Right now, Jews around the world are reading each week from the book of Exodus in the Torah. The story of our Exodus from enslavement in ancient Egypt is not a distant one that happened in a mythical past. It’s a story that is always happening, in countless iterations, throughout the ages. The Biblical Exodus is a story that has inspired people around the world in their own quest for liberation through the centuries, right down to the Civil Rights movement of our own time.
Like the book of Exodus, stories of oppression usually begin with the demonization of foreigners or minorities. The biblical Pharaoh was not the last leader to wield propaganda against “outsiders” as a wedge issue to galvanize his people and distract them from his own harshness and exploitation. Propaganda led to oppression which eventually led to violence and killing. It’s a technique used by tyrants and authoritarians throughout history.
And be assured, the persecution of one group eventually leads to suffering for everyone. To paraphrase Pastor Martin Niemöller after WWII, if we don’t speak up when they come for others, there will be no one left to speak up when they come for us.
As a response to this xenophobia, the Torah’s most repeated divine commandment is some version of “love the stranger,” “know the heart of a stranger,” “remember that you, too, were strangers in the land of Egypt.” The Hebrew word for stranger, Ger, means a foreigner, non-local, an immigrant or refugee.
As I spoke on Shabbat about the Torah portion, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to our world today. Today, immigrants are being targeted, refugees are being stripped of their protections, and like in the Exodus story, the suffering is spreading. When families are torn apart, when innocent people are being assaulted or killed on American streets, it’s no longer a matter of politics; it is basic human rights and Torah values. Yes, it’s fine and healthy to disagree on the particulars of policies and priorities. The Torah wasn’t dictating a certain immigration policy, but it was commanding that everyone, no matter where they were born, be treated with the dignity befitting a human being created in the image of God.
The great Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, a close friend and fellow civil rights activist with the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., said, “In a free society where terrible wrongs exist, some are guilty, [but] all are responsible.” Our society is still free and terrible wrongs are happening. It is time for us to speak up and to respond. It is up to us to work together to heal our community, our society, and our nation.
This message was sent to my congregation and I offer it to anyone who needs to light a candle of hope right now.
Hanukkah is meant to be a time of joy and light. This year, the holiday began under the shadow of a horrific terror attack against Jews celebrating Hanukkah at Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia. Fifteen people were killed, including two rabbis, a Holocaust survivor, and a young child, and many more were wounded.
It might have been a world away, but we feel it personally, because Jews around the world are deeply connected. Those gathered in Sydney were not only coreligionists; they were mishpachah, family. What happens to Jews anywhere is felt by Jews everywhere.
Two lights of Hanukkah with Beeswax Candles, JHD
It is not surprising that many of us feel shaken or anxious. And yet, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught, “Despair is not a Jewish emotion. Od lo avda tikvateinu—our hope has never been destroyed.”
Hanukkah itself offers us a model of standing up for who we are and increasing the light, even in dark days. For me, one of the deepest sources of comfort is knowing that millions of Jews around the world are kindling these lights together, night after night, on this holiday. Strength also comes from knowing that we have allies of every faith, like the Muslim man who risked his own life to help save others at Bondi Beach.
It is normal to feel afraid in moments like this. But we should never have to feel alone.
We must continue to confront hatred wherever it appears, while refusing to let extremists define our lives or diminish our joy. We are blessed with great sources of resilience in our heritage, our faith, and our community. As we say when completing a book of the Torah: Hazak, Hazak ve-nitzhazek, be strong, be strong, and together we will strengthen each other.
We can also learn from events like this how important it is to show up for other communities who are threatened, targeted, or made to feel unsafe, affirming that dignity and human life are sacred for all.
May the rest of Hanukkah bring many moments of hope, joy, and light.
Rabbi Julie Hilton Danan
Take a mini-retreat:
If you can be outside, take some time to stand on the earth, breath deeply, and call upon the strength of the earth’s elements: land, water, air, sunshine (whatever you can find about you whether in a rural or urban setting)—to give you strength.
If you light Hanukkah candles or other candles, take some quiet time to look into the flames and consider what candle you want to light in the world right now, what holiday gift you have for the world.
Your turn: Where do you find your strength right now? Where do you find community?
Featured image: Gema-Campos-Menorah-Flickr.jpg, December 22, 2016
Image in text: beeswax candles on the second night of Hanukkah, Julie Danan
As a nature photographer, I’m hyper-aware of the shifting light throughout the day, including the magical “golden hour” just before sunrise and sunset. The right lighting can make a big difference to photo quality. Even before I got into photography, I’d always loved watching the play of light and shadow on water or sifting through leaves.
