Rabbi Abby Sosland

Category: Uncategorized

  • Changing perspective, in God’s time

    light

    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.

     

     

     

  • Love is love

    Love is love

     

    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!

  • Rebuke without shame: a model for spiritual discipline

    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 19th 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.

  • When the miracle happens… will you notice?

    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.”

  • Flimsy sukkah, delicate peace

    This year, as Hurricane Joaquin approaches during the holiday of Sukkot, we feel more than ever the fragility of sukkah design.  Those partial walls, lightly attached corners and strangely layered schach that have served us so well year after year suddenly seem flimsier than usual.  In this climate, we may be particularly aware of the irony of asking God to spread over us a sukkat shalom, a Sukkah of Peace.   Do we really want shalom that is so flimsy?  Are we actually asking God for peace that is so temporary? With the storm threatening to topple our sukkot, we may be craving more of a binyan shalom (a building of peace), or better yet, a mivtzar shalom (a fortress of peace)—unshakeable, immovable, and eternally durable.

    Of course, it is the sukkah’s very flimsiness that is its essential element. The Talmud lists a number of odd loopholes for building a sukkah. For example, as long as a wall comes close enough to the ground (under three handbreadths, or about 10 feet), the law of lavud considers it as if it is touching the ground.  More than that, if a wall of the sukkah is only 10 feet high, the law of gud asik mechitzta treats it as if it goes all the way up to the heavens.  Finally, if there is an awning attached to the wall of a sukkah, the law of dofen akumah says we just pretend it’s a crooked wall and sit under the schach which is attached to the awning, as if it were attached to the wall itself.  These are just a few of the strange set of regulations that might make us wonder. With all of the fake walls and pretend corners, it’s as if the sukkah is an imaginary space!

    An imaginary space, indeed.  It turns out a little imagination is exactly what we need if we are to live the religious life. As Rabbi Norman Lamm, the former president of Yeshiva University, pointed out in a 1964 sermon (amazing what you can find online!), it is these very illusions that are at the cornerstone of faith.  “Pity the man,” he writes, “who prides himself upon possessing ‘common sense,’ who ‘sticks only to facts,’ and who has nothing to do with sentiment or illusion.”  Lamm quotes the poet John Ciardi from Saturday Review, who wrote,

    It is always a mistake to discuss poetry with a man who insists that it must make sense… For the trouble with being sensible is not the sense it does or does not make, but the life it never really manages to get to. It always manages to shut as many doors as it opens…

    A little illusion makes possible those things in life that are beyond exact, consistent measure:  love, beauty, faith.  It is also precisely what we need to build a life of meaning.

    No wonder, then, that the tradition calls for the metaphor of the delicate sukkah when we pray for peace. Leave the bricks and concrete for other purposes.  Like a sukkah, peace requires a bit of flexibility, a few ambiguities and a blind eye to some of the precise measurements that may not fit exactly.  It also needs to be rebuilt and re-patched every time a new storm comes around.  With a little imagination, the joy we bring to our sukkot can help us to envision a world of peace, where walls, or perhaps more importantly, doors, can be rebuilt again and again, imperfectly and with plenty of loopholes.

  • Shh… Listen to the Vision

    imgres

    A little early preparation for Tisha B’av next summer!  Was grateful to speak at Romemu on Shabbat Chazon, July 24. I hope this will inspire some of you next year… thanks jcastnetwork.org for posting it!

  • A Second Chance for Second Chances

    Sometimes, even second chances need second chances. About a month ago, on the 14th of Iyyar, I considered writing a blog post about Pesach Sheini and second chances.  I never actually wrote the post. This week I was asked to write a column for Parshat Behaalotcha—where Pesach Sheini is described in the Torah. A second chance at “second chances!”  I’m reaching for the text again, asking it to teach me something worth sharing.

    The Book of Numbers tells the story of a group of men who could not observe Passover “in its appointed season,” as Moses commands.  They approached Moses and Aaron, worried that they would have to miss the Pesach sacrifice.

