From what time?

The new Daf Yomi cycle started yesterday. Jews around the world opened the first volume of the Talmud, Blessings, and studied the first page.

“From what time do we read the passage ‘Hear, O Israel…’ in the evening?”

There is a lot to unpack in that first question, and I want to dwell on it for a moment. We think of Judaism as many things — a religion, a culture, an ethnos — but what the opening of the Talmud silently establishes is that Judaism is a way of experiencing existence.

“Hear O Israel” — the Shema — is not a prayer. It does not address God, it is Moses addressing us. It does not supplicate, it does not praise, it is not a devotion. It is our foundational text. It tells us that Hashem is our God, that Hashem is singular and unique, and so on. It is a self-propagating text, commanding us to recite itself twice daily and to propagate it to future generations. It is our oldest meme.

And this opening question, along with the following discussion, establishes several additional essential points.

First, that there is a right way and a wrong way to perform the act of reciting this passage. Say it at 5:23pm (on a particular day at a particular location) and you have fulfilled your obligation. Say it at 5:22pm (on that same day at that same place) and you have done nothing. This is not idle pedantry — it establishes our worldview that in all our actions, it is important to know where the boundaries of effective and ineffective behavior lie. We will encounter this idea over and over in the next 7.5 years — how much does one have to eat to fulfill this commandment or to be in violation of that one? At what point in a purchase and sale is ownership transferred?

Second, the passage continues by bringing down three conflicting opinions regarding the latest time when reciting the Shema is efficacious. This establishes our worldview that there can be multiple approaches to any of these questions, and as long as they are grounded in the traditional sources and traditional exegetical processes, “both these and those are the word of the living God.” We do not insist on unanimity, we do not speak with a single voice, but we respect those whose answers are different from ours, we record all answers for posterity (including those whose foundation turns out to be insufficient), and use them to deepen our own understanding of the thread we follow.

Third, the passage relates the times through the actions of various classes of people and the kind of food they eat: Priests, who eagerly await the time when they complete the process of ritual purification and can eat sacred food. The poor, who eagerly await the time when they can eat what little food they possess. Every Jew, who eagerly awaits the arrival of the Sabbath and its special meal. In another page we’ll add the suckling, greeting the dawn by beginning to nurse. This is a worldview in which every action we take has the potential to connect us to God, if we are attuned to the potential for making that relationship happen in any given moment.

Fourth, the passage then relates a story of the sons of a leading rabbi who made a mistake and forgot to recite the Shema. We learn that we can learn from stories involving our scholars, as much as we can learn from their explicit teachings. We learn that even the great rabbis and their families sometimes had trouble keeping the laws. We learn the importance of building fences around areas where we are likely to fail. We learn that to follow this tradition is to embrace our humanity and our frailty.



I have been guilty of silence. And silence is the medium of repentance.

There was a man named Shlomo Carlebach who, in the decades of the 1960s through his death in 1994, was a charismatic “singing rabbi” whose melodies remain incredibly popular and influential today across the Jewish spectrum.

He is also alleged to have committed sexual assault, including against minors, often within the context of his “musical outreach”. I find these accusations overwhelmingly credible. (This is not a criminal court proceeding, it is a personal decision about how I will relate to his music, so questions of what legal standard to use are irrelevant.)

There are several reasons to abandon the use of Carlebach’s melodies in light of this assessment. First, some of his victims are still in our communities, and how can we subject them to hearing these melodies which will bring back horrific memories? Second, other victims of sexual assault are in our communities, and by using his melodies we signal to them that we’ll forgive such behavior if the alternative is giving up something that makes us feel good.

Even if that were not this case, how can we use these melodies in our relationship with God? This goes beyond the usual “tainted genius” question. By all accounts, Carlebach traded on his cult of personality, driven by these melodies, to gain access to his victims, to compel their silence, to create a community of enablers. These melodies are weapons that were used to destroy innocent lives; they defile.

For example, many (most?) children today are taught the blessing before the Shema to Carlebach’s melody to “Veha-er Eineinu.” That’s how I learned it; that’s how my kids learned it. And now I wonder how many of Carlebach’s child victims were made vulnerable to him because of that melody.

