Every Ending Is Also a Beginning

This week we mark the conclusion of the Book of Genesis. Jacob dies. His body is carried back to the land of Israel from Egypt. Joseph dies. His body remains in Egypt where the Jewish people now reside, only to be carried to the Promised Land after the people’s freedom from slavery. Genesis ends with the words, “Joseph died at the age of one hundred and ten years; and he was embalmed and placed in a coffin in Egypt.” (Genesis 50)

Genesis concludes in the wrong place. We are trapped in Egypt. The anticipation of our return hangs in the air. And then, as we know, from our Passover seders, the journey begins (again) when we are freed from slavery. Joseph accompanies them. “And Moses took with him the bones of Joseph, who had exacted an oath from the children of Israel, saying, ‘God will be sure to take notice of you: then you shall carry up my bones from here with you.’” (Exodus 13)

Every ending is also a beginning.

Such is the theme of our upcoming New Year celebrations. Goodbye 2023! May 2024 be better and brighter. May it be filled with peace and harmony.

These days, these sentiments feel like empty hopes and prayers. We are at war with our enemies. And with ourselves. The words of the poet, Peter Cole, come to mind:

Either the world is coming together,
or else the world is falling apart —
here — now — along these letters,
against the walls of every heart.

Today, tomorrow, within its weather,
the end or beginning’s about to start —
the world impossibly coming together
or very possibly falling apart….

That’s the nightmare, that’s the terror,
that’s the Isaac of this art —
which sees that the world might come together
if only we’re willing to take it apart.

The dream, the lure, is the prayer’s answer,
which can’t be plotted on any chart —
as we know the world that’s coming together
without our knowing is falling apart. (Song of the Shattering Vessels)

Every ending contains the seeds and promise of new beginnings.

When we conclude the reading of one of the Torah’s five books, we say, “Chazak! Chazak! V’nitchazek!—Strength! Strength! May we be strengthened!”

The world is falling apart. Can we see glimmers that it might also be coming together?

Every ending is also a beginning! Chazak! Chazak! V’nitchazek!

We Are Stronger Than You Think!

What follows is my sermon about the strength and inspiration I gained from traveling on a solidarity mission to Israel.

As you know I returned this morning from a brief, but intense rabbinic solidarity mission to Israel. When there we volunteered and picked vegetables that were later distributed to hotels overwhelmed by the 100,000 Israelis displaced from their homes in the South and North and to army bases also overwhelmed but in this instance by the unprecedented call up of reserves. We walked the pathways of the once thriving kibbutz Kfar Azza that was attacked on October 7th and where 68 people were murdered because they are Jews, and a number were taken hostage by Hamas terrorists and where we also heard promises that the kibbutz will be rebuilt. We traveled to the army base that cares for soldiers killed in battle but that was forced to care for thousands after the October 7th massacre and where one of the rabbis told us he can never again drink chocolate milk because hundreds of victims arrived in a refrigerator truck emblazoned with the Shoko milk graphics and logo. And that was only part of one day.

I have seen things that no one should ever see. And I have seen things that everyone needs to see, and I would add, hear.

Before I left on this trip, people asked if I was afraid for my safety, and some were even nervous about my going. (Shout out to my mom and dad!) I was not. And I am still not afraid. Here is why. Even during war, I feel safe in Israel. It is home. And even during the worst of times one feels comfortable at home. I was afraid however that what I might see would be unsettling—and some of what I did see and hear was so disturbing that I had trouble sleeping most nights.

I was especially nervous that the situation is worse than I thought. In some ways it is. The end game is unclear. Israel’s political leadership is vacuous. In other ways, it is not. The people of Israel are resolute and strong and inspiring. Despite the extensive trauma and ongoing war, I came away even more inspired by Israel and the Jewish people.

First let me briefly talk about the unsettling. Every Israeli I spoke with believes in the need to eliminate Hamas’ military capabilities and in particular its ability to terrorize Israel and its citizens. Despite the American press describing Israel’s military actions as retaliatory they are not. They are an exercise of Israel’s sacred obligation to defend its citizens. Everyone agrees about the importance and need to return the hostages to their families. People might wonder how this will end, or even think some of Israel’s military actions are too severe, but everyone is supportive of the army and its soldiers.

Still, I was surprised by the level of anger and disillusionment with the current government. It seemed to cut across political lines. Most believe that Netanyahu’s day of reckoning will come. Let me be clear. The failures of Israel’s leadership and the many mistakes made allowing so many Hamas terrorists to massacre so many people on October 7th and the funds that were knowingly allowed to go to Hamas does not excuse Hamas for its crimes. The government’s continued insistence that Palestinian statehood is not in Israel’s moral and strategic interest does not explain Hamas’ murderous ideology and antisemitism. We must not confuse how this happened with why. Some of the how’s can be leveled at Netanyahu and his cronies and even at IDF leaders, although the latter have already taken responsibility for their failures. The why’s, however, remain Hamas’ ideology of murder and hate.

Israelis’ anger at their political leadership is palpable. I think this is because it stands in stark contrast with the extraordinary leadership of Israel’s ordinary citizens. The level of volunteerism that has taken root is breathtaking. Organizations shifted their focus overnight. New charities emerged. Strangers showed up to wash soldier’s uniforms when they returned to their bases. Award winning chefs cooked meals for them. Where the government failed to step in, the people rushed into the void.

Take but three examples.

In Jerusalem, we met with Adir Schwartz, a community leader. In a few days he and others built what is now a command center for volunteers that has taken over the film school complex. What was on October 8th was only one floor, now occupies almost the entire building. 6000 volunteers help get personal gear to soldiers, tend to the needs of the 25,000 evacuees housed in 63 Jerusalem hotels and help local Jerusalemites. There was no such organization two months ago. Now it is vast network of people helping others, supplying 40,000 meals every day to those in need. They set up the clothing donations as a clothing store with a coffee shop. He spoke to us about the guiding principle of their efforts: kavod haadam—respect for the human being. Every act of generosity is guided by this idea. That is why it is a clothing store rather than piles of handouts. He said, “The worst feeling during the war is to feel alone.” Then he added, “We have not felt alone since day one. We are one people with one heart.” Adir concluded, “It could have happened to any of us.”

We watched as people ran in and out, running volunteer errands, lifting boxes for deliveries or shopping for dresses. There was no obvious distinction between who was a giver and who a recipient. Perhaps, I wondered, in some not so mysterious way, even the givers are recipients. We are one people. He thanked us for coming and then told us that he sees our difficulties and struggles. He knows about the rising antisemitism in America. He feels our pain. Imagine such a sentiment. In the midst of this difficult war and challenging time in his own life, he is thinking beyond and about others—even those thousands of miles away. We are one people with one heart.

We then met with evacuees at the Orient Hotel. The Orient is among Jerusalem’s fanciest hotels. Its owner decided to prioritize the housing of evacuees even though the government does not pay enough to cover the true costs. Almost all the residents of Kibbutz Or HaNer are living there. Imagine walking to a conference room only to discover that it has been converted to a nursery school room and the lobby made into a makeshift playground. A girl roller bladed outside our meeting room. One kibbutz leader said, “It’s a nice hotel but we miss our kitchen and our garden. Our teenagers don’t like the city schools and even penned a protest letter demanding that we return to the kibbutz.”

Through tears they described what happened to them on October 7th. Their kibbutz was not directly attacked. Still, they hid in safe rooms. The security team members grabbed their weapons and kissed their partners goodbye. Many raced to their cars and hastily threw their children in the backseat, only stopping to buckle their seatbelts when they were miles and miles away. They are traumatized by that day. They are traumatized by the sporadic rocket attacks that has continued throughout the years. They are traumatized by living in a hotel and wonder if they will be able to stay in the Orient until the day they can return home. They are traumatized when it will be safe to go back to their beloved Or HaNer. And they are traumatized that they may forever be afraid to go back home. The Israel Trauma Coalition is working overtime. And yet, these kibbutzniks are faring better than most. “Always remember,” they said, “Our strength is our community.” They have each other to rely on. Even though they are not home they are together.

We then traveled to Tel Aviv and to what is now called Hostage Square and there we met with the Hostages and Missing Families Forum. 160 families are represented by this forum.

Its goal is to make sure that the plight of the hostages is never forgotten. The danger is the human heart will grow accustomed to the fact 130 hostages remain in captivity. They wish to pressure the Red Cross to act and to visit the hostages as the organization is supposed to do. There are art displays filling the square and a giant table set with place settings and empty chairs for each of the hostages. We entered a large tent and sat in a small circle and listened intently to one story.

