Some time after that, when Moses had grown up, he went out to his kinsfolk and witnessed their labors. He saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his kinsmen. (Exodus 2:11)
I always imagined that Moshe didn’t know, growing up, that he was an Israelite. He grew up in Pharaoh’s household as though he were a grandchild of Pharaoh. Surely Pharaoh didn’t know the baby’s origins — he wouldn’t have let his daughter adopt a Hebrew baby when he’d just ordered them all drowned, right?
Who teaches us to stand up for what’s right? This week’s answer: Moshe.
Along with that, I’ve imagined a dramatic moment when Moshe discovers that he wasn’t originally part of the ruling family. A moment when Moshe learns that he was born into a slave household rather than the royal one. But Torah here calls the Hebrew his kinsman. In this moment, it seems that he knows.
Two enticing possibilities flow from that. One is that Pharaoh’s daughter told him, in secret, where he came from and who he really is. Maybe he’s always known that he is secretly part of his nation’s most oppressed people, rescued only by miracle, and that his destiny would be to help his people go free.
Or maybe he grew up as an Egyptian royal kid, having no idea that he was different from the rest of his adoptive family… and when he saw the overseer mistreating the slave, he knew in his bones that the man being oppressed was his kin, because all human beings are kin, and mistreatment is never right.
The commentator known as Ramban says that someone told Moshe he was a Hebrew, so he went out to the fields to see what kind of life his kinsmen lived. The commentator known as the Sforno says he was moved to strike the overseer because of a feeling of brotherliness — he felt that the slave was his kin.
This year I’m moved by the idea that maybe Moshe didn’t know his origins. Because in that case, his choice to be an “upstander” — to step in and protect someone powerless who was being harmed — was based not in a sense of loyalty to “his own,” but in the sense that oppression is wrong, period.
Maybe I’m drawn to that interpretation because I want us to be like that Moshe. I want us to open our eyes to unethical behavior and oppression and abuse of power. I want us to step up and say: that’s wrong. The world shouldn’t be like that. As a human being, it’s my job to protect the vulnerable from harm.
Earlier this week, my son attended an assembly at his elementary school about systemic racism. He came home deeply upset, having learned about the Tulsa Massacre of 1921. Three hundred were killed. Ten thousand became homeless. It’s a horrific story of white people slaughtering black people.
My son wanted to know, how could human beings treat other human beings like that? He was shocked and angry and full of grief. I know that his surprise at the horrific viciousness of racism is a sign of his privilege. Through no merit of his own, he’s been able to grow up mostly oblivious to racism.
My job now is to help him grow into awareness that we who have privilege are obligated to use our power to help those who don’t have it. Because oppression is wrong. Which Moshe knew. And he knew in his bones that the man being beaten was his kin; Torah calls him “kinsman” twice to make that point.
Now, I don’t recommend Moshe’s methods here. (Killing the overseer: not the way to go.) But Moshe’s apparently immediate knowledge that this person who was experiencing systemic oppression is his family, and that therefore he has an obligation to act — that’s Torah’s role model for us this week.
Who experiences systemic oppression in our world? I’m not talking about individual acts of mistreatment, but about the systems and structures that give some people an inherent advantage and others an inherent disadvantage. Oppression expressed in the practice of social and political institutions.
[Harvest answers from the room]
Here are some of my answers: Immigrants. Refugees. People of color: at increased risk of unfair sentencing, and of being shot by police because of unconscious bias. Trans people: at increased risk of suicide because of prejudice and mistreatment. Women. Non-Christians. Those who live in poverty.
And, of course, one can be many of these things at once. This week I see Moshe’s choice to stand up against the oppression of that Hebrew slave as Torah’s lesson for us. Our world contains systems of oppression too, no less than the Mitzrayim ruled over by this Pharaoh who didn’t remember Joseph.
Those who are oppressed are our kin, and it’s our job to stand up for them as we are able, as Moshe stood up for his kin in the field. Not necessarily because we see ourselves in their faces, though maybe we do. But because oppression is wrong, and Jewish tradition calls us to pursue justice with all that we are.
