Ritual for Tisha B’Av

Adapted from Tisha B’Av observance organized by Jewish Voice for Peace, Boston
July 26, 2015.  Brookline, MA.
Leora Abelson and Isaac Simon Hodes
We wrote this script for a ceremony on Tisha B’Av in the Boston area in July, 2015. The ceremony was at once an observance of the sacred day, a memorial for the victims of “Operation Protective Edge,” and a public statement of solidarity. We share it this year because what we wrote is still true, because we continue to mourn, because in some ways so little has changed. We also share it because this summer, more than ever, we know that acknowledging and honoring our pain and our history of trauma is necessary.
We are heartbroken by the response of some Jewish institutions to the Movement for Black Lives platform. We understand that our history of persecution and the legacy of the Shoah make the use of the term “genocide” in relation to Israel’s actions sharply painful for many. We recognize that members of our community are responding in different ways – some feel called to affirm this usage, some feel called to criticize it, and many feel called to seek to understand the context and intent behind it.
Regardless of our positions on that question, we must not allow our pain to stop us from supporting the transformative struggle of the Movement for Black Lives. And we must not allow our pain to curtail our involvement — as allies or members — with the Movement for Black Lives organizations that created the platform and are central to carrying the struggle forward.
This ceremony expresses our belief that grieving our own losses sensitizes us to the pain and suffering of other communities, including suffering inflicted in our name. Grieving our own losses prepares us to simultaneously fight against anti-Jewish oppression, against racism, and for liberation for all people.
1. We gather on Tisha B’Av in sorrow, but also in solidarity and in struggle.
The sorrow we have come together to share is for the death and destruction brought by the Israeli military’s attack on Gaza in the summer of 2014, and for the suffering of all people touched by that event on either side of the border.
The solidarity we have come together to voice is most of all for the people of Gaza, who suffered the loss of 18,000 homes in Israel’s attack; who mourned more than 1,500 civilians killed, including over 500 children; and who face an ongoing blockade as they try to rebuild. [https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2014/11/israeli-forces-displayed-callous-indifference-deadly-attacks-family-homes-gaza/]
The struggle we have come together to renew is a struggle for justice and peace. The attack on Gaza was carried out by an Israeli government that claims to act on behalf of all Jewish people; the attack was supported by many Jewish institutions in North America that claim to speak in our name; and the attack was enabled by tax dollars, weapons, and diplomatic cover from the United States. But those governments and institutions do not speak for us.
As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said, “Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive.” We hope that by grieving together publicly, by speaking our sorrow and our solidarity with the people of Gaza, we will renew our commitment to struggle against injustice in all of Palestine and Israel, and against anti-blackness, racism, and other forms of oppression in our own communities.
2. Today is Tisha B’Av, which means the ninth day of the month of Av on the Jewish calendar. Tisha B’Av is a day of mourning that collapses Jewish time into one moment. On this day, Jews mourn the tragedies that have traumatized our people centuries apart, from the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem to the expulsion of Jews from Spain to the Nazi Holocaust. The existence of this day in our tradition testifies to something we all know – that destruction, personal and collective, is a part of human existence, and unless we honor the pain of our trauma, we cannot move through it.
As activists, we know that the grief we feel about our own people’s persecution is bound up and interconnected with the grief with feel about the persecution of other peoples. The grief we feel about moments of destruction in Jewish history is bound up with the grief we feel about the destruction of life, of families, of communities in Gaza.
On this day, our tradition demands that we take the time to mourn. To name our losses, to feel the depth of our grief, and to do so in community. Today we mourn all the lives that were destroyed in Gaza last summer. We honor the pain of those who survived, the people of Gaza and all Palestinians, who face ongoing destruction and violence, and Israelis who live in fear. We acknowledge our grief at the unjust and unnecessary destruction of life.
We rage at the racism, imperialism, and anti-Jewish oppression that lie at the roots of this situation, that created the context in which this conflict and destruction took place, and that continue functioning to keep the dynamic of occupation and subjugation in place. And we mourn our own experience of exile from Jewish communities where we are not supposed to talk about these things.
3. As we mourn and move forward in struggle, we draw strength from both religious and secular Jewish traditions, and from other sources as well. We recognize that each of you has a unique relationship to the different parts of these traditions. We invite you to participate in the ritual as feels comfortable to you.
4. After a brief ceremony, we invite you to participate in a march. We will carry photos taken in Gaza and sing a niggun, a wordless melody, as we march. We hope that the ceremony will allow us to open our hearts deeply to the grief that we feel, and that we will bring that energy of mourning into the community.
5. [Poem recited.]
6.  [Introduction of memorial cards and testimony]
7. We now invite people holding memorial cards to come forward. These cards hold photographs and stories of individuals and families who were killed in the conflict last summer.
8. [Reading of cards by various participants.]
9. [Poem recited.]
10. We close our ceremony with the recitation of two traditional Jewish prayers of mourning. El Malei Rachamim is a prayer for the dead. Mourners’ Kaddish is for the living: we pray to continue to feel these losses deeply and let them strengthen our activism.
These prayers are Jewish expressions of the universal experience of mourning. Saying them today is a Jewish response to the horrors in Gaza, not claiming it but standing beside it, affirming the interconnection of our pain.
Saying it here [in Brookline] we speak also to the Jewish community beyond this circle, inviting them to remember the searing grief of death and loss, and to find empathy for the survivors in Gaza.
11. [Chant El Malei Rachamim and Mourners’ Kaddish]