    And those men said unto [Moses]: ‘We are unclean by the dead body of a man; why are we to be kept back, so as not to bring the offering of the LORD in its appointed season among the children of Israel?’  (Numbers 9:7)

    Moses returned to the men with God’s permission to bring the Pesach sacrifice a month after the proper time.

    ‘If any man of you or of your generations shall be unclean by reason of a dead body, or be in a journey on a distant road, he shall keep the passover unto the LORD; in the second month on the fourteenth day at dusk they shall keep it.’ (Numbers 9:10-11)

    If you were unable to make it the first time, God seems to be saying, try again. One month after Pesach, the 14th day of Iyyar, we are given a second chance.

    I love what Jonathan Mark wrote in the Jewish Week about the text:

     ‘Death’ and ‘distant roads,’ rebbes explained, also refers to sadness and disconnection. Anyone who missed doing what he or she had to do, be it on a Passover or in other circumstances, essentially could go back in time if his or her yearning was true enough. Nothing broken was beyond repair. After all, time itself is an earthly concept. Heaven is not confined by the laws of time.

    According to Mark, Pesach Sheini allows us out of the confines of time.  It frees us from the idea that we are stuck in a cycle of aging and moving through time, with no rest point, no do-overs.  Pesach Sheini allows us to go back and do over, once in a while.

    And the do-over does more than allow us to go backwards in time. The second chance also lets us move forward with a new perspective, with a kinder, gentler view of ourselves and the things we may have done imperfectly.

    What were these men doing when they missed Passover?  The ancient midrashic text Sifrei offers three possibilities: they were carrying Joseph’s bones, burying Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu, or caring for a met mitzvah (a corpse with no family to claim it).  In any of scenarios, one thing is clear; these men were involved in a sacred task.  Their excuse is entirely acceptable, their second chance merited.

    Powerfully, the Sifrei offers these men the benefit of the doubt.  They must have had a good reason to miss the Pesach sacrifice, we can hear the rabbis explaining to themselves. They must have been doing something important.

    What if we were to judge ourselves with that same approach?  To say to ourselves, “okay, you didn’t make it the first time, but there must have been a good reason.  You must have been involved in something important.  Can you let yourself off the hook and try again?”

    Pesach Sheini offers us the opportunity to forgive ourselves for things we wish we had done differently, to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, let ourselves off the hook, and try again. It’s a gift to those of us who may not get everything right on the first try.  And isn’t that, really, just about everyone?

     

  • Struggling with Discipline: A week of gevurah

    Ask any one of my students, past or present: discipline has never been my strong suit.  I tend to laugh more than yell, compliment more than critique, and, to my embarrassment, give many more As than Bs.

    So today, the 9th day of the Omer, is a spiritually challenging day.  The second week of the Omer mystically focuses on gevurah (limits or discipline), and the second day of the second week asks us to turn our attention to gevurah shebe’gevurah— limits within limits. No easy task!  I want to bring chesed (love) to the study of Torah, and I hate the idea of turning someone off from Jewish learning with an overzealous disciplinary approach.  And yet, studies show that children and teens need limits– and fewer compliments– to build esteem. So maybe this is a useful quality to consider.

    Today, I read Abaye’s comment in the Talmud as if it is addressed to me:

    If a scholar is loved by the townspeople, their love is not due to her superiority but to the fact that she does not rebuke them for neglecting spiritual matters. (Ketubot 105b)

    For me to be an effective educator, I need to remember that my goal is not to be loved, but to help my students arrive at their own spiritual goals, even with occasionally difficult conversations. Tomorrow the tradition asks us to focus on the beauty inherent in these very boundaries and limits, and throughout the week, I’ll be reflecting on how we might use gevurah in our teaching, our parenting, and in our lives, in general.  Join the conversation:  post your thoughts below.  How will you be working with gevurah this week?

  • Gnut to shevach: At least we’re not where we used to be!

    Gnut to shevach: At least we’re not where we used to be!

    There must have been a really good evolutionary purpose to negative thinking.  Back in hunting and gathering times, it probably made sense to look for trouble, even on beautiful, sunny days.  You never knew when some predator would pop out on the savannah, ready to pounce and attack.  I’m sure that kind of fear and worry used to be really beneficial to Homo Erectus… but the modern human might do well to move on.

