Korach 5785: Hit the Drum

Korach 5785: Hit the Drum

Jun 26, 2025 | Blog, Rabbi Josh Feigelson, PhD, President & CEO, Institute for Jewish Spirituality

If you were in band class at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor in the 1980s and 90s, you probably had Robert Albritton for a teacher. And if you had Mr. Albritton for a teacher, you probably remember some of his many colorful sayings. More than 30 years later, my brothers and I still find occasion to recite them to each other. One of our favorites was what Mr. A would occasionally say to a percussionist by way of encouragement: “Young man/woman, Hit the drum! I promise it won’t hit you back.”

Naturally, this phrase came to mind the other night as I attended a moving performance of Giuseppe Verdi’s Requiem with the Chicago Symphony, led by Riccardo Muti. While the entire piece is one of the crown jewels of the classical repertoire, its most memorable section by a mile is the Dies Irae, a truly terrifying piece of music set to terrifying words about the “day of wrath” that will “break up the world into ash” and “how much trembling there will be.” The words are brought to life by the full orchestra, soloists, and double chorus, who perform music that feels like a freight train on a roller coaster at maximum volume, punctuated by the repeated thunderous booms of two bass drums and the tympani played as loud as humanly possible. Mr. Albritton would love it. (And kids, I can testify with my own eyes: the drum did not hit back.)

While the piece contains many moments of beauty that offset this fire-breathing energy, theologically speaking the Dies Irae is pretty representative of the liturgical text of this requiem mass overall. The view of the Divine that Verdi presents here is not, on the whole, a comforting one: It’s a lot of Day of Judgment, prayers for salvation from a fiery fate and the like, concluding with the words of the Libera me, “Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death on that awful day. Deliver me.” While we have some of this kind of thing in traditional Jewish liturgy (most notably, perhaps, on Rosh Hashanah), on the whole the portrait of God presented here lands as a striking contrast to the gentler, more loving, less judgmental, and less angry conception that predominates much of contemporary Jewish theology—including the approach we teach here at IJS.

Which makes sense. I mean, today we can choose what kind of service we want to go to—or even make for ourselves. And while Verdi’s music is breathtaking, it’s hard for me to imagine many folks in my world vibing with a vision of the Divine as a terrible, destructive force. To put it crassly: that view of God just isn’t good for business.

And yet, as I write these words, there is terror and violence all around. A war has just taken place between Israel and Iran involving weapons whose destructive power were unimaginable in Verdi’s time. And that war comes on top of a war between Israel and Hezbollah, which of course came on top of the ongoing war in Gaza, with its enormously devastating toll. Which of course came on top of the October 7 massacre. And this is to say nothing of the terrors of ICE raids and deportations, or attacks on vulnerable minorities (including Jews) here in the US, or the fear and trembling at the destructive power of Mother Earth in the form of tornados and hurricanes and punishing heat waves, all of which we have managed to make even worse through our own collective action and inaction.

While we may listen to Verdi’s Requiem and think, “Well that’s not a very sunny view,” all we have to do is take a look at the news and we might find ourselves saying, “Maybe he wasn’t so wrong.”

Parashat Korach is not only about the story of a rebellion against Moses. At its heart lies the latent terror that can be present in the collective human encounter with the Divine, with the source of life—which is also the source of death. In this Torah portion we read of the earth swallowing people up and sending them down to she’ol, and a plague of Divine wrath that takes the lives of 14,000 people. At its core, perhaps, is the people’s anguished cry to Moses: “‘Lo, we perish! We are lost, all of us lost! Everyone who so much as ventures near YHVH’s Tabernacle must die. Alas, we are doomed to perish!” To paraphrase, perhaps: How are we supposed to do this—to live together with the Holy One in our midst, to trust our leadership and one another? We can’t seem to pull it off.

In response, the Torah offers us a system of social-spiritual order: The kohanim will be specialists in God-service, as it were, assisted by the Levites, so to that the whole camp can function without further risk of plagues and death. (Note: Ibn Ezra comments that this whole episode comes out of order, and in fact occurred before the people left the wilderness of Sinai.) In exchange for receiving special gifts from the people, God instructs that the Aaron that “you and your sons alone shall bear any guilt connected with your priesthood.”

