Part of the series, Seasons of Responsibility: Interreligious Conversations on Environmental Justice and Repair

What does it mean to act responsibly when there is no guarantee of results? Jewish and Hindu traditions both turn to fasting as a practice of restraint and agency. Focusing on the Fast of Esther, alongside Hindu fasting traditions, this session explores how intentional self-restraint—held in tension with celebration—can shape ethical responses to the climate crisis. 

About the Speakers

Gopal Patelleads FutureFaith as Co-Founder and Board President, mobilizing faith communities for environmental action through innovative multi-sectoral partnerships. He has advised multiple UN bodies and partnered with a range of organizations, includingthe Bloomberg Ocean Fund, the World Economic Forum and WWF International. Through his work, he has engaged faith leaders and communities representing over 1 billion people worldwide.

Benjamin Kamine holds a joint appointment as Lecturer in Rabbinic Literatures and Cultures at the Jewish Theological Seminary and Assistant Teaching Faculty in Interreligious Engagement at Union Theological Seminary.  In this role, he also works as Associate Director of the Milstein Center for Interreligious Dialogue at 91�첥 and as a Special Advisor in the Office of the President at Columbia University.  He is a PhD candidate in Midrash at 91�첥.  Kamine serves as 2nd Vice President of the Executive Board of the International Council of Christians and Jews and Jewish Co-Chair of the International Abrahamic Forum. 

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope. 

Part of the series 91�첥 High Holiday Webinars 2024

With Dr. Shira Billet, Assistant Professor of Jewish Thought and Ethics, 91�첥 

One of the most striking images of the divine-human relationship in Jewish thought is the kabbalistic image of a rope or cord that extends from God in the heavens into the soul of the human being. We explore a diverse array of Jewish thinkers over the centuries who have found this metaphor meaningful, especially in times of challenge and suffering, giving them hope to continue to strive to become closer to God. In the context of the High Holiday season, we give special attention to connections between this metaphor and themes and liturgies of the High Holiday season.  

Dr. Billet referenced this short story by S.Y. Agnon during the session.

On the Haftarah for the First Day of Rosh Hashanah (1 Sam. 1–2:10)

The haftarah for the first day of Rosh Hashanah centers around Hannah, mother of the prophet Samuel. Elkanah, a man of the hill country of Ephraim, had two wives: Peninnah, who had children, and Hannah, who was childless. In a moment of overwhelming challenge, Hannah approaches the Temple in Shiloh to offer a personal prayer: “O Adonai Tzeva’ot, if You will look upon the suffering of your maidservant, and if You will grant Your maidservant a male child, I will dedicate him to Adonai for all the days of his life” (1 Sam. 1:11).

Watching Hannah’s prayer from a distance, Eli the priest mistakes her for a drunk, and he rebukes her: “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Sober up!” (1:14).

Hannah quickly corrects his mistake explaining: “Oh no my lord . . . I have drunk no wine . . . but I have been pouring my heart out to Adonai” (1:15).

Hannah provides a powerful paradigm of prayer for us on these Days of Awe. Are we concerned with how we may appear when we are in prayer? Do we shy away from moments of visible supplication, such as when the clergy bow and touch the floor during the Aleinu and the Avodah service? Does that make us feel too conspicuous in a sea of congregants? How many of us would have our davening mistaken for disorderly conduct? Have we become too staid? Too self-conscious?

Perhaps an answer comes in the words of Eli’s mistaken rebuke: “Sober up!”

This is not a moment for rote performance. This is not a time for spiritual self-restraint—these are the Days of Awe, the gates are open, and, just like Hannah, our job is to cry ourselves straight through the door.

Back to Glimmers of Light: Reflections on Hope for the Days of Awe 5785

Both Shema paragraphs appear as part of Moshe’s valedictory speech, delivered as the people are camped on the east side of the Jordan River, waiting to cross over to the Promised Land. As he reviews their history with them, Moshe recounts their lapses of faith and resulting punishments. The message that he repeats several times (in his very long talk) is that the Israelites showed themselves, again and again, to be people of little faith who were not appreciative of the great good that God had showered upon them. Moshe depicts God as demanding unwavering loyalty from His chosen people. If they stray, they will suffer dire consequences.

This context helps explain why both Shema paragraphs need to be included in our morning and evening prayers. The first paragraph opens with a confession of faith in the one God, and demands loving this one God with all our heart, soul, and might. It goes on to say that we are to keep the words God issued this day in our hearts and on our lips at all times, and we should teach them to our children. We are even told to “wear” these commandments on our arms and foreheads and to display them in public places. In all, the first paragraph of the Shema is very upbeat, with its focus on love of God and mitzvot.

