Adar 5786: Whoa if I reveal
“Woe if I reveal, woe if I do not reveal.”
When I first began speaking publicly about the possibility of a Jewish psychedelic movement, I received a message from a highly regarded figure in the underground scene—an author, a teacher, a holy prankster of sorts. The note was thoughtful and generous, and then it arrived at its suggestion: “You might consider not saying anything.”
I remember the disorientation. I was in the warm afterglow of my first powerful, legal experiences with psilocybin. A conceptual framework was beginning to take shape in my mind: a problem, a diagnosis, a strategic initiative. I felt urgency. There were stories to tell, people to support, programs to develop, resources to gather, a community to convene. In that moment, the suggestion of silence felt counterintuitive.
Our exchange led us to a sugya in Moed Katan:
Reish Lakish would expound Torah publicly in the marketplace. Rabbi Yochanan responded by likening words of Torah to a bride, drawing from the verse, “On the day of his wedding, and on the day of the gladness of his heart.” Just as a bride maintains modesty within her father’s house, so too Torah should be conveyed with modesty. (Moed Katan 16b)
The question that emerged from that passage concerned the conditions of transmission. Some forms of teaching require a certain environment in order to retain their integrity. Intimate experiences, particularly those involving the most vulnerable dimensions of a person’s psyche, can be altered by premature amplification. Revelation has its own ecology.
Rabbi Yochanan’s emphasis on modesty sits alongside Reish Lakish’s willingness to teach publicly. The sugya presents a polarity that leadership must hold rather than resolve. Spiritual work demands discernment about context, and it also demands courage about presence.
As the founder and CEO of an organization that has launched what we call our Idra retreats, I experience this tension as part of my responsibility. I am entrusted with telling the story of what occurs inside these gatherings. Participants deserve clarity about the nature of the work. Supporters need to understand why it matters. The broader Jewish community has a right to transparency about what this movement seeks to cultivate. An organization cannot endure on silence alone.
At the same time, the retreats depend upon conditions that are fragile. People enter because they trust that their vulnerability will not be redistributed beyond the circle. The group rests on a shared understanding that what unfolds there will be treated with discretion. The Idra, by its very nature, is not structured as a public forum.
The challenge is therefore one of judgment. What can be shared without compromising the integrity of the experience? How can stories be told in a way that communicates depth while preserving dignity? Leadership in this space requires measured narration rather than exposure, and a willingness to resist the pressure to convert interior transformation into spectacle.
The Idra—most famously the Idra Rabbah in Zohar III—is described as a deliberately convened gathering of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and a small circle of companions. The word idra evokes a threshing floor, an enclosed and bounded space entered with intention. When the companions assemble, they prepare themselves. The preparation is integral to what follows. The circle is limited, the subject matter esoteric, and the speech deliberate. Certain teachings are described as unfit for the marketplace, a space associated in the Zohar with noise and transaction rather than covenantal readiness. By the conclusion of the Idra Rabbah, some of the companions are overwhelmed by the intensity of the revelations they have encountered. The text makes clear that disclosure requires vessels capable of receiving it.
When we invoke the language of the Idra in describing our retreats, we are naming both a structure and an ethic. Participation is intentional and prepared for. What unfolds inside is not material for public consumption. We asked participants to suspend even partial forms of public retelling. Privacy in this context reflects covenantal responsibility rather than secrecy. Individual journeys are not narrated. Moments of vulnerability are not repurposed as communal testimony.
I have recently described psychedelics as a form of boundary medicine. In a carefully held setting, they can bring into awareness places where boundaries were crossed without consent and allow for their repair. Healthy boundaries function as living membranes that are discerning and responsive. They restore a sense of agency and authorship over one’s own experience, and they make relational life possible again, whether in connection to family, community, or the Divine. A communal container operates under similar principles. What is shared must arise from restored agency rather than pressure, and from consent rather than urgency.
Language often strains to capture what occurs in that setting. One participant wrote, “I have no words to describe my gratitude for this experience. It was one of the most profound and meaningful experiences of my entire life. The amount of care and healing I got is indescribable.” Another reflected, “It’s hard to put into words because there’s still so much processing to do.” Experiences of this kind continue unfolding long after the retreat concludes, and articulation takes time.
Participants frequently emphasize the Jewish particularity of the space. “The Jewishness of the experience is what made it so profound for me. There was no need to translate or universalize.” Shared inheritance—memory, grief, humor, language—creates a foundation of trust. The Jewish framing provides orientation when the work deepens.
One participant described their journey in explicitly historical terms:
“So much of my journeys were deeply personal—internal work with my relationships to self and others, particularly with my mother. I was able to see various strains of mental illness running through my extended family, and I understand this in the context of antisemitism in Europe sustained by our ancestors, the pain and overwhelm of immigration first to Canada and then to this country, and the antisemitism they faced here. This is a deeply Jewish experience.”
In that reflection, family dynamics and historical memory appeared intertwined. The same participant continued:
“It’s been difficult for me to connect to being Jewish in these times, when I’ve heard people on all sides claim that others aren’t really Jewish because they believe something different about Israel/Palestine. I started to wonder why I would cling to this identity when it feels so unstable and fractured. And yet, connecting with Jewish mystical traditions, in a group of Jews, reminded me of how expansive the term ‘Jewish’ really is.”
The retreat provided an encounter with Jewish identity that felt spacious enough to hold complexity. The reflection concluded with a return to family memory:
“A hallmark of our big family Jewish holiday dinners were stories and laughter. I never worried that I was too much among my Jewish relatives. I am Jewish, and so everything that moves through me has that connection. It’s such a deep delight, full of naches, to feel so connected again to my Jewish soul.”
Other participants spoke about the intensity of the process. “It exceeded my expectations. It was way more difficult than I anticipated. That difficulty made it more meaningful.” The work asks something of those who enter, and preparation matters.
The communal dimension recurs throughout the testimonials. “I loved seeing folks reveal their hearts and move their pain alongside me.” “We are all in this together.” Participants describe being witnessed and witnessing others in ways that stabilize and deepen the experience.
Gratitude often extends outward. “I feel a little guilty (how Jewish!) that I was lucky enough to do this and others have not had the chance.” “If there’s anything I can do to help grow this work, I would love to.” The experience generates continuity and responsibility, a desire that others might also encounter what felt transformative.
These reflections remain intentionally partial. They offer shape and texture without disclosing what belongs within the circle. In that restraint lies the discipline of the Idra and the responsibility of telling its story.
If you are reading this and sensing that something here resonates—whether through longing, curiosity, uncertainty, or recognition—consider stepping closer. Learn about the work. Speak with those who have participated. Take time to discern whether this kind of gathering belongs in your own unfolding. The circle is not the marketplace, and it is not sealed. It opens through preparation, intention, and consent.
Purim teaches that concealment and revelation can coexist. The hidden is not erased; it is approached with courage and timing. The Idra carries that same discipline. We reveal enough for the call to be heard, and we guard enough for the work to remain whole.
If you choose to enter, you do so not as a consumer of an experience but as a participant in a covenantal space. What is asked is presence, honesty, and care for others in the circle. What is offered is depth, companionship, and the possibility of remembering something ancient within yourself.
Here’s to a Purim that eases the boundary between the marketplace and the Idra—and strengthens it in the process.
