Purim and Inglourious Basterds: The Delight and Terror of Revenge Fantasies

I recently rewatched Quentin Tarantino’s 2009 film Inglorious Basterds. It remains a powerful, entertaining cinematic experience. I forgot how delicious and even thrilling it was – as a seventh-generation rabbi whose father of blessed memory escaped the Nazis and immigrated to America from Poland in 1938 with his parents and brother, leaving most of his family behind, all of whom were murdered by the Nazis – to feel justice served in the painful, fiery death of all the Nazi leadership gathered in one theatre to watch a film glorifying their own psychopathic heroes. I grew up in a community that would append to any mention of Nazis the expression  “y’mach shemam” – may their names be erased.”  Mr. Tarantino gave explosive new meaning to this term!

Tomorrow night, Jews around the world will celebrate the festival of Purim and read the Megillah – the Scroll of Esther. The story of Achashverosh, a paranoid Machiavellian king, Haman, an evil and hateful advisor to the King, a Jewish courtier Mordechai, and his niece –  the heroic, brilliant strategist, identity- hiding Queen Esther. Written in response to Jewish powerlessness and anxiety, the story has twists and turns, court intrigue and sexual innuendo, the near destruction of the Jews of Persia, and the redemptive climax. The evil Haman – whose name is drowned out with harsh noise-making groggers every time it is mentioned – is hung as are his ten sons, and to deepen the salvific gratification, the Jews of the empire, with the permission of the King, get extra days to fight, and they slaughter 75,000 Persians – without incurring even one Jewish casualty.  “For the Jews, it was a time of happiness and joy, gladness and honor.”

The Purim story and Inglorious Basterds get similar jobs done! They are fun, action-packed, Jewish revenge fantasies! Rather than focusing on the suffering of Jews, the Purim story and Inglorious Bastards are primary process experiences. There may be millions and millions of Jewish victims in “every generation,” from those enslaved in Egypt to those butchered in the Shoah’s Kingdom of Night, but the Purim story and Inglorious Basterds tell the one story we are afraid to tell about ourselves: the story of what we would really like to do to the “other.” No wonder the custom on Purim is to get so drunk that we can’t discern the difference between the blessing of  Mordechai and the curse of Haman.  How else could we allow ourselves to feel the pent-up rage and vengeance against those in “every generation who rise up to destroy us?”

But the Purim story begins, “And behold in those days,” and Inglorious Basterds begins, “Once upon a time,” – reminding us that we are watching fables, tales, dreams, and fantasies that alas did not happen.  The Purim story, like Inglorious Basterds, is a flight of the imagination, a meditation on justice and vengeance, an invitation to feel and even savor our most vicious and murderous feelings towards that evil “other.” Both bring to consciousness feelings and desires that many Jews could never bring up in mixed company.

I admit, for so many of my 60+ years celebrating Purim, I have had thrills and chills reading how we Jews wreaked havoc on those Haman-istians and emerged victorious. And even though I never go to action films, let alone violent movies, I thoroughly enjoyed and was even hyped up by Inglorious Basterds. Oh my, yes, yes, if God is not going to pour out his wrath on those “others” – and God is completely absent from both the Purim story and Inglorious Basterds – then damn it, I wish “we” could utterly destroy all those who rise up against us in every generation!

2024 – Israel at war with Hamas in response to Hamas’s horrific, brutal, nihilistic, barbarous acts of October 7th. What happens when our darkest fantasies can become reality? What is the cost of not recognizing and owning the feelings that lie deep in our psyche: Kill every last one of those…As Aldo the Apache (Brad Pitt), leader of the Basterds, says: “We will be cruel to the Germans, and through our cruelty they will know who we are. They will find the evidence of our cruelty in the disemboweled, dismembered, and disfigured bodies of their brothers we leave behind us.” Or as Israel’s Dahiya Doctrine says, most clearly articulated by Gadi Eisenkot, former IDF General and now a member of the war cabinet, “We will wield disproportionate power against every village from which shots are fired on Israel, and will cause immense damage and destruction.” The Dahiya Doctrine is about achieving a sustained deterrent impact by intentionally using disproportionate force, extending to the destruction of the economy and state infrastructure with many civilian casualties. They will know who we are and won’t fuck with us anymore.

What a profoundly challenging moment. The liberating fantasy of those Inglorious Basterds blowing up a theater filled with evil Nazis can now be reality. The necessary, sustaining, dignity-creating and life – affirming fantasy of slaughtering the enemy in the Purim story – a story we Jews chant to a sacred melody to this day – that I will actually be chanting for my community on Saturday evening can now become policy. How privileged to live in this era. How burdened to live in this era. Elie Wiesel, Nobel Laureate and most important witness of the Kingdom of Night teaches: “Some stories are true that never happened.” These days we might add: Some stories that never happened can become true.

Fantasies of eliminating the other – dreaming of doing what we can’t possibly do – depend on our splitting victim and perpetrator. The Jews – victims – are about to be eliminated by Haman and his followers – the perpetrators. Splitting is a remarkably important way to defend against humiliation, fear, anxiety and powerlessness. But an adaptive skill in one period can be maladaptive in another and fantasies can become nightmares. To paraphrase Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: The line separating victim and perpetrator passes right through every human heart — and through all human hearts. This line shifts. Inside us, it oscillates with the years.

These days, Jews and Palestinians are completely traumatized by their histories and by what they have done to each other over the past 100 years, and what many outside interests have supported them in doing to each other. They are both victims AND perpetrators. But neither can see how the other is a victim or how they themselves are perpetrators.  So, each has fantasies about eliminating the other and seems prepared to fight till the death to do so. Not surprisingly, this is now metastasizing into the same splitting here in this country within the Jewish body politic Jews and between the generations in America. Everyone knows for certain who is the victim and who is the perpetrator and to even suggest that things may be more complicated will evoke attacks from all sides.

We Jews are in an unusual position as we celebrate Purim and begin preparing for Passover, where Pharaoh is the evil enslaver, and we, the victims, are redeemed by a God who justly and devastatingly plagues those Egyptians. Given this splitting between victim and perpetrator, with each side seeing itself as a complete victim and the other as an existentially dangerous perpetrator, and the present asymmetric power arrangements, there will be far more deaths for Palestinians in the next months and years. This is new for Jews. But Israel’s – and Jews’ – moral standing in the world, yet alone Israel being central to the next generation of American Jews, will be radically diminished. Of course, the understandable post-Holocaust response of mainstream Jewry is that the world has no right to morally judge Israel, after all we are ever the victim people dwelling alone.

