Before Shabbat

I have a recurrent dream. I am walking down a hallway seemingly without end. There are identical doors on the right and left. The doors are all closed but not locked. I don’t feel any panic or unease. The infinitude of the hallway is not disconcerting. There are no monsters here. At any point, I know I can open a door without fear. I awaken without anxiety. In fact, I am composed and rested.

I wonder: where was I? Where am I? This dream may reflect any number of possible unconscious thoughts or desires. A growing body of research suggests that dreams might be a product of the brain’s predictive processing mechanisms, continuously generating and testing predictions about the world. This view sees dreams as a way for the brain to refine its predictive models.

This notion of predictive processing doesn’t reflect the dream’s more profound meaning as I have experienced it. What it feels like is a trip into my mind. Behind every door is an imponderable question, a question I may have never thought about.

I have a collection of imponderable questions. Curious about other people’s questions, I googled ‘imponderable questions’. I expected a million lists of perplexing conundrums. Instead, I saw website after website of jokes. “Why do they call it rush hour if nobody’s moving?” “Why are the names Zoe and Zoey pronounced identically but not Joe and Joey?”

There was no sign of a serious list of tough, deep questions. Perhaps it’s all about the unease folks may feel about going deep. It can be disconcerting to start thinking about space, time, matter, and consciousness. It may feel frightening to realize that there are so many imponderable questions. But isn’t that the true thrill in life? To realize how much mystery remains in our world.

I have a list. Why is the speed of light the absolute speed limit of the Universe? The Universe is expanding; expanding into what? Where did the tradition of reading the haftarah originate, and why? What is the origin of consciousness? What if the Universe as a whole is conscious, and our individual consciousnesses are aspects of this cosmic consciousness?

I love to ponder these questions, so basic and yet unknowable. If I were to open random doors in my infinite hallway, which I believe to be my creative unconscious, I might find this one: if all living matter is conscious (called panpsychism), then what does a leaf ‘know’? What might that leaf be thinking today? It may be luxuriating in its yearlong life, from the bud burst days to now, bedecked in outstanding brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows.

If panpsychism is a thing, then perhaps the leaf is aware of temperature change, that it’s cooling off. And does the leaf know what happens next as the temperature chills down? Can it feel the tree stop producing chlorophyll, that as the chlorophyll gets switched off, its color emerges? That its beauty is a sign of its demise?

Yes, I know. This is a flight of fantasy. But I feel it all around me. The leaves are changing. Their beauty is a firm reminder that life keeps moving forward without pause. The gorgeous full canopy of healthy trees will soon give way to multi-colored splendor, which will, in turn, yield dead, brown leaves and branches exposed to the cold. And then it all comes around again.

The Jewish New Year happens, at least for New Englanders, right in the midst of this arboreal transition. It matches our thoughts and experiences as we ponder the big questions about the meaning and direction of our lives. Some things brighten, and others fade.

How will we choose to live our lives? Can we forgive and be forgiven? Can we lean into empathy and thoughtfulness? These are some questions behind the doors in your hallway. Open them up.

On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool,

In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,

He was splashing…enjoying the jungle’s great joys…

When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

Dr. Seuss wrote “Horton Hears a Who” in 1954, the year of my birth. As my parents read to us, I first encountered Horton very early in my life. While I may not have grasped literary criticism as an infant, I’m certain that the sounds of the words, the cadence, and the beautiful rhythmic flow of each phrase delighted me. Even now, seventy years later, rereading these lines is thrilling.

The rhyming, meter, and evocative images wrap around me like a warm blanket. Seuss’s memorable illustrations, so funny and strange, certainly added to the charm. But even without the artwork, the text endures.

Words have a unique way of capturing our imagination, and poetry can have a particularly strong pull on our heartstrings. Yes, it can sometimes be cheesy and overly sentimental, like a treacly greeting card. But when a poem works, it can open a door we didn’t even know was locked.

Personally, I’m not a fan of rhyming poetry. It too often devolves into a search for matching sounds at the expense of deeper meanings. Unless it’s for a children’s book or a parodied birthday song, it just doesn’t move me. 

