Rabbi Leonard Kravitz ז״ל

Belief in coincidences is a theological category, so I don’t know if you buy into them or not. But on Sunday evening, I was at a conference in New York that happened to be taking place at my alma mater, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in New York. In fact, I was sitting in the Beit Knesset, listening to a lecture by the great social activist Ruth Messinger, when I received a text on my phone telling me that Rabbi Leonard Kravitz had died.

The astonishing serendipity of that moment: This was my first time back on the New York campus of HUC-JIR in many years. And there I was, getting this news while I was in the very chapel where I often sat next to Rabbi Kravitz during Tefillah over the four years that I was a student there. The wave of emotions, memories, and warm feelings was just amazing.

I loved Rabbi Kravitz dearly. He was an expert in medieval Jewish philosophy and Maimonides in particular, and I cherish my copy of his scholarly work, The Hidden Doctrine of Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed (1988; only $230 on Amazon!).

I had the great pleasure of having him as my rabbinic thesis advisor all those years ago.  Rereading that previous sentence, I wonder how many people look back on writing a graduate thesis as a “great pleasure.” I truly do, in large part because of my relationship with him. At that time, I used to meet with him on a weekly basis for an hour of studying the Rambam in his office. It wasn’t always germane to my thesis-writing, but it was like having a weekly one-on-one hevruta-study with someone who was a great scholar and a generous teacher.

Rabbi Kravitz’s classroom could be dizzying, because he tended to speak very quickly. There was a good reason for that: he would simultaneously be delivering a philosophy lecture, a Yiddish lesson, and doing standup comedy. So of course he had to speak three times faster than a typical teacher.

Here are a few more of my cherished memories of him:

·      Delivering my final thesis to him in his office. He leapt up from behind his desk, grabbed my 116-page document with zeal, and cried, “This calls for a L’chayim!” And he went straight to his file cabinet and pulled out the bottle of scotch that was stashed away for just such a moment.  (He was very partisan for his favorite distilleries. I remember bringing him a bottle of The Glenrothes in gratitude before graduation. He smiled and told me I was truly a disciple who had learned his lessons.)

·      Once, some joker put a full-size poster of his namesake the rock star Lenny Kravitz on the door to his office, with dreadlocks flying in the air. Rabbi Kravitz got such a kick out of it that it stayed on his door for the whole semester.

·      He was a kind and gentle soul, but definitely mastered the time-honored art of the putdown. If he disapproved, say, of a sermon that was delivered during Tefillah, he could say with perfect inflection, “That was nice.”

·      And he had a wonderful sense of humor and was even a bit of a raconteur. I recall him once emerging from the elevator at HUC-JIR and saying in a loud voice to anyone in the vicinity, “My friends! Please! Study Torah! It’s not too late!” And then he whispered to me, out of the corner of his mouth, “It is too late, but don’t tell them.” (For that matter, he used to translate the Mishnah’s statement וְתַלְמוּד תּוֹרָה כְּנֶגֶד כֻּלָּם as: “It’s across the street.”)

·      As a scholar of Maimonides, his philosophical outlook was decidedly rationalist (and he used to fondly remind us that he fit in quite well during his years at a Jesuit school). So one time, when he earnestly quoted a Hasidic story to me, I fell off my chair. “Rabbi Kravitz, did you just tell me a Hasidic story?!” He just laughed.

Even though he loomed quite large in my life—in my hevruta studies with Rabbi Ben Levy, it’s remarkable how frequently his name comes up—I hadn’t been in touch with him in a long time. Then, in 2022, I was receiving my Doctor of Divinity honorary degree from HUC-JIR, and Rabbi Joel Soffin gave me very important advice: to write to some of the professors who were especially important influences on me. Rabbi Kravitz was one of them, of course. Each of the professors whom I contacted wrote back to me, but I was bowled over when I got a phone call from Lincolnwood, IL. It was his daughter: “He wants to talk to you.” And suddenly I was his student again; he was speaking Yiddish, and quoting the Rambam, and saying, “Of course, I’m not telling you Torah you don’t already know…” We had a series of calls after that, and I feel so lucky to have resumed this relationship with such a unique and precious soul.

He died this week at 96 and is no doubt speaking a mile-a-minute in the olam ha-ba, explaining his elaborate map through the Guide of the Perplexed that he alone could decipher. He was a wonderful rabbi, mentor, and mensch. His memory is a blessing forever.  

His legendary map through the Guide of the Perplexed - I have pages of this, in his handwriting.

How Can We Celebrate Simchat Torah in 2024?

Like an insect fossilized in amber, Kibbutz Nir Oz is a place frozen in time—specifically, October 7, 2023. Nir Oz is one of the kibbutzim along the “Gaza envelope” in the Western Negev that were on the frontlines of the terrorist murders, rapes, and kidnappings on that horrible day.

And of all the images that remain seared in my mind, I can’t stop thinking of the kibbutz Sukkah that remains standing—now, one year later:

The 2023 sukkah from Kibbutz Nir Oz, still standing in the summer of 2024. Photos: NG

The roof is gone, the walls are falling down, but the sukkah is still there. And it is chilling to see.

A sukkah, by definition, is an impermanent structure. It’s designed to be flimsy and makeshift. By the end of seven days of exposure to the elements—and seven days of eating, singing, and hosting guests—a sukkah is supposed to look pretty dilapidated. The whole idea of this holiday is to prompt a mediation on the elements of our lives that are permanent and enduring and those that are fleeting and ephemeral. (And to prompt gratitude and delight in what we have; that’s where the “season of our joy” comes in.) And when the holiday is over, the sukkah gets taken down and packed away until next year; a “permanent sukkah” is supposed to be contradiction in terms.

