Simply read, this verse bans the abhorrent from the Jewish home. In doing so, it asks us to define the abhorrent: that which is so despised that it has no place in Jewish life and must be put under ban. The rabbis of the Talmud have traditionally identified the abhorrent with idol worship. In their reading, anything contaminated through the worship of a foreign God cannot be consumed by Jews.

In the 13th century, this view is radicalized by the anonymous author of the Sefer ha-Chinuch. Building on the traditional view, we learn that any object “that was gained through theft, violence, or exploitation, or from any disgusting element” is considered abhorrent. Moreover, an individual’s “heart is inclined toward evil, which desires [an item] and brings it into the home; this inclination toward evil is called idol worship.” Idol worship is not what we initially thought: It can be anything. For example, a consumer good produced through exploitation would be identified as “abhorrent” and banned.

In this era of globalization, in which 30 million people live as slaves and millions more work in sweatshops around the world, our sage’s teaching forces us, as consumers, to ask uneasy questions about our consumption habits. Knowing what we know, can we continue to purchase goods, globally produced, without the fear that we are bringing the abhorrent into our homes?

—Ari Weiss

The notion that we are all connected becomes clearer each day as we receive news, food, and products from around the planet. While globalization has made the world a smaller place, it has also overwhelmed many of us; we struggle to see how we can live ethical lives and repair the world in the face of mega-corporations, governments, wars, and disasters.

By creating a context for acting ethically in a centuries- old tradition, Rabbi Ari Weiss gives us the opportunity to engage something bigger than ourselves as we accept the obligation to ban the abhorrent from our homes. The text’s instructions on living a moral life can energize rather than paralyze us as we open to the liberation that comes from becoming more awake. We can choose fair trade and organic products, and support local businesses and farms that enrich rather than deplete our communities. Affirming our interconnectedness, we create pathways — individually and collectively — to not only abhor unfairness but embrace justice as a guiding light.

—Jonathan Rosenthal

Rabbi Ari Weiss asks the question that faces each of us every time we open our wallets: What are the consequences, both for me and the larger world, of what I buy today? Each purchase says something about us and our relationship with God. For example, can we truly fulfill the mitzvah of lighting the Hanukkah candles if the menorah we use is produced by child labor? Does the “abhorrence” of the product also contaminate the holy action itself? When we become cut off from our own values and intentions, we lose our connection with the divine.

There are positive answers to the “uneasy questions about our consumption habits.” We are blessed to live in a time when there are organizations dedicated to help us make informed choices, including Fair Trade, Not for Sale, SweatFree Communities, Green America, No Sweat, and Union Label. Let us ban unholy purchases and work toward consumption habits that bring more justice, holiness, and connection into the world.

—Ilana Schatz

New forms of energy are in the works, with promises to revive floundering economies and reduce our dependence on foreign oil: tar sands in Canada; shale gas in the United States, and shale oil in Israel. Independence and unity are certainly to be valued, but at what cost? Poisoned air and water, mass extinction of vulnerable species, and climate chaos are dreadful effects of these new forms of energy. According to the analysis of Rabbi Ari Weiss, their single minded pursuit is akin to idol worship.

In Rebbe Nachman’s tale, “The King’s Son and the Son of the Maid,” a young prince is gifted a musical instrument that magically plays the song of unity. Emerging from the forest to find a city, the prince’s task is to restore the kingdom to wisdom by solving a series of riddles in an enchanted garden. But it turns out that the song of unity on its own is not enough to save the kingdom: The prince is only able to succeed by practicing the wisdom of the ancestors, the ability to comprehend one thing from another.

It seems that we have lost the ability to distinguish between the abhorrent and the holy. We must cherish unity, but also practice discernment, challenging the idols of greed and ignorance that threaten our livelihood and God’s creation.

—Jonah Meadows Adels

Toward the end of Deuteronomy (23:19), the Torah explicitly forbids gifts to the Temple, Mikdash, that come from objectionable sources, calling such gifts “abhorrent to the Lord your God.” Applying this law to the mikdash me’at (miniature sanctuary) of our houses of worship and study, the Jewish community is confronted with difficult questions about how we fund our institutions and what criteria we place on the gifts we accept.

