“Knowing our roots” means cultivating conscious contact with a deeper source of nurture and support. This core Jewish spiritual practice is embodied by Joseph, the protagonist in the Torah reading cycle which coincides with and follows Hanukkah, and which concludes the Book of Genesis. 

Throughout the story of Joseph and his brothers, he manifests the middah (spiritual/ethical quality) of bitachon, awareness of being implanted in and connected to a source in which he trusts. When Joseph interprets the dreams of the butler and baker in prison and, when he is freed, the dreams of Pharaoh, he insists that God, not he, is the source of their interpretations. According to Rashi, Joseph in effect tells Pharaoh that “the wisdom is not mine, but God will answer and put an answer into my mouth that will bring peace to Pharaoh.” Through his quality of bitachon or trust, Joseph understands himself simply as a conduit, a vessel through which the Divine source will flow. 

Despite the manifold challenges and injustices Joseph experiences throughout the narrative (being sold into slavery, imprisoned unjustly, and forgotten by those on whom he depended) he maintains this awareness of a greater or deeper power operating within him. His consciousness of and trust in this process does not waver, even when its energy leads him into extreme challenges and painful experiences.

Strikingly, throughout the Joseph narrative in Genesis this deeper, greater power is never described as operating overtly. God functions down below the surface, in the roots, never “speaking” explicitly to Joseph or anyone else. The hidden reality of the Divine is clearly present but, as depicted in this the narrative, human beings must acknowledge and draw it out. The character of Joseph illuminates and symbolizes this process of drawing up sacred energy through the roots.  

Joseph is associated in Jewish mystical tradition with Tzadik, one who does that which is right, acting in alignment with the deeper flow of the Divine. The Friday evening liturgy of Kabbalat Shabbat features Psalm 92 (click here for a healing chant by MIRAJ, a trio consisting of Rabbi Geela Rayzel Raphael, Juliet Spitzer, and Rabbi Margot Stein), which concludes: 

tzadik katamar yifrach, 
the righteous bloom like a date palm, thrive like a cedar in Lebanon, 
sh’tulim b’veit Adonai, b’chatzrot eloheinu yafrichu, 
planted in the house of the Holy One, they flourish in the courts of our God.
Od y’nuvun b’seivah d’sheinim v’ra’ananim yehiyu
In old age they still produce fruit; they are full of sap and freshness,
Lehagid ki yashar Adonai, tzuri v’lo avlata bo
attesting that the Holy One is upright, my rock, in whom there is no flaw.

Our roots, planted in the Divine, represent the nexus between ourselves and the deeper Source from which we emerge and which is constantly causing us to flourish. When we grow in awareness of this constant process—when we “know our roots”—then we, like Joseph, can experience a sense of bitachon, trusting in that flow and our ability to draw it up through ourselves into the world. Through this practice, moment by moment each of us has the potential to act as a tzadik, one who does what is right, manifesting the Divine flow, healing and repairing ourselves and our world.

One of the central (and paradoxical) themes of the Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe, is that accepting our mortality opens the gate to personal transformation. The extent to which we make peace with the end of our lives helps us begin to live more fully today.

Moses models this kind of radical acceptance as we move towards the end of the annual Torah reading cycle. The Sages imagined Moses vigorously resisting God’s decree that he should die before reaching the Promised Land, moving progressively through the five stages described by Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in her classic work, On Death and Dying¹: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance.

His ultimate acceptance of his demise enables Moses to request and extend forgiveness to the people he has led through the wilderness – and to praise God, with whom he has been negotiating furiously:

They [the heavenly court] came and said to Moses: ‘The hour has arrived for you to depart from the world.’ He said to them: ‘Wait until I bless Israel, for they have not found contentment from me all my days, because of the rebukes and warnings with which I rebuked them’ … [Moses] said to Israel: ‘I have caused you a lot of grief over the Torah and over the commandments, but now forgive me.’ They said to him: ‘Our Master, you are forgiven.’ Israel also arose and said: ‘Moses our Master, we have angered you a lot and increased the burden upon you. Forgive us.’ He said to them: ‘You are forgiven.’ They came and said to him: ‘The moment has arrived for you to depart from the world.’ [Moses] said: ‘Blessed be the name of the one who lives and abides forever.’²

In accepting mortality, Moses finds a gateway to forgiveness, transformation, and gratitude, rather than being stuck in blaming and bitterness.

Throughout the Days of Awe, we are like Moses, face to face with our finitude. Yom Kippur is a voluntary near-death experience. We rehearse our own deaths and imagine our own eulogies. We wear white or dress in a kittel representing our own burial shrouds. We recite the Vidui, the confession we are to profess before we die, say Yizkor prayers for those we have loved and lost, remember our martyrs, and end the day as we are meant to end our lives, by chanting the Shema. We abstain from food, drink and sex, freeing ourselves from our customary focus on our bodily wants and needs. These practices enable us, like Moses, to attend to deeper, more enduring truths than our own, inevitably bounded physical survival.

