OMfG: Dayenu!

Hey there, my name is Rabbi Jen Gubitz, and I'm pumped to be joined by Rabbi Jodi Gordon from Israel as we welcome you to the OMFG podcast, Jewish wisdom for unprecedented times. Hey, Jodi.

Hey, friend. Or shall I say, shalom, friend. Oh, and that's right. OMFG, what a fabulous four-letter word. Those 4 letters really do the trick from, "OMFG, it's springtime!" to "OMFG, Purim was actually kind of fun!" to "OMFG, it's almost Passover!" to "OMFG, I took my whole family to Israel for 3 months!" As rabbis, we have come to know that when the stories of our lives meet the stories of Jewish tradition, transformation, growth, something awesome occurs.

Jodi and I are experts in the letters J and G, ordering iced coffee in Hebrew, early transitions to wearing sandals, and daydreaming of summer concerts. And we want to bring to you our conversations that express our love for Judaism and make it relevant in the world as we mine Jewish wisdom for strength and resilience in these unprecedented times, with a dose of humor, because as Lord Byron said, "Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine." Jodi, omfg, how are you doing?

I'm good. We are just about to hit our 1-month mark here in Tel Aviv, and it feels a little bit like the longest shortest time. Like, the days are long, and yet somehow it's already been a month. It's been— it's really remarkable.

So here in Boston, I went hard at hamantaschen this year. I ordered some from Tate, like a lot from Tate, because of a little mishap, and then we had some from other places, but then I ordered some from this place called Not Your Bubbie's Hamantaschen, which is actually a Tufts Jewish student group. They were unbelievable and I think really gave Tate a run for their money. But you sent me some pictures of your hamantaschen experience, and I want you to tell us more about hamantaschen in the holiest of lands.

I have to say, so there's like a couple of times a year in Israel when like the bakeries just go wild. The other time maybe obviously being on Hanukkah when, you know, it's like a sufganiyot contest. And the Purim hamantaschen situation was just amazing, I have to say. So about a week before Purim, which to be clear is when Israel starts celebrating Purim, like Purim lasts like for a month here, but at about the one week pre-Mark was when I was like, oh, it's time to start like buying hamantaschen and like tasting them. I think one of my favorites was a chocolate halva hamantaschen that I tried from the bakery, which is a chain in Israel called Piece of Cake. And you know, it gets spelled out in Hebrew letters, which I love. My younger daughter, Goldie, was particularly fond of a hamantaschen made with Kinder cream, you know, like the chocolate bar. Kinder.

Yeah.

Um, we also tried some savory hamantaschen. So I had one that had like kashkaval cheese and sweet potato and sesame seeds and green onion. And it was really, uh, as has, as has been with our entire time here, it was a fabulous culinary experience on top of all of the other festivities that we got to enjoy.

It reminds— that halava brownie reminds me actually of the halava brownie I brought you when we went to Jar Williams together. Um, so I just want to say that like you should come home because we, we do have those things here.

Totally.

Um, but I, I do want to like kind of get a PhD in the cuisine of pouches, right? And cookies with filling. Because at what point is a savory hamantaschen no longer a cookie and actually a pierogi or a bereka?

Or a bereka, right?

You know, like, so I have some really, you know, like in my free time I'm gonna get that PhD maybe. Or just live it.

A piece of sand pouches. Well, so I mean, I think the last thing I'll say about the situation with eating in Israel so far, or eating specifically in Tel Aviv, is that, um, you know, my children don't have such easy access to unlimited boxes of Annie's mac and cheese, and so we've had to expand our culinary horizons. And we did have a fascinating conversation recently about like What is the difference between like pizza, khachapuri, a cheese borek, the Israeli delicacy known as toast, which like, you know, you stop at a gas station and like there's somebody willing to like put some cheese between something that looks like a bagel but it's definitely not a bagel and like call it a toast. And Goldie was like, basically, as long as it has bread and melted cheese, like I don't care what country it's from. So we're good. We're good.

