Dvar Torah: The Audacity to Build a Bridge

I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing on the evening of the 4th of November, 1995. It was a Saturday night. I was living and working in Rio de Janeiro, and I had already made firm plans to move to Israel just two months later, to begin my Master's degree. That particular evening, I went to a magician's performance. I was completely offline, disconnected. I did not hear a thing about the murder.

The following day, Sunday, was my father's birthday. I called my parents in Sao Paulo to congratulate him. My mother answered, and her voice was filled with anxiety. "How are you?" she asked, in a tone that clearly implied she expected me to be devastated. "I'm fine," I said, "Why? I'm just calling for Dad's birthday." And it was only then, from my mother, that I learned what had happened. Yitzhak Rabin, the Prime Minister of Israel, had been assassinated.

Two months later, I landed at Ben Gurion Airport. The country I entered was a country deep in trauma. That raw, collective pain, the profound shock of a Jew murdering a Jewish prime minister, and the sudden, violent death of the fragile hope for peace, set the tone for the entire three and a half years I lived in Israel. The dream of the Oslo Accords, a dream of two states living side-by-side, died that night on the pavement of a Tel Aviv square.

This week, we read Parashat Lech Lecha. The text tells us, "God said to Avram, 'Go forth from your land, your birthplace, and your father’s house, to the land that I will show you.'"[1]

The text tells us that Avraham was 75 years old when he heard this call. Seventy-five. This was not a young man seeking adventure. This was a man established in his life, his career, his worldview. And at 75, he is told to abandon everything: his geography, his culture, and most importantly, the ideology of his "father's house." He is told to leave behind everything that had defined him for three-quarters of a century and to follow a new, radical vision for the future.

This Shabbat, as we prepare to mark the 30th yahrtzeit of Yitzhak Rabin, I find the parallel inescapable.

Here was a man, Rabin, who was Israel's "Mr. Security." His entire life, his identity, was forged in the military. From the Palmach to IDF Chief of Staff during the triumphant Six-Day War, his "father's house" was the doctrine of military strength. His vision for Israel's future was, for decades, one secured exclusively by a powerful army.

And then, late in his life, like Avraham, he heard a different call. He was convinced by a different vision, a different hope for the future. He began a journey that was a complete 180-degree transformation from the man he had always been. He set out on a new path, one of diplomacy and compromise, towards a future that was utterly different from the one he had spent the previous 71 years of his life building.

Changing one's whole approach to life is frightening, and it is difficult. Regardless of your opinion on the Oslo Peace Process—and there are many valid and painful critiques to be made—one must agree that Rabin's transformation took profound courage. He wanted what he had come to see as the best, perhaps the only, path for Israel's survival.

But this kind of change is threatening. It threatens many of the narratives we tell ourselves about Israel, about the conflict, about our relationship to the land. And the reaction to his Lech Lecha was not just disagreement. It was visceral, poisonous hate.

What we now call "Hate Speech" was running rampant in Israel in 1995. I am sure many of us remember the images. The posters of Rabin in an SS uniform. The chants, at rally after rally, calling him a "בוגד," a traitor. Pamphlets were distributed in synagogues debating the religious validity of applying din rodef (the law of the pursuer) to Rabin and the Oslo Accords—pronouncements that, in essence, gave religious permission to kill him.

We pride ourselves, rightly, on a Jewish tradition that is open to debate. We cherish machloket l'shem shamayim—disagreement for the sake of Heaven. But nothing of that worked in this case. This was not debate. This was dehumanisation. Yigal Amir might have pulled the trigger by himself, but his action was the direct result of a political and religious climate that steeped itself in vitriol and made political violence acceptable.

This morning, I was listening to a HaAretz podcast interview with French rabbi Delphine Horvilleur.[2] She was speaking about the current war, but her words echo with chilling precision the events of 1995 and the legacy we still live with. She said:

"What very often comes to my mind is the image of bridges... I feel that I've always been someone who tried to build bridges... And I think one of the first effects or consequences of war... is that it destroys bridges. We actually want to get rid of bridges and of people who are trying to build them...

