Friday, August 5, 2022

Devarim (Shabbat Chazon): Doom and Gloom… and Celebration Too

This Shabbat, we are starting the fifth Book of Moses, called “Devarim” or “Deuteronomy.” In addition, it is the Shabbat before Tisha b’Av, which is a day of mourning and commemoration on the Jewish calendar. And the Shabbat immediately preceding Tisha b’Av is always called “Shabbat Chazon,” meaning the “Shabbat of Vision.” The vision that we’re talking about, however, is unfortunately not an uplifting or joyous one, but rather the first prophecy expressed by Isaiah, filled with words of rebuke and predictions of doom. It isn’t easy to sit with these emotions of grief and sadness, but I think it’s really quite necessary. Tisha b’Av primarily recalls the destructions of both Temples in Jerusalem (in 587 BCE and 70 CE), along with many other calamities that have befallen our ancestors over the course of millennia. Is it fun to talk about death and destruction, or to have to listen to Isaiah’s words of anger and frustration? No, but think about what it can yield for us all on the other end.

It’s important to think of Tisha b’Av in the context of what we might call “normal” grief, i.e. when a loved one dies and we’re mourning a personal loss. If we don’t acknowledge our sadness and allow ourselves to cry, we can’t process what has happened, and it is very difficult to move on and begin to heal. For both our national grief and our personal grief, the goal is not to “get over” our mourning and forget about our loss, but rather to incorporate it into our lives in a healthier way. Tisha b’Av clearly isn’t joyful and celebratory, but perhaps by allowing ourselves to be fully present to what our ancestors endured, we can appreciate our festivities more completely. After all, if those calamities had been worse, we wouldn’t still be here to talk about them, so the very fact of our being able to remember and retell our history is a major cause for celebration!

I would also add that not every occasion needs to be about merriment and feasting. Tisha b’Av is always one of the most spiritual and impactful services for me personally, despite its unpleasant theme. We sit in a dimly lit sanctuary late in the evening (on Saturday night at 8pm), we chant the beautiful Book of Lamentations, and we reflect and introspect. I certainly enjoy many of our other holidays as well, but there is something ancient and powerful about Tisha b’Av that just doesn’t come out for me in many other days on our calendar. I know Saturday night isn’t the most convenient time, and maybe I haven’t sold it very well for you, but I nevertheless encourage you to come and experience it for yourselves. It’s really unlike any other observance we have.

Whether you’re able to attend or not, I also invite you to think about the importance of embracing the wide spectrum of our emotions. Some feel easier to sit with and enjoy, while others can feel painful or uncomfortable. I get it. But that’s also what it means to be a human being, isn’t it? I certainly know it’s a vital part of what it means to be a Jew. In fact, I would argue that our healthy, repeated, persistent engagement with ALL aspects of our history is one of the great powers of the Jewish People, and a major reason why you and I are still here, able to talk about it all! On Shabbat Chazon, we may be chanting a literal doom-and-gloom prophetic vision. And even though Isaiah’s prophecies did come true for the people living at that time, it is also true that we are still here. The Jewish People are still here and able to observe all the sacred occasions on our calendar, and experience all the emotions that come with them. So yes, we will be chanting a pretty sad text. But our very ability to chant that text is itself a cause for celebration. 



Friday, July 8, 2022

Chukat: I See Your Calf and Raise You a Snake

Even if you're not that familiar with the Torah or all the stories contained within it, you probably know a few central ideas. You might have heard of Adam & Eve, Noah, Abraham, slavery in Egypt, the Ten Commandments, and a handful of other key points. One such concept that I think is pretty well-known is that you're not supposed to make graven images. No idols, no statues for worshipping, no house gods of any shape or size, and just no bowing down to, or praying to, anyone or anything but God. And the most infamous example of what not to do has got to be the Golden Calf, which the Israelites built in the desert and venerated as if it were a god. And clearly, based on that story, we all learned that no such images or statues can be used in ANY way. Right?? Well... yes and no. This week, our Torah reading offers us a surprising and bewildering example of a permitted statue, and - just like so many other stories in the Bible - it leaves us with more questions than answers. As it should be.