We heard from Dani Miran. He is the father of Omri who was taken hostage by Hamas from his home on Kibbutz Nir Oz. Dani lives in the Galilee and is a farmer. His wife died thirty years ago. On October 7th he messaged his son, “I see that there are rocket attacks near you.” Omri responded, “Yes. Don’t worry.” Then Dani turned on the news and saw that Hamas terrorists had infiltrated into Israel. He messaged Omri again who responded, “Yes, they are all over the kibbutz.” After several minutes, Dani messaged his son, “It’s your father. I’m worried. Answer me.” That was the last message he sent. There were no more responses from Omri. Later that day his daughter in law’s parents called to tell him that his son was abducted but his daughter in law Lishay and granddaughters were ok. The girls are two years old and six months old. He said to us, “I was happy that my granddaughters were alive, but I felt as if a knife went through my heart. My son is a hostage.” He continued, “It was only on Monday when I had the courage to ask my daughter in law what happened after my last message.”

She told me that the Hamas terrorists threatened to kill a neighbor if they did not come out of the safe room and so the Omri’s family exited. Then the terrorists threatened to kill all of them if Omri did not go with them. He felt he had no choice. Lishay said to her husband, “I love you. I’ll protect our girls. We’re waiting for you. Don’t be a hero.”

By this time a large crowd had started to form around us. People leaned in to hear Dani’s story. He then said to the group of rabbis, “You all look so sad.” Most of us had been crying since he told us of his last words to his son. “You should not be sad. We are a strong people. You are here so that we can give each other hugs. Never forget, we are one people.” He continued, “Let me tell you the story about the flag that was raised over the Western Wall in 1967. I was in the paratrooper’s brigade that fought in that battle.” Dani said, “Most people don’t know how we got that flag. Before we marched to the Wall we were sitting in a bunker, and we were talking about how we should have a flag. A family was also in the bunker and overheard our conversation. One family member said, “I have a flag. Come with me.” “So, we went up to his apartment. First, he insisted that we make kiddush and have some wine. We said the blessing and drank the wine and then he gave us the flag.” The man said, “I have been saving this flag since 1948 when we lost Jerusalem, hoping and praying for this day.

Don’t be sad. We are a strong people.

And with that, we jumped up, formed a circle and started singing and dancing Rebbe Nachman’s familiar words. We shouted, “Kol haolom kulo gesher tzar maod, v’haikar lo lefachad klal. The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the essence is not to be afraid.” We sang and we danced. The crowd took videos and pictures. We hugged Dani and we hugged each other.

The Jewish people are inspiring. The Jewish people are resilient.

Draw strength from these stories. Draw strength from our resilience.

The Psalmist declares, “Adonai oz l’amo yitain, Adonai y’varech et amo b’shalom. Adonai will grant strength to the people. Adonai will bless the people with peace.” Even though we may pray for peace, shalom comes not before but after strength. (I thank Rabbi Shani Ben Or for this teaching.) And we have an extraordinary amount of strength. We will emerge even stronger. And then I continue to pray, we will find peace.

First and for now, let’s focus on the strength. Adonai oz l’amo yitain! God grant us strength.

A Wounded Torah, A Defiant Spirit

Judah, the namesake of the Jewish people, draws near to the brother he no longer recognizes. His brother Benjamin is held in captivity. He pleads for his release. “Then Judah drew close to Joseph.” (Genesis 44)

Over the years the distance between American Jews and Israel has grown. We no longer seem to speak the same language. Israelis talk about survival. American Jews argue about tikkun olam. October 7th has transcended this distance. It is shrinking the dissonance.

I plead. We cannot grow apart. We must not remain divided.

At present I am here in Israel on a rabbinic solidarity mission. I am here to convey our support. I am here to bear witness to the tragedy...

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Wearing Our Jewish Identities

In 1885 a group of Reform rabbis gathered in Pittsburgh. They agreed on eight principles. Among them was the following:

We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.

Several weeks ago, an intelligent and well-spoken college student (Jacob Rosenberg!) spoke to the congregation about his experiences at the University of Pennsylvania. A congregant asked asked him if he wears a kippah when walking around campus. Jacob answered that he did not. Like his rabbi, he refrains from wearing such “rabbinical dress” outside of the synagogue. And so, perhaps, the questioner implied he can more safely walk around campus.

I have been thinking about that exchange for some time. I wear a kippah when I pray and study, and when I officiate at occasions, but not when walking around outside. We do not wear clothing that clearly identifies us as Jews.

Throughout the Joseph story, 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, this week we read: “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, Joseph looks like an Egyptian. He is unrecognizable. His clothes, and apparently his mannerisms and language, allow him to hide from his family even though he stands right in front of them. He is not yet able to let go of the trappings of his Egyptian identity and reveal himself to his brothers.

What do we hide? What do we hesitate to proclaim?

What do we reveal? What do we proudly declare?

Later Joseph removes his mask and embraces his brothers in forgiveness. He is only able to do this after realizes they have changed. When they refuse to consign their younger brother Benjamin to slavery as they once did Joseph, he is able to reveal himself. It is then that Joseph unmasks his identity. Joseph discovers that he is more a brother, and a member of the family of Israel, than an Egyptian. Despite the trappings of his attire, his inner self becomes one with his outer identity.

Are we the same on the outside as we are on the inside?

Recently I asked my seventh graders what they can do to proudly declare their Jewish identities. They offered answers that spoke to clothing and dress. “Wear Jewish swag,” one suggested. “What’s Jewish swag?” I asked. “IDF T-shirts! Bar mitzvah sweatshirts. Bat mitzvah hats.” Other chimed in, “Wear a Jewish star.”

No one suggested a kippah. Another student offered, “Give tzedakah. Be kind to strangers.” I asked, “How would someone know that you’re doing those things because you are Jewish?” We arrived at answer. Perhaps it is not so much about what others think and more about reminding ourselves who we are.

Still the question remains, what more can we do to wear our Jewish pride on our sleeves? What can we do to remind ourselves, and others, that we remain proud Jews?

I don’t believe it is as simple as a kippah. I do think it is a continuous effort—inside and out.

We Need a Miracle Now!

Israeli dreidels are different than ours. One letter is changed. Whereas our dreidels have the letters nun-gimmel-hey-shin, theirs show nun-gimmel-hey-pay. These letters remind us of Hanukkah’s message: “a great miracle happened there.” In Israel they instead proclaim, “a great miracle happened here.”

On the one hand, one letter seems to make little difference. A miracle is a miracle after all. On the other, whether we say, “here” or “there” can suggest a world of difference.

For years I thought, keeping miracles at a distance was the safer approach. Like the rabbis of old I believed that when the miraculous gets too close, when we feel that God is nearby working wonders, we begin to lose our grip on reality. We cease to do the hard work of improving our world. We think, “God will take care of it. I can sit back and wait for God.”

Like the Maccabees of old we can become infatuated with God’s power, and even intoxicated with God’s nearness. We start saying things like “We are instruments of God’s power. Our victories are evidence of God’s majesty.”

Such thinking leads to corruption and oppression. This is exactly what happened to the ancient Maccabean dynasty. They persecuted those who disagreed with them. Unlike the rabbis, the Maccabees did not believe in compromise and peace making. The rabbis sought to keep God near through our prayers but distant from the earthly and political.

And so, until the founding of the modern State of Israel, we safely said “there.” We kept God in our thoughts. We affirmed God’s miraculous powers but kept such power and might far away. Miracles like those military victories of the Maccabees happened there and not here.

We avoided zealotry. We pushed away the tendency to see God in the political. We hesitated to say, “God is on my side (and not yours).” There was safety in the rabbinic approach. That little dreidel, and that one letter difference, hints at a tension that has followed us through centuries of pain and struggle.

The rabbis believed in God’s power but skeptical when it was wielded by human hands. Listen to the blessing over the candles: “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who performed wonderous deeds for our ancestors in days of old at this season.” Miracles happened back then—and for them.

For years, I focused on the words “in days of old.” I shared the rabbis’ skepticism. I affirmed their worries. I seek peace and compromise. I wish to avoid zealotry.

I believe in miracles—but back then and over there.

These days, however, I find myself hoping and praying for a miracle in this season. I feel we need one here and there—and most importantly now. This year our prayers feel different. Our blessings are tinged with hopes of yesteryear.