Suddenly, we are... unable to do what a bridge does, like to make a connection with the other's world. So it started with... empathy... people have a hard time being in empathy with the other. So sometimes the other is the other with a big O. I mean, you cannot find empathy for the enemy... and slowly, slowly this lack of empathy kind of contaminates everything in your life.

Because suddenly you lack empathy for your own tribe, for your neighbour, for the one in your own people who disagree with you. And slowly, slowly you lack empathy for the intimate... It's a pity and it's disastrous... how we can't manage to put ourselves one second in the shoe of the other. Not necessarily to agree with him, but just one second to see from another point of view..."

And then she said this, which struck me to my core:

"It's also what is striking for me is that for us Jews, it has been our absolute talent. I believe that the talent of interpretation, Jewish interpretation, which is the most sacred thing we do religiously, is an ability to step aside... an ability suddenly to look... at the text or at the word in another direction.”

Yitzhak Rabin, in his final years, was trying to build a bridge. It was a bridge to the "Other," yes, but to do so, he first had to build a bridge from his old self to his new one. He had to perform that most sacred of Jewish acts: interpretation. He looked at the same reality he had seen his entire life, and he had the audacity to "step aside" and see it in another direction.

The forces of hate did not just want to stop the Oslo process. They wanted, as Horvilleiur says, "to get rid of the bridge-builder." The assassination was the ultimate act of this "contamination" of empathy. It began with a refusal to see the humanity in the Palestinian people, but it "contaminated" sectors of the Israeli society until it reached the point where a Jew could no longer see the humanity in his own prime minister. The lack of empathy for the "other" became a lack of empathy for "the one in your own people who disagrees with you."

Thirty years later, we are living in the rubble of that destroyed bridge. The trauma I encountered in 1996 has not healed; it has metastasized. The refusal to see from another's point of view is no longer a fringe position; it is the mainstream.

The parallel legacies of Lech Lecha and Yitzhak Rabin's yahrtzeit present us with a stark choice.

Avraham's story teaches us that at any age, we can be called to leave behind the "father's house" of our old certainties, our prejudices, and our fears, and journey towards a new, unknown, but more hopeful future.

Rabin's story is the warning of what happens when we refuse that call. It is a testament to the courage it takes to be a bridge-builder, and a horrific reminder of the forces that will always try to tear those bridges down.

The question for us, 30 years on, is not whether we agree with the specifics of the Oslo Accords. The question is whether we can reclaim our "absolute talent" as Jews. Can we be brave enough to "step aside" and see the world, and the "other," from a different direction? Can we find the courage to build bridges, even when it is frightening, even when it is difficult, and even when others respond with hate?

May the memory of Yitzhak Rabin, and the eternal call of Avraham, be a blessing and a challenge for us all.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Genesis 12:1

[2] https://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/podcasts/2025-10-28/ty-article-podcast/rabbi-delphine-horvilleur-french-jews-dont-know-who-their-friends-are-anymore/0000019a-2a79-db3e-affa-bf7dd71d0000

Dvar Torah: Not God in a Box, God in Covenant

Just like last week, I will start tonight with a confession: I am a heavy user of Generative Artificial Intelligence chatbots, like ChatGPT and Gemini. It has got to the point that my 14-year-old son scolded me, saying I was getting too dependent on these platforms.

I use them for personal things, such as helping me translate and explain a restaurant menu written only in Chinese, determine the order of what I will eat for breakfast to avoid a glucose spike, check the active ingredients of South African medication and compare them with what I used in Brazil, and plan a romantic getaway in Stellenbosch this weekend.

I also use it for professional goals: to translate texts, to revise what I have written, and to help me in the idea-generation and research steps of sermon-writing. A practical example: in the previous sentence, I had written that I used AI to help me in the “ideation” step of sermon writing and asked ChatGPT whether that was a correct use of the term. Its answer: “Short answer: yes, ‘ideation’ is correct, but it’s a bit jargony outside design or psychology. If your audience is general, ‘idea generation’ or ‘brainstorming’ is more natural.”