Sunlight through the Mist, Julie H. Danan
Both natural light and the lights that we kindle can be powerful points of spiritual connection. Light was the first creation in the Torah (Genesis 1:1-3), and the Kabbalists often described God as a boundless, infinite light. On a physical level, sunlight is necessary for life on earth to exist. On a spiritual level, light has a universal meaning of goodness, hope, and healing. In The Encyclopedia of Jewish Symbols, Ellen Frankel and Betsy Platkin Teutsch describe light as, “the primary link between divine and human worlds.”
Thus, it’s no surprise that the simple act of lighting candles or oil lamps is an important spiritual practice in Judaism and many world religions. An ancient Midrash (scriptural interpretation) imagines God, the creator of divine light, as inviting us into a partnership of illuminating the world by bidding us to light candles in our homes and holy places.
Each Jewish candle has its own purpose. Shabbat candles are lit each Friday before sundown to provide lighting for the Shabbat meal, harmony in the home, and today, when we have electric lights, a special more “golden” atmosphere. Lighting Shabbat candles is also a traditional time to say personal prayers for loved ones or send them a blessing.
A braided havdalah candle is kindled on Saturday night to signal the end of the Sabbath and beginning of the week and its labors. For me, the sight of its torch-like fire evokes the Torah’s descriptions of the burning bush in which God appeared to Moses or the pillar of fire through which God appeared to the Israelites (Exodus 13:12).
Hanukkah lights have a different purpose. They are not for lighting the home but are placed in a window to “publicize the miracle” of the holiday (which is much more than the little jug of oil, but the miracle of survival, faith, and triumph against the odds). I find a lot of meaning in the unspoken message of candles or oil lights increasing from day to day, from the idea of “lighting a single candle rather than curse the darkness” to the growing light of fellowship and community.
Since ancient times, human beings have lit candles in memory of the dead. In remembering departed loved ones, Jewish people traditionally light a tall candle that lasts for the shiva (week of mourning), and subsequently light smaller Yahrzeit candles every year, recalling that “God’s candle is the human soul” (Proverbs 20:27). Lighting a memorial candle is a way to bring the person’s life into our world, a light that, like the flame, we can contemplate and admire but not physically touch.
Lighting candles or lamps seems to be a universal impulse, from Hanukkah to Diwali to the Chinese Lantern Festival. This summer, on a visit to Denmark, I learned that for Danes, lighting candles any time of day is a big part of making life “hygge,” an untranslatable term connoting an atmosphere of coziness, contentment, and friendship essential to their culture.
Shabbat or Holiday Candles, JHD
For a mystical teaching on candles, I turn to Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan, a great modern Torah scholar and physicist who pioneered modern Jewish meditation based on ancient sources. In his books Inner Space and Jewish Meditation: A Practical Guide, Kaplan used the metaphor of a candle flame to represent the soul’s five levels, based on Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism). The black base of the flame represents Nefesh, the physical, animating soul. The blue of the flame represents Ruach, the emotional soul. The bright glow of the flame represents the Neshamah, or higher spiritual consciousness. The surrounding aura of the flame represents Chaya, a transcendent level of soul encountered rarely in this lifetime, one that I would call “destiny.” Finally, there is Yechidah, the Divine Unity. Beyond the individual candle, it is the One who lights them all. It’s simultaneously the spark of God planted like a seed in each of us, while also the transcendent divine source beyond-the-beyond.
[Note: all the “ch” sounds in these Hebrew words are pronounced as in “Bach.”]
My teacher, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, loved to share this ancient Midrash:
Rabbi Shimon ben Yehozadak asked Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman, saying: “Since I hear that you are a master of Aggadah [sacred lore], tell me how light was created.”
Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman replied: “God wrapped God-self in a white garment, and the radiance of God’s majesty illuminated the world from one end to the other.”
Now he had answered him in a whisper, and so the former observed, “There is a verse which states it explicitly: ‘You wrap yourself with light as with a garment’ (Psalm 104:2), yet you say it in a whisper!”
“Just as I heard it in a whisper, so have I told it to you in a whisper,” he replied.
Everyday experiences, from sunrise every morning to glimpsing the night sky, can assume miraculous importance when we approach them with awe and reverence.
Next time you see beautiful light outdoors in nature, instead of walking by or even grabbing your phone for a photo, pause to take it in, to let the light and its colors enter your soul. You can even take a cue from the Midrash above and try whispering, “You wrap Yourself with light as with a garment.”