Can each side discern, recognize, process, digest, heal, and transcend their trauma and legitimate fears of each other?

Can each side recognize that they are perpetrators and not only victims?

This won’t happen without very serious work at the psycho-cultural level that is both bottom-up and top-down and will require enormous investment.  Right now, my guess is the total investment in all the people and every organization doing this work does not add up to what one F-35 costs. Until both sides can stop splitting their identities between victim and perpetrator and integrate that they/we are fully both victims and perpetrators, we will continue to kill each other ever more viciously with ever more distorting, distorted, and hardening rationalizations.

I can’t speak for the Palestinian side, but right now, my experience is that there is no possibility of American Jewish institutional leadership, nor, for that matter, almost any Jew of influence I know over 50 years old, to even entertain that we Jews are perpetrators. To do so would literally require a complete destabilization and breakdown of contemporary Jewish identity – both personal and institutional. (Progressives can’t do this either as they simply split the opposite way. They assume Jews – by which they really mean those bad Zionist Jews but often wind up blaming Jews in general -are perpetrators and assume Palestinians but too often include even Hamas – are victims.) There are simply no communal spaces or sustaining structures in Jewish life to help Jews through this very painful process…and I imagine the same is true for Palestinians.

But power itself is always contingent, which means the present asymmetrical nature of power can indeed shift in time, which should be humbling and unnerving. This is what Yitzchak Rabin z’l understood when he said Israel was at the strongest it would ever be during his time and, therefore, was specifically in the position to take a risk for peace. I assume few people would argue that Israel is safer, more secure or even more powerful today than it was when Rabin signed the Oslo Accords…or even the day of his funeral to which every Arab nation sent a representative or two days later when Yasar Arafat drove to Tel Aviv to pay a shiva call to Leah Rabin. Alas, we have come a long way.

There is an ancient teaching that the only holiday that will remain after the coming of the Messiah will be the holiday of Purim. When all our dreams are realized, we will still be reading how fragile our reality is and how even our most understandable fantasies can turn into nightmares. Happy Purim.

Purim, When We Need It Most… And Least.

Purim, with its happy ending, Jews appropriately ascendant, ensconced in power, and safe from harm, sounds pretty good, especially this year, with increasing anti-Semitism, Israel at war, and hostages still in brutal captivity You might say that this is one of those years when we need Purim the most.

Of course, there is the other part of the Purim story — the part in which Jews straddle the line between justice and revenge, in which stubborn ideology leads to violent confrontation and a great deal of death.  So, you might also say this is one of those years when we need Purim the least.

So, which is it?  Is this the year we need Purim most or least?  And, of course, the answer is “Yes.”  We need Purim this year, both more than ever and less than ever, and that is because the issue isn’t Purim. The issue is us. And given God’s absence from the story as recorded in The Book of Esther — the only book in the entire Hebrew Bible in which God does not appear — it is especially clear that it is a story about us. There is no putting our response on God because God isn’t there.

In fact, the absence of God from the Purim story is like the joke about the man who visits a psychiatrist, and she proceeds to use a Rorschach Test on her new patient. Yeah, it’s an old joke, as indicated by the use of this test, but hang in, as it is still quite timely — the joke, anyway.

The doctor shows the patient an inkblot, asking what he sees. The patient replies, “It’s a picture of a man and a woman having sex.”  The doctor moves on to a second image and again asks the man what he sees. The patient replies, “That’s a picture of two men having sex.”  Seeing the third picture, the patient declares, “And that is a picture of two women having sex.”

The doctor puts down the cards and says to the patient that while there is much more to explore, it is clear to her that this man is rather obsessed with sex. The man replies, “Obsessed with sex? Doctor, you’re the one showing me all the dirty pictures!”

Like the patient in the story, we tend to think that our responses to life are driven by some external controlling force – – be it God or the doctor – – or by the events and pictures that surround us. While those are definitely part of what drives us, as this joke reminds us, it is about us more than anything else. And nowhere more than the Purim story is that the case, especially with God out of the picture and the story so multi-faceted.

So, which Purim story are you feeling this year?  Are you aching to celebrate the good ending to a crazy story of unfairly victimized Jews who secure their own safety in totally justified ways and cheering at the demise of those who hated Jews and sought to kill them just because they were different?

Or are you planning to lower your voice, especially as you come to the passages that tell of violence committed not against Jews but by Jews, and perhaps skipping any public feasting or celebration, given the darker sides of the Purim story?

Whether you will observe the holiday or not, whether you are Jewish or not, does one of those responses make greater sense to you as you think about the story? And what about the parallels that people draw to current events, even as the equivalences that are made between then and now are far less exact than those who often draw them believe?

Each response has its logic and its merits, as long as whatever reading or practice we choose, we can appreciate that Purim is our Rorschach test.  How we understand and celebrate the story is about us more than anything or anyone else.  That means that whatever path we follow, we need to appreciate that the paths not taken are often as authentic, as legitimate, and as grounded in the text as the one we have chosen. In fact, in the absence of God, our choice is all there is, which is the deeper challenge that Purim invites, or dare I say, unmasks.

To be clear, this understanding of Purim is not so new. It is as old as the Talmudic teaching found in Shabbat 88a. The story recounts how God holds Mount Sinai over the Israelites at the time of revelation and tells them that if they accept the Torah, all is well and good, but if they refuse, then God will drop the mountain on them and kill them all.

Rav Aha bar Yaakov responds that if that were the case, then the covenant at Sinai is, in fact, no covenant at all, having been made under extreme duress. No Sage challenges this claim, and instead, the texts ask how and when the covenant came into force. The answer is that it happened at Purim when we are told that the Jews “upheld and accepted” that which Mordechai told them to do. (Esther 9:27). The covenant is about us — what are we willing to accept and do, and the answers to those questions are found only when we step back — if only for a while — from God and what the text says. That is the ultimate unmasking in this holiday of hiddenness, and that is the deepest power of the holiday.

Purim is the ultimate Rorschach test, and perhaps the one thing that we can all celebrate is the opportunity to answer its questions in genuine peace and real security for all. We may understand what that means in different ways, but unless we pretend that we are God — which even God doesn’t do in this story — we can take responsibility for our chosen readings, accept the partialness of whatever reading/observance we choose, and appreciate the freedom of others to choose theirs. To that, I can say “l’chaim” with a full, if somewhat broken, heart this year.