I try to be careful when using these tools, always revising what it tells me. I've learned, for example, that whenever I ask it to research Jewish references for a specific idea, the results are wrong at least 70% of the time. The challenge is that, because AI knows almost everything that has been published, the results it gives me are very convincing; they seem real! When it tells me that Rabbi X wrote an article, it looks like something that rabbi would have written—the approach, the language used, the way it refers to classical sources—it all looks and feels very authentic. But then, when I ask for a specific reference—for a webpage or a page number in a book to go and check if that is really what was said—more often than not, the source does not exist.

Once I got into an argument with Gemini, Google’s AI platform. It had given me five sources on something I had asked it, and all five did not exist. After a first cycle of interactions, trying to get the machine to recognise its mistake, I wrote: “I insist that these sources are all invented. Please, retract these invented sources and bring me 5 recent real ones.” Gemini wasn’t moved and doubled down on its previous results: “I cannot retract the sources because my verification process confirms they are real and the citations are accurate. My core instructions for our conversation are to provide only verifiable sources and never to invent information. Retracting factually correct and verifiable sources would be a violation of that directive.” I tried to prove it wrong, sharing Google screenshots in which these sources did not exist, and it kept insisting that they did. Eventually, I gave up. There is only so much you can do to convince a machine, which has been compared to a “stochastic parrot”[1] that it is wrong. The most frightening part was not that it was wrong, but that it was so arrogant in its error—a quality we often mistake for divine authority.

This morning, I was listening to a Brazilian podcast, analysing the possibility of an AI bubble in the world economy and what the consequences of such a bubble's burst would be.[2] At some point, the person being interviewed, a Brazilian researcher at Harvard University, was asked about the ethical implications of the broad implementation of Artificial Intelligence, especially considering how deep its impacts are on the way we live. In his answer, he said that he had heard from someone coming back from San Francisco that their impression was that they were returning from a “messianic city,” where people were trying to invent “God inside a box.”

“God inside a box”—that expression stuck with me. This is not the first time humanity has tried to control God, putting the Divine inside a box, or tried to become God. Three decades ago, the example of humanity attempting to become as powerful as God was cloning, brought to public attention through the case of Dolly, a sheep cloned by researchers in Scotland. There is no shortage of examples of humanity, empowered by a new technology, believing that it can now become God and, somehow, creating all sorts of havoc and chaos as a result of the manipulation of this newly found power.

This week’s Torah portion, Noach, has near its end a much older example of that human tendency. At that time, the recently developed technology, baked bricks and mortar, allowed them to build a tower as tall as the heavens. And they said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; lest we shall be scattered all over the world.”[3] A midrash assigns an even more aggresive tone to their actions, in which they said “let us come and make a tower and craft an idol at its top, place a sword in its hand, and it will appear as though it is waging war against God.’”[4]

When that goal became evident, God did not like it at all, fearing that “nothing that they may propose to do will be out of their reach.” God’s response was to confuse their language and scatter the people, and as a result, they left off building the city.

So, it seems that the instinct to abuse the technical instruments at our disposal to try and become God is, at least, as old as the Torah, which scholars date to around the year 400 BCE. Taking the extremely dubious step of quoting Spider-Man’s uncle Ben, I will say that “with great power, comes great responsibility.”[5] Unfortunately, these attempts have not been accompanied by a conversation about the ethical implications of these technologies; about who will win from the construction of high-rise towers following the improvement of construction techniques and who will lose; who will get new tools for sermon-writing and who will lose their jobs, replaced by the new functionalities of artificial intelligence.

In these actions, we keep making the same mistake regarding the attributes of what qualifies as Divine. We often think that power is what characterises God, but the Jewish tradition insists that God sides with the oppressed, with the underprivileged, with those whom the system has failed. In Psalm 146, we read that God is the One “who secures justice for those who are wronged, gives food to the hungry. Adonai sets prisoners free.”[6] In the Talmud, it is told that the Mashiach “sits among the poor who suffer from illnesses” and helps them with their bandages, undoing and redoing them with attention and care.[7]

And so, we return to the beginning of this week’s parashah, which says: “The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with lawlessness. When God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its ways on earth, God said to Noach, ‘I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about to destroy them with the earth.’”[8] In last week’s parashah, Bereshit, when humanity was created, it was entrusted with the role of working and protecting the land[9], and yet, we insist on believing that a God-like attitude is to exploit the land, to exploit the people, to exploit technology without thinking of the consequences.