So I sit in my Sukkah in Massachusetts, and I reflect on those things in my life which are truly enduring, and those which are transient and can disappear in a heartbeat. I look out at the gorgeous technicolor leaves on the trees, and know that soon they’ll be on the ground, with snowfall not far behind. It gives me some sense of eternity, but little peace this year.

Because I keep thinking of the Nir Oz sukkah, with no one to refurbish it or renew it for 2024. It’s frozen in 2023.

Now the culmination of Sukkot and the entire fall holiday season is drawing close: Shemini Atzeret on Wednesday night and Simchat Torah on Thursday night. And as these arrive, it’s impossible to separate them from the Yartzeit (the one-year anniversary according to the Jewish calendar) that they represent: last year’s cursed Simchat Torah, when over 1,200 Israelis were massacred in their homes and at the Nova Music Festival.

Simchat Torah is, of course, supposed to be a day devoted to raucous, joyful simcha—a time of dancing in the streets with the Torah in our arms. How in the world are we supposed to do that this year, in the shadow of the Yartzeit and knowing that 101 hostages still remain in the dungeons of Gaza?

That question is a popular topic of conversation in the Jewish press and Jewish blogs this week. Some teachers have reminded us that Jews danced with the Torah during many dark times in the past. (I recall the story—perhaps only legendary—of Leo Baeck asking a child in Theresienstadt if he knew how to recite the Sh’ma. When the boy said yes, they hoisted him up in a chair and said, “You will be our Torah for Simchat Torah this year,” and commenced to dancing around him.)

I can only offer my own responses. I won’t cancel Simchat Torah this year, nor will I boycott my community’s dancing with the Torah. Part of me will do so out of defiance. Hamas will not strip me of my Jewish observances, nor will antisemitic professors or Students for Justice in Palestine or other apologists for terrorism. I will dance with the Torah because you can’t stop me; that’s a cord of defiance that runs through my nervous system. Zionism taught me, among many things, not to be a victim.

But I’ll dance for a holier reason, too. Here, I recall a lesson that Danny Siegel first taught me many years ago. He taught me that the Hebrew word שמחה/simcha can’t be reduced to a simple meaning, “joy” or “happiness.” How do we know that?

We know that because Judaism has a crucial idea called שמחה של המצווה/simcha shel ha-mitzvah, “the simcha of doing a Mitzvah.” And there are some Mitzvot that are inherently sad, such as: visiting someone in a cancer hospital, or preparing a body for burial, or making a shiva call. All these things should be done in the spirit of שמחה של המצווה, but they can hardly be considered “happy” or “joyful.” So a different principle, a spiritual one, must be at play here.

That’s where Danny (I don’t recall if he was quoting another teacher or book, or if the teaching is his own) proposed that simcha needs a more refined definition. Simcha means something like: the joy that comes by connecting ourselves to the Source of Life and Existence. That is, when you find yourself doing what you know you were made to be doing, the reason for which you’re here.

Musicians speak of this as “being in the pocket” and athletes talk about the “x-factor.” For Jews, this is the spirit in which we do Mitzvot, the purpose for which we are made. We do Mitzvot, and that is, in a deep and primal sense, joyful—even if the Mitzvah of the moment is honoring the dead or comforting mourners. Doing Mitzvot with full intention connects us to one another, to our history, and ultimately to G-d.

So on Simchat Torah, let’s dance. Perhaps the dance will be subdued, or, conversely, perhaps it will be more spirited than ever, in order to push back the darkness. No matter how you celebrate, let’s celebrate that Torah and its eternal promise of Life, renewed—even as we recommit ourselves to work to Bring Them All Home.

May these final days of this holy season bring you blessing, hope, and Simcha.

Miracles & My Road to Bilateral Hearing

The daily Siddur has a long list of blessings for what are colloquially called “everyday miracles,” prodding us to be grateful for the sublime wonder of simply waking up in the morning. One of those blessings reads:

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה׳, אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, פּוֹקֵֽחַ עִוְרִים
Blessed are You, O G-d, ruling spirit of the universe,
who opens [the eyes of] blind people.

I say it every day, but I’m sure I’m not the first hearing-impaired person to wonder, why isn’t there a parallel prayer that reads:

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה׳ אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם מַשְׁמִיעַ חֵרְשִׁים
Blessed are You, O G-d, ruling spirit of the universe,
who allows deaf people to hear?

I don’t know the answer to that question. Perhaps it’s because deafness in ancient times was linked with cognitive disability (the heresh, or deaf-mute, in the Talmud is considered developmentally disabled and relinquishes some legal rights). Or maybe it’s because the word Sh’ma, “Hear,” means so much more than just the physical ability to hear; it means intellectual understanding as well.

Neither of those answers are satisfying, but they do make me wonder about the place of G-d in my own journey from hearing loss to restoration…

Almost exactly five years ago, in August 2019, I had cochlear implant surgery on my left ear, which gave me a new way of hearing and improved my quality of life in countless ways. I’ve often wondered how different my Covid pandemic experience would have been if I hadn’t had the surgery six months earlier; I’m sure the isolation and distancing would have made for a much lonelier experience.

On Thursday I’ll return to Mass Eye & Ear in Boston and have the surgery on my right ear. I have all of the appropriate trepidation that one has before a significant operation. But—knowing much better what to expect this time around—I’m very excited to be on the road to “bilateral hearing.”

