by Larry Rosenwald

I was, as often, abundantly involved in our services (leading, leyning), and as often found them deeply moving and beautiful.  I’m glad I was there for the ones I was there for, and sorry that other commitments, and my twenty miles’ distance from Somerville, made it impossible for me to be there for the others. 
           
But in a way that’s new for me, and that I’m trying to figure out, the experiences I was having at the services weren’t really about doing teshuvah, though that’s of course what we were all talking about, and what the chagim are about; nor were they – this might be going too far, but only a bit too far – really about my own moral conduct, which I have other and ongoing ways of thinking about and trying to change and purify.  (In particular I’d say that the traditional models for asking forgiveness and being granted forgiveness are remote from my own lived and shared experience.) 
           
What the experiences had to do with was rather the joys of community, in several forms.  First and foremost, there was the joy of singing in community, the uplift and almost out-of-body intensity that singing in community offers (that’s in fact what it feels like, my voice emerging from my body but freed from it, up there in the hills and the common air), the way that in such singing, deeply centered as I am in the details of texts, the texts almost cease to matter, and the tunes float free.  There’s the joy of seeing people I cherish but see only seldom, once or twice a year, maybe only during the chagim, which isn’t often enough but also is, and I’m reminded that what you say in Yiddish to people you haven’t seen for a while is sholem aleykhem, “peace be upon you,” and the answer is aleykhem sholem, “upon you be peace,” and that feels right.  There’s the, inextricable from the sorrow, of feeling close to people during yizkor, as they name the dead they are remembering, and we feel the presence of all of them. There’s the joy of the radiant light illuminating us in the tents, at Kol Nidre and Ne’ilah, the light making it possible to see the machzor but having its own independent vibrancy, this especially when one’s outside the tents, on one’s way in, seeing those already in the light glowing there.  There is the way in which all these feelings and experiences contribute to a sense that we belong together.
           
(There are of course more solitary experiences:  the feeling of prostrating myself on cold stone, the feeling of so many beautiful Hebrew words in my mouth.  There are of course less joyful experiences:  the cold, the rain, the unease about mistakes in Hebrew pronunciation, the occasional and inevitable moments of loss of kavanah.  We’re all human beings, after all.)
           
I said at the beginning that these intense, buoying experiences didn’t have to do with teshuvah, and that’s in most ways true.  In another way, though, it’s false.  Doing teshuvah requires some buoyancy in the one doing it, some trust, some hope.  These experiences of community nurture and stimulate those capacities.  At the end of the davening, when the shofar is blown, I’ve had those capacities stimulated.  What I do with them is up to me, of course, and whatever I do I’ll have to do within the moral frameworks that pertain to me and not that of the vidui.  But I’ll be better able to do whatever I do because of what I experienced during the davening. 

Nakhmen of Bratislav wrote, in a passage I quoted during Musaf on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, “you who give joy to the broken spirit, /help me to rejoice –/ for alone I am very low.”  He was appealing to the riboyne shel oylem, the teacher of the universe, but his words make sense in the context of my experiences.  Alone I am very low, in community I can rise.
           

by Aliza Arzt

During the High Holiday season, we hear a lot about two types of relationships that we need to deal with. I will use the traditional masculine terms here in the Hebrew and will rephrase them in a more gender neutral way later in the article: בין אדם למקום (bein Adam la-Makom) - between humans and God (literally “the place”) and בין אדם לחברו (bein Adam l’chavero) - between humans and their fellow humans. Traditionally we’re supposed to spend the time until Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) dealing with our relationships with other people and asking for forgiveness from them. When we arrive at Yom Kippur, we spend the day dealing with our relationship to God and asking forgiveness from God. These relationships can be also phrased in Hebrew in as gender neutral a way as possible: (beini la-Makom)  ביני למקום - between myself and God; (beini l’chaveri/chaverti)  ביני לחברי/תי - between myself and my associates.
 
Recently I discovered teachings that consider another relationship that can be dealt with at this time, as well as at other times: בין אדם לעצמו (bein Adam la-atzmo) - between a person and themselves, or: (beini l’atzmi)  ביני לעצמי - between myself and myself
 
The more modern Jewish thinkers liked this 3-part model, and connected it with other triplets. In the Ethics of the Fathers, otherwise known as Ethics of the Ancestors or Pirkei Avot, the end of 1:2 reads: the world is based on 3 principles: תורה (Torah - study), עבודה ( avodah - worship), and גמילות חסדים (g’milut chasadim - acts of compassion). Accordingly, the relationship between ourselves and God is associated with avodah (worship), the relationship among humans is associated with g’milut chasadim (acts of compassion) and our relationship with our internal selves is associated with Torah (study). Another teacher connected our relationship with God to the laws of religious expression (“דת” - dat), our relationship with others to the laws of ethical conduct (“מוסר” - musar), and, surprisingly, our relationship with ourselves to the coming of the Messiah (“משיח” - mashiach).
 
What does study and the Messiah have to do with our internal selves? The lectures I read identified our internal selves as a version of ourselves which is more “whole” and in some way more “authentic.” Somehow, through study, we’re supposed to get in touch with this more authentic self, and as more of us succeed in connecting with this more authentic self, together we may be able to bring the world to a better place.
 
This still sounds pretty mysterious. Here’s my own midrashic take on it: The word for “self”, עצם (etzem) has a variety of meanings including “bone” and “essence.”  To me, these meanings express both the most concrete type of existence (as in “the bare bones”) and the most abstract type of existence. Somehow, throughout our lives, we need to get in touch with the physicality of who we are and what we’re capable of as well as the essence of who we are —what goals and plans express our authentic selves— in order to be as effective as possible in our world. This enhanced sense of self also informs our relationships with others and with God.
 
