As a young Jewish day-school student, I learned the story of Noah and his ark. Surely you’ve heard it: God plans to destroy the world but gives Noah the heads-up so he can build a giant boat, load it up with animals, and survive the coming deluge. All goes according to plan, and eventually the waters recede enough for Noah and his zoo to disembark and begin the work of remaking a better world. One aspect of the story I don’t see discussed very often is what happened after Noah emerged from the ark and, like every Hollywood version of a traveler arriving in a new land has done since, looked up.
Still blue up there? Excellent. But what the heck is—
God painted the first-ever rainbow across the sky after the flood, as a sign of Their covenant with humanity to never again destroy the world. When Jews see a rainbow, I was taught, we aren’t supposed to point it out to one another as a marvel, but rather take it as a warning: I remember my end of the bargain, God reminds us. Do you?
This week, on my drive home from the early-morning yoga class I teach, I spotted the biggest, brightest rainbow in the sky—only to turn a corner and realize it was a double rainbow. And while I can’t ever seem to resist the delight a rainbow inspires, my reaction is always tempered by the long-ago lesson of this phenomenon’s deceptive cheerfulness. I cannot look at a rainbow without remembering that we live in a broken world.
At a time when war rages in Israel and Palestine, when innocent lives are being cut short in ever-more-brutal ways, when antisemitic hate crimes in the US reach new historic highs year after year, it’s hard to see a rainbow and think we’ll come out of this era whole. Or at all.
God won’t have to send a flood to destroy the world; we’re doing a fine job of it ourselves.
I don’t mind telling you that the weeks since the October 7th attack have been rough ones for me—hence my silence here and, for the most part, on social media. I’ve been disheartened, depressed, distraught. I have feared for my life and the lives of those I love, both here and abroad. When our family attends services, I find myself marking the exits in the sanctuary and trying to position my body to function as a shield for my children should violence come tearing through the doors. I have felt hot, indignant rage for the attacks on Israel, just as I have felt disgust and deep regret for the treatment—now and in the past—of innocent Palestinians in Gaza. I don’t have words for how I feel about pro-Hamas rallies in the US—Hamas, whose mission is the total annihilation of Jews worldwide. Real, live, modern, literate, voting Americans are pro-Hamas. I mean…how am I supposed to feel about that? How are any of us supposed to feel?
Like many American Jews, I feel suddenly responsible for covering all my bases at absolutely all times: Yes, I believe in a Jewish state. Yes, I believe in a free Palestine. No, I do not support Netanyahu’s administration. Yes, I worry about the role of the ultra-Orthodox in Israel. No, it’s not right to cut off water and electricity to hospitals, civilians, the innocent. Yes, I want Hamas to return the hostages—whoever and whatever is left of them.
But you know what? I don’t want to explain anything to anyone. I don’t want to justify my sadness or temper it with reason. I want to wallow in it, rot on my couch for days on end. I want to cry for the missing, the murdered, the traumatized. I want to mourn.
And the only way to articulate any of this—in a world saturated by (false) headlines and memes and pithy takes and noise—is to simply state the truth: Your Jews are not okay.
The ones you know, the ones you don’t. The ones who practice openly and the ones who stopped talking to God long ago. The ones who keep kosher and the ones who eat bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches with abandon. The ones with family in Israel and the ones with no immediate link to the Middle East. The ones protesting at the tops of their lungs, and the ones so stunned by the world’s silence, they too have grown silent.
People all over the world read “Israel” and think “Jew,” making us responsible for the crimes of a government we disagree with, that we outside of Israel did not elect. Israel must exist; like an ark in the Great Flood, she is meant to house and protect a vulnerable population. Let us not forget there are still a million fewer Jews in the world today than there were in 1939, thanks to the last genocide that sought to exterminate us from the earth. But here’s the thing: Noah’s ark wasn’t ever supposed to be a battleship. It was meant to withstand great devastation, not wreak havoc across the sea. She was supposed to be a safe place for us to weather storms—because for Jews, there have always been storms.
And if your eyes are even a little bit open, you know there always will be.
xRF
First Line Frenzy® Roundup
Since I haven’t sent out a newsletter in two weeks, there’s a lot of FLF to catch up on. Find all my recent posts by clicking here.
Book(s) of the Week
Audiobooks have been my mental health salvation of late. Here’s what I’ve been listening to:
I finished Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson/Alpha & Omega tandem-series read, and wow—I’m so impressed (by the storytelling, not my consumption of it). The world-building unfolds like a lotus, growing ever more complex with each book. I adored every part of these series, and can’t wait for the next release.
I tried to listen to Tom Lake by Ann Patchett because it’s been getting such ardent critical praise. Meryl Streep narrates the audiobook, and she’s extraordinary…but my brain just couldn’t cope with a sprawling family epic. I’ll circle back around to this one when the world isn’t on fire.
I’ve been happily swooning over B.K. Borison’s Lovelight Farms series. This trilogy gives big Gilmore Girl vibes, plus character-driven romance, compelling plot, and plenty of heat. Borison wasn’t on my radar til now, but I’ll be keeping her work in sight from now on.
The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store by James McBride is up next for me. Have you read it? Let me know what you thought, and I’ll report back next week.
In a true indicator of my deep emotional unrest, I joined Kindle Unlimited and have been filling my eReader with everything and anything that sounds good: a novella by Elisa Braden, a contemporary romance BookTok darling by Annie Crown, a historical romance with a beautiful cover (yes, that’s all it took for me to download it), and The Serpent and the Wings of Night by Carissa Broadbent, described as a “Hunger Games + vampires” fantasy romance.
Ever gone grocery shopping when you’re hungry? That’s me in the KU store right now. Allow me, then, to remind you that nourishment and self-care can look different on everyone. I hope you’re finding healthy ways to take care of yourself during these dark, distressing times.
Powerful and heart-provoking. Seriously crazy-making to feel under siege in your place of worship with your children next to you. Loved what you said and how you said it. It's inclusive and loving.
You are in my thoughts.