The surgery is wondrous stuff, and even though I understand what will happen, the truth is I only understand it a little bit. There’s still an element of magic that takes place.

In essence, the surgery enables me to “hear without my ears.” The implants in my head, together with the external processors that I wear, will process electronic signals and send them directly to the audial parts of the brain. They literally bypass the ears, and the brain itself does all the heavy lifting to process sound. That’s what happens; but I still find it astonishing and rather miraculous—and despite all my reading up on the subject, I really can’t explain how the result is comprehensible sound.

What I do know is this: the cochlear implants have enabled me not only to function, but to flourish. Ever since hearing aids really stopped being sufficient for me—I am now just about totally deaf—the CI has enabled me to hear Heidi’s voice, to teach classes over Zoom, and to enjoy music again.

In the weeks ahead, all this will be enhanced for me. Not only has my hearing been restored, but I’m anticipating bilateral hearing, where finally my ears work work in synchronicity with each other. My first CI literally brought music back into my life; this second one… well, it will be like when the Beatles moved from the black-and-white mono of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and exploded into the stereo kaleidoscope of sound of Sgt. Pepper. (I don’t think I’m exaggerating here.) These things are just miraculous. 

From this…

…to this.

I use that word miraculous purposefully but carefully. Miracle can be such a grandiose term.  I think we all have a “miracle threshold,” where everyday wonder overflows into genuine spiritual astonishment. And the CIs definitely surpass my personal miracle threshold.

In his new and important book The Triumph of Life, my teacher Rabbi Yitz Greenberg makes some important and startling observations about miracles. Rabbi Greenberg suggests that, since the advent of modernity, we are living in the third great religious era of Jewish history. The First Era was the period of the Bible, which essentially ended two thousand years ago; and the Second Era saw the flourishing of Rabbinic-Talmudic Judaism, which extended through the end of medieval times.

In this Third Era, Rabbi Greenberg maintains, we live at a time of an amazing religious paradox. On one hand, G-d is more hidden than at any other time in human history. Yet, simultaneously, miracles are more abundant than ever! The wondrous medical advancements that have eradicated once-terrifying diseases (polio; smallpox) are only one illustration of the maturation of the human role in living in covenant with G-d.  What makes them miracles is the synergistic partnership of divine inspiration and human ingenuity. In Rabbi Greenberg’s words:

In this moment, G-d becomes totally hidden, not to distance from humanity but to come closer… Henceforth, humans will execute the Divine interventions that rise to the level of miracles. G-d will be present and participating, but miracles will not represent changes of natural law by an “outside” or Divine mind. Rather, they will represent human actions and understandings of G-d-given nature that trigger remarkable outcomes, using natural phenomena and directing them consciously to needed results and cures. The miracles are inherent in the natural laws that govern the interactions of matter; humans will bring them out. (The Triumph of Life, p.185).

This is daring and radical theology. It will be on my mind on Thursday as I enter Mass Eye & Ear and in the days ahead as I recover from the operation.

I’m aware of the remarkable good fortune and privilege that I have to live in a time and place where surgery like this is available and affordable. (Although it’s spreading around the world. Through my rabbi, Joel Soffin, and the Jewish Helping Hands organization, I’ve recently been in touch with a young man in Rwanda who is the recipient of a cochlear implant.) That only deepens my sense of awe and wonder—wonder for the unfathomable intricacy of adaptability of the human brain; for my surgeon, nurses, and audiologists; for my family and friends and their caregiving and support. And with the wonder—also the determination to respond with gratitude and thanks.

From October 7 to 17 Tammuz

Our calendar is beginning to bulge with days that have become so notorious that they are simply known by their dates. “9/11,” of course. “January 6.” And “October 7.” Days that live in infamy because of the awful events that happened on them.

Jewish tradition has long had a few of these as well—commemorations that are just known by their dates on the calendar. The 17th day of Tammuz is a minor fast day that falls this year on Tuesday, July 23. According to the Talmud (Ta’anit 26a-26b), 17 Tammuz is associated with historical tragedies for the Jewish people. Some of these calamities can be seen as “preludes” for disasters that would fall on the 9th Av, exactly three weeks later:

…חֲמִשָּׁה דְּבָרִים אֵירְעוּ אֶת אֲבוֹתֵינוּ בְּשִׁבְעָה עָשָׂר בְּתַמּוּז
,בְּשִׁבְעָה עָשָׂר בְּתַמּוּז נִשְׁתַּבְּרוּ הַלּוּחוֹת
,וּבָטַל הַתָּמִיד
,וְהוּבְקְעָה הָעִיר
,וְשָׂרַף אַפּוֹסְטְמוֹס אֶת הַתּוֹרָה
.וְהֶעֱמִיד צֶלֶם בַּהֵיכל

Five terrible things happened to our ancestors on the 17th of Tammuz…

1. The tablets were shattered (by Moses upon seeing the Golden calf; Ex. 32:19);
2. The Tamid/daily sacrifice in the Temple was cancelled (by the Roman authorities);
3. The city walls of Jerusalem were breached;
4. The Roman general Apostemos publicly burned the Torah;
5. And an idol was placed in the Sanctuary of the Temple.

It's that third item that cuts to the quick this year. It’s not difficult to imagine the carnage of the “breaching of the walls.” After all, we saw it with our own eyes on October 7, nine-and-a-half months ago, when Hamas terrorists tore through the Israeli villages and kibbutzim in the western Negev, murdering and raping their victims, setting fire to the towns, and seizing hostages, 120 of whom are still being held prisoner in Gaza.