I chose a while ago to personally stop using his melodies. I will not use them when I lead services. I will not sing along when they are used by others. But I have not spoken about this, and in my silence I have failed others who are harmed by our communities’ continued use of these melodies.

So I have some work to do. My siddur, which includes musical cues, sometimes cites melodies which I now know come from his pen. I must identify these and mark them. (Not eliminate them, because others should be aware of their source.) A few years back, I contributed typesetting to a musical siddur for “Todah v’Zimrah” which makes extensive use of Carlebach’s melodies; I don’t know how to undo that.

One of the challenges is that Jews tend to re-use melodies. So, for example, one melody that I grew up with as the beginning of the Musaf Kedushah turns out to actually be a Carlebach melody for part of Lecha Dodi. Tracking down all the places where his melodies are used will be difficult.

To manage this, I plan to maintain a list with three categories: Melodies which were written by Carlebach, melodies which I can trace to another composer, and melodies which are suspicious. For now, I’m avoiding not only the first category but also the third, especially when the melody has Carlebach’s style.

Just before Yom Kippur we recite the Kol Nidre, in which we enumerate various categories of vows and ask preemptively to nullify any vows which we will be unable to uphold. My intent to abjure any Carlebach melody is akin to a cherem, a vow to abstain from certain things. I know that, for the reasons given above, some will undoubtedly slip through because I don’t know that they are his, but I will rely on Kol Nidre for those.

Another difficulty with this act of conscience is that “not singing along” is not a noticeable action. I doubt any of my fellow congregants have noticed when I am silent and when I am singing. I wonder if there is some sort of physical gesture that those who are abstaining can use to create opportunities to explain.

Carlebach’s melodies are ubiquitous. It would take a concentrated, conscious effort for other composers to displace them and for congregations to pursue that. That is our generation’s challenge.

There is a time to sing, and a time to be silent. There is a time to be silent, and a time to speak.


Shlach L’cha – On sending away

This is not a fully-formed set of thoughts. It’s a hodge-podge occasioned by a confluence of events. Please bear with me.

Yesterday’s parsha (weekly Torah reading) was Shlach Lecha (Numbers 13:1–15:41). God tells Moses to send the Meraglim, the scouts, to go on ahead and assess the land which the Children of Israel are to inhabit. We all know what happens next — the scouts return with wondrous stories about the land, but ten of the twelve report that the inhabitants are too fierce and the people lose heart; God decrees that this generation (except for the two scouts who didn’t break faith, and (if you read closely) the Levi’im) must wander the wilderness until they die out, and their children will instead be the ones to claim their inheritance.

Tonight is my father’s Jahrzeit. Friday is his mother’s. Wednesday is his grandmother’s hundredth Jahrzeit. But on Thursday is a cousin’s first birthday. And our first-born just completed high school.

Ida Levine Greene (Chaya Grune bat Josef Tuvia ha-Levi) came to the US with her husband, Barnet, in 1887. They were the vanguard of the family. They arrived, started having children, earned money, sent it back, and brought over parents and siblings. In many ways they were Meraglim — sent on ahead to see if the United States was really the “Promised Land”, they reported back that it was prosperous enough, and because they joined an “Anshei” landsmannschaft (Ansheis were centered around synagogue services) we learn that they, like Caleb and Joshua, believed that God would continue to guide their lives.

And those families who didn’t send someone, who didn’t take that risk? So many of them were slaughtered fifty years later. Sending away involved palpable risk, but staying put constituted the silent threat.

Not only do I look back, I am also looking ahead. This autumn our first-born leaves for college. We are sending him forth to find his own place in the world. He will not only be learning academic subjects; he’ll be learning what it’s like to have roommates and responsibilities. He will learn new ways to balance commitments to others, commitments to God, and commitments to himself. He will be in a city he does not yet know. We have done what we can to prepare him, but sending him forth is scary.

Yet one message of Shlach Lecha — perhaps the key message — is that each generation must recognize when it is time to let the children become, if not yet the next generation of leaders, then at least to become their own people. If they are to become successful as a generation, they need to emerge from under our umbrella of influence, however protective that might be.