I push caution aside.

We need a miracle now!

The Strength of Forgiveness

The Torah is told through Jacob’s perspective. He is the patriarch of what becomes the people of Israel. His brother Esau on the other hand is the father of our future enemies.

And yet I find myself admiring Esau and not Jacob. Esau is a man of action. Jacob is ruled by fear. The Torah notes his fear on a number of occasions. We read, “Jacob was greatly frightened.” (Genesis 32)

Here is what brings them to this current fear filled moment. After twenty years of living apart, the two brothers are about to meet. Jacob stole the firstborn birthright from Esau by conspiring with their mother and tricking their blind father. (As my bar mitzvah student rightly noted, “Lying to your blind father is really bad.”) Esau then threatens to kill Jacob and so he runs away. There he was married, fathered many children and gained considerable wealth. Esau also achieved success.

Now Esau is marching towards his brother. He is accompanied by 400 men. Jacob assumes the worst and apparently thinks, “My brother has finally come to kill me.” We know little of Esau’s inner thoughts. And yet we can discern something of his feelings from what he does.

The Torah’s language suggests Esau loves his brother and is overwhelmed by feelings of “I have missed you so much.” Listen to the staccato beat of action.

“Esau ran toward Jacob. He embraced him. He flung himself upon his neck. He kissed him.”

The Torah makes plain. Jacob does not apologize for his past misdeeds. For Esau such an apology appears unnecessary.

I can imagine the scene. Jacob bows low as his brother approaches. As Esau draws closer, Jacob stands in place, unable to move, terrified that his earlier deception might still lead Esau to carry out his twenty-year-old threat. Esau grabs hold of his brother in an embrace. And yet Jacob is still frozen by fear. He thinks, “Maybe he means to cut my neck.” (Fear misdirects the imagination.) Esau now throws himself on Jacob’s neck. He kisses him over and over again.

In the Torah the word for kiss has unusual markings. There is a dot over each letter. There are several interpretations of these markings. Many traditional commentaries suggest that Esau hesitated. This is because they see Esau in a negative light. They assume the best about Jacob and the worst about Esau. (A history of hatred and persecution by the descendants of Esau finds its way into generations of interpretations.)

The rabbis argued that even when Esau was in Rebekah’s womb he was bent on wrongdoing and attracted to idolatry. Jacob on the other hand was drawn to Torah study and the houses of learning that taught it from his earliest days. In a sense, he loved Torah from conception. And our destinies were sealed from birth.

I think however that the Torah’s language suggests otherwise. Jacob allowed fear, and perhaps even regret, to rule his life. He stood frozen before his brother. Esau kissed him again and again until the Torah states: “They wept.” The tears were unleashed by Esau’s courage and action. He would not let go, he would not stop kissing his brother, until they both cried.

It is bewildering that our forefather Jacob is gripped by fear while Esau makes all the moves. Our hero stands mute. Our nemesis is courageous and forgiving.

Both examples are contained in our sacred Torah.

These days I am drawing strength from Esau’s example. I do not wish to be ruled by fear.

There is courage and strength in the embrace of forgiveness.

How Awe Inspiring Is Every Place

Most of the time we walk around like Jacob, sleeping and dreaming. We fail to see the divine that stands right before us.

Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, “Surely Adonai is present in this place, and I did not know it!” (Genesis 28)

The question is how do we fashion such moments? The first and most obvious answer is to be attuned to nature. If we turn away from the dispiriting news and look instead at autumn’s beautiful colors, we might catch a glimmer of the divine. It appears as if a master artisan took a paintbrush to the trees and sky as well as the vegetables and fruits I prepare for our festive meal.

Breathe in the fall air. Take in the Artist’s handiwork. Despite the thunderous noise, and despair, that beset our world we can, like Jacob, glimpse God.

The holiday of Thanksgiving reminds us to give thanks for the food arrayed on our tables. Our tradition counsels us that we should offer thanks every time we sit down to eat. Regardless of the size of the meal we are taught to say a blessing.

Our home becomes a sanctuary through blessings. Our table becomes an altar through prayers. This is how Judaism helps us to summon the divine to the most ordinary of occasions.

Then again Jacob was running. He was fleeing for his life. He was alone and afraid. And so, these days I am struggling with how fear might create such holy moments. I am wondering. Is the feeling of calm that sometimes follows fear a taste of the divine?

Perhaps this is why so many people are adrenaline junkies and thrill seekers. They are chasing similar feelings. I have never done this, nor do I plan on doing this, but I imagine that bungie jumping and sky diving at first make one feel afraid but then, if one is to take the smiles and laughs as evidence, ecstatic highs. The fear that precedes is perhaps the necessary corollary to the feeling that follows.

In Hebrew the word for fear and awe are the same. Yirah can mean both fear and awe. They are mingled and interchangeable. It is an unsettling and troubling thought to contemplate. Fear and awe are dependent on each other.

Jacob awakes from sleeping. He is filled with fear and awe. The Hebrew offers one direct word: “Vayira!”) Jacob exclaims, “How awe-inspiring is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and the gateway to heaven.”

How awe-inspiring is every place! And now we acknowledge, even those which cause us fear.

Choosing to See or Not to See

Many commentators are critical of Isaac. Some have suggested that he is stupid. Others that he is limited.

Here is why. He is duped by his father Abraham. When Isaac asks, “Where is the sheep for the burnt offering?” (Genesis 22) Abraham answers that God will provide it even though Isaac is the intended sacrifice. Then Abraham does not trust him and sends his servant to find him a wife. The servant returns with Rebekah who Isaac marries. And finally, this week we read that his son Jacob tricks Isaac along with Rebekah’s help into offering him the first-born blessing instead of the rightful heir Esau.

We are left wondering. How can Isaac be so blind? The Torah reports: “Isaac was old, and his eyes were too dim to see.” (Genesis 27) One answer is that he is in fact blind. And yet, how can he not distinguish between one son and another? When Jacob stands before him with his requested steak dinner, he asks, “How did you succeed so quickly, my son?” Jacob responds, “Because the Lord your God granted me good fortune.” Sounds like Abraham! And Isaac’s response is the same.

Isaac recognizes his son Jacob’s voice but is tricked by the feel of his arms. Again, we are left to wonder. Maybe Isaac is stupid. Or instead, does he hear what he wants to hear? Isaac expects that it is Esau standing before him and so he “sees” Esau. How often do our expectations color what we see? (Or the algorithms confirm our opinions?) We see what we want to see. We hear what we want to hear.

Isaac is moved by others. He is a transitional actor who appears to have little agency. His father moves him in one direction and his son, and wife, move him in another. Maybe they are instruments of God’s design. We cannot control every facet of our lives. Sometimes we are moved by others. Sometimes God’s design is other than we intended or planned. How often do circumstances create unforeseen opportunities. And then we find ourselves standing in a situation not of our own design.

Can we discern the blessings inherent even when things don’t go as planned?

Perhaps we should view Isaac’s blindness as his agency. He sees the truth but does not, or cannot, say it aloud.

Without the occasional willful blindness we are lost.

Oliver Sacks, the great neurologist and writer, who like our forefather became blind later in life, remarks:

To what extent are we the authors, the creators of our own experiences? How much are these predetermined by the brains or senses we are born with, and to what extent do we shape our brains through experience? The effects of a profound perceptual deprivation such as blindness may cast an unexpected light on these questions. Going blind, especially later in life, presents one with a huge, potentially overwhelming challenge: to find a new way of living, of ordering one's world, when the old has been destroyed. (The Mind’s Eye)

We are constantly ordering, and reordering, our world. Sometimes we see. Other times we see what we want to see. Sometimes others move us in one direction or another. And other times we choose blindness.

All are required in the writing of any story. All move our story forward.

Coming Home Again and Again

This week Sarah dies. Abraham must now buy a burial plot for his wife. Despite their advanced age, he did not plan for this moment. He has no place to bury Sarah even though they resided in the promised land for sixty-two years. (Here is the math. God instructed them to leave their native land for Canaan when Sarah was sixty-five. She dies at the age of one hundred and twenty-seven years.)

The Torah states, “Then Abraham rose from beside his dead and spoke to the Hittites, saying, ‘I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site among you.’” (Genesis 23) One could argue that he is just negotiating effectively. He therefore self-deprecates before the landowner Ephron from whom he wants to buy the Cave of Machpelah.

