Pivoting and Fun in War…? (& Ki Tissa)

I haven’t been sleeping much since Friday night when the threat of war, and then actual war broke out again in the Middle East.

Last night was no exception. I wondered briefly, why am I so awake? Is it the full blood moon?

And why am I so very, very tired?

Of course, the answer is obvious; it’s terrifying to have a child in a war-torn country.

Having grown up the way I did, with no emotional connection whatsoever to Israel, as a Jew or in any other way, how could I ever imagine I would be in such a situation—that I would have a daughter who felt an intense pull to go and study (not once, but twice!) and possibly choose to live there?

Whether I like it or not, however I feel about Israel politically (or even how she does), this is my reality now. What a pivot.

And strangely, when I become really silent and put aside my fear and terror (and grief) at yet another war—and her being stuck in the middle—when I connect with my heart, what comes to me is a deep knowing that she is where she needs to be right now. And that she is safe.

She’s coping as best she can. She’s staying with friends. I’m glad she’s not alone.

Aside from running up and down stairs to bomb shelters and attending Zoom school (where she can’t really focus, but that’s not the point), there’s an insistence on joy, despite the circumstances. She and her friends are playing board games, cooking and eating together. With Purim, they are also singing, dancing, and drinking (and I wonder if this has only intensified this year because they are in the midst of war).

Singing is something people have always done in dire conditions. It calms the nerves and brings people together in human connection. It’s a defiance of what is, and a declaration of strength and life. It’s a pivot from what one would expect—and not a little bit of hiding from reality.

A part of me thought I should have gone out the other night for Purim. But…my body spoke to me, silently and in no uncertain terms, that I was to stay in bed.

I believe that everyone manifests what they’re feeling deeply in their body through physical symptoms, but we’re not always aware of it. We all walk around coping with various situations, and our emotions find a way into our bodies, hiding from us and then manifesting in various ways. It’s often only in the silence that we are able to get in touch with emotions we may be repressing. Only then may we discover much deeper issues, ones perhaps too scary to admit.

Of course, this was an obvious one: a deep uncertainty and fear about what might happen.

So I couldn’t simply pivot away from the reality and just celebrate; I was not to be in the midst of boisterousness, loud music, and flashing lights.

Also, what exactly are we celebrating?

Purim is the story of Esther, the Jewish queen who is encouraged to reveal her true identity as a Jew to her husband, the king, in order to save her people. She must be brave. That’s the good side of the story.

The bad side is that, in the end, 75,000 Persians (eerily close to the number killed in Gaza, now recognized by the Israeli army), are slaughtered in a short war of revenge. We’ve killed those who wanted us dead.

Do I go out and celebrate a war of revenge? A massacre? Jewish exceptionalism and triumphalism?

While anti-semitism is on the rise, there is a newer phenomenon that’s being called “anti-antisemitism.” This, to me, is yet another pivot away from reality. It’s a way of making us feel better about what has happened. Instead of facing the destruction, feeling the pain of what’s been wrought, we can distract ourselves with, “But look at anti-semitism!”

I also don’t believe in preserving Jewish identity because of antisemitism, which is the newest reason to “be” Jewish. I believe in Judaism as a spiritual path. If we are to be exceptional, then we need to use Judaism for that which it is said to be: a path to making things better, a Light Unto the Nations, not a Destructive Force Unto the World.

In this week’s Torah portion, called Ki Tissa, Aaron, Moses’ brother, is confronted with a frightening situation, and he’s not so sure how to cope with it. Moses has been up on Mt. Sinai convening with God for a long time (40 days and 40 nights, just basically meditating perhaps in silence, receiving God’s teachings, not eating or drinking (talking water, not alcohol) because who needs other sustenance than “God’s” infinite energy?).

Meanwhile, the Israelites, having been promised freedom, are growing restless and panicky; who is this god they can’t see, and where is their human savior with all his promises?