Lois McMaster Bujold, in the Vokosigan series, has one character say something along the lines of “I used to think I was the pinnacle of evolution, and now I have become just one link in the chain.” This is upon becoming a parent, but to some degree I’m feeling it more strongly now, eighteen years later. Up to now, I have been able to shield my child from danger, to guide his moral and intellectual and religious development, to help him cultivate his interests and skills. Now, I have to let go, take a step back, and watch along with everyone else as he claims his birthright as a full adult member of society. For if I don’t send him off, I will have most profoundly failed him.

Shlach Lecha. Send them away, for yourself. It is scary. Ten times out of twelve it might involve failure. But without it we will never see the future.


Al Hanissim for Yom Ha-Atzmaut

(I’m copying this over from my previous blog. This post was originally written 13 April 2010)

In compiling and editing my own siddur, I have come across the problem of what to do about על הניסים (the prayer “For the Miracles”) for יום העצמאות (Israel’s Independence Day). I wholeheartedly believe that the reëstablishment of Jewish sovereignty over the Land of Israel is a miraculous act of Divine providence, and part of the ultimate redemption. As such, I believe that thanking God for that miracle is a religious obligation.

But what text to say? The rabbis who established the liturgy for יום העצמאות did not establish a text for an על הניסים. There are several out there — the one that Rabbi Jules Harlow wrote for Siddur Sim Shalom is perhaps the best known in this country, and there are several others that I found online, but none of them felt right to me. Some are strongly political, others too narrowly drawn. There’s an illuminating analysis at — I don’t agree with everything he writes, but he provides good food for thought, as does Avi Shmidman at, who formulated his own text.

I decided that the next step in my thought process would be to write my own. Often, in the puzzle world, the best way to learn to solve a type of puzzle is to try constructing puzzles of that type; the exercise deepens one’s perception of the type. I did not intend to use my own text in my siddur, but it would give me something to compare to others. In the end, though, I am likely to use this because I remain dissatisfied with what else I’ve found.

So, here’s a summary of how I ended up with the text that I have.

If one feels, as I do, that on יום העצמות there was a miracle, and that we should thank and praise the Holy One for that miracle by reciting הלל and על הניסים, then there a number of questions one needs to answer.

The first and most important, of course, is: What is the miracle?

It’s not just the military victory. First, that would raise the question of why 1948 is worth singling out but not ’56, ’67, ’73 (oy, davka ’73!), and so on. Second, though, if we look at the archetypal miracles for which we say על הניסים, Chanukah and Purim, it’s interesting to note that in both cases there is the miracle that happened “בו ביום,” at that moment, but also the more important miracle of the months and years leading up to that moment. The true miracle of Chanukah wasn’t the flask of oil that started burning on 25 Kislev, it was the years of battle; the miracle of Purim wasn’t the military success on 14 Adar, it was the chain of seeming coincidences that made our defense possible. And in both cases, there is the redemption of Jewish identity from the threat of assimilation among the most powerful nations of the world.

So, too, it seems to me that the miracle of עצמאות preceded יום העצמאות. It began with Herzl and the early Zionists; it was the miracle of the ingathering of the exiles and their successes against overwhelming — one is tempted to say impossible — odds to build the infrastructure and social structure necessary to support the new country.

One can then construct an על הניסים text that proceeds from this starting point, and looks to the texts for Chanukah and Purim for their structure.

The classic texts begin by situating themselves in a particular time, identified as “In the days of” the humans who are considered the “heroes” of the narrative. For Chanukah that’s the Hashmonaim; for Purim it’s Mordechai and Esther. In our case, I submit that it’s the chalutzim.

The classic texts draw heavily on the sources that describe the narrative: מגילת אסתר, מגילת אנטיוכוס, and the Talmud Bavli. These texts are familiar and have the appropriate cadences. For my purposes, I drew on four sources: The verse in Devarim 30:4 that describes the ingathering of the exiles, תפילה לשלום מדינת ישראל, the מגילת העצמאות itself, and התקוה.

The classic texts start by establishing the existential threat to the Jewish People, then transitioning into God’s redemptive acts with the phrase ואתה ברחמיך הרבים “And You, in Your abundant mercy”. They use the form of a litany. And they emphasize the contributions not only of the omnipotent God without whom the Jews could not have succeeded, but also the actions of the Jews without whose efforts God would have had no one to support. I tried to use all of these techniques in assembling my text.

