It has always been easy for me to know how old the United States is. I was a “Bicentennial Baby,” born in 1976. Add 200 to my age, and you get the age of the country. With God’s help, I’ll turn 50 in May, and my country, in turn, will be 250 in July.

I don’t know about you, but to me it doesn’t feel like a very happy birthday year for the nation.

Two and a half centuries ago, Thomas Jefferson and his comrades, however imperfectly, planted into the Western world’s collective political consciousness the ideas of human equality and government by the consent of the governed. (As David Graeber and David Wengrow demonstrate in their wonderful The Dawn of Everything, Jefferson and his European antecedents very likely learned some of these ideas from Native Americans. Add it to the many things on the list of what the rest of us owe the original inhabitants of this land.)

They grounded that claim in a conception of the Divine that we recognize from our own Torah: that human beings are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights. Or, as my mentor, Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, so persuasively taught generations of Jews, human beings are created b’tzelem Elohim, in the Divine image. This, according to Ben Azzai, is klal gadol batorah, the Torah’s foundational principle.

That basic idea was and remains revolutionary. From the very founding of the republic, it challenged the practice of slavery—eventually leading to the country’s most catastrophic moment of rupture and, in the same breath, bringing about a profound moment of its redemption. Planted there in the Declaration of Independence, the idea of equality continued to challenge those with and without authority, leading eventually to women’s suffrage, the Civil Rights and Voting Rights acts, and legal equality for LGBTQ folks. And it undergirded the value that all human beings, regardless of their national origin or legal status, are entitled to equal protection under the law. Despite moments—sometimes long moments—of backsliding and repeated failures, increasingly large majorities of people came to trust that the United States and its institutions generally strived to live out the true meaning of its creed.

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, one of the great poskim (halakhic authorities) of the twentieth century in America, identified the United States as a malchut shel hesed, a government that—unusually, and happily—was imbued with kindness. Rabbi Chaim Strauchler summarizes Rav Moshe’s view: “America, uniquely in Jewish history, embedded kindness into its legal and civic structures. Hesed was not dependent on the goodwill of a ruler or the mood of a mob. It was routinized, bureaucratized, and protected by law. For Jews, this was unprecedented: not perfection, but reliability.” Which is to say, the bank of trust that authorizes the government—the consent of the governed—rests on a foundation of Hesed. There have always been groups for whom this description wasn’t true, of course. But the seed of equality, planted at the root of the American project, summoned the country to rise to its challenge.

Thus one of the things that makes this such an unhappy birthday year for me, and perhaps for you, is that this description increasingly seems not to fit reality overall. Arms of the Federal government are flagrantly, even gleefully, violating these values and squandering this trust: ripping people from their homes in the dead of winter, imprisoning children, housing human beings in inhumane conditions, and even destroying images of the Holy One—i.e., killing people (who also happen to be citizens, but I’m not sure that should matter)—who get in their way. They are supported and justified by Administration officials who seem to delight in spreading hate and falsehoods, and have claimed absolute immunity for their actions. And all of them are ultimately authorized by a President who, at the most charitable, I might describe as suffering from incontinence in his speech. “What is worse than doing harm?” the Buddha taught. “To prompt others to do harm.” Or, in our own tradition: “Whoever causes the multitudes to be righteous, sin will not occur on this person’s account; And whoever causes the multitudes to sin, such a person is not afforded the ability to repent” (Pirkei Avot 5:18).

All of that causes me, and perhaps you, a lot of pain. It can lead to fear, to a sense of constriction, to moments of paralysis interwoven with moments of reactivity. And, perhaps most significantly for we who practice Judaism as a mindfulness practice, it can lead to “spiritual bypass,” when we use the tools of mindfulness to acknowledge our fears, but not to take responsibility for doing anything about the state of the world.

To me, this is one of the hardest parts of our practice—and, even more so, of leading a Jewish organization devoted to this approach to Torah in this moment. At IJS, we begin all of our retreats and courses by creating a trust bank, a container in which participants feel safe enough to be vulnerable. We gather deposits into that bank by reading a set of shared norms that we call Making Safer Spaces. The third item in this document reads, “Know that there is genuine freedom in this program. Every invitation to speak and participate is just that: an invitation. Passing or staying quiet is perfectly acceptable. You know best what you need.”

Which is to say, at IJS we mostly avoid using the word “should.” We don’t tell you what to do. We invite you to determine what is right and good for you right now.