Last week, I visited the ruins of Kibbutz Nir Oz. Of the 427 residents of that community, one in four were murdered, wounded, or taken hostage on October 7, 2023, that cursed Simchat Torah. Nine-and-a-half months later, the kibbutz is a ghost town—desolate and frightening. And like a prehistoric insect embalmed in amber, Nir Oz is frozen in time. Broken glass still carpets the ground, the walls remain ashen, children’s toys litter the floor—and the sukkah is still standing.

It was brutal to be there, and I struggle to post this here. But it’s essential that we keep sharing the images and telling the stories of what happened in Nir Oz (and Be’eri, and Kfar Aza, and all the other devastated towns, and at the site of the Nova music festival), so that the world can bear witness.

Images are more powerful than words (at least they’re more powerful than my words), so I’ll share this as a photo-essay of what I saw at Nir Oz last week. The images are devastating, but important. Please note: I’m posting this from a laptop computer, and the photos are neatly arranged on my screen—my apologies if the formatting is messed up on phones or iPads.

The entrance to the main building at Kibbutz Nir Oz today.

Some of the destroyed homes of the kibbutz:

The Hadar Ochel / communal dining hall and kitchen of the kibbutz:

The kindergarten classroom of Nir Oz:

The sukkah is still standing, in shambles, nine months after the festival (“the Season of our Joy”) ended:

And the rage and resentment against this government’s failures - in preventing the attack and in bringing the hostages home - is palpable everywhere:

This sign, posted outside one of the scorched homes, says, “Netanyahu: My family’s blood is on your hands!”, and is signed by the residents.

A few more images from the houses of the kibbutz, include the burnt house of Oded Lifshitz, an octogenarian journalist and lifelong activist for peace between Israelis and Palestinians, now one of the hostages.

The names that are on everyone’s lips in Israel are those of the Bibas family of Nir Oz. Their family of four - parents Shiri (age 32) and Yarden (age 34), and their children Ariel (age 4) and Kfir (age 9 months) - were kidnapped and remain hostage in Gaza today. Shiri’s parents Yossi and Margit Silberman were murdered on Oct. 7. Kfir Bibas has now lived more than half of his life as a hostage to the Hamas terrorists. The scene at the Bibas home is devastating:

The Bibas family mailbox, with four labels that read “hostage.”

THIS is why we’re fighting this just war. THIS is what is at stake when we say “BRING THEM HOME.” It pains me to post these pictures here, but the world must know about what happened here and elsewhere on October 7.

The view through the fence at the border of the Kibbutz, with Gaza just beyond.

The flag flying half-mast at the entrance to the kibbutz.

What are You Reading?💔

A visit with my friend Rabbi Dalia Marx today took me for the first time to the new building of the National Library of Israel. It’s a marvelous place - the world’s largest collection of Hebraica and Judaica - and a must-visit on a trip to Jerusalem. (It’s across the street from the Knesset, and the 24-hour non-stop demonstrations against this government are particularly intense on the streets out front.)

But even in this quiet place of reflection and intellectualism, the trauma of the war pervades. There is a profoundly moving exhibition near the entrance to the main hall of the library. A chair is set for each and every person still held hostage in Gaza. And on each seat lies a book, custom-selected to reflect the interests or passions of that unique individual:

Some of the books are history, or sports, or classic literature; each has been selected by a family member, or loved one, or by volunteers in honor of that person. Everyone is just waiting for each of them to come home (now!) to claim their book.

My eyes gaze from one seat to the next, as I read the names and ages and the books that have been selected: fiction, non-fiction, hardcovers, paperbacks, old books, recent books…

And then I get to the end of the row, and I see this - and the tears come again:

Kfir Bibas, 9 months old, kidnapped from Kibbutz Nir Oz on October 7, hostage of Hamas terrorists in Gaza. Kfir’s book: איה פלוטו, “Where’s Pluto?”

Ariel Bibas, 4 years old, kidnapped from Kibbutz Nir Oz on October 7, hostage of Hamas terrorists in Gaza. Ariel’s book: אמא ואני, “Mommy and Me.”

Transcending Trauma in Israel

Trauma is a brutal word. It’s not only the damage that occurs from physical or psychological wound; it’s also the wound that festers, long after the initial damage has been inflicted.

Israel is a traumatized nation this summer. On the surface, the cafés are occupied, the beaches are full, the tourists are touring, and so on. But the trauma is everywhere, barely beneath the surface. Even if every hostage were to return home tonight (amen!), and if Hamas were to surrender, and if Hezbollah were to cease raining missiles on the North—still it will take a generation to heal the trauma.

My friend—truly one of my heroes—Dr. Anita Shkedi is an authority on trauma, and earlier this week I went to observe the power of the therapeutic work she is doing.

I’ve known Anita for 30 years; she’s one of many Mitzvah-heroes I first met through Danny Siegel. She is a world-renowned expert on equine therapy (“therapeutic horseback riding”), which uses the holistic power of horses to heal broken bodies and broken spirits. In recent years, her attention has moved to healing trauma; her book Horses Heal PTSD: Walking New Paths is full of staggering stories of love and hope that should be read even by people who have never given horses more than a moment’s thought.

And then, October 7 and its aftermath: the massacres, the hostages, the horrors of war; the 125,000 Israelis from the Gaza envelope and the northern border who have been forced from their homes. The nation is grieving and writhing. In response, Anita and her team pivoted and created a new program: TRANSCENDING TRAUMA, “supporting individuals in the early, mid, and post stages of trauma, and then later if chronic PTSD has developed. It provides immediate intervention and treatment, builds resilience and encourages post traumatic growth. Transcending Trauma is an excellent way to regain a sense of trust and learn to manage this ongoing crisis.”

They’ve created groups from survivors of the Nova Festival. They’ve had groups of survivors from the kibbutzim that were devastated by the terrorists. Today, it’s a group of traumatized soldiers.

Anita Shkedi (left)

Nikki Kagan

I visited Anita and the team at “Piloni’s Place” on Moshav Hibbat Tzion, at the backyard horse farm of Nikki Kagan, a noted leadership consultant and horse expert. I met the group of eight participants who had gathered there for the day’s program:

·      A soldier who is the lone survivor of his unit of thirteen fighters. Can you imagine the trauma that he carries with him?

·      Another soldier whose job in Gaza is to recover the dead; to piece together pieces of bodies, give positive IDs, and get the bodies out of the combat zone to central command. Can you imagine…?

·      A young soldier from Westchester County, New York, who came to be in the army of the Jewish people…

·      And so on; five more people each of whom has seen death and destruction among friends and comrades-in-arms.

None of them, as far as I know, was a “horse person” before discovering this place.

The day unfolds this way:

First, the group gathers to say good morning and greet each other in the mercifully air-conditioned patio. They’ve become an intimate group in a short amount of time. Prior to finding Piloni’s Place, they had never met each other; each comes from a different army unit and lives in a different part of the country. As they arrive, we discover that each has brought a snack to share with the group: a watermelon, pastries, cookies, and so on—far more than we could eat that morning. As each person comes in and places onto the table the snack they’ve brought for the others, the whole groups bursts into laughter. No one asked anyone to bring anything! Anita tells me this instinct to take care of each other is a sign of their growing camaraderie and friendship.

Next, Nikki leads us in a short meditation and spiritual intention. And Anita gives gentle instructions for the day: “Talk to your horse as you’re riding,” she tells each participant. Not superficially, but she encourages each one to share how they’re feeling—what terrifies them, what keeps them awake at night, what they’re feeling deep inside. The bond between horse and rider is remarkably deep and holistic.

Then we adjourn to the stable, where the participants began to dress and groom the horses. But I also observe a process of getting in sync. The grooming is so physical and tactile: human hands caress the horses’ bodies as manes are combed, saddles are assembled, hooves are cleaned of debris, and so on. I can see the horses grow calm and comfortable, and the riders, too, are becoming attuned to their animals.

Then it’s time for riding and exercises. Each student mounts their horse and rides, occasionally raising their hands, or moving through obstacles, and following some basic exercises as instructed by Anita and her daughter-in-law Shani. There are smiles, serenity, a growing sense of security and self-awareness. The horses are steady and calm. Even though the day is brutally hot, I could stand in this spot and watch these riders for hours.

When the exercises end, the riders hose down their horses, return the equipment, and reassemble in the room where we began. There is some discussion and processing of emotions, as in any sort of therapeutic support group. There is laughter. Everyone seems looser, relaxed, and enjoying each other’s company.  A beautiful sort of camaraderie has taken place among them; over the weeks that they’ve become part of this group, they’ve shared some intense therapeutic time together. They’re on the long, slow march to a place of confidence and self-worth, and fewer night terrors and isolation and doubt.

Tomorrow, a different group will be meeting here: Anita will be training trainers, who can spread out around the country and offer similar therapeutic groups on horseback for a traumatized nation.

I’m glad to be an emissary for the Kavod Tzedakah Fund, and I deliver a check for a few thousand dollars (each day’s session costs about $1000 to run; of course none of the participants pay anything). I’m also eager to give Anita some of the cash that friends entrusted me to give away in Israel: This, I tell her, is for ice cream and snacks for future groups, to make everything that much gentler.

This is an awesome place, and Anita and Nikki and their team are doing life-saving work. But the need is huge, for a damaged nation coming to grips with its trauma.

If you’d like to support the work of Transcending Trauma (the non-profit is officially registered as “Friends of Jonathan”) from America, there are three ways to do so: 

1.     A wire transfer directly to their bank in Israel; more information here: https://www.anitashkedi.com/transcending-trauma/

2.     The Good People Fund, run by my friend Naomi Eisenberger in Millburn, NJ: www.goodpeoplefund.org;

3.     The Kavod Tzedakah Fund, for which I am a volunteer allocations director, founded by Rabbi Yoshi Zweiback: www.kavod.org. (If you give through Kavod, please send me an email saying that you’ve directed a donation for Transcending Trauma.)

The Mood of Israel from Its Graffiti

I just returned 24 hours ago, so I’m still processing the complicated feelings and spirit of Israel that I’m encountering. I’ll have more to say about the national trauma (literally; as well as the people who are trying to heal it) in the days to come.

But below is a collection of images of Israel from the past 24 hours, especially the graffiti of Tel Aviv, that tell a story about the national pain, anguish, and resilience of the extraordinary nation, the Jewish people. Last year the graffiti was all about the fight for democracy against Israel’s internal demagogues; today it’s about the shared destiny of the nation.

Upon arrival at Ben Gurion airport, on the long ramp from the gate to passport control, we are confronted with the faces of every hostage that remains captive in Gaza - not one is forgotten - courtesy of Bring Them Home Now-The Hostages and Missing Families Forum:

To each one, people have added personalized inscriptions of love and hope. No one is a statistic or a number. Hersh Goldberg-Polin: we are thinking of YOU, and want YOU to come home now! The numbers that have been added to the poster represent the number of days he has been held hostage.

