The Challenge of Freedom: A Commentary on B’shallach LJ e-Bulletin February 2020

Did our ancestors flee the house of bondage or were they pushed? The parashah, B’shallach opens with the words: ‘It came to pass when Pharaoh sent the people away … – Va-y’hi b’shallach Paroh et ha-am …’ (Exodus 13:17). B’shallach is often translated as ‘let go’, but the plain meaning of the Hebrew root, Shin – Lamed – Chet in this intensive active (pi’el) form is to ‘send away’. The verb used in last week’s parashah, Bo, is even clearer. We read: ‘They baked unleavened cakes of the dough that they brought out of Egypt, for it was not leavened; because they were thrust out of Egypt …. ki gor’shu mi-mitzrayim …’ (Exodus 12:39). The Hebrew root Gimmel – Reish – Shin means to ‘cast out’, and in this intensive passive form (pu’al): to be thrust out.

The language of both these verses suggests that the slaves were not actively engaged in their liberation. This impression is further reinforced by the scene at the shore of the Reed Sea. With the Egyptians pursuing them, the slaves were overcome with fear (14:10-12). Terrified of dying in the wilderness they cried out: ‘It was better for us to serve the Egyptians, then that we should die in the wilderness’ (:12). But then the Eternal commanded Moses to lift his rod so that the waters parted and the Israelites walked through the passage created by the walls of water on either side (:21-22).

It seems that the slaves were not exactly enamoured at the prospect of freedom. Indeed, as we discover in the very next scene following the crossing of the Sea of Reeds, the deprivations of the desert terrified them and they looked back longingly on the security and stability they had experienced in Egypt. We read that after a three-day journey in the wilderness, finding no water, they arrived at Marah, so called because the waters there were ‘bitter ‘– and the people immediately began to murmur against Moses. Their next stop took them to Elim and twelve springs of water, but still as they journeyed on into the wilderness of Tzin, a month into their trek through the wilderness, once again they murmured in discontent (16:3): ‘Would we had died by the hand of the Eternal in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots, when we ate bread to the full; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.’

What a miserable lot! Interestingly, rabbinic commentary offers an alternative version of events at the Rea of Reeds. We read in Midrash Mechilta on 14:22: ‘When Israel stood at the edge of the sea, each one said: ‘I will not be the first to enter’ … While they stood there deliberating, Nachshon ben Amminadav [who was a chieftain of the tribe of Judah] leapt first into the sea and plunged into its waves. Midrash Sh’mot [Exodus] Rabbah 21:10 goes further: ‘The sea did not part for them until they had waded into it up to their noses; only then did it become dry land.’

Ruth Sohn’s poem, which focuses on Miriam standing at the shore of the Reed Sea, underlines this very different presentation of the slaves: ‘To take the first step – / To sing a new song –/ Is to close one’s eyes / and dive / into unknown waters. / For a moment knowing nothing risking all – / But then to discover / The waters are friendly / The ground is firm (Kol Haneshamah, Shabbbat Vehagim, The Reconstructionist Press, Wyncote, Penn., 1994, pp.768-9).

It is not easy to be free. It takes courage and determination ‘to take the first step … and dive into unknown waters.’ We all know this. Anyone who has left the security of home, knows that the longing to be free can be overwhelmed by fear of the unknown beyond the familiar walls that contain us. No one leaves their home unless they have developed a powerful sense of personal security that sustains them wherever they go, or, they feel they have no other choice, or, as is the case with so many refugees today, their homes have been shattered by violence and war.

Freedom is so complex. There is freedom from and freedom to, freedom granted and freedom grasped, external freedom and internal freedom, collective freedom and personal freedom.

From its inception at the dawn of the twentieth century, Liberal Judaism in Britain embraced modernity’s gift of this complex bundle of freedoms by responding to Lily Montagu’s call ‘to satisfy the needs of the age’ (‘Spiritual Possibilities of Judaism Today’ Jewish Quarterly Review, 1899) and make sense of our Jewish inheritance in ways that are relevant and meaningful for contemporary life.

One of the principal vehicles of this commitment to relevance and meaning has been the prayer book. Since the first Liberal Judaism prayer book was published in 1902 under the auspices of the Jewish Religious Union, every twenty-five years or so, a new edition is fashioned that reflects our contemporary needs. And so it is with the new prayer book that is in the process of being created: Siddur Shirah Chadashah, ‘Siddur of a New Song’; the title recalling that moment of freedom at the shore of the sea, when as the g’ulah – the blessing of redemption that follows the Sh’ma – expresses it, our ancestors sang ‘a new song’.

Since Siddur Lev Chadash was published in 1995, LJ congregations have become increasingly accessible to people with diverse backgrounds and life situations attracted by Liberal Judaism’s commitment to equality and justice, compassion and hospitality. A new century calls for new words to reflect our transformed reality. At the biennial in May, responsive to the broad range of feedback we have received, we shall be launching the second draft of the new multi-vocal siddur, which will also include an Erev Shabbat service. Whatever your personal experience of liturgy, we invite you to dip your toes or to dive in – and to sing new songs (and old ones) with us.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

LJ E-Bulletin, February 2020/Sh’vat 5780

Text: 1000 words

60 Second Sermon, BBC Radio Sussex and Surrey, 26.01.20

Good Morning. Tomorrow, 27th January, it will be the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz concentration camp by the Red Army. Death marches continued and thousands of the persecuted who were not gassed or shot died in typhoid epidemics, but it was the beginning of the end of the Sho’ah, the Holocaust.

This milestone moment that marked the first glimmer of hope in the midst of the darkness, was adopted in 2000 by the British government as the date for observing National Holocaust Memorial Day.

Despite earnest protestations of ‘never again’, shockingly, we all know that during the past 75 years, there have been subsequent genocides: Biafra, Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda, Darfur – each place-name a watchword for hate-fuelled mass murder.

The theme of this year’s Holocaust Memorial Day commemoration is ‘stand together’ https://www.hmd.org.uk/what-is-holocaust-memorial-day/this-years-theme/. Genocide remains a present reality. We are invited to stand together to assist those have been persecuted, to stand together in resistance against the persecutors, and to speak out against persecution and challenge hostile cultures that victimise people. As we do so, let us think in particular of the Rohingya Muslims of Myanmar and the Uighur Muslims of China.

This year when we also mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Bosnian atrocity, we are also invited to stand together with the memory of all those who are victims of genocide, to stand together to support those in need and to stand together against rising division and hate.

And so, let us also pledge to stand with one another. In the past three years, this country has been riven apart by the divisive Brexit debate. In the past three years, the ugly forces of anti-Semitism and Islamophobia have made people whose families, parents and grandparents came here as refugees from persecution, including from the Holocaust, feel unsafe and fearful. As a new decade begins, let us vow to stand together and do what we can to reach out to one another and to forge bonds of friendship and mutual respect.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Burning Bushes | BHPS Sermon 20.1.2020

When I travelled to Australia last March to speak at the 25th Jewish LGBT+ World Congress in Sydney,[1] I went on a special mini-bus day-trip to the Blue Mountains situated eighty miles north-west of the city. When we think of mountains, we often imagine massive ranges of rock. By contrast, the beautiful Blue Mountains are covered by densely packed trees and are called ‘blue’ because of the mist of moisture that hovers over this elevated forest.

On the way, we visited a wild life park, where all the unique creatures that are associated with the largest island on earth can be encountered up close. It was a real thrill to see hopping kangaroos and diminutive flat-billed platypuses, to stroke baby wallabies and to gaze at koala bears sitting in eucalyptus trees, munching away. I have to admit that before we left, I visited the souvenir shop and bought a small cuddly koala bear for Jess.

I think you know where I’m going with this, but first let’s turn to the Torah. Last Shabbat we began reading the Book of Exodus – Sh’mot – with its tales of the enslavement of our ancestors to Pharaoh in Egypt, their remarkable liberation, and the beginning of their wilderness wanderings, dramatically shaped by their encounter with the Eternal at Mount Sinai.

The first major turning point in the story comes with Moses’ personal encounter with the Eternal – not on the top of a mountain, but rather, as we read in Exodus chapter 3, verse 2, at the foot of a mountain, at the burning bush that was not consumed by the flames.

The burning bush. As soon as I say those words at this time, our minds turn from a middle eastern desert scene over 3000 years ago to the burning bush fires that have been raging in southeast Australia – including, in the Blue Mountains. There, of course, the burning bushes have been consumed – and the fires have also consumed every living thing around them: koalas, kangaroos, wallabies. After three consecutive years of summer droughts, the raging fires have burned everything in their wake – and the blue, green, multicoloured landscape has been replaced by grey, charred remains.

We are shocked and horrified. The sight of wounded, traumatised koalas, their burnt paws wrapped in bandages so painful and distressing. But we have done this. Of course, not us, personally. But our wanton consumerism and profligate attitude to everything we consume; so much of it, so quickly dispensed with and disposed of as we move onto the next must-have item. But are we really to blame? After all, none of us one day decide to behave like this. We have been lured and trained by a global economy dedicated to profit that has harnessed every form of media, including, the World Wide Web, to stimulate our wants and then transform our wants into needs – and all in the name of the pursuit of happiness and the illusion of freedom that is actually a form of slavery.

