Working regularly in my garden since June, weeding, planting two additional new gardens in our front yard, enjoying my planter boxes on our wonderful deck where we eat our meals and celebrate Shabbat into the early fall, tending our tomato, chard and kale plants-- all of this makes me feel so connected to the earth and its potential. I welcome the worms wiggling around nourishing the soil, and delight in seeing the spread of colorful blossoms that appear every morning to greet me.
Just as the physical plants in my gardens grow, blossom and change, I feel the connection to teshuvah many times during the calendar year and note my efforts at making meaningful internal changes. Many internal efforts help me feel more whole and connected as I journey through the Jewish year. One is to not reserve the opportunity to make teshuvah a conscious internal/spiritual goal for change only during the Yamim Noraim. Others are to take the time to reflect, to become more mindful of my behavior within myself and in relation to others,, and to seek ways to grow and stretch spiritually so that positive change can occur to enrich my life and those important to me.
Likewise, I find that reaching out to others as a way to add color and "spiritual blossoms" to those in need is an important part of my life. This past year I have again gained nourishment by connecting to Jewish inmates with whom I have been an active pen pal for years, lost souls who need affirmation, contact , and most of all, hope - knowing that they are not forgotten helps them not wither on their own depleted spiritual vines. When I support individuals through interfaith work locally or contribute to those in need in conflict areas in the world, I also find new meaning in my life.
As I journey through Elul, I am reminded that making changes for a more peaceful me, turning to do good, and acting more mindfully and tangibly to assist others all have the effect of integrating teshuvah into my everyday life as I gain a deep appreciation for the natural and spiritual worlds and my place in them.
Maxine Lyons, retired community educator, currently CMM board member and co-facilitator of CMM's RUAH Spirituality Programs, co-leader of Discovering Balance Programs through Discovering What's Next (revitalizing the next life phase for "seasoned citizens"), international folk dancer, member of Temple Beth Zion, Brookline, joyful wife of 34 years and mother of two accomplished and wonderful thirty somethings.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Earth Etude for 14 Elul
I stepped into the nighttime garden half a continent away from my own home. I looked up at the stars – there just above the rooftop, in the same relationship to this roof as it had been to the roof of my own home a few nights earlier, hung the Big Dipper. Bemishmarotiehem ba’rakiya kiretzono. “In their arcs in the sky according to His will.” Words from the evening prayer service. I felt in my soul the solid constancy of the universe, knowing even as I felt this that it is changing. I, too, have changed.
A knock at the door the next afternoon brought the gift of reconnection – my best friend from early childhood! It must be 50 years since our friendship was torn apart by my family’s move. The joy of the hug we shared touched something deep in my soul and our brief conversation confirmed my heart’s knowledge that our friendship as little girls had been more than the coincidence of living on the same street.
I thought of the stars and the sense of constancy they had given me. Here, now, was another constancy, my sacred inner core, the part of me that had never changed, exhibited through the connection of kindred spirits and the knowledge that as little girls we had shared true friendship. The friendship I had lost had been rekindled with a single hug.
Bemishmarotiehem ba’rakiya kiretzono. Words that have been said for hundreds of years – constancy; stars – constancy; the inner sacred core of being – constancy; friendship – constancy. Life is about change, and even that is constant. Every year at this time, we focus on change, trying to be better people, trying to be closer to G!d. In this month of Elul, may the constancy of the stars, the words, my sacred self, and the connections between souls help me change, help me get closer to G!d.
A knock at the door the next afternoon brought the gift of reconnection – my best friend from early childhood! It must be 50 years since our friendship was torn apart by my family’s move. The joy of the hug we shared touched something deep in my soul and our brief conversation confirmed my heart’s knowledge that our friendship as little girls had been more than the coincidence of living on the same street.
I thought of the stars and the sense of constancy they had given me. Here, now, was another constancy, my sacred inner core, the part of me that had never changed, exhibited through the connection of kindred spirits and the knowledge that as little girls we had shared true friendship. The friendship I had lost had been rekindled with a single hug.
Bemishmarotiehem ba’rakiya kiretzono. Words that have been said for hundreds of years – constancy; stars – constancy; the inner sacred core of being – constancy; friendship – constancy. Life is about change, and even that is constant. Every year at this time, we focus on change, trying to be better people, trying to be closer to G!d. In this month of Elul, may the constancy of the stars, the words, my sacred self, and the connections between souls help me change, help me get closer to G!d.