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at CBI at Kabbalat Shabbat services. (Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)
https://cbiberkshires.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/upstander.png406382Rachel Barenblathttps://cbiberkshires.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/CBI-Logo-70h-2.pngRachel Barenblat2020-01-17 19:00:002022-01-31 23:41:10The world is our kin: lessons from Moshe about being an upstander
Jacob blesses Ephraim and Menashe on his deathbed.
This week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, begins with Jacob on his deathbed. Joseph comes to him with his sons Ephraim and Menashe, and Jacob marvels: he hadn’t expected to see Joseph again, and now here he is with Joseph and the next generation too! He blesses the boys with a verse (Genesis 48:16) that became part of the liturgy of the bedtime shema — “May the angel who kept me from harm, bless the ones who come after,” in Reb Irwin Keller’s beautiful translation that we sang this morning.
The syntax of this verse is unclear. Rashi reads it in a literal, non-mystical sense. He thinks Jacob is talking about the angel whom God sent to wrestle with him at the banks of the Jabbok. But many translations capitalize Angel, because the way the sentence is phrased makes it seem as though Jacob is referring to God as an Angel, both a protector and a source of blessing. As Reb Irwin writes, “So he could mean a guardian angel, or he could mean God, or he could intend the ambiguity, knowing that angels are just a face of the Divine anyway.”
Reading these verses this year, I couldn’t help remembering last February when I took my son to Texas to say goodbye to my mother. I knew when we flew down that it would be our last time seeing her alive.
While we were there, she soaked up every moment she could with her youngest and final grandson. She managed to get out of bed once to sit with him while he ate dinner. I remember that she asked him about his favorite cartoon — an anime called Pokémon, which was completely foreign to her, but he happily told her all kinds of details about the various Pokémon and their evolutions. And — this is a story I told in my Yom Kippur sermon, Come… and Prepare to Go — she came downstairs for that final Shabbat, and heard him sing the words of the kiddush over wine one last time.
My mom didn’t use the language of “blessing” each other, and angels were not part of her Judaism. They were as foreign to her as Pokémon. But I think her presence with her generations that Shabbat was the blessing she was able to give us from her deathbed. She spent the last of her strength making it to her wheelchair to come downstairs for Shabbes dinner because celebrating Shabbat with her children and grandchild mattered to her. She showed us with her actions that family and Jewish tradition had been a blessing for her that she hoped would continue to be a blessing for us.
Her unveiling approaches in two weeks. I still think of her every week when I make challah, remembering that she tasted my homemade challah on that last Shabbes of her life and declared it good. And my son remembers her when we make kiddush on Friday nights, because he was proud of being able to sing those words where she could hear. In these ways she’s still with us even though she’s gone. Sometimes I imagine that she peeks in at our Shabbes table each week, like the two angels described in Talmud who seem able to say only one thing: “May next week be just like this one.” Even on the weeks when we only spend a few minutes over candles and wine and challah, I like to imagine that she feels joy when she sees us carrying this tradition forward.
Before he dies, Jacob reminds Joseph that he wants to be buried in the same place where his parents are buried. Joseph gets Pharaoh’s permission to travel, and then Joseph carries Jacob’s bones back to the Cave of Machpelah before returning to Egypt.
Later in Torah, this carrying of bones will be recapitulated. Moshe will take Joseph’s bones out of Egypt when the children of Israel depart. The word used in that verse (Exodus 13:19) is etzem, which means both bone and essence. I see a deep truth in these two parallel stories. No matter where our forebears are buried, we carry their essence with us. Like Joseph, and like Moshe, we carry our forebears with us. Sometimes their physical features reverberate through the generations. Sometimes their traumas, their memories, and their stories live on in us. And that’s true whether or not those whom we remember were good to us, whether or not they could be be the parents or grandparents we needed them to be. We carry both the bitter and the sweet.
May the memories of those whom we carry — in our minds and hearts, and sometimes also in our DNA — be the blessing that we need in our lives. May they inspire us to live up to our best selves. May they help us shed any baggage, any hurts, so we can grow beyond them and not transmit them further. May we experience their memories as a blessing for us… so that we can transmit that blessing in turn to those who come after, our children and the children of our children. Or in the rabbinic reinterpretation, our students and their students and the students of our students. So that all of us can experience ourselves as part of a chain of generations and a chain of blessing, watched-over by that same angel (or Angel) whom Jacob evoked so long ago.
