Dear TBZ Community,
This week’s Torah portion, Bo, continues the story of the Exodus. The last three plagues are in our parasha, including darkness (hoshekh), the night plague. This week, I heard a moving D’var Torah by my dear friend and colleague Rabbi Ayelet Cohen, Dean of the Rabbinical school of JTS in New York. Rabbi Cohen invited us to think about darkness not just as the simple meaning of the lack of light or the darkness of night or of a place without electricity, but darkness as an experience of isolation, of separation, of depression.
In Exodus 10:23 we read:
לֹא־רָאוּ אִישׁ אֶת־אָחִיו וְלֹא־קָמוּ אִישׁ מִתַּחְתָּיו שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים
People could not see one another, and for three days no one could move about
The darkness was so thick that people could not see each other, could not find one another, could not move, and could not stand. The verse ends telling us that this was not the case for the Israelites:
וּלְכל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמוֹשְׁבֹתָם
but all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings
Rabbi Marc Katz, author of The Heart of Loneliness: How Jewish Wisdom Can Help You Cope and Find Comfort‘, quoting midrash Tanchuma explains: “our Rabbis understood that there was a unique pain in the plague of darkness. In their minds, this darkness was unlike the darkness that we often encounter in our everyday. It was a total darkness. Not only did it block sight, but it also blocked sound and movement.” He adds:
“Yet this soup-like darkness was not an instant problem. In fact, our Rabbis explain, the first few days of darkness were tolerable. For three days people could move about and while they could not see their fellow, they could certainly hear him and touch him. However, darkness usually begets more darkness and after three days the air was so thick with blackness that it was oppressive. One could not sit or stand. Everyone was in their own isolation chamber, frozen in whatever place they were when the fog rolled in.”
(You can also read more from Rabbi Katz in his 2017 blog post about parasha Bo.)
The commentary in Etz Hayim, the chumash or printed Torah with commentary that we use in our sanctuary, also suggests that this was not just a physical darkness:
“Perhaps the plague was not a physical darkness, a sand-storm or a solar eclipse (eclipse last for a few minutes, never for three days); perhaps it was a spiritual a psychological darkness a deep depression…. Perhaps the Egyptians were depressed by the series of calamities that had struck them or by the realization of how much their own comfort depended on the enslavement of others. The person who cannot see his neighbor is incapable of spiritual growth, incapable of rising from where he is currently” (Etz Hayyim, page 377).
This notion of darkness, a sense of isolation, separation, profound disconnection from one another, and even of guilt, is perhaps something we can understand, both on a personal as well as on a communal level.
I think many of us can relate to this image, this notion of thick darkness, isolation, and separation when experiencing depression or mental health struggles. Darkness is the incapacity to see, hear, or feel anything beyond the thick darkness; not being able to see others, and feeling that we are not seen by others.
Part of belonging to an intentional, spiritual, and religious community is to create opportunities and build connections that help us walk through life, not alone, through darkness and light (and all that is in between). Perhaps helping each and every one of us to feel less lonely, less isolated, and part of something bigger, of a collective, or a community.
(If you are struggling with mental health and need support, please do not hesitate to reach out. You can find mental health resources from JF&CS or call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeine.)
This teaching can also ring true in our collective experience: at times we feel numb, desperate as we witness the brokenness of this word, the injustices that surround us, and it feels dark and too often so thick that we cannot see beyond.
This week, I spent two days in Florida in my role as board member of T’ruah: The Rabbinic Call for Human Rights. We combined our board meeting with a visit to Immokalee, FL to deepen our learning and longstanding relationship with the Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) and learn more about the Fair Food Program.
CIW is a worker-based human rights organization internationally recognized for its achievements in fighting human trafficking and gender-based violence at work. The CIW is also recognized for pioneering the design and development of the Worker-driven Social Responsibility paradigm, a worker-led, market-enforced approach to the protection of human rights in corporate supply chains. As many of you know, I visited Immokalee ten years ago. That visit was the beginning of my involvement with T’ruah. It was very moving to be back and to see the success of the work of CIW and the Fair Food Program and the power of the workers and to recommit ourselves to fight for workers rights, protection and dignity.
Rabbi Ayelet Cohen, who was with me in Immokalee visiting CIW, reminded us in her teaching that what we witnessed – the power of organizing, of coalition building, of listening to the stories of the workers – is a form of combating darkness and isolation.
We respond to the darkness that we encounter by connecting, building coalitions, and listening. We respond to the darkness by not isolating ourselves or others. One of the challenges of hoshekh, of darkness, is the pull to the individual, isolated experience. The pull to separate ourselves, to stop being in relationship. The people we spent the day with in Immokalee reminded us of the power of seeing each other, of sharing suffering, and of sharing strategies, solutions, and even hope. By resisting isolation, we build power and can bring change.
Coalition building, working together, working with others, connecting, listening to others’ stories… certainly in social justice work, but also in our personal lives and beyond, these are the opposite of the plague of darkness. Being part of a rabbinic organization like T’ruah, that fights for human rights and dignity from a Jewish perspective, builds coalitions and power, creates a world where we can see each other and can stand for and with each other, is a response to that thick darkness.
And this is also the hard work of building and being part of an intentional and meaningful community, of being part of TBZ. I truly believe that there is nothing more urgent in these difficult times in which we live than belonging to a community (TBZ or any other communities we belong to). Community is the opposite of isolation, of darkness, of not being able to see each other, and of not being seen.
Darkness is part of our lives, and, at times, lately too often, the thick darkness of our world can become unbearable, paralyzing, and scary. Our response is to keep seeing each other, to keep connecting with each other, to not be alone, to be in community, to help each other reach through the darkness.
May this Shabbat bring renewal and blessings to all of you and your loved ones.
May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity.
May all those who are ill find healing. And may we have a joyful, sweet, and peaceful Shabbat.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia