Rabbi Steven Moskowitz

A little over 400 years have passed since the conclusion of Genesis. The memory of Joseph, his family, and in particular all of the great things Joseph did for Egypt, are no longer read in Egypt’s history books. The new rulers only see how numerous the Israelites have become. So they enslave and oppress the Jewish people. Pharaoh decrees that all first born sons of the Israelites must be killed. In one of the first acts of civil disobedience, the Hebrew midwives, Shifrah and Puah, ignore Pharaoh’s law and thwart his plan. Pharaoh then declares that every Jewish boy shall be drowned in the Nile. In an effort to save the newborn Moses, his mother and sister place him in a basket in the Nile. Thus begins one of the more interesting chapters in the Torah. It is punctuated by several acts of compassion. The first instance is surprisingly that of Pharaoh’s daughter, an unnamed woman who notices the baby boy. “She spied the basket among the reeds and sent her slave girl to fetch it.

Much of our lives are dominated by algorithms. We turn to apps for every manner of things: to shop for clothes (shout out to LeTote), to track our workouts (kudos to Strava) and to weave around traffic (thank you GoogleMaps). We are increasingly dependent on apps like Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp to communicate with friends and family. I continue to wonder about the effect of these dependencies. And so, my curiosity was piqued when I saw the recent article, “ The Yoda of Silicon Valley.” Donald Knuth is considered the father of computer programming. He has written a multi-volume book, considered the subject’s Bible, The Art of Computer Programming. Although I am certain this book will never be added to my Amazon wish list, I found his life work fascinating. His philosophical musings were particularly insightful and illuminating. Knuth comments: “I am worried that algorithms are getting too prominent in the world.... This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.

Sometimes the Torah packs meaning into one word. Vayigash alav Yehuda—and Judah drew near to Joseph…” (Genesis 44) Judah still does not know that the Egyptian ruler who has been supplying him with rations during the famine and who now threatens the youngest of his father Jacob’s children, Benjamin, with enslavement is his brother Joseph whom he sold into slavery. Fearful for Benjamin’s life and his father’s welfare, Judah now draws close to Joseph to plead for Benjamin. He offers himself in Benjamin’s place. He concludes his plea with the words, “Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” Judah is a changed man. He will no longer sell another brother into slavery. Joseph cannot control his emotions and says, “I am your brother Joseph whom you sold into Egypt. Do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” He then embraces Benjamin, and kisses Judah and the rest of his brothers. This

Rabbi Larry Kushner observes that throughout the Joseph story, our hero Joseph often changes clothes. In the opening chapters, his father places the coat of many colors on him and then his brothers tear it from him. There is as well the garment torn from him by Potiphar’s wife when she tries to seduce him. And finally, in this week’s portion the following: “Pharaoh had him dressed in robes of fine linen, and put a gold chain about his neck.” (Genesis 41) By the time his brothers come before him, in search of food to stave their hunger from famine, Joseph looks like an Egyptian. He is unrecognizable. His clothes, and apparently his mannerisms and language, allow him to hide from them despite the fact that he stands right in front of them. Now it is left to him alone to remove these clothes. Still, he is not yet able to tear the trappings of his Egyptian identity and reveal himself to his brothers. What do we hide? What do we reveal? Soon Joseph will remove his mask and embra

During my rabbinical school years, my classmates and I gained experience serving small pulpits throughout the country. We traveled to these far-flung congregations once a month or every other week. I served communities in Houghton-Hancock, Michigan; Clarksdale Mississippi; Fargo, North Dakota and Arvada, Colorado. I recall my first Hanukkah in Clarksdale. As I drove south from the Memphis airport, through the cotton fields of Northern Mississippi, I began to formulate my teaching about the upcoming holiday. For weeks, we had studied Hanukkah’s origins with our professors and debated its meaning in our classes. I decided to teach my congregants about the real Hanukkah. I patiently explained how our central story about the miracle of oil appears nowhere in the Book of Maccabees. These books, written soon after the victory over the Syrian-Greeks and the Jewish Hellenists, emphasize the Maccabees’ heroism, the sinfulness of those Jews enamored of Greek culture, and the ruthlessne

