice of this sort, but these details give us, the readers of the story, an awareness of just how much Moses and Aaron care for the people they lead. Indeed, in just a few more verses, God is ready to annihilate the rest of the people, and once again it is up to Moses and Aaron to save the people from destruction. 

Knowing the depth of Moses and Aaron’s integrity and commitment, it breaks my heart that the people empathize not with their leaders but with the duplicitous challengers. “You two have killed God’s people.” As if Korach and his band were on God’s side, as if God weren’t the one who had personally demonstrated divine disfavor. 

A part of me wonders if the very willingness of Moses and Aaron to sacrifice to be leaders signals some quality that the people become wary of. If Aaron remains silent as his sons die in service of the Eternal, if Moses pushes away the people closest to him in order to do his job, maybe they will remain silent and isolate themselves as people further away from them suffer and perish. Rather than the vice of nepotism, perhaps they embody the vice of ruthless ambition that destroys families in the name of success? If so, no wonder they find themselves in a crisis of trust in their leadership. If relationships matter, they matter at home and in public, in meetings and at dinner tables. Trust can’t be asserted, it must be demonstrated, and how people treat those closest to them reveals a lot about their character as leaders as well. 

How does this crisis resolve itself? How do Moses and Aaron regain a measure of trust? 

This story began with a challenge to their leadership. We don’t know to what degree Korach and company represented the quiet thoughts of others, but after Moses and Aaron defeat them through literal scorched-earth politics, we do know that the people bitterly complain about their leaders. 

By the end of the chapter, Moses and Aaron hold another event to establish the legitimacy of their leadership. Each tribal chieftain brings a staff, and they leave them in the holiest place in the Mishkan. “The next day Moses entered the Tent of the Pact, and there the staff of Aaron of the house of Levi had sprouted: it had brought forth sprouts, produced blossoms, and borne almonds” (Bamidbar 17:23). 

According to the biblical story at least, the best way to regain the trust of your people is not to focus on the opposition and do everything in your power to stoke fear and anger about how awful they are. Rather, it is to demonstrate the possibilities of growth. It is to make new flowers grow from what seem to be dead branches. A leader, above all, must be a tender of life, a steward of the forces of nurture and nourishment.

May we - in our families, communities, organizations, and political affiliations - grow trust through practicing almond branch leadership. 

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Happy birthday to us!: Hope and Optimism

Happy birthday to us! Happy birthday to us! Happy birthday, dear Kavana! Happy birthday to us!

This coming Monday, July 1st, is Kavana's 18th birthday, the anniversary of the date in 2006 when Kavana formally began its existence as an organization and this community was born. 18 years is a significant number for us, as 18 is the gematria/numeric equivalent of the word "chai" (spelled chet-yod, or 10+8=18), which means "life." This week, it also feels fitting to me that our community is hitting this milestone chai birthday as Jews everywhere read Parashat Shelach.

In this week's Torah portion, Moses sends a dozen spies across the Jordan River to scout out the land of Canaan. As the twelve spies return from this important reconnaissance mission, they divide themselves into two factions. Ten of them present to Moses and the Israelites a fundamentally pessimistic report:

“'We cannot attack that people, for it is stronger than we.' Thus they spread calumnies among the Israelites about the land they had scouted, saying, 'The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are of great size... and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.'" (Numbers 13:31–33).

In contrast, just two of the twelve spies (Caleb and Joshua) return with a positive, hopeful report: 

"And [they] exhorted the whole Israelite community: 'The land that we traversed and scouted is an exceedingly good land. If pleased with us, God will bring us into that land, a land that flows with milk and honey, and give it to us... Have no fear....'" (Numbers 14:7–9).

According to the text, all twelve participated in the same mission and experienced the same land together -- Numbers 13:21-24 is explicit that they scouted from the wilderness of Zin to Rehob, traveling in the Negev until they came to Hebron, and finding a giant cluster of grapes in the Wadi Eshkol -- so the core issue cannot be that they had completely different inputs. And yet, the two groups of scouts interpret what they have witnessed very differently. 

Torah commentators offer a range of views as to why the ten spies versus the two draw such radically different conclusions; most of their answers come down to the issue of underlying attitude and outlook. The ten spies who land on a negative report not only feel fearful themselves, but also manage to induce panic in the rest of the Israelites. (As we know well in the year 2024, it's easy for fear and despair to feel contagious!)

Behind Caleb and Joshua's report, in contrast, readers can feel a healthy dose of optimism, faith, and confidence. About this story, author Michael Eisenberg comments: 

"Optimism is foundational to many of the stories in the Torah, and is a critical component of the consciousness of the people of Israel since the dawn of history. Pessimism creates headlines, but optimism creates reality... The optimism the Torah directs us towards is to believe that change is good and that we have an opportunity to change situations, to improve and develop, and above all — to realize our collective vision and responsibility that has been assigned to us." 

In other words, the kind of optimism that Caleb and Joshua display is not delusional or pollyannaish; it acknowledges real-world challenges even as it asserts that change is possible. This brand of optimism stands in sharp contrast both to defeatism (the idea that nothing we could do could possibly make a difference) and to false optimism (the idea that the status quo is just fine, and nothing needs to change).

This message of Parashat Shelach rings particularly true to me this week, as it echoes with the history and underlying outlook of our beloved Kavana community on this milestone birthday. 

In 2006, Suzi LeVine and I set out to do something very special together. At the time, we had both heard lots of hand-wringing from Jewish leaders across the country who were worried that assimilation and intermarriage were eroding the Jewish future. In the Seattle Jewish community, the conventional wisdom was that because younger Jews (then, members of Gen X) were not affiliating with synagogues, they must necessarily be uninterested in Jewish life; we had also been told that the northwest quadrant of the city wasn't densely Jewish enough to be able to support a Jewish community. Even in the face of this pessimism, we sensed an opportunity: to build a model of Jewish community that didn't yet exist except in our inchoate vision: one that would be pluralistic, open and welcoming; vibrant and dynamic; at once authentic and grounded in tradition and also creative and playful; grassroots-y and cooperative in nature. And, we were seeing innovative new Jewish organizations begin to spring up around the country. Buoyed by Suzi's can-do spirit and an energy that snowballed positively as we begin to shop this vision around, we embarked... recruiting a dynamic launch team, securing support from a handful of "angel investors," and -- starting in July 2006 with our inaugural Shabbat in the Park event -- offering programming and drawing in would-be partners. We were not naieve or unaware of the challenges we might face in launching a new organization, but we were carried by some degree of faith, confidence, and optimism, and it paid off as more and more people began showing up to build robust Jewish life together with us.