Another culinary dissertation is like, what forms of bread and cheese can different culinary traditions take, and will your 5-year-old still eat it? That's a good question.

It's like a reality show.

Well, here in, here in America, Jodi, it was a beautiful spring and then it was 20 degrees. So, you know, adopting early sandals— haven't quite done that yet. Um, and I think everyone who put their winter coat away is to blame for why we're sitting in some frigid temperatures right now. But it's almost April, and, um, and with that brings us to, um, Passover. With that brings us with, from, you know, from Purim's frivolity and celebration to this moment of joy and freedom and liberation and redemption.

Yeah, I, you know, one of the things that I said pre-coming to Israel was that like I was most excited to really live my life like in a society that lived on the Jewish calendar, right? Like that, like all everything you just described, it's like it's happening at the supermarket, right? It's like, like I went to the Super Sole around the corner today and like the aisles have changed because, and all the chametz is on sale. So like if you need Oreos, like I can get you a deal. But like, exactly as you just said, right, this like sort of that, that journey we're meant to make from joy to freedom as we go from Purim to Passover. I will say that has been one of the more odd, challenging, noticeable parts of the experience that I've had here in this past month. On a personal level, balancing an incredible sense of joy and freedom with watching a world on fire. You know, the night that we landed in Tel Aviv, as our taxi helped, you know, make our way to our apartment, we drove past this really sizable demonstration against the horrible attacks in Ukraine, which at that point were only a few days old. And I remember having this feeling of, well, so what do I do about that here? Like, now that I'm here and I'm out of my context and this thing is happening, how do I respond? And it's just— it's been a really interesting time to think about, you know, how do I show up in the world?

Yeah. You know, we think about it as a Jew in America, like, what does it mean to hold multiple identities while the rest of the world is at play? And now you're actually living in a land that lives by the Jewish calendar, but you are still asking those questions. Right? And I think to be a Jew is to be both part of a particular calendar, but also to be deeply aware and awakened to the outer world and all of the pain. And I think I said to you a couple of weeks ago, like, it feels like everything is moving at warp speed. But I realized actually it is war speed. It is this really scary, painful thing to watch. It is terrifying. Even the snippets that we get on the news, which are minor compared to the real lived experience of folks in Ukraine. It's terrifying. And it also begs the question of how to show up for others in these moments. You know, what do I do about that here? And so what— you know, many of us want to help but feel helpless when everything going on is a world away. And then also Bridgerton and Outlander came out with new seasons and Mrs. Maisel did. And so escapism is often a tool for not having to decide, what do I do about their here? Um, by just going into binging TV and ignoring what's going on. Um, but ironically, even the shows that we escape into weren't exactly fabulous times for anyone. So how do we deal with the present moment?

Jen, I think you're so right about that feeling of the world being at either war or warp speed, or maybe both. Which also makes me think about that difference between, like, physical proximity and emotional proximity to these traumatic and intense situations. Like, by flying halfway across the world, like, around the world, like, I'm now physically closer to the situation than I was in America. Like, I think we can both think of examples of times where our emotional closeness to a situation is different than our physical closeness. We can think even like at home, like there are times of relative peace and quiet when the latest shooting somewhere in America doesn't actually register, right? It feels far away. And then there are times when the insanity gets closer to home, like when a colleague in Texas is held hostage. So before we dive into talking about Ukraine and about all the other things we've talked about, I will say that in just the last 48 hours here in Israel, my sense of proximity to the world on fire has gotten closer. And I will be the first to admit that if I weren't here right now, it's possible that I would feel less aware of this. But in the past 10 days, there have been 4 terrorist attacks in Israel, 1 stabbing and 3 shootings, which took the lives of 11 innocent people. Right? And so, like, how do we show up in moments when we do feel sort of implicated or part of what's going on? And how do we show up in moments when maybe we are both physically and emotionally less proximate?