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at CBI on Shabbat morning (cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.) Image from the Golden Haggadah.
Dear Congregation Beth Israel members and friends,
In the wake of our community mission to Cuba, the rabbis who took part in that trip are now offering monthly video teachings at Bayit’s Builder’s Blog for Cuban Jewish communities and interested others. January is my month to offer a teaching. Since I’m not fluent in Spanish, I wrote my teaching and recorded a five-minute video in English. Rabbi Juan Mejia translated it into Spanish, so my video has Spanish subtitles.
Although the teaching was written with Cuban Jewish communities in mind, I realized after I recorded it that it’s universal and might be of interest to y’all too, so I’m sharing it here. Here’s a five minute video teaching — or, if you prefer, you can read the text of the teaching below in English. I hope it speaks to you.
Shalom chaverim y buenos dias amigos! Last month we celebrated the festival of Chanukah. Next month will bring the holiday of Tu BiShvat, known as the “new year of the trees.” But January is an in-between month. One festival is over and the next has not yet arrived.
This pause between holidays is part of spiritual life too. Spiritual life isn’t only the peak experiences when communities come together for holidays or lifecycle celebrations. Of course those are part of spiritual life! But the quiet times, the in-between times, are also spiritual life.
Jewish life — all spiritual life — has a natural ebb and flow. In Hebrew, we say ratzo v’shov. Spiritual life ebbs and flows like the tide. High tide and low tide are both part of the natural rhythm of the sea. Peak times and quiet times are both part of the natural rhythm of spiritual life.
I love our festivals and the rituals that come with them. But I also love the quiet times. They remind me that I can find holiness and sustenance in small actions that are part of my every day. These small practices are among tradition’s tools for building meaningful Jewish lives.
And I think it’s important that some of these practices don’t require us to come to a special place, to use special items, or even to speak Hebrew. We are Jewish everywhere we go, not just at synagogue. We are Jewish no matter what language we use to speak or to pray.
Here are two of my favorite daily practices. There are texts and melodies that go with them, but I think the movement of the heart is the most important thing, more important than any special words or tunes. These are two of the most essential tools in my spiritual toolbox.
The first one is thanking God when I wake up. There’s a short traditional prayer for this purpose, called Modeh Ani. You can find it in most siddurim / prayerbooks: “I am thankful before You, living and enduring God. You have restored my soul to me; great is Your faithfulness!”
I love this prayer because it reminds me that being alive is a gift. And it reminds me that even if I feel like I made mistakes yesterday, God has faith that I can be my best self today. I love the idea that just as we seek to have faith in God, we can also believe that God has faith in us.
If you don’t know the traditional words, or if they don’t speak to you, you can do this practice with the words of your own heart. When you wake up in the morning, just pause and cultivate a sense of gratitude. Once this became a habit for me, it made my mornings feel brighter.
Saying the Shema before sleep is another spiritual tool for ordinary time. First we pause before bed, and reflect on the day. We resolve to do better tomorrow, and try to let go of the day’s hurts and mistakes — both mistakes we made ourselves, and mistakes made by others.
And then we say the Shema, a reminder of the Oneness of God and a reminder that we are part of the great unity of the universe. Doing this every night is a form of daily spiritual soul-maintenance. And I think it helps me fall asleep more easily, too. My heart feels lighter.
I love how these morning and evening practices bookend my day. They help me begin and end each day with a sense of connection. And they remind me that little things can add up to more than the sum of their parts. They take only a few minutes, but their impact is deep.
Months like this one, with no big holidays, come to teach us (and then to remind us) that all of life is spiritual life. Months like this one remind us that spiritual life is made up of simple everyday actions. Everything we do is part of spiritual life… or can be, if we pay attention.