Then again, Abraham’s identity appears to be that of a wanderer. After spending nearly half of his life in what is now the land of Israel, he still considers himself a sojourner. He never feels at home.

I am beginning to wonder if this is representative of the Jewish condition.

The early Zionists believed never feeling at home was our crucial deficiency. They sought to cure this feeling. They believed that the root of our problem was never having a home. They argued that the Jewish psyche was plagued by feelings of homelessness and beleaguered by unwelcome signs throughout the many lands in which we resided.

Israel’s Declaration of Independence proclaims, “The catastrophe which recently befell the Jewish people—the massacre of millions of Jews in Europe—was another clear demonstration of the urgency of solving the problem of its homelessness by re-establishing in the land of Israel the Jewish State.” The state is the answer to our wandering. It is a cure to our inability to see ourselves at home. It is response to the nations of the world’s refusal to say, “This is your home.”

Today, thousands of Israelis are unable to return to their homes. Those who built lives for themselves and their families in the South along Gaza’s border and the North along Lebanon’s are living in hotels in Jerusalem or at kibbutzim in the Galilee. They are no longer at home.

This is why the war with Hamas is an existential struggle. It is a fight to return home. It is a battle to restore our sense of home.

I never imagined that curing Jewish homelessness is an eternal struggle.

Will the descendants of Abraham ever feel at home in any land? Will the nations ever allow the Jewish people to call even a morsel of territory home?

I pray for our strength in this struggle.

I continue to hold fast to our dream. “To be a free people in our own land!”

Look Up at Miracles

Does God appear to us when we look up? Are miracles all around us if we lift our eyes?

In the opening of this week’s reading, the Torah proclaims: “The Lord appeared to Abraham at the oaks of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. He lifted up his eyes and saw three men standing near him.” (Genesis 18) These men are divine messengers who foretell Isaac’s miraculous birth to aged parents.

In the desert one can often see people approaching from a great distance and yet Abraham does not notice them until they are standing next to him. What took him so long to see these messengers approaching from a distance? Perhaps he was napping. The rabbis suggest he was still recovering from his recent circumcision. Regardless, all he needed to do was lift up his head.

And then God appears when he looks up, when he lifts up his eyes (vayisah einav).

There is a sense that lifting up our eyes is different than seeing. It involves more than looking. The head moves. The body turns. We see something that was there for some time or perhaps always there, but for some reason we were unable to see it until we move our eyes, until we open ourselves to the miraculous.

The refrain of lifting our eyes appears again at the end of this portion. An angel appears and tell Abraham not to sacrifice his son at the very moment he lifts the knife above his neck. The Torah continues: “Vayisah Avraham et einav—And Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw there a ram caught in the thicket by its thorns.” (Genesis 22). How long was this ram there? If it was caught in a bush, it must have been struggling to break free. How did Abraham not see the ram?

Was Abraham blinded by his obedience to God’s command? Was he unable to see because he was overcome by zeal to sacrifice his son? Did he not look up because he was so distraught that this is what God asked of him? In the last moment, Abraham moves his head, lifts his eyes and sees what God really intends: to sacrifice a ram and not his son.

Miracles stare us in the face but too often we are unable to see them.

The Psalmist declares: “I lift up my eyes to the mountains; from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 122)

Perhaps the miracle is the mountain. Perhaps help comes from looking up at nature.

Stop looking down. Start looking up. Don’t let the world, and its horrors, keep us from lifting up our eyes.

Miracles are all around us.

Where Our Concerns Begin and Today May End

What follows is my sermon from Shabbat Lech Lecha, three weeks after the October 7th massacre. It is in part a response to a younger generation’s more universalist impulses.

I opened the Torah portion in the hopes that it would serve as a distraction from world events and in particular the struggles of our brothers and sisters in Israel. At first the effort proved a success.

We read about God’s call to Abraham—Lech lecha. He is commanded to leave his native land and journey to the land of Israel. There God promises he and Sarah will become a great nation. But after ten years Abraham and Sarah are unable to realize even the slightest glimmer of God’s promise. They are unable to have a child and thereby secure their promised future. Out of desperation Sarah instructs Abraham to sleep with her maidservant Hagar so that she might have a child through her. Hagar becomes pregnant immediately. Sarah quite understandably becomes enraged. Not so understandably she treats Hagar harshly and Hagar then runs away.

We find Hagar away from the protection of her home in the wilderness. God appears to Hagar. An angel of the Lord instructs her to return to Sarah. The Torah states: “An angel of the Lord said to her, ‘Behold, you are with child and shall bear a son; you shall call him Ishmael, for the Lord has paid heed to your suffering.’” (Genesis 16) Ishmael means God hears. Here is a remarkable fact. God names Ishmael from whom Muslims trace their lineage. Furthermore, God responds to Hagar’s suffering.

And then after twenty-five years of struggling to have a child God finally responds to Sarah’s pain. Fourteen years after Ishmael is born, Isaac is born to Sarah. Here is how the Torah opens the telling of the birth of the person from whom we trace our lineage. “V’Adonai pakad et Sarah—The Lord took note of Sarah as the Lord had promised. Sarah conceived and bore a son.” (Genesis 21) Sarah names her son Isaac. His name means laughter because she laughed when God reaffirms the promise that she would have a child at 90 and Abraham at 100 years old. That response of hers makes total sense. Isaac’s birth, like that of other biblical heroes, is miraculous. Sarah does not know what else to do but laugh.

I was immediately struck by two realizations. God appears to Hagar first. God appears to Hagar before speaking to Sarah. And number two. God responds to suffering—namely Sarah’s and Hagar’s—with compassion. I was flabbergasted by these discoveries. I was bewildered that my efforts to find a path away from the news proved ineffectual. These days I see the news everywhere. It is inescapable even in the Torah’s pages.

We live in a similar world to that of Sarah and Hagar, where Jews and Palestinians both claim the crown of victimhood. We shout at each other and say, “Our pain is greater than yours.” We both fight for the right to say God is on my side. We also live in a world where feelings take precedence over facts, so teasing out historical truths from such strongly held beliefs becomes difficult and nearly impossible. Sentiments are not the same as facts. Be clear about that distinction.

These days I am wondering, is it possible to hear the voice of Hagar’s descendants? Is it necessary to respond to Palestinian’s suffering with compassion? Yes. And yes. Is it also possible to prioritize the pain of Sarah’s descendants? Is it equally necessary to be more attuned to the suffering of our own people? Again, yes. And yes. Let me explain in more detail.

We should feel compassion for the suffering and pain of Palestinians. To suggest otherwise is a betrayal of our values. They too are held prisoner in Gaza by Hamas. Israel is not always perfect. Its actions are not always righteous. Guess what is also true and seems even more necessary to say? Israel is not entirely to blame. Let’s be crystal clear about this fact. At present Israel’s goal is to reestablish deterrence against future terrorist attacks. It is to reaffirm its sacred obligation to its citizens: to offer them safety and security within its borders, to return the hostages to their homes. Its goal is not vengeance. Its intentions are pure.

If the State of Israel’s goal becomes revenge, then we should raise our voices in protest. And this is why I will continue to protest against settlers who vengefully attack West Bank Palestinians and blame all Palestinians for Hamas’ evils. At present we should say loudly and clearly that we stand with Israel in its fight against Hamas and its right to safeguard the lives of its citizens while also saying that we are saddened by the deaths of Palestinians.

Our tradition has always balanced this idea and held on to these sometimes competing values. Take for example the story about the Israelites’ rescue from Pharoah’s army as they were fleeing from slavery in Egypt. According to our tradition when the Egyptian army was drowned in the Sea of Reeds the angels burst out in celebration and song. God silenced them and said, “My children are drowning.” Likewise, we do not rejoice at the deaths of so many Palestinians. It is deeply saddening. We are horrified by what is required and necessary to guarantee our safety from antisemitic murder. That Hamas is primarily to blame for these deaths should not mitigate the human tragedy. God silenced the angels even though Pharoah was entirely to blame. Similarly, we prioritize the needs of our own people. I am not ashamed of choosing my family first.

Of course, this war is going to be violent and even more bloody. Nation states are not perfect—most especially when they wage war, even those of self-defense. Nation states may not even be what we believe to be the universal ideal. But in this imperfect world they are all we got. And that is a basic tenet of Zionism. In a world of nation states we need our own just as the Palestinians need their own. Furthermore, in a world where far too many people, leaders and nations seek the Jewish people’s destruction, our only defense is a nation of our own. I am not embarrassed by Jewish power. I do not feel guilty about its oftentimes messy expressions. I seek to better it, and improve it, but I do not want to do away with it. The answer is not to give up power or to even have less power. I do not want to turn the clock back to hundreds of years ago. I recall our tragic history.