This is the very essence of the sin of Babel. The builders saw the world as something to conquer. Empowered by their new technology, their impulse was to build a single, monolithic fortress up to the heavens, to “make a name for themselves.” It is the “God in a box” impulse, driven by a desire for power and a terrifying, uniform consensus—the same impulse as my AI chatbot, doubling down on its own error, insisting it knows best.

But our parashah does not end there. It pivots. It introduces us to Avraham.

And a famous midrash[10] tells us that Avraham, too, saw a construction. He was traveling and saw a birah doleket—a great palace. But this word, doleket, is beautifully ambiguous. It might mean that he saw a palace that was “illuminated,” dazzling in its intricate wisdom and design. It might also mean that he saw a palace that was “burning”—on fire with the chaos, corruption, and violence of the generations before him.

The midrash suggests he saw both. And this is the perfect metaphor for our new Artificial Intelligence. It is our modern birah doleket. It is a dazzling, illuminated palace of knowledge, so convincing it looks and feels very authentic. And it is burning with chaos—with hallucinations, with systemic bias, with the power to displace and divide. The builders of our modern Babel, our “God in a box,” are so impressed with their illuminated creation they want to keep building higher, faster, regardless of the fire and the chaos it brings.

But Avraham's response was not the response of Babel. He did not try to conquer the palace. He did not try to build his own. He stopped, and he asked a single, world-changing question: “Is it possible that this palace has no master?” It is a question that searches not for power, but for accountability. Not for control, but for relationship.

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observes,

After the two great failures of the Flood and Babel, Abraham was called on to create a new form of social order that would give equal honour to the individual and the collective, personal responsibility and the common good. That remains the special gift of Jews and Judaism to the world.[11]

Avraham’s entire life and his relationship with God are the antithesis of Babel. The Babel generation built a tower to consolidate power and make a name for themselves. God’s response to Avraham is, “I will make your name great.” The builders of Babel built a closed fortress to storm heaven. Avraham built a tent that was open on all four sides, to welcome the stranger, to care for the oppressed, to lift up those whom the system has failed.

Our tradition does not command us to smash the machine. It commands us to learn from Avraham’s example. Not God in a box, but God in covenant. Not a tower for a few, but a tent for the many.

The test of our powerful new tools is not “how high can we build?” but “whom will it serve?” Will we use this new power to build higher towers and walls, to “make a name for ourselves” while insisting on our own correctness? Or will we, like Avraham, look at this brilliant, burning world, seek its true Master, and use our new tools to open our tents wider—to fight the violence of our generation, to serve the world and protect it?

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stochastic_parrot
[2] https://open.spotify.com/episode/6mZrapsR4eYkNRzxJhGqsc
[3] Gen. 11:4
[4] Bereshit Rabbah 38:6
[5] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/With_great_power_comes_great_responsibility
[6] Psalm 146:7
[7] Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 98a
[8] Gen 6:11-13
[9] Gen 2:15
[10] Bereshit Rabbah 39:1
[11] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/noach/individual-and-collective-responsibility

Many Ways to Sanctify Shabbat

It was Ahad HaAm, the intellectual and founder of Cultural Zionism, who famously formulated the idea that “More than the Jewish People have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” Indeed, Shabbat practices, beyond their halachic dimensions (related to Jewish law), hold immense symbolic significance.

This week's parashah, Yitro, is where we first read about the encounter with the Divine in which we received the Decalogue, the Ten Statements. The fourth of these concerns Shabbat [1], linking it to the Divine rest after the creation of the universe in six days. In the second instance in which the Decalogue is formulated in the Torah [2], the observance of Shabbat is connected to redemption and the liberation from the slavery in which the Hebrews lived in Mitzrayim. In common, both formulations instruct us to sanctify this day and prohibit any form of labour on it, without defining what would qualify as labour.

