Author: Abby Sosland

Originally posted: March 9, 2016

Disciplining students is tricky business. On the one hand, as educators and parents, we are committed to building character, developing ethical behavior, and teach young people how to behave well in the world. At the same time, though, modern psychology has taught us the importance of raising youth with confidence and self-esteem. It seems a fine art to offer a consequence without shaming those who have disappointed us.

Is there a way to do both things at once: to balance rebuke with forgiveness? Can we show our anger at a person’s actions and still acknowledge her core goodness?  As we struggle to walk this middle ground, we might find a model for best practices in this week’s parsha, in God’s relationship to the Israelite people.

At the beginning of Parshat Pekudei, Moshe is putting the finishing touches on the Mishkan Ha’Edut, the Tabernacle of Witness.  This term ‘edut’—meaning witness or evidence—is a strange descriptor for the mishkan. We have seen it before; the Tablets of the Covenant were called the luchot ha’edut (the Tablets of Witness), and the ark was named aron ha’edut (the Ark of Witness). This is the first time the Tabernacle itself claims the title. What does the term represent, especially when it refers to the mishkan as a whole?

The 19^th century Chassidic rebbe the Sfat Emet suggests that God used the mishkan as ‘edut’ for the people, a sign that we were worthy to experience God’s presence again after the sin of the Golden Calf. “The Holy One gave them ‘edut’ [evidence] through the mishkan to strengthen their hearts and to show them that they had fixed the entire sin of the Golden Calf, until God taught the people that the sin was not their ‘etzem’ [their core] but rather simply a ‘mikreh’ [an event].”

In the eyes of the Sfat Emet, the mishkan represented a beautiful and loving act on the part of God. First, we were forgiven–entirely—for the sin of the Golden Calf. Second, there was a deep understanding of our goodness as a people. The sin was merely an act we had done; it was not who we were at the core. In this regard, the Torah was sharing a universal message. As the Sfat Emet continues, “this was to teach everyone who wants to do tshuvah that he should not fall too far in his own eyes.”

Imperfect as we are, human beings do require discipline at times, but, fragile as we are, we need forgiveness just as much.  What if we understood ourselves as God sees us, recognizing that even our worst actions do not define us and that there is always room for tshuvah?  God’s educational model– discipline with a heavy dose of forgiveness and love– is a powerful one. May we merit the equanimity to practice this model in our own work and in our own lives. Shabbat Shalom.

Originally posted: September 23, 2016

Sometimes, a miracle is just a change in perspective. In our darkest moments, we may struggle to stay optimistic, but then suddenly, we get a glimmer of hope; we feel that “this, too, shall pass,” or “better days are ahead.” Just the difference in mindset can transform even the most difficult life challenges into powerful spiritual lessons or, at least, more manageable experiences.

But what accounts for this miraculous shift?  How can we access this kind of faith when we need it?  Our readings this week suggest that the change in mindset is not always in our hands. Look at the difference between the extended tochecha (rebuke) in Parshat Ki Tavo and the soothing words of our Haftarah, Isaiah chapter 60. Among the curses that Moses lists towards the end of Deuteronomy (often read publicly in hushed tones), the Torah offers one of the most terrifying possibilities as a punishment for betraying God: that we will never be comfortable at any moment in time. The timing will always feel wrong.

סז  בַּבֹּקֶר תֹּאמַר מִי-יִתֵּן עֶרֶב, וּבָעֶרֶב תֹּאמַר מִי-יִתֵּן בֹּקֶר

In the morning, you will say “if it were only evening!” and in the evening, you will say “if it were only morning!” (Deuteronomy 29: 67)

As curses go, few things are as scary as the feeling of hopelessness.  At every moment, in this vision, we will wish things were different. We will never be able to sit with the present, and we will always feel that life would be better at another moment.

What a relief that our Haftarah offers another way.  In the sixth Haftarah of consolation—in the emotional climb from Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah—Isaiah reminds us that the light will arise again.

