By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
Parashat Behukotai begins with the phrase “If you walk in my laws…”
A midrash from Vayikra Rabbah connects these words to a place in TaNaKh where King David describes walking to God: “‘If you walk in My laws’ (Lev. 26:3)–this is connected to what is written: “I have thought about my paths, and returned my feet to Your decrees’ (Psalms 119:53). David said: ‘Ribono shel Olam, every day I would plan my route and say: I am going to this place or to that home. But then my feet would bring me to a beit knesset, synagogue or a beit midrash, a study hall.’”
According to this midrash, whenever King David laced up his sandals and tried to walk anywhere, his feet would take him to a holy place.
The Sefat Emet gives a different explanation of this midrash. He says that King David didn’t really wind up in a beit knesset or beit midrash every time he headed out for a walk. Rather, his feet took him to all sorts of places, but he was always able to find something holy to do in these places.
As incredible as it is to go to holy places, to discover holiness in places you might otherwise not expect it, is almost more awe inspiring. We all have the ability to bring holiness out into the world wherever we go.
To merge these two explanations into one, I was privileged to have the experience of journeying to the annual Cantors Assembly convention last week. While I anticipated it being a holy experience, I did not experience holiness the moment I entered the lovely but secular space of the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Yet the moment I started seeing, singing and learning with colleagues and friends, I began to feel the sacredness of the space in which we were in…and not just because one of the conference rooms was called St Croix!
We all have the potential to bring the holiness we have within each of us into the places we enter throughout our lives. Whether that means having sacred moments in everyday spaces or coming to Beth El to experience our kehila kedosha, holy community, we all have the potential to walk, drive, fly, journey into the world, adding holiness wherever we go.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
This week’s Torah reading begins with lots of counting. Every week we count 6 days of work and then rest on the 7th, Shabbat. Parashat Behar goes further to say that in the land of Israel, we are to count 6 years of working the land and selling its crops. But the seventh year shall be one of rest for the land – a Shabbat, as it were – in which everyone may eat whatever the land produces.
The Torah goes further when it says we must count 7 weeks of years – 49 years – and the next one, 50, is a special Jubilee Year. It is a year of freedom throughout Israel, when slaves go free and property is returned to its original owner. In other words, it’s a giant reset.
I noticed this year that we read these verses during the Omer, the 7-week period when we count the 49 days between the second night of Passover and the beginning of Shavuot. Put these together, and we need several clocks to keep all of these concentric circles going. Why is the Torah so concerned with counting days, weeks, years, and groups of years?
Judaism seeks to maximize each day. It is fully aware that every day is a gift, every day precious. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was on to this when he opened his classic book “The Sabbath”:
Judaism is a religion of time aiming at the sanctification of time. Unlike the space-minded man to whom time is unvaried, iterative, homogeneous, to whom all hours are alike, quality-less, empty shells, the Bible senses the diversified character of time. There are no two hours alike. Every hour is unique and the only one given at the moment, exclusive and endlessly precious.
It’s human nature to sometimes go through a pattern where the days run together and are hard to discern. Challenging though it may be, we must do our best to find differences between the days, both in what happens to us and how we respond. Judaism emphasizes personal growth, and growth means being at different places at different times, not being static or “same old, same old.” As Rabbi Marc Angel wrote: “We count our days to make our days count.”
By Rabbi Michael Schwab.
As you likely recognize, this year has been the toughest year in Israel’s history since 1973, the year of the Yom Kippur War. And thus it has been one of the toughest years for the Jewish people as a whole. In fact, Yom Hazikaron (Israeli Memorial Day), commemorated on Sunday night and Monday, was the most sad and poignant Israeli Memorial Day that I can remember experiencing. At Beth El, we were privileged to have the young Israeli volunteers in the Shinshin program organize a powerful service that honored the thousands who died this year from terror or in battle. Often during that service, tears fell from my eyes as I contemplated the devastating loss to so many Israeli families.
And then, as Israeli tradition dictates each year, we began the celebration of Israel’s Independence Day, Yom Haatzmaut. From the depths of sadness and contemplation of loss, we attempted to fill ourselves with gratitude and celebrate the amazing state which those for whom we just mourned, fought to create and preserve. We celebrated Israeli culture through food, song and dance. Together we brought joyous awareness to what a blessing the State of Israel is for us as a people and as individual Jews.