So where does forgiveness enter the equation? As many of us know, we often hold ourselves to a high standard with respect to our thoughts and our actions. Many of us feel that we will never meet our expectations for ourselves and we feel bad about this all the time. The High Holiday season is a time to forgive ourselves for ways we feel that we haven’t been true to ourselves. In the same way that Rosh haShana, the new year, is a renewal of opportunity and possibility, this is a time to rededicate ourselves to the continued development and evolving understanding of who each of us is and what we’re capable of. During the year we engage with others and we also may engage with God in some ways. The High Holiday season is a time to re-set these relationships and to try to increase the amount of them with which we are satisfied. This is a wonderful time to do that for ourselves as well.

by Shifra Freewoman

The story of Rachamaimah begins long before hueman or any life began, because She is the Compassionate Womb Mother Who Bore All.  This is how She came to bless our community Havurat Shalom.  Rachamaimah is now a part of our Siddur, Birchat Shalom, which includes female, male and gender neutral terms for God.  Though She birthed me, us, All Things, we helped bring Her into being.  We, a group of 8 Jewish women at Oberlin College in '84, Birthing a Jewish feminist Haggadah.  I was the last to join and had a hard time getting into the group, but I was most determined.  And I don't give up easily.
Oberlin had lots of Jews, but not lots of great Jewish stuff going on.  Most of the services lacked something - the right kavanah; whether traditional or not, something was missing.  So, because this group of women gelled and had that rare something, Miriam Bronstein, who is very inclusive, was not going to be quick to lose this rare sense of kavanah-rightness.  It was only when this group saw my "Crust of Bread at the Seder Lesbian Story," which they wanted badly for the Hagaddah, that they understood that I came along with the story, and so I was in the group. 

The day came when Miriam, an influential  and beloved former Havurah member and current associate member, and a very close friend of longstanding, and I were enjoined with a formidable task, to come up with Female Names for God.  We had one and a half hours to accomplish this awesome task.  

Actually, we had each been preparing for the entirety of our 23 years of life, so it was not as rushed as it seemed. 

The most obvious choice was Shekhina.  We included it, a lovely traditional Jewish name for the Female Divine.  Still, it came with traditional male understandings of the feminine - and we wanted a name for God from our feminist understanding.  So we kept searching. 
We tried Goaltanu, the feminine of Goalanu, Our Redeemer, clearly connected to Passover: redemption from slavery.  We used Goaltanu, still, it was just a feminization of the male word, not enough kishkes/guts, and we were not satisfied.  Time was passing and we thought/felt, what about Rachamim, Compassion a word often used in the traditional prayerbook?  Rachamim comes from rechem or womb.  A good place to begin.  This began to feel fruitful - we were on to something, some scent of what we were after or what was after us was coming.
While we were still in our heads trying to say the 'Compassionate One' in the feminine,  'Rachamaimah' took over.  Out of me came, Her Name, “Rachamaimah.”  Though I spoke it, Rachamaimah came from Miriam as much as from me.  She came from us or through us, and actually, we were only tapping into Something Greater..  Or maybe SHE was tapping into us and birthing HERSELF through us, though it is older than the most Ancient of Days.  “Rachamaimah.”

We loved how it sounded, earthy, womby, deep, rich, kind of like Mama.  This was what we came for.  We loved it and were not sure if it was a word; our grammar was not that good.  So off to the Judaic studies professor, Eliot Ginsberg.  We asked him, “Is this how you say The 'Compassionate One, ' in the feminine?”  He was very interested, present, helpful and proud of us.  "No, he said, “That would be Rachmonah, but what you did was put two words together, Rechem, Womb, and Emah, Mother, a compound word.  And this is totally valid and accepted in Hebrew.”

So there it was, “Rachamaimah”, Compassionate Womb Mother.  Wow!!  The Female Jewish God, The Goddess, the Jewish Goddess.  Here She was!!!  She came to Us!!!  Awesome!!!!  There was a sense of deep fulfillment, rightness, and it was Jewish, from 'Rachamim',  a word that is very much a part of  the traditional Siddur/Prayer Book.   

We were not alone, many Jewish and  feminist women of all backgrounds were tapping into the Female Divine the Goddess.  Kim Chernin had written a novel, “The Flame Bearers”, a novel about women who were connected to an ancient female tradition.  They were not Jewish women, but had attached themselves to Jews because of how much oppression Jews faced.  And Kim mentioned Womb, Compassion, and Mother, though not the word Rachamaimah.  Still the idea
of this FEMALE DIVINE was there. 

So we were excited and felt we had found what we came for.  Then there was the question.  What words would go with Rachamaimah in the brachot, certainly not Melech Ha-olam/King of the World!!  Ruach ha-olam, Spirit of the World, did not feel right, because Rachamaimah was so earthy/physical.  So Miriam told her sister Deborah, and Deborah dreamed we should say 'Chai Haolamim', Life of the Worlds.  The phrase, 'Life of the Worlds', went very well with Rachamaimah.  Furthermore, this is a traditional term used in Baruch Sheh-omar/ Brucha Sheh-omra.  So we had found what felt like an authentic Female Divine Name that had deep connections to our own Jewish tradition.
It was deeply gratifying to tap into, 'Rachamaimah', which was new, yet very ancient.  For me, as someone who grew up with exclusively male terms for God, in a very patriarchal, traditional Orthodox background, it was incredibly empowering.  Probably because I had faced so much sexual abuse of my female body, and had felt such a sense of total degradation, it was very powerful to tap into a positive expression of the Female Divine that was physical as well as spiritual.  It felt an affirmation of my body, that God was like me, and in a sense, I was like God.  God was female as well as male, and beyond all genders and categories; it felt right; I felt right, like I too was holy, my female body was holy, and women too were holy.   And that it was 'Rachamaimah', it was Jewish; that meant a lot to me and Miriam and other women and men and those In between- my term for transgender/ non- binary, intersex, queer etc..

I know that this is only one way to see the feminine; there are many ways, non-binary, trans, intersex, queer, etc., and this is one way that was powerful to me and many women who had our bodies so violated, to feel we too were and are Divine.  And beyond any sense of violation, to tap into, acknowledge, honor and Celebrate the Divine Feminine was deeply profound. 

So, I celebrate Rachamaimah, that Miriam and I and so many other women Birthed, How She Birthed Us, and How the Havurah, took Her in, How She Took Us In, How She became a part of our Siddur, Our Davening/Praying, along with many other names.  And that many of us at Havurat Shalom, so many years later, pray to Her, 'The Compassionate Womb Mother', who is also 
'Chai Ha-olamim, Life of the Worlds'.  Thus the historical or her/storical continuity from the Very Beginning of Life, of our Jewish Tradition, our feminist tradition and how they combine in beautiful ways, all the way back to the Very Beginning and moving into a more just and equal future. That is only one of the many reasons that I love and am so glad to belong to Havurat Shalom.  

by Aliza Arzt

During the third weekend in May, 53 current and former members of Havurat Shalom gathered at the Hexner Retreat Center in the Poconos of Pennsylvania to celebrate the 55th anniversary of the founding of the Havurah.  The weekend wasn’t without its challenges:  the retreat center was a 5 hour drive from the Boston area (my co-coordinator made me put “4 3/4 hour drive” on the registration form, but it was 5 hours!), we had to work out a COVID policy that would consider both safety and comfort, and we had to accommodate attendees who ranged in age from their 20’s to their 80’s. 
 
It seemed that everyone arrived planning to have a good time, and we did!  Havurat Shalom of the 1960’s is not Havurat Shalom of the 2020’s.  This turned out not to matter.  The davenning was sublime: a meditative Kabbalat Shabbat led by Nehemia Polen, a discursive meandering lovely P’sukei d’Zimra on Shabbat morning by Leora Zeitlin, and a melodious Shacharit by Shalom Flank.  There were numerous study opportunities including a talk by Havurah founder Art Green about what he’s up to now and 4 TED talks about very different topics.
 
I feel that I had a unique perspective on this reunion.  I’ve been at the Havurah for 45 of its 55 years.  I also, for the fourth time, was one of the organizers of the retreat, which has been occurring every 5 years.  All of our other reunion retreats have taken place on Memorial Day Weekend, which allowed us all day Saturday and Sunday, as well as part of Friday and Monday for programming.  Since Shavuot was on Memorial Day Weekend this year, the retreat occurred the previous weekend and ended Sunday at noon.  It was a challenge to fit in as many study and teaching opportunities as possible, but we did it.
 
I spent a lot of time during the weekend making sure everything was running smoothly and gently nudging people to get from one activity to the next, especially meals.  Here are the impressions that remain with me a month afterwards:
 

• There’s often some worry from the attendees about who’s going to come.  Former members worry that their cohort won’t show up; current members hope that they don’t feel excluded by the “old-timers”.  This definitely didn’t happen.  Through prayer, study, eating together and sharing the little free time we had, it was apparent as it has been at other Havurah reunion retreats that being part of Havurat Shalom is a wonderful common denominator.
• I’ve known some of the original Havurah members since they were graduate students and young professors in their 20’s and 30’s and I was an undergraduate.  Now, as they’re entering and motoring through their 80’s, they continue to be active and engaged in Jewish practice, Jewish thought and productivity.  The ideas they had in the 60’s have been modified by time, but the core imperatives continue to shine through.  In Art Green’s talk about what he’s working on and thinking about now, he was clear that he continues to address his goal of making it possible for all to connect with God through words, actions and ideas.  In particular, he has been working lately to make these ideas accessible to people in Israel through teaching, speeches and the translation of his books into Hebrew.
• Given the fact that 55 years is a long time, the number of former members who are no longer in the world with us has grown.  We spent Saturday late afternoon remembering them.   Interestingly, during the part of that memorial where people had a chance to talk about their memories of those who had passed, most people chose instead to talk about the tremendous degree to which Havurat Shalom had influenced their lives and their thoughts.
• We may change, grow and “evolve” during the decades of our adulthood if we’re fortunate enough to have them.  Despite this, to a large extent we are who we are.  It’s a powerful experience to see someone after a 30, or more, year absence and feel immediately that even though they may not look exactly as they had back then, their essence is the same and the connection remains.

Although I’m concerned that we may not be able to have a 60th year reunion (the number is daunting), it’s highly likely that we’ll find some way to gather again in the next few years to renew our connection to each other and to Havurat Shalom.

by Larry Rosenwald

I was a singer and musician long before I had a Jewish practice, and from that musician’s perspective I often find myself thinking about the niggunim we use in our davening – what we know and don’t know about them, where and who they come from.  In particular, I find myself thinking about them when they come from some other tradition than our own, when we’re adapting non-Jewish tune for our purposes – what the relations are between the original tune and text and the text we sing it to, what’s possible and what isn’t.
 
I thought about this most recently on May 6th, when I was leading the first part of the service, and in my mind was a tune I’d heard the previous day at the Cambridge Friends School.  We were there for Significant Elders Day, once called Grandparents Day, and the school music teacher taught a parting tune, the text of which began, “Go now in peace.”  I liked the tune very much, it stayed in my mind, I was casting around for a text it might fit, and finally I saw, or heard, that it could be fitted to odeh ani, the prayer we begin with.  So that’s the tune I used that day.  I was, I imagine, the only person present at that moment who knew the source of the tune, and the text it had been written to set.  It worked well, I thought, and though “Go Now in Peace” is a parting song, and odeh ani a beginning song, the resonances between the two texts felt happily synergistic.
 
I’ve had other, equally happy senses of synergy with other tunes drawn from other traditions.  Take the text immediately after the odeh ani, the ma tovu – “how goodly are thy tents, O Jacob.”  The tune we use most often is a round (so is “Go Now in Peace,” by the way).  It too has a non-Jewish source.  The original text is secular and comic: “Hey ho, nobody home/ no meat no drink no money have I none/ yet I will be happy [or sometimes “merry”].”  I myself first heard the tune at a Quaker meeting, the Quakers having fitted an edifying text to it: “what a goodly thing/ if the children of the world/ could dwell together in peace.”   The secular text is present for me as a comic undertone, the Quaker text a happy accident – it’s always a pleasure to think of the children of the world dwelling together in peace, and in places as beautiful as the tents of Jacob and the habitations of Israel.
 
