Brought to you by Ilana Sumka and other experienced leaders in Israeli-Palestinian dialogue, comes this delegation overcoming the divides between Jew and Palestinian:
In February 2015, join The Center for Jewish Nonviolence and T’ruah for a tree replanting delegation to the Tent of Nations in the West Bank. The Center for Jewish Nonviolence is a new project committed to developing a culture and practice of Jewish Nonviolence in North America and the EU, Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories. Led by long-time educator and activist Ilana Sumka, the Center will train and mobilize members of the international Jewish community to join Israeli and Palestinian nonviolent activists seeking to secure human and civil rights. To watch the promo video or help plant a tree, click here. The deadline to apply is November 14. To apply now, click here.
More details on their Facebook page.
Editor’s Note: Following yesterday’s post by Sarra Alpert, here is another piece about the Rosh HaShana Torah readings, re-visited as we read those passages again this coming Shabbat. This piece was given by Mary Otts as a derasha at the Mishkan Chicago community. –aryehbernstein
by Mary Otts
As a child, I spent lots of time on my knees, glass rosary beads floating over my fingertips, staring at paintings of saints on the walls of holy buildings. Prayer smelled like the incense wafting through the cathedral and sounded like the reverberation of the kneelers being dropped onto the tile floor. While my mouth moved—still moves—effortlessly around the words, “Hail Mary, full of grace,” this Mary was distracted by a clumsy inadequacy around what it was I was really supposed to be doing in these moments.
Many years later, I’ve found G!d in the hum of the Bet Midrash, in the gentle correction of my chevruta, in the letters of the Gemara, in every single time someone who thought they couldn’t learn Talmud is empowered into finding their place in our Tradition. I find joy in P’sukei d’Zimra, community when we stand together during the Amidah, and revelation in the melody of Eitz Chayim Hi, but prayer—that magical thing that is supposed to happen in between the lines of liturgy—prayer is hard for me still. And, yet, particularly this past summer, I have needed to pray. More »
Editor’s Note: This Shabbat we will read VaYera, including the birth of Isaac, expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael, and binding of Isaac. These are also the readings from Rosh HaShana and provide us an opportunity to revisit ideas that might have inspired, goaded, soothed, or chastised us during the holiday, now, a month later, when we are just back into our regular routine and may need those ideas the most. Here is a piece for Rosh HaShana submitted for this purpose by Jewschool friend Sarra Alpert, shared originally with the Kolot Chayeinu community in Brooklyn. –aryehbernstein
by Sarra Alpert
In approaching Rosh Hashanah this year, I have found myself particularly aware of its unique type of split personality. On the one hand, this is a celebratory holiday — a happy-birthday party for the world, days whose customs mirror those of all of our joyful holidays, only with added sweetness. On the other hand, these are supposed to be days that open a particularly solemn chapter as we enter the Ten Days of Repentance. In our prayers today, we ask to be written in the Book of Life for a year of health, peace and blessing. We recite the tragedies that may befall us this year, asking to whom they will occur. And we are urged to reverse the potentially harsh judgments awaiting us by turning to prayer, repentance and justice, with the idea hanging there that our fates will be sealed in ten days, on Yom Kippur. These are difficult ideas for a modern person to relate to, and particularly odd ones to couple with a birthday party and honey-dipped apples. More »
I’ve been thinking today about the ways in which facebook and other online discourse can be constructive or destructive. I try to engage people with diverse opinions in thinking through vitally important issues – in the hopes (as grandiose as this might sound) of moving all of us, in some small way, toward a better future. As opinionated as I might be, I hope and believe I’ve remained open to changing my opinions based on other peoples’ respectful, well-thought-out responses and alternative views, and that I make that clear in the way I engage others. And I know I’ve learned a lot and grown tremendously from dialogue with people who disagree with me.
But then I end up on a facebook friend’s thread on how to respond to Palestinian stone-throwing where real live people make comments like this: “penalty should be public stoning. tie them to a post and allow the local populace 30 minutes of free stone throwing. or they could choose option B which is a public caning by a female IDF officer (10 should suffice) while standing in a bucket of pigs blood.” How does one even begin to respond to such a statement? I took a friend’s advice to report the comment as hate speech, but hearing things like that from a person who is only a couple degrees removed from me shakes me up, probably more than it should. It makes me hesitant to engage in further discussion, and I find it also makes me respond less rationally and thoughtfully to other topics. The experience (and others like it) is making me wonder how much to open myself up to hearing from people who strongly disagree with me, versus how much to maintain a smaller circle of people with whom I am open to conversation on these issues.