Katy Z. Allen is the rabbi and spiritual leader of Ma'yan Tikvah.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Earth Etude for 13 Elul
On this day of national attention, our prayers and actions for peace go to all those affected by the events of September 11, 2001, and with them go our deepest hopes for lasting peace, human and ecological, among us all.
Blessed are You, Holy One, Who spreads the shelter of peace upon us, upon all of the people of Israel and Palestine, upon Jerusalem, upon all warring individuals, peoples or nations, and upon all the creatures of this earth.
Blessed are You, Holy One, Who spreads the shelter of peace upon us, upon all of the people of Israel and Palestine, upon Jerusalem, upon all warring individuals, peoples or nations, and upon all the creatures of this earth.
- from Ma’yan Tikvah – A Wellspring of Hope
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Earth Etudes for 11 Elul
Glittering Litter
As I prepare to greet my Maker in the field,
Will I recognize Your glittering litter?
Each piece of unresolved garbage, a tiny tinsel of potential teshuvah.
Will I notice that every discarded item of trash
Irresponsibly thrown aside
Is an opportunity for repentance of damage to Your garden.
Will I respond to the privilege to clear the landscape for Your arrival?
All toxic waste, all noxious gases are an invitation
To undo the barrier of denial between us;
To remember that we are one.
Glittering litter is a Divine reminder
A wakeup call from heaven.
Each bit of plastic, glass, tin or paper
Contains a prayer of invitation to a homecoming
As we decide to steward our earth,
Your home,
And
Return home to Home.
One piece of glittering litter
At a time.
Judith Feldstein is a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology, a Certified Hypnotherapist, a Neurolinguistic Programmer, an Eriksonian Hypnosis practitioner, a Sacred Plant Medicine apprentice, and practices Sacred Circle Dance. She is also an Appalachian Mt. Club trail adopter, an Appalachian Mt. Club trail information volunteer, and enrolled in Rabbinical Seminary International. She is a hiker, walker, runner, student and teacher of A Course in Miracles, a student of Buddhism, a student of Gnosticism and mystic paths, an eldercare provider, a wife and a “mother” of several canine rescues (currently Shepherd and Neufy).
As I prepare to greet my Maker in the field,
Will I recognize Your glittering litter?
Each piece of unresolved garbage, a tiny tinsel of potential teshuvah.
Will I notice that every discarded item of trash
Irresponsibly thrown aside
Is an opportunity for repentance of damage to Your garden.
Will I respond to the privilege to clear the landscape for Your arrival?
All toxic waste, all noxious gases are an invitation
To undo the barrier of denial between us;
To remember that we are one.
Glittering litter is a Divine reminder
A wakeup call from heaven.
Each bit of plastic, glass, tin or paper
Contains a prayer of invitation to a homecoming
As we decide to steward our earth,
Your home,
And
Return home to Home.
One piece of glittering litter
At a time.
Judith Feldstein is a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology, a Certified Hypnotherapist, a Neurolinguistic Programmer, an Eriksonian Hypnosis practitioner, a Sacred Plant Medicine apprentice, and practices Sacred Circle Dance. She is also an Appalachian Mt. Club trail adopter, an Appalachian Mt. Club trail information volunteer, and enrolled in Rabbinical Seminary International. She is a hiker, walker, runner, student and teacher of A Course in Miracles, a student of Buddhism, a student of Gnosticism and mystic paths, an eldercare provider, a wife and a “mother” of several canine rescues (currently Shepherd and Neufy).
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Earth Etude for 10 Elul
Holy Ground
"The place on which you stand is holy ground..." (Exodus 3:5) Even the great leader Moses needed to be told to pause and note the sacred in the world around him.
I have come out to wander in my garden in the freshest time of day, pausing to perch between orderly rows of eggplant, corn and pepper plants and my haphazard broccoli patch, where taller silver-green plants stand guard over tiny sprouts from last year's broccoli gone to seed. Squash plants, rampant, have burst out and flung themselves over hostas edging the walkway; profuse, they mix and twist with gourd vines storing sunlight as color for sukkot glory. Nearby, my improvised bean tower looms, lush and green, and several volunteer tomato plants arch in the bright light. The sun is warm on my face, the air indescribably fresh and the earth crumbly between my fingers. The greenery around me and even the soil give off heat they have banked. Time, it seems, has finally stopped. Late summer is breathing in, spilling out, and breathing in again.
