We light these lights for the instigators and the refusers the obstinate and unyielding for the ones who keep going the ones who keep living the ones who won’t bow down.
We light these lights for the sparks that guide us on through the dead of night for the darkness that swaddles us in its soft embrace, until we inevitably emerge into life renewed.
We light these lights for the foundation that remains after all strength has ebbed away for the steadfast knowledge even as the bombs fall over and over from the sky that the impunity of the powerful cannot last forever.
These lights we light tonight will never be used for any other purpose but to proclaim the miracle of this truth: it is not by might nor by cruelty but by a love that burns relentlessly that this broken world will be redeemed.
They told us idolatry brought down the Temple the first time and unmitigated hatred the second time around – what will they say now that Jerusalem has fallen once more?
They will say it’s finally time to draw back the curtain in the holy of holies, uncover your false gods and admit once and for all that this place you call a “city of peace” has never known a moment’s peace, this city conquered and reconquered this city of promises unkept and dreams unfulfilled this city of “return” from which there is no return.
They will say your sea of flags will not hide your crimes, so draw back the curtain and face your illusions: you cannot save “democracy” that never was, you cannot claim a place that can never be owned, your liberation is no liberation if it does not include the liberation of all.
They will say it’s time to stop your mourning for something that never was and never can be – so cease your keening, your unending lamentations and clear away the fallen stones.
It’s time to let go of this godforsaken city, this land of idolatrous stone worship, this crime scene of unceasing bloodshed, it’s time to uncover the place where God truly dwells:
the place where liberation is extended far beyond these walls, beyond the river and the sea, a Jerusalem of the heavens for all who dwell on earth.
Your presence greets me like the wind arriving from a far-off storm stirring and shimmering over the dark surface of the deep. I open gratefully to my spirit’s return and rise up again to a world recreated.
Soul of all that lives, eternal breath of the universe, you are blessed, restoring me to life this and every new morning.
As in years before, we’ll soon proclaim, “Next year in Jerusalem!” But do we actually mean this? Do we really, truly believe that we will live to reach the Promised Land? Do we honestly expect to see the world we’ve been struggling for and dreaming of for so long? And if not, might these words be something more than merely the obligatory aspiration we recite at the end of every seder?
It’s worth considering that we may have already entered the Promised Land in ways we never stopped to realize: when we show up for our fellow strugglers, when we celebrate our victories along the way, when our efforts are infused with our highest values of justice and equity and sacrifice. And it is in these moments that we find ourselves dwelling in the world we’ve been fighting for all along. We’re experiencing the world we want to see because we’ve been creating it for one another.
Struggle is hard work, but if we view it exclusively as a means to an end, it will be only that. However, if we view struggle as an inherently sacred act, we may yet see the face of God in our comrades and those who have gone before us. We may come to understand that the world-to-come is not just a far-off dream. We may yet find we are living in the Promised Land in ways we have never truly understood before.
As we conclude our seder now, let us vow that these fleeting moments are a but glimpse of the possible beyond what we might ever have dared to imagine. Let us state unabashedly that next year will be the year we make Jerusalem – the city of wholeness and peace – not merely a hope, but a reality for all. From our narrow place to the wide-open spaces, let these words be our promise to one another:
Blessed are you, Spirit of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.
Blessed are you, Spirit of the Universe, whose glory shines forth from every corner of creation.
Blessed are you, Spirit of the Universe, creator of humanity.
Blessed are you, Spirit of the Universe, who has created us all in your image, designing every human being with limitless potential and worth. Blessed are you, divine architect of humanity.
May joy be magnified throughout the world as the exiled return to their homes, persecution and oppression cease and justice is extended to all who dwell on earth. Blessed are you, who makes every land a Zion, who welcomes the return of the dispossessed in joy and celebration.
Grant abundant delight to these loving companions. May they be for each other lovers and friends, and may their love resonate with faith, passion and an ever-present spirit of discovery. Blessed are you, who brings joy and contentment to homes created by loving companions.
You are blessed, Spirit of the Universe, who creates delight and gladness, lover and beloved, pleasure, laughter, love and companionship May we all witness the day when the dominant sounds throughout the world will be the voices of happiness, the cadence of fullness and contentment, the sweet melody of feasting and singing. Blessed are you, who delights in the promise of a world reunited.