    Negativity catches us unawares, even when all is well.  All winter long, we long for a sunny day, but by the second day of spring, we forget how much we wanted it and fill our minds with new concerns.  Come July, we’ll be complaining about the heat.  As our lives–and attention spans– move forward, we’re quick to look for the next problem, without stopping to reflect upon how good things actually are.

    It’s true at a national and communal level, too.  We can spend our time wringing our hands about the situation in Israel– and at times, we must, perhaps– but we forget that for 2000 years the ONLY thing we prayed for was to be returned to Zion.  As the popular prayer goes, we may not be where we want to be, but let’s not forget: we are certainly not where we used to be.

    The rabbis got this, intuitively, when they planned for our seder discussions.  Putting “v’higadta l’vincha” (you shall tell your children) into practical terms, they told us exactly HOW we should be telling the story of our people on Passover night. “Matchil b’gnut u’msayem b’shevach.” We start with the bad and end with the good.  Rav and Shmuel disagreed about what, exactly, the bad was; was it that we were slaves, or that we were idol worshippers?  Either way, we are taught, we must tell both sides of the story, even in the simplest of terms.  It once was bad, and now it’s good. Now let’s give thanks.

    In an article about the origins of the seder, Professor David Golinkin shows that this was actually a Roman technique in creating a powerful storyline.

    According to the Mishnah (10:4), the father at the Seder “begins with disgrace and concludes with praise”. This, too, was a Roman technique. Quintillian (30-100 C.E.) says: “[It is good in a eulogy to]… have ennobled a humble origin by the glory of his achievements…at times weakness may contribute largely to our admiration” (Stein, p. 37).

    Starting with gnut— starting with the worst part of the story– helps us to appreciate how far we’ve come.  As Quintillian knew, “weakness contributes to admiration,” and recognizing the difficult in our own histories will guarantee a sense of gratitude in the moment.

    This Passover, let’s tell our story, bad to good. Transforming negativity into gratitude takes practice and work, and seder night can help us. Of course, our world still needs to be redeemed in so many ways. Enslavement is all around us, both literally and spiritually. But for a moment, let’s stop and give thanks. Where has our story shifted?  Where have we found freedom and grace from something that was troubling us?  When we go from Gnut to shevach, the blessings in our lives suddenly come into focus.  We will have reason to lift our glasses and sing: Dayenu!  Thank you, God, for the miracles that abound.  Chag Sameach.

  • Our role in the story– a Purim lesson

    Our role in the story– a Purim lesson

    I’ll never forget the moment I learned that amazing line from the book of Esther.  I was in Talmud class at JTS Rabbinical School, and (surprise!) my classmates and I were struggling to stay focused.  Our professor stopped the class, and he recited the line which Mordechai said to Esther when he was encouraging her to rise above her own fears and save her people.

    כִּי אִם-הַחֲרֵשׁ תַּחֲרִישִׁי, בָּעֵת הַזֹּאת–רֶוַח וְהַצָּלָה יַעֲמוֹד לַיְּהוּדִים מִמָּקוֹם אַחֵר, וְאַתְּ וּבֵית-אָבִיךְ תֹּאבֵדוּ; וּמִי יוֹדֵעַ–אִם-לְעֵת כָּזֹאת, הִגַּעַתְּ לַמַּלְכוּת

    If you are completely silent at this moment, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from somewhere else, but you and your family will perish;  and who knows?  Perhaps it is for this moment that you have arrived at the royal palace?

    Our professor pointed this verse directly at us.  “Listen, folks,” I remember his message. “The Torah will survive this generation, with you or without you.  The question is:  do you want to be a part of it?”

    I loved that verse, and it still comforts me today.  The Jewish people will be just fine. It’s good to know I don’t have to hang the survival of the entire Jewish people on any one class or group of students. When students say they don’t feel like studying or following the tradition, I say to myself or even to them:  “no big deal. The Jewish people will survive, no matter what.”

