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Change is hard and threatening. That’s why we need Rosh Hashanah.
(JTA) — “We are immigrating to America.” It was 1989, and my parents had sat my sister and me down in our living room to break the news. In those years of economic and political instability, as well as the ethical injustice of apartheid, many Jewish South Africans had an exit plan. Our time had finally come, and I was devastated. I sobbed big ugly tears.
In my mind, I was leaving more than the comfort of my family and friends. I was leaving the only way of life that I understood. South Africans as a group are traditionally Orthodox but not necessarily observant; Shabbat dinners followed by TV was how I grew up. Immigrating to a vast new world made me petrified that I would lose my Jewish identity.
When I arrived in Florida, I got involved with a local theater group for teens. But as much as I loved performing, I became a drama dropout, in the name of Shabbat. I traded rehearsals for the sound of the chazan singing “L’cha Dodi.” I️ chose tasting challah and grape juice with my family over eating McDonald’s French fries with fellow thespians. Eager to remain rooted in a world that was familiar, observing Shabbat became my way to recreate home.
I think about this change every year at Rosh Hashanah, an opportunity to begin our lives anew. Our hearts are open, our books are open, the shofar cries out and we cry out with it. We reckon with ourselves and we reckon with God. Every year, the High Holy Days call upon us to pause, reflect and consider what changes we need to make to bring more justice to ourselves and the world around us. What part of our past must remain unchanged, and what do we have the power to change for the better? Yehuda Amichai, in his poem “My Parents’ Motel,” captures this very dichotomy as he describes his father’s dying words. After recalling his father’s softer and gentler version of the Ten Commandments, he says:
I want to add two to the Ten Commandments:
The eleventh commandment, “You will not change,”
and the twelfth commandment, “Change, you will change.”
Amichai’s two invented commandments have guided me from my earliest days, constantly exploring how to hold onto change without changing too much, and how to balance tradition with modernity in a world that does not always value religion. For me, that liminal space between changing and not changing — and the desired pace at which change can or should occur — remains a constant undercurrent in my life and leadership.
In 2010, many people objected to Rabbi Avi Weiss for ordaining me as the first female Orthodox rabbi. The sudden media attention brought on an onslaught of criticism. Orthodox change is seen as an oxymoron at its worst and decidedly slow at best. My ordination and my taking the title “rabba” (the feminine form of “rabbi”) several months later was seen as too much too fast. This move, I was told, would destroy the Orthodox community.
The two rabbis who railed against me published an article called “Orthodox Women Rabbis?” and used a metaphor of orthodontics in expressing his views. Change, they said, quoting one of their teachers, must happen slowly, like the process of braces that methodically and slowly straighten teeth over time. Too much pressure, they accused, would cause the teeth to break.
It’s not that I don’t believe in patience. My patience has helped me slowly traverse many obstacles. Some of my colleagues, understandably, have accused me of being too patient! The metaphor I like for patience and the process of change is not orthodontics, but rather exercise. My trainer, with whom I have been working religiously, once a week every Monday afternoon, introduced me to the phrase “time under tension.” When you hold one position, be it a squat, plank or bicep curl, for a long period of time, it is called time under tension. Whenever I hear this phrase, usually while sweating, I always think about the process of change. I may be gasping for breath (and in pain), but I can’t help but imagine my muscles first being called to wake up, and then slowly, with lots of effort and energy (and did I mention some pain?) eventually changing, becoming better and stronger.
When we put in the work, with a healthy dose of righteous anger, change becomes inevitable. Yet many people, like the orthodontics rabbis, have a visceral fear of change and they end up imprisoned by their past, remaining exactly where they are.
When people ask why I continue to invest in women’s leadership in the Orthodox world after I experienced so much resistance and animosity, my answer is this: if we want the Jewish community to grow and thrive, we cannot ignore the wisdom, insights, moral courage and spiritual rigor that women contribute. Our community has always benefited from many voices, scholars and genders. When women are undermined in Orthodox communities — where we truly and deeply belong — everyone misses out.
We are often stuck behind the walls we create for ourselves.