Indoors
When you light a candle for religious celebrations or personal meditation, take a few moments to gaze into the flame until you can discern the different levels of color and illumination. Imagine a light glowing inside of you as the dimensions of your soul: Nefesh (vital life force), Ruach (creative spirit), Neshamah (higher spiritual awareness and contemplation), and even the connection to Chaya and Yechidah, the higher dimensions of soul that represent destiny and divine unity. As you contemplate the light, sense your inner light connected to the divine light that illuminates the world. Slow down and feel your inner and outer glow.
Note: When obtaining candles, it’s healthier and more ecologically sound to choose beeswax, soy, or coconut oil with natural (or no) scents, rather than a petroleum-based paraffin. Make sure the room has ventilation and never leave a candle unattended.
Please comment and share your own spiritual practices with candles and light.
Invisible, powerful, essential to life, close as our breath within, and vast as the heavens above: the Air can be a metaphor for the divine. Ruach
As a rabbi who finds inspiration and solace in nature as well as ancient texts, I love to share Jewish wisdom insights and practices that have helped me and may be useful to others, based around the four ancient elements of earth, water, air, and fire / light. Each and all of these can be ready gateways to foster connection with nature, tradition, and our inner lives. Today, I’m considering air in its manifestations of wind, breath, and spirit.
If you went to a Jewish summer camp or youth group, you probably heard the Hebrew word Ruach to convey the energy and spirituality of heartfelt songs and prayers. Ruach is the power of animation, whether stirring the branches of a tree, lifting an eagle, or enlivening a human being. A related word, Rei-ach, means scent, a sensory experience that holds the key to many precious soul memories, whether we are breathing in the smell of challah baking or of the spice box at the end of Shabbat.
Another Hebrew word for breath, Neshimah, comes from the same Hebrew root as a word for soul, Neshamah. Just pausing to breathe with awareness can instantly center us, reduce stress, and connect us to our inner life. Neshamah (Soul) and Ruach (Spirit) can be synonyms, or in Jewish mystical thought represent different dimensions of our inner lives. Consider what nourishes your Neshamah, the contemplative aspect of the soul, and your Ruach, the emotional, creative aspect. Are you getting enough of each in your life right now?
Here’s a breathing exercise you might like to try:
Find a comfortable position, put aside any burdens (physical or mental) for a while, and take a few deep breaths. Then, just breathe naturally but with attention. As you breathe in, feel your belly expanding, and as you breathe out, feel it contract. If you experience discomfort or tension anywhere in your body, send your breath there. If you like, you can imagine each breath filling your body with healing light or see it as a color bringing relaxation to your body. Or you can simply feel the breath and luxuriate in it. If you like, repeat softly: Elohai Neshamah, My God – My Soul (from a morning prayer thanking God for our breath and soul).
I learned from my teachers Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and Rabbi Arthur Waskow that the sacred, unpronounceable, four-letter divine name YHWH contains within it the breath of life. The sacred name is made up of consonants that are also vowels in Hebrew: Yud (Y), Hey (H), Vav (which was originally a Wav – so W), and Hey (H). Listen attentively to the sounds of your own or a loved one’s breathing and you can feel that God is not far away. The divine presence is as close as every breath. Give thanks for the gift—the miracle of each breath and the spirit from God that keeps us alive.
Featured image by Julie H. Danan: Gull Against the Wind, at Prime Hook National Wildlife Refuge, Delaware.
Growing up spending time in the Texas Hill Country, I found joy and peace in rivers and creeks. Often seen as symbols of time and life, rivers represent change and flow. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, “No one ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and s / he is not the same person.”
The pace of change can seem relentless these days. My teacher, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, z”l, liked to say that life is seldom smooth as Lake Placid, but (mostly!) not like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. It is often more like a flowing river, sometimes calm and sometimes full of rocks and rapids. We don’t get to choose most of the currents that shape our lives, but we have the freedom to paddle among them with the best skill we can muster as we set our course.
Like a river, life is always changing, and being aware of that can make joy more precious and challenges more bearable. Reb Zalman also liked to share the story about King Solomon searching for a ring that could make a happy person sad and a sad person happy. A wise silversmith fashioned a ring with the words ”Gam Zeh Ya’avor,” “This too shall pass.” (Reb Zalman had that printed on a silicone bracelet along with another saying, “Gam Zu Le-Tovah,” “This too is for the best.”)
