National Scholar Updates

The Dayenu of Grief

by Janet R. Kirchheimer

(Janet R. Kirchheimer is the author of two poetry books, How to Spot One of Us (Clal, 2007) and co-author with Jaclyn Piudik of Seduction: Out of Eden (Kelsay Books, 2022). She is the producer of AFTER: Poetry Destroys Silence, in which contemporary poets confront the Shoah. It was named one of the best films of 2024 by RogerEbert.com. AFTER. Her poems and essays appear in print and in online publications. www.janetkworks.com.)

In every generation, one is obligated to see herself as if she left Egypt. (Exodus 13:8)

My mother died almost a year and a half ago. I was her full-time caregiver for the last four years of her life. As she was dying, I sat with her, spoke to her, watched her take her final two breaths. While waiting for the hospice nurse and the funeral home to come, I told her what was happening, assured her that I remembered the sheet. Ruth, my father’s older sister, gave him a set of white linen sheets to bring to America while she remained behind in Germany trying to get a visa. The sheets were for her trousseau. She was murdered in Auschwitz in 1942.  Seven years ago, my mother told me she wanted to be buried in one of Ruth’s sheets. 

There are days I want to stay in the narrow place that is Egypt, to remain in the darkness.

When the hospice nurse came, she asked if I wanted to send my mother to the funeral home as she was. I said no; we needed to wash and dress her in a nice housecoat. After, the nurse and my brother laid her on the floor. It was my tahara. My mother did her first tahara with her mother when she was 16 and her last when she was 90. Though my mother taught me, I knew I couldn’t do tahara at the funeral home. I waited outside the room and tried to say Tehillim; and when the tahara was completed, I went in to see my mother wrapped in Ruth’s sheet. I shoveled dirt onto her coffin. I sat shiva for seven days. I said kaddish three times each day for eleven months.

I left the life I had, moved home, cooked three meals a day for my mother, and gave her the care she needed. I became her mother when I needed to, advocated for her, signed the paperwork for hospice care at home, signed the DNR. The last words she spoke to me were, “You get some rest.” That was her gift to me: she got to be my mother again, and I got to be her daughter.

There are days I want to stay in the narrow place that is Egypt, to remain in the darkness.

I was supposed to continue with my life; but I wasn’t sure how to do that. Somewhere deep down I knew that my parents had taught me how to go on. They survived the Shoah. My father was arrested on Kristallnacht and sent to Dachau. He was 16. My mother was six years old when the kids in her first-grade class backed her up against a wall at school, threw rocks at her, beat her up, screaming Jude, Jude, Jew, Jew. Her parents got her out of Germany almost a year later to the Israelitisch Meisjes Weeshuis, the Jewish Girls Orphanage in Amsterdam. There were 104 girls. Four survived. The way my parents lived their lives would show me how to live a new life. I just wasn’t ready.

Some days I tried to knit my mother back to life as a sweater I could climb inside of, wrap around and hold me. She learned from her mother and taught me. I don’t have the experience that my mother did. Her tension, the tightness or looseness of stitches, the interaction between needles and yarn, the control and feel in her hands, was perfect. I tried the seed stitch, basket weave, broken rib, twisted moss, but nothing helped. I could not hold a pattern; the stitches remained, stuck on the needle. I could not knit them off; all I could do was move the stitches from one needle to the other. My knitting was loose, loose as my grief. Yarn unraveled into my lap; then fell and covered the floor. My mother knitted with a control learned over many years. Green, her favorite color: I cut a piece of Kelly-green yarn and placed it in her hands as she was dying. I keep that strand with me. 

Some commentators on Exodus 13:8 explain, “In every generation, a person is obligated to show herself, to see her essence, as if she had left Egypt. A person must strengthen their inner spark no matter how low a state one reaches.”  The one thing I knew for certain was that I could never go back to being the same person I was before my mother died. There were days when I could not find any spark. Intense grief is a weighty task, it’s a practice, and I needed to keep in mind Oscar Wilde: “Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground.” I needed to hold my grief, to keep trying to knit the stitches off and, perhaps most importantly, to be patient. It was an interior time when I had to be responsible to my emotions and begin the work of remaking myself. 