We have to know when to forge ahead and when to have the patience to wait. We have to know what to shift, what to transform and what to keep intact. We have to know which external fears inhibit our ability to change and what personal cages we erect for ourselves. I have come to realize that although the process of becoming ordained was slow and methodical for me, it opened up a pathway for hundreds of other women to actualize their dream of being halakhic and spiritual leaders. The accusations of “too fast” were just a front for some people’s resistance and discomfort to change.
Rosh Hashanah is the opportunity to ask ourselves, “Which changes are we seeking? What gets in the way of evolving in the ways we want?” Perhaps the shofar sounds are emblematic of the tensions, paces, and anxieties of change. On one hand, the fast, quick t’ruah — the tu-tu-tu-tu-tu — is like an alarm that awakens the soul to act. The slower drawn out sounds of the shevarim — tu, tu, tu — remind us of what should not change too fast, and of the deliberative slowness that sustains everlasting change.
Unlike my experience as an immigrant and as a rabbi, changes don’t always involve physically crossing an ocean or becoming more religious. But everyone has the capacity to traverse gulfs in their own lives — personally, communally and spiritually. We must embrace moments when we are called to change and when we are called to not change. We have to know when to hold onto the eleventh commandment, “You will not change,” and when to employ the twelfth commandment, “Change, you will change.”
May this year, 5784, bring deep cathartic awakenings, quick and necessary resolutions, and also the patience and fortitude to slowly and gradually relax ourselves into changes that can be everlasting.
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The post Change is hard and threatening. That’s why we need Rosh Hashanah. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Down and Out in Paris and London
The Oxford Circus station in London’s Underground metro. Photo: Pixabay
JNS.org – In my previous column, I wrote about the rape of a 12-year-old Jewish girl in Paris at the hands of three boys just one year older than her, who showered her with antisemitic abuse as they carried out an act of violation reminiscent of the worst excesses of the Oct. 7 Hamas pogrom in southern Israel. This week, my peg is another act of violence—one less horrifying and less traumatic, but which similarly suggests that the writing may be on the wall for the Jews in much of Europe.
Last week, a group of young Jewish boys who attend London’s well-regarded Hasmonean School was assaulted by a gang of antisemitic thugs. The attack occurred at Belsize Park tube station on the London Underground, in a neighborhood with a similar demographic and sensibility to New York’s Upper West Side, insofar as it is home to a large, long-established Jewish population with shops, cafes and synagogues serving that community. According to the mother of one of the Jewish boys, an 11-year-old, the gang “ran ahead of my son and kicked one of his friends to the ground. They were trying to push another kid onto the tracks. They got him as far the yellow line.” When the woman’s son bravely tried to intervene to protect his friends, he was chased down and elbowed in the face, dislodging a tooth. “Get out of the city, Jew!” the gang told him.
Since the attack, her son has had trouble sleeping. “My son is very shaken. He couldn’t sleep last night. He said ‘It’s not fair. Why do they do this to us?’” she disclosed. “We love this country,” she added, “and we participate and we contribute, but now we’re being singled out in exactly the same way as Jews were singled out in 1936 in Berlin. And for the first time in my life. I am terrified of using the tube. What’s going on?”
The woman and her family may not be in London long enough to find out. According to The Jewish Chronicle, they are thinking of “fleeing” Britain—not a verb we’d hoped to encounter again in a Jewish context after the mass murder we experienced during the previous century. But here we are.
When I was a schoolboy in London, I had a history teacher who always told us that no two situations are exactly alike. “Comparisons are odious, boys,” he would repeatedly tell the class. That was an insight I took to heart, and I still believe it to be true. There are structural reasons that explain why the 2020s are different from the 1930s in significant ways. For one thing, European societies are more affluent and better equipped to deal with social conflicts and economic strife than they were a century ago. Laws, too, are more explicit in the protections they offer to minorities, and more punishing of hate crimes and hate speech. Perhaps most importantly, there is a Jewish state barely 80 years old which all Jews can make their home if they so desire.
Therein lies the rub, however. Since 1948, Israel has allowed Jews inside and outside the Jewish state to hold their heads high and to feel as though they are a partner in the system of international relations, rather than a vulnerable, subjugated group at the mercy of the states where we lived as an often hated minority. Israel’s existence is the jewel in the crown of Jewish emancipation, sealing what we believed to be our new status, in which we are treated as equals, and where the antisemitism that plagued our grandparents and great-grandparents has become taboo.
