Shabbat Shemot
5 January 2024
Dear Members and Friends,
I have heard this sound before in the dead of night. Someone is whistling persistently, tunefully outside my window hours before dawn breaks. I can see him in my mind’s eye, with his puffed-up red breast, his beak opening and shutting, protecting his territory, singing for his mate, the only voice in the darkness.
Yet in the morning, there is nothing, no trace of his presence or his song, for the wind and rain have broken the branches on which his wire thin feet perched and torn away the protective canopy of leaves.
A few nights later, I hear his voice again, defiant, in survival mode, at home in this suburban environment of houses, joined together, and gardens surrounded by thick hedges, the living estates of him and his neighbours.
One morning, I emerge from my front door and hear him yet again. My exit does not seem to disturb him; he is somewhere above me in a holly bush that grows on one side of the house. I remain still, looking up and searching for him see him there in full sight – the distinctive orange of his chest seeping into his brown feathers, the unproportioned large feet fastened to a narrow branch. Later on, he’ll move to the back of the house, darting from the grass to the hedge, pecking for worms and other snacks, and then for nights on end, as I wait for his night-time serenade, he’ll remain silent.
There is something about his presence that reminds me of the survival and existence of our own people – the Jewish people. Not because we are numerous, for we make up a tiny proportion of the world’s population, but because, in some ways, we are like birds in an icy winter, pouring out our prayers and songs day and night, steadfast in our survival and finding hope even in the darkest times.
How did we find our place on history’s stage? What captured the imagination of those who told the stories of our people long ago? Was it the story of the birth of a baby, hidden among the reeds in the River Nile and found by an Egyptian princess? Or the epic narrative of a man who grew up to become the liberator of a group of refugee slaves? Perhaps it was the miraculous defeat of a brutal dictator who decreed that all male children should be killed by throwing them into the River Nile; or the defiance of the Hebrew midwives who saved the Hebrew babies, or of Moses’s mother in saving her own child? Or was it the courage of Moses’s sister in returning him to his own mother so that she could nurse him, or the audacity of the daughter of Pharaoh who adopted him as her own?
Perhaps it was not these stories of our origins that gave us a platform from which we would share our teachings and traditions with the world. Perhaps it was, rather, the nobility of a code of law, enshrined in the Torah, placing the inalienable right of the human being at its centre – the preciousness of human life, whether slave or free person, the protection of those who have few rights or advantages in society.
Or perhaps it was the Torah’s faith in a God whose word brought forth the created world in all its sheer beauty and cycles of magnificence.
The law of the Torah sees humankind at one with the earth. The rising sun, glimpsed through a forest of evergreens on a winter’s morning, its purple and golden-hued setting far away over the horizon of the sea. The seeds planted and sheaves gathered in their season. The wild animals who steal out of their dens at night to forage for food, the eagle, hovering and swooping down to gather its prey.
What are we that makes us different from the life that is born and dies around us? We are no more and no less than my night-time companion, singing a song of love to his mate, reminding others of his own province. Finding a nest which he can call his home.
This robin’s nocturnal song and morning bravery is a pinpoint of hope in a sorry and fearful world. But we must listen and watch for him. He evokes our pity and love, a sense of awe for his perfection, a wonder at the beauty of his song. He trains us in these qualities so that we may extend them to all humanity and to all God’s creatures.
Shabbat Shalom,
Alexandra Wright
Shabbat Va'era
12 January 2024
Dear Members and Friends,
I was fortunate to have the opportunity to welcome a group of local Year 2 students who had come to the LJS to learn about Judaism. They asked question after question, nearly jumping out of their seats in curiosity. One student asked why the bottom of the ner tamid looks like a kippah and if that was purposeful? Another asked if the sky light in the Sanctuary was meant to look like a kippah worn by the Sanctuary. I brought them to the Ark and they were in awe as the doors were opened. One student asked me a question that seemed simple, but is indeed complex. They wanted to know “what is the name of the Jewish God”. I explained that there are many different names for God. Just as their teachers have first names and more formal names, as their parents are called Mum and Dad by them but different names by friends and colleagues, so too does God have many names. I shared with them some of the many names we have for God. Elohim-the more formal name for God. Adonai-the most intimate and personal of God’s names. Shechina-the name of God’s comforting presence. The Muslim students who were in the class were quite excited to hear that my Jewish in-laws who are from Baghdad and speak Arabic sometimes refer to their Jewish God as Allah. I chose not to try and explain how the written name of God used most in our Torah, the tetragrammaton, yud-hey-vav-hey, is so holy, that it is never spoken.
Why so many different names, and are there differences in their meanings?
The central piece of any worship service in Judaism is the Amidah, part of this prayer is offering gratitude to our foremothers and forefathers for their unique and sacred relationship with God. The prayer states - Blessed are you Adonai our God, God of our fathers and mothers, God of Abraham God of Isaac and God of Jacob. God of Sarah, God of Rebecca, God of Rachel and God of Leah.