For our community, for our teachers and students: those who receive and learn and hand down the teachings of all who have gone before us;
For those who explain, those who discern, those who make connections, those who draw out the truths patiently waiting to be revealed;
For those who challenge words that cause harm, those who reinterpret, reframe and redeem meanings that might otherwise lead us astray;
For those who learn through study and those who learn from experience, those who learn from all peoples, cultures and traditions, those who live out the wisdom they have gained, who know that every conversation, every move, every breath is a precious opportunity to learn Torah anew;
So Moses the servant of the Lord died there, in the land of Moab, at the command of the Lord. He buried him in the valley of Moab, near Beit Peor; and no one knows his burial place to this day. (Deuteronomy 34:5-6)
Readers of the Torah often comment on the seeming unfairness of God’s decree that Moses must die before he can enter the Promised Land. But when we reach the final verses of the Torah, the tone feels anything but untimely or tragic. Rather, God’s treatment of Moses in his final moments hints at a spirit of love and tenderness.
Commentators have made much of the words “al pi adonai” – “at the command of the Lord,” which literally means “at the mouth of the Lord.” In the midrashic imagination, this verse is commonly read: “Moses died…at the kiss of God.” Some have pointed out the poignant symmetry of this image: just as God breathes life into the first human, God reclaims Moses’ soul with through a similar loving act.
The portrayal of God personally “burying” Moses is equally as powerful. The stark anthropomorphism of this verse is striking in the way it invites us to identify with this sacred act of kindness. The mitzvah of burying the dead, in fact, comes from this text. According to halacha, burial of the dead is one of our most sacred mitzvot in Jewish tradition, since it is performed with the knowledge that it cannot possibly be “repaid” by the recipient.
God’s care for Moses in the final days of his life is described in great detail in a famous midrash known as Petirat Moshe. At the end of this classic rabbinic text, God and the angels guide Moses, in a sense, through his final dying process. For his part, Moses seems to almost go through the various Kubler-Ross phases as he pleads with God for his life: i.e., anger, bargaining, denial, and finally, of course, acceptance. Among other things, this midrash powerfully portrays the gamut of Moses’ emotions from the sense of unfairness to his final moment of letting go
When I read this Torah portion a few weeks ago, I remembered that I actually wrote a contemporary rendering of Petirat Moshe in 1992, during my final year of rabbinical school. Here it is below – I’ll resist the intense urge to change and tweak the language of a young rabbinical student and offer it just as it appeared thirty years ago:
By the time Moshe and the Children of Israel reached the Jordan River, it had already been decreed that Moshe should die before he reached the Promised Land. Moshe had already known this, of course, but up until this point he had been a master of denial. Between the sealing of his decree and his arrival at the threshold, there had been too much to do; too much to think about. Anyway, how could such an awful prospect possibly be true?
When Moshe reached the river’s edge, however, God revealed the full extent of the decree. There, with the Land almost in sight, the pain was too much for him to bear. He had been a faithful servant of the Holy One for most of his adult life. He had led the Israelites out of slavery, kept them alive in the wilderness, taught them the way of Torah, judged their disputes. Now, with the Promised Land within reach, he was being cruelly denied. He was not ready to die! How could God deny him the glorious moment of entrance into the Land of Israel? Or even a glimpse?
Moshe finally cracked. He drew a small circle, stood inside it, and looked defiantly out into the expanse of the desert before him. “I will not move from this spot until You revoke my decree of death.” Then Moshe put on sackcloth and ashes and prayed fervently. His plea for his life was so powerful that it penetrated the highest heavens and the deepest foundations of the earth.
Moshe’s powerful prayer was so moving that it caused the angels in the celestial courts of justice to weep for him. But the Holy One said the no angel was to bring Moshe’s prayer before God, because his death decree had already been sealed. God called on the angel Akraziel, the celestial herald, and told him, “Go down immediately and lock every gate in heaven so that Moshe’s prayer cannot ascend.”
Moshe continued with his prayer. “Sovereign of the Universe, think of how much I had to suffer for the sake of the Children of Israel! Can it be that I must suffer with them, and not take part in their rejoicing?”
But God replied, “I am sorry. Your decree has been sealed. To everything there is a season, and a time for everything under heaven.”