Called, and Called Again

My son Micah, while only an adolescent, has a very old soul. Not like Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men (although sometimes yes), but rather like someone who – for as long as I can recall – has moved through the world with a deep sense of wonder. As soon as he could speak, everything came out in the form of a question. He was constantly tugging at the ontological threads of life’s great mysteries, from why the sky was blue, to why God created us in such a way that we could feel pain. Rarely content with the first answer he found, most of his questions would yield more questions, each one designed to get a deeper truth than the last, peeling away the layers of the onion that is our world.

So last week, it came as no surprise when Micah asked me the most important question that humankind has ever pondered, with only a 3-minute drive during which to answer it (in fairness, everything in Providence is 3 minutes away from everything else in Providence, so he’s gotten quite good at squeezing big talks into short drives).

“Abba, what is the meaning of life? Like, I’ve heard people say that it’s about finding what makes you happy and doing that. And you and I have talked about helping others as being really important, too. But it kind of feels like everybody has their own answer.”

As I’ve learned over my years of parenting, these moments in which the mundane gives way to the transcendent come with no advance notice. You never know when a simple back-and-forth will unfold into the most important conversation you’ll have all year. When a backyard game of catch becomes one of those quintessential memories of parenthood. When the impromptu ice cream excursion yields the sweetest moment of the summer. So when Micah opened with this question about life, I knew I didn’t want to miss out on what it could lead to.

Taking care not to give him a pre-packaged answer (he’s got a finely-tuned BS detector), I volleyed the question back to him. “What do you think it is, for you?”

“Well, I kind of think it’s a good thing that everybody has their own answer. Like maybe my purpose is to find out what I’m really good at, that also helps people, and then do that.”

“That’s a really thoughtful answer, Micah. It sounds like you’re well on your way to figuring things out, right?”

“But what about once you’ve found your purpose? What’s your purpose then?”

Noting that we were approaching our destination (Hebrew School) with no time to spare before the bell, I tried to leave him with an answer that would satisfy his curiosity until we picked up the conversation again while still giving him food for thought in the meantime. In other words, I did my best Yoda impression:

“What’s your purpose once you’ve found your purpose? To keep looking, Micah. To keep looking.”

Commands and Calls

As the book of Leviticus – Vayikra (“and God called”) in Hebrew – begins, we read a strange phrase in the first verse. “God called to Moses, and spoke to him…” (Leviticus 1:1). Why use two different verbs to describe what seems to be an otherwise simple act (i.e. telling Moses something)?

The medieval commentator Rashi, bothered by the same redundancy, ascribes a deep meaning to it. Throughout the book of Leviticus, he notes, “every speech, utterance, and command is preceded by a call.” Each word shared by God with Moses holds such importance that God first issues a calling to Moses, helping him to center his attention on the critically important charge to come. For both of them, stationed at Mount Sinai, each word held infinite possibilities for the fate of the Israelites, every utterance an eternity.

Here, Rashi sheds light on not one but two powerful lessons. The first is that God’s call to Moses was conveyed in love. As interpreted by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks of blessed memory:

Vayikra, Rashi tells us, means ‘to be called to a mission in love’. This is the source of one of the key ideas of Western thought, the concept of a vocation or a calling, i.e., choosing a career or way of life not just because you want to do it, nor because it offers certain benefits, but because you feel summoned to it…This is what you were placed on earth to do.

“When we see a wrong to be righted, a sickness to be healed, a need to be met, and we feel it speaking to us, that is when we come as close as we can…to hearing Vayikra, God’s call.” (Covenant and Conversation Vol 2, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks)

Sacks invites us to ponder the very same question that Micah asked me from the backseat: “What is the meaning of life?” Or, perhaps: “What is the meaning of my life?” By particularizing the universal, we are invited to attune ourselves to receive God’s call – no matter what form it may take.

Hearing that call means allowing it to put a claim on your heart. To accept a call is more than to sign a job contract or to say “yes” to an invitation. It is to commit one’s life, one’s livelihood, one’s lifeblood, to the fulfillment of that mission. Nechama Leibowitz, the 20th-century Israeli Bible scholar, noted that the burnt sacrifice discussed in the first chapter of this week’s Parashah (the “Olah”) must be the “choicest offering” (New Studies in Vayikra). In other words, not only must the sacrifice be “brought willingly” (Abravanel commentary), but it must be the best that you have to give.

Meaning Matters

Certainly, we in the Western world have witnessed a movement over the last 30 years, such that we are now encouraged to find meaning and purpose at work. Whether you take the cynical perspective (that this “movement” was actually created by corporations to encourage greater productivity and sacrifice for the “greater good”) or the hopeful one (that it was a worker-driven movement to reclaim dignity and power in the workplace), the results are clear: meaning matters. So much, in fact, that nine out of ten Americans would trade higher pay for more meaningful work1, and 70% of employees say that their personal sense of purpose is defined by their work2.

Whether you are someone who finds deep meaning in your work, or someone whose purpose lies outside of the 9-5, what is clear is that God, Rashi, and McKinsey all agree: we bring more of ourselves into the world when we feel truly called to do so, and all the more so when those gifts that we bring to bear are called with love.

Constant Callings

The second key insight that Rashi brings to us is precisely what I had hoped to convey to Micah during our brief philosophical conversation: we are not called just one time in our lives. There is a call before every invitation, every word, every yearning. There is a call coming from every person left behind, every heart left broken, every spirit left burdened. There is always a call, and the only question for us to ask is: are we listening?

Viktor Frankl, in his seminal work Man’s Search for Meaning – which recounted his time in the Nazi concentration camps – encouraged us not to wait for God to call us but rather for each of us to activate our listening instead.

It did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us. We needed to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life—daily and hourly. Our answer must consist, not in talk and meditation, but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual.”

(Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning)

We are called not once in life, but each day, each hour, each precious moment. And it is not a monologue; a true calling puts a claim on the One who calls and the one who is being called.

When Time Stands Still

Remarkably, Frankl – whose sense of purpose came from his service to his fellow prisoners – wrote this whole book in just nine days. One can imagine that there were moments during that outpouring of wisdom that time stood still for him – perhaps both for better and for worse, given the context in which he lived out each of those nine days. And as a result, he produced one of the greatest works of philosophy in the 20th century – and perhaps of all time – in just over one week.

The Book of Leviticus, too, seems to pause time. While Genesis covers roughly 2,000 years and Exodus covers 80, Leviticus spans only 30 days in time. Once Moses receives his call, he gives himself over so completely to living into it, that it seems to break with the metaphysics of linear time.

Moses stands still in order to hear God’s word, and time stands still so that he can fulfill it.

May each of us – whether we only have 3 precious minutes in the car with a loved one or 30 years of career planning ahead of us – be blessed with the gift of hearing a call, the conviction to answer it, and the faithfulness to never stop listening for new ones along the way.