Their faces, and the message BRING THEM HOME, is everywhere. This is one people, one family - and when part of the people is in pain, the whole people feels it:

This image pops up on the ATM before you withdraw cash.

And so it goes, throughout Tel Aviv - on billboards, placards, and on the sides of skyscrapers:

”Bring the kids back home”

“Release them from their hell!” Seen on the streets of Tel Aviv in different forms.

“Free the Bibas family / Bring them home now!” The Hamas terrorists kidnapped the family of four: 34 year-old mother Shiri, 35 year-old father Yarden, 4 year-old Ariel, and 9 MONTH OLD Kfir; Shiri’s parents were massacred in Kibbutz Nir Oz on the same day. Hamas and every sycophant in the west who justifies the terror has the family’s blood on their hands.

On the side of a Tel Aviv highrise: One People, One [Shared] Fate

In this most progressive of cities, there is a spirit of defiance against the hypocrisies of the world that have come out into the open since the war began. For instance, all those who consider rape a war crime, always and forever—except, it seems, when the victims are Jews. So here are two powerful images asking: where have the UN women’s forums and everyone else been as Hamas’s sexual assaults have been documented over and over, including by the perpetrators themselves?:

But below are the ones that I’ve found most powerful - and haunting. These are images from the walls of one of the train stations in downtown Tel Aviv. Each sticker is about one of the victims: who they are, who’s missing them at home, and so on. If they are a hostage, there’s a call to bring them back to the circle of family life. And if they’re dead - massacred on Oct. or killed in the line of duty - each is a howl of pain that they will not be forgotten, by their loved ones or by their people.

Actually, it’s astonishing how many of these contain a message of optimism, or love, or hope; epitaphs that represent the love the each of these individuals brought into the world:

What a country this is! From the Midrash:

.וְאַתֶּ֧ם תִּהְיוּ־לִ֛י [מַמְלֶ֥כֶת כֹּהֲנִ֖ים וְג֣וֹי קָד֑וֹשׁ]…מלמד שהם כגוף אחד ונפש אחת…לקה אחד מהן כולן מרגישין…

You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation (Exodus 19:6).

This teaches that they, Israel, are like a single body and a single soul…
And if one of them is stricken, all of them feel pain.

More to come in the days ahead…

Bein Ha-Sh’mashot: Between Memory and Independence

Sunday evening, May 12, is Yom HaZikaron / Israel’s Memorial Day.
Monday evening, May 13, is Yom HaAtzma’ut / Israel’s 76th Independence Day.

תָּנוּ רַבָּנַן: בֵּין הַשְּׁמָשׁוֹת סָפֵק מִן הַיּוֹם וּמִן הַלַּיְלָה
.סָפֵק כּוּלּוֹ מִן הַיּוֹם, סָפֵק כּוּלּוֹ מִן הַלַּיְלָה

Our Sages taught:
Bein Ha-Sh’mashot, twilight, is a place of uncertainty. Day or night?
It is uncertain if it belongs to the day or if it belongs to the night.  
(Talmud Bavli, Shabbat 34b)

The Israeli national calendar does something rather extraordinary: it juxtaposes Memorial Day and Independence Day, so the former segues directly into the latter.

“We find ourselves in a twilight place between memory and freedom.”

I’ve often wondered, as an American, how each of those days in our calendar would be more profound and meaningful if our national holidays were similarly positioned. As it is, the American Memorial Day, the last Monday in May, mostly becomes a three-day weekend of barbecues and the informal beginning of summer—unless, of course, you happen to be in a military family.  And the 4th of July becomes a day of fireworks and beachgoing. Physically separated by five-and-a-half weeks in the calendar, these days are distinct and isolated from one another. Imagine how the meaning of each day would be deepened if they weren’t so far apart.

By contrast, in the Israeli model, the two days are inextricably connected, and each throws light upon the other. In other words, Israel’s fallen soldiers (and victims of terror) are remembered in the context of paying the ultimate price for everyone else’s gifts of freedom.

The flow from Yom HaZikaron into Yom HaAtzma’ut is organic, meaningful, and solemn.

This year, that seam between the two days seems to be the profoundest metaphor of the condition of Zionism. We truly find ourselves בֵּין הַשְּׁמָשׁוֹת /  bein ha-sh’mashot, in a twilight place between memory and freedom.

Please, please this year take a moment on Yom HaZikaron to remember. Remember not only the victims of Israel’s wars and the terrorist onslaughts she has faced throught the decades. Remember, too, the Hamas butchery of innocents on October 7: 1,139 people who were murdered, including the 364 who were killed at the Nova Music Festival in the desert, and the others from the kibbutzim and towns where the terrorists ruthlessly went door-to-door, executing children, elders, women, and men.

Remember that 250 people (in some situations, several generations of a single family; toddlers and grandparents) were kidnapped and held hostage in the dungeons beneath Gaza.

Remember that many of these women were raped and assaulted by the terrorists, and then their humiliations were sadistically posted to terrorist social media (with beheadings, torture, and more).

Remember that 128 people remain hostages today. May they be returned home before the holidays conclude on Tuesday.

And yes, we have room in our hearts to remember ALL the victims of war and terror, including the innocent Palestinian victims in Gaza. We have not forgotten, and we weep for all the victims. By mourning all the innocents, we assert that we are of a different moral caliber than our enemies.

But we also remember that there are such things as just wars, and we did not seek out or choose this war. The massacre of innocents and the hostages who are still behind enemy lines, without any Red Cross lifelines:  we remember them, and we will not forget, until every one is brought home.

