Tell the Eyes What to See

When the Israelites wandered through the wilderness, God provided them with manna. The tradition explains manna was this magic-like food substance that not only provided sustenance but tasted like whatever the Israelites wanted it to taste like. The Torah states, “Now the manna was like coriander seed, and its appearance was like bdellium.” (Numbers 11)

Coriander has an earthy, slightly sweet flavor comparable to cilantro. Its leaves are often used in Middle Eastern dishes. And bdellium is a semi-transparent tree resin that has the fragrance of myrrh. Perhaps its semi-transparent appearance allowed it to take on any taste.

The Hebrew suggests a hidden meaning. The word for “appearance” is “k’ayin.” It comes from the word “eye.”

The Hasidic rebbe, Shlomo Lutzker, expands on the meaning of this word. He teaches about how God created the world with words and says, “God’s word is the animating force that gives everything life, and God’s word is akin to the appearance, taste, smell, and the pleasure within the world. The brilliance of this force is referred to as the ‘eye’ of each thing.”

In other words, the “eye” implies the essence of the physical world. The rabbi concludes, “The divine life force sparkles and glimmers through the world, just as the vitality of your intellect twinkles through your eyes.” Every living thing, everything we see, touch and smell offers glimpses of the divine. The eye must be trained to see these glimmers.

Too often we do not see the positive and focus on the negative. This is especially true when it comes to food. We complain about the cost of dinner. We protest the foods served. We say, What! Hamburgers again! I want sushi!” Imagine if said instead, “How beautiful and tasty is the food I am eating.”

That is the lesson of manna. Its secret ingredient was imagination. It was not about whether the chef seasoned the dish properly or arranged it on the plate for the perfect Instagram post. Manna tasted like we wanted it to taste. It was transparent. Each and every Israelite created their own image of it. Our food was transformed by our mind.

Art Green, a leader in the Jewish Renewal movement, adds, “The manna shows us that the physical world indeed twinkles with divine brilliance, hinting at an all-inclusive illumination just beneath the surface. The deeper truth is that the sights, sounds, and tastes of this world are a colorful representation of divine light refracted through the prism of the physical realm.”

The physical world sparkles with the divine. Even the everyday activity of eating provides an opportunity to glimpse the divine.

It is all about how our eyes choose to see things.

I Will Stand as One

Another week, another attack.

We pray for the speedy recovery of those injured in the Boulder firebombing attack. According to FBI agents the attacker wanted to kill all Zionists and shouted, “Free Palestine” at the marchers.

Although there were stirrings of Zionist thought throughout Jewish history, the political movement of modern Zionism is traced to Theodore Herzl. And Herzl’s passion for this cause began when he stood in a Paris square on January 5, 1895, and came face to face with antisemitism at the public degradation of Alfred Dreyfus.

Captain Dreyfus was a French military officer who was accused of spying for Germany. It was later proven that the charges were fabricated, and Dreyfus was innocent. Nonetheless a military court found him guilty and sentenced him to exile and life imprisonment on the Devil’s Island penal colony in French Guiana.

On that cold winter day, Alfred Dreyfus was marched by armed guards toward a military square. Along the way, crowds shouted at him, cursing and yelling “traitor” and “death to the Jew.” He stood still as he listened to the condemnation from a military officer who said, “Dreyfus, you are unworthy to carry arms. In the name of the people of France, we degrade you.” The officer then took Dreyfus’ sword, broke it in pieces, and removed the buttons and insignia from his uniform.

For a moment Dreyfus hesitated. Then he shouted, “Vive la France! You have degraded an innocent man! I swear that I am innocent!”

Theodor Herzl was shaken by what he witnessed on that January day. He determined that a Jewish state granting Jews protection and passports, finally providing them equal status among the family of nations was the only the answer to such antisemitism. He did not care where that state might be or even what language might be spoken there. For Herzl we just needed a state of our own to protect us from such venomous, and murderous, hate.

When a man thinks that attacking Jews marching seven thousand miles away from the ravages of Israel’s continued war with Hamas can effectuate changes to what is happening in Israel-Palestine, then that is antisemitism. When a shooter thinks that murdering two young people who were attending a conference sponsored by the American Jewish Committee, then that is antisemitism.

It is no different than those crowds shouting at Captain Dreyfus. He was suspect in their eyes because they believed a Jew could not be fully French. He harbors dual loyalties, they believed. Sarah and Yaron were viewed as guilty because of the company they kept. The marchers were targeted because they identify with Israel and Israelis.

There are plenty of criticisms for how Israel is currently conducting the war. The marchers in Boulder believe that the lives of the hostages must take priority and that only a cease fire will bring the remaining, living hostages home. They are in effect marching against Prime Minister Netanyahu and his government’s priorities and its actions. Sarah and Yaron were attending a conference about how to bring aid to Gaza’s innocent. Yet again our attackers and haters cannot make such distinctions.

All Jews are guilty. All Zionists have blood on their hands. And so, they can be shot, burned and their swords broken.

Jews respond I am not the kind of Jew who haters hate. Some renounce Zionism. Others distance themselves from Jews who do not share their commitments. But such internal distinctions or philosophical debates are lost on antisemites. It’s the Jew who antisemites hate not the imagined “those other Jews” or “not my kind of Jew.”

I am going to continue my arguments with my people and my protests for a more just world where every people can have a state they call home. I am going to march for the end of this war so that the hostages might return to their homes and that Gaza’s innocent might rebuild their lives. I continue to pray, may Israelis and Palestinians soon know peace! May Gaza’s children no longer feel hunger!

In the face of yet another attack, here is what I resolve. As long as the haters see us as one, I will stand as one.

Every Person Is Sacred

The tradition prescribes all manner of blessings. There are the familiar blessings for food. Before we drink wine, we say, “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe creator of the fruit of the vine.” Before we eat an apple, “creator of the fruit of the tree.” And before bread, “hamotzi lechem min haaretz.” There are blessings for seeing mountains, the oceans, a rainbow and even lightning.

The most unusual is the blessing one says when seeing 600,000 or more Jews together. At that moment, we say, “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe, knower of secrets.” Why 600,000 or more? This is the approximate number who stood at Sinai to receive the Torah. It is reported that 603,550 were there. (Numbers 1)

Why would the tradition prescribe a blessing that is nearly impossible to realize? It would take a miracle to bring 600,000 Jews together! It would take a miracle for to gather that many Jews willing to stand as one. It’s only been done one time and that was when it all started at Sinai.

The Talmud anticipates this observation and reports that Ben Zoma once saw such a multitude when standing on the stairs of the Temple Mount and so recited the blessing. Still, how did he so quickly count to 600,000? And how did even a great rabbi such as he determine that all 600,000 were Jews? The tradition leaves these questions unanswered.