This experience affected me especially harshly since it came on the heels of a recent decision to relax my usually stringent criteria for accepting facebook friend requests: the “friend” on whose wall this was posted is not someone I know in real life. But he sent me a friend request and I decided to accept because, although our opinions in general seem to be very different, I had been impressed by his thoughtful and respectful mode of discourse on a number of facebook threads. And then this.
I would love to hear suggestions of constructive and positive ways to respond to such vitriol, beyond defriending people, ignoring, or anonymously reporting hate-filled posts. Is it worth it to respond when people make such emotional and vile comments? In what ways, and whom, does it help?
We don’t notice it here in the quiet neighborhood of Katamon. If it weren’t for my newsfeed and the sounds of firework-like explosions and helicopters I hear each night, I might not know anything out of the ordinary was happening in Jerusalem. I can’t honestly say I wish this were different. I invested so much emotional energy this summer in trying vainly to protect my children’s innocence as sirens wailed and rockets were mercifully blasted out of the sky. Now that Jerusalem is quiet, I’m incredibly grateful that my children have returned to their routines, their biggest anxieties caused by the mean girl in class and the upcoming math quiz. The last thing I want is for their blissful ignorance to be shattered again by violence. I get why so many people here just want to enjoy the renewed calm.
Except that things are not calm. Ever since the horrific killing of Muhammad Abu Khdeir last June, the rioting throughout East Jerusalem has been nearly constant – so much so that it has become the background noise that many of us simply tune out. Until the internal violence explodes into our West Jerusalem world, we feel like it’s just not our problem.
But this is not just “their” problem. It is ours, and not only when “our” innocents are killed.
I’m sure Hamas and other groups bear much of the responsibility for inciting the current violence. I’m upset and angry about this, but there is little we can do to wipe out that influence at its source. What we can and must do is take responsibility for our own part in creating and perpetuating the increasingly bleak atmosphere of frustration, despair and hopelessness which has served as the breeding ground for the current unrest:
NewGround is one of our favorite organizations. Their main activity is a year long fellowship for Muslim and Jewish adults in which the participants learn communication and conflict resolution in order to further mutual respect and cooperation while allowing for difficult and tense conversations. Or as they say it:
NewGround equips Jews and Muslims in America with the skills, resources, and relationships needed to strengthen Muslim-Jewish relations and cooperation on issues of shared concern. Through an intensive fellowship, collaborative public programming and consulting, NewGround impacts a broad political and religious spectrum of Muslims, Jews and the institutions that represent them.
NewGround’s annual fundraiser/friendraiser event is called Spotlight. It is based on The Moth’s program of curated stories. This year’s theme is “The Space Between”. The event page on Facebook is here. More »
This week marked the first yahrzeit of Rav Ovadia Yosef. Last year, in the aftermath of his death, and in the midst of a media storm including wildly varying assessments of his life, I posted this piece, “On Heroes and Villains and when They’re the Same: Thoughts on Rav Ovadia“. It got a lot of traction, receiving, we think, the most social media shares in Jewschool history (subsequently eclipsed by Rabbi Oren Hayon’s guest post about BDS campus campaigns). The challenge of fully acknowledging a person’s misdeeds and merits is as relevant a year later. Specifically, in the Rabbinic realm, the past couple weeks’ revelations of Rabbi Barry Freundel’s outrageous violations of privacy and abuse of power at the D.C mikveh have likely been confusing for D.C. Jews who have ever been inspired by Torah taught by Freundel or helped by his pastoral counsel. How can we square the corruption with the inspiration? For this, we bring you this week’s Throwback Thursday, to last year’s post about Rav Ovadia.
by Danya Lagos
I would like to thank Lizzie Busch for her thoughtful response piece to my post “Therapy and the Jewish Left” and for assuming in good faith that my intention in the piece was not, in fact, to drive a wedge between the personal and the political, as nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, if we want to talk about the personal and its relation to the political, when I call for the Jewish Left to relegate its overblown therapeutics regimen to the sidelines in favor of immediate direct action, I speak precisely from my own vantage point as a Jew operating largely on the margins of the traditional sites of class, ethnic, and gender privilege within in the North American Jewish community that Busch suggests might have been missing from my analysis.
(Crossposted to Mah Rabu.)
Now that we’re into Cheshvan, it’s time for a mid-decade update!
Four years ago, we noted that for the entire decade of the 2010s, there are only two patterns of Hebrew years: Rosh Hashanah on Monday and on Thursday. This means that most or all of the fall holidays are on weekdays for the entire decade, and 4 of the last 5 years have included a string of 3 “3-day yom tovs” for the 2-day yom tov folks.
