Blessed are you, Adonai our G*d, Who illuminates the whole world with His glory.

With these words we close our eyes and go into the dark. This is the end of the blessing Ha–Mapil, said after reciting the bedtime Shema.

How strange – that as our conscious life goes dark, we thank G*d for illumination! Ah, but this is the blessing before dreams, which show us our lives lit up from within.

Dreams are one–sixtieth of prophecy, says the Talmud. Yes! Dreams pull information from the future, messages from the soul, to help us fulfill the promises we made to G*d long ago.

Every night our souls go into the space of All–Potential, magnetizing the divine energies that yearn to embody in us. They appear as images which we weave into dreams. Dreams bring us healing, comfort, challenge, mystery, and angels to help us on our way.

As we come to the end of the potent month of Elul, we also go into the dark. The time before the New Moon gives us at least two days of darkness, until that sliver of light appears just after sunset on Rosh Hashanah. What may dreams bring on those days?

Let us open to our dreams, and humbly pray for light and inspiration for the year to come. May we fulfill our dreams and our prayers, for the good, that the whole world be illuminated with G*d’s glory.

Tamar Frankiel is Dean of Academic Affairs and Professor of Comparative Religion at the Academy for Jewish Religion California. www.ajrca.org

I seek light by seeking lightness.  So much of life can be freighted, fretted.  There is a discipline in finding the buoyancy in at least one moment every single day.  I’ve had to learn lightness–how to find meaning, levity, even exuberance–in noticing the simplest seconds. There’s work in that: discovering how the tiniest joys can lift and shimmer:

· A friend on a porch.
· My family of four reading together in the same room.
· Errands with my daughter.
· Central Park on a scooter with my son.
· Wine with my husband on a rare date.
· The entire Sunday Book Review.
· One line of Torah, debated with smart people.
· Yoga to Pandora.
· Rainy days when I’m on deadline.
· Sunny days when I’m not.
· A fast sled, though I look stupid screaming.
· A tennis game, though I talk myself into double–faults.
· My daughter ladling the 6 a.m. breakfast for the homeless at our synagogue.
· My son’s goodnights.
· My brother’s ribbing.
· Watching my parents with my children.
· Watching my children with my twin sister’s children.
· Warm cider donuts without guilt.

The list is treacly but true.  (Admit it: there’s truth in treacle.)  Perhaps it’s not revelatory to learn there’s sweetness in minutiae, but I do think the revelation is in the difficulty: of noticing the smallest pleasures, and discovering they’re enough.

Abigail Pogrebin is the author of Stars of David: Prominent Jews Talk About Being Jewish. www.abigailpogrebin.com 

It was early September. My husband and I went on a high–speed car chase around the valleys and mountains of the Grand Tetons to capture a glimpse of the setting sun.

With five minutes to spare before the spray of light turned dark, we found a spot nestled in a valley on the side of the road with no mountain crag to obscure our view. Simply the horizon, the setting sun, and majestic colors of miracle and awe.

As we watched the spectacle before us, I heard a sound that I had never heard before. I rolled down the car window and saw hundreds of black birds that had come to nest for the night in a small grove of trees. The birds were barely visible except for a dance that looked like the shadow of wings and leaves fluttering against the dusk.

Out of the far distance, as if from thin air, appeared a solitary bird racing at what seemed like the speed of light toward the grove to join the others. As she landed on the treetop, birds fluttered, rising and settling until they all made room for the new arrival and found their place.

As the trees, leaves, and birds became mere dark silhouettes against the blackened sky, the sound of them became somehow louder. And as the sky grew darker and darker, the music brought light to my soul.

Black birds disappearing in the trees at night sing an eternal song, echoing a truth, a melody that is easily forgotten. Even in the darkness there is music. It is what makes us holy and good, moral and compassionate, fully alive, aware, kind.

That music is the sound of our humanity brushing up against our divinity.

Teach us, dear God, how to listen.

Karyn Kedar is a prolific writer and the rabbi of Congregation BJBE in Deerfield, Illinois. www.karynkedar.com

I lost my vision gradually throughout my childhood. In 1968, when I went to college, I was totally blind. The years since have been blessed with great people, with myriad challenges, and with remarkable opportunities. During these years, I have also been blessed with a story from the Bible, to which I have turned many times to remind me that seeing–true seeing, spiritual seeing, the seeing that matters–is seeing beyond.