Some other examples, no doubt among many.  There’s a wonderful round that we sometimes use for singing the last verse of Psalm 150, kol haneshama tehallel yah, hallelnayah, let every soul praise God, hallelnayah. (A tricky tune to lead, because you have to remember set it high; the opening phrase is the highest, and from then on it goes pretty consistently down, ending an octave below where it began.)  The tune was written by the 16th-century German Christian composer Michael Praetorius, and its original text is “jubilate deo, alleluia,” rejoice in God, hallelujah.  The two texts are in harmony, and – for this moment, though heaven knows, alas, that this moment is unusual – so are the two traditions.  Or the round we sing sometimes for sim shalom, at the end of the Amidah.  I don’t know the composer, but I do know the original text:  dona nobis pacem, “grant us peace.”  I learned it when I sang one year in the Christmas Revels, and the late Jack Langstaff, a light to the world, taught us not only the tune but the belief, still strong in me, that the closer you get to the winter solstice, the more the power of the song will contribute to peace.  Sim shalom indeed!
 
Further afield, I think of one wonderfully comic, zestful case, not part of our current practice.  I have in mind Hav alum David Roskies’s singing, during a talk on his history at the Havurah, of adon olam to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”  Unforgettable, irresistible.
 
But I’d also note that however much I savor these synergies of tradition there are, I think, limits to how far we can go, and tunes that bring with them too much baggage to be usable.  I have in mind not anything I’ve led or participated in at the Havurah, but something that happened once at the davening of Harvard Hillel’s Worship and Study minyan.  I wasn’t there, but people were telling stories about it for a long time.  A learned and musically gifted leader had chosen, one Saturday, to lead adon olam to the tune of “Amazing Grace,” and the reason people were telling stories about that choice for a long time was that so many people were scandalized by it – it was, for them, beyond the limit. 
 
I love the tune myself, I still remember what is was like when President Obama led that tune at the service for those murdered at Mother Emmanuel Church.  But it’s a stretch to incorporate the theology of the text into our davening – “grace,” though sometimes we speak of it, is not so central a doctrine for us, neither is belief, neither is the process of sudden and total conversion as the song describes it.  And though the author of the text, John Newton, had indeed undergone a conversion, and after having been a slave-trader became an abolitionist, he wrote hateful things about Jews; imagining, as the musicologist Michael Marissen puts it, “the resurrected Jesus, sitting at the right hand of god, unleash[ing] his anger on the Jews by having the Roman armies lay waste to Jerusalem and its temple in 70 of the Common Era.”  Unbearable.
 
I love the synergies our singing reveals with traditions not our own.  But I think there are limits to what we can use.
 

by Larry Rosenwald
A d'var Torah presented March 11, 2023

There is, to put it mildly, a lot to talk about in this portion – the half a shekel that all, even the poorest, are to contribute (a model for some aspects of our own dues structure), the construction of the mishkan, Moses going up to the mountain,  the making, or happening, of the golden calf, the descent of Moses and the shattering of the tablets, the slaughter by sword and plague of those who were worshipping the calf, the threat-saturated quarrels between God and Moses, Moses’s vision of God, the thirteen attributes . . .
           
What caught my attention this year, though, and what I’ll comment on, is an exchange between Joshua and Moses.  And I should let you know now that in thinking about that exchange I’ve been led to some thoughts about the recent and obscene settler pogrom in Hawara.  I don’t as a rule bring political questions into shabbat davening;  but at this moment I felt I had to. 
 
The calf has been cast, or – as Aaron claims – has spontaneously emerged, the unfaithful people are rejoicing, dancing, exulting, and the noise of their doings is heard by Joshua and Moses.  Joshua says, I hear the sound of war in the camp.  Moses responds, Not the sound that sings of triumph, not the sound that sings of defeat, rather the sound of responsive song, i.e., song for song’s sake.  They are, we presume, hearing the same thing, but read or interpret it differently. 
What, though, is the difference in question?  What is the difference between the sound of war – kol milchamah – and the sound of responsive song, kol anot?  The immediate biblical context offers little help here, i.e., it does not even tell us that the rebellious children of Israel are singing, only that they are dancing;  the sound of what they are doing is evoked only in the comments made by Joshua and Moses.
 
There are not so many accounts of song in the Five Books.  The one that comes most forcefully to mind here suggests that this question isn’t easy to answer:  the Song of the Sea, which we leyn when the time comes round but choose not to include in our liturgy – as one member likes to say when we get to the point at which the Song would be chanted, “we now pass by the ghost of az yashir.”  It is a great song for whose can exult in triumph, there are voices and instruments and dances, and it has many of the elements of what one might call, lehavdl,  the Song of the Calf.  It is also, in some way, a song of war – what Moses calls kol anot gevurah, a song of (military) triumph or victory – and its unstinted delight in triumph, in the slaughter of the antagonist, is of course why we don’t, in our ordinary Saturday morning davening, sing it.  And it is absolutely a responsive song, if we understand Miriam’s song as a kind of choral refrain within the verses of the song of Moses.
 
Which is to say, maybe both Moses and Joshua are right, because maybe figuring out the difference between the noise of war and the noise of song isn’t so easy.  I wish it were, I confess – as a long-time pacifist and singer, I’d like to pretend that the difference is clear, that war is the antithesis of music and vice-versa, but that is preposterous. What Moses is hearing is the rhythmic, joyous aspect of the singing, and surely that was there, in the Israelites’ ecstatic if idolatrous relief at having something tangible, golden, luminous, and present to worship.  What Joshua hears is the anger at the absent Moses, at the God who refuses to be present in visible form, the anger of rebellion that is indeed joyous but also rebellious.  They’re both right.
 
Which brings me, alas and as noted, to the recent settler pogrom in the Palestinian village Hawara. Some of you will know of this, some won’t.  I quote excerpts from the account given by David Shulman, an Israeli peace activist I admire and trust:
 
Some 400 Israeli settlers from Itamar and nearby outposts enter the village of Hawara, supposedly to avenge the murder of two settler brothers that day in Hawara . . .Many of the marauding settlers are armed with automatic weapons; many are masked. They spend five full hours in the town. Israeli soldiers are there, mostly standing idly by.  By all accounts—and there are many first-hand witnesses—it was a night of terror in Hawara. The settler terrorists tried to break into houses and successfully set fire to some 40 homes, in nearly all cases with families huddling inside. Mothers tried to hide their children in the bathrooms or storage rooms; husbands who were coming home from work were unable to get through the vicious settler bands and received desperate phone calls from their wives: “They are here, dozens of them, trying to break down the door. They have broken the windows and they’re throwing flaming torches inside. The smoke is choking us. We can’t see or breathe. We’re going to die. Where are you?” By a miracle none of the children and women and elderly were killed. I guess God exists, sometimes.
 
