Before Shabbat

As a young man, I assumed that the world would only come into sharper, crisper focus with every passing year. It seemed logical that the older I got, the more eternal verities would emerge, like watermarks on fancy stationery. Truths about life and death, beginnings and endings, war and peace would fill my soul. That when asked, “Does life have ultimate meaning?”, I would answer in the affirmative before the interviewer even finished asking the question.

Alas. That grand assumption of obtaining clarity like putting on a new pair of glasses has not come to pass. In fact, it is quite the opposite. I feel like I’m walking around in a foggy forest with next to no accurate, dependable signposts. The version of the world that I had hoped for in the 60s, filled with peace, love, and harmony, is now derided like a punch line. Some of my most valued ethical standards of freedom and equality and social justice are now mocked with a mean, derisive backhanded sarcasm. The Reform movement’s embrace of an open tent for all Jews and our Jewish-adjacent partners and children and friends, and our upholding tikkun olam (repairing the world) for all people, are seen as naïve and counter-productive ideologies.

I am less sure now than I was 20 years ago. The gap grows all over the world between those with a progressive agenda, and those who see change and evolution with contempt. The emergence of fascism and the selective vision of some on the Left all over the world today clouds everything. It blurs natural alliances and encourages name-calling and racism and antisemitism and Islamophobia.

The other day during an adult learning session, someone wondered out loud if maybe it was time to leave America for a safer haven. I never imagined that was a question to take even half-seriously. And where are we supposed to go? Israel? That’s the most dangerous place on the world right now for Jews. Europe? I’m not sure there are many nations that are happy about the Jews right now. New Zealand? The citizenship process can take years.

With all the darkness and the clouds on the horizon, I wonder what the world will look like in these next years. It sure doesn’t look like I thought it would.  I can’t afford a luxury underground bunker or a private island or whatever the top 1% of the world’s wealthiest have in mind for the stormy weather. I don’t have a gun or a generator. All I have is a lot of toilet paper and paper towels and Kleenex stored in my basement since Covid.

And yet, I do have something else. Call it crazy naivete. Despite it all, I have hope. “Hope… is the ability to work for something because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed.  The more propitious the situation in which we demonstrate hope, the deeper the hope is. Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”     (From Vaclav Havel, Disturbing the Peace, 1986)

What makes sense right now is a collaborative partnership between people of good will who can stretch beyond internecine rivalries to a vision of a better world. How can it be that we can’t share a common goal of keeping our children safe and then commit to spending time and money to pursue that goal?

I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I don’t see things clearly right now. This period may be an inflection point, a transformation of enormous consequence. It could be a stunning sunrise or a crushing flood. In Israel right now, I see no light, only shades of grey and darkness. I have absolutely no idea how the story evolves or devolves. I can’t even find a place to insert hope. But I know that here in our community, despite so many incidents of anti-Jewish vandalism, I hope. I don’t know how it will turn out. But I do know that dialogue is the only way. Common truths. Common dreams. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And that hope remains, clear, in focus, alive.

Purim is a genuinely unhinged holiday. It invites raucous, transgressive behavior right into the sanctuary. The more noise produced, the better. It’s as if the tradition wants us to install a decibel screen and get the groggers and foot-stomping to over 100dbs. We are allowed, only on Purim, to cross-dress. And all of this is fueled by liquor. In the Talmud, Megillah 7b, it is written that a person is supposed to drink on Purim until they cannot tell the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.” Really.

Essentially, Purim is the official opening of a collective Jewish steam valve. It provides some room to play for the deepest part of the human personality, the unruly id. For Jews who live in a tight system of boundaries and communal expectations, Purim cracks open all kinds of transgressions, but just for a day. It’s costumes, whiskey, and carnival—yay!

There is, however, another side to this revelry. The Purim story narrative emphasizes the plight of a Jewish community whose security depends on the goodwill of non-Jewish sovereigns. The decision of Queen Esther, a hidden Jew who comes out of the closet, turns the tables on her people’s persecutors, setting the stage for a massive score-settling—the Jews of Shushan and surrounding parts of the kingdom slaughter 75,000 men. Everyone is terrified of the Jews, and they live happily ever after.