The second paragraph opens with a statement similar to the first line of the first paragraph: love God with all one’s heart and soul. It goes on to say that if we do so, then all will go well. The rains will come in due season, the crops will grow, people will eat and be satisfied. But the paragraph then switches tone: if the people abandon God, catastrophe will result. The rains will not come, the crops will not grow, and people will perish from the good land to which God brought them. Moshe ends the section with words nearly identical to those that ended the first iteration of the Shema: place these words on your hearts, bind them on your arms and between your eyes, teach them to your children, and display them in public places.

We now realize that the first paragraph of the Shema in Deuteronomy 6 is the version without contingency. We are merely told to love God and keep God’s words always on our lips. No threat of punishment for deserting God. But that is only half of the covenantal offer. It is the repetition of the Shema in Chapter 11 that presents the complete terms of the offer. Before we sign on, we need to understand that there are consequences to lack of compliance.

When the rabbis of the Talmud instituted Jewish prayer, they decided to mandate the recitation of both versions of the Shema, morning and night, every single day of the year. But why include the first version if the second, expanded version, which immediately follows in the prayer service, says everything? My guess is that since the first opens with the statement of belief in one God in very clear and direct terms, which the second does not, the rabbis decided to make it the opening paragraph, even though it does not demand observance of the mitzvot. The second does make such a demand. Both are therefore necessary: first tell the people to love God and the mitzvot without mentioning consequences for not doing so, and then tell them what happens if they stop loving God and observing the mitzvot.

In addition to these two paragraphs of the Shema, the rabbis of the Talmud added a third, Parashat Tzitzit (Num. 15:37–41). The point is to have a physical reminder, fringes on the garments, to keep the mitzvot and not stray.

In today’s Orthodox and Conservative siddurim, both versions of the Shema appear, one after the other, as has been standard practice over the years. The Reform movement, in its Mishkan Tefilah siddur, omits the second paragraph, seeing no need to threaten serious punishment for non-compliance. This is not the way, in its opinion, to incentivize people to keep the mitzvot. But all three siddurim include the third paragraph.

In all siddurim, there is one more addition to the Shema. Following the Shema Yisrael opening statement, we find the words barukh shem kevod malkhuto le-olam va’ed (Blessed is the name of the One whose glorious kingdom is forever and ever). Since these words interrupt a series of verses from Va’et-hannan, even though they themselves are not a verse, they should appear in a smaller font. And in most siddurim they do. This line is simply a call to bless God’s name upon hearing it recited aloud, as did the kohanim in the Temple in Jerusalem, most famously on Yom Kippur. The Mishnah tells us that when the kohanim would say these words, they would prostrate themselves, nose to the ground (Mishnah Yoma 6:2). On all days of the year, except for Yom Kippur, this line is now said quietly to distinguish it from the verses of the Shema. On Yom Kippur, it is still said out loud.

Shema is one of the few prayers for which the rabbis of the Talmud stipulate that one has to recite the words with kavanah, intention. Not an easy task for prayers that are so familiar to many of us. But knowing that the second paragraph is an expansion of the first, with some sections repeated and others introducing demands for observance of the mitzvot, should not make us angry but rather assist us in achieving a deeper engagement with this prayer.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

In the past months, concerned Jews have been on an emotional roller coaster, much of the time brooding over what may come next. Many of my beloved colleagues note that they have not given many, or any, divrei Torah in the last 7 months that do not connect in some way to October 7th and its aftermath. The ground under us does not feel so stable right now.

In a time of war and division, in a time of rising and shocking antisemitism, in a time when we have seen the narratives of how our people are perceived change, we need to lift each other up with words of blessing, because ultimately, we need hope. More than anything else I believe we need to name our blessings, and help others to feel blessed, so that our souls can find ways to move forward.

In Parashat Naso we learn the blessing used by so many, called birkat kohanim, the blessing of the priests. Amid our longest parashah, nestled between laws of the Nazirites and final preparations for how to use the Tabernacle, our holy space, God teaches that people can use their words and actions to bless one another, all while noting that our blessings come from The Holy One.