I know this might infuriate English majors, but I want to clarify that this is all just a matter of taste. I’m not suggesting that Keats, Whitman, or Dickens aren’t brilliant. They simply don’t resonate with me in the same way.

For me, the poetry of meaning lies in plainspoken text, artfully expressed. Some modern poetry – prime examples being The New Yorker’s weekly poems – is shrouded in such arcane images and twisted sentiments that I find myself reading it over and over, unable to grasp its meaning. In contrast, poems by Billy Collins, Robert Pinsky, Mary Oliver, or Ellen Bass speak the language of the heart. They’re filled with pathos and pain, joy, amazement, and hope. There are no rhymes, just true emotion woven with intellectual curiosity.

This appreciation for clear, emotive language is why I especially value the prayers we recite on the High Holy Days. There’s nothing flowery or obscure about them. The words don’t obfuscate our situation: we are mortal, imperfect creatures who need love, support, and kindness.

Avinu Malkeinu is the perfect example of this directness. While it’s not a poem per se, I read it as such. The melody is instantly evocative, even for the most wayward Jew. But even without the music, the words go straight to our broken, yearning hearts:

Avinu Malkeinu, 

inscribe us in the Book of Pardon and Forgiveness. 

remember us for a good life. 

remember us for redemption and deliverance. 

remember us for maintenance and sustenance. 

remember us for merit. 

cause deliverance to spring forth for us soon. 

fill our hands with Your blessings. 

fill our storehouses with abundance. 

hear our voice, spare us and have compassion upon us. 

accept our prayer with compassion and favor. 

open the gates of heaven to our prayer. 

please do not turn us away empty-handed from You. 

let this hour be an hour of compassion and a time of favor before You. 

have compassion upon us, and upon our children and infants.

The clarity is unambiguous. There’s only so much we can control. The rest, God, is up to you. We try to live a decent life, but the world is filled with flying shrapnel, ill will, and things we can never anticipate. I don’t believe we earn God’s blessings – it doesn’t work that way. There’s no Willy Wonka golden ticket hiding somewhere for us to find. All we can do is live what we define as a good life and hope for God’s grace.

And so we gather to recite these meaningful prayers – poems, really – in one voice, sharing an intimate plea with a sanctuary full of our people, our community. In doing so, we connect with something greater than ourselves, finding comfort and hope in the power of words, whether they come from a favorite children’s author or an ancient prayer.

rebhayim

We’re back! The little ones are filling up our Early Learning Center classrooms. In the air I hear the sounds of kids laughing and playing, and, yes – crying. Lots of crying. So many pre-schoolers wailing, “I want my mommy!” It’s so poignant, that weepy need to find solace in the arms of a mom.

My mom died 15 years ago. And as time has gone on, I’ve managed to do fine. My family has grown and flourished. I have a couple grandkids, a great wife, a terrific temple, some amazing friends. But every once in a while, I see something or I hear a tune and, well, I want my mommy. The new year’s imminent arrival stokes loving memories.

The last month on the Hebrew calendar, Elul, has just begun. For most of us, this fact barely registers. Our lives are primarily governed by the Gregorian calendar, introduced by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 as a reform of the Julian calendar. The Hebrew calendar exists as a faint whisper in the background of our Jewish lives.

This shift means we often miss the nuances of time and meaning that our ancestors attached to the passage of Jewish time. While we might associate certain holidays with seasons – Sukkot in Fall, Hanukkah in Winter – for our ancestors, the daily passage of time connected to Jewish days and months gave their lives and rituals a more organic feel. And for them, Elul was significant – it was, and still is, the run-up to a new year.

Historically, Elul has been the long runway into the new year. Traditions like sounding the shofar after daily minyanim and adding special prayers urge us to contemplate fundamental life issues. Elul invites us to embrace our contradictions, holding space for both achievements and failures, certainties and doubts. It compels us to search for unity in our fragmented lives and craft a coherent narrative from our scattered experiences.