In the final chapter of Deuteronomy, we are on Mount Nebo. Moses is about to die. God shows Moses what he would not be able to see with his physical eyes–the entire Promised Land. Rabbinic midrash on these verses is disappointing, emphasizing how Moses, unable to accept that he is barred from entering the Promised Land, desperately, persistently, creatively pleads for his life. This midrashic tradition paints Moses as dying, bitter, unsatisfied with his portion, begging for more.

These midrashim miss the point, that God grants Moses on his death a great gift, perhaps the greatest of all gifts for Moses or any of us, the gift of spiritual vision. What God shows Moses on his death is what all of Moses’ long life of struggle and suffering is for. The power and meaning of this text is the power and meaning of the Bible. What we see when we see beyond what our physical eyes can see is that what we do matters. What we see then is that how we choose to live life makes all the difference, and that it is up to us to act in such a way that our actions lift and carry future generations toward their Promised Lands. So my prayer for all of us during this inward–looking month of Elul, regardless of how we pass or fail our eye exam this year, is that God grant each of us the gift of spiritual vision–that sees beyond our times, that sees beyond our selves, that sees beyond.

Dennis Shulman is a rabbi and clinical psychologist/psychoanalyst in New Jersey. His most recent book is The Genius of Genesis. www.DennisShulman.com

I am often asked, “What makes a great entrepreneur?”  My answer describes someone with an explosive combination of ideas, vision, drive, persistence, and something nearly impossible to describe—a spark, a light.  Our world advances because of human beings who are willing to take risks in pursuit of their ideas and their vision, who possess the “light” that allows them to turn their vision into our reality.  I do not think it is a coincidence that, of all the inventions of mankind, the light bulb is the symbol we equate to ideas and innovation.

“The spark of an idea,” “the brightest mind,” “glowing with excitement,” and more—light symbolizes progress, light represents passion, and light shines upon those who are willing to lead the way.

But to find the light of innovation, of entrepreneurship, you must be prepared for all levels of luminescence.  Webster’s Dictionary defines an entrepreneur as someone who “assumes risk,” and with risk often comes failure.  Those who pursue their ideas must understand that failure might be the outcome.  The light becomes dim, people doubt you, and you doubt yourself.  But, like the eternal light of Judaism, humankind has a light that does not go out, even if no one else sees it.  “Overnight successes” are generally decades in the making, and it is the eternal light of belief in oneself that keeps the passion alive through years of solitary effort.  It is seeing light in others, and exploring the light in myself, that makes me an entrepreneur and gives me such happiness in challenging the status quo, asking the question, “What if…?”  We all have this light within us.  It is our calling to let our unique light shine, stoke the flames of our ideas, and persist in the glow so that we can each make our worlds, and the world, a better place.

Bradley Keywell is a co–founder of Lightbank, Groupon, Echo Global Logistics, MediaBank, and many other ventures. www.bradkeywell.com

Though we might believe that we always want to seek the light, the truth is that sometimes we need a break. I learned this while visiting Iceland in June, when the sun barely sets for three hours a day. While it was great having a longer day—we enjoyed broad daylight at the beach at 11 p.m.–it was not always ideal. The sun was so bright at 3 a.m. that we needed to wear eyeshades at night to get any sleep.

On the other hand, when winter arrives in Iceland, the people live in darkness for all but a few hours during the day. While this might be very depressing, darkness holds its own beauty. At the darkest time of year, you can see the magnificent Northern Lights paint a rainbow of color across the night sky. The Northern Lights are invisible during the summer months.

Day and night, darkness and light are both equally important parts of the cycle of our lives. Without light, we might curl up in despair. Without darkness, our bodies would not have respite to replenish themselves.

I seek God in darkness as well as in light. When times are dark, I pray that God is at my side, guiding my steps, holding me close, assuring me that, as day follows night, this darkness will come to an end. When times are bright, I remember to be grateful and to bring compassion to those whose lives are lived in shadow.

I think Cole Porter said it best: Night and day, you are the One.

Barbara Rosman Penzner is a rabbi serving Reconstructionist Temple Hillel B’nai Torah in Boston, day and night. www.templehbt.org

It was dawn. My mother and I watched silently as the sun rose on a new day, the seventh day of my brother’s Shiva. My brother, Nadav Elad, had been an IDF soldier in one of the elite units of the paratroopers.

