Peace

Blessed Yah, Creator, Created, Creating...

We pray for peace,

For ourselves and the world,

Even if only for one day:

Instead of anger, we choose kindness.

Instead of revenge, we choose justice.

Instead of resentment, we choose empathy.

Instead of work, we choose rest.

Instead of ideology, we choose compromise.

Instead of destruction, we choose community.

Instead of fear, we choose endurance.

Instead of invective, we choose prayer.

Instead of violence, we choose peace.

Blessed Yah, Creator, Created, Creating...

We give thanks for this day of peace.

May it change us, may it change the world,

And let us say, Amen.

Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya'aseh shalom aleinu v'al kol Yisrael, v'al kol yoshvei teivel. 

V'imru amen. 

May the Source of peace, who creates peace in high places make peace for us, for our community and for all who dwell on earth. 

And let us say amen.

Now, why are we so concerned with this simple love story [The Book of Ruth] and why has it been included in the canon? It contains a kind of sensuality but no transcendental element. It is a story about human beings and what they do to one another, with one another. God, as we said, plays almost no role in it. 

Why, then, is it sacred? What makes it sacred? We shall analyze the major characters in the cast, but first a few words about the problem they all share, the problem of strangeness. One of the major themes of the book is how to overcome strangeness. In general, Jewish tradition insists on every person’s right to be different. As a Jew, I must believe that having been a stranger in Pharaoh’s Egypt, I am therefore compelled to respect all strangers for what they are. I must not seek to change their ways or views. I must not try to make them resemble me. Every human being reflects the image of God, who has no image. Mine is neither purer nor holier than yours or theirs. Truth is one for all of us, but the paths leading to it are many. In the eyes of the father, all his children are worthy of his love. The other is in my eyes, the center of the universe, just as I ought to be in his or her eyes. Only in dictatorships do all citizens look alike, speak alike, and behave alike. In their servitude or civility, they reject the other, for the other eludes them. They denounce and hate the stranger, for the stranger is freer than they. 

The story of Ruth may sound as an apology of proselytism. It is not. The Jewish religion has consistently, with very rare exceptions, discouraged conversion. Before a person is accepted into the fold, he or she must be forewarned of what he or she may have to endure. The candidate must be aware of the persecutions, the sufferings, the torments, the massacres that fill and crowd Jewish memory. Are you ready for all this, the candidate is asked. Won’t you prefer a quieter life? Maybe less interesting. Even on the individual level, efforts are being made to discourage the candidate. To convert, he or she is told, means to leave not only your present faith but also your family. You will be like a newborn child, with Abraham and Sarah as parents. According to halakha, which is not really interpreted very often, in this case, a convert actually has to celebrate bar mitzvah 13 years later, or bat mitzvah 12 years later. To frighten the candidate, the candidate is told something which may sound strange and disturbing. The candidate is told that the convert may theoretically -- I insist, theoretically -- because of his status of newborn child with no family, that the candidate therefore may marry his sister or even his mother. And I wonder what Sigmund Freud would say to all this. If this wouldn’t frighten the prospective convert, what will?

But why discourage conversions? Because we were too often victims of forced conversion? The reason may be a deeper one. In Jewish tradition, it is the freedom of the stranger, his or her right to self-definition, that must be respected. It is because the “Other” is other, because he or she is not I, that I am to consider him or her both sovereign, and instrument used by God to act upon history and justify his faith in his entire creation. 

When are we suspicious of the stranger? When he or she comes from our midst. There is a difference between ger, nokri, and zar. Scripture is kind to the first two, to the ger and the nokri, and harsh to the third, the zar, for only the zar is Jewish, and a Jew who chooses to estrange themself from their people, a Jew who makes use of his Jewishness only to attack and denigrate Jewish life and Jewish history, as embodied by the Jewish people, of whom it may be said shehotzi et atzmo min hak’lal, who removed himself from the community, who shares neither its sorrow nor its joy, that Jew is not our brother, nor is he our equal; that Jew is a stranger. As for real strangers, objective strangers, strangers who really are from other traditions, other milieus, other disciplines, other people, other nations, other cultures, they must be treated with dignity. Of course, one finds here and there in the vast Talmudic literature statements and references that could be interpreted as excessive praise of the Jewish person and faith, but then, one finds everything in the Talmud. One could find as many statements and opinions emphasizing human equality. All men and women who believe in God are equally heard by God, who understands all languages -- though He hears and understands Yiddish a little bit better. But He receives prayers everywhere. 

