by Andy Oram Can you really have an impact on climate change by switching to veggie burgers or lowering the heat in Winter? How about making a change at work that shaves some of the carbon footprint off of your product? Do these really matter when the world continues to pump tons more carbon into the atmosphere each year? The Jewish tradition offers a useful perspective on this question in the afternoon Yom Kippur service, where we recreate the atonement ceremonies of the Temple's High Priest. Atonement is divided by this tradition into three parts that must be observed in strict order: first the High Priest's family, then the house of Aaron, and finally the whole people. Leviticus 16:17 hints briefly at this three-part ceremony preceding the release of the scapegoat, but the ceremony does not appear in the meticulously detailed Talmud tractate about Yom Kippur, and seems to have been imagined by much later generations. Let's use these stages of atonement as analogies for our own psychological, spiritual, and moral evolution. Perhaps lowering the thermostat or instituting recycling doesn't make a difference in itself, but provides a jumping-off point for education and activism. Consider the first atonement, involving your family. You are modeling for your children and neighbors by changing your behavior to be more environmentally friendly. You achieve a bit of spiritual purification by purifying your trip to work of fossil fuels, or purifying your food consumption of polluting animal products. You also spur on activism, because you think, "If I can make this change without suffering, I can persuade others to do things with a much bigger impact." And taking "family" in a broad sense (not just the nuclear family that is familiar from the past couple hundred years), you can bring climate action into your local community. The second stage in atonement is in the workplace, symbolized by the Levites carrying out Temple worship. Now you have moved from individual statements to demanding a commitment from your workplace that it will reduce, reuse, and recycle instead of dumping all its carbon production on the world. Such activism is nothing less than a redefinition of the role of work and corporations in society. Finally, one gets to the third stage, involving global action. You have modeled environmentally conscious behavior, demanded reciprocal actions from your community and workplace, and make the climate a central concern for everyone with whom you have come in contact. Collective action is more than just the accumulation of individual actions. but collective action is not something you can jump into all at once. The Yom Kippur atonement service shows how to think of upping your activity in a matter of grave concern to the whole of Creation. Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. Andy also writes often on health IT, on policy issues related to the Internet, and on trends affecting technical innovation and its effects on society. Print publications where his work has appeared include The Economist, Communications of the ACM, Copyright World, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, Vanguardia Dossier, and Internet Law and Business. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for more than 30 years. He self-published a memoir, "Backtraces: Three Decades of Computing, Communities, and Critiques" and his poems have been published in many journals.
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by Deb Nam-Krane In 2022, after a decade of worsening symptoms that included erratic energy as well as digestive issues – and plenty of gaslighting – I was diagnosed with colon cancer. It was serious enough that even after every visible trace had been removed I needed to undergo chemotherapy treatments. Just as I should have gotten the attention I needed earlier, climate scientists should have been heeded when we were at "crisis", not "emergency". But once we identify the causes and agree on the treatments, improvements can be seen immediately. Just as we could excise malignant cells from my body, we can stop the activities that are causing so much damage to our atmosphere, and we could do it immediately. There will still be leftover damage, just as cancer can leave scars or metastasis even after it's been removed. However, as someone who focuses on agricultural solutions, I continue to be amazed by how quickly many of those scars can be healed once we start to, literally, put the carbon back where it belongs. Carbon drawn down from the atmosphere enriches our soils and strengthens the microbial networks which make our plants – and trees, and everything that lives off of them – stronger in turn. Just as millions like me can recover from a cancer that could have killed us a decade ago, the Earth can recover from centuries of pollution and hubris – and like me and other survivors, it can come back stronger than ever. I have experienced my t'shuvah, my return to myself, and I still see opportunities for the Earth – and everyone on it – to experience the same. Deb Nam-Krane is a mother, wife, writer, environmentalist, and gardener in Boston.