As a rabbi who finds inspiration and solace in nature as well as ancient texts, I’m here at The Wisdom Daily this summer sharing insights and practices that have helped me and may be useful to others, based around the four ancient elements of earth, water, air, and fire / light. Each and all of these can be ready gateways to foster connection with nature, tradition, and our inner lives. Today, I’m looking at flowing water.
We are living on the water planet. Water covers over 70 percent of the earth’s surface and comprises about 60 percent of our own bodies, bodies that developed in the waters of the womb. Water, Mayim, is one of the most powerful and pervasive forces in Hebrew tradition, appearing as the first element of creation (Genesis 1) and going on to symbolize life and Torah (for example, Jeremiah 17:8). Springing up in the arid landscape of the Land of Israel, our tradition developed prayers for rain and dew and rituals for washing and immersing.
Crossing the modest Jordan River (Joshua 3), our ancestors arrived in the Land of Israel, known primarily as a land of creeks and wadis that flow in the rainy season, a “land of brooks of water” (Deuteronomy 8:7). Rabbi Herbert Weiner suggested that the yearning for rain to fill the rivers of Israel drew our ancestors’ gaze heavenward and influenced our spiritual people’s development.
In Hassidic and mystical thought, a river can be a symbol of the Shefa —the abundance or flow from God to humanity. There is a sense that if we can serve properly and pray with true intention, we will open the faucet, as it were, to receive the divine flow into the world. Another way to see it is that the flow is always there, but through prayer and meditation we become more conscious and appreciative of it.
Rabbi Avraham Weinberg of Slonim wrote about this spiritual flow in his book Birkat Avraham, which I got to study with the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. Inspired by a passage in the book of Numbers that describes the “nachalim”—the Wadis or creek beds that the Israelites came across in their desert wanderings, the Rebbe explained that there is an “upper stream” from God that is aroused by the “lower stream” of our prayers to flow with love, joy, blessing, and goodness into our lives and consciousness.
Diving deeper into the river, the Sod (mystical) level of their flow is explored in the book The River of Light: Spirituality, Judaism, Consciousness, by Lawrence Kushner. Rabbi Kushner explores the nature of consciousness—the river of light that pervades the cosmos—as perceived in Midrashic myth, theology, and scientific inquiry. He writes, “In Jewish mysticism, the river is a metaphor for the Holy Oneness that unifies all creation. Just imagine it: a sacred stream, luminous and ubiquitous, a river of light.”
Psychology has given us the concept of a “state of flow,” in which our attention and actions become one when we are fully engaged and in the moment. I think it’s doubly powerful when we are in the flow near some actual flowing water! “Blue Spaces” with natural water are known to foster calm, stimulate healing, and foster positive habits.
A Spiritual Practice for Water
Your ability to connect with Blue Spaces (natural water) obviously depends on a lot of factors, so get creative. Maximally, find a place where you can safely be near or in flowing water. If that’s not available to you, you might seek out a fountain in a park or a water feature in a garden. Depending on the setting, you might:
Swim and immerse in the water, like a natural Mikveh, to feel a sense of renewal and refreshment, and to emerge with a kavannah or intention for what you need to feel and do.
Wade in the water and sense its coolness on your feet and ankles. Wading shoes are good if the ground beneath the water is rocky. Dip your hands in the water and scoop some up like a netilat yadayim, washing and lifting up of the hands. You might choose to take this moment to dedicate your hands to some good work or deed.
Sit or stroll by the water, watching the play of light on water and trees, breathing the fresh air, listening to the birds. Take some time just to be present and restore yourself. Conclude by sending a blessing from this place out to the world and considering one way that you could share this goodness with others.
Whatever practice you choose, you might meditate on or repeat the phrase, Mayim Chayim, Waters of Life.
Go with the flow!
Shortly after I wrote this post, my beloved Texas Hill Country was stricken with severe floods that took many lives. To help the affected communities, consider the Kerr County Flood Relief Fund:
How are you staying grounded these days? I use the term advisedly, since for many of us, our overly-digitized lives can lead to living in our heads, bombarded by alarming headlines on our smartphones. Judaism has long known that connecting to what’s under our feet can help to calm what’s in our heads.
I’m a rabbi who finds inspiration and solace in nature as well as ancient texts. In the course of several posts here on The Wisdom Daily, I will share insights and practices that have helped me and may be useful to you, based around the four ancient elements of earth, water, air, and fire / light. Each and all of these can be ready gateways to foster connection with nature, tradition, and our inner lives. Today, we will start by exploring Earth.