And these small daily spiritual practices are some of our Jewish tools for helping us pay attention. They help us wake up: not just from literal sleep, but from spiritual sleep. With them we can build Jewish lives that are meaningful and deep: not only at holiday times, but always.
https://cbiberkshires.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/solsticevideo.jpg412729Rachel Barenblathttps://cbiberkshires.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/CBI-Logo-70h-2.pngRachel Barenblat2020-01-08 11:44:362022-01-31 23:43:33A video teaching about “in-between” times and spiritual life
Join us for Shabbat services at 9:30am on Saturday morning led by Rabbi Rachel. And here’s a song we’ll use during Shabbat morning services — a setting of a verse from this week’s Torah portion, by Reb Irwin Keller.
This week we’re reading from parashat Vayechi. If you’d like to read some commentaries on this week’s parsha, here are a few:
In this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash, there’s a poignant moment when Joseph reveals himself to his brothers.
Last year I was struck by the beautiful Hebrew word להתודע, “to make oneself known” or “to reveal oneself.” This year what leapt out at me is the precursor to Joseph’s revelation of self. Before he could make himself known to his brothers, he needed to know that they had changed. He needed proof of their genuine teshuvah, their repentance, their turning-themselves-around.
But how could he get that proof? He couldn’t exactly ask. So he demanded that they abandon their youngest brother Benjamin in Egypt. Judah’s response — “I promised our father that we would keep him safe. He’s already lost one beloved son; if he lost this one too, it would kill him; take me instead” — proves to Joseph that Judah, at least, is different than he once was.
Judah has learned from the brothers’ mis-steps. He understands now that their scheme to get rid of Joseph caused incredible harm to their father… and presumably also to Joseph, though he doesn’t yet know that he’s speaking with the brother they sold down the river. Presented with the opportunity to make a similarly damaging choice a second time, Judah chooses differently.
Heraclitus famously wrote that one can’t step in the same river twice. But Rambam argues that we can. In fact, that’s precisely how he says we can tell if our teshuvah — repentance and re/turn — is genuine. When we are presented with the same opportunity to miss the mark, and we choose differently, then we know that we’ve really made teshuvah. We’ve done the work to actually change.
Conventional wisdom holds that “[w]hen someone shows you who they are, believe them.” In general I think that’s a good rule of thumb. Our actions and choices show who we are, and sometimes they reveal realities we might not want to admit. We can say all kinds of pretty things about who we imagine ourselves to be, but when push comes to shove, our actions will speak deep truths about who we are.
If someone says they value kindness, but they act in ways that are unkind — if someone says they are truthful, but they act in ways that are mendacious — if someone says they are ethical, but they act in ways that are power-hungry or abusive — I’m inclined to say, then believe them. Their actions show who they have chosen to be. It’s reasonable to expect their choices to continue.
And yet — Judaism stands for the proposition that change is always possible. As is written in the CBI Board covenant, which is posted in our social hall, “We acknowledge that things can always change; can always be better than they have been.” Things can always change. People can always change — if we put in the hard work that’s required in doing so. But we have to choose to change.
Change isn’t easy. Our actions and our choices carve grooves of habit on heart and mind, and it’s difficult to become someone new. Difficult, but not impossible. Authentic spiritual life asks us time and again to do what Judah did: to face our mis-steps, to apologize and make things right, and when our lives lead us to the same river again, to choose other than we did before.
Judah’s teshuvah leads to their family becoming whole again. It leads to plenty and prosperity instead of famine and sorrow. I believe that doing the work of teshuvah can open us to abundance too. Not necessarily a full pantry and a family reunited — but surely the comfort of knowing that we’re doing the work and “walking our talk.” That we are living up to who we say we are.
I have the sense that the coming year will challenge us, repeatedly, to do our inner work — and to live up to the values we say we hold dear. What are the values we want to embody this year… and what tools can we use to keep ourselves honest, so we’re not just paying lip service to Jewish values but actually taking action to live them, every day?