Our Day of Memory will segue into our Day of Independence. And it may be hard to celebrate this year. But even acknowledging our diminished joy, I believe it is incumbent upon us to observe Yom HaAtzma’ut this year; to say in awe: “My G-d! We live in a generation that knows a State of Israel. What would our great-great-grandparents have said to us, to remind us that we live in one of the most extraordinary moments in all of Jewish history?”

Included in that sense of wonder is this: The reminder that Israel represents our refusal to be victims ever again. We have known pogroms and hostage-taking before in Jewish history. But the difference in our generation is the agency to fight for our freedom, to stand for justice and decency and independence and not to wait desperately for “deliverance from another place” (as Esther 4:14 would have it).

With that agency, of course, comes grave responsibility. A just war must be fought with just means. And the internal debates and wrestling that are going on within the Jewish community are (mostly) fair and, in the very fact that they are happening, a fruit of Independence.

As the world seethes—as antisemites aggressively spew their hate on college campuses and hypocrites dominate the opinion pages, as Jews are threatened once again from every quarter and every political angle—it occurs to me: I will observe Yom HaAtzma’ut with a renewed sense of vigor this year.

Observing Yom HaAtzma’ut with gratitude, commitment, and no small amount of wonder, will demand a certain amount of intention:

It will be an act of commitment to truth, which is in ever-diminishing supply.

It will be an act of pride in all the marvels that make up modern Israel.

It will be an act of solidarity with Jews everywhere, who continue to look towards Zion in hope.

It will be an act of rededication to working towards building the democratic and free society that is described in its Declaration of Independence:

The State of Israel will be open for Jewish immigration and for the Ingathering of the Exiles; it will foster the development of the country for the benefit of all its inhabitants; it will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture; it will safeguard the Holy Places of all religions; and it will be faithful to the principles of the Charter of the United Nations.

In other words, celebrating Israeli Independence this year will be an act of countercultural DEFIANCE that is at the heart of the Torah and Jewish tradition.

It may be hard to tell if this moment between memory and freedom belongs primarily to day or night, as the Talmud (above) would have it. But Israel and its extraordinarily resilient people continue to shine the light of courage, and I for one will raise a glass this year with my community to celebrate that unextinguished hope.

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What is Chanukah?

Mai Chanukah? ask the Sages in the Talmud, “What is Chanukah?”

Chanukah is: stubbornly kindling lights in the encroaching winter’s darkness, filling the cold nights with luminescence and warmth.

Chanukah is: eating latkes, sufganiyot, and sharing sweet times with family and friends.

Chanukah is the sum total of the past Chanukahs in our lives, the memories of celebrations going back to our childhoods, and sharing the holiday with those whose physical presence may be gone, but whose memories endure.

Chanukah is also: the Maccabees, fighting the world’s oldest battle for religious freedom against an insatiable tyrant, who 2,188 years ago was (already) asking the Jews: How is it that you still exist?

Chanukah is also: the miracle of the oil, reminding us that sometimes a flickering light endures even when we least expect it, and the light of love and hope has a way of lingering much longer than anyone anticipated.

Chanukah is also: a spinning dreidel, and the recognition that our fortune or misfortune is often as random as a game of chance; the difference between a windfall and a bad medical diagnosis is rarely something we earn or deserve. So we might as well adopt a posture of gratitude and appreciate what we have.

Chanukah is also: “Ma’oz Tzur” and “Mi Yimallel” and “Anu Nos’im Lapidim” and “I Have a Little Dreidel,” the abandonment and delight of singing together with pride. (Where, outside of religious life, do people gather just to sing together these days?)

Chanukah is also: the Jewish self-confidence to stand up for ourselves and be countercultural, no matter how small in numbers we may be compared the to the culture around us. It is the stubborn insistence that sometimes the weak can overcome the mighty, the few can overtake the many, and good can defeat evil against all odds.

Chanukah is also: putting the Menorah in the window, on public display, unabashed and unafraid.

Chanukah is also: increasing, not decreasing light, because in matters of holiness we are instructed always to add and not detract (Talmud, Shabbat 21b).

And ultimately, Chanukah is about miracles, because all those other things I’ve just listed qualify as miracles. There are miracles from ancient times and miracles that persist today, every day, even just waking up in the morning; miracles of which we are perpetually aware and those to which we are completely oblivious.

Rabbi David Ellenson זצ״ל

Rabbi David Ellenson has died. I hate typing that sentence. Moreover, since it’s Chanukah, Jewish tradition says that part of the simcha of the season means that we shouldn’t give eulogies. So don’t consider this a eulogy, in the sense of a lament for a lost mentor. Consider instead a tribute: He meant an enormous amount to me, as a rabbi, mentor, and friend, so I’d like to share with my community of students and friends a little bit about his brilliance.

Rabbi David Ellenson teaching at the Shalom Hartman Institute, Jerusalem, Summer 2023 (photo: NG)

There are brilliant scholars in the world, and there are incredibly kind and compassionate people as well. But it is astonishingly rare to have both of those dispositions bound up in the same soul. Yet that was Rabbi Ellenson, as anyone who knew him will affirm.

David—and I mean no disrespect by calling him by his first name; he insisted on it, and he had a way of making you feel like such a cherished friend that it would seem impolite not to call him “David”—was an extraordinary leader. For much of his academic career, he was Professor of Jewish Religious Thought at the Los Angeles campus of Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. Since I was ensconced at HUC-JIR’s New York campus, I didn’t have the pleasure of studying with him in rabbinical school; I only got to know him after graduating.