Over the past 18 years, we -- and here I mean all of us together: partners, participants, donors, friends and family of the organization (if you're reading, I hope you count yourself in!) -- have built something very special. The optimistic spirit that helped to launch Kavana at the outset is still strong in us. Together, we have deeply touched the lives of thousands, helping to craft meaningful Jewish experiences, empower people to work towards a vision of a more just and loving society, forging a vibrant Jewish future together. As Kavana celebrates its 18th birthday this week, I hope that each of us feels a great sense of pride in being part of this fundamentally hopeful endeavor!

After an 18th year like the one the Kavana community has just lived through -- with October 7th and the war in Gaza, antisemitism on the rise and the threat of autocratic political leaders here in the U.S. and around the world -- there is certainly plenty of fuel for anxiety and fear. However, in the words of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, "To be a Jew is to be an agent of hope." He points out that the word "confidence" comes from Latin for "having faith together." Indeed, it is precisely in the together-ness of this community's vision that I find the inspiration to continue moving us forward.

Wishing us all a very happy and life-affirming chai birthday. (We are planning for a celebration and cake to follow, later this year!) To Kavana, I say: "ad meah v'esrim" ("to a hundred and twenty!"). 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

P.S. - Enjoy these throw-back photos to our first-ever Shabbat in the Park (we were doing yoga at Gasworks!) and to early board members checking out Kavana's then brand-new-to-us Sefer Torah (we were such babies!).

P.P.S. - Feeling inspired to send Kavana a birthday gift? Your support means the world to us. Click here to make a donation of any amount and help set us up well to continue doing our sacred work into the coming year with an optimistic and hopeful outlook! 

Two Days or a Month or a Year

“Whether it was two days or a month or a year—however long the cloud lingered over the Mishkan—the Israelites remained encamped and did not set out; only when it lifted did they break camp.” (Bamidbar 9:22)

What a strange way to wander - wait for a cloud to lift, and then move! See the cloud settle down, and then set yourself down for however long it lasts. What did it feel like to have so little agency over the rhythm of travel? Were some people itching to leave and feeling stuck when the cloud lingered? Were others just starting to feel stability again when the cloud lifted and change beckoned once more?

Malbim (1809-1879) comments on why the verse mentions two days: “So then they could finish setting up their tents. They would have been annoyed by troubling themselves to erect and [then immediately] break down their tents for a one-day stay.”

I’m charmed by Malbim’s confidence that a two-day encampment was logistically and psychologically easier than a one-day encampment. But it seems to me to highlight how destabilizing it must have felt to create a home knowing you could be moving out scant days later, or months or years later. To live each day embedded within impermanence… 

This reminds me of a classic story told about the Chofetz Chaim (1838-1933) who lived in the Polish town of Radin. Once a wealthy merchant was in the area and decided to honor the great sage with a visit. But when he entered this famous rabbi’s home, he was astonished to see it practically unfurnished and asked, “Where is your furniture?” But the Chofetz Chaim responded by asking him where was his furniture! The merchant explained that he was only passing through. And then the Chofetz Chaim explained that he too, was only passing through…

Live fully, but lightly. Life is a journey, home after home after home after home.

Malbim continues with a comment on a month: “In this case, imagine other complaints! If the place was favorable in their eyes, they would want to delay there for many days and would have been annoyed by traveling. Or if they could have been staying there a year, then imagine that they didn’t think the place was good and would have been annoyed to be stuck there for a full year.”

This intermediate type of stay either serves to prolong something enjoyable or to release them from being stuck even longer in an unpleasant situation. 

Here I think of childhood stages. Some days, I find myself impatient for my kids to grow out of whatever is feeling particularly challenging. Other days, I hold them tight as if a physical hug could pause the constant wiggling dance of change, so that I could savor this particular joy a moment longer before it fades into a memory. So much of a child’s development is invisible to us - until it isn’t. As if a cloud rests over whatever holy space inside them and then suddenly lifts, and now they can talk, and now they can make jokes, and now they wrestle with anxiety for the first time, and now they take on new responsibilities. 

A child is something else again. Wakes up

in the afternoon and in an instant he's full of words,

in an instant he's humming, in an instant warm,

instant light, instant darkness.

(Yehuda Amichai)

And of course, this isn’t just about kids, but also our parents and friends and pets, and our own capabilities at any given moment in life. We have what we have, we are who we are, for longer than a moment, and shorter than eternity. How do we hold tight and release wisely and gracefully?

For Malbim, the full year signifies the commitment of the Israelites to be present to the divine vitality in their midst. Whether they liked where they were or not, whether they yearned to linger or chafed at feeling struck, ultimately they paid close attention to that cloud over the holy space and followed its unpredictable signals to rest or to act. Because what was constant was the divine vitality in their midst. 

If you are feeling the weight of being stuck, may you find some release this Shabbat.

If you are overwhelmed by the pace of change, may you find some stabilizing rest this Shabbat.

For however long you have been part of the wider Kavana community, whether two days, a month, a year, or longer, let’s continue the journey together.

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

Expanding Blessing

"And THVH (Goddess) spoke to Moshah, saying: Speak to Aharonah and to her daughters, saying: Thus shall you bless the daughters of Tisraelah: Say to them:
May Goddess bless you and protect you.
May Goddess’s face shine upon you and be gracious with you.
May Goddess’s face lift towards you and grant you peace.” (Bamidbar 6:22-26)

Last week, Rabbi Rachel wrote in her teaching about how the ancient sages valued the wilderness in which Torah was received - a place of non-ownership that allowed for open access to sacred wisdom. Torah, they imagined, was meant for everyone who thirsted to learn it and practice it. In the wilderness, no walls of possessive exclusivity could contain it. Torah is acquired in a place with no boundaries.