Sacred space cannot be built on a foundation of funds attained by methods that are not consonant with what we know to be right and holy. We cannot sustain our synagogues and schools — our prayer lives and Torah study — with money made by exploiting workers, objectifying women, polluting the environment, or by any other morally questionable means, and continue to call those spaces holy. What steps can we take to ensure that the abhorrent does not enter our spiritual homes? Is our community ready to take such steps?

—Yosef Goldman

When I first picked up Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s seminal book on the prophets, I read it with a healthy dose of skepticism. As an organizer, I was frustrated with people who fashioned themselves as modern-day prophets — men and women who seemed unwilling to sacrifice an ounce of truth or urgency to make their position more politically palatable. But Heschel convinced me that we need prophecy, too; sometimes, the cry for change is too inadequate without the fervor and fury of prophets.

To me, the “Occupy” movement is an attempt to reclaim an element of prophecy in American politics. It is the manifestation of a growing recognition that the “moralists” have failed — that the people who tried to discuss, suggest, and counsel our way out of an economic catastrophe have brought us no closer to justice. Occupy is an insistence that stimulus and accountability measures alone won’t change a corrupted system. It is emblematic of a collective impatience — a cry against leadership failures, an insistence that waiting for the moralists to get it right is simply no longer an option.

And so, despite its myriad imperfections, I am grateful for the Occupy movement — even for its refusal to temper its actions or to compromise.

—Jaime Rapaport Barry

Ishare what feels like Jaime Rapaport Barry’s impatience with prophets in our era, especially on the national stage. My understanding of Jewish tradition honors actions above words; the words of prophesy, then, take a back seat to action on behalf of people. In American government today, this often means pragmatism and, yes, sometimes the art of compromise. To modern-day prophets — including the “Occupy” protesters and others — these can be ugly words. But to me, this is how to help the greatest number of people.

But I agree that there must always be room, particularly in our community, for prophets — among other things to lead Jewish organizations — who call us to our higher selves. I do not see this as a recognition of failure; instead, I see it as a communal, American, and global effort to remind us of our ideals. With so many people in pain, our prophets do not let us forget. For the many of us who aren’t prophets, the service they provide is invaluable — even as we keep our heads down and keep working to get things done, imperfect compromises and all.

—Marc R. Stanley

In tractate Megilah 14a of the Babylonian Talmud, Rabbi Abba bar Kahana unflinchingly concedes the futility of prophetic insistence: “When Ahashverosh placed his ring on Haman’s finger, [authorizing genocide], it was more powerful than all 55 prophets of Israel. All the prophets together failed to move Jews to righteousness, yet removing the ring moved the Jews.” As a firing squad concentrates a condemned man’s mind, Haman’s credible threat to Jews roused Queen Esther and the Jews of Shushan to solidarity, action, and redemption. But prophecy? Isaiah’s odes and Jeremiah’s jeremiads? Goose eggs.

So, can the prophets’ insistence be effective? Jaime Rapoport Barry suggests that, in its intemperance, the Occupy movement may succeed where well-intentioned but inside-the-box governmental efforts will fail to change the system. I certainly hope so.

The Talmud continues: “Many prophets prophesied to Israel. Yet only those whose message would resonate with future generations were recorded by the Bible. The rest were forgotten.”

The system may yet withstand the prophets of Occupy, as it did the credible threat of financial ruin. If so, perhaps future generations will learn of Occupy and heed its call.

—Joel Alter

In this narrative, the moralists are the politicians and prophets are “the people.” Please note the obvious irony. However, as a pragmatic idealist, I like to think that morality and prophecy exist in the voices of both our leaders and everyday citizens. Both voices must be heard.

While stimulus and accountability alone will not change a system, neither will chants commonly heard at the Occupy protests, such as, “This is what a police state looks like.”

Our voices — the voices of the American people — have reached a moment of urgency. Nationwide unemployment floats around 9 percent; health-care costs are rising; the farm bill is rife with inequities. All of this and more contribute to inequality between the 99 percent and the 1 percent of Americans. The cry is urgent.

The voices of the moralists must become louder. A complete economic disaster has been averted and some sound change continues to create bright moments: grassroots movements are making an impact; universal health care passed; and there is profitable industry being built around the green movement. For the Occupy movement.

For the Occupy movement to have purpose and forward momentum, we need the politicians to find prophecy. They need to work toward what is good and create a direction forward. Without any direction, our propensity to proclaim, demand, and insist will gradually become an Occupation of suggestion, discussions, and council.

—Sarah Drew Kornhauser

This midrash offers us, philanthropists and tzedakah givers alike, two warnings and a guiding principle. First, we shouldn’t misuse our wealth or employ it exploitatively. We are cautioned to mind the fine line between leveraging a donation and having undue influence. Second, we shouldn’t fail to use our wealth. We shouldn’t hoard our resources or, having not used them to honor God, we might find ourselves without them. Third, we are called to use our wealth positively, to do nothing less than honor God. We are told that whatever the nature of our resources — be they money or good looks or a sweet voice — we should use them in service to God. But the midrash goes even further, reminding us that these are resources with which we have been graced. We are guided to give with humility and a light touch, cognizant that these things which, on the face of it, seem to be ours — our hard-earned money, our cultivated good looks, our trained voice — actually have their very source in God.
—Jennie Rosenn

Thanks to Rabbi Rosenn, we can finally distinguish between philanthropists and tzedakah givers. Ever since Maimonides lauded anonymity in his eight stages of giving, many in the Jewish world hold the mistaken impression that tzedakah should not be a public act.

However, if you are to “honor God with your wealth,” one might intuit that we are to display our God-given good looks and sweet voices; and so, too, we should publicize our philanthropy. Until modern times, the tzedakah giver strove not to embarrass the poor by remaining anonymous.

Through philanthropy, we distribute our wealth most appropriately when we partner with nonprofits that are transparent and accountable, and that provide donor recognition. For more than 100 years in North America and more recently in Israel, society expects its citizens and corporations to “fix the world.” Those who do not honor this social contract (or very wealthy persons who do not honor the Giving Pledge proposed by billionaires Warren Buffet and Bill Gates) might be excluded from the commonweal and see their wealth disappear. “Honor God with your wealth” in a responsible, just, and public way.
—Jonathan Perlman

The midrash invites us to reflect on whether we are using our wealth, in its fullest sense, to honor God. Asking during the High Holy Days to be inscribed in the Book of Life heightens our awareness that a full accounting of how we use all the assets we have been given is expected of us. The

Talmud offers a teaching about the nature of money — that it does not remain still; it circulates, and the one who possesses it changes continuously. A coin is often referenced in the Talmud as a “zuz,” whose Hebrew root means “movement.” The financial crisis reminds us that not only does money move, it sometimes vanishes.

While markets and endowment returns gyrate, the nature of the other resources we are given is different. Knowledge, wisdom, and skill can increase throughout life, building our personal sense of wealth and stability and adding to the true wealth of our communities, if we give generously of those resources as part of our tzedakah. Just as we need to rebalance our investment portfolios periodically to ensure our financial wellbeing, the midrash challenges us to consider carefully how all our assets are allocated.
—Shelley Hébert

If we are to honor God with our wealth, does that imply that if we have no wealth we do not have to honor God? Alternatively, if we do have wealth, but do not honor God with it, is it possible we will lose our wealth as a form of punishment? Should fundraisers include that phrase in solicitations? Wouldn’t it be perceived as a scare tactic or threat? If, on the other hand, fundraisers see their role as one of teaching, then this midrash can be a motivating factor: We are commanded to honor God with our wealth; giving some of it to the neediest is but one suggestion.