 קוּמִי אוֹרִי, כִּי בָא אוֹרֵךְ

Arise, shine, for your light has come. (Isaiah 60:1)

It will not always be dark, teaches Isaiah.  Lighter days are ahead. But in a difficult moment, we can’t help ourselves; when will the light come, we might ask?  How long must we wait to feel the comfort and consolation promised?

The Haftarah ends with an answer which is meant to comfort us: when God is ready.

אֲנִי ה’, בְּעִתָּהּ אֲחִישֶׁנָּה.

I, God, will hasten it in its time.  (Isaiah 60:22) 

“Leave it in My hands,” God tells us. “It’s on My schedule.”

Life’s biggest moments happen on God’s time, not ours. And the prophet reminds us this.  Hang in there, he seems to be saying, it will come.  When I’m ready, God tells us through the prophet, I will make it happen.

It turns out the difference between the curses of our parsha and the words of comfort in Isaiah may, in fact, simply be a matter of perspective. In the curse, the timing is always wrong. We always want things to be different than they are. In the blessing, we can hang in there; we can hold out a little longer, believing that in God’s time, comfort will come.

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, as we reflect on where we stand and where we are going, may we be blessed with Isaiah’s perspective, remembering that life’s ups and downs are not on our schedule, but they will pass.  בְּעִתָּהּ אֲחִישֶׁנָּה.  When the time is right.

May we be blessed this year with the miracle of a change in perspective, and may the light come, right when we need it most.  Shabbat Shalom.

It’s always been a bit of an enigma. I’ve been gluten-free for years, and much of what I eat throughout the year would fit well into a Passover menu.  So why do I spend the eight days of the holiday feeling deprived?

Deprivation seems like the furthest thing from God’s way.  Most of our lives, we ask in our prayers for God to help us stay SATISFIED from all we’ve been given, and every theologian will tell you that GRATITUDE is the key to a spiritually satisfying life.

But there’s also a recognition in the tradition that this sense of deprivation at moments may actually be innate, part of the plan. In our closing blessing for the smallest of meals, we thank God who is borei nefashot rabot v’chesronan al kol mah shebarata, lehachayot bahem nefesh kol chai.  I like this translation, where we address a Divinity “Who creates numerous living things with their deficiencies,” in order to give each being life.  What a crazy concept: that God creates us with our deficiencies, in order to then bring us life and the vitality that we need.

This is hardly rigorous theology, and we have to be careful not to misuse these concepts. The idea that there might be a Higher Being who has planned for us to have gaping needs in our lives seems almost cruel when posed against certain kinds of need that exist in the world.  I would hardly choose this line to share with someone whose child was born with an immune deficiency, or to a soldier who has just lost a leg.  When I direct it inward, however, to my own desires and sense of deprivation, I am forced to face the reality that perhaps this sense of deprivation is exactly how things are supposed to be.

I have a student who describes his first glass of water in the morning as “watering every cell in his body.”  What a beautiful idea!  Waking up, he actually notices that he is missing something: hydration, and when he “waters” himself, he actually has a moment of utter gratitude.  Why?  It’s precisely because he was thirsty– because he was lacking– that the water becomes a precious gift in his morning routine.  Having lacks creates a sense of satisfaction.

Like the rest of the gluten-eating Jews in the world, I had a fabulous time “breaking” Passover this past Saturday night.  But would I have enjoyed it as much if I hadn’t had that sense of lack in my life?  I’m not sure.

Originally posted: August 18, 2016

Post-engagement thoughts, as seen this week in the Wexner newsletter.

For me, Tu B’Av is not simply a Jewish version of Valentine’s Day.  While it is celebrated as a day of romantic love, the days surrounding Tu B’Av send a deeper message.  More than three weeks ago, as we began our period of mourning, Jeremiah (2:2) reminded us that God thinks of us as God’s young bride.  On the Shabbat following Tisha B’Av and Tu B’Av, Parshat Va’Etchanan brings us the Shema, which reminds us that V’Ahavta (you shall love God) is one of our core commandments.