It starts the same way too many other stories from this time period already have, namely with the people rebelling against Moses, Aaron, and especially God. The people bark at their leaders: "Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in this wilderness?!? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food [the manna]!" (Numbers 21:5) By this point, God is getting pretty darn fed up with these ingrates, and God sends against the people a plague of poisonous, deadly snakes! When the people inevitably repent and cry out for help, God instructs Moses to do something most surprising: "Make a seraph [winged snake] figure and mount it on a standard. And if anyone who is bitten looks at it, he shall recover." (v. 8) So I guess part of the message we're meant to take from this is, calves are bad and snakes are good? Now, we should acknowledge that God directing Moses to do something is quite a bit different than the people just erecting a statue on their own. Nor does anyone ever call out to the flying-snake-thingy: "This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt" as they did for the Golden Calf in Exodus, 32:4. Nevertheless, I think the use of an animal statue is understandably confusing... 

I also feel it necessary to point out that our fears regarding the serpent-statue are not unfounded. Centuries after the Exodus, we find an intriguing reference back to this mystical healing device in the Second Book of Kings, during the religious reformations under King Hezekiah: "He [Hezekiah] abolished the shrines and smashed the pillars and cut down the sacred post. He also broke into pieces the bronze serpent that Moses had made, for until that time the Israelites had been offering sacrifices to it; it was called Nechushtan." (II Kings, 18:4) Despite God's best intentions, some people simply couldn't resist the urge to offer sacrifices TO the snake-statue as a graven image. The commentaries speculate wildly about what's going on here. One perspective suggests God used a snake to remind the Israelites of the conniving serpent that misled Adam & Eve back in the Garden of Eden. That snake was punished for his incendiary words; and the Israelites were similarly punished for their own inflammatory attacks on God and Moses. Another commentary posits that the serpent is a poignant symbol of how dangerous the desert can be, and might help remind the Israelites that the only reason they've been surviving for 40 years is because of God's favor.

To me, an important lesson that comes from this story is intentionality. The same act can be either a destructive transgression or a source of healing. Similarly, when we express a sentiment to another person, our decision to infuse our comment with kindness versus passive-aggression versus outright hostility can change everything about how it's received. Even the energy with which we express ourselves can vastly alter our words, regardless of whether we do so intentionally or not. Perhaps the text is suggesting that have to be mindful of ourselves and how we are perceived by others all the time. We cannot hide behind saying a certain act or a particular phrase "always" means one thing and not another, it's much more complex than that. Our body language, our energy, our facial expressions, our intentions, and our tone of voice; all of them contribute to how we are perceived and how our sentiments are understood. At times, the text can seem inconsistent, as if it's prioritizing one act over a seemingly identical one elsewhere, possibly for arbitrary reasons. But those moments invite us to look closer, read more sensitively, and pay more attention to nuance, contrast, and intention. When we do that, we can learn so much more from the text, and even learn more about our own behaviors as well.


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Wellcome Images on Wikimedia Commons
2. 7ustalvin on Wikimedia Commons
3. Jubjang on Rawpixel
4. Sheila Brown on PublicDomainPictures


Friday, July 1, 2022

Korach (repost from 2011): The Challenge of Feedback Continues

One of the hardest gifts to receive is critique. We talked about this a few weeks ago, when I wrote that Tochecha, rebuke, is a present that we give one another, that can help us learn, grow, and improve. But unfortunately, it's never as easy as that. Feedback gets taken the wrong way, someone feels offended, and relationships end in the blink of an eye. And so rather than dealing with the perilous realm of critique, we keep our mouths shut.

That was my blog post from a few weeks ago. This week, I would like to explore the other side of the same issue; the person refusing to accept the feedback. What if we're not the person trying to make a "friendly" observation; what if we're the one being observed? We need to ask ourselves: Am I willing to be open to comments, even if they're painful and might require serious introspection and maybe even change? In our current Torah portion, we see that even Moses - one of our greatest leaders - struggles with this very question.