Later commentators suggest that it need be only a large gathering of Jews. Perhaps it was skeptical that we would ever again find an occasion where 600,000 Jews gathered like they did at Mount Sinai. Then again, why are the blessing’s words “knower of secrets?” Why not, something more literal like the blessing for the oceans, “who made the great sea” or that for mountains, “maker of the works of creation?”

Why not say, “who gathers the multitudes” when seeing so many Jews standing together in one place? Why do we say, “knower of secrets?” The Talmud responds, “The person sees a whole nation whose minds are unlike each other and whose faces are unlike each other. God knows all secrets; God knows what is in each of their hearts.” (Brachot 58a) In every large gathering there exists a multiplicity of ideas and commitments. Every crowd is comprised of individuals. We must never forget that.

Blessings serve to remind us of some truth. Before we enjoy wine, the kiddush reminds to be thankful to God for the vines that provided such exquisite taste. When we see the ocean, and say the blessing, we are reminded that God provided such awesome beauty for us. And when we see a vast multitude of people, we must remember that every individual holds some truth.

Every person offers a measure of sacredness.

The blessing serves to counteract our human tendency to blur over individuality. We tend to see large groups as monolithic. We begin our arguments with phrases like, “All Democrats believe… All Republicans think…. All Muslims…. All Jews…” God reminds us that every soul is unique. Every individual is a blessing.

On the upcoming holiday of Shavuot, we celebrate the giving of the Torah. We remember we once stood together and as one. Let us also recall that each and every individual holds the secret to realizing blessings.

“Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, knower of secrets.”

May Their Memories Become Blessings

What follows is my sermon memorializing Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lifschinsky.

I want to talk about Sarah and Yaron. I don’t want to talk about the antisemite who murdered them or the antisemitic hate that fed his rage or continues to give license to such brutality.

On this Shabbat, and in this sanctuary, I do not wish to dwell on a simple, but unmistakable truth and it is this. When chants of “Free Palestine” become synonymous with murdering two souls, one a young Jew and the other a young Christian, simply because they were leaving a Jewish event held at a Jewish museum then not only is the murderous act antisemitic but so are those words. I hope and pray with all my heart for an independent and free Palestinian state living peacefully alongside the Jewish state of Israel, but that’s not what “Free Palestine” appears to mean to those who shout it. Instead, it too often provides cover for antisemitism and offers fuel to Wednesday’s murders. “Free Palestine” seems to mean not the freeing of Palestine but the destruction of Israel and to far too many the permission to murder Jews.

That truth is not what I want to dwell on tonight. I would rather focus on these two young souls and what I have gleaned about their life’s work, however brief. I want to speak about their beliefs. I wish to say a few words about who Sarah and Yaron were and meditate on what we have lost.

Listen to their own words taken from their LinkedIn profiles. That is the strange thing about the power of social media. People live on. In the virtual world, Sarah and Yaron still speak in the present tense. So let us allow their words, and their dreams, to speak to this week’s terror. Let them respond to our sorrow.

Here are Yaron’s words. He writes, I am a Research Assistant for Middle East and North African Affairs at the Israeli Embassy's Political Department.

As part of my role, I am responsible for keeping the department up to date on important events and trends happening in the Middle East and North Africa, conducting research on topics of interest to our diplomatic staff, liaison with other diplomatic missions, maintaining relationships with the local think tank community and helping to organize delegation visits from various Israeli ministries.

Yaron continues. I'm an ardent believer in the vision that was outlined in the Abraham Accords and believe that expanding the circle of peace with our Arab neighbors and pursuing regional cooperation is in the best interest of the State of Israel and the Middle East as a whole. To this end, I advocate for interfaith dialogue and intercultural understanding. Beyond the Middle East and North Africa, I closely follow political developments in the United States, Europe, and Asia.

I hold a Master's Degree in Government, Diplomacy and Strategy from Reichman University in Herzliya and a Bachelor's Degree in International Relations and Asian Studies from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I am fluent in English, Hebrew, and German, and have basic knowledge of reading, writing, and speaking Japanese.

Having made Aliyah from Germany at the age of 16, I have the privilege of calling both Jerusalem and Nuremberg my home.

Yaron was described as bright, curious and engaged. Ron Prosor, Israel’s ambassador to Germany said, “He was a Christian, a true lover of Israel, served in the IDF, and chose to dedicate his life to the State of Israel and the Zionist cause.” Others called him an idealist who was always trying to do good for the country.

Yaron had planned to propose to Sarah when they visited Jerusalem next week for the holiday of Shavuot. Sarah grew up in the Kansas City suburbs. Her LinkedIn profile reads as follows. I am a dynamic professional with a Master's in International Affairs from American University and a Master’s in Natural Resources and Sustainable Development from the United Nation’s University for Peace.

My passion lies at the intersection of peacebuilding, religious engagement, and environmental work. While working with Tech2Peace in Tel Aviv, Israel, I conducted comprehensive research on peacebuilding theory, emphasizing grassroots initiatives in the Israeli-Palestinian communities. My diverse experiences, including facilitating insightful discussions on geopolitics in Israel and Palestine as a Jewish educator, and researching an array of environmental topics in India and Central America, reflect my commitment to fostering understanding between different peoples. With a certification of Religious Engagement in Peacebuilding from the United States Institute of Peace and a skill set spanning policy analysis, religious dialogue, and environmental advocacy, I am eager to contribute to organizations dedicated to bridging divides, promoting religious harmony, and advancing sustainable practices.

Her friends described Sarah as someone who was good at everything she did. Sarah was a gifted student and a devoted friend. She was incredibly funny, witty, sharp and committed to her faith. Another friend added, she was devoted to the mission of bringing peace between Israel and Palestine.

This week’s Torah portion promises a blessing of peace if we but follow God’s commands. The Torah proclaims, “I will grant peace in the land, and you shall lie down untroubled by anyone; I will give the land respite from vicious beasts, and no sword shall cross your land.” (Leviticus 26)

Here is all I am certain about now: we are two steps farther away from realizing this promised blessing of peace.

On this Shabbat let us proclaim, may the memories of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky become a blessing. May their idealism and their dreams become our reality one day and soon. And let us say, May it be God’s will.

Don’t Look Up for Help

At funerals I often turn to the psalmist’s words: “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 121)

In this moment of grief for a young couple murdered before their time (may the memories of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky become a blessing), I am wondering about the psalmist’s promised help. The poet looks up to the mountains seeking answers to this age-old question. And then, seemingly out of nowhere and immediately he offers a response. “Help is not found up there but right here. God will help.”

I wonder if this is an answer to our question or instead an attempt to reassure. The poem continues, “The Lord will guard from all harm. God will guard your life. The Lord will guard your going and coming, now and forever.”