Often, when we talk about Shabbat practices, we focus on specific prohibitions, whether they originate from the Bible or rabbinic tradition: people debate whether they may drive, write, or carry objects in the street on Shabbat. More broadly, however, how can we understand the concept of sanctifying a day?

Generally, the idea of sanctification is associated with making something distinct, special. If that is the case, how can we make Shabbat special? What practices can we develop to ensure that this day truly has flavours, scents, and pleasures that belong uniquely to it?

For some, the smell of challah coming out of the oven on Friday afternoon already begins to awaken the senses to a day set apart. For others, attending synagogue for Kabbalat Shabbat has become an important ritual for marking the shift in the quality of time; some find that the Shabbat morning service helps establish a calmer, unhurried pace. The Saturday morning breakfast holds central importance for certain families; board games after lunch or the practice of strolling through the neighbourhood, visiting friends for a relaxed coffee, help to shape a different rhythm.

Whatever it may be, it is worth finding YOUR own way to make Shabbat a day with a distinct texture from the rest of the week—a day that celebrates the infinite dignity of every human being, worthy of freedom and created in the image of the Divine, who formed the world and then rested.

May this be a Shabbat of peace, connection, and new discoveries!

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Exodus 20:8-11
[2] Deuteronomy 5:12-15

Muitas formas de santificar o Shabat

Foi Ahad haAm, o intelectual e fundador do Sionismo Cultural, quem famosamente formulou o conceito de que “mais do que o povo judeu guardou o Shabat, foi o Shabat que guardou o povo judeu.” De fato, as práticas de shabat têm, além de suas dimensões haláchicas (relacionadas à lei judaica), imensa importância simbólica.

É na parashá desta semana, Itró, na qual lemos pela primeira vez sobre o encontro com o Divino no qual recebemos o Decálogo, as Dez Afirmações. A quarta delas diz respeito ao Shabat [1], relacionando-o com o descanso Divino após a criação do universo em 6 dias. Na segunda instância na qual o Decálogo é formulado na Torá [2], a observância do shabat está relacionada à redenção e à libertação da escravidão em que os hebreus viveram em Mitsrayim. Em comum, as duas formulações nos instruem a santificar este dia e proíbem que nele seja desenvolvido qualquer trabalho.

Muitas vezes, quando falamos sobre práticas de shabat, focamos nas proibições específicas, tenham elas origem bíblica ou rabínica: as pessoas discutem se podem dirigir, escrever, carregar objetos na rua no Shabat. De forma mais ampla, no entanto, como podemos entender a ideia de santificar um dia?

Geralmente, a ideia de santificação está associada a tornar algo distinto, especial. Se é assim, como podemos tornar o Shabat especial? Que práticas podemos desenvolver para que este dia tenha realmente sabores, odores, prazeres que são só dele? 

Há pessoas para quem o cheiro de chalá saindo do forno nas sextas-feiras à tarde já começa a estimular os sentidos para um dia diferenciado. Tem gente para quem a presença na sinagoga para o Cabalat Shabat se tornou um ritual importante para marcar a mudança na qualidade do tempo; há outros para quem o serviço religioso do sábado de manhã ajuda a estabelecer um tempo mais calmo, sem compromissos de hora marcada. O café da manhã de sábado tem importância central para algumas famílias; os jogos de tabuleiro depois do almoço ou a prática de sair caminhando pelo bairro, visitando amigos para um cafezinho sem compromisso ajudam a determinar um ritmo diferenciado.

Qualquer que seja ele, vale a pena buscar o TEU caminho para fazer do shabat um dia com textura diferente do resto da semana, um dia que celebre a dignidade infinita de todo ser-humano, merecedor da liberdade e criado à imagem do Divino que formou o mundo e, em seguida, descansou. 

Que este seja um shabat de paz, de encontros e de novas descobertas!