At the start of the parasha, we are told that a relative of Moses, Korach, "betook himself... to rise up against Moses"(Num. 16:1-2). Together with his band of rebels, Korach declares, "You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord's congregation?" (16:3) The attack is directed squarely at Moses, and his role as the leader of the Israelites. Yet in Moses' response to the attack, he amazingly redirects the criticism, stating: "Truly it is against the Lord that you and all your company have banded together. For who is Aaron that you should rail against him?" (16:11) Aaron? Why does Moses claim the attack is against Aaron? Or against God? Could it really be that Moses thinks Korach is angry at both God and Aaron, yet not angry at him??? I am amazed at how Moses deflects the issue and paints himself as a mediator on the sideline.

But don't we ourselves act the same way? When someone tries to criticize us, we too find reasons why it isn't really applicable. The person was rude or crazy; the comment was unwarranted or unfair; we tell ourselves that other people do the same thing, so why was I being singled out for criticism??? We'll jump through endless hoops to avoid having to confront the possibility that we aren't perfect. How differently might this Biblical feud have ended if Moses had sat down with Korach and tried to understand his issues? Feedback, critique, even criticism; they all open the door for new opportunities. They give us a chance to grow and become better people.

The rabbis of the Talmud ask and answer an important question: "Who is wise? One who learns from all people" (Pirkei Avot, 4:1). Note that it says, "from all people." It's easy to learn from teachers, scholars, even an occasional rabbi. It's harder to learn from someone who is offering rebuke; though perhaps there is all the more to learn from that person. If/when you are feeling attacked, try to take a step back and not lash out right away. And don't deflect their observations. Be curious about your own emotions, allow yourself time to reflect on what they are saying, and try to seize the precious opportunity to learn something. You may be surprised at what you discover, and you may even wind up thanking them... well, maybe eventually.


Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image courtesy of erika g. on Flickr
2. CC image courtesy of paradiseranche on Flickr
3. CC image courtesy of barry.pousman on Flickr
4. CC image courtesy of Kissimmee - The Heart of Florida on Flickr
5. CC image courtesy of Lazurite on Flickr

Thursday, June 23, 2022

Sh’lach Lecha: Who Puts the "Ger" in Stranger?

One wonderful and infinitely complex aspect of the Torah text - in general - revolves around the issue of interpretation. It’s so hard to say “the Torah says…” because every time you translate something, you have to choose between synonyms to decide the nuance, tone, and intention of what you think the original text says. This week, we find a critical example of this ambiguity in one pivotal word that affected our ancient ancestors and still (maybe more so) affects us today. It caught my eye, because the Torah restates this commandment in back-to-back verses. Ok, so let’s “ger” right into it, shall we? 

In Numbers, chapter 15, verses 15-16, we read: 

“15: There shall be one law for you and for the resident stranger; it shall be a law for all time throughout the ages. You and the stranger shall be alike before Adonai. 16: the same ritual and the same rule shall apply to you and to the stranger who resides among you.”

Perhaps surprisingly, the ambiguous word in those verses - and indeed throughout the Torah - is “stranger.” The word in Hebrew is “Ger,” and a big question that we need to clarify is, who is the stranger? Is it just someone who is unfamiliar to you personally? Or someone who resides with you temporarily, but not permanently? Is this someone who was not born Jewish but who converted? Or a non-Jewish individual who has no intention of converting, but who nevertheless lives with you? What complicates the matter is that it’s used in all of the above ways throughout the Torah. In Genesis, Abraham refers to himself as a Ger, meaning he’s an outsider with no claims to land and no status among the Hittites where he lives (but he certainly hasn't converted to their religion, nor does he have any plans to). In Exodus, the Jewish People are repeatedly reminded by God that we were “strangers (Gerim) in the land of Egypt.” But again, the Israelites weren't converts TO Egyptian culture, but merely status-less outsiders. Yet when the text later talks about Gerim living among us - like in our parashah - most commentators translate this as “convert” or “proselyte.” And the implications are significant.