Let’s return for a moment to the burning bush Moses encountered. Nothing much grows in the desert. The bush – the Hebrew word is s’neh – was a thorn-bush; compact, low-lying and rugged; perfectly suited for the super-dry desert conditions. The miracle of the story appears to be that bush burned but was not consumed by the flames. The real miracle was that Moses noticed. Just imagine: Moses was shepherding his father-in-law’s flock in the blinding light and heat of a desert day. Perhaps, he was wearing a cloth over his head, but he certainly didn’t have sunglasses. So, how come Moses noticed that ubiquitous desert resident, a lowly thorn-bush? We read at Exodus 3, verses 1 to 3:

Now Moses was shepherding the flock of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian; and he led the flock behind the wilderness, and came to the mountain of God, to Horev / Then the messenger of the Eternal appeared to him in a flame of fire out of the midst of the bush; and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, but the bush was not consumed. /Then Moses said: ‘I will turn aside now, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.’

The ‘messenger’ of the Eternal – malach Adonai – often translated as ‘angel’, could only appear to Moses because he looked, because he turned aside from his shepherding, because he allowed himself to be apprehended.

The burning bush that Moses encountered came with a message to liberate the slaves. He was presented with a gigantic task, but the signpost to the great mission Moses was called on to perform was so subtle, he could so easily have missed it; he could so easily have not seen it and just walked on by. And if Moses had just walked on by, he would have continued to live out his days as a shepherd in Midian and the Exodus of the slaves might never have happened. And we wouldn’t be here to retell the tale.

But then, perhaps, had Moses failed to notice, after a while he would have been shown a bigger more obvious sign, one that he simply could not ignore. The burning bush fires in south-eastern Australia proclaim to us that we have missed all the singular burning thorn-bush signs of climate change and impending ecological disaster. So, is it too late to turn aside and notice? Have we missed our chance to take action and save the planet?

In this week’s Torah portion, the parashah Va-eira, which begins with a continuation of Moses’ encounter with the Eternal at the burning bush, we learn that persuaded to return to Egypt by four-fold promises of liberation, when Moses relayed the promises to the slaves, they were not prepared to listen. We read at Exodus chapter 6, verse 9:

Moses spoke thus to the Israelites, but they would not listen to Moses because of shortness of spirit and because of hard bondage – mi-kotzer ru’ach u’mei-avodah kashah

Is it surprising that after hundreds of years in servitude, the slaves could not take in the message that they were going to be liberated? So, prosperous as we are, what’s our excuse? Of course, unlike the message that Moses tried to deliver to the slaves, the one that we have refused to receive decade after decade is terrifying and doom-laden. And so, we have seen fit to bury our heads in the sand.

In the context of the prospect of ecological catastrophe, that saying isn’t just a cliché. On the contrary, it’s very apt. The longer we continue to bury our heads, the deeper and more widespread the sand will become. After all, we face not only raging fires and other consequences of extreme weather events, but also the increasing desertification of the planet.

There are understood to be eight major causes of desertification:[2]

  1. Overgrazing
  2. Unsustainable agricultural techniques
  3. Deforestation
  4. Unsustainable water management
  5. Overpopulation and overexploitation of natural resources
  6. Urbanisation and the development of tourism
  7. Famine, poverty and political instability
  8. Climate change

And the effects of desertification become progressively devastating:[3]

  1. Vegetation is damaged or destroyed
  2. Soil becomes infertile
  3. Soil erosion gets worse
  4. There is increasing vulnerability to natural disasters
  5. Sources of drinking water become polluted
  6. There is a rise of famine, poverty and social conflicts – which leads to another effect:
  7. Mass migrations – and then in time:
  8. Collapses of civilisations – and the
  9. Extinction of species

Isn’t it amazing how much we now know about humanity’s destructive impact on the planet, and yet we continue to do so little? The enormous challenge of achieving global cooperation in the face of vested interests and resurgent nationalism cannot be underestimated. So, what can we do? Of course, we can reduce our own carbon footprint at home and in our communities – including, here at BHPS. We can also take collective action. The Torah relates that it took ten plagues – a concerted assault on Egypt – but eventually, not only was Pharaoh persuaded – the slaves were, too. As we read in the parashah Bo, Exodus chapter 12 (:39-41), after a sojourn of 430 years, they fled in such haste, there was no time for their dough to rise. The significance of this small detail is easily missed. It speaks of sudden flight, but also of the settled life that preceded the Exodus. The slaves inured to their slavery, not only toiled each day, they also went about the ordinary tasks of daily life; rearing children and baking bread. But finally, they knew they had to break free.

So, how long will we continue to go on with business as usual before we act? At the World Economic Forum at Davos this past week, Prince Charles, long-time green advocate, launched his ‘sustainable markets initiative’ for 2020 – the ‘super-year for kickstarting action.’ He presented a whole raft of suggestions for ‘putting people and planet at the heart’ of a sustainable economy and concluded with these words: ‘The only limit is our willingness to act and the time to act is now.’[4]

The message is positive: we can avert disaster. It’s up to us. I’m going to conclude by turning again to the cute cuddly souvenir koala. If we don’t act soon to stop the damage we are doing to the planet, then in the future, assuming that a remnant does survive, all they will have to console them and remind them of the richness and beauty of their blue planet gone grey, will be cuddly toy versions of koala bears and all the other creatures that used to roam and make their home with us. So: let us take note of all the signs around us of ecological emergency and summon all our resources of intelligence, ingenuity, courage, will and hope to act now. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

25th January 2020 – 28th Tevet 5780

  1. March 21-24 2019. I gave the opening keynote: ‘Hinneinu: Here We Are: LGBT+ Jews Celebrating All Our Voices and Repairing the World’. http://www.rabbiellisarah.com/category/lectures/ ↑

  2. https://greentumble.com/causes-and-effects-of-desertification/ ↑

  3. Ditto ↑

  4. BBC News 24 Live broadcast, 22.01.20, 1.40 pm G.M.T ↑

Increase the Light | Shabbat Chanukkah Sermon | 28th December 2019

2019 is drawing to a close. What a year it has been. Surely, climate sceptics have taken note of yet more extreme weather events: raging fires – still raging in Australia; torrential rains – including, in Britain. A 16-year-old prophet, calling out the governments of the world has delivered the verdict loud and clear: Climate change is here and must be the top priority of every nation now if the planet is to recover and have a future. And how did the governments of the world respond to Greta Thunberg’s challenge at the recent UN climate change conference held in Madrid earlier this month?[1]

That’s right: they weren’t listening – for a change …

And then, on the home front: the ongoing Brexit drama – and the verdict delivered by the outcome of the General Election: with an 80-seat majority, the re-elected Conservative government now has the mandate to ‘get Brexit done’.

Whatever you think of the election, however you voted, there can be no doubt about the power of three-word slogans. ‘Take back control’ ensured a majority for Brexit in the referendum of June 2016. ‘Get breakfast done’ achieved the same result for the Conservative party in the General Election. Each three-word slogan – just four syllables apiece. Surely, a very special gift to Dominic Cummings must have been at the top of Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s Christmas presents list.

Yes, if we’ve learnt anything in the past three-and-a-half years, it is that if you’re in the business of trying to persuade people, utilise a three-word slogan and repeat it again and again – and again…

So, as we celebrate the festival of Chanukkah by kindling the flames on the nine-branched Chanukkiyyah night after night, let’s proclaim our own three-word slogan: Increase the light.

Increase the light. That is our task. We can’t leave it to governments. Increase the light: a message to each one of us. A simple message for complex times.

Life was rather complex back then, of course, too. The struggle against the tyrannical regime of the Assyrian-Greek Emperor Antiochus IV, led by the Hasmonean family that became known as the Maccabees,[2] lasted from 167 to 140 BCE; that is, 27 years. Chanukkah celebrates the first major victory, when, in 164 BCE, after a three-year guerrilla campaign, Judah the Maccabee and his brothers – all the sons of Mattathias, the priest of Modi’in – retook the desecrated Temple in Jerusalem, cleansed it, rebuilt the altar of unhewn stones, lit the m’norah, the seven-branched candlestick, and rededicated the sacred space – hence, the name of the festival: Chanukkah, which means ‘dedication’.

According to the first Book of the Maccabees, following the rededication (I Maccabees 4:59):

Judah and his brothers and the entire congregation of Israel decreed that the days of the dedication of the altar should be kept with gladness and joy in due season, year after year, for eight days from the 25th of the month of Kislev.

The two books of the Maccabees – the first presents the most reliable historical record – make no mention of the miracle of the one-days’ supply of Temple oil with the seal of the High Priest that lasted for eight. We all know the story. And that’s what it is – a story, created by the rabbis centuries later, who, dismayed by the way in which Hasmonean family became corrupted by power following the establishment of an independent Judea in 140 BCE, did not wish to glorify them.

The less romantic explanation for the eight-day festival was that the guerrilla fighters had missed the seven-day festival of Sukkot, and Sh’mini Atzeret, the eighth day of ‘conclusion’. As we read in the Second Book of Maccabees (10:6):

They celebrated it for eight days with rejoicing in the manner of the festival of Sukkot, mindful of how but a little while before at the festival of Sukkot they had been wandering about like wild beasts in the mountains and caves.