But then why the love for Ruth? Because while Jewish religion discourages conversion, it loves converts. 

Ruth is not the only one. Other celebrated cases have been recorded, not without a certain measure of understandable pride. The emperor’s nephew Aquila or Onkelos -- what a marvelous story. When he came to tell the emperor, telling him he wants to convert, the emperor said, “Are you crazy? Don’t you know that the Jewish people is destined for persecution? Why do you want to join the Jewish people?” And he said, “Because Jewish children alone are studying and learning the mystery of creation,” and for this, he was drawn to the Jewish people and converted. Then there is a story of the king of Himyar in the fifth century; the Khazars of the eighth century; the learned proselyte of Obadiah, Obadiah of Normandy; some princes; a few bishops; a British aristocrat, Lord George Gordon, who one day decided to convert to Judaism and live as a Jew, dress as a Jew, pray as a Jew, observe Jewish law and tradition and custom even in prison till his death. 

In Talmudic literature, a bizarre phenomenon emerged: some of our cruelest enemies are said to be among the converts. Take, for instance, the general Nebuzaradan, the murderer of hundreds of scholars and thousands of children. What did he do when there was no one left to kill? Halakh venitgayyer-- converted. The same has been said of Nero -- after fiddling, he converted. A descendant of Haman -- do you know what he did? Not only did he convert; he established a yeshiva in Bnei Brak. The meaning of these legends? To teach us that history is never finished, good may emerge from bad, evil’s triumph is and must be temporary, repentance is granted even to killers. There may be one day, high priests and learned individuals among their descendants. Or the other way around. These legends teach us modesty. Not all our ancestors have been prophets and poets. Not all have with their scholarship contributed to the glory of God and God’s law. Some may have committed sinful and criminal acts that brought dishonor to humanity. In other words, there is no collective, eternal guilt; there is only individual responsibility. 

In other words, in Jewish history, everything could be possible, and so everything is possible. 

God, full of compassion, dwelling as uplift and within, grant perfect rest under Your sheltering Presence, among the holy and pure who shine with heavenly splendor, to the soul of our dear one who has gone to his/her/their reward. May the Garden of Eternity be his/her/their rest. Please, Power of Compassion, shade him/her/them in the shadow of Your wing forever. May his/her/their soul be bound in the bonds of eternal life. May Adonai be his/her/their inheritance, and may he/she/they rest in peace. And let us say, Amen.

Clip source: The Shomer Collective

Caregiving is sacred work. It asks more of your heart, your patience, and your spirit than almost any other calling. You hold, you comfort, you anticipate, you endure. And in giving so much, it’s easy to forget that you, too, deserve tenderness and care.

This collection of rituals was created as a gentle companion for those who care for others: parents, children, partners, professionals, friends. Each ritual is a doorway back to yourself: to breathe, rest, connect, and renew. These practices draw inspiration from Jewish rhythm and spirituality, not to teach or prescribe, but to offer an ancient language for your very modern heart.

You don’t need to be religious to use them. You just need a willingness to pause. To remember that tending to your own spirit is not selfish, it’s what allows you to keep showing up with love.

Take your time with these rituals. Try one each week, or move through them as you feel called. Let them build on each other, layer by layer, until they weave a tapestry of compassion for others, and for yourself.

Hineni means “Here I am” in Hebrew. In Jewish tradition, it’s a word of presence and readiness, offering yourself fully, with openness and attention, to what life or the divine calls you to. Spiritually, saying Hineni is an act of surrender and connection, a sacred acknowledgment that you are awake, available, and willing to show up with your whole heart.

Begin where you are.

Before you can care for someone else, you must arrive within yourself. This ritual is about presence, a simple returning to your own heartbeat before you reach for another’s. “Hineni,” the Hebrew word for “I am here,” is less about geography and more about soul. It means showing up imperfectly, fully, and honestly for this moment.

Find a quiet place, or pause wherever you are. Feel your feet rooted into the ground beneath you. Breathe slowly. With each inhale, whisper softly: Hineni. With each exhale, feel the weight you carry settle gently into the earth.

What you may notice is subtle: a stillness beneath the noise, a reminder that before doing, there is being. This ritual teaches you to meet the present moment as it is, not fixed, not judged, simply noticed.

What You Receive: The peace of arrival. The spiritual grounding to begin your day with clarity and calm.