Here is my belief. We should seek to make the Jewish nation state as compassionate as possible, but never at the expense of our own lives, not at the expense of our family’s lives. My teacher Yossi Klein Halevi writes:

The Jews today are no longer helpless. We can defend ourselves, and we can strike back against those whose vision of a better world depends on our disappearance. If progressives seek to turn our reclamation of power into their symbol of human depravity, we will deal with that too. History imposes on Jews the responsibility to confront the moral consequences of power. But October 7 wasn’t a response to the abuses of Jewish power; it was a reminder of the necessity of Jewish power. In a world in which genocidal enemies persist, powerlessness for the Jewish people is a sin.

Powerlessness is a sin, most especially when facing such unimaginable evil. Zionism and Israel are about reasserting our own power over history. Israel must respond to Hamas with force. This does not mean we should let go of our compassion or a vision of better future.

Our people trace their lineage to Abraham through Sarah. Muslims to Abraham through Hagar. I choose the son of Abraham and Sarah. I choose Isaac. Others choose Ishmael the son of Abraham and Hagar. God responds to both with compassion. I wish I had God’s capacity to respond with compassion to both and to all. In God’s eyes all of life is precious. In my limited human view, I prioritize the lives of those I hold most dear. For now, in this imperfect and dangerous world, and in this moment most especially I choose Sarah’s son and my people. I will continue to struggle to reclaim my feelings of compassion for all. I recognize however that I can only do this when my family is once again whole.

Until that day I will pray for Israel’s strength and resolve. I will pray that the hostages are reunited with their families. I will pray for peace—first for my people and then for all people. “Oseh shalom bimromav—May the One who makes peace in the high heavens makes for us and for all Israel—v’imru: amen.”

The Weight of Wealth

Rabbi ben Zoma taught: “Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.” (Pirke Avot 4) For the ancient rabbis wealth and riches are about perspective. Happiness is not related to how we typically define success. It is not a matter of winning the lottery. It is instead about being content with one’s lot. It is about not pining after what others have.

The Torah reminds us that our forefather Abraham was wealthy. “Now Abraham was very rich in cattle, silver and gold.” (Genesis 13) The Hebrew uses a curious phrase. “Avram kaved maod.” A literal rendition might read: “Avram was very heavy with cattle, silver and gold. The Hebrew suggests that he was weighed down by his riches.

The plain meaning is clear. The journey on which God sends Abraham is difficult not only because he must leave his ancestral home but because of all the riches he must carry with him. It is not easy to travel across the desert with so many belongings. It is not easy to shepherd a flock across the wilderness. Better to travel light. Abraham is unable to do so. And thus, he travels in stages. “And he proceeded by stages from the Negev as far as Bethel.”

Perhaps there is an even greater truth in this phrase “very heavy.” I am given to wonder. How do our riches weigh us down? How do they prevent us from seeing beyond ourselves?

For Abraham the Torah suggests that his accumulated wealth might have prevented him from leaving his home and answering God’s call, from setting out on the journey that forever defines the Jewish people and bringing us to the land that is now a source of our current anxiety but yet our eternal hope.

A curious fact. Holocaust survivors tend to accumulate portable wealth. They do not purchase valuable paintings and sculptures, but instead jewelry and watches. Such items can be easily carried on a person if one is forced to flee. Jewels can even be sewed into jacket liners if one needs to secret a family across borders. Such are the scars that survivors carry. They are always readying their escape.

For others wealth is often a stumbling block to change. We do no march forward for fear that we might lose our precious possessions. We do not set out on new journeys because we worry about their financial risks. Listen to Ben Zoma’s teaching. Wealth is a matter of a perspective.

There are many reasons why Abraham is called righteous. One reason is found in how he treats his wealth. In his hands all that silver and gold is transformed into an obligation.

For the righteous, wealth is weighty because it is a burden. It is a call to use our success in the service of others.

Wealth is not a privilege. It is instead a challenge. It is a call. “Lech lecha—Go forth!”

What Tikkun Olam Means Today

Throughout our tortured and tragic history Jews were taken hostage. Jewish communities often paid their ransom. The unparalleled medieval thinker, Moses Maimonides, exhorted his fellow Jews to redeem captives and even collected money for this purpose.

He writes: “The redemption of captives receives priority over sustaining the poor and providing them with clothing. Indeed, there is no greater mitzvah than the redemption of captives. For captives are among those who are hungry, thirsty, and unclothed. They are in mortal peril." (Mishneh Torah, Gifts to the Poor 8)

The rabbis ask, “Is there too high a price to pay for a captive?” They answer, “One does not ransom captives for more than their value because of tikkun olam.” (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 45a) Tikkun olam! Repair of the world!

We often use this term “tikkun olam” when arguing for the support of social justice causes. In this case, however, it implies that if we pay too much, we will undermine the world’s moral order. In other words, paying too much might overly burden the community. Or, the rabbis, go on to say, if we pay too much, the evildoers might be encouraged to take more hostages.

Throughout the years, I have studied these texts about pidyon shvuyim, ransoming captives. In the past I found the study of these sacred texts, and the wisdom of my rabbinic forebears, a helpful diversion from world events. “Look at the vexing questions of yesteryear,” I thought to myself. “Thank God, we don’t face such dilemmas!” Today, however, I find these texts only add to our grief. They compound our tragedy.

Hamas holds 203 hostages. I cannot get their pictures out of my mind. I cannot turn away from the image of an elderly grandmother carted off to Gaza in a golf cart, or the thought of injured, and brutalized, children being held captive.

Israel was intended to help us write a new story. Today we instead find ourselves revisiting an old story. And we lack the vocabulary to confront this challenge. I worry. If we rely, on previous understandings and prior texts, we may be returned to the past.

The instincts of liberal Jews are to fight against all wars. “Tikkun olam means peace,” we say. When attacked, and murdered, in this manner repair of the world can mean, and must mean, a restoration of the moral order. Hamas is the antithesis to the values we most cherish. Defeating these terrorists is the only option Israel, and the Jewish people, has.

In this hour, and in this moment, tikkun olam means fighting a war.

My teacher, Yehudah Kurtzer, writes: “The challenge we face is that the dominant moral instincts and biases that define liberal North American Jewry, including an abiding commitment to kindness, compassion, and peace, make it difficult to confront the sad and painful truth that Israel is fighting a just war based on a just cause, and that solidarity with both our fellow Jews and with our values means supporting this war against Hamas, as awful as it will be.”

Today, redeeming the captives is also about redeeming the Jewish soul. It is about once again liberating the Jewish people from victimhood and persecution. It is about protecting, and safeguarding, Jewish lives. It is about never again allowing Jews to be taken hostage or the Jewish soul to be held captive.

Today, fighting a just war is the fulfillment of tikkun olam.

Let’s Be Clear About Hamas

What follows is my sermon from the Shabbat services following Hamas’ October 7th massacre. At our celebration of Shabbat we raised our voices in prayer and song despite the threats that we should not. We refuse to be terrorized.

I hope and pray these words help us find a measure of clarity amidst this past week’s pain, heartbreak and the extraordinary loss of life.

The other day a friend said to me, “It’s terrible what happened in Israel.” And I said, “Yes. It is devastating. I am deeply pained and saddened.” He then added “I guess they have been fighting and killing each other since the beginning of time.” I looked away in bewilderment. I did not have the strength to confront him, but I wish I said, “Actually what has been happening since the beginning of time is that antisemites keep trying to kill us. And sometimes, they succeed in murdering us.” In every generation, in every land, we been forced to confront this sad, but inescapable truth.

Rarely have I felt so alone as in that moment or during this past week.

Hamas celebrates the murder of Jews. They do not want to make peace with Israel. Saturday’s massacre did not happen because Israel is occupying the Gaza Strip. It is not. Israel withdrew its soldiers and settlers from Gaza in 2005. Hamas’ quarrel is not with a controversial settlement built on a West Bank hilltop made sacred to some because of its mention in the Bible. Kibbutz Beeri, the community that lost ten percent of its members—100 were murdered out of a community of 1000—was founded in October 1946. It sits within the boundaries of Israel’s internationally recognized borders.