The contrast between the straightforward reason for an eight-day festival and the miracle tale of a single day’s supply of oil for the Temple m’norah that lasted for eight is astonishing. So, how is it that the miracle tale won the day? After all, unlike the priestly Hasmonean family that came to rule the independent state of Judea, the rabbis did not have any political power. However, they did gain supremacy in one particular arena: the power of the word. The presentation of the miracle tale, included in the Babylonian Talmud, edited around 500 CE,[3] begins with a question: Mah Chanukkah? ‘What is Chanukkah?’ It’s as if the reason for Chanukkah is not already known. What happened to the two books of the Maccabees? Responsible for deciding the Canon of the Hebrew Bible, the rabbis excluded the Books of the Maccabees from the sacred text. And so, the rabbis’ miracle story became the only story; not just, ‘the only story in town’, but, in time, the only story around the Jewish world.

By the way, if you’re interested, you can find the Books of the Maccabees in the Catholic version of the Bible – along with the Book of Judith, with its grisly tale of Judith’s beheading of the Assyrian Greek Captain Holofernes, which was also excluded by the rabbis from the Hebrew Bible.

The rabbis didn’t just succeed in trumping history with a miracle tale. They underlined the message of the miracle with the selection of a passage from the Book of Zechariah, chapter 4 as the haftarah for Shabbat Chanukkah – that is, the reading from the N’vi’im, the books of the ‘prophets’, which follows the Torah reading. And so, in every congregation, including here at BHPS, in every Jewish denomination across the world today, the message of Zechariah will ring out: ‘Not by power, nor by might, but by My spirit says the God of heaven’s hosts.’ (4:6).

These words can’t compete with a very easily remembered and repeated three-word slogan, but they come close. Which brings me back to the present and the message of Chanukkah today. The words of Zechariah proclaim the supreme power of God. But the message we need to take away from the stupendous success of the rabbis’ miracle tale is less about the power of the spirit of God and more about us and the power of our spirits. With our spirits, inspired by the eternal spirit that infuses each and every human being, we can increase the light.

Increase the light. Sounds good – but how do we do it? How do we even start? As Chanukkah approached this year, I thought about the challenges we face in our efforts to increase the light, and identified eight gaping lacerations in what Claudia Gould has called ‘the wounded world’[4]:

1. Poverty and homelessness and the global economic system with its inherent exploitation of the world’s poor

2. Domestic and Sexual abuse and trafficking

3. The mental health crisis – in particular, amongst young people

4. Racism and Xenophobia – and, specifically, Anti-Semitism and Islamophobia

5. Homophobia, biphobia and transphobia

6. The marginalisation and exclusion of people with disabilities

7. The global refugee catastrophe

8. The climate emergency

Yes, I wrote down this list of horrors. I could have added more items – but I was determined to keep to eight – each one a focus for the nightly candle-lighting. But then, of course, I felt totally overwhelmed. What can I do? What can we do in the face of the scale of the task before us? How can we even begin the work of tikkun olam, repair of the world?

And then, my thoughts turned to the nightly candle-lighting. Such a wise and uncomplicated ritual: increase the light, flame by flame. There are enough fires raging, consuming everything in their wake. Chanukkah calls us to increase the light, incrementally, night after night. In the midst of the dark, to kindle a flame. Not a flame that has any practical application. Unlike the Shabbat candles, we are not supposed to make use of the light of the Chanukkah flames. Our task is, simply, to kindle light and proclaim the miracle of the unquenchable spirit. That’s why the ritual includes putting the Chanukkiyyah in the window – where, of course, the reflection doubles the impact.

So, let us take heart and spirit from the nightly flame-kindling ritual of Chanukkah and resolve to ignite flames of Hope through our acts of repair, night after night, day after day. In the words of the Jewish feminist poet Marge Piercy: ‘Every dawn, I choose to take a knife / to the world’s flank or a sewing kit, / rough improvisation, but a start.’[5]

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Shabbat Chanukkah

28th December 2019 – 30th Kislev 5780

  1. https://www.rev.com/blog/greta-thunberg-un-climate-change-conference-speech-transcript ↑

  2. Maccabee means, ‘hammer’. ↑

  3. Tractate Shabbat, page 21b ↑

  4. From her Aleinu poem, 2003, which is included on p. 35b in the first draft Shabbat morning service of Siddur Shirah Chadashah, Liberal Judaism’s new prayer book. ↑

  5. The last verse of Marge Piercy’s poem, ‘The task never completed’. From: The Art of Blessing the Day. Poems on Jewish Themes. Five Leaves Publications, 1998, pp. 82-83. Also included on p. 36a in the first draft Shabbat morning service of Siddur Shirah Chadashah. ↑

The Tree of Life in Our Midst | Brighton Hove Interfaith service

Friends, it’s a pleasure to be here participating, once again, in the annual Interfaith service organised by the Brighton and Hove Interfaith Contact Group. Every time we come together from across the city, my spirit is lifted by the spirit of hope, goodwill and mutual respect that we generate in these gatherings. It is vital that we nurture that spirit within us and between us and share it with others tomorrow and the day after, and the day after that. The Brexit debate has divided this nation for over three years now and the threat of climate change puts all our reserves of hopefulness to the test. Meanwhile, the global refugee crisis demands that we continue to welcome those in need of refuge with open hearts and resist the ugly forces of xenophobia.

During the past year, the Interfaith Contact Group adopted the theme of the Tree of Life as an act of solidarity with the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh USA that was attacked on 27th October 2018 by a gun-wielding ultra-right anti-Semite as congregants were gathering for a Sabbath morning service. His blog posts indicated that he targeted the synagogue because of its support for migrants and refugees. Tragically, it was not the last terrorist assault against a house of worship. On 15th March, the worshippers at two mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand were attacked by another gun-wielding extremist in the midst of Friday prayers, and on Easter Sunday, three churches and four hotels in Colombo, Sri Lanka were targeted in a series of suicide bomb attacks. Of course, there have been many more assaults against synagogues, mosques and churches since – not least, in Halle, in Germany, just over six weeks ago, when an ultra-right extremist attempted to break into the synagogue there on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the most sacred day of the Jewish year.

It is hard in the face of hate-fuelled violence not to give in to despair. But we must not. The tree of life beckons us to join our hands together around its trunk and shelter together beneath its branches. The symbolism of the tree of life reminds us of our connections with one another and our firm roots in the earth that is our home and that we are committed to protecting. The first reference to the tree of life is found in the Torah in the Book of Genesis, in the account of the Garden of Eden: ‘The Eternal God planted a garden eastward, in Eden; and there, God put the human whom God had formed. And out of the ground, the Eternal God caused to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food; and the tree of life in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil’ (Genesis 2:8-9). Specifically, commanded not to eat of ‘the tree of knowledge of good and evil’ (2:17), If we follow the story, which seems to focus on what happens when the first human beings transgress that command (Genesis 3), it’s easy to ignore the powerful symbolism of the tree of life in the midst of the garden. If we become preoccupied with the forces of nihilism and destruction all around us in our world today, we are in danger of ignoring the tree of life in our own midst.

In the Book of Proverbs in the Hebrew Bible, we read that wisdom ‘is a Tree of Life to those who grasp it and all who cling to it find happiness. Its ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace’ (3:18). The liturgy of the Torah reading service which includes this verse when the Torah scroll is returned to the Holy Ark [aron ha-kodesh] identifies ‘wisdom’, hochmah, as Torah, the ‘teaching’ of the Eternal One. Whether one prefers to think in terms of ‘wisdom’ or ‘teaching’ – or, indeed, imagine the tree of life in another way – let us take up the invitation to grasp it with both hands and to plant trees for the sake of the Earth and all the forms of life that inhabit this planet with us; our only home.

I would like to close by singing the verse from Proverbs (3:18) together with the penultimate verse of the Book of Lamentations (5:21), both of which accompany the closure of the Ark doors at the end of the Torah reading service. I will sing the verses more than once, so please follow the words you can see on the screen and join in with me, when you feel comfortable.

Eitz chayyim hi la-machazikim bah, v’tom’cheha m’ushar. D’racheha darchei no’am, v’chol n’tivoteha shalom. Hashivenu, Adonai, eilecha v’nashuvah, chaddeish yameinu k’kedem.

עֵץ חַיִּים הִיא לַמַּחֲזִיקִים בָּהּ. וְתמְכֶיהָ מְאֻשָּׁר:
דְּרָכֶיהָ דַרְכֵי נעַם וְכָל נְתִיבותֶיהָ שָׁלום:[1]
הֲשִׁיבֵנוּ ה’ אֵלֶיךָ וְנָשׁוּבָה. חַדֵּשׁ יָמֵינוּ כְּקֶדֶם:[2]

It is a tree of life for those who grasp it, and all who cling to it find happiness. Its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all of its paths are peace. ​

Return us to you, Eternal One, then we shall return, renew our days as of old.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Interfaith Contact Group Annual Service

Stanford Avenue Methodist Church

24th November 2019

  1. Proverbs 3:18 ↑

  2. Lamentations 5:21 ↑

Collective Action and the Transformation of Gender Relations | Sermon 23rd November 2019

Shabbat seems to be exactly the right time to take a break from Brexit and the forthcoming general election. So, today I would like to explore a different pressing contemporary issue. It also happens to be a very ancient issue, featuring centre-stage in the stories from Genesis that we are reading at the moment: Gender.