Everyone has their demons. And everyone has their angels. There are some that say that when our forefather Jacob wrestled with “beings divine and human” he struggled with his estranged brother Esau. Other suggest he wrestled with Esau’s protecting angel. Long before this mysterious encounter, Jacob stole the birthright from Esau. At his mother Rebekah’s suggestion, he tricked his father Isaac and took the first-born blessing for himself. Esau then threatened to kill him. Jacob runs. He has been running for some time. Afraid about the next day’s meeting with his brother he sends his family across the river and instructs his servants to bring gifts to Esau. “And Jacob was left alone.” He is alone with his thoughts. Should I have lied to my father? Why did I trick Esau out of his rightful inheritance? Regret fills the solitude. It feeds the loneliness. “A being wrestled with him until the break of dawn.” Jacob is unable to wrest free from his demons. The being wrenches hi

Place is central to our most important Jewish dream. That singular dream is recounted at our Passover Seders: L’shanah habaah b’yerushalyim—next year in Jerusalem. And now, as the Psalmist sings, we are in fact like dreamers who have returned to Zion. We can in a matter of hours touch the land that our ancestors only saw in their mind’s eye and sang about in their prayers. Vayetzei begins that dreaming. Jacob arrived at the place. And he dreamed of a ladder reaching toward heaven. And God reiterated to him the promise that the land on which he was lying will be assigned to him and his offspring. Today his dream has become real. Yama—West—becomes Tel Aviv. Tzafona—North—is now Haifa. Our dreams are now real places. For millennia this was not the case. The rabbis of old were forced to fashion Judaism out of the embers of a destroyed Jerusalem.... This post continues on The Times of Israel.

This Tuesday morning, I wore my kippah, the customary head covering many Jews wear in synagogue. We cover our heads as reminder that God is always present. As I entered the local elementary school to vote, I donned my kippah. I don’t wear a kippah all the time. Typically I wear one when leading prayer services or when teaching a class or when officiating at a wedding or funeral. I don’t wear one when doing any manner of everyday activities, such as grocery shopping or going for a walk or for that matter, venturing to town hall. This occasion, however, needed to be sanctified–most especially this year, and during these times. Voting seems like such a mundane affair.... This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.

At Shabbat evening services we gathered together to celebrate Shabbat and stand in solidarity with the Pittsburgh Jewish community. I began the service with these words: I never imagined that I would stand before our congregation and have occasion to speak about such violent and deadly antisemitism in our own country. The fact that someone acted on his desire that all Jews must die seems unimaginable to me. I recognize that violent antisemitism is part of our American history. Leo Frank, for example, was lynched in the early 1900’s. But that seemed a unique circumstance and I could dismiss it as “back then.” Sure, in my own day, there were antisemitic comments said here or there, and there was Nazi graffiti scrawled on synagogues, but nothing ever of this scale. Such acts only happened over there, in Europe. Perhaps, we even quietly said to ourselves, it could happen in the South or in the far reaches of the West. Such horrific acts of terror aimed at Jews happened in Israel.

On Saturday evening I stood with 200 other cyclists watching the sunset over Makhtesh Ramon, a large box canyon in the Negev desert. It was then that we began to learn about the massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh. We made Havdalah and sang to Elijah the prophet, who we pray will one day bring peace to the world. We sang in defiance of the world and the troubles it too often brings us. Even when that hope seems distant, we continue to sing. This is what Jews do. We stand up against adversity. Sometimes with song. Other times with political action. Always with the hope that the future can be better than the past. We are defiant in the face of adversity. We pray for peace when it appears impossible. If Jews had allowed history to defeat them, there would be no State of Israel. I could not have spent the past week riding through stretches of desert that took my breath away. That is always the first and most important lesson we should take into our hearts.

The tradition lionizes Abraham. He is among our greatest of heroes. We recall his name every time we stand to recite the Amidah. We remember his fortitude, and remind God of our forefather’s devotion, in our prayers. Abraham was tested ten times and each time not only persevered but emerged stronger. Last week he left his native land when God commanded him to do so. And then at God’s insistence, he circumcised himself at the age of 99. And this week we read of his final test: the command to sacrifice his son Isaac. We also read this story on Rosh Hashanah. God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son. Without hesitation he marches off early in the morning, with Isaac, to do God’s bidding. He carries with him all the tools for this sacrifice. Abraham and Isaac journey for three days to Mount Moriah. You might have thought that he would have changed his mind. You might have thought Isaac would inspire uncertainty, and doubt, about his faith. Abraham was, however, single minded i