Not only is Torah uncontainable: you can’t exhaust it either. There are seventy faces of Torah, each revealing new facets upon closer inspection. Torah is acquired through an appreciation of infinite depths.

In the spirit of this Torah-fluidity-abundance, contemporary artists and scholars Yael Kanarek and Tamar Biala have spent years translating the Hebrew Bible into Hebrew, by regendering everything. They call this project Toratah (“Her Torah”).

“The experience of reading Toratah, especially for those accustomed to the language of the traditional Bible, is not simple. It describes female presence in all aspects of Biblical reality. This presence manifests vividly and by both destructive and restorative powers. The women of Toratah express a wide range of human behavior and agency usually ascribed to men: they murder, commit incest, and rape. They reign and judge. They are priestesses, prophetesses, warriors, founders of tribes and leaders of nations…

“Toratah builds a new cultural language, it enables us to extricate ourselves from the patriarchal language that functions as a cultural default. Toratah marks a new horizon for social and spiritual self-understanding… What does it mean for a girl to read that she’s made in the image of the absolute Creator Goddess? What is a boy to learn as he grows to understand his role as her helpmate and caregiver?” (You can read more here. It is worth mentioning that although the project does not focus on non-binary language, seeing the Torah regendered creates space to imagine what a gender non-binary Torah might look like as well.)

The priestly blessing in parashat Nasso is particularly important for the living tradition of Jewish practice. Once upon a time, (male) priests used these words to bless the assembled people. In fact, the oldest archeological evidence of language found in the Torah contains these words on two silver amulets, dating from over 2500 years ago. After the Temple was destroyed, men in the priestly lineage continue to this day in some communities to recite these words at particular moments in the prayer service. Additionally, some parents will offer the blessing to their children at Shabbat dinner on Friday night. And some rabbis offer the blessing at life cycle rituals for babies, b’nai mitzvah, and wedding couples. 

Here is a piece of Torah that has come alive in all sorts of ways. Rashi comments on “say to them [this blessing]” (Bamidbar 6:23): “so that everyone can hear it.” The blessing was always meant to arrive in a way that each and every person could hear it. Rendering it into the feminine instead of the masculine means the blessing expands, and we get a fuller glimpse of the Source of blessing and the folx who make up our community. 

Many of you already know a version of the priestly blessing that uses feminine language, blended with a Buddhist metta meditation, created by Chava Mirel and used widely in Kavana spaces. This Shabbat, let her words and the ancient and ever-renewing flow of blessing lift your spirits, comfort your hearts, and encourage your aspirations:

May we be filled with lovingkindnessMay we be well, healthy and strong
May we be safe and protected
May we be peaceful and calm

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Jay LeVine

A Sweet Time of Year

Dear Yoela,

This week, we read Parashat Bamidbar and embark on the fourth book of the Torah (also called Bamidbar, meaning "In the Wilderness"). This is also the Shabbat before Shavuot, the ancient harvest festival that ultimately came to be referred to in our prayer liturgy as "z'man matan torateinu," "the time of the giving of our Torah. Our tradition derives a lot of meaning from the juxtaposition of these two ideas: wilderness (midbar) and Torah!

One famous midrash, from Mekhilta De-Rabbi Yishmael (Tractate Bachodesh 1:18) states:

"The Torah was given publicly and in an ownerless place. If the Torah had been given in Eretz Yisrael, people could say, 'The nations of the world have no share in it.' That’s why it was given in the midbar, publicly and in an ownerless place. So that anyone who wants to come and accept the Torah can come and accept it!"

In other words, because no one group "owns" the midbar, the giving of the Torah in the wilderness means that it is meant for and available to everyone. 

Another beautiful drash can be found in the Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 54a, where Rabbi Matna is cited as saying:

"If a person makes himself humble like this wilderness, which is open to all and upon which everyone treads, his Torah study will endure and be given to him as a gift [mattana]. And if not, his Torah study will not endure."

Just as the desert is humble enough to let people walk upon it, so too must we be humble, in order that our Torah will "stick."

Reading both of these midrashim, it's clear that our tradition urges us towards a posture of humility. When we learn Torah, we do so knowing that we are not the sole purveyors of knowledge, nor do we have a monopoly on the truth or know everything there is to know. In addition, it's also clear that our tradition understands "Torah" quite expansively. Torah means all sorts of learning: not only the revelation Moses experienced on Mount Sinai, but also the learning that we do in the world when we learn from and with other people. 

In this spirit, Kavana's Shavuot event this coming Tuesday evening will feature a range of teachers -- both rabbis and community members -- and a range of modalities -- including text study, discussion, singing. Of course, there will also be delicious desserts to share! We'd love to have you join us in this celebration of learning: please click here to register.

Finally, in our academic calendar rhythm, Shavuot also happens to correspond quite well to the end of the school year and to graduation season! This week, as we prepare for Shavuot and as all of Kavana's kids/family education programs wrap up for this year, it feels like a great opportunity for me to pause to thank the many teachers who have taught our children and families, including staff members Maxine Alloway, Liv Feldman, Jack Hogan, Rebecca Mather, Rachel Nagorsky, Sophia Nappa, Anaelle Oiknine, Noah Segal, Michael Taylor-Judd, Lon-Mari Walton, Morgan Weidner, Danial Zelinger, and Yoela Zimberoff. In addition, I also want to recognize our Director of Education, Rachel ("RLO") Osias, who has done a beautiful job of supervising this team and making it all happen! If you're interested in enrolling for the coming academic year, it's not too early to start exploring our full array of kids/family education programs (Tinker Gan, Prep & Practice, Moadon Yeladim, Havdalah Club, Middle School Program, High School Program) -- click here to check out the offerings, or reach out to RLO with any questions, and know that registration for 2024-25 will go live over the summer!

For now, I'll conclude for now with one of my favorite prayers -- "V'ha'arev na" -- which is part of the daily blessing for the study of Torah. It says:

May the words of Torah, Adonai our God, be sweet in our mouths and in the mouths of all Your people, so that we, our children, and all the children of the House of Israel may come to love You and to study Your Torah on its own merit.