This concept of loving God may be challenging to many of us who struggle with our faith, but perhaps this metaphor can teach us a powerful lesson.  Love is not something that is only found through romantic partnership.   God’s love represents the love that surrounds us everywhere: in our families, in our friendships and in our communities.

As our culture focuses on romantic love, we can remember that love comes in many forms.  Studies show that single people with deep friendships and community relationships are just as happy as those in couples.  The texts we read in the weeks around Tu B’Av remind us that even those in our communities without partners are surrounded by love.   God’s love, the love of friends, family and community and the love of a romantic partner are all of a piece.  Lin-Manuel Miranda has it right: love is love is love is love.  Happy Tu B’Av!

Leave it to a powerful woman to tell it like it is.  The great real estate tycoon Barbara Corcoran excoriates a young entrepreneur on the TV show Shark Tank.  The only thing he needs, she says, is a bit more humility.

I was in your shoes, with wild enthusiasm, wanting to be the queen of New York real estate when I was 22 years old. What was so important in my journey to make it wasn’t my optimism, which I had in spades, but it was the self doubt and the insecurity I felt all along the way, that made me pause and think, “Oh my god, I better be careful. Can I do it? How will I make it? Who do I use? Who do I trust?” My judgment card built my business. You’re a wild-ass, enthusiastic entrepreneur. Very capable. You’ve got a great product. All that’s fine, but you’re missing the self-doubt card.

(Thanks, Ruthie Warshenbrot, for showing me this great quote!)

What is this “self-doubt” card?  Is it the same thing as shame?  The truth is, we could all use a little bit of self-doubt, but none of us needs to be swallowed up by it.  I think that’s what I’m trying to get at in my ELI talk.  I think there’s a middle ground, and I’m eager to be around people who are living in that muddled middle, trying our best to be useful in the world.

Originally posted: October 19, 2014

It’s so extraordinary that the tradition recognizes the human propensity for embarrassment.  The rabbis knew that we would need God’s help not to be ashamed, putting the line “v’lo nevosh” into our prayers TWICE each morning.  First, it appears in the paragraph before the Shma.

V’ha’eir eineinu b’toratecha, v’dabek libeinu b’mitzvotecha, v’lo nevosh l’olam va’ed.

Lighten our eyes with your Torah, GLUE our hearts to your commandments, and let us  never be ashamed.

The tradition predicts that we may get stuck in our desire to be close to Torah, because we’ll be ASHAMED.  Ashamed of what?  Looking foolish?  Seeming too righteous?  Showing that we care?  There is no explanation given, and yet each of us could find our own reasons for potential embarrassment.  Each of us approaches Torah with our own blocks, and we ask God to help us leave behind whatever stops us from living in the “light” of Torah.

The second time these words appear is in the center of the Amidah, in the blessing for Tzaddikim, when we pray for the righteous, and for the Gerei Hatzedek, righteous converts.  Sim chelkeinu imahem, we ask, v’lo nevosh ki vecha batachnu.  Place our portion among them, we pray, and we will not be ashamed for we trust in You. Amazingly, the tradition knows that there is a chance we might shrink from our responsibilities, that we might be embarrassed to do what we know we are meant to do.  And the prayerbook gets us to ask God for help.  God, help us not to be ashamed.  Help us to trust in You so we can live among the righteous.

It’s almost as if the Siddur, the prayerbook, is telling us what Marianne Williamson’s oft-quoted lines have been telling us.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people will not feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone and as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.– Marianne Williamson

Taken out of the Siddur, the concept is an important one for all of us to embrace.  We have to show up for our lives, to be the people God wants us to be, without embarrassment or shame.  “Who are we NOT to be?”  V’lo nevosh l’olam va’ed.

So I’m trying it. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. And rocket scientist that I am, I have finally recognized that if I want to be a “writer,” then I actually have to, um, write. At times, it might feel embarrassing or imperfect or, for that matter, not particularly remarkable, but that has to be okay. It’s just one blog post at a time.