Here is what I have at the moment. I hope to get it refined in time to use next Tuesday on יום העצמאות:

בִּיְמֵי הֶחָלוּצִים, עֵינֵיהֶם צוֹפוֹת לְצִיּוֹן, וְנִדַּחִים בִּקְצֵה הַשָּׁמַיִם. וְאַתָּה בְּרַחֲמֶֽיךָ הָרַבִּים מִשָּׁם קִבַּצְתָּם, יי אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ, וּמִשָּׁם לָקַחְתָּם. בִּיְצִיאָתַם מֵאַרְצוֹת צַלְמָוֶת, הִצְהִירוּ כִּי אֲנַחְנוּ עַם חׇפְשִׁי בְּאַרְצֵנוּ ,וְהִכְרִיזוּ עַל הֲקָמַת מְדִינַת יִשְׂרָאֵל, רֵאשִׁית צְמִיחַת גְּאֻלָּתֵֽנוּ. וְחִזַּקְתָּ אֶת רַגְלֵי הָעוֹלִים, אֶת יְדֵי הַבּוֹנִים, אֶת לְשׁוֹנוֹת הַמַּנְהִיגִים, וְאֶת לְבָבֵי הַחַיָּלִים הַמְּגִנִּים עַל הָעַם, הָאָרֶץ, וְשִׁמְךָ הַקָּדוֹשׁ.

In the days of the pioneers, whose eyes turned to Zion, the exiles were scattered to the corners of heaven. And You, in Your great rachamim, From there you gathered them, Hashem our God, and from there you took them. In their exodus from the lands of the shadow of death, they declared that we would henceforth be a free people in our own land, and they proclaimed the State of Israel, the first flowering of our redemption. You strengthened the legs of the immigrants, the hands of the builders, the mouths of the statesmen, and the hearts of the soldiers who defended the land, the people, and Your holy Name.

Once more, with sources:

In the days of [Standard Al Ha-Nissim structure]
the pioneers,
whose eyes turned to Zion [Hatikvah],
the exiles were scattered to the corners of heaven. [Deut 30:4]
And You, in Your great rachamim [Standard Al Ha-Nissim structure]
From there you gathered them, Hashem our God, and from there you took them. [Deut 30:4]
In their exodus from
the lands of the shadow of death, [cf ]
they declared that we would henceforth
be a free people in our own land [Hatikvah],
and they proclaimed the State of Israel, [Megilat atzmaut]
the first flowering of our redemption. [Tefillah lishlom hamedinah]
You strengthened the legs of the immigrants, the hands of the builders, the mouths of the statesmen, and the hearts of the soldiers who defended the land, the people, and Your holy Name.

[A year after I wrote that, I had the opportunity to work with Prof. Ruth Langer, an expert in Jewish liturgy. She helped me (a lot!) to revise this into the following text, which is what appears in my siddur:]




We were lucky enough to see Hamilton on Broadway yesterday. I’m presumptuous enough to write a review , if only to record my reactions for myself to solidify the memory of an amazing experience.

So yes, of course it was wonderful and moving. The hype, of course, is that it’s “even better than you expect” even when you expect it to be better than you expect. In some regards that’s true, but in some points, if I am to be honest, I was a little disappointed. (Some of that may be because so many roles were swapped around to cover understudies and standbys.) Overall, though, it was wonderful and worth the long wait.

The lighting was particularly amazing. At times, it functioned as scenery; at times, it was one of the dancers; at times, it was a Greek chorus commenting on the action. (It even provided a little “post-credits bonus” on the way out of the theater.)

The cast is clearly the hardest-working set of actors on Broadway. It’s not just Alexander Hamilton who is non-stop; the company is constantly singing, dancing (with amazing precision and a rich vocabulary of gesture), bringing sets and props on and offstage, miming additional props (rowing Hamilton across the Hudson stood out), and creating a world ex nihilo.