This is a solution, of course, but it’s far from perfect. Leaders who are granted power and privilege then face their inevitable temptations—which can just lead to a repetition of the cycle that started all of this to begin with. This leads Rabbi Kalonymos Kalman Epstein (1753-1825) to interpret this charge to the kohanim this way: “You must always mindfully tend to the concern that you are doing this sacred service for your own glory and enjoyment. You must regularly engage in deep discernment as to whether your intention is aligned with that of the Creator.” And, being a Hasid, Rabbi Epstein sees this as not only the work of the kohanim, but, in the nascent democratic spirit of the age in which he lived, the spiritual labor of us all.

It seems to me that a good deal of that regular practice of reflection and discernment involves touching in with our fears and acknowledging them: fears of violence, death, destruction, and loss, or even of their less extreme expressions—fear of rejection, humiliation, not belonging. The embers of these fires are ever-present—that comes with being human—so we can show ourselves some compassion for having them. Yet I would suggest the work that we are called to do is to acknowledge those fears and then choose life-giving responses—in our words and our actions. I think that’s what Verdi did with his music, and I bless us all that we may do it with the music we make too.

Shabbat Reflection – Shelach 5785

Shabbat Reflection – Shelach 5785

Jun 20, 2025 | Blog, Rabbi Josh Feigelson, PhD, President & CEO, Institute for Jewish Spirituality

A few months ago, my dear friend and synagogue rabbi Ari Hart delivered a sermon that opened with a critique of an aspect of some (perhaps a lot?) of contemporary mindfulness practice: nonjudgmental acceptance. Now, I hasten to add that Ari is a participant in our Clergy Leadership Program cohort that launches next month, and he was not offering this critique to knock Jewish spiritual practices grounded in mindfulness. He was pointing out something on which, frankly, I agree with him: The Torah and Judaism aren’t simply about accepting what is, but about changing our lives and the world to what they can and should be. If we’re going to practice mindfulness, it should be in the service not just of acceptance of what is, but bringing about what might be.

I don’t think that should be a controversial statement, yet I imagine it might prompt at least a moment of going, “Huh” in our minds. It should come as no surprise that as mindfulness practice has become commercialized it has emphasized the self-acceptance element—”You are absolutely perfect, just as you are”—and de-emphasized the self-improvement aspect—”with room for improvement,” as Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, founder of the San Francisco Zen Center, was known to teach. The former is good for sales; the latter, not so much.

Twenty years ago, when I was a freshly minted rabbi who just arrived in Evanston to work at Northwestern University Hillel, I came up with the idea of hanging a banner to advertise for the High Holidays. Intuitively, I decided to put a question on the banner, rather than just making an announcement: “What will you do better this year?” While the banner got a lot of positive response, one of the other staff members came to me with some concern: “I’m worried about the word ‘better.’ It’s kind of judgmental. It might push people away. What about ‘What will you do different this year?'” I responded, “It’s called the Day of Judgment. It’s okay to be judgmental.” (I was younger and brasher then.) Clearly this tension between non-judgmental acceptance of what is and gentle judgmental aspiration of what might be isn’t a new conversation.

A keyword in Parashat Shelach (Numbers 13:1-15:41) is the verb latur. “Send people to scout (latur) the land,” the Holy One tells Moses (13:1). He does so, and in his charge he elaborates on the mission of scouting: “See what kind of country it is” (13:18). The scouts are meant to take an honest look at the land and its inhabitants and bring back a report. They do so, of course, but famously they add their own commentary, full of judgmentalism and self-doubt: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its inhabitants. All the people that we saw in it are of astonishingly great size… We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them” (13:32-33). We know what comes next: the imposition of a 40-year period of wandering in the wilderness, so that the entire generation of the Exodus might die off.

Yet the word latur comes back at the very end of the Torah portion, in the mitzvah of tzitzit. By looking at them, the Torah says, v’lo toturu, we should be reminded not to follow after our hearts and our eyes “in your urge to stray” (15:39, JPS translation). Rashi, following the Midrash, connects this instance of latur with that of the scouts. As Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav puts it: “They are a method of self-rebuke, reminding us to fulfill the mitzvot and not simply follow the desires of our hearts and eyes.”