Then Moshe began to negotiate. “Please. At least allow me to remain just one day in the Promised Land before I die.”
God held firm. “It cannot be. The decree has been sealed.”
“Well, if I am not to enter the Land, would you at least allow me to gaze upon it before I die?”
But God replied, “The decree has been sealed.”
When Moshe realized that his prayers were not going to work, he decided to get others to pray on his behalf. He addressed the earth: “O earth, I implore you, plead my case before God. Maybe then the Holy One will take pity on me and allow me to enter the Land of Israel.”
The earth replied, however, “How could I possibly plead on your behalf? I am of dust, just as you. Our fate is the same: ‘Of dust you are, and of dust you will return.'”
Then Moshe asked the heavens, “If you please, implore the Holy One on my behalf.” But the heavens replied, “We’re too busy doing the same for ourselves. After all, it was written about us, ‘The heavens shall vanish like smoke.'”
Moshe asked the sun and moon, the stars and planets, the hills and mountains, the rivers: all the elements of nature, but they were too busy pleading their own case. None would help him out.
Finally, Moshe asked the Reed Sea, who responded sarcastically, “You mean to tell me that you, who were able to wave his staff and slice me into pieces is now asking for my help? Ha! That’s a good one!”
Moshe now grasped the full reality of his aloneness. He sat down in his circle, put his face in his hands, and began to weep.
The Holy One saw Moshe and asked him, “Moshe, why are you so sad? You have known about this decree for a long time.”
Moshe replied, “I am scared.”
The Holy One said, “There is nothing to be scared of, Moshe. I will command your nephew Eleazar to accompany you to your resting place on Mt. Nebo. You shall die atop this holy mountain, for death does not mean destruction, but elevation. You will see, Moshe. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
And at noon on the following day, Eleazar went with Moshe up Mt. Nebo. Eleazar was instructed to leave Moshe before they reached the top. Moshe climbed the rest of the the way alone. When he finally arrived at the mountaintop, he found a beautiful golden couch which had been arranged for him by the angels. Moshe lay down upon it as God had instructed.
As soon as he lay down, Moshe beheld a wondrous vision. He say the Temple in Jerusalem in all its luminous splendor, shining forth from its holy mount. Moshe cried out, “I thought you told me I wasn’t allowed to glimpse the Promised Land before I died.”
“Look carefully,” said God.
Then Moshe realized that what he was seeing was not the Temple in earthly Jerusalem, but rather the Holy Temple which sits in the Jerusalem of the Heavens, of which our earthly Temple is but a pale comparison. This was the Temple constructed by God’s hand. It was made of precious jewels, pearls and gold – and it housed the holy light of the Shechinah, which was to be preserved for Israel to all eternity, to the end of all generations.
As Moshe beheld this glorious vision, his resistance began to melt. Yet no sooner did begin to sigh, than the Angel of Death appeared.
Moshe froze up. Terror began to rise from the pit of his stomach. But as he looked on, he realized something odd. The figure wasn’t fearful at all, but bathed in light. Then, as the form turned to face him, he recognized the face of his Beloved.
It was only then that Moshe finally let go. He said to his soul as it left his body, “Return O my soul, to your tranquility, for Adonai has dealt bountifully with you.”
The Holy One thereupon reclaimed Moshe’s soul with a kiss, and Moshe, whose name means “drawn from the water” returned to that vast, limitless Ocean of All Being.
All streams flow into the sea, but the sea is never full. To the place from which the water flows, there it will flow back again. (Ecclesiastes 1:7)
Chaverai nevarech/Friends, let us offer blessings…
...for the food we have shared. We give thanks for the earth and its goodness, created to feed and sustain all that lives. As we rejoice in the ever-giving blessings of creation, let us commit to spreading your abundance to all who dwell upon the earth. May we forever work to create a world in which hunger is no more, as it is written, there shall be no needy among you.Baruch atah adonai, hazan et hakol – Blessed are you, who feeds us all. Amen.
...for the lands upon which we dwell. May the inhabitants of every land live in safety and security. Let us all strive to be caretakers of the land, that it may yield its abundance to future generations, as it is written, the land will give forth its fruits and you will eat to fullness and dwell in security upon it. We acknowledge that too many are sustained by the bounty of lands that have been colonized and stolen from their original inhabitants. May we work to bring the day when all who have been exiled and dispossessed know restoration and reparation. Baruch atah adonai, al ha’aretz ve’al hamazon – Blessed are you, for the land and its sustenance. Amen.