On the one hand, in the past fifty years, huge strides have been made in gender equality – in the western and northern regions of the world, and on those west-leaning islands in the south of Australia and New Zealand – not least, in the context of mainstream educational provision, ensuring that girls are free to excel in all areas of the curriculum and so can aspire to become, lawyers, doctors, scientists and engineers. On the other hand, there’s a long list of items that tell a very different story: the stubborn tenacity of a ‘pink for girls, blue for boys’ mentality relentlessly promoted in the retail industry; recent revelations about the persistent gender pay gap; the glass-ceiling for women that hangs over most areas of employment still; domestic abuse; the sexual abuse of children; the ongoing menace of sexual harassment and abuse exposed through the #MeToo movement – highlighted in the past two weeks in relation to the Jeffrey Epstein case; the sex-trafficking of women, girls and boys; the persecution of transgender women. All these ‘facts’ about gender relations, make it clear that patriarchal assumptions and practices still rule the day – and the night. And I’m only talking about what continues to go on in so-called ‘enlightened’, ‘progressive’ societies. 

It’s hard not to feel very depressed – and yet reality is more complex than this list of horrors suggests. Yes, male power still persists, but much has also changed. To be more precise: the circumstances of life for those whom the French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir referred to as the ‘other’ in her ground-breaking book, Le Deuxième Sexe – The Second Sex, first published in 1949,[1] haven’t just ‘changed’; women have taken action to change their lives. More of that in a moment.

This week we are reading the parashah, Torah portion, Chayyei Sarah. The parashah begins with the death of Sarah, but the opening words invite us to think about the life of Sarah. We read at the beginning of Genesis chapter 23: Va-yih’yu chayyei Sarah, mei’ah shanah v’esrim shanah v’sheva shanim; sh’nei chayyei Sarah – ‘The life of Sarah was 127 years; these were the years of the life Sarah.’ What does the Torah tell us about the life of Sarah? The tale of the ancestors of the Jewish people begins at parashat Lech L’cha with Avram – as he was called at that point – responding to the call of the Eternal One and leaving his land, his kindred and his father’s house. We read in Genesis 12 (:5): ‘And Avram took Sarai his wife – as Sarah was called then – and Lot his brother’s son…’ Sarah – and Lot – taken. But Sarah proved to be an actor in her own right. When she was unable to bear a child, Lech L’cha tells us at chapter 16 (:2): “So, Sarai said to Avram: ‘Behold now, the Eternal One has restrained me from bearing; go in, please to my handmaid; perhaps I shall be built up through her.’ And Avram listened to the voice of Sarah.” It wasn’t the last time that Abraham listened to his wife’s voice. When as we read in Genesis chapter 21, Sarah finally conceived and bore her own child, Isaac, threatened by the presence of her husband’s first son, Ishmael, in the household, she told Abraham (21:10): ‘Cast out this slave woman with her son; the son of this slave woman should not be heir with my son, with Isaac.’ Abraham was very upset. But then we read (21:12): “And God said to Abraham: ‘Let it not be grievous in your sight because of the lad and because of your slave woman; in everything that Sarah says to you, listen to her voice; for in Isaac shall seed be called to you.’”

Sarah was an actor; she was not acted upon. Hagar, Sarah’s Egyptian handmaid also took action. When newly pregnant, Sarah treated her harshly, Hagar took flight into the wilderness and then chose to return in the certain knowledge that God had listened to her. We read in chapter 16 (:11): “The messenger of the Eternal One said to her: ‘Behold, you are with child, and shall bear a son; you shall call his name Yishma’el because the Eternal One has heard your affliction.’” Yishma’el means: ‘God shall hear’.

If there was more time, we could explore the story of Rebekah, which begins in this week’s parashah – arguably, an even more important and decisive actor in the narrative of our ancestors than Sarah – and the tales of Leah and Rachel, too. The stories of women as decisive actors continues beyond Genesis. Generations later, Miriam, the elder sister of Aaron and Moses, entirely independent because she was not married, took a pre-eminent role in the Exodus.[2] What we learn from these ancient tales is relevant for our understanding of the complexity of gender relations today. Children, by definition, subject to the absolute power of their parents and the decisions their parents make about their lives, may be victims, but grown women are never simply victims, unless they are, quite literally, imprisoned by the circumstances of their lives.

Each year, when Chayyei Sarah is the parashah of the week, I always think of my mother, who died on the Sunday night following Shabbat Chayyei Sarah on 3rd November 1991 – 27th Cheshvan, according to the Hebrew calendar. This year, 27th Cheshvan falls after sunset on Sunday. My mother, who was beautiful and vibrant and had a wonderful contralto singing voice, who could recite huge chunks of Shakespeare and scores of poems off by heart, and became an actor in the Spiro Yiddish Theatre Group, nevertheless, saw herself as a victim. Despite having a strong speaking voice, she never challenged her husband’s tyrannical behaviours, let alone asserted herself in his presence. Having left school when she was evacuated, aged 17, and not gone back, she had no saleable skills in the marketplace. On top of this, having experienced multiple losses during her childhood and then the loss of her first husband during the Second World War, when she was only 19, she had no sense of her own volition. She did leave her marriage for 18 months when confronted with aspects of her husband’s conduct she had not previously been aware of, and went to work in a women’s clothes shop owned by one of her sisters – but then she went back to him when I went off to university in the autumn of 1973. She simply could not manage on her own. In 1984, my father suffered a severe stroke the day after her 61st birthday that left him paralysed on his right side and unable to speak. Just over six years later my mother died of lung cancer, aged 68. He lived another six and a half years and died on my birthday, aged 83.

My mother was an extraordinary ordinary woman of her time. How many women, who were married after the war and had their children in the 1950s, were able to realise themselves and participate in the world beyond their domestic environment? They were constrained and confined by the social and cultural mores of their time. Perhaps, that’s the greatest change that has taken place in the past 50+ years; women going out to work – and not just for ‘pin money’ – and so, gaining a new perspective on their lives and new ambitions beyond being wives and mothers. Nevertheless, although she saw herself as a victim, my mother did have choices. She chose to go back to her husband. I understand the choice she made and why she made it. But she could have made another choice. It would have been very hard, but she would have been free to walk her own path, however challenging that path might have been.

Of course, the past is the past. But there are lessons to be learned. When we survey the Jewish past, we can find exceptional women who defied patriarchal boundaries – like B’ruria, the wife of 2nd century Sage, Rabbi Meir, whose scholarship was so remarkable, some of her teachings are even recorded in the Talmud, that early 6th century compendium of male rabbinic scholarship.[3] More recently, there was Rabbi Regina Jonas, who was, in her own words, ‘the one and only woman Rabbi’, and was ordained in Germany on 27th December 1935.[4] But being an exception, by definition, means singularity. There were no spiritual descendants of B’ruria, or of Regina Jonas. Subsequent generations of rabbis defamed B’ruria and the refugee German rabbis who survived the Sho’ah never mentioned Regina Jonas, who was murdered in Auschwitz in 1944. It took the first generation of women rabbis, ordained in the 1970s and 80s to ‘discover’ these exceptional women.

It is when we think of these exceptional singular women alongside the millions of isolated ordinary women like my mother that we can see that there has been a massive transformation in gender relations – brought about by collective action. From the strike of women workers at Ford Dagenham in 1968 that led directly to the 1970 Equal Pay Act[5] to the development of the Women’s Liberation and Gay Liberation movements in the 1970s that established communities of activism that led to significant changes in the lives of women and LGBT people, and in the law in this country – including, the 1975 Sex Discrimination Act[6], equalisation of the age of consent in 2000[7], the Gender Recognition Act in 2004,[8] the Civil Partnership Act which came into force in 2005[9] and the Marriage Equality (Same Sex) Act of 2013[10].

The changes we have seen in the past five decades haven’t just been apparent in the wider society, they’ve also been evident in the Jewish world. In 1991, women rabbis in Britain – there were only 15 of us at the time – set up the Half-Empty Bookcase, a Jewish women’s educational project aimed at increasing the knowledge, confidence and participation of women in congregational life and and promoting Jewish women’s scholarship. Similar initiatives were already taking place at the time United States. Back then, the bookcase of Jewish life was half empty because save for a few exceptional books[11], 99% of Jewish literature was written by men. Today the bookcase is crammed full of Jewish women’s scholarship. In addition to two books produced by British women rabbis – Hear Our Voice edited by Sybil Sheridan[12] and Taking up the Timbrel edited by Sylvia Rothschild and Sybil Sheridan[13] – and my own modest contribution, which includes Women Rabbis in the Pulpit. A collection of sermons, edited with Rabbi Dr Barbara Borts,[14] there are works by scores of Jewish women rabbis and scholars. One of the most immediate ways to appreciate the scale, breadth and depth of Jewish women’s scholarship today is to pick up The Torah. A Women’s Commentary, edited by Dr Tamara Eskenazi and Rabbi Dr Andrea L. Weiss, which runs to 1350 pages. All the books I’ve just mentioned can be found in the synagogue library.[15]

So, how do we make sense of the changes we have seen in gender relations, both, within Jewish life and in the wider society, alongside all the examples I mentioned earlier of the persistence of male power and the oppression of women and girls? Perhaps, all we can say is that change takes a long time to be embedded in the hearts and minds and reflexes of people – especially, when many men still have a vested interest in the patriarchal status quo. I think there has to be a complex interaction between individuals taking responsibility for their own lives and engaging with others to participate in collective transformation. Perhaps, if my mother had known at least one other woman, who had left her oppressive marriage and taken action to change her life, they could have supported one another along the way to independence. I remember moving into a bedsit in 1980, in a house owned by a Jewish woman in her 60s, who would only have women as tenants. When she interviewed me for the room, she told me a little bit about her life, including the fact that she had left her husband a few years earlier and gone to live in a bedsit herself. I remember thinking: I should introduce you to my Mum – but I didn’t do it. Perhaps, if I had, it would have made all the difference…