That ethic has largely guided how we respond to public events. In 2022 I told our Board of Directors that I was worried about something big happening in the world and us feeling a lot of pressure to sign on to or make a political statement. We hadn’t really prepared for that, and I was concerned we could suffer as a result. So we spent the next year working together as a Board and staff, the result of which was our policy on making and signing statements. Consistent with our approach to “shoulds,” the upshot of our policy is that we generally don’t make or sign onto such statements. Rather, we see our role as holding the container within which all of us can “strengthen our innate sacred capacity to work towards a more just, equitable, and inclusive society and world, and to fulfill our sacred role as stewards of Creation.”

The Board adopted that policy in September 2023, less than a month before October 7. Generally speaking, it has served us well in the years since.

Yet the question of spiritual bypass is always lurking, and as the leader of this organization, I find myself thinking about it frequently every week. It is so important that we help folks to manage their stress and anxiety and to do so through the language and practices of Torah. And it’s so important that we help folks connect with their deep sense of purpose, experience a rich sense of community, and recognize the presence of the Holy One in their lives. I am incredibly proud of us for that. But are we also helping people (me, you) to get off the cushion and act?

One of the ways spiritual bypass can show up is when we tell ourselves, “There’s nothing I can do. Someone else will have to solve this problem.” Part of the clear perception that is a goal of our practice is to discern what the problem is and whether it is ours to solve. Some Jews, it seems, have adopted the position that, in a world where trusted institutions are breaking down, the first and overwhelming priority needs to be Jewish survival: “Let others worry about America, we need to focus on our own protection.” And honestly, I am sympathetic to this argument. As a student of Jewish history, I think that’s a completely reasonable position. Indeed, in many ways it informs the dedication of my life to Torah and the Jewish People. There is no one else to keep the Jewish people alive—it’s up to us.

And yet I cannot give up on America. I can’t seem to shake the belief that there is something profoundly special and important about this experiment that is two centuries older than me. In a remarkable series of essays, my colleague Rabbi Zachary Truboff suggests that it’s the radical notion that, in America, just as in the Torah, we have been born into a covenantal relationship with one another:

We must not forget what America offered Jews. For the first time in their history, Jews could live covenantally within a non-Jewish political community, not as tolerated guests, but as participants in sustaining a shared political world. America’s Constitution, like the Torah, rested on the fundamental principle that power must be restrained by law, for without this, those in charge soon act as if they were gods. But there is a second dimension to covenantal politics that is just as essential: responsibility. A covenant does not perpetuate itself automatically but only endures if those bound by it take responsibility for it again and again. At Sinai, all Jews were made responsible for the covenant with God, and in America, all citizens are responsible for the republic. Neither system functions if its members treat it as someone else’s problem.

Parashat Yitro tells us two stories. There is the story of the Revelation at Sinai, and, before that, the story of Jethro, Moses’s non-Jewish father-in-law, who helps him establish a system of law, judging, and governance. The very juxtaposition of these two stories teaches us about what it takes for a society of humans to live together: a sense of shared experience and purpose, institutions that can maintain the trust of the people, and wise and compassionate leadership, among others.

Jethro tells Moses that the leaders he appoints “will judge the people at all times,” in all moments, as it were. Commenting on this verse, the Seer of Lublin suggests a slightly different reading: “According to the time and the moment will they make judgments and decide the halakha,” the righteous path to take.

In a democracy, every one of us shares an equal piece of the sovereign. That is what makes the Declaration such a radical document, even 250 years later. Power does not reside in a king or an emperor far away, but rather within each and all of us together. And not only political power, but spiritual power: God is not off in some far away place, but within, between, and amidst us.

If we take the Seer of Lublin’s teaching seriously, then the responsibility devolves on each and all of us, individually and collectively: to know what the time and the moment are, to judge, and to act.

We practice so that we can perceive clearly, so that we can know what the time and the moment are. We practice so that we can acknowledge our fears and mindfully, courageously act in spite of them. We practice so that we can live a life of loving and compassionate purpose and devotion, and bring about a world in which every image of God can be safe, free, loved and loving in the deepest sense.

So when I say that IJS is here for you right now, that’s what I mean. If you need comfort, calm, and clarity we are here for you. If you need community, we’re here for you. If you or those you know and care about are afraid for your safety, we are here for you. And, if you’re ready to act, we’re here for you—and I’m glad you’re here for all of us.

For Reflection & Conversation

• What do you notice arising in you as you take in this reflection? If you sit with it, does anything become clearer for you? If so, what and why? If not, why not?

• What supports or inhibits you from engaging in civic life in this moment? How, if at all, does your practice help? How do you try to manage the dangers of spiritual bypass?

This week I’m thinking about three walks. I’ll talk about them in reverse chronological order.

The First Walk
On Tuesday I was walking the dog and listening to a talk by Gil Fronsdal, which he had given two days earlier. Gil prefaced it by saying that it would be a challenging talk, and it was clear he was going to address questions of citizenship and activism in the wake of the killing of Alex Pretti in Minneapolis.