We’re confronted with questions to ask ourselves, but no one hands these out or checks if we’re answering them honestly. No one demands we be held accountable for our behavior, our successes, or our failures. The challenge is self-imposed; we must choose this path of introspection.

What if we heeded Elul’s call and embraced the meaning of teshuvah (repentance) and selicha (forgiveness)? It would require admitting fault and opening our hearts to pardon others – undoubtedly challenging work.

Our ancestors have used this month to consider the past and future. What makes you proud or ashamed? How have you affected others’ happiness or caused pain? Who deserves your attention, and why have you avoided them? How do you want to proceed? This process, called Heshbon Hanefesh (accounting of the soul), involves introspection and self-evaluation – a spiritual audit of one’s thoughts, actions, and behavior over the past year.

I know you’re busy—juggling flaming torches and chain saws—I get it. But if you take even 25 minutes of a day, you can alter your life trajectory. Just stop. Breathe. Consider. And then do the work. Focus on one person you’d like to bless with your honest request for forgiveness.

This Rosh Hashanah, we are riding the rapids of a world filled with divisiveness and strife. We are surrounded by events that overwhelm us and challenge our steadfastness and commitment to justice. We are struggling to express hope. Elul is the time to think about what matters: the people in our lives. Reach out to them. Reach into your own heart. Elul is the prep time before the High Holy Days that can help us individually and collectively as a community to reach for joy.

This is my last Before Shabbat of the season. I’ve been writing these essays for you for well over ten years. I love sharing my thoughts, dreams, and worries. I’ve written about a whole spectrum of ideas and experiences. There have been stories about global politics, about Israel, about Gaza and Palestine. There are articles about holidays, holy days, and holiness. I’ve shared my grief over losing my mom. I’ve reflected on having open heart surgery. I’ve tried to explain my newfound love of cosmology. I could go on and on…

A good deal of discipline is involved in writing a weekly missive. Some professional writers have stringent rules about when they sit down to write. Then there’s me. I am not a professional writer and have a pitiable amount of discipline. So my method, such as it is, involves clearing away space to write like a magician pulling out the tablecloth from beneath a table set with fancy china and crystal. Sometimes, I gain an unimpeded block of time to do my thing on Wednesday or Thursday. Other times, I am picking through the broken plates, getting 20 minutes Friday morning, another chunk of time after I do Shabbat with the ELC, and then dodging and weaving my way to the conclusion of whatever I’m creating. Bless Eileen Brooks for patiently waiting for me on those crazy days as I near the dreaded 5 pm deadline.

I love this creative process and how it connects me to you. Over the years, many of you have responded with beautiful compliments and encouragement. Some have disagreed with my ideas and beliefs, and I am always ready to discuss a particular Before Shabbat piece. Before Shabbat is a personal reflection piece, not the elucidation of temple policy. I appreciate any opportunities to enter into dialogue with you, my reader.

This past year has been sorely trying for me and for you. I’ve tried to focus my thoughts on the war between Israel and Hamas and then write those thoughts down in a cogent way. I want to provide whatever clarity I can. I want to share my deep love for Israel, my deep animus for Hamas, my outrage with the unfathomable brutality of the violence perpetrated against us, the extraordinarily vicious callousness played out on the lives of the hostages, and my empathy for the innocent Palestinian children who have died as a result of Israeli bullets and bombs.

As if that act of juggling chainsaws wasn’t hard enough, add to it the campus encampments, the roiling anti-Zionism, the sick sound of antisemitism, the wholesale abandonment of the Jewish community by those we thought of as allies, the more profound nature of the campus protests and the responses of various university officials, the number of Jewish kids slavishly supporting ideas and actions that directly threaten other Jewish kids… It’s been a nightmare, a straight-up waking horror show.

Since October 7^th, I have written about these things or some variation of a theme almost every week. And it’s been harrowing. On more than a few occasions, I’ve had to sit and meditate in my office or at home to gain a semblance of calm after entering this painful place. So, this break comes at a good time to stop and look around for goodness. A walk on Nauset Beach. My newest beach chair open and ready to receive me with a Diet Coke and a good book or two (Marytr!, and Night Watch). Fresh fish. Family and friends. The sounds of the sea. These have always been a balm for my troubled soul.