And yet, even while I pause for this lovely moment in the middle of my garden to bask in the sun and the warmth and the bird-song fluttering through the trees overhead, I am aware of how very quickly this summer is winging by. "Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon," the poet Mary Oliver asks. How very hard it is to hold my attention on this garden moment, to keep the spotlight of my mind's gaze fixed firmly on the sproutlings at my feet. How hard to remember the warmth and bird-song overhead, even while I am still under their canopy. How much easier it is to allow my mind to jump off in another direction entirely, to worry over concerns for next week, next month, a half-year from now. I think of Kurt Vonnegut's Billy Pilgrim, un-anchored in time and place. I wonder why "there" seems so much more an appealing concept to the mind than "here, and now." If even Moses needed to be reminded of the sacred surrounding him, what hope is there for the rest of us?
I wonder at times if it is an especially Jewish sensibility not to trust that a moment of delight will last. Could it really be that this pleasantness, these sweet times, might continue? Doesn't the image of a cosmic foot ready to land at any moment hang fairly consistently over our Jewish heads? Does a people's historic experiences of repeated brutality -- slavery, expulsions, inquisitions, pogroms -- indicate future outcomes and conditioned responses?
As an educator, I have learned that what we remember ultimately from any experience is what we were inspired to think and to feel. In the end, will these emotional responses to collective tragedies be what will remain in our collective and individual memories? Will that cosmic foot of doom hang over our heads for all time?
As the new Jewish year approaches, I wonder if perhaps this year I might consider myself worthy of the best possible present: a sense of presence. I think of this in several senses, both in being in the present moment, allowing my soul to savor and trust in delight, and also in being aware of the Presence, the sacred and the miraculous, that can be with us at all times, if only we will allow it. Then, perhaps we can truly look towards a Shana tova, a good and a sweet year to come.
Rabbi Judy Kummer serves as Executive Director of the Jewish Chaplaincy Council of Massachusetts, and is an organic gardener and social activist in Boston. She delights especially in the richness of her compost and her relationships.
"The place on which you stand is holy ground..." (Exodus 3:5) Even the great leader Moses needed to be told to pause and note the sacred in the world around him.
I have come out to wander in my garden in the freshest time of day, pausing to perch between orderly rows of eggplant, corn and pepper plants and my haphazard broccoli patch, where taller silver-green plants stand guard over tiny sprouts from last year's broccoli gone to seed. Squash plants, rampant, have burst out and flung themselves over hostas edging the walkway; profuse, they mix and twist with gourd vines storing sunlight as color for sukkot glory. Nearby, my improvised bean tower looms, lush and green, and several volunteer tomato plants arch in the bright light. The sun is warm on my face, the air indescribably fresh and the earth crumbly between my fingers. The greenery around me and even the soil give off heat they have banked. Time, it seems, has finally stopped. Late summer is breathing in, spilling out, and breathing in again.
And yet, even while I pause for this lovely moment in the middle of my garden to bask in the sun and the warmth and the bird-song fluttering through the trees overhead, I am aware of how very quickly this summer is winging by. "Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon," the poet Mary Oliver asks. How very hard it is to hold my attention on this garden moment, to keep the spotlight of my mind's gaze fixed firmly on the sproutlings at my feet. How hard to remember the warmth and bird-song overhead, even while I am still under their canopy. How much easier it is to allow my mind to jump off in another direction entirely, to worry over concerns for next week, next month, a half-year from now. I think of Kurt Vonnegut's Billy Pilgrim, un-anchored in time and place. I wonder why "there" seems so much more an appealing concept to the mind than "here, and now." If even Moses needed to be reminded of the sacred surrounding him, what hope is there for the rest of us?
I wonder at times if it is an especially Jewish sensibility not to trust that a moment of delight will last. Could it really be that this pleasantness, these sweet times, might continue? Doesn't the image of a cosmic foot ready to land at any moment hang fairly consistently over our Jewish heads? Does a people's historic experiences of repeated brutality -- slavery, expulsions, inquisitions, pogroms -- indicate future outcomes and conditioned responses?
As an educator, I have learned that what we remember ultimately from any experience is what we were inspired to think and to feel. In the end, will these emotional responses to collective tragedies be what will remain in our collective and individual memories? Will that cosmic foot of doom hang over our heads for all time?