Comforts of prosperity sometimes lead to complacency. However, having wealth and using it to enhance God’s wishes help us to appreciate our own wellbeing. Doing good, makes us feel good about ourselves. We are pleasing God with our good deeds; we understand that we are satisfying God’s utterances and mitzvot.
—Sherri Morr

This midrash offers two important pieces of philanthropic advice. First: “Honor God with your wealth” by giving charitably through a Jewish values lens. This means that all who give tzedakah should remember that the highest form of tzedakah, as Maimonides explained, is not simply to satiate a short-term need, but also to help the recipient achieve self-sufficiency. Second: One should give tzedakah knowledgably. Tzedakah givers should research the beneficiaries of their gifts to ensure that their dollars will have the greatest possible impact. To truly “honor God,” we must give with both our hearts and our heads, keeping Jewish values in mind while we make informed and directed contributions.
—Brett Caplan

Story within story: This mythic lovers’ dance is a tale spun by Rabbi Elazar for Rabbi Hiyya as they rest from the desert sun under the shadow of a great stone. Elazar goes on to explain his tale: The Shekhinah lies in the dust of a broken world. The Holy One raises His left arm to strike down evil and release Her from its grasp. The shadow of that arm is the fear of Judgment Day — Rosh Hashanah. But then Her head, raised from the dust, rests upon Him, igniting love that flows from its hidden source above onto His head and down His arm and into the world, forgiving sins on Yom Kippur. On Sukkot, the two embrace and joy abounds. Finally, on the Eighth Day, Shemini Atzeret, they make love and wholeness prevails. And so these festivals of awe and joy, whose revelation upon a burning mountain marked the holiest of ancient tales, themselves lay bare another story. Each story is a prism within a prism, and from their depth a light shines forth projecting drama upon the sky: Lovers are torn apart and cleave together, sin and atonement, slavery and redemption. An ancient people stands again, in prayer and in celebration, before the glory of God.

—Shaiya Rothberg

Metaphors are windows through which we glimpse God. The image offered by the Zohar on Pinchas is that of an embodied God. This overtly masculine God plays the role of the heroic, heterosexual lover, whose power is both frightening and comforting. When this God raises His arm, we take pause, unsure whether to brace for a blow or ease into a supportive caress. The fear in this critical moment is real. Even if we have never been hit before, we are reminded that this God is powerful and we are vulnerable. Viewing God as that once-accepted image of a dominant male lover raises concerns about the way we understand our fall holiday cycle. Like the male in this metaphor, God is capable of causing harm. Like the female, we are vulnerable. Even if we have survived every Yom Kippur until now, the fear of the day is real. But this love story is not as simple as it once was. We no longer accept a man who sometimes stikes, so how do we relate to a God that does?

—Avi Killip

An eternal God stands again, in prayer and in celebration, before the glory of His people… The Isbitzer Rebbe depicts God as One who stands in prayer, seeking to be seen and understood by His creation (Mei Ha’Shiloach II, B’chukotai). And so, every year the Creator lifts His left hand, the hand of the feminine, the hand of Knesset Yisrael, to beckon us in His likeness to our vulnerability. He shows up every year not knowing, “Will my lover rest her trusting head in my extended hand, or will I carry its weight alone in silence?” He questions, “What if my extended hand reminds her of Rabbi Yochanan’s extended hand and his question: ‘Are your sufferings favorable in your eyes?’” What if she answers: “Not them, nor their reward!” (B’rachot 5b) The Creator wonders, “Will my beloved recognize my naked hand and desire, despite the pain and alienation of the passing year, and return with Me to our sacred ‘Chamber of Love’”? In this reflective relationship between God and Knesset Yisrael, faith and trust are not givens. We grow in our faith, trust, and love toward God. We pray and yearn that God grows in God’s love, trust, and faith in us. A living relationship calls for forgiveness from all those engaged. We, too, have desires and yearnings when entering into a new year. We, too, look back at the year that has passed with questions. Thus, I believe, every year God approaches on Rosh Hashana, and we forgive on Yom Kippur. We invite God to our humble sukkah erected in love, and make love. United. Whole.