I suspect I will be writing a lot more about Gaza and Bibi and antisemitism when Before Shabbat resumes in September. We will continue to struggle to stay afloat on this overwhelming sea of tears and anger.

 I send you my love and blessings for a summer filled with the opportunities to give thanks for the things we must be grateful for, things we all too often lose in the darkness. Breathe. Embrace. Live.

Hunter Biden has been on my mind a lot lately. I didn’t pay much attention during his trial, as the facts presented beforehand made it seem inevitable that he would be found guilty. To be clear, I acknowledge that Hunter Biden broke the law, and the judicial system, though far from perfect, reached a verdict based on the evidence considered by a jury of his peers. I support the rule of law in this case, as I do in almost every judgment made in courtrooms across America. However, it’s worth noting that Hunter had the misfortune of being Joe Biden’s son at a time when some individuals have made it their mission to attack the president by any means possible. Had he been anyone else, it’s likely that this case would have never gone to trial. For Hunter Biden, if it wasn’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.

The full weight of this tragedy struck me after the verdict. I have been gripped by the devastating human wreckage in this story. It begins when Hunter, as a little boy, nearly died in a motor vehicle accident that claimed the lives of his mother and infant sister and injured his brother. Hunter suffered a fractured skull, and his father, Joe, a newly elected senator from Delaware, was utterly devastated by the loss. One can only imagine how difficult it was for this motherless child to witness his father’s grief, anger, and even suicidal thoughts.

This terrible, unimaginable loss and trauma formed the foundation of Hunter Biden’s life. While some people can traverse the valley of the shadow of death relatively unscathed, others are undone by it all. The pain of living can become unbearably crippling.

As a rabbi, I have had the opportunity to know people struggling with addiction. They are individuals with stories of hardship, grappling with feelings of being broken or cursed. They are in pain and seek relief. Addicts often find themselves caught in a cycle of using, self-recrimination, seeking help, perhaps staying in rehab, and then relapsing. When they do emerge after ongoing work and dedication, it is a daily struggle to make it through to the other side.

The wreckage caused by addiction can be widespread and extensive, hurting many people when a loved one falls into darkness. This thought occurred to me as I observed the number of Hunter Biden’s relatives who attended his trial every day – uncles, aunts, sisters, daughters, and his stepmother. This unwavering support for Hunter Biden was not political theater or a calculated move by a media team. It was the natural response of a close-knit, loving family who has watched Hunter battle numerous demons. Regardless of one’s opinion of President Biden, witnessing his family’s pain as their loved one faced an unrelenting barrage from the prosecution revealed the source of the president’s strength as a leader. It highlighted the deep familial roots of his empathy for those who have been wounded by loss and addiction.

I am moved by the courage and love Hunter Biden’s family has shown him. I hope that he can truly embrace this heartfelt offering of grace. The Biden family teaches us the importance of humility and loyalty. The fact that his daughters listened to his addiction stories, that he had to strip away all pretense of dignity and reveal the depths to which he sunk in front of the people he hurt the most, and that they sat there, ready to forgive him – this is the definition of rachmones, mercy. It reminds us that forgiveness is incredibly challenging, requiring us to set aside ego and expectations and instead open our hearts to one another, even when we feel broken and ashamed.

Without family, love, and loyalty, we drift in a cold, heartless world. But with family and community, there is always love, hope, and… forgiveness.

I meet with every Bar/Bat Mitzvah student before their big moment on the bimah. We talk about all kinds of things. I ask them a variety of questions. What’s their favorite sport? Do they dance or do gymnastics? What music do they enjoy? How involved are they on social media? These questions enable me to see my students more clearly so that by their service, we’ve built a bond of support and confidence.