We made the following prediction: This decade, and especially this half-decade, will see lots of 2-day-yom tov people switching over to 1 day.
Now that the 2010s are half over (in regard to major Jewish holidays), it’s time to assess whether this prediction has been accurate so far.
I’m not claiming that this is scientific data collection methodology, but I’m calling for anecdata.
In the last 5 years, did you switch from 2-day yom tov to 1-day? If so, post in the comments.
And to be fair (and to assess, again unscientifically, whether there has been a real shift or just a dynamic equilibrium) we’ll ask the opposite question too: In the last 5 years, did you switch from 1-day yom tov to 2-day?
A few guidelines:
If you don’t want to out yourself and post under your real name, that’s fine, but then please use a pseudonym (not just “Anonymous”) so that we can count unique individuals.
- Switches to or from 0 days of yom tov don’t count (that’s measuring something different).
- We’re asking about what you do when you’re outside of Israel.
- We’re not asking about Rosh Hashanah.
- We realize that people aren’t always completely consistent, and that practices can vary based on the situation. Answer based on which practice you primarily identify with.
Thanks for your cooperation! I’ll ask the same questions in 5 years, if blogs are still around.
by Lizzie Busch
Disclaimer: I am the daughter of a psychiatrist. I hope that this will not make me too biased in responding to Danya Lagos’ blog post “Therapy and the Jewish Left”.
When I initially read Lagos’ blog post, I reacted strongly against it. In large part, I was reacting to the basic feminist assertion that “the personal is political”. We cannot separate our political work from our personal feelings. Upon reading more carefully, I assume that Lagos wouldn’t disagree: their argument seems to be that the Jewish Left is focusing on trauma and care to the point that it becomes navel-gazing, and that navel-gazing is happening at the expense of true organizing and political work.
That may be true. My dad’s friend, the late psychiatrist Arnie Cooper, tells this joke:
Q: What’s the difference between the American Psychoanalytic Association and the International Ladies Garment Workers’ Union?
A: Two generations. More »
Throwback Thursday has been dark here for a while, with holidays falling on Thursdays, but with the holidays over, we’re back. Today, we recall legendary rock and roll poetic grouch, Lou Reed, front man of the Velvet Underground and prolific soloist, who died last Oct. 27, after which I wrote this piece, cross-posted in Heeb and on our blog, reflecting as a Jew on Reed’s cultural significance.
The Forward, which has a deep left-leaning Yiddishist history, said the Christopher Columbus should be celebrated as an 15th Century Theodore Herzl. If this is a joke, well done The Forward. If not and they really are looking to compare Zionisms to the “discovery” of the “New World” then well done on making the argument for all anti-Zionists.
If this wasn’t a joke I can’t believe the editors allowed such a sloppy and simple version of history (and historical comparison) to be published on its website. Either way this will be used for proof of something that The Forward didn’t intend. It is pretty surprising.
Happy Indigenous People’s Day.
x-posted at Justice in the City
“Creativity” is the latest buzzword in education. The most watched TED talk ever is a talk given by Sir Ken Robinson in 2006 called “How schools kill creativity.” It has had almost twenty million views.
Sir Ken’s main point (which is later joined by his second main point) is that creativity is as important in education as literacy and should be given the same status. His second main point is that children are not taught creativity, rather they are educated out of creativity. This means that all children are naturally creative and the educational system beats that creativity out of them, scaring them with the ideas that there are some things that are right and others that are wrong, and that it is important to know the difference between them.
Just in time for the New Year, Rabbi David Lazar has started a new blog, creatively titled Rabbi David Lazar’s blog. David is a Masorti Rabbi who founded and served a Masorti synagogue in Israel, was active in the creation of the LGBT center in Jerusalem, served as the Rabbi in Stockholm, and on and on. Google him. Really. (Okay, I’ve done it for you. Just go here.)
But first, you should read his blog. He is writing from Budapest right now, thinking about Freudian and Reikian symbolism around the shofar; faces artistic, real, and memorialized around Yom Kippur.
Why are you still here? Go read!
This reflects every interfaith family’s cultural exchanges over Jewish foods. Shana tova from Jewschool!
This is a guestpost by Liya Rechtman.
My family’s Passover Seder this year marked two firsts for my boyfriend: his first time meeting my dad and his first time eating homemade gefilte fish. As we read the haggadah around the table, I felt myself tensing up: ‘oh no, what if he gets that passage about Hillel and Shamai and he can’t pronounce the weird Hebrew town names?’ and ‘Worse! What if he winds up with “Tell me morano, my brother” and he has no idea what it’s about?’ When a reading did finally fall on him, and my boyfriend started on with “I am a Jew because…” I sort of giggled, loudly. My mom, tactful as always, told him that perhaps they would let someone else read the passage and come back to him. The first minor, awkward, interfaith hurdle had been managed gracefully by all parties involved.