Visions of Freedom

The following remarks are from Shabbat morning at the Jewish Voice for Peace National Members Meeting in Baltimore, Maryland. Rabbi Alissa Wise opened the morning plenary, “Visions of Freedom” with Andrea Smith and Sa’ed Adel Atshan with these words of Torah:

It is my hope that this morning’s exploration of visions of freedom, which centers the sharp analysis and experiences of both Native American and Palestinian scholars, will begin to prepare us to think creatively and expansively this weekend–and ongoing. To begin, I’d like to briefly share some of my perspective on a source of knowledge and inspiration we rarely avail ourselves of at JVP: the Talmud.

In the summer of 2007, while I was in Rabbinical School, I traveled with Birthright Replugged, a trip that takes Palestinian youth from refugee camps in the West Bank for the first time to Jerusalem, the Sea, and the villages their families were from before they were displaced in 1948. Part of the design of the trip is for those of us with passports that allow us to move freely to use that privilege to support Palestinian youth getting a glimpse of return, before they turn 16 and get the ID cards that forbids them to travel into Israel.

As we stepped onto the land where the village of Bariqa once stood, somewhere between Nazareth and Haifa, two brothers—Ahmed, age 14 and Muhammed, age 12—called their grandfather, who had fled this land when the war came to his village in 1948. Instead of a village, what is there now are heaps of stones where houses once stood, with rusting barrels and piles of trash littering the ground.

Via cellphone, Ahmed and Muhammed’s grandfather described the village to them, as they tried to find where his house once stood. We looked for the hills and the trees the grandfather was describing to Ahmed, using the piles of stones from destroyed homes and the cacti traditionally used as fences as clues.

The grandfather told Ahmed that while they were packing their bags in 1948, fleeing the village as the Israeli army approached, the last thing he did was carve his name in the tree outside of his house. He didn’t know then that he would be leaving forever. Ahmed and Muhammed found the tree with their grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s names carved into it. The etchings were still intact.

Still on the phone with their grandfather, the boys picked some wildflowers growing nearby and held up the phone to the flowers so that the grandfather could talk to the flowers and say hello again. It was a reunion, two generations later.

On the way back to the refugee camp Ahmed asked me, “When will I get to return home?”

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This question: When can I return home? Is hidden by the forests that the Jewish National Fund plants over destroyed Palestinian villages and Israeli laws that forbid commemorations of the Nakba. It is shouted over by liberals rejecting the Right of Return, and by “Birthright” trips for young Jews whose grandfathers were born in Brooklyn not Bariqa. But those of us working toward Palestinian liberation must insist on this question. The question is real and urgent for us to ask and to demand an answer to.

In the same summer of 2007 when I return to the village of Bariqa , I had the chance to teach Talmud to some secular jewish Israelis in Zochrot–the organization we will hear from later today.

I wish I had recorded the experience. Never have I seen such a radical transformation in a classroom. When my Talmud teacher from Rabbinical School and I stepped into the space and announced we would be teaching Talmud, the group collectively moaned. “What?! Talmud! We have nothing to learn from Talmud! Feh!”

Somehow we coaxed them into it.

By the end it was a complete 180. They were leaving marveling at how the rabbis of the Talmud totally understood what it was like to be a Jewish Israeli in 2007 advocating for the right of return for Palestinians.