by Leah Cassorla, PhD Our lives are marked by recurrences in time and season that nonetheless are not truly a circle, but rather a spiral, in which the return of the familiar sounds more like a harmonious echo than a repetition. Even Torah and holiday cycles regularly repeat and are never the same. This summer, with its heat waves, wildfires, and flood-causing storms, however, seems like a step out of time—in both the musical and seasonal senses. We’ve lost the rhythms of our days. We’ve become slaves. We live in a time of great availability. My calls, for example, come to my pocket, my purse, my desk. I can be reached at any time, anywhere. And yet, we are less connected than ever. Rav Yehuda HaLevi, a medieval Spanish rabbi, poet, physician, and philosopher put this into words in his poem Avdei Zman (Slaves to Time), writing “Slaves to time are slaves to slavery / only those who work for God are free.” How do we end the slavery we have created; slavery to rapacious, unfettered materialism, slavery to (anti)social media, slavery to our own anxiety and fear? I can only re-turn; to Torah, to myself, to what I know in my heart. Torah tells me that I must serve and work the land; that I must respect its blessings; that I must tend it. I am no farmer. Plants seem to die in self-defense when they see me coming. But I am nonetheless a devoted vegan, and as of yesterday a re-turning composter. I am doing what little I can to tend my corner, even as I watch the world engulf in flames. For many, I fear, the current state that our first-world insistence on comfort at the cost of others’ lives and our own species’ survival is proof that there is no God. For me, it is proof that God has kept God’s word. Torah makes clear to us the costs of living out of sync with nature. The paragraphs that commonly follow the Sh’ma make clear that it is our responsibility. And while they are disparate paragraphs taken from different parts of the Torah, in the rabbinic tradition that the whole is greater than its parts and there is not a before or after in Torah allows me to see that the prayer uses the singular ending, ך, when commanding behavior and the plural, כם, when listing possible rewards and consequences. We are each commanded personally, but our choices accrue to the whole. This Elul, I choose to re-turn to myself. I turn Torah again, I turn myself toward the life of the Earth again, I turn the tumblers on my composter. How will you re-turn to yourself, I wonder? Dr. Leah F. Cassorla is the Cantor - Educator at Melville Jewish Center and a Kol-Bo (dual ordination) student at Academy for Jewish Religion in Yonkers, NY. She finds her greatest joys in the classroom, on the Bimah, and with her one-eyed wonder-dog, Boobah.
by Steven J Rubenstein During the late spring, my wife and I joined her son and daughter-in-law on a trip to Vancouver Island off the western coast of Canada, bordering Seattle, Washington. So many things reminded me of previous events in my journeys that are so life-affirming. First and foremost were the majestic mountains of the Canadian Rockies, holding on to the last vestiges of snow in late May at their peaks. They reminded me of my seven years in Denver and my view of the American Rockies on my way to work as I prayed the words: “Mah rabu ma’asekha, Adonai... How wonderful are your works, Adonai; You fashioned them all...” Contrast that with the trees climbing up the slope of the mountain creating a skirt of green ~ with patches of brown where forestation has begun eroding the landscape. My heart sank at the sight, as if I were looking at an open wound upon the earth, wondering what type of band-aid might be effective in covering the pain at looking upon the baroness. How can I offer teshuvah for the damage that has been done. A short walk into the old-growth forests, introduced me to some trees dating to the time when Marco Polo began his explorations in the 1200s. Looking up at the tall cedars towering over the canopy of trees made me dizzy. Rivers of melting snow provided us with another reason to stop and admire the torrents as it forced its way through a passage of rocks. I tried to compare them to my experience at Niagara Falls and all of its grandeur. My heart pounded with the fierceness of the water while I stood on a ledge with my camera, pretending I was not in the most vulnerable position of falling. I took many photographs of the water spraying from the impact of hitting the rocks below me in the late afternoon sun. However, none of those photographs compare to the beauty in the stillness of some pools of water left behind on the rock face, where I captured the reflections of the trees in the “still waters.” Above the water on a telephone pole by the side of the road was a sign that read, “Live free!” Challenge accepted! I felt cleansed by the rushing water! The waters of the Pacific Ocean were no less wild, or perhaps even more so when I was caught flat-footed in the sand by a rogue wave. I thought that I could outrun the washoff from the wave hitting the shore as it slid towards me. I was wrong and I paid the price of wearing wet shoes for the remainder of the day. What amazed me were the designs in the sand left by the receding waves. There was a message in their shapes. Clearly, the messages were different from the ones at the beach near my parents’ home on Cape Cod. Nature has a way to show its tears in the sand. I share with you the carbon footprint that I left in two places where I stopped to ponder God’s creation. Just as our former ancestor, Jacob, took the stones from the place where he had stopped overnight, and declared with awe and wonder that God was in this place, how could he not know; I, too, gathered some stones for others to know the sacredness of what it meant to be in such a God-place ~ “Mah tovu ohalekha, Ya’a-ko; mishkinotekha, Yisrael. I left a marker for others to stop and contemplate the holiness of this place and see for themselves through the eyes of a photographer how lines and shapes work together, with color and substance to create a greater picture that can delight all of the senses. May my monument be a testimony to God for forgiveness. Steven J Rubenstein is the Director of Spiritual Care at Jewish Senior Life, a continuum care facility in Rochester, New York.