We should have hated the sun, lighting up a world that seemed so broken to us now. Yet my mother gently laid her eyes on the view unfolding through the light, and with deep gratitude gave thanks for its existence. Light, she said, had witnessed Nadav’s presence in this world, as we have. And so now we are partners, holding his memory together and testifying that he had lived under the sun.

“Through which part can a person see? From within the black of the eye” taught our ancestors. The art of light is our ability to see through darkness. Eye, Ayin in Hebrew, is where we meet Oni, the poverty of this world. But it is also where we meet Aniah, the answers to it. Through darkness we see the edge of light, through brokenness the edge of vision. We pray for us and for our human community as a whole that our eyes penetrate reality and beyond it see a new horizon.

It was dawn. Hugging, my mother and I thanked God for the light He brought upon us, now lighting the pathways where Nadav had lived. That day, God’s words “Let there be light” that had illuminated a universe, traversed the darkness and illuminated us, creating a new world within us, a reason to live, to love. The sun came out upon our heads as we joined our voice to the eternal One forever whispering through all the alleys of existence. We whispered for my brother’s soul, for every human soul: Let there be light.

Rabbi Tamar Elad–Appelbaum is Associate Dean of the Schechter Rabbinic Seminary in Jerusalem. www.schechter.edu

“God is the Light of the Heavens and the Earth.” Qur’an 24:35

This verse of the Holy Book of Muslims has been elucidated upon by Muslim scholars for generations. My explanation is decidedly more pedestrian. I write in the month of Ramadan, withholding myself from food, drink, gossip and speaking negatively of others. My tongue is practicing peace in this most blessed of months. These days even as a professor teaching at a theological school, no discussions resonate more with me than my conversations with my five–year–old.

As women we hold the hearts of our young ones dear to us, but often the raising of our children as spiritual beings is not honored or recognized. So back to my five–year–old. I explain God as Light to him. For God is unseen yet everywhere at once. He asks me, “How do we know God, Mama?” I tell him that this Light we seek is found by exercising the muscles of our heart to do good for others.

This weekend we went to fill bags for hungry people lining up at a mosque food pantry. I told my son, look deep in the eyes of the person you are handing the food to. When you see their face light up, your moment of connection to that person is where God is bringing your hearts together, even in the most brief moments. My baby tells me, “Mama when I help others, I feel good.” So I teach him to live life in service of others so that God becomes a constant companion here on Earth.

Najeeba Syeed–Miller, J.D. is Professor of Interreligious Education at Claremont School of Theology. www.twitter.com/najeebasyeed

Where can we who walk in darkness find brighter light?  I suggest we look no further than to the preacher/poet, John Newton.  He was a former slave trader who saw the light.  Today he is best known as the composer of the hymn, Amazing Grace!

Again and again in the Bible, we read the invocation, “Let me find grace in thy sight, O Lord.”  Find grace?  Perhaps most of us wait for grace to find us. And often it does.  When grace finds us, we come to see God’s sight is not the problem, but our insight:  I was blind but now I see. But far better that we heed the words of the Bible and not wait for grace to find us.  Far better to find grace, to seek the light.

During the years of my active ministry, the choir would mesmerize worship with an original choral masterpiece, “If it wasn’t for the grace of God.”  I was not alone in being unable to resist the tears and to join the cheers in praise of the God of our weary years.  Nor was William Wilberforce who in 1811, deeply influenced by John Newton, succeeded in getting the English Parliament to ban the slave trade.  The choir is preaching of the disgrace of not accepting God’s grace.

‘Twas grace that drove Newton to tell his story, the unfolding saga of how suffering drove him to his Savior, how thirst drove him to living waters, how he found grace and sought the light.

All of us light–seekers join hands and hearts with John Newton in saying–

I am not what I ought to be. I am not what I wish to be.
But thanks to the grace of God, I am not what I used to be.

Rev. Cecil L. “Chip” Murray, is the John R. Tansey Chair in Christian Ethics and Professor of Religion at the University of Southern California. crcc.usc.edu

In June of 2011 members of Jewish Social Justice Round Table
shared their ideas on the Art of Seeking Light:

Sometimes elusive, always there to be discovered. Stick with the task, elevate the vision.
         Ruth Messinger, President, American Jewish World Service

Balance the ideal with the possible, dream big, breathe, pause and continue the climb.
         Elissa Barrett, Jewish Funds for Justice/Progressive Jewish Alliance

Sometimes the light we yearn to see is not visible in the face of so much artificial light.  You can see it if you look with your soul.  You can see it if you open your heart.