It makes sense-The rabbis of the Talmud interpreted and adapted things to make sense in their time and their inner logic: just as we must! They were proud of themselves and their project to continue and flourish Jewish culture outside of the Temple in Jerusalem: just as we should be!

With the fall of the 2nd temple in Jerusalem, Judaism began as an oral tradition focused on process, not product. This process, made up of arguments, deliberations,  laws, and stories combine to do more than impart Jewish law — the process teaches us ethical responsibility.

The text we taught was a short little story from Masechet Menachot in the Bablylonian Talmud. To understand there are a few basic things you need to know (the Talmud has a lot of proto-hyperlinks and assumes lots of other knowledge).

 

  1. Tefillin is a set of small black leather boxes containing scrolls of parchment inscribed with verses from the Torah which are worn during weekday morning prayers.
  2. In Jewish biblical law, firstborn sons were  to devote their life to service in the Temple. Parents may “redeem” their sons from this obligation by paying a small sum of money. Numbers 18:15 states that you must redeem a firstborn son by paying the priest 5 shekel, or sela in rabbinic hebrew.
  3. When someone isn’t given a name, it means that they are not inside the authoritative system. The people inside the system are all referenced by name.

Ok, here is the story–

Pleimo asked Rabi: “With regard to someone who has two heads – on which of them does he lay t’fillin?”

Rabi said to Pleimo: “Either get up and be exiled, or accept upon yourself excommunication!”

Meanwhile, a man came.

The man said to Rabi: A baby was born to me who has two heads. How much must we give to the priest?

An old man came in and ruled: you must give him ten Selah.

Let me break it down a bit in case this short story’s brilliance passed you by.

Pleimo, the student who is himself a part of the approved system of the Talmudic rabbis–asks a seemingly outlandish, farsical question. Rabi chastises Pelimo and sees Pleimo as undermining his legitimacy and offers him to leave on his own accord or be banished. either way, Pleimo is out. If the story ended here, we might also think Pleimo was just being the class clown.

But then a man walks in–the Aramaic almost literally says “some guy”. And wait–there is such a  thing as a person with two heads. A problem of a two headed person is real. The man is obligated to pay to redeem his first born, he needs an answer. The answer comes from a random old man, who is not part of the authority structure established by the Talmudic rabbis themselves.

Rabi doesnt think it is real question, pleimo may or may not think of it as real question–we don’t totally know, but it is a real question and there is an answer. It may not come from Rabi, from the seat of authority, but as the old man contributes his wisdom as someone outside the authorized seat of power– he asserts that there is a remedy. Justice is possible—you must give him ten Selah.

It is important also to not miss–as we consider how Talmud can teach us ethical responsibility through its process–that this critique of authority–the limitations of Rabi’s imagination, and the idea that wisdom can come from outside the seat of power the rabbis of the Talmud themselves have created– is something itself the very rabbis who created the system wrote! It is a welcome reminder to us of the limits of the systems even we create, and the importance of flexibility and humility in order to be ethical.

For the Jewish Israelis in Zochrot, it clearly felt like an affirmation that when they do their work of bringing the history of the Nakba and bringing Ahmed’s question into Israeli society they are often met with the response of Rabi: get up and be exiled, or accept upon yourself excommunication. But the question is real.  The refugee is real. Our responsibility is real.

Our work in the Organizing program at JVP is about creating a situation where an ethical process can occur in palestine . Where an outside voice of wisdom and possibility outside a failed peace process, or an unethical status quo can vision freedom where Palestinians and Jewish Israelis as equal partners can determine the future they want to share.

Where Bedouin of the Negev can continue to live and thrive on their land in peace.

Where those who fall in love on either side of the Green Line can live wherever they choose,

where Gazan farmers can grow and sell and buy food freely,

where  palestinian children are not imprisoned in Israeli jails,

where boys playing soccer on the beach are not murdered,

where Ahmed and Muhammed’s grandfather can see those flowers in person before he dies.

The vision of freedom is then simple, as we learn in the book of Proverbs: withhold not the good from whom it is due when it is in the power of your hands to do it.


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Thank you to my teachers and co-thinkers: Rabbi Sarra Lev, Nava EtShalom, and Daniel Boyarin

JVP Rabbinical Council Statement on Gaza – Summer 2014

We are currently amidst “the three weeks” – the annual Jewish period of quasi-mourning that leads to the fast day of Tisha B’Av. This is the season that bids us to look deeply into the soul of our community and examine the ways that our sinat chinam – baseless hatred – has led to our communal downfall.