Why does this matter? Well, when the Torah commands us to take care of the poor, the orphan, the widow... and "the stranger" in our midst, is it talking only about converts (and thus perhaps only concerned with taking care of fellow Jews), or about all people, including non-Jews? Most classic rabbinic commentaries defer to the convert-translation. One of the most famous of these was Rambam (or Maimonides) who wrote a thousand years ago: "All [occurrences of the term] 'Ger' which are said regarding gifts to the poor are nothing other than a 'Ger Tzedek' (i.e. a convert)." Personally, I am dismayed by this assertion, because I read our texts as absolutely commanding us to be kind and considerate to *all* people, regardless of religion, race, ethnicity, or any other defining characteristic. How unfortunate that, when our texts already have multiple instances of commandments directing us to take care of fellow Jews, and here we have an opportunity to expand the circle and extend God's Love more broadly, so many authorities choose instead to read it as yet another example of taking care of our own.

Even if we were to agree to read Ger as convert, I'm still bothered by it. We so often state that once someone has converted they are Jewish, plain and simple. No second-guessing, no questioning, no exclusions. So why would this text be talking about fellow Jews as "strangers" and "outsiders," just because at one point they converted into the religion?? Today, in our diverse and multicultural world, I firmly believe we need to emphasize inclusion. We can absolutely still acknowledge the differences between being Jewish and not, and I don't mind saying there are certain mitzvot and rituals that are exclusively performed by Jews during a Jewish prayer service. But we cannot, and should not, wall ourselves off from our neighbors all around us, no matter how different from us they may be. Clearly, not all authorities read it this way, but there is no doubt in my mind as to what the Torah (and God) meant here. And the commandment to treat all people the same was not only true in the time of the Torah, but is just as much true today in our modern world. If not more so.



Friday, June 10, 2022

Naso (repost): Feeling the Loss of God's Face




This is a repost of something I wrote in 2012, and I dedicated it then in memory of Henry Dickson, who was a member of the congregation and a good friend. It's hard to believe it's been ten years since he passed. I wanted to make sure to mention the tribute, because Henry is mentioned in the post itself. May his memory always be remembered for a blessing.

Our Torah portion this week is Naso, the second parasha in the Book of Numbers. One of the most famous sections in Naso is the Priestly Benediction, which still to this day is used by many parents to bless their children at the Friday night dinner table, and is also included in many lifecycle events. The Etz Hayim Chumash translates the Priestly Benediction as follows: "Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: 'The Lord bless you and protect you! The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!'" (Numbers 6:23-26) Now, Henry would have looked at that translation and said, "Is that REALLY what the Hebrew text says?" And of course my answer would be, "No." The Etz Hayim translators would probably argue that they're giving you the figurative meaning of the text, but personally, I like the literal meaning. And Henry was one of many people who, like me, wanted to know what the words were literally saying, and then he could make up his own mind about the interpretive meaning. So let's delve, shall we?

I'm ok with the first line, it is indeed talking about God blessing and protecting us. So far, so good. But the second and third lines have a fascinating wording that provokes a very different theological understanding: "May God shine God's Face upon you and be gracious to you! May God turn God's Face toward you and grant you peace!" Are we uncomfortable with the notion of God having a face? Is that why we gloss over this with a figurative translation? Let's instead sit with the challenge of this wording for a minute. What does it mean to see/experience/feel/know God's Face? And even if you don't believe in an anthropomorphic God (a tangible, human-like Divine figure), isn't there something we can learn from the concept of God turning towards us, rather than just asking God to show us favor?

One idea that jumped out at me comes from the Book of Genesis. After not having seen his brother, Esau, for nearly 20 years, Jacob is reunited with his sibling once again. As he tries to offer his brother a caravan filled with gifts, he
exclaims, "Accept from me this gift; for to see your face is like seeing the Face of God, and you have received me favorably" (Gen. 33:6). To me, what Jacob is saying is that good fortune in life, special joyous occasions, and moments of thanksgiving - they are all LIKE seeing the Face of God. The Divine Countenance is also discussed in the Book of Psalms, a book filled with every human emotion across the spectrum. In at least ten different Psalms, the theme of God's Face features prominently, either as a Presence strongly felt (and therefore the source of joy, confidence, and safety), or a gaping void (and thus the source of agony, sorrow, rejection, and defeat). And it is the central focus of the Priestly Benediction, which has remained one of the most well-known Jewish prayers for over 3,000 years.