Amen, Shabbat Shalom, and Chag Shavuot Sameach (the holiday is this coming Tuesday evening - Thursday evening),

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Acknowledging our Blessings, Even in Hard Times

These last couple of weeks have continued to be filled with dizzying news stories: videos of bloodied female IDF soldiers being taunted by Hamas, truly horrifying images and accounts out of a refugee camp in Rafah, and now of course a verdict in the Trump trial. Recently, a number of Kavana community members have asked me some version of how I am managing, on a personal level, through this intense and difficult time. I have typically answered that I'm acutely aware of the gap between how the world feels (like a great big dumpster fire, most days!) and what others elsewhere are experiencing, and my own personal life here in Seattle (where it's springtime, I have a job I love, my family is doing well, etc.). 

The truth, though, is that it takes work to stay grounded even (and most especially) when things around us feel so hard. One of the primary "spiritual technologies" we Jews have at our disposal is the tool of gratitude: the art of noticing and uplifting the small blessings that otherwise we might easily take for granted. Doing so gives us the fortitude to deal with the hard stuff.

This week's Torah portion, Bechukotai, is famously filled with both blessings and curses. The set-up is pretty straightforward. "If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments," says God, these blessings will follow; "but if you do not obey Me... if you reject My laws and spurn My rules..., I in turn will do this to you" (here's a link to the text of the parasha, beginning with Leviticus 26:3). I will note, as an aside, that I have never really bought into the reward and punishment theology of the Torah, at least not literally. I know all too well that "bad things can happen to good people" (as Harold Kushner framed it) and that good things can happen to bad people; this feels particularly obvious in wartime. I do see that actions have consequences (at times, it's clear how outcomes do stem from human decisions/ behavior), but sometimes life simply feels random. This line of theological questions is probably a much bigger topic for another day, but for now at least, I can offer assurance that in rejecting a literal reading of Bechukotai, I am part of a long line of Jewish commentators and thinkers who have struggled with the concept of Divine reward and punishment in Judaism's core texts.

That said, the blessings enumerated by the parasha do ring true to me as blessings. The first of these reads (Lev. 26:4):

וְנָתַתִּ֥י גִשְׁמֵיכֶ֖ם בְּעִתָּ֑ם וְנָתְנָ֤ה הָאָ֙רֶץ֙ יְבוּלָ֔הּ וְעֵ֥ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֖ה יִתֵּ֥ן פִּרְיֽוֹ׃

I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit.

According to our parasha, the produce of the earth and the fruit of the tree are prime examples of blessings. These are, of course, a basic building block of human life; without the earth bearing food, none of us could continue to live for very long. The Torah reminds us that we cannot take our food for granted. As an illustration of this, later in the same chapter (in Lev. 26:20), the text states the inverse in its list of curses: "Your land shall not yield its produce, nor shall the trees of the land yield their fruit." Our world is so filled with harsh realities, that there is always a very real possibility that things will not turn out well, that we will not always be able to reap our harvest. Parashat Bechukotai's blessings and curses remind us of the precariousness of life, and how fortunate we are to have what we do.

No one says this more eloquently, in my mind, than poet Marge Piercy. In her poem entitled "The Art of Blessing the Day," this is precisely the message that comes through in her stanza about a ripe peach (and if you like this verse of the poem, I cordially invite you to click here to read it in its entirety):

This is the blessing for a ripe peach: 

This is luck made round. Frost can nip 

the blossom, kill the bee. It can drop, 

a hard green useless nut. Brown fungus, 

the burrowing worm that coils in rot can 

blemish it and wind crush it on the ground. 

Yet this peach fills my mouth with juicy sun.

As Piercy is keenly aware, every single juicy peach -- every piece of fruit, every morsel of food that comes into our hands -- is the happy ending of a success story, and deserves to be received as a gift. To accept it as such -- even and most especially while acknowledging all that could have gone wrong, and just how easily things could have turned out otherwise -- is to live life inside "the art of blessing," that is, with a posture of gratitude.  

This time of year, I find it relatively easy to feel aligned with the spiritual practice of blessing food and understanding food as a blessing. Yesterday happened to be the first Queen Anne Farmers Market of the season. I walked from my office to the market in the late afternoon; after a cloudy morning, the sun had just come out in full force; produce stands were filled with neat rows of asparagus and garlic scapes, beets and strawberries. Surrounded by this bounty, and by so many people out to appreciate it and partake of it, I felt so deeply fortunate! (Incidentally, I will also mention that I think it's pretty cool that the agricultural growing cycle of the Pacific Northwest matches the growing cycle that the Torah has in mind. Both here and in the land of Israel, a rainy season is just coming to an end; in both places, the bounty of summer harvest is just beginning. The Jewish calendar markers of first fruits/bikkurim at Shavuot and the end of the harvest season at Sukkot also happen to correspond quite neatly to my beloved seasonal Queen Anne Farmers Market, which runs weekly from late May to mid-October.)

Returning to the bigger frame, I feel myself to be living inside such a sharp contrast, with a keen awareness of both the blessings and curses of this moment, of what I have and what others do not. I walk home from the market, feeling the weight of the fruits and veggies I'm carrying in my bag, while thinking about the suspension of operations at the Gaza pier and the debates over the Rafah border crossing, both of which have big implications for how much food aid will be distributed and consumed in Gaza (where of course very little harvest can be reaped this season). My gratitude for the blessings of my life, both large and small, catalyzes empathy within me, and a desire to contribute whatever I can from my corner of the world, as we continue to move through such difficult times.

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Counting Time: Parashat Behar

This week, we read Parashat Behar, a short Torah portion (of only a single chapter!) that, despite its brevity, is packed with wisdom. Leviticus 25 focuses on two big concepts, both related to the counting of time: the sabbatical (shmitah) year, whereby the land rests for a year in each seven year cycle, and the jubilee (yoveil), which features a proclamation of freedom and laws concerning the manumission of slaves every 50th year.

