Before Shabbat

In the Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael, a 2nd-century halakhic midrash on the book of Exodus, Rabbi Yishmael writes, “All beginnings are difficult.” This aphorism resonates deeply as I sit down to compose my first Before Shabbat essay of 2025. Where does one begin?

The year opens like a vast river, its banks invisible in the distance. Through the hull of our fragile vessel, we feel its unmistakable rhythm. The current pulls us along – sometimes cradling us in gentle waters, other times tossing us through towering waves that leave us clutching the gunwales, wondering if the storm will ever break.

Yet here’s the paradox: it’s the same water, the same river, the same vessel. As the old saying goes, “Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you.” There are moments when we’re prepared – life jackets secured, vigilant, and ready. Then there are times when the squall line appears without warning, and we’re thrown about, battered by forces beyond our control.

Despite our sophisticated technology and careful predictions, we remain uncertain creatures navigating uncharted waters. We craft models and devise plans, yet reality constantly reminds us of our limited foresight. This not-knowing isn’t a flaw – it’s intrinsic to our journey, built into the very design of our fragile vessel.

Maria Popova, the brilliant Bulgarian artist and philosopher behind The Marginalian, recently reflected on this mystery. She wrote: “We forget that none of this had to exist — that we weren’t owed mountains and music by the Universe. And maybe we have to forget — or we would be too stupefied with gratitude for every raindrop and every eyelash to get through the daily tasks punctuating the unbidden wonder of our lives. But it is good, every once in a while, to let ourselves be stupefied by gratitude, to cast upon ourselves a spell against indifference by moving through the world with an inner bow at every littlest thing that prevailed over the odds of otherwise in order to exist.”

This is where 2025 begins—in noticing, in wonder, in gratitude, and in awe. We face the world wide-eyed and peeking through trembling fingers. Joy and grief, laughter and despair, mystery and majesty, madness and magnificence—all flow together in the river of life.

Despite the bloodstains and fear already marking this year’s beginning, I feel an unexpected calm. We have each other to share the best and worst of times. Together, we sing and pray, warmed by the currents of history as our vessels drift downstream. We study as one, gaining insights that will guide us through this absurdly infinite Universe. As 2025 pours forward, come let us bless each other as we float. It’s the ride of a lifetime.

Over a lifetime of Torah reading, different portions have spoken to me at various phases of my life, each revealing new layers of meaning as I’ve grown and changed. This evolution in understanding mirrors our own spiritual journeys as we wrestle with ancient texts that remain perpetually relevant to our modern lives.

In my younger years, I was drawn to The Akedah—the binding of Isaac, where Abraham prepares to sacrifice his son at God’s command. The story both fascinated and repelled me. I found something deeply outrageous about God’s command and was troubled by Abraham’s seeming passivity in the face of such a monstrous instruction. The Akedah became my prooftext of why the God of the Torah could not be the God I would worship. My conception of God centered on compassion and care, fundamentally incompatible with a deity who would demand the destruction of an innocent life as a test of faith.

As my anger toward God softened with age (a journey worthy of its own essay), I found myself drawn to a different passage in Exodus. In this profound moment, God and Moses recognize their unique bond of trust, leading to an intimate yet limited revelation: “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand, and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen” (Exodus 33:21-23).

This text captures the essential dilemma of all divine and human relationships. Whether with friends, family, or romantic partners, we face the same truth: no matter how close we become, how many years we share, or how much we reveal to each other, some part of another person’s inner experience remains forever inaccessible. We can see their “back”—their actions, words, and what they choose to share—but never fully their “face,” their complete inner world. This reality explains our occasional shock when someone we thought we knew well does something unexpected, whether gloriously good or terribly bad.

This is the great puzzlement about others. How often do we read stories or personally experience a moment when we exclaim, “I never imagined they were capable of doing that awful, or for that matter, glorious deed.” And it’s the mystery of God. So close, like Tevye’s God who seems to be as close to the Holy One as the buttons on his coat, and yet so unknowable, so inscrutable.

