Rabbi's Chayva's Chat

This was a tough one to write. On the one hand, I’ve read and watched perhaps too much news on the college protests. On the other hand, what can I say?

One of my dear friends in Jerusalem reached out to me today. “Ok, it’s my turn to check in on you,” she said, “how are you guys?”

It seems funny that an Israeli, living through a war in a traumatized society, would worry about us. But it’s also a good question. The college campus protests have now gone on for two weeks, and their ferocity and virulence has raised the temperature of the discourse within and about the American Jewish community.

Three elements of the protests seem particularly inflammatory. The first and most obvious is antisemitic language and behavior, including the harassment of Jewish students; calls for all Jews to go back to Poland; and even calls for Jews to be killed. Second is the delegitimization and erasure of Israeli and Jewish history, from early Jewish settlement on the land to the Zionist movement to the events of October 7. Finally, the brittle, divisive, all-or-nothing framework that one is either with the movement or against it. (For a further breakdown of the different levels of rhetoric, I recommend this post by Rabbi Geoff Mitelman.)

These make for a powerful mixture; it’s no wonder emotions are running high. If you feel trapped, excluded, unrepresented, threatened, torn, or besieged, I see you. We’re looking for a space to express things that we don’t see in the protests and counter-protests. We want to protect Palestinian lives and get Israeli hostages and soldiers home safely. We want to be progressive and feel connected to Israel. And we want to feel safe - we want to step out from under the microscope of public opinion and have thoughtful, nuanced debate.

As Rabbi Sharon Brous explained last week, both resistance and debate have long histories in Jewish tradition. As my Israeli friend and I sifted through our complicated feelings, she pointed out, “The greatest chevrutot [study partners] in history were between equal partners who argued all day. Machloket [rigorous, respectful debate] is a real thing.”

If we are to navigate this moment and stay true to our values, we have to resist the right/wrong binary that is presented to us. Rather than the biblical us versus them approach, let us draw upon the wisdom of the chevrutot of the Talmud: no one is ever all right or all wrong, all good or all bad.

As you navigate these rough waters, be careful. Be informed, intentional, and nuanced. Remember that every person is created in the image of God: every Jew, every American, every Israeli, every Palestinian. In short, resist the binary. That’s the kind of resistance we need to be doing right now.

There was a time when rabbis had rivals. The rivals were not cantors - the rabbi and the cantor had different roles, and so did not compete. No, the rabbi’s rival was the maggid, the storyteller. The maggid would travel from town to town, telling all sorts of stories: Torah stories, folk tales, parables… Anything that could be Jewishly meaningful. The rabbis tried to give clever interpretations and authoritative legal judgments (typical of rabbis, right?). The maggids, though, would capture people’s imaginations and leave them with stories to tell over and over again. In other words, they were more popular.

It’s not surprising, therefore, that Rabbi Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl (1730-1797) wrote, “God should have started the Torah with commandments! So why did God adorn it with the telling of stories?” He is referring to how there is no obviously halachic (legal) material in the beginning of Torah, all the way through Exodus 12 - it’s all stories, which, as Rabbi Nachum sees it, “adorn” the more important halachic material that comes later. But, of course, he answers his own question: “The idea is that it is a commandment upon us to ‘tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt.’” God did start the Torah with a commandment: to tell our story. Because stories are what help us remember, see the world differently, and make meaning in our lives.

We begin the maggid, the storytelling of the Passover seder, with the statement, “Let all who are hungry come and eat.” We learn two things from this introduction. First, our story is not one to be told in a vacuum. We should share it with each other much like one would share a meal. Second, as Leah Solomon teaches in this year’s Hartman Institute Haggadah Supplement, “Just when we might be most inclined to focus inward, the Haggadah reminds us of the link between remembering our own suffering and our obligation to care about all who are suffering.” The haggadah does not say, “Let all hungry Jews come and eat.” It says, “Let all who are hungry come and eat.” It doesn’t say, “Invite those who agree with you.” Invite everyone in.

