Community Blog Message from the President

When I was growing up, there were two photographs that hung side by side on the wall of our dining room.

One was of a vast field of white snow. Against the backdrop of that barren expanse, in the bottom left corner of the photograph, one could make out the small, dark figures of a family huddled together for warmth.

The other was of an empty city street at night. Against the black-gray backdrop of that desolate urban landscape, in the top left corner of the photograph, blinked the flickering light of an old neon sign.

“Notice,” my mother would remind me, “how — in the face of overwhelming cold — your eye is drawn to the place of warmth and human connection. Notice, how — in the face of overwhelming darkness — your eye is drawn to the point of light.”

I’ve been thinking about those photographs lately, as I’ve watched the news unfolding across the United States, and most recently, in the streets of Minneapolis — as I’ve struggled, honestly, to fathom what is happening to our country. The cold brutality that has been unleashed by leaders whose lust for power and personal aggrandizement seems to know no bounds. The dark fear and division that those same leaders try to provoke within us, between us.

Let your eye be drawn to the places of warmth, light, human connection. This is both a natural impulse… but it is also a choice. And in this moment, it is an act of political and spiritual resistance.

I’ve been thinking about my mother’s reminder — “notice how your eye is drawn to the place of warmth and human connection, notice how your eye is drawn to the point of light.” As an amateur photographer herself, she was actually interested in the composition of the photographs, and the experience they elicited in the observer. But she was also, of course, saying something much broader about the human condition. Let your eye be drawn to the places of warmth, light, human connection. This is both a natural impulse, she wanted me to understand, but it is also a choice. And in this moment, it is an act of political and spiritual resistance.

This is what the people of Minnesota have been showing us all, have been teaching us all, over these last days and weeks. With daily acts of kindness and protection for neighbors. With well-organized, sustained and sustaining campaigns to provide food and shelter for those most vulnerable. With urgent calls for national solidarity efforts — to clergy, to businesses, to unions, to citizens from all walks of life.

Hebrew College alumni and students who gathered in Minneapolis on January 22 & 23. (Back row l-r: Rabbi David Fainsilber`14, Rabbi Micah Shapiro`17, Becca Heisler`27, Micah Sandman`30, Leah Weinstein`30, Elizabeth Shulman`30, Rabbi Shahar Colt`16 and Rabbi Joey Glick`22. Middle row l-r: Nikki Golomb`26 and Noa Baron`30. Front row l-r: Rabbi Margot Meitner`14, Rabbi Ari Lev Fornari`14, Rabbi Yael Werber`22, and Rabbi Alana Alpert`14.)

Minnesota is one of our largest hubs of alumni, with nine Hebrew College rabbis serving congregations, day schools and college campuses in the Twin Cities. We are so inspired by the work they are doing every day to bring warmth and light to their communities, to their neighbors, to their streets, to us all. We are inspired by our many students and alumni who responded to the national clergy call last week and went to Minnesota to stand with friends and colleagues, to stand with a broad coalition of the faithful, to say no to the forces of cold and darkness, and to say yes to the irrepressible power of human connection.

Over these last few weeks, we have been reading the story of our liberation from slavery in Egypt, the ancient and unending story of how God frees us with “a strong hand and outstretched arm.” The biblical narrative that culminates this week with the Song of the Sea, is filled with images of miraculous signs and wonders, an insistent reminder that no place, no matter how desperate, is beyond the reach of God’s redeeming power.

Notice — in the face of the cold and darkness that begins in the heart of Pharoah and takes hold of all Egypt — notice the countless hints of human connection, the places of light and warmth, the strong hands and outstretched arms of midwives and mothers, sisters and princesses, women and men who insist on reaching out across their differences, in spite of the risks, in spite of the inevitable disappointments, to say no to Pharoah, and to say yes to the sanctity of life.

The real-life process of liberation requires no less than this: that we reach out to one another, again and again, with strong hands and outstretched arms. This is the wonder that God performs for us on our journey out of Egypt. This is the miracle that transforms our weeping into song. Ken yehi ratzon.

Bivracha,

Rabbi Sharon
President, Hebrew College