One of the most positive developments of the past few years has been the challenge to the gender binary that underlies the institutionalisation of male power. Perhaps, if, regardless of their biological gender, young people could simply be themselves on their own terms, wearing what they like, expressing themselves in their own ways, exploring their interests without being channelled in one direction or another by the gender-bind, being female or male would not carry with it the same burden of assumptions and expectations. As I mentioned in my Rosh Ha-Shanah morning sermon, I’m proud that the Council of the synagogue endorsed the decision taken by the education committee at the beginning of last year to offer our young people the non-gendered option of B’ Mitzvah alongside Bat Mitzvah and Bar Mitzvah. May this congregation always be a beacon of equality and inclusion, celebrating all the different individuals, couples and families who choose to find a home amongst us. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

23rd November 2019 – 25th Cheshvan 5780

  1. The Second Sex was first published in English by Jonathan Cape in 1953, and subsequently, by Penguin Books in 1972. ↑

  2. See chapter 2 of my book, Trouble-Making Judaism (David Paul Books, 2012): Why Miriam Spoke Against Moses: An untold Story. ↑

  3. See chapter 3 of Trouble-Making Judaism: B’ruria: A Suitable Case for Mistreatment. ↑

  4. See chapter 4 of Trouble-Making Judaism: Fräulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas and the Mysterious Disappearance of the First Woman Rabbi ↑

  5. https://tuc150.tuc.org.uk/stories/dagenham-womens-strike/ ↑

  6. https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1975/65/enacted ↑

  7. https://edm.parliament.uk/early-day-motion/17270 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/1047291.stm ↑

  8. http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/2004/7/crossheading/applications-for-gender-recognition-certificate ↑

  9. https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/2004/33/contents ↑

  10. https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/2013/30/contents/enacted/data.htm ↑

  11. The first two books to make a mark were: On Women and Judaism by Blu Greenburg (JPSA, 1981) and On Being a Jewish Feminist edited by Susanna Heschel (Schocken Books, 1983) ↑

  12. SCM Press, 1994. ↑

  13. SCM press, 2000. ↑

  14. Kulmus Publications, 2015. ↑

  15. Published by Women of Reform Judaism and the Union of Reform Judaism Press in New York in 2008. ↑

JEWISH TEACHING ON OUR RESPONSIBILITY AS HUMANS FOR THE ENVIRONMENT

Friends, thank you for inviting me here this evening on the occasion of your AGM, which is taking place during Interfaith Week. It’s a pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you.

There are so many urgent issues to address. In the immediate future, Brexit still unresolved, we face a General Election in four weeks’ time. Meanwhile, the global refugee crisis continues, many countries around the world are in turmoil, and as winter approaches, we are reminded that homelessness remains a critical problem in Britain. But as forests burn out of control in California and New South Wales, and homes and fields are filled with floodwater in South Yorkshire and the East Midlands, we are all aware that we face an even greater and more urgent matter: the threat of environmental catastrophe. And so, I’ve chosen to speak this evening about Jewish teaching on the environment with the understanding that people and peoples of all faiths and none are challenged to participate in the great task of repairing the world and preventing irreversible climate change.

I would like to begin by reading you a poem by the contemporary Jewish poet, Danny Siegel:[1]

Along with the endangered owls

And the snow leopards at risk of extinction

And the dying colours of so many species of butterfly,

Add this: the gold-winged human soul.

We have forgotten who we are.

We have become estranged from the movements of the earth.

We have turned our backs on the cycles of life.

We have sought only our own security.

We have exploited simply for our own ends.

We have distorted our knowledge.

We have abused our power.

Now the land is barren

And the waters are poisoned

And the air is polluted.

Now forests are dying

And the creatures are disappearing

And humans are despairing.

We ask forgiveness.

We ask for the gift of remembering.

We ask for the strength to change.

Danny Siegel’s poem paints a disturbing picture that I’m sure we all recognise. We know that human beings are responsible for the state the planet is in – and we also know that we are also responsible for doing something about it. The Jewish approach to this responsibility begins with the Hebrew Bible – which is also part of the Christian Scriptures – where we encounter a contradictory double-message about what it is to be human. On the one hand, there is the six-day hierarchical account in Genesis chapter 1, with humanity at the pinnacle of creation, empowered to dominate all the other creatures of the earth. On the other hand, in the second creation story, absolute mastery gives way to stewardship and guardianship.

So, we read in Genesis chapter 1, verses 26-28:

God said, ‘Let us make a human [adam] in Our image, after Our likeness, and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and the birds of the sky, and over the animals, and over all that creeps upon the earth.’ / So, God created the human [ha-adam] in the Divine image, creating them in the image of God [b’tzelem Elohim], creating them male and female. / God blessed them and said to them: ‘Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea and the birds of the sky, and over every animal that creeps on the earth.’

And then in Genesis chapter 2, verses 7 and 15:

The Eternal God formed the human [ha-adam] – dust from the ground [‘afar min-ha-adamah] – and breathed into its nostrils the breath of life [nishmat chayyim], so the human became a living being [nefesh chayyah] / ………. The Eternal God took the human [ha-adam], placing (the human) in the garden of Eden to serve it and to keep it [l’ovdah u’l’shomrah].’

The evidence of the extent to which human beings assume we have a licence to dominate is everywhere – and it threatens the future of the planet. So, Jews and Christians, in particular, who have inherited theses sacred texts, have a duty to promote the alternative version of human beings as guardians, responsible for serving and keeping the earth – that is, for maintaining, guarding and protecting it.

Interestingly, rabbinic teachings – which were first developed in the centuries that followed the destruction of the last Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 CE – also express the understanding that human beings have been tasked by God with a special role as guardians of the earth.[2] In his commentary on Psalm 115, verse 6 – ‘The heavens belong to the Eternal One, but God has given the earth to humankind’ – the 12th century mediaeval Spanish biblical commentator, Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, wrote:[3]

This means that we are like God’s stewards on earth, charged to exercise responsibility in God’s name for all that exists.

So, what happens if we don’t undertake this responsibility? In a 6th to 8th century collection of midrashim – rabbinic commentary – we find this sobering passage:[4]

After creating the first human, the Holy One Who is Blessed, took them round all the trees of the garden, and said to them: ‘See how lovely and excellent My works are; I have created them all for you. Take care not to spoil and destroy My world, for if you spoil it there will be no one to repair it after you.’

In Jewish teaching, the planting of trees represents a key way in which human beings can exercise their responsibility as guardians of the earth. We read in a 3rd century collection of rabbinic wisdom:[5]

If you hold a sapling, ready for planting, in your hand, and they tell you, ‘The Messiah has come!’, Go ahead and plant the sapling, and then go to greet the Messiah.

For the early rabbis, the coming of the Messiah would herald in the future time of peace. This teaching makes it clear that, ultimately, the responsibility for creating the future lies in our hands here and now. A story in a 5th to 7th century collection of midrashim (rabbinic commentary), underlines the imperative of tree-planting for the sake of tomorrow:[6]

Once, when the Roman Emperor Hadrian was walking along one of the paths that lead to Tiberius, he saw an old man digging trenches to plant saplings of fig trees. ‘How old are you?’ The Emperor asked him, and he answered; ‘A hundred years.’ ‘You are a hundred years old’, said Hadrian, ‘yet you are digging trenches to plant saplings of fig trees! Do you ever hope to eat of them?’ Then the old man replied: ‘If I’m worthy I shall eat; but even if not – as my ancestors worked for my benefit, so I will work for the benefit of my children.

The importance of tree-planting for the early rabbis is also reflected in halakhah, Jewish law. The very first paragraph of the tractate Rosh Ha-Shanah in the Mishnah[7] – the first rabbinic code of law, edited around the year 200 CE – mentions the New Year for Trees (Rosh Ha-Shanah L’Ilanot) on Tu Bishvat (the 15th of the Hebrew month of Sh’vat), which falls in the late winter – that is, any time between mid-January and the second week of February .[8]

The New Year for Trees is not just a date for acknowledging the life of trees. Every year, on Tu Bishvat, trees are planted in Jewish communities around the world – not least, in Israel. Of course, the experience of planting trees in Britain in late winter is rather different from the experience of planting trees in the land on the eastern seaboard of Mediterranean. I’ve had experience of both. I can recall winters in this country, when we’ve had to boil kettles to unfreeze the ground in order to plant a tree. I can also recall being on a kibbutz in the Western Galilee in 1979, where we planted trees on Tu Bishvat in glorious warm sunshine.

So, Jewish teaching, both biblical and rabbinic, is very clear about our responsibility to care for the world, and we even have a special annual tree-planting festival. There can be no doubt: We must plant trees! A couple of months ago, one of my God-Sons, Elliot Cohen-Gold, contacted me, asking me to support a new project he had initiated with his older brother, Aaron, to plant one million trees by Tu Bishvat, which will coincide this Jewish year with 9th February 2020.[9]

Alongside positive action like tree-planting, rabbinic teaching also includes the principle bal tashchit, which is Aramaic for ‘do not destroy or waste’, and developed from a Biblical prohibition found in Deuteronomy chapter 20 (:19) against cutting down fruit-bearing trees during war-time.