Driven by the spirit of this season, we cannot help but speak out in response to the horrific loss of life currently taking place in Gaza, at the hands of the Israeli military. We deplore the Israeli government’s military crackdown in the West Bank that led to its lethal, military onslaught on the people of Gaza.  We mourn the deaths of hundreds of innocent people, including children.

We condemn Hamas’ rockets attacks on Israel and are deeply grieved by the anxiety, injury and death they have caused. But we cannot view this as a war between two equal sides. Israel has unlimited hi-tech weaponry; it dominates Gazan airspace, its borders, its utilities and economy.

Moreover, it was Israel who willfully launched this mission of death on the Palestinian people. Israel hides behind the pretext of avenging the still unsolved kidnapping and killing of three Jewish boys. Rather than seeking recourse through civil, legal means, Israel’s leaders have called for vengeance, with terrible consequences.

We can not stand idly by as the Jewish State acts with such wanton disregard, with such sinat chinam, for the humanity of the mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, children and elders of Gaza.

As Jews, we abhor the abuse of human rights that are standard practice of our fellow Jews in the Israeli government and Israeli military. This is not the path of justice.

As rabbis, we must speak out against collective punishment, the blowing up homes of innocent people, the terrorizing of an entire people, and the killing of innocent children.

This Jewish season asks us to engage in a collective moral accounting; to reckon seriously with the ways our own failings have historically led to our communal downfall. Mindful of this spiritual imperative, we call upon the government of Israel to end its military onslaught, which we believe will only lead to more tragedy for Jews and Palestinians alike.

We stand with all people of conscience who reject the ways of militarism and occupation and who seek a path to a truly just peace in Israel/Palestine.

*Statements of the JVP Rabbinical Council represent the council as a whole but not necessarily individual members

Mishpatim: The Covenant of Justice and Conquest

By: Cantor Michael Davis

My moral education as a traditional Jew began with this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim. After last week’s Ten Commandments, this week we get to the nitty gritty of Torah. Mishpatim opens with a long list of civil laws. One of the first sections of the Talmud that young Jewish children are taught is the Bavot )”the Gates”): Bava Kama, Bava Metzia and Bava Batra – the First, Middle and Last Gates. The Bavot are the oldest section of the Talmud: it is where the Talmud starts out. These legal discussions are an elucidation of the laws we read in Mishpatim. What do you do if you accidentally- or intentionally – break something? If you borrow something and lose it? How do youmake the other person whole? These are good moral exercises for young people. It was how Jewish morals were first taught to me.

The Midrash draws our attention to the biblical setting of Torah. The Torah was given to Israel not to Egypt to the west or Canaan to the east but in the empty desert in between.

Only in the great openness of the desert was there room for the people to take on this new thing: Torah.

How did the Israelites end up in the desert? The Bible acknowledges that this wasn’t the obvious choice. A more direct route from Egypt to the Land of Canaan would have taken the people along the coastal road, along the shore of the Mediterranean Sea (Exodus 13:17). Today that would be crossing from Africa to Asia through the northern Sinai desert, passing through El-Arish, north through Gaza into the State of Israel. The Bible calls this route “the Land of the Philistines”. God steered the Israelites away from populated lands because, as the Biblical verse teaches, the just-freed slaves were not ready for war. God knew that encountering any settled people meant war. So the people were guided southwards, away from civilization into the empty desert.

It seems that in the desert there was a willingness to try other new things too. Famously, Moses, the father of the Jewish people, married a non-Israelite woman,Tzipporah. Moreover, his father-in-law, Jethro was clergy, a Midianite priest. Last week’s Torah portion records how the novice leader Moses turned to his more experienced father-in-law for advice. Judaism is built on the wisdom of another religion.

Whereas the first part of Mishpatim is an orderly list of reasonable laws addressing commonplace situations, the end of this week’s Torah portion turns to another part of Israel’s covenant with God. Chapter 23 points to the next phase in nation building -getting land. For Israel that meant the invasion of Canaan. This portion presages the divine destruction of the city of Jericho and the Israelite war of conquest. In this section, God lets Israel know that they will need to kill, expel or enslave the inhabitants of the land. Peaceful, interfaith coexistence were good for the desert; in the land they must turn to war and – according to this section – what today we could only call “ethnic cleansing.”