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at Shabbat morning services. (Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)
In a labyrinth, there’s only one path. It goes all the way in, and then you turn the other way and it goes all the way back out. The purpose of a labyrinth isn’t to see whether you can figure out where you’re going, because there’s only one footpath. The purpose of a labyrinth is to attune you to where you’re going, and how you’re going, and how the path twists and turns.
https://cbiberkshires.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/6a00d8341c019953ef022ad3ab8298200b-320wi.jpg240320Rachel Barenblathttps://cbiberkshires.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/CBI-Logo-70h-2.pngRachel Barenblat2018-09-19 13:46:002025-06-03 15:47:21What the Labyrinth Helps Us See
The world is our kin: lessons from Moshe about being an upstander
Divrei TorahI always imagined that Moshe didn’t know, growing up, that he was an Israelite. He grew up in Pharaoh’s household as though he were a grandchild of Pharaoh. Surely Pharaoh didn’t know the baby’s origins — he wouldn’t have let his daughter adopt a Hebrew baby when he’d just ordered them all drowned, right?
Along with that, I’ve imagined a dramatic moment when Moshe discovers that he wasn’t originally part of the ruling family. A moment when Moshe learns that he was born into a slave household rather than the royal one. But Torah here calls the Hebrew his kinsman. In this moment, it seems that he knows.
Two enticing possibilities flow from that. One is that Pharaoh’s daughter told him, in secret, where he came from and who he really is. Maybe he’s always known that he is secretly part of his nation’s most oppressed people, rescued only by miracle, and that his destiny would be to help his people go free.
Or maybe he grew up as an Egyptian royal kid, having no idea that he was different from the rest of his adoptive family… and when he saw the overseer mistreating the slave, he knew in his bones that the man being oppressed was his kin, because all human beings are kin, and mistreatment is never right.
The commentator known as Ramban says that someone told Moshe he was a Hebrew, so he went out to the fields to see what kind of life his kinsmen lived. The commentator known as the Sforno says he was moved to strike the overseer because of a feeling of brotherliness — he felt that the slave was his kin.
This year I’m moved by the idea that maybe Moshe didn’t know his origins. Because in that case, his choice to be an “upstander” — to step in and protect someone powerless who was being harmed — was based not in a sense of loyalty to “his own,” but in the sense that oppression is wrong, period.
Maybe I’m drawn to that interpretation because I want us to be like that Moshe. I want us to open our eyes to unethical behavior and oppression and abuse of power. I want us to step up and say: that’s wrong. The world shouldn’t be like that. As a human being, it’s my job to protect the vulnerable from harm.
Earlier this week, my son attended an assembly at his elementary school about systemic racism. He came home deeply upset, having learned about the Tulsa Massacre of 1921. Three hundred were killed. Ten thousand became homeless. It’s a horrific story of white people slaughtering black people.
My son wanted to know, how could human beings treat other human beings like that? He was shocked and angry and full of grief. I know that his surprise at the horrific viciousness of racism is a sign of his privilege. Through no merit of his own, he’s been able to grow up mostly oblivious to racism.
My job now is to help him grow into awareness that we who have privilege are obligated to use our power to help those who don’t have it. Because oppression is wrong. Which Moshe knew. And he knew in his bones that the man being beaten was his kin; Torah calls him “kinsman” twice to make that point.
Now, I don’t recommend Moshe’s methods here. (Killing the overseer: not the way to go.) But Moshe’s apparently immediate knowledge that this person who was experiencing systemic oppression is his family, and that therefore he has an obligation to act — that’s Torah’s role model for us this week.
Who experiences systemic oppression in our world? I’m not talking about individual acts of mistreatment, but about the systems and structures that give some people an inherent advantage and others an inherent disadvantage. Oppression expressed in the practice of social and political institutions.
[Harvest answers from the room]
Here are some of my answers: Immigrants. Refugees. People of color: at increased risk of unfair sentencing, and of being shot by police because of unconscious bias. Trans people: at increased risk of suicide because of prejudice and mistreatment. Women. Non-Christians. Those who live in poverty.
And, of course, one can be many of these things at once. This week I see Moshe’s choice to stand up against the oppression of that Hebrew slave as Torah’s lesson for us. Our world contains systems of oppression too, no less than the Mitzrayim ruled over by this Pharaoh who didn’t remember Joseph.
Those who are oppressed are our kin, and it’s our job to stand up for them as we are able, as Moshe stood up for his kin in the field. Not necessarily because we see ourselves in their faces, though maybe we do. But because oppression is wrong, and Jewish tradition calls us to pursue justice with all that we are.