We juggle this infinitely complex truth about the people in our lives and how much we can ever know them. A corollary to this is a deeper mystery with which we struggle: we ask ourselves the question, who am I? What do I want and need? What is the yearning of my soul? Where do I belong? To enter into such reflection is in the deep waters of consciousness. But to avoid those central questions is to ignore the path to purposefulness and peace. As Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

In this week’s portion, Vayishlach, we encounter Jacob wrestling with an unknown assailant at night. The ambiguity of his opponent’s identity—God? An angel? His brother Esau? A nightmare?—mirrors our struggles with meaning and identity. Through this fierce encounter, Jacob is transformed, receiving the name Israel—”One who has struggled with man and God and is triumphant.”

Yet triumph comes at a cost. Jacob limps away from the encounter, forever marked by his vulnerability. This physical reminder speaks to our own human condition: We are mortal, fallible, and prone to regret. But we are also gloriously alive, capable of experiencing life’s simple pleasures—the warmth of sunlight, the taste of cold water, the whisper of wind through trees. We can enter into our deepest places and celebrate our goodness even as we limp on our failings.

Vayishlach offers an unparalleled platform for deep reflection. It reminds us that perfection is illusory and that self-knowledge, though sometimes a terrible struggle, is essential to understanding our purpose. For these reasons and more, this Torah portion will always remain in my top ten.

Last week, I had a chance to catch up with my friend, David. We’ve known each other for 55 years and like many of the same things: good music, singing, laughing, and engaging in conversation. We talk about family issues. We talk about common friends. We talk about Israel. We talk elections. We talk– about every and anything.

I could tell David was in a funk when he answered the phone. When you’ve known someone for most of your life, you quickly pick up the vocal cues. Despite all the good things in his life, he was overwhelmed by a sense of doom and despair. To be fair, this is not an aberrant response to the news these days.

There’s a reigniting of the Syrian civil war – what are they fighting about? And the Israel-Lebanon ceasefire; but is it really a ceasefire? And don’t get me – or David – started on the war with Hamas, the ineptitude of Bibi, the tragedy of the hostages, antisemitism worldwide, and on and on.

But wait – there’s more like the Russian satellite in high orbit with a mock nuclear warhead testing the potential to take out our satellites that make life with the Internet and AI possible. Or the latest “black plastic is bad” scare that has us eying the take-out containers with some trepidation. And then, of course, the current crop of proposed presidential advisors and their proposed plans to systematically take down what is and replace it with something utterly other, which thrills some folks – but not David or me.

Shall I go on? We were feeling crushed under the weight of these seemingly intractable dilemmas. How do we go on from here? David was really feeling the darkness of it all. He’s sworn off the news and all social media. He has the genuine fear of a man facing the Apocalypse. I’m not there altogether, though I’m leaning so far into hope I fear I may lose my balance…

And then, my wife, Liza, who knows what a total nut I am about things infinite and galactic as well as origin stories and historical oddities, said, “Do you know about 536?” At first, I thought she was messing with me; “536 what? The time? The address?” “No”, she said, “the year. 536 CE.” I know 586 BCE was the year the First Temple was destroyed. But 536? Nope.

She smiled: “Check it out.” And I did.

Ask medieval historian Michael McCormick what year was the worst to be alive, and he’s got an answer: “536.” Not 1349, when the Black Death wiped out half of Europe. Not 1918, when the flu killed 50 million to 100 million people, primarily young adults. But 536. In Europe, “It was the beginning of one of the worst periods to be alive if not the worst year,” says McCormick, a historian and archaeologist who chairs the Harvard University Initiative for the Science of the Human Past.