A Hasidic teaching observes that Moses’s awareness that he would die before reaching the Land prompted him to see beyond himself and pray on behalf of the Israelites. Earlier in Deuteronomy (3:23), Moses tells the Israelites, “Vaetchanan el Adonai baeit hahi leimor, I pleaded with YHVH at that time, saying….” (Deut. 3:23). Rabbi Mordecai Yosef Lainer of Izbica (1801-1854) interprets this verse as indicating a shift in Moses’s awareness stemming from the finality of his death:

Why did Moses see fit to tell Israel about this prayer? It might appear as if his prayer accomplished nothing! Nevertheless, through this Moses made it known to the people that his prayer became a protection for them: “Even in your undertakings in the Land of Israel I will be your Rabbi, and so throughout the generations.” He demonstrated to them that he accomplished something through his prayer.

We learn this from the word “I pleaded with (va-etchanan)” – which is in the reflexive form. This means that Moses was filled with supplications, and his prayer flowed in his mouth. This signifies that God aroused him to pray, and so surely this prayer will not return unfulfilled. That is signified in the phrase “at that time (ba-eit hahi)”: Moses said, “Even after the Holy Blessed One had sworn not to bring me into Israel, God nevertheless did not prevent me from praying.”³

In this interpretation, the acceptance of death opens Moses’s awareness even more to the needs of others, allowing prayer to rise organically from concern for them rather than from self-service.

Our mindfulness practice is rooted in hitlamdut, curious, non-judgmental attention to the truth of our experience—in this case, our habitual inclinations about our mortality. Some of us lack the luxury of denial and are forced by illness and/or age to confront death. Some of us struggle with depression and suicidal tendencies, and must practice keeping thoughts of mortality in their proper, healthy place. For those of us who devote much psychic energy to avoiding our mortality, the example of Moses teaches us to turn towards that which we would rather avoid.

Psychologist Marsha Linehan describes this capacity for radical acceptance as “the ability to perceive one’s environment without putting demands on it to be different; to experience one’s current emotional state without attempting to change it; and to observe one’s own thoughts and action patterns without attempting to stop or control them.”⁴ Practicing acceptance is an opportunity to turn towards even that which we most wish to deny. We notice the power of our resistance, and apply compassion rather than judgment; we console ourselves by infusing grief with love.

As we move into this season of death and rebirth, may we receive the deep lessons of accepting (without embracing) our inevitable death. May it help us turn with greater urgency towards life, with more clarity, wisdom, and compassion for ourselves and others. May we envision previously unnoticed transformational possibilities and be freed from that which keeps us bound to old, familiar patterns. May our capacity to accept endings engender myriad beginnings within us and our world.

Taking the teaching into practice:

• During the coming Days of Awe, investigate with curiosity your relationship with your own death. Can you notice and investigate any resistance to your thoughts and emotions, without judgment?  Can you hold your pain and fear (which of course are completely natural) with compassion and kindness? 
• investigate purchasing a burial plot (if you don’t have one and intend to be buried), prepare or revise your will, and/or write an ethical will or letter to your loved ones about how you would like to be remembered—or, at least consider each of these, and pay attention to your instinctive reactions.
• Consider taking a walk through a nearby cemetery and seeing what, if anything, shifts within you when you are in close proximity to mortality.

Taking the teaching into prayer practice: Unetaneh Tokef, a prayer featured in the High Holiday liturgy, includes the deeply challenging reference to “who will live and who will die” in the year ahead. It also includes a passage which goes to the heart of accepting our temporality: adam yesodo mei-afar, our origin is dust.  Experiment with this part of the prayer, using this lovely melody (watch and listen here to a melody sung by Cantor Steve Zeidenberg and choir at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah in NYC; for the audio, click here for the same melody sung by Cantor Ayelet Porzecanski; for classical hazzanut, try Cantor Leibele Waldman’s recorded version.

¹Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, On Death and Dying (New York: Macmillan, 1970).
²Midrash Tanchuma, Vaetchanan 6:2.
³Rabbi Mordecai Yosef Lainer of Izbica, Mei HaShiloach on Vaetchanan (trans. Rabbi Jonathan Slater).
⁴Marsha Linehan, Ph.D., Cognitive-Behavioral Treatment of Borderline Personality Disorder, (Guilford: 2018), p. 147.

The holiday of Shavuot, commemorating the revelation of Torah at Mount Sinai, begins this year Sunday night, June 1. It is striking that despite the cacophonous scene of revelation described in the Torah in Exodus 19, there is a stream within Jewish tradition that emphasizes silence as the context for intimate encounter with the Divine.