God's Face is not theologically problematic to me. Because whenever good things happen in life, it can indeed feel as if the Face of God is shining on us all. And when we are alone in our grief, mourning the loss of wonderful people, it certainly can feel as if God's Face is hidden, and the world is just a little bit emptier. 
The people who bless our lives with their presence, they are the embodiment of God's Light shining in our lives. And knowing that the light can come and go forces us to cherish them while they are around. So make sure to identify the people who represent the Face of God in your life, who light up your existence and spread warmth, joy, comfort, and positivity. Treasure every precious moment that you have with them, and be grateful always.


Photos in this blog post:
1. Image of the Google Translate app courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPad.
2. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone on a gorgeous afternoon.
3. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone... but the gift courtesy of Ohev Shalom's awesome Confirmation Class 2012!
4. CC image courtesy of The California National Guard on Flickr

Friday, June 3, 2022

Shavuot: I Believe I Saw You at Sinai...

I know it's kind of short notice, but if you're local to Ohev Shalom and aren't too busy this Saturday, you may want to consider joining us for either or both of our events that day. Zoom works too, but it's never really the same as being in-person, is it? So, what's so special happening on Saturday, June 4th? Well, both of them have to do with the Ten Commandments, and what happened when Moses and the people received them directly from God at Mount Sinai. There is a classic, Jewish legend that states that every Jewish soul was present at Mount Sinai, so I suppose I could have added to my previous sentence: "Remember that day? Man, that was crazy!" Anyway, we have a morning service and an evening program going on, and altogether three opportunities to grapple with that history-altering moment in the Bible... and all three from very different perspectives. I want to say a word or two about each here on the blog, and I hope at least a few (more) people will be able to attend. 

First, at the morning Shabbat service, our sixth and seventh grade class will be delivering a clever D'var Torah. I say "clever" because we decided to try something a little different. As a class, they've written Divrei Torah (plural) with me in third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grade, so it was time to think outside the box. My colleague, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, and I decided to introduce the students to medieval rabbinic commentary from a series of volumes called Mikraot Gedolot. So the class and I looked at the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, and some of the peculiar, melodramatic elements of that scene. We then examined some of the commentaries, and the students then got to write their own questions, considerations, and musings. And we put it all together on a page that mimicked the rabbinic template from Mikraot Gedolot. I share all this with you - and hope you can come tomorrow morning - because I think (I hope) the students learned something really essential about Torah: Our voices matter. Studying our ancient texts is meant to be a give-and-take, back-and-forth, interactive process, where every single generation of Jews (including yours and mine...) is invited and encouraged to join the conversation. And once we realize we're part of the dialogue, we may also discover yet another powerful truth about our Jewish tradition. Torah wasn't given once at Mount Sinai, to one group of people, in one geographic location. It is actually a continuous and ongoing process that is still going on to this very day!

And that's only the morning service! Later in the evening, starting at 8pm, we are holding our annual Tikkun Leyl Shavuot, evening of study connected to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot. This year, we decided to center our learning on the notion of "This I Believe." Looking at it through the lens of the Mount Sinai experience, we might ask ourselves what each person believes actually happened there, and what does it still mean for the Jewish experience today? How often do we even stop and ponder what we truly believe? What are our guiding principles in life, and how did we come to believe them in the first place? For tomorrow evening's learning, I've invited several congregants who are Jews by Choice, i.e. who converted to Judaism as adults. Generally speaking, Jewish tradition tells us not to highlight when someone has converted, because they are indeed fully Jewish, and their journey doesn't mitigate that experience at all. At the same time, I think it is a vital part of the larger narrative of the Jewish community, and it helps us all - collectively - be more inclusive when we learn what someone else went through to claim their Jewish identity. And by the way, their souls were right there at Mount Sinai too; they just needed an extra step to find their way home. 

We will then conclude our evening of study by looking at several essays on the topic of "This I Believe." And not even necessarily stories from the Jewish community. People around the globe grapple with the notion of what they believe; about the universe, humanity, the meaning of life, and what it means to do good. As I mentioned above, we rarely take the time to stop and think about those beliefs, even though they may fundamentally impact all of our major life decisions! Reading about other people's guiding principles in life may really help us contemplate our own. Just as learning about (or remembering?) what happened at Sinai can inspire us to think about what Judaism, Jewish tradition, and God mean to us today. And realizing that our voices are essential parts of the Jewish conversation - as our Hebrew School students did - will hopefully spur you on to really own your beliefs and share them with others. Look how much you could learn, just by coming to services on a single day! :-) I hope to see you there.