Human as Earth Creature
According to the first chapters of Genesis, the first human, “The Adam,” was formed from the ground, the Adamah (Genesis 2:7). Midrashic sources describe the first human as containing both male and female within them (Genesis Rabbah 8:1), to be separated into genders with the creation of Eve (in Hebrew, “Chava,” mother of all life). Another beautiful Midrash is that this first human was made with soil from all over the world, in a variety of colors, so that they would be at home anywhere on earth, and poignantly, so that the earth anywhere on the planet would be willing to receive their remains (Rashi, Tanhuma Pikudei, 3). As soon as the Adam is made from the Adamah, they are put to work tending the garden; in other words, gardening was the first profession. The Garden of Eden is the image of a primal home, both verdant and beautiful, that I see as a symbol of Planet Earth itself.
Genesis is only the beginning of the Torah connecting humans and the ground beneath our feet. At one of the most famous theophanies in the Torah, when Moses stood at the burning bush, God told him to remove his shoes, because he was standing on holy ground (Exodus 3:5). At this moment of sacred revelation, going barefoot was mandated, as it was for the Kohanim in the ancient temple service. Hassidic teachings read the text creatively: removing one’s shoes was both symbolically and linguistically connected to removing narrow and habitual ways of thinking and seeing the world.
Reconnecting with the Earth
Both these and other biblical scenes point to the spiritual power of reconnecting with the earth. Contemporary science hints that it may also be healthy. “Earthing” includes modalities of going barefoot, lying on the ground, or other techniques to get the body into direct contact with the negative electrical charge of the earth, a practice purported to convey benefits to health or mood. With the current level of research, it can be hard to sort out the measurable benefits of earthing from the placebo effect and the known positive aspects of being outdoors in the sunshine and fresh air. Whatever the scientific basis, being outside and connected with the earth is something that many people find comforting or emotionally supportive.
Similarly, science is showing the positive aspects of Adam and Eve’s first job: gardening. Not only does tending a garden offer healthy outdoor exercise and an improved diet, but the dirt itself may contain healthy bacteria that enhance mental and physical well-being.
I know many people who find their greatest comfort and grounding as they get their hands dirty working in the garden, their own little Eden, or in a community or synagogue garden (some of which grow food to feed those in need). But even if you lack a green thumb or garden patch, you can seek out ways to make life more of a garden by growing houseplants, putting a plant on your desk at work, buying from a farmer’s market or farm stand, making a Shabbat centerpiece of flowers and herbs, or just strolling through a public garden as your senses absorb the sights and sensations.
Feet on the Earth Practice
Here’s a practice that you can try for getting more grounded: Taking off your shoes like Moses can be a great way to make a fast connection with the strengthening power of the earth. (If the situation isn’t conducive to going barefoot, you can do this with shoes on, but do try it barefoot sometime.)
Standing or seated, plant your feet firmly on the ground. Take some time to feel the textures and temperatures on your feet and sense your connection with the earth.
Let your posture be straight but not stiff, like a tree or Jacob’s ladder, linking heaven and earth.
You can imagine your feet like plants or tree roots, rooted into the soil. Sense the earth’s energy flowing from two directions, upward and downward, earth and sky each offering its nourishment in turn as you breathe. Or, as you breathe in and out, picture the exchange of your breath with the trees and plants in your environment.
Imagine the power of the earth from its molten core through its bedrock and topsoil, supporting and strengthening you right here and now. Imagine the layers of the past under your feet, giving you guidance.
Let your senses absorb the sights, sounds, scents, and sensations of your Makom, the place upon which you are situated.
If you like, you can repeat this phrase in Hebrew to yourself:
Use this exercise—in a quick or extended form—whenever you need to feel more grounded.
Blessings! Let me know how it goes.
Featured Image: Daffodil Hill at the New York Botanical Garden, Julie H. Danan
As a rabbi, I find inspiration in nature as well as ancient texts. I believe that the earth is our sanctuary, our precious garden of Eden in the vastness of space. In my work, I use nature photography, Soul Strolls, and more to inspire love of our planet so that we care for it for future generations. Some people started to call me “the nature rabbi,” and I embraced it. As a rabbi, I take my community outdoors for contemplative “Soul Strolls” on some Shabbats. At some congregations I have led nature walks and country retreats for family and students. My congregations have enthusiastically welcomed these experiences.
My soul was awakened to nature in the Texas Hill Country. When I was twelve years old, my parents bought the “ranch,” a small county place near Utopia, Texas, 90 miles from our home in San Antonio. We started going up there on weekends during the mild Texas winter, when nature presented a palette of browns and greys. Once we had been away a couple of weeks and didn’t realize that the seasons were changing. We arrived late Friday night, and on Saturday morning, I got up before the rest of the family and made my way down to the river.
Photo of the ranch in Utopia, Texas, by a family friend, Don Cohen, 1970’s
As I stepped outside our backyard and descended the wood and stone steps to the river bank, I felt like I was entering the movies and stories that captivated my childhood imagination: Dorothy landing in Oz, or the children passing through CS Lewis’ magic wardrobe; but they had stepped into winter and I was stepping into spring. Everything that had been brown and subdued over the past months was suddenly, vividly, green and alive! Giant cypress trees pushing skyward, purple-flowered vines tumbling down the limestone cliffs, the cool now green Sabinal River flowing tantalizingly below. Doves cooed, hawks soared, bees buzzed and flowers bloomed.
When I got to the banks of the river, I was in awe. I felt the boundaries between me and the world dissolve, and time stood still as my awareness seemed to melt into a sense of oneness with my surroundings. When I emerged from my reverie, like a swimmer surfacing from a deep dive, I searched for something to say that was worthy of the moment. The only thing that I could think of was one of the few prayers that I had learned in my sporadic Religious School attendance: Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheynu, Adonai Echad. At that moment of unitive awareness, I instinctively offered back the Jewish declaration of cosmic unity.
It would be a long time before I had such a powerful mystical experience again, but that moment in the Hill Country sent me on my spiritual quest that has lasted a lifetime and eventually led me to become a rabbi.
In the meantime, though, I continued to find a spiritual connection outdoors, and like so many it happened at summer camp. Around the same time as my experience in the Hill Country, I attended a Jewish “Y” camp in the Poconos where my parents had worked in their youth. Although the camp wasn’t heavy on Jewish content, the vibrant experience of Shabbat at camp shaped me forever. At home, all I knew about Shabbat was that my mom put a Kleenex on her head, waved her hands three times around some candles and sang a blessing. At camp, I realized that Shabbat was a 25-hour holistic experience: changing from our grungy weekday clothes into Shabbat white and dancing down to the lakeside amphitheater as the sun set to sing and dance and welcome the Shabbat queen. I made up my mind to experience that again.
Between the ranch and camp, I was well on my own winding path to a calling of service in the Jewish world, and nature would always be a part of that. When I finally entered the ALEPH Rabbinic program decades later at age 36, many important moments in my training would take place at outdoor gatherings, particularly at Elat Chayyim retreat center in the Catskills (now incorporated into Isabella Freedman), with its woods and organic garden.
Judaism is a religion tied to land, first to the Holy Land, and to the planet itself: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.” Our holidays are connected to the seasons in agricultural Israel, our ritual objects are full of nature motifs, and once a year we spend most of a week in a leafy hut! As I’m learning right now in an online class with Dr. Melila Hellner-Eshed, the Zohar, that great book of Jewish mysticism, emphasizes that Torah and encounter with the divine happen best as one strolls outdoors. Indeed, for the mystics, nature is the outer garment of the Shechinah, the divine presence herself.
With the rise of environmental consciousness, nature and spirituality are coming together once again. My congregation has a Green Team leading our environmental mitzvah projects, and our religious school families participate in such events as Tikkun HaYam’s Reverse Tashlich (an international beach clean up day prior to Rosh Hashanah). https://www.repairthesea.org/
A “Soul Stroll” with members of my community
Today, the ALEPH Rabbinic program in which I studied offers studies in “Earth-Based Judaism,” and across Jewish denominations there is a burgeoning movement of JOFFEE (Jewish Outdoor Food, Farming, and Environmental Education), typified by such organizations as Adamah https://adamah.org/ and Wilderness Torah https://wildernesstorah.org/.
As an adult, I’ve been fortunate to live in proximity to beautiful natural places that nourished my soul, including four years in Israel when I was in college long ago, and starting a family. Back in the states, I continued to connect to the Texas Hill Country, before life took me to Northern California, the Hudson River Valley of New York, and now to the beauty of Coastal Delaware (with a stop and ongoing connections in the Philly area). Thanks to these wanderings, my family and I have gotten to experience some of the most diverse and spectacular scenery that our country has to offer.