What has this to do with my theme?  This:  that during those five hours, the invading settlers ceased wreaking havoc and chanted ma’ariv.  There is video footage of this.  It is brief.  You can hear the sound of voices, though, and they are singing, and presumably they were singing for as long as ma’ariv lasted.
​
If we had been there, what would we have heard?  The sound of war in the camp, as was I imagine the experience of the inhabitants of Hawara, hearing the voices of those assaulting them raised in song?  The sound of song, sung with the meditative intensity that we as Jews bring to davening, and which with all my revulsion at their actions these Jews, too, brought to their davening?  Would we have heard what Joshua heard, or what Moses heard, or both?
 
What is the sound of war?  What is the sound of singing?

by Ralph Chadis

We are approaching the time when we remember the legend of the sojourn and slavery of the children of Israel in the land of Egypt. I wondered if any evidence existed that I, as a non-archaeologist, could understand suggesting that this is more than legend? Apparently, there is.

Our legends say Jacob (aka Israel), had a son, Joseph, who, after a rather dangerous time settled in Egypt and became the Grand Vizier. After more drama he reunited with his family. Pharaoh gave Joseph’s family all 70 of them (Israel and his Children) land in a place called Goshen[1]. This went well for a while, but later Pharaohs brought them to slavery, and 210 years after Joseph, Moses led the Exodus[2].

Some archeologists think they found Goshen in the Nile Delta at an archaeological site called Tell el-Dab’a[3] near where the capital, Avaris[4], may have been[5].

The excavation is buried deep under other sites, so is of course crushed. But when the archaeologists reconstructed it, the results were astounding; leading some to say that they are 12th and 13th Dynasties and “Proto-Israelites”. Some wonder[6] if the evidence suggests that Joseph lived there and was called Ankhu by the Egyptians. So, what did they discover?
There is a palace (dated to the 12th Dynasty) of Syrian style with two rows of 12 pillars each, perhaps for the 12 tribes and thus a palace and grounds of Joseph’s[7]. The dead were buried on their sides in a semi-fetal position which is Semitic and not Egyptian who are on their backs. The objects found there are of Canaanite origin and not Egyptian.

The palace grounds[8] has 12 tombs perhaps one for each tribe plus a pyramid tomb[9] (a small pyramid was attached). These were made for only royalty. Inside the tomb was a statue about 3 meters tall of a of a man. Egyptians at that time painted statues.  This one had red hair styled in the Semitic way, and pale-yellow skin which is how the Egyptians depicted Northerners. He is sitting on a throne holding a throw stick (a symbol of office). He is wearing a cloak painted many colors[10]. Is it Joseph? The archaeologist David Rohl thinks so[11].

We shall see what the archaeologists finally decide. But it is an intriguing find.

notes:
[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Land_of_Goshen

[2] https://jbqnew.jewishbible.org/jbq-past-issues/2016/443-july-september-2016/long-sojourn-egypt-210-430-years/

[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tell_el-Dab%27a

[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avaris

[5] https://www.academia.edu/35532146/The_Seal_of_Joseph_in_His_Palace_at_Tell_Ed_Daba_Re_edited_

[6] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3f2nqErmcJs

[7] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uj4lsrMDkUU

[8] https://truthwatchers.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/josephs-palace.png

[9] https://madainproject.com/content/media/collect/avaris_statue_7323881.jpg

[10] https://egofelix.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/jofullor.gif

[11] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2He5ZyIP8k and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhHV2scE0-k

by Sarah Weinberg

Always wanted to lead services at the Hav, but not sure you’re quite ready? Take a look at the Service Leader’s Handbook, a guide designed by a Hav committee to walk new service leaders through the service step by step! The guide is based around an annotated edition of Siddur Birkat Shalom. Marginal notations not only give reminders of the “choreography” of the service, but also link to audio recordings of some of the melodies and nusach commonly used at the Hav, providing a step-by-step reference for practicing. The Service Leader’s Guide also includes information sheets on topics including understanding the structure of the service, adapting the service in the absence of a minyan, and teaching new melodies, among others.

If you are interested in learning more about the liturgy we use at Havurat Shalom without wanting to lead services, this guide is also for you!

The guide is intended to be a living document—we want your additions! If your favorite melody isn’t currently linked, make a recording and send it to us, and we’ll add the recording to the webpage and link to it at the appropriate place in the guide so that others can learn it. (One Hav member is already planning to create a set of more traditional nusach melody recordings to add along with a note on the musical structure of nusach, to provide an additional musical option for leaders to learn.) Take a look and let us know what you think—we’re hoping to continue to develop this guide over time, according to what new and experienced service leaders let us know would be helpful.

And after seeing the enthusiastic response to Friday evening service leading practice sessions led by Havurah member Inna, we’re hoping to hold similar sessions, using the Service Leader’s Guide as a resource, to help new and aspiring Shabbat morning service leaders practice and get comfortable! If you’re interested, please contact Sarah Weinberg (info@thehav.org) with information on your availability.

by Nina Judith Katz

Tu B’Shvat, the new year of the trees, is a good time to reaffirm our connection with nature. Sometimes, I use it as a reminder to check what seeds I have, visit my local seed library, and order the other seeds that I’ll need for the summer. It can be a good time to start planning the garden or planting seedlings as well.
 
Whether we garden or not, Tu B’Shvat is also an obvious time to reconnect with trees. There are many ways of doing this. We can think about the gifts that we receive from trees, take walks among them, meditate with them, eat and drink their offerings, and learn from and about them. I try to do all of these, and in this article, I shall share some of my thoughts and gleanings. First, I’ll bring you with me on a walk that I took recently in the Acton Arboretum as I was thinking about what to write, and then I’ll move on to discuss plant identification and use, and eventually I’ll hone in on some ways to use a tree from which you can easily and sustainably harvest in the winter.
 