We can interpret these words harshly, as though they involve discounting and denying bodily sensations altogether. But I think that misses the point. The larger message here, it seems to me, is that our spiritual practice is meant to help us see clearly—both what is present in our mind-hearts and, gently, what of that which is present is not serving us well.

Thank God, we are created with desires generated by our bodies and our hearts. We have emotions, we have thoughts, we have imaginations, and we are able to experience an incredible range of feelings and sensations. The point of mindfulness practice in a Jewish idiom is to see all of these things clearly—so that we can make choices that reduce harm and suffering and, wisely and skillfully, bring about something better than what might be right now.

Rabbis, Cantors, and Kohanot Seek Spiritual Renewal in Mindful Practice

Rabbis, Cantors, and Kohanot Seek Spiritual Renewal in Mindful Practice

Jun 17, 2025 | Blog

Announcing the 2025-2026 Cohort of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality’s Clergy Leadership Program

On July 20, 42 Jewish spiritual leaders from around the world will gather at the Pearlstone Retreat Center to meditate, pray, sing, study, and practice mindful movement, kicking off the Institute for Jewish Spirituality (IJS) 2025-2026 Clergy Leadership Program (CLP).

With nearly 600 alumni now bringing mindfulness practices to synagogues, campuses, schools, organizations, and communities throughout the country, IJS’s flagship course has been reshaping the landscape of American Judaism—one “mindful moment” at a time.

The clergy of the CLP will spend the next 18 months together, in person and on Zoom, learning and practicing a variety of Jewish spiritual practices grounded in mindfulness in a supportive community of practice. The goal is to nurture their spiritual lives, foster greater calm and resilience, and expand their skills in cultivating consciousness and character in their leadership. They’ll also learn to embody mindful Jewish spiritual practice in their communities, fostering greater spirituality and wellbeing for everyone.

One of the cohort members, a freelance rabbi and community builder, looks forward to “being able to have a stronger mindfulness practice—to ground me, to allow me to embrace the magic, to help others to do the same.” This program, she says, would provide connection, structure, and a vessel for growth for me as I create the next season of my rabbinic work and life.”

A wide spectrum of leadership

The 2025 cohort includes an array of ordained rabbis, cantors, and kohanot (Hebrew priestesses) in positions of spiritual leadership—as synagogue clergy, educators, Hillel professionals, activists, ritualists, executives, and entrepreneurs. They span the denominational spectrum and serve communities across the U.S., Israel, and Europe.

The Institute for Jewish Spirituality celebrates the diversity of this group, which includes Jews of Color, Mizrachi and Sephardic Jews, LGBTQ+ folks, people with disabilities, and individuals with a range of political perspectives.

The program will include affinity groups led by faculty who hold each identity, and will feature an updated curriculum incorporating more teachings from people with historically marginalized identities alongside traditional Jewish text. IJS is working to further refine a pedagogy of inclusion that enables each participant to feel that they are being held and cared for in the fullness of their humanity, that their spiritual needs are being met, and that their unique living Torah can inspire and elevate us all.

Learning to lead through wholeness

The core practices of the program—prayer, song, chant, meditation, embodied practice, tikkun middot (character refinement) practices, and Torah study—are informed by various strands within the Jewish mystical tradition and serve to deepen participants’ spiritual awareness, authenticity, equanimity, self-compassion, and resilience.

When clergy learn to practice mindful leadership, enriched by Jewish wisdom, they can more skillfully engage their inner lives as a powerful force for personal and collective transformation. By leading from a place of inner wholeness, clarity, balance, and love, they can more readily give of themselves and guide the spiritual evolution of others.

CLP alumna Cantor Kerith Spencer-Shapiro, said of her experience:

“The CLP… cohort changed my clergy life, reinvigorating and lifting up my personal prayer practice and allowing me ‘permission’ to bring together all of the spiritual elements of my whole person. I am ever grateful to IJS for continuing to be a foundational part of who I have grown into as a clergy member and meditation teacher.”

The program faculty includes Rabbi Sam Feinsmith, Kohenet Keshira haLev Fife, Rabbi Miriam Margles, Rabbi Dorothy Richman, and Cantor Lizzie Shammash—each of whom is a seasoned teacher of Jewish spiritual practices grounded in mindfulness.

A balm for overcoming burnout

Beyond catalyzing Jewish spiritual renewal, the program is designed to meet a pressing need: Many clergy describe feeling depleted and overwhelmed after leading through years of turmoil from COVID, political strife, the ongoing war between Israel and Hamas, and rising antisemitism worldwide.

Kohenet Amanda Nube, a Jewish educator at Chochmat HaLev, a Jewish Renewal congregation in Berkeley, California, wrote: “I think being in a cohort of mindful Jewish clergy at this moment, in this year and coming years, is what we ALL NEED. Cultivating mindfulness of our strengths, our weaknesses, and our leadership could not be more critical for me personally at this very moment in time and history.”

IJS will tailor the 2025-2026 curriculum to hold participants amidst their pain and overwhelm, and help them refill their inner reservoirs, restore their balance, deepen their resilience, and lead with greater clarity, responsiveness, and courage.

For many, this is a sanctuary of self-care after years of caring for others, and an opportunity to revitalize their service with enriched resilience and a sense of sacred purpose.

At a recent convening of CLP alumni, Rabbi Naamah Kelman, herself an alumna of the program and former Dean of Hebrew Union College/Jewish Institute of Religion in Jerusalem, urged clergy to nurture themselves before serving others: “In these moments of darkness and despair,” she said, “I think we need to—as clergy, as caretakers, as leaders of our community—find that place of light within ourselves.”

The members of CLP 2025-2026 are ready to do just that:

Cantor Tracy Fishbein, Cantor at The Temple, Congregation Ohabai Shalom, in Nashville, Tennessee, wrote: “Like many in 2024, I find myself often overwhelmed and exhausted by the constant giving of myself to those in both my personal and professional lives. I am hopeful that this program can give me some tools to cope with the overwhelm and reconnect with my own holy spark that is sometimes lost in the work that I do. I am hopeful that this program will allow me to grow my patience for my children, colleagues, and congregants.”

Preparing for the next generation of Jewish engagement

IJS is also preparing clergy to inspire the next generation of young people to connect to Jewish life in new and sacred ways. At a time when many Jewish communities are shrinking, IJS is growing—and that’s because there’s more interest in the healing power of Jewish mindfulness than ever before, especially among youth.

Jes Heppler, one of the young IJS leaders, said: “IJS is meeting a spiritual hunger that many young people have today—the desire to figure out what Judaism should look like in our lives.”

By helping clergy tap into this yearning and nurture it across the U.S. and abroad, IJS is building on this valuable momentum and sparking a resurgence of contemporary Jewish spiritual life.

IJS is particularly grateful to the Righteous Persons Foundation and the E. Rhodes and Leona B. Carpenter Family Foundation for their support of the Clergy Leadership Program.