         Shifra Bronznick, Founding President, Advancing Women Professionals

Once you realize that darkness is only the negative space between lights, it’s easier.
         Sammie Moshenberg, National Council of Jewish Women

Feeding hungry people, health care for all, education for those in need is a doorway to the light.  Without the doorway there will only be darkness.
         Steve Gutow, President and CEO, Jewish Council on Public Affairs

The most important thing about light, about wisdom,  is that we can find it wherever we seek it—including, perhaps especially, within ourselves.
         Mark Pelavin, Director of the Commission on Social Action of Reform Judaism

By your light we see light.
         Rabbi Jennie Rosenn, Program Director, Nathan Cummings Foundation

Reflecting on our ancient text and our historic work, Jews must work in alliance with communities of color to address issues of economic justice and racial equality.
         Vic Rosenthal, Executive Director, Jewish Community Action Minneapolis

When I think of light, I think of illumination and the compelling ways my life has been illuminated by seeking knowledge, justice, kindness, compassion and warmth.
         Abby J. Leibman, President and CEO, Mazon

As we emerge, our strengths are revealed in the sunlight.  We are not the victims—we are the survivors.  We are not the rescued—we are the rescuers.
         Naama Haviv, Assistant Director, Jewish World Watch

Look within, look outside, and reflect the sparks of light you find shining.
         Josh Protas, Vice President, Jewish Council on Public Affairs

Be humble, listen, and learn, then actively pursue justice for all humankind.
         Nancy K. Kaufman, CEO, National Council of Jewish Women

May a new light shine upon Zion and may we be worthy to have it shine on us all very soon. – Siddur
         Rabbi David Rosenn, CEO, New Israel Fund

On the day they were created, Adam and Eve sinned and were expelled from the Garden. As the sun set and the world grew darker they said, “Because of our sin, the world is ending.”

They stayed up all night, praying to God. When the sun rose at dawn, relieved they said, “There is a path that the sun always follows. It goes down in the West and comes up again in the East. Perhaps it will do this every day for as long as we live.”

Adam offered a sacrifice to God in gratitude for the gift of the light.  Before he died, he gave instructions to his son Seth to give thanks to God every day for the gift of sunlight. When Seth died, he gave the same instructions to his children, and they did to theirs. That is why we recite a blessing thanking God for the gift of sunlight in our morning prayers.

A second story…

When God finished creating the world, he had to find a place to hide the Primordial Light that is meant for the righteous. God knew that there was one place humans would never look. He decided to hide it inside every single human being.

Two stories: one about the light that appeared at the beginning of the world, and one about the light that is reserved for the righteous to enjoy at the very end of the world.

Let us appreciate the light in our lives and thank God for it every day, especially at the beginning of every year, for that is when the sun and the moon finish their yearly cycles and start all over again.

And when we do, too.

Rabbi Jack Riemer is the founding chair of the National Rabbinic Network, and among his colleagues, he is known as the “rabbi’s rabbi.”

When I was a teenager, I read every book I could find on meditation. Almost all of the books talked about enlightenment, which fascinated me. I thought it meant that if I meditated enough, something would suddenly change. I would see things differently, bend spoons, maybe even glow.

As my meditation practice grew and deepened, I found myself uninterested in Judaism and fell in love with Buddhism. Still inspired by the idea of enlightenment, my understanding of it matured and changed to include more kindness and compassion and less about telekinesis.

While spending a summer in India, I took daily Buddhist philosophy classes. Along with everyone else in the class, I always bowed and prostrated to the ground when the teacher walked into the room. One day, after weeks of classes, we were about to begin, and the teacher entered. I stood, and as everyone around me began to bow and prostrate, I froze. It felt like a light went on inside my heart, like my Jewish soul, aching for connection, was not comfortable bowing in that context.

That was the beginning of my journey to connect my meditation practice to my Judaism and when I began to seek out teachers and teachings of Jewish meditation. My search for enlightenment brought me to a Jewish meditation practice that I now see as a path of cultivating tikkun olam (repairing the world) from the inside out, which feels pretty enlightened to me.

Alison Laichter is a teacher, urban planner, Brooklynite, and the Executive Director of the Jewish Meditation Center. www.jmcbrooklyn.org

Light, ultimately, is an expression of oneness. Life, ultimately, is about yearning toward that oneness.