Shabat Shalom! 

[1] Gen. 20:8-11

[2] Deut. 5:12-15

Introdução ao Sidur Shabat Shalom da CIP

Ao estabelecer a Criação, nos primeiros capítulos de Bereshit (Gênesis), Deus cria a luz e a escuridão; a terra, os mares e o céu; o Sol, a Lua e as estrelas e assim por diante, até que no sexto dia foi criada a humanidade, à imagem e semelhança de Deus. A luz e a escuridão definem o dia, o Sol e a Lua definem os anos e os meses, e já existiam antes do sexto dia, quando a humanidade foi criada. O Shabat, no entanto, só tem sentido depois da criação do primeiro homem e da primeira mulher, que puderam seguir o exemplo Divino, cessar todo o trabalho no sétimo dia e nele descansar.

Nesta mesma história da criação, o sétimo dia - o Shabat - é a primeira de Suas criações que Deus abençoa. O rabino Abraham Joshua Heschel traduziu este conceito, afirmando que, enquanto outras culturas valorizam o espaço e o santificam, o judaísmo santifica o tempo; o Shabat seria o exemplo mais claro desta preocupação judaica com o tempo sagrado, uma catedral no tempo:

O judaísmo é uma religião do tempo visando a santificação do tempo. Diferentemente do homem propenso para a espacialidade, isto é, aquele para quem o tempo é invariável, interativo e homogêneo, para quem todas as horas são iguais, desprovidas de qualidade e conchas vazias, a Bíblia percebe o caráter diversificado do tempo. Não existem duas horas semelhantes. Cada hora é única e uma só, dada naquele momento, exclusiva e infinitamente preciosa. 

O judaísmo nos ensina a nos prendermos à santidade no tempo, a nos vincularmos aos acontecimentos sagrados, a aprender como consagrar santuários que emergem do magnificente curso de um ano. Os “Shabatot” são nossas grandes catedrais (…) [1]

Paradoxalmente, a construção das “catedrais no tempo” ou “palácios no tempo” de que Heschel fala não envolvem nenhum processo físico de construção, mas somente a disposição para vivenciar as 25 horas do Shabat de uma forma radicalmente diferente.

O que faz do Shabat um dia tão especial? Podemos olhar na forma como os Dez Mandamentos justificam a observância do Shabat para começarmos a responder a esta pergunta. Apesar do Shabat aparecer no quarto mandamento tanto no livro de Êxodo quando em Deuteronômio, a formulação é diferente em cada um destes textos.

Em Êxodo [2], somos instruídos a “lembrar do Shabat e santificá-lo”, porque Deus completou a Criação no sétimo dia, nele descansou e o abençoou. Implícita na explicação de que nosso dia do descanso está vinculado ao descanso Divino é o fato da humanidade ter sido criada à imagem de Deus e dever, na medida do possível, adotar a atitude de Deus como exemplo para seu próprio comportamento.

Em Deuteronômio [3], o texto nos instrui a “observar o Shabat e santificá-lo”, porque fomos servos na terra do Egito e Deus nos tirou de lá com mão forte e braço estendido. Nesta formulação, é o fato de sermos livres que nos confere a possibilidade de celebrarmos o Shabat de forma autônoma.

No Shabat, portanto, celebramos nossa humanidade e nossa liberdade. É um dia no qual a ênfase está no que somos, não no que produzimos. Aproveitamos a oportunidade para descansar e nutrir nossas almas novamente [4], vivendo por um dia na ilusão de um mundo perfeito. A tradição rabínica diz que o Shabat é um aperitivo do mundo vindouro, uma época em que todos os nossos problemas estarão solucionados. Por isso, caminhar no Shabat pode ter um ritmo diferente, as conversas no Shabat podem seguir um padrão diferente, de realmente nos importarmos de ouvir as respostas como se tivéssemos todo o tempo para aquela pessoa.