If Israel represents the greatest achievement of the Jewish people in at least 100 years, small wonder that it has become the main target of today’s reconstituted antisemites. And if one thing has been clear since the atrocities by Hamas on Oct. 7, it’s that Israel’s existence is not something that Jews—with the exception of that small minority of anti-Zionists who do the bidding of the antisemites and who echo their ignorance and bigotry—are willing to compromise on. What’s changed is that it is increasingly difficult for Jews to remain in the countries where they live and express their Zionist sympathies at the same time. We are being attacked because of these sympathies on social media, at demonstrations and increasingly in the streets by people with no moral compass, who regard our children as legitimate targets. Hence, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that while the 2020s may not be the 1930s, they certainly feel like the 1930s.
And so the age-old question returns: Should Jews, especially those in Europe, where they confront the pincer movement of burgeoning Muslim populations and a resurgent far-left in thrall to the Palestinian cause, stay where they are, or should they up sticks and move to Israel? Should we be thinking, given the surge in antisemitism of the past few months, of giving up on America as well? I used to have a clear view of all this. Aliyah is the noblest of Zionist goals and should be encouraged, but I always resisted the notion that every Jew should live in Israel—firstly, because a strong Israel needs vocal, confident Diaspora communities that can advocate for it in the corridors of power; and secondly, because moving to Israel should ideally be a positive act motivated by love, not a negative act propelled by fear.
My view these days isn’t as clear as it was. I still believe that a strong Israel needs a strong Diaspora, and I think it’s far too early to give up on the United States—a country where Jews have flourished as they never did elsewhere in the Diaspora. Yet the situation in Europe increasingly reminds me of the observation of the Russian Zionist Leo Pinsker in “Autoemancipation,” a doom-laden essay he wrote in 1882, during another dark period of Jewish history: “We should not persuade ourselves that humanity and enlightenment will ever be radical remedies for the malady of our people.” The antisemitism we are dealing with now presents itself as “enlightened,” based on boundless sympathy for an Arab nation allegedly dispossessed by Jewish colonists. When our children are victimized by it, this antisemitism ceases to be a merely intellectual challenge, and becomes a matter of life and death. As Jews and as human beings, we are obliged to choose life—which, in the final analysis, when nuance disappears and terror stalks us, means Israel.
The post Down and Out in Paris and London first appeared on Algemeiner.com.
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Hamas Says No Major Changes to Ceasefire Proposal After ‘Vague Wording’ Amendments by US
FILE PHOTO: U.S. President Joe Biden speaks during a campaign rally in Raleigh, North Carolina, U.S., June 28, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Elizabeth Frantz/File Photo
i24 News – A senior official from the terrorist organization Hamas called the changes made by the US to the ceasefire proposal “vague” on Saturday night, speaking to the Arab World Press.
The official said that the US promises to end the war are without a clear Israeli commitment to withdraw from the Gaza Strip and agree to a permanent ceasefire.
US President Joe Biden made “vague wording” changes to the proposal on the table, although it amounted to an insufficient change in stance, he said.
“The slight amendments revolve around the very nature of the Israeli constellation, and offer nothing new to bridge the chasm between what is proposed and what is acceptable to us,” he said.
“We will not deviate from our three national conditions, the most important of which is the end of the war and the complete withdrawal from the Gaza Strip,” he added.
Another Hamas official said that the amendments were minor and applied to only two clauses.
US President Joe Biden made the amendments to bridge gaps amid an impasse between Israel and Hamas over a hostage deal mediated by Qatar and Egypt.
Hamas’s demands for a permanent ceasefire have been met with Israeli leaders vowing that the war would not end until the 120 hostages still held in Gaza are released and the replacement of Hamas in control of the Palestinian enclave.
The post Hamas Says No Major Changes to Ceasefire Proposal After ‘Vague Wording’ Amendments by US first appeared on Algemeiner.com.
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Sacred Spies?
A Torah scroll. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.
JNS.org – How far away is theory from practice? “In theory,” a new system should work. But it doesn’t always, does it? How many job applicants ticked all the boxes “theoretically,” but when it came to the bottom line they didn’t get the job done?