—Mimi Feigelson

Wholeness has a story. It is achieved, lost, achieved again. The paradox of many a Jewish mystic: One must insist that dualism is real, the right and left arms, as wholeness can only be achieved by overcoming dualism. The Zohar, says scholar Tishbi, is inconsistent: at times gnostic, seeing evil as independent, at other times proclaiming that all is One. Which is right? I follow the holiday/ritual story of my people to understand my own story. I recognize good and evil. I acknowledge my sin and seek atonement. I progress and regress. Only dualism does justice to my ethical struggle for wholeness. But there is a place — before, behind, and beyond story — that is always whole: the place of emptiness before God. I feel it best in wild nature, where fear and love are always intertwined and language has little use. I surrender to awe, offer my story as a sacrifice, and listen deeply. What makes for teshuvah? I must analyze my life. It sets the stage. But replacing one dualistic story with another hasn’t helped me much. Tasting wholeness has.

—Mike Comins

I also understand the “cup” both as a reminder to be grateful for abundance, and also as a source of strength from which to draw when I feel most depleted. The cup is a reminder that there is a constant flow of divine presence that can replenish my soul energy. At times, I need to shift my perspective to find it. It’s a little like standing shivering in the corner of the shower; if I just moved slightly, I would find myself under the flow of warm water raining down. Our cup can be refilled by others. Sometimes, we find unexpected strength when we reach out to offer a kindness to another. The messianic reference to being anointed with oil brings to mind a Hassidic teaching about moshiach consciousness that expresses this: If you always assume that the person sitting next to you is the messiah waiting for some simple human kindness, you will soon come to weigh your words and watch your hands. And if the messiah then chooses not to appear in your time, it will not matter.
—Rachel Gurevitz

In his book, The Lord is My Shepherd: Healing Wisdom of the Twenty-Third Psalm, Rabbi Harold Kushner notes that the psalmist refers differently to God — depending on whether we are being told about God, early in Psalm 23, or whether we are encountering God, later in the text. When we encounter God, we speak directly to “You” but when the psalmist speaks about God, he uses the third person. The Baal Shem Tov included Psalm 23 at the end of the evening service — perhaps hoping that we would encounter God’s healing presence as night descends. The Talmud teaches that sleep is 1/60 of death — that is, it is a small taste of what death may be like. Jewish tradition offers a comforting daily practice as we enter the scary places that can be evoked by darkness and uncertainty. At bedtime we recite the Sh’ma, the prayer we also say just before death; upon arising in the morning, we recite Modeh/Modah Ani, a prayer of thanksgiving: “I thank You, God for returning my soul to me.” By reciting this prayer of gratitude, we affirm that even in the face of illness and when we face other challenges, we may experience our “cup overflowing with divinity.”
—Marjorie Sokoll

Psalm 23 is popular as a psalm of comfort. Sensing God’s beneficence can be of help to people who are suffering illness. But the phrase “my cup overflows” may be dissonant with the actual experience of suffering. Rabbi Meir tells us in Pirke Avot, “Do not look at the vessel, but what is in it…” Our “cup” may well be full of experiences that give us a sense of awe and thankfulness. For someone in a terminal state, however, the “cup” may be overflowing with trepidation. This is why, if sharing this psalm, we should be sensitive when counseling the sick. For those with terminal illnesses, perhaps the phrase, “Into Your hands I commend my spirit” may be more consistent with the peaceful acceptance necessary to help transition from life to death. For those facing less serious illnesses, reflecting on “my cup overflows” may indeed provide awe, thankfulness, and hope. The effective use of literature depends on the stage of illness and the emotional and spiritual maturity of the patient.
—Stuart I. Forman