…for the vision of a world complete. May this dream become reality soon in our own day, that every land may be a Zion, every city a Jerusalem, every home a sanctuary offering welcome to all. May your world be rebuilt upon a foundation of compassion, equity and justice, as it is written, compassion and truth will meet; justice and peace will kiss. Baruch atah adonai, boneh ha’olam b’tzedek v’rachamim – Blessed are you, who rebuilds the world in justice and compassion. Amen.
…for your abundant goodness. Teach how to walk in your ways: the ways of kindness and decency, graciousness and understanding, now and always. Just as you nourish us unconditionally, so may we learn how to take care of one another with openness and love. For it is written, you open your hand and nourish the desire of all life.Baruch atah adonai, ha’tov ve’hameitiv – Blessed are you, who is good and who bestows goodness upon us all. Amen.
Commentary:
In composing this new Birkat Hamazon/Blessing After the Meal, I maintained the essential structure of the traditional prayer, which consists of four basic spiritual themes or categories. As with the other new liturgies that I’ve written, I seek here to compose Jewish prayers that express a Diasporist ethic; that is to say, liturgy that views the entire world as our “homeland” and resists the influence of modern political Zionism, which has become so thoroughly enmeshed in contemporary Jewish liturgy.
I’ll unpack each section here in turn. For purposes of comparison, a Hebrew/English version of the Birkat Hamazon can be found here.
.Friends, let us offer blessings… This is a simple, shortened version of the zimun – an invitation to prayer – when 10 or more people have just shared a meal.
...for the food: The first blessing offers gratitude to God for providing the food that sustains all creation. In this section, I chose to make explicit the fact that although the earth contains enough abundance to feed all of humanity, we nonetheless live in a world of rampant hunger. Thus, the moral imperative: “Let us …work to create a world in which hunger is no more.” For this reason, I chose to substitute the traditional Biblical verse, Deuteronomy 8:10 (“When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which God has given you”), with Deuteronomy 15:4: (“There shall be no needy among you.”)
...for the lands: The second blessing traditionally gives thanks for Eretz Yisrael – the land of Israel. In keeping with a centering of the Jewish diaspora over one particular piece of land, I chose to render this wording “for the lands” rather than “for the land (al ha’aretz.) In other words, we give thanks for the many lands upon which the Jewish people have made – and continue to make – their homes.
Although the traditional version was written well before the era of Zionism, many contemporary versions of the Birkat Hamazon use this section to offer thanksgiving for the establishment of the state of Israel. (The Reconstructionist version of this prayer for instance, includes the words, “for the culture, faith and hope of our people alive once more in Eretz Yisrael.”) Some versions also include a prayer for Yom Ha’atzmaut – Israeli Independence Day as well.
The traditional version of this section also invokes the Exodus from Egypt (“you redeemed us from the House of Bondage.”) Here, I chose to universalize this message and render it as a prayerful land acknowledgment. This recognizes the undeniable fact that many who say this prayer for the land will be invoking it on land that was literally colonized and stolen from others. Finally, to recognize the threat of global climate change to the lands upon which we live, I’ve also highlighted the importance of safeguarding God’s abundance for future generations. For a Biblical verse, I chose Leviticus 25:19, which references living upon the land “in security.”
…for the vision of a world complete: The traditional version of the section thanks God for the city of Jerusalem, expressing the messianic yearning for God to re-establish the city and to rebuild the Temple. In composing this section, I transvalued the messianic ideal into a vision of the world “as it should be” – embodied by an era of universal ” compassion, equity and justice.” As the Hebrew word for Jerusalem, Yerushalayim – contains the root Sh”LM, which means “wholeness,” I chose the image of a “world complete.”
I also chose to idealize Jerusalem to represent the mythic “city of peace” in which which we all yearn to live. In this regard, I was particularly inspired by the classic rabbinic notion of “Yerushalayim Shel Mala” or “Jerusalem of the Heavens.” (I personally find this much more powerful than a quasi-idolatrous attachment to an earthly piece of land which, tragically, has rarely known a moment of peace.) For the Biblical verse, I chose Psalm 85:10, which evokes a vision of this universal future with incredible poetic beauty.