This parasha echoes in so many ways and on so many levels this year! I would like to share just a couple of ways that these key concepts feel relevant to me in this moment:

1) Sabbatical:

"When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord. Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield. But in the seventh year, the land shall have a sabbat of complete rest, a sabbath of the Lord: you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. You shall not reap the aftergrowth of your harvest or gather the grapes of your untrimmed vines; it shall be a year of complete rest for the land..." (Lev. 25:2-5).

As you probably recall, last year around this time, I took my first ever professional sabbatical. Just this week, R&R (the organization that had provided generous grant funding to Kavana to support my 3-months off) released an evaluation of their pilot sabbatical grant program. You're welcome to click here to learn more, but in a nutshell, they concluded that in nonprofit organizations:

• Sabbaticals are transformative for those who take them, with a significant impact on well-being and burnout. They are powerful perspective-changing experiences and important for retention and productivity. 

• Sabbaticals strengthen organizations by deepening the bench of leadership at the staff level.

• Sabbaticals help build healthy boards by creating opportunities to think about staff wellness, deepen relationships between board and staff, and begin long-term succession planning.

• Sabbaticals create healthier and more effective ecosystems.

All of these findings ring true with our experience of sabbatical here at Kavana. Whether we are talking about letting land lie fallow (asParashat Beharadvocates) or encouraging an employee to take a break from work in order to return re-energized,sabbatical is a powerful tool all around.

This past weekend, Kavana's Annual Partner Meeting wasn't exactly a sabbatical, but it, too, served as an example of how we implement generative breaks in organizational work. Preparation for this meeting required the Kavana board to step back and reflect on what we've done together over the past year and how this work has moved our community forward. Taking a periodic pause in this way gives us a chance to lift up our heads collectively and gain perspective, celebrate our accomplishments and achievements, and then return to our work with renewed certainty that we are headed in the right direction. (That layer of meaningful reflection/pause, paired with the buzz of energy that happens when great people congregate and a bountiful snack table, certainly helped make our 2024 Annual Partner Meeting feel both pleasurable and productive!)

Parashat Behar forces us to think about these cycles in time, both short and long, and ensure that we take time to step back and refrain from doing, creating and dominating. The concept of sabbatical can and should be applied on multiple levels, as it has the potential to lead to greater health and well-being not only for land, but also for us, on a personal/individual level, and collectively for our organizations and communities.

2) Jubilee: 

"You shall count off seven weeks of years -- seven times seven years -- so that the period of seven weeks of years gives you a total of forty-nine years. Then you shall sound the horn loud; in the seventh month, on the tenth day of the month -- the Day of Atonement -- you shall have the horn sounded throughout your land, and you shall hallow the fiftieth year. You shall proclaim release throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to his holding and each of you shall return to his family..." (Lev. 25:8-10).

In his commentary on Parashat Behar, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks highlights the economic justice aspect of this Torah portion as he talks about the way that it provides “a unique solution to the otherwise intractable conflict between two fundamental ideals: freedom and equality.” He writes:

"Much of human history has illustrated the fact that you can have freedom without equality (laissez-faire economics), or equality without freedom (communism, socialism), but not both. The powerful insight of the Torah is that you can have both, but not at the same time. Therefore time itself has to become part of the solution, in the form of the seventh year and, after seven sabbatical cycles, the Jubilee. These become periodic corrections to the distortions of the free market that allow some to become rich while others suffer the loss of land, home, and even freedom. Through the periodic liberation of slaves, release of debts, and restoration of ancestral lands, the Torah provides a still-inspiring alternative to individualism on the one hand, collectivism on the other."

Rabbi Sacks lived in Britain, but reading his commentary this year, it feels like he is speaking directly to us in this American election year. What does it mean to live in a capitalist society that privileges individual rights, but also know that we must strive to take care of our collective needs as well? How do we uphold the principles of both freedom and equality simultaneously? In the contest between Republicans and Democrats at every level of government, there are very concrete differences when it comes to the two parties' visions regarding to the answers these questions and how to achieve the proper balance. Without making voting recommendations about specific candidates or parties (which Kavana cannot, as a 501c3), I wouldencourage you to read Leviticus 25 and think about the values that animate Parashat Behar's insistence on the Jubilee cycle, in particular.

Finally, the sabbatical and jubilee cycles of our Torah portion are tied together by a focus on counting. The idea that we are constantly counting -- numbering both our days and our years -- certainly resonates right now, as Jews worldwide are counting the Omer (today is day 31) and also the number of days of Israeli hostages being held in Gaza (today is day 231). May Parashat Behar's focus on counting cycles of time inspire us to make our time count! And may we live to see a world that benefits from cycles of rest, a world in which we can "proclaim release throughout the land for all its inhabitants," and where freedom and equality can be upheld simultaneously.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Blasphemy, and "all those who have heard" it!

Buried at the tail end of this week's parasha, Emor, there appears a short story about a blasphemer -- that is, one who pronounces God's name in an inappropriate way and is then sentenced to death. The full text appears in Leviticus 24:10-23, which you can click here to read. Meanwhile, here is the narrative portion of the story only (I've removed some intervening lines of legal material):

"There came out among the Israelites a man whose mother was Israelite and whose father was Egyptian. And a fight broke out in the camp between that half-Israelite and a certain Israelite. The son of the Israelite woman pronounced the Name in blasphemy, and he was brought to Moses—now his mother’s name was Shelomith daughter of Dibri of the tribe of Dan—and he was placed in custody, until the decision of Adonai should be made clear to them. 

And Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: Take the blasphemer outside the camp; and let all who were within hearing lay their hands upon his head, and let the entire community stone him... Moses spoke thus to the Israelites. And they took the blasphemer outside the camp and pelted him with stones. The Israelites did as Adonai had commanded Moses."

I'm sure I have seen this story before, but it feels totally unfamiliar to me as I read it again this year. It's such a curious text, and one which evokes so many questions. (For example, this story leaves me wondering: How does the insider-outsider identity of the blasphemer feature into his actions and to the community's reaction? What exactly constituted his sin of blasphemy?: what was the content of what he said, the context, and his tone/intention? I'm also shocked by the raw violence of this community-must-pelt-him-with-stones death sentence! And why are laws inserted into the middle of the story, breaking up the narrative flow?)