Of course, a discussion of their assigned Torah portion is included in our conversations. It’s often lots of fun engaging in text study with 6th-7th graders. They seek to make sense of material that is sometimes so disconnected and unrelated to their lives. There’s the wrestling with leprosy, skin disease, and black mold. They often understand this as how people deal with things they fear. Sacrificing animals as an exercise in humility and submission to God is always challenging. Kids think bringing a lamb to be slaughtered, skinned, and cooked on an altar at the Temple in Jerusalem is somehow approachable from their experiences today: “I’m sacrificing my time studying for my Bar Mitzvah instead of playing Minecraft.” When I gently suggest that this is not sacrifice as understood by our ancestors, it gets quiet in the room.

It is not unusual in the midst of these sessions that a child will state with apodeictic confidence, “Well, I don’t believe in God.” I love how certain they are, so clear and unbothered by their conviction. They are sometimes surprised that I am not scandalized. And I’m not. Because the young are so confident about so many things. The boundary between what’s right and wrong and who really knows. What decisions they have and their capacity to make the right call.

At the same time they tell me that they don’t believe in God, many kids, without a shred of irony, will answer affirmatively when I ask them if they’ve ever experienced the presence of God. They don’t see the logical inconsistency in this equation of theirs. They still need to work out the essential inconsistency of life. And they shouldn’t! After all, they’re too young to be forced to see the tragic limitations of life or the need for faith in God or peoplehood. They have to cram as much into their frontal cortex as possible. It’s necessary to build a solid emotional foundation to support the weight of personality and social interactions so that they can tolerate the disappointment as they age and experience the randomness of the Universe.

The notion of absolute certainty in the world and our experience of it and in it is a somewhat brittle worldview that hopefully begins to crumble under the weight of our trials and tribulations. Becoming a mature adult starts with acknowledging that there’s very little we can be sure of. Growing up is being able to shake our heads when asked specific critical questions about existence and saying, “I really don’t know.” It’s about embracing a set of truths we try to live by.

Faith is all about holding tightly to a series of hopes and dreams based on a sense of love and commitment while having no “proof” that it is so. It’s about choosing to believe that certain ideas are ultimately meaningful, enlightening, and occasionally transcendent. Faith is about acknowledging life has meaning, even in the face of brutality and evil. It is about finding one’s tribe and feeling known and acknowledged.

We are entering a time when, more than ever, we need to cultivate faith in our community, our ethical foundation, and our love of freedom for all. I’m not sure about much – this gets more true with each birthday. But I do know that I need my people and my community, that I have faith in our capacity to live proud Jewish lives. I believe in God, and I think God believes in us. But more importantly, we must believe in each other. We must keep the faith.