  1. https://hbr.org/2018/11/9-out-of-10-people-are-willing-to-earn-less-money-to-do-more-meaningful-work []
  2. https://www.mckinsey.com/business-functions/people-and-organizational-performance/our-insights/the-great-attrition-is-making-hiring-harder-are-you-searching-the-right-talent-pools []

United in Difference 

In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Pikudei (Exodus 38:21 – 40:38), we read of different tribes as key identifiers for Betzalel, the leading builder of the Tabernacle, as well as of Ohaliab, the master craftsman of that new sacred space for the Israelites. We read in Exodus 38: 23-24:

 

Now Bezalel, son of Uri, son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, had made all that had commanded Moses;  

 

 

at his side was Oholiab son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, carver and designer, and embroiderer in blue, purple, and crimson yarns and in fine linen. 

Midrashic commentaries interrogate the significance of their respective tribal belongings. Of Ohaliab, we read in Shemot Rabbah that his efforts on the Tabernacle earn

praise for him, praise for his father, praise for his family, praise for the tribe from which he emerged. And it mentions and demeans: “[The son of the Israelite woman blasphemed God’s Name and cursed…] and the name of his mother was Shelomit daughter of Divri, of the tribe of Dan” (Leviticus 24:11) – disgrace for her, for her father, for her family, and for the tribe from which she emerged…. 

Why must we at once praise Ohaliab and dwell on another member of the same tribe who merits condemnation? Why did Ohaliab need to be associated with someone who blasphemed God when his life was one of generativity, punctuated by sacred service to the Israelite people? It feels surprising and stark – until we read on.

Shemot Rabbah continues this chain of logic with respect to the tribe of Judah (and, by extension, Bezalel): “It mentions and demeans: ‘Akhan, son of Carmi, son of Zavdi, son of Zera?, of the tribe of Judah’ (Joshua 7:18) – disgrace for him, disgrace for his father and for his family, and disgrace for the tribe from which he descended.”

It seems that the Midrash is establishing how members of either (and, perhaps by extension, any) tribe could be as productive and significant as Bezalel or as disgraceful as Akhan, as skilled and giving of oneself as Ohaliab or as blasphemous as Shelomit.

Another Midrash adds a dimension to this discussion of the two tribes. We read in Midrash Tanchuma:

No tribe was greater than Judah, and none was more lowly than Dan, which descended from one of the maidservants, as it says: And the sons of Dan: Hushim (Gen. 46:23). The Holy One, blessed be God, declared: Let him come and join with Judah so that no tribe might become arrogant, for both the great and the lowly are equal in the sight of the Holy One, blessed be God. Rabbi Hanina maintained: No one should become arrogant because of the honors bestowed upon him. 

Politically, Dan was the weakest of the tribes, while Judah was the strongest. Each tribe had people, good and bad – warranting honor and disgrace.

Together, these Midrashic commentaries suggest that – in addition to the unique skills that Ohaliab (from Dan) and Bezalel (from Judah) brought to the construction of the Tabernacle – the two of them were of symbolic significance as a duo.

Bezalel maintained the stronger position in the relationship – much as his tribe did with respect to the one to which Ohaliab belonged. Yet both came together to create something majestic with the rest of the Israelites and for the rest of the Israelites. Their tribal identities were not subsumed within a grand project but rather brought to the fore as a demonstration of strength through difference and the universal ability of Israelites of all backgrounds to contribute to their shared future.

At a time of fracture within American Jewish communities and fissures between them, this Torah portion calls us to become exemplars of unity amid difference – living symbols, which may in time become interwoven into the stories and memories of our people.

 Interview With A Jewish Zen Buddhist Monk

I have long been fascinated with the concept of ‘beshert,’ which translates from Hebrew to English as ‘destined’ or ‘intended,’ or meant to be. It ties into what I think of as the Hansel and Gretel breadcrumb trail that winds inexorably from past to present. I grew up in Willingboro, NJ which is a suburb of Philadelphia. Our family attended services at Beth Torah which was a Conservative congregation. For many years, I sat in Sunday school and Hebrew school classes, where I learned the traditions and language of our culture and religion. One of my teachers, who also coached me in reciting my Haftorah in preparation for my Bat Mitzvah, was Richard Simon. He felt more like a peer than the somber elders who had instructed me before. He was lighthearted and made learning fun. 

We were out of touch for many years and then through the marvels of modern technology and a place in cyberspace called Facebook, we reconnected. A sad event brought us together, which was the September 2014 death of a mutual friend named Delane Lipka who owned a retreat center in Washington, NJ called Mt. Eden. Her service was held on the grounds and Richard, now a rabbi, led it. 

Almost 10 more turns of calendar pages happened and I heard that he would be offering a weekend of events at Temple Judea in Doylestown, PA.  Since he was in my neck of the woods, I knew I had to be there. He spoke about the Kabbalah and practical spirituality. This was the bashert aspect. I sense that I met Richard in my youth, so that as I am in my elder years, I can deepen my spiritual practice. I was touched by something he said as he began speaking. He honored my father as one of his teachers. My dad was not a rabbi, nor a trained teacher of Judaism. He was a life long learner, who lived his religion, practicing Tikkun Olam. I sensed my dad would be kvelling, watching Richard doing what he does best, opening the door to exploration. 

Please share a bit about your upbringing and the role Judaism played in your early years.

I was raised in a Jewishly Conservative home. My father’s parents were Orthodox. My other grandparents were Reform. I attended yeshiva (Jewish school) at an early age and was one of those strange kids that really enjoyed it! I excelled at Hebrew and Torah. But I also experienced a very “personal” relationship with God, talking with God from an early age. This sometimes alarmed my parents! But when asked about God, my religious grandfather would tell me, “God’s the one that’s going to punish you if you mess up.” I decided at an early age that I didn’t want anything to do with that “unloving” God, and thus began my foray into other religions.

Was there a pivotal moment when you decided to embrace the career path of ordination as a Rabbi? 

I was studying with a non-Jewish spiritual teacher who told me it was my destiny to be a rabbi. I didn’t believe him. Because of my good Jewish education, I would teach and lead services at local synagogues. On one Saturday morning, while leading Shabbat services, I had a “calling.” It was an unmistakable feeling of “this is what I should be doing.” At the time I was studying with some rabbis, including Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi in Philadelphia. When I approached him about my choice, he smiled and said, “I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out!” Thus began my rabbinic studies under his tutelage and other rabbis. I was ordained by three rabbis in 1985 and immediately was hired by a synagogue in Mt Holly, NJ, where I remained for 32 years. In that time I have served as a teacher and spiritual director for a few hundred students in various forms of mysticism, mostly Jewish.

How has your practice evolved over the years?

I started as a typical Jewish adult practice of study and prayer, always looking for ways to continue the Awareness of the Divine in my everyday life. At 17, I learned to meditate (from a magazine article!), and shortly after that met people that were studying various forms of spirituality. My practice was mostly meditation and prayer, eventually adding martial arts and yoga. I continued my study and practice of Kabbalah, and supplemented this with other practices (see teachers and mentors listed below). My current practice is mostly a Zen approach to Judaism, but I am still teaching Kabbalah and other forms of mysticism.

When did Buddhism enter into your life? 

In 1990, I attended a local clergy retreat where I met Brother Stephen Reichenbach, who was teaching spirituality on behalf of the Catholic Diocese of Trenton. He had studied Zen Buddhism in Asia, and opened a Zen Monastery in Riverton, NJ. Brother Stephen soon became Seijaku Roshi, and we became fast friends and “spirit buddies.” When we first met, I asked him for a personal Zen practice. He closed his eyes for a while and then proceeded to tell me that I should follow a  traditional Jewish prayer practice, including Zen meditation. I asked him why it had to be a Jewish practice and he answered: “You’re a rabbi, right? Zen is about being who you truly are. Judaism is your practice, done with Zen Mind.”

I know many whose root religion was Judaism who consider themselves practicing Buddhists. Can you please clarify the idea of Buddhism being a philosophy rather than a religion such that it is not exclusive to other practices, such as Judaism? 

This is a common misconception, especially among Americans. For most Buddhists, Buddhism IS a religion. In fact, it is the fourth largest religion in the world. And most  Buddhist practices involve worshipping a deity (usually one or more Buddha figures or other divine beings). I would have a hard time being part of this religion, given Judaism’s insistence on One God and abhorrence of worshipping figures (idols). Zen Buddhism is the exception. It was brought to Japan in the 13th century, about 1,800 years after the Buddha taught in India and didn’t arrive in America until the end of the 19th Century. The Hindu Yogis called it “dhyana;” in China it was “Ch’an;” and in Japan it became “Zen,” All of these mean “meditation.” There is no deity-worship. The main principle is simply to sit with what is (Zazen). Before agreeing to ordination as a Zen monk/priest I had to be certain that the vows and practices I was taking on did not conflict with my Jewish values and beliefs. 

This turned out to not be an issue with the American style of Zen Buddhism I was adopting. So, I guess I’m a JuBu or BuJu or Zen Juddhist!

Please talk about the Jizo-an Zen Community and your role in it.

As noted above, I joined the Zen Society over thirty years ago. I participated on-and –off with their meditations and teachings. I was invited to participate and teach there. The monastery moved to Cinnaminson, Shamong and currently it is known as the Jizo-an Zen Community in Cherry Hill. Under Roshi’s guidance I was able to expand my Awareness through a vigorous meditation practice. The Community is very eclectic and welcoming of those from different faith/spirituality practices. Roshi, other religious representatives, and I spoke at different local venues over the years, exploring the roles of religion and spirituality.

In 2016, Roshi asked me to be his personal assistant (Inji). In order to take on this role I had to be an ordained monk/priest. In 2017, I took the necessary vows and participated in the ceremonies that would ordain me as a monk/priest. Roshi chose the name “Chimon” for me. It means “Wisdom Gate.” Sadly, Roshi passed away in the Summer of 2021. But his Work continues on at the Jizo-an Zen Community. I currently serve on the Board of the Community, though I am not participating as much in meditations, teachings, etc.

You teach on the topic of the Kabbalah. Can you please offer a brief explanation of what it is and how we can incorporate the various aspects into our lives.

Kabbalah (“that which is received”) has become a general term for Jewish mysticism. There is disagreement as to when it began. Some believe it dates back to the Garden of Eden; others date it to the Middle Ages. It presents a way of looking at the Creation in an organized, stepwise manner. It also maps the human Soul and how it relates to God. It includes meditations and other spiritual practices to experience this relationship. Study of Torah and other texts from a mystical (Sod) perspective is key. While sometimes requiring an update based on science, equality, etc. it is still useful to many for spiritual growth. Kabbalah has been co-opted into non-Jewish forms, such as Christian Cabbalah and occult Qabbalah.

Please explain why you discourage people from being ‘searchers.’

All spiritual teachings contain stories of people that have undertaken serious, sometimes dangerous, journeys seeking “Something,” only to find that Something was with them all the time. So, the advice is not to seek, but to realize you are already There. Spiritual practice is usually necessary to find this out. It rarely happens spontaneously, though many claim that. It is called the Cosmic Joke: you are seeking that which you already are. It’s like trying to find your hands.

How are stories helpful teaching tools?

Stories appeal to a deeper part of the mind. It does this by disengaging the “rational” mind. When I would deliver a well-thought-out sermon and then ask my congregants what they learned, it is the stories (or jokes) they remember! I have studied many stories from Jewish, Sufi and Buddhist sources. And I have taught courses on storytelling. 

Do you have a favorite to share that illustrates a knowing of God rather than a belief in God?

I say I don’t believe in God. “Believing” sounds too temporary and unsure: I believe in God today; I might not tomorrow. For as long as I can remember I have  experienced God as Being, All Things. For me, this is the definition of a “mystic:” Someone who goes beyond study and belief and experiences the Divine. The Biblical Name for God means “Being.” Jokingly, I call myself an A-Atheist: one who does not believe in Atheists. If God is Being, then to disprove there’s a God you have to prove that you don’t exist!

What are the three ways you speak of to perceive God?

I learned this from Integral Philosophy and Martin Buber: Given the workings of the human brain, there are only three approaches to God.

I – I: acknowledging the God Within. 

I – Thou: there is me and then there is God, out there somewhere. 

I – It: All is God. 

Of course, deific religions are I – Thou, worshipping or acknowledging a God apart from me, apart from the World, to whom I can pray. Other, usually non-deific forms of spirituality (like Zen or Jewish Kabbalah) tend to be I – I or I – It. Which is the best approach? They are all equal, and ideally, we should be able to experience all three realizations.

Who were/are your mentors and inspiration for the work you have been doing for the past several decades?

Draja Mickaharic — Inner Self Work, Wicca, Occultism

Rabbi Zalman Schachter – Shalomi — Kabbalah, Rabbinic studies

Idries Shah’s organization and books — Sufism

Dan Millman — Inner Self Work, general spirituality, numerology

Ken Wilber books — Integral Philosophy

Mark Nepo — spirituality

Stephen Seijaku Reichenbach, Roshi — Zen

Some very good psychotherapists!