And in the midst of all of the hatred and anger directed at Israel, Israelis and sometimes Jews in general, on Tuesday many of us in the Jewish community gathered together at Daley Plaza to participate in a public celebration of Israel highlighted by raising the Israeli flag alongside the flag of the United States and the City of Chicago in the middle of downtown. The mood was both upbeat and serious as we celebrated Israel and Jewish life while denouncing Anti-Semitism, irresponsible, inaccurate and hateful criticism of Israel, as well as demanded that the world do everything it can to bring the hostages home. Beth El brought two full buses of congregants to the rally and many more of our community members met us there. It was a proud and wonderful moment.
I am so blessed to be the Rabbi of this special and outstanding congregation. I pray that Israel celebrates 76 more years and beyond. Am Yisrael Chai!
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
In this week’s parasha, Kedoshim, there are quite a few eye-catching moments but none quite so jarring as the last verse (Lev 20:27):
“A man or a woman who has a ghost or a familiar spirit shall be put to death; they shall be pelted with stones–their bloodguilt shall be upon them.”
We can discuss offline whether we feel capital punishment is ever appropriate, but I’m more intrigued by the Torah’s mention of those people who interact with ghosts and spirits. Surprisingly this is not the only mention of “Ovot” (ghosts) and “Yidoni-im” (familiar spirits) and the Torah is never particularly fond of those people who seek them out. It makes sense, on the surface, as God doesn’t want us consorting with other spiritual powers and forces which might lead us astray or else tempt us to idolatry. And perhaps in biblical times, it shouldn’t be so shocking that this was part of the wider cultural context. Soothsayers, diviners, sorcerers and necromancers were simply part of their lived reality.
I’m reminded of an anecdote from my high school days. A kid in my class liked to go to abandoned buildings and hunt ghosts in his free time. I had the same reaction — “is this kid nuts? Ghosts aren’t real! Paranormal activity is just entertainment.” But I was fascinated by this particular classmate because his imagination rivaled mine and perhaps surpassed it. I wanted to see what was really going on, so when he invited me to tag along on a ghost hunting excursion in our hometown, I asked my mom if I could go. She said no (‘cause she’s a good mom) but not for the reasons I would’ve thought.
I assumed that skulking around abandoned buildings with a classmate who believed in ghosts was dangerous, or at least, irresponsible. However, my mother instead insisted, “you don’t want to get involved with spirits — they’re often more dangerous than friendly, and once you get one attached to you, it could be really difficult to get rid of it. Don’t go looking for trouble.” I was shocked. I took a beat and asked hesitantly, “Do we believe in ghosts in this family?” and she said, “oh yeah, totally! Spirits are no different than souls except that they got stuck here.” (Note: I’m paraphrasing from my memory – these are not direct quotes).
Putting aside the various reactions one might have to that discovery, my mom was intuitively in line with our parashah. Even today, I would suggest steering clear of psychics, astrologers and other magical people when seeking help or comfort — not only because their power is limited at best, but because part of what it means to be holy is that God is our go-to spiritual power. And how lucky are we?! We’re on a first-name basis with the Creator of the universe! This is what the Torah states just prior in Leviticus 20:26: “You shall be holy to Me, for I the Lord am holy, and I have set you apart from other peoples to be Mine.” Our relationship with God, as Jews, is unique and special. The Torah doesn’t deny that other means of spirituality exist, it acknowledges that they are out there, and may even seem compelling. To be a holy people means that we seek to emulate God’s own holiness, walking, as best we can, the path God set before us. It means accepting our heritage with pride and dedication — its lessons and values and the commandments of the Torah.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
Over Passover, the Chicago Tribune published an opinion essay by Jill Gurvey with the title: “I am finally questioning the narrative about Jewish inheritance.” This writer describes how, although she was raised in the Jewish community to be a Zionist, the war in Gaza has caused her to see things in the complete opposite light now. She says: “And yet, many in the Jewish community are supportive of Israel’s assault on Gaza and have rationalized it as legitimate self-defense. How?”
I actually think that’s an important question for Zionists to answer, because the answer is compelling and important to keep at the forefront. In response, I wrote a letter to the editor today, which may or may not be published. But I wish to share with you because I think the message is crucial for all of us. (And I encourage you to also submit your own letters to the editor whenever an essay shakes you).
I intentionally kept my response brief, as I believe shorter letters have a higher likelihood of being published and then being read.
I noticed that Gurvey’s essay was published during Passover, the Jewish festival of freedom. And that informs my direct answer to her direct question.
1. Israel must fight to liberate the 133 hostages who are still being held captive in Gaza after 200+ days.
2. Israel must defeat the Hamas terrorists in order to ensure that Israelis live freely and safely as Jews (and other faiths) in their ancestral homeland.
3. Israel must be victorious against Hamas to liberate Palestinians from their tyrannical government that repeatedly puts their own citizens in harm’s way. Palestinians too deserve leaders who seek to build a state alongside Israel instead of trying to destroying it.