by Thea Iberall, Ph.D. I’m driving home from Marblehead where we commemorated Erev Tisha B’Av. My trip home seems so much faster than the trip there, even though my GPS says travel time is 45 minutes each way. As I stare out the window, watching headlights cut through the darkness, I’m baffled. Why can’t I measure actual time? We measure distance, size and number without difficulty. I can know if I can fit through a door or whether the leftover spaghetti will fit into a refrigerator container. I know how many fingers I have and I can point to where a sound is coming from. But I can’t judge the real time it takes to travel from point A to point B. Time is like slime. I know how slippery it is. And I know that time, like life, cannot be contained. We break time up into pieces, like years and days and seconds. We use external things for measurements. We measure days and years by the apparent motion of the sun relative to the Earth. We measure months by the phases of the moon. And hours, minutes, and seconds? We inherited these base 60 divisions from the Sumerians 5500 years ago. Neuroscientists tell me our perception of time is a combination of neural processes that are changed by emotional states, level of attention, memory and diseases. The less attention paid to the task, the faster time passes. Before our Tisha B’Av ritual, I went swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. The seaweed was thick, a dull red carpet that didn’t protect my feet from the sharp rocks. Thankfully, the pain doesn't persist in time. They say in Florida the ocean is like bath water now. That’s what I was hoping for, even though I knew that would be terrible. For my human comfort, I want warmth and no bugs. But for the health of the planet, I want cold oceans and thriving insects. I can hold conflicting ideas in my head without a problem. Computers can’t do that. How can I find a balance in the conflict between my creature comforts and behaviors needed for maintaining a sustainable environment? At sunset, in a small park on a bluff above the ocean, we began reading from the Book of Lamentations. Three Rabbis and a Cantor stood before us, candlelight playing shadows across their faces. The crowd had grown large. Seated on flat rocks and woven beach chairs, people huddled in anticipation. A middle-aged man in a blue shirt and sandals searched on his phone for the text. Two women with short brown hair studied the text on paper. As we read, I could hear the agony of time in play: “But You, O LORD, are enthroned forever, your throne endures through the ages. Why have You forgotten us utterly, forsaken us for all time?” In their misery experiencing the destruction of the Temple, time seemed endless. They had no guarantee God would act in deliverance. The horror of their reality stretched into the future, onward without end. Anyone who has suffered a great loss knows this feeling. I’m watching a Ford Expedition SUV pass me on the left. It’s got twin tailpipes spewing carbon monoxide into the night air. We are facing our own horror, the specter of what the UN chief calls “global burning.” New England winters are disappearing. The Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation stream may collapse by 2025. Will we plead in desperation like the people in the Book of Lamentations spreading out our hands with no one to comfort us? Will we wake in the middle of the night with time dragging on in our fear and deep dread? Why my brain works this way, I don’t know. It’s a mystery. But it’s also a useful tool. In this time of Elul, before the high holidays, it is a time to slow down and reflect on where we’ve been and where we are going. Let time stretch. It’s time to pay more attention. Thea Iberall has been called ‘a shimmering bridge between heart and mind.’ An inductee into the International Educators Hall of Fame, Thea's poetry has been published widely in anthologies and journals including in Blood to Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust. Her book of contextual poems, The Sanctuary of Artemis, traces the roots of patriarchal domination. She is the author of the ecofeminist novel The Swallow and the Nightingale. Member: Northeast Storytellers, Jewish Storytellers of New England. www.theaiberall.com