When I reach this point in the seder each year, I regret not thinking about it in advance. At its most literal interpretation, how can I invite hungry people into my home after the meal has already started? I invite you to take this opportunity to think about who or what you can invite into your seder this year. Who can come together around this story, even when other opinions or life circumstances might divide us? 

After all, on Passover, it’s all about the maggid.

In every evening service, we add a blessing after the Shema which, unlike the other blessings around the Shema, has no morning version: Hashkiveinu. We pray that God extend a sukkat shalom, a shelter (a sukkah) of peace, over us, all of the community of Israel, and Jerusalem. In services recently, I invited people to share one of their shelters of peace. There was a pause, as there often is at such a prompt. And then, one person said, “Here - coming here for services.” “Me too,” said another. “Agreed,” said a third, and a fourth. This is being a holy community: being the sukkat shalom, the shelter of peace, for one another and the world around us.

This has felt more acute than usual over the last six months. Many of us have felt threatened and embattled by the protests, graffiti, murals, news headlines, social media posts, and off-handed comments by everyone from colleagues to cafe baristas. I want Am Tikvah to be a place where we can take shelter from all that - a place where we can have conversations about Israel, but we won’t be emotionally ambushed.

There is a risk, however, of becoming the sort of space where only one opinion is acceptable. It’s a natural risk, because one person’s perspective can be another’s trigger. That risk is particularly high in periods of transition, when collective opinion has coalesced and painful turning point events are still recent and raw.

I felt that shift this week, when aid workers from World Central Kitchen were killed in a deconflicted zone of northern Gaza by the IDF. The official responses amplified the notability of the event. Netanyahu acknowledged the event as a tragic mistake by the Israel Defense Forces. The leaders of Australia, Canada, the United Kingdom, Poland - all allies of Israel - issued condemnations. President Biden’s statement used unusually strong language: “This conflict has been one of the worst in recent memory in terms of how many aid workers have been killed. This is a major reason why distributing humanitarian aid in Gaza has been so difficult – because Israel has not done enough to protect aid workers trying to deliver desperately needed help to civilians. I will continue to press Israel to do more to facilitate that aid. And we are pushing hard for an immediate ceasefire as part of a hostage deal.” (President Biden continues to support the war.) I understand if this raises feelings of Israel being under an unfair level of scrutiny, and also, I don’t want us to overlook that this incident was tragic (by Israel’s own admission).

How do we hold this as a community? What do you say in this moment? The most important thing for us as a community is that we maintain the ability to talk about it.

I do not believe that we need to pretend like it did not happen or that it was not tragic; we can acknowledge those and still deeply love Israel, for we know that Israel is much, much bigger than this war. If discussion becomes upsetting, please remember to take a deep breath and prioritize being in community above proving right or wrong. I also want us to respect someone’s choice to not talk about it. If someone asks to avoid the topic, I encourage us to respect others’ initiative to manage and protect their mental and spiritual health.

I wish I could continue this conversation with you over Shabbat, but I will be out of town for the next few days as I travel to see the solar eclipse. If you want to make time to talk, please email me and we’ll find time when I get back, and if you have an emergency, please contact the office.

Going forward, we must hold this war, with its challenge and tragedies, under Am Tikvah’s sukkat shalom, our shelter of peace. May our prayers for a shelter of peace hold both our gratitude for the sheltering community we have, and our hope that we will build that shelter in every new circumstance we encounter. Blessed are you, Adonai our God, who leads us in every time and place, and who spreads Your shelter of peace over us and all the world.

If one cannot stay up late enough until the Shabbat candles extinguish by themselves, is it ok to blow them out for safety?
Traditionally, one does not blow out Shabbat candles because extinguishing a flame is considered a category of malacha (the types of activities prohibited on Shabbat, often translated as “work” or “labor”). Even though most members of our community do not live fully halachic lives, we often preserve the tradition of not blowing out the candles because it’s a tradition we inherited, and that matters too. However, it does sometimes raise the question of safety.