The Seder moved on that night, and for several months to come the disparity between my Jewish tradition and his ex-Muslim atheism were significant parts of our identity, but not prohibitively so in the context of our relationship. Our faith/non-faith perspectives consistently yielded to thoughtful, extended discussion and debate about God, materialism, and meaning, among other things. That is, until three boys were declared dead in Israel and I stayed up all night crying. More »
The dominant Rabbinic tradition is that Rosh HaShanah marks the creation of the world, as our liturgy reflects: “This is the day, the beginning of Your creation, a memorial of the first day” — “זה היום תחילת מעשיך, זכרון ליום ראשון” (introduction to Zikhronot in Musaf); “Today is the conception of the world” — “היום הרת עולם” (Shofar service). Our Day of Judgment, our accountability, zeroes in not on reception of the Torah, but on our very creation as fragile human beings with clean slates.
On the first day of Rosh HaShanah, we read the Haftarah of Hannah’s suffering over her barrenness, her prayer for a child, and the birth of her son Shmuel, the prophet — on Rosh HaShanah, according to the Rabbis. Hannah, the outcast, is scorned by the religious establishment, which mistakes her sincere, vulnerable prayer for drunken blathering in violation of Temple decorum and public decency. But the Rabbis in the Talmud (Berakhot 31 a-b), stylize her prayer as the legal paradigm. To pray according to halakhah, we must bring out into the open our inner Hannah — our vulnerable, heartbroken, and rejected self, despite the fear.
On the second day of Rosh HaShanah, we read Jeremiah’s promise that exiled and broken Israel will see new life. The current agony of exile is poetically personified as Mother Rachel, bitterly weeping for her lost children. Rachel, like Hannah, suffered for years through barrenness, so the pathos of her wailing over her lost children rings especially intense. There, too, the Rabbis see something else in the Matriarch’s emptiness. She is not עקרה (barren, uprooted, maimed, hamstrung), but עיקרה, the essence, the chief, the core of her household (Bereishit Rabbah 71:2).
This Rosh HaShanah, let us create safe spaces for dangerous prayer, to be present as though our prayer is the most important thing for us to do at that moment, because healing the world requires perceptive and audacious consciousness, rooted in vulnerability, and believing in our ability, and each other’s, to be better than we have been. The consciousness of our continual rebirth requires preparation, inclusivity, and support as we draw out the pain, regret, and joy of our inner Hannahs and Rachels. Some scholars have suggested that “היום הרת עולם” should be translated not, “today is the conception of the world”, but, “Today is pregnant with eternity”. God sees us as newborns, with infinite potential. Dare we see ourselves that way?
I’m a young woman who visibly wears tzitzit. The public nature of my observance of this mitzvah means that when I leave my home, I become public property to many; in the same way that people feel free to comment on the bodies of or even touch pregnant women, people with noticeable tattoos or piercings, and, as has been written about extensively, black women’s hair, when I wear tzitzit in public, my deviant body — at least for those who recognize my fringes — suspends normal expectations of courtesy and privacy. I’m often approached in inappropriate contexts, and even have had my tzitzit grabbed.
Is there any context in which it is ever appropriate for an older man to approach a young woman and inquire about what she’s wearing under her shirt? (Let’s put aside, for the moment, that male teachers and administrators at Orthodox day schools DO police girls’ clothing, as has most recently been brought to light by a senior at the Yeshivah of Flatbush.) Yes, my fringes are visible, but the violation of my privacy I face on a regular basis about my tallit katan is appalling. The typical interaction of “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?” followed by an awkward fidgeting and mumble about my tzitzit as the asker realizes that they hadn’t actually formulated a question is always unpleasant for me as an introvert, and irritating in its assumption that my unusual garment means I am open for conversation in otherwise rude contexts. (See: the Israeli police officer who interrupted a date to ask.) Curious women are one thing; while I’m often disturbed to be questioned by strangers in public, part of the reason I wear my tzitzit visible is so that the image of a woman in tzitzit will become normalized — when I first began to consider tzitzit, the one image of a woman I’d seen in tzitzit at a partnership minyan flashed again and again in my brain and strengthened my resolve. Even when strange women approach me and ask if I’m wearing standard “boy tzitzit” or a garment made specifically for women, I’ll answer; this question about what is in some ways my underwear gives me a chance to share my views on the mitzvah with more women, and to share with them the resource that is Netzitzot. More »