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Reflections on the Anniversary of October 7th

4 October 2024

Dear Members and Friends,

In 1974, Leonard Cohen recorded the song ‘Who by Fire’ in his album ‘New Skin for the Old Ceremony.’
 
And who by fire, who by water
Who in the sunshine, who in the nighttime
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial
Who in your merry merry month of may
Who by very slow decay
And who shall I say is calling?

 
And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt
Who by avalanche, who by powder
Who for his greed, who for his hunger
And who shall I say is calling?

 
And who by brave assent, who by accident
Who in solitude, who in this mirror
Who by his lady's command, who by his own hand
Who in mortal chains, who in power
And who shall I say is calling?

 
These words have particular significance in the dark shadow of the anniversary of October 7th  terrorist attack on Israel and the resulting wars and devastation in Gaza and Lebanon. Too many people have died, and too many have lost everything they owned. Too many Israelis suffer from the displacement and trauma of losing their loved ones. Too many innocent Palestinians and Lebanese people have been caught in these terrible wars. The lyrics of this song become descriptive and prophetic, with its unanswered question at the end of each stanza: And who shall I say is calling?’ Is it God’s call? Is it humanity’s responsibility? Who can we ask for help and advice?
 
Did you know this song is based on the High Holy Days prayer "Un’taneh Tokef"? The Liberal prayer book skips the lines that inspired Leonard Cohen to write this song, so if you have only experienced Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in a Liberal synagogue, it is harder to notice the reference. However, the more traditional version of this prayer includes these words:
 
On Rosh Hashanah they will be written down 
And on Yom Kippur they will be sealed: 
How many will pass on and how many will be created, 
Who will live and who will die, 
Who at their end and who not at their end, 
Who by fire and who by water, 
Who by warfare and who by wildlife, 
Who by hunger and who by thirst, 
Who by earthquake and who by plague, 
Who by strangling and who by stoning, 
Who will rest and who will wander, 
Who will be tranquil and who will be troubled, 
Who will be calm, and who will be tormented, 
Who will be exalted and who humbled, 
Who will be rich and who will be poor? 
And repentance, prayer, and charity 
Help the hardship of the decree pass.
(Translation by Dr Joel M. Hoffman, Source: Who By Fire, Who By Water (Prayers of Awe) (pp. 30-31). Turner Publishing Company.)
 
According to legend, this prayer was composed by Rabbi Amnon of Mainz, a respected Jewish leader in medieval Germany. The story tells of a local bishop who tried to pressure the Rabbi to convert to Christianity. In a moment of duress, he requested three days to consider the offer but immediately regretted even suggesting he might abandon his faith. When he refused to return to the bishop, soldiers were sent to seize him, and he was brutally tortured as punishment for his perceived disrespect. On Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, Rabbi Amnon was brought to the synagogue, where he composed and recited the prayer "Un’taneh Tokef," a profound meditation on life, death, and divine judgment. Shortly after delivering this powerful prayer, he passed away, and his words were later recorded and integrated into the High Holy Day liturgy, becoming a central part of Jewish worship during this sacred time.
 
This story most likely never happened in real life, but it remains a part of what Jewish people know and tell each other. It is impossible to accept the premise of this prayer and think that on Rosh Hashanah, God decides who will live and who will die. The only way to live with this prayer is to understand it poetically and metaphorically and draw life wisdom from it.
 
The powerful words of "Un’taneh Tokef," reflected in Leonard Cohen's "Who by Fire," remind us of life's uncertainties. Paradoxically, they also make us consider the precious opportunities in each moment. As we enter the new year, we are called to embrace life with renewed hope and purpose. While we cannot control every twist of fate, we can choose how we respond to it. The concluding words of the prayer say: 
 
And repentance, prayer, and charity 
Help the hardship of the decree pass.
 
They urge us to respond to all disasters with kindness, self-reflection, resilience, and a commitment to better ourselves and the world around us. We cannot undo October 7th and its consequences. Still, we can and must respond to terror with reflection and charity, balance murder with healing, and resist revenge by showing kindness and understanding. Nobody wins in a war.
 
May the new year be a year of peace and healing.
 
Shabbat Shalom and Shanah Tovah!
Rabbi Igor

Yom Kippur

11 October 2024

Dear Members and Friends,

Last night, I sat in the Sanctuary watching and listening to the witness statements of survivors of October 7th in interviews screened by ‘Edut 710’ (the word means ‘testimony’), the largest project dedicated to the recording and preserving of testimonies of those who were immediately affected by the devastating attacks in Israel a year ago.

In partnership with the Wiener Holocaust Library, a collective of volunteers – filmmakers, historians, archivists and mental health practitioners – are ensuring that a video testimony database is established, so that the personal stories and experiences of those who survived will be available and accessible for generations to come.

This is not a propaganda project, says Itay Ken-Tor, a filmmaker, teacher and lecturer. Those who ‘interview’ are present as listeners, not to ask questions, but to allow the speakers, the survivors to tell their stories in their own words, without interruption.