The Holy One (Adonai) speaks to Moses with instructions for Aaron and his sons (the priests) for how to bless the People of Israel. You know these sacred words. Someone sang them to you at your naming or britor at your bat or bar mitzvah. Maybe you remember a parent whispering them to you on a Friday night, or you might be the one who offers this blessing to another: 

Many commentators look for meaning in each word, and even in the order of the blessing. The 20th-century Torah scholar Nehama Leibowitz wrote that:

. . . the three sections of the priestly benedictions illustrate an order, starting with a blessing concerned with man’s [people’s] material needs and then dealing with his [her/their] spiritual wants, and finally reaching a climax combining both these factors together, crowning them with the blessing of peace. This ascending order and increasing surge of blessing is reflected in the language and rhythm.

(Studies in Bamidbar, 67)

Leibowitz teaches that the blessing deals with physical and spiritual gifts, and that until one’s material needs—like sustenance, shelter, and protection—are met, it is difficult to experience grace or wholeness. She helps us consider that the very cadence of the text, the repeating of God’s name, the nostalgia of these words, and their aspirational nature can bring us comfort and even hope. We also learn that though blessings come from God, they can also flow through the words of people. 

Elsewhere in our Torah we read that “Aaron lifted his hands towards the people and blessed them . . .” (Lev. 9:22). Rashi says that this was the priestly benediction. Why did Aaron lift his hands? Ramban notes that “it is possible that Aaron spread his hands out towards heaven and then blessed the people . . ..” This might indicate that Aaron’s hands were facing up to God, in the form of a plea, and not towards, or on, the person receiving a blessing. That is certainly not how most of us picture this scene but visualizing it differently allows us the possibility to understand God’s greater involvement in the blessing. Placing our hands on or towards another reminds us to see and feel their humanity. Also, perhaps the fact that Aaron “lifts his hands” is a reminder to us to bless others not only with our words, but with the work of our hands. 

As a mamlekhet kohanim, a sovereignty of priests, we each have the ability, and dare I say obligation, to bless others with our words and with our deeds. So many people in our lives need protection, first and foremost. And we all need so much kindness and grace right now. We live with much brokenness in our world and we as individuals, our country, and Israel need a sense that we can strive to create shalom—peace and wholeness—even when it seems far away. And we need to hear this from people who know and love us.

Birkat kohanim can be the start of a berakhah (blessing) that we give to another, but not its end. We should continue with our own words that are specific to the needs of the person or people in front of us. I learned this from our teacher Rabbi Naomi Levy, who one day asked colleagues to listen to each other and to then give another a berakhah that they specifically need.

The berakhah that we give to others can also be reminiscent of Aaron lifting his hands. It can literally be the work of our hands: bringing a meal, driving someone to a doctor’s appointment, being present for them in their time of vulnerability, helping them in concrete ways to feel a bit more whole. This week can we endeavor to bless others with both this moving, ancient text, and with new, individualized prayers for others? This week I hope that you can extend to someone else the blessings of having enough, of being and feeling protected, of sensing God’s presence, of experiencing kindness, grace, and wholeness. Shabbat Shalom.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

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With Rabbi Mychal Springer, Adjunct Professor, 91�첥, and Manager of Clinical Pastoral Education, New York-Presbyterian Hospital

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), with its focus on beliefs, thoughts, and feelings, is a powerful modality for helping people in distress. Drawing on the work of David H. Rosmarin’s Spirituality, Religion, and Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, we explore how CBT can inform and strengthen individuals’ and communities’ prayer lives. We discuss the connections between different types of prayers—including giving thanks, engaging in dialogue, contemplative prayer, and petitionary prayer—and evidence-based therapeutic approaches to wellbeing.  

ABOUT THE SERIES:

Timely Torah, Timeless Insights

Join 91�첥’s renowned faculty to learn about their current work and greatest passions. Drawing on their expertise, scholars will offer inspiring learning and expose us to new ideas and insights that help us connect the Jewish past with the Jewish future. 

According to sociologist Harmut Rosa, the main role of rituals is to produce axes of resonance, through which we not only affect but also open ourselves to being affected by God, people, and even things around us. In conceiving of Jewish prayer, our ancient rabbis indicate a concern with creating resonance, by balancing “affecting” and “being affected.”

Tractate Brachot (26b) speaks of two paradigms that have served as inspiration for the development of the Amidah, the core of the Jewish worship service. According to the first paradigm, תפלות אבות תקנום, the Amidah was instituted by the patriarchs and their distinctive ways of reaching out toward God. This paradigm underlines the “affecting” side of resonance, defining prayer as a particular response in the face of our unique life experiences. Under this model, through prayer, we put forth our concerns and desires in the hopes that they will catalyze some change around us, no matter how small it is.