Yeah, I didn't know about those attacks until you texted me. I subsequently found them in the news. I also will say that I have turned off alerts on my phones because there have been times where I've had alerts on and the pain and grief in the world keeps pinging me, and I couldn't, I couldn't do it. But I didn't know, and I think that is true about proximity. You know, we had a really, a pretty terrible accident with a construction worker here in Boston who died while demolishing a building. And it's one person whose family I'm sure is completely devastated. And I'm sure that news didn't make it to Israel though, right? Even though it actually like—

Totally.

In addition to it being ever tragic, it, it messed up train lines for a while, which that, that tiny inconvenience pales in comparison to the loss of that life. But right, the proximity and the, um, what is local, right? What is local and what are my circles of obligation? How am I responsible here, um, in Boston to people in Ukraine or to you in Tel Aviv? And we're actually, um, I teach 6th grade, which I, I love and also need to like take a vacation every time I do it. Um, but we're actually learning about circles of obligation right now and identifying, um, based on actually an AJWS curriculum, American Jewish World Service, to— for whom am I responsible? Who are in my circles? And I think that's a really great transition that leads us into talking about Passover. So as we approach the holiday of Passover, it's clearly hard not to see the parallels in our own modern world. More than 2 million people, and that number changes daily, increases daily, have made their own exodus from Ukraine, now finding their own long way home.

There's been a lot of discussion about the particularities of the Jewish experience in Ukraine, and that's been coupled with some distinctly Jewish aid responses through organizations such as HIAS, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, and the JDC, the Joint Distribution Committee, as well as United Hatzalah and so many other non-Jewish aid responses throughout the world.

So it's been so interesting, though, to see how both individuals and communities have responded. And I think how this particular war feels a bit different, perhaps because we know people directly impacted, maybe because we know the Jewish story in Ukraine is a tender one, and also maybe because we've been to Ukraine and have some memorable context for the country. HUC's Year in Israel program does a great job of making sure that many of us make that journey to see the Jewish communities of the former Soviet Union during Passover. So I think the stories of those trips reside in our hearts right now too. Those trips were essentially mission trips. The mission, the action, however, was actually on us. I remember thinking we were serving those people in Ukraine. I went to Crimea and helping them learn how to celebrate Passover, but we didn't speak the language. Everything was through a translator unless it was in Hebrew, which was a great method for communication. And surprise, they already knew how to celebrate Passover. So the point of the trip was actually for us to understand Judaism in other parts of the world. Mission trips such as those are funny, complex, complicated like that because mission accomplished is often not what the traveler expects.

Which brings to bear a very live conversation about mission trips to the Ukrainian border right now. This is a conversation that Jen and I have been a part of amongst trusted colleagues, and it's been highly contested with lots of people wondering about the why of traveling to the border to greet Ukrainian refugees, because who would such a trip actually be in service of? And the conversations that I've witnessed and been a part of around this question really, I think, illuminate the divide. And ultimately, I think the essence of the question is one of if we center the voices of those in need, those on the ground, is me, right, random rabbi in America who speaks English and not Russian or any other language germane to the situation, is me getting on a plane the best way to alleviate suffering and to be of service?