The short films, extracts from longer interviews, are hard to listen to and I return home to think about Yom Kippur, about the words I must write here and the close deadline to allow myself at least a little space between finishing my preparation of the services and the beginning of this holy day. But it is hard, as it has been hard during this whole year to enter into the true spirit of each of our festivals without thinking of the dark shadow of October 7th: of the hostages languishing in tunnels in Gaza, the long wait of the families for their return, and the scenes of devastation in Gaza and Lebanon, the uneasy fear when thinking of a vulnerable, exhausted Israel contemplating its retaliation against the might of Iran.

I turn to the last chapter of Yoma, the Talmudic tractate that deals with Yom Kippur. There are long discussions about the prohibition against eating on the festival and I think of my class of 12-13 year-olds in Rimon and the exchange between one of the students and a teaching assistant, a teenager of 15 or 16. ‘How can you fast?’ asks the student. I open my mouth to tell them that it’s important not to eat too much or too heavily before the fast, but my assistant is there more quickly. ‘You need to have a big plate of meat before Yom Kippur,’ he says. ‘And that will see you through!’

Perhaps, I think to myself, this young man is no different from Rabbi Yochanan, or Resh Lakish, or Rav and Shmuel, and their discussions about fasting on Yom Kippur, and I chide myself for being judgemental about the carnivorous appetites of this growing teenager.

The Talmud moves on to a discussion about the meaning of the biblical phrase ‘You shall afflict yourselves; and you shall do no manner of work…’ (Leviticus 16:29). I look up the biblical commentators on this phrase te’anu et-nafshoteychem – ‘you shall afflict yourselves’ and in later translations, ‘You shall afflict your souls.’ We know, says ibn Ezra, that when the Torah speaks of affliction of our nefesh, it refers to fasting. Nachmanides agrees, and I read the other commentators anxious to find a different slant on this phrase ‘to afflict yourselves’.

After all, this year has felt to be one long year of affliction, sadness, humiliation, of spirits bowed down, not only by the suffering of our own people, but compounded by the shocking images of devastation in Gaza and Lebanon and by the never-ending question – when will it end?

And then I read Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav’s commentary to the command to afflict oneself on Yom Kippur.  You can’t pray, he writes, when there is conflict and strife with God, when you are resisting doing God’s will. And so, to eliminate this strife and make peace, you have to fast. The benefit of fasting is the humbling of the heart, a way of helping the heart cleave to the Holy One. Through fasting, the heart becomes subdued and weakened. This is how the heart becomes attached to the will of the Holy One.

I know not everyone can undertake the mitzvah of fasting for 25 hours on Yom Kippur, but Rebbe Nachman understands that strife and conflict in the world is a sign of our hubris, defiance and aggression and hold us back from true prayer. He asks us to humble our hearts, to discover the will of our Creator and find peace.

Throughout these long hours of Yom Kippur, whether we are in synagogue or online, let us turn away from conflict and join together in praying for peace in our own hearts, peace in our families, in our community, peace in Israel, peace between all nations, and peace throughout the world. Keyn yehi ratzon – May our prayers and hopes for this New Year cleave to the will of our Creator.

Shabbat Shalom and g’mar chatimah tovah.

Alexandra Wright

 


Reflections on Sukkot and Life


18 October 2024


Dear Members and Friends,

In Lamed Shapiro's short story ‘Wings,’ he reflects on the annual transformation of their family's humble pantry into a Sukkah, a temporary hut or booth that Jewish people build and spend time in during the week-long Sukkot festival. This ordinary space, filled with sacks of potatoes and barrels of borscht, is reborn each year with the opening of its roof ‘wings,’ becoming a sacred space where the family eats, sleeps, and engages in conversations for all eight nights of the festival.

One year, on the festival's second day, dark clouds gather, and a storm shatters the holiness of the sukkah. As rain drips through the roof, the family abandons the sacred space. The sukkah had become a pantry again.

People have the unique ability to fill the time and space with meaning. What can be an ordinary pantry or storage room, tomorrow can become a sukkah, a space of deep religious significance. The synagogue I grew up in had no building; it shared the space with many other organisations. There was no dedicated prayer hall, just a regular concert hall. But things changed when the community gathered and started to sing Ma Tovu. The same happens with the LJS’s Montefiore Hall terrace. All year long, it is a lovely outside space for people to escape from noisy and hot Kiddush, a space for children to play football. But once a year, this space is transformed into a Sukkah, a fragile, temporary structure filled with meanings.

This transformation is what Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel called the ‘Architecture of Time.’ In his book ‘The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man’ he writes:

Jewish ritual may be characterized as the art of significant forms in time, as architecture of time. Most of its observances–the Sabbath, the New Moon, the festivals, the Sabbatical and the Jubilee year–depend on a certain hour of the day or season of the year. It is, for example, the evening, morning, or afternoon that brings with it the call to prayer. The main themes of faith lie in the realm of time.’

When we build the Sukkah, we don’t just create a physical space; we inspire ideas and fill the time with meaning. What does the Sukkah represent this year?