When I visit hospital patients, they sometimes request that we pray together. They often choose Psalm 23, which is also recited in mourning rituals. The image of God accompanying them through the valley of death’s shadow brings comfort. How do they muster — with sincerity — the words, “my cup overflows”? While some people who have a sophisticated gratitude practice find the phrase meaningful, most people find it puzzling and jarring. An alternate reading of “my cup overflows,” or “cosi revayah,” might inspire a petitionary prayer more congruent with a patient’s feelings. “Spirit of Life, my cup is full to overflowing. I can’t take in any more. You, who sustain me through challenges that feel like enemies, help me bear my burdens and sorrows. Make of me a bigger vessel, so I can face my challenges with grace.” The Baal Shem Tov added Psalm 23 to the liturgy just before the end of the Maariv (evening) service. The Besht, a healer himself, taught the centrality of feeling God’s presence permeating and surrounding all worlds. Perhaps he wanted us to enter the night embracing a “cup” overflowing with divinity. When our cup is too full with sorrow, we can pray to make conscious space in our neshama/soul vessel for God’s presence.
—Lori Klein

Nish’ma April 2011

No study has ever been done to discover the root cause of why people stop identifying with Judaism. If we worry less about Judaism as a culture and more about monotheism, we might find that — suddenly — people have something more to believe in. Jewish identity is more than matzah ball soup and Young Professionals mixers.

God, Israel (the people), and the Torah are essential for Jewish identity. Without God, we sit on a stool with only two legs. Theists need to summon up the courage to put God first in Jewish life in spite of the urge to keep our heads down so we don’t look crazy.

We often place a lot of importance on not standing out, especially in a “tribal” sense. It gives us a sense of being a part of something larger than ourselves. The flip side is that if we all try to be like someone else, we lose who we really are.

Judaism is a path (halakhah) that allows us to walk together, even if we walk at our own pace. When we try to be like another, we are giving up our God-given individuality.

—Patrick Aleph & Michael Sabani

~

What claims do Patrick Aleph and Michael Sabani make? First, people’s anxieties about Jewish life are misplaced. Jews are overly (and perhaps incorrectly) concerned about Jewish culture. The authors suggest that theists should come out of the closet and help secular Jews connect to the divine. Second, Jews worry too much about conforming to some unnamed tribal standard (not halakhah?), or being iconoclastic in a given community, at the risk of losing their own individual identities.

I’m not thoroughly convinced by either of these claims. Is the argument here a diagnosis? Is it a description of contemporary Jewish life or a prescription for how to save the Jews (from themselves)?

There are many recent studies that disclose significant reasons and root causes as to why people’s identification with Judaism, or God, or Israel is waning. Judaism includes a set of varied practices and beliefs that are distinct from halakhah. Both belief and practice provide structure to individual and collective Jewish lives, but how people interpret both Judaism and halakhah varies widely. That tension — of belief and practice — is not new; in fact, it is healthy (indeed, necessary) for the continued flourishing of contemporary Jewish life.

—Caryn Aviv

~

Jewish identity is a tricky subject. We have no consensus on how to define it, what it should feel like, or to what extent it should be particularistic. I find that Judaism has much wisdom to offer, both to adherents of the faith and to the rest of the world. I’m often, therefore, baffled by our numbers — that we account for such a small fraction of the population.

Should we worry more about monotheism, as Michael Sabani and Patrick Aleph suggest? Should we worry less about the cultural components of our peoplehood? These are decisions that each individual “member of the tribe” must make. Some Jews will be enthralled with bagels and lox on Sunday mornings, federation meetings, Seinfeld reruns, and B’nai Brith softball. Other Jews will recharge their spiritual batteries in traditional synagogue life. Some will look to Jewish summer camp as their source of Jewishness, and for other people it will be the connection to the State of Israel. We are a club, but we’re not sure who is included and who decides our boundaries. It is good for us to stand out as tribally different, but we should also count our blessings that we are included in the larger fabric as well.

—Jason Miller

~

Let’s turn the original question on its head. Let’s stop focusing, for a moment, on what pushes Jews away from Judaism and start focusing on what compels Jews-by-choice, or converts, to choose Judaism. Why are non-Jews drawn to Judaism? How do they fashion a new Jewish identity where there was not one before? If we uncover what so compels non-Jews to choose Judaism, then we might also understand what we could do to help those already Jewish identify more strongly with Judaism.