How can readers reach you?

My email is rsimon31@gmail.com

I am not currently accepting students, nor do I read or reply to long emails. The Jizo-an Zen Community offers Zen teachings and meditations, in Cherry Hill, NJ, and on-line. Their site is www.jizo-an.org

Remember the Buddha’s final words: “ . . .rely on your own efforts.” Many blessings and prayers have been offered for your Awakening. 

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On Belonging

We are introducing a new occasional section of Clal’s weekly newsletter, eClal, sharing findings and learnings from The Belonging Project. This week, I want to look at the experience of synagogue lay leadership. These are dedicated volunteers who love our communities so much that they donate many hours a month to helping the community run. They are also the ones who, by and large, participate in The Belonging Project with Clal.

I often tell congregations to imagine what it would look like if the board member experience represented the highest form of community-building the synagogue has to offer, if it were the peak of the synagogue’s values, talents, and experiences. What might need to change about how board meetings run, where they are, what’s on the agenda? About what board members receive from their dedication, not just what they give?

To quote adrienne maree brown in Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds, “How we are at the small scale is how we are at the large scale… What we practice at the small scale sets the patterns for the whole system.”

One synagogue I coached in New Jersey took this to heart, and we redesigned their entire first board meeting. What had originally been slated as simply passing the budget now included dinner, nametags, paired study of Jewish texts about money values, and small group discussions about board members’ goals for themselves this year. Each person even received an invitation; it became a special occasion. And yes, they passed the budget. But they also set the tone for the year, enjoyed themselves, talked about what mattered to them, and met someone new.

In Houston this week, the staff and board members attending the Belonging Project workshop with me did something they don’t usually do at board meetings, by their own reporting: They had fun. They were playful. They listened and collaborated. Instead of simply accomplishing a list of tasks, we brainstormed wild and crazy ideas for increasing belonging — anything goes! One staff member said he learned things about even long-time board members he hadn’t known before. The room was ringing with laughter instead of Robert’s Rules of Order.

If we practice the idea that the small is also the large, then any given area of synagogue life — whether it be board meetings, kiddush set-up, or a holiday party — can become itself a highest version of synagogue belonging and community. We just have to intentionally design it to be so.

The “Wisdom of the Heart” Can Overcome “AI Gibberish”

Can artificial intelligence be artistically creative? 

While we might want to celebrate our human uniqueness and say, “Of course not!” when we stop to think about it, the answer is pretty clearly, “Yes.” Humans have been collaborating with computers in the realm of music, art, and literature for years. Philosophers can debate what truly counts as “creativity,” but the more pressing question right now is, “Will AI’s ability to generate inexpensive writing (or art or music) replace a person’s livelihood?” After all, the Writer’s Guild of America had to go on strike for almost 150 days to ensure that writers’ Intellectual property and sources of income were protected. The struggle between artistic expression and monetary reality, however, goes back as far as both have existed. 

Last week, photos of the “Willy Wonka Experience” in Glasgow went viral as it brought these questions to the forefront. The website offered beautiful images of a land of “Pure Imagination” and enticed people to spend nearly $50 USD to have an “immersive experience.” But there were some red flags – there were no actual photos of the experience itself, and the website announced that there would be “Cartchy tuns” and “exarseday lollipops:”

(The image is a screen grab from the website’s AI-generated text: https://willyschocolateexperience.com/)

As Paul Connell, the actor playing Willy Wonka described it, the script for the event was “15 pages of AI-generated gibberish;” as the children and parents came in, hoping for a magical experience, they were instead given one jelly bean and a half a cup of lemonade in an event housed in a barren warehouse. The people who ran the experience weren’t looking to provide a memory for a lifetime or bring an artistic vision to life. It was a scam.

Compare that to the dynamic of money and art in this week’s Torah Portion, Vayakhel. In it, we continue reading about the construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, which will house the ark of the covenant and be the location for where God dwells. This undertaking wasn’t cheap. In addition to the half-shekel that everyone had to contribute, this week’s portion shows the additional generosity that the Israelites brought forward for the construction of the Mishkan

So the whole community of the Israelites left Moses’ presence. And everyone who excelled in ability and everyone whose spirit was moved came, bringing to Adonai an offering for the work of the Tent of Meeting and for all its service and for the sacral vestments. Men and women, all whose hearts moved them, all who would make an elevation offering of gold to Adonai, came bringing brooches, earrings, rings, and pendants — gold objects of all kinds. (35:20-22)

Here, there was a recognition that materials, time, and effort were valuable. The Israelites contributed finery, gold, and precious stones. And in return, God appointed artisans, who were “Chacham lev” – possessing “wisdom of the heart,” translated below as “skilled”: 

Let, then, Bezalel and Oholiab and all the skilled persons whom Adonai has endowed with skill and ability to perform expertly all the tasks connected with the service of the sanctuary carry out all that Adonai has commanded. Moses then called Bezalel and Oholiab, and every skilled person whom Adonai had endowed with skill, everyone who excelled in ability, to undertake the task and carry it out. (Exodus 36:1-2)

It wasn’t just two people with the chochmat lev, wisdom of the heart, and to whom God sent a commandment; it was “All the skilled persons” who were there to beautify the Mishkan. The Israelites provided the funds, and the artisans created a thing of beauty. 

Bringing our skills, our wisdom, our particular knowledge to a task is a gift, and one that should be valued – indeed, we strive to beautify a mitzvah. And in the Willy Wonka Experience, even though the actors had a “Coontract” [sic] and realized that they had been scammed as well, when it came time to perform, they brought their gifts to the world as best they could. As Connell said, “All the actors were lovely people. We gathered together in the morning and said, ‘We’re probably not going to get paid for this, but kids are still going to come up. Let’s make this as magic as possible for them.”

Though the value of creativity isn’t a new question, the rise of AI will super-charge the see-saw between money and artistry – what do we value? How much are we willing to compromise? How much are we willing to pay? As Professor Andrew Rogoyski highlighted

“People and the companies who adapt, adopt, and learn how to use these tools properly will thrive. And I think human creativity will win out, and people will continue to do fantastic, amazing things… but the use of AI must be centred around people, not profit.”

Bezalel, Oholiab, and the Israelites did the antithesis of cutting corners – they brought their “Wisdom of the heart” to this sacred task. And, perhaps equally important, their time and wisdom were valued. In fact, it was so valued that they had to tell the Israelites to stop bringing gifts! (36:3-7) They also recognized the devotion and thought that the artisans brought to the project. They weren’t filling up space with  “15 pages of AI gibberish.”