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Philip de Vere on Wikimedia Commons
2. Ohev Shalom's sixth and seventh graders
3. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
4. ckubber on Flickr


Friday, May 27, 2022

Bechukotai: The Deadly Repercussions of a Selfish Society

Too often, I have found myself writing a blog post in the wake of yet another unfathomable mass shooting. If I go back and review what I've written over the years, it breaks my heart to see how many posts refer to recent violence somewhere in the country. There are a lot of them. Way, *way* too many. This time, we were first reeling after a gunman attacked shoppers in a grocery store in Buffalo, NY, and just as we were trying to come to terms with that horrific attack, another assailant killed 19 elementary school children and two teachers in Uvalde, TX. It is a truly powerless feeling to live in a country with so many armed individuals and so few checks, restrictions, or failsafes that could prevent senseless loss of life. We are living through an epidemic - a plague - of gun violence. And it is made exponentially worse by the failure of society to teach more people the paramount value of human life. When we feel this level of despair and sadness, we can also feel numb, desensitized, and totally speechless. In those moments, I find that the texts of our ancient, Jewish tradition can offer a broader perspective that may help us process all of this a bit better.  

First of all, I want to preface this by saying that the Torah is unlikely to make us feel better at this moment. I mean, how could it? How could anything?? Right now, if our gun laws won’t change, and our elected officials don’t feel compelled by the terror we’re all living under, little else is going to turn the tide. So the Torah can’t just heal us from this pain, much as we desperately wish it could. But maybe we can still use this moment for introspection and self-examination, and that is certainly a realm that the Torah understands incredibly well. In this week’s Torah portion, which concludes the Book of Leviticus, we actually do see some of our current societal struggles reflected in the text, as our ancient ancestors learn about the consequences of not observing laws or letting society descend into chaos.

God first offers the Children of Israel a series of blessings that will come if-and-when they observe all the laws of the Torah. This is followed by a longer, more unsettling section that elaborates on the repercussions of non-compliance. The key takeaway for us is that these warnings aren’t just Biblical; they have an eerie resonance in our lives today. For example, if we don’t care for God’s earth, and take responsibility to protect it, the text informs us: “I will make your skies like iron and your earth like copper, so that your strength shall be spent to no purpose” (Lev. 26:19-20). To me, that sounds an awful lot like the fallout from global warming; skies that don’t produce rain and land that is unable to provide crops. Furthermore, we might see a foreshadowing of the pandemic, when the text states: “If you withdraw into your cities, I will send pestilence among you.” (v. 25) I interpret that to mean that when we “wall” ourselves off and only care about our families and our own communities, and we don’t work together to protect everyone in society (or share vaccines with people who desperately need them around the world…), the pestilence/plague/pandemic gets worse.

And finally, the text forces us to confront this particularly horrific scourge of gun violence, when it states: “I will loose wild beasts against you, and they shall bereave you of your children..." (v. 33) I doubt I need to help anyone connect that verse to Uvalde, TX… or to Sandy Hook or Parkland. So looking at these ominous warnings, especially in the context of communal introspection, I think the most important thing the text is trying to teach us is that we’re all in this together. When the Torah talks about following God’s laws, I look at the many prophetic texts that emphasize again and again that God wants us to care for the poor, the orphan, and the widow. God expects us to share our bounty and not turn our backs on those less fortunate. I don’t see this as focusing on Shabbat observance or keeping Kosher; I see it as saying these calamities are all the repercussions of selfishness, greed, and apathy. Recognizing this doesn’t magically make the tragedies disappear, but it may teach us how to respond to them. We need to care for one another, strive for peace relentlessly and constantly, and demand our elected leaders do the same. I pray that we’ll all learn these lessons, and soon. Otherwise, I fear I’ll be back here soon again, writing another blog post after we’ve been plagued by more violence. 


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Zcdrrm on Wikimedia Commons
2. Phil Murphy on Flickr
3. Pashi on Pixabay
4. McKinsey on Rawpixel


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