Perhaps the psalmist is offering a prayer. It is a hope. The psalm echoes the answer that thundered from Mount Sinai. “And the Lord spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai.” (Leviticus 25) That mountain once offered help. Perhaps another one, any mountain, will respond again, and now.

The Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai’s words seems more apt for this moment.

On my desk is a stone with “Amen” carved on it, one survivor fragment
of the thousands upon thousands of bits of broken tombstones
in Jewish graveyards. I know all these broken pieces
now fill the great Jewish time bomb
along with the other fragments and shrapnel, broken Tablets of the Law
broken altars broken crosses rusty crucifixion nails
broken houseware and holyware and broken bones
eyeglasses shoes prostheses false teeth
empty cans of lethal poison. All these broken pieces
fill the Jewish time bomb until the end of days. (Open Closed Open)

I wish to run from its explosive force. I wish no longer to say “Amen” to the endless recitation of our woes. I wish to affirm the efforts of those writing a new story, of bringing blessings to the land. The Torah suggests that peace is in our hands. It is dependent on living by God’s demands. That’s all it takes; the Torah reassures us. God thunders, “You shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land. I will grant peace in the land, and you shall lie down untroubled by anyone.” (Leviticus 26)

Sarah and Yaron were attending an event sponsored by the American Jewish Committee. They heard from members of the Multi Faith Alliance and IsraAid. These two organizations are at the forefront of groups trying to bring humanitarian aid to Gaza. They are working on building Israeli-Palestinian partnerships and regional collaboration to help bring food to Gaza’s hungry.

The blessing of food precedes blessing of peace. Food comes first.

Is the psalmist correct? Any mountain might provide help? Look up for solace and comfort.

And then I realize. The poet’s intention appears clearer. Look up to the mountain.

We are the help.

There Is More to Piety than Praying

Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, who is known more commonly as Rashi, was one of the most influential and prolific Jewish commentators. He lived in Northern France in the eleventh century. He wrote a line-by-line commentary on the Bible as well as an exhaustive commentary on the Talmud. Rashi not so infrequently turned toward his native French language when seeking a concise explanation for a Hebrew word and so his commentaries serve as the primary source for researchers studying Old French.

So influential were his comments that until the advent of the digital age most editions of the Bible and Talmud included his commentary in the margins. Rashi’s approach is direct and concise. I often turn to his wisdom. When struggling to understand the nuances in our Torah I first check Rashi. This week he offers helpful guidance.

In the middle of a chapter devoted to an exposition of the holidays Shabbat, Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot, the Torah commands: “And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Lord am your God.” (Leviticus 23)

The placement of this command has always struck me as curious. It appears as a diversion and tangent from the commands of sounding the shofar and fasting. Rashi suggests an answer to my question:

What reason had Scripture to place the law concerning the corner of the field within those regarding the festival sacrifices — those of Passover and Shavuot on this side of it, and those of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot on the side following it? To teach you that they who leave the gleanings, the forgotten sheaf and the corner of the field to the poor ought to be regarded as though they had built the Temple and offered their sacrifices therein.

Providing for the poor is just as important as all the holiday prayers we offer! Ensuring that the poor not only have enough food to eat but are offered the dignity of gathering their own food is equivalent to all our pious rituals. These acts are even equal to building, and decorating, our sanctuaries.

And I am reminded that Rashi was not just a rabbi who preached to a congregation who occasionally heeded his words. He was instead a winemaker who spent much of his hours tending to the family’s vineyards. (Until modern times being a rabbi was not a paid profession.) His livelihood was impacted by his words. The amount of food he gathered was lessened. His piety increased.

If we want to be truly observant, and really celebrate the holidays, we must care for the poor!

Only then can we truly lift the kiddush cup and respond to our prayers with, “Amen. L’Chaim.”

Greet Every Question with Patience

It is told that Rabbi Hillel was open to any question and welcomed people with open arms. He was quite the people person. Rabbi Shammai, on the other hand, focused more on his books and a strict interpretation of the law. He was a legendary scholar. The Talmud tells many stories about these first century leaders.

One time a man approached Shammai and said: “How many Torahs do you have?” He said to him: “Two, the Written Torah and the Oral Torah.” The man said to him: “With regard to the Written Torah, I believe you, but with regard to the Oral Torah and its rabbinic writings, I do not believe you. Convert me on the condition that you teach me only the Written Torah.” Shammai scolded him, casting him out with shouts and reprimands.

The man then went to Hillel, who immediately converted him and began teaching him Torah. On the first day, he showed him the letters of the alphabet and said to him: “Alef, bet, gimmel, dalet.” The next day he reversed the order and told him that an alef is a tav and so on. The man said to him: “But yesterday you told me the exact opposite.” Hillel said to him: “Now you understand. It is impossible to learn what is written without relying on an oral tradition. You relied on me. Therefore, you should also rely on my teaching. You should likewise accept the Oral Torah and the interpretations it contains.”

Nothing can truly be understood without interpretation; nothing can fully be explained without a teacher. This is why we need the Oral Torah and the body of rabbinic works, most especially the Talmud and Midrash. They help us understand our Jewish faith. They help guide our lives with Jewish wisdom.

Another person came before Shammai and said to him: “Convert me on the condition that you teach me the entire Torah while I am standing on one foot.” Shammai pushed him away, swinging at him with a yardstick. The same person then came before Hillel. He converted him and said to him: “What is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, all the rest is commentary. Now go and study.” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a)

Years later these questioners gathered together and reflected on their experiences. They said, “Shammai’s impatience sought to drive us from the world; Hillel’s patience brought us beneath the wings of the Divine Presence.” We learn that even the most seemingly ridiculous question might lead to greater understanding. If it serves as an entry to more learning, to a life of meaning then it is not demeaning of even the greatest of scholars.

True learning begins with a question. And good teaching starts with patience.

The sages advise: “A person should always be patient like Hillel and not impatient like Shammai.”

I have come to learn. There is a little of Hillel in each of us. There is a little of Shammai in all.

And the Torah continues to demand: “Love your neighbor as yourself!” (Leviticus 19)

Debating Founding Myths

S. Yizhar’s novella Khirbet Khizeh describes how an Israeli army unit expelled Arab residents from their village in the War of Independence. Published in 1949 this fictionalized account was met with controversy. Some argued such actions were the cost of a war foisted on us. These painful episodes were part of the necessities of building a state. Others suggested that such openness about Israeli wrongs were fundamental to the nation living up to its self-proclaimed moral vision. Perhaps such debates could pave the way toward reconciliation between Arabs and Jews.

By the 1960’s Yizhar’s novella found its way into Israel’s high school curriculum. Israel’s role in its Palestinian neighbors’ trauma was debated in those years. Such controversial and painful discussions were not censored from textbooks or forbidden from public conversations.

Listen to Khirbet Khizeh’s narrator. Take note of his struggling voice:

There was something in me that wanted to rebel, something destructive, heretical, something that felt like cursing everything. Who could I speak to? Who would listen? They would just laugh at me. I felt a terrifying collapse inside me. I had a single, set idea, like a hammered nail, that I could never be reconciled to anything, so long as the tears of a weeping child still glistened as he walked along with his mother, who furiously fought back her soundless tears, on his way into exile, bearing with him a roar of injustice and such a scream that—it was impossible that no one in the world would gather that scream in when the moment came—and then I said to Moishe: “We have no right, Moishe, to kick them out of here!” I didn’t want my voice to tremble. And Moishe said to me: “You’re starting with that again!” And I realized that nothing would come of it.

In 1978, the novella was made into a TV film. The government was then led by Likud’s Menahem Begin and sought to ban the broadcast. The film was eventually aired. This sparked heated public arguments. The debates continue, although in recent years, most especially after October 7th, such discussions are far from the lips of most Israelis. My thoughts are joined with theirs. Bring the hostages home now.

Here, among American Jews Khirbet Khizeh and the story it recounts is little known. Its author, considered one of the giants of modern Hebrew literature, remains an unfamiliar figure. The book was only translated into English in 2008. It was not part of the story we like to tell about Israel and its founding. We speak only of Israel’s victories and achievements (and there are many!) or its ongoing challenges against its many enemies (again, there are many). We prefer not to discuss its pitfalls or even its wrongdoings. We never mention Israel’s sins. Why do we not think a nation can be great even though it has committed wrongs?

And I suspect people will question the wisdom and judgment of my recalling such things on the day we celebrate Israel’s independence and while Israel, and its soldiers, are engaged in a protracted war. Our soldiers keep dying! But we suppress such controversies to our own detriment. When we ignore these debates, we aid in eroding Israel’s moral character. No matter how justified our cause, not all is justified by our hands. No matter how inhumane and genocidal our enemies, not all is permitted in our response.

My teacher, Rabbi Donniel Hartman writes:

It is understandable that fear has led us to focus principally on our own well-being, setting aside our moral obligations to others. But survival alone has never exhausted our goals as a people. We are not commanded to walk in the ways of God and do that which is just and right only in times of safety and prosperity. We are expected to have moral concerns and aspirations even in this time of existential fear. (“Morality in Times of Fear”)

On this Yom Haatzmaut, my hope and prayer remain the same. I wish for an Israel, and Jewish people, who are once again unafraid to take up challenging moral debates. I can celebrate and I can question. Call me naïve about the threats to our existence (and many most certainly will), call me disloyal (and some most certainly will) but I continue to believe that our very survival depends on living up to lofty moral standards.

God created all human beings in the divine image! There are starving children in Gaza.

The angst in the narrator’s voice haunts me. I hear his words “nothing would come of it” again and again.

How can this be true? It flouts Zionism’s teachings. We are masters of our own story. We have the power to write a new story for our people. We can also write a better story for our neighbors.

May the coming year be the writing of that story.

Hold on to One Name Among the Six Million

Today is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. It is hard, if not impossible, to comprehend the enormity of the Holocaust’s devastation. Centers of Jewish culture were destroyed. European Jewry’s vitality was decimated. Six million Jews were murdered.

And so, each year I choose to focus on one story. I choose to take one person’s trauma and loss to heart. Here is Rachel Katz’s story.

Rachel was born in Antwerp, Belgium in 1937 to Fanny and Benjamin Laufmann who recently immigrated from Bulgaria. Her mother was a seamstress, and her father worked as a merchant and glazier.

Rachel was in nursery school when the Nazis occupied Belgium in May 1940. In June 1940 Benjamin was arrested and sent to a labor camp in France. From there he was sent to the Mechelen transit camp in Belgium and from there deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau where he was murdered in November 1942.

Fanny moved her four young children from one hiding place to another. She obtained false papers from a neighbor, Maria Lubben, who also hid the family in her own home. For several months she hid Rachel and two of her siblings in a convent.

When the Gestapo’s raids intensified the three children returned to Antwerp and lived in hiding with their mother. Belgium was liberated in September 1944. At the age of twenty, Rachel made her way to Israel. There she married and raised two children, and later three grandchildren and most recently two great grandchildren.

This year she was honored to serve as one of the six torchlighters at Yad Vashem’s annual ceremony.

In May 2004 Maria Lubben was recognized as one of the Righteous Among the Nations. She died in 1989.

Rachel remarked, “I have two children, three grandchildren and two great grandchildren who are my world. They give me a sense of victory.”

Rachel survived.

In 1939 there were an estimated 15.3 million Jews living throughout the world. Today, there an estimated 15.8 million

Millions of Jews did not survive the Holocaust.

I hold on to one name.

It is that of Rachel’s father Benjamin Laufmann.

Grief Transcends Expectation

It is a strange and curious thing that every time I water my house plants, I think of my friend and colleague Rabbi Aaron Panken who died nearly seven years ago. We last saw each other the prior Spring at our sons’ graduations from Northwestern. Aaron and I were classmates in rabbinical school, and we shared many conversations throughout the years, especially after we both found ourselves working in Manhattan immediately after becoming rabbis.

Years later our sons became close friends during their many summers attending Eisner Camp. Every time Aaron and I bumped into each other, often during those Berkshires summers, we would reignite debates from prior years and relish in the bonds that sustained Eli and Ari’s friendship.

Ours was not the tight friendship our sons shared, but we were always happy to see each other. We would then inevitably promise each other that we should find future opportunities to rekindle the bond from earlier years. Now that our sons are so close, we would say, we too should figure out how we can spend more time together.

Tragedy robbed us of those opportunities. It robbed us of a great mind and an unparalleled thinker. It robbed his family of a father, husband, brother and son and so many of a friend.

I often find myself wondering how Aaron would respond to the few students our alma mater is ordaining as rabbis and cantors. Or what he would he say about Israel’s harsh military campaign in Gaza. Or how he would respond to the Trump administration’s attacks against academia. He would no doubt remind me how the celebrated Maccabees quickly became corrupt rulers (Aaron loved Hanukkah’s lessons!) or offer a pearl of wisdom from the Talmud to help elucidate the current situation (he had a PhD in Rabbinic literature).

It remains a mystery why I think about all this when I water the plants. As I lean over my many house plants to trim their dead leaves and add water to their roots I think of Aaron. Nearly once a week this friendship comes to mind. I have no earthly idea why this is so.

Grief follows a strange, and convoluted, path. It defies reason. It transcends expectation. Although given how it accompanies my weekly ritual, I have come welcome it and the memories it summons.

Perhaps this is why the rabbis add the Yizkor memorial prayers to the conclusion of Passover. We cannot help but think of those who are now absent from our seder tables. We remember them sitting by our sides in past years. We retell their words. We even recall their antics.

Memories leap to the fore.

We have no choice but to welcome them.

We water our memories.

May we come to find that their roots nurture us.

We Will Sing Again—And Again

We often think that eating, and drinking, are central to our Passover celebrations. This makes sense given how much time we take preparing the traditional seder foods. And while matzah and wine are incredibly important, I have come to believe that singing forms the backbone of our seder rituals. Here is why.

Singing, and of course dancing, are our greatest expressions of joy. It’s why we go to concerts and music festivals. It’s why an upbeat playlist is critical to any party. And it’s why the band is the most important element of any wedding celebration. All our worries, and hours arguing about the foods being served and the signature cocktails our guests will imbibe mask the musicians’ central role. The hora is more important than the sushi!

Likewise, how would the seder feel without the singing of Dayyenu? We sing at the top of our voices, “Had God only taken us out of Egypt, it would have been enough for us. Had God only given us Shabbat, it would have been enough for us. Had God only given us the Torah, it would have been enough for us.” Dayyenu!

According to tradition, several psalms bracket the meal. They are called hallel, songs of halleluyah. We recall the ancient Israelites’ celebrations. After they marched through the sea they broke out in song and dance. The Torah reports, “And the children of Israel marched on dry ground b’toch—in the midst of the sea. Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song.” (Exodus 15)

The medieval commentator, Nahmanides suggests that we are misunderstanding this verse. He suggests that this line teaches us that at the very moment the children of Israel were walking through the waters, they sang. Their singing took place as they were fleeing the Egyptians. They sang to God even though they did not yet know if they would survive. Their singing was not one of celebration but instead an act of profound faith.

My teacher, Tal Becker, expands on Nahmanides’ insight and writes,

The moment Israel and the Jewish people find themselves in today is not dissimilar. We are in the middle of war, turmoil, and profound uncertainty. We do not yet know how, when, or if our dreams of peace and security will be fulfilled. They feel too distant for any song of celebration. And yet, like the children of Israel amid the sea, we must summon the courage to sing now. We should surely sing not as an act of celebration, but as an act of faith and commitment.

Perhaps we are always “in the midst.” And just perhaps we always need to sing.

Prayer Requires Strength

In ancient times, the Israelites believed that offering sacrifices of animals brought them closer to God. This is the origin of the Hebrew word for sacrifice. Korban means to draw near. Once the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE we stopped slaughtering animals on the sacrificial altar. In their place we instead made our prayers our sacrifices.

But prayer lacks physicality. We do not lay our hands on animals’ heads or sprinkle its blood on the altar. We do not search our herd to find a cow without blemish (or for that matter have a herd). We do not offer something of tangible value to our God. Instead we offer words. How can words approach the power of yesterday’s sacrifices?

Words appear fleeting. They are part and parcel of our everyday. They are tossed around casually. They are cheapened and coarsened in today’s world. Our tradition sees them instead as precious heirlooms. The prayerbook’s words matter. We are taught to focus on its phrases. While they may not appear as tangible as the animal sacrifices of old, they are what we offer. We grasp the prayerbooks in our hands and offer blessings and prayers.

Lea Goldberg, the great Israeli poet, writes:

Teach me, O God, a blessing, a prayer
on the mystery of a withered leaf,
on ripened fruit so fair,
on the freedom to see, to sense,
to breathe, to know, to hope, to despair.

Teach my lips, a blessing, a hymn of praise,
as each morning and night
You renew Your days,
lest my day be today as the one before;
lest routine set my ways.

Words only appear effortless. Prayers require tangible strength.

Weaving Compassion

Why does Moses offer a detailed accounting of the construction of the tabernacle, reporting the exact weight of gold, silver and copper used?

If he did not report these details the Israelites might suspect Moses of enriching himself. Those charged with collecting all the gold, silver and copper might be tempted to keep some of it for themselves and so Moses gives an honest and detailed report.

The Torah states, “These are the records of the Tabernacle which were drawn up at Moses’ bidding.” (Exodus 38)

The rabbis expand this message. Those charged with preparing the ancient Temple’s sacrifices had to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. For example, family members of those commanded to prepare the incense were forbidden from wearing perfume. If they wore perfume people might suspect them of using the Temple incense.

In addition, the officials who supervised the shekel offering wore a garment with no pockets and no long sleeves. Why? So, no one would suspect them of pocketing these monetary gifts. Their collections must only go towards the Temple offerings. Moses therefore reports the details of all the valuables collected for the building of the tabernacle.

Leaders must be above any suspicion of personal gain. They must avoid even the appearance of gaining personal profit from their public service. If leaders expect people to follow them then their decision making must be transparent. People must believe their leaders have the people’s best interests at heart.

And so, these days I find myself dreaming about how to sew. Then I might fashion pocketless attire and weave compassion into the linings of our leaders’ wardrobe.

A Report from Israel

What follows is my sermon from this past Friday evening’s Shabbat services when I offered a report from my recent rabbinic mission to Israel.

As you know I traveled to Israel a few weeks ago on a rabbinic mission. This visit focused on taking in what happened and what is happening in the North. Once again, our visit and our presence were greatly appreciated. Many Israelis living on the border with Lebanon are only now beginning to return to their homes. Many communities suffered severe damage. People living there feel forgotten. The government’s focus remains on the South. World Jewry talks more about the devastation and deaths that touched the communities living on the border with Gaza. Our visits sought to counter those feelings. We held Israelis close. And we held on to each other as we took in Israel’s ongoing struggle.

Once again, I discovered great disaffection with Israel’s political leadership. Many people spoke with bitterness against Prime Minister Netanyahu and in particular his unwillingness to take responsibility for October 7th’s military and intelligence failures. That being said, the military campaign against Hezbollah has been much more decisive than that against Hamas. Fifty-nine hostages still remain in Hamas’ hands. Twenty-four are still believed to be alive. The majority of Israelis oppose the renewal of the present military campaign and are advocating for a new cease fire deal to bring the remaining hostages home. Expect larger protests tomorrow evening. (News reports estimated 100,000 Israelis protested against the renewed military offensive and the firing of Shin Bet chief Ronen Bar.)

When we were there, the country came to a standstill for the Bibas funeral—that beautiful family with those red-haired children. The trauma of October 7th re-emerged. Everyone mourned. Everyone cried. Ben Gurion airport’s control tower was illuminated in orange. The pain was palpable, and it colored our days. It is as if the country is now saying, “We cannot experience that once again. We cannot attend any more funerals.” The fate of the hostages is the central concern for the majority of Israelis. They want to bring them home.

Israelis are struggling to figure out how to remember the pain of October 7th while moving forward.

Take but one example. When in Tel Aviv we met with a woman named Reut. She grew up on Kibbutz Reim on Gaza’s border. She and her husband, Dvir, settled in the kibbutz and raised three children there. Dvir was a chocolatier who trained in Belgium, a country known as the home of expert chocolate makers. Dvir made everything by hand and his recipes were kept only in his head. During Covid Reut urged Dvir to write down all of his recipes. A few years ago, Reut and Dvir divorced. On October 7th she was at a friend’s home some distance from the border. Her children were with Dvir and his new partner. That morning, her oldest daughter texted Reut, “We are in the safe room. The terrorists are here.” Moments later the terrorists murdered Dvir and his partner in front of the children. They then found some lipstick and scrawled on the wall, “Hamas doesn’t kill children.” Reut then said, “This time it was true.” Nine hours later the army finally arrived and rescued her children.

And so, after much time wandering from place to place, Reut has settled in Tel Aviv with her children and is now running a coffee shop called Kafe Otef—the café of the (Gaza) envelope. She only employs other evacuees from the south. In addition to serving coffee, cheeses and even honey from those kibbutzim, she offers Dvir’s chocolates. She gave his recipes to another chocolatier who is following them to the letter. Dvir’s memory survives, she explained. Her family, and her fellow evacuees, have found renewed purpose.

We discovered a similar sentiment at Kibbutz Rosh Hanikra on the northern border. There we met a woman who made aliya to Israel from Australia. She described herself as an ardent Zionist who moved to Israel in her youth. She is now living in Netanya, far from the stresses and difficulties of the border. She said, “My husband and I built our life on this kibbutz. We raised our children here, but I don’t know if I can return. It’s been too hard. The threat is too near. I am not sure I can come back.” We took in her words as we stood at the border fence, looking up at Lebanon’s hills. The villages that Hezbollah once controlled sit above the kibbutz looking down on its homes and fields. Hezbollah has been pushed back to the Litani River. Its considerable strength in fighters and missiles has been greatly diminished. In those villages that are a short walk up the hill, IDF forces found detailed plans in the Hezbollah bunkers for a similar, and what would have been an even more decimating, October 7th like massacre. But thankfully Hezbollah and Hamas did not work together or coordinate their plans.

The kibbutz security chief then said, “It’s never been better here.” And then I realized this is what the situation looks like when Israel is prepared, when it reads the intelligence correctly and when it plans a war for nearly twenty years. In fact, as soon as the last war was over, the IDF and intelligence services have been planning for this war against Hezbollah. There is plenty of destruction on Israel’s side of the border and even more on Lebanon’s, but military achievements are messy and brutal and lethal. And then I asked the security chief, “You said it’s never been better here, so how long do you think this current truce will last?” And he said, “Maybe one year.” Even a decisive victory is tenuous. Hezbollah has not been destroyed. It’s simply that its threat has been minimized. Israel and Israelis have gained breathing room. We tried to take this in as we savored the orchard’s fruits arrayed before us on the table. I kicked the dirt on the road adjacent to the fence and thought, “Breathing room is what we yearn for.”

Israelis are resilient. They may have by and large lost faith with their political leadership, but they are strong. They will not let go of each other. And so, one final, concluding story.

Rachel Azaria is the epitome of strength. After October 7th she soon realized that the present situation is unlike anything else Israelis have experienced. Reservists used to be called up for weeks. Now they are called up for months at a time and then again for more months. Parents left at home must now manage their own jobs and often their young children. And so, Rachel founded HaOgen, the anchor. She and her team help out with the mundane things like providing meals and offering babysitting. HaOgen has organized 20,000 volunteers and helped out 20,000 reservist families. The government does not offer babysitting and cook meals—perhaps it cannot or even should not—but everyday Israelis see it as their obligation and duty to help each other out.

The sense of devotion to the people of Israel is palpable.

Every time I visit Israel I come away with a renewed sense of hope. When I sit here reading the newspaper or watching the news, it is easy to despair of the situation. There, in Israel, people are understandably nervous about the future and even afraid what might happen next, but the devotion to neighbor, the sense of family is extraordinary. Its why strangers regularly attend funerals of soldiers and hostages. In Israel mourning is not a private affair. It is the obligation of the community. People everywhere feel the loss. They scream and yell at each other on other days. They criticize the government and its leaders, but when there is loss or need, they rally together, and they rally as one.

It’s a painful and unnerving time to be a Jew and a lover of Israel, but the strategy is clear. Hold on to each other. Look to Israelis for strength. Hold Israel in your thoughts and prayers. May we be blessed with breathing room to live our lives. We will persevere. We always have. We always will. The secret is to hold on to each other.

Shabbat Makes Sunday Better Than Thursday

From the biblical verses detailing the construction of the tabernacle, the rabbis derive thirty-nine labors forbidden on Shabbat. The work the Torah requires the ancient Israelites to do when constructing the tabernacle we are forbidden to perform on the seventh day.

By not doing we construct a sacred day.

The ancient tabernacle is transformed. We fashion Shabbat out of the seventh day. We cannot see it. We are unable to hold it in our hands. And yet this day has the potential to uphold our spirit.

We sanctify time rather than space. Judaism apportions holy days rather than sacred precincts. The Sabbath becomes our sanctuary in time.

We build it by not doing.

We rest from the toil of our everyday existence. Creative activities are forbidden. We are told not to write, to sew, tear or bake. By saying no, we are offered a neshamah yetirah, an additional soul.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel elaborates:

The seventh day is the armistice in man’s [sic] cruel struggle for existence, a truce in all conflicts, personal and social, peace between man and man, man and nature, peace within man… The seventh day is the exodus from tension, the liberation of man from his own muddiness, the installation of man as a sovereign in the world of time. (The Sabbath)

The Sabbath is the opportunity to let go of our everyday concerns. It is a day on which we ignore the struggles of our weekday lives. We are instructed (commanded!) to remove the troubles of the world from our thoughts and concerns.

This day is about rebuilding the spirit. It is about refreshing our souls.

How is this done?

By letting go.

Ignore the news for a day. Don’t watch the TV. Turn off your phone’s notifications for a brief twenty-four hours. Trade tariffs, DOGE’s layoffs, President Trump’s tweets, Ukraine’s fight against Russia, Israel’s battles against Hamas will still be there come Saturday evening.

But one thing will be different. Our spirits will be stronger.

Heschel continues:

In the tempestuous ocean of time and toil there are islands of stillness where man may enter a harbor and reclaim his dignity. The island is the seventh day, the Sabbath, a day of detachment from things, instruments and practical affairs as well as of attachment to the spirit.

And then, perhaps, the following week will look different. The world might again seem brighter. Everything might once again appear infused with God’s radiance.

Our faith is restored. Our spirts refreshed.

Perhaps all we need is a day.

With the setting of the sun on Friday evening, we can begin to look anew, to gaze at the world with new eyes.

And then Sunday no longer appears as troubling as Thursday.

Purim’s Vengeance

Quentin Tarantino’s masterful film Inglourious Basterds is a World War II revenge fantasy. A ragtag group of American-Jewish soldiers hunts and kills Nazis. Along the way they are assisted by a beautiful Jewish princess, Shosanna, who wants to avenge the earlier murders of her family. They succeed in killing Nazi leaders, including the evil Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels y”s, when they gather to watch a propaganda film in Shosanna’s theatre. As the theatre burns, Shosanna is heard saying, “This is the face of Jewish vengeance.”

The Purim story tells a similar tale. Esther is likewise a princess who hides her Jewish identity. She thwarts Haman’s evil genocidal designs through beauty and cunning.

We focus on the holiday’s frivolity. We emphasize costumes and hamentashen, laughter and drinking. The story, however, concludes with a violent ending. The megillah states, “So the Jews struck at their enemies with the sword, slaying and destroying; they wreaked their will upon their enemies.” (Esther 9) Do our celebrations and carnivals suggest an embarrassment about the story’s violence or even a worry about its implications? Do our costumes mask the Bible’s words, “They disposed of their enemies killing seventy thousand of their foes.”

It is told that the Israeli Orthodox intellectual Yeshayahu Leibowitz was so disturbed by Purim’s violence and distressed that his fellow Jews might be seduced by its violent demands, that he avoided observing the holiday. He did so with the assistance of a quirk in Jewish law. In Jerusalem Purim is not celebrated on the fourteenth of Adar but the fifteenth because Mordecai’s battles against Haman’s supporters lasted an additional day in Shushan. The rabbis decreed that Purim should be observed on the fifteenth in similarly walled cities. And so, Leibowitz remained in Jerusalem on the fourteenth of Adar while his fellow Israeli Jews observed Purim in all other cities. He then traveled to Tel Aviv on the fifteenth where the Purim celebrations were already concluded. He therefore managed to banish the megillah’s violence from his orbit.

In a post October 7th world I am thinking about Leibowitz’s idiosyncratic approach to Purim and wondering if the Book of Esther is not a fantasy but instead a warning. I still choose Zionism and Jewish sovereignty in this violent world that too often wishes us harm. But this year I am heeding Purim’s reminder that power often comes with violence done with our own hands and in our own name.

At the conclusion of Inglourious Basterds Brad Pitt’s character Lieutenant Aldo Raine etches a swastika on the Jew hunter Hans Landa’s forehead and then declares, “I think this might just be my masterpiece.” And that is how the fantasy ends.

Power is a bitter masterpiece carved with a knife’s edge. While it may protect us it also causes harm to others and begins to cut at our souls.

The Purim story concludes without ever mentioning God. Its final verses offer a note about raw, unchecked power.

Amidst the celebration and revelry, the megillah conjures a warning that power and violence go hand in hand. Absent the holy power can sometimes lead to the defamation of those who wield it.

Yeshayahu Leibowitz warns, “The uniqueness of the Jewish people is not a fact; it is an endeavor. The holiness of Israel is not a reality; it is a task.”

On this year’s Purim we must ask, are we up to the task? Do we heed the holiday’s warning?

Always Light the Light

The ner tamid that is affixed above the ark is usually translated as the eternal light. We often suggest that this symbolizes God’s eternal presence.

Eternal light is a mistranslation. It would be better to translate this as the “always light.” Eternal implies that the light is something that burns despite our efforts. No matter what we do the flame burns and God is forever present. “Always” however suggests that we must tend to the light. There is human agency. We must always keep the fires burning.

We must always tend to bringing God’s presence into our lives and our world. The burning flame depends on us. In ancient times, the Israelites had to ensure that there was enough oil for the ner tamid. “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling the ner tamid.” (Exodus 27)

Not only must the Israelites bring oil on a regular basis, but producing such pure oil is an enormous undertaking. Making olive oil is not an easy endeavor. It requires care, hard work and patience.

Olive trees begin producing olives three to five years after planting. One olive tree produces approximately six liters of olive oil in one year. That equates to eight 750 ml bottles. Each bottle provides enough oil to burn for fifty hours. To keep the light burning for one year one needs twenty olive trees. And that requires 50,000 liters of water.

Assuming the internet’s information is correct (perhaps an unwise assumption) and my mathematical calculations are accurate (also a risky proposition), that’s a lot of trees and a lot of time and a lot of effort. Producing olive oil requires a tremendous amount of attention and care. Keeping the ner tamid always burning is no simple or easy task.

Bringing God into the world depends on our regular and attentive care. It is not eternal. It is instead always demanded.

My People, My Family

People often ask me why I visit Israel so many times. The answer is simple. It’s because when I’m in New York reading about Israel my attitude is formed by what leaders and politicians say and do. I can often become disillusioned with the country’s direction. I become dispirited by the situation and how distant our dreams for peace appear.

When I’m here in Israel my impressions are formed by everyday Israelis. And they are extraordinary. They affirm my faith. They give me hope. Their examples serve as reminders of what this place can yet become. Despite over 500 days of war, their stories offer inspiration.

Yesterday we met with Dr. Efrat Bron Harlev, the CEO of Schneider Children’s Hospital. In ordinary times the hospital does extraordinary work. These days it surpasses the extraordinary. Nineteen hostages were brought to the hospital after their release so that they could receive medical treatment and care. The hospital staff spent days preparing for their visits to make sure the hostages felt at home in their rooms, setting up beds for family members and decorating them with the children’s familiar toys.

And then, Dr. Bron Harlev, a seasoned pediatrician, teared up as she explained to us that they had expected to welcome Ariel and Kfir Bibas. There is a palpable sense of family here. The bonds tying the nation together have grown stronger. They cut across political divisions. Everyone mourned the Bibas children’s murders. The airport’s control tower is still illuminated in orange. Hostage Square was decorated with orange balloons with the word “slicha—sorry” written on them.

Today we heard from Member of Knesset Rachel Azaria. She recognized a profound need. Soldiers don’t only need the best equipment. They also need to know their families will be ok while they are on duty. Over 300,000 reserve soldiers were called up during this war. And many of these reserves were called up several times for many months. Now their spouses are single parents and desperately need assistance. MK Azaria founded the organization, HaOgen—The Anchor.

Now 20,000 volunteers help 20,000 reserve families in over 240 cities and towns. They do ordinary but essential things like cooking meals and providing babysitting.

Here, tears are transformed into action. They become the impulse to do good.

Here, everyone is family.

We are part of Am Yisrael—the Jewish people.

It may not be perfect, but this family is extraordinary. And this family is mine.

The Torah Asks Too Much of Us Today

What follows is my sermon about the return of hostages Oded Lifshitz and Ariel, Kfir and later Shiri Bibas z”l.