Exodus 23: 20 Behold, I send an angel before thee, to keep thee by the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared. 21 Take heed of him, and hearken unto his voice; be not rebellious against him; for he will not pardon your transgression; for My name is in him. 22 But if thou shalt indeed hearken unto his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine adversaries. 23 For Mine angel shall go before thee, and bring thee in unto the Amorite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, and the Canaanite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite; and I will cut them off. 24 Thou shalt not bow down to their gods, nor serve them, nor do after their doings; but thou shalt utterly overthrow them, and break in pieces their pillars. 25 And ye shall serve the LORD your God, and He will bless thy bread, and thy water; and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee. {S} 26 None shall miscarry, nor be barren, in thy land; the number of thy days I will fulfill. 27 I will send My terror before thee, and will discomfit all the people to whom thou shalt come, and I will make all thine enemies turn their backs unto thee. 28 And I will send the hornet before thee, which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaanite, and the Hittite, from before thee. 29 I will not drive them out from before thee in one year, lest the land become desolate, and the beasts of the field multiply against thee. 30 By little and little I will drive them out from before thee, until thou be increased, and inherit the land. 31 And I will set thy border from the Red Sea even unto the sea of the Philistines, and from the wilderness unto the River; for I will deliver the inhabitants of the land into your hand; and thou shalt drive them out before thee. 32 Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor with their gods.

(From Mamre, the JPS translation)

If we read this text with a contemporary religious sensibility, it is truly shocking. Nowadays, we might turn to religion for comfort, tranquility or inspiration. But this section features “the God of the Old Testament” in all His fury.I think our reaction is not just a modern sentiment. Throughout the ages the rabbis had a sense of discomfort with this text. They kept it hidden: it is tucked away at the back of the weekly Torah reading. The last part of Mishpatim is not in the beginning Talmud curriculum. Ask most Jews to identify it and they won’t recognize it.

I believe that the value of these words is in its honesty. There is no pretense that this “people with no land” was about to enter “a land with no people.” The Torah tells us that the land was already inhabited with seven peoples. And all of them were condemned by the Israelites’ God to death or exile. Or in the case of the land’s eponymous indigenous people – the Canaanites – they were to become the indentured slaves of the Hebrew invaders with few rights.

So, what are we to make of this?

I have come to read sections like this, like the bloody wars of conquest in the Book of Joshua too, as Biblical acknowledgements of human nature and the ways of the world. These sections are included in the canon because war is unavoidably a part of life. That was so three thousand years ago and is still the case today. By including this section in the canon, the ancient rabbis acknowledged the ugly realities of the world. In trying to talk to other Jewish leaders about the reality of life on the West Bank I have encountered the objection, “but this is so harsh!” If our social world is all polite and kind, where do we find the language to speak and the concepts to think about the wars and atrocities we know are happening in the world? The Bible does give us the language to talk about what we know is true. But by excluding the end of Mishpatim out of prayer and liturgical readings, while keeping the beginning of Mishpatim within the Talmud in the curriculum, Judaism laid out for us a path of constructing our moral universe in an often violent, unjust world.

It is up to us to decide:

War or peace and justice.

The Bible includes both.

The Rabbis of old established a Judaism that chooses peace.

Which will we choose?

Occupying Tu Bishvat

By: Cantor Michael Davis

After January 1, how many New Years are there? The beginning of the school year. Rosh Hashana. Your birthday. The Talmud introduces one more, Jewish practice: the “New Year of the Trees” – Tu Bishvat (15th of the Hebrew month of Shevat). This year that happens to fall on the evening of January 15. It may be the dead of winter in North America, but in Israel/Palestine all it takes is some winter rain to bring life back to the desert plants and flowers. The trees there are also producing their first blossoms. While the major holidays celebrate Jewish history and the stories of ancient miracles, the Bible also sets them in the agricultural cycle. For example, Passover is “Chag Ha’aviv,” the

Spring Festival in addition to being “Chag Hacherut,” the holiday of freedom. By contrast, Tu Bishvat is unique among the many Jewish holidays in that it does not commemorate any miracle, except for the never-ending miracle of nature.

