Rabbi Steven Moskowitz

It was many, many years ago that I read the line, “I consider a tree.” In Martin Buber’s I and Thou. And it was as well not until many, many years later that I understand its import, if only partially. Buber, the great 20th century Jewish philosopher, argues that relations are the foundation of life, that we are most human in relation to others. There are encounters with others when all that exists is the relationship. “All real living is meeting,” he states. It is in our meetings with others that we most experience life and even sense a glimmer of the divine. In an “I-Thou” encounter the “I” does not exist and the “Thou” does not exist. All that exists is the “I-Thou,” the relationship. Anyone who has experienced the love between one spouse and another or the bond of parents with children can appreciate Buber’s insight. Yet the perfect relationship, where all that exists is care and concern for each other, is fleeting. We cannot sustain this perfect moment. We strive fo

Our hearts are again saddened and sickened, and terror stricken, by yet another murderous attack. This time against children, and youth, enjoying a concert in Manchester England. We stand in solidarity with the people of Manchester. We pray for healing for those injured. We pray for solace for those whose lives have been taken. We pray for justice! Lost among this week’s news was the word that 34 people, again mostly children, drowned in the Mediterranean. These refugees were attempting to reach Italy when their overcrowded boat capsized. They were fleeing Libya. The same murderous hatred that propels these refugees to flee their homes targets concertgoers. And yet the victims of the Arianna Grande attack find our sympathy. They could be us. We have taken our children to concerts. We have attended shows at the Garden, Jones Beach and Met Life Stadium. We are separated from these refugees by two or three generations. They could have been my grandparents. Is our compassion

The Torah portion makes clear that the land of Israel is particularly dear. It is of course the holy land. This is why it alone is granted a sabbatical year. One might therefore think, especially given the success of modern Zionism, that only the land of Israel is holy. But in fact all lands are holy. The earth, the very ground beneath our feet, is sacred. Our blessings do not say, for example, “Thank You God for the fruit of Israel,” but instead “for the fruit of the earth—borei pri ha-adamah.” The Psalms declare, in a decidedly universal tones, “The earth is Adonai’s and all that it holds; the world and all its inhabitants. For God founded it upon the ocean, set it on the farthest streams.” (Psalm 24) Another psalm provides a litany of God’s earthly creations. “How many are the things You have made, O Lord; You have made them all with wisdom; the earth is full of Your creations.” (Psalm 104) I have been thinking about the power of nature. Often it is nature’s fury that re

The Book of Leviticus is singularly obsessed with ritual. It is filled with laws about sacrifices and ritual purity. There are the occasional details about the familiar: keeping kosher and the more frequent unfamiliar: the mixing of wool and linen. It contains only two stories. Both are tragedies. Both involve incidents where ritual goes terribly wrong. The first is the story of the priests, Nadav and Avihu. They offer an alien fire. They die at the instance of the Lord. (Leviticus 10) Little explanation is offered. We are left wondering what they did that merited the punishment of death. I remain baffled. I remain troubled. The other story appears in this week’s Torah portion. It offers more details but is equally troubling. “The son of the Israelite woman cursed the Name of God, and he was brought to Moses—now his mother’s name was Shelomit—and he was placed in custody, until the decision of the Lord should be made clear to them.” (Leviticus 24) And what is God

The Torah commands: Love your neighbor as yourself. (Leviticus 19:18) And the Talmud weaves stories to illustrate the importance, and perhaps difficulty, in observing this command. It is told that Rabbi Hillel was open to any question, and welcomed people with open arms. Rabbi Shammai, on the other hand, focused more on his books and a strict interpretation of the law. Here is their story (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a). One time two people made a bet about whether it was possible to anger Hillel. They shook hands and agreed on the amount: 400 zuzim. One Friday evening, as the rabbi was bathing and preparing for the start of Shabbat, the man stood at the entrance of Hillel’s house and in a demeaning manner said, “Who here is Hillel, who here is Hillel?” Hillel wrapped himself in a garment and went out to greet the man. He said, “My son, what do you seek?” He said, “I have a question to ask.” Hillel said, “Ask, my son, ask.” The man asked, “Why are the heads of Babylonians ova

Recently my wife and I visited Southern California’s Joshua Tree National Park. As we entered the park we briefly noted the sea of yellow wildflowers covering the desert floor. I wondered why so many were stopping to take pictures. Flowers are not so rare on the east coast. What are called wildflowers in the desert may very well be weeds in the green expanse I call home. Later we were told that we were privileged to witness a once in ten-year bloom. The winter rains had produced abundant flowers. We initially took little notice. We were busy speaking with our son on the cell phone as we drove into the park. It was not until we lost reception that we began take in the desert’s beauty. I wonder how much is missed because we insist on remaining connected to those thousands of miles away rather than the world that stands before our eyes. It was also not until were told by residents, “We have never seen anything like this before,” that we began to breathe in the beauty. Why is it

When traveling through Israel memorials are everywhere.  When walking through the streets of Jerusalem remembrances are inescapable.  I happened upon this memorial to those who fell in 1967's battle for Jerusalem. I approached to examine the names more closely and count the fallen. Were they killed here, in this exact spot in which I now stand?  I do not imagine.  Did they die in one moment?  I do not know. For their families they are more than names etched on a memorial.  They are sons, and brothers.  They are husbands, and grandsons. I discovered kittens playing at the soldiers' feet. Their nursing mother scurried off as I approached.  The kittens were unafraid?  Or unknowing? Wars intrude on everyday life.   Hanoch Levin writes: When we go walking, there are three of us – You, me, and the war to come. When we sleep, there are three of us – You, me, and the war to come. You, me, and the war to come, The war that is coming for good. You, me, and