And now as the intense grief has subsided, my inner spark, which is everything my parents taught and showed me, is beginning to assert itself most days. Those are the days when I walk to the water’s edge. I dip my toes into the Sea of Reeds, begin to make my way through, and can almost see the waters divide to let me pass. Those days give me strength, soothe me. I don’t expect every day to be like that; and I’m okay with not being okay. That’s part of being in the reeds, of learning to live with grief, not despite it. I know I will grieve for the rest of my life yet get better at making it part of who I will become. 

The word resolve, from the Latin resolvere, means to dissolve, unloose, release. I know my grief will never be fully resolved, but it will loosen. There will be some release; it will happen when it does. In the meantime, I’m enveloped with loving memories of my parents. Often, I feel their presence pushing me forward to carry the past with me and release it at the same time, to begin a new life. 

I have been leaving Egypt gently, gingerly. I will not rush away the grief. Yet, I find myself more and more willing to come out of the darkness and make my way to that edge, walk into the water up to my neck, keep walking as I feel my feet on the ground in the reeds that try to hold me back. I will wait for the Sea to split. Maybe that’s release; maybe that’s redemption from the narrow spaces of Egypt. And maybe that’s enough.

Theology of Friendship

Rabbi Dr. Alon Goshen-Gottstein is the founder and director of the Elijah Interfaith Institute. He is acknowledged as one of the world’s leading figures in interreligious dialogue, specializing in bridging the theological and academic dimension with a variety of practical initiatives, especially involving world religious leadership. While so much of the news focuses on dissension among groups, it is important to be aware of significant efforts to bring people together in friendship and mutual understanding.  Here is a link to a presentation on the work of Rabbi Dr. Alon Goshen-Gottstein.   https://youtu.be/zYw_UBya7YQ

Alon Goshen-Gottstein, In God’s Presence: A Theological Reintroduction to Judaism, Baker Academic Press, Grand Rapids, 2025.

(Reviewed by Rabbi Marc D. Angel)

From its biblical roots to the present day, Judaism is a vast adventure spanning over 3000 years. It encompasses the ideas and ideals of prophets, rabbinic sages, philosophers, mystics and pious folk who lived in different eras, in different lands, under different conditions.  How is it possible to write one comprehensive book (or even a series of books) that can capture all the elements that make Judaism distinctive?

Rabbi Dr. Alon Goshen-Gottstein makes a bold attempt to capture the essence of Judaism in his new book. But he is wise enough to acknowledge that “another author, even one with a similar intellectual and spiritual profile, would combine the elements, establish their associations and draw the composite picture in different ways. There is therefore something very personal in attempting a synthetic presentation of Judaism…” (p.4).  This book is indeed written from the matrix of his personal studies, experiences, and intellectual preferences.  He is an Orthodox rabbi grounded in rabbinic literature, in general philosophy/theology, in Hassidism, and in mystical writings (especially of Rav Kook).

In setting the stage for his presentation, he offers a working definition of Judaism as “the enduring story of Israel’s life in God’s Presence….God’s Presence is the goal, purpose and meaning of its story” (p 47). Throughout the book, he keeps focused on God’s Presence in all aspects of Jewish religious life; he stresses the unique covenant between God and Israel; and he offers “modalities” through which to approach Judaism’s teachings and observances.

The relational modality centers on the personal relationship between us and God. It is based on our living experience of God, rather than on philosophical speculation. The modality of knowledge speaks to our intellectual drive to know God through our study, thinking and philosophizing. The modality of intensification pushes us to a deeper level of experiencing and knowing God, often through mysticism.

Rabbi Goshen-Gottstein writes that intensification is rarely attained among contemporary Jews. “Judaism’s crisis is captured in the fact that, for the greater part of Jewry, the religious life has not advanced beyond the first modality of relationship There is no body of knowledge of God that is taught. There is no science of the day that is correlated to an understanding of God.  There is no contemporary philosophical quest even partially reflective of the kind of engagement that earlier generations exhibited” (p. 98). But unless the scope of spiritual life is deepened, Judaism is “exteriorized,” rather than internalized. 

In his discussion of the central role of Torah study in Judaism, he offers an insight based on his understanding of the covenantal relationship between God and Israel. He views God’s revelation to Israel “not as the communication of one active party to another passive recipient, but as incorporating both parties in a mutually creative, revelatory process through which Torah is made manifest. Torah is thus what is created in the relational matrix of the two covenantal parties—God and Israel” (p. 185).   When we speak of Torah, we not only refer to the Bible but to all the subsequent rabbinic commentaries, interpretations and halakhic rulings.  From this perspective, Judaism is an ongoing and expanding story of a covenantal relationship in which humans share in the unfolding of Torah’s teachings.