Rabbinic tradition offers an interpretation that at Mount Sinai, the people heard only the first two of the Ten Commandments: “I am YHVH your God” and “you shall have no other gods beside Me.” A Hasidic tradition asserts that at Sinai the people “heard” only the first letter of the first word—that is, the silent letter aleph.¹

We can understand the experience of revelation at Sinai as consisting of “hearing” only Divine “silence,” the sound of the letter aleph – a concept we find as well in rabbinic literature:

Rabbi Abahu taught in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: When God gave the Torah, no bird twittered, nor fowl flew, no ox lowed, none of the ofanim stirred a wing, the seraphim did not say, ‘Holy, Holy’, the sea did did not roar, no creature spoke; the whole world was hushed into breathless silence and the voice went forth:, ‘I am YHVH your God.’²

The Bible (I Kings 19) relates that the prophet Elijah has a similar experience of revelation when he flees from Queen Jezebel and finds refuge at Mt. Sinai. There, like Moses at the burning bush and the Israelites at Sinai, Elijah “hears God” in the kol d’mama dakah, the “still, small voice”—the sound of silence.

While many of us claim to yearn for more quiet in our lives, in mindfulness practice we often notice how silence can render us uncomfortable and desiring distraction. As we attempt to settle into stillness, we may observe an inclination to “stir things up,” to “entertain” our minds and avoid what we perceive as “boring” or threatening.

As we notice these aversions, we do not judge them or seek to repress them. Rather, we accept them with compassion as part of what it means to be human—as instincts to protect our vulnerable selves—and we allow them to pass. Moment by moment, we let down our guard, slowly surrender distractions, and settle into silence. We become more present, “flush” with our experience in the moment. In such a moment, it is as if we too are standing at Sinai.

In silence, we become acquainted with our more authentic self. The writer Dinty Moore offers this helpful analogy:

The mind is like a bowl of water… sloshing back and forth, spilling out the sides. Most of us have lives like earthquakes, so the water is in constant motion. Add to this the fact that we are always grabbing at the water, struggling to make sense of our brain messages, yet all the grabbing just further churns the liquid. Two things have to happen for the bowl of water to come to rest. First, you have to turn off the faucet, stop all that input. Second, you have to quit grabbing. What happens finally, if you are successful, is that the water settles and… the still water of the mind then becomes a mirror in which you can find yourself.³

In Jewish mindfulness practice, we seek to quiet the inner conversation, to “let the water settle,” and see ourselves as whole human beings, part of the Unity that is God. Harpu u-d’u ki anochi elohim, says the Psalmist [46:11], “be still, and know that I am God.” In stillness, we can discern that Anochi, the “I,” our self, offers a path to deeper wisdom.

As a practice for Shavuot in our incessantly noisy world, we might dedicate time and space to immerse in silence. We might pay particular attention to moments when we seek to avoid stillness or silence, such as by playing the radio or a podcast. Experiment each day with turning off anything that produces sound in such situations; explore, without judgment, habitual reactions of mind and emotion when encountering silence.

You might also practice by inserting a bit more silence into life, seeking out a quiet space or time each day, imagining ourselves as “standing at Sinai,” listening for the kol demamah dakah, the “still, small Voice.”.

Finally, we might practice silence even in the midst of conversation, while listening to someone else, by noticing and releasing the inclination to formulate a response rather than fully attending to the other, instead listening as fully as possible.

At any moment, we can access the inner stillness which brings us back to the foot of the holy mountain, and open ourselves to receive the wisdom being revealed. At any moment, we can be present at Sinai.

¹ Gershom Scholem, the great scholar of Jewish mysticism, comments on the teaching of Rabbi Mendel of Rimanov (d. 1814) in On the Kabbalah and its Symbolism (Schocken: 1965), p. 65: “To hear the aleph is to hear next to nothing; it is the preparation for all audible language, but in itself conveys no determinate, specific meaning. Thus, with his daring statement that the actual revelation to Israel consisted only of the aleph, Rabbi Mendel transformed the revelation on Mount Sinai into a mystical revelation, pregnant with infinite meaning, but without specific meaning.”

² Exodus Rabbah 29:9

³ Dinty Moore, The Accidental Buddhist: Mindfulness, Enlightenment, and Sitting Still (Algonquin Books: 1997), p. 187.

Our core spiritual practice throughout Elul, the final month of the Jewish year, is attending to the call of the shofar.  As we anticipate the upcoming holidays, the anniversary of the October 7 attacks, and the American presidential election, our tradition offers a powerful tool for supporting ourselves and responding wisely to this unsettling time: the shofar, an instrument that helps us realign our inner lives with the underlying rhythm of Being.