This prayer blesses those who came before us for their close and intimate relationship with God, for the vulnerability and courage that it required for them to live a life of faith.
Interestingly, in the beginning of this week’s parashah we are given a verse, directly from God, that questions these same forefather’s closeness to and knowledge of God.
In Exodus 6:2-3 God shares with Moses "I am the Adonai, I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name Adonai.” (Exodus 6:2-3).
According to this text Abraham, Isaac and Jacob did not know this name, they only knew El Shaddai. However, if you are to look back at Genesis you will see that Adonai is used many times in the text. In Genesis 15, Abraham addresses God using Adonai. Sarah uses Adonai when speaking to Abraham and both Isaac and Jacob use Adonai.
Medieval Torah commentator Rashi gave this interpretation of God’s words in this same verse, "They were not familiar with Me in my attribute of keeping faith, which is represented by the name Adonai.”
They had known God but had never experienced God in the way that Moses would. Jacob, Isaac and Abraham never knew God as redeemer or liberator, nor had they known him “face-to-face” like Moses, and yet we still praise their relationship with God. A reminder that we don’t have to know or understand all the workings of the divine to feel connected.
I’m reminded of an exercise I did with some of our teenagers a few weeks ago. I made a statement and had them stand on one side of the room if they agreed and on the other side of the room if they disagreed. I started with easier statements about Judaism and then I got to this one that I knew would be a bit more complicated. “I believe in God.” One person stood against the wall on the far side of the room and one stood against the opposite wall and the rest congregated around the middle. They weren’t sure. However, when I made the statement “I believe there is some greater power in the world” the whole class went to the side of ‘agree’. The name “God” was uncomfortable for them, and yet most were able to articulate with much spiritual depth their belief in a higher power.
How easy it would be to think that Jacob, Isaac, Abraham, Sarah, Rachel, Rebecca and Leah had less of a relationship with God because they didn’t understand the depth of God’s name or God’s being as fully as Moses. But we don’t have to fully know or experience God to have some level of connection to “a greater power” and to have that connection be deep and spiritually meaningful.
I am reminded of the Poem by Zelda
Each of us has a name,
given to us by God,
and given to us by our father
and mother.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by our stature
and our way of smiling,
and given to us by our clothes.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by the mountains,
and given to us by our walls.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by the planets,
and given to us by our neighbors.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by our sins,
and given to us by our longing.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by our enemies,
and given to us by our love.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by our fast days,
and given to us by our craft.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by the seasons of the year,
and given to us by our blindness.
Each of us has a name,
given to us by the sea,
and given to us by our death.
In the Amidah we offer our gratitude for our foreparents’ relationship with God. Why is it in this prayer that we say Elohei Sarah, Elohei Rivka, Elohei Leah, God of Sarah, God of Rebecca, God of Leah, God of Rachel. Why is Elohei “God of” repeated before each name. It could have been composed as God of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. One commentary argues that Elohei, God of, is repeated before each name because each of them had their own unique relationship of and experience with God. So too may it be with us.
Shabbat Shalom
Click here to read Rabbi Alex's Prayer for Israel 100th Day since October 7th.
Shabbat Bo
19 January 2024
Dear Members and Friends,
This week I was due to speak at an event entitled ‘Standing in Solidarity.’ A courageous Muslim Cultural Centre had invited a member of the Baháʼí community, a Muslim and myself to say some words and to add a prayer.
At the very last moment, due to unforeseen circumstances, the event was cancelled. It was a disappointment, although perhaps understandable given the febrile rise of antisemitism and Islamophobia over the past three months.
It would have been a powerful and significant testimony of human conversation to stand with others, to listen to a recitation from the Qur’an, to observe silence together and share prayers and reflections.
Because we need to listen to each other, to learn from each other if we are to build trust across our different communities. Contrary to what we have heard in the media, I have been moved by the number of Christians and others who have reached out to our congregation, to me and others, to express their shock and sadness at what happened in Israel on October 7th, and to state their solidarity with the Jewish community.
And they know that we, like them, are dismayed and are hurting at the rising number of innocent civilians in Gaza who have been killed in the last three months, displaced from their homes and seen their cities destroyed.
As we read the last three plagues in this week’s parashah, I am asking myself, how did the oppressed and desperate Israelite slaves feel as the locusts invaded the whole land of Egypt in a thick mass, hiding the land from view, darkening the skies, consuming the grasses of the field and all the fruit of the trees? How did they bear witness to the ninth plague of darkness that descended on the land of Egypt for three days, and was so thick that people could not see one another, and no one could move about? Yet they – the Israelites - ‘had light in their dwellings.’