A mysterious fog plunged Europe, the Middle East, and parts of Asia into darkness, day and night—for 18 months. “For the sun gave forth its light without brightness, like the moon, during the whole year,” wrote Byzantine historian Procopius. Temperatures in the summer of 536 fell 1.5°C to 2.5°C, initiating the coldest decade in the past 2300 years. Snow fell that summer in China; crops failed; people starved. The Irish chronicles record “a failure of bread from the years 536–539.” Then, in 541, bubonic plague struck the Roman port of Pelusium, in Egypt. What came to be called the Plague of Justinian spread rapidly, wiping out one-third to one-half of the population of the eastern Roman Empire and hastening its collapse, McCormick says.

Does it help to know that, compared to 536, today is a party, a full-on celebration? Yes – and no. Yes, because this reminds us that everything is in context. Life may be hard now, but compared to what? The suffering of the 6^th century is unimaginable. But this? We can do this; we can make it work. Somehow. 536 was the worst year to be alive: this is a cakewalk.

And no. While it’s true that people suffered in the past, that does not make this a fun moment. There are ample reasons to justify a sense of dread. So, don’t bring me reasons to minimize my angst.

I’m going to call David soon and share my 536 knowledge. I hope that will make him feel good, or at least a little better. I’m hoping (there’s that hope again) to allay the sense of Apocalypse while respecting concerns about the dangers to the most vulnerable people in America, perhaps including Jews. In 536 and in 2024, the safest way through the fog is by joining hands and walking together.

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I hope everyone enjoyed Thanksgiving Day and is now in the recovery zone. Maybe you’re watching football, cheering for your team or simply enjoying the background noise of the game. Maybe you’re streaming a cheesy Hallmark movie or a romcom, finding comfort in those predictable storylines with just the right mix of shmaltz and tears to keep you tied in. You may be huddled under a blanket, sitting by a fire, feeling that deep contentment that comes with simple moments. You might be reading a novel, lost in another world, or scrolling through emails or texting a friend who’s far away, sharing virtual hugs and “wish you were here” messages.

At some point you’ll take a nap and chill out – it’s almost mandatory after all that tryptophan! The beauty of this long weekend is in its unhurried pace, the permission we give ourselves to slow down and simply be. Hopefully you’ll have access to some leftovers and luxuriate in the long weekend, discovering that sometimes turkey sandwiches taste even better the next day, especially with a little cranberry sauce and maybe stuffing.

We’ll be zooming Shabbat, and I hope you’ll come online to join me. We’ve found new ways to create sacred space together, to bridge the physical distances that separate us. There’s a lot to be grateful for, and nothing is so good for the soul as thanking God for it all. The act of gratitude itself is transformative, lifting our spirits and opening our hearts to the abundance that surrounds us.

And if you’re an atheist, or simply not sure where you stand when it comes to the Holy One, it still can do your heart a world of good to stop and consider where you stand right now – alive, aware, appreciated. Gratitude doesn’t require a specific belief system; it’s a universal human experience that connects us to something larger than ourselves, whether that’s community, nature, or the simple miracle of consciousness.

In the meantime, the next time you stand up to get some leftovers or a diet Coke from the fridge, walk by someone and just spontaneously give them a hug or a kiss or whatever passes as a comfortable expression of love and appreciation. Just because. Because life is short and surprising, and you never know what your last show of love and thanks will be. 

Make it work. Make it last. Let these moments of connection and gratitude extend beyond the holiday weekend. Let them become habits that enrich our daily lives. In doing so, we create a ripple effect of appreciation and love that extends far beyond our immediate circle, touching lives in ways we might never know.

The ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times,” has never felt more prophetic than in these feverish days before the election. I’m drowning in a digital deluge—podcasts, op-eds, breathless articles, late-night monologues, and round-the-clock coverage swirling into an information maelstrom that’s left my mind reeling. I’m suffering from what I can only describe as a pre-election hangover, complete with blurred vision, a churning stomach, and a newfound phobia of news app notifications. My mental hard drive is maxed out, refusing to process any more data points.

I exercised my democratic right weeks ago, casting my mail-in ballot with the same certainty I’ve felt in every election since my first vote in 1972. While the referendum questions demanded careful consideration, my candidate choices were crystal clear. Throughout my voting life, I’ve maintained an unwavering vision of America’s essence and its potential trajectory. The candidates earning my support have consistently embodied the values I hold dear both as an American and as a Jew. These values are ineluctably tied together.

