
While the messages of the prophets are still desperately in need today, we no longer accept the prophetic system as legitimate. The call for justice is essential, yet the reality of one or two people claiming direct communication with Gd is threatening. Society as we know it could not function if, at a moment’s notice, a prophet might assert himself with a message from Gd.
Why did we move away from a system of prophecy? What has come to take its place? And who is upholding the call for justice, today?

The period of Counting the Omer (we count 49 days from the second day of Passover to Shavuot) in which we currently find ourselves is a reminder of the road between redemption and revelation. It seems only fitting, then, that two of the most contentious days in our calendar occur in this period between Passover and Shavuot. Just as soon as we’ve put our matzah away and finished the last of the macaroons, Yom Ha Zikaron (Israeli Remembrance Day) and Yom Ha Atzmaut (Israeli Independence Day) are just around the corner. For many North American Jewish communities, how to observe these days has become a topic of heated debate. We find ourselves on the same journey from freedom to revelation, but with very different ideas of how to get from the Sea to the Mountain.

Bringing our discussions from Prison Ministry into my own preparations for Passover has opened up my midrashic imagination to the connections between ancient and modern day oppression. Learning about the discrimination and racism built into the foundation of our prison system has prompted me to ask: What can Exodus account can tell us about the factors that led to the enslavement and oppression of the Israelites in our Passover story, and what can this teach us about oppression in our time?
Nayab, it was wonderful to read this thoughtful and self-reflective piece. The questions you raise are real and important and the struggles you wrote about—of how to live a religious life and be a part of the modern world—are crucial. I think you articulated the major challenge that we all, as religious or ethical people, face: how do we learn to stand in the gray area? How do we develop our ability to hold ambiguity and nuance? How do we learn to acknowledge many realities at once? Exploring these questions is the task for all those of us who eschew fundamentalism of any kind. Rather than derive easy answers or rigid rules, we seek to increase our capacity to sit with complexity and to be comfortable in the place of not knowing.

Why does our current prison system exist? Why do we continue to support a punitive approach that blames the individual rather than putting the bulk of our resources into rehabilitation and reform? Perhaps what underlies our criminal justice system is our desire to believe that we are essentially different from “evil doers.” If only we could weed out those bad apples, we think, society could run smoothly and safely. Perhaps if each of us was willing to acknowledge the infinite potential—encompassing both “good” and “evil”—within ourselves, we would not see ourselves as so separate from those we label “criminals.”

While I am energized and inspired by the way the holiday of Tu B’Shevat has become catalyst for the Jewish environmental movement, since returning a few weeks ago from five months in Israel I am conscious of other issues, values, and difficult discussions the Tu B’Shevat seder might provide a forum for. Trees in Israel are often a political issue and have become the focal point in strategic policies in the ongoing Conflict that plagues the country. This year, as I celebrate the New Year for the Trees and meditate on the themes of renewal, my thoughts are drawn to two memorable encounters I had with trees in Israel and the deep insight into the Conflict that these experiences gave me.

The lighting of Chanukah candles can be seen as a ceremonial process through which we enact the destruction that necessarily precedes rededication. We place our candle in its holder, light its tiny flame and watch wick and wax melt to the ground. We repeat for eight nights, adding one more candle, each time increasing our capacity to watch it all burn away. We love to think about renewal, but it is often very challenging to sit with that clearing away that comes before. Perhaps each night of Chanukah is an opportunity to embrace the force in each of our lives that dismantles that which no longer serves us.

These past two months living in Jerusalem have been an experience of witnessing the struggle—in this city and in my own heart—between forces that seek to dismember us into discrete parts, and forces that compel us to stand in the suffering and be broken apart. Sometime over the past month my heart broke. I have been living in the sad and tender place, waiting for it to strengthen and heal.

If on Rosh HaShanah we gain a picture of what can happen when we submit blindly to authority, Yom Kippur is our opportunity to choose another path.

Out among the scraggly brush of the desert, the Sulha began at dusk and went late into the evening. We gathered together: Jewish and Arab Israelis, Palestinians, our small contingent of American Jews, and others, kids and adults wearing everything from flowy skirts and colorful scarves to tight jeans and slicked back hair. Statements of welcome flowed in Hebrew and Arabic, as those English-speakers among us did our best to follow along. The event began with all of circled around the fire pit. The fire was lit and as the sun sank the surrounding land began to melt into the background as the faces around us became illuminated.
Adina Allen (28) is a third year rabbinical student in Hebrew College's transdenominational program in Boston, MA. She is interested in the intersection of religion, ecology, and embodiment.