In his discussion about prayer, he points out the positive and negative features of formalized prayer services. He emphasizes the need not merely to present our prayers to the Almighty, but to see prayer as a framework for relating to God’s Presence.  “This makes prayer, practiced in the fullness of Divine Presence, a special case of the spiritual reality of the covenant” (p. 215).

God’s covenant with Israel also entails an expansive nature. “A holy people is a people that has the capacity to sanctify others. Israel’s holiness and special status must therefore bear fruit in terms of others. Its election and special holiness place upon it the power, responsibility and mission to extend holiness to others” (p 509). Rabbi Goshen-Gottstein’s discussion of the Messiah and messianic era underscore Israel’s hope for the redemption of humanity so that all can live peacefully and wisely, in the Presence of One God.

In concluding his book, the author notes: “If Israel loses sight either of its union with God or of how it is united with humanity, then it commits a fundamental error, which is the basis of sin, eclipse of Presence, and ultimately Israel’s failure to fulfill its destination. The movement of interiority grounds the unitive knowledge of God in the depths, thereby facilitating the outward quest for unity in humanity (p. 611).

The subtitle of the book is “A Theological Reintroduction to Judaism.”  The author’s goal was to go beyond a simple introduction that presents beliefs and observances. The result is a volume of over 600 pages of heavy reading. This “reintroduction” offers insights and challenges that contribute to the ongoing vitality of Judaism.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Lekh Lekha

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Vayetsei

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“And Jacob awakened from his sleep and said, surely the Lord is in this place; and I did not know it” (Bereishith 28 16).

Sometimes we reach an impasse and are not sure how to proceed. We face new challenges, unexpected setbacks, daunting choices for the future.  We consider this option or that possibility; we consult with others; we think as carefully as we can. But we still feel uncertain. As we agonize over our situation, we admit: I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what’s best.

Our forefather Jacob faced such a crisis, described in this week’s Torah reading. He had to flee his parents’ home for fear that his brother Esau wanted to murder him. He set off to a land he had never been to before, to start a new chapter in his life without a clear idea of how things would unfold. As he was on the road, he went to sleep and had a dream. He envisioned a ladder resting on the ground but reaching to heaven, with angels ascending and descending. When he woke up, he realized he had received a message from God. The Almighty reassured him that he would move forward successfully and receive many blessings.

When we find ourselves in transitional dilemmas, we might draw insights from Jacob’s dream and his encounter with God. The ladder’s legs were on land; i.e. we need to be realistic, grounded in the reality of the world in which we live. The ladder reached the heavens; i.e. we must have great aspirations, a spiritual worldview that transcends the moment. Angels were ascending and descending the ladder; i.e. we must understand that life has ups and downs and that we have the ability to cope with fluctuations if we keep a proper mindset.

When we are at an impasse, we are not likely to receive a prophetic dream as did Jacob. But we can think of our situation as a challenge from God in which the Almighty prods us to be strong, resilient, clear-headed, unafraid. It is as though God places Jacob’s ladder before us and says: will you ascend or descend? Do you have the courage to climb and reach for the heavens?

Personal dilemmas offer us the possibility of personal achievement.  Rabbi Israel Salanter once taught: when most people come to a wall they can’t go through, they stop; when Jews come to a wall they can’t go through, they go through! Perhaps we learned to go through walls by keeping Jacob’s ladder in mind.

“And Jacob awakened from his sleep and said, surely the Lord is in this place; and I did not know it” (Bereishith 28 16).

Thoughts for Thanksgiving 2025

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Israel is in an uneasy cease-fire with Hamas and under constant threat of terrorism and possible war. Anti-Jewish words and deeds have skyrocketed throughout the world. In the United States, we witness anti-Israel and anti-Semitic hatred on the streets, on college campuses, and in the media.

Yes, there are many things that concern us. The “American Dream” isn’t as peaceful and optimistic as it was in past years. 

But we are thankful for America. We are thankful to the Almighty for the many blessings showered upon our country.

We are thankful that the nation’s President has stood with Israel and the Jewish People at this time of crisis. We are grateful for the overwhelming support of Israel and American Jewry by the American Congress and many political leaders on all levels of government. We are grateful for the many millions of Americans who stand with Israel and the Jewish People.