We might think of the shofar as a spiritual tuning fork, inviting us to notice its vibrations resonating with the oscillations of our soul, with the kol demamah dakah, the “still small voice” of wisdom implanted within each of us.  The Talmud says that one fulfills the mitzvah of attending to the shofar only im kivein libo, only if one direct’s one’s heart, if one listens with kavannah/intention [Babylonian Talmud Rosh Hashanah 27b].  In attending to the call of the shofar, our intention is to allow its vibrations blasts penetrate our brains, permeate our bodies, and touch =the deepest level of human knowing, beyond intellect and feeling

In our Shofar Project 5784 this month, we will support each other in the practice of attuning to the call of the shofar, grounding our practice in each successive week of Elul in one of four key themes of the shofar:

• • • Awakening the Heart: we will attune to the shofar as a loving tap on our hearts, inviting us to awaken and see the world and our lives with greater clarity and wisdom.
    • Attuning to the Pain of the World: we will attune to the shofar as a lament expressing the inexpressible grief so many of us feel. 
    • Returning to Compassion: we will attune to the shofar as an invitation to practice compassion for ourselves and others. 
    • Transforming into an Instrument of Justice: we will attune to the shofar as a call to manifest hope in the face of despair, resilience in the pursuit of justice and peace.

We can lay the foundation for our Elul practice right now with a simple practice:

Simply pause and be still for a moment.
Breath and bring attention to sensation in the body.
Ground your feet on the planet. 

Notice the inner kol demamah dakah, the still small voice of the soul, ever-present in 

• • • the inner, silent vibrations in our bodies,
    • the pulsations of the blood and the breath, 
    • the ebb and flow of emotions, 
    • the firing of the synapses in the brain, and 
    • the flow of thoughts in the fountain of the mind. 

Our bodies, emotions, and thoughts manifest our spirit or soul – our own personal spiritual instrument, waiting to be enlivened and tuned up for the New Year.  As we move into Elul, join us as we support each other in growing more aware of how the vibrations of the shofar meld with those of our own soul,  awakening us, opening us, softening us – and, we pray, transforming us.

Especially in this deeply fraught and challenging year, Pesach – and the seven week period leading to Shavuot – offers all a precious opportunity for a “spiritual reset.”

This part of the Jewish yearly cycle resonates powerfully with our mindfulness practice, which invites us to explore our inner life with curiosity, growing in awareness of our reactive, fear-based habits. Attending with curious, nonjudgmental attention to the truth of each moment (hitlamdut), we witness more clearly the energy of this “shadow” in our mind, emotions, and body.

And approaching this inner Mitzrayim (constriction) or frightened ego with compassion rather than harsh judgment, we experience greater spaciousness—greater freedom to shift that energy in a more wholesome or holy direction. We move with greater ease through the mouth of the Sea, into the midbar, the open wilderness. We are free.

In particular, Pesach invites us to cultivate greater awareness of the truthfulness in our thoughts and speech, to expand our freedom to direct the sacred gift of language to promoting Emet/Truth in the world.

The Hebrew word Pesach can be parsed into two distinct words—peh sach, or “speaking mouth.” According to a Hasidic understanding, Passover represents the liberation of speech. As slaves, the Israelites could only utter a raw, anguished cry (Exodus 2:23); in freedom, they could sing exultantly the “Song of the Sea” (Exodus 15:1-19).

In the swirling, powerful emotions of our times, even those of us who profess outrage at daily distortions of language and disregard for facts may discover ourselves “bending the truth” to suit our own preconceptions and biases. Mindfulness can help us catch ourselves more often when fear generates rationalizing thoughts or tendencies to fudge the truth. We may notice constrictions leading us to avoid “inconvenient” truths that challenge our preferred version of reality. Instead of harshly criticizing such inclinations, we can honor our fear, practice self-compassion, and notice options to promote truthfulness.

As a specific practice leading up to Pesach, consider the teaching of the prophet Zechariah, who urges us to “speak the truth with your neighbor; judge with truth, justice, and peace in your gates” (Zechariah 8:16). Think of the “gates” as the place within us from which thoughts, emotions, and sensations arise to consciousness. Notice reactions arising, and the speech these reactions might generate. Pause and practice sh’tikah, silence. Consider these questions: Do I really need to say these words? Are they true? Are they just? Do they lead to shalom, to wholeness or wholesomeness?

As we approach Pesach, the liberation of speech, may we be freed from inner constrictions distorting our view of reality. May we pause before speaking, texting, writing or posting, and discern whether to remain silent or to express ourselves through words reflecting our highest and truest selves May Emet, the Divine quality of truth, flow freely through us, and fill the cracks of this fractured world.