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Political and social developments throughout history have deeply affected, sometimes for better, oftentimes for worse, the well-being of the Jewish people, and have deep impact on whether or not the values which the Jewish people hold dear are cherished. (There are many different interpretations on what these values are, but some of the more generally applicable ones include love for one’s neighbor and for the stranger; a desire to contribute to tikkun olam, repair of this broken world; the desire to provide tz’dakah to those in need; and many more.)
Still, I can also tell you that we have a number of congregants feeling very distressed by yesterday’s results. They have experiences similar to what I articulated in a recent D’var Torah: concerns for the rights of immigrants, who have been demonized and scapegoated over the course of this campaign and in years past — immigrants whose circumstances are not so different from the circumstances of the Jewish people from generations past, seeking a better life in a country of promise and possibility, escaping persecution and insecurity. Others are concerned that the bulwark of our democracy is not as strong as it once was. A Supreme Court decision last year changed the legal framework around a president’s immunity from prosecution, giving them more latitude to carry out acts that would have been unthinkable in the past.
Finally, I wouldn’t be a rabbi if I didn’t believe in the power of spiritual nourishment that comes from living within the rhythms of Jewish life. The lessons of Jewish living long precede — and I would argue will long outlast — many of the challenges we face today. There is something to be said for attuning ourselves to the rhythms of the Eternal, not only (though certainly also not instead of) the day-to-day grind. This includes opening ourselves up to prayer, giving ourselves space to imagine what can be and finding the inspiration to pursue it; coming together on Shabbat, a sacred day of rest and rejuvenation, in community, learning, praying, and dining together; and finding time for classes and social action and social activities in community that are rooted in timeless Jewish values.
As many of you know, the Jewish calendar is tied in part to the moon. The moon waxes and wanes over the course of a month. It waxes: it gets brighter and brighter, fuller and fuller, until it reaches a full moon. Then it begins to wane: it diminishes, or at least our ability to see it does, as it shrinks and shrinks, until it is essentially imperceptible. We can’t see it even if there were no buildings, no city lights obfuscating our view. The moon is, for all intents and purposes, gone. Then, just as the moon is at its darkest, just as it has reached essentially invisibility, it begins to grow again, to glow again, and that is Rosh Hodesh, the moment that the moon’s darkening has crested and it begins to grow and glow all over again.
God saw that no matter what God did, God could not comfort her. So The Holy One, Blessed be God, said, as written in the Torah, “Bring atonement for me,” since I diminished the moon.
And, of course, the moon never actually leaves, even if it isn’t always visible to us in the same way. Like God, the moon is never any nearer to us or further from us than at any other point in time. It never leaves its orbit around the earth. The moon’s visibility is instead dependent upon our perspective. From certain angles — certain relationships between the earth, sun, and moon — it can feel fully present; from others, it can feel fully absent. It’s a matter of perspective. And yet it is always there, in the same way.