In Isaiah 49, God says, "I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands." Our palms are less doers than holders. They hold, caress, bless, soothe. What does it mean to be etched on the palms of the Divine? How does it feel?

There is something underneath the mythological words of Isaiah – and that is hope. That even after tragedy, after life-changing tragedy, there is still a possibility of joy and blessing ahead. That even conquerors and despots will fall, and something of value will outlive them.

I’d like to suggest that there is room for so much more than what the American ethos has shrunk to. There is room for reckoning. Reconciliation. Reparation. There is room for education. Critical thinking. Art. Poetry. There is still room for greatness.

Some sages say angels’ names are not fixed. That an angel’s mission is its name. And thus its name is always changing, depending on its task. And so, angels, now I ask you. What is your task right now? What is your name?

On Shabbat HaGadol we read a line from Malachi in which we envision the heart of parents turning to the children, and the hearts of children to their parents. How do we create meaningful inter-generationality in our own communities and lives? How do continuity and change dance together?

and a new song to go with this text . . .

I had not been excited about going to the Reconstructionist convention. In this divisive climate I have felt rather isolated among rabbis, I didn’t know what it would be like to be in a rabbinical scene. Spoiler: it was good. 

This audio includes a performance of Ashirah Ladonai by Irwin Keller, featuring Suzanne Shanbaum on guitar, Sheridan Gold and Rhonda Findling on drums, and Congregation Ner Shalom on vocals.

All these feelings – the fears, the desire for things to be quiet, for Jews to be quiet, this whole tangle of ancestral anxiety inside of me  – it all comes into view at Purim time when we read the Book of Esther. This ancient book of ours is a symphony of anxiety. 

This is what I want for all of us — Jews and everyone else living in this time — to survive the terrible and to keep flourishing through it. . .

So much is demanded of us now but I, for one, have been feeling inert, immobile. Tu Bishvat reminds us to have patience – the sap will again rise.

In this week's Torah, Joseph is thrown into a pit, bullied by a gang of brothers, because of his difference. And also this week Sutter Health has similarly tossed to their fate our transgender children, doing the bully's work even before the bully asked them to do it. How will we respond?