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This week, the modern state of Israel celebrates 75 years. As we approach this milestone, I'm transported to the Israel I encountered in 1983 as a teen where passengers clapped and cheered as we touched down at Ben Gurion. Something amazing was transpiring. Not only that, young and naive, I thought this behavior represented all air travel experiences. Landing in a new place with joy and enthusiasm set the stage for transformation. That summer was, in fact, amazing. Those weeks introduced me to the power of community in new ways, to hiking and history, and the magical sights, scents and surprises of land that flows with milk and honey. I discovered a sense of independence and practiced problem solving when lost without a map, all important life skills that serve me until this day. I love revisiting my photo album from that time, days when brochures and bottle caps served as inspiration for memory and connection.
Years later, my relationship with Israel is less carefree and more complex. I still feel a sense of excitement and opportunity when I arrive. Like any beloved, I also see the wrinkles and scars of a life lived with joy and sorrow, enthusiasm and exhaustion, resilience and rigidity. Naomi Shemer captures it well when she sings al hadvash v'al ha'oketz, al hamar v'hamatok/on the honey and the sting, on the bitter and the sweet. Israel is a real place, with real challenges, with whom we are called to have a grown-up relationship and take responsibility.
In this week's parsha, we learn the protocol for someone with tzara'at, a series of potentially contagious skin ailments. Once the priest is informed of this ailment, v'ra'ah hakohen et hanega/the priest looks at the affliction (Lev.13:3). After an assessment guided by a series of predetermined rules, the priest makes a determination for the short term. Some must return on the seventh day for another examination. Some do this more than once, returning again to be seen in another week's time. The cycle of seven days reminds us of the potential for growth and change that takes place over a set period of time. Will things recede and expose new information? How much will things grow and change? What restoration might take longer than an initial cycle of work and rest? Each time, the priest is called to look, to examine, to see what is before them, to recognize who stands before them, to appreciate how someone stands before them. This is the responsibility, to show up and engage, to present and be present, to remain in relationship.
Later in the parsha, we learn someone with this type of ailment must call out tamei, tamei (Lev. 13:45) drawing attention to their pain and their person. Some, like Rashi, see this as a responsibility towards others to prevent contamination. We must take our presence in community seriously and make sure to keep everyone safe. The Talmud sees this action differently saying, ...he must make his grief publicly known, so that the public may pray for him (Shabbat 67a). This call to action by the one plagued with tzara'at reminds us that even the physical manifestation of a spiritual ailment requires compassion and collaboration.
Our tradition reminds us we are meant to exist in community, with myriad threads of connection, however fragile. When we feel the urge to turn away and avoid contact and perceived contagion, we must turn towards the afflicted and hear their cry. Kol arevim zeh ba'zeh, we are all responsible for one another (Talmud Bavli, Shavuot 39a).
These days, our beloved Israel is crying out in pain. For months, hundreds of thousands have gathered in the streets and on the highways to protest the "hardline coalition's plans to overhaul the judicial system, bring most judicial appointments under government control, and curb the oversight powers of the High Court of Justice" (Times of Israel, 15 April 2023). Many gatherings are deliberately organized after Shabbat to allow those with more religiously traditional sabbath practices to participate. Last month, Asaf Zamir, Israel's former Consul General in NYC resigned over the firing of Israel's defense minister. One might see this as stepping away from Israel. Like the many layered understanding of our parsha, Zamir made clear his actions demonstrated a commitment to fight for Israel and for democracy. Someone whose name means something akin to gatherer or collector of songs, or perhaps song gathering, his actions demonstrate the responsibility to respond with varied voices and melodies, some older, some more resonant with a newer age.
What is critical here is that we respond. We cannot remain silent when someone calls out tamei, tamei. We must look, see, and appreciate their pain. The voice of those in need lets us know help is both wanted and essential. As I mentioned several weeks ago, members of the Israel Philharmonic spoke up through their music, gathering to play Hatikvah. As an oboist, I appreciated the musician who lifted her instrument in strength and commitment to the strains of melody reminding us that our hope is still not lost. This was most powerful from the one whose role is to tune the orchestra, and align their purpose, like our call to prayer of blessing, the barchu.
As we approach Yom HaAtzma'ut and prepare to celebrate 75 years of Israel, let us pray for Medinat Yisrael and for us, her family. May we bind ourselves with the work of the holy one and commit to the values of justice, peace, compassion, growth, purpose and joy. Most of all, may we hold onto hope as an intention, a journey with no end that carries us into the future.
On this Rosh Hodesh Iyar, I invite us to receive these words of prayer crafted by Rabbi Ayelet Cohen as we anticipate the 75th Anniversary of Israel's Founding.
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