The rabbinic sages expanded the prohibition bal tashchit to include the careless destruction of trees at any time and all unnecessary destruction or waste. And so, we read in the Talmud – the compendium of rabbinic teaching edited around the year 500 in Babylonia, which includes, both, the Mishnah and the commentary on the Mishnah by later generations of rabbis (Kiddushin 32a):[10]

Whoever breaks vessels, or tears garments, or destroys a building, or clogs, or a well, or does away with food in a destructive manner violates the negative mitzvah (commandment) – of bal tashchit (do not waste or destroy).

The Talmud contains a number of stories and rules that relate to the prohibition of bal tashchit.[11] In one, it is related concerning a sage called Rav Chisda (Bava Kama 91b), that whenever he had to walk between thorns and thistles, he would lift up his garment and rip his skin rather than his clothing, since nature would cure his skin but not his clothes. This might seem to us an extreme response on the part of an individual determined to avoid damage to their clothing. But in the more sober context of the custom of k’ri’ah, tearing an item of clothing in mourning, the principle of bal tashchit is also applied. The Talmud teaches (Bava Kama 91b) that tearing silk garments when performing k’ri’ah violates the prohibition unless the tear is in the seam.

The prohibition of bal tashchit also extends to taking care to ensure energy efficiency. It is recorded in the Talmud (Shabbat 67b) that a sage called Mar Zutra taught that whoever covers an oil lamp or who uncovers a paraffin lamp transgresses bal tashchit since these acts cause the lamp to burn too quickly – and hence, waste energy.

Clearly, the principle of bal tashchit is very relevant to the contemporary challenge of preventing irreversible climate change. In January 2018, inspired by the development of Eco Church, a Christian response to the task of taking responsibility for caring for the planet, Eco Synagogue was launched with the aim of changing the relationship of synagogues with the environment.[12] I’m delighted to say that at the festival of Shavuot, ‘Weeks’, on June 8th/9th, with our all-night programme on ‘climate change and our responsibility to repair the world’, my congregation, Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, began the process of becoming an Eco Synagogue.

Eco Churches and Eco Synagogues – and Eco Mosques and Temples – have an important role to play in efforts to combat climate change. Jews and Christians and members of other faith groups are also participating in a global initiative that has the potential to transform how we live on this planet and how we connect with one another by generating a ‘sharing economy’ as an alternative to an economic system rooted in excessive consumption and waste. As it happens one of the members of my congregation, Benita Matofska, is a major champion of the sharing economy and for the past couple of years, she has travelled all over the world meeting with people engaged in sharing projects. What Benita discovered is recorded in her wonderful book of testimonies and photographs, entirely made from recyclable materials, Generation Share.[13] Importantly, the proceeds of the sales of the book are going to fund an amazing sharing project in a slum in Mumbai, India, where a young teenage ‘sharer’ has started a school for girls in her one-room home. A sharing economy is exactly that. Clothes can be shared – we hosted our first clothes-sharing event at the synagogue in the past year. Cars can be shared – a way of dramatically reducing the number of cars on the road and their toxic emissions. Just think of all those electrical items that you only use once or twice a week – hoovers, lawnmowers – they can all be shared between neighbours. And then, imagine what a difference sharing rather than, consuming and discarding could make to the planet.

Jewish teaching on the environment begins and ends with our unique responsibility as human beings amongst all God’s creatures for serving and guarding the Earth, which is our only home. Ultimately, Jewish teaching conveys a message of hope. We have done so much damage to the world in our drive to dominate and control, but we have the capacity to repair that damage. And now, the need to engage in the work of repair has become urgent. We all know this. I’m sure we would all say with Danny Siegel in the closing anguished words of his poem: ‘We ask forgiveness. / We ask for the gift of remembering. / We ask for the strength to change’. May we all rise to the challenge.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Crawley Interfaith Network AGM, 13th November 2019

  1. Danny Siegel, A Hearing Heart, Town House Press, 1992, p. 54 (included in Siddur Lev Chadash, the Sabbath, Festival and Daily Prayer Book of Liberal Judaism, 1995, p. 168). ↑

  2. The following four texts I quote here are included in the themed sections on ‘Conservation’ and ‘Tu Bishvat’ in Siddur Lev Chadash, Liberal Judaism, 1995, pp. 165-168 and pp. 402-405. ↑

  3. Abraham Ibn Ezra (1089-1164, Spain). ↑

  4. Kohelet Rabbah 7:13. Commentary on the Book of Ecclesiastes. ↑

  5. Avot d’Rabbi Natan version B, chapter 31 (3rd century CE). This text is similar to Pirkei Avot, the ‘Chapters of the Sages’ appended to the Mishnah (3rd century CE). ↑

  6. Va-yikra Rabbah 25:5. Commentary on the book of Leviticus. ↑

  7. Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:1 (3rd century CE). ↑

  8. The passage references a debate between the Schools of Shammai and Hillel about the actual date of the New Year for Trees. According to the School of Shammai, it should it be the 1st of Sh’vat. The School of Hillel preferred the 15th. As with many debates recorded in the Mishnah, the ruling of Hillel prevailed – hence: Tu Bishvat; the 15th day of the month of Sh’vat. The other ‘New Years’ mentioned include the new year for the festivals commencing with the first month of the Jewish year, Nisan in the spring, and the New Year for years on the first day of Tishri in the autumn. ↑

  9. Remember to use Ecosia, the search engine that plants trees, when searching on the Internet.

    https://www.classy.org/team/250434 ↑

  10. There are two editions of the Talmud. The earlier and shorter one known as the ‘Jerusalem Talmud’ was completed under Roman occupation around the year 400 CE. The longer one that runs to 70 volumes is known as the ‘Babylonian Talmud’ and was completed in Babylonia (present-day Iraq) around 500 CE. All references to ‘the Talmud’ are to the Babylonian version, unless otherwise stated. References refer to the tractate and page. Each page has an ‘a’ side and a ‘b’ side – hence: Kiddushin 32a. ↑

  11. The teachings I’m referring to here are included in an article on bal tashchit in http://www.reformjudaism.org.uk/bal-tashchit/ ↑

  12. https://ecosynagogue.org/ ↑

  13. https://www.thepeoplewhoshare.com/generation-share

    Generation Share. The changemakers building the Sharing Economy by Benita Matofska, with photographs by Sophie Sheinwald. Policy Press, University of Bristol and University of Chicago Press, 2019. ↑

B’REISHIT – ‘IN BEGINNING’

Today, we begin reading the Torah – again – and so, usher in an annual cycle that we return to year after year. How can we be beginning now? Surely, life renews itself in the spring, not in the autumn? The autumn is a season of dying – in glorious shades and hues. Nevertheless, for Jews, the autumn is all about beginnings – from harat olam, the ‘birthday of the world’ on Rosh Ha-Shanah through our t’shuvah journeys urging us to ‘return’ to the true path of our lives and make a new beginning after the gates close on Yom Kippur. And then, the building of the sukkah, a make-shift hut, too flimsy to shelter us from the storms of life, reminding us that everything we build and create is like that: fragile and impermanent. Finally, we complete the cycle of Torah readings on Simchat Torah and begin again with B’reishit – Genesis.

So, here we are this Shabbat morning, preparing to read from the first parashah, the Torah portion, B’reishit. The first Creation story with which the Torah opens in Genesis chapter 1 is magnificent and majestic. Out of ‘formlessness and void’– tohu va-vohu – God summons Life, the world into existence; all its material elements; everything with the capacity of growth within it – from blades of grass and creeping swarms through creatures of the waters and the sky and the earth – including us: humanity. Save for the curious anomaly of the description of the creation of the Sun, Moon and stars on the ‘fourth day’, and the absence of our ape forbears, a Darwinian evolutionist with a penchant for poetry could not have said it better.

Of course, we may be returning to the tales of beginnings related in the Torah, but we know that we are not really beginning again. We are simply continuing with our lives, interrupted as they were for some remarkable moments during the sacred days that mark autumn each year. But let’s imagine for the sake of entering into the spirit of B’reishit, the first portion of the first Book of the Torah, which is all about beginnings, that the New Year is really a new year. Interestingly, the word for ‘year’ in Hebrew, shanah, is based on the root – Shin Nun Hei – that means, both, to ‘change’ and to ‘repeat’. It makes sense: the year goes around and around, the cycle is repeated, and yet, each New Year is a new year. The same can be said for the days of our lives: a new day is a new day. And so, even if very little seems to be changing in our lives from day-to-day, as we awake each morning to a new day, we have the opportunity of making a mini new beginning in the midst of our lives.

But how do we do this? It’s extremely hard. After all, for the most part, each day is spent dealing with so much that we feel we cannot change – on the domestic front, in our working lives. And as we grow older, the energy required to begin afresh is hampered and constrained by health issues that can make the effort involved just too overwhelming. And yet. One of the problems we face in trying to make mini new beginnings is that we tend to focus exclusively on the macro-level. When we become preoccupied with the enormity of everything around us and the massive issues that dominate our lives – Brexit, climate change, the global refugee crisis – we are likely to fail to notice refreshing signs of life on the micro-level – like the birds chirping with joy after the rain. And yet, even when we feel weighed down with our concerns about the world and our anxieties about ourselves and our loved ones, each new day promises micro-moments with the potential to lift our spirits and delight our senses – like the refreshing feel of water on our faces washing away sleep.

