Lekh Lekho / לך־לך

This is a weekly series of frum, trans, anarchist parsha dvarim [commentaries]. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns (or worse: is) Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is both true to the source material (i.e. doesn't invert or invent meaning to make it say what I want it to say) and uses Torah like a light to reflect on our modern times.

As leftists, the presidential election this week brings us disappointment, but we can't let it fester into despair. There is too much work to do.

The parsha this week is once again dense with narrative: Avrom, the first Jew, is a wife guy; Lot travels to Sodom and becomes a prisoner of war; we get several divine name changes; themes of infertility, parenthood, and ancestry; the complex relationships between Soray and her servant/metamour Hogor and their children, half-brothers Yitskhok and Yishmoel, widely understood to be patriarchs of the Jews and the Muslims respectively. This is a parsha full of blessings and curses, of battles and spoils, of very personal human struggles, hints of sodomy (subtext) and self-circumcision (text). There's a lot here for trans and ger [convert] readings. We could talk about polyamory, or the ways that Torah and medreshim are used to assert Jewish supremacy and support the genocide. I could spend the whole dvar dissecting one of my favorite lines in Torah, an existential promise by Hashem to make the Jews like the dust of the earth.

But this week, given the news, I'm most interested in Avrom and Soray's journey from their home in Kharon to Knoan, Mitsrayim, and the holy land as a parable of spiritual growth and empowerment in difficult times.

"Get yourself out"

Hashem tells Soray and Avrom and Soray to leave Kharon at the ages of 65 and 75. This must have been uncomfortable. We too are being asked to do things that are uncomfortable. None of us should be fighting fascism, struggling to have our basic needs met, watching our loved ones carry the increasingly unbearable burdens of rent, debt, medical neglect, bigotry, police brutality, rising food prices, climate disasters, and the criminalization of anyone who dares to protest these conditions. It's deeply unfair and I hope you give yourself the grace to cry about it.

To be alive today means is to inherit a moral obligation to make the world better. Most people are content to limit the scope of their influence to "being kind" rather than meaningfully address systemic violence: these small actions have merit, especially in times like this. But for those of us who can't live with ourselves if we don't step up and try—really try, pushing through our own discomfort and potentially taking on genuine risks—not just to be good but to fix things, being kind isn't good enough.

In the parsha, Avrom and Soray travel from Kharon (birthplace, status quo) to Knoan and Mitsrayim [Egypt, or the narrow place] (hardships we must travail) and eventually reach the holy land (the destination, reward, עלום הבא, the world to come, Moshiakh, revolution, utopia). The spiritual journey away from our birthplace, our family, our parents' home is an obvious metaphor for growing up: taking responsibility for ourselves, choosing our own paths, perhaps even actively pursuing discomfort in service of something greater than our immediate gratification.

The obligation to repair this world is even greater when we consider our complicity in the oppressive systems that we have no option to opt out of. "There is no ethical consumption under capitalism" has become a refrain that people use to absolve themselves instead of resolving to burn the whole thing down: they are stuck in Kharon, the birthplace, having grown up only enough to enjoy self-awareness and all its anxieties, but they're not ready to get themselves out.

In Knoan, Soray and Avrom endure famine that prompts them to travel further to Mitsrayim, where Soray is captured and brought to Paroy's [Pharoh's] palace against her will because she's so pretty.(How many dolls do you know that dream of being kidnapped and prized for their beauty? It's not zero. Soray is the first Jewish mommy). Hashem sends a plague on the palace and Soray is released, and her and Avrom continue their journey. Is this suffering supposed to have made them stronger, enhanced the contrast between light and darkness, enriched their character? Are we—the readers and heirs to this text—supposed to take comfort in knowing that our spiritual ancestors also struggled through pointless trauma? Are we supposed to see ourselves in their long journey and its exhausting detours?

Journeying is not just a metaphor, and fleeing is not cowardice. Many of us would not be alive today if our ancestors did not flee when they did. In being very publicly Jewish and trans and an anarchist in Glasgow, I received so much vitriol that I decided to move—to run—to Brooklyn where, even after last night's election, I feel much safer. Of course, not everyone has the social or economic freedom to relocate. I was lucky.

By the decree of divine providence, a person wanders about in his travels to those places where the sparks that are to be extracted by him await their redemption. The Cause of All Causes brings about the many circumstances and pretexts that bring a person to those places where his personal mission in life is to be acted out.

— Lubavitcher Rebbe Rashab (b.1860)

We travel to places (physical or otherwise) where there is work to do. Anyone can see that this world is broken and complain about it—or, unhelpfully, punch sideways, putting their efforts toward tearing down the precious few trying to fix things. But we are surrounded by divine sparks: opportunities (constructive and destructive) to create true and meaningful impact in our time and for future generations.

“I didn’t make up the problems,” I pointed out. “All I did was look around at the problems we’re neglecting now and give them about 30 years to grow into full-fledged disasters.”

“Okay,” the young man challenged. “So what’s the answer?”

“There isn’t one,” I told him.

“No answer? You mean we’re just doomed?” He smiled as though he thought this might be a joke.

“No,” I said. “I mean there’s no single answer that will solve all of our future problems. There’s no magic bullet. Instead there are thousands of answers—at least. You can be one of them if you choose to be.”

— Octavia Butler recounting an interview (2000)

You have an avodeh: a purpose, a mission, a way to help fix this broken world that is unique to you and your strengths. (Whether the details are preordained or something we get to choose is not of consequence or interest.) You can develop and leverage skills that energize you, you can speak to your own experiences, you can forge relationships that others can't, you can help in ways that you and your communities need. There are too many problems for one person to solve, so pick one: they're all connected. Are you a medic, a cook, a teacher, a bridge builder, a bridge burner, a tailor, a soldier, a spy? By taking responsibility for yourself, stepping into your own power and building the world you want to see, you are doing nothing short of fulfilling your destiny.

Hashem promises Avrohom and Soro (names since changed) a son. Avrohom falls down laughing at Hashem. He finds the possibility of this blessing—parenthood in old age—unbelievable. But he follows Hashem's instructions(circumcising all the men in his house; that's another dvar) as though it is possible, as though he might get what he wants if he does his part. His follow-through doesn't betray his incredulity.

I don't know if it's possible for us to "win", or what that would look like. I can't see a path to victory right now. If Hashem told me that I would soon be blessed with abundance, that my communities wouldn't have to struggle anymore, that everyone would be taken care of—I would laugh. But we must act as though our victory, our blessings, are not only possible but guaranteed, if only we show up and fight. If we fight, maybe we win and maybe we lose; if we don't fight, we definitely lose. The harder we fight, the more likely we are to win, even if—especially if—the situation is bleak. The choice is clear.

May we merit Moshiakh, עלום הבא, a way through all of this. May we merit it not through our empathy or (חס־ושלום) our despair, but our actions. May we merit the world to come by building it ourselves.