Hamas’ aim is the destruction of the State of Israel and the murder of Jews. I cannot fathom why this is so difficult for people to understand and comprehend. I cannot come to grips with the fact that people are still defending these murderers. Supporting Palestinian rights should actually mean opposing Hamas.

Last Saturday our people were intended to celebrate our beloved Simhat Torah, the day of our great rejoicing. All we wanted to do last week was sing and celebrate and dance. And that is the most important reason why I am here on this Shabbat. I will not allow the terrorists to rob me, and us, of our Shabbat joy. What I wish I had said to that friend was, “Yes. No one seems to want to let Jews live in peace.” To be honest, it might be better to say more simply, “To let us live.”

Then again, I was heartened by President Biden’s words of support. He said, “This attack has brought to the surface painful memories and the scars left by millennia of antisemitism and genocide of the Jewish people. So, in this moment, we must be crystal clear: We stand with Israel. And we will make sure Israel has what it needs to take care of its citizens, defend itself, and respond to this attack. There is no justification for terrorism. There is no excuse.” I am buoyed by the United States government’s efforts to lend military aid to Israel.

I have other friends of course and many of them called me and texted me offering support. Most are not Jewish. They remain equally horrified by what they read and saw and so wanted to lend a comforting shoulder to the friend they know has deep connections to Israel. I sense their love and concern. And it helps. Their words briefly temper my feelings of abandonment.

There has also been a significant outpouring of support from world leaders. And yet, these words so often seem tempered. I don’t recall, for example, when the UN secretary general offered support and condolences to the United States after the terrorist attacks of 9-11, in the next sentence added a warning about the need for the US to exercise restraint when going after those responsible for the attacks.

My teacher, Yossi Klein Halevi, writes: “Israelis will tell you: We don’t need the world’s sympathy only when the violated bodies of our family and friends are being displayed to cheering mobs in Gaza. We need that sympathy most when we attack those who have carried out these atrocities. If you can’t distinguish between an army that tries to avoid civilian casualties and a terrorist group that seeks to inflict them, then spare us the condolences.”

And I would add don’t say that Israel does not intentionally target civilians. Say instead Israel’s goal is not the murder of as many Palestinians as possible. Its armed forces seek not so much the destruction of the enemy, but the defense of this simple idea, let us live our lives. Of course, we should be saddened by the deaths of innocent Palestinians and the destruction of homes and the upending of Gaza and the further impoverishment of its residents. Israel will make mistakes in its prosecution of this war, but its actions are justified, its intentions pure.

Hamas is largely to blame for these events. The IDF seeks not the destruction of Gaza but the preservation of Israel. And that in a nutshell sums up the conflict. Make no mistake about this terrible fact. If Hamas could, they would murder all seven million Israeli Jews, as well as those two million Israeli Arabs who have built lives for themselves in Israel. They would murder every Jew throughout the world if they could. That is their stated goal. Saturday’s massacre should wash away any doubts about Hamas’ intentions.

In our hour of grief, we acknowledge, our people were murdered. We say our people are being attacked. Our people are now traumatized and terrorized. This is not the moment for disagreements, or even debates about what went wrong. This moment calls most of all for solidarity and unity.

We will carry this grief with us. Next year’s Simhat Torah will still be tinged by memories of this year’s massacre. Every celebration will be colored by a measure of these deaths. The Psalmist sings, “You turn my mourning into dancing.” Even though that appears now upended, the joyful dancing of Simhat Torah is now our grief, one day I am confident, because as much as I have studied our tragedies, I have also come to know our triumphs, our dancing will be restored. I have faith that our hope will triumph.

We are the people of hope, who against all odds and expectations, returned to the land that once exiled us. That of course is the meaning of Israel’s national anthem, Hatikvah. “Od lo avdah tikvateinu—our hope is not yet lost.” Not in 1945 and not in 2023!

“L’hiyot am chofshi b’artzeinu—to be a free people in our own land.” We are the people who know how to hang on to hope. Don’t ever forget that. And don’t ever forget that now we must also hang on to the unity of the Jewish people.

We will triumph. We will live. And we will once again dance

Have Faith in the Jewish Spirit

The other day I was picking what will probably be the last of my garden’s cherry tomatoes. It was a rather inconsequential harvest. Ten tomatoes. My mind wandered away from what I had hoped to be the restorative power of gardening to a more bountiful harvest in another place and time. I recalled traipsing through the tomato fields of a kibbutz near the Gaza border. Their cherry tomatoes were the best I had ever tasted.

Today, I can no longer savor their sweetness. Kibbutzniks are murdered. On Kibbutz Beeri alone one out of every ten members are dead. Field workers from Thailand and students from Nepal killed as well. In all 1,300 were murdered. 3000 injured. 150 taken hostage. We grieve for the dead. We pray for those injured—and the countless more traumatized. We hope for the hostages’ safe return.

The sheer inhumanity of Hamas is difficult to comprehend. The terrorists’ barbarity is indescribable…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.  

Dancing Heals the Soul

This Friday evening, we will celebrate the joyous holiday of Simhat Torah when we mark the conclusion of the Torah reading cycle and then its immediate beginning. We chant the last verses of Deuteronomy and the first verses of Genesis.

The cycle never stops. As soon as we conclude the reading, we begin it again. Torah defines our lives. It encircles our year.

And so, it is our custom to unroll the entire scroll around the sanctuary. It is an extraordinary site and one not to be missed. We are reminded that Torah defines us. We behold how Torah encircles us.

This holiday is also marked by additional music and song, celebration and dancing. Allow me to focus on dancing.

Everyone can grab the opportunity to dance on Simhat Torah. Everyone can grab hold of the Torah and start moving their feet. The hakafah, the circling of the sanctuary and dancing with the scrolls, can offer us much needed strength for the year ahead.

And yet, I wonder why people are often reticent to dance. We should take to heart the words of the Hasidic master, Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav. He said: “Get into the habit of dancing. It will displace depression and hardship.”

This is certainly what I believe. I admit. Sometimes it might appear that I have shpilkes on the bima. But my feet are moved by our tradition’s prayers. The music and songs overtake my legs. This is why I can often be found on the dance floor at the many simchas I am privileged to attend.

The joy overtakes me. It commands my feet to move. Rejoicing overwhelms my being.

Take this to heart. Dancing cures most ailments of the soul.

Get into the habit of dancing!

This Beautiful, Fragile Earth

The Hebrew month of Tishrei offers a flurry of holidays that come one right after another. It begins with Rosh Hashanah. This is soon followed by Yom Kippur. Tomorrow evening begins Sukkot and then a week later Simhat Torah. There is no rest from our celebrations.

On the High Holidays we spend our days in synagogue recounting our wrongs, apologizing to friends and family, and seeking to better ourselves. The faith that we can correct our failings is paramount to these days. It may not be easy, but it is possible.

This effort of bettering ourselves does not conclude with Yom Kippur. It is ongoing. And yet these holidays restore our hope that change is possible, and repair can be achieved. We leave these services with our faith in God not only restored but also in ourselves. We can do better.

And then, a few days later, we enter the sukkah. Whereas Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are inner directed, Sukkot turns our hearts outward. We are commanded to spend as much time as possible in these temporary booths unless of course it is raining. The joy of the holiday takes precedence over “dwelling in the sukkah” and so if the weather becomes intolerable, we eat dinner in our homes.

The High Holidays helps to restore our faith that we can control some aspects of our lives, that how we behave towards others is within our grasp. Sukkot, on the other hand, reminds us that life can be as fragile, and unpredictable, as the weather and these temporary booths in which we are directed to live.

Whether or not our sukkah will withstand the winds and rains is always a question. Whether we will be able to eat every dinner, or spend any late night, in the sukkah is anyone’s guess. (The weather app is not always right!) Life can be as unsettling as the weather. Life can be as delicate as this flimsy booth.

Sukkot is a reminder of life’s fragility. It is also a reminder that we are dependent on the earth. On Yom Kippur we spent hours and hours praying and singing, learning and celebrating in the comfort of our synagogue, and homes, that keeps the rain out (most of the time!), now our Sukkot holiday celebration is entirely dependent on the earth.

We do not know what is in store for us in the coming week.

And so, what are we to do?

Celebrate the gift of this holiday. Rejoice with family and friends. Take in the beautiful, full moon that will peer through the sukkah’s flimsy roof. And try as hard as we can to give thanks for the rain that nurtures the earth.