2025-2026 CLERGY LEADERSHIP PROGRAM COHORT

Lisa Arbiser – SAJ: Judaism That Stands For All (New York, NY)
Caryn Aviv – Judaism Your Way (Denver, CO)
Rachel Barenblat – Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (Williamstown, MA)
Deana Berezin – Temple Israel (Omaha, NE)
Vera Broekhuysen – Congregation Beth El of the Sudbury River Valley (North Andover, MA)
Daniel Burg – Beth Am Synagogue (Baltimore, MD)
Cornelia Dalton – Westchester Jewish Center (Westchester, NY)
Devorah Felder-Levy – Congregation Shir Hadash (Los Gatos, CA)
Tracy Fishbein – The Temple, Congregation Ohabai Sholom (Nashville, TN)
Andy Gordon – Bolton Street Synagogue (Baltimore, MD)
Yosef Goldman – Freelance Spiritual Artist (Brooklyn, NY)
Ari Hart – Skokie Valley Agudath Jacob (Skokie, IL)
Jordan Hersh – Beth Sholom Congregation (Frederick, MD)
Jennifer Kaluzny – Temple Israel (West Bloomfield, MI)
Lindsay Kanter – Temple Emanuel (Kensington, MD)
Talia Kaplan – Congregation Beth Shalom (Overland Park, KS)
Georgette Kennebrae – Freelance Rabbi and Community Builder (Porto Santo, Portugal)
Todd Kipnis – Temple Shaaray Tefila (New York, NY)
Chaim Koritzinsky – Congregation Etz Chayim (Palo Alto, CA)
Judy Kummer – Freelance Lifecycle Officiant, Spiritual Care Counselor, Eldercare Programming (Boston, MA)
Sari Laufer – Stephen Wise Temple (Los Angeles, CA)
Arielle Lekach-Rosenberg – Shir Tikva (Minneapolis, MN)
Andrew Mandel – Central Synagogue (New York, NY)
Rachel Marks – Temple Beth Israel (Skokie, IL)
David Markus – Congregation Shir Ami (Greenwich, CT)
Oded Mazor – Kehilat Kol HaNeshama (Jerusalem, Israel)
Steven Nathan – Lehigh University Office of Jewish Student Life (Bethlehem, PA)
Amanda Nube – Chochmat HaLev (Berkeley, CA)
Sam Rosen – Congregation Beit Simchat Torah (New York, NY)
Benjamin Ross – Temple Shaaray Tefila (White Plains, NY)
Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi – Har Sinai-Oheb Shalom Congregation (Baltimore, MD)
Josh Schreiber – Congregation Agudath Achim (Taunton, MA)
Michael Schwab – North Suburban Synagogue Beth El (Highland Park, IL)
Philip Sherman – BJBE (Deerfield, IL)
Ariana Silverman – Isaac Agree Downtown Synagogue (Detroit, MI)
Bradley Solmsen – Park Avenue Synagogue (New York, NY)
Danielle Stillman – Middlebury College (Middlebury, VT)
Marcia Tilchin – Jewish Collaborative of Orange County (Orange County, CA)
Naomi Weiss – Congregation Kol Shofar (Sausalito, CA)
Harriette Wimms – The JOC Mishpacha Project (Baltimore, MD)
Ariel Wolpe – Ma’alot (Atlanta, GA)
Lana Zilberman-Soloway – Congregation Or Ami (Westlake Village, CA)

Josh in Conversation with Yiscah Smith

Josh in Conversation with Yiscah Smith

Jun 13, 2025 | Blog

We are grateful to Yiscah Smith for sharing her insights with us. Please enjoy the conversation recording.

Renowned spiritual teacher and author Yiscah Smith has spent a lifetime guiding seekers toward deeper authenticity, inner peace, and connection with the Divine. In her newest work, Planting Seeds of the Divine, she offers a rich and soulful roadmap for cultivating God-consciousness from within, drawing on centuries of Jewish wisdom and her own lived experience. If you would like a copy of Yiscah’s book, you can purchase it here.

Beha’alotcha 5785: And/or

Beha’alotcha 5785: And/or

Jun 13, 2025 | Blog, Rabbi Josh Feigelson, PhD, President & CEO, Institute for Jewish Spirituality

Like millions of people, earlier this spring I binge-watched the second and final season of Andor, the Star Wars TV series starring Diego Luna as the titular character: a reluctant, yet willful and highly effective agent in the growing rebellion against the Empire.

For many Star Wars fans, Andor is probably the greatest thing the 48-year old franchise has ever made. The quality of the scripts, acting, and production value is exceptional. And it’s unusual in the Star Wars universe: Over two seasons, we see not a single light saber, no Jedi, no Darth Vader (even though he is alive and kicking at this point in the timeline). Rather than tell the story of leaders at the highest levels of institutional power (emperors, lords, princesses), Andor mostly focuses on life at more mundane—but, it turns out, no less important—registers: bureaucrats who execute the Empire’s policies, soldiers conscripted into military service, farmers and businesspeople and retired mothers who just want to live their lives in peace.

You can read about all of this in other places, and of course you can watch the show yourself (with a Disney+ subscription). But one thing I have found myself wondering about is the name of the show and Luna’s character. My own read is that the name Andor should, perhaps, be read with a silent slash: And/or. Because I think that’s part of what the series is getting at: The coexistence of simultaneous truths and experiences, the possibilities and limits of our choices, the promise and peril of our agency. Some things in life are “and”—they’re just true, no matter what, though they may only become “and”s to us when we’re aware of them—and some things are “or”s: options, possibilities, things that could otherwise be true or not true, things we may bring about by our choices or that may be chosen for us. Part of the point of Andor (or, “And/or”), it seems to me, is to complicate what may feel like a simple story line of rebels (=good) versus Empire (=evil) by showing how all of these big concepts are made up of individuals and their manifold contradictions.