With the threat of assault, Aaron, unable to think clearly in his own panic and fear, tells the people to give him all their gold jewelry. He throws it into a fire, and out comes a calf made of gold—one they bow down to and worship; he has given them a substitute god, a material one they have more trust in.

They dance around in joy. They are boisterous, drunk.

God with the big “g” sees all this from above and warns Moses, telling him it’s time to destroy this stiff-necked people. Moses reasons with God, saying, how’s this gonna look to the Egyptians if you kill your beloved people after all you just went through to save them?

God relents, now that God can calm down and regroup for a moment; God will not destroy God’s people.

Moses hurries down the mountain to prevent further damage, carrying two stone tablets with God’s teachings written with God’s own finger. But when Moses sees what’s going on with his own eyes, he completely loses his cool. He demands to know who is with him and who against him. He sets brother against brother, causing the slaughter of thousands in a bloody, horrific scene—one we don’t talk about when we discuss this chapter, one that stays hidden from our consciousness (because it’s not really the point?).

Then Moses is commanded to go back up the mountain and make two more tablets. A repeat, during a moment of calm. Two new tablets. A repair, perhaps.

Later on, God has further conversation with Moses, this time on the ground, among the tents where people are living. God tells Moses that God will pass before him, but hidden in the cleft of a rock, covering God’s own face as God passes, for no person can see it and live.

On Purim, too, God is hidden from us. God is not even mentioned. Also on Purim, we don costumes, hiding our true selves, or perhaps revealing parts of ourselves we normally hide.

Even more interesting to me is how we hide from ourselves, so afraid to confront what is deep inside us. Instead, we present a different version, one we deem more “acceptable” to the world. And we fight so hard to keep up this facade—until our bodies give out and we’re forced to stay in bed.

We don’t only hurt our own bodies through this process; we also hurt the world. With all the uncertainty, we might become more blustery, declaring more strongly who we are and that we are here to stay—and we forget what we are supposed to stand for, what we are—as Jews, as humans.

The insistence on being joyful, celebrating life despite dire circumstances, is a very human instinct, and also a deeply Jewish value.

Another Jewish value is to not rejoice at the death of your enemies, even if they want/wanted to kill you. No one should be wishing for the bombs to be directed at the West Bank as I’ve heard is happening in some bomb shelters in Israel (as if they’re not being attacked enough by those who violently claim Judaism as their path).

We also can not pray for peace while supporting war and death. This idea should be crazy-making—like Purim, turning everything on its head, pretending it makes sense, except that on Purim we also admit it doesn’t make sense; we uncover what is concealed.

When I get really quiet, when I can put aside the panic and fear, I find a calm within, despite everything, and that helps with clear thinking.

Do I feel in my heart that “everything will be okay”? Absolutely not in the way that “every one is going to be okay.”

Do I think that my daughter can grow from this experience and come out a stronger Jewish leader? Absolutely. Despite, or maybe because of everything.

The lesson from this week’s Torah, although not taught in the best way (in my opinion) is that a material god is a false god; we should not look to our leaders or our the Torah or a nation as if they were gods. A nation and its leaders are simply flawed (and sometimes very sick) human beings that hold onto land tightly through a distorted need for power—land which the Torah tells us does not actually belong to any of us. And the Torah? It’s flawed, too.

We should also not hold on to being Jewish because of trauma we have experienced in the past. We can grow from our experiences, but we should not use them as excuses to close our hearts to those who are suffering, or to cause more suffering, both of which we have (shamefully) seen much too much of lately.

Instead, we should hold on to Jewish practice, which can lead us to quiet ourselves so we can get in touch with our deepest, truest selves and reveal things hiding beneath the surface. It is in the calm and silence that we can hopefully prevent further damage, and possibly even repair damage that’s been caused already.

So, yes, let us continue singing and dancing, let us continue to grow in our comfort with silence, let us continue to work on connecting deeply with ourselves, human to human, and with the earth. Let us turn things on their head, pivot away from what leads to suffering but not from reality so we can finally change the narrative.

Because that’s really the point.