By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
Sheldon Harnick, lyricist for the songs of the most iconic Jewish musical in Broadway history, wrote this beautiful poetic midrash on parashat Naso’s Priestly Blessing for the song, Sabbath Prayer, from Fiddler on the Roof:
May the Lord protect and defend you.
May He always shield you from shame.
May you come to be
In Israel a shining name.
May you be like Ruth and like Esther.
May you be deserving of praise.
Strengthen them, Oh Lord,
And keep them from the strangers’ ways.
May God bless you and grant you long lives.
(May the Lord fulfill our Sabbath prayer for you.)
May God make you good mothers and wives.
(May He send you husbands who will care for you.)
May the Lord protect and defend you.
May the Lord preserve you from pain.
Favor them, Oh Lord, with happiness and peace.
Oh, hear our Sabbath prayer. Amen.
As an M.O.T. (“Member Of the Tribe”), Harnick clearly knew his Torah, as this famous tri-fold blessing was quite familiar to him, having grown up very Jewishly-involved right here in Chicago. And I’m pretty confident that most of you didn’t read these lyrics, as you much more likely sung them, am I right? Thanks to Jerry Bock for this wonderful “earworm.”
Harnick’s lyrical interpretation of the original Torah text elaborates so beautifully on the themes within Num. 6:24-26, words that I say to my children every Friday night:
“May the Lord bless you and protect you! May the Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! May the Lord bestow God’s favor upon you and grant you peace!”
Shalom, as a final wish in this prayer, both the original verses and Harnick’s rendition, is the concluding theme of our morning Amidah each day, hence where we include the original verses within Birkat Shalom, the final prayer for peace.
May we all be blessed with all of the gifts this prayer asks for, in both iterations.
And let our wishes for a Shabbat Shalom have an extra special meaning this weekend.
Shabbat Shalom.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
The Haftarah for parashat Bamidbar is from the 8th century prophet Hosea. There are many metaphors to describe God’s relationship with the Israelites. On the High Holidays we grapple with Avinu Malkeinu – God as parent or sovereign while we are children or subjects. God is our master and we are God’s servants. God is our shepherd and we are God’s flock. In every case God is in the position of power and we are lower. The challenge with Hosea is that he leans into the metaphor of God as husband and Israel as wife. And in our modern, egalitarian society we see that relationship as an equal partnership (or at least I think we should). So this language can be fraught with discomfort among contemporary readers as God takes on the role of a betrayed lover. Israel’s idolatrous ways are compared to adultery and the sins of the people are considered an affront to God of the highest order. Other lovers symbolize other gods, and the children born of those lovers symbolize the abandonment of religious beliefs and practices.
In the Etz Hayim Chumash, the introduction to the haftarah reads, “Apostasy will not go unpunished, yet hope for the people Israel’s future is proclaimed from the outset, a sign that divine mercy transcends judgment for sin. The covenant, perverted by national sin, will be renewed for the straying people.”
Whether in a marriage, a relationship or even a platonic friendship, trust and communication are a necessary foundation. When a partner cheats, the pain of that betrayal can be world-shattering. And yet, even in all the hurt and the pain, I know of many who shared that they still felt love for the other. Not a blind, rose-colored denial but a disappointed, angry and sad recognition that the person they loved failed to live up to the person they thought they knew. How does God react?
First, God is justifiably angry. “Rebuke your mother, rebuke her–for she is not My wife and I am not her husband” The rebuke includes a natural desire to punish. “I will make her like a wilderness, render her like a desert and let her die of thirst.”
Then in verse 7, it’s as though God is trying to imagine why Israel would do this. “Because she thought, ‘I will go after my lovers, who supply my bread and my water, my wool and my linen, my oil and my drink.’” But God knows that however unsatisfied the people may have felt, there is no excuse for such behavior. And God knows that in truth, He can and does provide. In His self-righteousness, God says, “Pursue her lovers as she will, she shall not overtake them and seek them as she may, she shall never find them. Then she will say, ‘I will go and return to my first husband, for then I fared better than now.’ And she did not consider this: it was I who bestowed on her the new grain and wine and oil…”
Perhaps, in anguish, God gives in, just a little, to the more petty, vengeful feelings that arise. “Now will I uncover her shame in the very sight of her lovers, and none shall save her from Me…Thus I will punish her for the days of the Baalim, on which she brought them offerings; when, decked with earrings and jewels, she would go after her lovers, forgetting Me.”