In many ways, this felt like a revival. The original cast is mostly gone, and the audience knows their performance intimately through the Original Cast Recording, through videos of numbers being performed in various special venues (e.g., at the Tony Awards), through the Hamiltome, etc. That gives the current cast the opportunity to reinterpret their roles; and given how much the roles were developed in workshop, this is practically a necessity. Only Daveed Diggs could perform Lafayette/Jefferson as Daveed Diggs. This is a drawback in places (comparing Brandon Victor Dixon’s performance of “The Room Where It Happens” to how I imagine Leslie Odom Jr. did it, based on how it’s been described, is fundamentally unfair, but inevitable) but in others it means the show already has the chance to explore multiple possible interpretations. Bryan Terrell Clark’s “History Has Its Eyes on You” had a completely new interpretation in my mind. Lexi Lawson’s “Burn” left scorch marks where the recording of Pippa Sou was much more smoldering — both are impassioned performances; each brings to light a different reading of the character.

Lawson’s Eliza was wonderful overall, and the highlight of this performance. She covered so much emotional ground, and pretty much whenever she was singing, I was crying. In “Helpless” it was tears of joy at the power of Eliza’s love; in “Burn” it was the rawness of her fury; in “Stay Alive (Reprise)” it was her strength of will and the devastating moment when that failed her; in “It’s Quiet Uptown” it was her silent grace; and in “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story’, it was her steadfast faith and hope. Lawson inhabited all of those moments with such surety that you forgot you were watching a show, and her performance was her own, not a copy of Soo’s.

Mandy Gonzalez was also a standout as Angelica, although she’s not given as much opportunity as Eliza to play a fully fleshed out character, and so it’s hard for me to distinguish her performance from Renée Elise Goldsberry’s on the recording.

At the performance we saw, Jon Rua filled in as Hamilton. He was quite good, although at times it felt like his attention was too focused on getting every word to come out right, rather than on the nuances of the performance. I also got a “Brian Williams” vibe from him, which I found distracting at times, although Heather says she doesn’t see that. But those are minor quibbles; his performance was fine, just not outstanding. (Again, he’s the standby for the role, so one can be forgiving.)

Dixon’s Burr and Bryan Terrell Clark’s Washington were excellent. Both men delivered their songs well, portrayed their characters in ways that shed new light on their motivations, and made their roles their own.

Two performances, on the other hand, were too campy for my taste. Jevon McFerrin’s Jefferson lacked the gravitas needed to make him believable as an opponent of Hamilton. And Andrew Chappelle’s King George, a role that (in my opinion) calls for sly camp, was too broadly painted. (It didn’t help that his singing and affect were both flat.) (Note that McFerrin is usually the alternate for Hamilton, and Chappelle is a standby for several roles.)

The choreography of “Helpless”/”Satisfied”, and again during “Hurricane”, were two standout moments where “it was even better than I expected, and I expected a lot.” The transition from “Hurricane” into “The Reynolds Pamphlet” made me gasp. A moment that surprised me with the elegance of the blocking was the voters chatting in “The Election of 1800.”

In general, the company was always doing interesting believable detail work in the background; this is a show that would reward attending over and over and over again, if that were possible. (I really hope when they eventually release the video that they shot last year, they do it in a format that allows the viewer to choose which camera to follow.)


Dvar Torah: Ki Tisa / Parah

Shabbat Shalom and mazal tov to J___, Jon, Andrea, and the entire Kamens/Bresky family. Thank you for the honor of inviting me to share a few words of Torah tonight.

Thirty-five years ago on Shabbat Parah, parshat Ki Tisa, _I_ became a bar mitzvah.

_Thirty_ years ago, Jon and I met on our first day at MIT and became fast friends.

And of course a bat mitzvah is inherently a marking of the passage of years.

So tonight my thoughts turn towards how the Torah, and in particular how these two parshiot, Ki Tisa and Parah, expect us to view time.

Ki Tisa starts by continuing the theme of the last two parshiyot, with detailed instructions for the construction of the mishkan and its vessels. That concludes with the injunction to keep the Shabbat:

שֵׁ֣שֶׁת _יָמִים֮ _יֵעָשֶׂ֣ה מְלָאכָה֒ _וּבַיּ֣וֹם_ הַשְּׁבִיעִ֗י שַׁבַּ֧ת שַׁבָּת֛וֹן קֹ֖דֶשׁ לַה
כָּל־הָעֹשֶׂ֧ה מְלָאכָ֛ה _בְּי֥וֹם_ הַשַּׁבָּ֖ת מ֥וֹת יוּמָֽת׃

Six _days_ may work be done, but on the seventh _day_ there shall be a sabbath of complete rest, holy to Hashem; whoever does work on the _day_ of the sabbath shall be put to death.