As we age, we often find ourselves pondering the intricacies of memory and its seemingly gradual decline. It’s not uncommon to find ourselves standing in a room, bewildered and wondering, “Why am I here?” Or, while searching for information online, we suddenly lose our train of thought, unable to recall what we were looking for in the first place. The elusive piece of information seems to be right there, just out of reach, leaving us frustrated and perplexed.    For those of us who have family members diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or early-onset dementia, these moments of memory lapse or failure are accompanied by an additional, disconcerting thought: “What if this is a symptom of Alzheimer’s? What if I’m losing my cognitive abilities?” Such thoughts only serve to heighten our anxiety and further impede our ability to recall information.    Contrary to the common belief that memory is a simple process of recording and replaying past experiences, research in cognitive psychology and neuroscience suggests that memory is a far more dynamic and constructive process. Our memories do not reside in neatly organized, alphabetized folders within our brains. We are not like computers, effortlessly storing and retrieving databases.    In reality, memory is more akin to my office, both at home and at the temple: a cluttered assortment of papers, books, journals, and memos. While I can usually locate what I’m searching for, there are times when I cannot. The phrase, “I could’ve sworn I put those papers right here…” has escaped my lips on numerous occasions.    The way we initially encode information is influenced by our existing knowledge, beliefs, and expectations. This means that the formation of memories is not entirely objective but involves a creative interplay between new information and our existing mental frameworks. We attach new memories to past experiences, which is why a strategy for remembering a new name is to associate it with an animal or cartoon character. Conjuring the image of the associated animal helps us recall the person to whom we’ve linked it. Memory is not merely a storage system but an active, evolving process that involves interpretation, reconstruction, and imagination.    The truth is, forgetting is remarkably easy. From an evolutionary perspective, forgetting can be seen as an adaptive mechanism that allows our brains to prioritize the retention of important information and discard irrelevant details. In an ever-changing environment, retaining every piece of information would be cognitively taxing and inefficient.    As time passes, the neural connections that encode memories can weaken or decay, leading to forgetting. This process is more pronounced for memories that are not well-consolidated or frequently retrieved. It’s not a negative reflection on the quality or strength of our connection to a deceased loved one when we realize that it’s difficult to remember their face, the sound of their voice, or their favorite restaurant.    Everything begins to fade. It is a true symptom of the human condition. This forgetting allows us to grieve and move forward with our lives. Yet, we cherish the memories of those we have lost.    Everything begins to fade. That’s why, in Jewish tradition, we have a Yizkor service four times a year: on Yom Kippur day and on the last days of the pilgrimage festivals: Sukkot, Passover, and Shavuot. As we conclude our time in a unique spiritual space, we deliberately pause and consciously will ourselves to remember those in our lives whom we’ve lost. It’s a practice of giving thanks by remembering those who have made a difference.    Memorial Day, a federally mandated period of remembrance, is set aside to allow us to reflect, each year, on those who have died in service to our country. It reminds us that freedom comes at a high cost. It reminds us not to be complacent, but rather, to be aware and grateful.    Memorial Day is more than a three-day weekend, more than a picnic or a parade. It’s about acknowledging that memories fade without being actively awakened. We are thankful for our fragile memories, and we are thankful for the people who remind us to pay attention.    Shabbat Shalom,  rebhayim

Time is a complex and multifaceted concept that extends far beyond the simple sequential accounting of our lives. Clocks and calendars provide a superficial representation of time, obscuring the profound and intricate truths about our individual, subjective experiences of reality.

In our youth, time seems to pass at a glacial pace. We are eager to move forward, to grow and burst through the obstacles that stand in our way. Parents, teachers, jobs, and homework all seem to slow us down, and we yearn to clear these hurdles as quickly as possible.

However, as we reach our 50s, time appears to accelerate at an astonishing rate. We find ourselves marveling at how quickly the sun sets on each day. Children we have known since birth seem to grow up in the blink of an eye, while we often fail to notice our own aging process.

Yet, the signs of aging are undeniable. Arthritis, hearing loss, and memory issues serve as inescapable reminders that our bodies – these precious, extraordinary vessels we inhabit – are not built for eternity. They begin to deteriorate, even if we don’t always “feel” our age, whatever that may mean.

Joni Mitchell’s famous song “The Circle Game” captures the cyclical nature of time, with its chorus:

“And the seasons they go round and round And the painted ponies go up and down We’re captive on the carousel of time We can’t return we can only look Behind from where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game.”

As a 23-year-old, Joni’s lyrics resonated with me and countless other young adults spanning three generations. We sat around campfires, tears welling up as we sang along to these wistful and evocative words.

Now, on the cusp of 70, I reflect on Joni’s poignant naivete with a smile. Time, I have come to believe, is not circular. Despite our varied and personal perceptions, time does not go round and round. We are not riding a carousel, but rather, we are astride the arrow of time, hurtling forward in one direction with no turning back.

As the Universe continues its infinite expansion, we ponder what the future holds – 5, 10, or 25 years from now. The truth is, we cannot know for certain. Despite our attempts to predict the future, and the occasional successes we may have, we are largely clueless. Life is filled with randomness and chaos, from the arbitrary nature of human behavior to the trajectory of a bullet, the rise of birthrates, the advancement of AI, and the looming threat of climate change.

While we may agree that nearly 70% of the Universe is comprised of dark energy, the nature of this mysterious force remains largely unknown. We hypothesize, experiment, and surmise our way forward, acknowledging the uncertainty that lies ahead. In the face of this unknowable future, we must embrace the present moment and reach out to our fellow travelers. At our best, we view one another through a lens of fellowship and empathy, holding hands and striving to maintain a sense of balance. We attempt to sing in harmony, appreciating the beauty when we find it. Riding the arrow of time with dignity and laughter is not merely a choice – it is our only option.