Yeah, I have colleagues who I truly respect who did go on this a particular trip and whose intentions I believe were genuine. And I also wondered if it was the best use of resources at the moment. I remember going on a mission trip for AJWS, American Jewish World Service, right when I finished rabbinical school. And I learned so much there, the least of which is that rabbis shouldn't be digging latrines. I'm sure that they had to bring in other people to do that after. And they actually stopped doing those trips. They stopped doing that as a point of education. For a number of reasons. But one of the things that I learned in that experience was about the language of photography. I had never thought of this before, and it was highlighted to us that when we talk about taking a photo of going somewhere, like somewhere tourism, or I'll call it justice tourism for that purpose, the language is actually somewhat violent. You take a photo, you shoot a photo, you snap a photo. Let me just get that shot. And I think that shifts like what it means to go somewhere and take photos and bring them back home. For what purpose is the photo? Is it to show that you did something, um, that is full of merit that you want other people to notice? What if you didn't take a photo? Would you be go— would your presence there still matter? And so getting us to that obligation conversation, I do think, because I think we have colleagues who are good people. I think that many of them traveled there because they felt a sense of obligation. I don't think that they went to take and shoot and snap. I feel that they went because they had a sense of obligation, because maybe, um, they felt connected to Ukraine or, or they just wanted to be of service in a time when it's very easy to feel helpless. Um, I also feel a sense of obligation, of responsibility to support folks impacted by the war. But the way that I'm pursuing it, and clearly you, is that we've chosen to express that differently. So I think, how do we live out our obligation is, is a real question.

Jen, I also went on a rabbinical school, rabbinical student mission trip delegation with American Jewish World Service in 2011 to Senegal, and it sounds like we have really similar experiences. We spent 10 days there in a small village about 2 hours outside of Dakar. Planting trees and building new compost toilets. So on the one hand, it was amazing, but I really remember so distinctly having this feeling, so hard to ignore, of let's be real here, I'm a rabbinical student from Long Island. Like, does this community really need me here, or might my support, financial or otherwise, have been better offered at a distance? And I learned something on that trip, which you mentioned earlier, and it has stayed with me ever since. It sounds like we we both teach around this quite a bit, right? But that idea of like the, your moral universe of obligation, which actually comes out of the Facing History and Ourselves curriculum, I think might actually be like a really helpful tool for people, right? Like, here you are, dear listener, sitting in, I don't know, maybe you're sitting in Indiana, maybe you're one of our Jen Gubitz hometown fans, and it's like you're sitting there and you're wondering like, what do I personally do to to help alleviate suffering in the world coming out of Ukraine. And it's like, right, when you put yourself in the middle of a circle and you think of all those concentric rings around you, it's like, how far out can you imagine, right, that sense of obligation? How far out does it go? And ever since, you know, learning it in that context, that first time on an AWS service trip, I've really thought about this idea of like, what is my unique universe of moral obligation?

Mm-hmm. Right. And knowing that you might have a unique universe of obligation, what does it mean also not to center yourself in the broader story? And I think that's hard, right? This activity is literally, you put yourself in the middle, then you put your family, then your friends and your neighbors, then your besties from college, your community, congregants of Jodi's, you are in the circle of her obligation. Don't worry. And then your town and your state and your country and your world. And so like, how do we make our own decision about the people to whom we are obligated and also consider what it means not to center ourselves in every global catastrophe? So speaking of obligation, we're getting there. I'm thinking about the text we associate with Passover, Bechol dor vador chayava dam li rodet atzmo, Ki ilu hu yatsa mimitzrayim. There's a great camp song that we would sing. Becho dor vador, chaya vadam li rodet etzmo. Ki ilu hu, ki ilu hu yatsa mimitzrayim. Right? You know that? Um, also everything I know about Jewish text is because I was a song leader. Um, but that text means in every generation, dor vador, A person must view himself, herself, themselves as if they have gone out of Egypt. It's from Talmud Pesachim. That word chayav is so important and so complicated. It comes from the Hebrew word meaning to be bound or obligated, and it's no casual suggestion.

I love that text, and I would go so far as to say that for me, that text feels like the core obligation of Passover. And all of the rest of it feels like window dressing if we aren't able to somehow access that sense of ki'ilu, as if we ourselves were those refugees. And honestly, these days, the raw footage and round-the-clock coverage we have access to does make that easier. I remember reading something that the late Chief Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks had taught about how traditionally our sense of involvement with the fate of others is in inverse proportion to the distance separating us and them. But we know that TV and the internet, quite frankly, Facebook Lives, Instagrams, TikToks have brought images and live footage of suffering in a very far-off land right into our immediate experience. It's all right there for us to see.