While _we_ tend to think of Shabbat as a _weekly_ occurrence, the wording _here_ is six days, then the seventh day; the word Yom recurs as “b’yom ha-shabbat”. “Day” is clearly a key word in this pasuk.

Our parasha then transitions directly into the episode of the molten calf, which begins

וַיַּ֣רְא הָעָ֔ם כִּֽי־בֹשֵׁ֥שׁ מֹשֶׁ֖ה לָרֶ֣דֶת מִן־הָהָ֑ר

The people saw that Moshe delayed in coming down from the mountain….

The Gemara, Shabbat 89a, explains:

(אמר) ר’ יהושע בן לוי מ”ד (שמות לב, א) וירא העם כי בושש משה אל תקרי בושש אלא באו שש בשעה שעלה משה למרום אמר להן לישראל לסוף ארבעים יום בתחלת שש אני בא

And Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: What is the meaning of that which is written: “And the people saw that Moses delayed [boshesh] to come down from the mount” (Exodus 32:1)? Do not read the word boshesh; rather, read it as ba’u shesh, the sixth [hour] has arrived. When Moses ascended on High, he told the Jewish people: In forty days, at the beginning of the sixth hour, I will arrive.

Aharon attempts to placate the people, “Vayomer, chag lashem _machar_”, a festival to Hashem will be _tomorrow_. And after the Leviim kill those who committed idol worship, Moshe says to them: v’latet Aleichem HAYOM b’racha – that Hashem should place a blessing on you THIS DAY; and the Torah continues,  “Vayhi _mimachorat_”, and it occurred on the _morrow_

We can see that throughout this section of the parasha, from the introduction of Shabbat through the end of the episode of the molten calf, the Torah insists that we perceive time in units of _days_.

There’s a similar linguistic focus on _days_ in Maftir Parah, with its emphasis on seven _days_ (not referred to as a week), specifically the third day and the seventh day. Mafitr Parah is concerned with how the individual is rendered separate from — and then reenters — the community after encountering death, and perhaps in that context the focus on processing each day one at a time, not as a week-long clump, earns the Torah its Talmudic nickname of Rachamana, the merciful one.

But the echo of a day-centric worldview between the Maftir and the main Parasha is striking.

Returning to Ki Tisa, Moshe next experiences a sublime transformative event, an encounter with the Eternal. After pleading first for the continuity of Bnei Israel, Moshe puts in a special plea for himself. He asks to see God’s glory; God famously replies “No human can see me and live” but promises to hide Moshe in the cleft of a rock. Moshe re-ascends Har Sinai with the second set of tablets, and then God crosses before him: Vayaavor Hashem al Panav… (which Ramban explains as  וטעם ויעבר ה’ על פניו שקיים אני אעביר כל טובי על פניך. — and the reason “God crossed before him” was to fulfil the earlier verse, “I shall cause all my goodness to cross before you”)

…Vayikra… — and God proclaims:

ה ׀ ה אֵ֥ל רַח֖וּם וְחַנּ֑וּן אֶ֥רֶךְ אַפַּ֖יִם וְרַב־חֶ֥סֶד וֶאֱמֶֽת נֹצֵ֥ר חֶ֙סֶד֙ לָאֲלָפִ֔ים נֹשֵׂ֥א עָוֺ֛ן וָפֶ֖שַׁע וְחַטָּאָ֑ה וְנַקֵּה֙—

And when we recite the 13 attributes of mercy, we stop there. But it’s the middle of the pasuk — we’ve even blown past the etnachta and stopped mid-phrase. How does God continue?

לֹ֣א יְנַקֶּ֔ה פֹּקֵ֣ד ׀ עֲוֺ֣ן אָב֗וֹת עַל־בָּנִים֙ וְעַל־בְּנֵ֣י בָנִ֔ים עַל־שִׁלֵּשִׁ֖ים וְעַל־רִבֵּעִֽים׃

God points out that the consequences of our actions affect not only ourselves but our children, and our grandchildren, to the third and fourth generations.