I did things backwards: I had the great fortune over the years to become his friend, and subsequently I became his student. When HUC appointed him President, David invited me to be a founding member of something he called the “President’s Rabbinic Council.” He needed a kitchen cabinet of advisors, he said—with his ubiquitous smiling eyes—because he had no idea how to be a college president! That sort of modesty was characteristically David, and just one aspect that made him so beloved.

But no one was fooled by that self-deprecation. He was one of the most serious thinkers about liberal Judaism of this generation or any other. His scholarship on the development of modern Orthodoxy, modern Jewish philosophy, the meaning of liberal Judaism, the evolution of Jewish liturgy, the ethics of halakha, and so much more was impeccable. And just as important was his way of using knowledge and scholarship to articulate an ethical imperative for contemporary Jews of all stripes.

Here's a story. For many years my family lived in Highland Park, New Jersey, which has a unique mix of Jews from across the religious spectrum living alongside one another. Our next door neighbors were friends who became family (they remain so); they are observant Jews who are very active and committed to modern Orthodox institutions. I remember on occasion my neighbor would come over and ask, “Did you see Rabbi Ellenson’s editorial in the NY Jewish Week?” No, living in New Jersey and entirely overextended, I was not a regular reader of the Jewish Week. “I’ll clip it for you, it’s brilliant,” she said. And then: “How lucky we”—we, as in the entire Jewish community—“are, to have a voice like his.”

She was absolutely right. His intellect, his interests, and his menschlikhkeit overflowed the boundaries in which Jewish communities have fenced ourselves. Sure, much of his career was devoted to leading the academic flagship of Reform Judaism. But his intellectual seriousness and his generous disposition gave him credibility throughout the Jewish world. That sort of leader is, tragically, an endangered species in Jewish life today, and we need more of them desperately.

Others will trace his academic and writing career more completely than me. If you’d like a taste of his scholarship, I’d recommend the anthology Jewish Meaning in a World of Choice: Studies in Tradition and Modernity (2014), a collection of essays in the JPS “Scholar of Distinction” series.

Instead, let me make myself vulnerable by telling you what he meant to me.

When I was going through the hardest time in my life—when I was at a turning point in my career, abandoned by some people and institutions who said they “cared” about me—there were a few foundation stones in my life who totally embraced me: my family, some friends and colleagues… and David Ellenson.

At the time, David was the Director of the Schusterman Center for Israel Studies at Brandeis University. He was, by that point, a dear friend. When I didn’t know where to go or where I might land, he said to me, “Neal, I want you to come to Brandeis and study with me.”

Let me parse that: it was one thing to be there for me as a friend, confidante, and counselor. But at a time when my self-esteem was shot, and I was feeling quite lost both personally and professionally, David said to me: “I want you.”

So I enrolled at Brandeis, and eventually received my second Master’s degree. The biggest privilege was to write a Master’s thesis with David, which included studying with him one-on-one, and eventually defending the thesis before him (and another brilliant Brandeis scholar and mensch, Yehudah Mirsky). He believed in me, and I can only hope to honor his memory by doing likewise and paying it forward.

He taught our A Tree with Roots community on two occasions. Two years ago, when his most recent book was published, he came to me and asked if he and his co-author Rabbi Michael Marmur could do a program on our platform. They were, of course, wonderful: insightful, enlightening, and funny.

The second occasion was just five weeks ago. As part of the 30th anniversary of the Kavod Tzedakah Fund, we asked David to give the closing Torah teaching. It was scholarly discussion of the ethics of war in the writings of Maimonides and Rabbi Shlomo Goren. But the passion and complicated human emotions of Israel’s war with Hamas also came shining through; it was quintessential David Ellenson:

Rabbi Ellenson’s teaching begins at 39:45 in this video from A Tree with Roots

There is one mistake I’m proud that I didn’t make in this relationship: I told him often in the past few years just how much his love and support meant to me.

There’s a passage I’m thinking of tonight from Tony Hendra’s extraordinary book Father Joe (2004). Hendra[1], an English comedian perhaps best known for his role as band manager Ian Faith in the movie This is Spinal Tap, had a private and remarkable spiritual sanctuary. His mentor was a monk who lived for decades at Quarr Abbey on the Isle of Wight, and Hendra throughout his life would visit Father Joe there, for centering and counsel. He always presumed that Father Joe was “his” priest, and that their relationship was special and unique. At the end of the book, he goes back to Quarr for the Father Joe’s funeral—and he is astonished to discover that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people all over the world who also loved him went to Father Joe for solace and guidance:

Common sense suggests it would be hard for one person to maintain in one lifetime more than a few such friendships. It would be taxing physically—the toll it would take on time, energy, patience, concentration—and brutally hard on the emotions, let alone the spirit. Yet as the tributes came in and I dug farther, it became clear that Father Joe had undertaken not just a few, or even a few dozen, but hundreds of such life-altering voyages.

I’m under no such illusions: I know that David Ellenson loved and was beloved by countless students all over the world. I also know that part of his brilliance, part of his awesomeness, was that he loved each one of us uniquely and in our own way.

In Judaism, that sort of spiritual mentorship is called being a Rebbe. And among his accolades and accomplishments, surely that title is the most precious of all.

זכר צדיק לברכה / The memory of the righteous is a blessing.

[1] I’m quite aware that after Father Joe was published, sexual assault allegations were made against Hendra by his daughter. It was an early “Me Too” moment, and Hendra died in 2021 scarred by the scandal. I will not whitewash him, for sure. But I can’t unread his book, nor can I deny that it is truly powerful.