Recently, my daughter and I went for a walk along a loop trail in the Acton Arboretum. The trail begins in an ex-urban parking lot, then quickly takes its pedestrians into a wooded area, then into marshland, and eventually back to an open area abutting a residential neighborhood. Since I am interested in tree identification, I walked slowly, pausing to contemplate the trees, notice the branching patterns and the fallen leaves, note buds where there were some, observe the textures and varied browns and greys of bark, and sometimes hazard guesses about what species the tree might belong to. This was a risky enterprise; as an arboretum, the place collected trees from all over the world, and so the trees were often not what I expected; many turned out to be guests from Asia or Europe.
 
This abundance of global trees led me to wax a bit nostalgic for the time when humans actively celebrated such diversity, and when the people responsible for arboreal collections—whether as small as a yard or as large as a multi-acre botanical garden—eagerly sought out saplings from overseas. I wish I could say that the welcome approach to trees extended fully to humans; it did not. Bigotry has always been among us. Nonetheless, this country has not always required visas for humans, nor restricted entry among plants. Today, xenophobia governs our approach to both plants and people. The language of native vs. alien, applied to plants, relates as much to the culture of xenophobia as to concerns about preserving local species. For plants and for humans, we use language selected to alienate, and in both cases, the objections raised against the supposed aliens and the defense offered to the lauded natives are at best too sweeping, at worst, simply bigotry. I’ll give a few plant examples. I am sadly confident that you can think of human examples without my help. To be clear, I am not suggesting that the harm caused by xenophobia toward plants is comparable to the harm caused by xenophobia toward humans; it is not.
 
One common “alien” plant worth getting to know is the common plantain, Plantago major. This plant grows abundantly on every sidewalk and in parks, yards, and parking lots. It grows non-competitively among numerous other plants, some of them “native,” and others that are “immigrants” like itself. Plantain hitched a ride here with the earliest Europeans, travelling on their shoes, so that they inadvertently planted it as they walked. It’s an extremely useful plant: edible, nutritious, anti-inflammatory, styptic, and strongly astringent. It can stop bleeding and pull out a splinter, even one in smithereens. It can also counter erosion.[1] It often grows in the same environment as dandelion, another useful, non-competitive, “alien” plant.

Another example of an essential “alien” plant is the Chinese chestnut tree (Castanea mollissima). The American chestnut tree has been largely wiped out by blight, to which the Chinese chestnut is resistant. Some people are developing hybrids crossing the two; obviously, this would be impossible if we didn’t welcome the Chinese chestnut tree.
 
Jewish tradition teaches us to welcome the stranger, and specifically to love the one who is other or alien: ואהבת לרעך כמוך, v-2ahavt l-re3ekh/a kmokh/a.[2] We need to get better at doing that with humans, and we should extend it to plants as well. We are also commanded to have a single law for the native and non-native. Place of origin is irrelevant; behavior matters. So does the context of the behavior.
 
So what is the behavioral issue to consider when we’re trying to ensure that our plant companions work well in their environment? Allelopathy.
 
Allelopathic plants release chemicals to deter or prevent competitor species from growing in their midst. Like so many traits in both humans and plants, this may be useful or harmful, depending on the context. In a landscape where we want diversity, or where endangered species grow, it’s highly problematic. In a garden or a farm where we’re trying to privilege a limited number of species, it’s sometimes useful; in fact, it can be a form of weed control. Wheat, sorghum, sunflowers, and chestnut are all allelopaths; this is not a reason to bar them from farms. At the same time, we shouldn’t plant them near a lady’s slipper, which is endangered.
 
Both “native” and “alien” species may be allelopaths, and both “native” and “alien” species may be non-allelopathic and non-competitive. The issue is not whether a plant originated on this continent or another, but whether it is allelopathic or not in the specific context of its growth; allelopathy may be beneficial, harmful, or neutral, depending on the specific environment. Sometimes even “alien” allelopathic plants that tend to grow where we may not want them can be useful; Japanese knotweed, for example, is the main source of resveratrol, and is also useful for addressing Lyme disease. We need to allow complexity and nuance into our thinking and speech about both plants and humans, and not simply malign a vast set of either. Once we understand this, perhaps we can go back to celebrating a diversity of plants that includes the “foreign ones,” and stop using language that echoes and supports xenophobia.
 
As we celebrate plants in their diversity, it’s helpful to learn more about them. For some years now, I’ve been trying to learn to identify more trees, including in the winter. The first question to ask for tree identification is whether the tree is deciduous or an evergreen. The leaves of deciduous trees lose their chlorophyll slowly over the course of the season from spring to fall. The gradual loss picks up speed in fall, so that the leaves ultimately lose the green color that came from their chlorophyll and reveal their true colors just before their tree cuts them off and they drop or fly off.

If the tree is deciduous, the next question is whether the branches are opposite or alternate. If they’re opposite, they emerge in twos from the trunk or larger branches, with each branch in the pair originating in the same place as the other, but on the opposite side of the trunk or main ​branch. In the image below, you can see that all of the branches and the leaves are opposite: 

In our area, there’s a relatively small variety of deciduous trees with opposite braches, especially among those that grow in forests, so this is a major clue about what kind of tree it is.
 
Next, it’s useful to observe the bark and ask what color it; whether it is smooth or rough; whether it is peeling off, or has already peeled off to some extent, and if so, in whether it peels in strips or patches, and whether it has lenticels. Lenticels are regular marks on the bark that are considered lens-shaped; the tree “breathes,” or exchanges gasses with the atmosphere, through the lenticels, as if they were nostrils. The dash-like lines on the bark of birch trees are lenticels.
 
If the tree is an evergreen, the first questions about identification will focus on the arrangement and texture of the needles. Evergreens continue to produce chlorophyll all year round, so their needles stay green and continue to provide nourishment for the tree. One of the most common evergreens in our area is the white pine, identifiable by its five-needle bunches. This is also one of our most useful trees, as it is both medicinal and edible.
 
White pine trees have copious amounts of vitamin C, as well as essential oils that open your chest and help you breathe more deeply; pines are especially good for helping to fend off respiratory ailments. There are many ways to use pine culinarily and medicinally.
 