As the new Jewish year approaches, I wonder if perhaps this year I might consider myself worthy of the best possible present: a sense of presence. I think of this in several senses, both in being in the present moment, allowing my soul to savor and trust in delight, and also in being aware of the Presence, the sacred and the miraculous, that can be with us at all times, if only we will allow it. Then, perhaps we can truly look towards a Shana tova, a good and a sweet year to come.
Rabbi Judy Kummer serves as Executive Director of the Jewish Chaplaincy Council of Massachusetts, and is an organic gardener and social activist in Boston. She delights especially in the richness of her compost and her relationships.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Earth Etude for 9 Elul
Turn, Revisit, Return
The burbling of the Frog Pond water comes into my ears as rhythmic catharsis. In the midst of searching for a place in which to meet my deadlines, I have found respite in my fondness for urban nature. As I catch sight of the shimmering purple-blue on otherwise brown birds, I have the chance to recreate myself in what I see anew.
So much in this scene speaks to me of what I love. As the evening lengthens, I remember how I would keep sitting with my mother to admire the Triborough Bridge lights elongating their reds, greens, and whites on the dark river ripples. Now I enjoy space on my wooden park bench while having a front row seat for a mix of languages and faces, as well as the rich fur of the squirrel attracted by hazelnut cookies in my bag.
Especially refreshing is the familiar feeling of support from my surroundings—the relationship that I acknowledge, accept, and create with the world that is larger than myself. Here are other beings—human, animal, plant—going about their business of existing. I am free to find myself, gathering the energy to sustain myself and go forward.
As the year progresses yet again to the next season, change and continuity intertwine. There is the opportunity to see a different set of our “first fruits,” to expand our feelings on hearing the sound of the Shofar, to add dimension to our insight as we revisit each Torah portion, to set aside what hinders us so that we may go forward in this year. One may turn with the tide, turn again for a different perspective, return to what one loves. For me, this year the outdoors is calling.
Carol C. Reiman cares for six feral cats outside her home, is involved in her synagogue, and works with library books at a local university.
The burbling of the Frog Pond water comes into my ears as rhythmic catharsis. In the midst of searching for a place in which to meet my deadlines, I have found respite in my fondness for urban nature. As I catch sight of the shimmering purple-blue on otherwise brown birds, I have the chance to recreate myself in what I see anew.
So much in this scene speaks to me of what I love. As the evening lengthens, I remember how I would keep sitting with my mother to admire the Triborough Bridge lights elongating their reds, greens, and whites on the dark river ripples. Now I enjoy space on my wooden park bench while having a front row seat for a mix of languages and faces, as well as the rich fur of the squirrel attracted by hazelnut cookies in my bag.
Especially refreshing is the familiar feeling of support from my surroundings—the relationship that I acknowledge, accept, and create with the world that is larger than myself. Here are other beings—human, animal, plant—going about their business of existing. I am free to find myself, gathering the energy to sustain myself and go forward.
As the year progresses yet again to the next season, change and continuity intertwine. There is the opportunity to see a different set of our “first fruits,” to expand our feelings on hearing the sound of the Shofar, to add dimension to our insight as we revisit each Torah portion, to set aside what hinders us so that we may go forward in this year. One may turn with the tide, turn again for a different perspective, return to what one loves. For me, this year the outdoors is calling.
Carol C. Reiman cares for six feral cats outside her home, is involved in her synagogue, and works with library books at a local university.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Earth Etude for 8 Elul
Connection
Take a trip with me on my morning commute. This crisp summer morning, there's an apple lying on the road. A child's delight, discarded half-way though. Intentionally tossed? Accidentally dropped? It lies upon a fresh bed of asphalt which uselessly attempts to assimilate this foreign object. The half-eaten apple on asphalt is Garbage. Asphalt has no use for apples.
Imagine a slightly different commute, through a forest. A half-eaten apple here doesn't sit for long. All manner of living species feast of its bounty: bacteria, insects, worms, birds, chipmunks plants, trees and fungi. No waste. The apple is a wonderful part of the ecosystem.
The difference between these two trips: Connection. In the first, disconnection abounds. In the second, connection is fundamental. What if we look at ourselves, which pattern do we fit?