When I finished my rabbinic studies in 2000 and graduate school in 2009, I turned to a new project, making a website about Jewish symbols in nature. Since I’d been shaped by summer camp and retreat centers, I aspired to create this “virtual retreat center” where you can ponder the meaning of these symbols in Jewish tradition and your own life. This site incorporates Jewish texts, personal experiences, nature photography, video clips, soundtracks, and meditations. As social media became popular, I added related accounts on Facebook and Instagram, too. Recently, I started a Substack blog, “GPS for Your Inner Landscape.”
One thing led to another and soon I was getting serious about the art of nature photography. Eventually I started a second website devoted to that: inspiredimages.zenfoliosite.com. But I didn’t really grasp how much this holy hobby meant for me until others pointed it out for me. In an exercise at a group meeting during a rabbinic fellowship, we were asked to describe some mundane object that we used each day, and our relationship to it. I chose my camera. Others in my circle noticed my enthusiasm:
“Do you realize how you light up when you talk about your camera?”
“You become more animated.”
“This is your unique gift as a rabbi! Embrace it and share it,” they said.
Nature photography has become a tool in my rabbinic work. Not only do nature photos adorn some of the synagogue walls, but during High Holiday services, nature photos are shared on large overhead screens at various points during the service. I use prints of my photos to make cards and small gifts that I use in pastoral care and education. I’ve been experimenting with other ways to use photography in my work, such as making photo calling cards for chaplains and printing a book with photos representing the “six days” of creation.
I truly believe that the earth is our greatest Mishkan, our holy sanctuary and divine dwelling place. More and more, I find my own deepest spiritual practices in Nature, strolling and engaging in nature photography. I love to share my experience of the outdoors with congregants, colleagues, and others, which I hope will inspire all of us to connect with our community, our heritage, and our planet.
Featured image by Julie H. Danan at Isabella Freedman Retreat Center. Posted May, 2025. Different versions of this appear in Delaware Jewish Living and (in two posts) on my Substack: GPS for Your Inner Landscape.
This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you. (Exodus 12:2)
That month is Nisan (around April), the ancient Hebrew and Babylonian lunar month of spring, in which Passover falls. If you are familiar with the Jewish calendar, you might be scratching your head, since Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, is seven months away in the fall.
But the Hebrew calendar has more than one new year, and it offers at least two shapes of time: linear and cyclical.
The notion that the Jewish people introduced linear time to the world was offered by historian Thomas Cahill a few years back in his bestselling book, The Gifts of the Jews. According to Cahill, human history truly began when God said to Abraham, “Go forth” (Genesis 12). Until then ancient civilizations looked at time and life like a big wheel: never ending, repetitive, with no room for individuality. Judaism gifted the world with the idea that tomorrow can be better than today, that each individual life has a purpose and goal, and that justice will someday be served, even if it be in some distant visionary future.
But there is another view which finds the sanctity of time not in linear progress but rather in sacred cycles. This position is articulated by Rabbi Arthur Waskow in his book Seasons of our Joy. According to Waskow, the shape of Jewish time is not a line at all, but round, like a circle dance. The sacred cycles of the year are tied to nature and the earth, to the phases of the moon and the textures of the seasons. To ensure our future on the planet, we must stop our obsession with mere material, linear “progress,” and return to our ancient appreciation of life’s cyclical rhythms.
I’m a both/and person when it comes to the shape of time: life is cyclical and we can grow and progress. I love an image offered by Rabbi Michael Strassfeld in The Jewish Holidays: A Guide and Commentary, describing the Jewish shape of time as a kind of rising helix, like the spiral ramp at the Guggenheim Museum in New York City. We keep returning to the same lessons with the annual seasons and holidays, but each time we do it from a new vantage point that allows us a larger perspective.
Spring Robin
And… here’s another way to view the shape of time: not as a line or even a cycle, but as an eternal present rooted in the landscape and the elements. According to David Abram, in his landmark book, The Spell of the Sensuous, many indigenous peoples sense that time is inseparable from place, with the future lying just beyond the horizon and the past hidden underground and inside of living things. I love to visualize time like that to keep me in the present (see the mini-retreat at the end of this post).
Time is life. In today’s world, with our ever-shortening attention spans pulled in a million different directions by our ubiquitous technology and media, time can often feel fleeting and fragmented. The ancients knew that time was sacred. By connecting with nature, with loved ones, with sacred days and moments, we, too can stretch and mold the shape of time into a sacred vessel of life.
Comment below: How do you sense time? Is it something that changes, and can you shape it?