If you find buds in the branches of a white pine tree, snack on them raw or toss them into salads. You can snack on the needles as well if you like; I prefer to turn them into pine balsamic vinegar, which tastes similar to commercial balsamic vinegar.
 
To make pine balsamic vinegar, you’ll need a jar and lots of pine needles (green, not brown). In the winter, I often harvest fallen pine branches. At this time of year, if you take a walk in the Middlesex Fells or whatever other forest is near you, you’ll probably find plenty. You may find some even in a city park, although I would feel more confident harvesting from a place farther from traffic.
 
For the pine vinegar, you’ll also need apple cider vinegar, and a non-metallic (i.e., non-corroding) lid for the jar. You have two options for how to make it, and it’s fine to combine them. The easier method is to stuff as many pine needles as possible into the jar, pour the apple cider vinegar over the needles, and let the needles infuse for three weeks or longer, shaking the jar whenever you remember to. The slightly more complex method adds the step of cutting the needles, which will give you a somewhat stronger infusion. In either case, after three weeks the vinegar is ready for use. You can decant it at that point, or simply take what you need as you need it while leaving the pine needles in the jar.
 
There are also a few different ways to make pine tea. You can put needles and branches into a tea ball or infuser, pour on hot water, and let steep (infuse) for fifteen minutes, or you can make a stronger brew by tossing the needles and branches into a pot and simmering (decocting) for up to thirty minutes. The infusion method will give you a very mild, subtly flavored tea, while the decoction will be stronger. You can’t combine the infusion method with the decoction method, but just as with the vinegar, you have a choice between putting in whole needles and branches and cutting them up, and here you can combine methods. The stongest brew would be from cut needles simmered for half an hour.
 
Don’t throw away any branches! They’re very good in stews and soups. Pine bark, like the needles and buds, contains vitamin C, so the branches impart an acidic taste that perks up the flavor of your dish in much the same way that vinegar and lemon juice do. The bark is edible, so you can gnaw on the twigs as you might on an ear of corn or a bone. Once you’ve gnawed the bark off a pine twig, you’re left with a small wooden stick that resembles a bone. Two years ago I used a tiny, bone-like pine twig for zroa, to substitute for the paschal beet or shank bone at our Passover seders. This was the year when Passover fell shortly after the beginning of lockdown and I was trying to avoid stores as much as possible. The place of pine at a Tu B’Shvat seder is at least as appropriate as at a Passover seder.
 
Most of what we eat at a Tu B’Shvat seder gets the פרי העץ pri ha-3ets blessing. We tend to think of this blessing as one to say over fruit, but our two blessings for produce use the word “fruit” (pri) metaphorically as well as literally; all vegetables are פרי האדמה pri ha-2adamah “fruit of the ground”—unless they grow on trees. Pine bark is as much “fruit of the tree” as a carrot is “fruit of the earth,” so the פרי העץ pri ha-3ets blessing would be appropriate for pine needles, bark, and buds as well as for less metaphoric fruits. When we make this blessing and eat the pine parts, we can use the tree for contemplation and for nourishment at the same time.

by Shifra Freewoman

This blog is a reflection on my many years at the Havurah.  I first came to Havurat Shalom in 1978, when I was only 17.  Still nominally orthodox, and becoming a feminist, I did not like mehitzot or exclusion.  It was a terrible frustration for me to be so full of love for Torah, Judaism, God and learning and to be kept from fully participating.
 
I loved coming to the Havurah, where I was called up to the Torah and could hold it in my arms.  I loved being somewhere where I was an equal and included in the minyan.  I loved how haimish and down home the Havurah was and is.  So fun to sit on cushions on the floor and daven and be a part of rather than apart from.  I loved the kavannah, the religiosity/devotion minus dogma.  I wanted inclusion, and got that at the Havurah.  I could be part of, along with all the women and the men.  It's hard to describe being part of something for the first time in my life. I had attended as an outsider/insider since a small child, but I could not truly join in with until I was 17. It had been excruciatingly painful for me to be so excluded.
 
The Havurah felt so life giving to me.  Like a breath of fresh air; it was a mechaya.  It brought me alive again.  It was special to have a place that was both traditional, in that we said most of prayers in Hebrew, yet, at the same time, that was welcoming of women as well as men and of gays and lesbians as well as straight people.  I loved the deep commitment to tradition and devotion, yet openness to women, gays and lesbians and also to people who were not Jewish.  They were welcome too.  I loved how the Havurah was steeped in Jewish language, tradition, history and practice without being insular and forbidding.  A special combination that was perfect for me.
 
I first heard of the Havurah from Sharon Strassfeld, who taught at my Chabad School.  She, Michael Strassfeld and Daniel Siegel wrote the New Jewish Catalogs and helped start the Havurah.
 
The Havurah was started in 1968 by men who were unhappy with the mainstream Jewish Community.  They were involved in The Civil Rights and Anti- Vietnam War Movements.  They wanted something more intimate and deep. They wanted an alternative rabbinical seminary.  Why? Deep interest in Judaism, and also, a way to avoid the draft. The alternative rabbinical seminary never did materialize, though people did study a lot at the Havurah.
 
The founders got a grant and used it as a down payment on the building that became Havurat Shalom.  In those days only men could join and their wives or girlfriends.  They borrowed from the different movements, the devotion of orthodoxy, with the reform spirit of the Reform Movement, the evolving nature of Halacha, Jewish law, of the Conservative Movement. the reconstruction focus of the Reconstructionist Movement and the kavannah of the Hasidic movement.  
 
Women were not originally counted in a minyan until one day, a woman asked the 9 men if they were going to daven. They kind of looked at her sheepishly.  She said, “Well there are 10 people here.” The men looked around and began davening.  That was the start of women being counted in a minyan, and we have not looked back!!  
 
When I arrived in the 70s I loved the lingering 1960s era funkiness:  a shul in a house, with pillows on the ground to sit on and a macrame Torah Cover.  I loved how down to earth it was and how well I fit in.  I often slept over at the Havurah while still in high school.  It was a safe, comfortable place for me where I could be myself.  I certainly did not have this in the orthodox community, where I never felt like I was understood or truly welcomed in any way.
 