The Talmud’s interest in the trees’ new year was quite practical. Farmers were required to tithe their fruit and this priestly tax was regulated around the tree’s annual cycle. The holiday’s ancient origin lived on in the following centuries in the form of a celebration of fruit. When I was growing up in England, we celebrated Tu Bishvat/ the 15th of Shevat the traditional way: by eating 15 different types of fruit. Since there aren’t really 15 types of everyday fruit, after we had worked our way through the fruit bowl of apples, pears and oranges, we turned to dried fruit: dates, figs and raisins and even obscure fruit like carob. How better to celebrate the appearance of tree blossoms than to enjoy the fruit that emerges from the flower buds?

In modern times, Zionism claimed Tu Bishvat as a tree-planting festival. In the Jewish tradition of collecting small change for charity, the most prominent pushke, or tzedaka box, has been the ubiquitous blue JNF (Jewish National Fund) box for planting trees. My siblings were given “tree planting certificates” in honor of their birth. Tree planting in Israel became a central expression of Jewish charity, no more so than on Tu Bishvat. To date, the JNF has planted a quarter of a billion trees on over a quarter of a million acres of land. A fascinating new study (soon to be published) by scholar Dr. Rhoda Rosen tries to understand the Zionist afforestation project and place it in the broader context of modern history.

An early administrator of the JNF argued that tree planting was the easiest and fastest way to stake a Jewish claim on the land. Some of the founders of the JNF’s afforestation project were trained in British colonial India, where planting forests was a means of claiming land for the crown. Under Israeli law (based on a mid-19th century Ottoman law), planting trees on somebody else’s property can transfer ownership and void previous claims to the land.

My first home in Israel was in a little village in the Jerusalem hills. On the bus to school in Jerusalem, I could see the pine forests stretching from the crest of the hilltops down to the dirt trail at the base of the slopes. Sometimes, I would go on hikes along these trails, passing through the deserted stone buildings of Lifta at the entrance to Jerusalem. Close up, I could see the man-made stone terraces hidden by the trees.

Occasionally, you would come across broken stone walls tracing the shape of a ruined house. The pines blurred the lines of previous ownership and concealed the destruction of Palestinian civilization that happened with the birth of the State. Rosen shows how over 80% of the forests were planted after the birth of the State of Israel, many of them on land vacated by the departing indigenous population. Some 80% of the Palestinian population left in 1948, never to return. And this project continues with JNF’s focus on land in the Palestinian areas of the State of Israel in the Galilee and Negev and the secretive planting of trees in the West Bank. (In a call-in interview that JNF just posted on YouTube, the organization’s CEO, Russell Robinson, does not answer a caller’s question about JNF tree planting over the Green Line.)

So, it is appropriate to point out that the forests of the Jewish National Fund forests are not fruitbearing, but pine. It is deeply symbolic then that the early 20th century Eastern European settlers chose a non-native, barren tree. Symbolically and in a real sense, this foreign tree displaced the olive trees of the indigenous population.

The JNF’s lasting legacy for Jews around the world, beyond the awareness of the importance of trees, is to establish Tu Bishvat as a significant holiday. While other traditional dates on the religious calendar have disappeared from the lives of all but the Orthodox, Tu Bishvat continues to be a significant date for liberal Jews.

For activists and those trying to reclaim Jewish ritual for non-nationalistic Judaism, how do we reclaim Tu Bishvat?

On Wednesday evening, the eve of Tu Bishvat, eat some fruit – fifteen types, if you like. Focus on the fruits of Israel/Palestine. Jewish liturgy, following the bible, celebrates figs, dates, pomegranates and olives as the special fruits of the Land of Israel. In particular, the ancient culture of olive trees is under constant threat by settlers and the state. So, buy some Palestinian olives or olive oil. Celebrate the natural abundance of the land in solidarity with its indigenous people.

 This lovely story from the Talmud (Ta’anit 5b) uses the fruit tree as a metaphor for a blessing:

When they were about to say farewell to each other, Rabbi Nachman said, “Bless me, master. Rabbi Yizhak said, “How shall I bless you?I think of a man on a journey in the desert. The man was hungry, tired and thirsty. He came upon a tree bearing sweet fruit, casting generous shade on the ground with water flowing plentifully by its roots. The man picked some fruit off the tree and ate it. Then he drank some water and lay down to rest in the tree’s shade. When he was ready to get up and leave, he said, “O tree, how shall I bless you? If I were to say, may your fruit be sweet – but your fruit are already sweet!; that your shade be generous? it already is!; that water should flow by your roots? – it already does! So, let me bless you that all trees that are planted from your will be just like you.”

With best wishes for a beautiful, ethical Tu Bishvat!