Moshe’s perspective changes — for the first time, he’s thinking past tomorrow!

And the very next section of the parsha delivers the structure of Jewish time. In this passage, the Torah mentions days, weeks, months, seasons, and years.

שֵׁ֤שֶׁת _יָמִים֙ _ תַּעֲבֹ֔ד וּבַיּ֥וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֖י תִּשְׁבֹּ֑ת
וְחַ֤ג _שָׁבֻעֹת֙_ תַּעֲשֶׂ֣ה לְךָ֔
כִּ֚י _בְּחֹ֣דֶשׁ_ הָֽאָבִ֔יב יָצָ֖אתָ מִמִּצְרָֽיִם
_בֶּחָרִ֥ישׁ וּבַקָּצִ֖יר_ תִּשְׁבֹּֽת
וְחַג֙ הָֽאָסִ֔יף _תְּקוּפַ֖ת_הַשָּׁנָֽה_׃
שָׁלֹ֥שׁ פְּעָמִ֖ים _בַּשָּׁנָ֑ה_ יֵרָאֶה֙ כָּל־זְכ֣וּרְךָ֔

and even generations:

כֹּ֣ל _בְּכ֤וֹר_בָּנֶ֙יךָ֙_ תִּפְדֶּ֔ה

The Torah’s timeframe — our timeframe — has shifted. And while a mere column ago, before Moshe’s encounter, God said:

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר ה֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה פְּסָל־לְךָ֛ שְׁנֵֽי־לֻחֹ֥ת אֲבָנִ֖ים כָּרִאשֹׁנִ֑ים
וְכָתַבְ_תִּי֙_ עַל־הַלֻּחֹ֔ת אֶת־הַדְּבָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר הָי֛וּ עַל־הַלֻּחֹ֥ת הָרִאשֹׁנִ֖ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר שִׁבַּֽרְתָּ׃

Hashem said to Moses: “Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and _I_ will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you shattered.

Now that Moshe comprehends the holy view of time, the parsha concludes with Hashem telling Moshe:

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה כְּתָב־_לְךָ_֖ אֶת־הַדְּבָרִ֣ים הָאֵ֑לֶּה …

And Hashem said to Moses: _You_ write down these commandments.

וַיִּכְתֹּ֣ב עַל־הַלֻּחֹ֗ת אֵ֚ת דִּבְרֵ֣י הַבְּרִ֔ית עֲשֶׂ֖רֶת הַדְּבָרִֽים׃

And he [Moshe] wrote down on the tablets the terms of the covenant, the Ten Utterances.

Moshe has learned to step back from the immediate pressures of “this day” and to peer along the arc of history. He has gained the perspective needed for God to entrust him with the sacred task of writing on the tablets as God’s shaliach, of becoming the intermediary through which the mesorah is passed down.

___, you are now becoming, like Moshe, an intermediary. You are no longer merely a student receiving Torah, but as a Jewish adult you are now a full participant in the continuing millennia-old conversation about what God wants of us. Moshe’s experience compels us to confront the question of how to see the perspective of those millennia with one eye and, with the other, the demands of each day – the needs of _today_.

After the Divine revelation at Sinai, we received the promise: וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם. They will build me a holy place and I will dwell amongst them. But the Torah’s detailed instructions laden with exact measurements can feel like a distraction; similarly, its emphasis at the beginning of our parsha on seeing each day as standing alone may teach us that the people were so focused on the day-to-day minutae that they lost sight of the big picture and stumbled into sin.

J___, one thing that your father and I have in common is that we are both, to put it politely, detail-oriented people. And I know that preparing for a bat mitzvah not only requires an attention to detail; it also involves counting the days. But becoming a bat mitzvah is not about the day. It’s not about the week and its parasha. It’s not even about the year you attain your Jewish adulthood. It’s about the rest of your life.

My wish for you this Shabbat is that you continue to find balance in the many time horizons and levels through which you experience Jewish life. May the details not distract you from the overarching spiritual beauty of our inheritance, and may the big picture not wash out the details that keep it vibrant.

Mazal tov and Shabbat Shalom.