I would love the opportunity to study this text together with a group of you and unpack all of this -- with a close reading, line by line and word by word -- some other time! At the moment, though, I want to draw your attention to one particular detail that has especially captured my interest this year. It's in the middle of the verse that reads: 

הוֹצֵ֣א אֶת־הַֽמְקַלֵּ֗ל אֶל־מִחוּץ֙ לַֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה וְסָמְכ֧וּ כׇֽל־הַשֹּׁמְעִ֛ים אֶת־יְדֵיהֶ֖ם עַל־רֹאשׁ֑וֹ וְרָגְמ֥וּ אֹת֖וֹ כׇּל־הָעֵדָֽה׃

"Take the blasphemer outside the camp, and let all who were within hearing lay their hands upon his head, and let the entire community stone him."

"Let all who were within hearing lay their hands upon his head." What does this phrase mean and what are we to learn from it?

Most of the commentators seem to think that the laying on of hands is about affirming and emphasizing the blasphemer's guilt. Quoting Sifra (an ancient midrashic text), for instance, Rashi imagines the "shomim" ("those who heard" the blasphemy) saying to the blasphemer accusingly: "Your blood is upon your head; we do not deserve punishment on account of your death, for it was you yourself who brought it about" (click here to read this commentary). Similarly, in his "Modern Commentary on the Torah," Israeli scholar Adin Steinsaltz comments: "It is the witnesses' duty to designate him for punishment" (click here to view).

As I encountered (or re-encountered?) this odd story myself, though, I find myself reading this line almost oppositely! Just two weeks ago, when we read Parashat Acharei Mot, we encountered in Leviticus a text about the ancient Yom Kippur ritual. You may be familiar with the story there of the two goats (after all, we read it each year not only as we encounter it in Leviticus in our regular Torah cycle, but also as the Torah reading for Yom Kippur Day): one goat that is designated to be sacrificed, and another that is sent into the wilderness bearing the sins of all the people. I had the chance to study that piece of Torah recently with a Bat Mitzvah student (Elle M.) -- here is the verse in question (Leviticus 16:21):

וְסָמַ֨ךְ אַהֲרֹ֜ן אֶת־שְׁתֵּ֣י יָדָ֗ו עַ֣ל רֹ֣אשׁ הַשָּׂעִיר֮ הַחַי֒ וְהִתְוַדָּ֣ה עָלָ֗יו אֶת־כׇּל־עֲוֺנֹת֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְאֶת־כׇּל־פִּשְׁעֵיהֶ֖ם לְכׇל־חַטֹּאתָ֑ם וְנָתַ֤ן אֹתָם֙ עַל־רֹ֣אשׁ הַשָּׂעִ֔יר וְשִׁלַּ֛ח בְּיַד־אִ֥ישׁ עִתִּ֖י הַמִּדְבָּֽרָה׃

Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat and confess over it all the iniquities and transgressions of the Israelites, whatever their sins, putting them on the head of the goat; and it shall be sent off to the wilderness through a designated agent. 

As Elle and I discussed, in the Yom Kippur ritual, it is explicit what this laying on of hands means, and what effect this action has. When Aaron places his hands upon the head of the second goat, he transfers the sins and wrongdoings of the entire people of Israel onto the goat. When the goat is subsequently sent away into the wilderness, the goat carries all of these sins away, giving the Israelites a chance to start over anew from a place of forgiveness and with a clean slate. (Yes, this is precisely the origin of the concept of a "scapegoat": one who is blamed for the wrongdoings, mistakes, or faults of others.)

Having examined this line of Acharei Mot so recently, I can't help but notice now that here in our verse about the blasphemer, the language is nearly identical. "V'samchu et y'deihem," "they [those who heard the blasphemy] laid their hands upon his [the blasphemer's] head" is exactly the same construction and indicates the same action as "v'samach et shtei yadav," "he [Aaron] laid his two hands upon the head of the goat."

If we understand our text (the blasphemer story) as being parallel to the goat story, what might this laying on of hands mean? Could our Torah portion be implying that -- while the blasphemer is the primary culprit (after all, it is he who is ultimately stoned) -- some degree of guilt and culpability also lies with "kol ha-shomim," "all those who heard" his blaspheming words?! What sin or wrong-doing have those-who-heard committed, such that they too need to undergo a ritual of atonement and/or purge what they have heard from themselves? In my reading of it, the Torah seems to be planting the idea that, even without saying a word themselves, "those who have heard" have somehow not only witnessed but also imbibed some of the toxic blasphemy that swirls around them. Some piece of blasphemy continues to live in them too, unless and until they can purge themselves of it!

Today, we find ourselves in a moment when terrible language -- ugliness and extremism -- is rearing its head. Perhaps it's not all "blasphemy" in a technical sense, but we are certainly feeling a rise in virulent speech all around us that, like blasphemy, is offensive, violating and ultimately dangerous! We can find examples of this toxicity in calls to violence coming from both extreme ends of the political spectrum, in conspiracy theories, in attacks on our democracy, through the repetition of lies and falsehoods, and through antisemitic language expressed both overtly and subtlely. As we move about in our lives at this moment in time, we can't help but hear these sound-bites, read the messages scrawled on mailboxes, and see the hateful graffiti and signs all around us. It is human nature that when we consume these messages with regularity, they lose their shock value and we become conditioned to them. What was once not normal becomes normalized; the Overton Window shifts, where violent language is concerned.

The story in our Torah portion focuses mostly on the blasphemer himself -- on his background, his action, and the (extreme) consequence he ultimately faces for his crime. But, reading this passage with a focus on the laying-on-of-hands helps to center "kol ha-shomim," "all those who hear." All of us, and our society as a whole, have the capacity to absorb some of the ick-factor and become tainted by inappropriate and awful language. We know well from our history that there is a direct connection between violent language and violent behavior. (I'm thinking, for example, of how the assassination of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin in 1995 emerged from a swirl of extremist rhetoric, how the "Jews will not replace us" chants from Charlottesville in 2017 helped fuel the shooting at Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh the following year, and countless other examples.) In an essay called "Shibboleth" (in the May 5, 2024 issue of The New Yorker), Zadie Smith makes the point that "in the case of Israel/Palestine, language and rhetoric are and always have been weapons of mass destruction." 