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at CBI at Kabbalat Shabbat services. (Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)
Vayechi: angels, memory, blessing
Divrei TorahThis week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, begins with Jacob on his deathbed. Joseph comes to him with his sons Ephraim and Menashe, and Jacob marvels: he hadn’t expected to see Joseph again, and now here he is with Joseph and the next generation too! He blesses the boys with a verse (Genesis 48:16) that became part of the liturgy of the bedtime shema — “May the angel who kept me from harm, bless the ones who come after,” in Reb Irwin Keller’s beautiful translation that we sang this morning.
The syntax of this verse is unclear. Rashi reads it in a literal, non-mystical sense. He thinks Jacob is talking about the angel whom God sent to wrestle with him at the banks of the Jabbok. But many translations capitalize Angel, because the way the sentence is phrased makes it seem as though Jacob is referring to God as an Angel, both a protector and a source of blessing. As Reb Irwin writes, “So he could mean a guardian angel, or he could mean God, or he could intend the ambiguity, knowing that angels are just a face of the Divine anyway.”
Reading these verses this year, I couldn’t help remembering last February when I took my son to Texas to say goodbye to my mother. I knew when we flew down that it would be our last time seeing her alive.
While we were there, she soaked up every moment she could with her youngest and final grandson. She managed to get out of bed once to sit with him while he ate dinner. I remember that she asked him about his favorite cartoon — an anime called Pokémon, which was completely foreign to her, but he happily told her all kinds of details about the various Pokémon and their evolutions. And — this is a story I told in my Yom Kippur sermon, Come… and Prepare to Go — she came downstairs for that final Shabbat, and heard him sing the words of the kiddush over wine one last time.
My mom didn’t use the language of “blessing” each other, and angels were not part of her Judaism. They were as foreign to her as Pokémon. But I think her presence with her generations that Shabbat was the blessing she was able to give us from her deathbed. She spent the last of her strength making it to her wheelchair to come downstairs for Shabbes dinner because celebrating Shabbat with her children and grandchild mattered to her. She showed us with her actions that family and Jewish tradition had been a blessing for her that she hoped would continue to be a blessing for us.
Her unveiling approaches in two weeks. I still think of her every week when I make challah, remembering that she tasted my homemade challah on that last Shabbes of her life and declared it good. And my son remembers her when we make kiddush on Friday nights, because he was proud of being able to sing those words where she could hear. In these ways she’s still with us even though she’s gone. Sometimes I imagine that she peeks in at our Shabbes table each week, like the two angels described in Talmud who seem able to say only one thing: “May next week be just like this one.” Even on the weeks when we only spend a few minutes over candles and wine and challah, I like to imagine that she feels joy when she sees us carrying this tradition forward.
Before he dies, Jacob reminds Joseph that he wants to be buried in the same place where his parents are buried. Joseph gets Pharaoh’s permission to travel, and then Joseph carries Jacob’s bones back to the Cave of Machpelah before returning to Egypt.
Later in Torah, this carrying of bones will be recapitulated. Moshe will take Joseph’s bones out of Egypt when the children of Israel depart. The word used in that verse (Exodus 13:19) is etzem, which means both bone and essence. I see a deep truth in these two parallel stories. No matter where our forebears are buried, we carry their essence with us. Like Joseph, and like Moshe, we carry our forebears with us. Sometimes their physical features reverberate through the generations. Sometimes their traumas, their memories, and their stories live on in us. And that’s true whether or not those whom we remember were good to us, whether or not they could be be the parents or grandparents we needed them to be. We carry both the bitter and the sweet.
May the memories of those whom we carry — in our minds and hearts, and sometimes also in our DNA — be the blessing that we need in our lives. May they inspire us to live up to our best selves. May they help us shed any baggage, any hurts, so we can grow beyond them and not transmit them further. May we experience their memories as a blessing for us… so that we can transmit that blessing in turn to those who come after, our children and the children of our children. Or in the rabbinic reinterpretation, our students and their students and the students of our students. So that all of us can experience ourselves as part of a chain of generations and a chain of blessing, watched-over by that same angel (or Angel) whom Jacob evoked so long ago.
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at CBI on Shabbat morning (cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.) Image from the Golden Haggadah.