  1. Symbol of Our Journey: The sukkah serves as a powerful reminder of Jewish history and the journey of the Israelites during their 40 years in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt. During that time, the Israelites lived in temporary tents as they wandered through the desert. The sukkah, therefore, reminds us of our ancestors' resilience and the importance of adapting to challenging circumstances. If they did it in the ancient world, without what we would consider basic needs, we can do it too.
     
  2. Vulnerability and Humility: By leaving our permanent homes and residing in the sukkah, we are reminded of the fragility of existence. Last years had many examples of how suddenly people’s lives can change. Nobody who has experienced a war, a terror attack or a climate catastrophe was fully prepared for it. Nobody expects a sudden turmoil in your life. The unspoken message of Sukkot is simple but subering – ‘one day it can be you.’ Therefore, our moral obligation is to support those affected by war, misplacement and other misfortunes.
     
  3. Unity and Inclusion: A sukkah is a traditional place for welcoming guests. The simplicity and vulnerability of the sukkah is something everyone can share equally, regardless of status or wealth. Therefore, Sukkot is a reminder to spend time and have conversations with those you don’t normally socialise with.
     
  4. Joy and Gratitude: Sukkot is called the "Festival of Joy" (Z’man Simchateinu), and the sukkah represents the joy that comes from spiritual fulfilment rather than material abundance. Despite its simplicity, the sukkah is meant to be a place of happiness and gratitude, symbolising contentment in what you have in an immaterial world rather than financial ambitions.
     

May this festival bring us a sense of perspective, meaning and joy.

Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Igor


Shabbat Bereshit

 

25 October 2024

 

Dear Members and Friends,

 

 

 

 

 

This week marked the eightieth Yahrzeit of the death of the world’s first woman Rabbi.  Many believe that the first ordained woman in Jewish history was Rabbi Sally Priesand in 1972, a graduate of the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in the United States. In Europe, Rabbi Dr Jackie Tabick, who was ordained at Leo Baeck College in 1975 is hailed as the first woman Rabbi in the UK.

This was certainly the story I learnt as I studied to become a rabbi in the 1980s at Leo Baeck College. However, as the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989 and the archives housed in the former East Germany were opened, a remarkable discovery emerged.

Fourteen files had been transferred from the pre-war Berlin Jewish Community to the archive. They had rested there for fifty years without awakening anyone’s interest. One of the files was an eighty-eight page halachic treatise, ‘Can Women Serve as Rabbis?’ written in 1930, a final paper for the Berlin Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums. A second document was an ordination certificate, handwritten in Hebrew and dated December 27 1935.  It was signed by a leading liberal Rabbi, Max Dienemann and belonged to Rabbi Regina Jonas.

Born in Berlin, Fräulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas, was born into an impoverished, orthodox family. Her father died when she was eleven and she and her brother, Abraham were raised by her mother, Sara Jonas. Both became teachers of Judaism and Regina, who financed her studies by teaching Hebrew and religion, entered the Berlin Hochschule, determined to become a rabbi.

Many of her teachers, revered and eminent scholars, such as Rabbi Dr Leo Baeck and the Talmud professor Rabbi Dr Eduard Baneth, were supportive. Although women formed a minority at the Hochschule, it was not an unusual phenomenon for women to be admitted to become teachers or scholars of Judaism.

Despite encouragement from certain colleagues and some communities, Rabbi Regina Jonas encountered ferocious opposition, scorn and dismissal. It did not diminish her determination to teach, minister pastorally, deliver lively and interesting sermons and continue with her vocation. She was listened to with tremendous enthusiasm, young people found her teaching to be engaging and memorable. Like Lily Montagu, she was a woman of piety and love for Jewish teaching and the Jewish people. But she was also deeply knowledgeable and her dissertation for the Hochschule demonstrated her mastery of halachic and other sources.

Jonas was ordained in the same year as the Nuremberg racial laws were enacted, implementing a complete ban against Jews in the public sphere. These led many Jews to leave Germany and emigrate to the UK or United States. But others decided to stay, including Regina Jonas.

By 1942, Regina Jonas was working in a packaging material factory in Berlin, ministering pastorally and pedagogically to those around her, and giving sermons in communities where she could. Later, the same year, Regina and her mother were deported to Theresienstadt. On October 12 1944, both mother and daughter were on one of the last trains to leave for Auschwitz-Birkenau. It is thought that both women were murdered shortly after arrival.

I wonder how many other women there may have been throughout Jewish history who longed to become rabbis, but whose yearnings were thwarted by a patriarchy that marginalised their contributions to Jewish life.

The Nazi destruction of European Jewry ruptured this courageous development within Jewish history. It took forty years for Jewish communities to take the decision to ordain women as rabbis.

The trauma of history can be paralysing as we retreat into paradigms we know to be safe, conservative and unchanging. But it is perhaps when the ground shifts beneath us, when there is volatility and uncertainty, that we must grasp transformation with courage, and ask ourselves, what do our communities most need now and for the future?

As we marked the first anniversary of October 7th on Simchat Torah yesterday, we look to Fräulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas as an example of courage, integrity and love of her Jewish heritage and the people whom she served until her death.

Shabbat Shalom,
Alexandra Wright

Wed, 19 March 2025 19 Adar 5785