I once bought my dad an empty sefer (a religious book, with a crimson binding and painted edges), entitled “chiddushim,” new ideas.  It was a journal for learning religious teachings, meant to contain the writer’s innovative ideas on Torah or Talmudic passages. Of course, my dad, one of the most humble men I know, never wrote in it, thinking it would be “yuhara“–arrogance– to consider his own musings “chiddushim.” But now that I think about it, it was a pretty silly gift. There’s no such thing as a “chiddush,” as all the ideas in the world are taken and woven from the ideas of others. As we read last week in the book of Ecclesiastes, “ein chadash tachat hashamesh:” there is nothing new under the sun.  So if we are going to accomplish anything, we can’t begin with the idea that it must be perfect, or NEW, or completely innovative, because we will never achieve anything.

Breishit Bara Elohim… We usually read this as “in the beginning, God created.”  But Rav Dov Ber Pinson explains that for the kabbalists, Breishit is one of God’s names. Read this way, these three words suggest that in the beginning Breishit– the Infinite Presence of God– so unfathomable, whom we could never ever possibly even relate to– created a gift for humans, Elohim–a more manageable, imminent presence of God– a divine presence that human beings could strive to reach.  If we want to create anything in our lives, we can’t start with the unreachable, but we must begin with something attainable, something that we might at least feel we can try to reach.

So hineni, he’aniyah mima’as.  I’m starting with something attainable:  a blog post.  Welcome to Shameless Judaism: Adventures in Spiritual Refinement.  V’lo nevosh l’olam va’ed.  See you next week.  

Originally posted: November 13, 2014

Friday afternoon, October 31, my lovely tree-lined Upper West Side street had been transformed into a Halloween horror show. Hanging down from the buildings on my block were ghosts, skeletons, and 5-foot plastic tarantulas (my childhood terrors come to life!), and I was shaken.  I called my mom and left a message in exasperation:  “I hate my block!”

A few hours later, I got a voicemail back.  “Abby, we got your message.  I’m so sorry you hate your blog!  Daddy and I thought it was FINE!”

Earlier in the week, my mom and I had talked through some of her questions about this blog:  she wasn’t sure about the title and she wondered about a point I had made in a post.   Throughout the conversation, I said (more than once): “hmm, maybe you’re right.  I should probably change that.”  And more than once, she responded: “But isn’t the point of the word ‘shameless’ not to be concerned with what other people think?”  So when I called in a Halloween panic, she had reason to think I might have given up hope and closed up shop on this new adventure.

But I’m hanging in.  And I have her to thank for it, as well as some of the other writers who have shared their own questions– and fears– about their writing.  I love that JK Rowling talked about her own fears in her commencement speech at Harvard (a must-watch speech:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHGqp8lz36c).  Or that my friend and mentor Lenore Skenazy pushes women to use their creative energies, despite their own blocks and questions.  And I’m so grateful to have seen writer Marjorie Ingall ‘s post on Facebook when a friend gave her the perfect necklace: “Never read the comments.”

I am an old pro at reading the comments.  I’ve been doing it before blogs even existed, and without ever reading a single written word. I can walk into a room and within minutes “read the comments” before anyone has opened his or her mouth.

I’m not saying I’m reading them correctly.  My telepathy extends far past its usefulness, most of the time. People may not even be giving me a second thought, but I can still guess what they are thinking, what they are saying, and even what they will say in two hours after I’ve left the room.

It’s good to know I’m not the only one who worries what others think. The meditation at the end of our Amidah, attributed in the Talmud to Mar bar Ravina (Brachot 17a), reminds us that this concern is at least as old as the Talmud itself!  The prayer includes a line for chol hachoshvim alay ra’ah.  “all those who plan evil for me,” or as we might read, for all those who think badly of me…  meherah Adonai Hafer Atzatam v’kalkel machshavtam.  “Quickly, God, mess up their designs and screw up their thoughts!”