Right. And once you see it, you are less likely to ignore it, which is important because it's very easy to only focus on yourself in in this world. There's something interesting about Passover's obligatory requirement to feel as if we too were slaves in Egypt or part of this moment's refugee story. On one hand, it's an obligation of empathy. Even if you weren't actually there, it's upon you to go deep inside the story and feel empathically what it was like to be there. And that can also be traumatizing. I mean, I've been afraid of stories from other collective historic experiences my whole life. Hello, young 11-year-old obsessed with Anne Frank, Anastasia, and Zlata's Diary. Were I to actually be in the Ukrainian story, I don't know how I'd survive. Would I have the courage and strength to flee, or the courage and strength to fight? Or to flee slavery in Egypt, would I have remembered, like Miriam, to pack a timbrel? It's hard to imagine, and it's also an imperative to do so.

I think so much of the sort of the entire enterprise of the Jewish imperative to pursue justice is just totally bound up with memory. From the very beginning of there being something that we call B'nai Yisrael, from like the very moment that there is something that we call being a people of Israel, a collective and organized community, we're constantly being told to remember what it's like to suffer, right? Like, why do we have to love our neighbors and the stranger? Because we remember what it was like to be a stranger. So I think I actually want to up my emphasis on memory and say that it's not just about remembering, but really it's about that word ke'ilu, that we're obligated to imagine what it would feel like, what it would mean to ke'ilu, have gone out of Egypt ourselves, to ke'ilu, be in a position where we ourselves had to leave home. And, and to me, like, that feels like the way of closing the gap. Yeah, where somehow the plight of two 2 million-plus Ukrainian refugees might feel less remote to us if we do a good job of remembering what it was like to be refugees ourselves. Like, if we get the ki'ilu right.

Absolutely, absolutely. Hey Jody, have you ever considered that every time Cher from Clueless says "as if," she's really saying ki'ilu and giving a shout out to us?

Um, I would like to make a t-shirt that says that.

Don't worry, it's going to be my Passover Torah. It's coming down the pike.

Maybe I'll make a t-shirt. Maybe a meme.

Yeah.

With her in like the yellow plaid outfit and the white shoes being like, "Kehillah!" With like a memory bubble escaping slavery. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

We'll work on that after.

So, you know, we've talked a little bit about obligation. And Jen, you brought up this idea of like when we don't center ourselves, like what else might emerge in our capacity to sort of help others in the world. And I'm reminded of this quote by Lilla Watson, who is an Aboriginal activist, who said, "If you've come here to help me, you're wasting your time. But if you've come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together." So we know that so many of our colleagues felt a sense of obligation to get on planes, to bring supplies to refugees on the Ukrainian border. And so on the one hand, that impulse probably did come from some sense of ke��ilu, right? A real sense of understanding with empathy. I really hope so, right? My more cynical side does wonder if there is something perhaps lesser, more ego-filled in that pursuit.

I hope so too. And I also think that there are other ways to show empathy and obligation, leaving it to professional disaster relief organizations who can deploy supplies and people quickly and expertly, including people with much-needed medical skills, people who speak the necessary languages for communication with grieving, traumatized people. And sometimes it doesn't feel like enough, but sending money to support all of the above can have an impact of empathy and obligation.

And there's also something to be said about asking people what they need. There's that quote in Torah about giving to people according to their need, right? Allowing folks with particular needs to declare what it is they need. So it seems like perhaps there were folks in Poland who said, "Come, we need you," while others heard a message of, "You don't speak Ukrainian or Russian. Do not come and weigh down this already fragile system." Right? It's not uncommon for Americans especially to think we know what others need or to have some confirmation bias, such that when we hear some folks say, "Come," it affirms our own personal sense of obligation.