After writing this note, I was intrigued by how Passover’s theme of freedom was at the core of my response. Indeed, the Passover story is far too foundational to be discussed for only one week in the spring. Its lessons are true and enduring all year long for every generation. Without question, that too is a gift of our wonderful Jewish inheritance.
On the Shabbat of Pesach, we read from Megillat Shir haShirim, Song of Songs. From the collection of Ketuvim in our final section of the TaNaKh, this megillah is a romantic biblical poem that compares young love to gazelles frolicking in the field. So why is it read on the holiday of liberation? What is the connection between Pesach and Shir haShirim?
The other Megillot that we read on their various holidays have a very clear connection to the theme of those festivals. When it comes to Song of Songs, the connection is not quite as obvious. This megillah is traditionally understood to symbolize the love between God and the Jewish people. Passover is a celebration of the freeing of the Israelites from Egyptian bondage.
As with so much of Jewish tradition, there are several explanations to connect these two things:
May this spring festival, Chag haAviv, help to ripen our souls throughout these next seven weeks. And let us remember the words of Shir haShirim as a metaphor for our individual and communal relationship with the divine.
Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom!
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
10 days ago, I had the pleasure of taking an early bus to Indianapolis to experience the Total Solar Eclipse in its full grandeur. I’ve always enjoyed stargazing, taking in the awesomeness of the universe and allowing the vastness of space to remind me of my relative smallness. It’s so fun to have those deep meaningful conversations (DMCs) at camp, where the starry sky is so unpolluted by city lights. But beyond that, I’m not usually a big astronomy nerd. I don’t go out with a telescope to see nearby planets and have no aspirations of being in astronaut. But on a whim, I decided to go check out the eclipse anyway.
I’m a pretty spiritual guy, and I had been speculating about what Jewish thought might say about the Eclipse. I had used my own mystical imagination and crafted a beautiful image of the moon passing in front of the sun, but if I didn’t know that I might see the 2-dimensional version as a unification of sorts. The moon represents the divine feminine – the Shechinah, receiving and reflecting the light of God, guiding the Jewish people and our calendar. The sun represents the divine masculine – Tiferet or the name YHVH – an aspect of God which is brilliant and gives light to the world. By bringing these two bodies in the sky together, we’d see a divine union of Tiferet and Shechina – similar to the metaphor of Lecha Dodi on Friday night which serves to bring together the Divine masculine and feminine in a marital unity. I had imagined that the sun rays peaking out from behind the moon’s shadow would appear to the ancient mystic as a crown of glory on the head of the Divine presence. I was so excited.
Then, on the bus, I did some digging. What blessing should I say? What do the sages have to say on this matter?
It turns out most of the ancient world agreed that a night sky in the middle of the day was a bad omen. The Rabbis of the Talmud in Sukkah 29a discuss them.
Some say if the sun is eclipsed it’s a bad omen for non-Jews who use a solar calendar. If the moon is eclipsed it’s a bad omen for Jews who use the lunar calendar. Some say depending on the color it could mean war is coming or famine or both. An eerie thought given that we are already experiencing a war, but more eerie given Iran’s latest attack. But do I really believe that a predictable eclipse could be a sign of something I presume to be controllable by humankind? A thursday thought is no place to be untangling the issue of free-will or determinism, but it’s just a thought.
The rabbis taught that the eclipse of the sun occurs on account of four things, On account of an Av Bet Din who died and was not eulogized properly [and the eclipse is a eulogy from Heaven]; on account of a betrothed young girl who cried out in the city [that she was being raped] and there was none to save her; on account of sodomy, and on account of two brothers whose blood was shed at the same time.
Again, it’s a predictable scientific phenomenon, and therefore, the eclipse of the sun occurs on account of one thing — timing. But the image of the young girl screaming with no one to save her, is echoed in the screams of the hostages and those fighting to save them. And the image of two brothers whose blood was shed as one is reflection of the deep intimate connection that Israelis and Palestinians, Jews, Muslims and Christians, descendants of Issac and Jacob, or Ishmael or Esau… we’re all brothers. And if that’s not enough, we’re taught that Adam was the single ancestor to humanity so that no one can claim, “my ancestor was greater than your ancestor” which is to say, that the eclipse could be a reminder of God’s sullenness that we humans continue to spill the blood of our brothers.