For Jews, as for so many others, America has been—and continues to be—a land of opportunity and freedom. The ideas and ideals of America continue to inspire and to give hope. Without ignoring or belittling the many problems facing the country, we must be grateful for its positive values, its commitment to democracy, and its strong opposition to tyrannical nations.

We pray that those who hate Israel and the Jewish People will overcome their hatred…and reach out sincerely for peaceful co-existence. We pray that Israel and the Jewish People will remain strong, idealistic and humane. We pray for peace in Israel, throughout the Middle East and throughout the world. We pray that all good people everywhere will foster love, not hatred; mutual respect, not enmity; kindness, not cruelty.

Realism demands that we see things as they are. Idealism demands that we see things as they can and should be. We must never let realism block out our idealism. We dream of—and work for—better days.

There are worrying trends in American life. Yet we celebrate Thanksgiving with the faith that the American Dream has the power to maintain our country as a bastion of freedom and democracy. The American Jewish community has made—and continues to make—monumental contributions to American life in so many areas. We are grateful for the blessings of America.

In his famous letter to the Jewish community of Newport in 1790, President George Washington wrote: "May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants--while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid." These are words, expressive of the American spirit at its best, for which we can be thankful.

On April 17, 1818, Mordecai Manuel Noah--one of the great American Jews of his time--delivered an address at the dedication ceremony of Shearith Israel's second synagogue building on Mill Street in lower Manhattan. He closed his talk with a prayer that we invoke this Thanksgiving:  "May we prove ever worthy of God's blessing; may He look down from His heavenly abode, and send us peace and comfort; may He instill in our minds a love of country, of friends, and of all mankind.  Be just, therefore, and fear not.  That God who brought us out of the land of Egypt, who walked before us like 'a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night,' will never desert His people Israel."

Happy Thanksgiving.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Noah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Many years ago, we were visiting friends when one of their sons, about seven or eight years old, came into the room. We chatted with him a bit, and my wife asked him: “what do you want to be when you grow up?” Without a moment of hesitation, he answered: “I want to be a Tzadik.”  Other boys might have answered that they wanted to be baseball players or firemen; but this little boy wanted to grow up to be a righteous Jew, a good man, a Tzadik.

Many years later, this little boy did indeed grow up to be a Tzadik. He is pious, learned, honest; he and his wife are raising their children also to be righteous Jews.

The child had the ingredients to grow into a wonderful man but his parents were the ones who created the home environment that nurtured his talents and gave direction to his life.

In this week’s Torah portion, we are informed that Noah was a Tzadik, a righteous and pure human being who walked with God.  How did Noah achieve this high level of goodness? Obviously. he had innate wisdom and strength of character to be able to withstand the corrupt society in which he lived.  But he also needed to be nurtured by devoted parents.

When he was born, Noah was given that name by his father Lemech, because “he will comfort us (yenahameinu) in our work and in the toil of our hands.” Lemech (and presumably his wife too) somehow sensed that Noah was destined for something special.  They raised him so that he internalized those aspirations.

Good parents create environments that enable their children to flourish. Even the best of parents don’t succeed every time, and even the worst of parents sometimes produce wonderful children. But as a rule, a nurturing home plays a vital part in human development.

To raise a Tzadik, parents must themselves live by the values they wish to convey to their children.  Otherwise, the children will quickly realize that the parents are not sincere, not truthful, not worthy of emulation. 

What’s true of parents and children is also true of rabbis, teachers, and everyone else who wishes to impact on others.  Good role models help generate good followers. Bad role models generate negative results.

When I was a rabbinical student, Rabbi Israel Miller (of blessed memory) told us: “A rabbi’s sermons are meaningful not only for what the rabbi says, but more for who the rabbi is.” If the rabbi preaches charity, but is not charitable; if the rabbi speaks of prayer, but is not prayerful; if the rabbi sermonizes about humility, but is vain and egocentric—then the rabbi’s messages will ring false. An inauthentic rabbi is not—and cannot be—a role model of authentic Judaism.

Noah lived in a corrupt society but was able to be a Tzadik, a pure person who walked with God. This is surely a tribute to Noah’s greatness. But it also is a tribute to Mr. and Mrs. Lemech, Noah’s parents, who provided the spiritual and moral nourishment that sustained Noah…and saved humanity.