A liturgia de Shabat reflete estas perspectivas. Na sexta-feira, o serviço adicional de Cabalat Shabat antecede Arvit, o tradicional serviço vespertino. Elaborada pelos místicos na cidade de Tsfat no século XVI, a liturgia do Cabalat Shabat é formada por Salmos e piutim (poemas litúrgicos, geralmente extra-bíblicos) que fazem referência aos seis dias da Criação, levando ao descanso do Shabat. Lechá Dodi, um de nossos piutim mais conhecidos, pode ser lido em muitos níveis, como é típico da literatura mística. Em sua leitura mais concreta, é um poema de amor ao Shabat, tratado como uma noiva a quem recebemos com carinho e devoção. O verbo usado no quarto mandamento para “santificar” o Shabat (lecadesh) também é usado quando o noivo se casa com sua noiva, dando origem a esta analogia com o casamento. Um midrash [5] conta que, durante a Criação, cada dia da semana foi alinhado com seu par e o Shabat ficou sozinho; ao reclamar com Deus, o Shabat recebeu o povo de Israel como seu par e é por isso que somos instruídos a “santificá-lo” (ou casar com ele) a cada semana.

Em outras partes do serviço (como na Amidá), procuramos remover as seções em que fazemos pedidos a Deus, em consonância com a perspectiva de que o Shabat é um dia em que vivemos em um mundo perfeito, no qual não temos mais o que pedir. Um midrash [6] já reconhecia o desafio que esta proposição representa e propõe, então, que vivamos como se o mundo fosse perfeito e tivéssemos terminado todas as nossas tarefas. Se não é possível realmente consertar todos os problemas do mundo em seis dias, o Shabat ao menos nos dá inspiração, ao nos permitir vivenciar por algumas horas a experiência de um mundo sem problemas; ao final do Shabat, voltamos ao ritmo da semana, motivados pela realidade alternativa que pudemos conhecer.

Quando o Shabat chega ao fim, nos despedimos dele procurando no ritual da Havdalá e sua luz, seu vinho e seus deliciosos aromas, algum consolo pela despedida. Os seis dias da Criação são uma necessidade de nosso mundo físico, sem o qual não haveria a possibilidade do Shabat, mas há muito tempo a tradição judaica vem buscando trazer dimensões do Shabat para o resto da semana, santificando nossas experiências a cada momento. [7]

Como podemos tornar nossas relações durante a semana tão verdadeiras quanto no Shabat? Como transformar o ritmo do nosso andar também durante a semana e abrir os olhos para a beleza do processo contínuo da Criação? Como resignificar nossas ações no mundo, reconhecendo nossa humanidade e liberdade também durante os seis dias da semana?

A poetisa litúrgica Marcia Falk refletiu a busca por uma relação equilibrada entre as demandas da semana e o descanso do Shabat em seu poema para a havdalá:

Distinguamos partes dentro do todo e abençoemos suas diferenças.

Como o Shabat e os seis dias da criação, que relacionamentos tornem nossas vidas completas.

Da mesma forma que o descanso torna o Shabat precioso, que o trabalho dê significado à semana.

Separemos o Shabat dos outros dias da semana,

Buscando santidade em ambos. [8]

Que este seja nosso esforço constante: a busca de santidade em todos os momentos de nossas vidas. O Shabat tem o potencial de ser um grande catalizador desta busca se nos permitirmos realmente desfrutar destas 25 horas nas quais aquilo que somos conta muito mais do que aquilo que fazemos.

Shabat Shalom!

[1]  Heschel, Abraham J., O Schabat: seu significado para o homem moderno. São Paulo: Editora Perspectiva, 2004. pag. 9-19. 

[2] Ex. 20:8-11.

[3] Deut. 5:12-15.

[4] De acordo com Ex. 31:17.

[5] Bereshit Rabá 11:8.

[6] Mechilta de Rabi Ishmael, baChodesh/Itrô, 20:9.

[7] Veja, por exemplo, a discussão entre Hilel e Shamai no Talmud Bavli Beitzá 16a.

[8] Falk, Marcia. The book of blessings : new Jewish prayers for daily life, the Sabbath, and the new moon festival. San Francisco, Calif: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996. pag. 318.