If you are going to go to bed and the Shabbat candles are still burning, my first recommendation is to put them in the sink or some other contained metal area where they can tip over without lighting anything else around them. If that isn’t possible, or you don’t feel safe doing so, you can blow them out. The purpose of the Shabbat candles is to bring light and joy to Shabbat; it would run counter to their purpose if we treated them in a way that made Shabbat stressful.

Why do we wear costumes on Purim?
There are many reasons given for why we dress in costumes on Purim. One tradition says that it elevates the joy of the holiday. Another tradition says that we disguise ourselves because both God and the holiday miracle are disguised in the Purim story; neither is explicitly stated, but both are there if you look for them. Some say that it is an acknowledgement of how Diaspora Jews (including Queen Esther) have often had to hide their Jewish identity - so, too, on Purim do we mask our identities in costumes. Scholars have theorized that medieval Italian Jews picked up the practice from their Catholic neighbors celebrating Mardi Gras in the same season.

In the Judaism: The Big Picture class, you spoke about Rabbinic Judaism and Christianity starting around the same time. If they started around the same time, why did Christianity become the largest religion?
Yes, though Biblical Judaism significantly preceded Christianity, Jewish practice confronted monumental challenges and changes when the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans. The Rabbinic Judaism that emerged was so different in practice that it was almost a new religion, contemporary to another nascent religion: Early Christianity.

As of2010, 31.4% of the world identified as Christian and 0.2% of the world identified as Jewish (according to Pew Research). Why such a big gap? I’m not a historian but here are the reasons as far as I know them: Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire in 381 CE, which facilitated its spread over a vast territory and lay the groundwork for the Catholic Church. This also set the precedent for Christianity as a state religion in Europe, which later spread to other parts of the world through European colonization. Finally, Proselytization is a religious value in Christianity, as stated by Jesus in the New Testament (for one example, see Matthew 28:18-20). Judaism has markedly little tradition of proselytization, and in contrast, an extensive history of enduring persecution and forced conversion to other religions.

What will you be for Purim?
You’ll just have to come to the shpiel to find out!

I had hoped to write a meaningful reflection on last week’s beautiful Emeritus Shabbaton and the Havdalah Coffeehouse of meaningful conversation and uplifting music. It felt like everything and everyone came together in harmony, and Rabbi Danny kvelled over how far we’ve come. That is all true, but it feels distant now.

Many members of our community are grieving as I write this. Some members of our community are saddened but not affected so personally. What unites us is not whether or not we are grieving, but how we come together in moments of loss.

The beating heart of community is in how mourners reach out for support, and how those around them reach in to help. Over the course of time, love and grief come in and out of focus. This is a week to bring them into focus, to see grief and express love with clarity.

Tomorrow, we will hold the funeral for Deborah Gitin z”l at Am Tikvah at noon, with graveside service, meal of consolation, and the week of shiva to follow. As a community, we need to hold her family and each other right now. It can be hard to know what to say, which is why our tradition tells us to be silent. As Rabbi Jack Riemer wrote, “If the mourner wants to talk, you listen. If the mourner wants to listen, you talk.” No need to ask probing questions or try to find silver linings. This period is just so sad. All one needs to say is, “I’m so sorry.” “I don’t know what to say.” “I love you.” Or nothing at all. What matters is that you’re there, you’ve reached out.

The broken-hearted Psalmist cried, “Hear my prayer, O God; to my cry hearken; to my tears do not be deaf” (Psalms 39:13). We can and must be the hands and ears and loving heart of the Divine to one another. The traditional greeting of consolation is:

המקום ינחם אתכם              HaMakom yenachem etchem,
                                                     May God comfort you

In this greeting, God is referred to as “The Place.” Rabbi Shefa Gold writes, “The Place of Comfort is where I know that I am held, supported and encouraged, even in my mourning, even through the passage of my darkest grief.” May Am Tikvah be part of the Place of Comfort for all who mourn among the people of Israel.