Our congregant, Rick Lipof, sent me a piece from Jewish comedian Elon Gold’s pre-Purim stand-up shtick. Gold says that Hamas doesn’t know Jewish history, that had they read the Megillah, they would realize that “those who seek to destroy us will be destroyed.” The crowd cheers, and the monologue continues.

Gold is a funny guy. But then, as I listened, I began to think about the Purim story more deeply. Previous generations of persecuted Jews may have viewed the expression of joy at the triumph of the Jews of Persia at the expense of their would-be exterminator and his accomplices as a delicious revenge fantasy. But here, I emphasize “fantasy.” Rounding people up we define as our enemy and murdering them has never been a big to-do item on the Jewish list.

Sure, there are times throughout history when Jews have sought vengeance. It is inevitable that some would succumb to that deep, primal reflex. There are also examples of ultra-Orthodox rabbis who justify such behavior. But Jewish teachings on vengeance challenge individuals to rise above the instinct for retribution, advocating instead for a pursuit of justice tempered with mercy and forgiveness, where possible. This approach seeks to break cycles of violence and reflect divine attributes of justice and mercy.

We avoid the last verses of Megillat Esther. We don’t teach it. We don’t cheer about it. We don’t put it on the Jewish ethical smorgasbord. It is repellant. As a fantasy, it certainly gives us that feeling if only we had it. If only we could casually dispatch every enemy of the Jewish people. But we do have a higher standard, as awkward and nagging as it may be. We will defend ourselves always. And even in battle, there must be standards.

It’s hard to be a Jew. It’s hard to uphold a standard of justice and mercy in a world of pain and violence. Celebrate Purim with joy. Acknowledge this once-a-year loosening of Jewish norms. And then return to the endless work that lies ahead.

Experiencing nostalgia evokes memories of people, objects, places, events, or experiences from the past. These memories are often smoothed over. The hardships of the past are often overlooked, and the positive aspects are emphasized, and sometimes exaggerated. This selective memory contributes to the overall warm and comforting feeling that nostalgia can bring, along with pangs and sighs and tears.

Some folks love nostalgia. They like to wear vintage clothes. They have lots of photo albums: hard copies and online, too. They’re big on oldies but goodies. They often say things like, “Life was so much better in the old days.” Or, “They don’t make them like they used to.” They won’t listen to any music made after the Beatles broke up (April 1970, by the way).

I’m not big on nostalgia. I don’t reach into that bag too often. I tend to lean into what’s next, not what was. I’m aware of the extent to which the Jewish calendar can seem, at first blush, to be all about nostalgia. “Remember the Shabbat and keep it holy.” Tell the Passover story every year. Build a sukkah every year, etc. But I relate to these dicta not as cherishing the past but rather engaging the future with the strengths gained from history. Yes, it says in the Haggadah: “In every generation, it is incumbent upon each one of us to see ourselves as if we had personally left Egypt.” But that’s not an invitation to relive the pain of slavery and the hardships we endured. The purpose of bringing it up is to remind us that the journey is not over. It’s the opposite of nostalgia.

Nostalgia crept up on me the other day as I walked into Blacker’s Bakery. Picking up the challah for my family and for the temple is a standard Thursday ritual. I shmooze a little with Karen and Becca Blacker. If I’m lucky, there’s a pastry sliced up for a taste or a crinkle cookie with my name on it. As I wafted in, following the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweets like Pepe LaPew following the scent of perfume, it struck me. Like Proust’s madeleine from A la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), that overwhelming bakery sensory experience brought me back to Covid time. Life was so fundamentally different then. We were filled with anxiety, feeling unsettled and unsure of what was next. But getting into that long line outside Blacker’s bakery to get my challah made me happy. I wasn’t sure of much, but I did know my Shabbat would be a good one. As I walked home, challah in my backpack, I felt such a deep appreciation. As the nostalgic moment enveloped me in memories, I understood that it was important to appreciate that moment again.  

Mixed feelings of joy and sadness is an apt definition of nostalgia, and it fits so many recollections of Covid time. It’s hard to believe how we’ve managed to fire up the engines and blast off again into space. It’s odd how such a life-altering time has faded in so many ways to the back of the mind. But Covid time changed everything. Nothing will ever be quite the same. What those changes are continues to be a colossal question. What remains true throughout time is that sharing appreciation and gratitude is vitally important. For challah, for love, for hope.