A video teaching about “in-between” times and spiritual life
Spiritual Life, VideoDear Congregation Beth Israel members and friends,
In the wake of our community mission to Cuba, the rabbis who took part in that trip are now offering monthly video teachings at Bayit’s Builder’s Blog for Cuban Jewish communities and interested others. January is my month to offer a teaching. Since I’m not fluent in Spanish, I wrote my teaching and recorded a five-minute video in English. Rabbi Juan Mejia translated it into Spanish, so my video has Spanish subtitles.
Although the teaching was written with Cuban Jewish communities in mind, I realized after I recorded it that it’s universal and might be of interest to y’all too, so I’m sharing it here. Here’s a five minute video teaching — or, if you prefer, you can read the text of the teaching below in English. I hope it speaks to you.
Blessings to all —
Rabbi Rachel
[vimeo 383297974 w=640 h=360]Palabras del Torá / a “vort” of Torah – R’ Rachel Barenblat from Bayit: Building Jewish on Vimeo.
Shalom chaverim y buenos dias amigos! Last month we celebrated the festival of Chanukah. Next month will bring the holiday of Tu BiShvat, known as the “new year of the trees.” But January is an in-between month. One festival is over and the next has not yet arrived.
This pause between holidays is part of spiritual life too. Spiritual life isn’t only the peak experiences when communities come together for holidays or lifecycle celebrations. Of course those are part of spiritual life! But the quiet times, the in-between times, are also spiritual life.
Jewish life — all spiritual life — has a natural ebb and flow. In Hebrew, we say ratzo v’shov. Spiritual life ebbs and flows like the tide. High tide and low tide are both part of the natural rhythm of the sea. Peak times and quiet times are both part of the natural rhythm of spiritual life.
I love our festivals and the rituals that come with them. But I also love the quiet times. They remind me that I can find holiness and sustenance in small actions that are part of my every day. These small practices are among tradition’s tools for building meaningful Jewish lives.
And I think it’s important that some of these practices don’t require us to come to a special place, to use special items, or even to speak Hebrew. We are Jewish everywhere we go, not just at synagogue. We are Jewish no matter what language we use to speak or to pray.
Here are two of my favorite daily practices. There are texts and melodies that go with them, but I think the movement of the heart is the most important thing, more important than any special words or tunes. These are two of the most essential tools in my spiritual toolbox.
The first one is thanking God when I wake up. There’s a short traditional prayer for this purpose, called Modeh Ani. You can find it in most siddurim / prayerbooks: “I am thankful before You, living and enduring God. You have restored my soul to me; great is Your faithfulness!”
I love this prayer because it reminds me that being alive is a gift. And it reminds me that even if I feel like I made mistakes yesterday, God has faith that I can be my best self today. I love the idea that just as we seek to have faith in God, we can also believe that God has faith in us.
If you don’t know the traditional words, or if they don’t speak to you, you can do this practice with the words of your own heart. When you wake up in the morning, just pause and cultivate a sense of gratitude. Once this became a habit for me, it made my mornings feel brighter.
Saying the Shema before sleep is another spiritual tool for ordinary time. First we pause before bed, and reflect on the day. We resolve to do better tomorrow, and try to let go of the day’s hurts and mistakes — both mistakes we made ourselves, and mistakes made by others.
And then we say the Shema, a reminder of the Oneness of God and a reminder that we are part of the great unity of the universe. Doing this every night is a form of daily spiritual soul-maintenance. And I think it helps me fall asleep more easily, too. My heart feels lighter.
I love how these morning and evening practices bookend my day. They help me begin and end each day with a sense of connection. And they remind me that little things can add up to more than the sum of their parts. They take only a few minutes, but their impact is deep.
Months like this one, with no big holidays, come to teach us (and then to remind us) that all of life is spiritual life. Months like this one remind us that spiritual life is made up of simple everyday actions. Everything we do is part of spiritual life… or can be, if we pay attention.
And these small daily spiritual practices are some of our Jewish tools for helping us pay attention. They help us wake up: not just from literal sleep, but from spiritual sleep. With them we can build Jewish lives that are meaningful and deep: not only at holiday times, but always.
Shavua tov! Looking forward to Shabbat Vayechi
ShabbatShavua tov — a good new week to you!