Most people could quote in English the first words of Torah, the opening words of Genesis chapter 1: ‘In the beginning’. Actually, the Hebrew doesn’t say that. The Hebrew is B’reishit – ‘In beginning’ not Ba-reishit ‘In the beginning’. There is no definite article: B’reishit bara Elohim eit ha-shamayim v’eit ha-aretz – ‘In beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth’. The ‘big bang’ aside, there is no time ‘back then’ we can designate as ‘the beginning’. Beginning is a process not a time. As we read in the Yotzeir blessing in the daily morning service: The Eternal One ‘renews the work of beginning continually every day’ – m’chaddeish b’chol yom tamid ma’aseih v’reishit.[1] And so, it is with us. At any moment, at every moment, we have the possibility of engaging in beginning, and of crafting our lives anew out of our 21st-century version of tohu va-vohu, ‘formlessness and void’; the brokenness and chaos all around us.

I have a poem pinned to the noticeboard in my study at home. It’s by Marge Piercy and is called Nishmat,[2] after the prayer that is part of the morning service: Nishmat kol-chai t’vareich et shimcha, Adonai, Eloheinu – ‘The breath of all Life shall bless Your name, Eternal One our God.’[3] It’s quite a long poem, but I want to quote it in full – and will end with it – because it has so much to teach us about the challenge of rising to embrace every new day – and also because, as we resume the Torah reading cycle with tales of beginnings, it may inspire us to find ways to navigate the micro- and macro-worlds we inhabit, and strive to renew our lives day by day.

Nishmat by Marge Piercy

When the night slides under with the last dimming star

and the red sky lightens between the trees,

and the heron glides tipping heavy wings in the river,

when crows stir and cry out their harsh joy,

and swift creatures of the night run towards their burrows,

and the deer raises her head and sniffs the freshening air,

and the shadows grow more distinct and then shorten,

then we rise into the day still clean as new snow.

The cat washes its paw and greets the day with gratitude.

Leviathan salutes breaching with a column of steam.

The hawk turning in the sky cries out a prayer like a knife.

We must wonder at the sky now thin as a speckled eggshell,

that now piles up its boulders of storm to crash down,

that now hangs a furry grey belly into the street.

Every day we find a new sky and a new earth

with which we are trusted like a perfect toy.

We are given the salty river of our blood

winding through us, to remember the sea and our

kindred under the waves, the hot pulsing that knocks

in our throats to consider our cousins in the grass

and the trees, all bright scattered rivulets of life.

We are given the wind within us, the breath

To shape into words that steal time, that touch

like hands and pierce like bullets, that waken

truth and deceit, sorrow and pity and joy,

that waste precious air in complaints, in lies,

in floating traps for power on the dirty air.

Yet holy breath still stretches our lungs to sing.

We are given the body, that momentary kibbutz

of elements that belong to frog and polar

bear, corn and oak tree, volcano and glacier.

We are lent for a time these minerals in water

and a morning every day, a morning to wake up,

rejoice and praise life in our spines, our throats,

our knees, our genitals, our brains, our tongues.

We are given fire to see against the dark,

to think, to read, to study how we are to live,

to bank in ourselves against defeat and despair

that cool and muddy our resolves, that make us forget

what we saw we must do. We are given passion

to rise like the sun in our minds with the new day

and burn the debris of habit and greed and fear.

We stand in the midst of the burning world

primed to burn with compassionate love and justice,

to turn inward and find holy fire at the core,

to turn outward and see the world that is all

of one flesh with us, see under the trash, through

the smog, the furry bee in the apple blossom,

the trout leaping, the candles our ancestors lit for us.

Fill us as the tide rustles into the reeds in the marsh.

Fill us as the rushing water overflows the pitcher.

Fill us as light fills a room with its dancing.

Let the little quarrels of the bones and the snarling

of the lesser appetites and the whining of the ego cease.

Let silence still us so you may show us your shining

and we can out of that stillness rise and praise.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

26th October 2019 – 27th Tishri 5780

  1. The Yotzeir (‘Creator) – known by the first word of the blessing that differentiates it from other blessings – is the first of two blessings that precede the Sh’ma in the morning service. According to the notes in Siddur Lev Chadash, (Liberal Judaism, 1995, p. 666), the sources of the blessing are found in the Mishnah: B’rachot 1:4 and in the Babylonian Talmud (c. 500 CE), tractates B’rachot 11a-b, 12a and Chagigah 12b. The first liturgical version of the prayer is found in Seder Rav Amram, I, 20 (by Amram ben Sheshai, c. 860 CE, Babylonia. Ed. Daniel Goldschmidt, 1971). ↑

  2. The Art of Blessing the Day. Poems on Jewish Themes by Marge Piercy. Five Leaves Publishing, 1998, pp. 115-117 ↑

  3. According to the notes in Siddur Lev Chadash, (Liberal Judaism, 1995, p.670), the sources of Nishmat are found in the Babylonian Talmud, tractates B’rachot 59b, P’sachim 118a and Ta’anit 6b – inspired by biblical verses found in Psalms 35:10 and 103:1. The first liturgical version of the prayer is found in Seder Rav Amram, II, 21. ↑

Sukkot Prayer

SUKKOT PRAYER 5780

Sh’chinah M’kor Chayyeinu, Divine Presence Source of our lives, You have accompanied us on all our journeys ‘from Egypt until now’. As we celebrate Sukkot, we pray that the fragile sukkah recalling our ancestors’ forty-year sojourn in the wilderness, may remind us of our obligation to support the poor and the destitute, the homeless and the oppressed, and to assist those experiencing persecution and violence, hardship and humiliation across the globe. In particular at this time, we think of the Kurds in northern Syria.

Pause to reflect

As we gather in the sukkah open to the elements, may our exposure to the wind and rain also turn our thoughts to those peoples living in regions of the world that are suffering the devastating impact of climate change. This Sukkot, our hearts go out to the people of Grenada, whose nutmeg farms are being destroyed by hurricanes and flooding.

Pause to reflect

Ru’ach Olamim, Spirit of the Universe, You invite us to acknowledge the Earth around us and Eternity beyond us. As we wave the lulav in all directions, we ask You to strengthen our courage and resolve so that we may reach out to peoples in distress, extend our care to the planet and all that lives on it, and commit ourselves to the sacred task of tikkun olam, repair of the world.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Yom Kippur Shacharit 5780 – Belonging & Connecting, Sharing & Repairing

Hinneinu – Here we are on Yom Kippur morning. Although several hours of praying, reflecting and fasting lie ahead, in fact, the aseret y’mei t’shuvah, the ‘ten days of returning’ are drawing to a close. After sunset, the New Year begins in earnest, and we will turn from looking back to moving forwards. In the meantime, here we are, with one another, with ourselves – and with our personal thoughts, concerns, regrets and memories. Memory is a funny thing. Perhaps, everything is stored somewhere in our amazingly complex brains, but if my experience is anything to go by, we only remember a tiny fraction – and then recall the same memories again and again. Whatever the memory – painful, joyful, miserable, humorous – each one a trophy of our past kept alive within us because for reasons we don’t always understand, it continues to resonate in the present.

One of my most powerful memories goes back to 1984. As a first-year rabbinic student who had worked as an editor, I was asked to be one of the proof-readers of the English of the Days of Awe prayerbook of Reform Judaism, which was published the following year.[1] My memory centres on the first passage in a section of responsive readings in the Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah service that quotes from the 19th century German Rabbi, Samson Raphael Hirsch, the intellectual founder of modern Orthodoxy:[2]

What calls us here tonight, out of the daily routine of our lives?

The sound of the shofar … calls us all to God. It calls poor and rich to true riches; it calls the most distant wanderer home.

I didn’t feel called to God and the phrase about calling ‘poor and rich to true riches’ didn’t speak to me. But that last phrase was like an arrow going straight into my heart: I was a ‘most distant wanderer’. And I hadn’t only been a ‘distant wanderer’, I had wandered all over the place: antiracist and, specifically, anti-apartheid activism alongside involvement in the International Marxist Group while a sociology student at LSE, and then radical feminist activism and lesbian separatism in the late 1970s and early 1980s. When I arrived at Leo Baeck College in 1984, longing to belong, I hoped that at last I had found a home, where all of who I was could reside and thrive.

Over the course of my rabbinate, since my ordination in 1989, I’ve had one-to-one meetings with dozens of individuals longing to belong. Each individual, with their own story, their own journey, but ultimately, with a single goal: to find a home for themselves. It’s a simple need that we all share. I’m proud that Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue has become home to so many different people. We have succeeded in creating an oasis of inclusivity, equality and diversity, reflected in the different religious, cultural and social backgrounds, genders, sexualities and life situations of our members and friends.

What we have achieved here at BHPS is very special. It’s not easy to hold those values together in one home. For many people, the need for safety and refuge that home offers, makes it impossible for them to embrace others. The emphasis on the need for a home, of a place to belong to, of a people to belong to, stirs up feelings of wariness, suspicion, and even hatred of ‘outsiders’ – of those who look different or sound different, eat different foods, pray and worship in different ways, live and love differently. We have seen this in the Brexit debate since the Referendum campaign of 2016. The human need for belonging becomes dangerous when it becomes tribal, inducing a binary ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality.