 If you would like to honor the tradition of tree planting, click here to plant a tree for peace.

Too good to be true: a drash for Parshat Vayishlach

By: Rabbi Jeremy Milgrom

 

Four out of five successive chapters of Vayishlach (Gen. 32:4 – 36:43) – the genealogies of chapter 36 provide slim pickings – pack in suspense, fear, violence avoided and violence let loose, and a narrative that continues to color our lives, especially those of us who are attentive to the Palestinian-Israeli conflict
The drama rises and falls twice in this parashah, once leaving us relieved, once leaving us troubled, But in both cases, there are loose threads that are tied and untied throughout Jewish history. The same is true for the promise of the land, which is repeated now for the sixth straight week. Here are my reflections on what all these could mean for us.

Too good to be true x 2: idyllic scenarios deposit themselves at Jacob’s feet in our parashah, but Jewish history goes a different way (“Yeh. Well, history is going to change!”)

Genesis 32-33: Esau embraces the brother who took advantage of his distress to take his birthright, and then tricked him out of his blessing, but is reluctant to accept any compensation. Only after Jacob implores him, Esau agrees to take the offering. Esau doesn’t want the encounter to end, and suggests they journey together, but Jacob declines. Esau offers Jacob an escort, which he also declines. They meet only once more, to bury their father, Isaac, and if Jacob ever makes good on his promise to visit his brother Esau in Se’ir (v. 14), the text doesn’t tell us about it.

Genesis 34: 9-10 Hamor wants to make the marriage of his son Shechem, to Jacob’s daughter Dinah, the rule rather than the exception, so that the two tribes intermarry and live together. Jacob’s sons agree, on condition that the people of Shechem undergo circumcision, and they state that this will result in the fusion of the two tribes into one people עם אחד!, (v. 15-16).

Read on their own, these two offers of brotherly love and neighborly absorption seem so wholesome, a fitting reconciling resolution to the decades of fear and hatred that simmered throughout the childhood household of Jacob and Esau, and a promising end to the wanderings of Abraham and his descendants which so often featured jealousy and conflict with their environment. Viewed, however, through the lens of subsequent biblical tradition and centuries of post-biblical Jewish history, not only are they roads not taken, but treacherous roads that would have obviated this story of ours before it ever got started: Esau was first understood to prefigure the people of Edom who cheered the destruction of Jerusalem (cf. Psalm 137 and the book of Ovadia), then the Romans, who destroyed the Second Temple, and finally the Holy Roman Empire and Christendom in general. As for Shechem and his townspeople, the Torah considered the indigenous people on the land to be
immoral idolaters and, ever fearful of their power to seduce the Israelites into worshiping their gods, prohibited Israel from co-existing with them.

Must we, in the name of tradition, maintain the these prejudices towards the descendants of Esau and Shechem? I would argue that not only should we be free to read the biblical text on its own without lenses tinted or stained by lachrymose or belligerent history (although it is certainly liberating to see how much richer the story becomes and more masterful the storyteller emerges); read this way, we can embrace the story of Jacob as our own as we find ourselves struggling with the perennial family issues of sibling rivalry and reconciliation, in the personal sphere, and questions of Jewish communal values in the collective sphere.

Sympathizing as we do with Jacob’s relief in encountering a placated Esau, we are chastened enough by our own family experiences to be saddened when we see how hard it is for Jacob to dislodge intrafamilial suspicion built up over the years and how easy it is for him to decline the invitation to rebuild a relationship that perhaps never was. Surely, the intermarriage pendulum doesn’t swing for us to the extremes that we find in Genesis 34: we’ve made a great deal of progress institutionally (e.g., keruv and conversion) and live in a prevailing climate of wait-and-see since those days. However, in Israel, where demographic concerns are a live wire, a love story that radiates physical survival has a higher resonance, and makes us wonder whether religious affiliation can become a greater curse than it is a blessing.