Because in the end, if we bring the wisdom of our heart to our creation, it will come through. And perhaps even bring us a little closer to the Divine.

The Core Issue Of Raising Neurotypical Kids Today

My father always tells me, “I don’t envy you for having to raise children in this generation.” 

Between the screen time tug of war, dangerous drugs, and lewd behavior that society seduces our generation with, raising responsible and emotionally healthy children is going to take a miracle. 

As parents, we are facing a technological revolution whose ramifications we haven’t even begun to see. We have had to step up to the plate and tackle issues that did not exist in previous generations. 

Each generation has its specific challenge when it comes to child-rearing, and we have all had to step up. Pirkei Avot tells us, “In the place where there is no person, strive to be a person.” We may have successfully exuded responsibility in this formidable task, but are we raising the next generation to do the same? 

In other words, we might be successfully raising our neurotypical children to be obedient and follow our rules when it comes to social media, drug usage, and chores, but are we raising them to be responsible? 

How often do we find ourselves reminding our children:

  • Did you do your math assignment and turn it in?
  • Aren’t you supposed to be doing homework right now? Why are you wandering around the house?
  • Can you please clean up after you use the bathroom so it’s clean for everyone else?

My children usually displayed respect and cooperation, but somehow the responsibility was still on me, and that needed to shift. Obedience and respect are important factors, but more crucial to raising kids to become independent adults is responsibility.

Developing responsibility within children begins with their understanding that it is their choices that lead to a desired outcome. In his book, I’m Not the Boss I Just Work Here, Howard Jonas shares a joke:

Two construction workers, Max and Sam, met daily during their break from their arduous labor.

They opened up their lunches, and Max took out a delicious hero sandwich with thick, crispy bread and mouth-watering sauce. Sam caught sight of his friend’s meal while opening his own lunch and stared at his bland sandwich on whole wheat no less.

“Ugh, I hate peanut butter and jelly. I wish I had a hero like yours!” he complained.

The next two days, Max brought various gourmet meals while Sam popped open the same PBJ sandwich. “Again?” he muttered, thoroughly agitated.

Max looked at Sam and said, “If you don’t like your lunch, why don’t you ask your wife to make you something different?”

Sam responded, “My wife doesn’t make my lunch. I do!”

For the most part, life unfolds the way it does because of the choices we make. Responsibility is owning your choices by developing the long-term vision to recognize where they lead. This concept is difficult for children because they have not yet strengthened the frontal cortex of their brain, which links current actions to future outcomes.

To combat this deficiency, we can teach our children that they are in control of how their day looks. When we turn the locus of control towards them, they are handed power and can begin to link action with outcome.

We have a rule in our house that what we need to do comes before what we want to do. As soon as responsibilities are completed, the fun can begin. Literally, as I was editing this article, my son asked me, “Mom, can I go to my friend’s house at 12:30?”

I answered, “I don’t know, you tell me. You are in control of your time and how fast you finish what you need to do.” That was all the motivation he needed.

We can also share the following steps with our children, using the peanut butter sandwich analogy for ease of comprehension:

1. Recognition: Noticing the link between current choice and future outcome. If I make a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, then that’s what I have to eat.

An example from a child’s perspective:  “I noticed that when I don’t complete my homework, and my room is messy, I don’t get to watch TV. I’d like to watch more TV.”

2. Internalization: Turning the locus of control inward. I have many other possible choices. I can menu-plan in advance so that I will be happy with my choice for lunch.

An example from a child’s perspective: “I guess I need to clean my room and do my homework today.”

Recently, my son shared a perfect example of recognition and internalization with me. “Mom, I was angry at you for something and wanted to complain and yell. I stopped myself and thought, ‘If I yell and scream, you might take away my phone or get more upset. But if I calm down and explain myself, you will probably let me do something I want to do.’” I would never have known what his inner process was had he not shared it with me. I was proud because he conquered himself and remained calm, knowing where anger would lead him.

3. Execution: Taking an alternate action to achieve desired results. Buying different ingredients will allow me to prepare something new.

An example from a child’s perspective: ‘Hey Mom, look! I cleaned my clean room and studied for my test. I got a 92!”

The final step is execution. With every task that needs completion, the responsibility falls either on the adult or the child to execute.

Take the example of asking your child to clean his or her room. In the scenario where the responsibility falls upon the adult, the parent makes the assumption that their version of clean matches the child’s version. The parent does not explain what a clean room entails, and when the adult makes the request, the child procrastinates, executes the task poorly, or ignores the question. The parent may remind or threaten until the child complies. A power struggle is created, the room might not be cleaned to satisfaction, and both sides are frustrated. In this example, the outcome of a task depends on the parent micromanaging the process.

Alternately, the responsibility can fall on the child, which plays out as follows: The parent clearly models or explains their expectations of a clean room and timeline for completion in advance. The child can choose when he or she completes the task within the timeframe and is clear on the consequences of failure (For example, the requirement to clean additional rooms in the house). There is no yelling, nagging, or power struggle because the child is aware of the explicit expectations and consequences in advance.

Here are the vital steps to consider when fostering this in your home:

  • Set clear expectations. Explain exactly what a clean room looks like. Model tidy clothing and bed making, and point out what needs to be removed from the floor. For distance learning, explain exactly what the student needs to do: be in class on time, no gaming or other websites allowed during class, and homework must be turned in on time.
  • Set clear consequences. If the child expresses a negative attitude or refuses to comply, they lose a privilege. If he or she does a great job, a reward is given. 
  • Let go and let them. Sure, we want the beds made immediately and the chores done how we envision. However, children are not robots, and there is always another way to accomplish something. Letting go requires humility; that is where growth lies.

When we teach our children independence, we grow into ourselves, too. Practice this system; I will, too, and let’s keep each other posted on our growth!

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Patience When It Seems No One Is In Charge

What do we do when it seems like no one is in charge? Like no one is looking out for us, like too much time has gone by, and no one is coming to save us?

That, for me, is the central question of this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tisa, which includes the story of the Golden Calf. God reveals Godself to the Israelites in thunder, lightning, smoke, and shofar, and then Moses goes up Mount Sinai to get the Torah from God. Down below, the Israelites are waiting. They wait 40 days. Moses told them he would return. But he still hasn’t. They were told something miraculous was happening, something that would change existence as they knew it. And here they still wait, 40 days later.