According to the second paradigm, תפלות כנגד תמידין תקנום, the Amidah was instituted to correspond to the regular daily offerings at the Temple, and their communal choreographed aspect. This paradigm emphasizes the “being affected” side of resonance, defining prayer as a harmonious collective creation, just as the melody that the song leader back in the Shabbat retreat was inviting us to produce.

But how exactly do the תמידין, the daily Temple offerings, role model a disposition to being affected, which is so vital for resonance?

According to Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Parashat Tzav opens with the description of the daily communal offering, which is known in other places in the Bible as the עֹלַ֤ת תָּמִיד  (the regular burnt-offering) and which, in the Talmud, serves as model for the Amidah. Given this offering’s communal nature, it is surprising that in this parashah, the Torah singles out the individual priest who will be in charge of the offering, instead of addressing the collective בְּנֵ֨י אַהֲרֹ֤ן הַכֹּֽהֲנִים (sons of Aaron, the priests), like it does in other places: 

וְלָבַ֨שׁ הַכֹּהֵ֜ן מִדּ֣וֹ בַ֗ד  … וְהֵרִ֣ים אֶת־הַדֶּ֗שֶׁן אֲשֶׁ֨ר תֹּאכַ֥ל הָאֵ֛שׁ אֶת־הָעֹלָ֖ה עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֑חַ וְשָׂמ֕וֹ אֵ֖צֶל הַמִּזְבֵּֽחַ׃

The priest shall dress in linen raiment, … and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.

(Lev. 6:3)

Given that the Torah (Exod. 28:43) has already warned that all priests should wear special garments every time they approach the altar to officiate in the sanctuary, why does it repeat the garment requirement? Also, why in other places the Torah refers to the priest’s clothing as כֻּתֹּנֶת (kutonet/tunic), but here it refers to it as ֹמִדּ֣וֹ בַ֗ד (mido bad/linen raiment)?

Rashi explains that the requirement of the priest garment is being repeated here to specify that the tunic has to be made according to the exact measures of the priest’s body (therefore the name מִדּו/Mido, literally, his size). Noam Elimelekh reads this interpretation metaphorically: the priest has to come into this ritual wearing his personal and unique qualities (מִדּות).

Were the ritual dressing to stop here, with the priest bringing forward to the offering his particular self, it would be simply another expression of “affecting” and not have the necessary qualities of “openness to being affected,” so necessary for resonance to take place. But the Torah continues:

וּפָשַׁט֙ אֶת־בְּגָדָ֔יו וְלָבַ֖שׁ בְּגָדִ֣ים אֲחֵרִ֑ים וְהוֹצִ֤יא אֶת־הַדֶּ֙שֶׁן֙ אֶל־מִח֣וּץ לַֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה אֶל־מָק֖וֹם טָהֽוֹר׃

He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments and carry the ashes outside the camp to a pure place.

(Lev. 6:4)

Why does the priest take off one garment and put on another one prior to bringing the ashes outside the camp? And how is the second garment different from the first one?

According to Gersonides, the second set of garments are also holy garments, otherwise the Torah would not have gone out of its way to say that the priest should dress in them. However, the second clothes are פחותים מהראשונים (less than the first ones). Following Noam Elimelekh’s metaphorical reading of the clothes: throughout the ritual of disposing the ashes the priest needs to contract and readjust himself to a more balanced presence in the world.

In a society that privileges authenticity and self-expression, the second paradigm of prayer can be challenging and underappreciated. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han claims that such a society puts us in a habitual mode of production of the self, where we are constantly strengthening our persona. As a result, we become experts in the art of affecting, but compromise our ability to enter into relationships “outside the boundaries of the self,” in which we are open enough to be affected or reached by others. That creates a crisis of resonance and without resonance, we become isolated, lonely, even depressed.

According to Moshe Halbertal, the fact that so many rabbinic practices “modeled after the sacrifice, and kept its ethos and drive” indicates that there is something about sacrifice that is essential to human expression and life. When it comes to prayer, the תמידין, the daily Temple offerings, teach us the vital gesture of modulating ourselves so resonance and real connections can be made possible.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

H.L. Miller Cantorial Student Justin Pellis (’25) asked himself, “How can I approach the Shofar in a new way?” To answer, he composed “Te’kiot for Shofar and Trumpet” which debuted last fall and we are pleased to share in preparation for Yamim Noraim.

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