Rejoice in the gift, and fragility, of our beautiful earth.

Grieving for Friends

What follows is my meditation from the Yom Kippur Yizkor memorial service and the lessons I am learning from grieving for my friend Todd.

The Jewish tradition obligates us to mourn for these relations: parent, spouse, sibling and child. It demands that we recite Kaddish when we lose our mother or father, husband or wife, sister or brother, son or daughter. This is not a statement about how one feels. Whether we talk to our parent every day, or the relationship is fraught with tension Judaism says, “Mourn. Recite Kaddish.”

Obligation is the path our tradition offers us through the valley of the shadow of death. It is as if to say, when you feel lost, when you don’t know what else to do, hold on to these well-worn rungs to lift you forward. This sentiment is so strongly felt that some refuse to attend this Yizkor service if they are not obligated to mourn.

In January, I lost my friend. His death at the age of fifty-two remains a shock with which I still struggle. Todd and I shared many hours together, riding our bikes, running the trails or swimming in the sound. And so, when he died, I discovered that I did not know what to do. The mitzvah was gone. The road that I had offered others, the path that I explained to so many as offering a ladder to which to hold, was absent. I have spent the better part of these months contemplating the gap between these overwhelming and bewildering feelings of loss and the succinct and clear obligation to mourn. I grieve, but the path belongs to others.

I know many have lost loved ones this past year. I have seen your grief. I know as well that many have likewise lost friends. I have seen your tears at these funerals. I have seen you cry, and your nods, when the obligated child stands to mourn the parent who is the friend with whom you shared so many occasions. I have witnessed you struggle to hold the mourners in your arms even though your tears burn your cheeks. The tradition does not command us, “Say Kaddish.” Of course, we can. Of course, we can choose to obligate ourselves. I do not make much of the superstitions that suggest otherwise.

And yet I am left wondering. What if the obligation offers rescue? What if that path of commandment and observance offers at least guideposts along this long, tortured journey. They do not heal the pain. They do not explain the loss. They offer instructions when it is so unclear what to do.

Judaism organizes our lives around obligation. My heart is wrapped up in feelings.

And yet I know of no way forward but the prescribed path. I understand no journey without lengthy to do lists. “Leave a stone. Say Kaddish.” The heart will be assuaged. The hurt continues. At least now the hand and the mouth have their instructions. And they might serve as a balm to the grieving heart.

Say Kaddish. Leave a stone.

Standing with Israeli Protestors

What follows is my Yom Kippur morning sermon.

Fifty years ago, the armies of Egypt and Syria launched a surprise attack on Israeli forces in the Sinai desert and Golan Heights. It was on this very day of Yom Kippur in 1973. Israel suffered terrible losses especially in those initial days. American Jews awakened to war. Rabbis hurriedly adjusted their Yom Kippur messages. Israeli soldiers on the front lines were ordered to break their fasts. Reservists’ names were read from the pulpit. In one synagogue, a young man stood when his name was called. His father embraced him and refused to let go. The rabbi descended from the bima and quietly said, “My friend, your son’s place is not here on this holy day.”

I recall my parents’ worry. I did not share their concern. At the age of nine I had already imbibed the legends of Israel’s bravado and its Six Day War success. I did not understand their fear. From day one I had confidence that Israel would be victorious in the face of even unimaginable odds. It was led by Golda Meir and Moshe Dayan after all. I believed Israel would prevail—quickly and decisively. The war lasted for nearly three terrible weeks. In the end, and in part because of an American airlift of supplies, Israel pushed the Egyptians beyond the Suez Canal and the Syrians from the Golan. Nearly 2700 Israelis were killed and over 7000 injured. The Egyptian and Syrian war dead were estimated in the tens of thousands. Our enemies attacked us on the holiest day of the year. We, however, persevered.

Or this is how we like to tell the story. This is how we like to hear the tale…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Gates Are Meant To Be Opened

What follows is my Yom Kippur evening sermon.

One of the highlights of visiting Israel is visiting Jerusalem. And one of the highlights of visiting Jerusalem is visiting the Old City. It never gets old, so to speak. There you can walk through the thin alleys of the Arab shuk, squeeze past Christian pilgrims going to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher or run ahead of Moslem worshippers rushing to afternoon prayers at the Al Aqsa Mosque. You can grab a fresh squeezed orange juice from a vendor or argue over the price of T-shirts with a hawker. You can wait in line for a falafel, explore the archaeological remains below the city’s streets and along with thousands and thousands of other Jews touch the stones of what remains of the ancient Temple. There, you can place your hands on the Kotel, the Western Wall.

To get to these sites one typically enters the city through Zion Gate. Other times we walk through the busy Jaffa Gate or even through the Dung Gate depending on where the tour bus finds parking. There are actually eight such gates. Dung sits adjacent to the Arab town of Silwan and is where the trash was taken out from the city in ancient times. The path to Jaffee Gate that before 1967 was no man’s land is now lined with a shopping mall. And Zion is still pockmarked with bullet holes from the fierce fighting that occurred there during the 1948 war. I am particularly fond of this gate. It retains its ancient bend so that you cannot walk straight through, and I often have to jockey for position with a car that wants to make its way out.

Long ago this bend served as an added defense against invaders. Just as the cars cannot speed through the gate so too foot soldiers had difficulties running straight through. This bend is also reminiscent of the judicial benches built into the gates in ancient times. It is where people took their cases and judges sat, rendering judgements. It is a common biblical motif and one that is taken up by many of our prophets. Amos shouts: “Hate evil and love good,/ And establish justice in the gate.” (Amos 5) He meant this literally. Judgement sits at the edges. Justice stands at the periphery.

I have been thinking about gates and the space they occupy in our lives. They are the boundary between us and them, between our perceptions of safety and danger. They are the liminal passageway through which we render daily judgments about what is ok and what is not. We organize our lives around such gates.

In the St Louis of my youth, I grew up in a subdivision called Lac du Bois, a fancy sounding French name for Lake of the Woods. Recall that it is not as we say St Louis but “Saint Louis.” Or that the small town in which Lac du Bois is located is not pronounced as we do Creve Coeur, but the French “Creve Coeur.” Later I can tell you the story about the Native American princess and her broken heart for which the town is named, but these days I am thinking about how intimidating those subdivision gates might appear to others. And how all these names, and all this language, makes some insiders and others, outsiders.

There is judgment in a name. There is exclusion in language. Even though the subdivision’s gates were always opened they remained locked to some.

This evening I wish to meditate on the inadvertent gates we too often construct. This is the Yom Kippur confession I offer.

In Jerusalem’s Old City the gates are obvious. In our lives they are hidden to those who sit inside. We need to shine a light on these gates and acknowledge them. Let us dwell on these gates and most especially on those that provide us with unknowing reassurance but to others exclusion.

This all became glaringly apparent to me as I prepared for a wedding this past June. Every wedding is of course different. Every couple is unique and every ceremony joyous, but David and Max’s wedding was unlike any I had officiated at in my thirty plus years of rabbi-ing. David and Max are gay. They are two grooms. It is not that I refused to officiate at gay or lesbian weddings years ago, but no one had asked. No congregant had invited me to do so. I was grateful for the invitation.

We studied the ceremony together. I pored over the tradition’s language that I have nearly memorized. “Mi adir al hakol, mi baruch al hakol… hu y’varech chatan v’kalah—who blesses the groom and bride.” I may have unlatched the gate, but Max and David threw it open. The ceremony’s gates are everywhere. “Hattan v’kalah. Bride and groom.” They appear on nearly every page. Should I say, “reim ha-ahuvim—loving companions” in its place or “hattan v’hattan—groom and groom?” We spoke openly about their meanings. We decided to interchange both terms. What about the vows? The list appeared lengthy. They forgave my gaffe when I, in one of our preparatory meetings, asked, “How many people are in the bridal party?” The language of yesterday is carved in our brains. It does not, however, have to be etched in our hearts. I rejoice in their love. It was a splendid and joyous occasion. Mazel tov David and Max! Thank you for the teachings.

I am left wondering how many locked gates are arrayed before us. How many does our inheritance arrange while we sit unknowing and unaware within its walls? Our language and how we idealize relationships can be doorways to openness or locked gates turning people away. In our traditions’ efforts to make us feel like insiders it may make more people than we realize feel like outsiders.