In the 70s the community was about half men and half women, and that is when it became fully welcoming of gays and lesbians.  Since I am a lesbian, it meant a lot to me that I was accepted.
 
During the 80s there was a great preponderance of women and a big focus on lesbian feminism.  That is when the Siddur Project started, ultimately writing Siddur Birkat Shalom. The Siddur Project feminized the Hebrew for about half of the siddur, and there was less emphasis on hierarchy and more focus on the immanent aspects of God and the community, as well as less emphasis on punishing evil doers and more emphasis on destroying evil itself.  There was also more acceptance of other religious paths.
 
I kept attending through the years, enjoying the davening and learning and meals and holidays. I believe it was in 1985, after I graduated from college and came home from Israel, that I became a member of the Havurah. 
 
A highlight of Havurah history for me was when we offered sanctuary to Emilio, a refugee from El Salvador.  I was touched that our community was taking in someone who had faced such horror and was refused asylum.  I had heard so much about how awful it was for Jews during the holocaust, who had nowhere safe to go.  I was haunted by the story my Bubbie told me about her favorite sister Beileh, who asked her to send money, so she could flee Hitler.  I asked my Bubbie with great worry, ``Did you send it Bubbie, did you send it?"  And Bubbie said, " It was the Depression, and I didn't have a nickel."  "What happened to Beileh, Bubbie?" I asked in fear, and she said, "Hitler came and that was the end of that." 
 
I was so glad that Emilio would not have the fate of Beileh and so many other Jews during the holocaust.  For me, the lesson of the Holocaust was to save people who were subjected to such cruelty and to offer asylum.  That to me is the lesson of Jewish History, for Jews and for All People.  I felt terribly proud of the Havurah for doing this and grateful to be part of such a wonderful community. 
 
I had the honor of living with Emilio for a few months. It was a great time.  I got to hear him tell his harrowing story of how he ran away, because his family had the chutzpah to ask for things like electricity and running water.  We heard him tell about how he fled across Honduras, Nicaragua, Mexico and how he had been put in a detention center in San Francisco and went on a hunger strike.  I remember how he planted food in the backyard of the Havurah, what a good farmer he was. I saw him use his considerable handyman skills to do work for the Havurah, and I read his poetry,  
 
We also helped Emilio’s family.  A member at that time who was pivotal in the Havurah’s offering Sanctuary, hired a coyote to bring his sister across the border.  His sister stayed at the Havurah for a while too, and gave birth to a baby girl.  Then she was in sanctuary at Temple Beth El in Sudbury.  
 
The Jewish Sanctuary Network was a beautiful thing.  Participating in it is a part of our History/Herstory at the Havurah.
. 
Since The Havurah was and is all about inclusion, we built a ramp to welcome people in wheelchairs or with mobility impairments, as well as educating ourselves about disability rights.
 
I remember so many wonderful meals together, great davening, especially over the High Holidays, when so many people would come, crowdeding into the front hall and spilling out the door onto the porch.  So many “lecha dodis” and “lecha dodati's” on the front steps.  Muslims and Hindus and Pagans all coming to visit.  A Haitian woman coming and telling us about her organization and how it was helping people in Haiti, and a woman telling us about how to help immigrants today by going to court for them and accompanying them. 
 
I left the Havurah in the late 90s. It just was not working for me.  Not sure why, nothing bad, but I kept trying to make it work and it would not.  My membership was on hold for about 15 years.
 
Then Reena Kling, a beloved member of the Havurah, died. Reena embodied everything loving about Judaism. She had a strong, beautiful, mystical spirit about her and she was also practical and stood up to injustice and worked for Tikkun Olam.
 
I went to Reena’s funeral, and I heard a voice saying, “Come back and rejoin.”  I think it was Reena’s Spirit calling me back.  I listened. I had been gone so long that many current members did not know who I was.   I had to go through the joining process like a newcomer.  I frankly was upset. But a friend said, with some heat, “just do what they say, that is a good community.”  So, I did and I have not looked back. 
 
I have led many services, including a Tu b'shvat seder, the High Priest Service on Yom Kippur, did a d’var Torah on the story of Hagar being thrown out of her home, and lead many Shabbat services. I leyned for the first time this year and I give many divrei Torah.
 
Before the pandemic, a friend and I hosted Open Mic dinners and led workshops at the Havurah.  I stay there often, and it is my home away from home.  Other friends have stayed over with me.  I appreciate the welcome we extend to people in the broader community and so do my friends.
 
I have helped with the Havurah’s little free pantry. Sometimes I take fresh food to the homeless in Davis Sq. I participated in an interfaith Peace Service that Havurat Shalom was part of at a local Catholic Church that is predominantly Vietnamese.  My poem was featured in the flier, and we read it during the service.
 
Starting in the 90s, there have been more trans and nonbinary people at the Havurah, who have been welcomed as were gays and lesbians in earlier times.  Now we are changing our liturgy to include some non-gendered references to people and God.  For example, when calling people up to the Torah, we no longer say, “ben” or “bat.” We say “mi beyt,” from the house of, so that trans and nonbinary people can also feel welcome at the Havurah,
 
While there have been many changes through the years, what has not changed is the devotion and kavanah, and the openness towards different kinds of people. We are welcoming to all and our dues are completely affordable to all.  Our services are free, including High Holiday services.  The haimishness, and openness and love of Judaism has not changed.  The commitment to peace and justice and caring has not changed. 
 
We have adapted to the ongoing pandemic. We give tzedakah, do interfaith work, feed the hungry, give clothes and diapers to those in need, stand up for Black people and immigrants and for housing for all.  We are also involved with a community fridge in conjunction with our Catholic neighbors. 
 
This is Havurat Shalom. We invite you to join us to daven/pray, sing, study and celebrate in the 21st century. In a time of anti-Semitism, racism, sexism, transphobia, xenophobia, climate catastrophe, hunger and poverty, we still stand for justice, peace and love and offer a welcome to all.  We would be honored to have you join us.  We know you will be glad that you did and hope you will join your voice and presence with that of our ongoing, beloved Havurat Shalom.  Welcome!