I was struck by a Buddhist poem Gil started with:

Others will be cruel. We will not be cruel.
Others will be violent. We will not be violent.
Others will kill. We will not kill.
Others will steal. We will not steal.
Others will engage in sexual misconduct. We will not engage in sexual misconduct.
Others will lie. We will not lie.
Others will speak divisively. We will not speak divisively.
Others will speak harshly. We will not speak harshly.
Others will speak pointlessly. We will not speak pointlessly.
Others will be avaricious. We will not be avaricious.
Others will have hatred. We will not have hatred

This “poem” is actually a section of a chant drawn from the Sallekha Sutta of the Pali canon. There are 44 total lines, and in the ritual Gil discussed (but didn’t actually do on this recording), it is recited four times successively.

As I listened to this litany, my mind went to a (much shorter) parallel from our own tradition, the prayer of Rabbi Nehunia ben HaKanah, which is traditionally recited today upon completing the study of a tractate of Talmud:

I rise early, and they rise early. I rise early to pursue matters of Torah, and they rise early to pursue frivolous matters. I toil and they toil. I toil and receive a reward, and they toil and do not receive a reward. I run and they run. I run to the life of the World-to-Come and they run to the pit of destruction.

There are obvious differences, of course. But in both cases, what I sense is a kind of affirmation in the face of struggle: We can’t control what other people will do, but we can take responsibility for our own actions—even if great forces stand against us. We have faith in our teachings, our practice, our way of living.

The Second Walk
On Sunday I went with my cousin to a march in downtown Chicago. This was the day after Alex Pretti was killed, and I felt a need and desire to join others and make my own voice heard.

The rally was organized by several groups, not all of whom I necessarily identify with. But, to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld perhaps, sometimes you go to the protest with the coalition you have. In the crowd of several thousand people, I could see a wide range of signs and sentiments. Some were mournful (pictures/names of Pretti, Renee Good, and others who have died or been abused by federal agents in the last year). Some invoked the American revolution (“no kings,” “don’t tread on me”). Some expressed anger and even rage (there was a lot of f*ck ICE). (I also feel a need to share here that the only foreign affairs issue I heard mentioned at the rally came in a chant: “From Minneapolis to Palestine, occupation is a crime.”)

I wore an American flag—literally. I tied it with some rope and donned it like a cape. Normally this is the flag I put up in front of our house on national holidays, and it’s a special flag for me: I received it when I became an Eagle Scout nearly 40 years ago and it had been flown over the U.S. Capitol before that. As I looked around, I observed that virtually the only other American flags I saw were upside-down ones held on flagpoles.

This reflected my experience of a lot of the tone of this particular rally. Unlike the ‘No Kings’ protests last fall, where organizers made a point to encourage people to bring and wear the Stars and Stripes, this one seemed to be more about expressing anger than inspiring a shared vision of the future. I say that without judgment—people are going to feel what they’re going to feel, and undoubtedly a lot of people were understandably experiencing a great deal of fear. I certainly had my own fears, and others were undoubtedly, and understandably, more afraid than me. I believe that for some, that manifested in anger. But my choice to wear a flag was quite deliberate, and I found myself wishing that there had been some more flag-wearers there too.

The Third Walk
The earliest of the three walks on my mind happened not this week, but over 3,000 years ago. It is, of course, our ancestors’ walk through the Sea—which I suspect I am not alone in thinking about in light of this week’s events.

Commenting on both their journey through the parted waters and on the Torah’s description of the Israelites’ constant accompaniment by “a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night,” Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner offers the following in his Mei Hashiloach:

The pillar of cloud signifies Awe (Yirah), and the pillar of fire signifies Confidence/Trust (Bitachon). Sometimes a person feels great security and inner strength—this is the aspect of “Day.” In such a state, one must introduce the attribute of Awe. At other times, a person feels excessive fear—the aspect of “Night.” Then, one must strengthen their spirit with trust in the Holy One. This is the meaning of: “With a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night….” This is why it is written that the Israelites went “on dry land in the midst of the sea,” (Exodus 14:29) and elsewhere “in the midst of the sea on dry land” (Exodus 14:22). The Sea signifies Awe, while the Dry Land signifies Strength and Security. The essence of this strength is the Torah, which is the stronghold of Israel.

I hear in these words a deep and challenging teaching—for me, and I think for all of us. Part of our human condition is that we experience strong emotions: Joy, delight, ecstasy; sadness and melancholy; self-righteousness and anger, among many others. Fear is, perhaps, unique among these in the ways it can overtake us and short-circuit the connections between our heart-minds and our limbs. It can lead us to feel disempowered and immobilized. It can also lead us to rage and violence—whether we are government officials (who, as authorized agents of state violence, must, according to our tradition, be held to a higher standard than regular folks) or ‘merely’ human beings created in the Divine image.