This rise in problematic language is happening in terrifying ways all around us. On the University of Washington's campus here in Seattle just this Wednesday, students and faculty woke up to graffiti everywhere. This included calls to violence ("Save a life, kill your local colonizer," "By any means necessary"), and even the street addresses of certain individuals scrawled on walls (invitations to go their homes and do what exactly?). In a letter to the campus community from UW President Ana Marie Cauce, acknowledged: 

"This morning our campus community arrived to their classrooms and work spaces to see offensive graffiti across multiple buildings all over campus, some quite clearly both antisemitic and violent, creating an unwelcome and fearful environment for many students, faculty and staff, especially those who are Jewish. Much to my dismay, given the relatively cordial tone of many of our discussions, the representatives also said the new graffiti is an intentional escalation to compel the University to agree to their demands." 

Cauce's letter lists some of the demands she finds most unreasonable and untenable, and draws clear lines about what UW will and won't do. I applaud her efforts to walk a fine line between encouraging free speech and making it clear that toxic hate speech (and also defacement of university property, violence, etc.) is unacceptable (and gosh, I sure wouldn't want to be a university president right about now!). The offensive graffiti has already been quickly removed from UW's campus. I am certain that it does not represent the views of all of the students who have been living in the on-campus protest encampment, many of whom, I have no doubt, simply want to see an end to the mass-casualty war in Gaza. Still, this week's Torah portion has me thinking not only about the few who may have put that graffiti there in the first place, but also about everyone who walked by it, who has seen the images in the newspaper or on social media, or who has read about it. I can't help but wonder what having taken in these hate-filled words has done and will do to the other protestors, to the rest of the students and faculty and staff on campus, to the Jewish community, and to the public at large.

It is hard to know what we can do when we feel the "temperature" of scary rhetoric rising. I certainly don't advocate taking the story in our parasha literally and imposing a death sentence on anyone! But, several ideas in our Torah portion's story of the blasphemer may help us arrive at some conclusions:

1. Offensive and hateful speech must be taken seriously. Whether it's blasphemy or incitement to violent action, we must use the tools at hand to call out dangerous language when we see and hear it. In our neighborhoods, our workplaces, our schools, and in the community at large, we need to be brave and normalize speaking up and speaking out when something isn't right!
   
   

2. The laying on of hands by "all those who have heard" reminds us that all of us are carrying some of this taint with us, even if unwittingly. Acknowledging this helps to make the invisible visible. Only by naming it can we begin to talk about this problem -- our societal desensitization to dangerous rhetoric, the shifting Overton Window -- and problem-solve together about how to address it.
   

3. The language of "kol ha-shomim" ("all who hear") and "kol ha-eidah" ("the entire community") emphasize that we are part of a collective. None of us can solve these societal problems alone, and none of us should even have to face them alone. It is critical to put ourselves in the company of others who also see and hear what we do and are willing to be in it together. At a time like this, community-building is more important work than ever!

As I've said before, we are weathering a hard moment in time, and it may well be the case that things are going to continue to get worse and harder before they get easier and better. Let us work together, honestly naming what we are seeing, reading, and hearing that horrifies us. Let us commit to calling out hateful language and rhetoric that paves the road to violence (the blasphemy of our day) to the best of our ability. Let us find strength and power in community. 

May our words bring us only closer to one another and to all that is holy and good in this world. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum

Towards Holiness: I and Thou

This week's Torah portion, Kedoshim, opens with a famous command to the Israelites: "Kedoshim tih'yu, ki kadosh ani adonai eloheichem," "You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy" (Leviticus 19:2). 

I have always read this line as a topic sentence, and the many verses that follow as answers to the question of how to go about actually striving towards holiness. For example, Kedoshim commands us to revere our parents, keep Shabbat, not turn to idols, leave gleaning in our fields for the poor and the stranger, not swear falsely, not place a stumbling block before the blind, etc. From these examples, we can see that holiness is not relegated to holy time and space -- that is, we are not meant to aspire towards kedusha only on Shabbat and festivals, and not only when we enter into specific sanctified spaces; rather, holiness is something we strive towards each and every day, wherever we may find ourselves.

Building on this idea, as I re-read the opening lines of the parasha this week, I found myself struck by the plural formulation of the phrase "kedoshim tih'yu": "you (plural) should be holy (plural)." It feels like a very fair interpretation -- and perhaps the pshat (face value meaning) of the text -- to extrapolate from these two Hebrew words that the kind of holiness the parasha envisions is only possible in the context of community -- that is, kedusha resides in interpersonal relationships.

A single line of commentary in the Etz Hayim Chumash underscores this idea, citing the work of Jewish philosopher Martin Buber. "For Buber, holiness is found... in human beings recognizing the latent divinity of other people, even as God recognizes the latent divinity in each of us" (page 693).

In unpacking this line a bit more, I'll share that Martin Buber was an Austrian-Jewish philosopher (1878-1965). He is most famous for his 1923 essay on existence entitled Ich und Du (in German, of course) -- and later translated into English with the title I and Thou. The central idea of this work is that there are two fundamentally different kinds of relationships, which he represents with two different word pairs. He calls one the I-It relationship, and the other I-Thou (sometimes translated as I-You). Buber critiques the I-It relationship, which he claims is so ubiquitous in our modern society; to him, this phrase represents objectification in relationships: the way that we might treat other people functionally, as means to an end, failing to recognize their full humanity. The I-Thou relationship, on the other hand, is the aim for Buber: when we address another person as a Thou, we are indirectly addressing God. He writes, "When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them." In other words, interpersonal dialogical relationships -- the kind where human beings encounter one another fully -- is where holiness resides.