Making the Promised Land a land of promise

A Catholic missionary nurse I know who devotes her life to treating the poor and championing their rights can’t quite understand what troubles me about the largess that is Israel’s reward for being God’s people. For her, Israel’s chosenness is but a model of God’s love for all creation. However, I am not the only one who has reached the sad realization that our sacred story has  also inspired less harmonious thoughts. This is the sixth weekly reading that contains the promise of the land, renewed to Jacob after being first made to his grandfather Abraham, and then his father Isaac. How can we, who believe that all who trace their roots back to Abraham — whether via Jacob and Isaac, or Esau or Ishmael, should be living together on the land — deny that it’s meant to be only ours? What follows are some of my suggestions, and I’m open to hearing yours:

“I give to you the land which I gave to Abraham and Isaac, to your descendants after you I give the land” –Gen. 35:12

1. In other Genesis passages of blessing (Gen. 12, 18 and 28), we find the formula נברכו בך כל משפחות האדמה – all peoples of the earth will be blessed through you/will bless themselves by  you/will pray to be blessed as you are. The blessing is inclusive and does not marginalize the Other. Israel’s existence will be in harmony with the world, and beneficial to it. But here it is missing. Perhaps, in the wake of the deterioration of relations between Jacob’s family and the people of Shechem, the redactor found it hard to hold on to the optimism upon which an inclusive world outlook depends. I’d like to think it is not a significant omission, and that we’re allowed or even expected to add it on on our own.

2. The land can provide a home without it having to be our exclusive possession. In other biblical passages, the idolatry of the indigenous people of Canaan is seen as a threat to Israel’s covenant with God, but there is no mention of that fear anywhere in Genesis; on the contrary, they are often depicted as God-fearing. For many decades now, interfaith understanding has taken the place of interreligious polemics: both Christianity and Islam are acknowledged as monotheistic religions even by traditional halachic authorities, let alone in our spiritual niche, where our commonalities with other faiths are gladly prized and celebrated.

3. While this is not made clear in this chapter, the promise of the land must be seen within the context of the covenant with God, which, as we learned in chapter 18, demands moral sensitivity. In the Jacob story, the Torah frowns on dishonorable behavior three times, twice in his depriving Esau of the birthright and the blessing, and again when his sons trick the people of Shechem into circumcision. Jacob has to go into a twenty year exile because of the former, and live with the animosity of his neighbors in the latter; the descent into Egypt is precipitated by sibling rivalry among Jacob’s children, a family curse which began two generations earlier with the limited moral vision Abraham displays towards Sarah and Hagar.

4. The promise of the land was always conditional upon moral behavior, and dispersion upon the fall of the kingdoms of Israel and Judah was understood as punishment for sin, as well as that which occurred after the destruction of the Second Temple. Could the challenge of honorable coexistence with the Palestinians be today’s test of our moral standards, and the condition for our prospering in the land? Can there be a bigger betrayal of the land as a place of refuge and blessing for all than the way it has become the anchor for our privileged lives at the expense of refugees, the millions of Palestinians we have kept from returning to their homes since 1948 or who have emigrated since because of the oppressive conditions of the occupation, and most recently, the African migrants to whom we turn a cold shoulder like the world did to us when the Nazis came to power?

Looking for Water: a drash for Parshat Toldot

by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat

1.

Isaac dug his father’s wells anew.
This doesn’t mean he just treaded old ground.

Avraham had plumbed the earth’s deep wisdom.
Where his pick struck soil, compassion poured.

Isaac opened up his father’s pipes
so kindness, long-delayed, could flow again.

In all who drank, a memory arose:
water, shared in the desert, saves a life.

2.

When Isaac’s servants, digging in the wadi
found a spring, the herdsmen quarreled: “This is ours.”

Frustrated, they named that place Contention.

He dug another, they fought again: Dispute.

This trend should sound familiar. Today, who drills
— and who drinks only the infrequent rains?

What new name might we choose if we could build
a world where everyone gets enough water?

3.

Source of all, flow through us like the rains.
Turn the spigot of abundant blessing.

Teach us we won’t die, parched and alone,
but live renewed like hillsides kissed with dew.

When we can share the stuff of which we’re made,
what makes our earth the firmament’s swirled blue,

then we will find the ample space we need
to share this earth as kin with all who thirst.

(And let us say: Amen.)

SOURCES
“Isaac dug his father’s wells anew.” Genesis 26:17.

“But when Isaac’s servants, digging in the wadi, found there a well of spring water, the herdsmen of Gerar quarreled with Isaac’s herdsmen, saying, ‘The water is ours. He named that well Esek, because they contended with him.” Genesis 26:19-20 

“And when they dug another well, they disputed over that one also; so he named it Sitnah.” Genesis 26:21

“In today’s world, ask: / who may drill, who only gets the infrequent rains?” See The Gap in Water Consumption between Palestinians and Israelis, B’tselem 2013.