by Shirley Riga I watched the documentary Becoming last night Michelle Obama’s new book She inspires me Her drive to keep on going In spite of the push back she’s received Every person she meets She asks what brings you joy Riding on her inspiration Within a millisecond Of a moment I ask myself What brings me joy? If I imagine I live In an energy world With no forms Only color energy I would see children And four-legged beings As bright colors Moving bouncing exploring I would see houses bursting With color where the love congregates brought together by the pandemic I would see gardens and Natural surroundings Lit up with an iridescence That just glows And in this fantasy I look down below me On the ground Imagining the earth Energy is changing as We live our daily lives There’s much mending going on Forces of color are blending With each other Rejoining from separation long ago There’s a hum of change On the surface under our feet In our breath we can feel the vibration Most all humans aren’t Aware of the change Much like an ice cube tray Full of water in the freezer We don’t watch the change, though know it’s happening water changing into crystals as we trust the cubes will become I saw the movement last night While standing in my living room Not fully understanding And knowing it’s good It’s mending It’s recognizing It’s reconnecting The pause button is still active By the very force of nature We are witnessing Mother Earth Taking charge Realigning Reconnecting Repairing Resetting There is hope For however you define the power of the universe Changes are afoot There are the green shoots of spring Sprouting up through the darkness Those struggling and passing See color more vividly beyond the veil Those helping with their many skills See bright colors in The love and appreciation expressed to them Those unwilling to see the color They will at some point When they recognize love in their heart And get beyond the pain they hold center Spring time is not only spring time It is a rebirthing of Mother Earth Into a new world of color Doubts will rise with fear as we see the bleakness Of the human spirit Wounds continue to be revealed And we fall into darkness And every time we choose To remember We can find ourselves Using love we hold in our hearts Love in our choices Love in our gut Love in our actions Love in our physical bodies Love in our minds Love Shirley Riga, healer, teacher, author and spiritual director, practices locally and virtually as a spiritual counselor, sound healer, trance medium, master Reiki practitioner and Hospice volunteer. For more information, www.shirleyriga.com
By Rabbi Katy Z. AllenWe’re noticing the sun is setting earlier each day. We’re lighting our Shabbat candles earlier each week. We’re rushing to pack into the remaining days of summer a last hike, a last day at the beach, a last cookout, a last camping trip. My daughter-in-law, a teacher, calls August the “Sunday of summer vacation”, when thoughts turn to the new school year ahead and the end of the freedoms of summer looms. The Jewish month of Elul, which begins in August, is the “Sunday of the Jewish year.” Elul is a time of reflection and preparation for the new year and the Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe. During Elul we begin blowing and hearing the shofar, the wordless prayer that touches us in our kishkes (gut) and reminds us to do the spiritual work of getting ready to face G!d with an empty stomach and an open heart on Yom Kippur, and ask for forgiveness. The 30 days of Elul are a time for cheshbon hanefesh (soul searching) and teshuvah (return, repentance). They are a time to turn from the ways in which we have missed the mark and return to G!d and our best selves. Elul is a time to be reborn, transformed, and renewed. It is also a time of love and caring – the Hebrew letters of the month’s name correspond to the first letters of the verse, Ani l'dodi, v'l'dodi li, “I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine” (Song of Songs 6:3). To help us on our journey through Elul, we at JCAN-MA and Ma’yan Tikvah have again gathered from among ourselves and our friends a series of reflections for the month of Elul, teachings that connect Earth and Torah, which we call “Earth Etudes for Elul.” In these daily reflections, rabbis, poets, environmentalists, and seekers write for all our beloveds, and in these painful days of scorching heat, wildfires, rising seas, and increasing despair, they remind us to reconnect to our beloved Earth and be strengthened. We invite you to step through the wide-open doorway into Elul with us as we begin our journey together, beginning Thursday evening, August 17 and continuing daily through the month of Elul. You can sign up here to get them in your inbox each day. This year for the first time, we will be hosting Earth Etudes for Elul Live! an evening of reading and reflection, during which selected Etude writers will join us to share their works and engage with us in meditation and thoughtful conversation. Sign up here to join us on Thursday, August 24, from 7:00-8:30 PM EDT. Rabbi Katy Allen is the founder and rabbi of Ma'yan Tikvah - A Wellspring of Hope, which holds services outdoors all year long and has a growing children’s outdoor learning program, Y’ladim BaTeva. She is the founder of the Jewish Climate Action Network-MA, a board certified chaplain, and a former hospital and hospice chaplain. She received her ordination from the Academy for Jewish Religion in Yonkers, NY, in 2005. She is the author of A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text and lives in Wayland, MA, with her spouse, Gabi Mezger, who leads the.singing at Ma'yan Tikvah.
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