Let’s be honest—defeat stings. I still remember the sharp disappointment of losing to Diane Snow in that 1962 Student Council election, just as I recall the gut punch of watching George McGovern fall to Richard Nixon in ’72. But in a democracy, the freedom to choose our leaders comes with an implicit contract: winners and losers alike must honor the people’s voice. We can’t retroactively alter the rules or manipulate the results when they don’t align with our hopes.

This principle haunts me now as we approach an election balanced on a knife’s edge. A nation unable to reach a consensus on electoral outcomes courts disaster. Such discord isn’t merely divisive—it’s combustible, a spark that could ignite something far more dangerous than political disagreement.

These “interesting times” would have been unimaginable to my younger self – to all Americans just two decades ago. Storm clouds mass on the horizon, and while I’ve weathered my share of political thunderstorms, I’m deeply troubled by what might catch fire in the lightning strikes: free speech, constitutional rights, the very notion of truth itself.

To those who haven’t yet voted: this is your moment. Exercise this sacred democratic right that, for Jews and other minorities, remains a relatively recent historical privilege. Never take it for granted.

I’ll be watching the results roll in, prepared to accept my fellow citizens’ decision, whether it favors my chosen candidate or not. My deepest hope is that all Americans will do the same, honoring this cornerstone of our democratic experiment.

After all, interesting times don’t have to become dangerous ones—not if we remember what binds us together as a nation is stronger than what pulls us apart.

I’m not a sailor. My DNA plants me firmly on dry ground – somewhere around Lviv, Riga, or Minsk… the heartland of Ashkenazi Jews. Though I’m a lousy swimmer who prefers sand to surf, I somehow sense that I was on the water in a past life. The ocean’s imagery captures my imagination like nothing else.

During these High Holy Days, I felt like I was at the helm of a great vessel, steering through challenging waters. As we navigated through our sea of services, I held the wheel steady, feeling the profound responsibility of guiding my passengers to their destination. The timing of prayers, stories, and melodies had to be just right. Like precious cargo, we balanced cherished traditional prayers that echo High Holy Days past with fresh melodies that brought new energy and excitement. We shared words of hope and joy while not shying away from moments of reflection and solemnity.

Now at port, watching everyone disembark, I wonder: Are they smiling? Was this a meaningful journey? And I feel overwhelming pride and love. We made it! Welcome to our port of call: 5785!

I hope this voyage moved you as much as it moved me. Our cantor, Marcie Jonas, was magnificent – her voice, energy, and gentle neshumah (soul) helped us glide smoothly across the waves. Jamie Saltman, our maestro, accompanied all of us with spirit and heart. In fact, the entire staff helped to make this voyage so smooth.

Back on land, Sukkot greeted us with extraordinary weather – a divine gift for this outdoor observance. We experienced spring’s warmth painted with autumn’s colors. What a blessing to see our entire congregation, from most senior to little ones in the ELC, enter the sukkah and shake the lulav, acknowledging both the beauty and fragility of our world.

And now what? Well, now it’s time for everything else: learning together, sharing Shabbat, gathering for meals and celebrations, and caring for each other. Our temple community continues to do many things we’ve always done. But we don’t do much of it the way we used to.

We are constantly morphing as a community, and as we change, our practices evolve. We aim to be more responsive, more present. We want to anticipate the needs of our community and listen closely to the rhythms of our communal heart. We know the world often feels hostile and indifferent. That’s why we make TBA a place of warmth and safety where all are welcome. As I’ve frequently quoted and paraphrased from Bob Dylan, “Come on inside, we’ll give ya/shelter from the storm.

We’re on our voyage into 5785. With all of our travails, the burdens we carry on our backs, and the scary things happening around us, keep your eyes on the prize. The world has so much joy; let’s find it together.