But what I found the most incredible about God in this metaphor isn’t the anger, the pettiness, the self-righteousness – all of which are valid if you’ve ever experienced such betrayal. It’s how truly infinite God’s love and capacity for forgiveness can be. “Assuredly, I will speak coaxingly to her and lead her through the wilderness and speak to her tenderly. I will give her her vineyards from there, and the Valley of Achor as a plowland of hope.” Despite the hurt and the damage, God still sees a future with His people. “There she shall respond as in the days of her youth, when she came up from the land of Egypt. And in that day…you will call Me Ishi (lit. my husband) and no more will you call Me Baali (lit. my husband but also evoking Ba’al a Canaanite god).”
At the end of our Haftarah, we hear the famous verses that are recited as we wrap the tefillin around our hands. As we wrap our fingers, like a wedding ring, we remind ourselves that God has chosen us forever. God will espouse us with righteousness and justice, and kindness and mercy. God will espouse us with faithfulness and we shall know Hashem.
I’m not always sure if God is right to keep coming back to a people that so often has gone astray. From the Golden Calf, to the idolatry of the 8th century Israelites, all the way to our present day where religious observance and spiritual fervor seem to be becoming less central to most people’s lives. Why does God put up with it? I don’t know. But if I take the words of the prophet seriously, I might venture a guess: God’s infinite love is powerful enough to overcome the heartache of flawed creations. And because God’s commitment to justice, kindness, mercy, righteousness and love is unwavering. “The renewal of the covenant,” according to the Etz Hayim chumash, “does not depend on Israel’s repentance or initiative. It is a transformation initiated and guided by God.”
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
When we read an ordinary book or an article, a verb’s tense indicates when the event is occurring. That’s all.
Sometimes that is true when we read the Torah. But other times the verb’s tense instead expresses a value.
Take one of the opening verses of Parashat Behar as an example: “When you will enter the land that I [G-d] am giving to you, the land shall observe a Sabbath of the L-rd” (Lv. 25:2).
Here G-d is announcing that when the Israelites will one day in the future enter the land of Israel, they shall observe the sabbatical year. At this point in the story, they are still marching through the desert, so the first verb is in the future, “will enter the land.” It’s odd then that the second verb is in the present, “the land that I am giving to you.” We would expect it to say, “the land that I will give you,” but the Torah uses the present tense. Why is that?
The Hasidic book Iturei Torah quotes a story with Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav, in which he moved to Israel as an adult, and every day there was a new experience for him. Each day was better than the day before, and he never grew tired of living there. Each day was new and fresh, and – in his words – as if G-d were giving him the land of Israel then and there. In other words, G-d granting Israel to the Jewish people was not a one-time experience in the past, but an ongoing gift that renews itself constantly. It’s truly an act of the present. Even today, despite Israel’s many challenges externally and internally, it is a wonder that we live in a moment with a Jewish State. The land of Israel feels vigorous and fresh, not old and stale. In this way, G-d continues to give it anew.
This reminds me of a similar teaching connected to Shavuot, which we will celebrate in about ten days. We are all familiar with the blessing one recites when one is called to the Torah for an Aliyah. After beginning “Barchu et Adonai Hamevorach” the blessing concludes “Baruch Atah Adonai Noten HaTorah.” This means, “Blessed are You Hashem Who gives the Torah.” I will pose the same question: Shouldn’t the verb be the past tense, “Who gave the Torah”? After all, Revelation at Sinai happened thousands of years ago! But this blessing articulates a value: G-d gives the Torah on an ongoing basis. Whenever we engage in thoughtful Torah study, it’s as if we ourselves are standing at Sinai. It’s live, fresh, and energizing.
This should change our perspective when we study Torah too. We are not merely satisfying an intellectual curiosity, as if we’re taking a college course. Instead, we are encountering G-d and opening ourselves to our tradition to live a better life for ourselves, our community, and our world. The present tense expresses all of that in a single word.
By Hazzan Sandler.
This week we read the double parasha of Acharei Mot and Kedoshim. The former translates to “After the Death of” and refers back to the death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. The latter translates to “Holy Ones” as the parasha begins by saying “You shall be holy, for I, your God, am holy.”
What strikes me is that we refer to the double parasha as “Acharei Mot Kedoshim” which would translate to, “After the Death of the Holy Ones” and in this is a subtle but uplifting lesson. The deaths of Nadav and Avihu came as a consequence for offering an alien fire upon the altar. I tend to interpret this as a natural consequence of them misusing the space, rather than an instant smiting punishment. I also like to imagine that Nadav and Avihu thought they were doing the right thing, appealing to their zealous desire to worship God – but having made a grave error in their execution, were swallowed up. In any case, their death was a tragedy. And Aaron’s silence was valid and deeply understandable.