I am thinking about immigrants and refugees. Perhaps it is because I recently watched this moving video about a New York synagogue’s custodian, Armando: Perhaps it is because the Trump administration has reduced the number of refugees allowed into this country to a four decade low. Or perhaps it is because the administration continues its policy of separating immigrant children from their parents. Then again perhaps it is because the president today threatened to take military action to stem the flow of people trying to cross the US-Mexico border. Immigration continues to captivate my thoughts and animate my concerns. I turn to this week’s Torah portion. In it God commands Abraham to leave his native home and journey to the land of Canaan. There God will make him a great nation. And so what does Abraham and his wife, Sarah, do? They go. They travel from what is today modern day Iraq and make their way to what will become the place that Jews continue to hold in thei

This week we read the story about Noah and the flood. The portion opens with the words: “This is the line of Noah. Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his generation; Noah walked with God.” (Genesis 6). Noah’s character is highlighted. He was a pretty remarkable guy. He was righteous. He was blameless. He walked with God. This must be why God called him and commanded him to build the ark. “The Lord told Noah, there's gonna be a floody, floody. The Lord told Noah, there's gonna be a floody, floody. Get those children out of the muddy, muddy, children of the Lord…”. Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhak, more commonly known as Rashi, who lived in 11th century France, and wrote a line by line commentary on the entire Bible, as well as a commentary on the Talmud, asked, “Why does the Torah add the words ‘in his generation?’” It is an interesting question. Are not righteous and blameless objective terms? Rashi offers the following clarification: Some of our Rabbis explain “in h

I see traces of the Bible in contemporary events. Perhaps I can’t help it. I am a rabbi. And yet the contours of its revelatory truths appear clearer today than in many previous years. Soon after God creates the world in all its beauty, splendor and majesty, God fashions man out of the earth. The world is still imperfect. Loneliness must be corrected. So God creates woman out of man’s rib. Adam and Even are happy and content in that idyllic garden of Eden. God gives them one warning: “Of every tree of the garden you are free to eat; but as for the tree of knowledge of good and bad, you must not eat of it.” (Genesis 2) Once, when my children were in high school, Susie and I left them home alone. (Our children would say that it was on more than one occasion.) We gave them one warning: “We are going to the city for a wedding this evening. We won’t be home until late. Don’t throw any parties at the house.” We trusted them. We knew they were responsible. We might not find

I am thinking about King David. Yes, the Jewish hero king, who unified the southern and northern kingdoms 3,000 years ago, declared Jerusalem our spiritual center and killed the giant Goliath. I have often thought about him when our nation is riveted by scandal and riven by discontent. I have thought about David before—first when Professor Anita Hill testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee (yes, I am that old), and then when President Clinton evaded telling the truth about his affairs, and now again as I watch Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony and Judge Brett Kavanaugh’s denials. King David was an extraordinarily powerful man. He also had unrivaled character. One day David spied Batsheva bathing on a rooftop near the palace.... This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.

Edmond Jabes, a 20th century French Jewish poet, writes:    “Thinking pulls back the thick veil covering the universe, only to replace it with another so thin we barely guess it is there.” We perceive the word only through this transparent veil,” he said. And added: “What if this veil were language?” Soon we will roll the Torah scroll back to its opening words. We will begin the Torah reading cycle again and begin our discussions (and debates) about its language and import. According to Jewish tradition the Torah is perfect. If a sentence appears repetitive, a word seems curious, a letter seems out of place, the fault cannot be with the Torah, but instead with the interpreter. Each and every week we unroll the scroll and discover a new question. It may be last year’s question, but even if it is, it is different because we are different. And so we begin again. Why does the Torah begin with a bet? If the Torah is without error and authored by the hand of God then why

On Sukkot we shake the lulav. We take branches of a date palm, willow and myrtle, hold them together with an etrog (basically, an oversized, bumpy lemon) and wave them in six directions: east, south, west, north, up and down. This is in fulfillment of the Torah’s command: “You shall take the product of hadar trees (etrog), branches of palm trees, boughs of leafy trees (myrtle) and willows of the brook and you shall rejoice before the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 23) Waving the lulav reminds us that God is everywhere and anywhere. To be honest it looks like a rain dance. This makes sense because Sukkot begins the rainy season in the land of Israel. We continue this tradition even though we live outside of the land. We even add the prayer for rain as we welcome the changing colors of fall. Many of our customs are tied to Israel. Even the holidays follow that land’s patterns rather than our own. Still the Rabbis did not abandon these traditions. Instead they found meaning for t