Whether or not we modern scientifically educated Jews can ascribe such superstitious meaning to the Eclipse is debatable, but I do believe that as Jews, we can elevate even the most mundane activities to the realm of the holy through mindful awareness, gratitude and intention. So, we can see the eclipse as a celestial representation of what’s possible in God’s awesome natural world. Or, we can see the eclipse as an unsettling reminder that there’s work to do to make the world one of light – uninterrupted by momentary darkness. Because those 4 minutes in the sky were really cool, but these dark times in our world are indeed as frightening as an eclipse might have been in the ancient world.
Blessed is the one whose strength and power fill the world, who made the works of creation.
Baruch SheCocho UGevurato Maaleh Olam v’Oseh Maaseh Beresheet.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
We all know from life experience that every big event requires preparation. Tests require study beforehand; interviews required practice in advance; and everyone who had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah knows that they can’t just wing it.
We all know this, and though it is tempting to procrastinate, we all accept this.
I want to suggest that the Passover Seder is truly an important event, and it too necessitates preparation. The Passover meal on the first and second nights is enjoyable because of who is around the table. But its purpose is essential: to have us imagine ourselves as slaves and then free people in the same night; and to identify who is not free in our own day, and what steps we must take to liberate them fully. This conversation does not merely happen on its own, but it must be prepared in advance. The Seder leader has a big responsibility in planning what parts of the Haggadah to lead, what pieces should be shared that are not part of the Haggadah script, and how to encourage others to participate in a meaningful way. This is not easy, and like other challenging tasks, advanced preparation raises the likelihood of success in the moment.
“In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.” So we sing in the Haggadah. Almost always, we enter the Seder night from a place of freedom. We American Jews are fully free in our homeland, so the challenge is to imagine what it means to be not free. But this year is different because of October 7th. This year all Jews feel less secure than a year ago. This year there are over 100 Israelis who are being held hostage for the past 6 months and on Seder night. For the first time, it is frighteningly easy to feel we are not fully free. So long as the captives are being held in Gaza, none of us is fully free.
In planning the Seder this year, please raise the topic of October 7th and the hostages. This year around the world, Jews are not slaves to Pharaoh, but we are not completely free, and we must talk about that. This year the place of the Jews in the world is different from every other year, and the Seder should reflect this: in conversation, in ritual (perhaps an empty chair for the hostages), and in tone.
The Seder concludes “Next year in Jerusalem.” May all the hostages be returned home soon so Jerusalem and Jews worldwide can be whole once again.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
In Parashat Shemini, God lists the kosher and non-kosher animals very specifically, including the credentials for what makes each creature of the water, land and sky fit or unfit for eating: fish must have fins and scales; land mammals must have split hooves and chew their cud; predatory birds are prohibited.
Since these rules are seemingly arbitrary, we might ask why do we have these rules? Why do we keep kosher?
There are many answers to this question, but let’s take a look at a short passage a little bit deeper into this third book of the Torah, Vayikra 20:25-26:
You shall separate animals that are pure from those that are impure, and between pure and impure birds. Don’t make your souls detestable through animals or birds or anything alive on the ground which I have separated as impure. You shall be holy to Me, for I am your holy God, and I have separated you from others nations to be Mine.
According to these verses, kashrut keeps Jews distinct. The dietary laws are designed as a call to holiness.
A second reason that Rambam gives is that non-kosher food is dirty and that the rules of kashrut keep us from getting sick. It is a mitzvah that protects our physical well-being, just as many other mitzvot protect our well-being, both physically and also socially and emotionally. Think of that golden rule coming up in just a few parshiyot: V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha/ Love your neighbor as yourself. Treating others well helps us feel good about ourselves and, hopefully, the same treatment gets reciprocated back to us as well.
A third reason for keeping kosher that Ramban taught is that certain animals are cruel so we shouldn’t eat them. In other words, you are what you eat.
It is problematic to eat a predator because it could make us predatorial.
So how can we make ourselves kinder people as we eat? Kindness is at the root of kashrut. While Shemini gets specific in which animals are kosher, it makes me think about a famous verse about kashrut and kindness that is repeated three times throughout the Torah: Lo t’vashel g’di b’chalev imo/Don’t boil a kid in its mother’s milk.
Several sages explain that such a practice was especially heartless – to take the mother’s milk, intended to nurture the child, and to use that very milk to cook the child, and then to eat them together. Ibn Ezra and Rashbam compare it to the likewise forbidden practices of slaughtering a mother animal together with its child on the same day (Lev. 22:28), and taking a mother bird together with its eggs (Deut. 22:6).
Lo t’vashel g’di b’chalev imo. This verse is ultimately rooted in kindness, and I think is a bigger picture answer to how kashrut makes us kinder.
Connected to the golden rule that we say at the beginning of every morning service: V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha, Love your neighbor as yourself. In other words, be kind to others. The mystic Isaac Luria brings this message back to God, in that loving others is a necessary condition of our experiencing divine love.