In his fortnightly ‘Light on anti-Muslim Prejudice’ Hope Not Hate[3] email of 6th September, Safya Khan-Ruf examines ‘the Identarian Movement’ put under the spotlight in Hope Not Hate’s report, From Banners to Bullets. The term ‘identitarianism’ is based on the word ‘identity’. Identitarians want to enforce strict mono-identity codes. Safya Khan-Ruf writes: ‘Identitarianism is an ideology that seeks to breed hatred and spread division. This ideology had inspired its followers to pick up firearms and travel to a mosque in Christchurch, a synagogue in Poway and Walmart in El Paso to carry out acts of terrorism.’ The email goes on to reference the Christchurch killer’s ‘manifesto’, entitled, ‘The Great Replacement’, which expresses ‘the central idea perpetuated by Identitarians’. ‘The Great Replacement’ danger is that white Christians are being replaced by Blacks and ethnic minorities – the ‘replacement’ a massive conspiracy, orchestrated, of course, by ‘the Jews’. The blog put out by the right-wing extremist who rampaged into the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh on Shabbat morning on 27th October 2018 killing eleven people and injuring seven, made it clear that he was targeting the synagogue because of its support for migrants and refugees.[4] The Identitarians want ‘ethnic autonomy’ in the context of what they call ‘ethno-pluralism’ as an antidote to the multicultural society. What they really want is white supremacy – again.

Of course, there is a huge difference between most people’s desire to find a home and this kind of xenophobic extremism. Nevertheless, unless our need for belonging, for a home, a refuge, is also linked with a sense of solidarity with others and a desire to connect with others, our emphasis on ‘our home’ – whether understood as ‘sovereign England’ or ‘sovereign Britain’ or on a smaller scale, as ‘our’ city, ‘our’ town, ‘our’ village, ‘our’ synagogue, church or mosque, ‘our own’ ‘bricks and mortar’ with the drawbridge drawn up – becomes self-serving and by definition, exclusive.

As a distant wanderer, who eventually found a home in Jewish life, but only after struggling hard for LGBT equality and inclusion for twenty years after I first became a rabbinic student, for me, Judaism can only be my home – and the synagogue can only be my home – if the doors are open to others, who are welcomed to come in and make it their home, too. Most of us want to ‘belong’ and feel at home. A sense of belonging is integral to many people’s sense of well-being. But for belonging not to become exclusive, we need to cultivate a sense of solidarity with others that involves connecting with others outside our home and inviting them in.

In the past three years the power of this kind of solidarity has been very evident in the monthly Interfaith prayer hour organised under the auspices of the Brighton and Hove Interfaith Contact Group.[5] Initially established as a way of enabling people to connect together and express a sense of solidarity in response to a spate of devastating terrorist atrocities, the monthly Interfaith Prayer Hour has continued, and after being hosted at Hove Methodist Church for two years, and then the Baha’i Centre last year, just this past month, it was inaugurated here at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue.

For the uninitiated, perhaps, the word ‘Interfaith’ is perplexing. Evidently, people attend of all religions and none, so what do we do? How do we connect, given the differences between us? The answer is very simple. People are free to remain silent, or to offer a prayer or a poem or a reading or a song – and whether reminding silent or speaking, to light a candle. There are no words adequate to describe the feeling of solidarity generated. Rather than differences being obliterated, everyone is free to express themselves in their own way – and together a home for mutual respect is created.

Of course, it is relatively easy to foster solidarity in the context of a sense of the external threat of extremism. Since 2016, apart from the ongoing Brexit debacle, there has also been a continuing problem with anti-Semitism in the Labour Party – experienced by Jewish members of the Labour Party, including Jewish MPs. The rise of the Momentum movement has brought in young people to the Labour Party inspired by the renewal of the Labour Party’s socialist vision. It has also re-activated far-left elements within the Labour Party that have not had a voice since Neil Kinnock defeated Militant tendency in the early 1980s[6] – which in turn has led far-left activists from ultraleft groups to join the Labour Party. So: a perfect storm for the propagation of the particular left-wing version of anti-Semitism that is expressed in the characterisation of Israel as a ‘colonialist state’[7] and a complete disregard for the way in which political Zionism emerged in Europe in the late 19th century in response to a new form of virulent racist anti-Semitism.[8] From the perspective of the father of political Zionism, Theodore Herzl, since Jews were not safe in Europe, the Jewish people needed to have our own home.[9]

How should Jews respond to anti-Semitism in the Labour Party? One response is retreat – retreat into the refuge of a like-minded Jewish community. But the problem is, we’re not all like-minded. And Jews with progressive values that include reaching out to others, can’t find a home in a Jewish community that does not share those values. Solidarity rooted in reaction is negative and likely to foster negative feelings – fear, suspicion – that are not conducive to connecting with other communities.

So, how might we respond positively? What we need is solidarity rooted in positive affirmation of our lives and values as Jews that supports our efforts to reach out to others. Of course, anti-Semitism in the Labour Party and anti-Semitism on the right must be confronted. At the same time, we need to save some energy to connect with others and to focus on issues that demand the concerted action of all communities – not least the threat of climate change. As individuals and as families, there is much we can do to reduce our carbon footprint, cut out single use plastics, and so on. But we also need to work together as a community and across communities.

In January 2018, a new cross-communal Jewish initiative was launched to enable this to happen: Eco Synagogue. Eco Synagogue aims to change the relationship of our synagogues with the environment. To quote from the website:[10] ‘It operates through an online survey aimed at synagogues which assesses broad domains of activity – how we use our buildings and any land we own or care for; how we eat and consume; how we use the opportunities of the liturgical year; how we teach and preach; and how we change the behaviours of our congregations … [through] community action, supported and encouraged by rabbis and lay leaders and put into practice by green teams of motivated members’.

I’m delighted to say that at the festival of Shavuot on June 8th/9th, with our all-night programme on ‘climate change and our responsibility to repair the world’, BHPS began the process of becoming an Eco Synagogue. Since then, a ‘green team’ of synagogue members has got to work. Just as exciting, at their first session, the new Kabbalat Torah class of 13 to 15-year-olds, discussing what they would like to focus on this year, said that they wanted to make ‘being an Eco Synagogue’ a regular weekly item in their sessions. At their second session, they decided that they wanted to create a newsletter and take on the task of monitoring the steps taken by the synagogue towards becoming a fully-fledged Eco Synagogue.

Clearly, we have an important task ahead as a congregation. Another initiative, championed by of one of our members, Benita Matofska, invites us to look beyond our community and work towards transforming how we live on this planet and how we connect with one another by generating a ‘sharing economy’. For the past couple of years, Benita has travelled all over the world meeting with people engaged in sharing projects. What she discovered is recorded in her wonderful book of testimonies and photographs, entirely made from recyclable materials, Generation Share, the proceeds of which are going to fund an amazing sharing project in a slum in Mumbai, India, where a young teenager has started a school for girls in her one-room home.[11] A sharing economy is exactly that. Clothes can be shared – we hosted our first clothes-sharing event at the synagogue in the past year. Cars can be shared – a way of dramatically reducing the number of cars on the road and their toxic emissions. Just think of all those electrical items that you only use once or twice a week – hoovers, lawnmowers – they can all be shared between neighbours. And then, imagine what a difference sharing rather than, consuming and discarding could make to the planet.

We know that unless governments – including the British government – commit to acting now, climate change will become irreversible. We also know that we can’t wait for governments to act. We must act. What we do as individuals and communities can make a huge difference. Building a sharing economy is about sharing the world together in a sustainable way and creating connections across continents, regions, nations, cultures and communities, for the sake of the planet which is home to all of us. As we share this sacred day together, let us reflect on how we can draw positively on our personal needs for belonging and commit ourselves to connecting with one another and sharing and repairing our world.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue

Yom Kippur Shacharit 5780 – 9th October 2019

  1. Days of Awe. Forms of prayer for Jewish Worship, Volume 3. Prayers for the High Holy Days. RSGB, London, 1985, p. 156. ↑

  2. Samson Raphael Hirsch (June 20, 1808 – December 31, 1888 formulated a philosophy he called Torah im derech eretz – ‘Torah with the way of the land’. In other words, a way of integrating Jewish observance with participating in the wider society. See: ‘Religion Allied to Progress’ in the Collected Writings of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, edited by Philip Feldheim (1996). ↑

  3. Email: lamp@hopenothate Postal address: HOPE Not Hate Ltd, PO Box 61382, London, N19 9EQ. United Kingdom ↑

  4. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/27/us/active-shooter-pittsburgh-synagogue-shooting.html https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pittsburgh_synagogue_shooting ↑

  5. https://interfaithcontactgroup.com/ ↑

  6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Militant_(Trotskyist_group) ↑

  7. See for example: Israel. A Colonial-Settler State? by Maxime Rodinson (Pathfinder Press, 2002. First published in 1973). ↑

  8. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/antisemitism-in-history-racial-antisemitism-18751945 ↑

  9. Theodore Herzl (2nd May 1860 – 3rd July 1904). Herzl’s Der Judenstaat (The State of the Jews) was published in 1896. The first Zionist Congress took place in Basel in 1897. ↑

  10. https://ecosynagogue.org/ ↑

  11. https://www.thepeoplewhoshare.com/generation-share

    Generation Share. The changemakers building the Sharing Economy by Benita Matofska, with photographs by Sophie Sheinwald. Policy Press, University of Bristol and University of Chicago Press, 2019. ↑

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