Food comes from distant farms and continents, it's leftovers to be shipped away or flushed with water that itself comes in from distant springs only to be processed and released somewhere more distant. Water that falls on the house is quickly lead away as well. Each household with separate habitants coming and going in separate directions to separate activities returning only to eat separate meals and relax. Separately.
Only the abundant energy of ancient sunlight made this possible. While the conversation about how we will Transition off our fossil fuel addiction is long overdue, we are, at this very moment, left with the ideal opportunity to reimagine what a connected, self-reliant, sustainable community could look like. This month of Elul, when we engage in introspection in preparation for the Days of Awe, is a perfect time for us to get together and start walking down that path.
Alexander Volfson, a humanist and Earth-ist, seeks to apply his existing(and future) skills toward the creation of a just and sustainable world for all living beings. After bike grime (from fixing bicycles), waste vegetable oil (from biodiesel processing), and dirt (from the permaculture garden) have been washed off his hands, Alex seeks to turn financial flows back into local communities for social and sustainable enterprises. He's started right in his hometown, Framingham with a used vegetable oil collection business; as one of the founding organizers of the FraminghamSierra Club; and with his involvement in the Transition movement.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Earth Etude for 7 Elul
The persons I am lucky enough to claim as friends and family will tell you I have never been the type to take things at reasonable pace. My life is at best, a whirlwind. I somehow always find myself operating at breakneck speed, a cacophony of voices all vying for my attention and passions. The very real danger,however, of this kind of momentum is glance behind and a realization that a sense of self and awareness have been lost.
I was told as a child that our desires, at least in their most distilled and honorable form, were in fact the internal compasses guiding us towards a greater, God-given plan. Perhaps that explains those times in our lives, when not engaged in what brings us balance and fulfillment, we also feel farthest from God.
This is where the idea of t’shuvah - a chance to return and realign oneself with the idea of god and true purpose - applies for me on my journey. I have always done this through the sweetness of the earth around me, in fact it figures strongly into what constitutes my personal sense of spirituality. There is a sort of unwordly peace that inhabits my body when I am in the thick of the biological world. I slip my kayak into the same water that has cycled through an ancient earth, and am engulfed in the joy of God, the newness of the day, and a bold sense of possibility.
Carrie Schuman is a "Mainuh" and a very busy little bee working at a phytoplankton culture collection, and enjoying the vast amount of pristine Maine coastline. She is currently re-assessing her future, so felt writing this etude was a timely exercise.
I was told as a child that our desires, at least in their most distilled and honorable form, were in fact the internal compasses guiding us towards a greater, God-given plan. Perhaps that explains those times in our lives, when not engaged in what brings us balance and fulfillment, we also feel farthest from God.
This is where the idea of t’shuvah - a chance to return and realign oneself with the idea of god and true purpose - applies for me on my journey. I have always done this through the sweetness of the earth around me, in fact it figures strongly into what constitutes my personal sense of spirituality. There is a sort of unwordly peace that inhabits my body when I am in the thick of the biological world. I slip my kayak into the same water that has cycled through an ancient earth, and am engulfed in the joy of God, the newness of the day, and a bold sense of possibility.
Carrie Schuman is a "Mainuh" and a very busy little bee working at a phytoplankton culture collection, and enjoying the vast amount of pristine Maine coastline. She is currently re-assessing her future, so felt writing this etude was a timely exercise.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Earth Etude for 6 Elul
I have been feeling “out of sync” with the High Holidays this year, feeling that I am going in to them unresolved about many aspects of life. I do not at all feel ready to start a new year due to not being finished with the old one. The reading of the Ten Commandments in Deuteronomy brought all this on. The very end of the Commandments says, “not to desire…” and “not to covet…” How can we be commanded not to feel something? A feeling arises spontaneously! One can become aware of it, acknowledge it, and decline to act on it. But we can’t honestly not feel it. That insight brought me to the larger picture of being not ready to engage in teshuvah or the High Holidays in a real way.
As I thought about all this, I realized that there are many places in the Torah where an action is prescribed or proscribed. Some of those commandments we can follow just because they are the correct thing to do. Others must be held as an ideal that we may not be entirely able to do. This includes the “not to desire/covet” commandments and the High Holiday tradition of reflection on the old year and going on to a new and improved one. I now am seeing these commandments as statements that these things are potentially available to a human being. We can work toward not coveting and not desiring. And maybe that is enough to give us hope that things may not always be unresolved. Even if it is not possible never to covet or desire, it is helpful to acknowledge the possibility, the potential.
