Rabbi Steven Moskowitz

There is a Yiddish expression, tzaddik im peltz, meaning a righteous person in a fur coat. It is a curious phrase. The great Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, offers an illustration. When one is cold at home, there are two ways to become warm. One can heat the home or get dressed in a fur coat. The difference between the two is that in the first case the entire house is warmed and everyone sitting in it feels comfortable. Whereas in the second case only the person wearing the coat feels warm, but everyone else continues to freeze. Righteousness is meant to warm others. It is not meant to warm the soul of the person who performs the righteous deeds. Too often people clothe themselves in good deeds. They hold their heads high and wrap themselves in comforting thoughts. “Look at the good I have done.” They warm themselves in a coat of righteousness. The task, however, is to build a fire. We are called to bring warmth and healing to others. A coat of righteousness does no

We have to read the Torah all over again? We have to read the creation story once more?  This week we begin reading the Torah all over again. Our celebrations of Simhat Torah are now in the rear view mirror. Once more we open the Bible’s pages to the story of the world’s creation. We read about Adam and Eve, Noah’s ark, and Abraham and Sarah. We read all over again about the exodus from Egypt, the revelation at Sinai, forty years of wandering, the building of the tabernacle, and the Torah’s many laws and commandments. Before we know it we will unroll the scroll and read about Moses’ death. But why do this year after year? Why read the same book, the same chapters and the same verses over and over again? In almost every other instance once we read a book, we put it aside. If we really like the story we might give it to a friend. If we deem it a masterpiece, we might grant it an exalted place on our bookshelves. But not with the Torah. As soon as we finish it, we turn back t

The Torah is of course what we most prize and deem most holy. Some people were upset because they did not get a chance to kiss the Torah scrolls this past Yom Kippur. Unfortunately, there was a traffic jam in the sanctuary’s middle aisle. I therefore decided it would be best to avoid the congestion and take the Torah scrolls around the outer aisles. A number of people were unable to kiss the Torah and shared their disappointment with me after services. I am really sorry. I underestimated the power and importance of this ritual. Now I want to take a few moments to think more deeply about this custom. First a clarification. Actually we don’t kiss the Torah. Instead we allow it to give us a kiss. We touch our hand, or prayerbook, or tallis to the scroll and then touch our lips. This custom is the same as that for a mezuzah. When entering our homes, we reach up, touch our fingertips to the mezuzah and then touch our hand to our lips. We don’t kiss the mezuzah or the Torah

I often complain about the holiday schedule, especially during this time of year. Why put two major holidays one week apart from each other? And then as soon as we finish the Yom Kippur fast, ask us to build a sukkah and celebrate this week long festival. And finally, command us to rejoice and celebrate with great revelry the holiday of Simhat Torah, marking the start of the Torah reading cycle all over again. Would it not have been better to spread the holidays out? Perhaps we could even have Rosh Hashanah in the fall and then Yom Kippur in the spring. Such choices are of course not in our hands. And so one major holiday comes in quick succession, one right after another. We barely have enough time to come up for air. We turn from the beating of our chests and recounting of our sins on Yom Kippur to the banging of hammers as we put up our sukkahs and then the hosting of elaborate get-togethers in these temporary booths which signify the Israelites wandering through the desert

What follows is my Yom Kippur morning sermon. On this Yom Kippur I wish to speak about the inner life. In particular I want to talk about fear. It is real. It is pervasive. We are frightened by a resurgent antisemitism. And to be sure, I spent plenty of time talking about antisemitism and how we might battle it on Rosh Hashanah. We are afraid of terrorism and wonder where the next attack might be. 9-11’s wounds still run deep. Our children are terrified by climate change and speak about the rising of the oceans as if it’s already happening here on Long Island. Our parents are nervous about the economy and watch the stock indexes as if their very next meal depended on it. We are nervous about our children getting into college or getting into too much trouble when they are away at college or later, traveling by themselves throughout this broken world or then finding a job that they will find fulfilling and meaningful. We read about the latest threats to our health, which medi

What follows is my sermon from Yom Kippur evening. Let me begin with a statement of faith. It is the most profound of Jewish teachings. It is this. We can change. We can do better. I recognize this is not always how things appear. This is not what current discourse suggests. Once a cheat, always a cheat. Once a sinner, always a sinner. Once a thief, always a thief. Commit one wrong, however large or small, and it will follow you the rest of your life. That is not Judaism’s perspective. There is always the potential for repair. These High Holidays are a reaffirmation of this belief. We affirm that human beings have a remarkable potential for good. We acknowledge our mistakes together. We do not single one person out over another. We recount our wrongs in community. Why? So that we can do better. That in a nutshell is what all these hours of praying and fasting, of standing up and sitting down, of singing and beating our chests are all about. We can change. We c

Recently I signed a new car lease. Why, you might ask, would a rabbi make his lease renewal date only days before Rosh Hashanah? Because his thoughts were elsewhere, focused on just about any other topic. For me a car is only about getting from point A to point B in the safest, and comfortable, and most affordable, manner possible. I don’t really pay attention to all of the new developments, and advances, in the automotive industry. I do, however, pay far more attention to such things when it comes to bicycles. And so I was surprised to discover that my new car comes with a host of new features. In three years a lot seems to have changed. Let’s hear it for CarPlay! I am finding it somewhat difficult to adjust to the gas saving feature of the car’s engine turning off at a stoplight. Most remarkable of all is the lane assist technology. A confession. It beeps several times on my short drive from my home to the synagogue. And at times, this new technology, flashes green and

What follows is my sermon from Rosh Hashanah morning. Let’s talk about anti-Semitism – again. To be honest, I don’t very much want to talk about it. I would prefer to talk about just about anything else. I always prefer to speak about the positive, about what makes us sing rather than cry, what makes us dance rather than what makes us afraid, but this year is different. How could I not talk about anti-Semitism in a year when not just one American synagogue was attacked but two, when Jews were murdered as they did the most Jewish of things, give thanks for the blessing of the seventh day? How could I be silent when eleven Jews were murdered as they gathered for Shabbat prayers at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life synagogue? The sacred phrase, tree of life, now has a tainted resonance. How could I as well speak about something else when the State of Israel continues to be vilified and even compared to Nazis in progressive, liberal circles? How can I remain silent when those who murder