We all make mistakes. We all miss the mark sometimes. But the Torah cycle gives us a clue that their sin of offering a foreign fire did not undermine or retract their intrinsic holiness. After the death of the holy ones — they were and are still holy even though their death came about by their error. And I think this is true for each of us as well. None of us are perfect, and all of will make mistakes. But our holiness is intrinsic. Our holiness comes from our innermost connection to God, our soul. This remains pure and holy no matter what. And when we die, and all that’s left of us is our eternal soul, we join Nadav, Avihu, and all who came before as Kedoshim, as holy ones. This is reflected in the Memorial Prayer which speaks of “the souls of the holy and the pure.”
And we revisit this parasha on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, which situates us on the precipice of life and death. This reminds us that while we are here, living, we can do teshuva and work to be our best selves. We can return to our pure and holy nature, no matter what, so long as we do the work to do so. Just as Aaron’s sons made a mistake and are still considered holy, we too can recover our inner holiness in the wake of our imperfections.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
I believe in the sun, even in the darkness.
I believe in God, even if God is silent.
I believe in compassion, even when it must remain hidden.
This poem was found written in German scrawled on a wall in Germany at the end of World War II. While its author is unknown, it is clear that these hopeful words were meant to be shared with others. At a time of such tragedy in Europe, a glimmer of hope was communicated through these words, a text that one could have kept to themselves, yet the poet found a glimmer of light in the darkness and left it to be discovered at the end of the Holocaust.
Hundreds of years prior to the Shoah, Maimonides wrote a text that begins with the same two words as this German poem: Ani Maamin, I believe. These words begin each of the 13 lines that poetically describe the principles of faith. It is the penultimate line that has become the Ani Maamin text with which we are most familiar: I believe with perfect faith in the coming of Mashiach; and even though he may delay, I will await him every day.
Both of these texts are ultimately prayers of hope and faith, that even in the darkest of times, we must believe that better times are ahead. We all know how often history has repeated itself throughout our people’s existence. It is no wonder that Hatikva, the hope, is the title and theme of the national anthem of the Jewish people.
Through the recitation and singing of these hopeful words of Ani Maamin, we continue to pray for the horrors of the Shoah to never occur again. We sing these words on this day, on Yom haShoah, as we hope for a time when our people are no longer punished and persecuted just for being Jewish.
May the memories of all Jews and other innocent victims who perished in the Holocaust be for a blessing, and that such tragedy never befalls our people again.
Zichronam livracha.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
One of my favorite times of year is the counting of the Omer. We march on a journey toward Mt. Sinai to receive the Torah once again, and, just like the first time, we start by leaving Egypt. It should come as no surprise to those who know me well that the mystical interpretation of this mitzvah animates me like on other. The kabbalists pick up on the sanctity of the number 7 throughout the cycles of Jewish life.
The seventh day – Shabbat. The seventh year – Shemitah. The year after the 7th set of 7 years: the Jubilee! And so Shavuot, the festival of weeks, celebrates a micro-Jubilee. From the second night of passover we count seven complete weeks, each seven days. Seven is the number of completeness and of holiness.
Each week of the Omer takes us on a trip through the kabbalistic “Tree of Life” – known as the 10 Sefirot. The uppermost 3 are considered intellectual and separated from the lower 7 emotional sefirot. Each of the lower 7 sefirot are interrelated. So, the first week is a chance to examine Chesed from every angle. Each day we look at the week’s sefirah from the angle of the other sefirot. It’s a little confusing at first but imagine:
Day 1 – Chesed of Chesed, Day 2 – Gevurah of Chesed, Day 3 – Tiferet of Chesed and so forth.
By Day 8 it’s Chesed of Gevurah, etc.
The weeks are:
And each day of each week follows the same order. I hope you’ll join us for counting the omer at evening minyan, where we will share brief questions for self-reflection that correspond to the daily and weekly mystical theme of the sefirot.
I’m always so delighted that during this Passover week, we begin with love and kindness. Surrounded by loved ones at seders and our community at shul, it’s a wonderful reminder of how much love is in our lives. And reciting Hallel each morning for Yom Tov and Chol HaMoed, we are reminded of God’s eternal Chesed too. The first step to making our freedom worthwhile is to spread love and kindness. “Let all who are hungry come and eat” as they say. May this week be a week to pay extra attention to the kindness we show and receive. And let’s make an extra effort to embody that love and kindness this week, and throughout our lives.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
Be kind to the stranger: they may grow up to change the world, or at least yours.