Abraham and Sarah did not follow a grandiose concept into the desert; they did not follow “the God of Israel.” Rather, they followed “the God who calls to me”! Ruth the Moabite — often considered the first convert — did not say, “Whither thou goest…” to “the people Israel,” but rather sought to deepen her relationship with particular Jews.

Our institutions of outreach must also become institutions of in-reach, with more attention to personally inviting Jews back into Judaism: classes that teach and inspire Judaism, spiritual counseling, and personal welcome in the synagogue. We just might, then, help more Jews and non-Jewish seekers experience a calling — a “lekh-lekha” moment.

—Juan Mejía

~

ARTISTS’ STATEMENT

THE FOUR WORLDS

Bonita Helmer

According to the Kabbalah (the hidden mystical structure of the universe) the world was created as a great Tree of Existence.  This great tree is composed of four separate worlds connected by the Jacob’s Ladder.  The highest world (Azilut), the World of Emanation, the next is the World of Creation  (Beriah), then the World of Formation (Yetzirah) and finally the World of Action (Asiyah).

Within the center of the structure of the universe (“the great tree”), the Kabbalah also describes levels of existence relating to the individual.   The Keter, at the top of the head (the crown and origin), the Daat, in the center of the throat (understanding and knowledge)  then in the center of body at Tefiret (beauty) thus forming the spiritual world.  The Tefiret then joins with  Yesod (foundation)  in the groin area and Malkut (the divine body), which is at the bottom of the feet and represents the physical world.  These levels are the center pole and core of the Sfirot system.

I have created four different interpretations of the Four Worlds of Existence.  Each painting is constructed with four separate panels reading as one complete work.

The complexity of this “charting” of the universe, and the human nature within, has been a challenge as an artist.  Painting this series has been a combination of using the mind, body, and spirit  Approaching this subject has been a sacred experience.  The wisdom of the ancient masters, in documenting this “unseen” structure never ceases to amaze me as I wander through the depths and try to personally capture these abstract concepts through images in paint.

Bonita Helmer  2000 – 2003

No one is available

Ken Aptekar

60″ X 60″

four panels, oil/wood, sandblasted glass, bolts

After Robert Campin, The Nativity, 1420, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Dijon, France Private Collection

The painting is one of a series of works I made exploring the meaning of angels from a Jewish point of view. There’s something of the wonderment of the notion of heaven in Tuvia Katz’s painting “Between Heaven and Earth.”

Angels of the sort I found in an alterpiece in Dijon, France, by Robert Campin answer questions that were unanswerable in the 15th c. because of the limits of knowledge. I tried to find corollaries today for the messages that angels used to deliver back then. Mystery, wonder and awe reside for me, for example, in how the Internet works, which as far as I can tell, no one really understands. The ribbon with words spiraling around the angel is, for me the antecedent of a variety of disembodied contemporary communications, which in this work float over my painting. The text sandblasted on glass bolted over Campin’s angel reads:  “no one is available to take your call, you may have shut down improperly, for museum gift shop hours press three, please enter your pin number, accident in right lane ahead, you will prosper and have long happy life, server does not have DNS entry, seventh floor: intimate apparel, adjustments.”

Ruth Kestenbaum Ben-Dov

Immersion 1, 1997, oil on canvas, 130 X 90 cm., 51 X 35″

This painting touches on the mystery of immersion in the mikve, a place that juxtaposes free-flowing water with an enclosed and claustrophobic space; and birth – or a potential for new life – with its absence or loss.

A larger dialogue that lies in the background of this work is that between Christianity, a central source for western painting, and Judaism, with their differing attitudes toward the body on the one hand and art on the other. Traditional Judaism involves itself in minute details of the body, including meticulous discussions on menstrual blood, yet its central medium of expression is the written and spoken word. Christianity chose to reject “Carnal Israel”, preferring spirit to body, yet after much controversy selected painting, sensual and figurative, as one of its central religious languages.

In my ongoing search for understanding the complex relationship between Judaism and art, one of the first places from which I embarked was this small human-size underwater space, one that touches on mythic and enigmatic layers in our culture.