And how many famous people were better theorists than practitioners?
The great Greek philosopher Aristotle taught not only philosophy but virtue and ethics. The story is told that he was once discovered in a rather compromised moral position by his students. When they asked him how he, the great Aristotle, could engage in such an immoral practice, he had a clever answer: “Now I am not Aristotle.”
A similar tale is told of one of the great philosophers of the 20th century, Bertrand Russell. He, too, expounded on ethics and morality. And like Aristotle, he was also discovered in a similarly morally embarrassing situation.
When challenged, his rather brilliant answer was: “So what if I teach ethics? People teach mathematics, and they’re not triangles!”
This idea is relevant to this week’s Torah portion, Shelach, which contains the famous story of Moses sending a dozen spies on a reconnaissance mission to the Land of Israel. The mission goes sour. It was meant to be an intelligence-gathering exercise to see the best way of conquering Canaan. But it resulted in 10 of the 12 spies returning with an utterly negative report of a land teeming with giants and frightening warriors who, they claimed, would eat us alive. “We cannot ascend,” was their hopeless conclusion.
The people wept and had second thoughts about the Promised Land, and God said, indeed, you will not enter the land. In fact, for every day of the spies’ disastrous journey, the Israelites would languish a year in the wilderness. Hence, the 40-year delay in entering Israel. The day of their weeping was Tisha B’Av, which became a day of “weeping for generations” when both our Holy Temples were destroyed on that same day and many other calamities befell our people throughout history.
And the question resounds: How was it possible that these spies, all righteous noblemen, handpicked personally by Moses for the job, should so lose the plot? How did they go so wrong, so off-course from the Divine vision?
Naturally, there are many commentaries with a variety of explanations. To me personally, the most satisfying one I’ve found comes from a more mystical source.
Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, in his work Likkutei Torah, explains it thus: The error of the spies was less blatant than it seems. Their rationale was, in fact, a “holy” one. They actually meant well. The Israelites had been beneficiaries of the mighty miracles of God during their sojourn in the wilderness thus far. God had been providing for them supernaturally with manna from heaven every day, water that flowed from the “Well of Miriam,” Clouds of Glory that smoothed the roads and even dry cleaned their clothes. In the wilderness, the people were enjoying a taste of heaven itself. All their material needs were taken care of miraculously. With no material distractions, they were able to live a life of spiritual bliss, of refined existence and could devote themselves fully to Torah, prayer and spiritual experiences.
But the spies knew that as soon as the Israelites entered the Promised Land, the manna would cease to fall and they would have to till the land, plow, plant, knead, bake and make a living by the sweat of their brow. No more bread from heaven, but bread from the earth. Furthermore, they would have to battle the Canaanite nations for the land. What chance would they then have to devote themselves to idyllic, spiritual pursuits?
So, the spies preferred to remain in the wilderness rather than enter the land. Why be compelled to resort to natural and material means of surviving and living a wholly physical way of life when they could enjoy spiritual ecstasy and paradise undisturbed? Why get involved in the “rat race”?
But, of course, as “holy” and spiritual as their motivation may have been, the spies were dead wrong.
The journey in the wilderness was meant to be but a stepping stone to the ultimate purpose of the Exodus from Egypt: entering the Promised Land and making it a Holy Land. God has plenty of angels in heaven who exist in a pure, spiritual state. The whole purpose of creation was to have mortal human beings, with all their faults and frailties, to make the physical world a more spiritual place. To bring heaven down to earth.
While their argument was rooted in piety, for the spies to opt out of the very purpose of creation was to miss the whole point. What are we here for? To sit in the lotus position and meditate, or to get out there and change the world? Yes, the spies were “holy,” but theirs was an escapist holiness.
The Torah is not only a book of wisdom; it is also a book of action. Torah means instruction. It teaches us how to live our lives, meaningfully and productively in the pursuit of God’s intended desire to make our world a better, more Godly place. This we do not only by study and prayer, the “theoretical” part of Torah but by acts of goodness and kindness, by mitzvot performed physically in the reality of the material world. Theory alone leaves us looking like Aristotle with his pants down.
Yes, it is a cliché but a well-worn truth: Torah is a “way of life.”
The post Sacred Spies? first appeared on Algemeiner.com.