Buber sets a very high bar for interpersonal relationships. In fact, one critique of his philosophy of "dialogical community" is that it's incredibly challenging to imagine how we might ever be able to live up to this ideal in our day-to-day lives! What would our interaction with the cashier at the grocery store need to look like if we were to see them in their full humanity and encounter them as a Thou -- a reflection of the divine -- rather than as an It? What about our relationships with our co-workers, family members, the drivers we pass in traffic, the politicians on the other side of the aisle? I-Thou is a tall order, but then again, Parashat Kedoshim seems to purposefully open with a lofty aim: the command to "be holy." 

As we approach Yom HaAtzmaut this coming week, it's hard for me not to lament about how far we are from Israel's own founding vision of a state "based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel" (click here if you're interested in reading Megillat HaAtzmaut, the Israeli Declaration of Independence, in its entirety). Israelis and Palestinians are, in this moment, far from being able to see one another fully. So many obstacles stand in the way -- not least of which are the events that have brought us to this moment in time (and here, I'm talking not only of October 7th and the past seven months, but also many decades of strife) and terrible leadership. As we struggle to find a way to celebrate this milestone of Israel's 76th birthday with hope, I can't help but feel that the key to forging a holy society there lies in Buber's vision of the I-Thou encounter. That is, if people could meet and connect on a deep and human level, could imagine each other as being created in the image of the divine, could hold each other's pain and trauma, and could understand that relationship and dialogue and mutual support is the key to a shared future, then perhaps they might be able to bring a holy society into being. It's painful to feel an enormous gulf between what is and what could be. 

That said, if we hope that peace might someday be achieved through deep relational encounters, it is incumbent upon us to begin the work and to practice. We can begin by trying to achieve I-Thou encounters in our own lives, on a much smaller scale, and closer to home.

I feel incredibly fortunate that I am already surrounded by small examples of these efforts in my day-to-day work and life. Here a couple of examples:

Over the last couple of weeks, I reached out to the college students of the Kavana community to see how they are faring, and I've heard back from so many of them. I'm happy to report that their responses to my questions were sensitive and nuanced. As you'd probably imagine, they expressed the full political and ideological range that any of us might expect of Seattle-raised Jewish college students at this moment in history. In addition to detailed descriptions of the protests happening on their campuses and their assessments of their administrations' handling of protests, antisemitism and more (which varied, of course), many also sent me photos from Passover seders, videos and descriptions of their personal engagement in Jewish/campus life (from tefillin pics to keffiyeh pics!), and examples of art they had created reflecting on what this year has meant on a personal identity level. Most importantly, though, many of them relayed stories about engaging in meaningful dialogue and drawing on their Jewish values as they've tried to create openings for real conversation on their campuses. It's incredibly heartening to me to have these windows into their lives, and particularly meaningful during this week of Parashat Kedoshim to reflect on the ways that Kavana's young adults, having imbibed our community's foundational values, are now indeed working to build holy community in the world beyond.

Another example that is fresh in my mind comes from last night's Kavana Board meeting. The group was discussing our upcoming Annual Partner Meeting (a week from Sunday!): a springtime event that has come to be so prized among our community members that we often hear people say that this is one of their favorite events of the year! I believe that this is the case in part because -- in addition to conveying important information and sharing reports each year -- the board always builds in opportunities for dialogue, face-to-face conversations, and deep personal connection. This year, in particular, one exercise will have people connecting in a multi-generational "turn and talk" format, very intentionally working to forge community across difference, really seeing and learning from one another in a deep way a la Buber's vision of holiness.

This kind of intentional interpersonal encounter is precisely what we're hoping to achieve, as well, through Kavana's upcoming Processing Space on May 23rd. As described in the event blurb, "Kavana will curate a space where each of us can practice unraveling the complex swirl of our thoughts and feelings, articulating our personal reactions with nuance, and listening deeply and reflectively to others who may or may not share our views." (Click here to register for this event.) 

Other upcoming events in the broader Seattle Jewish community also provide opportunities to engage in true spiritual practice around these ideas. Next Tuesday evening, TDHS is hosting a program called: "A Debate for Heaven's Sake: Are Anti-Zionism and Anti-Israel Advocacy New Forms of Antisemitism?" Professor Kenneth Stern and David Bernstein, who hold divergent views, will engage with one another and with the community. Knowing that everyone who might attend will be bound to encounter at least some ideas with which they disagree, this event could be viewed as a chance to practice holy listening. And the following Sunday, May 19th, the Stroum JCC is hosting a workshop called "Speaking Across Conflict" -- offered in conjunction with Resetting the Table, and co-sponsored by the JCRC, etc -- designed to help participants safely explore differences and discover ways to creatively problem-solve and respond to escalating, charged and polarizing conversations. For anyone interested, this is a chance to gain foundational skills to facilitate deep, relationship-based conversations.

Finally, some of you may have seen the beautiful letter drafted this week by a large group of Jewish students at Columbia University who wanted to be able to speak in their own name. This is a deeply relational letter, addressing peers with whom they disagree; I appreciated its tone and approach as much as its content. In fact, Jewish Studies scholar Joshua Shanes takes issue with some of the content, but also managed to write a thoughtful response that serves as a beautiful model for how we might see one another and engage in debates and an exchange of ideas respectfully -- even and especially when we disagree -- in ways that recognize one another's humanity and dignity. To me, both of these writings contain some modicum of kedusha (holiness).

On this week of of Parashat Kedoshim, I want to challenge each of us to try to "be holy" by engaging in the deep relational work that Buber calls I-Thou. This might entail sitting face-to-face with another human being who we don't know well and asking questions from a place of curiosity (rather than to convince). This might entail engaging in a hard conversation -- teasing out points of disagreement respectfully -- while still listening deeply. This might entail trying to go through a week -- or maybe just a day or part of an hour -- with conscious attention placed on the idea that every other human being we encounter is a reflection of the divine, and that through our interaction, we have the potential to bring holiness into the world. Whatever your starting point, I suggest we each begin small and close to home, in the holy work of striving to see the hidden divinity in one another.

And then, from that small starting place, I pray that we may be inspired by the Talmudic principle about holiness: "ma'alin ba-kodesh v'ein moridin," that "we (aspire to) ascend in holiness, and never descend."

Wishing you a Shabbat Kodesh, a holy Sabbath, 

Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum