We Have Returned Home

After nearly three years of war with Hamas, Hezbollah and Iran, as well as the battles against those who deny Israel’s legitimacy, it is sometimes difficult to recall Israel’s founding vision.  On May 14, 1948, when the state was founded, David Ben Gurion declared,

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 Eretz Yisrael the Jewish State, which would open the gates of the homeland wide to every Jew and confer upon the Jewish people the status of a fully privileged member of the community of nations. (Declaration of the Establishment of the State of Israel)

We wander no more.  The Jewish people have a home. 

There is no better expression of this return to our home and our language than Israeli poetry.  Among my favorite poets is Yehuda Amichai.  His poem, “Tourists,” captures the essence of this vision.

Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at Yad Vashem,
They put on grave faces at the Western Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.

Once I sat on the steps by a gate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists was standing around their guide, and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."

Redemption is not the stuff of poetry.  It is constituted by prose. 

We have returned home!

On this year’s Yom Haatzmaut this is what I affirm and celebrate.

Remembering Primo Levi

It is impossible to comprehend the loss of six million Jews.  It is difficult to come to terms with the devastation of European Jewry.  All we can do is hold on to a few stories.  And so on this year’s Yom HaShoah I remember one person. 

Primo Levi was born in Turin, Italy on July 31, 1919, to middle class Jewish parents.  His father worked for a manufacturing firm.  His mother played piano and spoke fluent French.  Both were well-educated and avid readers.  Although the family was not observant, Primo became a bar mitzvah at a local synagogue.  He excelled in school and studied at the university to become a chemist.  When Mussolini formed an alliance with Nazi Germany, Italy began to enact racial laws.  It was then that Primo Levi discovered his Jewish identity.  His chemistry diploma was stamped with the mark “of the Jewish race.”

In 1943 when Germany took over Italy he and some friends fled to the mountains to join the partisans.  Inexperienced and ill trained, they were soon captured.  When he was told by his Italian captors that resistant fighters were executed, he confessed to being Jewish.  He was sent to an internment camp near Modena.  When the Germans took over the camp, the Italian Jewish prisoners were herded on to cattle cars and shipped to Auschwitz. 

Levi said of the long train trip, “We said to each other things that are never said among the living.  Everybody said farewell to life through his neighbor.”  Of these 650 prisoners only 20 survived the eleven months, when the Russian army liberated Auschwitz on January 18, 1945.  Primo Levi was one of these survivors.  As the Russians approached the SS hurriedly evacuated the camp and forced its Jewish prisoners on a long death march.  Levi was spared this march because he had recently fallen ill with scarlet fever.  His illness spared his life.

His number in the camp was 1-7-4-5-1-7.  He wrote: “We have been baptized.  We will carry the tattoo on our left arm until we die.”  Later in life when Primo Levi was the director of a paint factory and traveled to Germany for business, he wore short sleeve shirts to display his tattoo to his tormentors’ unwitting, or perhaps knowing, accomplices.  He published his first book in 1947.  In Italian the title would be rendered to English as If This is a Man.  Later, in 1961, the book would be translated into English under the title Survival in Auschwitz.  Levi’s chemistry background influenced his writing.

He writes with an almost scientific precision.  He describes Auschwitz without feeling, in direct and seemingly objective terms.  He argued that the camps required a new way of speaking.  He writes, 

Our language lacks words to express this offense, the demolition of a man.  In a moment with prophetic intuition, the reality was revealed to us: we had reached bottom.  It is not possible to sink lower than this. Nothing belongs to us anymore; they have taken away our clothes, our shoes, even our hair; if we speak, they will not listen to us, and if they listen, they will not understand.  They will even take away our name; and if we want to keep it, we will have to find in ourselves the strength to do so, to manage somehow so that behind the name of us what we were still remains.

No book gives voice to the horrors of Auschwitz better than Levi’s work.  It leaves one cold.  It strips away all remnants of sentimentality.  If the book has a hero, it is Lorenzo Perrone who shared his bread and soup ration with Primo Levi.  Soon after the war Lorenzo succumbed to depression and alcoholism, dying on the streets in 1952.  In 1957 when Primo and his wife, Lucia, had a son, they named him Renzo, almost certainly after the man who helped him survive Auschwitz.  Lorenzo never asked for anything in return, yet everyday he shared his ration with Primo.

Primo Levi also battled depression.  He remained tortured by his experiences in Auschwitz.  On April 11, 1987, he fell down the stairs of his third story apartment in Turin.  It was the same apartment in which he was born.  Scholars and writers, and even the town’s coroner, believe his death to be a suicide.  He threw himself down the stairs.  Yet he left no note.  It seems darkly fitting.  He was plagued by questions.  He asked: How could a violinist become a callous taskmaster?  How could a physician become a brutal murderer?

Even Levi’s suicide is a resounding question mark.  It is the question that continues to hover over our generation.  Why do human beings commit such unspeakable evils against each other?  How can we be capable of such demonic hate?

In addition to his many books, Primo Levi authored numerous poems.  He writes:

You who live secure
In your warm houses
Who return at evening to find
Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider whether this is a man,
Who labors in the mud
Who knows no peace
Who fights for a crust of bread
Who dies at a yes or a no.
Consider whether this is a woman,
Without hair or name
With no more strength to remember
Eyes empty and womb cold
As a frog in winter.

Consider that this has been:
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them on your hearts
When you are in your house, when you walk on your way,
When you go to bed, when you rise.
Repeat them to your children.
Or may your house crumble,
Disease render you powerless,
Your offspring avert their faces from you.

The poem is entitled “Shema.”  Our generation’s command is a question.  We ask, “Is this is a man?  Can this be a woman?”

The Holocaust continues to beckon questions.  And we continue to affirm our faith. 

Shema Yisrael!

Prayer Moves Us Beyond the Self

This week we read a harrowing story. Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, bring a sacrifice, but are punished with death.

“Now Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before God alien fire—which had not been enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from God and consumed them.” (Leviticus 10)

What was their sin? The sages offer numerous suggestions. Some say the sacrifice was not specifically commanded by God. But this would suggest that there is no room for spontaneous prayers. Are we only to offer the prescribed prayers and not those of our own hearts? Others suggest it was an alien fire. What is such a fire? Translating the Hebrew as foreign or strange does not remove the question of how can a fire be alien.

Still others argue Nadav and Avihu were intoxicated. They find support for this argument because immediately after this episode a law is transmitted forbidding the consumption of alcohol when performing sacrificial rituals. It is wise not to mix drunkenness and prayer. Who knows what one might say when under the influence!

A few rabbis argue they were overzealous and inexperienced youths. They were impatient with their father Aaron who continued to maintain his position as High Priest, refusing to make room for their younger generation. And yet how can their sin be so great as to merit death? 

The punishment appears extreme. The story continues to trouble me. Perhaps there is still a message to garner. 

When offering a sacrifice, or a prayer, one must let go of selfishness. Nadav and Avihu’s sin was that that they did not carry their fire pans together.  The Torah makes clear: “each took his fire pan.”  They only thought of their own prayers. They were not united. 

The essential prayer always begins in the plural, with “we.” 

Sometimes it is difficult to think of others. We are burdened by our own worries. We reach out to God with our own troubles. This tendency is understandable. It is also not what God asks of each of us. God asks us to think of others, to pray with others in mind.

Is this always possible? It is not. And yet it remains our tradition’s ideal. 

Nadav and Avihu’s prayers are deemed unacceptable. The danger remains. We might become consumed by the fires of selfishness. Our prayers might then wither. 

We spend much of our days focused on our own needs—or those of our family. Prayer offers us the opportunity to think of larger concerns, to expand our reach and place others at the forefront of our concern. 

Prayer is an invitation to move beyond the self and join hands with others.

Passover Celebrates Our Departure

Passover celebrates our departure.  It does not mark our arrival.  That was always a far off dream.

In 1947, the United Nations debated the partition of Palestine.  David Ben Gurion advocated for a Jewish state in our ancient homeland and said,

Three hundred years ago a ship called the Mayflower set sail to the New World.  This was a great event in the history of England.   Yet I wonder if there is one Englishman who knows at what time the ship set sail.  Do the English know how many people embarked on this voyage?  What quality of bread did they eat?  Yet more than three thousand three hundred years ago, before the Mayflower set sail, the Jews left Egypt.  Every Jew in the world, even in America or Soviet Russia knows on exactly what date they left—the fifteenth of the month of Nisan; everyone knows what kind of bread the Jews ate.  Even today the Jews worldwide eat matza on the fifteenth of Nisan.  They retell the story of the Exodus and all the troubles Jews have endured since being exiled.  They conclude this evening with two statements: “This year, slaves.  Next year free.  This year here.  Next year in Jerusalem, in Zion, in Erez Yisrael.”  That is the nature of the Jews.

Arriving remains a hope.  This evening we will conclude our Seders with these same words.  We will proclaim, “Next year in Jerusalem.”  But we have arrived.   Jerusalem is the capital of the modern State of Israel. 

And yet our hopes remain unfulfilled.  Jerusalem does not know peace!   Shalom continues to elude us.  I wonder.  Do others have a problem with our arrival?   Are we destined to wander through history and never know peace. 

Reality never matches our hopes and dreams.  And yet for generations we stubbornly recited these words and affirmed this hope.  And we continue to shout them to this day.

Next year in a Jerusalem at peace!

At our seders I will recall that Passover is first and foremost about hope.  For two thousand years we held fast hope.  This year I will grab hold to hope once again. 

Nothing Is Beneath Us, Everything Can Be Made Holy

For the Hasidic rabbis everything has the potential for holiness.  There is no such thing as the everyday and ordinary.   The twentieth century philosopher Martin Buber comments,

In life, as Hasidism understands and proclaims it, there is, accordingly, no essential distinction between sacred and profane spaces, between sacred and profane times, between sacred and profane actions, between sacred and profane conversations.  At each place, in each hour, in each act, in each speech the holy can blossom forth. (Hasidism and Modern Man)

Everything is laden with potential sparks.  Holiness does not remain in the synagogue’s sanctuary.  It travels with us wherever we go.   Every task offers us an invitation to encounter the divine. 

In ancient times the priest not only attended to the sacrifices but had to do the messy work of removing the ash from the altar.  The priest was even charged with tending to the fire.  The Torah commands, “The fire on the altar shall be kept burning, not to go out: every morning the priest shall feed wood to it.” (Leviticus 6)

These tasks are not left to an assistant or groundskeeper.  They are obligations of the priest.  The behind-the-scenes work is just as important as the public work.  We tend to lavish praise on those who stand in front of the crowds but forget about those who tend to the arduous details before and after the event. 

Recently, as I was leaving a concert late one evening and I noticed two men arriving to the venue wear safety harnesses and carrying heavy ropes.  They were there to take down the lighting and stage works to move the concert to its next city.  They received no applause and no accolades.  That was reserved for David Byrne and his fellow musicians.  The work of these stagehands is a forgotten piece behind the events we so enjoy. 

Jackson Browne sings, “Now the seats are all empty.  Let the roadies take the stage.  Pack it up and tear it down.  They're the first to come and the last to leave.  Working for that minimum wage.  They'll set it up in another town.”

The Torah does not leave such tasks to roadies.  It instead assigns them to the lead performer.  It’s as if to say taking out the trash is just as important as every other chore.   It is not to be denigrated.  And it is not to be taken for granted.

It too can be infused with holiness. 

Next time when faced with a menial task, rather than dismiss it or suggest it is for others, embrace it and ask, “How can this elevate my life?  How can this seemingly mundane task lead to holiness?” 

There is nothing beneath us.  Everything can be made holy.

At each place, in each hour, in each act, in each speech the holy can blossom forth.

Sacrifices and Prayers

This week we begin the Book of Leviticus.  Its chapters are filled with practices we no longer observe, in particular sacrifices.  In ancient times we did not pray as we do today.  Instead, we sacrificed animals and presented meal offerings.  The Torah states, “The bull shall be slaughtered before God; and Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall offer the blood, dashing the blood against all sides of the altar that is at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.” (Leviticus 1). It is hard to connect to these passages and their blood. 

When Jerusalem’s Temple was destroyed, and the place where we performed these sacrifices no longer existed, the rabbis urged us to offer sacrifices of the heart, to offer prayers.  Where the Torah mandated sacrifices, the rabbis instituted prayer services.  Prayer became the legal substitute for sacrifice.  They continued to hope that one day the Temple will be rebuilt and the sacrificial system restored.

The tradition offers this prayer, “Find favor, Adonai our God, in your people Israel and in their prayers.  And return the sacrifice to the Holy of Holies.  In favor accept the fire-offerings of Israel and their prayers in love.  And may the service of Israel your people always be favorable.  May our eyes behold your return to Zion in mercy.  Blessed are You, Adonai, who restores God’s divine presence to Zion.”

To be candid, this is not my prayer.  In fact, our Reform prayerbook eliminates the hope to restore the sacrifices of old while clinging to the desire to return to Zion.  As I often joke to our b’nai mitzvah students who are challenged by such Torah portions, “I am really glad my job does not involve slaughtering animals and sprinkling their blood all over the bima.”  I hold out no hope that these sacrifices will be restored.

And so, what are we to make of these portions?  Do we, along with Moses Maimoindes, view sacrifices as a necessary first stage in the evolution of prayer?  At first, the Jewish people could not begin with the abstract idea of prayers of the heart.  They began with the concrete as a young child does. 

Still, these ancient sacrifices offered something that the abstract cannot.  One can hold them in one’s hands.  The person making the offering had to select the choicest of animals.  It must be without blemish.  That requires careful and thoughtful examination.  One could not approach the sacrifice with nonchalance. 

During prayer services our minds can wander.  They can challenge our attention span.  We prefer some prayers over others.  Some songs speak to us more than others.  Sometimes, we can find ourselves on a different page than what the cantor is singing, especially if I forget to announce the page number.  The concrete sacrifices seem more tangible than our abstract prayers.  They appear easier to grasp.

The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban.  It derives from the word meaning to draw near.  The essence of the korban offering is that one must give up something precious in order to draw near to God.  We make an individual sacrifice in order to get close to something even greater. We give up something we love to get closer to something even better. 

That of course is still the meaning of the word sacrifice.  I am wondering what we must give up so that our prayers can be even more meaningful.  Perhaps it is this.  We must sacrifice our individual desires and needs in order to enter the communal prayer experience. 

Everything about our prayers is about the collective. 

We celebrate together.  We mourn together.  We pray for the sick together.  We do not speak about individual needs, but instead about what we need.  It is about our hope.

We must sacrifice the “I” if but momentarily when entering prayer.  At least for one brief hour every week this is what we must let go of.  We must put aside the thoughts about what I want to do or even what my family needs and think only of the community at large.  Only then can we draw near to something even greater. 

The “I” gets plenty of time in our world.  The “we” deserves far more.

Banish Extremism

Robert Putnam observes, “People divorced from community, occupation, and association are first and foremost among the supporters of extremism.” (Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community)

Rabbinic Judaism was a response to many historical factors.  Among them was the danger of prophecy.  The prophet was the radical individual, and occasional violent extremist (see I Kings 18 where the prophet Elijah slaughters hundreds of prophets of Baal), who preached against the institutions of their day.  They only saw God’s truth.  The prophets were obsessed with their message.  They clung to ideals and abhorred compromise. 

The rabbis shunned extremism.  Rabbi Hisda taught: “If the zealot comes to seek counsel, we never instruct him to act." (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 81b)  The rabbis embraced discussion and debate.  They declared the age of prophecy over.  Radicalism gave way to compromise.  Extremism yielded to the needs of the community.  Our rabbinic forebears taught that it is always best to stay together.  An individual’s needs are secondary to those of the group.  Why?  Because the individual is lifted by community.

We are made better by our association with the group.  The community tempers our worst impulses.  It keeps extremism in check.  Then again sometimes the group can combine for disastrous ends.  Last week we read how the Israelites built a golden calf.  The people gathered against Aaron.  The Torah reports, “When Joshua heard the sound of the people in its boisterousness, he said to Moses, ‘There is a cry of war in the camp.’” (Exodus 32)

And this week we see the Israelites called together to build the tabernacle.  In both instances the gathering turns on the Hebrew root kahal.  There appears but one difference between the two.  In the former, the people gather and, in the latter, the people are gathered.   “Moses gathered the whole Israelite community.” (Exodus 35) 

The difference is one of leadership.  When left without direction and purpose the people resort to their worst impulses.  The building of the tabernacle provides a mission that redirects the people’s inclinations.  They gather for good.

According to the rabbis, the community is a salve.  It is the solution to selfishness.  It is balm against extremism.  It goads us, leading us to our higher moral selves.  But a group without proper leadership can go astray.  Then its worst impulses can lead to ruin.  Without purpose and mission, the group can devolve into sinful ends.

The question remains.  Who will step up and lead the way?

Why We Are Fighting Against Iran

What follows is my Shabbat evening sermon about the war against the Iranian regime.

I awoke Saturday morning to news about the start of the US-Israel war against Iran. I checked on family and friends living in Israel, in particular my nephew and cousins. I read the news incessantly. I listened to podcasts that I agreed with and those I disagreed with. I continue to read daily briefs. I worry. And so, this evening let me share my concerns and thoughts.

I have often said and continue to believe that we must take antisemites at their word. When they say they want to kill us, we should not say that’s just bravado. Our history is filled with too many examples of antisemites fulfilling their murderous fantasies and wiping out Jewish lives. And when antisemites try to get the means to kill even more of us, we should take them even more seriously. Since 1979 Iran’s leaders have chanted “Death to America” and “Death to Israel.” For decades they have sought to build nuclear weapons. There should be no pretending that the threat this regime represents to Jewish lives is real. There should be no pretending that the threat it represents to America and its interests is real.

My high school years were lived in the shadow of the Iran hostage crisis. I remember the daily counting of days on the TV from its first days to the 444th day. I recall the blowing up of the Marine barracks in Beirut. I cannot forget the bombing of the AMIA Jewish community center in Buenos Aires in 1994. We should recall that Iran continues to support Hamas and Hezbollah who share its antisemitic genocidal designs.

One core definition of Zionism is that we must defend Jewish lives not with words and arguments, but action and military might. We must write our own history and not sit around waiting to be the victims of history. Zionism is about taking the painful lessons of antisemitism to heart and taking the fight to the antisemites. There is no doubt that this war is Israel’s fight. That is why the vast majority of Israelis support it even though they are the ones running to bomb shelters in the middle of the night. Israel is obviously within firing range of Iran’s rockets! That is why to 93% of Israelis this is a necessary war of self-defense. And this is why to rabbis such as me who have read and lived too much recent history, filled with antisemitic attacks and terrorist bombings, understand the moral legitimacy of Israel’s fight against Iran. The State of Israel was founded in the shadow of the Shoah’s devastation. That past Holocaust motivates today’s preemption. I stand with Israel.

And yet military might can only achieve limited objectives. It can remove immediate threats. It can secure borders. Perhaps it can so decimate weapons stores, military know how and skilled commanders that it buys even longer-term security. But war cannot effectuate regime change. It’s not so good about long term objectives. For the first time Israel killed a head of state. However loathsome Khamenei was this may lead to unforeseen and even more dangerous outcomes. Our attempts at regime change in Iraq and Afghanistan failed. The Taliban are back in power. ISIS emerged out of our attempt to bring democracy to Iraq. And in the early 1980’s when Israel went into Lebanon to root out the PLO Hezbollah emerged out of that violent quagmire. I wonder why we cannot take these lessons to heart as well. War could very well strengthen hardliners. Once wars start to rage the dangers can start to multiply and can stray beyond the conflict zone. That’s not a reason not to fight them when circumstances force them upon us, but it is cause to exercise greater humility and even more caution.

Of course, the Iranian regime is not only a threat to us, but a threat to its own people. January’s massacres are only the most recent evidence of that, but the quick and inefficient tools of war are not the slow and equally inefficient, but far more lasting, work of fostering democratic principles by building responsible governmental institutions. I pray the Iranians might find a new government and discover the freedoms they so richly deserve.

The Iranian regime is a self-proclaimed enemy of Israel and the US. President Trump is right to recognize the threat it represents. He is right to recall the many battles this regime waged against Americans going all the way back to 1979. And yet the president has not made the case to the American people why this is America’s fight and why it is our country’s fight right now. Just because I don’t need convincing does not mean that most Americans don’t deserve to hear reasoned arguments and weigh their merits. To his credit Netanyahu has been building this case for twenty years!

While there is consensus among Israelis about the need to take the fight to Iran, President Trump has not marshaled support among the majority of Americans. I worry his failure to make the case to Congress, and the American people, will further divide us and potentially lead to even more dissension and hatred in American society. It is a leader’s responsibility to make the case for military action when it is this consequential and sustained. In the American system the decision to go to war is not supposed to be a demonstration of decisiveness but rather an example of plodding and deliberative decision making. Arguing the case for war before Congress is not just a formality. It is fundamental.

I am a Jew who has taken to heart the painful lessons of our history. Even though I may think that Israel resorts to military action too often, I recognize its necessity and moral legitimacy. I cheer the fact that in my own generation unlike the countless generations of Jews who preceded me, the Jewish people can defend itself. But I am also a rabbi who has taken to heart the rabbinic tradition of peacemaking and compromise and one that harbors deep skepticism about war.

The rabbis began writing the tradition that I so love in the shadow of another destruction, namely the destruction of the Temple and then Rome’s ruthless crushing of the Bar Kokhba rebellion in the second century. Their answer was not that of Zionism that we must build a powerful Jewish army. Their answer was to prioritize compromise and peacemaking.

In this week’s portion, we read about the building of the Golden Calf. According to the Torah Aaron, who Moses left in charge, was not only a willing a participate in this sin, but a leader who helped the people build their idol. Even though Moses is disappointed with his brother, Aaron does not get punished. And that leaves room for the rabbis to read his actions not in a negative light but a positive one. They see him not as the leader of a rebellious and sinful people who built an idol but as the archetypal peace maker. He kept the people together. He forestalled a riot. Rabbi Hillel said, “Be of the disciples of Aaron. Love peace and pursue peace.” (Pirke Avot 1:12)

The rabbis teach. We should never cheer war. War is tragic. People are killed! We must only pray for peace.

At best war only offers temporary fixes and short-term gains. It does not afford long term solutions. There are no quick fixes.

Despite my concerns and worries, all I can do is hope the Iranian threat is eliminated. I pray for peace. I pray for peace for Israel. For the Palestinians. For the Lebanese. And for the Iranian people.

Ohev shalom v’rodef shalom. Love peace. Pursue peace.

Embrace the Brokenness

The Japanese art of Kintsugi is a technique for repairing broken pottery. Rather than discarding the broken pieces they are glued back together using gold, silver or platinum lacquer. This highlights the brokenness and makes it integral to the pottery. Cracks are not disguised but instead accentuated.

According to the Talmud, the Ark of the Covenant contained not only the new set of tablets, but the smashed tablets. (Babylonian Talmud Bava Batra 14b)

Recall this week’s story. When Moses is busy atop Mount Sinai communing with God for forty days, the people grow impatient. They pressure Aaron to build an idol, saying, “Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what happened to him.” (Exodus 32) Aaron acquiesces and instructs them to bring their gold jewelry.

With all this gold they then build a golden calf. A wild boisterous celebration ensues. The singing and dancing were apparently out of control. When Moses sees this, he is filled with rage. He smashes the tablets. After all the ring leaders are punished, except for Aaron, Moses again climbs to Mount Sinai. He returns with a new set of tablets.

Why do the rabbis insist that the broken tablets are placed alongside the whole? Why does Kintsugi insist that broken fragments are not discarded but repaired and made whole again?

It is because life does not come without brokenness, pain and heartache. It does not come without cracks, deficiencies and angst. The pursuit of perfection, that is too often reflected in social media, is a false endeavor. We are imperfect creatures that constantly require repair. The perfect Instagram photographs mask the imperfections that are a natural part of our lives.

We are both broken and whole.

Let us instead embrace the answer our tradition offers.

Place the brokenness alongside the whole.

Epstein and Purim’s Hidden Victims

On the one hand Purim is a story about how Esther and Mordecai turn the tables on Haman and his antisemitic and murderous designs for the Jewish people. It is a story that we long to hear. It is a tale we relish telling. In far too many instances our success in overpowering antisemites is limited. We need only read today’s news to be reminded of what a stubborn foe antisemitism continues to be.

On the other hand, the megillah is a story about how women are history’s unheralded heroes. Esther saves the day! It is also a tale about how powerful men’s victims remain hidden. Vashti is erased. We only talk about Esther’s courage and Mordecai’s bravery. We do not speak about Vashti’s courage and strength.

The Purim story begins with King Ahasuerus throwing a wild party. On the seventh day of the party the king orders Queen Vashti to appear before all the party goers so that he can display her beauty to all the attendees. (Some commentators suggest she was ordered to appear wearing only her crown.) She refuses the order. Go Vashti! The king becomes incensed. His advisors suggest if Vashti refuses his commands, then all women will follow her example. An edict is issued declaring that husbands have absolute authority over their wives. Vashi is kicked out of the palace.

We never hear from her again. Vashti’s courageous voice is silenced.

We then read about Ahasuerus’ feelings. He is feeling lonely. He appears to regret his decision. The king’s advisors counsel, “Let beautiful young virgins be sought out for your majesty. And let the maiden who pleases your majesty be queen instead of Vashti.” (Esther 2)

I wish the story continued with Vashti. I long to hear about what happens to her. But that is not how stories are often told. They are about the powerful and not the victimized.

In the past months, the news has been filled with revelations from the Epstein files. The reports focus on how careers have been derailed. News anchors debate the repercussions facing Epstein’s associates. Our discussions focus on the Bill Gates and Larry Summers, the former Prince Andrew and Bill Clinton. We read articles about their downfalls and their statements saying, “I did not know.”

We pay scant attention to the many young women victimized by Epstein and those who befriended him. M. Gessen remarks, “Even when the young women, as we now know, were physically right in front of them, they were invisible. And you know what? I believed at least some of these people. It is possible, even easy, not to see people’s suffering in front of your face. This ability not to see is an essential survival skill in America today.”

The victims remain hidden. Their voices are silenced.

The Book of Esther is a satirical farce. Everything is exaggerated. The drinking. Haman’s evil designs. The violence. The king’s pronouncements about women? The name Esther comes from the Hebrew meaning hidden. The book tells a story about hidden meanings and hidden voices.

The opening chapter is a tale that continues in our own age. The question remains. Will we now pay attention to Vashti’s voice? Will we hear these cries of anguish?

Find God Among Others

Three thousand years ago, when the First Temple was completed in Jerusalem, King Solomon, like any good congregational leader, organized an elaborate dedication ceremony. He presided over the ceremony. Standing before the whole community he declared, “Will God really dwell on earth? Even the heavens to their uttermost reaches cannot contain You, how much less this House that I have built!” (I Kings 8)

Despite the majesty of the Temple and the remarkable effort that Solomon and the people put into this project, he proclaims it inadequate. Imagine a leader declaring to a synagogue’s benefactors that their efforts do not really measure up and then asking the assembled group, “How can a building, constructed with our human hands, possibly contain God?”

In the Torah God offers inordinate details for the building of the mishkan, tabernacle. Gold, silver, and copper are required. Blue, purple and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins and acacia wood are added. God proclaims, “Let them build me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25)

Isn’t God everywhere? How can these material objects bring us closer to God?

Then again, why do we feel God’s presence in our synagogue’s sanctuary? Why do we sense God when standing at the Western Wall, the remnant of Solomon’s Temple? Why do we feel closer to God in places that we build with our own hands? Why are we so awed by our handiwork? Are not natural wonders greater testimonies to God’s grandeur than the work of human hands?

Standing on the bow of a sailboat while staring at the vast, open ocean, it is hard not be awed. As the sun begins to appear over the sea’s immense blue, it is impossible not to utter, “Oh my God.” Watching the sun set over the mountains, as it illuminates the hills with breathtaking shades of red, we breathe in nature’s grandeur. Lying awake on the desert sand, staring at the nighttime sky we can imagine the infinite greatness that is God.

So why do we build buildings, and structures, to house God’s presence? Why do we even attempt the impossible? It is because even if we had all the time and all the resources to pilgrimage to see such natural wonders, we cannot do so with a community of people. We cannot do so with our congregation.

Our temple is not God’s house as much as it is our house. God does not live anywhere. God lives everywhere. We however require a place to regularly gather so that we can find God. As far as Judaism is concerned, we cannot commune with God without the assistance of others. Ours is not a solitary faith. We do not aspire to live alone in nature filling our souls with the world’s beauty and God’s majesty.

We depend on other people. Our prayers are made better by the voices of others. Our ideas are made sharper in conversation with others. As much as we might think we are spending time with others online, there is nothing like being with other people in person. That’s why people go to concerts. It’s not just to hear their favorite group. It is to sit with other likeminded fans and together sing their favorite songs. And the only way we can spend time with others is if we have a shared space to gather.

The most interesting thing about the wilderness tabernacle is that unlike Solomon’s Temple it did not have an address. It was wherever we found ourselves in that moment. We carried the tabernacle from place to place throughout our forty years of wandering in the wilderness. It was not about one particular spot. Instead, it was about always having it with the congregation.

And that is exactly where God is to be found. God is found among others.

Caring for the Disadvantaged

Two thousand years ago, Hillel was asked to summarize the Torah while standing on one foot. He responded, “What is hateful to you, do not do to another person.” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a)

Ethics are central to the Torah’s concern and many of its dictates revolve around how we care for one another. It devotes particular concern to how we look after disadvantaged groups. The stranger, widow and orphan merit our concern. Caring for them are seen as divine imperatives.

God proclaims, “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan. If you do mistreat them, I will head their outcry.” (Exodus 22)

Such laws are repeated throughout the Torah. Their observance is viewed not only as barometers of our attentiveness to justice but as measures of our devotion to God. Communing with God is not simply about how heartfelt are our prayers but how our hearts are attuned to the pain of others. The Torah makes clear. The suffering felt by the disadvantaged is heard by God and even prompts God’s anger. Caring for them prompts God’s rewards.

The prophet Jeremiah affirms, “If you do not oppress the stranger, the orphan, and the widow; if you do not shed the blood of the innocent in this place then only will I let you dwell in this place in the land that I gave to your ancestors for all time.” (Jeremiah 7) Our very survival is dependent on caring for the disadvantaged.

The Bible is concerned with those who live on the edges of society and those who might fall outside the circle of our interest. In biblical times, the stranger is the foreign-born resident who resides in between native-born citizen and foreigner. That in-between status makes them particularly vulnerable to mistreatment and therefore worthy of God’s attention.

The widow and orphan lose the support of family in ancient times. Rather than casting them aside, they become the responsibility of the community. Just because they no longer have family members to care for them does not mean God’s people can forget about their needs. Just because the stranger is not accorded citizenship rights does not mean God’s people can turn away from their pain.

It would be understandable if our Torah lavished all its attention on the Jewish people and ignored the plight of the disadvantaged. It suggests however that those who are privileged to be counted on the inside must care for those on the outside. It directs our people’s compassion to the edges of our concern. Rather than directing our focus within and directing our attention to our own needs, it directs our hearts outward to society’s fringes.

Here is where our devotion is tested. Here is where we learn what God most wants of us.

Hillel concludes, “That is the whole Torah. All the rest is commentary. Let’s go and learn it.”

A Rested Soul Is a Compassionate Soul

In the early 1970’s Princeton University conducted a study of its seminary students. All the students were familiar with the story from Christian scriptures about the Good Samaritan. This tale informs the law protecting people who stop to help strangers.

All the students were told that they had to travel to another building campus where they would be partnered with a fellow student to work on a sermon. They then divided the group into three. The first group was told that they had little time, and they should rush across campus. The second was told that although they were not rushed, they needed to arrive promptly. The third was told that they could take their time and there was no sense of urgency regarding their arrival.

On their way to the other building, all the students confronted a stranger who appeared desperate and in need. Here is what the study revealed. 63% of those who did not feel rushed stopped to help. 45% of the participants who felt slightly rushed stopped. And only 10% of those students who believed that they were running late offered help to the stranger.

There is an ethical dimension to not feeling rushed. There is a need to feeling rested. When we are hurried there feels little time to do anything else. There is little room for others.

The Torah commands, “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of Lord your God: you shall not do any work.” (Exodus 20)

Shabbat is an expression of our freedom from slavery. Time is a gift given to free people. Judaism sanctifies time. It values time because it restores the soul. Shabbat is a vacation for the soul.

In New York everything seems rushed. We laud efficiency and lament wasted hours and minutes. Time is something to conquer. How often do we complain about the traffic? Time is not restorative. We shout, “Can you believe the airlines? My flight was delayed for two hours.” We can never rest.

Our cellphones interrupt our meals. They intrude in our time with family. How many conversations are interrupted by someone who looks up from their phone’s notification and blurts out, “It’s going to go down to -14° this weekend!” People interrupt others midsentence to share news items. “Look who is mentioned in the Epstein files!” They become distracted from conversations and the person sitting across from them by their Instagram DM’s. Does it really matter when we find out such news (or if we really even need to know all these salacious tidbits)? We will know the temperature on Sunday as soon as we open the door.

We can never relax.

Judith Shulevitz writes, “The Sabbath prefers natural to artificial light. If we want to travel, it would make us walk, though not too far. If we long for social interaction, it would have us meet our fellow man and woman face-to-face.” (The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time)

Perhaps the message, and import, of Shabbat is not so much about its seeming organization but instead about making room for others. There is only one way to discover this. It is about feeling rested. It is often ordinary people, not devout or holy individuals, who help those in need.

Put the iPhone down if not for the day, then at least for the day’s appointed meal.

Become attuned to the soul’s need for rest.

Breathe in the gift Shabbat provides.

And give your soul enough rest to help others.

Borders, Violence and Values

What follows is Shabbat evening sermon following the killing of Alex Pretti in Minneapolis and the return of the last hostage Ran Gvili’s body from Gaza.

This week I am thinking about two people whose fate may shape the destiny of nations. One is Ran Gvili and the other is Alex Pretti.

This past Saturday Alex Pretti, an ICU nurse at the Minneapolis VA Hospital, was killed by ICE officers while protesting their immigration enforcement operations. And on Tuesday, Ran Gvili’s body was returned to Israel after being held captive for 843 days. I am wondering. Will their deaths lead our nations to change course? And will these coming days, and weeks, serve as opportunities for our countries to look within?

Let us first look at the events in Minneapolis. For the past several months the administration has increased its immigration enforcement, sending heavily armed ICE agents to Los Angeles, Chicago and now Minneapolis. In our own New York area these operations have also increased. From the CVS only a few miles from my home, and where day laborers often congregate, twenty-five people have been deported. One woman was arrested from there and deported, leaving her three young children to fend for themselves. The youngest is two years old. Two young boys, ages nineteen and twenty, were arrested at their scheduled immigration check in and then deported to El Salvador in shackles. They grew up here and have lived in this country since they were ten and eleven. They are alone now in a country that is unfamiliar to them. They have no criminal records and were in fact obeying the law. That is why they went to their check in hearing. One of the boys missed his high school graduation this past Spring. Such stories are far too numerous.

We are a nation of immigrants. My family immigrated here. All of our families immigrated here at one time or another. I doubt every one of my grandparents and great grandparents who left Czarist Russia escaping from antisemitic pogroms had their paperwork in order or even if all of them had any paperwork. We like to think otherwise. We like to believe we followed the immigration laws and people today are not. But that was probably not always the case. My family was running away from terrible evils just like these young boys and their families were fleeing from gang violence.

Although one might believe that a nation of immigrants should be in open to everyone and anyone, and that its gates be wide enough to allow millions and millions entry, this is an impossible dream. It is unrealistic. There must be limits and laws to police a nation’s gates. There must be an immigration bureaucracy. And bureaucracies by their very nature are impersonal and make mistakes. They can sometimes be inhumane.

But we can do much better than we are currently doing. We are a nation of laws. These laws are rendered meaningless unless they protect the weakest and even the stateless. And whether we agree with protestors or not, these democratic laws must also protect the whistleblowing, iPhone filming protestors, who interfere with ICE operations and who even spit and curse at officers or attempt to drive away. Protestors must not be killed. They must not be shot in the back. And they certainly should not be blamed for their own deaths. Immigration enforcement should not look or feel like a military operation. It’s never going to be perfect but certainly should not look like this.

This country is made great by its promise. It is supposed to welcome “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Those words penned by Emma Lazarus and etched on the Statue of Liberty represent what is best about this nation. We always sought to open our doors to those fleeing and seeking to better their lives. I am grateful for the welcome this country offered my ancestors.

We are commanded to love God and love the neighbor. Again, and again the Torah repeats, “Love the stranger.” The Book of Exodus commands, “You shall not oppress a stranger for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23) We know what it feels like. Our history and our tradition demand that we do better by constantly reminding us that we understand what oppression feels like. We know what being called unwelcome is like.

Immigration enforcement should not look like we are defending our borders against hostile enemies. We should very much start worrying when our leaders speak as if those enemies are within and when the borders that define our nation move from the periphery to the interior. This is why ordinary people in Minneapolis are rising up against these ICE operations. They refuse to see their neighbors as their enemies.

Yes, nations are defined by borders. They form the outlines of a state. But it is a dangerous thing, and even a deadly thing, when they are drawn within. Defending these external borders, and policing them, is what nations and their soldiers are expected to do.

On October 7, 2023, Ran Gvili, a member of an elite Israeli police unit was home awaiting surgery for a broken shoulder. When he heard what was happening on the morning of October 7th he put on his uniform and drove to Kibbutz Alumim, a fifty-minute drive from his home. He battled with Hamas terrorists for hours until he was killed. His body was then captured and taken to Gaza where it remained until Tuesday when it was brought back to Israel by the IDF. The operation to retrieve his body involved 700 soldiers, many of whom volunteered for this mission, including some who were on their fifth deployment and others who were injured in battle but nonetheless asked to participate.

Master Sergeant Gvili was the last of the 251 hostages to return home. The clock counting the days, hours and minutes from that harrowing moment of October 7th displayed in Tel Aviv’s Hostage Square stopped counting at 843 days, 12 hours, 6 minutes. I, along with many of my colleagues and friends, took off our yellow ribbons and pins. Rachel and Jon Goldberg-Polin, and millions of others, took off the masking tape marking the days. Our people let out a collective breath of relief. And then we started wondering, can we begin to find closure?

Gvili’s funeral was attended by thousands. Through sobs and tears, his sister Shira spoke and said, “The forest isn’t the same forest, nice clothes don’t feel the same and schnitzel will never taste the same. All the laughter is gone, and I’m left with only memories, and every motorcycle [Ran loved and collected motorcycles] I see takes me back. And sometimes I smile when I see one, and sometimes it feels like an arrow to my heart.” His mother Talik added a note of defiance, “You, our enemies, tried to scare us, look what’s left of you, and you’ll see what will be left of you.”

Fifty of the 251 hostages were murdered in captivity. Could their deaths have been prevented? A number of cease fire deals were scuttled during the course of these past 843 days, until the current deal was signed almost two months ago. This week the IDF affirmed that approximately 70,000 Gazans were killed. How many were Hamas combatants is still being debated. Gaza’s devastation is unimaginable. 1200 Israeli civilians and 900 soldiers were killed on October 7th and in the war that followed. Will we ever be able to heal from October 7th’s traumas?

The vast majority of Israelis are desperate for there to be an independent inquiry about what went tragically wrong on October 7th and in the months and years preceding. They long to learn from the mistakes and missteps that were made. They long to hold their leaders responsible for these failures. There is no way that Israelis find any closure from October 7th’s ongoing pain without a Yom Kippur War like independent inquiry.

At Ran Gvili’s funeral, President Isaac Herzog said, “The nation must now rise to the next chapter of our existence as a people. Rise strong, confident in our way; rise hand in hand, believing in our State of Israel — Jewish and democratic — and guarding it with utmost devotion, as Ran guarded it.”

Nations are defined by borders. And these borders are sometimes defended at great cost. I long for the day when there will be peace rather than violence at nations’ edges. I remind myself. Nations are also defined by values. When borders are invaded our values can also come under attack. The resulting violence tends to drown out cherished values. And when borders are moved from the periphery to the interior violence inevitably ensues and our social cohesion is torn apart. But it does not have to be this way.

Ran Gvili and Alex Pretti were both fighting for their neighbors. They were battling for the nations they love. They were fighting for noble ideals. I am hoping and praying that their deaths will spark a better destiny for our nations. I pray. Let it not be said that they died in vain. May the memories of Ran Gvili and Alex Pretti call us to better lives. May their memories make our nations stronger, less divided and more humane. And let us say, Amen.

Wandering Is the Destination

In an age of Google Maps and Waze we no longer meander. Wandering is not what we do. It is what we read about. With their iPhones in their hands, our children have never experienced getting lost. They are out of touch with their parents and can get to their destination by opening an app or making a call.

And yet the Torah is written through wandering. Our people’s meaning is discovered in its travels. I recall fondly. Some of our best adventures are found when getting lost. It was when we happened into a restaurant that was not on the itinerary or when we wandered into an unintended store and struck up a philosophical conversation with the owner or when we mistakenly took a wrong turn down an unfamiliar street and discovered a Jewish star.

As soon as we escape from Egyptian slavery, we are walking in the wilderness. It is there that the Torah is written. The Torah is not about its promised destination. It concludes before we even arrive. To do so would suggest its meaning is found in our arrival. Instead, it is about the wandering.

In Wanderlust: A History of Walking, Rebecca Solnit laments the fact that traveling has become less important than arrival. She writes,

The indeterminacy of a ramble, on which much may be discovered, is being replaced by the determinate shortest distance to be traversed with all possible speed, as well as by the electronic transmissions that make real travel less necessary…. I like walking because it is slow, and I suspect that the mind, like the feet, works at about three miles an hour. If this is so, then modern life is moving faster than the speed of thought, or thoughtfulness.

God makes us walk in circles. Forty years of wandering was always God’s plan. “God led the people roundabout, by way of the wilderness.” (Exodus 13) It is not because the destination is not known. It is instead because the destination is the walking. That is the road to discovery. That is the source of meaning. That is the Torah’s promised land.

People think wandering is aimless. It is antithetical to getting from here to there in the shortest amount of time. They believe meandering is directionless. It is not.

Perhaps this is the Torah’s greatest lesson. Wandering, meandering, rambling are how we find meaning. Let’s get out there and go for a walk—at least when it is not so cold. Let’s leave our iPhones behind and the worries about getting lost for another day and embrace the slow pace of three miles per hour.

Otherwise, life will continue to move faster than the speed of thoughtfulness.

The Moon’s Glow

This week we read of the final plagues visited upon the Egyptians: locusts, darkness and the death of the first born. We learn of our going out from slavery in Egypt. In the middle of this dramatic story the Torah proclaims: “This month shall mark for you the beginning of months.” (Exodus 12) It then offers details about our Passover celebrations.

Why does the Torah interrupt this story with the how-to of a holiday? Why do we need to learn about the calendar as we are gaining our freedom? One can imagine the Israelites saying, “We will get to those holidays when we arrive at the Promised Land.”

It is because marking the holidays are reminders of our history. On Passover we celebrate our going out from Egypt. On Sukkot we mark our wanderings in the wilderness. And on Shavuot we rejoice in the giving of the Torah. The holidays remind us of where we come from.

Our holidays are also expressions of our freedom. Slaves do not control their own time. They live by the schedule of their masters. The Israelites days were ruled by the Egyptian calendar not their own. One of the first steps in our liberation was to have our own calendar. Our taskmasters’ calendar was governed by the sun. The Hebrew calendar is dictated by the moon. Our calendar must be different than that of our oppressors and tormentors.

Its difference serves as a reminder of our freedom.

The Hasidic master, Sefat Emet, adds, the moon, unlike the sun, waxes and wanes. It almost disappears and then grows bright when it is a full moon. So too the Jewish people go through cycles of prosperity and suffering. When times are dark, the full moon brightly illuminating the nighttime sky reminds us that there are brighter days ahead.

Look up at the sky.

At least once a month you can gain a measure of hope in the full moon.

Garner hope from the moon’s glow.

In the Face of Hate, Love Being Jewish

On Thursday protestors outside a Queens synagogue shouted their support for Hamas. And on Saturday, Jackson Mississippi’s only synagogue was destroyed by an arsonist. Nearly every day we are confronted by antisemitic hate. And every week we read of hate-filled attacks.

Jackson’s mayor, John Horhn, offered words of support after Saturday’s arson and said, “Acts of antisemitism, racism and religious hatred are attacks on Jackson as a whole and will be treated as acts of terror against residents’ safety and freedom to worship. Targeting people because of their faith, race, ethnicity or sexual orientation is morally wrong, un-American and completely incompatible with the values of this city.”

Mayor Zohran Mamdani responded to Thursday’s protest and said, “The rhetoric and displays that we saw at the demonstration are wrong and have no place in our city. Chants in support of a terrorist organization have no place in our city.”

And while I am grateful that these mayors rightly labeled these acts as wrong, their words feel inadequate. We are too afraid to be mollified. We don’t know from which direction the next attack might come. We begin to ask ourselves, “Is this street safe? Will our town protect us?” Words of support feel too late. It seems as if we are being squeezed between hate mongers on the right and Hamas sympathizers on the left. Like the Israelite slaves our “spirits are crushed.” (Exodus 6)

How many days can we read of such attacks? How many times can we watch as our streets are filled with hate and venom?

Antisemitism has accompanied us throughout our history. In fact, Jackson’s Beth Israel synagogue was bombed by the KKK in 1967. It was rebuilt then and it will be rebuilt now. (If you would like to support these efforts visit bethisraelms.org.)

At times antisemitic hate was ferocious in its deadliness. Every Jew carries these wounds. My grandmother escaped the Cossacks’ rampages. Others survived the Holocaust. Some recall how their families fled from the Spanish Inquisition. Every Jew carries these traumas. We worry if our generation will be swallowed up by another murderous rampage. Such pains have lain dormant. Until now.

Few are old enough to remember such antisemitic attacks. For the majority of us it was the stuff of history books and religious school lessons. It happened over there, but never here. It occurred then but not now. When it did happen here and now, as at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life synagogue, we thought it to be an aberration. We did not want to believe that history was once again bending toward hate.

We are unaccustomed to such vitriol and violence. We do not know how to respond.

In 1988, I spent a year serving another Congregation Beth Israel. It was in Clarksdale, Mississippi. I was then in my second year of studies in rabbinical school and flew there once a month to serve this dwindling congregation in Mississippi’s Delta. I had no idea what I was doing or how to be a rabbi, but they welcomed me with open arms.

They were so excited to have a rabbi. On Saturdays I would walk down Clarksdale’s main street and visit all my congregants’ stores. They loved to introduce me to their friends and neighbors. “This is our rabbi,” they would say. And I would demur, “I am not really a rabbi. I am not a rabbi yet.” They would respond, “Shh. You are our rabbi.”

They were proud Jews. They loved being Jewish. They did not hide their identities.

That has always been our response. It remains the only answer we have.

This is the reason we have survived. Despite millennia of antisemitic hate, we did not arrive at 2026 because of the benevolence of one ruler or the support of another leader, it is instead because we held fast to each other and held tight to our Jewish identities.

Love being Jewish.

It is the only answer. It is also the best.

Forgetfulness Leads to Suffering

Our story begins with forgetfulness.

“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph—lo yadah et Yosef.” (Exodus 1)

Pharaoh imagines the Israelites represent an ever-growing threat. He sets taskmasters over them. He oppresses them. His fears overwhelm him. He envisions the Israelites’ numbers becoming an overpowering mob. He then rules that every male Israelite be killed.

Our story concludes with remembrance.

God notices the Israelites’ suffering. God sees their pain. In Hebrew, the only difference between God’s knowing and Pharaoh’s not knowing is one word. “God looked upon the Israelites, and God knows— vayedah Elohim.”

The medieval commentator Rashi adds, “God directed His heart to the Israelites and did not hide His eyes from them.”

Just as Moses cannot look away from the pain of an Israelite slave beaten by an Egyptian taskmaster, God turns toward their suffering. “God heard their moaning, and God remembered the covenant with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” (Exodus 2)

And because of this taking note of their pain, God frees us from Egyptian slavery. We recount this tale every year at our Passover seders. Do we take note of its message?

The root of suffering is forgetfulness. The secret to redemption is remembrance.

If only we can follow God’s example more often than Pharaoh’s.

Blessing Our Children

When our children were young, and now when they return home for Shabbat and holidays, we place our hands on their heads and offer the tradition’s blessing:

May God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh. (Genesis 48)
May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.
May God bless you and guard you.
May God’s face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May God’s face smile at you and grant you peace.

And here is my confession. The first time, and even the second and third times, we offered this blessing, it felt unnatural and awkward. We did not grow up in homes in which our parents recited these words. Of course, our parents hugged us. Of course, they wrapped their arms around us and said, “We love you.”

This ritual formulation, however, was foreign. And so, when I began saying it, I felt like an interloper. “Who am I to say these words?” I thought. It all felt so strange.

Our children also sometimes protested. They shouted that I was hugging them too tightly. Or that I was messing up their hair. Or as they grew older, they fidgeted suggesting that they were in a rush to go out with their friends. But we persisted. And over time, the tradition’s formula became our words. The ritual became our own.

And here is my worry. People appear to think that saying the tradition’s words or offering such a ritual formulation is what rabbis or cantors are supposed do. It’s not what “regular” people do. Rabbis, and cantors, believe every single word of the prayerbook they read and sing. They feel it in their bones every time they chant “Oseh Shalom.” Of course, they are going to bless their kids! Of course, they are going do what the tradition says they are supposed to do.

But these blessings and traditions are not just mine. They belong to all of us. The priestly benediction is not just mine. It is yours.

And so here is some advice. There is no perfect way to say it or even do it. There is no perfect way of placing your hands on your children’s heads. There is no right way or wrong way. Don’t worry so much about if you are doing it exactly as Jacob did or if you are pronouncing the words correctly.

It is important to have a ritual framework to express love. It is wonderful for children to feel our loving hands on their heads. And it is good to do this at least once a week. So why not make that moment Shabbat evening?

Let go of the worry. Grab hold of the tradition. Make it your own. It may not feel right at first, but over time it may very well become your own.

And it may then become your children’s heritage and birthright.

Forgiveness Is the Best Medicine

On January 27, 1995, Eva Kor returned to Auschwitz to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the camp’s liberation. At that camp Kor and her twin sister were subjected to human experimentation. Her parents and two older sisters were murdered. Fifty years later she returned there with her children by her side and read a document of forgiveness and then signed it. She writes,

As I did that, I felt a burden of pain was lifted from me. I was no longer in the grip of hate; I was finally free. The day I forgave the Nazis, privately I forgave my parents whom I hated all my life for not having saved me from Auschwitz. Children expect their parents to protect them; mine couldn’t. And then I forgave myself for hating my parents. Forgiveness is really nothing more than an act of self-healing and self-empowerment. I call it a miracle medicine. It is free, it works and has no side effects.

Her act is unbelievable. It is unimaginable.

The Torah also offers a story of forgiveness.

Joseph is now vizier of Egypt. Because of his talent and abilities, he has secured enough food to get Egypt through seven years of famine. In the second year, his brothers travel to Egypt to procure food for their starving families. Joseph remembers how they sold him into slavery and so tests them by framing their younger brother Benjamin. This time, Judah steps up to protect his younger brother.

Joseph reveals himself to his brothers. They are in shock. They are unable to speak. Joseph states, “I am your brother Joseph, he 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.” (Genesis 45) And with that act the brothers who were once enemies are transformed into a whole family.

Forgiveness demands courage. It contradicts our Jewish sense of justice. It demands a certain amount of forgetfulness, and this too is contrary to the Jewish ethos. We fight it because it reminds us of our pain. We must confront the person who wronged us. We must come near the place that tortured us. Joseph decided that family is more important than right and wrong. Forgiveness powers relationships. They cannot exist without forgiveness. Relationships cannot be sustained without repair.

I struggle to understand how Eva Kor could forgive what was done to her and what was taken from her. How can one forgive murder? And yet her powerful example reminds us that forgiveness is also about self-care. Holding on to anger corrodes the soul. Although Kor’s example appears out of reach, her advice is well founded. Forgiveness is an act of self-healing.

Perhaps Joseph is motivated not by making his family whole. Instead, his efforts are about healing his own soul. He no longer wants to bear a grudge against his brothers. He no longer wishes to be angry at his father.

Indeed, forgiveness is the best medicine we can take.