If courage had a hall of fame, Shifra and Pua would stand at its entrance. These two women star at the beginning of the Passover story, whose story continues to be told on the final days of Pesach. These two women are largely unknown, which is a shame. For their example continues to lead us.
Shifra and Pua are the Hebrew midwives charged with delivering the Israelite babies. Pharaoh commands them to kill the baby boys but let the girls live. The Torah continues, “The midwives feared G-d and did not do as the King of Egypt instructed. They let the boys live” (Ex. 1:17).
When Pharoah saw Jewish babies being born, he confronted Shifra and Pua. “How could you let them live?” he cried out. They replied, “The Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; they are vigorous. Before the midwife can reach them, they’ve given birth.”
Their act of bravery is the first recorded act of civil disobedience, so timely in the days leading up to Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
Are these remarkable women Jewish? I don’t believe so. “Hebrew midwives” can mean midwives for the Hebrews. Why would Pharaoh ever expect a Jewish woman to murder Jewish babies? Instead they are two Egyptian women who fear G-d more than Pharaoh, who refuse to take part in a crime against humanity. Shifra and Pua see the stranger as themselves and are thus worth saving. Who knows who these innocent babies might grow up to be?
We do. Moses was one of them. Moses, whose people would one day create in the state of Israel a Tel Aviv maternity hospital at the intersection of Shifra and Pua Streets.
There’s an inspiring story in my favorite Haggadah, called A Different Night. It goes like this:
“One Sunday morning in 1941 in Nazi-occupied Netherlands, a mysterious character rode up on his bicycle and entered the Calvinist Church. He ascended the podium and read aloud the story of the midwives who saved the Hebrew babies and defied Pharaoh’s policy of genocide. “Who is today’s Pharaoh?” he asked.
“Hitler,” the congregation replied.
“Who are today’s Hebrew babies?”
“The Jews.”
“Who will be today’s midwives?”
He left the church, leaving his question hanging in the air.
During the war seven families from this little church hid Jews and other resisters of the Nazis.”
Shifra and Pua inspired these families to see the stranger as an insider, not an outsider. They changed the world for these families.
This time we recall the Exodus story, let us not only condemn Pharaoh but also praise his midwives for their unmatched bravery. The Exodus experience reveals humanity at its lowest point and at its highest.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
On the one hand I’m grateful that Haman’s lot landed in Adar and the Jews of Shushan had enough time to undo his plot. On the other hand, did Purim have to be only four short weeks before Passover? How am I supposed to get rid of all the chametz in my mishloach manot in time? How can I kasher a kitchen when I’m still exhausted from months of preparing spiels, seudahs and megillah reading?
I’m whining, I know. And in part facetiously, but it is a hectic transition. And I think it’s a profoundly meaningful transition as well.
The theology of Passover is one in which God Himself (not a ministering angel, nor a messenger, etc.) performed wonders and miracles to redeem B’nai Yisrael from slavery. God’s power is unmatched, and the generation of the Exodus had an unparalleled experience of God as revealed and imminent. This is further punctuated by the springtime bookend of Shavuot, where the people experience God’s thundering presence to the point of great terror. I imagine, taking all this to be true, that nobody was left questioning God’s existence or involvement. Then again, I know the people must’ve still had doubts because they weren’t quiet about expressing such things as recorded in the Torah itself. Yet, to the reader of scripture, God is very present in the Exodus story.
As the year goes on, we witness destruction and exile in the form of 17 Tammuz and Tisha B’Av. This gets rectified through consolation and in some ways, Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur are the perfect middle ground between God as revealed and God as concealed. God’s imminent presence is felt on these High Holidays, and our relationship with God is of extraordinary import as we navigate the work of Teshuva. Our returning to God at this time of year is precisely because we are the most removed from the Passover feeling. It is our reaching out that makes God’s presence felt. On Passover, God took us out with a strong hand and an outstretched arm. On Yom Kippur it is our arms that are outstretched in yearning to be close to God, and forgiven.
Sukkot we sit in the joy of the ultimate mystery. We go outside and reckon with our vulnerability and though God’s glory is concealed to us, we find revelation not in our triumph, but in our fragility. That we are here at all is a hint that points to God’s grace and love. And then the holidays get a little less God-centric and a lot more human-centric. In Kislev we celebrate Hanukkah and its miracles. But the primary miracle in some ways is that we overcame a human force much greater than ourselves. And finally as the year comes to a close we get to Purim. On Purim we celebrate a holiday of diaspora, during which God isn’t mentioned even once in the story. We see the events of the Purim story as overwhelmingly mundane, implausibly lucky, and ultimately it is human interventions that win the day. The theology of Purim suggests that it is our job to read God into the story. By extension, we are more similar to the Jews of Shushan than we are to the Israelites of the Exodus. We have the challenge of living when God is most concealed, and the responsibility of reading God into our own stories. And in a time like this when we people are so polarized – when the world seems upside-down for the umpteenth time this decade, it is our duty to seek out God. What does God want? Where do we see God working behind the scenes?