Despite my best intentions, I know I do that sometimes when folks are grieving or in need of support or who have gone through experience that I may have some connection to. I both know how to offer such care—so do you, Jody—and I felt obligated. So when they give me an opening, I dive right in. I have a friend right now who who is sick, and I said to her, can I feed you? And I asked this repeatedly, and she kept saying, no, just send memes, just send jokes, just send laughter. Finally, she agreed to allow a meal train, and I was so relieved to have a way to help. So I get why people went, and I get why others felt it wasn't a well-timed decision. That's so human, though.

I'm right, and we should like pause and say that. I think we all have that small part of ourselves that also offers help the way that we ourselves would want to receive help if we were the ones in need. Yeah. And I guess I come back to that question of like, how do each of us proceed in moments like these? There's a question that I use personally to gauge whether I personally should do something. And so the questions I ask myself is, am I the only one who can do this task? Am I qualified to do it? I also sometimes like to ask, if I take on this task or I take on this role, Am I preventing someone else from the opportunity to serve or to do a mitzvah? So speaking really specifically to the idea of American, English-speaking rabbis getting on planes to bring supplies and pastoral presence to the Polish border towns filling up with Ukrainian refugees, I just wonder— the question I would ask myself— why you? Could those amazing duffel bags filled with needed supplies not have been shipped on a plane? Or maybe hand-delivered by a few people and the rest of the money spent, given directly to the aid organizations on the ground.

One thing that feels true is that the staggering need for support, supplies, and crucially money is not going to go away anytime soon.

I think for me right now, as we think together about like, how are we answering this question? How are we answering this call? I want to continue to listen closely and follow the lead of those most geographically proximate. Commitment to the need on the ground. For me right now, that means paying close attention to the work that our colleagues are doing across the European Union and following their lead. I'm with you.

I think it's an evolving question and one that we have to ask ourselves all the time. I love the questions that you ask yourself: Am I the only person who can do this task? Am I qualified to do it? Why me? We also know that it is important to step up. Right? Like, for so many moments in history, people have said, "Why me?" and did nothing. So I think we're constantly carrying both sides of that coin with us as we enter this Passover season, trying to live out empathy and obligation. And as we often say, that is the task of being Jewish and human in this world that we live in. So we want to offer a closing blessing. Both in advance of Passover and most especially to those around the world who are suffering right now. These prayerful words of hope for peace and healing were written by Joanne Fink. We pray for Ukraine and the safety and security of its citizens. Bless those fighting to protect their homeland with resources, courage, determination, and strength.

We pray for the refugees evacuating their homes. Watch over them on their journey. Provide for their needs, and enable them to return swiftly to Ukraine.

We pray for the Russians protesting this invasion. May their voices be heard and magnified and help bring an end to the conflict.

We pray for the countries offering humanitarian aid. Bless them with abundant resources to feed, clothe, and shelter the refugees.

We pray for our world leaders determining history. Bless them with wisdom, clarity and unity, and enable them to act decisively for the greater good.

We pray for those who are suffering, grieving, and afraid. Bless them with hope and healing, comfort and connection, and the knowledge that they are not alone.

We pray for our broken world and the people in it. Bless us with the ability to work together to usher in an era of abiding peace. May it be so. Wishing you a Passover season of sweetness, a zisen Pesach of redemption, of liberation, and as much horseradish, as much bitterness combined with charoset sweetness as you can handle. Truly.

King Agirat Son. As we close off this episode of OMFG, I want to give a special shout-out to Citizen Café in Tel Aviv, where I am recording live from tonight, and also I'm studying Hebrew during my time here. So if you have ever considered learning Hebrew, they have amazing classes online you can do from the comfort of your own home anywhere in the world. If you find yourself on Rothschild Boulevard in Tel Aviv, come check out their amazing classes and Citizen Café. Hamon hamon tada! Shé'aní! Record my podcast, Po. I'll have to find out how to say that next time.

Shalom, Ani Jen, Ani Bechita Gimmel. Lifne Harbeishanim. Achshav haivrit tanachit yoterto miivrit modernit. Ah, yofi.