This brings us to Parashat Beha’alotcha, which, as much as any Torah portion, moves in this space of both-and. Famously, the parasha is divided into three sections: Before Numbers 10:35, after Numbers 10:36, and the two verses in between, which are bracketed and, according to the Talmud, counted as their own “book.” In the first section, the people make their final preparations to leave Sinai, and then journey forth “by the word of YHVH.” There is, seemingly, perfect alignment and attunement between the Divine and the entire Israelite camp.

In the third section, we experience what has always felt to me like a Bizarro version of the story: “The people took to complaining bitterly before YHVH,” it begins (JPS translation). “YHVH heard and was incensed: a fire of YHVH broke out against them, ravaging the outskirts of the camp. The people cried out to Moses. Moses prayed to YHVH, and the fire died down.” If there is an opposite to perfect alignment and attunement, this seems like it. And, of course, from here it’s one story of complaining, fighting, and suffering after another. It reads like a photonegative of the previous 10 chapters.

Yet perhaps take note of that little story (but, if we pause long enough, we may realize, not so little—it could certainly be an episode in a Disney series on Numbers) of the fire breaking out. Note what happens: “The people cried out to Moses”—not the Holy One directly—and “Moses prayed to YHVH and the fire died down.” Here is Rashi, quoting the Sifrei: “A parable: This may be compared to the case of an earthly king who was angry with his son, and the son went to a friend of his father and said to him, ‘Go and ask forgiveness for me from father!'” Rashi highlights the breakdown in relationship, trust, and communication that brings about this result that nobody really wants, as if the Israelites and the Creator have become middle schoolers reduced to passing notes. How far they have all fallen together.

Eventually, Moses himself unloads on the Holy One. In response, the Divine brings about a sharing of the burden. And here we get the seeds of another potential side-series off the central canon: “Two men, one named Eldad and the other Medad, had remained in camp; yet the spirit rested upon them—they were among those recorded, but they had not gone out to the Tent—and they spoke in ecstasy in the camp” (11:26). What was meant to be an ordination only to an authorized set of 70 elders winds up touching lives beyond the boundaries. The Divine spirit, it seems, cannot be fully contained. The story as it was meant to be is not the only story that winds up happening.

While that’s always true, it feels especially so today. Between the time I write this and the time you read it, the headline stories will likely have shifted. Wherever we live, violence may have broken out. Protesters, soldiers, bureaucrats, and regular folks may have confronted choices about reading their situation as “and” or “or,” and, concomitantly, dilemmas about whether and how to speak, act, be. As Andor reminds us, the work of making, unmaking, and remaking the world (or the galaxy) doesn’t only sit with those who hold institutional power—it is work that belongs to all of us.

The middle “book” in this parasha is a two-line poem about when the Ark would begin to travel and when it would come to rest. That is, it is about the constant going out and coming in, journeying away from home and finding our way back to it, a beating heart of the Torah and of our own lives. Perhaps it comes to remind us that you and I are constantly discerning between “and” and “or,” constantly dancing with the storyline of our individual and collective lives, constantly breathing out and in. Our spiritual practices can support us in navigating that journey of discernment. May they be that for us now, and may we support one another in mindful and courageous speech and action.

Naso 5785: “Zalman, what’s become of you?!”

Naso 5785: “Zalman, what’s become of you?!”

Jun 6, 2025 | Blog, Rabbi Josh Feigelson, PhD, President & CEO, Institute for Jewish Spirituality

One of my favorite jokes in the (heilige/holy) Big Book of Jewish Humor is the one about a man from Warsaw who is in Chelm on a business trip. As he walks down the street, he’s stopped by Yossel the chimney sweep.

“Zalman!” cries Yossel. “What happened to you? It’s so long since I’ve seen you. Just look at yourself.”

“But wait,” replies the stranger, “I’m—”

“Never mind that,” says Yossel. “I can’t get over how much you’ve changed. You used to be such a big man, built like an ox. And now you’re smaller than I am. Have you been sick?”

