Shine a New Light

The following reflection was offered at HUC-JIR services this week.

NASA astronomer Natalie Batahlia compares the existence of dark matter in our universe to the existence of love. Dark matter, she explains, is this strange force that scientists can’t quite yet explain, that neither our eyes nor our most powerful telescopes can quite see, but that we know we exists. Dark matter causes galaxies to hold together. It causes planets to move along their orbit. Dark matter moves us, brings us together, keeps the universe from completely falling apart.

And so it is with love. We can’t see it. We can’t quite explain it. But we know it’s real.

Love brings us together. It keeps us moving. It’s the force that keeps our universe from completely falling apart.

Our experience tells us that the dark is bad. The unknown can be scary. The mysterious can be overwhelming.

But Judaism recognizes what Natalie Batahlia recognizes—that there’s One God who creates both darkness and light, both mystery and understanding, “yotzeir or uvorei choshech.”

Our dark matters—our brokenness and our pain—these are the forces that move us, the forces that bring us together, the forces that remind us of our own humanity. Darkness is a source of love.

And this is why we pray “Or chadash al tzion ta-ir—shine a new kind of light on our lives: not the kind of light that washes out the dark, but rather a kind that helps us to discern the force of love in our universe, even when it’s buried in dark matters.

Baruch Atah Adonai, Yotzeir HaMei’orot. 

What Does it Mean to be a Jew? Israeli and American Teens Share their Perspectives

The following post originally appeared on the blog of Gateways and Tents, the partnership between Temple Shaaray Tefila of New York and Congregation Ohel Avraham of Haifa.

This past Sunday morning, the American and Israeli teen cohorts met for the first time via Skype. We spent an hour introducing ourselves to each other and learning about each other’s families and interests. The groups found that they had a lot in common—from their shared interest in dance, music, theatre, and sports, to their shared quest to define their own authentic Jewish identities.

One Israeli teen asked the American group: “So, are you secular?” At first, the American teens weren’t sure how to respond. The meaning of the words “secular” and “religious” are very different in Israel and in North America. For most Israelis, the words religious and secular denote a binary choice—between those who lead halachicly observant lives and those who don’t. In North America, it’s possible to see oneself as both religious (in that a Jew might observe some Jewish holidays) and simultaneously see oneself as secular (in that he or she might spend money on Shabbat).

One American teen responded to the question by explaining that he’s not strictly secular, and he’s not strictly religious either. He explained that he goes to synagogue on most holidays and attends Shabbat services a few times a month, and that he’s active in his Jewish youth group—practices that might be called “religious.” At the same time, he eats non-Kosher food, uses electricity on Shabbat, and spends his free time watching TV or hanging our with friends, rather than engaged in Jewish study—practices that might be called “secular.”

The American teens then asked the Israeli teens if they had all celebrated a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. The Israelis all nodded their heads vigorously. When the Americans clarified their question—Did you read from the Torah on your Bar/Bat Mitzvah?—the Israelis changed their answers: most of the boys had read from the Torah, and had done so in an Orthodox synagogue; most of the girls had only had a party.

And despite their having not read from the Torah on their Bar/Bat Mitzvah, the Israeli teens are in many ways more deeply engaged in Jewish life than the American teens. They study Tanakh (Hebrew Bible) in school. They live on streets with names like Ehad HaAm Road and Abba Hillel Silver Road. They speak, read, and write in Hebrew. Although they don’t wear a Kippah or belong to a synagogue, they engage in Jewish life in countless subtle ways. (For a thought-provoking exploration of this topic, see the film The Transparent Kippah.)

So the question arises: What does it mean to be a Jew?

After this first meeting, my sense is that the Americans and the Israelis have very similar definitions of their Jewishness, even though each uses different language to describe it. Whether “secular,” “religious,” or somewhere in between, both groups are living liberal Jewish lives and wrestling to define exactly what that means.

Noah and his Neighbors

This D'var Torah originally appeared in an edition of the Shaaray Tefila e-News

In this week’s Torah portion (Gen. 6:9-11:32), we read the story of Noah’s Ark. Only ten generations after Adam and Eve, God grows tired of humankind’s lawlessness, and decides to start again from scratch.

Now, you might be wondering: “Didn’t we read on Yom Kippur that ‘God does not want the death of sinners, but rather that they should turn from their evil ways and live’? What’s up with the change of heart, God?” Our ancient rabbinic sages were troubled by this too. And so they creatively determine: “God told Noah to build an ark so that Noah’s neighbors might see his labor and be moved to repent.” But unfortunately, as we can infer from the Torah story, Noah’s neighbors were not moved by his actions.

We learn an important lesson from Noah’s neighbors. Sometimes we imagine that we can leave the work of repairing our broken world to other people—that someone else will help that hungry person, that someone else will repair that flooded home.  But we can’t just rely on other people to play the role of Noah for us. Rather, we should be inspired by their example and roll up our sleeves, so that together we can build something more than just an ark.