…for your abundant goodness: This final section was added to the Birkat Hamazon in the aftermath of the disastrous Bar Kochba revolt in the second century CE, reflecting a sense of healing and optimism – and faith in God’s goodness – even in the wake of a cataclysmic collective tragedy. In my rendering, I chose to highlight not only God’s goodness, but the moral imperative to mirror that goodness in our own relationships with one another. For the Biblical verse, I retained the traditional line from Psalm 145:16: “You open your hand…”
I ended this section – and the Birkat Hamazon as a whole – with the traditional blessing, “Baruch atah adonai, ha’tov ve’hameitiv” (“Blessed are you who is good and who bestows good upon us all”). This blessing is traditionally recited at times “which bring pleasure to an entire community” – an eminently appropriate way to end a blessing following a communal meal.
I recited this memorial prayer yesterday at a vigil sponsored by Students for Justice in Palestine – Chicago. The gathering was organized “to grieve with us the lives lost in this most recent Israeli onslaught upon Gaza, and to honor the countless Palestinians who have fallen victim to the ongoing Nakba since 1948.” It is based on the traditional Jewish prayer “El Male Rachamim” (“God Filled with Compassion”). .
El male rachamim shochen bam’romim ha’metzei menucha nechonah tachat kanfei ha’shechinah.
Oh, God filled with compassion, whose loving presence ever surrounds us bring perfect rest to those who have been killed without pity in Gaza, in refugee camps, in apartments, in homes that provided no sanctuary, as they worked, as they slept, as they sat down to share meals together, as they fled from the overpowering might of rockets and bombs from above.
Receive their souls with the fulness of your mercy. bind them to the souls of their ancestors whose lives were unjustly taken during the dispossession of the Nakba – an injustice that continues even as we call out to you now.
Source of all mercy, protect these precious souls with the shelter they were denied in their lifetimes. Gather them under the softness of your wings, show them love, bring them home.
Remind us that no one is forgotten in your sight, that all are welcome at your side, that each and every one of their lives is a story of sacred worth and meaning that can never be lost.
As we rededicate ourselves to their lives. Turn our grief and anger into resolve. Filll us with strength and will and purpose – inspire us to stand as one in solidarity, that together we may end this injustice once and for all.
Source of all compassion, extend your shelter across the land that the refugees may return home soon in our day – that all who live between the river and the sea may enjoy the blessings of equity, of justice and of peace.
Palestinian mourners carry the body of 11-year-old Hussain Hamad, killed by an Israeli military airstrike, during his funeral in Beit Hanoun, northern Gaza Strip, Tuesday, May 11, 2021. (AP Photo/Khalil Hamra)
Gaza weeps alone. Bombs falling without end her cheeks wet with tears. A widow abandoned imprisoned on all sides with none willing to save her.
We who once knew oppression have become the oppressors. Those who have been pursued are now the pursuers. We have uprooted families from their homes, we have driven them deep into this desolate place, this narrow strip of exile.
All along the roads there is mourning. The teeming marketplaces have been bombed into emptiness. The only sounds we hear are cries of pain sirens blaring drones buzzing bitterness echoing into the black vacuum of homes destroyed and dreams denied.
We have become Gaza’s master leveling neighborhoods with the mere touch of a button for her transgression of resistance. Her children are born into captivity they know us only as occupiers enemies to be feared and hated.
We have lost all that once was precious to us. This fatal attachment to our own might has become our downfall. This idolatrous veneration of the land has sent us wandering into a wilderness of our own making.
We have robbed Gaza of her deepest dignity plunged her into sorrow and darkness. Her people crowd into refugee camps held captive by fences and buffer zones gunboats, mortar rounds and Apache missles.
We sing of Jerusalem, to “a free people in their own land” but our song has become a mockery. How can we sing a song of freedom imprisoned inside behind walls we have built with our own fear and dread?
Here we sit clinging to our illusions of comfort and security while we unleash hell on earth on the other side of the border. We sit on hillsides and cheer as our explosions light up the sky while far below, whole neighborhoods are reduced to rubble.
For these things I weep: for the toxic fear we have unleashed from the dark place of our hearts for the endless grief we are inflicting on the people of Gaza.
Yedid Nefesh 