The Torah text doesn’t explain much about this impatience. Even though we’ve been hearing God’s personal instructions to Moses for several Torah portions when it comes to the Israelites’ momentous choice to build an idol, the Torah portrays it in one quick verse: “When the people saw that Moses was late in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron, and they said to him: “Come on! Make us gods that will go before us, because this man Moses, who brought us up from the land of Egypt, we don’t know what has become of him” (Exodus 32:1).

I have compassion for their confusion and fear – someone was supposed to be here to tell us what to do! We’re not sure what we’re supposed to do next! I feel it myself when I’m overwhelmed by forces outside my control. One of my favorite midrashim says the reason the Israelites are so quick to turn when Moses doesn’t come back is because Satan confuses them. After the sixth hour, when they expected Moses to return, Satan makes an image of Moses lying dead appear in the air. The Israelites see this, and that’s when they point at Moses dead and tell Aaron to make the Golden Calf. It seems absolutely clear to them that all hope is lost; help is not coming.

To be honest, I feel this way sometimes as I read the news, both about the Israel-Hamas war itself and about what’s happening here in North America. In those first weeks of the war, I read every article and signed up for daily updates from Israeli news sources. Knowing all the details felt like a way to have control. What is happening? I have to know! Over these weeks and months, I’ve had to stop reading the news so comprehensively. It overwhelmed me with the feeling of “we’re not sure what we’re supposed to do next.” Inundating myself with every opinion and every news story made me feel the urge to just do something to be in control, build something, make something that will point the way forward, create an idol to make myself feel better. But that is rash and doesn’t end well. Sometimes the end of the story takes more time than we think we can bear. I don’t have a solution, but this year I empathize with the Israelites at the foot of the mountain.

Form and Function: On Hoodies, Scars, and Clouds of Glory

I’ll never forget my first suit. While my ten-year-old self was perfectly content wearing sweatpants and hand-me-down Guns N’ Roses tee shirts, my parents insisted that they wouldn’t be appropriate attire for my brother’s upcoming bar mitzvah. So early one Sunday morning, my father and I made our way to downtown Boston via subway and waited outside Filene’s Basement (of blessed memory) until the doors opened at 10 am.

“The Basement” had a unique markdown system that involved colored stickers and certain days of the week, and Sunday morning at 10 am was the prime time to find the best bargains. So we sifted through every single rack in the boy’s section, then the men’s section, and finally found the perfect suit at the highest markdown in a pile on the floor of the fitting room.

Olive green, wide lapels, a nice 90’s shine to it, and 70% off to boot. He then helped me pick out a couple of shirt-and-tie combinations to go with it, and by 11:30, we were back on the streets looking for a restaurant to spend some of those savings on lunch. And when we finally returned home, I wore the suit proudly for the whole day; I felt like a million bucks!

Thus began my three-decade-long sartorial love affair. During my adolescence, I learned to appreciate the baggy clothes that could help me feel less self-conscious about what felt like a less-than-ideal weight-to-height ratio. In high school I took a job at the Gap and spent every penny I made on overpriced carpenter jeans, mock turtlenecks (they were a thing back then), and puffy vests (same).

Years later – after a near-death accident – I filled my closet with hoodies so I could cover the scars on my face. And a few years after that, when I was ordained as a rabbi and simultaneously received my MBA, I bought several new suits so I could overcome an intense case of imposter syndrome. No matter my age or stage, clothes always gave me a sense of security, allowing me to play the part even when I wasn’t fully ready to do so.

Our reading this week – Tetzaveh – offers support to this idea that form can define function. Or, to put it colloquially, that “the clothes make the (hu)man”. In instructing Moses on how to organize and prepare the Priests for their duties in the newly-constructed Tent of Meeting, God says: “Make sacral vestments for your brother, Aaron, for dignity and adornment (Exodus 28:2).” While the ensuing descriptions of breastplates, tunics, and other accessories drive home the point, the essence is clear: these clothes are designed to set the Priests apart from the rest of the community, in order to convey the distinct and critical role that each of them will play in serving God.

I can only imagine the daunting task set before each of the Priests – to stand before the Holy of Holies, to carry the existential weight of a nation on their shoulders and the physical weight of the breastplate around their necks. The clothes, then, might have done more than just offer an outward signal of the importance of their work. Perhaps they also offered an inward one to reassure each of them that they were, indeed, chosen to perform it.

For the past two years – like so many of us – I’ve spent many a working day wearing clothes that were designed for weekends and workouts. Jeans usually mean I have an important meeting, and button-downs are reserved for Zoom lifecycle events and board meetings. Otherwise? Athleisure all day.

And as my demand for nicer clothes has decreased, I’ve gone through multiple purges – donating about half of my wardrobe to others who might need it more than I do. And as I let go of each item that once enshrouded me with whatever courage I needed to make it through the day, I have, in turn, loosened my grip on the notion that these clothes were what made me in the first place. In a hoodie or a suit, puffy vest, or button-down, my scars are who I am, faded as they may be after all these years.

Adam and Eve, famously, were brought to life unclothed. And while they eventually reached for fig leaves to cover select parts, our rabbinic sages seem to imply that in their original form, they may have been unclothed, but they were far from naked.

“What was the dress of the first man? A cloud of glory covered him (Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 14:3).” In fact, this “cloud of glory” was so bright that “Adam’s heel outshone the globe of the sun; how much more the brightness of his face!” (Midrash Rabbah). Long before we relied on clothes to protect, define, and cover us, we were born into the greatest dignity of all, created in God’s infinitely divine image.

As our days grew short this fall, I often found myself in Zoom meetings as the sunset in the various locales of my students, colleagues, and friends. At first, I would notice the lighting start to shift in one box on my screen; a brightening of one face, an iridescent glow accompanying their presence. And when I kept my focus on them, I would catch a fleeting glimpse of them completely ensconced in light, their countenance clouded in glory, as it were. And then after their sun completed its descent, another screen glowed, and then another, and another, and another, and another, until we all had our moments in the sun. No matter what we wore, what role we played, and what our screen name said, each of us received a reminder that we were all created in the divine image and – in turn – to see one another in such a light.

Of late, my morning routine still looks a lot like it once did before the pandemic. But I’ve made one addition: I remind myself that no matter what clothes I put on, my work in this world is just as unique, just as important, and just as timely as the work of my Priestly ancestors. And when I’ve got time, I bring to heart the words of author and poet adrienne maree brown: “i am not afraid/ of what i came here to do/ i’m made of stardust/. we are not afraid/ of what we’re called now to do/ we’re all made of god.”

Each one of us in our sacred sweatpants, for dignity and for adornment.

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