Did they rejoice over the suffering the Egyptians endured? Did they say to themselves, this is justice for the humiliation of slavery, for the genocidal decree issued by Pharaoh that our male children should be thrown into the River Nile; this is the costly price of our freedom and security – this and, the tenth plague, the death of every Egyptian firstborn? Did they hide themselves from seeing their neighbours’ misery and losses, or had their own suffering flattened their response to the ruin of the land and death that took place around them?
Or were there Israelite folk whose hearts were broken by the affliction and misery visited on the Egyptians. It is possible, I am sure, to feel compassion for those who have lost home and livelihood, children and family members, while at the same time engaging in a struggle to win freedom from their oppressors and acceptance of themselves as a nation and peoplehood.
How we live together is the question that we must address here in the UK and in the Middle East. How do we build trust and faithfulness between peoples who see the world in different ways? Perhaps, we must begin with the relationship between humanity and God; Abraham’s ‘friendship’ and trust in God who summoned him and who called him ‘Abraham My friend – you whom I drew from the ends of the earth and called from its far corners…’ (Isaiah 41:8).
That is the theological paradigm for our own relationships with each other. Simple friendship, trust, faithfulness and confidence in each other, being steadfast in that loyalty and true to each other. Consider the perspectives of a God in heaven and human beings on earth, what could be more different?
Is it too much to ask of humankind to seek out those who are different from us? Listen to their stories, hear their anguish, delight in their joys. Stand together in silence before the magnificence of the coastlands, beneath the trees of the forest.
It is through trust that we build our relationships and although it may take years to build that trust, it is not easily broken.
Shabbat Shalom,
Alexandra Wright
Please join Rabbi Alex and others at this Silent Walking Meditation for Peace this Sunday 21 January from 12.00-3.00 pm in Trafalgar Square, London.
What gives you hope?
26 January 2024
Dear Members and Friends,
What gives you hope? In a world filled with uncertainties, we often seek solace in the familiar and enduring. Amidst the chaos, nature stands as a symbol of stability, providing us a sense of security.
This week we celebrated Tu BiSh’vat, the Jewish festival of trees. This festival, which began as the ancient equivalent of a tax return deadline, underwent a significant transformation and acquired many layers of meaning.
According to the Talmud, Tu BiSh’vat marked the anniversary of determining when the fruit trees in Israel were mature enough to be harvested. Additionally, this date was considered the New Year for the annual tithe on fruit trees. The fifteenth of Sh’vat was chosen for this occasion because by then, the early winter rains had mainly passed, the sap was rising in the wood, and the budding period had just begun.
In the sixteenth century, the mystics of Safed built on the tradition of eating fruit and reciting Psalms on Tu BiSh’vat, transforming it into a celebration of the Kabbalistic “Tree of Life.” This tree symbolizes the flow of divine energy, love, justice, and goodness into the world.
A tree has always been a symbol of connection to the land. The average lifespan of an olive tree is 500 years – the lifetime of many generations. People plant trees with the hope that they will stay in that place for a long time. In Jewish tradition, a tree has become a poignant symbol of connection to the Land of Israel during periods of exile. Planting trees or contributing towards this cause has become a cherished tradition during Tu BiSh’vat.
Yet, as we navigate the climate emergency, a new layer of meaning has emerged – a call for environmental stewardship. The festival, that once was a day of pure hope and yearning for a stable world, now carries the weight of concern about the future.
Trees nowadays can also be seen in the light of uncertainty about the peace in the Middle East. Trees have also become a symbol of uprootedness and displacement. Jewish Israeli settler groups uprooting and burning Palestinian olive groves have been the bitter context of Tu BiSh’vat for many years. Also, since October 7, many Israelis have had to be relocated and leave their homes and gardens seeking safety from Hamas terrorists. From this perspective, all people are similar – we all hope to have a peaceful and prosperous life and sit under our own vines and under our own trees.
In light of these challenges and concerns, this year Tu BiSh’vat becomes a catalyst for serious conversations about our responsibility towards the environment and peaceful coexistence with each other.
May we live in a world where people care about nature and the future more than immediate gain.
May we live in a world with coexistence and peace, not war and endless conflict.
May we see the offspring of our actions and our dreams fulfilled in our lifetime.
As we reflect on this festival, I leave you with the Tu BiSh’vat Acrostic poem, a collaborative creation by all who attended this year’s Seder:
Tranquillity embraces the world, blossoming around us.
Unify people like branches are united in one tree.
Be like a tree. Grow your roots and make it three.
Invigoration of unconditional self-love, sharing love with others.
Serve the world with joy, beauty, strength, and poetry.
Heart listens, heart sings, heart gives, heart forgives, heart rises, heart beats, heart is a human nature.
Valuing the interconnected oneness of nature.
Aim for the sky, grow tall like a Scots pine.
Trees abound and tell a new story with lessons as rich as the Torah!
(Written by The LJS community during Tu BiSh’vat 5784/2024)
Shabbat Shalom and Tu BiSh’vat Sameach,
Rabbi Igor.