Brilliantly, Mar bar Ravina recognized that there is a cycle that happens in our social lives, and very often, we are the instigators ourselves. His meditation begins with the phrase from Psalm 34:  Elohai netzor l’shoni mera… “My God, protect my tongue from evil.”  The more we speak ill of others, the more we might assume that others are speaking badly of us.  When we let our own judgment go, refraining from judging or commenting on others, then we can trust that we live in a world where the “comments” are not unkind.  We create the world which we inhabit, with our actions, our speech, and our own judgments.

As for those comments I’m afraid to read?  Most of the time, they don’t exist!  People aren’t really commenting on my blogs, and as much as it may disappoint me, they’re rarely thinking about me at all! People don’t think about us NEARLY as much as we think they do.  And the meditation helps us to remember that.  V’nafshi ka’afar lakol tihyeh. “Let my soul be like dust to everyone around me.” Or, as I like to think of it, let me remember that I’m just made of dust and ashes, or, to put it more simply, no one really cares.

Ultimately, for better and for worse, none of us is that important.  It turns out that our fears of what others think are often about as real as those plastic tarantulas that hung on my street.  They may make us shudder with terror, but they can’t do any harm because they aren’t even real!   Mar bar Ravina’s real prayer seems to be: God, help me to remember what’s important.  And help me to build a world where we all have the faith and the perspective, every once in a while, to read the comments.

Originally posted: November 5, 2015

It would certainly seem like a “sign” to me.

Abraham’s servant Eliezer—tasked with finding a wife for Isaac—designs a personality test which will show him the right woman for Isaac.  The right woman will not only offer to give him water but will also offer to water his camels.  Eliezer offers this as direction in his prayer to God.  Otah hochachta l’avdecha l’Yitzchak, “she is the one you have designated for Isaac (Genesis 24:14).”  It is, evidently, a good test. The moment he offers this prayer, even before he has finished saying it, Rebecca appears and offers to give him water and to water his camels!

What are the odds?  How unbelievable is it that this young woman does exactly what he has just requested!  And yet, Eliezer’s response to Rebecca’s generosity is a strange one. Instead of immediate relief, a jump for joy, or spontaneous prayer, Eliezer stops and stares.  V’ha’ish mishta’eh lah, macharish lada’at hahitzliach Adonai darko im lo. “And the man was astonished at her, staying silent, to know if God had made his path succeed or not (24:21).”

“Or not?” How could Eliezer wonder if this was the right woman? Rashi gives us an entire grammatical lesson on the word mishta’eh, “astonished,” offering us explanation of all the possible derivations of the word.  As Aviva Zornberg writes in Genesis: The Beginning of Desire, Rashi’s commentary here “enfolds a poetic range of meanings—not simply ‘surprised’ or ‘waiting,’ but ‘transfixed,’ ‘devastated,’ ‘confused,’ ‘dumb,’ ‘charged with thoughts’ (p. 142) .”

What was going on in Eliezer’s mind?  What was he waiting for? The Torah invites us to interpret this hesitation, offering us a glimpse but not a complete understanding of Eliezer’s thought process.  The Or Hachayim suggests that perhaps he was waiting to see if Rebecca would actually complete the task she had offered to do.  Nahum Sarna reminds us that a single camel requires at least twenty-five gallons of water, drinking for almost ten minutes, and Rebecca was watering at least ten camels!  Robert Alter calls this task “the closest anyone in Genesis comes to a feat of Homeric heroism.”

Or perhaps Eliezer was just astounded that his prayer had actually been answered, and he needed a moment to take it in.  Wait!  I think this is exactly what I had asked for… but do I really believe it? Only later does he thank God for providing the answer to his prayer.

It may take us a few moments to recognize the miracles in our lives. What happens when it all goes right?  We may feel a sense of panic, confusion, or even terror.

Human beings are naturally skeptical. Even when we get exactly what we want, we hesitate to call it a miracle.  We are slow to recognize God’s role in the process. We may need to sit back and stare for a moment, watch what is happening, and only then, acknowledge: “Wow, prayer received.  I never expected that to happen. Thank you.”