Take a Mini-Retreat:
Consider author David Abram’s personal time exercise from The Spell of the Sensuous. Find a relatively open (and safe) space outdoors, Relax, breathe, and look around. Close (or soft-focus) your eyes, and imagine the past and future pouring into the present:
“[I] let myself begin to feel the whole bulk of my past—the whole mass of events leading up to this very moment. And I call into awareness as well, my whole future—all those projects and possibilities that lie waiting to be realized. I imagine this past and this future as two vast balloons of time, separated from each other like the bulbs of an hourglass, yet linked together at the single moment where I stand pondering them, And then, very slowly I allow both of these immense bulbs of time to begin leaking their substance into this minute moment between them, into the present.” (p. 202)
Slowly, the present moment will begin to grow and the past and future to dwindle to “mere knots on the edge of this huge expanse,” When you are ready to “let the past and the future dissolve entirely,” you can open your eyes and senses to the boundless vitality of the eternal present. If you wish, imagine the future is somewhere beyond the horizon, while the past is underneath the ground under your feet, and hidden inside of each living thing, including you. Immerse in being right here, right in the now.
Babies love to play peekaboo, as a parent or caregiver hides their face for a moment and then pops out again to the baby’s delight. At six to twelve months, infants are developing “object permanence,” the crucial concept that just because someone or something isn’t visible at the moment, it’s still there and can still be counted on.
Some of the most important things in life are hidden from view: stars in the daytime, a baby in the womb, life under the sea. There are sounds hidden from us in frequencies humans can’t hear, and wavelengths on the electromagnetic spectrum beyond the range of the naked eye. We still can’t read each other’s hidden thoughts, and each person contains dimensions unknown even to themselves. Believers will say that God, too, can’t be seen in conventional ways, but can be perceived in the heart.
I’ve been thinking about things that are hidden, while preparing to celebrate the holiday of Purim , which is a commentary on divine hiddenness in human affairs.
Set in ancient Persia, the Biblical book of Esthertells the story of a young Jewish woman, Queen Esther, saving her people from a genocidal plot by an antisemitic court official. The Purim story conveys a message of Jewish survival and resilience in the face of hatred and prejudice. I know it sounds solemn, but it’s celebrated with a joyful, carnival-type atmosphere of costumes, humor, noisemakers and eating special triangle-shaped pastries called hamantaschen.
Jewish sages long ago noticed that Esther’s name is related to the Hebrew word for “hiddenness.” For one thing, Esther hid her identity when she first married the king. On a deeper level, Hester Panim, hiding the divine face, is a Hebrew expression for times when God seems distant, as in the book of Esther, where God is never mentioned directly. Yet at that very time, God was believed to be hidden behind the scenes, working through the agency and courage of human beings. Wearing masks and costumes on the Purim holiday playfully reinforces this theme of “hiddenness.”
Esther is also symbolized by the moon, because she brought light and gladness to the people. The Moon is a beloved symbol in Jewish tradition, which has a lunar-solar calendar. Celebrating the new moon, Rosh Hodesh, has been revived as a modern Jewish spiritual practice. The moon “hides its face” for part of every month, growing in fullness – and is full in time for Purim.
Queen Esther, like the Moon itself, is associated in Jewish mysticism with the Shechinah, the feminine Divine Presence immanent in the world and in nature. We don’t have to transcend this world to find divinity. She is here right now, “hiding” within in each tree, pond, and creature. When he saw a glorious view in nature, my teacher Reb Zalman, would wink and say, “The Shekhinah is flashing us.” The divine presence in the natural world is revealed in moments of awe, but for the patient and observant it is there all the time, playing holy hide and seek, wearing the kaleidoscopic mask of creation.
New Moon and Venus, March, 2025
Esther was also compared to Venus, seen in this photo with the new moon.
Rabbi Neḥemya concurs and says: Hadassah was her real name. Why then was she called Esther? This was her non-Hebrew name, for owing to her beauty the nations of the world called her after Istahar, Venus. (Talmud: Megillah 13a)
When the news is dark, when the divine presence may seem very hidden in events, I think that a remedy is to seek the face-to-face, to find it in nature and in direct human connections. How do you find presence in times of hiddenness?
Since I started this website, I’ve been doing a lot more of my own photography, so to enhance the Gateway of The Moon, here’s my lunar photo gallery of some of my favorites (click on each photo to enlarge), with a video Reel link at the end.
A Spiritual Practice for Water 
Jewish Outdoor Food, Farming, and Environmental Education), typified by such organizations as Adamah https://adamah.org/ and Wilderness Torah 
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