I am holding on to the symbolism of the huppah. It is open on all sides. We usually explain it this way. The huppah is open to symbolize that a couple’s home should be welcoming to others. It should include not just friends but family. It should most especially be open to the new family each partner is joining. The couple is now one family and no longer two. But perhaps we should see the huppah’s openness in a different manner. It is open to all who wish to sanctify their commitment and love. It has no gates. It offers no judgments!

Reverend Victoria Safford, an author and minister, writes: “Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of Hope—not the prudent gates of Optimism, which are somewhat narrower; nor the stalwart, boring gates of Common Sense; nor the strident gates of Self-Righteousness…. nor the cheerful, flimsy garden gate of ‘Everything Is Gonna Be All Right.’ But a different, sometimes lonely place… the piece of ground from which you see the world both as it is and as it could be, as it will be….” Open the gates of hope. Every loving relationship offers promise. Place your faith in hope. Too often we say things like, “That’s not really marriage.” Or “That’s not what God wants.” But how can we be so sure? We shut others out to our own demise. When we close those gates, we banish hope from our own souls.

Back to neighborhoods. Recently I installed a ring doorbell. It’s awesome. I can see when packages are delivered. I can get notified when someone is at my door, even when I am not home. I did not know about another one of its features called “Neighbor,” but it confirmed my love-hate relationship with technology. Before I figured out how to turn these Neighbor notifications off, I was receiving frequent alerts that said for example, “Man carrying plastic bag and when I didn’t answer he tried to enter my backyard. He lurked around my house for about 45 minutes.” Or the following, “Man carrying green bag and smoking and walking into yards and snooping around property.” Everyone is suspect.

Keep the doors locked. Scan the property for anyone who does not look like us. Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to critique the need for us to have security or ignore the frightening increase in antisemitism, or the daily occurrences of violent gun attacks in our country, or to suggest if you are home alone that you should fling the door open to a stranger, but not everyone on the other side of the camera or the other side of the gate is dangerous. We are so worried about letting the wrong people in that we may be keeping the right people out. Just because they are on the outside does not mean they do not belong on the inside. Just because they are on the other side of our gates does not mean they are a threat, and that we should not welcome them in. The Torah is clear: “Love the stranger. V’ahvtem et ha-ger.” (Deuteronomy 10) And who is the stranger? It is the person who we feel is distant but stands right nearby. It is the person who sits just outside those gates. That is why judges sat at the edges of the city. We echo the prophets and affirm their message. How we respond to those on the periphery is a measure of our righteousness.

We have erected filters, whether they are the tradition’s eyes or technology’s cameras, through which we look out into the world. Take down those gates. We should caricature less. We should judge far less frequently. If we would take the time to sit across the table from others who are not yet friends, we might fill our hearts with hopefulness. And I am certain our souls will respond with gratitude. They will shout words of thanks.

A story. A few years ago, when traveling with Ari in Laos (I know not your typical rabbinic field trip), Ari convinced me not only to meet him in Laos but I also that we should sign up for a hike through the jungle. The destination for the hike was a remote Hmong village. I was quite trepidatious. I offered up many roadblocks before saying yes to the hike. I had a multitude of worries, chief among them the availability of gluten free food in the jungle. Ari opened the gate, and we walked through. Soon after the start of the hike, another traveler heard Ari’s unmistakable Long Island accent and asked, “Where on Long Island are you from?” We answered, “Huntington.” Turns out Rob grew up in Huntington and had just moved to of all places, Missouri. A friendship with Rob and his partner Melissa was born. Nowhere in our planning did we imagine the following, “Go to Laos, hike the jungle, discover a fellow Long Islander and become longtime friends.” I almost did not go! The gate is opened. Serendipity walks through. The soul is renewed.

When we open those gates, venture beyond their edges, and push past our fears, we encounter the unexpected. We welcome renewal. Too often fear stands in our way. It need not rule our souls. We forget. Gates are meant to be opened!

On this Yom Kippur let us open the gates. On this day when we seek to better ourselves, and when we recount most especially our frequent misuse of words, let us acknowledge those hurtful comments and inopportune phrases we too often utter. Let us work to throw these gates of “You don’t belong here” and “That’s not what marriage is meant to be” open. These gates exclude some we are meant to include. These bolted doors offer judgment where understanding and compassion will better serve not only others but us as well. We are very good at using these gates to keep others out. We are very good at using language to exclude people. We say things like, “That’s forbidden. This is not your place.” Or “Get off my property. They make me uncomfortable.”

Too often we think gates are only meant to be closed. We think they are all about protecting us. They are meant to be opened. They are intended to be invitations for welcome. Open the gates to the unexpected. Serendipity restores the soul. Hope is burnished by compassion.

A community is a hodgepodge of differences. Let’s sit like the judges of yesteryear at the periphery. Rather than offer their judgements let’s wave people in. Let us embrace others even if they don’t always look like us, or talk like us, or think like us, or act like us.

Soon we will be celebrating the holiday of Sukkot when we are supposed to welcome everyone into these temporary booths. The sukkah has no doors. Its walls, and its flimsy roof through which we must be able to see the stars, must all have a temporary quality. This temporariness enhances the sukkah’s openness. Its feel is akin to a tent. The sukkah cannot be so strong so as to be able to withstand a storm. When it rains, we are commanded to leave the sukkah and go inside to our house. The sukkah is too open to stand up against bad weather. Without doors and sturdy walls, without a roof that keeps the rain out, things do feel flimsy. Openness feels threatening. And so, what do we do? We bolt our doors. We erect formidable defenses, some in plain sight and others not even seen by ourselves.

We turn our focus on these locks and these gates. We soon forget how to open them. We forget even how to unlock them. We lose sight of how to invite others in. We look only within and only without through lenses and peep holes. Our vision narrows. We lose sight of those who sit on the edges. How do we now unlock the gates? How can we embrace the openness of the sukkah and not lose faith because of its apparent flimsiness?

Back to Jerusalem. “Rabbi Elazar said: Since the day the Temple was destroyed the gates of prayer are locked and prayer is not accepted as it once was. Yet even though these gates of prayer are locked, the gates of tears are never locked. One who cries before God may rest assured that these prayers will always be answered.” (Babylonian Talmud Brachot 32b) Tears open the gates if only we can hear them, if only we can see the pain that sits nearby.

Hear the cry of our forefather. I imagine that when Abraham was about to sacrifice his son Isaac on Mount Moriah, on the very spot where the Temple once stood and below which we can now touch the Western Wall’s stones, Isaac shed tears as he looked up at his father who was clutching the knife, lifted up above his neck ready to sacrifice him. Abraham was so zealous in his pursuit of what he believed to be God’s command that the angel had to shout his name twice to stay his hand. “Avraham! Avraham!—Abraham! Abraham!” Finally, Abraham looks up from his son and saw the ram which he then sacrificed in place of Isaac. Perhaps this was God’s intention from the very beginning. Isaac represents the hope and promise of the future. How could God want Abraham to sacrifice his son? If you don’t look, if you don’t open the gates of hope, you cannot really see. After slaughtering the ram, Abraham names the place, “Adonai yay-ra-eh—God sees.” (Genesis 22) Too often we are like that zealous Abraham slamming those gates shut, unwilling to see the person standing nearby and unable to see the tears before us. We close the door to hope.

If we do not see the person standing on the periphery, then we too are likewise blinded by what we believe. If we do not see the gates that bar others from feeling welcome, then we are just as zealous. How do we help to make these gates more visible so that we can unlock them? How can we no longer be blinded by zealousness? There is only one answer. And that is to sit with others and listen. It is to learn how others feel. It is to imagine how our words might sound to their ears. It is to open with compassion and invitation rather than exclusion and judgment.

According to tradition when the messiah comes to rescue the world the mashiach will come first to Jerusalem and begin the messianic redemption in the Old City. And through which of Jerusalem’s eight gates will the messiah enter the city? Shaar HaRachamim—the gate of compassion. Here is the funny thing about that gate. Today that gate is literally blocked up. It is filled with stones from floor to ceiling, all cemented together. The gate of compassion is sealed shut.

That seems the perfect metaphor for our age. We spend so much time erecting gates in our effort to keep others out, or to say people don’t belong, rather than the few moments it takes to unlatch them. Gates are meant to be opened.

The one gate that can unlock hope is blocked. The gate of compassion beckons if we but unlatch it. We are called not to judge. We are asked to welcome and invite. Only then will the messiah enter. Only then will redemption occur. Only then will hope return to our hearts.