It’s been five long, excruciating months since Hamas launched their heartless, brutal terrorist attack on Israel. They murdered 1200 men, women and children. They raped and looted and pillaged. They’re currently holding over one hundred hostages. Their goal was to take the heart and soul of Israel and mercilessly squeeze them dry with the ancient tools of fear and unspeakable violence.  

Israel’s war, launched to erase the name of Hamas like Haman’s name on Purim, has been relentless. With awful, stone-hearted resolve, the IDF has marched through Gaza, searching out the enemy, entering the subterranean tunnels where they hide. The Israeli air force has dropped bombs, strafed homes, and fired missiles, essentially transforming cities and towns to wastelands reminiscent of Europe after WWII. And in the rubble, there are innocents, large numbers of women and children with no place to go, no place to hide. 

The Holocaust is, of course, for all Jews, an eternal source of pain and trauma. For we who live in the Diaspora, over time, some of the sting has dissipated, though not the essential truth of abandonment subjugation and genocide. Our younger generations still learn about the Holocaust and experience its bitterness and angst. But it feels distant, a part of history. They don’t know the names of the perpetrators or the places of mass death. This is what happens over time. Is that a sad truth? I don’t know, but it’s something for us to consider over and over again. 

In Israel, the Holocaust lurks right below the surface. It is a shadow that never quite fades. It is mentioned all the time, referred to in political addresses, at demonstrations, in IDF training, in primary school curricula. When American Jews say, “Never Again”, we are thinking more historically and metaphorically about violence and genocide. When Israelis say, “Never Again”, it has an immediate reference to the present and the horror they promised each other to never have to endure again. 

When Hamas murders innocent people, burns bodies, and decapitates children, they break down the wall between the vulnerable past and the strong, resilient present. And that is unbearable. The terrible trauma of October 7^th has ripped open the hearts and the hopes and assumptions of Israelis.  

This terrible wound of October 7^th connects so deeply to the Israeli psyche. It contradicts the standard assumption that Israelis will never be so vulnerable to the enemy. And this fact, this trauma, has made many Israelis feel like the war in Gaza, with all of its violence and the loss of so many innocents is regrettable, but necessary.  

Out here in the Diaspora, we try to understand this. We want to stand with Israel. We want to do whatever we can to come to the aid of our stricken brothers and sisters. But we also see what those who are traumatized may not. We see the grief of Gazan women and children, true innocents. Our hearts break for their suffering. We seek some means by which to ameliorate their misery.  

We are also experiencing the corrosive effects of the war on Diaspora Jews all over the world. We who love Israel are feeling hostility and condemnation: on campuses, on city streets, on social media. The binary judgment: Israel bad, Palestinians good, based in ignorance of history, is bleeding into our lives, making us feel vulnerable and alone. The most frightening aspect of all of this is how it now, around the edges, certainly looks like and feels like antisemitism. It’s not just Israel is bad – it’s now the Jews are bad.  

It is with enormous humility and respect for our Israeli brothers and sisters that I say, as a Diaspora Jew: we must redefine what we’re doing in Gaza. We must shed a ray of light to see that continuing to bomb and destroy Gaza is ultimately counterproductive. For every Hamas fighter killed or captured, ten orphaned children of Gaza, tired and sick and slowly starving are filled with hate and revenge. They are the next generation of recruits.  

After the smoke clears, Jews and Arabs will still be living in the same neighborhood. We won’t leave our homes and neither will they. How do we begin to stitch together that which has been torn asunder? What are we to do? The occupation of the West Bank and the blockade on Gaza must end – not only because it is brutal and oppressive for Palestinians – but also because it does not guarantee any long-term safety for Israelis. We know that a negotiated peace agreement is the only way to ensure freedom, equality, and safety for both peoples.  

I may not talk about October 7^th as much as I did. I’ve had to learn how to navigate through the pain and the sorrow. I must get through the days, weeks and months ahead. But the Israel-Hamas War plays in the background of my life every day.