Join us for Shabbat services at 9:30am on Saturday morning led by Rabbi Rachel. And here’s a song we’ll use during Shabbat morning services — a setting of a verse from this week’s Torah portion, by Reb Irwin Keller.
This week we’re reading from parashat Vayechi. If you’d like to read some commentaries on this week’s parsha, here are a few:
Here’s commentary from Steve Silbert and Rabbi Ben Newman at Builders Blog, a project of Bayit: Building Jewish:
And here are commentaries from the URJ:
Hope to see you soon at CBI!
Vayigash: choosing again
Divrei TorahIn this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash, there’s a poignant moment when Joseph reveals himself to his brothers.
Last year I was struck by the beautiful Hebrew word להתודע, “to make oneself known” or “to reveal oneself.” This year what leapt out at me is the precursor to Joseph’s revelation of self. Before he could make himself known to his brothers, he needed to know that they had changed. He needed proof of their genuine teshuvah, their repentance, their turning-themselves-around.
But how could he get that proof? He couldn’t exactly ask. So he demanded that they abandon their youngest brother Benjamin in Egypt. Judah’s response — “I promised our father that we would keep him safe. He’s already lost one beloved son; if he lost this one too, it would kill him; take me instead” — proves to Joseph that Judah, at least, is different than he once was.
Judah has learned from the brothers’ mis-steps. He understands now that their scheme to get rid of Joseph caused incredible harm to their father… and presumably also to Joseph, though he doesn’t yet know that he’s speaking with the brother they sold down the river. Presented with the opportunity to make a similarly damaging choice a second time, Judah chooses differently.
Heraclitus famously wrote that one can’t step in the same river twice. But Rambam argues that we can. In fact, that’s precisely how he says we can tell if our teshuvah — repentance and re/turn — is genuine. When we are presented with the same opportunity to miss the mark, and we choose differently, then we know that we’ve really made teshuvah. We’ve done the work to actually change.
Conventional wisdom holds that “[w]hen someone shows you who they are, believe them.” In general I think that’s a good rule of thumb. Our actions and choices show who we are, and sometimes they reveal realities we might not want to admit. We can say all kinds of pretty things about who we imagine ourselves to be, but when push comes to shove, our actions will speak deep truths about who we are.
If someone says they value kindness, but they act in ways that are unkind — if someone says they are truthful, but they act in ways that are mendacious — if someone says they are ethical, but they act in ways that are power-hungry or abusive — I’m inclined to say, then believe them. Their actions show who they have chosen to be. It’s reasonable to expect their choices to continue.
And yet — Judaism stands for the proposition that change is always possible. As is written in the CBI Board covenant, which is posted in our social hall, “We acknowledge that things can always change; can always be better than they have been.” Things can always change. People can always change — if we put in the hard work that’s required in doing so. But we have to choose to change.
Change isn’t easy. Our actions and our choices carve grooves of habit on heart and mind, and it’s difficult to become someone new. Difficult, but not impossible. Authentic spiritual life asks us time and again to do what Judah did: to face our mis-steps, to apologize and make things right, and when our lives lead us to the same river again, to choose other than we did before.
Judah’s teshuvah leads to their family becoming whole again. It leads to plenty and prosperity instead of famine and sorrow. I believe that doing the work of teshuvah can open us to abundance too. Not necessarily a full pantry and a family reunited — but surely the comfort of knowing that we’re doing the work and “walking our talk.” That we are living up to who we say we are.
I have the sense that the coming year will challenge us, repeatedly, to do our inner work — and to live up to the values we say we hold dear. What are the values we want to embody this year… and what tools can we use to keep ourselves honest, so we’re not just paying lip service to Jewish values but actually taking action to live them, every day?
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at Shabbat morning services. (Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)
What the Labyrinth Helps Us See
Days of Awe, Labyrinth, Yom KippurIn a labyrinth, there’s only one path. It goes all the way in, and then you turn the other way and it goes all the way back out. The purpose of a labyrinth isn’t to see whether you can figure out where you’re going, because there’s only one footpath. The purpose of a labyrinth is to attune you to where you’re going, and how you’re going, and how the path twists and turns.