“But wait,” replies the stranger, “I’m—”

“Never mind that,” says Yossel. “And what happened to your hair? You used to have a fine head of black hair, and now you’re completely bald. And your mustache, so black and dapper. What happened to it? You know, I don’t see how I ever recognized you. Zalman, what has become of you?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” the man replies. “I’m not Zalman.”

“Oy,” replies Yossel. “You’ve gone and changed your name as well!” 

Aptly, you can find this tale on the internet as a case study of the humor trope “thoroughly mistaken identity.” Part of what makes it such a successful joke (you have to admit it’s hilarious) is that, like most really effective humor, it touches a deep vein in our human experience. In this case, that vein is perhaps the profound contingency of recognition. While “Zalman,” who is already traveling, does not seem to experience dislocation, Yossel invests everything into making this man into someone he recognizes. He’s so committed to that story that he never gives it up, even when “Zalman” tells him, “I’m not Zalman!” That is, Yossel is so invested in this stranger being Zalman that he denies both the truth (he’s not Zalman) and the most logical explanation for the man’s claim (the problem is in his own perception).

This issue of recognition came to mind earlier this week as I read the Book of Ruth over Shavuot. In the second chapter, Boaz spots a stranger gleaning in his field. This itself isn’t a problem–the produce that falls to the ground during reaping (leket in Hebrew) is specifically designated by the Torah for the poor. But when Boaz inquires of the young man supervising the harvest, “Who does that girl belong to?” he responds with more information than Boaz asked: “She’s a Moabite who returned with Naomi,” he tells Boaz. This immediately injects some tension into the scene, as leket is technically reserved only for the Israelite poor. (The Rabbis of the Talmud clarify later that the practice is to support the non-Jewish poor alongside the Jewish poor “for the sake of peace.”)

In one of the many moments of exemplary hesed in the book, Boaz tells Ruth that she is more than welcome to continue to glean in his field, that he has ordered everyone else to be good to her, and that she’s even invited to drink from the water that the workers have drawn. Ruth, seemingly overcome, falls on her face and says to Boaz, “Why are you so kind to me? You have recognized me even though I am a stranger!” (2:10) The English here doesn’t do it justice. The last three words of Ruth’s statement in Hebrew are pure poetry: l’hakireini v’anochi nochria. 

In many years of reading Ruth, I don’t remember these words jumping out at me the way they did this year. l’hakir—to recognize—and nochria—foreign woman or stranger—share the same letters: nun, kaf, and yod. And while they may not be technically related etymologically, they are undoubtedly drawn together here to point up the deep intertwining between them. Because what is that makes or unmakes someone as foreign, strange, different? Recognition or lack thereof. A stranger is a stranger until we realize, or decide, that they aren’t. With the act of recognition, we transform the unknown into the known. Boaz, holding the power of recognition in his word, brings Ruth over a hidden but no less powerful border.

Reading Ruth on Shavuot always comes at the time we read Parashat Naso, which, like the larger opening of the Book of Numbers, is concerned with establishing boundaries and distinctions: In the camp, between the tribes, down to the intimate lines that delineate trust and distrust in marriage (see: Sotah) and the ways we can make ourselves, temporarily, into a different kind of social-spiritual being (see: Nazir). Yet the story of Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz lingers in the background, like an earlier movement in a symphony. As we consider all these ways that structure is imposed, that story might prompt us to be sensitive to the ways in which those structures–who is in and who is out, who is a stranger and who we consider known–are made and sustained, and how they are undone and refashioned.

Naso culminates in a twelve-day official parade, with each head of tribe bringing an identical offering of riches to fully inaugurate the altar of the Mishkan. We can imagine the newspapers of the day covering the pomp and pageantry. Similarly, Ruth culminates by situating its heroes in a grand genealogy that links its protagonists with their eventual descendant, King David.

Yet I think both Ruth and our Torah portion also call us to look far beyond the headlines, to the more quotidian levels on which we live our daily lives. They ask us to consider, mindfully and reflectively, some timeless and timely questions: Who do we recognize and treat with hesed, and who do we call a foreigner and treat more harshly? What does it take for us to trust, and to earn the trust of others? And what might we do to bring about a world in which we can all feel safe enough to practice the hesed of our exemplary forebears?