The rabbis declare, “The whole Torah depends on justice. That is why the Holy One, blessed be God, gave the civil laws directly after the Ten Commandments.” (Shemot Rabbah 30:15)

This week in Parashat Mishpatim, we read fifty-three laws. Most are civil laws. They deal with mundane things such as making loans. They talk about how to determine ownership of disputed property. They offer the all too often misunderstood and frequently misquoted “eye an for eye,” which is not about seeking revenge but instead figuring out how damages should be leveled if a person is injured by another. This week’s laws legislate the punishment for murder and when killing a thief is deemed legitimate self-defense. They detail people’s responsibilities to their neighbors, describing what to do if someone falls into a pit on one’s property or how to deal with an ox who is in the habit of goring people. And on and on. Fifty-three laws, fifty-three mishpatim, about building a society that is founded on justice and fairness.

Immediately following the giving of the Ten Commandments, the Torah turns to the everyday laws that govern society. It is as if to say, “You think it’s all about keeping Shabbat and worshipping the one and only God. No. The real work is found in the details of building a just society.” And so the Torah explains in exhaustive detail how we are to get along with others and how we are going to care for our neighbors and how we might protect others against harm.

But this week, and especially after yesterday’s news about the Bibas family and today’s reports about the brutal murders of Ariel and Kfir Bibas and the unspeakable cruelty of not sending Shiri’s body back to Israel as promised, there are laws in this week’s portion that are to be candid, make me feel like I am choking.

We read, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” But how can anyone truly know someone else’s feelings? How can anyone understand what we have experienced or felt what we felt in this past year and a half? Then again how can anyone really know another’s pain. I am choking on our pain. I am suffocated by our heartbreak.

The Torah continues, “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back.” (Exodus 23) And, “When you see the donkey of your enemy lying down because of its burden and you might think that you don’t need to raise, you must nevertheless assist your enemy and help it up.” You just want to scream, “You have to be kidding me! You want me to help my enemy care for its animals? You want me to cooperate with someone who is bent on destroying us and who plots such cruelty?” They have not given up on their attempts to kill us. They even terrorize us when humanity dictates it should be a private, quiet transfer of bodies.

This is all too much to ask. Not this week. And maybe not for many weeks to come—and I fear years to come. After such cruel tortures the only helping hand I wish to offer is that to my own people. But I do not have enough hands to heal all this pain. And I fear that we no longer have the capacity to heal ourselves or for that matter do the Torah’s bidding and realize its dreams of lending helping hands to everyone, even our enemies. How can we possibly help lift their burdens when we cannot even carry our own?

In a collection of poetry called Shiva: Poems of October 7th, I discover the writing of Rabbi Elchanan Nir. He writes,

Now like air to breathe
We need a new Torah.
Gasping for air and with choking throats
We need a new Mishnah and a new Gemara,
A new Kabbalah, and new Elevations of the Soul
And from the midst of all the wreckage, the salt and the desert land, now
A new Hasidism and a new Zionism
A new Rav Kook and a new Brenner,
A new poetry, new Rabbinic Responsa
And new Leah Goldberg and new Yechaveh Daat
New art and new poetry
New literature and new cinema
And new-ancient words
New ancient souls from the treasury of souls.
And a new love out of the terrible weeping.
For we were all washed in the rivers of the music festival and Kibbutz Be’eri
And we have no other mountain with us
Nor another ten commandments
No other Moses and no more strength
From this moment everything is
In our hands.

These hands have barely enough strength after 504 days to help ourselves. They only want justice for ourselves and have no more strength for the loftiness of God’s dreams. Justice, You command, O God. And we respond, first for us and for our tortured and terrorized people. Let us be healed first and foremost.

In the daily Amidah recited at weekday services, the tradition offers this prayer:

Restore our judges as in days of old and our advisors as in former times. And remove sorrow and complaint from among us, and reign over us, You alone, Adonai, in kindness and mercy, and acquit us. Blessed are You, Adonai, our Ruler who loves righteousness and justice.

Every day we pray God, You are the God of justice. Justice is our daily prayer. Justice for our people. Justice for the world. But the prayer makes clear what we feel in this moment. First sorrow must be removed. Only then justice might be achieved.

Finding our way back to the law, to the mishpat, is the path our Torah offers.

These days I am left wondering when it might become our path once again. In these harrowing days I am wondering when it might become the world’s destination. For now justice remains a daily prayer. This week, and this evening, some things are not within reach of our hands and only within reach of our prayers.

Baruch Ata Adonai, melech ohev tzedakah u’mishpat. Blessed are You Adonai, our Ruler who loves righteousness and justice.

May Our Dreams Not Be Buried

Oded Lifshitz, who was murdered by Palestinian terrorists and whose body was returned to Israel today along with Shiri Bibas and her two children Ariel and Kfir, was eulogized by the kibbutz he helped found. Kibbutz Nir Oz writes:

Oded was 85 years old, one of the founding pioneers of the kibbutz and someone who shaped its path over many decades together with his wife Yocheved. Oded came to the kibbutz as a member of Garin Nahal, and was the kibbutz's secretary, farmer and treasurer. He dedicated his life to his family, social work, journalism, promoting minority rights and the struggle to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

He and his wife were peace activists who regularly drove Palestinians needing medical care from Gaza to Israeli hospitals. Oded, and Yocheved, were dragged across the Gaza border by terrorists on October 7th and held in captivity. Yocheved was released two weeks later. According to experts Oded was murdered by terrorists over a year ago.

Today is a tragic day for the people of Israel. It is a devastating day for the Jewish people. Four coffins were returned. We await the official, although expected word that the other three bodies are indeed Shiri, Ariel and Kfir Bibas.

This week we read the Torah’s command, “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) This frequently repeated demand appears two times in this week’s portion alone.

But it is a difficult, if not impossible, command to hear. There are only the sounds of brokenness. There are only tears of pain. Our obligations to others, our compassion for the stranger, appear to be luxuries for another day. They seem like painful reminders of forgotten dreams.

The Israeli singer Hanan Ben Ari laments,

And who will heal my heart
for whom am I longing
like a sea that has no shore
just tell me who
who will embrace me and ensure
that I will not give up in the end.

Our hearts are too broken to feel anything but pain. Our ears are too filled with cries to hear the demands of compassion. Our eyes are too dimmed by tears to see the face of the other.

Kibbutz Nir Oz’s announcement concludes:

The cactus garden that Oded and Yocheved cultivated throughout their 63 years of marriage remains a living testament to their dedication and the home they built together. Oded left behind four children: Arnon, Yizhar, Sharon and Omri, many family and friends, who will always remember him as someone who loved people and the country, a man of culture and peace.

May the memory of Oded Lifshitz be a blessing. May his dreams not be buried as well.

And may the Torah’s commands be heard once again.