What follows is my Yom Kippur morning sermon. A Hasidic story. In the wealthier sections of Rophshitz, the town where Reb Naftali was the rebbe, it was common for homeowners to hire night watchmen to guard their property. One evening, the rebbe went for a walk in the woods. On his return to town he walked through this wealthy neighborhood. A watchman saw him coming through the forest and called out to him to halt. When he drew closer, and the rebbe’s face was illuminated by the street lamps, the watchman said, “I am sorry, Rebbe, I did not recognize you in the dark.” The rebbe smiled and then asked, “For whom do you work?” The watchman told him. Then he asked the rebbe the same question, “And for whom are you working this evening, Rebbe?” The question hit Reb Naftali like a lightning bolt. He stepped back and grew startled; he stammered, “I am not working for anyone at the moment.” The rebbe continued pacing back and forth under the street lamps. Suddenly he stopped, t

What follows is my Yom Kippur evening sermon. A friend recently shared the following story with me. A few years ago, the nursery school that he oversees assigned their three-year old’s to classes. Emails were sent to parents informing them of their children’s class assignments. Within an hour, the phone began ringing non-stop. Parents were irate. The school had neglected to accommodate the majority of class placement requests. Little Samuel was not with his best friend David. Abby was not with her best friend Shoshi. They have been best friends for their entire lives—or at least since the day they could say each other’s name, which to be honest was only since they were in the two’s. Parents threatened to remove their children from the school. They demanded refunds—or at the very least, discounts. The requests, however, could not be accommodated. Guess what, the kids all made some new friends. Samuel and David did continue playing on the playground during free time, but A

What follows is my introduction to our Yom Kippur services and in particular Kol Nidre. I once learned from an intelligent, young man a legend about two Buddhist monks. Given these monks’ vow of celibacy, they were forbidden from even touching a woman. The two often went on long walks together, speaking about their devotion to Buddha, communing with the peacefulness of nature and seeking to become at one with the universe. On one such walk they approached a river. A beautiful woman, dressed in fine silk, approached them and asked if the monks would carry her across the river. One angrily refused and explained his singular religious commitments. The other, without even speaking a word, lifted her on his shoulders and carried her across the waters. After she went on her way, the two monks returned to their walk. After several miles, the angry monk, still seething at his colleague's transgression, confronted his friend and chastised him. He exclaimed, “You carried a

Yom Kippur begins Tuesday evening and with it the day long fast that is the hallmark of this holy day. To be honest, I don’t like fasting. It seems so un-Jewish. I prefer eating. On Yom Kippur, we beat our chests and proclaim our mistakes. We deny ourselves the pleasures of this world. The goal is that we become closer to God and on this day, a little more like angels. I prefer dancing. The ancient rabbis appear to agree. The Talmud declares: “One who eats and drinks on the ninth of Tishrei (Erev Yom Kippur), the Torah considers it as if one fasted on the ninth and tenth of Tishrei.” (Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 81b) The evening’s festive meal is just as important as the fast. This is because the hallmark of a Jewish life is celebration. It is one punctuated by dancing and singing. A seudat mitzvah—feast—is the quintessential Jewish act. This is not to suggest that we should ignore the fast. It helps to elevate our souls. It forces us to focus on our prayers—although I must co

What follows is my sermon from Rosh Hashanah Morning. Hey rabbi, everyone is excited to hear what you have to say this year. But… Don’t talk about politics. Don’t get too controversial. Keep it inspirational. Give us something meaningful. I wouldn’t want your job—especially this year. Good luck. What am I to do? What should a rabbi talk about during one of the most contentious and divisive years in memory? Well, I wouldn’t be the rabbi that you know, and perhaps love, if I avoided controversy. I understand that some want me to leave such divisiveness at the synagogue’s door, that here there can be shalom, peace. That this place can be an escape and refuge from all that mishegas. This place can be a sanctuary. I appreciate that perspective. It is not mine. I believe that Jewish teachings have to give us some guidance for how to make our way through this mess, that they must give us wisdom and strength to face the everyday. Quite frankly, if we can’t take Torah o