Unlike Buddhism, Judaism is not a pacifist tradition. I don’t want to leave the impression that I’m conflating the two. But I know that for me, and I hope for you and all of us, this is a moment to call upon our spiritual practices to help us stay grounded, to mindfully touch our fears rather than try to force them away, and to choose responses grounded in trust, faith, and love. That is what our ancestors did when they crossed through the sea. May we walk together in their footsteps.

For Reflection & Conversation

• What, if anything, is making you fearful these days? What, if anything, is grounding you in trust?
• What represents the sea for you these days? How, if at all, have you found Jewish spiritual practice to be a source of strength as you walk through it?

I don’t know about you, but for me it’s been a stressful time of late. Not at work so much, but in life. There have been the normal stresses that come with being the “sandwich generation”—parenting kids, caring for aging parents. It’s been oppressively cold in Chicago, which means spending less time outside, and thus feeling more cooped up. And then there’s witnessing what’s happening in my mom’s hometown of Minneapolis, what’s happening in the streets of Iran, what’s happening to big things I—and, I expect you—took for granted, like NATO. So, stress—and understandably so.

It should not surprise you to hear that, despite my regular meditation practice, I’m not perfect. Far from it. While I strive to be a kind, compassionate, and wise person, I have my fair share of short-tempered moments. To be sure, it would be a lot worse without mindfulness. But, human being that I am, I can still get snappy, especially when I’m stressed.

One of the places I’ve noticed that of late has been with our pets. Last summer our cat Trixie (11 years old) had to take liquid antibiotics. The vet gave us a syringe to try to squirt the meds into her mouth. She wasn’t having it. So, while she had eaten dry cat food before, we started giving her wet food, into which we put the antibiotics. That did the trick, but she got hooked on the wet stuff—and she started getting quite vocal about her desires, meowing at us insistently until she got her food. Cats have different types of meows, but frankly none of them are particularly pleasant to my ear. And the behavior has only intensified.

Now, Trixie is just a cat. I could, and probably should, try to “mindfulness” my way to transposing her cries from annoying sounds into something that can evoke my compassion. But I’ve been falling short, and have been kind of pissy with her. (Honestly, I think I’m sharing this with you as a way of making myself accountable to that intention. I’ll let you know how it’s going.)

Similarly with our dog, Phoebe. While I am of hardy midwestern stock, I’m not clueless. When the temperature gets below 20 degrees, I layer up and put on my snow pants to walk the dog. Which makes a dog walk closer to an inpatient procedure than an office visit. Which puts pressure on my time, which causes stress, which comes out in resentment toward the dog. Another opportunity for practice (and again, I’m sharing this in part to keep myself honest).

As Moses angrily tells Pharaoh about the final plague, he includes an intriguing detail: “But not a dog shall snarl its tongue at any of the Israelites, at human or animal—in order that you may know that YHVH makes a distinction between Egypt and Israel” (Exodus 11:9). The Hebrew word translated as ‘snarl’ here is from the root charatz, which means to cut or sharpen, as well as to decide. It would seem the Torah is aiming to evoke the sharp sound of a dog’s bark (like Phoebe’s anytime a siren goes by). 

Rabbi Israel Yitzhak Kalish of Warka (1779–1848) offers a wonderful Hasidic reading of the verse. It plays on the word kelev (dog), which can be revocalized as ka-lev, i.e. “like the heart,” and the word for tongue, lashon, which also means language. Thus: “For the children of Israel there will be no charitz, no division, between their hearts and their words—their language will be like their hearts. When we say in the Haggadah, ‘they did not change their language during their centuries in Egypt,’ this is what we mean, and this is why our ancestors were redeemed.”

One reason I love this teaching is that it reminds us of the truth of dogs, cats, and other animals: they don’t lie. Their expressions are genuine. Phoebe’s happiness when I return home from a trip is unadulterated joy. Trixie’s excitement to be fed—even though the sound of her meow hits me like nails on a chalkboard—is pure. No more and no less.

But a deeper message here is the call to learn from our furry friends: to align our words with our hearts, yes, but also to align our hearts with our words. This is not a merely technical matter of choosing our words carefully. It’s about something more inward: softening our hearts, loosening ourselves from the grip of the external stressors, the meitzarim/forces of constriction, that generate those barriers between our hearts, our bodies, our minds and our words. That is the constant, ongoing spiritual practice of leaving Egypt.

Questions for Reflection & Conversation:

• Is there anyone in your life who has been a model of aligning heart and words? Why are they a model for you? 
• In your own life, how do you experience the relationship between heart and language? What helps you to align them? What prevents you from doing so?