    But it is Mordechai’s challenge to Esther which is far scarier.  Sure, the Jewish people will survive– and that is certainly comforting– but the real question is, what is my role in the process?  Why have I been brought to this “royal palace” in my own life?  What am I meant to do with this very moment?

    Mordechai throws the gauntlet down for each of us: what are we doing with the privileges we have been given?  What is our mission in this one opportunity at life?  Where will we fit into this story?

    The problem with a challenge like this one is that too often we may feel like dropping the ball.  Maybe we don’t know what we are meant to do, and we find Mordechai’s challenge overwhelming.  Or worse– we DO know, and we decide we just can’t handle living up to what we might hope for ourselves.

    But another verse in this week’s liturgical readings warns us against thinking we don’t have it in us.

    This past Shabbat in shul, I sat next to List College Dean Shuly Schwartz, who pointed out her father’s favorite line in the Haftarah for Shabbat Zachor.  Evidently, Rabbi Mordecai Rubin, z”l, loved the moment when the prophet Samuel spoke to the failing King Saul.  As soon as I looked at the line more closely, I saw what was so special about this line.  For Samuel, Saul’s biggest problem– and the reason he could not remain king– was his own self-image.

     וַיֹּאמֶר שְׁמוּאֵל–הֲלוֹא אִם-קָטֹן אַתָּה בְּעֵינֶיךָ, רֹאשׁ שִׁבְטֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אָתָּה; וַיִּמְשָׁחֲךָ יְהוָה לְמֶלֶךְ, עַל-יִשְׂרָאֵל

    Samuel said:  You may be small in your own eyes, but are you not the head of the tribes of Israel?  God has anointed you king over Israel.  (I Samuel 15:17)

    Samuel makes clear that God’s problem with Saul is that Saul’s own ego is getting in his way. Each of us has been chosen for something, but when we fail to step up to it, we are in trouble. Being small in our own eyes is in itself the sin.

    Mordechai reminds us, the Jewish people will be just fine, bayamim hahem uvazman hazeh, in those days as well as in our time. But what will our role be in the story? Each of us, like Saul and Esther before us, has been anointed for something. If we don’t play the role chosen for us, history–the history of our people, the history of the world– will certainly continue.  But we shy away at our own risk.   וּמִי יוֹדֵעַ?  Who knows?  This could be the very moment we have waited for.

  • Daily Daf Differently (and a Chanukkah wish!)

    Daily Daf Differently (and a Chanukkah wish!)

    Sorry, folks, I’ve been off my blogging game.  I’ve been hard at work on another project, my Daily Daf Talmud podcasts. Daily Daf Differently is a really cool podcast where listeners study the Daf Yomi, the daily page of Talmud, with a variety of liberal rabbis and teachers. A page a day is a bit too much for me these days (maybe when I retire!), but I’m hoping to study a few pages from every tractate, and so I’m teaching a few of the podcasts.  Right now I’m preparing some pages from the tractate Yevamot, which is known as one of the hardest tractates in the Babylonian Talmud, and man, is it challenging me.  So any extra brain space I might have is currently in use: I’m trying to figure out what these rabbis are saying!  Stay tuned for another post in January. As soon as this project’s done, I hope to come back to my writing.

    If you’d like to hear one, here’s the link to my podcast of one of my all-time favorite lessons about Chanukkah, from Shabbat 22.  The rabbis discuss whether the real mitzvah of Chanukkah is to light the candles or simply to place the Chanukkah menorah in the window. The Chassidic text Kedushat Levi teaches that these two possibilities reflect different spiritual moments in a Jew’s religious experience. Sometimes the spiritual fire is alive in us, and sometimes it’s not.  I love how honest the original Chassidim were about the ebb and flow of our spiritual and emotional lives.  The Kedushat Levi reads the rabbinic debate as a message that sometimes it’s enough just to show up, just to place our menorah and to have the faith that the kindling– the revival of spiritual light– will come.  It seems to me that’s the whole message of the holiday itself.  Light will come, even in the darkest moments.  May each of us experience a renewed faith and a renewed spiritual energy as we light our candles in the coming week.  See you in January!

    Daily Daf Differently podcast, Shabbat 22