I think this reflects the course of history in some ways. God was so imminent in the early part of history, and seems to be evermore mysterious and concealed. Perhaps the most important reminder as we go from Purim to Passover is that we remember both. We remember, as though we were there, the times when God was irrefutably there for us as a people. And, we remember the times when we took courageous actions only to realize in hindsight that God was there too, guiding our steps and watching our backs.
May it be a wonderful Passover.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
This Shabbat is the final of the four special parshiyot leading up to Purim and Pesach. They each include a unique maftir, the final Torah reading separate from the weekly parsha, as well as a special Haftara connected to the theme of the Shabbat. We began the journey through these four Shabbatot with Shabbat Shekalim, followed by Shabbat Zachor. Just last week was the third of these four special Shabbatot, Shabbat Parah.
And here we are now, at the final of the four special Shabbatot, as it is Shabbat haChodesh, which precedes or falls on the first of the month of Nisan during which Passover is celebrated. In our unique maftir, we read about how on the first day of Nisan, God presented the first commandment of how to “sanctify the new moon” (kiddush hachodesh) for the onset of Rosh Chodesh. Thus the biblical Chodesh Aviv, known today as Nisan, becomes the first month of the Jewish year.
Last weekend we were visited by two JTS rabbis, one of whom taught on this commandment on Shabbat afternoon. Rabbi Joel Seltzer shared an interesting take on “the first commandment.” The first commandment in the Torah at the beginning of Breishit is p’ru urvu, to be fruitful and multiply. This first mitzvah in the Torah was God addressing us as individuals to fill the earth. The divine commandment we read today from Shemot, to sanctify Nisan as the first month of the year, is the first mitzvah addressed to the entire Jewish people.
This was the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people while still in Egypt and also on the verge of being freed: “This month shall be for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.” (Ex. 12:2)
Rabbi Seltzer shared several commentaries, one of which is from the 12th century French commentator, Bekhor Shor: “This month is ‘The First of Freedom,’ and so you shall make it the first of the counting of your months, in order that your counting begins at the moment of freedom, and by remembering this moment of freedom, you will remember the good that I (God) did for you, and you will be diligent with your awe, your love, and your worship of me.”
By declaring any new month on the Shabbat before each Rosh Chodesh, the Jewish people have the ability and responsibility each month to sanctify life and the passage of time.
By declaring the month of Nissan, as we will do so this weekend, the Jewish people have the additional ability to show eternal gratitude for our freedom, that of our ancestors and the freedoms we continue to celebrate today. Just as we have two separate “first” commandments for individuals and as a whole community, so too do we have the responsibility, both as individuals and as Am Yisrael, to continue to add to the world, celebrating our freedom through our ma’asim tovim, the good deeds that can help improve the world in which we live.
Shabbat Shalom, Chodesh Tov, and an early Chag Pesach Sameach!
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
What if Purim and Passover weren’t two separate holidays? What if they were actually bookends for a single month-long process?
Rabbi David Hoffman of JTS taught me such. Notice that exactly one month separates the two holidays – Purim is on the 14th of Adar (15th in Jerusalem) while Passover is celebrated on the 15th of Nisan.
The one-word summary of Purim is chaos. Life nearly ended for all the Jews of Shushan, and then suddenly they were on top. Everything took a 180 degree turn, like Esther keeping her Jewish identity secret to sharing it with the king very publicly. Today Purim is marked by riotous, chaotic fun, costume, and shtick.
When we turn to Pesach, though, we encounter the opposite. In one word, Passover is about order. The holiday is dominated by the Seder, the step-by-step dinner script whose Hebrew word means “order.” We follow time-tested processes and rules on Seder night to move us to a place where we taste slavery and freedom, literally and metaphorically.
The days that move us from Purim to Passover are themselves a step-by-step personal journey from chaos to order. How appropriate is it that this march happens during March? People can’t turn from one strong emotion to another on a dime. We need time and a step-by-step process to get us to somewhere else. And as the days of Passover draw nearer, we then have the opportunity to prepare ourselves for the next stage of the year.
Let us enjoy these two upcoming holidays – and let us find meaning in seeing them as fundamentally connected too.
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