Everything else is commentary.
By Hazzan Sandler.
This week we read a special Maftir and Haftarah for what’s known as Shabbat Parah. The special Haftarah is from Ezekiel. I often like to highlight the Haftarot because, in my experience, the prophets are widely under-studied among normal people. Clergy, academics, maybe day-school alumni may know more but the average person couldn’t tell you much about Isaiah, or Jeremiah or any of those poetic, angsty, hopeful, mystical weirdos we call the Prophets.
I also find the prophets particularly interesting in these times because they prophesied in ancient Israel and Judah before, during and after the exile to Babylon. In a way, these prophets have the most insight (within the Bible) about Jews like us who exist alongside a sovereign Jewish nation in the land of Israel. Mind you, much has changed, but the same calls for justice, righteousness, kindness, and ritual that make up the pages of Prophetic writing are deeply resonant with the challenges of a people that has power, success, influence and comfort. The prophets challenge us not to get too comfortable or corrupted by our own success, and beg us not to go astray from God’s will. The consequences of doing so are linked to our exile and diaspora, and while that theology may or may not suit you, it is, in my mind, a worthwhile perspective to consider.
So what sticks out to me in this week’s special Haftarah?
Ezekiel gives this prophecy in Babylon, so the people are already exiled from Israel. It begins with God bemoaning the behavior of the people, and states (Ez. 36:19), “I scattered them among the nations, and they were dispersed through the countries: I punished them in accordance with their ways and their deeds.”
And I don’t like to psycho-analyze God too much, (for what I hope are obvious reasons), but listen to this fascinating next verse (Ez. 36:20-21): “But when they came to those nations, they caused My holy name to be profaned, in that it was said of them, ‘These are the people of Hashem, yet they had to leave His land.’ Therefore I am concerned for My holy name, which the House of Israel have caused to be profaned among the nations to which they come.”
I want to paraphrase those three verses: “I punished Israel because they messed up bad, and now they’re making Me look bad. My reputation is on the line and I’m now doubly annoyed.”
Does God sound a little petty and self-righteous? Yeah, but in God’s defense, there do need to be consequences when the people do wrong.
The real irony is that God then promises to redeem the people, bring us back to our land, and make the land flourish like the Garden of Eden. He promises to renew us with a new heart and a new spirit. The nations of the world are going to be so inspired and blown away by our comeback that God’s name will be sanctified. God even says this: “Not for your sake will I act, O House of Israel, but for My Holy name” and this is echoed in the Avinu Malkeinu prayer on High Holidays, “Avinu Malkeinu, aseh lema’ancha im lo lema’aneinu — do this for Your sake, if not for ours.” It’s an idea repeated in the first paragraph of every amidah, “umeivi goel livnei v’neihem lema’an shemo beAhava – and [God] sends a redeemer to their children’s children for His name’s sake with love.”
I always found a certain humor in the idea that we pray for God’s help for God’s own sake. My conception of God is usually more transcendent than a being that cares about Its own reputation. That feels too human to me. And yet, we appeal to God’s ego? I find that hard to believe, and it makes me laugh.
On the other hand, there’s a deep wisdom to be found in recognizing the following: To the extent that we were created “betzelem Elohim – In God’s image” we also are the image of God. We can’t always perceive God, and if we do it’s indirectly. However, human beings have the capacity to learn, grow, make choices, explore morality and do amazing good or evil in the world. And the choices we make–the good we put in the world (or don’t)– are a reflection of God. What we do individually, communally, nationally, or globally all add some good or some bad (or some of both) to the scales of the world. I imagine it is like a computer program. Our actions, large and small, are the input. God set it up to process the input and give an output. God as the Programmer can step in, employ a miracle or two, send a prophecy, give us a Torah etc. But mostly, the way things are is directly related to how we are. We learn this from the Megillah where everything that happens is about humans making choices – not to bow, to cast a lot, to build gallows, to approach the king, to raise the scepter, to fight back. God isn’t mentioned once, yet there is a miraculousness to human beings making difficult, life-saving choices at the right time in the right place.
And so God’s reputation is deeply linked to how we behave. And as the world becomes less and less magical, and perhaps at times really dark and difficult, it’s no surprise atheism is on the rise. But I believe in God. And I believe in my duty to act in ways that will make the world a better place. A place where people say “Thank God” more often than, “Oh God…” As we make our way closer to Passover, celebrating a time when God really showed up for us and took us out of Egypt, I hope we all feel inspired by the words of Ezekiel, and show up for God, by showing up for our world to make it the best it can be, one good choice at a time.
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