Lois Rosenthal is affiliated with Temple Tifereth Israel in Winthrop. She particularly enjoys teaching bar and bat mitzah students there, to transfer to them her appreciation of Judaism.
As I thought about all this, I realized that there are many places in the Torah where an action is prescribed or proscribed. Some of those commandments we can follow just because they are the correct thing to do. Others must be held as an ideal that we may not be entirely able to do. This includes the “not to desire/covet” commandments and the High Holiday tradition of reflection on the old year and going on to a new and improved one. I now am seeing these commandments as statements that these things are potentially available to a human being. We can work toward not coveting and not desiring. And maybe that is enough to give us hope that things may not always be unresolved. Even if it is not possible never to covet or desire, it is helpful to acknowledge the possibility, the potential.
Lois Rosenthal is affiliated with Temple Tifereth Israel in Winthrop. She particularly enjoys teaching bar and bat mitzah students there, to transfer to them her appreciation of Judaism.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Earth Etude for 4 Elul
For six weeks beginning in Elul, Jews engage in introspection. “Elul” - taken as an acronym: I and my beloved - introduces the principle that teshuva is about relationships: with self, others, God, and as well the Earth. The season is not completed until we return in the Torah cycle to the beginning, Beresheit (Genesis), and the story of Creation.
Understanding and coming to grips with the physical universe in which we live is an integral part of the process of teshuva. It gives us perspective on who we are, where we came from, where we are going, and God’s plan. This is why the Torah begins with what, as Rashi astutely notes, is a seemingly irrelevant story. But if we cannot appreciate the Earth and cosmos in which we live, then we cannot fully understand the web of relationships and obligations that bind us.
About 13.7 billion years ago the universe as we know it exploded from an infinitesimally small point in a creative event dubbed “the big bang,” and has been expanding ever since. The original description was the cumulative result of decades of mathematical thinking and meticulous observations that culminated with Edwin Hubble’s 1929 observation that other galaxies were systematically moving away from us, in accord with Einstein’s then recent theory of relativity. Four hundred years after Rashi, the Kabbalists of Tzefat offered their own perspective on the lessons of the Torah’s beginning. The Kabbalists weave an intricate account of an expanding universe, layers of light emanating from a primal point, but with a reason beyond the simple physics: humanity has a role to play in this cosmic drama. Tikkun olam is humanity’s task – to heal the breaches and injustices of our society, imperfections that were reflected in the very fabric of the newly formed cosmos. Caring for the Earth is one of these tasks. G’mar Chatimah Tova.
Howard Smith is a senior astrophysicist at Harvard and the author of “Let There Be Light: Modern Cosmology and Kabbalah, a New Conversation between Science and Religion.” He lives and in Newton with his family and davens at the Newton Centre Minyan and Shaarei Tefilla.
Understanding and coming to grips with the physical universe in which we live is an integral part of the process of teshuva. It gives us perspective on who we are, where we came from, where we are going, and God’s plan. This is why the Torah begins with what, as Rashi astutely notes, is a seemingly irrelevant story. But if we cannot appreciate the Earth and cosmos in which we live, then we cannot fully understand the web of relationships and obligations that bind us.
About 13.7 billion years ago the universe as we know it exploded from an infinitesimally small point in a creative event dubbed “the big bang,” and has been expanding ever since. The original description was the cumulative result of decades of mathematical thinking and meticulous observations that culminated with Edwin Hubble’s 1929 observation that other galaxies were systematically moving away from us, in accord with Einstein’s then recent theory of relativity. Four hundred years after Rashi, the Kabbalists of Tzefat offered their own perspective on the lessons of the Torah’s beginning. The Kabbalists weave an intricate account of an expanding universe, layers of light emanating from a primal point, but with a reason beyond the simple physics: humanity has a role to play in this cosmic drama. Tikkun olam is humanity’s task – to heal the breaches and injustices of our society, imperfections that were reflected in the very fabric of the newly formed cosmos. Caring for the Earth is one of these tasks. G’mar Chatimah Tova.
Howard Smith is a senior astrophysicist at Harvard and the author of “Let There Be Light: Modern Cosmology and Kabbalah, a New Conversation between Science and Religion.” He lives and in Newton with his family and davens at the Newton Centre Minyan and Shaarei Tefilla.
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