I can’t catch my breath. The news about the various student protests all over the country is ubiquitous. There is no break, no occasional sunshine breaking through the storm clouds. Add to that the ever-present shadow of antisemitism and the fear Jewish university students are experiencing. And who can purge the bad taste left behind after a small group of American politicians affirmed their belief that the Jews killed Jesus? And then there’s Hamas dragging their feet on a ceasefire that includes hostage release.

The list above is hardly exhaustive. It’s exhausting. If all this weren’t enough to scream, “Dayenu,” we now have the Newton Free Library imbroglio to add to our existential headache.

I won’t narrate this story of disappointment and insensitivity from the beginning. If you want a snapshot of events, read this letter from the mayor of Newton: https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#search/ruthann/FMfcgzGxStzdWCkKhNwBrZnRfrcBJrxJ

Here’s my take: This past July, an independent committee of artists and professors selected and scheduled a photo exhibit for one of the library’s gallery spaces. The photographer, Skip Schiel, titled his show The Ongoing & Relentless Nakba: The Palestinian Catastrophe of 1948 to Today. I don’t know who was on that committee; I hope they are identified. I don’t want to harass them, but I simply want to ask why. Did they want a provocative show? Were they looking to show more support and empathy for the Palestinian story? Did they anticipate the antipathy of some Newton residents?

Schiel’s show of black and white photos is, in and of itself, thoughtful and innocuous. There are no incriminating snapshots of Israeli border police beating back Palestinian demonstrators or, for that matter, no Palestinians throwing rocks at IDF soldiers. It is a small and unremarkable exhibit.

I have no trouble with the word Nakba, Arabic for catastrophe, which many Arabs and some Israelis use to label what is otherwise called the 1948 War of Independence. For many Palestinians, it is an accurate representation of their experiences following the war. After all, it did not result in their freedom.

I do have trouble with the phrase ongoing and relentless because it obfuscates a much larger and more complex story about Palestinians after 1948. And even more to the point, the photos have nothing to do with the Nakba. They have nothing to do with Israel! They are portraits of Palestinians and photos of Palestinian homes. So why name it something so unnerving to those of us who support Israel?

Looking at the photographer’s website, the answer quickly emerges. Schiel is an anti-Zionist who has done extensive work in Gaza and the West Bank. He wants to be a provocateur. This is not unique to Schiel. Artists and photographers have pushed the envelope for centuries; it is intrinsic to artistic expression.

I am neither offended nor threatened by this exhibit. The content is benign, genuinely harmless. I recognize its title is purposely provocative. I am not a fan of the creator of the exhibit. As a Zionist and lover of Israel, it makes me uncomfortable, but it does not seek to delegitimize me as a Zionist or as a Jew.

If I were on the committee that chooses art for the library, I would’ve said no to the exhibit unless Schiel changed the name. I would’ve said that we don’t need such provocation. But others disagree.

I support the notion that artists sometimes want to make us uncomfortable. We come to learn more about the world in which we live when we are thrown back on our heels to question our values and the values of those with whom we disagree. I am a libertarian when it comes to free speech and free expression. Limiting, censoring, or canceling is toxic to the imagination and antithetical to democracy.

But after October 7^th, this show should’ve been postponed as a sign of respect for the collective trauma many Jews are experiencing right now. It is contraindicated to erect anything in a public space that includes provocation as its raison d’etre. It’s not the content; the lack of empathy and consideration from the library upset me.

The exhibit is up and running. I oppose any attempt to close it down for two reasons. 1. I am a firm believer in freedom of speech and expression. And 2. It would become a cause celebre; a local story would become a national incident. Which is precisely what Schiel would like for his cause and his career.

The next art installations at the library will be chosen and then supervised with much more attention. We have all learned from this moment. I hope that moving forward, we can lean into tolerance, perspective, and empathy. Because without it, every town hall every public square will look like Columbia – and that is an intolerable future.