There is an incredible story about a rabbi named Meir who lived 1,900 years ago. Rabbi Meir was a scribe. He meticulously wrote out the precious words of the Torah. Each letter was written with ultimate care. No mistakes were tolerated. But Rabbi Meir’s Torah didn’t look like everyone else’s. Right after Adam and Eve sinned and God cursed them, the Torah tells us: “God made coats of skin for Adam and for his wife…(Gen 3:21).”

Rabbi Meir’s Torah read: “God made coats of light for Adam and his wife…” (Genesis Rabbah 20:12). How could this be?

In Hebrew the word for skin “’or” sounds a lot like the word for light “or”. In fact, only one letter separates them – an ayin for an aleph. But that one letter makes all the difference. And that one letter is what Rabbi Meir switched in his Torah. This wasn’t just a random error, but a statement about the essence of life. In Hebrew, each letter has a numerical value. Ayin, the first letter of “skin,” is 70. Aleph, the first letter of “light,” is 1. Rabbi Meir switched from many to one. For the rabbis, 70 is the ultimate symbol of dis-unity. The world is filled with 70 nations. People speak 70 languages. But the real goal is to unify—to return to the light, to the one.

Rabbi Meir’s name literally means “shows light.” In his Torah, he did exactly that, reminding us that dis-unity is only skin deep. The opportunity to renew, to respond to curses with light, to yearn toward a world of one, is the real blessing of human life.

Rabbi Elie Kaunfer is executive director of Mechon Hadar and author of Empowered Judaism: What Independent Minyanim Can Teach Us about Building Vibrant Jewish Communities. www.mechonhadar.org.

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

~ Leonard Cohen

Once again Moses is wearing himself out carrying the burden of the Jewish people on his shoulders.  God intervenes by taking some of the spirit that is in Moses and sharing it with others.   How can this happen without diminishing Moses?  Commenting on Numbers 11:17, Rashi says, “He was like a light that is placed in a candlestick from which everybody lights his lamps, and yet its illuminating power is not diminished.”

I love to seek the light of holiness by studying sacred texts or by sitting in contemplative practice, but the most powerful way to be bathed in light is by serving others.

Giving our light to others might start close to home by helping our neighbors who are struggling mightily during these tough economic times.  Our service might move us far from home as well—to spend our vacation helping out in south Tel Aviv slums or treating patients in one of Haiti’s tent cities.

Against a secular culture that places each individual at the center of the universe, we can choose to be part of something larger than just ourselves.  Taking responsibility for others lifts us out of the indulgence and narrowness of self, connecting us to a world of meaning and light.  Rebuilding broken lives in the developing world is surely a part of our sacred calling, as is caring for our Jewish elders in Brighton Beach.

In these days of Elul and beyond, we don’t have to go far seeking some extra light; all we have to do is give others some of ours.

Rick Jacobs is the rabbi of Westchester Reform Temple in Scarsdale, New York and the President-Elect of the Union for Reform Judaism. www.urj.org

When my daughter was just shy of her first birthday, we joined a toddler class.  Every week, a dozen or so parents and the instructor would quietly observe the children, in an effort to raise “authentic” and “competent” human beings, with a minimum of intervention.

One afternoon, a little boy toppled off a slide and began to cry.  His startled father hugged the child and said in a comforting tone, “You’re all right.”  A moment passed.  Then the instructor said, “Children don’t cry when they’re all right.”   It seemed harsh at the time.  But I soon realized that it wasn’t empathy that was being discouraged; it was telling even a small child what he was supposed to feel.

Each week, the instructor would prepare a snack area on the floor.  If a child wanted bananas and juice, he or she had to put aside the toys, sit down, and put on a bib.  It was totally optional.  But there were requirements.  And it was astonishing to watch as these tiny children made their choices.  Some went in for the snack in the first or second week.  Others took longer.  All of them got there eventually.

I’ll never forget how I felt the first time my daughter had the snack. Crazy as it sounds, I was really moved by her little act of independence and the obvious satisfaction it gave her.   Now, as my children near adolescence, I try to remember that I can guide them, but I can’t tell them what to think or feel.  I can try to teach them to make good choices, but ultimately, they must be trusted to choose.  And if they know what they want – if they can learn to recognize that special light inside themselves—and if they are brave enough to follow it—they will be satisfied.

And that will be enough for me.

Dee Dee Myers has the distinction of being the first woman to serve as the White House Press Secretary. She is currently a Managing Director at The Glover Park Group, a Washington D.C. based public affairs firm. www.gloverparkgroup.com